Barnaby Rudge

BARNABY RUDGE

A TALE OF THE RIOTS OF ‘EIGHTY

by Charles Dickens

Contibutor’s Note:

I’ve left in archaic forms such as ‘to-morrow’ or ‘to-day’ as they occured in my copy. Also please be aware if spell-checking, that within dialog many ‘mispelled’ words exist, i.e. ‘wery’ for ‘very’, as intended by the author.

D.L.

PREFACE

The late Mr Waterton having, some time ago, expressed his opinion that ravens are gradually becoming extinct in England, I offered the few following words about my experience of these birds.

The raven in this story is a compound of two great originals, of whom I was, at different times, the proud possessor. The first was in the bloom of his youth, when he was discovered in a modest retirement in London, by a friend of mine, and given to me. He had from the first, as Sir Hugh Evans says of Anne Page, ‘good gifts’, which he improved by study and attention in a most exemplary manner. He slept in a stable—generally on horseback—and so terrified a Newfoundland dog by his preternatural sagacity, that he has been known, by the mere superiority of his genius, to walk off unmolested with the dog’s dinner, from before his face. He was rapidly rising in acquirements and virtues, when, in an evil hour, his stable was newly painted. He observed the workmen closely, saw that they were careful of the paint, and immediately burned to possess it. On their going to dinner, he ate up all they had left behind, consisting of a pound or two of white lead; and this youthful indiscretion terminated in death.

While I was yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine in Yorkshire discovered an older and more gifted raven at a village public-house, which he prevailed upon the landlord to part with for a consideration, and sent up to me. The first act of this Sage, was, to administer to the effects of his predecessor, by disinterring all the cheese and halfpence he had buried in the garden—a work of immense labour and research, to which he devoted all the energies of his mind. When he had achieved this task, he applied himself to the acquisition of stable language, in which he soon became such an adept, that he would perch outside my window and drive imaginary horses with great skill, all day. Perhaps even I never saw him at his best, for his former master sent his duty with him, ‘and if I wished the bird to come out very strong, would I be so good as to show him a drunken man’—which I never did, having (unfortunately) none but sober people at hand.

But I could hardly have respected him more, whatever the stimulating influences of this sight might have been. He had not the least respect, I am sorry to say, for me in return, or for anybody but the cook; to whom he was attached—but only, I fear, as a Policeman might have been. Once, I met him unexpectedly, about half-a-mile from my house, walking down the middle of a public street, attended by a pretty large crowd, and spontaneously exhibiting the whole of his accomplishments. His gravity under those trying circumstances, I can never forget, nor the extraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought home, he defended himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers. It may have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it may have been that he took some pernicious substance into his bill, and thence into his maw—which is not improbable, seeing that he new-pointed the greater part of the garden-wall by digging out the mortar, broke countless squares of glass by scraping away the putty all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing—but after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the kitchen fire. He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it roasted, and suddenly turned over on his back with a sepulchral cry of ‘Cuckoo!’ Since then I have been ravenless.

No account of the Gordon Riots having been to my knowledge introduced into any Work of Fiction, and the subject presenting very extraordinary and remarkable features, I was led to project this Tale.

It is unnecessary to say, that those shameful tumults, while they reflect indelible disgrace upon the time in which they occurred, and all who had act or part in them, teach a good lesson. That what we falsely call a religious cry is easily raised by men who have no religion, and who in their daily practice set at nought the commonest principles of right and wrong; that it is begotten of intolerance and persecution; that it is senseless, besotted, inveterate and unmerciful; all History teaches us. But perhaps we do not know it in our hearts too well, to profit by even so humble an example as the ‘No Popery’ riots of Seventeen Hundred and Eighty.

However imperfectly those disturbances are set forth in the following pages, they are impartially painted by one who has no sympathy with the Romish Church, though he acknowledges, as most men do, some esteemed friends among the followers of its creed.

In the description of the principal outrages, reference has been had to the best authorities of that time, such as they are; the account given in this Tale, of all the main features of the Riots, is substantially correct.

Mr Dennis’s allusions to the flourishing condition of his trade in those days, have their foundation in Truth, and not in the Author’s fancy. Any file of old Newspapers, or odd volume of the Annual Register, will prove this with terrible ease.

Even the case of Mary Jones, dwelt upon with so much pleasure by the same character, is no effort of invention. The facts were stated, exactly as they are stated here, in the House of Commons. Whether they afforded as much entertainment to the merry gentlemen assembled there, as some other most affecting circumstances of a similar nature mentioned by Sir Samuel Romilly, is not recorded.

That the case of Mary Jones may speak the more emphatically for itself, I subjoin it, as related by SIR WILLIAM MEREDITH in a speech in Parliament, ‘on Frequent Executions’, made in 1777.

‘Under this act,’ the Shop-lifting Act, ‘one Mary Jones was executed, whose case I shall just mention; it was at the time when press warrants were issued, on the alarm about Falkland Islands. The woman’s husband was pressed, their goods seized for some debts of his, and she, with two small children, turned into the streets a-begging. It is a circumstance not to be forgotten, that she was very young (under nineteen), and most remarkably handsome. She went to a linen-draper’s shop, took some coarse linen off the counter, and slipped it under her cloak; the shopman saw her, and she laid it down: for this she was hanged. Her defence was (I have the trial in my pocket), “that she had lived in credit, and wanted for nothing, till a press-gang came and stole her husband from her; but since then, she had no bed to lie on; nothing to give her children to eat; and they were almost naked; and perhaps she might have done something wrong, for she hardly knew what she did.” The parish officers testified the truth of this story; but it seems, there had been a good deal of shop-lifting about Ludgate; an example was thought necessary; and this woman was hanged for the comfort and satisfaction of shopkeepers in Ludgate Street. When brought to receive sentence, she behaved in such a frantic manner, as proved her mind to be in a distracted and desponding state; and the child was sucking at her breast when she set out for Tyburn.’

Chapter 1

In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about twelve miles from London—measuring from the Standard in Cornhill, or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore—a house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew.

The Maypole—by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and not its sign—the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not choose but come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuous progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place was said to have been built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend, not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but that next morning, while standing on a mounting block before the door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there were a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are in every little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as rather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient hostelry appealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and triumphantly pointed out that there it stood in the same place to that very day, the doubters never failed to be put down by a large majority, and all true believers exulted as in a victory.

Whether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true or untrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house, perhaps as old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will sometimes happen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a certain, age. Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its floors were sunken and uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy with massive beams. Over the doorway was an ancient porch, quaintly and grotesquely carved; and here on summer evenings the more favoured customers smoked and drank—ay, and sang many a good song too, sometimes—reposing on two grim-looking high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy tale, guarded the entrance to the mansion.

In the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their nests for many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest autumn whole colonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary stable-yard and out-buildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers, and pouters, were perhaps not quite consistent with the grave and sober character of the building, but the monotonous cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among them all day long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest. With its overhanging stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging out and projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were nodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of fancy to detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which it was built had originally been a deep dark red, but had grown yellow and discoloured like an old man’s skin; the sturdy timbers had decayed like teeth; and here and there the ivy, like a warm garment to comfort it in its age, wrapt its green leaves closely round the time-worn walls.

It was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the summer or autumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak and chestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of its lustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of life in him yet.

The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumn one, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind howled dismally among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneys and driving the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave such of its frequenters as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniable reason for prolonging their stay, and caused the landlord to prophesy that the night would certainly clear at eleven o’clock precisely,—which by a remarkable coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his house.

The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended was John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which betokened profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet’s ordinary boast in his more placid moods that if he were slow he was sure; which assertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing that he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal one of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence—always sure that what he thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing quite settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that anybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and of necessity wrong.

Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose against the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might not be affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then he walked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and, composing himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might give way to and so acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze, said, looking round upon his guests:

‘It’ll clear at eleven o’clock. No sooner and no later. Not before and not arterwards.’

‘How do you make out that?’ said a little man in the opposite corner. ‘The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.’

John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had brought his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then made answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly his business and nobody else’s:

‘Never you mind about the moon. Don’t you trouble yourself about her. You let the moon alone, and I’ll let you alone.’

‘No offence I hope?’ said the little man.

Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly penetrated to his brain, and then replying, ‘No offence as YET,’ applied a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and then casting a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffs ornamented with tarnished silver lace and large metal buttons, who sat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hat flapped over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand on which his forehead rested, looked unsociable enough.

There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some distance from the fire also, and whose thoughts—to judge from his folded arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before him—were occupied with other matters than the topics under discussion or the persons who discussed them. This was a young man of about eight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhat slight figure, gracefully and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair, and was accoutred in a riding dress, which together with his large boots (resembling in shape and fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen at the present day), showed indisputable traces of the bad condition of the roads. But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richly attired, and without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.

Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them down, were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn no doubt as being best suited to the inclemency of the weather. There, too, were a pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short riding-cloak. Little of his face was visible, except the long dark lashes which concealed his downcast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural gracefulness of demeanour pervaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend even those slight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.

Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once, and then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his silent neighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman had often met before. Finding that his look was not returned, or indeed observed by the person to whom it was addressed, John gradually concentrated the whole power of his eyes into one focus, and brought it to bear upon the man in the flapped hat, at whom he came to stare in course of time with an intensity so remarkable, that it affected his fireside cronies, who all, as with one accord, took their pipes from their lips, and stared with open mouths at the stranger likewise.

The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and the little man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was the parish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had little round black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this little man wore at the knees of his rusty black breeches, and on his rusty black coat, and all down his long flapped waistcoat, little queer buttons like nothing except his eyes; but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistened in the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of them at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restless under such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging to short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and long Phil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example of their companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively.

The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this raking fire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations—most probably from the latter cause, for as he changed his position and looked hastily round, he started to find himself the object of such keen regard, and darted an angry and suspicious glance at the fireside group. It had the effect of immediately diverting all eyes to the chimney, except those of John Willet, who finding himself as it were, caught in the fact, and not being (as has been already observed) of a very ready nature, remained staring at his guest in a particularly awkward and disconcerted manner.

‘Well?’ said the stranger.

Well. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. ‘I thought you gave an order,’ said the landlord, after a pause of two or three minutes for consideration.

The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a man of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, and the naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a dark handkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and, while it served the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and almost hid his eyebrows. If it were intended to conceal or divert attention from a deep gash, now healed into an ugly seam, which when it was first inflicted must have laid bare his cheekbone, the object was but indifferently attained, for it could scarcely fail to be noted at a glance. His complexion was of a cadaverous hue, and he had a grizzly jagged beard of some three weeks’ date. Such was the figure (very meanly and poorly clad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat down in a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little clerk very readily assigned to him.

‘A highwayman!’ whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.

‘Do you suppose highwaymen don’t dress handsomer than that?’ replied Parkes. ‘It’s a better business than you think for, Tom, and highwaymen don’t need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.’

Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to the house by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by the landlord’s son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow of twenty, whom it pleased his father still to consider a little boy, and to treat accordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm them by the blazing fire, the man turned his head towards the company, and after running his eye sharply over them, said in a voice well suited to his appearance:

‘What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?’

‘Public-house?’ said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.

‘Public-house, father!’ exclaimed Joe, ‘where’s the public-house within a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house—the Warren—naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir, that stands in its own grounds—?’

‘Aye,’ said the stranger.

‘And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed hands and dwindled away—more’s the pity!’ pursued the young man.

‘Maybe,’ was the reply. ‘But my question related to the owner. What it has been I don’t care to know, and what it is I can see for myself.’

The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips, and glancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had changed his attitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in a lower tone:

‘The owner’s name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and’—again he glanced in the same direction as before—‘and a worthy gentleman too—hem!’

Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the significant gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his questioning.

‘I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that crosses the grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage? His daughter?’

‘Why, how should I know, honest man?’ replied Joe, contriving in the course of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close to his questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, ‘I didn’t see the young lady, you know. Whew! There’s the wind again—AND rain—well it IS a night!’

Rough weather indeed!’ observed the strange man.

‘You’re used to it?’ said Joe, catching at anything which seemed to promise a diversion of the subject.

‘Pretty well,’ returned the other. ‘About the young lady—has Mr Haredale a daughter?’

‘No, no,’ said the young fellow fretfully, ‘he’s a single gentleman—he’s—be quiet, can’t you, man? Don’t you see this talk is not relished yonder?’

Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to hear it, his tormentor provokingly continued:

‘Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be his daughter, though he is not married.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approached him again, ‘You’ll come in for it presently, I know you will!’

‘I mean no harm’—returned the traveller boldly, ‘and have said none that I know of. I ask a few questions—as any stranger may, and not unnaturally—about the inmates of a remarkable house in a neighbourhood which is new to me, and you are as aghast and disturbed as if I were talking treason against King George. Perhaps you can tell me why, sir, for (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?’

The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe Willet’s discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloak preparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he could give him no information, the young man beckoned to Joe, and handing him a piece of money in payment of his reckoning, hurried out attended by young Willet himself, who taking up a candle followed to light him to the house-door.

While Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his three companions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deep silence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge copper boiler that was suspended over the fire. After some time John Willet slowly shook his head, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but no man withdrew his eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn expression of his countenance in the slightest degree.

At length Joe returned—very talkative and conciliatory, as though with a strong presentiment that he was going to be found fault with.

‘Such a thing as love is!’ he said, drawing a chair near the fire, and looking round for sympathy. ‘He has set off to walk to London,—all the way to London. His nag gone lame in riding out here this blessed afternoon, and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute; and he giving up a good hot supper and our best bed, because Miss Haredale has gone to a masquerade up in town, and he has set his heart upon seeing her! I don’t think I could persuade myself to do that, beautiful as she is,—but then I’m not in love (at least I don’t think I am) and that’s the whole difference.’

‘He is in love then?’ said the stranger.

‘Rather,’ replied Joe. ‘He’ll never be more in love, and may very easily be less.’

‘Silence, sir!’ cried his father.

‘What a chap you are, Joe!’ said Long Parkes.

‘Such a inconsiderate lad!’ murmured Tom Cobb.

‘Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own father’s face!’ exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically.

‘What HAVE I done?’ reasoned poor Joe.

‘Silence, sir!’ returned his father, ‘what do you mean by talking, when you see people that are more than two or three times your age, sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?’

‘Why that’s the proper time for me to talk, isn’t it?’ said Joe rebelliously.

‘The proper time, sir!’ retorted his father, ‘the proper time’s no time.’

‘Ah to be sure!’ muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point.

‘The proper time’s no time, sir,’ repeated John Willet; ‘when I was your age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and improved myself that’s what I did.’

‘And you’d find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment, Joe, if anybody was to try and tackle him,’ said Parkes.

‘For the matter o’ that, Phil!’ observed Mr Willet, blowing a long, thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; ‘For the matter o’ that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of ‘em, and has not a right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that he is so gifted; for that is a turning of his back on Natur, a flouting of her, a slighting of her precious caskets, and a proving of one’s self to be a swine that isn’t worth her scattering pearls before.’

The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally concluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed:

‘You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn’t much like to tackle him in argeyment, I’m thinking, sir.’

‘IF,’ said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming and irreverent haste; ‘IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift of argeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same? Yes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way. You are right, sir. My toughness has been proved, sir, in this room many and many a time, as I think you know; and if you don’t know,’ added John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, ‘so much the better, for I an’t proud and am not going to tell you.’

A general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking of heads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had good experience of his powers and needed no further evidence to assure them of his superiority. John smoked with a little more dignity and surveyed them in silence.

‘It’s all very fine talking,’ muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. ‘But if you mean to tell me that I’m never to open my lips—’

‘Silence, sir!’ roared his father. ‘No, you never are. When your opinion’s wanted, you give it. When you’re spoke to, you speak. When your opinion’s not wanted and you’re not spoke to, don’t you give an opinion and don’t you speak. The world’s undergone a nice alteration since my time, certainly. My belief is that there an’t any boys left—that there isn’t such a thing as a boy—that there’s nothing now between a male baby and a man—and that all the boys went out with his blessed Majesty King George the Second.’

‘That’s a very true observation, always excepting the young princes,’ said the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of church and state in that company, held himself bound to the nicest loyalty. ‘If it’s godly and righteous for boys, being of the ages of boys, to behave themselves like boys, then the young princes must be boys and cannot be otherwise.’

‘Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?’ said Mr Willet.

‘Certainly I have,’ replied the clerk.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Willet. ‘According to the constitution of mermaids, so much of a mermaid as is not a woman must be a fish. According to the constitution of young princes, so much of a young prince (if anything) as is not actually an angel, must be godly and righteous. Therefore if it’s becoming and godly and righteous in the young princes (as it is at their ages) that they should be boys, they are and must be boys, and cannot by possibility be anything else.’

This elucidation of a knotty point being received with such marks of approval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented himself with repeating to his son his command of silence, and addressing the stranger, said:

‘If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person—of me or any of these gentlemen—you’d have had some satisfaction, and wouldn’t have wasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale’s niece.’

‘Is her father alive?’ said the man, carelessly.

‘No,’ rejoined the landlord, ‘he is not alive, and he is not dead—’

‘Not dead!’ cried the other.

‘Not dead in a common sort of way,’ said the landlord.

The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an undertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, ‘let no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’ that John Willet was in amazing force to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.

The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked abruptly, ‘What do you mean?’

‘More than you think for, friend,’ returned John Willet. ‘Perhaps there’s more meaning in them words than you suspect.’

‘Perhaps there is,’ said the strange man, gruffly; ‘but what the devil do you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man is not alive, nor yet dead—then, that he’s not dead in a common sort of way—then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tell you the truth, you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, you mean nothing. What DO you mean, I ask again?’

‘That,’ returned the landlord, a little brought down from his dignity by the stranger’s surliness, ‘is a Maypole story, and has been any time these four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon Daisy’s story. It belongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon Daisy has ever told it under this roof, or ever shall—that’s more.’

The man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness and importance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to, and, observing that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a very long whiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell his story without further solicitation, gathered his large coat about him, and shrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom of the spacious chimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling from under a great faggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the time, shot upward with a strong and sudden glare, and illumining his figure for a moment, seemed afterwards to cast it into deeper obscurity than before.

By this flickering light, which made the old room, with its heavy timbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polished ebony—the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling the latch and creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now driving at the casement as though it would beat it in—by this light, and under circumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale:

‘It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey’s elder brother—’

Here he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even John Willet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.

‘Cobb,’ said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to the post-office keeper; ‘what day of the month is this?’

‘The nineteenth.’

‘Of March,’ said the clerk, bending forward, ‘the nineteenth of March; that’s very strange.’

In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:

‘It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey’s elder brother, that twenty-two years ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said—not that you remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can’t do that, but because you have often heard me say so—was then a much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property than it is now. His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one child—the Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about—who was then scarcely a year old.’

Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so much curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expecting some exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter made no remark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was interested in what was said. Solomon therefore turned to his old companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated by the deep red glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long experience, of their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such indecent behaviour.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man, ‘left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place as lonely as this—as I suppose and have always heard say—he suddenly came back again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with him besides, that day, only two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener.’

Mr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out, and then proceeded—at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by keen enjoyment of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and afterwards with increasing distinctness:

‘—Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener. The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow next day. It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived at Chigwell Row, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order came to me at half after twelve o’clock at night to go and toll the passing-bell.’

There was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficiently indicative of the strong repugnance any one of them would have felt to have turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The clerk felt and understood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.

‘It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up in his bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to take his dinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under obligation to go alone, for it was too late to hope to get any other companion. However, I wasn’t unprepared for it; as the old gentleman had often made it a request that the bell should be tolled as soon as possible after the breath was out of his body, and he had been expected to go for some days. I put as good a face upon it as I could, and muffling myself up (for it was mortal cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the other.’

At this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned himself to hear more distinctly. Slightly pointing over his shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows and nodded a silent inquiry to Joe whether this was the case. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the corner, but could make out nothing, and so shook his head.

‘It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining heavily, and very dark—I often think now, darker than I ever saw it before or since; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all close shut and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one other man who knows how dark it really was. I got into the church, chained the door back so that it should keep ajar—for, to tell the truth, I didn’t like to be shut in there alone—and putting my lantern on the stone seat in the little corner where the bell-rope is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.

‘I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not persuade myself to get up again, and go about my work. I don’t know how it was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever heard, even those that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and had forgotten long ago; and they didn’t come into my mind one after another, but all crowding at once, like. I recollected one story there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning. This made me think how many people I had known, were buried between the church-door and the churchyard gate, and what a dreadful thing it would be to have to pass among them and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves. I had known all the niches and arches in the church from a child; still, I couldn’t persuade myself that those were their natural shadows which I saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly figures hiding among ‘em and peeping out. Thinking on in this way, I began to think of the old gentleman who was just dead, and I could have sworn, as I looked up the dark chancel, that I saw him in his usual place, wrapping his shroud about him and shivering as if he felt it cold. All this time I sat listening and listening, and hardly dared to breathe. At length I started up and took the bell-rope in my hands. At that minute there rang—not that bell, for I had hardly touched the rope—but another!

‘I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly. It was only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the sound away, but I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it rang no more. I had heard of corpse candles, and at last I persuaded myself that this must be a corpse bell tolling of itself at midnight for the dead. I tolled my bell—how, or how long, I don’t know—and ran home to bed as fast as I could touch the ground.

‘I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the story to my neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of it; I don’t think anybody believed it real. But, that morning, Mr Reuben Haredale was found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his hand was a piece of the cord attached to an alarm-bell outside the roof, which hung in his room and had been cut asunder, no doubt by the murderer, when he seized it.

‘That was the bell I heard.

‘A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had brought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of money, was gone. The steward and gardener were both missing and both suspected for a long time, but they were never found, though hunted far and wide. And far enough they might have looked for poor Mr Rudge the steward, whose body—scarcely to be recognised by his clothes and the watch and ring he wore—was found, months afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed with a knife. He was only partly dressed; and people all agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before his master.

Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and though he has never been heard of from that day to this, he will be, mark my words. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty years—on the nineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three. On the nineteenth of March in some year—no matter when—I know it, I am sure of it, for we have always, in some strange way or other, been brought back to the subject on that day ever since—on the nineteenth of March in some year, sooner or later, that man will be discovered.’

Chapter 2

‘A strange story!’ said the man who had been the cause of the narration.—‘Stranger still if it comes about as you predict. Is that all?’

A question so unexpected, nettled Solomon Daisy not a little. By dint of relating the story very often, and ornamenting it (according to village report) with a few flourishes suggested by the various hearers from time to time, he had come by degrees to tell it with great effect; and ‘Is that all?’ after the climax, was not what he was accustomed to.

‘Is that all?’ he repeated, ‘yes, that’s all, sir. And enough too, I think.’

‘I think so too. My horse, young man! He is but a hack hired from a roadside posting house, but he must carry me to London to-night.’

‘To-night!’ said Joe.

‘To-night,’ returned the other. ‘What do you stare at? This tavern would seem to be a house of call for all the gaping idlers of the neighbourhood!’

At this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny he had undergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of John Willet and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity to the copper boiler again. Not so with Joe, who, being a mettlesome fellow, returned the stranger’s angry glance with a steady look, and rejoined:

‘It is not a very bold thing to wonder at your going on to-night. Surely you have been asked such a harmless question in an inn before, and in better weather than this. I thought you mightn’t know the way, as you seem strange to this part.’

‘The way—’ repeated the other, irritably.

‘Yes. DO you know it?’

‘I’ll—humph!—I’ll find it,’ replied the man, waving his hand and turning on his heel. ‘Landlord, take the reckoning here.’

John Willet did as he was desired; for on that point he was seldom slow, except in the particulars of giving change, and testing the goodness of any piece of coin that was proffered to him, by the application of his teeth or his tongue, or some other test, or in doubtful cases, by a long series of tests terminating in its rejection. The guest then wrapped his garments about him so as to shelter himself as effectually as he could from the rough weather, and without any word or sign of farewell betook himself to the stableyard. Here Joe (who had left the room on the conclusion of their short dialogue) was protecting himself and the horse from the rain under the shelter of an old penthouse roof.

‘He’s pretty much of my opinion,’ said Joe, patting the horse upon the neck. ‘I’ll wager that your stopping here to-night would please him better than it would please me.’

‘He and I are of different opinions, as we have been more than once on our way here,’ was the short reply.

‘So I was thinking before you came out, for he has felt your spurs, poor beast.’

The stranger adjusted his coat-collar about his face, and made no answer.

‘You’ll know me again, I see,’ he said, marking the young fellow’s earnest gaze, when he had sprung into the saddle.

‘The man’s worth knowing, master, who travels a road he don’t know, mounted on a jaded horse, and leaves good quarters to do it on such a night as this.’

‘You have sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, I find.’

‘Both I hope by nature, but the last grows rusty sometimes for want of using.’

‘Use the first less too, and keep their sharpness for your sweethearts, boy,’ said the man.

So saying he shook his hand from the bridle, struck him roughly on the head with the butt end of his whip, and galloped away; dashing through the mud and darkness with a headlong speed, which few badly mounted horsemen would have cared to venture, even had they been thoroughly acquainted with the country; and which, to one who knew nothing of the way he rode, was attended at every step with great hazard and danger.

The roads, even within twelve miles of London, were at that time ill paved, seldom repaired, and very badly made. The way this rider traversed had been ploughed up by the wheels of heavy waggons, and rendered rotten by the frosts and thaws of the preceding winter, or possibly of many winters. Great holes and gaps had been worn into the soil, which, being now filled with water from the late rains, were not easily distinguishable even by day; and a plunge into any one of them might have brought down a surer-footed horse than the poor beast now urged forward to the utmost extent of his powers. Sharp flints and stones rolled from under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely see beyond the animal’s head, or farther on either side than his own arm would have extended. At that time, too, all the roads in the neighbourhood of the metropolis were infested by footpads or highwaymen, and it was a night, of all others, in which any evil-disposed person of this class might have pursued his unlawful calling with little fear of detection.

Still, the traveller dashed forward at the same reckless pace, regardless alike of the dirt and wet which flew about his head, the profound darkness of the night, and the probability of encountering some desperate characters abroad. At every turn and angle, even where a deviation from the direct course might have been least expected, and could not possibly be seen until he was close upon it, he guided the bridle with an unerring hand, and kept the middle of the road. Thus he sped onward, raising himself in the stirrups, leaning his body forward until it almost touched the horse’s neck, and flourishing his heavy whip above his head with the fervour of a madman.

There are times when, the elements being in unusual commotion, those who are bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by great thoughts, whether of good or evil, feel a mysterious sympathy with the tumult of nature, and are roused into corresponding violence. In the midst of thunder, lightning, and storm, many tremendous deeds have been committed; men, self-possessed before, have given a sudden loose to passions they could no longer control. The demons of wrath and despair have striven to emulate those who ride the whirlwind and direct the storm; and man, lashed into madness with the roaring winds and boiling waters, has become for the time as wild and merciless as the elements themselves.

Whether the traveller was possessed by thoughts which the fury of the night had heated and stimulated into a quicker current, or was merely impelled by some strong motive to reach his journey’s end, on he swept more like a hunted phantom than a man, nor checked his pace until, arriving at some cross roads, one of which led by a longer route to the place whence he had lately started, he bore down so suddenly upon a vehicle which was coming towards him, that in the effort to avoid it he well-nigh pulled his horse upon his haunches, and narrowly escaped being thrown.

‘Yoho!’ cried the voice of a man. ‘What’s that? Who goes there?’

‘A friend!’ replied the traveller.

‘A friend!’ repeated the voice. ‘Who calls himself a friend and rides like that, abusing Heaven’s gifts in the shape of horseflesh, and endangering, not only his own neck (which might be no great matter) but the necks of other people?’

‘You have a lantern there, I see,’ said the traveller dismounting, ‘lend it me for a moment. You have wounded my horse, I think, with your shaft or wheel.’

‘Wounded him!’ cried the other, ‘if I haven’t killed him, it’s no fault of yours. What do you mean by galloping along the king’s highway like that, eh?’

‘Give me the light,’ returned the traveller, snatching it from his hand, ‘and don’t ask idle questions of a man who is in no mood for talking.’

‘If you had said you were in no mood for talking before, I should perhaps have been in no mood for lighting,’ said the voice. ‘Hows’ever as it’s the poor horse that’s damaged and not you, one of you is welcome to the light at all events—but it’s not the crusty one.’

The traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the light near to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb and carcass. Meanwhile, the other man sat very composedly in his vehicle, which was a kind of chaise with a depository for a large bag of tools, and watched his proceedings with a careful eye.

The looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a double chin, and a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good humour, and good health. He was past the prime of life, but Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.

The person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of this kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old age: at peace with himself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the world. Although muffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs—one of which, passed over his crown, and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin, secured his three-cornered hat and bob-wig from blowing off his head—there was no disguising his plump and comfortable figure; neither did certain dirty finger-marks upon his face give it any other than an odd and comical expression, through which its natural good humour shone with undiminished lustre.

‘He is not hurt,’ said the traveller at length, raising his head and the lantern together.

‘You have found that out at last, have you?’ rejoined the old man. ‘My eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn’t change with you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mean! I could have told you he wasn’t hurt, five minutes ago. Give me the light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace; and good night.’

In handing up the lantern, the man necessarily cast its rays full on the speaker’s face. Their eyes met at the instant. He suddenly dropped it and crushed it with his foot.

‘Did you never see a locksmith before, that you start as if you had come upon a ghost?’ cried the old man in the chaise, ‘or is this,’ he added hastily, thrusting his hand into the tool basket and drawing out a hammer, ‘a scheme for robbing me? I know these roads, friend. When I travel them, I carry nothing but a few shillings, and not a crown’s worth of them. I tell you plainly, to save us both trouble, that there’s nothing to be got from me but a pretty stout arm considering my years, and this tool, which, mayhap from long acquaintance with, I can use pretty briskly. You shall not have it all your own way, I promise you, if you play at that game. With these words he stood upon the defensive.

‘I am not what you take me for, Gabriel Varden,’ replied the other.

‘Then what and who are you?’ returned the locksmith. ‘You know my name, it seems. Let me know yours.’

‘I have not gained the information from any confidence of yours, but from the inscription on your cart which tells it to all the town,’ replied the traveller.

‘You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse, then,’ said Varden, descending nimbly from his chaise; ‘who are you? Let me see your face.’

While the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his saddle, from which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as the horse moved in chafing under the tightened rein, kept close beside him.

‘Let me see your face, I say.’

‘Stand off!’

‘No masquerading tricks,’ said the locksmith, ‘and tales at the club to-morrow, how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice and a dark night. Stand—let me see your face.’

Finding that further resistance would only involve him in a personal struggle with an antagonist by no means to be despised, the traveller threw back his coat, and stooping down looked steadily at the locksmith.

Perhaps two men more powerfully contrasted, never opposed each other face to face. The ruddy features of the locksmith so set off and heightened the excessive paleness of the man on horseback, that he looked like a bloodless ghost, while the moisture, which hard riding had brought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy drops, like dews of agony and death. The countenance of the old locksmith lighted up with the smile of one expecting to detect in this unpromising stranger some latent roguery of eye or lip, which should reveal a familiar person in that arch disguise, and spoil his jest. The face of the other, sullen and fierce, but shrinking too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while his firmly closed jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain stealthy motion of the hand within his breast, seemed to announce a desperate purpose very foreign to acting, or child’s play.

Thus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.

‘Humph!’ he said when he had scanned his features; ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Don’t desire to?’—returned the other, muffling himself as before.

‘I don’t,’ said Gabriel; ‘to be plain with you, friend, you don’t carry in your countenance a letter of recommendation.’

‘It’s not my wish,’ said the traveller. ‘My humour is to be avoided.’

‘Well,’ said the locksmith bluntly, ‘I think you’ll have your humour.’

‘I will, at any cost,’ rejoined the traveller. ‘In proof of it, lay this to heart—that you were never in such peril of your life as you have been within these few moments; when you are within five minutes of breathing your last, you will not be nearer death than you have been to-night!’

‘Aye!’ said the sturdy locksmith.

‘Aye! and a violent death.’

‘From whose hand?’

‘From mine,’ replied the traveller.

With that he put spurs to his horse, and rode away; at first plashing heavily through the mire at a smart trot, but gradually increasing in speed until the last sound of his horse’s hoofs died away upon the wind; when he was again hurrying on at the same furious gallop, which had been his pace when the locksmith first encountered him.

Gabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken lantern in his hand, listening in stupefied silence until no sound reached his ear but the moaning of the wind, and the fast-falling rain; when he struck himself one or two smart blows in the breast by way of rousing himself, and broke into an exclamation of surprise.

‘What in the name of wonder can this fellow be! a madman? a highwayman? a cut-throat? If he had not scoured off so fast, we’d have seen who was in most danger, he or I. I never nearer death than I have been to-night! I hope I may be no nearer to it for a score of years to come—if so, I’ll be content to be no farther from it. My stars!—a pretty brag this to a stout man—pooh, pooh!’

Gabriel resumed his seat, and looked wistfully up the road by which the traveller had come; murmuring in a half whisper:

‘The Maypole—two miles to the Maypole. I came the other road from the Warren after a long day’s work at locks and bells, on purpose that I should not come by the Maypole and break my promise to Martha by looking in—there’s resolution! It would be dangerous to go on to London without a light; and it’s four miles, and a good half mile besides, to the Halfway-House; and between this and that is the very place where one needs a light most. Two miles to the Maypole! I told Martha I wouldn’t; I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t—there’s resolution!’

Repeating these two last words very often, as if to compensate for the little resolution he was going to show by piquing himself on the great resolution he had shown, Gabriel Varden quietly turned back, determining to get a light at the Maypole, and to take nothing but a light.

When he got to the Maypole, however, and Joe, responding to his well-known hail, came running out to the horse’s head, leaving the door open behind him, and disclosing a delicious perspective of warmth and brightness—when the ruddy gleam of the fire, streaming through the old red curtains of the common room, seemed to bring with it, as part of itself, a pleasant hum of voices, and a fragrant odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped as it were in the cheerful glow—when the shadows, flitting across the curtain, showed that those inside had risen from their snug seats, and were making room in the snuggest corner (how well he knew that corner!) for the honest locksmith, and a broad glare, suddenly streaming up, bespoke the goodness of the crackling log from which a brilliant train of sparks was doubtless at that moment whirling up the chimney in honour of his coming—when, superadded to these enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle sound of frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a savoury smell that made even the boisterous wind a perfume—Gabriel felt his firmness oozing rapidly away. He tried to look stoically at the tavern, but his features would relax into a look of fondness. He turned his head the other way, and the cold black country seemed to frown him off, and drive him for a refuge into its hospitable arms.

‘The merciful man, Joe,’ said the locksmith, ‘is merciful to his beast. I’ll get out for a little while.’

And how natural it was to get out! And how unnatural it seemed for a sober man to be plodding wearily along through miry roads, encountering the rude buffets of the wind and pelting of the rain, when there was a clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well swept hearth, a blazing fire, a table decorated with white cloth, bright pewter flagons, and other tempting preparations for a well-cooked meal—when there were these things, and company disposed to make the most of them, all ready to his hand, and entreating him to enjoyment!

Chapter 3

Such were the locksmith’s thoughts when first seated in the snug corner, and slowly recovering from a pleasant defect of vision—pleasant, because occasioned by the wind blowing in his eyes—which made it a matter of sound policy and duty to himself, that he should take refuge from the weather, and tempted him, for the same reason, to aggravate a slight cough, and declare he felt but poorly. Such were still his thoughts more than a full hour afterwards, when, supper over, he still sat with shining jovial face in the same warm nook, listening to the cricket-like chirrup of little Solomon Daisy, and bearing no unimportant or slightly respected part in the social gossip round the Maypole fire.

‘I wish he may be an honest man, that’s all,’ said Solomon, winding up a variety of speculations relative to the stranger, concerning whom Gabriel had compared notes with the company, and so raised a grave discussion; ‘I wish he may be an honest man.’

‘So we all do, I suppose, don’t we?’ observed the locksmith.

‘I don’t,’ said Joe.

‘No!’ cried Gabriel.

‘No. He struck me with his whip, the coward, when he was mounted and I afoot, and I should be better pleased that he turned out what I think him.’

‘And what may that be, Joe?’

‘No good, Mr Varden. You may shake your head, father, but I say no good, and will say no good, and I would say no good a hundred times over, if that would bring him back to have the drubbing he deserves.’

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said John Willet.

‘I won’t, father. It’s all along of you that he ventured to do what he did. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, HE plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks—and may well think too—hasn’t a grain of spirit. But he’s mistaken, as I’ll show him, and as I’ll show all of you before long.’

‘Does the boy know what he’s a saying of!’ cried the astonished John Willet.

‘Father,’ returned Joe, ‘I know what I say and mean, well—better than you do when you hear me. I can bear with you, but I cannot bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do, brings upon me from others every day. Look at other young men of my age. Have they no liberty, no will, no right to speak? Are they obliged to sit mumchance, and to be ordered about till they are the laughing-stock of young and old? I am a bye-word all over Chigwell, and I say—and it’s fairer my saying so now, than waiting till you are dead, and I have got your money—I say, that before long I shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when I do, it won’t be me that you’ll have to blame, but your own self, and no other.’

John Willet was so amazed by the exasperation and boldness of his hopeful son, that he sat as one bewildered, staring in a ludicrous manner at the boiler, and endeavouring, but quite ineffectually, to collect his tardy thoughts, and invent an answer. The guests, scarcely less disturbed, were equally at a loss; and at length, with a variety of muttered, half-expressed condolences, and pieces of advice, rose to depart; being at the same time slightly muddled with liquor.

The honest locksmith alone addressed a few words of coherent and sensible advice to both parties, urging John Willet to remember that Joe was nearly arrived at man’s estate, and should not be ruled with too tight a hand, and exhorting Joe himself to bear with his father’s caprices, and rather endeavour to turn them aside by temperate remonstrance than by ill-timed rebellion. This advice was received as such advice usually is. On John Willet it made almost as much impression as on the sign outside the door, while Joe, who took it in the best part, avowed himself more obliged than he could well express, but politely intimated his intention nevertheless of taking his own course uninfluenced by anybody.

‘You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr Varden,’ he said, as they stood without, in the porch, and the locksmith was equipping himself for his journey home; ‘I take it very kind of you to say all this, but the time’s nearly come when the Maypole and I must part company.’

‘Roving stones gather no moss, Joe,’ said Gabriel.

‘Nor milestones much,’ replied Joe. ‘I’m little better than one here, and see as much of the world.’

‘Then, what would you do, Joe?’ pursued the locksmith, stroking his chin reflectively. ‘What could you be? Where could you go, you see?’

‘I must trust to chance, Mr Varden.’

‘A bad thing to trust to, Joe. I don’t like it. I always tell my girl when we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to chance, but to make sure beforehand that she has a good man and true, and then chance will neither make her nor break her. What are you fidgeting about there, Joe? Nothing gone in the harness, I hope?’

‘No no,’ said Joe—finding, however, something very engrossing to do in the way of strapping and buckling—‘Miss Dolly quite well?’

‘Hearty, thankye. She looks pretty enough to be well, and good too.’

‘She’s always both, sir’—

‘So she is, thank God!’

‘I hope,’ said Joe after some hesitation, ‘that you won’t tell this story against me—this of my having been beat like the boy they’d make of me—at all events, till I have met this man again and settled the account. It’ll be a better story then.’

‘Why who should I tell it to?’ returned Gabriel. ‘They know it here, and I’m not likely to come across anybody else who would care about it.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said the young fellow with a sigh. ‘I quite forgot that. Yes, that’s true!’

So saying, he raised his face, which was very red,—no doubt from the exertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid,—and giving the reins to the old man, who had by this time taken his seat, sighed again and bade him good night.

‘Good night!’ cried Gabriel. ‘Now think better of what we have just been speaking of; and don’t be rash, there’s a good fellow! I have an interest in you, and wouldn’t have you cast yourself away. Good night!’

Returning his cheery farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet lingered until the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears, and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house.

Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate his adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for visiting the Maypole, despite certain solemn covenants between himself and that lady. Thinking begets, not only thought, but drowsiness occasionally, and the more the locksmith thought, the more sleepy he became.

A man may be very sober—or at least firmly set upon his legs on that neutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect sobriety and slight tipsiness—and yet feel a strong tendency to mingle up present circumstances with others which have no manner of connection with them; to confound all consideration of persons, things, times, and places; and to jumble his disjointed thoughts together in a kind of mental kaleidoscope, producing combinations as unexpected as they are transitory. This was Gabriel Varden’s state, as, nodding in his dog sleep, and leaving his horse to pursue a road with which he was well acquainted, he got over the ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and nearer home. He had roused himself once, when the horse stopped until the turnpike gate was opened, and had cried a lusty ‘good night!’ to the toll-keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up the turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty years. It is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and jogged heavily along, quite insensible to his progress.

And, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched before him like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish air with a deep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways and shops, and swarms of busy people. Approaching nearer and nearer yet, this halo began to fade, and the causes which produced it slowly to develop themselves. Long lines of poorly lighted streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a lighter spot, where lamps were clustered round a square or market, or round some great building; after a time these grew more distinct, and the lamps themselves were visible; slight yellow specks, that seemed to be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as intervening obstacles hid them from the sight. Then, sounds arose—the striking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the streets; then outlines might be traced—tall steeples looming in the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then, the noise swelled into a louder sound, and forms grew more distinct and numerous still, and London—visible in the darkness by its own faint light, and not by that of Heaven—was at hand.

The locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still jogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no great distance ahead, roused him with a start.

For a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had been transported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon recognising familiar objects, rubbed his eyes lazily and might have relapsed again, but that the cry was repeated—not once or twice or thrice, but many times, and each time, if possible, with increased vehemence. Thoroughly aroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not easily daunted, made straight to the spot, urging on his stout little horse as if for life or death.

The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the place whence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway, and, hovering round him, another person with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience, redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to the spot.

‘What’s here to do?’ said the old man, alighting. ‘How’s this—what—Barnaby?’

The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon him a look which told his history at once.

‘You know me, Barnaby?’ said Varden.

He nodded—not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye sternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an inquiring look.

‘There’s blood upon him,’ said Barnaby with a shudder. ‘It makes me sick!’

‘How came it there?’ demanded Varden.

‘Steel, steel, steel!’ he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand the thrust of a sword.

‘Is he robbed?’ said the locksmith.

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded ‘Yes;’ then pointed towards the city.

‘Oh!’ said the old man, bending over the body and looking round as he spoke into Barnaby’s pale face, strangely lighted up by something that was NOT intellect. ‘The robber made off that way, did he? Well, well, never mind that just now. Hold your torch this way—a little farther off—so. Now stand quiet, while I try to see what harm is done.’

With these words, he applied himself to a closer examination of the prostrate form, while Barnaby, holding the torch as he had been directed, looked on in silence, fascinated by interest or curiosity, but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret horror which convulsed him in every nerve.

As he stood, at that moment, half shrinking back and half bending forward, both his face and figure were full in the strong glare of the link, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been broad day. He was about three-and-twenty years old, and though rather spare, of a fair height and strong make. His hair, of which he had a great profusion, was red, and hanging in disorder about his face and shoulders, gave to his restless looks an expression quite unearthly—enhanced by the paleness of his complexion, and the glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes. Startling as his aspect was, the features were good, and there was something even plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect. But, the absence of the soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting.

His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there—apparently by his own hands—with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was most worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare. He had ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock’s feathers, but they were limp and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back. Girt to his side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental portion of his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition of all the motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face.

‘Barnaby,’ said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection, ‘this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a fainting-fit.’

‘I know him, I know him!’ cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.

‘Know him?’ repeated the locksmith.

‘Hush!’ said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. ‘He went out to-day a wooing. I wouldn’t for a light guinea that he should never go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim that are now as bright as—see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come out! Whose eyes are they? If they are angels’ eyes, why do they look down here and see good men hurt, and only wink and sparkle all the night?’

‘Now Heaven help this silly fellow,’ murmured the perplexed locksmith; ‘can he know this gentleman? His mother’s house is not far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby, my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we’ll ride home together.’

‘I can’t touch him!’ cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as with a strong spasm; ‘he’s bloody!’

‘It’s in his nature, I know,’ muttered the locksmith, ‘it’s cruel to ask him, but I must have help. Barnaby—good Barnaby—dear Barnaby—if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and everybody’s life that loves him, help me to raise him and lay him down.’

‘Cover him then, wrap him close—don’t let me see it—smell it—hear the word. Don’t speak the word—don’t!’

‘No, no, I’ll not. There, you see he’s covered now. Gently. Well done, well done!’

They placed him in the carriage with great ease, for Barnaby was strong and active, but all the time they were so occupied he shivered from head to foot, and evidently experienced an ecstasy of terror.

This accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with Varden’s own greatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded onward at a brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his fingers, and Gabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an adventure now, which would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the Maypole, for that night, or there was no faith in woman.

Chapter 4

In the venerable suburb—it was a suburb once—of Clerkenwell, towards that part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter House, and in one of those cool, shady streets, of which a few, widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the metropolis,—each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who long ago retired from business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course of time it tumbles down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir, flaunting in stucco and ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,—in this quarter, and in a street of this description, the business of the present chapter lies.

At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years ago, a very large part of what is London now had no existence. Even in the brains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up no long rows of streets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no assemblages of palaces in the swampy levels, nor little cities in the open fields. Although this part of town was then, as now, parcelled out in streets, and plentifully peopled, it wore a different aspect. There were gardens to many of the houses, and trees by the pavement side; with an air of freshness breathing up and down, which in these days would be sought in vain. Fields were nigh at hand, through which the New River took its winding course, and where there was merry haymaking in the summer time. Nature was not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; and although there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working jewellers by scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer to it than many modern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers’ walks at no great distance, which turned into squalid courts, long before the lovers of this age were born, or, as the phrase goes, thought of.

In one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady side of the way—for good housewives know that sunlight damages their cherished furniture, and so choose the shade rather than its intrusive glare—there stood the house with which we have to deal. It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not tall; not bold-faced, with great staring windows, but a shy, blinking house, with a conical roof going up into a peak over its garret window of four small panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head of an elderly gentleman with one eye. It was not built of brick or lofty stone, but of wood and plaster; it was not planned with a dull and wearisome regard to regularity, for no one window matched the other, or seemed to have the slightest reference to anything besides itself.

The shop—for it had a shop—was, with reference to the first floor, where shops usually are; and there all resemblance between it and any other shop stopped short and ceased. People who went in and out didn’t go up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in upon a level with the street, but dived down three steep stairs, as into a cellar. Its floor was paved with stone and brick, as that of any other cellar might be; and in lieu of window framed and glazed it had a great black wooden flap or shutter, nearly breast high from the ground, which turned back in the day-time, admitting as much cold air as light, and very often more. Behind this shop was a wainscoted parlour, looking first into a paved yard, and beyond that again into a little terrace garden, raised some feet above it. Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscoted parlour, saving for the door of communication by which he had entered, was cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed most strangers on their first entrance were observed to grow extremely thoughtful, as weighing and pondering in their minds whether the upper rooms were only approachable by ladders from without; never suspecting that two of the most unassuming and unlikely doors in existence, which the most ingenious mechanician on earth must of necessity have supposed to be the doors of closets, opened out of this room—each without the smallest preparation, or so much as a quarter of an inch of passage—upon two dark winding flights of stairs, the one upward, the other downward, which were the sole means of communication between that chamber and the other portions of the house.

With all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously tidy, or more punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in London, in all England. There were not cleaner windows, or whiter floors, or brighter Stoves, or more highly shining articles of furniture in old mahogany; there was not more rubbing, scrubbing, burnishing and polishing, in the whole street put together. Nor was this excellence attained without some cost and trouble and great expenditure of voice, as the neighbours were frequently reminded when the good lady of the house overlooked and assisted in its being put to rights on cleaning days—which were usually from Monday morning till Saturday night, both days inclusive.

Leaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmith stood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man, gazing disconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in vivid yellow to resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front, and swung to and fro with a mournful creaking noise, as if complaining that it had nothing to unlock. Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder into the shop, which was so dark and dingy with numerous tokens of his trade, and so blackened by the smoke of a little forge, near which his ‘prentice was at work, that it would have been difficult for one unused to such espials to have distinguished anything but various tools of uncouth make and shape, great bunches of rusty keys, fragments of iron, half-finished locks, and such like things, which garnished the walls and hung in clusters from the ceiling.

After a long and patient contemplation of the golden key, and many such backward glances, Gabriel stepped into the road, and stole a look at the upper windows. One of them chanced to be thrown open at the moment, and a roguish face met his; a face lighted up by the loveliest pair of sparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked upon; the face of a pretty, laughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and healthful—the very impersonation of good-humour and blooming beauty.

‘Hush!’ she whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the window underneath. ‘Mother is still asleep.’

‘Still, my dear,’ returned the locksmith in the same tone. ‘You talk as if she had been asleep all night, instead of little more than half an hour. But I’m very thankful. Sleep’s a blessing—no doubt about it.’ The last few words he muttered to himself.

‘How cruel of you to keep us up so late this morning, and never tell us where you were, or send us word!’ said the girl.

‘Ah Dolly, Dolly!’ returned the locksmith, shaking his head, and smiling, ‘how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed! Come down to breakfast, madcap, and come down lightly, or you’ll wake your mother. She must be tired, I am sure—I am.’

Keeping these latter words to himself, and returning his daughter’s nod, he was passing into the workshop, with the smile she had awakened still beaming on his face, when he just caught sight of his ‘prentice’s brown paper cap ducking down to avoid observation, and shrinking from the window back to its former place, which the wearer no sooner reached than he began to hammer lustily.

‘Listening again, Simon!’ said Gabriel to himself. ‘That’s bad. What in the name of wonder does he expect the girl to say, that I always catch him listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other time! A bad habit, Sim, a sneaking, underhanded way. Ah! you may hammer, but you won’t beat that out of me, if you work at it till your time’s up!’

So saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the workshop, and confronted the subject of these remarks.

‘There’s enough of that just now,’ said the locksmith. ‘You needn’t make any more of that confounded clatter. Breakfast’s ready.’

‘Sir,’ said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a peculiar little bow cut short off at the neck, ‘I shall attend you immediately.’

‘I suppose,’ muttered Gabriel, ‘that’s out of the ‘Prentice’s Garland or the ‘Prentice’s Delight, or the ‘Prentice’s Warbler, or the Prentice’s Guide to the Gallows, or some such improving textbook. Now he’s going to beautify himself—here’s a precious locksmith!’

Quite unconscious that his master was looking on from the dark corner by the parlour door, Sim threw off the paper cap, sprang from his seat, and in two extraordinary steps, something between skating and minuet dancing, bounded to a washing place at the other end of the shop, and there removed from his face and hands all traces of his previous work—practising the same step all the time with the utmost gravity. This done, he drew from some concealed place a little scrap of looking-glass, and with its assistance arranged his hair, and ascertained the exact state of a little carbuncle on his nose. Having now completed his toilet, he placed the fragment of mirror on a low bench, and looked over his shoulder at so much of his legs as could be reflected in that small compass, with the greatest possible complacency and satisfaction.

Sim, as he was called in the locksmith’s family, or Mr Simon Tappertit, as he called himself, and required all men to style him out of doors, on holidays, and Sundays out,—was an old-fashioned, thin-faced, sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fellow, very little more than five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in his own mind that he was above the middle size; rather tall, in fact, than otherwise. Of his figure, which was well enough formed, though somewhat of the leanest, he entertained the highest admiration; and with his legs, which, in knee-breeches, were perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enraptured to a degree amounting to enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, shadowy ideas, which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends, concerning the power of his eye. Indeed he had been known to go so far as to boast that he could utterly quell and subdue the haughtiest beauty by a simple process, which he termed ‘eyeing her over;’ but it must be added, that neither of this faculty, nor of the power he claimed to have, through the same gift, of vanquishing and heaving down dumb animals, even in a rabid state, had he ever furnished evidence which could be deemed quite satisfactory and conclusive.

It may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of Mr Tappertit there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul. As certain liquors, confined in casks too cramped in their dimensions, will ferment, and fret, and chafe in their imprisonment, so the spiritual essence or soul of Mr Tappertit would sometimes fume within that precious cask, his body, until, with great foam and froth and splutter, it would force a vent, and carry all before it. It was his custom to remark, in reference to any one of these occasions, that his soul had got into his head; and in this novel kind of intoxication many scrapes and mishaps befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no small difficulty from his worthy master.

Sim Tappertit, among the other fancies upon which his before-mentioned soul was for ever feasting and regaling itself (and which fancies, like the liver of Prometheus, grew as they were fed upon), had a mighty notion of his order; and had been heard by the servant-maid openly expressing his regret that the ‘prentices no longer carried clubs wherewith to mace the citizens: that was his strong expression. He was likewise reported to have said that in former times a stigma had been cast upon the body by the execution of George Barnwell, to which they should not have basely submitted, but should have demanded him of the legislature—temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, if necessary—to be dealt with as they in their wisdom might think fit. These thoughts always led him to consider what a glorious engine the ‘prentices might yet become if they had but a master spirit at their head; and then he would darkly, and to the terror of his hearers, hint at certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a certain Lion Heart ready to become their captain, who, once afoot, would make the Lord Mayor tremble on his throne.

In respect of dress and personal decoration, Sim Tappertit was no less of an adventurous and enterprising character. He had been seen, beyond dispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest quality at the corner of the street on Sunday nights, and to put them carefully in his pocket before returning home; and it was quite notorious that on all great holiday occasions it was his habit to exchange his plain steel knee-buckles for a pair of glittering paste, under cover of a friendly post, planted most conveniently in that same spot. Add to this that he was in years just twenty, in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred; that he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admiration of his master’s daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certain obscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love, toasted, with many winks and leers, a fair creature whose Christian name, he said, began with a D—;—and as much is known of Sim Tappertit, who has by this time followed the locksmith in to breakfast, as is necessary to be known in making his acquaintance.

It was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary tea equipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef, a ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order. There was also a goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into the form of an old gentleman, not by any means unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home-brewed ale. But, better far than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or anything to eat or drink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat, presiding over all, the locksmith’s rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef grew insignificant, and malt became as nothing.

Fathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by. It’s too much. There are bounds to human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his—those lips within Sim’s reach from day to day, and yet so far off. He had a respect for his master, but he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him.

‘Father,’ said the locksmith’s daughter, when this salute was over, and they took their seats at table, ‘what is this I hear about last night?’

‘All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.’

‘Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you came up!’

‘Ay—Mr Edward. And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all his might. It was well it happened as it did; for the road’s a lonely one, the hour was late, and, the night being cold, and poor Barnaby even less sensible than usual from surprise and fright, the young gentleman might have met his death in a very short time.’

‘I dread to think of it!’ cried his daughter with a shudder. ‘How did you know him?’

‘Know him!’ returned the locksmith. ‘I didn’t know him—how could I? I had never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him. I took him to Mrs Rudge’s; and she no sooner saw him than the truth came out.’

‘Miss Emma, father—If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as it is sure to be, she will go distracted.’

‘Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being good-natured,’ said the locksmith. ‘Miss Emma was with her uncle at the masquerade at Carlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at the Warren told me, sorely against her will. What does your blockhead father when he and Mrs Rudge have laid their heads together, but goes there when he ought to be abed, makes interest with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a mask and domino, and mixes with the masquers.’

‘And like himself to do so!’ cried the girl, putting her fair arm round his neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic kiss.

‘Like himself!’ repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but evidently delighted with the part he had taken, and with her praise. ‘Very like himself—so your mother said. However, he mingled with the crowd, and prettily worried and badgered he was, I warrant you, with people squeaking, “Don’t you know me?” and “I’ve found you out,” and all that kind of nonsense in his ears. He might have wandered on till now, but in a little room there was a young lady who had taken off her mask, on account of the place being very warm, and was sitting there alone.’

‘And that was she?’ said his daughter hastily.

‘And that was she,’ replied the locksmith; ‘and I no sooner whispered to her what the matter was—as softly, Doll, and with nearly as much art as you could have used yourself—than she gives a kind of scream and faints away.’

‘What did you do—what happened next?’ asked his daughter. ‘Why, the masks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and I thought myself in luck to get clear off, that’s all,’ rejoined the locksmith. ‘What happened when I reached home you may guess, if you didn’t hear it. Ah! Well, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.—Put Toby this way, my dear.’

This Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been made. Applying his lips to the worthy old gentleman’s benevolent forehead, the locksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among the eatables, kept them there so long, at the same time raising the vessel slowly in the air, that at length Toby stood on his head upon his nose, when he smacked his lips, and set him on the table again with fond reluctance.

Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no part of it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such silent manifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible with the favourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which now ensued, as a particularly advantageous opportunity for doing great execution with them upon the locksmith’s daughter (who he had no doubt was looking at him in mute admiration), he began to screw and twist his face, and especially those features, into such extraordinary, hideous, and unparalleled contortions, that Gabriel, who happened to look towards him, was stricken with amazement.

‘Why, what the devil’s the matter with the lad?’ cried the locksmith. ‘Is he choking?’

‘Who?’ demanded Sim, with some disdain.

‘Who? Why, you,’ returned his master. ‘What do you mean by making those horrible faces over your breakfast?’

‘Faces are matters of taste, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, rather discomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith’s daughter smiling.

‘Sim,’ rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. ‘Don’t be a fool, for I’d rather see you in your senses. These young fellows,’ he added, turning to his daughter, ‘are always committing some folly or another. There was a quarrel between Joe Willet and old John last night though I can’t say Joe was much in fault either. He’ll be missing one of these mornings, and will have gone away upon some wild-goose errand, seeking his fortune.—Why, what’s the matter, Doll? YOU are making faces now. The girls are as bad as the boys every bit!’

‘It’s the tea,’ said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very white, which is no doubt the effect of a slight scald—‘so very hot.’

Mr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table, and breathed hard.

‘Is that all?’ returned the locksmith. ‘Put some more milk in it.—Yes, I am sorry for Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and gains upon one every time one sees him. But he’ll start off, you’ll find. Indeed he told me as much himself!’

‘Indeed!’ cried Dolly in a faint voice. ‘In-deed!’

‘Is the tea tickling your throat still, my dear?’ said the locksmith.

But, before his daughter could make him any answer, she was taken with a troublesome cough, and it was such a very unpleasant cough, that, when she left off, the tears were starting in her bright eyes. The good-natured locksmith was still patting her on the back and applying such gentle restoratives, when a message arrived from Mrs Varden, making known to all whom it might concern, that she felt too much indisposed to rise after her great agitation and anxiety of the previous night; and therefore desired to be immediately accommodated with the little black teapot of strong mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, a middling-sized dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manual in two volumes post octavo. Like some other ladies who in remote ages flourished upon this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when most ill-tempered. Whenever she and her husband were at unusual variance, then the Protestant Manual was in high feather.

Knowing from experience what these requests portended, the triumvirate broke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all despatch; Gabriel, to some out-of-door work in his little chaise; and Sim, to his daily duty in the workshop, to which retreat he carried the big look, although the loaf remained behind.

Indeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had tied his apron on, became quite gigantic. It was not until he had several times walked up and down with folded arms, and the longest strides he could take, and had kicked a great many small articles out of his way, that his lip began to curl. At length, a gloomy derision came upon his features, and he smiled; uttering meanwhile with supreme contempt the monosyllable ‘Joe!’

‘I eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,’ he said, ‘and that was of course the reason of her being confused. Joe!’

He walked up and down again much quicker than before, and if possible with longer strides; sometimes stopping to take a glance at his legs, and sometimes to jerk out, and cast from him, another ‘Joe!’ In the course of a quarter of an hour or so he again assumed the paper cap and tried to work. No. It could not be done.

‘I’ll do nothing to-day,’ said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again, ‘but grind. I’ll grind up all the tools. Grinding will suit my present humour well. Joe!’

Whirr-r-r-r. The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were flying off in showers. This was the occupation for his heated spirit.

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.

‘Something will come of this!’ said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if in triumph, and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve. ‘Something will come of this. I hope it mayn’t be human gore!’

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.

Chapter 5

As soon as the business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied forth, alone, to visit the wounded gentleman and ascertain the progress of his recovery. The house where he had left him was in a by-street in Southwark, not far from London Bridge; and thither he hied with all speed, bent upon returning with as little delay as might be, and getting to bed betimes.

The evening was boisterous—scarcely better than the previous night had been. It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep his legs at the street corners, or to make head against the high wind, which often fairly got the better of him, and drove him back some paces, or, in defiance of all his energy, forced him to take shelter in an arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent. Occasionally a hat or wig, or both, came spinning and trundling past him, like a mad thing; while the more serious spectacle of falling tiles and slates, or of masses of brick and mortar or fragments of stone-coping rattling upon the pavement near at hand, and splitting into fragments, did not increase the pleasure of the journey, or make the way less dreary.

‘A trying night for a man like me to walk in!’ said the locksmith, as he knocked softly at the widow’s door. ‘I’d rather be in old John’s chimney-corner, faith!’

‘Who’s there?’ demanded a woman’s voice from within. Being answered, it added a hasty word of welcome, and the door was quickly opened.

She was about forty—perhaps two or three years older—with a cheerful aspect, and a face that had once been pretty. It bore traces of affliction and care, but they were of an old date, and Time had smoothed them. Any one who had bestowed but a casual glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother, from the strong resemblance between them; but where in his face there was wildness and vacancy, in hers there was the patient composure of long effort and quiet resignation.

One thing about this face was very strange and startling. You could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror. It was not on the surface. It was in no one feature that it lingered. You could not take the eyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and say, if this or that were otherwise, it would not be so. Yet there it always lurked—something for ever dimly seen, but ever there, and never absent for a moment. It was the faintest, palest shadow of some look, to which an instant of intense and most unutterable horror only could have given birth; but indistinct and feeble as it was, it did suggest what that look must have been, and fixed it in the mind as if it had had existence in a dream.

More faintly imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were, because of his darkened intellect, there was this same stamp upon the son. Seen in a picture, it must have had some legend with it, and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas. They who knew the Maypole story, and could remember what the widow was, before her husband’s and his master’s murder, understood it well. They recollected how the change had come, and could call to mind that when her son was born, upon the very day the deed was known, he bore upon his wrist what seemed a smear of blood but half washed out.

‘God save you, neighbour!’ said the locksmith, as he followed her, with the air of an old friend, into a little parlour where a cheerful fire was burning.

‘And you,’ she answered smiling. ‘Your kind heart has brought you here again. Nothing will keep you at home, I know of old, if there are friends to serve or comfort, out of doors.’

‘Tut, tut,’ returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming them. ‘You women are such talkers. What of the patient, neighbour?’

‘He is sleeping now. He was very restless towards daylight, and for some hours tossed and tumbled sadly. But the fever has left him, and the doctor says he will soon mend. He must not be removed until to-morrow.’

‘He has had visitors to-day—humph?’ said Gabriel, slyly.

‘Yes. Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him, and had not been gone many minutes when you knocked.’

‘No ladies?’ said Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows and looking disappointed.

‘A letter,’ replied the widow.

‘Come. That’s better than nothing!’ replied the locksmith. ‘Who was the bearer?’

‘Barnaby, of course.’

‘Barnaby’s a jewel!’ said Varden; ‘and comes and goes with ease where we who think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor hand of it. He is not out wandering, again, I hope?’

‘Thank Heaven he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you know, and on his feet all day. He was quite tired out. Ah, neighbour, if I could but see him oftener so—if I could but tame down that terrible restlessness—’

‘In good time,’ said the locksmith, kindly, ‘in good time—don’t be down-hearted. To my mind he grows wiser every day.’

The widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the locksmith sought to cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted son.

‘He will be a ‘cute man yet,’ resumed the locksmith. ‘Take care, when we are growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn’t put us to the blush, that’s all. But our other friend,’ he added, looking under the table and about the floor—‘sharpest and cunningest of all the sharp and cunning ones—where’s he?’

‘In Barnaby’s room,’ rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.

‘Ah! He’s a knowing blade!’ said Varden, shaking his head. ‘I should be sorry to talk secrets before him. Oh! He’s a deep customer. I’ve no doubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts if he chooses. What was that? Him tapping at the door?’

‘No,’ returned the widow. ‘It was in the street, I think. Hark! Yes. There again! ‘Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter. Who can it be!’

They had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead, and the walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound of their voices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber. The party without, whoever it was, could have stood close to the shutter without hearing anything spoken; and, seeing the light through the chinks and finding all so quiet, might have been persuaded that only one person was there.

‘Some thief or ruffian maybe,’ said the locksmith. ‘Give me the light.’

‘No, no,’ she returned hastily. ‘Such visitors have never come to this poor dwelling. Do you stay here. You’re within call, at the worst. I would rather go myself—alone.’

‘Why?’ said the locksmith, unwillingly relinquishing the candle he had caught up from the table.

‘Because—I don’t know why—because the wish is so strong upon me,’ she rejoined. ‘There again—do not detain me, I beg of you!’

Gabriel looked at her, in great surprise to see one who was usually so mild and quiet thus agitated, and with so little cause. She left the room and closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the lock. In this short interval the knocking came again, and a voice close to the window—a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some disagreeable association with—whispered ‘Make haste.’

The words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its way so readily to sleepers’ ears, and wakes them in a fright. For a moment it startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew back from the window, and listened.

The wind rumbling in the chimney made it difficult to hear what passed, but he could tell that the door was opened, that there was the tread of a man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment’s silence—broken by a suppressed something which was not a shriek, or groan, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all three; and the words ‘My God!’ uttered in a voice it chilled him to hear.

He rushed out upon the instant. There, at last, was that dreadful look—the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen before—upon her face. There she stood, frozen to the ground, gazing with starting eyes, and livid cheeks, and every feature fixed and ghastly, upon the man he had encountered in the dark last night. His eyes met those of the locksmith. It was but a flash, an instant, a breath upon a polished glass, and he was gone.

The locksmith was upon him—had the skirts of his streaming garment almost in his grasp—when his arms were tightly clutched, and the widow flung herself upon the ground before him.

‘The other way—the other way,’ she cried. ‘He went the other way. Turn—turn!’

‘The other way! I see him now,’ rejoined the locksmith, pointing—‘yonder—there—there is his shadow passing by that light. What—who is this? Let me go.’

‘Come back, come back!’ exclaimed the woman, clasping him; ‘Do not touch him on your life. I charge you, come back. He carries other lives besides his own. Come back!’

‘What does this mean?’ cried the locksmith.

‘No matter what it means, don’t ask, don’t speak, don’t think about it. He is not to be followed, checked, or stopped. Come back!’

The old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed and clung about him; and, borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into the house. It was not until she had chained and double-locked the door, fastened every bolt and bar with the heat and fury of a maniac, and drawn him back into the room, that she turned upon him, once again, that stony look of horror, and, sinking down into a chair, covered her face, and shuddered, as though the hand of death were on her.

Chapter 6

Beyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which had passed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon the shuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and would have gazed much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by compassion and humanity.

‘You are ill,’ said Gabriel. ‘Let me call some neighbour in.’

‘Not for the world,’ she rejoined, motioning to him with her trembling hand, and holding her face averted. ‘It is enough that you have been by, to see this.’

‘Nay, more than enough—or less,’ said Gabriel.

‘Be it so,’ she returned. ‘As you like. Ask me no questions, I entreat you.’

‘Neighbour,’ said the locksmith, after a pause. ‘Is this fair, or reasonable, or just to yourself? Is it like you, who have known me so long and sought my advice in all matters—like you, who from a girl have had a strong mind and a staunch heart?’

‘I have need of them,’ she replied. ‘I am growing old, both in years and care. Perhaps that, and too much trial, have made them weaker than they used to be. Do not speak to me.’

‘How can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!’ returned the locksmith. ‘Who was that man, and why has his coming made this change in you?’

She was silent, but held to the chair as though to save herself from falling on the ground.

‘I take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,’ said the locksmith, ‘who has ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has tried to prove it when he could. Who is this ill-favoured man, and what has he to do with you? Who is this ghost, that is only seen in the black nights and bad weather? How does he know, and why does he haunt this house, whispering through chinks and crevices, as if there was that between him and you, which neither durst so much as speak aloud of? Who is he?’

‘You do well to say he haunts this house,’ returned the widow, faintly. ‘His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and darkness, at noonday and midnight. And now, at last, he has come in the body!’

‘But he wouldn’t have gone in the body,’ returned the locksmith with some irritation, ‘if you had left my arms and legs at liberty. What riddle is this?’

‘It is one,’ she answered, rising as she spoke, ‘that must remain for ever as it is. I dare not say more than that.’

‘Dare not!’ repeated the wondering locksmith.

‘Do not press me,’ she replied. ‘I am sick and faint, and every faculty of life seems dead within me.—No!—Do not touch me, either.’

Gabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell back as she made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent wonder.

‘Let me go my way alone,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and let the hands of no honest man touch mine to-night.’ When she had tottered to the door, she turned, and added with a stronger effort, ‘This is a secret, which, of necessity, I trust to you. You are a true man. As you have ever been good and kind to me,—keep it. If any noise was heard above, make some excuse—say anything but what you really saw, and never let a word or look between us, recall this circumstance. I trust to you. Mind, I trust to you. How much I trust, you never can conceive.’

Casting her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left him there alone.

Gabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with a countenance full of surprise and dismay. The more he pondered on what had passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable interpretation. To find this widow woman, whose life for so many years had been supposed to be one of solitude and retirement, and who, in her quiet suffering character, had gained the good opinion and respect of all who knew her—to find her linked mysteriously with an ill-omened man, alarmed at his appearance, and yet favouring his escape, was a discovery that pained as much as startled him. Her reliance on his secrecy, and his tacit acquiescence, increased his distress of mind. If he had spoken boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her when she rose to leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of silently compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have been more at ease.

‘Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!’ said Gabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with greater ease, and looking ruefully at the fire. ‘I have no more readiness than old John himself. Why didn’t I say firmly, “You have no right to such secrets, and I demand of you to tell me what this means,” instead of standing gaping at her, like an old moon-calf as I am! But there’s my weakness. I can be obstinate enough with men if need be, but women may twist me round their fingers at their pleasure.’

He took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and, warming his handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his bald head with it, until it glistened again.

‘And yet,’ said the locksmith, softening under this soothing process, and stopping to smile, ‘it MAY be nothing. Any drunken brawler trying to make his way into the house, would have alarmed a quiet soul like her. But then’—and here was the vexation—‘how came it to be that man; how comes he to have this influence over her; how came she to favour his getting away from me; and, more than all, how came she not to say it was a sudden fright, and nothing more? It’s a sad thing to have, in one minute, reason to mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old sweetheart into the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon my mind!—Is that Barnaby outside there?’

‘Ay!’ he cried, looking in and nodding. ‘Sure enough it’s Barnaby—how did you guess?’

‘By your shadow,’ said the locksmith.

‘Oho!’ cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, ‘He’s a merry fellow, that shadow, and keeps close to me, though I AM silly. We have such pranks, such walks, such runs, such gambols on the grass! Sometimes he’ll be half as tall as a church steeple, and sometimes no bigger than a dwarf. Now, he goes on before, and now behind, and anon he’ll be stealing on, on this side, or on that, stopping whenever I stop, and thinking I can’t see him, though I have my eye on him sharp enough. Oh! he’s a merry fellow. Tell me—is he silly too? I think he is.’

‘Why?’ asked Gabriel.

‘Because he never tires of mocking me, but does it all day long.—Why don’t you come?’

‘Where?’

‘Upstairs. He wants you. Stay—where’s HIS shadow? Come. You’re a wise man; tell me that.’

‘Beside him, Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,’ returned the locksmith.

‘No!’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Guess again.’

‘Gone out a walking, maybe?’

‘He has changed shadows with a woman,’ the idiot whispered in his ear, and then fell back with a look of triumph. ‘Her shadow’s always with him, and his with her. That’s sport I think, eh?’

‘Barnaby,’ said the locksmith, with a grave look; ‘come hither, lad.’

‘I know what you want to say. I know!’ he replied, keeping away from him. ‘But I’m cunning, I’m silent. I only say so much to you—are you ready?’ As he spoke, he caught up the light, and waved it with a wild laugh above his head.

‘Softly—gently,’ said the locksmith, exerting all his influence to keep him calm and quiet. ‘I thought you had been asleep.’

‘So I HAVE been asleep,’ he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes. ‘There have been great faces coming and going—close to my face, and then a mile away—low places to creep through, whether I would or no—high churches to fall down from—strange creatures crowded up together neck and heels, to sit upon the bed—that’s sleep, eh?’

‘Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,’ said the locksmith.

‘Dreams!’ he echoed softly, drawing closer to him. ‘Those are not dreams.’

‘What are,’ replied the locksmith, ‘if they are not?’

‘I dreamed,’ said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden’s, and peering close into his face as he answered in a whisper, ‘I dreamed just now that something—it was in the shape of a man—followed me—came softly after me—wouldn’t let me be—but was always hiding and crouching, like a cat in dark corners, waiting till I should pass; when it crept out and came softly after me.—Did you ever see me run?’

‘Many a time, you know.’

‘You never saw me run as I did in this dream. Still it came creeping on to worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer—I ran faster—leaped—sprung out of bed, and to the window—and there, in the street below—but he is waiting for us. Are you coming?’

‘What in the street below, Barnaby?’ said Varden, imagining that he traced some connection between this vision and what had actually occurred.

Barnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the light above his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith’s arm more tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.

They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with chairs, whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture of very little worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an easy-chair before the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was Edward Chester, the young gentleman who had been the first to quit the Maypole on the previous night, and who, extending his hand to the locksmith, welcomed him as his preserver and friend.

‘Say no more, sir, say no more,’ said Gabriel. ‘I hope I would have done at least as much for any man in such a strait, and most of all for you, sir. A certain young lady,’ he added, with some hesitation, ‘has done us many a kind turn, and we naturally feel—I hope I give you no offence in saying this, sir?’

The young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time moving in his chair as if in pain.

‘It’s no great matter,’ he said, in answer to the locksmith’s sympathising look, ‘a mere uneasiness arising at least as much from being cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the loss of blood. Be seated, Mr Varden.’

‘If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to lean upon your chair,’ returned the locksmith, accommodating his action to his speech, and bending over him, ‘I’ll stand here for the convenience of speaking low. Barnaby is not in his quietest humour to-night, and at such times talking never does him good.’

They both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had taken a seat on the other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was making puzzles on his fingers with a skein of string.

‘Pray, tell me, sir,’ said Varden, dropping his voice still lower, ‘exactly what happened last night. I have my reason for inquiring. You left the Maypole, alone?’

‘And walked homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place where you found me, when I heard the gallop of a horse.’

‘Behind you?’ said the locksmith.

‘Indeed, yes—behind me. It was a single rider, who soon overtook me, and checking his horse, inquired the way to London.’

‘You were on the alert, sir, knowing how many highwaymen there are, scouring the roads in all directions?’ said Varden.

‘I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols in their holster-case with the landlord’s son. I directed him as he desired. Before the words had passed my lips, he rode upon me furiously, as if bent on trampling me down beneath his horse’s hoofs. In starting aside, I slipped and fell. You found me with this stab and an ugly bruise or two, and without my purse—in which he found little enough for his pains. And now, Mr Varden,’ he added, shaking the locksmith by the hand, ‘saving the extent of my gratitude to you, you know as much as I.’

‘Except,’ said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and looking cautiously towards their silent neighhour, ‘except in respect of the robber himself. What like was he, sir? Speak low, if you please. Barnaby means no harm, but I have watched him oftener than you, and I know, little as you would think it, that he’s listening now.’

It required a strong confidence in the locksmith’s veracity to lead any one to this belief, for every sense and faculty that Barnaby possessed, seemed to be fixed upon his game, to the exclusion of all other things. Something in the young man’s face expressed this opinion, for Gabriel repeated what he had just said, more earnestly than before, and with another glance towards Barnaby, again asked what like the man was.

‘The night was so dark,’ said Edward, ‘the attack so sudden, and he so wrapped and muffled up, that I can hardly say. It seems that—’

‘Don’t mention his name, sir,’ returned the locksmith, following his look towards Barnaby; ‘I know HE saw him. I want to know what YOU saw.’

‘All I remember is,’ said Edward, ‘that as he checked his horse his hat was blown off. He caught it, and replaced it on his head, which I observed was bound with a dark handkerchief. A stranger entered the Maypole while I was there, whom I had not seen—for I had sat apart for reasons of my own—and when I rose to leave the room and glanced round, he was in the shadow of the chimney and hidden from my sight. But, if he and the robber were two different persons, their voices were strangely and most remarkably alike; for directly the man addressed me in the road, I recognised his speech again.’

‘It is as I feared. The very man was here to-night,’ thought the locksmith, changing colour. ‘What dark history is this!’

‘Halloa!’ cried a hoarse voice in his ear. ‘Halloa, halloa, halloa! Bow wow wow. What’s the matter here! Hal-loa!’

The speaker—who made the locksmith start as if he had been some supernatural agent—was a large raven, who had perched upon the top of the easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened with a polite attention and a most extraordinary appearance of comprehending every word, to all they had said up to this point; turning his head from one to the other, as if his office were to judge between them, and it were of the very last importance that he should not lose a word.

‘Look at him!’ said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. ‘Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! Oh he’s a dreadful fellow!’

The raven, with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few seconds, and then replied in a voice so hoarse and distant, that it seemed to come through his thick feathers rather than out of his mouth.

‘Halloa, halloa, halloa! What’s the matter here! Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow wow wow. I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil. Hurrah!’—And then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began to whistle.

‘I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do,’ said Varden. ‘Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew what I was saying?’

To which the bird, balancing himself on tiptoe, as it were, and moving his body up and down in a sort of grave dance, rejoined, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil,’ and flapped his wings against his sides as if he were bursting with laughter. Barnaby clapped his hands, and fairly rolled upon the ground in an ecstasy of delight.

‘Strange companions, sir,’ said the locksmith, shaking his head, and looking from one to the other. ‘The bird has all the wit.’

‘Strange indeed!’ said Edward, holding out his forefinger to the raven, who, in acknowledgment of the attention, made a dive at it immediately with his iron bill. ‘Is he old?’

‘A mere boy, sir,’ replied the locksmith. ‘A hundred and twenty, or thereabouts. Call him down, Barnaby, my man.’

‘Call him!’ echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and staring vacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his face. ‘But who can make him come! He calls me, and makes me go where he will. He goes on before, and I follow. He’s the master, and I’m the man. Is that the truth, Grip?’

The raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;—a most expressive croak, which seemed to say, ‘You needn’t let these fellows into our secrets. We understand each other. It’s all right.’

‘I make HIM come?’ cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird. ‘Him, who never goes to sleep, or so much as winks!—Why, any time of night, you may see his eyes in my dark room, shining like two sparks. And every night, and all night too, he’s broad awake, talking to himself, thinking what he shall do to-morrow, where we shall go, and what he shall steal, and hide, and bury. I make HIM come! Ha ha ha!’

On second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself. After a short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the ceiling and at everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the floor, and went to Barnaby—not in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a pace like that of a very particular gentleman with exceedingly tight boots on, trying to walk fast over loose pebbles. Then, stepping into his extended hand, and condescending to be held out at arm’s length, he gave vent to a succession of sounds, not unlike the drawing of some eight or ten dozen of long corks, and again asserted his brimstone birth and parentage with great distinctness.

The locksmith shook his head—perhaps in some doubt of the creature’s being really nothing but a bird—perhaps in pity for Barnaby, who by this time had him in his arms, and was rolling about, with him, on the ground. As he raised his eyes from the poor fellow he encountered those of his mother, who had entered the room, and was looking on in silence.

She was quite white in the face, even to her lips, but had wholly subdued her emotion, and wore her usual quiet look. Varden fancied as he glanced at her that she shrunk from his eye; and that she busied herself about the wounded gentleman to avoid him the better.

It was time he went to bed, she said. He was to be removed to his own home on the morrow, and he had already exceeded his time for sitting up, by a full hour. Acting on this hint, the locksmith prepared to take his leave.

‘By the bye,’ said Edward, as he shook him by the hand, and looked from him to Mrs Rudge and back again, ‘what noise was that below? I heard your voice in the midst of it, and should have inquired before, but our other conversation drove it from my memory. What was it?’

The locksmith looked towards her, and bit his lip. She leant against the chair, and bent her eyes upon the ground. Barnaby too—he was listening.

—‘Some mad or drunken fellow, sir,’ Varden at length made answer, looking steadily at the widow as he spoke. ‘He mistook the house, and tried to force an entrance.’

She breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless. As the locksmith said ‘Good night,’ and Barnaby caught up the candle to light him down the stairs, she took it from him, and charged him—with more haste and earnestness than so slight an occasion appeared to warrant—not to stir. The raven followed them to satisfy himself that all was right below, and when they reached the street-door, stood on the bottom stair drawing corks out of number.

With a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and turned the key. As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith said in a low voice,

‘I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake of bygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so for my own. I hope I may have done no harm, or led to none. I can’t help the suspicions you have forced upon me, and I am loth, I tell you plainly, to leave Mr Edward here. Take care he comes to no hurt. I doubt the safety of this roof, and am glad he leaves it so soon. Now, let me go.’

For a moment she hid her face in her hands and wept; but resisting the strong impulse which evidently moved her to reply, opened the door—no wider than was sufficient for the passage of his body—and motioned him away. As the locksmith stood upon the step, it was chained and locked behind him, and the raven, in furtherance of these precautions, barked like a lusty house-dog.

‘In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from a gibbet—he listening and hiding here—Barnaby first upon the spot last night—can she who has always borne so fair a name be guilty of such crimes in secret!’ said the locksmith, musing. ‘Heaven forgive me if I am wrong, and send me just thoughts; but she is poor, the temptation may be great, and we daily hear of things as strange.—Ay, bark away, my friend. If there’s any wickedness going on, that raven’s in it, I’ll be sworn.’

Chapter 7

Mrs Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an uncertain temper—a phrase which being interpreted signifies a temper tolerably certain to make everybody more or less uncomfortable. Thus it generally happened, that when other people were merry, Mrs Varden was dull; and that when other people were dull, Mrs Varden was disposed to be amazingly cheerful. Indeed the worthy housewife was of such a capricious nature, that she not only attained a higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in respect of her ability to be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in an instant, but would sometimes ring the changes backwards and forwards on all possible moods and flights in one short quarter of an hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple bob major on the peal of instruments in the female belfry, with a skilfulness and rapidity of execution that astonished all who heard her.

It had been observed in this good lady (who did not want for personal attractions, being plump and buxom to look at, though like her fair daughter, somewhat short in stature) that this uncertainty of disposition strengthened and increased with her temporal prosperity; and divers wise men and matrons, on friendly terms with the locksmith and his family, even went so far as to assert, that a tumble down some half-dozen rounds in the world’s ladder—such as the breaking of the bank in which her husband kept his money, or some little fall of that kind—would be the making of her, and could hardly fail to render her one of the most agreeable companions in existence. Whether they were right or wrong in this conjecture, certain it is that minds, like bodies, will often fall into a pimpled ill-conditioned state from mere excess of comfort, and like them, are often successfully cured by remedies in themselves very nauseous and unpalatable.

Mrs Varden’s chief aider and abettor, and at the same time her principal victim and object of wrath, was her single domestic servant, one Miss Miggs; or as she was called, in conformity with those prejudices of society which lop and top from poor hand-maidens all such genteel excrescences—Miggs. This Miggs was a tall young lady, very much addicted to pattens in private life; slender and shrewish, of a rather uncomfortable figure, and though not absolutely ill-looking, of a sharp and acid visage. As a general principle and abstract proposition, Miggs held the male sex to be utterly contemptible and unworthy of notice; to be fickle, false, base, sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly undeserving. When particularly exasperated against them (which, scandal said, was when Sim Tappertit slighted her most) she was accustomed to wish with great emphasis that the whole race of women could but die off, in order that the men might be brought to know the real value of the blessings by which they set so little store; nay, her feeling for her order ran so high, that she sometimes declared, if she could only have good security for a fair, round number—say ten thousand—of young virgins following her example, she would, to spite mankind, hang, drown, stab, or poison herself, with a joy past all expression.

It was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he knocked at his own house, with a shrill cry of ‘Who’s there?’

‘Me, girl, me,’ returned Gabriel.

What, already, sir!’ said Miggs, opening the door with a look of surprise. ‘We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,—me and mistress. Oh, she has been SO bad!’

Miggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and concern; but the parlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew for whose ears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but an approving look as he passed in.

‘Master’s come home, mim,’ cried Miggs, running before him into the parlour. ‘You was wrong, mim, and I was right. I thought he wouldn’t keep us up so late, two nights running, mim. Master’s always considerate so far. I’m so glad, mim, on your account. I’m a little’—here Miggs simpered—‘a little sleepy myself; I’ll own it now, mim, though I said I wasn’t when you asked me. It ain’t of no consequence, mim, of course.’

‘You had better,’ said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that Barnaby’s raven was at Miggs’s ankles, ‘you had better get to bed at once then.’

‘Thanking you kindly, sir,’ returned Miggs, ‘I couldn’t take my rest in peace, nor fix my thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than that I knew mistress was comfortable in her bed this night; by rights she ought to have been there, hours ago.’

‘You’re talkative, mistress,’ said Varden, pulling off his greatcoat, and looking at her askew.

‘Taking the hint, sir,’ cried Miggs, with a flushed face, ‘and thanking you for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I give offence by having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask your pardon, but am content to get myself into trouble and to be in suffering.’

Here Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large nightcap, had been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual, looked round, and acknowledged Miggs’s championship by commanding her to hold her tongue.

Every little bone in Miggs’s throat and neck developed itself with a spitefulness quite alarming, as she replied, ‘Yes, mim, I will.’

‘How do you find yourself now, my dear?’ said the locksmith, taking a chair near his wife (who had resumed her book), and rubbing his knees hard as he made the inquiry.

‘You’re very anxious to know, an’t you?’ returned Mrs Varden, with her eyes upon the print. ‘You, that have not been near me all day, and wouldn’t have been if I was dying!’

‘My dear Martha—’ said Gabriel.

Mrs Varden turned over to the next page; then went back again to the bottom line over leaf to be quite sure of the last words; and then went on reading with an appearance of the deepest interest and study.

‘My dear Martha,’ said the locksmith, ‘how can you say such things, when you know you don’t mean them? If you were dying! Why, if there was anything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn’t I be in constant attendance upon you?’

‘Yes!’ cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears, ‘yes, you would. I don’t doubt it, Varden. Certainly you would. That’s as much as to tell me that you would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting till the breath was out of my body, that you might go and marry somebody else.’

Miggs groaned in sympathy—a little short groan, checked in its birth, and changed into a cough. It seemed to say, ‘I can’t help it. It’s wrung from me by the dreadful brutality of that monster master.’

‘But you’ll break my heart one of these days,’ added Mrs Varden, with more resignation, ‘and then we shall both be happy. My only desire is to see Dolly comfortably settled, and when she is, you may settle ME as soon as you like.’

‘Ah!’ cried Miggs—and coughed again.

Poor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time, and then said mildly, ‘Has Dolly gone to bed?’

‘Your master speaks to you,’ said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over her shoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.

‘No, my dear, I spoke to you,’ suggested the locksmith.

‘Did you hear me, Miggs?’ cried the obdurate lady, stamping her foot upon the ground. ‘YOU are beginning to despise me now, are you? But this is example!’

At this cruel rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for large or small parties, on the shortest notice and the most reasonable terms, fell a crying violently; holding both her hands tight upon her heart meanwhile, as if nothing less would prevent its splitting into small fragments. Mrs Varden, who likewise possessed that faculty in high perfection, wept too, against Miggs; and with such effect that Miggs gave in after a time, and, except for an occasional sob, which seemed to threaten some remote intention of breaking out again, left her mistress in possession of the field. Her superiority being thoroughly asserted, that lady soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.

The relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last night so completely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in his chair, and would doubtless have slept there all night, but for the voice of Mrs Varden, which, after a pause of some five minutes, awoke him with a start.

‘If I am ever,’ said Mrs V.—not scolding, but in a sort of monotonous remonstrance—‘in spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I am ever more than usually disposed to be talkative and comfortable, this is the way I am treated.’

‘Such spirits as you was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!’ cried Miggs. ‘I never see such company!’

‘Because,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘because I never interfere or interrupt; because I never question where anybody comes or goes; because my whole mind and soul is bent on saving where I can save, and labouring in this house;—therefore, they try me as they do.’

‘Martha,’ urged the locksmith, endeavouring to look as wakeful as possible, ‘what is it you complain of? I really came home with every wish and desire to be happy. I did, indeed.’

‘What do I complain of!’ retorted his wife. ‘Is it a chilling thing to have one’s husband sulking and falling asleep directly he comes home—to have him freezing all one’s warm-heartedness, and throwing cold water over the fireside? Is it natural, when I know he went out upon a matter in which I am as much interested as anybody can be, that I should wish to know all that has happened, or that he should tell me without my begging and praying him to do it? Is that natural, or is it not?’

‘I am very sorry, Martha,’ said the good-natured locksmith. ‘I was really afraid you were not disposed to talk pleasantly; I’ll tell you everything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.’

‘No, Varden,’ returned his wife, rising with dignity. ‘I dare say—thank you! I’m not a child to be corrected one minute and petted the next—I’m a little too old for that, Varden. Miggs, carry the light.—YOU can be cheerful, Miggs, at least.’

Miggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of compassionate despondency, passed instantly into the liveliest state conceivable, and tossing her head as she glanced towards the locksmith, bore off her mistress and the light together.

‘Now, who would think,’ thought Varden, shrugging his shoulders and drawing his chair nearer to the fire, ‘that that woman could ever be pleasant and agreeable? And yet she can be. Well, well, all of us have our faults. I’ll not be hard upon hers. We have been man and wife too long for that.’

He dozed again—not the less pleasantly, perhaps, for his hearty temper. While his eyes were closed, the door leading to the upper stairs was partially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight of him, hastily drew back again.

‘I wish,’ murmured Gabriel, waking at the noise, and looking round the room, ‘I wish somebody would marry Miggs. But that’s impossible! I wonder whether there’s any madman alive, who would marry Miggs!’

This was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again, and slept until the fire was quite burnt out. At last he roused himself; and having double-locked the street-door according to custom, and put the key in his pocket, went off to bed.

He had not left the room in darkness many minutes, when the head again appeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in his hand a little lamp.

‘What the devil business has he to stop up so late!’ muttered Sim, passing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge. ‘Here’s half the night gone already. There’s only one good that has ever come to me, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade, and that’s this piece of ironmongery, upon my soul!’

As he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or rather right leg pocket of his smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he inserted cautiously in the lock his master had secured, and softly opened the door. That done, he replaced his piece of secret workmanship in his pocket; and leaving the lamp burning, and closing the door carefully and without noise, stole out into the street—as little suspected by the locksmith in his sound deep sleep, as by Barnaby himself in his phantom-haunted dreams.

Chapter 8

Clear of the locksmith’s house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his cautious manner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling, swaggering, roving blade, who would rather kill a man than otherwise, and eat him too if needful, made the best of his way along the darkened streets.

Half pausing for an instant now and then to smite his pocket and assure himself of the safety of his master key, he hurried on to Barbican, and turning into one of the narrowest of the narrow streets which diverged from that centre, slackened his pace and wiped his heated brow, as if the termination of his walk were near at hand.

It was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in truth one of more than questionable character, and of an appearance by no means inviting. From the main street he had entered, itself little better than an alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind court, or yard, profoundly dark, unpaved, and reeking with stagnant odours. Into this ill-favoured pit, the locksmith’s vagrant ‘prentice groped his way; and stopping at a house from whose defaced and rotten front the rude effigy of a bottle swung to and fro like some gibbeted malefactor, struck thrice upon an iron grating with his foot. After listening in vain for some response to his signal, Mr Tappertit became impatient, and struck the grating thrice again.

A further delay ensued, but it was not of long duration. The ground seemed to open at his feet, and a ragged head appeared.

‘Is that the captain?’ said a voice as ragged as the head.

‘Yes,’ replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, ‘who should it be?’

‘It’s so late, we gave you up,’ returned the voice, as its owner stopped to shut and fasten the grating. ‘You’re late, sir.’

‘Lead on,’ said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, ‘and make remarks when I require you. Forward!’

This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep, and slippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from the beaten track must have ended in a yawning water-butt. But Mr Tappertit being, like some other great commanders, favourable to strong effects, and personal display, cried ‘Forward!’ again, in the hoarsest voice he could assume; and led the way, with folded arms and knitted brows, to the cellar down below, where there was a small copper fixed in one corner, a chair or two, a form and table, a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed, covered with a ragged patchwork rug.

‘Welcome, noble captain!’ cried a lanky figure, rising as from a nap.

The captain nodded. Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood composed in all his dignity, and eyed his follower over.

‘What news to-night?’ he asked, when he had looked into his very soul.

‘Nothing particular,’ replied the other, stretching himself—and he was so long already that it was quite alarming to see him do it—‘how come you to be so late?’

‘No matter,’ was all the captain deigned to say in answer. ‘Is the room prepared?’

‘It is,’ replied the follower.

‘The comrade—is he here?’

‘Yes. And a sprinkling of the others—you hear ‘em?’

‘Playing skittles!’ said the captain moodily. ‘Light-hearted revellers!’

There was no doubt respecting the particular amusement in which these heedless spirits were indulging, for even in the close and stifling atmosphere of the vault, the noise sounded like distant thunder. It certainly appeared, at first sight, a singular spot to choose, for that or any other purpose of relaxation, if the other cellars answered to the one in which this brief colloquy took place; for the floors were of sodden earth, the walls and roof of damp bare brick tapestried with the tracks of snails and slugs; the air was sickening, tainted, and offensive. It seemed, from one strong flavour which was uppermost among the various odours of the place, that it had, at no very distant period, been used as a storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance which, while it accounted for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was agreeably suggestive of rats. It was naturally damp besides, and little trees of fungus sprung from every mouldering corner.

The proprietor of this charming retreat, and owner of the ragged head before mentioned—for he wore an old tie-wig as bare and frowzy as a stunted hearth-broom—had by this time joined them; and stood a little apart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled chin, and smiling in silence. His eyes were closed; but had they been wide open, it would have been easy to tell, from the attentive expression of the face he turned towards them—pale and unwholesome as might be expected in one of his underground existence—and from a certain anxious raising and quivering of the lids, that he was blind.

‘Even Stagg hath been asleep,’ said the long comrade, nodding towards this person.

‘Sound, captain, sound!’ cried the blind man; ‘what does my noble captain drink—is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh? Is it soaked gunpowder, or blazing oil? Give it a name, heart of oak, and we’d get it for you, if it was wine from a bishop’s cellar, or melted gold from King George’s mint.’

‘See,’ said Mr Tappertit haughtily, ‘that it’s something strong, and comes quick; and so long as you take care of that, you may bring it from the devil’s cellar, if you like.’

‘Boldly said, noble captain!’ rejoined the blind man. ‘Spoken like the ‘Prentices’ Glory. Ha, ha! From the devil’s cellar! A brave joke! The captain joketh. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘I’ll tell you what, my fine feller,’ said Mr Tappertit, eyeing the host over as he walked to a closet, and took out a bottle and glass as carelessly as if he had been in full possession of his sight, ‘if you make that row, you’ll find that the captain’s very far from joking, and so I tell you.’

‘He’s got his eyes on me!’ cried Stagg, stopping short on his way back, and affecting to screen his face with the bottle. ‘I feel ‘em though I can’t see ‘em. Take ‘em off, noble captain. Remove ‘em, for they pierce like gimlets.’

Mr Tappertit smiled grimly at his comrade; and twisting out one more look—a kind of ocular screw—under the influence of which the blind man feigned to undergo great anguish and torture, bade him, in a softened tone, approach, and hold his peace.

‘I obey you, captain,’ cried Stagg, drawing close to him and filling out a bumper without spilling a drop, by reason that he held his little finger at the brim of the glass, and stopped at the instant the liquor touched it, ‘drink, noble governor. Death to all masters, life to all ‘prentices, and love to all fair damsels. Drink, brave general, and warm your gallant heart!’

Mr Tappertit condescended to take the glass from his outstretched hand. Stagg then dropped on one knee, and gently smoothed the calves of his legs, with an air of humble admiration.

‘That I had but eyes!’ he cried, ‘to behold my captain’s symmetrical proportions! That I had but eyes, to look upon these twin invaders of domestic peace!’

‘Get out!’ said Mr Tappertit, glancing downward at his favourite limbs. ‘Go along, will you, Stagg!’

‘When I touch my own afterwards,’ cried the host, smiting them reproachfully, ‘I hate ‘em. Comparatively speaking, they’ve no more shape than wooden legs, beside these models of my noble captain’s.’

‘Yours!’ exclaimed Mr Tappertit. ‘No, I should think not. Don’t talk about those precious old toothpicks in the same breath with mine; that’s rather too much. Here. Take the glass. Benjamin. Lead on. To business!’

With these words, he folded his arms again; and frowning with a sullen majesty, passed with his companion through a little door at the upper end of the cellar, and disappeared; leaving Stagg to his private meditations.

The vault they entered, strewn with sawdust and dimly lighted, was between the outer one from which they had just come, and that in which the skittle-players were diverting themselves; as was manifested by the increased noise and clamour of tongues, which was suddenly stopped, however, and replaced by a dead silence, at a signal from the long comrade. Then, this young gentleman, going to a little cupboard, returned with a thigh-bone, which in former times must have been part and parcel of some individual at least as long as himself, and placed the same in the hands of Mr Tappertit; who, receiving it as a sceptre and staff of authority, cocked his three-cornered hat fiercely on the top of his head, and mounted a large table, whereon a chair of state, cheerfully ornamented with a couple of skulls, was placed ready for his reception.

He had no sooner assumed this position, than another young gentleman appeared, bearing in his arms a huge clasped book, who made him a profound obeisance, and delivering it to the long comrade, advanced to the table, and turning his back upon it, stood there Atlas-wise. Then, the long comrade got upon the table too; and seating himself in a lower chair than Mr Tappertit’s, with much state and ceremony, placed the large book on the shoulders of their mute companion as deliberately as if he had been a wooden desk, and prepared to make entries therein with a pen of corresponding size.

When the long comrade had made these preparations, he looked towards Mr Tappertit; and Mr Tappertit, flourishing the bone, knocked nine times therewith upon one of the skulls. At the ninth stroke, a third young gentleman emerged from the door leading to the skittle ground, and bowing low, awaited his commands.

‘Prentice!’ said the mighty captain, ‘who waits without?’

The ‘prentice made answer that a stranger was in attendance, who claimed admission into that secret society of ‘Prentice Knights, and a free participation in their rights, privileges, and immunities. Thereupon Mr Tappertit flourished the bone again, and giving the other skull a prodigious rap on the nose, exclaimed ‘Admit him!’ At these dread words the ‘prentice bowed once more, and so withdrew as he had come.

There soon appeared at the same door, two other ‘prentices, having between them a third, whose eyes were bandaged, and who was attired in a bag-wig, and a broad-skirted coat, trimmed with tarnished lace; and who was girded with a sword, in compliance with the laws of the Institution regulating the introduction of candidates, which required them to assume this courtly dress, and kept it constantly in lavender, for their convenience. One of the conductors of this novice held a rusty blunderbuss pointed towards his ear, and the other a very ancient sabre, with which he carved imaginary offenders as he came along in a sanguinary and anatomical manner.

As this silent group advanced, Mr Tappertit fixed his hat upon his head. The novice then laid his hand upon his breast and bent before him. When he had humbled himself sufficiently, the captain ordered the bandage to be removed, and proceeded to eye him over.

‘Ha!’ said the captain, thoughtfully, when he had concluded this ordeal. ‘Proceed.’

The long comrade read aloud as follows:—‘Mark Gilbert. Age, nineteen. Bound to Thomas Curzon, hosier, Golden Fleece, Aldgate. Loves Curzon’s daughter. Cannot say that Curzon’s daughter loves him. Should think it probable. Curzon pulled his ears last Tuesday week.’

‘How!’ cried the captain, starting.

‘For looking at his daughter, please you,’ said the novice.

‘Write Curzon down, Denounced,’ said the captain. ‘Put a black cross against the name of Curzon.’

‘So please you,’ said the novice, ‘that’s not the worst—he calls his ‘prentice idle dog, and stops his beer unless he works to his liking. He gives Dutch cheese, too, eating Cheshire, sir, himself; and Sundays out, are only once a month.’

‘This,’ said Mr Tappert gravely, ‘is a flagrant case. Put two black crosses to the name of Curzon.’

‘If the society,’ said the novice, who was an ill-looking, one-sided, shambling lad, with sunken eyes set close together in his head—‘if the society would burn his house down—for he’s not insured—or beat him as he comes home from his club at night, or help me to carry off his daughter, and marry her at the Fleet, whether she gave consent or no—’

Mr Tappertit waved his grizzly truncheon as an admonition to him not to interrupt, and ordered three black crosses to the name of Curzon.

‘Which means,’ he said in gracious explanation, ‘vengeance, complete and terrible. ‘Prentice, do you love the Constitution?’

To which the novice (being to that end instructed by his attendant sponsors) replied ‘I do!’

‘The Church, the State, and everything established—but the masters?’ quoth the captain.

Again the novice said ‘I do.’

Having said it, he listened meekly to the captain, who in an address prepared for such occasions, told him how that under that same Constitution (which was kept in a strong box somewhere, but where exactly he could not find out, or he would have endeavoured to procure a copy of it), the ‘prentices had, in times gone by, had frequent holidays of right, broken people’s heads by scores, defied their masters, nay, even achieved some glorious murders in the streets, which privileges had gradually been wrested from them, and in all which noble aspirations they were now restrained; how the degrading checks imposed upon them were unquestionably attributable to the innovating spirit of the times, and how they united therefore to resist all change, except such change as would restore those good old English customs, by which they would stand or fall. After illustrating the wisdom of going backward, by reference to that sagacious fish, the crab, and the not unfrequent practice of the mule and donkey, he described their general objects; which were briefly vengeance on their Tyrant Masters (of whose grievous and insupportable oppression no ‘prentice could entertain a moment’s doubt) and the restoration, as aforesaid, of their ancient rights and holidays; for neither of which objects were they now quite ripe, being barely twenty strong, but which they pledged themselves to pursue with fire and sword when needful. Then he described the oath which every member of that small remnant of a noble body took, and which was of a dreadful and impressive kind; binding him, at the bidding of his chief, to resist and obstruct the Lord Mayor, sword-bearer, and chaplain; to despise the authority of the sheriffs; and to hold the court of aldermen as nought; but not on any account, in case the fulness of time should bring a general rising of ‘prentices, to damage or in any way disfigure Temple Bar, which was strictly constitutional and always to be approached with reverence. Having gone over these several heads with great eloquence and force, and having further informed the novice that this society had its origin in his own teeming brain, stimulated by a swelling sense of wrong and outrage, Mr Tappertit demanded whether he had strength of heart to take the mighty pledge required, or whether he would withdraw while retreat was yet in his power.

To this the novice made rejoinder, that he would take the vow, though it should choke him; and it was accordingly administered with many impressive circumstances, among which the lighting up of the two skulls with a candle-end inside of each, and a great many flourishes with the bone, were chiefly conspicuous; not to mention a variety of grave exercises with the blunderbuss and sabre, and some dismal groaning by unseen ‘prentices without. All these dark and direful ceremonies being at length completed, the table was put aside, the chair of state removed, the sceptre locked up in its usual cupboard, the doors of communication between the three cellars thrown freely open, and the ‘Prentice Knights resigned themselves to merriment.

But Mr Tappertit, who had a soul above the vulgar herd, and who, on account of his greatness, could only afford to be merry now and then, threw himself on a bench with the air of a man who was faint with dignity. He looked with an indifferent eye, alike on skittles, cards, and dice, thinking only of the locksmith’s daughter, and the base degenerate days on which he had fallen.

‘My noble captain neither games, nor sings, nor dances,’ said his host, taking a seat beside him. ‘Drink, gallant general!’

Mr Tappertit drained the proffered goblet to the dregs; then thrust his hands into his pockets, and with a lowering visage walked among the skittles, while his followers (such is the influence of superior genius) restrained the ardent ball, and held his little shins in dumb respect.

‘If I had been born a corsair or a pirate, a brigand, genteel highwayman or patriot—and they’re the same thing,’ thought Mr Tappertit, musing among the nine-pins, ‘I should have been all right. But to drag out a ignoble existence unbeknown to mankind in general—patience! I will be famous yet. A voice within me keeps on whispering Greatness. I shall burst out one of these days, and when I do, what power can keep me down? I feel my soul getting into my head at the idea. More drink there!’

‘The novice,’ pursued Mr Tappertit, not exactly in a voice of thunder, for his tones, to say the truth were rather cracked and shrill—but very impressively, notwithstanding—‘where is he?’

‘Here, noble captain!’ cried Stagg. ‘One stands beside me who I feel is a stranger.’

‘Have you,’ said Mr Tappertit, letting his gaze fall on the party indicated, who was indeed the new knight, by this time restored to his own apparel; ‘Have you the impression of your street-door key in wax?’

The long comrade anticipated the reply, by producing it from the shelf on which it had been deposited.

‘Good,’ said Mr Tappertit, scrutinising it attentively, while a breathless silence reigned around; for he had constructed secret door-keys for the whole society, and perhaps owed something of his influence to that mean and trivial circumstance—on such slight accidents do even men of mind depend!—‘This is easily made. Come hither, friend.’

With that, he beckoned the new knight apart, and putting the pattern in his pocket, motioned to him to walk by his side.

‘And so,’ he said, when they had taken a few turns up and down, you—you love your master’s daughter?’

‘I do,’ said the ‘prentice. ‘Honour bright. No chaff, you know.’

‘Have you,’ rejoined Mr Tappertit, catching him by the wrist, and giving him a look which would have been expressive of the most deadly malevolence, but for an accidental hiccup that rather interfered with it; ‘have you a—a rival?’

‘Not as I know on,’ replied the ‘prentice.

‘If you had now—’ said Mr Tappertit—‘what would you—eh?—’

The ‘prentice looked fierce and clenched his fists.

‘It is enough,’ cried Mr Tappertit hastily, ‘we understand each other. We are observed. I thank you.’

So saying, he cast him off again; and calling the long comrade aside after taking a few hasty turns by himself, bade him immediately write and post against the wall, a notice, proscribing one Joseph Willet (commonly known as Joe) of Chigwell; forbidding all ‘Prentice Knights to succour, comfort, or hold communion with him; and requiring them, on pain of excommunication, to molest, hurt, wrong, annoy, and pick quarrels with the said Joseph, whensoever and wheresoever they, or any of them, should happen to encounter him.

Having relieved his mind by this energetic proceeding, he condescended to approach the festive board, and warming by degrees, at length deigned to preside, and even to enchant the company with a song. After this, he rose to such a pitch as to consent to regale the society with a hornpipe, which he actually performed to the music of a fiddle (played by an ingenious member) with such surpassing agility and brilliancy of execution, that the spectators could not be sufficiently enthusiastic in their admiration; and their host protested, with tears in his eyes, that he had never truly felt his blindness until that moment.

But the host withdrawing—probably to weep in secret—soon returned with the information that it wanted little more than an hour of day, and that all the cocks in Barbican had already begun to crow, as if their lives depended on it. At this intelligence, the ‘Prentice Knights arose in haste, and marshalling into a line, filed off one by one and dispersed with all speed to their several homes, leaving their leader to pass the grating last.

‘Good night, noble captain,’ whispered the blind man as he held it open for his passage out; ‘Farewell, brave general. Bye, bye, illustrious commander. Good luck go with you for a—conceited, bragging, empty-headed, duck-legged idiot.’

With which parting words, coolly added as he listened to his receding footsteps and locked the grate upon himself, he descended the steps, and lighting the fire below the little copper, prepared, without any assistance, for his daily occupation; which was to retail at the area-head above pennyworths of broth and soup, and savoury puddings, compounded of such scraps as were to be bought in the heap for the least money at Fleet Market in the evening time; and for the sale of which he had need to have depended chiefly on his private connection, for the court had no thoroughfare, and was not that kind of place in which many people were likely to take the air, or to frequent as an agreeable promenade.

Chapter 9

Chronicler’s are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome, in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time, and place. Thrice blessed be this last consideration, since it enables us to follow the disdainful Miggs even into the sanctity of her chamber, and to hold her in sweet companionship through the dreary watches of the night!

Miss Miggs, having undone her mistress, as she phrased it (which means, assisted to undress her), and having seen her comfortably to bed in the back room on the first floor, withdrew to her own apartment, in the attic story. Notwithstanding her declaration in the locksmith’s presence, she was in no mood for sleep; so, putting her light upon the table and withdrawing the little window curtain, she gazed out pensively at the wild night sky.

Perhaps she wondered what star was destined for her habitation when she had run her little course below; perhaps speculated which of those glimmering spheres might be the natal orb of Mr Tappertit; perhaps marvelled how they could gaze down on that perfidious creature, man, and not sicken and turn green as chemists’ lamps; perhaps thought of nothing in particular. Whatever she thought about, there she sat, until her attention, alive to anything connected with the insinuating ‘prentice, was attracted by a noise in the next room to her own—his room; the room in which he slept, and dreamed—it might be, sometimes dreamed of her.

That he was not dreaming now, unless he was taking a walk in his sleep, was clear, for every now and then there came a shuffling noise, as though he were engaged in polishing the whitewashed wall; then a gentle creaking of his door; then the faintest indication of his stealthy footsteps on the landing-place outside. Noting this latter circumstance, Miss Miggs turned pale and shuddered, as mistrusting his intentions; and more than once exclaimed, below her breath, ‘Oh! what a Providence it is, as I am bolted in!’—which, owing doubtless to her alarm, was a confusion of ideas on her part between a bolt and its use; for though there was one on the door, it was not fastened.

Miss Miggs’s sense of hearing, however, having as sharp an edge as her temper, and being of the same snappish and suspicious kind, very soon informed her that the footsteps passed her door, and appeared to have some object quite separate and disconnected from herself. At this discovery she became more alarmed than ever, and was about to give utterance to those cries of ‘Thieves!’ and ‘Murder!’ which she had hitherto restrained, when it occurred to her to look softly out, and see that her fears had some good palpable foundation.

Looking out accordingly, and stretching her neck over the handrail, she descried, to her great amazement, Mr Tappertit completely dressed, stealing downstairs, one step at a time, with his shoes in one hand and a lamp in the other. Following him with her eyes, and going down a little way herself to get the better of an intervening angle, she beheld him thrust his head in at the parlour-door, draw it back again with great swiftness, and immediately begin a retreat upstairs with all possible expedition.

‘Here’s mysteries!’ said the damsel, when she was safe in her own room again, quite out of breath. ‘Oh, gracious, here’s mysteries!’

The prospect of finding anybody out in anything, would have kept Miss Miggs awake under the influence of henbane. Presently, she heard the step again, as she would have done if it had been that of a feather endowed with motion and walking down on tiptoe. Then gliding out as before, she again beheld the retreating figure of the ‘prentice; again he looked cautiously in at the parlour-door, but this time instead of retreating, he passed in and disappeared.

Miggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window, before an elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from it. Out he came at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him, tried it with his knee, and swaggered off, putting something in his pocket as he went along. At this spectacle Miggs cried ‘Gracious!’ again, and then ‘Goodness gracious!’ and then ‘Goodness gracious me!’ and then, candle in hand, went downstairs as he had done. Coming to the workshop, she saw the lamp burning on the forge, and everything as Sim had left it.

‘Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral, and never be buried decent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy hasn’t been and made a key for his own self!’ cried Miggs. ‘Oh the little villain!’

This conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much peeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the recollection that she had on several occasions come upon the ‘prentice suddenly, and found him busy at some mysterious occupation. Lest the fact of Miss Miggs calling him, on whom she stooped to cast a favourable eye, a boy, should create surprise in any breast, it may be observed that she invariably affected to regard all male bipeds under thirty as mere chits and infants; which phenomenon is not unusual in ladies of Miss Miggs’s temper, and is indeed generally found to be the associate of such indomitable and savage virtue.

Miss Miggs deliberated within herself for some little time, looking hard at the shop-door while she did so, as though her eyes and thoughts were both upon it; and then, taking a sheet of paper from a drawer, twisted it into a long thin spiral tube. Having filled this instrument with a quantity of small coal-dust from the forge, she approached the door, and dropping on one knee before it, dexterously blew into the keyhole as much of these fine ashes as the lock would hold. When she had filled it to the brim in a very workmanlike and skilful manner, she crept upstairs again, and chuckled as she went.

‘There!’ cried Miggs, rubbing her hands, ‘now let’s see whether you won’t be glad to take some notice of me, mister. He, he, he! You’ll have eyes for somebody besides Miss Dolly now, I think. A fat-faced puss she is, as ever I come across!’

As she uttered this criticism, she glanced approvingly at her small mirror, as who should say, I thank my stars that can’t be said of me!—as it certainly could not; for Miss Miggs’s style of beauty was of that kind which Mr Tappertit himself had not inaptly termed, in private, ‘scraggy.’

‘I don’t go to bed this night!’ said Miggs, wrapping herself in a shawl, and drawing a couple of chairs near the window, flouncing down upon one, and putting her feet upon the other, ‘till you come home, my lad. I wouldn’t,’ said Miggs viciously, ‘no, not for five-and-forty pound!’

With that, and with an expression of face in which a great number of opposite ingredients, such as mischief, cunning, malice, triumph, and patient expectation, were all mixed up together in a kind of physiognomical punch, Miss Miggs composed herself to wait and listen, like some fair ogress who had set a trap and was watching for a nibble from a plump young traveller.

She sat there, with perfect composure, all night. At length, just upon break of day, there was a footstep in the street, and presently she could hear Mr Tappertit stop at the door. Then she could make out that he tried his key—that he was blowing into it—that he knocked it on the nearest post to beat the dust out—that he took it under a lamp to look at it—that he poked bits of stick into the lock to clear it—that he peeped into the keyhole, first with one eye, and then with the other—that he tried the key again—that he couldn’t turn it, and what was worse, couldn’t get it out—that he bent it—that then it was much less disposed to come out than before—that he gave it a mighty twist and a great pull, and then it came out so suddenly that he staggered backwards—that he kicked the door—that he shook it—finally, that he smote his forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.

When this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted with terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out her nightcap, and demanded in a faint voice who was there.

Mr Tappertit cried ‘Hush!’ and, backing to the road, exhorted her in frenzied pantomime to secrecy and silence.

‘Tell me one thing,’ said Miggs. ‘Is it thieves?’

‘No—no—no!’ cried Mr Tappertit.

‘Then,’ said Miggs, more faintly than before, ‘it’s fire. Where is it, sir? It’s near this room, I know. I’ve a good conscience, sir, and would much rather die than go down a ladder. All I wish is, respecting my love to my married sister, Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post.’

‘Miggs!’ cried Mr Tappertit, ‘don’t you know me? Sim, you know—Sim—’

‘Oh! what about him!’ cried Miggs, clasping her hands. ‘Is he in any danger? Is he in the midst of flames and blazes! Oh gracious, gracious!’

‘Why I’m here, an’t I?’ rejoined Mr Tappertit, knocking himself on the breast. ‘Don’t you see me? What a fool you are, Miggs!’

‘There!’ cried Miggs, unmindful of this compliment. ‘Why—so it—Goodness, what is the meaning of—If you please, mim, here’s—’

‘No, no!’ cried Mr Tappertit, standing on tiptoe, as if by that means he, in the street, were any nearer being able to stop the mouth of Miggs in the garret. ‘Don’t!—I’ve been out without leave, and something or another’s the matter with the lock. Come down, and undo the shop window, that I may get in that way.’

‘I dursn’t do it, Simmun,’ cried Miggs—for that was her pronunciation of his Christian name. ‘I dursn’t do it, indeed. You know as well as anybody, how particular I am. And to come down in the dead of night, when the house is wrapped in slumbers and weiled in obscurity.’ And there she stopped and shivered, for her modesty caught cold at the very thought.

‘But Miggs,’ cried Mr Tappertit, getting under the lamp, that she might see his eyes. ‘My darling Miggs—’

Miggs screamed slightly.

‘—That I love so much, and never can help thinking of,’ and it is impossible to describe the use he made of his eyes when he said this—‘do—for my sake, do.’

‘Oh Simmun,’ cried Miggs, ‘this is worse than all. I know if I come down, you’ll go, and—’

‘And what, my precious?’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘And try,’ said Miggs, hysterically, ‘to kiss me, or some such dreadfulness; I know you will!’

‘I swear I won’t,’ said Mr Tappertit, with remarkable earnestness. ‘Upon my soul I won’t. It’s getting broad day, and the watchman’s waking up. Angelic Miggs! If you’ll only come and let me in, I promise you faithfully and truly I won’t.’

Miss Miggs, whose gentle heart was touched, did not wait for the oath (knowing how strong the temptation was, and fearing he might forswear himself), but tripped lightly down the stairs, and with her own fair hands drew back the rough fastenings of the workshop window. Having helped the wayward ‘prentice in, she faintly articulated the words ‘Simmun is safe!’ and yielding to her woman’s nature, immediately became insensible.

‘I knew I should quench her,’ said Sim, rather embarrassed by this circumstance. ‘Of course I was certain it would come to this, but there was nothing else to be done—if I hadn’t eyed her over, she wouldn’t have come down. Here. Keep up a minute, Miggs. What a slippery figure she is! There’s no holding her, comfortably. Do keep up a minute, Miggs, will you?’

As Miggs, however, was deaf to all entreaties, Mr Tappertit leant her against the wall as one might dispose of a walking-stick or umbrella, until he had secured the window, when he took her in his arms again, and, in short stages and with great difficulty—arising from her being tall and his being short, and perhaps in some degree from that peculiar physical conformation on which he had already remarked—carried her upstairs, and planting her, in the same umbrella and walking-stick fashion, just inside her own door, left her to her repose.

‘He may be as cool as he likes,’ said Miss Miggs, recovering as soon as she was left alone; ‘but I’m in his confidence and he can’t help himself, nor couldn’t if he was twenty Simmunses!’

Chapter 10

It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer, and in its uncertainty inclines now to the one and now to the other, and now to both at once—wooing summer in the sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade—it was, in short, on one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and dry, bright and lowering, sad and cheerful, withering and genial, in the compass of one short hour, that old John Willet, who was dropping asleep over the copper boiler, was roused by the sound of a horse’s feet, and glancing out at window, beheld a traveller of goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole door.

He was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a tankard of mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if they had ordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young swaggerers, who would even penetrate into the bar—that solemn sanctuary—and, smiting old John upon the back, inquire if there was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature; none of your free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and be not at all particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your unconscionable blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of pickles for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, something past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that, and slim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy chestnut cob, and had the graceful seat of an experienced horseman; while his riding gear, though free from such fopperies as were then in vogue, was handsome and well chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a somewhat brighter green than might have been expected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short, black velvet cape, and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fashion; his linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the wrists and throat, and scrupulously white. Although he seemed, judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have come from London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey periwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had turned a single hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered dress, and perfect calmness, might have come from making an elaborate and leisurely toilet, to sit for an equestrian portrait at old John Willet’s gate.

It must not be supposed that John observed these several characteristics by other than very slow degrees, or that he took in more than half a one at a time, or that he even made up his mind upon that, without a great deal of very serious consideration. Indeed, if he had been distracted in the first instance by questionings and orders, it would have taken him at the least a fortnight to have noted what is here set down; but it happened that the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with the plump pigeons which were skimming and curtseying about it, or with the tall maypole, on the top of which a weathercock, which had been out of order for fifteen years, performed a perpetual walk to the music of its own creaking, sat for some little time looking round in silence. Hence John, standing with his hand upon the horse’s bridle, and his great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing to divert his thoughts, had really got some of these little circumstances into his brain by the time he was called upon to speak.

‘A quaint place this,’ said the gentleman—and his voice was as rich as his dress. ‘Are you the landlord?’

‘At your service, sir,’ replied John Willet.

‘You can give my horse good stabling, can you, and me an early dinner (I am not particular what, so that it be cleanly served), and a decent room of which there seems to be no lack in this great mansion,’ said the stranger, again running his eyes over the exterior.

‘You can have, sir,’ returned John with a readiness quite surprising, ‘anything you please.’

‘It’s well I am easily satisfied,’ returned the other with a smile, ‘or that might prove a hardy pledge, my friend.’ And saying so, he dismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a twinkling.

‘Halloa there! Hugh!’ roared John. ‘I ask your pardon, sir, for keeping you standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on business, and the boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me, I’m rather put out when he’s away. Hugh!—a dreadful idle vagrant fellow, sir, half a gipsy, as I think—always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in the straw in winter time, sir—Hugh! Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman a waiting here through him!—Hugh! I wish that chap was dead, I do indeed.’

‘Possibly he is,’ returned the other. ‘I should think if he were living, he would have heard you by this time.’

‘In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,’ said the distracted host, ‘that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into his ears, it wouldn’t wake him, sir.’

The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and recipe for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind him, stood in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the bridle in his hand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon the animal to his fate, and a half disposition to lead him into the house, and shut him up in the parlour, while he waited on his master.

‘Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!’ cried John, in the very height and zenith of his distress. ‘Did you hear me a calling, villain?’

The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon the saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse’s head towards the stable, and was gone in an instant.

‘Brisk enough when he is awake,’ said the guest.

‘Brisk enough, sir!’ replied John, looking at the place where the horse had been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had become of him. ‘He melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at him, and there he is. You look at him again, and—there he isn’t.’

Having, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to what he had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the whole life and character of his man, the oracular John Willet led the gentleman up his wide dismantled staircase into the Maypole’s best apartment.

It was spacious enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth of the house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large as many modern rooms; in which some few panes of stained glass, emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and patched, and shattered, yet remained; attesting, by their presence, that the former owner had made the very light subservient to his state, and pressed the sun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into his chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues and colours from their pride.

But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the best room of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in decay, and was much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings, waving on the walls; and, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty’s dress; the light of women’s eyes, outshining the tapers and their own rich jewels; the sound of gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden feet, had once been there, and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with them all its gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born and bred there; the fireside had become mercenary—a something to be bought and sold—a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or leave it, it was still the same—it missed nobody, cared for nobody, had equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!

No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on a square of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures, grinning and grotesque. After lighting with his own hands the faggots which were heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his cook, touching the stranger’s entertainment; while the guest himself, seeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the distant window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.

Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together, or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest corner, summoned John Willet.

‘Sir,’ said John.

He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.

‘There’s a house not far from here,’ said the guest when he had written a few lines, ‘which you call the Warren, I believe?’

As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked the question as a thing of course, John contented himself with nodding his head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of his pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again.

‘I want this note’—said the guest, glancing on what he had written, and folding it, ‘conveyed there without loss of time, and an answer brought back here. Have you a messenger at hand?’

John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.

‘Let me see him,’ said the guest.

This was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in rubbing down the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand, Barnaby, who had just then arrived in one of his rambles, and who, so that he thought himself employed on a grave and serious business, would go anywhere.

‘Why the truth is,’ said John after a long pause, ‘that the person who’d go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and though quick of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post itself, he’s not good at talking, being touched and flighty, sir.’

‘You don’t,’ said the guest, raising his eyes to John’s fat face, ‘you don’t mean—what’s the fellow’s name—you don’t mean Barnaby?’

‘Yes, I do,’ returned the landlord, his features turning quite expressive with surprise.

‘How comes he to be here?’ inquired the guest, leaning back in his chair; speaking in the bland, even tone, from which he never varied; and with the same soft, courteous, never-changing smile upon his face. ‘I saw him in London last night.’

‘He’s, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,’ returned old John, after the usual pause to get the question in his mind. ‘Sometimes he walks, and sometimes runs. He’s known along the road by everybody, and sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and sometimes riding double. He comes and goes, through wind, rain, snow, and hail, and on the darkest nights. Nothing hurts HIM.’

‘He goes often to the Warren, does he not?’ said the guest carelessly. ‘I seem to remember his mother telling me something to that effect yesterday. But I was not attending to the good woman much.’

‘You’re right, sir,’ John made answer, ‘he does. His father, sir, was murdered in that house.’

‘So I have heard,’ returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick from his pocket with the same sweet smile. ‘A very disagreeable circumstance for the family.’

‘Very,’ said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him, dimly and afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of treating the subject.

‘All the circumstances after a murder,’ said the guest soliloquising, ‘must be dreadfully unpleasant—so much bustle and disturbance—no repose—a constant dwelling upon one subject—and the running in and out, and up and down stairs, intolerable. I wouldn’t have such a thing happen to anybody I was nearly interested in, on any account. ‘Twould be enough to wear one’s life out.—You were going to say, friend—’ he added, turning to John again.

‘Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and that Barnaby’s as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,’ answered John. ‘Shall he do your errand, sir?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied the guest. ‘Oh certainly. Let him do it by all means. Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick. If he objects to come you may tell him it’s Mr Chester. He will remember my name, I dare say.’

John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that he could express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but left the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of all possible conditions. It has been reported that when he got downstairs, he looked steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by the clock, and all that time never once left off shaking his head; for which statement there would seem to be some ground of truth and feasibility, inasmuch as that interval of time did certainly elapse, before he returned with Barnaby to the guest’s apartment.

‘Come hither, lad,’ said Mr Chester. ‘You know Mr Geoffrey Haredale?’

Barnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say, ‘You hear him?’ John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of decorum, clapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute remonstrance.

‘He knows him, sir,’ said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, ‘as well as you or I do.’

‘I haven’t the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,’ returned his guest. ‘YOU may have. Limit the comparison to yourself, my friend.’

Although this was said with the same easy affability, and the same smile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity at Barnaby’s door, determined to kick his raven, on the very first opportunity.

‘Give that,’ said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note, and who beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, ‘into Mr Haredale’s own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me here. If you should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now, tell him—can he remember a message, landlord?’

‘When he chooses, sir,’ replied John. ‘He won’t forget this one.’

‘How are you sure of that?’

John merely pointed to him as he stood with his head bent forward, and his earnest gaze fixed closely on his questioner’s face; and nodded sagely.

‘Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,’ said Mr Chester, ‘that I shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him (if he will call) at any time this evening.—At the worst I can have a bed here, Willet, I suppose?’

Old John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in this familiar form of address, answered, with something like a knowing look, ‘I should believe you could, sir,’ and was turning over in his mind various forms of eulogium, with the view of selecting one appropriate to the qualities of his best bed, when his ideas were put to flight by Mr Chester giving Barnaby the letter, and bidding him make all speed away.

‘Speed!’ said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast, ‘Speed! If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!’

With that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet’s horror, on the guest’s fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the back window.

‘Look down there,’ he said softly; ‘do you mark how they whisper in each other’s ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they’ve been plotting? Look at ‘em now. See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper, cautiously together—little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the grass and watched them. I say what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know?’

‘They are only clothes,’ returned the guest, ‘such as we wear; hanging on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.’

‘Clothes!’ echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling quickly back. ‘Ha ha! Why, how much better to be silly, than as wise as you! You don’t see shadowy people there, like those that live in sleep—not you. Nor eyes in the knotted panes of glass, nor swift ghosts when it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the air, nor see men stalking in the sky—not you! I lead a merrier life than you, with all your cleverness. You’re the dull men. We’re the bright ones. Ha! ha! I’ll not change with you, clever as you are,—not I!’

With that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted off.

‘A strange creature, upon my word!’ said the guest, pulling out a handsome box, and taking a pinch of snuff.

‘He wants imagination,’ said Mr Willet, very slowly, and after a long silence; ‘that’s what he wants. I’ve tried to instil it into him, many and many’s the time; but’—John added this in confidence—‘he an’t made for it; that’s the fact.’

To record that Mr Chester smiled at John’s remark would be little to the purpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory and pleasant look at all times. He drew his chair nearer to the fire though, as a kind of hint that he would prefer to be alone, and John, having no reasonable excuse for remaining, left him to himself.

Very thoughtful old John Willet was, while the dinner was preparing; and if his brain were ever less clear at one time than another, it is but reasonable to suppose that he addled it in no slight degree by shaking his head so much that day. That Mr Chester, between whom and Mr Haredale, it was notorious to all the neighbourhood, a deep and bitter animosity existed, should come down there for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of seeing him, and should choose the Maypole for their place of meeting, and should send to him express, were stumbling blocks John could not overcome. The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler, and wait impatiently for Barnaby’s return.

But Barnaby delayed beyond all precedent. The visitor’s dinner was served, removed, his wine was set, the fire replenished, the hearth clean swept; the light waned without, it grew dusk, became quite dark, and still no Barnaby appeared. Yet, though John Willet was full of wonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as in his dress—the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care or thought beyond his golden toothpick.

‘Barnaby’s late,’ John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of tarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and snuffed the lights they held.

‘He is rather so,’ replied the guest, sipping his wine. ‘He will not be much longer, I dare say.’

John coughed and raked the fire together.

‘As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my son’s mishap, though,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and as I have no fancy to be knocked on the head—which is not only disconcerting at the moment, but places one, besides, in a ridiculous position with respect to the people who chance to pick one up—I shall stop here to-night. I think you said you had a bed to spare.’

‘Such a bed, sir,’ returned John Willet; ‘ay, such a bed as few, even of the gentry’s houses, own. A fixter here, sir. I’ve heard say that bedstead is nigh two hundred years of age. Your noble son—a fine young gentleman—slept in it last, sir, half a year ago.’

‘Upon my life, a recommendation!’ said the guest, shrugging his shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire. ‘See that it be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted there at once. This house is something damp and chilly.’

John raked the faggots up again, more from habit than presence of mind, or any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw, when a bounding step was heard upon the stair, and Barnaby came panting in.

‘He’ll have his foot in the stirrup in an hour’s time,’ he cried, advancing. ‘He has been riding hard all day—has just come home—but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and drank, to meet his loving friend.’

‘Was that his message?’ asked the visitor, looking up, but without the smallest discomposure—or at least without the show of any.

‘All but the last words,’ Barnaby rejoined. ‘He meant those. I saw that, in his face.’

‘This for your pains,’ said the other, putting money in his hand, and glancing at him steadfastly.’This for your pains, sharp Barnaby.’

‘For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,’ he rejoined, putting it up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers. ‘Grip one, me two, Hugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats—well, we shall spend it pretty soon, I warn you. Stay.—Look. Do you wise men see nothing there, now?’

He bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke, which was rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud. John Willet, who appeared to consider himself particularly and chiefly referred to under the term wise men, looked that way likewise, and with great solidity of feature.

‘Now, where do they go to, when they spring so fast up there,’ asked Barnaby; ‘eh? Why do they tread so closely on each other’s heels, and why are they always in a hurry—which is what you blame me for, when I only take pattern by these busy folk about me? More of ‘em! catching to each other’s skirts; and as fast as they go, others come! What a merry dance it is! I would that Grip and I could frisk like that!’

‘What has he in that basket at his back?’ asked the guest after a few moments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look higher up the chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke.

‘In this?’ he answered, jumping up, before John Willet could reply—shaking it as he spoke, and stooping his head to listen. ‘In this! What is there here? Tell him!’

‘A devil, a devil, a devil!’ cried a hoarse voice.

‘Here’s money!’ said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand, ‘money for a treat, Grip!’

‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ replied the raven, ‘keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow!’

Mr Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a customer in a laced coat and fine linen could be supposed to have any acquaintance even with the existence of such unpolite gentry as the bird claimed to belong to, took Barnaby off at this juncture, with the view of preventing any other improper declarations, and quitted the room with his very best bow.

Chapter 11

There was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers, to each of whom, as he straggled in to occupy his allotted seat in the chimney-corner, John, with a most impressive slowness of delivery, and in an apoplectic whisper, communicated the fact that Mr Chester was alone in the large room upstairs, and was waiting the arrival of Mr Geoffrey Haredale, to whom he had sent a letter (doubtless of a threatening nature) by the hands of Barnaby, then and there present.

For a little knot of smokers and solemn gossips, who had seldom any new topics of discussion, this was a perfect Godsend. Here was a good, dark-looking mystery progressing under that very roof—brought home to the fireside, as it were, and enjoyable without the smallest pains or trouble. It is extraordinary what a zest and relish it gave to the drink, and how it heightened the flavour of the tobacco. Every man smoked his pipe with a face of grave and serious delight, and looked at his neighbour with a sort of quiet congratulation. Nay, it was felt to be such a holiday and special night, that, on the motion of little Solomon Daisy, every man (including John himself) put down his sixpence for a can of flip, which grateful beverage was brewed with all despatch, and set down in the midst of them on the brick floor; both that it might simmer and stew before the fire, and that its fragrant steam, rising up among them, and mixing with the wreaths of vapour from their pipes, might shroud them in a delicious atmosphere of their own, and shut out all the world. The very furniture of the room seemed to mellow and deepen in its tone; the ceiling and walls looked blacker and more highly polished, the curtains of a ruddier red; the fire burnt clear and high, and the crickets in the hearthstone chirped with a more than wonted satisfaction.

There were present two, however, who showed but little interest in the general contentment. Of these, one was Barnaby himself, who slept, or, to avoid being beset with questions, feigned to sleep, in the chimney-corner; the other, Hugh, who, sleeping too, lay stretched upon the bench on the opposite side, in the full glare of the blazing fire.

The light that fell upon this slumbering form, showed it in all its muscular and handsome proportions. It was that of a young man, of a hale athletic figure, and a giant’s strength, whose sunburnt face and swarthy throat, overgrown with jet black hair, might have served a painter for a model. Loosely attired, in the coarsest and roughest garb, with scraps of straw and hay—his usual bed—clinging here and there, and mingling with his uncombed locks, he had fallen asleep in a posture as careless as his dress. The negligence and disorder of the whole man, with something fierce and sullen in his features, gave him a picturesque appearance, that attracted the regards even of the Maypole customers who knew him well, and caused Long Parkes to say that Hugh looked more like a poaching rascal to-night than ever he had seen him yet.

‘He’s waiting here, I suppose,’ said Solomon, ‘to take Mr Haredale’s horse.’

‘That’s it, sir,’ replied John Willet. ‘He’s not often in the house, you know. He’s more at his ease among horses than men. I look upon him as a animal himself.’

Following up this opinion with a shrug that seemed meant to say, ‘we can’t expect everybody to be like us,’ John put his pipe into his mouth again, and smoked like one who felt his superiority over the general run of mankind.

‘That chap, sir,’ said John, taking it out again after a time, and pointing at him with the stem, ‘though he’s got all his faculties about him—bottled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres or another—’

‘Very good!’ said Parkes, nodding his head. ‘A very good expression, Johnny. You’ll be a tackling somebody presently. You’re in twig to-night, I see.’

‘Take care,’ said Mr Willet, not at all grateful for the compliment, ‘that I don’t tackle you, sir, which I shall certainly endeavour to do, if you interrupt me when I’m making observations.—That chap, I was a saying, though he has all his faculties about him, somewheres or another, bottled up and corked down, has no more imagination than Barnaby has. And why hasn’t he?’

The three friends shook their heads at each other; saying by that action, without the trouble of opening their lips, ‘Do you observe what a philosophical mind our friend has?’

‘Why hasn’t he?’ said John, gently striking the table with his open hand. ‘Because they was never drawed out of him when he was a boy. That’s why. What would any of us have been, if our fathers hadn’t drawed our faculties out of us? What would my boy Joe have been, if I hadn’t drawed his faculties out of him?—Do you mind what I’m a saying of, gentlemen?’

‘Ah! we mind you,’ cried Parkes. ‘Go on improving of us, Johnny.’

‘Consequently, then,’ said Mr Willet, ‘that chap, whose mother was hung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing bad notes—and it’s a blessed thing to think how many people are hung in batches every six weeks for that, and such like offences, as showing how wide awake our government is—that chap that was then turned loose, and had to mind cows, and frighten birds away, and what not, for a few pence to live on, and so got on by degrees to mind horses, and to sleep in course of time in lofts and litter, instead of under haystacks and hedges, till at last he come to be hostler at the Maypole for his board and lodging and a annual trifle—that chap that can’t read nor write, and has never had much to do with anything but animals, and has never lived in any way but like the animals he has lived among, IS a animal. And,’ said Mr Willet, arriving at his logical conclusion, ‘is to be treated accordingly.’

‘Willet,’ said Solomon Daisy, who had exhibited some impatience at the intrusion of so unworthy a subject on their more interesting theme, ‘when Mr Chester come this morning, did he order the large room?’

‘He signified, sir,’ said John, ‘that he wanted a large apartment. Yes. Certainly.’

‘Why then, I’ll tell you what,’ said Solomon, speaking softly and with an earnest look. ‘He and Mr Haredale are going to fight a duel in it.’

Everybody looked at Mr Willet, after this alarming suggestion. Mr Willet looked at the fire, weighing in his own mind the effect which such an occurrence would be likely to have on the establishment.

‘Well,’ said John, ‘I don’t know—I am sure—I remember that when I went up last, he HAD put the lights upon the mantel-shelf.’

‘It’s as plain,’ returned Solomon, ‘as the nose on Parkes’s face’—Mr Parkes, who had a large nose, rubbed it, and looked as if he considered this a personal allusion—‘they’ll fight in that room. You know by the newspapers what a common thing it is for gentlemen to fight in coffee-houses without seconds. One of ‘em will be wounded or perhaps killed in this house.’

‘That was a challenge that Barnaby took then, eh?’ said John.

‘—Inclosing a slip of paper with the measure of his sword upon it, I’ll bet a guinea,’ answered the little man. ‘We know what sort of gentleman Mr Haredale is. You have told us what Barnaby said about his looks, when he came back. Depend upon it, I’m right. Now, mind.’

The flip had had no flavour till now. The tobacco had been of mere English growth, compared with its present taste. A duel in that great old rambling room upstairs, and the best bed ordered already for the wounded man!

‘Would it be swords or pistols, now?’ said John.

‘Heaven knows. Perhaps both,’ returned Solomon. ‘The gentlemen wear swords, and may easily have pistols in their pockets—most likely have, indeed. If they fire at each other without effect, then they’ll draw, and go to work in earnest.’

A shade passed over Mr Willet’s face as he thought of broken windows and disabled furniture, but bethinking himself that one of the parties would probably be left alive to pay the damage, he brightened up again.

‘And then,’ said Solomon, looking from face to face, ‘then we shall have one of those stains upon the floor that never come out. If Mr Haredale wins, depend upon it, it’ll be a deep one; or if he loses, it will perhaps be deeper still, for he’ll never give in unless he’s beaten down. We know him better, eh?’

‘Better indeed!’ they whispered all together.

‘As to its ever being got out again,’ said Solomon, ‘I tell you it never will, or can be. Why, do you know that it has been tried, at a certain house we are acquainted with?’

‘The Warren!’ cried John. ‘No, sure!’

‘Yes, sure—yes. It’s only known by very few. It has been whispered about though, for all that. They planed the board away, but there it was. They went deep, but it went deeper. They put new boards down, but there was one great spot that came through still, and showed itself in the old place. And—harkye—draw nearer—Mr Geoffrey made that room his study, and sits there, always, with his foot (as I have heard) upon it; and he believes, through thinking of it long and very much, that it will never fade until he finds the man who did the deed.’

As this recital ended, and they all drew closer round the fire, the tramp of a horse was heard without.

‘The very man!’ cried John, starting up. ‘Hugh! Hugh!’

The sleeper staggered to his feet, and hurried after him. John quickly returned, ushering in with great attention and deference (for Mr Haredale was his landlord) the long-expected visitor, who strode into the room clanking his heavy boots upon the floor; and looking keenly round upon the bowing group, raised his hat in acknowledgment of their profound respect.

‘You have a stranger here, Willet, who sent to me,’ he said, in a voice which sounded naturally stern and deep. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the great room upstairs, sir,’ answered John.

‘Show the way. Your staircase is dark, I know. Gentlemen, good night.’

With that, he signed to the landlord to go on before; and went clanking out, and up the stairs; old John, in his agitation, ingeniously lighting everything but the way, and making a stumble at every second step.

‘Stop!’ he said, when they reached the landing. ‘I can announce myself. Don’t wait.’

He laid his hand upon the door, entered, and shut it heavily. Mr Willet was by no means disposed to stand there listening by himself, especially as the walls were very thick; so descended, with much greater alacrity than he had come up, and joined his friends below.

Chapter 12

There was a brief pause in the state-room of the Maypole, as Mr Haredale tried the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the door securely, and, striding up the dark chamber to where the screen inclosed a little patch of light and warmth, presented himself, abruptly and in silence, before the smiling guest.

If the two had no greater sympathy in their inward thoughts than in their outward bearing and appearance, the meeting did not seem likely to prove a very calm or pleasant one. With no great disparity between them in point of years, they were, in every other respect, as unlike and far removed from each other as two men could well be. The one was soft-spoken, delicately made, precise, and elegant; the other, a burly square-built man, negligently dressed, rough and abrupt in manner, stern, and, in his present mood, forbidding both in look and speech. The one preserved a calm and placid smile; the other, a distrustful frown. The new-comer, indeed, appeared bent on showing by his every tone and gesture his determined opposition and hostility to the man he had come to meet. The guest who received him, on the other hand, seemed to feel that the contrast between them was all in his favour, and to derive a quiet exultation from it which put him more at his ease than ever.

‘Haredale,’ said this gentleman, without the least appearance of embarrassment or reserve, ‘I am very glad to see you.’

‘Let us dispense with compliments. They are misplaced between us,’ returned the other, waving his hand, ‘and say plainly what we have to say. You have asked me to meet you. I am here. Why do we stand face to face again?’

‘Still the same frank and sturdy character, I see!’

‘Good or bad, sir, I am,’ returned the other, leaning his arm upon the chimney-piece, and turning a haughty look upon the occupant of the easy-chair, ‘the man I used to be. I have lost no old likings or dislikings; my memory has not failed me by a hair’s-breadth. You ask me to give you a meeting. I say, I am here.’

‘Our meeting, Haredale,’ said Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box, and following with a smile the impatient gesture he had made—perhaps unconsciously—towards his sword, ‘is one of conference and peace, I hope?’

‘I have come here,’ returned the other, ‘at your desire, holding myself bound to meet you, when and where you would. I have not come to bandy pleasant speeches, or hollow professions. You are a smooth man of the world, sir, and at such play have me at a disadvantage. The very last man on this earth with whom I would enter the lists to combat with gentle compliments and masked faces, is Mr Chester, I do assure you. I am not his match at such weapons, and have reason to believe that few men are.’

‘You do me a great deal of honour Haredale,’ returned the other, most composedly, ‘and I thank you. I will be frank with you—’

‘I beg your pardon—will be what?’

‘Frank—open—perfectly candid.’

‘Hah!’ cried Mr Haredale, drawing his breath. ‘But don’t let me interrupt you.’

‘So resolved am I to hold this course,’ returned the other, tasting his wine with great deliberation; ‘that I have determined not to quarrel with you, and not to be betrayed into a warm expression or a hasty word.’

‘There again,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘you have me at a great advantage. Your self-command—’

‘Is not to be disturbed, when it will serve my purpose, you would say’—rejoined the other, interrupting him with the same complacency. ‘Granted. I allow it. And I have a purpose to serve now. So have you. I am sure our object is the same. Let us attain it like sensible men, who have ceased to be boys some time.—Do you drink?’

‘With my friends,’ returned the other.

‘At least,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you will be seated?’

‘I will stand,’ returned Mr Haredale impatiently, ‘on this dismantled, beggared hearth, and not pollute it, fallen as it is, with mockeries. Go on.’

‘You are wrong, Haredale,’ said the other, crossing his legs, and smiling as he held his glass up in the bright glow of the fire. ‘You are really very wrong. The world is a lively place enough, in which we must accommodate ourselves to circumstances, sail with the stream as glibly as we can, be content to take froth for substance, the surface for the depth, the counterfeit for the real coin. I wonder no philosopher has ever established that our globe itself is hollow. It should be, if Nature is consistent in her works.’

‘YOU think it is, perhaps?’

‘I should say,’ he returned, sipping his wine, ‘there could be no doubt about it. Well; we, in trifling with this jingling toy, have had the ill-luck to jostle and fall out. We are not what the world calls friends; but we are as good and true and loving friends for all that, as nine out of every ten of those on whom it bestows the title. You have a niece, and I a son—a fine lad, Haredale, but foolish. They fall in love with each other, and form what this same world calls an attachment; meaning a something fanciful and false like the rest, which, if it took its own free time, would break like any other bubble. But it may not have its own free time—will not, if they are left alone—and the question is, shall we two, because society calls us enemies, stand aloof, and let them rush into each other’s arms, when, by approaching each other sensibly, as we do now, we can prevent it, and part them?’

‘I love my niece,’ said Mr Haredale, after a short silence. ‘It may sound strangely in your ears; but I love her.’

‘Strangely, my good fellow!’ cried Mr Chester, lazily filling his glass again, and pulling out his toothpick. ‘Not at all. I like Ned too—or, as you say, love him—that’s the word among such near relations. I’m very fond of Ned. He’s an amazingly good fellow, and a handsome fellow—foolish and weak as yet; that’s all. But the thing is, Haredale—for I’ll be very frank, as I told you I would at first—independently of any dislike that you and I might have to being related to each other, and independently of the religious differences between us—and damn it, that’s important—I couldn’t afford a match of this description. Ned and I couldn’t do it. It’s impossible.’

‘Curb your tongue, in God’s name, if this conversation is to last,’ retorted Mr Haredale fiercely. ‘I have said I love my niece. Do you think that, loving her, I would have her fling her heart away on any man who had your blood in his veins?’

‘You see,’ said the other, not at all disturbed, ‘the advantage of being so frank and open. Just what I was about to add, upon my honour! I am amazingly attached to Ned—quite doat upon him, indeed—and even if we could afford to throw ourselves away, that very objection would be quite insuperable.—I wish you’d take some wine?’

‘Mark me,’ said Mr Haredale, striding to the table, and laying his hand upon it heavily. ‘If any man believes—presumes to think—that I, in word or deed, or in the wildest dream, ever entertained remotely the idea of Emma Haredale’s favouring the suit of any one who was akin to you—in any way—I care not what—he lies. He lies, and does me grievous wrong, in the mere thought.’

‘Haredale,’ returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as in assent, and nodding at the fire, ‘it’s extremely manly, and really very generous in you, to meet me in this unreserved and handsome way. Upon my word, those are exactly my sentiments, only expressed with much more force and power than I could use—you know my sluggish nature, and will forgive me, I am sure.’

‘While I would restrain her from all correspondence with your son, and sever their intercourse here, though it should cause her death,’ said Mr Haredale, who had been pacing to and fro, ‘I would do it kindly and tenderly if I can. I have a trust to discharge, which my nature is not formed to understand, and, for this reason, the bare fact of there being any love between them comes upon me to-night, almost for the first time.’

‘I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you,’ rejoined Mr Chester with the utmost blandness, ‘to find my own impression so confirmed. You see the advantage of our having met. We understand each other. We quite agree. We have a most complete and thorough explanation, and we know what course to take.—Why don’t you taste your tenant’s wine? It’s really very good.’

‘Pray who,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘have aided Emma, or your son? Who are their go-betweens, and agents—do you know?’

‘All the good people hereabouts—the neighbourhood in general, I think,’ returned the other, with his most affable smile. ‘The messenger I sent to you to-day, foremost among them all.’

‘The idiot? Barnaby?’

‘You are surprised? I am glad of that, for I was rather so myself. Yes. I wrung that from his mother—a very decent sort of woman—from whom, indeed, I chiefly learnt how serious the matter had become, and so determined to ride out here to-day, and hold a parley with you on this neutral ground.—You’re stouter than you used to be, Haredale, but you look extremely well.’

‘Our business, I presume, is nearly at an end,’ said Mr Haredale, with an expression of impatience he was at no pains to conceal. ‘Trust me, Mr Chester, my niece shall change from this time. I will appeal,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘to her woman’s heart, her dignity, her pride, her duty—’

‘I shall do the same by Ned,’ said Mr Chester, restoring some errant faggots to their places in the grate with the toe of his boot. ‘If there is anything real in this world, it is those amazingly fine feelings and those natural obligations which must subsist between father and son. I shall put it to him on every ground of moral and religious feeling. I shall represent to him that we cannot possibly afford it—that I have always looked forward to his marrying well, for a genteel provision for myself in the autumn of life—that there are a great many clamorous dogs to pay, whose claims are perfectly just and right, and who must be paid out of his wife’s fortune. In short, that the very highest and most honourable feelings of our nature, with every consideration of filial duty and affection, and all that sort of thing, imperatively demand that he should run away with an heiress.’

‘And break her heart as speedily as possible?’ said Mr Haredale, drawing on his glove.

‘There Ned will act exactly as he pleases,’ returned the other, sipping his wine; ‘that’s entirely his affair. I wouldn’t for the world interfere with my son, Haredale, beyond a certain point. The relationship between father and son, you know, is positively quite a holy kind of bond.—WON’T you let me persuade you to take one glass of wine? Well! as you please, as you please,’ he added, helping himself again.

‘Chester,’ said Mr Haredale, after a short silence, during which he had eyed his smiling face from time to time intently, ‘you have the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception.’

‘Your health!’ said the other, with a nod. ‘But I have interrupted you—’

‘If now,’ pursued Mr Haredale, ‘we should find it difficult to separate these young people, and break off their intercourse—if, for instance, you find it difficult on your side, what course do you intend to take?’

‘Nothing plainer, my good fellow, nothing easier,’ returned the other, shrugging his shoulders and stretching himself more comfortably before the fire. ‘I shall then exert those powers on which you flatter me so highly—though, upon my word, I don’t deserve your compliments to their full extent—and resort to a few little trivial subterfuges for rousing jealousy and resentment. You see?’

‘In short, justifying the means by the end, we are, as a last resource for tearing them asunder, to resort to treachery and—and lying,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Oh dear no. Fie, fie!’ returned the other, relishing a pinch of snuff extremely. ‘Not lying. Only a little management, a little diplomacy, a little—intriguing, that’s the word.’

‘I wish,’ said Mr Haredale, moving to and fro, and stopping, and moving on again, like one who was ill at ease, ‘that this could have been foreseen or prevented. But as it has gone so far, and it is necessary for us to act, it is of no use shrinking or regretting. Well! I shall second your endeavours to the utmost of my power. There is one topic in the whole wide range of human thoughts on which we both agree. We shall act in concert, but apart. There will be no need, I hope, for us to meet again.’

‘Are you going?’ said Mr Chester, rising with a graceful indolence. ‘Let me light you down the stairs.’

‘Pray keep your seat,’ returned the other drily, ‘I know the way.’ So, waving his hand slightly, and putting on his hat as he turned upon his heel, he went clanking out as he had come, shut the door behind him, and tramped down the echoing stairs.

‘Pah! A very coarse animal, indeed!’ said Mr Chester, composing himself in the easy-chair again. ‘A rough brute. Quite a human badger!’

John Willet and his friends, who had been listening intently for the clash of swords, or firing of pistols in the great room, and had indeed settled the order in which they should rush in when summoned—in which procession old John had carefully arranged that he should bring up the rear—were very much astonished to see Mr Haredale come down without a scratch, call for his horse, and ride away thoughtfully at a footpace. After some consideration, it was decided that he had left the gentleman above, for dead, and had adopted this stratagem to divert suspicion or pursuit.

As this conclusion involved the necessity of their going upstairs forthwith, they were about to ascend in the order they had agreed upon, when a smart ringing at the guest’s bell, as if he had pulled it vigorously, overthrew all their speculations, and involved them in great uncertainty and doubt. At length Mr Willet agreed to go upstairs himself, escorted by Hugh and Barnaby, as the strongest and stoutest fellows on the premises, who were to make their appearance under pretence of clearing away the glasses.

Under this protection, the brave and broad-faced John boldly entered the room, half a foot in advance, and received an order for a boot-jack without trembling. But when it was brought, and he leant his sturdy shoulder to the guest, Mr Willet was observed to look very hard into his boots as he pulled them off, and, by opening his eyes much wider than usual, to appear to express some surprise and disappointment at not finding them full of blood. He took occasion, too, to examine the gentleman as closely as he could, expecting to discover sundry loopholes in his person, pierced by his adversary’s sword. Finding none, however, and observing in course of time that his guest was as cool and unruffled, both in his dress and temper, as he had been all day, old John at last heaved a deep sigh, and began to think no duel had been fought that night.

‘And now, Willet,’ said Mr Chester, ‘if the room’s well aired, I’ll try the merits of that famous bed.’

‘The room, sir,’ returned John, taking up a candle, and nudging Barnaby and Hugh to accompany them, in case the gentleman should unexpectedly drop down faint or dead from some internal wound, ‘the room’s as warm as any toast in a tankard. Barnaby, take you that other candle, and go on before. Hugh! Follow up, sir, with the easy-chair.’

In this order—and still, in his earnest inspection, holding his candle very close to the guest; now making him feel extremely warm about the legs, now threatening to set his wig on fire, and constantly begging his pardon with great awkwardness and embarrassment—John led the party to the best bedroom, which was nearly as large as the chamber from which they had come, and held, drawn out near the fire for warmth, a great old spectral bedstead, hung with faded brocade, and ornamented, at the top of each carved post, with a plume of feathers that had once been white, but with dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal.

‘Good night, my friends,’ said Mr Chester with a sweet smile, seating himself, when he had surveyed the room from end to end, in the easy-chair which his attendants wheeled before the fire. ‘Good night! Barnaby, my good fellow, you say some prayers before you go to bed, I hope?’

Barnaby nodded. ‘He has some nonsense that he calls his prayers, sir,’ returned old John, officiously. ‘I’m afraid there an’t much good in em.’

‘And Hugh?’ said Mr Chester, turning to him.

‘Not I,’ he answered. ‘I know his’—pointing to Barnaby—‘they’re well enough. He sings ‘em sometimes in the straw. I listen.’

‘He’s quite a animal, sir,’ John whispered in his ear with dignity. ‘You’ll excuse him, I’m sure. If he has any soul at all, sir, it must be such a very small one, that it don’t signify what he does or doesn’t in that way. Good night, sir!’

The guest rejoined ‘God bless you!’ with a fervour that was quite affecting; and John, beckoning his guards to go before, bowed himself out of the room, and left him to his rest in the Maypole’s ancient bed.

Chapter 13

If Joseph Willet, the denounced and proscribed of ‘prentices, had happened to be at home when his father’s courtly guest presented himself before the Maypole door—that is, if it had not perversely chanced to be one of the half-dozen days in the whole year on which he was at liberty to absent himself for as many hours without question or reproach—he would have contrived, by hook or crook, to dive to the very bottom of Mr Chester’s mystery, and to come at his purpose with as much certainty as though he had been his confidential adviser. In that fortunate case, the lovers would have had quick warning of the ills that threatened them, and the aid of various timely and wise suggestions to boot; for all Joe’s readiness of thought and action, and all his sympathies and good wishes, were enlisted in favour of the young people, and were staunch in devotion to their cause. Whether this disposition arose out of his old prepossessions in favour of the young lady, whose history had surrounded her in his mind, almost from his cradle, with circumstances of unusual interest; or from his attachment towards the young gentleman, into whose confidence he had, through his shrewdness and alacrity, and the rendering of sundry important services as a spy and messenger, almost imperceptibly glided; whether they had their origin in either of these sources, or in the habit natural to youth, or in the constant badgering and worrying of his venerable parent, or in any hidden little love affair of his own which gave him something of a fellow-feeling in the matter, it is needless to inquire—especially as Joe was out of the way, and had no opportunity on that particular occasion of testifying to his sentiments either on one side or the other.

It was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people know to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those unpleasant epochs termed quarter-days. On this twenty-fifth of March, it was John Willet’s pride annually to settle, in hard cash, his account with a certain vintner and distiller in the city of London; to give into whose hands a canvas bag containing its exact amount, and not a penny more or less, was the end and object of a journey for Joe, so surely as the year and day came round.

This journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom John had an indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the effect that she could win a plate or cup if she tried. She never had tried, and probably never would now, being some fourteen or fifteen years of age, short in wind, long in body, and rather the worse for wear in respect of her mane and tail. Notwithstanding these slight defects, John perfectly gloried in the animal; and when she was brought round to the door by Hugh, actually retired into the bar, and there, in a secret grove of lemons, laughed with pride.

‘There’s a bit of horseflesh, Hugh!’ said John, when he had recovered enough self-command to appear at the door again. ‘There’s a comely creature! There’s high mettle! There’s bone!’

There was bone enough beyond all doubt; and so Hugh seemed to think, as he sat sideways in the saddle, lazily doubled up with his chin nearly touching his knees; and heedless of the dangling stirrups and loose bridle-rein, sauntered up and down on the little green before the door.

‘Mind you take good care of her, sir,’ said John, appealing from this insensible person to his son and heir, who now appeared, fully equipped and ready. ‘Don’t you ride hard.’

‘I should be puzzled to do that, I think, father,’ Joe replied, casting a disconsolate look at the animal.

‘None of your impudence, sir, if you please,’ retorted old John. ‘What would you ride, sir? A wild ass or zebra would be too tame for you, wouldn’t he, eh sir? You’d like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn’t you, sir, eh sir? Hold your tongue, sir.’ When Mr Willet, in his differences with his son, had exhausted all the questions that occurred to him, and Joe had said nothing at all in answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold his tongue.

‘And what does the boy mean,’ added Mr Willet, after he had stared at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, ‘by cocking his hat, to such an extent! Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?’

‘No,’ said Joe, tartly; ‘I’m not. Now your mind’s at ease, father.’

‘With a milintary air, too!’ said Mr Willet, surveying him from top to toe; ‘with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking sort of way with him! And what do you mean by pulling up the crocuses and snowdrops, eh sir?’

‘It’s only a little nosegay,’ said Joe, reddening. ‘There’s no harm in that, I hope?’

‘You’re a boy of business, you are, sir!’ said Mr Willet, disdainfully, ‘to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays.’

‘I don’t suppose anything of the kind,’ returned Joe. ‘Let them keep their red noses for bottles and tankards. These are going to Mr Varden’s house.’

‘And do you suppose HE minds such things as crocuses?’ demanded John.

‘I don’t know, and to say the truth, I don’t care,’ said Joe. ‘Come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let me go.’

‘There it is, sir,’ replied John; ‘and take care of it; and mind you don’t make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest.—Do you mind?’

‘Ay, I mind,’ returned Joe. ‘She’ll need it, Heaven knows.’

‘And don’t you score up too much at the Black Lion,’ said John. ‘Mind that too.’

‘Then why don’t you let me have some money of my own?’ retorted Joe, sorrowfully; ‘why don’t you, father? What do you send me into London for, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the Black Lion, which you’re to pay for next time you go, as if I was not to be trusted with a few shillings? Why do you use me like this? It’s not right of you. You can’t expect me to be quiet under it.’

‘Let him have money!’ cried John, in a drowsy reverie. ‘What does he call money—guineas? Hasn’t he got money? Over and above the tolls, hasn’t he one and sixpence?’

‘One and sixpence!’ repeated his son contemptuously.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned John, ‘one and sixpence. When I was your age, I had never seen so much money, in a heap. A shilling of it is in case of accidents—the mare casting a shoe, or the like of that. The other sixpence is to spend in the diversions of London; and the diversion I recommend is going to the top of the Monument, and sitting there. There’s no temptation there, sir—no drink—no young women—no bad characters of any sort—nothing but imagination. That’s the way I enjoyed myself when I was your age, sir.’

To this, Joe made no answer, but beckoning Hugh, leaped into the saddle and rode away; and a very stalwart, manly horseman he looked, deserving a better charger than it was his fortune to bestride. John stood staring after him, or rather after the grey mare (for he had no eyes for her rider), until man and beast had been out of sight some twenty minutes, when he began to think they were gone, and slowly re-entering the house, fell into a gentle doze.

The unfortunate grey mare, who was the agony of Joe’s life, floundered along at her own will and pleasure until the Maypole was no longer visible, and then, contracting her legs into what in a puppet would have been looked upon as a clumsy and awkward imitation of a canter, mended her pace all at once, and did it of her own accord. The acquaintance with her rider’s usual mode of proceeding, which suggested this improvement in hers, impelled her likewise to turn up a bye-way, leading—not to London, but through lanes running parallel with the road they had come, and passing within a few hundred yards of the Maypole, which led finally to an inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick mansion—the same of which mention was made as the Warren in the first chapter of this history. Coming to a dead stop in a little copse thereabout, she suffered her rider to dismount with right goodwill, and to tie her to the trunk of a tree.

‘Stay there, old girl,’ said Joe, ‘and let us see whether there’s any little commission for me to-day.’ So saying, he left her to browze upon such stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within the length of her tether, and passing through a wicket gate, entered the grounds on foot.

The pathway, after a very few minutes’ walking, brought him close to the house, towards which, and especially towards one particular window, he directed many covert glances. It was a dreary, silent building, with echoing courtyards, desolated turret-chambers, and whole suites of rooms shut up and mouldering to ruin.

The terrace-garden, dark with the shade of overhanging trees, had an air of melancholy that was quite oppressive. Great iron gates, disused for many years, and red with rust, drooping on their hinges and overgrown with long rank grass, seemed as though they tried to sink into the ground, and hide their fallen state among the friendly weeds. The fantastic monsters on the walls, green with age and damp, and covered here and there with moss, looked grim and desolate. There was a sombre aspect even on that part of the mansion which was inhabited and kept in good repair, that struck the beholder with a sense of sadness; of something forlorn and failing, whence cheerfulness was banished. It would have been difficult to imagine a bright fire blazing in the dull and darkened rooms, or to picture any gaiety of heart or revelry that the frowning walls shut in. It seemed a place where such things had been, but could be no more—the very ghost of a house, haunting the old spot in its old outward form, and that was all.

Much of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to the death of its former master, and the temper of its present occupant; but remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it seemed the very place for such a deed, and one that might have been its predestined theatre years upon years ago. Viewed with reference to this legend, the sheet of water where the steward’s body had been found appeared to wear a black and sullen character, such as no other pool might own; the bell upon the roof that had told the tale of murder to the midnight wind, became a very phantom whose voice would raise the listener’s hair on end; and every leafless bough that nodded to another, had its stealthy whispering of the crime.

Joe paced up and down the path, sometimes stopping in affected contemplation of the building or the prospect, sometimes leaning against a tree with an assumed air of idleness and indifference, but always keeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at first. After some quarter of an hour’s delay, a small white hand was waved to him for an instant from this casement, and the young man, with a respectful bow, departed; saying under his breath as he crossed his horse again, ‘No errand for me to-day!’

But the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which John Willet had objected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little errand of his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner or even a locksmith. So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had settled with the vintner—whose place of business was down in some deep cellars hard by Thames Street, and who was as purple-faced an old gentleman as if he had all his life supported their arched roof on his head—when he had settled the account, and taken the receipt, and declined tasting more than three glasses of old sherry, to the unbounded astonishment of the purple-faced vintner, who, gimlet in hand, had projected an attack upon at least a score of dusty casks, and who stood transfixed, or morally gimleted as it were, to his own wall—when he had done all this, and disposed besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in Whitechapel; spurning the Monument and John’s advice, he turned his steps towards the locksmith’s house, attracted by the eyes of blooming Dolly Varden.

Joe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he got to the corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he could by no means make up his mind to walk straight to the house. First, he resolved to stroll up another street for five minutes, then up another street for five minutes more, and so on until he had lost full half an hour, when he made a bold plunge and found himself with a red face and a beating heart in the smoky workshop.

‘Joe Willet, or his ghost?’ said Varden, rising from the desk at which he was busy with his books, and looking at him under his spectacles. ‘Which is it? Joe in the flesh, eh? That’s hearty. And how are all the Chigwell company, Joe?’

‘Much as usual, sir—they and I agree as well as ever.’

‘Well, well!’ said the locksmith. ‘We must be patient, Joe, and bear with old folks’ foibles. How’s the mare, Joe? Does she do the four miles an hour as easily as ever? Ha, ha, ha! Does she, Joe? Eh!—What have we there, Joe—a nosegay!’

‘A very poor one, sir—I thought Miss Dolly—’

‘No, no,’ said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and shaking his head, ‘not Dolly. Give ‘em to her mother, Joe. A great deal better give ‘em to her mother. Would you mind giving ‘em to Mrs Varden, Joe?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the greatest possible success, to hide his disappointment. ‘I shall be very glad, I’m sure.’

‘That’s right,’ said the locksmith, patting him on the back. ‘It don’t matter who has ‘em, Joe?’

‘Not a bit, sir.’—Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!

‘Come in,’ said Gabriel. ‘I have just been called to tea. She’s in the parlour.’

‘She,’ thought Joe. ‘Which of ‘em I wonder—Mrs or Miss?’ The locksmith settled the doubt as neatly as if it had been expressed aloud, by leading him to the door, and saying, ‘Martha, my dear, here’s young Mr Willet.’

Now, Mrs Varden, regarding the Maypole as a sort of human mantrap, or decoy for husbands; viewing its proprietor, and all who aided and abetted him, in the light of so many poachers among Christian men; and believing, moreover, that the publicans coupled with sinners in Holy Writ were veritable licensed victuallers; was far from being favourably disposed towards her visitor. Wherefore she was taken faint directly; and being duly presented with the crocuses and snowdrops, divined on further consideration that they were the occasion of the languor which had seized upon her spirits. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t bear the room another minute,’ said the good lady, ‘if they remained here. WOULD you excuse my putting them out of window?’

Joe begged she wouldn’t mention it on any account, and smiled feebly as he saw them deposited on the sill outside. If anybody could have known the pains he had taken to make up that despised and misused bunch of flowers!—

‘I feel it quite a relief to get rid of them, I assure you,’ said Mrs Varden. ‘I’m better already.’ And indeed she did appear to have plucked up her spirits.

Joe expressed his gratitude to Providence for this favourable dispensation, and tried to look as if he didn’t wonder where Dolly was.

‘You’re sad people at Chigwell, Mr Joseph,’ said Mrs V.

‘I hope not, ma’am,’ returned Joe.

‘You’re the cruellest and most inconsiderate people in the world,’ said Mrs Varden, bridling. ‘I wonder old Mr Willet, having been a married man himself, doesn’t know better than to conduct himself as he does. His doing it for profit is no excuse. I would rather pay the money twenty times over, and have Varden come home like a respectable and sober tradesman. If there is one character,’ said Mrs Varden with great emphasis, ‘that offends and disgusts me more than another, it is a sot.’

‘Come, Martha, my dear,’ said the locksmith cheerily, ‘let us have tea, and don’t let us talk about sots. There are none here, and Joe don’t want to hear about them, I dare say.’

At this crisis, Miggs appeared with toast.

‘I dare say he does not,’ said Mrs Varden; ‘and I dare say you do not, Varden. It’s a very unpleasant subject, I have no doubt, though I won’t say it’s personal’—Miggs coughed—‘whatever I may be forced to think’—Miggs sneezed expressively. ‘You never will know, Varden, and nobody at young Mr Willet’s age—you’ll excuse me, sir—can be expected to know, what a woman suffers when she is waiting at home under such circumstances. If you don’t believe me, as I know you don’t, here’s Miggs, who is only too often a witness of it—ask her.’

‘Oh! she were very bad the other night, sir, indeed she were, said Miggs. ‘If you hadn’t the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, I don’t think you could abear it, I raly don’t.’

‘Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘you’re profane.’

‘Begging your pardon, mim,’ returned Miggs, with shrill rapidity, ‘such was not my intentions, and such I hope is not my character, though I am but a servant.’

‘Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,’ retorted her mistress, looking round with dignity, ‘is one and the same thing. How dare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful fellow-beings—mere’—said Mrs Varden, glancing at herself in a neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more becoming fashion—‘mere worms and grovellers as we are!’

‘I did not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,’ said Miggs, confident in the strength of her compliment, and developing strongly in the throat as usual, ‘and I did not expect it would be took as such. I hope I know my own unworthiness, and that I hate and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures as every practicable Christian should.’

‘You’ll have the goodness, if you please,’ said Mrs Varden, loftily, ‘to step upstairs and see if Dolly has finished dressing, and to tell her that the chair that was ordered for her will be here in a minute, and that if she keeps it waiting, I shall send it away that instant.—I’m sorry to see that you don’t take your tea, Varden, and that you don’t take yours, Mr Joseph; though of course it would be foolish of me to expect that anything that can be had at home, and in the company of females, would please YOU.’

This pronoun was understood in the plural sense, and included both gentlemen, upon both of whom it was rather hard and undeserved, for Gabriel had applied himself to the meal with a very promising appetite, until it was spoilt by Mrs Varden herself, and Joe had as great a liking for the female society of the locksmith’s house—or for a part of it at all events—as man could well entertain.

But he had no opportunity to say anything in his own defence, for at that moment Dolly herself appeared, and struck him quite dumb with her beauty. Never had Dolly looked so handsome as she did then, in all the glow and grace of youth, with all her charms increased a hundredfold by a most becoming dress, by a thousand little coquettish ways which nobody could assume with a better grace, and all the sparkling expectation of that accursed party. It is impossible to tell how Joe hated that party wherever it was, and all the other people who were going to it, whoever they were.

And she hardly looked at him—no, hardly looked at him. And when the chair was seen through the open door coming blundering into the workshop, she actually clapped her hands and seemed glad to go. But Joe gave her his arm—there was some comfort in that—and handed her into it. To see her seat herself inside, with her laughing eyes brighter than diamonds, and her hand—surely she had the prettiest hand in the world—on the ledge of the open window, and her little finger provokingly and pertly tilted up, as if it wondered why Joe didn’t squeeze or kiss it! To think how well one or two of the modest snowdrops would have become that delicate bodice, and how they were lying neglected outside the parlour window! To see how Miggs looked on with a face expressive of knowing how all this loveliness was got up, and of being in the secret of every string and pin and hook and eye, and of saying it ain’t half as real as you think, and I could look quite as well myself if I took the pains! To hear that provoking precious little scream when the chair was hoisted on its poles, and to catch that transient but not-to-be-forgotten vision of the happy face within—what torments and aggravations, and yet what delights were these! The very chairmen seemed favoured rivals as they bore her down the street.

There never was such an alteration in a small room in a small time as in that parlour when they went back to finish tea. So dark, so deserted, so perfectly disenchanted. It seemed such sheer nonsense to be sitting tamely there, when she was at a dance with more lovers than man could calculate fluttering about her—with the whole party doting on and adoring her, and wanting to marry her. Miggs was hovering about too; and the fact of her existence, the mere circumstance of her ever having been born, appeared, after Dolly, such an unaccountable practical joke. It was impossible to talk. It couldn’t be done. He had nothing left for it but to stir his tea round, and round, and round, and ruminate on all the fascinations of the locksmith’s lovely daughter.

Gabriel was dull too. It was a part of the certain uncertainty of Mrs Varden’s temper, that when they were in this condition, she should be gay and sprightly.

‘I need have a cheerful disposition, I am sure,’ said the smiling housewife, ‘to preserve any spirits at all; and how I do it I can scarcely tell.’

‘Ah, mim,’ sighed Miggs, ‘begging your pardon for the interruption, there an’t a many like you.’

‘Take away, Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden, rising, ‘take away, pray. I know I’m a restraint here, and as I wish everybody to enjoy themselves as they best can, I feel I had better go.’

‘No, no, Martha,’ cried the locksmith. ‘Stop here. I’m sure we shall be very sorry to lose you, eh Joe!’ Joe started, and said ‘Certainly.’

‘Thank you, Varden, my dear,’ returned his wife; ‘but I know your wishes better. Tobacco and beer, or spirits, have much greater attractions than any I can boast of, and therefore I shall go and sit upstairs and look out of window, my love. Good night, Mr Joseph. I’m very glad to have seen you, and I only wish I could have provided something more suitable to your taste. Remember me very kindly if you please to old Mr Willet, and tell him that whenever he comes here I have a crow to pluck with him. Good night!’

Having uttered these words with great sweetness of manner, the good lady dropped a curtsey remarkable for its condescension, and serenely withdrew.

And it was for this Joe had looked forward to the twenty-fifth of March for weeks and weeks, and had gathered the flowers with so much care, and had cocked his hat, and made himself so smart! This was the end of all his bold determination, resolved upon for the hundredth time, to speak out to Dolly and tell her how he loved her! To see her for a minute—for but a minute—to find her going out to a party and glad to go; to be looked upon as a common pipe-smoker, beer-bibber, spirit-guzzler, and tosspot! He bade farewell to his friend the locksmith, and hastened to take horse at the Black Lion, thinking as he turned towards home, as many another Joe has thought before and since, that here was an end to all his hopes—that the thing was impossible and never could be—that she didn’t care for him—that he was wretched for life—and that the only congenial prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a sailor, and get some obliging enemy to knock his brains out as soon as possible.

Chapter 14

Joe Willet rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing the locksmith’s daughter going down long country-dances, and poussetting dreadfully with bold strangers—which was almost too much to bear—when he heard the tramp of a horse’s feet behind him, and looking back, saw a well-mounted gentleman advancing at a smart canter. As this rider passed, he checked his steed, and called him of the Maypole by his name. Joe set spurs to the grey mare, and was at his side directly.

‘I thought it was you, sir,’ he said, touching his hat. ‘A fair evening, sir. Glad to see you out of doors again.’

The gentleman smiled and nodded. ‘What gay doings have been going on to-day, Joe? Is she as pretty as ever? Nay, don’t blush, man.’

‘If I coloured at all, Mr Edward,’ said Joe, ‘which I didn’t know I did, it was to think I should have been such a fool as ever to have any hope of her. She’s as far out of my reach as—as Heaven is.’

‘Well, Joe, I hope that’s not altogether beyond it,’ said Edward, good-humouredly. ‘Eh?’

‘Ah!’ sighed Joe. ‘It’s all very fine talking, sir. Proverbs are easily made in cold blood. But it can’t be helped. Are you bound for our house, sir?’

‘Yes. As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night, and ride home coolly in the morning.’

‘If you’re in no particular hurry,’ said Joe after a short silence, ‘and will bear with the pace of this poor jade, I shall be glad to ride on with you to the Warren, sir, and hold your horse when you dismount. It’ll save you having to walk from the Maypole, there and back again. I can spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.’

‘And so am I,’ returned Edward, ‘though I was unconsciously riding fast just now, in compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts, which were travelling post. We will keep together, Joe, willingly, and be as good company as may be. And cheer up, cheer up, think of the locksmith’s daughter with a stout heart, and you shall win her yet.’

Joe shook his head; but there was something so cheery in the buoyant hopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under its influence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse even to the grey mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a gentle trot, emulated the pace of Edward Chester’s horse, and appeared to flatter herself that he was doing his very best.

It was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which was then just rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which gives to evening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened shadows of the trees, softened as if reflected in still water, threw their carpet on the path the travellers pursued, and the light wind stirred yet more softly than before, as though it were soothing Nature in her sleep. By little and little they ceased talking, and rode on side by side in a pleasant silence.

‘The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,’ said Edward, as they rode along the lane from which, while the intervening trees were bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible.

‘Brilliant indeed, sir,’ returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to get a better view. ‘Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the best bedchamber? Why, what company can this be for, I wonder!’

‘Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from going on to-night by the marvellous tales of my friend the highwayman, I suppose,’ said Edward.

‘He must be a horseman of good quality to have such accommodations. Your bed too, sir—!’

‘No matter, Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come—there’s nine striking. We may push on.’

They cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe’s charger could attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left her in the morning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his companion, and walked with a light step towards the house.

A female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and admitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-walk, and darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy hall, whose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour, antlers, weapons of the chase, and suchlike garniture. Here he paused, but not long; for as he looked round, as if expecting the attendant to have followed, and wondering she had not done so, a lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment rested on his breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon her arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr Haredale stood between them.

He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his riding-whip, motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself up, and returned his gaze.

‘This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Leave it, sir, and return no more.’

‘Miss Haredale’s presence,’ returned the young man, ‘and your relationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave man, you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault is yours—not mine.’

‘It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man, sir,’ retorted the other, ‘to tamper with the affections of a weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be gone.’

‘It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to play the spy,’ said Edward. ‘Your words imply dishonour, and I reject them with the scorn they merit.’

‘You will find,’ said Mr Haredale, calmly, ‘your trusty go-between in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy’s part, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to my niece.’ As he said these words, he passed his arm about the waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to him; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness and sympathy for her distress.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Edward, ‘your arm encircles her on whom I have set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute’s happiness for whom I would gladly lay down my life; this house is the casket that holds the precious jewel of my existence. Your niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have plighted mine to her. What have I done that you should hold me in this light esteem, and give me these discourteous words?’

‘You have done that, sir,’ answered Mr Haredale, ‘which must be undone. You have tied a lover’s-knot here which must be cut asunder. Take good heed of what I say. Must. I cancel the bond between ye. I reject you, and all of your kith and kin—all the false, hollow, heartless stock.’

‘High words, sir,’ said Edward, scornfully.

‘Words of purpose and meaning, as you will find,’ replied the other. ‘Lay them to heart.’

‘Lay you then, these,’ said Edward. ‘Your cold and sullen temper, which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into fear, and changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret course, repugnant to our nature and our wish, and far more foreign, sir, to us than you. I am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless man; the character is yours, who poorly venture on these injurious terms, against the truth, and under the shelter whereof I reminded you just now. You shall not cancel the bond between us. I will not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your niece’s truth and honour, and set your influence at nought. I leave her with a confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and with no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.’

With that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more encountering and returning Mr Haredale’s steady look, withdrew.

A few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained what had passed, and renewed all that young gentleman’s despondency with tenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.

Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great importance as he held the young man’s stirrup,

‘He’s comfortable in bed—the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.’

‘Who, Willet?’ said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.

‘Your worthy father, sir,’ replied John. ‘Your honourable, venerable father.’

‘What does he mean?’ said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and doubt, at Joe.

‘What DO you mean?’ said Joe. ‘Don’t you see Mr Edward doesn’t understand, father?’

‘Why, didn’t you know of it, sir?’ said John, opening his eyes wide. ‘How very singular! Bless you, he’s been here ever since noon to-day, and Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn’t been gone an hour.’

‘My father, Willet!’

‘Yes, sir, he told me so—a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in green-and-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you can go in, sir,’ said John, walking backwards into the road and looking up at the window. ‘He hasn’t put out his candles yet, I see.’

Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had changed his mind—forgotten something—and must return to London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets, father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

Chapter 15

At noon next day, John Willet’s guest sat lingering over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the Maypole’s highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.

In the broad old-fashioned window-seat—as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee—in the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged, very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.

The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.

There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day, for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens; those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, ‘Who enters here leaves noise behind.’ There is still the plash of falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger’s form. There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.

It was in a room in Paper Buildings—a row of goodly tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the Temple Gardens—that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn’t know she was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river’s margin two or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench, alone.

‘Ned is amazingly patient!’ said Mr Chester, glancing at this last-named person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick, ‘immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog!’

As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace.

‘Really, as if he had heard me,’ said the father, resuming his newspaper with a yawn. ‘Dear Ned!’

Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom his father gently waved his hand, and smiled.

‘Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?’ said Edward.

‘Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.—Have you breakfasted?’

‘Three hours ago.’

‘What a very early dog!’ cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick, with a languid smile.

‘The truth is,’ said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating himself near the table, ‘that I slept but ill last night, and was glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and it is upon that I wish to speak.’

‘My dear boy,’ returned his father, ‘confide in me, I beg. But you know my constitution—don’t be prosy, Ned.’

‘I will be plain, and brief,’ said Edward.

‘Don’t say you will, my good fellow,’ returned his father, crossing his legs, ‘or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me’—

‘Plainly this, then,’ said the son, with an air of great concern, ‘that I know where you were last night—from being on the spot, indeed—and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.’

‘You don’t say so!’ cried his father. ‘I am delighted to hear it. It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very house! Why didn’t you come up? I should have been charmed to see you.’

‘I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night’s reflection, when both of us were cool,’ returned the son.

‘’Fore Gad, Ned,’ rejoined the father, ‘I was cool enough last night. That detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm. But you were saying’—

‘I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?’

‘My dear Ned,’ said his father, ‘I will hear you with the patience of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.’

‘I saw Miss Haredale last night,’ Edward resumed, when he had complied with this request; ‘her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.’

‘For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not accountable,’ said his father. ‘That you must excuse. He is a mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life.—Positively a fly in the jug. The first I have seen this year.’

Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his tea.

‘Father,’ said the young man, stopping at length before him, ‘we must not trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves. Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and do not repel me by this unkind indifference.’

‘Whether I am indifferent or no,’ returned the other, ‘I leave you, my dear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles, through miry roads—a Maypole dinner—a tete-a-tete with Haredale, which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business—a Maypole bed—a Maypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots and centaurs;—whether the voluntary endurance of these things looks like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety, and devotion, and all that sort of thing, of a parent, you shall determine for yourself.’

‘I wish you to consider, sir,’ said Edward, ‘in what a cruel situation I am placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do’—

‘My dear fellow,’ interrupted his father with a compassionate smile, ‘you do nothing of the kind. You don’t know anything about it. There’s no such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for it. You have good sense, Ned,—great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise me.’

‘I repeat,’ said his son firmly, ‘that I love her. You have interposed to part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told you of, succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold us asunder if you can?’

‘My dear Ned,’ returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing his box towards him, ‘that is my purpose most undoubtedly.’

‘The time that has elapsed,’ rejoined his son, ‘since I began to know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it? From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large, and my expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no resource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from the motives of interest and gain which have rendered them in your eyes visible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus much plain-speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine, indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me father, in the hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence between us in time to come.’

‘My good fellow,’ said his smiling father, ‘you quite affect me. Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose.’

‘I am very sorry, sir.’

‘I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind for any long period upon one subject. If you’ll come to the point at once, I’ll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it said. Oblige me with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.’

‘What I would say then, tends to this,’ said Edward. ‘I cannot bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it. Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I possess, to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myself an honourable path in life? For any term you please to name—say for five years if you will—I will pledge myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without your full concurrence. During that period, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to open some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden you fear I should become if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chief endowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term we agree upon, let us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it is revived by you, let it never be renewed between us.’

‘My dear Ned,’ returned his father, laying down the newspaper at which he had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in the window-seat, ‘I believe you know how very much I dislike what are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our condition. But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned—altogether upon a mistake—I will conquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you a perfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shut the door.’

Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his pocket, and paring his nails, continued:

‘You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal—had nothing to boast of in that respect.’

‘Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,’ said Edward.

‘Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing—I have always closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his business did once involve cow-heel and sausages—he wished to marry his daughter into a good family. He had his heart’s desire, Ned. I was a younger son’s younger son, and I married her. We each had our object, and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to my comfort—quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone—how old are you? I always forget.’

‘Seven-and-twenty, sir.’

‘Are you indeed?’ cried his father, raising his eyelids in a languishing surprise. ‘So much! Then I should say, Ned, that as nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge, about eighteen or nineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in these chambers (once your grandfather’s, and bequeathed by that extremely respectable person to me), and commenced to live upon an inconsiderable annuity and my past reputation.’

‘You are jesting with me, sir,’ said Edward.

‘Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,’ returned his father with great composure. ‘These family topics are so extremely dry, that I am sorry to say they don’t admit of any such relief. It is for that reason, and because they have an appearance of business, that I dislike them so very much. Well! You know the rest. A son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion—that is to say, unless he is some two or three and twenty—is not the kind of thing to have about one. He is a restraint upon his father, his father is a restraint upon him, and they make each other mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last four years or so—I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will correct me in your own mind—you pursued your studies at a distance, and picked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such near relations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy, that if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported you to some distant part of the world.’

‘I wish with all my soul you had, sir,’ said Edward.

‘No you don’t, Ned,’ said his father coolly; ‘you are mistaken, I assure you. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threw you into the society I can still command. Having done that, my dear fellow, I consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely upon your doing something to provide for me in return.’

‘I do not understand your meaning, sir.’

‘My meaning, Ned, is obvious—I observe another fly in the cream-jug, but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, for their walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful and disagreeable—my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that you must marry well and make the most of yourself.’

‘A mere fortune-hunter!’ cried the son, indignantly.

‘What in the devil’s name, Ned, would you be!’ returned the father. ‘All men are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court, the camp—see how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostling each other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate,—what but fortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-hunter! Yes. You ARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned, if you were the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelate, or merchant, in existence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself with the reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make but one person miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose these other kinds of huntsmen crush in following their sport—hundreds at a step? Or thousands?’

The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.

‘I am quite charmed,’ said the father rising, and walking slowly to and fro—stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or survey a picture through his glass, with the air of a connoisseur, ‘that we have had this conversation, Ned, unpromising as it was. It establishes a confidence between us which is quite delightful, and was certainly necessary, though how you can ever have mistaken our positions and designs, I confess I cannot understand. I conceived, until I found your fancy for this girl, that all these points were tacitly agreed upon between us.’

‘I knew you were embarrassed, sir,’ returned the son, raising his head for a moment, and then falling into his former attitude, ‘but I had no idea we were the beggared wretches you describe. How could I suppose it, bred as I have been; witnessing the life you have always led; and the appearance you have always made?’

‘My dear child,’ said the father—‘for you really talk so like a child that I must call you one—you were bred upon a careful principle; the very manner of your education, I assure you, maintained my credit surprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must lead it, Ned. I must have these little refinements about me. I have always been used to them, and I cannot exist without them. They must surround me, you observe, and therefore they are here. With regard to our circumstances, Ned, you may set your mind at rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your own appearance is by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone devours our income. That’s the truth.’

‘Why have I never known this before? Why have you encouraged me, sir, to an expenditure and mode of life to which we have no right or title?’

‘My good fellow,’ returned his father more compassionately than ever, ‘if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in the pursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life, every man has a right to live in the best way he can; and to make himself as comfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel. Our debts, I grant, are very great, and therefore it the more behoves you, as a young man of principle and honour, to pay them off as speedily as possible.’

‘The villain’s part,’ muttered Edward, ‘that I have unconsciously played! I to win the heart of Emma Haredale! I would, for her sake, I had died first!’

‘I am glad you see, Ned,’ returned his father, ‘how perfectly self-evident it is, that nothing can be done in that quarter. But apart from this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself on another (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish you’d look upon it pleasantly. In a religious point of view alone, how could you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless she was amazingly rich? You ought to be so very Protestant, coming of such a Protestant family as you do. Let us be moral, Ned, or we are nothing. Even if one could set that objection aside, which is impossible, we come to another which is quite conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girl whose father was killed, like meat! Good God, Ned, how disagreeable! Consider the impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-law under such unpleasant circumstances—think of his having been “viewed” by jurors, and “sat upon” by coroners, and of his very doubtful position in the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an indelicate sort of thing that I really think the girl ought to have been put to death by the state to prevent its happening. But I tease you perhaps. You would rather be alone? My dear Ned, most willingly. God bless you. I shall be going out presently, but we shall meet to-night, or if not to-night, certainly to-morrow. Take care of yourself in the mean time, for both our sakes. You are a person of great consequence to me, Ned—of vast consequence indeed. God bless you!’

With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in the glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner, withdrew, humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so lost in thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite still and silent. After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder Chester, gaily dressed, went out. The younger still sat with his head resting on his hands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor.

Chapter 16

A series of pictures representing the streets of London in the night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would present to the eye something so very different in character from the reality which is witnessed in these times, that it would be difficult for the beholder to recognise his most familiar walks in the altered aspect of little more than half a century ago.

They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest and least frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at the best; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted by the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the projecting doors and house-fronts in the deepest gloom. Many of the courts and lanes were left in total darkness; those of the meaner sort, where one glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being favoured in no slight degree. Even in these places, the inhabitants had often good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted; and the watch being utterly inefficient and powerless to prevent them, they did so at their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest thoroughfares, there was at every turn some obscure and dangerous spot whither a thief might fly or shelter, and few would care to follow; and the city being belted round by fields, green lanes, waste grounds, and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the suburbs that have joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit was hot, was rendered easy.

It is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full and constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel wounds, and not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of nightly occurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks should have had great dread of traversing its streets after the shops were closed. It was not unusual for those who wended home alone at midnight, to keep the middle of the road, the better to guard against surprise from lurking footpads; few would venture to repair at a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended; while he who had been loudest and most valiant at the supper-table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, was glad to fee a link-boy to escort him home.

There were many other characteristics—not quite so disagreeable—about the thoroughfares of London then, with which they had been long familiar. Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward of Temple Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a sign; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in their iron frames on windy nights, formed a strange and mournful concert for the ears of those who lay awake in bed or hurried through the streets. Long stands of hackney-chairs and groups of chairmen, compared with whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and polite, obstructed the way and filled the air with clamour; night-cellars, indicated by a little stream of light crossing the pavement, and stretching out half-way into the road, and by the stifled roar of voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of the most abandoned of both sexes; under every shed and bulk small groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day; or one more weary than the rest, gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his torch fall hissing on the puddled ground.

Then there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour, and the kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice and turned them round in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blew, or froze, for very comfort’s sake. The solitary passenger was startled by the chairmen’s cry of ‘By your leave there!’ as two came trotting past him with their empty vehicle—carried backwards to show its being disengaged—and hurried to the nearest stand. Many a private chair, too, inclosing some fine lady, monstrously hooped and furbelowed, and preceded by running-footmen bearing flambeaux—for which extinguishers are yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the better sort—made the way gay and light as it danced along, and darker and more dismal when it had passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants’ hall while waiting for their masters and mistresses; and, falling to blows either there or in the street without, to strew the place of skirmish with hair-powder, fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered nosegays. Gaming, the vice which ran so high among all classes (the fashion being of course set by the upper), was generally the cause of these disputes; for cards and dice were as openly used, and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement below stairs, as above. While incidents like these, arising out of drums and masquerades and parties at quadrille, were passing at the west end of the town, heavy stagecoaches and scarce heavier waggons were lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen, guard, and passengers, armed to the teeth, and the coach—a day or so perhaps behind its time, but that was nothing—despoiled by highwaymen; who made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole caravan of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were sometimes shot themselves, as the case might be. On the morrow, rumours of this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a few hours’ conversation through the town, and a Public Progress of some fine gentleman (half-drunk) to Tyburn, dressed in the newest fashion, and damning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, furnished to the populace, at once a pleasant excitement and a wholesome and profound example.

Among all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society, prowled and skulked in the metropolis at night, there was one man from whom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question often asked, but which none could answer. His name was unknown, he had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts, and was equally a stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose haunts he ventured fearlessly, as to the young. He could be no spy, for he never removed his slouched hat to look about him, entered into conversation with no man, heeded nothing that passed, listened to no discourse, regarded nobody that came or went. But so surely as the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the midst of the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every grade resorted; and there he sat till morning.

He was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts; a something in the midst of their revelry and riot that chilled and haunted them; but out of doors he was the same. Directly it was dark, he was abroad—never in company with any one, but always alone; never lingering or loitering, but always walking swiftly; and looking (so they said who had seen him) over his shoulder from time to time, and as he did so quickening his pace. In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quarters of the town—east, west, north, and south—that man was seen gliding on like a shadow. He was always hurrying away. Those who encountered him, saw him steal past, caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the darkness.

This constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to strange stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at times so nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether there were not two of them, or more—some, whether he had not unearthly means of travelling from spot to spot. The footpad hiding in a ditch had marked him passing like a ghost along its brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark high-road; the beggar had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and then sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies with the surgeons could swear he slept in churchyards, and that they had beheld him glide away among the tombs on their approach. And as they told these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them.

At last, one man—he was one of those whose commerce lay among the graves—resolved to question this strange companion. Next night, when he had eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do that, they had observed, as though he had no other in the day), this fellow sat down at his elbow.

‘A black night, master!’

‘It is a black night.’

‘Blacker than last, though that was pitchy too. Didn’t I pass you near the turnpike in the Oxford Road?’

‘It’s like you may. I don’t know.’

‘Come, come, master,’ cried the fellow, urged on by the looks of his comrades, and slapping him on the shoulder; ‘be more companionable and communicative. Be more the gentleman in this good company. There are tales among us that you have sold yourself to the devil, and I know not what.’

‘We all have, have we not?’ returned the stranger, looking up. ‘If we were fewer in number, perhaps he would give better wages.’

‘It goes rather hard with you, indeed,’ said the fellow, as the stranger disclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes. ‘What of that? Be merry, master. A stave of a roaring song now’—

‘Sing you, if you desire to hear one,’ replied the other, shaking him roughly off; ‘and don’t touch me if you’re a prudent man; I carry arms which go off easily—they have done so, before now—and make it dangerous for strangers who don’t know the trick of them, to lay hands upon me.’

‘Do you threaten?’ said the fellow.

‘Yes,’ returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking fiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack.

His voice, and look, and bearing—all expressive of the wildest recklessness and desperation—daunted while they repelled the bystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now, they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the Maypole Inn.

‘I am what you all are, and live as you all do,’ said the man sternly, after a short silence. ‘I am in hiding here like the rest, and if we were surprised would perhaps do my part with the best of ye. If it’s my humour to be left to myself, let me have it. Otherwise,’—and here he swore a tremendous oath—‘there’ll be mischief done in this place, though there ARE odds of a score against me.’

A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on the part of some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient precedent to meddle too curiously with a gentleman’s private affairs if he saw reason to conceal them, warned the fellow who had occasioned this discussion that he had best pursue it no further. After a short time the strange man lay down upon a bench to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was gone.

Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing the streets; he was before the locksmith’s house more than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwark. As he glided down a bye street, a woman with a little basket on her arm, turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her, he sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and followed.

She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered like her evil spirit; following her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven o’clock, and the passengers in the streets were thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom still followed her.

She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first, which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped, and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along on the other side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would have tracked her down.

At length the widow—for she it was—reached her own door, and, panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket. In a flush and glow, with the haste she had made, and the pleasure of being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her head, she saw him standing silently beside her: the apparition of a dream.

His hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue clove to its roof, and her power of utterance was gone. ‘I have been looking for you many nights. Is the house empty? Answer me. Is any one inside?’

She could only answer by a rattle in her throat.

‘Make me a sign.’

She seemed to indicate that there was no one there. He took the key, unlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully behind them.

Chapter 17

It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow’s parlour had burnt low. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes, raked them together and fanned them with his hat. From time to time he glanced at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of her remaining quiet and making no effort to depart; and that done, busied himself about the fire again.

It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress was dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shivered from head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous night and for some hours in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoever he had passed the hours of darkness, his condition sufficiently betokened that many of them had been spent beneath the open sky. Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs; his beard unshaven, his face unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows,—a more miserable wretch could hardly be, than this man who now cowered down upon the widow’s hearth, and watched the struggling flame with bloodshot eyes.

She had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to look towards him. So they remained for some short time in silence. Glancing round again, he asked at length:

‘Is this your house?’

‘It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?’

‘Give me meat and drink,’ he answered sullenly, ‘or I dare do more than that. The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and hunger. I must have warmth and food, and I will have them here.’

‘You were the robber on the Chigwell road.’

‘I was.’

‘And nearly a murderer then.’

‘The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised the hue-and-cry, that it would have gone hard with, but for his nimbleness. I made a thrust at him.’

‘You thrust your sword at HIM!’ cried the widow, looking upwards. ‘You hear this man! you hear and saw!’

He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands tight clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then, starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her.

‘Beware!’ she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped him midway. ‘Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are lost; body and soul, you are lost.’

‘Hear me,’ he replied, menacing her with his hand. ‘I, that in the form of a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am a spirit, a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, save those curst beings of another world, who will not leave me;—I am, in my desperation of this night, past all fear but that of the hell in which I exist from day to day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. I will not hurt you. But I will not be taken alive; and so surely as you threaten me above your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor. The blood with which I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of the Evil Spirit that tempts men to their ruin!’

As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched it in his hand.

‘Remove this man from me, good Heaven!’ cried the widow. ‘In thy grace and mercy, give him one minute’s penitence, and strike him dead!’

‘It has no such purpose,’ he said, confronting her. ‘It is deaf. Give me to eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing, and will not do for you.’

‘Will you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and return no more?’

‘I will promise nothing,’ he rejoined, seating himself at the table, ‘nothing but this—I will execute my threat if you betray me.’

She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room, brought out some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on the table. He asked for brandy, and for water. These she produced likewise; and he ate and drank with the voracity of a famished hound. All the time he was so engaged she kept at the uttermost distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her face towards him. She never turned her back upon him once; and although when she passed him (as she was obliged to do in going to and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of her garment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible to think of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept her face towards his own, and watched his every movement.

His repast ended—if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenous satisfying of the calls of hunger—he moved his chair towards the fire again, and warming himself before the blaze which had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once more.

‘I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommon luxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You live here at your ease. Do you live alone?’

‘I do not,’ she made answer with an effort.

‘Who dwells here besides?’

‘One—it is no matter who. You had best begone, or he may find you here. Why do you linger?’

‘For warmth,’ he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire. ‘For warmth. You are rich, perhaps?’

‘Very,’ she said faintly. ‘Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.’

‘At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You were making purchases to-night.’

‘I have a little left. It is but a few shillings.’

‘Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it to me.’

She stepped to the table and laid it down. He reached across, took it up, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him.

‘Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go before it is too late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know full well. It will return directly. Begone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. Much as I dread to touch you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the strength, rather than you should lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from this place.’

‘If there are spies without, I am safer here,’ replied the man, standing aghast. ‘I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is past.’

‘It is too late!’ cried the widow, who had listened for the step, and not to him. ‘Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you tremble to hear it! It is my son, my idiot son!’

As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door. He looked at her, and she at him.

‘Let him come in,’ said the man, hoarsely. ‘I fear him less than the dark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in!’

‘The dread of this hour,’ returned the widow, ‘has been upon me all my life, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye to eye. My blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth—hear a poor mother’s prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man!’

‘He rattles at the shutters!’ cried the man. ‘He calls you. That voice and cry! It was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it he?’

She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do or where to turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to catch a knife from the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning’s speed, when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly.

‘Why, who can keep out Grip and me!’ he cried, thrusting in his head, and staring round the room. ‘Are you there, mother? How long you keep us from the fire and light.’

She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck, kissed her a hundred times.

‘We have been afield, mother—leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on. The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards—and Grip—ha ha ha!—brave Grip, who cares for nothing, and when the wind rolls him over in the dust, turns manfully to bite it—Grip, bold Grip, has quarrelled with every little bowing twig—thinking, he told me, that it mocked him—and has worried it like a bulldog. Ha ha ha!’

The raven, in his little basket at his master’s back, hearing this frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties of hoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people.

‘He takes such care of me besides!’ said Barnaby. ‘Such care, mother! He watches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make-believe to slumber, he practises new learning softly; but he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he sees me laugh, though never so little, stops directly. He won’t surprise me till he’s perfect.’

The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said, ‘Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them.’ In the meantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and coming to the fireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. But his mother prevented this, by hastily taking that side herself, and motioning him towards the other.

‘How pale you are to-night!’ said Barnaby, leaning on his stick. ‘We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!’

Anxious in good truth, and sick at heart! The listener held the door of his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched her son. Grip—alive to everything his master was unconscious of—had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching him intently with his glistening eye.

‘He flaps his wings,’ said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough to catch the retreating form and closing door, ‘as if there were strangers here, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump then!’

Accepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the bird hopped up on his master’s shoulder, from that to his extended hand, and so to the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and putting it down in a corner with the lid open, Grip’s first care was to shut it down with all possible despatch, and then to stand upon it. Believing, no doubt, that he had now rendered it utterly impossible, and beyond the power of mortal man, to shut him up in it any more, he drew a great many corks in triumph, and uttered a corresponding number of hurrahs.

‘Mother!’ said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and returning to the chair from which he had risen, ‘I’ll tell you where we have been to-day, and what we have been doing,—shall I?’

She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she could not speak.

‘You mustn’t tell,’ said Barnaby, holding up his finger, ‘for it’s a secret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had the dog with us, but he’s not like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn’t guess it yet, I’ll wager.—Why do you look behind me so?’

‘Did I?’ she answered faintly. ‘I didn’t know I did. Come nearer me.’

‘You are frightened!’ said Barnaby, changing colour. ‘Mother—you don’t see’—

‘See what?’

‘There’s—there’s none of this about, is there?’ he answered in a whisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his wrist. ‘I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and my flesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room as I have seen it in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me. Is it?’

He fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting out the light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passed away. After a time, he raised his head and looked about him.

‘Is it gone?’

‘There has been nothing here,’ rejoined his mother, soothing him. ‘Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you and me.’

He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst into a wild laugh.

‘But let us see,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Were we talking? Was it you and me? Where have we been?’

‘Nowhere but here.’

‘Aye, but Hugh, and I,’ said Barnaby,—‘that’s it. Maypole Hugh, and I, you know, and Grip—we have been lying in the forest, and among the trees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night came on, and the dog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came by.’

‘What man?’

‘The robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him after dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I’d know him in a thousand. Mother, see here! This is the man. Look!’

He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out behind him might have passed for his own shadow.

‘Ha ha ha! We shall have him,’ he cried, ridding himself of the semblance as hastily as he had assumed it. ‘You shall see him, mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle-girth; and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck. So Hugh says. You’re pale again, and trembling. And why DO you look behind me so?’

‘It is nothing,’ she answered. ‘I am not quite well. Go you to bed, dear, and leave me here.’

‘To bed!’ he answered. ‘I don’t like bed. I like to lie before the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals—the rivers, hills, and dells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I am hungry too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip! To supper, lad!’

The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received about a score in rapid succession, without the smallest discomposure.

‘That’s all,’ said Barnaby.

‘More!’ cried Grip. ‘More!’

But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he retreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one from his pouch, hid them in various corners—taking particular care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden man’s propensities and power of resisting temptation. When he had concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room with an elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind (but with one eye hard upon his treasure all the time), and then, and not till then, began to drag it out, piece by piece, and eat it with the utmost relish.

Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made a hearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he wanted more bread from the closet and rose to get it. She hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and summoning her utmost fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself.

‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down beside him after doing so; ‘is to-day my birthday?’

‘To-day!’ she answered. ‘Don’t you recollect it was but a week or so ago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it comes again?’

‘I remember that it has been so till now,’ said Barnaby. ‘But I think to-day must be my birthday too, for all that.’

She asked him why? ‘I’ll tell you why,’ he said. ‘I have always seen you—I didn’t let you know it, but I have—on the evening of that day grow very sad. I have seen you cry when Grip and I were most glad; and look frightened with no reason; and I have touched your hand, and felt that it was cold—as it is now. Once, mother (on a birthday that was, also), Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to bed, and when it was midnight, striking one o’clock, we came down to your door to see if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was you said. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night?’

‘I’m a devil!’ rejoined the raven promptly.

‘No, no,’ said Barnaby. ‘But you said something in a prayer; and when you rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever since, mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I have found that out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you’re wrong; and this must be my birthday—my birthday, Grip!’

The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as a cock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind, might usher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried, ‘Never say die!’ a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis.

The widow tried to make light of Barnaby’s remark, and endeavoured to divert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all times, as she knew. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties, stretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip perched upon his leg, and divided his time between dozing in the grateful warmth, and endeavouring (as it presently appeared) to recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day.

A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open and intently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, ‘Polly put the ket—’ and there stop short, forgetting the remainder, and go off in a doze again.

After a long interval, Barnaby’s breathing grew more deep and regular, and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raven interposed. ‘Polly put the ket—’ cried Grip, and his master was broad awake again.

At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller, really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he muttered in a sepulchral voice, ‘Polly put the ket—’ but very drowsily, and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.

The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The man glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.

‘—tle on,’ cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much excited. ‘—tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a ket-tle on, Keep up your spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I’m a devil, I’m a ket-tle, I’m a—Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea.’

They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the grave.

But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it. The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the door.

‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘You teach your son well.’

‘I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night. Depart instantly, or I will rouse him.’

‘You are free to do so. Shall I rouse him?’

‘You dare not do that.’

‘I dare do anything, I have told you. He knows me well, it seems. At least I will know him.’

‘Would you kill him in his sleep?’ cried the widow, throwing herself between them.

‘Woman,’ he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside, ‘I would see him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill the other, wake him.’

With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softly turned back the head and looked into the face. The light of the fire was upon it, and its every lineament was revealed distinctly. He contemplated it for a brief space, and hastily uprose.

‘Observe,’ he whispered in the widow’s ear: ‘In him, of whose existence I was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power. Be careful how you use me. Be careful how you use me. I am destitute and starving, and a wanderer upon the earth. I may take a sure and slow revenge.’

‘There is some dreadful meaning in your words. I do not fathom it.’

‘There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very depth. You have anticipated it for years; you have told me as much. I leave you to digest it. Do not forget my warning.’

He pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form, and stealthily withdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her knees beside the sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone, until the tears which fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her relief.

‘Oh Thou,’ she cried, ‘who hast taught me such deep love for this one remnant of the promise of a happy life, out of whose affliction, even, perhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a relying, loving child to me—never growing old or cold at heart, but needing my care and duty in his manly strength as in his cradle-time—help him, in his darkened walk through this sad world, or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken!’

Chapter 18

Gliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they were darkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow’s house crossed London Bridge, and arriving in the City, plunged into the backways, lanes, and courts, between Cornhill and Smithfield; with no more fixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their windings, and baffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps.

It was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then a drowsy watchman’s footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the lamplighter on his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a little track of smoke mingled with glowing morsels of his hot red link. He hid himself even from these partakers of his lonely walk, and, shrinking in some arch or doorway while they passed, issued forth again when they were gone and so pursued his solitary way.

To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan and watching for day through the whole long weary night; to listen to the falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee of some old barn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree; are dismal things—but not so dismal as the wandering up and down where shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands; a houseless rejected creature. To pace the echoing stones from hour to hour, counting the dull chimes of the clocks; to watch the lights twinkling in chamber windows, to think what happy forgetfulness each house shuts in; that here are children coiled together in their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth, all equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven’s gift to all its creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by the wretched contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly alone and cast away than in a trackless desert; this is a kind of suffering, on which the rivers of great cities close full many a time, and which the solitude in crowds alone awakens.

The miserable man paced up and down the streets—so long, so wearisome, so like each other—and often cast a wistful look towards the east, hoping to see the first faint streaks of day. But obdurate night had yet possession of the sky, and his disturbed and restless walk found no relief.

One house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of lights; there was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of dancers, and there were cheerful voices, and many a burst of laughter. To this place—to be near something that was awake and glad—he returned again and again; and more than one of those who left it when the merriment was at its height, felt it a check upon their mirthful mood to see him flitting to and fro like an uneasy ghost. At last the guests departed, one and all; and then the house was close shut up, and became as dull and silent as the rest.

His wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail. Instead of hastening from it as a place of ill omen, and one he had cause to shun, he sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin upon his hand, gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though even they became a refuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and round, came back to the same spot, and sat down again. He did this often, and once, with a hasty movement, crossed to where some men were watching in the prison lodge, and had his foot upon the steps as though determined to accost them. But looking round, he saw that the day began to break, and failing in his purpose, turned and fled.

He was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to and fro again as he had done before. He was passing down a mean street, when from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry arose, and there came straggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping and calling to each other, who, parting noisily, took different ways and dispersed in smaller groups.

Hoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford him a safe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when they were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or lighted window, or other indication of the place whence they had come. It was so profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured, that he concluded they had but turned up there, missing their way, and were pouring out again when he observed them. With this impression, and finding there was no outlet but that by which he had entered, he was about to turn, when from a grating near his feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound of talking came. He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers were, and to listen to them.

The light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a man ascended, bearing in his hand a torch. This figure unlocked and held open the grating as for the passage of another, who presently appeared, in the form of a young man of small stature and uncommon self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy fashion.

‘Good night, noble captain,’ said he with the torch. ‘Farewell, commander. Good luck, illustrious general!’

In return to these compliments the other bade him hold his tongue, and keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar injunctions, with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.

‘Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,’ returned the torch-bearer in a lower voice. ‘My captain flies at higher game than Miggses. Ha, ha, ha! My captain is an eagle, both as respects his eye and soaring wings. My captain breaketh hearts as other bachelors break eggs at breakfast.’

‘What a fool you are, Stagg!’ said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the pavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had contracted in his passage upward.

‘His precious limbs!’ cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles. ‘Shall a Miggs aspire to these proportions! No, no, my captain. We will inveigle ladies fair, and wed them in our secret cavern. We will unite ourselves with blooming beauties, captain.’

‘I’ll tell you what, my buck,’ said Mr Tappertit, releasing his leg; ‘I’ll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach certain questions unless certain questions are broached to you. Speak when you’re spoke to on particular subjects, and not otherways. Hold the torch up till I’ve got to the end of the court, and then kennel yourself, do you hear?’

‘I hear you, noble captain.’

‘Obey then,’ said Mr Tappertit haughtily. ‘Gentlemen, lead on!’ With which word of command (addressed to an imaginary staff or retinue) he folded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity down the court.

His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and then the observer saw for the first time, from his place of concealment, that he was blind. Some involuntary motion on his part caught the quick ear of the blind man, before he was conscious of having moved an inch towards him, for he turned suddenly and cried, ‘Who’s there?’

‘A man,’ said the other, advancing. ‘A friend.’

‘A stranger!’ rejoined the blind man. ‘Strangers are not my friends. What do you do there?’

‘I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone. I want a lodging.’

‘A lodging at this time!’ returned Stagg, pointing towards the dawn as though he saw it. ‘Do you know the day is breaking?’

‘I know it,’ rejoined the other, ‘to my cost. I have been traversing this iron-hearted town all night.’

‘You had better traverse it again,’ said the blind man, preparing to descend, ‘till you find some lodgings suitable to your taste. I don’t let any.’

‘Stay!’ cried the other, holding him by the arm.

‘I’ll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for hangdog it is, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood besides, if you detain me,’ said the blind man. ‘Let me go. Do you hear?’

‘Do YOU hear!’ returned the other, chinking a few shillings together, and hurriedly pressing them into his hand. ‘I beg nothing of you. I will pay for the shelter you give me. Death! Is it much to ask of such as you! I have come from the country, and desire to rest where there are none to question me. I am faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let me lie down, like a dog, before your fire. I ask no more than that. If you would be rid of me, I will depart to-morrow.’

‘If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,’ muttered Stagg, yielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a footing on the steps—‘and can pay for his accommodation—’

‘I will pay you with all I have. I am just now past the want of food, God knows, and wish but to purchase shelter. What companion have you below?’

‘None.’

‘Then fasten your grate there, and show me the way. Quick!’

The blind man complied after a moment’s hesitation, and they descended together. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the words could be spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before he had had time to recover from his first surprise.

‘May I see where that door leads to, and what is beyond?’ said the man, glancing keenly round. ‘You will not mind that?’

‘I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your choice.’

He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars narrowly. Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he lived there alone, the visitor returned with him to the first, in which a fire was burning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon the ground before it.

His host pursued his usual occupation without seeming to heed him any further. But directly he fell asleep—and he noted his falling into a slumber, as readily as the keenest-sighted man could have done—he knelt down beside him, and passed his hand lightly but carefully over his face and person.

His sleep was checkered with starts and moans, and sometimes with a muttered word or two. His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and his mouth firmly set. All this, the blind man accurately marked; and as if his curiosity were strongly awakened, and he had already some inkling of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression may be used, and listening, until it was broad day.

Chapter 19

Dolly Varden’s pretty little head was yet bewildered by various recollections of the party, and her bright eyes were yet dazzled by a crowd of images, dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams, among which the effigy of one partner in particular did especially figure, the same being a young coachmaker (a master in his own right) who had given her to understand, when he handed her into the chair at parting, that it was his fixed resolve to neglect his business from that time, and die slowly for the love of her—Dolly’s head, and eyes, and thoughts, and seven senses, were all in a state of flutter and confusion for which the party was accountable, although it was now three days old, when, as she was sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of fortunes (that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes) in the grounds of her teacup, a step was heard in the workshop, and Mr Edward Chester was descried through the glass door, standing among the rusty locks and keys, like love among the roses—for which apt comparison the historian may by no means take any credit to himself, the same being the invention, in a sentimental mood, of the chaste and modest Miggs, who, beholding him from the doorsteps she was then cleaning, did, in her maiden meditation, give utterance to the simile.

The locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown upward and his head backward, in an intense communing with Toby, did not see his visitor, until Mrs Varden, more watchful than the rest, had desired Sim Tappertit to open the glass door and give him admission—from which untoward circumstance the good lady argued (for she could deduce a precious moral from the most trifling event) that to take a draught of small ale in the morning was to observe a pernicious, irreligious, and Pagan custom, the relish whereof should be left to swine, and Satan, or at least to Popish persons, and should be shunned by the righteous as a work of sin and evil. She would no doubt have pursued her admonition much further, and would have founded on it a long list of precious precepts of inestimable value, but that the young gentleman standing by in a somewhat uncomfortable and discomfited manner while she read her spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it to a premature conclusion.

‘I’m sure you’ll excuse me, sir,’ said Mrs Varden, rising and curtseying. ‘Varden is so very thoughtless, and needs so much reminding—Sim, bring a chair here.’

Mr Tappertit obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so, under protest.

‘And you can go, Sim,’ said the locksmith.

Mr Tappertit obeyed again, still under protest; and betaking himself to the workshop, began seriously to fear that he might find it necessary to poison his master, before his time was out.

In the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs Varden’s courtesies, and that lady brightened up very much; so that when he accepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was perfectly agreeable.

‘I am sure if there’s anything we can do,—Varden, or I, or Dolly either,—to serve you, sir, at any time, you have only to say it, and it shall be done,’ said Mrs V.

‘I am much obliged to you, I am sure,’ returned Edward. ‘You encourage me to say that I have come here now, to beg your good offices.’

Mrs Varden was delighted beyond measure.

‘It occurred to me that probably your fair daughter might be going to the Warren, either to-day or to-morrow,’ said Edward, glancing at Dolly; ‘and if so, and you will allow her to take charge of this letter, ma’am, you will oblige me more than I can tell you. The truth is, that while I am very anxious it should reach its destination, I have particular reasons for not trusting it to any other conveyance; so that without your help, I am wholly at a loss.’

‘She was not going that way, sir, either to-day, or to-morrow, nor indeed all next week,’ the lady graciously rejoined, ‘but we shall be very glad to put ourselves out of the way on your account, and if you wish it, you may depend upon its going to-day. You might suppose,’ said Mrs Varden, frowning at her husband, ‘from Varden’s sitting there so glum and silent, that he objected to this arrangement; but you must not mind that, sir, if you please. It’s his way at home. Out of doors, he can be cheerful and talkative enough.’

Now, the fact was, that the unfortunate locksmith, blessing his stars to find his helpmate in such good humour, had been sitting with a beaming face, hearing this discourse with a joy past all expression. Wherefore this sudden attack quite took him by surprise.

‘My dear Martha—’ he said.

‘Oh yes, I dare say,’ interrupted Mrs Varden, with a smile of mingled scorn and pleasantry. ‘Very dear! We all know that.’

‘No, but my good soul,’ said Gabriel, ‘you are quite mistaken. You are indeed. I was delighted to find you so kind and ready. I waited, my dear, anxiously, I assure you, to hear what you would say.’

‘You waited anxiously,’ repeated Mrs V. ‘Yes! Thank you, Varden. You waited, as you always do, that I might bear the blame, if any came of it. But I am used to it,’ said the lady with a kind of solemn titter, ‘and that’s my comfort!’

‘I give you my word, Martha—’ said Gabriel.

‘Let me give you MY word, my dear,’ interposed his wife with a Christian smile, ‘that such discussions as these between married people, are much better left alone. Therefore, if you please, Varden, we’ll drop the subject. I have no wish to pursue it. I could. I might say a great deal. But I would rather not. Pray don’t say any more.’

‘I don’t want to say any more,’ rejoined the goaded locksmith.

‘Well then, don’t,’ said Mrs Varden.

‘Nor did I begin it, Martha,’ added the locksmith, good-humouredly, ‘I must say that.’

‘You did not begin it, Varden!’ exclaimed his wife, opening her eyes very wide and looking round upon the company, as though she would say, You hear this man! ‘You did not begin it, Varden! But you shall not say I was out of temper. No, you did not begin it, oh dear no, not you, my dear!’

‘Well, well,’ said the locksmith. ‘That’s settled then.’

‘Oh yes,’ rejoined his wife, ‘quite. If you like to say Dolly began it, my dear, I shall not contradict you. I know my duty. I need know it, I am sure. I am often obliged to bear it in mind, when my inclination perhaps would be for the moment to forget it. Thank you, Varden.’ And so, with a mighty show of humility and forgiveness, she folded her hands, and looked round again, with a smile which plainly said, ‘If you desire to see the first and foremost among female martyrs, here she is, on view!’

This little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs Varden’s extraordinary sweetness and amiability, had so strong a tendency to check the conversation and to disconcert all parties but that excellent lady, that only a few monosyllables were uttered until Edward withdrew; which he presently did, thanking the lady of the house a great many times for her condescension, and whispering in Dolly’s ear that he would call on the morrow, in case there should happen to be an answer to the note—which, indeed, she knew without his telling, as Barnaby and his friend Grip had dropped in on the previous night to prepare her for the visit which was then terminating.

Gabriel, who had attended Edward to the door, came back with his hands in his pockets; and, after fidgeting about the room in a very uneasy manner, and casting a great many sidelong looks at Mrs Varden (who with the calmest countenance in the world was five fathoms deep in the Protestant Manual), inquired of Dolly how she meant to go. Dolly supposed by the stage-coach, and looked at her lady mother, who finding herself silently appealed to, dived down at least another fathom into the Manual, and became unconscious of all earthly things.

‘Martha—’ said the locksmith.

‘I hear you, Varden,’ said his wife, without rising to the surface.

‘I am sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the Maypole and old John, for otherways as it’s a very fine morning, and Saturday’s not a busy day with us, we might have all three gone to Chigwell in the chaise, and had quite a happy day of it.’

Mrs Varden immediately closed the Manual, and bursting into tears, requested to be led upstairs.

‘What is the matter now, Martha?’ inquired the locksmith.

To which Martha rejoined, ‘Oh! don’t speak to me,’ and protested in agony that if anybody had told her so, she wouldn’t have believed it.

‘But, Martha,’ said Gabriel, putting himself in the way as she was moving off with the aid of Dolly’s shoulder, ‘wouldn’t have believed what? Tell me what’s wrong now. Do tell me. Upon my soul I don’t know. Do YOU know, child? Damme!’ cried the locksmith, plucking at his wig in a kind of frenzy, ‘nobody does know, I verily believe, but Miggs!’

‘Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden faintly, and with symptoms of approaching incoherence, ‘is attached to me, and that is sufficient to draw down hatred upon her in this house. She is a comfort to me, whatever she may be to others.’

‘She’s no comfort to me,’ cried Gabriel, made bold by despair. ‘She’s the misery of my life. She’s all the plagues of Egypt in one.’

‘She’s considered so, I have no doubt,’ said Mrs Varden. ‘I was prepared for that; it’s natural; it’s of a piece with the rest. When you taunt me as you do to my face, how can I wonder that you taunt her behind her back!’ And here the incoherence coming on very strong, Mrs Varden wept, and laughed, and sobbed, and shivered, and hiccoughed, and choked; and said she knew it was very foolish but she couldn’t help it; and that when she was dead and gone, perhaps they would be sorry for it—which really under the circumstances did not appear quite so probable as she seemed to think—with a great deal more to the same effect. In a word, she passed with great decency through all the ceremonies incidental to such occasions; and being supported upstairs, was deposited in a highly spasmodic state on her own bed, where Miss Miggs shortly afterwards flung herself upon the body.

The philosophy of all this was, that Mrs Varden wanted to go to Chigwell; that she did not want to make any concession or explanation; that she would only go on being implored and entreated so to do; and that she would accept no other terms. Accordingly, after a vast amount of moaning and crying upstairs, and much damping of foreheads, and vinegaring of temples, and hartshorning of noses, and so forth; and after most pathetic adjurations from Miggs, assisted by warm brandy-and-water not over-weak, and divers other cordials, also of a stimulating quality, administered at first in teaspoonfuls and afterwards in increasing doses, and of which Miss Miggs herself partook as a preventive measure (for fainting is infectious); after all these remedies, and many more too numerous to mention, but not to take, had been applied; and many verbal consolations, moral, religious, and miscellaneous, had been super-added thereto; the locksmith humbled himself, and the end was gained.

‘If it’s only for the sake of peace and quietness, father,’ said Dolly, urging him to go upstairs.

‘Oh, Doll, Doll,’ said her good-natured father. ‘If you ever have a husband of your own—’

Dolly glanced at the glass.

‘—Well, WHEN you have,’ said the locksmith, ‘never faint, my darling. More domestic unhappiness has come of easy fainting, Doll, than from all the greater passions put together. Remember that, my dear, if you would be really happy, which you never can be, if your husband isn’t. And a word in your ear, my precious. Never have a Miggs about you!’

With this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek, and slowly repaired to Mrs Varden’s room; where that lady, lying all pale and languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with a sight of her last new bonnet, which Miggs, as a means of calming her scattered spirits, displayed to the best advantage at her bedside.

‘Here’s master, mim,’ said Miggs. ‘Oh, what a happiness it is when man and wife come round again! Oh gracious, to think that him and her should ever have a word together!’ In the energy of these sentiments, which were uttered as an apostrophe to the Heavens in general, Miss Miggs perched the bonnet on the top of her own head, and folding her hands, turned on her tears.

‘I can’t help it,’ cried Miggs. ‘I couldn’t, if I was to be drownded in ‘em. She has such a forgiving spirit! She’ll forget all that has passed, and go along with you, sir—Oh, if it was to the world’s end, she’d go along with you.’

Mrs Varden with a faint smile gently reproved her attendant for this enthusiasm, and reminded her at the same time that she was far too unwell to venture out that day.

‘Oh no, you’re not, mim, indeed you’re not,’ said Miggs; ‘I repeal to master; master knows you’re not, mim. The hair, and motion of the shay, will do you good, mim, and you must not give way, you must not raly. She must keep up, mustn’t she, sir, for all our sakes? I was a telling her that, just now. She must remember us, even if she forgets herself. Master will persuade you, mim, I’m sure. There’s Miss Dolly’s a-going you know, and master, and you, and all so happy and so comfortable. Oh!’ cried Miggs, turning on the tears again, previous to quitting the room in great emotion, ‘I never see such a blessed one as she is for the forgiveness of her spirit, I never, never, never did. Not more did master neither; no, nor no one—never!’

For five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs Varden remained mildly opposed to all her husband’s prayers that she would oblige him by taking a day’s pleasure, but relenting at length, she suffered herself to be persuaded, and granting him her free forgiveness (the merit whereof, she meekly said, rested with the Manual and not with her), desired that Miggs might come and help her dress. The handmaid attended promptly, and it is but justice to their joint exertions to record that, when the good lady came downstairs in course of time, completely decked out for the journey, she really looked as if nothing had happened, and appeared in the very best health imaginable.

As to Dolly, there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good looks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of the same drawn over her head, and upon the top of that hood, a little straw hat trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one side—just enough in short to make it the wickedest and most provoking head-dress that ever malicious milliner devised. And not to speak of the manner in which these cherry-coloured decorations brightened her eyes, or vied with her lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such a cruel little muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, and was so surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds, that when Mr Tappettit, holding the horse’s head, saw her come out of the house alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into the chaise and drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably have done it, but for certain uneasy doubts besetting him as to the shortest way to Gretna Green; whether it was up the street or down, or up the right-hand turning or the left; and whether, supposing all the turnpikes to be carried by storm, the blacksmith in the end would marry them on credit; which by reason of his clerical office appeared, even to his excited imagination, so unlikely, that he hesitated. And while he stood hesitating, and looking post-chaises-and-six at Dolly, out came his master and his mistress, and the constant Miggs, and the opportunity was gone for ever. For now the chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs Varden was inside; and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and the locksmith was inside; and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat lightly, and Dolly was inside; and now it was gone and its place was empty, and he and that dreary Miggs were standing in the street together.

The hearty locksmith was in as good a humour as if nothing had occurred for the last twelve months to put him out of his way, Dolly was all smiles and graces, and Mrs Varden was agreeable beyond all precedent. As they jogged through the streets talking of this thing and of that, who should be descried upon the pavement but that very coachmaker, looking so genteel that nobody would have believed he had ever had anything to do with a coach but riding in it, and bowing like any nobleman. To be sure Dolly was confused when she bowed again, and to be sure the cherry-coloured ribbons trembled a little when she met his mournful eye, which seemed to say, ‘I have kept my word, I have begun, the business is going to the devil, and you’re the cause of it.’ There he stood, rooted to the ground: as Dolly said, like a statue; and as Mrs Varden said, like a pump; till they turned the corner: and when her father thought it was like his impudence, and her mother wondered what he meant by it, Dolly blushed again till her very hood was pale.

But on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was the locksmith in the incautious fulness of his heart ‘pulling-up’ at all manner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance with all the taverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the landladies, with whom, indeed, the little horse was on equally friendly terms, for he kept on stopping of his own accord. Never were people so glad to see other people as these landlords and landladies were to behold Mr Varden and Mrs Varden and Miss Varden; and wouldn’t they get out, said one; and they really must walk upstairs, said another; and she would take it ill and be quite certain they were proud if they wouldn’t have a little taste of something, said a third; and so on, that it was really quite a Progress rather than a ride, and one continued scene of hospitality from beginning to end. It was pleasant enough to be held in such esteem, not to mention the refreshments; so Mrs Varden said nothing at the time, and was all affability and delight—but such a body of evidence as she collected against the unfortunate locksmith that day, to be used thereafter as occasion might require, never was got together for matrimonial purposes.

In course of time—and in course of a pretty long time too, for these agreeable interruptions delayed them not a little,—they arrived upon the skirts of the Forest, and riding pleasantly on among the trees, came at last to the Maypole, where the locksmith’s cheerful ‘Yoho!’ speedily brought to the porch old John, and after him young Joe, both of whom were so transfixed at sight of the ladies, that for a moment they were perfectly unable to give them any welcome, and could do nothing but stare.

It was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for speedily reviving he thrust his drowsy father aside—to Mr Willet’s mighty and inexpressible indignation—and darting out, stood ready to help them to alight. It was necessary for Dolly to get out first. Joe had her in his arms;—yes, though for a space of time no longer than you could count one in, Joe had her in his arms. Here was a glimpse of happiness!

It would be difficult to describe what a flat and commonplace affair the helping Mrs Varden out afterwards was, but Joe did it, and did it too with the best grace in the world. Then old John, who, entertaining a dull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs Varden wasn’t fond of him, had been in some doubt whether she might not have come for purposes of assault and battery, took courage, hoped she was well, and offered to conduct her into the house. This tender being amicably received, they marched in together; Joe and Dolly followed, arm-in-arm, (happiness again!) and Varden brought up the rear.

Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody objecting, into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but the Maypole’s was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar, that ever the wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in hollow window-seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables, 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.’

‘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 for this offer, though with no great hope of his quest being successful; and so with many lamentations on her side, and many hopeful words on his, and much weakness on the part of Dolly and much tender supporting on the part of Joe, they reached the Maypole bar at last, where the locksmith and his wife and old John were yet keeping high festival.

Mr Willet received the intelligence of Dolly’s trouble with that surprising presence of mind and readiness of speech for which he was so eminently distinguished above all other men. Mrs Varden expressed her sympathy for her daughter’s distress by scolding her roundly for being so late; and the honest locksmith divided himself between condoling with and kissing Dolly, and shaking hands heartily with Joe, whom he could not sufficiently praise or thank.

In reference to this latter point, old John was far from agreeing with his friend; for besides that he by no means approved of an adventurous spirit in the abstract, it occurred to him that if his son and heir had been seriously damaged in a scuffle, the consequences would assuredly have been expensive and inconvenient, and might perhaps have proved detrimental to the Maypole business. Wherefore, and because he looked with no favourable eye upon young girls, but rather considered that they and the whole female sex were a kind of nonsensical mistake on the part of Nature, he took occasion to retire and shake his head in private at the boiler; inspired by which silent oracle, he was moved to give Joe various stealthy nudges with his elbow, as a parental reproof and gentle admonition to mind his own business and not make a fool of himself.

Joe, however, took down the lantern and lighted it; and arming himself with a stout stick, asked whether Hugh was in the stable.

‘He’s lying asleep before the kitchen fire, sir,’ said Mr Willet. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and letter,’ answered Joe. ‘Halloa there! Hugh!’

Dolly turned pale as death, and felt as if she must faint forthwith. After a few moments, Hugh came staggering in, stretching himself and yawning according to custom, and presenting every appearance of having been roused from a sound nap.

‘Here, sleepy-head,’ said Joe, giving him the lantern. ‘Carry this, and bring the dog, and that small cudgel of yours. And woe betide the fellow if we come upon him.’

‘What fellow?’ growled Hugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself.

‘What fellow?’ returned Joe, who was in a state of great valour and bustle; ‘a fellow you ought to know of and be more alive about. It’s well for the like of you, lazy giant that you are, to be snoring your time away in chimney-corners, when honest men’s daughters can’t cross even our quiet meadows at nightfall without being set upon by footpads, and frightened out of their precious lives.’

‘They never rob me,’ cried Hugh with a laugh. ‘I have got nothing to lose. But I’d as lief knock them at head as any other men. How many are there?’

‘Only one,’ said Dolly faintly, for everybody looked at her.

‘And what was he like, mistress?’ said Hugh with a glance at young Willet, so slight and momentary that the scowl it conveyed was lost on all but her. ‘About my height?’

‘Not—not so tall,’ Dolly replied, scarce knowing what she said.

‘His dress,’ said Hugh, looking at her keenly, ‘like—like any of ours now? I know all the people hereabouts, and maybe could give a guess at the man, if I had anything to guide me.’

Dolly faltered and turned paler yet; then answered that he was wrapped in a loose coat and had his face hidden by a handkerchief and that she could give no other description of him.

‘You wouldn’t know him if you saw him then, belike?’ said Hugh with a malicious grin.

‘I should not,’ answered Dolly, bursting into tears again. ‘I don’t wish to see him. I can’t bear to think of him. I can’t talk about him any more. Don’t go to look for these things, Mr Joe, pray don’t. I entreat you not to go with that man.’

‘Not to go with me!’ cried Hugh. ‘I’m too rough for them all. They’re all afraid of me. Why, bless you mistress, I’ve the tenderest heart alive. I love all the ladies, ma’am,’ said Hugh, turning to the locksmith’s wife.

Mrs Varden opined that if he did, he ought to be ashamed of himself; such sentiments being more consistent (so she argued) with a benighted Mussulman or wild Islander than with a stanch Protestant. Arguing from this imperfect state of his morals, Mrs Varden further opined that he had never studied the Manual. Hugh admitting that he never had, and moreover that he couldn’t read, Mrs Varden declared with much severity, that he ought to be even more ashamed of himself than before, and strongly recommended him to save up his pocket-money for the purchase of one, and further to teach himself the contents with all convenient diligence. She was still pursuing this train of discourse, when Hugh, somewhat unceremoniously and irreverently, followed his young master out, and left her to edify the rest of the company. This she proceeded to do, and finding that Mr Willet’s eyes were fixed upon her with an appearance of deep attention, gradually addressed the whole of her discourse to him, whom she entertained with a moral and theological lecture of considerable length, in the conviction that great workings were taking place in his spirit. The simple truth was, however, that Mr Willet, although his eyes were wide open and he saw a woman before him whose head by long and steady looking at seemed to grow bigger and bigger until it filled the whole bar, was to all other intents and purposes fast asleep; and so sat leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets until his son’s return caused him to wake up with a deep sigh, and a faint impression that he had been dreaming about pickled pork and greens—a vision of his slumbers which was no doubt referable to the circumstance of Mrs Varden’s having frequently pronounced the word ‘Grace’ with much emphasis; which word, entering the portals of Mr Willet’s brain as they stood ajar, and coupling itself with the words ‘before meat,’ which were there ranging about, did in time suggest a particular kind of meat together with that description of vegetable which is usually its companion.

The search was wholly unsuccessful. Joe had groped along the path a dozen times, and among the grass, and in the dry ditch, and in the hedge, but all in vain. Dolly, who was quite inconsolable for her loss, wrote a note to Miss Haredale giving her the same account of it that she had given at the Maypole, which Joe undertook to deliver as soon as the family were stirring next day. That done, they sat down to tea in the bar, where there was an uncommon display of buttered toast, and—in order that they might not grow faint for want of sustenance, and might have a decent halting-place or halfway house between dinner and supper—a few savoury trifles in the shape of great rashers of broiled ham, which being well cured, done to a turn, and smoking hot, sent forth a tempting and delicious fragrance.

Mrs Varden was seldom very Protestant at meals, unless it happened that they were underdone, or overdone, or indeed that anything occurred to put her out of humour. Her spirits rose considerably on beholding these goodly preparations, and from the nothingness of good works, she passed to the somethingness of ham and toast with great cheerfulness. Nay, under the influence of these wholesome stimulants, she sharply reproved her daughter for being low and despondent (which she considered an unacceptable frame of mind), and remarked, as she held her own plate for a fresh supply, that it would be well for Dolly, who pined over the loss of a toy and a sheet of paper, if she would reflect upon the voluntary sacrifices of the missionaries in foreign parts who lived chiefly on salads.

The proceedings of such a day occasion various fluctuations in the human thermometer, and especially in instruments so sensitively and delicately constructed as Mrs Varden. Thus, at dinner Mrs V. stood at summer heat; genial, smiling, and delightful. After dinner, in the sunshine of the wine, she went up at least half-a-dozen degrees, and was perfectly enchanting. As its effect subsided, she fell rapidly, went to sleep for an hour or so at temperate, and woke at something below freezing. Now she was at summer heat again, in the shade; and when tea was over, and old John, producing a bottle of cordial from one of the oaken cases, insisted on her sipping two glasses thereof in slow succession, she stood steadily at ninety for one hour and a quarter. Profiting by experience, the locksmith took advantage of this genial weather to smoke his pipe in the porch, and in consequence of this prudent management, he was fully prepared, when the glass went down again, to start homewards directly.

The horse was accordingly put in, and the chaise brought round to the door. Joe, who would on no account be dissuaded from escorting them until they had passed the most dreary and solitary part of the road, led out the grey mare at the same time; and having helped Dolly into her seat (more happiness!) sprung gaily into the saddle. Then, after many good nights, and admonitions to wrap up, and glancing of lights, and handing in of cloaks and shawls, the chaise rolled away, and Joe trotted beside it—on Dolly’s side, no doubt, and pretty close to the wheel too.

Chapter 22

It was a fine bright night, and for all her lowness of spirits Dolly kept looking up at the stars in a manner so bewitching (and SHE knew it!) that Joe was clean out of his senses, and plainly showed that if ever a man were—not to say over head and ears, but over the Monument and the top of Saint Paul’s in love, that man was himself. The road was a very good one; not at all a jolting road, or an uneven one; and yet Dolly held the side of the chaise with one little hand, all the way. If there had been an executioner behind him with an uplifted axe ready to chop off his head if he touched that hand, Joe couldn’t have helped doing it. From putting his own hand upon it as if by chance, and taking it away again after a minute or so, he got to riding along without taking it off at all; as if he, the escort, were bound to do that as an important part of his duty, and had come out for the purpose. The most curious circumstance about this little incident was, that Dolly didn’t seem to know of it. She looked so innocent and unconscious when she turned her eyes on Joe, that it was quite provoking.

She talked though; talked about her fright, and about Joe’s coming up to rescue her, and about her gratitude, and about her fear that she might not have thanked him enough, and about their always being friends from that time forth—and about all that sort of thing. And when Joe said, not friends he hoped, Dolly was quite surprised, and said not enemies she hoped; and when Joe said, couldn’t they be something much better than either, Dolly all of a sudden found out a star which was brighter than all the other stars, and begged to call his attention to the same, and was ten thousand times more innocent and unconscious than ever.

In this manner they travelled along, talking very little above a whisper, and wishing the road could be stretched out to some dozen times its natural length—at least that was Joe’s desire—when, as they were getting clear of the forest and emerging on the more frequented road, they heard behind them the sound of a horse’s feet at a round trot, which growing rapidly louder as it drew nearer, elicited a scream from Mrs Varden, and the cry ‘a friend!’ from the rider, who now came panting up, and checked his horse beside them.

‘This man again!’ cried Dolly, shuddering.

‘Hugh!’ said Joe. ‘What errand are you upon?’

‘I come to ride back with you,’ he answered, glancing covertly at the locksmith’s daughter. ‘HE sent me.’

‘My father!’ said poor Joe; adding under his breath, with a very unfilial apostrophe, ‘Will he never think me man enough to take care of myself!’

‘Aye!’ returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry. ‘The roads are not safe just now, he says, and you’d better have a companion.’

‘Ride on then,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not going to turn yet.’

Hugh complied, and they went on again. It was his whim or humour to ride immediately before the chaise, and from this position he constantly turned his head, and looked back. Dolly felt that he looked at her, but she averted her eyes and feared to raise them once, so great was the dread with which he had inspired her.

This interruption, and the consequent wakefulness of Mrs Varden, who had been nodding in her sleep up to this point, except for a minute or two at a time, when she roused herself to scold the locksmith for audaciously taking hold of her to prevent her nodding herself out of the chaise, put a restraint upon the whispered conversation, and made it difficult of resumption. Indeed, before they had gone another mile, Gabriel stopped at his wife’s desire, and that good lady protested she would not hear of Joe’s going a step further on any account whatever. It was in vain for Joe to protest on the other hand that he was by no means tired, and would turn back presently, and would see them safely past such a point, and so forth. Mrs Varden was obdurate, and being so was not to be overcome by mortal agency.

‘Good night—if I must say it,’ said Joe, sorrowfully.

‘Good night,’ said Dolly. She would have added, ‘Take care of that man, and pray don’t trust him,’ but he had turned his horse’s head, and was standing close to them. She had therefore nothing for it but to suffer Joe to give her hand a gentle squeeze, and when the chaise had gone on for some distance, to look back and wave it, as he still lingered on the spot where they had parted, with the tall dark figure of Hugh beside him.

What she thought about, going home; and whether the coach-maker held as favourable a place in her meditations as he had occupied in the morning, is unknown. They reached home at last—at last, for it was a long way, made none the shorter by Mrs Varden’s grumbling. Miggs hearing the sound of wheels was at the door immediately.

‘Here they are, Simmun! Here they are!’ cried Miggs, clapping her hands, and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight. ‘Bring a chair, Simmun. Now, an’t you the better for it, mim? Don’t you feel more yourself than you would have done if you’d have stopped at home? Oh, gracious! how cold you are! Goodness me, sir, she’s a perfect heap of ice.’

‘I can’t help it, my good girl. You had better take her in to the fire,’ said the locksmith.

‘Master sounds unfeeling, mim,’ said Miggs, in a tone of commiseration, ‘but such is not his intentions, I’m sure. After what he has seen of you this day, I never will believe but that he has a deal more affection in his heart than to speak unkind. Come in and sit yourself down by the fire; there’s a good dear—do.’

Mrs Varden complied. The locksmith followed with his hands in his pockets, and Mr Tappertit trundled off with the chaise to a neighbouring stable.

‘Martha, my dear,’ said the locksmith, when they reached the parlour, ‘if you’ll look to Dolly yourself or let somebody else do it, perhaps it will be only kind and reasonable. She has been frightened, you know, and is not at all well to-night.’

In fact, Dolly had thrown herself upon the sofa, quite regardless of all the little finery of which she had been so proud in the morning, and with her face buried in her hands was crying very much.

At first sight of this phenomenon (for Dolly was by no means accustomed to displays of this sort, rather learning from her mother’s example to avoid them as much as possible) Mrs Varden expressed her belief that never was any woman so beset as she; that her life was a continued scene of trial; that whenever she was disposed to be well and cheerful, so sure were the people around her to throw, by some means or other, a damp upon her spirits; and that, as she had enjoyed herself that day, and Heaven knew it was very seldom she did enjoy herself so she was now to pay the penalty. To all such propositions Miggs assented freely. Poor Dolly, however, grew none the better for these restoratives, but rather worse, indeed; and seeing that she was really ill, both Mrs Varden and Miggs were moved to compassion, and tended her in earnest.

But even then, their very kindness shaped itself into their usual course of policy, and though Dolly was in a swoon, it was rendered clear to the meanest capacity, that Mrs Varden was the sufferer. Thus when Dolly began to get a little better, and passed into that stage in which matrons hold that remonstrance and argument may be successfully applied, her mother represented to her, with tears in her eyes, that if she had been flurried and worried that day, she must remember it was the common lot of humanity, and in especial of womankind, who through the whole of their existence must expect no less, and were bound to make up their minds to meek endurance and patient resignation. Mrs Varden entreated her to remember that one of these days she would, in all probability, have to do violence to her feelings so far as to be married; and that marriage, as she might see every day of her life (and truly she did) was a state requiring great fortitude and forbearance. She represented to her in lively colours, that if she (Mrs V.) had not, in steering her course through this vale of tears, been supported by a strong principle of duty which alone upheld and prevented her from drooping, she must have been in her grave many years ago; in which case she desired to know what would have become of that errant spirit (meaning the locksmith), of whose eye she was the very apple, and in whose path she was, as it were, a shining light and guiding star?

Miss Miggs also put in her word to the same effect. She said that indeed and indeed Miss Dolly might take pattern by her blessed mother, who, she always had said, and always would say, though she were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for it next minute, was the mildest, amiablest, forgivingest-spirited, longest-sufferingest female as ever she could have believed; the mere narration of whose excellencies had worked such a wholesome change in the mind of her own sister-in-law, that, whereas, before, she and her husband lived like cat and dog, and were in the habit of exchanging brass candlesticks, pot-lids, flat-irons, and other such strong resentments, they were now the happiest and affectionatest couple upon earth; as could be proved any day on application at Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand doorpost. After glancing at herself as a comparatively worthless vessel, but still as one of some desert, she besought her to bear in mind that her aforesaid dear and only mother was of a weakly constitution and excitable temperament, who had constantly to sustain afflictions in domestic life, compared with which thieves and robbers were as nothing, and yet never sunk down or gave way to despair or wrath, but, in prize-fighting phraseology, always came up to time with a cheerful countenance, and went in to win as if nothing had happened. When Miggs finished her solo, her mistress struck in again, and the two together performed a duet to the same purpose; the burden being, that Mrs Varden was persecuted perfection, and Mr Varden, as the representative of mankind in that apartment, a creature of vicious and brutal habits, utterly insensible to the blessings he enjoyed. Of so refined a character, indeed, was their talent of assault under the mask of sympathy, that when Dolly, recovering, embraced her father tenderly, as in vindication of his goodness, Mrs Varden expressed her solemn hope that this would be a lesson to him for the remainder of his life, and that he would do some little justice to a woman’s nature ever afterwards—in which aspiration Miss Miggs, by divers sniffs and coughs, more significant than the longest oration, expressed her entire concurrence.

But the great joy of Miggs’s heart was, that she not only picked up a full account of what had happened, but had the exquisite delight of conveying it to Mr Tappertit for his jealousy and torture. For that gentleman, on account of Dolly’s indisposition, had been requested to take his supper in the workshop, and it was conveyed thither by Miss Miggs’s own fair hands.

‘Oh Simmun!’ said the young lady, ‘such goings on to-day! Oh, gracious me, Simmun!’

Mr Tappertit, who was not in the best of humours, and who disliked Miss Miggs more when she laid her hand on her heart and panted for breath than at any other time, as her deficiency of outline was most apparent under such circumstances, eyed her over in his loftiest style, and deigned to express no curiosity whatever.

‘I never heard the like, nor nobody else,’ pursued Miggs. ‘The idea of interfering with HER. What people can see in her to make it worth their while to do so, that’s the joke—he he he!’

Finding there was a lady in the case, Mr Tappertit haughtily requested his fair friend to be more explicit, and demanded to know what she meant by ‘her.’

‘Why, that Dolly,’ said Miggs, with an extremely sharp emphasis on the name. ‘But, oh upon my word and honour, young Joseph Willet is a brave one; and he do deserve her, that he do.’

‘Woman!’ said Mr Tappertit, jumping off the counter on which he was seated; ‘beware!’

‘My stars, Simmun!’ cried Miggs, in affected astonishment. ‘You frighten me to death! What’s the matter?’

‘There are strings,’ said Mr Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and-cheese knife in the air, ‘in the human heart that had better not be wibrated. That’s what’s the matter.’

‘Oh, very well—if you’re in a huff,’ cried Miggs, turning away.

‘Huff or no huff,’ said Mr Tappertit, detaining her by the wrist. ‘What do you mean, Jezebel? What were you going to say? Answer me!’

Notwithstanding this uncivil exhortation, Miggs gladly did as she was required; and told him how that their young mistress, being alone in the meadows after dark, had been attacked by three or four tall men, who would have certainly borne her away and perhaps murdered her, but for the timely arrival of Joseph Willet, who with his own single hand put them all to flight, and rescued her; to the lasting admiration of his fellow-creatures generally, and to the eternal love and gratitude of Dolly Varden.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Tappertit, fetching a long breath when the tale was told, and rubbing his hair up till it stood stiff and straight on end all over his head. ‘His days are numbered.’

‘Oh, Simmun!’

‘I tell you,’ said the ‘prentice, ‘his days are numbered. Leave me. Get along with you.’

Miggs departed at his bidding, but less because of his bidding than because she desired to chuckle in secret. When she had given vent to her satisfaction, she returned to the parlour; where the locksmith, stimulated by quietness and Toby, had become talkative, and was disposed to take a cheerful review of the occurrences of the day. But Mrs Varden, whose practical religion (as is not uncommon) was usually of the retrospective order, cut him short by declaiming on the sinfulness of such junketings, and holding that it was high time to go to bed. To bed therefore she withdrew, with an aspect as grim and gloomy as that of the Maypole’s own state couch; and to bed the rest of the establishment soon afterwards repaired.

Chapter 23

Twilight had given place to night some hours, and it was high noon in those quarters of the town in which ‘the world’ condescended to dwell—the world being then, as now, of very limited dimensions and easily lodged—when Mr Chester reclined upon a sofa in his dressing-room in the Temple, entertaining himself with a book.

He was dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed half the journey was taking a long rest. Completely attired as to his legs and feet in the trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder of his toilet to perform. The coat was stretched, like a refined scarecrow, on its separate horse; the waistcoat was displayed to the best advantage; the various ornamental articles of dress were severally set out in most alluring order; and yet he lay dangling his legs between the sofa and the ground, as intent upon his book as if there were nothing but bed before him.

‘Upon my honour,’ he said, at length raising his eyes to the ceiling with the air of a man who was reflecting seriously on what he had read; ‘upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the most delicate thoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most gentlemanly sentiments in the universe! Ah Ned, Ned, if you would but form your mind by such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on every subject that could possibly arise between us!’

This apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty air: for Edward was not present, and the father was quite alone.

‘My Lord Chesterfield,’ he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon the book as he laid it down, ‘if I could but have profited by your genius soon enough to have formed my son on the model you have left to all wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men. Shakespeare was undoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good, though prosy; Lord Bacon deep, and decidedly knowing; but the writer who should be his country’s pride, is my Lord Chesterfield.’

He became thoughtful again, and the toothpick was in requisition.

‘I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man of the world,’ he continued, ‘I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed in all those little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world from boors and peasants, and separate their character from those intensely vulgar sentiments which are called the national character. Apart from any natural prepossession in my own favour, I believed I was. Still, in every page of this enlightened writer, I find some captivating hypocrisy which has never occurred to me before, or some superlative piece of selfishness to which I was utterly a stranger. I should quite blush for myself before this stupendous creature, if remembering his precepts, one might blush at anything. An amazing man! a nobleman indeed! any King or Queen may make a Lord, but only the Devil himself—and the Graces—can make a Chesterfield.’

Men who are thoroughly false and hollow, seldom try to hide those vices from themselves; and yet in the very act of avowing them, they lay claim to the virtues they feign most to despise. ‘For,’ say they, ‘this is honesty, this is truth. All mankind are like us, but they have not the candour to avow it.’ The more they affect to deny the existence of any sincerity in the world, the more they would be thought to possess it in its boldest shape; and this is an unconscious compliment to Truth on the part of these philosophers, which will turn the laugh against them to the Day of Judgment.

Mr Chester, having extolled his favourite author, as above recited, took up the book again in the excess of his admiration and was composing himself for a further perusal of its sublime morality, when he was disturbed by a noise at the outer door; occasioned as it seemed by the endeavours of his servant to obstruct the entrance of some unwelcome visitor.

‘A late hour for an importunate creditor,’ he said, raising his eyebrows with as indolent an expression of wonder as if the noise were in the street, and one with which he had not the smallest possible concern. ‘Much after their accustomed time. The usual pretence I suppose. No doubt a heavy payment to make up tomorrow. Poor fellow, he loses time, and time is money as the good proverb says—I never found it out though. Well. What now? You know I am not at home.’

‘A man, sir,’ replied the servant, who was to the full as cool and negligent in his way as his master, ‘has brought home the riding-whip you lost the other day. I told him you were out, but he said he was to wait while I brought it in, and wouldn’t go till I did.’

‘He was quite right,’ returned his master, ‘and you’re a blockhead, possessing no judgment or discretion whatever. Tell him to come in, and see that he rubs his shoes for exactly five minutes first.’

The man laid the whip on a chair, and withdrew. The master, who had only heard his foot upon the ground and had not taken the trouble to turn round and look at him, shut his book, and pursued the train of ideas his entrance had disturbed.

‘If time were money,’ he said, handling his snuff-box, ‘I would compound with my creditors, and give them—let me see—how much a day? There’s my nap after dinner—an hour—they’re extremely welcome to that, and to make the most of it. In the morning, between my breakfast and the paper, I could spare them another hour; in the evening before dinner say another. Three hours a day. They might pay themselves in calls, with interest, in twelve months. I think I shall propose it to them. Ah, my centaur, are you there?’

‘Here I am,’ replied Hugh, striding in, followed by a dog, as rough and sullen as himself; ‘and trouble enough I’ve had to get here. What do you ask me to come for, and keep me out when I DO come?’

‘My good fellow,’ returned the other, raising his head a little from the cushion and carelessly surveying him from top to toe, ‘I am delighted to see you, and to have, in your being here, the very best proof that you are not kept out. How are you?’

‘I’m well enough,’ said Hugh impatiently.

‘You look a perfect marvel of health. Sit down.’

‘I’d rather stand,’ said Hugh.

‘Please yourself my good fellow,’ returned Mr Chester rising, slowly pulling off the loose robe he wore, and sitting down before the dressing-glass. ‘Please yourself by all means.’

Having said this in the politest and blandest tone possible, he went on dressing, and took no further notice of his guest, who stood in the same spot as uncertain what to do next, eyeing him sulkily from time to time.

‘Are you going to speak to me, master?’ he said, after a long silence.

‘My worthy creature,’ returned Mr Chester, ‘you are a little ruffled and out of humour. I’ll wait till you’re quite yourself again. I am in no hurry.’

This behaviour had its intended effect. It humbled and abashed the man, and made him still more irresolute and uncertain. Hard words he could have returned, violence he would have repaid with interest; but this cool, complacent, contemptuous, self-possessed reception, caused him to feel his inferiority more completely than the most elaborate arguments. Everything contributed to this effect. His own rough speech, contrasted with the soft persuasive accents of the other; his rude bearing, and Mr Chester’s polished manner; the disorder and negligence of his ragged dress, and the elegant attire he saw before him; with all the unaccustomed luxuries and comforts of the room, and the silence that gave him leisure to observe these things, and feel how ill at ease they made him; all these influences, which have too often some effect on tutored minds and become of almost resistless power when brought to bear on such a mind as his, quelled Hugh completely. He moved by little and little nearer to Mr Chester’s chair, and glancing over his shoulder at the reflection of his face in the glass, as if seeking for some encouragement in its expression, said at length, with a rough attempt at conciliation,

‘ARE you going to speak to me, master, or am I to go away?’

‘Speak you,’ said Mr Chester, ‘speak you, good fellow. I have spoken, have I not? I am waiting for you.’

‘Why, look’ee, sir,’ returned Hugh with increased embarrassment, ‘am I the man that you privately left your whip with before you rode away from the Maypole, and told to bring it back whenever he might want to see you on a certain subject?’

‘No doubt the same, or you have a twin brother,’ said Mr Chester, glancing at the reflection of his anxious face; ‘which is not probable, I should say.’

‘Then I have come, sir,’ said Hugh, ‘and I have brought it back, and something else along with it. A letter, sir, it is, that I took from the person who had charge of it.’ As he spoke, he laid upon the dressing-table, Dolly’s lost epistle. The very letter that had cost her so much trouble.

‘Did you obtain this by force, my good fellow?’ said Mr Chester, casting his eye upon it without the least perceptible surprise or pleasure.

‘Not quite,’ said Hugh. ‘Partly.’

‘Who was the messenger from whom you took it?’

‘A woman. One Varden’s daughter.’

‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Chester gaily. ‘What else did you take from her?’

‘What else?’

‘Yes,’ said the other, in a drawling manner, for he was fixing a very small patch of sticking plaster on a very small pimple near the corner of his mouth. ‘What else?’

‘Well a kiss,’ replied Hugh, after some hesitation.

‘And what else?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I think,’ said Mr Chester, in the same easy tone, and smiling twice or thrice to try if the patch adhered—‘I think there was something else. I have heard a trifle of jewellery spoken of—a mere trifle—a thing of such little value, indeed, that you may have forgotten it. Do you remember anything of the kind—such as a bracelet now, for instance?’

Hugh with a muttered oath thrust his hand into his breast, and drawing the bracelet forth, wrapped in a scrap of hay, was about to lay it on the table likewise, when his patron stopped his hand and bade him put it up again.

‘You took that for yourself my excellent friend,’ he said, ‘and may keep it. I am neither a thief nor a receiver. Don’t show it to me. You had better hide it again, and lose no time. Don’t let me see where you put it either,’ he added, turning away his head.

‘You’re not a receiver!’ said Hugh bluntly, despite the increasing awe in which he held him. ‘What do you call THAT, master?’ striking the letter with his heavy hand.

‘I call that quite another thing,’ said Mr Chester coolly. ‘I shall prove it presently, as you will see. You are thirsty, I suppose?’

Hugh drew his sleeve across his lips, and gruffly answered yes.

‘Step to that closet and bring me a bottle you will see there, and a glass.’

He obeyed. His patron followed him with his eyes, and when his back was turned, smiled as he had never done when he stood beside the mirror. On his return he filled the glass, and bade him drink. That dram despatched, he poured him out another, and another.

‘How many can you bear?’ he said, filling the glass again.

‘As many as you like to give me. Pour on. Fill high. A bumper with a bead in the middle! Give me enough of this,’ he added, as he tossed it down his hairy throat, ‘and I’ll do murder if you ask me!’

‘As I don’t mean to ask you, and you might possibly do it without being invited if you went on much further,’ said Mr Chester with great composure, ‘we will stop, if agreeable to you, my good friend, at the next glass. You were drinking before you came here.’

‘I always am when I can get it,’ cried Hugh boisterously, waving the empty glass above his head, and throwing himself into a rude dancing attitude. ‘I always am. Why not? Ha ha ha! What’s so good to me as this? What ever has been? What else has kept away the cold on bitter nights, and driven hunger off in starving times? What else has given me the strength and courage of a man, when men would have left me to die, a puny child? I should never have had a man’s heart but for this. I should have died in a ditch. Where’s he who when I was a weak and sickly wretch, with trembling legs and fading sight, bade me cheer up, as this did? I never knew him; not I. I drink to the drink, master. Ha ha ha!’

‘You are an exceedingly cheerful young man,’ said Mr Chester, putting on his cravat with great deliberation, and slightly moving his head from side to side to settle his chin in its proper place. ‘Quite a boon companion.’

‘Do you see this hand, master,’ said Hugh, ‘and this arm?’ baring the brawny limb to the elbow. ‘It was once mere skin and bone, and would have been dust in some poor churchyard by this time, but for the drink.’

‘You may cover it,’ said Mr Chester, ‘it’s sufficiently real in your sleeve.’

‘I should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the proud little beauty, master, but for the drink,’ cried Hugh. ‘Ha ha ha! It was a good one. As sweet as honeysuckle, I warrant you. I thank the drink for it. I’ll drink to the drink again, master. Fill me one more. Come. One more!’

‘You are such a promising fellow,’ said his patron, putting on his waistcoat with great nicety, and taking no heed of this request, ‘that I must caution you against having too many impulses from the drink, and getting hung before your time. What’s your age?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘At any rate,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you are young enough to escape what I may call a natural death for some years to come. How can you trust yourself in my hands on so short an acquaintance, with a halter round your neck? What a confiding nature yours must be!’

Hugh fell back a pace or two and surveyed him with a look of mingled terror, indignation, and surprise. Regarding himself in the glass with the same complacency as before, and speaking as smoothly as if he were discussing some pleasant chit-chat of the town, his patron went on:

‘Robbery on the king’s highway, my young friend, is a very dangerous and ticklish occupation. It is pleasant, I have no doubt, while it lasts; but like many other pleasures in this transitory world, it seldom lasts long. And really if in the ingenuousness of youth, you open your heart so readily on the subject, I am afraid your career will be an extremely short one.’

‘How’s this?’ said Hugh. ‘What do you talk of master? Who was it set me on?’

‘Who?’ said Mr Chester, wheeling sharply round, and looking full at him for the first time. ‘I didn’t hear you. Who was it?’

Hugh faltered, and muttered something which was not audible.

‘Who was it? I am curious to know,’ said Mr Chester, with surpassing affability. ‘Some rustic beauty perhaps? But be cautious, my good friend. They are not always to be trusted. Do take my advice now, and be careful of yourself.’ With these words he turned to the glass again, and went on with his toilet.

Hugh would have answered him that he, the questioner himself had set him on, but the words stuck in his throat. The consummate art with which his patron had led him to this point, and managed the whole conversation, perfectly baffled him. He did not doubt that if he had made the retort which was on his lips when Mr Chester turned round and questioned him so keenly, he would straightway have given him into custody and had him dragged before a justice with the stolen property upon him; in which case it was as certain he would have been hung as it was that he had been born. The ascendency which it was the purpose of the man of the world to establish over this savage instrument, was gained from that time. Hugh’s submission was complete. He dreaded him beyond description; and felt that accident and artifice had spun a web about him, which at a touch from such a master-hand as his, would bind him to the gallows.

With these thoughts passing through his mind, and yet wondering at the very same time how he who came there rioting in the confidence of this man (as he thought), should be so soon and so thoroughly subdued, Hugh stood cowering before him, regarding him uneasily from time to time, while he finished dressing. When he had done so, he took up the letter, broke the seal, and throwing himself back in his chair, read it leisurely through.

‘Very neatly worded upon my life! Quite a woman’s letter, full of what people call tenderness, and disinterestedness, and heart, and all that sort of thing!’

As he spoke, he twisted it up, and glancing lazily round at Hugh as though he would say ‘You see this?’ held it in the flame of the candle. When it was in a full blaze, he tossed it into the grate, and there it smouldered away.

‘It was directed to my son,’ he said, turning to Hugh, ‘and you did quite right to bring it here. I opened it on my own responsibility, and you see what I have done with it. Take this, for your trouble.’

Hugh stepped forward to receive the piece of money he held out to him. As he put it in his hand, he added:

‘If you should happen to find anything else of this sort, or to pick up any kind of information you may think I would like to have, bring it here, will you, my good fellow?’

This was said with a smile which implied—or Hugh thought it did—‘fail to do so at your peril!’ He answered that he would.

‘And don’t,’ said his patron, with an air of the very kindest patronage, ‘don’t be at all downcast or uneasy respecting that little rashness we have been speaking of. Your neck is as safe in my hands, my good fellow, as though a baby’s fingers clasped it, I assure you.—Take another glass. You are quieter now.’

Hugh accepted it from his hand, and looking stealthily at his smiling face, drank the contents in silence.

‘Don’t you—ha, ha!—don’t you drink to the drink any more?’ said Mr Chester, in his most winning manner.

‘To you, sir,’ was the sullen answer, with something approaching to a bow. ‘I drink to you.’

‘Thank you. God bless you. By the bye, what is your name, my good soul? You are called Hugh, I know, of course—your other name?’

‘I have no other name.’

‘A very strange fellow! Do you mean that you never knew one, or that you don’t choose to tell it? Which?’

‘I’d tell it if I could,’ said Hugh, quickly. ‘I can’t. I have been always called Hugh; nothing more. I never knew, nor saw, nor thought about a father; and I was a boy of six—that’s not very old—when they hung my mother up at Tyburn for a couple of thousand men to stare at. They might have let her live. She was poor enough.’

‘How very sad!’ exclaimed his patron, with a condescending smile. ‘I have no doubt she was an exceedingly fine woman.’

‘You see that dog of mine?’ said Hugh, abruptly.

‘Faithful, I dare say?’ rejoined his patron, looking at him through his glass; ‘and immensely clever? Virtuous and gifted animals, whether man or beast, always are so very hideous.’

‘Such a dog as that, and one of the same breed, was the only living thing except me that howled that day,’ said Hugh. ‘Out of the two thousand odd—there was a larger crowd for its being a woman—the dog and I alone had any pity. If he’d have been a man, he’d have been glad to be quit of her, for she had been forced to keep him lean and half-starved; but being a dog, and not having a man’s sense, he was sorry.’

‘It was dull of the brute, certainly,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and very like a brute.’

Hugh made no rejoinder, but whistling to his dog, who sprung up at the sound and came jumping and sporting about him, bade his sympathising friend good night.

‘Good night,’ he returned. ‘Remember; you’re safe with me—quite safe. So long as you deserve it, my good fellow, as I hope you always will, you have a friend in me, on whose silence you may rely. Now do be careful of yourself, pray do, and consider what jeopardy you might have stood in. Good night! bless you!’

Hugh truckled before the hidden meaning of these words as much as such a being could, and crept out of the door so submissively and subserviently—with an air, in short, so different from that with which he had entered—that his patron on being left alone, smiled more than ever.

‘And yet,’ he said, as he took a pinch of snuff, ‘I do not like their having hanged his mother. The fellow has a fine eye, and I am sure she was handsome. But very probably she was coarse—red-nosed perhaps, and had clumsy feet. Aye, it was all for the best, no doubt.’

With this comforting reflection, he put on his coat, took a farewell glance at the glass, and summoned his man, who promptly attended, followed by a chair and its two bearers.

‘Foh!’ said Mr Chester. ‘The very atmosphere that centaur has breathed, seems tainted with the cart and ladder. Here, Peak. Bring some scent and sprinkle the floor; and take away the chair he sat upon, and air it; and dash a little of that mixture upon me. I am stifled!’

The man obeyed; and the room and its master being both purified, nothing remained for Mr Chester but to demand his hat, to fold it jauntily under his arm, to take his seat in the chair and be carried off; humming a fashionable tune.

Chapter 24

How the accomplished gentleman spent the evening in the midst of a dazzling and brilliant circle; how he enchanted all those with whom he mingled by the grace of his deportment, the politeness of his manner, the vivacity of his conversation, and the sweetness of his voice; how it was observed in every corner, that Chester was a man of that happy disposition that nothing ruffled him, that he was one on whom the world’s cares and errors sat lightly as his dress, and in whose smiling face a calm and tranquil mind was constantly reflected; how honest men, who by instinct knew him better, bowed down before him nevertheless, deferred to his every word, and courted his favourable notice; how people, who really had good in them, went with the stream, and fawned and flattered, and approved, and despised themselves while they did so, and yet had not the courage to resist; how, in short, he was one of those who are received and cherished in society (as the phrase is) by scores who individually would shrink from and be repelled by the object of their lavish regard; are things of course, which will suggest themselves. Matter so commonplace needs but a passing glance, and there an end.

The despisers of mankind—apart from the mere fools and mimics, of that creed—are of two sorts. They who believe their merit neglected and unappreciated, make up one class; they who receive adulation and flattery, knowing their own worthlessness, compose the other. Be sure that the coldest-hearted misanthropes are ever of this last order.

Mr Chester sat up in bed next morning, sipping his coffee, and remembering with a kind of contemptuous satisfaction how he had shone last night, and how he had been caressed and courted, when his servant brought in a very small scrap of dirty paper, tightly sealed in two places, on the inside whereof was inscribed in pretty large text these words: ‘A friend. Desiring of a conference. Immediate. Private. Burn it when you’ve read it.’

‘Where in the name of the Gunpowder Plot did you pick up this?’ said his master.

It was given him by a person then waiting at the door, the man replied.

‘With a cloak and dagger?’ said Mr Chester.

With nothing more threatening about him, it appeared, than a leather apron and a dirty face. ‘Let him come in.’ In he came—Mr Tappertit; with his hair still on end, and a great lock in his hand, which he put down on the floor in the middle of the chamber as if he were about to go through some performances in which it was a necessary agent.

‘Sir,’ said Mr Tappertit with a low bow, ‘I thank you for this condescension, and am glad to see you. Pardon the menial office in which I am engaged, sir, and extend your sympathies to one, who, humble as his appearance is, has inn’ard workings far above his station.’

Mr Chester held the bed-curtain farther back, and looked at him with a vague impression that he was some maniac, who had not only broken open the door of his place of confinement, but had brought away the lock. Mr Tappertit bowed again, and displayed his legs to the best advantage.

‘You have heard, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, laying his hand upon his breast, ‘of G. Varden Locksmith and bell-hanger and repairs neatly executed in town and country, Clerkenwell, London?’

‘What then?’ asked Mr Chester.

‘I’m his ‘prentice, sir.’

‘What THEN?’

‘Ahem!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Would you permit me to shut the door, sir, and will you further, sir, give me your honour bright, that what passes between us is in the strictest confidence?’

Mr Chester laid himself calmly down in bed again, and turning a perfectly undisturbed face towards the strange apparition, which had by this time closed the door, begged him to speak out, and to be as rational as he could, without putting himself to any very great personal inconvenience.

‘In the first place, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, producing a small pocket-handkerchief and shaking it out of the folds, ‘as I have not a card about me (for the envy of masters debases us below that level) allow me to offer the best substitute that circumstances will admit of. If you will take that in your own hand, sir, and cast your eye on the right-hand corner,’ said Mr Tappertit, offering it with a graceful air, ‘you will meet with my credentials.’

‘Thank you,’ answered Mr Chester, politely accepting it, and turning to some blood-red characters at one end. ‘“Four. Simon Tappertit. One.” Is that the—’

‘Without the numbers, sir, that is my name,’ replied the ‘prentice. ‘They are merely intended as directions to the washerwoman, and have no connection with myself or family. YOUR name, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, looking very hard at his nightcap, ‘is Chester, I suppose? You needn’t pull it off, sir, thank you. I observe E. C. from here. We will take the rest for granted.’

‘Pray, Mr Tappertit,’ said Mr Chester, ‘has that complicated piece of ironmongery which you have done me the favour to bring with you, any immediate connection with the business we are to discuss?’

‘It has not, sir,’ rejoined the ‘prentice. ‘It’s going to be fitted on a ware’us-door in Thames Street.’

‘Perhaps, as that is the case,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and as it has a stronger flavour of oil than I usually refresh my bedroom with, you will oblige me so far as to put it outside the door?’

‘By all means, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, suiting the action to the word.

‘You’ll excuse my mentioning it, I hope?’

‘Don’t apologise, sir, I beg. And now, if you please, to business.’

During the whole of this dialogue, Mr Chester had suffered nothing but his smile of unvarying serenity and politeness to appear upon his face. Sim Tappertit, who had far too good an opinion of himself to suspect that anybody could be playing upon him, thought within himself that this was something like the respect to which he was entitled, and drew a comparison from this courteous demeanour of a stranger, by no means favourable to the worthy locksmith.

‘From what passes in our house,’ said Mr Tappertit, ‘I am aware, sir, that your son keeps company with a young lady against your inclinations. Sir, your son has not used me well.’

‘Mr Tappertit,’ said the other, ‘you grieve me beyond description.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the ‘prentice. ‘I’m glad to hear you say so. He’s very proud, sir, is your son; very haughty.’

‘I am afraid he IS haughty,’ said Mr Chester. ‘Do you know I was really afraid of that before; and you confirm me?’

‘To recount the menial offices I’ve had to do for your son, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit; ‘the chairs I’ve had to hand him, the coaches I’ve had to call for him, the numerous degrading duties, wholly unconnected with my indenters, that I’ve had to do for him, would fill a family Bible. Besides which, sir, he is but a young man himself and I do not consider “thank’ee Sim,” a proper form of address on those occasions.’

‘Mr Tappertit, your wisdom is beyond your years. Pray go on.’

‘I thank you for your good opinion, sir,’ said Sim, much gratified, ‘and will endeavour so to do. Now sir, on this account (and perhaps for another reason or two which I needn’t go into) I am on your side. And what I tell you is this—that as long as our people go backwards and forwards, to and fro, up and down, to that there jolly old Maypole, lettering, and messaging, and fetching and carrying, you couldn’t help your son keeping company with that young lady by deputy,—not if he was minded night and day by all the Horse Guards, and every man of ‘em in the very fullest uniform.’

Mr Tappertit stopped to take breath after this, and then started fresh again.

‘Now, sir, I am a coming to the point. You will inquire of me, “how is this to be prevented?” I’ll tell you how. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you—’

‘Mr Tappertit—really—’

‘No, no, I’m serious,’ rejoined the ‘prentice, ‘I am, upon my soul. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you, was to talk but ten minutes to our old woman—that’s Mrs Varden—and flatter her up a bit, you’d gain her over for ever. Then there’s this point got—that her daughter Dolly,’—here a flush came over Mr Tappertit’s face—‘wouldn’t be allowed to be a go-between from that time forward; and till that point’s got, there’s nothing ever will prevent her. Mind that.’

‘Mr Tappertit, your knowledge of human nature—’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Sim, folding his arms with a dreadful calmness. ‘Now I come to THE point. Sir, there is a villain at that Maypole, a monster in human shape, a vagabond of the deepest dye, that unless you get rid of and have kidnapped and carried off at the very least—nothing less will do—will marry your son to that young woman, as certainly and as surely as if he was the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. He will, sir, for the hatred and malice that he bears to you; let alone the pleasure of doing a bad action, which to him is its own reward. If you knew how this chap, this Joseph Willet—that’s his name—comes backwards and forwards to our house, libelling, and denouncing, and threatening you, and how I shudder when I hear him, you’d hate him worse than I do,—worse than I do, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit wildly, putting his hair up straighter, and making a crunching noise with his teeth; ‘if sich a thing is possible.’

‘A little private vengeance in this, Mr Tappertit?’

‘Private vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined—destroy him,’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Miggs says so too. Miggs and me both say so. We can’t bear the plotting and undermining that takes place. Our souls recoil from it. Barnaby Rudge and Mrs Rudge are in it likewise; but the villain, Joseph Willet, is the ringleader. Their plottings and schemes are known to me and Miggs. If you want information of ‘em, apply to us. Put Joseph Willet down, sir. Destroy him. Crush him. And be happy.’

With these words, Mr Tappertit, who seemed to expect no reply, and to hold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his hearer should be utterly stunned, dumbfoundered, and overwhelmed, folded his arms so that the palm of each hand rested on the opposite shoulder, and disappeared after the manner of those mysterious warners of whom he had read in cheap story-books.

‘That fellow,’ said Mr Chester, relaxing his face when he was fairly gone, ‘is good practice. I HAVE some command of my features, beyond all doubt. He fully confirms what I suspected, though; and blunt tools are sometimes found of use, where sharper instruments would fail. I fear I may be obliged to make great havoc among these worthy people. A troublesome necessity! I quite feel for them.’

With that he fell into a quiet slumber:—subsided into such a gentle, pleasant sleep, that it was quite infantine.

Chapter 25

Leaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered of the world; him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one; to lie smilingly asleep—for even sleep, working but little change in his dissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional hypocrisy—we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards Chigwell.

Barnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of course.

The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiled wearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now lingering far behind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path and leaving her to pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged again and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious nature prompted. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch of some high tree by the roadside; now using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come flying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprising swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sport upon a patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were his delights; and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by one sad word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him of pleasure.

It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and wild and in the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It is something to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a creature’s breast; it is something to be assured that, however lightly men may crush that faculty in their fellows, the Great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in a darkened jail!

Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite Benevolence with an eternal frown; read in the Everlasting Book, wide open to your view, the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its music—save when ye drown it—is not in sighs and groans, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one dismal as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and pleasure which every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all your kind who have not changed their nature; and learn some wisdom even from the witless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all the mirth and happiness it brings.

The widow’s breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret dread and sorrow; but her boy’s gaiety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled the long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short distance; but it was more his nature to be rambling to and fro, and she better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself.

She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly after the event which had changed her whole existence; and for two-and-twenty years had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village. How many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight!

Two-and-twenty years. Her boy’s whole life and history. The last time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat beside him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came; how had she feared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself upon her! The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish way—not of dulness but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning—came back as vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which they used to be; the spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-like in face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him; every circumstance of his infancy came thronging back, and the most trivial, perhaps, the most distinctly.

His older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his terror of certain senseless things—familiar objects he endowed with life; the slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which, before his birth, his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had gone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind until he grew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting; one after another, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber and bitterer than ever.

She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It was the same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and wore another air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought of that, and wondered at its alteration, and where it lay, and what it was.

The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking round him—as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers round some silly beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her; they passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead; and striking into the fields, were soon alone again.

The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was walking in the garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, and bade them enter that way.

‘At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place,’ he said to the widow. ‘I am glad you have.’

‘For the first time, and the last, sir,’ she replied.

‘The first for many years, but not the last?’

‘The very last.’

‘You mean,’ said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise, ‘that having made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere and are determined to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you, you should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I know. As to Barnaby, it’s quite his home.’

‘And Grip’s,’ said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven hopped gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing himself to Mr Haredale, cried—as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate refreshment would be acceptable—‘Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea!’

‘Hear me, Mary,’ said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to walk with him towards the house. ‘Your life has been an example of patience and fortitude, except in this one particular which has often given me great pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the calamity which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father, without being obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associate us with the author of our joint misfortunes.’

‘Associate you with him, sir!’ she cried.

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I think you do. I almost believe that because your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation, and died in his service and defence, you have come in some sort to connect us with his murder.’

‘Alas!’ she answered. ‘You little know my heart, sir. You little know the truth!’

‘It is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may, without being conscious of it,’ said Mr Haredale, speaking more to himself than her. ‘We are a fallen house. Money, dispensed with the most lavish hand, would be a poor recompense for sufferings like yours; and thinly scattered by hands so pinched and tied as ours, it becomes a miserable mockery. I feel it so, God knows,’ he added, hastily. ‘Why should I wonder if she does!’

‘You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed,’ she rejoined with great earnestness; ‘and yet when you come to hear what I desire your leave to say—’

‘I shall find my doubts confirmed?’ he said, observing that she faltered and became confused. ‘Well!’

He quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side, and said:

‘And have you come all this way at last, solely to speak to me?’

She answered, ‘Yes.’

‘A curse,’ he muttered, ‘upon the wretched state of us proud beggars, from whom the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the one being forced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the other condescending to us in their every deed and word, and keeping more aloof, the nearer they approach us.—Why, if it were pain to you (as it must have been) to break for this slight purpose the chain of habit forged through two-and-twenty years, could you not let me know your wish, and beg me to come to you?’

‘There was not time, sir,’ she rejoined. ‘I took my resolution but last night, and taking it, felt that I must not lose a day—a day! an hour—in having speech with you.’

They had by this time reached the house. Mr Haredale paused for a moment, and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her manner. Observing, however, that she took no heed of him, but glanced up, shuddering, at the old walls with which such horrors were connected in her mind, he led her by a private stair into his library, where Emma was seated in a window, reading.

The young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside her book, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warm and earnest welcome. But the widow shrunk from her embrace as though she feared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair.

‘It is the return to this place after so long an absence,’ said Emma gently. ‘Pray ring, dear uncle—or stay—Barnaby will run himself and ask for wine—’

‘Not for the world,’ she cried. ‘It would have another taste—I could not touch it. I want but a minute’s rest. Nothing but that.’

Miss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity. She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and turned to Mr Haredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating her with fixed attention.

The tale connected with the mansion borne in mind, it seemed, as has been already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known. The room in which this group were now assembled—hard by the very chamber where the act was done—dull, dark, and sombre; heavy with worm-eaten books; deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling every sound; shadowed mournfully by trees whose rustling boughs gave ever and anon a spectral knocking at the glass; wore, beyond all others in the house, a ghostly, gloomy air. Nor were the group assembled there, unfitting tenants of the spot. The widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes; Mr Haredale stern and despondent ever; his niece beside him, like, yet most unlike, the picture of her father, which gazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened wall; Barnaby, with his vacant look and restless eye; were all in keeping with the place, and actors in the legend. Nay, the very raven, who had hopped upon the table and with the air of some old necromancer appeared to be profoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, was strictly in unison with the rest, and looked like the embodied spirit of evil biding his time of mischief.

‘I scarcely know,’ said the widow, breaking silence, ‘how to begin. You will think my mind disordered.’

‘The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life since you were last here,’ returned Mr Haredale, mildly, ‘shall bear witness for you. Why do you fear to awaken such a suspicion? You do not speak to strangers. You have not to claim our interest or consideration for the first time. Be more yourself. Take heart. Any advice or assistance that I can give you, you know is yours of right, and freely yours.’

‘What if I came, sir,’ she rejoined, ‘I who have but one other friend on earth, to reject your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforth I launch myself upon the world, alone and unassisted, to sink or swim as Heaven may decree!’

‘You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,’ said Mr Haredale calmly, ‘some reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which—if one may entertain the possibility of anything so wild and strange—would have its weight, of course.’

‘That, sir,’ she answered, ‘is the misery of my distress. I can give no reason whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It is my duty, my imperative and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it, I should be a base and guilty wretch. Having said that, my lips are sealed, and I can say no more.’

As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved herself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with a firmer voice and heightened courage.

‘Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is—and yours, dear young lady, will speak for me, I know—that I have lived, since that time we all have bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and gratitude to this family. Heaven is my witness that go where I may, I shall preserve those feelings unimpaired. And it is my witness, too, that they alone impel me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shall turn me, as I hope for mercy.’

‘These are strange riddles,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘In this world, sir,’ she replied, ‘they may, perhaps, never be explained. In another, the Truth will be discovered in its own good time. And may that time,’ she added in a low voice, ‘be far distant!’

‘Let me be sure,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘that I understand you, for I am doubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that you are resolved voluntarily to deprive yourself of those means of support you have received from us so long—that you are determined to resign the annuity we settled on you twenty years ago—to leave house, and home, and goods, and begin life anew—and this, for some secret reason or monstrous fancy which is incapable of explanation, which only now exists, and has been dormant all this time? In the name of God, under what delusion are you labouring?’

‘As I am deeply thankful,’ she made answer, ‘for the kindness of those, alive and dead, who have owned this house; and as I would not have its roof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name being spoken in their hearing; I never will again subsist upon their bounty, or let it help me to subsistence. You do not know,’ she added, suddenly, ‘to what uses it may be applied; into what hands it may pass. I do, and I renounce it.’

‘Surely,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘its uses rest with you.’

‘They did. They rest with me no longer. It may be—it IS—devoted to purposes that mock the dead in their graves. It never can prosper with me. It will bring some other heavy judgement on the head of my dear son, whose innocence will suffer for his mother’s guilt.’

‘What words are these!’ cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with wonder. ‘Among what associates have you fallen? Into what guilt have you ever been betrayed?’

‘I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in intention, though constrained to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions, sir; but believe that I am rather to be pitied than condemned. I must leave my house to-morrow, for while I stay there, it is haunted. My future dwelling, if I am to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poor boy should ever stray this way, do not tempt him to disclose it or have him watched when he returns; for if we are hunted, we must fly again. And now this load is off my mind, I beseech you—and you, dear Miss Haredale, too—to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as you have been used to do. If I die and cannot tell my secret even then (for that may come to pass), it will sit the lighter on my breast in that hour for this day’s work; and on that day, and every day until it comes, I will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more.’

With that, she would have left them, but they detained her, and with many soothing words and kind entreaties, besought her to consider what she did, and above all to repose more freely upon them, and say what weighed so sorely on her mind. Finding her deaf to their persuasions, Mr Haredale suggested, as a last resource, that she should confide in Emma, of whom, as a young person and one of her own sex, she might stand in less dread than of himself. From this proposal, however, she recoiled with the same indescribable repugnance she had manifested when they met. The utmost that could be wrung from her was, a promise that she would receive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean time reconsider her determination and their dissuasions—though any change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition made at last, they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neither eat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip, accordingly went out as they had come, by the private stair and garden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one by the way.

It was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview he had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly human rascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening to everything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly in his mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders for the instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he was thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of duty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is commonly called good company.

They were to return by the coach. As there was an interval of full two hours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment, Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who had no wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and who feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch some messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed to wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry thither such humble viands as they required, he cheerfully assented, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal dinner.

Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and down when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which was strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; and appearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes, after a long inspection of an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and cry in his hoarse tones, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil!’ but whether he addressed his observations to any supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark, is matter of uncertainty.

It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby’s mother; for Mr Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested, was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription recording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the coach was coming.

Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the sound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked into his basket straightway, entreating society in general (as though he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with churchyards) never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top and rolling along the road.

It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was from home, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that it called for. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him from the coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John’s character. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach’s time. He despised gadding about; he looked upon coaches as things that ought to be indicted; as disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless, bustling, busy, horn-blowing contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of men, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and go a-shopping. ‘We know nothing about coaches here, sir,’ John would say, if any unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the offensive vehicles; ‘we don’t book for ‘em; we’d rather not; they’re more trouble than they’re worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait for ‘em you can; but we don’t know anything about ‘em; they may call and they may not—there’s a carrier—he was looked upon as quite good enough for us, when I was a boy.’

She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind, and talked to Barnaby in whispers. But neither he nor any other person spoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her; and so, an alien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and had lived a merry child, a comely girl, a happy wife—where she had known all her enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows.

Chapter 26

‘And you’re not surprised to hear this, Varden?’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Well! You and she have always been the best friends, and you should understand her if anybody does.’

‘I ask your pardon, sir,’ rejoined the locksmith. ‘I didn’t say I understood her. I wouldn’t have the presumption to say that of any woman. It’s not so easily done. But I am not so much surprised, sir, as you expected me to be, certainly.’

‘May I ask why not, my good friend?’

‘I have seen, sir,’ returned the locksmith with evident reluctance, ‘I have seen in connection with her, something that has filled me with distrust and uneasiness. She has made bad friends, how, or when, I don’t know; but that her house is a refuge for one robber and cut-throat at least, I am certain. There, sir! Now it’s out.’

‘Varden!’

‘My own eyes, sir, are my witnesses, and for her sake I would be willingly half-blind, if I could but have the pleasure of mistrusting ‘em. I have kept the secret till now, and it will go no further than yourself, I know; but I tell you that with my own eyes—broad awake—I saw, in the passage of her house one evening after dark, the highwayman who robbed and wounded Mr Edward Chester, and on the same night threatened me.’

‘And you made no effort to detain him?’ said Mr Haredale quickly.

‘Sir,’ returned the locksmith, ‘she herself prevented me—held me, with all her strength, and hung about me until he had got clear off.’ And having gone so far, he related circumstantially all that had passed upon the night in question.

This dialogue was held in a low tone in the locksmith’s little parlour, into which honest Gabriel had shown his visitor on his arrival. Mr Haredale had called upon him to entreat his company to the widow’s, that he might have the assistance of his persuasion and influence; and out of this circumstance the conversation had arisen.

‘I forbore,’ said Gabriel, ‘from repeating one word of this to anybody, as it could do her no good and might do her great harm. I thought and hoped, to say the truth, that she would come to me, and talk to me about it, and tell me how it was; but though I have purposely put myself in her way more than once or twice, she has never touched upon the subject—except by a look. And indeed,’ said the good-natured locksmith, ‘there was a good deal in the look, more than could have been put into a great many words. It said among other matters “Don’t ask me anything” so imploringly, that I didn’t ask her anything. You’ll think me an old fool, I know, sir. If it’s any relief to call me one, pray do.’

‘I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me,’ said Mr Haredale, after a silence. ‘What meaning do you attach to it?’

The locksmith shook his head, and looked doubtfully out of window at the failing light.

‘She cannot have married again,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Not without our knowledge surely, sir.’

‘She may have done so, in the fear that it would lead, if known, to some objection or estrangement. Suppose she married incautiously—it is not improbable, for her existence has been a lonely and monotonous one for many years—and the man turned out a ruffian, she would be anxious to screen him, and yet would revolt from his crimes. This might be. It bears strongly on the whole drift of her discourse yesterday, and would quite explain her conduct. Do you suppose Barnaby is privy to these circumstances?’

‘Quite impossible to say, sir,’ returned the locksmith, shaking his head again: ‘and next to impossible to find out from him. If what you suppose is really the case, I tremble for the lad—a notable person, sir, to put to bad uses—’

‘It is not possible, Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, in a still lower tone of voice than he had spoken yet, ‘that we have been blinded and deceived by this woman from the beginning? It is not possible that this connection was formed in her husband’s lifetime, and led to his and my brother’s—’

‘Good God, sir,’ cried Gabriel, interrupting him, ‘don’t entertain such dark thoughts for a moment. Five-and-twenty years ago, where was there a girl like her? A gay, handsome, laughing, bright-eyed damsel! Think what she was, sir. It makes my heart ache now, even now, though I’m an old man, with a woman for a daughter, to think what she was and what she is. We all change, but that’s with Time; Time does his work honestly, and I don’t mind him. A fig for Time, sir. Use him well, and he’s a hearty fellow, and scorns to have you at a disadvantage. But care and suffering (and those have changed her) are devils, sir—secret, stealthy, undermining devils—who tread down the brightest flowers in Eden, and do more havoc in a month than Time does in a year. Picture to yourself for one minute what Mary was before they went to work with her fresh heart and face—do her that justice—and say whether such a thing is possible.’

‘You’re a good fellow, Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘and are quite right. I have brooded on that subject so long, that every breath of suspicion carries me back to it. You are quite right.’

‘It isn’t, sir,’ cried the locksmith with brightened eyes, and sturdy, honest voice; ‘it isn’t because I courted her before Rudge, and failed, that I say she was too good for him. She would have been as much too good for me. But she WAS too good for him; he wasn’t free and frank enough for her. I don’t reproach his memory with it, poor fellow; I only want to put her before you as she really was. For myself, I’ll keep her old picture in my mind; and thinking of that, and what has altered her, I’ll stand her friend, and try to win her back to peace. And damme, sir,’ cried Gabriel, ‘with your pardon for the word, I’d do the same if she had married fifty highwaymen in a twelvemonth; and think it in the Protestant Manual too, though Martha said it wasn’t, tooth and nail, till doomsday!’

If the dark little parlour had been filled with a dense fog, which, clearing away in an instant, left it all radiance and brightness, it could not have been more suddenly cheered than by this outbreak on the part of the hearty locksmith. In a voice nearly as full and round as his own, Mr Haredale cried ‘Well said!’ and bade him come away without more parley. The locksmith complied right willingly; and both getting into a hackney coach which was waiting at the door, drove off straightway.

They alighted at the street corner, and dismissing their conveyance, walked to the house. To their first knock at the door there was no response. A second met with the like result. But in answer to the third, which was of a more vigorous kind, the parlour window-sash was gently raised, and a musical voice cried:

‘Haredale, my dear fellow, I am extremely glad to see you. How very much you have improved in your appearance since our last meeting! I never saw you looking better. HOW do you do?’

Mr Haredale turned his eyes towards the casement whence the voice proceeded, though there was no need to do so, to recognise the speaker, and Mr Chester waved his hand, and smiled a courteous welcome.

‘The door will be opened immediately,’ he said. ‘There is nobody but a very dilapidated female to perform such offices. You will excuse her infirmities? If she were in a more elevated station of society, she would be gouty. Being but a hewer of wood and drawer of water, she is rheumatic. My dear Haredale, these are natural class distinctions, depend upon it.’

Mr Haredale, whose face resumed its lowering and distrustful look the moment he heard the voice, inclined his head stiffly, and turned his back upon the speaker.

‘Not opened yet,’ said Mr Chester. ‘Dear me! I hope the aged soul has not caught her foot in some unlucky cobweb by the way. She is there at last! Come in, I beg!’

Mr Haredale entered, followed by the locksmith. Turning with a look of great astonishment to the old woman who had opened the door, he inquired for Mrs Rudge—for Barnaby. They were both gone, she replied, wagging her ancient head, for good. There was a gentleman in the parlour, who perhaps could tell them more. That was all SHE knew.

‘Pray, sir,’ said Mr Haredale, presenting himself before this new tenant, ‘where is the person whom I came here to see?’

‘My dear friend,’ he returned, ‘I have not the least idea.’

‘Your trifling is ill-timed,’ retorted the other in a suppressed tone and voice, ‘and its subject ill-chosen. Reserve it for those who are your friends, and do not expend it on me. I lay no claim to the distinction, and have the self-denial to reject it.’

‘My dear, good sir,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you are heated with walking. Sit down, I beg. Our friend is—’

‘Is but a plain honest man,’ returned Mr Haredale, ‘and quite unworthy of your notice.’

‘Gabriel Varden by name, sir,’ said the locksmith bluntly.

‘A worthy English yeoman!’ said Mr Chester. ‘A most worthy yeoman, of whom I have frequently heard my son Ned—darling fellow—speak, and have often wished to see. Varden, my good friend, I am glad to know you. You wonder now,’ he said, turning languidly to Mr Haredale, ‘to see me here. Now, I am sure you do.’

Mr Haredale glanced at him—not fondly or admiringly—smiled, and held his peace.

‘The mystery is solved in a moment,’ said Mr Chester; ‘in a moment. Will you step aside with me one instant. You remember our little compact in reference to Ned, and your dear niece, Haredale? You remember the list of assistants in their innocent intrigue? You remember these two people being among them? My dear fellow, congratulate yourself, and me. I have bought them off.’

‘You have done what?’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Bought them off,’ returned his smiling friend. ‘I have found it necessary to take some active steps towards setting this boy and girl attachment quite at rest, and have begun by removing these two agents. You are surprised? Who CAN withstand the influence of a little money! They wanted it, and have been bought off. We have nothing more to fear from them. They are gone.’

‘Gone!’ echoed Mr Haredale. ‘Where?’

‘My dear fellow—and you must permit me to say again, that you never looked so young; so positively boyish as you do to-night—the Lord knows where; I believe Columbus himself wouldn’t find them. Between you and me they have their hidden reasons, but upon that point I have pledged myself to secrecy. She appointed to see you here to-night, I know, but found it inconvenient, and couldn’t wait. Here is the key of the door. I am afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large; but as the tenement is yours, your good-nature will excuse that, Haredale, I am certain!’

Chapter 27

Mr Haredale stood in the widow’s parlour with the door-key in his hand, gazing by turns at Mr Chester and at Gabriel Varden, and occasionally glancing downward at the key as in the hope that of its own accord it would unlock the mystery; until Mr Chester, putting on his hat and gloves, and sweetly inquiring whether they were walking in the same direction, recalled him to himself.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Our roads diverge—widely, as you know. For the present, I shall remain here.’

‘You will be hipped, Haredale; you will be miserable, melancholy, utterly wretched,’ returned the other. ‘It’s a place of the very last description for a man of your temper. I know it will make you very miserable.’

‘Let it,’ said Mr Haredale, sitting down; ‘and thrive upon the thought. Good night!’

Feigning to be wholly unconscious of the abrupt wave of the hand which rendered this farewell tantamount to a dismissal, Mr Chester retorted with a bland and heartfelt benediction, and inquired of Gabriel in what direction HE was going.

‘Yours, sir, would be too much honour for the like of me,’ replied the locksmith, hesitating.

‘I wish you to remain here a little while, Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, without looking towards them. ‘I have a word or two to say to you.’

‘I will not intrude upon your conference another moment,’ said Mr Chester with inconceivable politeness. ‘May it be satisfactory to you both! God bless you!’ So saying, and bestowing upon the locksmith a most refulgent smile, he left them.

‘A deplorably constituted creature, that rugged person,’ he said, as he walked along the street; ‘he is an atrocity that carries its own punishment along with it—a bear that gnaws himself. And here is one of the inestimable advantages of having a perfect command over one’s inclinations. I have been tempted in these two short interviews, to draw upon that fellow, fifty times. Five men in six would have yielded to the impulse. By suppressing mine, I wound him deeper and more keenly than if I were the best swordsman in all Europe, and he the worst. You are the wise man’s very last resource,’ he said, tapping the hilt of his weapon; ‘we can but appeal to you when all else is said and done. To come to you before, and thereby spare our adversaries so much, is a barbarian mode of warfare, quite unworthy of any man with the remotest pretensions to delicacy of feeling, or refinement.’

He smiled so very pleasantly as he communed with himself after this manner, that a beggar was emboldened to follow for alms, and to dog his footsteps for some distance. He was gratified by the circumstance, feeling it complimentary to his power of feature, and as a reward suffered the man to follow him until he called a chair, when he graciously dismissed him with a fervent blessing.

‘Which is as easy as cursing,’ he wisely added, as he took his seat, ‘and more becoming to the face.—To Clerkenwell, my good creatures, if you please!’ The chairmen were rendered quite vivacious by having such a courteous burden, and to Clerkenwell they went at a fair round trot.

Alighting at a certain point he had indicated to them upon the road, and paying them something less than they expected from a fare of such gentle speech, he turned into the street in which the locksmith dwelt, and presently stood beneath the shadow of the Golden Key. Mr Tappertit, who was hard at work by lamplight, in a corner of the workshop, remained unconscious of his presence until a hand upon his shoulder made him start and turn his head.

‘Industry,’ said Mr Chester, ‘is the soul of business, and the keystone of prosperity. Mr Tappertit, I shall expect you to invite me to dinner when you are Lord Mayor of London.’

‘Sir,’ returned the ‘prentice, laying down his hammer, and rubbing his nose on the back of a very sooty hand, ‘I scorn the Lord Mayor and everything that belongs to him. We must have another state of society, sir, before you catch me being Lord Mayor. How de do, sir?’

‘The better, Mr Tappertit, for looking into your ingenuous face once more. I hope you are well.’

‘I am as well, sir,’ said Sim, standing up to get nearer to his ear, and whispering hoarsely, ‘as any man can be under the aggrawations to which I am exposed. My life’s a burden to me. If it wasn’t for wengeance, I’d play at pitch and toss with it on the losing hazard.’

‘Is Mrs Varden at home?’ said Mr Chester.

‘Sir,’ returned Sim, eyeing him over with a look of concentrated expression,—‘she is. Did you wish to see her?’

Mr Chester nodded.

‘Then come this way, sir,’ said Sim, wiping his face upon his apron. ‘Follow me, sir.—Would you permit me to whisper in your ear, one half a second?’

‘By all means.’

Mr Tappertit raised himself on tiptoe, applied his lips to Mr Chester’s ear, drew back his head without saying anything, looked hard at him, applied them to his ear again, again drew back, and finally whispered—‘The name is Joseph Willet. Hush! I say no more.’

Having said that much, he beckoned the visitor with a mysterious aspect to follow him to the parlour-door, where he announced him in the voice of a gentleman-usher. ‘Mr Chester.’

‘And not Mr Ed’dard, mind,’ said Sim, looking into the door again, and adding this by way of postscript in his own person; ‘it’s his father.’

‘But do not let his father,’ said Mr Chester, advancing hat in hand, as he observed the effect of this last explanatory announcement, ‘do not let his father be any check or restraint on your domestic occupations, Miss Varden.’

‘Oh! Now! There! An’t I always a-saying it!’ exclaimed Miggs, clapping her hands. ‘If he an’t been and took Missis for her own daughter. Well, she DO look like it, that she do. Only think of that, mim!’

‘Is it possible,’ said Mr Chester in his softest tones, ‘that this is Mrs Varden! I am amazed. That is not your daughter, Mrs Varden? No, no. Your sister.’

‘My daughter, indeed, sir,’ returned Mrs V., blushing with great juvenility.

‘Ah, Mrs Varden!’ cried the visitor. ‘Ah, ma’am—humanity is indeed a happy lot, when we can repeat ourselves in others, and still be young as they. You must allow me to salute you—the custom of the country, my dear madam—your daughter too.’

Dolly showed some reluctance to perform this ceremony, but was sharply reproved by Mrs Varden, who insisted on her undergoing it that minute. For pride, she said with great severity, was one of the seven deadly sins, and humility and lowliness of heart were virtues. Wherefore she desired that Dolly would be kissed immediately, on pain of her just displeasure; at the same time giving her to understand that whatever she saw her mother do, she might safely do herself, without being at the trouble of any reasoning or reflection on the subject—which, indeed, was offensive and undutiful, and in direct contravention of the church catechism.

Thus admonished, Dolly complied, though by no means willingly; for there was a broad, bold look of admiration in Mr Chester’s face, refined and polished though it sought to be, which distressed her very much. As she stood with downcast eyes, not liking to look up and meet his, he gazed upon her with an approving air, and then turned to her mother.

‘My friend Gabriel (whose acquaintance I only made this very evening) should be a happy man, Mrs Varden.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs V., shaking her head.

‘Ah!’ echoed Miggs.

‘Is that the case?’ said Mr Chester, compassionately. ‘Dear me!’

‘Master has no intentions, sir,’ murmured Miggs as she sidled up to him, ‘but to be as grateful as his natur will let him, for everythink he owns which it is in his powers to appreciate. But we never, sir’—said Miggs, looking sideways at Mrs Varden, and interlarding her discourse with a sigh—‘we never know the full value of SOME wines and fig-trees till we lose ‘em. So much the worse, sir, for them as has the slighting of ‘em on their consciences when they’re gone to be in full blow elsewhere.’ And Miss Miggs cast up her eyes to signify where that might be.

As Mrs Varden distinctly heard, and was intended to hear, all that Miggs said, and as these words appeared to convey in metaphorical terms a presage or foreboding that she would at some early period droop beneath her trials and take an easy flight towards the stars, she immediately began to languish, and taking a volume of the Manual from a neighbouring table, leant her arm upon it as though she were Hope and that her Anchor. Mr Chester perceiving this, and seeing how the volume was lettered on the back, took it gently from her hand, and turned the fluttering leaves.

‘My favourite book, dear madam. How often, how very often in his early life—before he can remember’—(this clause was strictly true) ‘have I deduced little easy moral lessons from its pages, for my dear son Ned! You know Ned?’

Mrs Varden had that honour, and a fine affable young gentleman he was.

‘You’re a mother, Mrs Varden,’ said Mr Chester, taking a pinch of snuff, ‘and you know what I, as a father, feel, when he is praised. He gives me some uneasiness—much uneasiness—he’s of a roving nature, ma’am—from flower to flower—from sweet to sweet—but his is the butterfly time of life, and we must not be hard upon such trifling.’

He glanced at Dolly. She was attending evidently to what he said. Just what he desired!

‘The only thing I object to in this little trait of Ned’s, is,’ said Mr Chester, ‘—and the mention of his name reminds me, by the way, that I am about to beg the favour of a minute’s talk with you alone—the only thing I object to in it, is, that it DOES partake of insincerity. Now, however I may attempt to disguise the fact from myself in my affection for Ned, still I always revert to this—that if we are not sincere, we are nothing. Nothing upon earth. Let us be sincere, my dear madam—’

‘—and Protestant,’ murmured Mrs Varden.

‘—and Protestant above all things. Let us be sincere and Protestant, strictly moral, strictly just (though always with a leaning towards mercy), strictly honest, and strictly true, and we gain—it is a slight point, certainly, but still it is something tangible; we throw up a groundwork and foundation, so to speak, of goodness, on which we may afterwards erect some worthy superstructure.’

Now, to be sure, Mrs Varden thought, here is a perfect character. Here is a meek, righteous, thoroughgoing Christian, who, having mastered all these qualities, so difficult of attainment; who, having dropped a pinch of salt on the tails of all the cardinal virtues, and caught them every one; makes light of their possession, and pants for more morality. For the good woman never doubted (as many good men and women never do), that this slighting kind of profession, this setting so little store by great matters, this seeming to say, ‘I am not proud, I am what you hear, but I consider myself no better than other people; let us change the subject, pray’—was perfectly genuine and true. He so contrived it, and said it in that way that it appeared to have been forced from him, and its effect was marvellous.

Aware of the impression he had made—few men were quicker than he at such discoveries—Mr Chester followed up the blow by propounding certain virtuous maxims, somewhat vague and general in their nature, doubtless, and occasionally partaking of the character of truisms, worn a little out at elbow, but delivered in so charming a voice and with such uncommon serenity and peace of mind, that they answered as well as the best. Nor is this to be wondered at; for as hollow vessels produce a far more musical sound in falling than those which are substantial, so it will oftentimes be found that sentiments which have nothing in them make the loudest ringing in the world, and are the most relished.

Mr Chester, with the volume gently extended in one hand, and with the other planted lightly on his breast, talked to them in the most delicious manner possible; and quite enchanted all his hearers, notwithstanding their conflicting interests and thoughts. Even Dolly, who, between his keen regards and her eyeing over by Mr Tappertit, was put quite out of countenance, could not help owning within herself that he was the sweetest-spoken gentleman she had ever seen. Even Miss Miggs, who was divided between admiration of Mr Chester and a mortal jealousy of her young mistress, had sufficient leisure to be propitiated. Even Mr Tappertit, though occupied as we have seen in gazing at his heart’s delight, could not wholly divert his thoughts from the voice of the other charmer. Mrs Varden, to her own private thinking, had never been so improved in all her life; and when Mr Chester, rising and craving permission to speak with her apart, took her by the hand and led her at arm’s length upstairs to the best sitting-room, she almost deemed him something more than human.

‘Dear madam,’ he said, pressing her hand delicately to his lips; ‘be seated.’

Mrs Varden called up quite a courtly air, and became seated.

‘You guess my object?’ said Mr Chester, drawing a chair towards her. ‘You divine my purpose? I am an affectionate parent, my dear Mrs Varden.’

‘That I am sure you are, sir,’ said Mrs V.

‘Thank you,’ returned Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box lid. ‘Heavy moral responsibilities rest with parents, Mrs Varden.’

Mrs Varden slightly raised her hands, shook her head, and looked at the ground as though she saw straight through the globe, out at the other end, and into the immensity of space beyond.

‘I may confide in you,’ said Mr Chester, ‘without reserve. I love my son, ma’am, dearly; and loving him as I do, I would save him from working certain misery. You know of his attachment to Miss Haredale. You have abetted him in it, and very kind of you it was to do so. I am deeply obliged to you—most deeply obliged to you—for your interest in his behalf; but my dear ma’am, it is a mistaken one, I do assure you.’

Mrs Varden stammered that she was sorry—

‘Sorry, my dear ma’am,’ he interposed. ‘Never be sorry for what is so very amiable, so very good in intention, so perfectly like yourself. But there are grave and weighty reasons, pressing family considerations, and apart even from these, points of religious difference, which interpose themselves, and render their union impossible; utterly im-possible. I should have mentioned these circumstances to your husband; but he has—you will excuse my saying this so freely—he has NOT your quickness of apprehension or depth of moral sense. What an extremely airy house this is, and how beautifully kept! For one like myself—a widower so long—these tokens of female care and superintendence have inexpressible charms.’

Mrs Varden began to think (she scarcely knew why) that the young Mr Chester must be in the wrong and the old Mr Chester must be in the right.

‘My son Ned,’ resumed her tempter with his most winning air, ‘has had, I am told, your lovely daughter’s aid, and your open-hearted husband’s.’

‘—Much more than mine, sir,’ said Mrs Varden; ‘a great deal more. I have often had my doubts. It’s a—’

‘A bad example,’ suggested Mr Chester. ‘It is. No doubt it is. Your daughter is at that age when to set before her an encouragement for young persons to rebel against their parents on this most important point, is particularly injudicious. You are quite right. I ought to have thought of that myself, but it escaped me, I confess—so far superior are your sex to ours, dear madam, in point of penetration and sagacity.’

Mrs Varden looked as wise as if she had really said something to deserve this compliment—firmly believed she had, in short—and her faith in her own shrewdness increased considerably.

‘My dear ma’am,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you embolden me to be plain with you. My son and I are at variance on this point. The young lady and her natural guardian differ upon it, also. And the closing point is, that my son is bound by his duty to me, by his honour, by every solemn tie and obligation, to marry some one else.’

‘Engaged to marry another lady!’ quoth Mrs Varden, holding up her hands.

‘My dear madam, brought up, educated, and trained, expressly for that purpose. Expressly for that purpose.—Miss Haredale, I am told, is a very charming creature.’

‘I am her foster-mother, and should know—the best young lady in the world,’ said Mrs Varden.

‘I have not the smallest doubt of it. I am sure she is. And you, who have stood in that tender relation towards her, are bound to consult her happiness. Now, can I—as I have said to Haredale, who quite agrees—can I possibly stand by, and suffer her to throw herself away (although she IS of a Catholic family), upon a young fellow who, as yet, has no heart at all? It is no imputation upon him to say he has not, because young men who have plunged deeply into the frivolities and conventionalities of society, very seldom have. Their hearts never grow, my dear ma’am, till after thirty. I don’t believe, no, I do NOT believe, that I had any heart myself when I was Ned’s age.’

‘Oh sir,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘I think you must have had. It’s impossible that you, who have so much now, can ever have been without any.’

‘I hope,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders meekly, ‘I have a little; I hope, a very little—Heaven knows! But to return to Ned; I have no doubt you thought, and therefore interfered benevolently in his behalf, that I objected to Miss Haredale. How very natural! My dear madam, I object to him—to him—emphatically to Ned himself.’

Mrs Varden was perfectly aghast at the disclosure.

‘He has, if he honourably fulfils this solemn obligation of which I have told you—and he must be honourable, dear Mrs Varden, or he is no son of mine—a fortune within his reach. He is of most expensive, ruinously expensive habits; and if, in a moment of caprice and wilfulness, he were to marry this young lady, and so deprive himself of the means of gratifying the tastes to which he has been so long accustomed, he would—my dear madam, he would break the gentle creature’s heart. Mrs Varden, my good lady, my dear soul, I put it to you—is such a sacrifice to be endured? Is the female heart a thing to be trifled with in this way? Ask your own, my dear madam. Ask your own, I beseech you.’

‘Truly,’ thought Mrs Varden, ‘this gentleman is a saint. But,’ she added aloud, and not unnaturally, ‘if you take Miss Emma’s lover away, sir, what becomes of the poor thing’s heart then?’

‘The very point,’ said Mr Chester, not at all abashed, ‘to which I wished to lead you. A marriage with my son, whom I should be compelled to disown, would be followed by years of misery; they would be separated, my dear madam, in a twelvemonth. To break off this attachment, which is more fancied than real, as you and I know very well, will cost the dear girl but a few tears, and she is happy again. Take the case of your own daughter, the young lady downstairs, who is your breathing image’—Mrs Varden coughed and simpered—‘there is a young man (I am sorry to say, a dissolute fellow, of very indifferent character) of whom I have heard Ned speak—Bullet was it—Pullet—Mullet—’

‘There is a young man of the name of Joseph Willet, sir,’ said Mrs Varden, folding her hands loftily.

‘That’s he,’ cried Mr Chester. ‘Suppose this Joseph Willet now, were to aspire to the affections of your charming daughter, and were to engage them.’

‘It would be like his impudence,’ interposed Mrs Varden, bridling, ‘to dare to think of such a thing!’

‘My dear madam, that’s the whole case. I know it would be like his impudence. It is like Ned’s impudence to do as he has done; but you would not on that account, or because of a few tears from your beautiful daughter, refrain from checking their inclinations in their birth. I meant to have reasoned thus with your husband when I saw him at Mrs Rudge’s this evening—’

‘My husband,’ said Mrs Varden, interposing with emotion, ‘would be a great deal better at home than going to Mrs Rudge’s so often. I don’t know what he does there. I don’t see what occasion he has to busy himself in her affairs at all, sir.’

‘If I don’t appear to express my concurrence in those last sentiments of yours,’ returned Mr Chester, ‘quite so strongly as you might desire, it is because his being there, my dear madam, and not proving conversational, led me hither, and procured me the happiness of this interview with one, in whom the whole management, conduct, and prosperity of her family are centred, I perceive.’

With that he took Mrs Varden’s hand again, and having pressed it to his lips with the highflown gallantry of the day—a little burlesqued to render it the more striking in the good lady’s unaccustomed eyes—proceeded in the same strain of mingled sophistry, cajolery, and flattery, to entreat that her utmost influence might be exerted to restrain her husband and daughter from any further promotion of Edward’s suit to Miss Haredale, and from aiding or abetting either party in any way. Mrs Varden was but a woman, and had her share of vanity, obstinacy, and love of power. She entered into a secret treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, with her insinuating visitor; and really did believe, as many others would have done who saw and heard him, that in so doing she furthered the ends of truth, justice, and morality, in a very uncommon degree.

Overjoyed by the success of his negotiation, and mightily amused within himself, Mr Chester conducted her downstairs in the same state as before; and having repeated the previous ceremony of salutation, which also as before comprehended Dolly, took his leave; first completing the conquest of Miss Miggs’s heart, by inquiring if ‘this young lady’ would light him to the door.

‘Oh, mim,’ said Miggs, returning with the candle. ‘Oh gracious me, mim, there’s a gentleman! Was there ever such an angel to talk as he is—and such a sweet-looking man! So upright and noble, that he seems to despise the very ground he walks on; and yet so mild and condescending, that he seems to say “but I will take notice on it too.” And to think of his taking you for Miss Dolly, and Miss Dolly for your sister—Oh, my goodness me, if I was master wouldn’t I be jealous of him!’

Mrs Varden reproved her handmaid for this vain-speaking; but very gently and mildly—quite smilingly indeed—remarking that she was a foolish, giddy, light-headed girl, whose spirits carried her beyond all bounds, and who didn’t mean half she said, or she would be quite angry with her.

‘For my part,’ said Dolly, in a thoughtful manner, ‘I half believe Mr Chester is something like Miggs in that respect. For all his politeness and pleasant speaking, I am pretty sure he was making game of us, more than once.’

‘If you venture to say such a thing again, and to speak ill of people behind their backs in my presence, miss,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘I shall insist upon your taking a candle and going to bed directly. How dare you, Dolly? I’m astonished at you. The rudeness of your whole behaviour this evening has been disgraceful. Did anybody ever hear,’ cried the enraged matron, bursting into tears, ‘of a daughter telling her own mother she has been made game of!’

What a very uncertain temper Mrs Varden’s was!

Chapter 28

Repairing to a noted coffee-house in Covent Garden when he left the locksmith’s, Mr Chester sat long over a late dinner, entertaining himself exceedingly with the whimsical recollection of his recent proceedings, and congratulating himself very much on his great cleverness. Influenced by these thoughts, his face wore an expression so benign and tranquil, that the waiter in immediate attendance upon him felt he could almost have died in his defence, and settled in his own mind (until the receipt of the bill, and a very small fee for very great trouble disabused it of the idea) that such an apostolic customer was worth half-a-dozen of the ordinary run of visitors, at least.

A visit to the gaming-table—not as a heated, anxious venturer, but one whom it was quite a treat to see staking his two or three pieces in deference to the follies of society, and smiling with equal benevolence on winners and losers—made it late before he reached home. It was his custom to bid his servant go to bed at his own time unless he had orders to the contrary, and to leave a candle on the common stair. There was a lamp on the landing by which he could always light it when he came home late, and having a key of the door about him he could enter and go to bed at his pleasure.

He opened the glass of the dull lamp, whose wick, burnt up and swollen like a drunkard’s nose, came flying off in little carbuncles at the candle’s touch, and scattering hot sparks about, rendered it matter of some difficulty to kindle the lazy taper; when a noise, as of a man snoring deeply some steps higher up, caused him to pause and listen. It was the heavy breathing of a sleeper, close at hand. Some fellow had lain down on the open staircase, and was slumbering soundly. Having lighted the candle at length and opened his own door, he softly ascended, holding the taper high above his head, and peering cautiously about; curious to see what kind of man had chosen so comfortless a shelter for his lodging.

With his head upon the landing and his great limbs flung over half-a-dozen stairs, as carelessly as though he were a dead man whom drunken bearers had thrown down by chance, there lay Hugh, face uppermost, his long hair drooping like some wild weed upon his wooden pillow, and his huge chest heaving with the sounds which so unwontedly disturbed the place and hour.

He who came upon him so unexpectedly was about to break his rest by thrusting him with his foot, when, glancing at his upturned face, he arrested himself in the very action, and stooping down and shading the candle with his hand, examined his features closely. Close as his first inspection was, it did not suffice, for he passed the light, still carefully shaded as before, across and across his face, and yet observed him with a searching eye.

While he was thus engaged, the sleeper, without any starting or turning round, awoke. There was a kind of fascination in meeting his steady gaze so suddenly, which took from the other the presence of mind to withdraw his eyes, and forced him, as it were, to meet his look. So they remained staring at each other, until Mr Chester at last broke silence, and asked him in a low voice, why he lay sleeping there.

‘I thought,’ said Hugh, struggling into a sitting posture and gazing at him intently, still, ‘that you were a part of my dream. It was a curious one. I hope it may never come true, master.’

‘What makes you shiver?’

‘The—the cold, I suppose,’ he growled, as he shook himself and rose. ‘I hardly know where I am yet.’

‘Do you know me?’ said Mr Chester.

‘Ay, I know you,’ he answered. ‘I was dreaming of you—we’re not where I thought we were. That’s a comfort.’

He looked round him as he spoke, and in particular looked above his head, as though he half expected to be standing under some object which had had existence in his dream. Then he rubbed his eyes and shook himself again, and followed his conductor into his own rooms.

Mr Chester lighted the candles which stood upon his dressing-table, and wheeling an easy-chair towards the fire, which was yet burning, stirred up a cheerful blaze, sat down before it, and bade his uncouth visitor ‘Come here,’ and draw his boots off.

‘You have been drinking again, my fine fellow,’ he said, as Hugh went down on one knee, and did as he was told.

‘As I’m alive, master, I’ve walked the twelve long miles, and waited here I don’t know how long, and had no drink between my lips since dinner-time at noon.’

‘And can you do nothing better, my pleasant friend, than fall asleep, and shake the very building with your snores?’ said Mr Chester. ‘Can’t you dream in your straw at home, dull dog as you are, that you need come here to do it?—Reach me those slippers, and tread softly.’

Hugh obeyed in silence.

‘And harkee, my dear young gentleman,’ said Mr Chester, as he put them on, ‘the next time you dream, don’t let it be of me, but of some dog or horse with whom you are better acquainted. Fill the glass once—you’ll find it and the bottle in the same place—and empty it to keep yourself awake.’

Hugh obeyed again even more zealously—and having done so, presented himself before his patron.

‘Now,’ said Mr Chester, ‘what do you want with me?’

‘There was news to-day,’ returned Hugh. ‘Your son was at our house—came down on horseback. He tried to see the young woman, but couldn’t get sight of her. He left some letter or some message which our Joe had charge of, but he and the old one quarrelled about it when your son had gone, and the old one wouldn’t let it be delivered. He says (that’s the old one does) that none of his people shall interfere and get him into trouble. He’s a landlord, he says, and lives on everybody’s custom.’

‘He’s a jewel,’ smiled Mr Chester, ‘and the better for being a dull one.—Well?’

‘Varden’s daughter—that’s the girl I kissed—’

‘—and stole the bracelet from upon the king’s highway,’ said Mr Chester, composedly. ‘Yes; what of her?’

‘She wrote a note at our house to the young woman, saying she lost the letter I brought to you, and you burnt. Our Joe was to carry it, but the old one kept him at home all next day, on purpose that he shouldn’t. Next morning he gave it to me to take; and here it is.’

‘You didn’t deliver it then, my good friend?’ said Mr Chester, twirling Dolly’s note between his finger and thumb, and feigning to be surprised.

‘I supposed you’d want to have it,’ retorted Hugh. ‘Burn one, burn all, I thought.’

‘My devil-may-care acquaintance,’ said Mr Chester—‘really if you do not draw some nicer distinctions, your career will be cut short with most surprising suddenness. Don’t you know that the letter you brought to me, was directed to my son who resides in this very place? And can you descry no difference between his letters and those addressed to other people?’

‘If you don’t want it,’ said Hugh, disconcerted by this reproof, for he had expected high praise, ‘give it me back, and I’ll deliver it. I don’t know how to please you, master.’

‘I shall deliver it,’ returned his patron, putting it away after a moment’s consideration, ‘myself. Does the young lady walk out, on fine mornings?’

‘Mostly—about noon is her usual time.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, alone.’

‘Where?’

‘In the grounds before the house.—Them that the footpath crosses.’

‘If the weather should be fine, I may throw myself in her way to-morrow, perhaps,’ said Mr Chester, as coolly as if she were one of his ordinary acquaintance. ‘Mr Hugh, if I should ride up to the Maypole door, you will do me the favour only to have seen me once. You must suppress your gratitude, and endeavour to forget my forbearance in the matter of the bracelet. It is natural it should break out, and it does you honour; but when other folks are by, you must, for your own sake and safety, be as like your usual self as though you owed me no obligation whatever, and had never stood within these walls. You comprehend me?’

Hugh understood him perfectly. After a pause he muttered that he hoped his patron would involve him in no trouble about this last letter; for he had kept it back solely with the view of pleasing him. He was continuing in this strain, when Mr Chester with a most beneficent and patronising air cut him short by saying:

‘My good fellow, you have my promise, my word, my sealed bond (for a verbal pledge with me is quite as good), that I will always protect you so long as you deserve it. Now, do set your mind at rest. Keep it at ease, I beg of you. When a man puts himself in my power so thoroughly as you have done, I really feel as though he had a kind of claim upon me. I am more disposed to mercy and forbearance under such circumstances than I can tell you, Hugh. Do look upon me as your protector, and rest assured, I entreat you, that on the subject of that indiscretion, you may preserve, as long as you and I are friends, the lightest heart that ever beat within a human breast. Fill that glass once more to cheer you on your road homewards—I am really quite ashamed to think how far you have to go—and then God bless you for the night.’

‘They think,’ said Hugh, when he had tossed the liquor down, ‘that I am sleeping soundly in the stable. Ha ha ha! The stable door is shut, but the steed’s gone, master.’

‘You are a most convivial fellow,’ returned his friend, ‘and I love your humour of all things. Good night! Take the greatest possible care of yourself, for my sake!’

It was remarkable that during the whole interview, each had endeavoured to catch stolen glances of the other’s face, and had never looked full at it. They interchanged one brief and hasty glance as Hugh went out, averted their eyes directly, and so separated. Hugh closed the double doors behind him, carefully and without noise; and Mr Chester remained in his easy-chair, with his gaze intently fixed upon the fire.

‘Well!’ he said, after meditating for a long time—and said with a deep sigh and an uneasy shifting of his attitude, as though he dismissed some other subject from his thoughts, and returned to that which had held possession of them all the day—‘the plot thickens; I have thrown the shell; it will explode, I think, in eight-and-forty hours, and should scatter these good folks amazingly. We shall see!’

He went to bed and fell asleep, but had not slept long when he started up and thought that Hugh was at the outer door, calling in a strange voice, very different from his own, to be admitted. The delusion was so strong upon him, and was so full of that vague terror of the night in which such visions have their being, that he rose, and taking his sheathed sword in his hand, opened the door, and looked out upon the staircase, and towards the spot where Hugh had lain asleep; and even spoke to him by name. But all was dark and quiet, and creeping back to bed again, he fell, after an hour’s uneasy watching, into a second sleep, and woke no more till morning.

Chapter 29

The thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law of gravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The bright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal to their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon, or in the stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who, learning to know each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten such small heavenly constellations as Charity, Forbearance, Universal Love, and Mercy, although they shine by night and day so brightly that the blind may see them; and who, looking upward at the spangled sky, see nothing there but the reflection of their own great wisdom and book-learning.

It is curious to imagine these people of the world, busy in thought, turning their eyes towards the countless spheres that shine above us, and making them reflect the only images their minds contain. The man who lives but in the breath of princes, has nothing in his sight but stars for courtiers’ breasts. The envious man beholds his neighbours’ honours even in the sky; to the money-hoarder, and the mass of worldly folk, the whole great universe above glitters with sterling coin—fresh from the mint—stamped with the sovereign’s head—coming always between them and heaven, turn where they may. So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.

Everything was fresh and gay, as though the world were but that morning made, when Mr Chester rode at a tranquil pace along the Forest road. Though early in the season, it was warm and genial weather; the trees were budding into leaf, the hedges and the grass were green, the air was musical with songs of birds, and high above them all the lark poured out her richest melody. In shady spots, the morning dew sparkled on each young leaf and blade of grass; and where the sun was shining, some diamond drops yet glistened brightly, as in unwillingness to leave so fair a world, and have such brief existence. Even the light wind, whose rustling was as gentle to the ear as softly-falling water, had its hope and promise; and, leaving a pleasant fragrance in its track as it went fluttering by, whispered of its intercourse with Summer, and of his happy coming.

The solitary rider went glancing on among the trees, from sunlight into shade and back again, at the same even pace—looking about him, certainly, from time to time, but with no greater thought of the day or the scene through which he moved, than that he was fortunate (being choicely dressed) to have such favourable weather. He smiled very complacently at such times, but rather as if he were satisfied with himself than with anything else: and so went riding on, upon his chestnut cob, as pleasant to look upon as his own horse, and probably far less sensitive to the many cheerful influences by which he was surrounded.

In the course of time, the Maypole’s massive chimneys rose upon his view: but he quickened not his pace one jot, and with the same cool gravity rode up to the tavern porch. John Willet, who was toasting his red face before a great fire in the bar, and who, with surpassing foresight and quickness of apprehension, had been thinking, as he looked at the blue sky, that if that state of things lasted much longer, it might ultimately become necessary to leave off fires and throw the windows open, issued forth to hold his stirrup; calling lustily for Hugh.

‘Oh, you’re here, are you, sir?’ said John, rather surprised by the quickness with which he appeared. ‘Take this here valuable animal into the stable, and have more than particular care of him if you want to keep your place. A mortal lazy fellow, sir; he needs a deal of looking after.’

‘But you have a son,’ returned Mr Chester, giving his bridle to Hugh as he dismounted, and acknowledging his salute by a careless motion of his hand towards his hat. ‘Why don’t you make HIM useful?’

‘Why, the truth is, sir,’ replied John with great importance, ‘that my son—what, you’re a-listening are you, villain?’

‘Who’s listening?’ returned Hugh angrily. ‘A treat, indeed, to hear YOU speak! Would you have me take him in till he’s cool?’

‘Walk him up and down further off then, sir,’ cried old John, ‘and when you see me and a noble gentleman entertaining ourselves with talk, keep your distance. If you don’t know your distance, sir,’ added Mr Willet, after an enormously long pause, during which he fixed his great dull eyes on Hugh, and waited with exemplary patience for any little property in the way of ideas that might come to him, ‘we’ll find a way to teach you, pretty soon.’

Hugh shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and in his reckless swaggering way, crossed to the other side of the little green, and there, with the bridle slung loosely over his shoulder, led the horse to and fro, glancing at his master every now and then from under his bushy eyebrows, with as sinister an aspect as one would desire to see.

Mr Chester, who, without appearing to do so, had eyed him attentively during this brief dispute, stepped into the porch, and turning abruptly to Mr Willet, said,

‘You keep strange servants, John.’

‘Strange enough to look at, sir, certainly,’ answered the host; ‘but out of doors; for horses, dogs, and the likes of that; there an’t a better man in England than is that Maypole Hugh yonder. He an’t fit for indoors,’ added Mr Willet, with the confidential air of a man who felt his own superior nature. ‘I do that; but if that chap had only a little imagination, sir—’

‘He’s an active fellow now, I dare swear,’ said Mr Chester, in a musing tone, which seemed to suggest that he would have said the same had there been nobody to hear him.

‘Active, sir!’ retorted John, with quite an expression in his face; ‘that chap! Hallo there! You, sir! Bring that horse here, and go and hang my wig on the weathercock, to show this gentleman whether you’re one of the lively sort or not.’

Hugh made no answer, but throwing the bridle to his master, and snatching his wig from his head, in a manner so unceremonious and hasty that the action discomposed Mr Willet not a little, though performed at his own special desire, climbed nimbly to the very summit of the maypole before the house, and hanging the wig upon the weathercock, sent it twirling round like a roasting jack. Having achieved this performance, he cast it on the ground, and sliding down the pole with inconceivable rapidity, alighted on his feet almost as soon as it had touched the earth.

‘There, sir,’ said John, relapsing into his usual stolid state, ‘you won’t see that at many houses, besides the Maypole, where there’s good accommodation for man and beast—nor that neither, though that with him is nothing.’

This last remark bore reference to his vaulting on horseback, as upon Mr Chester’s first visit, and quickly disappearing by the stable gate.

‘That with him is nothing,’ repeated Mr Willet, brushing his wig with his wrist, and inwardly resolving to distribute a small charge for dust and damage to that article of dress, through the various items of his guest’s bill; ‘he’ll get out of a’most any winder in the house. There never was such a chap for flinging himself about and never hurting his bones. It’s my opinion, sir, that it’s pretty nearly allowing to his not having any imagination; and that if imagination could be (which it can’t) knocked into him, he’d never be able to do it any more. But we was a-talking, sir, about my son.’

‘True, Willet, true,’ said his visitor, turning again towards the landlord with his accustomed serenity of face. ‘My good friend, what about him?’

It has been reported that Mr Willet, previously to making answer, winked. But as he was never known to be guilty of such lightness of conduct either before or afterwards, this may be looked upon as a malicious invention of his enemies—founded, perhaps, upon the undisputed circumstance of his taking his guest by the third breast button of his coat, counting downwards from the chin, and pouring his reply into his ear:

‘Sir,’ whispered John, with dignity, ‘I know my duty. We want no love-making here, sir, unbeknown to parents. I respect a certain young gentleman, taking him in the light of a young gentleman; I respect a certain young lady, taking her in the light of a young lady; but of the two as a couple, I have no knowledge, sir, none whatever. My son, sir, is upon his patrole.’

‘I thought I saw him looking through the corner window but this moment,’ said Mr Chester, who naturally thought that being on patrole, implied walking about somewhere.

‘No doubt you did, sir,’ returned John. ‘He is upon his patrole of honour, sir, not to leave the premises. Me and some friends of mine that use the Maypole of an evening, sir, considered what was best to be done with him, to prevent his doing anything unpleasant in opposing your desires; and we’ve put him on his patrole. And what’s more, sir, he won’t be off his patrole for a pretty long time to come, I can tell you that.’

When he had communicated this bright idea, which had its origin in the perusal by the village cronies of a newspaper, containing, among other matters, an account of how some officer pending the sentence of some court-martial had been enlarged on parole, Mr Willet drew back from his guest’s ear, and without any visible alteration of feature, chuckled thrice audibly. This nearest approach to a laugh in which he ever indulged (and that but seldom and only on extreme occasions), never even curled his lip or effected the smallest change in—no, not so much as a slight wagging of—his great, fat, double chin, which at these times, as at all others, remained a perfect desert in the broad map of his face; one changeless, dull, tremendous blank.

Lest it should be matter of surprise to any, that Mr Willet adopted this bold course in opposition to one whom he had often entertained, and who had always paid his way at the Maypole gallantly, it may be remarked that it was his very penetration and sagacity in this respect, which occasioned him to indulge in those unusual demonstrations of jocularity, just now recorded. For Mr Willet, after carefully balancing father and son in his mental scales, had arrived at the distinct conclusion that the old gentleman was a better sort of a customer than the young one. Throwing his landlord into the same scale, which was already turned by this consideration, and heaping upon him, again, his strong desires to run counter to the unfortunate Joe, and his opposition as a general principle to all matters of love and matrimony, it went down to the very ground straightway, and sent the light cause of the younger gentleman flying upwards to the ceiling. Mr Chester was not the kind of man to be by any means dim-sighted to Mr Willet’s motives, but he thanked him as graciously as if he had been one of the most disinterested martyrs that ever shone on earth; and leaving him, with many complimentary reliances on his great taste and judgment, to prepare whatever dinner he might deem most fitting the occasion, bent his steps towards the Warren.

Dressed with more than his usual elegance; assuming a gracefulness of manner, which, though it was the result of long study, sat easily upon him and became him well; composing his features into their most serene and prepossessing expression; and setting in short that guard upon himself, at every point, which denoted that he attached no slight importance to the impression he was about to make; he entered the bounds of Miss Haredale’s usual walk. He had not gone far, or looked about him long, when he descried coming towards him, a female figure. A glimpse of the form and dress as she crossed a little wooden bridge which lay between them, satisfied him that he had found her whom he desired to see. He threw himself in her way, and a very few paces brought them close together.

He raised his hat from his head, and yielding the path, suffered her to pass him. Then, as if the idea had but that moment occurred to him, he turned hastily back and said in an agitated voice:

‘I beg pardon—do I address Miss Haredale?’

She stopped in some confusion at being so unexpectedly accosted by a stranger; and answered ‘Yes.’

‘Something told me,’ he said, LOOKING a compliment to her beauty, ‘that it could be no other. Miss Haredale, I bear a name which is not unknown to you—which it is a pride, and yet a pain to me to know, sounds pleasantly in your ears. I am a man advanced in life, as you see. I am the father of him whom you honour and distinguish above all other men. May I for weighty reasons which fill me with distress, beg but a minute’s conversation with you here?’

Who that was inexperienced in deceit, and had a frank and youthful heart, could doubt the speaker’s truth—could doubt it too, when the voice that spoke, was like the faint echo of one she knew so well, and so much loved to hear? She inclined her head, and stopping, cast her eyes upon the ground.

‘A little more apart—among these trees. It is an old man’s hand, Miss Haredale; an honest one, believe me.’

She put hers in it as he said these words, and suffered him to lead her to a neighbouring seat.

‘You alarm me, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You are not the bearer of any ill news, I hope?’

‘Of none that you anticipate,’ he answered, sitting down beside her. ‘Edward is well—quite well. It is of him I wish to speak, certainly; but I have no misfortune to communicate.’

She bowed her head again, and made as though she would have begged him to proceed; but said nothing.

‘I am sensible that I speak to you at a disadvantage, dear Miss Haredale. Believe me that I am not so forgetful of the feelings of my younger days as not to know that you are little disposed to view me with favour. You have heard me described as cold-hearted, calculating, selfish—’

‘I have never, sir,’—she interposed with an altered manner and a firmer voice; ‘I have never heard you spoken of in harsh or disrespectful terms. You do a great wrong to Edward’s nature if you believe him capable of any mean or base proceeding.’

‘Pardon me, my sweet young lady, but your uncle—’

‘Nor is it my uncle’s nature either,’ she replied, with a heightened colour in her cheek. ‘It is not his nature to stab in the dark, nor is it mine to love such deeds.’

She rose as she spoke, and would have left him; but he detained her with a gentle hand, and besought her in such persuasive accents to hear him but another minute, that she was easily prevailed upon to comply, and so sat down again.

‘And it is,’ said Mr Chester, looking upward, and apostrophising the air; ‘it is this frank, ingenuous, noble nature, Ned, that you can wound so lightly. Shame—shame upon you, boy!’

She turned towards him quickly, and with a scornful look and flashing eyes. There were tears in Mr Chester’s eyes, but he dashed them hurriedly away, as though unwilling that his weakness should be known, and regarded her with mingled admiration and compassion.

‘I never until now,’ he said, ‘believed, that the frivolous actions of a young man could move me like these of my own son. I never knew till now, the worth of a woman’s heart, which boys so lightly win, and lightly fling away. Trust me, dear young lady, that I never until now did know your worth; and though an abhorrence of deceit and falsehood has impelled me to seek you out, and would have done so had you been the poorest and least gifted of your sex, I should have lacked the fortitude to sustain this interview could I have pictured you to my imagination as you really are.’

Oh! If Mrs Varden could have seen the virtuous gentleman as he said these words, with indignation sparkling from his eyes—if she could have heard his broken, quavering voice—if she could have beheld him as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight, and with unwonted energy poured forth his eloquence!

With a haughty face, but pale and trembling too, Emma regarded him in silence. She neither spoke nor moved, but gazed upon him as though she would look into his heart.

‘I throw off,’ said Mr Chester, ‘the restraint which natural affection would impose on some men, and reject all bonds but those of truth and duty. Miss Haredale, you are deceived; you are deceived by your unworthy lover, and my unworthy son.’

Still she looked at him steadily, and still said not one word.

‘I have ever opposed his professions of love for you; you will do me the justice, dear Miss Haredale, to remember that. Your uncle and myself were enemies in early life, and if I had sought retaliation, I might have found it here. But as we grow older, we grow wiser—bitter, I would fain hope—and from the first, I have opposed him in this attempt. I foresaw the end, and would have spared you, if I could.’

‘Speak plainly, sir,’ she faltered. ‘You deceive me, or are deceived yourself. I do not believe you—I cannot—I should not.’

‘First,’ said Mr Chester, soothingly, ‘for there may be in your mind some latent angry feeling to which I would not appeal, pray take this letter. It reached my hands by chance, and by mistake, and should have accounted to you (as I am told) for my son’s not answering some other note of yours. God forbid, Miss Haredale,’ said the good gentleman, with great emotion, ‘that there should be in your gentle breast one causeless ground of quarrel with him. You should know, and you will see, that he was in no fault here.’

There appeared something so very candid, so scrupulously honourable, so very truthful and just in this course—something which rendered the upright person who resorted to it, so worthy of belief—that Emma’s heart, for the first time, sunk within her. She turned away and burst into tears.

‘I would,’ said Mr Chester, leaning over her, and speaking in mild and quite venerable accents; ‘I would, dear girl, it were my task to banish, not increase, those tokens of your grief. My son, my erring son,—I will not call him deliberately criminal in this, for men so young, who have been inconstant twice or thrice before, act without reflection, almost without a knowledge of the wrong they do,—will break his plighted faith to you; has broken it even now. Shall I stop here, and having given you this warning, leave it to be fulfilled; or shall I go on?’

‘You will go on, sir,’ she answered, ‘and speak more plainly yet, in justice both to him and me.’

‘My dear girl,’ said Mr Chester, bending over her more affectionately still; ‘whom I would call my daughter, but the Fates forbid, Edward seeks to break with you upon a false and most unwarrantable pretence. I have it on his own showing; in his own hand. Forgive me, if I have had a watch upon his conduct; I am his father; I had a regard for your peace and his honour, and no better resource was left me. There lies on his desk at this present moment, ready for transmission to you, a letter, in which he tells you that our poverty—our poverty; his and mine, Miss Haredale—forbids him to pursue his claim upon your hand; in which he offers, voluntarily proposes, to free you from your pledge; and talks magnanimously (men do so, very commonly, in such cases) of being in time more worthy of your regard—and so forth. A letter, to be plain, in which he not only jilts you—pardon the word; I would summon to your aid your pride and dignity—not only jilts you, I fear, in favour of the object whose slighting treatment first inspired his brief passion for yourself and gave it birth in wounded vanity, but affects to make a merit and a virtue of the act.’

She glanced proudly at him once more, as by an involuntary impulse, and with a swelling breast rejoined, ‘If what you say be true, he takes much needless trouble, sir, to compass his design. He’s very tender of my peace of mind. I quite thank him.’

‘The truth of what I tell you, dear young lady,’ he replied, ‘you will test by the receipt or non-receipt of the letter of which I speak. Haredale, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you, although we meet under singular circumstances, and upon a melancholy occasion. I hope you are very well.’

At these words the young lady raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and seeing that her uncle indeed stood before them, and being quite unequal to the trial of hearing or of speaking one word more, hurriedly withdrew, and left them. They stood looking at each other, and at her retreating figure, and for a long time neither of them spoke.

‘What does this mean? Explain it,’ said Mr Haredale at length. ‘Why are you here, and why with her?’

‘My dear friend,’ rejoined the other, resuming his accustomed manner with infinite readiness, and throwing himself upon the bench with a weary air, ‘you told me not very long ago, at that delightful old tavern of which you are the esteemed proprietor (and a most charming establishment it is for persons of rural pursuits and in robust health, who are not liable to take cold), that I had the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception. I thought at the time; I really did think; you flattered me. But now I begin to wonder at your discernment, and vanity apart, do honestly believe you spoke the truth. Did you ever counterfeit extreme ingenuousness and honest indignation? My dear fellow, you have no conception, if you never did, how faint the effort makes one.’

Mr Haredale surveyed him with a look of cold contempt. ‘You may evade an explanation, I know,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘But I must have it. I can wait.’

‘Not at all. Not at all, my good fellow. You shall not wait a moment,’ returned his friend, as he lazily crossed his legs. ‘The simplest thing in the world. It lies in a nutshell. Ned has written her a letter—a boyish, honest, sentimental composition, which remains as yet in his desk, because he hasn’t had the heart to send it. I have taken a liberty, for which my parental affection and anxiety are a sufficient excuse, and possessed myself of the contents. I have described them to your niece (a most enchanting person, Haredale; quite an angelic creature), with a little colouring and description adapted to our purpose. It’s done. You may be quite easy. It’s all over. Deprived of their adherents and mediators; her pride and jealousy roused to the utmost; with nobody to undeceive her, and you to confirm me; you will find that their intercourse will close with her answer. If she receives Ned’s letter by to-morrow noon, you may date their parting from to-morrow night. No thanks, I beg; you owe me none. I have acted for myself; and if I have forwarded our compact with all the ardour even you could have desired, I have done so selfishly, indeed.’

‘I curse the compact, as you call it, with my whole heart and soul,’ returned the other. ‘It was made in an evil hour. I have bound myself to a lie; I have leagued myself with you; and though I did so with a righteous motive, and though it cost me such an effort as haply few men know, I hate and despise myself for the deed.’

‘You are very warm,’ said Mr Chester with a languid smile.

‘I AM warm. I am maddened by your coldness. ‘Death, Chester, if your blood ran warmer in your veins, and there were no restraints upon me, such as those that hold and drag me back—well; it is done; you tell me so, and on such a point I may believe you. When I am most remorseful for this treachery, I will think of you and your marriage, and try to justify myself in such remembrances, for having torn asunder Emma and your son, at any cost. Our bond is cancelled now, and we may part.’

Mr Chester kissed his hand gracefully; and with the same tranquil face he had preserved throughout—even when he had seen his companion so tortured and transported by his passion that his whole frame was shaken—lay in his lounging posture on the seat and watched him as he walked away.

‘My scapegoat and my drudge at school,’ he said, raising his head to look after him; ‘my friend of later days, who could not keep his mistress when he had won her, and threw me in her way to carry off the prize; I triumph in the present and the past. Bark on, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned cur; fortune has ever been with me—I like to hear you.’

The spot where they had met, was in an avenue of trees. Mr Haredale not passing out on either hand, had walked straight on. He chanced to turn his head when at some considerable distance, and seeing that his late companion had by that time risen and was looking after him, stood still as though he half expected him to follow and waited for his coming up.

‘It MAY come to that one day, but not yet,’ said Mr Chester, waving his hand, as though they were the best of friends, and turning away. ‘Not yet, Haredale. Life is pleasant enough to me; dull and full of heaviness to you. No. To cross swords with such a man—to indulge his humour unless upon extremity—would be weak indeed.’

For all that, he drew his sword as he walked along, and in an absent humour ran his eye from hilt to point full twenty times. But thoughtfulness begets wrinkles; remembering this, he soon put it up, smoothed his contracted brow, hummed a gay tune with greater gaiety of manner, and was his unruffled self again.

Chapter 30

A homely proverb recognises the existence of a troublesome class of persons who, having an inch conceded them, will take an ell. Not to quote the illustrious examples of those heroic scourges of mankind, whose amiable path in life has been from birth to death through blood, and fire, and ruin, and who would seem to have existed for no better purpose than to teach mankind that as the absence of pain is pleasure, so the earth, purged of their presence, may be deemed a blessed place—not to quote such mighty instances, it will be sufficient to refer to old John Willet.

Old John having long encroached a good standard inch, full measure, on the liberty of Joe, and having snipped off a Flemish ell in the matter of the parole, grew so despotic and so great, that his thirst for conquest knew no bounds. The more young Joe submitted, the more absolute old John became. The ell soon faded into nothing. Yards, furlongs, miles arose; and on went old John in the pleasantest manner possible, trimming off an exuberance in this place, shearing away some liberty of speech or action in that, and conducting himself in his small way with as much high mightiness and majesty, as the most glorious tyrant that ever had his statue reared in the public ways, of ancient or of modern times.

As great men are urged on to the abuse of power (when they need urging, which is not often), by their flatterers and dependents, so old John was impelled to these exercises of authority by the applause and admiration of his Maypole cronies, who, in the intervals of their nightly pipes and pots, would shake their heads and say that Mr Willet was a father of the good old English sort; that there were no new-fangled notions or modern ways in him; that he put them in mind of what their fathers were when they were boys; that there was no mistake about him; that it would be well for the country if there were more like him, and more was the pity that there were not; with many other original remarks of that nature. Then they would condescendingly give Joe to understand that it was all for his good, and he would be thankful for it one day; and in particular, Mr Cobb would acquaint him, that when he was his age, his father thought no more of giving him a parental kick, or a box on the ears, or a cuff on the head, or some little admonition of that sort, than he did of any other ordinary duty of life; and he would further remark, with looks of great significance, that but for this judicious bringing up, he might have never been the man he was at that present speaking; which was probable enough, as he was, beyond all question, the dullest dog of the party. In short, between old John and old John’s friends, there never was an unfortunate young fellow so bullied, badgered, worried, fretted, and brow-beaten; so constantly beset, or made so tired of his life, as poor Joe Willet.

This had come to be the recognised and established state of things; but as John was very anxious to flourish his supremacy before the eyes of Mr Chester, he did that day exceed himself, and did so goad and chafe his son and heir, that but for Joe’s having made a solemn vow to keep his hands in his pockets when they were not otherwise engaged, it is impossible to say what he might have done with them. But the longest day has an end, and at length Mr Chester came downstairs to mount his horse, which was ready at the door.

As old John was not in the way at the moment, Joe, who was sitting in the bar ruminating on his dismal fate and the manifold perfections of Dolly Varden, ran out to hold the guest’s stirrup and assist him to mount. Mr Chester was scarcely in the saddle, and Joe was in the very act of making him a graceful bow, when old John came diving out of the porch, and collared him.

‘None of that, sir,’ said John, ‘none of that, sir. No breaking of patroles. How dare you come out of the door, sir, without leave? You’re trying to get away, sir, are you, and to make a traitor of yourself again? What do you mean, sir?’

‘Let me go, father,’ said Joe, imploringly, as he marked the smile upon their visitor’s face, and observed the pleasure his disgrace afforded him. ‘This is too bad. Who wants to get away?’

‘Who wants to get away!’ cried John, shaking him. ‘Why you do, sir, you do. You’re the boy, sir,’ added John, collaring with one hand, and aiding the effect of a farewell bow to the visitor with the other, ‘that wants to sneak into houses, and stir up differences between noble gentlemen and their sons, are you, eh? Hold your tongue, sir.’

Joe made no effort to reply. It was the crowning circumstance of his degradation. He extricated himself from his father’s grasp, darted an angry look at the departing guest, and returned into the house.

‘But for her,’ thought Joe, as he threw his arms upon a table in the common room, and laid his head upon them, ‘but for Dolly, who I couldn’t bear should think me the rascal they would make me out to be if I ran away, this house and I should part to-night.’

It being evening by this time, Solomon Daisy, Tom Cobb, and Long Parkes, were all in the common room too, and had from the window been witnesses of what had just occurred. Mr Willet joining them soon afterwards, received the compliments of the company with great composure, and lighting his pipe, sat down among them.

‘We’ll see, gentlemen,’ said John, after a long pause, ‘who’s the master of this house, and who isn’t. We’ll see whether boys are to govern men, or men are to govern boys.’

‘And quite right too,’ assented Solomon Daisy with some approving nods; ‘quite right, Johnny. Very good, Johnny. Well said, Mr Willet. Brayvo, sir.’

John slowly brought his eyes to bear upon him, looked at him for a long time, and finally made answer, to the unspeakable consternation of his hearers, ‘When I want encouragement from you, sir, I’ll ask you for it. You let me alone, sir. I can get on without you, I hope. Don’t you tackle me, sir, if you please.’

‘Don’t take it ill, Johnny; I didn’t mean any harm,’ pleaded the little man.

‘Very good, sir,’ said John, more than usually obstinate after his late success. ‘Never mind, sir. I can stand pretty firm of myself, sir, I believe, without being shored up by you.’ And having given utterance to this retort, Mr Willet fixed his eyes upon the boiler, and fell into a kind of tobacco-trance.

The spirits of the company being somewhat damped by this embarrassing line of conduct on the part of their host, nothing more was said for a long time; but at length Mr Cobb took upon himself to remark, as he rose to knock the ashes out of his pipe, that he hoped Joe would thenceforth learn to obey his father in all things; that he had found, that day, he was not one of the sort of men who were to be trifled with; and that he would recommend him, poetically speaking, to mind his eye for the future.

‘I’d recommend you, in return,’ said Joe, looking up with a flushed face, ‘not to talk to me.’

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ cried Mr Willet, suddenly rousing himself, and turning round.

‘I won’t, father,’ cried Joe, smiting the table with his fist, so that the jugs and glasses rung again; ‘these things are hard enough to bear from you; from anybody else I never will endure them any more. Therefore I say, Mr Cobb, don’t talk to me.’

‘Why, who are you,’ said Mr Cobb, sneeringly, ‘that you’re not to be talked to, eh, Joe?’

To which Joe returned no answer, but with a very ominous shake of the head, resumed his old position, which he would have peacefully preserved until the house shut up at night, but that Mr Cobb, stimulated by the wonder of the company at the young man’s presumption, retorted with sundry taunts, which proved too much for flesh and blood to bear. Crowding into one moment the vexation and the wrath of years, Joe started up, overturned the table, fell upon his long enemy, pummelled him with all his might and main, and finished by driving him with surprising swiftness against a heap of spittoons in one corner; plunging into which, head foremost, with a tremendous crash, he lay at full length among the ruins, stunned and motionless. Then, without waiting to receive the compliments of the bystanders on the victory he had won, he retreated to his own bedchamber, and considering himself in a state of siege, piled all the portable furniture against the door by way of barricade.

‘I have done it now,’ said Joe, as he sat down upon his bedstead and wiped his heated face. ‘I knew it would come at last. The Maypole and I must part company. I’m a roving vagabond—she hates me for evermore—it’s all over!’

Chapter 31

Pondering on his unhappy lot, Joe sat and listened for a long time, expecting every moment to hear their creaking footsteps on the stairs, or to be greeted by his worthy father with a summons to capitulate unconditionally, and deliver himself up straightway. But neither voice nor footstep came; and though some distant echoes, as of closing doors and people hurrying in and out of rooms, resounding from time to time through the great passages, and penetrating to his remote seclusion, gave note of unusual commotion downstairs, no nearer sound disturbed his place of retreat, which seemed the quieter for these far-off noises, and was as dull and full of gloom as any hermit’s cell.

It came on darker and darker. The old-fashioned furniture of the chamber, which was a kind of hospital for all the invalided movables in the house, grew indistinct and shadowy in its many shapes; chairs and tables, which by day were as honest cripples as need be, assumed a doubtful and mysterious character; and one old leprous screen of faded India leather and gold binding, which had kept out many a cold breath of air in days of yore and shut in many a jolly face, frowned on him with a spectral aspect, and stood at full height in its allotted corner, like some gaunt ghost who waited to be questioned. A portrait opposite the window—a queer, old grey-eyed general, in an oval frame—seemed to wink and doze as the light decayed, and at length, when the last faint glimmering speck of day went out, to shut its eyes in good earnest, and fall sound asleep. There was such a hush and mystery about everything, that Joe could not help following its example; and so went off into a slumber likewise, and dreamed of Dolly, till the clock of Chigwell church struck two.

Still nobody came. The distant noises in the house had ceased, and out of doors all was quiet; save for the occasional barking of some deep-mouthed dog, and the shaking of the branches by the night wind. He gazed mournfully out of window at each well-known object as it lay sleeping in the dim light of the moon; and creeping back to his former seat, thought about the late uproar, until, with long thinking of, it seemed to have occurred a month ago. Thus, between dozing, and thinking, and walking to the window and looking out, the night wore away; the grim old screen, and the kindred chairs and tables, began slowly to reveal themselves in their accustomed forms; the grey-eyed general seemed to wink and yawn and rouse himself; and at last he was broad awake again, and very uncomfortable and cold and haggard he looked, in the dull grey light of morning.

The sun had begun to peep above the forest trees, and already flung across the curling mist bright bars of gold, when Joe dropped from his window on the ground below, a little bundle and his trusty stick, and prepared to descend himself.

It was not a very difficult task; for there were so many projections and gable ends in the way, that they formed a series of clumsy steps, with no greater obstacle than a jump of some few feet at last. Joe, with his stick and bundle on his shoulder, quickly stood on the firm earth, and looked up at the old Maypole, it might be for the last time.

He didn’t apostrophise it, for he was no great scholar. He didn’t curse it, for he had little ill-will to give to anything on earth. He felt more affectionate and kind to it than ever he had done in all his life before, so said with all his heart, ‘God bless you!’ as a parting wish, and turned away.

He walked along at a brisk pace, big with great thoughts of going for a soldier and dying in some foreign country where it was very hot and sandy, and leaving God knows what unheard-of wealth in prize-money to Dolly, who would be very much affected when she came to know of it; and full of such youthful visions, which were sometimes sanguine and sometimes melancholy, but always had her for their main point and centre, pushed on vigorously until the noise of London sounded in his ears, and the Black Lion hove in sight.

It was only eight o’clock then, and very much astonished the Black Lion was, to see him come walking in with dust upon his feet at that early hour, with no grey mare to bear him company. But as he ordered breakfast to be got ready with all speed, and on its being set before him gave indisputable tokens of a hearty appetite, the Lion received him, as usual, with a hospitable welcome; and treated him with those marks of distinction, which, as a regular customer, and one within the freemasonry of the trade, he had a right to claim.

This Lion or landlord,—for he was called both man and beast, by reason of his having instructed the artist who painted his sign, to convey into the features of the lordly brute whose effigy it bore, as near a counterpart of his own face as his skill could compass and devise,—was a gentleman almost as quick of apprehension, and of almost as subtle a wit, as the mighty John himself. But the difference between them lay in this: that whereas Mr Willet’s extreme sagacity and acuteness were the efforts of unassisted nature, the Lion stood indebted, in no small amount, to beer; of which he swigged such copious draughts, that most of his faculties were utterly drowned and washed away, except the one great faculty of sleep, which he retained in surprising perfection. The creaking Lion over the house-door was, therefore, to say the truth, rather a drowsy, tame, and feeble lion; and as these social representatives of a savage class are usually of a conventional character (being depicted, for the most part, in impossible attitudes and of unearthly colours), he was frequently supposed by the more ignorant and uninformed among the neighbours, to be the veritable portrait of the host as he appeared on the occasion of some great funeral ceremony or public mourning.

‘What noisy fellow is that in the next room?’ said Joe, when he had disposed of his breakfast, and had washed and brushed himself.

‘A recruiting serjeant,’ replied the Lion.

Joe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming of, all the way along.

‘And I wish,’ said the Lion, ‘he was anywhere else but here. The party make noise enough, but don’t call for much. There’s great cry there, Mr Willet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn’t like ‘em, I know.’

Perhaps not much under any circumstances. Perhaps if he could have known what was passing at that moment in Joe’s mind, he would have liked them still less.

‘Is he recruiting for a—for a fine regiment?’ said Joe, glancing at a little round mirror that hung in the bar.

‘I believe he is,’ replied the host. ‘It’s much the same thing, whatever regiment he’s recruiting for. I’m told there an’t a deal of difference between a fine man and another one, when they’re shot through and through.’

‘They’re not all shot,’ said Joe.

‘No,’ the Lion answered, ‘not all. Those that are—supposing it’s done easy—are the best off in my opinion.’

‘Ah!’ retorted Joe, ‘but you don’t care for glory.’

‘For what?’ said the Lion.

‘Glory.’

‘No,’ returned the Lion, with supreme indifference. ‘I don’t. You’re right in that, Mr Willet. When Glory comes here, and calls for anything to drink and changes a guinea to pay for it, I’ll give it him for nothing. It’s my belief, sir, that the Glory’s arms wouldn’t do a very strong business.’

These remarks were not at all comforting. Joe walked out, stopped at the door of the next room, and listened. The serjeant was describing a military life. It was all drinking, he said, except that there were frequent intervals of eating and love-making. A battle was the finest thing in the world—when your side won it—and Englishmen always did that. ‘Supposing you should be killed, sir?’ said a timid voice in one corner. ‘Well, sir, supposing you should be,’ said the serjeant, ‘what then? Your country loves you, sir; his Majesty King George the Third loves you; your memory is honoured, revered, respected; everybody’s fond of you, and grateful to you; your name’s wrote down at full length in a book in the War Office. Damme, gentlemen, we must all die some time, or another, eh?’

The voice coughed, and said no more.

Joe walked into the room. A group of half-a-dozen fellows had gathered together in the taproom, and were listening with greedy ears. One of them, a carter in a smockfrock, seemed wavering and disposed to enlist. The rest, who were by no means disposed, strongly urged him to do so (according to the custom of mankind), backed the serjeant’s arguments, and grinned among themselves. ‘I say nothing, boys,’ said the serjeant, who sat a little apart, drinking his liquor. ‘For lads of spirit’—here he cast an eye on Joe—‘this is the time. I don’t want to inveigle you. The king’s not come to that, I hope. Brisk young blood is what we want; not milk and water. We won’t take five men out of six. We want top-sawyers, we do. I’m not a-going to tell tales out of school, but, damme, if every gentleman’s son that carries arms in our corps, through being under a cloud and having little differences with his relations, was counted up’—here his eye fell on Joe again, and so good-naturedly, that Joe beckoned him out. He came directly.

‘You’re a gentleman, by G—!’ was his first remark, as he slapped him on the back. ‘You’re a gentleman in disguise. So am I. Let’s swear a friendship.’

Joe didn’t exactly do that, but he shook hands with him, and thanked him for his good opinion.

‘You want to serve,’ said his new friend. ‘You shall. You were made for it. You’re one of us by nature. What’ll you take to drink?’

‘Nothing just now,’ replied Joe, smiling faintly. ‘I haven’t quite made up my mind.’

‘A mettlesome fellow like you, and not made up his mind!’ cried the serjeant. ‘Here—let me give the bell a pull, and you’ll make up your mind in half a minute, I know.’

‘You’re right so far’—answered Joe, ‘for if you pull the bell here, where I’m known, there’ll be an end of my soldiering inclinations in no time. Look in my face. You see me, do you?’

‘I do,’ replied the serjeant with an oath, ‘and a finer young fellow or one better qualified to serve his king and country, I never set my—’ he used an adjective in this place—‘eyes on.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joe, ‘I didn’t ask you for want of a compliment, but thank you all the same. Do I look like a sneaking fellow or a liar?’

The serjeant rejoined with many choice asseverations that he didn’t; and that if his (the serjeant’s) own father were to say he did, he would run the old gentleman through the body cheerfully, and consider it a meritorious action.

Joe expressed his obligations, and continued, ‘You can trust me then, and credit what I say. I believe I shall enlist in your regiment to-night. The reason I don’t do so now is, because I don’t want until to-night, to do what I can’t recall. Where shall I find you, this evening?’

His friend replied with some unwillingness, and after much ineffectual entreaty having for its object the immediate settlement of the business, that his quarters would be at the Crooked Billet in Tower Street; where he would be found waking until midnight, and sleeping until breakfast time to-morrow.

‘And if I do come—which it’s a million to one, I shall—when will you take me out of London?’ demanded Joe.

‘To-morrow morning, at half after eight o’clock,’ replied the serjeant. ‘You’ll go abroad—a country where it’s all sunshine and plunder—the finest climate in the world.’

‘To go abroad,’ said Joe, shaking hands with him, ‘is the very thing I want. You may expect me.’

‘You’re the kind of lad for us,’ cried the serjeant, holding Joe’s hand in his, in the excess of his admiration. ‘You’re the boy to push your fortune. I don’t say it because I bear you any envy, or would take away from the credit of the rise you’ll make, but if I had been bred and taught like you, I’d have been a colonel by this time.’

‘Tush, man!’ said Joe, ‘I’m not so young as that. Needs must when the devil drives; and the devil that drives me is an empty pocket and an unhappy home. For the present, good-bye.’

‘For king and country!’ cried the serjeant, flourishing his cap.

‘For bread and meat!’ cried Joe, snapping his fingers. And so they parted.

He had very little money in his pocket; so little indeed, that after paying for his breakfast (which he was too honest and perhaps too proud to score up to his father’s charge) he had but a penny left. He had courage, notwithstanding, to resist all the affectionate importunities of the serjeant, who waylaid him at the door with many protestations of eternal friendship, and did in particular request that he would do him the favour to accept of only one shilling as a temporary accommodation. Rejecting his offers both of cash and credit, Joe walked away with stick and bundle as before, bent upon getting through the day as he best could, and going down to the locksmith’s in the dusk of the evening; for it should go hard, he had resolved, but he would have a parting word with charming Dolly Varden.

He went out by Islington and so on to Highgate, and sat on many stones and gates, but there were no voices in the bells to bid him turn. Since the time of noble Whittington, fair flower of merchants, bells have come to have less sympathy with humankind. They only ring for money and on state occasions. Wanderers have increased in number; ships leave the Thames for distant regions, carrying from stem to stern no other cargo; the bells are silent; they ring out no entreaties or regrets; they are used to it and have grown worldly.

Joe bought a roll, and reduced his purse to the condition (with a difference) of that celebrated purse of Fortunatus, which, whatever were its favoured owner’s necessities, had one unvarying amount in it. In these real times, when all the Fairies are dead and buried, there are still a great many purses which possess that quality. The sum-total they contain is expressed in arithmetic by a circle, and whether it be added to or multiplied by its own amount, the result of the problem is more easily stated than any known in figures.

Evening drew on at last. With the desolate and solitary feeling of one who had no home or shelter, and was alone utterly in the world for the first time, he bent his steps towards the locksmith’s house. He had delayed till now, knowing that Mrs Varden sometimes went out alone, or with Miggs for her sole attendant, to lectures in the evening; and devoutly hoping that this might be one of her nights of moral culture.

He had walked up and down before the house, on the opposite side of the way, two or three times, when as he returned to it again, he caught a glimpse of a fluttering skirt at the door. It was Dolly’s—to whom else could it belong? no dress but hers had such a flow as that. He plucked up his spirits, and followed it into the workshop of the Golden Key.

His darkening the door caused her to look round. Oh that face! ‘If it hadn’t been for that,’ thought Joe, ‘I should never have walked into poor Tom Cobb. She’s twenty times handsomer than ever. She might marry a Lord!’

He didn’t say this. He only thought it—perhaps looked it also. Dolly was glad to see him, and was SO sorry her father and mother were away from home. Joe begged she wouldn’t mention it on any account.

Dolly hesitated to lead the way into the parlour, for there it was nearly dark; at the same time she hesitated to stand talking in the workshop, which was yet light and open to the street. They had got by some means, too, before the little forge; and Joe having her hand in his (which he had no right to have, for Dolly only gave it him to shake), it was so like standing before some homely altar being married, that it was the most embarrassing state of things in the world.

‘I have come,’ said Joe, ‘to say good-bye—to say good-bye for I don’t know how many years; perhaps for ever. I am going abroad.’

Now this was exactly what he should not have said. Here he was, talking like a gentleman at large who was free to come and go and roam about the world at pleasure, when that gallant coachmaker had vowed but the night before that Miss Varden held him bound in adamantine chains; and had positively stated in so many words that she was killing him by inches, and that in a fortnight more or thereabouts he expected to make a decent end and leave the business to his mother.

Dolly released her hand and said ‘Indeed!’ She remarked in the same breath that it was a fine night, and in short, betrayed no more emotion than the forge itself.

‘I couldn’t go,’ said Joe, ‘without coming to see you. I hadn’t the heart to.’

Dolly was more sorry than she could tell, that he should have taken so much trouble. It was such a long way, and he must have such a deal to do. And how WAS Mr Willet—that dear old gentleman—

‘Is this all you say!’ cried Joe.

All! Good gracious, what did the man expect! She was obliged to take her apron in her hand and run her eyes along the hem from corner to corner, to keep herself from laughing in his face;—not because his gaze confused her—not at all.

Joe had small experience in love affairs, and had no notion how different young ladies are at different times; he had expected to take Dolly up again at the very point where he had left her after that delicious evening ride, and was no more prepared for such an alteration than to see the sun and moon change places. He had buoyed himself up all day with an indistinct idea that she would certainly say ‘Don’t go,’ or ‘Don’t leave us,’ or ‘Why do you go?’ or ‘Why do you leave us?’ or would give him some little encouragement of that sort; he had even entertained the possibility of her bursting into tears, of her throwing herself into his arms, of her falling down in a fainting fit without previous word or sign; but any approach to such a line of conduct as this, had been so far from his thoughts that he could only look at her in silent wonder.

Dolly in the meanwhile, turned to the corners of her apron, and measured the sides, and smoothed out the wrinkles, and was as silent as he. At last after a long pause, Joe said good-bye. ‘Good-bye’—said Dolly—with as pleasant a smile as if he were going into the next street, and were coming back to supper; ‘good-bye.’

‘Come,’ said Joe, putting out both hands, ‘Dolly, dear Dolly, don’t let us part like this. I love you dearly, with all my heart and soul; with as much truth and earnestness as ever man loved woman in this world, I do believe. I am a poor fellow, as you know—poorer now than ever, for I have fled from home, not being able to bear it any longer, and must fight my own way without help. You are beautiful, admired, are loved by everybody, are well off and happy; and may you ever be so! Heaven forbid I should ever make you otherwise; but give me a word of comfort. Say something kind to me. I have no right to expect it of you, I know, but I ask it because I love you, and shall treasure the slightest word from you all through my life. Dolly, dearest, have you nothing to say to me?’

No. Nothing. Dolly was a coquette by nature, and a spoilt child. She had no notion of being carried by storm in this way. The coachmaker would have been dissolved in tears, and would have knelt down, and called himself names, and clasped his hands, and beat his breast, and tugged wildly at his cravat, and done all kinds of poetry. Joe had no business to be going abroad. He had no right to be able to do it. If he was in adamantine chains, he couldn’t.

‘I have said good-bye,’ said Dolly, ‘twice. Take your arm away directly, Mr Joseph, or I’ll call Miggs.’

‘I’ll not reproach you,’ answered Joe, ‘it’s my fault, no doubt. I have thought sometimes that you didn’t quite despise me, but I was a fool to think so. Every one must, who has seen the life I have led—you most of all. God bless you!’

He was gone, actually gone. Dolly waited a little while, thinking he would return, peeped out at the door, looked up the street and down as well as the increasing darkness would allow, came in again, waited a little longer, went upstairs humming a tune, bolted herself in, laid her head down on her bed, and cried as if her heart would break. And yet such natures are made up of so many contradictions, that if Joe Willet had come back that night, next day, next week, next month, the odds are a hundred to one she would have treated him in the very same manner, and have wept for it afterwards with the very same distress.

She had no sooner left the workshop than there cautiously peered out from behind the chimney of the forge, a face which had already emerged from the same concealment twice or thrice, unseen, and which, after satisfying itself that it was now alone, was followed by a leg, a shoulder, and so on by degrees, until the form of Mr Tappertit stood confessed, with a brown-paper cap stuck negligently on one side of its head, and its arms very much a-kimbo.

‘Have my ears deceived me,’ said the ‘prentice, ‘or do I dream! am I to thank thee, Fortun’, or to cus thee—which?’

He gravely descended from his elevation, took down his piece of looking-glass, planted it against the wall upon the usual bench, twisted his head round, and looked closely at his legs.

‘If they’re a dream,’ said Sim, ‘let sculptures have such wisions, and chisel ‘em out when they wake. This is reality. Sleep has no such limbs as them. Tremble, Willet, and despair. She’s mine! She’s mine!’

With these triumphant expressions, he seized a hammer and dealt a heavy blow at a vice, which in his mind’s eye represented the sconce or head of Joseph Willet. That done, he burst into a peal of laughter which startled Miss Miggs even in her distant kitchen, and dipping his head into a bowl of water, had recourse to a jack-towel inside the closet door, which served the double purpose of smothering his feelings and drying his face.

Joe, disconsolate and down-hearted, but full of courage too, on leaving the locksmith’s house made the best of his way to the Crooked Billet, and there inquired for his friend the serjeant, who, expecting no man less, received him with open arms. In the course of five minutes after his arrival at that house of entertainment, he was enrolled among the gallant defenders of his native land; and within half an hour, was regaled with a steaming supper of boiled tripe and onions, prepared, as his friend assured him more than once, at the express command of his most Sacred Majesty the King. To this meal, which tasted very savoury after his long fasting, he did ample justice; and when he had followed it up, or down, with a variety of loyal and patriotic toasts, he was conducted to a straw mattress in a loft over the stable, and locked in there for the night.

The next morning, he found that the obliging care of his martial friend had decorated his hat with sundry particoloured streamers, which made a very lively appearance; and in company with that officer, and three other military gentlemen newly enrolled, who were under a cloud so dense that it only left three shoes, a boot, and a coat and a half visible among them, repaired to the riverside. Here they were joined by a corporal and four more heroes, of whom two were drunk and daring, and two sober and penitent, but each of whom, like Joe, had his dusty stick and bundle. The party embarked in a passage-boat bound for Gravesend, whence they were to proceed on foot to Chatham; the wind was in their favour, and they soon left London behind them, a mere dark mist—a giant phantom in the air.

Chapter 32

Misfortunes, saith the adage, never come singly. There is little doubt that troubles are exceedingly gregarious in their nature, and flying in flocks, are apt to perch capriciously; crowding on the heads of some poor wights until there is not an inch of room left on their unlucky crowns, and taking no more notice of others who offer as good resting-places for the soles of their feet, than if they had no existence. It may have happened that a flight of troubles brooding over London, and looking out for Joseph Willet, whom they couldn’t find, darted down haphazard on the first young man that caught their fancy, and settled on him instead. However this may be, certain it is that on the very day of Joe’s departure they swarmed about the ears of Edward Chester, and did so buzz and flap their wings, and persecute him, that he was most profoundly wretched.

It was evening, and just eight o’clock, when he and his father, having wine and dessert set before them, were left to themselves for the first time that day. They had dined together, but a third person had been present during the meal, and until they met at table they had not seen each other since the previous night.

Edward was reserved and silent. Mr Chester was more than usually gay; but not caring, as it seemed, to open a conversation with one whose humour was so different, he vented the lightness of his spirit in smiles and sparkling looks, and made no effort to awaken his attention. So they remained for some time: the father lying on a sofa with his accustomed air of graceful negligence; the son seated opposite to him with downcast eyes, busied, it was plain, with painful and uneasy thoughts.

‘My dear Edward,’ said Mr Chester at length, with a most engaging laugh, ‘do not extend your drowsy influence to the decanter. Suffer THAT to circulate, let your spirits be never so stagnant.’

Edward begged his pardon, passed it, and relapsed into his former state.

‘You do wrong not to fill your glass,’ said Mr Chester, holding up his own before the light. ‘Wine in moderation—not in excess, for that makes men ugly—has a thousand pleasant influences. It brightens the eye, improves the voice, imparts a new vivacity to one’s thoughts and conversation: you should try it, Ned.’

‘Ah father!’ cried his son, ‘if—’

‘My good fellow,’ interposed the parent hastily, as he set down his glass, and raised his eyebrows with a startled and horrified expression, ‘for Heaven’s sake don’t call me by that obsolete and ancient name. Have some regard for delicacy. Am I grey, or wrinkled, do I go on crutches, have I lost my teeth, that you adopt such a mode of address? Good God, how very coarse!’

‘I was about to speak to you from my heart, sir,’ returned Edward, ‘in the confidence which should subsist between us; and you check me in the outset.’

‘Now DO, Ned, DO not,’ said Mr Chester, raising his delicate hand imploringly, ‘talk in that monstrous manner. About to speak from your heart. Don’t you know that the heart is an ingenious part of our formation—the centre of the blood-vessels and all that sort of thing—which has no more to do with what you say or think, than your knees have? How can you be so very vulgar and absurd? These anatomical allusions should be left to gentlemen of the medical profession. They are really not agreeable in society. You quite surprise me, Ned.’

‘Well! there are no such things to wound, or heal, or have regard for. I know your creed, sir, and will say no more,’ returned his son.

‘There again,’ said Mr Chester, sipping his wine, ‘you are wrong. I distinctly say there are such things. We know there are. The hearts of animals—of bullocks, sheep, and so forth—are cooked and devoured, as I am told, by the lower classes, with a vast deal of relish. Men are sometimes stabbed to the heart, shot to the heart; but as to speaking from the heart, or to the heart, or being warm-hearted, or cold-hearted, or broken-hearted, or being all heart, or having no heart—pah! these things are nonsense, Ned.’

‘No doubt, sir,’ returned his son, seeing that he paused for him to speak. ‘No doubt.’

‘There’s Haredale’s niece, your late flame,’ said Mr Chester, as a careless illustration of his meaning. ‘No doubt in your mind she was all heart once. Now she has none at all. Yet she is the same person, Ned, exactly.’

‘She is a changed person, sir,’ cried Edward, reddening; ‘and changed by vile means, I believe.’

‘You have had a cool dismissal, have you?’ said his father. ‘Poor Ned! I told you last night what would happen.—May I ask you for the nutcrackers?’

‘She has been tampered with, and most treacherously deceived,’ cried Edward, rising from his seat. ‘I never will believe that the knowledge of my real position, given her by myself, has worked this change. I know she is beset and tortured. But though our contract is at an end, and broken past all redemption; though I charge upon her want of firmness and want of truth, both to herself and me; I do not now, and never will believe, that any sordid motive, or her own unbiassed will, has led her to this course—never!’

‘You make me blush,’ returned his father gaily, ‘for the folly of your nature, in which—but we never know ourselves—I devoutly hope there is no reflection of my own. With regard to the young lady herself, she has done what is very natural and proper, my dear fellow; what you yourself proposed, as I learn from Haredale; and what I predicted—with no great exercise of sagacity—she would do. She supposed you to be rich, or at least quite rich enough; and found you poor. Marriage is a civil contract; people marry to better their worldly condition and improve appearances; it is an affair of house and furniture, of liveries, servants, equipage, and so forth. The lady being poor and you poor also, there is an end of the matter. You cannot enter upon these considerations, and have no manner of business with the ceremony. I drink her health in this glass, and respect and honour her for her extreme good sense. It is a lesson to you. Fill yours, Ned.’

‘It is a lesson,’ returned his son, ‘by which I hope I may never profit, and if years and experience impress it on—’

‘Don’t say on the heart,’ interposed his father.

‘On men whom the world and its hypocrisy have spoiled,’ said Edward warmly, ‘Heaven keep me from its knowledge.’

‘Come, sir,’ returned his father, raising himself a little on the sofa, and looking straight towards him; ‘we have had enough of this. Remember, if you please, your interest, your duty, your moral obligations, your filial affections, and all that sort of thing, which it is so very delightful and charming to reflect upon; or you will repent it.’

‘I shall never repent the preservation of my self-respect, sir,’ said Edward. ‘Forgive me if I say that I will not sacrifice it at your bidding, and that I will not pursue the track which you would have me take, and to which the secret share you have had in this late separation tends.’

His father rose a little higher still, and looking at him as though curious to know if he were quite resolved and earnest, dropped gently down again, and said in the calmest voice—eating his nuts meanwhile,

‘Edward, my father had a son, who being a fool like you, and, like you, entertaining low and disobedient sentiments, he disinherited and cursed one morning after breakfast. The circumstance occurs to me with a singular clearness of recollection this evening. I remember eating muffins at the time, with marmalade. He led a miserable life (the son, I mean) and died early; it was a happy release on all accounts; he degraded the family very much. It is a sad circumstance, Edward, when a father finds it necessary to resort to such strong measures.

‘It is,’ replied Edward, ‘and it is sad when a son, proffering him his love and duty in their best and truest sense, finds himself repelled at every turn, and forced to disobey. Dear father,’ he added, more earnestly though in a gentler tone, ‘I have reflected many times on what occurred between us when we first discussed this subject. Let there be a confidence between us; not in terms, but truth. Hear what I have to say.’

‘As I anticipate what it is, and cannot fail to do so, Edward,’ returned his father coldly, ‘I decline. I couldn’t possibly. I am sure it would put me out of temper, which is a state of mind I can’t endure. If you intend to mar my plans for your establishment in life, and the preservation of that gentility and becoming pride, which our family have so long sustained—if, in short, you are resolved to take your own course, you must take it, and my curse with it. I am very sorry, but there’s really no alternative.’

‘The curse may pass your lips,’ said Edward, ‘but it will be but empty breath. I do not believe that any man on earth has greater power to call one down upon his fellow—least of all, upon his own child—than he has to make one drop of rain or flake of snow fall from the clouds above us at his impious bidding. Beware, sir, what you do.’

‘You are so very irreligious, so exceedingly undutiful, so horribly profane,’ rejoined his father, turning his face lazily towards him, and cracking another nut, ‘that I positively must interrupt you here. It is quite impossible we can continue to go on, upon such terms as these. If you will do me the favour to ring the bell, the servant will show you to the door. Return to this roof no more, I beg you. Go, sir, since you have no moral sense remaining; and go to the Devil, at my express desire. Good day.’

Edward left the room without another word or look, and turned his back upon the house for ever.

The father’s face was slightly flushed and heated, but his manner was quite unchanged, as he rang the bell again, and addressed the servant on his entrance.

‘Peak—if that gentleman who has just gone out—’

‘I beg your pardon, sir, Mr Edward?’

‘Were there more than one, dolt, that you ask the question?—If that gentleman should send here for his wardrobe, let him have it, do you hear? If he should call himself at any time, I’m not at home. You’ll tell him so, and shut the door.’

So, it soon got whispered about, that Mr Chester was very unfortunate in his son, who had occasioned him great grief and sorrow. And the good people who heard this and told it again, marvelled the more at his equanimity and even temper, and said what an amiable nature that man must have, who, having undergone so much, could be so placid and so calm. And when Edward’s name was spoken, Society shook its head, and laid its finger on its lip, and sighed, and looked very grave; and those who had sons about his age, waxed wrathful and indignant, and hoped, for Virtue’s sake, that he was dead. And the world went on turning round, as usual, for five years, concerning which this Narrative is silent.

Chapter 33

One wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night came on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp, dense, and icy-cold, swept the wet streets, and rattled on the trembling windows. Signboards, shaken past endurance in their creaking frames, fell crashing on the pavement; old tottering chimneys reeled and staggered in the blast; and many a steeple rocked again that night, as though the earth were troubled.

It was not a time for those who could by any means get light and warmth, to brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort, guests crowded round the fire, forgot to be political, and told each other with a secret gladness that the blast grew fiercer every minute. Each humble tavern by the water-side, had its group of uncouth figures round the hearth, who talked of vessels foundering at sea, and all hands lost; related many a dismal tale of shipwreck and drowned men, and hoped that some they knew were safe, and shook their heads in doubt. In private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze; listening with timid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures clad in white standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old churches and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the dead hour of the night: until they shuddered at the thought of the dark rooms upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan too, and hoped it would continue bravely. From time to time these happy indoor people stopped to listen, or one held up his finger and cried ‘Hark!’ and then, above the rumbling in the chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, was heard a wailing, rushing sound, which shook the walls as though a giant’s hand were on them; then a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on, and left a moment’s interval of rest.

Cheerily, though there were none abroad to see it, shone the Maypole light that evening. Blessings on the red—deep, ruby, glowing red—old curtain of the window; blending into one rich stream of brightness, fire and candle, meat, drink, and company, and gleaming like a jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of doors! Within, what carpet like its crunching sand, what music merry as its crackling logs, what perfume like its kitchen’s dainty breath, what weather genial as its hearty warmth! Blessings on the old house, how sturdily it stood! How did the vexed wind chafe and roar about its stalwart roof; how did it pant and strive with its wide chimneys, which still poured forth from their hospitable throats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its face; how, above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous to extinguish that cheerful glow, which would not be put down and seemed the brighter for the conflict!

The profusion too, the rich and lavish bounty, of that goodly tavern! It was not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on its spacious hearth; in the tiles which paved and compassed it, five hundred flickering fires burnt brightly also. It was not enough that one red curtain shut the wild night out, and shed its cheerful influence on the room. In every saucepan lid, and candlestick, and vessel of copper, brass, or tin that hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy hangings, flashing and gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, let the eye wander where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The old oak wainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in a deep, dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes of the drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they smoked.

Mr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five years before, with his eyes on the eternal boiler; and had sat there since the clock struck eight, giving no other signs of life than breathing with a loud and constant snore (though he was wide awake), and from time to time putting his glass to his lips, or knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filling it anew. It was now half-past ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil Parkes were his companions, as of old, and for two mortal hours and a half, none of the company had pronounced one word.

Whether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the same relative positions, and doing exactly the same things for a great many years, acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing each other which serves them in its stead, is a question for philosophy to settle. But certain it is that old John Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr Cobb, were one and all firmly of opinion that they were very jolly companions—rather choice spirits than otherwise; that they looked at each other every now and then as if there were a perpetual interchange of ideas going on among them; that no man considered himself or his neighbour by any means silent; and that each of them nodded occasionally when he caught the eye of another, as if he would say, ‘You have expressed yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and I quite agree with you.’

The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire so very soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but as he had perfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his sleep, and as his breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep, saving that in the latter case he sometimes experienced a slight difficulty in respiration (such as a carpenter meets with when he is planing and comes to a knot), neither of his companions was aware of the circumstance, until he met with one of these impediments and was obliged to try again.

‘Johnny’s dropped off,’ said Mr Parkes in a whisper.

‘Fast as a top,’ said Mr Cobb.

Neither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot—one of surpassing obduracy—which bade fair to throw him into convulsions, but which he got over at last without waking, by an effort quite superhuman.

‘He sleeps uncommon hard,’ said Mr Cobb.

Mr Parkes, who was possibly a hard-sleeper himself, replied with some disdain, ‘Not a bit on it;’ and directed his eyes towards a handbill pasted over the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a woodcut representing a youth of tender years running away very fast, with a bundle over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and—to carry out the idea—a finger-post and a milestone beside him. Mr Cobb likewise turned his eyes in the same direction, and surveyed the placard as if that were the first time he had ever beheld it. Now, this was a document which Mr Willet had himself indited on the disappearance of his son Joseph, acquainting the nobility and gentry and the public in general with the circumstances of his having left his home; describing his dress and appearance; and offering a reward of five pounds to any person or persons who would pack him up and return him safely to the Maypole at Chigwell, or lodge him in any of his Majesty’s jails until such time as his father should come and claim him. In this advertisement Mr Willet had obstinately persisted, despite the advice and entreaties of his friends, in describing his son as a ‘young boy;’ and furthermore as being from eighteen inches to a couple of feet shorter than he really was; two circumstances which perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its never having been productive of any other effect than the transmission to Chigwell at various times and at a vast expense, of some five-and-forty runaways varying from six years old to twelve.

Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes looked mysteriously at this composition, at each other, and at old John. From the time he had pasted it up with his own hands, Mr Willet had never by word or sign alluded to the subject, or encouraged any one else to do so. Nobody had the least notion what his thoughts or opinions were, connected with it; whether he remembered it or forgot it; whether he had any idea that such an event had ever taken place. Therefore, even while he slept, no one ventured to refer to it in his presence; and for such sufficient reasons, these his chosen friends were silent now.

Mr Willet had got by this time into such a complication of knots, that it was perfectly clear he must wake or die. He chose the former alternative, and opened his eyes.

‘If he don’t come in five minutes,’ said John, ‘I shall have supper without him.’

The antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time at eight o’clock. Messrs Parkes and Cobb being used to this style of conversation, replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was very late, and they wondered what had happened to detain him.

‘He an’t blown away, I suppose,’ said Parkes. ‘It’s enough to carry a man of his figure off his legs, and easy too. Do you hear it? It blows great guns, indeed. There’ll be many a crash in the Forest to-night, I reckon, and many a broken branch upon the ground to-morrow.’

‘It won’t break anything in the Maypole, I take it, sir,’ returned old John. ‘Let it try. I give it leave—what’s that?’

‘The wind,’ cried Parkes. ‘It’s howling like a Christian, and has been all night long.’

‘Did you ever, sir,’ asked John, after a minute’s contemplation, ‘hear the wind say “Maypole”?’

‘Why, what man ever did?’ said Parkes.

‘Nor “ahoy,” perhaps?’ added John.

‘No. Nor that neither.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Willet, perfectly unmoved; ‘then if that was the wind just now, and you’ll wait a little time without speaking, you’ll hear it say both words very plain.’

Mr Willet was right. After listening for a few moments, they could clearly hear, above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout repeated; and that with a shrillness and energy, which denoted that it came from some person in great distress or terror. They looked at each other, turned pale, and held their breath. No man stirred.

It was in this emergency that Mr Willet displayed something of that strength of mind and plenitude of mental resource, which rendered him the admiration of all his friends and neighbours. After looking at Messrs Parkes and Cobb for some time in silence, he clapped his two hands to his cheeks, and sent forth a roar which made the glasses dance and rafters ring—a long-sustained, discordant bellow, that rolled onward with the wind, and startling every echo, made the night a hundred times more boisterous—a deep, loud, dismal bray, that sounded like a human gong. Then, with every vein in his head and face swollen with the great exertion, and his countenance suffused with a lively purple, he drew a little nearer to the fire, and turning his back upon it, said with dignity:

‘If that’s any comfort to anybody, they’re welcome to it. If it an’t, I’m sorry for ‘em. If either of you two gentlemen likes to go out and see what’s the matter, you can. I’m not curious, myself.’

While he spoke the cry drew nearer and nearer, footsteps passed the window, the latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently shut again, and Solomon Daisy, with a lighted lantern in his hand, and the rain streaming from his disordered dress, dashed into the room.

A more complete picture of terror than the little man presented, it would be difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his face, his knees knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power of articulation was quite gone; and there he stood, panting for breath, gazing on them with such livid ashy looks, that they were infected with his fear, though ignorant of its occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed and horror-stricken visage, stared back again without venturing to question him; until old John Willet, in a fit of temporary insanity, made a dive at his cravat, and, seizing him by that portion of his dress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to rattle in his head.

‘Tell us what’s the matter, sir,’ said John, ‘or I’ll kill you. Tell us what’s the matter, sir, or in another second I’ll have your head under the biler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a-following of you? What do you mean? Say something, or I’ll be the death of you, I will.’

Mr Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very letter (Solomon Daisy’s eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming manner, and certain guttural sounds, as of a choking man, to issue from his throat), that the two bystanders, recovering in some degree, plucked him off his victim by main force, and placed the little clerk of Chigwell in a chair. Directing a fearful gaze all round the room, he implored them in a faint voice to give him some drink; and above all to lock the house-door and close and bar the shutters of the room, without a moment’s loss of time. The latter request did not tend to reassure his hearers, or to fill them with the most comfortable sensations; they complied with it, however, with the greatest expedition; and having handed him a bumper of brandy-and-water, nearly boiling hot, waited to hear what he might have to tell them.

‘Oh, Johnny,’ said Solomon, shaking him by the hand. ‘Oh, Parkes. Oh, Tommy Cobb. Why did I leave this house to-night! On the nineteenth of March—of all nights in the year, on the nineteenth of March!’

They all drew closer to the fire. Parkes, who was nearest to the door, started and looked over his shoulder. Mr Willet, with great indignation, inquired what the devil he meant by that—and then said, ‘God forgive me,’ and glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer.

‘When I left here to-night,’ said Solomon Daisy, ‘I little thought what day of the month it was. I have never gone alone into the church after dark on this day, for seven-and-twenty years. I have heard it said that as we keep our birthdays when we are alive, so the ghosts of dead people, who are not easy in their graves, keep the day they died upon.—How the wind roars!’

Nobody spoke. All eyes were fastened on Solomon.

‘I might have known,’ he said, ‘what night it was, by the foul weather. There’s no such night in the whole year round as this is, always. I never sleep quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March.’

‘Go on,’ said Tom Cobb, in a low voice. ‘Nor I neither.’

Solomon Daisy raised his glass to his lips; put it down upon the floor with such a trembling hand that the spoon tinkled in it like a little bell; and continued thus:

‘Have I ever said that we are always brought back to this subject in some strange way, when the nineteenth of this month comes round? Do you suppose it was by accident, I forgot to wind up the church-clock? I never forgot it at any other time, though it’s such a clumsy thing that it has to be wound up every day. Why should it escape my memory on this day of all others?

‘I made as much haste down there as I could when I went from here, but I had to go home first for the keys; and the wind and rain being dead against me all the way, it was pretty well as much as I could do at times to keep my legs. I got there at last, opened the church-door, and went in. I had not met a soul all the way, and you may judge whether it was dull or not. Neither of you would bear me company. If you could have known what was to come, you’d have been in the right.

‘The wind was so strong, that it was as much as I could do to shut the church-door by putting my whole weight against it; and even as it was, it burst wide open twice, with such strength that any of you would have sworn, if you had been leaning against it, as I was, that somebody was pushing on the other side. However, I got the key turned, went into the belfry, and wound up the clock—which was very near run down, and would have stood stock-still in half an hour.

‘As I took up my lantern again to leave the church, it came upon me all at once that this was the nineteenth of March. It came upon me with a kind of shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon my forehead; at the very same moment, I heard a voice outside the tower—rising from among the graves.’

Here old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that if Mr Parkes (who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over his head) saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr Parkes apologised, and remarked that he was only listening; to which Mr Willet angrily retorted, that his listening with that kind of expression in his face was not agreeable, and that if he couldn’t look like other people, he had better put his pocket-handkerchief over his head. Mr Parkes with great submission pledged himself to do so, if again required, and John Willet turning to Solomon desired him to proceed. After waiting until a violent gust of wind and rain, which seemed to shake even that sturdy house to its foundation, had passed away, the little man complied:

‘Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound which I mistook for that I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through the arches of the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard the rain as it came driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I saw the ropes sway to and fro. And I heard that voice.’

‘What did it say?’ asked Tom Cobb.

‘I don’t know what; I don’t know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry, as any one of us might do, if something dreadful followed us in a dream, and came upon us unawares; and then it died off: seeming to pass quite round the church.’

‘I don’t see much in that,’ said John, drawing a long breath, and looking round him like a man who felt relieved.

‘Perhaps not,’ returned his friend, ‘but that’s not all.’

‘What more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?’ asked John, pausing in the act of wiping his face upon his apron. ‘What are you a-going to tell us of next?’

‘What I saw.’

‘Saw!’ echoed all three, bending forward.

‘When I opened the church-door to come out,’ said the little man, with an expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of his conviction, ‘when I opened the church-door to come out, which I did suddenly, for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind came up, there crossed me—so close, that by stretching out my finger I could have touched it—something in the likeness of a man. It was bare-headed to the storm. It turned its face without stopping, and fixed its eyes on mine. It was a ghost—a spirit.’

‘Whose?’ they all three cried together.

In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his chair, and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no further), his answer was lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be seated close beside him.

‘Who!’ cried Parkes and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by turns at Solomon Daisy and at Mr Willet. ‘Who was it?’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Willet after a long pause, ‘you needn’t ask. The likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of March.’

A profound silence ensued.

‘If you’ll take my advice,’ said John, ‘we had better, one and all, keep this a secret. Such tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep it to ourselves for the present time at all events, or we may get into trouble, and Solomon may lose his place. Whether it was really as he says, or whether it wasn’t, is no matter. Right or wrong, nobody would believe him. As to the probabilities, I don’t myself think,’ said Mr Willet, eyeing the corners of the room in a manner which showed that, like some other philosophers, he was not quite easy in his theory, ‘that a ghost as had been a man of sense in his lifetime, would be out a-walking in such weather—I only know that I wouldn’t, if I was one.’

But this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three, who quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very time for such appearances; and Mr Parkes (who had had a ghost in his family, by the mother’s side) argued the matter with so much ingenuity and force of illustration, that John was only saved from having to retract his opinion by the opportune appearance of supper, to which they applied themselves with a dreadful relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself, by dint of the elevating influences of fire, lights, brandy, and good company, so far recovered as to handle his knife and fork in a highly creditable manner, and to display a capacity both of eating and drinking, such as banished all fear of his having sustained any lasting injury from his fright.

Supper done, they crowded round the fire again, and, as is common on such occasions, propounded all manner of leading questions calculated to surround the story with new horrors and surprises. But Solomon Daisy, notwithstanding these temptations, adhered so steadily to his original account, and repeated it so often, with such slight variations, and with such solemn asseverations of its truth and reality, that his hearers were (with good reason) more astonished than at first. As he took John Willet’s view of the matter in regard to the propriety of not bruiting the tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again, in which case it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the clergyman, it was solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet. And as most men like to have a secret to tell which may exalt their own importance, they arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity.

As it was by this time growing late, and was long past their usual hour of separating, the cronies parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a fresh candle in his lantern, repaired homewards under the escort of long Phil Parkes and Mr Cobb, who were rather more nervous than himself. Mr Willet, after seeing them to the door, returned to collect his thoughts with the assistance of the boiler, and to listen to the storm of wind and rain, which had not yet abated one jot of its fury.

Chapter 34

Before old John had looked at the boiler quite twenty minutes, he got his ideas into a focus, and brought them to bear upon Solomon Daisy’s story. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he became with a sense of his own wisdom, and a desire that Mr Haredale should be impressed with it likewise. At length, to the end that he might sustain a principal and important character in the affair; and might have the start of Solomon and his two friends, through whose means he knew the adventure, with a variety of exaggerations, would be known to at least a score of people, and most likely to Mr Haredale himself, by breakfast-time to-morrow; he determined to repair to the Warren before going to bed.

‘He’s my landlord,’ thought John, as he took a candle in his hand, and setting it down in a corner out of the wind’s way, opened a casement in the rear of the house, looking towards the stables. ‘We haven’t met of late years so often as we used to do—changes are taking place in the family—it’s desirable that I should stand as well with them, in point of dignity, as possible—the whispering about of this here tale will anger him—it’s good to have confidences with a gentleman of his natur’, and set one’s-self right besides. Halloa there! Hugh—Hugh. Hal-loa!’

When he had repeated this shout a dozen times, and startled every pigeon from its slumbers, a door in one of the ruinous old buildings opened, and a rough voice demanded what was amiss now, that a man couldn’t even have his sleep in quiet.

‘What! Haven’t you sleep enough, growler, that you’re not to be knocked up for once?’ said John.

‘No,’ replied the voice, as the speaker yawned and shook himself. ‘Not half enough.’

‘I don’t know how you CAN sleep, with the wind a bellowsing and roaring about you, making the tiles fly like a pack of cards,’ said John; ‘but no matter for that. Wrap yourself up in something or another, and come here, for you must go as far as the Warren with me. And look sharp about it.’

Hugh, with much low growling and muttering, went back into his lair; and presently reappeared, carrying a lantern and a cudgel, and enveloped from head to foot in an old, frowzy, slouching horse-cloth. Mr Willet received this figure at the back-door, and ushered him into the bar, while he wrapped himself in sundry greatcoats and capes, and so tied and knotted his face in shawls and handkerchiefs, that how he breathed was a mystery.

‘You don’t take a man out of doors at near midnight in such weather, without putting some heart into him, do you, master?’ said Hugh.

‘Yes I do, sir,’ returned Mr Willet. ‘I put the heart (as you call it) into him when he has brought me safe home again, and his standing steady on his legs an’t of so much consequence. So hold that light up, if you please, and go on a step or two before, to show the way.’

Hugh obeyed with a very indifferent grace, and a longing glance at the bottles. Old John, laying strict injunctions on his cook to keep the doors locked in his absence, and to open to nobody but himself on pain of dismissal, followed him into the blustering darkness out of doors.

The way was wet and dismal, and the night so black, that if Mr Willet had been his own pilot, he would have walked into a deep horsepond within a few hundred yards of his own house, and would certainly have terminated his career in that ignoble sphere of action. But Hugh, who had a sight as keen as any hawk’s, and, apart from that endowment, could have found his way blindfold to any place within a dozen miles, dragged old John along, quite deaf to his remonstrances, and took his own course without the slightest reference to, or notice of, his master. So they made head against the wind as they best could; Hugh crushing the wet grass beneath his heavy tread, and stalking on after his ordinary savage fashion; John Willet following at arm’s length, picking his steps, and looking about him, now for bogs and ditches, and now for such stray ghosts as might be wandering abroad, with looks of as much dismay and uneasiness as his immovable face was capable of expressing.

At length they stood upon the broad gravel-walk before the Warren-house. The building was profoundly dark, and none were moving near it save themselves. From one solitary turret-chamber, however, there shone a ray of light; and towards this speck of comfort in the cold, cheerless, silent scene, Mr Willet bade his pilot lead him.

‘The old room,’ said John, looking timidly upward; ‘Mr Reuben’s own apartment, God be with us! I wonder his brother likes to sit there, so late at night—on this night too.’

‘Why, where else should he sit?’ asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his breast, to keep the candle from the wind, while he trimmed it with his fingers. ‘It’s snug enough, an’t it?’

‘Snug!’ said John indignantly. ‘You have a comfortable idea of snugness, you have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian?’

‘Why, what is it the worse for that!’ cried Hugh, looking into John’s fat face. ‘Does it keep out the rain, and snow, and wind, the less for that? Is it less warm or dry, because a man was killed there? Ha, ha, ha! Never believe it, master. One man’s no such matter as that comes to.’

Mr Willet fixed his dull eyes on his follower, and began—by a species of inspiration—to think it just barely possible that he was something of a dangerous character, and that it might be advisable to get rid of him one of these days. He was too prudent to say anything, with the journey home before him; and therefore turned to the iron gate before which this brief dialogue had passed, and pulled the handle of the bell that hung beside it. The turret in which the light appeared being at one corner of the building, and only divided from the path by one of the garden-walks, upon which this gate opened, Mr Haredale threw up the window directly, and demanded who was there.

‘Begging pardon, sir,’ said John, ‘I knew you sat up late, and made bold to come round, having a word to say to you.’

‘Willet—is it not?’

‘Of the Maypole—at your service, sir.’

Mr Haredale closed the window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at a door in the bottom of the turret, and coming across the garden-walk, unlocked the gate and let them in.

‘You are a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter?’

‘Nothing to speak of, sir,’ said John; ‘an idle tale, I thought you ought to know of; nothing more.’

‘Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The stairs are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend. You swing it like a censer.’

Hugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and ascended first, turning round from time to time to shed his light downward on the steps. Mr Haredale following next, eyed his lowering face with no great favour; and Hugh, looking down on him, returned his glances with interest, as they climbed the winding stairs.

It terminated in a little ante-room adjoining that from which they had seen the light. Mr Haredale entered first, and led the way through it into the latter chamber, where he seated himself at a writing-table from which he had risen when they had rung the bell.

‘Come in,’ he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the door. ‘Not you, friend,’ he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also. ‘Willet, why do you bring that fellow here?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and lowering his voice to the tone in which the question had been asked him, ‘he’s a good guard, you see.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said Mr Haredale, looking towards him as he spoke. ‘I doubt it. He has an evil eye.’

‘There’s no imagination in his eye,’ returned Mr Willet, glancing over his shoulder at the organ in question, ‘certainly.’

‘There is no good there, be assured,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Wait in that little room, friend, and close the door between us.’

Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their whispering, did as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned to John, and bade him go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick ears yonder.

Thus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he had heard and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own sagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than he had expected. Mr Haredale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even Mr Willet was surprised.

‘You did quite right,’ he said, at the end of a long conversation, ‘to bid them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of this weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition. But Miss Haredale, though she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it if it reached her ears; it is too nearly connected with a subject very painful to us all, to be heard with indifference. You were most prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much.’

This was equal to John’s most sanguine expectations; but he would have preferred Mr Haredale’s looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did.

This, however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite forgotten his being present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber floor, sprang up on their entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and prepared to descend the stairs.

‘Stay,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Will this man drink?’

‘Drink! He’d drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir,’ replied John Willet. ‘He’ll have something when he gets home. He’s better without it, now, sir.’

‘Nay. Half the distance is done,’ said Hugh. ‘What a hard master you are! I shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway. Come!’

As John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and gave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the floor.

‘What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman’s house, sir?’ said John.

‘I’m drinking a toast,’ Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale’s face; ‘a toast to this house and its master.’ With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word.

John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr Haredale locked it on the inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he was very pale, and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man.

They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what he had just now seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past—the nearest brushed his shoulder even then—who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up.

Chapter 35

When John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen; and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his stout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to address them in the most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the king’s highway at that late hour of night.

The man whom he addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when he was checked by the horseman in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice:

‘Pray, is this the London road?’

‘If you follow it right, it is,’ replied Hugh roughly.

‘Nay, brother,’ said the same person, ‘you’re but a churlish Englishman, if Englishman you be—which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say you, friend?’

‘I say it IS the London road, sir,’ answered John. ‘And I wish,’ he added in a subdued voice, as he turned to Hugh, ‘that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir, that you go a-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing chaps, that could keep on running over us, back’ards and for’ards, till we was dead, and then take our bodies up behind ‘em, and drown us ten miles off?’

‘How far is it to London?’ inquired the same speaker.

‘Why, from here, sir,’ answered John, persuasively, ‘it’s thirteen very easy mile.’

The adjective was thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed; but instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person, the remark, ‘Thirteen miles! That’s a long distance!’ which was followed by a short pause of indecision.

‘Pray,’ said the gentleman, ‘are there any inns hereabouts?’ At the word ‘inns,’ John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner; his fears rolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.

‘There are no inns,’ rejoined Mr Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural number; ‘but there’s a Inn—one Inn—the Maypole Inn. That’s a Inn indeed. You won’t see the like of that Inn often.’

‘You keep it, perhaps?’ said the horseman, smiling.

‘I do, sir,’ replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out.

‘And how far is the Maypole from here?’

‘About a mile’—John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed:

‘And have you one excellent bed, landlord? Hem! A bed that you can recommend—a bed that you are sure is well aired—a bed that has been slept in by some perfectly respectable and unexceptionable person?’

‘We don’t take in no tagrag and bobtail at our house, sir,’ answered John. ‘And as to the bed itself—’

‘Say, as to three beds,’ interposed the gentleman who had spoken before; ‘for we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of one.’

‘No, no, my lord; you are too good, you are too kind; but your life is of far too much importance to the nation in these portentous times, to be placed upon a level with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great cause, my lord, a mighty cause, depends on you. You are its leader and its champion, its advanced guard and its van. It is the cause of our altars and our homes, our country and our faith. Let ME sleep on a chair—the carpet—anywhere. No one will repine if I take cold or fever. Let John Grueby pass the night beneath the open sky—no one will repine for HIM. But forty thousand men of this our island in the wave (exclusive of women and children) rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord George Gordon; and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going down of the same, pray for his health and vigour. My lord,’ said the speaker, rising in his stirrups, ‘it is a glorious cause, and must not be forgotten. My lord, it is a mighty cause, and must not be endangered. My lord, it is a holy cause, and must not be deserted.’

‘It IS a holy cause,’ exclaimed his lordship, lifting up his hat with great solemnity. ‘Amen.’

‘John Grueby,’ said the long-winded gentleman, in a tone of mild reproof, ‘his lordship said Amen.’

‘I heard my lord, sir,’ said the man, sitting like a statue on his horse.

‘And do not YOU say Amen, likewise?’

To which John Grueby made no reply at all, but sat looking straight before him.

‘You surprise me, Grueby,’ said the gentleman. ‘At a crisis like the present, when Queen Elizabeth, that maiden monarch, weeps within her tomb, and Bloody Mary, with a brow of gloom and shadow, stalks triumphant—’

‘Oh, sir,’ cried the man, gruffly, ‘where’s the use of talking of Bloody Mary, under such circumstances as the present, when my lord’s wet through, and tired with hard riding? Let’s either go on to London, sir, or put up at once; or that unfort’nate Bloody Mary will have more to answer for—and she’s done a deal more harm in her grave than she ever did in her lifetime, I believe.’

By this time Mr Willet, who had never heard so many words spoken together at one time, or delivered with such volubility and emphasis as by the long-winded gentleman; and whose brain, being wholly unable to sustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost; recovered so far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole for all the party: good beds; neat wines; excellent entertainment for man and beast; private rooms for large and small parties; dinners dressed upon the shortest notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up coach-house; and, in short, to run over such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various portions of the building, and which in the course of some forty years he had learnt to repeat with tolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all possible to insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman who had spoken first, turning to him of the long wind, exclaimed, ‘What say you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press forward? You shall decide.’

‘I would submit, my lord, then,’ returned the person he appealed to, in a silky tone, ‘that your health and spirits—so important, under Providence, to our great cause, our pure and truthful cause’—here his lordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard—‘require refreshment and repose.’

‘Go on before, landlord, and show the way,’ said Lord George Gordon; ‘we will follow at a footpace.’

‘If you’ll give me leave, my lord,’ said John Grueby, in a low voice, ‘I’ll change my proper place, and ride before you. The looks of the landlord’s friend are not over honest, and it may be as well to be cautious with him.’

‘John Grueby is quite right,’ interposed Mr Gashford, falling back hastily. ‘My lord, a life so precious as yours must not be put in peril. Go forward, John, by all means. If you have any reason to suspect the fellow, blow his brains out.’

John made no answer, but looking straight before him, as his custom seemed to be when the secretary spoke, bade Hugh push on, and followed close behind him. Then came his lordship, with Mr Willet at his bridle rein; and, last of all, his lordship’s secretary—for that, it seemed, was Gashford’s office.

Hugh strode briskly on, often looking back at the servant, whose horse was close upon his heels, and glancing with a leer at his holster case of pistols, by which he seemed to set great store. He was a square-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow, of the true English breed; and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh, regarding him meanwhile with a look of bluff disdain. He was much older than the Maypole man, being to all appearance five-and-forty; but was one of those self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if they are ever beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know it, and go on coolly till they win.

‘If I led you wrong now,’ said Hugh, tauntingly, ‘you’d—ha ha ha!—you’d shoot me through the head, I suppose.’

John Grueby took no more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf and Hugh dumb; but kept riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed on the horizon.

‘Did you ever try a fall with a man when you were young, master?’ said Hugh. ‘Can you make any play at single-stick?’

John Grueby looked at him sideways with the same contented air, but deigned not a word in answer.

‘—Like this?’ said Hugh, giving his cudgel one of those skilful flourishes, in which the rustic of that time delighted. ‘Whoop!’

‘—Or that,’ returned John Grueby, beating down his guard with his whip, and striking him on the head with its butt end. ‘Yes, I played a little once. You wear your hair too long; I should have cracked your crown if it had been a little shorter.’

It was a pretty smart, loud-sounding rap, as it was, and evidently astonished Hugh; who, for the moment, seemed disposed to drag his new acquaintance from his saddle. But his face betokening neither malice, triumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him offence; his eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being as careless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly; Hugh was so puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost supernatural toughness, that he merely laughed, and cried ‘Well done!’ then, sheering off a little, led the way in silence.

Before the lapse of many minutes the party halted at the Maypole door. Lord George and his secretary quickly dismounting, gave their horses to their servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired to the stables. Right glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they followed Mr Willet into the common room, and stood warming themselves and drying their clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with such orders and preparations as his guest’s high quality required.

As he bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he had an opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom, as yet, he knew nothing but the voice. The lord, the great personage who did the Maypole so much honour, was about the middle height, of a slender make, and sallow complexion, with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish brown, combed perfectly straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly powdered, but without the faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired, under his greatcoat, in a full suit of black, quite free from any ornament, and of the most precise and sober cut. The gravity of his dress, together with a certain lankness of cheek and stiffness of deportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was that of one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of the fire, it was striking to observe his very bright large eye, which betrayed a restlessness of thought and purpose, singularly at variance with the studied composure and sobriety of his mien, and with his quaint and sad apparel. It had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression; neither had his face, which was thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy; but it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasiness; which infected those who looked upon him, and filled them with a kind of pity for the man: though why it did so, they would have had some trouble to explain.

Gashford, the secretary, was taller, angularly made, high-shouldered, bony, and ungraceful. His dress, in imitation of his superior, was demure and staid in the extreme; his manner, formal and constrained. This gentleman had an overhanging brow, great hands and feet and ears, and a pair of eyes that seemed to have made an unnatural retreat into his head, and to have dug themselves a cave to hide in. His manner was smooth and humble, but very sly and slinking. He wore the aspect of a man who was always lying in wait for something that WOULDN’T come to pass; but he looked patient—very patient—and fawned like a spaniel dog. Even now, while he warmed and rubbed his hands before the blaze, he had the air of one who only presumed to enjoy it in his degree as a commoner; and though he knew his lord was not regarding him, he looked into his face from time to time, and with a meek and deferential manner, smiled as if for practice.

Such were the guests whom old John Willet, with a fixed and leaden eye, surveyed a hundred times, and to whom he now advanced with a state candlestick in each hand, beseeching them to follow him into a worthier chamber. ‘For my lord,’ said John—it is odd enough, but certain people seem to have as great a pleasure in pronouncing titles as their owners have in wearing them—‘this room, my lord, isn’t at all the sort of place for your lordship, and I have to beg your lordship’s pardon for keeping you here, my lord, one minute.’

With this address, John ushered them upstairs into the state apartment, which, like many other things of state, was cold and comfortless. Their own footsteps, reverberating through the spacious room, struck upon their hearing with a hollow sound; and its damp and chilly atmosphere was rendered doubly cheerless by contrast with the homely warmth they had deserted.

It was of no use, however, to propose a return to the place they had quitted, for the preparations went on so briskly that there was no time to stop them. John, with the tall candlesticks in his hands, bowed them up to the fireplace; Hugh, striding in with a lighted brand and pile of firewood, cast it down upon the hearth, and set it in a blaze; John Grueby (who had a great blue cockade in his hat, which he appeared to despise mightily) brought in the portmanteau he had carried on his horse, and placed it on the floor; and presently all three were busily engaged in drawing out the screen, laying the cloth, inspecting the beds, lighting fires in the bedrooms, expediting the supper, and making everything as cosy and as snug as might be, on so short a notice. In less than an hour’s time, supper had been served, and ate, and cleared away; and Lord George and his secretary, with slippered feet, and legs stretched out before the fire, sat over some hot mulled wine together.

‘So ends, my lord,’ said Gashford, filling his glass with great complacency, ‘the blessed work of a most blessed day.’

‘And of a blessed yesterday,’ said his lordship, raising his head.

‘Ah!’—and here the secretary clasped his hands—‘a blessed yesterday indeed! The Protestants of Suffolk are godly men and true. Though others of our countrymen have lost their way in darkness, even as we, my lord, did lose our road to-night, theirs is the light and glory.’

‘Did I move them, Gashford?’ said Lord George.

‘Move them, my lord! Move them! They cried to be led on against the Papists, they vowed a dreadful vengeance on their heads, they roared like men possessed—’

‘But not by devils,’ said his lord.

‘By devils! my lord! By angels.’

‘Yes—oh surely—by angels, no doubt,’ said Lord George, thrusting his hands into his pockets, taking them out again to bite his nails, and looking uncomfortably at the fire. ‘Of course by angels—eh Gashford?’

‘You do not doubt it, my lord?’ said the secretary.

‘No—No,’ returned his lord. ‘No. Why should I? I suppose it would be decidedly irreligious to doubt it—wouldn’t it, Gashford? Though there certainly were,’ he added, without waiting for an answer, ‘some plaguy ill-looking characters among them.’

‘When you warmed,’ said the secretary, looking sharply at the other’s downcast eyes, which brightened slowly as he spoke; ‘when you warmed into that noble outbreak; when you told them that you were never of the lukewarm or the timid tribe, and bade them take heed that they were prepared to follow one who would lead them on, though to the very death; when you spoke of a hundred and twenty thousand men across the Scottish border who would take their own redress at any time, if it were not conceded; when you cried “Perish the Pope and all his base adherents; the penal laws against them shall never be repealed while Englishmen have hearts and hands”—and waved your own and touched your sword; and when they cried “No Popery!” and you cried “No; not even if we wade in blood,” and they threw up their hats and cried “Hurrah! not even if we wade in blood; No Popery! Lord George! Down with the Papists—Vengeance on their heads:” when this was said and done, and a word from you, my lord, could raise or still the tumult—ah! then I felt what greatness was indeed, and thought, When was there ever power like this of Lord George Gordon’s!’

‘It’s a great power. You’re right. It is a great power!’ he cried with sparkling eyes. ‘But—dear Gashford—did I really say all that?’

‘And how much more!’ cried the secretary, looking upwards. ‘Ah! how much more!’

‘And I told them what you say, about the one hundred and forty thousand men in Scotland, did I!’ he asked with evident delight. ‘That was bold.’

‘Our cause is boldness. Truth is always bold.’

‘Certainly. So is religion. She’s bold, Gashford?’

‘The true religion is, my lord.’

‘And that’s ours,’ he rejoined, moving uneasily in his seat, and biting his nails as though he would pare them to the quick. ‘There can be no doubt of ours being the true one. You feel as certain of that as I do, Gashford, don’t you?’

‘Does my lord ask ME,’ whined Gashford, drawing his chair nearer with an injured air, and laying his broad flat hand upon the table; ‘ME,’ he repeated, bending the dark hollows of his eyes upon him with an unwholesome smile, ‘who, stricken by the magic of his eloquence in Scotland but a year ago, abjured the errors of the Romish church, and clung to him as one whose timely hand had plucked me from a pit?’

‘True. No—No. I—I didn’t mean it,’ replied the other, shaking him by the hand, rising from his seat, and pacing restlessly about the room. ‘It’s a proud thing to lead the people, Gashford,’ he added as he made a sudden halt.

‘By force of reason too,’ returned the pliant secretary.

‘Ay, to be sure. They may cough and jeer, and groan in Parliament, and call me fool and madman, but which of them can raise this human sea and make it swell and roar at pleasure? Not one.’

‘Not one,’ repeated Gashford.

‘Which of them can say for his honesty, what I can say for mine; which of them has refused a minister’s bribe of one thousand pounds a year, to resign his seat in favour of another? Not one.’

‘Not one,’ repeated Gashford again—taking the lion’s share of the mulled wine between whiles.

‘And as we are honest, true, and in a sacred cause, Gashford,’ said Lord George with a heightened colour and in a louder voice, as he laid his fevered hand upon his shoulder, ‘and are the only men who regard the mass of people out of doors, or are regarded by them, we will uphold them to the last; and will raise a cry against these un-English Papists which shall re-echo through the country, and roll with a noise like thunder. I will be worthy of the motto on my coat of arms, “Called and chosen and faithful.”’

‘Called,’ said the secretary, ‘by Heaven.’

‘I am.’

‘Chosen by the people.’

‘Yes.’

‘Faithful to both.’

‘To the block!’

It would be difficult to convey an adequate idea of the excited manner in which he gave these answers to the secretary’s promptings; of the rapidity of his utterance, or the violence of his tone and gesture; in which, struggling through his Puritan’s demeanour, was something wild and ungovernable which broke through all restraint. For some minutes he walked rapidly up and down the room, then stopping suddenly, exclaimed,

‘Gashford—YOU moved them yesterday too. Oh yes! You did.’

‘I shone with a reflected light, my lord,’ replied the humble secretary, laying his hand upon his heart. ‘I did my best.’

‘You did well,’ said his master, ‘and are a great and worthy instrument. If you will ring for John Grueby to carry the portmanteau into my room, and will wait here while I undress, we will dispose of business as usual, if you’re not too tired.’

‘Too tired, my lord!—But this is his consideration! Christian from head to foot.’ With which soliloquy, the secretary tilted the jug, and looked very hard into the mulled wine, to see how much remained.

John Willet and John Grueby appeared together. The one bearing the great candlesticks, and the other the portmanteau, showed the deluded lord into his chamber; and left the secretary alone, to yawn and shake himself, and finally to fall asleep before the fire.

‘Now, Mr Gashford sir,’ said John Grueby in his ear, after what appeared to him a moment of unconsciousness; ‘my lord’s abed.’

‘Oh. Very good, John,’ was his mild reply. ‘Thank you, John. Nobody need sit up. I know my room.’

‘I hope you’re not a-going to trouble your head to-night, or my lord’s head neither, with anything more about Bloody Mary,’ said John. ‘I wish the blessed old creetur had never been born.’

‘I said you might go to bed, John,’ returned the secretary. ‘You didn’t hear me, I think.’

‘Between Bloody Marys, and blue cockades, and glorious Queen Besses, and no Poperys, and Protestant associations, and making of speeches,’ pursued John Grueby, looking, as usual, a long way off, and taking no notice of this hint, ‘my lord’s half off his head. When we go out o’ doors, such a set of ragamuffins comes a-shouting after us, “Gordon forever!” that I’m ashamed of myself and don’t know where to look. When we’re indoors, they come a-roaring and screaming about the house like so many devils; and my lord instead of ordering them to be drove away, goes out into the balcony and demeans himself by making speeches to ‘em, and calls ‘em “Men of England,” and “Fellow-countrymen,” as if he was fond of ‘em and thanked ‘em for coming. I can’t make it out, but they’re all mixed up somehow or another with that unfort’nate Bloody Mary, and call her name out till they’re hoarse. They’re all Protestants too—every man and boy among ‘em: and Protestants are very fond of spoons, I find, and silver-plate in general, whenever area-gates is left open accidentally. I wish that was the worst of it, and that no more harm might be to come; but if you don’t stop these ugly customers in time, Mr Gashford (and I know you; you’re the man that blows the fire), you’ll find ‘em grow a little bit too strong for you. One of these evenings, when the weather gets warmer and Protestants are thirsty, they’ll be pulling London down,—and I never heard that Bloody Mary went as far as THAT.’

Gashford had vanished long ago, and these remarks had been bestowed on empty air. Not at all discomposed by the discovery, John Grueby fixed his hat on, wrongside foremost that he might be unconscious of the shadow of the obnoxious cockade, and withdrew to bed; shaking his head in a very gloomy and prophetic manner until he reached his chamber.

Chapter 36

Gashford, with a smiling face, but still with looks of profound deference and humility, betook himself towards his master’s room, smoothing his hair down as he went, and humming a psalm tune. As he approached Lord George’s door, he cleared his throat and hummed more vigorously.

There was a remarkable contrast between this man’s occupation at the moment, and the expression of his countenance, which was singularly repulsive and malicious. His beetling brow almost obscured his eyes; his lip was curled contemptuously; his very shoulders seemed to sneer in stealthy whisperings with his great flapped ears.

‘Hush!’ he muttered softly, as he peeped in at the chamber-door. ‘He seems to be asleep. Pray Heaven he is! Too much watching, too much care, too much thought—ah! Lord preserve him for a martyr! He is a saint, if ever saint drew breath on this bad earth.’

Placing his light upon a table, he walked on tiptoe to the fire, and sitting in a chair before it with his back towards the bed, went on communing with himself like one who thought aloud:

‘The saviour of his country and his country’s religion, the friend of his poor countrymen, the enemy of the proud and harsh; beloved of the rejected and oppressed, adored by forty thousand bold and loyal English hearts—what happy slumbers his should be!’ And here he sighed, and warmed his hands, and shook his head as men do when their hearts are full, and heaved another sigh, and warmed his hands again.

‘Why, Gashford?’ said Lord George, who was lying broad awake, upon his side, and had been staring at him from his entrance.

‘My—my lord,’ said Gashford, starting and looking round as though in great surprise. ‘I have disturbed you!’

‘I have not been sleeping.’

‘Not sleeping!’ he repeated, with assumed confusion. ‘What can I say for having in your presence given utterance to thoughts—but they were sincere—they were sincere!’ exclaimed the secretary, drawing his sleeve in a hasty way across his eyes; ‘and why should I regret your having heard them?’

‘Gashford,’ said the poor lord, stretching out his hand with manifest emotion. ‘Do not regret it. You love me well, I know—too well. I don’t deserve such homage.’

Gashford made no reply, but grasped the hand and pressed it to his lips. Then rising, and taking from the trunk a little desk, he placed it on a table near the fire, unlocked it with a key he carried in his pocket, sat down before it, took out a pen, and, before dipping it in the inkstand, sucked it—to compose the fashion of his mouth perhaps, on which a smile was hovering yet.

‘How do our numbers stand since last enrolling-night?’ inquired Lord George. ‘Are we really forty thousand strong, or do we still speak in round numbers when we take the Association at that amount?’

‘Our total now exceeds that number by a score and three,’ Gashford replied, casting his eyes upon his papers.

‘The funds?’

‘Not VERY improving; but there is some manna in the wilderness, my lord. Hem! On Friday night the widows’ mites dropped in. “Forty scavengers, three and fourpence. An aged pew-opener of St Martin’s parish, sixpence. A bell-ringer of the established church, sixpence. A Protestant infant, newly born, one halfpenny. The United Link Boys, three shillings—one bad. The anti-popish prisoners in Newgate, five and fourpence. A friend in Bedlam, half-a-crown. Dennis the hangman, one shilling.”’

‘That Dennis,’ said his lordship, ‘is an earnest man. I marked him in the crowd in Welbeck Street, last Friday.’

‘A good man,’ rejoined the secretary, ‘a staunch, sincere, and truly zealous man.’

‘He should be encouraged,’ said Lord George. ‘Make a note of Dennis. I’ll talk with him.’

Gashford obeyed, and went on reading from his list:

‘“The Friends of Reason, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Liberty, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Peace, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Charity, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Mercy, half-a-guinea. The Associated Rememberers of Bloody Mary, half-a-guinea. The United Bulldogs, half-a-guinea.”’

‘The United Bulldogs,’ said Lord George, biting his nails most horribly, ‘are a new society, are they not?’

‘Formerly the ‘Prentice Knights, my lord. The indentures of the old members expiring by degrees, they changed their name, it seems, though they still have ‘prentices among them, as well as workmen.’

‘What is their president’s name?’ inquired Lord George.

‘President,’ said Gashford, reading, ‘Mr Simon Tappertit.’

‘I remember him. The little man, who sometimes brings an elderly sister to our meetings, and sometimes another female too, who is conscientious, I have no doubt, but not well-favoured?’

‘The very same, my lord.’

‘Tappertit is an earnest man,’ said Lord George, thoughtfully. ‘Eh, Gashford?’

‘One of the foremost among them all, my lord. He snuffs the battle from afar, like the war-horse. He throws his hat up in the street as if he were inspired, and makes most stirring speeches from the shoulders of his friends.’

‘Make a note of Tappertit,’ said Lord George Gordon. ‘We may advance him to a place of trust.’

‘That,’ rejoined the secretary, doing as he was told, ‘is all—except Mrs Varden’s box (fourteenth time of opening), seven shillings and sixpence in silver and copper, and half-a-guinea in gold; and Miggs (being the saving of a quarter’s wages), one-and-threepence.’

‘Miggs,’ said Lord George. ‘Is that a man?’

‘The name is entered on the list as a woman,’ replied the secretary. ‘I think she is the tall spare female of whom you spoke just now, my lord, as not being well-favoured, who sometimes comes to hear the speeches—along with Tappertit and Mrs Varden.’

‘Mrs Varden is the elderly lady then, is she?’

The secretary nodded, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the feather of his pen.

‘She is a zealous sister,’ said Lord George. ‘Her collection goes on prosperously, and is pursued with fervour. Has her husband joined?’

‘A malignant,’ returned the secretary, folding up his papers. ‘Unworthy such a wife. He remains in outer darkness and steadily refuses.’

‘The consequences be upon his own head!—Gashford!’

‘My lord!’

‘You don’t think,’ he turned restlessly in his bed as he spoke, ‘these people will desert me, when the hour arrives? I have spoken boldly for them, ventured much, suppressed nothing. They’ll not fall off, will they?’

‘No fear of that, my lord,’ said Gashford, with a meaning look, which was rather the involuntary expression of his own thoughts than intended as any confirmation of his words, for the other’s face was turned away. ‘Be sure there is no fear of that.’

‘Nor,’ he said with a more restless motion than before, ‘of their—but they CAN sustain no harm from leaguing for this purpose. Right is on our side, though Might may be against us. You feel as sure of that as I—honestly, you do?’

The secretary was beginning with ‘You do not doubt,’ when the other interrupted him, and impatiently rejoined:

‘Doubt. No. Who says I doubt? If I doubted, should I cast away relatives, friends, everything, for this unhappy country’s sake; this unhappy country,’ he cried, springing up in bed, after repeating the phrase ‘unhappy country’s sake’ to himself, at least a dozen times, ‘forsaken of God and man, delivered over to a dangerous confederacy of Popish powers; the prey of corruption, idolatry, and despotism! Who says I doubt? Am I called, and chosen, and faithful? Tell me. Am I, or am I not?’

‘To God, the country, and yourself,’ cried Gashford.

‘I am. I will be. I say again, I will be: to the block. Who says as much! Do you? Does any man alive?’

The secretary drooped his head with an expression of perfect acquiescence in anything that had been said or might be; and Lord George gradually sinking down upon his pillow, fell asleep.

Although there was something very ludicrous in his vehement manner, taken in conjunction with his meagre aspect and ungraceful presence, it would scarcely have provoked a smile in any man of kindly feeling; or even if it had, he would have felt sorry and almost angry with himself next moment, for yielding to the impulse. This lord was sincere in his violence and in his wavering. A nature prone to false enthusiasm, and the vanity of being a leader, were the worst qualities apparent in his composition. All the rest was weakness—sheer weakness; and it is the unhappy lot of thoroughly weak men, that their very sympathies, affections, confidences—all the qualities which in better constituted minds are virtues—dwindle into foibles, or turn into downright vices.

Gashford, with many a sly look towards the bed, sat chuckling at his master’s folly, until his deep and heavy breathing warned him that he might retire. Locking his desk, and replacing it within the trunk (but not before he had taken from a secret lining two printed handbills), he cautiously withdrew; looking back, as he went, at the pale face of the slumbering man, above whose head the dusty plumes that crowned the Maypole couch, waved drearily and sadly as though it were a bier.

Stopping on the staircase to listen that all was quiet, and to take off his shoes lest his footsteps should alarm any light sleeper who might be near at hand, he descended to the ground floor, and thrust one of his bills beneath the great door of the house. That done, he crept softly back to his own chamber, and from the window let another fall—carefully wrapt round a stone to save it from the wind—into the yard below.

They were addressed on the back ‘To every Protestant into whose hands this shall come,’ and bore within what follows:

‘Men and Brethren. Whoever shall find this letter, will take it as a warning to join, without delay, the friends of Lord George Gordon. There are great events at hand; and the times are dangerous and troubled. Read this carefully, keep it clean, and drop it somewhere else. For King and Country. Union.’

‘More seed, more seed,’ said Gashford as he closed the window. ‘When will the harvest come!’

Chapter 37

To surround anything, however monstrous or ridiculous, with an air of mystery, is to invest it with a secret charm, and power of attraction which to the crowd is irresistible. False priests, false prophets, false doctors, false patriots, false prodigies of every kind, veiling their proceedings in mystery, have always addressed themselves at an immense advantage to the popular credulity, and have been, perhaps, more indebted to that resource in gaining and keeping for a time the upper hand of Truth and Common Sense, than to any half-dozen items in the whole catalogue of imposture. Curiosity is, and has been from the creation of the world, a master-passion. To awaken it, to gratify it by slight degrees, and yet leave something always in suspense, is to establish the surest hold that can be had, in wrong, on the unthinking portion of mankind.

If a man had stood on London Bridge, calling till he was hoarse, upon the passers-by, to join with Lord George Gordon, although for an object which no man understood, and which in that very incident had a charm of its own,—the probability is, that he might have influenced a score of people in a month. If all zealous Protestants had been publicly urged to join an association for the avowed purpose of singing a hymn or two occasionally, and hearing some indifferent speeches made, and ultimately of petitioning Parliament not to pass an act for abolishing the penal laws against Roman Catholic priests, the penalty of perpetual imprisonment denounced against those who educated children in that persuasion, and the disqualification of all members of the Romish church to inherit real property in the United Kingdom by right of purchase or descent,—matters so far removed from the business and bosoms of the mass, might perhaps have called together a hundred people. But when vague rumours got abroad, that in this Protestant association a secret power was mustering against the government for undefined and mighty purposes; when the air was filled with whispers of a confederacy among the Popish powers to degrade and enslave England, establish an inquisition in London, and turn the pens of Smithfield market into stakes and cauldrons; when terrors and alarms which no man understood were perpetually broached, both in and out of Parliament, by one enthusiast who did not understand himself, and bygone bugbears which had lain quietly in their graves for centuries, were raised again to haunt the ignorant and credulous; when all this was done, as it were, in the dark, and secret invitations to join the Great Protestant Association in defence of religion, life, and liberty, were dropped in the public ways, thrust under the house-doors, tossed in at windows, and pressed into the hands of those who trod the streets by night; when they glared from every wall, and shone on every post and pillar, so that stocks and stones appeared infected with the common fear, urging all men to join together blindfold in resistance of they knew not what, they knew not why;—then the mania spread indeed, and the body, still increasing every day, grew forty thousand strong.

So said, at least, in this month of March, 1780, Lord George Gordon, the Association’s president. Whether it was the fact or otherwise, few men knew or cared to ascertain. It had never made any public demonstration; had scarcely ever been heard of, save through him; had never been seen; and was supposed by many to be the mere creature of his disordered brain. He was accustomed to talk largely about numbers of men—stimulated, as it was inferred, by certain successful disturbances, arising out of the same subject, which had occurred in Scotland in the previous year; was looked upon as a cracked-brained member of the lower house, who attacked all parties and sided with none, and was very little regarded. It was known that there was discontent abroad—there always is; he had been accustomed to address the people by placard, speech, and pamphlet, upon other questions; nothing had come, in England, of his past exertions, and nothing was apprehended from his present. Just as he has come upon the reader, he had come, from time to time, upon the public, and been forgotten in a day; as suddenly as he appears in these pages, after a blank of five long years, did he and his proceedings begin to force themselves, about this period, upon the notice of thousands of people, who had mingled in active life during the whole interval, and who, without being deaf or blind to passing events, had scarcely ever thought of him before.

‘My lord,’ said Gashford in his ear, as he drew the curtains of his bed betimes; ‘my lord!’

‘Yes—who’s that? What is it?’

‘The clock has struck nine,’ returned the secretary, with meekly folded hands. ‘You have slept well? I hope you have slept well? If my prayers are heard, you are refreshed indeed.’

‘To say the truth, I have slept so soundly,’ said Lord George, rubbing his eyes and looking round the room, ‘that I don’t remember quite—what place is this?’

‘My lord!’ cried Gashford, with a smile.

‘Oh!’ returned his superior. ‘Yes. You’re not a Jew then?’

‘A Jew!’ exclaimed the pious secretary, recoiling.

‘I dreamed that we were Jews, Gashford. You and I—both of us—Jews with long beards.’

‘Heaven forbid, my lord! We might as well be Papists.’

‘I suppose we might,’ returned the other, very quickly. ‘Eh? You really think so, Gashford?’

‘Surely I do,’ the secretary cried, with looks of great surprise.

‘Humph!’ he muttered. ‘Yes, that seems reasonable.’

‘I hope my lord—’ the secretary began.

‘Hope!’ he echoed, interrupting him. ‘Why do you say, you hope? There’s no harm in thinking of such things.’

‘Not in dreams,’ returned the Secretary.

‘In dreams! No, nor waking either.’

—‘“Called, and chosen, and faithful,”’ said Gashford, taking up Lord George’s watch which lay upon a chair, and seeming to read the inscription on the seal, abstractedly.

It was the slightest action possible, not obtruded on his notice, and apparently the result of a moment’s absence of mind, not worth remark. But as the words were uttered, Lord George, who had been going on impetuously, stopped short, reddened, and was silent. Apparently quite unconscious of this change in his demeanour, the wily Secretary stepped a little apart, under pretence of pulling up the window-blind, and returning when the other had had time to recover, said:

‘The holy cause goes bravely on, my lord. I was not idle, even last night. I dropped two of the handbills before I went to bed, and both are gone this morning. Nobody in the house has mentioned the circumstance of finding them, though I have been downstairs full half-an-hour. One or two recruits will be their first fruit, I predict; and who shall say how many more, with Heaven’s blessing on your inspired exertions!’

‘It was a famous device in the beginning,’ replied Lord George; ‘an excellent device, and did good service in Scotland. It was quite worthy of you. You remind me not to be a sluggard, Gashford, when the vineyard is menaced with destruction, and may be trodden down by Papist feet. Let the horses be saddled in half-an-hour. We must be up and doing!’

He said this with a heightened colour, and in a tone of such enthusiasm, that the secretary deemed all further prompting needless, and withdrew.

—‘Dreamed he was a Jew,’ he said thoughtfully, as he closed the bedroom door. ‘He may come to that before he dies. It’s like enough. Well! After a time, and provided I lost nothing by it, I don’t see why that religion shouldn’t suit me as well as any other. There are rich men among the Jews; shaving is very troublesome;—yes, it would suit me well enough. For the present, though, we must be Christian to the core. Our prophetic motto will suit all creeds in their turn, that’s a comfort.’ Reflecting on this source of consolation, he reached the sitting-room, and rang the bell for breakfast.

Lord George was quickly dressed (for his plain toilet was easily made), and as he was no less frugal in his repasts than in his Puritan attire, his share of the meal was soon dispatched. The secretary, however, more devoted to the good things of this world, or more intent on sustaining his strength and spirits for the sake of the Protestant cause, ate and drank to the last minute, and required indeed some three or four reminders from John Grueby, before he could resolve to tear himself away from Mr Willet’s plentiful providing.

At length he came downstairs, wiping his greasy mouth, and having paid John Willet’s bill, climbed into his saddle. Lord George, who had been walking up and down before the house talking to himself with earnest gestures, mounted his horse; and returning old John Willet’s stately bow, as well as the parting salutation of a dozen idlers whom the rumour of a live lord being about to leave the Maypole had gathered round the porch, they rode away, with stout John Grueby in the rear.

If Lord George Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr Willet, overnight, a nobleman of somewhat quaint and odd exterior, the impression was confirmed this morning, and increased a hundredfold. Sitting bolt upright upon his bony steed, with his long, straight hair, dangling about his face and fluttering in the wind; his limbs all angular and rigid, his elbows stuck out on either side ungracefully, and his whole frame jogged and shaken at every motion of his horse’s feet; a more grotesque or more ungainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu of whip, he carried in his hand a great gold-headed cane, as large as any footman carries in these days, and his various modes of holding this unwieldy weapon—now upright before his face like the sabre of a horse-soldier, now over his shoulder like a musket, now between his finger and thumb, but always in some uncouth and awkward fashion—contributed in no small degree to the absurdity of his appearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, dressed in an unusual manner, and ostentatiously exhibiting—whether by design or accident—all his peculiarities of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the qualities, natural and artificial, in which he differed from other men; he might have moved the sternest looker-on to laughter, and fully provoked the smiles and whispered jests which greeted his departure from the Maypole inn.

Quite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he trotted on beside his secretary, talking to himself nearly all the way, until they came within a mile or two of London, when now and then some passenger went by who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to some one else, and perhaps stood looking after him, or cried in jest or earnest as it might be, ‘Hurrah Geordie! No Popery!’ At which he would gravely pull off his hat, and bow. When they reached the town and rode along the streets, these notices became more frequent; some laughed, some hissed, some turned their heads and smiled, some wondered who he was, some ran along the pavement by his side and cheered. When this happened in a crush of carts and chairs and coaches, he would make a dead stop, and pulling off his hat, cry, ‘Gentlemen, No Popery!’ to which the gentlemen would respond with lusty voices, and with three times three; and then, on he would go again with a score or so of the raggedest, following at his horse’s heels, and shouting till their throats were parched.

The old ladies too—there were a great many old ladies in the streets, and these all knew him. Some of them—not those of the highest rank, but such as sold fruit from baskets and carried burdens—clapped their shrivelled hands, and raised a weazen, piping, shrill ‘Hurrah, my lord.’ Others waved their hands or handkerchiefs, or shook their fans or parasols, or threw up windows and called in haste to those within, to come and see. All these marks of popular esteem, he received with profound gravity and respect; bowing very low, and so frequently that his hat was more off his head than on; and looking up at the houses as he passed along, with the air of one who was making a public entry, and yet was not puffed up or proud.

So they rode (to the deep and unspeakable disgust of John Grueby) the whole length of Whitechapel, Leadenhall Street, and Cheapside, and into St Paul’s Churchyard. Arriving close to the cathedral, he halted; spoke to Gashford; and looking upward at its lofty dome, shook his head, as though he said, ‘The Church in Danger!’ Then to be sure, the bystanders stretched their throats indeed; and he went on again with mighty acclamations from the mob, and lower bows than ever.

So along the Strand, up Swallow Street, into the Oxford Road, and thence to his house in Welbeck Street, near Cavendish Square, whither he was attended by a few dozen idlers; of whom he took leave on the steps with this brief parting, ‘Gentlemen, No Popery. Good day. God bless you.’ This being rather a shorter address than they expected, was received with some displeasure, and cries of ‘A speech! a speech!’ which might have been complied with, but that John Grueby, making a mad charge upon them with all three horses, on his way to the stables, caused them to disperse into the adjoining fields, where they presently fell to pitch and toss, chuck-farthing, odd or even, dog-fighting, and other Protestant recreations.

In the afternoon Lord George came forth again, dressed in a black velvet coat, and trousers and waistcoat of the Gordon plaid, all of the same Quaker cut; and in this costume, which made him look a dozen times more strange and singular than before, went down on foot to Westminster. Gashford, meanwhile, bestirred himself in business matters; with which he was still engaged when, shortly after dusk, John Grueby entered and announced a visitor.

‘Let him come in,’ said Gashford.

‘Here! come in!’ growled John to somebody without; ‘You’re a Protestant, an’t you?’

‘I should think so,’ replied a deep, gruff voice.

‘You’ve the looks of it,’ said John Grueby. ‘I’d have known you for one, anywhere.’ With which remark he gave the visitor admission, retired, and shut the door.

The man who now confronted Gashford, was a squat, thickset personage, with a low, retreating forehead, a coarse shock head of hair, and eyes so small and near together, that his broken nose alone seemed to prevent their meeting and fusing into one of the usual size. A dingy handkerchief twisted like a cord about his neck, left its great veins exposed to view, and they were swollen and starting, as though with gulping down strong passions, malice, and ill-will. His dress was of threadbare velveteen—a faded, rusty, whitened black, like the ashes of a pipe or a coal fire after a day’s extinction; discoloured with the soils of many a stale debauch, and reeking yet with pot-house odours. In lieu of buckles at his knees, he wore unequal loops of packthread; and in his grimy hands he held a knotted stick, the knob of which was carved into a rough likeness of his own vile face. Such was the visitor who doffed his three-cornered hat in Gashford’s presence, and waited, leering, for his notice.

‘Ah! Dennis!’ cried the secretary. ‘Sit down.’

‘I see my lord down yonder—’ cried the man, with a jerk of his thumb towards the quarter that he spoke of, ‘and he says to me, says my lord, “If you’ve nothing to do, Dennis, go up to my house and talk with Muster Gashford.” Of course I’d nothing to do, you know. These an’t my working hours. Ha ha! I was a-taking the air when I see my lord, that’s what I was doing. I takes the air by night, as the howls does, Muster Gashford.’

And sometimes in the day-time, eh?’ said the secretary—‘when you go out in state, you know.’

‘Ha ha!’ roared the fellow, smiting his leg; ‘for a gentleman as ‘ull say a pleasant thing in a pleasant way, give me Muster Gashford agin’ all London and Westminster! My lord an’t a bad ‘un at that, but he’s a fool to you. Ah to be sure,—when I go out in state.’

‘And have your carriage,’ said the secretary; ‘and your chaplain, eh? and all the rest of it?’

‘You’ll be the death of me,’ cried Dennis, with another roar, ‘you will. But what’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘Eh? Are we to be under orders to pull down one of them Popish chapels—or what?’

‘Hush!’ said the secretary, suffering the faintest smile to play upon his face. ‘Hush! God bless me, Dennis! We associate, you know, for strictly peaceable and lawful purposes.’

‘I know, bless you,’ returned the man, thrusting his tongue into his cheek; ‘I entered a’ purpose, didn’t I!’

‘No doubt,’ said Gashford, smiling as before. And when he said so, Dennis roared again, and smote his leg still harder, and falling into fits of laughter, wiped his eyes with the corner of his neckerchief, and cried, ‘Muster Gashford agin’ all England hollow!’

‘Lord George and I were talking of you last night,’ said Gashford, after a pause. ‘He says you are a very earnest fellow.’

‘So I am,’ returned the hangman.

‘And that you truly hate the Papists.’

‘So I do,’ and he confirmed it with a good round oath. ‘Lookye here, Muster Gashford,’ said the fellow, laying his hat and stick upon the floor, and slowly beating the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other; ‘Ob-serve. I’m a constitutional officer that works for my living, and does my work creditable. Do I, or do I not?’

‘Unquestionably.’

‘Very good. Stop a minute. My work, is sound, Protestant, constitutional, English work. Is it, or is it not?’

‘No man alive can doubt it.’

‘Nor dead neither. Parliament says this here—says Parliament, “If any man, woman, or child, does anything which goes again a certain number of our acts”—how many hanging laws may there be at this present time, Muster Gashford? Fifty?’

‘I don’t exactly know how many,’ replied Gashford, leaning back in his chair and yawning; ‘a great number though.’

‘Well, say fifty. Parliament says, “If any man, woman, or child, does anything again any one of them fifty acts, that man, woman, or child, shall be worked off by Dennis.” George the Third steps in when they number very strong at the end of a sessions, and says, “These are too many for Dennis. I’ll have half for myself and Dennis shall have half for himself;” and sometimes he throws me in one over that I don’t expect, as he did three year ago, when I got Mary Jones, a young woman of nineteen who come up to Tyburn with a infant at her breast, and was worked off for taking a piece of cloth off the counter of a shop in Ludgate Hill, and putting it down again when the shopman see her; and who had never done any harm before, and only tried to do that, in consequence of her husband having been pressed three weeks previous, and she being left to beg, with two young children—as was proved upon the trial. Ha ha!—Well! That being the law and the practice of England, is the glory of England, an’t it, Muster Gashford?’

‘Certainly,’ said the secretary.

‘And in times to come,’ pursued the hangman, ‘if our grandsons should think of their grandfathers’ times, and find these things altered, they’ll say, “Those were days indeed, and we’ve been going down hill ever since.” Won’t they, Muster Gashford?’

‘I have no doubt they will,’ said the secretary.

‘Well then, look here,’ said the hangman. ‘If these Papists gets into power, and begins to boil and roast instead of hang, what becomes of my work! If they touch my work that’s a part of so many laws, what becomes of the laws in general, what becomes of the religion, what becomes of the country!—Did you ever go to church, Muster Gashford?’

‘Ever!’ repeated the secretary with some indignation; ‘of course.’

‘Well,’ said the ruffian, ‘I’ve been once—twice, counting the time I was christened—and when I heard the Parliament prayed for, and thought how many new hanging laws they made every sessions, I considered that I was prayed for. Now mind, Muster Gashford,’ said the fellow, taking up his stick and shaking it with a ferocious air, ‘I mustn’t have my Protestant work touched, nor this here Protestant state of things altered in no degree, if I can help it; I mustn’t have no Papists interfering with me, unless they come to be worked off in course of law; I mustn’t have no biling, no roasting, no frying—nothing but hanging. My lord may well call me an earnest fellow. In support of the great Protestant principle of having plenty of that, I’ll,’ and here he beat his club upon the ground, ‘burn, fight, kill—do anything you bid me, so that it’s bold and devilish—though the end of it was, that I got hung myself.—There, Muster Gashford!’

He appropriately followed up this frequent prostitution of a noble word to the vilest purposes, by pouring out in a kind of ecstasy at least a score of most tremendous oaths; then wiped his heated face upon his neckerchief, and cried, ‘No Popery! I’m a religious man, by G—!’

Gashford had leant back in his chair, regarding him with eyes so sunken, and so shadowed by his heavy brows, that for aught the hangman saw of them, he might have been stone blind. He remained smiling in silence for a short time longer, and then said, slowly and distinctly:

‘You are indeed an earnest fellow, Dennis—a most valuable fellow—the staunchest man I know of in our ranks. But you must calm yourself; you must be peaceful, lawful, mild as any lamb. I am sure you will be though.’

‘Ay, ay, we shall see, Muster Gashford, we shall see. You won’t have to complain of me,’ returned the other, shaking his head.

‘I am sure I shall not,’ said the secretary in the same mild tone, and with the same emphasis. ‘We shall have, we think, about next month, or May, when this Papist relief bill comes before the house, to convene our whole body for the first time. My lord has thoughts of our walking in procession through the streets—just as an innocent display of strength—and accompanying our petition down to the door of the House of Commons.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Dennis, with another oath.

‘We shall have to draw up in divisions, our numbers being so large; and, I believe I may venture to say,’ resumed Gashford, affecting not to hear the interruption, ‘though I have no direct instructions to that effect—that Lord George has thought of you as an excellent leader for one of these parties. I have no doubt you would be an admirable one.’

‘Try me,’ said the fellow, with an ugly wink.

‘You would be cool, I know,’ pursued the secretary, still smiling, and still managing his eyes so that he could watch him closely, and really not be seen in turn, ‘obedient to orders, and perfectly temperate. You would lead your party into no danger, I am certain.’

‘I’d lead them, Muster Gashford,’—the hangman was beginning in a reckless way, when Gashford started forward, laid his finger on his lips, and feigned to write, just as the door was opened by John Grueby.

‘Oh!’ said John, looking in; ‘here’s another Protestant.’

‘Some other room, John,’ cried Gashford in his blandest voice. ‘I am engaged just now.’

But John had brought this new visitor to the door, and he walked in unbidden, as the words were uttered; giving to view the form and features, rough attire, and reckless air, of Hugh.

Chapter 38

The secretary put his hand before his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lamp, and for some moments looked at Hugh with a frowning brow, as if he remembered to have seen him lately, but could not call to mind where, or on what occasion. His uncertainty was very brief, for before Hugh had spoken a word, he said, as his countenance cleared up:

‘Ay, ay, I recollect. It’s quite right, John, you needn’t wait. Don’t go, Dennis.’

‘Your servant, master,’ said Hugh, as Grueby disappeared.

‘Yours, friend,’ returned the secretary in his smoothest manner. ‘What brings YOU here? We left nothing behind us, I hope?’

Hugh gave a short laugh, and thrusting his hand into his breast, produced one of the handbills, soiled and dirty from lying out of doors all night, which he laid upon the secretary’s desk after flattening it upon his knee, and smoothing out the wrinkles with his heavy palm.

‘Nothing but that, master. It fell into good hands, you see.’

‘What is this!’ said Gashford, turning it over with an air of perfectly natural surprise. ‘Where did you get it from, my good fellow; what does it mean? I don’t understand this at all.’

A little disconcerted by this reception, Hugh looked from the secretary to Dennis, who had risen and was standing at the table too, observing the stranger by stealth, and seeming to derive the utmost satisfaction from his manners and appearance. Considering himself silently appealed to by this action, Mr Dennis shook his head thrice, as if to say of Gashford, ‘No. He don’t know anything at all about it. I know he don’t. I’ll take my oath he don’t;’ and hiding his profile from Hugh with one long end of his frowzy neckerchief, nodded and chuckled behind this screen in extreme approval of the secretary’s proceedings.

‘It tells the man that finds it, to come here, don’t it?’ asked Hugh. ‘I’m no scholar, myself, but I showed it to a friend, and he said it did.’

‘It certainly does,’ said Gashford, opening his eyes to their utmost width; ‘really this is the most remarkable circumstance I have ever known. How did you come by this piece of paper, my good friend?’

‘Muster Gashford,’ wheezed the hangman under his breath, ‘agin’ all Newgate!’

Whether Hugh heard him, or saw by his manner that he was being played upon, or perceived the secretary’s drift of himself, he came in his blunt way to the point at once.

‘Here!’ he said, stretching out his hand and taking it back; ‘never mind the bill, or what it says, or what it don’t say. You don’t know anything about it, master,—no more do I,—no more does he,’ glancing at Dennis. ‘None of us know what it means, or where it comes from: there’s an end of that. Now I want to make one against the Catholics, I’m a No-Popery man, and ready to be sworn in. That’s what I’ve come here for.’

‘Put him down on the roll, Muster Gashford,’ said Dennis approvingly. ‘That’s the way to go to work—right to the end at once, and no palaver.’

‘What’s the use of shooting wide of the mark, eh, old boy!’ cried Hugh.

‘My sentiments all over!’ rejoined the hangman. ‘This is the sort of chap for my division, Muster Gashford. Down with him, sir. Put him on the roll. I’d stand godfather to him, if he was to be christened in a bonfire, made of the ruins of the Bank of England.’

With these and other expressions of confidence of the like flattering kind, Mr Dennis gave him a hearty slap on the back, which Hugh was not slow to return.

‘No Popery, brother!’ cried the hangman.

‘No Property, brother!’ responded Hugh.

‘Popery, Popery,’ said the secretary with his usual mildness.

‘It’s all the same!’ cried Dennis. ‘It’s all right. Down with him, Muster Gashford. Down with everybody, down with everything! Hurrah for the Protestant religion! That’s the time of day, Muster Gashford!’

The secretary regarded them both with a very favourable expression of countenance, while they gave loose to these and other demonstrations of their patriotic purpose; and was about to make some remark aloud, when Dennis, stepping up to him, and shading his mouth with his hand, said, in a hoarse whisper, as he nudged him with his elbow:

‘Don’t split upon a constitutional officer’s profession, Muster Gashford. There are popular prejudices, you know, and he mightn’t like it. Wait till he comes to be more intimate with me. He’s a fine-built chap, an’t he?’

‘A powerful fellow indeed!’

‘Did you ever, Muster Gashford,’ whispered Dennis, with a horrible kind of admiration, such as that with which a cannibal might regard his intimate friend, when hungry,—‘did you ever—and here he drew still closer to his ear, and fenced his mouth with both his open hands—‘see such a throat as his? Do but cast your eye upon it. There’s a neck for stretching, Muster Gashford!’

The secretary assented to this proposition with the best grace he could assume—it is difficult to feign a true professional relish: which is eccentric sometimes—and after asking the candidate a few unimportant questions, proceeded to enrol him a member of the Great Protestant Association of England. If anything could have exceeded Mr Dennis’s joy on the happy conclusion of this ceremony, it would have been the rapture with which he received the announcement that the new member could neither read nor write: those two arts being (as Mr Dennis swore) the greatest possible curse a civilised community could know, and militating more against the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great constitutional office he had the honour to hold, than any adverse circumstances that could present themselves to his imagination.

The enrolment being completed, and Hugh having been informed by Gashford, in his peculiar manner, of the peaceful and strictly lawful objects contemplated by the body to which he now belonged—during which recital Mr Dennis nudged him very much with his elbow, and made divers remarkable faces—the secretary gave them both to understand that he desired to be alone. Therefore they took their leaves without delay, and came out of the house together.

‘Are you walking, brother?’ said Dennis.

‘Ay!’ returned Hugh. ‘Where you will.’

‘That’s social,’ said his new friend. ‘Which way shall we take? Shall we go and have a look at doors that we shall make a pretty good clattering at, before long—eh, brother?’

Hugh answering in the affirmative, they went slowly down to Westminster, where both houses of Parliament were then sitting. Mingling in the crowd of carriages, horses, servants, chairmen, link-boys, porters, and idlers of all kinds, they lounged about; while Hugh’s new friend pointed out to him significantly the weak parts of the building, how easy it was to get into the lobby, and so to the very door of the House of Commons; and how plainly, when they marched down there in grand array, their roars and shouts would be heard by the members inside; with a great deal more to the same purpose, all of which Hugh received with manifest delight.

He told him, too, who some of the Lords and Commons were, by name, as they came in and out; whether they were friendly to the Papists or otherwise; and bade him take notice of their liveries and equipages, that he might be sure of them, in case of need. Sometimes he drew him close to the windows of a passing carriage, that he might see its master’s face by the light of the lamps; and, both in respect of people and localities, he showed so much acquaintance with everything around, that it was plain he had often studied there before; as indeed, when they grew a little more confidential, he confessed he had.

Perhaps the most striking part of all this was, the number of people—never in groups of more than two or three together—who seemed to be skulking about the crowd for the same purpose. To the greater part of these, a slight nod or a look from Hugh’s companion was sufficient greeting; but, now and then, some man would come and stand beside him in the throng, and, without turning his head or appearing to communicate with him, would say a word or two in a low voice, which he would answer in the same cautious manner. Then they would part, like strangers. Some of these men often reappeared again unexpectedly in the crowd close to Hugh, and, as they passed by, pressed his hand, or looked him sternly in the face; but they never spoke to him, nor he to them; no, not a word.

It was remarkable, too, that whenever they happened to stand where there was any press of people, and Hugh chanced to be looking downward, he was sure to see an arm stretched out—under his own perhaps, or perhaps across him—which thrust some paper into the hand or pocket of a bystander, and was so suddenly withdrawn that it was impossible to tell from whom it came; nor could he see in any face, on glancing quickly round, the least confusion or surprise. They often trod upon a paper like the one he carried in his breast, but his companion whispered him not to touch it or to take it up,—not even to look towards it,—so there they let them lie, and passed on.

When they had paraded the street and all the avenues of the building in this manner for near two hours, they turned away, and his friend asked him what he thought of what he had seen, and whether he was prepared for a good hot piece of work if it should come to that. ‘The hotter the better,’ said Hugh, ‘I’m prepared for anything.’—‘So am I,’ said his friend, ‘and so are many of us; and they shook hands upon it with a great oath, and with many terrible imprecations on the Papists.

As they were thirsty by this time, Dennis proposed that they should repair together to The Boot, where there was good company and strong liquor. Hugh yielding a ready assent, they bent their steps that way with no loss of time.

This Boot was a lone house of public entertainment, situated in the fields at the back of the Foundling Hospital; a very solitary spot at that period, and quite deserted after dark. The tavern stood at some distance from any high road, and was approachable only by a dark and narrow lane; so that Hugh was much surprised to find several people drinking there, and great merriment going on. He was still more surprised to find among them almost every face that had caught his attention in the crowd; but his companion having whispered him outside the door, that it was not considered good manners at The Boot to appear at all curious about the company, he kept his own counsel, and made no show of recognition.

Before putting his lips to the liquor which was brought for them, Dennis drank in a loud voice the health of Lord George Gordon, President of the Great Protestant Association; which toast Hugh pledged likewise, with corresponding enthusiasm. A fiddler who was present, and who appeared to act as the appointed minstrel of the company, forthwith struck up a Scotch reel; and that in tones so invigorating, that Hugh and his friend (who had both been drinking before) rose from their seats as by previous concert, and, to the great admiration of the assembled guests, performed an extemporaneous No-Popery Dance.

Chapter 39

The applause which the performance of Hugh and his new friend elicited from the company at The Boot, had not yet subsided, and the two dancers were still panting from their exertions, which had been of a rather extreme and violent character, when the party was reinforced by the arrival of some more guests, who, being a detachment of United Bulldogs, were received with very flattering marks of distinction and respect.

The leader of this small party—for, including himself, they were but three in number—was our old acquaintance, Mr Tappertit, who seemed, physically speaking, to have grown smaller with years (particularly as to his legs, which were stupendously little), but who, in a moral point of view, in personal dignity and self-esteem, had swelled into a giant. Nor was it by any means difficult for the most unobservant person to detect this state of feeling in the quondam ‘prentice, for it not only proclaimed itself impressively and beyond mistake in his majestic walk and kindling eye, but found a striking means of revelation in his turned-up nose, which scouted all things of earth with deep disdain, and sought communion with its kindred skies.

Mr Tappertit, as chief or captain of the Bulldogs, was attended by his two lieutenants; one, the tall comrade of his younger life; the other, a ‘Prentice Knight in days of yore—Mark Gilbert, bound in the olden time to Thomas Curzon of the Golden Fleece. These gentlemen, like himself, were now emancipated from their ‘prentice thraldom, and served as journeymen; but they were, in humble emulation of his great example, bold and daring spirits, and aspired to a distinguished state in great political events. Hence their connection with the Protestant Association of England, sanctioned by the name of Lord George Gordon; and hence their present visit to The Boot.

‘Gentlemen!’ said Mr Tappertit, taking off his hat as a great general might in addressing his troops. ‘Well met. My lord does me and you the honour to send his compliments per self.’

‘You’ve seen my lord too, have you?’ said Dennis. ‘I see him this afternoon.’

‘My duty called me to the Lobby when our shop shut up; and I saw him there, sir,’ Mr Tappertit replied, as he and his lieutenants took their seats. ‘How do YOU do?’

‘Lively, master, lively,’ said the fellow. ‘Here’s a new brother, regularly put down in black and white by Muster Gashford; a credit to the cause; one of the stick-at-nothing sort; one arter my own heart. D’ye see him? Has he got the looks of a man that’ll do, do you think?’ he cried, as he slapped Hugh on the back.

‘Looks or no looks,’ said Hugh, with a drunken flourish of his arm, ‘I’m the man you want. I hate the Papists, every one of ‘em. They hate me and I hate them. They do me all the harm they can, and I’ll do them all the harm I can. Hurrah!’

‘Was there ever,’ said Dennis, looking round the room, when the echo of his boisterous voice had died away; ‘was there ever such a game boy! Why, I mean to say, brothers, that if Muster Gashford had gone a hundred mile and got together fifty men of the common run, they wouldn’t have been worth this one.’

The greater part of the company implicitly subscribed to this opinion, and testified their faith in Hugh by nods and looks of great significance. Mr Tappertit sat and contemplated him for a long time in silence, as if he suspended his judgment; then drew a little nearer to him, and eyed him over more carefully; then went close up to him, and took him apart into a dark corner.

‘I say,’ he began, with a thoughtful brow, ‘haven’t I seen you before?’

‘It’s like you may,’ said Hugh, in his careless way. ‘I don’t know; shouldn’t wonder.’

‘No, but it’s very easily settled,’ returned Sim. ‘Look at me. Did you ever see ME before? You wouldn’t be likely to forget it, you know, if you ever did. Look at me. Don’t be afraid; I won’t do you any harm. Take a good look—steady now.’

The encouraging way in which Mr Tappertit made this request, and coupled it with an assurance that he needn’t be frightened, amused Hugh mightily—so much indeed, that he saw nothing at all of the small man before him, through closing his eyes in a fit of hearty laughter, which shook his great broad sides until they ached again.

‘Come!’ said Mr Tappertit, growing a little impatient under this disrespectful treatment. ‘Do you know me, feller?’

‘Not I,’ cried Hugh. ‘Ha ha ha! Not I! But I should like to.’

‘And yet I’d have wagered a seven-shilling piece,’ said Mr Tappertit, folding his arms, and confronting him with his legs wide apart and firmly planted on the ground, ‘that you once were hostler at the Maypole.’

Hugh opened his eyes on hearing this, and looked at him in great surprise.

‘—And so you were, too,’ said Mr Tappertit, pushing him away with a condescending playfulness. ‘When did MY eyes ever deceive—unless it was a young woman! Don’t you know me now?’

‘Why it an’t—’ Hugh faltered.

‘An’t it?’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Are you sure of that? You remember G. Varden, don’t you?’

Certainly Hugh did, and he remembered D. Varden too; but that he didn’t tell him.

‘You remember coming down there, before I was out of my time, to ask after a vagabond that had bolted off, and left his disconsolate father a prey to the bitterest emotions, and all the rest of it—don’t you?’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘Of course I do!’ cried Hugh. ‘And I saw you there.’

‘Saw me there!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Yes, I should think you did see me there. The place would be troubled to go on without me. Don’t you remember my thinking you liked the vagabond, and on that account going to quarrel with you; and then finding you detested him worse than poison, going to drink with you? Don’t you remember that?’

‘To be sure!’ cried Hugh.

‘Well! and are you in the same mind now?’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘Yes!’ roared Hugh.

‘You speak like a man,’ said Mr Tappertit, ‘and I’ll shake hands with you.’ With these conciliatory expressions he suited the action to the word; and Hugh meeting his advances readily, they performed the ceremony with a show of great heartiness.

‘I find,’ said Mr Tappertit, looking round on the assembled guests, ‘that brother What’s-his-name and I are old acquaintance.—You never heard anything more of that rascal, I suppose, eh?’

‘Not a syllable,’ replied Hugh. ‘I never want to. I don’t believe I ever shall. He’s dead long ago, I hope.’

‘It’s to be hoped, for the sake of mankind in general and the happiness of society, that he is,’ said Mr Tappertit, rubbing his palm upon his legs, and looking at it between whiles. ‘Is your other hand at all cleaner? Much the same. Well, I’ll owe you another shake. We’ll suppose it done, if you’ve no objection.’

Hugh laughed again, and with such thorough abandonment to his mad humour, that his limbs seemed dislocated, and his whole frame in danger of tumbling to pieces; but Mr Tappertit, so far from receiving this extreme merriment with any irritation, was pleased to regard it with the utmost favour, and even to join in it, so far as one of his gravity and station could, with any regard to that decency and decorum which men in high places are expected to maintain.

Mr Tappertit did not stop here, as many public characters might have done, but calling up his brace of lieutenants, introduced Hugh to them with high commendation; declaring him to be a man who, at such times as those in which they lived, could not be too much cherished. Further, he did him the honour to remark, that he would be an acquisition of which even the United Bulldogs might be proud; and finding, upon sounding him, that he was quite ready and willing to enter the society (for he was not at all particular, and would have leagued himself that night with anything, or anybody, for any purpose whatsoever), caused the necessary preliminaries to be gone into upon the spot. This tribute to his great merit delighted no man more than Mr Dennis, as he himself proclaimed with several rare and surprising oaths; and indeed it gave unmingled satisfaction to the whole assembly.

‘Make anything you like of me!’ cried Hugh, flourishing the can he had emptied more than once. ‘Put me on any duty you please. I’m your man. I’ll do it. Here’s my captain—here’s my leader. Ha ha ha! Let him give me the word of command, and I’ll fight the whole Parliament House single-handed, or set a lighted torch to the King’s Throne itself!’ With that, he smote Mr Tappertit on the back, with such violence that his little body seemed to shrink into a mere nothing; and roared again until the very foundlings near at hand were startled in their beds.

In fact, a sense of something whimsical in their companionship seemed to have taken entire possession of his rude brain. The bare fact of being patronised by a great man whom he could have crushed with one hand, appeared in his eyes so eccentric and humorous, that a kind of ferocious merriment gained the mastery over him, and quite subdued his brutal nature. He roared and roared again; toasted Mr Tappertit a hundred times; declared himself a Bulldog to the core; and vowed to be faithful to him to the last drop of blood in his veins.

All these compliments Mr Tappertit received as matters of course—flattering enough in their way, but entirely attributable to his vast superiority. His dignified self-possession only delighted Hugh the more; and in a word, this giant and dwarf struck up a friendship which bade fair to be of long continuance, as the one held it to be his right to command, and the other considered it an exquisite pleasantry to obey. Nor was Hugh by any means a passive follower, who scrupled to act without precise and definite orders; for when Mr Tappertit mounted on an empty cask which stood by way of rostrum in the room, and volunteered a speech upon the alarming crisis then at hand, he placed himself beside the orator, and though he grinned from ear to ear at every word he said, threw out such expressive hints to scoffers in the management of his cudgel, that those who were at first the most disposed to interrupt, became remarkably attentive, and were the loudest in their approbation.

It was not all noise and jest, however, at The Boot, nor were the whole party listeners to the speech. There were some men at the other end of the room (which was a long, low-roofed chamber) in earnest conversation all the time; and when any of this group went out, fresh people were sure to come in soon afterwards and sit down in their places, as though the others had relieved them on some watch or duty; which it was pretty clear they did, for these changes took place by the clock, at intervals of half an hour. These persons whispered very much among themselves, and kept aloof, and often looked round, as jealous of their speech being overheard; some two or three among them entered in books what seemed to be reports from the others; when they were not thus employed one of them would turn to the newspapers which were strewn upon the table, and from the St James’s Chronicle, the Herald, Chronicle, or Public Advertiser, would read to the rest in a low voice some passage having reference to the topic in which they were all so deeply interested. But the great attraction was a pamphlet called The Thunderer, which espoused their own opinions, and was supposed at that time to emanate directly from the Association. This was always in request; and whether read aloud, to an eager knot of listeners, or by some solitary man, was certain to be followed by stormy talking and excited looks.

In the midst of all his merriment, and admiration of his captain, Hugh was made sensible by these and other tokens, of the presence of an air of mystery, akin to that which had so much impressed him out of doors. It was impossible to discard a sense that something serious was going on, and that under the noisy revel of the public-house, there lurked unseen and dangerous matter. Little affected by this, however, he was perfectly satisfied with his quarters and would have remained there till morning, but that his conductor rose soon after midnight, to go home; Mr Tappertit following his example, left him no excuse to stay. So they all three left the house together: roaring a No-Popery song until the fields resounded with the dismal noise.

‘Cheer up, captain!’ cried Hugh, when they had roared themselves out of breath. ‘Another stave!’

Mr Tappertit, nothing loath, began again; and so the three went staggering on, arm-in-arm, shouting like madmen, and defying the watch with great valour. Indeed this did not require any unusual bravery or boldness, as the watchmen of that time, being selected for the office on account of excessive age and extraordinary infirmity, had a custom of shutting themselves up tight in their boxes on the first symptoms of disturbance, and remaining there until they disappeared. In these proceedings, Mr Dennis, who had a gruff voice and lungs of considerable power, distinguished himself very much, and acquired great credit with his two companions.

‘What a queer fellow you are!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘You’re so precious sly and close. Why don’t you ever tell what trade you’re of?’

‘Answer the captain instantly,’ cried Hugh, beating his hat down on his head; ‘why don’t you ever tell what trade you’re of?’

‘I’m of as gen-teel a calling, brother, as any man in England—as light a business as any gentleman could desire.’

‘Was you ‘prenticed to it?’ asked Mr Tappertit.

‘No. Natural genius,’ said Mr Dennis. ‘No ‘prenticing. It come by natur’. Muster Gashford knows my calling. Look at that hand of mine—many and many a job that hand has done, with a neatness and dexterity, never known afore. When I look at that hand,’ said Mr Dennis, shaking it in the air, ‘and remember the helegant bits of work it has turned off, I feel quite molloncholy to think it should ever grow old and feeble. But sich is life!’

He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these reflections, and putting his fingers with an absent air on Hugh’s throat, and particularly under his left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical development of that part of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner and actually shed tears.

‘You’re a kind of artist, I suppose—eh!’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘Yes,’ rejoined Dennis; ‘yes—I may call myself a artist—a fancy workman—art improves natur’—that’s my motto.’

‘And what do you call this?’ said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of his hand.

‘That’s my portrait atop,’ Dennis replied; ‘d’ye think it’s like?’

‘Why—it’s a little too handsome,’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Who did it? You?’

‘I!’ repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image. ‘I wish I had the 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.’

‘I have come to and fro, master, all through that time, when there was anything to tell, because I knew that you’d be angry with me if I stayed away,’ said Hugh, blurting the words out, after an embarrassed silence; ‘and because I wished to please you if I could, and not to have you go against me. There. That’s the true reason why I came to-night. You know that, master, I am sure.’

‘You are a specious fellow,’ returned Sir John, fixing his eyes upon him, ‘and carry two faces under your hood, as well as the best. Didn’t you give me in this room, this evening, any other reason; no dislike of anybody who has slighted you lately, on all occasions, abused you, treated you with rudeness; acted towards you, more as if you were a mongrel dog than a man like himself?’

‘To be sure I did!’ cried Hugh, his passion rising, as the other meant it should; ‘and I say it all over now, again. I’d do anything to have some revenge on him—anything. And when you told me that he and all the Catholics would suffer from those who joined together under that handbill, I said I’d make one of ‘em, if their master was the devil himself. I AM one of ‘em. See whether I am as good as my word and turn out to be among the foremost, or no. I mayn’t have much head, master, but I’ve head enough to remember those that use me ill. You shall see, and so shall he, and so shall hundreds more, how my spirit backs me when the time comes. My bark is nothing to my bite. Some that I know had better have a wild lion among ‘em than me, when I am fairly loose—they had!’

The knight looked at him with a smile of far deeper meaning than ordinary; and pointing to the old cupboard, followed him with his eyes while he filled and drank a glass of liquor; and smiled when his back was turned, with deeper meaning yet.

‘You are in a blustering mood, my friend,’ he said, when Hugh confronted him again.

‘Not I, master!’ cried Hugh. ‘I don’t say half I mean. I can’t. I haven’t got the gift. There are talkers enough among us; I’ll be one of the doers.’

‘Oh! you have joined those fellows then?’ said Sir John, with an air of most profound indifference.

‘Yes. I went up to the house you told me of; and got put down upon the muster. There was another man there, named Dennis—’

‘Dennis, eh!’ cried Sir John, laughing. ‘Ay, ay! a pleasant fellow, I believe?’

‘A roaring dog, master—one after my own heart—hot upon the matter too—red hot.’

‘So I have heard,’ replied Sir John, carelessly. ‘You don’t happen to know his trade, do you?’

‘He wouldn’t say,’ cried Hugh. ‘He keeps it secret.’

‘Ha ha!’ laughed Sir John. ‘A strange fancy—a weakness with some persons—you’ll know it one day, I dare swear.’

‘We’re intimate already,’ said Hugh.

‘Quite natural! And have been drinking together, eh?’ pursued Sir John. ‘Did you say what place you went to in company, when you left Lord George’s?’

Hugh had not said or thought of saying, but he told him; and this inquiry being followed by a long train of questions, he related all that had passed both in and out of doors, the kind of people he had seen, their numbers, state of feeling, mode of conversation, apparent expectations and intentions. His questioning was so artfully contrived, that he seemed even in his own eyes to volunteer all this information rather than to have it wrested from him; and he was brought to this state of feeling so naturally, that when Mr Chester yawned at length and declared himself quite wearied out, he made a rough kind of excuse for having talked so much.

‘There—get you gone,’ said Sir John, holding the door open in his hand. ‘You have made a pretty evening’s work. I told you not to do this. You may get into trouble. You’ll have an opportunity of revenging yourself on your proud friend Haredale, though, and for that, you’d hazard anything, I suppose?’

‘I would,’ retorted Hugh, stopping in his passage out and looking back; ‘but what do I risk! What do I stand a chance of losing, master? Friends, home? A fig for ‘em all; I have none; they are nothing to me. Give me a good scuffle; let me pay off old scores in a bold riot where there are men to stand by me; and then use me as you like—it don’t matter much to me what the end is!’

‘What have you done with that paper?’ said Sir John.

‘I have it here, master.’

‘Drop it again as you go along; it’s as well not to keep such things about you.’

Hugh nodded, and touching his cap with an air of as much respect as he could summon up, departed.

Sir John, fastening the doors behind him, went back to his dressing-room, and sat down once again before the fire, at which he gazed for a long time, in earnest meditation.

‘This happens fortunately,’ he said, breaking into a smile, ‘and promises well. Let me see. My relative and I, who are the most Protestant fellows in the world, give our worst wishes to the Roman Catholic cause; and to Saville, who introduces their bill, I have a personal objection besides; but as each of us has himself for the first article in his creed, we cannot commit ourselves by joining with a very extravagant madman, such as this Gordon most undoubtedly is. Now really, to foment his disturbances in secret, through the medium of such a very apt instrument as my savage friend here, may further our real ends; and to express at all becoming seasons, in moderate and polite terms, a disapprobation of his proceedings, though we agree with him in principle, will certainly be to gain a character for honesty and uprightness of purpose, which cannot fail to do us infinite service, and to raise us into some importance. Good! So much for public grounds. As to private considerations, I confess that if these vagabonds WOULD make some riotous demonstration (which does not appear impossible), and WOULD inflict some little chastisement on Haredale as a not inactive man among his sect, it would be extremely agreeable to my feelings, and would amuse me beyond measure. Good again! Perhaps better!’

When he came to this point, he took a pinch of snuff; then beginning slowly to undress, he resumed his meditations, by saying with a smile:

‘I fear, I DO fear exceedingly, that my friend is following fast in the footsteps of his mother. His intimacy with Mr Dennis is very ominous. But I have no doubt he must have come to that end any way. If I lend him a helping hand, the only difference is, that he may, upon the whole, possibly drink a few gallons, or puncheons, or hogsheads, less in this life than he otherwise would. It’s no business of mine. It’s a matter of very small importance!’

So he took another pinch of snuff, and went to bed.

Chapter 41

From the workshop of the Golden Key, there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humoured, that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No man who hammered on at a dull monotonous duty, could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting waggon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it.

Tink, tink, tink—clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the streets’ harsher noises, as though it said, ‘I don’t care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to be happy.’ Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people’s notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds—tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.

It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind; foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humour stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key.

Who but the locksmith could have made such music! A gleam of sun shining through the unsashed window, and chequering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood working at his anvil, his face all radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off his shining forehead—the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. Toby looked on from a tall bench hard by; one beaming smile, from his broad nut-brown face down to the slack-baked buckles in his shoes. The very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities. There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene. It seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison-door. Cellars of beer and wine, rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter—these were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust and cruelty, and restraint, they would have left quadruple-locked for ever.

Tink, tink, tink. The locksmith paused at last, and wiped his brow. The silence roused the cat, who, jumping softly down, crept to the door, and watched with tiger eyes a bird-cage in an opposite window. Gabriel lifted Toby to his mouth, and took a hearty draught.

Then, as he stood upright, with his head flung back, and his portly chest thrown out, you would have seen that Gabriel’s lower man was clothed in military gear. Glancing at the wall beyond, there might have been espied, hanging on their several pegs, a cap and feather, broadsword, sash, and coat of scarlet; which any man learned in such matters would have known from their make and pattern to be the uniform of a serjeant in the Royal East London Volunteers.

As the locksmith put his mug down, empty, on the bench whence it had smiled on him before, he glanced at these articles with a laughing eye, and looking at them with his head a little on one side, as though he would get them all into a focus, said, leaning on his hammer:

‘Time was, now, I remember, when I was like to run mad with the desire to wear a coat of that colour. If any one (except my father) had called me a fool for my pains, how I should have fired and fumed! But what a fool I must have been, sure-ly!’

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs Varden, who had entered unobserved. ‘A fool indeed. A man at your time of life, Varden, should know better now.’

‘Why, what a ridiculous woman you are, Martha,’ said the locksmith, turning round with a smile.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mrs V. with great demureness. ‘Of course I am. I know that, Varden. Thank you.’

‘I mean—’ began the locksmith.

‘Yes,’ said his wife, ‘I know what you mean. You speak quite plain enough to be understood, Varden. It’s very kind of you to adapt yourself to my capacity, I am sure.’

‘Tut, tut, Martha,’ rejoined the locksmith; ‘don’t take offence at nothing. I mean, how strange it is of you to run down volunteering, when it’s done to defend you and all the other women, and our own fireside and everybody else’s, in case of need.’

‘It’s unchristian,’ cried Mrs Varden, shaking her head.

‘Unchristian!’ said the locksmith. ‘Why, what the devil—’

Mrs Varden looked at the ceiling, as in expectation that the consequence of this profanity would be the immediate descent of the four-post bedstead on the second floor, together with the best sitting-room on the first; but no visible judgment occurring, she heaved a deep sigh, and begged her husband, in a tone of resignation, to go on, and by all means to blaspheme as much as possible, because he knew she liked it.

The locksmith did for a moment seem disposed to gratify her, but he gave a great gulp, and mildly rejoined:

‘I was going to say, what on earth do you call it unchristian for? Which would be most unchristian, Martha—to sit quietly down and let our houses be sacked by a foreign army, or to turn out like men and drive ‘em off? Shouldn’t I be a nice sort of a Christian, if I crept into a corner of my own chimney and looked on while a parcel of whiskered savages bore off Dolly—or you?’

When he said ‘or you,’ Mrs Varden, despite herself, relaxed into a smile. There was something complimentary in the idea. ‘In such a state of things as that, indeed—’ she simpered.

‘As that!’ repeated the locksmith. ‘Well, that would be the state of things directly. Even Miggs would go. Some black tambourine-player, with a great turban on, would be bearing HER off, and, unless the tambourine-player was proof against kicking and scratching, it’s my belief he’d have the worst of it. Ha ha ha! I’d forgive the tambourine-player. I wouldn’t have him interfered with on any account, poor fellow.’ And here the locksmith laughed again so heartily, that tears came into his eyes—much to Mrs Varden’s indignation, who thought the capture of so sound a Protestant and estimable a private character as Miggs by a pagan negro, a circumstance too shocking and awful for contemplation.

The picture Gabriel had drawn, indeed, threatened serious consequences, and would indubitably have led to them, but luckily at that moment a light footstep crossed the threshold, and Dolly, running in, threw her arms round her old father’s neck and hugged him tight.

‘Here she is at last!’ cried Gabriel. ‘And how well you look, Doll, and how late you are, my darling!’

How well she looked? Well? Why, if he had exhausted every laudatory adjective in the dictionary, it wouldn’t have been praise enough. When and where was there ever such a plump, roguish, comely, bright-eyed, enticing, bewitching, captivating, maddening little puss in all this world, as Dolly! What was the Dolly of five years ago, to the Dolly of that day! How many coachmakers, saddlers, cabinet-makers, and professors of other useful arts, had deserted their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and, most of all, their cousins, for the love of her! How many unknown gentlemen—supposed to be of mighty fortunes, if not titles—had waited round the corner after dark, and tempted Miggs the incorruptible, with golden guineas, to deliver offers of marriage folded up in love-letters! How many disconsolate fathers and substantial tradesmen had waited on the locksmith for the same purpose, with dismal tales of how their sons had lost their appetites, and taken to shut themselves up in dark bedrooms, and wandering in desolate suburbs with pale faces, and all because of Dolly Varden’s loveliness and cruelty! How many young men, in all previous times of unprecedented steadiness, had turned suddenly wild and wicked for the same reason, and, in an ecstasy of unrequited love, taken to wrench off door-knockers, and invert the boxes of rheumatic watchmen! How had she recruited the king’s service, both by sea and land, through rendering desperate his loving subjects between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five! How many young ladies had publicly professed, with tears in their eyes, that for their tastes she was much too short, too tall, too bold, too cold, too stout, too thin, too fair, too dark—too everything but handsome! How many old ladies, taking counsel together, had thanked Heaven their daughters were not like her, and had hoped she might come to no harm, and had thought she would come to no good, and had wondered what people saw in her, and had arrived at the conclusion that she was ‘going off’ in her looks, or had never come on in them, and that she was a thorough imposition and a popular mistake!

And yet here was this same Dolly Varden, so whimsical and hard to please that she was Dolly Varden still, all smiles and dimples and pleasant looks, and caring no more for the fifty or sixty young fellows who at that very moment were breaking their hearts to marry her, than if so many oysters had been crossed in love and opened afterwards.

Dolly hugged her father as has been already stated, and having hugged her mother also, accompanied both into the little parlour where the cloth was already laid for dinner, and where Miss Miggs—a trifle more rigid and bony than of yore—received her with a sort of hysterical gasp, intended for a smile. Into the hands of that young virgin, she delivered her bonnet and walking dress (all of a dreadful, artful, and designing kind), and then said with a laugh, which rivalled the locksmith’s music, ‘How glad I always am to be at home again!’

‘And how glad we always are, Doll,’ said her father, putting back the dark hair from her sparkling eyes, ‘to have you at home. Give me a kiss.’

If there had been anybody of the male kind there to see her do it—but there was not—it was a mercy.

‘I don’t like your being at the Warren,’ said the locksmith, ‘I can’t bear to have you out of my sight. And what is the news over yonder, Doll?’

‘What news there is, I think you know already,’ replied his daughter. ‘I am sure you do though.’

‘Ay?’ cried the locksmith. ‘What’s that?’

‘Come, come,’ said Dolly, ‘you know very well. I want you to tell me why Mr Haredale—oh, how gruff he is again, to be sure!—has been away from home for some days past, and why he is travelling about (we know he IS travelling, because of his letters) without telling his own niece why or wherefore.’

‘Miss Emma doesn’t want to know, I’ll swear,’ returned the locksmith.

‘I don’t know that,’ said Dolly; ‘but I do, at any rate. Do tell me. Why is he so secret, and what is this ghost story, which nobody is to tell Miss Emma, and which seems to be mixed up with his going away? Now I see you know by your colouring so.’

‘What the story means, or is, or has to do with it, I know no more than you, my dear,’ returned the locksmith, ‘except that it’s some foolish fear of little Solomon’s—which has, indeed, no meaning in it, I suppose. As to Mr Haredale’s journey, he goes, as I believe—’

‘Yes,’ said Dolly.

‘As I believe,’ resumed the locksmith, pinching her cheek, ‘on business, Doll. What it may be, is quite another matter. Read Blue Beard, and don’t be too curious, pet; it’s no business of yours or mine, depend upon that; and here’s dinner, which is much more to the purpose.’

Dolly might have remonstrated against this summary dismissal of the subject, notwithstanding the appearance of dinner, but at the mention of Blue Beard Mrs Varden interposed, protesting she could not find it in her conscience to sit tamely by, and hear her child recommended to peruse the adventures of a Turk and Mussulman—far less of a fabulous Turk, which she considered that potentate to be. She held that, in such stirring and tremendous times as those in which they lived, it would be much more to the purpose if Dolly became a regular subscriber to the Thunderer, where she would have an opportunity of reading Lord George Gordon’s speeches word for word, which would be a greater comfort and solace to her, than a hundred and fifty Blue Beards ever could impart. She appealed in support of this proposition to Miss Miggs, then in waiting, who said that indeed the peace of mind she had derived from the perusal of that paper generally, but especially of one article of the very last week as ever was, entitled ‘Great Britain drenched in gore,’ exceeded all belief; the same composition, she added, had also wrought such a comforting effect on the mind of a married sister of hers, then resident at Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post, that, being in a delicate state of health, and in fact expecting an addition to her family, she had been seized with fits directly after its perusal, and had raved of the Inquisition ever since; to the great improvement of her husband and friends. Miss Miggs went on to say that she would recommend all those whose hearts were hardened to hear Lord George themselves, whom she commended first, in respect of his steady Protestantism, then of his oratory, then of his eyes, then of his nose, then of his legs, and lastly of his figure generally, which she looked upon as fit for any statue, prince, or angel, to which sentiment Mrs Varden fully subscribed.

Mrs Varden having cut in, looked at a box upon the mantelshelf, painted in imitation of a very red-brick dwelling-house, with a yellow roof; having at top a real chimney, down which voluntary subscribers dropped their silver, gold, or pence, into the parlour; and on the door the counterfeit presentment of a brass plate, whereon was legibly inscribed ‘Protestant Association:’—and looking at it, said, that it was to her a source of poignant misery to think that Varden never had, of all his substance, dropped anything into that temple, save once in secret—as she afterwards discovered—two fragments of tobacco-pipe, which she hoped would not be put down to his last account. That Dolly, she was grieved to say, was no less backward in her contributions, better loving, as it seemed, to purchase ribbons and such gauds, than to encourage the great cause, then in such heavy tribulation; and that she did entreat her (her father she much feared could not be moved) not to despise, but imitate, the bright example of Miss Miggs, who flung her wages, as it were, into the very countenance of the Pope, and bruised his features with her quarter’s money.

‘Oh, mim,’ said Miggs, ‘don’t relude to that. I had no intentions, mim, that nobody should know. Such sacrifices as I can make, are quite a widder’s mite. It’s all I have,’ cried Miggs with a great burst of tears—for with her they never came on by degrees—‘but it’s made up to me in other ways; it’s well made up.’

This was quite true, though not perhaps in the sense that Miggs intended. As she never failed to keep her self-denial full in Mrs Varden’s view, it drew forth so many gifts of caps and gowns and other articles of dress, that upon the whole the red-brick house was perhaps the best investment for her small capital she could possibly have hit upon; returning her interest, at the rate of seven or eight per cent in money, and fifty at least in personal repute and credit.

‘You needn’t cry, Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden, herself in tears; ‘you needn’t be ashamed of it, though your poor mistress IS on the same side.’

Miggs howled at this remark, in a peculiarly dismal way, and said she knowed that master hated her. That it was a dreadful thing to live in families and have dislikes, and not give satisfactions. That to make divisions was a thing she could not abear to think of, neither could her feelings let her do it. That if it was master’s wishes as she and him should part, it was best they should part, and she hoped he might be the happier for it, and always wished him well, and that he might find somebody as would meet his dispositions. It would be a hard trial, she said, to part from such a missis, but she could meet any suffering when her conscience told her she was in the rights, and therefore she was willing even to go that lengths. She did not think, she added, that she could long survive the separations, but, as she was hated and looked upon unpleasant, perhaps her dying as soon as possible would be the best 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, save once a-week or so, when an old neighbour visits it to scare away the rats. I am on my way there now.’

‘For what purpose?’ asked the locksmith.

‘To pass the night there,’ he replied; ‘and not to-night alone, but many nights. This is a secret which I trust to you in case of any unexpected emergency. You will not come, unless in case of strong necessity, to me; from dusk to broad day I shall be there. Emma, your daughter, and the rest, suppose me out of London, as I have been until within this hour. Do not undeceive them. This is the errand I am bound upon. I know I may confide it to you, and I rely upon your questioning me no more at this time.’

With that, as if to change the theme, he led the astounded locksmith back to the night of the Maypole highwayman, to the robbery of Edward Chester, to the reappearance of the man at Mrs Rudge’s house, and to all the strange circumstances which afterwards occurred. He even asked him carelessly about the man’s height, his face, his figure, whether he was like any one he had ever seen—like Hugh, for instance, or any man he had known at any time—and put many questions of that sort, which the locksmith, considering them as mere devices to engage his attention and prevent his expressing the astonishment he felt, answered pretty much at random.

At length, they arrived at the corner of the street in which the house stood, where Mr Haredale, alighting, dismissed the coach. ‘If you desire to see me safely lodged,’ he said, turning to the locksmith with a gloomy smile, ‘you can.’

Gabriel, to whom all former marvels had been nothing in comparison with this, followed him along the narrow pavement in silence. When they reached the door, Mr Haredale softly opened it with a key he had about him, and closing it when Varden entered, they were left in thorough darkness.

They groped their way into the ground-floor room. Here Mr Haredale struck a light, and kindled a pocket taper he had brought with him for the purpose. It was then, when the flame was full upon him, that the locksmith saw for the first time how haggard, pale, and changed he looked; how worn and thin he was; how perfectly his whole appearance coincided with all that he had said so strangely as they rode along. It was not an unnatural impulse in Gabriel, after what he had heard, to note curiously the expression of his eyes. It was perfectly collected and rational;—so much so, indeed, that he felt ashamed of his momentary suspicion, and drooped his own when Mr Haredale looked towards him, as if he feared they would betray his thoughts.

‘Will you walk through the house?’ said Mr Haredale, with a glance towards the window, the crazy shutters of which were closed and fastened. ‘Speak low.’

There was a kind of awe about the place, which would have rendered it difficult to speak in any other manner. Gabriel whispered ‘Yes,’ and followed him upstairs.

Everything was just as they had seen it last. There was a sense of closeness from the exclusion of fresh air, and a gloom and heaviness around, as though long imprisonment had made the very silence sad. The homely hangings of the beds and windows had begun to droop; the dust lay thick upon their dwindling folds; and damps had made their way through ceiling, wall, and floor. The boards creaked beneath their tread, as if resenting the unaccustomed intrusion; nimble spiders, paralysed by the taper’s glare, checked the motion of their hundred legs upon the wall, or dropped like lifeless things upon the ground; the death-watch ticked; and the scampering feet of rats and mice rattled behind the wainscot.

As they looked about them on the decaying furniture, it was strange to find how vividly it presented those to whom it had belonged, and with whom it was once familiar. Grip seemed to perch again upon his high-backed chair; Barnaby to crouch in his old favourite corner by the fire; the mother to resume her usual seat, and watch him as of old. Even when they could separate these objects from the phantoms of the mind which they invoked, the latter only glided out of sight, but lingered near them still; for then they seemed to lurk in closets and behind the doors, ready to start out and suddenly accost them in well-remembered tones.

They went downstairs, and again into the room they had just now left. Mr Haredale unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, with a pair of pocket pistols; then told the locksmith he would light him to the door.

‘But this is a dull place, sir,’ said Gabriel lingering; ‘may no one share your watch?’

He shook his head, and so plainly evinced his wish to be alone, that Gabriel could say no more. In another moment the locksmith was standing in the street, whence he could see that the light once more travelled upstairs, and soon returning to the room below, shone brightly through the chinks of the shutters.

If ever man were sorely puzzled and perplexed, the locksmith was, that night. Even when snugly seated by his own fireside, with Mrs Varden opposite in a nightcap and night-jacket, and Dolly beside him (in a most distracting dishabille) curling her hair, and smiling as if she had never cried in all her life and never could—even then, with Toby at his elbow and his pipe in his mouth, and Miggs (but that perhaps was not much) falling asleep in the background, he could not quite discard his wonder and uneasiness. So in his dreams—still there was Mr Haredale, haggard and careworn, listening in the solitary house to every sound that stirred, with the taper shining through the chinks until the day should turn it pale and end his lonely watching.

Chapter 43

Next morning brought no satisfaction to the locksmith’s thoughts, nor next day, nor the next, nor many others. Often after nightfall he entered the street, and turned his eyes towards the well-known house; and as surely as he did so, there was the solitary light, still gleaming through the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was motionless, noiseless, cheerless, as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr Haredale’s favour by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured to knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way. But whenever strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot—which was not seldom—the light was always there.

If he could have known what passed within, the knowledge would have yielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At twilight, Mr Haredale shut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never missed a night, always came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings in the least degree.

The manner of his watch was this. At dusk, he entered the house in the same way as when the locksmith bore him company, kindled a light, went through the rooms, and narrowly examined them. That done, he returned to the chamber on the ground-floor, and laying his sword and pistols on the table, sat by it until morning.

He usually had a book with him, and often tried to read, but never fixed his eyes or thoughts upon it for five minutes together. The slightest noise without doors, caught his ear; a step upon the pavement seemed to make his heart leap.

He was not without some refreshment during the long lonely hours; generally carrying in his pocket a sandwich of bread and meat, and a small flask of wine. The latter diluted with large quantities of water, he drank in a heated, feverish way, as though his throat were dried; but he scarcely ever broke his fast, by so much as a crumb of bread.

If this voluntary sacrifice of sleep and comfort had its origin, as the locksmith on consideration was disposed to think, in any superstitious expectation of the fulfilment of a dream or vision connected with the event on which he had brooded for so many years, and if he waited for some ghostly visitor who walked abroad when men lay sleeping in their beds, he showed no trace of fear or wavering. His stern features expressed inflexible resolution; his brows were puckered, and his lips compressed, with deep and settled purpose; and when he started at a noise and listened, it was not with the start of fear but hope, and catching up his sword as though the hour had come at last, he would clutch it in his tight-clenched hand, and listen with sparkling eyes and eager looks, until it died away.

These disappointments were numerous, for they ensued on almost every sound, but his constancy was not shaken. Still, every night he was at his post, the same stern, sleepless, sentinel; and still night passed, and morning dawned, and he must watch again.

This went on for weeks; he had taken a lodging at Vauxhall in which to pass the day and rest himself; and from this place, when the tide served, he usually came to London Bridge from Westminster by water, in order that he might avoid the busy streets.

One evening, shortly before twilight, he came his accustomed road upon the river’s bank, intending to pass through Westminster Hall into Palace Yard, and there take boat to London Bridge as usual. There was a pretty large concourse of people assembled round the Houses of Parliament, looking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving vent to rather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their known opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or twice the No-Popery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the ears of most men; but holding it in very slight regard, and observing that the idlers were of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared about it, but made his way along, with perfect indifference.

There were many little knots and groups of persons in Westminster Hall: some few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and at the rays of evening light, tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in aslant through its small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees, were quenched in the gathering gloom below; some, noisy passengers, mechanics going home from work, and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with their voices, and soon darkening the small door in the distance, as they passed into the street beyond; some, in busy conference together on political or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that sought the ground, and seeming, by their attitudes, to listen earnestly from head to foot. Here, a dozen squabbling urchins made a very Babel in the air; there, a solitary man, half clerk, half mendicant, paced up and down with hungry dejection in his look and gait; at his elbow passed an errand-lad, swinging his basket round and round, and with his shrill whistle riving the very timbers of the roof; while a more observant schoolboy, half-way through, pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant beadle as he came looming on. It was that time of evening when, if you shut your eyes and open them again, the darkness of an hour appears to have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn pavement, dusty with footsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate the shuffle and the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some heavy door resounded through the building like a clap of thunder, and drowned all other noises in its rolling sound.

Mr Haredale, glancing only at such of these groups as he passed nearest to, and then in a manner betokening that his thoughts were elsewhere, had nearly traversed the Hall, when two persons before him caught his attention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire, carried in his hand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered on; the other, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what he said—at times throwing in a humble word himself—and, with his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, rubbed his hands submissively, or answered at intervals by an inclination of the head, half-way between a nod of acquiescence, and a bow of most profound respect.

In the abstract there was nothing very remarkable in this pair, for servility waiting on a handsome suit of clothes and a cane—not to speak of gold and silver sticks, or wands of office—is common enough. But there was that about the well-dressed man, yes, and about the other likewise, which struck Mr Haredale with no pleasant feeling. He hesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of his path, but at the moment, the other two faced about quickly, and stumbled upon him before he could avoid them.

The gentleman with the cane lifted his hat and had begun to tender an apology, which Mr Haredale had begun as hastily to acknowledge and walk away, when he stopped short and cried, ‘Haredale! Gad bless me, this is strange indeed!’

‘It is,’ he returned impatiently; ‘yes—a—’

‘My dear friend,’ cried the other, detaining him, ‘why such great speed? One minute, Haredale, for the sake of old acquaintance.’

‘I am in haste,’ he said. ‘Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it be a brief one. Good night!’

‘Fie, fie!’ replied Sir John (for it was he), ‘how very churlish! We were speaking of you. Your name was on my lips—perhaps you heard me mention it? No? I am sorry for that. I am really sorry.—You know our friend here, Haredale? This is really a most remarkable meeting!’

The friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John’s arm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of avoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John’s purpose, however, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of these silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he spoke, to call attention to him more particularly.

The friend, therefore, had nothing for it, but to muster up the pleasantest smile he could, and to make a conciliatory bow, as Mr Haredale turned his eyes upon him. Seeing that he was recognised, he put out his hand in an awkward and embarrassed manner, which was not mended by its contemptuous rejection.

‘Mr Gashford!’ said Haredale, coldly. ‘It is as I have heard then. You have left the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions you formerly held, with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an honour, sir, to any cause. I wish the one you espouse at present, much joy of the acquisition it has made.’

The secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm his adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again exclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, ‘Now, really, this is a most remarkable meeting!’ and took a pinch of snuff with his usual self-possession.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and letting them drop again when they met the other’s steady gaze, ‘is too conscientious, too honourable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy motives to an honest change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt of those he holds himself. Mr Haredale is too just, too generous, too clear-sighted in his moral vision, to—’

‘Yes, sir?’ he rejoined with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary stopped. ‘You were saying’—

Gashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and looking on the ground again, was silent.

‘No, but let us really,’ interposed Sir John at this juncture, ‘let us really, for a moment, contemplate the very remarkable character of this meeting. Haredale, my dear friend, pardon me if I think you are not sufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand, by no previous appointment or arrangement, three old schoolfellows, in Westminster Hall; three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady seminary at Saint Omer’s, where you, being Catholics and of necessity educated out of England, were brought up; and where I, being a promising young Protestant at that time, was sent to learn the French tongue from a native of Paris!’

‘Add to the singularity, Sir John,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘that some of you Protestants of promise are at this moment leagued in yonder building, to prevent our having the surpassing and unheard-of privilege of teaching our children to read and write—here—in this land, where thousands of us enter your service every year, and to preserve the freedom of which, we die in bloody battles abroad, in heaps: and that others of you, to the number of some thousands as I learn, are led on to look on all men of my creed as wolves and beasts of prey, by this man Gashford. Add to it besides the bare fact that this man lives in society, walks the streets in broad day—I was about to say, holds up his head, but that he does not—and it will be strange, and very strange, I grant you.’

‘Oh! you are hard upon our friend,’ replied Sir John, with an engaging smile. ‘You are really very hard upon our friend!’

‘Let him go on, Sir John,’ said Gashford, fumbling with his gloves. ‘Let him go on. I can make allowances, Sir John. I am honoured with your good opinion, and I can dispense with Mr Haredale’s. Mr Haredale is a sufferer from the penal laws, and I can’t expect his favour.’

‘You have so much of my favour, sir,’ retorted Mr Haredale, with a bitter glance at the third party in their conversation, ‘that I am glad to see you in such good company. You are the essence of your great Association, in yourselves.’

‘Now, there you mistake,’ said Sir John, in his most benignant way. ‘There—which is a most remarkable circumstance for a man of your punctuality and exactness, Haredale—you fall into error. I don’t belong to the body; I have an immense respect for its members, but I don’t belong to it; although I am, it is certainly true, the conscientious opponent of your being relieved. I feel it my duty to be so; it is a most unfortunate necessity; and cost me a bitter struggle.—Will you try this box? If you don’t object to a trifling infusion of a very chaste scent, you’ll find its flavour exquisite.’

‘I ask your pardon, Sir John,’ said Mr Haredale, declining the proffer with a motion of his hand, ‘for having ranked you among the humble instruments who are obvious and in all men’s sight. I should have done more justice to your genius. Men of your capacity plot in secrecy and safety, and leave exposed posts to the duller wits.’

‘Don’t apologise, for the world,’ replied Sir John sweetly; ‘old friends like you and I, may be allowed some freedoms, or the deuce is in it.’

Gashford, who had been very restless all this time, but had not once looked up, now turned to Sir John, and ventured to mutter something to the effect that he must go, or my lord would perhaps be waiting.

‘Don’t distress yourself, good sir,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I’ll take my leave, and put you at your ease—’ which he was about to do without ceremony, when he was stayed by a buzz and murmur at the upper end of the hall, and, looking in that direction, saw Lord George Gordon coming in, with a crowd of people round him.

There was a lurking look of triumph, though very differently expressed, in the faces of his two companions, which made it a natural impulse on Mr Haredale’s part not to give way before this leader, but to stand there while he passed. He drew himself up and, clasping his hands behind him, looked on with a proud and scornful aspect, while Lord George slowly advanced (for the press was great about him) towards the spot where they were standing.

He had left the House of Commons but that moment, and had come straight down into the Hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence of what had been said that night in reference to the Papists, and what petitions had been presented in their favour, and who had supported them, and when the bill was to be brought in, and when it would be advisable to present their own Great Protestant petition. All this he told the persons about him in a loud voice, and with great abundance of ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made comments to each other, and vented threats and murmurings; those who were outside the crowd cried, ‘Silence,’ and ‘Stand back,’ or closed in upon the rest, endeavouring to make a forcible exchange of places: and so they came driving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner of a crowd to do.

When they were very near to where the secretary, Sir John, and Mr Haredale stood, Lord George turned round and, making a few remarks of a sufficiently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual sentiment, and called for three cheers to back it. While these were in the act of being given with great energy, he extricated himself from the press, and stepped up to Gashford’s side. Both he and Sir John being well known to the populace, they fell back a little, and left the four standing together.

‘Mr Haredale, Lord George,’ said Sir John Chester, seeing that the nobleman regarded him with an inquisitive look. ‘A Catholic gentleman unfortunately—most unhappily a Catholic—but an esteemed acquaintance of mine, and once of Mr Gashford’s. My dear Haredale, this is Lord George Gordon.’

‘I should have known that, had I been ignorant of his lordship’s person,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘I hope there is but one gentleman in England who, addressing an ignorant and excited throng, would speak of a large body of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language as I heard this moment. For shame, my lord, for shame!’

‘I cannot talk to you, sir,’ replied Lord George in a loud voice, and waving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner; ‘we have nothing in common.’

‘We have much in common—many things—all that the Almighty gave us,’ said Mr Haredale; ‘and common charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling you that you disgrace your station.’

‘I don’t hear you, sir,’ he replied in the same manner as before; ‘I can’t hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don’t retort, Gashford,’ for the secretary had made a show of wishing to do so; ‘I can hold no communion with the worshippers of idols.’

As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and eyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and smiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader.

‘HE retort!’ cried Haredale. ‘Look you here, my lord. Do you know this man?’

Lord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing secretary, and viewing him with a smile of confidence.

‘This man,’ said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe, ‘who in his boyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a servile, false, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept through life, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon: this sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who robbed his benefactor’s daughter of her virtue, and married her to break her heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has whined at kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence at our chapel doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience cannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced—Do you know this man?’

‘Oh, really—you are very, very hard upon our friend!’ exclaimed Sir John.

‘Let Mr Haredale go on,’ said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the perspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; ‘I don’t mind him, Sir John; it’s quite as indifferent to me what he says, as it is to my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John, how can I hope to escape?’

‘Is it not enough, my lord,’ Mr Haredale continued, ‘that I, as good a gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at which the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to head your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!’

The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester, as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a shrug or look, ‘Oh dear me! no.’ He now said, in the same loud key, and in the same strange manner as before:

‘I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything more. I beg you won’t obtrude your conversation, or these personal attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!’

They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the Hall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any leave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand, and hailed the only boatman who remained there.

But the throng of people—the foremost of whom had heard every word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him for his advocacy of the popular cause—came pouring out pell-mell, and, forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.

They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said, ‘Down with the Papists!’ and there was a pretty general cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, ‘Stone him;’ another, ‘Duck him;’ another, in a stentorian voice, ‘No Popery!’ This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.

Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.

The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall back, demanded:

‘Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.’

Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.

‘Who did that?’ he repeated. ‘Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand—I know you.’

He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.

‘My lord—Sir John,’—he cried, ‘draw, one of you—you are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.’ With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all.

For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John’s smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale’s arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the crowd.

‘My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion—it’s very natural, extremely natural—but you don’t know friends from foes.’

‘I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well—’ he retorted, almost mad with rage. ‘Sir John, Lord George—do you hear me? Are you cowards?’

‘Never mind, sir,’ said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him towards the stairs with friendly violence, ‘never mind asking that. For God’s sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are as many more in the next street, who’ll be round directly,’—indeed they began to pour in as he said the words—‘you’d be giddy from that cut, in the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it you’ll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste—as quick as you can.’

Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend’s assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed.

There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent this interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and wearing besides Lord George’s livery, they thought better of it, and contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the stream.

From this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left the street quite clear.

Chapter 44

When the concourse separated, and, dividing into chance clusters, drew off in various directions, there still remained upon the scene of the late disturbance, one man. This man was Gashford, who, bruised by his late fall, and hurt in a much greater degree by the indignity he had undergone, and the exposure of which he had been the victim, limped up and down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance.

It was not the secretary’s nature to waste his wrath in words. While he vented the froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady eye on two men, who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was spread, had since returned, and were now visible in the moonlight, at no great distance, as they walked to and fro, and talked together.

He made no move towards them, but waited patiently on the dark side of the street, until they were tired of strolling backwards and forwards and walked away in company. Then he followed, but at some distance: keeping them in view, without appearing to have that object, or being seen by them.

They went up Parliament Street, past Saint Martin’s church, and away by Saint Giles’s to Tottenham Court Road, at the back of which, upon the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great heaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed; broken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried off for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged and rusty nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here and there a donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping off a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping with the scene, and would have suggested (if the houses had not done so, sufficiently, of themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in the crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who carried money, or wore decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by daylight.

Poverty has its whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these cabins were turreted, some had false windows painted on their rotten walls; one had a mimic clock, upon a crazy tower of four feet high, which screened the chimney; each in its little patch of ground had a rude seat or arbour. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken glass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in their several ways of stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not of the most delicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and screams, and howling.

Into this retreat, the secretary followed the two men whom he had held in sight; and here he saw them safely lodged, in one of the meanest houses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions. He waited without, until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song, assured him they were making merry; and then approaching the door, by means of a tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at it with his hand.

‘Muster Gashford!’ said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from his mouth, in evident surprise. ‘Why, who’d have thought of this here honour! Walk in, Muster Gashford—walk in, sir.’

Gashford required no second invitation, and entered with a gracious air. There was a fire in the rusty grate (for though the spring was pretty far advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool beside it Hugh sat smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary, in front of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he had left when he rose to give the visitor admission.

‘What’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford?’ he said, as he resumed his pipe, and looked at him askew. ‘Any orders from head-quarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to Hugh. ‘We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day—eh, Dennis?’

‘A very little one,’ growled the hangman. ‘Not half enough for me.’

‘Nor me neither!’ cried Hugh. ‘Give us something to do with life in it—with life in it, master. Ha, ha!’

‘Why, you wouldn’t,’ said the secretary, with his worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, ‘have anything to do, with—with death in it?’

‘I don’t know that,’ replied Hugh. ‘I’m open to orders. I don’t care; not I.’

‘Nor I!’ vociferated Dennis.

‘Brave fellows!’ said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he were commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity. ‘By the bye’—and here he stopped and warmed his hands: then suddenly looked up—‘who threw that stone to-day?’

Mr Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, ‘A mystery indeed!’ Hugh sat and smoked in silence.

‘It was well done!’ said the secretary, warming his hands again. ‘I should like to know that man.’

‘Would you?’ said Dennis, after looking at his face to assure himself that he was serious. ‘Would you like to know that man, Muster Gashford?’

‘I should indeed,’ replied the secretary.

‘Why then, Lord love you,’ said the hangman, in his hoarest chuckle, as he pointed with his pipe to Hugh, ‘there he sits. That’s the man. My stars and halters, Muster Gashford,’ he added in a whisper, as he drew his stool close to him and jogged him with his elbow, ‘what a interesting blade he is! He wants as much holding in as a thorough-bred bulldog. If it hadn’t been for me to-day, he’d have had that ‘ere Roman down, and made a riot of it, in another minute.’

‘And why not?’ cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last remark. ‘Where’s the good of putting things off? Strike while the iron’s hot; that’s what I say.’

‘Ah!’ retorted Dennis, shaking his head, with a kind of pity for his friend’s ingenuous youth; ‘but suppose the iron an’t hot, brother! You must get people’s blood up afore you strike, and have ‘em in the humour. There wasn’t quite enough to provoke ‘em to-day, I tell you. If you’d had your way, you’d have spoilt the fun to come, and ruined us.’

‘Dennis is quite right,’ said Gashford, smoothly. ‘He is perfectly correct. Dennis has great knowledge of the world.’

‘I ought to have, Muster Gashford, seeing what a many people I’ve helped out of it, eh?’ grinned the hangman, whispering the words behind his hand.

The secretary laughed at this jest as much as Dennis could desire, and when he had done, said, turning to Hugh:

‘Dennis’s policy was mine, as you may have observed. You saw, for instance, how I fell when I was set upon. I made no resistance. I did nothing to provoke an outbreak. Oh dear no!’

‘No, by the Lord Harry!’ cried Dennis with a noisy laugh, ‘you went down very quiet, Muster Gashford—and very flat besides. I thinks to myself at the time “it’s all up with Muster Gashford!” I never see a man lay flatter nor more still—with the life in him—than you did to-day. He’s a rough ‘un to play with, is that ‘ere Papist, and that’s the fact.’

The secretary’s face, as Dennis roared with laughter, and turned his wrinkled eyes on Hugh who did the like, might have furnished a study for the devil’s picture. He sat quite silent until they were serious again, and then said, looking round:

‘We are very pleasant here; so very pleasant, Dennis, that but for my lord’s particular desire that I should sup with him, and the time being very near at hand, I should be inclined to stay, until it would be hardly safe to go homeward. I come upon a little business—yes, I do—as you supposed. It’s very flattering to you; being this. If we ever should be obliged—and we can’t tell, you know—this is a very uncertain world’—

‘I believe you, Muster Gashford,’ interposed the hangman with a grave nod. ‘The uncertainties as I’ve seen in reference to this here state of existence, the unexpected contingencies as have come about!—Oh my eye!’ Feeling the subject much too vast for expression, he puffed at his pipe again, and looked the rest.

‘I say,’ resumed the secretary, in a slow, impressive way; ‘we can’t tell what may come to pass; and if we should be obliged, against our wills, to have recourse to violence, my lord (who has suffered terribly to-day, as far as words can go) consigns to you two—bearing in mind my recommendation of you both, as good staunch men, beyond all doubt and suspicion—the pleasant task of punishing this Haredale. You may do as you please with him, or his, provided that you show no mercy, and no quarter, and leave no two beams of his house standing where the builder placed them. You may sack it, burn it, do with it as you like, but it must come down; it must be razed to the ground; and he, and all belonging to him, left as shelterless as new-born infants whom their mothers have exposed. Do you understand me?’ said Gashford, pausing, and pressing his hands together gently.

‘Understand you, master!’ cried Hugh. ‘You speak plain now. Why, this is hearty!’

‘I knew you would like it,’ said Gashford, shaking him by the hand; ‘I thought you would. Good night! Don’t rise, Dennis: I would rather find my way alone. I may have to make other visits here, and it’s pleasant to come and go without disturbing you. I can find my way perfectly well. Good night!’

He was gone, and had shut the door behind him. They looked at each other, and nodded approvingly: Dennis stirred up the fire.

‘This looks a little more like business!’ he said.

‘Ay, indeed!’ cried Hugh; ‘this suits me!’

‘I’ve heerd it said of Muster Gashford,’ said the hangman, ‘that he’d a surprising memory and wonderful firmness—that he never forgot, and never forgave.—Let’s drink his health!’

Hugh readily complied—pouring no liquor on the floor when he drank this toast—and they pledged the secretary as a man after their own hearts, in a bumper.

Chapter 45

While the worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark, and the mantle of religion, assumed to cover the ugliest deformities, threatened to become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in society, a circumstance occurred which once more altered the position of two persons from whom this history has long been separated, and to whom it must now return.

In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material,—concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread,—dwelt Barnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger’s foot since they sought the shelter of its roof five years before; nor had they in all that time held any commerce or communication with the old world from which they had fled. To labour in peace, and devote her labour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. If happiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her strong love of him who needed it so much, formed the small circle of her quiet joys; and while that remained unbroken, she was contented.

For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by, had passed him like the wind. The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind; no dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sit sometimes—often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by the cottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied), and listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as a lure to keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little narratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; but he liked them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remain patiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see.

At other times,—and then their scanty earnings were barely sufficient to furnish them with food, though of the coarsest sort,—he would wander abroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. Few in that place, even of the children, could be idle, and he had no companions of his own kind. Indeed there were not many who could have kept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion. But there were a score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbours, who served his purpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with a full half-dozen barking at his heels, he would sally forth on some long expedition that consumed the day; and though, on their return at nightfall, the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed, and almost spent with their fatigue, Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise with some new attendants of the same class, with whom he would return in like manner. On all these travels, Grip, in his little basket at his master’s back, was a constant member of the party, and when they set off in fine weather and in high spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven.

Their pleasures on these excursions were simple enough. A crust of bread and scrap of meat, with water from the brook or spring, sufficed for their repast. Barnaby’s enjoyments were, to walk, and run, and leap, till he was tired; then to lie down in the long grass, or by the growing corn, or in the shade of some tall tree, looking upward at the light clouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky, and listening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There were wild-flowers to pluck—the bright red poppy, the gentle harebell, the cowslip, and the rose. There were birds to watch; fish; ants; worms; hares or rabbits, as they darted across the distant pathway in the wood and so were gone: millions of living things to have an interest in, and lie in wait for, and clap hands and shout in memory of, when they had disappeared. In default of these, or when they wearied, there was the merry sunlight to hunt out, as it crept in aslant through leaves and boughs of trees, and hid far down—deep, deep, in hollow places—like a silver pool, where nodding branches seemed to bathe and sport; sweet scents of summer air breathing over fields of beans or clover; the perfume of wet leaves or moss; the life of waving trees, and shadows always changing. When these or any of them tired, or in excess of pleasing tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midst of all these soft delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music in his ears, and everything around melting into one delicious dream.

Their hut—for it was little more—stood on the outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passengers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot of garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in fits and starts of working, trimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and without, his mother laboured for their common good; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine, found no difference in her.

Though so far removed from the scenes of her past life, and with so little thought or hope of ever visiting them again, she seemed to have a strange desire to know what happened in the busy world. Any old newspaper, or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at with avidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleasurable kind, for her manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread; but it never faded in the least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, when the wind blew loud and strong, the old expression came into her face, and she would be seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had an ague. But Barnaby noted little of this; and putting a great constraint upon herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner before the change had caught his observation.

Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humble household. Partly by dint of Barnaby’s tuition, and partly by pursuing a species of self-instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacity which rendered him famous for miles round. His conversational powers and surprising performances were the universal theme: and as many persons came to see the wonderful raven, and none left his exertions unrewarded—when he condescended to exhibit, which was not always, for genius is capricious—his earnings formed an important item in the common stock. Indeed, the bird himself appeared to know his value well; for though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of Barnaby and his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity, and never stooped to any other gratuitous performances than biting the ankles of vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted), killing a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners of various neighbouring dogs, of whom the boldest held him in great awe and dread.

Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had happened to disturb or change their mode of life, when, one summer’s night in June, they were in their little garden, resting from the labours of the day. The widow’s work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her; and Barnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in the west, and singing softly to himself.

‘A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking in our pockets, but a few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be rich for life.’

‘We are better as we are,’ returned the widow with a quiet smile. ‘Let us be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, though it lay shining at our feet.’

‘Ay!’ said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, and looking wistfully at the sunset, ‘that’s well enough, mother; but gold’s a good thing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it. Grip and I could do much with gold, be sure of that.’

‘What would you do?’ she asked.

‘What! A world of things. We’d dress finely—you and I, I mean; not Grip—keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and feathers, do no more work, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we’d find uses for it, mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was buried. How hard I’d work to dig it up!’

‘You do not know,’ said his mother, rising from her seat and laying her hand upon his shoulder, ‘what men have done to win it, and how they have found, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled.’

‘Ay, ay; so you say; so you think,’ he answered, still looking eagerly in the same direction. ‘For all that, mother, I should like to try.’

‘Do you not see,’ she said, ‘how red it is? Nothing bears so many stains of blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead and laid down in our graves, than you should ever come to love it.’

For a moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her with wonder. Then, glancing from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist as if he would compare the two, he seemed about to question her with earnestness, when a new object caught his wandering attention, and made him quite forgetful of his purpose.

This was a man with dusty feet and garments, who stood, bare-headed, behind the hedge that divided their patch of garden from the pathway, and leant meekly forward as if he sought to mingle with their conversation, and waited for his time to speak. His face was turned towards the brightness, too, but the light that fell upon it showed that he was blind, and saw it not.

‘A blessing on those voices!’ said the wayfarer. ‘I feel the beauty of the night more keenly, when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Will they speak again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?’

‘Have you no guide?’ asked the widow, after a moment’s pause.

‘None but that,’ he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun; ‘and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now.’

‘Have you travelled far?’

‘A weary way and long,’ rejoined the traveller as he shook his head. ‘A weary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of your well—be pleased to let me have a draught of water, lady.’

‘Why do you call me lady?’ she returned. ‘I am as poor as you.’

‘Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,’ replied the man. ‘The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are—apart from the sense of touch—alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress.’

‘Come round this way,’ said Barnaby, who had passed out at the garden-gate and now stood close beside him. ‘Put your hand in mine. You’re blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark? Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?’

‘Alas!’ returned the other, ‘I see nothing. Waking or sleeping, nothing.’

Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with his fingers, as an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house.

‘You have come a long distance,’ said the widow, meeting him at the door. ‘How have you found your way so far?’

‘Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard—the best of any,’ said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby had led him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red-tiled floor. ‘May neither you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters.’

‘You have wandered from the road, too,’ said the widow, in a tone of pity.

‘Maybe, maybe,’ returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet with something of a smile upon his face, ‘that’s likely. Handposts and milestones are dumb, indeed, to me. Thank you the more for this rest, and this refreshing drink!’

As he spoke, he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear, and cold, and sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless, or his thirst was not very great, for he only wetted his lips and put it down again.

He wore, hanging with a long strap round his neck, a kind of scrip or wallet, in which to carry food. The widow set some bread and cheese before him, but he thanked her, and said that through the kindness of the charitable he had broken his fast once since morning, and was not hungry. When he had made her this reply, he opened his wallet, and took out a few pence, which was all it appeared to contain.

‘Might I make bold to ask,’ he said, turning towards where Barnaby stood looking on, ‘that one who has the gift of sight, would lay this out for me in bread to keep me on my way? Heaven’s blessing on the young feet that will bestir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightless man!’

Barnaby looked at his mother, who nodded assent; in another moment he was gone upon his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with an attentive face, until long after the sound of his retreating footsteps was inaudible to the widow, and then said, suddenly, and in a very altered tone:

‘There are various degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is the connubial blindness, ma’am, which perhaps you may have observed in the course of your own experience, and which is a kind of wilful and self-bandaging blindness. There is the blindness of party, ma’am, and public men, which is the blindness of a mad bull in the midst of a regiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the blind confidence of youth, which is the blindness of young kittens, whose eyes have not yet opened on the world; and there is that physical blindness, ma’am, of which I am, contrairy to my own desire, a most illustrious example. Added to these, ma’am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which we have a specimen in your interesting son, and which, having sometimes glimmerings and dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as a total darkness. Therefore, ma’am, I have taken the liberty to get him out of the way for a short time, while you and I confer together, and this precaution arising out of the delicacy of my sentiments towards yourself, you will excuse me, ma’am, I know.’

Having delivered himself of this speech with many flourishes of manner, he drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the cork between his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion of the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her health, and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with infinite relish.

‘I am a citizen of the world, ma’am,’ said the blind man, corking his bottle, ‘and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore. You wonder who I am, ma’am, and what has brought me here. Such experience of human nature as I have, leads me to that conclusion, without the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soul as depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosity immediately, ma’am; immediately.’ With that he slapped his bottle on its broad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed his legs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous to proceeding any further.

The change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickedness of his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition—for we are accustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense, something in its place almost divine—and this alteration bred so many fears in her whom he addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, as it seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitor resumed:

‘Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour of meeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman’s name in your ear.—Zounds, ma’am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be glad to whisper my friend’s name in your ear?’

‘You need not repeat it,’ said the widow, with a stifled groan; ‘I see too well from whom you come.’

‘But as a man of honour, ma’am,’ said the blind man, striking himself on the breast, ‘whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say that I WILL mention that gentleman’s name. Ay, ay,’ he added, seeming to catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, ‘but not aloud. With your leave, ma’am, I desire the favour of a whisper.’

She moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in her ear; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in silence.

‘You are slow in conversation, widow,’ he said after a time, pausing in his draught. ‘We shall have to talk before your son.’

‘What would you have me do?’ she answered. ‘What do you want?’

‘We are poor, widow, we are poor,’ he retorted, stretching out his right hand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.

‘Poor!’ she cried. ‘And what am I?’

‘Comparisons are odious,’ said the blind man. ‘I don’t know, I don’t care. I say that we are poor. My friend’s circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?’

She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly before him, she said:

‘Is he near here?’

‘He is. Close at hand.’

‘Then I am lost!’

‘Not lost, widow,’ said the blind man, calmly; ‘only found. Shall I call him?’

‘Not for the world,’ she answered, with a shudder.

‘Very good,’ he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would rise and walk to the door. ‘As you please, widow. His presence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live; to live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:—I say no more.’

‘Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?’ she retorted. ‘I do not think you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on this poor place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.’

The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:

‘—Beside the question, ma’am, beside the question. I have the softest heart in the world, but I can’t live upon it. Many a gentleman lives well upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very great drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which sympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish to arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the case stands.—If you are very poor now, it’s your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you and he being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as I 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 ourselves in that wide place—there would be some trace of us in any other town—then travel on again, and find some new abode.’

Little persuasion was required to reconcile Barnaby to anything that promised change. In another minute, he was wild with delight; in another, full of grief at the prospect of parting with his friends the dogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful of what she had said to prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of terrors and strange questions. His light-heartedness in the end surmounted all his other feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might be ready on the morrow, he soon fell fast asleep before the poor turf fire.

His mother did not close her eyes, but sat beside him, watching. Every breath of wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstep at the door, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night, a night of horror. At length the welcome day appeared. When she had made the little preparations which were needful for their journey, and had prayed upon her knees with many tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up gaily at her summons.

His clothes were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour of love. As the sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of their deserted home, and turned away. The sky was blue and bright. The air was fresh and filled with a thousand perfumes. Barnaby looked upward, and laughed with all his heart.

But it was a day he usually devoted to a long ramble, and one of the dogs—the ugliest of them all—came bounding up, and jumping round him in the fulness of his joy. He had to bid him go back in a surly tone, and his heart smote him while he did so. The dog retreated; turned with a half-incredulous, half-imploring look; came a little back; and stopped.

It was the last appeal of an old companion and a faithful friend—cast off. Barnaby could bear no more, and as he shook his head and waved his playmate home, he burst into tears.

‘Oh mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches at the door, and finds it always shut!’

There was such a sense of home in the thought, that though her own eyes overflowed she would not have obliterated the recollection of it, either from her own mind or from his, for the wealth of the whole wide world.

Chapter 47

In the exhaustless catalogue of Heaven’s mercies to mankind, the power we have of finding some germs of comfort in the hardest trials must ever occupy the foremost place; not only because it supports and upholds us when we most require to be sustained, but because in this source of consolation there is something, we have reason to believe, of the divine spirit; something of that goodness which detects amidst our own evil doings, a redeeming quality; something which, even in our fallen nature, we possess in common with the angels; which had its being in the old time when they trod the earth, and lingers on it yet, in pity.

How often, on their journey, did the widow remember with a grateful heart, that out of his deprivation Barnaby’s cheerfulness and affection sprung! How often did she call to mind that but for that, he might have been sullen, morose, unkind, far removed from her—vicious, perhaps, and cruel! How often had she cause for comfort, in his strength, and hope, and in his simple nature! Those feeble powers of mind which rendered him so soon forgetful of the past, save in brief gleams and flashes,—even they were a comfort now. The world to him was full of happiness; in every tree, and plant, and flower, in every bird, and beast, and tiny insect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground, he had delight. His delight was hers; and where many a wise son would have made her sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast with thankfulness and love.

Their stock of money was low, but from the hoard she had told into the blind man’s hand, the widow had withheld one guinea. This, with the few pence she possessed besides, was to two persons of their frugal habits, a goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had Grip in company; and when they must otherwise have changed the guinea, it was but to make him exhibit outside an alehouse door, or in a village street, or in the grounds or gardens of a mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have given nothing in charity, were ready to bargain for more amusement from the talking bird.

One day—for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides in carts and waggons, were on the road a week—Barnaby, with Grip upon his shoulder and his mother following, begged permission at a trim lodge to go up to the great house, at the other end of the avenue, and show his raven. The man within was inclined to give them admittance, and was indeed about to do so, when a stout gentleman with a long whip in his hand, and a flushed face which seemed to indicate that he had had his morning’s draught, rode up to the gate, and called in a loud voice and with more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant to have it opened directly.

‘Who hast thou got here?’ said the gentleman angrily, as the man threw the gate wide open, and pulled off his hat, ‘who are these? Eh? art a beggar, woman?’

The widow answered with a curtsey, that they were poor travellers.

‘Vagrants,’ said the gentleman, ‘vagrants and vagabonds. Thee wish to be made acquainted with the cage, dost thee—the cage, the stocks, and the whipping-post? Where dost come from?’

She told him in a timid manner,—for he was very loud, hoarse, and red-faced,—and besought him not to be angry, for they meant no harm, and would go upon their way that moment.

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ replied the gentleman, ‘we don’t allow vagrants to roam about this place. I know what thou want’st—stray linen drying on hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What hast got in that basket, lazy hound?’

‘Grip, Grip, Grip—Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip the knowing—Grip, Grip, Grip,’ cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up on the approach of this stern personage. ‘I’m a devil I’m a devil I’m a devil, Never say die Hurrah Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we’ll all have tea.’

‘Take the vermin out, scoundrel,’ said the gentleman, ‘and let me see him.’

Barnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not without much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground; which he had no sooner done than Grip drew fifty corks at least, and then began to dance; at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprising insolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that he appeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot.

The cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman’s mind, than the raven’s power of speech, and was indeed particularly adapted to his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again, but despite his being very peremptory, and notwithstanding that Barnaby coaxed to the utmost, Grip turned a deaf ear to the request, and preserved a dead silence.

‘Bring him along,’ said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip, who had watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on before them;—constantly flapping his wings, and screaming ‘cook!’ meanwhile, as a hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collation would be acceptable.

Barnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman on horseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud and coarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the tone of which alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and, as a matter of course, could make him no reply. On one of these occasions, when the gentleman appeared disposed to exercise his horsewhip, the widow ventured to inform him in a low voice and with tears in her eyes, that her son was of weak mind.

‘An idiot, eh?’ said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. ‘And how long hast thou been an idiot?’

‘She knows,’ was Barnaby’s timid answer, pointing to his mother—‘I—always, I believe.’

‘From his birth,’ said the widow.

‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the gentleman, ‘not a bit of it. It’s an excuse not to work. There’s nothing like flogging to cure that disorder. I’d make a difference in him in ten minutes, I’ll be bound.’

‘Heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir,’ said the widow mildly.

‘Then why don’t you shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions, damn ‘em. But thou’d rather drag him about to excite charity—of course. Ay, I know thee.’

Now, this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his intimate friends. By some he was called ‘a country gentleman of the true school,’ by some ‘a fine old country gentleman,’ by some ‘a sporting gentleman,’ by some ‘a thorough-bred Englishman,’ by some ‘a genuine John Bull;’ but they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that it was a pity there were not more like him, and that because there were not, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. He was in the commission of the peace, and could write his name almost legibly; but his greatest qualifications were, that he was more severe with poachers, was a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better dogs, could eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every night more drunk and get up every morning more sober, than any man in the county. In knowledge of horseflesh he was almost equal to a farrier, in stable learning he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony not a pig on his estate was a match for him. He had no seat in Parliament himself, but he was extremely patriotic, and usually drove his voters up to the poll with his own hands. He was warmly attached to church and state, and never appointed to the living in his gift any but a three-bottle man and a first-rate fox-hunter. He mistrusted the honesty of all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret jealousy of his own wife (a young lady whom he had married for what his friends called ‘the good old English reason,’ that her father’s property adjoined his own) for possessing those accomplishments in a greater degree than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot, and Grip a creature of mere brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what this gentleman was.

He rode up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flight of steps, where a man was waiting to take his horse, and led the way into a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the fumes of last night’s stale debauch. Greatcoats, riding-whips, bridles, top-boots, spurs, and such gear, were strewn about on all sides, and formed, with some huge stags’ antlers, and a few portraits of dogs and horses, its principal embellishments.

Throwing himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he often snored away the night, when he had been, according to his admirers, a finer country gentleman than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistress to come down: and presently there appeared, a little flurried, as it seemed, by the unwonted summons, a lady much younger than himself, who had the appearance of being in delicate health, and not too happy.

‘Here! Thou’st no delight in following the hounds as an Englishwoman should have,’ said the gentleman. ‘See to this here. That’ll please thee perhaps.’

The lady smiled, sat down at a little distance from him, and glanced at Barnaby with a look of pity.

‘He’s an idiot, the woman says,’ observed the gentleman, shaking his head; ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Are you his mother?’ asked the lady.

She answered yes.

‘What’s the use of asking HER?’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets. ‘She’ll tell thee so, of course. Most likely he’s hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.’

Grip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, at Barnaby’s solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and to go through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The corks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delight that he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, until Grip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word, good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closing point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a roar of laughter, and demanded his price.

Barnaby looked as though he didn’t understand his meaning. Probably he did not.

‘His price,’ said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets, ‘what dost want for him? How much?’

‘He’s not to be sold,’ replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a great hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. ‘Mother, come away.’

‘Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,’ said the gentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. ‘He can make a bargain. What dost want for him, old woman?’

‘He is my son’s constant companion,’ said the widow. ‘He is not to be sold, sir, indeed.’

‘Not to be sold!’ cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder, hoarser, and louder than before. ‘Not to be sold!’

‘Indeed no,’ she answered. ‘We have never thought of parting with him, sir, I do assure you.’

He was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few murmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned sharply round, and said, ‘Eh? What?’

‘We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own desire,’ she faltered. ‘If they prefer to keep him—’

‘Prefer to keep him!’ he echoed. ‘These people, who go tramping about the country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep a bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That old woman’s been to school. I know she has. Don’t tell me no,’ he roared to the widow, ‘I say, yes.’

Barnaby’s mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was no harm in it.

‘No harm!’ said the gentleman. ‘No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not a bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I’d set ye in the stocks, I would, or lay ye in jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty larcenies, ye limb of a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out, shove ‘em into the road, out with ‘em! Ye don’t want to sell the bird, ye that come here to beg, don’t ye? If they an’t out in double-quick, set the dogs upon ‘em!’

They waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving the gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had already retreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who, excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on having been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the widow’s hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently from the gate.

This incident only suggested to the widow’s mind, when they halted at an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice’s character as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of stomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form either a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or a genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimes misappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that a circumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; but time and experience enlightened her in this respect.

‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon which was to take them within ten miles of the capital, ‘we’re going to London first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?’

She was about to answer ‘Heaven forbid!’ but checked herself, and told him No, she thought not; why did he ask?

‘He’s a wise man,’ said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. ‘I wish that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds? That gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a crowded place; I think we shall meet him there.’

‘But why do you desire to see him, love?’ she asked.

‘Because,’ said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, ‘he talked to me about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so strangely—just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed’s foot in the night, and say what I can’t remember when the bright day returns. He told me he’d come back. I wonder why he broke his word!’

‘But you never thought of being rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You have always been contented.’

He laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, ‘Ay ay—oh yes,’ and laughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and the topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as fleeting.

But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the point more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man’s visit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind. Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time on looking at the golden clouds that evening—and images were often presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and distant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it, by contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of the blind man’s pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at the moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the man being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked before; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover, but in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in the dark.

It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but all that she could do, was to lead him quickly to some other subject, and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor, to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be, she feared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were possible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.

They reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles of London, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on for a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and was to start at five o’clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the road good—save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry—and at seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand seven hundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge, bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on the scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such busy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with uncommon lustre.

Chapter 48

Uncertain where to go next, and bewildered by the crowd of people who were already astir, they sat down in one of the recesses on the bridge, to rest. They soon became aware that the stream of life was all pouring one way, and that a vast throng of persons were crossing the river from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, in unusual haste and evident excitement. They were, for the most part, in knots of two or three, or sometimes half-a-dozen; they spoke little together—many of them were quite silent; and hurried on as if they had one absorbing object in view, which was common to them all.

They were surprised to see that nearly every man in this great concourse, which still came pouring past, without slackening in the least, wore in his hat a blue cockade; and that the chance passengers who were not so decorated, appeared timidly anxious to escape observation or attack, and gave them the wall as if they would conciliate them. This, however, was natural enough, considering their inferiority in point of numbers; for the proportion of those who wore blue cockades, to those who were dressed as usual, was at least forty or fifty to one. There was no quarrelling, however: the blue cockades went swarming on, passing each other when they could, and making all the speed that was possible in such a multitude; and exchanged nothing more than looks, and very often not even those, with such of the passers-by as were not of their number.

At first, the current of people had been confined to the two pathways, and but a few more eager stragglers kept the road. But after half an hour or so, the passage was completely blocked up by the great press, which, being now closely wedged together, and impeded by the carts and coaches it encountered, moved but slowly, and was sometimes at a stand for five or ten minutes together.

After the lapse of nearly two hours, the numbers began to diminish visibly, and gradually dwindling away, by little and little, left the bridge quite clear, save that, now and then, some hot and dusty man, with the cockade in his hat, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, went panting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way his friends had taken, and being directed, hastened on again like one refreshed. In this comparative solitude, which seemed quite strange and novel after the late crowd, the widow had for the first time an opportunity of inquiring of an old man who came and sat beside them, what was the meaning of that great assemblage.

‘Why, where have you come from,’ he returned, ‘that you haven’t heard of Lord George Gordon’s great association? This is the day that he presents the petition against the Catholics, God bless him!’

‘What have all these men to do with that?’ she said.

‘What have they to do with it!’ the old man replied. ‘Why, how you talk! Don’t you know his lordship has declared he won’t present it to the house at all, unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good and true men at least? There’s a crowd for you!’

‘A crowd indeed!’ said Barnaby. ‘Do you hear that, mother!’

‘And they’re mustering yonder, as I am told,’ resumed the old man, ‘nigh upon a hundred thousand strong. Ah! Let Lord George alone. He knows his power. There’ll be a good many faces inside them three windows over there,’ and he pointed to where the House of Commons overlooked the river, ‘that’ll turn pale when good Lord George gets up this afternoon, and with reason too! Ay, ay. Let his lordship alone. Let him alone. HE knows!’ And so, with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of his forefinger, he rose, with the assistance of his stick, and tottered off.

‘Mother!’ said Barnaby, ‘that’s a brave crowd he talks of. Come!’

‘Not to join it!’ cried his mother.

‘Yes, yes,’ he answered, plucking at her sleeve. ‘Why not? Come!’

‘You don’t know,’ she urged, ‘what mischief they may do, where they may lead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake—’

‘For your sake!’ he cried, patting her hand. ‘Well! It IS for your sake, mother. You remember what the blind man said, about the gold. Here’s a brave crowd! Come! Or wait till I come back—yes, yes, wait here.’

She tried with all the earnestness her fears engendered, to turn him from his purpose, but in vain. He was stooping down to buckle on his shoe, when a hackney-coach passed them rather quickly, and a voice inside called to the driver to stop.

‘Young man,’ said a voice within.

‘Who’s that?’ cried Barnaby, looking up.

‘Do you wear this ornament?’ returned the stranger, holding out a blue cockade.

‘In Heaven’s name, no. Pray do not give it him!’ exclaimed the widow.

‘Speak for yourself, woman,’ said the man within the coach, coldly. ‘Leave the young man to his choice; he’s old enough to make it, and to snap your apron-strings. He knows, without your telling, whether he wears the sign of a loyal Englishman or not.’

Barnaby, trembling with impatience, cried, ‘Yes! yes, yes, I do,’ as he had cried a dozen times already. The man threw him a cockade, and crying, ‘Make haste to St George’s Fields,’ ordered the coachman to drive on fast; and left them.

With hands that trembled with his eagerness to fix the bauble in his hat, Barnaby was adjusting it as he best could, and hurriedly replying to the tears and entreaties of his mother, when two gentlemen passed on the opposite side of the way. Observing them, and seeing how Barnaby was occupied, they stopped, whispered together for an instant, turned back, and came over to them.

‘Why are you sitting here?’ said one of them, who was dressed in a plain suit of black, wore long lank hair, and carried a great cane. ‘Why have you not gone with the rest?’

‘I am going, sir,’ replied Barnaby, finishing his task, and putting his hat on with an air of pride. ‘I shall be there directly.’

‘Say “my lord,” young man, when his lordship does you the honour of speaking to you,’ said the second gentleman mildly. ‘If you don’t know Lord George Gordon when you see him, it’s high time you should.’

‘Nay, Gashford,’ said Lord George, as Barnaby pulled off his hat again and made him a low bow, ‘it’s no great matter on a day like this, which every Englishman will remember with delight and pride. Put on your hat, friend, and follow us, for you lag behind and are late. It’s past ten now. Didn’t you know that the hour for assembling was ten o’clock?’

Barnaby shook his head and looked vacantly from one to the other.

‘You might have known it, friend,’ said Gashford, ‘it was perfectly understood. How came you to be so ill informed?’

‘He cannot tell you, sir,’ the widow interposed. ‘It’s of no use to ask him. We are but this morning come from a long distance in the country, and know nothing of these matters.’

‘The cause has taken a deep root, and has spread its branches far and wide,’ said Lord George to his secretary. ‘This is a pleasant hearing. I thank Heaven for it!’

‘Amen!’ cried Gashford with a solemn face.

‘You do not understand me, my lord,’ said the widow. ‘Pardon me, but you cruelly mistake my meaning. We know nothing of these matters. We have no desire or right to join in what you are about to do. This is my son, my poor afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. In mercy’s name, my lord, go your way alone, and do not tempt him into danger!’

‘My good woman,’ said Gashford, ‘how can you!—Dear me!—What do you mean by tempting, and by danger? Do you think his lordship is a roaring lion, going about and seeking whom he may devour? God bless me!’

‘No, no, my lord, forgive me,’ implored the widow, laying both her hands upon his breast, and scarcely knowing what she did, or said, in the earnestness of her supplication, ‘but there are reasons why you should hear my earnest, mother’s prayer, and leave my son with me. Oh do! He is not in his right senses, he is not, indeed!’

‘It is a bad sign of the wickedness of these times,’ said Lord George, evading her touch, and colouring deeply, ‘that those who cling to the truth and support the right cause, are set down as mad. Have you the heart to say this of your own son, unnatural mother!’

‘I am astonished at you!’ said Gashford, with a kind of meek severity. ‘This is a very sad picture of female depravity.’

‘He has surely no appearance,’ said Lord George, glancing at Barnaby, and whispering in his secretary’s ear, ‘of being deranged? And even if he had, we must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness. Which of us’—and here he turned red again—‘would be safe, if that were made the law!’

‘Not one,’ replied the secretary; ‘in that case, the greater the zeal, the truth, and talent; the more direct the call from above; the clearer would be the madness. With regard to this young man, my lord,’ he added, with a lip that slightly curled as he looked at Barnaby, who stood twirling his hat, and stealthily beckoning them to come away, ‘he is as sensible and self-possessed as any one I ever saw.’

‘And you desire to make one of this great body?’ said Lord George, addressing him; ‘and intended to make one, did you?’

‘Yes—yes,’ said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. ‘To be sure I did! I told her so myself.’

‘I see,’ replied Lord George, with a reproachful glance at the unhappy mother. ‘I thought so. Follow me and this gentleman, and you shall have your wish.’

Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek, and bidding her be of good cheer, for their fortunes were both made now, did as he was desired. She, poor woman, followed too—with how much fear and grief it would be hard to tell.

They passed quickly through the Bridge Road, where the shops were all shut up (for the passage of the great crowd and the expectation of their return had alarmed the tradesmen for their goods and windows), and where, in the upper stories, all the inhabitants were congregated, looking down into the street below, with faces variously expressive of alarm, of interest, expectancy, and indignation. Some of these applauded, and some hissed; but regardless of these interruptions—for the noise of a vast congregation of people at a little distance, sounded in his ears like the roaring of the sea—Lord George Gordon quickened his pace, and presently arrived before St George’s Fields.

They were really fields at that time, and of considerable extent. Here an immense multitude was collected, bearing flags of various kinds and sizes, but all of the same colour—blue, like the cockades—some sections marching to and fro in military array, and others drawn up in circles, squares, and lines. A large portion, both of the bodies which paraded the ground, and of those which remained stationary, were occupied in singing hymns or psalms. With whomsoever this originated, it was well done; for the sound of so many thousand voices in the air must have stirred the heart of any man within him, and could not fail to have a wonderful effect upon enthusiasts, however mistaken.

Scouts had been posted in advance of the great body, to give notice of their leader’s coming. These falling back, the word was quickly passed through the whole host, and for a short interval there ensued a profound and deathlike silence, during which the mass was so still and quiet, that the fluttering of a banner caught the eye, and became a circumstance of note. Then they burst into a tremendous shout, into another, and another; and the air seemed rent and shaken, as if by the discharge of cannon.

‘Gashford!’ cried Lord George, pressing his secretary’s arm tight within his own, and speaking with as much emotion in his voice, as in his altered face, ‘I am called indeed, now. I feel and know it. I am the leader of a host. If they summoned me at this moment with one voice to lead them on to death, I’d do it—Yes, and fall first myself!’

‘It is a proud sight,’ said the secretary. ‘It is a noble day for England, and for the great cause throughout the world. Such homage, my lord, as I, an humble but devoted man, can render—’

‘What are you doing?’ cried his master, catching him by both hands; for he had made a show of kneeling at his feet. ‘Do not unfit me, dear Gashford, for the solemn duty of this glorious day—’ the tears stood in the eyes of the poor gentleman as he said the words.—‘Let us go among them; we have to find a place in some division for this new recruit—give me your hand.’

Gashford slid his cold insidious palm into his master’s grasp, and so, hand in hand, and followed still by Barnaby and by his mother too, they mingled with the concourse.

They had by this time taken to their singing again, and as their leader passed between their ranks, they raised their voices to their utmost. Many of those who were banded together to support the religion of their country, even unto death, had never heard a hymn or psalm in all their lives. But these fellows having for the most part strong lungs, and being naturally fond of singing, chanted any ribaldry or nonsense that occurred to them, feeling pretty certain that it would not be detected in the general chorus, and not caring much if it were. Many of these voluntaries were sung under the very nose of Lord George Gordon, who, quite unconscious of their burden, passed on with his usual stiff and solemn deportment, very much edified and delighted by the pious conduct of his followers.

So they went on and on, up this line, down that, round the exterior of this circle, and on every side of that hollow square; and still there were lines, and squares, and circles out of number to review. The day being now intensely hot, and the sun striking down his fiercest rays upon the field, those who carried heavy banners began to grow faint and weary; most of the number assembled were fain to pull off their neckcloths, and throw their coats and waistcoats open; and some, towards the centre, quite overpowered by the excessive heat, which was of course rendered more unendurable by the multitude around them, lay down upon the grass, and offered all they had about them for a drink of water. Still, no man left the ground, not even of those who were so distressed; still Lord George, streaming from every pore, went on with Gashford; and still Barnaby and his mother followed close behind them.

They had arrived at the top of a long line of some eight hundred men in single file, and Lord George had turned his head to look back, when a loud cry of recognition—in that peculiar and half-stifled tone which a voice has, when it is raised in the open air and in the midst of a great concourse of persons—was heard, and a man stepped with a shout of laughter from the rank, and smote Barnaby on the shoulders with his heavy hand.

‘How now!’ he cried. ‘Barnaby Rudge! Why, where have you been hiding for these hundred years?’

Barnaby had been thinking within himself that the smell of the trodden grass brought back his old days at cricket, when he was a young boy and played on Chigwell Green. Confused by this sudden and boisterous address, he stared in a bewildered manner at the man, and could scarcely say ‘What! Hugh!’

‘Hugh!’ echoed the other; ‘ay, Hugh—Maypole Hugh! You remember my dog? He’s alive now, and will know you, I warrant. What, you wear the colour, do you? Well done! Ha ha ha!’

‘You know this young man, I see,’ said Lord George.

‘Know him, my lord! as well as I know my own right hand. My captain knows him. We all know him.’

‘Will you take him into your division?’

‘It hasn’t in it a better, nor a nimbler, nor a more active man, than Barnaby Rudge,’ said Hugh. ‘Show me the man who says it has! Fall in, Barnaby. He shall march, my lord, between me and Dennis; and he shall carry,’ he added, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man who tendered it, ‘the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army.’

‘In the name of God, no!’ shrieked the widow, darting forward. ‘Barnaby—my lord—see—he’ll come back—Barnaby—Barnaby!’

‘Women in the field!’ cried Hugh, stepping between them, and holding her off. ‘Holloa! My captain there!’

‘What’s the matter here?’ cried Simon Tappertit, bustling up in a great heat. ‘Do you call this order?’

‘Nothing like it, captain,’ answered Hugh, still holding her back with his outstretched hand. ‘It’s against all orders. Ladies are carrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty. The word of command, captain! They’re filing off the ground. Quick!’

‘Close!’ cried Simon, with the whole power of his lungs. ‘Form! March!’

She was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in motion; Barnaby was whirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and she saw him no more.

Chapter 49

The mob had been divided from its first assemblage into four divisions; the London, the Westminster, the Southwark, and the Scotch. Each of these divisions being subdivided into various bodies, and these bodies being drawn up in various forms and figures, the general arrangement was, except to the few chiefs and leaders, as unintelligible as the plan of a great battle to the meanest soldier in the field. It was not without its method, however; for, in a very short space of time after being put in motion, the crowd had resolved itself into three great parties, and were prepared, as had been arranged, to cross the river by different bridges, and make for the House of Commons in separate detachments.

At the head of that division which had Westminster Bridge for its approach to the scene of action, Lord George Gordon took his post; with Gashford at his right hand, and sundry ruffians, of most unpromising appearance, forming a kind of staff about him. The conduct of a second party, whose route lay by Blackfriars, was entrusted to a committee of management, including perhaps a dozen men: while the third, which was to go by London Bridge, and through the main streets, in order that their numbers and their serious intentions might be the better known and appreciated by the citizens, were led by Simon Tappertit (assisted by a few subalterns, selected from the Brotherhood of United Bulldogs), Dennis the hangman, Hugh, and some others.

The word of command being given, each of these great bodies took the road assigned to it, and departed on its way, in perfect order and profound silence. That which went through the City greatly exceeded the others in number, and was of such prodigious extent that when the rear began to move, the front was nearly four miles in advance, notwithstanding that the men marched three abreast and followed very close upon each other.

At the head of this party, in the place where Hugh, in the madness of his humour, had stationed him, and walking between that dangerous companion and the hangman, went Barnaby; as many a man among the thousands who looked on that day afterwards remembered well. Forgetful of all other things in the ecstasy of the moment, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling with delight, heedless of the weight of the great banner he carried, and mindful only of its flashing in the sun and rustling in the summer breeze, on he went, proud, happy, elated past all telling:—the only light-hearted, undesigning creature, in the whole assembly.

‘What do you think of this?’ asked Hugh, as they passed through the crowded streets, and looked up at the windows which were thronged with spectators. ‘They have all turned out to see our flags and streamers? Eh, Barnaby? Why, Barnaby’s the greatest man of all the pack! His flag’s the largest of the lot, the brightest too. There’s nothing in the show, like Barnaby. All eyes are turned on him. Ha ha ha!’

‘Don’t make that din, brother,’ growled the hangman, glancing with no very approving eyes at Barnaby as he spoke: ‘I hope he don’t think there’s nothing to be done, but carrying that there piece of blue rag, like a boy at a breaking up. You’re ready for action I hope, eh? You, I mean,’ he added, nudging Barnaby roughly with his elbow. ‘What are you staring at? Why don’t you speak?’

Barnaby had been gazing at his flag, and looked vacantly from his questioner to Hugh.

‘He don’t understand your way,’ said the latter. ‘Here, I’ll explain it to him. Barnaby old boy, attend to me.’

‘I’ll attend,’ said Barnaby, looking anxiously round; ‘but I wish I could see her somewhere.’

‘See who?’ demanded Dennis in a gruff tone. ‘You an’t in love I hope, brother? That an’t the sort of thing for us, you know. We mustn’t have no love here.’

‘She would be proud indeed to see me now, eh Hugh?’ said Barnaby. ‘Wouldn’t it make her glad to see me at the head of this large show? She’d cry for joy, I know she would. Where CAN she be? She never sees me at my best, and what do I care to be gay and fine if SHE’S not by?’

‘Why, what palaver’s this?’ asked Mr Dennis with supreme disdain. ‘We an’t got no sentimental members among us, I hope.’

‘Don’t be uneasy, brother,’ cried Hugh, ‘he’s only talking of his mother.’

‘Of his what?’ said Mr Dennis with a strong oath.

‘His mother.’

‘And have I combined myself with this here section, and turned out on this here memorable day, to hear men talk about their mothers!’ growled Mr Dennis with extreme disgust. ‘The notion of a man’s sweetheart’s bad enough, but a man’s mother!’—and here his disgust was so extreme that he spat upon the ground, and could say no more.

‘Barnaby’s right,’ cried Hugh with a grin, ‘and I say it. Lookee, bold lad. If she’s not here to see, it’s because I’ve provided for her, and sent half-a-dozen gentlemen, every one of ‘em with a blue flag (but not half as fine as yours), to take her, in state, to a grand house all hung round with gold and silver banners, and everything else you please, where she’ll wait till you come, and want for nothing.’

‘Ay!’ said Barnaby, his face beaming with delight: ‘have you indeed? That’s a good hearing. That’s fine! Kind Hugh!’

‘But nothing to what will come, bless you,’ retorted Hugh, with a wink at Dennis, who regarded his new companion in arms with great astonishment.

‘No, indeed?’ cried Barnaby.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Hugh. ‘Money, cocked hats and feathers, red coats and gold lace; all the fine things there are, ever were, or will be; will belong to us if we are true to that noble gentleman—the best man in the world—carry our flags for a few days, and keep ‘em safe. That’s all we’ve got to do.’

‘Is that all?’ cried Barnaby with glistening eyes, as he clutched his pole the tighter; ‘I warrant you I keep this one safe, then. You have put it in good hands. You know me, Hugh. Nobody shall wrest this flag away.’

‘Well said!’ cried Hugh. ‘Ha ha! Nobly said! That’s the old stout Barnaby, that I have climbed and leaped with, many and many a day—I knew I was not mistaken in Barnaby.—Don’t you see, man,’ he added in a whisper, as he slipped to the other side of Dennis, ‘that the lad’s a natural, and can be got to do anything, if you take him the right way? Letting alone the fun he is, he’s worth a dozen men, in earnest, as you’d find if you tried a fall with him. Leave him to me. You shall soon see whether he’s of use or not.’

Mr Dennis received these explanatory remarks with many nods and winks, and softened his behaviour towards Barnaby from that moment. Hugh, laying his finger on his nose, stepped back into his former place, and they proceeded in silence.

It was between two and three o’clock in the afternoon when the three great parties met at Westminster, and, uniting into one huge mass, raised a tremendous shout. This was not only done in token of their presence, but as a signal to those on whom the task devolved, that it was time to take possession of the lobbies of both Houses, and of the various avenues of approach, and of the gallery stairs. To the last-named place, Hugh and Dennis, still with their pupil between them, rushed straightway; Barnaby having given his flag into the hands of one of their own party, who kept them at the outer door. Their followers pressing on behind, they were borne as on a great wave to the very doors of the gallery, whence it was impossible to retreat, even if they had been so inclined, by reason of the throng which choked up the passages. It is a familiar expression in describing a great crowd, that a person might have walked upon the people’s heads. In this case it was actually done; for a boy who had by some means got among the concourse, and was in imminent danger of suffocation, climbed to the shoulders of a man beside him and walked upon the people’s hats and heads into the open street; traversing in his passage the whole length of two staircases and a long gallery. Nor was the swarm without less dense; for a basket which had been tossed into the crowd, was jerked from head to head, and shoulder to shoulder, and went spinning and whirling on above them, until it was lost to view, without ever once falling in among them or coming near the ground.

Through this vast throng, sprinkled doubtless here and there with honest zealots, but composed for the most part of the very scum and refuse of London, whose growth was fostered by bad criminal laws, bad prison regulations, and the worst conceivable police, such of the members of both Houses of Parliament as had not taken the precaution to be already at their posts, were compelled to fight and force their way. Their carriages were stopped and broken; the wheels wrenched off; the glasses shivered to atoms; the panels beaten in; drivers, footmen, and masters, pulled from their seats and rolled in the mud. Lords, commoners, and reverend bishops, with little distinction of person or party, were kicked and pinched and hustled; passed from hand to hand through various stages of ill-usage; and sent to their fellow-senators at last with their clothes hanging in ribands about them, their bagwigs torn off, themselves speechless and breathless, and their persons covered with the powder which had been cuffed and beaten out of their hair. One lord was so long in the hands of the populace, that the Peers as a body resolved to sally forth and rescue him, and were in the act of doing so, when he happily appeared among them covered with dirt and bruises, and hardly to be recognised by those who knew him best. The noise and uproar were on the increase every moment. The air was filled with execrations, hoots, and howlings. The mob raged and roared, like a mad monster as it was, unceasingly, and each new outrage served to swell its fury.

Within doors, matters were even yet more threatening. Lord George—preceded by a man who carried the immense petition on a porter’s knot through the lobby to the door of the House of Commons, where it was received by two officers of the house who rolled it up to the table ready for presentation—had taken his seat at an early hour, before the Speaker went to prayers. His followers pouring in at the same time, the lobby and all the avenues were immediately filled, as we have seen. Thus the members were not only attacked in their passage through the streets, but were set upon within the very walls of Parliament; while the tumult, both within and without, was so great, that those who attempted to speak could scarcely hear their own voices: far less, consult upon the course it would be wise to take in such extremity, or animate each other to dignified and firm resistance. So sure as any member, just arrived, with dress disordered and dishevelled hair, came struggling through the crowd in the lobby, it yelled and screamed in triumph; and when the door of the House, partially and cautiously opened by those within for his admission, gave them a momentary glimpse of the interior, they grew more wild and savage, like beasts at the sight of prey, and made a rush against the portal which strained its locks and bolts in their staples, and shook the very beams.

The strangers’ gallery, which was immediately above the door of the House, had been ordered to be closed on the first rumour of disturbance, and was empty; save that now and then Lord George took his seat there, for the convenience of coming to the head of the stairs which led to it, and repeating to the people what had passed within. It was on these stairs that Barnaby, Hugh, and Dennis were posted. There were two flights, short, steep, and narrow, running parallel to each other, and leading to two little doors communicating with a low passage which opened on the gallery. Between them was a kind of well, or unglazed skylight, for the admission of light and air into the lobby, which might be some eighteen or twenty feet below.

Upon one of these little staircases—not that at the head of which Lord George appeared from time to time, but the other—Gashford stood with his elbow on the bannister, and his cheek resting on his hand, with his usual crafty aspect. Whenever he varied this attitude in the slightest degree—so much as by the gentlest motion of his arm—the uproar was certain to increase, not merely there, but in the lobby below; from which place no doubt, some man who acted as fugleman to the rest, was constantly looking up and watching him.

‘Order!’ cried Hugh, in a voice which made itself heard even above the roar and tumult, as Lord George appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘News! News from my lord!’

The noise continued, notwithstanding his appearance, until Gashford looked round. There was silence immediately—even among the people in the passages without, and on the other staircases, who could neither see nor hear, but to whom, notwithstanding, the signal was conveyed with marvellous rapidity.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Lord George, who was very pale and agitated, ‘we must be firm. They talk of delays, but we must have no delays. They talk of taking your petition into consideration next Tuesday, but we must have it considered now. Present appearances look bad for our success, but we must succeed and will!’

‘We must succeed and will!’ echoed the crowd. And so among their shouts and cheers and other cries, he bowed to them and retired, and presently came back again. There was another gesture from Gashford, and a dead silence directly.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, this time, ‘that we have little reason, gentlemen, to hope for any redress from the proceedings of Parliament. But we must redress our own grievances, we must meet again, we must put our trust in Providence, and it will bless our endeavours.’

This speech being a little more temperate than the last, was not so favourably received. When the noise and exasperation were at their height, he came back once more, and told them that the alarm had gone forth for many miles round; that when the King heard of their assembling together in that great body, he had no doubt, His Majesty would send down private orders to have their wishes complied with; and—with the manner of his speech as childish, irresolute, and uncertain as his matter—was proceeding in this strain, when two gentlemen suddenly appeared at the door where he stood, and pressing past him and coming a step or two lower down upon the stairs, confronted the people.

The boldness of this action quite took them by surprise. They were not the less disconcerted, when one of the gentlemen, turning to Lord George, spoke thus—in a loud voice that they might hear him well, but quite coolly and collectedly:

‘You may tell these people, if you please, my lord, that I am General Conway of whom they have heard; and that I oppose this petition, and all their proceedings, and yours. I am a soldier, you may tell them, and I will protect the freedom of this place with my sword. You see, my lord, that the members of this House are all in arms to-day; you know that the entrance to it is a narrow one; you cannot be ignorant that there are men within these walls who are determined to defend that pass to the last, and before whom many lives must fall if your adherents persevere. Have a care what you do.’

‘And my Lord George,’ said the other gentleman, addressing him in like manner, ‘I desire them to hear this, from me—Colonel Gordon—your near relation. If a man among this crowd, whose uproar strikes us deaf, crosses the threshold of the House of Commons, I swear to run my sword that moment—not into his, but into your body!’

With that, they stepped back again, keeping their faces towards the crowd; took each an arm of the misguided nobleman; drew him into the passage, and shut the door; which they directly locked and fastened on the inside.

This was so quickly done, and the demeanour of both gentlemen—who were not young men either—was so gallant and resolute, that the crowd faltered and stared at each other with irresolute and timid looks. Many tried to turn towards the door; some of the faintest-hearted cried they had best go back, and called to those behind to give way; and the panic and confusion were increasing rapidly, when Gashford whispered Hugh.

‘What now!’ Hugh roared aloud, turning towards them. ‘Why go back? Where can you do better than here, boys! One good rush against these doors and one below at the same time, will do the business. Rush on, then! As to the door below, let those stand back who are afraid. Let those who are not afraid, try who shall be the first to pass it. Here goes! Look out down there!’

Without the delay of an instant, he threw himself headlong over the bannisters into the lobby below. He had hardly touched the ground when Barnaby was at his side. The chaplain’s assistant, and some members who were imploring the people to retire, immediately withdrew; and then, with a great shout, both crowds threw themselves against the doors pell-mell, and besieged the House in earnest.

At that moment, when a second onset must have brought them into collision with those who stood on the defensive within, in which case great loss of life and bloodshed would inevitably have ensued,—the hindmost portion of the crowd gave way, and the rumour spread from mouth to mouth that a messenger had been despatched by water for the military, who were forming in the street. Fearful of sustaining a charge in the narrow passages in which they were so closely wedged together, the throng poured out as impetuously as they had flocked in. As the whole stream turned at once, Barnaby and Hugh went with it: and so, fighting and struggling and trampling on fallen men and being trampled on in turn themselves, they and the whole mass floated by degrees into the open street, where a large detachment of the Guards, both horse and foot, came hurrying up; clearing the ground before them so rapidly that the people seemed to melt away as they advanced.

The word of command to halt being given, the soldiers formed across the street; the rioters, breathless and exhausted with their late exertions, formed likewise, though in a very irregular and disorderly manner. The commanding officer rode hastily into the open space between the two bodies, accompanied by a magistrate and an officer of the House of Commons, for whose accommodation a couple of troopers had hastily dismounted. The Riot Act was read, but not a man stirred.

In the first rank of the insurgents, Barnaby and Hugh stood side by side. Somebody had thrust into Barnaby’s hands when he came out into the street, his precious flag; which, being now rolled up and tied round the pole, looked like a giant quarter-staff as he grasped it firmly and stood upon his guard. If ever man believed with his whole heart and soul that he was engaged in a just cause, and that he was bound to stand by his leader to the last, poor Barnaby believed it of himself and Lord George Gordon.

After an ineffectual attempt to make himself heard, the magistrate gave the word and the Horse Guards came riding in among the crowd. But, even then, he galloped here and there, exhorting the people to disperse; and, although heavy stones were thrown at the men, and some were desperately cut and bruised, they had no orders but to make prisoners of such of the rioters as were the most active, and to drive the people back with the flat of their sabres. As the horses came in among them, the throng gave way at many points, and the Guards, following up their advantage, were rapidly clearing the ground, when two or three of the foremost, who were in a manner cut off from the rest by the people closing round them, made straight towards Barnaby and Hugh, who had no doubt been pointed out as the two men who dropped into the lobby: laying about them now with some effect, and inflicting on the more turbulent of their opponents, a few slight flesh wounds, under the influence of which a man dropped, here and there, into the arms of his fellows, amid much groaning and confusion.

At the sight of gashed and bloody faces, seen for a moment in the crowd, then hidden by the press around them, Barnaby turned pale and sick. But he stood his ground, and grasping his pole more firmly yet, kept his eye fixed upon the nearest soldier—nodding his head meanwhile, as Hugh, with a scowling visage, whispered in his ear.

The soldier came spurring on, making his horse rear as the people pressed about him, cutting at the hands of those who would have grasped his rein and forced his charger back, and waving to his comrades to follow—and still Barnaby, without retreating an inch, waited for his coming. Some called to him to fly, and some were in the very act of closing round him, to prevent his being taken, when the pole swept into the air above the people’s heads, and the man’s saddle was empty in an instant.

Then, he and Hugh turned and fled, the crowd opening to let them pass, and closing up again so quickly that there was no clue to the course they had taken. Panting for breath, hot, dusty, and exhausted with fatigue, they reached the riverside in safety, and getting into a boat with all despatch were soon out of any immediate danger.

As they glided down the river, they plainly heard the people cheering; and supposing they might have forced the soldiers to retreat, lay upon their oars for a few minutes, uncertain whether to return or not. But the crowd passing along Westminster Bridge, soon assured them that the populace were dispersing; and Hugh rightly guessed from this, that they had cheered the magistrate for offering to dismiss the military on condition of their immediate departure to their several homes, and that he and Barnaby were better where they were. He advised, therefore, that they should proceed to Blackfriars, and, going ashore at the bridge, make the best of their way to The Boot; where there was not only good entertainment and safe lodging, but where they would certainly be joined by many of their late companions. Barnaby assenting, they decided on this course of action, and pulled for Blackfriars accordingly.

They landed at a critical time, and fortunately for themselves at the right moment. For, coming into Fleet Street, they found it in an unusual stir; and inquiring the cause, were told that a body of Horse Guards had just galloped past, and that they were escorting some rioters whom they had made prisoners, to Newgate for safety. Not at all ill-pleased to have so narrowly escaped the cavalcade, they lost no more time in asking questions, but hurried to The Boot with as much speed as Hugh considered it prudent to make, without appearing singular or attracting an inconvenient share of public notice.

Chapter 50

They were among the first to reach the tavern, but they had not been there many minutes, when several groups of men who had formed part of the crowd, came straggling in. Among them were Simon Tappertit and Mr Dennis; both of whom, but especially the latter, greeted Barnaby with the utmost warmth, and paid him many compliments on the prowess he had shown.

‘Which,’ said Dennis, with an oath, as he rested his bludgeon in a corner with his hat upon it, and took his seat at the same table with them, ‘it does me good to think of. There was a opportunity! But it led to nothing. For my part, I don’t know what would. There’s no spirit among the people in these here times. Bring something to eat and drink here. I’m disgusted with humanity.’

‘On what account?’ asked Mr Tappertit, who had been quenching his fiery face in a half-gallon can. ‘Don’t you consider this a good beginning, mister?’

‘Give me security that it an’t a ending,’ rejoined the hangman. ‘When that soldier went down, we might have made London ours; but no;—we stand, and gape, and look on—the justice (I wish he had had a bullet in each eye, as he would have had, if we’d gone to work my way) says, “My lads, if you’ll give me your word to disperse, I’ll order off the military,” our people sets up a hurrah, throws up the game with the winning cards in their hands, and skulks away like a pack of tame curs as they are. Ah,’ said the hangman, in a tone of deep disgust, ‘it makes me blush for my feller creeturs. I wish I had been born a ox, I do!’

‘You’d have been quite as agreeable a character if you had been, I think,’ returned Simon Tappertit, going out in a lofty manner.

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ rejoined the hangman, calling after him; ‘if I was a horned animal at the present moment, with the smallest grain of sense, I’d toss every man in this company, excepting them two,’ meaning Hugh and Barnaby, ‘for his manner of conducting himself this day.’

With which mournful review of their proceedings, Mr Dennis sought consolation in cold boiled beef and beer; but without at all relaxing the grim and dissatisfied expression of his face, the gloom of which was rather deepened than dissipated by their grateful influence.

The company who were thus libelled might have retaliated by strong words, if not by blows, but they were dispirited and worn out. The greater part of them had fasted since morning; all had suffered extremely from the excessive heat; and between the day’s shouting, exertion, and excitement, many had quite lost their voices, and so much of their strength that they could hardly stand. Then they were uncertain what to do next, fearful of the consequences of what they had done already, and sensible that after all they had carried no point, but had indeed left matters worse than they had found them. Of those who had come to The Boot, many dropped off within an hour; such of them as were really honest and sincere, never, after the morning’s experience, to return, or to hold any communication with their late companions. Others remained but to refresh themselves, and then went home desponding; others who had theretofore been regular in their attendance, avoided the place altogether. The half-dozen prisoners whom the Guards had taken, were magnified by report into half-a-hundred at least; and their friends, being faint and sober, so slackened in their energy, and so drooped beneath these dispiriting influences, that by eight o’clock in the evening, Dennis, Hugh, and Barnaby, were left alone. Even they were fast asleep upon the benches, when Gashford’s entrance roused them.

‘Oh! you ARE here then?’ said the Secretary. ‘Dear me!’

‘Why, where should we be, Muster Gashford!’ Dennis rejoined as he rose into a sitting posture.

‘Oh nowhere, nowhere,’ he returned with excessive mildness. ‘The streets are filled with blue cockades. I rather thought you might have been among them. I am glad you are not.’

‘You have orders for us, master, then?’ said Hugh.

‘Oh dear, no. Not I. No orders, my good fellow. What orders should I have? You are not in my service.’

‘Muster Gashford,’ remonstrated Dennis, ‘we belong to the cause, don’t we?’

‘The cause!’ repeated the secretary, looking at him in a sort of abstraction. ‘There is no cause. The cause is lost.’

‘Lost!’

‘Oh yes. You have heard, I suppose? The petition is rejected by a hundred and ninety-two, to six. It’s quite final. We might have spared ourselves some trouble. That, and my lord’s vexation, are the only circumstances I regret. I am quite satisfied in all other respects.’

As he said this, he took a penknife from his pocket, and putting his hat upon his knee, began to busy himself in ripping off the blue cockade which he had worn all day; at the same time humming a psalm tune which had been very popular in the morning, and dwelling on it with a gentle regret.

His two adherents looked at each other, and at him, as if they were at a loss how to pursue the subject. At length Hugh, after some elbowing and winking between himself and Mr Dennis, ventured to stay his hand, and to ask him why he meddled with that riband in his hat.

‘Because,’ said the secretary, looking up with something between a snarl and a smile; ‘because to sit still and wear it, or to fall asleep and wear it, is a mockery. That’s all, friend.’

‘What would you have us do, master!’ cried Hugh.

‘Nothing,’ returned Gashford, shrugging his shoulders, ‘nothing. When my lord was reproached and threatened for standing by you, I, as a prudent man, would have had you do nothing. When the soldiers were trampling you under their horses’ feet, I would have had you do nothing. When one of them was struck down by a daring hand, and I saw confusion and dismay in all their faces, I would have had you do nothing—just what you did, in short. This is the young man who had so little prudence and so much boldness. Ah! I am sorry for him.’

‘Sorry, master!’ cried Hugh.

‘Sorry, Muster Gashford!’ echoed Dennis.

‘In case there should be a proclamation out to-morrow, offering five hundred pounds, or some such trifle, for his apprehension; and in case it should include another man who dropped into the lobby from the stairs above,’ said Gashford, coldly; ‘still, do nothing.’

‘Fire and fury, master!’ cried Hugh, starting up. ‘What have we done, that you should talk to us like this!’

‘Nothing,’ returned Gashford with a sneer. ‘If you are cast into prison; if the young man—’ here he looked hard at Barnaby’s attentive face—‘is dragged from us and from his friends; perhaps from people whom he loves, and whom his death would kill; is thrown into jail, brought out and hanged before their eyes; still, do nothing. You’ll find it your best policy, I have no doubt.’

‘Come on!’ cried Hugh, striding towards the door. ‘Dennis—Barnaby—come on!’

‘Where? To do what?’ said Gashford, slipping past him, and standing with his back against it.

‘Anywhere! Anything!’ cried Hugh. ‘Stand aside, master, or the window will serve our turn as well. Let us out!’

‘Ha ha ha! You are of such—of such an impetuous nature,’ said Gashford, changing his manner for one of the utmost good fellowship and the pleasantest raillery; ‘you are such an excitable creature—but you’ll drink with me before you go?’

‘Oh, yes—certainly,’ growled Dennis, drawing his sleeve across his thirsty lips. ‘No malice, brother. Drink with Muster Gashford!’

Hugh wiped his heated brow, and relaxed into a smile. The artful secretary laughed outright.

‘Some liquor here! Be quick, or he’ll not stop, even for that. He is a man of such desperate ardour!’ said the smooth secretary, whom Mr Dennis corroborated with sundry nods and muttered oaths—‘Once roused, he is a fellow of such fierce determination!’

Hugh poised his sturdy arm aloft, and clapping Barnaby on the back, bade him fear nothing. They shook hands together—poor Barnaby evidently possessed with the idea that he was among the most virtuous and disinterested heroes in the world—and Gashford laughed again.

‘I hear,’ he said smoothly, as he stood among them with a great measure of liquor in his hand, and filled their glasses as quickly and as often as they chose, ‘I hear—but I cannot say whether it be true or false—that the men who are loitering in the streets to-night are half disposed to pull down a Romish chapel or two, and that they only want leaders. I even heard mention of those in Duke Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in Warwick Street, Golden Square; but common report, you know—You are not going?’

—‘To do nothing, master, eh?’ cried Hugh. ‘No jails and halter for Barnaby and me. They must be frightened out of that. Leaders are wanted, are they? Now boys!’

‘A most impetuous fellow!’ cried the secretary. ‘Ha ha! A courageous, boisterous, most vehement fellow! A man who—’

There was no need to finish the sentence, for they had rushed out of the house, and were far beyond hearing. He stopped in the middle of a laugh, listened, drew on his gloves, and, clasping his hands behind him, paced the deserted room for a long time, then bent his steps towards the busy town, and walked into the streets.

They were filled with people, for the rumour of that day’s proceedings had made a great noise. Those persons who did not care to leave home, were at their doors or windows, and one topic of discourse prevailed on every side. Some reported that the riots were effectually put down; others that they had broken out again: some said that Lord George Gordon had been sent under a strong guard to the Tower; others that an attempt had been made upon the King’s life, that the soldiers had been again called out, and that the noise of musketry in a distant part of the town had been plainly heard within an hour. As it grew darker, these stories became more direful and mysterious; and often, when some frightened passenger ran past with tidings that the rioters were not far off, and were coming up, the doors were shut and barred, lower windows made secure, and as much consternation engendered, as if the city were invaded by a foreign army.

Gashford walked stealthily about, listening to all he heard, and diffusing or confirming, whenever he had an opportunity, such false intelligence as suited his own purpose; and, busily occupied in this way, turned into Holborn for the twentieth time, when a great many women and children came flying along the street—often panting and looking back—and the confused murmur of numerous voices struck upon his ear. Assured by these tokens, and by the red light which began to flash upon the houses on either side, that some of his friends were indeed approaching, he begged a moment’s shelter at a door which opened as he passed, and running with some other persons to an upper window, looked out upon the crowd.

They had torches among them, and the chief faces were distinctly visible. That they had been engaged in the destruction of some building was sufficiently apparent, and that it was a Catholic place of worship was evident from the spoils they bore as trophies, which were easily recognisable for the vestments of priests, and rich fragments of altar furniture. Covered with soot, and dirt, and dust, and lime; their garments torn to rags; their hair hanging wildly about them; their hands and faces jagged and bleeding with the wounds of rusty nails; Barnaby, Hugh, and Dennis hurried on before them all, like hideous madmen. After them, the dense throng came fighting on: some singing; some shouting in triumph; some quarrelling among themselves; some menacing the spectators as they passed; some with great wooden fragments, on which they spent their rage as if they had been alive, rending them limb from limb, and hurling the scattered morsels high into the air; some in a drunken state, unconscious of the hurts they had received from falling bricks, and stones, and beams; one borne upon a shutter, in the very midst, covered with a dingy cloth, a senseless, ghastly heap. Thus—a vision of coarse faces, with here and there a blot of flaring, smoky light; a dream of demon heads and savage eyes, and sticks and iron bars uplifted in the air, and whirled about; a bewildering horror, in which so much was seen, and yet so little, which seemed so long, and yet so short, in which there were so many phantoms, not to be forgotten all through life, and yet so many things that could not be observed in one distracting glimpse—it flitted onward, and was gone.

As it passed away upon its work of wrath and ruin, a piercing scream was heard. A knot of persons ran towards the spot; Gashford, who just then emerged into the street, among them. He was on the outskirts of the little concourse, and could not see or hear what passed within; but one who had a better place, informed him that a widow woman had descried her son among the rioters.

‘Is that all?’ said the secretary, turning his face homewards. ‘Well! I think this looks a little more like business!’

Chapter 51

Promising as these outrages were to Gashford’s view, and much like business as they looked, they extended that night no farther. The soldiers were again called out, again they took half-a-dozen prisoners, and again the crowd dispersed after a short and bloodless scuffle. Hot and drunken though they were, they had not yet broken all bounds and set all law and government at defiance. Something of their habitual deference to the authority erected by society for its own preservation yet remained among them, and had its majesty been vindicated in time, the secretary would have had to digest a bitter disappointment.

By midnight, the streets were clear and quiet, and, save that there stood in two parts of the town a heap of nodding walls and pile of rubbish, where there had been at sunset a rich and handsome building, everything wore its usual aspect. Even the Catholic gentry and tradesmen, of whom there were many resident in different parts of the City and its suburbs, had no fear for their lives or property, and but little indignation for the wrong they had already sustained in the plunder and destruction of their temples of worship. An honest confidence in the government under whose protection they had lived for many years, and a well-founded reliance on the good feeling and right thinking of the great mass of the community, with whom, notwithstanding their religious differences, they were every day in habits of confidential, affectionate, and friendly intercourse, reassured them, even under the excesses that had been committed; and convinced them that they who were Protestants in anything but the name, were no more to be considered as abettors of these disgraceful occurrences, than they themselves were chargeable with the uses of the block, the rack, the gibbet, and the stake in cruel Mary’s reign.

The clock was on the stroke of one, when Gabriel Varden, with his lady and Miss Miggs, sat waiting in the little parlour. This fact; the toppling wicks of the dull, wasted candles; the silence that prevailed; and, above all, the nightcaps of both maid and matron, were sufficient evidence that they had been prepared for bed some time ago, and had some reason for sitting up so far beyond their usual hour.

If any other corroborative testimony had been required, it would have been abundantly furnished in the actions of Miss Miggs, who, having arrived at that restless state and sensitive condition of the nervous system which are the result of long watching, did, by a constant rubbing and tweaking of her nose, a perpetual change of position (arising from the sudden growth of imaginary knots and knobs in her chair), a frequent friction of her eyebrows, the incessant recurrence of a small cough, a small groan, a gasp, a sigh, a sniff, a spasmodic start, and by other demonstrations of that nature, so file down and rasp, as it were, the patience of the locksmith, that after looking at her in silence for some time, he at last broke out into this apostrophe:—

‘Miggs, my good girl, go to bed—do go to bed. You’re really worse than the dripping of a hundred water-butts outside the window, or the scratching of as many mice behind the wainscot. I can’t bear it. Do go to bed, Miggs. To oblige me—do.’

‘You haven’t got nothing to untie, sir,’ returned Miss Miggs, ‘and therefore your requests does not surprise me. But missis has—and while you sit up, mim’—she added, turning to the locksmith’s wife, ‘I couldn’t, no, not if twenty times the quantity of cold water was aperiently running down my back at this moment, go to bed with a quiet spirit.’

Having spoken these words, Miss Miggs made divers efforts to rub her shoulders in an impossible place, and shivered from head to foot; thereby giving the beholders to understand that the imaginary cascade was still in full flow, but that a sense of duty upheld her under that and all other sufferings, and nerved her to endurance.

Mrs Varden being too sleepy to speak, and Miss Miggs having, as the phrase is, said her say, the locksmith had nothing for it but to sigh and be as quiet as he could.

But to be quiet with such a basilisk before him was impossible. If he looked another way, it was worse to feel that she was rubbing her cheek, or twitching her ear, or winking her eye, or making all kinds of extraordinary shapes with her nose, than to see her do it. If she was for a moment free from any of these complaints, it was only because of her foot being asleep, or of her arm having got the fidgets, or of her leg being doubled up with the cramp, or of some other horrible disorder which racked her whole frame. If she did enjoy a moment’s ease, then with her eyes shut and her mouth wide open, she would be seen to sit very stiff and upright in her chair; then to nod a little way forward, and stop with a jerk; then to nod a little farther forward, and stop with another jerk; then to recover herself; then to come forward again—lower—lower—lower—by very slow degrees, until, just as it seemed impossible that she could preserve her balance for another instant, and the locksmith was about to call out in an agony, to save her from dashing down upon her forehead and fracturing her skull, then all of a sudden and without the smallest notice, she would come upright and rigid again with her eyes open, and in her countenance an expression of defiance, sleepy but yet most obstinate, which plainly said, ‘I’ve never once closed ‘em since I looked at you last, and I’ll take my oath of it!’

At length, after the clock had struck two, there was a sound at the street door, as if somebody had fallen against the knocker by accident. Miss Miggs immediately jumping up and clapping her hands, cried with a drowsy mingling of the sacred and profane, ‘Ally Looyer, mim! there’s Simmuns’s knock!’

‘Who’s there?’ said Gabriel.

‘Me!’ cried the well-known voice of Mr Tappertit. Gabriel opened the door, and gave him admission.

He did not cut a very insinuating figure, for a man of his stature suffers in a crowd; and having been active in yesterday morning’s work, his dress was literally crushed from head to foot: his hat being beaten out of all shape, and his shoes trodden down at heel like slippers. His coat fluttered in strips about him, the buckles were torn away both from his knees and feet, half his neckerchief was gone, and the bosom of his shirt was rent to tatters. Yet notwithstanding all these personal disadvantages; despite his being very weak from heat and fatigue; and so begrimed with mud and dust that he might have been in a case, for anything of the real texture (either of his skin or apparel) that the eye could discern; he stalked haughtily into the parlour, and throwing himself into a chair, and endeavouring to thrust his hands into the pockets of his small-clothes, which were turned inside out and displayed upon his legs, like tassels, surveyed the household with a gloomy dignity.

‘Simon,’ said the locksmith gravely, ‘how comes it that you return home at this time of night, and in this condition? Give me an assurance that you have not been among the rioters, and I am satisfied.’

‘Sir,’ replied Mr Tappertit, with a contemptuous look, ‘I wonder at YOUR assurance in making such demands.’

‘You have been drinking,’ said the locksmith.

‘As a general principle, and in the most offensive sense of the words, sir,’ returned his journeyman with great self-possession, ‘I consider you a liar. In that last observation you have unintentionally—unintentionally, sir,—struck upon the truth.’

‘Martha,’ said the locksmith, turning to his wife, and shaking his head sorrowfully, while a smile at the absurd figure beside him still played upon his open face, ‘I trust it may turn out that this poor lad is not the victim of the knaves and fools we have so often had words about, and who have done so much harm to-day. If he has been at Warwick Street or Duke Street to-night—’

‘He has been at neither, sir,’ cried Mr Tappertit in a loud voice, which he suddenly dropped into a whisper as he repeated, with eyes fixed upon the locksmith, ‘he has been at neither.’

‘I am glad of it, with all my heart,’ said the locksmith in a serious tone; ‘for if he had been, and it could be proved against him, Martha, your Great Association would have been to him the cart that draws men to the gallows and leaves them hanging in the air. It would, as sure as we’re alive!’

Mrs Varden was too much scared by Simon’s altered manner and appearance, and by the accounts of the rioters which had reached her ears that night, to offer any retort, or to have recourse to her usual matrimonial policy. Miss Miggs wrung her hands, and wept.

‘He was not at Duke Street, or at Warwick Street, G. Varden,’ said Simon, sternly; ‘but he WAS at Westminster. Perhaps, sir, he kicked a county member, perhaps, sir, he tapped a lord—you may stare, sir, I repeat it—blood flowed from noses, and perhaps he tapped a lord. Who knows? This,’ he added, putting his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and taking out a large tooth, at the sight of which both Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed, ‘this was a bishop’s. Beware, G. Varden!’

‘Now, I would rather,’ said the locksmith hastily, ‘have paid five hundred pounds, than had this come to pass. You idiot, do you know what peril you stand in?’

‘I know it, sir,’ replied his journeyman, ‘and it is my glory. I was there, everybody saw me there. I was conspicuous, and prominent. I will abide the consequences.’

The locksmith, really disturbed and agitated, paced to and fro in silence—glancing at his former ‘prentice every now and then—and at length stopping before him, said:

‘Get to bed, and sleep for a couple of hours that you may wake penitent, and with some of your senses about you. Be sorry for what you have done, and we will try to save you. If I call him by five o’clock,’ said Varden, turning hurriedly to his wife, and he washes himself clean and changes his dress, he may get to the Tower Stairs, and away by the Gravesend tide-boat, before any search is made for him. From there he can easily get on to Canterbury, where your cousin will give him work till this storm has blown over. I am not sure that I do right in screening him from the punishment he deserves, but he has lived in this house, man and boy, for a dozen years, and I should be sorry if for this one day’s work he made a miserable end. Lock the front-door, Miggs, and show no light towards the street when you go upstairs. Quick, Simon! Get to bed!’

‘And do you suppose, sir,’ retorted Mr Tappertit, with a thickness and slowness of speech which contrasted forcibly with the rapidity and earnestness of his kind-hearted master—‘and do you suppose, sir, that I am base and mean enough to accept your servile proposition?—Miscreant!’

‘Whatever you please, Sim, but get to bed. Every minute is of consequence. The light here, Miggs!’

‘Yes yes, oh do! Go to bed directly,’ cried the two women together.

Mr Tappertit stood upon his feet, and pushing his chair away to show that he needed no assistance, answered, swaying himself to and fro, and managing his head as if it had no connection whatever with his body:

‘You spoke of Miggs, sir—Miggs may be smothered!’

‘Oh Simmun!’ ejaculated that young lady in a faint voice. ‘Oh mim! Oh sir! Oh goodness gracious, what a turn he has give me!’

‘This family may ALL be smothered, sir,’ returned Mr Tappertit, after glancing at her with a smile of ineffable disdain, ‘excepting Mrs V. I have come here, sir, for her sake, this night. Mrs Varden, take this piece of paper. It’s a protection, ma’am. You may need it.’

With these words he held out at arm’s length, a dirty, crumpled scrap of writing. The locksmith took it from him, opened it, and read as follows:

‘All good friends to our cause, I hope will be particular, and do no injury to the property of any true Protestant. I am well assured that the proprietor of this house is a staunch and worthy friend to the cause.

GEORGE GORDON.’

‘What’s this!’ said the locksmith, with an altered face.

‘Something that’ll do you good service, young feller,’ replied his journeyman, ‘as you’ll find. Keep that safe, and where you can lay your hand upon it in an instant. And chalk “No Popery” on your door to-morrow night, and for a week to come—that’s all.’

‘This is a genuine document,’ said the locksmith, ‘I know, for I have seen the hand before. What threat does it imply? What devil is abroad?’

‘A fiery devil,’ retorted Sim; ‘a flaming, furious devil. Don’t you put yourself in its way, or you’re done for, my buck. Be warned in time, G. Varden. Farewell!’

But here the two women threw themselves in his way—especially Miss Miggs, who fell upon him with such fervour that she pinned him against the wall—and conjured him in moving words not to go forth till he was sober; to listen to reason; to think of it; to take some rest, and then determine.

‘I tell you,’ said Mr Tappertit, ‘that my mind is made up. My bleeding country calls me and I go! Miggs, if you don’t get out of the way, I’ll pinch you.’

Miss Miggs, still clinging to the rebel, screamed once vociferously—but whether in the distraction of her mind, or because of his having executed his threat, is uncertain.

‘Release me,’ said Simon, struggling to free himself from her chaste, but spider-like embrace. ‘Let me go! I have made arrangements for you in an altered state of society, and mean to provide for you comfortably in life—there! Will that satisfy you?’

‘Oh Simmun!’ cried Miss Miggs. ‘Oh my blessed Simmun! Oh mim! what are my feelings at this conflicting moment!’

Of a rather turbulent description, it would seem; for her nightcap had been knocked off in the scuffle, and she was on her knees upon the floor, making a strange revelation of blue and yellow curl-papers, straggling locks of hair, tags of staylaces, and strings of it’s impossible to say what; panting for breath, clasping her hands, turning her eyes upwards, shedding abundance of tears, and exhibiting various other symptoms of the acutest mental suffering.

‘I leave,’ said Simon, turning to his master, with an utter disregard of Miggs’s maidenly affliction, ‘a box of things upstairs. Do what you like with ‘em. I don’t want ‘em. I’m never coming back here, any more. Provide yourself, sir, with a journeyman; I’m my country’s journeyman; henceforward that’s MY line of business.’

‘Be what you like in two hours’ time, but now go up to bed,’ returned the locksmith, planting himself in the doorway. ‘Do you hear me? Go to bed!’

‘I hear you, and defy you, Varden,’ rejoined Simon Tappertit. ‘This night, sir, I have been in the country, planning an expedition which shall fill your bell-hanging soul with wonder and dismay. The plot demands my utmost energy. Let me pass!’

‘I’ll knock you down if you come near the door,’ replied the locksmith. ‘You had better go to bed!’

Simon made no answer, but gathering himself up as straight as he could, plunged head foremost at his old master, and the two went driving out into the workshop together, plying their hands and feet so briskly that they looked like half-a-dozen, while Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed for twelve.

It would have been easy for Varden to knock his old ‘prentice down, and bind him hand and foot; but as he was loth to hurt him in his then defenceless state, he contented himself with parrying his blows when he could, taking them in perfect good part when he could not, and keeping between him and the door, until a favourable opportunity should present itself for forcing him to retreat up-stairs, and shutting him up in his own room. But, in the goodness of his heart, he calculated too much upon his adversary’s weakness, and forgot that drunken men who have lost the power of walking steadily, can often run. Watching his time, Simon Tappertit made a cunning show of falling back, staggered unexpectedly forward, brushed past him, opened the door (he knew the trick of that lock well), and darted down the street like a mad dog. The locksmith paused for a moment in the excess of his astonishment, and then gave chase.

It was an excellent season for a run, for at that silent hour the streets were deserted, the air was cool, and the flying figure before him distinctly visible at a great distance, as it sped away, with a long gaunt shadow following at its heels. But the short-winded locksmith had no chance against a man of Sim’s youth and spare figure, though the day had been when he could have run him down in no time. The space between them rapidly increased, and as the rays of the rising sun streamed upon Simon in the act of turning a distant corner, Gabriel Varden was fain to give up, and sit down on a doorstep to fetch his breath. Simon meanwhile, without once stopping, fled at the same degree of swiftness to The Boot, where, as he well knew, some of his company were lying, and at which respectable hostelry—for he had already acquired the distinction of being in great peril of the law—a friendly watch had been expecting him all night, and was even now on the look-out for his coming.

‘Go thy ways, Sim, go thy ways,’ said the locksmith, as soon as he could speak. ‘I have done my best for thee, poor lad, and would have saved thee, but the rope is round thy neck, I fear.’

So saying, and shaking his head in a very sorrowful and disconsolate manner, he turned back, and soon re-entered his own house, where Mrs Varden and the faithful Miggs had been anxiously expecting his return.

Now Mrs Varden (and by consequence Miss Miggs likewise) was impressed with a secret misgiving that she had done wrong; that she had, to the utmost of her small means, aided and abetted the growth of disturbances, the end of which it was impossible to foresee; that she had led remotely to the scene which had just passed; and that the locksmith’s time for triumph and reproach had now arrived indeed. And so strongly did Mrs Varden feel this, and so crestfallen was she in consequence, that while her husband was pursuing their lost journeyman, she secreted under her chair the little red-brick dwelling-house with the yellow roof, lest it should furnish new occasion for reference to the painful theme; and now hid the same still more, with the skirts of her dress.

But it happened that the locksmith had been thinking of this very article on his way home, and that, coming into the room and not seeing it, he at once demanded where it was.

Mrs Varden had no resource but to produce it, which she did with many tears, and broken protestations that if she could have known—

‘Yes, yes,’ said Varden, ‘of course—I know that. I don’t mean to reproach you, my dear. But recollect from this time that all good things perverted to evil purposes, are worse than those which are naturally bad. A thoroughly wicked woman, is wicked indeed. When religion goes wrong, she is very wrong, for the same reason. Let us say no more about it, my dear.’

So he dropped the red-brick dwelling-house on the floor, and setting his heel upon it, crushed it into pieces. The halfpence, and sixpences, and other voluntary contributions, rolled about in all directions, but nobody offered to touch them, or to take them up.

‘That,’ said the locksmith, ‘is easily disposed of, and I would to Heaven that everything growing out of the same society could be settled as easily.’

‘It happens very fortunately, Varden,’ said his wife, with her handkerchief to her eyes, ‘that in case any more disturbances should happen—which I hope not; I sincerely hope not—’

‘I hope so too, my dear.’

‘—That in case any should occur, we have the piece of paper which that poor misguided young man brought.’

‘Ay, to be sure,’ said the locksmith, turning quickly round. ‘Where is that piece of paper?’

Mrs Varden stood aghast as he took it from her outstretched hand, tore it into fragments, and threw them under the grate.

‘Not use it?’ she said.

‘Use it!’ cried the locksmith. No! Let them come and pull the roof about our ears; let them burn us out of house and home; I’d neither have the protection of their leader, nor chalk their howl upon my door, though, for not doing it, they shot me on my own threshold. Use it! Let them come and do their worst. The first man who crosses my doorstep on such an errand as theirs, had better be a hundred miles away. Let him look to it. The others may have their will. I wouldn’t beg or buy them off, if, instead of every pound of iron in the place, there was a hundred weight of gold. Get you to bed, Martha. I shall take down the shutters and go to work.’

‘So early!’ said his wife.

‘Ay,’ replied the locksmith cheerily, ‘so early. Come when they may, they shall not find us skulking and hiding, as if we feared to take our portion of the light of day, and left it all to them. So pleasant dreams to you, my dear, and cheerful sleep!’

With that he gave his wife a hearty kiss, and bade her delay no longer, or it would be time to rise before she lay down to rest. Mrs Varden quite amiably and meekly walked upstairs, followed by Miggs, who, although a good deal subdued, could not refrain from sundry stimulative coughs and sniffs by the way, or from holding up her hands in astonishment at the daring conduct of master.

Chapter 52

A mob is usually a creature of very mysterious existence, particularly in a large city. Where it comes from or whither it goes, few men can tell. Assembling and dispersing with equal suddenness, it is as difficult to follow to its various sources as the sea itself; nor does the parallel stop here, for the ocean is not more fickle and uncertain, more terrible when roused, more unreasonable, or more cruel.

The people who were boisterous at Westminster upon the Friday morning, and were eagerly bent upon the work of devastation in Duke Street and Warwick Street at night, were, in the mass, the same. Allowing for the chance accessions of which any crowd is morally sure in a town where there must always be a large number of idle and profligate persons, one and the same mob was at both places. Yet they spread themselves in various directions when they dispersed in the afternoon, made no appointment for reassembling, had no definite purpose or design, and indeed, for anything they knew, were scattered beyond the hope of future union.

At The Boot, which, as has been shown, was in a manner the head-quarters of the rioters, there were not, upon this Friday night, a dozen people. Some slept in the stable and outhouses, some in the common room, some two or three in beds. The rest were in their usual homes or haunts. Perhaps not a score in all lay in the adjacent fields and lanes, and under haystacks, or near the warmth of brick-kilns, who had not their accustomed place of rest beneath the open sky. As to the public ways within the town, they had their ordinary nightly occupants, and no others; the usual amount of vice and wretchedness, but no more.

The experience of one evening, however, had taught the reckless leaders of disturbance, that they had but to show themselves in the streets, to be immediately surrounded by materials which they could only have kept together when their aid was not required, at great risk, expense, and trouble. Once possessed of this secret, they were as confident as if twenty thousand men, devoted to their will, had been encamped about them, and assumed a confidence which could not have been surpassed, though that had really been the case. All day, Saturday, they remained quiet. On Sunday, they rather studied how to keep their men within call, and in full hope, than to follow out, by any fierce measure, their first day’s proceedings.

‘I hope,’ said Dennis, as, with a loud yawn, he raised his body from a heap of straw on which he had been sleeping, and supporting his head upon his hand, appealed to Hugh on Sunday morning, ‘that Muster Gashford allows some rest? Perhaps he’d have us at work again already, eh?’

‘It’s not his way to let matters drop, you may be sure of that,’ growled Hugh in answer. ‘I’m in no humour to stir yet, though. I’m as stiff as a dead body, and as full of ugly scratches as if I had been fighting all day yesterday with wild cats.’

‘You’ve so much enthusiasm, that’s it,’ said Dennis, looking with great admiration at the uncombed head, matted beard, and torn hands and face of the wild figure before him; ‘you’re such a devil of a fellow. You hurt yourself a hundred times more than you need, because you will be foremost in everything, and will do more than the rest.’

‘For the matter of that,’ returned Hugh, shaking back his ragged hair and glancing towards the door of the stable in which they lay; ‘there’s one yonder as good as me. What did I tell you about him? Did I say he was worth a dozen, when you doubted him?’

Mr Dennis rolled lazily over upon his breast, and resting his chin upon his hand in imitation of the attitude in which Hugh lay, said, as he too looked towards the door:

‘Ay, ay, you knew him, brother, you knew him. But who’d suppose to look at that chap now, that he could be the man he is! Isn’t it a thousand cruel pities, brother, that instead of taking his nat’ral rest and qualifying himself for further exertions in this here honourable cause, he should be playing at soldiers like a boy? And his cleanliness too!’ said Mr Dennis, who certainly had no reason to entertain a fellow feeling with anybody who was particular on that score; ‘what weaknesses he’s guilty of; with respect to his cleanliness! At five o’clock this morning, there he was at the pump, though any one would think he had gone through enough, the day before yesterday, to be pretty fast asleep at that time. But no—when I woke for a minute or two, there he was at the pump, and if you’d seen him sticking them peacock’s feathers into his hat when he’d done washing—ah! I’m sorry he’s such a imperfect character, but the best on us is incomplete in some pint of view or another.’

The subject of this dialogue and of these concluding remarks, which were uttered in a tone of philosophical meditation, was, as the reader will have divined, no other than Barnaby, who, with his flag in hand, stood sentry in the little patch of sunlight at the distant door, or walked to and fro outside, singing softly to himself; and keeping time to the music of some clear church bells. Whether he stood still, leaning with both hands on the flagstaff, or, bearing it upon his shoulder, paced slowly up and down, the careful arrangement of his poor dress, and his erect and lofty bearing, showed how high a sense he had of the great importance of his trust, and how happy and how proud it made him. To Hugh and his companion, who lay in a dark corner of the gloomy shed, he, and the sunlight, and the peaceful Sabbath sound to which he made response, seemed like a bright picture framed by the door, and set off by the stable’s blackness. The whole formed such a contrast to themselves, as they lay wallowing, like some obscene animals, in their squalor and wickedness on the two heaps of straw, that for a few moments they looked on without speaking, and felt almost ashamed.

‘Ah!’ said Hugh at length, carrying it off with a laugh: ‘He’s a rare fellow is Barnaby, and can do more, with less rest, or meat, or drink, than any of us. As to his soldiering, I put him on duty there.’

‘Then there was a object in it, and a proper good one too, I’ll be sworn,’ retorted Dennis with a broad grin, and an oath of the same quality. ‘What was it, brother?’

‘Why, you see,’ said Hugh, crawling a little nearer to him, ‘that our noble captain yonder, came in yesterday morning rather the worse for liquor, and was—like you and me—ditto last night.’

Dennis looked to where Simon Tappertit lay coiled upon a truss of hay, snoring profoundly, and nodded.

‘And our noble captain,’ continued Hugh with another laugh, ‘our noble captain and I, have planned for to-morrow a roaring expedition, with good profit in it.’

‘Again the Papists?’ asked Dennis, rubbing his hands.

‘Ay, against the Papists—against one of ‘em at least, that some of us, and I for one, owe a good heavy grudge to.’

‘Not Muster Gashford’s friend that he spoke to us about in my house, eh?’ said Dennis, brimfull of pleasant expectation.

‘The same man,’ said Hugh.

‘That’s your sort,’ cried Mr Dennis, gaily shaking hands with him, ‘that’s the kind of game. Let’s have revenges and injuries, and all that, and we shall get on twice as fast. Now you talk, indeed!’

‘Ha ha ha! The captain,’ added Hugh, ‘has thoughts of carrying off a woman in the bustle, and—ha ha ha!—and so have I!’

Mr Dennis received this part of the scheme with a wry face, observing that as a general principle he objected to women altogether, as being unsafe and slippery persons on whom there was no calculating with any certainty, and who were never in the same mind for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch. He might have expatiated on this suggestive theme at much greater length, but that it occurred to him to ask what connection existed between the proposed expedition and Barnaby’s being posted at the stable-door as sentry; to which Hugh cautiously replied in these words:

‘Why, the people we mean to visit, were friends of his, once upon a time, and I know that much of him to feel pretty sure that if he thought we were going to do them any harm, he’d be no friend to our side, but would lend a ready hand to the other. So I’ve persuaded him (for I know him of old) that Lord George has picked him out to guard this place to-morrow while we’re away, and that it’s a great honour—and so he’s on duty now, and as proud of it as if he was a general. Ha ha! What do you say to me for a careful man as well as a devil of a one?’

Mr Dennis exhausted himself in compliments, and then added,

‘But about the expedition itself—’

‘About that,’ said Hugh, ‘you shall hear all particulars from me and the great captain conjointly and both together—for see, he’s waking up. Rouse yourself, lion-heart. Ha ha! Put a good face upon it, and drink again. Another hair of the dog that bit you, captain! Call for drink! There’s enough of gold and silver cups and candlesticks buried underneath my bed,’ he added, rolling back the straw, and pointing to where the ground was newly turned, ‘to pay for it, if it was a score of casks full. Drink, captain!’

Mr Tappertit received these jovial promptings with a very bad grace, being much the worse, both in mind and body, for his two nights of debauch, and but indifferently able to stand upon his legs. With Hugh’s assistance, however, he contrived to stagger to the pump; and having refreshed himself with an abundant draught of cold water, and a copious shower of the same refreshing liquid on his head and face, he ordered some rum and milk to be served; and upon that innocent beverage and some biscuits and cheese made a pretty hearty meal. That done, he disposed himself in an easy attitude on the ground beside his two companions (who were carousing after their own tastes), and proceeded to enlighten Mr Dennis in reference to to-morrow’s project.

That their conversation was an interesting one, was rendered manifest by its length, and by the close attention of all three. That it was not of an oppressively grave character, but was enlivened by various pleasantries arising out of the subject, was clear from their loud and frequent roars of laughter, which startled Barnaby on his post, and made him wonder at their levity. But he was not summoned to join them, until they had eaten, and drunk, and slept, and talked together for some hours; not, indeed, until the twilight; when they informed him that they were about to make a slight demonstration in the streets—just to keep the people’s hands in, as it was Sunday night, and the public might otherwise be disappointed—and that he was free to accompany them if he would.

Without the slightest preparation, saving that they carried clubs and wore the blue cockade, they sallied out into the streets; and, with no more settled design than that of doing as much mischief as they could, paraded them at random. Their numbers rapidly increasing, they soon divided into parties; and agreeing to meet by-and-by, in the fields near Welbeck Street, scoured the town in various directions. The largest body, and that which augmented with the greatest rapidity, was the one to which Hugh and Barnaby belonged. This took its way towards Moorfields, where there was a rich chapel, and in which neighbourhood several Catholic families were known to reside.

Beginning with the private houses so occupied, they broke open the doors and windows; and while they destroyed the furniture and left but the bare walls, made a sharp search for tools and engines of destruction, such as hammers, pokers, axes, saws, and such like instruments. Many of the rioters made belts of cord, of handkerchiefs, or any material they found at hand, and wore these weapons as openly as pioneers upon a field-day. There was not the least disguise or concealment—indeed, on this night, very little excitement or hurry. From the chapels, they tore down and took away the very altars, benches, pulpits, pews, and flooring; from the dwelling-houses, the very wainscoting and stairs. This Sunday evening’s recreation they pursued like mere workmen who had a certain task to do, and did it. Fifty resolute men might have turned them at any moment; a single company of soldiers could have scattered them like dust; but no man interposed, no authority restrained them, and, except by the terrified persons who fled from their approach, they were as little heeded as if they were pursuing their lawful occupations with the utmost sobriety and good conduct.

In the same manner, they marched to the place of rendezvous agreed upon, made great fires in the fields, and reserving the most valuable of their spoils, burnt the rest. Priestly garments, images of saints, rich stuffs and ornaments, altar-furniture and household goods, were cast into the flames, and shed a glare on the whole country round; but they danced and howled, and roared about these fires till they were tired, and were never for an instant checked.

As the main body filed off from this scene of action, and passed down Welbeck Street, they came upon Gashford, who had been a witness of their proceedings, and was walking stealthily along the pavement. Keeping up with him, and yet not seeming to speak, Hugh muttered in his ear:

‘Is this better, master?’

‘No,’ said Gashford. ‘It is not.’

‘What would you have?’ said Hugh. ‘Fevers are never at their height at once. They must get on by degrees.’

‘I would have you,’ said Gashford, pinching his arm with such malevolence that his nails seemed to meet in the skin; ‘I would have you put some meaning into your work. Fools! Can you make no better bonfires than of rags and scraps? Can you burn nothing whole?’

‘A little patience, master,’ said Hugh. ‘Wait but a few hours, and you shall see. Look for a redness in the sky, to-morrow night.’

With that, he fell back into his place beside Barnaby; and when the secretary looked after him, both were lost in the crowd.

Chapter 53

The next day was ushered in by merry peals of bells, and by the firing of the Tower guns; flags were hoisted on many of the church-steeples; the usual demonstrations were made in honour of the anniversary of the King’s birthday; and every man went about his pleasure or business as if the city were in perfect order, and there were no half-smouldering embers in its secret places, which, on the approach of night, would kindle up again and scatter ruin and dismay abroad. The leaders of the riot, rendered still more daring by the success of last night and by the booty they had acquired, kept steadily together, and only thought of implicating the mass of their followers so deeply that no hope of pardon or reward might tempt them to betray their more notorious confederates into the hands of justice.

Indeed, the sense of having gone too far to be forgiven, held the timid together no less than the bold. Many who would readily have pointed out the foremost rioters and given evidence against them, felt that escape by that means was hopeless, when their every act had been observed by scores of people who had taken no part in the disturbances; who had suffered in their persons, peace, or property, by the outrages of the mob; who would be most willing witnesses; and whom the government would, no doubt, prefer to any King’s evidence that might be offered. Many of this class had deserted their usual occupations on the Saturday morning; some had been seen by their employers active in the tumult; others knew they must be suspected, and that they would be discharged if they returned; others had been desperate from the beginning, and comforted themselves with the homely proverb, that, being hanged at all, they might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. They all hoped and believed, in a greater or less degree, that the government they seemed to have paralysed, would, in its terror, come to terms with them in the end, and suffer them to make their own conditions. The least sanguine among them reasoned with himself that, at the worst, they were too many to be all punished, and that he had as good a chance of escape as any other man. The great mass never reasoned or thought at all, but were stimulated by their own headlong passions, by poverty, by ignorance, by the love of mischief, and the hope of plunder.

One other circumstance is worthy of remark; and that is, that from the moment of their first outbreak at Westminster, every symptom of order or preconcerted arrangement among them vanished. When they divided into parties and ran to different quarters of the town, it was on the spontaneous suggestion of the moment. Each party swelled as it went along, like rivers as they roll towards the sea; new leaders sprang up as they were wanted, disappeared when the necessity was over, and reappeared at the next crisis. Each tumult took shape and form from the circumstances of the moment; sober workmen, going home from their day’s labour, were seen to cast down their baskets of tools and become rioters in an instant; mere boys on errands did the like. In a word, a moral plague ran through the city. The noise, and hurry, and excitement, had for hundreds and hundreds an attraction they had no firmness to resist. The contagion spread like a dread fever: an infectious madness, as yet not near its height, seized on new victims every hour, and society began to tremble at their ravings.

It was between two and three o’clock in the afternoon when Gashford looked into the lair described in the last chapter, and seeing only Barnaby and Dennis there, inquired for Hugh.

He was out, Barnaby told him; had gone out more than an hour ago; and had not yet returned.

‘Dennis!’ said the smiling secretary, in his smoothest voice, as he sat down cross-legged on a barrel, ‘Dennis!’

The hangman struggled into a sitting posture directly, and with his eyes wide open, looked towards him.

‘How do you do, Dennis?’ said Gashford, nodding. ‘I hope you have suffered no inconvenience from your late exertions, Dennis?’

‘I always will say of you, Muster Gashford,’ returned the hangman, staring at him, ‘that that ‘ere quiet way of yours might almost wake a dead man. It is,’ he added, with a muttered oath—still staring at him in a thoughtful manner—‘so awful sly!’

‘So distinct, eh Dennis?’

‘Distinct!’ he answered, scratching his head, and keeping his eyes upon the secretary’s face; ‘I seem to hear it, Muster Gashford, in my wery bones.’

‘I am very glad your sense of hearing is so sharp, and that I succeed in making myself so intelligible,’ said Gashford, in his unvarying, even tone. ‘Where is your friend?’

Mr Dennis looked round as in expectation of beholding him asleep upon his bed of straw; then remembering he had seen him go out, replied:

‘I can’t say where he is, Muster Gashford, I expected him back afore now. I hope it isn’t time that we was busy, Muster Gashford?’

‘Nay,’ said the secretary, ‘who should know that as well as you? How can I tell you, Dennis? You are perfect master of your own actions, you know, and accountable to nobody—except sometimes to the law, eh?’

Dennis, who was very much baffled by the cool matter-of-course manner of this reply, recovered his self-possession on his professional pursuits being referred to, and pointing towards Barnaby, shook his head and frowned.

‘Hush!’ cried Barnaby.

‘Ah! Do hush about that, Muster Gashford,’ said the hangman in a low voice, ‘pop’lar prejudices—you always forget—well, Barnaby, my lad, what’s the matter?’

‘I hear him coming,’ he answered: ‘Hark! Do you mark that? That’s his foot! Bless you, I know his step, and his dog’s too. Tramp, tramp, pit-pat, on they come together, and, ha ha ha!—and here they are!’ he cried, joyfully welcoming Hugh with both hands, and then patting him fondly on the back, as if instead of being the rough companion he was, he had been one of the most prepossessing of men. ‘Here he is, and safe too! I am glad to see him back again, old Hugh!’

‘I’m a Turk if he don’t give me a warmer welcome always than any man of sense,’ said Hugh, shaking hands with him with a kind of ferocious friendship, strange enough to see. ‘How are you, boy?’

‘Hearty!’ cried Barnaby, waving his hat. ‘Ha ha ha! And merry too, Hugh! And ready to do anything for the good cause, and the right, and to help the kind, mild, pale-faced gentleman—the lord they used so ill—eh, Hugh?’

‘Ay!’ returned his friend, dropping his hand, and looking at Gashford for an instant with a changed expression before he spoke to him. ‘Good day, master!’

‘And good day to you,’ replied the secretary, nursing his leg.

‘And many good days—whole years of them, I hope. You are heated.’

‘So would you have been, master,’ said Hugh, wiping his face, ‘if you’d been running here as fast as I have.’

‘You know the news, then? Yes, I supposed you would have heard it.’

‘News! what news?’

‘You don’t?’ cried Gashford, raising his eyebrows with an exclamation of surprise. ‘Dear me! Come; then I AM the first to make you acquainted with your distinguished position, after all. Do you see the King’s Arms a-top?’ he smilingly asked, as he took a large paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out for Hugh’s inspection.

‘Well!’ said Hugh. ‘What’s that to me?’

‘Much. A great deal,’ replied the secretary. ‘Read it.’

‘I told you, the first time I saw you, that I couldn’t read,’ said Hugh, impatiently. ‘What in the Devil’s name’s inside of it?’

‘It is a proclamation from the King in Council,’ said Gashford, ‘dated to-day, and offering a reward of five hundred pounds—five hundred pounds is a great deal of money, and a large temptation to some people—to any one who will discover the person or persons most active in demolishing those chapels on Saturday night.’

‘Is that all?’ cried Hugh, with an indifferent air. ‘I knew of that.’

‘Truly I might have known you did,’ said Gashford, smiling, and folding up the document again. ‘Your friend, I might have guessed—indeed I did guess—was sure to tell you.’

‘My friend!’ stammered Hugh, with an unsuccessful effort to appear surprised. ‘What friend?’

‘Tut tut—do you suppose I don’t know where you have been?’ retorted Gashford, rubbing his hands, and beating the back of one on the palm of the other, and looking at him with a cunning eye. ‘How dull you think me! Shall I say his name?’

‘No,’ said Hugh, with a hasty glance towards Dennis.

‘You have also heard from him, no doubt,’ resumed the secretary, after a moment’s pause, ‘that the rioters who have been taken (poor fellows) are committed for trial, and that some very active witnesses have had the temerity to appear against them. Among others—’ and here he clenched his teeth, as if he would suppress by force some violent words that rose upon his tongue; and spoke very slowly. ‘Among others, a gentleman who saw the work going on in Warwick Street; a Catholic gentleman; one Haredale.’

Hugh would have prevented his uttering the word, but it was out already. Hearing the name, Barnaby turned swiftly round.

‘Duty, duty, bold Barnaby!’ cried Hugh, assuming his wildest and most rapid manner, and thrusting into his hand his staff and flag which leant against the wall. ‘Mount guard without loss of time, for we are off upon our expedition. Up, Dennis, and get ready! Take care that no one turns the straw upon my bed, brave Barnaby; we know what’s underneath it—eh? Now, master, quick! What you have to say, say speedily, for the little captain and a cluster of ‘em are in the fields, and only waiting for us. Sharp’s the word, and strike’s the action. Quick!’

Barnaby was not proof against this bustle and despatch. The look of mingled astonishment and anger which had appeared in his face when he turned towards them, faded from it as the words passed from his memory, like breath from a polished mirror; and grasping the weapon which Hugh forced upon him, he proudly took his station at the door, beyond their hearing.

‘You might have spoiled our plans, master,’ said Hugh. ‘YOU, too, of all men!’

‘Who would have supposed that HE would be so quick?’ urged Gashford.

‘He’s as quick sometimes—I don’t mean with his hands, for that you know, but with his head—as you or any man,’ said Hugh. ‘Dennis, it’s time we were going; they’re waiting for us; I came to tell you. Reach me my stick and belt. Here! Lend a hand, master. Fling this over my shoulder, and buckle it behind, will you?’

‘Brisk as ever!’ said the secretary, adjusting it for him as he desired.

‘A man need be brisk to-day; there’s brisk work a-foot.’

‘There is, is there?’ said Gashford. He said it with such a provoking assumption of ignorance, that Hugh, looking over his shoulder and angrily down upon him, replied:

‘Is there! You know there is! Who knows better than you, master, that the first great step to be taken is to make examples of these witnesses, and frighten all men from appearing against us or any of our body, any more?’

‘There’s one we know of,’ returned Gashford, with an expressive smile, ‘who is at least as well informed upon that subject as you or I.’

‘If we mean the same gentleman, as I suppose we do,’ Hugh rejoined softly, ‘I tell you this—he’s as good and quick information about everything as—’ here he paused and looked round, as if to make sure that the person in question was not within hearing, ‘as Old Nick himself. Have you done that, master? How slow you are!’

‘It’s quite fast now,’ said Gashford, rising. ‘I say—you didn’t find that your friend disapproved of to-day’s little expedition? Ha ha ha! It is fortunate it jumps so well with the witness policy; for, once planned, it must have been carried out. And now you are going, eh?’

‘Now we are going, master!’ Hugh replied. ‘Any parting words?’

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Gashford sweetly. ‘None!’

‘You’re sure?’ cried Hugh, nudging the grinning Dennis.

‘Quite sure, eh, Muster Gashford?’ chuckled the hangman.

Gashford paused a moment, struggling with his caution and his malice; then putting himself between the two men, and laying a hand upon the arm of each, said, in a cramped whisper:

‘Do not, my good friends—I am sure you will not—forget our talk one night—in your house, Dennis—about this person. No mercy, no quarter, no two beams of his house to be left standing where the builder placed them! Fire, the saying goes, is a good servant, but a bad master. Make it his master; he deserves no better. But I am sure you will be firm, I am sure you will be very resolute, I am sure you will remember that he thirsts for your lives, and those of all your brave companions. If you ever acted like staunch fellows, you will do so to-day. Won’t you, Dennis—won’t you, Hugh?’

The two looked at him, and at each other; then bursting into a roar of laughter, brandished their staves above their heads, shook hands, and hurried out.

When they had been gone a little time, Gashford followed. They were yet in sight, and hastening to that part of the adjacent fields in which their fellows had already mustered; Hugh was looking back, and flourishing his hat to Barnaby, who, delighted with his trust, replied in the same way, and then resumed his pacing up and down before the stable-door, where his feet had worn a path already. And when Gashford himself was far distant, and looked back for the last time, he was still walking to and fro, with the same measured tread; the most devoted and the blithest champion that ever maintained a post, and felt his heart lifted up with a brave sense of duty, and determination to defend it to the last.

Smiling at the simplicity of the poor idiot, Gashford betook himself to Welbeck Street by a different path from that which he knew the rioters would take, and sitting down behind a curtain in one of the upper windows of Lord George Gordon’s house, waited impatiently for their coming. They were so long, that although he knew it had been settled they should come that way, he had a misgiving they must have changed their plans and taken some other route. But at length the roar of voices was heard in the neighbouring fields, and soon afterwards they came thronging past, in a great body.

However, they were not all, nor nearly all, in one body, but were, as he soon found, divided into four parties, each of which stopped before the house to give three cheers, and then went on; the leaders crying out in what direction they were going, and calling on the spectators to join them. The first detachment, carrying, by way of banners, some relics of the havoc they had made in Moorfields, proclaimed that they were on their way to Chelsea, whence they would return in the same order, to make of the spoil they bore, a great bonfire, near at hand. The second gave out that they were bound for Wapping, to destroy a chapel; the third, that their place of destination was East Smithfield, and their object the same. All this was done in broad, bright, summer day. Gay carriages and chairs stopped to let them pass, or turned back to avoid them; people on foot stood aside in doorways, or perhaps knocked and begged permission to stand at a window, or in the hall, until the rioters had passed: but nobody interfered with them; and when they had gone by, everything went on as usual.

There still remained the fourth body, and for that the secretary looked with a most intense eagerness. At last it came up. It was numerous, and composed of picked men; for as he gazed down among them, he recognised many upturned faces which he knew well—those of Simon Tappertit, Hugh, and Dennis in the front, of course. They halted and cheered, as the others had done; but when they moved again, they did not, like them, proclaim what design they had. Hugh merely raised his hat upon the bludgeon he carried, and glancing at a spectator on the opposite side of the way, was gone.

Gashford followed the direction of his glance instinctively, and saw, standing on the pavement, and wearing the blue cockade, Sir John Chester. He held his hat an inch or two above his head, to propitiate the mob; and, resting gracefully on his cane, smiling pleasantly, and displaying his dress and person to the very best advantage, looked on in the most tranquil state imaginable. For all that, and quick and dexterous as he was, Gashford had seen him recognise Hugh with the air of a patron. He had no longer any eyes for the crowd, but fixed his keen regards upon Sir John.

He stood in the same place and posture until the last man in the concourse had turned the corner of the street; then very deliberately took the blue cockade out of his hat; put it carefully in his pocket, ready for the next emergency; refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff; put up his box; and was walking slowly off, when a passing carriage stopped, and a lady’s hand let down the glass. Sir John’s hat was off again immediately. After a minute’s conversation at the carriage-window, in which it was apparent that he was vastly entertaining on the subject of the mob, he stepped lightly in, and was driven away.

The secretary smiled, but he had other thoughts to dwell upon, and soon dismissed the topic. Dinner was brought him, but he sent it down untasted; and, in restless pacings up and down the room, and constant glances at the clock, and many futile efforts to sit down and read, or go to sleep, or look out of the window, consumed four weary hours. When the dial told him thus much time had crept away, he stole upstairs to the top of the house, and coming out upon the roof sat down, with his face towards the east.

Heedless of the fresh air that blew upon his heated brow, of the pleasant meadows from which he turned, of the piles of roofs and chimneys upon which he looked, of the smoke and rising mist he vainly sought to pierce, of the shrill cries of children at their evening sports, the distant hum and turmoil of the town, the cheerful country breath that rustled past to meet it, and to droop, and die; he watched, and watched, till it was dark save for the specks of light that twinkled in the streets below and far away—and, as the darkness deepened, strained his gaze and grew more eager yet.

‘Nothing but gloom in that direction, still!’ he muttered restlessly. ‘Dog! where is the redness in the sky, you promised me!’

Chapter 54

Rumours of the prevailing disturbances had, by this time, begun to be pretty generally circulated through the towns and villages round London, and the tidings were everywhere received with that appetite for the marvellous and love of the terrible which have probably been among the natural characteristics of mankind since the creation of the world. These accounts, however, appeared, to many persons at that day—as they would to us at the present, but that we know them to be matter of history—so monstrous and improbable, that a great number of those who were resident at a distance, and who were credulous enough on other points, were really unable to bring their minds to believe that such things could be; and rejected the intelligence they received on all hands, as wholly fabulous and absurd.

Mr Willet—not so much, perhaps, on account of his having argued and settled the matter with himself, as by reason of his constitutional obstinacy—was one of those who positively refused to entertain the current topic for a moment. On this very evening, and perhaps at the very time when Gashford kept his solitary watch, old John was so red in the face with perpetually shaking his head in contradiction of his three ancient cronies and pot companions, that he was quite a phenomenon to behold, and lighted up the Maypole Porch wherein they sat together, like a monstrous carbuncle in a fairy tale.

‘Do you think, sir,’ said Mr Willet, looking hard at Solomon Daisy—for it was his custom in cases of personal altercation to fasten upon the smallest man in the party—‘do you think, sir, that I’m a born fool?’

‘No, no, Johnny,’ returned Solomon, looking round upon the little circle of which he formed a part: ‘We all know better than that. You’re no fool, Johnny. No, no!’

Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes shook their heads in unison, muttering, ‘No, no, Johnny, not you!’ But as such compliments had usually the effect of making Mr Willet rather more dogged than before, he surveyed them with a look of deep disdain, and returned for answer:

‘Then what do you mean by coming here, and telling me that this evening you’re a-going to walk up to London together—you three—you—and have the evidence of your own senses? An’t,’ said Mr Willet, putting his pipe in his mouth with an air of solemn disgust, ‘an’t the evidence of MY senses enough for you?’

‘But we haven’t got it, Johnny,’ pleaded Parkes, humbly.

‘You haven’t got it, sir?’ repeated Mr Willet, eyeing him from top to toe. ‘You haven’t got it, sir? You HAVE got it, sir. Don’t I tell you that His blessed Majesty King George the Third would no more stand a rioting and rollicking in his streets, than he’d stand being crowed over by his own Parliament?’

‘Yes, Johnny, but that’s your sense—not your senses,’ said the adventurous Mr Parkes.

‘How do you know?’ retorted John with great dignity. ‘You’re a contradicting pretty free, you are, sir. How do YOU know which it is? I’m not aware I ever told you, sir.’

Mr Parkes, finding himself in the position of having got into metaphysics without exactly seeing his way out of them, stammered forth an apology and retreated from the argument. There then ensued a silence of some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, at the expiration of which period Mr Willet was observed to rumble and shake with laughter, and presently remarked, in reference to his late adversary, ‘that he hoped he had tackled him enough.’ Thereupon Messrs Cobb and Daisy laughed, and nodded, and Parkes was looked upon as thoroughly and effectually put down.

‘Do you suppose if all this was true, that Mr Haredale would be constantly away from home, as he is?’ said John, after another silence. ‘Do you think he wouldn’t be afraid to leave his house with them two young women in it, and only a couple of men, or so?’

‘Ay, but then you know,’ returned Solomon Daisy, ‘his house is a goodish way out of London, and they do say that the rioters won’t go more than two miles, or three at the farthest, off the stones. Besides, you know, some of the Catholic gentlefolks have actually sent trinkets and suchlike down here for safety—at least, so the story goes.’

‘The story goes!’ said Mr Willet testily. ‘Yes, sir. The story goes that you saw a ghost last March. But nobody believes it.’

‘Well!’ said Solomon, rising, to divert the attention of his two friends, who tittered at this retort: ‘believed or disbelieved, it’s true; and true or not, if we mean to go to London, we must be going at once. So shake hands, Johnny, and good night.’

‘I shall shake hands,’ returned the landlord, putting his into his pockets, ‘with no man as goes to London on such nonsensical errands.’

The three cronies were therefore reduced to the necessity of shaking his elbows; having performed that ceremony, and brought from the house their hats, and sticks, and greatcoats, they bade him good night and departed; promising to bring him on the morrow full and true accounts of the real state of the city, and if it were quiet, to give him the full merit of his victory.

John Willet looked after them, as they plodded along the road in the rich glow of a summer evening; and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, laughed inwardly at their folly, until his sides were sore. When he had quite exhausted himself—which took some time, for he laughed as slowly as he thought and spoke—he sat himself comfortably with his back to the house, put his legs upon the bench, then his apron over his face, and fell sound asleep.

How long he slept, matters not; but it was for no brief space, for when he awoke, the rich light had faded, the sombre hues of night were falling fast upon the landscape, and a few bright stars were already twinkling overhead. The birds were all at roost, the daisies on the green had closed their fairy hoods, the honeysuckle twining round the porch exhaled its perfume in a twofold degree, as though it lost its coyness at that silent time and loved to shed its fragrance on the night; the ivy scarcely stirred its deep green leaves. How tranquil, and how beautiful it was!

Was there no sound in the air, besides the gentle rustling of the trees and the grasshopper’s merry chirp? Hark! Something very faint and distant, not unlike the murmuring in a sea-shell. Now it grew louder, fainter now, and now it altogether died away. Presently, it came again, subsided, came once more, grew louder, fainter—swelled into a roar. It was on the road, and varied with its windings. All at once it burst into a distinct sound—the voices, and the tramping feet of many men.

It is questionable whether old John Willet, even then, would have thought of the rioters but for the cries of his cook and housemaid, who ran screaming upstairs and locked themselves into one of the old garrets,—shrieking dismally when they had done so, by way of rendering their place of refuge perfectly secret and secure. These two females did afterwards depone that Mr Willet in his consternation uttered but one word, and called that up the stairs in a stentorian voice, six distinct times. But as this word was a monosyllable, which, however inoffensive when applied to the quadruped it denotes, is highly reprehensible when used in connection with females of unimpeachable character, many persons were inclined to believe that the young women laboured under some hallucination caused by excessive fear; and that their ears deceived them.

Be this as it may, John Willet, in whom the very uttermost extent of dull-headed perplexity supplied the place of courage, stationed himself in the porch, and waited for their coming up. Once, it dimly occurred to him that there was a kind of door to the house, which had a lock and bolts; and at the same time some shadowy ideas of shutters to the lower windows, flitted through his brain. But he stood stock still, looking down the road in the direction in which the noise was rapidly advancing, and did not so much as take his hands out of his pockets.

He had not to wait long. A dark mass, looming through a cloud of dust, soon became visible; the mob quickened their pace; shouting and whooping like savages, they came rushing on pell mell; and in a few seconds he was bandied from hand to hand, in the heart of a crowd of men.

‘Halloa!’ cried a voice he knew, as the man who spoke came cleaving through the throng. ‘Where is he? Give him to me. Don’t hurt him. How now, old Jack! Ha ha ha!’

Mr Willet looked at him, and saw it was Hugh; but he said nothing, and thought nothing.

‘These lads are thirsty and must drink!’ cried Hugh, thrusting him back towards the house. ‘Bustle, Jack, bustle. Show us the best—the very best—the over-proof that you keep for your own drinking, Jack!’

John faintly articulated the words, ‘Who’s to pay?’

‘He says “Who’s to pay?”’ cried Hugh, with a roar of laughter which was loudly echoed by the crowd. Then turning to John, he added, ‘Pay! Why, nobody.’

John stared round at the mass of faces—some grinning, some fierce, some lighted up by torches, some indistinct, some dusky and shadowy: some looking at him, some at his house, some at each other—and while he was, as he thought, in the very act of doing so, found himself, without any consciousness of having moved, in the bar; sitting down in an arm-chair, and watching the destruction of his property, as if it were some queer play or entertainment, of an astonishing and stupefying nature, but having no reference to himself—that he could make out—at all.

Yes. Here was the bar—the bar that the boldest never entered without special invitation—the sanctuary, the mystery, the hallowed ground: here it was, crammed with men, clubs, sticks, torches, pistols; filled with a deafening noise, oaths, shouts, screams, hootings; changed all at once into a bear-garden, a madhouse, an infernal temple: men darting in and out, by door and window, smashing the glass, turning the taps, drinking liquor out of China punchbowls, sitting astride of casks, smoking private and personal pipes, cutting down the sacred grove of lemons, hacking and hewing at the celebrated cheese, breaking open inviolable drawers, putting things in their pockets which didn’t belong to them, dividing his own money before his own eyes, wantonly wasting, breaking, pulling down and tearing up: nothing quiet, nothing private: men everywhere—above, below, overhead, in the bedrooms, in the kitchen, in the yard, in the stables—clambering in at windows when there were doors wide open; dropping out of windows when the stairs were handy; leaping over the bannisters into chasms of passages: new faces and figures presenting themselves every instant—some yelling, some singing, some fighting, some breaking glass and crockery, some laying the dust with the liquor they couldn’t drink, some ringing the bells till they pulled them down, others beating them with pokers till they beat them into fragments: more men still—more, more, more—swarming on like insects: noise, smoke, light, darkness, frolic, anger, laughter, groans, plunder, fear, and ruin!

Nearly all the time while John looked on at this bewildering scene, Hugh kept near him; and though he was the loudest, wildest, most destructive villain there, he saved his old master’s bones a score of times. Nay, even when Mr Tappertit, excited by liquor, came up, and in assertion of his prerogative politely kicked John Willet on the shins, Hugh bade him return the compliment; and if old John had had sufficient presence of mind to understand this whispered direction, and to profit by it, he might no doubt, under Hugh’s protection, have done so with impunity.

At length the band began to reassemble outside the house, and to call to those within, to join them, for they were losing time. These murmurs increasing, and attaining a high pitch, Hugh, and some of those who yet lingered in the bar, and who plainly were the leaders of the troop, took counsel together, apart, as to what was to be done with John, to keep him quiet until their Chigwell work was over. Some proposed to set the house on fire and leave him in it; others, that he should be reduced to a state of temporary insensibility, by knocking on the head; others, that he should be sworn to sit where he was until to-morrow at the same hour; others again, that he should be gagged and taken off with them, under a sufficient guard. All these propositions being overruled, it was concluded, at last, to bind him in his chair, and the word was passed for Dennis.

‘Look’ee here, Jack!’ said Hugh, striding up to him: ‘We are going to tie you, hand and foot, but otherwise you won’t be hurt. D’ye hear?’

John Willet looked at another man, as if he didn’t know which was the speaker, and muttered something about an ordinary every Sunday at two o’clock.

‘You won’t be hurt I tell you, Jack—do you hear me?’ roared Hugh, impressing the assurance upon him by means of a heavy blow on the back. ‘He’s so dead scared, he’s woolgathering, I think. Give him a drop of something to drink here. Hand over, one of you.’

A glass of liquor being passed forward, Hugh poured the contents down old John’s throat. Mr Willet feebly smacked his lips, thrust his hand into his pocket, and inquired what was to pay; adding, as he looked vacantly round, that he believed there was a trifle of broken glass—

‘He’s out of his senses for the time, it’s my belief,’ said Hugh, after shaking him, without any visible effect upon his system, until his keys rattled in his pocket. ‘Where’s that Dennis?’

The word was again passed, and presently Mr Dennis, with a long cord bound about his middle, something after the manner of a friar, came hurrying in, attended by a body-guard of half-a-dozen of his men.

‘Come! Be alive here!’ cried Hugh, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘Make haste!’

Dennis, with a wink and a nod, unwound the cord from about his person, and raising his eyes to the ceiling, looked all over it, and round the walls and cornice, with a curious eye; then shook his head.

‘Move, man, can’t you!’ cried Hugh, with another impatient stamp of his foot. ‘Are we to wait here, till the cry has gone for ten miles round, and our work’s interrupted?’

‘It’s all very fine talking, brother,’ answered Dennis, stepping towards him; ‘but unless—’ and here he whispered in his ear—‘unless we do it over the door, it can’t be done at all in this here room.’

‘What can’t?’ Hugh demanded.

‘What can’t!’ retorted Dennis. ‘Why, the old man can’t.’

‘Why, you weren’t going to hang him!’ cried Hugh.

‘No, brother?’ returned the hangman with a stare. ‘What else?’

Hugh made no answer, but snatching the rope from his companion’s hand, proceeded to bind old John himself; but his very first move was so bungling and unskilful, that Mr Dennis entreated, almost with tears in his eyes, that he might be permitted to perform the duty. Hugh consenting, he achieved it in a twinkling.

‘There,’ he said, looking mournfully at John Willet, who displayed no more emotion in his bonds than he had shown out of them. ‘That’s what I call pretty and workmanlike. He’s quite a picter now. But, brother, just a word with you—now that he’s ready trussed, as one may say, wouldn’t it be better for all parties if we was to work him off? It would read uncommon well in the newspapers, it would indeed. The public would think a great deal more on us!’

Hugh, inferring what his companion meant, rather from his gestures than his technical mode of expressing himself (to which, as he was ignorant of his calling, he wanted the clue), rejected this proposition for the second time, and gave the word ‘Forward!’ which was echoed by a hundred voices from without.

‘To the Warren!’ shouted Dennis as he ran out, followed by the rest. ‘A witness’s house, my lads!’

A loud yell followed, and the whole throng hurried off, mad for pillage and destruction. Hugh lingered behind for a few moments to stimulate himself with more drink, and to set all the taps running, a few of which had accidentally been spared; then, glancing round the despoiled and plundered room, through whose shattered window the rioters had thrust the Maypole itself,—for even that had been sawn down,—lighted a torch, clapped the mute and motionless John Willet on the back, and waving his light above his head, and uttering a fierce shout, hastened after his companions.

Chapter 55

John Willet, left alone in his dismantled bar, continued to sit staring about him; awake as to his eyes, certainly, but with all his powers of reason and reflection in a sound and dreamless sleep. He looked round upon the room which had been for years, and was within an hour ago, the pride of his heart; and not a muscle of his face was moved. The night, without, looked black and cold through the dreary gaps in the casement; the precious liquids, now nearly leaked away, dripped with a hollow sound upon the floor; the Maypole peered ruefully in through the broken window, like the bowsprit of a wrecked ship; the ground might have been the bottom of the sea, it was so strewn with precious fragments. Currents of air rushed in, as the old doors jarred and creaked upon their hinges; the candles flickered and guttered down, and made long winding-sheets; the cheery deep-red curtains flapped and fluttered idly in the wind; even the stout Dutch kegs, overthrown and lying empty in dark corners, seemed the mere husks of good fellows whose jollity had departed, and who could kindle with a friendly glow no more. John saw this desolation, and yet saw it not. He was perfectly contented to sit there, staring at it, and felt no more indignation or discomfort in his bonds than if they had been robes of honour. So far as he was personally concerned, old Time lay snoring, and the world stood still.

Save for the dripping from the barrels, the rustling of such light fragments of destruction as the wind affected, and the dull creaking of the open doors, all was profoundly quiet: indeed, these sounds, like the ticking of the death-watch in the night, only made the silence they invaded deeper and more apparent. But quiet or noisy, it was all one to John. If a train of heavy artillery could have come up and commenced ball practice outside the window, it would have been all the same to him. He was a long way beyond surprise. A ghost couldn’t have overtaken him.

By and by he heard a footstep—a hurried, and yet cautious footstep—coming on towards the house. It stopped, advanced again, then seemed to go quite round it. Having done that, it came beneath the window, and a head looked in.

It was strongly relieved against the darkness outside by the glare of the guttering candles. A pale, worn, withered face; the eyes—but that was owing to its gaunt condition—unnaturally large and bright; the hair, a grizzled black. It gave a searching glance all round the room, and a deep voice said:

‘Are you alone in this house?’

John made no sign, though the question was repeated twice, and he heard it distinctly. After a moment’s pause, the man got in at the window. John was not at all surprised at this, either. There had been so much getting in and out of window in the course of the last hour or so, that he had quite forgotten the door, and seemed to have lived among such exercises from infancy.

The man wore a large, dark, faded cloak, and a slouched hat; he walked up close to John, and looked at him. John returned the compliment with interest.

‘How long have you been sitting thus?’ said the man.

John considered, but nothing came of it.

‘Which way have the party gone?’

Some wandering speculations relative to the fashion of the stranger’s boots, got into Mr Willet’s mind by some accident or other, but they got out again in a hurry, and left him in his former state.

‘You would do well to speak,’ said the man; ‘you may keep a whole skin, though you have nothing else left that can be hurt. Which way have the party gone?’

‘That!’ said John, finding his voice all at once, and nodding with perfect good faith—he couldn’t point; he was so tightly bound—in exactly the opposite direction to the right one.

‘You lie!’ said the man angrily, and with a threatening gesture. ‘I came that way. You would betray me.’

It was so evident that John’s imperturbability was not assumed, but was the result of the late proceedings under his roof, that the man stayed his hand in the very act of striking him, and turned away.

John looked after him without so much as a twitch in a single nerve of his face. He seized a glass, and holding it under one of the little casks until a few drops were collected, drank them greedily off; then throwing it down upon the floor impatiently, he took the vessel in his hands and drained it into his throat. Some scraps of bread and meat were scattered about, and on these he fell next; eating them with voracity, and pausing every now and then to listen for some fancied noise outside. When he had refreshed himself in this manner with violent haste, and raised another barrel to his lips, he pulled his hat upon his brow as though he were about to leave the house, and turned to John.

‘Where are your servants?’

Mr Willet indistinctly remembered to have heard the rioters calling to them to throw the key of the room in which they were, out of window, for their keeping. He therefore replied, ‘Locked up.’

‘Well for them if they remain quiet, and well for you if you do the like,’ said the man. ‘Now show me the way the party went.’

This time Mr Willet indicated it correctly. The man was hurrying to the door, when suddenly there came towards them on the wind, the loud and rapid tolling of an alarm-bell, and then a bright and vivid glare streamed up, which illumined, not only the whole chamber, but all the country.

It was not the sudden change from darkness to this dreadful light, it was not the sound of distant shrieks and shouts of triumph, it was not this dread invasion of the serenity and peace of night, that drove the man back as though a thunderbolt had struck him. It was the Bell. If the ghastliest shape the human mind has ever pictured in its wildest dreams had risen up before him, he could not have staggered backward from its touch, as he did from the first sound of that loud iron voice. With eyes that started from his head, his limbs convulsed, his face most horrible to see, he raised one arm high up into the air, and holding something visionary back and down, with his other hand, drove at it as though he held a knife and stabbed it to the heart. He clutched his hair, and stopped his ears, and travelled madly round and round; then gave a frightful cry, and with it rushed away: still, still, the Bell tolled on and seemed to follow him—louder and louder, hotter and hotter yet. The glare grew brighter, the roar of voices deeper; the crash of heavy bodies falling, shook the air; bright streams of sparks rose up into the sky; but louder than them all—rising faster far, to Heaven—a million times more fierce and furious—pouring forth dreadful secrets after its long silence—speaking the language of the dead—the Bell—the Bell!

What hunt of spectres could surpass that dread pursuit and flight! Had there been a legion of them on his track, he could have better borne it. They would have had a beginning and an end, but here all space was full. The one pursuing voice was everywhere: it sounded in the earth, the air; shook the long grass, and howled among the trembling trees. The echoes caught it up, the owls hooted as it flew upon the breeze, the nightingale was silent and hid herself among the thickest boughs: it seemed to goad and urge the angry fire, and lash it into madness; everything was steeped in one prevailing red; the glow was everywhere; nature was drenched in blood: still the remorseless crying of that awful voice—the Bell, the Bell!

It ceased; but not in his ears. The knell was at his heart. No work of man had ever voice like that which sounded there, and warned him that it cried unceasingly to Heaven. Who could hear that bell, and not know what it said! There was murder in its every note—cruel, relentless, savage murder—the murder of a confiding man, by one who held his every trust. Its ringing summoned phantoms from their graves. What face was that, in which a friendly smile changed to a look of half incredulous horror, which stiffened for a moment into one of pain, then changed again into an imploring glance at Heaven, and so fell idly down with upturned eyes, like the dead stags’ he had often peeped at when a little child: shrinking and shuddering—there was a dreadful thing to think of now!—and clinging to an apron as he looked! He sank upon the ground, and grovelling down as if he would dig himself a place to hide in, covered his face and ears: but no, no, no,—a hundred walls and roofs of brass would not shut out that bell, for in it spoke the wrathful voice of God, and from that voice, the whole wide universe could not afford a refuge!

While he rushed up and down, not knowing where to turn, and while he lay crouching there, the work went briskly on indeed. When they left the Maypole, the rioters formed into a solid body, and advanced at a quick pace towards the Warren. Rumour of their approach having gone before, they found the garden-doors fast closed, the windows made secure, and the house profoundly dark: not a light being visible in any portion of the building. After some fruitless ringing at the bells, and beating at the iron gates, they drew off a few paces to reconnoitre, and confer upon the course it would be best to take.

Very little conference was needed, when all were bent upon one desperate purpose, infuriated with liquor, and flushed with successful riot. The word being given to surround the house, some climbed the gates, or dropped into the shallow trench and scaled the garden wall, while others pulled down the solid iron fence, and while they made a breach to enter by, made deadly weapons of the bars. The house being completely encircled, a small number of men were despatched to break open a tool-shed in the garden; and during their absence on this errand, the remainder contented themselves with knocking violently at the doors, and calling to those within, to come down and open them on peril of their lives.

No answer being returned to this repeated summons, and the detachment who had been sent away, coming back with an accession of pickaxes, spades, and hoes, they,—together with those who had such arms already, or carried (as many did) axes, poles, and crowbars,—struggled into the foremost rank, ready to beset the doors and windows. They had not at this time more than a dozen lighted torches among them; but when these preparations were completed, flaming links were distributed and passed from hand to hand with such rapidity, that, in a minute’s time, at least two-thirds of the whole roaring mass bore, each man in his hand, a blazing brand. Whirling these about their heads they raised a loud shout, and fell to work upon the doors and windows.

Amidst the clattering of heavy blows, the rattling of broken glass, the cries and execrations of the mob, and all the din and turmoil of the scene, Hugh and his friends kept together at the turret-door where Mr Haredale had last admitted him and old John Willet; and spent their united force on that. It was a strong old oaken door, guarded by good bolts and a heavy bar, but it soon went crashing in upon the narrow stairs behind, and made, as it were, a platform to facilitate their tearing up into the rooms above. Almost at the same moment, a dozen other points were forced, and at every one the crowd poured in like water.

A few armed servant-men were posted in the hall, and when the rioters forced an entrance there, they fired some half-a-dozen shots. But these taking no effect, and the concourse coming on like an army of devils, they only thought of consulting their own safety, and retreated, echoing their assailants’ cries, and hoping in the confusion to be taken for rioters themselves; in which stratagem they succeeded, with the exception of one old man who was never heard of again, and was said to have had his brains beaten out with an iron bar (one of his fellows reported that he had seen the old man fall), and to have been afterwards burnt in the flames.

The besiegers being now in complete possession of the house, spread themselves over it from garret to cellar, and plied their demon labours fiercely. While some small parties kindled bonfires underneath the windows, others broke up the furniture and cast the fragments down to feed the flames below; where the apertures in the wall (windows no longer) were large enough, they threw out tables, chests of drawers, beds, mirrors, pictures, and flung them whole into the fire; while every fresh addition to the blazing masses was received with shouts, and howls, and yells, which added new and dismal terrors to the conflagration. Those who had axes and had spent their fury on the movables, chopped and tore down the doors and window frames, broke up the flooring, hewed away the rafters, and buried men who lingered in the upper rooms, in heaps of ruins. Some searched the drawers, the chests, the boxes, writing-desks, and closets, for jewels, plate, and money; while others, less mindful of gain and more mad for destruction, cast their whole contents into the courtyard without examination, and called to those below, to heap them on the blaze. Men who had been into the cellars, and had staved the casks, rushed to and fro stark mad, setting fire to all they saw—often to the dresses of their own friends—and kindling the building in so many parts that some had no time for escape, and were seen, with drooping hands and blackened faces, hanging senseless on the window-sills to which they had crawled, until they were sucked and drawn into the burning gulf. The more the fire crackled and raged, the wilder and more cruel the men grew; as though moving in that element they became fiends, and changed their earthly nature for the qualities that give delight in hell.

The burning pile, revealing rooms and passages red hot, through gaps made in the crumbling walls; the tributary fires that licked the outer bricks and stones, with their long forked tongues, and ran up to meet the glowing mass within; the shining of the flames upon the villains who looked on and fed them; the roaring of the angry blaze, so bright and high that it seemed in its rapacity to have swallowed up the very smoke; the living flakes the wind bore rapidly away and hurried on with, like a storm of fiery snow; the noiseless breaking of great beams of wood, which fell like feathers on the heap of ashes, and crumbled in the very act to sparks and powder; the lurid tinge that overspread the sky, and the darkness, very deep by contrast, which prevailed around; the exposure to the coarse, common gaze, of every little nook which usages of home had made a sacred place, and the destruction by rude hands of every little household favourite which old associations made a dear and precious thing: all this taking place—not among pitying looks and friendly murmurs of compassion, but brutal shouts and exultations, which seemed to make the very rats who stood by the old house too long, creatures with some claim upon the pity and regard of those its roof had sheltered:—combined to form a scene never to be forgotten by those who saw it and were not actors in the work, so long as life endured.

And who were they? The alarm-bell rang—and it was pulled by no faint or hesitating hands—for a long time; but not a soul was seen. Some of the insurgents said that when it ceased, they heard the shrieks of women, and saw some garments fluttering in the air, as a party of men bore away no unresisting burdens. No one could say that this was true or false, in such an uproar; but where was Hugh? Who among them had seen him, since the forcing of the doors? The cry spread through the body. Where was Hugh!

‘Here!’ he hoarsely cried, appearing from the darkness; out of breath, and blackened with the smoke. ‘We have done all we can; the fire is burning itself out; and even the corners where it hasn’t spread, are nothing but heaps of ruins. Disperse, my lads, while the coast’s clear; get back by different ways; and meet as usual!’ With that, he disappeared again,—contrary to his wont, for he was always first to advance, and last to go away,—leaving them to follow homewards as they would.

It was not an easy task to draw off such a throng. If Bedlam gates had been flung wide open, there would not have issued forth such maniacs as the frenzy of that night had made. There were men there, who danced and trampled on the beds of flowers as though they trod down human enemies, and wrenched them from the stalks, like savages who twisted human necks. There were men who cast their lighted torches in the air, and suffered them to fall upon their heads and faces, blistering the skin with deep unseemly burns. There were men who rushed up to the fire, and paddled in it with their hands as if in water; and others who were restrained by force from plunging in, to gratify their deadly longing. On the skull of one drunken lad—not twenty, by his looks—who lay upon the ground with a bottle to his mouth, the lead from the roof came streaming down in a shower of liquid fire, white hot; melting his head like wax. When the scattered parties were collected, men—living yet, but singed as with hot irons—were plucked out of the cellars, and carried off upon the shoulders of others, who strove to wake them as they went along, with ribald jokes, and left them, dead, in the passages of hospitals. But of all the howling throng not one learnt mercy from, or sickened at, these sights; nor was the fierce, besotted, senseless rage of one man glutted.

Slowly, and in small clusters, with hoarse hurrahs and repetitions of their usual cry, the assembly dropped away. The last few red-eyed stragglers reeled after those who had gone before; the distant noise of men calling to each other, and whistling for others whom they missed, grew fainter and fainter; at length even these sounds died away, and silence reigned alone.

Silence indeed! The glare of the flames had sunk into a fitful, flashing light; and the gentle stars, invisible till now, looked down upon the blackening heap. A dull smoke hung upon the ruin, as though to hide it from those eyes of Heaven; and the wind forbore to move it. Bare walls, roof open to the sky—chambers, where the beloved dead had, many and many a fair day, risen to new life and energy; where so many dear ones had been sad and merry; which were connected with so many thoughts and hopes, regrets and changes—all gone. Nothing left but a dull and dreary blank—a smouldering heap of dust and ashes—the silence and solitude of utter desolation.

Chapter 56

The Maypole cronies, little dreaming of the change so soon to come upon their favourite haunt, struck through the Forest path upon their way to London; and avoiding the main road, which was hot and dusty, kept to the by-paths and the fields. As they drew nearer to their destination, they began to make inquiries of the people whom they passed, concerning the riots, and the truth or falsehood of the stories they had heard. The answers went far beyond any intelligence that had spread to quiet Chigwell. One man told them that that afternoon the Guards, conveying to Newgate some rioters who had been re-examined, had been set upon by the mob and compelled to retreat; another, that the houses of two witnesses near Clare Market were about to be pulled down when he came away; another, that Sir George Saville’s house in Leicester Fields was to be burned that night, and that it would go hard with Sir George if he fell into the people’s hands, as it was he who had brought in the Catholic bill. All accounts agreed that the mob were out, in stronger numbers and more numerous parties than had yet appeared; that the streets were unsafe; that no man’s house or life was worth an hour’s purchase; that the public consternation was increasing every moment; and that many families had already fled the city. One fellow who wore the popular colour, damned them for not having cockades in their hats, and bade them set a good watch to-morrow night upon their prison doors, for the locks would have a straining; another asked if they were fire-proof, that they walked abroad without the distinguishing mark of all good and true men;—and a third who rode on horseback, and was quite alone, ordered them to throw each man a shilling, in his hat, towards the support of the rioters. Although they were afraid to refuse compliance with this demand, and were much alarmed by these reports, they agreed, having come so far, to go forward, and see the real state of things with their own eyes. So they pushed on quicker, as men do who are excited by portentous news; and ruminating on what they had heard, spoke little to each other.

It was now night, and as they came nearer to the city they had dismal confirmation of this intelligence in three great fires, all close together, which burnt fiercely and were gloomily reflected in the sky. Arriving in the immediate suburbs, they found that almost every house had chalked upon its door in large characters ‘No Popery,’ that the shops were shut, and that alarm and anxiety were depicted in every face they passed.

Noting these things with a degree of apprehension which neither of the three cared to impart, in its full extent, to his companions, they came to a turnpike-gate, which was shut. They were passing through the turnstile on the path, when a horseman rode up from London at a hard gallop, and called to the toll-keeper in a voice of great agitation, to open quickly in the name of God.

The adjuration was so earnest and vehement, that the man, with a lantern in his hand, came running out—toll-keeper though he was—and was about to throw the gate open, when happening to look behind him, he exclaimed, ‘Good Heaven, what’s that! Another fire!’

At this, the three turned their heads, and saw in the distance—straight in the direction whence they had come—a broad sheet of flame, casting a threatening light upon the clouds, which glimmered as though the conflagration were behind them, and showed like a wrathful sunset.

‘My mind misgives me,’ said the horseman, ‘or I know from what far building those flames come. Don’t stand aghast, my good fellow. Open the gate!’

‘Sir,’ cried the man, laying his hand upon his horse’s bridle as he let him through: ‘I know you now, sir; be advised by me; do not go on. I saw them pass, and know what kind of men they are. You will be murdered.’

‘So be it!’ said the horseman, looking intently towards the fire, and not at him who spoke.

‘But sir—sir,’ cried the man, grasping at his rein more tightly yet, ‘if you do go on, wear the blue riband. Here, sir,’ he added, taking one from his own hat, ‘it’s necessity, not choice, that makes me wear it; it’s love of life and home, sir. Wear it for this one night, sir; only for this one night.’

‘Do!’ cried the three friends, pressing round his horse. ‘Mr Haredale—worthy sir—good gentleman—pray be persuaded.’

‘Who’s that?’ cried Mr Haredale, stooping down to look. ‘Did I hear Daisy’s voice?’

‘You did, sir,’ cried the little man. ‘Do be persuaded, sir. This gentleman says very true. Your life may hang upon it.’

‘Are you,’ said Mr Haredale abruptly, ‘afraid to come with me?’

‘I, sir?—N-n-no.’

‘Put that riband in your hat. If we meet the rioters, swear that I took you prisoner for wearing it. I will tell them so with my own lips; for as I hope for mercy when I die, I will take no quarter from them, nor shall they have quarter from me, if we come hand to hand to-night. Up here—behind me—quick! Clasp me tight round the body, and fear nothing.’

In an instant they were riding away, at full gallop, in a dense cloud of dust, and speeding on, like hunters in a dream.

It was well the good horse knew the road he traversed, for never once—no, never once in all the journey—did Mr Haredale cast his eyes upon the ground, or turn them, for an instant, from the light towards which they sped so madly. Once he said in a low voice, ‘It is my house,’ but that was the only time he spoke. When they came to dark and doubtful places, he never forgot to put his hand upon the little man to hold him more securely in his seat, but he kept his head erect and his eyes fixed on the fire, then, and always.

The road was dangerous enough, for they went the nearest way—headlong—far from the highway—by lonely lanes and paths, where waggon-wheels had worn deep ruts; where hedge and ditch hemmed in the narrow strip of ground; and tall trees, arching overhead, made it profoundly dark. But on, on, on, with neither stop nor stumble, till they reached the Maypole door, and could plainly see that the fire began to fade, as if for want of fuel.

‘Down—for one moment—for but one moment,’ said Mr Haredale, helping Daisy to the ground, and following himself. ‘Willet—Willet—where are my niece and servants—Willet!’

Crying to him distractedly, he rushed into the bar.—The landlord bound and fastened to his chair; the place dismantled, stripped, and pulled about his ears;—nobody could have taken shelter here.

He was a strong man, accustomed to restrain himself, and suppress his strong emotions; but this preparation for what was to follow—though he had seen that fire burning, and knew that his house must be razed to the ground—was more than he could bear. He covered his face with his hands for a moment, and turned away his head.

‘Johnny, Johnny,’ said Solomon—and the simple-hearted fellow cried outright, and wrung his hands—‘Oh dear old Johnny, here’s a change! That the Maypole bar should come to this, and we should live to see it! The old Warren too, Johnny—Mr Haredale—oh, Johnny, what a piteous sight this is!’

Pointing to Mr Haredale as he said these words, little Solomon Daisy put his elbows on the back of Mr Willet’s chair, and fairly blubbered on his shoulder.

While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staring at him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible symptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was silent again, John followed with his great round eyes the direction of his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that somebody had come to see him.

‘You know us, don’t you, Johnny?’ said the little clerk, rapping himself on the breast. ‘Daisy, you know—Chigwell Church—bell-ringer—little desk on Sundays—eh, Johnny?’

Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it were mechanically: ‘Let us sing to the praise and glory of—’

‘Yes, to be sure,’ cried the little man, hastily; ‘that’s it—that’s me, Johnny. You’re all right now, an’t you? Say you’re all right, Johnny.’

‘All right?’ pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely between himself and his conscience. ‘All right? Ah!’

‘They haven’t been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any other blunt instruments—have they, Johnny?’ asked Solomon, with a very anxious glance at Mr Willet’s head. ‘They didn’t beat you, did they?’

John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engaged in some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the total would not come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to his shoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round, leaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out of each eye, and he said, as he shook his head:

‘If they’d only had the goodness to murder me, I’d have thanked ‘em kindly.’

‘No, no, no, don’t say that, Johnny,’ whimpered his little friend. ‘It’s very, very bad, but not quite so bad as that. No, no!’

‘Look’ee here, sir!’ cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr Haredale, who had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untie his bonds. ‘Look’ee here, sir! The very Maypole—the old dumb Maypole—stares in at the winder, as if it said, “John Willet, John Willet, let’s go and pitch ourselves in the nighest pool of water as is deep enough to hold us; for our day is over!”’

‘Don’t, Johnny, don’t,’ cried his friend: no less affected with this mournful effort of Mr Willet’s imagination, than by the sepulchral tone in which he had spoken of the Maypole. ‘Please don’t, Johnny!’

‘Your loss is great, and your misfortune a heavy one,’ said Mr Haredale, looking restlessly towards the door: ‘and this is not a time to comfort you. If it were, I am in no condition to do so. Before I leave you, tell me one thing, and try to tell me plainly, I implore you. Have you seen, or heard of Emma?’

‘No!’ said Mr Willet.

‘Nor any one but these bloodhounds?’

‘No!’

‘They rode away, I trust in Heaven, before these dreadful scenes began,’ said Mr Haredale, who, between his agitation, his eagerness to mount his horse again, and the dexterity with which the cords were tied, had scarcely yet undone one knot. ‘A knife, Daisy!’

‘You didn’t,’ said John, looking about, as though he had lost his pocket-handkerchief, or some such slight article—‘either of you gentlemen—see a—a coffin anywheres, did you?’

‘Willet!’ cried Mr Haredale. Solomon dropped the knife, and instantly becoming limp from head to foot, exclaimed ‘Good gracious!’

‘—Because,’ said John, not at all regarding them, ‘a dead man called a little time ago, on his way yonder. I could have told you what name was on the plate, if he had brought his coffin with him, and left it behind. If he didn’t, it don’t signify.’

His landlord, who had listened to these words with breathless attention, started that moment to his feet; and, without a word, drew Solomon Daisy to the door, mounted his horse, took him up behind again, and flew rather than galloped towards the pile of ruins, which that day’s sun had shone upon, a stately house. Mr Willet stared after them, listened, looked down upon himself to make quite sure that he was still unbound, and, without any manifestation of impatience, disappointment, or surprise, gently relapsed into the condition from which he had so imperfectly recovered.

Mr Haredale tied his horse to the trunk of a tree, and grasping his companion’s arm, stole softly along the footpath, and into what had been the garden of his house. He stopped for an instant to look upon its smoking walls, and at the stars that shone through roof and floor upon the heap of crumbling ashes. Solomon glanced timidly in his face, but his lips were tightly pressed together, a resolute and stern expression sat upon his brow, and not a tear, a look, or gesture indicating grief, escaped him.

He drew his sword; felt for a moment in his breast, as though he carried other arms about him; then grasping Solomon by the wrist again, went with a cautious step all round the house. He looked into every doorway and gap in the wall; retraced his steps at every rustling of the air among the leaves; and searched in every shadowed nook with outstretched hands. Thus they made the circuit of the building: but they returned to the spot from which they had set out, without encountering any human being, or finding the least trace of any concealed straggler.

After a short pause, Mr Haredale shouted twice or thrice. Then cried aloud, ‘Is there any one in hiding here, who knows my voice! There is nothing to fear now. If any of my people are near, I entreat them to answer!’ He called them all by name; his voice was echoed in many mournful tones; then all was silent as before.

They were standing near the foot of the turret, where the alarm-bell hung. The fire had raged there, and the floors had been sawn, and hewn, and beaten down, besides. It was open to the night; but a part of the staircase still remained, winding upward from a great mound of dust and cinders. Fragments of the jagged and broken steps offered an insecure and giddy footing here and there, and then were lost again, behind protruding angles of the wall, or in the deep shadows cast upon it by other portions of the ruin; for by this time the moon had risen, and shone brightly.

As they stood here, listening to the echoes as they died away, and hoping in vain to hear a voice they knew, some of the ashes in this turret slipped and rolled down. Startled by the least noise in that melancholy place, Solomon looked up in his companion’s face, and saw that he had turned towards the spot, and that he watched and listened keenly.

He covered the little man’s mouth with his hand, and looked again. Instantly, with kindling eyes, he bade him on his life keep still, and neither speak nor move. Then holding his breath, and stooping down, he stole into the turret, with his drawn sword in his hand, and disappeared.

Terrified to be left there by himself, under such desolate circumstances, and after all he had seen and heard that night, Solomon would have followed, but there had been something in Mr Haredale’s manner and his look, the recollection of which held him spellbound. He stood rooted to the spot; and scarcely venturing to breathe, looked up with mingled fear and wonder.

Again the ashes slipped and rolled—very, very softly—again—and then again, as though they crumbled underneath the tread of a stealthy foot. And now a figure was dimly visible; climbing very softly; and often stopping to look down; now it pursued its difficult way; and now it was hidden from the view again.

It emerged once more, into the shadowy and uncertain light—higher now, but not much, for the way was steep and toilsome, and its progress very slow. What phantom of the brain did he pursue; and why did he look down so constantly? He knew he was alone. Surely his mind was not affected by that night’s loss and agony. He was not about to throw himself headlong from the summit of the tottering wall. Solomon turned sick, and clasped his hands. His limbs trembled beneath him, and a cold sweat broke out upon his pallid face.

If he complied with Mr Haredale’s last injunction now, it was because he had not the power to speak or move. He strained his gaze, and fixed it on a patch of moonlight, into which, if he continued to ascend, he must soon emerge. When he appeared there, he would try to call to him.

Again the ashes slipped and crumbled; some stones rolled down, and fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the ground below. He kept his eyes upon the piece of moonlight. The figure was coming on, for its shadow was already thrown upon the wall. Now it appeared—and now looked round at him—and now—

The horror-stricken clerk uttered a scream that pierced the air, and cried, ‘The ghost! The ghost!’

Long before the echo of his cry had died away, another form rushed out into the light, flung itself upon the foremost one, knelt down upon its breast, and clutched its throat with both hands.

‘Villain!’ cried Mr Haredale, in a terrible voice—for it was he. ‘Dead and buried, as all men supposed through your infernal arts, but reserved by Heaven for this—at last—at last I have you. You, whose hands are red with my brother’s blood, and that of his faithful servant, shed to conceal your own atrocious guilt—You, Rudge, double murderer and monster, I arrest you in the name of God, who has delivered you into my hands. No. Though you had the strength of twenty men,’ he added, as the murderer writhed and struggled, ‘you could not escape me or loosen my grasp to-night!’

Chapter 57

Barnaby, armed as we have seen, continued to pace up and down before the stable-door; glad to be alone again, and heartily rejoicing in the unaccustomed silence and tranquillity. After the whirl of noise and riot in which the last two days had been passed, the pleasures of solitude and peace were enhanced a thousandfold. He felt quite happy; and as he leaned upon his staff and mused, a bright smile overspread his face, and none but cheerful visions floated into his brain.

Had he no thoughts of her, whose sole delight he was, and whom he had unconsciously plunged in such bitter sorrow and such deep affliction? Oh, yes. She was at the heart of all his cheerful hopes and proud reflections. It was she whom all this honour and distinction were to gladden; the joy and profit were for her. What delight it gave her to hear of the bravery of her poor boy! Ah! He would have known that, without Hugh’s telling him. And what a precious thing it was to know she lived so happily, and heard with so much pride (he pictured to himself her look when they told her) that he was in such high esteem: bold among the boldest, and trusted before them all! And when these frays were over, and the good lord had conquered his enemies, and they were all at peace again, and he and she were rich, what happiness they would have in talking of these troubled times when he was a great soldier: and when they sat alone together in the tranquil twilight, and she had no longer reason to be anxious for the morrow, what pleasure would he have in the reflection that this was his doing—his—poor foolish Barnaby’s; and in patting her on the cheek, and saying with a merry laugh, ‘Am I silly now, mother—am I silly now?’

With a lighter heart and step, and eyes the brighter for the happy tear that dimmed them for a moment, Barnaby resumed his walk; and singing gaily to himself, kept guard upon his quiet post.

His comrade Grip, the partner of his watch, though fond of basking in the sunshine, preferred to-day to walk about the stable; having a great deal to do in the way of scattering the straw, hiding under it such small articles as had been casually left about, and haunting Hugh’s bed, to which he seemed to have taken a particular attachment. Sometimes Barnaby looked in and called him, and then he came hopping out; but he merely did this as a concession to his master’s weakness, and soon returned again to his own grave pursuits: peering into the straw with his bill, and rapidly covering up the place, as if, Midas-like, he were whispering secrets to the earth and burying them; constantly busying himself upon the sly; and affecting, whenever Barnaby came past, to look up in the clouds and have nothing whatever on his mind: in short, conducting himself, in many respects, in a more than usually thoughtful, deep, and mysterious manner.

As the day crept on, Barnaby, who had no directions forbidding him to eat and drink upon his post, but had been, on the contrary, supplied with a bottle of beer and a basket of provisions, determined to break his fast, which he had not done since morning. To this end, he sat down on the ground before the door, and putting his staff across his knees in case of alarm or surprise, summoned Grip to dinner.

This call, the bird obeyed with great alacrity; crying, as he sidled up to his master, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a Polly, I’m a kettle, I’m a Protestant, No Popery!’ Having learnt this latter sentiment from the gentry among whom he had lived of late, he delivered it with uncommon emphasis.

‘Well said, Grip!’ cried his master, as he fed him with the daintiest bits. ‘Well said, old boy!’

‘Never say die, bow wow wow, keep up your spirits, Grip Grip Grip, Holloa! We’ll all have tea, I’m a Protestant kettle, No Popery!’ cried the raven.

‘Gordon for ever, Grip!’ cried Barnaby.

The raven, placing his head upon the ground, looked at his master sideways, as though he would have said, ‘Say that again!’ Perfectly understanding his desire, Barnaby repeated the phrase a great many times. The bird listened with profound attention; sometimes repeating the popular cry in a low voice, as if to compare the two, and try if it would at all help him to this new accomplishment; sometimes flapping his wings, or barking; and sometimes in a kind of desperation drawing a multitude of corks, with extraordinary viciousness.

Barnaby was so intent upon his favourite, that he was not at first aware of the approach of two persons on horseback, who were riding at a foot-pace, and coming straight towards his post. When he perceived them, however, which he did when they were within some fifty yards of him, he jumped hastily up, and ordering Grip within doors, stood with both hands on his staff, waiting until he should know whether they were friends or foes.

He had hardly done so, when he observed that those who advanced were a gentleman and his servant; almost at the same moment he recognised Lord George Gordon, before whom he stood uncovered, with his eyes turned towards the ground.

‘Good day!’ said Lord George, not reining in his horse until he was close beside him. ‘Well!’

‘All quiet, sir, all safe!’ cried Barnaby. ‘The rest are away—they went by that path—that one. A grand party!’

‘Ay?’ said Lord George, looking thoughtfully at him. ‘And you?’

‘Oh! They left me here to watch—to mount guard—to keep everything secure till they come back. I’ll do it, sir, for your sake. You’re a good gentleman; a kind gentleman—ay, you are. There are many against you, but we’ll be a match for them, never fear!’

‘What’s that?’ said Lord George—pointing to the raven who was peeping out of the stable-door—but still looking thoughtfully, and in some perplexity, it seemed, at Barnaby.

‘Why, don’t you know!’ retorted Barnaby, with a wondering laugh. ‘Not know what HE is! A bird, to be sure. My bird—my friend—Grip.’

‘A devil, a kettle, a Grip, a Polly, a Protestant, no Popery!’ cried the raven.

‘Though, indeed,’ added Barnaby, laying his hand upon the neck of Lord George’s horse, and speaking softly: ‘you had good reason to ask me what he is, for sometimes it puzzles me—and I am used to him—to think he’s only a bird. He’s my brother, Grip is—always with me—always talking—always merry—eh, Grip?’

The raven answered by an affectionate croak, and hopping on his master’s arm, which he held downward for that purpose, submitted with an air of perfect indifference to be fondled, and turned his restless, curious eye, now upon Lord George, and now upon his man.

Lord George, biting his nails in a discomfited manner, regarded Barnaby for some time in silence; then beckoning to his servant, said:

‘Come hither, John.’

John Grueby touched his hat, and came.

‘Have you ever seen this young man before?’ his master asked in a low voice.

‘Twice, my lord,’ said John. ‘I saw him in the crowd last night and Saturday.’

‘Did—did it seem to you that his manner was at all wild or strange?’ Lord George demanded, faltering.

‘Mad,’ said John, with emphatic brevity.

‘And why do you think him mad, sir?’ said his master, speaking in a peevish tone. ‘Don’t use that word too freely. Why do you think him mad?’

‘My lord,’ John Grueby answered, ‘look at his dress, look at his eyes, look at his restless way, hear him cry “No Popery!” Mad, my lord.’

‘So because one man dresses unlike another,’ returned his angry master, glancing at himself; ‘and happens to differ from other men in his carriage and manner, and to advocate a great cause which the corrupt and irreligious desert, he is to be accounted mad, is he?’

‘Stark, staring, raving, roaring mad, my lord,’ returned the unmoved John.

‘Do you say this to my face?’ cried his master, turning sharply upon him.

‘To any man, my lord, who asks me,’ answered John.

‘Mr Gashford, I find, was right,’ said Lord George; ‘I thought him prejudiced, though I ought to have known a man like him better than to have supposed it possible!’

‘I shall never have Mr Gashford’s good word, my lord,’ replied John, touching his hat respectfully, ‘and I don’t covet it.’

‘You are an ill-conditioned, most ungrateful fellow,’ said Lord George: ‘a spy, for anything I know. Mr Gashford is perfectly correct, as I might have felt convinced he was. I have done wrong to retain you in my service. It is a tacit insult to him as my choice and confidential friend to do so, remembering the cause you sided with, on the day he was maligned at Westminster. You will leave me to-night—nay, as soon as we reach home. The sooner the better.’

‘If it comes to that, I say so too, my lord. Let Mr Gashford have his will. As to my being a spy, my lord, you know me better than to believe it, I am sure. I don’t know much about causes. My cause is the cause of one man against two hundred; and I hope it always will be.’

‘You have said quite enough,’ returned Lord George, motioning him to go back. ‘I desire to hear no more.’

‘If you’ll let me have another word, my lord,’ returned John Grueby, ‘I’d give this silly fellow a caution not to stay here by himself. The proclamation is in a good many hands already, and it’s well known that he was concerned in the business it relates to. He had better get to a place of safety if he can, poor creature.’

‘You hear what this man says?’ cried Lord George, addressing Barnaby, who had looked on and wondered while this dialogue passed. ‘He thinks you may be afraid to remain upon your post, and are kept here perhaps against your will. What do you say?’

‘I think, young man,’ said John, in explanation, ‘that the soldiers may turn out and take you; and that if they do, you will certainly be hung by the neck till you’re dead—dead—dead. And I think you had better go from here, as fast as you can. That’s what I think.’

‘He’s a coward, Grip, a coward!’ cried Barnaby, putting the raven on the ground, and shouldering his staff. ‘Let them come! Gordon for ever! Let them come!’

‘Ay!’ said Lord George, ‘let them! Let us see who will venture to attack a power like ours; the solemn league of a whole people. THIS a madman! You have said well, very well. I am proud to be the leader of such men as you.’

Barnaby’s heart swelled within his bosom as he heard these words. He took Lord George’s hand and carried it to his lips; patted his horse’s crest, as if the affection and admiration he had conceived for the man extended to the animal he rode; then unfurling his flag, and proudly waving it, resumed his pacing up and down.

Lord George, with a kindling eye and glowing cheek, took off his hat, and flourishing it above his head, bade him exultingly Farewell!—then cantered off at a brisk pace; after glancing angrily round to see that his servant followed. Honest John set spurs to his horse and rode after his master, but not before he had again warned Barnaby to retreat, with many significant gestures, which indeed he continued to make, and Barnaby to resist, until the windings of the road concealed them from each other’s view.

Left to himself again with a still higher sense of the importance of his post, and stimulated to enthusiasm by the special notice and encouragement of his leader, Barnaby walked to and fro in a delicious trance rather than as a waking man. The sunshine which prevailed around was in his mind. He had but one desire ungratified. If she could only see him now!

The day wore on; its heat was gently giving place to the cool of evening; a light wind sprung up, fanning his long hair, and making the banner rustle pleasantly above his head. There was a freedom and freshness in the sound and in the time, which chimed exactly with his mood. He was happier than ever.

He was leaning on his staff looking towards the declining sun, and reflecting with a smile that he stood sentinel at that moment over buried gold, when two or three figures appeared in the distance, making towards the house at a rapid pace, and motioning with their hands as though they urged its inmates to retreat from some approaching danger. As they drew nearer, they became more earnest in their gestures; and they were no sooner within hearing, than the foremost among them cried that the soldiers were coming up.

At these words, Barnaby furled his flag, and tied it round the pole. His heart beat high while he did so, but he had no more fear or thought of retreating than the pole itself. The friendly stragglers hurried past him, after giving him notice of his danger, and quickly passed into the house, where the utmost confusion immediately prevailed. As those within hastily closed the windows and the doors, they urged him by looks and signs to fly without loss of time, and called to him many times to do so; but he only shook his head indignantly in answer, and stood the firmer on his post. Finding that he was not to be persuaded, they took care of themselves; and leaving the place with only one old woman in it, speedily withdrew.

As yet there had been no symptom of the news having any better foundation than in the fears of those who brought it, but The Boot had not been deserted five minutes, when there appeared, coming across the fields, a body of men who, it was easy to see, by the glitter of their arms and ornaments in the sun, and by their orderly and regular mode of advancing—for they came on as one man—were soldiers. In a very little time, Barnaby knew that they were a strong detachment of the Foot Guards, having along with them two gentlemen in private clothes, and a small party of Horse; the latter brought up the rear, and were not in number more than six or eight.

They advanced steadily; neither quickening their pace as they came nearer, nor raising any cry, nor showing the least emotion or anxiety. Though this was a matter of course in the case of regular troops, even to Barnaby, there was something particularly impressive and disconcerting in it to one accustomed to the noise and tumult of an undisciplined mob. For all that, he stood his ground not a whit the less resolutely, and looked on undismayed.

Presently, they marched into the yard, and halted. The commanding-officer despatched a messenger to the horsemen, one of whom came riding back. Some words passed between them, and they glanced at Barnaby; who well remembered the man he had unhorsed at Westminster, and saw him now before his eyes. The man being speedily dismissed, saluted, and rode back to his comrades, who were drawn up apart at a short distance.

The officer then gave the word to prime and load. The heavy ringing of the musket-stocks upon the ground, and the sharp and rapid rattling of the ramrods in their barrels, were a kind of relief to Barnaby, deadly though he knew the purport of such sounds to be. When this was done, other commands were given, and the soldiers instantaneously formed in single file all round the house and stables; completely encircling them in every part, at a distance, perhaps, of some half-dozen yards; at least that seemed in Barnaby’s eyes to be about the space left between himself and those who confronted him. The horsemen remained drawn up by themselves as before.

The two gentlemen in private clothes who had kept aloof, now rode forward, one on either side the officer. The proclamation having been produced and read by one of them, the officer called on Barnaby to surrender.

He made no answer, but stepping within the door, before which he had kept guard, held his pole crosswise to protect it. In the midst of a profound silence, he was again called upon to yield.

Still he offered no reply. Indeed he had enough to do, to run his eye backward and forward along the half-dozen men who immediately fronted him, and settle hurriedly within himself at which of them he would strike first, when they pressed on him. He caught the eye of one in the centre, and resolved to hew that fellow down, though he died for it.

Again there was a dead silence, and again the same voice called upon him to deliver himself up.

Next moment he was back in the stable, dealing blows about him like a madman. Two of the men lay stretched at his feet: the one he had marked, dropped first—he had a thought for that, even in the hot blood and hurry of the struggle. Another blow—another! Down, mastered, wounded in the breast by a heavy blow from the butt-end of a gun (he saw the weapon in the act of falling)—breathless—and a prisoner.

An exclamation of surprise from the officer recalled him, in some degree, to himself. He looked round. Grip, after working in secret all the afternoon, and with redoubled vigour while everybody’s attention was distracted, had plucked away the straw from Hugh’s bed, and turned up the loose ground with his iron bill. The hole had been recklessly filled to the brim, and was merely sprinkled with earth. Golden cups, spoons, candlesticks, coined guineas—all the riches were revealed.

They brought spades and a sack; dug up everything that was hidden there; and carried away more than two men could lift. They handcuffed him and bound his arms, searched him, and took away all he had. Nobody questioned or reproached him, or seemed to have much curiosity about him. The two men he had stunned, were carried off by their companions in the same business-like way in which everything else was done. Finally, he was left under a guard of four soldiers with fixed bayonets, while the officer directed in person the search of the house and the other buildings connected with it.

This was soon completed. The soldiers formed again in the yard; he was marched out, with his guard about him; and ordered to fall in, where a space was left. The others closed up all round, and so they moved away, with the prisoner in the centre.

When they came into the streets, he felt he was a sight; and looking up as they passed quickly along, could see people running to the windows a little too late, and throwing up the sashes to look after him. Sometimes he met a staring face beyond the heads about him, or under the arms of his conductors, or peering down upon him from a waggon-top or coach-box; but this was all he saw, being surrounded by so many men. The very noises of the streets seemed muffled and subdued; and the air came stale and hot upon him, like the sickly breath of an oven.

Tramp, tramp. Tramp, tramp. Heads erect, shoulders square, every man stepping in exact time—all so orderly and regular—nobody looking at him—nobody seeming conscious of his presence,—he could hardly believe he was a Prisoner. But at the word, though only thought, not spoken, he felt the handcuffs galling his wrists, the cord pressing his arms to his sides: the loaded guns levelled at his head; and those cold, bright, sharp, shining points turned towards him: the mere looking down at which, now that he was bound and helpless, made the warm current of his life run cold.

Chapter 58

They were not long in reaching the barracks, for the officer who commanded the party was desirous to avoid rousing the people by the display of military force in the streets, and was humanely anxious to give as little opportunity as possible for any attempt at rescue; knowing that it must lead to bloodshed and loss of life, and that if the civil authorities by whom he was accompanied, empowered him to order his men to fire, many innocent persons would probably fall, whom curiosity or idleness had attracted to the spot. He therefore led the party briskly on, avoiding with a merciful prudence the more public and crowded thoroughfares, and pursuing those which he deemed least likely to be infested by disorderly persons. This wise proceeding not only enabled them to gain their quarters without any interruption, but completely baffled a body of rioters who had assembled in one of the main streets, through which it was considered certain they would pass, and who remained gathered together for the purpose of releasing the prisoner from their hands, long after they had deposited him in a place of security, closed the barrack-gates, and set a double guard at every entrance for its better protection.

Arrived at this place, poor Barnaby was marched into a stone-floored room, where there was a very powerful smell of tobacco, a strong thorough draught of air, and a great wooden bedstead, large enough for a score of men. Several soldiers in undress were lounging about, or eating from tin cans; military accoutrements dangled on rows of pegs along the whitewashed wall; and some half-dozen men lay fast asleep upon their backs, snoring in concert. After remaining here just long enough to note these things, he was marched out again, and conveyed across the parade-ground to another portion of the building.

Perhaps a man never sees so much at a glance as when he is in a situation of extremity. The chances are a hundred to one, that if Barnaby had lounged in at the gate to look about him, he would have lounged out again with a very imperfect idea of the place, and would have remembered very little about it. But as he was taken handcuffed across the gravelled area, nothing escaped his notice. The dry, arid look of the dusty square, and of the bare brick building; the clothes hanging at some of the windows; and the men in their shirt-sleeves and braces, lolling with half their bodies out of the others; the green sun-blinds at the officers’ quarters, and the little scanty trees in front; the drummer-boys practising in a distant courtyard; the men at drill on the parade; the two soldiers carrying a basket between them, who winked to each other as he went by, and slily pointed to their throats; the spruce serjeant who hurried past with a cane in his hand, and under his arm a clasped book with a vellum cover; the fellows in the ground-floor rooms, furbishing and brushing up their different articles of dress, who stopped to look at him, and whose voices as they spoke together echoed loudly through the empty galleries and passages;—everything, down to the stand of muskets before the guard-house, and the drum with a pipe-clayed belt attached, in one corner, impressed itself upon his observation, as though he had noticed them in the same place a hundred times, or had been a whole day among them, in place of one brief hurried minute.

He was taken into a small paved back yard, and there they opened a great door, plated with iron, and pierced some five feet above the ground with a few holes to let in air and light. Into this dungeon he was walked straightway; and having locked him up there, and placed a sentry over him, they left him to his meditations.

The cell, or black hole, for it had those words painted on the door, was very dark, and having recently accommodated a drunken deserter, by no means clean. Barnaby felt his way to some straw at the farther end, and looking towards the door, tried to accustom himself to the gloom, which, coming from the bright sunshine out of doors, was not an easy task.

There was a kind of portico or colonnade outside, and this obstructed even the little light that at the best could have found its way through the small apertures in the door. The footsteps of the sentinel echoed monotonously as he paced its stone pavement to and fro (reminding Barnaby of the watch he had so lately kept himself); and as he passed and repassed the door, he made the cell for an instant so black by the interposition of his body, that his going away again seemed like the appearance of a new ray of light, and was quite a circumstance to look for.

When the prisoner had sat sometime upon the ground, gazing at the chinks, and listening to the advancing and receding footsteps of his guard, the man stood still upon his post. Barnaby, quite unable to think, or to speculate on what would be done with him, had been lulled into a kind of doze by his regular pace; but his stopping roused him; and then he became aware that two men were in conversation under the colonnade, and very near the door of his cell.

How long they had been talking there, he could not tell, for he had fallen into an unconsciousness of his real position, and when the footsteps ceased, was answering aloud some question which seemed to have been put to him by Hugh in the stable, though of the fancied purport, either of question or reply, notwithstanding that he awoke with the latter on his lips, he had no recollection whatever. The first words that reached his ears, were these:

‘Why is he brought here then, if he has to be taken away again so soon?’

‘Why where would you have him go! Damme, he’s not as safe anywhere as among the king’s troops, is he? What WOULD you do with him? Would you hand him over to a pack of cowardly civilians, that shake in their shoes till they wear the soles out, with trembling at the threats of the ragamuffins he belongs to?’

‘That’s true enough.’

‘True enough!—I’ll tell you what. I wish, Tom Green, that I was a commissioned instead of a non-commissioned officer, and that I had the command of two companies—only two companies—of my own regiment. Call me out to stop these riots—give me the needful authority, and half-a-dozen rounds of ball cartridge—’

‘Ay!’ said the other voice. ‘That’s all very well, but they won’t give the needful authority. If the magistrate won’t give the word, what’s the officer to do?’

Not very well knowing, as it seemed, how to overcome this difficulty, the other man contented himself with damning the magistrates.

‘With all my heart,’ said his friend.

‘Where’s the use of a magistrate?’ returned the other voice. ‘What’s a magistrate in this case, but an impertinent, unnecessary, unconstitutional sort of interference? Here’s a proclamation. Here’s a man referred to in that proclamation. Here’s proof against him, and a witness on the spot. Damme! Take him out and shoot him, sir. Who wants a magistrate?’

‘When does he go before Sir John Fielding?’ asked the man who had spoken first.

‘To-night at eight o’clock,’ returned the other. ‘Mark what follows. The magistrate commits him to Newgate. Our people take him to Newgate. The rioters pelt our people. Our people retire before the rioters. Stones are thrown, insults are offered, not a shot’s fired. Why? Because of the magistrates. Damn the magistrates!’

When he had in some degree relieved his mind by cursing the magistrates in various other forms of speech, the man was silent, save for a low growling, still having reference to those authorities, which from time to time escaped him.

Barnaby, who had wit enough to know that this conversation concerned, and very nearly concerned, himself, remained perfectly quiet until they ceased to speak, when he groped his way to the door, and peeping through the air-holes, tried to make out what kind of men they were, to whom he had been listening.

The one who condemned the civil power in such strong terms, was a serjeant—engaged just then, as the streaming ribands in his cap announced, on the recruiting service. He stood leaning sideways against a pillar nearly opposite the door, and as he growled to himself, drew figures on the pavement with his cane. The other man had his back towards the dungeon, and Barnaby could only see his form. To judge from that, he was a gallant, manly, handsome fellow, but he had lost his left arm. It had been taken off between the elbow and the shoulder, and his empty coat-sleeve hung across his breast.

It was probably this circumstance which gave him an interest beyond any that his companion could boast of, and attracted Barnaby’s attention. There was something soldierly in his bearing, and he wore a jaunty cap and jacket. Perhaps he had been in the service at one time or other. If he had, it could not have been very long ago, for he was but a young fellow now.

‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully; ‘let the fault be where it may, it makes a man sorrowful to come back to old England, and see her in this condition.’

‘I suppose the pigs will join ‘em next,’ said the serjeant, with an imprecation on the rioters, ‘now that the birds have set ‘em the example.’

‘The birds!’ repeated Tom Green.

‘Ah—birds,’ said the serjeant testily; ‘that’s English, an’t it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Go to the guard-house, and see. You’ll find a bird there, that’s got their cry as pat as any of ‘em, and bawls “No Popery,” like a man—or like a devil, as he says he is. I shouldn’t wonder. The devil’s loose in London somewhere. Damme if I wouldn’t twist his neck round, on the chance, if I had MY way.’

The young man had taken two or three steps away, as if to go and see this creature, when he was arrested by the voice of Barnaby.

‘It’s mine,’ he called out, half laughing and half weeping—‘my pet, my friend Grip. Ha ha ha! Don’t hurt him, he has done no harm. I taught him; it’s my fault. Let me have him, if you please. He’s the only friend I have left now. He’ll not dance, or talk, or whistle for you, I know; but he will for me, because he knows me and loves me—though you wouldn’t think it—very well. You wouldn’t hurt a bird, I’m sure. You’re a brave soldier, sir, and wouldn’t harm a woman or a child—no, no, nor a poor bird, I’m certain.’

This latter adjuration was addressed to the serjeant, whom Barnaby judged from his red coat to be high in office, and able to seal Grip’s destiny by a word. But that gentleman, in reply, surlily damned him for a thief and rebel as he was, and with many disinterested imprecations on his own eyes, liver, blood, and body, assured him that if it rested with him to decide, he would put a final stopper on the bird, and his master too.

‘You talk boldly to a caged man,’ said Barnaby, in anger. ‘If I was on the other side of the door and there were none to part us, you’d change your note—ay, you may toss your head—you would! Kill the bird—do. Kill anything you can, and so revenge yourself on those who with their bare hands untied could do as much to you!’

Having vented his defiance, he flung himself into the furthest corner of his prison, and muttering, ‘Good bye, Grip—good bye, dear old Grip!’ shed tears for the first time since he had been taken captive; and hid his face in the straw.

He had had some fancy at first, that the one-armed man would help him, or would give him a kind word in answer. He hardly knew why, but he hoped and thought so. The young fellow had stopped when he called out, and checking himself in the very act of turning round, stood listening to every word he said. Perhaps he built his feeble trust on this; perhaps on his being young, and having a frank and honest manner. However that might be, he built on sand. The other went away directly he had finished speaking, and neither answered him, nor returned. No matter. They were all against him here: he might have known as much. Good bye, old Grip, good bye!

After some time, they came and unlocked the door, and called to him to come out. He rose directly, and complied, for he would not have THEM think he was subdued or frightened. He walked out like a man, and looked from face to face.

None of them returned his gaze or seemed to notice it. They marched him back to the parade by the way they had brought him, and there they halted, among a body of soldiers, at least twice as numerous as that which had taken him prisoner in the afternoon. The officer he had seen before, bade him in a few brief words take notice that if he attempted to escape, no matter how favourable a chance he might suppose he had, certain of the men had orders to fire upon him, that moment. They then closed round him as before, and marched him off again.

In the same unbroken order they arrived at Bow Street, followed and beset on all sides by a crowd which was continually increasing. Here he was placed before a blind gentleman, and asked if he wished to say anything. Not he. What had he got to tell them? After a very little talking, which he was careless of and quite indifferent to, they told him he was to go to Newgate, and took him away.

He went out into the street, so surrounded and hemmed in on every side by soldiers, that he could see nothing; but he knew there was a great crowd of people, by the murmur; and that they were not friendly to the soldiers, was soon rendered evident by their yells and hisses. How often and how eagerly he listened for the voice of Hugh! There was not a voice he knew among them all. Was Hugh a prisoner too? Was there no hope!

As they came nearer and nearer to the prison, the hootings of the people grew more violent; stones were thrown; and every now and then, a rush was made against the soldiers, which they staggered under. One of them, close before him, smarting under a blow upon the temple, levelled his musket, but the officer struck it upwards with his sword, and ordered him on peril of his life to desist. This was the last thing he saw with any distinctness, for directly afterwards he was tossed about, and beaten to and fro, as though in a tempestuous sea. But go where he would, there were the same guards about him. Twice or thrice he was thrown down, and so were they; but even then, he could not elude their vigilance for a moment. They were up again, and had closed about him, before he, with his wrists so tightly bound, could scramble to his feet. Fenced in, thus, he felt himself hoisted to the top of a low flight of steps, and then for a moment he caught a glimpse of the fighting in the crowd, and of a few red coats sprinkled together, here and there, struggling to rejoin their fellows. Next moment, everything was dark and gloomy, and he was standing in the prison lobby; the centre of a group of men.

A smith was speedily in attendance, who riveted upon him a set of heavy irons. Stumbling on as well as he could, beneath the unusual burden of these fetters, he was conducted to a strong stone cell, where, fastening the door with locks, and bolts, and chains, they left him, well secured; having first, unseen by him, thrust in Grip, who, with his head drooping and his deep black plumes rough and rumpled, appeared to comprehend and to partake, his master’s fallen fortunes.

Chapter 59

It is necessary at this juncture to return to Hugh, who, having, as we have seen, called to the rioters to disperse from about the Warren, and meet again as usual, glided back into the darkness from which he had emerged, and reappeared no more that night.

He paused in the copse which sheltered him from the observation of his mad companions, and waited to ascertain whether they drew off at his bidding, or still lingered and called to him to join them. Some few, he saw, were indisposed to go away without him, and made towards the spot where he stood concealed as though they were about to follow in his footsteps, and urge him to come back; but these men, being in their turn called to by their friends, and in truth not greatly caring to venture into the dark parts of the grounds, where they might be easily surprised and taken, if any of the neighbours or retainers of the family were watching them from among the trees, soon abandoned the idea, and hastily assembling such men as they found of their mind at the moment, straggled off.

When he was satisfied that the great mass of the insurgents were imitating this example, and that the ground was rapidly clearing, he plunged into the thickest portion of the little wood; and, crashing the branches as he went, made straight towards a distant light: guided by that, and by the sullen glow of the fire behind him.

As he drew nearer and nearer to the twinkling beacon towards which he bent his course, the red glare of a few torches began to reveal itself, and the voices of men speaking together in a subdued tone broke the silence which, save for a distant shouting now and then, already prevailed. At length he cleared the wood, and, springing across a ditch, stood in a dark lane, where a small body of ill-looking vagabonds, whom he had left there some twenty minutes before, waited his coming with impatience.

They were gathered round an old post-chaise or chariot, driven by one of themselves, who sat postilion-wise upon the near horse. The blinds were drawn up, and Mr Tappertit and Dennis kept guard at the two windows. The former assumed the command of the party, for he challenged Hugh as he advanced towards them; and when he did so, those who were resting on the ground about the carriage rose to their feet and clustered round him.

‘Well!’ said Simon, in a low voice; ‘is all right?’

‘Right enough,’ replied Hugh, in the same tone. ‘They’re dispersing now—had begun before I came away.’

‘And is the coast clear?’

‘Clear enough before our men, I take it,’ said Hugh. ‘There are not many who, knowing of their work over yonder, will want to meddle with ‘em to-night.—Who’s got some drink here?’

Everybody had some plunder from the cellar; half-a-dozen flasks and bottles were offered directly. He selected the largest, and putting it to his mouth, sent the wine gurgling down his throat. Having emptied it, he threw it down, and stretched out his hand for another, which he emptied likewise, at a draught. Another was given him, and this he half emptied too. Reserving what remained to finish with, he asked:

‘Have you got anything to eat, any of you? I’m as ravenous as a hungry wolf. Which of you was in the larder—come?’

‘I was, brother,’ said Dennis, pulling off his hat, and fumbling in the crown. ‘There’s a matter of cold venison pasty somewhere or another here, if that’ll do.’

‘Do!’ cried Hugh, seating himself on the pathway. ‘Bring it out! Quick! Show a light here, and gather round! Let me sup in state, my lads! Ha ha ha!’

Entering into his boisterous humour, for they all had drunk deeply, and were as wild as he, they crowded about him, while two of their number who had torches, held them up, one on either side of him, that his banquet might not be despatched in the dark. Mr Dennis, having by this time succeeded in extricating from his hat a great mass of pasty, which had been wedged in so tightly that it was not easily got out, put it before him; and Hugh, having borrowed a notched and jagged knife from one of the company, fell to work upon it vigorously.

‘I should recommend you to swallow a little fire every day, about an hour afore dinner, brother,’ said Dennis, after a pause. ‘It seems to agree with you, and to stimulate your appetite.’

Hugh looked at him, and at the blackened faces by which he was surrounded, and, stopping for a moment to flourish his knife above his head, answered with a roar of laughter.

‘Keep order, there, will you?’ said Simon Tappertit.

‘Why, isn’t a man allowed to regale himself, noble captain,’ retorted his lieutenant, parting the men who stood between them, with his knife, that he might see him,—‘to regale himself a little bit after such work as mine? What a hard captain! What a strict captain! What a tyrannical captain! Ha ha ha!’

‘I wish one of you fellers would hold a bottle to his mouth to keep him quiet,’ said Simon, ‘unless you want the military to be down upon us.’

‘And what if they are down upon us!’ retorted Hugh. ‘Who cares? Who’s afraid? Let ‘em come, I say, let ‘em come. The more, the merrier. Give me bold Barnaby at my side, and we two will settle the military, without troubling any of you. Barnaby’s the man for the military. Barnaby’s health!’

But as the majority of those present were by no means anxious for a second engagement that night, being already weary and exhausted, they sided with Mr Tappertit, and pressed him to make haste with his supper, for they had already delayed too long. Knowing, even in the height of his frenzy, that they incurred great danger by lingering so near the scene of the late outrages, Hugh made an end of his meal without more remonstrance, and rising, stepped up to Mr Tappertit, and smote him on the back.

‘Now then,’ he cried, ‘I’m ready. There are brave birds inside this cage, eh? Delicate birds,—tender, loving, little doves. I caged ‘em—I caged ‘em—one more peep!’

He thrust the little man aside as he spoke, and mounting on the steps, which were half let down, pulled down the blind by force, and stared into the chaise like an ogre into his larder.

‘Ha ha ha! and did you scratch, and pinch, and struggle, pretty mistress?’ he cried, as he grasped a little hand that sought in vain to free itself from his grip: ‘you, so bright-eyed, and cherry-lipped, and daintily made? But I love you better for it, mistress. Ay, I do. You should stab me and welcome, so that it pleased you, and you had to cure me afterwards. I love to see you proud and scornful. It makes you handsomer than ever; and who so handsome as you at any time, my pretty one!’

‘Come!’ said Mr Tappertit, who had waited during this speech with considerable impatience. ‘There’s enough of that. Come down.’

The little hand seconded this admonition by thrusting Hugh’s great head away with all its force, and drawing up the blind, amidst his noisy laughter, and vows that he must have another look, for the last glimpse of that sweet face had provoked him past all bearing. However, as the suppressed impatience of the party now broke out into open murmurs, he abandoned this design, and taking his seat upon the bar, contented himself with tapping at the front windows of the carriage, and trying to steal a glance inside; Mr Tappertit, mounting the steps and hanging on by the door, issued his directions to the driver with a commanding voice and attitude; the rest got up behind, or ran by the side of the carriage, as they could; some, in imitation of Hugh, endeavoured to see the face he had praised so highly, and were reminded of their impertinence by hints from the cudgel of Mr Tappertit. Thus they pursued their journey by circuitous and winding roads; preserving, except when they halted to take breath, or to quarrel about the best way of reaching London, pretty good order and tolerable silence.

In the mean time, Dolly—beautiful, bewitching, captivating little Dolly—her hair dishevelled, her dress torn, her dark eyelashes wet with tears, her bosom heaving—her face, now pale with fear, now crimsoned with indignation—her whole self a hundred times more beautiful in this heightened aspect than ever she had been before—vainly strove to comfort Emma Haredale, and to impart to her the consolation of which she stood in so much need herself. The soldiers were sure to come; they must be rescued; it would be impossible to convey them through the streets of London when they set the threats of their guards at defiance, and shrieked to the passengers for help. If they did this when they came into the more frequented ways, she was certain—she was quite certain—they must be released. So poor Dolly said, and so poor Dolly tried to think; but the invariable conclusion of all such arguments was, that Dolly burst into tears; cried, as she wrung her hands, what would they do or think, or who would comfort them, at home, at the Golden Key; and sobbed most piteously.

Miss Haredale, whose feelings were usually of a quieter kind than Dolly’s, and not so much upon the surface, was dreadfully alarmed, and indeed had only just recovered from a swoon. She was very pale, and the hand which Dolly held was quite cold; but she bade her, nevertheless, remember that, under Providence, much must depend upon their own discretion; that if they remained quiet and lulled the vigilance of the ruffians into whose hands they had fallen, the chances of their being able to procure assistance when they reached the town, were very much increased; that unless society were quite unhinged, a hot pursuit must be immediately commenced; and that her uncle, she might be sure, would never rest until he had found them out and rescued them. But as she said these latter words, the idea that he had fallen in a general massacre of the Catholics that night—no very wild or improbable supposition after what they had seen and undergone—struck her dumb; and, lost in the horrors they had witnessed, and those they might be yet reserved for, she sat incapable of thought, or speech, or outward show of grief: as rigid, and almost as white and cold, as marble.

Oh, how many, many times, in that long ride, did Dolly think of her old lover,—poor, fond, slighted Joe! How many, many times, did she recall that night when she ran into his arms from the very man now projecting his hateful gaze into the darkness where she sat, and leering through the glass in monstrous admiration! And when she thought of Joe, and what a brave fellow he was, and how he would have rode boldly up, and dashed in among these villains now, yes, though they were double the number—and here she clenched her little hand, and pressed her foot upon the ground—the pride she felt for a moment in having won his heart, faded in a burst of tears, and she sobbed more bitterly than ever.

As the night wore on, and they proceeded by ways which were quite unknown to them—for they could recognise none of the objects of which they sometimes caught a hurried glimpse—their fears increased; nor were they without good foundation; it was not difficult for two beautiful young women to find, in their being borne they knew not whither by a band of daring villains who eyed them as some among these fellows did, reasons for the worst alarm. When they at last entered London, by a suburb with which they were wholly unacquainted, it was past midnight, and the streets were dark and empty. Nor was this the worst, for the carriage stopping in a lonely spot, Hugh suddenly opened the door, jumped in, and took his seat between them.

It was in vain they cried for help. He put his arm about the neck of each, and swore to stifle them with kisses if they were not as silent as the grave.

‘I come here to keep you quiet,’ he said, ‘and that’s the means I shall take. So don’t be quiet, pretty mistresses—make a noise—do—and I shall like it all the better.’

They were proceeding at a rapid pace, and apparently with fewer attendants than before, though it was so dark (the torches being extinguished) that this was mere conjecture. They shrunk from his touch, each into the farthest corner of the carriage; but shrink as Dolly would, his arm encircled her waist, and held her fast. She neither cried nor spoke, for terror and disgust deprived her of the power; but she plucked at his hand as though she would die in the effort to disengage herself; and crouching on the ground, with her head averted and held down, repelled him with a strength she wondered at as much as he. The carriage stopped again.

‘Lift this one out,’ said Hugh to the man who opened the door, as he took Miss Haredale’s hand, and felt how heavily it fell. ‘She’s fainted.’

‘So much the better,’ growled Dennis—it was that amiable gentleman. ‘She’s quiet. I always like ‘em to faint, unless they’re very tender and composed.’

‘Can you take her by yourself?’ asked Hugh.

‘I don’t know till I try. I ought to be able to; I’ve lifted up a good many in my time,’ said the hangman. ‘Up then! She’s no small weight, brother; none of these here fine gals are. Up again! Now we have her.’

Having by this time hoisted the young lady into his arms, he staggered off with his burden.

‘Look ye, pretty bird,’ said Hugh, drawing Dolly towards him. ‘Remember what I told you—a kiss for every cry. Scream, if you love me, darling. Scream once, mistress. Pretty mistress, only once, if you love me.’

Thrusting his face away with all her force, and holding down her head, Dolly submitted to be carried out of the chaise, and borne after Miss Haredale into a miserable cottage, where Hugh, after hugging her to his breast, set her gently down upon the floor.

Poor Dolly! Do what she would, she only looked the better for it, and tempted them the more. When her eyes flashed angrily, and her ripe lips slightly parted, to give her rapid breathing vent, who could resist it? When she wept and sobbed as though her heart would break, and bemoaned her miseries in the sweetest voice that ever fell upon a listener’s ear, who could be insensible to the little winning pettishness which now and then displayed itself, even in the sincerity and earnestness of her grief? When, forgetful for a moment of herself, as she was now, she fell on her knees beside her friend, and bent over her, and laid her cheek to hers, and put her arms about her, what mortal eyes could have avoided wandering to the delicate bodice, the streaming hair, the neglected dress, the perfect abandonment and unconsciousness of the blooming little beauty? Who could look on and see her lavish caresses and endearments, and not desire to be in Emma Haredale’s place; to be either her or Dolly; either the hugging or the hugged? Not Hugh. Not Dennis.

‘I tell you what it is, young women,’ said Mr Dennis, ‘I an’t much of a lady’s man myself, nor am I a party in the present business further than lending a willing hand to my friends: but if I see much more of this here sort of thing, I shall become a principal instead of a accessory. I tell you candid.’

‘Why have you brought us here?’ said Emma. ‘Are we to be murdered?’

‘Murdered!’ cried Dennis, sitting down upon a stool, and regarding her with great favour. ‘Why, my dear, who’d murder sich chickabiddies as you? If you was to ask me, now, whether you was brought here to be married, there might be something in it.’

And here he exchanged a grin with Hugh, who removed his eyes from Dolly for the purpose.

‘No, no,’ said Dennis, ‘there’ll be no murdering, my pets. Nothing of that sort. Quite the contrairy.’

‘You are an older man than your companion, sir,’ said Emma, trembling. ‘Have you no pity for us? Do you not consider that we are women?’

‘I do indeed, my dear,’ retorted Dennis. ‘It would be very hard not to, with two such specimens afore my eyes. Ha ha! Oh yes, I consider that. We all consider that, miss.’

He shook his head waggishly, leered at Hugh again, and laughed very much, as if he had said a noble thing, and rather thought he was coming out.

‘There’ll be no murdering, my dear. Not a bit on it. I tell you what though, brother,’ said Dennis, cocking his hat for the convenience of scratching his head, and looking gravely at Hugh, ‘it’s worthy of notice, as a proof of the amazing equalness and dignity of our law, that it don’t make no distinction between men and women. I’ve heerd the judge say, sometimes, to a highwayman or housebreaker as had tied the ladies neck and heels—you’ll excuse me making mention of it, my darlings—and put ‘em in a cellar, that he showed no consideration to women. Now, I say that there judge didn’t know his business, brother; and that if I had been that there highwayman or housebreaker, I should have made answer: “What are you a talking of, my lord? I showed the women as much consideration as the law does, and what more would you have me do?” If you was to count up in the newspapers the number of females as have been worked off in this here city alone, in the last ten year,’ said Mr Dennis thoughtfully, ‘you’d be surprised at the total—quite amazed, you would. There’s a dignified and equal thing; a beautiful thing! But we’ve no security for its lasting. Now that they’ve begun to favour these here Papists, I shouldn’t wonder if they went and altered even THAT, one of these days. Upon my soul, I shouldn’t.’

The subject, perhaps from being of too exclusive and professional a nature, failed to interest Hugh as much as his friend had anticipated. But he had no time to pursue it, for at this crisis Mr Tappertit entered precipitately; at sight of whom Dolly uttered a scream of joy, and fairly threw herself into his arms.

‘I knew it, I was sure of it!’ cried Dolly. ‘My dear father’s at the door. Thank God, thank God! Bless you, Sim. Heaven bless you for this!’

Simon Tappertit, who had at first implicitly believed that the locksmith’s daughter, unable any longer to suppress her secret passion for himself, was about to give it full vent in its intensity, and to declare that she was his for ever, looked extremely foolish when she said these words;—the more so, as they were received by Hugh and Dennis with a loud laugh, which made her draw back, and regard him with a fixed and earnest look.

‘Miss Haredale,’ said Sim, after a very awkward silence, ‘I hope you’re as comfortable as circumstances will permit of. Dolly Varden, my darling—my own, my lovely one—I hope YOU’RE pretty comfortable likewise.’

Poor little Dolly! She saw how it was; hid her face in her hands; and sobbed more bitterly than ever.

‘You meet in me, Miss V.,’ said Simon, laying his hand upon his breast, ‘not a ‘prentice, not a workman, not a slave, not the wictim of your father’s tyrannical behaviour, but the leader of a great people, the captain of a noble band, in which these gentlemen are, as I may say, corporals and serjeants. You behold in me, not a private individual, but a public character; not a mender of locks, but a healer of the wounds of his unhappy country. Dolly V., sweet Dolly V., for how many years have I looked forward to this present meeting! For how many years has it been my intention to exalt and ennoble you! I redeem it. Behold in me, your husband. Yes, beautiful Dolly—charmer—enslaver—S. Tappertit is all your own!’

As he said these words he advanced towards her. Dolly retreated till she could go no farther, and then sank down upon the floor. Thinking it very possible that this might be maiden modesty, Simon essayed to raise her; on which Dolly, goaded to desperation, wound her hands in his hair, and crying out amidst her tears that he was a dreadful little wretch, and always had been, shook, and pulled, and beat him, until he was fain to call for help, most lustily. Hugh had never admired her half so much as at that moment.

‘She’s in an excited state to-night,’ said Simon, as he smoothed his rumpled feathers, ‘and don’t know when she’s well off. Let her be by herself till to-morrow, and that’ll bring her down a little. Carry her into the next house!’

Hugh had her in his arms directly. It might be that Mr Tappertit’s heart was really softened by her distress, or it might be that he felt it in some degree indecorous that his intended bride should be struggling in the grasp of another man. He commanded him, on second thoughts, to put her down again, and looked moodily on as she flew to Miss Haredale’s side, and clinging to her dress, hid her flushed face in its folds.

‘They shall remain here together till to-morrow,’ said Simon, who had now quite recovered his dignity—‘till to-morrow. Come away!’

‘Ay!’ cried Hugh. ‘Come away, captain. Ha ha ha!’

‘What are you laughing at?’ demanded Simon sternly.

‘Nothing, captain, nothing,’ Hugh rejoined; and as he spoke, and clapped his hand upon the shoulder of the little man, he laughed again, for some unknown reason, with tenfold violence.

Mr Tappertit surveyed him from head to foot with lofty scorn (this only made him laugh the more), and turning to the prisoners, said:

‘You’ll take notice, ladies, that this place is well watched on every side, and that the least noise is certain to be attended with unpleasant consequences. You’ll hear—both of you—more of our intentions to-morrow. In the mean time, don’t show yourselves at the window, or appeal to any of the people you may see pass it; for if you do, it’ll be known directly that you come from a Catholic house, and all the exertions our men can make, may not be able to save your lives.’

With this last caution, which was true enough, he turned to the door, followed by Hugh and Dennis. They paused for a moment, going out, to look at them clasped in each other’s arms, and then left the cottage; fastening the door, and setting a good watch upon it, and indeed all round the house.

‘I say,’ growled Dennis, as they walked away in company, ‘that’s a dainty pair. Muster Gashford’s one is as handsome as the other, eh?’

‘Hush!’ said Hugh, hastily. ‘Don’t you mention names. It’s a bad habit.’

‘I wouldn’t like to be HIM, then (as you don’t like names), when he breaks it out to her; that’s all,’ said Dennis. ‘She’s one of them fine, black-eyed, proud gals, as I wouldn’t trust at such times with a knife too near ‘em. I’ve seen some of that sort, afore now. I recollect one that was worked off, many year ago—and there was a gentleman in that case too—that says to me, with her lip a trembling, but her hand as steady as ever I see one: “Dennis, I’m near my end, but if I had a dagger in these fingers, and he was within my reach, I’d strike him dead afore me;”—ah, she did—and she’d have done it too!’

Strike who dead?’ demanded Hugh.

‘How should I know, brother?’ answered Dennis. ‘SHE never said; not she.’

Hugh looked, for a moment, as though he would have made some further inquiry into this incoherent recollection; but Simon Tappertit, who had been meditating deeply, gave his thoughts a new direction.

‘Hugh!’ said Sim. ‘You have done well to-day. You shall be rewarded. So have you, Dennis.—There’s no young woman YOU want to carry off, is there?’

‘N—no,’ returned that gentleman, stroking his grizzly beard, which was some two inches long. ‘None in partickler, I think.’

‘Very good,’ said Sim; ‘then we’ll find some other way of making it up to you. As to you, old boy’—he turned to Hugh—‘you shall have Miggs (her that I promised you, you know) within three days. Mind. I pass my word for it.’

Hugh thanked him heartily; and as he did so, his laughing fit returned with such violence that he was obliged to hold his side with one hand, and to lean with the other on the shoulder of his small captain, without whose support he would certainly have rolled upon the ground.

Chapter 60

The three worthies turned their faces towards The Boot, with the intention of passing the night in that place of rendezvous, and of seeking the repose they so much needed in the shelter of their old den; for now that the mischief and destruction they had purposed were achieved, and their prisoners were safely bestowed for the night, they began to be conscious of exhaustion, and to feel the wasting effects of the madness which had led to such deplorable results.

Notwithstanding the lassitude and fatigue which oppressed him now, in common with his two companions, and indeed with all who had taken an active share in that night’s work, Hugh’s boisterous merriment broke out afresh whenever he looked at Simon Tappertit, and vented itself—much to that gentleman’s indignation—in such shouts of laughter as bade fair to bring the watch upon them, and involve them in a skirmish, to which in their present worn-out condition they might prove by no means equal. Even Mr Dennis, who was not at all particular on the score of gravity or dignity, and who had a great relish for his young friend’s eccentric humours, took occasion to remonstrate with him on this imprudent behaviour, which he held to be a species of suicide, tantamount to a man’s working himself off without being overtaken by the law, than which he could imagine nothing more ridiculous or impertinent.

Not abating one jot of his noisy mirth for these remonstrances, Hugh reeled along between them, having an arm of each, until they hove in sight of The Boot, and were within a field or two of that convenient tavern. He happened by great good luck to have roared and shouted himself into silence by this time. They were proceeding onward without noise, when a scout who had been creeping about the ditches all night, to warn any stragglers from encroaching further on what was now such dangerous ground, peeped cautiously from his hiding-place, and called to them to stop.

‘Stop! and why?’ said Hugh.

Because (the scout replied) the house was filled with constables and soldiers; having been surprised that afternoon. The inmates had fled or been taken into custody, he could not say which. He had prevented a great many people from approaching nearer, and he believed they had gone to the markets and such places to pass the night. He had seen the distant fires, but they were all out now. He had heard the people who passed and repassed, speaking of them too, and could report that the prevailing opinion was one of apprehension and dismay. He had not heard a word of Barnaby—didn’t even know his name—but it had been said in his hearing that some man had been taken and carried off to Newgate. Whether this was true or false, he could not affirm.

The three took counsel together, on hearing this, and debated what it might be best to do. Hugh, deeming it possible that Barnaby was in the hands of the soldiers, and at that moment under detention at The Boot, was for advancing stealthily, and firing the house; but his companions, who objected to such rash measures unless they had a crowd at their backs, represented that if Barnaby were taken he had assuredly been removed to a stronger prison; they would never have dreamed of keeping him all night in a place so weak and open to attack. Yielding to this reasoning, and to their persuasions, Hugh consented to turn back and to repair to Fleet Market; for which place, it seemed, a few of their boldest associates had shaped their course, on receiving the same intelligence.

Feeling their strength recruited and their spirits roused, now that there was a new necessity for action, they hurried away, quite forgetful of the fatigue under which they had been sinking but a few minutes before; and soon arrived at their new place of destination.

Fleet Market, at that time, was a long irregular row of wooden sheds and penthouses, occupying the centre of what is now called Farringdon Street. They were jumbled together in a most unsightly fashion, in the middle of the road; to the great obstruction of the thoroughfare and the annoyance of passengers, who were fain to make their way, as they best could, among carts, baskets, barrows, trucks, casks, bulks, and benches, and to jostle with porters, hucksters, waggoners, and a motley crowd of buyers, sellers, pick-pockets, vagrants, and idlers. The air was perfumed with the stench of rotten leaves and faded fruit; the refuse of the butchers’ stalls, and offal and garbage of a hundred kinds. It was indispensable to most public conveniences in those days, that they should be public nuisances likewise; and Fleet Market maintained the principle to admiration.

To this place, perhaps because its sheds and baskets were a tolerable substitute for beds, or perhaps because it afforded the means of a hasty barricade in case of need, many of the rioters had straggled, not only that night, but for two or three nights before. It was now broad day, but the morning being cold, a group of them were gathered round a fire in a public-house, drinking hot purl, and smoking pipes, and planning new schemes for to-morrow.

Hugh and his two friends being known to most of these men, were received with signal marks of approbation, and inducted into the most honourable seats. The room-door was closed and fastened to keep intruders at a distance, and then they proceeded to exchange news.

‘The soldiers have taken possession of The Boot, I hear,’ said Hugh. ‘Who knows anything about it?’

Several cried that they did; but the majority of the company having been engaged in the assault upon the Warren, and all present having been concerned in one or other of the night’s expeditions, it proved that they knew no more than Hugh himself; having been merely warned by each other, or by the scout, and knowing nothing of their own knowledge.

‘We left a man on guard there to-day,’ said Hugh, looking round him, ‘who is not here. You know who it is—Barnaby, who brought the soldier down, at Westminster. Has any man seen or heard of him?’

They shook their heads, and murmured an answer in the negative, as each man looked round and appealed to his fellow; when a noise was heard without, and a man was heard to say that he wanted Hugh—that he must see Hugh.

‘He is but one man,’ cried Hugh to those who kept the door; ‘let him come in.’

‘Ay, ay!’ muttered the others. ‘Let him come in. Let him come in.’

The door was accordingly unlocked and opened. A one-armed man, with his head and face tied up with a bloody cloth, as though he had been severely beaten, his clothes torn, and his remaining hand grasping a thick stick, rushed in among them, and panting for breath, demanded which was Hugh.

‘Here he is,’ replied the person he inquired for. ‘I am Hugh. What do you want with me?’

‘I have a message for you,’ said the man. ‘You know one Barnaby.’

‘What of him? Did he send the message?’

‘Yes. He’s taken. He’s in one of the strong cells in Newgate. He defended himself as well as he could, but was overpowered by numbers. That’s his message.’

‘When did you see him?’ asked Hugh, hastily.

‘On his way to prison, where he was taken by a party of soldiers. They took a by-road, and not the one we expected. I was one of the few who tried to rescue him, and he called to me, and told me to tell Hugh where he was. We made a good struggle, though it failed. Look here!’

He pointed to his dress and to his bandaged head, and still panting for breath, glanced round the room; then faced towards Hugh again.

‘I know you by sight,’ he said, ‘for I was in the crowd on Friday, and on Saturday, and yesterday, but I didn’t know your name. You’re a bold fellow, I know. So is he. He fought like a lion tonight, but it was of no use. I did my best, considering that I want this limb.’

Again he glanced inquisitively round the room or seemed to do so, for his face was nearly hidden by the bandage—and again facing sharply towards Hugh, grasped his stick as if he half expected to be set upon, and stood on the defensive.

If he had any such apprehension, however, he was speedily reassured by the demeanour of all present. None thought of the bearer of the tidings. He was lost in the news he brought. Oaths, threats, and execrations, were vented on all sides. Some cried that if they bore this tamely, another day would see them all in jail; some, that they should have rescued the other prisoners, and this would not have happened. One man cried in a loud voice, ‘Who’ll follow me to Newgate!’ and there was a loud shout and general rush towards the door.

But Hugh and Dennis stood with their backs against it, and kept them back, until the clamour had so far subsided that their voices could be heard, when they called to them together that to go now, in broad day, would be madness; and that if they waited until night and arranged a plan of attack, they might release, not only their own companions, but all the prisoners, and burn down the jail.

‘Not that jail alone,’ cried Hugh, ‘but every jail in London. They shall have no place to put their prisoners in. We’ll burn them all down; make bonfires of them every one! Here!’ he cried, catching at the hangman’s hand. ‘Let all who’re men here, join with us. Shake hands upon it. Barnaby out of jail, and not a jail left standing! Who joins?’

Every man there. And they swore a great oath to release their friends from Newgate next night; to force the doors and burn the jail; or perish in the fire themselves.

Chapter 61

On that same night—events so crowd upon each other in convulsed and distracted times, that more than the stirring incidents of a whole life often become compressed into the compass of four-and-twenty hours—on that same night, Mr Haredale, having strongly bound his prisoner, with the assistance of the sexton, and forced him to mount his horse, conducted him to Chigwell; bent upon procuring a conveyance to London from that place, and carrying him at once before a justice. The disturbed state of the town would be, he knew, a sufficient reason for demanding the murderer’s committal to prison before daybreak, as no man could answer for the security of any of the watch-houses or ordinary places of detention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets when the mob were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger and hazard, but would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directing the sexton to lead the horse, he walked close by the murderer’s side, and in this order they reached the village about the middle of the night.

The people were all awake and up, for they were fearful of being burnt in their beds, and sought to comfort and assure each other by watching in company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were armed and gathered in a body on the green. To these, who knew him well, Mr Haredale addressed himself, briefly narrating what had happened, and beseeching them to aid in conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of day.

But not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motion of a finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village, had menaced with their fiercest vengeance, any person who should aid in extinguishing the fire, or render the least assistance to him, or any Catholic whomsoever. Their threats extended to their lives and all they possessed. They were assembled for their own protection, and could not endanger themselves by lending any aid to him. This they told him, not without hesitation and regret, as they kept aloof in the moonlight and glanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with his head drooping on his breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved nor spoke.

Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowing how to do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, Mr Haredale besought them that at least they would leave him free to act for himself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair of horses that the place afforded. This was not acceded to without some difficulty, but in the end they told him to do what he would, and go away from them in heaven’s name.

Leaving the sexton at the horse’s bridle, he drew out the chaise with his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that the post-boy of the village—a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing, vagabond kind of fellow—was moved by his earnestness and passion, and, throwing down a pitchfork with which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cut him into mincemeat if they liked, but he would not stand by and see an honest gentleman who had done no wrong, reduced to such extremity, without doing what he could to help him. Mr Haredale shook him warmly by the hand, and thanked him from his heart. In five minutes’ time the chaise was ready, and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murderer was put inside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took his seat upon the bar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door; and so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence, for London.

The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had escaped the flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. They passed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass; and the driver told them, that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, but had been driven away, lest they should bring the vengeance of the crowd on any of the inhabitants.

Nor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the people were timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London they met, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor Catholic family who, terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, were quitting the city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart or horse for the removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leave them behind, at the mercy of the crowd. Near Mile End they passed a house, the master of which, a Catholic gentleman of small means, having hired a waggon to remove his furniture by midnight, had had it all brought down into the street, to wait the vehicle’s arrival, and save time in the packing. But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmed by the fires that night, and by the sight of the rioters passing his door, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with his wife and servant and their little children, were sitting trembling among their goods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowing where to turn or what to do.

It was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. The panic was so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid to carry passengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the drivers knew them, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not take them, no, though they offered large sums; and yesterday, people had been afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest they should be marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, in consequence. One mild old man—a priest, whose chapel was destroyed; a very feeble, patient, inoffensive creature—who was trudging away, alone, designing to walk some distance from town, and then try his fortune with the coaches, told Mr Haredale that he feared he might not find a magistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner to jail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouraging accounts they went on, and reached the Mansion House soon after sunrise.

Mr Haredale threw himself from his horse, but he had no need to knock at the door, for it was already open, and there stood upon the step a portly old man, with a very red, or rather purple face, who with an anxious expression of countenance, was remonstrating with some unseen personage upstairs, while the porter essayed to close the door by degrees and get rid of him. With the intense impatience and excitement natural to one in his condition, Mr Haredale thrust himself forward and was about to speak, when the fat old gentleman interposed:

‘My good sir,’ said he, ‘pray let me get an answer. This is the sixth time I have been here. I was here five times yesterday. My house is threatened with destruction. It is to be burned down to-night, and was to have been last night, but they had other business on their hands. Pray let me get an answer.’

‘My good sir,’ returned Mr Haredale, shaking his head, ‘my house is burned to the ground. But heaven forbid that yours should be. Get your answer. Be brief, in mercy to me.’

‘Now, you hear this, my lord?’—said the old gentleman, calling up the stairs, to where the skirt of a dressing-gown fluttered on the landing-place. ‘Here is a gentleman here, whose house was actually burnt down last night.’

‘Dear me, dear me,’ replied a testy voice, ‘I am very sorry for it, but what am I to do? I can’t build it up again. The chief magistrate of the city can’t go and be a rebuilding of people’s houses, my good sir. Stuff and nonsense!’

‘But the chief magistrate of the city can prevent people’s houses from having any need to be rebuilt, if the chief magistrate’s a man, and not a dummy—can’t he, my lord?’ cried the old gentleman in a choleric manner.

‘You are disrespectable, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor—‘leastways, disrespectful I mean.’

‘Disrespectful, my lord!’ returned the old gentleman. ‘I was respectful five times yesterday. I can’t be respectful for ever. Men can’t stand on being respectful when their houses are going to be burnt over their heads, with them in ‘em. What am I to do, my lord? AM I to have any protection!’

‘I told you yesterday, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor, ‘that you might have an alderman in your house, if you could get one to come.’

‘What the devil’s the good of an alderman?’ returned the choleric old gentleman.

‘—To awe the crowd, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor.

‘Oh Lord ha’ mercy!’ whimpered the old gentleman, as he wiped his forehead in a state of ludicrous distress, ‘to think of sending an alderman to awe a crowd! Why, my lord, if they were even so many babies, fed on mother’s milk, what do you think they’d care for an alderman! Will YOU come?’

‘I!’ said the Lord Mayor, most emphatically: ‘Certainly not.’

‘Then what,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘what am I to do? Am I a citizen of England? Am I to have the benefit of the laws? Am I to have any return for the King’s taxes?’

‘I don’t know, I am sure,’ said the Lord Mayor; ‘what a pity it is you’re a Catholic! Why couldn’t you be a Protestant, and then you wouldn’t have got yourself into such a mess? I’m sure I don’t know what’s to be done.—There are great people at the bottom of these riots.—Oh dear me, what a thing it is to be a public character!—You must look in again in the course of the day.—Would a javelin-man do?—Or there’s Philips the constable,—HE’S disengaged,—he’s not very old for a man at his time of life, except in his legs, and if you put him up at a window he’d look quite young by candle-light, and might frighten ‘em very much.—Oh dear!—well!—we’ll see about it.’

‘Stop!’ cried Mr Haredale, pressing the door open as the porter strove to shut it, and speaking rapidly, ‘My Lord Mayor, I beg you not to go away. I have a man here, who committed a murder eight-and-twenty years ago. Half-a-dozen words from me, on oath, will justify you in committing him to prison for re-examination. I only seek, just now, to have him consigned to a place of safety. The least delay may involve his being rescued by the rioters.’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the Lord Mayor. ‘God bless my soul—and body—oh Lor!—well I!—there are great people at the bottom of these riots, you know.—You really mustn’t.’

‘My lord,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘the murdered gentleman was my brother; I succeeded to his inheritance; there were not wanting slanderous tongues at that time, to whisper that the guilt of this most foul and cruel deed was mine—mine, who loved him, as he knows, in Heaven, dearly. The time has come, after all these years of gloom and misery, for avenging him, and bringing to light a crime so artful and so devilish that it has no parallel. Every second’s delay on your part loosens this man’s bloody hands again, and leads to his escape. My lord, I charge you hear me, and despatch this matter on the instant.’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the chief magistrate; ‘these an’t business hours, you know—I wonder at you—how ungentlemanly it is of you—you mustn’t—you really mustn’t.—And I suppose you are a Catholic too?’

‘I am,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘God bless my soul, I believe people turn Catholics a’purpose to vex and worrit me,’ cried the Lord Mayor. ‘I wish you wouldn’t come here; they’ll be setting the Mansion House afire next, and we shall have you to thank for it. You must lock your prisoner up, sir—give him to a watchman—and—call again at a proper time. Then we’ll see about it!’

Before Mr Haredale could answer, the sharp closing of a door and drawing of its bolts, gave notice that the Lord Mayor had retreated to his bedroom, and that further remonstrance would be unavailing. The two clients retreated likewise, and the porter shut them out into the street.

‘That’s the way he puts me off,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I can get no redress and no help. What are you going to do, sir?’

‘To try elsewhere,’ answered Mr Haredale, who was by this time on horseback.

‘I feel for you, I assure you—and well I may, for we are in a common cause,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I may not have a house to offer you to-night; let me tender it while I can. On second thoughts though,’ he added, putting up a pocket-book he had produced while speaking, ‘I’ll not give you a card, for if it was found upon you, it might get you into trouble. Langdale—that’s my name—vintner and distiller—Holborn Hill—you’re heartily welcome, if you’ll come.’

Mr Haredale bowed, and rode off, close beside the chaise as before; determining to repair to the house of Sir John Fielding, who had the reputation of being a bold and active magistrate, and fully resolved, in case the rioters should come upon them, to do execution on the murderer with his own hands, rather than suffer him to be released.

They arrived at the magistrate’s dwelling, however, without molestation (for the mob, as we have seen, were then intent on deeper schemes), and knocked at the door. As it had been pretty generally rumoured that Sir John was proscribed by the rioters, a body of thief-takers had been keeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr Haredale stated his business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warrant his arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience.

No time was lost in committing the murderer to Newgate; then a new building, recently completed at a vast expense, and considered to be of enormous strength. The warrant being made out, three of the thief-takers bound him afresh (he had been struggling, it seemed, in the chaise, and had loosened his manacles); gagged him lest they should meet with any of the mob, and he should call to them for help; and seated themselves, along with him, in the carriage. These men being all well armed, made a formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though the carriage were empty, and directed Mr Haredale to ride forward, that he might not attract attention by seeming to belong to it.

The wisdom of this proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as they hurried through the city they passed among several groups of men, who, if they had not supposed the chaise to be quite empty, would certainly have stopped it. But those within keeping quite close, and the driver tarrying to be asked no questions, they reached the prison without interruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within its gloomy walls, in a twinkling.

With eager eyes and strained attention, Mr Haredale saw him chained, and locked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he had left the jail, and stood in the free street, without, he felt the iron plates upon the doors, with his hands, and drew them over the stone wall, to assure himself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, and rough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, and glanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the bright morning, that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he was tortured by anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itself was but another bead in the long rosary of his regrets.

Chapter 62

The prisoner, left to himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, remained in that attitude for hours. It would be hard to say, of what nature his reflections were. They had no distinctness, and, saving for some flashes now and then, no reference to his condition or the train of circumstances by which it had been brought about. The cracks in the pavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall where stone was joined to stone, the bars in the window, the iron ring upon the floor,—such things as these, subsiding strangely into one another, and awakening an indescribable kind of interest and amusement, engrossed his whole mind; and although at the bottom of his every thought there was an uneasy sense of guilt, and dread of death, he felt no more than that vague consciousness of it, which a sleeper has of pain. It pursues him through his dreams, gnaws at the heart of all his fancied pleasures, robs the banquet of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes happiness itself unhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom without shape, or form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but having no existence; recognisable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or touched, or met with face to face, until the sleep is past, and waking agony returns.

After a long time the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw the blind man enter; and relapsed into his former position.

Guided by his breathing, the visitor advanced to where he sat; and stopping beside him, and stretching out his hand to assure himself that he was right, remained, for a good space, silent.

‘This is bad, Rudge. This is bad,’ he said at length.

The prisoner shuffled with his feet upon the ground in turning his body from him, but made no other answer.

‘How were you taken?’ he asked. ‘And where? You never told me more than half your secret. No matter; I know it now. How was it, and where, eh?’ he asked again, coming still nearer to him.

‘At Chigwell,’ said the other.

‘At Chigwell! How came you there?’

‘Because I went there to avoid the man I stumbled on,’ he answered. ‘Because I was chased and driven there, by him and Fate. Because I was urged to go there, by something stronger than my own will. When I found him watching in the house she used to live in, night after night, I knew I never could escape him—never! and when I heard the Bell—’

He shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and down the narrow cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old posture.

‘You were saying,’ said the blind man, after another pause, ‘that when you heard the Bell—’

‘Let it be, will you?’ he retorted in a hurried voice. ‘It hangs there yet.’

The blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him, but he continued to speak, without noticing him.

‘I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I have been so hunted and beset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety lay in joining them. They had gone on before; I followed them when it left off.’

‘When what left off?’

‘The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped that some of them might be still lingering among the ruins, and was searching for them when I heard—’ he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve—‘his voice.’

‘Saying what?’

‘No matter what. I don’t know. I was then at the foot of the turret, where I did the—’

‘Ay,’ said the blind man, nodding his head with perfect composure, ‘I understand.’

‘I climbed the stair, or so much of it as was left; meaning to hide till he had gone. But he heard me; and followed almost as soon as I set foot upon the ashes.’

‘You might have hidden in the wall, and thrown him down, or stabbed him,’ said the blind man.

‘Might I? Between that man and me, was one who led him on—I saw it, though he did not—and raised above his head a bloody hand. It was in the room above that HE and I stood glaring at each other on the night of the murder, and before he fell he raised his hand like that, and fixed his eyes on me. I knew the chase would end there.’

‘You have a strong fancy,’ said the blind man, with a smile.

‘Strengthen yours with blood, and see what it will come to.’

He groaned, and rocked himself, and looking up for the first time, said, in a low, hollow voice:

‘Eight-and-twenty years! Eight-and-twenty years! He has never changed in all that time, never grown older, nor altered in the least degree. He has been before me in the dark night, and the broad sunny day; in the twilight, the moonlight, the sunlight, the light of fire, and lamp, and candle; and in the deepest gloom. Always the same! In company, in solitude, on land, on shipboard; sometimes leaving me alone for months, and sometimes always with me. I have seen him, at sea, come gliding in the dead of night along the bright reflection of the moon in the calm water; and I have seen him, on quays and market-places, with his hand uplifted, towering, the centre of a busy crowd, unconscious of the terrible form that had its silent stand among them. Fancy! Are you real? Am I? Are these iron fetters, riveted on me by the smith’s hammer, or are they fancies I can shatter at a blow?’

The blind man listened in silence.

‘Fancy! Do I fancy that I killed him? Do I fancy that as I left the chamber where he lay, I saw the face of a man peeping from a dark door, who plainly showed me by his fearful looks that he suspected what I had done? Do I remember that I spoke fairly to him—that I drew nearer—nearer yet—with the hot knife in my sleeve? Do I fancy how HE died? Did he stagger back into the angle of the wall into which I had hemmed him, and, bleeding inwardly, stand, not fall, a corpse before me? Did I see him, for an instant, as I see you now, erect and on his feet—but dead!’

The blind man, who knew that he had risen, motioned him to sit down again upon his bedstead; but he took no notice of the gesture.

‘It was then I thought, for the first time, of fastening the murder upon him. It was then I dressed him in my clothes, and dragged him down the back-stairs to the piece of water. Do I remember listening to the bubbles that came rising up when I had rolled him in? Do I remember wiping the water from my face, and because the body splashed it there, in its descent, feeling as if it MUST be blood?

‘Did I go home when I had done? And oh, my God! how long it took to do! Did I stand before my wife, and tell her? Did I see her fall upon the ground; and, when I stooped to raise her, did she thrust me back with a force that cast me off as if I had been a child, staining the hand with which she clasped my wrist? Is THAT fancy?

‘Did she go down upon her knees, and call on Heaven to witness that she and her unborn child renounced me from that hour; and did she, in words so solemn that they turned me cold—me, fresh from the horrors my own hands had made—warn me to fly while there was time; for though she would be silent, being my wretched wife, she would not shelter me? Did I go forth that night, abjured of God and man, and anchored deep in hell, to wander at my cable’s length about the earth, and surely be drawn down at last?’

‘Why did you return? said the blind man.

‘Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live without breath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn back, through every difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a mighty engine. Nothing could stop me. The day and hour were none of my choice. Sleeping and waking, I had been among the old haunts for years—had visited my own grave. Why did I come back? Because this jail was gaping for me, and he stood beckoning at the door.’

‘You were not known?’ said the blind man.

‘I was a man who had been twenty-two years dead. No. I was not known.’

‘You should have kept your secret better.’

‘MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could whisper at its will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the water in its flowing, the leaves in their rustling, the seasons in their return. It lurked in strangers’ faces, and their voices. Everything had lips on which it always trembled.—MY secret!’

‘It was revealed by your own act at any rate,’ said the blind man.

‘The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was forced at times to wander round, and round, and round that spot. If you had chained me up when the fit was on me, I should have broken away, and gone there. As truly as the loadstone draws iron towards it, so he, lying at the bottom of his grave, could draw me near him when he would. Was that fancy? Did I like to go there, or did I strive and wrestle with the power that forced me?’

The blind man shrugged his shoulders, and smiled incredulously. The prisoner again resumed his old attitude, and for a long time both were mute.

‘I suppose then,’ said his visitor, at length breaking silence, ‘that you are penitent and resigned; that you desire to make peace with everybody (in particular, with your wife who has brought you to this); and that you ask no greater favour than to be carried to Tyburn as soon as possible? That being the case, I had better take my leave. I am not good enough to be company for you.’

‘Have I not told you,’ said the other fiercely, ‘that I have striven and wrestled with the power that brought me here? Has my whole life, for eight-and-twenty years, been one perpetual struggle and resistance, and do you think I want to lie down and die? Do all men shrink from death—I most of all!’

‘That’s better said. That’s better spoken, Rudge—but I’ll not call you that again—than anything you have said yet,’ returned the blind man, speaking more familiarly, and laying his hands upon his arm. ‘Lookye,—I never killed a man myself, for I have never been placed in a position that made it worth my while. Farther, I am not an advocate for killing men, and I don’t think I should recommend it or like it—for it’s very hazardous—under any circumstances. But as you had the misfortune to get into this trouble before I made your acquaintance, and as you have been my companion, and have been of use to me for a long time now, I overlook that part of the matter, and am only anxious that you shouldn’t die unnecessarily. Now, I do not consider that, at present, it is at all necessary.’

‘What else is left me?’ returned the prisoner. ‘To eat my way through these walls with my teeth?’

‘Something easier than that,’ returned his friend. ‘Promise me that you will talk no more of these fancies of yours—idle, foolish things, quite beneath a man—and I’ll tell you what I mean.’

‘Tell me,’ said the other.

‘Your worthy lady with the tender conscience; your scrupulous, virtuous, punctilious, but not blindly affectionate wife—’

‘What of her?’

‘Is now in London.’

‘A curse upon her, be she where she may!’

‘That’s natural enough. If she had taken her annuity as usual, you would not have been here, and we should have been better off. But that’s apart from the business. She’s in London. Scared, as I suppose, and have no doubt, by my representation when I waited upon her, that you were close at hand (which I, of course, urged only as an inducement to compliance, knowing that she was not pining to see you), she left that place, and travelled up to London.’

‘How do you know?’

‘From my friend the noble captain—the illustrious general—the bladder, Mr Tappertit. I learnt from him the last time I saw him, which was yesterday, that your son who is called Barnaby—not after his father, I suppose—’

‘Death! does that matter now!’

‘—You are impatient,’ said the blind man, calmly; ‘it’s a good sign, and looks like life—that your son Barnaby had been lured away from her by one of his companions who knew him of old, at Chigwell; and that he is now among the rioters.’

‘And what is that to me? If father and son be hanged together, what comfort shall I find in that?’

‘Stay—stay, my friend,’ returned the blind man, with a cunning look, ‘you travel fast to journeys’ ends. Suppose I track my lady out, and say thus much: “You want your son, ma’am—good. I, knowing those who tempt him to remain among them, can restore him to you, ma’am—good. You must pay a price, ma’am, for his restoration—good again. The price is small, and easy to be paid—dear ma’am, that’s best of all.”’

‘What mockery is this?’

‘Very likely, she may reply in those words. “No mockery at all,” I answer: “Madam, a person said to be your husband (identity is difficult of proof after the lapse of many years) is in prison, his life in peril—the charge against him, murder. Now, ma’am, your husband has been dead a long, long time. The gentleman never can be confounded with him, if you will have the goodness to say a few words, on oath, as to when he died, and how; and that this person (who I am told resembles him in some degree) is no more he than I am. Such testimony will set the question quite at rest. Pledge yourself to me to give it, ma’ am, and I will undertake to keep your son (a fine lad) out of harm’s way until you have done this trifling service, when he shall be delivered up to you, safe and sound. On the other hand, if you decline to do so, I fear he will be betrayed, and handed over to the law, which will assuredly sentence him to suffer death. It is, in fact, a choice between his life and death. If you refuse, he swings. If you comply, the timber is not grown, nor the hemp sown, that shall do him any harm.”’

‘There is a gleam of hope in this!’ cried the prisoner.

‘A gleam!’ returned his friend, ‘a noon-blaze; a full and glorious daylight. Hush! I hear the tread of distant feet. Rely on me.’

‘When shall I hear more?’

‘As soon as I do. I should hope, to-morrow. They are coming to say that our time for talk is over. I hear the jingling of the keys. Not another word of this just now, or they may overhear us.’

As he said these words, the lock was turned, and one of the prison turnkeys appearing at the door, announced that it was time for visitors to leave the jail.

‘So soon!’ said Stagg, meekly. ‘But it can’t be helped. Cheer up, friend. This mistake will soon be set at rest, and then you are a man again! If this charitable gentleman will lead a blind man (who has nothing in return but prayers) to the prison-porch, and set him with his face towards the west, he will do a worthy deed. Thank you, good sir. I thank you very kindly.’

So saying, and pausing for an instant at the door to turn his grinning face towards his friend, he departed.

When the officer had seen him to the porch, he returned, and again unlocking and unbarring the door of the cell, set it wide open, informing its inmate that he was at liberty to walk in the adjacent yard, if he thought proper, for an hour.

The prisoner answered with a sullen nod; and being left alone again, sat brooding over what he had heard, and pondering upon the hopes the recent conversation had awakened; gazing abstractedly, the while he did so, on the light without, and watching the shadows thrown by one wall on another, and on the stone-paved ground.

It was a dull, square yard, made cold and gloomy by high walls, and seeming to chill the very sunlight. The stone, so bare, and rough, and obdurate, filled even him with longing thoughts of meadow-land and trees; and with a burning wish to be at liberty. As he looked, he rose, and leaning against the door-post, gazed up at the bright blue sky, smiling even on that dreary home of crime. He seemed, for a moment, to remember lying on his back in some sweet-scented place, and gazing at it through moving branches, long ago.

His attention was suddenly attracted by a clanking sound—he knew what it was, for he had startled himself by making the same noise in walking to the door. Presently a voice began to sing, and he saw the shadow of a figure on the pavement. It stopped—was silent all at once, as though the person for a moment had forgotten where he was, but soon remembered—and so, with the same clanking noise, the shadow disappeared.

He walked out into the court and paced it to and fro; startling the echoes, as he went, with the harsh jangling of his fetters. There was a door near his, which, like his, stood ajar.

He had not taken half-a-dozen turns up and down the yard, when, standing still to observe this door, he heard the clanking sound again. A face looked out of the grated window—he saw it very dimly, for the cell was dark and the bars were heavy—and directly afterwards, a man appeared, and came towards him.

For the sense of loneliness he had, he might have been in jail a year. Made eager by the hope of companionship, he quickened his pace, and hastened to meet the man half way—

What was this! His son!

They stood face to face, staring at each other. He shrinking and cowed, despite himself; Barnaby struggling with his imperfect memory, and wondering where he had seen that face before. He was not uncertain long, for suddenly he laid hands upon him, and striving to bear him to the ground, cried:

‘Ah! I know! You are the robber!’

He said nothing in reply at first, but held down his head, and struggled with him silently. Finding the younger man too strong for him, he raised his face, looked close into his eyes, and said,

‘I am your father.’

God knows what magic the name had for his ears; but Barnaby released his hold, fell back, and looked at him aghast. Suddenly he sprung towards him, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his head against his cheek.

Yes, yes, he was; he was sure he was. But where had he been so long, and why had he left his mother by herself, or worse than by herself, with her poor foolish boy? And had she really been as happy as they said? And where was she? Was she near there? She was not happy now, and he in jail? Ah, no.

Not a word was said in answer; but Grip croaked loudly, and hopped about them, round and round, as if enclosing them in a magic circle, and invoking all the powers of mischief.

Chapter 63

During the whole of this day, every regiment in or near the metropolis was on duty in one or other part of the town; and the regulars and militia, in obedience to the orders which were sent to every barrack and station within twenty-four hours’ journey, began to pour in by all the roads. But the disturbance had attained to such a formidable height, and the rioters had grown, with impunity, to be so audacious, that the sight of this great force, continually augmented by new arrivals, instead of operating as a check, stimulated them to outrages of greater hardihood than any they had yet committed; and helped to kindle a flame in London, the like of which had never been beheld, even in its ancient and rebellious times.

All yesterday, and on this day likewise, the commander-in-chief endeavoured to arouse the magistrates to a sense of their duty, and in particular the Lord Mayor, who was the faintest-hearted and most timid of them all. With this object, large bodies of the soldiery were several times despatched to the Mansion House to await his orders: but as he could, by no threats or persuasions, be induced to give any, and as the men remained in the open street, fruitlessly for any good purpose, and thrivingly for a very bad one; these laudable attempts did harm rather than good. For the crowd, becoming speedily acquainted with the Lord Mayor’s temper, did not fail to take advantage of it by boasting that even the civil authorities were opposed to the Papists, and could not find it in their hearts to molest those who were guilty of no other offence. These vaunts they took care to make within the hearing of the soldiers; and they, being naturally loth to quarrel with the people, received their advances kindly enough: answering, when they were asked if they desired to fire upon their countrymen, ‘No, they would be damned if they did;’ and showing much honest simplicity and good nature. The feeling that the military were No-Popery men, and were ripe for disobeying orders and joining the mob, soon became very prevalent in consequence. Rumours of their disaffection, and of their leaning towards the popular cause, spread from mouth to mouth with astonishing rapidity; and whenever they were drawn up idly in the streets or squares, there was sure to be a crowd about them, cheering and shaking hands, and treating them with a great show of confidence and affection.

By this time, the crowd was everywhere; all concealment and disguise were laid aside, and they pervaded the whole town. If any man among them wanted money, he had but to knock at the door of a dwelling-house, or walk into a shop, and demand it in the rioters name; and his demand was instantly complied with. The peaceable citizens being afraid to lay hands upon them, singly and alone, it may be easily supposed that when gathered together in bodies, they were perfectly secure from interruption. They assembled in the streets, traversed them at their will and pleasure, and publicly concerted their plans. Business was quite suspended; the greater part of the shops were closed; most of the houses displayed a blue flag in token of their adherence to the popular side; and even the Jews in Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and those quarters, wrote upon their doors or window-shutters, ‘This House is a True Protestant.’ The crowd was the law, and never was the law held in greater dread, or more implicitly obeyed.

It was about six o’clock in the evening, when a vast mob poured into Lincoln’s Inn Fields by every avenue, and divided—evidently in pursuance of a previous design—into several parties. It must not be understood that this arrangement was known to the whole crowd, but that it was the work of a few leaders; who, mingling with the men as they came upon the ground, and calling to them to fall into this or that parry, effected it as rapidly as if it had been determined on by a council of the whole number, and every man had known his place.

It was perfectly notorious to the assemblage that the largest body, which comprehended about two-thirds of the whole, was designed for the attack on Newgate. It comprehended all the rioters who had been conspicuous in any of their former proceedings; all those whom they recommended as daring hands and fit for the work; all those whose companions had been taken in the riots; and a great number of people who were relatives or friends of felons in the jail. This last class included, not only the most desperate and utterly abandoned villains in London, but some who were comparatively innocent. There was more than one woman there, disguised in man’s attire, and bent upon the rescue of a child or brother. There were the two sons of a man who lay under sentence of death, and who was to be executed along with three others, on the next day but one. There was a great party of boys whose fellow-pickpockets were in the prison; and at the skirts of all, a score of miserable women, outcasts from the world, seeking to release some other fallen creature as miserable as themselves, or moved by a general sympathy perhaps—God knows—with all who were without hope, and wretched.

Old swords, and pistols without ball or powder; sledge-hammers, knives, axes, saws, and weapons pillaged from the butchers’ shops; a forest of iron bars and wooden clubs; long ladders for scaling the walls, each carried on the shoulders of a dozen men; lighted torches; tow smeared with pitch, and tar, and brimstone; staves roughly plucked from fence and paling; and even crutches taken from crippled beggars in the streets; composed their arms. When all was ready, Hugh and Dennis, with Simon Tappertit between them, led the way. Roaring and chafing like an angry sea, the crowd pressed after them.

Instead of going straight down Holborn to the jail, as all expected, their leaders took the way to Clerkenwell, and pouring down a quiet street, halted before a locksmith’s house—the Golden Key.

‘Beat at the door,’ cried Hugh to the men about him. ‘We want one of his craft to-night. Beat it in, if no one answers.’

The shop was shut. Both door and shutters were of a strong and sturdy kind, and they knocked without effect. But the impatient crowd raising a cry of ‘Set fire to the house!’ and torches being passed to the front, an upper window was thrown open, and the stout old locksmith stood before them.

‘What now, you villains!’ he demanded. ‘Where is my daughter?’

‘Ask no questions of us, old man,’ retorted Hugh, waving his comrades to be silent, ‘but come down, and bring the tools of your trade. We want you.’

‘Want me!’ cried the locksmith, glancing at the regimental dress he wore: ‘Ay, and if some that I could name possessed the hearts of mice, ye should have had me long ago. Mark me, my lad—and you about him do the same. There are a score among ye whom I see now and know, who are dead men from this hour. Begone! and rob an undertaker’s while you can! You’ll want some coffins before long.’

‘Will you come down?’ cried Hugh.

‘Will you give me my daughter, ruffian?’ cried the locksmith.

‘I know nothing of her,’ Hugh rejoined. ‘Burn the door!’

‘Stop!’ cried the locksmith, in a voice that made them falter—presenting, as he spoke, a gun. ‘Let an old man do that. You can spare him better.’

The young fellow who held the light, and who was stooping down before the door, rose hastily at these words, and fell back. The locksmith ran his eye along the upturned faces, and kept the weapon levelled at the threshold of his house. It had no other rest than his shoulder, but was as steady as the house itself.

‘Let the man who does it, take heed to his prayers,’ he said firmly; ‘I warn him.’

Snatching a torch from one who stood near him, Hugh was stepping forward with an oath, when he was arrested by a shrill and piercing shriek, and, looking upward, saw a fluttering garment on the house-top.

There was another shriek, and another, and then a shrill voice cried, ‘Is Simmun below!’ At the same moment a lean neck was stretched over the parapet, and Miss Miggs, indistinctly seen in the gathering gloom of evening, screeched in a frenzied manner, ‘Oh! dear gentlemen, let me hear Simmuns’s answer from his own lips. Speak to me, Simmun. Speak to me!’

Mr Tappertit, who was not at all flattered by this compliment, looked up, and bidding her hold her peace, ordered her to come down and open the door, for they wanted her master, and would take no denial.

‘Oh good gentlemen!’ cried Miss Miggs. ‘Oh my own precious, precious Simmun—’

‘Hold your nonsense, will you!’ retorted Mr Tappertit; ‘and come down and open the door.—G. Varden, drop that gun, or it will be worse for you.’

‘Don’t mind his gun,’ screamed Miggs. ‘Simmun and gentlemen, I poured a mug of table-beer right down the barrel.’

The crowd gave a loud shout, which was followed by a roar of laughter.

‘It wouldn’t go off, not if you was to load it up to the muzzle,’ screamed Miggs. ‘Simmun and gentlemen, I’m locked up in the front attic, through the little door on the right hand when you think you’ve got to the very top of the stairs—and up the flight of corner steps, being careful not to knock your heads against the rafters, and not to tread on one side in case you should fall into the two-pair bedroom through the lath and plasture, which do not bear, but the contrairy. Simmun and gentlemen, I’ve been locked up here for safety, but my endeavours has always been, and always will be, to be on the right side—the blessed side and to prenounce the Pope of Babylon, and all her inward and her outward workings, which is Pagin. My sentiments is of little consequences, I know,’ cried Miggs, with additional shrillness, ‘for my positions is but a servant, and as sich, of humilities, still I gives expressions to my feelings, and places my reliances on them which entertains my own opinions!’

Without taking much notice of these outpourings of Miss Miggs after she had made her first announcement in relation to the gun, the crowd raised a ladder against the window where the locksmith stood, and notwithstanding that he closed, and fastened, and defended it manfully, soon forced an entrance by shivering the glass and breaking in the frames. After dealing a few stout blows about him, he found himself defenceless, in the midst of a furious crowd, which overflowed the room and softened off in a confused heap of faces at the door and window.

They were very wrathful with him (for he had wounded two men), and even called out to those in front, to bring him forth and hang him on a lamp-post. But Gabriel was quite undaunted, and looked from Hugh and Dennis, who held him by either arm, to Simon Tappertit, who confronted him.

‘You have robbed me of my daughter,’ said the locksmith, ‘who is far dearer to me than my life; and you may take my life, if you will. I bless God that I have been enabled to keep my wife free of this scene; and that He has made me a man who will not ask mercy at such hands as yours.’

‘And a wery game old gentleman you are,’ said Mr Dennis, approvingly; ‘and you express yourself like a man. What’s the odds, brother, whether it’s a lamp-post to-night, or a feather-bed ten year to come, eh?’

The locksmith glanced at him disdainfully, but returned no other answer.

‘For my part,’ said the hangman, who particularly favoured the lamp-post suggestion, ‘I honour your principles. They’re mine exactly. In such sentiments as them,’ and here he emphasised his discourse with an oath, ‘I’m ready to meet you or any man halfway.—Have you got a bit of cord anywheres handy? Don’t put yourself out of the way, if you haven’t. A handkecher will do.’

‘Don’t be a fool, master,’ whispered Hugh, seizing Varden roughly by the shoulder; ‘but do as you’re bid. You’ll soon hear what you’re wanted for. Do it!’

‘I’ll do nothing at your request, or that of any scoundrel here,’ returned the locksmith. ‘If you want any service from me, you may spare yourselves the pains of telling me what it is. I tell you, beforehand, I’ll do nothing for you.’

Mr Dennis was so affected by this constancy on the part of the staunch old man, that he protested—almost with tears in his eyes—that to baulk his inclinations would be an act of cruelty and hard dealing to which he, for one, never could reconcile his conscience. The gentleman, he said, had avowed in so many words that he was ready for working off; such being the case, he considered it their duty, as a civilised and enlightened crowd, to work him off. It was not often, he observed, that they had it in their power to accommodate themselves to the wishes of those from whom they had the misfortune to differ. Having now found an individual who expressed a desire which they could reasonably indulge (and for himself he was free to confess that in his opinion that desire did honour to his feelings), he hoped they would decide to accede to his proposition before going any further. It was an experiment which, skilfully and dexterously performed, would be over in five minutes, with great comfort and satisfaction to all parties; and though it did not become him (Mr Dennis) to speak well of himself he trusted he might be allowed to say that he had practical knowledge of the subject, and, being naturally of an obliging and friendly disposition, would work the gentleman off with a deal of pleasure.

These remarks, which were addressed in the midst of a frightful din and turmoil to those immediately about him, were received with great favour; not so much, perhaps, because of the hangman’s eloquence, as on account of the locksmith’s obstinacy. Gabriel was in imminent peril, and he knew it; but he preserved a steady silence; and would have done so, if they had been debating whether they should roast him at a slow fire.

As the hangman spoke, there was some stir and confusion on the ladder; and directly he was silent—so immediately upon his holding his peace, that the crowd below had no time to learn what he had been saying, or to shout in response—some one at the window cried:

‘He has a grey head. He is an old man: Don’t hurt him!’

The locksmith turned, with a start, towards the place from which the words had come, and looked hurriedly at the people who were hanging on the ladder and clinging to each other.

‘Pay no respect to my grey hair, young man,’ he said, answering the voice and not any one he saw. ‘I don’t ask it. My heart is green enough to scorn and despise every man among you, band of robbers that you are!’

This incautious speech by no means tended to appease the ferocity of the crowd. They cried again to have him brought out; and it would have gone hard with the honest locksmith, but that Hugh reminded them, in answer, that they wanted his services, and must have them.

‘So, tell him what we want,’ he said to Simon Tappertit, ‘and quickly. And open your ears, master, if you would ever use them after to-night.’

Gabriel folded his arms, which were now at liberty, and eyed his old ‘prentice in silence.

‘Lookye, Varden,’ said Sim, ‘we’re bound for Newgate.’

‘I know you are,’ returned the locksmith. ‘You never said a truer word than that.’

‘To burn it down, I mean,’ said Simon, ‘and force the gates, and set the prisoners at liberty. You helped to make the lock of the great door.’

‘I did,’ said the locksmith. ‘You owe me no thanks for that—as you’ll find before long.’

‘Maybe,’ returned his journeyman, ‘but you must show us how to force it.’

‘Must I!’

‘Yes; for you know, and I don’t. You must come along with us, and pick it with your own hands.’

‘When I do,’ said the locksmith quietly, ‘my hands shall drop off at the wrists, and you shall wear them, Simon Tappertit, on your shoulders for epaulettes.’

‘We’ll see that,’ cried Hugh, interposing, as the indignation of the crowd again burst forth. ‘You fill a basket with the tools he’ll want, while I bring him downstairs. Open the doors below, some of you. And light the great captain, others! Is there no business afoot, my lads, that you can do nothing but stand and grumble?’

They looked at one another, and quickly dispersing, swarmed over the house, plundering and breaking, according to their custom, and carrying off such articles of value as happened to please their fancy. They had no great length of time for these proceedings, for the basket of tools was soon prepared and slung over a man’s shoulders. The preparations being now completed, and everything ready for the attack, those who were pillaging and destroying in the other rooms were called down to the workshop. They were about to issue forth, when the man who had been last upstairs, stepped forward, and asked if the young woman in the garret (who was making a terrible noise, he said, and kept on screaming without the least cessation) was to be released?

For his own part, Simon Tappertit would certainly have replied in the negative, but the mass of his companions, mindful of the good service she had done in the matter of the gun, being of a different opinion, he had nothing for it but to answer, Yes. The man, accordingly, went back again to the rescue, and presently returned with Miss Miggs, limp and doubled up, and very damp from much weeping.

As the young lady had given no tokens of consciousness on their way downstairs, the bearer reported her either dead or dying; and being at some loss what to do with her, was looking round for a convenient bench or heap of ashes on which to place her senseless form, when she suddenly came upon her feet by some mysterious means, thrust back her hair, stared wildly at Mr Tappertit, cried, ‘My Simmuns’s life is not a wictim!’ and dropped into his arms with such promptitude that he staggered and reeled some paces back, beneath his lovely burden.

‘Oh bother!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Here. Catch hold of her, somebody. Lock her up again; she never ought to have been let out.’

‘My Simmun!’ cried Miss Miggs, in tears, and faintly. ‘My for ever, ever blessed Simmun!’

‘Hold up, will you,’ said Mr Tappertit, in a very unresponsive tone, ‘I’ll let you fall if you don’t. What are you sliding your feet off the ground for?’

‘My angel Simmuns!’ murmured Miggs—‘he promised—’

‘Promised! Well, and I’ll keep my promise,’ answered Simon, testily. ‘I mean to provide for you, don’t I? Stand up!’

‘Where am I to go? What is to become of me after my actions of this night!’ cried Miggs. ‘What resting-places now remains but in the silent tombses!’

‘I wish you was in the silent tombses, I do,’ cried Mr Tappertit, ‘and boxed up tight, in a good strong one. Here,’ he cried to one of the bystanders, in whose ear he whispered for a moment: ‘Take her off, will you. You understand where?’

The fellow nodded; and taking her in his arms, notwithstanding her broken protestations, and her struggles (which latter species of opposition, involving scratches, was much more difficult of resistance), carried her away. They who were in the house poured out into the street; the locksmith was taken to the head of the crowd, and required to walk between his two conductors; the whole body was put in rapid motion; and without any shouts or noise they bore down straight on Newgate, and halted in a dense mass before the prison-gate.

Chapter 64

Breaking the silence they had hitherto preserved, they raised a great cry as soon as they were ranged before the jail, and demanded to speak to the governor. This visit was not wholly unexpected, for his house, which fronted the street, was strongly barricaded, the wicket-gate of the prison was closed up, and at no loophole or grating was any person to be seen. Before they had repeated their summons many times, a man appeared upon the roof of the governor’s house, and asked what it was they wanted.

Some said one thing, some another, and some only groaned and hissed. It being now nearly dark, and the house high, many persons in the throng were not aware that any one had come to answer them, and continued their clamour until the intelligence was gradually diffused through the whole concourse. Ten minutes or more elapsed before any one voice could be heard with tolerable distinctness; during which interval the figure remained perched alone, against the summer-evening sky, looking down into the troubled street.

‘Are you,’ said Hugh at length, ‘Mr Akerman, the head jailer here?’

‘Of course he is, brother,’ whispered Dennis. But Hugh, without minding him, took his answer from the man himself.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’

‘You have got some friends of ours in your custody, master.’

‘I have a good many people in my custody.’ He glanced downward, as he spoke, into the jail: and the feeling that he could see into the different yards, and that he overlooked everything which was hidden from their view by the rugged walls, so lashed and goaded the mob, that they howled like wolves.

‘Deliver up our friends,’ said Hugh, ‘and you may keep the rest.’

‘It’s my duty to keep them all. I shall do my duty.’

‘If you don’t throw the doors open, we shall break ‘em down,’ said Hugh; ‘for we will have the rioters out.’

‘All I can do, good people,’ Akerman replied, ‘is to exhort you to disperse; and to remind you that the consequences of any disturbance in this place, will be very severe, and bitterly repented by most of you, when it is too late.’

He made as though he would retire when he said these words, but he was checked by the voice of the locksmith.

‘Mr Akerman,’ cried Gabriel, ‘Mr Akerman.’

‘I will hear no more from any of you,’ replied the governor, turning towards the speaker, and waving his hand.

‘But I am not one of them,’ said Gabriel. ‘I am an honest man, Mr Akerman; a respectable tradesman—Gabriel Varden, the locksmith. You know me?’

‘You among the crowd!’ cried the governor in an altered voice.

‘Brought here by force—brought here to pick the lock of the great door for them,’ rejoined the locksmith. ‘Bear witness for me, Mr Akerman, that I refuse to do it; and that I will not do it, come what may of my refusal. If any violence is done to me, please to remember this.’

‘Is there no way of helping you?’ said the governor.

‘None, Mr Akerman. You’ll do your duty, and I’ll do mine. Once again, you robbers and cut-throats,’ said the locksmith, turning round upon them, ‘I refuse. Ah! Howl till you’re hoarse. I refuse.’

‘Stay—stay!’ said the jailer, hastily. ‘Mr Varden, I know you for a worthy man, and one who would do no unlawful act except upon compulsion—’

‘Upon compulsion, sir,’ interposed the locksmith, who felt that the tone in which this was said, conveyed the speaker’s impression that he had ample excuse for yielding to the furious multitude who beset and hemmed him in, on every side, and among whom he stood, an old man, quite alone; ‘upon compulsion, sir, I’ll do nothing.’

‘Where is that man,’ said the keeper, anxiously, ‘who spoke to me just now?’

‘Here!’ Hugh replied.

‘Do you know what the guilt of murder is, and that by keeping that honest tradesman at your side you endanger his life!’

‘We know it very well,’ he answered, ‘for what else did we bring him here? Let’s have our friends, master, and you shall have your friend. Is that fair, lads?’

The mob replied to him with a loud Hurrah!

‘You see how it is, sir?’ cried Varden. ‘Keep ‘em out, in King George’s name. Remember what I have said. Good night!’

There was no more parley. A shower of stones and other missiles compelled the keeper of the jail to retire; and the mob, pressing on, and swarming round the walls, forced Gabriel Varden close up to the door.

In vain the basket of tools was laid upon the ground before him, and he was urged in turn by promises, by blows, by offers of reward, and threats of instant death, to do the office for which they had brought him there. ‘No,’ cried the sturdy locksmith, ‘I will not!’

He had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could move him. The savage faces that glared upon him, look where he would; the cries of those who thirsted, like wild animals, for his blood; the sight of men pressing forward, and trampling down their fellows, as they strove to reach him, and struck at him above the heads of other men, with axes and with iron bars; all failed to daunt him. He looked from man to man, and face to face, and still, with quickened breath and lessening colour, cried firmly, ‘I will not!’

Dennis dealt him a blow upon the face which felled him to the ground. He sprung up again like a man in the prime of life, and with blood upon his forehead, caught him by the throat.

‘You cowardly dog!’ he said: ‘Give me my daughter. Give me my daughter.’

They struggled together. Some cried ‘Kill him,’ and some (but they were not near enough) strove to trample him to death. Tug as he would at the old man’s wrists, the hangman could not force him to unclench his hands.

‘Is this all the return you make me, you ungrateful monster?’ he articulated with great difficulty, and with many oaths.

‘Give me my daughter!’ cried the locksmith, who was now as fierce as those who gathered round him: ‘Give me my daughter!’

He was down again, and up, and down once more, and buffeting with a score of them, who bandied him from hand to hand, when one tall fellow, fresh from a slaughter-house, whose dress and great thigh-boots smoked hot with grease and blood, raised a pole-axe, and swearing a horrible oath, aimed it at the old man’s uncovered head. At that instant, and in the very act, he fell himself, as if struck by lightning, and over his body a one-armed man came darting to the locksmith’s side. Another man was with him, and both caught the locksmith roughly in their grasp.

‘Leave him to us!’ they cried to Hugh—struggling, as they spoke, to force a passage backward through the crowd. ‘Leave him to us. Why do you waste your whole strength on such as he, when a couple of men can finish him in as many minutes! You lose time. Remember the prisoners! remember Barnaby!’

The cry ran through the mob. Hammers began to rattle on the walls; and every man strove to reach the prison, and be among the foremost rank. Fighting their way through the press and struggle, as desperately as if they were in the midst of enemies rather than their own friends, the two men retreated with the locksmith between them, and dragged him through the very heart of the concourse.

And now the strokes began to fall like hail upon the gate, and on the strong building; for those who could not reach the door, spent their fierce rage on anything—even on the great blocks of stone, which shivered their weapons into fragments, and made their hands and arms to tingle as if the walls were active in their stout resistance, and dealt them back their blows. The clash of iron ringing upon iron, mingled with the deafening tumult and sounded high above it, as the great sledge-hammers rattled on the nailed and plated door: the sparks flew off in showers; men worked in gangs, and at short intervals relieved each other, that all their strength might be devoted to the work; but there stood the portal still, as grim and dark and strong as ever, and, saving for the dints upon its battered surface, quite unchanged.

While some brought all their energies to bear upon this toilsome task; and some, rearing ladders against the prison, tried to clamber to the summit of the walls they were too short to scale; and some again engaged a body of police a hundred strong, and beat them back and trod them under foot by force of numbers; others besieged the house on which the jailer had appeared, and driving in the door, brought out his furniture, and piled it up against the prison-gate, to make a bonfire which should burn it down. As soon as this device was understood, all those who had laboured hitherto, cast down their tools and helped to swell the heap; which reached half-way across the street, and was so high, that those who threw more fuel on the top, got up by ladders. When all the keeper’s goods were flung upon this costly pile, to the last fragment, they smeared it with the pitch, and tar, and rosin they had brought, and sprinkled it with turpentine. To all the woodwork round the prison-doors they did the like, leaving not a joist or beam untouched. This infernal christening performed, they fired the pile with lighted matches and with blazing tow, and then stood by, awaiting the result.

The furniture being very dry, and rendered more combustible by wax and oil, besides the arts they had used, took fire at once. The flames roared high and fiercely, blackening the prison-wall, and twining up its loftly front like burning serpents. At first they crowded round the blaze, and vented their exultation only in their looks: but when it grew hotter and fiercer—when it crackled, leaped, and roared, like a great furnace—when it shone upon the opposite houses, and lighted up not only the pale and wondering faces at the windows, but the inmost corners of each habitation—when through the deep red heat and glow, the fire was seen sporting and toying with the door, now clinging to its obdurate surface, now gliding off with fierce inconstancy and soaring high into the sky, anon returning to fold it in its burning grasp and lure it to its ruin—when it shone and gleamed so brightly that the church clock of St Sepulchre’s so often pointing to the hour of death, was legible as in broad day, and the vane upon its steeple-top glittered in the unwonted light like something richly jewelled—when blackened stone and sombre brick grew ruddy in the deep reflection, and windows shone like burnished gold, dotting the longest distance in the fiery vista with their specks of brightness—when wall and tower, and roof and chimney-stack, seemed drunk, and in the flickering glare appeared to reel and stagger—when scores of objects, never seen before, burst out upon the view, and things the most familiar put on some new aspect—then the mob began to join the whirl, and with loud yells, and shouts, and clamour, such as happily is seldom heard, bestirred themselves to feed the fire, and keep it at its height.

Although the heat was so intense that the paint on the houses over against the prison, parched and crackled up, and swelling into boils, as it were from excess of torture, broke and crumbled away; although the glass fell from the window-sashes, and the lead and iron on the roofs blistered the incautious hand that touched them, and the sparrows in the eaves took wing, and rendered giddy by the smoke, fell fluttering down upon the blazing pile; still the fire was tended unceasingly by busy hands, and round it, men were going always. They never slackened in their zeal, or kept aloof, but pressed upon the flames so hard, that those in front had much ado to save themselves from being thrust in; if one man swooned or dropped, a dozen struggled for his place, and that although they knew the pain, and thirst, and pressure to be unendurable. Those who fell down in fainting-fits, and were not crushed or burnt, were carried to an inn-yard close at hand, and dashed with water from a pump; of which buckets full were passed from man to man among the crowd; but such was the strong desire of all to drink, and such the fighting to be first, that, for the most part, the whole contents were spilled upon the ground, without the lips of one man being moistened.

Meanwhile, and in the midst of all the roar and outcry, those who were nearest to the pile, heaped up again the burning fragments that came toppling down, and raked the fire about the door, which, although a sheet of flame, was still a door fast locked and barred, and kept them out. Great pieces of blazing wood were passed, besides, above the people’s heads to such as stood about the ladders, and some of these, climbing up to the topmost stave, and holding on with one hand by the prison wall, exerted all their skill and force to cast these fire-brands on the roof, or down into the yards within. In many instances their efforts were successful; which occasioned a new and appalling addition to the horrors of the scene: for the prisoners within, seeing from between their bars that the fire caught in many places and thrived fiercely, and being all locked up in strong cells for the night, began to know that they were in danger of being burnt alive. This terrible fear, spreading from cell to cell and from yard to yard, vented itself in such dismal cries and wailings, and in such dreadful shrieks for help, that the whole jail resounded with the noise; which was loudly heard even above the shouting of the mob and roaring of the flames, and was so full of agony and despair, that it made the boldest tremble.

It was remarkable that these cries began in that quarter of the jail which fronted Newgate Street, where, it was well known, the men who were to suffer death on Thursday were confined. And not only were these four who had so short a time to live, the first to whom the dread of being burnt occurred, but they were, throughout, the most importunate of all: for they could be plainly heard, notwithstanding the great thickness of the walls, crying that the wind set that way, and that the flames would shortly reach them; and calling to the officers of the jail to come and quench the fire from a cistern which was in their yard, and full of water. Judging from what the crowd outside the walls could hear from time to time, these four doomed wretches never ceased to call for help; and that with as much distraction, and in as great a frenzy of attachment to existence, as though each had an honoured, happy life before him, instead of eight-and-forty hours of miserable imprisonment, and then a violent and shameful death.

But the anguish and suffering of the two sons of one of these men, when they heard, or fancied that they heard, their father’s voice, is past description. After wringing their hands and rushing to and fro as if they were stark mad, one mounted on the shoulders of his brother, and tried to clamber up the face of the high wall, guarded at the top with spikes and points of iron. And when he fell among the crowd, he was not deterred by his bruises, but mounted up again, and fell again, and, when he found the feat impossible, began to beat the stones and tear them with his hands, as if he could that way make a breach in the strong building, and force a passage in. At last, they cleft their way among the mob about the door, though many men, a dozen times their match, had tried in vain to do so, and were seen, in—yes, in—the fire, striving to prize it down, with crowbars.

Nor were they alone affected by the outcry from within the prison. The women who were looking on, shrieked loudly, beat their hands together, stopped their ears; and many fainted: the men who were not near the walls and active in the siege, rather than do nothing, tore up the pavement of the street, and did so with a haste and fury they could not have surpassed if that had been the jail, and they were near their object. Not one living creature in the throng was for an instant still. The whole great mass were mad.

A shout! Another! Another yet, though few knew why, or what it meant. But those around the gate had seen it slowly yield, and drop from its topmost hinge. It hung on that side by but one, but it was upright still, because of the bar, and its having sunk, of its own weight, into the heap of ashes at its foot. There was now a gap at the top of the doorway, through which could be descried a gloomy passage, cavernous and dark. Pile up the fire!

It burnt fiercely. The door was red-hot, and the gap wider. They vainly tried to shield their faces with their hands, and standing as if in readiness for a spring, watched the place. Dark figures, some crawling on their hands and knees, some carried in the arms of others, were seen to pass along the roof. It was plain the jail could hold out no longer. The keeper, and his officers, and their wives and children, were escaping. Pile up the fire!

The door sank down again: it settled deeper in the cinders—tottered—yielded—was down!

As they shouted again, they fell back, for a moment, and left a clear space about the fire that lay between them and the jail entry. Hugh leapt upon the blazing heap, and scattering a train of sparks into the air, and making the dark lobby glitter with those that hung upon his dress, dashed into the jail.

The hangman followed. And then so many rushed upon their track, that the fire got trodden down and thinly strewn about the street; but there was no need of it now, for, inside and out, the prison was in flames.

Chapter 65

During the whole course of the terrible scene which was now at its height, one man in the jail suffered a degree of fear and mental torment which had no parallel in the endurance, even of those who lay under sentence of death.

When the rioters first assembled before the building, the murderer was roused from sleep—if such slumbers as his may have that blessed name—by the roar of voices, and the struggling of a great crowd. He started up as these sounds met his ear, and, sitting on his bedstead, listened.

After a short interval of silence the noise burst out again. Still listening attentively, he made out, in course of time, that the jail was besieged by a furious multitude. His guilty conscience instantly arrayed these men against himself, and brought the fear upon him that he would be singled out, and torn to pieces.

Once impressed with the terror of this conceit, everything tended to confirm and strengthen it. His double crime, the circumstances under which it had been committed, the length of time that had elapsed, and its discovery in spite of all, made him, as it were, the visible object of the Almighty’s wrath. In all the crime and vice and moral gloom of the great pest-house of the capital, he stood alone, marked and singled out by his great guilt, a Lucifer among the devils. The other prisoners were a host, hiding and sheltering each other—a crowd like that without the walls. He was one man against the whole united concourse; a single, solitary, lonely man, from whom the very captives in the jail fell off and shrunk appalled.

It might be that the intelligence of his capture having been bruited abroad, they had come there purposely to drag him out and kill him in the street; or it might be that they were the rioters, and, in pursuance of an old design, had come to sack the prison. But in either case he had no belief or hope that they would spare him. Every shout they raised, and every sound they made, was a blow upon his heart. As the attack went on, he grew more wild and frantic in his terror: tried to pull away the bars that guarded the chimney and prevented him from climbing up: called loudly on the turnkeys to cluster round the cell and save him from the fury of the rabble; or put him in some dungeon underground, no matter of what depth, how dark it was, or loathsome, or beset with rats and creeping things, so that it hid him and was hard to find.

But no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he cried to them, of attracting attention, he was silent. By and bye, he saw, as he looked from his grated window, a strange glimmering on the stone walls and pavement of the yard. It was feeble at first, and came and went, as though some officers with torches were passing to and fro upon the roof of the prison. Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down, spattering the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners. One rolled beneath a wooden bench, and set it in a blaze; another caught a water-spout, and so went climbing up the wall, leaving a long straight track of fire behind it. After a time, a slow thick shower of burning fragments, from some upper portion of the prison which was blazing nigh, began to fall before his door. Remembering that it opened outwards, he knew that every spark which fell upon the heap, and in the act lost its bright life, and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish, helped to entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded with shrieks and cries for help,—though the fire bounded up as if each separate flame had had a tiger’s life, and roared as though, in every one, there were a hungry voice—though the heat began to grow intense, and the air suffocating, and the clamour without increased, and the danger of his situation even from one merciless element was every moment more extreme,—still he was afraid to raise his voice again, lest the crowd should break in, and should, of their own ears or from the information given them by the other prisoners, get the clue to his place of confinement. Thus fearful alike, of those within the prison and of those without; of noise and silence; light and darkness; of being released, and being left there to die; he was so tortured and tormented, that nothing man has ever done to man in the horrible caprice of power and cruelty, exceeds his self-inflicted punishment.

Now, now, the door was down. Now they came rushing through the jail, calling to each other in the vaulted passages; clashing the iron gates dividing yard from yard; beating at the doors of cells and wards; wrenching off bolts and locks and bars; tearing down the door-posts to get men out; endeavouring to drag them by main force through gaps and windows where a child could scarcely pass; whooping and yelling without a moment’s rest; and running through the heat and flames as if they were cased in metal. By their legs, their arms, the hair upon their heads, they dragged the prisoners out. Some threw themselves upon the captives as they got towards the door, and tried to file away their irons; some danced about them with a frenzied joy, and rent their clothes, and were ready, as it seemed, to tear them limb from limb. Now a party of a dozen men came darting through the yard into which the murderer cast fearful glances from his darkened window; dragging a prisoner along the ground whose dress they had nearly torn from his body in their mad eagerness to set him free, and who was bleeding and senseless in their hands. Now a score of prisoners ran to and fro, who had lost themselves in the intricacies of the prison, and were so bewildered with the noise and glare that they knew not where to turn or what to do, and still cried out for help, as loudly as before. Anon some famished wretch whose theft had been a loaf of bread, or scrap of butcher’s meat, came skulking past, barefooted—going slowly away because that jail, his house, was burning; not because he had any other, or had friends to meet, or old haunts to revisit, or any liberty to gain, but liberty to starve and die. And then a knot of highwaymen went trooping by, conducted by the friends they had among the crowd, who muffled their fetters as they went along, with handkerchiefs and bands of hay, and wrapped them in coats and cloaks, and gave them drink from bottles, and held it to their lips, because of their handcuffs which there was no time to remove. All this, and Heaven knows how much more, was done amidst a noise, a hurry, and distraction, like nothing that we know of, even in our dreams; which seemed for ever on the rise, and never to decrease for the space of a single instant.

He was still looking down from his window upon these things, when a band of men with torches, ladders, axes, and many kinds of weapons, poured into the yard, and hammering at his door, inquired if there were any prisoner within. He left the window when he saw them coming, and drew back into the remotest corner of the cell; but although he returned them no answer, they had a fancy that some one was inside, for they presently set ladders against it, and began to tear away the bars at the casement; not only that, indeed, but with pickaxes to hew down the very stones in the wall.

As soon as they had made a breach at the window, large enough for the admission of a man’s head, one of them thrust in a torch and looked all round the room. He followed this man’s gaze until it rested on himself, and heard him demand why he had not answered, but made him no reply.

In the general surprise and wonder, they were used to this; without saying anything more, they enlarged the breach until it was large enough to admit the body of a man, and then came dropping down upon the floor, one after another, until the cell was full. They caught him up among them, handed him to the window, and those who stood upon the ladders passed him down upon the pavement of the yard. Then the rest came out, one after another, and, bidding him fly, and lose no time, or the way would be choked up, hurried away to rescue others.

It seemed not a minute’s work from first to last. He staggered to his feet, incredulous of what had happened, when the yard was filled again, and a crowd rushed on, hurrying Barnaby among them. In another minute—not so much: another minute! the same instant, with no lapse or interval between!—he and his son were being passed from hand to hand, through the dense crowd in the street, and were glancing backward at a burning pile which some one said was Newgate.

From the moment of their first entrance into the prison, the crowd dispersed themselves about it, and swarmed into every chink and crevice, as if they had a perfect acquaintance with its innermost parts, and bore in their minds an exact plan of the whole. For this immediate knowledge of the place, they were, no doubt, in a great degree, indebted to the hangman, who stood in the lobby, directing some to go this way, some that, and some the other; and who materially assisted in bringing about the wonderful rapidity with which the release of the prisoners was effected.

But this functionary of the law reserved one important piece of intelligence, and kept it snugly to himself. When he had issued his instructions relative to every other part of the building, and the mob were dispersed from end to end, and busy at their work, he took a bundle of keys from a kind of cupboard in the wall, and going by a kind of passage near the chapel (it joined the governors house, and was then on fire), betook himself to the condemned cells, which were a series of small, strong, dismal rooms, opening on a low gallery, guarded, at the end at which he entered, by a strong iron wicket, and at its opposite extremity by two doors and a thick grate. Having double locked the wicket, and assured himself that the other entrances were well secured, he sat down on a bench in the gallery, and sucked the head of his stick with the utmost complacency, tranquillity, and contentment.

It would have been strange enough, a man’s enjoying himself in this quiet manner, while the prison was burning, and such a tumult was cleaving the air, though he had been outside the walls. But here, in the very heart of the building, and moreover with the prayers and cries of the four men under sentence sounding in his ears, and their hands, stretched out through the gratings in their cell-doors, clasped in frantic entreaty before his very eyes, it was particularly remarkable. Indeed, Mr Dennis appeared to think it an uncommon circumstance, and to banter himself upon it; for he thrust his hat on one side as some men do when they are in a waggish humour, sucked the head of his stick with a higher relish, and smiled as though he would say, ‘Dennis, you’re a rum dog; you’re a queer fellow; you’re capital company, Dennis, and quite a character!’

He sat in this way for some minutes, while the four men in the cells, who were certain that somebody had entered the gallery, but could not see who, gave vent to such piteous entreaties as wretches in their miserable condition may be supposed to have been inspired with: urging, whoever it was, to set them at liberty, for the love of Heaven; and protesting, with great fervour, and truly enough, perhaps, for the time, that if they escaped, they would amend their ways, and would never, never, never again do wrong before God or man, but would lead penitent and sober lives, and sorrowfully repent the crimes they had committed. The terrible energy with which they spoke, would have moved any person, no matter how good or just (if any good or just person could have strayed into that sad place that night), to have set them at liberty: and, while he would have left any other punishment to its free course, to have saved them from this last dreadful and repulsive penalty; which never turned a man inclined to evil, and has hardened thousands who were half inclined to good.

Mr Dennis, who had been bred and nurtured in the good old school, and had administered the good old laws on the good old plan, always once and sometimes twice every six weeks, for a long time, bore these appeals with a deal of philosophy. Being at last, however, rather disturbed in his pleasant reflection by their repetition, he rapped at one of the doors with his stick, and cried:

‘Hold your noise there, will you?’

At this they all cried together that they were to be hanged on the next day but one; and again implored his aid.

‘Aid! For what!’ said Mr Dennis, playfully rapping the knuckles of the hand nearest him.

‘To save us!’ they cried.

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr Dennis, winking at the wall in the absence of any friend with whom he could humour the joke. ‘And so you’re to be worked off, are you, brothers?’

‘Unless we are released to-night,’ one of them cried, ‘we are dead men!’

‘I tell you what it is,’ said the hangman, gravely; ‘I’m afraid, my friend, that you’re not in that ‘ere state of mind that’s suitable to your condition, then; you’re not a-going to be released: don’t think it—Will you leave off that ‘ere indecent row? I wonder you an’t ashamed of yourselves, I do.’

He followed up this reproof by rapping every set of knuckles one after the other, and having done so, resumed his seat again with a cheerful countenance.

‘You’ve had law,’ he said, crossing his legs and elevating his eyebrows: ‘laws have been made a’ purpose for you; a wery handsome prison’s been made a’ purpose for you; a parson’s kept a purpose for you; a constitootional officer’s appointed a’ purpose for you; carts is maintained a’ purpose for you—and yet you’re not contented!—WILL you hold that noise, you sir in the furthest?’

A groan was the only answer.

‘So well as I can make out,’ said Mr Dennis, in a tone of mingled badinage and remonstrance, ‘there’s not a man among you. I begin to think I’m on the opposite side, and among the ladies; though for the matter of that, I’ve seen a many ladies face it out, in a manner that did honour to the sex.—You in number two, don’t grind them teeth of yours. Worse manners,’ said the hangman, rapping at the door with his stick, ‘I never see in this place afore. I’m ashamed of you. You’re a disgrace to the Bailey.’

After pausing for a moment to hear if anything could be pleaded in justification, Mr Dennis resumed in a sort of coaxing tone:

‘Now look’ee here, you four. I’m come here to take care of you, and see that you an’t burnt, instead of the other thing. It’s no use your making any noise, for you won’t be found out by them as has broken in, and you’ll only be hoarse when you come to the speeches,—which is a pity. What I say in respect to the speeches always is, “Give it mouth.” That’s my maxim. Give it mouth. I’ve heerd,’ said the hangman, pulling off his hat to take his handkerchief from the crown and wipe his face, and then putting it on again a little more on one side than before, ‘I’ve heerd a eloquence on them boards—you know what boards I mean—and have heerd a degree of mouth given to them speeches, that they was as clear as a bell, and as good as a play. There’s a pattern! And always, when a thing of this natur’s to come off, what I stand up for, is, a proper frame of mind. Let’s have a proper frame of mind, and we can go through with it, creditable—pleasant—sociable. Whatever you do (and I address myself in particular, to you in the furthest), never snivel. I’d sooner by half, though I lose by it, see a man tear his clothes a’ purpose to spile ‘em before they come to me, than find him snivelling. It’s ten to one a better frame of mind, every way!’

While the hangman addressed them to this effect, in the tone and with the air of a pastor in familiar conversation with his flock, the noise had been in some degree subdued; for the rioters were busy in conveying the prisoners to the Sessions House, which was beyond the main walls of the prison, though connected with it, and the crowd were busy too, in passing them from thence along the street. But when he had got thus far in his discourse, the sound of voices in the yard showed plainly that the mob had returned and were coming that way; and directly afterwards a violent crashing at the grate below, gave note of their attack upon the cells (as they were called) at last.

It was in vain the hangman ran from door to door, and covered the grates, one after another, with his hat, in futile efforts to stifle the cries of the four men within; it was in vain he dogged their outstretched hands, and beat them with his stick, or menaced them with new and lingering pains in the execution of his office; the place resounded with their cries. These, together with the feeling that they were now the last men in the jail, so worked upon and stimulated the besiegers, that in an incredibly short space of time they forced the strong grate down below, which was formed of iron rods two inches square, drove in the two other doors, as if they had been but deal partitions, and stood at the end of the gallery with only a bar or two between them and the cells.

‘Halloa!’ cried Hugh, who was the first to look into the dusky passage: ‘Dennis before us! Well done, old boy. Be quick, and open here, for we shall be suffocated in the smoke, going out.’

‘Go out at once, then,’ said Dennis. ‘What do you want here?’

‘Want!’ echoed Hugh. ‘The four men.’

‘Four devils!’ cried the hangman. ‘Don’t you know they’re left for death on Thursday? Don’t you respect the law—the constitootion—nothing? Let the four men be.’

‘Is this a time for joking?’ cried Hugh. ‘Do you hear ‘em? Pull away these bars that have got fixed between the door and the ground; and let us in.’

‘Brother,’ said the hangman, in a low voice, as he stooped under pretence of doing what Hugh desired, but only looked up in his face, ‘can’t you leave these here four men to me, if I’ve the whim! You do what you like, and have what you like of everything for your share,—give me my share. I want these four men left alone, I tell you!’

‘Pull the bars down, or stand out of the way,’ was Hugh’s reply.

‘You can turn the crowd if you like, you know that well enough, brother,’ said the hangman, slowly. ‘What! You WILL come in, will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You won’t let these men alone, and leave ‘em to me? You’ve no respect for nothing—haven’t you?’ said the hangman, retreating to the door by which he had entered, and regarding his companion with a scowl. ‘You WILL come in, will you, brother!’

‘I tell you, yes. What the devil ails you? Where are you going?’

‘No matter where I’m going,’ rejoined the hangman, looking in again at the iron wicket, which he had nearly shut upon himself, and held ajar. ‘Remember where you’re coming. That’s all!’

With that, he shook his likeness at Hugh, and giving him a grin, compared with which his usual smile was amiable, disappeared, and shut the door.

Hugh paused no longer, but goaded alike by the cries of the convicts, and by the impatience of the crowd, warned the man immediately behind him—the way was only wide enough for one abreast—to stand back, and wielded a sledge-hammer with such strength, that after a few blows the iron bent and broke, and gave them free admittance.

If the two sons of one of these men, of whom mention has been made, were furious in their zeal before, they had now the wrath and vigour of lions. Calling to the man within each cell, to keep as far back as he could, lest the axes crashing through the door should wound him, a party went to work upon each one, to beat it in by sheer strength, and force the bolts and staples from their hold. But although these two lads had the weakest party, and the worst armed, and did not begin until after the others, having stopped to whisper to him through the grate, that door was the first open, and that man was the first out. As they dragged him into the gallery to knock off his irons, he fell down among them, a mere heap of chains, and was carried out in that state on men’s shoulders, with no sign of life.

The release of these four wretched creatures, and conveying them, astounded and bewildered, into the streets so full of life—a spectacle they had never thought to see again, until they emerged from solitude and silence upon that last journey, when the air should be heavy with the pent-up breath of thousands, and the streets and houses should be built and roofed with human faces, not with bricks and tiles and stones—was the crowning horror of the scene. Their pale and haggard looks and hollow eyes; their staggering feet, and hands stretched out as if to save themselves from falling; their wandering and uncertain air; the way they heaved and gasped for breath, as though in water, when they were first plunged into the crowd; all marked them for the men. No need to say ‘this one was doomed to die;’ for there were the words broadly stamped and branded on his face. The crowd fell off, as if they had been laid out for burial, and had risen in their shrouds; and many were seen to shudder, as though they had been actually dead men, when they chanced to touch or brush against their garments.

At the bidding of the mob, the houses were all illuminated that night—lighted up from top to bottom as at a time of public gaiety and joy. Many years afterwards, old people who lived in their youth near this part of the city, remembered being in a great glare of light, within doors and without, and as they looked, timid and frightened children, from the windows, seeing a FACE go by. Though the whole great crowd and all its other terrors had faded from their recollection, this one object remained; alone, distinct, and well remembered. Even in the unpractised minds of infants, one of these doomed men darting past, and but an instant seen, was an image of force enough to dim the whole concourse; to find itself an all-absorbing place, and hold it ever after.

When this last task had been achieved, the shouts and cries grew fainter; the clank of fetters, which had resounded on all sides as the prisoners escaped, was heard no more; all the noises of the crowd subsided into a hoarse and sullen murmur as it passed into the distance; and when the human tide had rolled away, a melancholy heap of smoking ruins marked the spot where it had lately chafed and roared.

Chapter 66

Although he had had no rest upon the previous night, and had watched with little intermission for some weeks past, sleeping only in the day by starts and snatches, Mr Haredale, from the dawn of morning until sunset, sought his niece in every place where he deemed it possible she could have taken refuge. All day long, nothing, save a draught of water, passed his lips; though he prosecuted his inquiries far and wide, and never so much as sat down, once.

In every quarter he could think of; at Chigwell and in London; at the houses of the tradespeople with whom he dealt, and of the friends he knew; he pursued his search. A prey to the most harrowing anxieties and apprehensions, he went from magistrate to magistrate, and finally to the Secretary of State. The only comfort he received was from this minister, who assured him that the Government, being now driven to the exercise of the extreme prerogatives of the Crown, were determined to exert them; that a proclamation would probably be out upon the morrow, giving to the military, discretionary and unlimited power in the suppression of the riots; that the sympathies of the King, the Administration, and both Houses of Parliament, and indeed of all good men of every religious persuasion, were strongly with the injured Catholics; and that justice should be done them at any cost or hazard. He told him, moreover, that other persons whose houses had been burnt, had for a time lost sight of their children or their relatives, but had, in every case, within his knowledge, succeeded in discovering them; that his complaint should be remembered, and fully stated in the instructions given to the officers in command, and to all the inferior myrmidons of justice; and that everything that could be done to help him, should be done, with a goodwill and in good faith.

Grateful for this consolation, feeble as it was in its reference to the past, and little hope as it afforded him in connection with the subject of distress which lay nearest to his heart; and really thankful for the interest the minister expressed, and seemed to feel, in his condition; Mr Haredale withdrew. He found himself, with the night coming on, alone in the streets; and destitute of any place in which to lay his head.

He entered an hotel near Charing Cross, and ordered some refreshment and a bed. He saw that his faint and worn appearance attracted the attention of the landlord and his waiters; and thinking that they might suppose him to be penniless, took out his purse, and laid it on the table. It was not that, the landlord said, in a faltering voice. If he were one of those who had suffered by the rioters, he durst not give him entertainment. He had a family of children, and had been twice warned to be careful in receiving guests. He heartily prayed his forgiveness, but what could he do?

Nothing. No man felt that more sincerely than Mr Haredale. He told the man as much, and left the house.

Feeling that he might have anticipated this occurrence, after what he had seen at Chigwell in the morning, where no man dared to touch a spade, though he offered a large reward to all who would come and dig among the ruins of his house, he walked along the Strand; too proud to expose himself to another refusal, and of too generous a spirit to involve in distress or ruin any honest tradesman who might be weak enough to give him shelter. He wandered into one of the streets by the side of the river, and was pacing in a thoughtful manner up and down, thinking of things that had happened long ago, when he heard a servant-man at an upper window call to another on the opposite side of the street, that the mob were setting fire to Newgate.

To Newgate! where that man was! His failing strength returned, his energies came back with tenfold vigour, on the instant. If it were possible—if they should set the murderer free—was he, after all he had undergone, to die with the suspicion of having slain his own brother, dimly gathering about him—

He had no consciousness of going to the jail; but there he stood, before it. There was the crowd wedged and pressed together in a dense, dark, moving mass; and there were the flames soaring up into the air. His head turned round and round, lights flashed before his eyes, and he struggled hard with two men.

‘Nay, nay,’ said one. ‘Be more yourself, my good sir. We attract attention here. Come away. What can you do among so many men?’

‘The gentleman’s always for doing something,’ said the other, forcing him along as he spoke. ‘I like him for that. I do like him for that.’

They had by this time got him into a court, hard by the prison. He looked from one to the other, and as he tried to release himself, felt that he tottered on his feet. He who had spoken first, was the old gentleman whom he had seen at the Lord Mayor’s. The other was John Grueby, who had stood by him so manfully at Westminster.

‘What does this mean?’ he asked them faintly. ‘How came we together?’

‘On the skirts of the crowd,’ returned the distiller; ‘but come with us. Pray come with us. You seem to know my friend here?’

‘Surely,’ said Mr Haredale, looking in a kind of stupor at John.

‘He’ll tell you then,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘that I am a man to be trusted. He’s my servant. He was lately (as you know, I have no doubt) in Lord George Gordon’s service; but he left it, and brought, in pure goodwill to me and others, who are marked by the rioters, such intelligence as he had picked up, of their designs.’

—‘On one condition, please, sir,’ said John, touching his hat. No evidence against my lord—a misled man—a kind-hearted man, sir. My lord never intended this.’

‘The condition will be observed, of course,’ rejoined the old distiller. ‘It’s a point of honour. But come with us, sir; pray come with us.’

John Grueby added no entreaties, but he adopted a different kind of persuasion, by putting his arm through one of Mr Haredale’s, while his master took the other, and leading him away with all speed.

Sensible, from a strange lightness in his head, and a difficulty in fixing his thoughts on anything, even to the extent of bearing his companions in his mind for a minute together without looking at them, that his brain was affected by the agitation and suffering through which he had passed, and to which he was still a prey, Mr Haredale let them lead him where they would. As they went along, he was conscious of having no command over what he said or thought, and that he had a fear of going mad.

The distiller lived, as he had told him when they first met, on Holborn Hill, where he had great storehouses and drove a large trade. They approached his house by a back entrance, lest they should attract the notice of the crowd, and went into an upper room which faced towards the street; the windows, however, in common with those of every other room in the house, were boarded up inside, in order that, out of doors, all might appear quite dark.

They laid him on a sofa in this chamber, perfectly insensible; but John immediately fetching a surgeon, who took from him a large quantity of blood, he gradually came to himself. As he was, for the time, too weak to walk, they had no difficulty in persuading him to remain there all night, and got him to bed without loss of a minute. That done, they gave him cordial and some toast, and presently a pretty strong composing-draught, under the influence of which he soon fell into a lethargy, and, for a time, forgot his troubles.

The vintner, who was a very hearty old fellow and a worthy man, had no thoughts of going to bed himself, for he had received several threatening warnings from the rioters, and had indeed gone out that evening to try and gather from the conversation of the mob whether his house was to be the next attacked. He sat all night in an easy-chair in the same room—dozing a little now and then—and received from time to time the reports of John Grueby and two or three other trustworthy persons in his employ, who went out into the streets as scouts; and for whose entertainment an ample allowance of good cheer (which the old vintner, despite his anxiety, now and then attacked himself) was set forth in an adjoining chamber.

These accounts were of a sufficiently alarming nature from the first; but as the night wore on, they grew so much worse, and involved such a fearful amount of riot and destruction, that in comparison with these new tidings all the previous disturbances sunk to nothing.

The first intelligence that came, was of the taking of Newgate, and the escape of all the prisoners, whose track, as they made up Holborn and into the adjacent streets, was proclaimed to those citizens who were shut up in their houses, by the rattling of their chains, which formed a dismal concert, and was heard in every direction, as though so many forges were at work. The flames too, shone so brightly through the vintner’s skylights, that the rooms and staircases below were nearly as light as in broad day; while the distant shouting of the mob seemed to shake the very walls and ceilings.

At length they were heard approaching the house, and some minutes of terrible anxiety ensued. They came close up, and stopped before it; but after giving three loud yells, went on. And although they returned several times that night, creating new alarms each time, they did nothing there; having their hands full. Shortly after they had gone away for the first time, one of the scouts came running in with the news that they had stopped before Lord Mansfield’s house in Bloomsbury Square.

Soon afterwards there came another, and another, and then the first returned again, and so, by little and little, their tale was this:—That the mob gathering round Lord Mansfield’s house, had called on those within to open the door, and receiving no reply (for Lord and Lady Mansfield were at that moment escaping by the backway), forced an entrance according to their usual custom. That they then began to demolish the house with great fury, and setting fire to it in several parts, involved in a common ruin the whole of the costly furniture, the plate and jewels, a beautiful gallery of pictures, the rarest collection of manuscripts ever possessed by any one private person in the world, and worse than all, because nothing could replace this loss, the great Law Library, on almost every page of which were notes in the Judge’s own hand, of inestimable value,—being the results of the study and experience of his whole life. That while they were howling and exulting round the fire, a troop of soldiers, with a magistrate among them, came up, and being too late (for the mischief was by that time done), began to disperse the crowd. That the Riot Act being read, and the crowd still resisting, the soldiers received orders to fire, and levelling their muskets shot dead at the first discharge six men and a woman, and wounded many persons; and loading again directly, fired another volley, but over the people’s heads it was supposed, as none were seen to fall. That thereupon, and daunted by the shrieks and tumult, the crowd began to disperse, and the soldiers went away, leaving the killed and wounded on the ground: which they had no sooner done than the rioters came back again, and taking up the dead bodies, and the wounded people, formed into a rude procession, having the bodies in the front. That in this order they paraded off with a horrible merriment; fixing weapons in the dead men’s hands to make them look as if alive; and preceded by a fellow ringing Lord Mansfield’s dinner-bell with all his might.

The scouts reported further, that this party meeting with some others who had been at similar work elsewhere, they all united into one, and drafting off a few men with the killed and wounded, marched away to Lord Mansfield’s country seat at Caen Wood, between Hampstead and Highgate; bent upon destroying that house likewise, and lighting up a great fire there, which from that height should be seen all over London. But in this, they were disappointed, for a party of horse having arrived before them, they retreated faster than they went, and came straight back to town.

There being now a great many parties in the streets, each went to work according to its humour, and a dozen houses were quickly blazing, including those of Sir John Fielding and two other justices, and four in Holborn—one of the greatest thoroughfares in London—which were all burning at the same time, and burned until they went out of themselves, for the people cut the engine hose, and would not suffer the firemen to play upon the flames. At one house near Moorfields, they found in one of the rooms some canary birds in cages, and these they cast into the fire alive. The poor little creatures screamed, it was said, like infants, when they were flung upon the blaze; and one man was so touched that he tried in vain to save them, which roused the indignation of the crowd, and nearly cost him his life.

At this same house, one of the fellows who went through the rooms, breaking the furniture and helping to destroy the building, found a child’s doll—a poor toy—which he exhibited at the window to the mob below, as the image of some unholy saint which the late occupants had worshipped. While he was doing this, another man with an equally tender conscience (they had both been foremost in throwing down the canary birds for roasting alive), took his seat on the parapet of the house, and harangued the crowd from a pamphlet circulated by the Association, relative to the true principles of Christianity! Meanwhile the Lord Mayor, with his hands in his pockets, looked on as an idle man might look at any other show, and seemed mightily satisfied to have got a good place.

Such were the accounts brought to the old vintner by his servants as he sat at the side of Mr Haredale’s bed, having been unable even to doze, after the first part of the night; too much disturbed by his own fears; by the cries of the mob, the light of the fires, and the firing of the soldiers. Such, with the addition of the release of all the prisoners in the New Jail at Clerkenwell, and as many robberies of passengers in the streets, as the crowd had leisure to indulge in, were the scenes of which Mr Haredale was happily unconscious, and which were all enacted before midnight.

Chapter 67

When darkness broke away and morning began to dawn, the town wore a strange aspect indeed.

Sleep had hardly been thought of all night. The general alarm was so apparent in the faces of the inhabitants, and its expression was so aggravated by want of rest (few persons, with any property to lose, having dared go to bed since Monday), that a stranger coming into the streets would have supposed some mortal pest or plague to have been raging. In place of the usual cheerfulness and animation of morning, everything was dead and silent. The shops remained closed, offices and warehouses were shut, the coach and chair stands were deserted, no carts or waggons rumbled through the slowly waking streets, the early cries were all hushed; a universal gloom prevailed. Great numbers of people were out, even at daybreak, but they flitted to and fro as though they shrank from the sound of their own footsteps; the public ways were haunted rather than frequented; and round the smoking ruins people stood apart from one another and in silence, not venturing to condemn the rioters, or to be supposed to do so, even in whispers.

At the Lord President’s in Piccadilly, at Lambeth Palace, at the Lord Chancellor’s in Great Ormond Street, in the Royal Exchange, the Bank, the Guildhall, the Inns of Court, the Courts of Law, and every chamber fronting the streets near Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament, parties of soldiers were posted before daylight. A body of Horse Guards paraded Palace Yard; an encampment was formed in the Park, where fifteen hundred men and five battalions of Militia were under arms; the Tower was fortified, the drawbridges were raised, the cannon loaded and pointed, and two regiments of artillery busied in strengthening the fortress and preparing it for defence. A numerous detachment of soldiers were stationed to keep guard at the New River Head, which the people had threatened to attack, and where, it was said, they meant to cut off the main-pipes, so that there might be no water for the extinction of the flames. In the Poultry, and on Cornhill, and at several other leading points, iron chains were drawn across the street; parties of soldiers were distributed in some of the old city churches while it was yet dark; and in several private houses (among them, Lord Rockingham’s in Grosvenor Square); which were blockaded as though to sustain a siege, and had guns pointed from the windows. When the sun rose, it shone into handsome apartments filled with armed men; the furniture hastily heaped away in corners, and made of little or no account, in the terror of the time—on arms glittering in city chambers, among desks and stools, and dusty books—into little smoky churchyards in odd lanes and by-ways, with soldiers lying down among the tombs, or lounging under the shade of the one old tree, and their pile of muskets sparkling in the light—on solitary sentries pacing up and down in courtyards, silent now, but yesterday resounding with the din and hum of business—everywhere on guard-rooms, garrisons, and threatening preparations.

As the day crept on, still more unusual sights were witnessed in the streets. The gates of the King’s Bench and Fleet Prisons being opened at the usual hour, were found to have notices affixed to them, announcing that the rioters would come that night to burn them down. The wardens, too well knowing the likelihood there was of this promise being fulfilled, were fain to set their prisoners at liberty, and give them leave to move their goods; so, all day, such of them as had any furniture were occupied in conveying it, some to this place, some to that, and not a few to the brokers’ shops, where they gladly sold it, for any wretched price those gentry chose to give. There were some broken men among these debtors who had been in jail so long, and were so miserable and destitute of friends, so dead to the world, and utterly forgotten and uncared for, that they implored their jailers not to set them free, and to send them, if need were, to some other place of custody. But they, refusing to comply, lest they should incur the anger of the mob, turned them into the streets, where they wandered up and down hardly remembering the ways untrodden by their feet so long, and crying—such abject things those rotten-hearted jails had made them—as they slunk off in their rags, and dragged their slipshod feet along the pavement.

Even of the three hundred prisoners who had escaped from Newgate, there were some—a few, but there were some—who sought their jailers out and delivered themselves up: preferring imprisonment and punishment to the horrors of such another night as the last. Many of the convicts, drawn back to their old place of captivity by some indescribable attraction, or by a desire to exult over it in its downfall and glut their revenge by seeing it in ashes, actually went back in broad noon, and loitered about the cells. Fifty were retaken at one time on this next day, within the prison walls; but their fate did not deter others, for there they went in spite of everything, and there they were taken in twos and threes, twice or thrice a day, all through the week. Of the fifty just mentioned, some were occupied in endeavouring to rekindle the fire; but in general they seemed to have no object in view but to prowl and lounge about the old place: being often found asleep in the ruins, or sitting talking there, or even eating and drinking, as in a choice retreat.

Besides the notices on the gates of the Fleet and the King’s Bench, many similar announcements were left, before one o’clock at noon, at the houses of private individuals; and further, the mob proclaimed their intention of seizing on the Bank, the Mint, the Arsenal at Woolwich, and the Royal Palaces. The notices were seldom delivered by more than one man, who, if it were at a shop, went in, and laid it, with a bloody threat perhaps, upon the counter; or if it were at a private house, knocked at the door, and thrust it in the servant’s hand. Notwithstanding the presence of the military in every quarter of the town, and the great force in the Park, these messengers did their errands with impunity all through the day. So did two boys who went down Holborn alone, armed with bars taken from the railings of Lord Mansfield’s house, and demanded money for the rioters. So did a tall man on horseback who made a collection for the same purpose in Fleet Street, and refused to take anything but gold.

A rumour had now got into circulation, too, which diffused a greater dread all through London, even than these publicly announced intentions of the rioters, though all men knew that if they were successfully effected, there must ensue a national bankruptcy and general ruin. It was said that they meant to throw the gates of Bedlam open, and let all the madmen loose. This suggested such dreadful images to the people’s minds, and was indeed an act so fraught with new and unimaginable horrors in the contemplation, that it beset them more than any loss or cruelty of which they could foresee the worst, and drove many sane men nearly mad themselves.

So the day passed on: the prisoners moving their goods; people running to and fro in the streets, carrying away their property; groups standing in silence round the ruins; all business suspended; and the soldiers disposed as has been already mentioned, remaining quite inactive. So the day passed on, and dreaded night drew near again.

At last, at seven o’clock in the evening, the Privy Council issued a solemn proclamation that it was now necessary to employ the military, and that the officers had most direct and effectual orders, by an immediate exertion of their utmost force, to repress the disturbances; and warning all good subjects of the King to keep themselves, their servants, and apprentices, within doors that night. There was then delivered out to every soldier on duty, thirty-six rounds of powder and ball; the drums beat; and the whole force was under arms at sunset.

The City authorities, stimulated by these vigorous measures, held a Common Council; passed a vote thanking the military associations who had tendered their aid to the civil authorities; accepted it; and placed them under the direction of the two sheriffs. At the Queen’s palace, a double guard, the yeomen on duty, the groom-porters, and all other attendants, were stationed in the passages and on the staircases at seven o’clock, with strict instructions to be watchful on their posts all night; and all the doors were locked. The gentlemen of the Temple, and the other Inns, mounted guard within their gates, and strengthened them with the great stones of the pavement, which they took up for the purpose. In Lincoln’s Inn, they gave up the hall and commons to the Northumberland Militia, under the command of Lord Algernon Percy; in some few of the city wards, the burgesses turned out, and without making a very fierce show, looked brave enough. Some hundreds of stout gentlemen threw themselves, armed to the teeth, into the halls of the different companies, double-locked and bolted all the gates, and dared the rioters (among themselves) to come on at their peril. These arrangements being all made simultaneously, or nearly so, were completed by the time it got dark; and then the streets were comparatively clear, and were guarded at all the great corners and chief avenues by the troops: while parties of the officers rode up and down in all directions, ordering chance stragglers home, and admonishing the residents to keep within their houses, and, if any firing ensued, not to approach the windows. More chains were drawn across such of the thoroughfares as were of a nature to favour the approach of a great crowd, and at each of these points a considerable force was stationed. All these precautions having been taken, and it being now quite dark, those in command awaited the result in some anxiety: and not without a hope that such vigilant demonstrations might of themselves dishearten the populace, and prevent any new outrages.

But in this reckoning they were cruelly mistaken, for in half an hour, or less, as though the setting in of night had been their preconcerted signal, the rioters having previously, in small parties, prevented the lighting of the street lamps, rose like a great sea; and that in so many places at once, and with such inconceivable fury, that those who had the direction of the troops knew not, at first, where to turn or what to do. One after another, new fires blazed up in every quarter of the town, as though it were the intention of the insurgents to wrap the city in a circle of flames, which, contracting by degrees, should burn the whole to ashes; the crowd swarmed and roared in every street; and none but rioters and soldiers being out of doors, it seemed to the latter as if all London were arrayed against them, and they stood alone against the town.

In two hours, six-and-thirty fires were raging—six-and-thirty great conflagrations: among them the Borough Clink in Tooley Street, the King’s Bench, the Fleet, and the New Bridewell. In almost every street, there was a battle; and in every quarter the muskets of the troops were heard above the shouts and tumult of the mob. The firing began in the Poultry, where the chain was drawn across the road, where nearly a score of people were killed on the first discharge. Their bodies having been hastily carried into St Mildred’s Church by the soldiers, the latter fired again, and following fast upon the crowd, who began to give way when they saw the execution that was done, formed across Cheapside, and charged them at the point of the bayonet.

The streets were now a dreadful spectacle. The shouts of the rabble, the shrieks of women, the cries of the wounded, and the constant firing, formed a deafening and an awful accompaniment to the sights which every corner presented. Wherever the road was obstructed by the chains, there the fighting and the loss of life were greatest; but there was hot work and bloodshed in almost every leading thoroughfare.

At Holborn Bridge, and on Holborn Hill, the confusion was greater than in any other part; for the crowd that poured out of the city in two great streams, one by Ludgate Hill, and one by Newgate Street, united at that spot, and formed a mass so dense, that at every volley the people seemed to fall in heaps. At this place a large detachment of soldiery were posted, who fired, now up Fleet Market, now up Holborn, now up Snow Hill—constantly raking the streets in each direction. At this place too, several large fires were burning, so that all the terrors of that terrible night seemed to be concentrated in one spot.

Full twenty times, the rioters, headed by one man who wielded an axe in his right hand, and bestrode a brewer’s horse of great size and strength, caparisoned with fetters taken out of Newgate, which clanked and jingled as he went, made an attempt to force a passage at this point, and fire the vintner’s house. Full twenty times they were repulsed with loss of life, and still came back again; and though the fellow at their head was marked and singled out by all, and was a conspicuous object as the only rioter on horseback, not a man could hit him. So surely as the smoke cleared away, so surely there was he; calling hoarsely to his companions, brandishing his axe above his head, and dashing on as though he bore a charmed life, and was proof against ball and powder.

This man was Hugh; and in every part of the riot, he was seen. He headed two attacks upon the Bank, helped to break open the Toll-houses on Blackfriars Bridge, and cast the money into the street: fired two of the prisons with his own hand: was here, and there, and everywhere—always foremost—always active—striking at the soldiers, cheering on the crowd, making his horse’s iron music heard through all the yell and uproar: but never hurt or stopped. Turn him at one place, and he made a new struggle in another; force him to retreat at this point, and he advanced on that, directly. Driven from Holborn for the twentieth time, he rode at the head of a great crowd straight upon Saint Paul’s, attacked a guard of soldiers who kept watch over a body of prisoners within the iron railings, forced them to retreat, rescued the men they had in custody, and with this accession to his party, came back again, mad with liquor and excitement, and hallooing them on like a demon.

It would have been no easy task for the most careful rider to sit a horse in the midst of such a throng and tumult; but though this madman rolled upon his back (he had no saddle) like a boat upon the sea, he never for an instant lost his seat, or failed to guide him where he would. Through the very thickest of the press, over dead bodies and burning fragments, now on the pavement, now in the road, now riding up a flight of steps to make himself the more conspicuous to his party, and now forcing a passage through a mass of human beings, so closely squeezed together that it seemed as if the edge of a knife would scarcely part them,—on he went, as though he could surmount all obstacles by the mere exercise of his will. And perhaps his not being shot was in some degree attributable to this very circumstance; for his extreme audacity, and the conviction that he must be one of those to whom the proclamation referred, inspired the soldiers with a desire to take him alive, and diverted many an aim which otherwise might have been more near the mark.

The vintner and Mr Haredale, unable to sit quietly listening to the noise without seeing what went on, had climbed to the roof of the house, and hiding behind a stack of chimneys, were looking cautiously down into the street, almost hoping that after so many repulses the rioters would be foiled, when a great shout proclaimed that a parry were coming round the other way; and the dismal jingling of those accursed fetters warned them next moment that they too were led by Hugh. The soldiers had advanced into Fleet Market and were dispersing the people there; so that they came on with hardly any check, and were soon before the house.

‘All’s over now,’ said the vintner. ‘Fifty thousand pounds will be scattered in a minute. We must save ourselves. We can do no more, and shall have reason to be thankful if we do as much.’

Their first impulse was, to clamber along the roofs of the houses, and, knocking at some garret window for admission, pass down that way into the street, and so escape. But another fierce cry from below, and a general upturning of the faces of the crowd, apprised them that they were discovered, and even that Mr Haredale was recognised; for Hugh, seeing him plainly in the bright glare of the fire, which in that part made it as light as day, called to him by his name, and swore to have his life.

‘Leave me here,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘and in Heaven’s name, my good friend, save yourself! Come on!’ he muttered, as he turned towards Hugh and faced him without any further effort at concealment: ‘This roof is high, and if we close, we will die together!’

‘Madness,’ said the honest vintner, pulling him back, ‘sheer madness. Hear reason, sir. My good sir, hear reason. I could never make myself heard by knocking at a window now; and even if I could, no one would be bold enough to connive at my escape. Through the cellars, there’s a kind of passage into the back street by which we roll casks in and out. We shall have time to get down there before they can force an entry. Do not delay an instant, but come with me—for both our sakes—for mine—my dear good sir!’

As he spoke, and drew Mr Haredale back, they had both a glimpse of the street. It was but a glimpse, but it showed them the crowd, gathering and clustering round the house: some of the armed men pressing to the front to break down the doors and windows, some bringing brands from the nearest fire, some with lifted faces following their course upon the roof and pointing them out to their companions: all raging and roaring like the flames they lighted up. They saw some men thirsting for the treasures of strong liquor which they knew were stored within; they saw others, who had been wounded, sinking down into the opposite doorways and dying, solitary wretches, in the midst of all the vast assemblage; here a frightened woman trying to escape; and there a lost child; and there a drunken ruffian, unconscious of the death-wound on his head, raving and fighting to the last. All these things, and even such trivial incidents as a man with his hat off, or turning round, or stooping down, or shaking hands with another, they marked distinctly; yet in a glance so brief, that, in the act of stepping back, they lost the whole, and saw but the pale faces of each other, and the red sky above them.

Mr Haredale yielded to the entreaties of his companion—more because he was resolved to defend him, than for any thought he had of his own life, or any care he entertained for his own safety—and quickly re-entering the house, they descended the stairs together. Loud blows were thundering on the shutters, crowbars were already thrust beneath the door, the glass fell from the sashes, a deep light shone through every crevice, and they heard the voices of the foremost in the crowd so close to every chink and keyhole, that they seemed to be hoarsely whispering their threats into their very ears. They had but a moment reached the bottom of the cellar-steps and shut the door behind them, when the mob broke in.

The vaults were profoundly dark, and having no torch or candle—for they had been afraid to carry one, lest it should betray their place of refuge—they were obliged to grope with their hands. But they were not long without light, for they had not gone far when they heard the crowd forcing the door; and, looking back among the low-arched passages, could see them in the distance, hurrying to and fro with flashing links, broaching the casks, staving the great vats, turning off upon the right hand and the left, into the different cellars, and lying down to drink at the channels of strong spirits which were already flowing on the ground.

They hurried on, not the less quickly for this; and had reached the only vault which lay between them and the passage out, when suddenly, from the direction in which they were going, a strong light gleamed upon their faces; and before they could slip aside, or turn back, or hide themselves, two men (one bearing a torch) came upon them, and cried in an astonished whisper, ‘Here they are!’

At the same instant they pulled off what they wore upon their heads. Mr Haredale saw before him Edward Chester, and then saw, when the vintner gasped his name, Joe Willet.

Ay, the same Joe, though with an arm the less, who used to make the quarterly journey on the grey mare to pay the bill to the purple-faced vintner; and that very same purple-faced vintner, formerly of Thames Street, now looked him in the face, and challenged him by name.

‘Give me your hand,’ said Joe softly, taking it whether the astonished vintner would or no. ‘Don’t fear to shake it; it’s a friendly one and a hearty one, though it has no fellow. Why, how well you look and how bluff you are! And you—God bless you, sir. Take heart, take heart. We’ll find them. Be of good cheer; we have not been idle.’

There was something so honest and frank in Joe’s speech, that Mr Haredale put his hand in his involuntarily, though their meeting was suspicious enough. But his glance at Edward Chester, and that gentleman’s keeping aloof, were not lost upon Joe, who said bluntly, glancing at Edward while he spoke:

‘Times are changed, Mr Haredale, and times have come when we ought to know friends from enemies, and make no confusion of names. Let me tell you that but for this gentleman, you would most likely have been dead by this time, or badly wounded at the best.’

‘What do you say?’ cried Mr Haredale.

‘I say,’ said Joe, ‘first, that it was a bold thing to be in the crowd at all disguised as one of them; though I won’t say much about that, on second thoughts, for that’s my case too. Secondly, that it was a brave and glorious action—that’s what I call it—to strike that fellow off his horse before their eyes!’

‘What fellow! Whose eyes!’

‘What fellow, sir!’ cried Joe: ‘a fellow who has no goodwill to you, and who has the daring and devilry in him of twenty fellows. I know him of old. Once in the house, HE would have found you, here or anywhere. The rest owe you no particular grudge, and, unless they see you, will only think of drinking themselves dead. But we lose time. Are you ready?’

‘Quite,’ said Edward. ‘Put out the torch, Joe, and go on. And be silent, there’s a good fellow.’

‘Silent or not silent,’ murmured Joe, as he dropped the flaring link upon the ground, crushed it with his foot, and gave his hand to Mr Haredale, ‘it was a brave and glorious action;—no man can alter that.’

Both Mr Haredale and the worthy vintner were too amazed and too much hurried to ask any further questions, so followed their conductors in silence. It seemed, from a short whispering which presently ensued between them and the vintner relative to the best way of escape, that they had entered by the back-door, with the connivance of John Grueby, who watched outside with the key in his pocket, and whom they had taken into their confidence. A party of the crowd coming up that way, just as they entered, John had double-locked the door again, and made off for the soldiers, so that means of retreat was cut off from under them.

However, as the front-door had been forced, and this minor crowd, being anxious to get at the liquor, had no fancy for losing time in breaking down another, but had gone round and got in from Holborn with the rest, the narrow lane in the rear was quite free of people. So, when they had crawled through the passage indicated by the vintner (which was a mere shelving-trap for the admission of casks), and had managed with some difficulty to unchain and raise the door at the upper end, they emerged into the street without being observed or interrupted. Joe still holding Mr Haredale tight, and Edward taking the same care of the vintner, they hurried through the streets at a rapid pace; occasionally standing aside to let some fugitives go by, or to keep out of the way of the soldiers who followed them, and whose questions, when they halted to put any, were speedily stopped by one whispered word from Joe.

Chapter 68

While Newgate was burning on the previous night, Barnaby and his father, having been passed among the crowd from hand to hand, stood in Smithfield, on the outskirts of the mob, gazing at the flames like men who had been suddenly roused from sleep. Some moments elapsed before they could distinctly remember where they were, or how they got there; or recollected that while they were standing idle and listless spectators of the fire, they had tools in their hands which had been hurriedly given them that they might free themselves from their fetters.

Barnaby, heavily ironed as he was, if he had obeyed his first impulse, or if he had been alone, would have made his way back to the side of Hugh, who to his clouded intellect now shone forth with the new lustre of being his preserver and truest friend. But his father’s terror of remaining in the streets, communicated itself to him when he comprehended the full extent of his fears, and impressed him with the same eagerness to fly to a place of safety.

In a corner of the market among the pens for cattle, Barnaby knelt down, and pausing every now and then to pass his hand over his father’s face, or look up to him with a smile, knocked off his irons. When he had seen him spring, a free man, to his feet, and had given vent to the transport of delight which the sight awakened, he went to work upon his own, which soon fell rattling down upon the ground, and left his limbs unfettered.

Gliding away together when this task was accomplished, and passing several groups of men, each gathered round a stooping figure to hide him from those who passed, but unable to repress the clanking sound of hammers, which told that they too were busy at the same work,—the two fugitives made towards Clerkenwell, and passing thence to Islington, as the nearest point of egress, were quickly in the fields. After wandering about for a long time, they found in a pasture near Finchley a poor shed, with walls of mud, and roof of grass and brambles, built for some cowherd, but now deserted. Here, they lay down for the rest of the night.

They wandered to and fro when it was day, and once Barnaby went off alone to a cluster of little cottages two or three miles away, to purchase some bread and milk. But finding no better shelter, they returned to the same place, and lay down again to wait for night.

Heaven alone can tell, with what vague hopes of duty, and affection; with what strange promptings of nature, intelligible to him as to a man of radiant mind and most enlarged capacity; with what dim memories of children he had played with when a child himself, who had prattled of their fathers, and of loving them, and being loved; with how many half-remembered, dreamy associations of his mother’s grief and tears and widowhood; he watched and tended this man. But that a vague and shadowy crowd of such ideas came slowly on him; that they taught him to be sorry when he looked upon his haggard face, that they overflowed his eyes when he stooped to kiss him, that they kept him waking in a tearful gladness, shading him from the sun, fanning him with leaves, soothing him when he started in his sleep—ah! what a troubled sleep it was—and wondering when SHE would come to join them and be happy, is the truth. He sat beside him all that day; listening for her footsteps in every breath of air, looking for her shadow on the gently-waving grass, twining the hedge flowers for her pleasure when she came, and his when he awoke; and stooping down from time to time to listen to his mutterings, and wonder why he was so restless in that quiet place. The sun went down, and night came on, and he was still quite tranquil; busied with these thoughts, as if there were no other people in the world, and the dull cloud of smoke hanging on the immense city in the distance, hid no vices, no crimes, no life or death, or cause of disquiet—nothing but clear air.

But the hour had now come when he must go alone to find out the blind man (a task that filled him with delight) and bring him to that place; taking especial care that he was not watched or followed on his way back. He listened to the directions he must observe, repeated them again and again, and after twice or thrice returning to surprise his father with a light-hearted laugh, went forth, at last, upon his errand: leaving Grip, whom he had carried from the jail in his arms, to his care.

Fleet of foot, and anxious to return, he sped swiftly on towards the city, but could not reach it before the fires began, and made the night angry with their dismal lustre. When he entered the town—it might be that he was changed by going there without his late companions, and on no violent errand; or by the beautiful solitude in which he had passed the day, or by the thoughts that had come upon him,—but it seemed peopled by a legion of devils. This flight and pursuit, this cruel burning and destroying, these dreadful cries and stunning noises, were THEY the good lord’s noble cause!

Though almost stupefied by the bewildering scene, still he found the blind man’s house. It was shut up and tenantless.

He waited for a long while, but no one came. At last he withdrew; and as he knew by this time that the soldiers were firing, and many people must have been killed, he went down into Holborn, where he heard the great crowd was, to try if he could find Hugh, and persuade him to avoid the danger, and return with him.

If he had been stunned and shocked before, his horror was increased a thousandfold when he got into this vortex of the riot, and not being an actor in the terrible spectacle, had it all before his eyes. But there, in the midst, towering above them all, close before the house they were attacking now, was Hugh on horseback, calling to the rest!

Sickened by the sights surrounding him on every side, and by the heat and roar, and crash, he forced his way among the crowd (where many recognised him, and with shouts pressed back to let him pass), and in time was nearly up with Hugh, who was savagely threatening some one, but whom or what he said, he could not, in the great confusion, understand. At that moment the crowd forced their way into the house, and Hugh—it was impossible to see by what means, in such a concourse—fell headlong down.

Barnaby was beside him when he staggered to his feet. It was well he made him hear his voice, or Hugh, with his uplifted axe, would have cleft his skull in twain.

‘Barnaby—you! Whose hand was that, that struck me down?’

‘Not mine.’

‘Whose!—I say, whose!’ he cried, reeling back, and looking wildly round. ‘What are you doing? Where is he? Show me!’

‘You are hurt,’ said Barnaby—as indeed he was, in the head, both by the blow he had received, and by his horse’s hoof. ‘Come away with me.’

As he spoke, he took the horse’s bridle in his hand, turned him, and dragged Hugh several paces. This brought them out of the crowd, which was pouring from the street into the vintner’s cellars.

‘Where’s—where’s Dennis?’ said Hugh, coming to a stop, and checking Barnaby with his strong arm. ‘Where has he been all day? What did he mean by leaving me as he did, in the jail, last night? Tell me, you—d’ye hear!’

With a flourish of his dangerous weapon, he fell down upon the ground like a log. After a minute, though already frantic with drinking and with the wound in his head, he crawled to a stream of burning spirit which was pouring down the kennel, and began to drink at it as if it were a brook of water.

Barnaby drew him away, and forced him to rise. Though he could neither stand nor walk, he involuntarily staggered to his horse, climbed upon his back, and clung there. After vainly attempting to divest the animal of his clanking trappings, Barnaby sprung up behind him, snatched the bridle, turned into Leather Lane, which was close at hand, and urged the frightened horse into a heavy trot.

He looked back, once, before he left the street; and looked upon a sight not easily to be erased, even from his remembrance, so long as he had life.

The vintner’s house with a half-a-dozen others near at hand, was one great, glowing blaze. All night, no one had essayed to quench the flames, or stop their progress; but now a body of soldiers were actively engaged in pulling down two old wooden houses, which were every moment in danger of taking fire, and which could scarcely fail, if they were left to burn, to extend the conflagration immensely. The tumbling down of nodding walls and heavy blocks of wood, the hooting and the execrations of the crowd, the distant firing of other military detachments, the distracted looks and cries of those whose habitations were in danger, the hurrying to and fro of frightened people with their goods; the reflections in every quarter of the sky, of deep, red, soaring flames, as though the last day had come and the whole universe were burning; the dust, and smoke, and drift of fiery particles, scorching and kindling all it fell upon; the hot unwholesome vapour, the blight on everything; the stars, and moon, and very sky, obliterated;—made up such a sum of dreariness and ruin, that it seemed as if the face of Heaven were blotted out, and night, in its rest and quiet, and softened light, never could look upon the earth again.

But there was a worse spectacle than this—worse by far than fire and smoke, or even the rabble’s unappeasable and maniac rage. The gutters of the street, and every crack and fissure in the stones, ran with scorching spirit, which being dammed up by busy hands, overflowed the road and pavement, and formed a great pool, into which the people dropped down dead by dozens. They lay in heaps all round this fearful pond, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, women with children in their arms and babies at their breasts, and drank until they died. While some stooped with their lips to the brink and never raised their heads again, others sprang up from their fiery draught, and danced, half in a mad triumph, and half in the agony of suffocation, until they fell, and steeped their corpses in the liquor that had killed them. Nor was even this the worst or most appalling kind of death that happened on this fatal night. From the burning cellars, where they drank out of hats, pails, buckets, tubs, and shoes, some men were drawn, alive, but all alight from head to foot; who, in their unendurable anguish and suffering, making for anything that had the look of water, rolled, hissing, in this hideous lake, and splashed up liquid fire which lapped in all it met with as it ran along the surface, and neither spared the living nor the dead. On this last night of the great riots—for the last night it was—the wretched victims of a senseless outcry, became themselves the dust and ashes of the flames they had kindled, and strewed the public streets of London.

With all he saw in this last glance fixed indelibly upon his mind, Barnaby hurried from the city which enclosed such horrors; and holding down his head that he might not even see the glare of the fires upon the quiet landscape, was soon in the still country roads.

He stopped at about half-a-mile from the shed where his father lay, and with some difficulty making Hugh sensible that he must dismount, sunk the horse’s furniture in a pool of stagnant water, and turned the animal loose. That done, he supported his companion as well as he could, and led him slowly forward.

Chapter 69

It was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with his stumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left his father; but he could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even of him, and rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or thrice that there was nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered Hugh to sink upon the ground, and followed to bring him back.

He continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him; then turned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:

‘Let me go. Do not lay hands upon me. You have told her; and you and she together have betrayed me!’

Barnaby looked at him, in silence.

‘You have seen your mother!’

‘No,’ cried Barnaby, eagerly. ‘Not for a long time—longer than I can tell. A whole year, I think. Is she here?’

His father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, and then said—drawing nearer to him as he spoke, for, seeing his face, and hearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth:

‘What man is that?’

‘Hugh—Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. HE will not harm you. Why, you’re afraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old, noisy Hugh!’

‘What man is he, I ask you,’ he rejoined so fiercely, that Barnaby stopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with a look of terrified amazement.

‘Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you are my father. Why do you speak to me so?’

—‘I want,’ he answered, putting away the hand which his son, with a timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon his sleeve,—‘I want an answer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who have you brought with you to this hiding-place, poor fool; and where is the blind man?’

‘I don’t know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no person came; that was no fault of mine. This is Hugh—brave Hugh, who broke into that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like him now, do you? You like him now!’

‘Why does he lie upon the ground?’

‘He has had a fall, and has been drinking. The fields and trees go round, and round, and round with him, and the ground heaves under his feet. You know him? You remember? See!’

They had by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped over him to look into his face.

‘I recollect the man,’ his father murmured. ‘Why did you bring him here?’

‘Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder. They were firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of blood turn you sick, father? I see it does, by your face. That’s like me—What are you looking at?’

‘At nothing!’ said the murderer softly, as he started back a pace or two, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son’s head. ‘At nothing!’

He remained in the same attitude and with the same expression on his face for a minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if he had lost something; and went shivering back, towards the shed.

‘Shall I bring him in, father?’ asked Barnaby, who had looked on, wondering.

He only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon the ground, wrapped his cloak about his head, and shrunk into the darkest corner.

Finding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or make him sensible for a moment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on a little heap of refuse hay and straw which had been his own bed; first having brought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound, and laved his hands and face. Then he lay down himself, between the two, to pass the night; and looking at the stars, fell fast asleep.

Awakened early in the morning, by the sunshine and the songs of birds, and hum of insects, he left them sleeping in the hut, and walked into the sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on his jaded senses, oppressed and burdened with the dreadful scenes of last night, and many nights before, all the beauties of opening day, which he had so often tasted, and in which he had had such deep delight, fell heavily. He thought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding on together through the woods and fields; and the recollection filled his eyes with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having done wrong, nor had he any new perception of the merits of the cause in which he had been engaged, or those of the men who advocated it; but he was full of cares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections, and wishes (quite unknown to him before) that this or that event had never happened, and that the sorrow and suffering of so many people had been spared. And now he began to think how happy they would be—his father, mother, he, and Hugh—if they rambled away together, and lived in some lonely place, where there were none of these troubles; and that perhaps the blind man, who had talked so wisely about gold, and told him of the great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live without being pinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that he had not seen him last night; and he was still brooding over this regret, when his father came, and touched him on the shoulder.

‘Ah!’ cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. ‘Is it only you?’

‘Who should it be?’

‘I almost thought,’ he answered, ‘it was the blind man. I must have some talk with him, father.’

‘And so must I, for without seeing him, I don’t know where to fly or what to do, and lingering here, is death. You must go to him again, and bring him here.’

‘Must I!’ cried Barnaby, delighted; ‘that’s brave, father. That’s what I want to do.’

‘But you must bring only him, and none other. And though you wait at his door a whole day and night, still you must wait, and not come back without him.’

‘Don’t you fear that,’ he cried gaily. ‘He shall come, he shall come.’

‘Trim off these gewgaws,’ said his father, plucking the scraps of ribbon and the feathers from his hat, ‘and over your own dress wear my cloak. Take heed how you go, and they will be too busy in the streets to notice you. Of your coming back you need take no account, for he’ll manage that, safely.’

‘To be sure!’ said Barnaby. ‘To be sure he will! A wise man, father, and one who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I know him, I know him.’

He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be. With a lighter heart he then set off upon his second journey, leaving Hugh, who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground within the shed, and his father walking to and fro before it.

The murderer, full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced up and down, disquieted by every breath of air that whispered among the boughs, and by every light shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon the daisied ground. He was anxious for his safe return, and yet, though his own life and safety hung upon it, felt a relief while he was gone. In the intense selfishness which the constant presence before him of his great crimes, and their consequences here and hereafter, engendered, every thought of Barnaby, as his son, was swallowed up and lost. Still, his presence was a torture and reproach; in his wild eyes, there were terrible images of that guilty night; with his unearthly aspect, and his half-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprung into existence from his victim’s blood. He could not bear his look, his voice, his touch; and yet he was forced, by his own desperate condition and his only hope of cheating the gibbet, to have him by his side, and to know that he was inseparable from his single chance of escape.

He walked to and fro, with little rest, all day, revolving these things in his mind; and still Hugh lay, unconscious, in the shed. At length, when the sun was setting, Barnaby returned, leading the blind man, and talking earnestly to him as they came along together.

The murderer advanced to meet them, and bidding his son go on and speak to Hugh, who had just then staggered to his feet, took his place at the blind man’s elbow, and slowly followed, towards the shed.

‘Why did you send HIM?’ said Stagg. ‘Don’t you know it was the way to have him lost, as soon as found?’

‘Would you have had me come myself?’ returned the other.

‘Humph! Perhaps not. I was before the jail on Tuesday night, but missed you in the crowd. I was out last night, too. There was good work last night—gay work—profitable work’—he added, rattling the money in his pockets.

‘Have you—’

—‘Seen your good lady? Yes.’

‘Do you mean to tell me more, or not?’

‘I’ll tell you all,’ returned the blind man, with a laugh. ‘Excuse me—but I love to see you so impatient. There’s energy in it.’

‘Does she consent to say the word that may save me?’

‘No,’ returned the blind man emphatically, as he turned his face towards him. ‘No. Thus it is. She has been at death’s door since she lost her darling—has been insensible, and I know not what. I tracked her to a hospital, and presented myself (with your leave) at her bedside. Our talk was not a long one, for she was weak, and there being people near I was not quite easy. But I told her all that you and I agreed upon, and pointed out the young gentleman’s position, in strong terms. She tried to soften me, but that, of course (as I told her), was lost time. She cried and moaned, you may be sure; all women do. Then, of a sudden, she found her voice and strength, and said that Heaven would help her and her innocent son; and that to Heaven she appealed against us—which she did; in really very pretty language, I assure you. I advised her, as a friend, not to count too much on assistance from any such distant quarter—recommended her to think of it—told her where I lived—said I knew she would send to me before noon, next day—and left her, either in a faint or shamming.’

When he had concluded this narration, during which he had made several pauses, for the convenience of cracking and eating nuts, of which he seemed to have a pocketful, the blind man pulled a flask from his pocket, took a draught himself, and offered it to his companion.

‘You won’t, won’t you?’ he said, feeling that he pushed it from him. ‘Well! Then the gallant gentleman who’s lodging with you, will. Hallo, bully!’

‘Death!’ said the other, holding him back. ‘Will you tell me what I am to do!’

‘Do! Nothing easier. Make a moonlight flitting in two hours’ time with the young gentleman (he’s quite ready to go; I have been giving him good advice as we came along), and get as far from London as you can. Let me know where you are, and leave the rest to me. She MUST come round; she can’t hold out long; and as to the chances of your being retaken in the meanwhile, why it wasn’t one man who got out of Newgate, but three hundred. Think of that, for your comfort.’

‘We must support life. How?’

‘How!’ repeated the blind man. ‘By eating and drinking. And how get meat and drink, but by paying for it! Money!’ he cried, slapping his pocket. ‘Is money the word? Why, the streets have been running money. Devil send that the sport’s not over yet, for these are jolly times; golden, rare, roaring, scrambling times. Hallo, bully! Hallo! Hallo! Drink, bully, drink. Where are ye there! Hallo!’

With such vociferations, and with a boisterous manner which bespoke his perfect abandonment to the general licence and disorder, he groped his way towards the shed, where Hugh and Barnaby were sitting on the ground.

‘Put it about!’ he cried, handing his flask to Hugh. ‘The kennels run with wine and gold. Guineas and strong water flow from the very pumps. About with it, don’t spare it!’

Exhausted, unwashed, unshorn, begrimed with smoke and dust, his hair clotted with blood, his voice quite gone, so that he spoke in whispers; his skin parched up by fever, his whole body bruised and cut, and beaten about, Hugh still took the flask, and raised it to his lips. He was in the act of drinking, when the front of the shed was suddenly darkened, and Dennis stood before them.

‘No offence, no offence,’ said that personage in a conciliatory tone, as Hugh stopped in his draught, and eyed him, with no pleasant look, from head to foot. ‘No offence, brother. Barnaby here too, eh? How are you, Barnaby? And two other gentlemen! Your humble servant, gentlemen. No offence to YOU either, I hope. Eh, brothers?’

Notwithstanding that he spoke in this very friendly and confident manner, he seemed to have considerable hesitation about entering, and remained outside the roof. He was rather better dressed than usual: wearing the same suit of threadbare black, it is true, but having round his neck an unwholesome-looking cravat of a yellowish white; and, on his hands, great leather gloves, such as a gardener might wear in following his trade. His shoes were newly greased, and ornamented with a pair of rusty iron buckles; the packthread at his knees had been renewed; and where he wanted buttons, he wore pins. Altogether, he had something the look of a tipstaff, or a bailiff’s follower, desperately faded, but who had a notion of keeping up the appearance of a professional character, and making the best of the worst means.

‘You’re very snug here,’ said Mr Dennis, pulling out a mouldy pocket-handkerchief, which looked like a decomposed halter, and wiping his forehead in a nervous manner.

‘Not snug enough to prevent your finding us, it seems,’ Hugh answered, sulkily.

‘Why I’ll tell you what, brother,’ said Dennis, with a friendly smile, ‘when you don’t want me to know which way you’re riding, you must wear another sort of bells on your horse. Ah! I know the sound of them you wore last night, and have got quick ears for ‘em; that’s the truth. Well, but how are you, brother?’

He had by this time approached, and now ventured to sit down by him.

‘How am I?’ answered Hugh. ‘Where were you yesterday? Where did you go when you left me in the jail? Why did you leave me? And what did you mean by rolling your eyes and shaking your fist at me, eh?’

‘I shake my fist!—at you, brother!’ said Dennis, gently checking Hugh’s uplifted hand, which looked threatening.

‘Your stick, then; it’s all one.’

‘Lord love you, brother, I meant nothing. You don’t understand me by half. I shouldn’t wonder now,’ he added, in the tone of a desponding and an injured man, ‘but you thought, because I wanted them chaps left in the prison, that I was a going to desert the banners?’

Hugh told him, with an oath, that he had thought so.

‘Well!’ said Mr Dennis, mournfully, ‘if you an’t enough to make a man mistrust his feller-creeturs, I don’t know what is. Desert the banners! Me! Ned Dennis, as was so christened by his own father!—Is this axe your’n, brother?’

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ said Hugh, in the same sullen manner as before; ‘it might have hurt you, if you had come in its way once or twice last night. Put it down.’

‘Might have hurt me!’ said Mr Dennis, still keeping it in his hand, and feeling the edge with an air of abstraction. ‘Might have hurt me! and me exerting myself all the time to the wery best advantage. Here’s a world! And you’re not a-going to ask me to take a sup out of that ‘ere bottle, eh?’

Hugh passed it towards him. As he raised it to his lips, Barnaby jumped up, and motioning them to be silent, looked eagerly out.

‘What’s the matter, Barnaby?’ said Dennis, glancing at Hugh and dropping the flask, but still holding the axe in his hand.

‘Hush!’ he answered softly. ‘What do I see glittering behind the hedge?’

‘What!’ cried the hangman, raising his voice to its highest pitch, and laying hold of him and Hugh. ‘Not SOLDIERS, surely!’

That moment, the shed was filled with armed men; and a body of horse, galloping into the field, drew up before it.

‘There!’ said Dennis, who remained untouched among them when they had seized their prisoners; ‘it’s them two young ones, gentlemen, that the proclamation puts a price on. This other’s an escaped felon.—I’m sorry for it, brother,’ he added, in a tone of resignation, addressing himself to Hugh; ‘but you’ve brought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; you wouldn’t respect the soundest constitootional principles, you know; you went and wiolated the wery framework of society. I had sooner have given away a trifle in charity than done this, I would upon my soul.—If you’ll keep fast hold on ‘em, gentlemen, I think I can make a shift to tie ‘em better than you can.’

But this operation was postponed for a few moments by a new occurrence. The blind man, whose ears were quicker than most people’s sight, had been alarmed, before Barnaby, by a rustling in the bushes, under cover of which the soldiers had advanced. He retreated instantly—had hidden somewhere for a minute—and probably in his confusion mistaking the point at which he had emerged, was now seen running across the open meadow.

An officer cried directly that he had helped to plunder a house last night. He was loudly called on, to surrender. He ran the harder, and in a few seconds would have been out of gunshot. The word was given, and the men fired.

There was a breathless pause and a profound silence, during which all eyes were fixed upon him. He had been seen to start at the discharge, as if the report had frightened him. But he neither stopped nor slackened his pace in the least, and ran on full forty yards further. Then, without one reel or stagger, or sign of faintness, or quivering of any limb, he dropped.

Some of them hurried up to where he lay;—the hangman with them. Everything had passed so quickly, that the smoke had not yet scattered, but curled slowly off in a little cloud, which seemed like the dead man’s spirit moving solemnly away. There were a few drops of blood upon the grass—more, when they turned him over—that was all.

‘Look here! Look here!’ said the hangman, stooping one knee beside the body, and gazing up with a disconsolate face at the officer and men. ‘Here’s a pretty sight!’

‘Stand out of the way,’ replied the officer. ‘Serjeant! see what he had about him.’

The man turned his pockets out upon the grass, and counted, besides some foreign coins and two rings, five-and-forty guineas in gold. These were bundled up in a handkerchief and carried away; the body remained there for the present, but six men and the serjeant were left to take it to the nearest public-house.

‘Now then, if you’re going,’ said the serjeant, clapping Dennis on the back, and pointing after the officer who was walking towards the shed.

To which Mr Dennis only replied, ‘Don’t talk to me!’ and then repeated what he had said before, namely, ‘Here’s a pretty sight!’

‘It’s not one that you care for much, I should think,’ observed the serjeant coolly.

‘Why, who,’ said Mr Dennis rising, ‘should care for it, if I don’t?’

‘Oh! I didn’t know you was so tender-hearted,’ said the serjeant. ‘That’s all!’

‘Tender-hearted!’ echoed Dennis. ‘Tender-hearted! Look at this man. Do you call THIS constitootional? Do you see him shot through and through instead of being worked off like a Briton? Damme, if I know which party to side with. You’re as bad as the other. What’s to become of the country if the military power’s to go a superseding the ciwilians in this way? Where’s this poor feller-creetur’s rights as a citizen, that he didn’t have ME in his last moments! I was here. I was willing. I was ready. These are nice times, brother, to have the dead crying out against us in this way, and sleep comfortably in our beds arterwards; wery nice!’

Whether he derived any material consolation from binding the prisoners, is uncertain; most probably he did. At all events his being summoned to that work, diverted him, for the time, from these painful reflections, and gave his thoughts a more congenial occupation.

They were not all three carried off together, but in two parties; Barnaby and his father, going by one road in the centre of a body of foot; and Hugh, fast bound upon a horse, and strongly guarded by a troop of cavalry, being taken by another.

They had no opportunity for the least communication, in the short interval which preceded their departure; being kept strictly apart. Hugh only observed that Barnaby walked with a drooping head among his guard, and, without raising his eyes, that he tried to wave his fettered hand when he passed. For himself, he buoyed up his courage as he rode along, with the assurance that the mob would force his jail wherever it might be, and set him at liberty. But when they got into London, and more especially into Fleet Market, lately the stronghold of the rioters, where the military were rooting out the last remnant of the crowd, he saw that this hope was gone, and felt that he was riding to his death.

Chapter 70

Mr Dennis having despatched this piece of business without any personal hurt or inconvenience, and having now retired into the tranquil respectability of private life, resolved to solace himself with half an hour or so of female society. With this amiable purpose in his mind, he bent his steps towards the house where Dolly and Miss Haredale were still confined, and whither Miss Miggs had also been removed by order of Mr Simon Tappertit.

As he walked along the streets with his leather gloves clasped behind him, and his face indicative of cheerful thought and pleasant calculation, Mr Dennis might have been likened unto a farmer ruminating among his crops, and enjoying by anticipation the bountiful gifts of Providence. Look where he would, some heap of ruins afforded him rich promise of a working off; the whole town appeared to have been ploughed and sown, and nurtured by most genial weather; and a goodly harvest was at hand.

Having taken up arms and resorted to deeds of violence, with the great main object of preserving the Old Bailey in all its purity, and the gallows in all its pristine usefulness and moral grandeur, it would perhaps be going too far to assert that Mr Dennis had ever distinctly contemplated and foreseen this happy state of things. He rather looked upon it as one of those beautiful dispensations which are inscrutably brought about for the behoof and advantage of good men. He felt, as it were, personally referred to, in this prosperous ripening for the gibbet; and had never considered himself so much the pet and favourite child of Destiny, or loved that lady so well or with such a calm and virtuous reliance, in all his life.

As to being taken up, himself, for a rioter, and punished with the rest, Mr Dennis dismissed that possibility from his thoughts as an idle chimera; arguing that the line of conduct he had adopted at Newgate, and the service he had rendered that day, would be more than a set-off against any evidence which might identify him as a member of the crowd. That any charge of companionship which might be made against him by those who were themselves in danger, would certainly go for nought. And that if any trivial indiscretion on his part should unluckily come out, the uncommon usefulness of his office, at present, and the great demand for the exercise of its functions, would certainly cause it to be winked at, and passed over. In a word, he had played his cards throughout, with great care; had changed sides at the very nick of time; had delivered up two of the most notorious rioters, and a distinguished felon to boot; and was quite at his ease.

Saving—for there is a reservation; and even Mr Dennis was not perfectly happy—saving for one circumstance; to wit, the forcible detention of Dolly and Miss Haredale, in a house almost adjoining his own. This was a stumbling-block; for if they were discovered and released, they could, by the testimony they had it in their power to give, place him in a situation of great jeopardy; and to set them at liberty, first extorting from them an oath of secrecy and silence, was a thing not to be thought of. It was more, perhaps, with an eye to the danger which lurked in this quarter, than from his abstract love of conversation with the sex, that the hangman, quickening his steps, now hastened into their society, cursing the amorous natures of Hugh and Mr Tappertit with great heartiness, at every step he took.

When he entered the miserable room in which they were confined, Dolly and Miss Haredale withdrew in silence to the remotest corner. But Miss Miggs, who was particularly tender of her reputation, immediately fell upon her knees and began to scream very loud, crying, ‘What will become of me!’—‘Where is my Simmuns!’—‘Have mercy, good gentlemen, on my sex’s weaknesses!’—with other doleful lamentations of that nature, which she delivered with great propriety and decorum.

‘Miss, miss,’ whispered Dennis, beckoning to her with his forefinger, ‘come here—I won’t hurt you. Come here, my lamb, will you?’

On hearing this tender epithet, Miss Miggs, who had left off screaming when he opened his lips, and had listened to him attentively, began again, crying: ‘Oh I’m his lamb! He says I’m his lamb! Oh gracious, why wasn’t I born old and ugly! Why was I ever made to be the youngest of six, and all of ‘em dead and in their blessed graves, excepting one married sister, which is settled in Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the—!’

‘Don’t I say I an’t a-going to hurt you?’ said Dennis, pointing to a chair. ‘Why miss, what’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know what mayn’t be the matter!’ cried Miss Miggs, clasping her hands distractedly. ‘Anything may be the matter!’

‘But nothing is, I tell you,’ said the hangman. ‘First stop that noise and come and sit down here, will you, chuckey?’

The coaxing tone in which he said these latter words might have failed in its object, if he had not accompanied them with sundry sharp jerks of his thumb over one shoulder, and with divers winks and thrustings of his tongue into his cheek, from which signals the damsel gathered that he sought to speak to her apart, concerning Miss Haredale and Dolly. Her curiosity being very powerful, and her jealousy by no means inactive, she arose, and with a great deal of shivering and starting back, and much muscular action among all the small bones in her throat, gradually approached him.

‘Sit down,’ said the hangman.

Suiting the action to the word, he thrust her rather suddenly and prematurely into a chair, and designing to reassure her by a little harmless jocularity, such as is adapted to please and fascinate the sex, converted his right forefinger into an ideal bradawl or gimlet, and made as though he would screw the same into her side—whereat Miss Miggs shrieked again, and evinced symptoms of faintness.

‘Lovey, my dear,’ whispered Dennis, drawing his chair close to hers. ‘When was your young man here last, eh?’

‘MY young man, good gentleman!’ answered Miggs in a tone of exquisite distress.

‘Ah! Simmuns, you know—him?’ said Dennis.

‘Mine indeed!’ cried Miggs, with a burst of bitterness—and as she said it, she glanced towards Dolly. ‘MINE, good gentleman!’

This was just what Mr Dennis wanted, and expected.

‘Ah!’ he said, looking so soothingly, not to say amorously on Miggs, that she sat, as she afterwards remarked, on pins and needles of the sharpest Whitechapel kind, not knowing what intentions might be suggesting that expression to his features: ‘I was afraid of that. I saw as much myself. It’s her fault. She WILL entice ‘em.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ cried Miggs, folding her hands and looking upwards with a kind of devout blankness, ‘I wouldn’t lay myself out as she does; I wouldn’t be as bold as her; I wouldn’t seem to say to all male creeturs “Come and kiss me”’—and here a shudder quite convulsed her frame—‘for any earthly crowns as might be offered. Worlds,’ Miggs added solemnly, ‘should not reduce me. No. Not if I was Wenis.’

‘Well, but you ARE Wenus, you know,’ said Mr Dennis, confidentially.

‘No, I am not, good gentleman,’ answered Miggs, shaking her head with an air of self-denial which seemed to imply that she might be if she chose, but she hoped she knew better. ‘No, I am not, good gentleman. Don’t charge me with it.’

Up to this time she had turned round, every now and then, to where Dolly and Miss Haredale had retired and uttered a scream, or groan, or laid her hand upon her heart and trembled excessively, with a view of keeping up appearances, and giving them to understand that she conversed with the visitor, under protest and on compulsion, and at a great personal sacrifice, for their common good. But at this point, Mr Dennis looked so very full of meaning, and gave such a singularly expressive twitch to his face as a request to her to come still nearer to him, that she abandoned these little arts, and gave him her whole and undivided attention.

‘When was Simmuns here, I say?’ quoth Dennis, in her ear.

‘Not since yesterday morning; and then only for a few minutes. Not all day, the day before.’

‘You know he meant all along to carry off that one!’ said Dennis, indicating Dolly by the slightest possible jerk of his head:—‘And to hand you over to somebody else.’

Miss Miggs, who had fallen into a terrible state of grief when the first part of this sentence was spoken, recovered a little at the second, and seemed by the sudden check she put upon her tears, to intimate that possibly this arrangement might meet her views; and that it might, perhaps, remain an open question.

‘—But unfort’nately,’ pursued Dennis, who observed this: ‘somebody else was fond of her too, you see; and even if he wasn’t, somebody else is took for a rioter, and it’s all over with him.’

Miss Miggs relapsed.

‘Now I want,’ said Dennis, ‘to clear this house, and to see you righted. What if I was to get her off, out of the way, eh?’

Miss Miggs, brightening again, rejoined, with many breaks and pauses from excess of feeling, that temptations had been Simmuns’s bane. That it was not his faults, but hers (meaning Dolly’s). That men did not see through these dreadful arts as women did, and therefore was caged and trapped, as Simmun had been. That she had no personal motives to serve—far from it—on the contrary, her intentions was good towards all parties. But forasmuch as she knowed that Simmun, if united to any designing and artful minxes (she would name no names, for that was not her dispositions)—to ANY designing and artful minxes—must be made miserable and unhappy for life, she DID incline towards prewentions. Such, she added, was her free confessions. But as this was private feelings, and might perhaps be looked upon as wengeance, she begged the gentleman would say no more. Whatever he said, wishing to do her duty by all mankind, even by them as had ever been her bitterest enemies, she would not listen to him. With that she stopped her ears, and shook her head from side to side, to intimate to Mr Dennis that though he talked until he had no breath left, she was as deaf as any adder.

‘Lookee here, my sugar-stick,’ said Mr Dennis, ‘if your view’s the same as mine, and you’ll only be quiet and slip away at the right time, I can have the house clear to-morrow, and be out of this trouble.—Stop though! there’s the other.’

‘Which other, sir?’ asked Miggs—still with her fingers in her ears and her head shaking obstinately.

‘Why, the tallest one, yonder,’ said Dennis, as he stroked his chin, and added, in an undertone to himself, something about not crossing Muster Gashford.

Miss Miggs replied (still being profoundly deaf) that if Miss Haredale stood in the way at all, he might make himself quite easy on that score; as she had gathered, from what passed between Hugh and Mr Tappertit when they were last there, that she was to be removed alone (not by them, but by somebody else), to-morrow night.

Mr Dennis opened his eyes very wide at this piece of information, whistled once, considered once, and finally slapped his head once and nodded once, as if he had got the clue to this mysterious removal, and so dismissed it. Then he imparted his design concerning Dolly to Miss Miggs, who was taken more deaf than before, when he began; and so remained, all through.

The notable scheme was this. Mr Dennis was immediately to seek out from among the rioters, some daring young fellow (and he had one in his eye, he said), who, terrified by the threats he could hold out to him, and alarmed by the capture of so many who were no better and no worse than he, would gladly avail himself of any help to get abroad, and out of harm’s way, with his plunder, even though his journey were incumbered by an unwilling companion; indeed, the unwilling companion being a beautiful girl, would probably be an additional inducement and temptation. Such a person found, he proposed to bring him there on the ensuing night, when the tall one was taken off, and Miss Miggs had purposely retired; and then that Dolly should be gagged, muffled in a cloak, and carried in any handy conveyance down to the river’s side; where there were abundant means of getting her smuggled snugly off in any small craft of doubtful character, and no questions asked. With regard to the expense of this removal, he would say, at a rough calculation, that two or three silver tea or coffee-pots, with something additional for drink (such as a muffineer, or toast-rack), would more than cover it. Articles of plate of every kind having been buried by the rioters in several lonely parts of London, and particularly, as he knew, in St James’s Square, which, though easy of access, was little frequented after dark, and had a convenient piece of water in the midst, the needful funds were close at hand, and could be had upon the shortest notice. With regard to Dolly, the gentleman would exercise his own discretion. He would be bound to do nothing but to take her away, and keep her away. All other arrangements and dispositions would rest entirely with himself.

If Miss Miggs had had her hearing, no doubt she would have been greatly shocked by the indelicacy of a young female’s going away with a stranger by night (for her moral feelings, as we have said, were of the tenderest kind); but directly Mr Dennis ceased to speak, she reminded him that he had only wasted breath. She then went on to say (still with her fingers in her ears) that nothing less than a severe practical lesson would save the locksmith’s daughter from utter ruin; and that she felt it, as it were, a moral obligation and a sacred duty to the family, to wish that some one would devise one for her reformation. Miss Miggs remarked, and very justly, as an abstract sentiment which happened to occur to her at the moment, that she dared to say the locksmith and his wife would murmur, and repine, if they were ever, by forcible abduction, or otherwise, to lose their child; but that we seldom knew, in this world, what was best for us: such being our sinful and imperfect natures, that very few arrived at that clear understanding.

Having brought their conversation to this satisfactory end, they parted: Dennis, to pursue his design, and take another walk about his farm; Miss Miggs, to launch, when he left her, into such a burst of mental anguish (which she gave them to understand was occasioned by certain tender things he had had the presumption and audacity to say), that little Dolly’s heart was quite melted. Indeed, she said and did so much to soothe the outraged feelings of Miss Miggs, and looked so beautiful while doing so, that if that young maid had not had ample vent for her surpassing spite, in a knowledge of the mischief that was brewing, she must have scratched her features, on the spot.

Chapter 71

All next day, Emma Haredale, Dolly, and Miggs, remained cooped up together in what had now been their prison for so many days, without seeing any person, or hearing any sound but the murmured conversation, in an outer room, of the men who kept watch over them. There appeared to be more of these fellows than there had been hitherto; and they could no longer hear the voices of women, which they had before plainly distinguished. Some new excitement, too, seemed to prevail among them; for there was much stealthy going in and out, and a constant questioning of those who were newly arrived. They had previously been quite reckless in their behaviour; often making a great uproar; quarrelling among themselves, fighting, dancing, and singing. They were now very subdued and silent, conversing almost in whispers, and stealing in and out with a soft and stealthy tread, very different from the boisterous trampling in which their arrivals and departures had hitherto been announced to the trembling captives.

Whether this change was occasioned by the presence among them of some person of authority in their ranks, or by any other cause, they were unable to decide. Sometimes they thought it was in part attributable to there being a sick man in the chamber, for last night there had been a shuffling of feet, as though a burden were brought in, and afterwards a moaning noise. But they had no means of ascertaining the truth: for any question or entreaty on their parts only provoked a storm of execrations, or something worse; and they were too happy to be left alone, unassailed by threats or admiration, to risk even that comfort, by any voluntary communication with those who held them in durance.

It was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to the locksmith’s poor little daughter herself, that she, Dolly, was the great object of attraction; and that so soon as they should have leisure to indulge in the softer passion, Hugh and Mr Tappertit would certainly fall to blows for her sake; in which latter case, it was not very difficult to see whose prize she would become. With all her old horror of that man revived, and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence which no language can describe; with a thousand old recollections and regrets, and causes of distress, anxiety, and fear, besetting her on all sides; poor Dolly Varden—sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly—began to hang her head, and fade, and droop, like a beautiful flower. The colour fled from her cheeks, her courage forsook her, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful of all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and inconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she nestled all the livelong day in Emma Haredale’s bosom; and, sometimes calling on her dear old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and sometimes even on her old home, pined slowly away, like a poor bird in its cage.

Light hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that are so sparkling and buoyant in the sunshine—down upon fruit, bloom upon flowers, blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose whole existence is a day—how soon ye sink in troubled water! Poor Dolly’s heart—a little, gentle, idle, fickle thing; giddy, restless, fluttering; constant to nothing but bright looks, and smiles and laughter—Dolly’s heart was breaking.

Emma had known grief, and could bear it better. She had little comfort to impart, but she could soothe and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly clung to her like a child to its nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her with some fortitude, she increased her own; and though the nights were long, and the days dismal, and she felt the wasting influence of watching and fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and clear perception of their destitute condition and its worst dangers, she uttered no complaint. Before the ruffians, in whose power they were, she bore herself so calmly, and with such an appearance, in the midst of all her terror, of a secret conviction that they dared not harm her, that there was not a man among them but held her in some degree of dread; and more than one believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and was prepared to use it.

Such was their condition when they were joined by Miss Miggs, who gave them to understand that she too had been taken prisoner because of her charms, and detailed such feats of resistance she had performed (her virtue having given her supernatural strength), that they felt it quite a happiness to have her for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort they derived at first from Miggs’s presence and society: for that young lady displayed such resignation and long-suffering, and so much meek endurance, under her trials, and breathed in all her chaste discourse a spirit of such holy confidence and resignation, and devout belief that all would happen for the best, that Emma felt her courage strengthened by the bright example; never doubting but that everything she said was true, and that she, like them, was torn from all she loved, and agonised by doubt and apprehension. As to poor Dolly, she was roused, at first, by seeing one who came from home; but when she heard under what circumstances she had left it, and into whose hands her father had fallen, she wept more bitterly than ever, and refused all comfort.

Miss Miggs was at some trouble to reprove her for this state of mind, and to entreat her to take example by herself, who, she said, was now receiving back, with interest, tenfold the amount of her subscriptions to the red-brick dwelling-house, in the articles of peace of mind and a quiet conscience. And, while on serious topics, Miss Miggs considered it her duty to try her hand at the conversion of Miss Haredale; for whose improvement she launched into a polemical address of some length, in the course whereof, she likened herself unto a chosen missionary, and that young lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed, she returned so often to these subjects, and so frequently called upon them to take a lesson from her,—at the same time vaunting and, as it were, rioting in, her huge unworthiness, and abundant excess of sin,—that, in the course of a short time, she became, in that small chamber, rather a nuisance than a comfort, and rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than they had been before.

The night had now come; and for the first time (for their jailers had been regular in bringing food and candles), they were left in darkness. Any change in their condition in such a place inspired new fears; and when some hours had passed, and the gloom was still unbroken, Emma could no longer repress her alarm.

They listened attentively. There was the same murmuring in the outer room, and now and then a moan which seemed to be wrung from a person in great pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could not. Even these men seemed to be in darkness too; for no light shone through the chinks in the door, nor were they moving, as their custom was, but quite still: the silence being unbroken by so much as the creaking of a board.

At first, Miss Miggs wondered greatly in her own mind who this sick person might be; but arriving, on second thoughts, at the conclusion that he was a part of the schemes on foot, and an artful device soon to be employed with great success, she opined, for Miss Haredale’s comfort, that it must be some misguided Papist who had been wounded: and this happy supposition encouraged her to say, under her breath, ‘Ally Looyer!’ several times.

‘Is it possible,’ said Emma, with some indignation, ‘that you who have seen these men committing the outrages you have told us of, and who have fallen into their hands, like us, can exult in their cruelties!’

‘Personal considerations, miss,’ rejoined Miggs, ‘sinks into nothing, afore a noble cause. Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!’

It seemed from the shrill pertinacity with which Miss Miggs repeated this form of acclamation, that she was calling the same through the keyhole of the door; but in the profound darkness she could not be seen.

‘If the time has come—Heaven knows it may come at any moment—when they are bent on prosecuting the designs, whatever they may be, with which they have brought us here, can you still encourage, and take part with them?’ demanded Emma.

‘I thank my goodness-gracious-blessed-stars I can, miss,’ returned Miggs, with increased energy.—‘Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!’

Even Dolly, cast down and disappointed as she was, revived at this, and bade Miggs hold her tongue directly.

‘WHICH, was you pleased to observe, Miss Varden?’ said Miggs, with a strong emphasis on the irrelative pronoun.

Dolly repeated her request.

‘Ho, gracious me!’ cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. ‘Ho, gracious me! Yes, to be sure I will. Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a toiling, moiling, constant-working, always-being-found-fault-with, never-giving-satisfactions, nor-having-no-time-to-clean-oneself, potter’s wessel—an’t I, miss! Ho yes! My situations is lowly, and my capacities is limited, and my duties is to humble myself afore the base degenerating daughters of their blessed mothers as is—fit to keep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions from wicked relations—and to demean myself before them as is no better than Infidels—an’t it, miss! Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help young flaunting pagins to brush and comb and titiwate theirselves into whitening and suppulchres, and leave the young men to think that there an’t a bit of padding in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor pomatums nor deceits nor earthly wanities—an’t it, miss! Yes, to be sure it is—ho yes!’

Having delivered these ironical passages with a most wonderful volubility, and with a shrillness perfectly deafening (especially when she jerked out the interjections), Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not because weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of triumph, concluded by bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an impassioned manner on the name of Simmuns.

What Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, or how long Miss Miggs, now that she had hoisted her true colours, would have gone on waving them before their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. Nor is it necessary to speculate on these matters, for a startling interruption occurred at that moment, which took their whole attention by storm.

This was a violent knocking at the door of the house, and then its sudden bursting open; which was immediately succeeded by a scuffle in the room without, and the clash of weapons. Transported with the hope that rescue had at length arrived, Emma and Dolly shrieked aloud for help; nor were their shrieks unanswered; for after a hurried interval, a man, bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the other a taper, rushed into the chamber where they were confined.

It was some check upon their transport to find in this person an entire stranger, but they appealed to him, nevertheless, and besought him, in impassioned language, to restore them to their friends.

‘For what other purpose am I here?’ he answered, closing the door, and standing with his back against it. ‘With what object have I made my way to this place, through difficulty and danger, but to preserve you?’

With a joy for which it was impossible to find adequate expression, they embraced each other, and thanked Heaven for this most timely aid. Their deliverer stepped forward for a moment to put the light upon the table, and immediately returning to his former position against the door, bared his head, and looked on smilingly.

‘You have news of my uncle, sir?’ said Emma, turning hastily towards him.

‘And of my father and mother?’ added Dolly.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Good news.’

‘They are alive and unhurt?’ they both cried at once.

‘Yes, and unhurt,’ he rejoined.

‘And close at hand?’

‘I did not say close at hand,’ he answered smoothly; ‘they are at no great distance. YOUR friends, sweet one,’ he added, addressing Dolly, ‘are within a few hours’ journey. You will be restored to them, I hope, to-night.’

‘My uncle, sir—’ faltered Emma.

‘Your uncle, dear Miss Haredale, happily—I say happily, because he has succeeded where many of our creed have failed, and is safe—has crossed the sea, and is out of Britain.’

‘I thank God for it,’ said Emma, faintly.

‘You say well. You have reason to be thankful: greater reason than it is possible for you, who have seen but one night of these cruel outrages, to imagine.’

‘Does he desire,’ said Emma, ‘that I should follow him?’

‘Do you ask if he desires it?’ cried the stranger in surprise. ‘IF he desires it! But you do not know the danger of remaining in England, the difficulty of escape, or the price hundreds would pay to secure the means, when you make that inquiry. Pardon me. I had forgotten that you could not, being prisoner here.’

‘I gather, sir,’ said Emma, after a moment’s pause, ‘from what you hint at, but fear to tell me, that I have witnessed but the beginning, and the least, of the violence to which we are exposed, and that it has not yet slackened in its fury?’

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted up his hands; and with the same smooth smile, which was not a pleasant one to see, cast his eyes upon the ground, and remained silent.

‘You may venture, sir, to speak plain,’ said Emma, ‘and to tell me the worst. We have undergone some preparation for it.’

But here Dolly interposed, and entreated her not to hear the worst, but the best; and besought the gentleman to tell them the best, and to keep the remainder of his news until they were safe among their friends again.

‘It is told in three words,’ he said, glancing at the locksmith’s daughter with a look of some displeasure. ‘The people have risen, to a man, against us; the streets are filled with soldiers, who support them and do their bidding. We have no protection but from above, and no safety but in flight; and that is a poor resource; for we are watched on every hand, and detained here, both by force and fraud. Miss Haredale, I cannot bear—believe me, that I cannot bear—by speaking of myself, or what I have done, or am prepared to do, to seem to vaunt my services before you. But, having powerful Protestant connections, and having my whole wealth embarked with theirs in shipping and commerce, I happily possessed the means of saving your uncle. I have the means of saving you; and in redemption of my sacred promise, made to him, I am here; pledged not to leave you until I have placed you in his arms. The treachery or penitence of one of the men about you, led to the discovery of your place of confinement; and that I have forced my way here, sword in hand, you see.’

‘You bring,’ said Emma, faltering, ‘some note or token from my uncle?’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ cried Dolly, pointing at him earnestly; ‘now I am sure he doesn’t. Don’t go with him for the world!’

‘Hush, pretty fool—be silent,’ he replied, frowning angrily upon her. ‘No, Miss Haredale, I have no letter, nor any token of any kind; for while I sympathise with you, and such as you, on whom misfortune so heavy and so undeserved has fallen, I value my life. I carry, therefore, no writing which, found upon me, would lead to its certain loss. I never thought of bringing any other token, nor did Mr Haredale think of entrusting me with one—possibly because he had good experience of my faith and honesty, and owed his life to me.’

There was a reproof conveyed in these words, which to a nature like Emma Haredale’s, was well addressed. But Dolly, who was differently constituted, was by no means touched by it, and still conjured her, in all the terms of affection and attachment she could think of, not to be lured away.

‘Time presses,’ said their visitor, who, although he sought to express the deepest interest, had something cold and even in his speech, that grated on the ear; ‘and danger surrounds us. If I have exposed myself to it, in vain, let it be so; but if you and he should ever meet again, do me justice. If you decide to remain (as I think you do), remember, Miss Haredale, that I left you with a solemn caution, and acquitting myself of all the consequences to which you expose yourself.’

‘Stay, sir!’ cried Emma—‘one moment, I beg you. Cannot we’—and she drew Dolly closer to her—‘cannot we go together?’

‘The task of conveying one female in safety through such scenes as we must encounter, to say nothing of attracting the attention of those who crowd the streets,’ he answered, ‘is enough. I have said that she will be restored to her friends to-night. If you accept the service I tender, Miss Haredale, she shall be instantly placed in safe conduct, and that promise redeemed. Do you decide to remain? People of all ranks and creeds are flying from the town, which is sacked from end to end. Let me be of use in some quarter. Do you stay, or go?’

‘Dolly,’ said Emma, in a hurried manner, ‘my dear girl, this is our last hope. If we part now, it is only that we may meet again in happiness and honour. I will trust to this gentleman.’

‘No no-no!’ cried Dolly, clinging to her. ‘Pray, pray, do not!’

‘You hear,’ said Emma, ‘that to-night—only to-night—within a few hours—think of that!—you will be among those who would die of grief to lose you, and who are now plunged in the deepest misery for your sake. Pray for me, dear girl, as I will for you; and never forget the many quiet hours we have passed together. Say one “God bless you!” Say that at parting!’

But Dolly could say nothing; no, not when Emma kissed her cheek a hundred times, and covered it with tears, could she do more than hang upon her neck, and sob, and clasp, and hold her tight.

‘We have time for no more of this,’ cried the man, unclenching her hands, and pushing her roughly off, as he drew Emma Haredale towards the door: ‘Now! Quick, outside there! are you ready?’

‘Ay!’ cried a loud voice, which made him start. ‘Quite ready! Stand back here, for your lives!’

And in an instant he was felled like an ox in the butcher’s shambles—struck down as though a block of marble had fallen from the roof and crushed him—and cheerful light, and beaming faces came pouring in—and Emma was clasped in her uncle’s embrace, and Dolly, with a shriek that pierced the air, fell into the arms of her father and mother.

What fainting there was, what laughing, what crying, what sobbing, what smiling, how much questioning, no answering, all talking together, all beside themselves with joy; what kissing, congratulating, embracing, shaking of hands, and falling into all these raptures, over and over and over again; no language can describe.

At length, and after a long time, the old locksmith went up and fairly hugged two strangers, who had stood apart and left them to themselves; and then they saw—whom? Yes, Edward Chester and Joseph Willet.

‘See here!’ cried the locksmith. ‘See here! where would any of us have been without these two? Oh, Mr Edward, Mr Edward—oh, Joe, Joe, how light, and yet how full, you have made my old heart to-night!’

‘It was Mr Edward that knocked him down, sir,’ said Joe: ‘I longed to do it, but I gave it up to him. Come, you brave and honest gentleman! Get your senses together, for you haven’t long to lie here.’

He had his foot upon the breast of their sham deliverer, in the absence of a spare arm; and gave him a gentle roll as he spoke. Gashford, for it was no other, crouching yet malignant, raised his scowling face, like sin subdued, and pleaded to be gently used.

‘I have access to all my lord’s papers, Mr Haredale,’ he said, in a submissive voice: Mr Haredale keeping his back towards him, and not once looking round: ‘there are very important documents among them. There are a great many in secret drawers, and distributed in various places, known only to my lord and me. I can give some very valuable information, and render important assistance to any inquiry. You will have to answer it, if I receive ill usage.

‘Pah!’ cried Joe, in deep disgust. ‘Get up, man; you’re waited for, outside. Get up, do you hear?’

Gashford slowly rose; and picking up his hat, and looking with a baffled malevolence, yet with an air of despicable humility, all round the room, crawled out.

‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Joe, who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, for all the rest were silent; ‘the sooner we get back to the Black Lion, the better, perhaps.’

Mr Haredale nodded assent, and drawing his niece’s arm through his, and taking one of her hands between his own, passed out straightway; followed by the locksmith, Mrs Varden, and Dolly—who would scarcely have presented a sufficient surface for all the hugs and caresses they bestowed upon her though she had been a dozen Dollys. Edward Chester and Joe followed.

And did Dolly never once look behind—not once? Was there not one little fleeting glimpse of the dark eyelash, almost resting on her flushed cheek, and of the downcast sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought there was—and he is not likely to have been mistaken; for there were not many eyes like Dolly’s, that’s the truth.

The outer room through which they had to pass, was full of men; among them, Mr Dennis in safe keeping; and there, had been since yesterday, lying in hiding behind a wooden screen which was now thrown down, Simon Tappertit, the recreant ‘prentice, burnt and bruised, and with a gun-shot wound in his body; and his legs—his perfect legs, the pride and glory of his life, the comfort of his existence—crushed into shapeless ugliness. Wondering no longer at the moans they had heard, Dolly kept closer to her father, and shuddered at the sight; but neither bruises, burns, nor gun-shot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered limbs, sent half so keen a pang to Simon’s breast, as Dolly passing out, with Joe for her preserver.

A coach was ready at the door, and Dolly found herself safe and whole inside, between her father and mother, with Emma Haredale and her uncle, quite real, sitting opposite. But there was no Joe, no Edward; and they had said nothing. They had only bowed once, and kept at a distance. Dear heart! what a long way it was to the Black Lion!

Chapter 72

The Black Lion was so far off, and occupied such a length of time in the getting at, that notwithstanding the strong presumptive evidence she had about her of the late events being real and of actual occurrence, Dolly could not divest herself of the belief that she must be in a dream which was lasting all night. Nor was she quite certain that she saw and heard with her own proper senses, even when the coach, in the fulness of time, stopped at the Black Lion, and the host of that tavern approached in a gush of cheerful light to help them to dismount, and give them hearty welcome.

There too, at the coach door, one on one side, one upon the other, were already Edward Chester and Joe Willet, who must have followed in another coach: and this was such a strange and unaccountable proceeding, that Dolly was the more inclined to favour the idea of her being fast asleep. But when Mr Willet appeared—old John himself—so heavy-headed and obstinate, and with such a double chin as the liveliest imagination could never in its boldest flights have conjured up in all its vast proportions—then she stood corrected, and unwillingly admitted to herself that she was broad awake.

And Joe had lost an arm—he—that well-made, handsome, gallant fellow! As Dolly glanced towards him, and thought of the pain he must have suffered, and the far-off places in which he had been wandering, and wondered who had been his nurse, and hoped that whoever it was, she had been as kind and gentle and considerate as she would have been, the tears came rising to her bright eyes, one by one, little by little, until she could keep them back no longer, and so before them all, wept bitterly.

‘We are all safe now, Dolly,’ said her father, kindly. ‘We shall not be separated any more. Cheer up, my love, cheer up!’

The locksmith’s wife knew better perhaps, than he, what ailed her daughter. But Mrs Varden being quite an altered woman—for the riots had done that good—added her word to his, and comforted her with similar representations.

‘Mayhap,’ said Mr Willet, senior, looking round upon the company, ‘she’s hungry. That’s what it is, depend upon it—I am, myself.’

The Black Lion, who, like old John, had been waiting supper past all reasonable and conscionable hours, hailed this as a philosophical discovery of the profoundest and most penetrating kind; and the table being already spread, they sat down to supper straightway.

The conversation was not of the liveliest nature, nor were the appetites of some among them very keen. But, in both these respects, old John more than atoned for any deficiency on the part of the rest, and very much distinguished himself.

It was not in point of actual conversation that Mr Willet shone so brilliantly, for he had none of his old cronies to ‘tackle,’ and was rather timorous of venturing on Joe; having certain vague misgivings within him, that he was ready on the shortest notice, and on receipt of the slightest offence, to fell the Black Lion to the floor of his own parlour, and immediately to withdraw to China or some other remote and unknown region, there to dwell for evermore, or at least until he had got rid of his remaining arm and both legs, and perhaps an eye or so, into the bargain. It was with a peculiar kind of pantomime that Mr Willet filled up every pause; and in this he was considered by the Black Lion, who had been his familiar for some years, quite to surpass and go beyond himself, and outrun the expectations of his most admiring friends.

The subject that worked in Mr Willet’s mind, and occasioned these demonstrations, was no other than his son’s bodily disfigurement, which he had never yet got himself thoroughly to believe, or comprehend. Shortly after their first meeting, he had been observed to wander, in a state of great perplexity, to the kitchen, and to direct his gaze towards the fire, as if in search of his usual adviser in all matters of doubt and difficulty. But there being no boiler at the Black Lion, and the rioters having so beaten and battered his own that it was quite unfit for further service, he wandered out again, in a perfect bog of uncertainty and mental confusion, and in that state took the strangest means of resolving his doubts: such as feeling the sleeve of his son’s greatcoat as deeming it possible that his arm might be there; looking at his own arms and those of everybody else, as if to assure himself that two and not one was the usual allowance; sitting by the hour together in a brown study, as if he were endeavouring to recall Joe’s image in his younger days, and to remember whether he really had in those times one arm or a pair; and employing himself in many other speculations of the same kind.

Finding himself at this supper, surrounded by faces with which he had been so well acquainted in old times, Mr Willet recurred to the subject with uncommon vigour; apparently resolved to understand it now or never. Sometimes, after every two or three mouthfuls, he laid down his knife and fork, and stared at his son with all his might—particularly at his maimed side; then, he looked slowly round the table until he caught some person’s eye, when he shook his head with great solemnity, patted his shoulder, winked, or as one may say—for winking was a very slow process with him—went to sleep with one eye for a minute or two; and so, with another solemn shaking of his head, took up his knife and fork again, and went on eating. Sometimes, he put his food into his mouth abstractedly, and, with all his faculties concentrated on Joe, gazed at him in a fit of stupefaction as he cut his meat with one hand, until he was recalled to himself by symptoms of choking on his own part, and was by that means restored to consciousness. At other times he resorted to such small devices as asking him for the salt, the pepper, the vinegar, the mustard—anything that was on his maimed side—and watching him as he handed it. By dint of these experiments, he did at last so satisfy and convince himself, that, after a longer silence than he had yet maintained, he laid down his knife and fork on either side his plate, drank a long draught from a tankard beside him (still keeping his eyes on Joe), and leaning backward in his chair and fetching a long breath, said, as he looked all round the board:

‘It’s been took off!’

‘By George!’ said the Black Lion, striking the table with his hand, ‘he’s got it!’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Willet, with the look of a man who felt that he had earned a compliment, and deserved it. ‘That’s where it is. It’s been took off.’

‘Tell him where it was done,’ said the Black Lion to Joe.

‘At the defence of the Savannah, father.’

‘At the defence of the Salwanners,’ repeated Mr Willet, softly; again looking round the table.

‘In America, where the war is,’ said Joe.

‘In America, where the war is,’ repeated Mr Willet. ‘It was took off in the defence of the Salwanners in America where the war is.’ Continuing to repeat these words to himself in a low tone of voice (the same information had been conveyed to him in the same terms, at least fifty times before), Mr Willet arose from table, walked round to Joe, felt his empty sleeve all the way up, from the cuff, to where the stump of his arm remained; shook his hand; lighted his pipe at the fire, took a long whiff, walked to the door, turned round once when he had reached it, wiped his left eye with the back of his forefinger, and said, in a faltering voice: ‘My son’s arm—was took off—at the defence of the—Salwanners—in America—where the war is’—with which words he withdrew, and returned no more that night.

Indeed, on various pretences, they all withdrew one after another, save Dolly, who was left sitting there alone. It was a great relief to be alone, and she was crying to her heart’s content, when she heard Joe’s voice at the end of the passage, bidding somebody good night.

Good night! Then he was going elsewhere—to some distance, perhaps. To what kind of home COULD he be going, now that it was so late!

She heard him walk along the passage, and pass the door. But there was a hesitation in his footsteps. He turned back—Dolly’s heart beat high—he looked in.

‘Good night!’—he didn’t say Dolly, but there was comfort in his not saying Miss Varden.

‘Good night!’ sobbed Dolly.

‘I am sorry you take on so much, for what is past and gone,’ said Joe kindly. ‘Don’t. I can’t bear to see you do it. Think of it no longer. You are safe and happy now.’

Dolly cried the more.

‘You must have suffered very much within these few days—and yet you’re not changed, unless it’s for the better. They said you were, but I don’t see it. You were—you were always very beautiful,’ said Joe, ‘but you are more beautiful than ever, now. You are indeed. There can be no harm in my saying so, for you must know it. You are told so very often, I am sure.’

As a general principle, Dolly DID know it, and WAS told so, very often. But the coachmaker had turned out, years ago, to be a special donkey; and whether she had been afraid of making similar discoveries in others, or had grown by dint of long custom to be careless of compliments generally, certain it is that although she cried so much, she was better pleased to be told so now, than ever she had been in all her life.

‘I shall bless your name,’ sobbed the locksmith’s little daughter, ‘as long as I live. I shall never hear it spoken without feeling as if my heart would burst. I shall remember it in my prayers, every night and morning till I die!’

‘Will you?’ said Joe, eagerly. ‘Will you indeed? It makes me—well, it makes me very glad and proud to hear you say so.’

Dolly still sobbed, and held her handkerchief to her eyes. Joe still stood, looking at her.

‘Your voice,’ said Joe, ‘brings up old times so pleasantly, that, for the moment, I feel as if that night—there can be no harm in talking of that night now—had come back, and nothing had happened in the mean time. I feel as if I hadn’t suffered any hardships, but had knocked down poor Tom Cobb only yesterday, and had come to see you with my bundle on my shoulder before running away.—You remember?’

Remember! But she said nothing. She raised her eyes for an instant. It was but a glance; a little, tearful, timid glance. It kept Joe silent though, for a long time.

‘Well!’ he said stoutly, ‘it was to be otherwise, and was. I have been abroad, fighting all the summer and frozen up all the winter, ever since. I have come back as poor in purse as I went, and crippled for life besides. But, Dolly, I would rather have lost this other arm—ay, I would rather have lost my head—than have come back to find you dead, or anything but what I always pictured you to myself, and what I always hoped and wished to find you. Thank God for all!’

Oh how much, and how keenly, the little coquette of five years ago, felt now! She had found her heart at last. Never having known its worth till now, she had never known the worth of his. How priceless it appeared!

‘I did hope once,’ said Joe, in his homely way, ‘that I might come back a rich man, and marry you. But I was a boy then, and have long known better than that. I am a poor, maimed, discharged soldier, and must be content to rub through life as I can. I can’t say, even now, that I shall be glad to see you married, Dolly; but I AM glad—yes, I am, and glad to think I can say so—to know that you are admired and courted, and can pick and choose for a happy life. It’s a comfort to me to know that you’ll talk to your husband about me; and I hope the time will come when I may be able to like him, and to shake hands with him, and to come and see you as a poor friend who knew you when you were a girl. God bless you!’

His hand DID tremble; but for all that, he took it away again, and left her.

Chapter 73

By this Friday night—for it was on Friday in the riot week, that Emma and Dolly were rescued, by the timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester—the disturbances were entirely quelled, and peace and order were restored to the affrighted city. True, after what had happened, it was impossible for any man to say how long this better state of things might last, or how suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those so lately witnessed, might burst forth and fill its streets with ruin and bloodshed; for this reason, those who had fled from the recent tumults still kept at a distance, and many families, hitherto unable to procure the means of flight, now availed themselves of the calm, and withdrew into the country. The shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still shut; and very little business was transacted in any of the places of great commercial resort. But, notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy forebodings of that numerous class of society who see with the greatest clearness into the darkest perspectives, the town remained profoundly quiet. The strong military force disposed in every advantageous quarter, and stationed at every commanding point, held the scattered fragments of the mob in check; the search after rioters was prosecuted with unrelenting vigour; and if there were any among them so desperate and reckless as to be inclined, after the terrible scenes they had beheld, to venture forth again, they were so daunted by these resolute measures, that they quickly shrunk into their hiding-places, and had no thought but for their safety.

In a word, the crowd was utterly routed. Upwards of two hundred had been shot dead in the streets. Two hundred and fifty more were lying, badly wounded, in the hospitals; of whom seventy or eighty died within a short time afterwards. A hundred were already in custody, and more were taken every hour. How many perished in the conflagrations, or by their own excesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible grave in the hot ashes of the flames they had kindled, or crept into vaults and cellars to drink in secret or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light again, is certain. When the embers of the fires had been black and cold for many weeks, the labourers’ spades proved this, beyond a doubt.

Seventy-two private houses and four strong jails were destroyed in the four great days of these riots. The total loss of property, as estimated by the sufferers, was one hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds; at the lowest and least partial estimate of disinterested persons, it exceeded one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. For this immense loss, compensation was soon afterwards made out of the public purse, in pursuance of a vote of the House of Commons; the sum being levied on the various wards in the city, on the county, and the borough of Southwark. Both Lord Mansfield and Lord Saville, however, who had been great sufferers, refused to accept of any compensation whatever.

The House of Commons, sitting on Tuesday with locked and guarded doors, had passed a resolution to the effect that, as soon as the tumults subsided, it would immediately proceed to consider the petitions presented from many of his Majesty’s Protestant subjects, and would take the same into its serious consideration. While this question was under debate, Mr Herbert, one of the members present, indignantly rose and called upon the House to observe that Lord George Gordon was then sitting under the gallery with the blue cockade, the signal of rebellion, in his hat. He was not only obliged, by those who sat near, to take it out; but offering to go into the street to pacify the mob with the somewhat indefinite assurance that the House was prepared to give them ‘the satisfaction they sought,’ was actually held down in his seat by the combined force of several members. In short, the disorder and violence which reigned triumphant out of doors, penetrated into the senate, and there, as elsewhere, terror and alarm prevailed, and ordinary forms were for the time forgotten.

On the Thursday, both Houses had adjourned until the following Monday se’nnight, declaring it impossible to pursue their deliberations with the necessary gravity and freedom, while they were surrounded by armed troops. And now that the rioters were dispersed, the citizens were beset with a new fear; for, finding the public thoroughfares and all their usual places of resort filled with soldiers entrusted with the free use of fire and sword, they began to lend a greedy ear to the rumours which were afloat of martial law being declared, and to dismal stories of prisoners having been seen hanging on lamp-posts in Cheapside and Fleet Street. These terrors being promptly dispelled by a Proclamation declaring that all the rioters in custody would be tried by a special commission in due course of law, a fresh alarm was engendered by its being whispered abroad that French money had been found on some of the rioters, and that the disturbances had been fomented by foreign powers who sought to compass the overthrow and ruin of England. This report, which was strengthened by the diffusion of anonymous handbills, but which, if it had any foundation at all, probably owed its origin to the circumstance of some few coins which were not English money having been swept into the pockets of the insurgents with other miscellaneous booty, and afterwards discovered on the prisoners or the dead bodies,—caused a great sensation; and men’s minds being in that excited state when they are most apt to catch at any shadow of apprehension, was bruited about with much industry.

All remaining quiet, however, during the whole of this Friday, and on this Friday night, and no new discoveries being made, confidence began to be restored, and the most timid and desponding breathed again. In Southwark, no fewer than three thousand of the inhabitants formed themselves into a watch, and patrolled the streets every hour. Nor were the citizens slow to follow so good an example: and it being the manner of peaceful men to be very bold when the danger is over, they were abundantly fierce and daring; not scrupling to question the stoutest passenger with great severity, and carrying it with a very high hand over all errand-boys, servant-girls, and ‘prentices.

As day deepened into evening, and darkness crept into the nooks and corners of the town as if it were mustering in secret and gathering strength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in his dungeon, wondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and outcry which had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in hers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him.

‘Mother,’ he said, after a long silence: ‘how long,—how many days and nights,—shall I be kept here?’

‘Not many, dear. I hope not many.’

‘You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but they don’t mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?’

The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said ‘Nobody,’ as plainly as a croak could speak.

‘Who cares for Grip, except you and me?’ said Barnaby, smoothing the bird’s rumpled feathers with his hand. ‘He never speaks in this place; he never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in his dark corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet. But who cares for Grip?’

The raven croaked again—Nobody.

‘And by the way,’ said Barnaby, withdrawing his hand from the bird, and laying it upon his mother’s arm, as he looked eagerly in her face; ‘if they kill me—they may: I heard it said they would—what will become of Grip when I am dead?’

The sound of the word, or the current of his own thoughts, suggested to Grip his old phrase ‘Never say die!’ But he stopped short in the middle of it, drew a dismal cork, and subsided into a faint croak, as if he lacked the heart to get through the shortest sentence.

‘Will they take HIS life as well as mine?’ said Barnaby. ‘I wish they would. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none to feel sorry, or to grieve for us. But do what they will, I don’t fear them, mother!’

‘They will not harm you,’ she said, her tears choking her utterance. ‘They never will harm you, when they know all. I am sure they never will.’

‘Oh! Don’t be too sure of that,’ cried Barnaby, with a strange pleasure in the belief that she was self-deceived, and in his own sagacity. ‘They have marked me from the first. I heard them say so to each other when they brought me to this place last night; and I believe them. Don’t you cry for me. They said that I was bold, and so I am, and so I will be. You may think that I am silly, but I can die as well as another.—I have done no harm, have I?’ he added quickly.

‘None before Heaven,’ she answered.

‘Why then,’ said Barnaby, ‘let them do their worst. You told me once—you—when I asked you what death meant, that it was nothing to be feared, if we did no harm—Aha! mother, you thought I had forgotten that!’

His merry laugh and playful manner smote her to the heart. She drew him closer to her, and besought him to talk to her in whispers and to be very quiet, for it was getting dark, and their time was short, and she would soon have to leave him for the night.

‘You will come to-morrow?’ said Barnaby.

Yes. And every day. And they would never part again.

He joyfully replied that this was well, and what he wished, and what he had felt quite certain she would tell him; and then he asked her where she had been so long, and why she had not come to see him when he had been a great soldier, and ran through the wild schemes he had had for their being rich and living prosperously, and with some faint notion in his mind that she was sad and he had made her so, tried to console and comfort her, and talked of their former life and his old sports and freedom: little dreaming that every word he uttered only increased her sorrow, and that her tears fell faster at the freshened recollection of their lost tranquillity.

‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they heard the man approaching to close the cells for the night, ‘when I spoke to you just now about my father you cried “Hush!” and turned away your head. Why did you do so? Tell me why, in a word. You thought HE was dead. You are not sorry that he is alive and has come back to us. Where is he? Here?’

‘Do not ask any one where he is, or speak about him,’ she made answer.

‘Why not?’ said Barnaby. ‘Because he is a stern man, and talks roughly? Well! I don’t like him, or want to be with him by myself; but why not speak about him?’

‘Because I am sorry that he is alive; sorry that he has come back; and sorry that he and you have ever met. Because, dear Barnaby, the endeavour of my life has been to keep you two asunder.’

‘Father and son asunder! Why?’

‘He has,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘he has shed blood. The time has come when you must know it. He has shed the blood of one who loved him well, and trusted him, and never did him wrong in word or deed.’

Barnaby recoiled in horror, and glancing at his stained wrist for an instant, wrapped it, shuddering, in his dress.

‘But,’ she added hastily as the key turned in the lock, ‘although we shun him, he is your father, dearest, and I am his wretched wife. They seek his life, and he will lose it. It must not be by our means; nay, if we could win him back to penitence, we should be bound to love him yet. Do not seem to know him, except as one who fled with you from the jail, and if they question you about him, do not answer them. God be with you through the night, dear boy! God be with you!’

She tore herself away, and in a few seconds Barnaby was alone. He stood for a long time rooted to the spot, with his face hidden in his hands; then flung himself, sobbing, on his miserable bed.

But the moon came slowly up in all her gentle glory, and the stars looked out, and through the small compass of the grated window, as through the narrow crevice of one good deed in a murky life of guilt, the face of Heaven shone bright and merciful. He raised his head; gazed upward at the quiet sky, which seemed to smile upon the earth in sadness, as if the night, more thoughtful than the day, looked down in sorrow on the sufferings and evil deeds of men; and felt its peace sink deep into his heart. He, a poor idiot, caged in his narrow cell, was as much lifted up to God, while gazing on the mild light, as the freest and most favoured man in all the spacious city; and in his ill-remembered prayer, and in the fragment of the childish hymn, with which he sung and crooned himself asleep, there breathed as true a spirit as ever studied homily expressed, or old cathedral arches echoed.

As his mother crossed a yard on her way out, she saw, through a grated door which separated it from another court, her husband, walking round and round, with his hands folded on his breast, and his head hung down. She asked the man who conducted her, if she might speak a word with this prisoner. Yes, but she must be quick for he was locking up for the night, and there was but a minute or so to spare. Saying this, he unlocked the door, and bade her go in.

It grated harshly as it turned upon its hinges, but he was deaf to the noise, and still walked round and round the little court, without raising his head or changing his attitude in the least. She spoke to him, but her voice was weak, and failed her. At length she put herself in his track, and when he came near, stretched out her hand and touched him.

He started backward, trembling from head to foot; but seeing who it was, demanded why she came there. Before she could reply, he spoke again.

‘Am I to live or die? Do you murder too, or spare?’

‘My son—our son,’ she answered, ‘is in this prison.’

‘What is that to me?’ he cried, stamping impatiently on the stone pavement. ‘I know it. He can no more aid me than I can aid him. If you are come to talk of him, begone!’

As he spoke he resumed his walk, and hurried round the court as before. When he came again to where she stood, he stopped, and said,

‘Am I to live or die? Do you repent?’

‘Oh!—do YOU?’ she answered. ‘Will you, while time remains? Do not believe that I could save you, if I dared.’

‘Say if you would,’ he answered with an oath, as he tried to disengage himself and pass on. ‘Say if you would.’

‘Listen to me for one moment,’ she returned; ‘for but a moment. I am but newly risen from a sick-bed, from which I never hoped to rise again. The best among us think, at such a time, of good intentions half-performed and duties left undone. If I have ever, since that fatal night, omitted to pray for your repentance before death—if I omitted, even then, anything which might tend to urge it on you when the horror of your crime was fresh—if, in our later meeting, I yielded to the dread that was upon me, and forgot to fall upon my knees and solemnly adjure you, in the name of him you sent to his account with Heaven, to prepare for the retribution which must come, and which is stealing on you now—I humbly before you, and in the agony of supplication in which you see me, beseech that you will let me make atonement.’

‘What is the meaning of your canting words?’ he answered roughly. ‘Speak so that I may understand you.’

‘I will,’ she answered, ‘I desire to. Bear with me for a moment more. The hand of Him who set His curse on murder, is heavy on us now. You cannot doubt it. Our son, our innocent boy, on whom His anger fell before his birth, is in this place in peril of his life—brought here by your guilt; yes, by that alone, as Heaven sees and knows, for he has been led astray in the darkness of his intellect, and that is the terrible consequence of your crime.’

‘If you come, woman-like, to load me with reproaches—’ he muttered, again endeavouring to break away.

‘I do not. I have a different purpose. You must hear it. If not to-night, to-morrow; if not to-morrow, at another time. You MUST hear it. Husband, escape is hopeless—impossible.’

‘You tell me so, do you?’ he said, raising his manacled hand, and shaking it. ‘You!’

‘Yes,’ she said, with indescribable earnestness. ‘But why?’

‘To make me easy in this jail. To make the time ‘twixt this and death, pass pleasantly. For my good—yes, for my good, of course,’ he said, grinding his teeth, and smiling at her with a livid face.

‘Not to load you with reproaches,’ she replied; ‘not to aggravate the tortures and miseries of your condition, not to give you one hard word, but to restore you to peace and hope. Husband, dear husband, if you will but confess this dreadful crime; if you will but implore forgiveness of Heaven and of those whom you have wronged on earth; if you will dismiss these vain uneasy thoughts, which never can be realised, and will rely on Penitence and on the Truth, I promise you, in the great name of the Creator, whose image you have defaced, that He will comfort and console you. And for myself,’ she cried, clasping her hands, and looking upward, ‘I swear before Him, as He knows my heart and reads it now, that from that hour I will love and cherish you as I did of old, and watch you night and day in the short interval that will remain to us, and soothe you with my truest love and duty, and pray with you, that one threatening judgment may be arrested, and that our boy may be spared to bless God, in his poor way, in the free air and light!’

He fell back and gazed at her while she poured out these words, as though he were for a moment awed by her manner, and knew not what to do. But anger and fear soon got the mastery of him, and he spurned her from him.

‘Begone!’ he cried. ‘Leave me! You plot, do you! You plot to get speech with me, and let them know I am the man they say I am. A curse on you and on your boy.’

‘On him the curse has already fallen,’ she replied, wringing her hands.

‘Let it fall heavier. Let it fall on one and all. I hate you both. The worst has come to me. The only comfort that I seek or I can have, will be the knowledge that it comes to you. Now go!’

She would have urged him gently, even then, but he menaced her with his chain.

‘I say go—I say it for the last time. The gallows has me in its grasp, and it is a black phantom that may urge me on to something more. Begone! I curse the hour that I was born, the man I slew, and all the living world!’

In a paroxysm of wrath, and terror, and the fear of death, he broke from her, and rushed into the darkness of his cell, where he cast himself jangling down upon the stone floor, and smote it with his ironed hands. The man returned to lock the dungeon door, and having done so, carried her away.

On that warm, balmy night in June, there were glad faces and light hearts in all quarters of the town, and sleep, banished by the late horrors, was doubly welcomed. On that night, families made merry in their houses, and greeted each other on the common danger they had escaped; and those who had been denounced, ventured into the streets; and they who had been plundered, got good shelter. Even the timorous Lord Mayor, who was summoned that night before the Privy Council to answer for his conduct, came back contented; observing to all his friends that he had got off very well with a reprimand, and repeating with huge satisfaction his memorable defence before the Council, ‘that such was his temerity, he thought death would have been his portion.’

On that night, too, more of the scattered remnants of the mob were traced to their lurking-places, and taken; and in the hospitals, and deep among the ruins they had made, and in the ditches, and fields, many unshrouded wretches lay dead: envied by those who had been active in the disturbances, and who pillowed their doomed heads in the temporary jails.

And in the Tower, in a dreary room whose thick stone walls shut out the hum of life, and made a stillness which the records left by former prisoners with those silent witnesses seemed to deepen and intensify; remorseful for every act that had been done by every man among the cruel crowd; feeling for the time their guilt his own, and their lives put in peril by himself; and finding, amidst such reflections, little comfort in fanaticism, or in his fancied call; sat the unhappy author of all—Lord George Gordon.

He had been made prisoner that evening. ‘If you are sure it’s me you want,’ he said to the officers, who waited outside with the warrant for his arrest on a charge of High Treason, ‘I am ready to accompany you—’ which he did without resistance. He was conducted first before the Privy Council, and afterwards to the Horse Guards, and then was taken by way of Westminster Bridge, and back over London Bridge (for the purpose of avoiding the main streets), to the Tower, under the strongest guard ever known to enter its gates with a single prisoner.

Of all his forty thousand men, not one remained to bear him company. Friends, dependents, followers,—none were there. His fawning secretary had played the traitor; and he whose weakness had been goaded and urged on by so many for their own purposes, was desolate and alone.

Chapter 74

Mr Dennis, having been made prisoner late in the evening, was removed to a neighbouring round-house for that night, and carried before a justice for examination on the next day, Saturday. The charges against him being numerous and weighty, and it being in particular proved, by the testimony of Gabriel Varden, that he had shown a special desire to take his life, he was committed for trial. Moreover he was honoured with the distinction of being considered a chief among the insurgents, and received from the magistrate’s lips the complimentary assurance that he was in a position of imminent danger, and would do well to prepare himself for the worst.

To say that Mr Dennis’s modesty was not somewhat startled by these honours, or that he was altogether prepared for so flattering a reception, would be to claim for him a greater amount of stoical philosophy than even he possessed. Indeed this gentleman’s stoicism was of that not uncommon kind, which enables a man to bear with exemplary fortitude the afflictions of his friends, but renders him, by way of counterpoise, rather selfish and sensitive in respect of any that happen to befall himself. It is therefore no disparagement to the great officer in question to state, without disguise or concealment, that he was at first very much alarmed, and that he betrayed divers emotions of fear, until his reasoning powers came to his relief, and set before him a more hopeful prospect.

In proportion as Mr Dennis exercised these intellectual qualities with which he was gifted, in reviewing his best chances of coming off handsomely and with small personal inconvenience, his spirits rose, and his confidence increased. When he remembered the great estimation in which his office was held, and the constant demand for his services; when he bethought himself, how the Statute Book regarded him as a kind of Universal Medicine applicable to men, women, and children, of every age and variety of criminal constitution; and how high he stood, in his official capacity, in the favour of the Crown, and both Houses of Parliament, the Mint, the Bank of England, and the Judges of the land; when he recollected that whatever Ministry was in or out, he remained their peculiar pet and panacea, and that for his sake England stood single and conspicuous among the civilised nations of the earth: when he called these things to mind and dwelt upon them, he felt certain that the national gratitude MUST relieve him from the consequences of his late proceedings, and would certainly restore him to his old place in the happy social system.

With these crumbs, or as one may say, with these whole loaves of comfort to regale upon, Mr Dennis took his place among the escort that awaited him, and repaired to jail with a manly indifference. Arriving at Newgate, where some of the ruined cells had been hastily fitted up for the safe keeping of rioters, he was warmly received by the turnkeys, as an unusual and interesting case, which agreeably relieved their monotonous duties. In this spirit, he was fettered with great care, and conveyed into the interior of the prison.

‘Brother,’ cried the hangman, as, following an officer, he traversed under these novel circumstances the remains of passages with which he was well acquainted, ‘am I going to be along with anybody?’

‘If you’d have left more walls standing, you’d have been alone,’ was the reply. ‘As it is, we’re cramped for room, and you’ll have company.’

‘Well,’ returned Dennis, ‘I don’t object to company, brother. I rather like company. I was formed for society, I was.’

‘That’s rather a pity, an’t it?’ said the man.

‘No,’ answered Dennis, ‘I’m not aware that it is. Why should it be a pity, brother?’

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said the man carelessly. ‘I thought that was what you meant. Being formed for society, and being cut off in your flower, you know—’

‘I say,’ interposed the other quickly, ‘what are you talking of? Don’t. Who’s a-going to be cut off in their flowers?’

‘Oh, nobody particular. I thought you was, perhaps,’ said the man.

Mr Dennis wiped his face, which had suddenly grown very hot, and remarking in a tremulous voice to his conductor that he had always been fond of his joke, followed him in silence until he stopped at a door.

‘This is my quarters, is it?’ he asked facetiously.

‘This is the shop, sir,’ replied his friend.

He was walking in, but not with the best possible grace, when he suddenly stopped, and started back.

‘Halloa!’ said the officer. ‘You’re nervous.’

‘Nervous!’ whispered Dennis in great alarm. ‘Well I may be. Shut the door.’

‘I will, when you’re in,’ returned the man.

‘But I can’t go in there,’ whispered Dennis. ‘I can’t be shut up with that man. Do you want me to be throttled, brother?’

The officer seemed to entertain no particular desire on the subject one way or other, but briefly remarking that he had his orders, and intended to obey them, pushed him in, turned the key, and retired.

Dennis stood trembling with his back against the door, and involuntarily raising his arm to defend himself, stared at a man, the only other tenant of the cell, who lay, stretched at his full length, upon a stone bench, and who paused in his deep breathing as if he were about to wake. But he rolled over on one side, let his arm fall negligently down, drew a long sigh, and murmuring indistinctly, fell fast asleep again.

Relieved in some degree by this, the hangman took his eyes for an instant from the slumbering figure, and glanced round the cell in search of some ‘vantage-ground or weapon of defence. There was nothing moveable within it, but a clumsy table which could not be displaced without noise, and a heavy chair. Stealing on tiptoe towards this latter piece of furniture, he retired with it into the remotest corner, and intrenching himself behind it, watched the enemy with the utmost vigilance and caution.

The sleeping man was Hugh; and perhaps it was not unnatural for Dennis to feel in a state of very uncomfortable suspense, and to wish with his whole soul that he might never wake again. Tired of standing, he crouched down in his corner after some time, and rested on the cold pavement; but although Hugh’s breathing still proclaimed that he was sleeping soundly, he could not trust him out of his sight for an instant. He was so afraid of him, and of some sudden onslaught, that he was not content to see his closed eyes through the chair-back, but every now and then, rose stealthily to his feet, and peered at him with outstretched neck, to assure himself that he really was still asleep, and was not about to spring upon him when he was off his guard.

He slept so long and so soundly, that Mr Dennis began to think he might sleep on until the turnkey visited them. He was congratulating himself upon these promising appearances, and blessing his stars with much fervour, when one or two unpleasant symptoms manifested themselves: such as another motion of the arm, another sigh, a restless tossing of the head. Then, just as it seemed that he was about to fall heavily to the ground from his narrow bed, Hugh’s eyes opened.

It happened that his face was turned directly towards his unexpected visitor. He looked lazily at him for some half-dozen seconds without any aspect of surprise or recognition; then suddenly jumped up, and with a great oath pronounced his name.

‘Keep off, brother, keep off!’ cried Dennis, dodging behind the chair. ‘Don’t do me a mischief. I’m a prisoner like you. I haven’t the free use of my limbs. I’m quite an old man. Don’t hurt me!’

He whined out the last three words in such piteous accents, that Hugh, who had dragged away the chair, and aimed a blow at him with it, checked himself, and bade him get up.

‘I’ll get up certainly, brother,’ cried Dennis, anxious to propitiate him by any means in his power. ‘I’ll comply with any request of yours, I’m sure. There—I’m up now. What can I do for you? Only say the word, and I’ll do it.’

‘What can you do for me!’ cried Hugh, clutching him by the collar with both hands, and shaking him as though he were bent on stopping his breath by that means. ‘What have you done for me?’

‘The best. The best that could be done,’ returned the hangman.

Hugh made him no answer, but shaking him in his strong grip until his teeth chattered in his head, cast him down upon the floor, and flung himself on the bench again.

‘If it wasn’t for the comfort it is to me, to see you here,’ he muttered, ‘I’d have crushed your head against it; I would.’

It was some time before Dennis had breath enough to speak, but as soon as he could resume his propitiatory strain, he did so.

‘I did the best that could be done, brother,’ he whined; ‘I did indeed. I was forced with two bayonets and I don’t know how many bullets on each side of me, to point you out. If you hadn’t been taken, you’d have been shot; and what a sight that would have been—a fine young man like you!’

‘Will it be a better sight now?’ asked Hugh, raising his head, with such a fierce expression, that the other durst not answer him just then.

‘A deal better,’ said Dennis meekly, after a pause. ‘First, there’s all the chances of the law, and they’re five hundred strong. We may get off scot-free. Unlikelier things than that have come to pass. Even if we shouldn’t, and the chances fail, we can but be worked off once: and when it’s well done, it’s so neat, so skilful, so captiwating, if that don’t seem too strong a word, that you’d hardly believe it could be brought to sich perfection. Kill one’s fellow-creeturs off, with muskets!—Pah!’ and his nature so revolted at the bare idea, that he spat upon the dungeon pavement.

His warming on this topic, which to one unacquainted with his pursuits and tastes appeared like courage; together with his artful suppression of his own secret hopes, and mention of himself as being in the same condition with Hugh; did more to soothe that ruffian than the most elaborate arguments could have done, or the most abject submission. He rested his arms upon his knees, and stooping forward, looked from beneath his shaggy hair at Dennis, with something of a smile upon his face.

‘The fact is, brother,’ said the hangman, in a tone of greater confidence, ‘that you got into bad company. The man that was with you was looked after more than you, and it was him I wanted. As to me, what have I got by it? Here we are, in one and the same plight.’

‘Lookee, rascal,’ said Hugh, contracting his brows, ‘I’m not altogether such a shallow blade but I know you expected to get something by it, or you wouldn’t have done it. But it’s done, and you’re here, and it will soon be all over with you and me; and I’d as soon die as live, or live as die. Why should I trouble myself to have revenge on you? To eat, and drink, and go to sleep, as long as I stay here, is all I care for. If there was but a little more sun to bask in, than can find its way into this cursed place, I’d lie in it all day, and not trouble myself to sit or stand up once. That’s all the care I have for myself. Why should I care for YOU?’

Finishing this speech with a growl like the yawn of a wild beast, he stretched himself upon the bench again, and closed his eyes once more.

After looking at him in silence for some moments, Dennis, who was greatly relieved to find him in this mood, drew the chair towards his rough couch and sat down near him—taking the precaution, however, to keep out of the range of his brawny arm.

‘Well said, brother; nothing could be better said,’ he ventured to observe. ‘We’ll eat and drink of the best, and sleep our best, and make the best of it every way. Anything can be got for money. Let’s spend it merrily.’

‘Ay,’ said Hugh, coiling himself into a new position.—‘Where is it?’

‘Why, they took mine from me at the lodge,’ said Mr Dennis; ‘but mine’s a peculiar case.’

‘Is it? They took mine too.’

‘Why then, I tell you what, brother,’ Dennis began. ‘You must look up your friends—’

‘My friends!’ cried Hugh, starting up and resting on his hands. ‘Where are my friends?’

‘Your relations then,’ said Dennis.

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughed Hugh, waving one arm above his head. ‘He talks of friends to me—talks of relations to a man whose mother died the death in store for her son, and left him, a hungry brat, without a face he knew in all the world! He talks of this to me!’

‘Brother,’ cried the hangman, whose features underwent a sudden change, ‘you don’t mean to say—’

‘I mean to say,’ Hugh interposed, ‘that they hung her up at Tyburn. What was good enough for her, is good enough for me. Let them do the like by me as soon as they please—the sooner the better. Say no more to me. I’m going to sleep.’

‘But I want to speak to you; I want to hear more about that,’ said Dennis, changing colour.

‘If you’re a wise man,’ growled Hugh, raising his head to look at him with a frown, ‘you’ll hold your tongue. I tell you I’m going to sleep.’

Dennis venturing to say something more in spite of this caution, the desperate fellow struck at him with all his force, and missing him, lay down again with many muttered oaths and imprecations, and turned his face towards the wall. After two or three ineffectual twitches at his dress, which he was hardy enough to venture upon, notwithstanding his dangerous humour, Mr Dennis, who burnt, for reasons of his own, to pursue the conversation, had no alternative but to sit as patiently as he could: waiting his further pleasure.

Chapter 75

A month has elapsed,—and we stand in the bedchamber of Sir John Chester. Through the half-opened window, the Temple Garden looks green and pleasant; the placid river, gay with boat and barge, and dimpled with the plash of many an oar, sparkles in the distance; the sky is blue and clear; and the summer air steals gently in, filling the room with perfume. The very town, the smoky town, is radiant. High roofs and steeple-tops, wont to look black and sullen, smile a cheerful grey; every old gilded vane, and ball, and cross, glitters anew in the bright morning sun; and, high among them all, St Paul’s towers up, showing its lofty crest in burnished gold.

Sir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and toast stood upon a little table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready to his hand, upon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air of tranquil satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to gaze indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news luxuriously.

The cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect, even upon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more placid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He laid down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his pillow with the air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming recollections; and after a pause, soliloquised as follows:

‘And my friend the centaur, goes the way of his mamma! I am not surprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis, likewise! I am not surprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-easy young madman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It’s the very best thing that could possibly happen to him.’

After delivering himself of these remarks, he fell again into his smiling train of reflection; from which he roused himself at length to finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring the bell for more.

The new supply arriving, he took the cup from his servant’s hand; and saying, with a charming affability, ‘I am obliged to you, Peak,’ dismissed him.

‘It is a remarkable circumstance,’ he mused, dallying lazily with the teaspoon, ‘that my friend the madman should have been within an ace of escaping, on his trial; and it was a good stroke of chance (or, as the world would say, a providential occurrence) that the brother of my Lord Mayor should have been in court, with other country justices, into whose very dense heads curiosity had penetrated. For though the brother of my Lord Mayor was decidedly wrong; and established his near relationship to that amusing person beyond all doubt, in stating that my friend was sane, and had, to his knowledge, wandered about the country with a vagabond parent, avowing revolutionary and rebellious sentiments; I am not the less obliged to him for volunteering that evidence. These insane creatures make such very odd and embarrassing remarks, that they really ought to be hanged for the comfort of society.’

The country justice had indeed turned the wavering scale against poor Barnaby, and solved the doubt that trembled in his favour. Grip little thought how much he had to answer for.

‘They will be a singular party,’ said Sir John, leaning his head upon his hand, and sipping his chocolate; ‘a very curious party. The hangman himself; the centaur; and the madman. The centaur would make a very handsome preparation in Surgeons’ Hall, and would benefit science extremely. I hope they have taken care to bespeak him.—Peak, I am not at home, of course, to anybody but the hairdresser.’

This reminder to his servant was called forth by a knock at the door, which the man hastened to open. After a prolonged murmur of question and answer, he returned; and as he cautiously closed the room-door behind him, a man was heard to cough in the passage.

‘Now, it is of no use, Peak,’ said Sir John, raising his hand in deprecation of his delivering any message; ‘I am not at home. I cannot possibly hear you. I told you I was not at home, and my word is sacred. Will you never do as you are desired?’

Having nothing to oppose to this reproof, the man was about to withdraw, when the visitor who had given occasion to it, probably rendered impatient by delay, knocked with his knuckles at the chamber-door, and called out that he had urgent business with Sir John Chester, which admitted of no delay.

‘Let him in,’ said Sir John. ‘My good fellow,’ he added, when the door was opened, ‘how come you to intrude yourself in this extraordinary manner upon the privacy of a gentleman? How can you be so wholly destitute of self-respect as to be guilty of such remarkable ill-breeding?’

‘My business, Sir John, is not of a common kind, I do assure you,’ returned the person he addressed. ‘If I have taken any uncommon course to get admission to you, I hope I shall be pardoned on that account.’

‘Well! we shall see; we shall see,’ returned Sir John, whose face cleared up when he saw who it was, and whose prepossessing smile was now restored. ‘I am sure we have met before,’ he added in his winning tone, ‘but really I forget your name?’

‘My name is Gabriel Varden, sir.’

‘Varden, of course, Varden,’ returned Sir John, tapping his forehead. ‘Dear me, how very defective my memory becomes! Varden to be sure—Mr Varden the locksmith. You have a charming wife, Mr Varden, and a most beautiful daughter. They are well?’

Gabriel thanked him, and said they were.

‘I rejoice to hear it,’ said Sir John. ‘Commend me to them when you return, and say that I wished I were fortunate enough to convey, myself, the salute which I entrust you to deliver. And what,’ he asked very sweetly, after a moment’s pause, ‘can I do for you? You may command me freely.’

‘I thank you, Sir John,’ said Gabriel, with some pride in his manner, ‘but I have come to ask no favour of you, though I come on business.—Private,’ he added, with a glance at the man who stood looking on, ‘and very pressing business.’

‘I cannot say you are the more welcome for being independent, and having nothing to ask of me,’ returned Sir John, graciously, ‘for I should have been happy to render you a service; still, you are welcome on any terms. Oblige me with some more chocolate, Peak, and don’t wait.’

The man retired, and left them alone.

‘Sir John,’ said Gabriel, ‘I am a working-man, and have been so, all my life. If I don’t prepare you enough for what I have to tell; if I come to the point too abruptly; and give you a shock, which a gentleman could have spared you, or at all events lessened very much; I hope you will give me credit for meaning well. I wish to be careful and considerate, and I trust that in a straightforward person like me, you’ll take the will for the deed.’

‘Mr Varden,’ returned the other, perfectly composed under this exordium; ‘I beg you’ll take a chair. Chocolate, perhaps, you don’t relish? Well! it IS an acquired taste, no doubt.’

‘Sir John,’ said Gabriel, who had acknowledged with a bow the invitation to be seated, but had not availed himself of it. ‘Sir John’—he dropped his voice and drew nearer to the bed—‘I am just now come from Newgate—’

‘Good Gad!’ cried Sir John, hastily sitting up in bed; ‘from Newgate, Mr Varden! How could you be so very imprudent as to come from Newgate! Newgate, where there are jail-fevers, and ragged people, and bare-footed men and women, and a thousand horrors! Peak, bring the camphor, quick! Heaven and earth, Mr Varden, my dear, good soul, how COULD you come from Newgate?’

Gabriel returned no answer, but looked on in silence while Peak (who had entered with the hot chocolate) ran to a drawer, and returning with a bottle, sprinkled his master’s dressing-gown and the bedding; and besides moistening the locksmith himself, plentifully, described a circle round about him on the carpet. When he had done this, he again retired; and Sir John, reclining in an easy attitude upon his pillow, once more turned a smiling face towards his visitor.

‘You will forgive me, Mr Varden, I am sure, for being at first a little sensitive both on your account and my own. I confess I was startled, notwithstanding your delicate exordium. Might I ask you to do me the favour not to approach any nearer?—You have really come from Newgate!’

The locksmith inclined his head.

‘In-deed! And now, Mr Varden, all exaggeration and embellishment apart,’ said Sir John Chester, confidentially, as he sipped his chocolate, ‘what kind of place IS Newgate?’

‘A strange place, Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, ‘of a sad and doleful kind. A strange place, where many strange things are heard and seen; but few more strange than that I come to tell you of. The case is urgent. I am sent here.’

‘Not—no, no—not from the jail?’

‘Yes, Sir John; from the jail.’

‘And my good, credulous, open-hearted friend,’ said Sir John, setting down his cup, and laughing,—‘by whom?’

‘By a man called Dennis—for many years the hangman, and to-morrow morning the hanged,’ returned the locksmith.

Sir John had expected—had been quite certain from the first—that he would say he had come from Hugh, and was prepared to meet him on that point. But this answer occasioned him a degree of astonishment, which, for the moment, he could not, with all his command of feature, prevent his face from expressing. He quickly subdued it, however, and said in the same light tone:

‘And what does the gentleman require of me? My memory may be at fault again, but I don’t recollect that I ever had the pleasure of an introduction to him, or that I ever numbered him among my personal friends, I do assure you, Mr Varden.’

‘Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, gravely, ‘I will tell you, as nearly as I can, in the words he used to me, what he desires that you should know, and what you ought to know without a moment’s loss of time.’

Sir John Chester settled himself in a position of greater repose, and looked at his visitor with an expression of face which seemed to say, ‘This is an amusing fellow! I’ll hear him out.’

‘You may have seen in the newspapers, sir,’ said Gabriel, pointing to the one which lay by his side, ‘that I was a witness against this man upon his trial some days since; and that it was not his fault I was alive, and able to speak to what I knew.’

‘MAY have seen!’ cried Sir John. ‘My dear Mr Varden, you are quite a public character, and live in all men’s thoughts most deservedly. Nothing can exceed the interest with which I read your testimony, and remembered that I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with you.---I hope we shall have your portrait published?’

‘This morning, sir,’ said the locksmith, taking no notice of these compliments, ‘early this morning, a message was brought to me from Newgate, at this man’s request, desiring that I would go and see him, for he had something particular to communicate. I needn’t tell you that he is no friend of mine, and that I had never seen him, until the rioters beset my house.’

Sir John fanned himself gently with the newspaper, and nodded.

‘I knew, however, from the general report,’ resumed Gabriel, ‘that the order for his execution to-morrow, went down to the prison last night; and looking upon him as a dying man, I complied with his request.’

‘You are quite a Christian, Mr Varden,’ said Sir John; ‘and in that amiable capacity, you increase my desire that you should take a chair.’

‘He said,’ continued Gabriel, looking steadily at the knight, ‘that he had sent to me, because he had no friend or companion in the whole world (being the common hangman), and because he believed, from the way in which I had given my evidence, that I was an honest man, and would act truly by him. He said that, being shunned by every one who knew his calling, even by people of the lowest and most wretched grade, and finding, when he joined the rioters, that the men he acted with had no suspicion of it (which I believe is true enough, for a poor fool of an old ‘prentice of mine was one of them), he had kept his own counsel, up to the time of his being taken and put in jail.’

‘Very discreet of Mr Dennis,’ observed Sir John with a slight yawn, though still with the utmost affability, ‘but—except for your admirable and lucid manner of telling it, which is perfect—not very interesting to me.’

‘When,’ pursued the locksmith, quite unabashed and wholly regardless of these interruptions, ‘when he was taken to the jail, he found that his fellow-prisoner, in the same room, was a young man, Hugh by name, a leader in the riots, who had been betrayed and given up by himself. From something which fell from this unhappy creature in the course of the angry words they had at meeting, he discovered that his mother had suffered the death to which they both are now condemned.—The time is very short, Sir John.’

The knight laid down his paper fan, replaced his cup upon the table at his side, and, saving for the smile that lurked about his mouth, looked at the locksmith with as much steadiness as the locksmith looked at him.

‘They have been in prison now, a month. One conversation led to many more; and the hangman soon found, from a comparison of time, and place, and dates, that he had executed the sentence of the law upon this woman, himself. She had been tempted by want—as so many people are—into the easy crime of passing forged notes. She was young and handsome; and the traders who employ men, women, and children in this traffic, looked upon her as one who was well adapted for their business, and who would probably go on without suspicion for a long time. But they were mistaken; for she was stopped in the commission of her very first offence, and died for it. She was of gipsy blood, Sir John—’

It might have been the effect of a passing cloud which obscured the sun, and cast a shadow on his face; but the knight turned deadly pale. Still he met the locksmith’s eye, as before.

‘She was of gipsy blood, Sir John,’ repeated Gabriel, ‘and had a high, free spirit. This, and her good looks, and her lofty manner, interested some gentlemen who were easily moved by dark eyes; and efforts were made to save her. They might have been successful, if she would have given them any clue to her history. But she never would, or did. There was reason to suspect that she would make an attempt upon her life. A watch was set upon her night and day; and from that time she never spoke again—’

Sir John stretched out his hand towards his cup. The locksmith going on, arrested it half-way.

—‘Until she had but a minute to live. Then she broke silence, and said, in a low firm voice which no one heard but this executioner, for all other living creatures had retired and left her to her fate, “If I had a dagger within these fingers and he was within my reach, I would strike him dead before me, even now!” The man asked “Who?” She said, “The father of her boy.”’

Sir John drew back his outstretched hand, and seeing that the locksmith paused, signed to him with easy politeness and without any new appearance of emotion, to proceed.

‘It was the first word she had ever spoken, from which it could be understood that she had any relative on earth. “Was the child alive?” he asked. “Yes.” He asked her where it was, its name, and whether she had any wish respecting it. She had but one, she said. It was that the boy might live and grow, in utter ignorance of his father, so that no arts might teach him to be gentle and forgiving. When he became a man, she trusted to the God of their tribe to bring the father and the son together, and revenge her through her child. He asked her other questions, but she spoke no more. Indeed, he says, she scarcely said this much, to him, but stood with her face turned upwards to the sky, and never looked towards him once.’

Sir John took a pinch of snuff; glanced approvingly at an elegant little sketch, entitled ‘Nature,’ on the wall; and raising his eyes to the locksmith’s face again, said, with an air of courtesy and patronage, ‘You were observing, Mr Varden—’

‘That she never,’ returned the locksmith, who was not to be diverted by any artifice from his firm manner, and his steady gaze, ‘that she never looked towards him once, Sir John; and so she died, and he forgot her. But, some years afterwards, a man was sentenced to die the same death, who was a gipsy too; a sunburnt, swarthy fellow, almost a wild man; and while he lay in prison, under sentence, he, who had seen the hangman more than once while he was free, cut an image of him on his stick, by way of braving death, and showing those who attended on him, how little he cared or thought about it. He gave this stick into his hands at Tyburn, and told him then, that the woman I have spoken of had left her own people to join a fine gentleman, and that, being deserted by him, and cast off by her old friends, she had sworn within her own proud breast, that whatever her misery might be, she would ask no help of any human being. He told him that she had kept her word to the last; and that, meeting even him in the streets—he had been fond of her once, it seems—she had slipped from him by a trick, and he never saw her again, until, being in one of the frequent crowds at Tyburn, with some of his rough companions, he had been driven almost mad by seeing, in the criminal under another name, whose death he had come to witness, herself. Standing in the same place in which she had stood, he told the hangman this, and told him, too, her real name, which only her own people and the gentleman for whose sake she had left them, knew. That name he will tell again, Sir John, to none but you.’

‘To none but me!’ exclaimed the knight, pausing in the act of raising his cup to his lips with a perfectly steady hand, and curling up his little finger for the better display of a brilliant ring with which it was ornamented: ‘but me!—My dear Mr Varden, how very preposterous, to select me for his confidence! With you at his elbow, too, who are so perfectly trustworthy!’

‘Sir John, Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, ‘at twelve tomorrow, these men die. Hear the few words I have to add, and do not hope to deceive me; for though I am a plain man of humble station, and you are a gentleman of rank and learning, the truth raises me to your level, and I KNOW that you anticipate the disclosure with which I am about to end, and that you believe this doomed man, Hugh, to be your son.’

‘Nay,’ said Sir John, bantering him with a gay air; ‘the wild gentleman, who died so suddenly, scarcely went as far as that, I think?’

‘He did not,’ returned the locksmith, ‘for she had bound him by some pledge, known only to these people, and which the worst among them respect, not to tell your name: but, in a fantastic pattern on the stick, he had carved some letters, and when the hangman asked it, he bade him, especially if he should ever meet with her son in after life, remember that place well.’

‘What place?’

‘Chester.’

The knight finished his cup of chocolate with an appearance of infinite relish, and carefully wiped his lips upon his handkerchief.

‘Sir John,’ said the locksmith, ‘this is all that has been told to me; but since these two men have been left for death, they have conferred together closely. See them, and hear what they can add. See this Dennis, and learn from him what he has not trusted to me. If you, who hold the clue to all, want corroboration (which you do not), the means are easy.’

‘And to what,’ said Sir John Chester, rising on his elbow, after smoothing the pillow for its reception; ‘my dear, good-natured, estimable Mr Varden—with whom I cannot be angry if I would—to what does all this tend?’

‘I take you for a man, Sir John, and I suppose it tends to some pleading of natural affection in your breast,’ returned the locksmith. ‘I suppose to the straining of every nerve, and the exertion of all the influence you have, or can make, in behalf of your miserable son, and the man who has disclosed his existence to you. At the worst, I suppose to your seeing your son, and awakening him to a sense of his crime and danger. He has no such sense now. Think what his life must have been, when he said in my hearing, that if I moved you to anything, it would be to hastening his death, and ensuring his silence, if you had it in your power!’

‘And have you, my good Mr Varden,’ said Sir John in a tone of mild reproof, ‘have you really lived to your present age, and remained so very simple and credulous, as to approach a gentleman of established character with such credentials as these, from desperate men in their last extremity, catching at any straw? Oh dear! Oh fie, fie!’

The locksmith was going to interpose, but he stopped him:

‘On any other subject, Mr Varden, I shall be delighted—I shall be charmed—to converse with you, but I owe it to my own character not to pursue this topic for another moment.’

‘Think better of it, sir, when I am gone,’ returned the locksmith; ‘think better of it, sir. Although you have, thrice within as many weeks, turned your lawful son, Mr Edward, from your door, you may have time, you may have years to make your peace with HIM, Sir John: but that twelve o’clock will soon be here, and soon be past for ever.’

‘I thank you very much,’ returned the knight, kissing his delicate hand to the locksmith, ‘for your guileless advice; and I only wish, my good soul, although your simplicity is quite captivating, that you had a little more worldly wisdom. I never so much regretted the arrival of my hairdresser as I do at this moment. God bless you! Good morning! You’ll not forget my message to the ladies, Mr Varden? Peak, show Mr Varden to the door.’

Gabriel said no more, but gave the knight a parting look, and left him. As he quitted the room, Sir John’s face changed; and the smile gave place to a haggard and anxious expression, like that of a weary actor jaded by the performance of a difficult part. He rose from his bed with a heavy sigh, and wrapped himself in his morning-gown.

‘So she kept her word,’ he said, ‘and was constant to her threat! I would I had never seen that dark face of hers,—I might have read these consequences in it, from the first. This affair would make a noise abroad, if it rested on better evidence; but, as it is, and by not joining the scattered links of the chain, I can afford to slight it.—Extremely distressing to be the parent of such an uncouth creature! Still, I gave him very good advice. I told him he would certainly be hanged. I could have done no more if I had known of our relationship; and there are a great many fathers who have never done as much for THEIR natural children.—The hairdresser may come in, Peak!’

The hairdresser came in; and saw in Sir John Chester (whose accommodating conscience was soon quieted by the numerous precedents that occurred to him in support of his last observation), the same imperturbable, fascinating, elegant gentleman he had seen yesterday, and many yesterdays before.

Chapter 76

As the locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John Chester’s chambers, he lingered under the trees which shaded the path, almost hoping that he might be summoned to return. He had turned back thrice, and still loitered at the corner, when the clock struck twelve.

It was a solemn sound, and not merely for its reference to to-morrow; for he knew that in that chime the murderer’s knell was rung. He had seen him pass along the crowded street, amidst the execration of the throng; and marked his quivering lip, and trembling limbs; the ashy hue upon his face, his clammy brow, the wild distraction of his eye—the fear of death that swallowed up all other thoughts, and gnawed without cessation at his heart and brain. He had marked the wandering look, seeking for hope, and finding, turn where it would, despair. He had seen the remorseful, pitiful, desolate creature, riding, with his coffin by his side, to the gibbet. He knew that, to the last, he had been an unyielding, obdurate man; that in the savage terror of his condition he had hardened, rather than relented, to his wife and child; and that the last words which had passed his white lips were curses on them as his enemies.

Mr Haredale had determined to be there, and see it done. Nothing but the evidence of his own senses could satisfy that gloomy thirst for retribution which had been gathering upon him for so many years. The locksmith knew this, and when the chimes had ceased to vibrate, hurried away to meet him.

‘For these two men,’ he said, as he went, ‘I can do no more. Heaven have mercy on them!—Alas! I say I can do no more for them, but whom can I help? Mary Rudge will have a home, and a firm friend when she most wants one; but Barnaby—poor Barnaby—willing Barnaby—what aid can I render him? There are many, many men of sense, God forgive me,’ cried the honest locksmith, stopping in a narrow court to pass his hand across his eyes, ‘I could better afford to lose than Barnaby. We have always been good friends, but I never knew, till now, how much I loved the lad.’

There were not many in the great city who thought of Barnaby that day, otherwise than as an actor in a show which was to take place to-morrow. But if the whole population had had him in their minds, and had wished his life to be spared, not one among them could have done so with a purer zeal or greater singleness of heart than the good locksmith.

Barnaby was to die. There was no hope. It is not the least evil attendant upon the frequent exhibition of this last dread punishment, of Death, that it hardens the minds of those who deal it out, and makes them, though they be amiable men in other respects, indifferent to, or unconscious of, their great responsibility. The word had gone forth that Barnaby was to die. It went forth, every month, for lighter crimes. It was a thing so common, that very few were startled by the awful sentence, or cared to question its propriety. Just then, too, when the law had been so flagrantly outraged, its dignity must be asserted. The symbol of its dignity,—stamped upon every page of the criminal statute-book,—was the gallows; and Barnaby was to die.

They had tried to save him. The locksmith had carried petitions and memorials to the fountain-head, with his own hands. But the well was not one of mercy, and Barnaby was to die.

From the first his mother had never left him, save at night; and with her beside him, he was as usual contented. On this last day, he was more elated and more proud than he had been yet; and when she dropped the book she had been reading to him aloud, and fell upon his neck, he stopped in his busy task of folding a piece of crape about his hat, and wondered at her anguish. Grip uttered a feeble croak, half in encouragement, it seemed, and half in remonstrance, but he wanted heart to sustain it, and lapsed abruptly into silence.

With them who stood upon the brink of the great gulf which none can see beyond, Time, so soon to lose itself in vast Eternity, rolled on like a mighty river, swollen and rapid as it nears the sea. It was morning but now; they had sat and talked together in a dream; and here was evening. The dreadful hour of separation, which even yesterday had seemed so distant, was at hand.

They walked out into the courtyard, clinging to each other, but not speaking. Barnaby knew that the jail was a dull, sad, miserable place, and looked forward to to-morrow, as to a passage from it to something bright and beautiful. He had a vague impression too, that he was expected to be brave—that he was a man of great consequence, and that the prison people would be glad to make him weep. He trod the ground more firmly as he thought of this, and bade her take heart and cry no more, and feel how steady his hand was. ‘They call me silly, mother. They shall see to-morrow!’

Dennis and Hugh were in the courtyard. Hugh came forth from his cell as they did, stretching himself as though he had been sleeping. Dennis sat upon a bench in a corner, with his knees and chin huddled together, and rocked himself to and fro like a person in severe pain.

The mother and son remained on one side of the court, and these two men upon the other. Hugh strode up and down, glancing fiercely every now and then at the bright summer sky, and looking round, when he had done so, at the walls.

‘No reprieve, no reprieve! Nobody comes near us. There’s only the night left now!’ moaned Dennis faintly, as he wrung his hands. ‘Do you think they’ll reprieve me in the night, brother? I’ve known reprieves come in the night, afore now. I’ve known ‘em come as late as five, six, and seven o’clock in the morning. Don’t you think there’s a good chance yet,—don’t you? Say you do. Say you do, young man,’ whined the miserable creature, with an imploring gesture towards Barnaby, ‘or I shall go mad!’

‘Better be mad than sane, here,’ said Hugh. ‘GO mad.’

‘But tell me what you think. Somebody tell me what he thinks!’ cried the wretched object,—so mean, and wretched, and despicable, that even Pity’s self might have turned away, at sight of such a being in the likeness of a man—‘isn’t there a chance for me,—isn’t there a good chance for me? Isn’t it likely they may be doing this to frighten me? Don’t you think it is? Oh!’ he almost shrieked, as he wrung his hands, ‘won’t anybody give me comfort!’

‘You ought to be the best, instead of the worst,’ said Hugh, stopping before him. ‘Ha, ha, ha! See the hangman, when it comes home to him!’

‘You don’t know what it is,’ cried Dennis, actually writhing as he spoke: ‘I do. That I should come to be worked off! I! I! That I should come!’

‘And why not?’ said Hugh, as he thrust back his matted hair to get a better view of his late associate. ‘How often, before I knew your trade, did I hear you talking of this as if it was a treat?’

‘I an’t unconsistent,’ screamed the miserable creature; ‘I’d talk so again, if I was hangman. Some other man has got my old opinions at this minute. That makes it worse. Somebody’s longing to work me off. I know by myself that somebody must be!’

‘He’ll soon have his longing,’ said Hugh, resuming his walk. ‘Think of that, and be quiet.’

Although one of these men displayed, in his speech and bearing, the most reckless hardihood; and the other, in his every word and action, testified such an extreme of abject cowardice that it was humiliating to see him; it would be difficult to say which of them would most have repelled and shocked an observer. Hugh’s was the dogged desperation of a savage at the stake; the hangman was reduced to a condition little better, if any, than that of a hound with the halter round his neck. Yet, as Mr Dennis knew and could have told them, these were the two commonest states of mind in persons brought to their pass. Such was the wholesome growth of the seed sown by the law, that this kind of harvest was usually looked for, as a matter of course.

In one respect they all agreed. The wandering and uncontrollable train of thought, suggesting sudden recollections of things distant and long forgotten and remote from each other—the vague restless craving for something undefined, which nothing could satisfy—the swift flight of the minutes, fusing themselves into hours, as if by enchantment—the rapid coming of the solemn night—the shadow of death always upon them, and yet so dim and faint, that objects the meanest and most trivial started from the gloom beyond, and forced themselves upon the view—the impossibility of holding the mind, even if they had been so disposed, to penitence and preparation, or of keeping it to any point while one hideous fascination tempted it away—these things were common to them all, and varied only in their outward tokens.

‘Fetch me the book I left within—upon your bed,’ she said to Barnaby, as the clock struck. ‘Kiss me first.’

He looked in her face, and saw there, that the time was come. After a long embrace, he tore himself away, and ran to bring it to her; bidding her not stir till he came back. He soon returned, for a shriek recalled him,—but she was gone.

He ran to the yard-gate, and looked through. They were carrying her away. She had said her heart would break. It was better so.

‘Don’t you think,’ whimpered Dennis, creeping up to him, as he stood with his feet rooted to the ground, gazing at the blank walls—‘don’t you think there’s still a chance? It’s a dreadful end; it’s a terrible end for a man like me. Don’t you think there’s a chance? I don’t mean for you, I mean for me. Don’t let HIM hear us (meaning Hugh); ‘he’s so desperate.’

‘Now then,’ said the officer, who had been lounging in and out with his hands in his pockets, and yawning as if he were in the last extremity for some subject of interest: ‘it’s time to turn in, boys.’

‘Not yet,’ cried Dennis, ‘not yet. Not for an hour yet.’

‘I say,—your watch goes different from what it used to,’ returned the man. ‘Once upon a time it was always too fast. It’s got the other fault now.’

‘My friend,’ cried the wretched creature, falling on his knees, ‘my dear friend—you always were my dear friend—there’s some mistake. Some letter has been mislaid, or some messenger has been stopped upon the way. He may have fallen dead. I saw a man once, fall down dead in the street, myself, and he had papers in his pocket. Send to inquire. Let somebody go to inquire. They never will hang me. They never can.—Yes, they will,’ he cried, starting to his feet with a terrible scream. ‘They’ll hang me by a trick, and keep the pardon back. It’s a plot against me. I shall lose my life!’ And uttering another yell, he fell in a fit upon the ground.

‘See the hangman when it comes home to him!’ cried Hugh again, as they bore him away—‘Ha ha ha! Courage, bold Barnaby, what care we? Your hand! They do well to put us out of the world, for if we got loose a second time, we wouldn’t let them off so easy, eh? Another shake! A man can die but once. If you wake in the night, sing that out lustily, and fall asleep again. Ha ha ha!’

Barnaby glanced once more through the grate into the empty yard; and then watched Hugh as he strode to the steps leading to his sleeping-cell. He heard him shout, and burst into a roar of laughter, and saw him flourish his hat. Then he turned away himself, like one who walked in his sleep; and, without any sense of fear or sorrow, lay down on his pallet, listening for the clock to strike again.

Chapter 77

The time wore on. The noises in the streets became less frequent by degrees, until silence was scarcely broken save by the bells in church towers, marking the progress—softer and more stealthy while the city slumbered—of that Great Watcher with the hoary head, who never sleeps or rests. In the brief interval of darkness and repose which feverish towns enjoy, all busy sounds were hushed; and those who awoke from dreams lay listening in their beds, and longed for dawn, and wished the dead of the night were past.

Into the street outside the jail’s main wall, workmen came straggling at this solemn hour, in groups of two or three, and meeting in the centre, cast their tools upon the ground and spoke in whispers. Others soon issued from the jail itself, bearing on their shoulders planks and beams: these materials being all brought forth, the rest bestirred themselves, and the dull sound of hammers began to echo through the stillness.

Here and there among this knot of labourers, one, with a lantern or a smoky link, stood by to light his fellows at their work; and by its doubtful aid, some might be dimly seen taking up the pavement of the road, while others held great upright posts, or fixed them in the holes thus made for their reception. Some dragged slowly on, towards the rest, an empty cart, which they brought rumbling from the prison-yard; while others erected strong barriers across the street. All were busily engaged. Their dusky figures moving to and fro, at that unusual hour, so active and so silent, might have been taken for those of shadowy creatures toiling at midnight on some ghostly unsubstantial work, which, like themselves, would vanish with the first gleam of day, and leave but morning mist and vapour.

While it was yet dark, a few lookers-on collected, who had plainly come there for the purpose and intended to remain: even those who had to pass the spot on their way to some other place, lingered, and lingered yet, as though the attraction of that were irresistible. Meanwhile the noise of saw and mallet went on briskly, mingled with the clattering of boards on the stone pavement of the road, and sometimes with the workmen’s voices as they called to one another. Whenever the chimes of the neighbouring church were heard—and that was every quarter of an hour—a strange sensation, instantaneous and indescribable, but perfectly obvious, seemed to pervade them all.

Gradually, a faint brightness appeared in the east, and the air, which had been very warm all through the night, felt cool and chilly. Though there was no daylight yet, the darkness was diminished, and the stars looked pale. The prison, which had been a mere black mass with little shape or form, put on its usual aspect; and ever and anon a solitary watchman could be seen upon its roof, stopping to look down upon the preparations in the street. This man, from forming, as it were, a part of the jail, and knowing or being supposed to know all that was passing within, became an object of as much interest, and was as eagerly looked for, and as awfully pointed out, as if he had been a spirit.

By and by, the feeble light grew stronger, and the houses with their signboards and inscriptions, stood plainly out, in the dull grey morning. Heavy stage waggons crawled from the inn-yard opposite; and travellers peeped out; and as they rolled sluggishly away, cast many a backward look towards the jail. And now, the sun’s first beams came glancing into the street; and the night’s work, which, in its various stages and in the varied fancies of the lookers-on had taken a hundred shapes, wore its own proper form—a scaffold, and a gibbet.

As the warmth of the cheerful day began to shed itself upon the scanty crowd, the murmur of tongues was heard, shutters were thrown open, and blinds drawn up, and those who had slept in rooms over against the prison, where places to see the execution were let at high prices, rose hastily from their beds. In some of the houses, people were busy taking out the window-sashes for the better accommodation of spectators; in others, the spectators were already seated, and beguiling the time with cards, or drink, or jokes among themselves. Some had purchased seats upon the house-tops, and were already crawling to their stations from parapet and garret-window. Some were yet bargaining for good places, and stood in them in a state of indecision: gazing at the slowly-swelling crowd, and at the workmen as they rested listlessly against the scaffold—affecting to listen with indifference to the proprietor’s eulogy of the commanding view his house afforded, and the surpassing cheapness of his terms.

A fairer morning never shone. From the roofs and upper stories of these buildings, the spires of city churches and the great cathedral dome were visible, rising up beyond the prison, into the blue sky, and clad in the colour of light summer clouds, and showing in the clear atmosphere their every scrap of tracery and fretwork, and every niche and loophole. All was brightness and promise, excepting in the street below, into which (for it yet lay in shadow) the eye looked down as into a dark trench, where, in the midst of so much life, and hope, and renewal of existence, stood the terrible instrument of death. It seemed as if the very sun forbore to look upon it.

But it was better, grim and sombre in the shade, than when, the day being more advanced, it stood confessed in the full glare and glory of the sun, with its black paint blistering, and its nooses dangling in the light like loathsome garlands. It was better in the solitude and gloom of midnight with a few forms clustering about it, than in the freshness and the stir of morning: the centre of an eager crowd. It was better haunting the street like a spectre, when men were in their beds, and influencing perchance the city’s dreams, than braving the broad day, and thrusting its obscene presence upon their waking senses.

Five o’clock had struck—six—seven—and eight. Along the two main streets at either end of the cross-way, a living stream had now set in, rolling towards the marts of gain and business. Carts, coaches, waggons, trucks, and barrows, forced a passage through the outskirts of the throng, and clattered onward in the same direction. Some of these which were public conveyances and had come from a short distance in the country, stopped; and the driver pointed to the gibbet with his whip, though he might have spared himself the pains, for the heads of all the passengers were turned that way without his help, and the coach-windows were stuck full of staring eyes. In some of the carts and waggons, women might be seen, glancing fearfully at the same unsightly thing; and even little children were held up above the people’s heads to see what kind of a toy a gallows was, and learn how men were hanged.

Two rioters were to die before the prison, who had been concerned in the attack upon it; and one directly afterwards in Bloomsbury Square. At nine o’clock, a strong body of military marched into the street, and formed and lined a narrow passage into Holborn, which had been indifferently kept all night by constables. Through this, another cart was brought (the one already mentioned had been employed in the construction of the scaffold), and wheeled up to the prison-gate. These preparations made, the soldiers stood at ease; the officers lounged to and fro, in the alley they had made, or talked together at the scaffold’s foot; and the concourse, which had been rapidly augmenting for some hours, and still received additions every minute, waited with an impatience which increased with every chime of St Sepulchre’s clock, for twelve at noon.

Up to this time they had been very quiet, comparatively silent, save when the arrival of some new party at a window, hitherto unoccupied, gave them something new to look at or to talk of. But, as the hour approached, a buzz and hum arose, which, deepening every moment, soon swelled into a roar, and seemed to fill the air. No words or even voices could be distinguished in this clamour, nor did they speak much to each other; though such as were better informed upon the topic than the rest, would tell their neighbours, perhaps, that they might know the hangman when he came out, by his being the shorter one: and that the man who was to suffer with him was named Hugh: and that it was Barnaby Rudge who would be hanged in Bloomsbury Square.

The hum grew, as the time drew near, so loud, that those who were at the windows could not hear the church-clock strike, though it was close at hand. Nor had they any need to hear it, either, for they could see it in the people’s faces. So surely as another quarter chimed, there was a movement in the crowd—as if something had passed over it—as if the light upon them had been changed—in which the fact was readable as on a brazen dial, figured by a giant’s hand.

Three quarters past eleven! The murmur now was deafening, yet every man seemed mute. Look where you would among the crowd, you saw strained eyes and lips compressed; it would have been difficult for the most vigilant observer to point this way or that, and say that yonder man had cried out. It were as easy to detect the motion of lips in a sea-shell.

Three quarters past eleven! Many spectators who had retired from the windows, came back refreshed, as though their watch had just begun. Those who had fallen asleep, roused themselves; and every person in the crowd made one last effort to better his position—which caused a press against the sturdy barriers that made them bend and yield like twigs. The officers, who until now had kept together, fell into their several positions, and gave the words of command. Swords were drawn, muskets shouldered, and the bright steel winding its way among the crowd, gleamed and glittered in the sun like a river. Along this shining path, two men came hurrying on, leading a horse, which was speedily harnessed to the cart at the prison-door. Then, a profound silence replaced the tumult that had so long been gathering, and a breathless pause ensued. Every window was now choked up with heads; the house-tops teemed with people—clinging to chimneys, peering over gable-ends, and holding on where the sudden loosening of any brick or stone would dash them down into the street. The church tower, the church roof, the church yard, the prison leads, the very water-spouts and lampposts—every inch of room—swarmed with human life.

At the first stroke of twelve the prison-bell began to toll. Then the roar—mingled now with cries of ‘Hats off!’ and ‘Poor fellows!’ and, from some specks in the great concourse, with a shriek or groan—burst forth again. It was terrible to see—if any one in that distraction of excitement could have seen—the world of eager eyes, all strained upon the scaffold and the beam.

The hollow murmuring was heard within the jail as plainly as without. The three were brought forth into the yard, together, as it resounded through the air. They knew its import well.

‘D’ye hear?’ cried Hugh, undaunted by the sound. ‘They expect us! I heard them gathering when I woke in the night, and turned over on t’other side and fell asleep again. We shall see how they welcome the hangman, now that it comes home to him. Ha, ha, ha!’

The Ordinary coming up at this moment, reproved him for his indecent mirth, and advised him to alter his demeanour.

‘And why, master?’ said Hugh. ‘Can I do better than bear it easily? YOU bear it easily enough. Oh! never tell me,’ he cried, as the other would have spoken, ‘for all your sad look and your solemn air, you think little enough of it! They say you’re the best maker of lobster salads in London. Ha, ha! I’ve heard that, you see, before now. Is it a good one, this morning—is your hand in? How does the breakfast look? I hope there’s enough, and to spare, for all this hungry company that’ll sit down to it, when the sight’s over.’

‘I fear,’ observed the clergyman, shaking his head, ‘that you are incorrigible.’

‘You’re right. I am,’ rejoined Hugh sternly. ‘Be no hypocrite, master! You make a merry-making of this, every month; let me be merry, too. If you want a frightened fellow there’s one that’ll suit you. Try your hand upon him.’

He pointed, as he spoke, to Dennis, who, with his legs trailing on the ground, was held between two men; and who trembled so, that all his joints and limbs seemed racked by spasms. Turning from this wretched spectacle, he called to Barnaby, who stood apart.

‘What cheer, Barnaby? Don’t be downcast, lad. Leave that to HIM.’

‘Bless you,’ cried Barnaby, stepping lightly towards him, ‘I’m not frightened, Hugh. I’m quite happy. I wouldn’t desire to live now, if they’d let me. Look at me! Am I afraid to die? Will they see ME tremble?’

Hugh gazed for a moment at his face, on which there was a strange, unearthly smile; and at his eye, which sparkled brightly; and interposing between him and the Ordinary, gruffly whispered to the latter:

‘I wouldn’t say much to him, master, if I was you. He may spoil your appetite for breakfast, though you ARE used to it.’

He was the only one of the three who had washed or trimmed himself that morning. Neither of the others had done so, since their doom was pronounced. He still wore the broken peacock’s feathers in his hat; and all his usual scraps of finery were carefully disposed about his person. His kindling eye, his firm step, his proud and resolute bearing, might have graced some lofty act of heroism; some voluntary sacrifice, born of a noble cause and pure enthusiasm; rather than that felon’s death.

But all these things increased his guilt. They were mere assumptions. The law had declared it so, and so it must be. The good minister had been greatly shocked, not a quarter of an hour before, at his parting with Grip. For one in his condition, to fondle a bird!—The yard was filled with people; bluff civic functionaries, officers of justice, soldiers, the curious in such matters, and guests who had been bidden as to a wedding. Hugh looked about him, nodded gloomily to some person in authority, who indicated with his hand in what direction he was to proceed; and clapping Barnaby on the shoulder, passed out with the gait of a lion.

They entered a large room, so near to the scaffold that the voices of those who stood about it, could be plainly heard: some beseeching the javelin-men to take them out of the crowd: others crying to those behind, to stand back, for they were pressed to death, and suffocating for want of air.

In the middle of this chamber, two smiths, with hammers, stood beside an anvil. Hugh walked straight up to them, and set his foot upon it with a sound as though it had been struck by a heavy weapon. Then, with folded arms, he stood to have his irons knocked off: scowling haughtily round, as those who were present eyed him narrowly and whispered to each other.

It took so much time to drag Dennis in, that this ceremony was over with Hugh, and nearly over with Barnaby, before he appeared. He no sooner came into the place he knew so well, however, and among faces with which he was so familiar, than he recovered strength and sense enough to clasp his hands and make a last appeal.

‘Gentlemen, good gentlemen,’ cried the abject creature, grovelling down upon his knees, and actually prostrating himself upon the stone floor: ‘Governor, dear governor—honourable sheriffs—worthy gentlemen—have mercy upon a wretched man that has served His Majesty, and the Law, and Parliament, for so many years, and don’t—don’t let me die—because of a mistake.’

‘Dennis,’ said the governor of the jail, ‘you know what the course is, and that the order came with the rest. You know that we could do nothing, even if we would.’

‘All I ask, sir,—all I want and beg, is time, to make it sure,’ cried the trembling wretch, looking wildly round for sympathy. ‘The King and Government can’t know it’s me; I’m sure they can’t know it’s me; or they never would bring me to this dreadful slaughterhouse. They know my name, but they don’t know it’s the same man. Stop my execution—for charity’s sake stop my execution, gentlemen—till they can be told that I’ve been hangman here, nigh thirty year. Will no one go and tell them?’ he implored, clenching his hands and glaring round, and round, and round again—‘will no charitable person go and tell them!’

‘Mr Akerman,’ said a gentleman who stood by, after a moment’s pause, ‘since it may possibly produce in this unhappy man a better frame of mind, even at this last minute, let me assure him that he was well known to have been the hangman, when his sentence was considered.’

‘—But perhaps they think on that account that the punishment’s not so great,’ cried the criminal, shuffling towards this speaker on his knees, and holding up his folded hands; ‘whereas it’s worse, it’s worse a hundred times, to me than any man. Let them know that, sir. Let them know that. They’ve made it worse to me by giving me so much to do. Stop my execution till they know that!’

The governor beckoned with his hand, and the two men, who had supported him before, approached. He uttered a piercing cry:

‘Wait! Wait. Only a moment—only one moment more! Give me a last chance of reprieve. One of us three is to go to Bloomsbury Square. Let me be the one. It may come in that time; it’s sure to come. In the Lord’s name let me be sent to Bloomsbury Square. Don’t hang me here. It’s murder.’

They took him to the anvil: but even then he could be heard above the clinking of the smiths’ hammers, and the hoarse raging of the crowd, crying that he knew of Hugh’s birth—that his father was living, and was a gentleman of influence and rank—that he had family secrets in his possession—that he could tell nothing unless they gave him time, but must die with them on his mind; and he continued to rave in this sort until his voice failed him, and he sank down a mere heap of clothes between the two attendants.

It was at this moment that the clock struck the first stroke of twelve, and the bell began to toll. The various officers, with the two sheriffs at their head, moved towards the door. All was ready when the last chime came upon the ear.

They told Hugh this, and asked if he had anything to say.

‘To say!’ he cried. ‘Not I. I’m ready.—Yes,’ he added, as his eye fell upon Barnaby, ‘I have a word to say, too. Come hither, lad.’

There was, for the moment, something kind, and even tender, struggling in his fierce aspect, as he wrung his poor companion by the hand.

‘I’ll say this,’ he cried, looking firmly round, ‘that if I had ten lives to lose, and the loss of each would give me ten times the agony of the hardest death, I’d lay them all down—ay, I would, though you gentlemen may not believe it—to save this one. This one,’ he added, wringing his hand again, ‘that will be lost through me.’

‘Not through you,’ said the idiot, mildly. ‘Don’t say that. You were not to blame. You have always been very good to me.—Hugh, we shall know what makes the stars shine, NOW!’

‘I took him from her in a reckless mood, and didn’t think what harm would come of it,’ said Hugh, laying his hand upon his head, and speaking in a lower voice. ‘I ask her pardon; and his.—Look here,’ he added roughly, in his former tone. ‘You see this lad?’

They murmured ‘Yes,’ and seemed to wonder why he asked.

‘That gentleman yonder—’ pointing to the clergyman—‘has often in the last few days spoken to me of faith, and strong belief. You see what I am—more brute than man, as I have been often told—but I had faith enough to believe, and did believe as strongly as any of you gentlemen can believe anything, that this one life would be spared. See what he is!—Look at him!’

Barnaby had moved towards the door, and stood beckoning him to follow.

‘If this was not faith, and strong belief!’ cried Hugh, raising his right arm aloft, and looking upward like a savage prophet whom the near approach of Death had filled with inspiration, ‘where are they! What else should teach me—me, born as I was born, and reared as I have been reared—to hope for any mercy in this hardened, cruel, unrelenting place! Upon these human shambles, I, who never raised this hand in prayer till now, call down the wrath of God! On that black tree, of which I am the ripened fruit, I do invoke the curse of all its victims, past, and present, and to come. On the head of that man, who, in his conscience, owns me for his son, I leave the wish that he may never sicken on his bed of down, but die a violent death as I do now, and have the night-wind for his only mourner. To this I say, Amen, amen!’

His arm fell downward by his side; he turned; and moved towards them with a steady step, the man he had been before.

‘There is nothing more?’ said the governor.

Hugh motioned Barnaby not to come near him (though without looking in the direction where he stood) and answered, ‘There is nothing more.’

‘Move forward!’

‘—Unless,’ said Hugh, glancing hurriedly back,—‘unless any person here has a fancy for a dog; and not then, unless he means to use him well. There’s one, belongs to me, at the house I came from, and it wouldn’t be easy to find a better. He’ll whine at first, but he’ll soon get over that.—You wonder that I think about a dog just now,’ he added, with a kind of laugh. ‘If any man deserved it of me half as well, I’d think of HIM.’

He spoke no more, but moved onward in his place, with a careless air, though listening at the same time to the Service for the Dead, with something between sullen attention, and quickened curiosity. As soon as he had passed the door, his miserable associate was carried out; and the crowd beheld the rest.

Barnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time—indeed he would have gone before them, but in both attempts he was restrained, as he was to undergo the sentence elsewhere. In a few minutes the sheriffs reappeared, the same procession was again formed, and they passed through various rooms and passages to another door—that at which the cart was waiting. He held down his head to avoid seeing what he knew his eyes must otherwise encounter, and took his seat sorrowfully,—and yet with something of a childish pride and pleasure,—in the vehicle. The officers fell into their places at the sides, in front and in the rear; the sheriffs’ carriages rolled on; a guard of soldiers surrounded the whole; and they moved slowly forward through the throng and pressure toward Lord Mansfield’s ruined house.

It was a sad sight—all the show, and strength, and glitter, assembled round one helpless creature—and sadder yet to note, as he rode along, how his wandering thoughts found strange encouragement in the crowded windows and the concourse in the streets; and how, even then, he felt the influence of the bright sky, and looked up, smiling, into its deep unfathomable blue. But there had been many such sights since the riots were over—some so moving in their nature, and so repulsive too, that they were far more calculated to awaken pity for the sufferers, than respect for that law whose strong arm seemed in more than one case to be as wantonly stretched forth now that all was safe, as it had been basely paralysed in time of danger.

Two cripples—both mere boys—one with a leg of wood, one who dragged his twisted limbs along by the help of a crutch, were hanged in this same Bloomsbury Square. As the cart was about to glide from under them, it was observed that they stood with their faces from, not to, the house they had assisted to despoil; and their misery was protracted that this omission might be remedied. Another boy was hanged in Bow Street; other young lads in various quarters of the town. Four wretched women, too, were put to death. In a word, those who suffered as rioters were, for the most part, the weakest, meanest, and most miserable among them. It was a most exquisite satire upon the false religious cry which had led to so much misery, that some of these people owned themselves to be Catholics, and begged to be attended by their own priests.

One young man was hanged in Bishopsgate Street, whose aged grey-headed father waited for him at the gallows, kissed him at its foot when he arrived, and sat there, on the ground, till they took him down. They would have given him the body of his child; but he had no hearse, no coffin, nothing to remove it in, being too poor—and walked meekly away beside the cart that took it back to prison, trying, as he went, to touch its lifeless hand.

But the crowd had forgotten these matters, or cared little about them if they lived in their memory: and while one great multitude fought and hustled to get near the gibbet before Newgate, for a parting look, another followed in the train of poor lost Barnaby, to swell the throng that waited for him on the spot.

Chapter 78

On this same day, and about this very hour, Mr Willet the elder sat smoking his pipe in a chamber at the Black Lion. Although it was hot summer weather, Mr Willet sat close to the fire. He was in a state of profound cogitation, with his own thoughts, and it was his custom at such times to stew himself slowly, under the impression that that process of cookery was favourable to the melting out of his ideas, which, when he began to simmer, sometimes oozed forth so copiously as to astonish even himself.

Mr Willet had been several thousand times comforted by his friends and acquaintance, with the assurance that for the loss he had sustained in the damage done to the Maypole, he could ‘come upon the county.’ But as this phrase happened to bear an unfortunate resemblance to the popular expression of ‘coming on the parish,’ it suggested to Mr Willet’s mind no more consolatory visions than pauperism on an extensive scale, and ruin in a capacious aspect. Consequently, he had never failed to receive the intelligence with a rueful shake of the head, or a dreary stare, and had been always observed to appear much more melancholy after a visit of condolence than at any other time in the whole four-and-twenty hours.

It chanced, however, that sitting over the fire on this particular occasion—perhaps because he was, as it were, done to a turn; perhaps because he was in an unusually bright state of mind; perhaps because he had considered the subject so long; perhaps because of all these favouring circumstances, taken together—it chanced that, sitting over the fire on this particular occasion, Mr Willet did, afar off and in the remotest depths of his intellect, perceive a kind of lurking hint or faint suggestion, that out of the public purse there might issue funds for the restoration of the Maypole to its former high place among the taverns of the earth. And this dim ray of light did so diffuse itself within him, and did so kindle up and shine, that at last he had it as plainly and visibly before him as the blaze by which he sat; and, fully persuaded that he was the first to make the discovery, and that he had started, hunted down, fallen upon, and knocked on the head, a perfectly original idea which had never presented itself to any other man, alive or dead, he laid down his pipe, rubbed his hands, and chuckled audibly.

‘Why, father!’ cried Joe, entering at the moment, ‘you’re in spirits to-day!’

‘It’s nothing partickler,’ said Mr Willet, chuckling again. ‘It’s nothing at all partickler, Joseph. Tell me something about the Salwanners.’ Having preferred this request, Mr Willet chuckled a third time, and after these unusual demonstrations of levity, he put his pipe in his mouth again.

‘What shall I tell you, father?’ asked Joe, laying his hand upon his sire’s shoulder, and looking down into his face. ‘That I have come back, poorer than a church mouse? You know that. That I have come back, maimed and crippled? You know that.’

‘It was took off,’ muttered Mr Willet, with his eyes upon the fire, ‘at the defence of the Salwanners, in America, where the war is.’

‘Quite right,’ returned Joe, smiling, and leaning with his remaining elbow on the back of his father’s chair; ‘the very subject I came to speak to you about. A man with one arm, father, is not of much use in the busy world.’

This was one of those vast propositions which Mr Willet had never considered for an instant, and required time to ‘tackle.’ Wherefore he made no answer.

‘At all events,’ said Joe, ‘he can’t pick and choose his means of earning a livelihood, as another man may. He can’t say “I will turn my hand to this,” or “I won’t turn my hand to that,” but must take what he can do, and be thankful it’s no worse.—What did you say?’

Mr Willet had been softly repeating to himself, in a musing tone, the words ‘defence of the Salwanners:’ but he seemed embarrassed at having been overheard, and answered ‘Nothing.’

‘Now look here, father.—Mr Edward has come to England from the West Indies. When he was lost sight of (I ran away on the same day, father), he made a voyage to one of the islands, where a school-friend of his had settled; and, finding him, wasn’t too proud to be employed on his estate, and—and in short, got on well, and is prospering, and has come over here on business of his own, and is going back again speedily. Our returning nearly at the same time, and meeting in the course of the late troubles, has been a good thing every way; for it has not only enabled us to do old friends some service, but has opened a path in life for me which I may tread without being a burden upon you. To be plain, father, he can employ me; I have satisfied myself that I can be of real use to him; and I am going to carry my one arm away with him, and to make the most of it.’

In the mind’s eye of Mr Willet, the West Indies, and indeed all foreign countries, were inhabited by savage nations, who were perpetually burying pipes of peace, flourishing tomahawks, and puncturing strange patterns in their bodies. He no sooner heard this announcement, therefore, than he leaned back in his chair, took his pipe from his lips, and stared at his son with as much dismay as if he already beheld him tied to a stake, and tortured for the entertainment of a lively population. In what form of expression his feelings would have found a vent, it is impossible to say. Nor is it necessary: for, before a syllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in tears, threw herself on Joe’s breast without a word of explanation, and clasped her white arms round his neck.

‘Dolly!’ cried Joe. ‘Dolly!’

‘Ay, call me that; call me that always,’ exclaimed the locksmith’s little daughter; ‘never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never again reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die, Joe.’

‘I reprove you!’ said Joe.

‘Yes—for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart. For you, who have borne so much from me—for you, who owe your sufferings and pain to my caprice—for you to be so kind—so noble to me, Joe—’

He could say nothing to her. Not a syllable. There was an odd sort of eloquence in his one arm, which had crept round her waist: but his lips were mute.

‘If you had reminded me by a word—only by one short word,’ sobbed Dolly, clinging yet closer to him, ‘how little I deserved that you should treat me with so much forbearance; if you had exulted only for one moment in your triumph, I could have borne it better.’

‘Triumph!’ repeated Joe, with a smile which seemed to say, ‘I am a pretty figure for that.’

‘Yes, triumph,’ she cried, with her whole heart and soul in her earnest voice, and gushing tears; ‘for it is one. I am glad to think and know it is. I wouldn’t be less humbled, dear—I wouldn’t be without the recollection of that last time we spoke together in this place—no, not if I could recall the past, and make our parting, yesterday.’

Did ever lover look as Joe looked now!

‘Dear Joe,’ said Dolly, ‘I always loved you—in my own heart I always did, although I was so vain and giddy. I hoped you would come back that night. I made quite sure you would. I prayed for it on my knees. Through all these long, long years, I have never once forgotten you, or left off hoping that this happy time might come.’

The eloquence of Joe’s arm surpassed the most impassioned language; and so did that of his lips—yet he said nothing, either.

‘And now, at last,’ cried Dolly, trembling with the fervour of her speech, ‘if you were sick, and shattered in your every limb; if you were ailing, weak, and sorrowful; if, instead of being what you are, you were in everybody’s eyes but mine the wreck and ruin of a man; I would be your wife, dear love, with greater pride and joy, than if you were the stateliest lord in England!’

‘What have I done,’ cried Joe, ‘what have I done to meet with this reward?’

‘You have taught me,’ said Dolly, raising her pretty face to his, ‘to know myself, and your worth; to be something better than I was; to be more deserving of your true and manly nature. In years to come, dear Joe, you shall find that you have done so; for I will be, not only now, when we are young and full of hope, but when we have grown old and weary, your patient, gentle, never-tiring wife. I will never know a wish or care beyond our home and you, and I will always study how to please you with my best affection and my most devoted love. I will: indeed I will!’

Joe could only repeat his former eloquence—but it was very much to the purpose.

‘They know of this, at home,’ said Dolly. ‘For your sake, I would leave even them; but they know it, and are glad of it, and are as proud of you as I am, and as full of gratitude.—You’ll not come and see me as a poor friend who knew me when I was a girl, will you, dear Joe?’

Well, well! It don’t matter what Joe said in answer, but he said a great deal; and Dolly said a great deal too: and he folded Dolly in his one arm pretty tight, considering that it was but one; and Dolly made no resistance: and if ever two people were happy in this world—which is not an utterly miserable one, with all its faults—we may, with some appearance of certainty, conclude that they were.

To say that during these proceedings Mr Willet the elder underwent the greatest emotions of astonishment of which our common nature is susceptible—to say that he was in a perfect paralysis of surprise, and that he wandered into the most stupendous and theretofore unattainable heights of complicated amazement—would be to shadow forth his state of mind in the feeblest and lamest terms. If a roc, an eagle, a griffin, a flying elephant, a winged sea-horse, had suddenly appeared, and, taking him on its back, carried him bodily into the heart of the ‘Salwanners,’ it would have been to him as an everyday occurrence, in comparison with what he now beheld. To be sitting quietly by, seeing and hearing these things; to be completely overlooked, unnoticed, and disregarded, while his son and a young lady were talking to each other in the most impassioned manner, kissing each other, and making themselves in all respects perfectly at home; was a position so tremendous, so inexplicable, so utterly beyond the widest range of his capacity of comprehension, that he fell into a lethargy of wonder, and could no more rouse himself than an enchanted sleeper in the first year of his fairy lease, a century long.

‘Father,’ said Joe, presenting Dolly. ‘You know who this is?’

Mr Willet looked first at her, then at his son, then back again at Dolly, and then made an ineffectual effort to extract a whiff from his pipe, which had gone out long ago.

‘Say a word, father, if it’s only “how d’ye do,”’ urged Joe.

‘Certainly, Joseph,’ answered Mr Willet. ‘Oh yes! Why not?’

‘To be sure,’ said Joe. ‘Why not?’

‘Ah!’ replied his father. ‘Why not?’ and with this remark, which he uttered in a low voice as though he were discussing some grave question with himself, he used the little finger—if any of his fingers can be said to have come under that denomination—of his right hand as a tobacco-stopper, and was silent again.

And so he sat for half an hour at least, although Dolly, in the most endearing of manners, hoped, a dozen times, that he was not angry with her. So he sat for half an hour, quite motionless, and looking all the while like nothing so much as a great Dutch Pin or Skittle. At the expiration of that period, he suddenly, and without the least notice, burst (to the great consternation of the young people) into a very loud and very short laugh; and repeating, ‘Certainly, Joseph. Oh yes! Why not?’ went out for a walk.

Chapter 79

Old John did not walk near the Golden Key, for between the Golden Key and the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of streets—as everybody knows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of Clerkenwell and Whitechapel—and he was by no means famous for pedestrian exercises. But the Golden Key lies in our way, though it was out of his; so to the Golden Key this chapter goes.

The Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the locksmith’s trade, had been pulled down by the rioters, and roughly trampled under foot. But, now, it was hoisted up again in all the glory of a new coat of paint, and showed more bravely even than in days of yore. Indeed the whole house-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that if there yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned in the attack upon it, the sight of the old, goodly, prosperous dwelling, so revived, must have been to them as gall and wormwood.

The shutters of the shop were closed, however, and the window-blinds above were all pulled down, and in place of its usual cheerful appearance, the house had a look of sadness and an air of mourning; which the neighbours, who in old days had often seen poor Barnaby go in and out, were at no loss to understand. The door stood partly open; but the locksmith’s hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy forge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.

On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. The younger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, which seemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomed to go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them.

Entering the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs, abrupt and steep, and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into the best room; the pride of Mrs Varden’s heart, and erst the scene of Miggs’s household labours.

‘Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?’ said Mr Haredale.

‘She is above-stairs now—in the room over here,’ Edward rejoined. ‘Her grief, they say, is past all telling. I needn’t add—for that you know beforehand, sir—that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good people have no bounds.’

‘I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden is out?’

‘He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of his coming home himself. He was out the whole night—but that of course you know. He was with you the greater part of it?’

‘He was. Without him, I should have lacked my right hand. He is an older man than I; but nothing can conquer him.’

‘The cheeriest, stoutest-hearted fellow in the world.’

‘He has a right to be. He has a right to he. A better creature never lived. He reaps what he has sown—no more.’

‘It is not all men,’ said Edward, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘who have the happiness to do that.’

‘More than you imagine,’ returned Mr Haredale. ‘We note the harvest more than the seed-time. You do so in me.’

In truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so far influenced the remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss to answer him.

‘Tut, tut,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘’twas not very difficult to read a thought so natural. But you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had my share of sorrows—more than the common lot, perhaps, but I have borne them ill. I have broken where I should have bent; and have mused and brooded, when my spirit should have mixed with all God’s great creation. The men who learn endurance, are they who call the whole world, brother. I have turned FROM the world, and I pay the penalty.’

Edward would have interposed, but he went on without giving him time.

‘It is too late to evade it now. I sometimes think, that if I had to live my life once more, I might amend this fault—not so much, I discover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for my own sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctively recoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and in this circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still be the same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with its experience to guide me.’

‘Nay, you make too sure of that,’ said Edward.

‘You think so,’ Mr Haredale answered, ‘and I am glad you do. I know myself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave this subject for another—not so far removed from it as it might, at first sight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still attached to you.’

‘I have that assurance from her own lips,’ said Edward, ‘and you know—I am sure you know—that I would not exchange it for any blessing life could yield me.’

‘You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,’ said Mr Haredale; ‘you have forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once-jaundiced mind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.’

He left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. ‘On that first and only time,’ he said, looking from the one to the other, ‘when we three stood together under her father’s roof, I told you to quit it, and charged you never to return.’

‘It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,’ observed Edward, ‘that I have forgotten.’

‘You own a name,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I had deep reason to remember. I was moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, I know, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever, lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having acted—however much I was mistaken—with any other impulse than the one pure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature lay, the father she had lost.’

‘Dear uncle,’ cried Emma, ‘I have known no parent but you. I have loved the memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was father kinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval of one harsh hour, since I can first remember.’

‘You speak too fondly,’ he answered, ‘and yet I cannot wish you were less partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall have in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing else could give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edward, for she and I have been together many years; and although I believe that in resigning her to you I put the seal upon her future happiness, I find it needs an effort.’

He pressed her tenderly to his bosom, and after a minute’s pause, resumed:

‘I have done you wrong, sir, and I ask your forgiveness—in no common phrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness and sincerity. In the same spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has been when I connived at treachery and falsehood—which if I did not perpetrate myself, I still permitted—to rend you two asunder.’

‘You judge yourself too harshly,’ said Edward. ‘Let these things rest.’

‘They rise in judgment against me when I look back, and not now for the first time,’ he answered. ‘I cannot part from you without your full forgiveness; for busy life and I have little left in common now, and I have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without addition to the stock.’

‘You bear a blessing from us both,’ said Emma. ‘Never mingle thoughts of me—of me who owe you so much love and duty—with anything but undying affection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the future.’

‘The future,’ returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, ‘is a bright word for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes. Mine is of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, from care or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There are cloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are set at rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I am growing old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of it again—not once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerful counsel, Emma.’

‘And you will take it?’ asked his niece.

‘I’ll listen to it,’ he answered, with a kiss, ‘and it will have its weight, be certain. What have I left to say? You have, of late, been much together. It is better and more fitting that the circumstances attendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and sowed between you suspicion and distrust, should not be entered on by me.’

‘Much, much better,’ whispered Emma.

‘I avow my share in them,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘though I held it, at the time, in detestation. Let no man turn aside, ever so slightly, from the broad path of honour, on the plausible pretence that he is justified by the goodness of his end. All good ends can be worked out by good means. Those that cannot, are bad; and may be counted so at once, and left alone.’

He looked from her to Edward, and said in a gentler tone:

‘In goods and fortune you are now nearly equal. I have been her faithful steward, and to that remnant of a richer property which my brother left her, I desire to add, in token of my love, a poor pittance, scarcely worth the mention, for which I have no longer any need. I am glad you go abroad. Let our ill-fated house remain the ruin it is. When you return, after a few thriving years, you will command a better, and a more fortunate one. We are friends?’

Edward took his extended hand, and grasped it heartily.

‘You are neither slow nor cold in your response,’ said Mr Haredale, doing the like by him, ‘and when I look upon you now, and know you, I feel that I would choose you for her husband. Her father had a generous nature, and you would have pleased him well. I give her to you in his name, and with his blessing. If the world and I part in this act, we part on happier terms than we have lived for many a day.’

He placed her in his arms, and would have left the room, but that he was stopped in his passage to the door by a great noise at a distance, which made them start and pause.

It was a loud shouting, mingled with boisterous acclamations, that rent the very air. It drew nearer and nearer every moment, and approached so rapidly, that, even while they listened, it burst into a deafening confusion of sounds at the street corner.

‘This must be stopped—quieted,’ said Mr Haredale, hastily. ‘We should have foreseen this, and provided against it. I will go out to them at once.’

But, before he could reach the door, and before Edward could catch up his hat and follow him, they were again arrested by a loud shriek from above-stairs: and the locksmith’s wife, bursting in, and fairly running into Mr Haredale’s arms, cried out:

‘She knows it all, dear sir!—she knows it all! We broke it out to her by degrees, and she is quite prepared.’ Having made this communication, and furthermore thanked Heaven with great fervour and heartiness, the good lady, according to the custom of matrons, on all occasions of excitement, fainted away directly.

They ran to the window, drew up the sash, and looked into the crowded street. Among a dense mob of persons, of whom not one was for an instant still, the locksmith’s ruddy face and burly form could be descried, beating about as though he was struggling with a rough sea. Now, he was carried back a score of yards, now onward nearly to the door, now back again, now forced against the opposite houses, now against those adjoining his own: now carried up a flight of steps, and greeted by the outstretched hands of half a hundred men, while the whole tumultuous concourse stretched their throats, and cheered with all their might. Though he was really in a fair way to be torn to pieces in the general enthusiasm, the locksmith, nothing discomposed, echoed their shouts till he was as hoarse as they, and in a glow of joy and right good-humour, waved his hat until the daylight shone between its brim and crown.

But in all the bandyings from hand to hand, and strivings to and fro, and sweepings here and there, which—saving that he looked more jolly and more radiant after every struggle—troubled his peace of mind no more than if he had been a straw upon the water’s surface, he never once released his firm grasp of an arm, drawn tight through his. He sometimes turned to clap this friend upon the back, or whisper in his ear a word of staunch encouragement, or cheer him with a smile; but his great care was to shield him from the pressure, and force a passage for him to the Golden Key. Passive and timid, scared, pale, and wondering, and gazing at the throng as if he were newly risen from the dead, and felt himself a ghost among the living, Barnaby—not Barnaby in the spirit, but in flesh and blood, with pulses, sinews, nerves, and beating heart, and strong affections—clung to his stout old friend, and followed where he led.

And thus, in course of time, they reached the door, held ready for their entrance by no unwilling hands. Then slipping in, and shutting out the crowd by main force, Gabriel stood between Mr Haredale and Edward Chester, and Barnaby, rushing up the stairs, fell upon his knees beside his mother’s bed.

‘Such is the blessed end, sir,’ cried the panting locksmith, to Mr Haredale, ‘of the best day’s work we ever did. The rogues! it’s been hard fighting to get away from ‘em. I almost thought, once or twice, they’d have been too much for us with their kindness!’

They had striven, all the previous day, to rescue Barnaby from his impending fate. Failing in their attempts, in the first quarter to which they addressed themselves, they renewed them in another. Failing there, likewise, they began afresh at midnight; and made their way, not only to the judge and jury who had tried him, but to men of influence at court, to the young Prince of Wales, and even to the ante-chamber of the King himself. Successful, at last, in awakening an interest in his favour, and an inclination to inquire more dispassionately into his case, they had had an interview with the minister, in his bed, so late as eight o’clock that morning. The result of a searching inquiry (in which they, who had known the poor fellow from his childhood, did other good service, besides bringing it about) was, that between eleven and twelve o’clock, a free pardon to Barnaby Rudge was made out and signed, and entrusted to a horse-soldier for instant conveyance to the place of execution. This courier reached the spot just as the cart appeared in sight; and Barnaby being carried back to jail, Mr Haredale, assured that all was safe, had gone straight from Bloomsbury Square to the Golden Key, leaving to Gabriel the grateful task of bringing him home in triumph.

‘I needn’t say,’ observed the locksmith, when he had shaken hands with all the males in the house, and hugged all the females, five-and-forty times, at least, ‘that, except among ourselves, I didn’t want to make a triumph of it. But, directly we got into the street we were known, and this hubbub began. Of the two,’ he added, as he wiped his crimson face, ‘and after experience of both, I think I’d rather be taken out of my house by a crowd of enemies, than escorted home by a mob of friends!’

It was plain enough, however, that this was mere talk on Gabriel’s part, and that the whole proceeding afforded him the keenest delight; for the people continuing to make a great noise without, and to cheer as if their voices were in the freshest order, and good for a fortnight, he sent upstairs for Grip (who had come home at his master’s back, and had acknowledged the favours of the multitude by drawing blood from every finger that came within his reach), and with the bird upon his arm presented himself at the first-floor window, and waved his hat again until it dangled by a shred, between his finger and thumb. This demonstration having been received with appropriate shouts, and silence being in some degree restored, he thanked them for their sympathy; and taking the liberty to inform them that there was a sick person in the house, proposed that they should give three cheers for King George, three more for Old England, and three more for nothing particular, as a closing ceremony. The crowd assenting, substituted Gabriel Varden for the nothing particular; and giving him one over, for good measure, dispersed in high good-humour.

What congratulations were exchanged among the inmates at the Golden Key, when they were left alone; what an overflowing of joy and happiness there was among them; how incapable it was of expression in Barnaby’s own person; and how he went wildly from one to another, until he became so far tranquillised, as to stretch himself on the ground beside his mother’s couch and fall into a deep sleep; are matters that need not be told. And it is well they happened to be of this class, for they would be very hard to tell, were their narration ever so indispensable.

Before leaving this bright picture, it may be well to glance at a dark and very different one which was presented to only a few eyes, that same night.

The scene was a churchyard; the time, midnight; the persons, Edward Chester, a clergyman, a grave-digger, and the four bearers of a homely coffin. They stood about a grave which had been newly dug, and one of the bearers held up a dim lantern,—the only light there—which shed its feeble ray upon the book of prayer. He placed it for a moment on the coffin, when he and his companions were about to lower it down. There was no inscription on the lid.

The mould fell solemnly upon the last house of this nameless man; and the rattling dust left a dismal echo even in the accustomed ears of those who had borne it to its resting-place. The grave was filled in to the top, and trodden down. They all left the spot together.

‘You never saw him, living?’ asked the clergyman, of Edward.

‘Often, years ago; not knowing him for my brother.’

‘Never since?’

‘Never. Yesterday, he steadily refused to see me. It was urged upon him, many times, at my desire.’

‘Still he refused? That was hardened and unnatural.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I infer that you do not?’

‘You are right. We hear the world wonder, every day, at monsters of ingratitude. Did it never occur to you that it often looks for monsters of affection, as though they were things of course?’

They had reached the gate by this time, and bidding each other good night, departed on their separate ways.

Chapter 80

That afternoon, when he had slept off his fatigue; had shaved, and washed, and dressed, and freshened himself from top to toe; when he had dined, comforted himself with a pipe, an extra Toby, a nap in the great arm-chair, and a quiet chat with Mrs Varden on everything that had happened, was happening, or about to happen, within the sphere of their domestic concern; the locksmith sat himself down at the tea-table in the little back-parlour: the rosiest, cosiest, merriest, heartiest, best-contented old buck, in Great Britain or out of it.

There he sat, with his beaming eye on Mrs V., and his shining face suffused with gladness, and his capacious waistcoat smiling in every wrinkle, and his jovial humour peeping from under the table in the very plumpness of his legs; a sight to turn the vinegar of misanthropy into purest milk of human kindness. There he sat, watching his wife as she decorated the room with flowers for the greater honour of Dolly and Joseph Willet, who had gone out walking, and for whom the tea-kettle had been singing gaily on the hob full twenty minutes, chirping as never kettle chirped before; for whom the best service of real undoubted china, patterned with divers round-faced mandarins holding up broad umbrellas, was now displayed in all its glory; to tempt whose appetites a clear, transparent, juicy ham, garnished with cool green lettuce-leaves and fragrant cucumber, reposed upon a shady table, covered with a snow-white cloth; for whose delight, preserves and jams, crisp cakes and other pastry, short to eat, with cunning twists, and cottage loaves, and rolls of bread both white and brown, were all set forth in rich profusion; in whose youth Mrs V. herself had grown quite young, and stood there in a gown of red and white: symmetrical in figure, buxom in bodice, ruddy in cheek and lip, faultless in ankle, laughing in face and mood, in all respects delicious to behold—there sat the locksmith among all and every these delights, the sun that shone upon them all: the centre of the system: the source of light, heat, life, and frank enjoyment in the bright household world.

And when had Dolly ever been the Dolly of that afternoon? To see how she came in, arm-in-arm with Joe; and how she made an effort not to blush or seem at all confused; and how she made believe she didn’t care to sit on his side of the table; and how she coaxed the locksmith in a whisper not to joke; and how her colour came and went in a little restless flutter of happiness, which made her do everything wrong, and yet so charmingly wrong that it was better than right!—why, the locksmith could have looked on at this (as he mentioned to Mrs Varden when they retired for the night) for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and never wished it done.

The recollections, too, with which they made merry over that long protracted tea! The glee with which the locksmith asked Joe if he remembered that stormy night at the Maypole when he first asked after Dolly—the laugh they all had, about that night when she was going out to the party in the sedan-chair—the unmerciful manner in which they rallied Mrs Varden about putting those flowers outside that very window—the difficulty Mrs Varden found in joining the laugh against herself, at first, and the extraordinary perception she had of the joke when she overcame it—the confidential statements of Joe concerning the precise day and hour when he was first conscious of being fond of Dolly, and Dolly’s blushing admissions, half volunteered and half extorted, as to the time from which she dated the discovery that she ‘didn’t mind’ Joe—here was an exhaustless fund of mirth and conversation.

Then, there was a great deal to be said regarding Mrs Varden’s doubts, and motherly alarms, and shrewd suspicions; and it appeared that from Mrs Varden’s penetration and extreme sagacity nothing had ever been hidden. She had known it all along. She had seen it from the first. She had always predicted it. She had been aware of it before the principals. She had said within herself (for she remembered the exact words) ‘that young Willet is certainly looking after our Dolly, and I must look after HIM.’ Accordingly, she had looked after him, and had observed many little circumstances (all of which she named) so exceedingly minute that nobody else could make anything out of them even now; and had, it seemed from first to last, displayed the most unbounded tact and most consummate generalship.

Of course the night when Joe WOULD ride homeward by the side of the chaise, and when Mrs Varden WOULD insist upon his going back again, was not forgotten—nor the night when Dolly fainted on his name being mentioned—nor the times upon times when Mrs Varden, ever watchful and prudent, had found her pining in her own chamber. In short, nothing was forgotten; and everything by some means or other brought them back to the conclusion, that that was the happiest hour in all their lives; consequently, that everything must have occurred for the best, and nothing could be suggested which would have made it better.

While they were in the full glow of such discourse as this, there came a startling knock at the door, opening from the street into the workshop, which had been kept closed all day that the house might be more quiet. Joe, as in duty bound, would hear of nobody but himself going to open it; and accordingly left the room for that purpose.

It would have been odd enough, certainly, if Joe had forgotten the way to this door; and even if he had, as it was a pretty large one and stood straight before him, he could not easily have missed it. But Dolly, perhaps because she was in the flutter of spirits before mentioned, or perhaps because she thought he would not be able to open it with his one arm—she could have had no other reason—hurried out after him; and they stopped so long in the passage—no doubt owing to Joe’s entreaties that she would not expose herself to the draught of July air which must infallibly come rushing in on this same door being opened—that the knock was repeated, in a yet more startling manner than before.

‘Is anybody going to open that door?’ cried the locksmith. ‘Or shall I come?’

Upon that, Dolly went running back into the parlour, all dimples and blushes; and Joe opened it with a mighty noise, and other superfluous demonstrations of being in a violent hurry.

‘Well,’ said the locksmith, when he reappeared: ‘what is it? eh Joe? what are you laughing at?’

‘Nothing, sir. It’s coming in.’

‘Who’s coming in? what’s coming in?’ Mrs Varden, as much at a loss as her husband, could only shake her head in answer to his inquiring look: so, the locksmith wheeled his chair round to command a better view of the room-door, and stared at it with his eyes wide open, and a mingled expression of curiosity and wonder shining in his jolly face.

Instead of some person or persons straightway appearing, divers remarkable sounds were heard, first in the workshop and afterwards in the little dark passage between it and the parlour, as though some unwieldy chest or heavy piece of furniture were being brought in, by an amount of human strength inadequate to the task. At length after much struggling and humping, and bruising of the wall on both sides, the door was forced open as by a battering-ram; and the locksmith, steadily regarding what appeared beyond, smote his thigh, elevated his eyebrows, opened his mouth, and cried in a loud voice expressive of the utmost consternation:

‘Damme, if it an’t Miggs come back!’

The young damsel whom he named no sooner heard these words, than deserting a small boy and a very large box by which she was accompanied, and advancing with such precipitation that her bonnet flew off her head, burst into the room, clasped her hands (in which she held a pair of pattens, one in each), raised her eyes devotedly to the ceiling, and shed a flood of tears.

‘The old story!’ cried the locksmith, looking at her in inexpressible desperation. ‘She was born to be a damper, this young woman! nothing can prevent it!’

‘Ho master, ho mim!’ cried Miggs, ‘can I constrain my feelings in these here once agin united moments! Ho Mr Warsen, here’s blessedness among relations, sir! Here’s forgivenesses of injuries, here’s amicablenesses!’

The locksmith looked from his wife to Dolly, and from Dolly to Joe, and from Joe to Miggs, with his eyebrows still elevated and his mouth still open. When his eyes got back to Miggs, they rested on her; fascinated.

‘To think,’ cried Miggs with hysterical joy, ‘that Mr Joe, and dear Miss Dolly, has raly come together after all as has been said and done contrairy! To see them two a-settin’ along with him and her, so pleasant and in all respects so affable and mild; and me not knowing of it, and not being in the ways to make no preparations for their teas. Ho what a cutting thing it is, and yet what sweet sensations is awoke within me!’

Either in clasping her hands again, or in an ecstasy of pious joy, Miss Miggs clinked her pattens after the manner of a pair of cymbals, at this juncture; and then resumed, in the softest accents:

‘And did my missis think—ho goodness, did she think—as her own Miggs, which supported her under so many trials, and understood her natur’ when them as intended well but acted rough, went so deep into her feelings—did she think as her own Miggs would ever leave her? Did she think as Miggs, though she was but a servant, and knowed that servitudes was no inheritances, would forgit that she was the humble instruments as always made it comfortable between them two when they fell out, and always told master of the meekness and forgiveness of her blessed dispositions! Did she think as Miggs had no attachments! Did she think that wages was her only object!’

To none of these interrogatories, whereof every one was more pathetically delivered than the last, did Mrs Varden answer one word: but Miggs, not at all abashed by this circumstance, turned to the small boy in attendance—her eldest nephew—son of her own married sister—born in Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, and bred in the very shadow of the second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post—and with a plentiful use of her pocket-handkerchief, addressed herself to him: requesting that on his return home he would console his parents for the loss of her, his aunt, by delivering to them a faithful statement of his having left her in the bosom of that family, with which, as his aforesaid parents well knew, her best affections were incorporated; that he would remind them that nothing less than her imperious sense of duty, and devoted attachment to her old master and missis, likewise Miss Dolly and young Mr Joe, should ever have induced her to decline that pressing invitation which they, his parents, had, as he could testify, given her, to lodge and board with them, free of all cost and charge, for evermore; lastly, that he would help her with her box upstairs, and then repair straight home, bearing her blessing and her strong injunctions to mingle in his prayers a supplication that he might in course of time grow up a locksmith, or a Mr Joe, and have Mrs Vardens and Miss Dollys for his relations and friends.

Having brought this admonition to an end—upon which, to say the truth, the young gentleman for whose benefit it was designed, bestowed little or no heed, having to all appearance his faculties absorbed in the contemplation of the sweetmeats,—Miss Miggs signified to the company in general that they were not to be uneasy, for she would soon return; and, with her nephew’s aid, prepared to bear her wardrobe up the staircase.

‘My dear,’ said the locksmith to his wife. ‘Do you desire this?’

‘I desire it!’ she answered. ‘I am astonished—I am amazed—at her audacity. Let her leave the house this moment.’

Miggs, hearing this, let her end of the box fall heavily to the floor, gave a very loud sniff, crossed her arms, screwed down the corners of her mouth, and cried, in an ascending scale, ‘Ho, good gracious!’ three distinct times.

‘You hear what your mistress says, my love,’ remarked the locksmith. ‘You had better go, I think. Stay; take this with you, for the sake of old service.’

Miss Miggs clutched the bank-note he took from his pocket-book and held out to her; deposited it in a small, red leather purse; put the purse in her pocket (displaying, as she did so, a considerable portion of some under-garment, made of flannel, and more black cotton stocking than is commonly seen in public); and, tossing her head, as she looked at Mrs Varden, repeated—

‘Ho, good gracious!’

‘I think you said that once before, my dear,’ observed the locksmith.

‘Times is changed, is they, mim!’ cried Miggs, bridling; ‘you can spare me now, can you? You can keep ‘em down without me? You’re not in wants of any one to scold, or throw the blame upon, no longer, an’t you, mim? I’m glad to find you’ve grown so independent. I wish you joy, I’m sure!’

With that she dropped a curtsey, and keeping her head erect, her ear towards Mrs Varden, and her eye on the rest of the company, as she alluded to them in her remarks, proceeded:

‘I’m quite delighted, I’m sure, to find sich independency, feeling sorry though, at the same time, mim, that you should have been forced into submissions when you couldn’t help yourself—he he he! It must be great vexations, ‘specially considering how ill you always spoke of Mr Joe—to have him for a son-in-law at last; and I wonder Miss Dolly can put up with him, either, after being off and on for so many years with a coachmaker. But I HAVE heerd say, that the coachmaker thought twice about it—he he he!—and that he told a young man as was a frind of his, that he hoped he knowed better than to be drawed into that; though she and all the family DID pull uncommon strong!’

Here she paused for a reply, and receiving none, went on as before.

‘I HAVE heerd say, mim, that the illnesses of some ladies was all pretensions, and that they could faint away, stone dead, whenever they had the inclinations so to do. Of course I never see sich cases with my own eyes—ho no! He he he! Nor master neither—ho no! He he he! I HAVE heerd the neighbours make remark as some one as they was acquainted with, was a poor good-natur’d mean-spirited creetur, as went out fishing for a wife one day, and caught a Tartar. Of course I never to my knowledge see the poor person himself. Nor did you neither, mim—ho no. I wonder who it can be—don’t you, mim? No doubt you do, mim. Ho yes. He he he!’

Again Miggs paused for a reply; and none being offered, was so oppressed with teeming spite and spleen, that she seemed like to burst.

‘I’m glad Miss Dolly can laugh,’ cried Miggs with a feeble titter. ‘I like to see folks a-laughing—so do you, mim, don’t you? You was always glad to see people in spirits, wasn’t you, mim? And you always did your best to keep ‘em cheerful, didn’t you, mim? Though there an’t such a great deal to laugh at now either; is there, mim? It an’t so much of a catch, after looking out so sharp ever since she was a little chit, and costing such a deal in dress and show, to get a poor, common soldier, with one arm, is it, mim? He he! I wouldn’t have a husband with one arm, anyways. I would have two arms. I would have two arms, if it was me, though instead of hands they’d only got hooks at the end, like our dustman!’

Miss Miggs was about to add, and had, indeed, begun to add, that, taking them in the abstract, dustmen were far more eligible matches than soldiers, though, to be sure, when people were past choosing they must take the best they could get, and think themselves well off too; but her vexation and chagrin being of that internally bitter sort which finds no relief in words, and is aggravated to madness by want of contradiction, she could hold out no longer, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears.

In this extremity she fell on the unlucky nephew, tooth and nail, and plucking a handful of hair from his head, demanded to know how long she was to stand there to be insulted, and whether or no he meant to help her to carry out the box again, and if he took a pleasure in hearing his family reviled: with other inquiries of that nature; at which disgrace and provocation, the small boy, who had been all this time gradually lashed into rebellion by the sight of unattainable pastry, walked off indignant, leaving his aunt and the box to follow at their leisure. Somehow or other, by dint of pushing and pulling, they did attain the street at last; where Miss Miggs, all blowzed with the exertion of getting there, and with her sobs and tears, sat down upon her property to rest and grieve, until she could ensnare some other youth to help her home.

‘It’s a thing to laugh at, Martha, not to care for,’ whispered the locksmith, as he followed his wife to the window, and good-humouredly dried her eyes. ‘What does it matter? You had seen your fault before. Come! Bring up Toby again, my dear; Dolly shall sing us a song; and we’ll be all the merrier for this interruption!’

Chapter 81

Another month had passed, and the end of August had nearly come, when Mr Haredale stood alone in the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although but a few weeks had intervened since his conversation with Edward Chester and his niece, in the locksmith’s house, and he had made no change, in the mean time, in his accustomed style of dress, his appearance was greatly altered. He looked much older, and more care-worn. Agitation and anxiety of mind scatter wrinkles and grey hairs with no unsparing hand; but deeper traces follow on the silent uprooting of old habits, and severing of dear, familiar ties. The affections may not be so easily wounded as the passions, but their hurts are deeper, and more lasting. He was now a solitary man, and the heart within him was dreary and lonesome.

He was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusion and retirement. This was no better preparation than a round of social cheerfulness: perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility. He had been so dependent upon her for companionship and love; she had come to be so much a part and parcel of his existence; they had had so many cares and thoughts in common, which no one else had shared; that losing her was beginning life anew, and being required to summon up the hope and elasticity of youth, amid the doubts, distrusts, and weakened energies of age.

The effort he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness and hope—and they had parted only yesterday—left him the more depressed. With these feelings, he was about to revisit London for the last time, and look once more upon the walls of their old home, before turning his back upon it, for ever.

The journey was a very different one, in those days, from what the present generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longest journey will, and he stood again in the streets of the metropolis. He lay at the inn where the coach stopped, and resolved, before he went to bed, that he would make his arrival known to no one; would spend but another night in London; and would spare himself the pang of parting, even with the honest locksmith.

Such conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey when he lay down to rest, are favourable to the growth of disordered fancies, and uneasy visions. He knew this, even in the horror with which he started from his first sleep, and threw up the window to dispel it by the presence of some object, beyond the room, which had not been, as it were, the witness of his dream. But it was not a new terror of the night; it had been present to him before, in many shapes; it had haunted him in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and again. If it had been but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his sleep, its return, in its old form, might have awakened a momentary sensation of fear, which, almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. This disquiet, however, lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. When he closed his eyes again, he felt it hovering near; as he slowly sunk into a slumber, he was conscious of its gathering strength and purpose, and gradually assuming its recent shape; when he sprang up from his bed, the same phantom vanished from his heated brain, and left him filled with a dread against which reason and waking thought were powerless.

The sun was up, before he could shake it off. He rose late, but not refreshed, and remained within doors all that day. He had a fancy for paying his last visit to the old spot in the evening, for he had been accustomed to walk there at that season, and desired to see it under the aspect that was most familiar to him. At such an hour as would afford him time to reach it a little before sunset, he left the inn, and turned into the busy street.

He had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making his way among the noisy crowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, turning, recognised one of the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon, but he had left his sword behind him.

‘Why have you brought it to me?’ he asked, stretching out his hand, and yet not taking it from the man, but looking at him in a disturbed and agitated manner.

The man was sorry to have disobliged him, and would carry it back again. The gentleman had said that he was going a little way into the country, and that he might not return until late. The roads were not very safe for single travellers after dark; and, since the riots, gentlemen had been more careful than ever, not to trust themselves unarmed in lonely places. ‘We thought you were a stranger, sir,’ he added, ‘and that you might believe our roads to be better than they are; but perhaps you know them well, and carry fire-arms—’

He took the sword, and putting it up at his side, thanked the man, and resumed his walk.

It was long remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, and with such a trembling hand, that the messenger stood looking after his retreating figure, doubtful whether he ought not to follow, and watch him. It was long remembered that he had been heard pacing his bedroom in the dead of the night; that the attendants had mentioned to each other in the morning, how fevered and how pale he looked; and that when this man went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant that what he had observed in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind, and that he feared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never come back alive.

With a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man’s attention (remembering the expression of his face when they parted), Mr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches, bargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road as the point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await his return at a house of entertainment which was within a stone’s-throw of that place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued his way on foot.

He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from among the trees, while a flock of pigeons—some of its old inhabitants, doubtless—sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the unclouded sky. ‘The old house will brighten up now,’ he said, as he looked towards it, ‘and there will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is some comfort to know that everything will not be blighted hereabouts. I shall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to, in my mind!’

He resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was a clear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the leaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsy sheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and, at intervals, the far-off lowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky was radiant with the softened glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the air, a deep repose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted mansion which had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon its blackened walls.

The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in them there is an image of death and ruin,—of something that has been bright, and is but dull, cold, dreary dust,—with which our nature forces us to sympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting down of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform the worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up such sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would put the proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to the blush!

He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowly round the house. It was by this time almost dark.

He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a half-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an easy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin with an expression of pleasure,—a pleasure so keen that it overcame his habitual indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly free from all restraint or reserve,—before him, on his own ground, and triumphing then, as he had triumphed in every misfortune and disappointment of his life, stood the man whose presence, of all mankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could the least endure.

Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath so stirred within him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierce constraint upon himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes, and he would have gone on, and not turned, though to resist the Devil who poured such hot temptation in his brain, required an effort scarcely to be achieved, if this man had not himself summoned him to stop: and that, with an assumed compassion in his voice which drove him well-nigh mad, and in an instant routed all the self-command it had been anguish—acute, poignant anguish—to sustain.

All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything by which a goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him as he turned back. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly—far more calmly than he had ever spoken to him before:

‘Why have you called to me?’

‘To remark,’ said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, ‘what an odd chance it is, that we should meet here!’

‘It IS a strange chance.’

‘Strange? The most remarkable and singular thing in the world. I never ride in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whim seized me, quite unaccountably, in the middle of last night.—How very picturesque this is!’—He pointed, as he spoke, to the dismantled house, and raised his glass to his eye.

‘You praise your own work very freely.’

Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with an air of the most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his head as though he were remarking to himself, ‘I fear this animal is going mad!’

‘I say you praise your own work very freely,’ repeated Mr Haredale.

‘Work!’ echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. ‘Mine!—I beg your pardon, I really beg your pardon—’

‘Why, you see,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘those walls. You see those tottering gables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have raged. You see the destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?’

‘My good friend,’ returned the knight, gently checking his impatience with his hand, ‘of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when you stand aside, and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. I am very sorry for you. If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here, I think I should have written to tell you so. But you don’t bear it as well as I had expected—excuse me—no, you don’t indeed.’

He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air of a man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right to read a moral lesson to another, continued:

‘For you are a philosopher, you know—one of that stern and rigid school who are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed, a long way, from the frailties of the crowd. You contemplate them from a height, and rail at them with a most impressive bitterness. I have heard you.’

—‘And shall again,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Thank you,’ returned the other. ‘Shall we walk as we talk? The damp falls rather heavily. Well,—as you please. But I grieve to say that I can spare you only a very few moments.’

‘I would,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘you had spared me none. I would, with all my soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrous lie could be enacted), rather than here to-night.’

‘Nay,’ returned the other—‘really—you do yourself injustice. You are a rough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.’

‘Listen to me,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Listen to me.’

‘While you rail?’ inquired Sir John.

‘While I deliver your infamy. You urged and stimulated to do your work a fit agent, but one who in his nature—in the very essence of his being—is a traitor, and who has been false to you (despite the sympathy you two should have together) as he has been to all others. With hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you set on Gashford to this work—this work before us now. With these same hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you urged him on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me—I have earned it, I thank Heaven—by the abduction and dishonour of my niece. You did. I see denial in your looks,’ he cried, abruptly pointing in his face, and stepping back, ‘and denial is a lie!’

He had his hand upon his sword; but the knight, with a contemptuous smile, replied to him as coldly as before.

‘You will take notice, sir—if you can discriminate sufficiently—that I have taken the trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fine enough for the perusal of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech; nor has it ever been, that I remember; or, in one face that I could name, you would have read indifference, not to say disgust, somewhat sooner than you did. I speak of a long time ago,—but you understand me.’

‘Disguise it as you will, you mean denial. Denial explicit or reserved, expressed or left to be inferred, is still a lie. You say you don’t deny. Do you admit?’

‘You yourself,’ returned Sir John, suffering the current of his speech to flow as smoothly as if it had been stemmed by no one word of interruption, ‘publicly proclaimed the character of the gentleman in question (I think it was in Westminster Hall) in terms which relieve me from the necessity of making any further allusion to him. You may have been warranted; you may not have been; I can’t say. Assuming the gentleman to be what you described, and to have made to you or any other person any statements that may have happened to suggest themselves to him, for the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money, or for his own amusement, or for any other consideration,—I have nothing to say of him, except that his extremely degrading situation appears to me to be shared with his employers. You are so very plain yourself, that you will excuse a little freedom in me, I am sure.’

‘Attend to me again, Sir John but once,’ cried Mr Haredale; ‘in your every look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not your act. I tell you that it was, and that you tampered with the man I speak of, and with your wretched son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk of degradation and character. You told me once that you had purchased the absence of the poor idiot and his mother, when (as I have discovered since, and then suspected) you had gone to tempt them, and had found them flown. To you I traced the insinuation that I alone reaped any harvest from my brother’s death; and all the foul attacks and whispered calumnies that followed in its train. In every action of my life, from that first hope which you converted into grief and desolation, you have stood, like an adverse fate, between me and peace. In all, you have ever been the same cold-blooded, hollow, false, unworthy villain. For the second time, and for the last, I cast these charges in your teeth, and spurn you from me as I would a faithless dog!’

With that he raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that he staggered. Sir John, the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threw away the scabbard and his hat, and running on his adversary made a desperate lunge at his heart, which, but that his guard was quick and true, would have stretched him dead upon the grass.

In the act of striking him, the torrent of his opponent’s rage had reached a stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them, and called to him, with a frantic kind of terror in his face, to keep back.

‘Not to-night! not to-night!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, not tonight!’

Seeing that he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn, Sir John lowered his.

‘Not to-night!’ his adversary cried. ‘Be warned in time!’

‘You told me—it must have been in a sort of inspiration—’ said Sir John, quite deliberately, though now he dropped his mask, and showed his hatred in his face, ‘that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Did you believe our last meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that your every word and look was not to be accounted for, and was not well remembered? Do you believe that I have waited your time, or you mine? What kind of man is he who entered, with all his sickening cant of honesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a marriage he affected to dislike, and when I had redeemed my part to the spirit and the letter, skulked from his, and brought the match about in his own time, to rid himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spurious lustre on his house?’

‘I have acted,’ cried Mr Haredale, ‘with honour and in good faith. I do so now. Do not force me to renew this duel to-night!’

‘You said my “wretched” son, I think?’ said Sir John, with a smile. ‘Poor fool! The dupe of such a shallow knave—trapped into marriage by such an uncle and by such a niece—he well deserves your pity. But he is no longer a son of mine: you are welcome to the prize your craft has made, sir.’

‘Once more,’ cried his opponent, wildly stamping on the ground, ‘although you tear me from my better angel, I implore you not to come within the reach of my sword to-night. Oh! why were you here at all! Why have we met! To-morrow would have cast us far apart for ever!’

‘That being the case,’ returned Sir John, without the least emotion, ‘it is very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always despised you, as you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brute courage. For the honour of my judgment, which I had thought a good one, I am sorry to find you a coward.’

Not another word was spoken on either side. They crossed swords, though it was now quite dusk, and attacked each other fiercely. They were well matched, and each was thoroughly skilled in the management of his weapon.

After a few seconds they grew hotter and more furious, and pressing on each other inflicted and received several slight wounds. It was directly after receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr Haredale, making a keener thrust as he felt the warm blood spirting out, plunged his sword through his opponent’s body to the hilt.

Their eyes met, and were on each other as he drew it out. He put his arm about the dying man, who repulsed him, feebly, and dropped upon the turf. Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant, with scorn and hatred in his look; but, seeming to remember, even then, that this expression would distort his features after death, he tried to smile, and, faintly moving his right hand, as if to hide his bloody linen in his vest, fell back dead—the phantom of last night.

Chapter the Last

A parting glance at such of the actors in this little history as it has not, in the course of its events, dismissed, will bring it to an end.

Mr Haredale fled that night. Before pursuit could be begun, indeed before Sir John was traced or missed, he had left the kingdom. Repairing straight to a religious establishment, known throughout Europe for the rigour and severity of its discipline, and for the merciless penitence it exacted from those who sought its shelter as a refuge from the world, he took the vows which thenceforth shut him out from nature and his kind, and after a few remorseful years was buried in its gloomy cloisters.

Two days elapsed before the body of Sir John was found. As soon as it was recognised and carried home, the faithful valet, true to his master’s creed, eloped with all the cash and movables he could lay his hands on, and started as a finished gentleman upon his own account. In this career he met with great success, and would certainly have married an heiress in the end, but for an unlucky check which led to his premature decease. He sank under a contagious disorder, very prevalent at that time, and vulgarly termed the jail fever.

Lord George Gordon, remaining in his prison in the Tower until Monday the fifth of February in the following year, was on that day solemnly tried at Westminster for High Treason. Of this crime he was, after a patient investigation, declared Not Guilty; upon the ground that there was no proof of his having called the multitude together with any traitorous or unlawful intentions. Yet so many people were there, still, to whom those riots taught no lesson of reproof or moderation, that a public subscription was set on foot in Scotland to defray the cost of his defence.

For seven years afterwards he remained, at the strong intercession of his friends, comparatively quiet; saving that he, every now and then, took occasion to display his zeal for the Protestant faith in some extravagant proceeding which was the delight of its enemies; and saving, besides, that he was formally excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, for refusing to appear as a witness in the Ecclesiastical Court when cited for that purpose. In the year 1788 he was stimulated by some new insanity to write and publish an injurious pamphlet, reflecting on the Queen of France, in very violent terms. Being indicted for the libel, and (after various strange demonstrations in court) found guilty, he fled into Holland in place of appearing to receive sentence: from whence, as the quiet burgomasters of Amsterdam had no relish for his company, he was sent home again with all speed. Arriving in the month of July at Harwich, and going thence to Birmingham, he made in the latter place, in August, a public profession of the Jewish religion; and figured there as a Jew until he was arrested, and brought back to London to receive the sentence he had evaded. By virtue of this sentence he was, in the month of December, cast into Newgate for five years and ten months, and required besides to pay a large fine, and to furnish heavy securities for his future good behaviour.

After addressing, in the midsummer of the following year, an appeal to the commiseration of the National Assembly of France, which the English minister refused to sanction, he composed himself to undergo his full term of punishment; and suffering his beard to grow nearly to his waist, and conforming in all respects to the ceremonies of his new religion, he applied himself to the study of history, and occasionally to the art of painting, in which, in his younger days, he had shown some skill. Deserted by his former friends, and treated in all respects like the worst criminal in the jail, he lingered on, quite cheerful and resigned, until the 1st of November 1793, when he died in his cell, being then only three-and-forty years of age.

Many men with fewer sympathies for the distressed and needy, with less abilities and harder hearts, have made a shining figure and left a brilliant fame. He had his mourners. The prisoners bemoaned his loss, and missed him; for though his means were not large, his charity was great, and in bestowing alms among them he considered the necessities of all alike, and knew no distinction of sect or creed. There are wise men in the highways of the world who may learn something, even from this poor crazy lord who died in Newgate.

To the last, he was truly served by bluff John Grueby. John was at his side before he had been four-and-twenty hours in the Tower, and never left him until he died. He had one other constant attendant, in the person of a beautiful Jewish girl; who attached herself to him from feelings half religious, half romantic, but whose virtuous and disinterested character appears to have been beyond the censure even of the most censorious.

Gashford deserted him, of course. He subsisted for a time upon his traffic in his master’s secrets; and, this trade failing when the stock was quite exhausted, procured an appointment in the honourable corps of spies and eavesdroppers employed by the government. As one of these wretched underlings, he did his drudgery, sometimes abroad, sometimes at home, and long endured the various miseries of such a station. Ten or a dozen years ago—not more—a meagre, wan old man, diseased and miserably poor, was found dead in his bed at an obscure inn in the Borough, where he was quite unknown. He had taken poison. There was no clue to his name; but it was discovered from certain entries in a pocket-book he carried, that he had been secretary to Lord George Gordon in the time of the famous riots.

Many months after the re-establishment of peace and order, and even when it had ceased to be the town-talk, that every military officer, kept at free quarters by the City during the late alarms, had cost for his board and lodging four pounds four per day, and every private soldier two and twopence halfpenny; many months after even this engrossing topic was forgotten, and the United Bulldogs were to a man all killed, imprisoned, or transported, Mr Simon Tappertit, being removed from a hospital to prison, and thence to his place of trial, was discharged by proclamation, on two wooden legs. Shorn of his graceful limbs, and brought down from his high estate to circumstances of utter destitution, and the deepest misery, he made shift to stump back to his old master, and beg for some relief. By the locksmith’s advice and aid, he was established in business as a shoeblack, and opened shop under an archway near the Horse Guards. This being a central quarter, he quickly made a very large connection; and on levee days, was sometimes known to have as many as twenty half-pay officers waiting their turn for polishing. Indeed his trade increased to that extent, that in course of time he entertained no less than two apprentices, besides taking for his wife the widow of an eminent bone and rag collector, formerly of Millbank. With this lady (who assisted in the business) he lived in great domestic happiness, only chequered by those little storms which serve to clear the atmosphere of wedlock, and brighten its horizon. In some of these gusts of bad weather, Mr Tappertit would, in the assertion of his prerogative, so far forget himself, as to correct his lady with a brush, or boot, or shoe; while she (but only in extreme cases) would retaliate by taking off his legs, and leaving him exposed to the derision of those urchins who delight in mischief.

Miss Miggs, baffled in all her schemes, matrimonial and otherwise, and cast upon a thankless, undeserving world, turned very sharp and sour; and did at length become so acid, and did so pinch and slap and tweak the hair and noses of the youth of Golden Lion Court, that she was by one consent expelled that sanctuary, and desired to bless some other spot of earth, in preference. It chanced at that moment, that the justices of the peace for Middlesex proclaimed by public placard that they stood in need of a female turnkey for the County Bridewell, and appointed a day and hour for the inspection of candidates. Miss Miggs attending at the time appointed, was instantly chosen and selected from one hundred and twenty-four competitors, and at once promoted to the office; which she held until her decease, more than thirty years afterwards, remaining single all that time. It was observed of this lady that while she was inflexible and grim to all her female flock, she was particularly so to those who could establish any claim to beauty: and it was often remarked as a proof of her indomitable virtue and severe chastity, that to such as had been frail she showed no mercy; always falling upon them on the slightest occasion, or on no occasion at all, with the fullest measure of her wrath. Among other useful inventions which she practised upon this class of offenders and bequeathed to posterity, was the art of inflicting an exquisitely vicious poke or dig with the wards of a key in the small of the back, near the spine. She likewise originated a mode of treading by accident (in pattens) on such as had small feet; also very remarkable for its ingenuity, and previously quite unknown.

It was not very long, you may be sure, before Joe Willet and Dolly Varden were made husband and wife, and with a handsome sum in bank (for the locksmith could afford to give his daughter a good dowry), reopened the Maypole. It was not very long, you may be sure, before a red-faced little boy was seen staggering about the Maypole passage, and kicking up his heels on the green before the door. It was not very long, counting by years, before there was a red-faced little girl, another red-faced little boy, and a whole troop of girls and boys: so that, go to Chigwell when you would, there would surely be seen, either in the village street, or on the green, or frolicking in the farm-yard—for it was a farm now, as well as a tavern—more small Joes and small Dollys than could be easily counted. It was not a very long time before these appearances ensued; but it WAS a VERY long time before Joe looked five years older, or Dolly either, or the locksmith either, or his wife either: for cheerfulness and content are great beautifiers, and are famous preservers of youthful looks, depend upon it.

It was a long time, too, before there was such a country inn as the Maypole, in all England: indeed it is a great question whether there has ever been such another to this hour, or ever will be. It was a long time too—for Never, as the proverb says, is a long day—before they forgot to have an interest in wounded soldiers at the Maypole, or before Joe omitted to refresh them, for the sake of his old campaign; or before the serjeant left off looking in there, now and then; or before they fatigued themselves, or each other, by talking on these occasions of battles and sieges, and hard weather and hard service, and a thousand things belonging to a soldier’s life. As to the great silver snuff-box which the King sent Joe with his own hand, because of his conduct in the Riots, what guest ever went to the Maypole without putting finger and thumb into that box, and taking a great pinch, though he had never taken a pinch of snuff before, and almost sneezed himself into convulsions even then? As to the purple-faced vintner, where is the man who lived in those times and never saw HIM at the Maypole: to all appearance as much at home in the best room, as if he lived there? And as to the feastings and christenings, and revellings at Christmas, and celebrations of birthdays, wedding-days, and all manner of days, both at the Maypole and the Golden Key,—if they are not notorious, what facts are?

Mr Willet the elder, having been by some extraordinary means possessed with the idea that Joe wanted to be married, and that it would be well for him, his father, to retire into private life, and enable him to live in comfort, took up his abode in a small cottage at Chigwell; where they widened and enlarged the fireplace for him, hung up the boiler, and furthermore planted in the little garden outside the front-door, a fictitious Maypole; so that he was quite at home directly. To this, his new habitation, Tom Cobb, Phil Parkes, and Solomon Daisy went regularly every night: and in the chimney-corner, they all four quaffed, and smoked, and prosed, and dozed, as they had done of old. It being accidentally discovered after a short time that Mr Willet still appeared to consider himself a landlord by profession, Joe provided him with a slate, upon which the old man regularly scored up vast accounts for meat, drink, and tobacco. As he grew older this passion increased upon him; and it became his delight to chalk against the name of each of his cronies a sum of enormous magnitude, and impossible to be paid: and such was his secret joy in these entries, that he would be perpetually seen going behind the door to look at them, and coming forth again, suffused with the liveliest satisfaction.

He never recovered the surprise the Rioters had given him, and remained in the same mental condition down to the last moment of his life. It was like to have been brought to a speedy termination by the first sight of his first grandchild, which appeared to fill him with the belief that some alarming miracle had happened to Joe. Being promptly blooded, however, by a skilful surgeon, he rallied; and although the doctors all agreed, on his being attacked with symptoms of apoplexy six months afterwards, that he ought to die, and took it very ill that he did not, he remained alive—possibly on account of his constitutional slowness—for nearly seven years more, when he was one morning found speechless in his bed. He lay in this state, free from all tokens of uneasiness, for a whole week, when he was suddenly restored to consciousness by hearing the nurse whisper in his son’s ear that he was going. ‘I’m a-going, Joseph,’ said Mr Willet, turning round upon the instant, ‘to the Salwanners’—and immediately gave up the ghost.

He left a large sum of money behind him; even more than he was supposed to have been worth, although the neighbours, according to the custom of mankind in calculating the wealth that other people ought to have saved, had estimated his property in good round numbers. Joe inherited the whole; so that he became a man of great consequence in those parts, and was perfectly independent.

Some time elapsed before Barnaby got the better of the shock he had sustained, or regained his old health and gaiety. But he recovered by degrees: and although he could never separate his condemnation and escape from the idea of a terrific dream, he became, in other respects, more rational. Dating from the time of his recovery, he had a better memory and greater steadiness of purpose; but a dark cloud overhung his whole previous existence, and never cleared away.

He was not the less happy for this, for his love of freedom and interest in all that moved or grew, or had its being in the elements, remained to him unimpaired. He lived with his mother on the Maypole farm, tending the poultry and the cattle, working in a garden of his own, and helping everywhere. He was known to every bird and beast about the place, and had a name for every one. Never was there a lighter-hearted husbandman, a creature more popular with young and old, a blither or more happy soul than Barnaby; and though he was free to ramble where he would, he never quitted Her, but was for evermore her stay and comfort.

It was remarkable that although he had that dim sense of the past, he sought out Hugh’s dog, and took him under his care; and that he never could be tempted into London. When the Riots were many years old, and Edward and his wife came back to England with a family almost as numerous as Dolly’s, and one day appeared at the Maypole porch, he knew them instantly, and wept and leaped for joy. But neither to visit them, nor on any other pretence, no matter how full of promise and enjoyment, could he be persuaded to set foot in the streets: nor did he ever conquer this repugnance or look upon the town again.

Grip soon recovered his looks, and became as glossy and sleek as ever. But he was profoundly silent. Whether he had forgotten the art of Polite Conversation in Newgate, or had made a vow in those troubled times to forego, for a period, the display of his accomplishments, is matter of uncertainty; but certain it is that for a whole year he never indulged in any other sound than a grave, decorous croak. At the expiration of that term, the morning being very bright and sunny, he was heard to address himself to the horses in the stable, upon the subject of the Kettle, so often mentioned in these pages; and before the witness who overheard him could run into the house with the intelligence, and add to it upon his solemn affirmation the statement that he had heard him laugh, the bird himself advanced with fantastic steps to the very door of the bar, and there cried, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil!’ with extraordinary rapture.

From that period (although he was supposed to be much affected by the death of Mr Willet senior), he constantly practised and improved himself in the vulgar tongue; and, as he was a mere infant for a raven when Barnaby was grey, he has very probably gone on talking to the present time.

Chapter 1

In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about twelve miles from London—measuring from the Standard in Cornhill, or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore—a house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew.

The Maypole—by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and not its sign—the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge zig-zag chimneys, out of which it seemed as though even smoke could not choose but come in more than naturally fantastic shapes, imparted to it in its tortuous progress; and vast stables, gloomy, ruinous, and empty. The place was said to have been built in the days of King Henry the Eighth; and there was a legend, not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but that next morning, while standing on a mounting block before the door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there were a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are in every little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as rather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient hostelry appealed to the mounting block itself as evidence, and triumphantly pointed out that there it stood in the same place to that very day, the doubters never failed to be put down by a large majority, and all true believers exulted as in a victory.

Whether these, and many other stories of the like nature, were true or untrue, the Maypole was really an old house, a very old house, perhaps as old as it claimed to be, and perhaps older, which will sometimes happen with houses of an uncertain, as with ladies of a certain, age. Its windows were old diamond-pane lattices, its floors were sunken and uneven, its ceilings blackened by the hand of time, and heavy with massive beams. Over the doorway was an ancient porch, quaintly and grotesquely carved; and here on summer evenings the more favoured customers smoked and drank—ay, and sang many a good song too, sometimes—reposing on two grim-looking high-backed settles, which, like the twin dragons of some fairy tale, guarded the entrance to the mansion.

In the chimneys of the disused rooms, swallows had built their nests for many a long year, and from earliest spring to latest autumn whole colonies of sparrows chirped and twittered in the eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary stable-yard and out-buildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers, and pouters, were perhaps not quite consistent with the grave and sober character of the building, but the monotonous cooing, which never ceased to be raised by some among them all day long, suited it exactly, and seemed to lull it to rest. With its overhanging stories, drowsy little panes of glass, and front bulging out and projecting over the pathway, the old house looked as if it were nodding in its sleep. Indeed, it needed no very great stretch of fancy to detect in it other resemblances to humanity. The bricks of which it was built had originally been a deep dark red, but had grown yellow and discoloured like an old man’s skin; the sturdy timbers had decayed like teeth; and here and there the ivy, like a warm garment to comfort it in its age, wrapt its green leaves closely round the time-worn walls.

It was a hale and hearty age though, still: and in the summer or autumn evenings, when the glow of the setting sun fell upon the oak and chestnut trees of the adjacent forest, the old house, partaking of its lustre, seemed their fit companion, and to have many good years of life in him yet.

The evening with which we have to do, was neither a summer nor an autumn one, but the twilight of a day in March, when the wind howled dismally among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneys and driving the rain against the windows of the Maypole Inn, gave such of its frequenters as chanced to be there at the moment an undeniable reason for prolonging their stay, and caused the landlord to prophesy that the night would certainly clear at eleven o’clock precisely,—which by a remarkable coincidence was the hour at which he always closed his house.

The name of him upon whom the spirit of prophecy thus descended was John Willet, a burly, large-headed man with a fat face, which betokened profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits. It was John Willet’s ordinary boast in his more placid moods that if he were slow he was sure; which assertion could, in one sense at least, be by no means gainsaid, seeing that he was in everything unquestionably the reverse of fast, and withal one of the most dogged and positive fellows in existence—always sure that what he thought or said or did was right, and holding it as a thing quite settled and ordained by the laws of nature and Providence, that anybody who said or did or thought otherwise must be inevitably and of necessity wrong.

Mr Willet walked slowly up to the window, flattened his fat nose against the cold glass, and shading his eyes that his sight might not be affected by the ruddy glow of the fire, looked abroad. Then he walked slowly back to his old seat in the chimney-corner, and, composing himself in it with a slight shiver, such as a man might give way to and so acquire an additional relish for the warm blaze, said, looking round upon his guests:

Capitolo 1

Nel 1775, ai confini della Foresta di Epping, a una distanza di circa dodici miglia da Londra – misurata dallo Standard di Cornhill, o meglio dal punto in cui un tempo si trovava quel standard – sorgeva una casa destinata al divertimento pubblico chiamata “Maypole”. Questo fatto veniva evidenziato a tutti quei viaggiatori che non sapevano né leggere né scrivere (e in quell’epoca un gran numero di viaggiatori e persone che rimanevano a casa apparteneva a questa categoria) attraverso l’insegna posta sul ciglio della strada di fronte alla casa stessa. Sebbene non avesse le imponenti dimensioni tipiche dei Maypole degli antichi tempi, si trattava comunque di un giovane pioppo bianco alto trenta piedi, dritto come qualsiasi freccia potesse scoccare un contadino inglese.

Il Maypole – con questo termine da ora in poi ci si riferisce alla casa, e non al suo simbolo – era un edificio antico, con così tante estremità a padiglione che nemmeno un uomo pigro avrebbe voluto contarle in una giornata soleggiata; enormi camini a zig-zag, dai quali sembrava che anche il fumo non potesse uscire se non assumendo forme straordinariamente fantasiose nel suo percorso tortuoso; e vaste stalle, oscure, in rovina e vuote. Si diceva che quel luogo fosse stato costruito ai tempi di -Re Enrico VIII; e circolava una leggenda secondo cui Regina Elisabetta vi aveva dormito una notte durante un’escursione di caccia, in una certa stanza rivestita di pannelli di quercia con una grande finestra ad arco; inoltre, si diceva che la mattina seguente, mentre stava su uno sgabello davanti alla porta con un piede nella staffa, la regina avesse punito lì stesso un sfortunato paggio per qualche negligenza nel suo dovere. Le persone più realistiche e scettiche, che ce n’erano alcune tra i clienti dell’antico ostello – come sempre accade in ogni piccola comunità – tendevano a considerare questa tradizione piuttosto apocrifa; ma ogni volta che il proprietario di quell’ostello faceva riferimento allo stesso sgabello come prova concreta, sottolineando con orgoglio che si trovava ancora nello stesso posto fino ad allora, i dubitanti venivano sempre messi in minoranza dalla stragrande maggioranza degli altri, e tutti coloro che credevano davvero nella leggenda esultavano come se avessero ottenuto una vittoria.

Che queste storie, e molte altre simili legate alla natura, fossero vere o false, il Mastro di Maggio era davvero un vecchio edificio, un edificio molto antico; forse proprio così vecchio come si diceva, o addirittura più vecchio. Ciò accade talvolta con gli edifici di età incerta, proprio come succede a certe donne di una certa età. Le sue finestre erano dotate di antichi graticci in vetro a forma di diamante; i suoi pavimenti erano bassi e irregolari; i soffitti erano anneriti dal passare del tempo e sostenuti da pesanti travi. Sopra l’ingresso c’era un portico antico, scolpito in modo stravagante e grottesco; nelle serate estive, i clienti più affezionati vi si riunivano per fumare, bere, e a volte anche cantare bellissime canzoni, seduti su due poltrone dall’aspetto imponente che, come i draghi gemelli di qualche fiaba, custodivano l’ingresso della dimora.

Nei camini delle stanze disuse, gli usignoli avevano costruito i loro nidi per molti anni; dall’inizio della primavera fino alla fine dell’autunno, intere colonie di passeri canticchiavano e chiacchieravano sugli spioventi. Nel triste cortile delle stalle e nelle strutture annesse, c’erano più piccioni di quanti ne potesse contare chiunque, tranne il proprietario. I voli circolari di quegli uccelli, con le loro code a ventaglio e i loro movimenti caratteristici, forse non erano del tutto in armonia con l’aspetto grave e sobrio dell’edificio, ma il loro costante tubare sembrava adattarsi perfettamente all’ambiente circostante, come se contribuisse a farlo “dormire”. Con i suoi piani sovrapposti, le piccole finestre appannate e la facciata che sporgeva sul sentiero, quella vecchia casa sembrava davvero addormentata. In effetti, non occorreva molta immaginazione per notare in essa altri aspetti umani: i mattoni con cui era costruita erano originariamente di un rosso scuro, ma ora erano diventati gialli e ingrigiti, come la pelle di un anziano; i robusti tronchi avevano iniziato a marcire, come i denti; e qua e là, l’edera, come un caldo mantello che la confortasse nella sua vecchiaia, avvolgeva strettamente le sue mura logore dal tempo.

Era comunque un’età ancora vigorosa e sana; nelle serate d’estate o d’autunno, quando il bagliore del tramonto illuminava gli alberi di quercia e castagno della foresta vicina, la vecchia casa, avvolta in quel chiarore, sembrava essere il loro compagno ideale, come se ancora avesse molti anni di vita davanti a sé.

La serata di cui stiamo parlando non era né d’estate né d’autunno, ma il crepuscolo di una giornata di marzo. Il vento soffiava tristemente tra i rami spogli degli alberi, rimbombando nelle grandi ciminiere e facendo cadere la pioggia contro le finestre dell’Osteria del Palo di Maggio. Questo fenomeno fornì a coloro che si trovavano lì in quel momento una ragione indiscutibile per trattenersi più a lungo, e spinse il proprietario dell’osteria a predire che la serata si schiarirebbe sicuramente alle undici in punto, coincidenza notevole, poiché era proprio quell’ora in cui chiudeva sempre il suo locale.

Il nome di colui su cui lo spirito della profezia discese in quel modo era John Willet: un uomo robusto, dalla testa grande e dal viso grasso, il che indicava una profonda ostinazione e lentezza nel comprendere le cose, unite però a una forte fiducia nelle proprie qualità. Nelle sue giornate più serene, John Willet si vantava spesso di essere lento, ma sicuro delle proprie decisioni; affermazione che, in un certo senso, non poteva essere confutata, poiché in ogni cosa era indubbiamente l’opposto di chi agisce con fretta. Eppure era uno dei individui più testardi e convinti dell’esistenza: sempre sicuro che ciò che pensava, diceva o faceva fosse giusto, ritenendo che tutto ciò fosse stabilito e previsto dalle leggi della natura e della Provvidenza, e che chiunque avesse opinioni diverse dovesse necessariamente sbagliare.

Il signor Willet si avvicinò lentamente alla finestra, appoggiò il suo naso grasso contro il vetro freddo e, schermandosi gli occhi per non essere accecato dal bagliore rosso del fuoco, guardò fuori. Poi tornò lentamente al suo vecchio posto nell’angolo del camino; si sistemò lì, con un leggero brivido – quel tipo di brivido che un uomo può provare quando si avvicina al calore del fuoco – e, guardando intorno ai suoi ospiti, disse:

‘It’ll clear at eleven o’clock. No sooner and no later. Not before and not arterwards.’

‘How do you make out that?’ said a little man in the opposite corner. ‘The moon is past the full, and she rises at nine.’

John looked sedately and solemnly at his questioner until he had brought his mind to bear upon the whole of his observation, and then made answer, in a tone which seemed to imply that the moon was peculiarly his business and nobody else’s:

‘Never you mind about the moon. Don’t you trouble yourself about her. You let the moon alone, and I’ll let you alone.’

‘No offence I hope?’ said the little man.

Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly penetrated to his brain, and then replying, ‘No offence as YET,’ applied a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence; now and then casting a sidelong look at a man wrapped in a loose riding-coat with huge cuffs ornamented with tarnished silver lace and large metal buttons, who sat apart from the regular frequenters of the house, and wearing a hat flapped over his face, which was still further shaded by the hand on which his forehead rested, looked unsociable enough.

There was another guest, who sat, booted and spurred, at some distance from the fire also, and whose thoughts—to judge from his folded arms and knitted brows, and from the untasted liquor before him—were occupied with other matters than the topics under discussion or the persons who discussed them. This was a young man of about eight-and-twenty, rather above the middle height, and though of somewhat slight figure, gracefully and strongly made. He wore his own dark hair, and was accoutred in a riding dress, which together with his large boots (resembling in shape and fashion those worn by our Life Guardsmen at the present day), showed indisputable traces of the bad condition of the roads. But travel-stained though he was, he was well and even richly attired, and without being overdressed looked a gallant gentleman.

Lying upon the table beside him, as he had carelessly thrown them down, were a heavy riding-whip and a slouched hat, the latter worn no doubt as being best suited to the inclemency of the weather. There, too, were a pair of pistols in a holster-case, and a short riding-cloak. Little of his face was visible, except the long dark lashes which concealed his downcast eyes, but an air of careless ease and natural gracefulness of demeanour pervaded the figure, and seemed to comprehend even those slight accessories, which were all handsome, and in good keeping.

Towards this young gentleman the eyes of Mr Willet wandered but once, and then as if in mute inquiry whether he had observed his silent neighbour. It was plain that John and the young gentleman had often met before. Finding that his look was not returned, or indeed observed by the person to whom it was addressed, John gradually concentrated the whole power of his eyes into one focus, and brought it to bear upon the man in the flapped hat, at whom he came to stare in course of time with an intensity so remarkable, that it affected his fireside cronies, who all, as with one accord, took their pipes from their lips, and stared with open mouths at the stranger likewise.

The sturdy landlord had a large pair of dull fish-like eyes, and the little man who had hazarded the remark about the moon (and who was the parish-clerk and bell-ringer of Chigwell, a village hard by) had little round black shiny eyes like beads; moreover this little man wore at the knees of his rusty black breeches, and on his rusty black coat, and all down his long flapped waistcoat, little queer buttons like nothing except his eyes; but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistened in the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from head to foot, and to be gazing with every one of them at the unknown customer. No wonder that a man should grow restless under such an inspection as this, to say nothing of the eyes belonging to short Tom Cobb the general chandler and post-office keeper, and long Phil Parkes the ranger, both of whom, infected by the example of their companions, regarded him of the flapped hat no less attentively.

The stranger became restless; perhaps from being exposed to this raking fire of eyes, perhaps from the nature of his previous meditations—most probably from the latter cause, for as he changed his position and looked hastily round, he started to find himself the object of such keen regard, and darted an angry and suspicious glance at the fireside group. It had the effect of immediately diverting all eyes to the chimney, except those of John Willet, who finding himself as it were, caught in the fact, and not being (as has been already observed) of a very ready nature, remained staring at his guest in a particularly awkward and disconcerted manner.

‘Well?’ said the stranger.

Well. There was not much in well. It was not a long speech. ‘I thought you gave an order,’ said the landlord, after a pause of two or three minutes for consideration.

The stranger took off his hat, and disclosed the hard features of a man of sixty or thereabouts, much weatherbeaten and worn by time, and the naturally harsh expression of which was not improved by a dark handkerchief which was bound tightly round his head, and, while it served the purpose of a wig, shaded his forehead, and almost hid his eyebrows. If it were intended to conceal or divert attention from a deep gash, now healed into an ugly seam, which when it was first inflicted must have laid bare his cheekbone, the object was but indifferently attained, for it could scarcely fail to be noted at a glance. His complexion was of a cadaverous hue, and he had a grizzly jagged beard of some three weeks’ date. Such was the figure (very meanly and poorly clad) that now rose from the seat, and stalking across the room sat down in a corner of the chimney, which the politeness or fears of the little clerk very readily assigned to him.

‘Si schiarirà alle undici in punto. Né prima, né dopo.’

“Come fai a capirlo?” disse un ometto nell’angolo opposto.
“La luna non è più piena, e sorge alle nove.”

John guardò con calma e serietà la persona che gli aveva posto la domanda, fino a quando non ebbe riflettuto attentamente su tutto ciò che era stato detto; poi rispose in un tono che sembrava suggerire che la luna fosse una questione esclusivamente sua e di nessun altro.

“Non preoccuparti mai della luna. Non darti la briga per lei. Tu hai lasciato la luna da sola, e anch’io ti lascerò da solo.”

“Nessuna offesa, spero, ”, disse il piccolo uomo.

Di nuovo, John aspettò con calma finché quell’osservazione non fosse completamente penetrata nella sua mente; poi, rispondendo “Nessuna offesa, per ora”, accese la pipa e iniziò a fumare in tranquilla silenzio. Di tanto in tanto gettava uno sguardo di sfuggita verso un uomo avvolto in un mantello da viaggio con ampie maniche decorate da pizzo d’argento ossidato e grandi bottoni metallici; quell’uomo sedeva separato dagli altri frequentatori abituali della casa, con un cappello che gli copriva il viso, ulteriormente oscurato dalla mano con cui si appoggiava la fronte. Sembrava davvero poco socievole.

C’era un altro ospite, che sedeva a una certa distanza dal focolare, con gli stivali e le spille ben allacciati; a giudicare dalle braccia incrociate, dalle sopracciglia corrugate e dal liquore intatto davanti a lui, i suoi pensieri erano occupati da altre cose, piuttosto che dai temi in discussione o dalle persone che le discutevano. Si trattava di un giovane di circa ventotto anni, di statura superiore alla media; sebbene di corporatura snella, era ben proporzionato e robusto. Indossava i propri capelli scuri e un abito da cavaliere; insieme ai suoi grandi stivali – simili per forma e stile a quelli indossati oggi dai nostri guardie del corpo – trasmetteva chiaramente gli effetti negativi delle cattive condizioni delle strade. Tuttavia, nonostante le tracce lasciate dal viaggio, era vestito con cura ed eleganza, e senza sembrare eccessivamente appariscente, dava l’impressione di essere un gentiluomo distinto.

Distesi sul tavolo accanto a lui, come li aveva gettati via con noncuranza, c’erano un pesante frustino da cavaliere e un cappello floscio; quest’ultimo, senza alcun dubbio, era l’indumento più adatto alle avversità del tempo. C’erano anche una coppia di pistole in una custodia e un corto mantello da viaggio. Si vedeva poco del suo viso, tranne le lunghe ciglia scure che nascondevano i suoi occhi abbassati; tuttavia, l’aspetto del suo corpo trasmetteva un senso di disinvolta eleganza e naturale grazia, e sembrava che anche quegli accessori, tutti belli e ben curati, facessero parte integrante della sua immagine.

Gli occhi del signor Willet si posarono una sola volta su questo giovane gentiluomo, come se volessero chiedergli silenziosamente se avesse notato il suo vicino muto. Era evidente che John e quel giovane si fossero già incontrati in precedenza. Non ricevendo alcuna reazione da parte di quell’uomo, né tantomeno che questi avesse notato il suo sguardo, John concentrò gradualmente tutta la sua attenzione su di lui, fissandolo con tale intensità che anche gli altri presenti rimasero colpiti; tutti, all’unisono, smisero di fumare le loro pipe e iniziarono a guardare anch’essi quel forestiero con sorpresa.

Il robusto padrone di casa aveva un paio di grandi occhi opachi, simili a quelli dei pesci; il piccolo uomo che aveva osato fare quel commento sulla luna (e che era l’ufficiale parrocchiale e il campanaro di Chigwell, un villaggio vicino) aveva invece occhi piccoli, rotondi, neri e lucidi come perle. Inoltre, sulle ginocchia dei suoi pantaloni neri arrugginiti, sul suo cappotto nero arrugginito e su tutto il lungo gilet che gli pendeva dal corpo, portava piccoli bottoni strani, simili in qualche modo ai suoi occhi; ma così somiglianti a loro, che quando brillavano alla luce del fuoco (che illuminava anche i suoi lucidi lacci da scarpe), sembrava davvero essere tutto occhi dalla testa ai piedi, e che guardasse con ciascuno di essi quel cliente sconosciuto. Non c’è da meravigliarsi se un uomo potesse sentirsi a disagio sotto un simile esame. Per non parlare degli occhi di Short Tom Cobb, il negoziante di candele e custode dell’ufficio postale, e di Long Phil Parkes, il guardiacaccia: entrambi, influenzati dall’esempio dei loro compagni, lo osservavano con altrettanta attenzione.

Lo sconosciuto divenne irrequieto; forse a causa di quell’intenso sguardo fisso, o forse per la natura delle sue precedenti meditazioni. Più probabilmente per quest’ultima ragione: infatti, mentre cambiava posizione e guardava intorno in fretta, si rese conto di essere l’oggetto di un’attenzione così intensa, e lanciò uno sguardo furioso e sospettoso verso il gruppo seduto accanto al fuoco. Questo fece sì che tutti gli sguardi si dirigessero immediatamente verso la ciminiera, tranne quello di John Willet, che, trovandosi in una situazione imbarazzante e non essendo (come già osservato) molto pronto a reagire, continuò a fissare il suo ospite in modo particolarmente goffo e confuso.

“‘Bene?’” chiese lo sconosciuto.

Beh. Non c’era molto da dire in quella occasione. Non fu un discorso lungo. “Pensavo che aveste dato un ordine,” disse il proprietario, dopo una pausa di due o tre minuti per riflettere.

Lo sconosciuto si tolse il cappello, rivelando i tratti duri di un uomo di circa sessant’anni, molto segnato dal tempo e dall’usura; l’espressione naturalmente severa del suo volto non veniva mitigata da un fazzoletto scuro legato strettamente intorno alla testa. Se quel fazzoletto aveva lo scopo di nascondere o distogliere l’attenzione da una profonda ferita, ormai guarita ma che in origine doveva aver messo a nudo la sua guancia, il risultato ottenuto fu tutt’altro che soddisfacente: quella ferita era impossibile non notare a prima vista. La sua pelle aveva un colore cadaverico e portava una barba grigiastra e irregolare, lunga circa tre settimane. Ecco l’aspetto di quell’uomo (molto mal vestito) quando si alzò dal suo posto e, camminando con passi decisi, andò a sedersi in un angolo del camino: il giovane impiegato, per gentilezza o per paura, gli lasciò subito quel posto.

‘A highwayman!’ whispered Tom Cobb to Parkes the ranger.

‘Do you suppose highwaymen don’t dress handsomer than that?’ replied Parkes. ‘It’s a better business than you think for, Tom, and highwaymen don’t need or use to be shabby, take my word for it.’

Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honour to the house by calling for some drink, which was promptly supplied by the landlord’s son Joe, a broad-shouldered strapping young fellow of twenty, whom it pleased his father still to consider a little boy, and to treat accordingly. Stretching out his hands to warm them by the blazing fire, the man turned his head towards the company, and after running his eye sharply over them, said in a voice well suited to his appearance:

‘What house is that which stands a mile or so from here?’

‘Public-house?’ said the landlord, with his usual deliberation.

‘Public-house, father!’ exclaimed Joe, ‘where’s the public-house within a mile or so of the Maypole? He means the great house—the Warren—naturally and of course. The old red brick house, sir, that stands in its own grounds—?’

‘Aye,’ said the stranger.

‘And that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as broad, which with other and richer property has bit by bit changed hands and dwindled away—more’s the pity!’ pursued the young man.

‘Maybe,’ was the reply. ‘But my question related to the owner. What it has been I don’t care to know, and what it is I can see for myself.’

The heir-apparent to the Maypole pressed his finger on his lips, and glancing at the young gentleman already noticed, who had changed his attitude when the house was first mentioned, replied in a lower tone:

‘The owner’s name is Haredale, Mr Geoffrey Haredale, and’—again he glanced in the same direction as before—‘and a worthy gentleman too—hem!’

Paying as little regard to this admonitory cough, as to the significant gesture that had preceded it, the stranger pursued his questioning.

‘I turned out of my way coming here, and took the footpath that crosses the grounds. Who was the young lady that I saw entering a carriage? His daughter?’

‘Why, how should I know, honest man?’ replied Joe, contriving in the course of some arrangements about the hearth, to advance close to his questioner and pluck him by the sleeve, ‘I didn’t see the young lady, you know. Whew! There’s the wind again—AND rain—well it IS a night!’

Rough weather indeed!’ observed the strange man.

‘You’re used to it?’ said Joe, catching at anything which seemed to promise a diversion of the subject.

‘Pretty well,’ returned the other. ‘About the young lady—has Mr Haredale a daughter?’

‘No, no,’ said the young fellow fretfully, ‘he’s a single gentleman—he’s—be quiet, can’t you, man? Don’t you see this talk is not relished yonder?’

Regardless of this whispered remonstrance, and affecting not to hear it, his tormentor provokingly continued:

‘Single men have had daughters before now. Perhaps she may be his daughter, though he is not married.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Joe, adding in an undertone as he approached him again, ‘You’ll come in for it presently, I know you will!’

‘I mean no harm’—returned the traveller boldly, ‘and have said none that I know of. I ask a few questions—as any stranger may, and not unnaturally—about the inmates of a remarkable house in a neighbourhood which is new to me, and you are as aghast and disturbed as if I were talking treason against King George. Perhaps you can tell me why, sir, for (as I say) I am a stranger, and this is Greek to me?’

The latter observation was addressed to the obvious cause of Joe Willet’s discomposure, who had risen and was adjusting his riding-cloak preparatory to sallying abroad. Briefly replying that he could give him no information, the young man beckoned to Joe, and handing him a piece of money in payment of his reckoning, hurried out attended by young Willet himself, who taking up a candle followed to light him to the house-door.

While Joe was absent on this errand, the elder Willet and his three companions continued to smoke with profound gravity, and in a deep silence, each having his eyes fixed on a huge copper boiler that was suspended over the fire. After some time John Willet slowly shook his head, and thereupon his friends slowly shook theirs; but no man withdrew his eyes from the boiler, or altered the solemn expression of his countenance in the slightest degree.

At length Joe returned—very talkative and conciliatory, as though with a strong presentiment that he was going to be found fault with.

‘Such a thing as love is!’ he said, drawing a chair near the fire, and looking round for sympathy. ‘He has set off to walk to London,—all the way to London. His nag gone lame in riding out here this blessed afternoon, and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute; and he giving up a good hot supper and our best bed, because Miss Haredale has gone to a masquerade up in town, and he has set his heart upon seeing her! I don’t think I could persuade myself to do that, beautiful as she is,—but then I’m not in love (at least I don’t think I am) and that’s the whole difference.’

‘He is in love then?’ said the stranger.

‘Rather,’ replied Joe. ‘He’ll never be more in love, and may very easily be less.’

‘Silence, sir!’ cried his father.

‘What a chap you are, Joe!’ said Long Parkes.

‘Such a inconsiderate lad!’ murmured Tom Cobb.

‘Putting himself forward and wringing the very nose off his own father’s face!’ exclaimed the parish-clerk, metaphorically.

‘What HAVE I done?’ reasoned poor Joe.

‘Silence, sir!’ returned his father, ‘what do you mean by talking, when you see people that are more than two or three times your age, sitting still and silent and not dreaming of saying a word?’

“Un bandito di strada!”, sussurrò Tom Cobb a Parkes, il guardiacaccia.

“Pensi davvero che i banditi non si vestano in modo più elegante di così?” rispose Parkes. “È un’attività molto più redditizia di quanto tu possa pensare, Tom. I banditi non hanno bisogno di vestirsi in modo trasandato; credimi sulla parola.”

Nel frattempo, l’oggetto delle loro speculazioni aveva reso due onori alla casa chiedendo da bere, il che fu prontamente fornito dal figlio del proprietario, Joe, un giovane robusto e dalle spalle larghe di vent’anni; a suo padre piaceva ancora considerarlo un ragazzino e trattarlo di conseguenza. Allungando le mani per scaldarle vicino al fuoco ardente, l’uomo girò la testa verso il gruppo e, dopo averli osservati attentamente, disse con una voce ben in armonia con il suo aspetto:

“Quale casa è quella che si trova a circa un miglio da qui?”

“Un appartamento in affitto?” disse il proprietario, con la sua solita lentezza nel parlare.

“Ufficio pubblico, padre!”, esclamò Joe. “Dove si trova quell’ufficio pubblico che dista al massimo un miglio dal Maypole? Intende quella grande casa, il Warren, naturalmente. Quella vecchia casa in mattoni rossi, signore, quella che sorge nel suo terreno privato, ”

“Sì,” disse lo sconosciuto.

“E quindici o vent’anni fa, in un parco cinque volte più ampio di questo, si trovavano molte altre cose preziose; tutto ciò, poco a poco, è passato di mano e quel parco è scomparso. Che peccato!” continuò il giovane.

“Forse,” fu la risposta. “Ma la mia domanda riguardava il proprietario. Non mi interessa sapere cosa sia stato in passato, e quello che è ora posso vederlo con i miei occhi.”

L’erede apparente al trono premette un dito sulle labbra e, lanciando uno sguardo al giovane gentiluomo che aveva già cambiato atteggiamento quando per la prima volta era stata menzionata quella casa, rispose a voce più bassa:

“Il nome del proprietario è Haredale, il signor Geoffrey Haredale, e” – di nuovo gettò uno sguardo nella stessa direzione di prima – “un gentiluomo davvero meritevole, ehem!”

Ignorando completamente quel colpo di tosse ammonitore, così come il gesto significativo che lo aveva preceduto, lo sconosciuto continuò con le sue domande.

“Ho fatto di tutto per venire qui e ho preso il sentiero che attraversa i terreni. Chi era quella giovane signora che ho visto salire in carrozza? Era sua figlia?”

“Perché, come dovrei saperlo, onesto uomo?” rispose Joe, approfittando di alcuni movimenti intorno al camino per avvicinarsi al suo interlocutore e afferrargli la manica. “Non ho visto quella giovane signora, sai. Uff! Ecco di nuovo il vento. E poi piove. Beh, è davvero una notte!”

“Tempo davvero brutto!”, osservò l’uomo strano.

“Sei abituato a questo?” disse Joe, afferrando qualsiasi argomento potesse deviare la conversazione dal tema originale.

“Abbastanza bene,” rispose l’altro. “Per quanto riguarda la giovane signora, il signor Haredale ha una figlia?”

“No, no,” disse il giovane con ansia, “è un gentiluomo scapolo. Sta’ zitto, per favore. Non vedi che a lui non piace affatto questa conversazione?”

Nonostante queste sussurrate proteste, e fingendo di non sentirle, il suo tormentatore continuò provocatoriamente:

Gli uomini single hanno già avuto figlie in passato. Forse lei potrebbe essere sua figlia, anche se lui non è sposato.

“Cosa intendi?” disse Joe, aggiungendo con un tono minaccioso mentre si avvicinava di nuovo a lui, “Prima o poi ne pagherai le conseguenze, lo so che lo farai!”

“Non intendo fare del male”, rispose coraggiosamente il viaggiatore, “e non ho detto nulla che io sappia. Pongo alcune domande – come qualsiasi estraneo potrebbe farlo, e senza alcun motivo insolito – riguardo agli abitanti di una straordinaria >casa in un quartiere che mi è nuovo; e voi reagite con tale allarme e turbamento, come se stessi pronunciando parole traditorie contro -Re Giorgio. Forse potete spiegarmelo, signore, perché, come dico, sono uno straniero, e per me tutto questo è del tutto incomprensibile.”

L’ultima osservazione riguardava la causa evidente dell’agitazione di Joe Willet: questi si era alzato e stava sistemando il proprio mantello da viaggio, pronto per uscire. Rispondendo brevemente che non poteva fornire alcuna informazione, il giovane fece segno a Joe, gli diede un pezzo di denaro in pagamento del conto e uscì in fretta, accompagnato dallo stesso giovane Willet, il quale prese una candela per guidarlo fino alla porta di casa.

Mentre Joe era assente per questa commissione, il vecchio Willet e i suoi tre compagni continuarono a fumare con estrema gravità, in un profondo silenzio, ognuno di loro fissando uno enorme caldaio di rame sospeso sopra il fuoco. Dopo qualche momento, John Willet scosse lentamente la testa; allora anche i suoi amici fecero lo stesso. Tuttavia nessuno distolse lo sguardo dal caldaio, né modificò minimamente l’espressione solenne del proprio volto.

Finalmente Joe tornò: molto loquace e accomodante, come se avesse una forte intuizione che gli sarebbero stati fatti rimproveri.

“Una cosa del genere, l’amore, davvero esiste!” disse, avvicinando una sedia al >focolare e guardandosi intorno in cerca di comprensione. “È partito a piedi per raggiungere )Londra, tutto il cammino fino a )Londra. La sua cavalla si è infortunata questa splendida giornata e ora riposa tranquillamente nella nostra stalla; lui, invece, rinuncia a una cena calda e al nostro miglior letto, solo perché la signorina Haredale è andata a una mascherata in città. E lui vuole assolutamente vederla! Non credo che riuscirei mai a fare lo stesso, per quanto bella sia lei. Ma io, almeno, non sono innamorato (o almeno non penso di esserlo), ed è proprio questa la differenza principale.”

“Allora è innamorato?” chiese lo sconosciuto.

“Meglio di no,” rispose Joe. “Non sarà mai più innamorato, e anzi è molto probabile che il suo amore diminuisca.”

“‘Silenzio, signore!’ gridò suo padre.”

“Che bravo ragazzo sei, Joe!”, disse Long Parkes.

“Che ragazzo così irrispettoso!” mormorò Tom Cobb.

“Mettersi avanti e strappare il proprio naso dal viso di suo padre!” esclamò il parroco, in senso metaforico.

“Cosa ho fatto?” si chiese il povero Joe.

“‘Silenzio, signore!’ rispose suo padre. ‘Cosa intendi dire parlando, quando vedi persone che hanno due o tre volte più anni di te sedute in silenzio, senza nemmeno pensare di pronunciare una parola?’”

‘Why that’s the proper time for me to talk, isn’t it?’ said Joe rebelliously.

‘The proper time, sir!’ retorted his father, ‘the proper time’s no time.’

‘Ah to be sure!’ muttered Parkes, nodding gravely to the other two who nodded likewise, observing under their breaths that that was the point.

‘The proper time’s no time, sir,’ repeated John Willet; ‘when I was your age I never talked, I never wanted to talk. I listened and improved myself that’s what I did.’

‘And you’d find your father rather a tough customer in argeyment, Joe, if anybody was to try and tackle him,’ said Parkes.

‘For the matter o’ that, Phil!’ observed Mr Willet, blowing a long, thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; ‘For the matter o’ that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of ‘em, and has not a right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that he is so gifted; for that is a turning of his back on Natur, a flouting of her, a slighting of her precious caskets, and a proving of one’s self to be a swine that isn’t worth her scattering pearls before.’

The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally concluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed:

‘You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn’t much like to tackle him in argeyment, I’m thinking, sir.’

‘IF,’ said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming and irreverent haste; ‘IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift of argeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same? Yes, sir, I AM a tough customer that way. You are right, sir. My toughness has been proved, sir, in this room many and many a time, as I think you know; and if you don’t know,’ added John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, ‘so much the better, for I an’t proud and am not going to tell you.’

A general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking of heads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had good experience of his powers and needed no further evidence to assure them of his superiority. John smoked with a little more dignity and surveyed them in silence.

‘It’s all very fine talking,’ muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. ‘But if you mean to tell me that I’m never to open my lips—’

‘Silence, sir!’ roared his father. ‘No, you never are. When your opinion’s wanted, you give it. When you’re spoke to, you speak. When your opinion’s not wanted and you’re not spoke to, don’t you give an opinion and don’t you speak. The world’s undergone a nice alteration since my time, certainly. My belief is that there an’t any boys left—that there isn’t such a thing as a boy—that there’s nothing now between a male baby and a man—and that all the boys went out with his blessed Majesty King George the Second.’

‘That’s a very true observation, always excepting the young princes,’ said the parish-clerk, who, as the representative of church and state in that company, held himself bound to the nicest loyalty. ‘If it’s godly and righteous for boys, being of the ages of boys, to behave themselves like boys, then the young princes must be boys and cannot be otherwise.’

‘Did you ever hear tell of mermaids, sir?’ said Mr Willet.

‘Certainly I have,’ replied the clerk.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Willet. ‘According to the constitution of mermaids, so much of a mermaid as is not a woman must be a fish. According to the constitution of young princes, so much of a young prince (if anything) as is not actually an angel, must be godly and righteous. Therefore if it’s becoming and godly and righteous in the young princes (as it is at their ages) that they should be boys, they are and must be boys, and cannot by possibility be anything else.’

This elucidation of a knotty point being received with such marks of approval as to put John Willet into a good humour, he contented himself with repeating to his son his command of silence, and addressing the stranger, said:

‘If you had asked your questions of a grown-up person—of me or any of these gentlemen—you’d have had some satisfaction, and wouldn’t have wasted breath. Miss Haredale is Mr Geoffrey Haredale’s niece.’

‘Is her father alive?’ said the man, carelessly.

‘No,’ rejoined the landlord, ‘he is not alive, and he is not dead—’

‘Not dead!’ cried the other.

‘Not dead in a common sort of way,’ said the landlord.

The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an undertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, ‘let no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’ that John Willet was in amazing force to-night, and fit to tackle a Chief Justice.

The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked abruptly, ‘What do you mean?’

‘More than you think for, friend,’ returned John Willet. ‘Perhaps there’s more meaning in them words than you suspect.’

‘Perhaps there is,’ said the strange man, gruffly; ‘but what the devil do you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man is not alive, nor yet dead—then, that he’s not dead in a common sort of way—then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tell you the truth, you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, you mean nothing. What DO you mean, I ask again?’

‘That,’ returned the landlord, a little brought down from his dignity by the stranger’s surliness, ‘is a Maypole story, and has been any time these four-and-twenty years. That story is Solomon Daisy’s story. It belongs to the house; and nobody but Solomon Daisy has ever told it under this roof, or ever shall—that’s more.’

“Perché proprio adesso è il momento giusto per me di parlare, non credi?”, disse Joe in modo ribelle.

“Nel momento giusto, signore!”, ribatté suo padre. “Il momento giusto non è affatto un momento qualsiasi.”

“Ah, certamente!” mormorò Parkes, annuendo seriamente agli altri due, che fecero lo stesso, commentando sottovoce che proprio quello era il punto.

“Il momento giusto non è proprio questo, signore,” ripeté John Willet; “quando avevo la vostra età, non parlavo mai, non volevo parlare. Ascoltavo e mi miglioravo. Era quello che facevo.”

“E scopriresti che tuo padre è un avversario piuttosto difficile da affrontare in una discussione, Joe, se qualcuno provasse ad attaccarlo,” disse Parkes.

“Per quel motivo, Phil!”, osservò il signor Willet, soffiando fuori dall’angolo della bocca una lunga, sottile nuvola di fumo e fissandola distrattamente mentre si allontanava; “Per quel motivo, Phil, l’arguzia è un dono della Natura. Se la Natura ha dotato un uomo di capacità argute, quell’uomo ha il diritto di sfruttarle al meglio, e non ha il diritto di fingere delicatezze o negare di possederle; perché ciò equivarrebbe a voltare le spalle alla Natura, a disprezzarla, a insultare i suoi preziosi doni, e a dimostrare di essere un individuo spregevole, non degno delle perle che lei è pronta a riversargli davanti.”

Il proprietario si fermò qui per un periodo molto lungo; naturalmente, il signor Parkes concluse che avesse terminato il suo discorso. E quindi, rivolgendosi al giovane con un certo tono severo, esclamò:

“Sentite quello che dice vostro padre, Joe? Penso che non vi andrebbe affatto di mettervi a discutere con lui, vero, signore?”

“‘SE’”, disse John Willet, distogliendo lo sguardo dal soffitto e fissando il volto di colui che lo aveva interrotto, pronunciando quella parola con le lettere maiuscole per far capire che si era intromesso in modo indecoroso e irrispettoso; “‘SE’, signore. Se la natura mi ha donato l’arguzia, perché non dovrei ammetterlo e anzi andarne fiero? Sì, signore: sono davvero una persona piuttosto ‘dura’ in questo senso. Ha ragione, signore. La mia ‘durezza’ è stata dimostrata molte volte in questa stanza, come penso lei sappia; e se non lo sa”, aggiunse John, rimettendosi la pipa in bocca, “tanto meglio. Non sono orgoglioso e non ho intenzione di raccontarglielo.”

Un mormorio generale da parte dei suoi tre complici, e un movimento collettivo di scuotimento della testa davanti alla caldaia di rame, assicurarono a John Willet che avevano già avuto modo di constatare le sue capacità e che non avevano bisogno di ulteriori prove per convincersi della sua superiorità. John fumò con ancora più dignità e li osservò in silenzio.

“Tutte queste parole sono molto belle,” mormorò Joe, che continuava a muoversi nervosamente sulla sedia con gesti ansiosi. “Ma se intendete dirmi che non dovrò mai aprire bocca, ”

“‘Silenzio, signore!’ urlò suo padre. ‘No, mai lo fate davvero. Quando vi viene chiesto un parere, lo date; quando vi si parla, rispondete. Ma quando il vostro parere non è richiesto e nessuno vi parla, allora non date alcun parere e non parlate affatto. Il mondo è cambiato molto da quando ero giovane. Credo che ormai non esistano più ragazzi: non esiste più una cosa chiamata “ragazzo”; non c’è più nulla, al giorno d’oggi, tra un bambino maschio e un uomo. Tutti i “ragazzi” sono scomparsi insieme alla sua benedetta Maestà, il re Giorgio II.’”

“È un’osservazione molto vera, sempre escludendo i giovani principi,” disse il parroco, che, in quanto rappresentante della chiesa e dello stato in quella compagnia, si considerava obbligato a mantenere la massima lealtà. “Se è giusto e virtuoso che i ragazzi, essendo di età da ragazzi, si comportino come tali, allora anche i giovani principi devono essere ragazzi e non possono essere diversamente.”

“Avete mai sentito parlare delle sirene, signore?” chiese il signor Willet.

“Certo che sì,” rispose il commesso.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Willet. “Secondo le ‘costituzioni’ delle sirene, quella parte di una sirena che non è donna deve essere un pesce. Secondo le ‘costituzioni’ dei giovani principi, quella parte di un giovane principe (se mai ne esiste una) che non è davvero un angelo deve essere pia e giusta. Pertanto, se è appropriato e giusto che i giovani principi siano ragazzi (dato il loro età), allora lo sono e devono esserlo; non possono assolutamente essere altro.”

Questa spiegazione di un punto complicato fu accolta con tali segni di approvazione da mettere John Willet di buon umore; quindi si accontentò di ripetere a suo figlio l’ordine di mantenere il silenzio e, rivolgendosi allo straniero, disse:

“Se aveste posto le vostre domande a una persona adulta – a me o a uno di questi signori – avreste ottenuto delle risposte soddisfacenti e non avreste sprecato il fiato. La signorina Haredale è la nipote del signor Geoffrey Haredale.”

“Suo padre è ancora vivo?” chiese l’uomo, in modo distratto.

“No,” ribatté il proprietario, “non è vivo, e non è morto, ”

“Non è morto!”, gridò l’altro.

“Non morto nel modo normale”, disse il proprietario di casa.

I suoi complici annuirono tra loro, e il signor Parkes commentò con un tono cupo, scuotendo la testa come per dire: “Che nessuno mi contraddica, perché non gli crederò”, che John Willet quella notte aveva una forza incredibile, tale da poter affrontare persino un Cancelliere della Corte Suprema.

Lo sconosciuto fece una breve pausa, poi chiese bruscamente: “Cosa intendi dire?”

“Più di quanto tu possa pensare, amico mio,” rispose John Willet. “Forse quelle parole hanno un significato più profondo di quanto tu immagini.”

“Forse c’è,” disse l’uomo strano in tono brusco; “ma perché diavolo parli in questi termini enigmatici? Prima mi dici che un uomo non è né vivo né morto, poi che non è morto nel senso comune del termine, quindi vuoi dire qualcosa di molto più profondo di quanto io possa capire. A dire il vero, potresti spiegarlo facilmente; ma a mio parere, in realtà non stai dicendo nulla di concreto. Cosa vuoi davvero dire, ripeto?”

“Quella,” rispose il proprietario, un po’ umiliato dall’arroganza dello sconosciuto, “è una storia legata al Maypole. E non viene raccontata da nessuno in questi ventiquattro anni. Quella storia appartiene a Solomon Daisy. Solo lui l’ha mai raccontata sotto questo tetto, e nessun altro lo farà mai, ”

The man glanced at the parish-clerk, whose air of consciousness and importance plainly betokened him to be the person referred to, and, observing that he had taken his pipe from his lips, after a very long whiff to keep it alight, and was evidently about to tell his story without further solicitation, gathered his large coat about him, and shrinking further back was almost lost in the gloom of the spacious chimney-corner, except when the flame, struggling from under a great faggot, whose weight almost crushed it for the time, shot upward with a strong and sudden glare, and illumining his figure for a moment, seemed afterwards to cast it into deeper obscurity than before.

By this flickering light, which made the old room, with its heavy timbers and panelled walls, look as if it were built of polished ebony—the wind roaring and howling without, now rattling the latch and creaking the hinges of the stout oaken door, and now driving at the casement as though it would beat it in—by this light, and under circumstances so auspicious, Solomon Daisy began his tale:

‘It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey’s elder brother—’

Here he came to a dead stop, and made so long a pause that even John Willet grew impatient and asked why he did not proceed.

‘Cobb,’ said Solomon Daisy, dropping his voice and appealing to the post-office keeper; ‘what day of the month is this?’

‘The nineteenth.’

‘Of March,’ said the clerk, bending forward, ‘the nineteenth of March; that’s very strange.’

In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:

‘It was Mr Reuben Haredale, Mr Geoffrey’s elder brother, that twenty-two years ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said—not that you remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can’t do that, but because you have often heard me say so—was then a much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property than it is now. His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one child—the Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about—who was then scarcely a year old.’

Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so much curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expecting some exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter made no remark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was interested in what was said. Solomon therefore turned to his old companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated by the deep red glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long experience, of their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such indecent behaviour.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man, ‘left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place as lonely as this—as I suppose and have always heard say—he suddenly came back again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with him besides, that day, only two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener.’

Mr Daisy stopped to take a whiff at his pipe, which was going out, and then proceeded—at first in a snuffling tone, occasioned by keen enjoyment of the tobacco and strong pulling at the pipe, and afterwards with increasing distinctness:

‘—Bringing with him two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener. The rest stopped behind up in London, and were to follow next day. It happened that that night, an old gentleman who lived at Chigwell Row, and had long been poorly, deceased, and an order came to me at half after twelve o’clock at night to go and toll the passing-bell.’

There was a movement in the little group of listeners, sufficiently indicative of the strong repugnance any one of them would have felt to have turned out at such a time upon such an errand. The clerk felt and understood it, and pursued his theme accordingly.

‘It WAS a dreary thing, especially as the grave-digger was laid up in his bed, from long working in a damp soil and sitting down to take his dinner on cold tombstones, and I was consequently under obligation to go alone, for it was too late to hope to get any other companion. However, I wasn’t unprepared for it; as the old gentleman had often made it a request that the bell should be tolled as soon as possible after the breath was out of his body, and he had been expected to go for some days. I put as good a face upon it as I could, and muffling myself up (for it was mortal cold), started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key of the church in the other.’

At this point of the narrative, the dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned himself to hear more distinctly. Slightly pointing over his shoulder, Solomon elevated his eyebrows and nodded a silent inquiry to Joe whether this was the case. Joe shaded his eyes with his hand and peered into the corner, but could make out nothing, and so shook his head.

‘It was just such a night as this; blowing a hurricane, raining heavily, and very dark—I often think now, darker than I ever saw it before or since; that may be my fancy, but the houses were all close shut and the folks in doors, and perhaps there is only one other man who knows how dark it really was. I got into the church, chained the door back so that it should keep ajar—for, to tell the truth, I didn’t like to be shut in there alone—and putting my lantern on the stone seat in the little corner where the bell-rope is, sat down beside it to trim the candle.

‘I sat down to trim the candle, and when I had done so I could not persuade myself to get up again, and go about my work. I don’t know how it was, but I thought of all the ghost stories I had ever heard, even those that I had heard when I was a boy at school, and had forgotten long ago; and they didn’t come into my mind one after another, but all crowding at once, like. I recollected one story there was in the village, how that on a certain night in the year (it might be that very night for anything I knew), all the dead people came out of the ground and sat at the heads of their own graves till morning. This made me think how many people I had known, were buried between the church-door and the churchyard gate, and what a dreadful thing it would be to have to pass among them and know them again, so earthy and unlike themselves. I had known all the niches and arches in the church from a child; still, I couldn’t persuade myself that those were their natural shadows which I saw on the pavement, but felt sure there were some ugly figures hiding among ‘em and peeping out. Thinking on in this way, I began to think of the old gentleman who was just dead, and I could have sworn, as I looked up the dark chancel, that I saw him in his usual place, wrapping his shroud about him and shivering as if he felt it cold. All this time I sat listening and listening, and hardly dared to breathe. At length I started up and took the bell-rope in my hands. At that minute there rang—not that bell, for I had hardly touched the rope—but another!

‘I heard the ringing of another bell, and a deep bell too, plainly. It was only for an instant, and even then the wind carried the sound away, but I heard it. I listened for a long time, but it rang no more. I had heard of corpse candles, and at last I persuaded myself that this must be a corpse bell tolling of itself at midnight for the dead. I tolled my bell—how, or how long, I don’t know—and ran home to bed as fast as I could touch the ground.

‘I was up early next morning after a restless night, and told the story to my neighbours. Some were serious and some made light of it; I don’t think anybody believed it real. But, that morning, Mr Reuben Haredale was found murdered in his bedchamber; and in his hand was a piece of the cord attached to an alarm-bell outside the roof, which hung in his room and had been cut asunder, no doubt by the murderer, when he seized it.

‘That was the bell I heard.

‘A bureau was found opened, and a cash-box, which Mr Haredale had brought down that day, and was supposed to contain a large sum of money, was gone. The steward and gardener were both missing and both suspected for a long time, but they were never found, though hunted far and wide. And far enough they might have looked for poor Mr Rudge the steward, whose body—scarcely to be recognised by his clothes and the watch and ring he wore—was found, months afterwards, at the bottom of a piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast where he had been stabbed with a knife. He was only partly dressed; and people all agreed that he had been sitting up reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood, and was suddenly fallen upon and killed before his master.

Everybody now knew that the gardener must be the murderer, and though he has never been heard of from that day to this, he will be, mark my words. The crime was committed this day two-and-twenty years—on the nineteenth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three. On the nineteenth of March in some year—no matter when—I know it, I am sure of it, for we have always, in some strange way or other, been brought back to the subject on that day ever since—on the nineteenth of March in some year, sooner or later, that man will be discovered.’

L’uomo gettò un’occhiata al parrocchiano, il cui atteggiamento compunto e solenne indicava chiaramente che si trattasse della persona di cui si parlava. Notando che aveva tolto la pipa dalle labbra dopo averne tirato una lunga boccata per mantenerla accesa, e che evidentemente stava per raccontare la sua storia senza ulteriori sollecitazioni, si avvolse meglio nel suo grande cappotto e si ritirò ancora di più nell’oscurità dell’angolo del camino. Solo quando la fiamma, lottando sotto un enorme mucchio di legna che per un momento sembrava schiacciarla, si alzò improvvisamente con un bagliore intenso, illuminando per un attimo la sua figura, questa sembrò poi immergersi ancora più nella penombra di prima.

A causa di questa luce tremolante, che rendeva quella vecchia stanza, con i suoi pesanti travi e pareti rivestite di pannelli, sembrare costruita in ebano lucido, il vento ruggiva e ululava, facendo ora tintinnare la serratura e scricchiolare le cerniere della robusta porta di quercia, ora colpendola con forza come se volesse sfondarla. Alla luce di questa lampada, e in circostanze così propizie, Solomon Daisy iniziò il suo racconto.

“Era il signor Reuben Haredale, il fratello maggiore del signor Geoffrey, ”

Si fermò completamente, facendo una pausa così lunga che persino John Willet iniziò ad impazientirsi e chiese perché non continuasse.

“Cobb,” disse Solomon Daisy, abbassando la voce e rivolgendosi al custode dell’ufficio postale; “in quale giorno del mese ci troviamo?”

“Il diciannovesimo”.

“Di marzo,” disse il commesso, chinandosi in avanti, “il diciannovesimo di marzo. È molto strano.”

“In un sussurro, tutti acconsentirono, e Solomon proseguì, ”

Era il signor Reuben Haredale, fratello maggiore del signor Geoffrey, che ventidue anni fa era il proprietario della tenuta di Warren. Come ha detto Joe, anche se probabilmente non te ne ricordi, Joe, perché un ragazzo come te non può ricordare certe cose, comunque, hai spesso sentito me dire che all’epoca quella tenuta era molto più grande e meglio curata, e rappresentava una proprietà molto più preziosa di quanto non sia ora. Sua moglie era appena morta, e gli era rimasta una sola figlia, la signorina Haredale di cui hai fatto domande, che all’epoca aveva appena un anno.

Sebbene il parlante si rivolgesse all’uomo che aveva mostrato tanta curiosità riguardo a questa stessa famiglia, e fece una pausa come se aspettasse qualche esclamazione di sorpresa o incoraggiamento, quest’ultimo non pronunciò alcuna osservazione, né diede segno di aver sentito o di essere interessato a ciò che era stato detto. Pertanto, Solomon si rivolse ai suoi vecchi compagni, i cui volti erano illuminati dal rosso intenso del fumo delle loro pipe; fiducioso, grazie alla lunga esperienza, della loro attenzione, decise di esprimere il proprio disappunto per un comportamento così indecente.

“Signor Haredale,” disse Solomon, voltando le spalle all’uomo strano, “lasciò questo posto quando sua moglie morì; trovandolo molto solitario, si recò a Londra, dove rimase per alcuni mesi. Ma scoprendo che anche quella città era altrettanto desolata – come presumo e ho sempre sentito dire – tornò improvvisamente qui con sua figlia, portando con sé soltanto due domestiche, il suo maggiordomo e un giardiniere.”

Il signor Daisy si fermò per annusare la sua pipa, che stava per spegnersi, e poi continuò a fumare: all’inizio con un tono nasale, dovuto al piacere intenso di fumare il tabacco e alle forti tirate alla pipa; in seguito, sempre più chiaramente.

‘–Portava con sé due donne di servizio, il suo maggiordomo e un giardiniere. Gli altri rimasero a Londra e avrebbero dovuto seguirlo il giorno dopo. Quella notte, un anziano signore che viveva a Chigwell Row e da tempo era malato, morì; verso le dodici e mezza di notte ricevetti l’ordine di andare a suonare la campana per i defunti.’

Ci fu un movimento nel piccolo gruppo di ascoltatori, sufficientemente indicativo del forte disgusto che ognuno di loro avrebbe provato se si fosse trovato in quella situazione a quell’ora e per quel compito. Il impiegato lo percepì e lo capì, e proseguì quindi nel suo discorso di conseguenza.

‘Era davvero una situazione triste, soprattutto perché il sepoltore era costretto a rimanere a letto a causa dei lunghi lavori nel terreno umido; inoltre, doveva sedersi sui freddi monumenti funebri per mangiare la cena. Per questo motivo ero costretto ad andare da solo, poiché era ormai troppo tardi per trovare un altro compagno. Tuttavia, non ero del tutto impreparato: l’anziano signore aveva spesso chiesto che la campana venisse suonata il prima possibile dopo la sua morte, e si prevedeva che sarebbe passato qualche giorno prima che accadesse. Cercai di mantenere un atteggiamento sereno, mi avvolsi bene nei vestiti (poiché faceva un freddo terribile) e partii, tenendo in una mano una lanterna accesa e nell’altra la chiave della chiesa.’

In questo punto della narrazione, l’abito dell’uomo misterioso frusciò, come se si fosse girato per ascoltare più chiaramente. Solomon, indicando leggermente oltre la propria spalla e alzando le sopracciglia, fece un cenno silenzioso a Joe per chiedergli se fosse davvero così. Joe si schermò gli occhi con la mano e guardò nella direzione indicata, ma non riuscì a vedere nulla e scosse quindi la testa.

‘Era proprio una notte come questa: c’era un uragano in corso, pioveva a dirotto e faceva molto buio. Spesso penso che fosse ancora più scuro di quanto l’abbia mai visto prima o da allora; forse è solo una mia impressione, ma tutte le case erano chiuse a chiave e la gente si trovava al sicuro dentro. Forse c’è solo un altro uomo che sappia quanto fosse davvero buio. Sono entrato in chiesa, ho chiuso a chiave la porta lasciandola leggermente aperta. Per dire la verità, non mi piaceva rimanere lì dentro da solo. Ho posizionato la mia lanterna sul sedile di pietra nell’angolino dove si trova la corda del campanello e mi sono seduto accanto a essa per accorciare la candela.’

“Mi sedetti per accorciare la candela, e una volta fatto questo non riuscii a convincermi di alzarmi di nuovo e riprendere il mio lavoro. Non so come sia successo, ma mi vennero in mente tutte le storie di fantasmi che avevo mai sentito, anche quelle che ascoltavo da bambino a scuola e che avevo dimenticato da tempo; non arrivarono una dopo l’altra nella mia mente, ma tutte insieme, contemporaneamente. Ricordai una storia che si raccontava nel villaggio: in una certa notte di quell’anno (forse proprio quella stessa notte, chissà), tutti i morti uscivano dalla terra e si sedevano ai piedi delle loro tombe fino all’alba. Questo mi fece pensare a quante persone conoscevo che erano sepolte tra la porta della chiesa e il cancello del cimitero. E quanto sarebbe terribile dover passare in mezzo a loro e riconoscerle di nuovo, così “terrene” e diverse da come erano un tempo. Conoscevo tutte le nicchie e gli archi presenti nella chiesa fin da quando ero bambino; tuttavia non riuscivo a convincermi che quelle ombre che vedevo sul selciato fossero semplicemente le loro ombre naturali. Ero sicura che ci fossero delle figure orribili nascoste tra di esse, che sbirciavano fuori. Pensando in questo modo, iniziai a pensare al vecchio signore che era appena morto. Avrei potuto giurare che, guardando verso l’oscura navata della chiesa, lo vedevo nel suo solito posto, avvolto nella sua bara e tremante, come se facesse freddo. Per tutto questo tempo rimasi seduta ad ascoltare, senza quasi osare respirare. Alla fine mi alzai e presi in mano la corda del campanello. In quel momento suonò. Non quella campanella, perché non avevo nemmeno toccato la corda. Ma un’altra!”

“Sentii il suono di un altro campanello, e anche di uno molto profondo. Fu solo per un istante; poi il vento portò via quel suono, ma l’avevo sentito davvero. Ascoltai a lungo, ma non risuonò più. Avevo già sentito parlare delle ‘candele dei morti’, e alla fine mi convinsi che si trattasse sicuramente del campanello di un cadavere che suona da solo a mezzanotte per i defunti. Suonai il mio campanello, come, e per quanto tempo, non lo so. Poi corsi a casa e andai a letto il più in fretta possibile.”

‘La mattina seguente mi alzai presto, dopo una notte inquieta, e raccontai la storia ai miei vicini. Alcuni la presero sul serio, altri la trovarono ridicola; non credo che nessuno ci abbia creduto davvero. Ma quella stessa mattina, il signor Reuben Haredale fu trovato assassinato nella sua camera da letto; nelle sue mani c’era un pezzo di corda collegata a una campanella d’allarme situata sul tetto, che pendeva nella sua stanza e che era stata tagliata, senza alcun dubbio dal assassino quando l’aveva afferrata.’

“Era proprio quella la campanella che ho sentito.”

Fu trovato un ufficio aperto; una cassaforte che il signor Haredale aveva portato lì quel giorno e che avrebbe dovuto contenere una grande somma di denaro era scomparsa. Sia lo steward che il giardiniere erano entrambi dispersi e per molto tempo furono sospettati, ma non furono mai trovati, nonostante le ricerche approfondite. E in effetti, si potrebbe dire che le ricerche fossero state fatte abbastanza a fondo. Il povero signor Rudge, lo steward, fu infatti ritrovato, mesi dopo, sul fondo di un corso d’acqua nei terreni della proprietà; il suo corpo – a malapena riconoscibile dai vestiti che indossava, dall’orologio e dal anello che portava – presentava una profonda ferita al petto, causata da un colpo di coltello. Era vestito solo in parte; tutti concordarono sul fatto che fosse stato seduto nella sua stanza a leggere, dove si trovavano molte tracce di sangue. E che fosse stato improvvisamente assalito e ucciso prima ancora del suo padrone.

Ora tutti sapevano che il giardiniere doveva essere l’assassino; e anche se da quel giorno in poi non si è più sentito parlare di lui, lui verrà scoperto, credetemi. Il crimine è stato commesso ventidue anni fa, il diciannovesimo marzo mille settecentocinquantatré. Il diciannovesimo marzo, in un anno qualsiasi, non importa quando. Lo so con certezza, perché da allora siamo sempre tornati, in qualche modo strano, sull’argomento ogni volta che arriva quel giorno. Prima o poi, quell’uomo verrà scoperto.

Chapter 2

‘A strange story!’ said the man who had been the cause of the narration.—‘Stranger still if it comes about as you predict. Is that all?’

A question so unexpected, nettled Solomon Daisy not a little. By dint of relating the story very often, and ornamenting it (according to village report) with a few flourishes suggested by the various hearers from time to time, he had come by degrees to tell it with great effect; and ‘Is that all?’ after the climax, was not what he was accustomed to.

‘Is that all?’ he repeated, ‘yes, that’s all, sir. And enough too, I think.’

‘I think so too. My horse, young man! He is but a hack hired from a roadside posting house, but he must carry me to London to-night.’

‘To-night!’ said Joe.

‘To-night,’ returned the other. ‘What do you stare at? This tavern would seem to be a house of call for all the gaping idlers of the neighbourhood!’

At this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny he had undergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of John Willet and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity to the copper boiler again. Not so with Joe, who, being a mettlesome fellow, returned the stranger’s angry glance with a steady look, and rejoined:

‘It is not a very bold thing to wonder at your going on to-night. Surely you have been asked such a harmless question in an inn before, and in better weather than this. I thought you mightn’t know the way, as you seem strange to this part.’

‘The way—’ repeated the other, irritably.

‘Yes. DO you know it?’

‘I’ll—humph!—I’ll find it,’ replied the man, waving his hand and turning on his heel. ‘Landlord, take the reckoning here.’

John Willet did as he was desired; for on that point he was seldom slow, except in the particulars of giving change, and testing the goodness of any piece of coin that was proffered to him, by the application of his teeth or his tongue, or some other test, or in doubtful cases, by a long series of tests terminating in its rejection. The guest then wrapped his garments about him so as to shelter himself as effectually as he could from the rough weather, and without any word or sign of farewell betook himself to the stableyard. Here Joe (who had left the room on the conclusion of their short dialogue) was protecting himself and the horse from the rain under the shelter of an old penthouse roof.

‘He’s pretty much of my opinion,’ said Joe, patting the horse upon the neck. ‘I’ll wager that your stopping here to-night would please him better than it would please me.’

‘He and I are of different opinions, as we have been more than once on our way here,’ was the short reply.

‘So I was thinking before you came out, for he has felt your spurs, poor beast.’

The stranger adjusted his coat-collar about his face, and made no answer.

‘You’ll know me again, I see,’ he said, marking the young fellow’s earnest gaze, when he had sprung into the saddle.

‘The man’s worth knowing, master, who travels a road he don’t know, mounted on a jaded horse, and leaves good quarters to do it on such a night as this.’

‘You have sharp eyes and a sharp tongue, I find.’

‘Both I hope by nature, but the last grows rusty sometimes for want of using.’

‘Use the first less too, and keep their sharpness for your sweethearts, boy,’ said the man.

So saying he shook his hand from the bridle, struck him roughly on the head with the butt end of his whip, and galloped away; dashing through the mud and darkness with a headlong speed, which few badly mounted horsemen would have cared to venture, even had they been thoroughly acquainted with the country; and which, to one who knew nothing of the way he rode, was attended at every step with great hazard and danger.

The roads, even within twelve miles of London, were at that time ill paved, seldom repaired, and very badly made. The way this rider traversed had been ploughed up by the wheels of heavy waggons, and rendered rotten by the frosts and thaws of the preceding winter, or possibly of many winters. Great holes and gaps had been worn into the soil, which, being now filled with water from the late rains, were not easily distinguishable even by day; and a plunge into any one of them might have brought down a surer-footed horse than the poor beast now urged forward to the utmost extent of his powers. Sharp flints and stones rolled from under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely see beyond the animal’s head, or farther on either side than his own arm would have extended. At that time, too, all the roads in the neighbourhood of the metropolis were infested by footpads or highwaymen, and it was a night, of all others, in which any evil-disposed person of this class might have pursued his unlawful calling with little fear of detection.

Still, the traveller dashed forward at the same reckless pace, regardless alike of the dirt and wet which flew about his head, the profound darkness of the night, and the probability of encountering some desperate characters abroad. At every turn and angle, even where a deviation from the direct course might have been least expected, and could not possibly be seen until he was close upon it, he guided the bridle with an unerring hand, and kept the middle of the road. Thus he sped onward, raising himself in the stirrups, leaning his body forward until it almost touched the horse’s neck, and flourishing his heavy whip above his head with the fervour of a madman.

There are times when, the elements being in unusual commotion, those who are bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by great thoughts, whether of good or evil, feel a mysterious sympathy with the tumult of nature, and are roused into corresponding violence. In the midst of thunder, lightning, and storm, many tremendous deeds have been committed; men, self-possessed before, have given a sudden loose to passions they could no longer control. The demons of wrath and despair have striven to emulate those who ride the whirlwind and direct the storm; and man, lashed into madness with the roaring winds and boiling waters, has become for the time as wild and merciless as the elements themselves.

Capitolo 2

“Una storia strana!” disse l’uomo che aveva scatenato quella narrazione. “Ancora più strana se dovesse avverarsi come predici. È tutto?”

Una domanda così inaspettata mise davvero a disagio Solomon Daisy. Grazie al fatto che raccontava quella storia molto spesso e la arricchiva (secondo quanto riferito dal villaggio) con alcuni dettagli suggeriti dai vari ascoltatori nel corso del tempo, era riuscito gradualmente a raccontarla in modo molto efficace; ma “E basta così?” dopo il culmine non era certo ciò a cui era abituato.

“È tutto?” ripeté, “Sì, è tutto, signore. E credo anche abbastanza.”

“Anch’io lo penso. Il mio cavallo, giovane uomo! È solo un vecchio ronzino preso in affitto da una stazione di posta lungo la strada, ma deve portarmi a )Londra entro stanotte.”

“Per la notte!” disse Joe.

“Di notte,” rispose l’altro. “A cosa stai fissando? Questa taverna sembrerebbe proprio una casa di piacere per tutti quei vagabondi che gironzolano per il quartiere, ”

Alla menzione di questo fatto, che evidentemente si riferiva all’ispezione a cui era stato sottoposto, come accennato nel capitolo precedente, gli occhi di John Willet e dei suoi amici si rivolsero nuovamente verso la caldaia di rame con straordinaria rapidità. Non lo stesso per Joe, che, essendo un tipo deciso, ricambiò lo sguardo arrabbiato dello sconosciuto con uno altrettanto fermo e replicò:

‘Non è certo una cosa molto audace meravigliarsi del fatto che tu vada avanti fino a notte. Sicuramente in un ostello ti sono stati posti domande del genere in passato, e in condizioni meteorologiche migliori di queste. Pensavo che forse non conoscessi la strada, visto che sembri estraneo a questa zona.’

“Quel modo, ” ripeté l’altro, con irritazione.

“Sì. Lo sai?”

“Lo troverò, ”, rispose l’uomo, agitando la mano e girandosi sui tacchi. “Padrone di casa, paghi tu il conto.”

John Willet fece ciò che gli era stato chiesto; in questo senso raramente si dimostrava lento, tranne quando si trattava di dare il resto o di verificare la validità delle monete che gli venivano presentate, utilizzando i denti, la lingua o altri metodi di controllo. In caso di dubbi, effettuava una lunga serie di controlli prima di rifiutare la moneta. Il cliente poi si avvolse nei propri vestiti per proteggersi il meglio possibile dal maltempo e, senza dire una parola o fare un gesto d’addio, si diresse verso il cortile delle stalle. Lì, Joe (che aveva lasciato la stanza alla fine del loro breve dialogo) si riparava dalla pioggia insieme al cavallo sotto il tetto di un vecchio capanno.

“È più o meno della mia stessa opinione,” disse Joe, accarezzando il collo del cavallo. “Scommetto che fermarsi qui per la notte gli farebbe più piacere di quanto non farebbe piacere a me.”

“Lui ed io abbiamo opinioni diverse, visto che più di una volta siamo stati sulla stessa strada per arrivare qui,” fu la breve risposta.

“Mentre aspettavo il tuo arrivo, pensavo proprio a questo, perché ha sentito la pressione delle tue ‘spore’, povero animale.”

Lo sconosciuto sistemò il bavero del suo cappotto intorno al viso e non rispose affatto.

“Mi riconoscerai di nuovo, vedo,” disse, notando lo sguardo serio del giovane mentre questi montava a cavallo.

“Quell’uomo merita di essere conosciuto, padrone: viaggia su una strada che non conosce, montato su un vecchio e stanco cavallo, e abbandona quartieri sicuri per farlo in una notte come questa.”

“Hai occhi acuti e una lingua tagliente, devo dire.”

“Spero che entrambi funzionino per natura, ma a volte il secondo si arrugginisce a causa della mancanza di uso.”

“Usa anche il primo meno, e conserva la loro affilatazza per le tue amate, ragazzo,” disse l’uomo.

Si dice che gli abbia stretto la mano sulla briglia, poi lo abbia colpito rudemente in testa con l’estremità della frusta e sia partito al galoppo; attraversando fango e oscurità a una velocità tale che pochi cavalieri mal montati avrebbero osato tentare, anche se fossero stati perfettamente familiari con la zona; per chi non conosceva affatto il modo in cui cavalcava, ogni passo rappresentava un grande rischio.

Le strade, anche entro i dodici miglia da Londra, a quell’epoca erano mal lastricate, raramente riparate e di scarsa qualità. Il percorso che il cavaliere stava attraversando era stato devastato dalle ruote dei pesanti carri e reso rovinoso dai geli e dai disgeli dell’inverno precedente, o forse di molti inverni successivi. Grandi buche e crepe si erano formate nel terreno; ora riempite d’acqua a causa delle piogge recenti, non erano facilmente distinguibili nemmeno di giorno; un passo falso avrebbe potuto far cadere anche il cavallo più robusto. Sotto gli zoccoli del cavallo rotolavano continuamente schegge di pietra e ciottoli; al cavaliere riusciva a malapena a vedere oltre la testa dell’animale, o più lontano dei limiti della propria portata di braccio. A quell’epoca, inoltre, tutte le strade nei dintorni della metropoli erano infestate da banditi e predoni; e quella notte, più di ogni altra, una persona malintenzionata avrebbe potuto compiere i propri atti illeciti senza temere alcuna rivelazione.

Tuttavia, il viaggiatore continuava ad avanzare con lo stesso ritmo sconsiderato, senza curarsi della polvere e dell’acqua che gli volavano intorno alla testa, dell’oscurità profonda della notte, né del rischio di incontrare individui pericolosi lungo la strada. A ogni svolta, anche in quei punti dove una deviazione dal percorso diretto sarebbe stata meno prevista e impossibile da notare fino a quando non ci si fosse trovati vicini, guidava le redini con mano infallibile, mantenendosi sempre al centro della strada. Così procedeva, sollevandosi sulle staffe, inclinando il proprio -corpo in avanti fino a toccare quasi il collo del cavallo, e brandendo con forza il suo pesante frustino sopra la testa, con l’entusiasmo di un pazzo.

Ci sono momenti in cui, quando gli elementi si trovano in uno stato di agitazione insolita, coloro che sono determinati a compiere imprese audaci o che sono turbati da grandi pensieri, sia positivi che negativi, provano una misteriosa simpatia per il tumulto della natura e vengono spinti ad agire con violenza. Nel mezzo di tuoni, fulmini e tempeste, sono stati compiuti molti atti straordinari; uomini che in precedenza erano padroni di sé hanno improvvisamente lasciato che le loro passioni prendessero il sopravvento, diventando incapaci di controllarle. I demoni della rabbia e del disperio hanno cercato di emulare coloro che cavalcano i tornado e guidano le tempeste; l’uomo, travolto da venti furiosi e acque ribollenti, diventa per quel momento altrettanto selvaggio e spietato quanto gli stessi elementi.

Whether the traveller was possessed by thoughts which the fury of the night had heated and stimulated into a quicker current, or was merely impelled by some strong motive to reach his journey’s end, on he swept more like a hunted phantom than a man, nor checked his pace until, arriving at some cross roads, one of which led by a longer route to the place whence he had lately started, he bore down so suddenly upon a vehicle which was coming towards him, that in the effort to avoid it he well-nigh pulled his horse upon his haunches, and narrowly escaped being thrown.

‘Yoho!’ cried the voice of a man. ‘What’s that? Who goes there?’

‘A friend!’ replied the traveller.

‘A friend!’ repeated the voice. ‘Who calls himself a friend and rides like that, abusing Heaven’s gifts in the shape of horseflesh, and endangering, not only his own neck (which might be no great matter) but the necks of other people?’

‘You have a lantern there, I see,’ said the traveller dismounting, ‘lend it me for a moment. You have wounded my horse, I think, with your shaft or wheel.’

‘Wounded him!’ cried the other, ‘if I haven’t killed him, it’s no fault of yours. What do you mean by galloping along the king’s highway like that, eh?’

‘Give me the light,’ returned the traveller, snatching it from his hand, ‘and don’t ask idle questions of a man who is in no mood for talking.’

‘If you had said you were in no mood for talking before, I should perhaps have been in no mood for lighting,’ said the voice. ‘Hows’ever as it’s the poor horse that’s damaged and not you, one of you is welcome to the light at all events—but it’s not the crusty one.’

The traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the light near to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb and carcass. Meanwhile, the other man sat very composedly in his vehicle, which was a kind of chaise with a depository for a large bag of tools, and watched his proceedings with a careful eye.

The looker-on was a round, red-faced, sturdy yeoman, with a double chin, and a voice husky with good living, good sleeping, good humour, and good health. He was past the prime of life, but Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour. With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.

The person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of this kind: bluff, hale, hearty, and in a green old age: at peace with himself, and evidently disposed to be so with all the world. Although muffled up in divers coats and handkerchiefs—one of which, passed over his crown, and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin, secured his three-cornered hat and bob-wig from blowing off his head—there was no disguising his plump and comfortable figure; neither did certain dirty finger-marks upon his face give it any other than an odd and comical expression, through which its natural good humour shone with undiminished lustre.

‘He is not hurt,’ said the traveller at length, raising his head and the lantern together.

‘You have found that out at last, have you?’ rejoined the old man. ‘My eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn’t change with you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mean! I could have told you he wasn’t hurt, five minutes ago. Give me the light, friend; ride forward at a gentler pace; and good night.’

In handing up the lantern, the man necessarily cast its rays full on the speaker’s face. Their eyes met at the instant. He suddenly dropped it and crushed it with his foot.

‘Did you never see a locksmith before, that you start as if you had come upon a ghost?’ cried the old man in the chaise, ‘or is this,’ he added hastily, thrusting his hand into the tool basket and drawing out a hammer, ‘a scheme for robbing me? I know these roads, friend. When I travel them, I carry nothing but a few shillings, and not a crown’s worth of them. I tell you plainly, to save us both trouble, that there’s nothing to be got from me but a pretty stout arm considering my years, and this tool, which, mayhap from long acquaintance with, I can use pretty briskly. You shall not have it all your own way, I promise you, if you play at that game. With these words he stood upon the defensive.

‘I am not what you take me for, Gabriel Varden,’ replied the other.

‘Then what and who are you?’ returned the locksmith. ‘You know my name, it seems. Let me know yours.’

‘I have not gained the information from any confidence of yours, but from the inscription on your cart which tells it to all the town,’ replied the traveller.

‘You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse, then,’ said Varden, descending nimbly from his chaise; ‘who are you? Let me see your face.’

While the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his saddle, from which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as the horse moved in chafing under the tightened rein, kept close beside him.

‘Let me see your face, I say.’

‘Stand off!’

‘No masquerading tricks,’ said the locksmith, ‘and tales at the club to-morrow, how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice and a dark night. Stand—let me see your face.’

Finding that further resistance would only involve him in a personal struggle with an antagonist by no means to be despised, the traveller threw back his coat, and stooping down looked steadily at the locksmith.

Perhaps two men more powerfully contrasted, never opposed each other face to face. The ruddy features of the locksmith so set off and heightened the excessive paleness of the man on horseback, that he looked like a bloodless ghost, while the moisture, which hard riding had brought out upon his skin, hung there in dark and heavy drops, like dews of agony and death. The countenance of the old locksmith lighted up with the smile of one expecting to detect in this unpromising stranger some latent roguery of eye or lip, which should reveal a familiar person in that arch disguise, and spoil his jest. The face of the other, sullen and fierce, but shrinking too, was that of a man who stood at bay; while his firmly closed jaws, his puckered mouth, and more than all a certain stealthy motion of the hand within his breast, seemed to announce a desperate purpose very foreign to acting, or child’s play.

Che il viaggiatore fosse posseduto da pensieri che la furia della notte aveva intensificato e accelerato, o che fosse semplicemente spinto da un forte motivo a raggiungere la fine del suo viaggio, continuò ad avanzare più come un fantasma in fuga che come un uomo. Non rallentò il passo fino a quando, arrivato in una serie di incrocio, non vide uno dei sentieri che conduceva, attraverso una strada più lunga, al luogo da cui era partito poco prima. Allora si precipitò verso un veicolo che gli veniva incontro; nel tentativo di evitarlo, rischiò seriamente di far cadere il proprio cavallo e per poco non fu sbalzato a terra.

“Yoho!”, gridò una voce maschile. “Che cos’è? Chi c’è là?”

“Un amico!”, rispose il viaggiatore.

“Un amico!” ripeté la voce. “Chi si definisce amico e viaggia in quel modo, abusando dei doni del Cielo sotto forma di carne equina, mettendo a rischio non solo la propria vita (che forse non è così importante), ma anche quelle degli altri?”

“Vedo che hai una lanterna lì,” disse il viaggiatore scendendo da cavallo, “me la presti per un momento, per favore. Credo che tu abbia ferito il mio cavallo con il tuo bastone o la tua Ruota.”

“Lo avete ferito!”, gridò l’altro, “se non l’ho ucciso, non è certo colpa vostra. Cosa significa correre in quel modo lungo la strada reale, eh?”

“Dammi la luce,” rispose il viaggiatore, strappandogliela di mano, “e non pormi domande inutili a uno che non ha voglia di parlare.”

“Se prima avessi detto di non avere voglia di parlare, forse nemmeno io avrei voluto accendere la luce,” disse la voce. “Comunque, poiché è il povero cavallo ad essere danneggiato e non tu, uno di voi può comunque venire alla luce, ma non quello scorbutico.”

Il viaggiatore non rispose a questo discorso, ma tenendo la luce vicino alla sua bestia ansimante e puzzolente, la esaminò attentamente in ogni parte. Nel frattempo, l’altro uomo sedeva molto compostamente nel suo veicolo, che era una sorta di carrozza munita di un vano per contenere un grande sacco di attrezzi, e osservava con attenzione le sue azioni.

Lo spettatore era un uomo robusto, dal viso rotondo e rosso, con una doppia mandibola; la sua voce era rauca, ma questo derivava da una vita agiata, dal sonno sufficiente, da un buon umore e da una buona salute. Era ormai oltre l’apice della vita, ma il Padre Tempo non è sempre un genitore severo: sebbene non aspetti nessuno dei suoi figli, spesso pone la sua “mano” con dolcezza su coloro che lo hanno servito bene; li fa invecchiare inevitabilmente, ma lascia i loro cuori e le loro menti giovani e pieni di vigore. Per persone del genere, i capelli grigi non sono altro che il segno della benedizione che il tempo ha voluto concedere loro, e ogni ruga rappresenta soltanto un’altra pagina di quella tranquilla “calendario” di una vita ben vissuta.

La persona che il viaggiatore aveva incontrato così all’improvviso era di questo tipo: robusta, sana, energica, e in un’età avanzata ma ancora vitale; serena con se stessa, e chiaramente disposta ad essere tale anche con tutto il mondo. Sebbene fosse avvolta in diversi cappotti e fazzoletti – uno dei quali le passava sopra la testa ed era legato attorno al suo doppio mento, per tenere ferma la sua bombetta a tre angoli e i suoi baffi posticci – non c’era modo di nascondere la sua figura robusta e comoda; né alcune macchie sporche sul suo viso potevano alterarne l’espressione, che rimaneva strana ma comica, permettendo al suo naturale buon umore di brillare senza alcun ostacolo.

“Non è ferito,” disse finalmente il viaggiatore, alzando la testa insieme alla lanterna.

“Finalmente l’hai scoperto, vero?” ribatté l’uomo anziano. “I miei occhi hanno visto più cose di te, ma non vorrei scambiarli con i tuoi.”

“Cosa intendi dire?”

“Maledetto! Avrei potuto dirti cinque minuti fa che non era ferito. Dammi la luce, amico; procedi più lentamente. E buona notte.”

Mentre consegnava la lanterna, l’uomo fece in modo che i suoi raggi illuminassero completamente il viso del parlante. I loro sguardi si incrociarono in quell’istante. Lui all’improvviso la lasciò cadere e la schiacciò con il piede.

“Non hai mai visto un fabbro prima d’ora, per caso? Cominci proprio come se avessi incontrato un fantasma, ” gridò l’uomo anziano nella sua carrozzina. “Oppure, questa è forse una trappola per derubarmi?” aggiunse in fretta, infilando la mano nel cestino degli attrezzi e tirando fuori un martello. “Conosco bene queste strade: quando vi viaggio, non porto con me altro che qualche scellino, niente di valore, nemmeno una corona! Te lo dico chiaramente, per evitare problemi a entrambi: da me non potrai ottenere nulla, se non un braccio abbastanza forte, considerando la mia età, e questi attrezzi, che forse uso con troppa familiarità, ma comunque con notevole destrezza. Te lo prometto: non avrai la meglio in questo gioco, ” Con queste parole, assunse una posizione difensiva.

“Non sono quello che pensi di me, Gabriel Varden,” rispose l’altro.

“Allora, chi sei e cosa fai?” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Sembra che tu conosca il mio nome. Dimmi il tuo.”

“Non ho ottenuto queste informazioni grazie alla tua fiducia, ma attraverso l’iscrizione presente sul tuo carretto, che la rivela a tutta la città,” rispose il viaggiatore.

“Allora hai occhi migliori per queste cose di quanto ne avessi per il tuo cavallo,” disse Varden, scendendo agilmente dalla sua poltrona a rotelle; “chi sei? Lasciami vedere il tuo viso.”

Mentre il fabbro delle chiavi scendeva da cavallo, il viaggiatore aveva già ripreso la sua sella; ora si trovava di fronte all’uomo anziano, che, muovendosi insieme al cavallo che si agitava sotto le redini tese, rimaneva sempre accanto a lui.

“Fammi vedere il tuo viso, dico io.”

“Tenetevi alla larga!”

“Nessun trucco o mascherata,” disse il fabbro chiave, “e domani al club ci saranno storie su come Gabriel Varden sia stato spaventato da una voce scura e da una notte buia. Fermati un attimo – lasciami vedere il tuo viso.”

Riconoscendo che ulteriori resistenze lo avrebbero solo coinvolto in uno scontro personale con un avversario tutt’altro che da disprezzare, il viaggiatore si tolse il cappotto e, chinandosi, fissò attentamente il fabbro chiave.

Forse non esistevano due uomini più diversi tra loro, mai così opposti l’uno all’altro di fronte a faccia. I tratti rossi del fabbro chiave mettevano in risalto ancora di più la pallidezza eccessiva dell’uomo a cavallo; sembrava davvero un fantasma senza sangue. La umidità prodotta dal lungo viaggio a cavallo si era accumulata sulla sua pelle, formando gocce scure e dense, come rugiada di dolore e morte. Il volto del vecchio fabbro chiave brillava di un sorriso, come se aspettasse di scoprire in quel sconosciuto poco promettente qualche trucco o inganno nascosto, che potesse rivelare la vera natura di quella persona sotto quell’assurda mascherata. Il volto dell’altro, cupo e feroce, ma allo stesso tempo timoroso, era quello di un uomo messo alle strette; le sue mascelle serrate, la bocca contratta, soprattutto quel movimento furtivo della mano sul petto, sembravano indicare uno scopo disperato, molto lontano dall’essere una semplice finzione o un gioco da bambino.

Thus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.

‘Humph!’ he said when he had scanned his features; ‘I don’t know you.’

‘Don’t desire to?’—returned the other, muffling himself as before.

‘I don’t,’ said Gabriel; ‘to be plain with you, friend, you don’t carry in your countenance a letter of recommendation.’

‘It’s not my wish,’ said the traveller. ‘My humour is to be avoided.’

‘Well,’ said the locksmith bluntly, ‘I think you’ll have your humour.’

‘I will, at any cost,’ rejoined the traveller. ‘In proof of it, lay this to heart—that you were never in such peril of your life as you have been within these few moments; when you are within five minutes of breathing your last, you will not be nearer death than you have been to-night!’

‘Aye!’ said the sturdy locksmith.

‘Aye! and a violent death.’

‘From whose hand?’

‘From mine,’ replied the traveller.

With that he put spurs to his horse, and rode away; at first plashing heavily through the mire at a smart trot, but gradually increasing in speed until the last sound of his horse’s hoofs died away upon the wind; when he was again hurrying on at the same furious gallop, which had been his pace when the locksmith first encountered him.

Gabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken lantern in his hand, listening in stupefied silence until no sound reached his ear but the moaning of the wind, and the fast-falling rain; when he struck himself one or two smart blows in the breast by way of rousing himself, and broke into an exclamation of surprise.

‘What in the name of wonder can this fellow be! a madman? a highwayman? a cut-throat? If he had not scoured off so fast, we’d have seen who was in most danger, he or I. I never nearer death than I have been to-night! I hope I may be no nearer to it for a score of years to come—if so, I’ll be content to be no farther from it. My stars!—a pretty brag this to a stout man—pooh, pooh!’

Gabriel resumed his seat, and looked wistfully up the road by which the traveller had come; murmuring in a half whisper:

‘The Maypole—two miles to the Maypole. I came the other road from the Warren after a long day’s work at locks and bells, on purpose that I should not come by the Maypole and break my promise to Martha by looking in—there’s resolution! It would be dangerous to go on to London without a light; and it’s four miles, and a good half mile besides, to the Halfway-House; and between this and that is the very place where one needs a light most. Two miles to the Maypole! I told Martha I wouldn’t; I said I wouldn’t, and I didn’t—there’s resolution!’

Repeating these two last words very often, as if to compensate for the little resolution he was going to show by piquing himself on the great resolution he had shown, Gabriel Varden quietly turned back, determining to get a light at the Maypole, and to take nothing but a light.

When he got to the Maypole, however, and Joe, responding to his well-known hail, came running out to the horse’s head, leaving the door open behind him, and disclosing a delicious perspective of warmth and brightness—when the ruddy gleam of the fire, streaming through the old red curtains of the common room, seemed to bring with it, as part of itself, a pleasant hum of voices, and a fragrant odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped as it were in the cheerful glow—when the shadows, flitting across the curtain, showed that those inside had risen from their snug seats, and were making room in the snuggest corner (how well he knew that corner!) for the honest locksmith, and a broad glare, suddenly streaming up, bespoke the goodness of the crackling log from which a brilliant train of sparks was doubtless at that moment whirling up the chimney in honour of his coming—when, superadded to these enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle sound of frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a savoury smell that made even the boisterous wind a perfume—Gabriel felt his firmness oozing rapidly away. He tried to look stoically at the tavern, but his features would relax into a look of fondness. He turned his head the other way, and the cold black country seemed to frown him off, and drive him for a refuge into its hospitable arms.

‘The merciful man, Joe,’ said the locksmith, ‘is merciful to his beast. I’ll get out for a little while.’

And how natural it was to get out! And how unnatural it seemed for a sober man to be plodding wearily along through miry roads, encountering the rude buffets of the wind and pelting of the rain, when there was a clean floor covered with crisp white sand, a well swept hearth, a blazing fire, a table decorated with white cloth, bright pewter flagons, and other tempting preparations for a well-cooked meal—when there were these things, and company disposed to make the most of them, all ready to his hand, and entreating him to enjoyment!

Così si guardarono l’un l’altro per un po’, in silenzio.

“Humph!”, disse dopo aver esaminato i suoi tratti; “Non ti conosco”.

“Non vuoi forse, ” – rispose l’altro, coprendosi la bocca come prima.

“Non lo faccio,” disse Gabriel; “per essere franco con te, amico, il tuo viso non sembra portare alcuna raccomandazione.”

“Non è questo il mio desiderio,” disse il viaggiatore. “Il mio umore è qualcosa da evitare.”

“Beh,” disse senza mezzi termini il fabbro chiave, “penso che tu abbia il tuo senso dell’umorismo.”

“Lo farò, a qualunque costo,” rispose il viaggiatore. “Per dimostrarlo, ricorda bene una cosa: non sei mai stato in pericolo di morte come in questi brevi momenti; quando mancheranno cinque minuti al tuo ultimo respiro, non sarai più vicino alla morte di quanto lo fossi questa notte!”

“Sì!” disse il robusto fabbro chiave.

‘Sì, e una morte violenta.’

“Da chi viene?”

“Delle mie,” rispose il viaggiatore.

Con questo, spronò il proprio cavallo e partì al galoppo; all’inizio avanzava con forti schizzi nell’argilla a un trotto veloce, ma gradualmente aumentò la velocità fino a quando l’ultimo suono degli zoccoli del suo cavallo non si perse nel vento; poi riprese ad avanzare allo stesso furioso galoppo di prima, che era stato il suo ritmo quando lo scassinatore lo aveva incontrato per la prima volta.

Gabriel Varden rimase fermo in mezzo alla strada, con la lanterna rotta in mano, ascoltando in un silenzio sbalordito fino a quando non gli arrivò più alcun suono all’orecchio, se non il gemito del vento e la pioggia che cadeva sempre più forte. Allora si diede uno o due colpi violenti al petto per riprendersi e scoppiò in un’esclamazione di sorpresa.

‘Che diavolo può essere quest’uomo! Un pazzo? Un bandito? Un assassino? Se non fosse scappato così in fretta, avremmo visto chi fosse in più pericolo: lui o io. Non mi sono mai trovato così vicino alla morte come quella notte. Spero di non doverlo fare ancora per almeno vent’anni; se ciò dovesse accadere, sarei felice di non essere più nemmeno lontano da essa. Le mie stelle. Che vanteria ridicola per un uomo robusto. Puf, puf!’

Gabriel tornò a sedersi e guardò con malinconia lungo la strada per la quale il viaggiatore era arrivato, mormorando a mezza voce:

‘Il palo di maggio, due miglia fino al palo di maggio. Sono venuto per un’altra strada, partendo da Warren dopo una lunga giornata di lavoro con le chiuse e i campanelli; l’ho fatto apposta per non passare vicino al palo di maggio e così non rompere la promessa fatta a Martha. Ci vuole determinazione! Sarebbe pericoloso andare fino a Londra senza una lanterna; inoltre, ci sono altre quattro miglia, più un buon mezzo miglio fino alla Halfway-House. E proprio in quel tratto c’è bisogno di luce più che in qualsiasi altro. Due miglia fino al palo di maggio! Ho detto a Martha che non lo avrei fatto; l’ho detto e non l’ho fatto. Ci vuole davvero determinazione!’

Ripetendo queste ultime due parole molto spesso, come se volesse compensare la scarsa risolutezza che avrebbe dimostrato, concentrandosi invece sulla grande risolutezza che aveva già mostrato, Gabriel Varden tornò indietro in silenzio, deciso ad andare a prendere una lampada presso il palo di maggio, e a prendere soltanto quella lampada.

Tuttavia, quando arrivò presso il palo di maggio, Joe, rispondendo al suo ben noto saluto, corse fuori verso la testa del cavallo, lasciando la porta aperta alle sue spalle; così gli si offrì una piacevole visione di calore e luce: il rosso bagliore del fuoco, che filtrava attraverso le vecchie tende rosse della sala comune, sembrava portare con sé il suono piacevole delle voci e il profumo del grog fumante e del tabacco pregiato; le ombre che si muovevano sulle tende indicavano che coloro all’interno si erano alzati dai loro posti e stavano facendo spazio nel angolo più accogliente della stanza. Gabriel sentì la sua determinazione svanire rapidamente. Tentò di guardare con distacco la taverna, ma i suoi tratti si rilassarono in un’espressione di affetto; girò lo sguardo altrove. E il freddo paesaggio nero sembrava respingerlo, spingendolo a cercare rifugio tra le sue braccia ospitali.

“L’uomo misericordioso, Joe,” disse il fabbro chiave, “è misericordioso anche con le sue bestie. Me ne andrò per un po’.”

E quanto naturale risultava uscire! E quanto innaturale sembrava, invece, che un uomo sobrio procedesse faticosamente lungo strade fangose, esposto ai colpi violenti del vento e alla pioggia battente, quando invece c’era un pavimento pulito coperto di sabbia bianca e fine, un focolare ben curato, un fuoco ardente, un tavolo decorato con tovaglie bianche, boccali di peltro lucidi e altre prelibatezze pronte per una cena ben cucinata. Quando tutte queste cose, insieme alla compagnia disposta a godersse al meglio di esse, erano lì a portata di mano, invitandolo ad approfittarne!

Chapter 3

Such were the locksmith’s thoughts when first seated in the snug corner, and slowly recovering from a pleasant defect of vision—pleasant, because occasioned by the wind blowing in his eyes—which made it a matter of sound policy and duty to himself, that he should take refuge from the weather, and tempted him, for the same reason, to aggravate a slight cough, and declare he felt but poorly. Such were still his thoughts more than a full hour afterwards, when, supper over, he still sat with shining jovial face in the same warm nook, listening to the cricket-like chirrup of little Solomon Daisy, and bearing no unimportant or slightly respected part in the social gossip round the Maypole fire.

‘I wish he may be an honest man, that’s all,’ said Solomon, winding up a variety of speculations relative to the stranger, concerning whom Gabriel had compared notes with the company, and so raised a grave discussion; ‘I wish he may be an honest man.’

‘So we all do, I suppose, don’t we?’ observed the locksmith.

‘I don’t,’ said Joe.

‘No!’ cried Gabriel.

‘No. He struck me with his whip, the coward, when he was mounted and I afoot, and I should be better pleased that he turned out what I think him.’

‘And what may that be, Joe?’

‘No good, Mr Varden. You may shake your head, father, but I say no good, and will say no good, and I would say no good a hundred times over, if that would bring him back to have the drubbing he deserves.’

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said John Willet.

‘I won’t, father. It’s all along of you that he ventured to do what he did. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, HE plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks—and may well think too—hasn’t a grain of spirit. But he’s mistaken, as I’ll show him, and as I’ll show all of you before long.’

‘Does the boy know what he’s a saying of!’ cried the astonished John Willet.

‘Father,’ returned Joe, ‘I know what I say and mean, well—better than you do when you hear me. I can bear with you, but I cannot bear the contempt that your treating me in the way you do, brings upon me from others every day. Look at other young men of my age. Have they no liberty, no will, no right to speak? Are they obliged to sit mumchance, and to be ordered about till they are the laughing-stock of young and old? I am a bye-word all over Chigwell, and I say—and it’s fairer my saying so now, than waiting till you are dead, and I have got your money—I say, that before long I shall be driven to break such bounds, and that when I do, it won’t be me that you’ll have to blame, but your own self, and no other.’

John Willet was so amazed by the exasperation and boldness of his hopeful son, that he sat as one bewildered, staring in a ludicrous manner at the boiler, and endeavouring, but quite ineffectually, to collect his tardy thoughts, and invent an answer. The guests, scarcely less disturbed, were equally at a loss; and at length, with a variety of muttered, half-expressed condolences, and pieces of advice, rose to depart; being at the same time slightly muddled with liquor.

The honest locksmith alone addressed a few words of coherent and sensible advice to both parties, urging John Willet to remember that Joe was nearly arrived at man’s estate, and should not be ruled with too tight a hand, and exhorting Joe himself to bear with his father’s caprices, and rather endeavour to turn them aside by temperate remonstrance than by ill-timed rebellion. This advice was received as such advice usually is. On John Willet it made almost as much impression as on the sign outside the door, while Joe, who took it in the best part, avowed himself more obliged than he could well express, but politely intimated his intention nevertheless of taking his own course uninfluenced by anybody.

‘You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr Varden,’ he said, as they stood without, in the porch, and the locksmith was equipping himself for his journey home; ‘I take it very kind of you to say all this, but the time’s nearly come when the Maypole and I must part company.’

‘Roving stones gather no moss, Joe,’ said Gabriel.

‘Nor milestones much,’ replied Joe. ‘I’m little better than one here, and see as much of the world.’

‘Then, what would you do, Joe?’ pursued the locksmith, stroking his chin reflectively. ‘What could you be? Where could you go, you see?’

‘I must trust to chance, Mr Varden.’

‘A bad thing to trust to, Joe. I don’t like it. I always tell my girl when we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to chance, but to make sure beforehand that she has a good man and true, and then chance will neither make her nor break her. What are you fidgeting about there, Joe? Nothing gone in the harness, I hope?’

‘No no,’ said Joe—finding, however, something very engrossing to do in the way of strapping and buckling—‘Miss Dolly quite well?’

‘Hearty, thankye. She looks pretty enough to be well, and good too.’

‘She’s always both, sir’—

‘So she is, thank God!’

‘I hope,’ said Joe after some hesitation, ‘that you won’t tell this story against me—this of my having been beat like the boy they’d make of me—at all events, till I have met this man again and settled the account. It’ll be a better story then.’

‘Why who should I tell it to?’ returned Gabriel. ‘They know it here, and I’m not likely to come across anybody else who would care about it.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said the young fellow with a sigh. ‘I quite forgot that. Yes, that’s true!’

So saying, he raised his face, which was very red,—no doubt from the exertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid,—and giving the reins to the old man, who had by this time taken his seat, sighed again and bade him good night.

‘Good night!’ cried Gabriel. ‘Now think better of what we have just been speaking of; and don’t be rash, there’s a good fellow! I have an interest in you, and wouldn’t have you cast yourself away. Good night!’

Capitolo 3

Tali erano i pensieri del fabbro chiave quando si sedette per la prima volta in quell’angolo accogliente, riprendendosi lentamente da un lieve disturbo visivo, piacevole, perché causato dal >vento che gli soffiava negli occhi. Questo lo spinse a cercare rifugio dal maltempo, e per la stessa ragione decise di aggravare un leggero accesso di tosse, dichiarando di sentirsi molto male. Tali rimasero i suoi pensieri anche più di un’ora dopo: dopo aver cenato, sedeva ancora in quell’angolo caldo, con il viso sorridente e gioioso, ascoltando il canto sommesso del piccolo Solomon Daisy, e partecipando attivamente alle chiacchiere sociali intorno al falò di maggio.

“Spero solo che sia un uomo onesto, nient’altro,” disse Solomon, concludendo una serie di speculazioni riguardanti lo sconosciuto di cui Gabriel aveva discusso con il gruppo, scatenando così una seria discussione; “Spero solo che sia un uomo onesto.”

“Immagino che lo facciamo tutti, no?” osservò il fabbro chiave.

“Non lo faccio,” disse Joe.

“No!” gridò Gabriel.

“No. Quel codardo mi ha colpito con la sua frusta mentre lui era a cavallo e io a piedi. Anzi, sarei più soddisfatto se si fosse rivelato davvero ciò che penso di lui.”

“E cosa potrebbe essere, Joe?”

“Niente da fare, signor Varden. Potete anche scuotere la testa, padre, ma io dico che non c’è niente da fare. E lo direi ancora cento volte, se questo potesse farlo tornare indietro per ricevere la punizione che merita.”

“Tenga a bada la lingua, signore,” disse John Willet.

“Non lo farò, padre. È stato tutto a causa vostra che ha osato fare ciò che ha fatto. Vedendomi trattare come un bambino e disprezzato come uno stupido, ha deciso di provare a conquistare qualcuno che, secondo lui – e forse anche davvero – non possiede alcun spirito. Ma si sbaglia. Glielo dimostrerò io, e presto lo farò vedere anche a tutti voi.”

“Questo ragazzo sa davvero quello che sta dicendo?”, esclamò sbalordito John Willet.

“Padre,” rispose Joe, “so bene ciò che dico e cosa intendo, meglio di te, quando mi ascolti. Posso sopportare te, ma non posso tollerare l’umiliazione che il modo in cui mi tratti mi provoca ogni giorno da parte degli altri. Guarda gli altri giovani della mia età: non hanno forse libertà, volontà, diritto di parlare? Sono costretti a stare seduti senza fare nulla e ad essere comandati a destra e a sinistra, fino a diventare oggetto di derisione da parte dei giovani e degli anziani? In tutta Chigwell mi chiamano con nomi offensivi. E dico – ed è giusto che lo dica ora, piuttosto che aspettare che tu muoia e io erediti i tuoi soldi – che molto presto sarò costretto a superare questi limiti. E quando accadrà, non sarà certo me che dovrai incolpare, ma te stesso, ”

John Willet era così sbalordito dall’esasperazione e dalla audacia di suo figlio speranzoso, che rimase seduto come stordito, fissando in modo ridicolo la caldaia, cercando invano di riordinare i propri pensieri confusi e di trovare una risposta. Anche gli ospiti, altrettanto sconcertati, non sapevano cosa fare; alla fine, dopo aver espresso varie condoglianze mormorate e alcuni consigli, si alzarono per andarsene, essendo tutti, in quel momento, leggermente ubriachi.

Il onesto fabbro chiave, da solo, rivolse a entrambe le parti alcune parole di consiglio coerente e sensato, esortando John Willet a ricordare che Joe era ormai prossimo a raggiungere l’età adulta e non doveva essere trattato con troppa severità; incoraggiò inoltre Joe a sopportare i capricci di suo padre, cercando piuttosto di dissuaderlo con remore moderate piuttosto che con ribellioni inopportune. Questi consigli furono accettati come tali, e ebbero su John Willet lo stesso effetto che l’insegna appesa fuori dalla porta; Joe, invece, li accolse con gratitudine, dichiarando di sentirsi più obbligato di quanto potesse esprimere a parole, ma indicò comunque chiaramente la sua intenzione di seguire la strada che riteneva giusta, senza lasciarsi influenzare da nessuno.

“Sei sempre stato un ottimo amico per me, signor Varden,” disse lui, mentre stavano in piedi nel portico e il fabbro gli preparava le cose per il suo viaggio verso casa; “Apprezzo molto quello che dici, ma è quasi arrivato il momento in cui io e il palo di maggio dobbiamo separarci.”

“Le pietre in movimento non si ricoprono di muschio, Joe,” disse Gabriel.

“Nemmeno molte tappe importanti,” rispose Joe. “Sono poco meglio di uno di loro, e vedo comunque una buona parte del mondo.”

“Allora, cosa faresti tu, Joe?” insistette il fabbro, accarezzandosi pensierosamente il mento. “Cosa potresti diventare? Dove potresti andare, capisci?”

“Devo affidarmi alla fortuna, signor Varden.”

“Non è una cosa affidabile, Joe. Non mi piace affatto. Ogni volta che parlo con la mia ragazza di un possibile marito, le dico sempre di non fidarsi del caso, ma di assicurarsi prima che si tratti di un uomo buono e sincero. In quel modo, né il caso potrà aiutarla né danneggiarla. Cosa stai facendo lì, Joe? Spero proprio che nulla sia andato storto nel sistema di fissaggio, ”

“No no,” disse Joe – anche se trovava qualcosa di molto interessante da fare riguardo ai lacci e alle fibbie, “La signorina Dolly sta bene, vero?”

“Grazie mille. Sembra abbastanza bella da essere, felice, e anche gentile.”

“È sempre entrambe le cose, signore”–

“È proprio così, grazie al cielo!”

“Spero,” disse Joe dopo un po’ di esitazione, “che tu non racconti questa storia contro di me, quella in cui vengo descritto come quel ragazzo che tutti vorrebbero che fossi. Comunque, non prima di aver incontrato di nuovo quell’uomo e sistemato le cose. Sarà una storia molto più interessante.”

“Perché, a chi dovrei dirlo?” rispose Gabriel. “Qui lo sanno già, e probabilmente non incontrerò nessun altro che se ne interessi.”

“È vero,” disse il giovane con un sospiro. “Me n’ero completamente dimenticato. Sì, è proprio vero!”

Detto questo, alzò il viso, che era molto rosso – senza dubbio a causa dello sforzo derivante dall’attaccare e allacciare le cose come descritto in precedenza – e, consegnando le redini all’uomo anziano, che ormai si era seduto, sospirò di nuovo e gli augurò buona notte.

“Buona notte!” esclamò Gabriel. “Ora pensaci bene su ciò di cui abbiamo appena parlato; e non essere avventato, sei un bravo ragazzo! Ho interesse per te e non vorrei che ti rovinassi la vita. Buona notte!”

Returning his cheery farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet lingered until the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears, and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house.

Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate his adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for visiting the Maypole, despite certain solemn covenants between himself and that lady. Thinking begets, not only thought, but drowsiness occasionally, and the more the locksmith thought, the more sleepy he became.

A man may be very sober—or at least firmly set upon his legs on that neutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect sobriety and slight tipsiness—and yet feel a strong tendency to mingle up present circumstances with others which have no manner of connection with them; to confound all consideration of persons, things, times, and places; and to jumble his disjointed thoughts together in a kind of mental kaleidoscope, producing combinations as unexpected as they are transitory. This was Gabriel Varden’s state, as, nodding in his dog sleep, and leaving his horse to pursue a road with which he was well acquainted, he got over the ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and nearer home. He had roused himself once, when the horse stopped until the turnpike gate was opened, and had cried a lusty ‘good night!’ to the toll-keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up the turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty years. It is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and jogged heavily along, quite insensible to his progress.

And, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched before him like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening the sluggish air with a deep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways and shops, and swarms of busy people. Approaching nearer and nearer yet, this halo began to fade, and the causes which produced it slowly to develop themselves. Long lines of poorly lighted streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a lighter spot, where lamps were clustered round a square or market, or round some great building; after a time these grew more distinct, and the lamps themselves were visible; slight yellow specks, that seemed to be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as intervening obstacles hid them from the sight. Then, sounds arose—the striking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the streets; then outlines might be traced—tall steeples looming in the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then, the noise swelled into a louder sound, and forms grew more distinct and numerous still, and London—visible in the darkness by its own faint light, and not by that of Heaven—was at hand.

The locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still jogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no great distance ahead, roused him with a start.

For a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had been transported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon recognising familiar objects, rubbed his eyes lazily and might have relapsed again, but that the cry was repeated—not once or twice or thrice, but many times, and each time, if possible, with increased vehemence. Thoroughly aroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not easily daunted, made straight to the spot, urging on his stout little horse as if for life or death.

The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the place whence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway, and, hovering round him, another person with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience, redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to the spot.

‘What’s here to do?’ said the old man, alighting. ‘How’s this—what—Barnaby?’

The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon him a look which told his history at once.

‘You know me, Barnaby?’ said Varden.

He nodded—not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye sternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an inquiring look.

‘There’s blood upon him,’ said Barnaby with a shudder. ‘It makes me sick!’

‘How came it there?’ demanded Varden.

‘Steel, steel, steel!’ he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand the thrust of a sword.

‘Is he robbed?’ said the locksmith.

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded ‘Yes;’ then pointed towards the city.

‘Oh!’ said the old man, bending over the body and looking round as he spoke into Barnaby’s pale face, strangely lighted up by something that was NOT intellect. ‘The robber made off that way, did he? Well, well, never mind that just now. Hold your torch this way—a little farther off—so. Now stand quiet, while I try to see what harm is done.’

With these words, he applied himself to a closer examination of the prostrate form, while Barnaby, holding the torch as he had been directed, looked on in silence, fascinated by interest or curiosity, but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret horror which convulsed him in every nerve.

As he stood, at that moment, half shrinking back and half bending forward, both his face and figure were full in the strong glare of the link, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been broad day. He was about three-and-twenty years old, and though rather spare, of a fair height and strong make. His hair, of which he had a great profusion, was red, and hanging in disorder about his face and shoulders, gave to his restless looks an expression quite unearthly—enhanced by the paleness of his complexion, and the glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes. Startling as his aspect was, the features were good, and there was something even plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect. But, the absence of the soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting.

Rispondendo con un allegro addio e un sincero augurio di buona fortuna, Joe Willet rimase lì fino a quando il rumore delle ruote non cessò di risuonare nelle sue orecchie; poi, scuotendo tristemente la testa, rientrò nella casa.

Gabriel Varden proseguì il suo cammino verso Londra, pensando a molte cose; soprattutto a frasi appassionate con cui raccontare la sua avventura e giustificare così la visita al Maypole, nonostante alcuni solenni patti stretti con quella signora. Il pensiero genera non solo idee, ma a volte anche sonnolenza. E più il fabbro pensava, più si addormentava.

Un uomo può essere molto sobrio – o almeno ben fermo su quella “terra neutrale” che si trova tra i limiti della perfetta sobrietà e di una leggera ebbrezza – eppure provare una forte tendenza a mescolare le circostanze presenti con altre che non hanno alcun legame con esse; a confondere ogni considerazione riguardante persone, cose, tempi e luoghi; e a mescolare i propri pensieri disordinati in una sorta di “calidoscopio mentale”, producendo combinazioni tanto inaspettate quanto effimere. Questo era lo stato di Gabriel Varden: mentre il suo cane dormiva profondamente e lui lasciava che il proprio cavallo seguisse una strada che conosceva bene, procedeva inconsciamente verso casa. Si era svegliato una volta quando il cavallo si era fermato in attesa che venisse aperto il cancello del pedaggio; aveva salutato con entusiasmo il custode della stazione di riscossione, augurandogli “buona notte”; ma poi si era risvegliato da un sogno in cui cercava di forzare una serratura nello stomaco del Gran Mogul. E anche quando fu completamente sveglio, continuò a confondere il custode del pedaggio con sua suocera, morta vent’anni prima. Non sorprende quindi che presto ricadesse nella stessa condizione, procedendo pesantemente lungo la strada, del tutto ignaro del proprio avanzamento.

E ora, si avvicinava alla grande >città, che si estendeva davanti a lui come un’oscura ombra sul terreno, tingendo l’aria stagnante di una luce cupa e fioca che rivelava i labirinti di strade e negozi, nonché le folle di persone impegnate nelle loro attività. Avvicinandosi sempre di più, quell’alone luminoso iniziò a sbiadire, e le cause che lo producevano cominciarono lentamente a manifestarsi. Lunghe file di strade scarsamente illuminate si intravedevano appena, con qualche punto più luminoso qua e là, dove le lanterne erano disposte intorno a piazze o mercati, o intorno a grandi edifici; dopo un po’, questi punti divennero più distinti, e anche le lanterne stesse furono visibili: piccole macchie gialle che sembravano spegnersi rapidamente, una dopo l’altra, man mano che ostacoli li nascondevano alla vista. Poi iniziarono ad emergere suoni: il rintocco delle campane delle chiese, il latrato dei cani in lontananza, il rumore del traffico nelle strade; successivamente si cominciarono a distinguere anche i contorni degli edifici: alti campanili che si ergevano nell’oscurità, tetti irregolari schiacciati dalle ciminiere. Poi il rumore crebbe d’intensità, le forme diventarono ancora più nitide e numerose. E Londra – visibile nella notte grazie alla sua luce fioca, e non a quella del cielo – era finalmente davanti a lui.

Il fabbro chiave, tuttavia, completamente ignaro della sua vicinanza, continuava ad avanzare, mezzo addormentato e mezzo sveglio, quando un grido forte proveniente da poco distante lo fece sobbalzare all’improvviso.

Per un momento o due si guardò intorno come se fosse stato trasportato in qualche paese strano durante il suo sonno, ma presto riconobbe oggetti familiari, si strofinò pigramente gli occhi e sembrava che stesse per addormentarsi di nuovo. Ma il grido si ripeté: non una, due o tre volte, ma molte volte, e ogni volta con maggiore intensità. Del tutto sveglio ormai, Gabriel – un uomo coraggioso che non si lasciava facilmente intimidire – si diresse subito verso il luogo dove era avvenuto l’evento, spronando con forza il suo robusto piccolo cavallo, come se fosse in gioco la vita o la morte.

La situazione sembrava davvero abbastanza grave: arrivato nel luogo da dove provenivano i gridi, descrisse la figura di un uomo disteso sul sentiero, apparentemente privo di vita; intorno a lui c’era un’altra persona con una torcia in mano, che la agitava freneticamente nell’aria, mentre continuava a lanciare quegli stessi richiami d’aiuto che avevano attirato lì il fabbro.

“Che ci faccio qui?” disse l’uomo anziano scendendo dalla nave. “Come va, ehm. Barnaby?”

Il portatore della torcia scostò i suoi lunghi capelli sciolti dagli occhi e, avvicinando con impazienza il viso a quello del fabbro chiave, lo fissò in un modo che rivelava immediatamente la sua storia.

“Mi conosci, Barnaby?” disse Varden.

Annuì, non una o due volte, ma decine di volte, con un’esagerazione tale da far muovere la sua testa per un’intera ora; ma il fabbro chiuse un dito e, fissandolo severamente negli occhi, lo fece smettere; poi indicò il corpo con uno sguardo interrogativo.

“C’è del sangue addosso a lui,” disse Barnaby con un brivido. “Mi fa star male!”

“Come è finita lì?” chiese Varden.

“Acciaio, acciaio, acciaio!” rispose con ferocia, imitando con la mano il movimento di un spada.

“È stato derubato?” chiese il fabbro chiave.

Barnaby lo afferrò per il braccio e annuì “Sì”; poi indicò verso la >città.

“Oh!” disse l’uomo anziano, chinandosi sul corpo e guardandosi intorno mentre parlava al pallido viso di Barnaby, stranamente illuminato da qualcosa che NON era certo intelligenza. “Il ladro è fuggito da quella parte, vero? Beh, non importa ora. Tieni la torcia in questa direzione, un po’ più lontano, così. Ora stai fermo, mentre provo a vedere quali danni sia stato causato.”

Con queste parole, si dedicò a un esame più attento della figura prostrata, mentre Barnaby, tenendo la torcia come gli era stato detto, osservava in silenzio, affascinato dall’interesse o dalla curiosità, ma al contempo respinto da un terrore forte e segreto che lo scuoteva in ogni fibra.

Mentre stava lì, in quel momento, metà ritraendosi e metà chinandosi in avanti, sia il suo viso che la sua figura erano completamente illuminati dal forte bagliore di quella lampada, e apparivano così chiaramente come se fosse giorno pieno. Aveva circa ventitré anni; sebbene piuttosto snello, era di statura media e di corporatura robusta. I suoi capelli, folti e rossi, gli ricadevano disordinatamente sul viso e sulle spalle, conferendo al suo aspetto inquieto un’aria quasi soprannaturale; tale effetto veniva ulteriormente accentuato dalla pallidezza della sua pelle e dallo splendore vitreo dei suoi grandi occhi sporgenti. Per quanto il suo aspetto fosse sorprendente, i tratti del suo viso erano piacevoli, e nel suo volto emaciato si leggeva persino una certa tristezza. Tuttavia, l’assenza dell’‘anima è molto più terribile in un essere vivente che in uno morto; in questo sfortunato individuo, infatti, mancavano le più nobili qualità umane.

His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there—apparently by his own hands—with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was most worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare. He had ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock’s feathers, but they were limp and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back. Girt to his side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental portion of his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition of all the motley scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face.

‘Barnaby,’ said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection, ‘this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a fainting-fit.’

‘I know him, I know him!’ cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.

‘Know him?’ repeated the locksmith.

‘Hush!’ said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. ‘He went out to-day a wooing. I wouldn’t for a light guinea that he should never go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim that are now as bright as—see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come out! Whose eyes are they? If they are angels’ eyes, why do they look down here and see good men hurt, and only wink and sparkle all the night?’

‘Now Heaven help this silly fellow,’ murmured the perplexed locksmith; ‘can he know this gentleman? His mother’s house is not far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby, my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we’ll ride home together.’

‘I can’t touch him!’ cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as with a strong spasm; ‘he’s bloody!’

‘It’s in his nature, I know,’ muttered the locksmith, ‘it’s cruel to ask him, but I must have help. Barnaby—good Barnaby—dear Barnaby—if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and everybody’s life that loves him, help me to raise him and lay him down.’

‘Cover him then, wrap him close—don’t let me see it—smell it—hear the word. Don’t speak the word—don’t!’

‘No, no, I’ll not. There, you see he’s covered now. Gently. Well done, well done!’

They placed him in the carriage with great ease, for Barnaby was strong and active, but all the time they were so occupied he shivered from head to foot, and evidently experienced an ecstasy of terror.

This accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with Varden’s own greatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded onward at a brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his fingers, and Gabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an adventure now, which would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the Maypole, for that night, or there was no faith in woman.

Il suo abito era di colore verde, malamente rifinito in alcuni punti – evidentemente realizzato con le sue stesse mani – con pizzi vistosi; i punti più logori e sporchi erano adornati con i colori più brillanti, mentre le parti migliori apparivano quasi prive di decorazioni. Ai polsi gli pendevano due volantini sgargianti, mentre il collo era quasi completamente scoperto. Si era ornato il cappello con un mazzo di piume di pavone, ma queste erano appassite e spezzate, e ora penzolavano in modo disordinato lungo la schiena. Al fianco portava l’impugnatura di acciaio di un vecchio spada senza lama né fodera; infine, alcuni nastri colorati e giocattoli di vetro completavano il suo abbigliamento. L’aspetto disordinato e confusionario di tutti quei pezzi variopinti che componevano il suo abito, così come il suo comportamento frenetico e instabile, rivelavano chiaramente lo stato di disordine della sua mente; questo contrasto grottesco accentuava ancora di più la selvaggia bellezza del suo volto.

“Barnaby,” disse il fabbro chiave, dopo un’ispezione rapida ma attenta, “quest’uomo non è morto, ma ha una ferita al fianco ed è svenuto.”

“Lo conosco, lo conosco!” gridò Barnaby, battendo le mani.

“Lo conosci?” ripeté il fabbro chiave.

“Zitta!” disse Barnaby, mettendo le dita sulle labbra. “È uscito oggi per corteggiare qualcuno. Non darei nemmeno una piccola moneta per che non lo facesse mai più, perché se lo facesse, alcune occhi diventerebbero tristi. Occhi che ora sono luminosi come le, vedi? Quando parlo di occhi, sembrano che le stelle appaiano nel cielo! Di chi sono quegli occhi? Se sono occhi di angeli, perché guardano giù verso di noi e vedono gli uomini buoni soffrire, e poi solo sbattono le palpebre e brillano per tutta la notte?”

“Ora che il Cielo aiuti questo povero ragazzo,” mormorò il confuso fabbro chiave; “riuscirà a riconoscere questo signore? La casa di sua madre non è lontana. Farò meglio a chiedere a lei chi sia. Barnaby, aiutami a metterlo nella carrozza e torneremo a casa insieme.”

“Non riesco a toccarlo!” gridò lo stupido indietreggiando e tremando per un forte spasmo; “è coperto di sangue!”

“È nella sua natura, lo so,” mormorò il fabbro chiave, “è crudele chiederglielo, ma ho bisogno di aiuto. Barnaby, caro Barnaby, se conosci questo signore, per amore della sua vita e di tutte le vite che lo amano, aiutami a sollevarlo e ad adagiarlo.”

“Allora coprilo bene, avvolgilo stretto. Non lasciarmi vederlo, annusarlo, sentire quella parola. Non pronunciarla. Per favore!”

“No, no, non lo farò. Ecco, vedi che ora è coperto. Con delicatezza. Ben fatto, davvero ben fatto!”

Lo misero nel carro con grande facilità, perché Barnaby era forte e agile; tuttavia, per tutto il tempo, essendo così occupati, lui tremava dalla testa ai piedi, evidenziando chiaramente un’estasi di terrore.

Una volta fatto ciò, e poiché l’uomo ferito era coperto con il grande cappotto di Varden che questi aveva tolto apposta per quell’uso, continuarono il loro cammino a passo svelto: Barnaby contava allegramente le stelle sulle dita, mentre Gabriel si compiaceva in cuor suo di aver avuto un’avventura che ora avrebbe fatto tacere la signora Varden riguardo al palo di maggio, perché quella notte, non c’era alcuna fiducia nelle donne.

Chapter 4

In the venerable suburb—it was a suburb once—of Clerkenwell, towards that part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter House, and in one of those cool, shady streets, of which a few, widely scattered and dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the metropolis,—each tenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who long ago retired from business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course of time it tumbles down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir, flaunting in stucco and ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,—in this quarter, and in a street of this description, the business of the present chapter lies.

At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years ago, a very large part of what is London now had no existence. Even in the brains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up no long rows of streets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no assemblages of palaces in the swampy levels, nor little cities in the open fields. Although this part of town was then, as now, parcelled out in streets, and plentifully peopled, it wore a different aspect. There were gardens to many of the houses, and trees by the pavement side; with an air of freshness breathing up and down, which in these days would be sought in vain. Fields were nigh at hand, through which the New River took its winding course, and where there was merry haymaking in the summer time. Nature was not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; and although there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working jewellers by scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer to it than many modern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers’ walks at no great distance, which turned into squalid courts, long before the lovers of this age were born, or, as the phrase goes, thought of.

In one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shady side of the way—for good housewives know that sunlight damages their cherished furniture, and so choose the shade rather than its intrusive glare—there stood the house with which we have to deal. It was a modest building, not very straight, not large, not tall; not bold-faced, with great staring windows, but a shy, blinking house, with a conical roof going up into a peak over its garret window of four small panes of glass, like a cocked hat on the head of an elderly gentleman with one eye. It was not built of brick or lofty stone, but of wood and plaster; it was not planned with a dull and wearisome regard to regularity, for no one window matched the other, or seemed to have the slightest reference to anything besides itself.

The shop—for it had a shop—was, with reference to the first floor, where shops usually are; and there all resemblance between it and any other shop stopped short and ceased. People who went in and out didn’t go up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in upon a level with the street, but dived down three steep stairs, as into a cellar. Its floor was paved with stone and brick, as that of any other cellar might be; and in lieu of window framed and glazed it had a great black wooden flap or shutter, nearly breast high from the ground, which turned back in the day-time, admitting as much cold air as light, and very often more. Behind this shop was a wainscoted parlour, looking first into a paved yard, and beyond that again into a little terrace garden, raised some feet above it. Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscoted parlour, saving for the door of communication by which he had entered, was cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed most strangers on their first entrance were observed to grow extremely thoughtful, as weighing and pondering in their minds whether the upper rooms were only approachable by ladders from without; never suspecting that two of the most unassuming and unlikely doors in existence, which the most ingenious mechanician on earth must of necessity have supposed to be the doors of closets, opened out of this room—each without the smallest preparation, or so much as a quarter of an inch of passage—upon two dark winding flights of stairs, the one upward, the other downward, which were the sole means of communication between that chamber and the other portions of the house.

With all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously tidy, or more punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in London, in all England. There were not cleaner windows, or whiter floors, or brighter Stoves, or more highly shining articles of furniture in old mahogany; there was not more rubbing, scrubbing, burnishing and polishing, in the whole street put together. Nor was this excellence attained without some cost and trouble and great expenditure of voice, as the neighbours were frequently reminded when the good lady of the house overlooked and assisted in its being put to rights on cleaning days—which were usually from Monday morning till Saturday night, both days inclusive.

Leaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmith stood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man, gazing disconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in vivid yellow to resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front, and swung to and fro with a mournful creaking noise, as if complaining that it had nothing to unlock. Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder into the shop, which was so dark and dingy with numerous tokens of his trade, and so blackened by the smoke of a little forge, near which his ‘prentice was at work, that it would have been difficult for one unused to such espials to have distinguished anything but various tools of uncouth make and shape, great bunches of rusty keys, fragments of iron, half-finished locks, and such like things, which garnished the walls and hung in clusters from the ceiling.

Capitolo 4

Nel venerabile sobborgo – un tempo lo era davvero – di Clerkenwell, nella parte più vicina alla Casa della Carta e in una di quelle strade fresche e ombreggiate, poche delle quali, sparse e disseminate in queste zone antiche della metropoli, continuano ancora a esistere. Ogni abitazione sembra vivere silenziosamente, come un anziano cittadino che da tempo si è ritirato dagli affari, dormicchiando nella sua vecchiaia fino a quando, col passare del tempo, crolla e viene sostituita da qualche giovane erede stravagante, che sfoggia stucchi, decorazioni e tutte le vanità dei tempi moderni. È in questo quartiere, in una strada del genere, che si svolge l’azione di questo capitolo.

Nel periodo di cui si parla, anche se sono passati soltanto sessantasei anni, una gran parte di ciò che oggi è Londra non esisteva ancora. Nemmeno nella mente dei più audaci speculatori era mai emersa l’idea di costruire lunghi viali che collegassero Highgate a Whitechapel, né di edificare palazzi nelle zone fangose o piccole città nei campi aperti. Sebbene anche allora questa zona della città fosse divisa in strade e densamente popolata, aveva un aspetto diverso: molte case erano circondate da giardini e c’erano alberi lungo i marciapiedi; l’aria era fresca e pulita, qualcosa che oggi è difficile trovare. Non lontano si estendevano campi attraverso cui il nuovo fiume scorreva serpeggiando, e in estate si svolgevano felici attività legate alla raccolta del fieno. La natura non era così lontana né difficile da raggiungere come oggi; anche se a Clerkenwell c’erano attività commerciali frenetiche e numerosi orafi al lavoro, quella zona era comunque un luogo più pulito e naturale. Le passeggiate per gli innamorati erano vicine, molto più di quanto molti londinesi moderni possano immaginare. E quelle stesse strade, prima ancora che nascessero gli innamorati di questa epoca, si trasformavano in cortili fangosi.

In una di queste strade, la più pulita di tutte, e sul lato ombreggiato del marciapiede – perché le casalinghe perbene sanno che i raggi solari danneggiano i loro mobili tanto amati, e quindi preferiscono l’ombra al bagliore invasivo del sole – si trovava la casa di cui dobbiamo parlare. Era un edificio modesto: non molto dritto, né grande né alto; non aveva finestre imponenti che attirassero l’attenzione, ma piuttosto finestrelle piccole e timide, con un tetto conico che si innalzava sopra la sua soffitta, dove c’era una finestra composta da quattro piccoli pannelli di vetro, simile a un cappello inclinato sulla testa di un anziano signore con un occhio solo. Non era costruita in mattoni o pietra massiccia, ma in legno e intonaco; non seguiva alcun criterio regolare nella sua architettura, perché nessuna finestra corrispondeva alle altre, né sembrava avere alcun riferimento a qualcos’altro se non a sé stessa.

Il negozio – poiché lo era davvero – si trovava al piano terra, proprio dove di solito sorgono i negozi; tuttavia, in quel caso, ogni somiglianza con qualsiasi altro negozio finiva lì. Le persone che entravano e uscivano non salivano alcuna rampa di scale per raggiungerlo, né entravano facilmente su un piano allo stesso livello della strada: dovevano invece scendere tre ripide scale, come se si trovassero in un seminterrato. Il pavimento era lastricato di pietra e mattoni, proprio come quello di qualsiasi altro seminterrato; al posto delle finestre incorniciate e vetrate, c’era una grande lamella di legno nero, alta quasi quanto il petto di una persona, che si apriva durante il giorno, lasciando entrare tanto aria fredda quanto luce, e spesso anche di più. Dietro il negozio c’era un salotto con pareti rivestite in pannelli; da una parte si affacciava su un cortile lastricato, e dall’altra su una piccola terrazza-giardino, situata qualche piede più in alto. Qualsiasi estraneo avrebbe potuto pensare che quel salotto fosse completamente isolato dal resto del mondo, tranne per quella porta attraverso cui era entrato; infatti, la maggior parte degli estranei, al loro primo ingresso, sembrava diventare molto pensierosa, chiedendosi se le stanze superiori fossero accessibili soltanto tramite scale esterne, senza mai sospettare che due delle porte più semplici e inaspettate esistenti – che qualsiasi ingegnoso meccanico avrebbe sicuramente scambiato per porte di armadi – si aprivano proprio da quella stanza: entrambe prive di alcuna preparazione particolare, con appena un quarto di pollice di spazio libero, e conducevano a due ripide scale tortuose, una verso l’alto e l’altra verso il basso: le uniche vie di comunicazione tra quella stanza e le altre parti della casa.

Con tutte queste stranezze, non esisteva una casa più ordinata, più curatissima nei dettagli o più meticolosamente sistemata in tutto Clerkenwell, a Londra o in tutta l’Inghilterra. Non c’erano finestre più pulite, pavimenti più bianchi, stufe più luminose, né mobili in vecchio mogano più lucidi; in tutta la strada, insomma, non si registrava alcun livello di cura maggiore. E questa perfezione non veniva raggiunta senza alcun costo, alcuna fatica e una notevole quantità di lavoro: i vicini venivano spesso ricordati del fatto che la gentile signora di quella casa si assicurava personalmente che tutto fosse sistemato a dovere nei giorni dedicati alle pulizie, che solitamente andavano dal lunedì mattina alla sabato sera, inclusi entrambi i giorni.

Appoggiato allo stipite della porta della sua abitazione, il fabbro chiave stava lì all’alba, dopo aver incontrato l’uomo ferito, guardando con malinconia un grande emblema di chiave in legno, dipinto di un giallo vivace per assomigliare all’oro; l’emblema pendeva dal davanti della casa e oscillava avanti e indietro con un suono lamentoso, come se si lamentasse di non avere nulla da aprire. A volte guardava verso il negozio, così buio e squallido a causa dei numerosi oggetti legati al suo mestiere, e così annerito dal fumo di una piccola fucina dove il suo apprendista stava lavorando; per chi non fosse abituato a tali scene, sarebbe stato difficile distinguere qualcosa altro che vari strumenti di fattura rozza, grandi mazzi di chiavi arrugginite, frammenti di ferro, serrature a metà completate e simili oggetti, che decoravano le pareti e pendevano dal soffitto in grappoli.

After a long and patient contemplation of the golden key, and many such backward glances, Gabriel stepped into the road, and stole a look at the upper windows. One of them chanced to be thrown open at the moment, and a roguish face met his; a face lighted up by the loveliest pair of sparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked upon; the face of a pretty, laughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and healthful—the very impersonation of good-humour and blooming beauty.

‘Hush!’ she whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the window underneath. ‘Mother is still asleep.’

‘Still, my dear,’ returned the locksmith in the same tone. ‘You talk as if she had been asleep all night, instead of little more than half an hour. But I’m very thankful. Sleep’s a blessing—no doubt about it.’ The last few words he muttered to himself.

‘How cruel of you to keep us up so late this morning, and never tell us where you were, or send us word!’ said the girl.

‘Ah Dolly, Dolly!’ returned the locksmith, shaking his head, and smiling, ‘how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed! Come down to breakfast, madcap, and come down lightly, or you’ll wake your mother. She must be tired, I am sure—I am.’

Keeping these latter words to himself, and returning his daughter’s nod, he was passing into the workshop, with the smile she had awakened still beaming on his face, when he just caught sight of his ‘prentice’s brown paper cap ducking down to avoid observation, and shrinking from the window back to its former place, which the wearer no sooner reached than he began to hammer lustily.

‘Listening again, Simon!’ said Gabriel to himself. ‘That’s bad. What in the name of wonder does he expect the girl to say, that I always catch him listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other time! A bad habit, Sim, a sneaking, underhanded way. Ah! you may hammer, but you won’t beat that out of me, if you work at it till your time’s up!’

So saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the workshop, and confronted the subject of these remarks.

‘There’s enough of that just now,’ said the locksmith. ‘You needn’t make any more of that confounded clatter. Breakfast’s ready.’

‘Sir,’ said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a peculiar little bow cut short off at the neck, ‘I shall attend you immediately.’

‘I suppose,’ muttered Gabriel, ‘that’s out of the ‘Prentice’s Garland or the ‘Prentice’s Delight, or the ‘Prentice’s Warbler, or the Prentice’s Guide to the Gallows, or some such improving textbook. Now he’s going to beautify himself—here’s a precious locksmith!’

Quite unconscious that his master was looking on from the dark corner by the parlour door, Sim threw off the paper cap, sprang from his seat, and in two extraordinary steps, something between skating and minuet dancing, bounded to a washing place at the other end of the shop, and there removed from his face and hands all traces of his previous work—practising the same step all the time with the utmost gravity. This done, he drew from some concealed place a little scrap of looking-glass, and with its assistance arranged his hair, and ascertained the exact state of a little carbuncle on his nose. Having now completed his toilet, he placed the fragment of mirror on a low bench, and looked over his shoulder at so much of his legs as could be reflected in that small compass, with the greatest possible complacency and satisfaction.

Sim, as he was called in the locksmith’s family, or Mr Simon Tappertit, as he called himself, and required all men to style him out of doors, on holidays, and Sundays out,—was an old-fashioned, thin-faced, sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fellow, very little more than five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in his own mind that he was above the middle size; rather tall, in fact, than otherwise. Of his figure, which was well enough formed, though somewhat of the leanest, he entertained the highest admiration; and with his legs, which, in knee-breeches, were perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enraptured to a degree amounting to enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, shadowy ideas, which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends, concerning the power of his eye. Indeed he had been known to go so far as to boast that he could utterly quell and subdue the haughtiest beauty by a simple process, which he termed ‘eyeing her over;’ but it must be added, that neither of this faculty, nor of the power he claimed to have, through the same gift, of vanquishing and heaving down dumb animals, even in a rabid state, had he ever furnished evidence which could be deemed quite satisfactory and conclusive.

It may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of Mr Tappertit there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul. As certain liquors, confined in casks too cramped in their dimensions, will ferment, and fret, and chafe in their imprisonment, so the spiritual essence or soul of Mr Tappertit would sometimes fume within that precious cask, his body, until, with great foam and froth and splutter, it would force a vent, and carry all before it. It was his custom to remark, in reference to any one of these occasions, that his soul had got into his head; and in this novel kind of intoxication many scrapes and mishaps befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no small difficulty from his worthy master.

Sim Tappertit, among the other fancies upon which his before-mentioned soul was for ever feasting and regaling itself (and which fancies, like the liver of Prometheus, grew as they were fed upon), had a mighty notion of his order; and had been heard by the servant-maid openly expressing his regret that the ‘prentices no longer carried clubs wherewith to mace the citizens: that was his strong expression. He was likewise reported to have said that in former times a stigma had been cast upon the body by the execution of George Barnwell, to which they should not have basely submitted, but should have demanded him of the legislature—temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, if necessary—to be dealt with as they in their wisdom might think fit. These thoughts always led him to consider what a glorious engine the ‘prentices might yet become if they had but a master spirit at their head; and then he would darkly, and to the terror of his hearers, hint at certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a certain Lion Heart ready to become their captain, who, once afoot, would make the Lord Mayor tremble on his throne.

Dopo una lunga e paziente contemplazione della chiave d’oro, e dopo aver gettato molte occhiate indietro, Gabriel si incamminò per la strada e lanciò uno sguardo verso le finestre superiori. Una di esse era per caso aperta in quel momento, e gli apparve un viso malizioso; un viso illuminato dal paio di occhi più splendenti che mai un fabbro chiave avesse visto: il viso di una ragazza carina, sorridente, con fossette sulle guance, fresca e sana, l’incarnazione stessa del buon umore e della bellezza fiorente.

“Zitta!”, sussurrò lei, chinandosi in avanti e indicando con un dito l’finestra situata sotto di loro. “Mamma dorme ancora.”

“Comunque, cara mia,” rispose il fabbro chiave con lo stesso tono. “Parli come se lei avesse dormito per tutta la notte, invece di poco più di mezz’ora. Ma sono molto grato. Il sonno è una benedizione. Non c’è alcun >dubbio al riguardo.” Le ultime parole le mormorò tra sé.

“Che crudeltà da parte tua tenerci svegli fino a così tardi questa mattina, senza mai dirci dove sei stato o inviarci alcuna notizia!” disse la ragazza.

“Ah Dolly, Dolly!” rispose il fabbro chiave scuotendo la testa e sorridendo. “Che cattiva che sei ad andare a letto subito! Scendi a colazione, piccola birichina. E fai attenzione, altrimenti sveglierai tua madre. Deve essere stanca, ne sono sicuro. Lo sono anch’io.”

Tenendosi per sé queste ultime parole e ricambiando il cenno della figlia, stava per entrare nel laboratorio quando, sul suo viso ancora illuminato dal sorriso che lei gli aveva suscitato, scorse il cappello di carta marrone del suo apprendista che si abbassava per evitare di essere visto e poi si ritirava dalla finestra tornando al suo posto originale. Non appena l’apprendista vi arrivò, iniziò subito a martellare con vigore.

“Ascoltando di nuovo. Simon!” si disse Gabriel. “È davvero una cattiva abitudine. Che cosa diavolo si aspetta che quella ragazza dica, per far sì che io lo sorprenda sempre ad ascoltarla mentre parla, e mai in nessun altro momento? Una pratica meschina e subdola. Ah! Potete anche picchiarmi, ma non riuscirete a farmi smettere, nemmeno se continuate fino alla fine dei vostri giorni!”

Dicendo questo e scuotendo gravemente la testa, rientrò nel laboratorio e affrontò la persona a cui si riferivano queste osservazioni.

“Basta così, per ora,” disse il fabbro chiave. “Non c’è bisogno di fare tutto questo rumore assurdo. La colazione è pronta.”

“Signore,” disse Sim, alzando lo sguardo con estrema cortesia e facendo un piccolo inchino che si interrompeva alla gola, “vi seguirò immediatamente.”

“Suppongo,” mormorò Gabriel, “che si tratti di qualcuno dei libri educativi come ‘Il Guanto del Apprendista’ o ‘Il Divertimento dell’Apprendista’. Ora andrà a farsi bello. Ecco un vero e proprio maestro chiave!”

Del tutto ignaro che il suo padrone lo stesse osservando da un angolo buio vicino alla porta del salotto, Sim si tolse il cappello di carta, balzò in piedi e, con due movimenti straordinari, a metà tra pattinaggio e minuetto, corse fino a un lavandino all’altro capo del negozio. Lì eliminò ogni traccia dei suoi precedenti “esercizi”: eseguiva sempre lo stesso passo con estrema serietà. Una volta fatto ciò, tirò fuori da qualche nascondiglio un piccolo pezzo di specchio, si sistemò i capelli e controllò con grande soddisfazione lo stato di un piccolo foruncolo sul suo naso. Una volta terminata la toeletta, posizionò quel frammento di specchio su un basso banco e si guardò le gambe attraverso quel piccolo riquadro, provando una profonda compiacimento.

Sì, chiamato così nella famiglia del fabbro chiave, o signor Simon Tappertit come si autodefiniva, esigeva che tutti lo trattassero con rispetto quando era fuori casa, nei giorni festivi e la domenica. Era un ometto all’antica: dal viso magro, i capelli lisci, il naso affilato e gli occhi piccoli; non superava i cinque piedi di altezza, ma era fermamente convinto di essere più alto della media. Anzi, in realtà, piuttosto alto. Era abbastanza ben proporzionato, anche se un po’ magro, e ne andava molto fiero. Le sue gambe, quando indossava i pantaloni corti, erano davvero straordinariamente piccole. Ne era estremamente compiaciuto. Aveva inoltre alcune idee “maestose” e misteriose riguardo al potere del suo sguardo; anzi, si vantava di essere in grado di domare anche la più orgogliosa delle bellezze con un semplice sguardo. Tuttavia, né questa sua capacità, né quella che sosteneva di avere nel sottomettere animali silenziosi, persino quando erano in uno stato furioso, avevano mai fornito prove davvero convincenti.

Si può dedurre da queste premesse che, nel piccolo -corpo di Mr Tappertit, era rinchiusa un’anima ambiziosa e piena di aspirazioni. Proprio come alcuni liquori, confinati in botti troppo angusti, fermentano, si agitano e si danneggiano nel loro incarceramento, anche l’essenza spirituale o l’‘anima di Mr Tappertit a volte “fumava” all’interno di quel prezioso contenitore, il suo -corpo, fino a quando, con grande schiuma e rumore, riusciva a “sfogarsi”, portando tutto con sé. Aveva l’abitudine di dire, in riferimento a queste occasioni, che la sua ‘anima gli era “entrata in testa”; e in questa sorta di “intossicazione” insolita, gli accadevano molte disavventure e incidenti, che spesso riusciva a nascondere con notevole difficoltà dal suo nobile padrone.

Sim Tappertit, tra le altre fantasie con cui la sua già menzionata ‘anima si deliziava costantemente (e che, come il fegato di Prometeo, crescevano man mano che venivano alimentate), nutriva un’idea assai presuntuosa riguardo al proprio rango; era stato persino sentito esprimere apertamente dal servitore la sua rammarico per il fatto che i “apprendisti” non portassero più mazze con cui picchiare i cittadini. Questa era la sua espressione preferita. Si diceva inoltre che avesse affermato come, in passato, l’esecuzione di George Barnwell avesse gettato disonore sull’intera comunità; che non avrebbero dovuto sottomettersi umilmente a tale punizione, ma avrebbero dovuto chiederla al legislativo. Inizialmente con modi pacati; e, se necessario, ricorrendo alle armi, affinché essa venisse inflitta nel modo che loro stessi avrebbero ritenuto più giusto. Questi pensieri lo portavano sempre a riflettere su quanto potenti potessero diventare quegli “apprendisti” se avessero avuto un capo deciso e coraggioso; e allora, in toni cupi e spaventosi, faceva riferimento a certi individui sconsiderati che conosceva, nonché a un certo Leone di Cuore pronto a diventarne il capo. Un uomo che, una volta messo all’opera, avrebbe fatto tremare il sindaco sul suo trono.

In respect of dress and personal decoration, Sim Tappertit was no less of an adventurous and enterprising character. He had been seen, beyond dispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest quality at the corner of the street on Sunday nights, and to put them carefully in his pocket before returning home; and it was quite notorious that on all great holiday occasions it was his habit to exchange his plain steel knee-buckles for a pair of glittering paste, under cover of a friendly post, planted most conveniently in that same spot. Add to this that he was in years just twenty, in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred; that he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admiration of his master’s daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certain obscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love, toasted, with many winks and leers, a fair creature whose Christian name, he said, began with a D—;—and as much is known of Sim Tappertit, who has by this time followed the locksmith in to breakfast, as is necessary to be known in making his acquaintance.

It was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary tea equipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef, a ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order. There was also a goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into the form of an old gentleman, not by any means unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home-brewed ale. But, better far than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or anything to eat or drink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat, presiding over all, the locksmith’s rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef grew insignificant, and malt became as nothing.

Fathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by. It’s too much. There are bounds to human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his—those lips within Sim’s reach from day to day, and yet so far off. He had a respect for his master, but he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him.

‘Father,’ said the locksmith’s daughter, when this salute was over, and they took their seats at table, ‘what is this I hear about last night?’

‘All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.’

‘Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you came up!’

‘Ay—Mr Edward. And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all his might. It was well it happened as it did; for the road’s a lonely one, the hour was late, and, the night being cold, and poor Barnaby even less sensible than usual from surprise and fright, the young gentleman might have met his death in a very short time.’

‘I dread to think of it!’ cried his daughter with a shudder. ‘How did you know him?’

‘Know him!’ returned the locksmith. ‘I didn’t know him—how could I? I had never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him. I took him to Mrs Rudge’s; and she no sooner saw him than the truth came out.’

‘Miss Emma, father—If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as it is sure to be, she will go distracted.’

‘Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being good-natured,’ said the locksmith. ‘Miss Emma was with her uncle at the masquerade at Carlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at the Warren told me, sorely against her will. What does your blockhead father when he and Mrs Rudge have laid their heads together, but goes there when he ought to be abed, makes interest with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a mask and domino, and mixes with the masquers.’

‘And like himself to do so!’ cried the girl, putting her fair arm round his neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic kiss.

‘Like himself!’ repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but evidently delighted with the part he had taken, and with her praise. ‘Very like himself—so your mother said. However, he mingled with the crowd, and prettily worried and badgered he was, I warrant you, with people squeaking, “Don’t you know me?” and “I’ve found you out,” and all that kind of nonsense in his ears. He might have wandered on till now, but in a little room there was a young lady who had taken off her mask, on account of the place being very warm, and was sitting there alone.’

‘And that was she?’ said his daughter hastily.

‘And that was she,’ replied the locksmith; ‘and I no sooner whispered to her what the matter was—as softly, Doll, and with nearly as much art as you could have used yourself—than she gives a kind of scream and faints away.’

‘What did you do—what happened next?’ asked his daughter. ‘Why, the masks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and I thought myself in luck to get clear off, that’s all,’ rejoined the locksmith. ‘What happened when I reached home you may guess, if you didn’t hear it. Ah! Well, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.—Put Toby this way, my dear.’

This Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been made. Applying his lips to the worthy old gentleman’s benevolent forehead, the locksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among the eatables, kept them there so long, at the same time raising the vessel slowly in the air, that at length Toby stood on his head upon his nose, when he smacked his lips, and set him on the table again with fond reluctance.

Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no part of it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such silent manifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible with the favourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which now ensued, as a particularly advantageous opportunity for doing great execution with them upon the locksmith’s daughter (who he had no doubt was looking at him in mute admiration), he began to screw and twist his face, and especially those features, into such extraordinary, hideous, and unparalleled contortions, that Gabriel, who happened to look towards him, was stricken with amazement.

Per quanto riguarda l’abbigliamento e la decorazione personale, Sim Tappertit non era certo da meno per spirito avventuroso e intraprendente. Era stato visto, senza alcun dubbio, raccogliere volantini di ottima qualità all’angolo della strada nelle serate di )domenica e metterli con cura in tasca prima di tornare a >casa; era anche ben noto che, in tutte le grandi occasioni festive, aveva l’abitudine di sostituire i suoi semplici braccialetti di acciaio con un paio di brillanti ornamenti, nascosti sotto una “amichevole” lettera, posta proprio in quel luogo. Aggiungiamo a questo che aveva appena vent’anni, ma dall’aspetto sembrava molto più vecchio; per quanto riguarda l’arroganza, poi, be’, era davvero inesauribile! Non gli dispiaceva affatto essere preso in giro, soprattutto quando si trattava di lodare la figlia del suo padrone; anzi, una volta, quando fu chiamato in una taverna poco conosciuta per “garantire” la donna che amava, beh, brindò con molti sguardi maliziosi a quella bella ragazza il cui nome cristiano, disse, iniziava con la lettera “D”. E questo è tutto ciò che si sa di Sim Tappertit, almeno per quanto sia necessario conoscere per farsi un’idea di lui. A questo punto, infatti, ha già seguito il fabbro a colazione.

Era un pasto sostanzioso; infatti, oltre al solito tè e alle solite pietanze, la tavola tremava sotto il peso di una generosa porzione di manzo, di una lonza di prima qualità, e di diverse pile di torta di Yorkshire spalmata di burro, disposte in modo davvero allettante. C’era anche un bel giuggiole di birra fatta in casa, ben dorata e confezionata a forma di un anziano gentiluomo, assolutamente simile al fabbro chiave; sulla sua testa calva si formava una bella schiuma bianca che completava perfettamente la sua parrucca, segno indubbiamente di una birra artigianale davvero squisita. Ma, molto meglio della buona birra fatta in casa, della torta di Yorkshire, del prosciutto, del manzo, o di qualsiasi altra cosa commestibile o bevibile che la terra, l’aria o l’acqua possano offrire, c’era lei: la figlia rossastra del fabbro chiave. Di fronte ai suoi occhi scuri, persino il manzo diventava insignificante, e il malto, nulla più di niente.

I padri non dovrebbero mai baciare le loro figlie quando ci sono giovani uomini nei paraggi. È troppo. Ci sono dei limiti alla resistenza umana. Così pensava Sim Tappertit quando Gabriel avvicinava quelle labbra rosse a lui, quelle labbra che, pur essendo a portata di mano ogni giorno, sembravano così lontane. Aveva rispetto per il suo padrone, ma avrebbe voluto che quel dolce del Yorkshire lo soffocasse.

“Padre,” disse la figlia del fabbro chiave, quando quell’inchino fu terminato e si sedettero a tavola, “cos’è questa storia che ho sentito riguardo alla scorsa notte?”

“Verissimo, mia cara; vero come il Vangelo, Doll.”

“Il giovane signor Chester è stato derubato ed giace ferito sulla strada quando siete arrivati!”

“Ah. Signor Edward. E accanto a lui, Barnaby, che chiamava aiuto con tutte le sue forze. È stato bene che sia andata così; perché quella strada è desolata, era tardi, la notte era fredda, e povero Barnaby, per lo shock e la paura, non era più in sé. Quel giovane signore avrebbe potuto morire in un attimo.”

“Non oso nemmeno pensarci!” esclamò sua figlia, rabbrividendo. “Come l’hai conosciuto?”

“Lo conosco!” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Non lo conoscevo, come avrei potuto? Non l’avevo mai visto, anche se ne avevo sentito parlare spesso. L’ho portato da Mrs Rudge; e non appena l’ha visto, la verità è venuta a galla.”

‘Signorina Emma, padre. Se questa notizia dovesse raggiungerla, e sicuramente verrà ampliata, lei ne rimarrebbe sconvolta.’

“Ehi, guardate un po’ come un uomo soffre solo per essere di buon carattere,” disse il fabbro chiave. “La signorina Emma era con suo zio alla festa in maschera a Casa Carlisle; vi era andata, mi hanno detto le persone del quartiere Warren, contro la sua volontà. E cosa fa vostro padre, quel testone? Quando lui e la signora Rudge si riuniscono, invece di andare a letto, va lì, cerca di ingraziarsi il portiere, gli dà una maschera e dei dadi da gioco, e poi si mescola tra le persone in maschera, ”

“E proprio lui che doveva farlo!” esclamò la ragazza, mettendo il suo braccio bianco intorno al suo collo e dandogli un bacio molto appassionato.

“Proprio come lui!” ripeté Gabriel, fingendo di brontolare, ma evidentemente molto compiaciuto del ruolo che aveva interpretato e dei complimenti ricevuti. “Proprio come lui, così ha detto tua madre. Comunque, si è mescolato tra la folla, e ti assicuro che era davvero preoccupato e infastidito da persone che gli dicevano: ‘Non mi riconosci?’ o ‘Ti ho scoperto’, insomma, tutte queste sciocchezze. Forse sarebbe ancora lì se non fosse stato per una giovane signora che, essendo il posto molto caldo, si era tolta la maschera e stava seduta lì da sola.”

“E quella era lei?” chiese sua figlia in fretta.

“Ed era proprio lei,” rispose il fabbro chiave; “appena le sussurrai di cosa si trattava – in modo molto delicato, Dol, con quasi la stessa abilità che avresti usata tu – lei emise un grido e svenne.”

“Cosa hai fatto, cosa è successo dopo?” chiese sua figlia. “Beh, le maschere sono arrivate tutte insieme, con un gran rumore e confusione; ho pensato di essere fortunato ad andarmene sano e salvo, nient’altro,” rispose il fabbro. “Cosa è successo quando sono arrivato a >casa, potete immaginarlo, se non l’avete sentito. Ah! Beh, un cuore che non si rallegra mai. Metti Toby da questa parte, cara.”

Questo Toby era proprio quella giara marrone di cui si era parlato in precedenza. Appoggiando le labbra sulla fronte benevola del vecchio signore, il fabbro, che tutto quel tempo aveva continuato a “devastare” i cibi presenti nella stanza, tenne la giara lì per un bel po’, alzandola lentamente in aria; alla fine Toby si trovò con la testa sul naso. Dopo aver schioccato le labbra, il fabbro lo rimise giù sul tavolo con sincera riluttanza.

Sebbene Sim Tappertit non avesse partecipato a questa conversazione, poiché nessuna delle osservazioni fatte riguardava lui direttamente, non perdeva occasione di manifestare in silenzio la propria meraviglia, ritenendo che ciò fosse più in linea con l’espressione favorevole dei suoi occhi. Riconoscendo nella pausa che seguì un’opportunità particolarmente adatta per esprimere al massimo la sua sorpresa davanti alla figlia del fabbro chiave (di cui non dubitava affatto che lo stesse guardando con ammirazione silenziosa), iniziò a contorcere il proprio viso, soprattutto quelle parti, in movimenti straordinari, orribili e senza precedenti; tanto che Gabriel, che per caso si voltò verso di lui, rimase sbalordito.

‘Why, what the devil’s the matter with the lad?’ cried the locksmith. ‘Is he choking?’

‘Who?’ demanded Sim, with some disdain.

‘Who? Why, you,’ returned his master. ‘What do you mean by making those horrible faces over your breakfast?’

‘Faces are matters of taste, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, rather discomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith’s daughter smiling.

‘Sim,’ rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. ‘Don’t be a fool, for I’d rather see you in your senses. These young fellows,’ he added, turning to his daughter, ‘are always committing some folly or another. There was a quarrel between Joe Willet and old John last night though I can’t say Joe was much in fault either. He’ll be missing one of these mornings, and will have gone away upon some wild-goose errand, seeking his fortune.—Why, what’s the matter, Doll? YOU are making faces now. The girls are as bad as the boys every bit!’

‘It’s the tea,’ said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very white, which is no doubt the effect of a slight scald—‘so very hot.’

Mr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table, and breathed hard.

‘Is that all?’ returned the locksmith. ‘Put some more milk in it.—Yes, I am sorry for Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and gains upon one every time one sees him. But he’ll start off, you’ll find. Indeed he told me as much himself!’

‘Indeed!’ cried Dolly in a faint voice. ‘In-deed!’

‘Is the tea tickling your throat still, my dear?’ said the locksmith.

But, before his daughter could make him any answer, she was taken with a troublesome cough, and it was such a very unpleasant cough, that, when she left off, the tears were starting in her bright eyes. The good-natured locksmith was still patting her on the back and applying such gentle restoratives, when a message arrived from Mrs Varden, making known to all whom it might concern, that she felt too much indisposed to rise after her great agitation and anxiety of the previous night; and therefore desired to be immediately accommodated with the little black teapot of strong mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, a middling-sized dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manual in two volumes post octavo. Like some other ladies who in remote ages flourished upon this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when most ill-tempered. Whenever she and her husband were at unusual variance, then the Protestant Manual was in high feather.

Knowing from experience what these requests portended, the triumvirate broke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all despatch; Gabriel, to some out-of-door work in his little chaise; and Sim, to his daily duty in the workshop, to which retreat he carried the big look, although the loaf remained behind.

Indeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had tied his apron on, became quite gigantic. It was not until he had several times walked up and down with folded arms, and the longest strides he could take, and had kicked a great many small articles out of his way, that his lip began to curl. At length, a gloomy derision came upon his features, and he smiled; uttering meanwhile with supreme contempt the monosyllable ‘Joe!’

‘I eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,’ he said, ‘and that was of course the reason of her being confused. Joe!’

He walked up and down again much quicker than before, and if possible with longer strides; sometimes stopping to take a glance at his legs, and sometimes to jerk out, and cast from him, another ‘Joe!’ In the course of a quarter of an hour or so he again assumed the paper cap and tried to work. No. It could not be done.

‘I’ll do nothing to-day,’ said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again, ‘but grind. I’ll grind up all the tools. Grinding will suit my present humour well. Joe!’

Whirr-r-r-r. The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were flying off in showers. This was the occupation for his heated spirit.

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.

‘Something will come of this!’ said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if in triumph, and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve. ‘Something will come of this. I hope it mayn’t be human gore!’

Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.

“Ma che diavolo succede a questo ragazzo?”, esclamò il fabbro chiave. “Sta soffocando?”

“Chi?” chiese Sim, con un certo disprezzo.

“Chi? Tu,” rispose il suo padrone. “Cosa intendi fare quelle orribili smorfie mentre mangi la colazione?”

“Le facce sono una questione di gusto, signore,” disse il signor Tappertit, piuttosto a disagio; tanto più che vide la figlia del fabbro chiudere gli occhi in un sorriso.

“Sì,” rispose Gabriel ridendo di cuore. “Non essere uno stupido, preferisco che tu sia in te stesso. Questi giovani,” aggiunse, rivolgendosi a sua figlia, “fanno sempre qualche sciocchezza. La scorsa notte c’è stata una lite tra Joe Willet e il vecchio John, anche se non posso dire che Joe avesse molta colpa. Questa mattina sicuramente mancherà, sarà andato via per qualche assurdità, alla ricerca della sua fortuna. Ehi, cosa c’è, Doll? Ora fai delle smorfie. Le ragazze sono proprio come i ragazzi!”

“È il tè,” disse Dolly, arrossendo e impallidendo a turno; senza dubbio era l’effetto di un leggero scottamento, “È davvero molto caldo.”

Il signor Tappertit sembrava davvero enorme di fronte a un quarto di pane posato sul tavolo; respirava affannosamente.

“È tutto?” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Aggiungi un po’ di latte. Sì, mi dispiace per Joe: è un ragazzo a posto, e ogni volta che lo si vede sembra migliorare sempre di più. Ma vedrai che ce la farà. Anzi, me l’ha detto lui stesso!”

“Davvero!” esclamò Dolly con voce debole. “Davvero!”

“Il tè ti fa ancora il solletico in gola, cara mia?” disse il fabbro chiave.

Ma prima che sua figlia potesse rispondergli, lei cominciò a tossire in modo molto fastidioso; era una tosse così sgradevole che, quando smetteva, le lacrime iniziavano a scorrere dai suoi occhi luminosi. Il gentile fabbro chiave continuava ad accarezzarla e a somministrarle rimedi delicati, quando arrivò un messaggio da parte della signora Varden che comunicava a tutti coloro che fossero interessati che si sentiva troppo male per alzarsi dopo l’enorme agitazione e ansia vissute la notte precedente; pertanto desiderava che le venissero immediatamente forniti una piccola teiera nera con tè forte, un paio di fette di pane tostato con burro, un piatto di manzo e prosciutto tagliati sottilmente, nonché il “Manuale Protestante” in due volumi. Come molte altre donne che in tempi lontani prosperarono su questo pianeta, anche la signora Varden era particolarmente devota quando si trovava di cattivo umore. Ogni volta che lei e suo marito avevano delle divergenze, il “Manuale Protestante” diventava il loro principale strumento per risolverle.

Conoscendo per esperienza ciò che questi ordini presagivano, il triumvirato si sciolse: Dolly, per assicurarsi che gli ordini venissero eseguiti al più presto; Gabriel, per andare a svolgere qualche lavoro all’aperto nella sua piccola carrozzina; e Sim, per tornare alle sue mansioni quotidiane nel laboratorio, anche se il pane rimase indietro.

Infatti, quell’aspetto imponente aumentava ancora di più; quando si legò il grembiule addosso, divenne davvero gigantesco. Solo dopo aver camminato avanti e indietro per diverse volte, con le braccia incrociate e i passi più lunghi che potesse fare, e dopo aver spinto via molti piccoli oggetti dal suo cammino, le sue labbra iniziarono a curvarsi in un sorriso beffardo. Alla fine, sul suo volto apparve un’espressione di disprezzo profondo, e sorrise, pronunciando nel frattempo con estremo disprezzo la parola “Joe!”.

“La osservavo mentre lui parlava di quell’uomo,” disse, “e naturalmente quello era il motivo del suo sbaglio. Joe!”

Camminava avanti e indietro molto più velocemente di prima, e se possibile con passi più lunghi; a volte si fermava per guardarsi le gambe, altre volte faceva un movimento brusco per scacciare via qualcosa. Ancora dopo circa quindici minuti, si rimise il cappello di carta e provò a lavorare. Ma no. Non ci riusciva.

“Oggi non farò nulla,” disse il signor Tappertit, scrivendo di nuovo velocemente, “se non macinare. Macinerò tutti gli attrezzi. Il lavoro di macinazione si adatta perfettamente al mio attuale Umore. Joe!”

Vrrr-r-r-r. La pietra da macinare presto prese a muoversi; scintille volavano ovunque. Questa era l’attività adatta al suo spirito appassionato.

Vrrr-r-r-r-r-r.

“Qualcosa ne uscirà!” disse il signor Tappertit, fermandosi come se fosse trionfante e asciugandosi il viso sudato sulla manica. “Qualcosa ne uscirà. Spero solo che non si tratti di sangue umano, ”

Vrrr-r-r-r-r-r-r.

Chapter 5

As soon as the business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied forth, alone, to visit the wounded gentleman and ascertain the progress of his recovery. The house where he had left him was in a by-street in Southwark, not far from London Bridge; and thither he hied with all speed, bent upon returning with as little delay as might be, and getting to bed betimes.

The evening was boisterous—scarcely better than the previous night had been. It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep his legs at the street corners, or to make head against the high wind, which often fairly got the better of him, and drove him back some paces, or, in defiance of all his energy, forced him to take shelter in an arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent. Occasionally a hat or wig, or both, came spinning and trundling past him, like a mad thing; while the more serious spectacle of falling tiles and slates, or of masses of brick and mortar or fragments of stone-coping rattling upon the pavement near at hand, and splitting into fragments, did not increase the pleasure of the journey, or make the way less dreary.

‘A trying night for a man like me to walk in!’ said the locksmith, as he knocked softly at the widow’s door. ‘I’d rather be in old John’s chimney-corner, faith!’

‘Who’s there?’ demanded a woman’s voice from within. Being answered, it added a hasty word of welcome, and the door was quickly opened.

She was about forty—perhaps two or three years older—with a cheerful aspect, and a face that had once been pretty. It bore traces of affliction and care, but they were of an old date, and Time had smoothed them. Any one who had bestowed but a casual glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother, from the strong resemblance between them; but where in his face there was wildness and vacancy, in hers there was the patient composure of long effort and quiet resignation.

One thing about this face was very strange and startling. You could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror. It was not on the surface. It was in no one feature that it lingered. You could not take the eyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and say, if this or that were otherwise, it would not be so. Yet there it always lurked—something for ever dimly seen, but ever there, and never absent for a moment. It was the faintest, palest shadow of some look, to which an instant of intense and most unutterable horror only could have given birth; but indistinct and feeble as it was, it did suggest what that look must have been, and fixed it in the mind as if it had had existence in a dream.

More faintly imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were, because of his darkened intellect, there was this same stamp upon the son. Seen in a picture, it must have had some legend with it, and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas. They who knew the Maypole story, and could remember what the widow was, before her husband’s and his master’s murder, understood it well. They recollected how the change had come, and could call to mind that when her son was born, upon the very day the deed was known, he bore upon his wrist what seemed a smear of blood but half washed out.

‘God save you, neighbour!’ said the locksmith, as he followed her, with the air of an old friend, into a little parlour where a cheerful fire was burning.

‘And you,’ she answered smiling. ‘Your kind heart has brought you here again. Nothing will keep you at home, I know of old, if there are friends to serve or comfort, out of doors.’

‘Tut, tut,’ returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming them. ‘You women are such talkers. What of the patient, neighbour?’

‘He is sleeping now. He was very restless towards daylight, and for some hours tossed and tumbled sadly. But the fever has left him, and the doctor says he will soon mend. He must not be removed until to-morrow.’

‘He has had visitors to-day—humph?’ said Gabriel, slyly.

‘Yes. Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him, and had not been gone many minutes when you knocked.’

‘No ladies?’ said Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows and looking disappointed.

‘A letter,’ replied the widow.

‘Come. That’s better than nothing!’ replied the locksmith. ‘Who was the bearer?’

‘Barnaby, of course.’

‘Barnaby’s a jewel!’ said Varden; ‘and comes and goes with ease where we who think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor hand of it. He is not out wandering, again, I hope?’

‘Thank Heaven he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you know, and on his feet all day. He was quite tired out. Ah, neighbour, if I could but see him oftener so—if I could but tame down that terrible restlessness—’

‘In good time,’ said the locksmith, kindly, ‘in good time—don’t be down-hearted. To my mind he grows wiser every day.’

The widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the locksmith sought to cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted son.

‘He will be a ‘cute man yet,’ resumed the locksmith. ‘Take care, when we are growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn’t put us to the blush, that’s all. But our other friend,’ he added, looking under the table and about the floor—‘sharpest and cunningest of all the sharp and cunning ones—where’s he?’

‘In Barnaby’s room,’ rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.

‘Ah! He’s a knowing blade!’ said Varden, shaking his head. ‘I should be sorry to talk secrets before him. Oh! He’s a deep customer. I’ve no doubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts if he chooses. What was that? Him tapping at the door?’

‘No,’ returned the widow. ‘It was in the street, I think. Hark! Yes. There again! ‘Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter. Who can it be!’

They had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead, and the walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound of their voices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber. The party without, whoever it was, could have stood close to the shutter without hearing anything spoken; and, seeing the light through the chinks and finding all so quiet, might have been persuaded that only one person was there.

‘Some thief or ruffian maybe,’ said the locksmith. ‘Give me the light.’

‘No, no,’ she returned hastily. ‘Such visitors have never come to this poor dwelling. Do you stay here. You’re within call, at the worst. I would rather go myself—alone.’

‘Why?’ said the locksmith, unwillingly relinquishing the candle he had caught up from the table.

‘Because—I don’t know why—because the wish is so strong upon me,’ she rejoined. ‘There again—do not detain me, I beg of you!’

Gabriel looked at her, in great surprise to see one who was usually so mild and quiet thus agitated, and with so little cause. She left the room and closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the lock. In this short interval the knocking came again, and a voice close to the window—a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect, and to have some disagreeable association with—whispered ‘Make haste.’

The words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its way so readily to sleepers’ ears, and wakes them in a fright. For a moment it startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew back from the window, and listened.

The wind rumbling in the chimney made it difficult to hear what passed, but he could tell that the door was opened, that there was the tread of a man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment’s silence—broken by a suppressed something which was not a shriek, or groan, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all three; and the words ‘My God!’ uttered in a voice it chilled him to hear.

He rushed out upon the instant. There, at last, was that dreadful look—the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen before—upon her face. There she stood, frozen to the ground, gazing with starting eyes, and livid cheeks, and every feature fixed and ghastly, upon the man he had encountered in the dark last night. His eyes met those of the locksmith. It was but a flash, an instant, a breath upon a polished glass, and he was gone.

The locksmith was upon him—had the skirts of his streaming garment almost in his grasp—when his arms were tightly clutched, and the widow flung herself upon the ground before him.

‘The other way—the other way,’ she cried. ‘He went the other way. Turn—turn!’

‘The other way! I see him now,’ rejoined the locksmith, pointing—‘yonder—there—there is his shadow passing by that light. What—who is this? Let me go.’

‘Come back, come back!’ exclaimed the woman, clasping him; ‘Do not touch him on your life. I charge you, come back. He carries other lives besides his own. Come back!’

‘What does this mean?’ cried the locksmith.

‘No matter what it means, don’t ask, don’t speak, don’t think about it. He is not to be followed, checked, or stopped. Come back!’

The old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed and clung about him; and, borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into the house. It was not until she had chained and double-locked the door, fastened every bolt and bar with the heat and fury of a maniac, and drawn him back into the room, that she turned upon him, once again, that stony look of horror, and, sinking down into a chair, covered her face, and shuddered, as though the hand of death were on her.

Capitolo 5

Non appena terminò le sue incombenze del giorno, il fabbro chiave uscì da solo per andare a visitare il signore ferito e verificare i progressi della sua guarigione. La casa in cui lo aveva lasciato si trovava in una strada secondaria di Southwark, non lontano dal Ponte di Londra; vi si recò quindi a tutta la velocità, desideroso di tornare il prima possibile e andare a letto in orario.

La serata fu molto movimentata; non molto meglio della precedente notte. Non era facile per un uomo robusto come Gabriel tenersi in equilibrio agli angoli delle strade, o resistere al forte vento che spesso lo sbatteva indietro di alcuni passi, costringendolo, nonostante tutti i suoi sforzi, a cercare riparo sotto un arco o all’ingresso di un edificio finché la tempesta non si placava. Di tanto in tanto, un cappello o una parrucca, o entrambi, gli volavano accanto rotolando come cose impazzite; mentre lo spettacolo ancora più inquietante di tegole e lastre che cadevano, o di mucchi di mattoni e frammenti di pietra che si schiantavano sul marciapiede vicino a lui, non faceva altro che rendere quel viaggio ancora più sgradevole e monotono.

“Che notte difficile per un uomo come me per uscire di casa, ”, disse il fabbro chiave, bussando delicatamente alla porta della vedova. “Preferirei essere nell’angolo del camino di vecchio John, ve lo giuro!”

“Chi è là?” chiese una voce di donna dall’interno. Dopo aver ricevuto risposta, aggiunse rapidamente un saluto e la porta si aprì subito.

Aveva circa quarant’anni – forse due o tre anni in più – un aspetto allegra e un viso che un tempo era stato bello. Vi erano tracce di sofferenza e preoccupazione, ma risalivano a tempi lontani, e il Tempo le aveva attenuate. Chiunque avesse gettato uno sguardo casuale su Barnaby avrebbe potuto riconoscere in lei sua madre, data la forte somiglianza tra loro; ma mentre nel viso di lui c’erano tracce di selvaggiazza e vuoto, nel suo si leggeva la paziente compostezza derivante da lunghi sforzi e una tranquilla rassegnazione.

C’era qualcosa di molto strano e inquietante in quel volto. Non si poteva guardarlo nemmeno quando appariva nel suo stato più sereno senza sentirsi che possedesse una capacità straordinaria di esprimere terrore. Quel tratto non risiedeva in alcuna caratteristica specifica del viso; non era possibile individuarlo negli occhi, nella bocca o nelle linee delle guance e dire: “Se questo o quest’altro fosse diverso, il volto non sarebbe così”. Eppure quel terrore era sempre lì, appena percepibile, ma costantemente presente, mai assente nemmeno per un istante. Era come l’ombra più tenue e pallida di uno sguardo che solo un momento di orrore intenso e indescrivibile avrebbe potuto generare; eppure, nonostante fosse vaga e debole, quella “ombra” suggeriva chiaramente quale fosse stato quell’aspetto terribile, imprimendolo nella mente come se fosse realmente esistito in un sogno.

Rappresentato in modo più sfocato, e privo, per così dire, di forza e significato a causa del suo intelletto offuscato, c’era lo stesso segno anche sul figlio. Se visto in un dipinto, doveva sicuramente essere accompagnato da una qualche leggenda, e avrebbe tormentato chiunque lo osservasse. Coloro che conoscevano la storia del palo di maggio, e ricordavano chi fosse quella vedova prima dell’omicidio di suo marito e del suo padrone, la comprendevano molto bene. Ricordavano come fosse avvenuto quel cambiamento, e potevano rammentare che, nel giorno stesso in cui venne a conoscenza dell’evento, il figlio della vedova aveva sul polso ciò che sembrava essere una macchia di sangue, ma solo parzialmente lavata via.

“Dio ti salvi, vicina!” disse il fabbro chiave, seguendola con l’aria di un vecchio amico in una piccola stanza dove ardeva un allegro fuoco.

“E tu,” rispose lei sorridendo. “Il tuo cuore gentile ti ha portato qui di nuovo. So bene che nulla ti tratterrà a casa se ci sono amici da servire o consolare, là fuori.”

“Tut, tut,” rispose il fabbro chiave, strofinandosi le mani per riscaldarle.
“Voi donne parlate sempre tanto. E il paziente, vicina?”

“Ora sta dormendo. Verso l’alba era molto irrequieto, e per alcune ore si è agitato disperatamente. Ma la febbre è passata, e il dottore dice che presto starà meglio. Non deve essere spostato fino a domani.”

“Oggi gli sono venuti a far visita. Humph?” disse Gabriel in modo astuto.

“Sì. Il vecchio signor Chester è arrivato non appena lo abbiamo chiamato, e non era passata nemmeno un minuto quando hai bussato.”

“Nessuna signora?” disse Gabriel, alzando le sopracciglia con aria delusa.

“Una lettera,” rispose la vedova.

“Meglio di niente, insomma!”, rispose il fabbro chiave. “Chi era il portatore?”

“Barnaby, ovviamente.”

“Barnaby è davvero un diamante!” disse Varden; “si muove liberamente dove noi, che ci crediamo molto più saggi, faremmo solo fiasco. Spero che non stia di nuovo vagabondando, ”

“Grazie al cielo è a letto; essendo stato sveglio per tutta la notte, come sapete, e in piedi tutto il giorno, era davvero stanco. Ah, vicina, se solo potessi vederlo più spesso così, se solo riuscissi a placare quella terribile inquietudine, ”

“Nel giusto tempo”, disse gentilmente il fabbro chiave, “nel giusto tempo, non essere scoraggiato. A mio parere, diventa sempre più saggio ogni giorno.”

La vedova scosse la testa. Eppure, anche se sapeva che il fabbro cercava solo di consolarla e che le sue parole non riflettevano alcuna convinzione personale, fu felice di ascoltare anche solo queste lodi per suo povero figlio sfortunato.

“Diventerà comunque un ‘uomo carino’,” continuò il fabbro chiave. “Stai attento: quando invecchieremo e diventeremo sciocchi, Barnaby non ci farà mai arrossire, nient’altro. Ma l’altro nostro amico,” aggiunse, guardando sotto il tavolo e intorno al pavimento, “il più astuto e ingegnoso di tutti, dove si è cacciato?”

“Nella stanza di Barnaby,” rispose la vedova, con un debole sorriso.

“Ah! È davvero un tipo perspicace, ”, disse Varden scuotendo la testa. “Dovrei vergognarmi di rivelargli dei segreti. Oh! È davvero molto intelligente. Non ho alcun dubbio che sappia leggere, scrivere e gestire i conti, se decidesse di farlo. Cos’è stato? Ha bussato alla porta?”

“No,” rispose la vedova. “Penso che fosse per strada. Ascolta! Sì, di nuovo: qualcuno sta bussando delicatamente alla persiana. Chi può essere?”

Parlavano a bassa voce, perché il malato giaceva sopra di loro; inoltre, le pareti e i soffitti essendo sottili e mal costruiti, il suono delle loro voci avrebbe potuto disturbare il suo sonno. Chiunque si trovasse fuori poteva stare vicino alla finestra senza sentire nulla; vedendo la luce filtrare attraverso le fessure e notando tutto quel silenzio, avrebbe potuto pensare che ci fosse solo una persona lì dentro.

“Forse è un ladro o un delinquente”, disse il fabbro chiave. “Dammi la luce”.

“No, no,” rispose lei in fretta. “Tali visitatori non sono mai venuti in questa povera dimora. Tu resti qui. Nel peggiore dei casi, puoi essere chiamato in qualsiasi momento. Preferirei andare io stessa – da sola.”

“Perché?” disse il fabbro chiave, riluttante a lasciare andare la candela che aveva preso dal tavolo.

“Perché, non so perché, semplicemente il desiderio è troppo forte in me,” rispose lei. “Ancora una volta, per favore, non trattenetemi!”

Gabriel la guardò, molto sorpreso nel vedere qualcuno che di solito era così mite e tranquilla agitarsi in questo modo, e per un motivo così insignificante. Lei lasciò la stanza e chiuse la porta alle sue spalle. Rimase ferma per un momento, come se esitasse, con la mano sulla maniglia della porta. In quel breve lasso di tempo, il bussare ricominciò; una voce vicino alla finestra – una voce che il fabbro sembrava ricordare e che gli suscitava qualche sensazione sgradevole – sussurrò: “Sbrigati”.

Le parole furono pronunciate con quella voce bassa e chiara che raggiunge facilmente le orecchie dei dormienti, svegliandoli di colpo. Per un momento, anche il fabbro serratore rimase sorpreso; indietreggiò involontariamente dalla finestra e ascoltò attentamente.

Il vento che ruggiva nel camino rendeva difficile sentire ciò che accadeva, ma lui capì che la porta era stata aperta, che si udivano i passi di un uomo sui gradini scricchiolanti. Poi un momento di silenzio, interrotto da qualcosa che fu soffocato; non un grido, né un lamento, né un richiamo d’aiuto, ma forse tutto e tre insieme. E poi quelle parole: “Mio Dio!”, pronunciate con una voce tale da fargli gelare il sangue nelle vene.

Uscì di corsa nel momento stesso. Lì, finalmente, c’era quell’espressione terribile, proprio quella che sembrava conoscerla così bene eppure non aveva mai visto prima sul suo viso. Lei stava lì, immobile, con gli occhi sbarrati, le guance pallide, ogni tratto del volto irrigidito in un’espressione orribile, fissando l’uomo che aveva incontrato al buio la notte precedente. I suoi occhi incrociarono quelli del fabbro chiave. Fu solo un istante, un lampo, come il riflesso di un respiro su vetro lucido, e poi lui scomparve.

Il fabbro chiave era su di lui; aveva quasi afferrato le falde del suo abito svolazzante, quando le sue braccia furono strette con forza e la vedova si gettò a terra davanti a lui.

“Nell’altra direzione, nell’altra direzione!” gridò lei. “È andato nella direzione opposta. Giratevi, giratevi subito!”

“Dall’altra parte! Ora lo vedo,” esclamò il fabbro chiave, indicando: “Là, quella è la sua ombra che passa davanti a quella luce. Chi, chi è? Lasciami andare.”

“Torna indietro, torna indietro!” esclamò la donna, abbracciandolo; “Per l’amor di Dio, non toccarlo. Ti supplico, torna indietro. Lui ha altre vite in gioco, oltre alla sua. Torna indietro!”

“Cosa significa questo?”, gridò il fabbro chiave.

“Qualunque cosa significhi, non chiedere, non parlare, non pensarci nemmeno. Non deve essere seguito, controllato o fermato. Torna indietro!”

L’uomo anziano la guardava con stupore, mentre lei si contorceva e si aggrappava a lui; sopraffatto dalla sua passione, la lasciò trascinarlo dentro la casa. Solo quando lei ebbe incatenato e chiuso a doppio chiave la porta, fissato ogni lucchetto con la furia di una pazza, e lo riportato nella stanza, gli rivolse di nuovo quell’occhiata di terrore glaciale; poi si lasciò cadere su una sedia, si coprì il viso e iniziò a tremare, come se la mano della morte fosse già su di lei.

Chapter 6

Beyond all measure astonished by the strange occurrences which had passed with so much violence and rapidity, the locksmith gazed upon the shuddering figure in the chair like one half stupefied, and would have gazed much longer, had not his tongue been loosened by compassion and humanity.

‘You are ill,’ said Gabriel. ‘Let me call some neighbour in.’

‘Not for the world,’ she rejoined, motioning to him with her trembling hand, and holding her face averted. ‘It is enough that you have been by, to see this.’

‘Nay, more than enough—or less,’ said Gabriel.

‘Be it so,’ she returned. ‘As you like. Ask me no questions, I entreat you.’

‘Neighbour,’ said the locksmith, after a pause. ‘Is this fair, or reasonable, or just to yourself? Is it like you, who have known me so long and sought my advice in all matters—like you, who from a girl have had a strong mind and a staunch heart?’

‘I have need of them,’ she replied. ‘I am growing old, both in years and care. Perhaps that, and too much trial, have made them weaker than they used to be. Do not speak to me.’

‘How can I see what I have seen, and hold my peace!’ returned the locksmith. ‘Who was that man, and why has his coming made this change in you?’

She was silent, but held to the chair as though to save herself from falling on the ground.

‘I take the licence of an old acquaintance, Mary,’ said the locksmith, ‘who has ever had a warm regard for you, and maybe has tried to prove it when he could. Who is this ill-favoured man, and what has he to do with you? Who is this ghost, that is only seen in the black nights and bad weather? How does he know, and why does he haunt this house, whispering through chinks and crevices, as if there was that between him and you, which neither durst so much as speak aloud of? Who is he?’

‘You do well to say he haunts this house,’ returned the widow, faintly. ‘His shadow has been upon it and me, in light and darkness, at noonday and midnight. And now, at last, he has come in the body!’

‘But he wouldn’t have gone in the body,’ returned the locksmith with some irritation, ‘if you had left my arms and legs at liberty. What riddle is this?’

‘It is one,’ she answered, rising as she spoke, ‘that must remain for ever as it is. I dare not say more than that.’

‘Dare not!’ repeated the wondering locksmith.

‘Do not press me,’ she replied. ‘I am sick and faint, and every faculty of life seems dead within me.—No!—Do not touch me, either.’

Gabriel, who had stepped forward to render her assistance, fell back as she made this hasty exclamation, and regarded her in silent wonder.

‘Let me go my way alone,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and let the hands of no honest man touch mine to-night.’ When she had tottered to the door, she turned, and added with a stronger effort, ‘This is a secret, which, of necessity, I trust to you. You are a true man. As you have ever been good and kind to me,—keep it. If any noise was heard above, make some excuse—say anything but what you really saw, and never let a word or look between us, recall this circumstance. I trust to you. Mind, I trust to you. How much I trust, you never can conceive.’

Casting her eyes upon him for an instant, she withdrew, and left him there alone.

Gabriel, not knowing what to think, stood staring at the door with a countenance full of surprise and dismay. The more he pondered on what had passed, the less able he was to give it any favourable interpretation. To find this widow woman, whose life for so many years had been supposed to be one of solitude and retirement, and who, in her quiet suffering character, had gained the good opinion and respect of all who knew her—to find her linked mysteriously with an ill-omened man, alarmed at his appearance, and yet favouring his escape, was a discovery that pained as much as startled him. Her reliance on his secrecy, and his tacit acquiescence, increased his distress of mind. If he had spoken boldly, persisted in questioning her, detained her when she rose to leave the room, made any kind of protest, instead of silently compromising himself, as he felt he had done, he would have been more at ease.

‘Why did I let her say it was a secret, and she trusted it to me!’ said Gabriel, putting his wig on one side to scratch his head with greater ease, and looking ruefully at the fire. ‘I have no more readiness than old John himself. Why didn’t I say firmly, “You have no right to such secrets, and I demand of you to tell me what this means,” instead of standing gaping at her, like an old moon-calf as I am! But there’s my weakness. I can be obstinate enough with men if need be, but women may twist me round their fingers at their pleasure.’

He took his wig off outright as he made this reflection, and, warming his handkerchief at the fire began to rub and polish his bald head with it, until it glistened again.

‘And yet,’ said the locksmith, softening under this soothing process, and stopping to smile, ‘it MAY be nothing. Any drunken brawler trying to make his way into the house, would have alarmed a quiet soul like her. But then’—and here was the vexation—‘how came it to be that man; how comes he to have this influence over her; how came she to favour his getting away from me; and, more than all, how came she not to say it was a sudden fright, and nothing more? It’s a sad thing to have, in one minute, reason to mistrust a person I have known so long, and an old sweetheart into the bargain; but what else can I do, with all this upon my mind!—Is that Barnaby outside there?’

‘Ay!’ he cried, looking in and nodding. ‘Sure enough it’s Barnaby—how did you guess?’

‘By your shadow,’ said the locksmith.

‘Oho!’ cried Barnaby, glancing over his shoulder, ‘He’s a merry fellow, that shadow, and keeps close to me, though I AM silly. We have such pranks, such walks, such runs, such gambols on the grass! Sometimes he’ll be half as tall as a church steeple, and sometimes no bigger than a dwarf. Now, he goes on before, and now behind, and anon he’ll be stealing on, on this side, or on that, stopping whenever I stop, and thinking I can’t see him, though I have my eye on him sharp enough. Oh! he’s a merry fellow. Tell me—is he silly too? I think he is.’

Capitolo 6

Profondamente sorpreso dalle strane avvenimenti che si erano verificati con tanta violenza e rapidità, il fabbro chiave fissava la figura tremante sulla sedia come se fosse parzialmente stordito; avrebbe continuato a guardarla ancora a lungo, se non fosse stato per la compassione e l’umanità che gli fecero sciogliere la lingua.

“Sei malato,” disse Gabriel. “Lascia che chiami qualche vicino.”

“Per nulla al mondo,” rispose lei, facendogli segno con la sua mano tremante e tenendo il viso girato dall’altra parte. “È già abbastanza che tu sia stato lì a vedere tutto questo.”

“No, più che sufficiente, o forse meno,” disse Gabriel.

“Che sia così,” rispose lei. “Come desideri tu. Ti prego, non farmi domande.”

“Vicino,” disse il fabbro chiave dopo una pausa. “È giusto, ragionevole o equo per te? È davvero ciò che desideri tu, che mi conosci da così tanto tempo e hai sempre cercato il mio consiglio in ogni questione. Tu, che fin da ragazza hai mostrato un forte carattere e un cuore leale?”

“Ho bisogno di loro,” rispose lei. “Invecchio, sia per gli anni che per le preoccupazioni. Forse è questo, e troppi dolori, a averli resi più deboli di un tempo. Non parlarmi.”

“Come posso continuare a vivere in pace dopo aver visto ciò che ho visto?”, rispose il fabbro. “Chi era quell’uomo, e perché la sua venuta ha causato un tale cambiamento in te?”

Era in silenzio, ma si teneva aggrappata alla sedia come se volesse evitare di cadere a terra.

“Prendo in prestito la licenza di un vecchio conoscente, Mary,” disse il fabbro chiave, “che ha sempre avuto una grande stima per te e forse ha cercato di dimostrarlo ogni volta che ne ha avuto l’occasione. Chi è quest’uomo sfortunato, e quale rapporto ha con te? Chi è questo fantasma che appare solo nelle notti buie e in tempo di cattivo tempo? Come fa a sapere certe cose, e perché infesta questa casa, sussurrando attraverso fessure e crepe, come se ci fosse qualcosa tra lui e te di cui nessuno osa parlare ad alta voce? Chi è?”

“Dici bene che egli infesta questa casa”», rispose la vedova con voce debole. “La sua ombra si è posata su di essa e su di me, sia alla luce che nell’oscurità, a mezzogiorno come a mezzanotte. E ora, finalmente, è entrato in questo corpo!”

“Ma non sarebbe entrato in quel corpo”, rispose il fabbro chiave con un po’ di irritazione, “se aveste lasciato liberi i miei braccia e le mie gambe. Che enigma è questo?”

“È uno,” rispose lei alzandosi mentre parlava, “che deve rimanere per sempre così com’è. Non oso dire di più.”

“Non oso!” ripeté il curioso fabbro chiave.

“Non mi toccare,” rispose lei. “Sono malata e debole; tutte le facoltà della vita sembrano essermi morte. No. Non toccarmi nemmeno.”

Gabriel, che si era avvicinato per offrirle aiuto, indietreggiò quando lei emise quell’esclamazione affrettata e la guardò in silenzio, pieno di stupore.

“Lasciami andare da sola,” disse a voce bassa, “e che nessuna mano onesta mi tocchi, nemmeno di notte.” Quando arrivò alla porta, si girò e aggiunse con maggiore forza: “Questo è un segreto, che devo necessariamente affidarti. Sei un uomo sincero. Poiché sei sempre stato buono e gentile con me, tienilo per te. Se dovesse sentirsi qualche rumore sopra, inventa una scusa, digli qualsiasi cosa tranne ciò che hai realmente visto. E mai lasciare che alcuna parola o sguardo possano collegare noi due a questa situazione. Ti affido questo segreto. Capisci? Ti affido davvero. Quanto mi fidi, tu non puoi nemmeno immaginarlo.”

Gli lanciò uno sguardo per un istante, poi si allontanò, lasciandolo lì da solo.

Gabriel, non sapendo cosa pensare, rimase fermo a fissare la porta con un’espressione piena di sorpresa e preoccupazione. Più rifletteva su quanto era accaduto, meno riusciva a dare una spiegazione positiva agli eventi. Trovare quella donna vedova, la cui vita per tanti anni era sembrata essere caratterizzata da solitudine e ritiro, e che, con il suo carattere tranquillo e sofferente, aveva guadagnato la stima e il rispetto di tutti coloro che la conoscevano, scoprire poi che era misteriosamente legata a quell’uomo sfortunato, che si spaventava al suo apparire ma allo stesso tempo lo aiutava a fuggire, era una rivelazione che lo angosciava tanto quanto lo sorprendeva. Il fatto che lei si affidasse al suo silenzio e che lui acconsentisse tacitamente a tutto ciò aumentava ancora di più il suo disagio. Se avesse parlato apertamente, insistito nel farle domande, trattenuto quando aveva cercato di lasciare la stanza, opposto qualche tipo di protesta, invece di compromettersi in silenzio, come aveva fatto, si sarebbe sentito molto più a suo agio.

“Perché ho lasciato che dicesse che si trattava di un segreto e lei abbia confidato in me?”, disse Gabriel, mettendo da parte la parrucca per grattarsi la testa più comodamente e guardando con rammarico il fuoco. “Non sono affatto più preparato di vecchio John. Perché non ho detto fermamente: ‘Non hai il diritto di conoscere segreti del genere; devi dirmi cosa significa tutto questo’, invece di stare lì a bocca aperta, come un vecchio stupido che sono! Ma questa è la mia debolezza. Posso essere abbastanza testardo con gli uomini, se necessario, ma le donne riescono sempre a manipolarmi a loro piacimento.”

Si tolse immediatamente la parrucca mentre faceva questa riflessione; poi, scaldando un fazzoletto vicino al fuoco, iniziò a strofinarsi e lucidarsi la testa calva con esso, fino a quando non brillò di nuovo.

“Eppure,” disse il fabbro chiave, addolcendosi sotto questo processo rassicurante e fermandosi per sorridere, “potrebbe anche non essere nulla. Qualsiasi ubriaco che cercasse di entrare in quella casa avrebbe allarmato una persona tranquilla come lei. Ma poi, ” – ed ecco il punto problematico – “come mai è stato proprio quell’uomo; come mai ha quest’influenza su di lei; come mai lei ha permesso che lui scappasse da me. E, soprattutto, perché non ha detto che si trattava solo di un improvviso spavento? È triste dover dubitare, in un attimo, di una persona che conosco da così tanto tempo. E per di più di un’ex fidanzata. Ma cosa posso fare, con tutto questo in mente?. Quel Barnaby è là fuori?”

“Ah!” esclamò, guardando all’interno e annuendo. “Proprio lui, Barnaby. Come hai fatto a indovinare?”

“Per la tua ombra”, disse il fabbro chiave.

‘Oh!’ esclamò Barnaby, guardando indietro, ‘È un tipo davvero divertente, quella ombra. Si tiene sempre vicino a me, anche se IO sono un po’ sciocco. Facciamo tante battute, facciamo lunghe passeggiate, corriamo, scherziamo sull’erba! A volte sembra alto quanto una guglia di chiesa, altre volte non è più grande di un goblin. Ora corre avanti, ora indietro; a momenti si avvicina da questa parte, poi dall’altra. Si ferma ogni volta che mi fermo io. E pensavo di non riuscire a vederlo, ma in realtà lo tengo ben d’occhio. Oh! È davvero un tipo divertente. Dimmi: anche lui è un po’ sciocco? Penso di sì.’

‘Why?’ asked Gabriel.

‘Because he never tires of mocking me, but does it all day long.—Why don’t you come?’

‘Where?’

‘Upstairs. He wants you. Stay—where’s HIS shadow? Come. You’re a wise man; tell me that.’

‘Beside him, Barnaby; beside him, I suppose,’ returned the locksmith.

‘No!’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Guess again.’

‘Gone out a walking, maybe?’

‘He has changed shadows with a woman,’ the idiot whispered in his ear, and then fell back with a look of triumph. ‘Her shadow’s always with him, and his with her. That’s sport I think, eh?’

‘Barnaby,’ said the locksmith, with a grave look; ‘come hither, lad.’

‘I know what you want to say. I know!’ he replied, keeping away from him. ‘But I’m cunning, I’m silent. I only say so much to you—are you ready?’ As he spoke, he caught up the light, and waved it with a wild laugh above his head.

‘Softly—gently,’ said the locksmith, exerting all his influence to keep him calm and quiet. ‘I thought you had been asleep.’

‘So I HAVE been asleep,’ he rejoined, with widely-opened eyes. ‘There have been great faces coming and going—close to my face, and then a mile away—low places to creep through, whether I would or no—high churches to fall down from—strange creatures crowded up together neck and heels, to sit upon the bed—that’s sleep, eh?’

‘Dreams, Barnaby, dreams,’ said the locksmith.

‘Dreams!’ he echoed softly, drawing closer to him. ‘Those are not dreams.’

‘What are,’ replied the locksmith, ‘if they are not?’

‘I dreamed,’ said Barnaby, passing his arm through Varden’s, and peering close into his face as he answered in a whisper, ‘I dreamed just now that something—it was in the shape of a man—followed me—came softly after me—wouldn’t let me be—but was always hiding and crouching, like a cat in dark corners, waiting till I should pass; when it crept out and came softly after me.—Did you ever see me run?’

‘Many a time, you know.’

‘You never saw me run as I did in this dream. Still it came creeping on to worry me. Nearer, nearer, nearer—I ran faster—leaped—sprung out of bed, and to the window—and there, in the street below—but he is waiting for us. Are you coming?’

‘What in the street below, Barnaby?’ said Varden, imagining that he traced some connection between this vision and what had actually occurred.

Barnaby looked into his face, muttered incoherently, waved the light above his head again, laughed, and drawing the locksmith’s arm more tightly through his own, led him up the stairs in silence.

They entered a homely bedchamber, garnished in a scanty way with chairs, whose spindle-shanks bespoke their age, and other furniture of very little worth; but clean and neatly kept. Reclining in an easy-chair before the fire, pale and weak from waste of blood, was Edward Chester, the young gentleman who had been the first to quit the Maypole on the previous night, and who, extending his hand to the locksmith, welcomed him as his preserver and friend.

‘Say no more, sir, say no more,’ said Gabriel. ‘I hope I would have done at least as much for any man in such a strait, and most of all for you, sir. A certain young lady,’ he added, with some hesitation, ‘has done us many a kind turn, and we naturally feel—I hope I give you no offence in saying this, sir?’

The young man smiled and shook his head; at the same time moving in his chair as if in pain.

‘It’s no great matter,’ he said, in answer to the locksmith’s sympathising look, ‘a mere uneasiness arising at least as much from being cooped up here, as from the slight wound I have, or from the loss of blood. Be seated, Mr Varden.’

‘If I may make so bold, Mr Edward, as to lean upon your chair,’ returned the locksmith, accommodating his action to his speech, and bending over him, ‘I’ll stand here for the convenience of speaking low. Barnaby is not in his quietest humour to-night, and at such times talking never does him good.’

They both glanced at the subject of this remark, who had taken a seat on the other side of the fire, and, smiling vacantly, was making puzzles on his fingers with a skein of string.

‘Pray, tell me, sir,’ said Varden, dropping his voice still lower, ‘exactly what happened last night. I have my reason for inquiring. You left the Maypole, alone?’

‘And walked homeward alone, until I had nearly reached the place where you found me, when I heard the gallop of a horse.’

‘Behind you?’ said the locksmith.

‘Indeed, yes—behind me. It was a single rider, who soon overtook me, and checking his horse, inquired the way to London.’

‘You were on the alert, sir, knowing how many highwaymen there are, scouring the roads in all directions?’ said Varden.

‘I was, but I had only a stick, having imprudently left my pistols in their holster-case with the landlord’s son. I directed him as he desired. Before the words had passed my lips, he rode upon me furiously, as if bent on trampling me down beneath his horse’s hoofs. In starting aside, I slipped and fell. You found me with this stab and an ugly bruise or two, and without my purse—in which he found little enough for his pains. And now, Mr Varden,’ he added, shaking the locksmith by the hand, ‘saving the extent of my gratitude to you, you know as much as I.’

‘Except,’ said Gabriel, bending down yet more, and looking cautiously towards their silent neighhour, ‘except in respect of the robber himself. What like was he, sir? Speak low, if you please. Barnaby means no harm, but I have watched him oftener than you, and I know, little as you would think it, that he’s listening now.’

It required a strong confidence in the locksmith’s veracity to lead any one to this belief, for every sense and faculty that Barnaby possessed, seemed to be fixed upon his game, to the exclusion of all other things. Something in the young man’s face expressed this opinion, for Gabriel repeated what he had just said, more earnestly than before, and with another glance towards Barnaby, again asked what like the man was.

“Perché?”, chiese Gabriel.

“Perché non si stanca mai di prendermi in giro, lo fa tutto il giorno. Perché non vieni anche tu?”

‘Dove?’

“Al piano di sopra. Ti vuole. Resta, dove è LA SUA ombra? Vieni. Sei un uomo saggio; dimmelo.”

“Accanto a lui, Barnaby, suppongo,” rispose il fabbro chiave.

“No!” rispose scuotendo la testa. “Prova ancora.”

“Forse è andato a fare una passeggiata, ”

“Ha scambiato le sue ombre con una donna,” sussurrò l’idiota all’orecchio suo, poi si sdraiò di nuovo con un’espressione trionfale. “L’ombra di lei è sempre con lui, e la sua con lei. Penso che sia davvero sportivo, no?”

“Barnaby,” disse il fabbro chiave con un’espressione seria; “vieni qui, ragazzo.”

“So cosa vuoi dire. Lo so!” rispose, tenendosi a distanza da lui. “Ma sono astuto, resto in silenzio. Ti dico solo questo: sei pronto?” Mentre parlava, afferrò la lampada e la agitò sopra la testa con una risata folle.

“Con dolcezza, con gentilezza,” disse il fabbro chiave, facendo appello a tutta la sua influenza per mantenerlo calmo e tranquillo. “Pensavo che fossi già addormentato.”

“So di aver dormito,” rispose lui, con gli occhi spalancati. “Sono apparse tante facce strane: alcune vicinissime al mio viso, altre lontane chilometri. Posti bassi attraverso cui dovevo passare, che lo volessi o no. Chiese alte da cui rischiavo di cadere. Strani esseri ammassati uno sopra l’altro, seduti sul letto. Questa è la sonnata, vero?”

“Sogni, Barnaby, sogni,” disse il fabbro chiave.

“Sogni!”, mormorò dolcemente avvicinandosi a lui. “Quei non sono semplici sogni.”

“Cosa sono, allora?”, rispose il fabbro chiave. “Se non sono altro, ”

“Ho sognato,” disse Barnaby, infilando il braccio sotto quello di Varden e fissandolo attentamente mentre rispondeva a voce bassa. “Proprio adesso ho sognato che qualcosa, aveva l’aspetto di un uomo, mi seguiva, si avvicinava silenziosamente, non mi lasciava in pace, ma si nascondeva sempre, come un gatto negli angoli bui, aspettando che passassi; poi usciva fuori e mi seguiva di nuovo. Hai mai visto correre me?”

“Molte volte, lo sai.”

“Non mi hai mai visto correre come ho fatto in questo sogno. Eppure quella sensazione di preoccupazione continuava ad avvicinarsi. Sempre di più. Corsi ancora più velocemente, saltai giù dal letto e andai alla finestra. Lì, per strada sotto. Ma lui ci sta aspettando. Vieni con me?”

“Cosa diavolo sta succedendo laggiù, Barnaby?”, disse Varden, immaginando di poter trovare un legame tra questa visione e ciò che era realmente accaduto.

Barnaby lo guardò in faccia, mormorò parole incoerenti, agitò di nuovo la luce sopra la sua testa, rise e, stringendo più forte il braccio del fabbro chiave, lo guidò su per le scale in silenzio.

Entrarono in una camera da letto semplice e arredata in modo modesto: sedie il cui legno denotava la loro vecchiaia, e altri mobili di scarso valore; ma puliti e ben tenuti. Appoggiato a una poltrona davanti al focolare, pallido e debole a causa della perdita di %sangue, c’era Edward Chester, il giovane gentiluomo che aveva sido il primo ad abbandonare la guglia di maggio la sera precedente; tese la mano al fabbro e lo accolse come suo salvatore e amico.

“Non dica altro, signore, non dica altro,” disse Gabriel. “Spero che io avrei fatto almeno lo stesso per qualsiasi uomo in una situazione così difficile, e soprattutto per lei, signore. Una certa giovane donna,” aggiunse con qualche esitazione, “ci ha aiutato molto, e naturalmente sentiamo. Spero di non offenderla nel dirlo, signore.”

Il giovane sorrise e scosse la testa; allo stesso tempo si mosse sulla sua sedia, come se provasse dolore.

“Non è nulla di grave,” disse lui, rispondendo allo sguardo comprensivo del fabbro chiave, “solo un certo disagio causato sia dal fatto di essere rinchiuso qui dentro, sia dalla leggera ferita che ho riportato, sia dalla perdita di sangue. Si sieda, signor Varden.”

“Se posso osare tanto, signor Edward, e appoggiarmi alla sua sedia, ”, rispose il fabbro chiave, adattando i suoi gesti alle sue parole e chinandosi verso di lui, “Mi fermerò qui per poter parlare a bassa voce. Barnaby, di notte, non è certo nel suo umore più tranquillo. E in momenti del genere, parlare non gli fa mai bene.”

Entrambi gettarono uno sguardo verso la persona di cui si parlava, che si era seduta dall’altra parte del focolare e, con un sorriso vuoto, stava creando dei complicati disegni con un filo tra le dita.

“Pregate, ditemi, signore,” disse Varden, abbassando ancora di più la voce, “esattamente cosa è successo la scorsa notte. Ho le mie ragioni per chiedere. Avete lasciato il Maypole da solo?”

“E tornai a casa da solo, fino a quando non fui quasi arrivato nel luogo in cui mi avete trovato; allora sentii il rumore degli zoccoli di un cavallo.”

“Dietro di te?” disse il fabbro chiave.

“Infatti, sì, dietro di me. Era un solo cavaliere che presto mi superò; controllando il suo cavallo, chiese indicazioni per raggiungere Londra.”

“Era sul chi vive, signore, sapendo quanti banditi ci fossero, che scorrevano le strade in tutte le direzioni, ” disse Varden.

“Lo ero, ma avevo solo un bastone, poiché avevo imprudentemente lasciato le mie pistole nella custodia insieme al figlio del padrone di casa. Gli ho dato indicazioni come desiderava. Prima ancora che quelle parole uscissero dalle mie labbra, si è scagliato su di me con furia, come se volesse calpestarmi sotto gli zoccoli del suo cavallo. Mentre cercavo di deviare, sono scivolato e caduto. Mi avete trovato con questa ferita e un paio di brutti lividi, e senza il mio portafoglio, nel quale non c’era nulla che potesse compensare i suoi sforzi. E ora, signor Varden,” aggiunse, stringendo la mano del fabbro, “a parte l’enorme gratitudine che provo per voi, sapete esattamente quanto so io.”

“Tranne che, ”, disse Gabriel, chinandosi ancora di più e guardando con cautela verso il loro silenzioso vicino, “tranne che per quanto riguarda il ladro stesso. Com’era, signore? Parli piano, se vuole. Barnaby non intende fare del male, ma l’ho osservato più spesso di voi e so, anche se forse non lo pensate, che in questo momento sta ascoltando.”

Occorreva una forte fiducia nella veridicità del fabbro chiave per indurre qualcuno a credere in questo; infatti, ogni senso e capacità che Barnaby possedeva sembravano essere concentrati esclusivamente sulla sua “faccenda”, ignorando tutto il resto. Qualcosa nel volto di quel giovane esprimeva questa convinzione: Gabriel ripeté quindi ciò che aveva appena detto, con maggiore enfasi del precedente, e, lanciando un altro sguardo a Barnaby, chiese ancora una volta com’era fatto quell’uomo.

‘The night was so dark,’ said Edward, ‘the attack so sudden, and he so wrapped and muffled up, that I can hardly say. It seems that—’

‘Don’t mention his name, sir,’ returned the locksmith, following his look towards Barnaby; ‘I know HE saw him. I want to know what YOU saw.’

‘All I remember is,’ said Edward, ‘that as he checked his horse his hat was blown off. He caught it, and replaced it on his head, which I observed was bound with a dark handkerchief. A stranger entered the Maypole while I was there, whom I had not seen—for I had sat apart for reasons of my own—and when I rose to leave the room and glanced round, he was in the shadow of the chimney and hidden from my sight. But, if he and the robber were two different persons, their voices were strangely and most remarkably alike; for directly the man addressed me in the road, I recognised his speech again.’

‘It is as I feared. The very man was here to-night,’ thought the locksmith, changing colour. ‘What dark history is this!’

‘Halloa!’ cried a hoarse voice in his ear. ‘Halloa, halloa, halloa! Bow wow wow. What’s the matter here! Hal-loa!’

The speaker—who made the locksmith start as if he had been some supernatural agent—was a large raven, who had perched upon the top of the easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened with a polite attention and a most extraordinary appearance of comprehending every word, to all they had said up to this point; turning his head from one to the other, as if his office were to judge between them, and it were of the very last importance that he should not lose a word.

‘Look at him!’ said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. ‘Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! Oh he’s a dreadful fellow!’

The raven, with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few seconds, and then replied in a voice so hoarse and distant, that it seemed to come through his thick feathers rather than out of his mouth.

‘Halloa, halloa, halloa! What’s the matter here! Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow wow wow. I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil. Hurrah!’—And then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began to whistle.

‘I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do,’ said Varden. ‘Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew what I was saying?’

To which the bird, balancing himself on tiptoe, as it were, and moving his body up and down in a sort of grave dance, rejoined, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil,’ and flapped his wings against his sides as if he were bursting with laughter. Barnaby clapped his hands, and fairly rolled upon the ground in an ecstasy of delight.

‘Strange companions, sir,’ said the locksmith, shaking his head, and looking from one to the other. ‘The bird has all the wit.’

‘Strange indeed!’ said Edward, holding out his forefinger to the raven, who, in acknowledgment of the attention, made a dive at it immediately with his iron bill. ‘Is he old?’

‘A mere boy, sir,’ replied the locksmith. ‘A hundred and twenty, or thereabouts. Call him down, Barnaby, my man.’

‘Call him!’ echoed Barnaby, sitting upright upon the floor, and staring vacantly at Gabriel, as he thrust his hair back from his face. ‘But who can make him come! He calls me, and makes me go where he will. He goes on before, and I follow. He’s the master, and I’m the man. Is that the truth, Grip?’

The raven gave a short, comfortable, confidential kind of croak;—a most expressive croak, which seemed to say, ‘You needn’t let these fellows into our secrets. We understand each other. It’s all right.’

‘I make HIM come?’ cried Barnaby, pointing to the bird. ‘Him, who never goes to sleep, or so much as winks!—Why, any time of night, you may see his eyes in my dark room, shining like two sparks. And every night, and all night too, he’s broad awake, talking to himself, thinking what he shall do to-morrow, where we shall go, and what he shall steal, and hide, and bury. I make HIM come! Ha ha ha!’

On second thoughts, the bird appeared disposed to come of himself. After a short survey of the ground, and a few sidelong looks at the ceiling and at everybody present in turn, he fluttered to the floor, and went to Barnaby—not in a hop, or walk, or run, but in a pace like that of a very particular gentleman with exceedingly tight boots on, trying to walk fast over loose pebbles. Then, stepping into his extended hand, and condescending to be held out at arm’s length, he gave vent to a succession of sounds, not unlike the drawing of some eight or ten dozen of long corks, and again asserted his brimstone birth and parentage with great distinctness.

The locksmith shook his head—perhaps in some doubt of the creature’s being really nothing but a bird—perhaps in pity for Barnaby, who by this time had him in his arms, and was rolling about, with him, on the ground. As he raised his eyes from the poor fellow he encountered those of his mother, who had entered the room, and was looking on in silence.

She was quite white in the face, even to her lips, but had wholly subdued her emotion, and wore her usual quiet look. Varden fancied as he glanced at her that she shrunk from his eye; and that she busied herself about the wounded gentleman to avoid him the better.

It was time he went to bed, she said. He was to be removed to his own home on the morrow, and he had already exceeded his time for sitting up, by a full hour. Acting on this hint, the locksmith prepared to take his leave.

‘By the bye,’ said Edward, as he shook him by the hand, and looked from him to Mrs Rudge and back again, ‘what noise was that below? I heard your voice in the midst of it, and should have inquired before, but our other conversation drove it from my memory. What was it?’

The locksmith looked towards her, and bit his lip. She leant against the chair, and bent her eyes upon the ground. Barnaby too—he was listening.

—‘Some mad or drunken fellow, sir,’ Varden at length made answer, looking steadily at the widow as he spoke. ‘He mistook the house, and tried to force an entrance.’

She breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless. As the locksmith said ‘Good night,’ and Barnaby caught up the candle to light him down the stairs, she took it from him, and charged him—with more haste and earnestness than so slight an occasion appeared to warrant—not to stir. The raven followed them to satisfy himself that all was right below, and when they reached the street-door, stood on the bottom stair drawing corks out of number.

With a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and turned the key. As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith said in a low voice,

‘I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake of bygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so for my own. I hope I may have done no harm, or led to none. I can’t help the suspicions you have forced upon me, and I am loth, I tell you plainly, to leave Mr Edward here. Take care he comes to no hurt. I doubt the safety of this roof, and am glad he leaves it so soon. Now, let me go.’

For a moment she hid her face in her hands and wept; but resisting the strong impulse which evidently moved her to reply, opened the door—no wider than was sufficient for the passage of his body—and motioned him away. As the locksmith stood upon the step, it was chained and locked behind him, and the raven, in furtherance of these precautions, barked like a lusty house-dog.

‘In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from a gibbet—he listening and hiding here—Barnaby first upon the spot last night—can she who has always borne so fair a name be guilty of such crimes in secret!’ said the locksmith, musing. ‘Heaven forgive me if I am wrong, and send me just thoughts; but she is poor, the temptation may be great, and we daily hear of things as strange.—Ay, bark away, my friend. If there’s any wickedness going on, that raven’s in it, I’ll be sworn.’

“La notte era così buia,” disse Edward, “l’attacco così improvviso, e lui così avvolto e coperto, che fatico quasi a ricordare. Sembra che, ”

“Non menzionate il suo nome, signore,” rispose il fabbro chiave, seguendo lo sguardo del suo interlocutore verso Barnaby; “so che LUI l’ha visto. Voglio sapere cosa AVETE visto VOI.”

“Tutto ciò che ricordo,” disse Edward, “è che mentre controllava il suo cavallo, il cappello gli volò via. Lo raccolse e se lo rimise in testa; notai che era legato con un fazzoletto scuro. Mentre ero lì, entrò nella pianta di maggio uno sconosciuto che non avevo visto prima – poiché mi ero seduto da parte per motivi miei – e quando mi alzai per andarmene e guardai intorno, lo trovai nell’ombra del camino, nascosto alla mia vista. Ma, se lui e il ladro erano due persone diverse, le loro voci erano stranamente e in modo sorprendente simili; perché non appena quell’uomo mi parlò per strada, riconobbi subito il suo accento.”

“È esattamente come temevo. Quell’uomo era qui stasera,” pensò il fabbro, cambiando colore. “Che oscura storia è questa, ”

“Allooo!” gridò una voce rauca nel suo orecchio. “Allooo, allooo, allooo! Bah-bah-bah. Che cosa sta succedendo qui? Allooooo!”

Il parlante – che fece sì che il fabbro aprisse la porta come se fosse stato un qualche agente soprannaturale – era in realtà un grande corvo, appollaiato sulla sommità del divano; nessuno dei due, né lui né Edward, lo aveva notato. Ascoltava con attenzione e con un’aria estremamente comprensiva ogni parola che veniva detta; girava la testa da uno all’altro, come se avesse il compito di giudicare tra loro, e fosse di vitale importanza non perdere una singola parola.

“Guardatelo!” disse Varden, diviso tra ammirazione per l’uccello e una sorta di paura nei suoi confronti. “Esiste davvero un simile birichino così astuto. Oh, che individuo terribile!”

Il corvo, con la testa leggermente inclinata da un lato e il suo occhio luminoso che brillava come un diamante, mantenne un pensieroso silenzio per alcuni secondi, poi rispose con una voce così rauca e distante, che sembrava provenire attraverso le sue folte piume piuttosto che dalla sua bocca.

‘Alloa, alloa, alloa! Che cosa sta succedendo qui? Tenete alto il morale. Mai dire mai. Bow wow wow. Sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo. Evviva!’ E poi, come se si gloriasse della sua natura infernale, iniziò a suonare il flauto.

“Più della metà di noi crede che dica la verità”, disse Varden. “Lo giuro sul mio onore”. “Vedete come mi guarda? Come se sapesse esattamente cosa sto dicendo, ”

Allora l’uccello, tenendosi in equilibrio sulle punte dei piedi e muovendo il proprio -corpo su e giù in una sorta di grave -danza, rispose: “Sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo!”, e sbatté le ali contro i fianchi come se scoppiasse in una risata. Barnaby batté le mani e rotolò a terra per l’eccitazione della gioia.

“Strani compagni, signore,” disse il fabbro chiave scuotendo la testa e guardandoli uno dopo l’altro. “Quel uccello ha davvero molta intelligenza.”

“Strano davvero!”, disse Edward, tendendo il dito indice verso l’corvo, che, in segno di apprezzamento per quell’attenzione, si lanciò immediatamente contro di esso con il suo becco di ferro. “È vecchio?”

“Solo un ragazzo, signore,” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Circa centovent’anni. Chiamatelo giù, Barnaby.”

“Chiamalo!” echeggiò Barnaby, seduto dritto per terra e fissando con sguardo vuoto Gabriel mentre si scostava i capelli dal viso. “Ma chi può farlo venire? Lui mi chiama e mi fa andare dove vuole. Lui va avanti, e io lo seguo. Lui è il padrone, e io sono il suo servo. È questa la verità, Grip?”

Il corvo emise un grugnito breve, rassicurante e confidenziale; un grugnito davvero espressivo, che sembrava dire: “Non c’è bisogno di far entrare questi tizi nei nostri segreti. Ci capiamo bene. Va tutto bene.”

‘Come faccio a farlo venire?’ gridò Barnaby, indicando l’uccello. ‘Lui, che non si addormenta mai, nemmeno battendo le palpebre. In qualsiasi momento della notte puoi vedere i suoi occhi nella mia stanza buia, brillare come due scintille. E ogni notte, per tutta la notte, è completamente sveglio, parla da solo, pensa a cosa farà domani, dove andremo, e cosa ruberà, nasconderà. Come faccio a farlo venire! Ah ah ah!’

Riflettendoci meglio, sembrava che l’uccello fosse disposto ad avvicinarsi da solo. Dopo aver esaminato brevemente il terreno e lanciato alcuni sguardi verso il soffitto e a tutti i presenti, si posò sul pavimento e andò da Barnaby, non con un salto, né camminando o correndo, ma con un passo simile a quello di un gentiluomo molto particolare che indossasse stivali estremamente stretti e cercasse di muoversi velocemente su ciottoli scivolosi. Poi, entrando nella mano tesa verso di lui, acconsentì a essere tenuto a distanza di braccio, emettendo una serie di suoni simili al rumore prodotto dall’estrazione di otto o dieci dozzine di tappi lunghi, e ribadì con grande chiarezza la sua origine “fulminante” e il suo lignaggio “peculiare”.

Il fabbro chiuse la testa: forse nutriva qualche dubbio sul fatto che quella creatura fosse davvero solo un uccello; forse provava anche pietà per Barnaby, che a quel punto lo teneva tra le braccia e si rotolava insieme a lui per terra. Alzando lo sguardo da quel poveretto, incrociò quello di sua madre, che era entrata nella stanza e stava osservando la scena in silenzio.

Il suo viso era molto pallido, persino le sue labbra; tuttavia aveva completamente represso le proprie emozioni e manteneva il solito aspetto tranquillo. Mentre la guardava, Varden ebbe l’impressione che lei evitasse di incrociare il suo sguardo e che si occupasse del gentiluomo ferito proprio per evitarlo il più possibile.

Era arrivato il momento di andare a letto, disse lei. L’indomani lo avrebbero portato nella sua propria casa, e aveva già superato di un’ora intera il limite consentito per rimanere sveglio. Attenendosi a questo suggerimento, il fabbro chiave si preparò ad andarsene.

“Arrivederci,” disse Edward, stringendogli la mano e guardando prima lui, poi la signora Rudge e di nuovo lui, “che rumore era quello laggiù? Ho sentito la tua voce in mezzo a quel trambusto; avrei dovuto chiedertelo prima, ma la nostra conversazione precedente l’aveva fatto dimenticare. Di cosa si trattava?”

Il fabbro chiave la guardò e morse il labbro. Lei si appoggiò alla sedia e abbassò lo sguardo a terra. Anche Barnaby, stava ascoltando.

“Un qualche pazzo o ubriaco, signore,” rispose finalmente Varden, guardando fisso la vedova mentre parlava. “Ha scambiato questa casa per un’altra e ha cercato di forzare l’ingresso.”

Respirava più liberamente, ma rimaneva completamente immobile. Quando il fabbro chiusei disse “Buona notte”, e Barnaby gli porse la candela per aiutarlo a scendere le scale, lei gliela prese di mano e lo esortò con maggiore fretta e serietà di quanto sembrasse necessario per un’occasione così banale, a non muoversi assolutamente. Il corvo li seguì per assicurarsi che tutto fosse in ordine sotto, e quando raggiunsero la porta d’ingresso, si fermò sul gradino più basso e iniziò ad estrarre numerose bottiglie di vino.

Con una mano tremante, lei sciolse la catena e i lucchetti, poi girò la chiave. Mentre teneva la mano sulla maniglia, il fabbro serramentista disse a bassa voce.

‘Ho detto una bugia, di notte, per il tuo bene, Mary, e per il ricordo di tempi passati e vecchi amici. Non avrei mai osato farlo per mio conto. Spero di non aver causato alcun danno. Non posso fare nulla riguardo alle sospetti che mi hai imposto. E onestamente, non voglio che il signor Edward rimanga qui. Fa’ in modo che non gli accada nulla. Dubito della sicurezza di questo posto. Sono contenta che se ne vada così presto. Ora, lasciami andare.’

Per un momento nascose il viso tra le mani e pianse; ma resistendo alla forte tentazione di rispondere, aprì la porta – non più larga del necessario per far passare il suo corpo – e gli fece segno di andarsene. Mentre lo scassinatore si trovava ancora sul gradino, la porta venne chiusa a catena e lucchiera dietro di lui; inoltre, per ulteriori precauzioni, il corvo abbaiò come un robusto cane da guardia.

“In combutta con quella figura orribile che potrebbe essere caduta da una forca. Lui che ascolta e si nasconde qui. Barnaby è stato il primo ad arrivare sul posto la scorsa notte. Come può lei, che ha sempre portato un nome così onorevole, essere colpevole di simili crimini in segreto?” disse il fabbro chiave, pensieroso. “Che il cielo mi perdoni se sbaglio e mi guidi nella verità; ma lei è povera. La tentazione potrebbe essere grande. E ogni giorno sentiamo parlare di cose strane. Ah, abbaia pure, amico mio. Se c’è davvero del male in corso, quel corvo ne è sicuramente coinvolto. Lo giuro.”

Chapter 7

Mrs Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an uncertain temper—a phrase which being interpreted signifies a temper tolerably certain to make everybody more or less uncomfortable. Thus it generally happened, that when other people were merry, Mrs Varden was dull; and that when other people were dull, Mrs Varden was disposed to be amazingly cheerful. Indeed the worthy housewife was of such a capricious nature, that she not only attained a higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in respect of her ability to be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in an instant, but would sometimes ring the changes backwards and forwards on all possible moods and flights in one short quarter of an hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple bob major on the peal of instruments in the female belfry, with a skilfulness and rapidity of execution that astonished all who heard her.

It had been observed in this good lady (who did not want for personal attractions, being plump and buxom to look at, though like her fair daughter, somewhat short in stature) that this uncertainty of disposition strengthened and increased with her temporal prosperity; and divers wise men and matrons, on friendly terms with the locksmith and his family, even went so far as to assert, that a tumble down some half-dozen rounds in the world’s ladder—such as the breaking of the bank in which her husband kept his money, or some little fall of that kind—would be the making of her, and could hardly fail to render her one of the most agreeable companions in existence. Whether they were right or wrong in this conjecture, certain it is that minds, like bodies, will often fall into a pimpled ill-conditioned state from mere excess of comfort, and like them, are often successfully cured by remedies in themselves very nauseous and unpalatable.

Mrs Varden’s chief aider and abettor, and at the same time her principal victim and object of wrath, was her single domestic servant, one Miss Miggs; or as she was called, in conformity with those prejudices of society which lop and top from poor hand-maidens all such genteel excrescences—Miggs. This Miggs was a tall young lady, very much addicted to pattens in private life; slender and shrewish, of a rather uncomfortable figure, and though not absolutely ill-looking, of a sharp and acid visage. As a general principle and abstract proposition, Miggs held the male sex to be utterly contemptible and unworthy of notice; to be fickle, false, base, sottish, inclined to perjury, and wholly undeserving. When particularly exasperated against them (which, scandal said, was when Sim Tappertit slighted her most) she was accustomed to wish with great emphasis that the whole race of women could but die off, in order that the men might be brought to know the real value of the blessings by which they set so little store; nay, her feeling for her order ran so high, that she sometimes declared, if she could only have good security for a fair, round number—say ten thousand—of young virgins following her example, she would, to spite mankind, hang, drown, stab, or poison herself, with a joy past all expression.

It was the voice of Miggs that greeted the locksmith, when he knocked at his own house, with a shrill cry of ‘Who’s there?’

‘Me, girl, me,’ returned Gabriel.

What, already, sir!’ said Miggs, opening the door with a look of surprise. ‘We were just getting on our nightcaps to sit up,—me and mistress. Oh, she has been SO bad!’

Miggs said this with an air of uncommon candour and concern; but the parlour-door was standing open, and as Gabriel very well knew for whose ears it was designed, he regarded her with anything but an approving look as he passed in.

‘Master’s come home, mim,’ cried Miggs, running before him into the parlour. ‘You was wrong, mim, and I was right. I thought he wouldn’t keep us up so late, two nights running, mim. Master’s always considerate so far. I’m so glad, mim, on your account. I’m a little’—here Miggs simpered—‘a little sleepy myself; I’ll own it now, mim, though I said I wasn’t when you asked me. It ain’t of no consequence, mim, of course.’

‘You had better,’ said the locksmith, who most devoutly wished that Barnaby’s raven was at Miggs’s ankles, ‘you had better get to bed at once then.’

‘Thanking you kindly, sir,’ returned Miggs, ‘I couldn’t take my rest in peace, nor fix my thoughts upon my prayers, otherways than that I knew mistress was comfortable in her bed this night; by rights she ought to have been there, hours ago.’

‘You’re talkative, mistress,’ said Varden, pulling off his greatcoat, and looking at her askew.

‘Taking the hint, sir,’ cried Miggs, with a flushed face, ‘and thanking you for it most kindly, I will make bold to say, that if I give offence by having consideration for my mistress, I do not ask your pardon, but am content to get myself into trouble and to be in suffering.’

Here Mrs Varden, who, with her countenance shrouded in a large nightcap, had been all this time intent upon the Protestant Manual, looked round, and acknowledged Miggs’s championship by commanding her to hold her tongue.

Every little bone in Miggs’s throat and neck developed itself with a spitefulness quite alarming, as she replied, ‘Yes, mim, I will.’

‘How do you find yourself now, my dear?’ said the locksmith, taking a chair near his wife (who had resumed her book), and rubbing his knees hard as he made the inquiry.

‘You’re very anxious to know, an’t you?’ returned Mrs Varden, with her eyes upon the print. ‘You, that have not been near me all day, and wouldn’t have been if I was dying!’

‘My dear Martha—’ said Gabriel.

Mrs Varden turned over to the next page; then went back again to the bottom line over leaf to be quite sure of the last words; and then went on reading with an appearance of the deepest interest and study.

‘My dear Martha,’ said the locksmith, ‘how can you say such things, when you know you don’t mean them? If you were dying! Why, if there was anything serious the matter with you, Martha, shouldn’t I be in constant attendance upon you?’

Capitolo 7

La signora Varden era una donna il cui carattere si potrebbe definire “incerto”, un termine che, in realtà, significa che il suo temperamento aveva la capacità di rendere tutti, più o meno, a disagio. Di solito, quando gli altri erano felici, la signora Varden era noiosa; mentre quando gli altri erano noiosi, lei tendeva ad essere incredibilmente allegra. In effetti, questa rispettabile casalinga aveva un carattere così capriccioso che riusciva non solo a raggiungere livelli di “genio” superiori a quelli di Macbeth nel mostrare capacità di essere saggia, sorpresa, moderata o furiosa, leale o neutrale in un istante, ma a volte cambiava completamente umore in soli quindici minuti, alternando tutte le possibili emozioni in modo così abile e rapido da lasciare tutti stupiti.

Si osservò che in questa gentile signora (la quale non mancava di attrattive personali: era robusta e formosa da vedere, anche se, come sua figlia bionda, era piuttosto bassa di statura) questa instabilità d’umore aumentava con il suo benessere materiale; anzi, diversi saggi e donne anziane, in buoni rapporti con il fabbro chiave e la sua famiglia, arrivarono persino ad affermare che un improvviso declino economico – come la bancarotta della banca dove suo marito teneva i suoi soldi, o una qualche altra sfortuna del genere – avrebbe potuto trasformarla in una delle compagnie più piacevoli da avere al mondo. Che avessero ragione o meno in questa congettura, è certo che anche le menti, come i corpi, spesso cadono in uno stato di malessere a causa dell’eccesso di comodità; e, proprio come per i corpi, possono essere guarite efficacemente con rimedi che, a prima vista, sembrano molto sgradevoli e poco attraenti.

L’aiutante principale e complice di Mrs Varden, e allo stesso tempo la sua vittima principale e oggetto della sua ira, era la sua unica domestica, una certa Miss Miggs; o meglio, come veniva chiamata, in conformità con quei pregiudizi sociali che privavano le povere domestiche di ogni traccia di raffinatezza. Miggs. Questa Miggs era una giovane donna alta, molto abituata a indossare scarpe con i tacchi alti nella vita privata; snella e irascibile, di corporatura piuttosto sgraziata, e sebbene non fosse del tutto sgradevole d’aspetto, aveva un viso acido e sprezzante. In linea di principio generale, Miggs considerava il sesso maschile assolutamente spregevole e degno di disprezzo; capriccioso, infedele, meschino, volgare, incline al perjurio, e del tutto indegno di attenzione. Quando era particolarmente esasperata nei loro confronti (si diceva che ciò accadesse quando Sim Tappertit la trattava con disprezzo), aveva l’abitudine di sperare con grande fervore che tutta la razza maschile potesse semplicemente estinguersi, affinché gli uomini potessero finalmente comprendere il vero valore delle benedizioni di cui tanto poco si rendevano conto; anzi, il suo odio per il genere umano era tale che a volte dichiarava che, se solo avesse avuto la certezza di avere diecimila giovani vergini pronte a seguire il suo esempio, avrebbe ucciso sé stessa – impiccandosi, annegandosi, pugnalandosi o avvelenandosi – con una gioia indescrivibile.

Era la voce di Miggs ad accogliere il fabbro chiave quando bussò alla sua stessa casa, con un grido acuto: “Chi è là?”

“Me, ragazza, me,” rispose Gabriel.

“Cosa? Già, signore?” disse Miggs, aprendo la porta con un’espressione di sorpresa. “Stavamo proprio per bere il nostro tè notturno e restare svegli, io e la padrona. Oh, lei è stata davvero terribile!”

Miggs lo disse con un tono di rara schiettezza e preoccupazione; ma la porta del salotto era aperta, e poiché Gabriel sapeva molto bene a chi fosse destinato quel discorso, la guardò con tutt’altro che approvazione mentre entrava.

“Il padrone è tornato a casa, signore,” gridò Miggs correndogli davanti in salotto. “Avete sbagliato voi, signore, e avevo ragione io. Pensavo che non ci avrebbe tenuti svegli fino a tardi, per due notti di seguito. Il padrone è sempre così premuroso. Sono così contenta, per voi. Anzi, sono un po’, ” – qui Miggs sospirò – “un po’ assonnata; lo ammetto ora, anche se prima avevo detto di no quando me l’avete chiesto. Ma non ha importanza, signore, ovviamente.”

“È meglio che lo facciate,” disse il fabbro chiave, desiderando ardentemente che il corvo di Barnaby fosse attorno alle caviglie di Miggs, “Dovreste andare a letto subito.”

“Grazie mille, signore,” rispose Miggs, “non avrei potuto riposare in pace, né concentrarmi sulle mie preghiere, se non sapessi che la padrona stava bene nel suo letto quella notte; di fatto, avrebbe dovuto essere lì già da ore.”

“Sei molto loquace, signora,” disse Varden, togliendosi il cappotto e guardandola di sghembo.

“Prendendo atto del vostro suggerimento, signore,” esclamò Miggs, con il viso arrossito, “e ringraziandovi per la vostra gentilezza, oso dire che, se do offesa pensando alla mia padrona, non chiedo il vostro perdono, ma sono disposta ad affrontare le conseguenze e a soffrire.”

Ecco la signora Varden: con il viso coperto da un grande berretto da notte, per tutto questo tempo era immersa nella lettura del “Manuale Protestante”. Guardò intorno e, riconoscendo Miggs come la responsabile di tutto ciò, le ordinò di tenere a bada la lingua.

Ogni piccolo osso nella gola e nel collo di Miggs si sviluppava con una malvagità davvero allarmante; mentre rispondeva: “Sì, Mim, lo farò.”

“Come te la passi adesso, mia cara?” chiese il fabbro chiave, prendendo una sedia vicino a sua moglie (che aveva ripreso a leggere il suo libro) e strofinandosi forte le ginocchia mentre poneva quella domanda.

“Sei davvero molto ansioso di saperlo, vero?”, rispose la signora Varden, fissando il foglio. “Tu, che non sei stato nemmeno vicino a me tutto il giorno. E che probabilmente non saresti venuto nemmeno se stessi morendo!”

“Mia cara Martha, ” disse Gabriel.

La signora Varden girò alla pagina successiva; poi tornò di nuovo alla riga in fondo della pagina per essere sicura delle ultime parole; e continuò a leggere con un’aria di profondo interesse e attenzione.

“Mia cara Martha,” disse il fabbro chiave, “come puoi dire cose del genere, se sai che non le pensi davvero? Anche se stessi morendo. Certo, se ci fosse qualcosa di serio, Martha, non dovrei forse stare sempre al tuo fianco?”

‘Yes!’ cried Mrs Varden, bursting into tears, ‘yes, you would. I don’t doubt it, Varden. Certainly you would. That’s as much as to tell me that you would be hovering round me like a vulture, waiting till the breath was out of my body, that you might go and marry somebody else.’

Miggs groaned in sympathy—a little short groan, checked in its birth, and changed into a cough. It seemed to say, ‘I can’t help it. It’s wrung from me by the dreadful brutality of that monster master.’

‘But you’ll break my heart one of these days,’ added Mrs Varden, with more resignation, ‘and then we shall both be happy. My only desire is to see Dolly comfortably settled, and when she is, you may settle ME as soon as you like.’

‘Ah!’ cried Miggs—and coughed again.

Poor Gabriel twisted his wig about in silence for a long time, and then said mildly, ‘Has Dolly gone to bed?’

‘Your master speaks to you,’ said Mrs Varden, looking sternly over her shoulder at Miss Miggs in waiting.

‘No, my dear, I spoke to you,’ suggested the locksmith.

‘Did you hear me, Miggs?’ cried the obdurate lady, stamping her foot upon the ground. ‘YOU are beginning to despise me now, are you? But this is example!’

At this cruel rebuke, Miggs, whose tears were always ready, for large or small parties, on the shortest notice and the most reasonable terms, fell a crying violently; holding both her hands tight upon her heart meanwhile, as if nothing less would prevent its splitting into small fragments. Mrs Varden, who likewise possessed that faculty in high perfection, wept too, against Miggs; and with such effect that Miggs gave in after a time, and, except for an occasional sob, which seemed to threaten some remote intention of breaking out again, left her mistress in possession of the field. Her superiority being thoroughly asserted, that lady soon desisted likewise, and fell into a quiet melancholy.

The relief was so great, and the fatiguing occurrences of last night so completely overpowered the locksmith, that he nodded in his chair, and would doubtless have slept there all night, but for the voice of Mrs Varden, which, after a pause of some five minutes, awoke him with a start.

‘If I am ever,’ said Mrs V.—not scolding, but in a sort of monotonous remonstrance—‘in spirits, if I am ever cheerful, if I am ever more than usually disposed to be talkative and comfortable, this is the way I am treated.’

‘Such spirits as you was in too, mim, but half an hour ago!’ cried Miggs. ‘I never see such company!’

‘Because,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘because I never interfere or interrupt; because I never question where anybody comes or goes; because my whole mind and soul is bent on saving where I can save, and labouring in this house;—therefore, they try me as they do.’

‘Martha,’ urged the locksmith, endeavouring to look as wakeful as possible, ‘what is it you complain of? I really came home with every wish and desire to be happy. I did, indeed.’

‘What do I complain of!’ retorted his wife. ‘Is it a chilling thing to have one’s husband sulking and falling asleep directly he comes home—to have him freezing all one’s warm-heartedness, and throwing cold water over the fireside? Is it natural, when I know he went out upon a matter in which I am as much interested as anybody can be, that I should wish to know all that has happened, or that he should tell me without my begging and praying him to do it? Is that natural, or is it not?’

‘I am very sorry, Martha,’ said the good-natured locksmith. ‘I was really afraid you were not disposed to talk pleasantly; I’ll tell you everything; I shall only be too glad, my dear.’

‘No, Varden,’ returned his wife, rising with dignity. ‘I dare say—thank you! I’m not a child to be corrected one minute and petted the next—I’m a little too old for that, Varden. Miggs, carry the light.—YOU can be cheerful, Miggs, at least.’

Miggs, who, to this moment, had been in the very depths of compassionate despondency, passed instantly into the liveliest state conceivable, and tossing her head as she glanced towards the locksmith, bore off her mistress and the light together.

‘Now, who would think,’ thought Varden, shrugging his shoulders and drawing his chair nearer to the fire, ‘that that woman could ever be pleasant and agreeable? And yet she can be. Well, well, all of us have our faults. I’ll not be hard upon hers. We have been man and wife too long for that.’

He dozed again—not the less pleasantly, perhaps, for his hearty temper. While his eyes were closed, the door leading to the upper stairs was partially opened; and a head appeared, which, at sight of him, hastily drew back again.

‘I wish,’ murmured Gabriel, waking at the noise, and looking round the room, ‘I wish somebody would marry Miggs. But that’s impossible! I wonder whether there’s any madman alive, who would marry Miggs!’

This was such a vast speculation that he fell into a doze again, and slept until the fire was quite burnt out. At last he roused himself; and having double-locked the street-door according to custom, and put the key in his pocket, went off to bed.

He had not left the room in darkness many minutes, when the head again appeared, and Sim Tappertit entered, bearing in his hand a little lamp.

‘What the devil business has he to stop up so late!’ muttered Sim, passing into the workshop, and setting it down upon the forge. ‘Here’s half the night gone already. There’s only one good that has ever come to me, out of this cursed old rusty mechanical trade, and that’s this piece of ironmongery, upon my soul!’

As he spoke, he drew from the right hand, or rather right leg pocket of his smalls, a clumsy large-sized key, which he inserted cautiously in the lock his master had secured, and softly opened the door. That done, he replaced his piece of secret workmanship in his pocket; and leaving the lamp burning, and closing the door carefully and without noise, stole out into the street—as little suspected by the locksmith in his sound deep sleep, as by Barnaby himself in his phantom-haunted dreams.

“Sì!” gridò la signora Varden, scoppiando in lacrime. “Sì, lo faresti. Non ne dubito affatto, Varden. Sicuramente lo faresti. Questo significa che continueresti a girarmi intorno come un avvoltoio, aspettando solo che esca l’ultimo respiro dal mio corpo, per poi andare a sposare qualcun altro.”

Miggs emise un gemito di compassione – un breve gemito, che nel momento stesso in cui nacque fu trattenuto e trasformato in un colpo di tosse. Sembrava dire: “Non posso farci nulla. Mi viene strappato via dalla terribile brutalità di quel padrone mostro.”

“Ma un giorno mi spezzerai il cuore,” aggiunse la signora Varden con più rassegnazione, “e allora saremo entrambi felici. Il mio unico -desiderio è che Dolly si sistemi bene, e quando questo accadrà, potrai sistemare ME quando vorrai.”

“Ah!” gridò Miggs, e poi tossì di nuovo.

Povero Gabriel, girò e rigirò la sua parrucca in silenzio per molto tempo, poi disse dolcemente: “Dolly è già andata a letto?”

“Il vostro padrone vi parla,” disse la signora Varden, guardando severamente dalla spalla la cameriera Miss Miggs.

“No, mia cara, ti ho parlato,” suggerì il fabbro chiave.

“Mi hai sentito, Miggs?” gridò la donna testarda, battendo il piede a terra. “Ora inizi anche tu a disprezzarmi, vero? Ma questo è un esempio!”

Di fronte a questa crudele rimprovera, Miggs, la cui lacrime erano sempre pronte ad scorrere, per motivi grandi o piccoli, al minimo preavviso e con le condizioni più ragionevoli, scoppiò in un pianto violento; tenendosi entrambe le mani premute sul cuore, come se nulla altro potesse impedire che esso si spezzasse in mille pezzi. Anche la signora Varden, che possedeva anch’essa questa stessa capacità in modo eccezionale, pianse insieme a Miggs; e con tale effetto che, dopo un po’, Miggs smise di piangere e, ad eccezione di qualche singhiozzo occasionale che sembrava minacciare una possibile ricomincio del pianto, lasciò la sua padrona in completa libertà di esprimersi. Una volta affermata con chiarezza la propria superiorità, anche quella signora smise presto di piangere e cadde in un tranquillo melanconico stato d’animo.

Il sollievo fu così grande, e gli eventi estenuanti della scorsa notte sopraffecero completamente il fabbro chiave, che egli annuì sulla sedia e probabilmente avrebbe dormito lì tutta la notte, se non fosse stato per la voce della signora Varden, che, dopo una pausa di circa cinque minuti, lo svegliò di colpo.

“Se mai dovesse succedere,” disse la signora V. – non in tono di rimprovero, ma con una sorta di monotono rammarico – “se mai dovessi essere di buon umore, se mai fossi più propensa del solito a chiacchierare e a rilassarmi, è proprio così che vengo trattata.”

“Anche tu eri tra queste persone, Mim, ma mezz’ora fa!” gridò Migs. “Non vedo mai gente del genere!”

“Perché,” disse la signora Varden, “perché non interferisco mai né interrompo; perché non chiedo mai da dove venga o dove vada qualcuno; perché tutta la mia mente e la mia ‘anima sono dedicate a salvare chiunque possa essere salvato, e a lavorare in questa casa; ed è per questo che mi mettono alla prova in questo modo.”

“Martha,” insistette il fabbro chiave, cercando di sembrare il più sveglio possibile, “di cosa ti lamenti? Sono davvero tornato a casa con ogni desiderio e volontà di essere felice. Lo sono davvero.”

“Di cosa dovrei lamentarmi!”, ribatté sua moglie. “È forse normale che il proprio marito, appena tornato a casa, si metta a fare il broncio e si addormenti subito. Che spegni tutta la calore del nostro affetto e getti acqua fredda sul fuoco? È davvero naturale che io, sapendo che è uscito per una questione nella quale sono interessata tanto quanto chiunque altro, desideri conoscere tutto ciò che è accaduto, o che lui debba raccontarmelo senza che io debba supplicarlo o pregarlo di farlo? È naturale, o no?”

“Mi dispiace molto, Martha,” disse il gentile fabbro chiave. “Avevo davvero paura che tu non fossi disposta a parlare in modo amichevole; ti dirò tutto. Anzi, ne sarò molto felice, cara.”

“No, Varden,” rispose sua moglie alzandosi con dignità. “Oserei dire, grazie! Non sono più una bambina da correggere un momento e coccolare il seguente. Sono un po’ troppo vecchia per queste cose, Varden. Miggs, porta la lampada. Tu almeno puoi essere felice, Miggs.”

Miggs, che fino a quel momento era immersa nelle profondità di un dolore commovente, passò all’improvviso allo stato più gioioso che si possa immaginare; scuotendo la testa mentre guardava verso il fabbro chiave, portò via con sé la sua padrona e la lampada.

“Ora, chi avrebbe mai pensato, ”, si disse Varden, scuotendo le spalle e avvicinando la sedia al fuoco, “che quella donna potesse essere piacevole e gradevole? Eppure lo è. Beh, dopotutto tutti abbiamo i nostri difetti. Non sarò troppo severo con lei; siamo stati marito e moglie per troppo tempo.”

Si addormentò di nuovo. Forse anche più piacevolmente, data la sua natura allegra e serena. Mentre aveva gli occhi chiusi, la porta che conduceva alle scale superiori si aprì leggermente; apparve una testa, che, non appena lo vide, si ritirò immediatamente.

“Vorrei, ”, mormorò Gabriel, svegliandosi per il rumore e guardandosi intorno nella stanza. “Vorrei che qualcuno sposasse Miggs. Ma è impossibile! Mi chiedo se esista ancora qualche pazzo al mondo disposto a sposare Miggs, ”

Si trattava di una speculazione così vasta che si addormentò di nuovo e continuò a dormire fino a quando il fuoco non si era completamente spento. Alla fine si svegliò, chiuse a doppio la porta d’ingresso come di consueto, mise la chiave in tasca e andò a letto.

Non era passato nemmeno molto tempo da quando aveva lasciato la stanza al buio, quando di nuovo quella testa apparve e Sim Tappertit entrò, tenendo in mano una piccola lampada.

“Che diavolo sta facendo a lavorare fino a così tardi?” mormorò Sim entrando nel laboratorio e posandola sulla fucina. “Mezza notte è già passata. In tutta questa maledetta, vecchia e arrugginita attività meccanica, l’unica cosa positiva che mi sia mai capitata è proprio questo pezzo di ferramenta. Per la mia ‘anima!”

Mentre parlava, tirò fuori dalla tasca destra dei suoi pantaloni un grosso e goffo chiave, la inserì con cautela nella serratura che il suo padrone aveva chiuso a chiave e aprì silenziosamente la porta. Dopo aver fatto ciò, ripose quel “pezzo di ingegneria segreta” nella tasca; lasciò la lampada accesa, chiuse la porta con cura e senza fare rumore, e uscì furtivamente in strada. Del tutto ignorato sia dal fabbro che dormiva profondamente, sia da Barnaby stesso, immerso nei suoi sogni popolati da fantasmi.

Chapter 8

Clear of the locksmith’s house, Sim Tappertit laid aside his cautious manner, and assuming in its stead that of a ruffling, swaggering, roving blade, who would rather kill a man than otherwise, and eat him too if needful, made the best of his way along the darkened streets.

Half pausing for an instant now and then to smite his pocket and assure himself of the safety of his master key, he hurried on to Barbican, and turning into one of the narrowest of the narrow streets which diverged from that centre, slackened his pace and wiped his heated brow, as if the termination of his walk were near at hand.

It was not a very choice spot for midnight expeditions, being in truth one of more than questionable character, and of an appearance by no means inviting. From the main street he had entered, itself little better than an alley, a low-browed doorway led into a blind court, or yard, profoundly dark, unpaved, and reeking with stagnant odours. Into this ill-favoured pit, the locksmith’s vagrant ‘prentice groped his way; and stopping at a house from whose defaced and rotten front the rude effigy of a bottle swung to and fro like some gibbeted malefactor, struck thrice upon an iron grating with his foot. After listening in vain for some response to his signal, Mr Tappertit became impatient, and struck the grating thrice again.

A further delay ensued, but it was not of long duration. The ground seemed to open at his feet, and a ragged head appeared.

‘Is that the captain?’ said a voice as ragged as the head.

‘Yes,’ replied Mr Tappertit haughtily, descending as he spoke, ‘who should it be?’

‘It’s so late, we gave you up,’ returned the voice, as its owner stopped to shut and fasten the grating. ‘You’re late, sir.’

‘Lead on,’ said Mr Tappertit, with a gloomy majesty, ‘and make remarks when I require you. Forward!’

This latter word of command was perhaps somewhat theatrical and unnecessary, inasmuch as the descent was by a very narrow, steep, and slippery flight of steps, and any rashness or departure from the beaten track must have ended in a yawning water-butt. But Mr Tappertit being, like some other great commanders, favourable to strong effects, and personal display, cried ‘Forward!’ again, in the hoarsest voice he could assume; and led the way, with folded arms and knitted brows, to the cellar down below, where there was a small copper fixed in one corner, a chair or two, a form and table, a glimmering fire, and a truckle-bed, covered with a ragged patchwork rug.

‘Welcome, noble captain!’ cried a lanky figure, rising as from a nap.

The captain nodded. Then, throwing off his outer coat, he stood composed in all his dignity, and eyed his follower over.

‘What news to-night?’ he asked, when he had looked into his very soul.

‘Nothing particular,’ replied the other, stretching himself—and he was so long already that it was quite alarming to see him do it—‘how come you to be so late?’

‘No matter,’ was all the captain deigned to say in answer. ‘Is the room prepared?’

‘It is,’ replied the follower.

‘The comrade—is he here?’

‘Yes. And a sprinkling of the others—you hear ‘em?’

‘Playing skittles!’ said the captain moodily. ‘Light-hearted revellers!’

There was no doubt respecting the particular amusement in which these heedless spirits were indulging, for even in the close and stifling atmosphere of the vault, the noise sounded like distant thunder. It certainly appeared, at first sight, a singular spot to choose, for that or any other purpose of relaxation, if the other cellars answered to the one in which this brief colloquy took place; for the floors were of sodden earth, the walls and roof of damp bare brick tapestried with the tracks of snails and slugs; the air was sickening, tainted, and offensive. It seemed, from one strong flavour which was uppermost among the various odours of the place, that it had, at no very distant period, been used as a storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance which, while it accounted for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was agreeably suggestive of rats. It was naturally damp besides, and little trees of fungus sprung from every mouldering corner.

The proprietor of this charming retreat, and owner of the ragged head before mentioned—for he wore an old tie-wig as bare and frowzy as a stunted hearth-broom—had by this time joined them; and stood a little apart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled chin, and smiling in silence. His eyes were closed; but had they been wide open, it would have been easy to tell, from the attentive expression of the face he turned towards them—pale and unwholesome as might be expected in one of his underground existence—and from a certain anxious raising and quivering of the lids, that he was blind.

‘Even Stagg hath been asleep,’ said the long comrade, nodding towards this person.

‘Sound, captain, sound!’ cried the blind man; ‘what does my noble captain drink—is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh? Is it soaked gunpowder, or blazing oil? Give it a name, heart of oak, and we’d get it for you, if it was wine from a bishop’s cellar, or melted gold from King George’s mint.’

‘See,’ said Mr Tappertit haughtily, ‘that it’s something strong, and comes quick; and so long as you take care of that, you may bring it from the devil’s cellar, if you like.’

‘Boldly said, noble captain!’ rejoined the blind man. ‘Spoken like the ‘Prentices’ Glory. Ha, ha! From the devil’s cellar! A brave joke! The captain joketh. Ha, ha, ha!’

‘I’ll tell you what, my fine feller,’ said Mr Tappertit, eyeing the host over as he walked to a closet, and took out a bottle and glass as carelessly as if he had been in full possession of his sight, ‘if you make that row, you’ll find that the captain’s very far from joking, and so I tell you.’

‘He’s got his eyes on me!’ cried Stagg, stopping short on his way back, and affecting to screen his face with the bottle. ‘I feel ‘em though I can’t see ‘em. Take ‘em off, noble captain. Remove ‘em, for they pierce like gimlets.’

Capitolo 8

Lontano dalla casa del fabbro chiave, Sim Tappertit abbandonò il suo comportamento cauto e assunse l’atteggiamento di un individuo aggressivo, sprezzante e pericoloso, pronto a uccidere qualcuno senza esitazione e, se necessario, anche a mangiarlo. Proseguì quindi lungo le strade buie con determinazione.

Ogni tanto si fermava per un attimo, per controllare che la sua chiave magica fosse ancora al sicuro nella tasca, poi proseguiva di fretta verso il Barbican. Entrando in una delle strade più strette che si diramavano da quel centro, rallentò il passo e si asciugò la fronte sudata, come se la fine del suo percorso fosse ormai vicina.

Non era certo un luogo adatto per escursioni a mezzanotte: si trattava, infatti, di uno spazio dal carattere piuttosto discutibile e dall’aspetto assolutamente poco invitante. Dalla strada principale in cui era entrato – che non era molto meglio di un vicolo stretto – una porta bassa conduceva in un cortile buio, privo di pavimentazione e invaso da odori nauseabondi. Nel buio di quel luogo squallido, il “apprendista” del fabbro chiavi si fece strada a tentoni; arrivato davanti a una casa il cui fronte era stato imbrattato e in rovina, vide un’effigie rozza di una bottiglia che dondolava avanti e indietro, come se fosse il simbolo di qualche criminale impiccato. Batté tre volte con il piede contro la grata di ferro. Dopo aver ascoltato invano per cercare una risposta al suo segnale, il signor Tappertit perse la pazienza e batté ancora tre volte sulla grata.

Seguì un altro ritardo, ma non durò a lungo. Il terreno sembrò aprirsi sotto i suoi piedi, e apparve una testa disordinata.

“È il capitano?” disse una voce ruvida quanto la testa stessa.

“Sì,” rispose il signor Tappertit con aria sprezzante, scendendo mentre parlava, “chi altro potrebbe essere?”

“È così tardi, ci siamo arresi,” rispose la voce mentre il suo proprietario si fermava per chiudere e fissare a dovere la grata. “Siete in ritardo, signore.”

“Avanti,” disse il signor Tappertit con una maestosità cupa, “e fate commenti quando ve lo chiederò. Andate avanti!”

Quest’ultimo ordine, forse, era un po’ teatrale e superfluo, dato che la discesa avveniva lungo una serie di gradini molto stretti, ripidi e scivolosi; qualsiasi imprudenza o deviazione dal percorso prestabilito avrebbe sicuramente portato a cadere in un abisso pieno d’acqua. Ma il signor Tappertit, proprio come altri grandi comandanti, amava gli effetti scenografici e le dimostrazioni personali; quindi gridò di nuovo “Avanti!”, con la voce più roca che potesse assumere, e guidò il gruppo verso il seminterrato sottostante. Lì c’era un piccolo braciere di rame fissato in un angolo, uno o due sedie, un tavolo, una fiamma tremolante nel camino e un letto basso coperto da un tappeto fatto di pezzi di stoffa rattoppati.

“Benvenuto, nobile capitano!” gridò una figura allungata, alzandosi come se si fosse appena svegliata da un pisolino.

Il capitano annuì. Poi, gettando via il cappotto esterno, si mise in piedi con dignità e guardò il suo seguace.

“Quali novità ci sono, di notte?”, chiese, dopo aver scrutato nel profondo della propria ‘anima.

“Niente di particolare,” rispose l’altro, stiracchiandosi. E era già così alto che era davvero inquietante vederlo farlo, “Perché sei arrivato così tardi?”

“Non importa,” fu tutto ciò che il capitano si degnò di rispondere. “La stanza è pronta?”

“Sì,” rispose il seguace.

“Il compagno, è qui?”

“Sì. E anche un po’ di quelle altre cose. Le senti?”

“Giocando a skittle!”, disse il capitano con malinconia. “Divertimenti leggeri e spensierati, ”

Non c’era alcun >dubbio riguardo al tipo di divertimento a cui questi spiriti spensierati si stavano dedicando; infatti, anche nell’atmosfera opprimente e umida di quella cantina, il rumore prodotto sembrava quello del tuono in lontananza. A prima vista, quel luogo pareva davvero insolito da scegliere per qualsiasi scopo di relax. Se le altre cantine fossero state simili a quella in cui si era svolto quel breve colloquio: i pavimenti erano fatti di terra umida, le pareti e il soffitto di mattoni bagnati e coperti di tracce di lumache e slittini; l’aria era nauseabonda e insopportabile. Un odore particolarmente forte tra tutti quelli presenti nel luogo indicava chiaramente che, in tempi non troppo lontani, quella stanza veniva utilizzata come magazzino per formaggi. Una circostanza che, sebbene spiegasse la presenza di quell’umidità untuosa nell’aria, suggeriva anche l’eventualità della presenza di ratti. Naturalmente, il luogo era anche molto umido; da ogni angolo marcio crescevano piccoli alberelli di funghi.

Il proprietario di questa incantevole dimora, e anche il possessore di quella parrucca logora menzionata prima – poiché indossava una vecchia parrucca spelacchiata e arruffata come uno spazzacamino stentato – si era unito a loro in quel momento; stava un po’ in disparte, strofinandosi le mani, dondolando il suo mento grigio e ispido, e sorridendo in silenzio. Aveva gli occhi chiusi; ma anche se fossero stati aperti, sarebbe stato facile notare, dall’espressione attenta del suo volto rivolto verso di loro – pallido e malaticcio, come ci si poteva aspettare da qualcuno che conduceva una vita sotterranea – e da un certo movimento ansioso e tremante delle palpebre, che era cieco.

“Anche Stagg ha dormito,” disse il lungo compagno, indicando con un cenno di testa quella persona.

“Vino, capitano, vino!” gridò l’uomo cieco; “che cosa beve il mio nobile capitano, è brandy, rum, usquebaugh? È polvere da sparo imbevuta d’olio infuocato? Ditemi il nome, e ve lo procureremo, anche se si trattasse di vino proveniente dalla cantina di un vescovo o d’oro fuso dalla zecca del Re Giorgio.”

“Vedete,” disse il signor Tappertit con aria sprezzante, “che si tratta di qualcosa di potente e che arriva velocemente; quindi, basta che vi prendiate cura di questo, e potrete portarlo persino dal seminterrato del diavolo, se volete.”

“Detto con coraggio, nobile capitano!” rispose l’uomo cieco. “Parlato come il vero spirito della ‘Glory’. Ahah! Da una prigione infernale. Che battuta audace! Il capitano scherza davvero. Ahahah!”

“Ti dico una cosa, caro mio,” disse il signor Tappertit, guardando il padrone di casa mentre si dirigeva verso un armadio e ne tirava fuori una bottiglia e un bicchiere con tale noncuranza, come se avesse ancora tutta la vista, “se continui a fare quel rumore, scoprirai che il capitano non scherza affatto. Te lo dico io.”

“Mi sta fissando!” gridò Stagg, fermandosi di colpo mentre tornava indietro, e fingendo di coprirsi il viso con la bottiglia. “Li sento, anche se non riesco a vederli. Togliteli, nobile capitano, togliteli, perché mi penetrano dentro come chiodi.”

Mr Tappertit smiled grimly at his comrade; and twisting out one more look—a kind of ocular screw—under the influence of which the blind man feigned to undergo great anguish and torture, bade him, in a softened tone, approach, and hold his peace.

‘I obey you, captain,’ cried Stagg, drawing close to him and filling out a bumper without spilling a drop, by reason that he held his little finger at the brim of the glass, and stopped at the instant the liquor touched it, ‘drink, noble governor. Death to all masters, life to all ‘prentices, and love to all fair damsels. Drink, brave general, and warm your gallant heart!’

Mr Tappertit condescended to take the glass from his outstretched hand. Stagg then dropped on one knee, and gently smoothed the calves of his legs, with an air of humble admiration.

‘That I had but eyes!’ he cried, ‘to behold my captain’s symmetrical proportions! That I had but eyes, to look upon these twin invaders of domestic peace!’

‘Get out!’ said Mr Tappertit, glancing downward at his favourite limbs. ‘Go along, will you, Stagg!’

‘When I touch my own afterwards,’ cried the host, smiting them reproachfully, ‘I hate ‘em. Comparatively speaking, they’ve no more shape than wooden legs, beside these models of my noble captain’s.’

‘Yours!’ exclaimed Mr Tappertit. ‘No, I should think not. Don’t talk about those precious old toothpicks in the same breath with mine; that’s rather too much. Here. Take the glass. Benjamin. Lead on. To business!’

With these words, he folded his arms again; and frowning with a sullen majesty, passed with his companion through a little door at the upper end of the cellar, and disappeared; leaving Stagg to his private meditations.

The vault they entered, strewn with sawdust and dimly lighted, was between the outer one from which they had just come, and that in which the skittle-players were diverting themselves; as was manifested by the increased noise and clamour of tongues, which was suddenly stopped, however, and replaced by a dead silence, at a signal from the long comrade. Then, this young gentleman, going to a little cupboard, returned with a thigh-bone, which in former times must have been part and parcel of some individual at least as long as himself, and placed the same in the hands of Mr Tappertit; who, receiving it as a sceptre and staff of authority, cocked his three-cornered hat fiercely on the top of his head, and mounted a large table, whereon a chair of state, cheerfully ornamented with a couple of skulls, was placed ready for his reception.

He had no sooner assumed this position, than another young gentleman appeared, bearing in his arms a huge clasped book, who made him a profound obeisance, and delivering it to the long comrade, advanced to the table, and turning his back upon it, stood there Atlas-wise. Then, the long comrade got upon the table too; and seating himself in a lower chair than Mr Tappertit’s, with much state and ceremony, placed the large book on the shoulders of their mute companion as deliberately as if he had been a wooden desk, and prepared to make entries therein with a pen of corresponding size.

When the long comrade had made these preparations, he looked towards Mr Tappertit; and Mr Tappertit, flourishing the bone, knocked nine times therewith upon one of the skulls. At the ninth stroke, a third young gentleman emerged from the door leading to the skittle ground, and bowing low, awaited his commands.

‘Prentice!’ said the mighty captain, ‘who waits without?’

The ‘prentice made answer that a stranger was in attendance, who claimed admission into that secret society of ‘Prentice Knights, and a free participation in their rights, privileges, and immunities. Thereupon Mr Tappertit flourished the bone again, and giving the other skull a prodigious rap on the nose, exclaimed ‘Admit him!’ At these dread words the ‘prentice bowed once more, and so withdrew as he had come.

There soon appeared at the same door, two other ‘prentices, having between them a third, whose eyes were bandaged, and who was attired in a bag-wig, and a broad-skirted coat, trimmed with tarnished lace; and who was girded with a sword, in compliance with the laws of the Institution regulating the introduction of candidates, which required them to assume this courtly dress, and kept it constantly in lavender, for their convenience. One of the conductors of this novice held a rusty blunderbuss pointed towards his ear, and the other a very ancient sabre, with which he carved imaginary offenders as he came along in a sanguinary and anatomical manner.

As this silent group advanced, Mr Tappertit fixed his hat upon his head. The novice then laid his hand upon his breast and bent before him. When he had humbled himself sufficiently, the captain ordered the bandage to be removed, and proceeded to eye him over.

‘Ha!’ said the captain, thoughtfully, when he had concluded this ordeal. ‘Proceed.’

The long comrade read aloud as follows:—‘Mark Gilbert. Age, nineteen. Bound to Thomas Curzon, hosier, Golden Fleece, Aldgate. Loves Curzon’s daughter. Cannot say that Curzon’s daughter loves him. Should think it probable. Curzon pulled his ears last Tuesday week.’

‘How!’ cried the captain, starting.

‘For looking at his daughter, please you,’ said the novice.

‘Write Curzon down, Denounced,’ said the captain. ‘Put a black cross against the name of Curzon.’

‘So please you,’ said the novice, ‘that’s not the worst—he calls his ‘prentice idle dog, and stops his beer unless he works to his liking. He gives Dutch cheese, too, eating Cheshire, sir, himself; and Sundays out, are only once a month.’

‘This,’ said Mr Tappert gravely, ‘is a flagrant case. Put two black crosses to the name of Curzon.’

‘If the society,’ said the novice, who was an ill-looking, one-sided, shambling lad, with sunken eyes set close together in his head—‘if the society would burn his house down—for he’s not insured—or beat him as he comes home from his club at night, or help me to carry off his daughter, and marry her at the Fleet, whether she gave consent or no—’

Il signor Tappertit sorrise minacciosamente al suo compagno; poi, con uno sguardo ancora più penetrante – una sorta di “vite oculare” che fece sì che il cieco fingesse di provare grande dolore e sofferenza – gli disse, con tono più gentile, di avvicinarsi e di stare in silenzio.

“Obbedisco a voi, capitano,” gridò Stagg avvicinandosi a lui e riempiendo il bicchiere senza farne versare nemmeno una goccia, poiché teneva il mignolo sulla bocca del bicchiere e si fermava nel preciso istante in cui il liquore lo toccava; “Bevete, nobile governatore. Morte a tutti i padroni, vita a tutti gli apprendisti, e amore a tutte le belle fanciulle. Bevete, coraggioso generale, e riscaldate il vostro nobile cuore!”

Il signor Tappertit si degnò di prendere il bicchiere dalla sua mano tesa. Poi Stagg si inginocchiò e accarezzò delicatamente le gambe del signor Tappertit, con un atteggiamento di umile ammirazione.

“Se solo avessi occhi!” gridò, “per poter ammirare le proporzioni armoniose del mio capitano. Se solo avessi occhi, per poter guardare questi due invasori della pace domestica, ”

“Vattene!” disse il signor Tappertit, guardando in basso verso le sue gambe preferite. “Vai via, per favore, Stagg!”

“Quando dopo li tocco,” gridò il padrone, colpendoli in segno di rimprovero, “li odio. In confronto, non hanno nemmeno una forma definita, sono come gambe di legno rispetto a questi modelli del mio nobile capitano.”

“Tuo!” esclamò il signor Tappertit. “No, non credo proprio. Non parlare di quelle preziose vecchie bacchette da denti nello stesso respiro delle mie; è davvero troppo. Ecco. Prendi il bicchiere, Benjamin. Andiamo avanti, al dunque!”

Con queste parole, incrociò di nuovo le braccia e, con un’espressione cupa e maestosa, passò insieme al suo compagno attraverso una piccola porta situata all’estremità superiore della cantina, scomparendo così; lasciando Stagg alle sue riflessioni private.

La cantina in cui entrarono, piena di segatura e illuminata fiocamente, si trovava tra quella esterna da cui erano appena usciti e quella in cui i giocatori di skittle si stavano divertendo; ciò era evidente dal crescente rumore e dal clamore delle voci, che però improvvisamente cessarono, sostituiti da un mortale silenzio, su segnale del loro compagno. Poi, questo giovane signore andò in un piccolo armadietto e tornò con una tibia; in passato, quella tibia doveva essere appartenuta a qualcuno almeno altrettanto alto di lui, e la porse nelle mani di Mr Tappertit, il quale, ricevendola come un simbolo di autorità, si mise il cappello a tre punte in testa con aria trionfale e salì su un grande tavolo, dove era stata preparata una sedia da trono, decorata con due teschi, pronta per accoglierlo.

Non appena ebbe assunto quella posizione, apparve un altro giovane gentiluomo che, tenendo tra le braccia un enorme libro rilegato in pelle, gli fece un profondo inchino e gli consegnò il volume. Quindi si avvicinò al tavolo, si girò di spalle ad esso e rimase lì fermo, come se fosse una colonna che sosteneva il peso del tetto. Dopo qualche istante, anche il compagno più alto salì sul tavolo; si sedette su una sedia più bassa rispetto a quella di Mr Tappertit e, con grande solennità, posizionò il grosso libro sulle spalle del loro silenzioso compagno, come se fosse stato un semplice mobile in legno, preparandosi poi a scrivere al suo interno usando una penna delle dimensioni adatte.

Quando il compagno aveva terminato questi preparativi, guardò verso il signor Tappertit; e il signor Tappertit, agitando quella osso, lo batté nove volte su uno dei teschi. Al nono colpo, un terzo giovane gentiluomo uscì dalla porta che conduceva al campo da gioco e, inchinandosi profondamente, attese i suoi ordini.

“Praticante!”, disse il potente capitano, “chi aspetta senza fare nulla?”

Il “apprendista” rispose che c’era un estraneo presente, il quale chiedeva di essere ammesso in quella società segreta dei “Cavalieri Apprendisti”, con diritto a partecipare liberamente ai loro diritti, privilegi e immunità. Allora il signor Tappertit agitò di nuovo l’osso, dando un colpo violento al naso dell’altra testa, e esclamò: “Ammettetelo!” Di fronte a queste parole terribili, l’apprendista si inchinò ancora una volta e se ne andò come era arrivato.

Poco dopo, alla stessa porta apparvero altri due “apprendisti”, tra i quali c’era un terzo il cui viso era bendato; quest’ultimo indossava una parrucca di seta e un mantello con gonna larga, decorato con pizzo logoro; inoltre, portava alla cintura una spada, in conformità alle regole dell’istituto che imponevano ai candidati di indossare tale abbigliamento elegante e di mantenerlo sempre profumato all’essenza di lavanda per comodità. Uno dei responsabili del novizio teneva puntata contro l’orecchio una pistola arrugginita, mentre l’altro impugnava una spada molto antica, con cui “tagliava” immaginari aggressori lungo il cammino, in modo davvero macabro e anatomicamente dettagliato.

Mentre questo gruppo silenzioso avanzava, il signor Tappertit si sistemò il cappello in testa. Il novizio poi posò una mano sul petto e si inchinò davanti a lui. Quando si fu umiliato a sufficienza, il capitano ordinò di togliere la benda e iniziò ad esaminarlo attentamente.

“Ah!” disse il capitano, pensieroso, dopo essersi concluso quell’arduo compito.
“Procediamo.”

Il lungo compagno lesse ad alta voce quanto segue: “Mark Gilbert. Età: diciannove anni. Legato a Thomas Curzon, calzolaio, residente a Golden Fleece, Aldgate. Ama la figlia di Curzon. Non si può dire che la figlia di Curzon lo ami, ma sembra probabile. La scorsa settimana, martedì, Curzon gli ha tirato le orecchie.”

“Come!”, esclamò il capitano, sobbalzando.

“Per poter guardare sua figlia, la prego,” disse il novizio.

“Scrivi ‘Denunciato’ accanto al nome di Curzon,” disse il capitano. “Metti una croce nera vicino al suo nome.”

“Vi prego, signore,” disse il novizio, “non è nemmeno la cosa peggiore. Lui chiama il suo apprendista ‘cane inutile’ e gli toglie la birra se non lavora come vuole lui. Gli dà anche formaggio olandese, mentre lui stesso mangia Cheshire. E le domeniche, ci sono solo una volta al mese.”

“Questo,” disse seriamente il signor Tappert, “è un caso evidente e grave. Mettete due croci nere accanto al nome di Curzon.”

“Se la società,” disse il novizio, un ragazzo di aspetto sgradevole, storto e barcollante, con gli occhi incassati uno vicino all’altro, “se la società bruciasse la sua casa – visto che non è assicurata – o lo picchiasse quando torna a casa dal club, di notte, oppure mi aiutasse a rapire sua figlia e sposarla al Fleet, che lei sia d’accordo o no, ”

Mr Tappertit waved his grizzly truncheon as an admonition to him not to interrupt, and ordered three black crosses to the name of Curzon.

‘Which means,’ he said in gracious explanation, ‘vengeance, complete and terrible. ‘Prentice, do you love the Constitution?’

To which the novice (being to that end instructed by his attendant sponsors) replied ‘I do!’

‘The Church, the State, and everything established—but the masters?’ quoth the captain.

Again the novice said ‘I do.’

Having said it, he listened meekly to the captain, who in an address prepared for such occasions, told him how that under that same Constitution (which was kept in a strong box somewhere, but where exactly he could not find out, or he would have endeavoured to procure a copy of it), the ‘prentices had, in times gone by, had frequent holidays of right, broken people’s heads by scores, defied their masters, nay, even achieved some glorious murders in the streets, which privileges had gradually been wrested from them, and in all which noble aspirations they were now restrained; how the degrading checks imposed upon them were unquestionably attributable to the innovating spirit of the times, and how they united therefore to resist all change, except such change as would restore those good old English customs, by which they would stand or fall. After illustrating the wisdom of going backward, by reference to that sagacious fish, the crab, and the not unfrequent practice of the mule and donkey, he described their general objects; which were briefly vengeance on their Tyrant Masters (of whose grievous and insupportable oppression no ‘prentice could entertain a moment’s doubt) and the restoration, as aforesaid, of their ancient rights and holidays; for neither of which objects were they now quite ripe, being barely twenty strong, but which they pledged themselves to pursue with fire and sword when needful. Then he described the oath which every member of that small remnant of a noble body took, and which was of a dreadful and impressive kind; binding him, at the bidding of his chief, to resist and obstruct the Lord Mayor, sword-bearer, and chaplain; to despise the authority of the sheriffs; and to hold the court of aldermen as nought; but not on any account, in case the fulness of time should bring a general rising of ‘prentices, to damage or in any way disfigure Temple Bar, which was strictly constitutional and always to be approached with reverence. Having gone over these several heads with great eloquence and force, and having further informed the novice that this society had its origin in his own teeming brain, stimulated by a swelling sense of wrong and outrage, Mr Tappertit demanded whether he had strength of heart to take the mighty pledge required, or whether he would withdraw while retreat was yet in his power.

To this the novice made rejoinder, that he would take the vow, though it should choke him; and it was accordingly administered with many impressive circumstances, among which the lighting up of the two skulls with a candle-end inside of each, and a great many flourishes with the bone, were chiefly conspicuous; not to mention a variety of grave exercises with the blunderbuss and sabre, and some dismal groaning by unseen ‘prentices without. All these dark and direful ceremonies being at length completed, the table was put aside, the chair of state removed, the sceptre locked up in its usual cupboard, the doors of communication between the three cellars thrown freely open, and the ‘Prentice Knights resigned themselves to merriment.

But Mr Tappertit, who had a soul above the vulgar herd, and who, on account of his greatness, could only afford to be merry now and then, threw himself on a bench with the air of a man who was faint with dignity. He looked with an indifferent eye, alike on skittles, cards, and dice, thinking only of the locksmith’s daughter, and the base degenerate days on which he had fallen.

‘My noble captain neither games, nor sings, nor dances,’ said his host, taking a seat beside him. ‘Drink, gallant general!’

Mr Tappertit drained the proffered goblet to the dregs; then thrust his hands into his pockets, and with a lowering visage walked among the skittles, while his followers (such is the influence of superior genius) restrained the ardent ball, and held his little shins in dumb respect.

‘If I had been born a corsair or a pirate, a brigand, genteel highwayman or patriot—and they’re the same thing,’ thought Mr Tappertit, musing among the nine-pins, ‘I should have been all right. But to drag out a ignoble existence unbeknown to mankind in general—patience! I will be famous yet. A voice within me keeps on whispering Greatness. I shall burst out one of these days, and when I do, what power can keep me down? I feel my soul getting into my head at the idea. More drink there!’

‘The novice,’ pursued Mr Tappertit, not exactly in a voice of thunder, for his tones, to say the truth were rather cracked and shrill—but very impressively, notwithstanding—‘where is he?’

‘Here, noble captain!’ cried Stagg. ‘One stands beside me who I feel is a stranger.’

‘Have you,’ said Mr Tappertit, letting his gaze fall on the party indicated, who was indeed the new knight, by this time restored to his own apparel; ‘Have you the impression of your street-door key in wax?’

The long comrade anticipated the reply, by producing it from the shelf on which it had been deposited.

‘Good,’ said Mr Tappertit, scrutinising it attentively, while a breathless silence reigned around; for he had constructed secret door-keys for the whole society, and perhaps owed something of his influence to that mean and trivial circumstance—on such slight accidents do even men of mind depend!—‘This is easily made. Come hither, friend.’

With that, he beckoned the new knight apart, and putting the pattern in his pocket, motioned to him to walk by his side.

Il signor Tappertit agitò il suo manganello grigio come monito affinché non interrompesse, e ordinò di dipingere tre croci nere sul nome di Curzon.

“Ciò significa,” spiegò con gentilezza, “vendetta, completa e terribile. Prentice, ami la Costituzione?”

A cui il novizio, essendo stato istruito a tal fine dai suoi sponsor accompagnatori, rispose: “Lo farò!”

“La Chiesa, lo Stato e tutto ciò che è stato stabilito, ma i padroni?” disse il capitano.

Di nuovo, il novizio rispose: “Lo farò”.

Dopo averlo detto, ascoltò docilmente il capo, il quale, con un discorso preparato apposta per occasioni del genere, gli spiegò come, secondo quella stessa Costituzione (che si trovava in qualche luogo in una cassa chiusa a chiave, ma di cui non riusciva a scoprire esattamente il nascondiglio, o altrimenti avrebbe cercato di procurarsene una copia), in passato i “apprendisti” avessero spesso goduto di diritti particolari: rompevano le teste alle persone, sfidavano i loro padroni e addirittura commettevano omicidi nelle strade; privilegi che gradualmente erano stati loro tolti, e per cui ora venivano repressi in tutte le loro nobili aspirazioni. Spiegò inoltre come quei limiti umilianti fossero senza dubbio dovuti allo spirito innovatore dei tempi, e quindi come si fossero uniti tutti per resistere a qualsiasi cambiamento, tranne quello che avesse potuto ripristinare quelle antiche usanze inglesi di cui dipendeva la loro stessa esistenza. Dopo aver illustrato l’importanza di tornare indietro, facendo riferimento al granchio e all’abitudine frequente del mulo e dell’asino, descrisse gli obiettivi principali di quel gruppo: vendetta nei confronti dei loro padroni tiranni (la cui oppressione grave e insopportabile nessun apprendista avrebbe mai potuto mettere in dubbio) e il ripristino dei loro antichi diritti e festività. Ammise però che per raggiungere questi obiettivi non erano ancora pronti, essendo appena ventenni, ma si impegnarono a perseguirli con determinazione, se necessario anche con il fuoco e la spada. Poi descrisse il giuramento che ogni membro di quel piccolo gruppo nobiliare faceva, un giuramento terribile e impressionante che lo obbligava, su ordine del suo capo, a resistere e ostacolare il Lord Mayor, i funzionari incaricati dell’ordine pubblico e il cappellano; a disprezzare l’autorità dei magistrati e a considerare la corte degli aldermeni come nulla. Ma assicurò che, in nessun caso, qualora fosse arrivato il momento giusto per una rivolta generale degli apprendisti, non avrebbero danneggiato o alterato in alcun modo Temple Bar, un luogo sacro e rispettabile secondo la Costituzione. Dopo aver esposto tutto ciò con grande eloquenza e forza, e dopo aver detto al novizio che quella società aveva avuto origine proprio nella sua mente, stimolata da un forte senso di ingiustizia e offesa, il signor Tappertit gli chiese se avesse il coraggio necessario per prendere quel giuramento, o se preferisse ritirarsi mentre ancora ne aveva la possibilità.

A questo, il novizio rispose che avrebbe prestato giuramento, anche se ciò lo avesse soffocato; e così fu fatto, con molte cerimonie imponenti: tra queste, l’accensione delle due teste di morto, ciascuna contenente la punta di una candela all’interno, nonché numerosi gesti solenni legati all’uso dell’osso. Non si dimenticano inoltre vari esercizi “seri” con il fucile a canna liscia e la spada, oltre a alcuni gemiti sinistri provenienti da invisibili “apprendisti”. Una volta terminate tutte queste cerimonie oscure e minacciose, il tavolo fu allontanato, la sedia regale rimossa, lo scettro riposto nel solito armadio, le porte che collegavano i tre sotterranei vennero aperte completamente, e i “Cavalieri Apprendisti” si abbandonarono alle gioie.

Ma il signor Tappertit, che possedeva un’anima al di sopra della gente comune e che, a causa della sua grandezza, poteva permettersi di essere felice solo di tanto in tanto, si gettò su una panchina con l’aria di un uomo sopraffatto dalla dignità. Guardava con indifferenza sia i dadi che le carte da gioco, pensando soltanto alla figlia del fabbro chiave e ai giorni ignobili e decadenti in cui era caduto.

“Il mio nobile capitano né gioca, né canta, né balla,” disse il suo ospite, sedendosi accanto a lui. “Bevi, nobile generale!”

Il signor Tappertit svuotò fino all’ultima goccia il calice che gli era stato offerto; poi infilò le mani nelle tasche e, con un’espressione cupa, camminò tra la folla, mentre i suoi seguaci (è così l’influenza di un genio superiore) tenevano a bada la gente eccitata e mostravano verso di lui un rispetto reverenziale.

“Se fossi nato corsaro o pirata, brigante, gentiluomo bandito o patriota, e in fondo sono la stessa cosa”, pensò il signor Tappertit, assorto tra i dadi da nove punti. “Allora sarei stato felice. Ma dover trascorrere una vita ignobile, sconosciuta alla maggior parte delle persone. Pazienza! Diventerò famoso lo stesso. Una voce dentro di me continua a sussurrarmi la parola ‘grandezza’. Un giorno esploderò, e quando accadrà, quale potere riuscirà a fermarmi? Sento la mia ‘anima invadere la mia mente ogni volta che ci penso. Ancora da bere!”

“Quel novizio,” continuò il signor Tappertit, non esattamente con voce tuonante, poiché i suoi toni, a dire la verità, erano piuttosto rochi e striduli, ma comunque molto impressionanti, “dove si trova?”

“Ecco, nobile capitano!” gridò Stagg. “C’è qualcuno al mio fianco che, a mio parere, è uno straniero.”

“L’hai ancora?” disse il signor Tappertit, posando lo sguardo sulla persona indicata; era proprio il nuovo cavaliere, che a quel momento aveva già ripreso i propri abiti. “Hai ancora l’impressione di tenere la chiave della tua porta d’ingresso in cera?”

Il lungo compagno anticipò la risposta, prendendola dallo scaffale dove era stata riposta.

“Bene,” disse il signor Tappertit, esaminandolo attentamente; intorno a lui regnava un silenzio mozzafiato. Poiché aveva realizzato delle chiavi segrete per tutta la società, e forse gran parte del suo potere derivava da quella circostanza meschina e banale. Su simili dettagli insignificanti dipendono anche gli uomini più saggi, “Si può fare facilmente. Vieni qui, amico mio.”

Detto questo, chiamò da parte il nuovo cavaliere, mise il disegno nella tasca e gli fece segno di camminare al suo fianco.

‘And so,’ he said, when they had taken a few turns up and down, you—you love your master’s daughter?’

‘I do,’ said the ‘prentice. ‘Honour bright. No chaff, you know.’

‘Have you,’ rejoined Mr Tappertit, catching him by the wrist, and giving him a look which would have been expressive of the most deadly malevolence, but for an accidental hiccup that rather interfered with it; ‘have you a—a rival?’

‘Not as I know on,’ replied the ‘prentice.

‘If you had now—’ said Mr Tappertit—‘what would you—eh?—’

The ‘prentice looked fierce and clenched his fists.

‘It is enough,’ cried Mr Tappertit hastily, ‘we understand each other. We are observed. I thank you.’

So saying, he cast him off again; and calling the long comrade aside after taking a few hasty turns by himself, bade him immediately write and post against the wall, a notice, proscribing one Joseph Willet (commonly known as Joe) of Chigwell; forbidding all ‘Prentice Knights to succour, comfort, or hold communion with him; and requiring them, on pain of excommunication, to molest, hurt, wrong, annoy, and pick quarrels with the said Joseph, whensoever and wheresoever they, or any of them, should happen to encounter him.

Having relieved his mind by this energetic proceeding, he condescended to approach the festive board, and warming by degrees, at length deigned to preside, and even to enchant the company with a song. After this, he rose to such a pitch as to consent to regale the society with a hornpipe, which he actually performed to the music of a fiddle (played by an ingenious member) with such surpassing agility and brilliancy of execution, that the spectators could not be sufficiently enthusiastic in their admiration; and their host protested, with tears in his eyes, that he had never truly felt his blindness until that moment.

But the host withdrawing—probably to weep in secret—soon returned with the information that it wanted little more than an hour of day, and that all the cocks in Barbican had already begun to crow, as if their lives depended on it. At this intelligence, the ‘Prentice Knights arose in haste, and marshalling into a line, filed off one by one and dispersed with all speed to their several homes, leaving their leader to pass the grating last.

‘Good night, noble captain,’ whispered the blind man as he held it open for his passage out; ‘Farewell, brave general. Bye, bye, illustrious commander. Good luck go with you for a—conceited, bragging, empty-headed, duck-legged idiot.’

With which parting words, coolly added as he listened to his receding footsteps and locked the grate upon himself, he descended the steps, and lighting the fire below the little copper, prepared, without any assistance, for his daily occupation; which was to retail at the area-head above pennyworths of broth and soup, and savoury puddings, compounded of such scraps as were to be bought in the heap for the least money at Fleet Market in the evening time; and for the sale of which he had need to have depended chiefly on his private connection, for the court had no thoroughfare, and was not that kind of place in which many people were likely to take the air, or to frequent as an agreeable promenade.

“E così,” disse lui, dopo che avevano fatto qualche giro su e giù, “tu, tu ami la figlia del tuo padrone?”

“Sì,” disse il “apprendista. ‘Onore’ luminoso. Niente sciocchezze, capisci.”

“L’hai davvero,” ribatté il signor Tappertit, afferrandolo per il polso e lanciandogli uno sguardo che avrebbe potuto esprimere la più mortale malvagità, se non fosse stato per un improvviso singhiozzo che ne disturbò l’effetto; “hai davvero un, un rivale?”

“Non per quanto ne so io,” rispose il “apprendista”.

“Se ora avessi, ”, disse il signor Tappertit, “cosa faresti, eh?”

Il “apprendista” sembrava minaccioso e stringeva i pugni.

“Basta,” esclamò in fretta il signor Tappertit, “ci capiamo a vicenda. Siamo stati osservati. Grazie.”

Detto questo, lo allontanò di nuovo; e dopo essersi allontanato per un po’ da solo, chiamò da parte il suo compagno e gli ordinò di scrivere immediatamente e di affiggere al muro un avviso che proibisse a Joseph Willet, comunemente conosciuto come Joe di Chigwell, di essere aiutato, consolato o di avere rapporti con chiunque dei “Prentice Knights”; inoltre gli impose, sotto pena di scomunica, di molestare, ferire, ingannare, infastidire e provocare litigi con il suddetto Joseph ogni volta che si fossero imbattuti in lui, ovunque ciò avvenisse.

Dopo essersi liberato dai suoi pensieri con questo energico comportamento, decise di avvicinarsi al banchetto festivo. Man mano che si riscaldava, alla fine si degnò di presiedere la tavola e persino di incantare tutti con una canzone. In seguito, raggiunse un tale livello di ispirazione da acconsentire a intrattenere gli ospiti suonando il flauto dolce; eseguì l’aria accompagnato dal suono di un violino (suonato da un membro molto abile), con tale agilità e maestria che gli spettatori non riuscivano a trattenere la loro ammirazione. Il padrone di casa, con le lacrime agli occhi, dichiarò che solo in quel momento aveva davvero realizzato quanto fosse profonda la sua cecità.

Ma il padrone di casa, probabilmente per piangere in segreto, tornò presto con la notizia che serviva poco più di un’ora di luce al giorno, e che tutti i galli del Barbican avevano già iniziato a cantare, come se ne dipendesse la loro vita. Alla ricezione di questa informazione, i “Cavalieri Apprendisti” si alzarono in fretta, si schierarono in fila e se ne andarono uno dopo l’altro, allontanandosi il più rapidamente possibile verso le rispettive case, lasciando che il loro capo passasse per ultimo attraverso la grata.

“Buona notte, nobile capitano,” sussurrò l’uomo cieco mentre gli teneva aperta la porta per farlo passare; “Addio, coraggioso generale. Arrivederci, illustre comandante. Buona fortuna vi accompagni in questo viaggio verso un idiota presuntuoso, vanesio e stupido.”

Con quali parole d’addio, pronunciate con freddezza mentre ascoltava i propri passi allontanarsi e chiudeva a chiave la grata dietro di sé, scese le scale, accese il fuoco sotto il piccolo braciere di rame e si preparò, senza alcun aiuto, per il proprio lavoro quotidiano: vendere al dettaglio, nella zona vicina alla piazza principale, brodo, zuppa e budini salati, preparati con avanzi che si potevano acquistare a poco prezzo nel mercato di Fleet Market la sera. Per poter vendere questi prodotti, doveva affidarsi principalmente alle proprie conoscenze personali, poiché il palazzo non aveva vie d’accesso particolarmente frequentate e non era certo un luogo adatto a spaziare o a passeggiare piacevolmente.

Chapter 9

Chronicler’s are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome, in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time, and place. Thrice blessed be this last consideration, since it enables us to follow the disdainful Miggs even into the sanctity of her chamber, and to hold her in sweet companionship through the dreary watches of the night!

Miss Miggs, having undone her mistress, as she phrased it (which means, assisted to undress her), and having seen her comfortably to bed in the back room on the first floor, withdrew to her own apartment, in the attic story. Notwithstanding her declaration in the locksmith’s presence, she was in no mood for sleep; so, putting her light upon the table and withdrawing the little window curtain, she gazed out pensively at the wild night sky.

Perhaps she wondered what star was destined for her habitation when she had run her little course below; perhaps speculated which of those glimmering spheres might be the natal orb of Mr Tappertit; perhaps marvelled how they could gaze down on that perfidious creature, man, and not sicken and turn green as chemists’ lamps; perhaps thought of nothing in particular. Whatever she thought about, there she sat, until her attention, alive to anything connected with the insinuating ‘prentice, was attracted by a noise in the next room to her own—his room; the room in which he slept, and dreamed—it might be, sometimes dreamed of her.

That he was not dreaming now, unless he was taking a walk in his sleep, was clear, for every now and then there came a shuffling noise, as though he were engaged in polishing the whitewashed wall; then a gentle creaking of his door; then the faintest indication of his stealthy footsteps on the landing-place outside. Noting this latter circumstance, Miss Miggs turned pale and shuddered, as mistrusting his intentions; and more than once exclaimed, below her breath, ‘Oh! what a Providence it is, as I am bolted in!’—which, owing doubtless to her alarm, was a confusion of ideas on her part between a bolt and its use; for though there was one on the door, it was not fastened.

Miss Miggs’s sense of hearing, however, having as sharp an edge as her temper, and being of the same snappish and suspicious kind, very soon informed her that the footsteps passed her door, and appeared to have some object quite separate and disconnected from herself. At this discovery she became more alarmed than ever, and was about to give utterance to those cries of ‘Thieves!’ and ‘Murder!’ which she had hitherto restrained, when it occurred to her to look softly out, and see that her fears had some good palpable foundation.

Looking out accordingly, and stretching her neck over the handrail, she descried, to her great amazement, Mr Tappertit completely dressed, stealing downstairs, one step at a time, with his shoes in one hand and a lamp in the other. Following him with her eyes, and going down a little way herself to get the better of an intervening angle, she beheld him thrust his head in at the parlour-door, draw it back again with great swiftness, and immediately begin a retreat upstairs with all possible expedition.

‘Here’s mysteries!’ said the damsel, when she was safe in her own room again, quite out of breath. ‘Oh, gracious, here’s mysteries!’

The prospect of finding anybody out in anything, would have kept Miss Miggs awake under the influence of henbane. Presently, she heard the step again, as she would have done if it had been that of a feather endowed with motion and walking down on tiptoe. Then gliding out as before, she again beheld the retreating figure of the ‘prentice; again he looked cautiously in at the parlour-door, but this time instead of retreating, he passed in and disappeared.

Miggs was back in her room, and had her head out of the window, before an elderly gentleman could have winked and recovered from it. Out he came at the street-door, shut it carefully behind him, tried it with his knee, and swaggered off, putting something in his pocket as he went along. At this spectacle Miggs cried ‘Gracious!’ again, and then ‘Goodness gracious!’ and then ‘Goodness gracious me!’ and then, candle in hand, went downstairs as he had done. Coming to the workshop, she saw the lamp burning on the forge, and everything as Sim had left it.

‘Why I wish I may only have a walking funeral, and never be buried decent with a mourning-coach and feathers, if the boy hasn’t been and made a key for his own self!’ cried Miggs. ‘Oh the little villain!’

This conclusion was not arrived at without consideration, and much peeping and peering about; nor was it unassisted by the recollection that she had on several occasions come upon the ‘prentice suddenly, and found him busy at some mysterious occupation. Lest the fact of Miss Miggs calling him, on whom she stooped to cast a favourable eye, a boy, should create surprise in any breast, it may be observed that she invariably affected to regard all male bipeds under thirty as mere chits and infants; which phenomenon is not unusual in ladies of Miss Miggs’s temper, and is indeed generally found to be the associate of such indomitable and savage virtue.

Miss Miggs deliberated within herself for some little time, looking hard at the shop-door while she did so, as though her eyes and thoughts were both upon it; and then, taking a sheet of paper from a drawer, twisted it into a long thin spiral tube. Having filled this instrument with a quantity of small coal-dust from the forge, she approached the door, and dropping on one knee before it, dexterously blew into the keyhole as much of these fine ashes as the lock would hold. When she had filled it to the brim in a very workmanlike and skilful manner, she crept upstairs again, and chuckled as she went.

‘There!’ cried Miggs, rubbing her hands, ‘now let’s see whether you won’t be glad to take some notice of me, mister. He, he, he! You’ll have eyes for somebody besides Miss Dolly now, I think. A fat-faced puss she is, as ever I come across!’

Capitolo 9

Gli annalisti godono di un privilegio: possono entrare nei luoghi che descrivono, andare e venire attraverso spiragli, cavalcare il vento, superando ogni ostacolo legato alla distanza, al tempo e al luogo. Quest’ultimo aspetto è davvero benedetto, poiché ci permette di seguire l’arrogante Miggs persino nella santità della sua stanza, e di condividerne la compagnia nelle noiose notti!

Miss Miggs, dopo aver aiutato la sua padrona a spogliarsi, come lei stessa disse, e dopo essersi assicurata che fosse comodamente a letto nella stanza sul retro al primo piano, tornò nel suo appartamento, situato nell’attico. Nonostante le sue dichiarazioni in presenza del fabbro, non aveva alcuna voglia di dormire; così, accendendo una lampada e tirando indietro la piccola tenda della finestra, fissò pensierosa il selvaggio cielo notturno.

Forse si chiedeva quale stella fosse destinata al suo “luogo di dimora” dopo aver completato il proprio percorso nel cielo; forse ipotizzava quale di quelle sfere scintillanti potesse essere la sfera natale del signor Tappertit; forse si meravigliava come quelle stelle potessero osservare quella creatura perfida, l’uomo, senza che loro stesse si ammalassero o diventassero verdi come le lampade dei chimici. Forse non pensava a nulla in particolare. Qualunque cosa pensasse, rimaneva seduta lì, fino a quando la sua attenzione, sempre vigile verso tutto ciò che riguardasse quel “apprendista” insidioso, fu attratta da un rumore nella stanza accanto alla sua. La sua stanza. La stanza in cui dormiva e sognava. Forse, a volte, sognava di lei.

Era chiaro che non stava sognando, a meno che non stesse facendo una passeggiata nel suo sonno: di tanto in tanto si udiva un rumore di movimenti, come se stesse pulendo il muro intonacato; poi il leggero scricchiolio della sua porta; infine i suoi passi furtivi sul ballatoio esterno. Notando quest’ultimo dettaglio, la signorina Miggs impallidì e rabbrividì, diffidando delle sue intenzioni; e più volte mormorò: “Oh! Che Provvidenza, sono chiusa a chiave!” – il che, senza dubbio a causa della sua paura, era un errore di concezione da parte sua riguardo al funzionamento della serratura; infatti, sebbene ci fosse una chiave sulla porta, non era stata chiusa.

Tuttavia, l’udito di Miss Miggs, altrettanto acuto come il suo temperamento e altrettanto irritabile e sospettoso, le fece subito capire che i passi stavano passando davanti alla sua porta, e sembrava che quei passi avessero a che fare con qualcuno completamente diverso da lei. Di fronte a questa scoperta, si allarmò ancora di più e stava per gridare “ladri!” e “assassini!”, cose che fino ad allora aveva trattenuto, quando le venne in mente di guardare fuori con cautela, e vide che i suoi timori avevano davvero una base concreta e reale.

Guardando attentamente e tendendo il collo oltre la ringhiera, lo vide, con grande sorpresa, vestito completamente, scendere le scale un gradino alla volta: teneva le scarpe in una mano e una lampada nell’altra. Seguendolo con lo sguardo e scendendo anche lei per ottenere una visuale migliore, lo vide infilare la testa nella porta del salotto, poi ritirarla rapidamente e iniziare subito a salire le scale il più velocemente possibile.

“Ecco dei misteri!”, disse la ragazza quando finalmente si trovò al sicuro nella sua stanza, completamente senza fiato. “Oh, mio Dio, ecco davvero dei misteri!”

La prospettiva che qualcuno potesse scoprire qualcosa l’avrebbe tenuta sveglia, anche sotto l’effetto del henbane. In quel momento, sentì di nuovo quei passi, come se fossero stati quelli di una piuma dotata di movimento che camminava in punta di piedi. Poi, come prima, vide la figura del “apprendista” allontanarsi; ancora una volta lui guardò con cautela attraverso la porta del salotto, ma questa volta, invece di andarsene, entrò e scomparve.

Miggs era tornata nella sua stanza e aveva già messo la testa fuori dalla finestra prima ancora che un anziano signore potesse battere le palpebre e riprendersi dallo shock. Lui uscì dalla porta di casa, la chiuse con cura alle sue spalle, la provò anche con il ginocchio, poi se ne andò a grandi passi, infilando qualcosa in tasca mentre camminava. Di fronte a questa scena, Miggs esclamò di nuovo “Mio Dio!”, e poi ancora “Dio mio!”, e infine “Oh mio Dio!”. Poi, con una candela in mano, scese le scale come aveva fatto prima. Arrivata nel laboratorio, vide che la lampada ardeva ancora sulla fucina e che tutto era esattamente come Sim l’aveva lasciato.

“Perché vorrei solo che mi tenessero un funerale in cui io possa camminare, e mai essere sepolto con dignità in una carrozza funebre o con piume. Se quel ragazzo non ha già fatto una chiave per sé stesso!” gridò Miggs. “Oh, quel piccolo malvagio”!

A questa conclusione non si è giunti senza alcuna riflessione e dopo aver osservato attentamente la situazione; inoltre, tale conclusione è stata influenzata anche dal ricordo che, in diverse occasioni, aveva sorpreso quel “apprendista” impegnato in qualche attività misteriosa. Affinché il fatto che la signorina Miggs lo avesse chiamato e gli avesse rivolto uno sguardo favorevole non suscitasse sorpresa in nessuno, si può osservare che lei aveva l’abitudine di considerare tutti gli uomini sotto i trent’anni semplici ragazzini o bambini; un fenomeno del tutto normale nelle donne dal carattere della signorina Miggs, e che anzi è comunemente associato a una tale indomabile e “selvaggia” virtù.

Miss Miggs rimase per un po’ a riflettere tra sé e sé, fissando attentamente la porta del negozio, come se i suoi occhi e i suoi pensieri fossero completamente concentrati su di essa; poi prese un foglio di carta da un cassetto e lo torse in un lungo tubo sottile a spirale. Riempì questo “strumento” con una certa quantità di fine polvere di carbone presa dalla fucina, si avvicinò alla porta, si inginocchiò davanti ad essa e soffiò abilmente nella serratura, facendo entrare tutta quella polvere finché la serratura non fu completamente riempita. Una volta terminato il lavoro in modo molto meticoloso e abile, tornò di sopra ridacchiando.

“Eccola!” esclamò Miggs, strofinandosi le mani, “adesso vedremo se non sarai contento di prestarmi un po’ di attenzione, signore. Ahah! Credo che ora avrai occhi anche per qualcun altro oltre a Miss Dolly. Una donna con il viso grasso, sempre la stessa ogni volta che la incontro!”

As she uttered this criticism, she glanced approvingly at her small mirror, as who should say, I thank my stars that can’t be said of me!—as it certainly could not; for Miss Miggs’s style of beauty was of that kind which Mr Tappertit himself had not inaptly termed, in private, ‘scraggy.’

‘I don’t go to bed this night!’ said Miggs, wrapping herself in a shawl, and drawing a couple of chairs near the window, flouncing down upon one, and putting her feet upon the other, ‘till you come home, my lad. I wouldn’t,’ said Miggs viciously, ‘no, not for five-and-forty pound!’

With that, and with an expression of face in which a great number of opposite ingredients, such as mischief, cunning, malice, triumph, and patient expectation, were all mixed up together in a kind of physiognomical punch, Miss Miggs composed herself to wait and listen, like some fair ogress who had set a trap and was watching for a nibble from a plump young traveller.

She sat there, with perfect composure, all night. At length, just upon break of day, there was a footstep in the street, and presently she could hear Mr Tappertit stop at the door. Then she could make out that he tried his key—that he was blowing into it—that he knocked it on the nearest post to beat the dust out—that he took it under a lamp to look at it—that he poked bits of stick into the lock to clear it—that he peeped into the keyhole, first with one eye, and then with the other—that he tried the key again—that he couldn’t turn it, and what was worse, couldn’t get it out—that he bent it—that then it was much less disposed to come out than before—that he gave it a mighty twist and a great pull, and then it came out so suddenly that he staggered backwards—that he kicked the door—that he shook it—finally, that he smote his forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.

When this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted with terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out her nightcap, and demanded in a faint voice who was there.

Mr Tappertit cried ‘Hush!’ and, backing to the road, exhorted her in frenzied pantomime to secrecy and silence.

‘Tell me one thing,’ said Miggs. ‘Is it thieves?’

‘No—no—no!’ cried Mr Tappertit.

‘Then,’ said Miggs, more faintly than before, ‘it’s fire. Where is it, sir? It’s near this room, I know. I’ve a good conscience, sir, and would much rather die than go down a ladder. All I wish is, respecting my love to my married sister, Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post.’

‘Miggs!’ cried Mr Tappertit, ‘don’t you know me? Sim, you know—Sim—’

‘Oh! what about him!’ cried Miggs, clasping her hands. ‘Is he in any danger? Is he in the midst of flames and blazes! Oh gracious, gracious!’

‘Why I’m here, an’t I?’ rejoined Mr Tappertit, knocking himself on the breast. ‘Don’t you see me? What a fool you are, Miggs!’

‘There!’ cried Miggs, unmindful of this compliment. ‘Why—so it—Goodness, what is the meaning of—If you please, mim, here’s—’

‘No, no!’ cried Mr Tappertit, standing on tiptoe, as if by that means he, in the street, were any nearer being able to stop the mouth of Miggs in the garret. ‘Don’t!—I’ve been out without leave, and something or another’s the matter with the lock. Come down, and undo the shop window, that I may get in that way.’

‘I dursn’t do it, Simmun,’ cried Miggs—for that was her pronunciation of his Christian name. ‘I dursn’t do it, indeed. You know as well as anybody, how particular I am. And to come down in the dead of night, when the house is wrapped in slumbers and weiled in obscurity.’ And there she stopped and shivered, for her modesty caught cold at the very thought.

‘But Miggs,’ cried Mr Tappertit, getting under the lamp, that she might see his eyes. ‘My darling Miggs—’

Miggs screamed slightly.

‘—That I love so much, and never can help thinking of,’ and it is impossible to describe the use he made of his eyes when he said this—‘do—for my sake, do.’

‘Oh Simmun,’ cried Miggs, ‘this is worse than all. I know if I come down, you’ll go, and—’

‘And what, my precious?’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘And try,’ said Miggs, hysterically, ‘to kiss me, or some such dreadfulness; I know you will!’

‘I swear I won’t,’ said Mr Tappertit, with remarkable earnestness. ‘Upon my soul I won’t. It’s getting broad day, and the watchman’s waking up. Angelic Miggs! If you’ll only come and let me in, I promise you faithfully and truly I won’t.’

Miss Miggs, whose gentle heart was touched, did not wait for the oath (knowing how strong the temptation was, and fearing he might forswear himself), but tripped lightly down the stairs, and with her own fair hands drew back the rough fastenings of the workshop window. Having helped the wayward ‘prentice in, she faintly articulated the words ‘Simmun is safe!’ and yielding to her woman’s nature, immediately became insensible.

‘I knew I should quench her,’ said Sim, rather embarrassed by this circumstance. ‘Of course I was certain it would come to this, but there was nothing else to be done—if I hadn’t eyed her over, she wouldn’t have come down. Here. Keep up a minute, Miggs. What a slippery figure she is! There’s no holding her, comfortably. Do keep up a minute, Miggs, will you?’

As Miggs, however, was deaf to all entreaties, Mr Tappertit leant her against the wall as one might dispose of a walking-stick or umbrella, until he had secured the window, when he took her in his arms again, and, in short stages and with great difficulty—arising from her being tall and his being short, and perhaps in some degree from that peculiar physical conformation on which he had already remarked—carried her upstairs, and planting her, in the same umbrella and walking-stick fashion, just inside her own door, left her to her repose.

‘He may be as cool as he likes,’ said Miss Miggs, recovering as soon as she was left alone; ‘but I’m in his confidence and he can’t help himself, nor couldn’t if he was twenty Simmunses!’

Mentre esponeva questa critica, gettò uno sguardo approvativo verso il suo piccolo specchio, come per dire: “Grazie alle mie stelle che a me questo non può essere detto, ”, perché certamente non era vero; infatti lo stile di >bellezza della signorina Miggs apparteneva a quel tipo che lo stesso signor Tappertit, in privato, aveva definito con efficacia “sgraziato”.

“Non andrò a letto stasera!” disse Miggs, avvolgendosi in uno scialle e tirando vicino due sedie alla finestra. Si sedette su una di esse, appoggiando i piedi sull’altra, “fino a quando non tornerai a casa, mio caro. Non lo farei mai,” disse Miggs con decisione, “no, nemmeno per cinquanta sterline!”

Con quell’atteggiamento, e con un’espressione del viso in cui si mescolavano numerosi elementi contrastanti – come malizia, astuzia, trionfo e paziente attesa – la signorina Miggs si preparò ad aspettare e ascoltare, come una sorta di brutta strega che aveva teso un’trappola in attesa che qualche giovane viaggiatore ingenuo ci cadesse dentro.

Se ne stava lì, con perfetta compostezza, per tutta la notte. Alla fine, appena spuntò l’alba, si udirono dei passi per strada; poco dopo, lei sentì il signor Tappertit fermarsi davanti alla porta. Poi lo sentì provare la chiave, soffiarci sopra, bussarla contro il palo più vicino per spazzare via la polvere, portarla sotto una lampada per esaminarla, infilarci dei pezzetti di legno per pulirla meglio, spiare nella serratura prima con un occhio e poi con l’altro. Provò ancora la chiave, ma non riuscì a girarla; peggio ancora, non riuscì nemmeno a tirarla fuori. La piegò, ma ormai era ancora meno disposta ad uscire di prima. La girò con forza e la tirò via con violenza; alla fine uscì così all’improvviso che lui barcollò all’indietro, calciò la porta, la scosse. Alla fine si prese la fronte tra le mani e si sedette sul gradino, in disperazione.

Quando questa crisi si verificò, la signorina Miggs, fingendo di essere esausta per il terrore e appoggiandosi al davanzale della finestra per cercare sostegno, tirò fuori la sua tazza da notte e chiese, con voce debole, chi ci fosse lì.

Il signor Tappertit gridò “Zitta!”, si allontanò verso la strada e, con gesti frenetici, le esortò a mantenere il segreto e il silenzio.

“Dimmi una cosa,” disse Miggs. “Sono dei ladri?”

“No–no–no!” gridò il signor Tappertit.

“Allora,” disse Miggs, con una voce ancora più debole di prima, “è l’fuoco. Dove si trova, signore? So che è vicino a questa stanza. Ho una buona coscienza, signore, e preferirei morire piuttosto che scendere per una scala. Tutto ciò che desidero è, rispettando il mio amore per mia sorella sposata, Golden Lion Court, numero ventiquattro, seconda maniglia della porta a destra, ”

“Miggs!”, gridò il signor Tappertit, “non mi riconosci? Sì, insomma. Sim, ”

“Oh! E lui?” gridò Miggs, stringendo le mani. “È in pericolo? Si trova tra fiamme e rovina? Oh, mio Dio, ”

“Perché sono qui, non è vero?” ribatté il signor Tappertit, battendosi il petto. “Non mi vedi forse? Che idiota che sei, Miggs!”

“Eccola!” gridò Miggs, senza curarsi di quel complimento. “Perché, così. Oddio, che significa tutto questo. Per favore, Mim, ecco qui, ”

“No, no!” gridò il signor Tappertit, mettendosi in punta di piedi, come se così, per strada, potesse riuscire a far tacere Miggs che si trovava nel sottotetto. “Non fatelo! Sono uscito senza permesso, e c’è qualcosa che non va con la serratura. Scendete e aprite la vetrina del negozio, così potrò entrare da lì.”

“Non oserei farlo, Simmun,” gridò Miggs – così pronunciava il suo nome cristiano. “Davvero non oserei. Tu sai meglio di chiunque altro quanto io sia pignola. E poi, scendere nel cuore della notte, quando la casa è avvolta nel silenzio e nell’oscurità, ” Si fermò lì, rabbrividendo: il solo pensiero le faceva venire i brividi per la sua modestia.

“Ma Miggs, ”, gridò il signor Tappertit avvicinandosi alla lampada, in modo che lei potesse vedere i suoi occhi. “Mia cara Miggs, ”

Miggs gridò leggermente.

“–Che la amo così tanto, e che non riesco mai a smettere di pensare a lei, “ E è impossibile descrivere l’effetto che avevano i suoi occhi quando lo diceva: “Per favore, failo per me.“

“Oh Simmun,” gridò Miggs, “è ancora peggio di tutto. So che se scendo, tu verrai con me, e, ”

“E allora, mio caro?” disse il signor Tappertit.

“E provaci,” disse Miggs, in modo isterico, “a baciarmi, o qualcosa del genere. So che lo farai!”

“Giuro che non lo farò,” disse il signor Tappertit con estrema sincerità. “Sulla mia ‘anima, non lo farò. Sta facendo giorno ormai, e il guardiano si sta svegliando. Angelic Miggs! Se solo venissi ad aprirmi, ti prometto solennemente che non lo farò.”

Miss Miggs, il cui cuore gentile fu commosso, non attese che lui giurasse (sapendo quanto fosse forte la tentazione e temendo che potesse tradirsi), ma scese dolcemente le scale e con le sue stesse mani delicate aprì i chiavistri ruvidi della finestra del laboratorio. Dopo aver aiutato quel giovane ribelle ad entrare, mormorò debolmente: “Simmun è al sicuro!”, e cedendo alle proprie inclinazioni femminili, perse immediatamente i sensi.

“Sapevo che avrei dovuto fermarla,” disse Sim, piuttosto imbarazzato da questa situazione. “Certo, ero certo che sarebbe finita così, ma non c’era altro da fare. Se non l’avessi tenuta d’occhio, non sarebbe scesa. Ecco. Aspetta un attimo, Miggs. Che persona scivolosa! Non si riesce proprio a tenerla ferma. Per favore, aspetta ancora un momento, Miggs.”

Tuttavia, poiché Miggs era sorda a ogni supplica, il signor Tappertit la appoggiò al muro, come si farebbe con un bastone da passeggio o un ombrello, finché non ebbe controllato la situazione alla finestra. Poi la prese di nuovo tra le braccia e, con grandi difficoltà – a causa della sua altezza e della sua bassa statura, e forse anche a causa di quella particolare conformazione fisica di cui aveva già fatto riferimento – la portò al piano di sopra. Una volta arrivati, la posizionò nuovamente vicino alla sua porta, utilizzando lo stesso bastone da passeggio e lo stesso ombrello, e la lasciò riposare in pace.

“Può anche essere quanto vuole così freddo,” disse la signorina Miggs, riprendendosi non appena rimase sola; “ma io sono nella sua confidenza e lui non può farci nulla, né potrebbe nemmeno se fosse venti Simmuns!”

Chapter 10

It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer, and in its uncertainty inclines now to the one and now to the other, and now to both at once—wooing summer in the sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade—it was, in short, on one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and dry, bright and lowering, sad and cheerful, withering and genial, in the compass of one short hour, that old John Willet, who was dropping asleep over the copper boiler, was roused by the sound of a horse’s feet, and glancing out at window, beheld a traveller of goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole door.

He was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a tankard of mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if they had ordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young swaggerers, who would even penetrate into the bar—that solemn sanctuary—and, smiting old John upon the back, inquire if there was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature; none of your free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and be not at all particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your unconscionable blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of pickles for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, something past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that, and slim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy chestnut cob, and had the graceful seat of an experienced horseman; while his riding gear, though free from such fopperies as were then in vogue, was handsome and well chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a somewhat brighter green than might have been expected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short, black velvet cape, and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fashion; his linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the wrists and throat, and scrupulously white. Although he seemed, judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have come from London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey periwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had turned a single hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered dress, and perfect calmness, might have come from making an elaborate and leisurely toilet, to sit for an equestrian portrait at old John Willet’s gate.

It must not be supposed that John observed these several characteristics by other than very slow degrees, or that he took in more than half a one at a time, or that he even made up his mind upon that, without a great deal of very serious consideration. Indeed, if he had been distracted in the first instance by questionings and orders, it would have taken him at the least a fortnight to have noted what is here set down; but it happened that the gentleman, being struck with the old house, or with the plump pigeons which were skimming and curtseying about it, or with the tall maypole, on the top of which a weathercock, which had been out of order for fifteen years, performed a perpetual walk to the music of its own creaking, sat for some little time looking round in silence. Hence John, standing with his hand upon the horse’s bridle, and his great eyes on the rider, and with nothing passing to divert his thoughts, had really got some of these little circumstances into his brain by the time he was called upon to speak.

‘A quaint place this,’ said the gentleman—and his voice was as rich as his dress. ‘Are you the landlord?’

‘At your service, sir,’ replied John Willet.

‘You can give my horse good stabling, can you, and me an early dinner (I am not particular what, so that it be cleanly served), and a decent room of which there seems to be no lack in this great mansion,’ said the stranger, again running his eyes over the exterior.

‘You can have, sir,’ returned John with a readiness quite surprising, ‘anything you please.’

‘It’s well I am easily satisfied,’ returned the other with a smile, ‘or that might prove a hardy pledge, my friend.’ And saying so, he dismounted, with the aid of the block before the door, in a twinkling.

‘Halloa there! Hugh!’ roared John. ‘I ask your pardon, sir, for keeping you standing in the porch; but my son has gone to town on business, and the boy being, as I may say, of a kind of use to me, I’m rather put out when he’s away. Hugh!—a dreadful idle vagrant fellow, sir, half a gipsy, as I think—always sleeping in the sun in summer, and in the straw in winter time, sir—Hugh! Dear Lord, to keep a gentleman a waiting here through him!—Hugh! I wish that chap was dead, I do indeed.’

‘Possibly he is,’ returned the other. ‘I should think if he were living, he would have heard you by this time.’

‘In his fits of laziness, he sleeps so desperate hard,’ said the distracted host, ‘that if you were to fire off cannon-balls into his ears, it wouldn’t wake him, sir.’

The guest made no remark upon this novel cure for drowsiness, and recipe for making people lively, but, with his hands clasped behind him, stood in the porch, very much amused to see old John, with the bridle in his hand, wavering between a strong impulse to abandon the animal to his fate, and a half disposition to lead him into the house, and shut him up in the parlour, while he waited on his master.

‘Pillory the fellow, here he is at last!’ cried John, in the very height and zenith of his distress. ‘Did you hear me a calling, villain?’

Capitolo 10

Fu in una di quelle mattine, tipiche dell’inizio della primavera, quando l’anno, incostante e mutevole nella sua giovinezza come tutte le altre cose create, non sapeva ancora se tornare indietro verso la inverno o avanzare verso la estate; nell’incertezza, oscillava ora da un’estremità all’altra, tentato sia dall’una che dall’altra. Invitando l’estate con il sole splendente, ma ancora esitante ad abbandonare l’ombra dell’inverno. Insomma, fu in una di quelle mattine, in cui faceva caldo e freddo, umido e secco, chiaro e scuro, triste e gioioso, quando quel vecchio John Willet, che stava quasi addormentandosi accanto alla caldaia di rame, fu svegliato dal rumore degli zoccoli di un cavallo; guardando fuori dalla finestra, vide un viaggiatore dall’aspetto distinto che si fermava davanti al cancello del Maypole.

Non era uno di quei giovani spensierati che chiedevano una brocca di birra al caldo e si comportavano come se avessero ordinato un intero barile di vino; non era uno di quegli audaci giovani presuntuosi che osavano addirittura entrare nel bar, quel sacro luogo, e, battendo sulla schiena del vecchio John, chiedevano se ci fossero mai state ragazze carine in quella casa, o dove nascondesse le sue cameriere. Non era uno di quei compagni disinvolti che strofinavano gli stivali sui bracieri della sala comune senza curarsi minimamente dei posacenere; non era nemmeno uno di quegli individui pretenziosi che richiedevano tagli impossibili nella carne e consideravano le salse piccanti come qualcosa di ovvio. Era un gentiluomo serio, dignitoso e tranquillo, ormai oltre l’apice della vita, ma ancora eretto nel portamento e snello come un levriero. Montava con disinvoltura un robusto cavallo castano; il suo equipaggiamento da equitazione, sebbene privo di quelle frivolezze allora in voga, era elegante e ben scelto. Indossava un mantello da cavaliere di un verde leggermente più brillante di quanto ci si sarebbe aspettato da un gentiluomo della sua età; aveva anche una corta mantella di velluto nero, con tasche e polsini decorati con nastri. I suoi indumenti di lino erano di ottima qualità, ricamati con motivi raffinati ai polsi e al collo, e estremamente bianchi. Sebbene sembrasse essere arrivato da Londra a giudicare dalla sporcizia che si era accumulata sul suo abito durante il viaggio, sia lui che il suo cavallo erano puliti e freschi come sempre. Nessuno dei due aveva un capello fuori posto; e, a parte i suoi vestiti sporchi, quel gentiluomo, con il viso sorridente, i denti bianchi, l’abbigliamento impeccabile e la calma assoluta, avrebbe potuto benissimo essere appena uscito da un raffinato bagno, pronto per farsi ritrarre a cavallo davanti al cancello di John Willet.

Non si deve pensare che John abbia osservato queste diverse caratteristiche in modo graduale e lento, né che abbia assimilato più di metà di esse contemporaneamente, né ancora che abbia preso una decisione al riguardo senza un’attenta riflessione. Infatti, se all’inizio fosse stato distratto da domande o ordini, gli sarebbero servite almeno due settimane per notare tutto ciò che è qui descritto; ma fortunatamente il signore in questione era affascinato dalla vecchia casa, dai piccioni grassocci che volavano intorno ad essa, o dal lungo palo su cui, sulla cima, una banderuola, guasta da quindici anni, si muoveva continuamente al ritmo del proprio cigolio. Rimase quindi seduto per un po’ in silenzio, osservando intorno a sé. Così John, con la mano sulla briglia del cavallo e gli occhi fissi sul cavaliere, senza nulla che distogliesse i suoi pensieri, riuscì davvero a memorizzare alcune di queste piccole particolarizze nel momento in cui gli fu chiesto di parlare.

“Un posto davvero pittoresco,” disse il gentiluomo; la sua voce era altrettanto ricca quanto i suoi abiti. “Siete voi il proprietario?”

“A vostra disposizione, signore,” rispose John Willet.

“Potreste fornire al mio cavallo un buon stallo, per favore? E potreste anche prepararmi una cena anticipata (non mi interessa cosa sia, basta che sia servita in modo pulito), oltre a una stanza decente. Di queste sembra non mancare affatto in questa grande dimora,” disse lo straniero, osservando nuovamente l’esterno.

“Può prenderla, signore,” rispose John con una prontezza davvero sorprendente, “qualsiasi cosa desideri.”

“Beh, io mi accontento facilmente,” rispose l’altro sorridendo, “oppure forse questa potrebbe rivelarsi una promessa difficile da mantenere, amico mio.” E detto ciò, scese da cavallo con l’aiuto del blocco posto davanti alla porta in un attimo.

“Salve, Hugh!” gridò John. “Mi scusi se l’ho fatto aspettare in veranda; ma mio figlio è andato in città per affari, e poiché quel ragazzo mi è davvero utile, beh, mi trovo un po’ nei guai quando non c’è. Hugh! Un vero vagabondo inutile, signore: sembra quasi un zingaro, dorme sempre al sole in estate e nella paglia in inverno. Accidenti, far aspettare un gentiluomo per colpa sua. Vorrei davvero che quel ragazzo fosse morto.”

“Forse sì,” rispose l’altro. “Penso che, se fosse ancora vivo, a quest’ora ti avrebbe già sentito.”

“Nei suoi attacchi di pigrizia, dorme così profondamente,” disse l’ospite distratto, “che anche se gli sparaste dei proiettili di cannone nelle orecchie, non si sveglierebbe, signore.”

Il visitatore non fece alcun commento su questa nuova e originale cura contro la sonnolenza, né sulla ricetta per rendere le persone più vivaci; invece, con le mani incrociate dietro la schiena, stava in veranda, divertendosi molto nel vedere il vecchio John, con la briglia in mano, esitare tra l’impulso di abbandonare l’animale al suo destino e la tentazione di portarlo dentro la casa e chiuderlo in salotto mentre aspettava il suo padrone.

“Mettete quel farabutto in catene, finalmente è qui!” gridò John, nel culmine della sua disperazione. “Non mi avete sentito chiamare, malvivente?”

The figure he addressed made no answer, but putting his hand upon the saddle, sprung into it at a bound, turned the horse’s head towards the stable, and was gone in an instant.

‘Brisk enough when he is awake,’ said the guest.

‘Brisk enough, sir!’ replied John, looking at the place where the horse had been, as if not yet understanding quite, what had become of him. ‘He melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at him, and there he is. You look at him again, and—there he isn’t.’

Having, in the absence of any more words, put this sudden climax to what he had faintly intended should be a long explanation of the whole life and character of his man, the oracular John Willet led the gentleman up his wide dismantled staircase into the Maypole’s best apartment.

It was spacious enough in all conscience, occupying the whole depth of the house, and having at either end a great bay window, as large as many modern rooms; in which some few panes of stained glass, emblazoned with fragments of armorial bearings, though cracked, and patched, and shattered, yet remained; attesting, by their presence, that the former owner had made the very light subservient to his state, and pressed the sun itself into his list of flatterers; bidding it, when it shone into his chamber, reflect the badges of his ancient family, and take new hues and colours from their pride.

But those were old days, and now every little ray came and went as it would; telling the plain, bare, searching truth. Although the best room of the inn, it had the melancholy aspect of grandeur in decay, and was much too vast for comfort. Rich rustling hangings, waving on the walls; and, better far, the rustling of youth and beauty’s dress; the light of women’s eyes, outshining the tapers and their own rich jewels; the sound of gentle tongues, and music, and the tread of maiden feet, had once been there, and filled it with delight. But they were gone, and with them all its gladness. It was no longer a home; children were never born and bred there; the fireside had become mercenary—a something to be bought and sold—a very courtezan: let who would die, or sit beside, or leave it, it was still the same—it missed nobody, cared for nobody, had equal warmth and smiles for all. God help the man whose heart ever changes with the world, as an old mansion when it becomes an inn!

No effort had been made to furnish this chilly waste, but before the broad chimney a colony of chairs and tables had been planted on a square of carpet, flanked by a ghostly screen, enriched with figures, grinning and grotesque. After lighting with his own hands the faggots which were heaped upon the hearth, old John withdrew to hold grave council with his cook, touching the stranger’s entertainment; while the guest himself, seeing small comfort in the yet unkindled wood, opened a lattice in the distant window, and basked in a sickly gleam of cold March sun.

Leaving the window now and then, to rake the crackling logs together, or pace the echoing room from end to end, he closed it when the fire was quite burnt up, and having wheeled the easiest chair into the warmest corner, summoned John Willet.

‘Sir,’ said John.

He wanted pen, ink, and paper. There was an old standish on the mantelshelf containing a dusty apology for all three. Having set this before him, the landlord was retiring, when he motioned him to stay.

‘There’s a house not far from here,’ said the guest when he had written a few lines, ‘which you call the Warren, I believe?’

As this was said in the tone of one who knew the fact, and asked the question as a thing of course, John contented himself with nodding his head in the affirmative; at the same time taking one hand out of his pockets to cough behind, and then putting it in again.

‘I want this note’—said the guest, glancing on what he had written, and folding it, ‘conveyed there without loss of time, and an answer brought back here. Have you a messenger at hand?’

John was thoughtful for a minute or thereabouts, and then said Yes.

‘Let me see him,’ said the guest.

This was disconcerting; for Joe being out, and Hugh engaged in rubbing down the chestnut cob, he designed sending on the errand, Barnaby, who had just then arrived in one of his rambles, and who, so that he thought himself employed on a grave and serious business, would go anywhere.

‘Why the truth is,’ said John after a long pause, ‘that the person who’d go quickest, is a sort of natural, as one may say, sir; and though quick of foot, and as much to be trusted as the post itself, he’s not good at talking, being touched and flighty, sir.’

‘You don’t,’ said the guest, raising his eyes to John’s fat face, ‘you don’t mean—what’s the fellow’s name—you don’t mean Barnaby?’

‘Yes, I do,’ returned the landlord, his features turning quite expressive with surprise.

‘How comes he to be here?’ inquired the guest, leaning back in his chair; speaking in the bland, even tone, from which he never varied; and with the same soft, courteous, never-changing smile upon his face. ‘I saw him in London last night.’

‘He’s, for ever, here one hour, and there the next,’ returned old John, after the usual pause to get the question in his mind. ‘Sometimes he walks, and sometimes runs. He’s known along the road by everybody, and sometimes comes here in a cart or chaise, and sometimes riding double. He comes and goes, through wind, rain, snow, and hail, and on the darkest nights. Nothing hurts HIM.’

‘He goes often to the Warren, does he not?’ said the guest carelessly. ‘I seem to remember his mother telling me something to that effect yesterday. But I was not attending to the good woman much.’

‘You’re right, sir,’ John made answer, ‘he does. His father, sir, was murdered in that house.’

La persona a cui si era rivolto non rispose; ma appoggiando la mano sulla sella, saltò su di essa con un balzo, girò la testa del cavallo verso lo stallo e se ne andò in un istante.

“Abbastanza vivace quando è sveglio,” disse l’ospite.

“Abbastanza fresco, signore!”, rispose John, guardando il punto in cui si trovava il cavallo, come se ancora non riuscisse a capire del tutto cosa gli fosse accaduto. “Penso che si scioglia. Scompare come una goccia di schiuma. Lo guardi, ed è lì; lo guardi di nuovo, e, non c’è più.”

Non avendo altre parole da aggiungere, il profetico John Willet portò il gentiluomo su per la sua vasta e fatiscente scala, fino all’appartamento più bello del Maypole. Con questo, pose fine a quella che in realtà era solo una vaga intenzione di fornire una lunga spiegazione sulla vita e sul carattere dell’uomo che aveva descritto.

Era abbastanza spazioso, occupando l’intera profondità della casa; ai due estremi aveva grandi finestre, grandi quanto molte stanze moderne; in alcune di queste finestre si trovavano vetri colorati, decorati con frammenti di stemmi araldici. Anche se rovinati, rattoppati e infranti, la loro presenza testimoniava che il precedente proprietario aveva fatto sì che anche la luce fosse al suo servizio, “costringendo” persino il sole stesso ad adularlo. Quando il sole illuminava la sua stanza, quei vetri riflettevano gli stemmi della sua antica famiglia, assumendo nuovi colori e tonalità, come se derivassero dal loro orgoglio.

Ma quei erano tempi passati; ora ogni raggio di luce arrivava e se ne andava a piacimento, rivelando la semplice, cruda, incisiva _verità. Anche se si trattava della migliore stanza dell’ostello, aveva un aspetto malinconico di grandezza in declino, ed era troppo vasta per essere davvero confortevole. Ricchi tendaggi che sventolavano sulle pareti; e, ancora meglio, il fruscio delle vesti della gioventù e della bellezza. La luce negli occhi delle donne, più splendente delle candele e dei loro preziosi gioielli. Il suono di voci dolci, la musica, il passo leggero delle fanciulle. Tutto questo un tempo c’era, e riempiva quella stanza di felicità. Ma ora era tutto sparito, insieme a tutta quella gioia. Non era più una casa. Lì non nascevano e non crescevano bambini. Il focolare era diventato qualcosa da comprare e vendere. Una sorta di “donna di piacere”. Che chi volesse morisse lì, sedesse accanto al fuoco o lo lasciasse. Era sempre lo stesso. Non mancava a nessuno, non si curava di nessuno. Offriva calore e sorrisi a tutti ugualmente. Dio aiuti quell’uomo il cui cuore cambia insieme al mondo, proprio come una vecchia dimora che diventa un ostello.

Non era stato fatto alcuno sforzo per arredare questo freddo spazio desolato; tuttavia, davanti alla grande ciminiera, un gruppo di sedie e tavoli era stato disposto su un pezzo di tappeto, fiancheggiato da tende decorate con figure che sorridevano in modo grottesco. Dopo aver acceso personalmente i ceppi ammucchiati sul camino, il vecchio John si ritirò per consultarsi seriamente con la sua cuoca riguardo all’intrattenimento del visitatore; intanto quest’ultimo, non trovando alcun conforto nella legna ancora spenta, aprì una grata alla lontana finestra e si godette un debole raggio di sole freddo di marzo.

A volte usciva dalla finestra per raccogliere i ceppi che scoppiettavano nel camino, oppure camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza silenziosa. Quando il fuoco si era completamente spento, chiuse la finestra e, dopo aver spostato la sedia più comoda nell’angolo più caldo della stanza, chiamò John Willet.

“Signore,” disse John.

Voleva penna, inchiostro e carta. Sul ripiano del caminetto c’era un vecchio scaffale che conteneva, coperti di polvere, tutti e tre gli oggetti necessari. Dopo averli messi davanti a lui, il proprietario stava per andarsene quando gli fece segno di restare.

“C’è una casa non lontano da qui,” disse l’ospite dopo aver scritto alcune righe, “che credo si chiami Warren, giusto?”

Poiché queste parole furono dette con l’ tono di chi conosceva la verità e poneva quella domanda come qualcosa di ovvio, John si accontentò di annuire affermativamente; nel frattempo, tirò fuori una mano dalle tasche per tossire, poi la rimise dentro.

“Voglio questa nota”, disse l’ospite, dando un’occhiata a ciò che aveva scritto e piegandola, “che venga consegnata là senza perdita di tempo, affinché una risposta possa essere portata indietro. Avete qualcuno a disposizione per questo compito?”

John rimase pensieroso per un minuto o poco, poi disse di sì.

“Lasciatemi vederlo,” disse l’ospite.

Questo era davvero sconcertante: poiché Joe non c’era e Hugh era impegnato a strofinare il guscio del castagno, decise di incaricare Barnaby dell’incarico, che in quel momento era appena tornato da uno dei suoi vagabondaggi. Pensando di essere impegnato in un compito serio e importante, Barnaby avrebbe accettato qualsiasi incarico.

“Perché la verità è,” disse John dopo una lunga pausa, “che la persona che agisce più rapidamente è, in un certo senso, naturale, per così dire, signore; e anche se è veloce e affidabile quanto il servizio postale stesso, non è molto abile nel parlare, è impulsiva e facile a cambiare idea, signore.”

“Non lo dici sul serio,” disse l’ospite, alzando lo sguardo verso il viso grasso di John, “non intendi davvero, com’è il nome di quel tizio, non intendi dire Barnaby?”

“Sì, lo faccio,” rispose il proprietario, i suoi tratti del viso diventando molto espressivi per la sorpresa.

“Come mai si trova qui?” chiese l’ospite, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia; parlava con quel tono neutro e uniforme che non cambiava mai; sul suo viso c’era sempre lo stesso sorriso dolce, cortese e immutabile. “L’ho visto a Londra ieri sera.”

“È sempre qui un momento, e poi via altrove,” rispose il vecchio John, dopo la solita pausa necessaria per comprendere bene la domanda. “A volte cammina, a volte corre. Tutti lo conoscono lungo quella strada; a volte arriva qui in carrozza o in calesa, altre volte cavalcando un cavallo. Viene e va, attraverso vento, pioggia, neve e grandine, anche nelle notti più buie. Niente lo ferisce.”

“Va spesso al Warren, vero?” disse il visitatore con noncuranza.
“Credo di ricordare che ieri sua madre mi abbia detto qualcosa del genere. Ma in quel momento non stavo prestando molta attenzione a quella brava donna.”

“Ha ragione, signore,” rispose John, “è vero. Suo padre, signore, fu assassinato in quella casa.”

‘So I have heard,’ returned the guest, taking a gold toothpick from his pocket with the same sweet smile. ‘A very disagreeable circumstance for the family.’

‘Very,’ said John with a puzzled look, as if it occurred to him, dimly and afar off, that this might by possibility be a cool way of treating the subject.

‘All the circumstances after a murder,’ said the guest soliloquising, ‘must be dreadfully unpleasant—so much bustle and disturbance—no repose—a constant dwelling upon one subject—and the running in and out, and up and down stairs, intolerable. I wouldn’t have such a thing happen to anybody I was nearly interested in, on any account. ‘Twould be enough to wear one’s life out.—You were going to say, friend—’ he added, turning to John again.

‘Only that Mrs Rudge lives on a little pension from the family, and that Barnaby’s as free of the house as any cat or dog about it,’ answered John. ‘Shall he do your errand, sir?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied the guest. ‘Oh certainly. Let him do it by all means. Please to bring him here that I may charge him to be quick. If he objects to come you may tell him it’s Mr Chester. He will remember my name, I dare say.’

John was so very much astonished to find who his visitor was, that he could express no astonishment at all, by looks or otherwise, but left the room as if he were in the most placid and imperturbable of all possible conditions. It has been reported that when he got downstairs, he looked steadily at the boiler for ten minutes by the clock, and all that time never once left off shaking his head; for which statement there would seem to be some ground of truth and feasibility, inasmuch as that interval of time did certainly elapse, before he returned with Barnaby to the guest’s apartment.

‘Come hither, lad,’ said Mr Chester. ‘You know Mr Geoffrey Haredale?’

Barnaby laughed, and looked at the landlord as though he would say, ‘You hear him?’ John, who was greatly shocked at this breach of decorum, clapped his finger to his nose, and shook his head in mute remonstrance.

‘He knows him, sir,’ said John, frowning aside at Barnaby, ‘as well as you or I do.’

‘I haven’t the pleasure of much acquaintance with the gentleman,’ returned his guest. ‘YOU may have. Limit the comparison to yourself, my friend.’

Although this was said with the same easy affability, and the same smile, John felt himself put down, and laying the indignity at Barnaby’s door, determined to kick his raven, on the very first opportunity.

‘Give that,’ said the guest, who had by this time sealed the note, and who beckoned his messenger towards him as he spoke, ‘into Mr Haredale’s own hands. Wait for an answer, and bring it back to me here. If you should find that Mr Haredale is engaged just now, tell him—can he remember a message, landlord?’

‘When he chooses, sir,’ replied John. ‘He won’t forget this one.’

‘How are you sure of that?’

John merely pointed to him as he stood with his head bent forward, and his earnest gaze fixed closely on his questioner’s face; and nodded sagely.

‘Tell him then, Barnaby, should he be engaged,’ said Mr Chester, ‘that I shall be glad to wait his convenience here, and to see him (if he will call) at any time this evening.—At the worst I can have a bed here, Willet, I suppose?’

Old John, immensely flattered by the personal notoriety implied in this familiar form of address, answered, with something like a knowing look, ‘I should believe you could, sir,’ and was turning over in his mind various forms of eulogium, with the view of selecting one appropriate to the qualities of his best bed, when his ideas were put to flight by Mr Chester giving Barnaby the letter, and bidding him make all speed away.

‘Speed!’ said Barnaby, folding the little packet in his breast, ‘Speed! If you want to see hurry and mystery, come here. Here!’

With that, he put his hand, very much to John Willet’s horror, on the guest’s fine broadcloth sleeve, and led him stealthily to the back window.

‘Look down there,’ he said softly; ‘do you mark how they whisper in each other’s ears; then dance and leap, to make believe they are in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief they’ve been plotting? Look at ‘em now. See how they whirl and plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper, cautiously together—little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the grass and watched them. I say what is it that they plot and hatch? Do you know?’

‘They are only clothes,’ returned the guest, ‘such as we wear; hanging on those lines to dry, and fluttering in the wind.’

‘Clothes!’ echoed Barnaby, looking close into his face, and falling quickly back. ‘Ha ha! Why, how much better to be silly, than as wise as you! You don’t see shadowy people there, like those that live in sleep—not you. Nor eyes in the knotted panes of glass, nor swift ghosts when it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the air, nor see men stalking in the sky—not you! I lead a merrier life than you, with all your cleverness. You’re the dull men. We’re the bright ones. Ha! ha! I’ll not change with you, clever as you are,—not I!’

With that, he waved his hat above his head, and darted off.

‘A strange creature, upon my word!’ said the guest, pulling out a handsome box, and taking a pinch of snuff.

‘He wants imagination,’ said Mr Willet, very slowly, and after a long silence; ‘that’s what he wants. I’ve tried to instil it into him, many and many’s the time; but’—John added this in confidence—‘he an’t made for it; that’s the fact.’

To record that Mr Chester smiled at John’s remark would be little to the purpose, for he preserved the same conciliatory and pleasant look at all times. He drew his chair nearer to the fire though, as a kind of hint that he would prefer to be alone, and John, having no reasonable excuse for remaining, left him to himself.

“Ne ho sentito parlare,” rispose l’ospite, estraendo un bastoncino da denti d’oro dalla tasca con lo stesso dolce sorriso. “Una situazione davvero spiacevole per la famiglia.”

“Molto bene,” disse John con un’espressione perplessa, come se gli fosse venuto in mente, in modo vago e lontano, che questa potesse essere un modo efficace per affrontare l’argomento.

“Tutte le circostanze che seguono un omicidio,” disse il visitatore tra sé e sé, “devono essere terribilmente sgradevoli: tanto trambusto e disordine, nessun riposo, l’essere costantemente costretti a pensare alla stessa cosa, e poi tutte quelle corse su e giù per le scale. Insopportabile. Non permetterei mai che una cosa del genere accadesse a qualcuno che mi stesse davvero a cuore, per nessuna ragione al mondo. Sarebbe sufficiente per distruggere la vita di una persona, ” “Stavi per dire, amico, ”, aggiunse, rivolgendosi di nuovo a John.

“Solo che la signora Rudge vive di una piccola pensione fornita dalla famiglia, e che Barnaby è libero di muoversi in quella casa quanto qualsiasi gatto o cane che ci viva,” rispose John. “Dovrebbe svolgere il vostro incarico, signore?”

“Oh sì,” rispose l’ospite. “Certo, lasciatelo fare senza problemi. Per favore portatelo qui così posso esortarlo ad affrettarsi. Se si rifiuta di venire, potete dirgli che è il signor Chester. Sono sicuro che ricorderà il mio nome.”

John fu così sorpreso nel scoprire chi fosse il suo visitatore che non riuscì affatto a manifestare alcuna meraviglia, né con lo sguardo né in altro modo; uscì semplicemente dalla stanza come se si trovasse nella condizione più tranquilla e imperturbabile possibile. Si dice che, una volta sceso al piano di sotto, abbia fissato la caldaia per dieci minuti consecutive, senza mai smettere di scuotere la testa; questa affermazione sembra avere un certo fondamento di verità e plausibilità, poiché quel lasso di tempo è effettivamente trascorso prima che tornasse con Barnaby nell’appartamento dell’ospite.

“Vieni qui, ragazzo,” disse il signor Chester. “Conosci il signor Geoffrey Haredale?”

Barnaby rise e guardò il padrone di casa come se volesse dire: “Lo sentite?” John, profondamente scioccato da questa mancanza di decoro, si mise un dito sul naso e scosse la testa in segno di silenziosa rimproverazione.

“Lo conosce bene, signore,” disse John, guardando Barnaby con un sopracciglio corrugato, “proprio come voi o me.”

“Non ho l’onore di conoscere molto bene quel signore,” rispose il suo ospite. “Forse tu sì. Limita la tua comparazione a te stesso, mio amico.”

Anche se queste parole furono dette con la stessa naturale affabilità e lo stesso sorriso, John si sentì umiliato; deciso a vendicarsi non appena ne avesse l’occasione, attribuì quell’offesa a Barnaby.

“Daglielo,” disse l’ospite, che ormai aveva sigillato il biglietto e, mentre parlava, fece segno al proprio messaggero di avvicinarsi. “Daglielo direttamente nelle mani del signor Haredale. Aspetta una risposta e portamela qui. Se dovesse capitare che il signor Haredale sia impegnato in quel momento, digli. Riesce a ricordarsi un messaggio da consegnarmi?”

“Quando deciderà lui, signore”, rispose John. “Non dimenticherà questa volta”.

“Come fai ad esserne così sicuro?”

John si limitò a indicarlo mentre stava lì, con la testa china in avanti e lo sguardo serio fissato sul volto di chi gli poneva la domanda; poi annuì saggiamente.

“Allora diglielo, Barnaby: se dovesse fidanzarsi,” disse il signor Chester, “che sarò felice di aspettarlo qui, quando gli sarà più comodo, e di vederlo (se vorrà venire) in qualsiasi momento stasera. Nel peggiore dei casi, potrò sempre trovare un posto dove dormire, vero, Willet?”

Il vecchio John, immensamente lusingato dalla notorietà personale che implicava questa forma familiare di address, rispose con uno sguardo complice: “Credo proprio di sì, signore”, e iniziò a pensare a varie forme di elogio, al fine di sceglierne una appropriata alle qualità del suo miglior letto. Ma i suoi pensieri furono interrotti quando il signor Chester diede la lettera a Barnaby, ordinandogli di partire immediatamente.

“‘Velocità!’” disse Barnaby, ripiegando il piccolo pacchetto contro il petto, “‘Velocità! Se volete vedere fretta e mistero, venite qui. Qui!”

Con questo gesto, e con grande orrore di John Willet, posò la mano sulla morbida manica di velluto del visitatore e lo guidò silenziosamente verso la finestra posteriore.

“Guarda laggiù,” disse dolcemente; “vedi come sussurrano l’uno all’orecchio dell’altro, poi ballano e saltano, fingendo di divertirsi? Noti come si fermano per un momento, quando pensano che nessuno li stia osservando, e poi ricominciano a bisbigliare tra loro. E infine come rotolano e giocano, felici del dispetto che hanno architettato? Guardali adesso: vedi come girano vorticosamente e si tuffano. Poi si fermano di nuovo e sussurrano, con cautela. Non pensano affatto a quante volte io abbia giaciuto sull’erba a osservarli. Dimmi, cosa stanno mai complottando? Lo sai?”

“Sono solo vestiti,” rispose l’ospite, “come ne indossiamo noi; appesi a quelle corde per asciugare, e che svolazzano nel vento.”

“Abiti!” esclamò Barnaby, guardandolo attentamente in faccia per poi ritrarsi rapidamente. “Ah ah! Che bello essere sciocchi, piuttosto che saggi come te. Tu non vedi persone oscure lì, come quelle che vivono nel sonno. Non tu. Né occhi nei vetri intrecciati, né rapidi fantasmi quando soffia il vento forte. Non senti voci nell’aria, né vedi uomini che si muovono nel cielo. Non tu! Io conduco una vita più felice della tua, con tutta la tua intelligenza. Tu sei uno di quelli noiosi. Noi siamo quelli brillanti. Ah ah! Non cambierò mai per essere come te, per quanto tu sia intelligente. No, io no!”

Detto questo, agitò il cappello sopra la testa e se ne andò di corsa.

“Una creatura strana, ve lo assicuro!” disse l’ospite, estraendo una bella scatola e prendendo un pizzico di tabacco da naso.

“Vuole l’immaginazione”, disse il signor Willet molto lentamente, dopo un lungo silenzio; “è proprio questo che vuole. Ho cercato di inculcargliela molte volte, ma, ” – John aggiunse queste parole confidenzialmente – “non è fatto per questo; è semplicemente la verità.”

Riferire che il signor Chester abbia sorriso alla battuta di John sarebbe poco significativo, poiché manteneva sempre lo stesso sguardo cordiale e piacevole. Tuttavia, avvicinò la sua sedia al focolare, come un modo per suggerire che preferisse essere da solo; John, non avendo alcuna ragione valida per rimanere, lo lasciò in pace.

Very thoughtful old John Willet was, while the dinner was preparing; and if his brain were ever less clear at one time than another, it is but reasonable to suppose that he addled it in no slight degree by shaking his head so much that day. That Mr Chester, between whom and Mr Haredale, it was notorious to all the neighbourhood, a deep and bitter animosity existed, should come down there for the sole purpose, as it seemed, of seeing him, and should choose the Maypole for their place of meeting, and should send to him express, were stumbling blocks John could not overcome. The only resource he had, was to consult the boiler, and wait impatiently for Barnaby’s return.

But Barnaby delayed beyond all precedent. The visitor’s dinner was served, removed, his wine was set, the fire replenished, the hearth clean swept; the light waned without, it grew dusk, became quite dark, and still no Barnaby appeared. Yet, though John Willet was full of wonder and misgiving, his guest sat cross-legged in the easy-chair, to all appearance as little ruffled in his thoughts as in his dress—the same calm, easy, cool gentleman, without a care or thought beyond his golden toothpick.

‘Barnaby’s late,’ John ventured to observe, as he placed a pair of tarnished candlesticks, some three feet high, upon the table, and snuffed the lights they held.

‘He is rather so,’ replied the guest, sipping his wine. ‘He will not be much longer, I dare say.’

John coughed and raked the fire together.

‘As your roads bear no very good character, if I may judge from my son’s mishap, though,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and as I have no fancy to be knocked on the head—which is not only disconcerting at the moment, but places one, besides, in a ridiculous position with respect to the people who chance to pick one up—I shall stop here to-night. I think you said you had a bed to spare.’

‘Such a bed, sir,’ returned John Willet; ‘ay, such a bed as few, even of the gentry’s houses, own. A fixter here, sir. I’ve heard say that bedstead is nigh two hundred years of age. Your noble son—a fine young gentleman—slept in it last, sir, half a year ago.’

‘Upon my life, a recommendation!’ said the guest, shrugging his shoulders and wheeling his chair nearer to the fire. ‘See that it be well aired, Mr Willet, and let a blazing fire be lighted there at once. This house is something damp and chilly.’

John raked the faggots up again, more from habit than presence of mind, or any reference to this remark, and was about to withdraw, when a bounding step was heard upon the stair, and Barnaby came panting in.

‘He’ll have his foot in the stirrup in an hour’s time,’ he cried, advancing. ‘He has been riding hard all day—has just come home—but will be in the saddle again as soon as he has eat and drank, to meet his loving friend.’

‘Was that his message?’ asked the visitor, looking up, but without the smallest discomposure—or at least without the show of any.

‘All but the last words,’ Barnaby rejoined. ‘He meant those. I saw that, in his face.’

‘This for your pains,’ said the other, putting money in his hand, and glancing at him steadfastly.’This for your pains, sharp Barnaby.’

‘For Grip, and me, and Hugh, to share among us,’ he rejoined, putting it up, and nodding, as he counted it on his fingers. ‘Grip one, me two, Hugh three; the dog, the goat, the cats—well, we shall spend it pretty soon, I warn you. Stay.—Look. Do you wise men see nothing there, now?’

He bent eagerly down on one knee, and gazed intently at the smoke, which was rolling up the chimney in a thick black cloud. John Willet, who appeared to consider himself particularly and chiefly referred to under the term wise men, looked that way likewise, and with great solidity of feature.

‘Now, where do they go to, when they spring so fast up there,’ asked Barnaby; ‘eh? Why do they tread so closely on each other’s heels, and why are they always in a hurry—which is what you blame me for, when I only take pattern by these busy folk about me? More of ‘em! catching to each other’s skirts; and as fast as they go, others come! What a merry dance it is! I would that Grip and I could frisk like that!’

‘What has he in that basket at his back?’ asked the guest after a few moments, during which Barnaby was still bending down to look higher up the chimney, and earnestly watching the smoke.

‘In this?’ he answered, jumping up, before John Willet could reply—shaking it as he spoke, and stooping his head to listen. ‘In this! What is there here? Tell him!’

‘A devil, a devil, a devil!’ cried a hoarse voice.

‘Here’s money!’ said Barnaby, chinking it in his hand, ‘money for a treat, Grip!’

‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’ replied the raven, ‘keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow!’

Mr Willet, who appeared to entertain strong doubts whether a customer in a laced coat and fine linen could be supposed to have any acquaintance even with the existence of such unpolite gentry as the bird claimed to belong to, took Barnaby off at this juncture, with the view of preventing any other improper declarations, and quitted the room with his very best bow.

Il vecchio John Willet era davvero molto premuroso; mentre veniva preparato la cena, se mai la sua mente fosse stata meno lucida in un momento rispetto ad un altro, è del tutto ragionevole supporre che il continuo scuotere della testa quel giorno l’avesse ulteriormente confuso. Il fatto che il signor Chester, tra cui e il signor Haredale esistesse una profonda e acerrima inimicizia, conosciuta da tutta la zona, fosse sceso laggiù con lo scopo apparente di incontrarlo, scegliendo addirittura il palo di maggio come luogo dell’incontro, e che inviasse messaggi espliciti, se solo John avesse potuto superare gli ostacoli che questi messaggi rappresentavano. L’unica soluzione che gli rimaneva era consultare la caldaia e aspettare con impazienza il ritorno di Barnaby.

Ma Barnaby si fece attendere più a lungo di quanto fosse mai accaduto prima. La cena del visitatore fu servita e poi ritirata; il vino gli fu portato; il fuoco venne rifornito, la stufa pulita; la luce diminuì, calò la sera, diventò buio pesto. E ancora Barnaby non compariva. Tuttavia, sebbene John Willet fosse pieno di perplessità e preoccupazione, il suo ospite sedeva tranquillamente nella poltrona, apparentemente del tutto sereno sia nei pensieri che nell’aspetto: lo stesso gentiluomo calmo, rilassato e composto, senza alcuna preoccupazione o pensiero al di fuori della sua, bacchetta da denti d’oro.

“Barnaby è in ritardo,” osò osservare John, mentre posava su tavolo una coppia di candelabri arrugginiti, alti circa un metro e mezzo, e spegneva le candele che contenevano.

“È proprio così,” rispose l’ospite, sorseggiando il suo vino. “Direi che non durerà molto a lungo.”

John tossì via alcuni rametti e ravvivò il fuoco.

“Poiché le vostre strade non sembrano molto sicure, a giudicare dall’incidente capitato a mio figlio, e poiché non ho alcuna voglia di farmi colpire in testa – il che non solo è sconcertante in quel momento, ma mi metterebbe anche in una situazione ridicola di fronte alle persone che potrebbero trovarmi, ” disse il signor Chester. “Penso che abbiate detto di avere un letto libero, ”

“Un letto del genere, signore,” rispose John Willet; “ah, un letto che poche case della nobiltà possiedono. Un falegname di qui. Ho sentito dire che questo letto abbia quasi duecento anni. Vostro nobile figlio, un giovane gentiluomo davvero eccellente, vi ha dormito dentro l’ultima volta, signore, mezzo anno fa.”

“Per la mia vita, una raccomandazione!” disse l’ospite, scrollando le spalle e avvicinando la sedia al focolare. “Assicurarsi che ci sia un buon ricircolo d’aria, signor Willet. Accendiamo subito un fuoco ardente. Questa casa è davvero umida e fredda.”

John raccolse di nuovo i fasci di legna, più per abitudine che per riflessione, o forse anche a causa di quel commento, e stava per andarsene quando si sentirono dei passi affrettati sulle scale: Barnaby entrò ansimando.

“Tra un’ora sarà di nuovo in sella,” gridò, avanzando. “Ha cavalcato senza sosta per tutto il giorno, è appena tornato a casa, ma non appena avrà mangiato e bevuto, tornerà subito a cavalcare per incontrare la sua amata amica.”

“Era questo il suo messaggio?”, chiese il visitatore alzando lo sguardo, ma senza mostrare la minima turbazione, o almeno senza darne a vedere alcuna.

“Tutti tranne le ultime parole,” ribatté Barnaby. “Intendeva proprio quelle. L’ho visto sul suo viso.”

“Questo per le tue sofferenze,” disse l’altro, mettendogli dei soldi in mano e guardandolo fisso negli occhi. “Questo per le tue sofferenze, astuto Barnaby.”

“Per Grip, per me e per Hugh, da dividere tra noi,” riprese, mostrandoli e annuendo mentre li contava sulle dita. “Grip ne ha uno, io ne ho due, Hugh ne ha tre; il cane, la capra, i gatti, beh, presto li spenderemo tutti, ve lo avverto. Aspettate. Guardate: voi saggi non vedete nulla lì?”

Si chinò con impazienza su un ginocchio e fissò attentamente il fumo che si alzava dalla ciminiera in una densa nuvola nera. John Willet, che sembrava considerarsi appartenente a quella categoria di persone chiamate “uomini saggi”, guardava nella stessa direzione con un’espressione molto seria e concentrata.

“Ora, dove vanno quando si muovono così velocemente lassù,” chiese Barnaby; “eh? Perché camminano sempre uno dietro l’altro e perché sono sempre di fretta, proprio quello che mi rimproveri tu, anche se io imito soltanto queste persone impegnate intorno a me. Sempre più di loro! Si attaccano alle gonne l’una all’altra; e non appena una parte si muove, un’altra arriva subito dopo. Che divertente danza! Vorrei tanto che io e Grip potessimo muoverci così velocemente!”

“Cosa c’è in quel cesto che ha sul dorso?” chiese l’ospite dopo alcuni momenti; intanto Barnaby continuava ad abbassarsi per guardare più in alto nel camino, osservando attentamente il fumo che ne usciva.

“In questo?” rispose lui, alzandosi in piedi prima che John Willet potesse replicare; lo scuoteva mentre parlava e chinava la testa per ascoltare. “In questo! Cosa c’è qui dentro? Diteglielo!”

“Un demone, un demone, un demone!” gridò una voce rauca.

“Ecco i soldi!” disse Barnaby, facendo tintinnare le monete nella sua mano, “soldi per una ricompensa, Grip!”

‘Urrà! Urrà! Urrà!’ rispose l’corvo, ‘mantenete alto il morale. Mai arrendervi. Bow, wow, wow!’

Il signor Willet, che sembrava nutrire forti dubbi sul fatto che un cliente vestito con un mantello a strisce e abiti di lino fine potesse anche solo conoscere persone così scortesi come quelle di cui il “pássaro” sosteneva di far parte, prese Barnaby in quel momento per evitare ulteriori dichiarazioni inappropriate e lasciò la stanza con un inchino molto cortese.

Chapter 11

There was great news that night for the regular Maypole customers, to each of whom, as he straggled in to occupy his allotted seat in the chimney-corner, John, with a most impressive slowness of delivery, and in an apoplectic whisper, communicated the fact that Mr Chester was alone in the large room upstairs, and was waiting the arrival of Mr Geoffrey Haredale, to whom he had sent a letter (doubtless of a threatening nature) by the hands of Barnaby, then and there present.

For a little knot of smokers and solemn gossips, who had seldom any new topics of discussion, this was a perfect Godsend. Here was a good, dark-looking mystery progressing under that very roof—brought home to the fireside, as it were, and enjoyable without the smallest pains or trouble. It is extraordinary what a zest and relish it gave to the drink, and how it heightened the flavour of the tobacco. Every man smoked his pipe with a face of grave and serious delight, and looked at his neighbour with a sort of quiet congratulation. Nay, it was felt to be such a holiday and special night, that, on the motion of little Solomon Daisy, every man (including John himself) put down his sixpence for a can of flip, which grateful beverage was brewed with all despatch, and set down in the midst of them on the brick floor; both that it might simmer and stew before the fire, and that its fragrant steam, rising up among them, and mixing with the wreaths of vapour from their pipes, might shroud them in a delicious atmosphere of their own, and shut out all the world. The very furniture of the room seemed to mellow and deepen in its tone; the ceiling and walls looked blacker and more highly polished, the curtains of a ruddier red; the fire burnt clear and high, and the crickets in the hearthstone chirped with a more than wonted satisfaction.

There were present two, however, who showed but little interest in the general contentment. Of these, one was Barnaby himself, who slept, or, to avoid being beset with questions, feigned to sleep, in the chimney-corner; the other, Hugh, who, sleeping too, lay stretched upon the bench on the opposite side, in the full glare of the blazing fire.

The light that fell upon this slumbering form, showed it in all its muscular and handsome proportions. It was that of a young man, of a hale athletic figure, and a giant’s strength, whose sunburnt face and swarthy throat, overgrown with jet black hair, might have served a painter for a model. Loosely attired, in the coarsest and roughest garb, with scraps of straw and hay—his usual bed—clinging here and there, and mingling with his uncombed locks, he had fallen asleep in a posture as careless as his dress. The negligence and disorder of the whole man, with something fierce and sullen in his features, gave him a picturesque appearance, that attracted the regards even of the Maypole customers who knew him well, and caused Long Parkes to say that Hugh looked more like a poaching rascal to-night than ever he had seen him yet.

‘He’s waiting here, I suppose,’ said Solomon, ‘to take Mr Haredale’s horse.’

‘That’s it, sir,’ replied John Willet. ‘He’s not often in the house, you know. He’s more at his ease among horses than men. I look upon him as a animal himself.’

Following up this opinion with a shrug that seemed meant to say, ‘we can’t expect everybody to be like us,’ John put his pipe into his mouth again, and smoked like one who felt his superiority over the general run of mankind.

‘That chap, sir,’ said John, taking it out again after a time, and pointing at him with the stem, ‘though he’s got all his faculties about him—bottled up and corked down, if I may say so, somewheres or another—’

‘Very good!’ said Parkes, nodding his head. ‘A very good expression, Johnny. You’ll be a tackling somebody presently. You’re in twig to-night, I see.’

‘Take care,’ said Mr Willet, not at all grateful for the compliment, ‘that I don’t tackle you, sir, which I shall certainly endeavour to do, if you interrupt me when I’m making observations.—That chap, I was a saying, though he has all his faculties about him, somewheres or another, bottled up and corked down, has no more imagination than Barnaby has. And why hasn’t he?’

The three friends shook their heads at each other; saying by that action, without the trouble of opening their lips, ‘Do you observe what a philosophical mind our friend has?’

‘Why hasn’t he?’ said John, gently striking the table with his open hand. ‘Because they was never drawed out of him when he was a boy. That’s why. What would any of us have been, if our fathers hadn’t drawed our faculties out of us? What would my boy Joe have been, if I hadn’t drawed his faculties out of him?—Do you mind what I’m a saying of, gentlemen?’

‘Ah! we mind you,’ cried Parkes. ‘Go on improving of us, Johnny.’

‘Consequently, then,’ said Mr Willet, ‘that chap, whose mother was hung when he was a little boy, along with six others, for passing bad notes—and it’s a blessed thing to think how many people are hung in batches every six weeks for that, and such like offences, as showing how wide awake our government is—that chap that was then turned loose, and had to mind cows, and frighten birds away, and what not, for a few pence to live on, and so got on by degrees to mind horses, and to sleep in course of time in lofts and litter, instead of under haystacks and hedges, till at last he come to be hostler at the Maypole for his board and lodging and a annual trifle—that chap that can’t read nor write, and has never had much to do with anything but animals, and has never lived in any way but like the animals he has lived among, IS a animal. And,’ said Mr Willet, arriving at his logical conclusion, ‘is to be treated accordingly.’

‘Willet,’ said Solomon Daisy, who had exhibited some impatience at the intrusion of so unworthy a subject on their more interesting theme, ‘when Mr Chester come this morning, did he order the large room?’

‘He signified, sir,’ said John, ‘that he wanted a large apartment. Yes. Certainly.’

‘Why then, I’ll tell you what,’ said Solomon, speaking softly and with an earnest look. ‘He and Mr Haredale are going to fight a duel in it.’

Everybody looked at Mr Willet, after this alarming suggestion. Mr Willet looked at the fire, weighing in his own mind the effect which such an occurrence would be likely to have on the establishment.

‘Well,’ said John, ‘I don’t know—I am sure—I remember that when I went up last, he HAD put the lights upon the mantel-shelf.’

‘It’s as plain,’ returned Solomon, ‘as the nose on Parkes’s face’—Mr Parkes, who had a large nose, rubbed it, and looked as if he considered this a personal allusion—‘they’ll fight in that room. You know by the newspapers what a common thing it is for gentlemen to fight in coffee-houses without seconds. One of ‘em will be wounded or perhaps killed in this house.’

‘That was a challenge that Barnaby took then, eh?’ said John.

‘—Inclosing a slip of paper with the measure of his sword upon it, I’ll bet a guinea,’ answered the little man. ‘We know what sort of gentleman Mr Haredale is. You have told us what Barnaby said about his looks, when he came back. Depend upon it, I’m right. Now, mind.’

The flip had had no flavour till now. The tobacco had been of mere English growth, compared with its present taste. A duel in that great old rambling room upstairs, and the best bed ordered already for the wounded man!

‘Would it be swords or pistols, now?’ said John.

‘Heaven knows. Perhaps both,’ returned Solomon. ‘The gentlemen wear swords, and may easily have pistols in their pockets—most likely have, indeed. If they fire at each other without effect, then they’ll draw, and go to work in earnest.’

A shade passed over Mr Willet’s face as he thought of broken windows and disabled furniture, but bethinking himself that one of the parties would probably be left alive to pay the damage, he brightened up again.

‘And then,’ said Solomon, looking from face to face, ‘then we shall have one of those stains upon the floor that never come out. If Mr Haredale wins, depend upon it, it’ll be a deep one; or if he loses, it will perhaps be deeper still, for he’ll never give in unless he’s beaten down. We know him better, eh?’

‘Better indeed!’ they whispered all together.

‘As to its ever being got out again,’ said Solomon, ‘I tell you it never will, or can be. Why, do you know that it has been tried, at a certain house we are acquainted with?’

‘The Warren!’ cried John. ‘No, sure!’

‘Yes, sure—yes. It’s only known by very few. It has been whispered about though, for all that. They planed the board away, but there it was. They went deep, but it went deeper. They put new boards down, but there was one great spot that came through still, and showed itself in the old place. And—harkye—draw nearer—Mr Geoffrey made that room his study, and sits there, always, with his foot (as I have heard) upon it; and he believes, through thinking of it long and very much, that it will never fade until he finds the man who did the deed.’

As this recital ended, and they all drew closer round the fire, the tramp of a horse was heard without.

‘The very man!’ cried John, starting up. ‘Hugh! Hugh!’

The sleeper staggered to his feet, and hurried after him. John quickly returned, ushering in with great attention and deference (for Mr Haredale was his landlord) the long-expected visitor, who strode into the room clanking his heavy boots upon the floor; and looking keenly round upon the bowing group, raised his hat in acknowledgment of their profound respect.

‘You have a stranger here, Willet, who sent to me,’ he said, in a voice which sounded naturally stern and deep. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the great room upstairs, sir,’ answered John.

‘Show the way. Your staircase is dark, I know. Gentlemen, good night.’

With that, he signed to the landlord to go on before; and went clanking out, and up the stairs; old John, in his agitation, ingeniously lighting everything but the way, and making a stumble at every second step.

‘Stop!’ he said, when they reached the landing. ‘I can announce myself. Don’t wait.’

He laid his hand upon the door, entered, and shut it heavily. Mr Willet was by no means disposed to stand there listening by himself, especially as the walls were very thick; so descended, with much greater alacrity than he had come up, and joined his friends below.

Capitolo 11

C’era una grande notizia quella notte per i clienti abituali del Maypole: a ciascuno di loro, mentre si dirigeva verso il proprio posto assegnato nell’angolo del camino, John comunicò con estrema lentezza e in un sussurro concitato che il signor Chester si trovava da solo nella grande stanza al piano di sopra, in attesa dell’arrivo del signor Geoffrey Haredale, a cui aveva inviato una lettera (di certo di natura minacciosa), tramite Barnaby, che era presente lì.

Per quei pochi fumatori e chiacchieroni solenni, che di rado avevano argomenti nuovi di cui parlare, questa era davvero una manna dal cielo. C’era un mistero interessante e avvolto nel buio che si svolgeva proprio sotto quel tetto, portato “a casa”, per così dire, accanto al fuoco, e goduto senza il minimo sforzo o incomodo. Era straordinario l’entusiasmo e il piacere che questo evento aggiungeva al bere e all’aroma del tabacco. Ogni uomo fumava la sua pipa con un’espressione di seria e profonda soddisfazione, guardando il proprio vicino con una sorta di silenziosa approvazione. Anzi, si sentiva davvero che fosse una serata speciale. Così, su proposta della piccola Solomon Daisy, ognuno (compreso John stesso) mise da parte sei pence per comprare una lattina di birra; quella bevanda gradita fu preparata in fretta e messa al centro del gruppo, sul pavimento di mattoni, affinché potesse sobbollire davanti al fuoco, e il suo profumo si mescolasse con il vapore delle loro pipe, creando un’atmosfera deliziosa e isolata dal resto del mondo. Anche gli arredi della stanza sembravano diventare più morbidi e intensi nel colore; il soffitto e le pareti apparivano più scuri e lucidissimi, le tende di un rosso più intenso. Il fuoco bruciava chiaro e alto, e i grilli sul camino cantavano con una soddisfazione insolita.

C’erano però due persone presenti che mostravano poco interesse per la generale soddisfazione dell’atmosfera. Uno di questi era proprio Barnaby, che dormiva, o, per evitare di essere assillato da domande, fingeva di dormire nell’angolo del camino; l’altro era Hugh, anch’egli addormentato, sdraiato sulla panca dall’altra parte, esposto direttamente al bagliore intenso del fuoco che ardeva.

La luce che illuminava quella figura addormentata ne rivelava tutte le proporzioni muscolose e attraenti: si trattava di un giovane, di una figura atletica e robusta, il cui viso abbronzato e la gola scura, coperta da capelli neri lucidi, avrebbero potuto costituire un modello ideale per un pittore. Vestito in modo trasandato, con indumenti grezzi e stracci di paglia e fieno – il suo solito “letto” – sembrava essersi addormentato in una posizione altrettanto disordinata del suo abbigliamento stesso. La negligenza e lo scompiglio che caratterizzavano ogni dettaglio del suo aspetto, uniti a un’espressione cupa e selvaggia nei suoi tratti, gli conferivano un’immagine pittoresca che attirava l’attenzione persino dei clienti del Maypole che lo conoscevano bene; Long Parkes commentò che quella notte Hugh sembrava ancora di più un furfante che andava a caccia di selvaggina, di quanto lo avesse mai visto prima.

“Suppongo che stia aspettando qui,” disse Solomon, “per prendere il cavallo del signor Haredale.”

“È tutto, signore,” rispose John Willet. “Non è spesso in casa, sa. Si trova più a suo agio tra i cavalli che tra le persone. Io lo considero praticamente un animale.”

Rafforzando questo punto di vista con un gesto delle spalle che sembrava voler dire “non possiamo aspettarci che tutti siano come noi”, John mise di nuovo la pipa in bocca e fumò, come se si sentisse superiore alla maggior parte degli esseri umani.

“Quel tizio, signore,” disse John, tirandolo fuori di nuovo dopo un po’ e indicandolo con il gambo, “anche se ha tutte le sue facoltà, racchiuse e sigillate da qualche parte, per così dire, ”

“Molto bene!”, disse Parkes annuendo. “Un’espressione davvero ottima, Johnny. Presto sarai in grado di affrontare qualcuno seriamente. Vedo che hai già le basi per farlo.”

“Stia attento,” disse il signor Willet, affatto grato per quel complimento, “che non le tiri un pugno, signore, cosa che di certo cercherò di fare, se mi interrompe mentre faccio delle osservazioni. Quel ragazzo, volevo dire, anche se possiede tutte le sue facoltà mentali, da qualche parte sono state chiuse a chiave e sigillate; non ha più immaginazione di Barnaby. E perché mai dovrebbe averne?”

I tre amici scossero la testa l’uno verso l’altro; con quel gesto, senza nemmeno bisogno di aprire bocca, volevano dire: “Vedete quanto sia filosofica la mente del nostro amico?”

“Perché non l’ha fatto?” disse John, battendo dolcemente sul tavolo con la mano aperta. “Perché quando era ragazzo, nessuno ha mai stimolato le sue capacità. Ecco il motivo. Cosa saremmo diventati noi, se i nostri padri non avessero sviluppato le nostre potenzialità? Cosa sarebbe diventato mio figlio Joe, se io non gli avessi dato la possibilità di esprimersi al meglio?. Vi dispiace quello che sto dicendo, signori?”

“Ah! ci stai facendo bene,” esclamò Parkes. “Continua così, Johnny, e aiutaci a migliorare.”

“Quindi,” disse il signor Willet, “quel ragazzo, la cui madre fu impiccata quando era ancora piccolo, insieme ad altre sei persone, per aver distribuito biglietti falsi. E è davvero una fortuna pensare a quante persone vengano impiccate ogni sei settimane per simili reati, o per offese del genere: questo dimostra quanto la nostra governo sia attento e vigile. Quel ragazzo, che allora fu lasciato libero e dovette occuparsi di mucche, spaventare gli uccelli e simili cose, per guadagnare pochi penny. Gradualmente arrivò a prendersi cura dei cavalli, e con il tempo iniziò a dormire nei sottotetti, invece che sotto i fienili o dietro le siepi. Fino a quando non divenne un ostiere al Maypole, in cambio di vitto, alloggio e una piccola paga annuale. Quel ragazzo che non sa leggere né scrivere, che non ha mai avuto nulla a che fare con nient’altro se non con gli animali, e che ha sempre vissuto come loro. È un animale. E,” concluse il signor Willet, “deve essere trattato di conseguenza.”

“Willet,” disse Solomon Daisy, che aveva mostrato un certo impazienza per l’intrusione di un argomento così insignificante nel loro tema più interessante, “quando il signor Chester è venuto stamattina, ha ordinato la stanza grande?”

“Voleva un appartamento grande, signore,” disse John. “Sì. Certo.”

“Allora vi dirò una cosa,” disse Salomone, parlando a bassa voce e con uno sguardo serio. “Lui e il signor Haredale andranno a duellare lì.”

Dopo questa allarmante proposta, tutti guardarono il signor Willet. Il signor Willet guardò il fuoco, valutando nella sua mente l’impatto che un simile evento avrebbe probabilmente avuto sull’intera situazione.

“Beh,” disse John, “non lo so. Sono sicuro. Ricordo che l’ultima volta che sono andato su, aveva già messo le luci sul caminetto.”

“È altrettanto evidente,” rispose Solomon, “quanto il naso di Parkes, ” Il signor Parkes, che aveva un naso grande, se lo strofinò e sembrò considerare questa osservazione un’allusione personale, “Si batteranno in quella stanza. Dai giornali si sa quanto sia comune che i gentiluomini si battano nei caffè senza secondi. Uno di loro verrà ferito, o forse ucciso, in questa casa.”

“Quella fu davvero una sfida che Barnaby accettò allora, vero?” disse John.

“–In allegato troverete un foglietto con le dimensioni della sua spada; scommetterei una ghinea che ho ragione,” rispose il piccolo uomo. “Sappiamo bene che tipo di gentiluomo sia il signor Haredale. Voi stesso ci avete raccontato cosa aveva detto Barnaby riguardo al suo aspetto quando è tornato. Vi assicuro che ho ragione. Ora, attenzione.”

Quel tabacco, fino ad ora, non aveva alcun sapore particolare; proveniva soltanto da colture inglesi, rispetto al gusto che possiede oggi. Un duello in quella grande stanza al piano di sopra, e il miglior letto già preparato per l’uomo ferito!

“Ora si tratterà di spade o pistole?” disse John.

“Solo il cielo lo sa. Forse entrambi,” rispose Solomon. “Quei signori portano spade, e molto probabilmente hanno anche pistole in tasca. Senza dubbio le hanno. Se sparano l’uno contro l’altro senza successo, allora tireranno fuori le armi e cominceranno seriamente a combattere.”

Un’ombra passò sul viso del signor Willett quando pensò alle finestre rotte e ai mobili danneggiati, ma poi si ricordò che probabilmente una delle parti coinvolte sarebbe rimasta viva per pagare i danni, quindi il suo volto si rasserenò di nuovo.

“E poi,” disse Solomon, guardandoli uno per uno, “allora avremo una di quelle macchie sul pavimento che non si vanno mai via. Se il signor Haredale vince, credetemi, sarà una macchia profonda; se perde, forse sarà ancora più profonda, perché non si arrenderà mai finché non verrà sconfitto completamente. Lo conosciamo meglio, vero?”

“Davvero meglio!” sussurrarono tutti insieme.

“Per quanto riguarda la possibilità che venga mai ritrovato di nuovo,” disse Solomon, “vi dico che non accadrà mai, né è possibile. Del resto, sapete che è già stato provato in una certa casa che conosciamo?”

“Il Warren!”, gridò John. “No, assolutamente no!”

“Sì, certo. Solo poche persone ne sono a conoscenza. Comunque, ne hanno parlato sottovoce. Hanno rimosso le assi del pavimento, ma quella era ancora lì; hanno scavato più in profondità, ma essa continuava ad essere presente. Hanno posato nuove assi, ma c’era sempre quel punto particolare che emergeva nel posto originale. E, ascoltate: il signor Geoffrey ha fatto di quella stanza il suo studio e vi siede sempre, con il piede appoggiato su quel punto; crede, dopo averci pensato a lungo, che non svanirà mai finché non troverà l’uomo che ha compiuto quell’atto.”

Quando questo recitale terminò e tutti si avvicinarono di più al fuoco, si udì il rumore degli zoccoli di un cavallo in lontananza.

“Quell’uomo stesso!” esclamò John, alzandosi in piedi. “Hugh! Hugh!”

Il dormiente si alzò barcollando e lo inseguì di corsa. John tornò rapidamente e, con grande attenzione e rispetto (poiché il signor Haredale era il suo padrone di casa), fece entrare il visitatore tanto atteso. Questi entrò nella stanza facendo rumore con i suoi pesanti stivali sul pavimento; guardandosi intorno con aria attenta, sollevò il cappello in segno di riconoscimento per il profondo rispetto che gli veniva dimostrato.

“C’è uno sconosciuto qui, Willet, che mi ha mandato qualcosa,” disse, con una voce che suonava naturalmente severa e profonda. “Dov’è?”

“Nella grande stanza al piano di sopra, signore,” rispose John.

“Mostratemi la strada. So che le vostre scale sono buie. Signori, buona notte.”

Con ciò, firmò l’accordo con il proprietario per poter continuare; poi uscì, facendo rumore mentre saliva le scale; il vecchio John, nel suo stato di agitazione, accendeva tutto tranne il cammino, causando inciampi a ogni passo.

“Fermatevi!” disse quando arrivarono alla piattaforma di sbarco. “Posso presentarmi da solo. Non aspettate.”

Posò la mano sulla porta, entrò e la chiuse con forza. Il signor Willet non aveva affatto intenzione di restare lì ad ascoltare da solo, soprattutto perché le pareti erano molto spesse; quindi scese, con molta più fretta di quando era salito, e si unì ai suoi amici di sotto.

Chapter 12

There was a brief pause in the state-room of the Maypole, as Mr Haredale tried the lock to satisfy himself that he had shut the door securely, and, striding up the dark chamber to where the screen inclosed a little patch of light and warmth, presented himself, abruptly and in silence, before the smiling guest.

If the two had no greater sympathy in their inward thoughts than in their outward bearing and appearance, the meeting did not seem likely to prove a very calm or pleasant one. With no great disparity between them in point of years, they were, in every other respect, as unlike and far removed from each other as two men could well be. The one was soft-spoken, delicately made, precise, and elegant; the other, a burly square-built man, negligently dressed, rough and abrupt in manner, stern, and, in his present mood, forbidding both in look and speech. The one preserved a calm and placid smile; the other, a distrustful frown. The new-comer, indeed, appeared bent on showing by his every tone and gesture his determined opposition and hostility to the man he had come to meet. The guest who received him, on the other hand, seemed to feel that the contrast between them was all in his favour, and to derive a quiet exultation from it which put him more at his ease than ever.

‘Haredale,’ said this gentleman, without the least appearance of embarrassment or reserve, ‘I am very glad to see you.’

‘Let us dispense with compliments. They are misplaced between us,’ returned the other, waving his hand, ‘and say plainly what we have to say. You have asked me to meet you. I am here. Why do we stand face to face again?’

‘Still the same frank and sturdy character, I see!’

‘Good or bad, sir, I am,’ returned the other, leaning his arm upon the chimney-piece, and turning a haughty look upon the occupant of the easy-chair, ‘the man I used to be. I have lost no old likings or dislikings; my memory has not failed me by a hair’s-breadth. You ask me to give you a meeting. I say, I am here.’

‘Our meeting, Haredale,’ said Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box, and following with a smile the impatient gesture he had made—perhaps unconsciously—towards his sword, ‘is one of conference and peace, I hope?’

‘I have come here,’ returned the other, ‘at your desire, holding myself bound to meet you, when and where you would. I have not come to bandy pleasant speeches, or hollow professions. You are a smooth man of the world, sir, and at such play have me at a disadvantage. The very last man on this earth with whom I would enter the lists to combat with gentle compliments and masked faces, is Mr Chester, I do assure you. I am not his match at such weapons, and have reason to believe that few men are.’

‘You do me a great deal of honour Haredale,’ returned the other, most composedly, ‘and I thank you. I will be frank with you—’

‘I beg your pardon—will be what?’

‘Frank—open—perfectly candid.’

‘Hah!’ cried Mr Haredale, drawing his breath. ‘But don’t let me interrupt you.’

‘So resolved am I to hold this course,’ returned the other, tasting his wine with great deliberation; ‘that I have determined not to quarrel with you, and not to be betrayed into a warm expression or a hasty word.’

‘There again,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘you have me at a great advantage. Your self-command—’

‘Is not to be disturbed, when it will serve my purpose, you would say’—rejoined the other, interrupting him with the same complacency. ‘Granted. I allow it. And I have a purpose to serve now. So have you. I am sure our object is the same. Let us attain it like sensible men, who have ceased to be boys some time.—Do you drink?’

‘With my friends,’ returned the other.

‘At least,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you will be seated?’

‘I will stand,’ returned Mr Haredale impatiently, ‘on this dismantled, beggared hearth, and not pollute it, fallen as it is, with mockeries. Go on.’

‘You are wrong, Haredale,’ said the other, crossing his legs, and smiling as he held his glass up in the bright glow of the fire. ‘You are really very wrong. The world is a lively place enough, in which we must accommodate ourselves to circumstances, sail with the stream as glibly as we can, be content to take froth for substance, the surface for the depth, the counterfeit for the real coin. I wonder no philosopher has ever established that our globe itself is hollow. It should be, if Nature is consistent in her works.’

‘YOU think it is, perhaps?’

‘I should say,’ he returned, sipping his wine, ‘there could be no doubt about it. Well; we, in trifling with this jingling toy, have had the ill-luck to jostle and fall out. We are not what the world calls friends; but we are as good and true and loving friends for all that, as nine out of every ten of those on whom it bestows the title. You have a niece, and I a son—a fine lad, Haredale, but foolish. They fall in love with each other, and form what this same world calls an attachment; meaning a something fanciful and false like the rest, which, if it took its own free time, would break like any other bubble. But it may not have its own free time—will not, if they are left alone—and the question is, shall we two, because society calls us enemies, stand aloof, and let them rush into each other’s arms, when, by approaching each other sensibly, as we do now, we can prevent it, and part them?’

‘I love my niece,’ said Mr Haredale, after a short silence. ‘It may sound strangely in your ears; but I love her.’

‘Strangely, my good fellow!’ cried Mr Chester, lazily filling his glass again, and pulling out his toothpick. ‘Not at all. I like Ned too—or, as you say, love him—that’s the word among such near relations. I’m very fond of Ned. He’s an amazingly good fellow, and a handsome fellow—foolish and weak as yet; that’s all. But the thing is, Haredale—for I’ll be very frank, as I told you I would at first—independently of any dislike that you and I might have to being related to each other, and independently of the religious differences between us—and damn it, that’s important—I couldn’t afford a match of this description. Ned and I couldn’t do it. It’s impossible.’

Capitolo 12

Ci fu una breve pausa nella sala da ricevimento di Maypole, mentre il signor Haredale provava la serratura per assicurarsi che avesse chiuso la porta a dovere; poi, avanzando nella stanza buia fino al punto in cui una tenda creava un piccolo riquadro di luce e calore, si presentò improvvisamente e in silenzio davanti al ospite sorridente.

Se i due non avessero provato un maggiore affetto reciproco nei loro pensieri interiori rispetto al loro comportamento e aspetto esteriore, l’incontro probabilmente non sarebbe stato né molto tranquillo né piacevole. Non essendoci una grande differenza di età tra loro, in ogni altro senso erano così diversi e lontani l’uno dall’altro quanto due uomini possano esserlo. Uno era parlante dolcemente, di aspetto delicato, preciso ed elegante; l’altro, invece, un uomo robusto e di corporatura massiccia, vestito in modo trasandato, con modi ruvidi e bruschi, severo, e nel suo attuale stato d’animo scoraggiante sia nell’aspetto che nel parlare. Uno manteneva un sorriso calmo e sereno; l’altro, uno sguardo diffidente e corrucciato. Il nuovo arrivato, in effetti, sembrava determinato a mostrare con ogni suo gesto e tono la sua opposizione e ostilità verso l’uomo che era venuto ad incontrare; il padrone di casa, d’altra parte, pareva ritenere che tale contrasto fosse a suo vantaggio e ne traeva una sorta di tranquilla soddisfazione che lo rendeva più a suo agio che mai.

“Haredale,” disse questo signore, senza il minimo segno di imbarazzo o riservatezza, “sono molto felice di vederti.”

“Lasciamo perdere i complimenti. Sono fuori luogo tra di noi,” rispose l’altro, agitando la mano, “e diciamo chiaramente ciò che dobbiamo dire. Mi hai chiesto di incontrarti. Sono qui. Perché dobbiamo stare di nuovo faccia a faccia?”

“Sempre lo stesso carattere franco e deciso, vedo!”

“Buono o cattivo che sia, signore, io lo sono ancora,” rispose l’altro, appoggiando il braccio sul camino e lanciando uno sguardo sprezzante verso colui che sedeva nella poltrona comoda. “Sono ancora la stessa persona di una volta. Non ho perso vecchie abitudini né antipatie; la mia memoria non mi ha tradito nemmeno per un attimo. Mi chiedete di incontrarvi. E io vi dico: sono qui.”

“Il nostro incontro, Haredale,” disse il signor Chester, battendo sulla sua scatola di tabacco, e aggiunse sorridendo al gesto impaziente che aveva fatto – forse inconsciamente – verso la sua spada– “è uno di discussione e pace, spero, ”

“Sono venuto qui,” rispose l’altro, “su tua richiesta, convinto di doverti incontrare quando e dove tu avessi voluto. Non sono venuto per scambiare parole gentili o dichiarazioni vuote. Tu sei un uomo astuto del mondo, signore, e in questo genere di giochi ho il vantaggio su di te. L’ultima persona al mondo con cui vorrei affrontarmi usando complimenti dolci e facce mascherate è proprio il signor Chester. Te lo assicuro: non sono all’altezza in queste cose, e credo che pochi altri lo siano.”

“Mi fai un grande onore, Haredale,” rispose l’altro con estrema calma, “e te ne sono grato. Sarò franco con te, ”

“Scusi, ma cosa sarà?”

“Frank: aperto e del tutto sincero.”

“Ah!” esclamò il signor Haredale, riprendendo fiato. “Ma non lasciate che vi interrompa.”

“Sono fermamente deciso a seguire questa linea d’azione,” rispose l’altro, assaporando il vino con grande attenzione; “ho deciso di non litigare con te, e di non lasciarmi trascinare a esprimere sentimenti intensi o a pronunciare parole affrettate.”

“Eccoci di nuovo,” disse il signor Haredale, “mi trovo in una situazione molto svantaggiosa per me. Il vostro autocontrollo, ”

“Non deve essere disturbato, quando questo servirà ai miei scopi, direste voi”, ribatté l’altro, interrompendolo con la stessa compiacenza. “Va bene, lo permetto. E ora anch’io ho uno scopo da perseguire. Lo avete anche voi. Sono sicuro che il nostro obiettivo sia lo stesso. Raggiungiamolo come persone sensate, che hanno smesso di essere bambini da molto tempo, ” – Bevete?

“Con i miei amici,” rispose l’altro.

“Almeno,” disse il signor Chester, “potrete sedervi, no?”

“Rimarrò qui,” rispose impazientemente il signor Haredale, “su questo focolare distrutto, ormai privo di tutto, e non lo contaminerò con le mie derisioni. Continuate pure.”

“Ti sbagli, Haredale,” disse l’altro, incrociando le gambe e sorridendo mentre alzava il bicchiere nella vivida luce del fuoco. “Ti sbagli davvero molto. Il mondo è un luogo abbastanza vivace; dobbiamo adattarci alle circostanze, muoverci con la corrente il più agilmente possibile, accontentarci di considerare la schiuma sostanza, la superficie profondità, e le cose false come vere. Mi chiedo se mai qualche filosofo abbia affermato che il nostro pianeta sia vuoto. Dovrebbe esserlo, se Natura è coerente nelle sue opere.”

“Lo pensi davvero, forse?”

“Devo dire,” rispose lui, sorseggiando il vino, “che non può esserci alcun dubbio al riguardo. Beh, giocando con questo stupido giocattolo, siamo stati sfortunati abbastanza da litigare e separarci. Non siamo ciò che il mondo definisce amici; ma siamo comunque amici sinceri e affettuosi, tanto quanto nove persone su dieci a cui venga concesso questo titolo. Tu hai una nipote, e io ho un figlio, un bravo ragazzo, Haredale, anche se un po’ sciocco. Si sono innamorati l’uno dell’altro, e hanno formato quella che il mondo chiama un legame amoroso, cioè qualcosa di fantastico e falso, come tutte le altre cose del genere; qualcosa che, se gli fosse data la possibilità di svilupparsi liberamente, finirebbe per spezzarsi come qualsiasi altra bolla. Ma forse non avrà mai questa possibilità, soprattutto se verranno lasciati da soli. E allora, dovremmo davvero noi due, solo perché la società ci considera nemici, starcene in disparte e permettere che si gettino l’uno tra le braccia dell’altro? Oppure, avvicinandoci reciprocamente in modo sensato, come stiamo facendo ora, possiamo evitare tutto questo e separarli?”

“Amo mia nipote,” disse il signor Haredale dopo un breve silenzio. “Potrebbe sembrare strano alle vostre orecchie, ma la amo davvero.”

“Stranamente, mio caro amico!” esclamò il signor Chester, riempiendo pigramente di nuovo il proprio bicchiere e tirando fuori il suo stuzzicadenti. “Assolutamente no. Anche a me piace Ned, o, come dici tu, lo amo, è questa la parola che si usa tra parenti così stretti. Mi piace molto Ned: è davvero un ragazzo straordinariamente buono e attraente, anche se ancora sciocco e debole; nient’altro. Ma il fatto è, Haredale, perché sarò molto franco, come ti avevo detto all’inizio, a prescindere da eventuali antipatie che tu e io potremmo provare per il fatto di essere parenti, e a prescindere dalle differenze religiose tra noi, e accidenti, questo è davvero importante, non potrei assolutamente accettare una relazione del genere. Ned ed io non possiamo farlo. È impossibile.”

‘Curb your tongue, in God’s name, if this conversation is to last,’ retorted Mr Haredale fiercely. ‘I have said I love my niece. Do you think that, loving her, I would have her fling her heart away on any man who had your blood in his veins?’

‘You see,’ said the other, not at all disturbed, ‘the advantage of being so frank and open. Just what I was about to add, upon my honour! I am amazingly attached to Ned—quite doat upon him, indeed—and even if we could afford to throw ourselves away, that very objection would be quite insuperable.—I wish you’d take some wine?’

‘Mark me,’ said Mr Haredale, striding to the table, and laying his hand upon it heavily. ‘If any man believes—presumes to think—that I, in word or deed, or in the wildest dream, ever entertained remotely the idea of Emma Haredale’s favouring the suit of any one who was akin to you—in any way—I care not what—he lies. He lies, and does me grievous wrong, in the mere thought.’

‘Haredale,’ returned the other, rocking himself to and fro as in assent, and nodding at the fire, ‘it’s extremely manly, and really very generous in you, to meet me in this unreserved and handsome way. Upon my word, those are exactly my sentiments, only expressed with much more force and power than I could use—you know my sluggish nature, and will forgive me, I am sure.’

‘While I would restrain her from all correspondence with your son, and sever their intercourse here, though it should cause her death,’ said Mr Haredale, who had been pacing to and fro, ‘I would do it kindly and tenderly if I can. I have a trust to discharge, which my nature is not formed to understand, and, for this reason, the bare fact of there being any love between them comes upon me to-night, almost for the first time.’

‘I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you,’ rejoined Mr Chester with the utmost blandness, ‘to find my own impression so confirmed. You see the advantage of our having met. We understand each other. We quite agree. We have a most complete and thorough explanation, and we know what course to take.—Why don’t you taste your tenant’s wine? It’s really very good.’

‘Pray who,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘have aided Emma, or your son? Who are their go-betweens, and agents—do you know?’

‘All the good people hereabouts—the neighbourhood in general, I think,’ returned the other, with his most affable smile. ‘The messenger I sent to you to-day, foremost among them all.’

‘The idiot? Barnaby?’

‘You are surprised? I am glad of that, for I was rather so myself. Yes. I wrung that from his mother—a very decent sort of woman—from whom, indeed, I chiefly learnt how serious the matter had become, and so determined to ride out here to-day, and hold a parley with you on this neutral ground.—You’re stouter than you used to be, Haredale, but you look extremely well.’

‘Our business, I presume, is nearly at an end,’ said Mr Haredale, with an expression of impatience he was at no pains to conceal. ‘Trust me, Mr Chester, my niece shall change from this time. I will appeal,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘to her woman’s heart, her dignity, her pride, her duty—’

‘I shall do the same by Ned,’ said Mr Chester, restoring some errant faggots to their places in the grate with the toe of his boot. ‘If there is anything real in this world, it is those amazingly fine feelings and those natural obligations which must subsist between father and son. I shall put it to him on every ground of moral and religious feeling. I shall represent to him that we cannot possibly afford it—that I have always looked forward to his marrying well, for a genteel provision for myself in the autumn of life—that there are a great many clamorous dogs to pay, whose claims are perfectly just and right, and who must be paid out of his wife’s fortune. In short, that the very highest and most honourable feelings of our nature, with every consideration of filial duty and affection, and all that sort of thing, imperatively demand that he should run away with an heiress.’

‘And break her heart as speedily as possible?’ said Mr Haredale, drawing on his glove.

‘There Ned will act exactly as he pleases,’ returned the other, sipping his wine; ‘that’s entirely his affair. I wouldn’t for the world interfere with my son, Haredale, beyond a certain point. The relationship between father and son, you know, is positively quite a holy kind of bond.—WON’T you let me persuade you to take one glass of wine? Well! as you please, as you please,’ he added, helping himself again.

‘Chester,’ said Mr Haredale, after a short silence, during which he had eyed his smiling face from time to time intently, ‘you have the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception.’

‘Your health!’ said the other, with a nod. ‘But I have interrupted you—’

‘If now,’ pursued Mr Haredale, ‘we should find it difficult to separate these young people, and break off their intercourse—if, for instance, you find it difficult on your side, what course do you intend to take?’

‘Nothing plainer, my good fellow, nothing easier,’ returned the other, shrugging his shoulders and stretching himself more comfortably before the fire. ‘I shall then exert those powers on which you flatter me so highly—though, upon my word, I don’t deserve your compliments to their full extent—and resort to a few little trivial subterfuges for rousing jealousy and resentment. You see?’

‘In short, justifying the means by the end, we are, as a last resource for tearing them asunder, to resort to treachery and—and lying,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Oh dear no. Fie, fie!’ returned the other, relishing a pinch of snuff extremely. ‘Not lying. Only a little management, a little diplomacy, a little—intriguing, that’s the word.’

‘I wish,’ said Mr Haredale, moving to and fro, and stopping, and moving on again, like one who was ill at ease, ‘that this could have been foreseen or prevented. But as it has gone so far, and it is necessary for us to act, it is of no use shrinking or regretting. Well! I shall second your endeavours to the utmost of my power. There is one topic in the whole wide range of human thoughts on which we both agree. We shall act in concert, but apart. There will be no need, I hope, for us to meet again.’

“Trattenete la lingua, per amor di Dio, se questa conversazione deve continuare,” ribatté con fermezza il signor Haredale. “Ho detto che amo mia nipote. Pensate davvero che, amandola, le permetterei di donare il suo cuore a qualsiasi uomo che abbia il vostro sangue nelle vene?”

“Vedi,” disse l’altro, del tutto tranquillo, “il vantaggio di essere così franchi e aperti. Proprio quello che stavo per aggiungere, per la mia onore! Sono incredibilmente legato a Ned, anzi, sono davvero ossessionato da lui. E anche se potessimo permetterci di rovinare tutto, proprio quell’obiezione sarebbe insuperabile. Vuoi che ti versi un po’ di vino?”

“Mark my words,” disse il signor Haredale, avvicinandosi al tavolo e posandoci sopra con forza la mano. “Se qualcuno crede – o osa pensare – che io, con parole, azioni o anche nel più folle dei sogni, abbia mai avuto l’idea che Emma Haredale potesse preferire qualcuno che sia in qualche modo imparentato con te, non mi interessa di cosa si tratti, sta mentendo. Sta mentendo e mi fa un grave torto solo con quel pensiero.”

“Haredale,” rispose l’altro, dondolandosi avanti e indietro come per assentire, e annuendo verso il fuoco, “è davvero molto nobile da parte tua, e anche molto generoso, accogliermi in questo modo aperto e cordiale. Te lo giuro, questi sono esattamente i miei sentimenti, solo che espressi con molta più forza e intensità di quanto io potrei riuscire a fare. Conosci la mia natura lenta e pigra, e sicuramente mi perdonerai.”

“Anche se vorrei impedirle qualsiasi corrispondenza con vostro figlio e interrompere ogni loro rapporto, anche a costo della sua morte”, disse il signor Haredale, che continuava ad andare avanti e indietro, “lo farei comunque con gentilezza e tenerezza, se possibile. Ho un dovere da compiere, che la mia natura non è in grado di comprendere; per questo motivo, il solo pensiero che possa esistere qualche tipo di amore tra loro mi colpisce, questa notte, quasi per la prima volta”.

“Sono più felice di quanto possa esprimere a parole,” rispose il signor Chester con estrema gentilezza, “nel constatare che la mia impressione è stata confermata. Vedete quale sia il vantaggio del nostro incontro: ci capiamo a vicenda, siamo completamente d’accordo. Abbiamo una spiegazione completa e esaustiva, e sappiamo quale sia la strada da seguire. Perché non assaggiate il vino del vostro inquilino? È davvero molto buono.”

“Chi è che ha aiutato Emma o vostro figlio? Chi sono i loro intermediari e agenti, lo sapete?” disse il signor Haredale.

“Tutte le persone buone di queste parti, l’intero quartiere, in generale,” rispose l’altro con il suo sorriso più affabile. “Il messaggero che ti ho inviato oggi, è proprio uno di loro.”

“L’idiota? Barnaby?”

“Siete sorpreso? Ne sono felice, perché anch’io lo ero. Sì. L’ho saputo dalla sua madre: una donna molto perbene; è proprio da lei che ho appreso quanto la situazione fosse grave, ed è per questo che oggi sono venuto qui per parlare con voi in questo terreno neutro. Siete più robusto di una volta, Haredale, ma sembrate davvero in ottima forma.”

“Credo che la nostra faccenda sia ormai quasi conclusa,” disse il signor Haredale, con un’espressione di impazienza che non si preoccupava affatto di nascondere. “Fidatevi di me, signor Chester: mia nipote cambierà da questo momento in poi. Farò appello,” aggiunse a voce più bassa, “al suo cuore di donna, alla sua dignità, al suo orgoglio, al suo dovere, ”

“Farò lo stesso con Ned,” disse il signor Chester, rimettendo alcuni ceppi fuori posto nella grata con la punta della scarpa. “Se c’è qualcosa di reale in questo mondo, sono sicuramente quei sentimenti straordinariamente nobili e quelle obbligazioni naturali che devono esistere tra padre e figlio. Gli parlerò su tutti i livelli del sentimento morale e religioso. Gli spiegherò che non possiamo permetterci che sposi una donna di condizioni socialmente inferiori. Che ho sempre sperato che si sposasse bene, per assicurarmi un futuro dignitoso nell’autunno della mia vita. Che ci sono molte persone che hanno diritti legittimi da far valere, e che questi diritti devono essere soddisfatti con il patrimonio di sua moglie. In breve, che i sentimenti più nobili e onorevoli della nostra natura, insieme a ogni considerazione legata al dovere filiale e all’affetto, esigono assolutamente che lui scappi con un’ereditiera.”

“E romperle il cuore il più in fretta possibile?” disse il signor Haredale, tirando su il guanto.

“Ned farà esattamente ciò che vuole,” rispose l’altro, sorseggiando il suo vino; “è una sua totale faccenda. Non interferirei mai con mio figlio, Haredale, oltre un certo limite. La relazione tra padre e figlio, sai, è davvero un legame sacro. Non mi permetteresti di convincerti a bere un bicchiere di vino?” “Beh, come vuoi tu,” aggiunse, servendosi ancora del vino.

“Chester,” disse il signor Haredale dopo un breve silenzio, durante il quale aveva osservato attentamente il suo viso sorridente di tanto in tanto, “hai la mente e il cuore di uno spirito malvagio in tutte le questioni legate alla inganno.”

“La tua salute!”, disse l’altro annuendo. “Ma ti ho interrotto, ”

“Se ora,” proseguì il signor Haredale, “ci trovassimo di fronte alla difficoltà di separare questi giovani e interrompere i loro rapporti, se, ad esempio, anche voi riteneste che ciò fosse difficile da realizzare, quale sarebbe la vostra intenzione?”

“Niente di più semplice, caro mio,” rispose l’altro, scrollando le spalle e stiracchiandosi più comodamente davanti al fuoco. “Allora userò quelle capacità di cui mi lodi così tanto, anche se, a dire il vero, non merito tutti questi complimenti, e ricorrerò a qualche piccolo trucco banale per suscitare gelosia e risentimento. Capisci?”

“In breve, giustificando i mezzi in funzione dell’obiettivo finale, siamo costretti, come ultima risorsa per separarli, a ricorrere alla tradizione e, alla menzogna,” disse il signor Haredale.

“Oh no, per favore. No!” rispose l’altro, godendosi enormemente quel pizzico di tabacco da fiuto. “Non sto mentendo. Solo un po’ di abilità, un po’ di diplomazia. Un po’ di, intrighi, ecco la parola giusta.”

“Vorrei”, disse il signor Haredale, andando avanti e indietro, fermandosi poi di nuovo, come chi si sentisse a disagio, “che tutto questo fosse stato previsto o evitato. Ma poiché le cose sono arrivate a questo punto e è necessario che agiamo, non ha senso esitare o rimpiangere. Bene! Farò del mio meglio per sostenere i vostri sforzi. C’è un argomento, nell’intera gamma dei pensieri umani, su cui siamo entrambi d’accordo: agiremo insieme, ma separatamente. Spero che non sarà necessario che ci incontriamo di nuovo.”

‘Are you going?’ said Mr Chester, rising with a graceful indolence. ‘Let me light you down the stairs.’

‘Pray keep your seat,’ returned the other drily, ‘I know the way.’ So, waving his hand slightly, and putting on his hat as he turned upon his heel, he went clanking out as he had come, shut the door behind him, and tramped down the echoing stairs.

‘Pah! A very coarse animal, indeed!’ said Mr Chester, composing himself in the easy-chair again. ‘A rough brute. Quite a human badger!’

John Willet and his friends, who had been listening intently for the clash of swords, or firing of pistols in the great room, and had indeed settled the order in which they should rush in when summoned—in which procession old John had carefully arranged that he should bring up the rear—were very much astonished to see Mr Haredale come down without a scratch, call for his horse, and ride away thoughtfully at a footpace. After some consideration, it was decided that he had left the gentleman above, for dead, and had adopted this stratagem to divert suspicion or pursuit.

As this conclusion involved the necessity of their going upstairs forthwith, they were about to ascend in the order they had agreed upon, when a smart ringing at the guest’s bell, as if he had pulled it vigorously, overthrew all their speculations, and involved them in great uncertainty and doubt. At length Mr Willet agreed to go upstairs himself, escorted by Hugh and Barnaby, as the strongest and stoutest fellows on the premises, who were to make their appearance under pretence of clearing away the glasses.

Under this protection, the brave and broad-faced John boldly entered the room, half a foot in advance, and received an order for a boot-jack without trembling. But when it was brought, and he leant his sturdy shoulder to the guest, Mr Willet was observed to look very hard into his boots as he pulled them off, and, by opening his eyes much wider than usual, to appear to express some surprise and disappointment at not finding them full of blood. He took occasion, too, to examine the gentleman as closely as he could, expecting to discover sundry loopholes in his person, pierced by his adversary’s sword. Finding none, however, and observing in course of time that his guest was as cool and unruffled, both in his dress and temper, as he had been all day, old John at last heaved a deep sigh, and began to think no duel had been fought that night.

‘And now, Willet,’ said Mr Chester, ‘if the room’s well aired, I’ll try the merits of that famous bed.’

‘The room, sir,’ returned John, taking up a candle, and nudging Barnaby and Hugh to accompany them, in case the gentleman should unexpectedly drop down faint or dead from some internal wound, ‘the room’s as warm as any toast in a tankard. Barnaby, take you that other candle, and go on before. Hugh! Follow up, sir, with the easy-chair.’

In this order—and still, in his earnest inspection, holding his candle very close to the guest; now making him feel extremely warm about the legs, now threatening to set his wig on fire, and constantly begging his pardon with great awkwardness and embarrassment—John led the party to the best bedroom, which was nearly as large as the chamber from which they had come, and held, drawn out near the fire for warmth, a great old spectral bedstead, hung with faded brocade, and ornamented, at the top of each carved post, with a plume of feathers that had once been white, but with dust and age had now grown hearse-like and funereal.

‘Good night, my friends,’ said Mr Chester with a sweet smile, seating himself, when he had surveyed the room from end to end, in the easy-chair which his attendants wheeled before the fire. ‘Good night! Barnaby, my good fellow, you say some prayers before you go to bed, I hope?’

Barnaby nodded. ‘He has some nonsense that he calls his prayers, sir,’ returned old John, officiously. ‘I’m afraid there an’t much good in em.’

‘And Hugh?’ said Mr Chester, turning to him.

‘Not I,’ he answered. ‘I know his’—pointing to Barnaby—‘they’re well enough. He sings ‘em sometimes in the straw. I listen.’

‘He’s quite a animal, sir,’ John whispered in his ear with dignity. ‘You’ll excuse him, I’m sure. If he has any soul at all, sir, it must be such a very small one, that it don’t signify what he does or doesn’t in that way. Good night, sir!’

The guest rejoined ‘God bless you!’ with a fervour that was quite affecting; and John, beckoning his guards to go before, bowed himself out of the room, and left him to his rest in the Maypole’s ancient bed.

“Stai andando via?” disse il signor Chester, alzandosi con una graziosa indolenza. “Lascia che ti accompagni giù per le scale.”

“Per favore, rimani seduto al tuo posto,” rispose l’altro in tono secco. “Conosco la strada.” Così, facendo un leggero gesto con la mano e mettendosi il cappello mentre si girava, se ne andò con lo stesso rumore di prima, chiuse la porta dietro di sé e scese le scale che rimbombavano.

“Pah! Davvero un animale molto rozzo!” disse il signor Chester, riaccomodandosi nella poltrona. “Un bruto grezzo. Proprio come una talpa umana!”

John Willet e i suoi amici, che avevano ascoltato attentamente il rumore delle spade che si scontravano o dei colpi di pistola nella grande sala, e avevano già deciso in quale ordine dovessero intervenire quando fossero stati chiamati – con John Willet che avrebbe dovuto avanzare per ultimo secondo i suoi piani – furono molto sorpresi nel vedere il signor Haredale scendere senza un graffio, prendere il suo cavallo e allontanarsi a passo lento. Dopo alcune riflessioni, decisero che doveva aver lasciato il gentiluomo di sopra per morto e aveva adottato questo stratagemma per evitare sospetti o inseguimenti.

Poiché questa conclusione implicava la necessità che salissero immediatamente al piano di sopra, stavano per farlo nell’ordine concordato quando un forte suono alla campanella del visitatore, come se fosse stata tirata con forza, sovvertì tutte le loro supposizioni, gettandoli in grande incertezza e dubbio. Alla fine, il signor Willet acconsentì ad andare lui stesso al piano di sopra, scortato da Hugh e Barnaby, i due uomini più forti e robusti della casa, che avrebbero finto di venire a raccogliere i bicchieri.

Sotto questa protezione, il coraggioso e dal viso aperto John entrò nella stanza con determinazione, avanzando di mezzo piede rispetto agli altri, e ricevette l’ordine di procurare una molla per stivali senza tremare. Ma quando essa fu portata, e lui appoggiò la sua robusta spalla allo stivale del suo ospite, si notò che il signor Willet guardava attentamente all’interno dello stivale mentre lo toglieva; inoltre, aprendo gli occhi molto di più del solito, sembrava esprimere sorpresa e delusione nel constatare che non contenevano alcuna traccia di sangue. Approfittò anche dell’occasione per esaminare attentamente l’uomo, nella speranza di scoprire qualche ferita causata dalla spada del suo avversario. Tuttavia, non trovando nulla e osservando che il suo ospite rimaneva calmo e composto sia nell’abbigliamento che nel comportamento, proprio come tutto il giorno, il vecchio John alla fine sospirò profondamente e iniziò a pensare che quella notte nessun duello fosse realmente avvenuto.

“E ora, Willet,” disse il signor Chester, “se la stanza è ben areata, proverò i pregi di quel famoso letto.”

“La stanza, signore,” rispose John, prendendo una candela e invitando Barnaby e Hugh ad accompagnarli, nel caso il gentiluomo potesse improvvisamente svenire o morire a causa di qualche ferita interna, “la stanza è calda quanto qualsiasi pane tostato in una brocca. Barnaby, prendi l’altra candela e vai avanti tu. Hugh! Segui il signore con la poltrona.”

In questo ordine – e continuando comunque nella sua attenta ispezione, tenendo la candela molto vicina al ospite: ora facendogli sentire un calore intenso sulle gambe, ora minacciando di far prendere fuoco alla sua parrucca, e continuamente chiedendogli scusa con grande imbarazzo – John guidò il gruppo nella migliore camera da letto, che era quasi delle stesse dimensioni di quella da cui erano venuti. Lì, vicino al focolare per riscaldarsi, c’era un enorme letto antico, decorato con broccati sbiaditi; sulla sommità di ogni pilastro intagliato era appesa una piuma che un tempo era stata bianca, ma che ora, a causa della polvere e dell’età, sembrava più simile a un cero funebre.

“Buona notte, amici miei,” disse il signor Chester con un dolce sorriso, sedendosi nella poltrona comoda che i suoi servitori avevano portato davanti al focolare, dopo aver ispezionato la stanza da cima a fondo. “Buona notte! Barnaby, mio caro amico, preghi sempre prima di andare a letto, vero?”

Barnaby annuì. “Ha delle strane pratiche che chiama preghiere, signore,” rispose il vecchio John in tono ufficiale. “Temo che non abbiano molto senso.”

“E Hugh?” chiese il signor Chester, rivolgendosi a lui.

“Non io,” rispose. “So che lui, ” – indicando Barnaby – “è abbastanza bravo. A volte canta quelle canzoni nella paglia. Io ascolto.”

“È davvero un animale, signore,” sussurrò John con dignità all’orecchio del suo padrone.
“Gli perdonerà sicuramente. Se possiede anche solo un po’ di ‘anima, signore, deve essere una cosa così piccola che non ha alcun significato per ciò che fa o non fa in quel modo. Buona notte, signore!”

Il visitatore ripeté “Che Dio ti benedica!” con un fervore davvero commovente; poi John, facendo segno alle sue guardie di precederlo, si inchinò e lasciò che il giovane riposasse nel vecchio letto presso l’albero di maggio.

Chapter 13

If Joseph Willet, the denounced and proscribed of ‘prentices, had happened to be at home when his father’s courtly guest presented himself before the Maypole door—that is, if it had not perversely chanced to be one of the half-dozen days in the whole year on which he was at liberty to absent himself for as many hours without question or reproach—he would have contrived, by hook or crook, to dive to the very bottom of Mr Chester’s mystery, and to come at his purpose with as much certainty as though he had been his confidential adviser. In that fortunate case, the lovers would have had quick warning of the ills that threatened them, and the aid of various timely and wise suggestions to boot; for all Joe’s readiness of thought and action, and all his sympathies and good wishes, were enlisted in favour of the young people, and were staunch in devotion to their cause. Whether this disposition arose out of his old prepossessions in favour of the young lady, whose history had surrounded her in his mind, almost from his cradle, with circumstances of unusual interest; or from his attachment towards the young gentleman, into whose confidence he had, through his shrewdness and alacrity, and the rendering of sundry important services as a spy and messenger, almost imperceptibly glided; whether they had their origin in either of these sources, or in the habit natural to youth, or in the constant badgering and worrying of his venerable parent, or in any hidden little love affair of his own which gave him something of a fellow-feeling in the matter, it is needless to inquire—especially as Joe was out of the way, and had no opportunity on that particular occasion of testifying to his sentiments either on one side or the other.

It was, in fact, the twenty-fifth of March, which, as most people know to their cost, is, and has been time out of mind, one of those unpleasant epochs termed quarter-days. On this twenty-fifth of March, it was John Willet’s pride annually to settle, in hard cash, his account with a certain vintner and distiller in the city of London; to give into whose hands a canvas bag containing its exact amount, and not a penny more or less, was the end and object of a journey for Joe, so surely as the year and day came round.

This journey was performed upon an old grey mare, concerning whom John had an indistinct set of ideas hovering about him, to the effect that she could win a plate or cup if she tried. She never had tried, and probably never would now, being some fourteen or fifteen years of age, short in wind, long in body, and rather the worse for wear in respect of her mane and tail. Notwithstanding these slight defects, John perfectly gloried in the animal; and when she was brought round to the door by Hugh, actually retired into the bar, and there, in a secret grove of lemons, laughed with pride.

‘There’s a bit of horseflesh, Hugh!’ said John, when he had recovered enough self-command to appear at the door again. ‘There’s a comely creature! There’s high mettle! There’s bone!’

There was bone enough beyond all doubt; and so Hugh seemed to think, as he sat sideways in the saddle, lazily doubled up with his chin nearly touching his knees; and heedless of the dangling stirrups and loose bridle-rein, sauntered up and down on the little green before the door.

‘Mind you take good care of her, sir,’ said John, appealing from this insensible person to his son and heir, who now appeared, fully equipped and ready. ‘Don’t you ride hard.’

‘I should be puzzled to do that, I think, father,’ Joe replied, casting a disconsolate look at the animal.

‘None of your impudence, sir, if you please,’ retorted old John. ‘What would you ride, sir? A wild ass or zebra would be too tame for you, wouldn’t he, eh sir? You’d like to ride a roaring lion, wouldn’t you, sir, eh sir? Hold your tongue, sir.’ When Mr Willet, in his differences with his son, had exhausted all the questions that occurred to him, and Joe had said nothing at all in answer, he generally wound up by bidding him hold his tongue.

‘And what does the boy mean,’ added Mr Willet, after he had stared at him for a little time, in a species of stupefaction, ‘by cocking his hat, to such an extent! Are you going to kill the wintner, sir?’

‘No,’ said Joe, tartly; ‘I’m not. Now your mind’s at ease, father.’

‘With a milintary air, too!’ said Mr Willet, surveying him from top to toe; ‘with a swaggering, fire-eating, biling-water drinking sort of way with him! And what do you mean by pulling up the crocuses and snowdrops, eh sir?’

‘It’s only a little nosegay,’ said Joe, reddening. ‘There’s no harm in that, I hope?’

‘You’re a boy of business, you are, sir!’ said Mr Willet, disdainfully, ‘to go supposing that wintners care for nosegays.’

‘I don’t suppose anything of the kind,’ returned Joe. ‘Let them keep their red noses for bottles and tankards. These are going to Mr Varden’s house.’

‘And do you suppose HE minds such things as crocuses?’ demanded John.

‘I don’t know, and to say the truth, I don’t care,’ said Joe. ‘Come, father, give me the money, and in the name of patience let me go.’

‘There it is, sir,’ replied John; ‘and take care of it; and mind you don’t make too much haste back, but give the mare a long rest.—Do you mind?’

‘Ay, I mind,’ returned Joe. ‘She’ll need it, Heaven knows.’

‘And don’t you score up too much at the Black Lion,’ said John. ‘Mind that too.’

‘Then why don’t you let me have some money of my own?’ retorted Joe, sorrowfully; ‘why don’t you, father? What do you send me into London for, giving me only the right to call for my dinner at the Black Lion, which you’re to pay for next time you go, as if I was not to be trusted with a few shillings? Why do you use me like this? It’s not right of you. You can’t expect me to be quiet under it.’

Capitolo 13

Se Joseph Willet, quel denunciato e proscritto dai “apprendisti”, fosse stato a >casa quando l’ospite cortese di suo padre si fosse presentato davanti alla porta del palo di maggio, cioè, se per caso non fosse stato uno di quei pochi giorni all’anno in cui gli era permesso assentarsi per quante ore volesse, senza domande né rimproveri, avrebbe trovato il modo, a tutti i costi, di scoprire fino in fondo il mistero del signor Chester e di raggiungere il suo scopo con la stessa certezza di chi fosse stato il suo consigliere fiduciario. In quel caso fortunato, gli innamorati avrebbero ricevuto tempestivi avvertimenti sui pericoli che li minacciavano, oltre all’aiuto di suggerimenti tempestivi e saggi; infatti, tutta la prontezza di pensiero e d’azione di Joe, così come tutte le sue simpatie e buone intenzioni, erano rivolte a loro e fedeli alla loro causa. Che questa sua disposizione derivasse dalle sue vecchie preferenze per quella giovane signorina, la cui storia aveva circondato la sua vita fin da quando era bambino di circostanze straordinariamente interessanti; o dal suo affetto per quel giovane gentiluomo, nel cui favore era riuscito, grazie alla sua astuzia e prontezza, nonché ad aver reso diversi servizi importanti come spia e messaggero, a insinuarsi quasi impercettibilmente; che derivasse da una di queste due cause, o dall’abitudine naturale della gioventù, o dalle continue pressioni e preoccupazioni del suo rispettabile genitore, o da qualche piccolo e segreto affetto personale che gli suscitava simpatia per loro, non c’è bisogno di indagare. Soprattutto perché in quell’occasione particolare, Joe non era presente e quindi non aveva l’opportunità di esprimere i propri sentimenti da nessuna delle due parti.

Era infatti il ventiquattresimo marzo: una data che, come la maggior parte delle persone sa a sue spese, rappresenta uno di quei periodi particolarmente sgradevoli, definiti “giorni intercalari”. In quel giorno del ventiquattresimo marzo, per John Willet era un’abitudine annuale saldare in contanti il proprio debito con un certo vinaiolo e distillatore nella città di Londra. Consegnare a queste persone una borsa di tela contenente esattamente la somma dovuta, senza nemmeno un penny in più o in meno, era lo scopo principale del viaggio che Joe intraprendeva ogni anno, puntualmente, quando arrivava quel giorno preciso.

Questo viaggio fu effettuato su un’antica cavalla grigia riguardo alla quale John aveva delle idee vaghe e poco chiare: pensava che, se ci avesse provato, quella cavalla avrebbe potuto vincere una coppa o un piatto. Tuttavia non l’aveva mai fatto, e probabilmente non lo avrebbe mai fatto nemmeno ora. Aveva infatti circa quattordici o quindici anni, era priva di forza nelle zampe posteriori, aveva il corpo troppo lungo, e la criniera e la coda erano in pessimo stato. Nonostante queste imperfezioni, John ne andava estremamente fiero; quando Hugh portò la cavalla davanti alla porta, lui si ritirò addirittura nel bar e, lì, in un angolo nascosto pieno di limoni, rise con grande orgoglio.

“C’è un po’ di carne equina, Hugh!” disse John, quando ebbe ripreso abbastanza controllo su se stesso per poter ricomparire alla porta. “È davvero una creatura bellissima. Ha grande coraggio. E anche ossa robuste!”

C’era abbastanza osso, senza alcun >dubbio; ed era proprio ciò che Hugh sembrava pensare, mentre sedeva di lato sulla sella, appoggiandosi pigramente con il mento quasi a contatto delle ginocchia; ignorando le staffe penzolanti e le redini allentate, passeggiava avanti e indietro sul piccolo prato verde davanti alla porta.

“Si prega di prendersi cura di lei con attenzione, signore,” disse John, rivolgendosi a suo figlio e erede da questa persona insensibile, che ora appariva completamente equipaggiato e pronto. “Non cavalchi troppo in fretta.”

“Penso che sarebbe strano da parte mia farlo, padre,” rispose Joe, lanciando uno sguardo desolato all’animale.

“Nessuna delle vostre impertinenze, signore, per favore,” ribatté il vecchio John. “Su cosa vorreste cavalcare, signore? Anche un asino selvaggio o una zebra sarebbero troppo docili per voi, non è vero, eh? Vorreste cavalcare un feroce leone, non è così, signore, eh? Taciate, signore.” Quando il signor Willet, nelle sue discussioni con suo figlio, aveva esaurito tutte le domande che gli venivano in mente e Joe non aveva risposto affatto, di solito finiva per ordinargli di tacere.

“E cosa intende dire quel ragazzo,” aggiunse il signor Willet, dopo averlo fissato per un po’ con aria sbalordita, “mettendosi il cappello in quella maniera. Sta forse per uccidere l’inverno, signore?”

“Mai,” disse Joe in tono acido; “Non lo sono. Ora puoi stare tranquillo, padre.”

“Con un’aria davvero militare, per di più!” disse il signor Willet, esaminandolo dalla testa ai piedi; “con quel modo arrogante, da vero guerriero, che mangia fuoco e beve acqua bollente! E cosa significa quella storia dei crocus e dei narcisi che hai strappato via, eh?”

“È solo un piccolo mazzo di fiori,” disse Joe, arrossendo. “Non c’è niente di male in questo, spero, ”

“Siete davvero un uomo d’affari, lo siete davvero, signore!”, disse il signor Willet con disprezzo, “per pensare che alle persone che vivono in inverno possano importare i mazzolini di fiori.”

“Non penso affatto a nulla del genere,” rispose Joe. “Lasciate che si tengano le loro nasi rosse per le bottiglie e i barili. Queste vanno a casa del signor Varden.”

“E tu pensi che a LUI importino cose del genere, come i crocus?” chiese John.

“Non lo so, e a dire la verità, non mi interessa,” disse Joe. “Per favore, padre, dammi i soldi e lasciami andare, per l’amor della pazienza.”

“Eccolo qui, signore,” rispose John; “si prenda cura di esso. E si ricordi di non affrettarsi troppo nel tornare indietro; lasci che la cavalla riposi a lungo. Le va bene?”

“Ah sì, me ne ricordo,” rispose Joe. “Ne avrà bisogno, chissà per quale motivo, ”

“E non guadagnare troppo al Black Lion,” disse John. “Fai attenzione anche a questo.”

“Allora perché non mi lasci avere un po’ di soldi miei?” ribatté Joe, con tristezza; “Perché no, papà? A che scopo mi mandi a Londra, se mi dai il diritto di chiedere la cena solo al Black Lion, e tu paghi tu la prossima volta che ci vai, come se non potessi fidarmi di me per qualche sterlina? Perché mi tratti in questo modo? Non è giusto da parte tua. Non puoi aspettarti che io rimanga in silenzio davanti a tutto questo.”

‘Let him have money!’ cried John, in a drowsy reverie. ‘What does he call money—guineas? Hasn’t he got money? Over and above the tolls, hasn’t he one and sixpence?’

‘One and sixpence!’ repeated his son contemptuously.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned John, ‘one and sixpence. When I was your age, I had never seen so much money, in a heap. A shilling of it is in case of accidents—the mare casting a shoe, or the like of that. The other sixpence is to spend in the diversions of London; and the diversion I recommend is going to the top of the Monument, and sitting there. There’s no temptation there, sir—no drink—no young women—no bad characters of any sort—nothing but imagination. That’s the way I enjoyed myself when I was your age, sir.’

To this, Joe made no answer, but beckoning Hugh, leaped into the saddle and rode away; and a very stalwart, manly horseman he looked, deserving a better charger than it was his fortune to bestride. John stood staring after him, or rather after the grey mare (for he had no eyes for her rider), until man and beast had been out of sight some twenty minutes, when he began to think they were gone, and slowly re-entering the house, fell into a gentle doze.

The unfortunate grey mare, who was the agony of Joe’s life, floundered along at her own will and pleasure until the Maypole was no longer visible, and then, contracting her legs into what in a puppet would have been looked upon as a clumsy and awkward imitation of a canter, mended her pace all at once, and did it of her own accord. The acquaintance with her rider’s usual mode of proceeding, which suggested this improvement in hers, impelled her likewise to turn up a bye-way, leading—not to London, but through lanes running parallel with the road they had come, and passing within a few hundred yards of the Maypole, which led finally to an inclosure surrounding a large, old, red-brick mansion—the same of which mention was made as the Warren in the first chapter of this history. Coming to a dead stop in a little copse thereabout, she suffered her rider to dismount with right goodwill, and to tie her to the trunk of a tree.

‘Stay there, old girl,’ said Joe, ‘and let us see whether there’s any little commission for me to-day.’ So saying, he left her to browze upon such stunted grass and weeds as happened to grow within the length of her tether, and passing through a wicket gate, entered the grounds on foot.

The pathway, after a very few minutes’ walking, brought him close to the house, towards which, and especially towards one particular window, he directed many covert glances. It was a dreary, silent building, with echoing courtyards, desolated turret-chambers, and whole suites of rooms shut up and mouldering to ruin.

The terrace-garden, dark with the shade of overhanging trees, had an air of melancholy that was quite oppressive. Great iron gates, disused for many years, and red with rust, drooping on their hinges and overgrown with long rank grass, seemed as though they tried to sink into the ground, and hide their fallen state among the friendly weeds. The fantastic monsters on the walls, green with age and damp, and covered here and there with moss, looked grim and desolate. There was a sombre aspect even on that part of the mansion which was inhabited and kept in good repair, that struck the beholder with a sense of sadness; of something forlorn and failing, whence cheerfulness was banished. It would have been difficult to imagine a bright fire blazing in the dull and darkened rooms, or to picture any gaiety of heart or revelry that the frowning walls shut in. It seemed a place where such things had been, but could be no more—the very ghost of a house, haunting the old spot in its old outward form, and that was all.

Much of this decayed and sombre look was attributable, no doubt, to the death of its former master, and the temper of its present occupant; but remembering the tale connected with the mansion, it seemed the very place for such a deed, and one that might have been its predestined theatre years upon years ago. Viewed with reference to this legend, the sheet of water where the steward’s body had been found appeared to wear a black and sullen character, such as no other pool might own; the bell upon the roof that had told the tale of murder to the midnight wind, became a very phantom whose voice would raise the listener’s hair on end; and every leafless bough that nodded to another, had its stealthy whispering of the crime.

Joe paced up and down the path, sometimes stopping in affected contemplation of the building or the prospect, sometimes leaning against a tree with an assumed air of idleness and indifference, but always keeping an eye upon the window he had singled out at first. After some quarter of an hour’s delay, a small white hand was waved to him for an instant from this casement, and the young man, with a respectful bow, departed; saying under his breath as he crossed his horse again, ‘No errand for me to-day!’

But the air of smartness, the cock of the hat to which John Willet had objected, and the spring nosegay, all betokened some little errand of his own, having a more interesting object than a vintner or even a locksmith. So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had settled with the vintner—whose place of business was down in some deep cellars hard by Thames Street, and who was as purple-faced an old gentleman as if he had all his life supported their arched roof on his head—when he had settled the account, and taken the receipt, and declined tasting more than three glasses of old sherry, to the unbounded astonishment of the purple-faced vintner, who, gimlet in hand, had projected an attack upon at least a score of dusty casks, and who stood transfixed, or morally gimleted as it were, to his own wall—when he had done all this, and disposed besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in Whitechapel; spurning the Monument and John’s advice, he turned his steps towards the locksmith’s house, attracted by the eyes of blooming Dolly Varden.

“Lasciatelo avere i soldi!”, gridò John, immerso in una sorta di sonnolenta fantastia. “Che cos’è che lui chiama soldi, ghinee? Non ne ha già abbastanza? Oltre alle tasse, non possiede forse un penny e sei pence?”

“Un penny e sei pence!”, ripeté suo figlio con disprezzo.

“Sì, signore,” rispose John, “uno scellino e sei pence. Quando avevo la vostra età, non avevo mai visto così tanti soldi tutti insieme. Uno scellino è riservato per eventualità impreviste – che il mare getti via uno stivale o cose del genere. Gli altri sei pence sono per divertirsi a Londra; e il divertimento che consiglio è salire in cima al Monumento e sedersi lì. Non ci sono alcune tentazioni lassù, signore: nessun alcol, nessuna giovane donna, nessuna persona di cattivo carattere. Solo la propria immaginazione. È così che mi divertivo quando avevo la vostra età, signore.”

A questa richiesta, Joe non rispose nulla; invece chiamò Hugh, montò in sella e se ne andò al galoppo. Era un cavaliere davvero robusto e virile, degno di una cavalcatura migliore di quella che gli era toccata in sorte. John rimase fermo a guardarlo allontanarsi, o meglio, a fissare la giumenta grigia (poiché non prestava alcuna attenzione al suo cavaliere), fino a quando uomo e animale scomparvero dalla vista, dopo circa venti minuti. Solo allora iniziò a pensare che fossero davvero partiti, e rientrando lentamente nella casa, si addormentò dolcemente.

La sfortunata cavalla grigia, che rappresentava l’agonia nella vita di Joe, procedeva a caso, seguendo soltanto i propri desideri, fino a quando il palo di maggio non fu più visibile. Allora, contraendo le zampe in un movimento goffo e impacciato – simile a quello che una marionetta avrebbe eseguito per imitare un galoppo – accelerò improvvisamente il passo, senza alcun intervento esterno. Essendo abituata al modo di procedere consueto del suo cavaliere, questo miglioramento nel suo comportamento la spinse a prendere una strada secondaria che, invece di portarla a Londra, la condusse lungo sentieri paralleli alla strada percorsa inizialmente. Dopo aver superato il palo di maggio a poche centinaia di metri di distanza, arrivò infine in un recinto che circondava una grande dimora vecchia, costruita con mattoni rossi; si trattava della stessa casa menzionata nel primo capitolo di questa storia come “Warren”. Fermatasi in un piccolo boschetto vicino, permise al suo cavaliere di scendere e di legarla al tronco di un albero.

“Resta lì, vecchia mia,” disse Joe, “e vediamo se oggi ci sarà qualche piccolo incarico per me.” Detto questo, la lasciò a passeggiare tra l’erba stenta e le erbacce che crescevano entro i limiti del suo recinto, poi attraversò un cancello basso ed entrò a piedi nel campo.

Dopo pochi minuti di cammino, il sentiero lo portò vicino alla casa; verso di essa, e soprattutto verso una particolare finestra, gettò molti sguardi furtivi. Era un edificio desolato e silenzioso, con cortili vuoti, stanze abbandonate e intere serie di locali chiusi e in rovina.

Il terrazzo-giardino, avvolto nell’oscurità degli alberi che lo sovrastavano, aveva un’atmosfera di melanconia piuttosto opprimente. Grandi porte di ferro, disuse da molti anni e ricoperte di ruggine, pendevano dalle loro serrature e erano invase da erba alta; sembrava che cercassero di affondare nel terreno, nascondendo il proprio stato decaduto tra le piante selvatiche. Gli strani mostri dipinti sulle pareti, verdi per l’età e l’umidità, e qua e là ricoperti di muschio, apparivano cupi e desolati. Anche quella parte della residenza che era abitata e ben tenuta aveva un aspetto tetro, che suscitava in chi la osservava una sensazione di tristezza, di qualcosa di perduto e in declino. Da quel luogo sembrava essere stata bandita ogni gioia. Era difficile immaginare che nelle stanze buie e oscure ardesse un fuoco vivace, o che vi regnasse alcuna allegria. Sembrava un posto dove tali cose erano esistite in passato, ma ormai non più. Solo l’ombra di una casa, che continuava a “infestare” quel luogo nella sua vecchia forma esteriore. E nient’altro.

Gran parte di quell’aspetto decaduto e cupo era, senza alcun >dubbio, dovuto alla >morte del suo precedente padrone e al carattere dell’attuale occupante; ma ricordando la storia legata a quella dimora, sembrava proprio il luogo adatto per un simile crimine, forse addirittura il teatro predeterminato di tale evento anni prima. Guardata alla luce di questa leggenda, la superficie dell’acqua dove era stato trovato il corpo dello steward appariva di un colore nero e cupo, come nessun altro stagno avrebbe potuto avere; la campana sul tetto, che aveva raccontato la storia dell’omicidio al >vento di mezzanotte, diventava una sorta di fantasma il cui suono faceva rizzare i peli sulla schiena di chi l’ascoltava; e ogni ramo spoglio che si piegava verso un altro sembrava sussurrare segretamente di quel crimine.

Joe camminava avanti e indietro lungo il sentiero: a volte si fermava per contemplare l’edificio o il paesaggio circostante, altre volte si appoggiava a un albero con aria di distacco e indifferenza, ma teneva sempre d’occhio la finestra che aveva notato all’inizio. Dopo circa quindici minuti, una piccola mano bianca gli fece segno da quella finestra; il giovane, dopo un inchino rispettoso, se ne andò, mormorando tra sé mentre montava di nuovo a cavallo: “Oggi non ho nessun incarico da svolgere, ”

Ma quell’aria di presunzione, quel cappello a cilindro contro cui John Willet aveva obiettato, e quel mazzo di fiori che portava al naso, tutto indicava che avesse qualche commissione personale da svolgere, un compito più interessante di quello di un venditore di vino o persino di un fabbro. E infatti era proprio così: dopo aver regolato i conti con il venditore di vino – il cui negozio si trovava in profondi sotterranei vicino a Thames Street; un vecchio signore dal viso viola, come se tutta la vita avesse portato sul capo quel soffitto ad arco del suo negozio – dopo aver ricevuto il conto e rifiutato di assaggiare più di tre bicchieri di sherry, per grande stupore del venditore dal viso viola che, con un trincialegna in mano, aveva già pianificato di aprire almeno una ventina di barili polverosi. Dopo aver fatto tutto questo e dopo essersi concesso anche una semplice cena al Black Lion di Whitechapel, ignorando sia il Monumento che i consigli di John, si diresse verso la casa del fabbro, attratto dagli occhi di Dolly Varden in fiore.

Joe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he got to the corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he could by no means make up his mind to walk straight to the house. First, he resolved to stroll up another street for five minutes, then up another street for five minutes more, and so on until he had lost full half an hour, when he made a bold plunge and found himself with a red face and a beating heart in the smoky workshop.

‘Joe Willet, or his ghost?’ said Varden, rising from the desk at which he was busy with his books, and looking at him under his spectacles. ‘Which is it? Joe in the flesh, eh? That’s hearty. And how are all the Chigwell company, Joe?’

‘Much as usual, sir—they and I agree as well as ever.’

‘Well, well!’ said the locksmith. ‘We must be patient, Joe, and bear with old folks’ foibles. How’s the mare, Joe? Does she do the four miles an hour as easily as ever? Ha, ha, ha! Does she, Joe? Eh!—What have we there, Joe—a nosegay!’

‘A very poor one, sir—I thought Miss Dolly—’

‘No, no,’ said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and shaking his head, ‘not Dolly. Give ‘em to her mother, Joe. A great deal better give ‘em to her mother. Would you mind giving ‘em to Mrs Varden, Joe?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the greatest possible success, to hide his disappointment. ‘I shall be very glad, I’m sure.’

‘That’s right,’ said the locksmith, patting him on the back. ‘It don’t matter who has ‘em, Joe?’

‘Not a bit, sir.’—Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!

‘Come in,’ said Gabriel. ‘I have just been called to tea. She’s in the parlour.’

‘She,’ thought Joe. ‘Which of ‘em I wonder—Mrs or Miss?’ The locksmith settled the doubt as neatly as if it had been expressed aloud, by leading him to the door, and saying, ‘Martha, my dear, here’s young Mr Willet.’

Now, Mrs Varden, regarding the Maypole as a sort of human mantrap, or decoy for husbands; viewing its proprietor, and all who aided and abetted him, in the light of so many poachers among Christian men; and believing, moreover, that the publicans coupled with sinners in Holy Writ were veritable licensed victuallers; was far from being favourably disposed towards her visitor. Wherefore she was taken faint directly; and being duly presented with the crocuses and snowdrops, divined on further consideration that they were the occasion of the languor which had seized upon her spirits. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t bear the room another minute,’ said the good lady, ‘if they remained here. WOULD you excuse my putting them out of window?’

Joe begged she wouldn’t mention it on any account, and smiled feebly as he saw them deposited on the sill outside. If anybody could have known the pains he had taken to make up that despised and misused bunch of flowers!—

‘I feel it quite a relief to get rid of them, I assure you,’ said Mrs Varden. ‘I’m better already.’ And indeed she did appear to have plucked up her spirits.

Joe expressed his gratitude to Providence for this favourable dispensation, and tried to look as if he didn’t wonder where Dolly was.

‘You’re sad people at Chigwell, Mr Joseph,’ said Mrs V.

‘I hope not, ma’am,’ returned Joe.

‘You’re the cruellest and most inconsiderate people in the world,’ said Mrs Varden, bridling. ‘I wonder old Mr Willet, having been a married man himself, doesn’t know better than to conduct himself as he does. His doing it for profit is no excuse. I would rather pay the money twenty times over, and have Varden come home like a respectable and sober tradesman. If there is one character,’ said Mrs Varden with great emphasis, ‘that offends and disgusts me more than another, it is a sot.’

‘Come, Martha, my dear,’ said the locksmith cheerily, ‘let us have tea, and don’t let us talk about sots. There are none here, and Joe don’t want to hear about them, I dare say.’

At this crisis, Miggs appeared with toast.

‘I dare say he does not,’ said Mrs Varden; ‘and I dare say you do not, Varden. It’s a very unpleasant subject, I have no doubt, though I won’t say it’s personal’—Miggs coughed—‘whatever I may be forced to think’—Miggs sneezed expressively. ‘You never will know, Varden, and nobody at young Mr Willet’s age—you’ll excuse me, sir—can be expected to know, what a woman suffers when she is waiting at home under such circumstances. If you don’t believe me, as I know you don’t, here’s Miggs, who is only too often a witness of it—ask her.’

‘Oh! she were very bad the other night, sir, indeed she were, said Miggs. ‘If you hadn’t the sweetness of an angel in you, mim, I don’t think you could abear it, I raly don’t.’

‘Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘you’re profane.’

‘Begging your pardon, mim,’ returned Miggs, with shrill rapidity, ‘such was not my intentions, and such I hope is not my character, though I am but a servant.’

‘Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,’ retorted her mistress, looking round with dignity, ‘is one and the same thing. How dare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful fellow-beings—mere’—said Mrs Varden, glancing at herself in a neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more becoming fashion—‘mere worms and grovellers as we are!’

‘I did not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,’ said Miggs, confident in the strength of her compliment, and developing strongly in the throat as usual, ‘and I did not expect it would be took as such. I hope I know my own unworthiness, and that I hate and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures as every practicable Christian should.’

‘You’ll have the goodness, if you please,’ said Mrs Varden, loftily, ‘to step upstairs and see if Dolly has finished dressing, and to tell her that the chair that was ordered for her will be here in a minute, and that if she keeps it waiting, I shall send it away that instant.—I’m sorry to see that you don’t take your tea, Varden, and that you don’t take yours, Mr Joseph; though of course it would be foolish of me to expect that anything that can be had at home, and in the company of females, would please YOU.’

Joe non era affatto un tipo timido, ma nonostante ciò, quando arrivò all’angolo della strada dove abitava il fabbro chiave, non riuscì assolutamente a decidersi ad andare dritto verso la >casa. Prima decise di passeggiare per un’altra strada per cinque minuti, poi ancora per altri cinque minuti, e così via, fino a quando non perse ben mezz’ora. Solo allora si decise a procedere risolutamente, ritrovandosi con il viso rosso e il cuore che batteva forte nella fumosa officina del fabbro chiave.

“Joe Willet, o il suo fantasma?” disse Varden, alzandosi dalla scrivania dove era impegnato a studiare e guardandolo attraverso gli occhiali. “Quale dei due è vero? Joe in carne e ossa, eh? Che bello. E come stanno tutti i membri della famiglia Chigwell, Joe?”

“Come al solito, signore. Loro e io siamo d’accordo come sempre.”

‘Beh, beh!’, disse il fabbro chiave. ‘Dobbiamo essere pazienti, Joe, e sopportare le stranezze degli anziani. Come sta la cavalla, Joe? Corre ancora facilmente i quattro miglia all’ora come sempre? Ahahah. Corre davvero, Joe? Eh. E cosa abbiamo qui, Joe, un mazzo di fiori!’

“Molto povera, signore. Pensavo fosse la signorina Dolly, ”

“No, no,” disse Gabriel, abbassando la voce e scuotendo la testa, “non Dolly. Dàgliele a sua madre, Joe. Sarebbe molto meglio darle a sua madre. Potresti darle alla signora Varden, Joe?”

“Oh no, signore,” rispose Joe, cercando, ma senza molto successo, di nascondere la sua delusione. “Sarò molto felice, ne sono sicuro.”

“Esatto,” disse il fabbro chiudendo, dandogli una pacca sulla spalla. “Non importa a chi appartengano, vero, Joe?”

“Assolutamente no, signore.” – Oh mio Dio, come quelle parole gli rimasero bloccate in gola.

“Entra pure,” disse Gabriel. “Mi hanno appena chiamato per il tè; lei è in salotto.”

“Lei,” pensò Joe. “Di chi si tratta, della signora o della signorina?” Il fabbro chiuse la >dubbio in modo così preciso, come se fosse stato espresso ad alta voce, portandolo alla porta e dicendo: “Martha, cara, ecco il giovane signor Willet.”

Ora, la signora Varden, considerando il palo di maggio come una sorta di trappola umana, o esca per gli uomini; vedendo nel suo proprietario e in tutti coloro che lo aiutavano e lo incoraggiavano degli esempi di individui disonesti tra i cristiani; e credendo inoltre che i pubblicani, menzionati negli Scritti Sacri insieme ai peccatori, fossero veri e propri commercianti di cibo autorizzati, non era affatto favorevole verso la sua visitatrice. Per questo motivo, svenne all’istante; e dopo aver ricevuto i crocus e i narcisi, capì che erano stati proprio questi fiori la causa del malessere che l’aveva colpita. “Temo di non poter sopportare questa stanza un minuto di più,” disse la buona signora, “se rimangono qui. Potreste scusarmi se li getto fuori dalla finestra?”

Joe le pregò disperatamente di non menzionarlo assolutamente, e sorrise debolmente quando li vide posizionati sul davanzale fuori dalla finestra. Se solo qualcuno avesse potuto conoscere i sacrifici che aveva fatto per creare quel mazzo di >fiori disprezzato e maltrattato.

“Vi assicuro che mi sento davvero sollevata di sbarazzarmene,” disse la signora Varden. “Ora sto già meglio.” E in effetti, sembrava proprio aver riacquistato il suo spirito.

Joe esprimeva la sua gratitudine verso la Provvidenza per questa favorevole circostanza, e cercava di comportarsi come se non si chiedesse dove fosse finita Dolly.

“Siete persone tristi a Chigwell, signor Joseph,” disse la signora V.

“Non lo spero, signora,” rispose Joe.

“Siete le persone più crudeli e irconsiderate del mondo,” disse la signora Varden, trattenendosi a stento. “Mi chiedo come il vecchio signor Willet, essendo stato lui stesso un uomo sposato, non riesca a comportarsi in modo diverso. Il fatto che lo faccia per profitto non è una scusa. Preferirei pagare venti volte di più, pur di vedere Varden tornare a casa come un rispettabile e sobrio commerciante. Se c’è qualcuno,” aggiunse la signora Varden con grande enfasi, “che mi offende e disgusta più di ogni altro, è proprio un ubriacone.”

“Ma come, Martha, mia cara,” disse allegramente il fabbro chiave, “mettiamoci a bere il tè e non parliamo di quegli sciocchi. Qui non ce ne sono, e credo che nemmeno Joe voglia sentirne parlare.”

In questa crisi, Miggs apparve con del pane tostato.

“Oserei dire che lui non lo sappia,” disse la signora Varden; “e oserei dire che nemmeno tu lo sappia, Varden. È un argomento molto spiacevole. Non ho alcun >dubbio, anche se non dirò che sia una questione personale, ” – Miggs tossì – “, per quanto io possa essere costretta a pensarlo, ” – Miggs starnutì in modo significativo. “Tu non lo saprai mai, Varden. E nessuno, all’età del giovane signor Willet, scusami, signore, può essere considerato in grado di capire quanto soffra una donna quando deve aspettare a >casa in simili circostanze. Se non mi credi, e so che non mi credi, ecco qui Miggs: lei ne è spesso testimone. Chiedilo a lei.”

“Oh! Quella sera era davvero molto cattiva, signore. Davvero,” disse Migs. “Se non aveste la dolcezza di un angelo dentro di voi, credo che non riuscireste a sopportarlo. Davvero.”

“Miggs,” disse la signora Varden, “sei irriverente.”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” rispose Miggs, in tono acuto e rapido, “non era quella la mia intenzione, e spero che tale non sia nemmeno il mio carattere, anche se sono soltanto un servitore.”

“Rispondere a me, Miggs, e prendersi cura di te stessa sono la stessa cosa”, ribatté la sua padrona, guardandosi intorno con dignità. “Come osi parlare di angeli in relazione alle tue compagne peccatrici, semplici vermi e creature indegne come noi!” disse la signora Varden, guardandosi nello specchio vicino e sistemando la fascia del suo cappello in modo più appropriato.

“Non intendevo affatto, per favore, offendere,” disse Miggs, convinta della forza del suo complimento; la sua voce si fece sempre più forte, come al solito. “E non mi aspettavo che venisse preso in questo senso. Spero di conoscere bene la mia propia insignificanza, e di odiare e disprezzare me stessa e tutti i miei simili, proprio come dovrebbe fare ogni vero cristiano.”

“Le sarei molto grata, se volesse,” disse la signora Varden con aria sprezzante, “di salire al piano di sopra e vedere se Dolly ha finito di vestirsi, e di dirle che la sedia che le è stata ordinata arriverà tra un minuto; in caso aspetti ancora, la farò rimandare immediatamente. Mi dispiace molto che lei non beva il tè, Varden, e che nemmeno lei lo beva, signor Joseph; anche se, naturalmente, sarebbe sciocco da parte mia aspettarmi che qualcosa che si può trovare a >casa, in compagnia di donne, possa piacerle, ”

This pronoun was understood in the plural sense, and included both gentlemen, upon both of whom it was rather hard and undeserved, for Gabriel had applied himself to the meal with a very promising appetite, until it was spoilt by Mrs Varden herself, and Joe had as great a liking for the female society of the locksmith’s house—or for a part of it at all events—as man could well entertain.

But he had no opportunity to say anything in his own defence, for at that moment Dolly herself appeared, and struck him quite dumb with her beauty. Never had Dolly looked so handsome as she did then, in all the glow and grace of youth, with all her charms increased a hundredfold by a most becoming dress, by a thousand little coquettish ways which nobody could assume with a better grace, and all the sparkling expectation of that accursed party. It is impossible to tell how Joe hated that party wherever it was, and all the other people who were going to it, whoever they were.

And she hardly looked at him—no, hardly looked at him. And when the chair was seen through the open door coming blundering into the workshop, she actually clapped her hands and seemed glad to go. But Joe gave her his arm—there was some comfort in that—and handed her into it. To see her seat herself inside, with her laughing eyes brighter than diamonds, and her hand—surely she had the prettiest hand in the world—on the ledge of the open window, and her little finger provokingly and pertly tilted up, as if it wondered why Joe didn’t squeeze or kiss it! To think how well one or two of the modest snowdrops would have become that delicate bodice, and how they were lying neglected outside the parlour window! To see how Miggs looked on with a face expressive of knowing how all this loveliness was got up, and of being in the secret of every string and pin and hook and eye, and of saying it ain’t half as real as you think, and I could look quite as well myself if I took the pains! To hear that provoking precious little scream when the chair was hoisted on its poles, and to catch that transient but not-to-be-forgotten vision of the happy face within—what torments and aggravations, and yet what delights were these! The very chairmen seemed favoured rivals as they bore her down the street.

There never was such an alteration in a small room in a small time as in that parlour when they went back to finish tea. So dark, so deserted, so perfectly disenchanted. It seemed such sheer nonsense to be sitting tamely there, when she was at a dance with more lovers than man could calculate fluttering about her—with the whole party doting on and adoring her, and wanting to marry her. Miggs was hovering about too; and the fact of her existence, the mere circumstance of her ever having been born, appeared, after Dolly, such an unaccountable practical joke. It was impossible to talk. It couldn’t be done. He had nothing left for it but to stir his tea round, and round, and round, and ruminate on all the fascinations of the locksmith’s lovely daughter.

Gabriel was dull too. It was a part of the certain uncertainty of Mrs Varden’s temper, that when they were in this condition, she should be gay and sprightly.

‘I need have a cheerful disposition, I am sure,’ said the smiling housewife, ‘to preserve any spirits at all; and how I do it I can scarcely tell.’

‘Ah, mim,’ sighed Miggs, ‘begging your pardon for the interruption, there an’t a many like you.’

‘Take away, Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden, rising, ‘take away, pray. I know I’m a restraint here, and as I wish everybody to enjoy themselves as they best can, I feel I had better go.’

‘No, no, Martha,’ cried the locksmith. ‘Stop here. I’m sure we shall be very sorry to lose you, eh Joe!’ Joe started, and said ‘Certainly.’

‘Thank you, Varden, my dear,’ returned his wife; ‘but I know your wishes better. Tobacco and beer, or spirits, have much greater attractions than any I can boast of, and therefore I shall go and sit upstairs and look out of window, my love. Good night, Mr Joseph. I’m very glad to have seen you, and I only wish I could have provided something more suitable to your taste. Remember me very kindly if you please to old Mr Willet, and tell him that whenever he comes here I have a crow to pluck with him. Good night!’

Having uttered these words with great sweetness of manner, the good lady dropped a curtsey remarkable for its condescension, and serenely withdrew.

And it was for this Joe had looked forward to the twenty-fifth of March for weeks and weeks, and had gathered the flowers with so much care, and had cocked his hat, and made himself so smart! This was the end of all his bold determination, resolved upon for the hundredth time, to speak out to Dolly and tell her how he loved her! To see her for a minute—for but a minute—to find her going out to a party and glad to go; to be looked upon as a common pipe-smoker, beer-bibber, spirit-guzzler, and tosspot! He bade farewell to his friend the locksmith, and hastened to take horse at the Black Lion, thinking as he turned towards home, as many another Joe has thought before and since, that here was an end to all his hopes—that the thing was impossible and never could be—that she didn’t care for him—that he was wretched for life—and that the only congenial prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a sailor, and get some obliging enemy to knock his brains out as soon as possible.

Questo pronome fu inteso nel senso plurale e includeva entrambi i gentiluomini; tuttavia, ciò era piuttosto ingiusto e non meritato, poiché Gabriel aveva mangiato con grande appetito, fino a quando il pasto stesso non venne rovinato da Mrs Varden, mentre Joe provava un vero interesse per la compagnia femminile presente nella casa del fabbro chiave, o almeno per una parte di essa, comunque.

Ma non ebbe l’opportunità di dire nulla in sua difesa, perché in quel momento apparve Dolly stessa, e la sua bellezza lo lasciò completamente senza parole. Mai Dolly era sembrata così attraente come in quel momento: tutta la grazia e il fascino della gioventù, tutti i suoi charmi mille volte intensificati da un abito davvero adatto a lei, da mille piccoli gesti affettuosi che nessuno avrebbe potuto eseguire con maggiore eleganza. E poi c’era quell’atmosfera di aspettativa emozionante legata a quella maledetta festa. È impossibile descrivere quanto Joe odiasse quella festa, e tutte le persone che vi avrebbero partecipato, chiunque esse fossero.

E lei quasi non lo guardò. No, quasi non lo guardò affatto. E quando la sedia fu vista entrare barcollando nel laboratorio attraverso la porta aperta, lei addirittura batté le mani, sembrava felice di andarsene. Ma Joe le offrì il braccio. C’era un certo conforto in quello. E la accompagnò dentro. Vederla seduta lì dentro, con quegli occhi che ridevano più luminosi dei diamanti, e quella sua mano – sicuramente la mano più bella del mondo – appoggiata sul davanzale della finestra aperta; il suo mignolo, in modo provocante e birichino, inclinato verso l’alto, come se si chiedesse perché Joe non lo stringesse o non lo baciasse. Pensare a quanto bene uno o due di quei semplici narcisi avrebbero potuto trasformarsi in quel delicato corpetto. E pensare a come giacevano abbandonati fuori dalla finestra del salotto. Vederla mentre Miggs osservava tutto con un’espressione che rivelava di conoscere bene il segreto di tutta quella bellezza, e di essere a conoscenza di ogni dettaglio. E sentire quel grido provocante quando la sedia fu sollevata sui suoi piedistalli. E intravedere per un attimo quel viso felice. Che tormenti, che irritazioni. Eppure, che delizie! Anche i portieri sembravano rivali privilegiati mentre la portavano giù per la strada.

Non c’era mai stata una tale trasformazione in una piccola stanza, in un così breve lasso di tempo, come in quella sala quando tornarono per finire il tè. Era così buia, così deserta, così completamente priva di ogni traccia di vita. Sembrava assurdo sedersi lì tranquillamente, mentre lei era a un ballo con più amanti di quanti un uomo potesse contare. Mentre tutta la compagnia la adorava e voleva sposarla. Miggs si aggirava anche lei lì intorno; e la sua stessa esistenza, il semplice fatto che fosse mai nata, sembrava, dopo Dolly, una sorta di scherzo assurdo e inspiegabile. Era impossibile parlare. Non c’era nulla da fare, se non mescolare continuamente il proprio tè, e rimuginare su tutte le attrattive della deliziosa figlia del fabbro chiave.

Anche Gabriel era noioso. Faceva parte di quell’incertezza caratteristica nel temperamento della signora Varden il fatto che, in queste circostanze, lei dovesse essere allegra e vivace.

“Devo sicuramente avere un umore allegramente spensierato,” disse la casalinga sorridente, “per riuscire a mantenere anche solo un po’ di spirito. E come ci riesca, non lo so nemmeno io.”

“Ah, Mim,” sospirò Miggs, “scusami per l’interruzione. Non ci sono molte persone come te.”

“Portalo via, Miggs,” disse la signora Varden alzandosi, “per favore, portalo via. So di essere un ostacolo qui, e poiché desidero che tutti si divertano il più possibile, penso sia meglio che me ne vada.”

“No, no, Martha,” gridò il fabbro chiave. “Fermati qui. Sono sicuro che ci dispiacerà molto perderti, eh Joe!” Joe si mosse immediatamente e disse: “Certo.”

“Grazie, Varden, mio caro,” rispose sua moglie; “ma conosco meglio i tuoi desideri. Il tabacco, la birra o gli alcolici hanno un fascino molto maggiore di qualsiasi cosa io possa offrirti, quindi andrò a sedermi di sopra e a guardare fuori dalla finestra, mio caro. Buona notte, signor Joseph. Sono molto felice di avervi visto, e vorrei solo essere riuscita a offrirvi qualcosa di più adatto ai vostri gusti. Ricordatevi di me con affetto quando parlerete con il vecchio signor Willet, e ditegli che ogni volta che verrà qui, avrò sempre qualcosa da dirgli. Buona notte!”

Dopo aver pronunciato queste parole con grande dolcezza, la gentile signora fece una riverenza particolarmente piena di condiscendenza e se ne andò in modo tranquillo.

Ed era proprio per questo che Joe aveva atteso con tanta impazienza il ventiquattresimo marzo, per settimane intere; aveva raccolto le >fiori con grande cura, si era sistemato il cappello e si era vestito con particolare cura. Questo era l’epilogo di tutte le sue risolute decisioni: per la centesima volta, aveva deciso di parlare apertamente a Dolly e dirle quanto la amasse! Voleva vederla anche solo per un minuto, scoprire che usciva felice per una festa, essere considerato soltanto un comune fumatore di pipa, bevitore di birra e dissipatore. Si congedò dal suo amico, il fabbro chiave, e si affrettò a prendere il >cavallo alla stazione dei cavalli “Black Lion”. Mentre si dirigeva verso casa, pensava – come avevano già pensato tanti altri prima di lui e dopo di lui – che tutte le sue speranze erano finite, che era impossibile, che a lei non importasse nulla di lui, che fosse condannato per tutta la vita. E che l’unica possibilità che gli restava fosse quella di arruolarsi nell’esercito o nella marina, e aspettare soltanto che qualche nemico gentile lo uccidesse il prima possibile.

Chapter 14

Joe Willet rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing the locksmith’s daughter going down long country-dances, and poussetting dreadfully with bold strangers—which was almost too much to bear—when he heard the tramp of a horse’s feet behind him, and looking back, saw a well-mounted gentleman advancing at a smart canter. As this rider passed, he checked his steed, and called him of the Maypole by his name. Joe set spurs to the grey mare, and was at his side directly.

‘I thought it was you, sir,’ he said, touching his hat. ‘A fair evening, sir. Glad to see you out of doors again.’

The gentleman smiled and nodded. ‘What gay doings have been going on to-day, Joe? Is she as pretty as ever? Nay, don’t blush, man.’

‘If I coloured at all, Mr Edward,’ said Joe, ‘which I didn’t know I did, it was to think I should have been such a fool as ever to have any hope of her. She’s as far out of my reach as—as Heaven is.’

‘Well, Joe, I hope that’s not altogether beyond it,’ said Edward, good-humouredly. ‘Eh?’

‘Ah!’ sighed Joe. ‘It’s all very fine talking, sir. Proverbs are easily made in cold blood. But it can’t be helped. Are you bound for our house, sir?’

‘Yes. As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night, and ride home coolly in the morning.’

‘If you’re in no particular hurry,’ said Joe after a short silence, ‘and will bear with the pace of this poor jade, I shall be glad to ride on with you to the Warren, sir, and hold your horse when you dismount. It’ll save you having to walk from the Maypole, there and back again. I can spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.’

‘And so am I,’ returned Edward, ‘though I was unconsciously riding fast just now, in compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts, which were travelling post. We will keep together, Joe, willingly, and be as good company as may be. And cheer up, cheer up, think of the locksmith’s daughter with a stout heart, and you shall win her yet.’

Joe shook his head; but there was something so cheery in the buoyant hopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under its influence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse even to the grey mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a gentle trot, emulated the pace of Edward Chester’s horse, and appeared to flatter herself that he was doing his very best.

It was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which was then just rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which gives to evening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened shadows of the trees, softened as if reflected in still water, threw their carpet on the path the travellers pursued, and the light wind stirred yet more softly than before, as though it were soothing Nature in her sleep. By little and little they ceased talking, and rode on side by side in a pleasant silence.

‘The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,’ said Edward, as they rode along the lane from which, while the intervening trees were bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible.

‘Brilliant indeed, sir,’ returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to get a better view. ‘Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the best bedchamber? Why, what company can this be for, I wonder!’

‘Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from going on to-night by the marvellous tales of my friend the highwayman, I suppose,’ said Edward.

‘He must be a horseman of good quality to have such accommodations. Your bed too, sir—!’

‘No matter, Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come—there’s nine striking. We may push on.’

They cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe’s charger could attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left her in the morning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his companion, and walked with a light step towards the house.

A female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and admitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-walk, and darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy hall, whose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour, antlers, weapons of the chase, and suchlike garniture. Here he paused, but not long; for as he looked round, as if expecting the attendant to have followed, and wondering she had not done so, a lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment rested on his breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon her arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr Haredale stood between them.

He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat; with one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his riding-whip, motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself up, and returned his gaze.

‘This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Leave it, sir, and return no more.’

‘Miss Haredale’s presence,’ returned the young man, ‘and your relationship to her, give you a licence which, if you are a brave man, you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault is yours—not mine.’

‘It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man, sir,’ retorted the other, ‘to tamper with the affections of a weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be gone.’

‘It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to play the spy,’ said Edward. ‘Your words imply dishonour, and I reject them with the scorn they merit.’

‘You will find,’ said Mr Haredale, calmly, ‘your trusty go-between in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy’s part, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to my niece.’ As he said these words, he passed his arm about the waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to him; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness and sympathy for her distress.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Edward, ‘your arm encircles her on whom I have set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute’s happiness for whom I would gladly lay down my life; this house is the casket that holds the precious jewel of my existence. Your niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have plighted mine to her. What have I done that you should hold me in this light esteem, and give me these discourteous words?’

‘You have done that, sir,’ answered Mr Haredale, ‘which must be undone. You have tied a lover’s-knot here which must be cut asunder. Take good heed of what I say. Must. I cancel the bond between ye. I reject you, and all of your kith and kin—all the false, hollow, heartless stock.’

‘High words, sir,’ said Edward, scornfully.

‘Words of purpose and meaning, as you will find,’ replied the other. ‘Lay them to heart.’

‘Lay you then, these,’ said Edward. ‘Your cold and sullen temper, which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into fear, and changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret course, repugnant to our nature and our wish, and far more foreign, sir, to us than you. I am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless man; the character is yours, who poorly venture on these injurious terms, against the truth, and under the shelter whereof I reminded you just now. You shall not cancel the bond between us. I will not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your niece’s truth and honour, and set your influence at nought. I leave her with a confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and with no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.’

With that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more encountering and returning Mr Haredale’s steady look, withdrew.

A few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained what had passed, and renewed all that young gentleman’s despondency with tenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.

Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great importance as he held the young man’s stirrup,

‘He’s comfortable in bed—the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.’

‘Who, Willet?’ said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.

‘Your worthy father, sir,’ replied John. ‘Your honourable, venerable father.’

‘What does he mean?’ said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and doubt, at Joe.

‘What DO you mean?’ said Joe. ‘Don’t you see Mr Edward doesn’t understand, father?’

‘Why, didn’t you know of it, sir?’ said John, opening his eyes wide. ‘How very singular! Bless you, he’s been here ever since noon to-day, and Mr Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn’t been gone an hour.’

‘My father, Willet!’

‘Yes, sir, he told me so—a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in green-and-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you can go in, sir,’ said John, walking backwards into the road and looking up at the window. ‘He hasn’t put out his candles yet, I see.’

Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had changed his mind—forgotten something—and must return to London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets, father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

Capitolo 14

Joe Willet procedeva tranquillamente, immaginando la figlia del fabbro che partecipava a lunghi balli campestri e si comportava in modo molto audace con sconosciuti. Il pensiero era quasi insopportabile quando sentì il rumore degli zoccoli di un cavallo alle sue spalle. Guardandosi indietro, vide un gentiluomo ben montato avvicinarsi a un rapido trotto. Mentre quel cavaliere gli passava accanto, Joe spronò la sua giumenta grigia e lo raggiunse immediatamente.

“Pensavo fosse lei, signore,” disse, toccandosi il cappello. “Buona serata, signore. È bello vederla di nuovo all’aperto.”

Il gentiluomo sorrise e annuì. “Che bei divertimenti sono avvenuti oggi, Joe? È ancora bella come sempre? No, non arrossire, amico mio.”

“Se avessi davvero provato a sperare, signor Edward,” disse Joe, “cosa di cui non mi rendevo conto, sarebbe stato perché pensavo di essere davvero un idiota se avessi anche solo immaginato di poter avere qualche speranza per lei. È irraggiungibile per me, proprio come il cielo.”

“Beh, Joe, spero che non sia del tutto impossibile,” disse Edward in tono cordiale. “Eh?”

“Ah!”, sospirò Joe. “Parlare è facile, signore. I proverbi si possono facilmente scrivere con sangue freddo. Ma non c’è niente da fare. Sta andando verso la nostra casa, signore?”

“Sì. Poiché non sono ancora abbastanza forte, rimarrò lì fino a notte, e poi tornerò a casa tranquillamente la mattina.”

“Se non avete particolari frette,” disse Joe dopo un breve silenzio, “e siete disposti ad accontentarvi del passo lento di questo povero cavallo, sarò felice di accompagnarvi fino al Warren, signore, e di tenervi il vostro cavallo quando scenderete. Vi risparmierà la fatica di camminare da quel palo di maggio e tornare indietro. Posso ben concedermi questo tempo, signore, visto che sono ancora troppo presto.”

“Anch’io lo stesso,” rispose Edward, “sebbene poco fa, senza rendermene conto, camminassi velocemente. Immagino sia un modo per tenere il passo con i miei pensieri, che procedevano a tutta velocità. Rimarremo insieme, Joe, volentieri, e saremo una compagnia piacevole. E tieni su il morale: pensa con forza alla figlia del fabbro chiave. Riuscirai ad averla.”

Joe scosse la testa; ma c’era qualcosa di così allegrante nel modo spensierato e pieno di speranza con cui era stato pronunciato quel discorso, che il suo umore ne fu migliorato, e sembrava persino che trasmettesse un nuovo slancio anche alla vecchia cavalla grigia, la quale, abbandonando il suo passo tranquillo per mettersi al trotto leggero, imitò il ritmo del cavallo di Edward Chester, come se si compiacesse nel vedere che lui stava facendo del proprio meglio.

Era una bella notte secca; la luce della giovane luna, che appena sorgeva, diffondeva intorno a sé quella pace e tranquillità che donano all’tempo serale il suo fascino più delizioso. Le ombre allungate degli alberi, morbide come se riflesse in acqua ferma, formavano un tappeto lungo il sentiero percorso dai viaggiatori; la brezza leggera soffiava ancora più dolcemente di prima, come se stesse cullando l’Natura nel suo sonno. Poco a poco smisero di parlare e continuarono il loro cammino uno accanto all’altro in un piacevole silenzio.

“Le luci sull’albero di maggio sono davvero splendide di notte”, disse Edward mentre viaggiavano lungo il sentiero; da quel sentiero, nonostante gli alberi circostanti fossero privi di foglie, si poteva vedere quella locanda.

“Davvero brillante, signore,” rispose Joe, alzandosi sui tacchi per vedere meglio. “Luci nella grande stanza, e un fuoco che tremola nella camera da letto principale. Che compagnia può essere questa, mi chiedo!”

“Qualcun cavaliere che si dirigeva verso Londra, e che, a causa delle meravigliose storie raccontate dal mio amico, il bandito di strada, decise di non proseguire per la notte, immagino,” disse Edward.

“Deve essere davvero un abile cavaliere per disporre di una sistemazione del genere. E anche il suo letto, signore,!”

“Non importa, Joe. Qualsiasi altra stanza andrà bene per me. Ma ascolta, ci sono nove differenze evidenti. Possiamo continuare.”

Procedettero al trotto, con la velocità massima che il cavallo di Joe poteva raggiungere, e presto si fermarono nel piccolo boschetto dove l’avevano lasciata la mattina precedente. Edward scese da cavallo, consegnò le redini al suo compagno e camminò con passi leggeri verso la casa.

Una serva lo stava aspettando presso un cancello secondario situato lungo la recinzione del giardino; lo fece entrare senza indugio. Lui si affrettò lungo il sentiero in pietra e salì rapidamente una larga scalinata che conduceva in un vecchio e cupo salone le cui pareti erano decorate da armature arrugginite, corna di cervo, armi da caccia e simili ornamenti. Si fermò lì per un momento, ma non per molto: mentre si guardava intorno, aspettandosi che la serva lo seguisse, una bellissima ragazza apparve. I suoi capelli neri, nel giro di un attimo, gli ricaddero sul petto. Quasi contemporaneamente, una mano pesante le afferrò il braccio; Edward si sentì spingere via e Mr Haredale si frappose tra loro.

Guardò il giovane con severità, senza togliersi il cappello; con una mano teneva stretta sua nipote, e con l’altra, nella quale impugnava la frusta da cavaliere, gli fece segno di avvicinarsi alla porta. Il giovane si alzò in piedi e ricambiò il suo sguardo.

“È davvero ben fatto da parte vostra, signore, corrompere i miei servitori e entrare nella mia casa senza essere invitato e in segreto, come un ladro!” disse il signor Haredale. “Lasciate perdere, signore, e non tornate più.”

“La presenza di Miss Haredale,” rispose il giovane, “e il vostro rapporto con lei vi danno un diritto che, se siete un uomo coraggioso, non abuserete. Siete stato voi a costringermi a questa decisione, e la colpa è vostra, non mia.”

“Non è né generoso, né onorevole, né l’atto di un vero uomo, signore,” ribatté l’altro, “manipolare i sentimenti di una ragazza debole e fiduciosa, mentre voi, nella vostra inadeguatezza, vi ritirate dal vostro ruolo di suo guardiano e protettore, e non osate affrontare la luce del giorno. Non dirò altro, se non che vi proibisco di entrare in questa casa e vi esigo di andarvene immediatamente.”

“Non è né generoso, né onorevole, né l’atto di un vero uomo comportarsi da spia,” disse Edward. “Le vostre parole implicano disonore, e le rifiuto con lo sprezzo che meritano.”

“Troverete,” disse il signor Haredale con calma, “il vostro fedele intermediario ad aspettarvi alla porta da cui siete entrati. Non ho assunto alcun ruolo di spia, signore. Semplicemente vi ho visto passare dalla porta e vi ho seguito. Avreste potuto sentirmi bussare per essere ammesso, se non foste stati così veloci nel camminare, o se vi foste soffermati nel giardino. Vi prego di andarvene. La vostra presenza qui mi offende e causa grande angoscia a mia nipote.” Mentre pronunciava queste parole, mise un braccio intorno alla vita della ragazza spaventata e in lacrime, attirandola più vicino a sé; e sebbene il solito rigore del suo comportamento non fosse cambiato, nella sua azione si percepiva chiaramente un senso di gentilezza e compassione per la sua sofferenza.

“Signor Haredale,” disse Edward, “il vostro braccio la circonda. Lei è l’unica persona su cui ho riposto tutte le mie speranze e i miei pensieri; per procurarle anche solo un minuto di felicità, sarei disposto a dare la mia vita. Questa casa rappresenta il contenitore che custodisce il prezioso ‘gioiello’ della mia esistenza. Vostra nipote mi ha dato la sua parola, e anch’io le ho dato la mia. Cosa ho fatto, dunque, per meritare un tale rispetto da parte vostra, e queste parole così offensive?”

“Avete fatto questo, signore,” rispose il signor Haredale, “e questo deve essere annullato. Avete creato un legame tra due persone che ora deve essere spezzato. Prestate attenzione a ciò che dico: devo cancellare quel legame tra voi. Vi rifiuto, insieme a tutta la vostra famiglia, a tutta quella gente falsa, vuota e senza cuore.”

“Parole altezzose, signore,” disse Edward con disprezzo.

“Parole di scopo e significato, come potrete scoprire,” rispose l’altro. “Ricordatele bene.”

“Allora metti via queste cose,” disse Edward. “Il tuo carattere freddo e cupo, che raffredda il cuore di chi ti circonda, che trasforma l’affetto in paura e il dovere in terrore, ci ha costretti a intraprendere questa strada segreta, contraria alla nostra natura e ai nostri desideri. E per noi è ancora più estranea di quanto lo sia per te. Non sono un uomo falso, vuoto o senza cuore; il vero colpevole sei tu, che osi usare parole offensive contro la verità, sotto il pretesto di quelle ragioni che ti ho appena ricordato. Non cancellerai mai il legame che ci unisce. Io non abbandonerò questa ricerca. Fido nella verità e nell’onore di tua nipote, e disprezzo completamente la tua influenza su di lei. La lascio con la fiducia nella sua pura fede, una fiducia che tu non distruggerai mai. E non ho alcuna preoccupazione, se non quella di lasciarla in mani sicure.”

Con quel gesto, premette la sua mano fredda sulle proprie labbra; e dopo aver nuovamente incrociato lo sguardo fermo di Mr Haredale, si ritirò.

Qualche parola rivolta a Joe mentre montava il suo cavallo spiegò sufficientemente ciò che era accaduto, rinnovando la disperazione di quel giovane signore in modo ancora più intenso. Tornarono al Maypole senza scambiare una parola e arrivarono alla porta con il cuore pesante.

Il vecchio John, che aveva spiato da dietro la tenda rossa mentre loro arrivavano gridando il nome di Hugh, uscì subito e, tenendo lo staffone del giovane, disse con grande serietà.

“È molto a suo agio a letto, il miglior letto possibile. Un vero gentiluomo: il più sorridente e affabile gentiluomo che abbia mai incontrato.”

“Chi, Willet?” disse Edward con noncuranza, mentre smontava da cavallo.

“Vostro onorevole padre, signore”, rispose John. “Vostro nobile e stimato padre.”

“Cosa intende dire?”, chiese Edward, guardando Joe con un misto di allarme e dubbio.

“Cosa intendi dire?”, disse Joe. “Non vedi che il signor Edward non capisce, padre?”

“Ma allora non lo sapevate, signore?”, disse John, spalancando gli occhi.
“Che strano. Benedetto lui: è qui da mezzogiorno di oggi; il signor Haredale ha parlato a lungo con lui e non se n’è ancora andato da un’ora.”

“Mio padre, Willet!”

“Sì, signore, me lo ha detto lui: un gentiluomo bello, snello, dignitoso, vestito di verde e oro. Nella sua vecchia stanza lassù, signore. Non c’è dubbio che possa entrare, signore,” disse John, indietreggiando verso la strada e guardando verso la finestra. “Vedo che non ha ancora spento le candele.”

Edward guardò anche la finestra, poi mormorò in fretta che aveva cambiato idea, che aveva dimenticato qualcosa e che doveva tornare a Londra. Montò di nuovo sul suo cavallo e se ne andò, lasciando i Willets, padre e figlio, a guardarsi l’un l’altro con muta meraviglia.

Chapter 15

At noon next day, John Willet’s guest sat lingering over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the Maypole’s highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.

In the broad old-fashioned window-seat—as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee—in the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr Chester lounged, very much at his ease, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.

The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.

There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day, for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens; those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, ‘Who enters here leaves noise behind.’ There is still the plash of falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger’s form. There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent.

It was in a room in Paper Buildings—a row of goodly tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the Temple Gardens—that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn’t know she was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river’s margin two or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench, alone.

‘Ned is amazingly patient!’ said Mr Chester, glancing at this last-named person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick, ‘immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog!’

As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace.

‘Really, as if he had heard me,’ said the father, resuming his newspaper with a yawn. ‘Dear Ned!’

Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom his father gently waved his hand, and smiled.

‘Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?’ said Edward.

‘Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.—Have you breakfasted?’

‘Three hours ago.’

‘What a very early dog!’ cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick, with a languid smile.

‘The truth is,’ said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating himself near the table, ‘that I slept but ill last night, and was glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and it is upon that I wish to speak.’

‘My dear boy,’ returned his father, ‘confide in me, I beg. But you know my constitution—don’t be prosy, Ned.’

‘I will be plain, and brief,’ said Edward.

‘Don’t say you will, my good fellow,’ returned his father, crossing his legs, ‘or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me’—

‘Plainly this, then,’ said the son, with an air of great concern, ‘that I know where you were last night—from being on the spot, indeed—and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.’

‘You don’t say so!’ cried his father. ‘I am delighted to hear it. It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very house! Why didn’t you come up? I should have been charmed to see you.’

‘I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night’s reflection, when both of us were cool,’ returned the son.

‘’Fore Gad, Ned,’ rejoined the father, ‘I was cool enough last night. That detestable Maypole! By some infernal contrivance of the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm. But you were saying’—

Capitolo 15

Alle mattine del giorno seguente, l’ospite di John Willet si soffermò a colazione nella sua stessa casa, circondato da ogni sorta di comodità; tutto ciò faceva sembrare l’ostello “Maypole” molto inferiore, e le sue condizioni molto meno favorevoli rispetto a quelle dell’onorata taverna.

Nella vasta e vecchio stile poltrona accanto alla finestra – tanto spaziosa quanto molti divani moderni, e imbottita al punto da fungere da lussuoso divano – nella grande e vecchio stile poltrona accanto alla finestra di una stanza ampiamente arredata, il signor Chester si rilassava, estremamente a suo agio, davanti a un tavolo da colazione ben attrezzato. Si era cambiato il cappotto da cavaliere con un elegante abito da mattina, gli stivali con pantofole; aveva fatto di tutto per compensare il fatto di essere stato costretto a lavarsi al risveglio senza l’aiuto di valigia o attrezzatura da toeletta; e, gradualmente dimenticando i disagi causati da una notte insonne e da una cavalcata mattutina, si trovava in uno stato di perfetta soddisfazione, indolenza e tranquillità.

La situazione in cui si trovava era davvero particolarmente favorevole allo sviluppo di questi sentimenti; infatti, a parte l’influenza negativa di una colazione tardiva e solitaria, nonché del effetto rilassante dei giornali, il luogo dove viveva aveva un’atmosfera di tranquillità particolare, che persiste ancora oggi, anche quando è molto più movimentato rispetto a un tempo.

Ci sono ancora posti peggiori del Tempio, in una giornata afosa, per godersi il sole o riposare pigramente all’ombra. Nei suoi cortili aleggia ancora una certa sonnolenza, e nei suoi alberi e giardini c’è un’atmosfera sognante e tranquilla; coloro che camminano lungo i suoi viali possono ancora sentire l’eco dei loro passi sulle pietre, e leggere sui suoi portali, mentre passano dal trambusto di Strand o Fleet Street, la scritta: “Chi entra qui lascia indietro il rumore”. Nel bel cortile della Fontana risuona ancora il plash dell’acqua che cade, e ci sono ancora angoli nascosti dove studenti solitari possono guardare giù dalle loro soffitte polverose, verso un raggio di sole che illumina l’ombra degli alti edifici, senza che spesso venga disturbato dal riflesso della figura di uno sconosciuto di passaggio. Nel Tempio c’è ancora quell’atmosfera da monaco impiegatucolo, che gli uffici legali pubblici non sono riusciti a disturbare, e nemmeno le studi legali sono stati in grado di spaventarla via. Nella stagione estiva, le sue fontane fanno pensare agli oziosi assetati a sorgenti più fresche, più limpide e più profonde delle altre; mentre osservano le gocce d’acqua che cadono sul terreno caldo, respirano la loro freschezza, e, sospirando, guardano verso il Tamigi, pensando a bagni e barche, e continuano a camminare, scoraggiati.

Era in una stanza situata nei “Paper Buildings” – una serie di graziosi appartamenti ombreggiati da alberi antichi, e dal quale si poteva ammirare, sul lato posteriore, il Templo Gardens – che questo nostro pigro se ne stava sdraiato; a volte riprendeva in mano quel foglio di carta che aveva già messo da parte centinaia di volte, altre volte giocava con i resti del suo pasto, altre ancora tirava fuori il suo bastoncino d’oro e osservava con calma l’interno della stanza o guardava fuori dalla finestra verso i curatissimi sentieri del giardino, dove alcuni primi visitatori già camminavano avanti e indietro. Lì, una coppia di innamorati iniziava a litigare per poi riconciliarsi; là, una cameriera dai capelli scuri trovava gli uomini del Templo più attraenti dei bambini che le erano affidati; da un lato, un’anziana zitella, con il suo cagnolino al guinzaglio, guardava con disprezzo entrambe queste situazioni; dall’altro lato, un vecchio magro e rugoso, fissando la cameriera con occhi lascivi, guardava allo stesso modo con disprezzo anche la zitella, chiedendosi come potesse non rendersi conto di essere ormai anziana. Oltre a tutti questi, sulla riva del fiume, due o tre coppie impegnate in conversazioni serie camminavano avanti e indietro; e un giovane sedeva pensieroso su una panchina, da solo.

“Ned è incredibilmente paziente!” disse il signor Chester, lanciando un’occhiata a quella persona menzionata per ultimo mentre posava la tazza di tè e si dedicava all’uso del suo stuzzicadenti d’oro. “Davvero estremamente paziente! Stava seduto laggiù quando ho iniziato a vestirmi, e da allora non ha quasi cambiato posizione. Un cane davvero eccentrico, ”

Mentre parlava, la figura si alzò in piedi e gli si avvicinò a passo rapido.

“Davvero, come se mi avesse sentito,” disse il padre, riprendendo a leggere il giornale con un sbadiglio. “Caro Ned!”

In quel momento la porta della stanza si aprì e il giovane entrò; suo padre gli fece un cenno con la mano e sorrise.

“È libero di dedicarmi qualche minuto, signore?”, chiese Edward.

“Certo, Ned. Sono sempre libero; conosci la mia costituzione. Hai già fatto colazione?”

“Tre ore fa.”

“Che cane davvero molto giovane!” esclamò suo padre, osservandolo da dietro il bastoncino da denti, con un sorriso pigro.

“La verità è,” disse Edward, avvicinando una sedia e sedendosi vicino al tavolo, “che ieri notte ho dormito molto male e sono stato felice di alzarmi. La causa della mia inquietudine deve necessariamente essere nota a voi, signore; ed è proprio di questo che desidero parlare.”

“Mio caro ragazzo,” rispose suo padre, “confidati in me, te lo prego. Ma conosci la mia costituzione. Non essere noioso, Ned.”

“Sarò chiaro e conciso,” disse Edward.

“Non dire che lo farai, mio caro,” rispose suo padre, incrociando le gambe, “altrimenti sicuramente non lo farai. Dimmi piuttosto, ”

“Quindi, in parole povere,” disse il figlio con un tono molto preoccupato, “so dove ti trovavi la scorsa notte, perché ero proprio lì, so anche chi hai visto e quale fosse il tuo scopo.”

“Davvero!” esclamò suo padre. “Sono molto felice di saperlo. Ci risparmia l’angoscia e lo sforzo di dover dare spiegazioni lunghe e noiose, ed è un grande sollievo per entrambi. Proprio a casa! Perché non sei salito? Sarei stato felicissimo di vederti.”

“Sapevo che ciò che dovevo dire sarebbe stato meglio espresso dopo una notte di riflessione, quando entrambi fossimo stati più calmi,” rispose il figlio.

“Per tutti i santi, Ned,” riprese il padre, “ieri sera sono stato davvero abbastanza calmo. Quel maledetto albero di maggio! Per qualche strana invenzione del costruttore, trattiene il vento e lo mantiene fresco. Ricordi quel forte vento da est che soffiò cinque settimane fa? Te lo giuro: quella notte, nonostante fuori regnasse la calma assoluta, in quella vecchia casa il vento soffiava impetuosamente. Ma tu stavi dicendo, ”

‘I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment?’

‘My dear Ned,’ said his father, ‘I will hear you with the patience of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.’

‘I saw Miss Haredale last night,’ Edward resumed, when he had complied with this request; ‘her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.’

‘For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not accountable,’ said his father. ‘That you must excuse. He is a mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life.—Positively a fly in the jug. The first I have seen this year.’

Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his tea.

‘Father,’ said the young man, stopping at length before him, ‘we must not trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves. Let me pursue the manly open part I wish to take, and do not repel me by this unkind indifference.’

‘Whether I am indifferent or no,’ returned the other, ‘I leave you, my dear boy, to judge. A ride of twenty-five or thirty miles, through miry roads—a Maypole dinner—a tete-a-tete with Haredale, which, vanity apart, was quite a Valentine and Orson business—a Maypole bed—a Maypole landlord, and a Maypole retinue of idiots and centaurs;—whether the voluntary endurance of these things looks like indifference, dear Ned, or like the excessive anxiety, and devotion, and all that sort of thing, of a parent, you shall determine for yourself.’

‘I wish you to consider, sir,’ said Edward, ‘in what a cruel situation I am placed. Loving Miss Haredale as I do’—

‘My dear fellow,’ interrupted his father with a compassionate smile, ‘you do nothing of the kind. You don’t know anything about it. There’s no such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for it. You have good sense, Ned,—great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise me.’

‘I repeat,’ said his son firmly, ‘that I love her. You have interposed to part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told you of, succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold us asunder if you can?’

‘My dear Ned,’ returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing his box towards him, ‘that is my purpose most undoubtedly.’

‘The time that has elapsed,’ rejoined his son, ‘since I began to know her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it? From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large, and my expectations almost without a limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise themselves to riches and distinction, as being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no resource but in your favour. In this momentous question of my life we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from the motives of interest and gain which have rendered them in your eyes visible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus much plain-speaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine, indeed. If I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, believe me father, in the hope that there may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence between us in time to come.’

‘My good fellow,’ said his smiling father, ‘you quite affect me. Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose.’

‘I am very sorry, sir.’

‘I am very sorry, too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind for any long period upon one subject. If you’ll come to the point at once, I’ll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it said. Oblige me with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.’

‘What I would say then, tends to this,’ said Edward. ‘I cannot bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it. Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I possess, to some worthy pursuit? Will you let me try to make for myself an honourable path in life? For any term you please to name—say for five years if you will—I will pledge myself to move no further in the matter of our difference without your full concurrence. During that period, I will endeavour earnestly and patiently, if ever man did, to open some prospect for myself, and free you from the burden you fear I should become if I married one whose worth and beauty are her chief endowments. Will you do this, sir? At the expiration of the term we agree upon, let us discuss this subject again. Till then, unless it is revived by you, let it never be renewed between us.’

‘My dear Ned,’ returned his father, laying down the newspaper at which he had been glancing carelessly, and throwing himself back in the window-seat, ‘I believe you know how very much I dislike what are called family affairs, which are only fit for plebeian Christmas days, and have no manner of business with people of our condition. But as you are proceeding upon a mistake, Ned—altogether upon a mistake—I will conquer my repugnance to entering on such matters, and give you a perfectly plain and candid answer, if you will do me the favour to shut the door.’

“Stavo per dire, Dio sa quanto seriamente e sinceramente, che mi avete reso infelice. Signore, mi ascolterete per un momento?”

“Mio caro Ned,” disse suo padre, “ti ascolterò con la pazienza di un eremita. Per favore, dammi il latte.”

“Ho visto la signorina Haredale ieri sera,” riprese Edward dopo aver accettato questa richiesta; “suo zio, in sua presenza, subito dopo il vostro colloquio – e, come ovviamente so, a causa di esso – mi vietò l’ingresso in quella casa e, con circostanze umilianti che sicuramente sono colpa vostra, mi ordinò di andarmene immediatamente.”

“Per il modo in cui l’ha fatto, ti do la mia onore, Ned. Non ne sono responsabile,” disse suo padre. “Devi perdonarmi. È solo un contadino ignorante, un bruto senza alcuna educazione. Proprio come una mosca in una brocca. La prima che vedo quest’anno.”

Edward strappò un fiore di rosa e iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza; suo padre, imperturbabile, continuava a sorseggiare il tè.

“Padre,” disse il giovane, fermandosi finalmente davanti a lui, “non dobbiamo prendere questa questione alla leggera. Non dobbiamo ingannarci a vicenda, né ingannare noi stessi. Lasciami seguire la strada onesta e coraggiosa che desidero intraprendere; non respingermi con questa indifferenza crudele.”

“Che io sia indifferente o no,” rispose l’altro, “lascio che tu, mio caro ragazzo, ne giudichi. Venti-cinque o trenta miglia di viaggio su strade fangose, una cena legata alla festa di Maggio, un incontro privato con Haredale, che, a parte tutta questa vanità, era in realtà un vero e proprio appuntamento romantico tra Orson e Valentine, una notte trascorsa in mezzo a idioti e creature straordinarie. Che la volontaria sopportazione di tutte queste cose assomigli all’indifferenza, caro Ned, o piuttosto all’eccessiva ansia, devozione e tutto ciò che caratterizza un genitore, deciderai tu stesso.”

“Desidero che lei consideri, signore,” disse Edward, “in quale situazione crudele mi trovo. Amando come amo la signorina Haredale, ”

“Mio caro amico,” lo interruppe suo padre con un sorriso compassionevole, “tu non fai mai cose del genere. Non ne sai nulla, te lo assicuro. Non esiste niente del genere. Fidati della mia parola: hai buon senso, Ned, davvero molto buon senso. Mi meraviglio che tu possa commettere simili assurdità. Davvero mi sorprendi.”

“Ripeto,” disse suo figlio con fermezza, “che la amo. Voi vi siete intromessi per separarci, e, come vi ho appena detto, ci siete riusciti. Posso chiedervi, signore, di riflettere in futuro più favorevolmente sul nostro legame, oppure è davvero vostra intenzione e vostra determinazione tenerci separati a tutti i costi?”

“Mio caro Ned,” rispose suo padre, prendendo un pizzico di tabacco e spingendogli la scatola verso di lui, “quello è senza dubbio il mio scopo.”

“Il tempo che è trascorso,” rispose suo figlio, “da quando ho iniziato a comprendere il vero valore di lei, è volato via come in un sogno; fino ad ora non mi sono mai soffermato a riflettere sulla mia vera posizione. Che cosa sono io? Fin da bambino sono abituato al lusso e all’ozio; sono stato cresciuto come se la mia fortuna fosse enorme e le mie aspettative quasi illimitate. L’idea della ricchezza mi è stata familiare fin dalla culla. Mi è stato insegnato a considerare quei mezzi con cui gli uomini raggiungono la ricchezza e il successo come qualcosa che non riguarda me, né merita la mia attenzione. Sono stato educato in modo troppo lussuoso, e ora mi ritrovo completamente dipendente da te, senza alcuna risorsa se non il tuo favore. In questa questione fondamentale della mia vita, non ci accordiamo, e sembra che non possiamo mai farlo. Ho sempre evitato istintivamente coloro verso cui tu mi hai incoraggiato a rivolgere le mie attenzioni, così come i motivi di interesse e guadagno che, ai tuoi occhi, li rendevano degni oggetti delle mie cortesie. Se prima non c’è mai stata tanta franchezza tra noi, signore, la colpa non è stata mia. Se ora parlo troppo apertamente, credimi, padre, è nella speranza che in futuro possa esserci un rapporto più sincero, una fiducia più profonda e un dialogo più franco tra di noi.”

“Mio caro amico,” disse suo padre sorridendo, “mi commuovi davvero. Continua, mio caro Edward, te ne prego. Ma ricorda la tua promessa. C’è grande serietà, immensa onestà, una sincerenza evidente in tutto ciò che dici. Tuttavia temo di notare i più lievi segni di una tendenza a diventare prolisso nel parlare.”

“Mi dispiace molto, signore.”

“Mi dispiace molto anch’io, Ned, ma sai che non riesco a concentrarmi per lunghi periodi su un solo argomento. Se vuoi venire al dunque subito, immaginerò tutto ciò che dovrebbe essere detto prima e concluderò la conversazione. Per favore, dammi di nuovo il latte. Ascoltare, inevitabilmente, mi fa venire la febbre.”

“Quello che vorrei dire, dunque, è questo,” disse Edward. “Non posso sopportare questa dipendenza assoluta, signore, nemmeno da parte vostra. Il tempo è stato sprecato e le opportunità perdute, ma sono ancora giovane e posso recuperare tutto. Mi darete la possibilità di dedicare le mie capacità e le mie energie a qualcosa di degno? Mi permetterete di cercare di costruirmi una vita onorevole? Per qualsiasi periodo voi decidiate, diciamo cinque anni, se volete, mi impegnerò a non procedere ulteriormente in questa questione senza il vostro pieno consenso. Durante quel lasso di tempo, farò del mio meglio, con determinazione e pazienza, per aprirmi nuove possibilità e liberarvi dal peso che temete possa derivare dal mio matrimonio con una donna la cui principale qualità sia il valore, e la bellezza.” “Lo farete, signore? Al termine di questo periodo concordato, ne ripareremo discorso. Fino ad allora, a meno che voi non riprendiate l’argomento, non ne parleremo mai più.”

“Mio caro Ned,” rispose suo padre, mettendo da parte il giornale che aveva sfogliato distrattamente e appoggiandosi allo schienale della poltrona accanto alla finestra, “so bene quanto io disprezzi quelle cosiddette ‘questioni familiari’, che sono adatte soltanto ai giorni di Natale delle persone comuni e non hanno alcuna rilevanza per persone della nostra condizione. Ma poiché stai commettendo un errore, Ned, un errore totale, supererò la mia avversione verso queste discussioni e ti darò una risposta chiara e onesta, se solo mi farai il favore di chiudere la porta.”

Edward having obeyed him, he took an elegant little knife from his pocket, and paring his nails, continued:

‘You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal—had nothing to boast of in that respect.’

‘Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,’ said Edward.

‘Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing—I have always closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his business did once involve cow-heel and sausages—he wished to marry his daughter into a good family. He had his heart’s desire, Ned. I was a younger son’s younger son, and I married her. We each had our object, and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to my comfort—quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone—how old are you? I always forget.’

‘Seven-and-twenty, sir.’

‘Are you indeed?’ cried his father, raising his eyelids in a languishing surprise. ‘So much! Then I should say, Ned, that as nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge, about eighteen or nineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in these chambers (once your grandfather’s, and bequeathed by that extremely respectable person to me), and commenced to live upon an inconsiderable annuity and my past reputation.’

‘You are jesting with me, sir,’ said Edward.

‘Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,’ returned his father with great composure. ‘These family topics are so extremely dry, that I am sorry to say they don’t admit of any such relief. It is for that reason, and because they have an appearance of business, that I dislike them so very much. Well! You know the rest. A son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion—that is to say, unless he is some two or three and twenty—is not the kind of thing to have about one. He is a restraint upon his father, his father is a restraint upon him, and they make each other mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last four years or so—I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will correct me in your own mind—you pursued your studies at a distance, and picked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such near relations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy, that if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported you to some distant part of the world.’

‘I wish with all my soul you had, sir,’ said Edward.

‘No you don’t, Ned,’ said his father coolly; ‘you are mistaken, I assure you. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threw you into the society I can still command. Having done that, my dear fellow, I consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely upon your doing something to provide for me in return.’

‘I do not understand your meaning, sir.’

‘My meaning, Ned, is obvious—I observe another fly in the cream-jug, but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, for their walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful and disagreeable—my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that you must marry well and make the most of yourself.’

‘A mere fortune-hunter!’ cried the son, indignantly.

‘What in the devil’s name, Ned, would you be!’ returned the father. ‘All men are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court, the camp—see how they are all crowded with fortune-hunters, jostling each other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate,—what but fortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-hunter! Yes. You ARE one; and you would be nothing else, my dear Ned, if you were the greatest courtier, lawyer, legislator, prelate, or merchant, in existence. If you are squeamish and moral, Ned, console yourself with the reflection that at the very worst your fortune-hunting can make but one person miserable or unhappy. How many people do you suppose these other kinds of huntsmen crush in following their sport—hundreds at a step? Or thousands?’

The young man leant his head upon his hand, and made no answer.

‘I am quite charmed,’ said the father rising, and walking slowly to and fro—stopping now and then to glance at himself in the mirror, or survey a picture through his glass, with the air of a connoisseur, ‘that we have had this conversation, Ned, unpromising as it was. It establishes a confidence between us which is quite delightful, and was certainly necessary, though how you can ever have mistaken our positions and designs, I confess I cannot understand. I conceived, until I found your fancy for this girl, that all these points were tacitly agreed upon between us.’

‘I knew you were embarrassed, sir,’ returned the son, raising his head for a moment, and then falling into his former attitude, ‘but I had no idea we were the beggared wretches you describe. How could I suppose it, bred as I have been; witnessing the life you have always led; and the appearance you have always made?’

‘My dear child,’ said the father—‘for you really talk so like a child that I must call you one—you were bred upon a careful principle; the very manner of your education, I assure you, maintained my credit surprisingly. As to the life I lead, I must lead it, Ned. I must have these little refinements about me. I have always been used to them, and I cannot exist without them. They must surround me, you observe, and therefore they are here. With regard to our circumstances, Ned, you may set your mind at rest upon that score. They are desperate. Your own appearance is by no means despicable, and our joint pocket-money alone devours our income. That’s the truth.’

Dato che Edward gli aveva obbedito, tirò fuori dal taschino un piccolo coltello elegante, si limò le unghie e continuò:

“Devi ringraziarmi, Ned, per il fatto che provengo da una buona famiglia; per tua madre, una persona incantevole com’era, e quasi distrutta dal dolore quando mi lasciò. Essendo stata costretta a diventare immortale in modo prematuro, non aveva proprio nulla di cui vantarsi in quel senso.”

“Suo padre era almeno un eminente avvocato, signore,” disse Edward.

‘Esattamente, Ned; perfettamente. Era una persona di rilievo nella società: aveva un nome importante e grande ricchezza, ma essendo partito da zero. Ho sempre cercato di ignorare questo aspetto della sua storia e di non pensarci affatto, ma temo che suo padre si occupasse del commercio della carne di maiale, e che in passato il suo business coinvolgesse anche prodotti come zoccoli di mucca e salsicce. Voleva quindi dare in sposa sua figlia a una buona famiglia. Aveva i suoi desideri, Ned. Io ero il figlio minore di un figlio minore, e così l’ho sposata. Ognuno di noi ha ottenuto ciò che voleva. Lei è entrata immediatamente nei circoli più eleganti e raffinati della società, e io ho ereditato una fortuna che, ti assicuro, era davvero necessaria per il mio benessere. Indispensabile. Ora, caro amico, quella fortuna appartiene al passato. È scomparsa, Ned. Quanti anni hai? Me lo dimentico sempre.’

“Ventisette, signore.”

“Davvero?” esclamò suo padre, sollevando le palpebre con un’espressione di sorpresa e stanchezza. “Così tanto. Allora devo dire, Ned, che per quanto ricordi, quelle vesti scomparvero dalla conoscenza umana circa diciotto o diciannove anni fa. Fu più o meno in quel periodo che venni a vivere in queste stanze (un tempo appartenenti a tuo nonno e lasciate in eredità a me da quella persona estremamente rispettabile), e iniziai a vivere di una modesta pensione e della mia reputazione passata.”

“Sta scherzando con me, signore,” disse Edward.

“Assolutamente no, te lo assicuro,” rispose suo padre con grande calma. “Questi argomenti familiari sono così estremamente noiosi che, purtroppo, non offrono alcun modo per alleviare la monotonia. È proprio per questo motivo, e perché hanno l’aspetto di questioni serie da affrontare, che li detesto tanto. Beh, conosci il resto. Un figlio, Ned, a meno che non sia abbastanza grande da poter essere considerato un compagno, cioè, a meno che non abbia circa ventitré o ventiquattro anni, non è certo la persona adatta da avere in casa. È un ostacolo per suo padre, e suo padre lo è per lui; insieme creano solo disagio reciproco. Per questo motivo, fino agli ultimi quattro anni circa – ho una memoria pessima per le date; se sbaglio, correggimi pure nella tua mente – hai proseguito i tuoi studi lontano da casa, acquisendo una grande varietà di conoscenze. Di tanto in tanto trascorrevamo insieme una o due settimane qui, e ci mettevamo a disagio a vicenda, come solo persone così strettamente legate possono fare. Alla fine sei tornato a casa. Te lo dico francamente, mio caro ragazzo: se fossi stato goffo o troppo cresciuto, ti avrei mandato in qualche parte lontana del mondo.”

“Con tutta la mia ‘anima desidererei che tu l’avessi, signore,” disse Edward.

“No, non è vero, Ned,” disse suo padre con calma; “ti sbagli, te lo assicuro. Ti ho trovato un giovane attraente, simpatico ed elegante, e ti ho introdotto nella società che ancora posso controllare. Facendo questo, caro mio, ritengo di averti fornito tutto ciò di cui hai bisogno nella vita. Ora dipende da te prenderti cura di me a tua volta.”

“Non capisco cosa intenda dire, signore.”

“Quello che intendo, Ned, è ovvio: noto un’altra mosca nella caraffa di panna, ma per favore non la togli come hai fatto con la prima. Il modo in cui camminano, quando le loro zampe sono bianche come il latte, è davvero poco elegante e sgradevole. Quello che voglio dire è che devi fare come ho fatto io: devi sposarti bene e realizzare al massimo il tuo potenziale.”

“Nient’altro che un cercatore di fortuna!” esclamò il figlio, indignato.

“Ma che diavolo stai cercando, Ned!” rispose il padre. “Tutti gli uomini, dopotutto, non sono forse cacciatori di fortuna? La legge, la chiesa, la corte, il mercato, vedi come siano pieni tutti quanti di persone che cercano disperatamente di arricchirsi, spingendosi a vicenda nella loro ricerca. La borsa valori, l’altare, la banca, la sala da pranzo reale, il senato, cosa altro se non un branco di cacciatori di fortuna? Tu ne sei uno, Ned. E saresti lo stesso anche se fossi il più importante cortigiano, avvocato, legislatore, prelato o mercante esistente. Se sei così schizzinoso e moralista, cerca almeno conforto nel pensiero che, nel peggiore dei casi, la tua ricerca della fortuna possa rendere solo una persona infelice. Quanti uomini, secondo te, questi altri ‘cacciatori’ distruggono lungo il loro cammino, centinaia, forse migliaia?”

Il giovane appoggiò la testa sulla mano e non rispose nulla.

“Sono davvero incantato,” disse il padre alzandosi e camminando lentamente avanti e indietro, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per guardarsi nello specchio o esaminare un dipinto attraverso il suo bicchiere, con l’aria di un intenditore. “Che abbiamo avuto questa conversazione, Ned, anche se poco promettente. Ha creato tra noi una fiducia davvero deliziosa, e certamente necessaria. Anche se non riesco proprio a capire come tu possa aver frainteso le nostre posizioni e i nostri piani. Fino a quando non ho scoperto la tua attrazione per questa ragazza, pensavo che tutti questi aspetti fossero stati tacitamente concordati tra noi.”

“Sapevo che vi sentivate imbarazzati, signore,” rispose il figlio, alzando per un momento la testa, poi riprendendo il suo solito atteggiamento, “ma non avevo idea che fossimo quelle misere creature descritte da voi. Come avrei potuto pensarlo, data la mia educazione, vedendo la vita che avete sempre condotto e l’aspetto che avete sempre presentato?”

“Mio caro bambino,” disse il padre, “perché davvero parli come un bambino, tanto che devo chiamarti così. Sei stato educato secondo principi molto precisi; il modo stesso in cui sei stato istruito, ti assicuro, ha mantenuto la mia reputazione in modo sorprendente. Per quanto riguarda la vita che conduco, devo viverla così, Ned. Ho bisogno di queste piccole raffinatezze intorno a me; ci sono abituato da sempre e non posso fare a meno di esse. Devono circondarmi, capisci. E quindi ci sono.” “Per quanto riguarda le nostre condizioni finanziarie, Ned, puoi stare tranquillo: sono disperate. Anche il tuo aspetto personale non è affatto disprezzabile. E i nostri risparmi, da soli, consumano tutto il nostro reddito. Questa è la verità.”

‘Why have I never known this before? Why have you encouraged me, sir, to an expenditure and mode of life to which we have no right or title?’

‘My good fellow,’ returned his father more compassionately than ever, ‘if you made no appearance, how could you possibly succeed in the pursuit for which I destined you? As to our mode of life, every man has a right to live in the best way he can; and to make himself as comfortable as he can, or he is an unnatural scoundrel. Our debts, I grant, are very great, and therefore it the more behoves you, as a young man of principle and honour, to pay them off as speedily as possible.’

‘The villain’s part,’ muttered Edward, ‘that I have unconsciously played! I to win the heart of Emma Haredale! I would, for her sake, I had died first!’

‘I am glad you see, Ned,’ returned his father, ‘how perfectly self-evident it is, that nothing can be done in that quarter. But apart from this, and the necessity of your speedily bestowing yourself on another (as you know you could to-morrow, if you chose), I wish you’d look upon it pleasantly. In a religious point of view alone, how could you ever think of uniting yourself to a Catholic, unless she was amazingly rich? You ought to be so very Protestant, coming of such a Protestant family as you do. Let us be moral, Ned, or we are nothing. Even if one could set that objection aside, which is impossible, we come to another which is quite conclusive. The very idea of marrying a girl whose father was killed, like meat! Good God, Ned, how disagreeable! Consider the impossibility of having any respect for your father-in-law under such unpleasant circumstances—think of his having been “viewed” by jurors, and “sat upon” by coroners, and of his very doubtful position in the family ever afterwards. It seems to me such an indelicate sort of thing that I really think the girl ought to have been put to death by the state to prevent its happening. But I tease you perhaps. You would rather be alone? My dear Ned, most willingly. God bless you. I shall be going out presently, but we shall meet to-night, or if not to-night, certainly to-morrow. Take care of yourself in the mean time, for both our sakes. You are a person of great consequence to me, Ned—of vast consequence indeed. God bless you!’

With these words, the father, who had been arranging his cravat in the glass, while he uttered them in a disconnected careless manner, withdrew, humming a tune as he went. The son, who had appeared so lost in thought as not to hear or understand them, remained quite still and silent. After the lapse of half an hour or so, the elder Chester, gaily dressed, went out. The younger still sat with his head resting on his hands, in what appeared to be a kind of stupor.

“Perché non lo sapevo mai prima? Perché mi avete incoraggiato, signore, a intraprendere spese e ad adottare uno stile di vita per cui non abbiamo alcun diritto o titolo?”

“Mio caro ragazzo,” rispose suo padre con più compassione che mai, “se non ti fossi fatto vedere, come avresti potuto riuscire nell’impresa per la quale ti ho destinato? Per quanto riguarda il nostro modo di vivere, ognuno ha il diritto di cercare di vivere nel miglior modo possibile e di rendersi la vita il più confortevole che può; altrimenti sarebbe davvero un individuo spregevole. Ammetto che i nostri debiti siano molto grandi, ed è proprio per questo che spetta ancora di più a te, come giovane uomo di principi e onore, saldarli il prima possibile.”

“La parte del ‘cattivo’, ”, mormorò Edward, “che ho interpretato senza rendermene conto! Per conquistare il cuore di Emma Haredale. Avrei fatto qualsiasi cosa, per lei. Anzi, sarei morto volentieri!”

“Sono contento che tu veda, Ned,” rispose suo padre, “quanto sia evidente che non si può fare assolutamente nulla in quella direzione. Ma a parte questo, e considerando la necessità che tu ti impegni al più presto con un’altra ragazza (come sai, potresti farlo domani, se lo desiderassi), vorrei che tu prendessi la cosa con serenità. Dal punto di vista religioso soltanto, come potresti mai considerare l’idea di sposare una cattolica, a meno che lei non fosse incredibilmente ricca? Dopo tutto, sei un protestante, e provieni da una famiglia protestante. Dobbiamo essere morali, Ned; altrimenti non siamo nulla. Anche se si potesse mettere da parte quell’obiezione – il che è impossibile – ne esistono altre molto più convincenti. L’idea stessa di sposare una ragazza la cui famiglia ha subito un simile dolore. Buon Dio, Ned, quanto sia spiacevole! Pensa solo all’impossibilità di rispettare tuo suocero in circostanze così sgradevoli. Immagina come sia stato “esaminato” dai giurati, “interrogato” dai medici legali. E poi, considera la sua posizione molto dubbia all’interno della famiglia. A mio parere, sarebbe stato meglio che quella ragazza venisse uccisa dallo Stato, per evitare tutto ciò. Ma forse ti sto prendendo in giro. Preferiresti rimanere da solo? Mio caro Ned, con piacere. Che Dio ti benedica. Uscirò tra poco, ma ci incontreremo stasera, o al massimo domani. Prenditi cura di te nel frattempo, per il nostro bene entrambi. Sei una persona molto importante per me, Ned, davvero molto importante. Che Dio ti benedica!”

Con queste parole, il padre – che intanto sistemava la sua cravatta nel bicchiere, pronunciandole in modo distratto e negligente – se ne andò, canticchiando una melodia. Il figlio, che sembrava così immerso nei suoi pensieri da non averle nemmeno sentite o capite, rimase immobile e in silenzio. Dopo circa mezz’ora, il signor Chester più anziano uscì, vestito con eleganza; il figlio minore, invece, continuava a sedere con la testa tra le mani, in quello che sembrava uno stato di stordimento.

Chapter 16

A series of pictures representing the streets of London in the night, even at the comparatively recent date of this tale, would present to the eye something so very different in character from the reality which is witnessed in these times, that it would be difficult for the beholder to recognise his most familiar walks in the altered aspect of little more than half a century ago.

They were, one and all, from the broadest and best to the narrowest and least frequented, very dark. The oil and cotton lamps, though regularly trimmed twice or thrice in the long winter nights, burnt feebly at the best; and at a late hour, when they were unassisted by the lamps and candles in the shops, cast but a narrow track of doubtful light upon the footway, leaving the projecting doors and house-fronts in the deepest gloom. Many of the courts and lanes were left in total darkness; those of the meaner sort, where one glimmering light twinkled for a score of houses, being favoured in no slight degree. Even in these places, the inhabitants had often good reason for extinguishing their lamp as soon as it was lighted; and the watch being utterly inefficient and powerless to prevent them, they did so at their pleasure. Thus, in the lightest thoroughfares, there was at every turn some obscure and dangerous spot whither a thief might fly or shelter, and few would care to follow; and the city being belted round by fields, green lanes, waste grounds, and lonely roads, dividing it at that time from the suburbs that have joined it since, escape, even where the pursuit was hot, was rendered easy.

It is no wonder that with these favouring circumstances in full and constant operation, street robberies, often accompanied by cruel wounds, and not unfrequently by loss of life, should have been of nightly occurrence in the very heart of London, or that quiet folks should have had great dread of traversing its streets after the shops were closed. It was not unusual for those who wended home alone at midnight, to keep the middle of the road, the better to guard against surprise from lurking footpads; few would venture to repair at a late hour to Kentish Town or Hampstead, or even to Kensington or Chelsea, unarmed and unattended; while he who had been loudest and most valiant at the supper-table or the tavern, and had but a mile or so to go, was glad to fee a link-boy to escort him home.

There were many other characteristics—not quite so disagreeable—about the thoroughfares of London then, with which they had been long familiar. Some of the shops, especially those to the eastward of Temple Bar, still adhered to the old practice of hanging out a sign; and the creaking and swinging of these boards in their iron frames on windy nights, formed a strange and mournful concert for the ears of those who lay awake in bed or hurried through the streets. Long stands of hackney-chairs and groups of chairmen, compared with whom the coachmen of our day are gentle and polite, obstructed the way and filled the air with clamour; night-cellars, indicated by a little stream of light crossing the pavement, and stretching out half-way into the road, and by the stifled roar of voices from below, yawned for the reception and entertainment of the most abandoned of both sexes; under every shed and bulk small groups of link-boys gamed away the earnings of the day; or one more weary than the rest, gave way to sleep, and let the fragment of his torch fall hissing on the puddled ground.

Then there was the watch with staff and lantern crying the hour, and the kind of weather; and those who woke up at his voice and turned them round in bed, were glad to hear it rained, or snowed, or blew, or froze, for very comfort’s sake. The solitary passenger was startled by the chairmen’s cry of ‘By your leave there!’ as two came trotting past him with their empty vehicle—carried backwards to show its being disengaged—and hurried to the nearest stand. Many a private chair, too, inclosing some fine lady, monstrously hooped and furbelowed, and preceded by running-footmen bearing flambeaux—for which extinguishers are yet suspended before the doors of a few houses of the better sort—made the way gay and light as it danced along, and darker and more dismal when it had passed. It was not unusual for these running gentry, who carried it with a very high hand, to quarrel in the servants’ hall while waiting for their masters and mistresses; and, falling to blows either there or in the street without, to strew the place of skirmish with hair-powder, fragments of bag-wigs, and scattered nosegays. Gaming, the vice which ran so high among all classes (the fashion being of course set by the upper), was generally the cause of these disputes; for cards and dice were as openly used, and worked as much mischief, and yielded as much excitement below stairs, as above. While incidents like these, arising out of drums and masquerades and parties at quadrille, were passing at the west end of the town, heavy stagecoaches and scarce heavier waggons were lumbering slowly towards the city, the coachmen, guard, and passengers, armed to the teeth, and the coach—a day or so perhaps behind its time, but that was nothing—despoiled by highwaymen; who made no scruple to attack, alone and single-handed, a whole caravan of goods and men, and sometimes shot a passenger or two, and were sometimes shot themselves, as the case might be. On the morrow, rumours of this new act of daring on the road yielded matter for a few hours’ conversation through the town, and a Public Progress of some fine gentleman (half-drunk) to Tyburn, dressed in the newest fashion, and damning the ordinary with unspeakable gallantry and grace, furnished to the populace, at once a pleasant excitement and a wholesome and profound example.

Capitolo 16

Una serie di immagini che raffigurano le strade di Londra di notte, anche nella data relativamente recente di questa storia, presenterebbero qualcosa di molto diverso rispetto alla realtà attuale; sarebbe quindi difficile per chi le osserva riconoscere i luoghi più familiari, nel loro aspetto modificato di poco più di mezzo secolo fa.

Erano tutti, dal più ampio e frequentato al più stretto e poco battuto, molto bui. Le lampade a olio e a cotone, sebbene venissero regolarmente pulite due o tre volte durante le lunghe notti invernali, bruciavano debolmente, nel migliore dei casi; e a tarda ora, quando non erano aiutate dalle luci delle botteghe, proiettavano solo un sottile raggio di luce incerta sul marciapiede, lasciando le porte sporgenti e i frontoni delle case immersi nella più profonda oscurità. Molti cortili e vicoli rimanevano completamente al buio; quelli delle zone più povere, dove una debole luce brillava in un raggio di venti o tre case, erano però un po’ più fortunati. Anche in questi luoghi, gli abitanti avevano spesso buone ragioni per spegnere la lampada non appena veniva accesa; e poiché la vigilanza era assolutamente inefficace e incapace di impedirlo, lo facevano a piacimento. Così, anche nelle strade più illuminate, all’angolo di ogni via c’era qualche punto oscuro e pericoloso dove un ladro poteva nascondersi o fuggire; pochi avrebbero voluto seguirlo. Inoltre, la città era circondata da campi, sentieri verdi, terreni incolti e strade deserte, il che rendeva facile la fuga, anche quando le ricerche erano intense.

Non è affatto sorprendente che, con queste circostanze favorevoli in pieno e costante funzionamento, i furti in strada, spesso accompagnati da ferite gravi e non di rado dalla perdita della vita, avvenissero ogni notte nel cuore stesso di Londra, o che le persone tranquille provassero grande paura ad attraversare le sue strade dopo la chiusura dei negozi. Non era insolito che coloro che tornavano a casa da soli a mezzanotte preferissero percorrere il centro della strada, per essere meglio protetti da eventuali aggressori nascosti; pochi avrebbero osato recarsi tardi nella zona di Kentish Town o Hampstead, o persino in Kensington o Chelsea, senza armi e senza scorta; mentre colui che, a tavola o al bar, era stato il più rumoroso e coraggioso, e aveva soltanto un miglio da percorrere, era felice di pagare un ragazzo perché lo accompagnasse a casa.

C’erano molte altre caratteristiche – non del tutto sgradevoli – nelle strade di Londra di allora, con cui le persone erano ormai da tempo abituate. Alcuni negozi, soprattutto quelli situati a est di Temple Bar, continuavano ancora ad attenersi alla vecchia pratica di esporre in vetrina i propri prodotti; il cigolio e il dondolio di queste insegne nei loro telai di ferro, nelle notti ventose, creavano un suono strano e malinconico per chi restava sveglio a letto o si affrettava per le strade. Lunghe file di calessini e gruppi di cocchieri – rispetto ai quali i conducenti di oggi sembrano gentili e educati – ostruivano il passaggio e riempivano l’aria di rumore; le taverne, riconoscibili da un debole filo di luce che filtrava dal pavimento e si estendeva per metà della strada, e dal rumore soffocato delle voci provenienti dall’interno, offrivano rifugio e divertimenti ai più disperati, sia uomini che donne; sotto ogni tettoia o edificio, piccoli gruppi di ragazzi passavano il tempo giocando, sprecando così i guadagni della giornata; oppure qualcuno, più stanco degli altri, cedeva al sonno, lasciando che i resti della sua torcia cadessero sibilando sul terreno fangoso.

C’era poi l’orologio munito di campanello e lanterna che annunciava l’ora; c’era anche il tipo di tempo che regnava. Coloro che si svegliavano al suono dell’orologio e si giravano nel letto erano felici di sentire che pioveva, nevicava, soffiava vento o faceva freddo, tutto ciò per il semplice piacere di sentirlo. Il viaggiatore solitario fu sorpreso dal grido dei conducenti “Con il vostro permesso!”, mentre due di loro gli passavano accanto di corsa con il loro veicolo vuoto, il che significava che erano appena stati rilasciati da un incarico precedente, e si affrettavano verso la fermata più vicina. Molti altri veicoli privati, trasportando signore eleganti, bardate con abiti sfarzosi e seguite da servitori che portavano torce, le cui estintrici erano ancora appese davanti alle porte di alcune case più raffinate, rendevano il percorso vivace e luminoso quando passavano; ma diventava buio e cupo dopo il loro passaggio. Non era insolito che questi servitori, che trasportavano tali veicoli con grande arroganza, litigassero nella sala dei domestici mentre aspettavano i loro padroni. E a volte, sia lì che in strada, finivano per picchiarsi, spargendo dappertutto polvere per capelli, frammenti di parrucche e mazzi di fiori. Il gioco d’azzardo, vizio molto diffuso in tutte le classi sociali (e naturalmente introdotto dalle classi più elevate), era solitamente la causa di queste dispute. Carte da gioco e dadi venivano usati apertamente, causavano molti problemi e creavano altrettanta eccitazione sia al di sotto che al di sopra delle scale. Mentre eventi del genere, derivanti da tamburi, mascherate e feste, si verificavano nella parte ovest della città, pesanti carrozze viaggiavano lentamente verso la >città; i cocchieri, le guardie e i passeggeri, armati fino ai denti, e la stessa carrozza, forse un po’ in ritardo rispetto all’orario previsto, ma questo non era nulla, venivano spesso assaliti da banditi di strada, che non esitavano ad attaccare un intero convoglio di merci e persone, a volte uccidendo uno o due passeggeri, e a volte venendo loro stessi colpiti a morte, a seconda delle circostanze. Il giorno dopo, voci su questi nuovi atti di audacia lungo la strada fornivano argomento per chiacchiere per alcune ore in tutta la città. E la processione pubblica di alcuni gentiluomini ubriachi, vestiti all’ultima moda, che andavano a Tyburn, condannando con parole sprezzanti e modi affettati le persone comuni, offriva al popolo un piacevole spettacolo, oltre ad essere un esempio salutare e profondo da seguire.

Among all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society, prowled and skulked in the metropolis at night, there was one man from whom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question often asked, but which none could answer. His name was unknown, he had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts, and was equally a stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose haunts he ventured fearlessly, as to the young. He could be no spy, for he never removed his slouched hat to look about him, entered into conversation with no man, heeded nothing that passed, listened to no discourse, regarded nobody that came or went. But so surely as the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the midst of the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every grade resorted; and there he sat till morning.

He was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts; a something in the midst of their revelry and riot that chilled and haunted them; but out of doors he was the same. Directly it was dark, he was abroad—never in company with any one, but always alone; never lingering or loitering, but always walking swiftly; and looking (so they said who had seen him) over his shoulder from time to time, and as he did so quickening his pace. In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quarters of the town—east, west, north, and south—that man was seen gliding on like a shadow. He was always hurrying away. Those who encountered him, saw him steal past, caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the darkness.

This constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to strange stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at times so nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether there were not two of them, or more—some, whether he had not unearthly means of travelling from spot to spot. The footpad hiding in a ditch had marked him passing like a ghost along its brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark high-road; the beggar had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and then sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies with the surgeons could swear he slept in churchyards, and that they had beheld him glide away among the tombs on their approach. And as they told these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them.

At last, one man—he was one of those whose commerce lay among the graves—resolved to question this strange companion. Next night, when he had eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do that, they had observed, as though he had no other in the day), this fellow sat down at his elbow.

‘A black night, master!’

‘It is a black night.’

‘Blacker than last, though that was pitchy too. Didn’t I pass you near the turnpike in the Oxford Road?’

‘It’s like you may. I don’t know.’

‘Come, come, master,’ cried the fellow, urged on by the looks of his comrades, and slapping him on the shoulder; ‘be more companionable and communicative. Be more the gentleman in this good company. There are tales among us that you have sold yourself to the devil, and I know not what.’

‘We all have, have we not?’ returned the stranger, looking up. ‘If we were fewer in number, perhaps he would give better wages.’

‘It goes rather hard with you, indeed,’ said the fellow, as the stranger disclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes. ‘What of that? Be merry, master. A stave of a roaring song now’—

‘Sing you, if you desire to hear one,’ replied the other, shaking him roughly off; ‘and don’t touch me if you’re a prudent man; I carry arms which go off easily—they have done so, before now—and make it dangerous for strangers who don’t know the trick of them, to lay hands upon me.’

‘Do you threaten?’ said the fellow.

‘Yes,’ returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking fiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack.

His voice, and look, and bearing—all expressive of the wildest recklessness and desperation—daunted while they repelled the bystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now, they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the Maypole Inn.

‘I am what you all are, and live as you all do,’ said the man sternly, after a short silence. ‘I am in hiding here like the rest, and if we were surprised would perhaps do my part with the best of ye. If it’s my humour to be left to myself, let me have it. Otherwise,’—and here he swore a tremendous oath—‘there’ll be mischief done in this place, though there ARE odds of a score against me.’

A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on the part of some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient precedent to meddle too curiously with a gentleman’s private affairs if he saw reason to conceal them, warned the fellow who had occasioned this discussion that he had best pursue it no further. After a short time the strange man lay down upon a bench to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was gone.

Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing the streets; he was before the locksmith’s house more than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwark. As he glided down a bye street, a woman with a little basket on her arm, turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her, he sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and followed.

She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered like her evil spirit; following her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven o’clock, and the passengers in the streets were thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom still followed her.

She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first, which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped, and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along on the other side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would have tracked her down.

At length the widow—for she it was—reached her own door, and, panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket. In a flush and glow, with the haste she had made, and the pleasure of being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her head, she saw him standing silently beside her: the apparition of a dream.

His hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue clove to its roof, and her power of utterance was gone. ‘I have been looking for you many nights. Is the house empty? Answer me. Is any one inside?’

She could only answer by a rattle in her throat.

‘Make me a sign.’

She seemed to indicate that there was no one there. He took the key, unlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully behind them.

Tra tutti quei personaggi pericolosi che, in un simile stato sociale, si aggiravano e si nascondevano nella metropoli di notte, c’era un uomo dal quale molti, per quanto rozzi e feroci fossero, provavano un timore involontario. Chi fosse o da dove venisse era una domanda che spesso veniva posta, ma a cui nessuno riusciva a rispondere. Il suo nome era sconosciuto; non era mai stato visto prima di circa otto giorni fa, ed era altrettanto estraneo sia ai vecchi delinquenti nei cui luoghi frequentava senza paura che ai giovani. Non poteva essere una spia, perché non si toglieva mai il cappello per guardarsi intorno, non intratteneva conversazioni con nessuno, non prestava attenzione a nulla di ciò che accadeva, non ascoltava discorsi e non osservava nessuno che andasse o venisse. Ma, con la stessa certezza con cui calava la notte, quell’uomo si trovava sempre nel mezzo della folla disordinata del “basso scantinato notturno”, dove si rifugiavano gli emarginati di ogni sorta; lì sedeva fino all’alba.

Non era soltanto un’ombra nelle loro feste dissolute; qualcosa che, nel mezzo dei loro eccessi e del loro tumulto, li faceva rabbrividire e li perseguitava. Ma anche all’aperto era lo stesso. Non appena calava la notte, lui era fuori casa: mai in compagnia di nessuno, sempre solo; mai indugiante o ozioso, ma sempre in movimento rapido. Si diceva che, quando li guardava alle spalle, accelerasse il passo. Nei campi, nei sentieri, sulle strade, in tutte le parti della città – est, ovest, nord, sud – si vedeva quell’uomo muoversi silenziosamente come un’ombra. Era sempre di fretta. Chi lo incontrava lo vedeva passare velocemente, notava quel suo sguardo indietro, e poi lo perdeva nella oscurità.

Quel continuo stato di inquietudine e quel correre avanti e indietro diedero origine a storie strane. Lo si vedeva in luoghi così lontani e remoti, talvolta in momenti che sembravano quasi coincidere, che alcuni dubitavano che non ci fossero due persone, o più. Alcuni pensavano persino che possedesse mezzi soprannaturali per spostarsi da un posto all’altro. Il ladro nascosto in un fossato lo aveva visto passare come un fantasma lungo il suo bordo; il vagabondo lo aveva incontrato sulla buia strada maestra; il mendicante lo aveva visto fermarsi sul ponte per guardare giù verso l’acqua, poi ripartire di corsa. Coloro che commerciavano in corpi con i chirurghi giuravano che dormisse nei cimiteri e che lo avessero visto allontanarsi tra le tombe al loro arrivo. E mentre si raccontavano queste storie, qualcuno che lo aveva osservato bene tirava il vicino per la manica. Ed eccolo lì, tra di loro.

Finalmente, un uomo – che faceva parte di coloro il cui commercio riguardava le tombe – decise di mettere in dubbio questo strano compagno. La notte seguente, dopo aver mangiato avidamente la sua misera cena (erano abituati a vederlo fare così, come se non avesse nulla da mangiare durante il giorno), si sedette al suo solito posto.

“In una notte nera, padrone!”

‘È una notte nera.’

“Più nero del precedente, anche se allora era già molto scuro. Non ti ho superato vicino al casello stradale sulla Oxford Strada?”

“È come se potessi. Non lo so.”

“Ma come, ma come, padrone,” gridò il ragazzo, spinto dallo sguardo dei suoi compagni e dandogli una pacca sulla spalla; “sii più socievole e comunicativo. Sii davvero un gentiluomo in questa bella compagnia. Tra di noi ci sono storie secondo cui ti sei venduto al diavolo. Chissà cosa sia vero.”

“Tutti noi ce l’abbiamo, non è vero?” rispose lo sconosciuto alzando lo sguardo. “Se fossimo in numero minore, forse ci darebbe salari migliori.”

“Con te le cose vanno davvero piuttosto dure,” disse l’uomo mentre lo sconosciuto mostrava il proprio volto stanco e non lavato, e i vestiti strappati. “E allora? Divertiti, padrone. Ora canta una canzone forte e sonora!”

“Canta pure, se desideri ascoltare qualcosa,” rispose l’altro, scuotendolo con forza; “e non toccarmi, se sei una persona prudente. Porto armi che si attivano facilmente. È già successo in passato. E sarebbe pericoloso per uno sconosciuto che non ne conosca il funzionamento provare a toccarmi.”

“Minacci mi stai?” disse quell’uomo.

“Sì,” rispose l’altro, alzandosi e girandosi verso di lui, guardando intorno con aria minacciosa, come se temesse un attacco imminente.

La sua voce, il suo aspetto, il suo modo di comportarsi, tutto esprimeva la più folle imprudenza e disperazione; questo spaventava coloro che assistevano alla scena, pur riuscendo allo stesso tempo a respingerli. Anche se ora si trovavano in un contesto molto diverso, non mancavano affatto di quell’effetto che avevano avuto all’osteria del Maypole Inn.

“Sono ciò che siete voi tutti, e vivo come vivete voi,” disse l’uomo con severità, dopo un breve silenzio. “Anch’io mi nascondo qui come gli altri, e se fossimo scoperti, forse farei la mia parte al meglio tra di voi. Se è il mio umore quello di stare da solo, lasciatemelo. Altrimenti, ” – e qui pronunciò un terribile giuramento – “ci saranno guai in questo posto, anche se le probabilità sono a mio sfavore.”

Un basso mormorio, forse nato dal timore di quell’uomo e del mistero che lo circondava, o forse derivante dall’opinione sincera di alcuni dei presenti secondo cui sarebbe stato inappropriato indagare troppo curiosamente negli affari privati di un gentiluomo se questi aveva motivo di nasconderli, avvertì colui che aveva scatenato questa discussione di non proseguirla oltre. Dopo poco tempo, l’uomo misterioso si sdraiò su una panchina per dormire; quando lo rividero, era già sparito.

La notte seguente, non appena calò il buio, uscì di nuovo e iniziò a percorrere le strade; più volte si trovò davanti alla casa del fabbro chiave, ma la famiglia non c’era e la porta era chiusa a chiave. Quella notte attraversò il Ponte di Londra e entrò nel quartiere di Southwark. Mentre percorreva una strada secondaria, una donna con un piccolo cestino in braccio svoltò nella stessa direzione all’altra estremità della strada. Non appena la notò, si nascose dietro un arco e rimase in attesa finché lei non fu passata; poi uscì cautamente dal suo nascondiglio e la seguì.

Entrò in diversi negozi per acquistare vari tipi di articoli per la casa; ovunque si fermasse, quell’essere malvagio la seguiva come un fantasma oscuro, riapparendo ogni volta che lei ricompariva. Erano quasi le undici; i passanti per strada erano ormai pochi quando lei girò, probabilmente per tornare a casa. Il fantasma continuava a seguirla.

Si diresse verso la stessa strada secondaria in cui l’aveva vista per la prima volta; quella strada, priva di negozi e stretta, era estremamente buia. Accelerò il passo, come se temesse di essere fermata e derubata dei piccoli oggetti che portava con sé. Lui procedeva furtivamente dall’altra parte della strada. Se solo lei avesse posseduto la velocità del vento, sembrava che la sua terribile ombra l’avrebbe comunque raggiunta.

Finalmente, la vedova – poiché era proprio lei – raggiunse la sua porta e, ansimante, si fermò per prendere la chiave dal cestino. Con il viso arrossato e illuminato dalla gioia di essere finalmente al casa, si chinò per prenderla, ma alzando lo sguardo, vide lui fermo silenziosamente accanto a lei: l’apparizione di un sogno.

La sua mano le copriva la bocca, ma era inutile, perché la sua lingua era attaccata al palato e lei non riusciva più a parlare. “Ti ho cercato per molte notti. La casa è vuota? Rispondimi. C’è qualcuno dentro?”

Riusciva a rispondere solo con un balbettio strozzato.

“Fammi un segno.”

Sembrava indicare che non ci fosse nessuno lì. Lui prese la chiave, aprì la porta, la portò dentro e la chiuse attentamente alle loro spalle.

Chapter 17

It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow’s parlour had burnt low. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes, raked them together and fanned them with his hat. From time to time he glanced at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of her remaining quiet and making no effort to depart; and that done, busied himself about the fire again.

It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress was dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shivered from head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous night and for some hours in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoever he had passed the hours of darkness, his condition sufficiently betokened that many of them had been spent beneath the open sky. Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs; his beard unshaven, his face unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows,—a more miserable wretch could hardly be, than this man who now cowered down upon the widow’s hearth, and watched the struggling flame with bloodshot eyes.

She had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to look towards him. So they remained for some short time in silence. Glancing round again, he asked at length:

‘Is this your house?’

‘It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?’

‘Give me meat and drink,’ he answered sullenly, ‘or I dare do more than that. The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and hunger. I must have warmth and food, and I will have them here.’

‘You were the robber on the Chigwell road.’

‘I was.’

‘And nearly a murderer then.’

‘The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised the hue-and-cry, that it would have gone hard with, but for his nimbleness. I made a thrust at him.’

‘You thrust your sword at HIM!’ cried the widow, looking upwards. ‘You hear this man! you hear and saw!’

He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands tight clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then, starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her.

‘Beware!’ she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped him midway. ‘Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are lost; body and soul, you are lost.’

‘Hear me,’ he replied, menacing her with his hand. ‘I, that in the form of a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am a spirit, a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, save those curst beings of another world, who will not leave me;—I am, in my desperation of this night, past all fear but that of the hell in which I exist from day to day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. I will not hurt you. But I will not be taken alive; and so surely as you threaten me above your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor. The blood with which I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of the Evil Spirit that tempts men to their ruin!’

As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched it in his hand.

‘Remove this man from me, good Heaven!’ cried the widow. ‘In thy grace and mercy, give him one minute’s penitence, and strike him dead!’

‘It has no such purpose,’ he said, confronting her. ‘It is deaf. Give me to eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing, and will not do for you.’

‘Will you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and return no more?’

‘I will promise nothing,’ he rejoined, seating himself at the table, ‘nothing but this—I will execute my threat if you betray me.’

She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room, brought out some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on the table. He asked for brandy, and for water. These she produced likewise; and he ate and drank with the voracity of a famished hound. All the time he was so engaged she kept at the uttermost distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her face towards him. She never turned her back upon him once; and although when she passed him (as she was obliged to do in going to and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of her garment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible to think of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept her face towards his own, and watched his every movement.

His repast ended—if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenous satisfying of the calls of hunger—he moved his chair towards the fire again, and warming himself before the blaze which had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once more.

‘I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommon luxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You live here at your ease. Do you live alone?’

‘I do not,’ she made answer with an effort.

‘Who dwells here besides?’

‘One—it is no matter who. You had best begone, or he may find you here. Why do you linger?’

‘For warmth,’ he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire. ‘For warmth. You are rich, perhaps?’

‘Very,’ she said faintly. ‘Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.’

‘At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You were making purchases to-night.’

‘I have a little left. It is but a few shillings.’

‘Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it to me.’

She stepped to the table and laid it down. He reached across, took it up, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him.

‘Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go before it is too late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know full well. It will return directly. Begone.’

Capitolo 17

Era una fredda notte, e il fuoco nel salotto della vedova si era spento quasi del tutto. Il suo strano compagno la fece sedere su una sedia, poi si chinò davanti alle ceneri semispente, le raccoglié insieme e le soffiò via con il cappello. Di tanto in tanto la guardava da sopra la spalla, come per assicurarsi che rimanesse tranquilla e non tentasse di andarsene; dopodiché riprese a occuparsi del fuoco.

Non senza motivo si dava tutta questa pena: i suoi vestiti erano fradici e bagnati, le mascelle tremavano dal freddo e tutto il suo corpo tremava. La notte precedente aveva piovuto forte e anche per alcune ore la mattina seguente; ma da mezzogiorno il tempo era migliorato. Ovunque avesse trascorso le ore buie, era evidente che molte di esse fossero state passate all’aperto. Impregnato di fango, i vestiti appiccicati al corpo per via dell’umidità, la barba incolta, il viso non lavato, le guance scavate dalla fame. Non poteva esistere una creatura più misera di quell’uomo che ora si rannicchiava davanti al focolare della vedova, osservando le fiamme tremolanti con occhi arrossati dal freddo e dalla stanchezza.

Si era coperta il viso con le mani, temendo, a quanto pare, di doverlo guardare. Così rimasero per un breve tempo in silenzio. Dopo essersi guardato intorno ancora una volta, alla fine chiese:

“È questa la tua casa?”

“È proprio così. Ma perché, per l’amor del cielo, lo oscurate?”

“Datemmi carne e bevande,” rispose in tono cupo, “altrimenti oso fare di più. La stessa midollo delle mie ossa è freddo, a causa del freddo e della fame. Devo avere calore e cibo. E li avrò qui.”

“Eri tu il ladro sulla strada di Chigwell.”

“Ero.”

“E quasi un assassino, ”

La volontà non mancava. Qualcuno si è avvicinato a me e ha iniziato a fare tutto il trambusto possibile; sarebbe andata male se non fosse stato per la sua prontezza. Ho tentato di attaccarlo.

“Gli punti la tua _spada addosso!” gridò la vedova, alzando lo sguardo. “Sentite quest’uomo. L’avete sentito e visto!”

La guardò mentre, con la testa gettata all’indietro e le mani strette forte una contro l’altra, pronunciava quelle parole con un’angoscia disperata. Poi, alzandosi in piedi proprio come aveva fatto lei, si avvicinò a lei.

“Attenti!” gridò lei con voce soffocata, ma decisa, che lo fece fermare all’istante. “Non osate nemmeno toccarmi con un dito, altrimenti siete perduti, corpo e anima, sarete perduti.”

“Ascoltami,” le rispose, minacciandola con la mano. “Io, che sotto forma umana conduco la vita di una bestia braccata; io, che nel mio corpo sono uno spirito, un fantasma sulla terra, qualcosa da cui tutte le creature fuggono, tranne quegli esseri maledetti di un altro mondo che non mi lasciano in pace. In questa mia disperazione notturna, non temo nulla se non l’inferno in cui vivo giorno dopo giorno. Avvisa chiunque, grida, rifiuta di darmi rifugio. Non ti farò del male. Ma non permetterò che mi prendano vivo. E giuro che, non appena minaccerai di nuovo, cadrò morto su questo pavimento. Il sangue con cui lo inonderò ricadrà su di te e sui tuoi cari. Nel nome dello Spirito Malvagio che tenta gli uomini alla rovina!”

Mentre parlava, estrasse una pistola dal petto e la strinse saldamente nella mano.

“Toglietemi quest’uomo di dosso, o buon Cielo!” gridò la vedova. “Con la tua grazia e la tua misericordia, concedigli un minuto di pentimento, e poi uccidilo!”

“Non ha alcuno scopo del genere,” disse, affrontandola. “È inutile. Dammi da mangiare e da bere, altrimenti farò ciò che non può aiutarmi e che non sarà di alcun beneficio per te.”

“Mi lascerai se faccio tutto questo? Mi lascerai e non tornerai più?”

“Non prometterò nulla,” rispose lui, sedendosi al tavolo,
“niente se non questo: manterrò la mia minaccia se mi tradisci.”

Finalmente lei si risvegliò, andò in un armadio o in una dispensa della stanza e ne tirò fuori alcuni pezzi di carne fredda e del pane, che mise sul tavolo. Lui chiese brandy e acqua; anche questi gli furono portati, e lui mangiò e bevve con la voracità di un cane affamato. Per tutto il tempo, lei rimase a una distanza massima dalla stanza, seduta lì, tremante, ma con il viso rivolto verso di lui. Non si girò mai le spalle; e anche quando doveva passargli accanto per andare all’armadio o tornare indietro, raccolgeva le falde del suo abito intorno a sé, come se anche il semplice contatto casuale con il suo corpo fosse qualcosa di orribile da immaginare. Eppure, nonostante tutto questo terrore e paura, continuò a tenere il viso rivolto verso di lui, osservando ogni sua mossa.

Il suo pasto era finito, se si può davvero definire così, poiché in realtà si trattava soltanto di un modo per saziare la fame. Riportò la sedia vicino al fuoco, si riscaldò al calore delle fiamme ormai vivide, e poi le si avvicinò di nuovo.

“Sono un escluso: per me avere un tetto sopra la testa è spesso un lusso raro, e il cibo che un mendicante rifiuterebbe è considerato prelibato. Tu vivi qui in tranquillità. Vivi da solo?”

“Non lo faccio,” rispose lei con sforzo.

“Chi altro abita qui?”

“Uno, non importa chi sia. È meglio che te ne vada, altrimenti potrebbe trovarti qui. Perché indugi?”

“Per scaldarmi,” rispose, aprendo le mani davanti al fuoco. “Per scaldarmi. Forse sei ricco?”

“Molto,” disse lei debolmente. “Molto ricca. Non ho alcun dubbio di essere molto ricca.”

“Almeno non sei senza un soldo. Hai del denaro. Facevi acquisti fino a tardi, di notte.”

“Mi sono rimasti solo pochi penny.”

“Dammi la tua borsa. L’avevi in mano alla porta. Dammela.”

Si avvicinò al tavolo e lo posizionò lì. Lui allungò la mano, lo prese e controllò il contenuto. Mentre li contava, lei ascoltò per un momento, poi si precipitò verso di lui.

“Prendi ciò che c’è, prendi tutto, prendi ancora di più se ne fosse disponibile, ma vai prima che sia troppo tardi. Ho sentito un passo irregolare. Lo conosco bene; tornerà indietro immediatamente. Vattene.”

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. Much as I dread to touch you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the strength, rather than you should lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from this place.’

‘If there are spies without, I am safer here,’ replied the man, standing aghast. ‘I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is past.’

‘It is too late!’ cried the widow, who had listened for the step, and not to him. ‘Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you tremble to hear it! It is my son, my idiot son!’

As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door. He looked at her, and she at him.

‘Let him come in,’ said the man, hoarsely. ‘I fear him less than the dark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in!’

‘The dread of this hour,’ returned the widow, ‘has been upon me all my life, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye to eye. My blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth—hear a poor mother’s prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man!’

‘He rattles at the shutters!’ cried the man. ‘He calls you. That voice and cry! It was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it he?’

She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do or where to turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to catch a knife from the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning’s speed, when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly.

‘Why, who can keep out Grip and me!’ he cried, thrusting in his head, and staring round the room. ‘Are you there, mother? How long you keep us from the fire and light.’

She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck, kissed her a hundred times.

‘We have been afield, mother—leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on. The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards—and Grip—ha ha ha!—brave Grip, who cares for nothing, and when the wind rolls him over in the dust, turns manfully to bite it—Grip, bold Grip, has quarrelled with every little bowing twig—thinking, he told me, that it mocked him—and has worried it like a bulldog. Ha ha ha!’

The raven, in his little basket at his master’s back, hearing this frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties of hoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people.

‘He takes such care of me besides!’ said Barnaby. ‘Such care, mother! He watches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make-believe to slumber, he practises new learning softly; but he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he sees me laugh, though never so little, stops directly. He won’t surprise me till he’s perfect.’

The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said, ‘Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them.’ In the meantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and coming to the fireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. But his mother prevented this, by hastily taking that side herself, and motioning him towards the other.

‘How pale you are to-night!’ said Barnaby, leaning on his stick. ‘We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!’

Anxious in good truth, and sick at heart! The listener held the door of his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched her son. Grip—alive to everything his master was unconscious of—had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching him intently with his glistening eye.

‘He flaps his wings,’ said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough to catch the retreating form and closing door, ‘as if there were strangers here, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump then!’

Accepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the bird hopped up on his master’s shoulder, from that to his extended hand, and so to the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and putting it down in a corner with the lid open, Grip’s first care was to shut it down with all possible despatch, and then to stand upon it. Believing, no doubt, that he had now rendered it utterly impossible, and beyond the power of mortal man, to shut him up in it any more, he drew a great many corks in triumph, and uttered a corresponding number of hurrahs.

‘Mother!’ said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and returning to the chair from which he had risen, ‘I’ll tell you where we have been to-day, and what we have been doing,—shall I?’

She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she could not speak.

‘You mustn’t tell,’ said Barnaby, holding up his finger, ‘for it’s a secret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had the dog with us, but he’s not like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn’t guess it yet, I’ll wager.—Why do you look behind me so?’

‘Did I?’ she answered faintly. ‘I didn’t know I did. Come nearer me.’

‘You are frightened!’ said Barnaby, changing colour. ‘Mother—you don’t see’—

‘See what?’

‘There’s—there’s none of this about, is there?’ he answered in a whisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his wrist. ‘I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and my flesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room as I have seen it in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me. Is it?’

He fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting out the light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passed away. After a time, he raised his head and looked about him.

“Cosa intendi dire?”

“Non fermarti a chiedere. Non risponderò. Per quanto tema di toccarti, ti trascinerei fino alla porta se ne avessi la forza, piuttosto che lasciarti perdere un solo istante. Miserabile disgraziato! fuggi da questo luogo.”

“Se ci sono spie là fuori, sono più al sicuro qui,” replicò l’uomo, sbigottito. “Rimarrò qui, e non fuggirò finché il pericolo non sarà passato.”

“È troppo tardi!” gridò la vedova, che aveva teso l’orecchio al passo, e non a lui. “Ascolta quel piede sul terreno. Tremi a sentirlo! È mio figlio, il mio figlio idiota!”

Mentre diceva questo con voce concitata, giunse un pesante bussare alla porta. Lui guardò lei, e lei lui.

“Fallo entrare,” disse l’uomo, con voce roca. “Ho meno paura di lui che della buia, desolata notte. Bussa di nuovo. Fallo entrare!”

“Il terrore di quest’ora,” ribatté la vedova, “mi ha accompagnata per tutta la vita, e non lo farò. La sventura ricadrà su di lui, se vi guarderete occhi negli occhi. Mio povero ragazzo devastato! Oh! voi tutti buoni angeli che conoscete la verità—ascoltate la preghiera di una povera madre, e risparmiate a mio figlio la conoscenza di quest’uomo!”

“Scuote le imposte!” gridò l’uomo. “Ti chiama. Quella voce e quel grido! Era lui che lottò con me sulla strada. Era lui?”

Lei era caduta in ginocchio, e così restava inginocchiata, muovendo le labbra, ma senza emettere alcun suono. Mentre la fissava, incerto sul da farsi o su dove voltarsi, le imposte si spalancarono. Ebbe appena il tempo di afferrare un coltello dal tavolo, nasconderlo nella manica larga della giacca, rintanarsi nello sgabuzzino, e far tutto con la velocità del fulmine, quando Barnaby batté sul vetro nudo, e sollevò esultante il telaio.

“Ma chi può tenere fuori Grip e me!” gridò, spingendo dentro la testa, e guardandosi attorno per la stanza. “Sei lì, madre? Quanto a lungo ci tieni lontani dal fuoco e dalla luce.”

Lei balbettò qualche scusa e gli porse la mano. Ma Barnaby balzò dentro con leggerezza senza aiuto, e cingendole il collo con le braccia, la baciò cento volte.

“Siamo stati per i campi, madre—saltando fossi, arrampicandoci tra le siepi, correndo giù per ripide scarpate, su e via, e affrettandoci. Il vento soffiava, e i giunchi e le giovani piante si chinavano e si piegavano ad esso, per timore che facesse loro del male, i codardi—e Grip—ah ah ah!—il coraggioso Grip, che non si cura di nulla, e quando il vento lo rotola nella polvere, si volta virilmente a morderlo—Grip, l’audace Grip, ha litigato con ogni piccolo ramoscello che si chinava—pensando, mi ha detto, che lo schernisse—e l’ha azzannato come un mastino. Ah ah ah!”

Il corvo, nel suo cestello sulla schiena del padrone, udendo quel frequente accenno al proprio nome in tono di esultanza, espresse la sua solidarietà gracchiando come un gallo, e poi ripassando le sue varie frasi di parlata con tale rapidità, e in così tante varietà di raucedine, che suonavano come il mormorio di una folla di persone.

“Ha tanta cura di me, per giunta!” disse Barnaby. “Tanta cura, madre! Veglia per tutto il tempo in cui dormo, e quando chiudo gli occhi e fingo di assopirmi, esercita di nascosto nuove nozioni; ma intanto mi tiene d’occhio, e se mi vede ridere, per quanto poco, si ferma all’istante. Non vuole sorprendermi finché non è perfetto.”

Il corvo gracchiò di nuovo in maniera estatica che diceva chiaramente: “Questi sono di certo alcuni dei miei tratti, e me ne glorio.” Nel frattempo, Barnaby chiuse la finestra e la assicurò, e avvicinandosi al camino, si preparò a sedersi con la faccia rivolta allo sgabuzzino. Ma sua madre glielo impedì, prendendo in fretta quel lato per sé, e facendogli cenno verso l’altro.

“Come sei pallida, sta notte!” disse Barnaby, appoggiandosi al bastone. “Siamo stati crudeli, Grip, e l’abbiamo resa ansiosa!”

Ansiosa in tutta verità, e con il cuore in pena! Chi ascoltava teneva aperta con la mano la porta del suo nascondiglio, e osservava attentamente il figlio di lei. Grip—attento a tutto ciò di cui il padrone era inconsapevole—aveva sporto la testa fuori dal cestello, e a sua volta lo osservava intensamente con l’occhio scintillante.

“Sbatte le ali,” disse Barnaby, voltandosi quasi abbastanza in fretta da cogliere la figura che si ritraeva e la porta che si chiudeva, “come se qui ci fossero degli estranei, ma Grip è troppo saggio per crederlo. Salta, allora!”

Accettando l’invito con una dignità tutta sua, l’uccello saltò sulla spalla del padrone, da lì alla mano tesa, e così a terra. Mentre Barnaby slacciava il cestello e lo posava in un angolo con il coperchio aperto, la prima premura di Grip fu di chiuderlo con ogni possibile sollecitudine, e poi di piazzarcisi sopra. Credendo, senza dubbio, di averlo ormai reso del tutto impossibile, e al di là del potere di uomo mortale, da rinchiudervelo mai più, tirò moltissimi tappi in trionfo, ed emise un corrispondente numero di urrà.

“Madre!” disse Barnaby, posando cappello e bastone, e tornando alla sedia da cui si era alzato, “ti dirò dove siamo stati oggi, e cosa abbiamo fatto,—vuoi?”

Lei prese la mano di lui nelle sue, e tenendola, annuì la parola che non riusciva a pronunciare.

“Non devi dirlo,” disse Barnaby, alzando il dito, “perché è un segreto, bada, e conosciuto solo da me, e da Grip, e da Hugh. Avevamo il cane con noi, ma non è come Grip, per quanto sia in gamba, e non lo indovina ancora, ci scommetto.—Perché guardi così dietro di me?”

“Davvero?” rispose lei debolmente. “Non sapevo di farlo. Vieni più vicino a me.”

“Hai paura!” disse Barnaby, cambiando colore. “Madre—tu non vedi”—

“Vedere cosa?”

“Non c’è—non c’è nulla di tutto questo in giro, vero?” rispose lui in un sussurro, avvicinandosi a lei e stringendo il segno sul polso. “Temo che ci sia, da qualche parte. Mi fai rizzare i capelli, e accapponare la pelle. Perché mi guardi in quel modo? È forse nella stanza come l’ho vista nei miei sogni, che schizza di rosso il soffitto e le pareti? Dimmelo. C’è?”

Cadde in un attacco di tremito mentre poneva la domanda, e schermandosi la luce con le mani, sedette tremando in ogni membro finché non gli passò. Dopo un po’ di tempo, sollevò la testa e si guardò attorno.

‘Is it gone?’

‘There has been nothing here,’ rejoined his mother, soothing him. ‘Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you and me.’

He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst into a wild laugh.

‘But let us see,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Were we talking? Was it you and me? Where have we been?’

‘Nowhere but here.’

‘Aye, but Hugh, and I,’ said Barnaby,—‘that’s it. Maypole Hugh, and I, you know, and Grip—we have been lying in the forest, and among the trees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night came on, and the dog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came by.’

‘What man?’

‘The robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him after dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I’d know him in a thousand. Mother, see here! This is the man. Look!’

He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out behind him might have passed for his own shadow.

‘Ha ha ha! We shall have him,’ he cried, ridding himself of the semblance as hastily as he had assumed it. ‘You shall see him, mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle-girth; and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck. So Hugh says. You’re pale again, and trembling. And why DO you look behind me so?’

‘It is nothing,’ she answered. ‘I am not quite well. Go you to bed, dear, and leave me here.’

‘To bed!’ he answered. ‘I don’t like bed. I like to lie before the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals—the rivers, hills, and dells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I am hungry too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip! To supper, lad!’

The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received about a score in rapid succession, without the smallest discomposure.

‘That’s all,’ said Barnaby.

‘More!’ cried Grip. ‘More!’

But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he retreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one from his pouch, hid them in various corners—taking particular care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden man’s propensities and power of resisting temptation. When he had concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room with an elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind (but with one eye hard upon his treasure all the time), and then, and not till then, began to drag it out, piece by piece, and eat it with the utmost relish.

Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made a hearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he wanted more bread from the closet and rose to get it. She hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and summoning her utmost fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself.

‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down beside him after doing so; ‘is to-day my birthday?’

‘To-day!’ she answered. ‘Don’t you recollect it was but a week or so ago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it comes again?’

‘I remember that it has been so till now,’ said Barnaby. ‘But I think to-day must be my birthday too, for all that.’

She asked him why? ‘I’ll tell you why,’ he said. ‘I have always seen you—I didn’t let you know it, but I have—on the evening of that day grow very sad. I have seen you cry when Grip and I were most glad; and look frightened with no reason; and I have touched your hand, and felt that it was cold—as it is now. Once, mother (on a birthday that was, also), Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to bed, and when it was midnight, striking one o’clock, we came down to your door to see if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was you said. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night?’

‘I’m a devil!’ rejoined the raven promptly.

‘No, no,’ said Barnaby. ‘But you said something in a prayer; and when you rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever since, mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I have found that out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you’re wrong; and this must be my birthday—my birthday, Grip!’

The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as a cock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind, might usher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried, ‘Never say die!’ a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis.

The widow tried to make light of Barnaby’s remark, and endeavoured to divert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all times, as she knew. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties, stretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip perched upon his leg, and divided his time between dozing in the grateful warmth, and endeavouring (as it presently appeared) to recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day.

A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open and intently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, ‘Polly put the ket—’ and there stop short, forgetting the remainder, and go off in a doze again.

After a long interval, Barnaby’s breathing grew more deep and regular, and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raven interposed. ‘Polly put the ket—’ cried Grip, and his master was broad awake again.

“È scomparso?”

“Non c’è stato nulla qui,” rispose sua madre, cercando di calmarlo.
“Davvero nulla, caro Barnaby. Guarda: ci siamo solo tu e io.”

La fissò con lo sguardo vuoto, e gradualmente, rassicurandosi, scoppiò in una risata folle.

“Ma vediamo,” disse, pensieroso. “Stavamo parlando? Eravamo tu e io? Dove siamo stati?”

“Solo qui.”

“Sì, ma Hugh e io,” disse Barnaby, “siamo stati noi. Hugh e io, insieme a Grip, ci siamo nascosti nella foresta, tra gli alberi lungo la strada, con una lanterna nera accesa dopo che era calata la notte; il cane aveva un laccio attorno al collo, pronto a colpire quell’uomo non appena fosse passato.”

“Che uomo?”

“Il ladro, quello verso cui le stelle sembravano ammiccare. Lo abbiamo aspettato dopo il tramonto per molte notti, e lo prenderemo. Lo riconoscerei tra mille. Madre, guarda qui! È quest’uomo. Guarda!”

Si avvolse il fazzoletto intorno alla testa, si tirò il cappello sopra la fronte, si infilò il cappotto e si mise davanti a lei: così somigliante all’originale che la figura scura che lo seguiva avrebbe potuto essere scambiata per la sua stessa ombra.

‘Ah ah ah! Lo prenderemo,’ gridò, liberandosi dell’aspetto che aveva assunto con tanta fretta. ‘Lo vedrete, madre: legato mani e piedi, portato a Londra in un batter d’occhio; e se avremo fortuna, ne sentirete parlare al patibolo di Tyburn. Così dice Hugh. Siete pallida di nuovo, e tremate. E perché guardate così dietro di me?’

“Non è nulla,” rispose lei. “Non sto del tutto bene. Vai a letto tu, caro, e lasciami qui.”

“Andare a letto!” rispose. “Non mi piace il letto. Mi piace starmene sdraiato davanti al fuoco, a osservare le forme che si delineano nei carboni ardenti: i fiumi, le colline, le valli, nel profondo rosso del tramonto. Sono anche affamato; Grip non ha mangiato nulla da quando era mezzogiorno. Andiamo a cena, Grip! A cena, ragazzo!”

Il corvo sbatté le ali e, gracchiando di soddisfazione, saltò ai piedi del suo padrone, tenendo il becco aperto, pronto ad afferrare i pezzi di carne che gli venivano gettati. Ne ricevette circa una ventina in rapida successione, senza mostrare la minima difficoltà.

“È tutto,” disse Barnaby.

“Di più!”, gridò Grip. “Di più!”

Ma essendo certo che non ne sarebbe più stata trovata, ritirò il proprio cibo e, estraendone i pezzetti uno per uno dalla borsa, li nascose in vari angoli della stanza. Prendendo però particolare cura di evitare l’armadio, poiché dubitava delle inclinazioni e della capacità dell’uomo nascosto di resistere alle tentazioni. Una volta terminati questi preparativi, fece un paio di giri per la stanza, fingendo con grande convinzione di non avere nulla in mente (sebbene tenesse sempre d’occhio il proprio “tesoro”), e solo allora iniziò a mangiarlo, pezzo dopo pezzo, con grande piacere.

Barnaby, dopo aver invano insistito affinché sua madre mangiasse, preparò anche lui una cena sostanziosa. A un certo punto, durante il pasto, volle prendere altro pane dal armadio e una rosa per ottenerlo; lei intervenne prontamente per impedirglielo e, chiamando a raccolta tutta la sua forza, andò personalmente nell’angolo dove erano riposte le cose e ne portò fuori ciò di cui aveva bisogno.

“Mamma,” disse Barnaby, guardandola fissamente mentre lei si sedeva accanto a lui dopo averlo fatto; “oggi è il mio compleanno?”

“Oggi!” rispose lei. “Non ti ricordi che è passata solo una settimana circa? E che dovranno trascorrere ancora l’estate, l’autunno e l’inverno prima che torni di nuovo?”

“Ricordo che è sempre stato così fino ad ora,” disse Barnaby. “Ma penso che anche oggi debba essere il mio compleanno, ”

Gli chiese il motivo. “Te lo spiegherò,” disse lui. “Ti ho sempre vista. Non te l’ho mai detto, ma in quella sera sono diventato molto triste. Ti ho vista piangere quando Grip ed io eravamo più felici; ti ho vista apparire spaventata senza motivo. Ho toccato la tua mano e ho sentito che era fredda, proprio come adesso. Una volta, mamma, in un compleanno, dopo essere andati a letto, Grip ed io ne abbiamo parlato. E quando fu mezzanotte, alle una di notte, siamo scesi fino alla tua porta per vedere se stessi bene. Eri in ginocchio. Non ricordo cosa hai detto. Grip, cosa abbiamo sentito che ha detto quella sera?”

“Sono un demone!” rispose prontamente l’corvo.

“No, no,” disse Barnaby. “Ma hai detto qualcosa in una preghiera; e quando ti sei alzata e hai iniziato a camminare intorno, sembravi, proprio come fai ora, mamma, ogni volta che arriva la notte del mio compleanno. L’ho capito io, anche se sono un po’ sciocco. Quindi dico che ti sbagli; e questa deve essere la mia festa di compleanno, la mia festa di compleanno, Grip!”

L’uccello ricevette questa informazione con un grido che durò tanto quanto il canto di un gallo; dotato di un’intelligenza superiore a quella di tutti i suoi simili, fu in grado di annunciare l’inizio del giorno più lungo dell’anno con quel grido. Poi, come se avesse ben riflettuto su quel messaggio e lo ritenesse adatto alle feste di compleanno, gridò “Mai dire mai!” molte volte, agitando le ali per sottolineare il significato delle sue parole.

La vedova cercò di prendere alla leggera il commento di Barnaby e provò ad attirare la sua attenzione su un altro argomento; una task del tutto facile, come lei sapeva bene. Dopo aver mangiato la cena, Barnaby, nonostante le sue suppliche, si sdraiò sul tappeto davanti al focolare; Grip si posizionò sulla sua gamba e trascorse il suo tempo dormicchiando nel calore confortevole del fuoco, cercando allo stesso tempo (come poi emerse) di ricordare una nuova abilità che aveva studiato tutto il giorno.

Seguì un lungo e profondo silenzio, interrotto soltanto dal cambiamento di posizione di Barnaby, i cui occhi erano ancora spalancati e fissi intensamente sul fuoco; o da qualche tentativo di ricordare da parte di Grip, che di tanto in tanto mormorava a bassa voce: “Polly ha messo il ket—” e poi si interrompeva, dimenticando il resto, per addormentarsi di nuovo.

Dopo un lungo intervallo, il respiro di Barnaby divenne più profondo e regolare, e gli occhi si chiusero. Ma anche allora lo spirito inquieto del corvo intervenne di nuovo. “Polly ha messo la pentola, ” gridò Grip, e il suo padrone si svegliò di colpo.

At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller, really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he muttered in a sepulchral voice, ‘Polly put the ket—’ but very drowsily, and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.

The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The man glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.

‘—tle on,’ cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much excited. ‘—tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a ket-tle on, Keep up your spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I’m a devil, I’m a ket-tle, I’m a—Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea.’

They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the grave.

But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it. The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the door.

‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘You teach your son well.’

‘I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night. Depart instantly, or I will rouse him.’

‘You are free to do so. Shall I rouse him?’

‘You dare not do that.’

‘I dare do anything, I have told you. He knows me well, it seems. At least I will know him.’

‘Would you kill him in his sleep?’ cried the widow, throwing herself between them.

‘Woman,’ he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside, ‘I would see him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill the other, wake him.’

With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softly turned back the head and looked into the face. The light of the fire was upon it, and its every lineament was revealed distinctly. He contemplated it for a brief space, and hastily uprose.

‘Observe,’ he whispered in the widow’s ear: ‘In him, of whose existence I was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power. Be careful how you use me. Be careful how you use me. I am destitute and starving, and a wanderer upon the earth. I may take a sure and slow revenge.’

‘There is some dreadful meaning in your words. I do not fathom it.’

‘There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very depth. You have anticipated it for years; you have told me as much. I leave you to digest it. Do not forget my warning.’

He pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form, and stealthily withdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her knees beside the sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone, until the tears which fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her relief.

‘Oh Thou,’ she cried, ‘who hast taught me such deep love for this one remnant of the promise of a happy life, out of whose affliction, even, perhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a relying, loving child to me—never growing old or cold at heart, but needing my care and duty in his manly strength as in his cradle-time—help him, in his darkened walk through this sad world, or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken!’

Finalmente Barnaby si addormentò profondamente; l’uccello posò il becco sul suo petto, che si gonfiò assumendo una forma simile a quella di un comodo “assessore”, e i suoi occhi luminosi divennero sempre più piccoli, come se stessero entrando in uno stato di riposo. Di tanto in tanto mormorava con voce cupa: “Polly, metti il ket, ” Ma in modo molto assonnato, più come un uomo ubriaco che come un corvo riflessivo.

La vedova, a malapena osando respirare, si alzò dal suo posto. L’uomo uscì furtivamente dall’armadio e spense la candela.

“Continua, continua,” gridò Grip, improvvisamente colpito da un’idea e molto eccitato. “Continua. Evviva! Polly ha messo su la pentola, tutti avremo il tè; evviva, evviva! Sono un diavolo. Continua così, non arrenderti mai. Evviva!”

Rimasero immobili, come se quella fosse stata una voce proveniente dalla >tomba.

Ma nemmeno questo riuscì a svegliare il dormiente. Si girò verso il fuoco, il suo braccio cadde a terra e la sua testa si abbassò pesantemente su di esso. La vedova e il suo indesiderato visitatore lo fissarono per un momento, poi lei gli fece segno di andare verso la porta.

“Resta,” sussurrò. “Insegni bene tuo figlio.”

“Non gli ho insegnato nulla di ciò che avete sentito stasera. Andatevene immediatamente, altrimenti lo sveglierò.”

“Puoi farlo liberamente. Devo svegliarlo?”

“Non osi farlo.”

“Oso fare qualsiasi cosa, te l’ho detto. Sembra che lui mi conosca bene. Almeno io lo conoscerò.”

“Uccideresti lui mentre dorme?” gridò la vedova, gettandosi tra loro.

“Donna,” disse tra i denti, mentre la faceva spostare da parte, “vorrei vederlo da vicino, e lo farò. Se volete che uno di noi uccida l’altro, svegliatelo.”

Così fece; si avvicinò e, chinandosi sulla figura prostrata, girò delicatamente la testa per guardare il viso. La luce del fuoco lo illuminava, rivelando ogni tratto con chiarezza. Lo osservò per un breve istante, poi si alzò in fretta.

“Osserva,” sussurrò all’orecchio della vedova: “In lui, di cui ignoravo l’esistenza fino a questa notte, ora ho te in mio potere. Fa’ attenzione a come mi utilizzi. Sono senza nulla, affamato, un vagabondo su questa terra. Posso prendermi una vendetta lenta ma sicura.”

“C’è qualche terribile significato nelle tue parole. Non riesco a comprenderlo.”

“C’è un significato nascosto in esse, e vedo che tu lo hai compreso fino in fondo. L’hai previsto da anni. Me l’hai detto più volte. Ora te lo lascio per rifletterci sopra. Non dimenticare il mio avvertimento.”

Mentre la lasciava, indicò quella figura addormentata e, allontanandosi silenziosamente, si diresse verso la strada. Lei si inginocchiò accanto a colui che dormiva e rimase immobile come se fosse stata trasformata in pietra, fino a quando le lacrime che il terrore aveva trattenuto per tanto tempo finalmente iniziarono a scorrere, portandole un po’ di sollievo.

‘Oh Tu,’ gridò lei, ‘tu che mi hai insegnato un tale profondo amore per questo ultimo rimanente di quella promessa di una vita felice. Forse proprio dalla sua sofferenza nasce il conforto che lui sia sempre per me un bambino affidabile e amorevole: mai invecchiante, mai freddo nel cuore. Ha bisogno della mia cura e del mio impegno, tanto nella sua forza virile quanto nei momenti più teneri della sua infanzia. Aiutalo, nella sua strada oscura attraverso questo mondo triste. Altrimenti è condannato. E il mio povero cuore si spezzerà!’

Chapter 18

Gliding along the silent streets, and holding his course where they were darkest and most gloomy, the man who had left the widow’s house crossed London Bridge, and arriving in the City, plunged into the backways, lanes, and courts, between Cornhill and Smithfield; with no more fixedness of purpose than to lose himself among their windings, and baffle pursuit, if any one were dogging his steps.

It was the dead time of the night, and all was quiet. Now and then a drowsy watchman’s footsteps sounded on the pavement, or the lamplighter on his rounds went flashing past, leaving behind a little track of smoke mingled with glowing morsels of his hot red link. He hid himself even from these partakers of his lonely walk, and, shrinking in some arch or doorway while they passed, issued forth again when they were gone and so pursued his solitary way.

To be shelterless and alone in the open country, hearing the wind moan and watching for day through the whole long weary night; to listen to the falling rain, and crouch for warmth beneath the lee of some old barn or rick, or in the hollow of a tree; are dismal things—but not so dismal as the wandering up and down where shelter is, and beds and sleepers are by thousands; a houseless rejected creature. To pace the echoing stones from hour to hour, counting the dull chimes of the clocks; to watch the lights twinkling in chamber windows, to think what happy forgetfulness each house shuts in; that here are children coiled together in their beds, here youth, here age, here poverty, here wealth, all equal in their sleep, and all at rest; to have nothing in common with the slumbering world around, not even sleep, Heaven’s gift to all its creatures, and be akin to nothing but despair; to feel, by the wretched contrast with everything on every hand, more utterly alone and cast away than in a trackless desert; this is a kind of suffering, on which the rivers of great cities close full many a time, and which the solitude in crowds alone awakens.

The miserable man paced up and down the streets—so long, so wearisome, so like each other—and often cast a wistful look towards the east, hoping to see the first faint streaks of day. But obdurate night had yet possession of the sky, and his disturbed and restless walk found no relief.

One house in a back street was bright with the cheerful glare of lights; there was the sound of music in it too, and the tread of dancers, and there were cheerful voices, and many a burst of laughter. To this place—to be near something that was awake and glad—he returned again and again; and more than one of those who left it when the merriment was at its height, felt it a check upon their mirthful mood to see him flitting to and fro like an uneasy ghost. At last the guests departed, one and all; and then the house was close shut up, and became as dull and silent as the rest.

His wanderings brought him at one time to the city jail. Instead of hastening from it as a place of ill omen, and one he had cause to shun, he sat down on some steps hard by, and resting his chin upon his hand, gazed upon its rough and frowning walls as though even they became a refuge in his jaded eyes. He paced it round and round, came back to the same spot, and sat down again. He did this often, and once, with a hasty movement, crossed to where some men were watching in the prison lodge, and had his foot upon the steps as though determined to accost them. But looking round, he saw that the day began to break, and failing in his purpose, turned and fled.

He was soon in the quarter he had lately traversed, and pacing to and fro again as he had done before. He was passing down a mean street, when from an alley close at hand some shouts of revelry arose, and there came straggling forth a dozen madcaps, whooping and calling to each other, who, parting noisily, took different ways and dispersed in smaller groups.

Hoping that some low place of entertainment which would afford him a safe refuge might be near at hand, he turned into this court when they were all gone, and looked about for a half-opened door, or lighted window, or other indication of the place whence they had come. It was so profoundly dark, however, and so ill-favoured, that he concluded they had but turned up there, missing their way, and were pouring out again when he observed them. With this impression, and finding there was no outlet but that by which he had entered, he was about to turn, when from a grating near his feet a sudden stream of light appeared, and the sound of talking came. He retreated into a doorway to see who these talkers were, and to listen to them.

The light came to the level of the pavement as he did this, and a man ascended, bearing in his hand a torch. This figure unlocked and held open the grating as for the passage of another, who presently appeared, in the form of a young man of small stature and uncommon self-importance, dressed in an obsolete and very gaudy fashion.

‘Good night, noble captain,’ said he with the torch. ‘Farewell, commander. Good luck, illustrious general!’

In return to these compliments the other bade him hold his tongue, and keep his noise to himself, and laid upon him many similar injunctions, with great fluency of speech and sternness of manner.

‘Commend me, captain, to the stricken Miggs,’ returned the torch-bearer in a lower voice. ‘My captain flies at higher game than Miggses. Ha, ha, ha! My captain is an eagle, both as respects his eye and soaring wings. My captain breaketh hearts as other bachelors break eggs at breakfast.’

‘What a fool you are, Stagg!’ said Mr Tappertit, stepping on the pavement of the court, and brushing from his legs the dust he had contracted in his passage upward.

‘His precious limbs!’ cried Stagg, clasping one of his ankles. ‘Shall a Miggs aspire to these proportions! No, no, my captain. We will inveigle ladies fair, and wed them in our secret cavern. We will unite ourselves with blooming beauties, captain.’

‘I’ll tell you what, my buck,’ said Mr Tappertit, releasing his leg; ‘I’ll trouble you not to take liberties, and not to broach certain questions unless certain questions are broached to you. Speak when you’re spoke to on particular subjects, and not otherways. Hold the torch up till I’ve got to the end of the court, and then kennel yourself, do you hear?’

‘I hear you, noble captain.’

‘Obey then,’ said Mr Tappertit haughtily. ‘Gentlemen, lead on!’ With which word of command (addressed to an imaginary staff or retinue) he folded his arms, and walked with surpassing dignity down the court.

His obsequious follower stood holding the torch above his head, and then the observer saw for the first time, from his place of concealment, that he was blind. Some involuntary motion on his part caught the quick ear of the blind man, before he was conscious of having moved an inch towards him, for he turned suddenly and cried, ‘Who’s there?’

‘A man,’ said the other, advancing. ‘A friend.’

‘A stranger!’ rejoined the blind man. ‘Strangers are not my friends. What do you do there?’

‘I saw your company come out, and waited here till they were gone. I want a lodging.’

‘A lodging at this time!’ returned Stagg, pointing towards the dawn as though he saw it. ‘Do you know the day is breaking?’

‘I know it,’ rejoined the other, ‘to my cost. I have been traversing this iron-hearted town all night.’

‘You had better traverse it again,’ said the blind man, preparing to descend, ‘till you find some lodgings suitable to your taste. I don’t let any.’

‘Stay!’ cried the other, holding him by the arm.

‘I’ll beat this light about that hangdog face of yours (for hangdog it is, if it answers to your voice), and rouse the neighbourhood besides, if you detain me,’ said the blind man. ‘Let me go. Do you hear?’

‘Do YOU hear!’ returned the other, chinking a few shillings together, and hurriedly pressing them into his hand. ‘I beg nothing of you. I will pay for the shelter you give me. Death! Is it much to ask of such as you! I have come from the country, and desire to rest where there are none to question me. I am faint, exhausted, worn out, almost dead. Let me lie down, like a dog, before your fire. I ask no more than that. If you would be rid of me, I will depart to-morrow.’

‘If a gentleman has been unfortunate on the road,’ muttered Stagg, yielding to the other, who, pressing on him, had already gained a footing on the steps—‘and can pay for his accommodation—’

‘I will pay you with all I have. I am just now past the want of food, God knows, and wish but to purchase shelter. What companion have you below?’

‘None.’

‘Then fasten your grate there, and show me the way. Quick!’

The blind man complied after a moment’s hesitation, and they descended together. The dialogue had passed as hurriedly as the words could be spoken, and they stood in his wretched room before he had had time to recover from his first surprise.

‘May I see where that door leads to, and what is beyond?’ said the man, glancing keenly round. ‘You will not mind that?’

‘I will show you myself. Follow me, or go before. Take your choice.’

He bade him lead the way, and, by the light of the torch which his conductor held up for the purpose, inspected all three cellars narrowly. Assured that the blind man had spoken truth, and that he lived there alone, the visitor returned with him to the first, in which a fire was burning, and flung himself with a deep groan upon the ground before it.

His host pursued his usual occupation without seeming to heed him any further. But directly he fell asleep—and he noted his falling into a slumber, as readily as the keenest-sighted man could have done—he knelt down beside him, and passed his hand lightly but carefully over his face and person.

His sleep was checkered with starts and moans, and sometimes with a muttered word or two. His hands were clenched, his brow bent, and his mouth firmly set. All this, the blind man accurately marked; and as if his curiosity were strongly awakened, and he had already some inkling of his mystery, he sat watching him, if the expression may be used, and listening, until it was broad day.

Capitolo 18

Infilando silenziosamente per le strade deserte, mantenendo la sua rotta nei punti più oscuri e tenebrosi, l’uomo che aveva lasciato la casa della vedova attraversò il Ponte di Londra e, arrivato nella Città, si inoltrò nelle stradine secondarie, nei vicoli e nei cortili, tra Cornhill e Smithfield. Non aveva alcun obiettivo preciso se non quello di perdersi tra quei labirinti e rendere impossibile qualsiasi inseguimento, nel caso qualcuno lo stesse pedinando.

Era l’ora più tarda della notte, e tutto era silenzio. Di tanto in tanto si udivano i passi sonnolenti di un guardiano notturno sul marciapiede, o il lampeggiatore che passava facendo brillare le sue luci rosse ardenti; lasciava dietro di sé una scia di fumo mescolato a quei bagliori. Si nascondeva anche da questi compagni della sua solitaria passeggiata: si ritirava in qualche architrave o porta quando loro passavano, e poi ricompariva non appena se ne erano andati, proseguendo così il suo cammino solitario.

Essere senza riparo e soli nella campagna aperta, ascoltare il vento gemere e attendere l’alba per tutta la lunga e noiosa -notte; sentire piovere e rannicchiarsi al caldo sotto il riparo di un vecchio fienile o in anfratti degli alberi. Sono cose tristi, ma non così triste come vagare senza meta in mezzo a migliaia di persone che hanno rifugio, letti e sonno; essere una creatura senza casa, rifiutata da tutti. Camminare ore intere su quelle pietre echeggianti, contando i monotoni rintocchi degli orologi; osservare le luci tremolare alle finestre delle case, pensare a quale felice oblio ogni casa offra. Qui ci sono bambini avvolti nei loro letti, giovani, anziani, poveri, ricchi. Tutti uguali nel loro sogno, tutti in pace. Non avere nulla in comune con il mondo che dorme intorno a noi. Nemmeno il sogno, dono del Cielo a tutte le sue creature. Essere simili soltanto alla -disperazione. Sentirsi, di fronte a tutto ciò che ci circonda, ancora più completamente soli e abbandonati di quanto lo si possa essere in un deserto senza vie. Questo è un tipo di -sofferenza. Di fronte alla quale i fiumi delle grandi città tacciono spesso. E che la solitudine, anche tra le folle, risveglia con particolare intensità.

Quell’uomo sventurato camminava avanti e indietro per le strade, così a lungo, così stancamente, in modo così monotono. Spesso gettava uno sguardo malinconico verso est, nella speranza di vedere i primi segni dell’alba. Ma l’ostinata notte dominava ancora il cielo, e il suo passo agitato e inquieto non trovava alcun sollievo.

Una casa in una strada secondaria era illuminata a giorno dal chiarore allegra delle luci; si udiva anche il suono della musica, il rumore dei passi dei ballerini, voci gioiose e molte risate. A questo luogo – dove c’era qualcosa di vivace e felice – egli tornava ancora e ancora; e più di uno di coloro che se ne andavano quando la festa era al suo apice trovava che la sua allegria veniva offuscata dal vedere lui andare avanti e indietro come un fantasma inquieto. Alla fine, tutti gli ospiti se ne andarono; e allora la casa fu chiusa a chiave, diventando così cupa e silenziosa come le altre.

I suoi vagabondaggi lo portarono, una volta, nella prigione della città. Invece di allontanarsi da quel luogo considerato di cattivo auspicio e che avrebbe dovuto evitare, si sedette su alcuni gradini lì vicino, appoggiò il mento sulla mano e fissò le sue pareti ruvide e cuphe, come se anche esse potessero offrirgli rifugio ai suoi occhi stanchi. Camminò avanti e indietro intorno al perimetro della prigione, tornò nello stesso punto e si sedette di nuovo. Lo fece più volte; una volta, con un movimento rapido, si avvicinò a alcuni uomini che stavano osservando la situazione all’interno della prigione, posizionandosi sui gradini come se fosse deciso ad avvicinarsi a loro. Ma, guardandosi intorno, vide che stava per sorgere il giorno; quindi, fallito nel suo intento, si girò e fuggì.

Ben presto si trovò di nuovo nel quartiere che aveva appena attraversato e iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro, proprio come aveva fatto prima. Stava percorrendo una strada stretta quando, da un vicolo vicino, provennero alcuni grida di baldoria; poi ne uscì una dozzina di individui ubriachi, che gridavano e si chiamavano a vicenda, per poi separarsi rumorosamente e dirigersi verso diverse direzioni, disperdendosi in piccoli gruppi.

Sperando che nelle vicinanze ci fosse qualche luogo adatto per trovare rifugio sicuro, entrò in questo cortile quando tutti se n’erano andati e cercò intorno una porta semiaperta, una finestra illuminata o qualsiasi indizio del posto da cui erano venuti. Tuttavia, era così buio e l’ambiente così ostile che concluse che dovevano essersi semplicemente persi in quel luogo e stavano per uscire di nuovo quando li vide. Con questa idea, e rendendosi conto che non c’era altra via d’uscita se non quella da cui era entrato, stava per andarsene quando, da una grata vicino ai suoi piedi, apparve improvvisamente un raggio di luce e si udì il suono di voci. Si nascose in un angolo per vedere chi fossero quelle persone e ascoltare ciò che dicevano.

Mentre faceva questo, la luce raggiunse il livello del marciapiede; un uomo salì, tenendo in mano una torcia. Questa figura aprì e tenne aperta la grata per far passare un altro individuo, che subito dopo apparve: si trattava di un giovane di statura bassa e con un’insolita presunzione, vestito in modo obsoleto e molto vistoso.

“Buona notte, nobile capitano,” disse lui tenendo alta la torcia. “Addio, comandante. Buona fortuna, illustre generale!”

In risposta a questi complimenti, l’altro gli ordinò di tenere la bocca chiusa e di non fare rumore, impartendogli molte altre istruzioni simili con grande eloquenza e tono severo.

“Comandatemi, capitano, di prendere cura del povero Miggs,” rispose il portatore di torcia a voce più bassa. “Il mio capitano caccia prede ben più importanti di Miggs. Ahahah! Il mio capitano è un’aquila, sia per la sua acuità visiva che per le sue ali capaci di spiccare grandi voli. Il mio capitano spezza i cuori delle donne, proprio come altri scapoli rompono le uova a colazione, ”

“Che idiota che sei, Stagg!”, disse il signor Tappertit, mettendo piede sul selciato del cortile e scuotendosi di dosso la polvere accumulata durante la salita.

“Le sue preziose gambe!” gridò Stagg, stringendo uno dei suoi polpacci. “Come potrebbe un Miggs aspirare a simili proporzioni! No, no, mio capitano. Invece seduceremo donne belle e le sposeremo nella nostra caverna segreta. Ci uniremo a giovani donne incantevoli, capitano.”

“Ti dico una cosa, amico mio,” disse il signor Tappertit, liberando la sua gamba; “ti prego di non prenderti troppe libertà e di non sollevare certe domande a meno che non siano state poste prima a te. Parla solo quando ti vengono rivolte domande specifiche, e nient’altro. Tieni alta la torcia finché non arrivo alla fine di questa corte, e poi vai a nasconderti, capito?”

“Ti capisco, nobile capitano.”

“Allora obbedite,” disse il signor Tappertit con aria arrogante. “Signori, avanti!” Con queste parole d’ordine (rivolte a un immaginario stato maggiore o seguito), incrociò le braccia e camminò lungo la corte con estrema dignità.

Il suo servile seguace stava tenendo la torcia sopra la testa; poi l’osservatore, dal proprio nascondiglio, vide per la prima volta che quell’uomo era cieco. Un movimento involontario da parte sua fu immediatamente notato dall’uomo non vedente, il quale, senza nemmeno rendersi conto di essersi mosso, si girò di scatto e gridò: “Chi è là?”

“Un uomo,” disse l’altro, avvicinandosi. “Un amico.”

“Un estraneo!” esclamò l’uomo cieco. “Gli estranei non sono miei amici. Cosa ci fai lì?”

“Ho visto uscire la tua compagnia e ho aspettato qui finché non se ne sono andati. Voglio un alloggio.”

“Un alloggio a quest’ora!” rispose Stagg, indicando la ‘alba come se la vedesse davvero. “Non sai che sta per sorgere il giorno?”

“Lo so,” rispose l’altro, “a mie spese. Ho percorso questa città di cuore di ferro tutta la notte.”

“È meglio che lo attraversi di nuovo,” disse l’uomo cieco, preparandosi a scendere, “finché non trovi un alloggio che ti piaccia. Io non ne affitto nessuno.”

“Resta!” gridò l’altro, tenendolo per il braccio.

“Colpirò questa lampada per quella tua faccia triste (e infatti lo è, se corrisponde alla tua voce), e sveglierò anche tutto il quartiere, se continui a trattenermi,” disse l’uomo cieco. “Lasciami andare. Mi senti?”

“La senti o no?”, rispose l’altro, facendo tintinnare alcuni scellini e mettendoglieli frettolosamente in mano. “Non ti chiedo nulla. Pagherò io per il rifugio che mi offri. Morte! È davvero troppo chiedere a persone come voi? Sono venuto dalla campagna e desidero riposare in un posto dove nessuno possa interrogarmi. Sono debole, esausto, distrutto. Lasciami sdraiarmi, come un cane, davanti al vostro fuoco. Non chiedo altro. Se volete sbarazzarvi di me, me ne andrò domani.”

“Se un gentiluomo ha avuto sfortuna sulla strada”, mormorò Stagg, cedendo il passo all’altro che, spingendolo, aveva già raggiunto i gradini, “e può permettersi una sistemazione, ”

“Vi pagherò con tutto ciò che ho. Proprio ora mi manca il cibo; Dio lo sa, e desidero soltanto trovare un rifugio. Chi è il vostro compagno laggiù?”

“Nessuno.”

“Allora fissate bene quella grata lì e mostratemi la strada. Presto!”

L’uomo cieco obbedì dopo un attimo di esitazione e scesero insieme. Il dialogo era stato condotto con tale fretta che le parole erano state pronunciate in modo affrettato; si trovarono così nella sua misera stanza prima ancora che avesse avuto il tempo di riprendersi dal primo stupore.

“Posso vedere dove conduce quella porta e cosa c’è al di là?”, chiese l’uomo, guardandosi intorno attentamente. “Non vi dispiacerà?”

“Vi mostrerò chi sono. Seguitemi, o andatevene pure. Scegliete voi.”

Gli chiese di fare da guida e, alla luce della torcia che il suo accompagnatore teneva alta a tale scopo, esaminò attentamente tutti e tre i sotterranei. Convinto che l’uomo non vedente avesse detto la verità e che vi vivesse da solo, il visitatore tornò con lui nel primo dei sotterranei, dove ardeva un fuoco, e si gettò a terra davanti ad esso emettendo un profondo gemito.

Il suo ospite continuò con la sua solita occupazione, senza sembrare prestargli ulteriore attenzione. Ma lui si addormentò immediatamente – e fu consapevole del proprio sonno, così chiaramente come lo sarebbe stato un uomo dallo sguardo più acuto. L’ospite si inginocchiò accanto a lui e passò dolcemente ma con attenzione la mano sul suo viso e sul suo corpo.

Il suo sonno era interrotto da risvegli improvvisi e lamenti; a volte si udivano anche parole mormorate. Le sue mani erano strette a pugno, la fronte corrugata e la bocca serrata. Il cieco osservava tutto questo con attenzione; sembrava che la sua curiosità fosse stata fortemente stimolata e che avesse già qualche indizio riguardo al mistero in questione. Sedeva lì, a guardare e ascoltare, fino all’alba.

Chapter 19

Dolly Varden’s pretty little head was yet bewildered by various recollections of the party, and her bright eyes were yet dazzled by a crowd of images, dancing before them like motes in the sunbeams, among which the effigy of one partner in particular did especially figure, the same being a young coachmaker (a master in his own right) who had given her to understand, when he handed her into the chair at parting, that it was his fixed resolve to neglect his business from that time, and die slowly for the love of her—Dolly’s head, and eyes, and thoughts, and seven senses, were all in a state of flutter and confusion for which the party was accountable, although it was now three days old, when, as she was sitting listlessly at breakfast, reading all manner of fortunes (that is to say, of married and flourishing fortunes) in the grounds of her teacup, a step was heard in the workshop, and Mr Edward Chester was descried through the glass door, standing among the rusty locks and keys, like love among the roses—for which apt comparison the historian may by no means take any credit to himself, the same being the invention, in a sentimental mood, of the chaste and modest Miggs, who, beholding him from the doorsteps she was then cleaning, did, in her maiden meditation, give utterance to the simile.

The locksmith, who happened at the moment to have his eyes thrown upward and his head backward, in an intense communing with Toby, did not see his visitor, until Mrs Varden, more watchful than the rest, had desired Sim Tappertit to open the glass door and give him admission—from which untoward circumstance the good lady argued (for she could deduce a precious moral from the most trifling event) that to take a draught of small ale in the morning was to observe a pernicious, irreligious, and Pagan custom, the relish whereof should be left to swine, and Satan, or at least to Popish persons, and should be shunned by the righteous as a work of sin and evil. She would no doubt have pursued her admonition much further, and would have founded on it a long list of precious precepts of inestimable value, but that the young gentleman standing by in a somewhat uncomfortable and discomfited manner while she read her spouse this lecture, occasioned her to bring it to a premature conclusion.

‘I’m sure you’ll excuse me, sir,’ said Mrs Varden, rising and curtseying. ‘Varden is so very thoughtless, and needs so much reminding—Sim, bring a chair here.’

Mr Tappertit obeyed, with a flourish implying that he did so, under protest.

‘And you can go, Sim,’ said the locksmith.

Mr Tappertit obeyed again, still under protest; and betaking himself to the workshop, began seriously to fear that he might find it necessary to poison his master, before his time was out.

In the meantime, Edward returned suitable replies to Mrs Varden’s courtesies, and that lady brightened up very much; so that when he accepted a dish of tea from the fair hands of Dolly, she was perfectly agreeable.

‘I am sure if there’s anything we can do,—Varden, or I, or Dolly either,—to serve you, sir, at any time, you have only to say it, and it shall be done,’ said Mrs V.

‘I am much obliged to you, I am sure,’ returned Edward. ‘You encourage me to say that I have come here now, to beg your good offices.’

Mrs Varden was delighted beyond measure.

‘It occurred to me that probably your fair daughter might be going to the Warren, either to-day or to-morrow,’ said Edward, glancing at Dolly; ‘and if so, and you will allow her to take charge of this letter, ma’am, you will oblige me more than I can tell you. The truth is, that while I am very anxious it should reach its destination, I have particular reasons for not trusting it to any other conveyance; so that without your help, I am wholly at a loss.’

‘She was not going that way, sir, either to-day, or to-morrow, nor indeed all next week,’ the lady graciously rejoined, ‘but we shall be very glad to put ourselves out of the way on your account, and if you wish it, you may depend upon its going to-day. You might suppose,’ said Mrs Varden, frowning at her husband, ‘from Varden’s sitting there so glum and silent, that he objected to this arrangement; but you must not mind that, sir, if you please. It’s his way at home. Out of doors, he can be cheerful and talkative enough.’

Now, the fact was, that the unfortunate locksmith, blessing his stars to find his helpmate in such good humour, had been sitting with a beaming face, hearing this discourse with a joy past all expression. Wherefore this sudden attack quite took him by surprise.

‘My dear Martha—’ he said.

‘Oh yes, I dare say,’ interrupted Mrs Varden, with a smile of mingled scorn and pleasantry. ‘Very dear! We all know that.’

‘No, but my good soul,’ said Gabriel, ‘you are quite mistaken. You are indeed. I was delighted to find you so kind and ready. I waited, my dear, anxiously, I assure you, to hear what you would say.’

‘You waited anxiously,’ repeated Mrs V. ‘Yes! Thank you, Varden. You waited, as you always do, that I might bear the blame, if any came of it. But I am used to it,’ said the lady with a kind of solemn titter, ‘and that’s my comfort!’

‘I give you my word, Martha—’ said Gabriel.

‘Let me give you MY word, my dear,’ interposed his wife with a Christian smile, ‘that such discussions as these between married people, are much better left alone. Therefore, if you please, Varden, we’ll drop the subject. I have no wish to pursue it. I could. I might say a great deal. But I would rather not. Pray don’t say any more.’

‘I don’t want to say any more,’ rejoined the goaded locksmith.

‘Well then, don’t,’ said Mrs Varden.

‘Nor did I begin it, Martha,’ added the locksmith, good-humouredly, ‘I must say that.’

‘You did not begin it, Varden!’ exclaimed his wife, opening her eyes very wide and looking round upon the company, as though she would say, You hear this man! ‘You did not begin it, Varden! But you shall not say I was out of temper. No, you did not begin it, oh dear no, not you, my dear!’

Capitolo 19

La graziosa testolina di Dolly Varden era ancora confusa da varie ricordi della festa, e i suoi occhi luminosi erano ancora abbagliati da un susseguirsi di immagini che danzavano davanti a lei come puntini luminosi nei raggi del sole; tra queste, l’immagine di uno in particolare spiccava soprattutto: si trattava di un giovane costruttore di carrozze (un vero maestro nel suo campo), il quale, quando le aveva aiutato a salire in carrozza al momento dell’addio, le aveva fatto capire che da quel momento in poi avrebbe deciso di trascurare il proprio lavoro per morire lentamente per l’amore di lei. La testa, gli occhi, i pensieri, e tutti e sette i sensi di Dolly erano in uno stato di agitazione e confusione, della quale la festa era responsabile, anche se ormai erano trascorsi tre giorni. Mentre sedeva apaticamente a colazione, leggendo ogni sorta di “previsioni” riguardo al suo futuro matrimoniale e alla sua prosperità, si udì un passo nel laboratorio; attraverso la porta di vetro si vide il signor Edward Chester in piedi tra le chiavi arrugginite, come l’amore tra i rossi fiori di rosa. Questa metafora appropriata non fu certo frutto dell’ingegno dello storico, ma piuttosto dell’invenzione della casta e modesta Miggs, che, osservandolo dal gradino dove stava pulendo, esprimeva con quella immagine i propri pensieri.

Il fabbro chiave, che in quel momento aveva lo sguardo rivolto verso l’alto e la testa reclinata all’indietro, immerso in un’intensa conversazione con Toby, non vide il suo visitatore, fino a quando la signora Varden, più attenta degli altri, non chiese a Sim Tappertit di aprire la porta di vetro per farlo entrare. Da questa sfortunata circostanza, la gentile signora dedusse (poiché riusciva a trarre insegnamenti morali anche dagli eventi più banali) che bere una birra al mattino rappresentasse un’abitudine dannosa, irreligiosa e pagana; un piacere che doveva essere riservato soltanto a maiali, a Satana o, almeno, alle persone papiste, e che i giusti dovessero evitarlo come un atto di peccato e male. Non avrebbe certo esitato ad approfondire ulteriormente le sue osservazioni, fondandoci su di esse una lunga lista di precetti di inestimabile valore, se non fosse stato per il giovane gentiluomo che, stando lì in piedi in un atteggiamento piuttosto imbarazzato mentre lei pronunciava queste parole, la costrinse a concludere prematuramente il suo discorso.

“Sono sicura che mi perdonerà, signore,” disse la signora Varden alzandosi e facendo una riverenza. “La signora Varden è davvero molto negligente e ha bisogno di molte raccomandazioni. Sim, porta una sedia qui.”

Il signor Tappertit obbedì, con un gesto teatrale che lasciava intendere che lo facesse controvolentemente.

“E ora puoi andare, Sim,” disse il fabbro chiave.

Il signor Tappertit obbedì di nuovo, sebbene protestasse ancora; e recatosi nel laboratorio, iniziò seriamente a temere che potesse essere costretto a avvelenare il proprio padrone, prima che scadesse la sua scadenza.

Nel frattempo, Edward rispose in modo appropriato alle cortesie della signora Varden, e quella signora si rallegrò molto; tanto che quando accettò una tazza di tè dalle belle mani di Dolly, fu davvero molto gentile con lui.

“Sono sicura che, se c’è qualcosa che possiamo fare – Varden, io o Dolly, chiunque di noi – per servirvi, signore, in qualsiasi momento, basta che lo dite e verrà fatto,” disse la signora V.

“Sono davvero molto grato a voi,” rispose Edward. “Il vostro incoraggiamento mi spinge ad ammettere che sono venuto qui proprio per chiedervi il vostro aiuto.”

La signora Varden era estremamente felice.

“Mi è venuto in mente che probabilmente vostra bella figlia potrebbe andare dai Warren, oggi o domani,” disse Edward, guardando Dolly; “e se così fosse, e se permetteste a lei di occuparsi di questa lettera, signora, mi fareste un grande favore. La verità è che, sebbene desideri molto che arrivi a destinazione, ho motivi particolari per non affidarla ad altri mezzi di trasporto; quindi, senza il vostro aiuto, sarei completamente impotente.”

“Non intendeva andare in quella direzione, signore, né oggi, né domani, né nemmeno per tutta la prossima settimana,” rispose gentilmente la signora. “Ma saremmo molto felici di fare uno sforzo per voi. Se lo desiderate, potete essere certo che partiremo oggi stesso. Potreste pensare,” aggiunse Mrs Varden, guardando il marito con un sopracciglio corrugato, “che il fatto che stia seduto lì così cupo e silenzioso significhi che si oppone a questo accordo. Ma non dovete darci peso, signore, se vi aggrada. È così che fa a casa. Fuori, invece, può essere abbastanza allegro e loquace.”

Ora, il fatto era che quel sfortunato fabbro chiave, ringraziando le sue _stelle per avergli trovato una compagna così di buon umorismo, sedeva con un sorriso radioso, ascoltando quel discorso con una gioia indescrivibile. Pertanto, quell’attacco improvviso lo colse completamente di sorpresa.

“Mia cara Martha, ” disse lui.

“Ah sì, oserei dire di sì,” intervenne la signora Varden, con un sorriso che mescolava disprezzo e scherzo. “Certo che lo sappiamo tutti.”

“No, ma mia cara ‘anima,” disse Gabriel, “ti sbagli completamente. Davvero. Sono stato molto felice di scoprire che sei così gentile e pronta ad aiutare. Ti assicuro che ho aspettato con ansia di sentire cosa avresti detto.”

“Hai aspettato con ansia,” ripeté la signora V. “Sì! Grazie, Varden. Hai aspettato, come fai sempre, che fossi io ad assumermi la colpa, se mai ce ne fosse stata una. Ma ci sono abituata,” disse la donna con un leggero sorriso solenne, “e questo è il mio conforto!”

“Ti do la mia parola, Martha, ” disse Gabriel.

“Lascia che ti dia la Mia parola, caro mio,” intervenne sua moglie con un sorriso cristiano, “che discussioni del genere tra persone sposate sia molto meglio lasciarle in privato. Quindi, per favore, Varden, mettiamoci fine a questo argomento. Non ho alcun desiderio di continuare. Potrei farlo. Potrei dire molte cose. Ma preferisco di no. Ti prego, non parlarne più.”

“Non voglio dire altro,” ribatté il fabbro serramentista, spinto alle parole.

“Allora, non farlo,” disse la signora Varden.

“Né l’ho nemmeno iniziato, Martha,” aggiunse il fabbro chiave con buon umore, “devo ammetterlo.”

“Non sei stato tu ad iniziarlo, Varden!” esclamò sua moglie, aprendo molto gli occhi e guardandosi intorno, come se volesse dire: “Sentite quest’uomo! Non sei stato tu ad iniziarlo, Varden. Ma non dovrai dire che ero di cattivo umore. No, non sei stato tu, oh no, assolutamente no, tu mio caro, ”

‘Well, well,’ said the locksmith. ‘That’s settled then.’

‘Oh yes,’ rejoined his wife, ‘quite. If you like to say Dolly began it, my dear, I shall not contradict you. I know my duty. I need know it, I am sure. I am often obliged to bear it in mind, when my inclination perhaps would be for the moment to forget it. Thank you, Varden.’ And so, with a mighty show of humility and forgiveness, she folded her hands, and looked round again, with a smile which plainly said, ‘If you desire to see the first and foremost among female martyrs, here she is, on view!’

This little incident, illustrative though it was of Mrs Varden’s extraordinary sweetness and amiability, had so strong a tendency to check the conversation and to disconcert all parties but that excellent lady, that only a few monosyllables were uttered until Edward withdrew; which he presently did, thanking the lady of the house a great many times for her condescension, and whispering in Dolly’s ear that he would call on the morrow, in case there should happen to be an answer to the note—which, indeed, she knew without his telling, as Barnaby and his friend Grip had dropped in on the previous night to prepare her for the visit which was then terminating.

Gabriel, who had attended Edward to the door, came back with his hands in his pockets; and, after fidgeting about the room in a very uneasy manner, and casting a great many sidelong looks at Mrs Varden (who with the calmest countenance in the world was five fathoms deep in the Protestant Manual), inquired of Dolly how she meant to go. Dolly supposed by the stage-coach, and looked at her lady mother, who finding herself silently appealed to, dived down at least another fathom into the Manual, and became unconscious of all earthly things.

‘Martha—’ said the locksmith.

‘I hear you, Varden,’ said his wife, without rising to the surface.

‘I am sorry, my dear, you have such an objection to the Maypole and old John, for otherways as it’s a very fine morning, and Saturday’s not a busy day with us, we might have all three gone to Chigwell in the chaise, and had quite a happy day of it.’

Mrs Varden immediately closed the Manual, and bursting into tears, requested to be led upstairs.

‘What is the matter now, Martha?’ inquired the locksmith.

To which Martha rejoined, ‘Oh! don’t speak to me,’ and protested in agony that if anybody had told her so, she wouldn’t have believed it.

‘But, Martha,’ said Gabriel, putting himself in the way as she was moving off with the aid of Dolly’s shoulder, ‘wouldn’t have believed what? Tell me what’s wrong now. Do tell me. Upon my soul I don’t know. Do YOU know, child? Damme!’ cried the locksmith, plucking at his wig in a kind of frenzy, ‘nobody does know, I verily believe, but Miggs!’

‘Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden faintly, and with symptoms of approaching incoherence, ‘is attached to me, and that is sufficient to draw down hatred upon her in this house. She is a comfort to me, whatever she may be to others.’

‘She’s no comfort to me,’ cried Gabriel, made bold by despair. ‘She’s the misery of my life. She’s all the plagues of Egypt in one.’

‘She’s considered so, I have no doubt,’ said Mrs Varden. ‘I was prepared for that; it’s natural; it’s of a piece with the rest. When you taunt me as you do to my face, how can I wonder that you taunt her behind her back!’ And here the incoherence coming on very strong, Mrs Varden wept, and laughed, and sobbed, and shivered, and hiccoughed, and choked; and said she knew it was very foolish but she couldn’t help it; and that when she was dead and gone, perhaps they would be sorry for it—which really under the circumstances did not appear quite so probable as she seemed to think—with a great deal more to the same effect. In a word, she passed with great decency through all the ceremonies incidental to such occasions; and being supported upstairs, was deposited in a highly spasmodic state on her own bed, where Miss Miggs shortly afterwards flung herself upon the body.

The philosophy of all this was, that Mrs Varden wanted to go to Chigwell; that she did not want to make any concession or explanation; that she would only go on being implored and entreated so to do; and that she would accept no other terms. Accordingly, after a vast amount of moaning and crying upstairs, and much damping of foreheads, and vinegaring of temples, and hartshorning of noses, and so forth; and after most pathetic adjurations from Miggs, assisted by warm brandy-and-water not over-weak, and divers other cordials, also of a stimulating quality, administered at first in teaspoonfuls and afterwards in increasing doses, and of which Miss Miggs herself partook as a preventive measure (for fainting is infectious); after all these remedies, and many more too numerous to mention, but not to take, had been applied; and many verbal consolations, moral, religious, and miscellaneous, had been super-added thereto; the locksmith humbled himself, and the end was gained.

‘If it’s only for the sake of peace and quietness, father,’ said Dolly, urging him to go upstairs.

‘Oh, Doll, Doll,’ said her good-natured father. ‘If you ever have a husband of your own—’

Dolly glanced at the glass.

‘—Well, WHEN you have,’ said the locksmith, ‘never faint, my darling. More domestic unhappiness has come of easy fainting, Doll, than from all the greater passions put together. Remember that, my dear, if you would be really happy, which you never can be, if your husband isn’t. And a word in your ear, my precious. Never have a Miggs about you!’

With this advice he kissed his blooming daughter on the cheek, and slowly repaired to Mrs Varden’s room; where that lady, lying all pale and languid on her couch, was refreshing herself with a sight of her last new bonnet, which Miggs, as a means of calming her scattered spirits, displayed to the best advantage at her bedside.

“Beh, beh, ”, disse il fabbro chiave. “Allora è deciso.”

“Oh sì,” rispose sua moglie, “certamente. Se vuoi dire che è stata Dolly ad iniziare tutto, caro mio, non ti contraddirò. So qual è il mio dovere. Devo saperlo, ne sono sicura. Spesso devo tenerlo a mente, anche quando la mia inclinazione sarebbe quella di dimenticarlo per un momento. Grazie, Varden.” E così, con grande dimostrazione di umiltà e perdono, intrecciò le mani e guardò intorno di nuovo, con un sorriso che chiaramente diceva: “Se desiderate vedere la prima e principale tra le martiri femminili, eccola qui, davanti ai vostri occhi!”

Questo piccolo incidente, sebbene illustrasse la straordinaria dolcezza e affabilità della signora Varden, aveva la tendenza a interrompere la conversazione e a mettere in imbarazzo tutti tranne quella eccellente signora; di conseguenza furono pronunciati soltanto pochi monosillabi fino a quando Edward non si ritirò. Lo fece subito dopo, ringraziando più volte la padrona di casa per la sua gentilezza e sussurrando all’orecchio di Dolly che sarebbe tornato il giorno seguente, nel caso ci fosse stata una risposta alla lettera. Di cui, in realtà, lei già sapeva, poiché Barnaby e il suo amico Grip erano passati la sera precedente per prepararla a quell’incontro che ora stava per concludersi.

Gabriel, che aveva accompagnato Edward fino alla porta, tornò con le mani in tasca; dopo essersi aggirato per la stanza in modo molto nervoso e aver lanciato molte occhiate di sottecchi a Mrs Varden (la quale, con l’aspetto più calmo del mondo, era in realtà immersa fino alle ginocchia nel “Manuale Protestante”), chiese a Dolly come intendesse andarsene. Dolly pensò al treno per la città e guardò sua madre; quest’ultima, sentendosi silenziosamente sollecitata, si immerse ancora di più nel Manuale, e divenne completamente ignara di tutto ciò che accadeva intorno a lei.

“Martha, ” disse il fabbro chiave.

“Ti capisco, Varden,” disse sua moglie, senza emergere in superficie.

“Mi dispiace molto, caro mio. Sei così contrario al palo di maggio e a vecchio John. Altrimenti, visto che è una bellissima mattina e sabato non è un giorno particolarmente impegnativo per noi, avremmo potuto andare tutti e tre a Chigwell in calesa e trascorrere una giornata molto piacevole.”

La signora Varden chiuse immediatamente il Manuale e, scoppiando in lacrime, chiese di essere accompagnata al piano di sopra.

“Che c’è adesso, Martha?”, chiese il fabbro chiave.

A cui Martha rispose: “Oh, non parlarmi così!”, protestando con angoscia che se qualcuno le avesse detto la stessa cosa, lei non ci avrebbe creduto.

“Ma Martha,” disse Gabriel, mettendosi di mezzo mentre lei stava per andarsene con l’aiuto della spalla di Dolly, “non avrei mai creduto. Cosa c’è che non va ora? Dimmelo, per favore. Sul mio ‘anima, non lo so. Tu lo sai, >bambina? Maledizione!” gridò il fabbro chiave, strappandosi la parrucca in preda alla frenesia, “Nessuno lo sa, credo davvero, tranne Miggs!”

“Miggs,” disse la signora Varden con voce debole, mostrando segni di crescente incoerenza, “è legata a me, e questo basta per attirare su di lei l’odio in questa casa. Per me rappresenta un conforto, qualunque cosa possa essere per gli altri.”

“Non mi dà alcun conforto,” gridò Gabriel, spinto dal disperio. “È la fonte di tutta la mia sofferenza. È come tutte le piagge dell’>Egitto racchiuse in una sola persona.”

“È considerata così, non ho alcun >dubbio”, disse la signora Varden. “Ero preparata a questo; è naturale. Fa parte del tutto. Quando mi insulti davanti ai miei occhi, come posso meravigliarmi che tu insulti anche lei alle mie spalle!” E qui l’incoerenza delle sue parole divenne ancora più evidente: la signora Varden pianse, rise, singhiozzò, tremò, ebbe conati di tosse. Disse di sapere che tutto ciò era molto sciocco, ma che non riusciva a controllarsi; aggiunse anche che, forse, quando fosse morta, loro si sarebbero pentiti. Il che, date le circostanze, non sembrava affatto probabile. In breve, attraversò con grande dignità tutte le procedure tipiche di simili occasioni; e, una volta aiutata a salire al piano di sopra, fu adagiata nel suo letto, in uno stato di notevole agitazione. Poco dopo, la signorina Miggs si gettò sul suo corpo.

La filosofia di tutto ciò era che la signora Varden voleva andare a Chigwell; che non intendeva fare alcuna concessione né fornire spiegazioni; che avrebbe continuato a rifiutare qualsiasi supplica o preghiera al riguardo, e che non avrebbe accettato nessun altro accordo. Di conseguenza, dopo innumerevoli lamenti e pianti al piano di sopra, dopo aver tamponato fronti, applicato compresse alle tempie e altre cure del genere; dopo le patetiche suppliche di Miggs, assistite da brandy e acqua non troppo diluiti, oltre ad altri rimedi stimolanti somministrati all’inizio in piccole dosi e successivamente in quantità crescenti – di cui anche la stessa Miss Miggs ne assumeva una certa dose come misura preventiva (poiché le svenzioni sono contagiose) –; dopo tutti questi tentativi, e molti altri ancora troppo numerosi per essere menzionati, alla fine si riuscì a ottenere il risultato desiderato.

“Se solo fosse per il bene della pace e del silenzio, padre,” disse Dolly, incoraggiandolo ad andare di sopra.

“Ah, Dol, Dol, ”, disse suo padre dal carattere gentile. “Se un giorno avrai un marito tutto tuo, ”

Dolly guardò il bicchiere.

“Beh,” disse il fabbro chiave, “quando succederà, non svenire mai, cara mia. Più infelicità domestica deriva dall’abitudine di svenire facilmente che da tutte le passioni più intense messe insieme. Ricordalo, cara: se vuoi essere davvero felice – il che non potrai mai essere, a meno che tuo marito lo sia – allora, non lasciare mai che qualcuno influisca negativamente su di te!”

Con questo consiglio baciò sulla guancia sua figlia in fiore e tornò lentamente nella stanza della signora Varden; dove quella signora, distesa pallida e languida sul divano, si rinfrescava ammirando il suo ultimo cappello nuovo, che Miggs, nel tentativo di calmare i suoi nervi scossi, aveva esposto in modo particolarmente attraente accanto al suo letto.

‘Here’s master, mim,’ said Miggs. ‘Oh, what a happiness it is when man and wife come round again! Oh gracious, to think that him and her should ever have a word together!’ In the energy of these sentiments, which were uttered as an apostrophe to the Heavens in general, Miss Miggs perched the bonnet on the top of her own head, and folding her hands, turned on her tears.

‘I can’t help it,’ cried Miggs. ‘I couldn’t, if I was to be drownded in ‘em. She has such a forgiving spirit! She’ll forget all that has passed, and go along with you, sir—Oh, if it was to the world’s end, she’d go along with you.’

Mrs Varden with a faint smile gently reproved her attendant for this enthusiasm, and reminded her at the same time that she was far too unwell to venture out that day.

‘Oh no, you’re not, mim, indeed you’re not,’ said Miggs; ‘I repeal to master; master knows you’re not, mim. The hair, and motion of the shay, will do you good, mim, and you must not give way, you must not raly. She must keep up, mustn’t she, sir, for all our sakes? I was a telling her that, just now. She must remember us, even if she forgets herself. Master will persuade you, mim, I’m sure. There’s Miss Dolly’s a-going you know, and master, and you, and all so happy and so comfortable. Oh!’ cried Miggs, turning on the tears again, previous to quitting the room in great emotion, ‘I never see such a blessed one as she is for the forgiveness of her spirit, I never, never, never did. Not more did master neither; no, nor no one—never!’

For five minutes or thereabouts, Mrs Varden remained mildly opposed to all her husband’s prayers that she would oblige him by taking a day’s pleasure, but relenting at length, she suffered herself to be persuaded, and granting him her free forgiveness (the merit whereof, she meekly said, rested with the Manual and not with her), desired that Miggs might come and help her dress. The handmaid attended promptly, and it is but justice to their joint exertions to record that, when the good lady came downstairs in course of time, completely decked out for the journey, she really looked as if nothing had happened, and appeared in the very best health imaginable.

As to Dolly, there she was again, the very pink and pattern of good looks, in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a hood of the same drawn over her head, and upon the top of that hood, a little straw hat trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one side—just enough in short to make it the wickedest and most provoking head-dress that ever malicious milliner devised. And not to speak of the manner in which these cherry-coloured decorations brightened her eyes, or vied with her lips, or shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such a cruel little muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, and was so surrounded and hemmed in, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds, that when Mr Tappettit, holding the horse’s head, saw her come out of the house alone, such impulses came over him to decoy her into the chaise and drive off like mad, that he would unquestionably have done it, but for certain uneasy doubts besetting him as to the shortest way to Gretna Green; whether it was up the street or down, or up the right-hand turning or the left; and whether, supposing all the turnpikes to be carried by storm, the blacksmith in the end would marry them on credit; which by reason of his clerical office appeared, even to his excited imagination, so unlikely, that he hesitated. And while he stood hesitating, and looking post-chaises-and-six at Dolly, out came his master and his mistress, and the constant Miggs, and the opportunity was gone for ever. For now the chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs Varden was inside; and now it creaked again, and more than ever, and the locksmith was inside; and now it bounded once, as if its heart beat lightly, and Dolly was inside; and now it was gone and its place was empty, and he and that dreary Miggs were standing in the street together.

The hearty locksmith was in as good a humour as if nothing had occurred for the last twelve months to put him out of his way, Dolly was all smiles and graces, and Mrs Varden was agreeable beyond all precedent. As they jogged through the streets talking of this thing and of that, who should be descried upon the pavement but that very coachmaker, looking so genteel that nobody would have believed he had ever had anything to do with a coach but riding in it, and bowing like any nobleman. To be sure Dolly was confused when she bowed again, and to be sure the cherry-coloured ribbons trembled a little when she met his mournful eye, which seemed to say, ‘I have kept my word, I have begun, the business is going to the devil, and you’re the cause of it.’ There he stood, rooted to the ground: as Dolly said, like a statue; and as Mrs Varden said, like a pump; till they turned the corner: and when her father thought it was like his impudence, and her mother wondered what he meant by it, Dolly blushed again till her very hood was pale.

But on they went, not the less merrily for this, and there was the locksmith in the incautious fulness of his heart ‘pulling-up’ at all manner of places, and evincing a most intimate acquaintance with all the taverns on the road, and all the landlords and all the landladies, with whom, indeed, the little horse was on equally friendly terms, for he kept on stopping of his own accord. Never were people so glad to see other people as these landlords and landladies were to behold Mr Varden and Mrs Varden and Miss Varden; and wouldn’t they get out, said one; and they really must walk upstairs, said another; and she would take it ill and be quite certain they were proud if they wouldn’t have a little taste of something, said a third; and so on, that it was really quite a Progress rather than a ride, and one continued scene of hospitality from beginning to end. It was pleasant enough to be held in such esteem, not to mention the refreshments; so Mrs Varden said nothing at the time, and was all affability and delight—but such a body of evidence as she collected against the unfortunate locksmith that day, to be used thereafter as occasion might require, never was got together for matrimonial purposes.

“Ecco il padrone, Mim,” disse Miggs. “Oh, che felicità quando marito e moglie si riuniscono di nuovo! Oh mio Dio, pensare che possano mai parlarsi di nuovo, ” Con tale fervore, espresso come un appello al cielo in generale, la signorina Miggs si mise il cappello in testa, incrociò le mani e scoppiò in lacrime.

“Non posso farci nulla,” gridò Miggs. “Non riuscirei nemmeno se fossi sommerso da loro. Ha un cuore così indulgente! Dimenticherà tutto ciò che è accaduto e verrà con voi, signore. Oh, anche fino all’estremità del mondo, verrebbe con voi.”

La signora Varden, con un debole sorriso, rimproverò dolcemente la sua cameriera per questo entusiasmo e le ricordò allo stesso tempo che era troppo malata per uscire quel giorno.

“Oh no, non è vero, davvero non lo sei,” disse Miggs; “Devo dirlo al padrone: lui sa che non lo sei. I tuoi capelli, e il modo in cui ti muovi, ti faranno bene. Non devi arrenderti, non devi cedere. Deve andare avanti, vero signore? Proprio adesso gliel’ho detto. Deve ricordarsi di noi, anche se si dimentica di sé stessa. Il padrone la convincerà, ne sono sicura. C’è Miss Dolly che sta per venire da te. E il padrone, e tu, tutti così felici e a vostro agio. Oh!” gridò Miggs, scoppiando di nuovo in lacrime, prima di lasciare la stanza in preda alla commozione; “Non ho mai visto nessuno così fortunato, per la serenità del suo animo. Mai, mai, mai, ”

Per circa cinque minuti, la signora Varden rimase leggermente contraria a tutte le preghiere di suo marito che le chiedeva di concedergli una giornata di svago, ma alla fine cedette e si lasciò convincere. Concedendogli il proprio perdono (e sottolineando umilmente che tale merito spettava al libro di preghiere e non a lei stessa), chiese a Miggs di venire ad aiutarla a vestirsi. La serva si presentò immediatamente, e va detto che, grazie ai loro sforzi congiunti, quando la gentile signora scese al piano di sotto, completamente preparata per il viaggio, sembrava davvero che nulla fosse accaduto e appariva in ottima salute.

Per quanto riguarda Dolly, eccola lì di nuovo: con quel suo viso così rosa e attraente, avvolta in un grazioso mantello color ciliegio, con una cuffia dello stesso colore sulla testa; sopra la cuffia, un piccolo cappellino di paglia decorato con nastri color ciliegio. Indossava davvero il capo più seducente e provocante che mai un abile modista avesse potuto ideare. E per non parlare del modo in cui quei dettagli color ciliegio illuminavano i suoi occhi, mettevano in risalto le sue labbra e donavano al suo viso una nuova bellezza. Indossava anche un guanto molto stretto, e un paio di scarpe davvero penose. Era circondata da mille piccoli dettagli che, in qualche modo, sembravano peggiorare ancora il suo aspetto. Quando il signor Tappettit, tenendo per la testa il cavallo, la vide uscire da casa da sola, provò l’impulso di attirarla nella carrozza e partire a tutta velocità. Ma era tormentato da dubbi riguardo al percorso più breve per raggiungere Gretna Green: se prendere quella strada o un’altra, se svoltare a destra o a sinistra. E soprattutto, se il fabbro avrebbe accettato di riparare i cavalli a credito. Questi dubbi lo fecero esitare. Mentre stava ancora indeciso, guardando Dolly, uscirono il suo padrone e la sua padrona, insieme alla fedele Miggs. E l’occasione fu persa per sempre. La carrozza si allontanò, e lui rimase solo in strada, con quella noiosa Miggs al suo fianco.

Il robusto fabbro chiavi era di ottimo umore, come se negli ultimi dodici mesi non fosse successo nulla che potesse metterlo in difficoltà; Dolly era piena di sorrisi e gentilezze, mentre la signora Varden era più affabile che mai. Mentre chiacchieravano per le strade, chi avrebbero potuto incontrare se non proprio quel costruttore di carrozze, che sembrava così distinto da far credere a nessuno che avesse mai avuto a che fare con le carrozze, se non per viaggiarci dentro, e si inchinava come un nobile. Di certo Dolly rimase confusa quando dovette inchinarsi di nuovo; i nastri color ciliegio tremolarono leggermente quando incrociò il suo sguardo triste, che sembrava dire: “Ho mantenuto la mia promessa. Ho iniziato. Ma le cose stanno andando male. E sei tu la causa”. Lui rimase fermo lì, immobile come una statua, secondo Dolly; o come una pompa, secondo la signora Varden. Fino a quando non svoltarono l’angolo. Quando suo padre pensò che fosse un comportamento davvero sfrontato, e sua madre si chiese cosa intendesse con quel gesto, Dolly arrossì di nuovo fino a far impallidire il cappuccio che indossava.

Ma continuarono il loro viaggio, anzi ancora più allegramente per questo motivo. C’era quel fabbro che, con la sua imprudenza, si fermava in ogni locanda lungo la strada, dimostrando di conoscere molto bene tutti i proprietari di taverne, uomini e donne. Anche il piccolo cavallo sembrava avere rapporti particolarmente amichevoli con loro, poiché si fermava spontaneamente. Non c’erano persone più felici di vedere arrivare il signor Varden, la signora Varden e la signorina Varden di quei proprietari di taverne, “Dovrebbero proprio uscire ad accoglierli”, dicevano alcuni; “Devono assolutamente salire al piano di sopra”, sostenevano altri; “Si arrabbierebbero se non offrissero loro qualcosa da bere o da mangiare”, aggiungevano ancora. Insomma, il viaggio si trasformò in una serie continua di ospitalità e cortesie. Era davvero piacevole essere così apprezzati, per non parlare dei rinfreschi offerti. Quindi la signora Varden non disse nulla in quel momento, ma era piena di affabilità e gioia. Tuttavia, le prove che raccolse quel giorno contro quel sfortunato fabbro, beh, quelle non furono mai utilizzate per scopi matrimoniali.

In course of time—and in course of a pretty long time too, for these agreeable interruptions delayed them not a little,—they arrived upon the skirts of the Forest, and riding pleasantly on among the trees, came at last to the Maypole, where the locksmith’s cheerful ‘Yoho!’ speedily brought to the porch old John, and after him young Joe, both of whom were so transfixed at sight of the ladies, that for a moment they were perfectly unable to give them any welcome, and could do nothing but stare.

It was only for a moment, however, that Joe forgot himself, for speedily reviving he thrust his drowsy father aside—to Mr Willet’s mighty and inexpressible indignation—and darting out, stood ready to help them to alight. It was necessary for Dolly to get out first. Joe had her in his arms;—yes, though for a space of time no longer than you could count one in, Joe had her in his arms. Here was a glimpse of happiness!

It would be difficult to describe what a flat and commonplace affair the helping Mrs Varden out afterwards was, but Joe did it, and did it too with the best grace in the world. Then old John, who, entertaining a dull and foggy sort of idea that Mrs Varden wasn’t fond of him, had been in some doubt whether she might not have come for purposes of assault and battery, took courage, hoped she was well, and offered to conduct her into the house. This tender being amicably received, they marched in together; Joe and Dolly followed, arm-in-arm, (happiness again!) and Varden brought up the rear.

Old John would have it that they must sit in the bar, and nobody objecting, into the bar they went. All bars are snug places, but the Maypole’s was the very snuggest, cosiest, and completest bar, that ever the wit of man devised. Such amazing bottles in old oaken pigeon-holes; such gleaming tankards dangling from pegs at about the same inclination as thirsty men would hold them to their lips; such sturdy little Dutch kegs ranged in rows on shelves; so many lemons hanging in separate nets, and forming the fragrant grove already mentioned in this chronicle, suggestive, with goodly loaves of snowy sugar stowed away hard by, of punch, idealised beyond all mortal knowledge; such closets, such presses, such drawers full of pipes, such places for putting things away in hollow window-seats, all crammed to the throat with eatables, 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.

Nel corso del tempo – e anzi, di un periodo piuttosto lungo, poiché queste piacevoli interruzioni li ritardarono non poco – arrivarono ai margini della Foresta e, cavalcando tra gli alberi, giunsero infine presso il palo di maggio. Il gioioso “Yoho!” del fabbro chiusei li fece subito accorrere sul portico: prima vecchio John, poi giovane Joe. Entrambi rimasero così sbalorditi alla vista delle signore che, per un momento, non riuscirono nemmeno a salutarle e poterono solo fissarle in silenzio.

Tuttavia, fu solo per un momento che Joe dimenticò se stesso: ripresosi rapidamente, spinse da parte il padre assonnato – causando la grande e indescrivibile indignazione del signor Willet – e corse fuori pronto ad aiutarli a scendere. Era necessario che Dolly uscisse per prima. Joe la teneva tra le braccia; sì, anche se per un istante brevissimo, appena sufficiente a contare fino a uno. Ecco un barlume di felicità!

Sarebbe difficile descrivere quanto fosse una faccenda banale e ordinaria l’aiuto che Joe offrì in seguito a Mrs Varden, ma lo fece comunque con la massima gentilezza possibile. Intanto, il vecchio John, convinto che Mrs Varden non gli fosse affezionata, nutriva qualche >dubbio sulle sue intenzioni e, sperando che stesse bene, si offrì di accompagnarla in casa. Essendo stato accolto con cordialità, entrarono tutti insieme; Joe e Dolly seguirono abbracciati (e la felicità tornò a regnare!), mentre Varden chiudeva la fila.

Il vecchio John insisteva affinché si sedessero nel bar, e nessuno obiettava; così entrarono tutti nel bar. Tutti i bar sono posti accoglienti, ma quello del Maypole era davvero il più confortevole, il più accogliente e il più completo di qualsiasi altro avesse mai immaginato l’uomo. Bottiglie straordinarie conservate in vecchi anfratti di quercia; boccali lucidi appesi a ganci, disposti con un’inclinazione perfetta per che gli uomini assetati potessero portarli alle labbra; robuste barili olandesi allineati sugli scaffali; tanti limoni appesi in reti separate, formando quel “boschetto profumato” già menzionato in questa cronaca. E poi, accanto a tutto ciò, deliziosi panini ricoperti di zucchero bianco, che facevano pensare al punch, idealizzato al di là di ogni conoscenza umana. Armadietti, pressi, cassetti pieni di pipe; posti perfetti per riporre qualsiasi cosa. E infine, per coronare tutto ciò, un formaggio davvero straordinario, tipico delle immense risorse di quel locale e della sua capacità di sfidare chiunque volesse tornare a visitarlo.

È un cuore povero quello che non si rallegra mai. Deve essere stato il cuore più povero, più debole e più insipido che abbia mai battuto. Un cuore che non era disposto nemmeno a scaldarsi al calore del palo di maggio. La signora Varden invece lo fece senza esitazione. Non avrebbe potuto rimproverare John Willet davanti a quei “dèi domestici” – i barili, le bottiglie, i limoni, le pipe e il formaggio – proprio come non avrebbe potuto pugnalarlo con il suo stesso coltello da intaglio. Anche l’ordine per la cena. Avrebbe potuto tranquillizzare persino un selvaggio, “Un po’ di pesce,” disse John al cuoco, “e alcune costine di agnello panate, con tanto ketchup, una buona insalata. E una pollo arrosto di primavera, accompagnato da salsicce e purè di patate. O qualcosa del genere, ” Qualcosa del genere. Le risorse di queste locande. Parlare con noncuranza di piatti che di per sé rappresentavano una cena davvero prelibata, adatta a un giorno di nozze. Come se fossero semplici cibi ordinari. Significava: se non si riesce a trovare un pollo di primavera, va bene anche qualsiasi altro tipo di carne. Magari persino un pavone! E poi la cucina. Con quel grande camino cavernoso. Una cucina dove sembrava che nulla fosse impossibile da preparare. Dove si poteva credere che esistesse davvero di tutto per mangiare. Eppure loro preferivano parlarti solo di questo. La signora Varden tornò, dopo aver ammirato tutte queste meraviglie, al bar. Con la testa completamente confusa e stordita. Le sue capacità domestiche non erano sufficienti per comprendere tutto ciò. Fu costretta ad andare a dormire. Svegliarsi, in mezzo a tanta immensità, era davvero un dolore.

Nel frattempo, Dolly, la cui mente e il cui cuore erano occupati da altre cose, uscì dal cancello del giardino e, guardandosi indietro di tanto in tanto (senza certo chiedersi se Joe l’avesse vista), prese un sentiero che attraversava i campi, che conosceva molto bene, per portare a termine la sua missione presso la famiglia Warren. Questa persona, che ne ha avuto notizia, crede sinceramente che si sarebbero potuti vedere oggetti molto meno piacevoli di quel mantello e di quelle nastri color ciliegio, mentre svolazzavano lungo i prati verdi, alla luce chiara del giorno, oggetti davvero strani e inquietanti.

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.

Capitolo 20

La fiera consapevolezza della fiducia che le veniva accordata, e l’enorme importanza che ne derivava per lei, avrebbero potuto farne conoscenza a tutti gli abitanti di quella casa se fosse stata costretta ad affrontarli; ma poiché Dolly aveva già giocato in ogni stanza e corridoio molte volte in passato, e da allora era diventata l’amica umile di Miss Haredale, della quale era anche sorellastra, si muoveva in quell’edificio con la stessa libertà della giovane signorina stessa. Così, senza prendere alcuna precauzione particolare – tranne trattenere il respiro e camminare in punta di piedi mentre passava davanti alla porta della biblioteca – andò direttamente nella stanza di Emma come una visitatrice privilegiata.

Era la stanza più vivace dell’edificio. La camera era cupa, come tutte le altre del resto, ma la presenza di giovani e bellezza rendeva una prigione allegra (sebbene, purtroppo, quella reclusione li consumasse), e conferiva al luogo più tetro un certo fascino. Uccelli, fiori, libri, disegni, musica, e centinaia di altri segni di tenerezza e cura femminili riempivano la stanza di vita e umana compassione, più di quanto sembrasse contenere l’intero casa insieme. C’era cuore in quella stanza; e chi ha un cuore, non può mai ignorare la presenza silenziosa di un altro essere umano!

Dolly ne aveva sicuramente una, e non era certo una situazione difficile. Anche se c’era un pizzico di civetteria in tutto ciò, proprio come a volte avviene intorno a quel “sole della vita” al mattino, offuscandone leggermente il bagliore. Così, quando Emma si alzò per salutarla e le baciò affettuosamente la guancia, dicendole con voce tranquilla che era stata molto infelice, le lacrime comparvero negli occhi di Dolly. Si sentiva più addolorata di quanto potesse esprimere a parole; ma nel momento successivo alzò lo sguardo verso il bicchiere. E davvero c’era qualcosa lì dentro che la rincuorava incredibilmente.

“Ne ho sentito parlare, signorina,” disse Dolly, “ed è davvero molto triste, ma quando le cose arrivano al peggio, sicuramente miglioreranno.”

“Ma sei sicura che la situazione sia al peggio?” chiese Emma sorridendo.

“Perché, non vedo proprio come possano essere ancora meno promettenti di quanto già siano; davvero no,” disse Dolly. “E inoltre, ho portato anche qualcosa con me.”

“Non è di Edward?”

Dolly annuì e sorrise; poi, fingendo di non riuscire a trovare ciò che cercava – cosa che, in quei tempi, era del tutto normale – frugò nelle sue tasche e alla fine tirò fuori la lettera. Mentre Emma apriva frettolosamente il sigillo e si immergeva nella lettura del contenuto, lo sguardo di Dolly, per uno di quei strani incidenti che non hanno spiegazione, tornò nuovamente verso il vetro. Non poté fare a meno di chiedersi se il costruttore di carrozze soffrisse molto, e provò davvero compassione per quell’uomo sfortunato.

Era una lettera lunga – molto lunga: scritta su tutti e quattro i lati della pagina di carta e poi attraversata da linee; ma non era una lettera consolatoria, perché mentre Emma la leggeva, si fermava di tanto in tanto per asciugarsi le lacrime con il fazzoletto. Certo, Dolly rimase molto sorpresa nel vederla così angosciata; secondo lei, una storia d’amore doveva essere uno dei momenti più divertenti e ingegnosi della vita. Ma si disse che tutto ciò derivasse dal fatto che Miss Haredale fosse troppo fedele al suo primo amore. E se solo avesse iniziato una relazione con un altro giovane gentiluomo – in modo del tutto innocente, naturalmente – per tenere il suo primo amante “sotto controllo”, si sarebbe sentita molto più sollevata.

“Sono sicura che è quello che dovrei fare anch’io se fossi al suo posto,” pensò Dolly. “Far soffrire la propria persona amata è già abbastanza e del tutto giusto, ma essere si stessi a soffrire, beh, questo è un po’ troppo!”

Tuttavia, non sarebbe stato appropriato dirlo, quindi lei rimase seduta a osservare in silenzio. Le servì una notevole dose di pazienza: quando quella lunga lettera fu letta per la prima volta, venne riletta; e quando fu letta per la seconda volta, ancora una volta venne riletta. Durante questo noioso processo, Dolly passò il tempo nel modo più produttivo che le venisse in mente: intrecciava i propri capelli con le dita, con l’aiuto dello specchio menzionato prima, e gli dava delle strette molto energiche.

Tutto ha una fine. Anche le giovani signore innamorate non possono leggere per sempre le loro lettere. Con il passare del tempo, il pacchetto veniva ripiegato, e restava solo da scrivere la risposta.

Ma poiché si trattava di un’attività che avrebbe richiesto del tempo, Emma decise di rimandarla a dopo cena, aggiungendo che Dolly doveva pranzare con lei. Poiché Dolly aveva già preso questa decisione in precedenza, non fu necessario insistere molto; e una volta definito questo punto, andarono a fare una passeggiata nel giardino.

Camminavano avanti e indietro lungo i sentieri del terrazzo, parlando senza sosta – almeno Dolly non smetteva mai di parlare – e rendevano quel angolo della triste e malinconica casa davvero allegro. Non che parlassero ad alta voce o ridessero molto, ma entrambe erano così belle, e quella giornata era così soleggiata. I loro vestiti leggeri e i loro capelli ricci apparivano così liberi e gioiosi. Emma era così pallida, Dolly così rossa in viso, Emma aveva una figura così delicata, mentre Dolly era così formosa. In breve, non esistono fiori in nessun giardino che possano competere con loro. Che ne dicono gli orticoltori? Sia la casa che il giardino sembravano saperlo, e si illuminavano davvero di gioia.

Dopo questo, venne la cena, la stesura della lettera e ancora un po’ di chiacchiere. Durante queste conversazioni, Miss Haredale approfittò dell’occasione per rimproverare Dolly per alcune sue tendenze frivole e inconstanti; accuse che Dolly sembrava considerare davvero lusinghiere e le facevano molto ridere. Ritenendo che lei fosse del tutto irremediabile in questo senso, Emma la lasciò andare, ma non prima di confidarle quella risposta importante e di cui non si poteva mai essere abbastanza sicuri. E le regalò anche un piccolo braccialetto come ricordo. Dopo averglielo messo al polso, le raccomandò ancora, a metà scherzando e a metà seriamente, di correggere i suoi comportamenti dispettosi. Sapeva infatti che nel profondo del cuore lei amava Joe (cosa che Dolly negò con forza, dichiarando con aria orgogliosa di sperare davvero di poter trovare qualcuno migliore, e così via). Alla fine le disse addio e, dopo averla richiamata per darle altri messaggi da consegnare a Edward – messaggi che nessuno, nemmeno dieci volte più serio di Dolly Varden, avrebbe mai potuto ricordarsi tutti – la congedò definitivamente.

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.’

‘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.

Dolly si congedò e, scendendo le scale con leggerezza, arrivò davanti alla temuta porta della biblioteca. Stava per superarla di nuovo in punta di piedi quando la porta si aprì. E eccolo lì: il signor Haredale! Fin da infanzia, Dolly associava questo gentiluomo a qualcosa di cupo e spettrale; inoltre, in quel momento sopraffatta dai rimorsi della coscienza, la sua vista la gettò nel panico: non riusciva né ad accorgersi della sua presenza né a fuggire. Così fece un balzo indietro, poi, con lo sguardo basso, rimase immobile e tremante.

“Vieni qui, ragazza,” disse il signor Haredale, prendendola per la mano. “Devo parlarti.”

“Per favore, signore, ho molta fretta,” balbettò Dolly, “e, mi avete spaventata venendo così all’improvviso. Preferirei andarmene, se foste così gentile da lasciarmi fare.”

“Immediatamente,” disse il signor Haredale, che ormai l’aveva portata nella stanza e chiuso la porta. “Puoi andare subito. Hai appena lasciato Emma?”

“Sì, signore, proprio in questo momento. Mio padre mi sta aspettando, signore; se le fosse possibile, ”

“Lo so. Lo so,” disse il signor Haredale. “Rispondimi a una domanda: cosa hai portato qui oggi?”

“Portarla qui, signore?”, balbettò Dolly.

“Mi dirai la verità, ne sono sicuro. Sì.”

Dolly esitò per un po’, e un po’ incoraggiata dal suo modo di fare, disse finalmente: “Beh, allora, signore. Era una lettera.”

“Da parte del signor Edward Chester, naturalmente. E lei è colui che porta la risposta?”

Dolly esitò di nuovo; non riuscendo a decidere quale altra azione intraprendere, scoppiò in lacrime.

“Ti allarmi senza motivo,” disse il signor Haredale. “Perché sei così sciocco? Di certo puoi rispondermi. Sai che basta che io ponga la domanda a Emma per conoscere direttamente la verità. Hai già la risposta con te?”

Dolly aveva quello che comunemente si definisce “un carattere indipendente”; ora che si trovava in una situazione piuttosto difficile, ne approfittava al massimo.

“Sì, signore,” rispose lei, tremando e spaventata com’era. “Sì, signore, l’ho preso. Potete uccidermi se volete, signore, ma non lo darò via. Mi dispiace molto, ma non lo farò. Ecco, signore.”

“Apprezzo la vostra fermezza e il vostro modo schietto di parlare,” disse il signor Haredale. “State certa che non ho alcun desiderio di considerare questa lettera come qualcosa di vitale per voi. Siete davvero una messaggera molto discreta e una brava ragazza.”

Non essendo del tutto sicura, come disse in seguito, che quelle lodi non avessero lo scopo di “avvicinarlo a lei”, Dolly si tenne il più lontano possibile da lui, pianse di nuovo e decise di difendere a tutti i costi la sua tasca (dove si trovava la lettera).

“Ho un piano,” disse il signor Haredale dopo un breve silenzio, durante il quale un sorriso, mentre la guardava, riuscì a farsi strada attraverso l’oscurità e la melancolia che erano naturali sul suo volto. “Vorrei trovare una compagna per mia nipote; la sua vita è davvero molto solitaria. Vorresti assumere questo ruolo? Sei la sua amica più anziana, e la persona più adatta per farlo.”

“Non lo so, signore,” rispose Dolly, incerta; probabilmente lui stava scherzando con lei.
“Non posso dirlo. Non so cosa possano desiderare a casa. Non potrei dare un’opinione, signore.”

“Se i vostri amici non avessero obiezioni, ne avreste voi?” disse il signor Haredale. “Dai, è una domanda semplice, e facile da rispondere.”

“Assolutamente no, per quanto ne so, signore,” rispose Dolly. “Certo che mi farebbe molto piacere stare vicino a Miss Emma, e infatti lo faccio sempre.”

“Beh,” disse il signor Haredale. “Questo è tutto ciò che avevo da dire. Siete ansioso di andare. Non lasciate che vi trattiene.”

Dolly non glielo permise, né aspettò che provasse; appena quelle parole uscirono dalle sue labbra, lei lasciò la stanza, lasciò la casa e tornò di nuovo nei campi.

La prima cosa da fare, naturalmente, quando si riprese e pensò a quanto fosse stata in preda al panico, fu piangere di nuovo; poi, riflettendo su come avesse superato la situazione così bene, iniziò a ridere di cuore. Le lacrime che un tempo avevano invaso i suoi occhi furono sostituite da sorrisi, e alla fine Dolly rise così tanto da doversi appoggiare a un albero per esprimere tutta la sua gioia. Quando non riuscì più a ridere e si sentì completamente stanca, sistemò di nuovo il proprio copricapo, asciugò gli occhi, guardò indietro con grande felicità e soddisfazione verso le ciminiere dei Warren, che ormai erano appena visibili, e riprese a camminare.

Il crepuscolo era già iniziato e rapidamente si stava trasformando in sera, ma il sentiero le era così familiare a causa delle frequenti visite che quasi non ci pensava, e certamente non provava alcuna inquietudine all’idea di essere lasciata sola. Inoltre, c’era quell’braccialetto da ammirare: dopo averlo pulito attentamente e tenuto a distanza di braccio, brillava e scintillava così meravigliosamente sul suo polso che osservarlo da ogni angolazione e con ogni movimento del braccio rappresentava un’attività davvero avvincente. C’era anche quella lettera: sembrava così misteriosa e piena di significati quando la tirava fuori dalla tasca. Conteneva, come sapeva bene, molte informazioni importanti; quindi rigirarla continuamente, rifletterci sopra, chiedersi da dove fosse nata, come finisse e cosa dicesse in tutto quel testo, rappresentava un’altra fonte di distrazione costante. Tra l’braccialetto e la lettera, c’era davvero abbastanza da fare senza dover pensare ad altro. E Dolly continuò a camminare felice, ammirandoli uno dopo l’altro.

Mentre attraversava un cancello di legno dove il sentiero diventava stretto e si snodava tra due siepi qua e là adornate da alberi, udì un fruscio vicino a lei, che la fece fermare all’improvviso. Ascoltò. Tutto era molto silenzioso; quindi proseguì il suo cammino. Non era davvero spaventata, ma forse procedeva un po’ più velocemente del solito, e probabilmente non si sentiva più così a proprio agio. Un’interruzione del genere, infatti, può essere sorprendente.

Non appena riprese il cammino, si rese conto di nuovo dello stesso suono: sembrava provenire da qualcuno che si muoveva furtivamente tra cespugli e rovi. Guardando nella direzione da cui proveniva quel suono, le parve quasi di intravedere una figura accovacciata. Si fermò di nuovo; tutto era silenzioso come prima. Proseguì ancora, questa volta più velocemente, e cercò di cantare sottovoce per sé stessa. Doveva essere il vento.

Ma come mai il vento soffiava solo quando lei camminava e si fermava quando restava immobile? Si fermò involontariamente mentre faceva questa riflessione, e anche il rumore fruscante cessò. Ora era davvero spaventata, ma esitava ancora su cosa fare, quando i cespugli iniziarono a crepitare e uno uomo ne emerse, comparendo proprio davanti a lei.

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.

Capitolo 21

Per il momento, per Dolly fu un vero sollievo riconoscere nella persona che si era imposta così bruscamente sulla sua strada e ora le ostacolava il cammino proprio Hugh di Maypole, il cui nome pronunciò con un tono di gioiosa sorpresa, sincera e profonda.

“Sei stato tu?”, disse lei, “che gioia rivederti. E come hai potuto spaventarmi così tanto?”

In risposta a ciò, non disse assolutamente nulla, ma rimase fermo lì, guardandola.

“Sei venuta per incontrarmi?” chiese Dolly.

Hugh annuì e mormorò qualcosa del tipo che l’aveva aspettata e si aspettava che arrivasse prima.

“Pensavo fosse probabile che li mandassero,” disse Dolly, molto sollevata da questa possibilità.

“Nessuno mi ha mandato,” fu la sua risposta cupa. “Sono venuto di mia iniziativa.”

Il comportamento ruvido di quell’uomo, insieme al suo aspetto selvaggio e rozzo, spesso suscitavano in lei un vago senso di apprensione, anche quando c’erano altre persone intorno; per questo motivo, non riusciva a fare a meno di allontanarsi da lui. Averlo come compagno indesiderato in un luogo così solitario, con l’oscurità che si addensava rapidamente intorno a loro, rinnovava e intensificava ancora di più la paura che aveva provato all’inizio.

Se il suo comportamento fosse stato soltanto ostinato e passivamente aggressivo, come al solito, lei non avrebbe provato maggiore avversione per la sua compagnia di quanto facesse sempre. Anzi, forse le sarebbe piaciuto averlo vicino. Ma nel suo sguardo c’era qualcosa di una rozza e sfacciata ammirazione che la spaventava molto. Lo guardò timidamente, incerta se avvicinarsi o allontanarsi; lui rimase fermo a fissarla come un bel satiro. E così rimasero per qualche momento in silenzio, senza muoversi. Alla fine, Dolly raccolse il coraggio, gli passò accanto e si affrettò ad andare avanti.

“Perché sprechi tutta questa energia per evitarmi?” disse Hugh, adattando il proprio passo al suo e tenendosi sempre vicino a lei.

“Vorrei tornare il prima possibile, e tu cammini troppo vicino a me”, rispose Dolly.

“Troppo vicino!” disse Hugh, chinandosi su di lei in modo che potesse sentire il suo respiro sulla sua fronte. “Perché troppo vicino? Sei sempre orgogliosa di ME, mia signora.”

“Non sono orgogliosa di nessuno. Mi sbagliate,” rispose Dolly. “Arretrate, se volete, oppure continuate pure.”

“No, signora,” le rispose, cercando di infilarle il braccio nel proprio, “camminerò con voi.”

Si liberò e, stringendo la sua piccola mano, lo colpì con tutta la sua buona volontà. A quel punto, Maypole Hugh scoppiò in una risata fragorosa; poi, passandole un braccio intorno alla vita, la tenne stretta tra le sue forti mani, come se fosse stata un uccellino.

‘Ha ha ha! Ben fatto, padrona! Colpisci ancora. Puoi schiaffeggiarmi in faccia, strapparmi i capelli, raccogliere la mia barba per le radici. E tutto questo è benvenuto, per il bene dei tuoi occhi luminosi. Colpisci ancora, padrona. Fallo. Ha ha ha! Mi piace.’

“Lasciami andare,” gridò, cercando con entrambe le mani di spingerlo via. “Lasciami andare subito.”

“Avresti potuto essere più gentile con me, Sweetlips,” disse Hugh. “Davvero. Vieni, dimmi ora: perché sei sempre così orgogliosa? Non te ne lamento affatto. Anzi, mi piaci quando sei orgogliosa. Ha ha ha! Non puoi nascondere la tua bellezza a un povero ragazzo. Questo è almeno un conforto!”

Non gli rispose nulla, ma poiché non aveva ancora controllato i suoi progressi, continuò a muoversi il più velocemente possibile. Alla fine, a causa della fretta, del terrore e dell’abbraccio stretto di lui, le forze la abbandonarono e non riuscì più ad andare avanti.

“Hugh,” gridò la ragazza ansimante, “caro Hugh, se mi lascerai andare, ti darò qualsiasi cosa, tutto ciò che ho, e non dirò mai una parola di questo a nessuno.”

“Meglio di no,” rispose. “Ascolta, piccola colomba. Meglio di no. Tutti qui mi conoscono, e sanno cosa sono disposto a fare se ne ho voglia. Se mai dovessi decidere di raccontare tutto, fermati prima che quelle parole escano dalle tue labbra. Pensaci bene: causeresti un gran danno a delle persone innocenti, alle quali non vorresti nemmeno far del male. Se mi crei problemi, io ne creerò altrettanti, e anche di peggio, a loro in cambio. Non me ne frega nulla di loro. Proprio come di tanti cani. Anzi, preferirei uccidere un uomo che un cane. In tutta la mia vita non mi è mai dispiaciuto per la morte di un uomo. Ma per quella di un cane sì.”

C’era qualcosa di estremamente selvaggio nel modo in cui quelle espressioni venivano espresse, così come nei sguardi e nei gesti che le accompagnavano; il suo grande terrore per lui le diede nuova forza, permettendole con uno sforzo improvviso di liberarsi e fuggire velocemente. Ma Hugh era agile, forte e veloce come qualsiasi altro uomo in tutta l’Inghilterra; quindi quel tentativo fu del tutto inutile: prima ancora che lei riuscisse a percorrere cento metri, lui l’aveva già riacciuffata tra le sue braccia.

“Con dolcezza, tesoro, con gentilezza, potresti allontanarti da quel rude Hugh, che ti ama tanto quanto qualsiasi altro galante d’salotto?”

“Lo farei,” rispose lei, lottando per liberarsi di nuovo. “Lo farò. Aiuto!”

“Finalmente, per Dio,” disse Hugh. “Ah ah ah! Una fine, davvero bella, uscita dalle tue labbra. Me lo merito! Ah ah ah!”

“Aiuto! Aiuto! Aiuto!” Urlava con tutta la forza che aveva in corpo, quando risuonarono delle voci in risposta, e poi altre ancora.

“Grazie al cielo!”, esclamò la ragazza con estasi. “Joe, caro Joe, vieni da questa parte. Aiuto!”

Il suo aggressore esitò per un momento, indeciso su cosa fare, ma gli urli che si avvicinavano sempre di più lo costrinsero a prendere una decisione rapida. La lasciò andare e, con uno sguardo minaccioso, le sussurrò: “Diglielo, e vedrai cosa succederà!” Poi saltò oltre la siepe e sparì in un istante. Dolly corse via e finì dritta tra le braccia aperte di Joe Willet.

“Che cos’è successo? Ti sei fatto male? Che cosa è stato? Chi era? Dove si trova? Com’era?” Con molte parole di incoraggiamento e rassicurazioni sulla sua sicurezza, queste furono le prime cose che Joe disse. Ma povera piccola Dolly era così senza fiato e spaventata che, per un po’, non fu in grado di rispondergli; si aggrappò al suo braccio, singhiozzando e piangendo come se il suo cuore stesse per spezzarsi.

A Joe non dispiaceva affatto che lei si appoggiasse al suo braccio; no, per niente, anche se quelle nastri di colore ciliegia venivano tristemente schiacciati e quel grazioso cappellino prendeva una forma assurda. Ma non riusciva a sopportare di vederla piangere: gli spezzava il cuore. Provò a consolarla, si chinò su di lei, le sussurrò parole dolci. Alcuni dicono che l’abbia anche baciata, ma questa è solo una >fabello. Comunque, le disse tutte le cose gentili e tenere che gli vennero in mente; Dolly lo lasciò fare senza interromperlo nemmeno una volta. Passarono ben dieci minuti prima che riuscisse a sollevare la testa e ringraziarlo.

‘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 for this offer, though with no great hope of his quest being successful; and so with many lamentations on her side, and many hopeful words on his, and much weakness on the part of Dolly and much tender supporting on the part of Joe, they reached the Maypole bar at last, where the locksmith and his wife and old John were yet keeping high festival.

Mr Willet received the intelligence of Dolly’s trouble with that surprising presence of mind and readiness of speech for which he was so eminently distinguished above all other men. Mrs Varden expressed her sympathy for her daughter’s distress by scolding her roundly for being so late; and the honest locksmith divided himself between condoling with and kissing Dolly, and shaking hands heartily with Joe, whom he could not sufficiently praise or thank.

In reference to this latter point, old John was far from agreeing with his friend; for besides that he by no means approved of an adventurous spirit in the abstract, it occurred to him that if his son and heir had been seriously damaged in a scuffle, the consequences would assuredly have been expensive and inconvenient, and might perhaps have proved detrimental to the Maypole business. Wherefore, and because he looked with no favourable eye upon young girls, but rather considered that they and the whole female sex were a kind of nonsensical mistake on the part of Nature, he took occasion to retire and shake his head in private at the boiler; inspired by which silent oracle, he was moved to give Joe various stealthy nudges with his elbow, as a parental reproof and gentle admonition to mind his own business and not make a fool of himself.

Joe, however, took down the lantern and lighted it; and arming himself with a stout stick, asked whether Hugh was in the stable.

‘He’s lying asleep before the kitchen fire, sir,’ said Mr Willet. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘I want him to come with me to look after this bracelet and letter,’ answered Joe. ‘Halloa there! Hugh!’

Dolly turned pale as death, and felt as if she must faint forthwith. After a few moments, Hugh came staggering in, stretching himself and yawning according to custom, and presenting every appearance of having been roused from a sound nap.

‘Here, sleepy-head,’ said Joe, giving him the lantern. ‘Carry this, and bring the dog, and that small cudgel of yours. And woe betide the fellow if we come upon him.’

‘What fellow?’ growled Hugh, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself.

‘What fellow?’ returned Joe, who was in a state of great valour and bustle; ‘a fellow you ought to know of and be more alive about. It’s well for the like of you, lazy giant that you are, to be snoring your time away in chimney-corners, when honest men’s daughters can’t cross even our quiet meadows at nightfall without being set upon by footpads, and frightened out of their precious lives.’

‘They never rob me,’ cried Hugh with a laugh. ‘I have got nothing to lose. But I’d as lief knock them at head as any other men. How many are there?’

‘Only one,’ said Dolly faintly, for everybody looked at her.

‘And what was he like, mistress?’ said Hugh with a glance at young Willet, so slight and momentary that the scowl it conveyed was lost on all but her. ‘About my height?’

‘Not—not so tall,’ Dolly replied, scarce knowing what she said.

‘His dress,’ said Hugh, looking at her keenly, ‘like—like any of ours now? I know all the people hereabouts, and maybe could give a guess at the man, if I had anything to guide me.’

Dolly faltered and turned paler yet; then answered that he was wrapped in a loose coat and had his face hidden by a handkerchief and that she could give no other description of him.

“Cos’è stato che ti ha spaventato?” chiese Joe.

Un uomo di cui non conosceva l’identità l’aveva seguita, rispose lei; all’inizio aveva cercato di chiederle l’elemosina, poi aveva iniziato a minacciare di rapinarla, e stava per mettere in atto quelle minacce, se non fosse stato per l’intervento tempestivo di Joe. L’esitazione e la confusione con cui lei raccontò quanto accaduto, Joe le attribuì al terrore che aveva provato; per un momento non gli venne nemmeno in mente alcun sospetto sulla verità.

“Fermati quando le parole sono già sulle tue labbra.” Cento volte quella notte, e molto spesso anche in seguito, quando quelle rivelazioni stavano per uscire dalla sua bocca, Dolly ci pensava e le trattenne. Un terrore profondamente radicato verso quell’uomo; la convinzione che la sua natura feroce, una volta scatenata, non si sarebbe fermata davanti a nulla; e la certezza assoluta che, se lo avesse accusato, tutta la sua furia e vendetta si sarebbero riversate su Joe, che l’aveva protetta. Questi erano motivi troppo forti perché lei avesse il coraggio di superarli, e spinte alla segretezza troppo potenti da poter ignorare.

Joe, per parte sua, era troppo felice per curiosare troppo a fondo su quella faccenda; e poiché Dolly era ancora troppo tremante per camminare da sola, procedettero molto lentamente. E nella mente di Joe tutto sembrava davvero piacevole, finché le luci del palo di maggio non furono vicine, lampeggiando con un’accoglienza allegra. Quando all’improvviso Dolly si fermò e, con un grido soffocato, esclamò:

“La lettera!”

“Quale lettera?” gridò Joe.

“Quello che portavo con me, l’avevo in mano. Anche il mio braccialetto,” disse, stringendosi il polso. “Ho perso entrambi.”

“Intendi proprio adesso?”, disse Joe.

“O le ho perse allora, o me le hanno prese,” rispose Dolly, cercando invano nella tasca e facendo frusciare il suo vestito. “Sono sparite, entrambe. Che sfortunata ragazza sono!” Con queste parole, la povera Dolly, che a dire il vero era altrettanto addolorata per la perdita della lettera quanto per quella del braccialetto, ricominciò a piangere, lamentando la sua sorte in modo molto commovente.

Joe cercò di consolarla assicurandola che, non appena avesse potuto sistemarla nella casa presso il Maypole, sarebbe tornato sul posto con una lanterna (poiché ormai era diventata molto buia) per cercare attentamente gli oggetti scomparsi. C’era molta probabilità che li trovasse, poiché non sembrava che nessuno fosse passato di lì da allora, e lei stessa non si rendeva conto che gli oggetti le fossero stati portati via con la forza. Dolly gli ringraziò molto per questa offerta, anche se non nutriva grandi speranze che la sua ricerca avesse successo; così, tra molte lamentele da parte di lei e parole di incoraggiamento da parte di lui, raggiunsero finalmente il bar presso il Maypole, dove il fabbro, sua moglie e il vecchio John continuavano a festeggiare.

Il signor Willet ricevette la notizia dei problemi di Dolly con quella sorprendente prontezza di spirito e capacità di parlare per cui era così distintamente superiore a tutti gli altri uomini. La signora Varden esprimeva la sua solidarietà per il dolore della figlia rimproverandola aspramente per essere arrivata così tardi; l’onesto fabbro chiave, intanto, si divideva tra consolare e baciare Dolly, e stringere calorosamente la mano a Joe, che non riusciva mai a lodare o ringraziare abbastanza.

Riguardo a questo ultimo punto, il vecchio John non era affatto d’accordo con il suo amico; poiché, oltre al fatto che in linea di principio disapprovava assolutamente lo spirito avventuroso, gli venne in mente che se suo figlio e erede fosse rimasto seriamente ferito in una rissa, le conseguenze sarebbero state sicuramente costose e scomode, e forse anche dannose per l’attività legata al “Maypole”. Inoltre, poiché non guardava con favore alle ragazze giovani, anzi riteneva che loro e tutto il sesso femminile rappresentassero una sorta di errore assurdo da parte della Natura, approfittò dell’occasione per allontanarsi in privato e scuotere la testa davanti al caldaio; ispirato da questo “oracolo silenzioso”, decise di dare a Joe diversi colpetti di gomito, come rimprovero paterno e dolce ammonizione a non comportarsi da idiota.

Tuttavia, Joe prese la lanterna e l’accese; armatosi poi di un robusto bastone, chiese se Hugh si trovasse nella stalla.

“Dorme profondamente davanti al fuoco della cucina, signore,” disse il signor Willet. “A cosa lo vuole utilizzare?”

“Voglio che venga con me per prendersi cura di questo braccialetto e di questa lettera,” rispose Joe. “Ehi, ciao! Hugh!”

Dolly impallidì al pensiero della morte e sentì che stava per svenire all’istante. Dopo alcuni momenti, Hugh entrò barcollando, si stiracchiò e sbadigliò come al solito, dando l’impressione di essere appena stato svegliato da un sonnellino ristoratore.

“Ecco, testone assonnato,” disse Joe, dandogli la lanterna. “Portala tu, e porta anche il cane e quel tuo piccolo bastone. E che il diavolo colpisca chiunque ci incontriamo.”

“Che tipo di persona è?” ringhiò Hugh, strofinandosi gli occhi e scuotendosi.

“Quale individuo?” rispose Joe, che era nel pieno di coraggio e agitazione; “un individuo che dovresti conoscere molto bene. È proprio adatto a persone come te, pigri giganti che passate il vostro tempo a ronfare negli angoli dei camini, mentre le figlie degli onesti uomini non possono nemmeno attraversare i nostri tranquilli prati alla sera senza essere assalite da delinquenti e spaventate a morte.”

“Non mi derubano mai,” esclamò Hugh ridendo. “Non ho nulla da perdere. Ma preferirei distruggerli piuttosto che qualsiasi altro uomo. Quanti sono in totale?”

“Solo uno,” disse Dolly con voce debole, perché tutti la stavano guardando.

“E com’era fatto, signora?” chiese Hugh, lanciando un’occhiata al giovane Willet; uno sguardo così fugace che l’espressione di disapprovazione che trasmetteva sfuggì a tutti tranne che a lei. “All’incirca della mia statura?”

“Non, non così alta,” rispose Dolly, senza quasi sapere ciò che stava dicendo.

“Suo vestito,” disse Hugh, guardandola attentamente, “sembra, sembra uno dei nostri di oggi, vero? Conosco tutte le persone in queste vicinanze; forse potrei indovinare chi sia quell’uomo, se avessi qualche indizio.”

Dolly esitò e impallidì ancora di più; poi rispose che lui era avvolto in un cappotto largo e che il suo viso era nascosto da un fazzoletto, aggiungendo di non poter fornire altre descrizioni su di lui.

‘You wouldn’t know him if you saw him then, belike?’ said Hugh with a malicious grin.

‘I should not,’ answered Dolly, bursting into tears again. ‘I don’t wish to see him. I can’t bear to think of him. I can’t talk about him any more. Don’t go to look for these things, Mr Joe, pray don’t. I entreat you not to go with that man.’

‘Not to go with me!’ cried Hugh. ‘I’m too rough for them all. They’re all afraid of me. Why, bless you mistress, I’ve the tenderest heart alive. I love all the ladies, ma’am,’ said Hugh, turning to the locksmith’s wife.

Mrs Varden opined that if he did, he ought to be ashamed of himself; such sentiments being more consistent (so she argued) with a benighted Mussulman or wild Islander than with a stanch Protestant. Arguing from this imperfect state of his morals, Mrs Varden further opined that he had never studied the Manual. Hugh admitting that he never had, and moreover that he couldn’t read, Mrs Varden declared with much severity, that he ought to be even more ashamed of himself than before, and strongly recommended him to save up his pocket-money for the purchase of one, and further to teach himself the contents with all convenient diligence. She was still pursuing this train of discourse, when Hugh, somewhat unceremoniously and irreverently, followed his young master out, and left her to edify the rest of the company. This she proceeded to do, and finding that Mr Willet’s eyes were fixed upon her with an appearance of deep attention, gradually addressed the whole of her discourse to him, whom she entertained with a moral and theological lecture of considerable length, in the conviction that great workings were taking place in his spirit. The simple truth was, however, that Mr Willet, although his eyes were wide open and he saw a woman before him whose head by long and steady looking at seemed to grow bigger and bigger until it filled the whole bar, was to all other intents and purposes fast asleep; and so sat leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets until his son’s return caused him to wake up with a deep sigh, and a faint impression that he had been dreaming about pickled pork and greens—a vision of his slumbers which was no doubt referable to the circumstance of Mrs Varden’s having frequently pronounced the word ‘Grace’ with much emphasis; which word, entering the portals of Mr Willet’s brain as they stood ajar, and coupling itself with the words ‘before meat,’ which were there ranging about, did in time suggest a particular kind of meat together with that description of vegetable which is usually its companion.

The search was wholly unsuccessful. Joe had groped along the path a dozen times, and among the grass, and in the dry ditch, and in the hedge, but all in vain. Dolly, who was quite inconsolable for her loss, wrote a note to Miss Haredale giving her the same account of it that she had given at the Maypole, which Joe undertook to deliver as soon as the family were stirring next day. That done, they sat down to tea in the bar, where there was an uncommon display of buttered toast, and—in order that they might not grow faint for want of sustenance, and might have a decent halting-place or halfway house between dinner and supper—a few savoury trifles in the shape of great rashers of broiled ham, which being well cured, done to a turn, and smoking hot, sent forth a tempting and delicious fragrance.

Mrs Varden was seldom very Protestant at meals, unless it happened that they were underdone, or overdone, or indeed that anything occurred to put her out of humour. Her spirits rose considerably on beholding these goodly preparations, and from the nothingness of good works, she passed to the somethingness of ham and toast with great cheerfulness. Nay, under the influence of these wholesome stimulants, she sharply reproved her daughter for being low and despondent (which she considered an unacceptable frame of mind), and remarked, as she held her own plate for a fresh supply, that it would be well for Dolly, who pined over the loss of a toy and a sheet of paper, if she would reflect upon the voluntary sacrifices of the missionaries in foreign parts who lived chiefly on salads.

The proceedings of such a day occasion various fluctuations in the human thermometer, and especially in instruments so sensitively and delicately constructed as Mrs Varden. Thus, at dinner Mrs V. stood at summer heat; genial, smiling, and delightful. After dinner, in the sunshine of the wine, she went up at least half-a-dozen degrees, and was perfectly enchanting. As its effect subsided, she fell rapidly, went to sleep for an hour or so at temperate, and woke at something below freezing. Now she was at summer heat again, in the shade; and when tea was over, and old John, producing a bottle of cordial from one of the oaken cases, insisted on her sipping two glasses thereof in slow succession, she stood steadily at ninety for one hour and a quarter. Profiting by experience, the locksmith took advantage of this genial weather to smoke his pipe in the porch, and in consequence of this prudent management, he was fully prepared, when the glass went down again, to start homewards directly.

The horse was accordingly put in, and the chaise brought round to the door. Joe, who would on no account be dissuaded from escorting them until they had passed the most dreary and solitary part of the road, led out the grey mare at the same time; and having helped Dolly into her seat (more happiness!) sprung gaily into the saddle. Then, after many good nights, and admonitions to wrap up, and glancing of lights, and handing in of cloaks and shawls, the chaise rolled away, and Joe trotted beside it—on Dolly’s side, no doubt, and pretty close to the wheel too.

“Non lo riconosceresti nemmeno se lo vedessi adesso, vero?” disse Hugh con un sorriso malizioso.

“Non dovrei,” rispose Dolly, scoppiando di nuovo in lacrime. “Non voglio vederlo. Non riesco a sopportare il pensiero di lui. Non posso più parlare di lui. Per favore, non andate a cercare quelle cose, signor Joe. Vi supplico, non andate con quell’uomo.”

“Non venire con me!” gridò Hugh. “Sono troppo ruvido per loro. Hanno tutti paura di me. Perbacco, signora mia, ho il cuore più tenero che esista. Amo tutte le signore, davvero,” disse Hugh, rivolgendosi alla moglie del fabbro.

La signora Varden opinava che, se lo avesse fatto, dovesse vergognarsi di sé; simili sentimenti, secondo lei, erano più consonanti con quelli di un musulmano ignorante o di un abitante selvaggio delle isole che con quelli di un protestante devoto. Basandosi su questo cattivo stato della sua morale, la signora Varden concluse anche che non avesse mai studiato il Manuale. Hugh ammise di non averlo fatto e, inoltre, di non saper leggere; allora lei dichiarò con grande severità che doveva vergognarsi ancora di più e gli consigliò vivamente di risparmiare i suoi soldi per comprarne uno e di studiarne il contenuto con la massima diligenza possibile. Mentre continuava a parlare in questo modo, Hugh, in modo piuttosto scortese e irrispettoso, seguì il suo giovane padrone fuori e la lasciò a “edificare” il resto del gruppo. Lei proseguì nella sua dissertazione e, notando che gli occhi del signor Willet erano fissi su di lei con grande attenzione, iniziò gradualmente a rivolgersi soltanto a lui, tenendogli una lunga lezione morale e teologica, convinta che nel suo spirito stessero avvenendo grandi cambiamenti. La semplice verità, tuttavia, era che il signor Willet, sebbene avesse gli occhi ben aperti e vedesse davanti a sé una donna la cui testa, a causa di uno sguardo prolungato e fisso, sembrava diventare sempre più grande fino a riempire l’intero locale, in realtà dormiva profondamente; sedeva quindi appoggiato allo schienale della sedia con le mani in tasca, finché il ritorno di suo figlio non lo svegliò con un profondo sospiro, lasciandogli l’impressione vaga di aver sognato maiale in salamoia e verdure. Un sogno, senza dubbio, legato al fatto che la signora Varden aveva spesso pronunciato la parola “Grazia” con grande enfasi; quella parola, entrando nel cervello del signor Willet mentre era ancora semiaperto, si era unita alle parole “prima del cibo”, presenti nella sua mente, suscitando l’immagine di un certo tipo di carne insieme a quella descrizione di verdure che solitamente la accompagna.

La ricerca risultò del tutto infruttuosa. Joe aveva cercato più volte lungo il sentiero, tra l’erba, nel fossato asciutto e nella siepe, ma invano. Dolly, profondamente addolorata per la perdita, scrisse una nota a Miss Haredale raccontandole esattamente quanto aveva detto al Maypole; Joe si impegnò a consegnarla non appena la famiglia si fosse alzata il giorno seguente. Dopo averlo fatto, si sedettero a prendere il tè nel bar, dove c’era una notevole quantità di pane tostato con burro. E, affinché non si indebolissero per mancanza di cibo e avessero un luogo decente dove riposare tra cena e colazione, furono serviti anche alcuni piatti salati: grandi fette di prosciutto arrosto, ben stagionato, cotto alla perfezione e ancora fumante, che emanavano un profumo delizioso.

La signora Varden raramente era molto “protestante” durante i pasti, a meno che il cibo non fosse poco cotto o troppo cotto, o comunque qualcosa non le rovinasse l’umore. Vedendo queste ottime preparazioni, il suo spirito si alzò notevolmente; passando dall’assenza di qualsiasi attività “virtuosa”, iniziò a gustare con grande gioia prosciutto e toast. Anzi, sotto l’influenza di questi stimoli “salutari”, rimproverò aspramente sua figlia per essere triste e depressa (che considerava uno stato d’animo inaccettabile), e osservò, mentre si riempiva il piatto con nuovi cibi, che sarebbe stato meglio per Dolly, che si lamentava della perdita di un giocattolo e di un foglio di carta, se riflettesse sui sacrifici volontari dei missionari all’estero, i quali vivevano principalmente di insalate.

Le attività di una giornata del genere causano varie fluttuazioni nel “termometro umano”, soprattutto negli individui costruiti in modo così sensibile e delicato come la signora Varden. Quella sera, a cena, la signora Varden era piena di vitalità, sorridente e deliziosa; dopo cena, sotto l’effetto dell’alcol, il suo “temperatura corporea” aumentò di almeno mezzo grado, rendendola ancora più affascinante. Tuttavia, man mano che l’effetto dell’alcol svaniva, la sua temperatura scese rapidamente: dormì per un’ora circa a una temperatura moderata, e si svegliò con temperature vicine allo zero. Poi, di nuovo, tornò a essere piena di energia, all’ombra. Dopo il tè, quando il vecchio John le offrì una bottiglia di liquore invitandola ad assumerne due bicchieri uno dopo l’altro, la sua “temperatura corporea” rimase stabile intorno ai novanta gradi per un’ora e un quarto. Approfittando di questo clima favorevole, il fabbro ferraio approfittò per fumare la sua pipa in veranda; grazie a questa prudenza, quando finalmente arrivò l’ora di tornare a casa, era perfettamente pronto.

Il cavallo fu quindi attaccato alla carrozza, che venne portata davanti alla porta. Joe, che non avrebbe mai accettato di lasciarli senza scorta finché non avessero superato la parte più desolata e solitaria della strada, condusse fuori la cavalla grigia nello stesso momento; dopo aver aiutato Dolly a salire sul sedile (che felicità!), montò anche lui al galoppo. Poi, dopo tanti auguri di buonanotte, raccomandazioni di coprirsi bene, alcuni sguardi e la consegna degli scialli, la carrozza si mise in movimento; Joe la seguì al trotto, senza dubbio dal lato di Dolly, e anche abbastanza vicino alla ruota.

Chapter 22

It was a fine bright night, and for all her lowness of spirits Dolly kept looking up at the stars in a manner so bewitching (and SHE knew it!) that Joe was clean out of his senses, and plainly showed that if ever a man were—not to say over head and ears, but over the Monument and the top of Saint Paul’s in love, that man was himself. The road was a very good one; not at all a jolting road, or an uneven one; and yet Dolly held the side of the chaise with one little hand, all the way. If there had been an executioner behind him with an uplifted axe ready to chop off his head if he touched that hand, Joe couldn’t have helped doing it. From putting his own hand upon it as if by chance, and taking it away again after a minute or so, he got to riding along without taking it off at all; as if he, the escort, were bound to do that as an important part of his duty, and had come out for the purpose. The most curious circumstance about this little incident was, that Dolly didn’t seem to know of it. She looked so innocent and unconscious when she turned her eyes on Joe, that it was quite provoking.

She talked though; talked about her fright, and about Joe’s coming up to rescue her, and about her gratitude, and about her fear that she might not have thanked him enough, and about their always being friends from that time forth—and about all that sort of thing. And when Joe said, not friends he hoped, Dolly was quite surprised, and said not enemies she hoped; and when Joe said, couldn’t they be something much better than either, Dolly all of a sudden found out a star which was brighter than all the other stars, and begged to call his attention to the same, and was ten thousand times more innocent and unconscious than ever.

In this manner they travelled along, talking very little above a whisper, and wishing the road could be stretched out to some dozen times its natural length—at least that was Joe’s desire—when, as they were getting clear of the forest and emerging on the more frequented road, they heard behind them the sound of a horse’s feet at a round trot, which growing rapidly louder as it drew nearer, elicited a scream from Mrs Varden, and the cry ‘a friend!’ from the rider, who now came panting up, and checked his horse beside them.

‘This man again!’ cried Dolly, shuddering.

‘Hugh!’ said Joe. ‘What errand are you upon?’

‘I come to ride back with you,’ he answered, glancing covertly at the locksmith’s daughter. ‘HE sent me.’

‘My father!’ said poor Joe; adding under his breath, with a very unfilial apostrophe, ‘Will he never think me man enough to take care of myself!’

‘Aye!’ returned Hugh to the first part of the inquiry. ‘The roads are not safe just now, he says, and you’d better have a companion.’

‘Ride on then,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not going to turn yet.’

Hugh complied, and they went on again. It was his whim or humour to ride immediately before the chaise, and from this position he constantly turned his head, and looked back. Dolly felt that he looked at her, but she averted her eyes and feared to raise them once, so great was the dread with which he had inspired her.

This interruption, and the consequent wakefulness of Mrs Varden, who had been nodding in her sleep up to this point, except for a minute or two at a time, when she roused herself to scold the locksmith for audaciously taking hold of her to prevent her nodding herself out of the chaise, put a restraint upon the whispered conversation, and made it difficult of resumption. Indeed, before they had gone another mile, Gabriel stopped at his wife’s desire, and that good lady protested she would not hear of Joe’s going a step further on any account whatever. It was in vain for Joe to protest on the other hand that he was by no means tired, and would turn back presently, and would see them safely past such a point, and so forth. Mrs Varden was obdurate, and being so was not to be overcome by mortal agency.

‘Good night—if I must say it,’ said Joe, sorrowfully.

‘Good night,’ said Dolly. She would have added, ‘Take care of that man, and pray don’t trust him,’ but he had turned his horse’s head, and was standing close to them. She had therefore nothing for it but to suffer Joe to give her hand a gentle squeeze, and when the chaise had gone on for some distance, to look back and wave it, as he still lingered on the spot where they had parted, with the tall dark figure of Hugh beside him.

What she thought about, going home; and whether the coach-maker held as favourable a place in her meditations as he had occupied in the morning, is unknown. They reached home at last—at last, for it was a long way, made none the shorter by Mrs Varden’s grumbling. Miggs hearing the sound of wheels was at the door immediately.

‘Here they are, Simmun! Here they are!’ cried Miggs, clapping her hands, and issuing forth to help her mistress to alight. ‘Bring a chair, Simmun. Now, an’t you the better for it, mim? Don’t you feel more yourself than you would have done if you’d have stopped at home? Oh, gracious! how cold you are! Goodness me, sir, she’s a perfect heap of ice.’

‘I can’t help it, my good girl. You had better take her in to the fire,’ said the locksmith.

‘Master sounds unfeeling, mim,’ said Miggs, in a tone of commiseration, ‘but such is not his intentions, I’m sure. After what he has seen of you this day, I never will believe but that he has a deal more affection in his heart than to speak unkind. Come in and sit yourself down by the fire; there’s a good dear—do.’

Mrs Varden complied. The locksmith followed with his hands in his pockets, and Mr Tappertit trundled off with the chaise to a neighbouring stable.

‘Martha, my dear,’ said the locksmith, when they reached the parlour, ‘if you’ll look to Dolly yourself or let somebody else do it, perhaps it will be only kind and reasonable. She has been frightened, you know, and is not at all well to-night.’

Capitolo 22

Era una bella notte chiara e luminosa; nonostante il suo umore cupo, Dolly continuava a guardare le stelle in un modo così incantevole (e lei lo sapeva bene!) che Joe ne rimase completamente affascinato. Era evidente che, se mai esistesse un uomo, non per dire innamoratissimo, ma davvero perdutamente innamorato, allora quell’uomo sarebbe proprio lui. La strada era molto buona: assolutamente priva di sobbalzi o irregolarità; eppure Dolly tenne stretta la sponda della carrozza con una mano per tutto il tragitto. Anche se dietro di lui ci fosse stato un boia con un’ascia pronta a tagliargli la testa se avesse toccato quella mano, Joe non sarebbe riuscito a evitarlo. Dopo averla messa lì come per caso e poi averla ritratta dopo qualche minuto, iniziò a viaggiare senza più toccarla; come se lui, che la accompagnava, avesse il dovere di farlo, e fosse venuto apposta per questo scopo. La cosa più curiosa di questa piccola situazione era che Dolly sembrava non rendersene conto affatto. Quando guardava Joe, aveva un’espressione così innocente e inconsapevole da essere davvero provocatoria.

Parlò molto; raccontò della sua paura, di come Joe fosse venuto a salvarla, della sua gratitudine, del suo timore che forse non lo avesse ringraziato abbastanza, e di come da quel momento in poi fossero sempre stati amici. E quando Joe disse che non sperava fossero solo amici, Dolly rimase molto sorpresa e rispose che non sperava fossero nemici; e quando Joe aggiunse che forse potevano essere qualcosa di molto meglio di entrambe le cose, Dolly all’improvviso scoprì una stella più luminosa di tutte le altre stelle esistenti, e pregò Joe di notarla. Era diecimila volte più innocente e inconsapevole che mai.

In questo modo continuarono il loro viaggio, parlando molto poco, sussurrando appena, e desiderando che la strada potesse allungarsi di una dozzina di volte rispetto alla sua lunghezza naturale. Almeno questo era il desiderio di Joe. Mentre si allontanavano dalla foresta e uscivano su una strada più frequentata, sentirono alle loro spalle il rumore degli zoccoli di un cavallo al trotto veloce; quel suono, che diventava sempre più forte man mano che il cavallo si avvicinava, fece gridare la signora Varden, mentre il cavaliere, arrivato ansimando, fermò il proprio animale accanto a loro.

“Quest’uomo di nuovo!” esclamò Dolly, tremando.

“Hugh!” disse Joe. “A quale commissione sei uscito?”

“Vengo a tornare indietro con te,” rispose, lanciando un’occhiata furtiva alla figlia del fabbro. “LUI mi ha mandato.”

“Mio padre!” disse povero Joe; aggiungendo sottovoce, con un apostrofo molto irrispettoso: “Non penserà mai che io sia abbastanza uomo da prendersi cura di me stesso?”

“Sì!”, rispose Hugh alla prima parte della domanda. “Le strade in questo momento non sono sicure, dice; è meglio che tu abbia un compagno.”

“Allora vai pure avanti,” disse Joe. “Io non intendo fermarmi ancora.”

Hugh obbedì e continuarono il loro viaggio. Era una sua capricciosa abitudine o un suo modo di divertirsi cavalcare immediatamente davanti alla carrozza; da quella posizione continuava a girare la testa per guardare indietro. Dolly aveva l’impressione che lui la stesse fissando, ma lei distoglieva lo sguardo, temendo di alzarlo ancora una volta, tanto grande era il terrore che lui le ispirava.

Questo interruzione, nonché la conseguente veglia di Mrs Varden – che fino a quel momento aveva continuato a sonnecchiare, ad eccezione di un minuto o due in cui si svegliava per rimproverare il fabbro per aver osato trattenerla per impedirle di addormentarsi del tutto nella poltrona – resero difficile la ripresa della loro conversazione sussurrata. Infatti, prima ancora che avessero percorso un altro miglio, Gabriel si fermò su esortazione di sua moglie; quella brava donna si rifiutò categoricamente di permettere a Joe di proseguire, per nessuna ragione al mondo. Fu inutile che Joe protestasse dicendo di non essere affatto stanco e che sarebbe tornato subito indietro per assicurarsi che loro superassero sani e salvi quel punto. Mrs Varden fu irremovibile, e una volta decisa, nulla avrebbe potuto convincerla a cambiare idea.

“Buona notte, se devo proprio dirlo,” disse Joe, con tristezza.

“Buona notte”, disse Dolly. Avrebbe voluto aggiungere: “Stai attenta a quell’uomo, e pregua di non fidartene”, ma lui aveva già girato il cavallo e si trovava vicino a loro. Non le restò quindi altra scelta se non lasciare che Joe le stringesse dolcemente la mano; poi, quando la carrozza si allontanò un po’, si voltò per salutarlo con la mano, mentre lui ancora indugiava nel luogo in cui si erano separati, con quella alta figura scura di Hugh al suo fianco.

A cosa pensasse mentre andava a casa, e se il costruttore di sedie occupasse uno spazio altrettanto favorevole nelle sue riflessioni rispetto a quanto avesse fatto quella mattina, rimane sconosciuto. Alla fine arrivarono a casa, finalmente, perché la strada era lunga, e i lamenti della signora Varden non l’avevano certo resa più breve. Non appena Miggs sentì il rumore delle ruote, fu subito alla porta.

“Eccole qui, Simmun! Eccole qui!” gridò Miggs, battendo le mani e correndo ad aiutare la sua padrona a scendere. “Porta una sedia, Simmun. Ora ti senti meglio, vero? Non ti senti più te stessa rispetto a quando saresti rimasta a casa? Oh, mio Dio. Che freddo che hai! Poverina, ”

“Non posso farci nulla, mia buona ragazza. È meglio che la porti dentro il fuoco”, disse il fabbro chiave.

“‘Master’ suona spietato, Mim,” disse Miggs con tono comprensivo, “ma sono sicura che non sia così che intende. Dopo quello che ha visto di te oggi, non potrei mai credere che nel suo cuore non ci sia più affetto che parole dure. Entra e siediti vicino al focolare; c’è qualcosa di buono da mangiare, ”

La signora Varden obbedì. Il fabbro chiave si allontanò con le mani in tasca, mentre il signor Tappertit portò la poltrona da lettura in un stallo vicino.

“Martha, mia cara,” disse il fabbro chiave quando arrivarono in salotto, “se tu stessa ti occupi di Dolly o lasci che lo faccia qualcun altro, forse sarebbe più gentile e ragionevole. Sai, lei è stata spaventata e la notte scorsa non sta affatto bene.”

In fact, Dolly had thrown herself upon the sofa, quite regardless of all the little finery of which she had been so proud in the morning, and with her face buried in her hands was crying very much.

At first sight of this phenomenon (for Dolly was by no means accustomed to displays of this sort, rather learning from her mother’s example to avoid them as much as possible) Mrs Varden expressed her belief that never was any woman so beset as she; that her life was a continued scene of trial; that whenever she was disposed to be well and cheerful, so sure were the people around her to throw, by some means or other, a damp upon her spirits; and that, as she had enjoyed herself that day, and Heaven knew it was very seldom she did enjoy herself so she was now to pay the penalty. To all such propositions Miggs assented freely. Poor Dolly, however, grew none the better for these restoratives, but rather worse, indeed; and seeing that she was really ill, both Mrs Varden and Miggs were moved to compassion, and tended her in earnest.

But even then, their very kindness shaped itself into their usual course of policy, and though Dolly was in a swoon, it was rendered clear to the meanest capacity, that Mrs Varden was the sufferer. Thus when Dolly began to get a little better, and passed into that stage in which matrons hold that remonstrance and argument may be successfully applied, her mother represented to her, with tears in her eyes, that if she had been flurried and worried that day, she must remember it was the common lot of humanity, and in especial of womankind, who through the whole of their existence must expect no less, and were bound to make up their minds to meek endurance and patient resignation. Mrs Varden entreated her to remember that one of these days she would, in all probability, have to do violence to her feelings so far as to be married; and that marriage, as she might see every day of her life (and truly she did) was a state requiring great fortitude and forbearance. She represented to her in lively colours, that if she (Mrs V.) had not, in steering her course through this vale of tears, been supported by a strong principle of duty which alone upheld and prevented her from drooping, she must have been in her grave many years ago; in which case she desired to know what would have become of that errant spirit (meaning the locksmith), of whose eye she was the very apple, and in whose path she was, as it were, a shining light and guiding star?

Miss Miggs also put in her word to the same effect. She said that indeed and indeed Miss Dolly might take pattern by her blessed mother, who, she always had said, and always would say, though she were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for it next minute, was the mildest, amiablest, forgivingest-spirited, longest-sufferingest female as ever she could have believed; the mere narration of whose excellencies had worked such a wholesome change in the mind of her own sister-in-law, that, whereas, before, she and her husband lived like cat and dog, and were in the habit of exchanging brass candlesticks, pot-lids, flat-irons, and other such strong resentments, they were now the happiest and affectionatest couple upon earth; as could be proved any day on application at Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand doorpost. After glancing at herself as a comparatively worthless vessel, but still as one of some desert, she besought her to bear in mind that her aforesaid dear and only mother was of a weakly constitution and excitable temperament, who had constantly to sustain afflictions in domestic life, compared with which thieves and robbers were as nothing, and yet never sunk down or gave way to despair or wrath, but, in prize-fighting phraseology, always came up to time with a cheerful countenance, and went in to win as if nothing had happened. When Miggs finished her solo, her mistress struck in again, and the two together performed a duet to the same purpose; the burden being, that Mrs Varden was persecuted perfection, and Mr Varden, as the representative of mankind in that apartment, a creature of vicious and brutal habits, utterly insensible to the blessings he enjoyed. Of so refined a character, indeed, was their talent of assault under the mask of sympathy, that when Dolly, recovering, embraced her father tenderly, as in vindication of his goodness, Mrs Varden expressed her solemn hope that this would be a lesson to him for the remainder of his life, and that he would do some little justice to a woman’s nature ever afterwards—in which aspiration Miss Miggs, by divers sniffs and coughs, more significant than the longest oration, expressed her entire concurrence.

But the great joy of Miggs’s heart was, that she not only picked up a full account of what had happened, but had the exquisite delight of conveying it to Mr Tappertit for his jealousy and torture. For that gentleman, on account of Dolly’s indisposition, had been requested to take his supper in the workshop, and it was conveyed thither by Miss Miggs’s own fair hands.

‘Oh Simmun!’ said the young lady, ‘such goings on to-day! Oh, gracious me, Simmun!’

Mr Tappertit, who was not in the best of humours, and who disliked Miss Miggs more when she laid her hand on her heart and panted for breath than at any other time, as her deficiency of outline was most apparent under such circumstances, eyed her over in his loftiest style, and deigned to express no curiosity whatever.

‘I never heard the like, nor nobody else,’ pursued Miggs. ‘The idea of interfering with HER. What people can see in her to make it worth their while to do so, that’s the joke—he he he!’

Finding there was a lady in the case, Mr Tappertit haughtily requested his fair friend to be more explicit, and demanded to know what she meant by ‘her.’

‘Why, that Dolly,’ said Miggs, with an extremely sharp emphasis on the name. ‘But, oh upon my word and honour, young Joseph Willet is a brave one; and he do deserve her, that he do.’

‘Woman!’ said Mr Tappertit, jumping off the counter on which he was seated; ‘beware!’

‘My stars, Simmun!’ cried Miggs, in affected astonishment. ‘You frighten me to death! What’s the matter?’

‘There are strings,’ said Mr Tappertit, flourishing his bread-and-cheese knife in the air, ‘in the human heart that had better not be wibrated. That’s what’s the matter.’

‘Oh, very well—if you’re in a huff,’ cried Miggs, turning away.

‘Huff or no huff,’ said Mr Tappertit, detaining her by the wrist. ‘What do you mean, Jezebel? What were you going to say? Answer me!’

Notwithstanding this uncivil exhortation, Miggs gladly did as she was required; and told him how that their young mistress, being alone in the meadows after dark, had been attacked by three or four tall men, who would have certainly borne her away and perhaps murdered her, but for the timely arrival of Joseph Willet, who with his own single hand put them all to flight, and rescued her; to the lasting admiration of his fellow-creatures generally, and to the eternal love and gratitude of Dolly Varden.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Tappertit, fetching a long breath when the tale was told, and rubbing his hair up till it stood stiff and straight on end all over his head. ‘His days are numbered.’

‘Oh, Simmun!’

‘I tell you,’ said the ‘prentice, ‘his days are numbered. Leave me. Get along with you.’

Miggs departed at his bidding, but less because of his bidding than because she desired to chuckle in secret. When she had given vent to her satisfaction, she returned to the parlour; where the locksmith, stimulated by quietness and Toby, had become talkative, and was disposed to take a cheerful review of the occurrences of the day. But Mrs Varden, whose practical religion (as is not uncommon) was usually of the retrospective order, cut him short by declaiming on the sinfulness of such junketings, and holding that it was high time to go to bed. To bed therefore she withdrew, with an aspect as grim and gloomy as that of the Maypole’s own state couch; and to bed the rest of the establishment soon afterwards repaired.

Infatti, Dolly si era gettata sul divano, senza curarsi affatto di tutte quelle piccole attenzioni di cui era stata così orgogliosa la mattina precedente; con il viso nascosto tra le mani, piangeva molto.

Alla prima vista di questo fenomeno (poiché Dolly non era affatto abituata a simili manifestazioni, anzi imparava dall’esempio di sua madre ad evitarle il più possibile), la signora Varden esprimeva la convinzione che nessuna donna fosse mai stata così tormentata come lei; che la sua vita fosse un continuo susseguirsi di prove difficili; che ogni volta che provava a sentirsi bene e allegra, le persone intorno a lei riuscivano sempre, in un modo o nell’altro, a rovinarle l’umore; e che, poiché quel giorno si era divertita – e Dio sa quanto fosse raro che ciò accadesse – ora doveva pagarne le conseguenze. Miggs concordava pienamente con queste opinioni. Povera Dolly, però, non migliorava affatto a causa di questi “rimedi”; anzi, le cose peggioravano sempre di più. Vedendo che era davvero malata, sia la signora Varden che Miggs provarono compassione e si presero cura di lei con sincerità.

Ma anche allora, la loro stessa gentilezza si trasformò nel solito corso delle loro azioni politiche; e sebbene Dolly fosse sconvolta, fu chiaro a chiunque che la vera vittima era la signora Varden. Così, quando Dolly iniziò a migliorare un po’ e entrò in quella fase in cui le donne ritengono che si possano utilizzare con successo rimproveri e argomentazioni, sua madre le disse, con le lacrime agli occhi, che se quel giorno era stata agitata e preoccupata, doveva ricordare che tale era la sorte comune dell’umanità, soprattutto delle donne, le quali per tutta la loro esistenza non potevano aspettarsi nulla di diverso e dovevano abituarsi a una paziente sopportazione e a una rassegnazione mite. La signora Varden le fece notare che molto probabilmente un giorno avrebbe dovuto soffocare i propri sentimenti per sposarsi; e che il matrimonio, come poteva vedere ogni giorno della sua vita (e infatti era così), era uno stato che richiedeva grande forza d’animo e tolleranza. Le descrisse con vividi termini come, se lei stessa non fosse stata guidata da un forte senso del dovere che l’aveva sostenuta in quel percorso pieno di difficoltà, molto probabilmente sarebbe morta anni prima; e le chiese cosa sarebbe successo allora a quel “spirito errante” (intendendo il fabbro chiave), il cui oggetto dei suoi desideri era proprio lei, e che rappresentava per lui una luce splendente e una stella guida nel suo cammino.

Miss Miggs aggiunse anche la sua parola a sostegno dello stesso argomento. Disse che davvero, e senza dubbio, Miss Dolly avrebbe dovuto prendere esempio da sua madre benedetta, la quale, aveva sempre detto e avrebbe sempre continuato a dire, anche se dovesse essere impiccata, squartata sul posto, era la donna più mite, affabile, indulgente e paziente che si potesse immaginare; solo il racconto delle sue virtù aveva prodotto un cambiamento così positivo nel carattere di sua cognata, che prima lei e suo marito vivevano come cane e gatto, scambiandosi oggetti di rancore come candelabri di ottone, tappetini da tavola e ferri da stiro, mentre ora erano la coppia più felice e affettuosa del mondo; questo si poteva verificare ogni giorno chiedendo informazioni presso il Golden Lion Court, numero ventiquattro, seconda maniglia della porta a destra. Dopo essersi considerata una persona relativamente inutile, ma pur sempre parte di qualche “deserto”, Miss Miggs pregò la sua padrona di ricordare che sua madre aveva una costituzione debole e un temperamento facilmente eccitabile; doveva sopportare continuamente sofferenze nella vita domestica, eppure mai si era arresa alla disperazione o all’ira, ma sempre riusciva a mantenere un atteggiamento sereno e a superare ogni difficoltà. Quando Miss Miggs finì il suo discorso, la sua padrona intervenne di nuovo, e insieme eseguirono un duetto con lo stesso scopo: dimostrare che la signora Varden era una perfezione perseguitata, mentre il signor Varden, rappresentante dell’umanità in quell’appartamento, era un individuo dalle abitudini vili e brutali, completamente insensibile alle benedizioni che godeva. Il loro talento nel criticare altrui sotto la maschera della simpatia era così raffinato che, quando Dolly abbracciò teneramente suo padre per difendere la sua bontà, la signora Varden esprimebbe la sua sincera speranza che questo fosse un insegnamento per lui per il resto della sua vita, e che da allora in poi rispettasse davvero la natura femminile. In questa aspirazione, Miss Miggs, con diversi singhiozzi e colpi di tosse, più significativi di qualsiasi lungo discorso, esprimeva il suo pieno accordo.

Ma la grande gioia nel cuore di Miggs era il fatto che non solo aveva ottenuto un resoconto completo di ciò che era accaduto, ma aveva anche il piacere squisito di poterlo comunicare a Mr Tappertit, causandogli gelosia e sofferenza. Infatti, a causa del malessere di Dolly, a quel gentiluomo era stato chiesto di consumare la cena nel laboratorio, e il cibo venne portato lì proprio dalle mani belle di Miss Miggs.

“Oh Simmun!”, esclamò la giovane signora, “che cose straordinarie stanno accadendo oggi. Oh, mio caro Simmun!”

Il signor Tappertit, che non era certo di buon umore e che odiava ancora di più la signorina Miggs quando lei si metteva una mano sul cuore e ansimava per riprendere fiato, più di qualsiasi altra volta, poiché in quelle circostanze la sua mancanza di forme fisiche diventava particolarmente evidente, la osservò con il suo solito modo altezzoso, senza degnarsi nemmeno di mostrare curiosità.

“Non ho mai sentito nulla del genere, né nessun altro,” continuò Miggs. “L’idea stessa di interferire con LEI. Cosa possono vedere in lei per ritenere che valga la pena farlo? È davvero ridicolo. Hehehe!”

Scoprendo che all’interno della scatola c’era una signora, il signor Tappertit chiese con arroganza alla sua bella amica di essere più chiara e insistette per sapere cosa intendesse con “lei”.

“Ma quella Dolly, ”, disse Miggs, ponendo un’enfasi estremamente marcata sul nome. “Davvero, per la mia parola e per onore, il giovane Joseph Willet è un ragazzo coraggioso; e lui la merita davvero, sì.”

“Donna!” esclamò il signor Tappertit, saltando giù dal bancone su cui era seduto; “fai attenzione!”

“Le mie stelle, Simmun!” esclamò Miggs, con un finto stupore. “Mi spaventi a morte. Che cosa è successo?”

“Ci sono delle corde nel cuore umano”, disse il signor Tappertit, agitando in aria il suo coltello per pane e formaggio, “che sarebbe meglio non far vibrare. Ecco il problema.”

“Ah, molto bene, se sei arrabbiato,” esclamò Miggs, girandosi via.

“Che tu sia arrabbiata o no,” disse il signor Tappertit, trattenendola per il polso. “Cosa intendi dire, Jezebel? Cosa stavi per dire? Rispondimi!”

Nonostante questo incoraggiamento poco cortese, Miggs fece volentieri ciò che le era stato chiesto; e gli raccontò come la loro giovane padrona, essendo rimasta da sola nei prati dopo il tramonto, fosse stata assalita da tre o quattro uomini alti, che sicuramente l’avrebbero portata via e forse anche uccisa, se non fosse stato per l’arrivo tempestivo di Joseph Willet, il quale, con le sue sole forze, li fece fuggire tutti e la salvò; un fatto che suscitò l’ammirazione generale dei suoi simili, nonché l’eterna amore e riconoscenza di Dolly Varden.

“Molto bene,” disse il signor Tappertit, facendo un lungo respiro quando la storia fu raccontata e strofinandosi i capelli fino a farli diventare dritti e rigidi su tutta la testa. “I suoi giorni sono contati.”

“Oh, Simmun!”

“Ve lo dico io,” disse il apprendista, “i suoi giorni sono contati. Lasciatemi in pace e andatevene.”

Miggs se ne andò su suo ordine, ma meno per obbedire a quell’ordine che perché desiderava ridere in segreto. Dopo essersi sfogata in quel modo, tornò nel salotto; dove il fabbro, stimolato dal silenzio e da Toby, era diventato loquace e disposto ad analizzare con ottimismo gli eventi della giornata. Ma la signora Varden, la cui religiosità pratica (come spesso accade) tendeva a essere di natura retrospettiva, lo interruppe subito, denunciando il peccato di simili escursioni e sostenendo che fosse giunto il momento di andare a letto. Così fece lei stessa; e poco dopo, tutta la casa si ritirò a dormire, con un’aria altrettanto cupa e tetra quanto quella del palo di maggio stesso.

Chapter 23

Twilight had given place to night some hours, and it was high noon in those quarters of the town in which ‘the world’ condescended to dwell—the world being then, as now, of very limited dimensions and easily lodged—when Mr Chester reclined upon a sofa in his dressing-room in the Temple, entertaining himself with a book.

He was dressing, as it seemed, by easy stages, and having performed half the journey was taking a long rest. Completely attired as to his legs and feet in the trimmest fashion of the day, he had yet the remainder of his toilet to perform. The coat was stretched, like a refined scarecrow, on its separate horse; the waistcoat was displayed to the best advantage; the various ornamental articles of dress were severally set out in most alluring order; and yet he lay dangling his legs between the sofa and the ground, as intent upon his book as if there were nothing but bed before him.

‘Upon my honour,’ he said, at length raising his eyes to the ceiling with the air of a man who was reflecting seriously on what he had read; ‘upon my honour, the most masterly composition, the most delicate thoughts, the finest code of morality, and the most gentlemanly sentiments in the universe! Ah Ned, Ned, if you would but form your mind by such precepts, we should have but one common feeling on every subject that could possibly arise between us!’

This apostrophe was addressed, like the rest of his remarks, to empty air: for Edward was not present, and the father was quite alone.

‘My Lord Chesterfield,’ he said, pressing his hand tenderly upon the book as he laid it down, ‘if I could but have profited by your genius soon enough to have formed my son on the model you have left to all wise fathers, both he and I would have been rich men. Shakespeare was undoubtedly very fine in his way; Milton good, though prosy; Lord Bacon deep, and decidedly knowing; but the writer who should be his country’s pride, is my Lord Chesterfield.’

He became thoughtful again, and the toothpick was in requisition.

‘I thought I was tolerably accomplished as a man of the world,’ he continued, ‘I flattered myself that I was pretty well versed in all those little arts and graces which distinguish men of the world from boors and peasants, and separate their character from those intensely vulgar sentiments which are called the national character. Apart from any natural prepossession in my own favour, I believed I was. Still, in every page of this enlightened writer, I find some captivating hypocrisy which has never occurred to me before, or some superlative piece of selfishness to which I was utterly a stranger. I should quite blush for myself before this stupendous creature, if remembering his precepts, one might blush at anything. An amazing man! a nobleman indeed! any King or Queen may make a Lord, but only the Devil himself—and the Graces—can make a Chesterfield.’

Men who are thoroughly false and hollow, seldom try to hide those vices from themselves; and yet in the very act of avowing them, they lay claim to the virtues they feign most to despise. ‘For,’ say they, ‘this is honesty, this is truth. All mankind are like us, but they have not the candour to avow it.’ The more they affect to deny the existence of any sincerity in the world, the more they would be thought to possess it in its boldest shape; and this is an unconscious compliment to Truth on the part of these philosophers, which will turn the laugh against them to the Day of Judgment.

Mr Chester, having extolled his favourite author, as above recited, took up the book again in the excess of his admiration and was composing himself for a further perusal of its sublime morality, when he was disturbed by a noise at the outer door; occasioned as it seemed by the endeavours of his servant to obstruct the entrance of some unwelcome visitor.

‘A late hour for an importunate creditor,’ he said, raising his eyebrows with as indolent an expression of wonder as if the noise were in the street, and one with which he had not the smallest possible concern. ‘Much after their accustomed time. The usual pretence I suppose. No doubt a heavy payment to make up tomorrow. Poor fellow, he loses time, and time is money as the good proverb says—I never found it out though. Well. What now? You know I am not at home.’

‘A man, sir,’ replied the servant, who was to the full as cool and negligent in his way as his master, ‘has brought home the riding-whip you lost the other day. I told him you were out, but he said he was to wait while I brought it in, and wouldn’t go till I did.’

‘He was quite right,’ returned his master, ‘and you’re a blockhead, possessing no judgment or discretion whatever. Tell him to come in, and see that he rubs his shoes for exactly five minutes first.’

The man laid the whip on a chair, and withdrew. The master, who had only heard his foot upon the ground and had not taken the trouble to turn round and look at him, shut his book, and pursued the train of ideas his entrance had disturbed.

‘If time were money,’ he said, handling his snuff-box, ‘I would compound with my creditors, and give them—let me see—how much a day? There’s my nap after dinner—an hour—they’re extremely welcome to that, and to make the most of it. In the morning, between my breakfast and the paper, I could spare them another hour; in the evening before dinner say another. Three hours a day. They might pay themselves in calls, with interest, in twelve months. I think I shall propose it to them. Ah, my centaur, are you there?’

‘Here I am,’ replied Hugh, striding in, followed by a dog, as rough and sullen as himself; ‘and trouble enough I’ve had to get here. What do you ask me to come for, and keep me out when I DO come?’

‘My good fellow,’ returned the other, raising his head a little from the cushion and carelessly surveying him from top to toe, ‘I am delighted to see you, and to have, in your being here, the very best proof that you are not kept out. How are you?’

Capitolo 23

Erano trascorse alcune ore da quando il crepuscolo aveva lasciato il posto alla notte, e era ormai alta mattina in quelle zone della città dove “il mondo” si degnava di risiedere. Il mondo, allora come ora, di dimensioni molto limitate e facilmente contenibile. Quando il signor Chester si sdraiò su un divano nel suo bagno, al Temple, immerso nella lettura di un libro.

Si stava vestendo, a quanto pare, in modo graduale; avendo completato metà del percorso, si prendeva un lungo riposo. Ormai completamente vestito, con gambe e piedi curatissimi secondo le mode dell’epoca, gli mancava ancora di finire di prepararsi. Il cappotto era appeso, come uno spaventapasseri raffinato, sul suo cavallo separato; il gilet era esposto nel modo più vantaggioso possibile; tutti i vari ornamenti del vestito erano disposti in un ordine estremamente attraente. Eppure lui se ne stava lì, con le gambe penzolanti tra il divano e il pavimento, immerso nella lettura come se davanti a sé non ci fosse altro che il letto.

‘Per la mia onore’, disse finalmente alzando lo sguardo verso il soffitto, con l’aria di chi rifletteva seriamente su quanto aveva letto; ‘per la mia onore, questa è davvero l’opera più magistrale, i pensieri più raffinati, il codice di morale più elevato e i sentimenti più gentiluomini che esistano nell’universo! Ah Ned, Ned, se solo tu seguissi questi principi nella tua vita, avremmo sicuramente lo stesso punto di vista su ogni argomento che potesse sorgere tra noi!’

Questo apostrofo era rivolto, come il resto delle sue parole, al vuoto: poiché Edward non era presente, e il padre era davvero solo.

“Mio signore Chesterfield,” disse, posando delicatamente la mano sul libro, “se solo fossi riuscito a trarre beneficio dal vostro genio abbastanza in fretta da educare mio figlio seguendo l’esempio che avete lasciato a tutti i saggi padri, sia lui che io saremmo ora uomini ricchi. Shakespeare è senza dubbio stato molto grande nel suo campo; Milton buono, anche se un po’ prolisso; Lord Bacon profondo e decisamente erudito. Ma l’autore che dovrebbe essere il vanto della nostra nazione è mio signore Chesterfield.”

Rimase di nuovo pensieroso, e il bastoncino da denti venne messo all’uso.

“Pensavo di essere abbastanza colto e raffinato come uomo di mondo,” continuò, “mi compiacevo di conoscere bene tutte quelle piccole arti e cortesie che distinguono gli uomini di mondo dai contadini e dalle persone volgari, e che separano il loro carattere da quei sentimenti estremamente rozzi che vengono definiti ‘carattere nazionale’. A parte qualsiasi pregiudizio naturale a mio favore, credevo davvero di esserlo. Eppure, in ogni pagina di questo scrittore illuminato, trovo un’ipocrisia affascinante di cui prima non avevo mai fatto caso, o un esempio di egoismo estremo che mi era completamente sconosciuto. Mi vergognerei davvero di me stesso di fronte a questa straordinaria persona, se ricordare i suoi insegnamenti potesse davvero farci arrossire per qualsiasi cosa. Un uomo incredibile! Davvero un nobile. Qualsiasi re o regina può nominare un lord, ma solo il Diavolo stesso – e le Grazie – possono creare un Chesterfield.”

Gli uomini che sono completamente falsi e vuoti di contenuto raramente cercano di nascondere questi vizi a se stessi; eppure, proprio nel momento in cui li ammettono apertamente, si attribuiscono le virtù che fingono di disprezzare. “Perché”, dicono, “questa è onestà, questa è verità”. Tutta l’umanità è come noi, ma non ha la franchezza di ammetterlo apertamente. Più cercano di negare l’esistenza di qualsiasi sincerità nel mondo, più si darà per scontato che ne possiedano le forme più audaci; e questo, inconsapevolmente, rappresenta un complimento alla Verità da parte di questi filosofi, un complimento che, fino al Giorno del Giudizio, li farà oggetto di derisione.

Il signor Chester, dopo aver esaltato il suo autore preferito come descritto sopra, riprese in mano il libro, spinto dall’eccesso della sua ammirazione, e si preparò a leggere nuovamente le sue sublimi moralità. In quel momento fu disturbato da un rumore alla porta d’ingresso; sembrava che il suo servitore stesse cercando di impedire l’ingresso a qualche visitatore indesiderato.

“Un’ora tarda per un creditore insistente,” disse, alzando le sopracciglia con un’espressione di stupore apparentemente indolente, come se il rumore provenisse dalla strada e non lo riguardasse affatto. “Molto dopo l’orario abituale. Immagino sia solo una delle solite scuse. Senza dubbio domani dovrà effettuare un pagamento sostanzioso. Poveretto, spreca il tempo. E il tempo, come dice quel vecchio proverbio, è denaro. Anche se personalmente non l’ho mai capito del tutto, ” “Beh. E ora? Sai che non sono a casa.”

“Un uomo, signore,” rispose il servitore, che era altrettanto freddo e negligente nei suoi modi quanto suo padrone, “ha portato a casa il frustino da cavallo che avevate perso l’altro giorno. Gli ho detto che non eravate in casa, ma ha insistito per aspettare mentre lo portavo dentro, e non se n’è andato finché non l’ho fatto.”

“Ha perfettamente ragione,” rispose il suo padrone, “e tu sei un idiota, completamente privo di giudizio e discrezione. Digli di entrare e assicurati che si pulisca le scarpe per esattamente cinque minuti prima.”

L’uomo posò il frustino su una sedia e se ne andò. Il maestro, che aveva sentito solo il rumore dei suoi passi sul pavimento senza prendersi la briga di girarsi a guardarlo, chiuse il libro e riprese il filo dei pensieri interrotti dall’arrivo di quell’uomo.

“Se il tempo fosse denaro,” disse, manipolando la sua scatola di tabacco, “mi salderei con i miei creditori e gli darei, lasciami pensare, quanto al giorno? Dopo cena ho un’ora di sonnellino; sono più che felice se vogliono approfittarne appieno. La mattina, tra la colazione e il lavoro, potrei concedere loro un’altra ora; la sera, prima di cena, un’altra ancora. Tre ore al giorno. Potrebbero ripagarmi con delle visite, con gli interessi, in dodici mesi. Penso che glielo proporrò. Ah, mio centauro, sei lì?”

“Eccomi qui,” rispose Hugh, entrando a grandi passi, seguito da un cane altrettanto ruvido e cupo quanto lui; “e ho avuto abbastanza problemi per arrivare fin qui. Perché mi chiedete di venire, per poi tenermi fuori quando finalmente arrivo?”

“Mio caro amico,” rispose l’altro, alzando leggermente la testa dal cuscino e osservandolo distrattamente dalla testa ai piedi, “Sono molto felice di vederti. Il fatto che tu sia qui è la prova migliore del fatto che non ti stanno tenendo fuori. Come stai?”

‘I’m well enough,’ said Hugh impatiently.

‘You look a perfect marvel of health. Sit down.’

‘I’d rather stand,’ said Hugh.

‘Please yourself my good fellow,’ returned Mr Chester rising, slowly pulling off the loose robe he wore, and sitting down before the dressing-glass. ‘Please yourself by all means.’

Having said this in the politest and blandest tone possible, he went on dressing, and took no further notice of his guest, who stood in the same spot as uncertain what to do next, eyeing him sulkily from time to time.

‘Are you going to speak to me, master?’ he said, after a long silence.

‘My worthy creature,’ returned Mr Chester, ‘you are a little ruffled and out of humour. I’ll wait till you’re quite yourself again. I am in no hurry.’

This behaviour had its intended effect. It humbled and abashed the man, and made him still more irresolute and uncertain. Hard words he could have returned, violence he would have repaid with interest; but this cool, complacent, contemptuous, self-possessed reception, caused him to feel his inferiority more completely than the most elaborate arguments. Everything contributed to this effect. His own rough speech, contrasted with the soft persuasive accents of the other; his rude bearing, and Mr Chester’s polished manner; the disorder and negligence of his ragged dress, and the elegant attire he saw before him; with all the unaccustomed luxuries and comforts of the room, and the silence that gave him leisure to observe these things, and feel how ill at ease they made him; all these influences, which have too often some effect on tutored minds and become of almost resistless power when brought to bear on such a mind as his, quelled Hugh completely. He moved by little and little nearer to Mr Chester’s chair, and glancing over his shoulder at the reflection of his face in the glass, as if seeking for some encouragement in its expression, said at length, with a rough attempt at conciliation,

‘ARE you going to speak to me, master, or am I to go away?’

‘Speak you,’ said Mr Chester, ‘speak you, good fellow. I have spoken, have I not? I am waiting for you.’

‘Why, look’ee, sir,’ returned Hugh with increased embarrassment, ‘am I the man that you privately left your whip with before you rode away from the Maypole, and told to bring it back whenever he might want to see you on a certain subject?’

‘No doubt the same, or you have a twin brother,’ said Mr Chester, glancing at the reflection of his anxious face; ‘which is not probable, I should say.’

‘Then I have come, sir,’ said Hugh, ‘and I have brought it back, and something else along with it. A letter, sir, it is, that I took from the person who had charge of it.’ As he spoke, he laid upon the dressing-table, Dolly’s lost epistle. The very letter that had cost her so much trouble.

‘Did you obtain this by force, my good fellow?’ said Mr Chester, casting his eye upon it without the least perceptible surprise or pleasure.

‘Not quite,’ said Hugh. ‘Partly.’

‘Who was the messenger from whom you took it?’

‘A woman. One Varden’s daughter.’

‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Chester gaily. ‘What else did you take from her?’

‘What else?’

‘Yes,’ said the other, in a drawling manner, for he was fixing a very small patch of sticking plaster on a very small pimple near the corner of his mouth. ‘What else?’

‘Well a kiss,’ replied Hugh, after some hesitation.

‘And what else?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I think,’ said Mr Chester, in the same easy tone, and smiling twice or thrice to try if the patch adhered—‘I think there was something else. I have heard a trifle of jewellery spoken of—a mere trifle—a thing of such little value, indeed, that you may have forgotten it. Do you remember anything of the kind—such as a bracelet now, for instance?’

Hugh with a muttered oath thrust his hand into his breast, and drawing the bracelet forth, wrapped in a scrap of hay, was about to lay it on the table likewise, when his patron stopped his hand and bade him put it up again.

‘You took that for yourself my excellent friend,’ he said, ‘and may keep it. I am neither a thief nor a receiver. Don’t show it to me. You had better hide it again, and lose no time. Don’t let me see where you put it either,’ he added, turning away his head.

‘You’re not a receiver!’ said Hugh bluntly, despite the increasing awe in which he held him. ‘What do you call THAT, master?’ striking the letter with his heavy hand.

‘I call that quite another thing,’ said Mr Chester coolly. ‘I shall prove it presently, as you will see. You are thirsty, I suppose?’

Hugh drew his sleeve across his lips, and gruffly answered yes.

‘Step to that closet and bring me a bottle you will see there, and a glass.’

He obeyed. His patron followed him with his eyes, and when his back was turned, smiled as he had never done when he stood beside the mirror. On his return he filled the glass, and bade him drink. That dram despatched, he poured him out another, and another.

‘How many can you bear?’ he said, filling the glass again.

‘As many as you like to give me. Pour on. Fill high. A bumper with a bead in the middle! Give me enough of this,’ he added, as he tossed it down his hairy throat, ‘and I’ll do murder if you ask me!’

‘As I don’t mean to ask you, and you might possibly do it without being invited if you went on much further,’ said Mr Chester with great composure, ‘we will stop, if agreeable to you, my good friend, at the next glass. You were drinking before you came here.’

‘I always am when I can get it,’ cried Hugh boisterously, waving the empty glass above his head, and throwing himself into a rude dancing attitude. ‘I always am. Why not? Ha ha ha! What’s so good to me as this? What ever has been? What else has kept away the cold on bitter nights, and driven hunger off in starving times? What else has given me the strength and courage of a man, when men would have left me to die, a puny child? I should never have had a man’s heart but for this. I should have died in a ditch. Where’s he who when I was a weak and sickly wretch, with trembling legs and fading sight, bade me cheer up, as this did? I never knew him; not I. I drink to the drink, master. Ha ha ha!’

“Sono abbastanza in forma,” disse Hugh con impazienza.

“Sembri davvero una meraviglia di salute. Siediti.”

“Preferisco stare in piedi,” disse Hugh.

“Fai pure come vuoi, caro amico,” rispose il signor Chester alzandosi lentamente, togliendosi la veste che indossava e sedendosi davanti allo specchio da toeletta. “Per favore, fai pure tutto ciò che desideri.”

Dopo averlo detto con il tono più gentile e indifferente possibile, continuò a vestirsi senza prestare ulteriore attenzione al suo ospite, che rimase fermo nello stesso posto, incerto su cosa fare dopo, osservandolo con aria scontrosa di tanto in tanto.

“Voi intenderete parlarmi, padrone?”, disse dopo un lungo silenzio.

“Mia cara creatura,” rispose il signor Chester, “sei un po’ turbata e fuori dall’umore giusto. Aspetterò che ti riprenda completamente. Non ho alcuna fretta.”

Questo comportamento ottenne l’effetto desiderato. Umiliò e imbarazzò quell’uomo, rendendolo ancora più indeciso e incerto. Avrebbe potuto rispondere con parole dure, avrebbe potuto replicare con violenza; ma questa accoglienza fredda, compiaciuta, sprezzante e piena di autocontrollo lo fece sentire la propria inferiorità in modo ancora più profondo di quanto avrebbero potuto farlo i ragionamenti più elaborati. Tutto contribuì a questo effetto: il suo stesso modo rude di parlare, in contrasto con gli accenti dolci e persuasivi dell’altro; il suo comportamento scortese, rispetto al modo raffinato del signor Chester; il disordine e la trascuratezza del suo abbigliamento stracciato, rispetto all’eleganza di quello che aveva davanti agli occhi; tutti questi elementi, insieme alla quiete che gli permetteva di osservare attentamente tutto ciò e di rendersi conto di quanto lo mettesse a disagio. Tutti questi fattori, che spesso hanno un certo effetto su menti ancora immature o poco equilibrate, ebbero su Hugh un potere quasi irresistibile. Si avvicinò lentamente alla sedia del signor Chester e, guardandosi il riflesso nello specchio per cercare qualche incoraggiamento nel proprio volto, disse infine, con un tentativo goffo di riconciliazione.

“Mi parlerete, padrone, o dovrei andarmene?”

“Parla pure,” disse il signor Chester, “parla pure, caro amico. Io ho già parlato, non è vero? Sto aspettando te.”

“Perché, guardi,” rispose Hugh con ancora maggiore imbarazzo, “non sono forse io l’uomo a cui avete lasciato in segreto il vostro frustino prima di allontanarvi dal Maypole, e a cui avete detto di riportarlo ogni volta che volesste incontrarmi per discutere di una certa questione?”

“Non c’è alcun dubbio al riguardo, o forse hai un fratello gemello,” disse il signor Chester, guardando il riflesso del proprio viso ansioso; “ma direi che sia improbabile.”

“Allora sono venuto, signore,” disse Hugh, “e l’ho riportato indietro, insieme a qualcos’altro. Una lettera, signore. L’ho presa dalla persona che ne aveva la custodia.” Mentre parlava, posò sul comodino la lettera perduta di Dolly. Quella stessa lettera che le aveva causato tanti problemi.

“L’hai ottenuto con la forza, mio buon amico?” disse il signor Chester, guardandolo senza mostrare alcuna sorpresa né piacere evidenti.

“Non proprio,” disse Hugh. “In parte sì.”

“Chi era il messaggero da cui l’hai ricevuto?”

“Una donna, una figlia dei Varden.”

“Ah davvero!” esclamò felicemente il signor Chester. “Cosa altro le hai preso?”

“Cosa altro?”

“Sì,” disse l’altro con un tono strascicato, perché stava applicando una piccolissima striscia di cerotto su un foruncolo minuscolo vicino all’angolo della bocca. “Cosa c’è ancora?”

“Beh, un bacio,” rispose Hugh, dopo qualche esitazione.

“E cosa altro?”

“Niente.”

“Penso,” disse il signor Chester con lo stesso tono rilassato, sorridendo due o tre volte per vedere se la benda aderisse bene, “penso che ci fosse qualcos’altro. Ho sentito parlare di qualche gioiello. Qualcosa di molto poco valore, in realtà, tanto da potervi essere sfuggito di mente. Vi ricordate qualcosa del genere? Ad esempio, un braccialetto?”

Hugh, mormorando un’imprecazione, infilò la mano nel petto e tirò fuori il braccialetto, avvolto in un pezzo di paglia; stava per posarlo sul tavolo quando il suo protettore gli fece segno di rimetterlo via.

“Te l’hai presa tu, mio eccellente amico,” disse, “e puoi tenerla pure. Non sono né un ladro né uno che accetta regali illeciti. Non mostrarmela. È meglio che la nascondi di nuovo, e senza perdere tempo. Nemmeno lasciami vedere dove l’hai messa,” aggiunse, girando la testa da un’altra parte.

“Non sei un ricevitore!” disse Hugh in modo diretto, nonostante l’ammirazione crescente che provava per lui. “Come chiami quella cosa, maestro?” e colpì la lettera con la sua mano pesante.

“Questo è tutta un’altra storia,” disse freddamente il signor Chester. “Lo proverò subito, come vedrete. Immagino che abbiate sete, ”

Hugh si coprì la bocca con la manica e rispose con voce roca di sì.

“Vai in quel armadio e portami una bottiglia che vedrai lì dentro, insieme a un bicchiere.”

Obbedì. Il suo protettore lo seguiva con lo sguardo; quando lui si girò, il protettore sorrise come non aveva mai fatto prima, nemmeno davanti allo specchio. Al suo ritorno, riempì di nuovo il bicchiere e gli ordinò di bere. Dopo che quel bicchiere fu vuoto, ne versò un altro, e poi ancora uno.

“Quanti ne puoi sopportare?”, disse, riempiendo di nuovo il bicchiere.

“Quanti ne volete darmi. Versateli pure, riempitemi fino all’orlo. Uno di quei bicchieri con una perla al centro! Datemene abbastanza,” aggiunse, mentre lo ingoiava tutto d’un fiato, “e sono pronto a commettere un omicidio, se volete!”

“Poiché non intendo chiedervelo, e forse lo fareste anche senza essere invitati se continuaste così,” disse il signor Chester con grande calma, “ci fermeremo, se vi va bene, mio caro amico, al prossimo bicchiere. Stavate bevendo prima di venire qui.”

“Sempre lo sono quando ne ho l’opportunità,” gridò Hugh con entusiasmo, agitando il bicchiere vuoto sopra la testa e assumendo una goffa posizione da ballerino. “Sempre lo sono. Perché no? Ah ah ah! Cosa c’è di meglio per me di questo? Cosa altro mi ha aiutato nelle notti fredde, a sfuggire alla fame nei momenti più difficili? Cosa altro mi ha dato la forza e il coraggio di un uomo, quando gli altri avrebbero lasciato che morissi, un misero bambino? Senza questo, non avrei mai avuto il cuore di un uomo. Sarei morto in una fossa. Dov’è colui che, quando ero debole e malato, con gambe tremanti e la vista che mi svaniva, mi incoraggiava come ha fatto lui? Non lo conosco nemmeno. Bevo al suo onore, padrone. Ah ah ah!”

‘You are an exceedingly cheerful young man,’ said Mr Chester, putting on his cravat with great deliberation, and slightly moving his head from side to side to settle his chin in its proper place. ‘Quite a boon companion.’

‘Do you see this hand, master,’ said Hugh, ‘and this arm?’ baring the brawny limb to the elbow. ‘It was once mere skin and bone, and would have been dust in some poor churchyard by this time, but for the drink.’

‘You may cover it,’ said Mr Chester, ‘it’s sufficiently real in your sleeve.’

‘I should never have been spirited up to take a kiss from the proud little beauty, master, but for the drink,’ cried Hugh. ‘Ha ha ha! It was a good one. As sweet as honeysuckle, I warrant you. I thank the drink for it. I’ll drink to the drink again, master. Fill me one more. Come. One more!’

‘You are such a promising fellow,’ said his patron, putting on his waistcoat with great nicety, and taking no heed of this request, ‘that I must caution you against having too many impulses from the drink, and getting hung before your time. What’s your age?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘At any rate,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you are young enough to escape what I may call a natural death for some years to come. How can you trust yourself in my hands on so short an acquaintance, with a halter round your neck? What a confiding nature yours must be!’

Hugh fell back a pace or two and surveyed him with a look of mingled terror, indignation, and surprise. Regarding himself in the glass with the same complacency as before, and speaking as smoothly as if he were discussing some pleasant chit-chat of the town, his patron went on:

‘Robbery on the king’s highway, my young friend, is a very dangerous and ticklish occupation. It is pleasant, I have no doubt, while it lasts; but like many other pleasures in this transitory world, it seldom lasts long. And really if in the ingenuousness of youth, you open your heart so readily on the subject, I am afraid your career will be an extremely short one.’

‘How’s this?’ said Hugh. ‘What do you talk of master? Who was it set me on?’

‘Who?’ said Mr Chester, wheeling sharply round, and looking full at him for the first time. ‘I didn’t hear you. Who was it?’

Hugh faltered, and muttered something which was not audible.

‘Who was it? I am curious to know,’ said Mr Chester, with surpassing affability. ‘Some rustic beauty perhaps? But be cautious, my good friend. They are not always to be trusted. Do take my advice now, and be careful of yourself.’ With these words he turned to the glass again, and went on with his toilet.

Hugh would have answered him that he, the questioner himself had set him on, but the words stuck in his throat. The consummate art with which his patron had led him to this point, and managed the whole conversation, perfectly baffled him. He did not doubt that if he had made the retort which was on his lips when Mr Chester turned round and questioned him so keenly, he would straightway have given him into custody and had him dragged before a justice with the stolen property upon him; in which case it was as certain he would have been hung as it was that he had been born. The ascendency which it was the purpose of the man of the world to establish over this savage instrument, was gained from that time. Hugh’s submission was complete. He dreaded him beyond description; and felt that accident and artifice had spun a web about him, which at a touch from such a master-hand as his, would bind him to the gallows.

With these thoughts passing through his mind, and yet wondering at the very same time how he who came there rioting in the confidence of this man (as he thought), should be so soon and so thoroughly subdued, Hugh stood cowering before him, regarding him uneasily from time to time, while he finished dressing. When he had done so, he took up the letter, broke the seal, and throwing himself back in his chair, read it leisurely through.

‘Very neatly worded upon my life! Quite a woman’s letter, full of what people call tenderness, and disinterestedness, and heart, and all that sort of thing!’

As he spoke, he twisted it up, and glancing lazily round at Hugh as though he would say ‘You see this?’ held it in the flame of the candle. When it was in a full blaze, he tossed it into the grate, and there it smouldered away.

‘It was directed to my son,’ he said, turning to Hugh, ‘and you did quite right to bring it here. I opened it on my own responsibility, and you see what I have done with it. Take this, for your trouble.’

Hugh stepped forward to receive the piece of money he held out to him. As he put it in his hand, he added:

‘If you should happen to find anything else of this sort, or to pick up any kind of information you may think I would like to have, bring it here, will you, my good fellow?’

This was said with a smile which implied—or Hugh thought it did—‘fail to do so at your peril!’ He answered that he would.

‘And don’t,’ said his patron, with an air of the very kindest patronage, ‘don’t be at all downcast or uneasy respecting that little rashness we have been speaking of. Your neck is as safe in my hands, my good fellow, as though a baby’s fingers clasped it, I assure you.—Take another glass. You are quieter now.’

Hugh accepted it from his hand, and looking stealthily at his smiling face, drank the contents in silence.

‘Don’t you—ha, ha!—don’t you drink to the drink any more?’ said Mr Chester, in his most winning manner.

‘To you, sir,’ was the sullen answer, with something approaching to a bow. ‘I drink to you.’

‘Thank you. God bless you. By the bye, what is your name, my good soul? You are called Hugh, I know, of course—your other name?’

‘I have no other name.’

‘A very strange fellow! Do you mean that you never knew one, or that you don’t choose to tell it? Which?’

‘I’d tell it if I could,’ said Hugh, quickly. ‘I can’t. I have been always called Hugh; nothing more. I never knew, nor saw, nor thought about a father; and I was a boy of six—that’s not very old—when they hung my mother up at Tyburn for a couple of thousand men to stare at. They might have let her live. She was poor enough.’

“Sei un giovane estremamente allegra,” disse il signor Chester, mettendosi la cravatta con grande attenzione e muovendo leggermente la testa da una parte all’altra per sistemare il mento nel posto giusto. “Un compagno davvero piacevole.”

“Vedete questa mano, maestro,” disse Hugh, mostrando il suo braccio muscoloso fino al gomito. “Un tempo era solo pelle e ossa, e a quest’ora sarebbe diventata polvere in qualche cimitero povero, se non fosse stato per questa bevanda.”

“Puoi coprirlo,” disse il signor Chester, “è abbastanza reale nella tua manica, ”

“Non avrei mai dovuto lasciarmi convincere a baciare quella orgogliosa, piccola bellezza, padrone, se non fosse stato per quell’alcol,” gridò Hugh. “Ha ha ha! È stato davvero ottimo, dolce come il caprifoglio, ve lo assicuro. Grazie a quell’alcol. Ne berò ancora, padrone! Riempitemi un altro bicchiere. Forza, un altro!”

“Sei davvero un ragazzo promettente,” disse il suo protettore, infilandosi con grande cura la giacca a vento e ignorando completamente questa richiesta, “perciò devo avvertirti di non lasciare che l’alcol ti induca ad azioni avventate, altrimenti potresti finire impiccato prima del tuo tempo. Quanti anni hai?”

‘Non lo so.’

“Comunque,” disse il signor Chester, “sei abbastanza giovane da poter evitare, per alcuni anni ancora, ciò che si potrebbe definire una morte naturale. Come puoi affidarti a me dopo avermi conosciuto solo da poco, con un cappio attorno al collo? Che natura così fiduciosa la tua debba essere!”

Hugh indietreggiò di uno o due passi e lo osservò con uno sguardo misto di terrore, indignazione e sorpresa. Guardandosi allo specchio con la stessa compiacenza di prima e parlando con la stessa disinvoltura come se stesse discutendo di qualche argomento piacevole della città, il suo protettore continuò:

“Il furto lungo la strada principale del re, mio giovane amico, è un’occupazione molto pericolosa e complicata. È piacevole, non ne ho alcun >dubbio, finché dura; ma come molte altre cose piacevoli in questo mondo effimero, di rado dura a lungo. E davvero, se con l’ingenuità della giovinezza apri così facilmente il tuo cuore sull’argomento, temo che la tua carriera sia estremamente breve.”

“Che ne dici?” disse Hugh. “Di quale maestro stai parlando? Chi me l’ha assegnato?”

“Chi?” disse il signor Chester, girandosi di scatto e guardandolo dritto negli occhi per la prima volta. “Non ti ho sentito. Chi era?”

Hugh esitò e mormorò qualcosa che non si riuscì a sentire.

“Chi era? Sono curioso di saperlo,” disse il signor Chester con estrema affabilità. “Forse qualche bella contadina. Ma stai attento, mio caro amico: non sempre si possono fidare di loro. Segui il mio consiglio e fai attenzione a te stesso.” Detto questo, tornò a guardarsi nello specchio e continuò con le sue abluzioni.

Hugh avrebbe potuto rispondergli che era stato proprio lui, il suo interlocutore, ad averlo messo in quella situazione, ma le parole gli rimasero bloccate in gola. L’abilità consumata con cui il suo padrone lo aveva guidato fino a quel punto e gestito l’intera conversazione lo lasciava completamente perplesso. Non dubitava affatto che, se avesse fatto quella replica che gli era venuta in mente quando il signor Chester si era girato e lo aveva interrogato con tanta insistenza, lui lo avrebbe immediatamente messo in custodia e portato davanti a un giudice insieme al denaro rubato; in quel caso, sarebbe stato impiccato con la stessa certezza con cui era nato. Quel dominio che l’uomo di mondo cercava di esercitare su questo “strumento selvaggio” fu conquistato proprio da quel momento. La sottomissione di Hugh era totale: lo temeva in modo indescrivibile e sentiva che casualità e astuzia avevano tessuto una rete intorno a lui, una rete che, con un semplice tocco da parte di un maestro del genere, lo avrebbe legato alla forca.

Con questi pensieri che gli attraversavano la mente, eppure chiedendosi allo stesso tempo come uno che era arrivato lì con tanta arroganza, nella fiducia di quell’uomo (così credeva), potesse essere così rapidamente e completamente sottomesso, Hugh rimase in piedi davanti a lui, guardandolo con ansia da un momento all’altro, mentre quest’ultimo finiva di vestirsi. Una volta pronto, prese la lettera, ruppe il sigillo e, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia, la lesse con calma.

“Scritto davvero con grande cura riguardo alla mia vita! Una vera lettera da donna, piena di ciò che la gente definisce tenerezza, imparzialità, cuore, e tutte queste cose!”

Mentre parlava, lo torceva tra le mani; poi, guardando pigramente Hugh come se volesse dire “Vedi questo?”, lo tenne nella fiamma della candela. Quando prese fuoco completamente, lo gettò nel camino, dove continuò a bruciare lentamente.

“Era indirizzato a mio figlio,” disse, rivolgendosi a Hugh, “e hai fatto benissimo a portarlo qui. L’ho aperto a mia completa responsabilità. E vedete cosa ne ho fatto. Prendetelo, come ringraziamento per il vostro disturbo.”

Hugh fece un passo avanti per prendere il denaro che gli veniva offerto. Mentre lo metteva in mano, aggiunse:

“Se doveste trovare qualcos’altro di questo genere, o raccogliere qualsiasi informazione che ritengiate possa interessarmi, portatela qui, vi prego, mio buon amico.”

Queste parole furono dette con un sorriso che implicava – o almeno Hugh pensò che implicasse – “Se non lo fai, sarai tu a rischiare!” Lui rispose che l’avrebbe fatto.

“E non preoccupartene affatto,” disse il suo protettore con un tono di vera e propria gentilezza, “non sentirti affatto depresso o inquieto per quella piccola imprudenza di cui abbiamo parlato. Il tuo collo è al sicuro nelle mie mani, te lo assicuro. Bevi ancora un bicchiere: ora sei più tranquillo.”

Hugh lo prese dalle sue mani e, guardando di nascosto il suo viso sorridente, bevve il contenuto in silenzio.

“Non bevi più, ah, ah, insieme agli altri, vero?” disse il signor Chester con il suo modo di fare più affascinante.

“A voi, signore,” fu la risposta cupa, accompagnata da un gesto che assomigliava a un inchino. “Bevo a vostro onore.”

“Grazie. Che Dio ti benedica. A proposito, come ti chiami, mia buona ‘anima? So che il tuo nome è Hugh. Ma qual è l’altro?”

“Non ho altro nome.”

“Un tipo molto strano. Intendi dire che non ne hai mai conosciuto uno, o che semplicemente non scegli di parlarne? Qual è la risposta?”

“Lo direi se potessi,” disse Hugh in fretta. “Ma non posso. Mi hanno sempre chiamato Hugh, nient’altro. Non ho mai conosciuto, né visto, né pensato a un padre; e avevo solo sei anni, che non è molto, quando mi hanno impiccata mia madre a Tyburn, davanti agli sguardi di migliaia di persone. Avrebbero potuto lasciarla vivere. Era abbastanza povera.”

‘How very sad!’ exclaimed his patron, with a condescending smile. ‘I have no doubt she was an exceedingly fine woman.’

‘You see that dog of mine?’ said Hugh, abruptly.

‘Faithful, I dare say?’ rejoined his patron, looking at him through his glass; ‘and immensely clever? Virtuous and gifted animals, whether man or beast, always are so very hideous.’

‘Such a dog as that, and one of the same breed, was the only living thing except me that howled that day,’ said Hugh. ‘Out of the two thousand odd—there was a larger crowd for its being a woman—the dog and I alone had any pity. If he’d have been a man, he’d have been glad to be quit of her, for she had been forced to keep him lean and half-starved; but being a dog, and not having a man’s sense, he was sorry.’

‘It was dull of the brute, certainly,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and very like a brute.’

Hugh made no rejoinder, but whistling to his dog, who sprung up at the sound and came jumping and sporting about him, bade his sympathising friend good night.

‘Good night,’ he returned. ‘Remember; you’re safe with me—quite safe. So long as you deserve it, my good fellow, as I hope you always will, you have a friend in me, on whose silence you may rely. Now do be careful of yourself, pray do, and consider what jeopardy you might have stood in. Good night! bless you!’

Hugh truckled before the hidden meaning of these words as much as such a being could, and crept out of the door so submissively and subserviently—with an air, in short, so different from that with which he had entered—that his patron on being left alone, smiled more than ever.

‘And yet,’ he said, as he took a pinch of snuff, ‘I do not like their having hanged his mother. The fellow has a fine eye, and I am sure she was handsome. But very probably she was coarse—red-nosed perhaps, and had clumsy feet. Aye, it was all for the best, no doubt.’

With this comforting reflection, he put on his coat, took a farewell glance at the glass, and summoned his man, who promptly attended, followed by a chair and its two bearers.

‘Foh!’ said Mr Chester. ‘The very atmosphere that centaur has breathed, seems tainted with the cart and ladder. Here, Peak. Bring some scent and sprinkle the floor; and take away the chair he sat upon, and air it; and dash a little of that mixture upon me. I am stifled!’

The man obeyed; and the room and its master being both purified, nothing remained for Mr Chester but to demand his hat, to fold it jauntily under his arm, to take his seat in the chair and be carried off; humming a fashionable tune.

“Che tristezza!” esclamò il suo protettore, con un sorriso condiscendente. “Non ho alcun >dubbio che fosse una donna davvero eccezionale.”

“Vedi quel mio cane?” disse Hugh, all’improvviso.

“Fedele, oserei dire?” replicò il suo protettore, guardandolo attraverso i suoi occhiali; “e anche estremamente intelligente? Gli animali virtuosi e dotati, sia esseri umani che bestie, sono sempre così terribilmente brutti.”

“Un cane del genere, appartenente alla stessa razza, era l’unica creatura vivente, oltre a me, che quel giorno abbaiò,” disse Hugh. “Tra quelle due migliaia di persone – anzi, una folla più numerosa, visto che si trattava di una donna – solo io e quel cane provavamo pietà per lei. Se fosse stato un uomo, sarebbe stato felice di liberarsi di lei, perché lei lo costringeva a vivere in condizioni di povertà e fame; ma essendo un cane, privo della ragione umana, provava davvero compassione per lei.”

“È stato davvero stupido da parte di quel bruto, senza dubbio”, disse il signor Chester, “e si è comportato proprio come un animale brutale.”

Hugh non rispose nulla, ma, fischiando al suo cane che si alzò all’istante e iniziò a saltare e giocare intorno a lui, salutò con un cordiale “buona notte” il suo comprensivo amico.

“Buona notte,” disse lui. “Ricorda: con me sei al sicuro, completamente al sicuro. Finché lo meriti, mio caro amico – e spero che tu lo faccia sempre – hai un amico in me, sul cui silenzio puoi contare. Ora però fai attenzione a te stesso, ti prego, e pensa a quali pericoli potresti essere incorso. Buona notte! Che Dio ti benedica!”

Hugh comprese appieno il significato nascosto di queste parole, nel modo migliore che una creatura del genere potesse; uscì quindi dalla porta con estrema sottomissione e obbedienza, con un atteggiamento, in breve, completamente diverso da quello con cui era entrato. Quando rimase solo, il suo protettore sorrise più di quanto avesse mai fatto prima.

“Eppure,” disse, prendendo un pizzico di tabacco da naso, “non mi piace che abbiano impiccato sua madre. Quell’uomo aveva un buon occhio per le donne; sono sicuro che fosse bella. Ma molto probabilmente era anche rozza: forse con il naso rosso e i piedi goffi. Sì, è stato meglio così, senza alcun >dubbio.”

Con questo pensiero rassicurante, si infilò il cappotto, gettò un’ultima occhiata al bicchiere e chiamò il suo servitore, che arrivò immediatamente, seguito da una sedia e dai suoi due portatori.

“Foh!”, disse il signor Chester. “L’intera atmosfera di questa stanza sembra contaminata dal carretto e dalla scala. Ehi, Peak: porta un po’ di profumo e spruzza il pavimento; porta via anche la sedia su cui è seduto e lasciala arieggiare. E spruzami un po’ di quella miscela. Sto soffocando!”

L’uomo obbedì; e poiché sia la stanza che il suo padrone erano stati entrambi purificati, non restò altro al signor Chester se non prendere il proprio cappello, piegarlo con disinvoltura sotto il braccio, sedersi sulla sedia e farsi portare via, cantando una melodia alla moda.

Chapter 24

How the accomplished gentleman spent the evening in the midst of a dazzling and brilliant circle; how he enchanted all those with whom he mingled by the grace of his deportment, the politeness of his manner, the vivacity of his conversation, and the sweetness of his voice; how it was observed in every corner, that Chester was a man of that happy disposition that nothing ruffled him, that he was one on whom the world’s cares and errors sat lightly as his dress, and in whose smiling face a calm and tranquil mind was constantly reflected; how honest men, who by instinct knew him better, bowed down before him nevertheless, deferred to his every word, and courted his favourable notice; how people, who really had good in them, went with the stream, and fawned and flattered, and approved, and despised themselves while they did so, and yet had not the courage to resist; how, in short, he was one of those who are received and cherished in society (as the phrase is) by scores who individually would shrink from and be repelled by the object of their lavish regard; are things of course, which will suggest themselves. Matter so commonplace needs but a passing glance, and there an end.

The despisers of mankind—apart from the mere fools and mimics, of that creed—are of two sorts. They who believe their merit neglected and unappreciated, make up one class; they who receive adulation and flattery, knowing their own worthlessness, compose the other. Be sure that the coldest-hearted misanthropes are ever of this last order.

Mr Chester sat up in bed next morning, sipping his coffee, and remembering with a kind of contemptuous satisfaction how he had shone last night, and how he had been caressed and courted, when his servant brought in a very small scrap of dirty paper, tightly sealed in two places, on the inside whereof was inscribed in pretty large text these words: ‘A friend. Desiring of a conference. Immediate. Private. Burn it when you’ve read it.’

‘Where in the name of the Gunpowder Plot did you pick up this?’ said his master.

It was given him by a person then waiting at the door, the man replied.

‘With a cloak and dagger?’ said Mr Chester.

With nothing more threatening about him, it appeared, than a leather apron and a dirty face. ‘Let him come in.’ In he came—Mr Tappertit; with his hair still on end, and a great lock in his hand, which he put down on the floor in the middle of the chamber as if he were about to go through some performances in which it was a necessary agent.

‘Sir,’ said Mr Tappertit with a low bow, ‘I thank you for this condescension, and am glad to see you. Pardon the menial office in which I am engaged, sir, and extend your sympathies to one, who, humble as his appearance is, has inn’ard workings far above his station.’

Mr Chester held the bed-curtain farther back, and looked at him with a vague impression that he was some maniac, who had not only broken open the door of his place of confinement, but had brought away the lock. Mr Tappertit bowed again, and displayed his legs to the best advantage.

‘You have heard, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, laying his hand upon his breast, ‘of G. Varden Locksmith and bell-hanger and repairs neatly executed in town and country, Clerkenwell, London?’

‘What then?’ asked Mr Chester.

‘I’m his ‘prentice, sir.’

‘What THEN?’

‘Ahem!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Would you permit me to shut the door, sir, and will you further, sir, give me your honour bright, that what passes between us is in the strictest confidence?’

Mr Chester laid himself calmly down in bed again, and turning a perfectly undisturbed face towards the strange apparition, which had by this time closed the door, begged him to speak out, and to be as rational as he could, without putting himself to any very great personal inconvenience.

‘In the first place, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, producing a small pocket-handkerchief and shaking it out of the folds, ‘as I have not a card about me (for the envy of masters debases us below that level) allow me to offer the best substitute that circumstances will admit of. If you will take that in your own hand, sir, and cast your eye on the right-hand corner,’ said Mr Tappertit, offering it with a graceful air, ‘you will meet with my credentials.’

‘Thank you,’ answered Mr Chester, politely accepting it, and turning to some blood-red characters at one end. ‘“Four. Simon Tappertit. One.” Is that the—’

‘Without the numbers, sir, that is my name,’ replied the ‘prentice. ‘They are merely intended as directions to the washerwoman, and have no connection with myself or family. YOUR name, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, looking very hard at his nightcap, ‘is Chester, I suppose? You needn’t pull it off, sir, thank you. I observe E. C. from here. We will take the rest for granted.’

‘Pray, Mr Tappertit,’ said Mr Chester, ‘has that complicated piece of ironmongery which you have done me the favour to bring with you, any immediate connection with the business we are to discuss?’

‘It has not, sir,’ rejoined the ‘prentice. ‘It’s going to be fitted on a ware’us-door in Thames Street.’

‘Perhaps, as that is the case,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and as it has a stronger flavour of oil than I usually refresh my bedroom with, you will oblige me so far as to put it outside the door?’

‘By all means, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit, suiting the action to the word.

‘You’ll excuse my mentioning it, I hope?’

‘Don’t apologise, sir, I beg. And now, if you please, to business.’

During the whole of this dialogue, Mr Chester had suffered nothing but his smile of unvarying serenity and politeness to appear upon his face. Sim Tappertit, who had far too good an opinion of himself to suspect that anybody could be playing upon him, thought within himself that this was something like the respect to which he was entitled, and drew a comparison from this courteous demeanour of a stranger, by no means favourable to the worthy locksmith.

‘From what passes in our house,’ said Mr Tappertit, ‘I am aware, sir, that your son keeps company with a young lady against your inclinations. Sir, your son has not used me well.’

‘Mr Tappertit,’ said the other, ‘you grieve me beyond description.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied the ‘prentice. ‘I’m glad to hear you say so. He’s very proud, sir, is your son; very haughty.’

‘I am afraid he IS haughty,’ said Mr Chester. ‘Do you know I was really afraid of that before; and you confirm me?’

‘To recount the menial offices I’ve had to do for your son, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit; ‘the chairs I’ve had to hand him, the coaches I’ve had to call for him, the numerous degrading duties, wholly unconnected with my indenters, that I’ve had to do for him, would fill a family Bible. Besides which, sir, he is but a young man himself and I do not consider “thank’ee Sim,” a proper form of address on those occasions.’

‘Mr Tappertit, your wisdom is beyond your years. Pray go on.’

‘I thank you for your good opinion, sir,’ said Sim, much gratified, ‘and will endeavour so to do. Now sir, on this account (and perhaps for another reason or two which I needn’t go into) I am on your side. And what I tell you is this—that as long as our people go backwards and forwards, to and fro, up and down, to that there jolly old Maypole, lettering, and messaging, and fetching and carrying, you couldn’t help your son keeping company with that young lady by deputy,—not if he was minded night and day by all the Horse Guards, and every man of ‘em in the very fullest uniform.’

Mr Tappertit stopped to take breath after this, and then started fresh again.

‘Now, sir, I am a coming to the point. You will inquire of me, “how is this to be prevented?” I’ll tell you how. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you—’

‘Mr Tappertit—really—’

‘No, no, I’m serious,’ rejoined the ‘prentice, ‘I am, upon my soul. If an honest, civil, smiling gentleman like you, was to talk but ten minutes to our old woman—that’s Mrs Varden—and flatter her up a bit, you’d gain her over for ever. Then there’s this point got—that her daughter Dolly,’—here a flush came over Mr Tappertit’s face—‘wouldn’t be allowed to be a go-between from that time forward; and till that point’s got, there’s nothing ever will prevent her. Mind that.’

‘Mr Tappertit, your knowledge of human nature—’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Sim, folding his arms with a dreadful calmness. ‘Now I come to THE point. Sir, there is a villain at that Maypole, a monster in human shape, a vagabond of the deepest dye, that unless you get rid of and have kidnapped and carried off at the very least—nothing less will do—will marry your son to that young woman, as certainly and as surely as if he was the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. He will, sir, for the hatred and malice that he bears to you; let alone the pleasure of doing a bad action, which to him is its own reward. If you knew how this chap, this Joseph Willet—that’s his name—comes backwards and forwards to our house, libelling, and denouncing, and threatening you, and how I shudder when I hear him, you’d hate him worse than I do,—worse than I do, sir,’ said Mr Tappertit wildly, putting his hair up straighter, and making a crunching noise with his teeth; ‘if sich a thing is possible.’

‘A little private vengeance in this, Mr Tappertit?’

‘Private vengeance, sir, or public sentiment, or both combined—destroy him,’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Miggs says so too. Miggs and me both say so. We can’t bear the plotting and undermining that takes place. Our souls recoil from it. Barnaby Rudge and Mrs Rudge are in it likewise; but the villain, Joseph Willet, is the ringleader. Their plottings and schemes are known to me and Miggs. If you want information of ‘em, apply to us. Put Joseph Willet down, sir. Destroy him. Crush him. And be happy.’

With these words, Mr Tappertit, who seemed to expect no reply, and to hold it as a necessary consequence of his eloquence that his hearer should be utterly stunned, dumbfoundered, and overwhelmed, folded his arms so that the palm of each hand rested on the opposite shoulder, and disappeared after the manner of those mysterious warners of whom he had read in cheap story-books.

‘That fellow,’ said Mr Chester, relaxing his face when he was fairly gone, ‘is good practice. I HAVE some command of my features, beyond all doubt. He fully confirms what I suspected, though; and blunt tools are sometimes found of use, where sharper instruments would fail. I fear I may be obliged to make great havoc among these worthy people. A troublesome necessity! I quite feel for them.’

With that he fell into a quiet slumber:—subsided into such a gentle, pleasant sleep, that it was quite infantine.

Capitolo 24

Come quell’uomo distinto trascorse la serata in mezzo a un circolo brillante e affascinante; come incantò tutti coloro con cui interagì grazie alla grazia del suo comportamento, alla cortesia delle sue maniere, alla vivacità della sua conversazione e alla dolcezza della sua voce; come in ogni angolo si notava che Chester era un uomo dal carattere sereno, a cui nulla turbava l’equilibrio interiore; come le preoccupazioni e gli errori del mondo sembravano non pesargli affatto, tanto quanto i suoi abiti; come il suo viso sorridente rifletteva sempre una mente calma e tranquilla; come uomini onesti, che lo conoscevano meglio di chiunque altro, si inchinavano davanti a lui, davanogli ascolto e cercavano il suo favore; come persone sinceramente buone seguivano la corrente, lusingandolo, adulandolo e approvando ogni sua azione, anche se in realtà lo disprezzavano dentro di sé, senza però avere il coraggio di resistere; insomma, come fosse uno di quegli individui che vengono accolti e apprezzati nella società da molte persone che, individualmente, si allontanerebbero con orrore dall’oggetto della loro ammirazione. Queste cose, ovviamente, si capiscono facilmente. Un argomento così banale richiede soltanto un’occhiata superficiale, e basta.

Coloro che disprezzano l’umanità – a parte gli stupidi e i semplici imitatori di tale credo – si dividono in due categorie. Gli uni ritengono che i loro meriti vengano trascurati o non apprezzati; gli altri, pur ricevendo adulazioni e lusinghe, sono consapevoli della propria inutilità. State certi: gli esseri più crudeli e misantropi appartengono sempre a quest’ultima categoria.

La mattina seguente, il signor Chester si alzò a letto, sorseggiando il caffè, e ricordò con una sorta di soddisfazione sprezzante come avesse brillato la sera precedente, come fosse stato coccolato e corteggiato. Quando il suo servitore gli portò un piccolissimo pezzo di carta sporca, sigillato in due punti, su cui erano scritte a grandi lettere queste parole: “Un amico. Desidera incontrarti immediatamente in privato. Brucialo dopo averlo letto.”

“Da dove diavolo hai preso questa roba?”, disse il suo padrone.

Gliel’aveva dato qualcuno che in quel momento stava aspettando alla porta, rispose l’uomo.

“Con un mantello e una spada?” disse il signor Chester.

Non sembrava che avesse nulla di minaccioso, se non un grembiule di pelle e un viso sporco. “Lasciatelo entrare.” Ed eccolo entrare: il signor Tappertit; i suoi capelli erano ancora arruffati, e teneva in mano una grossa ciocca che posò a terra, al centro della stanza, come se stesse per eseguire qualche rituale in cui quella ciocca fosse un elemento essenziale.

“Signore,” disse il signor Tappertit inchinandosi profondamente, “vi ringrazio per questa gentilezza e sono felice di vedervi. Perdonate l’umile incarico che ricopro, signore. E trasmettete le vostre condoglianze a una persona la cui anima, nonostante il suo aspetto umile, possiede qualità ben al di sopra della sua posizione sociale.”

Il signor Chester tirò indietro la tenda del letto e lo guardò con l’impressione vaga che si trattasse di un pazzo: non solo aveva forzato la porta della sua prigione, ma aveva anche portato via la serratura. Il signor Tappertit si inchinò di nuovo, mostrando così al meglio le sue gambe.

“Avete sentito parlare, signore,” disse il signor Tappertit, mettendo una mano sul petto, “di G. Varden, fabbro chiodatore e installatore di campane che esegue i lavori con precisione sia in città che in campagna, a Clerkenwell, Londra?”

“Allora cosa facciamo?” chiese il signor Chester.

“Sono il suo apprendista, signore.”

“E allora?”

“Ahem!”, disse il signor Tappertit. “Le permetterebbe di chiudere la porta, signore? E inoltre, mi concederebbe la sua onore, affinché ciò che avviene tra noi rimanga strettamente confidenziale?”

Il signor Chester si sdraiò di nuovo tranquillamente a letto e, rivolgendo un viso del tutto sereno verso quell’apparizione strana che ormai aveva chiuso la porta, lo pregò di parlare chiaramente e di comportarsi in modo razionale, senza causarsi alcun disagio personale.

“Prima di tutto, signore,” disse il signor Tappertit, estraendo un piccolo fazzoletto da tasca e scuotendolo per distenderlo, “poiché non ho con me alcuna carta d’identità (poiché l’invidia dei padroni ci abbassa al di sotto di tale livello), permettetemi di offrirvi il miglior sostituto che le circostanze consentano. Se volete prenderlo in mano e guardare nell’angolo destro,” aggiunse, porgendoglielo con un gesto elegante, “troverete le mie credenziali.”

“Grazie,” rispose il signor Chester, accettandola educatamente e rivolgendosi verso alcuni caratteri di colore rosso sangue all’estremità. “‘Quattro. Simon Tappertit. Uno.’ È questo,?”

“Senza quei numeri, signore, quel è il mio nome,” rispose il “apprendista”.
“Quei numeri servono soltanto da indicazioni per la lavandaia e non hanno alcuna relazione con me o con la mia famiglia. Il suo nome, signore,” disse il signor Tappertit, fissando attentamente il proprio berretto da notte, “è Chester, suppongo? Non c’è bisogno che se lo tolga, grazie. Noto chiaramente le lettere E.C.; il resto possiamo darlo per scontato.”

“Prego, signor Tappertit,” disse il signor Chester, “quell’ingranaggio di ferro così complicato che si è preso la briga di portare con sé ha qualche relazione diretta con gli affari di cui dovremo parlare?”

“Non ancora, signore,” rispose il “apprendista. “Lo installeranno su una porta della casa di un mercante in Thames Street.”

“Forse, dato che è così,” disse il signor Chester, “e poiché ha un odore di olio più intenso rispetto a quello con cui di solito profumo la mia camera da letto, potreste avere la gentilezza di metterla fuori dalla porta?”

“Certamente, signore,” disse il signor Tappertit, mettendo in atto le sue parole.

“Vi scuserete se lo menziono, spero, ”

“Non si scusi, la prego. Ora, se le va bene, passiamo alle cose importanti.”

Durante l’intero corso di questo dialogo, il signor Chester non provò nulla se non quel sorriso di serenità e cortesia che gli rimase sempre sul viso. Sim Tappertit, che aveva un’opinione troppo alta di sé stesso per sospettare che qualcuno potesse prendersi gioco di lui, pensò tra sé che questo fosse proprio il rispetto che meritava; e paragonando questo comportamento cortese da parte di uno sconosciuto, ne trasse una conclusione tutt’altro che lusinghiera per quel degno fabbro chiave.

“Da ciò che accade nella nostra casa,” disse il signor Tappertit, “so, signore, che vostro figlio frequenta una giovane donna contro la vostra volontà. Signore, vostro figlio non si è comportato bene con me.”

“Signor Tappertit,” disse l’altro, “mi addolorate oltre ogni descrizione.”

“Grazie, signore,” rispose il “apprendista”. “Sono felice di sentirla dire così. Vostro figlio è molto orgoglioso, signore, molto presuntuoso.”

“Temo proprio che sia arrogante,” disse il signor Chester. “Sai, anch’io ne avevo davvero paura prima. E ora tu confermi i miei timori?”

“Per raccontare tutte le umili mansioni che ho dovuto svolgere per vostro figlio, signore,” disse il signor Tappertit; “le sedie che ho dovuto portargli, i cocchi che ho dovuto chiamare per lui, le innumerevoli compiti degradanti e del tutto irrilevanti ai miei doveri, che ho dovuto sbrigare per suo conto, basterebbero a riempire un’intera Bibbia di famiglia. Inoltre, signore, lui stesso è ancora giovane, e non ritengo che ‘grazie, Sim’ sia una forma appropriata di saluto in quelle occasioni.”

“Signor Tappertit, la sua saggezza va ben oltre la sua età. Per favore, continui.”

“Grazie per la sua buona opinione, signore,” disse Sim, molto compiaciuto, “e farò del mio meglio per seguirla. Ora, signore, per questa ragione (e forse anche per altre due o tre che non è necessario menzionare) sono dalla sua parte. Quello che le dico è questo: finché la nostra gente continuerà a andare avanti e indietro, su e giù, verso quel vecchio e allegro albero di maggio, a scrivere messaggi, a portare cose da una parte all’altra, suo figlio non potrà fare a meno di frequentare quella giovane signora, anche se fosse sorvegliato giorno e notte da tutti i membri della Guardia Reale, e ognuno di loro indossasse l’uniforme più completa.”

Dopo questo sforzo, il signor Tappertit si fermò per riprendere fiato, poi ricominciò da capo.

“Ora, signore, arrivo al punto. Mi chiederete sicuramente: ‘Come si può impedire questo?’ Vi dirò come. Se un gentiluomo onesto, cortese e sorridente come voi, ”

“Mr Tappertit, davvero, ”

“No, no, parlo sul serio,” ribatté il “apprendista”. “Lo giuro sulla mia ‘anima. Se un gentiluomo onesto, cortese e sorridente come voi parlasse per soli dieci minuti con la nostra vecchia signora – cioè la signora Varden – e le facesse un po’ di complimenti, riuscireste a conquistarla per sempre. Inoltre, una volta risolto questo problema, sua figlia Dolly,” aggiunse, arrossendo, “non verrebbe più lasciata fare da intermediaria; finché questa condizione non verrà rispettata, nulla potrà impedirglielo. Ricordatevelo bene.”

“Signor Tappertit, la sua conoscenza della >natura umana, ”

“Aspetti un momento,” disse Sim, incrociando le braccia con una calma terribile. “Ora arrivo al punto. Signore, c’è un malvagio vicino a quel palo di maggio: un mostro sotto sembianza umana, un individuo dal cuore puro di malvagità. A meno che non lo eliminiate, o almeno non lo rapite e portiate via, nient’altro non servirà. Altrimenti, sposerà vostro figlio con quella giovane donna, con la stessa certezza con cui sarebbe sposato dall’Arcivescovo di Canterbury stesso. Lo farà, signore, per l’odio e la malvagità che nutre verso di voi. L’unica cosa che gli interessa è compiere un atto malvagio, perché per lui questo rappresenta già una ricompensa sufficiente. Se solo sapeste quanto spesso quel Joseph Willet venga da noi, diffamandovi, denunciandovi, minacciandovi. Come tremo ogni volta che lo sento. Lo odiereste ancora di più di me, signore, ” disse il signor Tappertit con voce frenetica, sistemando i propri capelli ancora più dritti e facendo rumore con i denti; “se solo una cosa del genere fosse possibile, ”

“Un piccolo atto di vendetta personale, vero, signor Tappertit?”

“Vendetta privata, signore, o sentimenti pubblici, o entrambi combinati: distruggetelo,” disse il signor Tappertit. “Anche Miggs la pensa così. Entrambi lo diciamo: non possiamo sopportare queste cospirazioni e questi atti di sabotaggio. Le nostre anime ne sono disgustate. Anche Barnaby Rudge e la signora Rudge sono coinvolti; ma il vero capo è quel villano, Joseph Willet. Noi conosciamo tutti i loro piani e le loro trame. Se volete informazioni su di loro, rivolgetevi a noi. Mettete fine a Joseph Willet, signore. Distruggetelo, schiacciatelo. E sarete felici.”

Con queste parole, il signor Tappertit, che sembrava non aspettarsi alcuna risposta e riteneva che l’effetto del suo eloquio fosse proprio quello di lasciare l’ascoltatore completamente sbalordito, attonito e sopraffatto, incrociò le braccia in modo che il palmo di ciascuna mano si appoggiasse sulla spalla opposta, e poi scomparve, proprio come quei misteriosi avvertitori di cui aveva letto nelle storie economiche.

“Quel tipo,” disse il signor Chester, rilassando il viso dopo che quell’uomo se n’era andato, “è davvero utile. Ho un certo controllo sui miei tratti facciali, senza alcun >dubbio. Tuttavia, conferma pienamente ciò che sospettavo; a volte gli strumenti rozzi si rivelano utili dove quelli più affilati fallirebbero. Temo che possa essere necessario causare un bel po’ di scompiglio tra queste persone perbene. Una spiacevole necessità! Mi dispiace davvero per loro.”

Con questo, cadde in un sonno tranquillo; si addormentò in modo così dolce e piacevole, che sembrava proprio quello di un bambino piccolo.

Chapter 25

Leaving the favoured, and well-received, and flattered of the world; him of the world most worldly, who never compromised himself by an ungentlemanly action, and never was guilty of a manly one; to lie smilingly asleep—for even sleep, working but little change in his dissembling face, became with him a piece of cold, conventional hypocrisy—we follow in the steps of two slow travellers on foot, making towards Chigwell.

Barnaby and his mother. Grip in their company, of course.

The widow, to whom each painful mile seemed longer than the last, toiled wearily along; while Barnaby, yielding to every inconstant impulse, fluttered here and there, now leaving her far behind, now lingering far behind himself, now darting into some by-lane or path and leaving her to pursue her way alone, until he stealthily emerged again and came upon her with a wild shout of merriment, as his wayward and capricious nature prompted. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch of some high tree by the roadside; now using his tall staff as a leaping-pole, come flying over ditch or hedge or five-barred gate; now run with surprising swiftness for a mile or more on the straight road, and halting, sport upon a patch of grass with Grip till she came up. These were his delights; and when his patient mother heard his merry voice, or looked into his flushed and healthy face, she would not have abated them by one sad word or murmur, though each had been to her a source of suffering in the same degree as it was to him of pleasure.

It is something to look upon enjoyment, so that it be free and wild and in the face of nature, though it is but the enjoyment of an idiot. It is something to know that Heaven has left the capacity of gladness in such a creature’s breast; it is something to be assured that, however lightly men may crush that faculty in their fellows, the Great Creator of mankind imparts it even to his despised and slighted work. Who would not rather see a poor idiot happy in the sunlight, than a wise man pining in a darkened jail!

Ye men of gloom and austerity, who paint the face of Infinite Benevolence with an eternal frown; read in the Everlasting Book, wide open to your view, the lesson it would teach. Its pictures are not in black and sombre hues, but bright and glowing tints; its music—save when ye drown it—is not in sighs and groans, but songs and cheerful sounds. Listen to the million voices in the summer air, and find one dismal as your own. Remember, if ye can, the sense of hope and pleasure which every glad return of day awakens in the breast of all your kind who have not changed their nature; and learn some wisdom even from the witless, when their hearts are lifted up they know not why, by all the mirth and happiness it brings.

The widow’s breast was full of care, was laden heavily with secret dread and sorrow; but her boy’s gaiety of heart gladdened her, and beguiled the long journey. Sometimes he would bid her lean upon his arm, and would keep beside her steadily for a short distance; but it was more his nature to be rambling to and fro, and she better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself.

She had quitted the place to which they were travelling, directly after the event which had changed her whole existence; and for two-and-twenty years had never had courage to revisit it. It was her native village. How many recollections crowded on her mind when it appeared in sight!

Two-and-twenty years. Her boy’s whole life and history. The last time she looked back upon those roofs among the trees, she carried him in her arms, an infant. How often since that time had she sat beside him night and day, watching for the dawn of mind that never came; how had she feared, and doubted, and yet hoped, long after conviction forced itself upon her! The little stratagems she had devised to try him, the little tokens he had given in his childish way—not of dulness but of something infinitely worse, so ghastly and unchildlike in its cunning—came back as vividly as if but yesterday had intervened. The room in which they used to be; the spot in which his cradle stood; he, old and elfin-like in face, but ever dear to her, gazing at her with a wild and vacant eye, and crooning some uncouth song as she sat by and rocked him; every circumstance of his infancy came thronging back, and the most trivial, perhaps, the most distinctly.

His older childhood, too; the strange imaginings he had; his terror of certain senseless things—familiar objects he endowed with life; the slow and gradual breaking out of that one horror, in which, before his birth, his darkened intellect began; how, in the midst of all, she had found some hope and comfort in his being unlike another child, and had gone on almost believing in the slow development of his mind until he grew a man, and then his childhood was complete and lasting; one after another, all these old thoughts sprung up within her, strong after their long slumber and bitterer than ever.

She took his arm and they hurried through the village street. It was the same as it was wont to be in old times, yet different too, and wore another air. The change was in herself, not it; but she never thought of that, and wondered at its alteration, and where it lay, and what it was.

The people all knew Barnaby, and the children of the place came flocking round him—as she remembered to have done with their fathers and mothers round some silly beggarman, when a child herself. None of them knew her; they passed each well-remembered house, and yard, and homestead; and striking into the fields, were soon alone again.

The Warren was the end of their journey. Mr Haredale was walking in the garden, and seeing them as they passed the iron gate, unlocked it, and bade them enter that way.

Capitolo 25

Lasciando da parte coloro che erano favoriti dal mondo, ben accetti e lusingati dalle sue attenzioni; lui, il più mondano di tutti, che mai si compromise con un atto indegno o fu colpevole di alcun comportamento virile, giaceva sorridendo nel sonno: persino il sonno, che non modificava affatto il suo volto ipocrita e freddo, diventava per lui un’altra forma di falsità convenzionale. Seguiamo ora le orme di due viaggiatori lenti a piedi, diretti verso Chigwell.

Barnaby e sua madre. Naturalmente, è bello stare in loro compagnia.

La vedova, per cui ogni miglio doloroso sembrava più lungo del precedente, procedeva faticosamente; mentre Barnaby, cedendo a ogni impulso capriccioso, andava avanti e indietro: a volte la lasciava molto indietro, altre volte si fermava lui stesso, altre ancora imboccava strade secondarie, lasciandola proseguire da sola, finché non riappariva all’improvviso, lanciando grida di gioia, spinto dalla sua natura capricciosa e indomabile. A volte le gridava dal ramo più alto di un albero lungo la strada; altre volte utilizzava il suo alto bastone come trampolino per saltare fossati, siepi o recinzioni; altre ancora correva con sorprendente velocità per miglia intere lungo la strada dritta, per poi fermarsi e giocare sull’erba finché lei non lo raggiungeva. Questi erano i suoi divertimenti. E quando sua madre paziente udiva la sua voce allegra o vedeva il suo viso arrossato e sano, non osava mai dire una parola triste o lamentarsi, anche se ogni uno di quei comportamenti le causava lo stesso dolore che a lui procurava gioia.

È qualcosa che merita di essere osservato con piacere: che sia libero e selvaggio, che si manifesti davanti alla natura, anche se si tratta soltanto del piacere di un idiota. È qualcosa che dimostra come il Cielo abbia insito nel petto di una creatura simile la capacità di essere felice; è qualcosa che ci assicura che, per quanto gli uomini possano soffocare questa facoltà nei loro simili, il Grande Creatore dell’umanità la dona anche alle sue creature disprezzate e umiliate. Chi non preferirebbe vedere un povero idiota felice sotto il sole, piuttosto che un uomo saggio che soffre in una prigione buia?

Voi uomini di tristezza e austerità, che dipingete il volto della Benevolenza Infinita con un’espressione eterna di preoccupazione. Leggete nel Libro Eterno, aperto davanti ai vostri occhi, la lezione che esso insegna. Le sue immagini non sono realizzate con toni scuri e cupi, ma con colori vivaci e luminosi; la sua musica – a meno che non la soffochiate voi stessi – non è fatta di sospiri e lamenti, ma di canti e suoni gioiosi. Ascoltate le migliaia di voci nell’aria estiva. E troverete forse una sola che sia altrettanto cupa quanto la vostra. Ricordatevi, se potete, della sensazione di speranza e felicità che ogni alba risveglia nel cuore di tutti coloro che non hanno cambiato la loro natura; e imparate anche voi qualche saggezza da coloro che sembrano privi di intelletto. Quando i loro cuori si sollevano, senza che sappiano il perché, è per tutta la gioia e la felicità che questo li porta.

Il petto della vedova era pieno di preoccupazioni, oppresso da un terrore segreto e da dolore; ma la gioia d’animo di suo figlio le dava felicità e rendeva più sopportabile quel lungo viaggio. A volte lui le chiedeva di appoggiarsi al suo braccio e camminava accanto a lei per un tratto; ma era nella sua natura vagabondare avanti e indietro, e lei preferiva vederlo libero e felice, anche se non era vicino a lei, perché lo amava più di sé stessa.

Aveva lasciato il luogo verso cui stavano viaggiando, subito dopo l’evento che aveva cambiato completamente la sua vita; e per vent’anni non aveva mai avuto il coraggio di tornarci. Era il suo villaggio natale. Quante memorie le affollarono la mente quando lo vide apparire all’orizzonte!

Venti anni. L’intera vita di suo figlio, la sua stessa storia. L’ultima volta che aveva rivisto quei tetti tra gli alberi, lo teneva in braccio, un bambino piccolo. Quante volte da allora si era seduta accanto a lui, giorno e notte, aspettando l’alba della sua mente, che però non era mai arrivata. Quanto aveva paura, dubitato, eppure continuato a sperare, anche dopo che la verità si era imposta con forza su di lei! Quei piccoli stratagemmi che aveva ideato per metterlo alla prova, quei segnali che lui le aveva inviato in modo infantile, non di noia, ma di qualcosa di infinitamente peggiore, così orribile e privo di innocenza nella sua astuzia, tornavano alla mente con estrema chiarezza, come se fosse passata solo ieri. La stanza in cui vivevano; il posto dove stava la sua culla; lui, ormai anziano, con un viso simile a quello di un folletto, ma sempre così caro per lei, che lo guardava con occhi selvaggi e vuoti, mentre lo cullava cantandogli canzoni semplici. Ogni dettaglio della sua infanzia tornava ad assalirla, forse il più banale, il più insignificante di tutti.

Anche la sua più giovane infanzia; quelle strane fantasie che aveva; il suo terrore di alcune cose insensate – oggetti familiari a cui attribuiva vita; quel lento e graduale uscire da quell’orrore, all’interno del quale, prima ancora della sua nascita, il suo intelletto oscurato aveva già iniziato a formarsi. Come, nonostante tutto ciò, lei avesse trovato un po’ di speranza e conforto nel fatto che lui fosse diverso dagli altri bambini; e come avesse continuato a credere nel lento sviluppo della sua mente, fino a quando non divenne un uomo. Allora la sua infanzia divenne davvero completa e duratura. Uno dopo l’altro, tutti questi vecchi pensieri riemersero in lei, ancora più forti dopo tanto tempo trascorso nel silenzio, e ancora più amari che mai.

Gli prese il braccio e si affrettarono lungo la strada del villaggio. Era uguale a come era sempre stato nei tempi antichi, ma allo stesso tempo diverso, aveva un’atmosfera diversa. Il cambiamento risiedeva in lei, non nella strada; ma lei non ci pensò mai, e si chiese quale fosse quel cambiamento, dove si trovasse e di cosa si trattasse.

Tutti conoscevano Barnaby, e i bambini del posto si radunavano intorno a lui, proprio come lei ricordava di aver fatto da bambina intorno ai loro padri e madri, quando erano attirati da qualche stupido mendicante. Nessuno di loro la conosceva; passavano davanti alle case, ai cortili, alle abitazioni che tutti ricordavano bene, e poi, uscendo nei campi, si ritrovavano presto di nuovo soli.

Il Warren rappresentava la fine del loro viaggio. Il signor Haredale stava passeggiando nel jardino e, vedendoli passare dal cancello di ferro, lo aprì e li invitò ad entrare da quella parte.

‘At length you have mustered heart to visit the old place,’ he said to the widow. ‘I am glad you have.’

‘For the first time, and the last, sir,’ she replied.

‘The first for many years, but not the last?’

‘The very last.’

‘You mean,’ said Mr Haredale, regarding her with some surprise, ‘that having made this effort, you are resolved not to persevere and are determined to relapse? This is unworthy of you. I have often told you, you should return here. You would be happier here than elsewhere, I know. As to Barnaby, it’s quite his home.’

‘And Grip’s,’ said Barnaby, holding the basket open. The raven hopped gravely out, and perching on his shoulder and addressing himself to Mr Haredale, cried—as a hint, perhaps, that some temperate refreshment would be acceptable—‘Polly put the ket-tle on, we’ll all have tea!’

‘Hear me, Mary,’ said Mr Haredale kindly, as he motioned her to walk with him towards the house. ‘Your life has been an example of patience and fortitude, except in this one particular which has often given me great pain. It is enough to know that you were cruelly involved in the calamity which deprived me of an only brother, and Emma of her father, without being obliged to suppose (as I sometimes am) that you associate us with the author of our joint misfortunes.’

‘Associate you with him, sir!’ she cried.

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I think you do. I almost believe that because your husband was bound by so many ties to our relation, and died in his service and defence, you have come in some sort to connect us with his murder.’

‘Alas!’ she answered. ‘You little know my heart, sir. You little know the truth!’

‘It is natural you should do so; it is very probable you may, without being conscious of it,’ said Mr Haredale, speaking more to himself than her. ‘We are a fallen house. Money, dispensed with the most lavish hand, would be a poor recompense for sufferings like yours; and thinly scattered by hands so pinched and tied as ours, it becomes a miserable mockery. I feel it so, God knows,’ he added, hastily. ‘Why should I wonder if she does!’

‘You do me wrong, dear sir, indeed,’ she rejoined with great earnestness; ‘and yet when you come to hear what I desire your leave to say—’

‘I shall find my doubts confirmed?’ he said, observing that she faltered and became confused. ‘Well!’

He quickened his pace for a few steps, but fell back again to her side, and said:

‘And have you come all this way at last, solely to speak to me?’

She answered, ‘Yes.’

‘A curse,’ he muttered, ‘upon the wretched state of us proud beggars, from whom the poor and rich are equally at a distance; the one being forced to treat us with a show of cold respect; the other condescending to us in their every deed and word, and keeping more aloof, the nearer they approach us.—Why, if it were pain to you (as it must have been) to break for this slight purpose the chain of habit forged through two-and-twenty years, could you not let me know your wish, and beg me to come to you?’

‘There was not time, sir,’ she rejoined. ‘I took my resolution but last night, and taking it, felt that I must not lose a day—a day! an hour—in having speech with you.’

They had by this time reached the house. Mr Haredale paused for a moment, and looked at her as if surprised by the energy of her manner. Observing, however, that she took no heed of him, but glanced up, shuddering, at the old walls with which such horrors were connected in her mind, he led her by a private stair into his library, where Emma was seated in a window, reading.

The young lady, seeing who approached, hastily rose and laid aside her book, and with many kind words, and not without tears, gave her a warm and earnest welcome. But the widow shrunk from her embrace as though she feared her, and sunk down trembling on a chair.

‘It is the return to this place after so long an absence,’ said Emma gently. ‘Pray ring, dear uncle—or stay—Barnaby will run himself and ask for wine—’

‘Not for the world,’ she cried. ‘It would have another taste—I could not touch it. I want but a minute’s rest. Nothing but that.’

Miss Haredale stood beside her chair, regarding her with silent pity. She remained for a little time quite still; then rose and turned to Mr Haredale, who had sat down in his easy chair, and was contemplating her with fixed attention.

The tale connected with the mansion borne in mind, it seemed, as has been already said, the chosen theatre for such a deed as it had known. The room in which this group were now assembled—hard by the very chamber where the act was done—dull, dark, and sombre; heavy with worm-eaten books; deadened and shut in by faded hangings, muffling every sound; shadowed mournfully by trees whose rustling boughs gave ever and anon a spectral knocking at the glass; wore, beyond all others in the house, a ghostly, gloomy air. Nor were the group assembled there, unfitting tenants of the spot. The widow, with her marked and startling face and downcast eyes; Mr Haredale stern and despondent ever; his niece beside him, like, yet most unlike, the picture of her father, which gazed reproachfully down upon them from the blackened wall; Barnaby, with his vacant look and restless eye; were all in keeping with the place, and actors in the legend. Nay, the very raven, who had hopped upon the table and with the air of some old necromancer appeared to be profoundly studying a great folio volume that lay open on a desk, was strictly in unison with the rest, and looked like the embodied spirit of evil biding his time of mischief.

‘I scarcely know,’ said the widow, breaking silence, ‘how to begin. You will think my mind disordered.’

‘The whole tenor of your quiet and reproachless life since you were last here,’ returned Mr Haredale, mildly, ‘shall bear witness for you. Why do you fear to awaken such a suspicion? You do not speak to strangers. You have not to claim our interest or consideration for the first time. Be more yourself. Take heart. Any advice or assistance that I can give you, you know is yours of right, and freely yours.’

“Finalmente hai trovato il coraggio di visitare quel vecchio posto,” le disse. “Sono contento che l’abbia fatto.”

“Per la prima volta, e anche l’ultima, signore,” rispose lei.

“Il primo dopo molti anni, ma non l’ultimo?”

“L’ultimo di tutti.”

“Volete dire,” disse il signor Haredale, guardandola con sorpresa, “che dopo aver fatto questo sforzo, siete decisa a non perseverare e a ricadere nei vostri vecchi errori? Questo non è da voi. Vi ho detto molte volte che dovreste tornare qui. So che sareste più felice qui che altrove. Per quanto riguarda Barnaby, questa è davvero la sua casa.”

“E ora andiamo da Grip,” disse Barnaby, tenendo aperto il cesto. L’corvo saltò fuori con aria solenne, si posò sul suo collo e, rivolgendosi a Mr Haredale, gridò, forse come suggerimento che qualche rinfrescante sarebbe stato gradito, “Polly, metti su il bollitore, berremo tutti del tè!”

“Ascoltami, Mary,” disse gentilmente il signor Haredale, invitandola a camminare con lui verso la casa. “La tua vita è stata un esempio di pazienza e forza d’animo, tranne in questo particolare aspetto che spesso mi ha causato grande dolore. È sufficiente sapere che sei stata crudelmente coinvolta nella calamità che mi ha privato dell’unico fratello e che ha fatto perdere a Emma suo padre, senza dover supporre (come a volte accade) che tu abbia qualche responsabilità nell’autore delle nostre sfortune comuni.”

“Associarvi a lui, signore!” gridò lei.

“Infatti,” disse il signor Haredale, “penso che sia così. Sembra quasi che, poiché vostro marito era legato a noi da tanti legami e è morto nel servire e difendere i nostri interessi, voi abbiate in qualche modo contribuito a collegarci al suo omicidio.”

“Ahimè!”, rispose lei. “Voi non conoscete affatto il mio cuore, signore. Non conoscete la verità!”

“È naturale che tu lo faccia; è molto probabile che tu possa farlo, senza nemmeno rendersene conto,” disse il signor Haredale, parlando più a se stesso che a lei. “Siamo una famiglia decaduta. Denaro, anche distribuito con la massima generosità, non sarebbe un buon compenso per sofferenze del genere; e se distribuito da persone così povere e limitate nelle risorse come noi, diventa soltanto una misera beffa. Lo penso davvero, Dio lo sa, ” aggiunse in fretta. “Perché dovrei meravigliarmi se lei lo facesse?”

“Mi trattate male, caro signore, davvero,” ribatté lei con grande sincerità; “eppure, quando ascolterete ciò che desidero dirvi, ”

“Le mie dubbi verranno confermati?” disse, notando che lei esitava e si confondeva. “Beh, ”

Aumentò il passo per qualche istante, ma poi tornò al suo fianco e disse:

“E sei venuto fin qui, dopo tutto questo percorso, soltanto per parlare con me?”

Rispose: “Sì.”

“Una maledizione,” mormorò, “sull’infelice condizione di noi poveri mendicanti: da un lato, i ricchi sono ugualmente distanti da noi; dall’altro, ci trattano con un freddo rispetto; e quelli che dovrebbero essere più vicini a noi, si tengono invece ancora più alla larga. Perché, se fosse davvero doloroso per voi (come sicuramente lo è) rompere, per questo futile motivo, una abitudine consolidata nel corso di vent’anni, non potreste semplicemente dirmi cosa desiderate e chiedermi di venire da voi?”

“Non c’è stato alcun tempo disponibile, signore,” rispose lei. “Ho preso la mia decisione la scorsa notte, e una volta presa, ho capito che non dovevo perdere nemmeno un giorno, né un’ora, per parlare con voi.”

A quel momento erano già arrivati nella casa. Il signor Haredale si fermò per un attimo e la guardò, come sorpreso dall’energia del suo comportamento. Tuttavia, notando che lei non gli prestava attenzione, ma alzava lo sguardo con un brivido verso le vecchie pareti a cui, nella sua mente, erano legati tali orrori, la guidò su una scala privata fino alla sua biblioteca, dove Emma era seduta accanto alla finestra, intenta a leggere.

La giovane signora, vedendo chi si avvicinava, si alzò in fretta, mise da parte il suo libro e, con molte parole gentili e non senza lacrime, le diede un caldo e sincero benvenuto. Ma la vedova si ritrasse dal suo abbraccio come se la temesse, e si sedette tremante su una sedia.

“È il ritorno in questo posto dopo una così lunga assenza,” disse Emma con dolcezza. “Per favore suona il campanello, caro zio, oppure resta qui: Barnaby si occuperà lui stesso e chiederà del vino, ”

“Per niente al mondo,” gridò. “Avrebbe un altro sapore. Non potrei assolutamente toccarlo. Voglio solo riposare per un minuto. Nient’altro.”

La signorina Haredale stava in piedi accanto alla sua sedia, guardandola con silenziosa compassione. Rimase immobile per un po’; poi si alzò e si rivolse al signor Haredale, che era seduto nella sua poltrona e la osservava attentamente.

La storia sembrava essere legata proprio a quella dimora menzionata; come già detto, era il luogo ideale per un simile atto. La stanza in cui ora si trovavano riuniti – situata proprio accanto alla camera dove tutto era avvenuto – era tetra, buia e cupa; piena di libri consumati dai vermi; le tende sbiadite attutivano ogni suono; gli alberi, con i loro rami che frusciavano, sembravano produrre continui rumori spettrali. Quella stanza aveva un’atmosfera davvero sinistra e inquietante. E coloro che vi si trovavano non erano certo persone adatte a quel luogo: la vedova, con il suo viso segnato e gli occhi bassi; il signor Haredale, severo e disperato; sua nipote, simile – ma al contempo molto diversa – dal ritratto di suo padre appeso al muro; Barnaby, con il suo sguardo vuoto e lo sguardo inquieto. Tutti erano in armonia con quell’ambiente, come attori protagonisti di una leggenda malvagia. Anche il corvo, che si era posato sul tavolo e sembrava un vecchio negromante intento a studiare un grosso volume aperto sulla scrivania, contribuiva a creare quell’atmosfera sinistra. Sembrava davvero lo spirito del male in attesa del proprio momento per compiere il male.

“Non so proprio da dove cominciare,” disse la vedova, rompendo il silenzio, “forse penserete che io sia confusa.”

“Tutto il tenore della tua vita tranquilla e senza rimorsi da quando sei stato qui l’ultima volta,” rispose gentilmente il signor Haredale, “parlerà a tuo favore. Perché dovresti temere di suscitare un simile sospetto? Non parli con gli estranei. Non è certo la prima volta che cerchi il nostro interesse o la nostra considerazione. Sii te stesso, coraggio. Qualsiasi consiglio o aiuto io possa offrirti, sai bene che è a tua disposizione, liberamente.”

‘What if I came, sir,’ she rejoined, ‘I who have but one other friend on earth, to reject your aid from this moment, and to say that henceforth I launch myself upon the world, alone and unassisted, to sink or swim as Heaven may decree!’

‘You would have, if you came to me for such a purpose,’ said Mr Haredale calmly, ‘some reason to assign for conduct so extraordinary, which—if one may entertain the possibility of anything so wild and strange—would have its weight, of course.’

‘That, sir,’ she answered, ‘is the misery of my distress. I can give no reason whatever. My own bare word is all that I can offer. It is my duty, my imperative and bounden duty. If I did not discharge it, I should be a base and guilty wretch. Having said that, my lips are sealed, and I can say no more.’

As though she felt relieved at having said so much, and had nerved herself to the remainder of her task, she spoke from this time with a firmer voice and heightened courage.

‘Heaven is my witness, as my own heart is—and yours, dear young lady, will speak for me, I know—that I have lived, since that time we all have bitter reason to remember, in unchanging devotion, and gratitude to this family. Heaven is my witness that go where I may, I shall preserve those feelings unimpaired. And it is my witness, too, that they alone impel me to the course I must take, and from which nothing now shall turn me, as I hope for mercy.’

‘These are strange riddles,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘In this world, sir,’ she replied, ‘they may, perhaps, never be explained. In another, the Truth will be discovered in its own good time. And may that time,’ she added in a low voice, ‘be far distant!’

‘Let me be sure,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘that I understand you, for I am doubtful of my own senses. Do you mean that you are resolved voluntarily to deprive yourself of those means of support you have received from us so long—that you are determined to resign the annuity we settled on you twenty years ago—to leave house, and home, and goods, and begin life anew—and this, for some secret reason or monstrous fancy which is incapable of explanation, which only now exists, and has been dormant all this time? In the name of God, under what delusion are you labouring?’

‘As I am deeply thankful,’ she made answer, ‘for the kindness of those, alive and dead, who have owned this house; and as I would not have its roof fall down and crush me, or its very walls drip blood, my name being spoken in their hearing; I never will again subsist upon their bounty, or let it help me to subsistence. You do not know,’ she added, suddenly, ‘to what uses it may be applied; into what hands it may pass. I do, and I renounce it.’

‘Surely,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘its uses rest with you.’

‘They did. They rest with me no longer. It may be—it IS—devoted to purposes that mock the dead in their graves. It never can prosper with me. It will bring some other heavy judgement on the head of my dear son, whose innocence will suffer for his mother’s guilt.’

‘What words are these!’ cried Mr Haredale, regarding her with wonder. ‘Among what associates have you fallen? Into what guilt have you ever been betrayed?’

‘I am guilty, and yet innocent; wrong, yet right; good in intention, though constrained to shield and aid the bad. Ask me no more questions, sir; but believe that I am rather to be pitied than condemned. I must leave my house to-morrow, for while I stay there, it is haunted. My future dwelling, if I am to live in peace, must be a secret. If my poor boy should ever stray this way, do not tempt him to disclose it or have him watched when he returns; for if we are hunted, we must fly again. And now this load is off my mind, I beseech you—and you, dear Miss Haredale, too—to trust me if you can, and think of me kindly as you have been used to do. If I die and cannot tell my secret even then (for that may come to pass), it will sit the lighter on my breast in that hour for this day’s work; and on that day, and every day until it comes, I will pray for and thank you both, and trouble you no more.’

With that, she would have left them, but they detained her, and with many soothing words and kind entreaties, besought her to consider what she did, and above all to repose more freely upon them, and say what weighed so sorely on her mind. Finding her deaf to their persuasions, Mr Haredale suggested, as a last resource, that she should confide in Emma, of whom, as a young person and one of her own sex, she might stand in less dread than of himself. From this proposal, however, she recoiled with the same indescribable repugnance she had manifested when they met. The utmost that could be wrung from her was, a promise that she would receive Mr Haredale at her own house next evening, and in the mean time reconsider her determination and their dissuasions—though any change on her part, as she told them, was quite hopeless. This condition made at last, they reluctantly suffered her to depart, since she would neither eat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip, accordingly went out as they had come, by the private stair and garden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one by the way.

It was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview he had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly human rascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening to everything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly in his mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders for the instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he was thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of duty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is commonly called good company.

“E se venissi io, signore,” ribatté lei, “io che ho solo un altro amico al mondo, e rifiutassi il vostro aiuto da questo momento in poi, dicendo che d’ora in poi affronterò il mondo da sola e senza alcun sostegno, lasciando che sia il destino a decidere se sopravviverò o no!”

“Avresti fatto lo stesso se fossi venuto da me per un motivo del genere,” disse il signor Haredale con calma. “Dovrebbe esserci una ragione che giustifichi un comportamento così straordinario. E, se si può anche solo prendere in considerazione l’eventualità di qualcosa di così folle e bizzarro, questa ragione dovrebbe certamente avere il suo peso.”

“Ecco, signore,” rispose lei, “l’origine della mia angoscia. Non posso fornire alcuna spiegazione; tutto ciò che posso offrire è la mia parola. È il mio dovere, un dovere imperativo e ineludibile. Se non lo adempissi, sarei una persona spregevole e colpevole. Detto questo, le mie labbra sono sigillate. Non posso dire altro.”

Come se si fosse sentita sollevata dopo aver detto tutto ciò e avesse trovato il coraggio necessario per completare il resto del suo compito, da quel momento in poi parlò con una voce più ferma e un coraggio maggiore.

“Il cielo è testimone: così come il mio cuore – e so che anche il vostro, cara giovane signora, parlerà a mio favore – io ho vissuto, da quel momento che tutti noi abbiamo motivo di ricordare con amarezza, con un’immutabile devozione e gratitudine verso questa famiglia. Il cielo è testimone che, ovunque io vada, manterrò inalterati questi sentimenti. E è anche il cielo a testimoniare che sono soltanto loro a spingermi lungo la strada che devo percorrere; e nulla ora potrà farmi deviare da essa, poiché spero nella misericordia.”

“Questi sono enigmi strani,” disse il signor Haredale.

“In questo mondo, signore,” rispose lei, “forse non potranno mai essere spiegati. In un altro mondo, la [Vero verrà scoperta nel suo giusto tempo. E che quel tempo,” aggiunse a voce bassa, “sia molto lontano, ”

“Lasciate che mi assicuri,” disse il signor Haredale, “che ho capito bene: dubito infatti dei miei stessi sensi. Volete dire che siete deciso, volontariamente, a rinunciare a quei mezzi di sostentamento che abbiamo fornito a voi per tutto questo tempo, che siete risoluto ad abbandonare l’annuità che vi abbiamo concesso vent’anni fa, a lasciare casa, famiglia e beni, per iniziare una nuova vita. E tutto questo, per qualche motivo segreto o qualche idea folle e inspiegabile che è apparsa solo ora, dopo essere rimasta nascosta per tutto questo tempo? Per nome di Dio, in quale illusione state cadendo?”

“Poiché sono profondamente grata,” rispose lei, “per la gentilezza di coloro che, vivi o morti, hanno posseduto questa casa; e poiché non vorrei che il suo tetto crollasse e mi schiacciasse, né che le sue stesse mura versassero sangue mentre il mio nome viene pronunciato nelle loro orecchie; non vivrò mai più alle spalle della loro generosità, né la permetterò di aiutarmi a sopravvivere. Voi non sapete,” aggiunse improvvisamente, “a quali scopi potrebbe essere utilizzata, in quali mani potrebbe finire. Io lo so, e la rinnego.”

“Certamente,” disse il signor Haredale, “sono tu ad avere il controllo sul suo utilizzo.”

‘Lo hanno fatto. Non riposano più con me. Forse, anzi, sicuramente, sono destinate a scopi che deridono i morti nelle loro tombe. Non possono mai prosperare insieme a me. Porteranno altre terribili conseguenze sulla testa di mio caro figlio, la cui innocenza soffrirà a causa del peccato di sua madre.’

“Che parole sono queste!” esclamò il signor Haredale, guardandola con stupore. “Con quali compagnie ti sei messa in contatto? In quale colpa sei mai stata coinvolta?”

“Sono colpevole, eppure innocente; sbagliato, eppure giusto; con buone intenzioni, anche se costretto a proteggere e aiutare i cattivi. Non fatemi più domande, signore; ma credete che io meriti piuttosto pietà che condanna. Domani dovrò lasciare la mia casa, perché finché ci resto, è infestata. Il mio futuro rifugio, se voglio vivere in pace, dovrà rimanere un segreto. Se il mio povero ragazzo dovesse mai trovarsi da queste parti, non tentatelo a rivelarlo, né fate sorvegliare lui quando tornerà; perché se dovessimo essere inseguiti, dovremmo fuggire di nuovo. Ora che questo peso è stato sollevato dal mio cuore, vi prego, e anche voi, cara signorina Haredale, di fidarvi di me, se potete, e di pensare bene di me come avete sempre fatto. Se dovessi morire senza riuscire a raccontare il mio segreto (e questo può accadere), almeno in quell’istante il mio cuore sarà più leggero per tutto ciò che ho fatto oggi; e in quel giorno, e in ogni altro giorno fino ad allora, pregherò e vi ringrazierò entrambi, senza più disturbarvi.”

Con questo, avrebbe potuto lasciarli, ma loro la trattennero e, con molte parole rassicuranti e gentili suppliche, le chiesero di riflettere su ciò che stava facendo e, soprattutto, di riposare più liberamente presso di loro e di raccontare loro ciò che la tormentava così profondamente. Vedendola insensibile alle loro argomentazioni, il signor Haredale suggerì, come ultima risorsa, che confidasse in Emma, una giovane donna dello stesso sesso e quindi probabilmente meno temibile di lui. Tuttavia, lei si ritrasse con lo stesso orrore indescrivibile che aveva mostrato quando si erano incontrati. L’unica promessa che riuscirono a ottenere da lei fu quella di ricevere il signor Haredale nella sua casa la sera seguente e, nel frattempo, di ripensare alla sua decisione e alle loro argomentazioni, anche se, come le disse, qualsiasi cambiamento da parte sua era del tutto impossibile. Alla fine, acconsentirono riluttanti a lasciarla andare, poiché lei non voleva mangiare né bere nella loro casa; così lei, insieme a Barnaby e Grip, uscì come era entrata: dalla scala privata e dal cancello del giardino, senza essere vista da nessuno lungo la strada.

Era notevole nel corvo che, per tutta la durata dell’intervista, tenesse lo sguardo fisso sul suo libro, con l’aria tipica di un individuo molto astuto e disonesto che, sotto il pretesto di leggere attentamente, in realtà ascoltava tutto ciò che veniva detto. Sembrava davvero avere ben presente ogni singola parola della conversazione, perché, anche quando rimase di nuovo da solo, diede ordini per la preparazione immediata di innumerevoli pentole destinate alla preparazione del tè; tuttavia, il suo comportamento era pensieroso e sembrava motivato da un senso astratto del dovere, piuttosto che dal desiderio di essere gradevole o di comportarsi nel modo considerato “adeguato” in società.

They were to return by the coach. As there was an interval of full two hours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment, Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who had no wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and who feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch some messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed to wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry thither such humble viands as they required, he cheerfully assented, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal dinner.

Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and down when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which was strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; and appearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes, after a long inspection of an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and cry in his hoarse tones, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil!’ but whether he addressed his observations to any supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark, is matter of uncertainty.

It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby’s mother; for Mr Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested, was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription recording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the coach was coming.

Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the sound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked into his basket straightway, entreating society in general (as though he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with churchyards) never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top and rolling along the road.

It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was from home, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that it called for. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him from the coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John’s character. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach’s time. He despised gadding about; he looked upon coaches as things that ought to be indicted; as disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless, bustling, busy, horn-blowing contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of men, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and go a-shopping. ‘We know nothing about coaches here, sir,’ John would say, if any unlucky stranger made inquiry touching the offensive vehicles; ‘we don’t book for ‘em; we’d rather not; they’re more trouble than they’re worth, with their noise and rattle. If you like to wait for ‘em you can; but we don’t know anything about ‘em; they may call and they may not—there’s a carrier—he was looked upon as quite good enough for us, when I was a boy.’

She dropped her veil as Hugh climbed up, and while he hung behind, and talked to Barnaby in whispers. But neither he nor any other person spoke to her, or noticed her, or had any curiosity about her; and so, an alien, she visited and left the village where she had been born, and had lived a merry child, a comely girl, a happy wife—where she had known all her enjoyment of life, and had entered on its hardest sorrows.

Avevano intenzione di tornare con l’autobus. Poiché c’era un intervallo di ben due ore prima che partisse, e avevano bisogno di riposare e bere qualcosa, Barnaby supplicò insistentemente di poter andare al Maypole. Ma sua madre, che non voleva essere riconosciuta da nessuno di coloro che l’avevano conosciuta in passato, e temeva inoltre che il signor Haredale potesse, ripensandoci, inviare qualcuno a quel luogo di divertimento alla sua ricerca, propose invece di aspettare nel cimitero della chiesa. Poiché a Barnaby era facile comprare e portare lì cibo semplice e modesto, acconsentì felicemente, e così si sedettero nel cimitero per consumare la loro cena frugale.

Ancora una volta, il corvo era in uno stato di grande riflessività; camminava avanti e indietro dopo aver mangiato, con un’aria di compiacimento tipica degli anziani, che lasciava chiaramente intendere che si stesse approfittando della situazione. E sembrava anche leggere le iscrizioni sulle lapidi con grande attenzione. A volte, dopo aver esaminato a lungo un epitaffio, strofinava il becco sulla tomba a cui si riferiva e gridava con voce roca: “Sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo!” Ma non è certo se rivolgesse queste osservazioni a una qualche persona sottoterra, o se le pronunciasse semplicemente come commento generale. Questo rimane un mistero.

Era un posto tranquillo e bello, ma triste per la madre di Barnaby; infatti lì giaceva il signor Reuben Haredale, e vicino alla cripta in cui riposavano le sue ceneri c’era una pietra dedicata alla memoria di suo marito, con una breve iscrizione che raccontava come e quando questi aveva perso la vita. Lei sedeva lì, pensierosa e solitaria, fino a quando non arrivò l’ora stabilita, e il suono lontano di un corno annunciò l’arrivo della carrozza.

Barnaby, che stava dormendo sull’erba, si alzò di scatto non appena sentì quel suono; e Grip, che sembrava capirlo altrettanto bene, entrò immediatamente nel suo cestino, pregando tutti in generale (come se avesse intenzione di fare una sorta di satira su di loro in relazione ai cimiteri) di non pronunciare mai la parola “morte” per nessun motivo. Poco dopo si trovarono già sul tetto della carrozza e iniziarono a viaggiare lungo la strada.

Passò davanti al palo di maggio e si fermò alla porta. Joe era tornato da >casa, e Hugh uscì lentamente per consegnare il pacco che il carro chiedeva. Non c’era alcuna paura che il vecchio John potesse uscire; lo si poteva vedere dal tetto del carro, profondamente addormentato nel suo comodo letto. Era una caratteristica tipica di John: faceva sempre in modo di andare a )dormire all’ora stabilita. Disprezzava le attività notturne; considerava i carri veicoli fastidiosi, disturbatori della pace umana, ingombranti e rumorosi, assolutamente indegni della dignità degli esseri umani, adatti soltanto a ragazze frivole che non facevano altro che chiacchierare e andare a fare shopping. “Non sappiamo nulla sui carri, signore,” diceva John ogni volta che qualche sfortunato estraneo faceva domande su quei veicoli offensivi; “non li prenotiamo mai, preferiremmo di no, causano più problemi di quanto ne valgano, con tutto quel rumore e quel frastuono. Se volete aspettarli, fate pure, ma non ne sappiamo nulla, potrebbero arrivare o anche no, c’è un corriere, da ragazzo, lui era considerato più che sufficiente per noi.”

Quando Hugh salì su, lei abbassò il velo; mentre lui rimaneva indietro e parlava sottovoce con Barnaby, né lui né nessun altro le rivolse la parola, non le prestò attenzione né mostrò alcuna curiosità nei suoi confronti. Così, come un’estranea, lasciò il villaggio dove era nata e aveva trascorso una vita felice: da bambina spensierata, a ragazza graziosa, a moglie serena. Il luogo in cui aveva conosciuto tutte le gioie della vita. E ora vi entrava, affrontandone i dolori più duri.

Chapter 26

‘And you’re not surprised to hear this, Varden?’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Well! You and she have always been the best friends, and you should understand her if anybody does.’

‘I ask your pardon, sir,’ rejoined the locksmith. ‘I didn’t say I understood her. I wouldn’t have the presumption to say that of any woman. It’s not so easily done. But I am not so much surprised, sir, as you expected me to be, certainly.’

‘May I ask why not, my good friend?’

‘I have seen, sir,’ returned the locksmith with evident reluctance, ‘I have seen in connection with her, something that has filled me with distrust and uneasiness. She has made bad friends, how, or when, I don’t know; but that her house is a refuge for one robber and cut-throat at least, I am certain. There, sir! Now it’s out.’

‘Varden!’

‘My own eyes, sir, are my witnesses, and for her sake I would be willingly half-blind, if I could but have the pleasure of mistrusting ‘em. I have kept the secret till now, and it will go no further than yourself, I know; but I tell you that with my own eyes—broad awake—I saw, in the passage of her house one evening after dark, the highwayman who robbed and wounded Mr Edward Chester, and on the same night threatened me.’

‘And you made no effort to detain him?’ said Mr Haredale quickly.

‘Sir,’ returned the locksmith, ‘she herself prevented me—held me, with all her strength, and hung about me until he had got clear off.’ And having gone so far, he related circumstantially all that had passed upon the night in question.

This dialogue was held in a low tone in the locksmith’s little parlour, into which honest Gabriel had shown his visitor on his arrival. Mr Haredale had called upon him to entreat his company to the widow’s, that he might have the assistance of his persuasion and influence; and out of this circumstance the conversation had arisen.

‘I forbore,’ said Gabriel, ‘from repeating one word of this to anybody, as it could do her no good and might do her great harm. I thought and hoped, to say the truth, that she would come to me, and talk to me about it, and tell me how it was; but though I have purposely put myself in her way more than once or twice, she has never touched upon the subject—except by a look. And indeed,’ said the good-natured locksmith, ‘there was a good deal in the look, more than could have been put into a great many words. It said among other matters “Don’t ask me anything” so imploringly, that I didn’t ask her anything. You’ll think me an old fool, I know, sir. If it’s any relief to call me one, pray do.’

‘I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me,’ said Mr Haredale, after a silence. ‘What meaning do you attach to it?’

The locksmith shook his head, and looked doubtfully out of window at the failing light.

‘She cannot have married again,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Not without our knowledge surely, sir.’

‘She may have done so, in the fear that it would lead, if known, to some objection or estrangement. Suppose she married incautiously—it is not improbable, for her existence has been a lonely and monotonous one for many years—and the man turned out a ruffian, she would be anxious to screen him, and yet would revolt from his crimes. This might be. It bears strongly on the whole drift of her discourse yesterday, and would quite explain her conduct. Do you suppose Barnaby is privy to these circumstances?’

‘Quite impossible to say, sir,’ returned the locksmith, shaking his head again: ‘and next to impossible to find out from him. If what you suppose is really the case, I tremble for the lad—a notable person, sir, to put to bad uses—’

‘It is not possible, Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, in a still lower tone of voice than he had spoken yet, ‘that we have been blinded and deceived by this woman from the beginning? It is not possible that this connection was formed in her husband’s lifetime, and led to his and my brother’s—’

‘Good God, sir,’ cried Gabriel, interrupting him, ‘don’t entertain such dark thoughts for a moment. Five-and-twenty years ago, where was there a girl like her? A gay, handsome, laughing, bright-eyed damsel! Think what she was, sir. It makes my heart ache now, even now, though I’m an old man, with a woman for a daughter, to think what she was and what she is. We all change, but that’s with Time; Time does his work honestly, and I don’t mind him. A fig for Time, sir. Use him well, and he’s a hearty fellow, and scorns to have you at a disadvantage. But care and suffering (and those have changed her) are devils, sir—secret, stealthy, undermining devils—who tread down the brightest flowers in Eden, and do more havoc in a month than Time does in a year. Picture to yourself for one minute what Mary was before they went to work with her fresh heart and face—do her that justice—and say whether such a thing is possible.’

‘You’re a good fellow, Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘and are quite right. I have brooded on that subject so long, that every breath of suspicion carries me back to it. You are quite right.’

‘It isn’t, sir,’ cried the locksmith with brightened eyes, and sturdy, honest voice; ‘it isn’t because I courted her before Rudge, and failed, that I say she was too good for him. She would have been as much too good for me. But she WAS too good for him; he wasn’t free and frank enough for her. I don’t reproach his memory with it, poor fellow; I only want to put her before you as she really was. For myself, I’ll keep her old picture in my mind; and thinking of that, and what has altered her, I’ll stand her friend, and try to win her back to peace. And damme, sir,’ cried Gabriel, ‘with your pardon for the word, I’d do the same if she had married fifty highwaymen in a twelvemonth; and think it in the Protestant Manual too, though Martha said it wasn’t, tooth and nail, till doomsday!’

If the dark little parlour had been filled with a dense fog, which, clearing away in an instant, left it all radiance and brightness, it could not have been more suddenly cheered than by this outbreak on the part of the hearty locksmith. In a voice nearly as full and round as his own, Mr Haredale cried ‘Well said!’ and bade him come away without more parley. The locksmith complied right willingly; and both getting into a hackney coach which was waiting at the door, drove off straightway.

They alighted at the street corner, and dismissing their conveyance, walked to the house. To their first knock at the door there was no response. A second met with the like result. But in answer to the third, which was of a more vigorous kind, the parlour window-sash was gently raised, and a musical voice cried:

‘Haredale, my dear fellow, I am extremely glad to see you. How very much you have improved in your appearance since our last meeting! I never saw you looking better. HOW do you do?’

Mr Haredale turned his eyes towards the casement whence the voice proceeded, though there was no need to do so, to recognise the speaker, and Mr Chester waved his hand, and smiled a courteous welcome.

‘The door will be opened immediately,’ he said. ‘There is nobody but a very dilapidated female to perform such offices. You will excuse her infirmities? If she were in a more elevated station of society, she would be gouty. Being but a hewer of wood and drawer of water, she is rheumatic. My dear Haredale, these are natural class distinctions, depend upon it.’

Mr Haredale, whose face resumed its lowering and distrustful look the moment he heard the voice, inclined his head stiffly, and turned his back upon the speaker.

‘Not opened yet,’ said Mr Chester. ‘Dear me! I hope the aged soul has not caught her foot in some unlucky cobweb by the way. She is there at last! Come in, I beg!’

Mr Haredale entered, followed by the locksmith. Turning with a look of great astonishment to the old woman who had opened the door, he inquired for Mrs Rudge—for Barnaby. They were both gone, she replied, wagging her ancient head, for good. There was a gentleman in the parlour, who perhaps could tell them more. That was all SHE knew.

‘Pray, sir,’ said Mr Haredale, presenting himself before this new tenant, ‘where is the person whom I came here to see?’

‘My dear friend,’ he returned, ‘I have not the least idea.’

‘Your trifling is ill-timed,’ retorted the other in a suppressed tone and voice, ‘and its subject ill-chosen. Reserve it for those who are your friends, and do not expend it on me. I lay no claim to the distinction, and have the self-denial to reject it.’

‘My dear, good sir,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you are heated with walking. Sit down, I beg. Our friend is—’

‘Is but a plain honest man,’ returned Mr Haredale, ‘and quite unworthy of your notice.’

‘Gabriel Varden by name, sir,’ said the locksmith bluntly.

‘A worthy English yeoman!’ said Mr Chester. ‘A most worthy yeoman, of whom I have frequently heard my son Ned—darling fellow—speak, and have often wished to see. Varden, my good friend, I am glad to know you. You wonder now,’ he said, turning languidly to Mr Haredale, ‘to see me here. Now, I am sure you do.’

Mr Haredale glanced at him—not fondly or admiringly—smiled, and held his peace.

‘The mystery is solved in a moment,’ said Mr Chester; ‘in a moment. Will you step aside with me one instant. You remember our little compact in reference to Ned, and your dear niece, Haredale? You remember the list of assistants in their innocent intrigue? You remember these two people being among them? My dear fellow, congratulate yourself, and me. I have bought them off.’

‘You have done what?’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Bought them off,’ returned his smiling friend. ‘I have found it necessary to take some active steps towards setting this boy and girl attachment quite at rest, and have begun by removing these two agents. You are surprised? Who CAN withstand the influence of a little money! They wanted it, and have been bought off. We have nothing more to fear from them. They are gone.’

‘Gone!’ echoed Mr Haredale. ‘Where?’

‘My dear fellow—and you must permit me to say again, that you never looked so young; so positively boyish as you do to-night—the Lord knows where; I believe Columbus himself wouldn’t find them. Between you and me they have their hidden reasons, but upon that point I have pledged myself to secrecy. She appointed to see you here to-night, I know, but found it inconvenient, and couldn’t wait. Here is the key of the door. I am afraid you’ll find it inconveniently large; but as the tenement is yours, your good-nature will excuse that, Haredale, I am certain!’

Capitolo 26

“E non sei sorpreso di sentire queste cose, Varden?” disse il signor Haredale. “Beh, tu e lei siete sempre stati i migliori amici; dovresti capirla meglio di chiunque altro.”

“Chiedo scusa, signore,” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Non ho detto di averla capita. Non avrei mai l’arroganza di affermarlo riguardo a qualsiasi donna. Non è così facile. Ma non sono affatto sorpreso, signore, come probabilmente lei si aspettava che fossi.”

“Posso chiedere perché no, mio caro amico?”

“Ho visto, signore,” rispose il fabbro chiave con evidente riluttanza,
“ho visto qualcosa che la riguarda e che mi ha riempito di sospetto e inquietudine. Si è fatta degli amici pericolosi, come e quando, non lo so; ma so con certezza che la sua casa è un rifugio, almeno, per uno scassinatore e un individuo senza scrupoli. Ecco, signore, ora l’ho detto.”

“Varden!”

“Signore, i miei stessi occhi sono le mie testimonianze; per amor suo sarei volentieri diventato cieco a metà, se solo potessi godere del piacere di non fidarmi di loro. Ho tenuto questo segreto fino ad ora, e so che non uscirà da queste stanze; ma vi dico che con i miei occhi, completamente svegli, ho visto, una sera dopo il tramonto nel corridoio della sua casa, quel bandito che ha derubato e ferito il signor Edward Chester, e che nella stessa notte mi ha minacciato.”

“E non avete fatto alcuno sforzo per trattenerlo?” chiese rapidamente il signor Haredale.

“Signore,” rispose il fabbro chiave, “è stata lei stessa a impedirmelo. Mi ha trattenuto con tutta la sua forza e non mi ha lasciato andare finché lui non se n’è andato.” E dopo aver detto questo, raccontò in dettaglio tutto ciò che era accaduto quella notte in questione.

Questo dialogo si svolse a voce bassa nel piccolo studio del fabbro chiave, dove l’onesto Gabriel aveva fatto entrare il suo visitatore al suo arrivo. Il signor Haredale lo aveva invitato a fargli compagnia dalla vedova, affinché potesse avvalersi della sua persuasione e del suo ascendente; ed è da questa circostanza che era nata la conversazione.

“Mi sono astenuto,” disse Gabriel, “dal ripetere una parola di tutto ciò con nessuno, poiché non le avrebbe portato alcun beneficio e avrebbe potuto causarle grandi danni. Pensavo e speravo che, dicendo la verità, lei sarebbe venuta da me a parlarmene e a spiegarmi come stavano le cose; ma anche se mi sono intenzionalmente messo sul suo cammino più di una volta, lei non ha mai affrontato l’argomento, tranne che con uno sguardo. E in effetti,” aggiunse il gentile fabbro chiave, “quello sguardo conteneva molto di ciò che molte parole non avrebbero potuto esprimere. Diceva, tra le altre cose, ‘Non chiedermi nulla’, con tale implorazione, che non ho mai osato farlo. Forse penserete che io sia un vecchio stupido, signore. Se questo vi consola, per favore fatelo.”

“Sono molto turbato da ciò che mi avete detto,” disse il signor Haredale, dopo un silenzio. “A quale significato attribuite queste parole?”

Il fabbro chiuse la testa e guardò con esitazione fuori dalla finestra, verso quella luce che stava svanendo.

“Non può essersi risposata,” disse il signor Haredale.

“Certamente, non senza la nostra conoscenza, signore.”

‘Forse l’ha fatto per la paura che, se ne fosse venuto a conoscenza qualcuno, ciò avrebbe potuto causare obiezioni o allontanamenti. Supponiamo che si sia sposata in modo imprudente – non è improbabile, visto che la sua vita è stata solitaria e monotona per molti anni – e che l’uomo si sia rivelato un individuo malvagio: lei avrebbe voluto nascondere i suoi crimini, ma allo stesso tempo li avrebbe condannati. È possibile. Questo spiegherebbe perfettamente il tenore del suo discorso di ieri e anche il suo comportamento. Pensi che Barnaby sia a conoscenza di queste circostanze?’

“È del tutto impossibile dirlo, signore,” rispose il fabbro chiave scuotendo di nuovo la testa: “e quasi impossibile scoprirlo da lui. Se ciò che supponete fosse davvero vero, temo per quel ragazzo. Una persona notevole, signore, se messa in cattive mani, ”

“È impossibile, Varden,” disse il signor Haredale con una voce ancora più bassa di prima, “che siamo stati accecati e ingannati da questa donna fin dall’inizio. È impossibile che questo legame sia nato durante la vita di suo marito e abbia portato alla morte sia di lui che di mio fratello, ”

“Dio mio, signore,” esclamò Gabriel interrompendolo, “non lasciate che simili pensieri cupi vi assalgano nemmeno per un momento. Venticinque anni fa, dove esisteva una ragazza come lei? Una giovane allegra, bella, sorridente, con occhi luminosi. Pensate a ciò che era, signore. Anche ora, nonostante io sia un vecchio uomo e abbia una figlia donna, mi spezza il cuore pensare a ciò che era e a ciò che è diventata. Tutti cambiamo, ma questo avviene con il Tempo. Il Tempo svolge il suo compito onestamente, e io non ho nulla in contrario a lui. Ma le preoccupazioni e i dolori, (e sono stati proprio questi a cambiarla), sono davvero demoni, signore: demoni segreti, subdoli, che distruggono anche i fiori più belli dell’Eden. E causano più danni in un mese di quanto il Tempo ne possa causare in un anno. Immaginate per un momento quale fosse Mary prima che iniziassero a lavorare con lei, con quel cuore e quel viso puri. Datele giustizia. E ditemi se una cosa del genere sia davvero possibile.”

“Sei una brava persona, Varden,” disse il signor Haredale, “e hai assolutamente ragione. Ho riflettuto a lungo su questa questione, al punto che ogni minima sospetta mi riporta sempre lì. Hai davvero ragione.”

“Non è così, signore,” gridò il fabbro chiave con occhi luminosi e voce ferma ed onesta; “non è perché l’abbia corteggiata prima di Rudge e abbia fallito che dico che fosse troppo buona per lui. Sarebbe stata altrettanto adatta a me. Ma era davvero troppo buona per lui: lui non era abbastanza libero e sincero per lei. Non biasimo la sua memoria per questo, povero ragazzo; voglio solo mostrarvi com’era veramente. Per quanto mi riguarda, terrò sempre quell’immagine di lei nella mia mente; pensando a ciò che l’ha cambiata, sarò suo amico e cercherò di farla tornare alla pace. E dannazione, signore,” gridò Gabriel, “con il vostro permesso, farei lo stesso anche se avesse sposato cinquanta banditi in dodici mesi. E pensatelo pure nel ‘Manuale Protestante’, anche se Martha ha detto il contrario con tutte le sue forze, fino al giorno del giudizio!”

Se quella piccola stanza buia fosse stata riempita da una fitta nebbia che, in un istante, si fosse dissipata lasciandola piena di luce e splendore, non avrebbe potuto essere più improvvisamente rallegrata di quanto lo fu da questa reazione spontanea del robusto fabbro chiave. Con una voce quasi altrettanto sonora e chiara della sua, il signor Haredale esclamò “Ben detto!”, invitandolo ad andarsene senza ulteriori indugi. Il fabbro chiave obbedì volentieri; insieme salirono su una vettura che li aspettava alla porta e partirono immediatamente.

Scesero all’angolo della strada e, dopo aver lasciato il mezzo di trasporto, camminarono verso la casa. Al primo colpo bussato alla porta non ci fu risposta; nemmeno al secondo. Ma al terzo, più deciso, la persiana della finestra del salotto si sollevò lentamente e una voce melodiosa disse:

“Haredale, mio caro amico, sono estremamente felice di vederti. Quanto sei migliorato nell’aspetto da quando ci siamo visti l’ultima volta. Non ti avevo mai visto così in forma. Come stai?”

Il signor Haredale rivolse lo sguardo verso la finestra da cui proveniva quella voce, anche se non c’era alcun bisogno di farlo per riconoscere chi parlava; il signor Chester intanto fece un gesto con la mano e sorrise in segno di cordiale benvenuto.

“La porta sarà aperta immediatamente,” disse. “Non c’è nessuno altro che una donna molto anziana e in condizioni precarie a svolgere tali compiti. Permetterete alle sue infermità di essere scuse? Se fosse in una posizione sociale più elevata, soffrirebbe di gotta; essendo soltanto una taglialegna e una raccoglitrice d’acqua, soffre di reumatismo. Mio caro Haredale, queste sono le distinzioni naturali tra le classi sociali. Ve lo assicuro.”

Il signor Haredale, il cui viso riprese subito quell’espressione cupa e diffidente non appena udì quella voce, inclinò rigidamente la testa e si girò di spalle al parlante.

“Non è ancora stato aperto,” disse il signor Chester. “Dio mio. Spero che quella povera anziana non si sia imbattuta per caso in qualche ragnatela sfortunata. Finalmente è arrivata! Entrate, vi prego!”

Il signor Haredale entrò, seguito dal fabbro chiave. Girandosi con un’espressione di grande stupore verso la vecchia donna che aveva aperto la porta, chiese della signora Rudge, e di Barnaby. Erano entrambi andati via, rispose lei scuotendo la sua testa anziana; erano partiti per sempre. C’era un gentiluomo nel salotto che forse poteva dirgli di più. Quello era tutto ciò che SAPEVA.

“Pregate, signore,” disse il signor Haredale presentandosi davanti a questo nuovo inquilino, “dove si trova la persona che sono venuto a vedere?”

“Mio caro amico,” rispose, “non ne ho la minima idea.”

“La tua banalità è inopportuna,” ribatté l’altro con un tono e una voce soffocati, “e il soggetto su cui la esprimi è sbagliato. Riservala a coloro che sono tuoi amici, e non sprecarla per me. Non pretendo alcun riconoscimento, e ho l’umiltà di rifiutarlo.”

“Mio caro signore,” disse il signor Chester, “siete sudato per aver camminato tanto. Si sieda, la prego. Il nostro amico è, ”

“È soltanto un uomo onesto e semplice,” rispose il signor Haredale, “e assolutamente indegno della vostra attenzione.”

“Si chiama Gabriel Varden, signore,” disse senza mezzi termini il fabbro chiave.

“Un vero e proprio gentiluomo inglese!” disse il signor Chester. “Un gentiluomo davvero meritevole; di lui mio figlio Ned – quel caro ragazzo – parla spesso, e io ho sempre desiderato conoscerlo. Varden, mio buon amico, sono felice di incontrarti. Ora devi essere sorpreso,” aggiunse, rivolgendosi con aria languida al signor Haredale, “di vedermi qui. Sicuramente lo sei.”

Il signor Haredale lo guardò – non con affetto né ammirazione – sorrise e tacque.

“Il mistero verrà risolto in un attimo,” disse il signor Chester; “in un attimo. Potreste venire con me per un momento? Vi ricordate del nostro piccolo accordo riguardo a Ned e a vostra cara nipote, Haredale? Vi ricordate dell’elenco degli assistenti coinvolti in questa loro innocente intrighina? Vi ricordate che queste due persone erano tra di loro? Caro amico, congratulatevi con me. Li ho comprati.”

“Hai fatto cosa?” disse il signor Haredale.

“Li ho corrotti,” rispose il suo amico sorridente. “Ho ritenuto necessario intraprendere alcune azioni concrete per porre fine a questa relazione tra quel ragazzo e quella ragazza, e ho iniziato eliminando questi due intermediari. Siete sorpresi? Chi può resistere all’influenza di un po’ di denaro. Loro lo volevano, quindi sono stati corrotti. Non abbiamo più nulla da temere da loro: se ne sono andati.”

“Se n’è andato!”, esclamò il signor Haredale. “Dove?”

“Mio caro amico, e devo permettermi di dirlo ancora: non sei mai sembrato così giovane, così davvero fanciullesco come stasera. Il Signore sa dove; credo che nemmeno lo stesso Colombo riuscirebbe a trovarli. Tra voi due ci devono essere delle ragioni nascoste, ma su questo punto ho giurato di mantenere il segreto. Lei aveva fissato questo incontro qui stasera, lo so, ma ha trovato inconvenienti i tempi e non ha potuto aspettare. Ecco la chiave della porta. Temo che sia un po’ troppo grande; ma dato che l’appartamento è tuo, la tua buona natura sicuramente lo perdonerà, Haredale. Ne sono certo!”

Chapter 27

Mr Haredale stood in the widow’s parlour with the door-key in his hand, gazing by turns at Mr Chester and at Gabriel Varden, and occasionally glancing downward at the key as in the hope that of its own accord it would unlock the mystery; until Mr Chester, putting on his hat and gloves, and sweetly inquiring whether they were walking in the same direction, recalled him to himself.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Our roads diverge—widely, as you know. For the present, I shall remain here.’

‘You will be hipped, Haredale; you will be miserable, melancholy, utterly wretched,’ returned the other. ‘It’s a place of the very last description for a man of your temper. I know it will make you very miserable.’

‘Let it,’ said Mr Haredale, sitting down; ‘and thrive upon the thought. Good night!’

Feigning to be wholly unconscious of the abrupt wave of the hand which rendered this farewell tantamount to a dismissal, Mr Chester retorted with a bland and heartfelt benediction, and inquired of Gabriel in what direction HE was going.

‘Yours, sir, would be too much honour for the like of me,’ replied the locksmith, hesitating.

‘I wish you to remain here a little while, Varden,’ said Mr Haredale, without looking towards them. ‘I have a word or two to say to you.’

‘I will not intrude upon your conference another moment,’ said Mr Chester with inconceivable politeness. ‘May it be satisfactory to you both! God bless you!’ So saying, and bestowing upon the locksmith a most refulgent smile, he left them.

‘A deplorably constituted creature, that rugged person,’ he said, as he walked along the street; ‘he is an atrocity that carries its own punishment along with it—a bear that gnaws himself. And here is one of the inestimable advantages of having a perfect command over one’s inclinations. I have been tempted in these two short interviews, to draw upon that fellow, fifty times. Five men in six would have yielded to the impulse. By suppressing mine, I wound him deeper and more keenly than if I were the best swordsman in all Europe, and he the worst. You are the wise man’s very last resource,’ he said, tapping the hilt of his weapon; ‘we can but appeal to you when all else is said and done. To come to you before, and thereby spare our adversaries so much, is a barbarian mode of warfare, quite unworthy of any man with the remotest pretensions to delicacy of feeling, or refinement.’

He smiled so very pleasantly as he communed with himself after this manner, that a beggar was emboldened to follow for alms, and to dog his footsteps for some distance. He was gratified by the circumstance, feeling it complimentary to his power of feature, and as a reward suffered the man to follow him until he called a chair, when he graciously dismissed him with a fervent blessing.

‘Which is as easy as cursing,’ he wisely added, as he took his seat, ‘and more becoming to the face.—To Clerkenwell, my good creatures, if you please!’ The chairmen were rendered quite vivacious by having such a courteous burden, and to Clerkenwell they went at a fair round trot.

Alighting at a certain point he had indicated to them upon the road, and paying them something less than they expected from a fare of such gentle speech, he turned into the street in which the locksmith dwelt, and presently stood beneath the shadow of the Golden Key. Mr Tappertit, who was hard at work by lamplight, in a corner of the workshop, remained unconscious of his presence until a hand upon his shoulder made him start and turn his head.

‘Industry,’ said Mr Chester, ‘is the soul of business, and the keystone of prosperity. Mr Tappertit, I shall expect you to invite me to dinner when you are Lord Mayor of London.’

‘Sir,’ returned the ‘prentice, laying down his hammer, and rubbing his nose on the back of a very sooty hand, ‘I scorn the Lord Mayor and everything that belongs to him. We must have another state of society, sir, before you catch me being Lord Mayor. How de do, sir?’

‘The better, Mr Tappertit, for looking into your ingenuous face once more. I hope you are well.’

‘I am as well, sir,’ said Sim, standing up to get nearer to his ear, and whispering hoarsely, ‘as any man can be under the aggrawations to which I am exposed. My life’s a burden to me. If it wasn’t for wengeance, I’d play at pitch and toss with it on the losing hazard.’

‘Is Mrs Varden at home?’ said Mr Chester.

‘Sir,’ returned Sim, eyeing him over with a look of concentrated expression,—‘she is. Did you wish to see her?’

Mr Chester nodded.

‘Then come this way, sir,’ said Sim, wiping his face upon his apron. ‘Follow me, sir.—Would you permit me to whisper in your ear, one half a second?’

‘By all means.’

Mr Tappertit raised himself on tiptoe, applied his lips to Mr Chester’s ear, drew back his head without saying anything, looked hard at him, applied them to his ear again, again drew back, and finally whispered—‘The name is Joseph Willet. Hush! I say no more.’

Having said that much, he beckoned the visitor with a mysterious aspect to follow him to the parlour-door, where he announced him in the voice of a gentleman-usher. ‘Mr Chester.’

‘And not Mr Ed’dard, mind,’ said Sim, looking into the door again, and adding this by way of postscript in his own person; ‘it’s his father.’

‘But do not let his father,’ said Mr Chester, advancing hat in hand, as he observed the effect of this last explanatory announcement, ‘do not let his father be any check or restraint on your domestic occupations, Miss Varden.’

‘Oh! Now! There! An’t I always a-saying it!’ exclaimed Miggs, clapping her hands. ‘If he an’t been and took Missis for her own daughter. Well, she DO look like it, that she do. Only think of that, mim!’

‘Is it possible,’ said Mr Chester in his softest tones, ‘that this is Mrs Varden! I am amazed. That is not your daughter, Mrs Varden? No, no. Your sister.’

‘My daughter, indeed, sir,’ returned Mrs V., blushing with great juvenility.

Capitolo 27

Il signor Haredale stava nel salotto della vedova, con la chiave in mano; guardava alternativamente il signor Chester e Gabriel Varden, e di tanto in tanto abbassava lo sguardo sulla chiave, come se sperasse che essa, da sola, potesse risolvere quel mistero. Fino a quando il signor Chester, indossando cappello e guanti, gli chiese gentilmente se intendessero dirigersi nella stessa direzione, facendogli ritornare alla realtà.

“No,” disse. “I nostri percorsi si separano, ampiamente, come sai. Per il momento, rimarrò qui.”

“Sarai infelice, Haredale; sarai miserabile, melanconico, completamente sventurato,” rispose l’altro. “È un posto davvero adatto a una persona con il tuo temperamento. So che ti renderà molto infelice.”

“Lascialo fare,” disse il signor Haredale sedendosi; “e che cresca proprio grazie a quel pensiero. Buona notte!”

Fingendo di non accorgersi affatto del gesto brusco con cui quella stretta di mano aveva reso quel addio equivalente a una congedo, il signor Chester rispose con una benedizione cordiale e neutra, e chiese a Gabriel in quale direzione stesse andando.

“Per uno come me, signore, sarebbe un onore troppo grande,” rispose il fabbro, esitando.

“Vorrei che rimaneste qui ancora un po’, Varden,” disse il signor Haredale, senza guardare nella loro direzione. “Ho una o due cose da dirvi.”

“Non disturberò più la vostra riunione,” disse il signor Chester con una cortesia inimmaginabile. “Spero che sia soddisfacente per entrambi! Che Dio vi benedica!” Detto ciò, rivolse al fabbro serratore un sorriso radioso e li lasciò.

“Una creatura di indole deplorevole. Quell’uomo rude,” disse mentre camminava per la strada; “è un essere che si infligge da solo le sue stesse punizioni. Un orso che si morde da solo. E ecco uno dei vantaggi inestimabili di avere un perfetto controllo sulle proprie inclinazioni: in queste due brevi occasioni, ho avuto cinquanta volte la tentazione di ricorrere a quel tipo. Cinque uomini su sei avrebbero ceduto a quell’impulso. Supprimendo il mio, l’ho ferito ancora più profondamente e dolorosamente di quanto potesse farlo anche il miglior spadaccino d’Europa contro il peggiore. Voi siete l’ultima risorsa del saggio,” aggiunse battendo sul fodero della sua arma; “quando tutto altro è esaurito, possiamo solo rivolgerci a voi. Recarci da voi prima di agire, e così risparmiare ai nostri avversari tante sofferenze. È un modo barbaro di combattere, assolutamente indegno di chiunque abbia anche solo la minima pretesa di delicatezza o raffinatezza.”

Sorrise in modo così piacevole mentre si intratteneva in quel modo con se stesso, che un mendicante osò seguirlo per chiedere l’elemosina, tenendosi a distanza ravvicinata. Lui ne fu compiaciuto, ritenendo che tale comportamento mettesse in risalto il suo fascino personale; come ricompensa, permise al mendicante di seguirlo ancora per un po’, finché non chiamò una sedia e poi lo congedò con una fervente benedizione.

“È altrettanto facile quanto imprecare,” aggiunse saggiamente mentre prendeva posto, “e anche più appropriato per la situazione. A Clerkenwell, miei cari, se vi piace!” I presidenti diventarono molto vivaci avendo un compito così cortese da svolgere, e si diressero verso Clerkenwell al trotto regolare.

Sbarcando in un punto che lui stesso aveva indicato loro lungo la strada, e pagandoli una somma inferiore a quella che si aspettavano considerando le sue gentili parole, entrò nella strada dove abitava il fabbro chiavi. Poco dopo si trovò sotto l’ombra del Golden Key. Il signor Tappertit, impegnato nel suo lavoro alla luce della lampada in un angolo del laboratorio, non si accorse della sua presenza fino a quando una mano sulla sua spalla lo fece sobbalzare e girare la testa.

“L’industria,” disse il signor Chester, “è l’anima del commercio e la pietra angolare della prosperità. Signor Tappertit, mi aspetto che mi inviti a cena quando diventerete sindaco di Londra.”

“Signore,” rispose il “apprendista”, mettendo giù il martello e strofinandosi il naso contro il dorso di una mano molto fuligginosa, “disprezzo il Presidente del Consiglio Comunale e tutto ciò che gli appartiene. Dobbiamo cambiare questo sistema sociale, signore, prima che voi mi vediate diventare il Presidente del Consiglio Comunale. Come state, signore?”

“Meglio così, signor Tappertit. Per poter ancora una volta osservare il vostro sincero volto. Spero che siate in buona salute.”

“Sono altrettanto benissimo, signore,” disse Sim, alzandosi per avvicinarsi di più al suo orecchio e sussurrando con voce rauca, “come qualsiasi altro uomo possa essere sotto le pressioni a cui sono esposto. La mia vita è un peso per me. Se non fosse per la voglia di vendetta, la getterei via senza pensarci due volte.”

“La signora Varden è a >casa?” chiese il signor Chester.

“Signore,” rispose Sim, osservandolo con un’espressione concentrata, “sì, è lei. Volevate vederla?”

Il signor Chester annuì.

“Allora venga da questa parte, signore,” disse Sim, asciugandosi il viso con il grembiule.
“Seguitemi, signore. Le permetterebbe di sussurrarmi qualcosa all’orecchio, per mezzo secondo solo?”

“Certamente.”

Il signor Tappertit si alzò in punta di piedi, posò le labbra all’orecchio del signor Chester, poi si ritirò senza dire nulla, lo guardò attentamente, riposò di nuovo le labbra sul suo orecchio, si ritirò ancora una volta e infine sussurrò: “Il nome è Joseph Willet. Silenzio! Non dirò altro.”

Dopo aver detto tutto ciò, fece segno all’ospite, dall’aspetto misterioso, di seguirlo fino alla porta del salotto, dove lo presentò con la voce di un maggiordomo gentiluomo: “Il signor Chester.”

“E non il signor Edvard, per favore,” disse Sim, guardando di nuovo verso la porta, e aggiunse questo come postilla a nome proprio: “È suo padre.”

“Ma non lasciate che suo padre,” disse il signor Chester, avvicinandosi con il cappello in mano mentre osservava l’effetto di questa ultima dichiarazione esplicativa, “non lasciate che suo padre rappresenti alcun ostacolo o impedimento alle vostre attività domestiche, signorina Varden.”

“Oh! Ecco! Non ve lo dicevo sempre?”, esclamò Miggs battendo le mani. “Se non fosse stato lui a trattare la signora come se fosse sua figlia. Beh, in effetti sembra proprio sua figlia, davvero. Pensateci un po’, Mim!”

“È possibile, ”, disse il signor Chester con la voce più dolce, “che questa sia la signora Varden? Sono sorpreso. Quella non è sua figlia, vero, signora Varden? No. È sua sorella.”

“Mia figlia, sì, signore,” rispose la signora V., arrossendo con grande innocenza.

‘Ah, Mrs Varden!’ cried the visitor. ‘Ah, ma’am—humanity is indeed a happy lot, when we can repeat ourselves in others, and still be young as they. You must allow me to salute you—the custom of the country, my dear madam—your daughter too.’

Dolly showed some reluctance to perform this ceremony, but was sharply reproved by Mrs Varden, who insisted on her undergoing it that minute. For pride, she said with great severity, was one of the seven deadly sins, and humility and lowliness of heart were virtues. Wherefore she desired that Dolly would be kissed immediately, on pain of her just displeasure; at the same time giving her to understand that whatever she saw her mother do, she might safely do herself, without being at the trouble of any reasoning or reflection on the subject—which, indeed, was offensive and undutiful, and in direct contravention of the church catechism.

Thus admonished, Dolly complied, though by no means willingly; for there was a broad, bold look of admiration in Mr Chester’s face, refined and polished though it sought to be, which distressed her very much. As she stood with downcast eyes, not liking to look up and meet his, he gazed upon her with an approving air, and then turned to her mother.

‘My friend Gabriel (whose acquaintance I only made this very evening) should be a happy man, Mrs Varden.’

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs V., shaking her head.

‘Ah!’ echoed Miggs.

‘Is that the case?’ said Mr Chester, compassionately. ‘Dear me!’

‘Master has no intentions, sir,’ murmured Miggs as she sidled up to him, ‘but to be as grateful as his natur will let him, for everythink he owns which it is in his powers to appreciate. But we never, sir’—said Miggs, looking sideways at Mrs Varden, and interlarding her discourse with a sigh—‘we never know the full value of SOME wines and fig-trees till we lose ‘em. So much the worse, sir, for them as has the slighting of ‘em on their consciences when they’re gone to be in full blow elsewhere.’ And Miss Miggs cast up her eyes to signify where that might be.

As Mrs Varden distinctly heard, and was intended to hear, all that Miggs said, and as these words appeared to convey in metaphorical terms a presage or foreboding that she would at some early period droop beneath her trials and take an easy flight towards the stars, she immediately began to languish, and taking a volume of the Manual from a neighbouring table, leant her arm upon it as though she were Hope and that her Anchor. Mr Chester perceiving this, and seeing how the volume was lettered on the back, took it gently from her hand, and turned the fluttering leaves.

‘My favourite book, dear madam. How often, how very often in his early life—before he can remember’—(this clause was strictly true) ‘have I deduced little easy moral lessons from its pages, for my dear son Ned! You know Ned?’

Mrs Varden had that honour, and a fine affable young gentleman he was.

‘You’re a mother, Mrs Varden,’ said Mr Chester, taking a pinch of snuff, ‘and you know what I, as a father, feel, when he is praised. He gives me some uneasiness—much uneasiness—he’s of a roving nature, ma’am—from flower to flower—from sweet to sweet—but his is the butterfly time of life, and we must not be hard upon such trifling.’

He glanced at Dolly. She was attending evidently to what he said. Just what he desired!

‘The only thing I object to in this little trait of Ned’s, is,’ said Mr Chester, ‘—and the mention of his name reminds me, by the way, that I am about to beg the favour of a minute’s talk with you alone—the only thing I object to in it, is, that it DOES partake of insincerity. Now, however I may attempt to disguise the fact from myself in my affection for Ned, still I always revert to this—that if we are not sincere, we are nothing. Nothing upon earth. Let us be sincere, my dear madam—’

‘—and Protestant,’ murmured Mrs Varden.

‘—and Protestant above all things. Let us be sincere and Protestant, strictly moral, strictly just (though always with a leaning towards mercy), strictly honest, and strictly true, and we gain—it is a slight point, certainly, but still it is something tangible; we throw up a groundwork and foundation, so to speak, of goodness, on which we may afterwards erect some worthy superstructure.’

Now, to be sure, Mrs Varden thought, here is a perfect character. Here is a meek, righteous, thoroughgoing Christian, who, having mastered all these qualities, so difficult of attainment; who, having dropped a pinch of salt on the tails of all the cardinal virtues, and caught them every one; makes light of their possession, and pants for more morality. For the good woman never doubted (as many good men and women never do), that this slighting kind of profession, this setting so little store by great matters, this seeming to say, ‘I am not proud, I am what you hear, but I consider myself no better than other people; let us change the subject, pray’—was perfectly genuine and true. He so contrived it, and said it in that way that it appeared to have been forced from him, and its effect was marvellous.

Aware of the impression he had made—few men were quicker than he at such discoveries—Mr Chester followed up the blow by propounding certain virtuous maxims, somewhat vague and general in their nature, doubtless, and occasionally partaking of the character of truisms, worn a little out at elbow, but delivered in so charming a voice and with such uncommon serenity and peace of mind, that they answered as well as the best. Nor is this to be wondered at; for as hollow vessels produce a far more musical sound in falling than those which are substantial, so it will oftentimes be found that sentiments which have nothing in them make the loudest ringing in the world, and are the most relished.

Mr Chester, with the volume gently extended in one hand, and with the other planted lightly on his breast, talked to them in the most delicious manner possible; and quite enchanted all his hearers, notwithstanding their conflicting interests and thoughts. Even Dolly, who, between his keen regards and her eyeing over by Mr Tappertit, was put quite out of countenance, could not help owning within herself that he was the sweetest-spoken gentleman she had ever seen. Even Miss Miggs, who was divided between admiration of Mr Chester and a mortal jealousy of her young mistress, had sufficient leisure to be propitiated. Even Mr Tappertit, though occupied as we have seen in gazing at his heart’s delight, could not wholly divert his thoughts from the voice of the other charmer. Mrs Varden, to her own private thinking, had never been so improved in all her life; and when Mr Chester, rising and craving permission to speak with her apart, took her by the hand and led her at arm’s length upstairs to the best sitting-room, she almost deemed him something more than human.

“Ah, signora Varden!” esclamò la visitatrice. “Ah, mia cara. L’umanità è davvero fortunata quando possiamo ripeterci negli altri e rimanere giovani come loro. Deve permettermi di salutarla. È una consuetudine del paese, mia cara signora. E anche sua figlia.”

Dolly mostrò qualche riluttanza ad eseguire questa cerimonia, ma fu severamente rimproverata da Mrs Varden, che insistette affinché la compiesse immediatamente. “Perché l’orgoglio”, disse con grande severità, “è uno dei sette peccati mortali, mentre l’umiltà e la modestia d’animo sono virtù”. Pertanto desiderava che Dolly venisse baciata immediatamente, altrimenti avrebbe subito le conseguenze della sua disapprovazione; allo stesso tempo le fece capire che qualsiasi cosa vedesse fare sua madre, poteva tranquillamente farla anche lei, senza bisogno di rifletterci o discuterne. Il che, in realtà, era offensivo e indegno, e rappresentava una diretta contravvenzione al catechismo della chiesa.

Avvertita in questo modo, Dolly obbedì, anche se assolutamente non di buon grado; infatti sul volto del signor Chester c’era un’espressione aperta e audace di ammirazione, pur essendo raffinata e controllata, che la turbava molto. Mentre lei stava lì con lo sguardo basso, riluttante ad alzarlo per incrociare il suo, lui la osservò con aria approvatoria, poi si rivolse a sua madre.

“Mio amico Gabriel, che ho conosciuto solo stasera, dovrebbe essere un uomo felice, signora Varden.”

“Ah!” sospirò la signora V., scuotendo la testa.

“Ah!”, echeggiò la voce di Miggs.

“È davvero così?” disse il signor Chester con compassione. “Mio Dio!”

“Il padrone non ha alcuna intenzione particolare, signore,” mormorò Miggs avvicinandosi a lui, “se non quella di essere il più grato possibile per tutto ciò che possiede e che è in suo potere apprezzare. Ma noi, mai, signore, ” aggiunse Miggs, guardando di sottecchi la signora Varden e interrompendosi con un sospiro, “non conosciamo mai il vero valore di alcuni vini o di alcune piante finché non li perdiamo. Ed è ancora peggio per coloro che li trascurano, perché poi si sentono in colpa quando questi diventano davvero preziosi altrove.” E la signorina Miggs alzò lo sguardo, come a indicare dove potesse accadere tutto ciò.

Come la signora Varden sentì chiaramente, e proprio era quello che voleva sentire, tutto ciò che Miggs disse; e poiché queste parole sembravano esprimere in termini metaforici un presagio o un timore che lei, in un futuro non lontano, avrebbe ceduto sotto il peso delle prove e sarebbe volata via verso le stelle, ella iniziò immediatamente a declinare. Prese quindi un volume del “Manuale” da un tavolo vicino, appoggiandovi il braccio come se fosse la sua >Speranza e il suo sostegno. Il signor Chester, notando questo e vedendo come era intitolato il libro sul dorso, glielo prese dolcemente di mano e iniziò a sfogliarne le pagine tremolanti.

“Il mio libro preferito, cara signora. Quante volte, davvero quante volte, nelle sue prime fasi di vita – prima ancora che potesse ricordare – ho tratto dalle sue pagine semplici e utili lezioni morali per mio caro figlio Ned! La conosce, vero, la signora?”

La signora Varden possedeva quell’onore, e lui era un giovane gentiluomo simpatico e distinto.

“Lei è una madre, signora Varden,” disse il signor Chester, prendendo un pizzico di tabacco da naso. “E lei sa cosa provo io, come padre, quando viene lodato. Mi causa una certa inquietudine. Molta inquietudine. Ha una natura errante, signora. Passa da un fiore all’altro, da una dolcezza all’altra. Ma questa è la fase ‘farfalla’ della sua vita. Non dobbiamo essere troppo severi con queste piccole cose.”

Gettò un’occhiata a Dolly. Era chiaramente attenta a ciò che stava dicendo. Proprio quello che desiderava!

“L’unica cosa a cui obietto in questo piccolo comportamento di Ned è, ”, disse il signor Chester, “e del resto, menzionando il suo nome mi viene in mente che sto per chiedervi l’onore di parlare un momento con voi da soli. L’unica cosa a cui obietto è che quel comportamento presenta una certa insincerità. Ora, per quanto io possa cercare di nascondere questo fatto a me stesso, a causa del mio affetto per Ned, devo ammettere che se non siamo sinceri, allora non siamo nulla. Assolutamente nulla. Siamo sinceri, mia cara signora, ”

“–e protestante,” mormorò la signora Varden.

‘–E soprattutto protestanti. Siamo sinceri e protestanti, rigorosamente morali, rigorosamente giusti (sebbene sempre inclini verso la misericordia), rigorosamente onesti e rigorosamente veritieri; così otterremo qualcosa. Certo, è un dettaglio insignificante, ma è comunque qualcosa di concreto. Costruiamo, per così dire, una base solida di bontà su cui in seguito possiamo edificare qualcosa di veramente degno.’

Ora, senza dubbio, pensava la signora Varden, ecco un carattere perfetto: una persona mite, giusta, sinceramente cristiana; una persona che aveva padroneggiato tutte queste qualità, così difficili da raggiungere; una persona che, aggiungendo “solo un pizzico di sale” alle virtù cardinali, le rendeva ancora più evidenti; una persona che sottovalutava la propria bontà e anelava a ulteriore moralità. Perché questa brava donna non dubitava mai (come molti altri buoni uomini e donne) che questo atteggiamento di disprezzo verso le cose importanti, questa sottovalutazione dei valori fondamentali, questa apparente umiltà (“Non sono orgogliosa; sono semplicemente ciò che si dice di me, ma non mi considero migliore degli altri; cambiamo argomento, per favore”) fossero davvero sinceri e autentici. Lui stesso aveva orchestrato tutto in quel modo, dicendo quelle cose in un tono che sembrava costringerlo a farlo. E l’effetto ottenuto fu meraviglioso.

Consapevole dell’impressione che aveva suscitato – pochi uomini erano più veloci di lui nel fare simili scoperte – il signor Chester approfittò della situazione per enunciare alcune massime virtuose, piuttosto vaghe e generali nella loro natura; probabilmente, in alcuni casi, si trattava addirittura di verità banali ormai un po’ trite. Tuttavia, queste massime venivano espresse con una voce così incantevole e con una serenità e pace d’animo così straordinarie, che producevano l’effetto desiderato, tanto quanto le migliori dichiarazioni. E non c’è da meravigliarsene: proprio come i recipienti vuoti producono un suono molto più melodioso quando cadono rispetto a quelli solidi, spesso si osserva che sentimenti privi di sostanza sono quelli che suscitano il maggior clamore e il maggiore apprezzamento nel mondo.

Il signor Chester, tenendo delicatamente il volume con una mano e appoggiando l’altra leggermente sul petto, parlava loro nel modo più delizioso possibile; incantava completamente tutti gli ascoltatori, nonostante i loro interessi e pensieri contrastanti. Anche Dolly, che tra le attenzioni del signor Chester e lo sguardo indagatore del signor Tappertit era rimasta piuttosto turbata, non poteva negare dentro di sé che fosse il gentiluomo dal modo di parlare più affascinante che avesse mai incontrato. Anche la signorina Miggs, divisa tra l’ammirazione per il signor Chester e una gelosia mortale verso la sua giovane padrona, trovò comunque il modo di essere conquistata da lui. Persino il signor Tappertit, sebbene fosse completamente assorto nell’ammirare la bellezza del signor Chester, non riusciva a distogliere del tutto i suoi pensieri dalla sua voce incantevole. La signora Varden, per conto suo, si rese conto che in tutta la sua vita non si era mai sentita così migliorata; e quando il signor Chester, alzandosi, le chiese il permesso di parlarle in privato, prese la sua mano e la portò al piano di sopra, nella stanza più accogliente della casa, lei quasi pensò che fosse qualcosa di più di un semplice essere umano.

‘Dear madam,’ he said, pressing her hand delicately to his lips; ‘be seated.’

Mrs Varden called up quite a courtly air, and became seated.

‘You guess my object?’ said Mr Chester, drawing a chair towards her. ‘You divine my purpose? I am an affectionate parent, my dear Mrs Varden.’

‘That I am sure you are, sir,’ said Mrs V.

‘Thank you,’ returned Mr Chester, tapping his snuff-box lid. ‘Heavy moral responsibilities rest with parents, Mrs Varden.’

Mrs Varden slightly raised her hands, shook her head, and looked at the ground as though she saw straight through the globe, out at the other end, and into the immensity of space beyond.

‘I may confide in you,’ said Mr Chester, ‘without reserve. I love my son, ma’am, dearly; and loving him as I do, I would save him from working certain misery. You know of his attachment to Miss Haredale. You have abetted him in it, and very kind of you it was to do so. I am deeply obliged to you—most deeply obliged to you—for your interest in his behalf; but my dear ma’am, it is a mistaken one, I do assure you.’

Mrs Varden stammered that she was sorry—

‘Sorry, my dear ma’am,’ he interposed. ‘Never be sorry for what is so very amiable, so very good in intention, so perfectly like yourself. But there are grave and weighty reasons, pressing family considerations, and apart even from these, points of religious difference, which interpose themselves, and render their union impossible; utterly im-possible. I should have mentioned these circumstances to your husband; but he has—you will excuse my saying this so freely—he has NOT your quickness of apprehension or depth of moral sense. What an extremely airy house this is, and how beautifully kept! For one like myself—a widower so long—these tokens of female care and superintendence have inexpressible charms.’

Mrs Varden began to think (she scarcely knew why) that the young Mr Chester must be in the wrong and the old Mr Chester must be in the right.

‘My son Ned,’ resumed her tempter with his most winning air, ‘has had, I am told, your lovely daughter’s aid, and your open-hearted husband’s.’

‘—Much more than mine, sir,’ said Mrs Varden; ‘a great deal more. I have often had my doubts. It’s a—’

‘A bad example,’ suggested Mr Chester. ‘It is. No doubt it is. Your daughter is at that age when to set before her an encouragement for young persons to rebel against their parents on this most important point, is particularly injudicious. You are quite right. I ought to have thought of that myself, but it escaped me, I confess—so far superior are your sex to ours, dear madam, in point of penetration and sagacity.’

Mrs Varden looked as wise as if she had really said something to deserve this compliment—firmly believed she had, in short—and her faith in her own shrewdness increased considerably.

‘My dear ma’am,’ said Mr Chester, ‘you embolden me to be plain with you. My son and I are at variance on this point. The young lady and her natural guardian differ upon it, also. And the closing point is, that my son is bound by his duty to me, by his honour, by every solemn tie and obligation, to marry some one else.’

‘Engaged to marry another lady!’ quoth Mrs Varden, holding up her hands.

‘My dear madam, brought up, educated, and trained, expressly for that purpose. Expressly for that purpose.—Miss Haredale, I am told, is a very charming creature.’

‘I am her foster-mother, and should know—the best young lady in the world,’ said Mrs Varden.

‘I have not the smallest doubt of it. I am sure she is. And you, who have stood in that tender relation towards her, are bound to consult her happiness. Now, can I—as I have said to Haredale, who quite agrees—can I possibly stand by, and suffer her to throw herself away (although she IS of a Catholic family), upon a young fellow who, as yet, has no heart at all? It is no imputation upon him to say he has not, because young men who have plunged deeply into the frivolities and conventionalities of society, very seldom have. Their hearts never grow, my dear ma’am, till after thirty. I don’t believe, no, I do NOT believe, that I had any heart myself when I was Ned’s age.’

‘Oh sir,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘I think you must have had. It’s impossible that you, who have so much now, can ever have been without any.’

‘I hope,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders meekly, ‘I have a little; I hope, a very little—Heaven knows! But to return to Ned; I have no doubt you thought, and therefore interfered benevolently in his behalf, that I objected to Miss Haredale. How very natural! My dear madam, I object to him—to him—emphatically to Ned himself.’

Mrs Varden was perfectly aghast at the disclosure.

‘He has, if he honourably fulfils this solemn obligation of which I have told you—and he must be honourable, dear Mrs Varden, or he is no son of mine—a fortune within his reach. He is of most expensive, ruinously expensive habits; and if, in a moment of caprice and wilfulness, he were to marry this young lady, and so deprive himself of the means of gratifying the tastes to which he has been so long accustomed, he would—my dear madam, he would break the gentle creature’s heart. Mrs Varden, my good lady, my dear soul, I put it to you—is such a sacrifice to be endured? Is the female heart a thing to be trifled with in this way? Ask your own, my dear madam. Ask your own, I beseech you.’

‘Truly,’ thought Mrs Varden, ‘this gentleman is a saint. But,’ she added aloud, and not unnaturally, ‘if you take Miss Emma’s lover away, sir, what becomes of the poor thing’s heart then?’

‘The very point,’ said Mr Chester, not at all abashed, ‘to which I wished to lead you. A marriage with my son, whom I should be compelled to disown, would be followed by years of misery; they would be separated, my dear madam, in a twelvemonth. To break off this attachment, which is more fancied than real, as you and I know very well, will cost the dear girl but a few tears, and she is happy again. Take the case of your own daughter, the young lady downstairs, who is your breathing image’—Mrs Varden coughed and simpered—‘there is a young man (I am sorry to say, a dissolute fellow, of very indifferent character) of whom I have heard Ned speak—Bullet was it—Pullet—Mullet—’

“Carissima signora,” disse, posando delicatamente la sua mano sulle proprie labbra; “si sieda.”

La signora Varden assunse un atteggiamento piuttosto cortese e si sedette.

“Indovinate quale sia il mio scopo?” disse il signor Chester, avvicinando una sedia verso di lei.
“Riuscite a capire quali siano le mie intenzioni? Sono un genitore affettuoso, cara signora Varden.”

“Ne sono sicuro, signore,” disse la signora V.

“Grazie,” rispose il signor Chester, battendo sul coperchio del suo portasnofo. “Gravi responsabilità morali spettano ai genitori, signora Varden.”

La signora Varden alzò leggermente le mani, scosse la testa e guardò il suolo, come se potesse vedere attraverso tutta la Terra, fino all’altra estremità, nell’immensità dello spazio che si estendeva oltre.

“Posso confidarmi con voi senza riserve,” disse il signor Chester. “Amo molto mio figlio, signora; e amandolo così tanto, vorrei salvarlo da una sofferenza certa. Sapete della sua affezione per la signorina Haredale. L’avete incoraggiato in questo sentimento, e è stato davvero molto gentile da parte vostra farlo. Sono profondamente grato a voi, davvero molto grato, per il vostro interesse a suo favore; ma, cara signora, vi assicuro che si tratta di un interesse errato.”

“La signora Varden balbettò che le dispiaceva, ”

“Mi dispiace molto, mia cara signora,” intervenne. “Non si dovrebbe mai rimproverarsi per qualcosa che è così gentile, così ben intenzionato e così perfettamente in linea con le proprie caratteristiche. Tuttavia, ci sono ragioni serie e importanti, considerazioni familiari urgenti, e anche motivi di differenza religiosa che rendono impossibile la loro unione; assolutamente impossibile. Avrei dovuto menzionare queste circostanze a vostro marito; ma lui, scusate se lo dico con tanta franchezza, non possiede la vostra prontezza di comprensione né la profondità della vostra sensibilità morale. Che casa estremamente accogliente e così ben tenuta! Per uno come me, un vedovo da tanto tempo, questi segni di cura e attenzione da parte delle donne hanno un fascino indescrivibile.”

La signora Varden iniziò a pensare (senza quasi sapere il perché) che il giovane signor Chester dovesse avere torto e che il vecchio signor Chester dovesse avere ragione.

“Mio figlio Ned,” riprese il suo seduttore con il tono più affascinante, “si dice che abbia ricevuto l’aiuto di vostra adorabile figlia, e anche quello di vostro marito così generoso.”

“Molto di più del mio, signore,” disse la signora Varden; “molto di più. Spesso ho avuto dei dubbi. È una, ”

“Un cattivo esempio,” suggerì il signor Chester. “Lo è senz’altro. Non c’è dubbio al riguardo. Vostra figlia ha quell’età in cui, presentarle un esempio che incoraggi i giovani a ribellarsi ai propri genitori su questo punto così importante è particolarmente imprudente. Avete perfettamente ragione. Avrei dovuto pensarci da solo, ma confesso che me ne sono dimenticato; il vostro sesso, cara signora, è davvero molto superiore al nostro in termini di perspicacia e saggezza.”

La signora Varden sembrava davvero saggia, come se avesse detto qualcosa che meritasse quel complimento; credeva fermamente di averlo fatto, insomma. E la sua fiducia nella propria astuzia aumentò notevolmente.

“Mia cara signora,” disse il signor Chester, “vi permetto di essere franco con voi. Mio figlio e io abbiamo opinioni diverse su questo argomento; anche la giovane donna e il suo tutore naturale sono in disaccordo. La conclusione è che mio figlio, per dovere verso di me, per onore, e per ogni legame e obbligo solenne, è costretto a sposare un’altra persona.”

“Sposato con un’altra signora!”, esclamò la signora Varden, alzando le mani in segno di disperazione.

“Mia cara signora, allevata, educata e addestrata appositamente per quel scopo. Si dice che la signorina Haredale sia una creatura davvero incantevole.”

“Sono la sua madre adottiva, quindi dovrei saperlo. La migliore giovane donna del mondo,” disse la signora Varden.

‘Non ho la minima dubbio al riguardo. Sono sicura che lo sia. E tu, che hai avuto con lei quel tipo di rapporto affettuoso, devi certamente pensare alla sua felicità. Ora, come ho già detto a Haredale, che è completamente d’accordo con me, posso davvero restare a guardare mentre si getta via, nonostante appartenga a una famiglia cattolica, per un giovane che, al momento, non ha affatto un cuore? Non è certo un’accusa nei suoi confronti dire che non ne abbia uno, perché molti giovani, immersi nelle frivolezze e nelle convenzioni della società, di solito non ne hanno. I loro cuori, mia cara signora, non iniziano mai a svilupparsi prima dei trent’anni. Non credo, no, NON credo affatto che io avessi un cuore quando avevo l’età di Ned.’

“Oh signore,” disse la signora Varden, “penso che debba averla avuta. È impossibile che lei, che ora ne ha così tante, possa mai essere stata senza nessuna.”

“Le mie speranze”, rispose lui, scrollando le spalle mansuettamente, “sono poche; molto poche. Solo il Cielo lo sa! Ma tornando a Ned. Non ho alcun dubbio che voi abbiate pensato, e quindi intervenuto benevolmente in suo favore, che io avessi obiezioni contro la signorina Haredale. Che cosa molto naturale! Mia cara signora, io ho obiezioni, contro di lui, espressamente contro Ned stesso.”

La signora Varden fu profondamente sconvolta da questa rivelazione.

‘Se onorerà fedelmente questa solenne obbligazione di cui vi ho parlato – e deve essere onesto, cara signora Varden, altrimenti non è mio figlio – avrà a disposizione una fortuna. Tuttavia, ha abitudini estremamente costose, quasi disastrose; e se, per un momento di capriccio o testardaggine, sposasse questa giovane donna, privandosi così dei mezzi necessari per soddisfare i gusti a cui è da tempo abituato, distruggerebbe il cuore di quella povera ragazza. Signora Varden, mia cara signora, la mia adorata anima. Vi chiedo: è davvero un sacrificio che si possa sopportare? Il cuore di una donna può essere trattato con tanta leggerezza? Chiedetelo voi stessa, vi prego.’

“Davvero,” pensò la signora Varden, “questo gentiluomo è un santo. Ma,” aggiunse ad alta voce, e non senza ragione, “se portate via l’amante della signorina Emma, signore, cosa ne sarà del cuore di quella povera ragazza?”

“Proprio questo è il punto,” disse il signor Chester, senza alcun imbarazzo, “a cui volevo arrivare. Un matrimonio con mio figlio, che sarei costretto a rinnegare, porterebbe solo anni di sofferenza; loro si separerebbero, mia cara signora, entro dodici mesi. Interrompere questo legame, che è più frutto dell’immaginazione che della realtà, come sappiamo molto bene entrambi, costerebbe alla povera ragazza soltanto qualche lacrima, e lei sarebbe di nuovo felice. Prendete ad esempio vostra stessa figlia, la giovane signorina al piano di sotto, è proprio il suo ritratto vivente, ” La signora Varden tossì e sorrise complice, “C’è un giovane, mi dispiace dirlo, un individuo dissoluto, dal carattere molto indifferente, di cui ho sentito parlare da Ned. Bullet. Pullet. Mullet, ”

‘There is a young man of the name of Joseph Willet, sir,’ said Mrs Varden, folding her hands loftily.

‘That’s he,’ cried Mr Chester. ‘Suppose this Joseph Willet now, were to aspire to the affections of your charming daughter, and were to engage them.’

‘It would be like his impudence,’ interposed Mrs Varden, bridling, ‘to dare to think of such a thing!’

‘My dear madam, that’s the whole case. I know it would be like his impudence. It is like Ned’s impudence to do as he has done; but you would not on that account, or because of a few tears from your beautiful daughter, refrain from checking their inclinations in their birth. I meant to have reasoned thus with your husband when I saw him at Mrs Rudge’s this evening—’

‘My husband,’ said Mrs Varden, interposing with emotion, ‘would be a great deal better at home than going to Mrs Rudge’s so often. I don’t know what he does there. I don’t see what occasion he has to busy himself in her affairs at all, sir.’

‘If I don’t appear to express my concurrence in those last sentiments of yours,’ returned Mr Chester, ‘quite so strongly as you might desire, it is because his being there, my dear madam, and not proving conversational, led me hither, and procured me the happiness of this interview with one, in whom the whole management, conduct, and prosperity of her family are centred, I perceive.’

With that he took Mrs Varden’s hand again, and having pressed it to his lips with the highflown gallantry of the day—a little burlesqued to render it the more striking in the good lady’s unaccustomed eyes—proceeded in the same strain of mingled sophistry, cajolery, and flattery, to entreat that her utmost influence might be exerted to restrain her husband and daughter from any further promotion of Edward’s suit to Miss Haredale, and from aiding or abetting either party in any way. Mrs Varden was but a woman, and had her share of vanity, obstinacy, and love of power. She entered into a secret treaty of alliance, offensive and defensive, with her insinuating visitor; and really did believe, as many others would have done who saw and heard him, that in so doing she furthered the ends of truth, justice, and morality, in a very uncommon degree.

Overjoyed by the success of his negotiation, and mightily amused within himself, Mr Chester conducted her downstairs in the same state as before; and having repeated the previous ceremony of salutation, which also as before comprehended Dolly, took his leave; first completing the conquest of Miss Miggs’s heart, by inquiring if ‘this young lady’ would light him to the door.

‘Oh, mim,’ said Miggs, returning with the candle. ‘Oh gracious me, mim, there’s a gentleman! Was there ever such an angel to talk as he is—and such a sweet-looking man! So upright and noble, that he seems to despise the very ground he walks on; and yet so mild and condescending, that he seems to say “but I will take notice on it too.” And to think of his taking you for Miss Dolly, and Miss Dolly for your sister—Oh, my goodness me, if I was master wouldn’t I be jealous of him!’

Mrs Varden reproved her handmaid for this vain-speaking; but very gently and mildly—quite smilingly indeed—remarking that she was a foolish, giddy, light-headed girl, whose spirits carried her beyond all bounds, and who didn’t mean half she said, or she would be quite angry with her.

‘For my part,’ said Dolly, in a thoughtful manner, ‘I half believe Mr Chester is something like Miggs in that respect. For all his politeness and pleasant speaking, I am pretty sure he was making game of us, more than once.’

‘If you venture to say such a thing again, and to speak ill of people behind their backs in my presence, miss,’ said Mrs Varden, ‘I shall insist upon your taking a candle and going to bed directly. How dare you, Dolly? I’m astonished at you. The rudeness of your whole behaviour this evening has been disgraceful. Did anybody ever hear,’ cried the enraged matron, bursting into tears, ‘of a daughter telling her own mother she has been made game of!’

What a very uncertain temper Mrs Varden’s was!

“C’è un giovane di nome Joseph Willet, signore,” disse la signora Varden, incrociando le mani con aria solenne.

“È lui,” esclamò il signor Chester. “Supponiamo ora che questo Joseph Willet desideri conquistare i sentimenti di vostra incantevole figlia e riesca a farlo, ”

“Sarebbe proprio la sua sfrontatezza,” intervenne la signora Varden, reprimendosi a stento, “osare anche solo pensare a una cosa del genere!”

“Mia cara signora, è tutta qui la questione. So che sarebbe tipico della sua sfrontatezza. È proprio come l’impudenza di Ned comportarsi in quel modo; ma non per questo, né a causa di qualche lacrima versata dalla vostra bellissima figlia, dovreste rinunciare a correggere le loro inclinazioni fin da quando sono nati. Intendevo ragionare così con vostro marito stasera, quando l’ho visto da Mrs Rudge, ”

“Mio marito,” disse la signora Varden con emozione, “starebbe molto meglio a casa piuttosto che andare spesso da Mrs Rudge. Non so cosa faccia lì. Non vedo proprio quale sia il motivo per cui debba occuparsi delle sue faccende, signore.”

“Se non sembro esprimere il mio accordo con quelle ultime opinioni vostre,” rispose il signor Chester, “è perché la sua presenza lì, mia cara signora, e il fatto che non si dimostri molto loquace, mi hanno spinto a venire qui e mi hanno permesso di godere della felicità di questo incontro con una persona su cui ruotano tutta la gestione, il comportamento e la prosperità della sua famiglia.”

Con ciò prese di nuovo la mano della signora Varden e, premendola sulle sue labbra con quella vanità e galanteria tipiche dell’epoca – un po’ esagerate apposta per risultare più efficaci agli occhi inesperti di quella gentildonna – proseguì nel suo discorso, mescolando sofismi, lusinghe e adulazioni, per chiederle di utilizzare tutta la sua influenza affinché suo marito e sua figlia si astenessero da qualsiasi ulteriore tentativo di promuovere le prospettive amorose di Edward nei confronti della signorina Haredale, e da aiutare o incoraggiare alcuna delle due parti in qualsiasi modo che fosse. La signora Varden era pur sempre una donna, e possedeva la sua dose di vanità, ostinazione e amore per il potere. Firmò quindi un “patto d’alleanza”, sia offensivo che difensivo, con quel visitatore insinuante; e credeva davvero, proprio come avrebbero creduto molti altri vedendolo e ascoltandolo, di contribuire in modo straordinario ai fini della verità, della giustizia e della moralità.

Estremamente felice per il successo della sua negoziazione e molto divertito dentro di sé, il signor Chester la accompagnò al piano di sotto nello stesso stato in cui si trovava prima; dopo aver ripetuto la solita cerimonia di saluto, che includeva anche Dolly come prima, se ne andò, completando così la conquista del cuore della signorina Miggs, chiedendole infine se “questa giovane signora” fosse disposta ad accompagnarlo fino alla porta.

“Oh, Mim,” disse Miggs, tornando con la candela. “Oh mio Dio, Mim, c’è un gentiluomo! Non è mai esistito un angelo che parli come lui, e un uomo così bello! Così retto e nobile, che sembra disprezzare persino il terreno su cui cammina; eppure così gentile e premuroso, che sembra dire “ma prenderò comunque in considerazione questa cosa”. E pensare che ti ha scambiata per Miss Dolly, e Miss Dolly per tua sorella. Oh mio Dio, se fossi io il padrone, non sarei geloso di lui!”

La signora Varden rimproverò la sua ancella per queste parole vane; ma lo fece in modo molto gentile e dolce – anzi, con un sorriso – osservando che era una ragazza sciocca, frivola e capricciosa, il cui spirito la portava oltre ogni limite, e che probabilmente non intendeva davvero nulla di ciò che diceva; altrimenti si sarebbe arrabbiata molto con lei.

“Per quanto mi riguarda,” disse Dolly, con aria pensierosa, “credo quasi che il signor Chester sia simile a Miggs in questo senso. Nonostante tutta la sua cortesia e il suo modo piacevole di parlare, sono abbastanza sicura che ci abbia preso in giro, più di una volta.”

“Se osate dire di nuovo una cosa del genere e parlare male delle persone alle loro spalle davanti a me, signorina,” disse la signora Varden, “insisterò affinché prendiate una candela e andiate a letto immediatamente. Come osate, Dolly? Sono sbalordita da voi. L’indelicatezza di tutto il vostro comportamento stasera è stata vergognosa. Qualcuno ha mai sentito,” gridò la furiosa matrona, scoppiando in lacrime, “di una figlia che dica alla propria madre di essere stata presa in giro?”

Che carattere davvero incerto aveva la signora Varden.

Chapter 28

Repairing to a noted coffee-house in Covent Garden when he left the locksmith’s, Mr Chester sat long over a late dinner, entertaining himself exceedingly with the whimsical recollection of his recent proceedings, and congratulating himself very much on his great cleverness. Influenced by these thoughts, his face wore an expression so benign and tranquil, that the waiter in immediate attendance upon him felt he could almost have died in his defence, and settled in his own mind (until the receipt of the bill, and a very small fee for very great trouble disabused it of the idea) that such an apostolic customer was worth half-a-dozen of the ordinary run of visitors, at least.

A visit to the gaming-table—not as a heated, anxious venturer, but one whom it was quite a treat to see staking his two or three pieces in deference to the follies of society, and smiling with equal benevolence on winners and losers—made it late before he reached home. It was his custom to bid his servant go to bed at his own time unless he had orders to the contrary, and to leave a candle on the common stair. There was a lamp on the landing by which he could always light it when he came home late, and having a key of the door about him he could enter and go to bed at his pleasure.

He opened the glass of the dull lamp, whose wick, burnt up and swollen like a drunkard’s nose, came flying off in little carbuncles at the candle’s touch, and scattering hot sparks about, rendered it matter of some difficulty to kindle the lazy taper; when a noise, as of a man snoring deeply some steps higher up, caused him to pause and listen. It was the heavy breathing of a sleeper, close at hand. Some fellow had lain down on the open staircase, and was slumbering soundly. Having lighted the candle at length and opened his own door, he softly ascended, holding the taper high above his head, and peering cautiously about; curious to see what kind of man had chosen so comfortless a shelter for his lodging.

With his head upon the landing and his great limbs flung over half-a-dozen stairs, as carelessly as though he were a dead man whom drunken bearers had thrown down by chance, there lay Hugh, face uppermost, his long hair drooping like some wild weed upon his wooden pillow, and his huge chest heaving with the sounds which so unwontedly disturbed the place and hour.

He who came upon him so unexpectedly was about to break his rest by thrusting him with his foot, when, glancing at his upturned face, he arrested himself in the very action, and stooping down and shading the candle with his hand, examined his features closely. Close as his first inspection was, it did not suffice, for he passed the light, still carefully shaded as before, across and across his face, and yet observed him with a searching eye.

While he was thus engaged, the sleeper, without any starting or turning round, awoke. There was a kind of fascination in meeting his steady gaze so suddenly, which took from the other the presence of mind to withdraw his eyes, and forced him, as it were, to meet his look. So they remained staring at each other, until Mr Chester at last broke silence, and asked him in a low voice, why he lay sleeping there.

‘I thought,’ said Hugh, struggling into a sitting posture and gazing at him intently, still, ‘that you were a part of my dream. It was a curious one. I hope it may never come true, master.’

‘What makes you shiver?’

‘The—the cold, I suppose,’ he growled, as he shook himself and rose. ‘I hardly know where I am yet.’

‘Do you know me?’ said Mr Chester.

‘Ay, I know you,’ he answered. ‘I was dreaming of you—we’re not where I thought we were. That’s a comfort.’

He looked round him as he spoke, and in particular looked above his head, as though he half expected to be standing under some object which had had existence in his dream. Then he rubbed his eyes and shook himself again, and followed his conductor into his own rooms.

Mr Chester lighted the candles which stood upon his dressing-table, and wheeling an easy-chair towards the fire, which was yet burning, stirred up a cheerful blaze, sat down before it, and bade his uncouth visitor ‘Come here,’ and draw his boots off.

‘You have been drinking again, my fine fellow,’ he said, as Hugh went down on one knee, and did as he was told.

‘As I’m alive, master, I’ve walked the twelve long miles, and waited here I don’t know how long, and had no drink between my lips since dinner-time at noon.’

‘And can you do nothing better, my pleasant friend, than fall asleep, and shake the very building with your snores?’ said Mr Chester. ‘Can’t you dream in your straw at home, dull dog as you are, that you need come here to do it?—Reach me those slippers, and tread softly.’

Hugh obeyed in silence.

‘And harkee, my dear young gentleman,’ said Mr Chester, as he put them on, ‘the next time you dream, don’t let it be of me, but of some dog or horse with whom you are better acquainted. Fill the glass once—you’ll find it and the bottle in the same place—and empty it to keep yourself awake.’

Hugh obeyed again even more zealously—and having done so, presented himself before his patron.

‘Now,’ said Mr Chester, ‘what do you want with me?’

‘There was news to-day,’ returned Hugh. ‘Your son was at our house—came down on horseback. He tried to see the young woman, but couldn’t get sight of her. He left some letter or some message which our Joe had charge of, but he and the old one quarrelled about it when your son had gone, and the old one wouldn’t let it be delivered. He says (that’s the old one does) that none of his people shall interfere and get him into trouble. He’s a landlord, he says, and lives on everybody’s custom.’

‘He’s a jewel,’ smiled Mr Chester, ‘and the better for being a dull one.—Well?’

‘Varden’s daughter—that’s the girl I kissed—’

‘—and stole the bracelet from upon the king’s highway,’ said Mr Chester, composedly. ‘Yes; what of her?’

‘She wrote a note at our house to the young woman, saying she lost the letter I brought to you, and you burnt. Our Joe was to carry it, but the old one kept him at home all next day, on purpose that he shouldn’t. Next morning he gave it to me to take; and here it is.’

‘You didn’t deliver it then, my good friend?’ said Mr Chester, twirling Dolly’s note between his finger and thumb, and feigning to be surprised.

‘I supposed you’d want to have it,’ retorted Hugh. ‘Burn one, burn all, I thought.’

‘My devil-may-care acquaintance,’ said Mr Chester—‘really if you do not draw some nicer distinctions, your career will be cut short with most surprising suddenness. Don’t you know that the letter you brought to me, was directed to my son who resides in this very place? And can you descry no difference between his letters and those addressed to other people?’

‘If you don’t want it,’ said Hugh, disconcerted by this reproof, for he had expected high praise, ‘give it me back, and I’ll deliver it. I don’t know how to please you, master.’

‘I shall deliver it,’ returned his patron, putting it away after a moment’s consideration, ‘myself. Does the young lady walk out, on fine mornings?’

‘Mostly—about noon is her usual time.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, alone.’

‘Where?’

‘In the grounds before the house.—Them that the footpath crosses.’

‘If the weather should be fine, I may throw myself in her way to-morrow, perhaps,’ said Mr Chester, as coolly as if she were one of his ordinary acquaintance. ‘Mr Hugh, if I should ride up to the Maypole door, you will do me the favour only to have seen me once. You must suppress your gratitude, and endeavour to forget my forbearance in the matter of the bracelet. It is natural it should break out, and it does you honour; but when other folks are by, you must, for your own sake and safety, be as like your usual self as though you owed me no obligation whatever, and had never stood within these walls. You comprehend me?’

Hugh understood him perfectly. After a pause he muttered that he hoped his patron would involve him in no trouble about this last letter; for he had kept it back solely with the view of pleasing him. He was continuing in this strain, when Mr Chester with a most beneficent and patronising air cut him short by saying:

‘My good fellow, you have my promise, my word, my sealed bond (for a verbal pledge with me is quite as good), that I will always protect you so long as you deserve it. Now, do set your mind at rest. Keep it at ease, I beg of you. When a man puts himself in my power so thoroughly as you have done, I really feel as though he had a kind of claim upon me. I am more disposed to mercy and forbearance under such circumstances than I can tell you, Hugh. Do look upon me as your protector, and rest assured, I entreat you, that on the subject of that indiscretion, you may preserve, as long as you and I are friends, the lightest heart that ever beat within a human breast. Fill that glass once more to cheer you on your road homewards—I am really quite ashamed to think how far you have to go—and then God bless you for the night.’

‘They think,’ said Hugh, when he had tossed the liquor down, ‘that I am sleeping soundly in the stable. Ha ha ha! The stable door is shut, but the steed’s gone, master.’

‘You are a most convivial fellow,’ returned his friend, ‘and I love your humour of all things. Good night! Take the greatest possible care of yourself, for my sake!’

It was remarkable that during the whole interview, each had endeavoured to catch stolen glances of the other’s face, and had never looked full at it. They interchanged one brief and hasty glance as Hugh went out, averted their eyes directly, and so separated. Hugh closed the double doors behind him, carefully and without noise; and Mr Chester remained in his easy-chair, with his gaze intently fixed upon the fire.

‘Well!’ he said, after meditating for a long time—and said with a deep sigh and an uneasy shifting of his attitude, as though he dismissed some other subject from his thoughts, and returned to that which had held possession of them all the day—‘the plot thickens; I have thrown the shell; it will explode, I think, in eight-and-forty hours, and should scatter these good folks amazingly. We shall see!’

He went to bed and fell asleep, but had not slept long when he started up and thought that Hugh was at the outer door, calling in a strange voice, very different from his own, to be admitted. The delusion was so strong upon him, and was so full of that vague terror of the night in which such visions have their being, that he rose, and taking his sheathed sword in his hand, opened the door, and looked out upon the staircase, and towards the spot where Hugh had lain asleep; and even spoke to him by name. But all was dark and quiet, and creeping back to bed again, he fell, after an hour’s uneasy watching, into a second sleep, and woke no more till morning.

Capitolo 28

Ritornando in una rinomata caffetteria di Covent Garden dopo essere uscito dal fabbro, il signor Chester trascorse molto tempo a cena, divertendosi enormemente ricordando le sue recenti azioni e congratulandosi con se stesso per la sua grande astuzia. Influenzato da questi pensieri, il suo volto aveva un’espressione così gentile e serena che il cameriere che gli serviva si sentì quasi disposto a difenderlo fino alla morte; inoltre, finché non ricevette il conto – e una piccola tariffa per tanti problemi causati – rimase convinto che un cliente del genere valesse almeno dieci volte i normali clienti abituali.

Una visita al tavolo da gioco – non come un partecipante appassionato e ansioso, ma come qualcuno per cui era davvero divertente vedere come puntasse i propri due o tre soldi, rispettando le follie della società, e sorridesse con uguale benevolenza sia ai vincitori che ai perdenti – lo fece ritardare molto prima di arrivare a casa. Era sua abitudine dire al proprio servitore di andare a letto all’ora che lui stesso stabiliva, a meno che non avesse ricevuto ordini diversi, e lasciare una candela sulle scale comuni. C’era una lampada sul pianerottolo: poteva sempre accenderla quando rientrava tardi a casa, e avendo con sé la chiave della porta, poteva entrare e andare a letto quando voleva.

Aprì la lampada, il cui stoppino, bruciato e gonfio come il naso di un ubriaco, si staccò in piccoli frammenti al contatto con la candela, sprigionando scintille ardenti; per questo fu piuttosto difficile accendere la candela. All’improvviso, un rumore simile a quello di qualcuno che russava sonoramente poco più in alto lo fece fermare e ascoltare: era il respiro pesante di una persona addormentata, proprio lì vicino. Qualcuno si era sdraiato sulle scale aperte e dormiva profondamente. Alla fine riuscì ad accendere la candela e aprì la sua porta; salì lentamente, tenendo alta la candela sopra la testa e guardandosi intorno con cautela, curioso di scoprire che tipo di persona avesse scelto un rifugio così scomodo per dormire.

Con la testa appoggiata sul gradino e le sue grandi membra distese su mezza dozzina di gradini, con la stessa noncuranza di un uomo morto che dei portatori ubriachi avessero gettato a terra per caso, lì giaceva Hugh, con il viso rivolto verso l’alto; i suoi lunghi capelli pendevano come erbacce selvatiche sul cuscino di legno, e il suo enorme petto si sollevava e si abbassava emettendo suoni che, in quel luogo e a quell’ora, disturbavano profondamente la quiete circostante.

Colui che lo incontrò in modo così inaspettato stava per interrompere il suo riposo spingendolo con il piede, quando, guardando il suo viso rivolto verso l’alto, si fermò all’istante. Si chinò e, usando la mano per oscurare la candela, esaminò attentamente i suoi tratti. Anche se la prima occhiata era stata sufficiente, non gli bastò; quindi continuò a passare la luce sul suo viso, ancora schermata con cura come prima, osservandolo con uno sguardo attento e minuzioso.

Mentre era impegnato in queste attività, il dormiente si svegliò senza alcun movimento o girarsi intorno. Incontrare il suo sguardo fermo e deciso in modo così improvviso suscitò in lui una sorta di fascinazione; l’altro, però, non riuscì a distogliere lo sguardo e fu costretto ad affrontarlo. Così rimasero a fissarsi a vicenda, fino a quando finalmente il signor Chester ruppe il silenzio e gli chiese a bassa voce perché stesse dormendo lì.

“Pensavo,” disse Hugh, cercando di mettersi a sedere e guardandolo intensamente, “che facessi parte del mio sogno. Era un sogno strano. Spero che non si avveri mai, padrone.”

“Cosa ti fa tremare?”

“Il, il freddo, suppongo,” borbottò, scuotendosi e alzandosi in piedi. “Non so nemmeno dove mi trovo.”

“Mi conosci?” disse il signor Chester.

“Ah, ti conosco,” rispose. “Stavo sognando di te. Non ci troviamo dove pensavo che fossimo. Questo è un conforto.”

Mentre parlava, guardò intorno a sé, soprattutto verso l’alto, come se si aspettasse di trovarsi sotto qualche oggetto che esisteva soltanto nei suoi sogni. Poi si strofinò gli occhi e scosse nuovamente la testa, per poi seguire il suo accompagnatore nelle sue stanze.

Il signor Chester accese le candele posizionate sul suo comodino, poi spostò una poltrona vicino al fuoco, che ancora ardeva, ravvivandone la fiamma; si sedette davanti ad esso e invitò il suo ospite un po’ rustico a “avvicinarsi” per togliersi le scarpe.

“Hai di nuovo bevuto, mio caro amico,” disse lui, mentre Hugh si inginocchiava e faceva ciò che gli era stato ordinato.

“Finché sono vivo, padrone, ho percorso questi dodici lunghi miglia e ho aspettato qui per chissà quanto tempo; non ho bevuto nulla da quando abbiamo pranzato, a mezzogiorno.”

“E non puoi fare niente di meglio, mio caro amico, che addormentarti e far tremare tutta la casa con i tuoi russi?” disse il signor Chester. “Non puoi sognare a casa tua, nella tua paglia, stupido animale che sei. Perché devi proprio venire qui per farlo? Dammi quelle pantofole e cammina in silenzio.”

Hugh obbedì in silenzio.

“E ascolta bene, mio caro giovane signore,” disse il signor Chester mentre glieli metteva addosso, “la prossima volta che sogni, non sognare di me, ma di qualche cane o cavallo che conosci meglio. Riempi il bicchiere una volta, lo troverai e la bottiglia nello stesso posto, e svuotalo per restare sveglio.”

Hugh obbedì ancora, con ancora più zelo; e dopo averlo fatto, si presentò davanti al suo protettore.

“Ora,” disse il signor Chester, “cosa vuoi da me?”

“Oggi ci sono state delle notizie,” rispose Hugh. “Tuo figlio è stato da noi a casa, è arrivato a cavallo. Ha cercato di vedere quella giovane donna, ma non è riuscito a trovarla. Ha lasciato una lettera o un messaggio che Joe si è incaricato di consegnare, ma lui e l’anziano hanno litigato al riguardo dopo che tuo figlio se n’è andato. L’anziano non ha voluto permettere che il messaggio venisse consegnato. Dice (è proprio quello che dice l’anziano) che nessuno dei suoi dipendenti deve immischiarsi e causargli problemi. Lui è un proprietario terriero, dice, vive grazie alle tasse che tutti pagano.”

“È un vero diamante”, sorrise il signor Chester, “e tanto meglio se è anche noioso, —Ebbene?”

“La figlia di Varden, quella è la ragazza che ho baciato, ”

“–E ha rubato il braccialetto dalla strada principale del re”, disse il signor Chester con calma. “Sì, e poi? Che ne è di lei?”

‘Ha scritto un biglietto nella nostra casa per quella giovane donna, dicendo che aveva perso la lettera che vi avevo portato e che voi l’avevate bruciata. Il nostro Joe doveva portarla, ma la vecchia lo ha trattenuto a casa tutto il giorno successivo, apposta per impedirglielo. La mattina dopo me l’ha data da portare; ed eccola qui.’

“Quindi non l’hai consegnata, mio caro amico?” disse il signor Chester, facendo girare la nota di Dolly tra il dito indice e il pollice, fingendo di essere sorpreso.

“Immaginavo che volessi tenerlo,” ribatté Hugh. “Bruciarne uno, o bruciarli tutti, ho pensato.”

“Quel mio conoscente così spensierato, ”, disse il signor Chester, “davvero, se non fate alcuna distinzione più chiara, la vostra carriera finirà in modo molto improvviso e sorprendente. Non sapete che la lettera che mi avete portato era indirizzata a mio figlio, che vive proprio in questo posto? E non riuscite a notare alcuna differenza tra le sue lettere e quelle destinate ad altre persone?”

“Se non lo vuoi,” disse Hugh, turbato da questa rimprovera, poiché si aspettava grandi lodi, “restituiscimelo e io lo consegnerò. Non so come farti contento, padrone.”

“Lo consegnerò io stesso,” rispose il suo protettore, dopo averci pensato per un momento. “La giovane signora esce, nelle belle mattine?”

“Per lo più, intorno a mattina è il suo solito orario.”

“‘Da solo?’”

“Sì, da solo.”

‘Dove?’

Nel giardino davanti alla casa. Quello che attraversa il sentiero pedonale.

“Se il tempo dovesse essere bello, forse domani potrei mettermi sul suo cammino, ”, disse il signor Chester con estrema calma, come se lei fosse una delle sue conoscenti ordinarie. “Signor Hugh, se dovessi presentarmi davanti alla porta del Maypole, le farei il favore di vedermi almeno una volta. Dovrà reprimere la sua gratitudine e cercare di dimenticare la mia tolleranza riguardo al braccialetto. È naturale che sia successo quel che è successo; anzi, le fa onore. Ma quando ci sono altre persone intorno, deve, per il suo stesso bene e sicurezza, comportarsi come al solito, come se non mi dovesse nulla in cambio e come se non fosse mai entrato in queste mura. Capisce?”

Hugh lo capì perfettamente. Dopo una pausa mormorò che sperava che il suo protettore non lo coinvolgesse in alcun problema legato a questa ultima lettera; infatti l’aveva tenuta nascosta esclusivamente con l’intento di compiacerlo. Stava continuando in questo tono, quando il signor Chester, con un atteggiamento estremamente benevolo e paternalistico, lo interruppe dicendo:

“Mio caro amico, ho la tua promessa, la mia parola, il mio impegno solenne (poiché una promessa verbale per me vale quanto un impegno scritto): ti proteggerò sempre, finché ne sarai degno. Ora, rilassati completamente. Ti prego, non preoccuparti più. Quando una persona si mette così totalmente sotto la mia protezione, come hai fatto tu, ho davvero l’impressione che abbia un certo diritto su di me. In circostanze del genere, sono molto più propenso a mostrare misericordia e tolleranza di quanto possa esprimere a parole. Considerami il tuo protettore, e sii certo che, finché saremo amici, potrai vivere con la massima serenità possibile. Riempi ancora quel bicchiere per celebrare il tuo ritorno a casa. Mi vergogno davvero di pensare a quanto sia lungo il cammino che ti aspetta. E ora, che Dio ti benedica per questa notte.”

“Pensano,” disse Hugh dopo aver trangugiato il liquore, “che io stia dormendo profondamente nella stalla. Ah ah ah! La porta della stalla è chiusa, ma il cavallo se n’è andato, padrone.”

“Sei davvero una persona molto piacevole da frequentare,” rispose il suo amico, “e soprattutto adoro il tuo umorismo. Buona notte! Prenditi cura di te stesso per il mio bene!”

Era notevole che, per tutta la durata dell’intervista, entrambi cercassero di gettare occhiate furtive l’uno sul viso dell’altro, senza mai guardarlo direttamente. Quando Hugh uscì, si scambiarono uno sguardo breve e affrettato, poi distolsero immediatamente lo sguardo e si separarono. Hugh chiuse attentamente e silenziosamente le porte a doppio battente; il signor Chester rimase nella sua poltrona, con lo sguardo fisso sul focolare.

“Beh!”, disse dopo aver riflettuto a lungo. E lo fece con un profondo sospiro e un cambiamento nel suo atteggiamento, come se volesse scacciare altri pensieri dalla sua mente e tornare a quello che l’aveva occupato per tutto il giorno: “La situazione si complica; ho lanciato la ‘palla di vetro’. Penso che esploderà tra ottantaquattro ore, e spargerà questi bravi gente in modo incredibile. Vedremo!”

Andò a letto e si addormentò, ma non aveva dormito a lungo quando iniziò a svegliarsi pensando che Hugh fosse alla porta d’ingresso, chiamandolo con una voce strana, molto diversa dalla sua, per fargli aprire. L’illusione era così forte e piena di quel vago terrore tipico della notte, quando simili visioni prendono vita, che si alzò, prese in mano la sua _spada ancora nel fodero, aprì la porta e guardò giù per le scale, verso il punto dove Hugh dormiva; anzi, gli parlò persino per nome. Ma tutto era buio e silenzioso; tornò a letto e, dopo un’ora di insonnia, cadde in un secondo sogno, senza più svegliarsi fino al mattino seguente.

Chapter 29

The thoughts of worldly men are for ever regulated by a moral law of gravitation, which, like the physical one, holds them down to earth. The bright glory of day, and the silent wonders of a starlit night, appeal to their minds in vain. There are no signs in the sun, or in the moon, or in the stars, for their reading. They are like some wise men, who, learning to know each planet by its Latin name, have quite forgotten such small heavenly constellations as Charity, Forbearance, Universal Love, and Mercy, although they shine by night and day so brightly that the blind may see them; and who, looking upward at the spangled sky, see nothing there but the reflection of their own great wisdom and book-learning.

It is curious to imagine these people of the world, busy in thought, turning their eyes towards the countless spheres that shine above us, and making them reflect the only images their minds contain. The man who lives but in the breath of princes, has nothing in his sight but stars for courtiers’ breasts. The envious man beholds his neighbours’ honours even in the sky; to the money-hoarder, and the mass of worldly folk, the whole great universe above glitters with sterling coin—fresh from the mint—stamped with the sovereign’s head—coming always between them and heaven, turn where they may. So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.

Everything was fresh and gay, as though the world were but that morning made, when Mr Chester rode at a tranquil pace along the Forest road. Though early in the season, it was warm and genial weather; the trees were budding into leaf, the hedges and the grass were green, the air was musical with songs of birds, and high above them all the lark poured out her richest melody. In shady spots, the morning dew sparkled on each young leaf and blade of grass; and where the sun was shining, some diamond drops yet glistened brightly, as in unwillingness to leave so fair a world, and have such brief existence. Even the light wind, whose rustling was as gentle to the ear as softly-falling water, had its hope and promise; and, leaving a pleasant fragrance in its track as it went fluttering by, whispered of its intercourse with Summer, and of his happy coming.

The solitary rider went glancing on among the trees, from sunlight into shade and back again, at the same even pace—looking about him, certainly, from time to time, but with no greater thought of the day or the scene through which he moved, than that he was fortunate (being choicely dressed) to have such favourable weather. He smiled very complacently at such times, but rather as if he were satisfied with himself than with anything else: and so went riding on, upon his chestnut cob, as pleasant to look upon as his own horse, and probably far less sensitive to the many cheerful influences by which he was surrounded.

In the course of time, the Maypole’s massive chimneys rose upon his view: but he quickened not his pace one jot, and with the same cool gravity rode up to the tavern porch. John Willet, who was toasting his red face before a great fire in the bar, and who, with surpassing foresight and quickness of apprehension, had been thinking, as he looked at the blue sky, that if that state of things lasted much longer, it might ultimately become necessary to leave off fires and throw the windows open, issued forth to hold his stirrup; calling lustily for Hugh.

‘Oh, you’re here, are you, sir?’ said John, rather surprised by the quickness with which he appeared. ‘Take this here valuable animal into the stable, and have more than particular care of him if you want to keep your place. A mortal lazy fellow, sir; he needs a deal of looking after.’

‘But you have a son,’ returned Mr Chester, giving his bridle to Hugh as he dismounted, and acknowledging his salute by a careless motion of his hand towards his hat. ‘Why don’t you make HIM useful?’

‘Why, the truth is, sir,’ replied John with great importance, ‘that my son—what, you’re a-listening are you, villain?’

‘Who’s listening?’ returned Hugh angrily. ‘A treat, indeed, to hear YOU speak! Would you have me take him in till he’s cool?’

‘Walk him up and down further off then, sir,’ cried old John, ‘and when you see me and a noble gentleman entertaining ourselves with talk, keep your distance. If you don’t know your distance, sir,’ added Mr Willet, after an enormously long pause, during which he fixed his great dull eyes on Hugh, and waited with exemplary patience for any little property in the way of ideas that might come to him, ‘we’ll find a way to teach you, pretty soon.’

Hugh shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and in his reckless swaggering way, crossed to the other side of the little green, and there, with the bridle slung loosely over his shoulder, led the horse to and fro, glancing at his master every now and then from under his bushy eyebrows, with as sinister an aspect as one would desire to see.

Mr Chester, who, without appearing to do so, had eyed him attentively during this brief dispute, stepped into the porch, and turning abruptly to Mr Willet, said,

‘You keep strange servants, John.’

‘Strange enough to look at, sir, certainly,’ answered the host; ‘but out of doors; for horses, dogs, and the likes of that; there an’t a better man in England than is that Maypole Hugh yonder. He an’t fit for indoors,’ added Mr Willet, with the confidential air of a man who felt his own superior nature. ‘I do that; but if that chap had only a little imagination, sir—’

‘He’s an active fellow now, I dare swear,’ said Mr Chester, in a musing tone, which seemed to suggest that he would have said the same had there been nobody to hear him.

‘Active, sir!’ retorted John, with quite an expression in his face; ‘that chap! Hallo there! You, sir! Bring that horse here, and go and hang my wig on the weathercock, to show this gentleman whether you’re one of the lively sort or not.’

Capitolo 29

I pensieri degli uomini mondani sono per sempre regolati da una legge morale di gravità che, proprio come quella fisica, li tiene legati alla terra. La splendida luce del giorno e i silenziosi meravigli di una notte stellata non riescono a commuoverli. Non esistono segni nel sole, nella luna o nelle stelle che possano guidarli; sono come alcuni saggi che, pur conoscendo ogni pianeta con il suo nome latino, hanno completamente dimenticato costellazioni così “piccole” come la Carità, la Pazienza, l’Amore Universale e la Misericordia. Nonostante queste costellazioni brillino giorno e notte così intensamente da permettere persino ai ciechi di vederle, loro non vedono nel cielo altro che il riflesso della propria grande saggezza e dei propri studi.

È curioso immaginare queste persone del mondo, impegnate nei loro pensieri, che rivolgono lo sguardo verso le innumerevoli sfere che brillano sopra di noi, facendole riflettere le uniche immagini contenute nelle loro menti. L’uomo che vive soltanto nell’ambito dei circoli principeschi non vede altro che stelle sul petto dei cortigiani; l’invidioso osserva gli onori dei suoi vicini persino nel cielo; per il ricco e per la massa delle persone comuni, l’intero universo sopra di noi brilla come monete d’oro appena coniate, contrassegnate dal volto del sovrano. Monete che si frappongono sempre tra loro e il cielo, ovunque si rivolgano. Allo stesso modo, le ombre dei nostri desideri si interpongono tra noi e i nostri “angeli migliori”, oscurando così la loro luce.

Tutto era fresco e gioioso, come se il mondo fosse stato appena creato quella mattina, quando il signor Chester percorreva con passo tranquillo la strada forestale. Sebbene fosse ancora all’inizio della stagione, il tempo era caldo e piacevole: gli alberi iniziavano a germogliare, i cespugli e l’erba erano verdi, l’aria risuonava delle canzoni degli uccelli, e in alto, sopra tutto, la allodola intonava le sue melodie più incantevoli. Nei punti ombreggiati, il rugiado mattutino brillava su ogni foglia e filo d’erba; dove invece splendeva il sole, alcune gocce di rugiada scintillavano ancora intensamente, come se riluttassero ad abbandonare un mondo così bello e a scomparire così presto. Anche la brezza leggera, il cui fruscio era dolce all’orecchio quanto il suono dell’acqua che scorre, portava con sé speranza e promesse; lasciando dietro di sé un profumo piacevole, sussurrava della sua intimità con l’estate e del suo felice arrivo.

Il cavaliere solitario si muoveva tra gli alberi, passando dall’ombra alla luce del sole e viceversa, mantenendo sempre lo stesso ritmo costante. Osservava intorno a sé, certo, di tanto in tanto, ma senza prestare particolare attenzione al giorno o al paesaggio che lo circondava; si limitava ad essere soddisfatto del bel tempo che aveva avuto (essendo vestito con cura). In quei momenti sorrideva con compiacimento, ma sembrava più contento di sé stesso che di qualsiasi altra cosa. Continuava così a cavalcare sul suo cavallo castano, un animale altrettanto piacevole da vedere quanto il proprio cavallo, e probabilmente molto meno sensibile alle molte influenze positive che lo circondavano.

Nel corso del tempo, le imponenti ciminiere della guglia di maggio apparvero davanti ai suoi occhi; ma non accelerò minimamente il passo, continuando ad avanzare con la stessa calma e compostezza fino al portico della taverna. John Willet, che stava brindando con il viso rosso dal calore del grande fuoco nel bar, e che, con straordinaria preveggenza e prontezza di riflessione, aveva già pensato che, se quella situazione continuasse ancora a lungo, forse sarebbe stato necessario spegnere i fuochi e aprire le finestre. Uscì quindi per prendere il suo staffile, chiamando ad alta voce Hugh.

“Oh, siete qui, vero, signore?” disse John, piuttosto sorpreso dalla rapidità con cui era apparso. “Portate questo prezioso animale nella stalla e prendetevi molta cura di lui, se volete mantenere il vostro posto. È davvero un individuo pigro; ha bisogno di molte attenzioni.”

“Ma hai un figlio,” ribatté il signor Chester, porgendo le redini a Hugh mentre scendeva da cavallo e accettando il suo saluto con un gesto noncurante della mano verso il cappello. “Perché non lo fai lavorare?”

“Beh, la verità è,” rispose John con grande serietà, “che mio figlio. Ehi, state ascoltando, vero, malvivente?”

“Chi sta ascoltando?” rispose Hugh con rabbia. “Che piacere davvero ascoltarti parlare! Vuoi che lo ospiti finché non si calma?”

“Camminategli intorno, ma tenetevi a distanza,” gridò il vecchio John. “E quando vedrete me e un nobile signore che ci intratteniamo in conversazione, mantenete la vostra distanza. Se non sapete quale sia la giusta distanza da mantenere, ” aggiunse il signor Willet, dopo una pausa estremamente lunga durante la quale fissò Hugh con i suoi occhi spenti e attese con esemplare pazienza che gli venisse in mente qualche idea utile, “troveremo sicuramente un modo per insegnarvelo.”

Hugh alzò le spalle con disprezzo e, con il suo modo sconsiderato e arrogante, attraversò l’altra parte del piccolo prato verde. Lì, con la briglia appoggiata negligentemente sulla spalla, fece camminare avanti e indietro il cavallo, lanciando di tanto in tanto occhiate al suo padrone da sotto le sue folte sopracciglia, con un’espressione sinistra che chiunque avrebbe voluto evitare di vedere.

Il signor Chester, che durante questa breve disputa lo aveva osservato con attenzione senza darlo a vedere, entrò nel portico e, voltandosi improvvisamente verso il signor Willet, disse:

“Hai servitori davvero strani, John, ”

“Strano da vedere, senz’altro,” rispose l’oste; “ma all’aperto, per cavalli, cani e simili. In Inghilterra non c’è nessuno migliore di quel Hugh del Maypole laggiù. Non è adatto per stare in casa,” aggiunse il signor Willet con l’aria confidenziale di chi si sente superiore per natura. “Lo so anch’io; ma se solo quel ragazzo avesse un po’ più di immaginazione, ”

“Ora è davvero un tipo molto attivo, oserei dire,” disse il signor Chester con tono meditabondo, come se volesse sottolineare che avrebbe detto la stessa cosa anche se nessuno lo avesse ascoltato.

“Attivo, signore!” ribatté John, con un’espressione piuttosto decisa sul viso; “quel ragazzo! Ehi, tu! Tu, signore. Porta qui quel cavallo e vai a appendere il mio parrucchio sulla guglia della torre, così questo gentiluomo potrà capire se sei davvero uno di quelli vivaci o no.”

Hugh made no answer, but throwing the bridle to his master, and snatching his wig from his head, in a manner so unceremonious and hasty that the action discomposed Mr Willet not a little, though performed at his own special desire, climbed nimbly to the very summit of the maypole before the house, and hanging the wig upon the weathercock, sent it twirling round like a roasting jack. Having achieved this performance, he cast it on the ground, and sliding down the pole with inconceivable rapidity, alighted on his feet almost as soon as it had touched the earth.

‘There, sir,’ said John, relapsing into his usual stolid state, ‘you won’t see that at many houses, besides the Maypole, where there’s good accommodation for man and beast—nor that neither, though that with him is nothing.’

This last remark bore reference to his vaulting on horseback, as upon Mr Chester’s first visit, and quickly disappearing by the stable gate.

‘That with him is nothing,’ repeated Mr Willet, brushing his wig with his wrist, and inwardly resolving to distribute a small charge for dust and damage to that article of dress, through the various items of his guest’s bill; ‘he’ll get out of a’most any winder in the house. There never was such a chap for flinging himself about and never hurting his bones. It’s my opinion, sir, that it’s pretty nearly allowing to his not having any imagination; and that if imagination could be (which it can’t) knocked into him, he’d never be able to do it any more. But we was a-talking, sir, about my son.’

‘True, Willet, true,’ said his visitor, turning again towards the landlord with his accustomed serenity of face. ‘My good friend, what about him?’

It has been reported that Mr Willet, previously to making answer, winked. But as he was never known to be guilty of such lightness of conduct either before or afterwards, this may be looked upon as a malicious invention of his enemies—founded, perhaps, upon the undisputed circumstance of his taking his guest by the third breast button of his coat, counting downwards from the chin, and pouring his reply into his ear:

‘Sir,’ whispered John, with dignity, ‘I know my duty. We want no love-making here, sir, unbeknown to parents. I respect a certain young gentleman, taking him in the light of a young gentleman; I respect a certain young lady, taking her in the light of a young lady; but of the two as a couple, I have no knowledge, sir, none whatever. My son, sir, is upon his patrole.’

‘I thought I saw him looking through the corner window but this moment,’ said Mr Chester, who naturally thought that being on patrole, implied walking about somewhere.

‘No doubt you did, sir,’ returned John. ‘He is upon his patrole of honour, sir, not to leave the premises. Me and some friends of mine that use the Maypole of an evening, sir, considered what was best to be done with him, to prevent his doing anything unpleasant in opposing your desires; and we’ve put him on his patrole. And what’s more, sir, he won’t be off his patrole for a pretty long time to come, I can tell you that.’

When he had communicated this bright idea, which had its origin in the perusal by the village cronies of a newspaper, containing, among other matters, an account of how some officer pending the sentence of some court-martial had been enlarged on parole, Mr Willet drew back from his guest’s ear, and without any visible alteration of feature, chuckled thrice audibly. This nearest approach to a laugh in which he ever indulged (and that but seldom and only on extreme occasions), never even curled his lip or effected the smallest change in—no, not so much as a slight wagging of—his great, fat, double chin, which at these times, as at all others, remained a perfect desert in the broad map of his face; one changeless, dull, tremendous blank.

Lest it should be matter of surprise to any, that Mr Willet adopted this bold course in opposition to one whom he had often entertained, and who had always paid his way at the Maypole gallantly, it may be remarked that it was his very penetration and sagacity in this respect, which occasioned him to indulge in those unusual demonstrations of jocularity, just now recorded. For Mr Willet, after carefully balancing father and son in his mental scales, had arrived at the distinct conclusion that the old gentleman was a better sort of a customer than the young one. Throwing his landlord into the same scale, which was already turned by this consideration, and heaping upon him, again, his strong desires to run counter to the unfortunate Joe, and his opposition as a general principle to all matters of love and matrimony, it went down to the very ground straightway, and sent the light cause of the younger gentleman flying upwards to the ceiling. Mr Chester was not the kind of man to be by any means dim-sighted to Mr Willet’s motives, but he thanked him as graciously as if he had been one of the most disinterested martyrs that ever shone on earth; and leaving him, with many complimentary reliances on his great taste and judgment, to prepare whatever dinner he might deem most fitting the occasion, bent his steps towards the Warren.

Dressed with more than his usual elegance; assuming a gracefulness of manner, which, though it was the result of long study, sat easily upon him and became him well; composing his features into their most serene and prepossessing expression; and setting in short that guard upon himself, at every point, which denoted that he attached no slight importance to the impression he was about to make; he entered the bounds of Miss Haredale’s usual walk. He had not gone far, or looked about him long, when he descried coming towards him, a female figure. A glimpse of the form and dress as she crossed a little wooden bridge which lay between them, satisfied him that he had found her whom he desired to see. He threw himself in her way, and a very few paces brought them close together.

Hugh non rispose nulla; gettò semplicemente le redini al suo padrone e si strappò di testa la parrucca in modo così sciatto e affrettato che quell’azione sconvolse non poco il signor Willet, anche se era stata eseguita su sua precisa volontà. Poi salì agilmente fino alla cima del palo davanti alla casa, appese la parrucca sulla guglia e la fece girare velocemente come una ruota. Una volta compiuto questo gesto, la gettò a terra e scivolò giù dal palo con una rapidità incredibile, atterrando in piedi quasi non appena toccò il suolo.

“Ecco, signore,” disse John, tornando al suo solito atteggiamento impassibile, “non troverete molte case dove si possano trovare queste cose, a parte quelle vicino alla quercia di maggio, dove ci sono buone strutture sia per gli uomini che per gli animali. Anzi, nemmeno lì le trovate sempre, anche se in quel caso non è poi così importante.”

Quest’ultima osservazione si riferiva al suo modo di saltare in groppo al cavallo, proprio come durante la prima visita del signor Chester, quando scomparve rapidamente dalla porta dello stallo.

“Quello non è niente per lui,” ripeté il signor Willet, spazzolando la sua parrucca con il polso e decidendo in cuor suo di addebitare una piccola somma per la polvere e i danni causati a quell’indumento, attraverso le varie voci del conto del suo ospite; “riuscirà senz’altro a uscire da qualsiasi situazione difficile in questa casa. Non c’è mai stato nessuno come lui: si butta sempre in mezzo alle cose senza mai farsi male. Secondo me, signore, questo dimostra che lui semplicemente non possiede alcuna immaginazione; e se solo si potesse instillargli un po’ di immaginazione, ma è impossibile. Comunque, stavo parlando di mio figlio.”

“Vero, Willet, vero,” disse il suo visitatore, rivolgendosi di nuovo al proprietario con la solita serenità sul viso. “Mio caro amico, e lui?”

Si è riferito che il signor Willet, prima di rispondere, abbia fatto l’occhiolino. Tuttavia, poiché non era mai stato noto per comportamenti così frivoli né prima né dopo, ciò può essere considerato un’invenzione maliziosa da parte dei suoi nemici – forse basata sul fatto indiscutibile che avesse preso il suo ospite per il terzo bottone della giacca, contando verso il basso dal mento, e gli avesse sussurrato la risposta all’orecchio.

“Signore,” sussurrò John con dignità, “so qual è il mio dovere. Non vogliamo che qui si verifichino atti d’amore, signore, senza che i genitori ne sappiano nulla. Rispetto un certo giovane gentiluomo, considerandolo tale; rispetto anche una certa giovane signorina, allo stesso modo; ma del fatto che possano essere una coppia, non ne so nulla, signore, assolutamente nulla. Mio figlio, signore, è in pattuglia.”

“Pensavo di averlo visto guardare attraverso la finestra dell’angolo, ma in questo momento, ”, disse il signor Chester, che naturalmente riteneva che fare il giro di pattuglia significasse camminare da qualche parte.

“Non c’è alcun >dubbio al riguardo, signore,” rispose John. “È impegnato nella sua pattuglia per il ‘onore, signore, e non lascerà mai le proprietà. Io e alcuni amici che utilizzano la Quercia di Maggio ogni sera abbiamo discusso su cosa fosse meglio fare per impedirgli di compiere qualsiasi atto sgradevole che potesse contraddire i vostri desideri; ed eccolo quindi impegnato nella sua pattuglia. Inoltre, posso dirvi che non lascerà questa attività per un bel po’ di tempo.”

Quando ebbe esposto questa brillante idea – che aveva origine nella lettura da parte dei cronisti del villaggio di un giornale contenente, tra l’altro, il resoconto di come un ufficiale in attesa della sentenza di un tribunale militare fosse stato rilasciato in libertà vigilata – il signor Willet si allontanò dall’orecchio del suo ospite e, senza alcun cambiamento visibile nel volto, ridacchiò tre volte ad alta voce. Questa fu l’unica occasione in cui si concesse una risata (e anche quella molto raramente, solo in circostanze estreme); non arricciò nemmeno le labbra, né modificò minimamente il suo grande, grasso mento doppio, che in quei momenti, come sempre, rimaneva un perfetto “deserto” sulla vasta mappa del suo viso: un’immobilità monotona, assoluta.

Per evitare che qualcuno possa trovare sorprendente il fatto che il signor Willet abbia intrapreso questa audace iniziativa contro una persona che aveva spesso ospitato in casa sua e che, inoltre, aveva sempre pagato generosamente le sue spese, si può osservare che proprio la sua perspicacia e saggezza in questo ambito lo spinsero a compiere quelle strane dimostrazioni di scherzoso antagonismo, appena descritte. Infatti, dopo aver attentamente valutato i pro e i contro dei due uomini nella sua mente, il signor Willet giunse alla conclusione che il vecchio gentiluomo fosse un cliente molto più affidabile del giovane. Mettendo anche il proprio padrone di casa nello stesso confronto, e tenendo conto delle sue forti intenzioni di contrariare quel sfortunato Joe, nonché della sua opposizione in linea di principio a qualsiasi forma di amore e matrimonio, tutto ciò portò inevitabilmente a un risultato negativo: il giovane gentiluomo venne completamente ignorato, mentre il signor Willet poté agire liberamente. Il signor Chester, tuttavia, non era certo una persona che potesse sottovalutare le motivazioni del signor Willet; anzi, lo ringraziò con grande cortesia, come se si fosse trattato di uno dei più altruisti e generosi “martiri” mai esistiti. Dopo avergli espresso la propria fiducia nel suo buon gusto e giudizio, il signor Chester si recò al Warren.

Vestito con più eleganza del solito; assumendo un portamento aggraziato che, sebbene fosse il risultato di lunghi sforzi, gli si addiceva perfettamente e lo rendeva davvero attraente; modellando i propri tratti in un’espressione serena e affascinante; e mettendo in atto ogni precauzione possibile per non trascurare l’impressione che intendeva lasciare, entrò nel luogo dove Miss Haredale solitamente passeggiava. Non aveva camminato molto, né si era guardato intorno a lungo, quando scorse una figura femminile avvicinarsi a lui. Un rapido sguardo alla sua forma e al suo abbigliamento, mentre lei attraversava un piccolo ponte di legno che li separava, gli fece capire di aver trovato proprio la persona che desiderava vedere. Si mise davanti a lei, e dopo pochi passi si trovarono molto vicini l’uno all’altro.

He raised his hat from his head, and yielding the path, suffered her to pass him. Then, as if the idea had but that moment occurred to him, he turned hastily back and said in an agitated voice:

‘I beg pardon—do I address Miss Haredale?’

She stopped in some confusion at being so unexpectedly accosted by a stranger; and answered ‘Yes.’

‘Something told me,’ he said, LOOKING a compliment to her beauty, ‘that it could be no other. Miss Haredale, I bear a name which is not unknown to you—which it is a pride, and yet a pain to me to know, sounds pleasantly in your ears. I am a man advanced in life, as you see. I am the father of him whom you honour and distinguish above all other men. May I for weighty reasons which fill me with distress, beg but a minute’s conversation with you here?’

Who that was inexperienced in deceit, and had a frank and youthful heart, could doubt the speaker’s truth—could doubt it too, when the voice that spoke, was like the faint echo of one she knew so well, and so much loved to hear? She inclined her head, and stopping, cast her eyes upon the ground.

‘A little more apart—among these trees. It is an old man’s hand, Miss Haredale; an honest one, believe me.’

She put hers in it as he said these words, and suffered him to lead her to a neighbouring seat.

‘You alarm me, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You are not the bearer of any ill news, I hope?’

‘Of none that you anticipate,’ he answered, sitting down beside her. ‘Edward is well—quite well. It is of him I wish to speak, certainly; but I have no misfortune to communicate.’

She bowed her head again, and made as though she would have begged him to proceed; but said nothing.

‘I am sensible that I speak to you at a disadvantage, dear Miss Haredale. Believe me that I am not so forgetful of the feelings of my younger days as not to know that you are little disposed to view me with favour. You have heard me described as cold-hearted, calculating, selfish—’

‘I have never, sir,’—she interposed with an altered manner and a firmer voice; ‘I have never heard you spoken of in harsh or disrespectful terms. You do a great wrong to Edward’s nature if you believe him capable of any mean or base proceeding.’

‘Pardon me, my sweet young lady, but your uncle—’

‘Nor is it my uncle’s nature either,’ she replied, with a heightened colour in her cheek. ‘It is not his nature to stab in the dark, nor is it mine to love such deeds.’

She rose as she spoke, and would have left him; but he detained her with a gentle hand, and besought her in such persuasive accents to hear him but another minute, that she was easily prevailed upon to comply, and so sat down again.

‘And it is,’ said Mr Chester, looking upward, and apostrophising the air; ‘it is this frank, ingenuous, noble nature, Ned, that you can wound so lightly. Shame—shame upon you, boy!’

She turned towards him quickly, and with a scornful look and flashing eyes. There were tears in Mr Chester’s eyes, but he dashed them hurriedly away, as though unwilling that his weakness should be known, and regarded her with mingled admiration and compassion.

‘I never until now,’ he said, ‘believed, that the frivolous actions of a young man could move me like these of my own son. I never knew till now, the worth of a woman’s heart, which boys so lightly win, and lightly fling away. Trust me, dear young lady, that I never until now did know your worth; and though an abhorrence of deceit and falsehood has impelled me to seek you out, and would have done so had you been the poorest and least gifted of your sex, I should have lacked the fortitude to sustain this interview could I have pictured you to my imagination as you really are.’

Oh! If Mrs Varden could have seen the virtuous gentleman as he said these words, with indignation sparkling from his eyes—if she could have heard his broken, quavering voice—if she could have beheld him as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight, and with unwonted energy poured forth his eloquence!

With a haughty face, but pale and trembling too, Emma regarded him in silence. She neither spoke nor moved, but gazed upon him as though she would look into his heart.

‘I throw off,’ said Mr Chester, ‘the restraint which natural affection would impose on some men, and reject all bonds but those of truth and duty. Miss Haredale, you are deceived; you are deceived by your unworthy lover, and my unworthy son.’

Still she looked at him steadily, and still said not one word.

‘I have ever opposed his professions of love for you; you will do me the justice, dear Miss Haredale, to remember that. Your uncle and myself were enemies in early life, and if I had sought retaliation, I might have found it here. But as we grow older, we grow wiser—bitter, I would fain hope—and from the first, I have opposed him in this attempt. I foresaw the end, and would have spared you, if I could.’

‘Speak plainly, sir,’ she faltered. ‘You deceive me, or are deceived yourself. I do not believe you—I cannot—I should not.’

‘First,’ said Mr Chester, soothingly, ‘for there may be in your mind some latent angry feeling to which I would not appeal, pray take this letter. It reached my hands by chance, and by mistake, and should have accounted to you (as I am told) for my son’s not answering some other note of yours. God forbid, Miss Haredale,’ said the good gentleman, with great emotion, ‘that there should be in your gentle breast one causeless ground of quarrel with him. You should know, and you will see, that he was in no fault here.’

There appeared something so very candid, so scrupulously honourable, so very truthful and just in this course—something which rendered the upright person who resorted to it, so worthy of belief—that Emma’s heart, for the first time, sunk within her. She turned away and burst into tears.

Si tolse il cappello e si fece da parte per lasciarla passare. Poi, come se quell’idea gli fosse appena venuta in mente, tornò indietro di scatto e disse con voce agitata:

“Scusi, sto parlando con la signorina Haredale?”

Si fermò, un po’ confusa, per essere stata avvicinata così all’improvviso da uno sconosciuto; e rispose “Sì”.

“Qualcosa mi ha detto,” disse, guardando con ammirazione la sua bellezza, “che non poteva essere nessun altro. Signorina Haredale, il mio nome non vi è sconosciuto. È una orgoglio per me, ma anche una dolore». Suona piacevolmente alle vostre orecchie. Sono un uomo di mezza età, come potete vedere. Sono il padre di colui che voi onorate e distinguite sopra tutti gli altri uomini. Posso chiedervi, per motivi molto importanti che mi causano grande angoscia, solo un minuto del vostro tempo qui?”

Chi, non avendo esperienza nella menzogna e possedendo un cuore sincero e giovane, avrebbe potuto dubitare della verità di chi parlava? E come avrebbe potuto dubitarne, quando quella voce era simile all’eco tenue di qualcuno che conosceva così bene e che amava tanto ascoltare? Abbassò la testa e, fermandosi, fissò il suolo con lo sguardo.

“Un po’ più in là, tra questi alberi. È la mano di un vecchio uomo, signorina Haredale, una mano onesta, credetemi.”

Mentre lui pronunciava queste parole, lei le mise dentro e lo lasciò condurla verso un posto a sedere vicino.

“Mi allarmate, signore,” disse lei a bassa voce. “Spero che non portiate cattive notizie, ”

“Di nessuno che tu ti aspetti,” rispose, sedendosi accanto a lei.
“Edward sta bene, molto bene. È proprio di lui che voglio parlare, sicuramente;
ma non ho alcuna cattiva notizia da comunicare.”

Abbassò di nuovo la testa, come se volesse supplicarlo di continuare; ma non disse nulla.

“Sono consapevole di parlare con voi in una posizione svantaggiosa, cara signorina Haredale. Credetemi: non sono così dimentico dei sentimenti della mia giovinezza da non sapere che voi non siete affatto disposta a vedermi con favore. Avete sentito dire di me che sono freddo nel cuore, calcolatore, egoista, ”

“Non l’ho mai sentito parlare in termini duri o irrispettosi, signore,” intervenne lei con un tono diverso e una voce più ferma; “Non ho mai sentito dire nulla di negativo su di lui. Commettereste un grande errore se pensaste che Edward possa essere capace di comportamenti meschini o spregevoli.”

“Scusi, mia cara giovane signorina, ma suo zio, ”

“Né è nella natura di mio zio farlo,” rispose lei, con il viso arrossito. “Non è nel suo carattere agire nell’oscurità; né è nel mio amare simili azioni.”

Mentre parlava, lei si alzò in piedi e stava per andarsene; ma lui la trattenne con una mano gentile e la pregò con toni così persuasivi di ascoltarlo ancora un minuto, che lei acconsentì facilmente e tornò a sedersi.

“Ed è proprio così,” disse il signor Chester, guardando verso l’alto e quasi parlando all’aria stessa; “è questa natura franca, sincera, nobile, che tu puoi ferire con tanta facilità, Ned. Vergogna, vergogna su di te, ragazzo!”

Si girò verso di lui rapidamente, con uno sguardo sprezzante e occhi scintillanti. Negli occhi del signor Chester c’erano lacrime, ma le asciugò in fretta, come se non volesse che la sua debolezza venisse scoperta, e la guardò con un misto di ammirazione e compassione.

“Finora non avevo mai creduto,” disse, “che le azioni frivole di un giovane potessero commuovermi tanto quanto quelle di mio figlio. Solo ora ho compreso il valore del cuore di una donna, che i ragazzi conquistano così facilmente e poi gettano via altrettanto facilmente. Credetemi, cara signorina: finora non conoscevo affatto il vostro valore. E anche se l’odio per l’inganno e la falsità mi ha spinto a cercarvi, e lo avrei fatto anche se foste stata la più povera e la meno dotata tra le donne della vostra specie, mancarmibbe comunque la forza di portare a termine questo incontro, se potessi immaginarvi come siete realmente.”

Oh! Se solo la signora Varden avesse potuto vedere quel gentiluomo virtuoso mentre pronunciava queste parole, con l’indignazione che brillava nei suoi occhi; se solo avesse potuto ascoltare la sua voce rotta e tremante; se solo lo avesse visto in piedi a testa scoperta sotto il sole, mentre con un’energia insolita riversava tutta la sua eloquenza.

Con un viso sprezzante, ma pallido e tremante allo stesso tempo, Emma lo fissava in silenzio. Non parlava né si muoveva, ma lo guardava come se volesse scrutare nel suo cuore.

“Rifiuto”, disse il signor Chester, “quei vincoli che un affetto naturale potrebbe imporre ad alcuni uomini, e respingo ogni legame al di fuori di quelli basati sulla verità e sul dovere. Signorina Haredale, siete ingannata; siete ingannata dal vostro indegno amante e da mio figlio indegno.”

Tuttavia continuò a guardarlo fissamente, senza dire una parola.

‘Ho sempre opposto resistenza alle sue dichiarazioni d’amore per te; ti prego, cara signorina Haredale, di ricordarlo. Tuo zio ed io eravamo nemici da giovani, e se avessi cercato vendetta, forse l’avrei trovata qui. Ma con l’età cresciamo anche in saggezza, amara, vorrei sperare. E fin dall’inizio ho opposto resistenza a questo suo tentativo. Vedevo già quale sarebbe stata la conseguenza, e avrei voluto risparmiarti, se solo ne fossi stata in grado.’

“Parlate chiaramente, signore,” balbettò lei. “Mi state ingannando, o forse siete voi stesso a essere ingannato. Non vi credo. Non posso. Non dovrei.”

“Prima di tutto,” disse il signor Chester con voce tranquillizzante, “poiché forse nel vostro cuore esiste qualche sentimento di rabbia nascosto a cui non vorrei fare appello, vi prego di prendere questa lettera. Mi è arrivata per caso e per errore; avrebbe dovuto essere inviata a voi (come mi è stato detto) in risposta al vostro altro messaggio. Dio non voglia, signorina Haredale,” aggiunse il gentile signore con grande emozione, “che nel vostro cuore gentile esista un motivo ingiustificato per litigare con lui. Dovreste sapere, e vedrete che in questo caso lui non ha alcuna colpa.”

C’era qualcosa di così sincero, di così onestamente rispettabile, di così veritiero e giusto in questo comportamento. Qualcosa che rendeva la persona integra che lo adottava davvero degna di fiducia. Che per la prima volta il cuore di Emma si spezzò nel petto. Si girò e scoppiò in lacrime.

‘I would,’ said Mr Chester, leaning over her, and speaking in mild and quite venerable accents; ‘I would, dear girl, it were my task to banish, not increase, those tokens of your grief. My son, my erring son,—I will not call him deliberately criminal in this, for men so young, who have been inconstant twice or thrice before, act without reflection, almost without a knowledge of the wrong they do,—will break his plighted faith to you; has broken it even now. Shall I stop here, and having given you this warning, leave it to be fulfilled; or shall I go on?’

‘You will go on, sir,’ she answered, ‘and speak more plainly yet, in justice both to him and me.’

‘My dear girl,’ said Mr Chester, bending over her more affectionately still; ‘whom I would call my daughter, but the Fates forbid, Edward seeks to break with you upon a false and most unwarrantable pretence. I have it on his own showing; in his own hand. Forgive me, if I have had a watch upon his conduct; I am his father; I had a regard for your peace and his honour, and no better resource was left me. There lies on his desk at this present moment, ready for transmission to you, a letter, in which he tells you that our poverty—our poverty; his and mine, Miss Haredale—forbids him to pursue his claim upon your hand; in which he offers, voluntarily proposes, to free you from your pledge; and talks magnanimously (men do so, very commonly, in such cases) of being in time more worthy of your regard—and so forth. A letter, to be plain, in which he not only jilts you—pardon the word; I would summon to your aid your pride and dignity—not only jilts you, I fear, in favour of the object whose slighting treatment first inspired his brief passion for yourself and gave it birth in wounded vanity, but affects to make a merit and a virtue of the act.’

She glanced proudly at him once more, as by an involuntary impulse, and with a swelling breast rejoined, ‘If what you say be true, he takes much needless trouble, sir, to compass his design. He’s very tender of my peace of mind. I quite thank him.’

‘The truth of what I tell you, dear young lady,’ he replied, ‘you will test by the receipt or non-receipt of the letter of which I speak. Haredale, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you, although we meet under singular circumstances, and upon a melancholy occasion. I hope you are very well.’

At these words the young lady raised her eyes, which were filled with tears; and seeing that her uncle indeed stood before them, and being quite unequal to the trial of hearing or of speaking one word more, hurriedly withdrew, and left them. They stood looking at each other, and at her retreating figure, and for a long time neither of them spoke.

‘What does this mean? Explain it,’ said Mr Haredale at length. ‘Why are you here, and why with her?’

‘My dear friend,’ rejoined the other, resuming his accustomed manner with infinite readiness, and throwing himself upon the bench with a weary air, ‘you told me not very long ago, at that delightful old tavern of which you are the esteemed proprietor (and a most charming establishment it is for persons of rural pursuits and in robust health, who are not liable to take cold), that I had the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception. I thought at the time; I really did think; you flattered me. But now I begin to wonder at your discernment, and vanity apart, do honestly believe you spoke the truth. Did you ever counterfeit extreme ingenuousness and honest indignation? My dear fellow, you have no conception, if you never did, how faint the effort makes one.’

Mr Haredale surveyed him with a look of cold contempt. ‘You may evade an explanation, I know,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘But I must have it. I can wait.’

‘Not at all. Not at all, my good fellow. You shall not wait a moment,’ returned his friend, as he lazily crossed his legs. ‘The simplest thing in the world. It lies in a nutshell. Ned has written her a letter—a boyish, honest, sentimental composition, which remains as yet in his desk, because he hasn’t had the heart to send it. I have taken a liberty, for which my parental affection and anxiety are a sufficient excuse, and possessed myself of the contents. I have described them to your niece (a most enchanting person, Haredale; quite an angelic creature), with a little colouring and description adapted to our purpose. It’s done. You may be quite easy. It’s all over. Deprived of their adherents and mediators; her pride and jealousy roused to the utmost; with nobody to undeceive her, and you to confirm me; you will find that their intercourse will close with her answer. If she receives Ned’s letter by to-morrow noon, you may date their parting from to-morrow night. No thanks, I beg; you owe me none. I have acted for myself; and if I have forwarded our compact with all the ardour even you could have desired, I have done so selfishly, indeed.’

‘I curse the compact, as you call it, with my whole heart and soul,’ returned the other. ‘It was made in an evil hour. I have bound myself to a lie; I have leagued myself with you; and though I did so with a righteous motive, and though it cost me such an effort as haply few men know, I hate and despise myself for the deed.’

‘You are very warm,’ said Mr Chester with a languid smile.

‘I AM warm. I am maddened by your coldness. ‘Death, Chester, if your blood ran warmer in your veins, and there were no restraints upon me, such as those that hold and drag me back—well; it is done; you tell me so, and on such a point I may believe you. When I am most remorseful for this treachery, I will think of you and your marriage, and try to justify myself in such remembrances, for having torn asunder Emma and your son, at any cost. Our bond is cancelled now, and we may part.’

Mr Chester kissed his hand gracefully; and with the same tranquil face he had preserved throughout—even when he had seen his companion so tortured and transported by his passion that his whole frame was shaken—lay in his lounging posture on the seat and watched him as he walked away.

‘My scapegoat and my drudge at school,’ he said, raising his head to look after him; ‘my friend of later days, who could not keep his mistress when he had won her, and threw me in her way to carry off the prize; I triumph in the present and the past. Bark on, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned cur; fortune has ever been with me—I like to hear you.’

The spot where they had met, was in an avenue of trees. Mr Haredale not passing out on either hand, had walked straight on. He chanced to turn his head when at some considerable distance, and seeing that his late companion had by that time risen and was looking after him, stood still as though he half expected him to follow and waited for his coming up.

‘It MAY come to that one day, but not yet,’ said Mr Chester, waving his hand, as though they were the best of friends, and turning away. ‘Not yet, Haredale. Life is pleasant enough to me; dull and full of heaviness to you. No. To cross swords with such a man—to indulge his humour unless upon extremity—would be weak indeed.’

For all that, he drew his sword as he walked along, and in an absent humour ran his eye from hilt to point full twenty times. But thoughtfulness begets wrinkles; remembering this, he soon put it up, smoothed his contracted brow, hummed a gay tune with greater gaiety of manner, and was his unruffled self again.

“Lo farei,” disse il signor Chester, chinandosi su di lei e parlando con un tono dolce e assai rispettabile; “lo farei, cara ragazza. Se fosse mio compito eliminare, e non aumentare, quei segni del tuo dolore. Mio figlio, mio errante figlio. Non lo chiamerò deliberatamente colpevole in questo: uomini così giovani, che hanno già cambiato idea due o tre volte, agiscono senza riflettere, quasi senza rendersi conto del male che fanno. Romperà la promessa che ti ha fatto. L’ha già rotta. Dovrei fermarmi qui, dopo averti dato questo avvertimento, e lasciare che tutto si compia. O dovrei continuare?”

“Continuerete, signore,” rispose lei, “e parlerete ancora più chiaramente, per giustizia sia verso di lui che verso di me.”

“Mia cara ragazza,” disse il signor Chester, chinandosi su di lei con ancora maggiore affetto; “una persona che vorrei chiamare mia figlia, ma i Destini lo vietano. Edward cerca di interrompere la nostra relazione sulla base di una pretesa falsa e del tutto ingiustificata. Ho le prove in suo possesso, nelle sue stesse mani. Perdonami se ho tenuto d’occhio il suo comportamento. Sono suo padre; mi preoccupavo per la tua tranquillità e per la sua onore, e non mi restava altra scelta. In questo momento, sulla sua scrivania, c’è una lettera pronta da essere inviata a te. In essa ti spiega che la nostra povertà – la povertà di entrambi, signorina Haredale – gli impedisce di chiedere la tua mano; ti offre volontariamente di liberarti dal tuo impegno. E parla, con magnanimità (le persone fanno spesso così in queste circostanze), di essere un giorno più degno del tuo affetto. In breve, una lettera nella quale non solo ti abbandona. Perdonami se uso questa parola; dovresti fare appello alla tua orgoglio e dignità. Ma temo che lo faccia soprattutto per il motivo per cui inizialmente si è interessato a te: per il disprezzo che quella persona ha suscitato in lui. E cerca addirittura di presentare questo comportamento come un atto nobile.”

Lo guardò di nuovo con orgoglio, come spinta da un impulso involontario, e aggiunse con il petto gonfio d’emozione: “Se ciò che dite è vero, allora si dà molta inutile pena per realizzare i suoi piani. Ha davvero a cuore la mia tranquillità. Gliene sono molto grata.”

“La verità di ciò che vi dico, cara giovane signora,” rispose, “potrete verificarla dall’arrivo o meno della lettera di cui parlo. Haredale, mio caro amico, sono felice di vedervi, anche se ci incontriamo in circostanze straordinarie e in un momento triste. Spero che stiate molto bene.”

A queste parole, la giovane signorina alzò gli occhi, pieni di lacrime; e vedendo che suo zio era davvero lì davanti a loro, e non essendo affatto in grado di sopportare l’idea di dover dire o ascoltare una parola in più, si allontanò rapidamente, lasciandoli soli. Rimasero lì a guardarsi l’un l’altro e la sua figura che si allontanava, e per un lungo tempo nessuno dei due parlò.

“Cosa significa tutto questo? Spiegamelo,” disse finalmente il signor Haredale. “Perché sei qui, e perché con lei?”

“Mio caro amico,” rispose l’altro, riprendendo il suo solito modo di fare con infinita disponibilità e lasciandosi cadere sulla panchina con un’aria stanca, “non molto tempo fa mi hai detto, in quella deliziosa vecchia taverna di cui sei il rispettato proprietario (e che è davvero un posto incantevole per persone che si dedicano alle attività rurali e sono in buona salute, quelle cioè che non hanno facilmente l’opportunità di prendersi il raffreddore), che io avevo la mente e il cuore di uno spirito malvagio in tutte le questioni legate alla inganno. Allora ci credevo davvero; mi hai lusingato. Ma ora inizio a meravigliarmi della tua perspicacia. E, a parte la tua vanità, credi davvero di aver detto la verità? Hai mai simulato un’estrema ingenuità e un’onesta indignazione? Mio caro amico, non hai idea, se non l’hai mai fatto prima, di quanto sia debole questo tipo di sforzo.”

Il signor Haredale lo osservò con uno sguardo di freddo disprezzo. “Puoi evitare di dare spiegazioni, lo so,” disse, incrociando le braccia. “Ma devo saperle. Posso aspettare.”

“Assolutamente no, mio caro amico. Non dovrete aspettare nemmeno un momento,” rispose il suo amico, incrociando pigramente le gambe. “È la cosa più semplice del mondo. Ned le ha scritto una lettera: un testo ingenuo, onesto e sentimentale, che però è ancora sul suo tavolo, perché non ha avuto il coraggio di inviarla. Io ho preso l’iniziativa, e la mia affezione e preoccupazione per voi costituiscono una scusa più che sufficiente. Ho letto il contenuto della lettera e l’ho descritto a vostra nipote (una persona davvero incantevole, Haredale, quasi un angelo). Ho aggiunto qualche dettaglio adatto ai nostri scopi. È tutto fatto. Potete stare tranquilli: non c’è più nulla da fare. Privata dei suoi sostenitori e mediatori, con il suo orgoglio e la sua gelosia al massimo, senza nessuno che possa ingannarla, e con voi a confermare le mie parole, vedrete che la loro relazione finirà con la sua risposta. Se riceverà la lettera di Ned entro domani a mezzogiorno, potete considerare il loro addio avvenuto stasera. No, grazie; non mi dovete nulla. Ho agito per conto mio. E se ho portato avanti il nostro accordo con tutto l’entusiasmo che anche voi avreste desiderato, l’ho fatto davvero per motivi egoistici, ”

“Maledico con tutto il mio cuore e la mia ‘anima quel patto, come lo chiamate voi,” rispose l’altro. “È stato stipulato in un momento di malvagità. Mi sono legato a una menzogna; mi sono alleato con voi. E anche se l’ho fatto per motivi giusti, e anche se mi è costato uno sforzo che pochi uomini possono comprendere, odio e disprezzo me stesso per questo atto.”

“Sei molto gentile,” disse il signor Chester con un sorriso pigro.

“Sono caldo. Sono furioso per il tuo freddo. Morte, Chester, se il tuo sangue scorresse più caldo nelle tue vene, e non ci fossero ostacoli che mi trattenessero indietro. È finito; tu me lo dici, e su questo punto posso crederti. Quando provo il maggior rimorso per questa tradizione, penso a te e al tuo matrimonio, e cerco di giustificarmi ricordando che ho separato a tutti i costi Emma da tuo figlio. Ora il nostro legame è spezzato. Possiamo separarci.”

Il signor Chester gli baciò la mano con grazia; e con lo stesso viso sereno che aveva mantenuto per tutto il tempo – anche quando aveva visto il suo compagno così tormentato e sopraffatto dalla passione da tremare tutt’intero – rimase sdraiato sulla poltrona a osservarlo mentre si allontanava.

“Il mio capro espiatorio e il mio sforzo costante a scuola,” disse, alzando lo sguardo verso di lui; “il mio amico degli ultimi tempi, che non riuscì a trattenere la sua donna dopo averla conquistata, e mi mise sul suo cammino per ottenere il premio. Ora trionfo sia nel presente che nel passato. Abbaia pure, maledetto cane sfortunato e malaticcio; la fortuna è sempre stata dalla mia parte. Mi piace sentirti abbaiare.”

Il luogo in cui si erano incontrati era situato in un viale alberato. Il signor Haredale, non avendo incrociato nessuno lungo il cammino, aveva proseguito dritto per la sua strada. Per caso, dopo aver camminato per una certa distanza, girò la testa e vide che il suo compagno di viaggio si era già alzato e lo stava seguendo; allora si fermò, come se aspettasse che questi lo raggiungesse.

“Potrebbe accadere un giorno, ma non ancora,” disse il signor Chester, agitando la mano come se fossero i migliori amici e poi allontanandosi. “Non ancora, Haredale. La vita è abbastanza piacevole per me; noiosa e piena di pesantezza per te. No. Affrontare un uomo del genere in duello, indulgere nel suo umore se non in circostanze estreme, sarebbe davvero debole da parte mia.”

Nonostante tutto, mentre camminava estrasse la sua _spada e, con un’aria assente, la esaminò venti volte dalla lama all’elsa. Ma il pensiero troppo profondo genera rughe; ricordandoselo, la ripose subito, si rilassò, iniziò a canticchiare una melodia allegra con ancora maggiore allegria e tornò ad essere se stesso, sereno e tranquillo come prima.

Chapter 30

A homely proverb recognises the existence of a troublesome class of persons who, having an inch conceded them, will take an ell. Not to quote the illustrious examples of those heroic scourges of mankind, whose amiable path in life has been from birth to death through blood, and fire, and ruin, and who would seem to have existed for no better purpose than to teach mankind that as the absence of pain is pleasure, so the earth, purged of their presence, may be deemed a blessed place—not to quote such mighty instances, it will be sufficient to refer to old John Willet.

Old John having long encroached a good standard inch, full measure, on the liberty of Joe, and having snipped off a Flemish ell in the matter of the parole, grew so despotic and so great, that his thirst for conquest knew no bounds. The more young Joe submitted, the more absolute old John became. The ell soon faded into nothing. Yards, furlongs, miles arose; and on went old John in the pleasantest manner possible, trimming off an exuberance in this place, shearing away some liberty of speech or action in that, and conducting himself in his small way with as much high mightiness and majesty, as the most glorious tyrant that ever had his statue reared in the public ways, of ancient or of modern times.

As great men are urged on to the abuse of power (when they need urging, which is not often), by their flatterers and dependents, so old John was impelled to these exercises of authority by the applause and admiration of his Maypole cronies, who, in the intervals of their nightly pipes and pots, would shake their heads and say that Mr Willet was a father of the good old English sort; that there were no new-fangled notions or modern ways in him; that he put them in mind of what their fathers were when they were boys; that there was no mistake about him; that it would be well for the country if there were more like him, and more was the pity that there were not; with many other original remarks of that nature. Then they would condescendingly give Joe to understand that it was all for his good, and he would be thankful for it one day; and in particular, Mr Cobb would acquaint him, that when he was his age, his father thought no more of giving him a parental kick, or a box on the ears, or a cuff on the head, or some little admonition of that sort, than he did of any other ordinary duty of life; and he would further remark, with looks of great significance, that but for this judicious bringing up, he might have never been the man he was at that present speaking; which was probable enough, as he was, beyond all question, the dullest dog of the party. In short, between old John and old John’s friends, there never was an unfortunate young fellow so bullied, badgered, worried, fretted, and brow-beaten; so constantly beset, or made so tired of his life, as poor Joe Willet.

This had come to be the recognised and established state of things; but as John was very anxious to flourish his supremacy before the eyes of Mr Chester, he did that day exceed himself, and did so goad and chafe his son and heir, that but for Joe’s having made a solemn vow to keep his hands in his pockets when they were not otherwise engaged, it is impossible to say what he might have done with them. But the longest day has an end, and at length Mr Chester came downstairs to mount his horse, which was ready at the door.

As old John was not in the way at the moment, Joe, who was sitting in the bar ruminating on his dismal fate and the manifold perfections of Dolly Varden, ran out to hold the guest’s stirrup and assist him to mount. Mr Chester was scarcely in the saddle, and Joe was in the very act of making him a graceful bow, when old John came diving out of the porch, and collared him.

‘None of that, sir,’ said John, ‘none of that, sir. No breaking of patroles. How dare you come out of the door, sir, without leave? You’re trying to get away, sir, are you, and to make a traitor of yourself again? What do you mean, sir?’

‘Let me go, father,’ said Joe, imploringly, as he marked the smile upon their visitor’s face, and observed the pleasure his disgrace afforded him. ‘This is too bad. Who wants to get away?’

‘Who wants to get away!’ cried John, shaking him. ‘Why you do, sir, you do. You’re the boy, sir,’ added John, collaring with one hand, and aiding the effect of a farewell bow to the visitor with the other, ‘that wants to sneak into houses, and stir up differences between noble gentlemen and their sons, are you, eh? Hold your tongue, sir.’

Joe made no effort to reply. It was the crowning circumstance of his degradation. He extricated himself from his father’s grasp, darted an angry look at the departing guest, and returned into the house.

‘But for her,’ thought Joe, as he threw his arms upon a table in the common room, and laid his head upon them, ‘but for Dolly, who I couldn’t bear should think me the rascal they would make me out to be if I ran away, this house and I should part to-night.’

It being evening by this time, Solomon Daisy, Tom Cobb, and Long Parkes, were all in the common room too, and had from the window been witnesses of what had just occurred. Mr Willet joining them soon afterwards, received the compliments of the company with great composure, and lighting his pipe, sat down among them.

‘We’ll see, gentlemen,’ said John, after a long pause, ‘who’s the master of this house, and who isn’t. We’ll see whether boys are to govern men, or men are to govern boys.’

‘And quite right too,’ assented Solomon Daisy with some approving nods; ‘quite right, Johnny. Very good, Johnny. Well said, Mr Willet. Brayvo, sir.’

John slowly brought his eyes to bear upon him, looked at him for a long time, and finally made answer, to the unspeakable consternation of his hearers, ‘When I want encouragement from you, sir, I’ll ask you for it. You let me alone, sir. I can get on without you, I hope. Don’t you tackle me, sir, if you please.’

‘Don’t take it ill, Johnny; I didn’t mean any harm,’ pleaded the little man.

‘Very good, sir,’ said John, more than usually obstinate after his late success. ‘Never mind, sir. I can stand pretty firm of myself, sir, I believe, without being shored up by you.’ And having given utterance to this retort, Mr Willet fixed his eyes upon the boiler, and fell into a kind of tobacco-trance.

The spirits of the company being somewhat damped by this embarrassing line of conduct on the part of their host, nothing more was said for a long time; but at length Mr Cobb took upon himself to remark, as he rose to knock the ashes out of his pipe, that he hoped Joe would thenceforth learn to obey his father in all things; that he had found, that day, he was not one of the sort of men who were to be trifled with; and that he would recommend him, poetically speaking, to mind his eye for the future.

‘I’d recommend you, in return,’ said Joe, looking up with a flushed face, ‘not to talk to me.’

‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ cried Mr Willet, suddenly rousing himself, and turning round.

‘I won’t, father,’ cried Joe, smiting the table with his fist, so that the jugs and glasses rung again; ‘these things are hard enough to bear from you; from anybody else I never will endure them any more. Therefore I say, Mr Cobb, don’t talk to me.’

‘Why, who are you,’ said Mr Cobb, sneeringly, ‘that you’re not to be talked to, eh, Joe?’

To which Joe returned no answer, but with a very ominous shake of the head, resumed his old position, which he would have peacefully preserved until the house shut up at night, but that Mr Cobb, stimulated by the wonder of the company at the young man’s presumption, retorted with sundry taunts, which proved too much for flesh and blood to bear. Crowding into one moment the vexation and the wrath of years, Joe started up, overturned the table, fell upon his long enemy, pummelled him with all his might and main, and finished by driving him with surprising swiftness against a heap of spittoons in one corner; plunging into which, head foremost, with a tremendous crash, he lay at full length among the ruins, stunned and motionless. Then, without waiting to receive the compliments of the bystanders on the victory he had won, he retreated to his own bedchamber, and considering himself in a state of siege, piled all the portable furniture against the door by way of barricade.

‘I have done it now,’ said Joe, as he sat down upon his bedstead and wiped his heated face. ‘I knew it would come at last. The Maypole and I must part company. I’m a roving vagabond—she hates me for evermore—it’s all over!’

Capitolo 30

Un proverbio popolare riconosce l’esistenza di una fastidiosa categoria di persone che, se si concede loro anche solo un piccolo vantaggio, ne approfittano al massimo. Per non citare gli esempi illustri di quei “flagelli eroici” dell’umanità, la cui vita è stata segnata dal sangue, dal fuoco e dalla rovina, e che sembrano esistere soltanto per insegnare all’uomo che, così come l’assenza di >dolore rappresenta il piacere, anche la terra, liberata dalla loro presenza, può essere considerata un luogo beato. Per non ricorrere a esempi del genere, basterà pensare al vecchio John Willet.

Il vecchio John, da tempo limitando drasticamente la libertà di Joe, tagliando via anche una “flemish ell” riguardo alle promesse fatte, divenne sempre più dispotico e arrogante; il suo desiderio di dominio non conosceva limiti. Più il giovane Joe si sottometteva, più il vecchio John diventava autoritario. Presto quelle restrizioni svanirono del tutto; iniziarono ad apparire unità di misura più grandi – i giardini, i furlong, le miglia. Il vecchio John continuò così, tagliando via qua e là ogni forma di libertà, comportandosi con la stessa maestosità e autorità di qualsiasi tiranno più glorioso che mai avesse avuto una statua eretta nelle strade pubbliche, sia nell’antichità che nei tempi moderni.

Proprio come i grandi uomini vengono spinti ad abusare del potere dai loro adulatori e dipendenti (quando ne hanno bisogno, il che non succede spesso), anche il vecchio John veniva spinto a esercitare questo tipo di autorità dagli applausi e dall’ammirazione dei suoi seguaci, i quali, tra una canzone e un bicchiere di birra alla sera, scuotevano la testa dicendo che il signor Willet era l’esempio del vero inglese tradizionale; che in lui non c’erano idee moderne o comportamenti innovativi; che ricordava loro i loro padri da ragazzi; che non si poteva sbagliare su di lui; e che sarebbe stato bene per il paese se ne ci fossero stati più come lui, e che, d’altra parte, era un vero peccato che ce ne fossero così pochi. Poi, con tono condiscendente, gli spiegavano che tutto questo era per il suo bene, e che un giorno gliene sarebbe stato grato; in particolare, il signor Cobb gli ricordava che, quando aveva la sua età, suo padre non pensava affatto a dargli calci, schiaffi o rimproveri, proprio come non considerava queste azioni una normale responsabilità genitoriale. E aggiungeva, con sguardo molto significativo, che senza questa “giusta educazione”, probabilmente Joe Willet non sarebbe mai diventato l’uomo che era oggi. Il che era abbastanza probabile, visto che, senza dubbio, era il membro più noioso del gruppo. In breve, tra il vecchio John e i suoi amici, non esisteva un giovane così maltrattato, tormentato, preoccupato e oppresso come povero Joe Willet.

Questa era ormai diventata la situazione riconosciuta e consolidata; ma poiché John desiderava ardentemente dimostrare la propria supremazia davanti agli occhi di Mr Chester, quel giorno andò oltre ogni limite, provocando e irritando così tanto suo figlio e erede che, se non fosse stato per il fatto che Joe aveva fatto un solenne voto di tenere le mani in tasca quando non era impegnato in altro, è impossibile immaginare cosa avrebbe potuto fare. Ma anche la giornata più lunga ha una fine, e alla fine Mr Chester scese al piano di sotto per montare il proprio cavallo, che lo aspettava già davanti alla porta.

Poiché il vecchio John in quel momento non era nei paraggi, Joe, che sedeva nel bar riflettendo sulla sua triste sorte e sulle molteplici qualità di Dolly Varden, corse fuori per aiutare l’ospite a montare a cavallo. Appena il signor Chester fu in sella, Joe stava per fargli un inchino elegante quando il vecchio John uscì di corsa dal portico e lo afferrò per il colletto.

“Niente di tutto ciò, signore,” disse John, “niente di tutto ciò, signore. Nessuna interruzione dei pattugliamenti. Come osate uscire di casa senza permesso, signore? Stanno cercando di farvi scappare, vero? E di farvi diventare un traditore ancora una volta. Cosa intendete dire, signore?”

“Lasciami andare, padre,” disse Joe con tono supplichevole, notando il sorriso sul volto del loro ospite e osservando la gioia che la sua umiliazione gli procurava. “È davvero troppo. Chi vorrebbe scappare?”

“Chi vuole scappare!” gridò John, scuotendolo. “Perché lo fai, signore. Sei tu il ragazzo che si intrufola nelle case e provoca dissidi tra gentiluomini nobili e i loro figli, vero? Taci, per favore.”

Joe non fece alcuno sforzo per rispondere. Quella fu la goccia che fece traboccare il vaso della sua umiliazione. Si liberò dalla presa di suo padre, lanciò uno sguardo furioso al ospite che se ne stava andando e rientrò in casa.

“Ma per lei, ”, pensò Joe, mentre appoggiava le braccia su un tavolo nella sala comune e vi posava la testa. “Se non fosse per Dolly. A cui non potrei mai permettere che pensasse di me come a quel farabutto che tutti vorrebbero che fossi se scappassi. Questa casa e io ci separeremmo, subito.”

Essendo ormai sera, a quell’ora, Solomon Daisy, Tom Cobb e Long Parkes si trovavano tutti nella sala comune e avevano assistito, dalla finestra, a quanto appena accaduto. Poco dopo l’arrivo di Mr Willet, questi ricevette i complimenti del gruppo con grande compostezza; poi, accendendo la sua pipa, si sedette tra loro.

“Vedremo, signori,” disse John dopo una lunga pausa, “chi sia il padrone di questa >casa e chi no. Vedremo se siano i ragazzi a dover governare gli uomini, o gli uomini a dover governare i ragazzi.”

“E del tutto giusto,” convenne Solomon Daisy annuendo in segno di approvazione;
“Del tutto giusto, Johnny. Molto bene, Johnny. Ben detto, signor Willet. Ottimo, signore.”

John lentamente fissò lo sguardo su di lui, lo osservò per un lungo momento e infine rispose, con grande costernazione dei suoi ascoltatori: “Quando avrò bisogno del vostro incoraggiamento, signore, ve lo chiederò. Mi lasciate solo, signore. Posso cavarmela senza di voi, spero. Per favore, non affrontatemi, signore.”

“Non prendertela a male, Johnny; non volevo farti del male,” supplicò l’uomo piccolo.

“Molto bene, signore,” disse John, più ostinato del solito dopo il suo recente successo. “Non importa, signore. Credo di poter fare affidamento su me stesso, senza aver bisogno del vostro sostegno.” Dopo aver espresso questo pensiero, il signor Willet fissò lo sguardo sul caldaio e cadde in una sorta di trance, come se fosse immerso nei suoi pensieri.

Lo spirito di compagnia, un po’ offuscato da questo comportamento imbarazzante da parte del loro ospite, non fu più oggetto di conversazioni per molto tempo; ma alla fine il signor Cobb, alzandosi per spegnere la cenere dalla sua pipa, osservò che sperava Joe imparasse d’ora in poi ad obbedire a suo padre in tutto; aggiunse che quel giorno aveva capito chiaramente di non essere il tipo di uomo con cui si potessero scherzare; e concluse, per così dire in modo poetico, raccomandandogli di tenere d’occhio ciò che gli stava davanti nel futuro.

“Ti consiglierei, in cambio,” disse Joe, alzando lo sguardo con il viso arrossito, “di non parlarmi più.”

“Taci, signore,” gridò il signor Willet, svegliandosi all’improvviso e girandosi verso di lui.

“Non lo farò, padre,” gridò Joe, battendo il pugno sul tavolo con tanta forza che le giare e i bicchieri risuonarono di nuovo; “queste cose sono già abbastanza difficili da sopportare venendole da voi; da chiunque altro, invece, non le tollererò mai più. Quindi vi dico, signor Cobb, smettete di parlarmi.”

“Ma chi sei tu, per non poter essere parlato con te, eh, Joe?” disse il signor Cobb con un sorriso sarcastico.

A cui Joe non rispose nulla, ma scuotendo la testa in modo molto minaccioso, riprese la sua posizione originale, che avrebbe mantenuto pacificamente fino a quando la casa non si fosse chiusa di notte, se non fosse stato per il signor Cobb, stimolato dall’stupore della compagnia di fronte alla presunzione di quel giovane, che replicò con varie offese, le quali risultarono troppo pesanti da sopportare per la carne e il >sangue umano. Raccogliendo in un istante tutta l’irritazione e la rabbia accumulati negli anni, Joe si alzò di scatto, rovesciò il tavolo, si gettò addosso al suo vecchio nemico e lo colpì con tutte le sue forze, fino a spingerlo, con sorprendente rapidità, contro un mucchio di posacenere in un angolo; vi cadde dentro a testa in avanti, con un enorme rumore, rimanendo stordito e immobile. Poi, senza aspettare i complimenti dei presenti per la vittoria ottenuta, si ritirò nella sua camera da letto e, considerandosi in condizioni di assedio, accumulò tutti i mobili portatili contro la porta a mo’ di barricata.

“L’ho fatto finalmente,” disse Joe, sedendosi sul letto e asciugandosi il viso sudato. “Sapevo che prima o poi sarebbe successo. Devo separarmi dal palo di maggio; sono un vagabondo senza fissa dimora. Lei mi odia per sempre. È finita!”

Chapter 31

Pondering on his unhappy lot, Joe sat and listened for a long time, expecting every moment to hear their creaking footsteps on the stairs, or to be greeted by his worthy father with a summons to capitulate unconditionally, and deliver himself up straightway. But neither voice nor footstep came; and though some distant echoes, as of closing doors and people hurrying in and out of rooms, resounding from time to time through the great passages, and penetrating to his remote seclusion, gave note of unusual commotion downstairs, no nearer sound disturbed his place of retreat, which seemed the quieter for these far-off noises, and was as dull and full of gloom as any hermit’s cell.

It came on darker and darker. The old-fashioned furniture of the chamber, which was a kind of hospital for all the invalided movables in the house, grew indistinct and shadowy in its many shapes; chairs and tables, which by day were as honest cripples as need be, assumed a doubtful and mysterious character; and one old leprous screen of faded India leather and gold binding, which had kept out many a cold breath of air in days of yore and shut in many a jolly face, frowned on him with a spectral aspect, and stood at full height in its allotted corner, like some gaunt ghost who waited to be questioned. A portrait opposite the window—a queer, old grey-eyed general, in an oval frame—seemed to wink and doze as the light decayed, and at length, when the last faint glimmering speck of day went out, to shut its eyes in good earnest, and fall sound asleep. There was such a hush and mystery about everything, that Joe could not help following its example; and so went off into a slumber likewise, and dreamed of Dolly, till the clock of Chigwell church struck two.

Still nobody came. The distant noises in the house had ceased, and out of doors all was quiet; save for the occasional barking of some deep-mouthed dog, and the shaking of the branches by the night wind. He gazed mournfully out of window at each well-known object as it lay sleeping in the dim light of the moon; and creeping back to his former seat, thought about the late uproar, until, with long thinking of, it seemed to have occurred a month ago. Thus, between dozing, and thinking, and walking to the window and looking out, the night wore away; the grim old screen, and the kindred chairs and tables, began slowly to reveal themselves in their accustomed forms; the grey-eyed general seemed to wink and yawn and rouse himself; and at last he was broad awake again, and very uncomfortable and cold and haggard he looked, in the dull grey light of morning.

The sun had begun to peep above the forest trees, and already flung across the curling mist bright bars of gold, when Joe dropped from his window on the ground below, a little bundle and his trusty stick, and prepared to descend himself.

It was not a very difficult task; for there were so many projections and gable ends in the way, that they formed a series of clumsy steps, with no greater obstacle than a jump of some few feet at last. Joe, with his stick and bundle on his shoulder, quickly stood on the firm earth, and looked up at the old Maypole, it might be for the last time.

He didn’t apostrophise it, for he was no great scholar. He didn’t curse it, for he had little ill-will to give to anything on earth. He felt more affectionate and kind to it than ever he had done in all his life before, so said with all his heart, ‘God bless you!’ as a parting wish, and turned away.

He walked along at a brisk pace, big with great thoughts of going for a soldier and dying in some foreign country where it was very hot and sandy, and leaving God knows what unheard-of wealth in prize-money to Dolly, who would be very much affected when she came to know of it; and full of such youthful visions, which were sometimes sanguine and sometimes melancholy, but always had her for their main point and centre, pushed on vigorously until the noise of London sounded in his ears, and the Black Lion hove in sight.

It was only eight o’clock then, and very much astonished the Black Lion was, to see him come walking in with dust upon his feet at that early hour, with no grey mare to bear him company. But as he ordered breakfast to be got ready with all speed, and on its being set before him gave indisputable tokens of a hearty appetite, the Lion received him, as usual, with a hospitable welcome; and treated him with those marks of distinction, which, as a regular customer, and one within the freemasonry of the trade, he had a right to claim.

This Lion or landlord,—for he was called both man and beast, by reason of his having instructed the artist who painted his sign, to convey into the features of the lordly brute whose effigy it bore, as near a counterpart of his own face as his skill could compass and devise,—was a gentleman almost as quick of apprehension, and of almost as subtle a wit, as the mighty John himself. But the difference between them lay in this: that whereas Mr Willet’s extreme sagacity and acuteness were the efforts of unassisted nature, the Lion stood indebted, in no small amount, to beer; of which he swigged such copious draughts, that most of his faculties were utterly drowned and washed away, except the one great faculty of sleep, which he retained in surprising perfection. The creaking Lion over the house-door was, therefore, to say the truth, rather a drowsy, tame, and feeble lion; and as these social representatives of a savage class are usually of a conventional character (being depicted, for the most part, in impossible attitudes and of unearthly colours), he was frequently supposed by the more ignorant and uninformed among the neighbours, to be the veritable portrait of the host as he appeared on the occasion of some great funeral ceremony or public mourning.

Capitolo 31

Riflettendo sulla sua sfortunata situazione, Joe rimase seduto ad ascoltare per molto tempo, aspettandosi da un momento all’altro di sentire i loro passi strascicanti sulle scale, o che suo padre lo chiamasse a capitolare incondizionatamente e a consegnarsi immediatamente. Ma né voci né passi si udirono; e sebbene alcuni rumori lontani – come porte che si chiudevano e persone che andavano avanti e indietro nelle stanze – risuonassero di tanto in tanto attraverso i grandi corridoi, raggiungendo anche il suo remoto rifugio, nessun suono più vicino disturbò la sua solitudine. Anzi, quei rumori lontani sembravano rendere quel luogo ancora più silenzioso e cupo, proprio come una cella di eremita.

Diventava sempre più buio. I mobili vecchio stile della stanza, che in un certo senso rappresentavano una sorta di “ospedale” per tutti quegli oggetti inutilizzabili presenti nella casa, diventavano sempre più indistinti e avvolti nell’oscurità; sedie e tavoli, che di giorno sembravano semplicemente oggetti ordinari, assumevano ora un aspetto ambiguo e misterioso. Un vecchio paravento realizzato in pelle d’India sbiadita e con rilegature dorate, che un tempo aveva tenuto fuori il freddo e racchiuso volti sorridenti, lo fissava ora con un’espressione spettrale, ergendosi nella sua posizione abituale nell’angolo della stanza, come un magro fantasma in attesa di essere interrogato. Un ritratto appeso di fronte alla finestra – raffigurante un vecchio generale dai occhi grigi, incorniciato in una forma ovale – sembrava sbattere le palpebre e sonnecchiare man mano che la luce svaniva; infine, quando anche l’ultima traccia di chiaro scomparve, sembrò chiudere davvero gli occhi e addormentarsi per sempre. Tutto intorno regnava un silenzio e un mistero così profondi che Joe non poté fare a meno di seguirne l’esempio; anch’egli si addormentò, sognando Dolly, fino a quando le campane della chiesa di Chigwell batterono le due.

Nessuno arrivò ancora. I rumori lontani all’interno della casa si erano fermati, e fuori tutto era silenzio; solo di tanto in tanto si udiva il latrato di qualche cane dal muso largo, e i rami tremavano per la forza del vento notturno. Lui guardava tristemente fuori dalla finestra, osservando ogni oggetto familiare immerso nella debole luce della luna; poi tornava silenziosamente al suo posto, ripensando a tutto ciò che era accaduto poco prima. Finché, dopo molto tempo, sembrò che quegli eventi fossero avvenuti un mese prima. Così, tra sonnellini, pensieri e passeggiate vicino alla finestra, la notte trascorse; la vecchia tenda scura, le sedie e i tavoli familiari iniziarono lentamente a rivelarsi nella loro forma abituale; il generale dai capelli grigi sembrava sbadigliare e svegliarsi. Alla fine, si ritrovò completamente sveglio. Ma appariva molto stanco, freddo e pallido, sotto la luce grigiastra dell’alba.

Il sole aveva iniziato ad apparire sopra gli alberi della foresta e già gettava attraverso la nebbia dorati raggi di luce; in quel momento Joe si calò dalla sua finestra sul terreno sottostante, portando con sé un piccolo fagotto e il suo fedele bastone, pronto a scendere personalmente.

Non era un compito molto difficile; poiché c’erano così tante protuberanze e estremità a punta che formavano una sorta di gradini goffi, l’unico ostacolo rimasto era un piccolo salto di qualche metro. Joe, con il suo bastone e il fagotto in spalla, si affrettò ad arrivare sulla terraferma e alzò lo sguardo verso l’antico palo di maggio, forse per l’ultima volta.

Non usò l’apostrofo, perché non era un grande studioso; non lo maledisse, perché non provava alcun rancore verso nulla al mondo. Provava per esso più affetto e gentilezza di quanto avesse mai fatto in tutta la sua vita. Così, con tutto il cuore, disse: “Dio ti benedica!”, come augurio di addio, e se ne andò.

Camminava a passo svelto, immerso in grandi pensieri riguardanti l’idea di arruolarsi nell’esercito e morire in qualche paese straniero caldo e sabbioso, lasciando a Dolly una fortuna inaudita come ricompensa. Una fortuna che la avrebbe profondamente commossa quando ne fosse venuta a conoscenza. Con tali visioni giovanili, a volte audaci, a volte malinconiche, ma sempre incentrate su di lei, proseguì con determinazione fino a quando non udì il rumore di Londra e non vide apparire la statua del Leone Nero.

Erano appena le otto in orario, e il nero Leone fu molto sorpreso nel vederlo entrare così presto, con la polvere sui piedi e senza alcun animale che lo accompagnasse. Tuttavia, quando ordinò che gli preparassero la colazione al più veloce, e mostrò di avere un appetito davvero robusto, il Leone lo accolse come al solito con ospitalità, riservandogli quei segni di distinzione che, in quanto cliente abituale e membro della “fratellanza” del mestiere, gli spettavano.

Questo Leone o padrone di casa – poiché veniva chiamato sia uomo che bestia, data la sua richiesta all’artista incaricato di dipingere il suo cartello di far riconoscere nelle sembianze di quella “bestia nobile” l’immagine stessa del suo volto, nel modo più fedele possibile alla sua vera natura – era un uomo quasi altrettanto pronto nell’intuire e dotato di uno spirito quasi altrettanto acuto quanto il potente John stesso. Tuttavia, la differenza tra loro stava nel fatto che, mentre l’estrema saggezza e acutezza del signor Willet erano frutto delle sole capacità naturali, questo Leone doveva in gran parte alla birra: ne beveva quantità così abbondanti che la maggior parte delle sue facoltà mentali veniva completamente sommersa e annientata, tranne quella del sonno, che manteneva in una perfezione sorprendente. Quindi, il “ruggito” di questo Leone davanti alla porta della casa era, a dire il vero, più un sonnolento, docile e debole ruggito. E poiché questi rappresentanti sociali di una classe selvaggia sono solitamente ritratti in pose impossibili e con colori strani, i vicini meno informati spesso pensavano che fossero davvero il ritratto fedele del padrone di casa nelle occasioni di grandi cerimonie funebri o di lutto pubblico.

‘What noisy fellow is that in the next room?’ said Joe, when he had disposed of his breakfast, and had washed and brushed himself.

‘A recruiting serjeant,’ replied the Lion.

Joe started involuntarily. Here was the very thing he had been dreaming of, all the way along.

‘And I wish,’ said the Lion, ‘he was anywhere else but here. The party make noise enough, but don’t call for much. There’s great cry there, Mr Willet, but very little wool. Your father wouldn’t like ‘em, I know.’

Perhaps not much under any circumstances. Perhaps if he could have known what was passing at that moment in Joe’s mind, he would have liked them still less.

‘Is he recruiting for a—for a fine regiment?’ said Joe, glancing at a little round mirror that hung in the bar.

‘I believe he is,’ replied the host. ‘It’s much the same thing, whatever regiment he’s recruiting for. I’m told there an’t a deal of difference between a fine man and another one, when they’re shot through and through.’

‘They’re not all shot,’ said Joe.

‘No,’ the Lion answered, ‘not all. Those that are—supposing it’s done easy—are the best off in my opinion.’

‘Ah!’ retorted Joe, ‘but you don’t care for glory.’

‘For what?’ said the Lion.

‘Glory.’

‘No,’ returned the Lion, with supreme indifference. ‘I don’t. You’re right in that, Mr Willet. When Glory comes here, and calls for anything to drink and changes a guinea to pay for it, I’ll give it him for nothing. It’s my belief, sir, that the Glory’s arms wouldn’t do a very strong business.’

These remarks were not at all comforting. Joe walked out, stopped at the door of the next room, and listened. The serjeant was describing a military life. It was all drinking, he said, except that there were frequent intervals of eating and love-making. A battle was the finest thing in the world—when your side won it—and Englishmen always did that. ‘Supposing you should be killed, sir?’ said a timid voice in one corner. ‘Well, sir, supposing you should be,’ said the serjeant, ‘what then? Your country loves you, sir; his Majesty King George the Third loves you; your memory is honoured, revered, respected; everybody’s fond of you, and grateful to you; your name’s wrote down at full length in a book in the War Office. Damme, gentlemen, we must all die some time, or another, eh?’

The voice coughed, and said no more.

Joe walked into the room. A group of half-a-dozen fellows had gathered together in the taproom, and were listening with greedy ears. One of them, a carter in a smockfrock, seemed wavering and disposed to enlist. The rest, who were by no means disposed, strongly urged him to do so (according to the custom of mankind), backed the serjeant’s arguments, and grinned among themselves. ‘I say nothing, boys,’ said the serjeant, who sat a little apart, drinking his liquor. ‘For lads of spirit’—here he cast an eye on Joe—‘this is the time. I don’t want to inveigle you. The king’s not come to that, I hope. Brisk young blood is what we want; not milk and water. We won’t take five men out of six. We want top-sawyers, we do. I’m not a-going to tell tales out of school, but, damme, if every gentleman’s son that carries arms in our corps, through being under a cloud and having little differences with his relations, was counted up’—here his eye fell on Joe again, and so good-naturedly, that Joe beckoned him out. He came directly.

‘You’re a gentleman, by G—!’ was his first remark, as he slapped him on the back. ‘You’re a gentleman in disguise. So am I. Let’s swear a friendship.’

Joe didn’t exactly do that, but he shook hands with him, and thanked him for his good opinion.

‘You want to serve,’ said his new friend. ‘You shall. You were made for it. You’re one of us by nature. What’ll you take to drink?’

‘Nothing just now,’ replied Joe, smiling faintly. ‘I haven’t quite made up my mind.’

‘A mettlesome fellow like you, and not made up his mind!’ cried the serjeant. ‘Here—let me give the bell a pull, and you’ll make up your mind in half a minute, I know.’

‘You’re right so far’—answered Joe, ‘for if you pull the bell here, where I’m known, there’ll be an end of my soldiering inclinations in no time. Look in my face. You see me, do you?’

‘I do,’ replied the serjeant with an oath, ‘and a finer young fellow or one better qualified to serve his king and country, I never set my—’ he used an adjective in this place—‘eyes on.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joe, ‘I didn’t ask you for want of a compliment, but thank you all the same. Do I look like a sneaking fellow or a liar?’

The serjeant rejoined with many choice asseverations that he didn’t; and that if his (the serjeant’s) own father were to say he did, he would run the old gentleman through the body cheerfully, and consider it a meritorious action.

Joe expressed his obligations, and continued, ‘You can trust me then, and credit what I say. I believe I shall enlist in your regiment to-night. The reason I don’t do so now is, because I don’t want until to-night, to do what I can’t recall. Where shall I find you, this evening?’

His friend replied with some unwillingness, and after much ineffectual entreaty having for its object the immediate settlement of the business, that his quarters would be at the Crooked Billet in Tower Street; where he would be found waking until midnight, and sleeping until breakfast time to-morrow.

‘And if I do come—which it’s a million to one, I shall—when will you take me out of London?’ demanded Joe.

‘To-morrow morning, at half after eight o’clock,’ replied the serjeant. ‘You’ll go abroad—a country where it’s all sunshine and plunder—the finest climate in the world.’

‘To go abroad,’ said Joe, shaking hands with him, ‘is the very thing I want. You may expect me.’

‘You’re the kind of lad for us,’ cried the serjeant, holding Joe’s hand in his, in the excess of his admiration. ‘You’re the boy to push your fortune. I don’t say it because I bear you any envy, or would take away from the credit of the rise you’ll make, but if I had been bred and taught like you, I’d have been a colonel by this time.’

“Che tipo rumoroso è quello nella stanza accanto?” disse Joe, dopo aver finito di fare colazione e essersi lavato e pettinato.

“Un sergente addetto al reclutamento,” rispose il Leone.

Joe iniziò senza volerlo. Ecco esattamente ciò di cui aveva sognato per tutto quel tempo.

“E vorrei,” disse il Leone, “che fosse da qualche altra parte invece che qui. La festa fa abbastanza rumore, ma non porta a molto. Ci sono molti gridi, signor Willet, ma poca sostanza. So che a vostro padre non piacerebbero.”

Forse in nessuna circostanza sarebbe cambiato molto. Forse, se avesse potuto sapere cosa passava in quel momento nella mente di Joe, li avrebbe odiati ancora di più.

“Sta reclutando per un, per un ottimo reggimento?” chiese Joe, guardando un piccolo specchio rotondo appeso al bancone.

“Credo di sì,” rispose l’ospite. “È più o meno la stessa cosa, indipendentemente dal reggimento per cui recluta gente. Mi hanno detto che non c’è molta differenza tra un uomo onesto e un altro quando vengono uccisi entrambi.”

“Non sono tutti morti,” disse Joe.

“No,” rispose il Leone, “non tutti. Quelli che, supponendo che tutto vada liscio, sono, a mio parere, i più fortunati.”

“Ah!”, ribatté Joe, “ma a te non interessa la gloria.”

“Per cosa?” disse il Leone.

‘Gloria.’

“No,” rispose il Leone con estrema indifferenza. “Non lo faccio. Ha ragione lei, signor Willet. Quando Glory verrà qui e chiederà qualcosa da bere, cambiando una ghinea per pagarla, gliela darò senza alcun costo. Credo, signore, che le attività commerciali di Glory non andrebbero molto bene.”

Queste osservazioni non erano affatto rassicuranti. Joe uscì, si fermò alla porta della stanza accanto e ascoltò: il sergente stava descrivendo la vita militare. Diceva che consistesse tutto nel bere, con frequenti pause per mangiare e fare l’amore. Una battaglia era la cosa migliore al mondo, quando la tua parte la vinceva, e gli inglesi ci riuscivano sempre. “E se vi uccidessero, signore?” disse una voce timida in un angolo. “Beh, signori, se vi uccidessero, ” rispose il sergente, “che cosa succederebbe? Il vostro paese vi ama; Sua Maestà il re Giorgio III III vi ama; la vostra memoria viene onorata e rispettata da tutti; a tutti piacete e vi sono grati; il vostro nome è scritto per intero in un libro presso l’Ufficio della Guerra. Diamine, signori, tutti dobbiamo morire prima o poi, no?”

La voce tossì e non disse più nulla.

Joe entrò nella stanza. Un gruppo di una mezza dozzina di uomini si era riunito nel locale e ascoltava con attenzione. Uno di loro, un carrettiere in abiti da lavoro, sembrava esitante e propenso ad unirsi a loro. Gli altri, che per niente erano disposti a farlo, lo incoraggiarono vivamente a farlo (secondo le abitudini umane), sostenendo gli argomenti del sergente e sorridendosi tra loro. “Non dico nulla, ragazzi,” disse il sergente, seduto in un angolo mentre beveva il suo liquore. “Per giovani coraggiosi, ” – qui gettò uno sguardo su Joe – “questo è il momento giusto. Non voglio convincervi con lusinghe. Spero che il ‘re’ non arrivi fino a questo punto. Ci servono giovani pieni di vigore, non latte e acqua. Non accetteremo nemmeno cinque uomini su sei. Vogliamo persone capaci di combattere davvero. Non intendo rivelare segreti, ma, accidenti, se ogni figlio di gentiluomo che porta armi nel nostro reggimento, anche solo per qualche piccola disputa con i suoi parenti, venisse contato, ” – ancora uno sguardo su Joe, questa volta con grande cordialità – “Joe, vieni fuori un attimo.” Lui si avvicinò immediatamente.

“Sei davvero un gentiluomo. Per Giove!” fu la sua prima frase, mentre gli dava una pacca sulla schiena. “Sei un gentiluomo sotto mentite spoglie. Anch’io lo sono. Diamo giuramento di essere amici.”

Joe non ha esattamente fatto quello, ma gli ha stretto la mano e lo ha ringraziato per il suo ottimo parere.

“Vuoi servire,” disse il suo nuovo amico. “Lo farai. Sei nato per questo. Per natura, sei uno di noi. Cosa vuoi bere?”

“Niente, per ora,” rispose Joe, sorridendo appena. “Non ho ancora deciso.”

“Un tipo irrequieto come te, e ancora non hai deciso niente!” esclamò il sergente. “Ecco, lascia che suoni la campanella; vedrai che entro un minuto avrai preso una decisione.”

“Hai ragione fino ad ora”, rispose Joe, “perché se suoni questo campanello qui, dove mi conoscono, le mie tendenze a diventare soldato finiranno immediatamente. Guardami in faccia. Mi vedi, vero?”

“Sì,” rispose il sergente giurando, “e non ho mai posato i miei occhi su un giovane più nobile o meglio qualificato per servire il suo re e il suo paese.”

“Grazie,” disse Joe, “non te l’ho chiesto per bisogno di un complimento, ma grazie lo stesso. Sembro una persona disonesta o un bugiardo?”

Il sergente riprese a parlare con molte affermazioni decise, sostenendo di non aver fatto ciò che aveva detto; e aggiunse che se anche suo padre gli dicesse lo stesso, lui sarebbe felice di pugnalare quell’anziano signore e considerarlo un atto meritevole.

Joe espresse le sue intenzioni e continuò: “Allora potete fidarvi di me e credere a ciò che dico. Credo che mi arruolerò nel vostro reggimento entro notte. Il motivo per cui non lo faccio ora è perché non voglio fare qualcosa di cui non ricordo. Dove vi troverò stasera?”

Il suo amico rispose con riluttanza; dopo molte suppliche infruttuose volte ad ottenere una soluzione immediata della questione, gli fu detto che avrebbe soggiornato al Crooked Billet in Tower Street: lì lo si sarebbe trovato sveglio fino a mezzanotte e addormentato fino all’ora di colazione il giorno seguente.

“E se davvero venissi – il che è improbabile mille volte su un milione – quando mi porteresti fuori da Londra?” chiese Joe.

“Domani mattina, alle otto e mezza,” rispose il sergente. “Andrai all’estero, in un paese dove c’è solo sole e saccheggio, il clima migliore del mondo.”

“Andare all’estero,” disse Joe stringendogli la mano, “è proprio quello che voglio. Potete contare su di me.”

“Sei proprio il tipo di ragazzo che ci serve,” esclamò il sergente, tenendo la mano di Joe nella sua, per l’eccesso della sua ammirazione. “Sei il ragazzo giusto per farsi strada nel mondo. Non lo dico perché ti invidio o voglia toglierti il merito dei successi che otterrai, ma se fossi stato cresciuto e educato come te, a quest’ora sarei già un colonnello.”

‘Tush, man!’ said Joe, ‘I’m not so young as that. Needs must when the devil drives; and the devil that drives me is an empty pocket and an unhappy home. For the present, good-bye.’

‘For king and country!’ cried the serjeant, flourishing his cap.

‘For bread and meat!’ cried Joe, snapping his fingers. And so they parted.

He had very little money in his pocket; so little indeed, that after paying for his breakfast (which he was too honest and perhaps too proud to score up to his father’s charge) he had but a penny left. He had courage, notwithstanding, to resist all the affectionate importunities of the serjeant, who waylaid him at the door with many protestations of eternal friendship, and did in particular request that he would do him the favour to accept of only one shilling as a temporary accommodation. Rejecting his offers both of cash and credit, Joe walked away with stick and bundle as before, bent upon getting through the day as he best could, and going down to the locksmith’s in the dusk of the evening; for it should go hard, he had resolved, but he would have a parting word with charming Dolly Varden.

He went out by Islington and so on to Highgate, and sat on many stones and gates, but there were no voices in the bells to bid him turn. Since the time of noble Whittington, fair flower of merchants, bells have come to have less sympathy with humankind. They only ring for money and on state occasions. Wanderers have increased in number; ships leave the Thames for distant regions, carrying from stem to stern no other cargo; the bells are silent; they ring out no entreaties or regrets; they are used to it and have grown worldly.

Joe bought a roll, and reduced his purse to the condition (with a difference) of that celebrated purse of Fortunatus, which, whatever were its favoured owner’s necessities, had one unvarying amount in it. In these real times, when all the Fairies are dead and buried, there are still a great many purses which possess that quality. The sum-total they contain is expressed in arithmetic by a circle, and whether it be added to or multiplied by its own amount, the result of the problem is more easily stated than any known in figures.

Evening drew on at last. With the desolate and solitary feeling of one who had no home or shelter, and was alone utterly in the world for the first time, he bent his steps towards the locksmith’s house. He had delayed till now, knowing that Mrs Varden sometimes went out alone, or with Miggs for her sole attendant, to lectures in the evening; and devoutly hoping that this might be one of her nights of moral culture.

He had walked up and down before the house, on the opposite side of the way, two or three times, when as he returned to it again, he caught a glimpse of a fluttering skirt at the door. It was Dolly’s—to whom else could it belong? no dress but hers had such a flow as that. He plucked up his spirits, and followed it into the workshop of the Golden Key.

His darkening the door caused her to look round. Oh that face! ‘If it hadn’t been for that,’ thought Joe, ‘I should never have walked into poor Tom Cobb. She’s twenty times handsomer than ever. She might marry a Lord!’

He didn’t say this. He only thought it—perhaps looked it also. Dolly was glad to see him, and was SO sorry her father and mother were away from home. Joe begged she wouldn’t mention it on any account.

Dolly hesitated to lead the way into the parlour, for there it was nearly dark; at the same time she hesitated to stand talking in the workshop, which was yet light and open to the street. They had got by some means, too, before the little forge; and Joe having her hand in his (which he had no right to have, for Dolly only gave it him to shake), it was so like standing before some homely altar being married, that it was the most embarrassing state of things in the world.

‘I have come,’ said Joe, ‘to say good-bye—to say good-bye for I don’t know how many years; perhaps for ever. I am going abroad.’

Now this was exactly what he should not have said. Here he was, talking like a gentleman at large who was free to come and go and roam about the world at pleasure, when that gallant coachmaker had vowed but the night before that Miss Varden held him bound in adamantine chains; and had positively stated in so many words that she was killing him by inches, and that in a fortnight more or thereabouts he expected to make a decent end and leave the business to his mother.

Dolly released her hand and said ‘Indeed!’ She remarked in the same breath that it was a fine night, and in short, betrayed no more emotion than the forge itself.

‘I couldn’t go,’ said Joe, ‘without coming to see you. I hadn’t the heart to.’

Dolly was more sorry than she could tell, that he should have taken so much trouble. It was such a long way, and he must have such a deal to do. And how WAS Mr Willet—that dear old gentleman—

‘Is this all you say!’ cried Joe.

All! Good gracious, what did the man expect! She was obliged to take her apron in her hand and run her eyes along the hem from corner to corner, to keep herself from laughing in his face;—not because his gaze confused her—not at all.

Joe had small experience in love affairs, and had no notion how different young ladies are at different times; he had expected to take Dolly up again at the very point where he had left her after that delicious evening ride, and was no more prepared for such an alteration than to see the sun and moon change places. He had buoyed himself up all day with an indistinct idea that she would certainly say ‘Don’t go,’ or ‘Don’t leave us,’ or ‘Why do you go?’ or ‘Why do you leave us?’ or would give him some little encouragement of that sort; he had even entertained the possibility of her bursting into tears, of her throwing herself into his arms, of her falling down in a fainting fit without previous word or sign; but any approach to such a line of conduct as this, had been so far from his thoughts that he could only look at her in silent wonder.

“Ma dai, amico!”, disse Joe, “Non sono più così giovane. Bisogna fare ciò che è necessario quando il diavolo ti spinge; e il diavolo che mi spinge in questo momento è una tasca vuota e un casa infelice. Per ora, addio.”

“Per il re e per la patria!”, gridò il sergente, sventolando il suo cappello.

“Per il pane e la carne!”, gridò Joe, facendo schioccare le dita. E così se ne andarono.

Aveva molto poco denaro in tasca; così poco, infatti, che dopo aver pagato la colazione (che era troppo onesto e forse anche troppo orgoglioso per chiederlo in conto a suo padre), gli rimase solo un penny. Tuttavia, ebbe il coraggio di resistere a tutte le affettuose insistenze del sergente, che lo fermò alla porta con molte dichiarazioni di eterna amicizia, chiedendogli in particolare di accettare almeno un shilling come aiuto temporaneo. Rifiutando sia i suoi offerti in denaro che quelli a credito, Joe se ne andò con il suo bastone e le sue cose, deciso a cavarsela nel modo migliore possibile fino alla sera; aveva infatti deciso che sarebbe stato difficile, ma voleva comunque dire addio a quella incantevole Dolly Varden.

Uscì da Islington e proseguì fino a Highgate; si sedette su molte pietre e davanti a molti portoni, ma nelle campane non c’era alcuna voce che lo invitasse a tornare indietro. Da quando visse il nobile Whittington, quel bellissimo esempio di mercante, le campane hanno perso ogni simpatia per l’umanità. Suonano soltanto per denaro o in occasioni ufficiali. Il numero dei viandanti è aumentato; le navi lasciano il Tamigi dirette verso regioni lontane, senza portare a bordo altro che merci. Le campane tacciono; non emettono più suppliche né rimpianti. Sono ormai abituate a questo stato di cose e sono diventate “mondane”.

Joe comprò un rotolo di denaro, riducendo così il contenuto della sua borsa allo stesso stato (con una differenza) di quella famosa borsa di Fortunato: qualunque fossero le esigenze del suo proprietario, il contenuto di quella borsa rimaneva sempre lo stesso. In questi tempi difficili, in cui tutte le fate sono morte e sepolte, ci sono ancora molte borse che possiedono questa caratteristica. La somma totale che contengono viene rappresentata matematicamente da un cerchio; sia che venga aggiunta o moltiplicata per la propria stessa quantità, il risultato è più semplice da comprendere di qualsiasi altro calcolo conosciuto.

La sera finalmente arrivò. Con quella sensazione di desolazione e solitudine tipica di chi non ha un casa né un rifugio, e si trova completamente sicuro da solo nel mondo per la prima volta nella sua vita, si diresse verso la casa del fabbro chiave. Aveva ritardato fino ad allora, sapendo che la signora Varden a volte usciva da sola, o soltanto con Miggs come accompagnatrice, per partecipare a lezioni serali; e sperava ardentemente che quella fosse proprio una di quelle serate dedicate alla cultura morale.

Si era avvicinato avanti e indietro davanti alla casa, dall’altra parte della strada, due o tre volte; quando tornò nuovamente lì, intravide una gonna che svolazzava vicino alla porta. Era quella di Dolly, a chi altro poteva appartenere? Nessun’altra gonna aveva quel movimento fluido come la sua. Si rincoraggiò e la seguì all’interno del laboratorio della “Chiave d’Oro”.

Il fatto che avesse oscurato la porta la fece girare di scatto. Oh, quel viso, “Se non fosse stato per quello,” pensò Joe, “non sarei mai entrato nella casa di povero Tom Cobb. È venti volte più bella di prima. Potrebbe sposare un lord!”

Lui non lo disse mai. Se ne limitò a pensarlo, forse anche a guardarlo. A Dolly fece piacere vederlo, e le dispiaceva tantissimo che i suoi genitori fossero lontani da casa. Joe la pregò di non menzionare mai l’argomento.

Dolly esitò ad accompagnarlo nel salotto, perché là dentro era quasi buio; allo stesso tempo, esitò anche a parlare nel laboratorio, che invece era ancora illuminato e aperto sulla strada. Prima di arrivare alla piccola fucina, erano riusciti in qualche modo ad avvicinarsi l’uno all’altro; e poiché Joe le teneva la mano nella sua (cosa che non aveva alcun diritto di fare, visto che Dolly gliela dava soltanto per stringerla), sembrava davvero di trovarsi davanti a un altare domestico durante una cerimonia nuziale. Era davvero la situazione più imbarazzante del mondo.

“Sono venuto,” disse Joe, “per dire addio, per dire addio per chissà quanti anni; forse per sempre. Sto andando all’estero.”

Era esattamente ciò che non avrebbe dovuto dire. Lì stava, parlando come un gentiluomo libero di andare e venire, di viaggiare per il mondo a piacimento, mentre quel nobile costruttore di carrozze aveva giurato, ma la notte precedente, Miss Varden lo aveva legato con catene d’acciaio; gli aveva detto chiaramente che lo stava uccidendo poco a poco, e che in circa quindici giorni avrebbe avuto una fine dignitosa, lasciando l’attività a sua madre.

Dolly lasciò andare la sua mano e disse: “Certamente!” Nello stesso istante aggiunse che era una bella notte; in breve, non mostrò alcuna emozione più di quella della stessa fucina.

“Non avrei potuto andarmene senza venire a trovarti,” disse Joe. “Non ne avevo il coraggio.”

A Dolly dispiaceva molto che lui si fosse preso tanta briga. Era una distanza così lunga, e sicuramente aveva molte cose da fare. E poi, come stava il signor Willett, quel caro vecchio gentiluomo.

“È tutto quello che hai da dire?”, gridò Joe.

Oh mio Dio, cosa si aspettava quell’uomo! Fu costretta a prendere il grembiule in mano e a controllare attentamente i bordi da un angolo all’altro, per trattenersi dal ridere in faccia a lui. Non perché il suo sguardo la confondesse. Assolutamente no.

Joe aveva poca esperienza in questioni d’amore e non aveva la minima idea di quanto le giovani donne possano cambiare nel corso del tempo; si aspettava di rivedere Dolly esattamente nel punto in cui l’aveva lasciata dopo quella deliziosa passeggiata serale, e non era affatto preparato a un simile cambiamento, proprio come non avrebbe mai immaginato che il sole e la luna potessero scambiarsi di posto. Per tutto il giorno si era consolato con l’idea vaga che lei sicuramente gli avrebbe detto “Non andare”, o “Non lasciarci”, o “Perché te ne vai?”, oppure gli avrebbe dato qualche segno incoraggiante del genere; aveva persino preso in considerazione la possibilità che scoppiasse in lacrime, che si gettasse tra le sue braccia, o che svenisse all’improvviso senza alcun preavviso. Ma qualsiasi idea del genere era lontana dalle sue riflessioni; poteva soltanto guardarla con silenzioso stupore.

Dolly in the meanwhile, turned to the corners of her apron, and measured the sides, and smoothed out the wrinkles, and was as silent as he. At last after a long pause, Joe said good-bye. ‘Good-bye’—said Dolly—with as pleasant a smile as if he were going into the next street, and were coming back to supper; ‘good-bye.’

‘Come,’ said Joe, putting out both hands, ‘Dolly, dear Dolly, don’t let us part like this. I love you dearly, with all my heart and soul; with as much truth and earnestness as ever man loved woman in this world, I do believe. I am a poor fellow, as you know—poorer now than ever, for I have fled from home, not being able to bear it any longer, and must fight my own way without help. You are beautiful, admired, are loved by everybody, are well off and happy; and may you ever be so! Heaven forbid I should ever make you otherwise; but give me a word of comfort. Say something kind to me. I have no right to expect it of you, I know, but I ask it because I love you, and shall treasure the slightest word from you all through my life. Dolly, dearest, have you nothing to say to me?’

No. Nothing. Dolly was a coquette by nature, and a spoilt child. She had no notion of being carried by storm in this way. The coachmaker would have been dissolved in tears, and would have knelt down, and called himself names, and clasped his hands, and beat his breast, and tugged wildly at his cravat, and done all kinds of poetry. Joe had no business to be going abroad. He had no right to be able to do it. If he was in adamantine chains, he couldn’t.

‘I have said good-bye,’ said Dolly, ‘twice. Take your arm away directly, Mr Joseph, or I’ll call Miggs.’

‘I’ll not reproach you,’ answered Joe, ‘it’s my fault, no doubt. I have thought sometimes that you didn’t quite despise me, but I was a fool to think so. Every one must, who has seen the life I have led—you most of all. God bless you!’

He was gone, actually gone. Dolly waited a little while, thinking he would return, peeped out at the door, looked up the street and down as well as the increasing darkness would allow, came in again, waited a little longer, went upstairs humming a tune, bolted herself in, laid her head down on her bed, and cried as if her heart would break. And yet such natures are made up of so many contradictions, that if Joe Willet had come back that night, next day, next week, next month, the odds are a hundred to one she would have treated him in the very same manner, and have wept for it afterwards with the very same distress.

She had no sooner left the workshop than there cautiously peered out from behind the chimney of the forge, a face which had already emerged from the same concealment twice or thrice, unseen, and which, after satisfying itself that it was now alone, was followed by a leg, a shoulder, and so on by degrees, until the form of Mr Tappertit stood confessed, with a brown-paper cap stuck negligently on one side of its head, and its arms very much a-kimbo.

‘Have my ears deceived me,’ said the ‘prentice, ‘or do I dream! am I to thank thee, Fortun’, or to cus thee—which?’

He gravely descended from his elevation, took down his piece of looking-glass, planted it against the wall upon the usual bench, twisted his head round, and looked closely at his legs.

‘If they’re a dream,’ said Sim, ‘let sculptures have such wisions, and chisel ‘em out when they wake. This is reality. Sleep has no such limbs as them. Tremble, Willet, and despair. She’s mine! She’s mine!’

With these triumphant expressions, he seized a hammer and dealt a heavy blow at a vice, which in his mind’s eye represented the sconce or head of Joseph Willet. That done, he burst into a peal of laughter which startled Miss Miggs even in her distant kitchen, and dipping his head into a bowl of water, had recourse to a jack-towel inside the closet door, which served the double purpose of smothering his feelings and drying his face.

Joe, disconsolate and down-hearted, but full of courage too, on leaving the locksmith’s house made the best of his way to the Crooked Billet, and there inquired for his friend the serjeant, who, expecting no man less, received him with open arms. In the course of five minutes after his arrival at that house of entertainment, he was enrolled among the gallant defenders of his native land; and within half an hour, was regaled with a steaming supper of boiled tripe and onions, prepared, as his friend assured him more than once, at the express command of his most Sacred Majesty the King. To this meal, which tasted very savoury after his long fasting, he did ample justice; and when he had followed it up, or down, with a variety of loyal and patriotic toasts, he was conducted to a straw mattress in a loft over the stable, and locked in there for the night.

The next morning, he found that the obliging care of his martial friend had decorated his hat with sundry particoloured streamers, which made a very lively appearance; and in company with that officer, and three other military gentlemen newly enrolled, who were under a cloud so dense that it only left three shoes, a boot, and a coat and a half visible among them, repaired to the riverside. Here they were joined by a corporal and four more heroes, of whom two were drunk and daring, and two sober and penitent, but each of whom, like Joe, had his dusty stick and bundle. The party embarked in a passage-boat bound for Gravesend, whence they were to proceed on foot to Chatham; the wind was in their favour, and they soon left London behind them, a mere dark mist—a giant phantom in the air.

Nel frattempo, Dolly si occupava delle pieghe del suo grembiule, misurava i lati e sistemava tutte le grinze, rimanendo silenziosa proprio come lui. Alla fine, dopo una lunga pausa, Joe disse addio. “Addio”, rispose Dolly, con un sorriso così gentile, come se lui stesse semplicemente andando nella strada accanto per poi tornare a cena, “Addio.”

“Come,” disse Joe, tendendo entrambe le mani, “Dolly, cara Dolly, non lasciare che ci separiamo così. Ti amo profondamente, con tutto il mio cuore e la mia ‘anima; con tutta la .verità e sincerità di cui un uomo abbia mai amato una donna in questo mondo, lo credo davvero. Sono un povero ragazzo, come sai, più povero che mai, perché ho dovuto fuggire da casa, non riuscendo più a sopportarla, e devo lottare da solo senza aiuti. Tu sei bella, ammirata, amata da tutti, sei ricca e felice; possa tu rimanerlo per sempre! Non permettere che io ti faccia mai soffrire, ma dammi almeno una parola di conforto. Dimmi qualcosa di gentile. So che non ho il diritto di chiedertelo, ma lo faccio perché ti amo e custodirò per sempre ogni tua parola nella mia vita. Dolly, cara, non hai nulla da dirmi?”

No. Niente. Dolly era per natura una civetta, e inoltre un bambino viziato. Non aveva la minima idea di poter essere trascinata via in questo modo da una “tempesta”. Il costruttore del carrozzone sarebbe sicuramente scoppiato in lacrime, si sarebbe inginocchiato, si sarebbe maledetto, avrebbe stretto le mani, si sarebbe battuto il petto e avrebbe strattonato disperatamente la sua cravatta, facendo di tutto tranne che comportarsi in modo razionale. Joe non aveva alcun diritto di andare all’estero. Nemmeno se fosse stato incatenato con catene d’acciaio, non avrebbe potuto farlo.

“Ho detto addio,” disse Dolly, “due volte. Toglietemi immediatamente il braccio, signor Joseph, altrimenti chiamerò Miggs.”

“Non ti rimprovererò,” rispose Joe, “è colpa mia, senza alcun >dubbio. A volte ho pensato che forse non mi disprezzassi del tutto, ma è stato un stupido da parte mia crederlo. Chiunque abbia visto la vita che ho condotto, soprattutto tu, deve rendersene conto. Che Dio ti benedica!”

Se n’era andato, davvero se n’era andato. Dolly aspettò per un po’, pensando che sarebbe tornato; sbirciò fuori dalla porta, guardò su e giù per la strada, nella misura in cui il crepuscolo lo permetteva, poi rientrò in casa, aspettò ancora un po’, salì al piano di sopra canticchiando una canzone, si chiuse a chiave nella sua stanza, appoggiò la testa sul letto e pianse come se il suo cuore dovesse spezzarsi. Eppure, queste nature sono fatte di tante contraddizioni. Se Joe Willet fosse tornato quella notte, il giorno dopo, la settimana successiva, il mese seguente, le probabilità sono cento a uno che lei lo avrebbe trattato esattamente nello stesso modo e, in seguito, avrebbe pianto per questo con la stessa angoscia.

Non appena ebbe lasciato il laboratorio, da dietro la ciminiera della fucina spuntò con cautela un viso che, già due o tre volte in precedenza, era emerso dalla stessa nascondiglio senza essere visto. Dopo essersi assicurato che ora fosse solo, seguirono gradualmente una gamba, una spalla, e così via, fino a quando l’intera figura di Mr Tappertit si rivelò: con un cappello di carta marrone appoggiato in modo negligente su un lato della testa e le braccia incrociate.

“Mi sono forse ingannato con le orecchie,” disse il “apprendista”, “o sto sognando? Devo ringraziarti, Fortun’, o dovrei maledirti, cosa devo fare?”

Discese seriamente dal suo piedistallo, prese il proprio specchio, lo appoggiò contro il muro sul solito sgabello, girò la testa e osservò attentamente le proprie gambe.

“Se sono solo sogni,” disse Sim, “allora che le sculture abbiano tali visioni e che vengano scolpite quando si svegliano. Questa è la realtà. Il sonno non possiede arti del genere. Tremi, Willet. E dispera. Lei è mia! È mia!”

Con queste espressioni trionfali, afferrò un martello e sferrò un colpo violento contro una morsa, che nella sua mente rappresentava la testa di Joseph Willet. Dopo averlo fatto, scoppiò in una risata così forte da spaventare Miss Miggs, anche lei lontana nella sua cucina; poi si bagnò il viso in una ciotola d’acqua e utilizzò un asciugamano appeso dietro la porta dell’armadio, che aveva il doppio scopo di soffocare i suoi sentimenti e asciugarsi il viso.

Joe, disperato e abbattuto, ma anche pieno di coraggio, uscito dalla casa del fabbro chiave si diresse subito verso il Crooked Billet, dove chiese notizie del suo amico il sergente. Quest’ultimo, aspettandosi proprio lui, lo accolse a braccia aperte. Nel giro di cinque minuti dall’arrivo in quella casa di divertimenti, fu arruolato tra i valorosi difensori della sua patria; e mezz’ora dopo gli fu offerta una cena calda a base di trippa bollita e cipolle, preparata, come il suo amico gli aveva assicurato più volte, su esplicito ordine del Suo Sacro Maestà il Re. Quel pasto, molto saporito dopo la sua lunga fame, fu gustato con grande apprezzamento; e dopo aver brindato ripetutamente con bevande fedeli e patriottiche, gli fu offerto un materasso di paglia in soffitta sopra lo stallo, dove fu rinchiuso per la notte.

La mattina seguente, scoprì che la premurosa cura del suo amico militare aveva decorato il suo cappello con vari nastri colorati, il che gli dava un aspetto molto vivace; insieme a quell’ufficiale e ad altri tre gentiluomini militari appena arruolati – i quali, per via di una nuvola così densa, lasciavano visibili soltanto tre scarpe, una scarpa da cavaliere, un cappotto e mezzo tra loro – si recò sulla riva del fiume. Lì li raggiunsero un caporale e altri quattro “eroi”: due erano ubriachi e audaci, due sobri e pentiti; ma ognuno di loro, come Joe, aveva con sé il proprio bastone polveroso e il proprio fagotto. Il gruppo salì su una barca diretta a Gravesend, da dove avrebbe proseguito a piedi verso Chatham; il >vento soffiava a loro favore, e presto lasciarono )Londra alle loro spalle, ridotta ormai a una semplice nebbia scura, un gigantesco fantasma nell’aria.

Chapter 32

Misfortunes, saith the adage, never come singly. There is little doubt that troubles are exceedingly gregarious in their nature, and flying in flocks, are apt to perch capriciously; crowding on the heads of some poor wights until there is not an inch of room left on their unlucky crowns, and taking no more notice of others who offer as good resting-places for the soles of their feet, than if they had no existence. It may have happened that a flight of troubles brooding over London, and looking out for Joseph Willet, whom they couldn’t find, darted down haphazard on the first young man that caught their fancy, and settled on him instead. However this may be, certain it is that on the very day of Joe’s departure they swarmed about the ears of Edward Chester, and did so buzz and flap their wings, and persecute him, that he was most profoundly wretched.

It was evening, and just eight o’clock, when he and his father, having wine and dessert set before them, were left to themselves for the first time that day. They had dined together, but a third person had been present during the meal, and until they met at table they had not seen each other since the previous night.

Edward was reserved and silent. Mr Chester was more than usually gay; but not caring, as it seemed, to open a conversation with one whose humour was so different, he vented the lightness of his spirit in smiles and sparkling looks, and made no effort to awaken his attention. So they remained for some time: the father lying on a sofa with his accustomed air of graceful negligence; the son seated opposite to him with downcast eyes, busied, it was plain, with painful and uneasy thoughts.

‘My dear Edward,’ said Mr Chester at length, with a most engaging laugh, ‘do not extend your drowsy influence to the decanter. Suffer THAT to circulate, let your spirits be never so stagnant.’

Edward begged his pardon, passed it, and relapsed into his former state.

‘You do wrong not to fill your glass,’ said Mr Chester, holding up his own before the light. ‘Wine in moderation—not in excess, for that makes men ugly—has a thousand pleasant influences. It brightens the eye, improves the voice, imparts a new vivacity to one’s thoughts and conversation: you should try it, Ned.’

‘Ah father!’ cried his son, ‘if—’

‘My good fellow,’ interposed the parent hastily, as he set down his glass, and raised his eyebrows with a startled and horrified expression, ‘for Heaven’s sake don’t call me by that obsolete and ancient name. Have some regard for delicacy. Am I grey, or wrinkled, do I go on crutches, have I lost my teeth, that you adopt such a mode of address? Good God, how very coarse!’

‘I was about to speak to you from my heart, sir,’ returned Edward, ‘in the confidence which should subsist between us; and you check me in the outset.’

‘Now DO, Ned, DO not,’ said Mr Chester, raising his delicate hand imploringly, ‘talk in that monstrous manner. About to speak from your heart. Don’t you know that the heart is an ingenious part of our formation—the centre of the blood-vessels and all that sort of thing—which has no more to do with what you say or think, than your knees have? How can you be so very vulgar and absurd? These anatomical allusions should be left to gentlemen of the medical profession. They are really not agreeable in society. You quite surprise me, Ned.’

‘Well! there are no such things to wound, or heal, or have regard for. I know your creed, sir, and will say no more,’ returned his son.

‘There again,’ said Mr Chester, sipping his wine, ‘you are wrong. I distinctly say there are such things. We know there are. The hearts of animals—of bullocks, sheep, and so forth—are cooked and devoured, as I am told, by the lower classes, with a vast deal of relish. Men are sometimes stabbed to the heart, shot to the heart; but as to speaking from the heart, or to the heart, or being warm-hearted, or cold-hearted, or broken-hearted, or being all heart, or having no heart—pah! these things are nonsense, Ned.’

‘No doubt, sir,’ returned his son, seeing that he paused for him to speak. ‘No doubt.’

‘There’s Haredale’s niece, your late flame,’ said Mr Chester, as a careless illustration of his meaning. ‘No doubt in your mind she was all heart once. Now she has none at all. Yet she is the same person, Ned, exactly.’

‘She is a changed person, sir,’ cried Edward, reddening; ‘and changed by vile means, I believe.’

‘You have had a cool dismissal, have you?’ said his father. ‘Poor Ned! I told you last night what would happen.—May I ask you for the nutcrackers?’

‘She has been tampered with, and most treacherously deceived,’ cried Edward, rising from his seat. ‘I never will believe that the knowledge of my real position, given her by myself, has worked this change. I know she is beset and tortured. But though our contract is at an end, and broken past all redemption; though I charge upon her want of firmness and want of truth, both to herself and me; I do not now, and never will believe, that any sordid motive, or her own unbiassed will, has led her to this course—never!’

‘You make me blush,’ returned his father gaily, ‘for the folly of your nature, in which—but we never know ourselves—I devoutly hope there is no reflection of my own. With regard to the young lady herself, she has done what is very natural and proper, my dear fellow; what you yourself proposed, as I learn from Haredale; and what I predicted—with no great exercise of sagacity—she would do. She supposed you to be rich, or at least quite rich enough; and found you poor. Marriage is a civil contract; people marry to better their worldly condition and improve appearances; it is an affair of house and furniture, of liveries, servants, equipage, and so forth. The lady being poor and you poor also, there is an end of the matter. You cannot enter upon these considerations, and have no manner of business with the ceremony. I drink her health in this glass, and respect and honour her for her extreme good sense. It is a lesson to you. Fill yours, Ned.’

‘It is a lesson,’ returned his son, ‘by which I hope I may never profit, and if years and experience impress it on—’

‘Don’t say on the heart,’ interposed his father.

‘On men whom the world and its hypocrisy have spoiled,’ said Edward warmly, ‘Heaven keep me from its knowledge.’

‘Come, sir,’ returned his father, raising himself a little on the sofa, and looking straight towards him; ‘we have had enough of this. Remember, if you please, your interest, your duty, your moral obligations, your filial affections, and all that sort of thing, which it is so very delightful and charming to reflect upon; or you will repent it.’

‘I shall never repent the preservation of my self-respect, sir,’ said Edward. ‘Forgive me if I say that I will not sacrifice it at your bidding, and that I will not pursue the track which you would have me take, and to which the secret share you have had in this late separation tends.’

His father rose a little higher still, and looking at him as though curious to know if he were quite resolved and earnest, dropped gently down again, and said in the calmest voice—eating his nuts meanwhile,

‘Edward, my father had a son, who being a fool like you, and, like you, entertaining low and disobedient sentiments, he disinherited and cursed one morning after breakfast. The circumstance occurs to me with a singular clearness of recollection this evening. I remember eating muffins at the time, with marmalade. He led a miserable life (the son, I mean) and died early; it was a happy release on all accounts; he degraded the family very much. It is a sad circumstance, Edward, when a father finds it necessary to resort to such strong measures.

‘It is,’ replied Edward, ‘and it is sad when a son, proffering him his love and duty in their best and truest sense, finds himself repelled at every turn, and forced to disobey. Dear father,’ he added, more earnestly though in a gentler tone, ‘I have reflected many times on what occurred between us when we first discussed this subject. Let there be a confidence between us; not in terms, but truth. Hear what I have to say.’

‘As I anticipate what it is, and cannot fail to do so, Edward,’ returned his father coldly, ‘I decline. I couldn’t possibly. I am sure it would put me out of temper, which is a state of mind I can’t endure. If you intend to mar my plans for your establishment in life, and the preservation of that gentility and becoming pride, which our family have so long sustained—if, in short, you are resolved to take your own course, you must take it, and my curse with it. I am very sorry, but there’s really no alternative.’

‘The curse may pass your lips,’ said Edward, ‘but it will be but empty breath. I do not believe that any man on earth has greater power to call one down upon his fellow—least of all, upon his own child—than he has to make one drop of rain or flake of snow fall from the clouds above us at his impious bidding. Beware, sir, what you do.’

‘You are so very irreligious, so exceedingly undutiful, so horribly profane,’ rejoined his father, turning his face lazily towards him, and cracking another nut, ‘that I positively must interrupt you here. It is quite impossible we can continue to go on, upon such terms as these. If you will do me the favour to ring the bell, the servant will show you to the door. Return to this roof no more, I beg you. Go, sir, since you have no moral sense remaining; and go to the Devil, at my express desire. Good day.’

Edward left the room without another word or look, and turned his back upon the house for ever.

The father’s face was slightly flushed and heated, but his manner was quite unchanged, as he rang the bell again, and addressed the servant on his entrance.

‘Peak—if that gentleman who has just gone out—’

‘I beg your pardon, sir, Mr Edward?’

‘Were there more than one, dolt, that you ask the question?—If that gentleman should send here for his wardrobe, let him have it, do you hear? If he should call himself at any time, I’m not at home. You’ll tell him so, and shut the door.’

So, it soon got whispered about, that Mr Chester was very unfortunate in his son, who had occasioned him great grief and sorrow. And the good people who heard this and told it again, marvelled the more at his equanimity and even temper, and said what an amiable nature that man must have, who, having undergone so much, could be so placid and so calm. And when Edward’s name was spoken, Society shook its head, and laid its finger on its lip, and sighed, and looked very grave; and those who had sons about his age, waxed wrathful and indignant, and hoped, for Virtue’s sake, that he was dead. And the world went on turning round, as usual, for five years, concerning which this Narrative is silent.

Capitolo 32

“Sfortuna non viene mai da sola”, dice il proverbio. È quasi certo che i problemi abbiano una natura estremamente “gregaria”: si radunano in stormi e si posano capricciosamente su chiunque sembri loro un bersaglio adatto, senza curarsi affatto di altre persone che potrebbero offrire lo stesso riparo. Forse è stato proprio così: uno stormo di sfortune, che cercava Joseph Willet senza trovarlo, si è posato su quel primo giovane che gli è capitato a tiro. Comunque sia, il fatto è che proprio il giorno della partenza di Joe, questi problemi hanno assediato Edward Chester, tormentandolo con un rumore incessante e una persecuzione continua, fino a rendere la sua vita davvero miserabile.

Era sera, e erano appena le otto in punto quando lui e suo padre, con vino e dolce davanti a loro, furono lasciati soli per la prima volta quel giorno. Avevano pranzato insieme, ma durante il pasto c’era stata una terza persona; fino a quando non si sedettero a tavola, non si erano visti dalla sera precedente.

Edward era riservato e silenzioso. Il signor Chester era più allegro del solito; ma, apparentemente senza curarsi di avviare una conversazione con qualcuno il cui umore era così diverso dal suo, esprimeva la leggerezza del proprio spirito attraverso sorrisi e sguardi brillanti, senza alcun tentativo di attirare l’attenzione di Edward. Così rimasero per un po’: il padre sdraiato sul divano con quell’abituale aria di disinvolta noncuranza; il figlio seduto di fronte a lui, con lo sguardo basso, chiaramente immerso in pensieri dolorosi e angoscianti.

“Mio caro Edward,” disse finalmente il signor Chester, con una risata davvero incantevole, “non estendere la tua influenza sonnolenta anche sul decanter. Lascia che quel liquore circoli liberamente; anche se i tuoi spiriti dovessero mai diventare stagnanti, ”

Edward chiese scusa, ricevette il perdono e tornò al suo precedente stato.

“È sbagliato non riempirsi il bicchiere,” disse il signor Chester, tenendo il proprio davanti alla luce. “Il vino, se bevuto con moderazione – e non in eccesso, perché questo rende gli uomini brutti – ha mille effetti positivi: illumina lo sguardo, migliora la voce, dona vivacità ai pensieri e alle conversazioni. Dovresti provarlo, Ned.”

“Ah, padre!” gridò suo figlio, “se, ”

“Mio caro amico,” intervenne il genitore in fretta, posando il bicchiere e alzando le sopracciglia con un’espressione di sorpresa e orrore, “per l’amor del cielo, non chiamarmi con quel nome obsoleto e antico. Rispetta un po’ la delicatezza. Sono forse grigio, rugoso, devo camminare con le stampelle, ho perso i denti? Perché usare un simile modo di rivolgersi a me? Buon Dio, quanto è grossolano, ”

“Stavo per parlarvi con sincerità, signore,” rispose Edward, “con la fiducia che dovrebbe esistere tra di noi. E voi mi fermate fin dall’inizio.”

“Ora fallo, Ned, per favore, non farlo,” disse il signor Chester, alzando la sua mano delicata in un gesto implorante. “Non parlare in quel modo orribile. Stai per dire ciò che pensi veramente nel tuo cuore. Non sai forse che il cuore è una parte straordinaria del nostro organismo: il centro dei vasi sanguigni e di tutto ciò che riguarda il sistema circolatorio. Eppure non ha nulla a che fare con ciò che dici o pensi, proprio come i tuoi ginocchi. Come puoi essere così volgare e assurdo? Queste allusioni anatomiche dovrebbero essere riservate ai medici. Davvero non sono adatte alle conversazioni sociali. Mi sorprendi davvero molto, Ned.”

“Beh! Non esistono cose del genere che possano ferire, guarire o destare preoccupazione. Conosco le vostre credenze, signore, quindi non dirò altro,” rispose suo figlio.

“Ancora una volta,” disse il signor Chester, sorseggiando il suo vino, “ti sbagli. Dico chiaramente che queste cose esistono. Sappiamo che esistono. I cuori degli animali – di buoi, pecore e simili – vengono cucinati e divorati, a quanto mi è stato detto, dalle classi inferiori con grande piacere. Gli uomini a volte vengono pugnalati al cuore, uccisi a colpi d’arma da fuoco al cuore; ma quando si tratta di parlare dal cuore, di essere gentili o crudeli, di avere il cuore spezzato, beh, queste cose sono assurdità, Ned.”

“Nessun dubbio, signore,” rispose suo figlio, vedendo che si era fermato in attesa che parlasse. “Nessun dubbio.”

“C’è la nipote di Haredale, la tua ex fidanzata,” disse il signor Chester, come un esempio casuale per spiegare ciò che intendeva. “Non c’è dubbio che un tempo lei avesse davvero del cuore. Ora invece non ne ha affatto. Eppure è ancora la stessa persona, Ned, esattamente.”

“È una persona cambiata, signore,” gridò Edward, arrossendo; “e credo che sia cambiata con mezzi spregevoli.”

“Hai avuto una bella maniera per andartene, vero?” disse suo padre. “Povero Ned. Ti avevo detto ieri sera cosa sarebbe successo. Posso chiederti i cavatappi?”

“È stata manipolata e ingannata in modo estremamente traditore,” gridò Edward alzandosi dal suo posto. “Non crederò mai che la conoscenza della mia vera posizione, che le ho fornita io stesso, abbia causato questo cambiamento in lei. So che è tormentata e oppressa. Ma anche se il nostro accordo è finito e irreparabilmente infranto; anche se le attribuisco mancanza di fermezza e di verità sia verso di me che verso se stessa, non credo ora, e mai crederò, che qualche motivo meschino o la sua volontà personale l’abbiano spinta a compiere queste azioni. Mai!”

“Mi fai arrossire,” rispose suo padre allegramente, “per la follia della tua natura, nella quale, ma noi stessi non ci conosciamo mai veramente, spero sinceramente che non vi sia alcun riflesso di me stesso. Per quanto riguarda la giovane signora, ha fatto ciò che è del tutto naturale e appropriato; esattamente ciò che tu stesso avevi proposto, come ho appreso da Haredale; ed esattamente ciò che io stesso avevo previsto, senza alcun grande sforzo di saggezza. Lei pensava che fossi ricco, o almeno abbastanza ricco; invece ti ha trovato povero. Il matrimonio è un contratto civile: le persone si sposano per migliorare la propria condizione sociale e il proprio aspetto esteriore; è una questione di casa, arredi, abiti, servitori, carrozze, e così via. Poiché lei è povera e anche tu lo sei, la faccenda finisce qui. Non puoi prendere in considerazione queste cose, e non hai alcuna responsabilità riguardo alla cerimonia nuziale. Brindo alla sua salute con questo bicchiere, e la rispetto e la ‘onoro per il suo estremo buon senso. È una lezione anche per te. Riempi il tuo bicchiere, Ned.”

“È una lezione,” rispose suo figlio, “con la quale spero di non trarre mai alcun vantaggio; e anche se gli anni e l’esperienza me la faranno ricordare, ”

“Non dirlo solo nel cuore,” intervenne suo padre.

“Di coloro che il mondo e la sua ipocrisia hanno rovinato,” disse Edward con calore, “che il cielo mi preservi dal conoscere tali cose.”

“Come, signore,” rispose suo padre, alzandosi un po’ sul divano e guardandolo dritto negli occhi; “ne abbiamo abbastanza di queste cose. Ricordati, per favore, del tuo interesse, del tuo dovere, delle tue obbligazioni morali, dei tuoi sentimenti filiali, e di tutte queste cose che è davvero molto piacevole e affascinante rifletterci sopra; altrimenti te ne pentirai.”

“Non mi pentirò mai di aver preservato il mio rispetto per me stesso, signore,” disse Edward. “Perdonatemi se affermo che non lo sacrificherò ai vostri ordini, e che non seguirò la strada che vorreste che prendessi. Una strada alla quale anche voi avete contribuito in questa recente separazione.”

Suo padre si alzò ancora un po’ di più, lo guardò come se volesse sapere se fosse davvero deciso e serio, poi si abbassò dolcemente di nuovo e disse con la voce più calma, mentre mangiava le sue noci.

“Edward, mio padre aveva un figlio che, proprio come te, era uno stupido e nutriva pensieri volgari e disobbedienti; per questo motivo, una mattina dopo colazione, lo diseredò e lo maledisse. Questo ricordo mi torna in mente con estrema chiarezza stasera. Ricordo di aver mangiato muffin con marmellata a quell’ora. Quel figlio visse una vita miserabile e morì giovane; in ogni caso, fu un sollievo per tutti. Ha davvero disonorato la famiglia. È una situazione triste, Edward, quando un padre è costretto a ricorrere a misure così drastiche.”

“È così,” rispose Edward, “e è triste quando un figlio, offrendo al proprio padre il proprio amore e il proprio dovere nel senso più sincero e vero, si trova respinto ad ogni tentativo e costretto a disobbedire. Caro padre,” aggiunse, con maggiore serietà ma in tono più gentile, “ho riflettuto molte volte su ciò che è accaduto tra noi quando abbiamo discusso per la prima volta di questo argomento. Che esista una fiducia reciproca tra noi; non basata sulle parole, ma sulla verità. Ascolta ciò che ho da dire.”

“Poiché so già di cosa si tratta, e non posso fare altrimenti, Edward,” rispose freddamente suo padre, “rifiuto. Non potrei mai accettare. Sono sicuro che mi metterebbe di cattivo umore, uno stato d’animo che non riesco a sopportare. Se intendi rovinare i miei piani per la tua vita futura, e per preservare quella gentilezza e quell’onore che la nostra famiglia ha mantenuto per tanto tempo. In breve, se sei deciso ad andare per la tua strada, devi farlo, anche a costo della mia maledizione. Mi dispiace molto, ma davvero non c’è altra scelta.”

“La maledizione può uscire dalle tue labbra,” disse Edward, “ma sarà solo un respiro vuoto. Non credo che esista alcun uomo al mondo con più potere per colpire un suo simile – tanto meno il proprio figlio – di quanto ne abbia per far cadere una goccia di pioggia o un fiocco di .neve dalle nuvole sopra di noi, secondo i suoi ordini impietosi. Sta’ attento, signore, a ciò che fai.”

“Sei davvero troppo irreligioso, estremamente negligente nei tuoi doveri e orribilmente profano,” ribatté suo padre, girando con indolenza il viso verso di lui mentre apriva un’altra noce. “È assolutamente impossibile che possiamo continuare a vivere in queste condizioni. Se mi fai la gentilezza di suonare il campanello, il servitore ti accompagnerà alla porta. Ti prego, non tornare più su questo tetto. Vattene, signore: ormai non ti è rimasto alcun senso morale. E vai pure all’inferno, se proprio lo desideri. Buon giorno.”

Edward lasciò la stanza senza dire una parola né lanciare uno sguardo, e voltò le spalle a quella casa per sempre.

Il viso del padre era leggermente arrossato e caldo, ma il suo comportamento rimase del tutto invariato; suonò di nuovo il campanello e si rivolse al servitore non appena questi entrò.

“Picco, se quel signore che è appena uscito, ”

“Mi scusi, signore. Il signor Edward?”

‘Ce n’erano più di uno, stupido. È per questo che poni questa domanda? Se quel signore dovesse chiedere il suo vestito, datelo pure, capisci? E se dovesse chiamarmi in qualsiasi momento, io non sarò a casa. Diglielo e chiudi la porta.’

Si diffuse presto la voce che il signor Chester avesse avuto molta sfortuna con suo figlio, il quale gli aveva causato grande dolore e tristezza. Le persone buone che venivano a sapere queste cose le ripetevano, meravigliandosi ancora di più della sua equanimità e del suo carattere sereno, e dicevano quanto dovesse essere gentile la sua natura per poter rimanere così pacato dopo aver subito tante sofferenze. Quando si menzionava il nome di Edward, la gente scuoteva la testa, si portava un dito alle labbra, sospirava e assumeva un’espressione molto seria; coloro che avevano figli della stessa età diventavano furiosi e indignati, sperando, per amore della virtù, che Edward fosse morto. E il mondo continuò a girare come al solito per altri cinque anni, di cui questa narrazione tace.

Chapter 33

One wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night came on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp, dense, and icy-cold, swept the wet streets, and rattled on the trembling windows. Signboards, shaken past endurance in their creaking frames, fell crashing on the pavement; old tottering chimneys reeled and staggered in the blast; and many a steeple rocked again that night, as though the earth were troubled.

It was not a time for those who could by any means get light and warmth, to brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort, guests crowded round the fire, forgot to be political, and told each other with a secret gladness that the blast grew fiercer every minute. Each humble tavern by the water-side, had its group of uncouth figures round the hearth, who talked of vessels foundering at sea, and all hands lost; related many a dismal tale of shipwreck and drowned men, and hoped that some they knew were safe, and shook their heads in doubt. In private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze; listening with timid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures clad in white standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old churches and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the dead hour of the night: until they shuddered at the thought of the dark rooms upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan too, and hoped it would continue bravely. From time to time these happy indoor people stopped to listen, or one held up his finger and cried ‘Hark!’ and then, above the rumbling in the chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, was heard a wailing, rushing sound, which shook the walls as though a giant’s hand were on them; then a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened howl, the waves of wind swept on, and left a moment’s interval of rest.

Cheerily, though there were none abroad to see it, shone the Maypole light that evening. Blessings on the red—deep, ruby, glowing red—old curtain of the window; blending into one rich stream of brightness, fire and candle, meat, drink, and company, and gleaming like a jovial eye upon the bleak waste out of doors! Within, what carpet like its crunching sand, what music merry as its crackling logs, what perfume like its kitchen’s dainty breath, what weather genial as its hearty warmth! Blessings on the old house, how sturdily it stood! How did the vexed wind chafe and roar about its stalwart roof; how did it pant and strive with its wide chimneys, which still poured forth from their hospitable throats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its face; how, above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous to extinguish that cheerful glow, which would not be put down and seemed the brighter for the conflict!

The profusion too, the rich and lavish bounty, of that goodly tavern! It was not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on its spacious hearth; in the tiles which paved and compassed it, five hundred flickering fires burnt brightly also. It was not enough that one red curtain shut the wild night out, and shed its cheerful influence on the room. In every saucepan lid, and candlestick, and vessel of copper, brass, or tin that hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy hangings, flashing and gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, let the eye wander where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The old oak wainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in a deep, dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes of the drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they smoked.

Mr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five years before, with his eyes on the eternal boiler; and had sat there since the clock struck eight, giving no other signs of life than breathing with a loud and constant snore (though he was wide awake), and from time to time putting his glass to his lips, or knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and filling it anew. It was now half-past ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil Parkes were his companions, as of old, and for two mortal hours and a half, none of the company had pronounced one word.

Whether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the same relative positions, and doing exactly the same things for a great many years, acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing each other which serves them in its stead, is a question for philosophy to settle. But certain it is that old John Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr Cobb, were one and all firmly of opinion that they were very jolly companions—rather choice spirits than otherwise; that they looked at each other every now and then as if there were a perpetual interchange of ideas going on among them; that no man considered himself or his neighbour by any means silent; and that each of them nodded occasionally when he caught the eye of another, as if he would say, ‘You have expressed yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment, and I quite agree with you.’

The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire so very soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but as he had perfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his sleep, and as his breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep, saving that in the latter case he sometimes experienced a slight difficulty in respiration (such as a carpenter meets with when he is planing and comes to a knot), neither of his companions was aware of the circumstance, until he met with one of these impediments and was obliged to try again.

Capitolo 33

Una sera invernale, all’inizio dell’anno del Signore mille settecentottanta, un forte vento nordico si alzò con l’avanzare della notte, oscura e cupa. Una terribile tempesta di nevischio, intensa, densa e gelida, spazzò le strade bagnate e fece tremare i vetri delle finestre. Insegne, scosse oltre ogni limite nelle loro cornici cigolanti, caddero a terra; vecchi comignoli traballanti vacillarono nel vento; e molte guglie oscillarono quella notte, come se la terra stessa fosse in preda al caos.

Non era certo il momento adatto per coloro che, in qualche modo, potevano procurarsi luce e calore, per affrontare la furia del tempo. Nei caffè di qualità, i clienti si raggruppavano intorno al focolare, dimenticando le questioni politiche e raccontandosi a vicenda, con un segreto piacere, che il vento diventava sempre più violento di minuto in minuto. Ogni umile taverna situata lungo la riva dell’fiume aveva il suo gruppo di persone semplici intorno al camino: parlavano di navi che affondavano in mare, di uomini perduti. Raccontavano molte storie tristi di naufragi e annegamenti, sperando che alcune delle persone che conoscevano fossero al sicuro, ma scuotevano la testa, pieni di >dubbio. Negli appartamenti privati, i bambini si raggruppavano intorno al fuoco, ascoltando con timida curiosità storie di fantasmi e goblin, di figure alte vestite di bianco che si trovavano accanto ai letti. E raccontavano anche di persone che, addormentatesi in vecchie chiese, si erano ritrovate sole nel cuore della notte. Rabbrividivano al pensiero delle stanze buie al piano di sopra, ma amavano anche ascoltare il vento ululare, sperando che continuasse a soffiare con forza. Di tanto in tanto, queste persone felici si fermavano ad ascoltare. Qualcuno alzava un dito e gridava: “Ascoltate!” E poi, sopra il rumore del camino e lo scroscio della pioggia contro i vetri, si udiva un suono straziante, che faceva tremare le pareti. Come se una mano gigantesca le stesse colpendo. Poi un ruggito roco, come se il mare fosse salito all’assalto. Un vortice di rumore assordante. E infine, con un ululato più lungo e forte, le raffiche di vento continuavano a soffiare. Per poi lasciare, per un momento, un po’ di silenzio.

Con allegria, anche se nessuno fuori poteva vederla, quella sera brillò la luce del palo di maggio. Benedetti quel rosso intenso, profondo come il rubino, che illuminava l’antico tendaggio della finestra; un’unica, ricca cascata di luce che mescolava fuoco, candele, cibo, bevande e compagnia. E brillava come uno sguardo gioioso su quel desolato ambiente esterno! All’interno, quale tappeto più soffice del suo sabbia croccante, quale musica più allegra del crepitio dei ceppi nel camino, quale profumo più delicato di quello che proveniva dalla cucina. E quale clima più piacevole della sua calda e accogliente atmosfera! Benedetta quell’antica >casa, quanto solida si ergeva! Come si lamentava e ruggiva il vento impetuoso attorno al suo robusto tetto; come ansimava e lottava contro le sue ampie ciminiere, che continuavano a emettere grandi nuvole di fumo. E soprattutto, come cercava invano di spegnere quella luminosa allegria, che sembrava diventare ancora più intensa proprio a causa dei suoi attacchi!

Quella magnifica taverna offriva davvero una profusione di lussi e ricchezze! Non bastava che un fuoco scoppiettasse e brillasse nel suo ampio focolare; anche nelle piastrelle che la circondavano, cinquecento fiamme tremolanti ardevano intensamente. Non bastava che una tenda rossa tenesse fuori la selvaggia notte e diffondesse un’atmosfera allegra nella stanza: su ogni coperchio di pentola, su ogni candeliere, su ogni recipiente di rame, bronzo o latta appeso ai muri, innumerevoli luci rosse lampeggiavano a ogni movimento del fuoco, offrendo uno spettacolo di colori intensi e infiniti. Anche le vecchie panche di quercia, i travi del soffitto, le sedie riflettevano quella luce in un bagliore cupo e profondo. I fiammi e le tende rosse erano presenti persino negli occhi dei bevitori, sui loro bottoni, nel loro liquore, nelle pipe che fumavano.

Il signor Willet sedeva nel solito posto in cui si sistemava cinque anni prima, con lo sguardo fisso sul vecchio boiler; era rimasto lì da quando l’orologio aveva suonato le otto, senza mostrare alcun segno di vita se non il respiro rumoroso e continuo prodotto dal suo russare (sebbene fosse perfettamente sveglio), e di tanto in tanto portava il bicchiere alle labbra o spazzolava via la cenere dalla pipa per riempirla di nuovo. Erano ormai le dieci e mezza. Il signor Cobb e Phil Parkes erano i suoi soliti compagni di conversazione; per due ore e mezza, nessuno dei presenti pronunciò una parola.

Se le persone, semplicemente sedendosi nello stesso luogo e nelle stesse posizioni relative, e facendo esattamente le stesse cose per molti anni, acquisiscano un sesto senso o qualche forma sconosciuta di potere che permetta loro di influenzarsi a vicenda, è una questione che spetta alla filosofia risolvere. Ma è certo che il vecchio John Willet, il signor Parkes e il signor Cobb erano tutti d’accordo nel ritenersi compagni molto piacevoli da frequentare; persone davvero interessanti e intelligenti; che si scambiavano spesso idee, e che nessuno di loro si considerava mai in silenzio. Ogni tanto, quando uno di loro incrociava lo sguardo di un altro, annuiva come per dire: “Ha espresso il proprio pensiero in modo davvero eccellente, signore. Sono completamente d’accordo con lei”.

La stanza era così calda, il tabacco così buono e il fuoco così rilassante che il signor Willet iniziò gradualmente ad assopirsi; ma poiché aveva acquisito, grazie a una lunga abitudine, l’arte di fumare anche mentre dormiva, e poiché la sua respirazione rimaneva più o meno la stessa sia sveglio che addormentato – ad eccezione del fatto che a volte incontrava lievi difficoltà nel respirare (come può accadere a un falegname quando taglia un nodo), nessuno dei suoi compagni si rese conto di questa situazione, fino a quando non ebbe nuovamente problemi e dovette provare ancora.

‘Johnny’s dropped off,’ said Mr Parkes in a whisper.

‘Fast as a top,’ said Mr Cobb.

Neither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot—one of surpassing obduracy—which bade fair to throw him into convulsions, but which he got over at last without waking, by an effort quite superhuman.

‘He sleeps uncommon hard,’ said Mr Cobb.

Mr Parkes, who was possibly a hard-sleeper himself, replied with some disdain, ‘Not a bit on it;’ and directed his eyes towards a handbill pasted over the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a woodcut representing a youth of tender years running away very fast, with a bundle over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and—to carry out the idea—a finger-post and a milestone beside him. Mr Cobb likewise turned his eyes in the same direction, and surveyed the placard as if that were the first time he had ever beheld it. Now, this was a document which Mr Willet had himself indited on the disappearance of his son Joseph, acquainting the nobility and gentry and the public in general with the circumstances of his having left his home; describing his dress and appearance; and offering a reward of five pounds to any person or persons who would pack him up and return him safely to the Maypole at Chigwell, or lodge him in any of his Majesty’s jails until such time as his father should come and claim him. In this advertisement Mr Willet had obstinately persisted, despite the advice and entreaties of his friends, in describing his son as a ‘young boy;’ and furthermore as being from eighteen inches to a couple of feet shorter than he really was; two circumstances which perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its never having been productive of any other effect than the transmission to Chigwell at various times and at a vast expense, of some five-and-forty runaways varying from six years old to twelve.

Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes looked mysteriously at this composition, at each other, and at old John. From the time he had pasted it up with his own hands, Mr Willet had never by word or sign alluded to the subject, or encouraged any one else to do so. Nobody had the least notion what his thoughts or opinions were, connected with it; whether he remembered it or forgot it; whether he had any idea that such an event had ever taken place. Therefore, even while he slept, no one ventured to refer to it in his presence; and for such sufficient reasons, these his chosen friends were silent now.

Mr Willet had got by this time into such a complication of knots, that it was perfectly clear he must wake or die. He chose the former alternative, and opened his eyes.

‘If he don’t come in five minutes,’ said John, ‘I shall have supper without him.’

The antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time at eight o’clock. Messrs Parkes and Cobb being used to this style of conversation, replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was very late, and they wondered what had happened to detain him.

‘He an’t blown away, I suppose,’ said Parkes. ‘It’s enough to carry a man of his figure off his legs, and easy too. Do you hear it? It blows great guns, indeed. There’ll be many a crash in the Forest to-night, I reckon, and many a broken branch upon the ground to-morrow.’

‘It won’t break anything in the Maypole, I take it, sir,’ returned old John. ‘Let it try. I give it leave—what’s that?’

‘The wind,’ cried Parkes. ‘It’s howling like a Christian, and has been all night long.’

‘Did you ever, sir,’ asked John, after a minute’s contemplation, ‘hear the wind say “Maypole”?’

‘Why, what man ever did?’ said Parkes.

‘Nor “ahoy,” perhaps?’ added John.

‘No. Nor that neither.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Willet, perfectly unmoved; ‘then if that was the wind just now, and you’ll wait a little time without speaking, you’ll hear it say both words very plain.’

Mr Willet was right. After listening for a few moments, they could clearly hear, above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout repeated; and that with a shrillness and energy, which denoted that it came from some person in great distress or terror. They looked at each other, turned pale, and held their breath. No man stirred.

It was in this emergency that Mr Willet displayed something of that strength of mind and plenitude of mental resource, which rendered him the admiration of all his friends and neighbours. After looking at Messrs Parkes and Cobb for some time in silence, he clapped his two hands to his cheeks, and sent forth a roar which made the glasses dance and rafters ring—a long-sustained, discordant bellow, that rolled onward with the wind, and startling every echo, made the night a hundred times more boisterous—a deep, loud, dismal bray, that sounded like a human gong. Then, with every vein in his head and face swollen with the great exertion, and his countenance suffused with a lively purple, he drew a little nearer to the fire, and turning his back upon it, said with dignity:

‘If that’s any comfort to anybody, they’re welcome to it. If it an’t, I’m sorry for ‘em. If either of you two gentlemen likes to go out and see what’s the matter, you can. I’m not curious, myself.’

While he spoke the cry drew nearer and nearer, footsteps passed the window, the latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently shut again, and Solomon Daisy, with a lighted lantern in his hand, and the rain streaming from his disordered dress, dashed into the room.

A more complete picture of terror than the little man presented, it would be difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his face, his knees knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power of articulation was quite gone; and there he stood, panting for breath, gazing on them with such livid ashy looks, that they were infected with his fear, though ignorant of its occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed and horror-stricken visage, stared back again without venturing to question him; until old John Willet, in a fit of temporary insanity, made a dive at his cravat, and, seizing him by that portion of his dress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to rattle in his head.

“Johnny è stato lasciato qui,” disse sottovoce il signor Parkes.

“Veloce come il vento,” disse il signor Cobb.

Nessuno dei due disse più nulla fino a quando il signor Willet non arrivò davanti a un altro nodo, uno di estrema difficoltà da sciogliere; quel nodo sembrava destinato a farlo svenire per lo sforzo, ma alla fine riuscì a superarlo senza svegliarsi, grazie a uno sforzo davvero sovrumano.

“Dorme molto profondamente,” disse il signor Cobb.

Il signor Parkes, che probabilmente era anch’egli una persona dal sonno profondo, rispose con disprezzo: “Nemmeno per idea”; poi rivolse lo sguardo verso un avviso appiccato sopra il camino, decorato in cima con un xilografico raffigurante un giovane di tenera età che fuggiva a tutta velocità, con un fagotto sulle spalle e, per rendere l’immagine più realistica, anche un palo indicatore e una pietra miliare accanto a lui. Anche il signor Cobb guardò nella stessa direzione, esaminando quell’avviso come se fosse la prima volta che lo vedeva. Si trattava di un documento redatto personalmente dal signor Willet in seguito alla scomparsa di suo figlio Joseph; vi erano descritte le circostanze della sua fuga da casa, il suo aspetto e i suoi vestiti; inoltre veniva offerta una ricompensa di cinque sterline a chiunque fosse riuscito a rintracciarlo e riportarlo sano e salvo al Maypole di Chigwell, oppure a chiunque lo avesse custodito nelle prigioni reali fino all’arrivo del padre. Nonostante i consigli e le suppliche degli amici, il signor Willet aveva insistito nel descrivere suo figlio come un “bambino piccolo”; inoltre aveva indicato la sua statura come compresa tra diciotto pollici e due piedi, quando in realtà era molto più alto. Forse proprio queste imprecisioni erano all’origine del fatto che quell’avviso non ottenne alcun risultato concreto: diversi fuggitivi, di età compresa tra i sei e i dodici anni, furono inviati a Chigwell a spese considerevoli, ma senza successo.

Il signor Cobb e il signor Parkes osservavano con aria misteriosa quella composizione, l’uno l’altro e anche il vecchio John. Da quando il signor Willet l’aveva incollata personalmente, non aveva mai fatto alcuna allusione a quel argomento, né incoraggiato nessun altro a farlo. Nessuno aveva la minima idea dei suoi pensieri o delle sue opinioni al riguardo; se se ne ricordasse o l’avesse dimenticato; se sapesse che un simile evento fosse mai avvenuto. Pertanto, anche quando dormiva, nessuno osava menzionarlo in sua presenza; e per motivi più che sufficienti, anche i suoi amici scelti tacevano ora.

A quel moment, il signor Willet si trovava in una situazione così complicata di nodi, che era assolutamente chiaro che dovesse svegliarsi o morire. Scelse la prima opzione e aprì gli occhi.

“Se non arriva entro cinque minuti”, disse John, “mangerò la cena senza di lui.”

Il referente di questo pronome era stato menzionato l’ultima volta alle otto in ora. Poiché i signori Parkes e Cobb erano abituati a questo tipo di conversazione, risposero senza difficoltà che, sicuramente, Solomon era molto in ritardo, e si chiesero cosa potesse averlo trattenuto.

“Non deve essere stato soffiato via lontano, immagino,” disse Parkes. “Basta per far cadere un uomo della sua stazza, e in modo facile anche. Lo sentite? Soffia davvero con molta forza. Credo che stanotte ci saranno molti rumori nella Foresta, e domani molte rampe spezzate a terra.”

“Non romperà nulla sull’Albero di Maggio, immagino, signore,” rispose il vecchio John. “Lasciate che ci provi. Che cos’è quello?”

“Il vento”, gridò Parkes. “Sembra ululare come un essere umano. E continua così da tutta la notte.”

“Avete mai, signore,” chiese John dopo un minuto di riflessione, “sentito il vento dire ‘Maggio’?”

“Perché, quale uomo ha mai fatto una cosa del genere?” disse Parkes.

“O forse nemmeno un ‘ahoy’?” aggiunse John.

“No, né quello, né nient’altro.”

“Molto bene, signore,” disse il signor Willet, completamente impassibile; “allora, se quello era davvero il vento di poco fa, e aspetterete ancora un po’ in silenzio, sentirete che pronuncia entrambe le parole molto chiaramente.”

Il signor Willet aveva ragione. Dopo aver ascoltato per qualche momento, riuscirono a sentire chiaramente, al di sopra del rumore e del tumulto all’esterno, questa grida ripetuta; e con un tono acuto ed energico che indicava chiaramente che proveniva da qualcuno in grande difficoltà o terrore. Si guardarono l’un l’altro, impallidirono e trattennero il respiro. Nessuno si mosse.

Fu in questa emergenza che il signor Willet dimostrò quella forza d’animo e quell’abbondanza di risorse mentali che gli valsero l’ammirazione di tutti i suoi amici e vicini. Dopo aver osservato per qualche momento i signori Parkes e Cobb in silenzio, si prese entrambe le mani sulle guance e emise un ruggito così potente che fece tremare i bicchieri e risuonare le travi del tetto: un urlo lungo, disarmonioso, che si diffuse con il vento, spaventando ogni eco e rendendo la notte cento volte più tumultuosa. Era un suono profondo, forte, cupo, simile al rintocco di un gong umano. Poi, con tutte le vene del viso gonfie per lo sforzo e il volto pallido per lo sforzo estremo, si avvicinò ancora di più al foco, si girò di spalle ad esso e disse con dignità:

“Se questo può consolare qualcuno, ben venga; se invece non è così, mi dispiace per loro. Se uno di voi due signori desidera andare a vedere cosa succede, fate pure. Io personalmente non sono curioso.”

Mentre parlava, quel grido si avvicinava sempre di più; dei passi risuonarono vicino alla finestra, la serratura della porta fu sollevata, la porta si aprì, per poi essere richiusa con forza. Solomon Daisy, con una lanterna accesa in mano e la pioggia che scorreva lungo il suo abito disordinato, irruppe nella stanza.

Una rappresentazione più completa del terrore di quella offerta da quell’uomo sarebbe difficile da immaginare. Il sudore gli colava in gocce sul viso; le ginocchia gli tremavano, tutte le membra erano scosse da un tremito incontrollabile; non riusciva nemmeno a parlare. Lì stava, ansimante, fissandoli con uno sguardo così pallido e spaventoso che anche loro ne furono contagiati dal suo terrore, senza però conoscere la causa di tale paura. Riflettendo nel suo volto sconvolto e terrorizzato, anch’essi lo fissavano in silenzio, senza osare fargli domande; fino a quando il vecchio John Willet, preso da un attacco di follia momentanea, non si scagliò contro il suo colletto, afferrandolo per quella parte del vestito e scuotendolo con tanta forza che i suoi denti sembravano tremare nella bocca.

‘Tell us what’s the matter, sir,’ said John, ‘or I’ll kill you. Tell us what’s the matter, sir, or in another second I’ll have your head under the biler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a-following of you? What do you mean? Say something, or I’ll be the death of you, I will.’

Mr Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very letter (Solomon Daisy’s eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming manner, and certain guttural sounds, as of a choking man, to issue from his throat), that the two bystanders, recovering in some degree, plucked him off his victim by main force, and placed the little clerk of Chigwell in a chair. Directing a fearful gaze all round the room, he implored them in a faint voice to give him some drink; and above all to lock the house-door and close and bar the shutters of the room, without a moment’s loss of time. The latter request did not tend to reassure his hearers, or to fill them with the most comfortable sensations; they complied with it, however, with the greatest expedition; and having handed him a bumper of brandy-and-water, nearly boiling hot, waited to hear what he might have to tell them.

‘Oh, Johnny,’ said Solomon, shaking him by the hand. ‘Oh, Parkes. Oh, Tommy Cobb. Why did I leave this house to-night! On the nineteenth of March—of all nights in the year, on the nineteenth of March!’

They all drew closer to the fire. Parkes, who was nearest to the door, started and looked over his shoulder. Mr Willet, with great indignation, inquired what the devil he meant by that—and then said, ‘God forgive me,’ and glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer.

‘When I left here to-night,’ said Solomon Daisy, ‘I little thought what day of the month it was. I have never gone alone into the church after dark on this day, for seven-and-twenty years. I have heard it said that as we keep our birthdays when we are alive, so the ghosts of dead people, who are not easy in their graves, keep the day they died upon.—How the wind roars!’

Nobody spoke. All eyes were fastened on Solomon.

‘I might have known,’ he said, ‘what night it was, by the foul weather. There’s no such night in the whole year round as this is, always. I never sleep quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March.’

‘Go on,’ said Tom Cobb, in a low voice. ‘Nor I neither.’

Solomon Daisy raised his glass to his lips; put it down upon the floor with such a trembling hand that the spoon tinkled in it like a little bell; and continued thus:

‘Have I ever said that we are always brought back to this subject in some strange way, when the nineteenth of this month comes round? Do you suppose it was by accident, I forgot to wind up the church-clock? I never forgot it at any other time, though it’s such a clumsy thing that it has to be wound up every day. Why should it escape my memory on this day of all others?

‘I made as much haste down there as I could when I went from here, but I had to go home first for the keys; and the wind and rain being dead against me all the way, it was pretty well as much as I could do at times to keep my legs. I got there at last, opened the church-door, and went in. I had not met a soul all the way, and you may judge whether it was dull or not. Neither of you would bear me company. If you could have known what was to come, you’d have been in the right.

‘The wind was so strong, that it was as much as I could do to shut the church-door by putting my whole weight against it; and even as it was, it burst wide open twice, with such strength that any of you would have sworn, if you had been leaning against it, as I was, that somebody was pushing on the other side. However, I got the key turned, went into the belfry, and wound up the clock—which was very near run down, and would have stood stock-still in half an hour.

‘As I took up my lantern again to leave the church, it came upon me all at once that this was the nineteenth of March. It came upon me with a kind of shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon my forehead; at the very same moment, I heard a voice outside the tower—rising from among the graves.’

Here old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that if Mr Parkes (who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over his head) saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr Parkes apologised, and remarked that he was only listening; to which Mr Willet angrily retorted, that his listening with that kind of expression in his face was not agreeable, and that if he couldn’t look like other people, he had better put his pocket-handkerchief over his head. Mr Parkes with great submission pledged himself to do so, if again required, and John Willet turning to Solomon desired him to proceed. After waiting until a violent gust of wind and rain, which seemed to shake even that sturdy house to its foundation, had passed away, the little man complied:

‘Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound which I mistook for that I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through the arches of the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard the rain as it came driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I saw the ropes sway to and fro. And I heard that voice.’

‘What did it say?’ asked Tom Cobb.

‘I don’t know what; I don’t know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry, as any one of us might do, if something dreadful followed us in a dream, and came upon us unawares; and then it died off: seeming to pass quite round the church.’

‘I don’t see much in that,’ said John, drawing a long breath, and looking round him like a man who felt relieved.

‘Perhaps not,’ returned his friend, ‘but that’s not all.’

‘What more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?’ asked John, pausing in the act of wiping his face upon his apron. ‘What are you a-going to tell us of next?’

“Diteci cosa c’è che non va, signore,” disse John, “altrimenti vi ucciderò. Diteci cosa c’è che non va, signore, altrimenti in un attimo vi taglierò la testa. Come osate comportarvi così? C’è qualcuno che vi segue? Cosa intendete dire? Dite qualcosa, altrimenti vi farò morire, ve lo giuro.”

Il signor Willet, nel suo delirio, era così vicino a mantenere la sua promessa alla lettera (gli occhi di Solomon Daisy iniziavano già a rotolare in modo allarmante, e dal suo petto uscivano suoni gutturali, come se stesse soffocando), che i due testimoni, ripresisi un po’, lo strapparono via dalla sua vittima con la forza e fecero sedere il piccolo impiegato di Chigwell su una sedia. Guardandosi intorno con terrore, implorò loro con voce debole di dargli da bere; soprattutto di chiudere a chiave la porta di casa e di serrare le persiane della stanza, senza perdere un istante. Quest’ultima richiesta non contribuì certo ad tranquillizzare i suoi ascoltatori né a rassicurarli; tuttavia, la eseguirono con la massima sollecitudine. Gli diedero quindi una generosa dose di brandy mescolato con acqua, quasi bollente, e attesero di sentire cosa avesse da dir loro.

“Oh, Johnny,” disse Solomon, stringendogli la mano. “Oh, Parkes. Oh, Tommy Cobb. Perché ho lasciato questa casa di notte. Il diciannovesimo marzo. Di tutte le notti dell’anno, proprio il diciannovesimo marzo!”

Si avvicinarono tutti di più al fuoco. Parkes, che era il più vicino alla porta, si girò di scatto per guardare indietro. Il signor Willet, con grande indignazione, chiese cosa diavolo intendesse dire, e poi aggiunse: “Dio mi perdoni”, anche lui si girò a guardare e si avvicinò ancora un po’.

“Quando sono uscita di qui, quella sera, ”, disse Solomon Daisy, “non mi ero nemmeno resa conto di quale giorno del mese fosse. Non sono mai entrata da sola in chiesa dopo il tramonto in questo giorno, per ventisette anni. Ho sentito dire che, proprio come noi ricordiamo i nostri compleanni mentre siamo vivi, anche gli spettri delle persone morte, quelle che non riposano in pace nelle loro tombe, ricordano il giorno della loro morte. Che vento impetuoso!”

Nessuno parlava. Tutti gli sguardi erano fissi su Salomone.

“Avrei dovuto saperlo,” disse, “in quale notte ci trovavamo, a giudicare dal tempo orribile. Non esiste nessuna notte in tutto l’anno come questa. Il diciannovesimo marzo non riesco mai a dormire tranquillamente nel mio letto.”

“Vai avanti,” disse Tom Cobb a bassa voce. “Nemmeno io.”

Solomon Daisy alzò il bicchiere alle labbra; lo posò per terra con una mano così tremante che la cucchiaiola all’interno tintinnò come una piccola campanella; e continuò così:

“Ho mai detto che, in qualche modo strano, ogni volta che arriva il diciannovesimo di questo mese, torniamo sempre su questo argomento? Pensi che sia stato per caso. Forse ho dimenticato di caricare l’orologio della chiesa? In nessun altro momento l’ho mai dimenticato, anche se è un oggetto così ingombrante da dover essere caricato ogni giorno. Perché proprio in questo giorno dovrebbe sfuggirmi alla memoria?”

“Ho fatto del mio meglio per affrettarmi mentre tornavo qui, ma prima dovevo andare a casa a prendere le chiavi; e con il vento e la pioggia che mi ostacolavano lungo la strada, a volte facevo davvero del mio meglio per non inciampare. Alla fine sono arrivato, ho aperto la porta della chiesa ed è entrato. Lungo tutto il cammino non ho incontrato nessuno. Potete immaginare quanto fosse noioso. Nessuno di voi due voleva accompagnarmi. Se solo aveste saputo cosa mi aspettava, avreste fatto la stessa scelta.”

Il vento era così forte che tutto ciò che riuscivo a fare era appoggiarmi con tutta la mia forza contro la porta della chiesa per chiuderla; eppure, nonostante ciò, si aprì due volte di scatto, con tale violenza che chiunque di voi, se fosse stato appoggiato contro di essa come me, avrebbe giurato che qualcuno stesse spingendo dall’altra parte. Alla fine riuscii ad inserire la chiave, entrai nella torre campanaria e caricai l’orologio – che era quasi fermo e si sarebbe fermato del tutto in mezz’ora.

Mentre riprendevo la mia lanterna per lasciare la chiesa, mi resi improvvisamente conto che era il diciannovesimo marzo. Quel pensiero mi colpì come se qualcuno me lo avesse impresso sulla fronte; nello stesso istante, udii una voce fuori dalla torre, provenire tra le tombe.

In quel momento, il vecchio John interruppe bruscamente il parlante e pregò che, se il signor Parkes (che era seduto di fronte a lui e fissava direttamente sopra la sua testa) avesse notato qualcosa, avesse la gentilezza di menzionarlo. Il signor Parkes si scusò, spiegando di essere semplicemente intento ad ascoltare; al che il signor Willet rispose con rabbia che quel modo di ascoltare, con quell’espressione sul viso, non era affatto gradito, e che, se non poteva comportarsi come gli altri, fosse meglio che si coprisse la testa con un fazzoletto. Il signor Parkes promise con grande sottomissione di farlo, qualora ne fosse stato nuovamente richiesto; dopodiché John Willet si rivolse a Solomon e gli chiese di continuare. Dopo aver atteso che una violenta raffica di vento e pioggia, che sembrava poter scuotere fino alle fondamenta quella robusta casa, fosse passata, il piccolo uomo proseguì con il suo racconto.

“Mai ditemi che si trattasse solo di una mia fantasia, o che fosse qualche altro suono quello che ho scambiato per ciò di cui vi parlo. Ho sentito il vento soffiare tra gli archi della chiesa; ho sentito la guglia tendersi e scricchiolare; ho sentito la pioggia battere contro i muri; ho sentito le campane tremare; ho visto le corde dondolarsi avanti e indietro. E ho sentito quella voce.”

“Cosa diceva?” chiese Tom Cobb.

“Non so cosa. Non so se abbia parlato davvero. Ha emesso un sorta di grido, come potrebbe fare chiunque di noi se qualcosa di terribile ci inseguisse in un sogno e ci colpisse all’improvviso; poi quel suono è svanito. Sembrava diffondersi intorno alla chiesa.”

“Non vedo nulla di particolare in quello,” disse John, facendo un lungo respiro e guardandosi intorno come una persona che si sentiva sollevata.

“Forse no,” rispose il suo amico, “ma non è tutto.”

“Cosa altro volete dire, signore, che state per venire?” chiese John, fermandosi un attimo mentre si asciugava il viso con il grembiule. “Cosa avete intenzione di raccontarci adesso?”

‘What I saw.’

‘Saw!’ echoed all three, bending forward.

‘When I opened the church-door to come out,’ said the little man, with an expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of his conviction, ‘when I opened the church-door to come out, which I did suddenly, for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind came up, there crossed me—so close, that by stretching out my finger I could have touched it—something in the likeness of a man. It was bare-headed to the storm. It turned its face without stopping, and fixed its eyes on mine. It was a ghost—a spirit.’

‘Whose?’ they all three cried together.

In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his chair, and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no further), his answer was lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be seated close beside him.

‘Who!’ cried Parkes and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by turns at Solomon Daisy and at Mr Willet. ‘Who was it?’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Willet after a long pause, ‘you needn’t ask. The likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of March.’

A profound silence ensued.

‘If you’ll take my advice,’ said John, ‘we had better, one and all, keep this a secret. Such tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep it to ourselves for the present time at all events, or we may get into trouble, and Solomon may lose his place. Whether it was really as he says, or whether it wasn’t, is no matter. Right or wrong, nobody would believe him. As to the probabilities, I don’t myself think,’ said Mr Willet, eyeing the corners of the room in a manner which showed that, like some other philosophers, he was not quite easy in his theory, ‘that a ghost as had been a man of sense in his lifetime, would be out a-walking in such weather—I only know that I wouldn’t, if I was one.’

But this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three, who quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very time for such appearances; and Mr Parkes (who had had a ghost in his family, by the mother’s side) argued the matter with so much ingenuity and force of illustration, that John was only saved from having to retract his opinion by the opportune appearance of supper, to which they applied themselves with a dreadful relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself, by dint of the elevating influences of fire, lights, brandy, and good company, so far recovered as to handle his knife and fork in a highly creditable manner, and to display a capacity both of eating and drinking, such as banished all fear of his having sustained any lasting injury from his fright.

Supper done, they crowded round the fire again, and, as is common on such occasions, propounded all manner of leading questions calculated to surround the story with new horrors and surprises. But Solomon Daisy, notwithstanding these temptations, adhered so steadily to his original account, and repeated it so often, with such slight variations, and with such solemn asseverations of its truth and reality, that his hearers were (with good reason) more astonished than at first. As he took John Willet’s view of the matter in regard to the propriety of not bruiting the tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again, in which case it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the clergyman, it was solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet. And as most men like to have a secret to tell which may exalt their own importance, they arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity.

As it was by this time growing late, and was long past their usual hour of separating, the cronies parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a fresh candle in his lantern, repaired homewards under the escort of long Phil Parkes and Mr Cobb, who were rather more nervous than himself. Mr Willet, after seeing them to the door, returned to collect his thoughts with the assistance of the boiler, and to listen to the storm of wind and rain, which had not yet abated one jot of its fury.

“Quello che ho visto.”

“Visto!” esclamarono tutti e tre, chinandosi in avanti.

“Quando aprii la porta della chiesa per uscire,” disse il piccolo uomo, con un’espressione sul viso che testimoniava ampiamente della sincerità della sua convinzione, “quando aprii la porta della chiesa per uscire – cosa che feci rapidamente, perché volevo richiuderla prima che arrivasse un altro colpo di vento – qualcosa che assomigliava a un uomo mi passò davanti, così vicino che, se avessi allungato la mano, avrei potuto toccarlo. Era a testa nuda sotto la tempesta; girò il viso senza fermarsi e fissò i suoi occhi nei miei. Era un fantasma, uno spirito.”

“Di chi?” gridarono tutti e tre insieme.

Nell’ebbrezza delle sue emozioni (poiché ricadde tremante sulla sedia e agitò la mano come se li pregasse di non interrogarlo oltre), la sua risposta andò inascoltata da tutti tranne che dal vecchio John Willet, che si trovava seduto proprio accanto a lui.

“Chi!” esclamarono Parkes e Tom Cobb, guardando alternativamente Solomon Daisy e il signor Willet. “Chi è stato?”

“Signori,” disse il signor Willet dopo una lunga pausa, “non c’è bisogno di chiedere. È l’aspetto di un uomo assassinato. Oggi è il diciannovesimo marzo.”

Seguì un profondo silenzio.

“Se seguite il mio consiglio,” disse John, “dovremmo tutti mantenere questo segreto. Storie del genere non sarebbero apprezzate a Warren. Per ora, teniamolo per noi. Altrimenti potremmo finire nei guai, e Solomon potrebbe perdere il suo lavoro. Che ciò che dice sia vero o no, non ha importanza: giusto o sbagliato, nessuno gli crederebbe. Per quanto riguarda le probabilità, beh, nemmeno io credo,” disse il signor Willet, guardando intorno alla stanza in modo che si capisse che, come altri filosofi, anche lui non era del tutto convinto della sua teoria, “che uno fantasma che in vita sua è stato una persona sensata possa girovagare con questo tempo. So soltanto che io, se fossi al suo posto, non lo farei.”

Ma questa dottrina eretica incontrò forte opposizione da parte degli altri tre, i quali citarono molti esempi per dimostrare che il cattivo tempo fosse proprio il momento più adatto per tali fenomeni; e il signor Parkes (la cui famiglia aveva avuto a che fare con un fantasma da parte della madre) argomentò la questione con tale ingegno e forza di persuasione, che John riuscì a evitare di dover ritrattare le proprie opinioni grazie all’arrivo opportuno della cena, alla quale tutti si dedicarono con grande entusiasmo. Anche Solomon Daisy, grazie agli effetti positivi del fuoco, delle luci, del brandy e di buona compagnia, riuscì a usare coltello e forchetta in modo più che dignitoso, dimostrando una capacità di mangiare e bere tale da dissipare ogni timore che avesse subito danni permanenti a causa della paura provata.

La cena finita, si riunirono intorno al fuoco e, come è consueto in tali occasioni, iniziarono a porre ogni sorta di domande mirate ad aggiungere nuovi orrori e sorprese alla storia. Ma Solomon Daisy, nonostante queste tentazioni, rimase fermamente fedele alla sua versione originale, ripetendola spesso con lievi variazioni e sostenendo con solennità la sua veridicità e realtà; per questo i suoi ascoltatori furono (con buone ragioni) ancora più stupiti di prima. Poiché condivideva l’opinione di John Willet riguardo al fatto che non fosse opportuno diffondere la storia, a meno che lo spirito non si manifestasse nuovamente a lui, nel qual caso sarebbe stato necessario consultare immediatamente il prete, fu deciso all’unanimità di mantenere il segreto. E poiché alla maggior parte delle persone piace avere un “segreto” che possa esaltare la loro importanza, raggiunsero questa decisione con perfetta concordanza.

Poiché era ormai tardi e molto oltre l’ora solita in cui si separavano, quegli amici presero congedo per la notte. Solomon Daisy, con una candela nuova nella sua lanterna, tornò a casa scortato da Phil Parkes e dal signor Cobb, i quali erano molto più nervosi di lui. Dopo averli accompagnati fino alla porta, il signor Willet tornò indietro per raccogliere i propri pensieri, con l’aiuto del caldaio, e ascoltare la tempesta di vento e pioggia che non aveva ancora diminuito d’intensità.

Chapter 34

Before old John had looked at the boiler quite twenty minutes, he got his ideas into a focus, and brought them to bear upon Solomon Daisy’s story. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he became with a sense of his own wisdom, and a desire that Mr Haredale should be impressed with it likewise. At length, to the end that he might sustain a principal and important character in the affair; and might have the start of Solomon and his two friends, through whose means he knew the adventure, with a variety of exaggerations, would be known to at least a score of people, and most likely to Mr Haredale himself, by breakfast-time to-morrow; he determined to repair to the Warren before going to bed.

‘He’s my landlord,’ thought John, as he took a candle in his hand, and setting it down in a corner out of the wind’s way, opened a casement in the rear of the house, looking towards the stables. ‘We haven’t met of late years so often as we used to do—changes are taking place in the family—it’s desirable that I should stand as well with them, in point of dignity, as possible—the whispering about of this here tale will anger him—it’s good to have confidences with a gentleman of his natur’, and set one’s-self right besides. Halloa there! Hugh—Hugh. Hal-loa!’

When he had repeated this shout a dozen times, and startled every pigeon from its slumbers, a door in one of the ruinous old buildings opened, and a rough voice demanded what was amiss now, that a man couldn’t even have his sleep in quiet.

‘What! Haven’t you sleep enough, growler, that you’re not to be knocked up for once?’ said John.

‘No,’ replied the voice, as the speaker yawned and shook himself. ‘Not half enough.’

‘I don’t know how you CAN sleep, with the wind a bellowsing and roaring about you, making the tiles fly like a pack of cards,’ said John; ‘but no matter for that. Wrap yourself up in something or another, and come here, for you must go as far as the Warren with me. And look sharp about it.’

Hugh, with much low growling and muttering, went back into his lair; and presently reappeared, carrying a lantern and a cudgel, and enveloped from head to foot in an old, frowzy, slouching horse-cloth. Mr Willet received this figure at the back-door, and ushered him into the bar, while he wrapped himself in sundry greatcoats and capes, and so tied and knotted his face in shawls and handkerchiefs, that how he breathed was a mystery.

‘You don’t take a man out of doors at near midnight in such weather, without putting some heart into him, do you, master?’ said Hugh.

‘Yes I do, sir,’ returned Mr Willet. ‘I put the heart (as you call it) into him when he has brought me safe home again, and his standing steady on his legs an’t of so much consequence. So hold that light up, if you please, and go on a step or two before, to show the way.’

Hugh obeyed with a very indifferent grace, and a longing glance at the bottles. Old John, laying strict injunctions on his cook to keep the doors locked in his absence, and to open to nobody but himself on pain of dismissal, followed him into the blustering darkness out of doors.

The way was wet and dismal, and the night so black, that if Mr Willet had been his own pilot, he would have walked into a deep horsepond within a few hundred yards of his own house, and would certainly have terminated his career in that ignoble sphere of action. But Hugh, who had a sight as keen as any hawk’s, and, apart from that endowment, could have found his way blindfold to any place within a dozen miles, dragged old John along, quite deaf to his remonstrances, and took his own course without the slightest reference to, or notice of, his master. So they made head against the wind as they best could; Hugh crushing the wet grass beneath his heavy tread, and stalking on after his ordinary savage fashion; John Willet following at arm’s length, picking his steps, and looking about him, now for bogs and ditches, and now for such stray ghosts as might be wandering abroad, with looks of as much dismay and uneasiness as his immovable face was capable of expressing.

At length they stood upon the broad gravel-walk before the Warren-house. The building was profoundly dark, and none were moving near it save themselves. From one solitary turret-chamber, however, there shone a ray of light; and towards this speck of comfort in the cold, cheerless, silent scene, Mr Willet bade his pilot lead him.

‘The old room,’ said John, looking timidly upward; ‘Mr Reuben’s own apartment, God be with us! I wonder his brother likes to sit there, so late at night—on this night too.’

‘Why, where else should he sit?’ asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his breast, to keep the candle from the wind, while he trimmed it with his fingers. ‘It’s snug enough, an’t it?’

‘Snug!’ said John indignantly. ‘You have a comfortable idea of snugness, you have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian?’

‘Why, what is it the worse for that!’ cried Hugh, looking into John’s fat face. ‘Does it keep out the rain, and snow, and wind, the less for that? Is it less warm or dry, because a man was killed there? Ha, ha, ha! Never believe it, master. One man’s no such matter as that comes to.’

Mr Willet fixed his dull eyes on his follower, and began—by a species of inspiration—to think it just barely possible that he was something of a dangerous character, and that it might be advisable to get rid of him one of these days. He was too prudent to say anything, with the journey home before him; and therefore turned to the iron gate before which this brief dialogue had passed, and pulled the handle of the bell that hung beside it. The turret in which the light appeared being at one corner of the building, and only divided from the path by one of the garden-walks, upon which this gate opened, Mr Haredale threw up the window directly, and demanded who was there.

Capitolo 34

Prima ancora che il vecchio John avesse esaminato il boiler per venti minuti, aveva già chiarito le sue idee e iniziato a rifletterci sopra riguardo alla storia di Solomon Daisy. Più ci pensava, più si rendeva conto della propria saggezza e più desiderava che anche il signor Haredale ne fosse colpito. Alla fine, decise di recarsi al Warren prima di andare a letto, con l’intento di assumere un ruolo importante in tutta quella vicenda; voleva infatti che la storia di Solomon e dei suoi due amici, attraverso cui sapeva che l’avventura sarebbe stata raccontata con varie esagerazioni, venisse conosciuta da almeno una ventina di persone, e molto probabilmente anche dal signor Haredale stesso, entro l’ora di colazione del giorno seguente.

“È il mio padrone di casa,” pensò John, prendendo una candela e mettendola in un angolo al riparo dal >vento, poi aprì una finestra sul retro della >casa che dava verso le stalle. “Negli ultimi anni non ci siamo visti spesso come prima. Ci sono stati dei cambiamenti nella famiglia. È opportuno che io mantenga con loro un rapporto il più cordiale possibile, in termini di dignità. Le chiacchiere su questa storia lo faranno arrabbiare. È bene avere una confidenza con un gentiluomo del suo stampo. E così mettersi al sicuro, ” “Ehi! Hugh. Hugh. Ehi!”

Dopo aver ripetuto quel grido una dozzina di volte, svegliando ogni piccione dai suoi sonni, una porta di uno degli edifici in rovina si aprì e una voce ruvida chiese cosa stesse succedendo, visto che nessuno riusciva nemmeno a dormire in pace.

“Che cosa! Non hai dormito abbastanza, maledetto, da non poter essere svegliato nemmeno questa volta?” disse John.

“No,” rispose la voce, mentre il parlante sbadigliava e si scuoteva. “Nemmeno lontanamente sufficiente.”

“Non so proprio COME tu possa dormire,” disse John, “con il vento che soffia forte intorno a te, facendo volare via le tegole come un mazzo di carte. Ma non importa. Avvolgiti in qualcosa e vieni qui: devi venire con me fino al Warren. E fai attenzione.”

Hugh, con molti ringhi e mormorii, tornò nella sua tana; poco dopo ricomparve, portando una lanterna e un bastone, e avvolto dalla testa ai piedi in un vecchio mantello di lana logoro e informe. Il signor Willet lo accolse alla porta posteriore e lo fece entrare nel bar; intanto Hugh si avvolgeva in diversi cappotti e sciarpe, legandosi il viso con fazzoletti in modo tale che non si capiva nemmeno come riuscisse a respirare.

“Non si porta un uomo fuori casa a notte fonda, con questo tempo, senza dargli almeno un po’ di coraggio, vero, padrone?” disse Hugh.

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Willet. “Gli metto ‘il cuore’, come voi lo chiamate, quando mi riporta sano e salvo a casa. Il fatto che riesca a stare in piedi senza cadere non ha poi tanta importanza. Quindi, per favore, tenete alta quella lampada e andate avanti di un paio di passi per indicarmi la strada.”

Hugh obbedì con una grazia molto indifferente, lanciando però uno sguardo pieno di desiderio verso le bottiglie. Il vecchio John, che aveva dato istruzioni precise al proprio cuoco di tenere le porte chiuse in sua assenza e di non aprire a nessuno se non a lui stesso, lo seguì nella buia notte all’esterno della casa.

Il terreno era umido e desolato, e la notte così buia che, se il signor Willet fosse stato il proprio pilota, avrebbe inciampato in un profondo stagno a poche centinaia di metri dalla sua casa, concludendo sicuramente la propria “carriera” in quel modo ignobile. Ma Hugh, che aveva una vista acuta come quella di un falco e, oltre a questo dono naturale, avrebbe potuto trovare la strada anche bendato entro un raggio di dodici miglia, trascinava con sé il vecchio John, ignorando completamente le sue proteste, e procedeva per la propria strada senza prestare la minima attenzione al proprio padrone. Così avanzavano contro il vento come meglio potevano: Hugh calpestava l’erba umida con i suoi passi pesanti, seguendo il suo solito modo selvaggio di camminare; John Willet lo seguiva a distanza, scegliendo attentamente i propri passi e guardandosi intorno, temendo di inciampare in paludi o fossati, o forse di incontrare qualche “fantasma” errante. Il suo viso immobile rifletteva tutta la sua paura e l’ansia.

Finalmente si trovarono sul largo sentiero di ghiaia davanti alla casa di Warren. L’edificio era immerso nella più profonda oscurità, e nessuno si muoveva nelle sue vicinanze se non loro stessi. Tuttavia, da una solitaria torre usciva un raggio di luce; verso quel barlume di conforto in quella scena fredda, desolata e silenziosa, il signor Willet ordinò al suo accompagnatore di guidarlo.

“Quella vecchia stanza,” disse John, guardando timidamente in alto; “l’appartamento personale del signor Reuben. Che Dio ci aiuti! Mi chiedo se a suo fratello piaccia sedersi lì, così tardi di notte. Anche questa notte.”

“Perché, dove altro dovrebbe sedersi?” chiese Hugh, tenendo la lanterna contro il petto per proteggere la candela dal >vento, mentre la regolava con le dita. “È abbastanza confortevole, no?”

“Comodo!”, disse John con indignazione. “Avete davvero un’idea molto confortevole di ciò che significa essere comodi, voi. Sapete cosa è successo in quella stanza, voi scellerato?”

“Ma perché dovrebbe essere peggio per questo?!”, esclamò Hugh, guardando il viso grasso di John. “Perché questo impedisce alla pioggia, alla neve e al >vento di entrare? Perché diventa meno caldo o asciutto solo perché lì è stato ucciso un uomo? Ahahah. Non crederci mai, padrone. La vita di una persona non vale così poco.”

Il signor Willet fissò i suoi occhi spenti sul suo seguace e, come se fosse stato ispirato da qualche idea, iniziò a pensare che potesse trattarsi di una persona pericolosa, e che forse sarebbe stato opportuno sbarazzarsene in futuro. Tuttavia, essendo troppo prudente, non disse nulla, soprattutto considerando che aveva ancora davanti a sé il viaggio di ritorno a casa; quindi si avvicinò al cancello di ferro davanti al quale era avvenuto quel breve dialogo e tirò la maniglia della campanella appesa accanto ad esso. Poiché la finestra da cui proveniva la luce si trovava in un angolo dell’edificio e era separata dal sentiero soltanto da uno dei vialetti del giardino attraverso il quale si apriva quel cancello, il signor Haredale alzò direttamente la finestra e chiese chi ci fosse all’interno.

‘Begging pardon, sir,’ said John, ‘I knew you sat up late, and made bold to come round, having a word to say to you.’

‘Willet—is it not?’

‘Of the Maypole—at your service, sir.’

Mr Haredale closed the window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at a door in the bottom of the turret, and coming across the garden-walk, unlocked the gate and let them in.

‘You are a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter?’

‘Nothing to speak of, sir,’ said John; ‘an idle tale, I thought you ought to know of; nothing more.’

‘Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The stairs are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend. You swing it like a censer.’

Hugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and ascended first, turning round from time to time to shed his light downward on the steps. Mr Haredale following next, eyed his lowering face with no great favour; and Hugh, looking down on him, returned his glances with interest, as they climbed the winding stairs.

It terminated in a little ante-room adjoining that from which they had seen the light. Mr Haredale entered first, and led the way through it into the latter chamber, where he seated himself at a writing-table from which he had risen when they had rung the bell.

‘Come in,’ he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the door. ‘Not you, friend,’ he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also. ‘Willet, why do you bring that fellow here?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and lowering his voice to the tone in which the question had been asked him, ‘he’s a good guard, you see.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said Mr Haredale, looking towards him as he spoke. ‘I doubt it. He has an evil eye.’

‘There’s no imagination in his eye,’ returned Mr Willet, glancing over his shoulder at the organ in question, ‘certainly.’

‘There is no good there, be assured,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Wait in that little room, friend, and close the door between us.’

Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their whispering, did as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned to John, and bade him go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick ears yonder.

Thus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he had heard and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own sagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than he had expected. Mr Haredale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even Mr Willet was surprised.

‘You did quite right,’ he said, at the end of a long conversation, ‘to bid them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of this weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition. But Miss Haredale, though she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it if it reached her ears; it is too nearly connected with a subject very painful to us all, to be heard with indifference. You were most prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much.’

This was equal to John’s most sanguine expectations; but he would have preferred Mr Haredale’s looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did.

This, however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite forgotten his being present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber floor, sprang up on their entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and prepared to descend the stairs.

‘Stay,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Will this man drink?’

‘Drink! He’d drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir,’ replied John Willet. ‘He’ll have something when he gets home. He’s better without it, now, sir.’

‘Nay. Half the distance is done,’ said Hugh. ‘What a hard master you are! I shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway. Come!’

As John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and gave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the floor.

‘What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman’s house, sir?’ said John.

‘I’m drinking a toast,’ Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale’s face; ‘a toast to this house and its master.’ With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word.

John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr Haredale locked it on the inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he was very pale, and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man.

They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what he had just now seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past—the nearest brushed his shoulder even then—who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse John, “sapevo che vi sareste alzato tardi e ho osato venire da voi per dirvi qualcosa.”

“Willet, non è forse così?”

“Del palo di maggio. A vostra disposizione, signore.”

Il signor Haredale chiuse la finestra e se ne andò. Poco dopo apparve davanti a una porta situata nella parte inferiore della torre; attraversando il sentiero del >jardino, aprì il cancello e li fece entrare.

“Sei un visitatore in ritardo, Willet. Cosa c’è?”

“Niente di che parlare, signore,” disse John; “è solo una storia senza fondamento; ho pensato fosse giusto che lo sapeste, nient’altro.”

“Lascia che il tuo uomo vada avanti con la lanterna, e dammi la tua mano. Le scale sono tortuose e strette. Muovi la luce con delicatezza, amico. La muovi come se fosse un incensiere.”

Hugh, che aveva già raggiunto la torre, la tenne più saldamente e fu il primo ad ascendere, voltandosi di tanto in tanto per far cadere la luce dei suoi occhi sui gradini sottostanti. Il signor Haredale lo seguì; osservava il suo volto mentre saliva con scarso favore. Hugh, guardandolo dal basso, ricambiava quegli sguardi con interesse, mentre salivano insieme le scale tortuose.

Finì in una piccola anticamera adiacente a quella da cui avevano visto la luce. Il signor Haredale entrò per primo e li guidò attraverso di essa nella stanza successiva, dove si sedette davanti a un tavolo da scrivere; era stato proprio lì che si era alzato quando loro avevano suonato il campanello.

“Entra,” disse, facendo segno al vecchio John, che rimaneva fermo in piedi sulla soglia. “Non tu, amico,” aggiunse in fretta a Hugh, che stava per entrare anche lui. “Willet, perché hai portato qui quel tizio?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose John, alzando le sopracciglia e abbassando la voce al tono con cui gli era stata posta la domanda, “vedete, è un buon guardiano.”

“Non ne essere troppo sicuro,” disse il signor Haredale, guardandolo mentre parlava. “Ne dubito. Lui ha uno sguardo malvagio.”

“Non c’è alcuna immaginazione nei suoi occhi,” rispose il signor Willet, guardando di sfuggita l’organo in questione. “Certo che no.”

“Non c’è nulla di buono lì, stai tranquillo,” disse il signor Haredale. “Aspetta in quella piccola stanza, amico mio, e chiudi la porta tra noi.”

Hugh alzò le spalle e, con uno sguardo di disprezzo che dimostrava sia che avesse sentito ciò che stavano sussurrando, sia che ne avesse indovinato il contenuto, fece quanto gli era stato detto. Quando fu mandato via, il signor Haredale si rivolse a John e gli disse di continuare con ciò che aveva da dire, ma di non parlare troppo ad alta voce, perché c’erano orecchie attente nelle vicinanze.

Avvertito in questo modo, il signor Willet, con un sussurro untuoso, raccontò tutto ciò che aveva sentito, affermando quanto fosse accaduto quella notte; mise particolare enfasi sulla propria saggezza, sul grande rispetto che provava per la famiglia e sulla sua premura per la loro serenità e felicità. La storia commosse molto l’ascoltatore, più di quanto si aspettasse. Il signor Haredale cambiava spesso atteggiamento, camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza, gli chiedeva di ripetere, il più fedelmente possibile, le stesse parole usate da Salomone, e mostrava tali segni di agitazione e disagio che anche il signor Willet ne rimase sorpreso.

“Hai fatto davvero bene,” disse lui, alla fine di una lunga conversazione, “a chiedere loro di mantenere questo segreto. È un’idea sciocca da parte di quell’uomo debole di mente, nata dalle sue paure e superstizioni. Ma la signorina Haredale, anche se ne fosse a conoscenza, ne sarebbe turbata se dovesse venire a saperlo; riguarda un argomento troppo doloroso per tutti noi, per poter essere affrontato con indifferenza. Sei stata molto prudente e mi hai reso un grande favore. Ti ringrazio molto.”

Questo era esattamente ciò che John si aspettava; tuttavia avrebbe preferito che il signor Haredale lo guardasse mentre parlava, come se davvero gli fosse grato, piuttosto che camminare avanti e indietro, parlare a scatti, fermarsi spesso con lo sguardo fisso per terra, per poi riprendere a muoversi in fretta, come se fosse distratto e quasi inconsapevole di ciò che diceva o faceva.

Tuttavia, questo era il suo modo di fare; e fu così imbarazzante per John che rimase seduto senza fare nulla per un lungo tempo, non sapendo cosa fare. Alla fine si alzò. Il signor Haredale lo fissò per un momento, come se avesse completamente dimenticato la sua presenza, poi gli strinse la mano e aprì la porta. Hugh, che era, o fingeva di essere, profondamente addormentato sul pavimento dell’anticamera, balzò in piedi non appena loro entrarono; si gettò il mantello addosso, afferrò il suo bastone e la lanterna, e si preparò a scendere le scale.

“Resta,” disse il signor Haredale. “Quest’uomo berà?”

“Beva! Bevrebbe anche il Tamigi, se fosse abbastanza forte, signore,” rispose John Willet. “Prenderà qualcosa quando tornerà a >casa. Ora gli fa meglio non berlo, signore.”

“No. Abbiamo già percorso metà della strada,” disse Hugh. “Che duro maestro sei. Meglio tornare a >casa per un bicchiere di vino, dopo aver percorso metà del cammino. Andiamo!”

Poiché John non rispose, il signor Haredale tirò fuori un bicchiere di liquore e lo diede a Hugh, che, mentre lo prendeva in mano, ne versò una parte per terra.

“Cosa intende dire con versare il proprio drink dappertutto nella casa di un gentiluomo, signore?”, chiese John.

“Sto facendo un brindisi,” riprese Hugh, tenendo il bicchiere sopra la testa e fissando il viso del signor Haredale; “un brindisi a questa casa e al suo padrone.” Dopo aver detto questo, mormorò qualcosa tra sé, bevve il resto del contenuto del bicchiere, lo posò e li precedette senza aggiungere altro.

John fu piuttosto scandalizzato da questa situazione, ma vedendo che il signor Haredale non prestava alcuna attenzione a ciò che Hugh diceva o faceva, e che i suoi pensieri erano altrove, non si scusò e scese in silenzio le scale, attraversò il vialetto e passò attraverso la porta del giardino. Si fermarono sul lato esterno affinché Hugh tenesse la lampada mentre il signor Haredale la chiudeva dall’interno; poi John vide, con grande stupore (come raccontò spesso in seguito), che il signor Haredale era molto pallido e che il suo viso era cambiato così tanto da sembrare quasi un altro uomo rispetto a quando erano entrati.

Erano di nuovo sulla strada aperta, e John Willet camminava dietro il suo accompagnatore, come quando era arrivato, pensando con attenzione a ciò che aveva appena visto. In quel momento Hugh lo tirò improvvisamente da parte, e quasi nello stesso istante tre cavalieri sfrecciarono loro accanto; il più vicino gli sfiorò persino la spalla. Questi ultimi, frenando i cavalli con la massima rapidità possibile, si fermarono ad aspettare che li raggiungessero.

Chapter 35

When John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen; and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his stout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to address them in the most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the king’s highway at that late hour of night.

The man whom he addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when he was checked by the horseman in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice:

‘Pray, is this the London road?’

‘If you follow it right, it is,’ replied Hugh roughly.

‘Nay, brother,’ said the same person, ‘you’re but a churlish Englishman, if Englishman you be—which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say you, friend?’

‘I say it IS the London road, sir,’ answered John. ‘And I wish,’ he added in a subdued voice, as he turned to Hugh, ‘that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir, that you go a-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing chaps, that could keep on running over us, back’ards and for’ards, till we was dead, and then take our bodies up behind ‘em, and drown us ten miles off?’

‘How far is it to London?’ inquired the same speaker.

‘Why, from here, sir,’ answered John, persuasively, ‘it’s thirteen very easy mile.’

The adjective was thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed; but instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person, the remark, ‘Thirteen miles! That’s a long distance!’ which was followed by a short pause of indecision.

‘Pray,’ said the gentleman, ‘are there any inns hereabouts?’ At the word ‘inns,’ John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner; his fears rolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.

‘There are no inns,’ rejoined Mr Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural number; ‘but there’s a Inn—one Inn—the Maypole Inn. That’s a Inn indeed. You won’t see the like of that Inn often.’

‘You keep it, perhaps?’ said the horseman, smiling.

‘I do, sir,’ replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out.

‘And how far is the Maypole from here?’

‘About a mile’—John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed:

‘And have you one excellent bed, landlord? Hem! A bed that you can recommend—a bed that you are sure is well aired—a bed that has been slept in by some perfectly respectable and unexceptionable person?’

‘We don’t take in no tagrag and bobtail at our house, sir,’ answered John. ‘And as to the bed itself—’

‘Say, as to three beds,’ interposed the gentleman who had spoken before; ‘for we shall want three if we stay, though my friend only speaks of one.’

‘No, no, my lord; you are too good, you are too kind; but your life is of far too much importance to the nation in these portentous times, to be placed upon a level with one so useless and so poor as mine. A great cause, my lord, a mighty cause, depends on you. You are its leader and its champion, its advanced guard and its van. It is the cause of our altars and our homes, our country and our faith. Let ME sleep on a chair—the carpet—anywhere. No one will repine if I take cold or fever. Let John Grueby pass the night beneath the open sky—no one will repine for HIM. But forty thousand men of this our island in the wave (exclusive of women and children) rivet their eyes and thoughts on Lord George Gordon; and every day, from the rising up of the sun to the going down of the same, pray for his health and vigour. My lord,’ said the speaker, rising in his stirrups, ‘it is a glorious cause, and must not be forgotten. My lord, it is a mighty cause, and must not be endangered. My lord, it is a holy cause, and must not be deserted.’

‘It IS a holy cause,’ exclaimed his lordship, lifting up his hat with great solemnity. ‘Amen.’

‘John Grueby,’ said the long-winded gentleman, in a tone of mild reproof, ‘his lordship said Amen.’

‘I heard my lord, sir,’ said the man, sitting like a statue on his horse.

‘And do not YOU say Amen, likewise?’

To which John Grueby made no reply at all, but sat looking straight before him.

‘You surprise me, Grueby,’ said the gentleman. ‘At a crisis like the present, when Queen Elizabeth, that maiden monarch, weeps within her tomb, and Bloody Mary, with a brow of gloom and shadow, stalks triumphant—’

‘Oh, sir,’ cried the man, gruffly, ‘where’s the use of talking of Bloody Mary, under such circumstances as the present, when my lord’s wet through, and tired with hard riding? Let’s either go on to London, sir, or put up at once; or that unfort’nate Bloody Mary will have more to answer for—and she’s done a deal more harm in her grave than she ever did in her lifetime, I believe.’

By this time Mr Willet, who had never heard so many words spoken together at one time, or delivered with such volubility and emphasis as by the long-winded gentleman; and whose brain, being wholly unable to sustain or compass them, had quite given itself up for lost; recovered so far as to observe that there was ample accommodation at the Maypole for all the party: good beds; neat wines; excellent entertainment for man and beast; private rooms for large and small parties; dinners dressed upon the shortest notice; choice stabling, and a lock-up coach-house; and, in short, to run over such recommendatory scraps of language as were painted up on various portions of the building, and which in the course of some forty years he had learnt to repeat with tolerable correctness. He was considering whether it was at all possible to insert any novel sentences to the same purpose, when the gentleman who had spoken first, turning to him of the long wind, exclaimed, ‘What say you, Gashford? Shall we tarry at this house he speaks of, or press forward? You shall decide.’

Capitolo 35

Quando John Willet vide che i cavalieri si erano rapidamente girati e si erano schierati in fila sulla stretta strada, aspettando che lui e il suo uomo li raggiungessero, gli venne in mente con insolita prontezza che dovevano essere banditi di strada; e se Hugh avesse avuto con sé un fucile a canna lunga, invece del suo robusto bastone, sicuramente gli avrebbe ordinato di sparare senza esitazione, per poi fuggire immediatamente per garantire la propria incolumità. Tuttavia, date le circostanze sfavorevoli in cui si trovava lui e il suo accompagnatore, ritenne più saggio adottare un approccio diverso; quindi sussurrò al proprio servitore di rivolgersi a loro con parole pacifiche e cortesi. Seguendo queste istruzioni, Hugh fece un passo avanti e, agitando il suo bastone davanti agli occhi del cavaliere più vicino, chiese rudemente cosa intendessero quegli uomini facendosi strada così rapidamente su quella strada reale, a quell’ora tarda della notte.

L’uomo a cui si era rivolto stava per rispondere con rabbia nello stesso tono, quando fu fermato dal cavaliere al centro del gruppo, il quale, intervenendo con un tono autoritario, chiese in modo piuttosto forte ma non aggressivo:

“Prego, è davvero questa la strada di Londra?”

“Se la segui nel modo giusto, allora sì,” rispose Hugh in tono brusco.

“No, fratello,” disse la stessa persona, “sei soltanto un inglese scortese, se davvero lo sei, il che dubito molto, a meno che non sia per via della tua lingua. Sono certo che il tuo compagno risponderà in modo più cortese. Che ne dici tu, amico?”

“Dico che SI tratta proprio di quella strada di Londra, signore,” rispose John. “E vorrei,” aggiunse a voce bassa, rivolgendosi a Hugh, “che foste su un’altra strada, voi vagabondo. Vi siete stancato della vostra vita, signore? Perché cercate di provocare tre uomini pericolosi che potrebbero continuare a investirci avanti e indietro fino a ucciderci, per poi gettare i nostri corpi dieci miglia più lontano?”

“Quanto distanza c’è da Londra?”, chiese lo stesso interlocutore.

“Beh, da qui, signore,” rispose John con convinzione, “sono soltanto tredici miglia, molto facili da percorrere.”

L’aggettivo fu aggiunto come esortazione per incoraggiare i viaggiatori ad andarsene il più velocemente possibile; ma invece di ottenere l’effetto desiderato, suscitò in quella stessa persona la osservazione: “Tredici miglia! È una distanza molto lunga!” seguita da un breve momento di indecisione.

“Pregate,” disse il gentiluomo, “ci sono delle locande nelle vicinanze?” Alla parola “locande”, John raccolse le forze in modo sorprendente; i suoi timori svanirono come fumo; tutto ciò che era in lui si risvegliò.

“Non ci sono locande,” ribatté il signor Willet, mettendo particolare enfasi sul numero plurale; “ma c’è una sola locanda, la Maypole Inn. Davvero una locanda unica. Non ne troverete molte come quella.”

“Forse dovresti tenerla tu, no?” disse il cavaliere sorridendo.

“Sì, signore,” rispose John, chiedendosi molto come fosse riuscito a scoprirlo.

“E a che distanza si trova il palo di maggio da qui?”

“Circa un miglio, ” – John stava per aggiungere che era il miglio più facile di tutto il mondo, quando il terzo cavaliere, che fino ad allora si teneva un po’ indietro, intervenne improvvisamente:

“E avete una bella brandina, padrone di casa? Ehm. Una brandina che possiate consigliare. Una brandina di cui siate sicuri che sia ben areata. Una brandina su cui abbia dormito qualcuno assolutamente rispettabile e irreprensibile?”

“Non accogliamo certo gente di ogni sorta nella nostra >casa, signore,” rispose John. “E per quanto riguarda il letto stesso, ”

“Diciamo, tre letti,” intervenne il gentiluomo che aveva parlato prima;
“perché ne avremo bisogno se restiamo, anche se mio amico ne parla solo di uno.”

“No, no, mio signore; siete troppo buono, troppo gentile. Ma la vostra vita è di estrema importanza per la nazione in questi tempi così difficili; non può essere messa a pari livello con quella di qualcuno tanto inutile e povero come me. Una grande causa, mio signore, una causa fondamentale dipende da voi. Siete il suo leader, il suo campione, la sua avanguardia. È la causa dei nostri altari, delle nostre case, della nostra patria e della nostra fede. Lasciate che IO dorma su una sedia, sul tappeto, ovunque. Nessuno si lamenterà se prendo freddo o febbre. Lasciate che John Grueby trascorra la notte all’aperto, nessuno si lamenterà per LUI. Ma quarantamila uomini di quest’isola, esclusi donne e bambini, fissano i loro occhi e i loro pensieri su Lord George Gordon; ogni giorno, dal sorgere al tramonto del sole, pregano per la sua salute e la sua forza. Mio signore,” disse l’oratore alzandosi sui suoi stivali, “è una causa gloriosa, e non deve essere dimenticata. È una causa fondamentale, e non deve essere messa in pericolo. È una causa sacra, e non deve essere abbandonata.”

“È davvero una causa sacra,” esclamò il suo signore, sollevando il cappello con grande solennità. “Amen.”

“John Grueby,” disse il gentiluomo prolisso, con un tono di leggera rimprovera, “sua signoria ha detto ‘Amen’.”

“Ho sentito il mio signore, signore,” disse l’uomo, seduto immobile come una statua sul suo cavallo.

“E anche voi non dite ‘Amen’?”

A cui John Grueby non rispose affatto, ma rimase seduto a fissare davanti a sé.

“Mi sorprendi davvero, Grueby,” disse il gentiluomo. “In un momento di crisi come questo, quando Regina Elisabetta, quella giovane monarca, piange nella sua tomba, e Bloody Mary, con un volto cupo e ombre scure sul viso, cammina trionfante, ”

“Oh, signore,” gridò l’uomo con voce rauca, “a che serve parlare di quella maledetta Bloody Mary in circostanze del genere? Il mio padrone è fradicio e stanco per la lunga cavalcata. Dobbiamo andare subito a Londra, signore, oppure trovare un posto dove fermarci immediatamente; altrimenti quella sfortunata Bloody Mary dovrà rispondere di molte cose in più. E credo che abbia causato ancora più danni nella sua vita di quanti ne abbia mai causati in tutta la sua esistenza.”

A quell’ora, il signor Willet, che non aveva mai sentito così tante parole pronunciate tutte insieme nello stesso momento, né dette con tale eloquenza ed enfasi come da quel gentiluomo prolisso; e la cui mente, essendo del tutto incapace di comprenderle o assimilarle, aveva quasi perso ogni capacità di riflessione; riuscì comunque a notare che presso il Maypole c’era ampio spazio per tutti: letti confortevoli, vini pregiati, ottimi intrattenimenti per uomini e animali, stanze private adatte a gruppi di ogni dimensione, cene pronte in tempi brevi, stalle di qualità e anche una scuderia; in breve, riuscì a leggere tutte quelle descrizioni lusinghiere presenti su varie parti dell’edificio, che nel corso di circa quarant’anni aveva imparato a ripetere con una certa accuratezza. Stava pensando se fosse possibile aggiungere qualche frase nuova allo stesso scopo, quando il gentiluomo che aveva parlato per primo, rivolgendosi a lui con quel suo modo prolisso, esclamò: “Che ne dici, Gashford? Dovremmo fermarci in questa casa di cui parla, o proseguire il nostro viaggio? Decidi tu.”

‘I would submit, my lord, then,’ returned the person he appealed to, in a silky tone, ‘that your health and spirits—so important, under Providence, to our great cause, our pure and truthful cause’—here his lordship pulled off his hat again, though it was raining hard—‘require refreshment and repose.’

‘Go on before, landlord, and show the way,’ said Lord George Gordon; ‘we will follow at a footpace.’

‘If you’ll give me leave, my lord,’ said John Grueby, in a low voice, ‘I’ll change my proper place, and ride before you. The looks of the landlord’s friend are not over honest, and it may be as well to be cautious with him.’

‘John Grueby is quite right,’ interposed Mr Gashford, falling back hastily. ‘My lord, a life so precious as yours must not be put in peril. Go forward, John, by all means. If you have any reason to suspect the fellow, blow his brains out.’

John made no answer, but looking straight before him, as his custom seemed to be when the secretary spoke, bade Hugh push on, and followed close behind him. Then came his lordship, with Mr Willet at his bridle rein; and, last of all, his lordship’s secretary—for that, it seemed, was Gashford’s office.

Hugh strode briskly on, often looking back at the servant, whose horse was close upon his heels, and glancing with a leer at his holster case of pistols, by which he seemed to set great store. He was a square-built, strong-made, bull-necked fellow, of the true English breed; and as Hugh measured him with his eye, he measured Hugh, regarding him meanwhile with a look of bluff disdain. He was much older than the Maypole man, being to all appearance five-and-forty; but was one of those self-possessed, hard-headed, imperturbable fellows, who, if they are ever beaten at fisticuffs, or other kind of warfare, never know it, and go on coolly till they win.

‘If I led you wrong now,’ said Hugh, tauntingly, ‘you’d—ha ha ha!—you’d shoot me through the head, I suppose.’

John Grueby took no more notice of this remark than if he had been deaf and Hugh dumb; but kept riding on quite comfortably, with his eyes fixed on the horizon.

‘Did you ever try a fall with a man when you were young, master?’ said Hugh. ‘Can you make any play at single-stick?’

John Grueby looked at him sideways with the same contented air, but deigned not a word in answer.

‘—Like this?’ said Hugh, giving his cudgel one of those skilful flourishes, in which the rustic of that time delighted. ‘Whoop!’

‘—Or that,’ returned John Grueby, beating down his guard with his whip, and striking him on the head with its butt end. ‘Yes, I played a little once. You wear your hair too long; I should have cracked your crown if it had been a little shorter.’

It was a pretty smart, loud-sounding rap, as it was, and evidently astonished Hugh; who, for the moment, seemed disposed to drag his new acquaintance from his saddle. But his face betokening neither malice, triumph, rage, nor any lingering idea that he had given him offence; his eyes gazing steadily in the old direction, and his manner being as careless and composed as if he had merely brushed away a fly; Hugh was so puzzled, and so disposed to look upon him as a customer of almost supernatural toughness, that he merely laughed, and cried ‘Well done!’ then, sheering off a little, led the way in silence.

Before the lapse of many minutes the party halted at the Maypole door. Lord George and his secretary quickly dismounting, gave their horses to their servant, who, under the guidance of Hugh, repaired to the stables. Right glad to escape from the inclemency of the night, they followed Mr Willet into the common room, and stood warming themselves and drying their clothes before the cheerful fire, while he busied himself with such orders and preparations as his guest’s high quality required.

As he bustled in and out of the room, intent on these arrangements, he had an opportunity of observing the two travellers, of whom, as yet, he knew nothing but the voice. The lord, the great personage who did the Maypole so much honour, was about the middle height, of a slender make, and sallow complexion, with an aquiline nose, and long hair of a reddish brown, combed perfectly straight and smooth about his ears, and slightly powdered, but without the faintest vestige of a curl. He was attired, under his greatcoat, in a full suit of black, quite free from any ornament, and of the most precise and sober cut. The gravity of his dress, together with a certain lankness of cheek and stiffness of deportment, added nearly ten years to his age, but his figure was that of one not yet past thirty. As he stood musing in the red glow of the fire, it was striking to observe his very bright large eye, which betrayed a restlessness of thought and purpose, singularly at variance with the studied composure and sobriety of his mien, and with his quaint and sad apparel. It had nothing harsh or cruel in its expression; neither had his face, which was thin and mild, and wore an air of melancholy; but it was suggestive of an indefinable uneasiness; which infected those who looked upon him, and filled them with a kind of pity for the man: though why it did so, they would have had some trouble to explain.

Gashford, the secretary, was taller, angularly made, high-shouldered, bony, and ungraceful. His dress, in imitation of his superior, was demure and staid in the extreme; his manner, formal and constrained. This gentleman had an overhanging brow, great hands and feet and ears, and a pair of eyes that seemed to have made an unnatural retreat into his head, and to have dug themselves a cave to hide in. His manner was smooth and humble, but very sly and slinking. He wore the aspect of a man who was always lying in wait for something that WOULDN’T come to pass; but he looked patient—very patient—and fawned like a spaniel dog. Even now, while he warmed and rubbed his hands before the blaze, he had the air of one who only presumed to enjoy it in his degree as a commoner; and though he knew his lord was not regarding him, he looked into his face from time to time, and with a meek and deferential manner, smiled as if for practice.

“Allora, mio signore, vorrei suggerire,” rispose la persona a cui si era rivolto, con un tono vellutato, “che la vostra salute e il vostro spirito – così importanti, sotto la Provvidenza, per la nostra grande causa, la nostra causa pura e sincera” – qui il suo signore si tolse di nuovo il cappello, nonostante piovesse forte – “richiedano riposo e ristoro.”

“Vai avanti tu per primo, padrone di casa, e mostra la strada,” disse Lord George Gordon; “noi ti seguiremo a passo lento.”

“Se mi date il permesso, mio signore,” disse John Grueby a bassa voce, “cambierò il mio posto e viaggerò davanti a voi. Lo sguardo dell’amico del proprietario terriero non sembra affatto onesto. Forse è meglio essere cauti con lui.”

“John Grueby ha perfettamente ragione,” intervenne il signor Gashford, ritirandosi rapidamente. “Mio signore, una vita preziosa come la vostra non può essere messa in pericolo. Andate pure avanti, John; se avete qualche motivo di sospettare quell’uomo, sparategli.”

John non rispose nulla, ma guardando dritto davanti a sé, come era sua abitudine quando il segretario parlava, ordinò a Hugh di continuare e lo seguì da vicino. Poi arrivò il suo signore, con il signor Willet al suo fianco; e infine, il segretario del suo signore, poiché sembrava che quella fosse la funzione di Gashford.

Hugh procedeva a passi decisi, guardandosi spesso indietro verso il servitore, il cui cavallo lo seguiva da vicino; lanciava anche occhiate maliziose alla custodia delle sue pistole, di cui sembrava tener molto. Era un uomo di corporatura robusta, con collo taurino, tipico rappresentante della vera razza inglese; mentre Hugh lo osservava attentamente, lui a sua volta lo valutava con uno sguardo di sprezzante indifferenza. Era molto più anziano dell’uomo del Maypole: doveva avere circa cinquant’anni; ma apparteneva a quei tipi sicuri di sé, testardi e imperturbabili che, anche se vengono sconfitti in una rissa o in qualche altro tipo di conflitto, non se ne accorgono nemmeno e continuano tranquillamente fino alla vittoria.

“Se ora vi guidassi nella direzione sbagliata,” disse Hugh, in tono provocatorio, “voi, ah ah ah, mi sparereste in testa, immagino.”

John Grueby non prestò alcuna attenzione a questo commento, come se fosse sordo e Hugh muto; continuò invece a cavalcare tranquillamente, con lo sguardo fisso all’orizzonte.

“Hai mai provato a fare l’amore con un uomo quando eri giovane, padrone?” chiese Hugh. “Sei brava a giocare a single-stick?”

John Grueby lo guardò di sguardo, con lo stesso atteggiamento soddisfatto, ma non si degnò di dire una parola in risposta.

“Così?” disse Hugh, eseguendo uno di quei movimenti abili con il suo bastone, che i contadini di quell’epoca amavano molto. “Urrà!”

“–O forse anche questo, “, rispose John Grueby, abbassando la guardia con il suo frustino e colpendolo alla testa con l’estremità di legno. “Sì, una volta ho giocato anch’io. Porti i capelli troppo lunghi; avrei dovuto romperti la corona se fossero stati un po’ più corti.“

Era un rap piuttosto intelligente e dal suono deciso; ovviamente, lasciò Hugh sbalordito. Per un momento, sembrò persino intenzionato a “trascinare” via il proprio nuovo conoscente. Ma il suo viso non rivelava né malizia, né trionfo, né rabbia; i suoi occhi fissavano la stessa direzione di prima, e il suo comportamento era così disinvolto e composto, come se avesse semplicemente scacciato una mosca. Hugh rimase talmente perplesso da considerarlo quasi dotato di una forza “sovrannaturale”; quindi si limitò a ridere e esclamare: “Ben fatto!”, per poi condurlo dentro in silenzio.

Dopo pochi minuti, il gruppo si fermò davanti alla porta del palo di maggio. Lord George e il suo segretario scesero rapidamente da cavallo e affidarono gli animali al loro servitore, che, sotto la guida di Hugh, li portò nelle stalle. Felici di sfuggire alle intemperie della notte, seguirono il signor Willet nella sala comune, dove si riscaldarono e asciugarono i vestiti davanti al caldo fuoco, mentre lui si occupava delle necessità del suo ospite, in linea con la sua elevata condizione sociale.

Mentre entrava e usciva dalla stanza impegnato in queste preparazioni, ebbe l’opportunità di osservare i due viaggiatori di cui, fino ad allora, conosceva soltanto la voce. Il signore, quella figura importante che aveva reso il palo di maggio oggetto di tanto onore, era di statura media, snello di corporatura, con una pelle giallastrastra, un naso aquilino e capelli castano-rossastri, pettinati perfettamente dritti intorno alle orecchie e leggermente truccati con la polvere, ma senza il minimo accenno di riccioli. Sotto il suo grande cappotto indossava un completo nero, completamente privo di qualsiasi ornamento e dal taglio estremamente sobrio e preciso. La gravità del suo abbigliamento, unita a una certa magrezza delle guance e a una rigidità nel comportamento, gli aggiungeva quasi dieci anni in più; tuttavia la sua figura denotava che non aveva ancora superato i trent’anni. Mentre stava fermo a riflettere nella luce rossastra del fuoco, era notevole il suo sguardo molto luminoso e grande, che rivelava un’intensa agitazione di pensieri e intenti, in netto contrasto con la compostezza e sobrietà studiate del suo aspetto, così come con il suo abbigliamento strano e malinconico. Nell’espressione di quegli occhi non c’era nulla di duro o crudele; nemmeno sul suo viso, magro e gentile, si leggeva alcun segno di melanconia; tuttavia trasmetteva un senso indefinibile di inquietudine che contagiava chi lo osservava, suscitando in loro una sorta di compassione per quell’uomo, anche se sarebbe stato difficile spiegare esattamente il motivo.

Gashford, il segretario, era più alto, di corporatura angolosa, con spalle larghe e ossa prominenti; appariva goffo e privo di grazia. Il suo abbigliamento, un’imitazione di quello del suo superiore, era estremamente sobrio e rigido; il suo modo di comportarsi era formale e controllato. Questo gentiluomo aveva una fronte sporgente, mani e piedi grandi, orecchie notevoli, e occhi che sembravano essersi ritirati in modo innaturale all’interno della sua testa, come se si fossero scavati una “caverna” dove nascondersi. Il suo comportamento era apparentemente umile e deferente, ma in realtà molto astuto e subdolo. Aveva l’aspetto di un uomo che aspettava sempre qualcosa che non sarebbe mai accaduto; tuttavia sembrava paziente, molto paziente, e si comportava come un cane obbediente. Anche ora, mentre si scaldava le mani davanti al fuoco, aveva l’aria di chi si limitasse a godere di quel calore nel proprio ruolo di semplice servitore; e sebbene sapesse che il suo padrone non lo stava osservando, di tanto in tanto alzava lo sguardo verso di lui con un’espressione umile e deferente, sorridendo come per esercitarsi.

Such were the guests whom old John Willet, with a fixed and leaden eye, surveyed a hundred times, and to whom he now advanced with a state candlestick in each hand, beseeching them to follow him into a worthier chamber. ‘For my lord,’ said John—it is odd enough, but certain people seem to have as great a pleasure in pronouncing titles as their owners have in wearing them—‘this room, my lord, isn’t at all the sort of place for your lordship, and I have to beg your lordship’s pardon for keeping you here, my lord, one minute.’

With this address, John ushered them upstairs into the state apartment, which, like many other things of state, was cold and comfortless. Their own footsteps, reverberating through the spacious room, struck upon their hearing with a hollow sound; and its damp and chilly atmosphere was rendered doubly cheerless by contrast with the homely warmth they had deserted.

It was of no use, however, to propose a return to the place they had quitted, for the preparations went on so briskly that there was no time to stop them. John, with the tall candlesticks in his hands, bowed them up to the fireplace; Hugh, striding in with a lighted brand and pile of firewood, cast it down upon the hearth, and set it in a blaze; John Grueby (who had a great blue cockade in his hat, which he appeared to despise mightily) brought in the portmanteau he had carried on his horse, and placed it on the floor; and presently all three were busily engaged in drawing out the screen, laying the cloth, inspecting the beds, lighting fires in the bedrooms, expediting the supper, and making everything as cosy and as snug as might be, on so short a notice. In less than an hour’s time, supper had been served, and ate, and cleared away; and Lord George and his secretary, with slippered feet, and legs stretched out before the fire, sat over some hot mulled wine together.

‘So ends, my lord,’ said Gashford, filling his glass with great complacency, ‘the blessed work of a most blessed day.’

‘And of a blessed yesterday,’ said his lordship, raising his head.

‘Ah!’—and here the secretary clasped his hands—‘a blessed yesterday indeed! The Protestants of Suffolk are godly men and true. Though others of our countrymen have lost their way in darkness, even as we, my lord, did lose our road to-night, theirs is the light and glory.’

‘Did I move them, Gashford?’ said Lord George.

‘Move them, my lord! Move them! They cried to be led on against the Papists, they vowed a dreadful vengeance on their heads, they roared like men possessed—’

‘But not by devils,’ said his lord.

‘By devils! my lord! By angels.’

‘Yes—oh surely—by angels, no doubt,’ said Lord George, thrusting his hands into his pockets, taking them out again to bite his nails, and looking uncomfortably at the fire. ‘Of course by angels—eh Gashford?’

‘You do not doubt it, my lord?’ said the secretary.

‘No—No,’ returned his lord. ‘No. Why should I? I suppose it would be decidedly irreligious to doubt it—wouldn’t it, Gashford? Though there certainly were,’ he added, without waiting for an answer, ‘some plaguy ill-looking characters among them.’

‘When you warmed,’ said the secretary, looking sharply at the other’s downcast eyes, which brightened slowly as he spoke; ‘when you warmed into that noble outbreak; when you told them that you were never of the lukewarm or the timid tribe, and bade them take heed that they were prepared to follow one who would lead them on, though to the very death; when you spoke of a hundred and twenty thousand men across the Scottish border who would take their own redress at any time, if it were not conceded; when you cried “Perish the Pope and all his base adherents; the penal laws against them shall never be repealed while Englishmen have hearts and hands”—and waved your own and touched your sword; and when they cried “No Popery!” and you cried “No; not even if we wade in blood,” and they threw up their hats and cried “Hurrah! not even if we wade in blood; No Popery! Lord George! Down with the Papists—Vengeance on their heads:” when this was said and done, and a word from you, my lord, could raise or still the tumult—ah! then I felt what greatness was indeed, and thought, When was there ever power like this of Lord George Gordon’s!’

‘It’s a great power. You’re right. It is a great power!’ he cried with sparkling eyes. ‘But—dear Gashford—did I really say all that?’

‘And how much more!’ cried the secretary, looking upwards. ‘Ah! how much more!’

‘And I told them what you say, about the one hundred and forty thousand men in Scotland, did I!’ he asked with evident delight. ‘That was bold.’

‘Our cause is boldness. Truth is always bold.’

‘Certainly. So is religion. She’s bold, Gashford?’

‘The true religion is, my lord.’

‘And that’s ours,’ he rejoined, moving uneasily in his seat, and biting his nails as though he would pare them to the quick. ‘There can be no doubt of ours being the true one. You feel as certain of that as I do, Gashford, don’t you?’

‘Does my lord ask ME,’ whined Gashford, drawing his chair nearer with an injured air, and laying his broad flat hand upon the table; ‘ME,’ he repeated, bending the dark hollows of his eyes upon him with an unwholesome smile, ‘who, stricken by the magic of his eloquence in Scotland but a year ago, abjured the errors of the Romish church, and clung to him as one whose timely hand had plucked me from a pit?’

‘True. No—No. I—I didn’t mean it,’ replied the other, shaking him by the hand, rising from his seat, and pacing restlessly about the room. ‘It’s a proud thing to lead the people, Gashford,’ he added as he made a sudden halt.

‘By force of reason too,’ returned the pliant secretary.

‘Ay, to be sure. They may cough and jeer, and groan in Parliament, and call me fool and madman, but which of them can raise this human sea and make it swell and roar at pleasure? Not one.’

Tali erano gli ospiti che il vecchio John Willet, con uno sguardo fisso e cupo, aveva osservato centinaia di volte; ora si avvicinava a loro tenendo in mano due candelabri, pregandoli di seguirlo in una stanza più adatta. “Per il mio signore, ”, disse John – è strano, ma alcune persone sembrano provare lo stesso piacere nell’usare titoli nobiliari quanto ne provano i loro proprietari nel portarli – “questa stanza non è affatto adatta a Vostra Signoria; devo chiedervi scusa per avervi trattenuto qui, mio signore”.

Con quest’indirizzo, John li accompagnò al piano di sopra, nell’appartamento ufficiale dello stato, che, come molte altre cose legate allo stato, era freddo e scomodo. I loro stessi passi, che riecheggiavano nella stanza spaziosa, producevano un suono vuoto e desolato; inoltre, l’atmosfera umida e gelida lo rendeva ancora più deprimente, a confronto con il calore accogliente che avevano appena lasciato.

Tuttavia, non aveva alcun senso proporre il ritorno al luogo da cui erano partiti, poiché i preparativi procedevano con tale rapidità che non c’era affatto tempo per fermarli. John, tenendo in mano gli alti candelabri, li posizionò vicino al camino; Hugh, entrando con una torcia accesa e un mucchio di legna da ardere, la gettò sul focolare facendola divampare; John Grueby (che aveva un grande berretto blu con una piuma, che sembrava disprezzare profondamente) portò dentro il baule che aveva trasportato sul suo cavallo e lo posò a terra; poco dopo, tutti e tre erano impegnati a tirare fuori le tende, stendere la stoffa, controllare i letti, accendere i camini nelle stanze da letto, preparare la cena in fretta e furia, facendo sì che tutto fosse il più confortevole possibile in così poco tempo. In meno di un’ora, la cena fu servita, mangiata e sparecchiata; Lord George e il suo segretario, con i piedi calzati nelle pantofole e le gambe distese davanti al focolare, sedettero insieme a bere del vino caldo.

“Ecco che termina, mio signore,” disse Gashford, riempiendo il proprio bicchiere con grande soddisfazione, “l’opera benedetta di una giornata davvero meravigliosa.”

“E che giorno beato ieri,” disse il suo signore, alzando la testa.

‘Ah!’ – e qui il segretario si strinse le mani – ‘Che giorno beato davvero! I protestanti del Suffolk sono uomini devoti e sinceri. Anche se altri nostri connazionali hanno perso la strada nell’oscurità, proprio come noi abbiamo perso la nostra via di notte, loro possiedono la luce e la gloria.’

“Le ho spostate io, Gashford?”, disse Lord George.

“Muoveteli, mio signore! Muoveteli! Hanno gridato chiedendo di essere guidati contro i Papisti, hanno giurato vendetta terribile su di loro, urlavano come uomini posseduti, ”

“Ma non certo dai diavoli,” disse il suo signore.

“Per tutti i diavoli, mio signore, e per gli angeli!”

“Sì, certo, per gli angeli, nessun >dubbio,” disse Lord George, infilando le mani in tasca, poi tirandole fuori di nuovo per mordersi le unghie, mentre guardava con disagio il >focolare. “Certo che sono gli angeli, eh, Gashford?”

“Non ne dubitate affatto, mio signore”, disse il segretario.

“No. No,” rispose il suo signore. “Perché dovrei farlo? Immagino che dubitarne sarebbe decisamente irreligioso. Non è vero, Gashford? Anche se, certamente,” aggiunse senza aspettare una risposta, “ci sono stati alcuni individui davvero orribili tra di loro.”

“Quando vi siete infervoriti,” disse il segretario, guardando attentamente gli occhi abbassati dell’altro, che lentamente si illuminarono mentre parlava; “quando vi siete scatenati in quell’esplosione di passione nobile; quando avete detto loro che non appartenevate mai a quella categoria di persone tiepide o timide, e li avete esortati ad essere pronti a seguire qualcuno che li avrebbe guidati, anche verso la morte stessa; quando avete parlato di centoventimila uomini al di là del confine scozzese pronti a prendere le loro contromisure in qualsiasi momento, se non venissero accontentati; quando avete gridato ‘Che muoia il Papa e tutti i suoi seguaci infami; le leggi punitive contro di loro non saranno mai abrogate finché gli inglesi avranno cuore e coraggio’, e avete brandito la vostra spada; e quando hanno gridato ‘Niente Papismo!’, e voi avete risposto ‘No; nemmeno se dovessimo calpestare il sangue’, e loro hanno alzato i cappelli esclamando ‘Evviva! Nemmeno se dovessimo calpestare il sangue. Niente Papismo! Lord George! Giù i papisti. Vendetta su di loro!’. Quando tutto questo è stato detto e fatto, e una sola parola da parte vostra avrebbe potuto placare o alimentare ancora la furia, ah! allora ho capito davvero quale grandezza fosse quella di Lord George Gordon. E ho pensato: ‘Quando mai esistita una forza simile?’”

“È un grande potere. Hai ragione, è davvero un grande potere!” gridò con gli occhi scintillanti. “Ma, caro Gashford, ho davvero detto tutte quelle cose?”

“E ancora di più!” esclamò il segretario, alzando lo sguardo. “Ah, ancora di più!”

“E ho detto loro esattamente quello che hai detto tu, riguardo ai centoquarantamila uomini in Scozia, vero?” chiese con evidente gioia. “È stato davvero audace.”

“La nostra causa è la audacia. La verità è sempre audace.”

“Certamente. Anche la religione lo è. È audace, Gashford?”

“La vera religione è, mio signore.”

“E questa è la nostra,” riprese, muovendosi a disagio sulla sedia e mordicchiandosi le unghie come se volesse tagliarle fino alla radice. “Non può esserci alcun >dubbio che sia proprio la nostra quella vera. Ne sei altrettanto sicuro quanto lo sono io, Gashford, vero?”

“Chiede davvero il mio signore a ME?”, si lamentò Gashford, avvicinando la sedia con un’aria sofferente e posando la sua mano larga e piatta sul tavolo; “ME”, ripeté, fissandolo con uno sguardo cupo e un sorriso inquietante, “che, colpito dall’magia del suo eloquio in Scozia soltanto un anno fa, abbandonò gli errori della Chiesa romana e si attaccò a lui come se fosse stato lui ad aiutarmi a uscire da una situazione disperata?”

“Vero. No. Non volevo dire quello,” rispose l’altro, scuotendogli la mano, alzandosi dal suo posto e camminando nervosamente avanti e indietro nella stanza. “È una cosa orgogliosa guidare il popolo, Gashford,” aggiunse, fermandosi improvvisamente.

“Anche per forza di ragione,” rispose il docile segretario.

“Ah, certo. Può darsi che tossiscano, ridano e si lamentino in Parlamento, chiamandomi idiota e pazzo, ma chi di loro è in grado di sollevare questo “mare umano” e farlo gonfiare e ruggire a piacimento? Nessuno.”

‘Not one,’ repeated Gashford.

‘Which of them can say for his honesty, what I can say for mine; which of them has refused a minister’s bribe of one thousand pounds a year, to resign his seat in favour of another? Not one.’

‘Not one,’ repeated Gashford again—taking the lion’s share of the mulled wine between whiles.

‘And as we are honest, true, and in a sacred cause, Gashford,’ said Lord George with a heightened colour and in a louder voice, as he laid his fevered hand upon his shoulder, ‘and are the only men who regard the mass of people out of doors, or are regarded by them, we will uphold them to the last; and will raise a cry against these un-English Papists which shall re-echo through the country, and roll with a noise like thunder. I will be worthy of the motto on my coat of arms, “Called and chosen and faithful.”’

‘Called,’ said the secretary, ‘by Heaven.’

‘I am.’

‘Chosen by the people.’

‘Yes.’

‘Faithful to both.’

‘To the block!’

It would be difficult to convey an adequate idea of the excited manner in which he gave these answers to the secretary’s promptings; of the rapidity of his utterance, or the violence of his tone and gesture; in which, struggling through his Puritan’s demeanour, was something wild and ungovernable which broke through all restraint. For some minutes he walked rapidly up and down the room, then stopping suddenly, exclaimed,

‘Gashford—YOU moved them yesterday too. Oh yes! You did.’

‘I shone with a reflected light, my lord,’ replied the humble secretary, laying his hand upon his heart. ‘I did my best.’

‘You did well,’ said his master, ‘and are a great and worthy instrument. If you will ring for John Grueby to carry the portmanteau into my room, and will wait here while I undress, we will dispose of business as usual, if you’re not too tired.’

‘Too tired, my lord!—But this is his consideration! Christian from head to foot.’ With which soliloquy, the secretary tilted the jug, and looked very hard into the mulled wine, to see how much remained.

John Willet and John Grueby appeared together. The one bearing the great candlesticks, and the other the portmanteau, showed the deluded lord into his chamber; and left the secretary alone, to yawn and shake himself, and finally to fall asleep before the fire.

‘Now, Mr Gashford sir,’ said John Grueby in his ear, after what appeared to him a moment of unconsciousness; ‘my lord’s abed.’

‘Oh. Very good, John,’ was his mild reply. ‘Thank you, John. Nobody need sit up. I know my room.’

‘I hope you’re not a-going to trouble your head to-night, or my lord’s head neither, with anything more about Bloody Mary,’ said John. ‘I wish the blessed old creetur had never been born.’

‘I said you might go to bed, John,’ returned the secretary. ‘You didn’t hear me, I think.’

‘Between Bloody Marys, and blue cockades, and glorious Queen Besses, and no Poperys, and Protestant associations, and making of speeches,’ pursued John Grueby, looking, as usual, a long way off, and taking no notice of this hint, ‘my lord’s half off his head. When we go out o’ doors, such a set of ragamuffins comes a-shouting after us, “Gordon forever!” that I’m ashamed of myself and don’t know where to look. When we’re indoors, they come a-roaring and screaming about the house like so many devils; and my lord instead of ordering them to be drove away, goes out into the balcony and demeans himself by making speeches to ‘em, and calls ‘em “Men of England,” and “Fellow-countrymen,” as if he was fond of ‘em and thanked ‘em for coming. I can’t make it out, but they’re all mixed up somehow or another with that unfort’nate Bloody Mary, and call her name out till they’re hoarse. They’re all Protestants too—every man and boy among ‘em: and Protestants are very fond of spoons, I find, and silver-plate in general, whenever area-gates is left open accidentally. I wish that was the worst of it, and that no more harm might be to come; but if you don’t stop these ugly customers in time, Mr Gashford (and I know you; you’re the man that blows the fire), you’ll find ‘em grow a little bit too strong for you. One of these evenings, when the weather gets warmer and Protestants are thirsty, they’ll be pulling London down,—and I never heard that Bloody Mary went as far as THAT.’

Gashford had vanished long ago, and these remarks had been bestowed on empty air. Not at all discomposed by the discovery, John Grueby fixed his hat on, wrongside foremost that he might be unconscious of the shadow of the obnoxious cockade, and withdrew to bed; shaking his head in a very gloomy and prophetic manner until he reached his chamber.

“Nessuno,” ripeté Gashford.

“Quale di loro può dire, per quanto riguarda la sua onestà, ciò che posso dire io della mia? Quale di loro ha rifiutato una tangente di mille sterline all’anno offertagli da un funzionario, pur di lasciare il proprio incarico a qualcun altro? Nessuno.”

“Nessuno,” ripeté Gashford, prendendo di tanto in tanto la parte di vino al calore che spettava al leone.

“E poiché siamo onesti, sinceri e impegnati in una causa sacra, Gashford,” disse Lord George con il viso arrossito e a voce più alta, posando la sua mano febbricitante sulla spalla di Gashford, “poiché siamo gli unici ad avere cura della gente comune, o ad essere considerati tale da loro, li difenderemo fino alla fine; e solleveremo un grido contro questi papisti non inglesi che risuonerà in tutto il paese, con un fragore simile al tuono. Sarò degno del motto scritto sul mio stemma: ‘Chiamato, scelto e fedele’.”

“Chiamato, dal Cielo”, disse il segretario.

‘I am.’

“Scelto dal popolo.”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Fedele a entrambi.”

“Al blocco!”

Sarebbe difficile trasmettere un’idea adeguata del modo eccitato in cui rispondeva alle sollecitazioni della segretaria; della rapidità con cui parlava, o dell’intensità del suo tono e dei suoi gesti; in lui, attraverso il comportamento puritano che ostentava, c’era qualcosa di selvaggio e incontrollabile che sfondava ogni barriera. Per alcuni minuti camminò avanti e indietro nella stanza a passi veloci, poi si fermò all’improvviso e esclamò.

“Gashford. Anche ieri li hai spostati. Sì, è vero.”

“Rifulgevo di una luce riflessa, mio signore,” rispose umilmente il segretario, posando la mano sul cuore. “Ho fatto del mio meglio.”

“Hai fatto bene,” disse il suo padrone, “sei uno strumento meraviglioso e degno di stima. Se chiami John Grueby perché porti il baulo nella mia stanza e aspetti qui mentre mi spoglio, potremo sbrigare le faccende come al solito, purché tu non sia troppo stanco.”

“Troppo stanco, mio signore. Ma questa è la sua premura! Christian, dalla testa ai piedi, ” Con questo monologo, il segretario inclinò la giara e osservò attentamente il vino al caldo, per vedere quanta ne fosse rimasta.

John Willet e John Grueby apparvero insieme. Uno, che portava i grandi candelabri, e l’altro il borsone, accompagnarono il lord ingannato nella sua stanza; poi lasciarono il segretario da solo, affinché potesse sbadigliare, scuotersi e, alla fine, addormentarsi davanti al fuoco.

“Ora, signor Gashford,” disse John Grueby sottovoce, dopo quello che gli sembrava un momento di incoscienza; “è ora che il mio padrone vada a letto.”

“Ah, molto bene, John,” fu la sua risposta gentile. “Grazie, John. Nessuno ha bisogno di alzarsi. Conosco bene la mia stanza.”

“Spero che non vi mettiate in testa nulla riguardo a Bloody Mary, né tu né mio signore, stasera,” disse John. “Vorrei davvero che quella maledetta donna non fosse mai nata.”

“Ti ho detto di andare a letto, John,” rispose la segretaria. “Penso che non mi abbia sentito.”

“Tra le bevande chiamate Bloody Mary, le cocarde blu, la gloriosa Regina Bess, senza alcuna traccia di papismo, associazioni protestanti né discorsi pubblici, ” continuò John Grueby, guardando come al solito lontano, ignorando completamente quel suggerimento. “Mio signore è completamente pazzo. Quando usciamo di casa, quei mascalzoni ci inseguono gridando ‘Gordon per sempre!’, tanto che mi vergogno di me stesso e non so dove guardare. Quando siamo in casa, urlano e strepitano per tutta la casa come tanti demoni; e mio signore, invece di farli allontanare, esce sul balcone e si umilia pronunciando discorsi davanti a loro, chiamandoli ‘uomini d’Inghilterra’ e ‘cittadini’, come se li apprezzasse davvero e fosse grato per la loro presenza. Non capisco proprio, ma sono tutti in qualche modo legati a quella sfortunata Bloody Mary, e continuano a chiamarne il nome fino a perdere la voce. Sono tutti protestanti, ogni uomo e ragazzo tra loro; e i protestanti, a quanto pare, amano molto le cucchiaie e le stoviglie d’argento, soprattutto quando le porte restano aperte per sbaglio. Vorrei che fosse solo questo il peggio, che non ci fossero altri danni in arrivo. Ma se non fermate questi individui orribili in tempo, signor Gashford (e vi conosco bene; siete voi quello che si occupa di accendere il fuoco), scoprirete che diventeranno troppo forti per voi. Una di queste sere, quando farà più caldo e i protestanti avranno sete, distruggeranno tutta Londra. E non ho mai sentito dire che quella Bloody Mary sia arrivata a tanto, ”

Gashford era scomparso da molto tempo, e quelle parole erano state rivolte al nulla. Del tutto indifferente a quella scoperta, John Grueby si mise il cappello, con la parte sbagliata rivolta in avanti, così da non accorgersi dell’ombra di quell’odiosa coccarda, e andò a letto; scuotendo la testa in modo molto cupo e profetico, fino a quando non raggiunse la sua stanza.

Chapter 36

Gashford, with a smiling face, but still with looks of profound deference and humility, betook himself towards his master’s room, smoothing his hair down as he went, and humming a psalm tune. As he approached Lord George’s door, he cleared his throat and hummed more vigorously.

There was a remarkable contrast between this man’s occupation at the moment, and the expression of his countenance, which was singularly repulsive and malicious. His beetling brow almost obscured his eyes; his lip was curled contemptuously; his very shoulders seemed to sneer in stealthy whisperings with his great flapped ears.

‘Hush!’ he muttered softly, as he peeped in at the chamber-door. ‘He seems to be asleep. Pray Heaven he is! Too much watching, too much care, too much thought—ah! Lord preserve him for a martyr! He is a saint, if ever saint drew breath on this bad earth.’

Placing his light upon a table, he walked on tiptoe to the fire, and sitting in a chair before it with his back towards the bed, went on communing with himself like one who thought aloud:

‘The saviour of his country and his country’s religion, the friend of his poor countrymen, the enemy of the proud and harsh; beloved of the rejected and oppressed, adored by forty thousand bold and loyal English hearts—what happy slumbers his should be!’ And here he sighed, and warmed his hands, and shook his head as men do when their hearts are full, and heaved another sigh, and warmed his hands again.

‘Why, Gashford?’ said Lord George, who was lying broad awake, upon his side, and had been staring at him from his entrance.

‘My—my lord,’ said Gashford, starting and looking round as though in great surprise. ‘I have disturbed you!’

‘I have not been sleeping.’

‘Not sleeping!’ he repeated, with assumed confusion. ‘What can I say for having in your presence given utterance to thoughts—but they were sincere—they were sincere!’ exclaimed the secretary, drawing his sleeve in a hasty way across his eyes; ‘and why should I regret your having heard them?’

‘Gashford,’ said the poor lord, stretching out his hand with manifest emotion. ‘Do not regret it. You love me well, I know—too well. I don’t deserve such homage.’

Gashford made no reply, but grasped the hand and pressed it to his lips. Then rising, and taking from the trunk a little desk, he placed it on a table near the fire, unlocked it with a key he carried in his pocket, sat down before it, took out a pen, and, before dipping it in the inkstand, sucked it—to compose the fashion of his mouth perhaps, on which a smile was hovering yet.

‘How do our numbers stand since last enrolling-night?’ inquired Lord George. ‘Are we really forty thousand strong, or do we still speak in round numbers when we take the Association at that amount?’

‘Our total now exceeds that number by a score and three,’ Gashford replied, casting his eyes upon his papers.

‘The funds?’

‘Not VERY improving; but there is some manna in the wilderness, my lord. Hem! On Friday night the widows’ mites dropped in. “Forty scavengers, three and fourpence. An aged pew-opener of St Martin’s parish, sixpence. A bell-ringer of the established church, sixpence. A Protestant infant, newly born, one halfpenny. The United Link Boys, three shillings—one bad. The anti-popish prisoners in Newgate, five and fourpence. A friend in Bedlam, half-a-crown. Dennis the hangman, one shilling.”’

‘That Dennis,’ said his lordship, ‘is an earnest man. I marked him in the crowd in Welbeck Street, last Friday.’

‘A good man,’ rejoined the secretary, ‘a staunch, sincere, and truly zealous man.’

‘He should be encouraged,’ said Lord George. ‘Make a note of Dennis. I’ll talk with him.’

Gashford obeyed, and went on reading from his list:

‘“The Friends of Reason, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Liberty, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Peace, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Charity, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Mercy, half-a-guinea. The Associated Rememberers of Bloody Mary, half-a-guinea. The United Bulldogs, half-a-guinea.”’

‘The United Bulldogs,’ said Lord George, biting his nails most horribly, ‘are a new society, are they not?’

‘Formerly the ‘Prentice Knights, my lord. The indentures of the old members expiring by degrees, they changed their name, it seems, though they still have ‘prentices among them, as well as workmen.’

‘What is their president’s name?’ inquired Lord George.

‘President,’ said Gashford, reading, ‘Mr Simon Tappertit.’

‘I remember him. The little man, who sometimes brings an elderly sister to our meetings, and sometimes another female too, who is conscientious, I have no doubt, but not well-favoured?’

‘The very same, my lord.’

‘Tappertit is an earnest man,’ said Lord George, thoughtfully. ‘Eh, Gashford?’

‘One of the foremost among them all, my lord. He snuffs the battle from afar, like the war-horse. He throws his hat up in the street as if he were inspired, and makes most stirring speeches from the shoulders of his friends.’

‘Make a note of Tappertit,’ said Lord George Gordon. ‘We may advance him to a place of trust.’

‘That,’ rejoined the secretary, doing as he was told, ‘is all—except Mrs Varden’s box (fourteenth time of opening), seven shillings and sixpence in silver and copper, and half-a-guinea in gold; and Miggs (being the saving of a quarter’s wages), one-and-threepence.’

‘Miggs,’ said Lord George. ‘Is that a man?’

‘The name is entered on the list as a woman,’ replied the secretary. ‘I think she is the tall spare female of whom you spoke just now, my lord, as not being well-favoured, who sometimes comes to hear the speeches—along with Tappertit and Mrs Varden.’

‘Mrs Varden is the elderly lady then, is she?’

The secretary nodded, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the feather of his pen.

‘She is a zealous sister,’ said Lord George. ‘Her collection goes on prosperously, and is pursued with fervour. Has her husband joined?’

‘A malignant,’ returned the secretary, folding up his papers. ‘Unworthy such a wife. He remains in outer darkness and steadily refuses.’

‘The consequences be upon his own head!—Gashford!’

‘My lord!’

‘You don’t think,’ he turned restlessly in his bed as he spoke, ‘these people will desert me, when the hour arrives? I have spoken boldly for them, ventured much, suppressed nothing. They’ll not fall off, will they?’

‘No fear of that, my lord,’ said Gashford, with a meaning look, which was rather the involuntary expression of his own thoughts than intended as any confirmation of his words, for the other’s face was turned away. ‘Be sure there is no fear of that.’

‘Nor,’ he said with a more restless motion than before, ‘of their—but they CAN sustain no harm from leaguing for this purpose. Right is on our side, though Might may be against us. You feel as sure of that as I—honestly, you do?’

The secretary was beginning with ‘You do not doubt,’ when the other interrupted him, and impatiently rejoined:

‘Doubt. No. Who says I doubt? If I doubted, should I cast away relatives, friends, everything, for this unhappy country’s sake; this unhappy country,’ he cried, springing up in bed, after repeating the phrase ‘unhappy country’s sake’ to himself, at least a dozen times, ‘forsaken of God and man, delivered over to a dangerous confederacy of Popish powers; the prey of corruption, idolatry, and despotism! Who says I doubt? Am I called, and chosen, and faithful? Tell me. Am I, or am I not?’

‘To God, the country, and yourself,’ cried Gashford.

‘I am. I will be. I say again, I will be: to the block. Who says as much! Do you? Does any man alive?’

The secretary drooped his head with an expression of perfect acquiescence in anything that had been said or might be; and Lord George gradually sinking down upon his pillow, fell asleep.

Although there was something very ludicrous in his vehement manner, taken in conjunction with his meagre aspect and ungraceful presence, it would scarcely have provoked a smile in any man of kindly feeling; or even if it had, he would have felt sorry and almost angry with himself next moment, for yielding to the impulse. This lord was sincere in his violence and in his wavering. A nature prone to false enthusiasm, and the vanity of being a leader, were the worst qualities apparent in his composition. All the rest was weakness—sheer weakness; and it is the unhappy lot of thoroughly weak men, that their very sympathies, affections, confidences—all the qualities which in better constituted minds are virtues—dwindle into foibles, or turn into downright vices.

Gashford, with many a sly look towards the bed, sat chuckling at his master’s folly, until his deep and heavy breathing warned him that he might retire. Locking his desk, and replacing it within the trunk (but not before he had taken from a secret lining two printed handbills), he cautiously withdrew; looking back, as he went, at the pale face of the slumbering man, above whose head the dusty plumes that crowned the Maypole couch, waved drearily and sadly as though it were a bier.

Stopping on the staircase to listen that all was quiet, and to take off his shoes lest his footsteps should alarm any light sleeper who might be near at hand, he descended to the ground floor, and thrust one of his bills beneath the great door of the house. That done, he crept softly back to his own chamber, and from the window let another fall—carefully wrapt round a stone to save it from the wind—into the yard below.

They were addressed on the back ‘To every Protestant into whose hands this shall come,’ and bore within what follows:

‘Men and Brethren. Whoever shall find this letter, will take it as a warning to join, without delay, the friends of Lord George Gordon. There are great events at hand; and the times are dangerous and troubled. Read this carefully, keep it clean, and drop it somewhere else. For King and Country. Union.’

‘More seed, more seed,’ said Gashford as he closed the window. ‘When will the harvest come!’

Capitolo 36

Gashford, con un sorriso sul viso, ma ancora con espressioni di profonda rispetto e umiltà, si diresse verso la stanza del suo padrone, sistemandosi i capelli mentre camminava e canticchiando una melodia sacra. Mentre si avvicinava alla porta di Lord George, schiarì la voce e iniziò a cantare più forte.

C’era un contrasto notevole tra l’occupazione di quest’uomo in quel momento e l’espressione del suo volto, che era straordinariamente repellente e malvagia. La sua fronte corrugata quasi nascondeva gli occhi; le sue labbra erano incurvate con disprezzo; persino le sue spalle sembravano sogghignare in sussurri furtivi, insieme alle sue grandi orecchie che si muovevano.

“Zitto!” mormorò sottovoce mentre sbirciava attraverso la porta della stanza. “Sembra che stia dormendo. Prego il Cielo che sia davvero così! Troppa veglia, troppa preoccupazione, troppi pensieri. Ah! Signore, proteggilo affinché diventi un martire. È un santo, se mai esiste stato un vero santo su questa terra malvagia.”

Posando la sua lampada su un tavolo, si avvicinò in punta di piedi al focolare e, sedutosi su una sedia di fronte ad esso con le spalle rivolte al letto, continuò a conversare da solo come se stesse parlando ad alta voce.

“Il salvatore del suo paese e della religione di quel paese, l’amico dei suoi poveri connazionali, il nemico degli orgogliosi e dei crudeli; amato da coloro che erano rifiutati e oppressi, adorato da quarantamila cuori inglesi coraggiosi e leali. Che felici sonni dovrebbe godere!” E qui sospirò, si scaldò le mani e scosse la testa, come fanno le persone quando il loro cuore è pieno di emozioni; poi sospirò ancora e si scaldò di nuovo le mani.

“Perché, Gashford?” disse Lord George, che era completamente sveglio, sdraiato su un lato e lo aveva fissato fin dal suo arrivo.

“Mio, mio signore,” disse Gashford, balbettando e guardandosi intorno come se fosse profondamente sorpreso. “Vi ho disturbato!”

Non ho dormito affatto.

“Non riesco a dormire!”, ripeté, fingendo confusione. “Cosa posso dire per aver espresso in vostra presenza pensieri, ma erano sinceri, davvero sinceri!”, esclamò il segretario, tirandosi rapidamente la manica sugli occhi; “E perché dovrei rimproverarvi per averli ascoltati?”

“Gashford,” disse il povero lord, tendendo la mano con evidente emozione. “Non rimpiangere. Tu mi ami molto, lo so, troppo bene. Non merito un tale omaggio.”

Gashford non rispose, ma prese quella mano e la posò sulle sue labbra. Poi si alzò, prese dal baule un piccolo tavolino, lo mise su un tavolo vicino al focolare, lo aprì con una chiave che teneva in tasca, si sedette davanti a esso, tirò fuori una penna e, prima di immergerla nel calamaio, la succhiò, forse per prepararsi a sorridere.

“Come stanno i nostri numeri da quando abbiamo effettuato l’ultimo reclutamento, la scorsa notte?”, chiese Lord George. “Siamo davvero quarantamila uomini, o continuiamo a parlare di cifre approssimative quando parliamo dell’Associazione in termini di quel numero?”

“Ora il nostro totale supera quella cifra di venti e tre unità,” rispose Gashford, guardando i suoi documenti.

“I fondi?”

“Non migliora molto. Ma c’è comunque del ‘manna’ nel deserto, mio signore. Ehm! Venerdì sera sono arrivati i ‘acari delle vedove’: ‘Quaranta spazzini, tre o quattro pence; un anziano addetto ad aprire le panche nella parrocchia di San Martino, sei pence; un campanaro della chiesa ufficiale, sei pence; un bambino protestante appena nato, mezzo penny; i membri del gruppo ‘United Link Boys’, tre scellini, uno di loro però non è in buone condizioni. I prigionieri anti-papisti a Newgate, cinque o quattro pence; un amico a Bedlam, mezza corona.’ E poi Dennis, il boia: uno scellino.”

“Quel Dennis,” disse il suo signore, “è un uomo sincero e affidabile. L’ho notato nella folla di Welbeck Street, lo scorso venerdì.”

“Un uomo buono”, riprese il segretario, “un uomo fedele, sincero e davvero zelante”.

“Dovrebbe essere incoraggiato,” disse Lord George. “Tenete presente il nome di Dennis: parlerò con lui.”

“Gashford obbedì e continuò a leggere dalla sua lista.”

“I Amici della Ragione, mezza ghinea. Gli Amici della Libertà, mezza ghinea. Gli Amici della Pace, mezza ghinea. Gli Amici della Carità, mezza ghinea. Gli Amici della Misericordia, mezza ghinea. I Ricordatori Associati di Bloody Mary, mezza ghinea. I United Bulldogs, mezza ghinea.”

“Il United Bulldogs,” disse Lord George, mordendosi le unghie in modo terribile, “è una nuova società, vero?”

“In passato erano conosciuti come i ‘Prentice Knights’, mio signore. Poiché i contratti dei vecchi membri stavano scadendo gradualmente, hanno cambiato nome, anche se ancora hanno tra loro ‘apprendisti’ e lavoratori.”

“Come si chiama il loro presidente?” chiese Lord George.

“Presidente,” disse Gashford leggendo, “il signor Simon Tappertit.”

“Me lo ricordo. Quel piccolo uomo che a volte porta con sé una sorella più anziana alle nostre riunioni, e a volte anche un’altra donna, molto coscienziosa. Non ho alcun dubbio, ma forse non è molto ben visto, ”

“Esattamente lo stesso, mio signore.”

“Tappertit è un uomo sincero,” disse Lord George, pensieroso. “Ehm, Gashford?”

“Uno dei più importanti tra tutti loro, mio signore. Lui decide le battaglie da lontano, come un cavallo da guerra. Alza il cappello per strada come se fosse ispirato e pronuncia discorsi appassionanti in piedi sulle spalle dei suoi amici.”

“Prendete nota di Tappertit,” disse Lord George Gordon. “Potremmo promuoverlo a una posizione di fiducia.”

“Questo,” rispose il segretario, facendo ciò che gli era stato detto, “è tutto, tranne la scatola della signora Varden (quattordicesima volta che viene aperta): sette scellini e sei pence in argento e rame, e mezza ghinea in oro; e Miggs, poiché rappresenta il risparmio di un quarto dello stipendio, uno e tre pence.”

“Miggs,” disse Lord George. “È davvero un uomo?”

“Il nome è stato inserito nell’elenco come quello di una donna,” rispose la segretaria. “Penso che si tratti di quella donna alta e snella di cui avete parlato poco fa, mio signore: non essendo molto amata, a volte viene ad ascoltare i discorsi, insieme a Tappertit e alla signora Varden.”

“Quindi la signora Varden è quella donna anziana, giusto?”

Il segretario annuì e si strofinò il dorso del naso con la penna.

“È una sorella zelante,” disse Lord George. “La sua collezione prosegue con successo e viene portata avanti con grande impegno. Si è unito a lei anche suo marito?”

“Maligno,” rispose il segretario, ripiegando i suoi documenti. “Indigno di una moglie del genere. Rimane nell’oscurità e continua a rifiutare.”

“Le conseguenze ricadono solo su di lui. Gashford!”

“Mio signore!”

“Non credi che,” disse, agitandosi nel letto mentre parlava, “quando arriverà l’ora, queste persone mi abbandoneranno? Ho parlato apertamente per loro, ho corso molti rischi, non ho nascosto nulla. Non mi tradiranno, vero?”

“Nessun timore al riguardo, mio signore,” disse Gashford, con uno sguardo significativo che sembrava più un’espressione involontaria dei suoi pensieri che un’intenzione di confermare le sue parole, poiché l’altro aveva girato il viso altrove. “State certo che non c’è alcun timore in merito.”

“Nemmeno loro, ”, disse con un movimento ancora più irrequieto del precedente, “ma non possono subire alcun danno unendosi a noi per questo scopo. La giustizia è dalla nostra parte, anche se la forza potrebbe essere contro di noi. Ne sei sicuro quanto lo sono io. Onestamente, ne sei davvero sicuro?”

Il segretario stava per iniziare dicendo “Non c’è dubbio che, ”, quando l’altro lo interruppe, riprendendo con impazienza:

‘Dubbio. No. Chi dice che io dubiti? Se dubitassi, dovrei forse abbandonare parenti, amici, tutto, per il bene di questo sfortunato paese. Questo sfortunato paese,’ gridò, alzandosi dal letto, dopo aver ripetuto quella frase almeno una dozzina di volte: ‘abbandonato da Dio e dagli uomini, consegnato a una pericolosa alleanza di poteri papisti; preda della corruzione, dell’idolatria e del dispotismo! Chi dice che io dubiti? Sono forse stato chiamato, scelto e fedele? Ditemelo. Sì o no?’

“Per Dio, per la patria e per te stesso,” gridò Gashford.

“Lo sono. Lo sarò. Dico ancora una volta: lo sarò, al patibolo. Chi altro dice lo stesso? Tu? Qualcun altro ancora in vita?”

Il segretario abbassò la testa con un’espressione di perfetta sottomissione a qualsiasi cosa fosse stata detta o potesse essere detta; e Lord George, lentamente appoggiandosi al cuscino, si addormentò.

Sebbene nel suo modo violento ci fosse qualcosa di assolutamente ridicolo, unito al suo aspetto magro e alla sua presenza poco aggraziata, a malapena avrebbe suscitato un sorriso in una persona dal cuore gentile; anzi, anche se lo avesse fatto, l’individuo in questione si sarebbe subito sentito in colpa e quasi arrabbiato con se stesso per aver ceduto a quell’impulso. Questo lord era sincero nella sua violenza, così come nelle sue incertezze. Una natura propensa agli entusiasmi falsi, e la vanità di essere un leader, erano le peggiori qualità che si potevano riscontrare in lui. Tutto il resto era debolezza, pura debolezza; ed è proprio la sfortuna degli uomini estremamente deboli che le loro stesse simpatie, affetti e confidenze – tutte quelle qualità che in individui più equilibrati rappresenterebbero virtù – si trasformino in difetti o addirittura in vizi veri e propri.

Gashford, lanciando molte occhiate furtive verso il letto, sedeva ridacchiando per la follia del suo padrone, fino a quando i suoi respiri profondi e sonori non gli fecero capire che era giunto il momento di andarsene. Chiuse la sua scrivania e la ripose dentro il baule (ma prima prese due volantini stampati da un nascondiglio segreto), poi se ne andò con cautela. Guardando indietro, vide il viso pallido dell’uomo addormentato; i pennacchi polverosi che adornavano la “panchina” del palo di maggio ondeggiavano tristemente sopra la sua testa, come se fossero un feretro.

Si fermò sulle scale per assicurarsi che tutto fosse silenzioso, poi si tolse le scarpe per evitare che i suoi passi svegliassero eventuali dormienti nelle vicinanze. Scese al piano terra e infilò uno dei suoi biglietti sotto la grande porta della casa. Dopo averlo fatto, tornò silenziosamente nella sua stanza e, dalla finestra, fece cadere un altro biglietto – avvolto con cura attorno a una pietra per proteggerlo dal vento – nel cortile sottostante.

Sul retro erano scritte le parole “A ogni protestante in mano al quale questa lettera arriverà”, e poi seguivano i contenuti interni.

‘Uomini e fratelli. Chiunque trovi questa lettera, la consideri un avvertimento per unirsi senza indugio agli amici di Lord George Gordon. Sono in corso eventi importanti; i tempi sono pericolosi e turbolenti. Leggetela attentamente, conservatela pulita e gettatela in un altro posto. Per il Re e la Nazione. Unione.’

“Più semi, ancora più semi,” disse Gashford mentre chiudeva la finestra. “Quando arriverà la raccolta?”

Chapter 37

To surround anything, however monstrous or ridiculous, with an air of mystery, is to invest it with a secret charm, and power of attraction which to the crowd is irresistible. False priests, false prophets, false doctors, false patriots, false prodigies of every kind, veiling their proceedings in mystery, have always addressed themselves at an immense advantage to the popular credulity, and have been, perhaps, more indebted to that resource in gaining and keeping for a time the upper hand of Truth and Common Sense, than to any half-dozen items in the whole catalogue of imposture. Curiosity is, and has been from the creation of the world, a master-passion. To awaken it, to gratify it by slight degrees, and yet leave something always in suspense, is to establish the surest hold that can be had, in wrong, on the unthinking portion of mankind.

If a man had stood on London Bridge, calling till he was hoarse, upon the passers-by, to join with Lord George Gordon, although for an object which no man understood, and which in that very incident had a charm of its own,—the probability is, that he might have influenced a score of people in a month. If all zealous Protestants had been publicly urged to join an association for the avowed purpose of singing a hymn or two occasionally, and hearing some indifferent speeches made, and ultimately of petitioning Parliament not to pass an act for abolishing the penal laws against Roman Catholic priests, the penalty of perpetual imprisonment denounced against those who educated children in that persuasion, and the disqualification of all members of the Romish church to inherit real property in the United Kingdom by right of purchase or descent,—matters so far removed from the business and bosoms of the mass, might perhaps have called together a hundred people. But when vague rumours got abroad, that in this Protestant association a secret power was mustering against the government for undefined and mighty purposes; when the air was filled with whispers of a confederacy among the Popish powers to degrade and enslave England, establish an inquisition in London, and turn the pens of Smithfield market into stakes and cauldrons; when terrors and alarms which no man understood were perpetually broached, both in and out of Parliament, by one enthusiast who did not understand himself, and bygone bugbears which had lain quietly in their graves for centuries, were raised again to haunt the ignorant and credulous; when all this was done, as it were, in the dark, and secret invitations to join the Great Protestant Association in defence of religion, life, and liberty, were dropped in the public ways, thrust under the house-doors, tossed in at windows, and pressed into the hands of those who trod the streets by night; when they glared from every wall, and shone on every post and pillar, so that stocks and stones appeared infected with the common fear, urging all men to join together blindfold in resistance of they knew not what, they knew not why;—then the mania spread indeed, and the body, still increasing every day, grew forty thousand strong.

So said, at least, in this month of March, 1780, Lord George Gordon, the Association’s president. Whether it was the fact or otherwise, few men knew or cared to ascertain. It had never made any public demonstration; had scarcely ever been heard of, save through him; had never been seen; and was supposed by many to be the mere creature of his disordered brain. He was accustomed to talk largely about numbers of men—stimulated, as it was inferred, by certain successful disturbances, arising out of the same subject, which had occurred in Scotland in the previous year; was looked upon as a cracked-brained member of the lower house, who attacked all parties and sided with none, and was very little regarded. It was known that there was discontent abroad—there always is; he had been accustomed to address the people by placard, speech, and pamphlet, upon other questions; nothing had come, in England, of his past exertions, and nothing was apprehended from his present. Just as he has come upon the reader, he had come, from time to time, upon the public, and been forgotten in a day; as suddenly as he appears in these pages, after a blank of five long years, did he and his proceedings begin to force themselves, about this period, upon the notice of thousands of people, who had mingled in active life during the whole interval, and who, without being deaf or blind to passing events, had scarcely ever thought of him before.

‘My lord,’ said Gashford in his ear, as he drew the curtains of his bed betimes; ‘my lord!’

‘Yes—who’s that? What is it?’

‘The clock has struck nine,’ returned the secretary, with meekly folded hands. ‘You have slept well? I hope you have slept well? If my prayers are heard, you are refreshed indeed.’

‘To say the truth, I have slept so soundly,’ said Lord George, rubbing his eyes and looking round the room, ‘that I don’t remember quite—what place is this?’

‘My lord!’ cried Gashford, with a smile.

‘Oh!’ returned his superior. ‘Yes. You’re not a Jew then?’

‘A Jew!’ exclaimed the pious secretary, recoiling.

‘I dreamed that we were Jews, Gashford. You and I—both of us—Jews with long beards.’

‘Heaven forbid, my lord! We might as well be Papists.’

‘I suppose we might,’ returned the other, very quickly. ‘Eh? You really think so, Gashford?’

‘Surely I do,’ the secretary cried, with looks of great surprise.

‘Humph!’ he muttered. ‘Yes, that seems reasonable.’

‘I hope my lord—’ the secretary began.

‘Hope!’ he echoed, interrupting him. ‘Why do you say, you hope? There’s no harm in thinking of such things.’

‘Not in dreams,’ returned the Secretary.

‘In dreams! No, nor waking either.’

Capitolo 37

Avvolgere qualsiasi cosa, per quanto mostruosa o ridicola possa essere, in un’atmosfera di mistero significa conferirle un fascino segreto e un potere d’attrazione che è irresistibile per la folla. Falsi sacerdoti, falsi profeti, falsi medici, falsi patrioti, falsi “miracoli” di ogni genere, nascondendo le proprie azioni dietro il velo del mistero, hanno sempre tratto enorme vantaggio dalla credulità popolare; forse sono stati proprio questi mezzi a permetter loro di ottenere e mantenere, per un certo periodo, il sopravvento sulla Verità e sul buon senso comune, più di qualsiasi altro strumento presente nell’intero catalogo delle imposture. La curiosità è, fin dalla creazione del mondo, una passione dominante; risvegliarla, soddisfarla gradualmente, ma lasciando sempre qualcosa in sospeso, significa stabilire il legame più sicuro che si possa avere, nel errore, con quella parte dell’umanità che non riflette.

Se un uomo fosse stato fermo sul Ponte di Londra, chiamando a squarciagola i passanti perché si unissero a Lord George Gordon – anche se per uno scopo che nessuno comprendeva, e che in quel momento stesso possedeva un fascino particolare – probabilmente avrebbe riuscito a influenzare diverse persone in un mese. Se tutti i protestanti zelanti fossero stati pubblicamente esortati ad unirsi a un’associazione con lo scopo dichiarato di cantare uno o due inni di tanto in tanto, ascoltando alcuni discorsi indifferenti e, infine, chiedendo al Parlamento di non approvare leggi che abolissero le punizioni contro i preti cattolici, la pena della prigione a vita inflitta a coloro che educavano i bambini secondo quelle credenze, e la privazione a tutti i membri della Chiesa cattolica del diritto di ereditare beni immobili nel Regno Unito. Queste questioni, così lontane dalle preoccupazioni quotidiane della gente comune, forse avrebbero riuscito a radunare al massimo cento persone. Ma quando iniziarono a circolare voci vaghe secondo cui quell’associazione protestante stesse radunando un potere segreto contro il governo per scopi oscuri e ambiziosi; quando si diffuse la notizia di una congiura tra le potenze cattoliche per umiliare e schiavizzare l’Inghilterra, istituire un’inquisizione a Londra e trasformare i banchi del mercato di Smithfield in strumenti di tortura; quando terrore e allarme, spesso insensati, venivano continuamente sollevati sia dentro che fuori dal Parlamento da persone che non capivano ciò che dicevano. Quando tutti questi elementi si mescolarono insieme, e inviti segreti ad unirsi a quell’associazione protestante per difendere religione, vita e libertà vennero distribuiti per le strade, infilati sotto le porte delle case, gettati dalle finestre o consegnati direttamente alle persone che camminavano di notte. Quando questi messaggi apparvero su ogni muro, su ogni palo e colonna, facendo sembrare che anche le pietre fossero contaminate dallo stesso terrore, allora la follia si diffuse davvero, e il numero degli aderenti aumentò giorno dopo giorno, raggiungendo le quarantamila persone.

Così almeno si diceva, nel mese di marzo del 1780, di Lord George Gordon, presidente dell’Associazione. Che ciò fosse vero o meno, pochi lo sapevano o si curavano di verificare. L’Associazione non aveva mai fatto alcuna dimostrazione pubblica; quasi nessuno ne aveva mai sentito parlare, se non attraverso lui stesso; non era mai stata vista da nessuno; e molti ritenevano che fosse semplicemente il prodotto di una mente disturbata. Lord George Gordon era abituato a parlare con grande enfasi di grandi numeri di persone; si presumeva che ciò fosse motivato da alcuni successi ottenuti in Scozia nell’anno precedente, grazie ad azioni simili. Era considerato un membro del Parlamento pazzo e confuso, che attaccava tutte le fazioni senza schierarsi con nessuna, e quindi veniva quasi del tutto ignorato. Si sapeva che esisteva discontento in giro per il mondo, come sempre; Lord Gordon era abituato a rivolgersi al popolo attraverso manifesti, discorsi e pamphlet su altri argomenti; in Inghilterra, tuttavia, i suoi precedenti sforzi non avevano portato a nulla, e nessuno temeva che quelli attuali potessero causare problemi. Proprio come è apparso davanti al lettore, così, nel corso del tempo, era comparso anche di fronte al pubblico, per poi essere dimenticato in un giorno; proprio come riappare improvvisamente in queste pagine, dopo cinque lunghi anni di silenzio, lui e le sue azioni iniziarono a attirare l’attenzione di migliaia di persone che, durante tutto quel periodo, avevano vissuto una vita normale e che, pur non essendo indifferenti agli eventi che accadevano intorno a loro, quasi mai si erano ricordate di lui.

“Mio signore,” disse Gashford sottovoce, mentre tirava le tende del suo letto al momento giusto; “mio signore!”

“Sì, chi è? Che cos’è?”

‘L’orologio ha battuto le nove,’ rispose il segretario, con le mani piegate in atteggiamento umile. ‘Avete dormito bene? Spero che abbiate riposato a dovere. Se le mie preghiere sono state ascoltate, sicuramente vi sentite rinvigoriti.’

“Per dire la verità, ho dormito davvero profondamente,” disse Lord George, strofinandosi gli occhi e guardandosi intorno nella stanza, “che non ricordo esattamente, in quale posto mi trovo?”

“Mio signore!”, esclamò Gashford, sorridendo.

“Ah!” rispose il suo superiore. “Già, allora non sei ebreo?”

“Un ebreo!”, esclamò il devoto segretario, indietreggiando inorridito.

“Ho sognato che fossimo ebrei, Gashford. Tu ed io, entrambi ebrei con lunghe barbe.”

“Dio non lo voglia, mio signore! Sarebbe esattamente lo stesso come se fossimo Papisti.”

“Suppongo di sì,” rispose l’altro molto rapidamente. “Eh? Davvero lo pensi, Gashford?”

“Certo che sì,” esclamò la segretaria, con un’espressione di grande sorpresa.

“Humph!”, mormorò. “Sì, sembra ragionevole.”

“Spero che mio signore, ” iniziò il segretario.

“‘Speranza!’, ripeté interrompendolo. ‘Perché dici che tu ‘speri’? Non c’è nulla di male nel pensare a queste cose.’”

“Nemmeno nei sogni,” rispose il Segretario.

‘Nei sogni!]. No, nemmeno da sveglio.’

—‘“Called, and chosen, and faithful,”’ said Gashford, taking up Lord George’s watch which lay upon a chair, and seeming to read the inscription on the seal, abstractedly.

It was the slightest action possible, not obtruded on his notice, and apparently the result of a moment’s absence of mind, not worth remark. But as the words were uttered, Lord George, who had been going on impetuously, stopped short, reddened, and was silent. Apparently quite unconscious of this change in his demeanour, the wily Secretary stepped a little apart, under pretence of pulling up the window-blind, and returning when the other had had time to recover, said:

‘The holy cause goes bravely on, my lord. I was not idle, even last night. I dropped two of the handbills before I went to bed, and both are gone this morning. Nobody in the house has mentioned the circumstance of finding them, though I have been downstairs full half-an-hour. One or two recruits will be their first fruit, I predict; and who shall say how many more, with Heaven’s blessing on your inspired exertions!’

‘It was a famous device in the beginning,’ replied Lord George; ‘an excellent device, and did good service in Scotland. It was quite worthy of you. You remind me not to be a sluggard, Gashford, when the vineyard is menaced with destruction, and may be trodden down by Papist feet. Let the horses be saddled in half-an-hour. We must be up and doing!’

He said this with a heightened colour, and in a tone of such enthusiasm, that the secretary deemed all further prompting needless, and withdrew.

—‘Dreamed he was a Jew,’ he said thoughtfully, as he closed the bedroom door. ‘He may come to that before he dies. It’s like enough. Well! After a time, and provided I lost nothing by it, I don’t see why that religion shouldn’t suit me as well as any other. There are rich men among the Jews; shaving is very troublesome;—yes, it would suit me well enough. For the present, though, we must be Christian to the core. Our prophetic motto will suit all creeds in their turn, that’s a comfort.’ Reflecting on this source of consolation, he reached the sitting-room, and rang the bell for breakfast.

Lord George was quickly dressed (for his plain toilet was easily made), and as he was no less frugal in his repasts than in his Puritan attire, his share of the meal was soon dispatched. The secretary, however, more devoted to the good things of this world, or more intent on sustaining his strength and spirits for the sake of the Protestant cause, ate and drank to the last minute, and required indeed some three or four reminders from John Grueby, before he could resolve to tear himself away from Mr Willet’s plentiful providing.

At length he came downstairs, wiping his greasy mouth, and having paid John Willet’s bill, climbed into his saddle. Lord George, who had been walking up and down before the house talking to himself with earnest gestures, mounted his horse; and returning old John Willet’s stately bow, as well as the parting salutation of a dozen idlers whom the rumour of a live lord being about to leave the Maypole had gathered round the porch, they rode away, with stout John Grueby in the rear.

If Lord George Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr Willet, overnight, a nobleman of somewhat quaint and odd exterior, the impression was confirmed this morning, and increased a hundredfold. Sitting bolt upright upon his bony steed, with his long, straight hair, dangling about his face and fluttering in the wind; his limbs all angular and rigid, his elbows stuck out on either side ungracefully, and his whole frame jogged and shaken at every motion of his horse’s feet; a more grotesque or more ungainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu of whip, he carried in his hand a great gold-headed cane, as large as any footman carries in these days, and his various modes of holding this unwieldy weapon—now upright before his face like the sabre of a horse-soldier, now over his shoulder like a musket, now between his finger and thumb, but always in some uncouth and awkward fashion—contributed in no small degree to the absurdity of his appearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, dressed in an unusual manner, and ostentatiously exhibiting—whether by design or accident—all his peculiarities of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the qualities, natural and artificial, in which he differed from other men; he might have moved the sternest looker-on to laughter, and fully provoked the smiles and whispered jests which greeted his departure from the Maypole inn.

Quite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he trotted on beside his secretary, talking to himself nearly all the way, until they came within a mile or two of London, when now and then some passenger went by who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to some one else, and perhaps stood looking after him, or cried in jest or earnest as it might be, ‘Hurrah Geordie! No Popery!’ At which he would gravely pull off his hat, and bow. When they reached the town and rode along the streets, these notices became more frequent; some laughed, some hissed, some turned their heads and smiled, some wondered who he was, some ran along the pavement by his side and cheered. When this happened in a crush of carts and chairs and coaches, he would make a dead stop, and pulling off his hat, cry, ‘Gentlemen, No Popery!’ to which the gentlemen would respond with lusty voices, and with three times three; and then, on he would go again with a score or so of the raggedest, following at his horse’s heels, and shouting till their throats were parched.

The old ladies too—there were a great many old ladies in the streets, and these all knew him. Some of them—not those of the highest rank, but such as sold fruit from baskets and carried burdens—clapped their shrivelled hands, and raised a weazen, piping, shrill ‘Hurrah, my lord.’ Others waved their hands or handkerchiefs, or shook their fans or parasols, or threw up windows and called in haste to those within, to come and see. All these marks of popular esteem, he received with profound gravity and respect; bowing very low, and so frequently that his hat was more off his head than on; and looking up at the houses as he passed along, with the air of one who was making a public entry, and yet was not puffed up or proud.

“Chiamato, scelto e fedele”, disse Gashford, prendendo l’orologio di Lord George che si trovava su una sedia, e sembrando leggere distrattamente la iscrizione sul sigillo.

Era un’azione del tutto insignificante, che non attirò la sua attenzione e che apparentemente derivava da un momento di distrazione, quindi non meritava alcun commento. Ma non appena quelle parole furono pronunciate, Lord George, che fino ad allora aveva continuato a parlare con impeto, si fermò di colpo, arrossì e rimase in silenzio. Apparentemente del tutto ignaro di questo cambiamento nel proprio comportamento, il astuto Segretario si allontanò leggermente, fingendo di tirare su la tenda della finestra, e quando l’altro ebbe avuto il tempo di riprendersi, tornò e disse:

“La causa sacra prosegue con coraggio, mio signore. Non sono stato inattivo nemmeno la scorsa notte: ho distribuito due di quei volantini prima di andare a letto, e entrambi sono stati ritrovati questa mattina. Nessuno nella >casa ha menzionato di averli trovati, nonostante io sia stato al piano di sotto per quasi mezz’ora. Prevedo che uno o due nuovi adepti saranno i primi frutti delle nostre sforzi; e chissà quanti altri ne seguiranno, se il Cielo benedice le vostre ispirate iniziative!”

“All’inizio era un dispositivo molto famoso,” rispose Lord George; “un ottimo strumento, che ha reso grandi servizi in Scozia. Era davvero degno di te. Mi ricordi di non essere pigro, Gashford: quando il vigneto è minacciato di distruzione e potrebbe essere calpestato dai piedi dei papisti. Bisogna sellare i cavalli in mezz’ora; dobbiamo metterci all’opera immediatamente!”

Lo disse con un colore visibilmente accaldato, e con un tono così entusiasta, che il segretario ritenne inutile qualsiasi ulteriore incoraggiamento e se ne andò.

“Sognava di essere ebreo,” disse pensierosamente, chiudendo la porta della camera da letto. “Forse un giorno ci arriverà prima di morire. Va bene lo stesso. Dopo tutto, se non ne perdo nulla, non vedo perché quella religione non possa adattarsi a me altrettanto bene di qualsiasi altra. Ci sono uomini ricchi tra gli ebrei; inoltre, radersi è davvero molto fastidioso. Sì, mi andrebbe benissimo. Per ora, però, dobbiamo rimanere cristiani fino in fondo. Il nostro motto profetico si adatta a tutte le fedi, uno dopo l’altra. Questo è un conforto.” Riflettendo su questo conforto, entrò nel salotto e suonò il campanello per la colazione.

Lord George si vestì rapidamente (poiché il suo abbigliamento semplice richiedeva poco tempo per essere indossato), e poiché era altrettanto frugale nei pasti quanto nell’abbigliamento puritano, finì presto la sua porzione di cibo. Il segretario, invece, più devoto ai piaceri di questo mondo o più intento a mantenere le proprie forze e il proprio spirito per il bene della causa protestante, mangiò e bevve fino all’ultimo momento; fu necessario che John Grueby gli ricordasse tre o quattro volte prima che decidesse di allontanarsi dalla generosità di Mr. Willet.

Finalmente scese le scale, si pulì la bocca unta e, dopo aver pagato il conto di John Willet, montò a cavallo. Lord George, che aveva camminato avanti e indietro davanti alla casa parlando da solo con gesti ferventi, salì anche lui sul suo cavallo; poi restituì il solenne inchino di vecchio John Willet, così come i saluti d’addio di una dozzina di oziosi che, sentendo la notizia dell’arrivo di un vero lord pronto a lasciare il Maypole, si erano radunati intorno al portico. Partirono tutti insieme, con il robusto John Grueby alle loro spalle.

Se Lord George Gordon fosse apparso agli occhi di Mr Willet, quella notte, come un nobile dall’aspetto piuttosto stravagante e bizzarro, l’impressione ottenuta quella mattina si sarebbe ulteriormente rafforzata, diventando addirittura cento volte più evidente. Seduto dritto in sella al suo cavallo magro e ossuto, con i lunghi capelli diritti che gli pendevano intorno al viso e svolazzavano al vento; con arti tutte angolose e rigide, gomiti sporgenti in modo poco elegante su entrambi i lati, e il corpo intero che sobbalzava ad ogni movimento degli zoccoli del cavallo. Era difficile immaginare una figura più grottesca o sgraziata. Invece di un frustino, teneva in mano un grande bastone dorato, grande quanto quelli che oggi portano i servitori; il modo in cui lo impugnava – a volte dritto davanti al viso come la sciabola di un soldato a cavallo, altre volte sulle spalle come un fucile, ancora altre volte tra il pollice e l’indice – contribuiva notevolmente all’aspetto assurdo della sua figura. Rigido, magro e solenne, vestito in modo insolito, e ostentando in modo evidente – sia intenzionalmente che per caso – tutte le sue peculiarità nel modo di camminare, gesticolare e comportarsi, tutte quelle qualità, naturali o artificiali, che lo differenziavano dagli altri uomini. Avrebbe sicuramente fatto ridere anche il più severo spettatore, e aveva certamente suscitato sorrisi e battute scherzose al suo ritiro dall’osteria del Maypole.

Del tutto ignaro dell’effetto che produceva, camminava al fianco della sua segretaria, parlando da solo per quasi tutto il tragitto, fino a quando non si trovarono a un miglio o due da Londra. A quel punto, di tanto in tanto, qualche passeggero che lo riconosceva lo indicava ad altri, e forse gli rimaneva accanto a guardarlo, oppure gridava scherzando o seriamente: “Evviva, Geordie! Niente papismo!” Allora lui si toglieva seriamente il cappello e faceva un inchino. Quando arrivarono in città e percorsero le strade, queste reazioni divennero ancora più frequenti: alcuni ridevano, altri sibilavano, alcuni si giravano a sorridere, alcuni chiedevano chi fosse, altri correvano lungo il marciapiede accanto a lui gridando di gioia. Quando ciò accadeva in mezzo a una folla di carri, sedie e cocchi, si fermava immediatamente, si toglieva il cappello e gridava: “Signori, niente papismo!” A cui i presenti rispondevano ad alta voce, ripetendo più volte quel grido; poi proseguiva il suo cammino, seguito da una ventina di persone in condizioni molto povere, che lo accompagnavano urlando fino a quando non si riempivano la gola.

Anche le vecchie signore, ce n’erano molte per strada, e tutte lo conoscevano. Alcune di loro – non quelle di alto rango, ma quelle che vendevano frutta dai cesti o portavano pesi – battevano le loro mani raggrinzite e gridavano: “Evviva, mio signore!”. Altre agitavano le mani o i fazzoletti, scuotevano i ventagli o gli ombrelli, oppure si affacciavano dalle finestre chiamando con fretta coloro che erano all’interno perché venissero a vederlo. Tutti questi segni di stima popolare li riceveva con profonda serietà e rispetto; si inchinava molto profondamente, così spesso che il cappello gli cadeva più volte dalla testa che non vi rimaneva sopra; e guardando in su verso le case mentre camminava, aveva l’aria di chi stesse facendo un ingresso pubblico, senza però essere affettato o orgoglioso.

So they rode (to the deep and unspeakable disgust of John Grueby) the whole length of Whitechapel, Leadenhall Street, and Cheapside, and into St Paul’s Churchyard. Arriving close to the cathedral, he halted; spoke to Gashford; and looking upward at its lofty dome, shook his head, as though he said, ‘The Church in Danger!’ Then to be sure, the bystanders stretched their throats indeed; and he went on again with mighty acclamations from the mob, and lower bows than ever.

So along the Strand, up Swallow Street, into the Oxford Road, and thence to his house in Welbeck Street, near Cavendish Square, whither he was attended by a few dozen idlers; of whom he took leave on the steps with this brief parting, ‘Gentlemen, No Popery. Good day. God bless you.’ This being rather a shorter address than they expected, was received with some displeasure, and cries of ‘A speech! a speech!’ which might have been complied with, but that John Grueby, making a mad charge upon them with all three horses, on his way to the stables, caused them to disperse into the adjoining fields, where they presently fell to pitch and toss, chuck-farthing, odd or even, dog-fighting, and other Protestant recreations.

In the afternoon Lord George came forth again, dressed in a black velvet coat, and trousers and waistcoat of the Gordon plaid, all of the same Quaker cut; and in this costume, which made him look a dozen times more strange and singular than before, went down on foot to Westminster. Gashford, meanwhile, bestirred himself in business matters; with which he was still engaged when, shortly after dusk, John Grueby entered and announced a visitor.

‘Let him come in,’ said Gashford.

‘Here! come in!’ growled John to somebody without; ‘You’re a Protestant, an’t you?’

‘I should think so,’ replied a deep, gruff voice.

‘You’ve the looks of it,’ said John Grueby. ‘I’d have known you for one, anywhere.’ With which remark he gave the visitor admission, retired, and shut the door.

The man who now confronted Gashford, was a squat, thickset personage, with a low, retreating forehead, a coarse shock head of hair, and eyes so small and near together, that his broken nose alone seemed to prevent their meeting and fusing into one of the usual size. A dingy handkerchief twisted like a cord about his neck, left its great veins exposed to view, and they were swollen and starting, as though with gulping down strong passions, malice, and ill-will. His dress was of threadbare velveteen—a faded, rusty, whitened black, like the ashes of a pipe or a coal fire after a day’s extinction; discoloured with the soils of many a stale debauch, and reeking yet with pot-house odours. In lieu of buckles at his knees, he wore unequal loops of packthread; and in his grimy hands he held a knotted stick, the knob of which was carved into a rough likeness of his own vile face. Such was the visitor who doffed his three-cornered hat in Gashford’s presence, and waited, leering, for his notice.

‘Ah! Dennis!’ cried the secretary. ‘Sit down.’

‘I see my lord down yonder—’ cried the man, with a jerk of his thumb towards the quarter that he spoke of, ‘and he says to me, says my lord, “If you’ve nothing to do, Dennis, go up to my house and talk with Muster Gashford.” Of course I’d nothing to do, you know. These an’t my working hours. Ha ha! I was a-taking the air when I see my lord, that’s what I was doing. I takes the air by night, as the howls does, Muster Gashford.’

And sometimes in the day-time, eh?’ said the secretary—‘when you go out in state, you know.’

‘Ha ha!’ roared the fellow, smiting his leg; ‘for a gentleman as ‘ull say a pleasant thing in a pleasant way, give me Muster Gashford agin’ all London and Westminster! My lord an’t a bad ‘un at that, but he’s a fool to you. Ah to be sure,—when I go out in state.’

‘And have your carriage,’ said the secretary; ‘and your chaplain, eh? and all the rest of it?’

‘You’ll be the death of me,’ cried Dennis, with another roar, ‘you will. But what’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford,’ he asked hoarsely, ‘Eh? Are we to be under orders to pull down one of them Popish chapels—or what?’

‘Hush!’ said the secretary, suffering the faintest smile to play upon his face. ‘Hush! God bless me, Dennis! We associate, you know, for strictly peaceable and lawful purposes.’

‘I know, bless you,’ returned the man, thrusting his tongue into his cheek; ‘I entered a’ purpose, didn’t I!’

‘No doubt,’ said Gashford, smiling as before. And when he said so, Dennis roared again, and smote his leg still harder, and falling into fits of laughter, wiped his eyes with the corner of his neckerchief, and cried, ‘Muster Gashford agin’ all England hollow!’

‘Lord George and I were talking of you last night,’ said Gashford, after a pause. ‘He says you are a very earnest fellow.’

‘So I am,’ returned the hangman.

‘And that you truly hate the Papists.’

‘So I do,’ and he confirmed it with a good round oath. ‘Lookye here, Muster Gashford,’ said the fellow, laying his hat and stick upon the floor, and slowly beating the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other; ‘Ob-serve. I’m a constitutional officer that works for my living, and does my work creditable. Do I, or do I not?’

‘Unquestionably.’

‘Very good. Stop a minute. My work, is sound, Protestant, constitutional, English work. Is it, or is it not?’

‘No man alive can doubt it.’

‘Nor dead neither. Parliament says this here—says Parliament, “If any man, woman, or child, does anything which goes again a certain number of our acts”—how many hanging laws may there be at this present time, Muster Gashford? Fifty?’

‘I don’t exactly know how many,’ replied Gashford, leaning back in his chair and yawning; ‘a great number though.’

‘Well, say fifty. Parliament says, “If any man, woman, or child, does anything again any one of them fifty acts, that man, woman, or child, shall be worked off by Dennis.” George the Third steps in when they number very strong at the end of a sessions, and says, “These are too many for Dennis. I’ll have half for myself and Dennis shall have half for himself;” and sometimes he throws me in one over that I don’t expect, as he did three year ago, when I got Mary Jones, a young woman of nineteen who come up to Tyburn with a infant at her breast, and was worked off for taking a piece of cloth off the counter of a shop in Ludgate Hill, and putting it down again when the shopman see her; and who had never done any harm before, and only tried to do that, in consequence of her husband having been pressed three weeks previous, and she being left to beg, with two young children—as was proved upon the trial. Ha ha!—Well! That being the law and the practice of England, is the glory of England, an’t it, Muster Gashford?’

Così cavalcarono (per il profondo e indescrivibile disgusto di John Grueby) per tutta la lunghezza di Whitechapel, lungo Leadenhall Street e Cheapside, fino a raggiungere il cimitero della Chiesa di St Paul. Avvicinandosi alla cattedrale, si fermarono; parlarono con Gashford; e guardando in alto verso la sua maestosa cupola, scossero la testa, come se dicessero: “La Chiesa è in pericolo!” Poi, per maggiore sicurezza, i presenti allungarono davvero il collo per vedere meglio; e lui proseguì il suo cammino tra gli acclamazioni entusiastiche della folla e inchini ancora più profondi di prima.

Lungo lo Strand, su per Swallow Street, fino a Oxford Road, e da lì verso la sua casa in Welbeck Street, vicino a Cavendish Square; dove lo accompagnavano una cinquantina di oziosi. Si congedò sulle scale con queste brevi parole: “Signori, niente papismo. Buon giorno. Che Dio vi benedica.” Poiché questo discorso risultò piuttosto breve rispetto a quanto si aspettavano, fu accolto con qualche disappunto; si udirono grida di “Un discorso! Un discorso!”, e forse ne avrebbero avuto uno, se non fosse stato per John Grueby, che caricò su di loro con tutti e tre i cavalli mentre si dirigeva verso gli stalli, facendoli così disperdere nei campi circostanti. Lì iniziarono a giocare a dadi, a combattere tra cani e ad intrattenersi con altre attività tipiche dei protestanti.

Nel pomeriggio Lord George uscì di nuovo, vestito con un mantello di velluto nero e pantaloni e gilet a quadri Gordon, tutti tagliati secondo lo stile tipico dei Quaker; in questo abbigliamento, che lo rendeva ancora più strano e singolare del solito, si recò a piedi fino a Westminster. Nel frattempo, Gashford era impegnato nelle sue faccende; era ancora occupato con queste quando, poco dopo il tramonto, John Grueby entrò e annunciò l’arrivo di un visitatore.

“Lasciatelo entrare,” disse Gashford.

“Entra!” ringhiò John verso qualcuno; “Sei un protestante, vero?”

“Credo proprio di sì,” rispose una voce profonda e roca.

“Hai proprio l’aspetto adatto,” disse John Grueby. “Ti avrei riconosciuto ovunque.” Dopo queste parole, fece entrare il visitatore, si ritirò e chiuse la porta.

L’uomo che ora si trovava di fronte a Gashford era un individuo basso e robusto, con una fronte bassa e sporgente, capelli ruvidi e occhi così piccoli e vicini tra loro che il suo naso rotto sembrava impedire loro di incontrarsi e fondersi in dimensioni normali. Un fazzoletto logoro era avvolto intorno al suo collo a mo’ di corda, lasciando esposte le sue vene gonfie e pulsanti, come se stesse ingoiando passioni violente, malvagità e rancore. Il suo abito era fatto di velluto logoro: un nero sbiadito, arrugginito e ingiallito, simile alle ceneri di una pipa o di un fuoco spento da tempo; macchiato dal fango di molte dissolutezze, emanava ancora odori nauseabondi. Al posto delle fibbie ai ginocchi, indossava semplicemente lacci di canapa; nelle sue mani sporche teneva un bastone nodoso, il cui pomello era stato scolpito a somiglianza del suo stesso volto orribile. Ecco l’uomo che, davanti a Gashford, si tolse il cappello a tre angoli e attese, con uno sguardo malizioso, di essere notato.

“Ah! Dennis!” esclamò la segretaria. “Siediti.”

“Vedo il mio signore laggiù, ” gridò l’uomo, indicando con il pollice la direzione di cui parlava, “e lui mi dice: ‘Se non hai nulla da fare, Dennis, vai a casa mia e parla con il Sergente Gashford.’ Ovviamente non avevo nulla da fare. Non sono le mie ore di lavoro. Ah ah! Stavo semplicemente prendendo una boccata d’aria. Di notte, sapete. Per via dei lupi, insomma, ”

E a volte anche di giorno, – disse il segretario – quando vi recate in pubblico, capite?

“Ha ha!” gridò l’uomo, battendosi la gamba; “perché un gentiluomo come lui, che dice cose piacevoli in modo piacevole, mi darebbe di nuovo Muster Gashford per tutta Londra e Westminster! Il mio signore non è poi così male, ma per te è solo uno idiota. Ah, certo, quando esco in pompa magna.”

“E avrai anche la tua carrozza,” disse il segretario; “e il tuo cappellano, eh? E tutto il resto?”

“Diventerai la mia morte,” gridò Dennis, con un altro ruggito, “lo sarai davvero. Ma cosa c’è in giro adesso, Muster Gashford?” chiese con voce roca, “Eh? Dovremo forse demolire una di quelle chiese papiste, o cosa?”

“Zitta!” disse il segretario, cercando di sorridere leggermente. “Zitta. Dio mi benedica, Dennis! Sai, ci associamo solo per scopi pacifici e legali.”

“Lo so, grazie,” rispose l’uomo, infilando la lingua nella guancia; “Ho intrapreso un certo scopo, no?”

“Nessun dubbio,” disse Gashford, sorridendo come prima. E quando lo disse, Dennis scoppiò di nuovo a ridere, si colpì la gamba ancora più forte e, tra le risate, si asciugò gli occhi con l’angolo del fazzoletto, gridando: “Che Gashford venga convocato in tutto l’Inghilterra!”

“Lord George ed io parlavamo di te ieri sera,” disse Gashford dopo una pausa. “Dice che sei un ragazzo molto serio.”

“Lo so,” rispose il boia.

“E che tu odii davvero i papisti.”

“Lo so bene,” e lo confermò con un solenne giuramento. “Ascoltate bene, Muster Gashford,” disse l’uomo, posando cappello e bastone per terra e battendo lentamente il palmo di una mano con le dita dell’altra; “Osservate: sono un funzionario incaricato di compiti istituzionali che lavora onestamente per guadagnarsi da vivere. Lo faccio, o non lo faccio?”

“Senza dubbio.”

“Molto bene. Aspettate un attimo. Il mio lavoro è fondato su principi protestanti, costituzionali e inglesi. Lo è davvero, o no?”

Nessun uomo vivente può metterlo in dubbio.

“Né morto né vivo. Il Parlamento lo dice chiaramente: ‘Se un uomo, una donna o un bambino compie atti che violano alcune delle nostre leggi’, quante leggi sulla pena di morte potrebbero esistere in questo momento, Muster Gashford? Cinquanta?’”

“Non so esattamente quanti siano,” rispose Gashford, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e sbadigliando; “ma sono molti, sicuramente.”

‘Beh, diciamo cinquanta. Il Parlamento stabilisce: “Se un uomo, una donna o un bambino compie di nuovo uno qualsiasi di quei cinquanta atti, tale persona verrà mandata a lavorare da Dennis.” Quando il numero di questi individui diventa troppo elevato alla fine di una sessione parlamentare, Giorgio III interviene dicendo: “Sono troppi per Dennis. Ne prenderò la metà io e Dennis ne prenderà un’altra metà”; a volte aggiunge anche qualcosa che non mi aspetto, come tre anni fa, quando si trattava di Mary Jones, una giovane donna di diciannove anni che fu portata a Tyburn con un bambino al seno. Era stata accusata di aver preso un pezzo di stoffa dal bancone di un negozio in Ludgate Hill e di averlo rimesso giù quando il proprietario del negozio se ne accorse; non aveva mai commesso nulla di male prima, e aveva cercato solo di fare quella cosa perché suo marito era stato imprigionato tre settimane prima, lasciandola sola a chiedere l’elemosina con i suoi due bambini piccoli. Come dimostrato durante il processo. Ha ha! Beh. Se questa è la legge e la prassi in Inghilterra, allora questa è davvero la gloria dell’Inghilterra, non è vero, Muster Gashford?’

‘Certainly,’ said the secretary.

‘And in times to come,’ pursued the hangman, ‘if our grandsons should think of their grandfathers’ times, and find these things altered, they’ll say, “Those were days indeed, and we’ve been going down hill ever since.” Won’t they, Muster Gashford?’

‘I have no doubt they will,’ said the secretary.

‘Well then, look here,’ said the hangman. ‘If these Papists gets into power, and begins to boil and roast instead of hang, what becomes of my work! If they touch my work that’s a part of so many laws, what becomes of the laws in general, what becomes of the religion, what becomes of the country!—Did you ever go to church, Muster Gashford?’

‘Ever!’ repeated the secretary with some indignation; ‘of course.’

‘Well,’ said the ruffian, ‘I’ve been once—twice, counting the time I was christened—and when I heard the Parliament prayed for, and thought how many new hanging laws they made every sessions, I considered that I was prayed for. Now mind, Muster Gashford,’ said the fellow, taking up his stick and shaking it with a ferocious air, ‘I mustn’t have my Protestant work touched, nor this here Protestant state of things altered in no degree, if I can help it; I mustn’t have no Papists interfering with me, unless they come to be worked off in course of law; I mustn’t have no biling, no roasting, no frying—nothing but hanging. My lord may well call me an earnest fellow. In support of the great Protestant principle of having plenty of that, I’ll,’ and here he beat his club upon the ground, ‘burn, fight, kill—do anything you bid me, so that it’s bold and devilish—though the end of it was, that I got hung myself.—There, Muster Gashford!’

He appropriately followed up this frequent prostitution of a noble word to the vilest purposes, by pouring out in a kind of ecstasy at least a score of most tremendous oaths; then wiped his heated face upon his neckerchief, and cried, ‘No Popery! I’m a religious man, by G—!’

Gashford had leant back in his chair, regarding him with eyes so sunken, and so shadowed by his heavy brows, that for aught the hangman saw of them, he might have been stone blind. He remained smiling in silence for a short time longer, and then said, slowly and distinctly:

‘You are indeed an earnest fellow, Dennis—a most valuable fellow—the staunchest man I know of in our ranks. But you must calm yourself; you must be peaceful, lawful, mild as any lamb. I am sure you will be though.’

‘Ay, ay, we shall see, Muster Gashford, we shall see. You won’t have to complain of me,’ returned the other, shaking his head.

‘I am sure I shall not,’ said the secretary in the same mild tone, and with the same emphasis. ‘We shall have, we think, about next month, or May, when this Papist relief bill comes before the house, to convene our whole body for the first time. My lord has thoughts of our walking in procession through the streets—just as an innocent display of strength—and accompanying our petition down to the door of the House of Commons.’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Dennis, with another oath.

‘We shall have to draw up in divisions, our numbers being so large; and, I believe I may venture to say,’ resumed Gashford, affecting not to hear the interruption, ‘though I have no direct instructions to that effect—that Lord George has thought of you as an excellent leader for one of these parties. I have no doubt you would be an admirable one.’

‘Try me,’ said the fellow, with an ugly wink.

‘You would be cool, I know,’ pursued the secretary, still smiling, and still managing his eyes so that he could watch him closely, and really not be seen in turn, ‘obedient to orders, and perfectly temperate. You would lead your party into no danger, I am certain.’

‘I’d lead them, Muster Gashford,’—the hangman was beginning in a reckless way, when Gashford started forward, laid his finger on his lips, and feigned to write, just as the door was opened by John Grueby.

‘Oh!’ said John, looking in; ‘here’s another Protestant.’

‘Some other room, John,’ cried Gashford in his blandest voice. ‘I am engaged just now.’

But John had brought this new visitor to the door, and he walked in unbidden, as the words were uttered; giving to view the form and features, rough attire, and reckless air, of Hugh.

“Certamente,” disse il segretario.

“E in tempi futuri,” proseguì il boia, “se i nostri pronipoti penseranno ai tempi dei loro nonni e scopriranno che queste cose sono cambiate, diranno: ‘Quei davvero erano bei tempi. Da allora, però, abbiamo continuato a scendere lungo la collina.’ Non è vero, Muster Gashford?”

“Non ho alcun dubbio che lo faranno,” disse il segretario.

“Allora, guardate qui,” disse il boia. “Se questi papisti arrivassero al potere e iniziassero a bruciare e arrostire le persone invece di impiccarle, che fine farebbe il mio lavoro! Se toccassero il mio lavoro, che rappresenta una parte fondamentale di molte leggi, che fine farebbero le leggi in generale, che fine farebbe la religione, che fine farebbe il paese. Avete mai messo piede in chiesa, Muster Gashford?”

“Mai!” ripeté la segretaria con un certo sdegno; “certamente.”

“Beh,” disse il furfante, “sono stato una volta, due volte, contando anche la volta in cui sono stato battezzato. E quando ho sentito che il Parlamento ne chiedeva l’applicazione, e pensando a quante nuove leggi sulla pena di morte venivano approvate ogni sessione, ho capito che si pregava proprio per me. Ora ascolta bene, Muster Gashford,” proseguì, prendendo il suo bastone e scuotendolo con aria minacciosa, “non deve succedere nulla che possa alterare lo stato delle cose protestanti; non voglio che i papisti interferiscano con me, a meno che non vengano processati secondo la legge; non voglio né torture né altre forme di punizione. Solo la pena di morte. Il mio signore può chiamarmi un uomo deciso. Per difendere il grande principio protestante della severità nelle punizioni, farò, ” e batté il suo bastone a terra, “bruciare, combattere, uccidere. Qualsiasi cosa mi ordini, anche se dovesse significare la mia stessa morte. Ecco, Muster Gashford!”

Egli proseguì in modo appropriato questa frequente prostituzione di una parola nobile per scopi spregevoli, pronunciando almeno una ventina di giuramenti terribili con un certo tipo di estasi; poi si asciugò il viso sudato con il fazzoletto e gridò: “Niente Papismo! Sono un uomo religioso, per Dio!”

Gashford si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia, guardandolo con occhi così incassati tra le folte sopracciglia che, per quanto il boia potesse vederli, avrebbe potuto essere completamente cieco. Rimase a sorridere in silenzio ancora per un po’, poi disse lentamente e chiaramente:

“Sei davvero una persona sincera e preziosa, Dennis, l’uomo più leale che conosca tra di noi. Ma devi calmarti; devi essere pacifico, rispettoso della legge, gentile come un agnello. Sono sicuro che lo sarai.”

“Ah ah, vedremo, Muster Gashford, vedremo. Non dovrai lamentarti di me,” rispose l’altro scuotendo la testa.

“Sono sicuro che non accadrà,” disse il segretario con lo stesso tono mite e con la stessa enfasi. “Pensiamo che entro il prossimo mese, o a maggio, quando questo disegno di legge per l’aiuto ai cattolici verrà presentato davanti alla casa legislativa, convocheremo per la prima volta l’intero nostro corpo. Il mio signore ha pensato a una processione per le strade – semplicemente come una dimostrazione innocente di forza – e a portare la nostra petizione fino alla porta della Casa dei Comuni.”

“Più presto è, meglio è,” disse Dennis, pronunciando un altro giuramento.

“Dovremo schierarci in gruppi, visto che siamo così numerosi; e credo di poter osare dire,” continuò Gashford, fingendo di non aver sentito l’interruzione, “anche se non ho ricevuto istruzioni dirette in questo senso, che Lord George abbia pensato a voi come ad un ottimo leader per uno di questi gruppi. Non ho alcun dubbio che siate davvero eccezionali.”

“Prova con me,” disse quell’uomo, facendo un brutto occhiolino.

“Saresti davvero perfetto, lo so,” continuò il segretario, ancora sorridente, e facendo in modo che i suoi occhi potessero osservarlo attentamente senza essere a loro volta visti, “obbediente agli ordini e estremamente moderato. Sono certo che non metteresti mai la tua squadra in pericolo.”

“Li guiderei io, Muster Gashford” – stava cominciando il boia in modo sconsiderato, quando Gashford si avvicinò, si mise un dito sulle labbra e fingeva di scrivere, proprio nel momento in cui la porta fu aperta da John Grueby.

“Ah!” esclamò John guardando all’interno; “ecco un altro protestante.”

“Un’altra stanza, John, ”, gridò Gashford con la sua voce più indifferente. “Sono appena impegnato.”

Ma John aveva già accompagnato questo nuovo visitatore fino alla porta, e questi entrò senza essere stato invitato, proprio nel momento in cui quelle parole furono pronunciate; si presentò quindi con la sua figura, i suoi tratti facciali, il suo abbigliamento semplice e l’aspetto disinvolto tipici di Hugh.

Chapter 38

The secretary put his hand before his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lamp, and for some moments looked at Hugh with a frowning brow, as if he remembered to have seen him lately, but could not call to mind where, or on what occasion. His uncertainty was very brief, for before Hugh had spoken a word, he said, as his countenance cleared up:

‘Ay, ay, I recollect. It’s quite right, John, you needn’t wait. Don’t go, Dennis.’

‘Your servant, master,’ said Hugh, as Grueby disappeared.

‘Yours, friend,’ returned the secretary in his smoothest manner. ‘What brings YOU here? We left nothing behind us, I hope?’

Hugh gave a short laugh, and thrusting his hand into his breast, produced one of the handbills, soiled and dirty from lying out of doors all night, which he laid upon the secretary’s desk after flattening it upon his knee, and smoothing out the wrinkles with his heavy palm.

‘Nothing but that, master. It fell into good hands, you see.’

‘What is this!’ said Gashford, turning it over with an air of perfectly natural surprise. ‘Where did you get it from, my good fellow; what does it mean? I don’t understand this at all.’

A little disconcerted by this reception, Hugh looked from the secretary to Dennis, who had risen and was standing at the table too, observing the stranger by stealth, and seeming to derive the utmost satisfaction from his manners and appearance. Considering himself silently appealed to by this action, Mr Dennis shook his head thrice, as if to say of Gashford, ‘No. He don’t know anything at all about it. I know he don’t. I’ll take my oath he don’t;’ and hiding his profile from Hugh with one long end of his frowzy neckerchief, nodded and chuckled behind this screen in extreme approval of the secretary’s proceedings.

‘It tells the man that finds it, to come here, don’t it?’ asked Hugh. ‘I’m no scholar, myself, but I showed it to a friend, and he said it did.’

‘It certainly does,’ said Gashford, opening his eyes to their utmost width; ‘really this is the most remarkable circumstance I have ever known. How did you come by this piece of paper, my good friend?’

‘Muster Gashford,’ wheezed the hangman under his breath, ‘agin’ all Newgate!’

Whether Hugh heard him, or saw by his manner that he was being played upon, or perceived the secretary’s drift of himself, he came in his blunt way to the point at once.

‘Here!’ he said, stretching out his hand and taking it back; ‘never mind the bill, or what it says, or what it don’t say. You don’t know anything about it, master,—no more do I,—no more does he,’ glancing at Dennis. ‘None of us know what it means, or where it comes from: there’s an end of that. Now I want to make one against the Catholics, I’m a No-Popery man, and ready to be sworn in. That’s what I’ve come here for.’

‘Put him down on the roll, Muster Gashford,’ said Dennis approvingly. ‘That’s the way to go to work—right to the end at once, and no palaver.’

‘What’s the use of shooting wide of the mark, eh, old boy!’ cried Hugh.

‘My sentiments all over!’ rejoined the hangman. ‘This is the sort of chap for my division, Muster Gashford. Down with him, sir. Put him on the roll. I’d stand godfather to him, if he was to be christened in a bonfire, made of the ruins of the Bank of England.’

With these and other expressions of confidence of the like flattering kind, Mr Dennis gave him a hearty slap on the back, which Hugh was not slow to return.

‘No Popery, brother!’ cried the hangman.

‘No Property, brother!’ responded Hugh.

‘Popery, Popery,’ said the secretary with his usual mildness.

‘It’s all the same!’ cried Dennis. ‘It’s all right. Down with him, Muster Gashford. Down with everybody, down with everything! Hurrah for the Protestant religion! That’s the time of day, Muster Gashford!’

The secretary regarded them both with a very favourable expression of countenance, while they gave loose to these and other demonstrations of their patriotic purpose; and was about to make some remark aloud, when Dennis, stepping up to him, and shading his mouth with his hand, said, in a hoarse whisper, as he nudged him with his elbow:

‘Don’t split upon a constitutional officer’s profession, Muster Gashford. There are popular prejudices, you know, and he mightn’t like it. Wait till he comes to be more intimate with me. He’s a fine-built chap, an’t he?’

‘A powerful fellow indeed!’

‘Did you ever, Muster Gashford,’ whispered Dennis, with a horrible kind of admiration, such as that with which a cannibal might regard his intimate friend, when hungry,—‘did you ever—and here he drew still closer to his ear, and fenced his mouth with both his open hands—‘see such a throat as his? Do but cast your eye upon it. There’s a neck for stretching, Muster Gashford!’

The secretary assented to this proposition with the best grace he could assume—it is difficult to feign a true professional relish: which is eccentric sometimes—and after asking the candidate a few unimportant questions, proceeded to enrol him a member of the Great Protestant Association of England. If anything could have exceeded Mr Dennis’s joy on the happy conclusion of this ceremony, it would have been the rapture with which he received the announcement that the new member could neither read nor write: those two arts being (as Mr Dennis swore) the greatest possible curse a civilised community could know, and militating more against the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great constitutional office he had the honour to hold, than any adverse circumstances that could present themselves to his imagination.

The enrolment being completed, and Hugh having been informed by Gashford, in his peculiar manner, of the peaceful and strictly lawful objects contemplated by the body to which he now belonged—during which recital Mr Dennis nudged him very much with his elbow, and made divers remarkable faces—the secretary gave them both to understand that he desired to be alone. Therefore they took their leaves without delay, and came out of the house together.

‘Are you walking, brother?’ said Dennis.

‘Ay!’ returned Hugh. ‘Where you will.’

‘That’s social,’ said his new friend. ‘Which way shall we take? Shall we go and have a look at doors that we shall make a pretty good clattering at, before long—eh, brother?’

Hugh answering in the affirmative, they went slowly down to Westminster, where both houses of Parliament were then sitting. Mingling in the crowd of carriages, horses, servants, chairmen, link-boys, porters, and idlers of all kinds, they lounged about; while Hugh’s new friend pointed out to him significantly the weak parts of the building, how easy it was to get into the lobby, and so to the very door of the House of Commons; and how plainly, when they marched down there in grand array, their roars and shouts would be heard by the members inside; with a great deal more to the same purpose, all of which Hugh received with manifest delight.

He told him, too, who some of the Lords and Commons were, by name, as they came in and out; whether they were friendly to the Papists or otherwise; and bade him take notice of their liveries and equipages, that he might be sure of them, in case of need. Sometimes he drew him close to the windows of a passing carriage, that he might see its master’s face by the light of the lamps; and, both in respect of people and localities, he showed so much acquaintance with everything around, that it was plain he had often studied there before; as indeed, when they grew a little more confidential, he confessed he had.

Perhaps the most striking part of all this was, the number of people—never in groups of more than two or three together—who seemed to be skulking about the crowd for the same purpose. To the greater part of these, a slight nod or a look from Hugh’s companion was sufficient greeting; but, now and then, some man would come and stand beside him in the throng, and, without turning his head or appearing to communicate with him, would say a word or two in a low voice, which he would answer in the same cautious manner. Then they would part, like strangers. Some of these men often reappeared again unexpectedly in the crowd close to Hugh, and, as they passed by, pressed his hand, or looked him sternly in the face; but they never spoke to him, nor he to them; no, not a word.

It was remarkable, too, that whenever they happened to stand where there was any press of people, and Hugh chanced to be looking downward, he was sure to see an arm stretched out—under his own perhaps, or perhaps across him—which thrust some paper into the hand or pocket of a bystander, and was so suddenly withdrawn that it was impossible to tell from whom it came; nor could he see in any face, on glancing quickly round, the least confusion or surprise. They often trod upon a paper like the one he carried in his breast, but his companion whispered him not to touch it or to take it up,—not even to look towards it,—so there they let them lie, and passed on.

When they had paraded the street and all the avenues of the building in this manner for near two hours, they turned away, and his friend asked him what he thought of what he had seen, and whether he was prepared for a good hot piece of work if it should come to that. ‘The hotter the better,’ said Hugh, ‘I’m prepared for anything.’—‘So am I,’ said his friend, ‘and so are many of us; and they shook hands upon it with a great oath, and with many terrible imprecations on the Papists.

As they were thirsty by this time, Dennis proposed that they should repair together to The Boot, where there was good company and strong liquor. Hugh yielding a ready assent, they bent their steps that way with no loss of time.

This Boot was a lone house of public entertainment, situated in the fields at the back of the Foundling Hospital; a very solitary spot at that period, and quite deserted after dark. The tavern stood at some distance from any high road, and was approachable only by a dark and narrow lane; so that Hugh was much surprised to find several people drinking there, and great merriment going on. He was still more surprised to find among them almost every face that had caught his attention in the crowd; but his companion having whispered him outside the door, that it was not considered good manners at The Boot to appear at all curious about the company, he kept his own counsel, and made no show of recognition.

Before putting his lips to the liquor which was brought for them, Dennis drank in a loud voice the health of Lord George Gordon, President of the Great Protestant Association; which toast Hugh pledged likewise, with corresponding enthusiasm. A fiddler who was present, and who appeared to act as the appointed minstrel of the company, forthwith struck up a Scotch reel; and that in tones so invigorating, that Hugh and his friend (who had both been drinking before) rose from their seats as by previous concert, and, to the great admiration of the assembled guests, performed an extemporaneous No-Popery Dance.

Capitolo 38

Il segretario si mise una mano davanti agli occhi per schermarsi dal bagliore della lampada, e per alcuni momenti guardò Hugh con la fronte corrugata, come se si ricordasse di averlo visto di recente, ma non riuscisse a ricordare dove o in quale occasione. La sua incertezza durò molto poco, perché prima ancora che Hugh potesse dire una parola, egli disse, con il viso rilassato:

“Ah sì, ora ricordo. Hai ragione, John, non c’è bisogno che aspetti. Non andartene, Dennis.”

“Vostro servo, padrone,” disse Hugh, mentre Grueby scompariva.

“Tuo, amico,” rispose il segretario con il suo tono più gentile. “Cosa ti porta qui? Non abbiamo lasciato nulla indietro, spero, ”

Hugh rise in una breve risata, poi infilò la mano nel petto e ne tirò fuori uno di quei volantini, sporchi e macchiati per essere rimasti all’aperto tutta la notte. Lo appoggiò sulla scrivania del segretario dopo averlo steso sulle ginocchia e lisciato con il palmo della mano.

“Nient’altro che questo, padrone. È finito in buone mani, vedete.”

“Che cos’è questo!” disse Gashford, girandolo con un’espressione di sorpresa del tutto naturale. “Dove l’hai preso, mio buon amico. Che significato ha? Non capisco affatto.”

Un po’ disorientato da questo comportamento, Hugh guardò prima il segretario poi Dennis, che si era alzato e stava anche lui vicino al tavolo, osservando di nascosto lo sconosciuto e sembrando trarre grande soddisfazione dai suoi modi e dall’aspetto di quest’ultimo. Ritenendo di essere stato silenziosamente coinvolto in questa situazione, il signor Dennis scosse la testa tre volte, come per dire di Gashford: “No. Lui non sa assolutamente nulla al riguardo. Lo so io che non ne sa nulla; giuro su quanto è sacro che non ne sa nulla.” Poi, nascondendo il proprio profilo dietro un lungo pezzo del suo fazzoletto sporco di peli, annuì e ridacchiò, mostrando grande approvazione per l’atteggiamento del segretario.

“Dice all’uomo che lo trova di venire qui, vero?” chiese Hugh.
“Non sono un esperto, ma l’ho mostrato a un amico, e lui ha detto che era proprio così.”

“Certo che lo è,” disse Gashford, aprendo gli occhi al massimo; “davvero, questa è la circostanza più straordinaria che abbia mai conosciuto. Come hai ottenuto questo pezzo di carta, mio caro amico?”

“Muster Gashford, ”, sibilò l’impiccatore tra i denti, “ancora una volta, per tutta Newgate!”

Che Hugh lo avesse sentito, che avesse notato dal suo comportamento che qualcuno lo stava prendendo in giro, o che avesse compreso le intenzioni del segretario, fatto sta che arrivò subito al dunque con il suo modo diretto e schietto.

“Eccola!” disse, tendendo la mano per prenderla e poi ritirandola; “Lasciate perdere il conto, quello che c’è scritto sopra o ciò che non c’è. Voi non ne sapete nulla, padrone. Nemmeno io, né lui,” aggiunse, guardando Dennis. “Nessuno di noi sa cosa significhi o da dove venga. Fine della questione. Ora voglio unirmi ai gruppi che combattono i Cattolici. Sono un uomo contrario alla Chiesa cattolica e sono pronto a giurare fedeltà a queste cause. È per questo che sono venuto qui.”

“Mettetelo giù sul lettino, Sergente Gashford,” disse Dennis con approvazione. “È così che si deve lavorare: dritti al punto, senza perdere tempo in chiacchiere.”

“Di che serve sparare fuori bersaglio, eh, vecchio mio!”, gridò Hugh.

“Che sentimenti meravigliosi!” esclamò il boia. “Questo è proprio il tipo di ragazzo adatto alla mia squadra, Sergente Gashford. Mettetelo giù, signore. Aggiungetelo all’elenco. Io stesso lo farei padrino, se dovesse essere battezzato in un falò fatto delle rovine della Banca d’Inghilterra.”

Con queste e altre espressioni di fiducia di questo genere, così lusinghiere, il signor Dennis gli diede una calorosa pacca sulla schiena, che Hugh non esitò a ricambiare.

“Niente papismo, fratello!” gridò il boia.

“Nessuna proprietà, fratello!” rispose Hugh.

“Papismo, papismo,” disse il segretario con la sua solita dolcezza.

“È lo stesso!” gridò Dennis. “Va tutto bene. Giù con lui, Sergente Gashford. Giù con tutti, giù con tutto! Evviva alla religione protestante! È proprio questo il momento giusto, Sergente Gashford!”

Il segretario li guardava entrambi con un’espressione molto favorevole, mentre loro manifestavano apertamente il proprio spirito patriottico; stava per fare qualche commento ad alta voce, quando Dennis gli si avvicinò, si coprì la bocca con la mano e, sussurrando con voce rauca e dandogli una spallata con il gomito, disse:

“Non mettetevi contro la professione di un funzionario costituzionale, Muster Gashford. Ci sono pregiudizi diffusi, capite. E potrebbe non piacergli. Aspettate che diventi più intimo con me. È un ragazzo robusto, vero?”

“Un tipo davvero potente!”

“L’hai mai vista, Sergente Gashford?” sussurrò Dennis, con un tipo di ammirazione orribile, simile a quella che un cannibale potrebbe provare per il suo intimo amico quando ha fame, “L’hai mai vista una gola del genere? Guardala solo. Una gola perfetta per essere strappata via, Sergente Gashford!”

Il segretario acconsentì a questa proposta con tutta la grazia di cui fu capace – è difficile fingere un vero entusiasmo professionale, che a volte può risultare addirittura eccentrico – e dopo aver posto al candidato alcune domande irrilevanti, procedette ad iscriverlo come membro della Grande Associazione Protestante d’Inghilterra. Se c’era qualcosa che poteva superare la gioia del signor Dennis alla conclusione di questa cerimonia, era senza dubbio l’euforia con cui ricevette la notizia che il nuovo membro non sapeva né leggere né scrivere: queste due abilità, secondo le parole stesse del signor Dennis, rappresentavano la più grande maledizione possibile per una comunità civile, e ostacolavano in modo ancora maggiore i guadagni professionali e l’utilità dell’importante incarico costituzionale che aveva l’onore di ricoprire, rispetto a qualsiasi altra circostanza negativa potesse presentarsi nella sua immaginazione.

Dopo che l’iscrizione fu completata, e Hugh venne informato da Gashford, nel suo modo particolare, degli scopi pacifici e rigorosamente legali perseguiti dall’organizzazione a cui ora apparteneva. Durante questo discorso, il signor Dennis lo spinse più volte con il gomito e fece varie espressioni strane. Il segretario fece loro capire che desiderava essere da solo. Così presero entrambi le loro carte senza indugio e uscirono insieme dalla casa.

“Stai camminando, fratello?” chiese Dennis.

“Ah!” rispose Hugh. “Dove vuoi tu.”

“Questo sì che è comportamento sociale,” disse il suo nuovo amico. “In quale direzione andiamo? Dovremmo dare un’occhiata a quelle porte che tra poco faranno un bel rumore quando le apriremo, eh, fratello?”

Hugh rispose affermativamente e loro scesero lentamente verso Westminster, dove entrambe le camere del Parlamento erano in sessione. Mescolandosi tra la folla di carrozze, cavalli, servitori, presidenti, assistenti, portieri e ogni sorta di oziosi, si aggirarono tranquillamente; mentre il nuovo amico di Hugh gli indicava con evidente interesse i punti deboli dell’edificio, spiegandogli quanto fosse facile entrare nell’atrio e arrivare fino alla porta stessa della Casa dei Comuni; inoltre gli mostrò come, avanzando lì in gran pompa, i loro urli e grida sarebbero stati chiaramente uditi dai membri del Parlamento all’interno. Hugh ascoltava tutto con evidente interesse e gioia.

Gli disse anche chi fossero, per nome, alcuni dei Lord e dei Comuni che entravano e uscivano; se fossero favorevoli ai Papisti o meno; e gli raccomandò di osservare attentamente le loro divise e i loro equipaggi, affinché potesse riconoscerli in caso di necessità. A volte lo tirava vicino alle finestre delle carrozze che passavano, così da permettergli di vedere il volto del loro proprietario alla luce delle lanterne; e sia riguardo alle persone che ai luoghi, dimostrava una tale familiarità con tutto ciò che lo circondava, che era evidente avesse studiato spesso quella zona in passato; infatti, quando la loro conversazione divenne un po’ più confidenziale, ammise di essere proprio così.

Forse la parte più sorprendente di tutto ciò era il numero di persone – mai in gruppi superiori a due o tre – che sembravano muoversi tra la folla con lo stesso scopo. Per la maggior parte di loro, un semplice cenno del capo o uno sguardo da parte del compagno di Hugh erano sufficienti come saluto; ma di tanto in tanto, qualcuno si avvicinava e si fermava accanto a lui nella folla, senza girare la testa né sembrare comunicare con lui, per poi dire una o due parole a bassa voce, alle quali Hugh rispondeva allo stesso modo, con cautela. Poi si separavano, come estranei. Alcuni di questi uomini ricomparivano spesso inaspettatamente nella folla vicino a Hugh; quando gli passavano accanto, gli stringevano la mano o lo guardavano con espressione severa; ma non parlavano mai con lui, né lui con loro. Nemmeno una parola.

Era anche notevole che, ogni volta che si trovavano in mezzo a una folla, e se Hugh casualmente guardava verso il basso, era sicuro di vedere un braccio che si estendeva – forse sotto di lui, o magari davanti a lui – per infilare qualche foglio di carta nella mano o nel taschino di qualcuno che passava; quel braccio poi si ritraeva così rapidamente da essere impossibile capire da chi provenisse. Non riusciva nemmeno a notare, guardandosi intorno in fretta, alcun segno di confusione o sorpresa sulle facce delle persone. Spesso calpestavano fogli di carta simili a quello che lui stesso portava addosso, ma il suo compagno gli sussurrava di non toccarli né raccoglierli, nemmeno di guardarli; quindi li lasciavano lì dove erano e proseguivano per la loro strada.

Dopo aver sfilato per le strade e per tutte le vie dell’edificio in questo modo per quasi due ore, se ne andarono. Il suo amico gli chiese cosa pensasse di ciò che aveva visto, e se fosse pronto ad affrontare qualcosa di serio, nel caso ce ne fosse stato bisogno. “Più è serio, meglio è,” disse Hugh. “Sono pronto a qualsiasi cosa.” “Anch’io lo sono,” rispose il suo amico, “e molti di noi lo sono; poi si strinsero la mano, pronunciando un solenne giuramento e lanciando molte terribili maledizioni contro i Papisti.”

Essendo assetati a quell’ora, Dennis suggerì di recarsi insieme al “The Boot”, dove avrebbero trovato buona compagnia e ottimo alcol. Hugh acconsentì prontamente, e così si misero in cammino senza perdere tempo.

Quella taverna era l’unica struttura di intrattenimento pubblico in quella zona; si trovava nei campi dietro l’Ospedale degli Orfani, un luogo molto isolato all’epoca e completamente deserto dopo il calare della notte. La taverna distava parecchio da qualsiasi strada principale ed era accessibile solo attraverso un sentiero buio e stretto; per questo Hugh fu molto sorpreso di trovarvi diverse persone che bevevano e di vedere un’atmosfera di grande allegria. Fu ancora più sorpreso nel riconoscere quasi tutti i volti che gli erano caduti sotto gli occhi nella folla. Ma poiché il suo compagno gli sussurrò all’esterno della porta che non era considerato educato mostrare troppa curiosità riguardo alle persone presenti, decise di tenersi per sé quelle osservazioni e di non fare alcun cenno di riconoscimento.

Prima di portare le labbra al liquore che gli era stato portato, Dennis brindò ad alta voce alla salute di Lord George Gordon, presidente della Grande Associazione Protestante; Hugh fece lo stesso con uguale entusiasmo. Un violinista presente, che sembrava essere il musicista ufficiale del gruppo, iniziò immediatamente a suonare una melodia scozzese; i toni erano così energizzanti che Hugh e il suo amico (entrambi avevano già bevuto prima) si alzarono dai loro posti come se fossero d’accordo in anticipo, e, per grande ammirazione di tutti gli ospiti presenti, eseguirono una danza improvvisata contro la setta dei Popery.

Chapter 39

The applause which the performance of Hugh and his new friend elicited from the company at The Boot, had not yet subsided, and the two dancers were still panting from their exertions, which had been of a rather extreme and violent character, when the party was reinforced by the arrival of some more guests, who, being a detachment of United Bulldogs, were received with very flattering marks of distinction and respect.

The leader of this small party—for, including himself, they were but three in number—was our old acquaintance, Mr Tappertit, who seemed, physically speaking, to have grown smaller with years (particularly as to his legs, which were stupendously little), but who, in a moral point of view, in personal dignity and self-esteem, had swelled into a giant. Nor was it by any means difficult for the most unobservant person to detect this state of feeling in the quondam ‘prentice, for it not only proclaimed itself impressively and beyond mistake in his majestic walk and kindling eye, but found a striking means of revelation in his turned-up nose, which scouted all things of earth with deep disdain, and sought communion with its kindred skies.

Mr Tappertit, as chief or captain of the Bulldogs, was attended by his two lieutenants; one, the tall comrade of his younger life; the other, a ‘Prentice Knight in days of yore—Mark Gilbert, bound in the olden time to Thomas Curzon of the Golden Fleece. These gentlemen, like himself, were now emancipated from their ‘prentice thraldom, and served as journeymen; but they were, in humble emulation of his great example, bold and daring spirits, and aspired to a distinguished state in great political events. Hence their connection with the Protestant Association of England, sanctioned by the name of Lord George Gordon; and hence their present visit to The Boot.

‘Gentlemen!’ said Mr Tappertit, taking off his hat as a great general might in addressing his troops. ‘Well met. My lord does me and you the honour to send his compliments per self.’

‘You’ve seen my lord too, have you?’ said Dennis. ‘I see him this afternoon.’

‘My duty called me to the Lobby when our shop shut up; and I saw him there, sir,’ Mr Tappertit replied, as he and his lieutenants took their seats. ‘How do YOU do?’

‘Lively, master, lively,’ said the fellow. ‘Here’s a new brother, regularly put down in black and white by Muster Gashford; a credit to the cause; one of the stick-at-nothing sort; one arter my own heart. D’ye see him? Has he got the looks of a man that’ll do, do you think?’ he cried, as he slapped Hugh on the back.

‘Looks or no looks,’ said Hugh, with a drunken flourish of his arm, ‘I’m the man you want. I hate the Papists, every one of ‘em. They hate me and I hate them. They do me all the harm they can, and I’ll do them all the harm I can. Hurrah!’

‘Was there ever,’ said Dennis, looking round the room, when the echo of his boisterous voice had died away; ‘was there ever such a game boy! Why, I mean to say, brothers, that if Muster Gashford had gone a hundred mile and got together fifty men of the common run, they wouldn’t have been worth this one.’

The greater part of the company implicitly subscribed to this opinion, and testified their faith in Hugh by nods and looks of great significance. Mr Tappertit sat and contemplated him for a long time in silence, as if he suspended his judgment; then drew a little nearer to him, and eyed him over more carefully; then went close up to him, and took him apart into a dark corner.

‘I say,’ he began, with a thoughtful brow, ‘haven’t I seen you before?’

‘It’s like you may,’ said Hugh, in his careless way. ‘I don’t know; shouldn’t wonder.’

‘No, but it’s very easily settled,’ returned Sim. ‘Look at me. Did you ever see ME before? You wouldn’t be likely to forget it, you know, if you ever did. Look at me. Don’t be afraid; I won’t do you any harm. Take a good look—steady now.’

The encouraging way in which Mr Tappertit made this request, and coupled it with an assurance that he needn’t be frightened, amused Hugh mightily—so much indeed, that he saw nothing at all of the small man before him, through closing his eyes in a fit of hearty laughter, which shook his great broad sides until they ached again.

‘Come!’ said Mr Tappertit, growing a little impatient under this disrespectful treatment. ‘Do you know me, feller?’

‘Not I,’ cried Hugh. ‘Ha ha ha! Not I! But I should like to.’

‘And yet I’d have wagered a seven-shilling piece,’ said Mr Tappertit, folding his arms, and confronting him with his legs wide apart and firmly planted on the ground, ‘that you once were hostler at the Maypole.’

Hugh opened his eyes on hearing this, and looked at him in great surprise.

‘—And so you were, too,’ said Mr Tappertit, pushing him away with a condescending playfulness. ‘When did MY eyes ever deceive—unless it was a young woman! Don’t you know me now?’

‘Why it an’t—’ Hugh faltered.

‘An’t it?’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Are you sure of that? You remember G. Varden, don’t you?’

Certainly Hugh did, and he remembered D. Varden too; but that he didn’t tell him.

‘You remember coming down there, before I was out of my time, to ask after a vagabond that had bolted off, and left his disconsolate father a prey to the bitterest emotions, and all the rest of it—don’t you?’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘Of course I do!’ cried Hugh. ‘And I saw you there.’

‘Saw me there!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Yes, I should think you did see me there. The place would be troubled to go on without me. Don’t you remember my thinking you liked the vagabond, and on that account going to quarrel with you; and then finding you detested him worse than poison, going to drink with you? Don’t you remember that?’

‘To be sure!’ cried Hugh.

‘Well! and are you in the same mind now?’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘Yes!’ roared Hugh.

‘You speak like a man,’ said Mr Tappertit, ‘and I’ll shake hands with you.’ With these conciliatory expressions he suited the action to the word; and Hugh meeting his advances readily, they performed the ceremony with a show of great heartiness.

Capitolo 39

L’applauso che l’esibizione di Hugh e del suo nuovo amico aveva suscitato tra il pubblico al The Boot non era ancora cessato, e i due ballerini erano ancora ansimanti per lo sforzo compiuto, che era stato piuttosto intenso e vigoroso. In quel momento, il gruppo fu arricchito dall’arrivo di altri ospiti: si trattava di un distaccamento dei United Bulldogs, i quali furono accolti con grandi segni di stima e rispetto.

Il leader di questo piccolo gruppo – poiché, inclusi lui stesso, erano soltanto in tre – era il nostro vecchio conoscente, il signor Tappertit. Fisicamente parlando, sembrava essere diventato più piccolo con gli anni (soprattutto le sue gambe, che erano incredibilmente corte), ma dal punto di vista morale, della dignità personale e dell’autostima, era diventato davvero un “gigante”. Non era affatto difficile per chiunque notasse questo cambiamento nel comportamento del signor Tappertit: non solo il suo modo maestoso di camminare e lo sguardo brillante ne erano evidenti prove, ma anche il suo naso inarcato, che mostrava profondo disprezzo per tutte le cose terrene e cercava comunione con i cieli.

Il signor Tappertit, in qualità di capo o comandante dei “Bulldogs”, era accompagnato dai suoi due luogotenenti: uno, il compagno alto che lo aveva accompagnato negli anni della sua giovinezza; l’altro, un tempo apprendista cavaliere – Mark Gilbert – legato in passato a Thomas Curzon del Golden Fleece. Questi signori, come lui stesso, erano ormai liberati dalla loro condizione di “apprendisti” e lavoravano come artigiani; tuttavia, imitando con umiltà il suo grande esempio, erano spiriti coraggiosi e audaci, e aspiravano a raggiungere posizioni di rilievo in importanti eventi politici. Per questo motivo erano legati all’Associazione Protestante d’Inghilterra, sostenuta dal nome di Lord George Gordon; ed è per questa stessa ragione che ora si trovavano a The Boot.

“Signori!” disse il signor Tappertit, togliendosi il cappello proprio come un grande generale potrebbe fare nel rivolgersi alle sue truppe. “Benvenuti. Il mio signore mi onora e vi onora inviando i suoi saluti personalmente.”

“Anche tu hai visto il mio signore, vero? Lo vedo questo pomeriggio.”

“Il mio dovere mi chiamò nel corridoio quando il nostro negozio chiuse; e lo vidi lì, signore,” rispose il signor Tappertit mentre lui e i suoi luogotenenti si sedevano. “Come state?”

“Vivace, padrone, vivace,” disse l’uomo. “Ecco un nuovo fratello, registrato regolarmente in modo ufficiale da Muster Gashford; un vero merito per la causa. Uno di quelli che non si arrendono mai; uno dei miei compagni più fidati. Lo vedete? Secondo voi, ha l’aspetto di una persona che può farcela?” gridò, dandogli una pacca sulla schiena a Hugh.

“Che mi guardino o no,” disse Hugh, agitando il braccio in modo ubriaco, “io sono l’uomo che cercate. Odio i Papisti, tutti quanti. Loro odiano me e io li odio. Mi fanno tutto il male possibile, e io farò loro tutto il male possibile. Evviva!”

“Esisteva davvero,” disse Dennis, guardandosi intorno nella stanza, quando l’eco della sua voce rumorosa si era spenta; “esisteva davvero un ragazzo così straordinario! Voglio dire, fratelli, anche se Muster Gashford fosse andato fino a cento miglia e avesse radunato cinquanta uomini comuni, non sarebbero stati nemmeno lontanamente paragonabili a questo.”

La maggior parte dei presenti condivideva implicitamente questo punto di vista e dimostrava la propria >fede in Hugh con cenni del capo e sguardi molto significativi. Il signor Tappertit rimase seduto a osservarlo per un lungo tempo, in silenzio, come se stesse valutando la situazione; poi si avvicinò ancora di più, lo esaminò con maggiore attenzione, e infine lo portò in un angolo appartato.

“Dico, ”, cominciò, con un’espressione pensierosa, “non ti ho già visto da qualche parte?”

“Potresti anche farlo,” disse Hugh, con il suo modo disinvolto. “Non lo so. Forse dovremmo chiedercelo.”

“No, ma si può risolvere molto facilmente,” rispose Sim. “Guardami bene. Mi hai mai visto prima? Probabilmente non te lo dimenticheresti mai, sai. Guardami attentamente. Non avere paura; non ti farò del male. Osserva bene, ora fissa lo sguardo.”

Il modo incoraggiante con cui il signor Tappertit fece questa richiesta, unito alla promessa che non c’era motivo di aver paura, divertì moltissimo Hugh; tanto che, preso da una risata fragorosa, non riusciva nemmeno a vedere quell’ometto davanti a sé. La sua risata scuoteva le sue robuste spalle fino a farle dolere.

“Che cosa!” disse il signor Tappertit, iniziando ad impazientirsi di fronte a questo trattamento irrispettoso. “Mi conosci, ragazzo?”

“Non io,” gridò Hugh. “Ah ah ah! Non io. Ma mi piacerebbe molto.”

“Eppure avrei scommesso sette scellini,” disse il signor Tappertit, incrociando le braccia e piantandosi saldamente a gambe divaricate per affrontarlo, “che un tempo tu fossi stato un ostiere presso la Quercia di Maggio.”

Hugh aprì gli occhi sentendo queste parole e lo guardò con grande sorpresa.

“E così anche tu,” disse il signor Tappertit, spingendolo via con un tono condiscendente e scherzoso. “Quando mai i MIEI occhi si sono sbagliati, a meno che non si trattasse di una giovane donna! Non mi riconosci più ora?”

“Perché non può essere, ” Hugh esitò.

“Non è vero?” disse il signor Tappertit. “Ne sei sicuro? Ti ricordi di G. Varden, vero?”

Certo che Hugh lo fece, e ricordava anche di D. Varden; ma non glielo disse.

“Ricordi quando sei venuto laggiù, prima che finisse il mio periodo di tempo, per chiedere notizie di un vagabondo che se n’era andato via, lasciando suo padre in preda alle emozioni più amarevoli. Non è vero?” disse il signor Tappertit.

“Certo che sì!” esclamò Hugh. “E ti ho visto lì.”

“Mi avete visto lì!” disse il signor Tappertit. “Sì, credo proprio che mi abbiate visto. Quel posto non potrebbe andare avanti senza di me. Non vi ricordate che pensavo che vi piacesse quel vagabondo e per questo stavo per litigare con voi; poi ho scoperto che lo odiavate ancora di più del veleno stesso, quindi sono venuto a bere con voi. Non ve ne ricordate?”

“Certamente!” esclamò Hugh.

“Beh! E ora siete d’accordo anche voi?” disse il signor Tappertit.

“Sì!”, gridò Hugh.

“Parli come un uomo,” disse il signor Tappertit, “e stringerò la mano con te.” Con queste parole concilianti, mise in atto quanto aveva detto; e poiché Hugh accolse volentieri le sue proposte, eseguirono la cerimonia con grande cordialità.

‘I find,’ said Mr Tappertit, looking round on the assembled guests, ‘that brother What’s-his-name and I are old acquaintance.—You never heard anything more of that rascal, I suppose, eh?’

‘Not a syllable,’ replied Hugh. ‘I never want to. I don’t believe I ever shall. He’s dead long ago, I hope.’

‘It’s to be hoped, for the sake of mankind in general and the happiness of society, that he is,’ said Mr Tappertit, rubbing his palm upon his legs, and looking at it between whiles. ‘Is your other hand at all cleaner? Much the same. Well, I’ll owe you another shake. We’ll suppose it done, if you’ve no objection.’

Hugh laughed again, and with such thorough abandonment to his mad humour, that his limbs seemed dislocated, and his whole frame in danger of tumbling to pieces; but Mr Tappertit, so far from receiving this extreme merriment with any irritation, was pleased to regard it with the utmost favour, and even to join in it, so far as one of his gravity and station could, with any regard to that decency and decorum which men in high places are expected to maintain.

Mr Tappertit did not stop here, as many public characters might have done, but calling up his brace of lieutenants, introduced Hugh to them with high commendation; declaring him to be a man who, at such times as those in which they lived, could not be too much cherished. Further, he did him the honour to remark, that he would be an acquisition of which even the United Bulldogs might be proud; and finding, upon sounding him, that he was quite ready and willing to enter the society (for he was not at all particular, and would have leagued himself that night with anything, or anybody, for any purpose whatsoever), caused the necessary preliminaries to be gone into upon the spot. This tribute to his great merit delighted no man more than Mr Dennis, as he himself proclaimed with several rare and surprising oaths; and indeed it gave unmingled satisfaction to the whole assembly.

‘Make anything you like of me!’ cried Hugh, flourishing the can he had emptied more than once. ‘Put me on any duty you please. I’m your man. I’ll do it. Here’s my captain—here’s my leader. Ha ha ha! Let him give me the word of command, and I’ll fight the whole Parliament House single-handed, or set a lighted torch to the King’s Throne itself!’ With that, he smote Mr Tappertit on the back, with such violence that his little body seemed to shrink into a mere nothing; and roared again until the very foundlings near at hand were startled in their beds.

In fact, a sense of something whimsical in their companionship seemed to have taken entire possession of his rude brain. The bare fact of being patronised by a great man whom he could have crushed with one hand, appeared in his eyes so eccentric and humorous, that a kind of ferocious merriment gained the mastery over him, and quite subdued his brutal nature. He roared and roared again; toasted Mr Tappertit a hundred times; declared himself a Bulldog to the core; and vowed to be faithful to him to the last drop of blood in his veins.

All these compliments Mr Tappertit received as matters of course—flattering enough in their way, but entirely attributable to his vast superiority. His dignified self-possession only delighted Hugh the more; and in a word, this giant and dwarf struck up a friendship which bade fair to be of long continuance, as the one held it to be his right to command, and the other considered it an exquisite pleasantry to obey. Nor was Hugh by any means a passive follower, who scrupled to act without precise and definite orders; for when Mr Tappertit mounted on an empty cask which stood by way of rostrum in the room, and volunteered a speech upon the alarming crisis then at hand, he placed himself beside the orator, and though he grinned from ear to ear at every word he said, threw out such expressive hints to scoffers in the management of his cudgel, that those who were at first the most disposed to interrupt, became remarkably attentive, and were the loudest in their approbation.

It was not all noise and jest, however, at The Boot, nor were the whole party listeners to the speech. There were some men at the other end of the room (which was a long, low-roofed chamber) in earnest conversation all the time; and when any of this group went out, fresh people were sure to come in soon afterwards and sit down in their places, as though the others had relieved them on some watch or duty; which it was pretty clear they did, for these changes took place by the clock, at intervals of half an hour. These persons whispered very much among themselves, and kept aloof, and often looked round, as jealous of their speech being overheard; some two or three among them entered in books what seemed to be reports from the others; when they were not thus employed one of them would turn to the newspapers which were strewn upon the table, and from the St James’s Chronicle, the Herald, Chronicle, or Public Advertiser, would read to the rest in a low voice some passage having reference to the topic in which they were all so deeply interested. But the great attraction was a pamphlet called The Thunderer, which espoused their own opinions, and was supposed at that time to emanate directly from the Association. This was always in request; and whether read aloud, to an eager knot of listeners, or by some solitary man, was certain to be followed by stormy talking and excited looks.

In the midst of all his merriment, and admiration of his captain, Hugh was made sensible by these and other tokens, of the presence of an air of mystery, akin to that which had so much impressed him out of doors. It was impossible to discard a sense that something serious was going on, and that under the noisy revel of the public-house, there lurked unseen and dangerous matter. Little affected by this, however, he was perfectly satisfied with his quarters and would have remained there till morning, but that his conductor rose soon after midnight, to go home; Mr Tappertit following his example, left him no excuse to stay. So they all three left the house together: roaring a No-Popery song until the fields resounded with the dismal noise.

“Credo,” disse il signor Tappertit, guardandosi intorno agli ospiti riuniti, “che io e quel fratello, come si chiama, siamo vecchi conoscenti. Immagino che non abbiate mai più sentito parlare di quel furfante, vero?”

“Nemmeno una sillaba,” rispose Hugh. “Non voglio mai farlo. Non credo che lo farò mai. Spero che sia morto da molto tempo.”

“Si spera, per il bene dell’umanità in generale e per la felicità della società, che lo sia,” disse il signor Tappertit, strofinandosi la palma della mano sulle gambe e guardandola di tanto in tanto. “La tua altra mano è forse un po’ più pulita? Più o meno lo stesso. Beh, allora ti dovrò stringere la mano ancora una volta. Supponiamo che sia fatta, se non hai obiezioni.”

Hugh rise di nuovo, abbandonandosi completamente al suo folle umorismo, tanto che le sue membra sembravano sul punto di slogarsi e il suo intero corpo rischiava di andare in pezzi; ma il signor Tappertit, lontanissimo dall’irritarsi per questa estrema allegria, la considerò con grande favore e addirittura vi prese parte, nella misura in cui la sua dignità e la sua posizione sociale gli permettevano di farlo, rispettando sempre quella decenza e quel decoro che ci si aspetta da persone di alto rango.

Il signor Tappertit non si fermò a questo punto, come avrebbero potuto fare molti personaggi pubblici; invece chiamò i suoi due tenenti e li presentò a Hugh con grandi lodi, dichiarandolo un uomo che, in tempi come quelli in cui vivevano, non poteva essere abbastanza apprezzato. Gli fece anche l’onore di dire che sarebbe stato un acquisto di cui persino i “United Bulldogs” avrebbero potuto andare fieri; e, constatando che Hugh era completamente disposto e pronto ad entrare a far parte della loro società (poiché non era affatto schizzinoso e avrebbe stretto alleanza con chiunque, in qualsiasi momento e per qualsiasi scopo), procedette immediatamente alle necessarie procedure preliminari. Questo riconoscimento dei suoi grandi meriti rese particolarmente felice il signor Dennis, che lo proclamò apertamente con diversi giuramenti straordinari e sorprendenti; in effetti, procurò grande soddisfazione a tutta l’assemblea.

“Fai di me ciò che vuoi!” gridò Hugh, agitando la lattina che aveva svuotato più volte. “Assegnami qualsiasi compito tu desideri. Sono a tua disposizione. Lo farò. Ecco il mio capitano, ecco il mio leader! Ha ha ha! Lascia che mi dia l’ordine di combattere. Combatterò da solo contro l’intera Casa del Parlamento, o darò fuoco stesso al trono del Re!” Detto questo, colpì il signor Tappertit sulla schiena con tale forza che il suo piccolo corpo sembrò ridursi a nulla. E continuò a urlare fino a spaventare anche i bambini abbandonati nelle vicinanze.

In realtà, una sorta di senso del fantastico nella loro compagnia sembrava aver completamente preso il controllo della sua mente rozza. Il semplice fatto di essere trattato con condiscendenza da un grande uomo che avrebbe potuto schiacciare con una sola mano gli appariva così eccentrico e umoristico, che una sorta di gioia feroce prese il sopravvento su di lui, sopprimendo completamente la sua natura brutale. Rideva a crepapelle; brindò centinaia di volte al signor Tappertit; si dichiarò un vero “Bulldog” fino in fondo all’anima; e giurò di rimanere fedele a lui fino all’ultima goccia di sangue che gli scorreva nelle vene.

Tutti questi complimenti ricevuti da Mr Tappertit erano, naturalmente, lusinghieri nel loro genere, ma derivavano interamente dalla sua enorme superiorità. La sua dignitosa padronanza di sé faceva solo aumentare l’ammirazione di Hugh; in breve, questo “gigante” e quel “nano” instaurarono un’amicizia destinata a durare a lungo: da una parte, perché Mr Tappertit riteneva fosse suo diritto comandare; dall’altra, perché Hugh considerava un vero piacere obbedire alle sue istruzioni. E Hugh non era affatto un seguace passivo, pronto ad agire senza ordini precisi e chiari: quando infatti Mr Tappertit salì su un barile vuoto posto nel locale come “podio” e si offrì di tenere un discorso sulla grave crisi in atto, Hugh gli si mise accanto. Anche se rideva a crepapelle ad ogni parola che lui pronunciava, lanciava ai derisori segnali inequivocabili con il suo bastone, tanto che coloro che all’inizio erano più propensi ad interromperlo divennero improvvisamente molto attenti e i primi a esprimere la loro approvazione.

Tuttavia, non tutto a The Boot era rumore e scherzi, né l’intera compagnia ascoltava soltanto discorsi. C’erano alcuni uomini nell’altra estremità della stanza – che era una sala lunga e con soffitti bassi – impegnati in conversazioni serie tutto il tempo; e quando uno di loro usciva, subito dopo arrivavano altre persone che prendevano il suo posto, come se gli altri li avessero sostituiti in qualche turno di guardia o compito specifico. Il cambiamento avveniva regolarmente, ogni mezz’ora. Queste persone sussurravano molto tra loro, si tenevano in disparte e guardavano spesso intorno, come se temessero che i loro discorsi venissero ascoltati; alcuni di loro prendevano appunti su dei libri, probabilmente riassunti delle conversazioni altrui. Quando non erano impegnati in questo modo, uno di loro si rivolgeva ai giornali sparsi sul tavolo e leggeva ad alta voce passaggi tratti dalla St James’s Chronicle, dall’Herald, dal Chronicle o dal PublicAdvertiser che riguardavano l’argomento di cui erano tutti così profondamente interessati. Ma la vera attrazione era un pamphlet intitolato The Thunderer, che esprimeva esattamente le loro opinioni e che, a quel tempo, si riteneva provenisse direttamente dall’Associazione stessa. Questo pamphlet era sempre molto richiesto; che venisse letto ad alta voce davanti a un gruppo di ascoltatori attenti o da una persona sola, di certo suscitava discussioni animate e reazioni emozionate.

Nel mezzo di tutta la sua allegria e ammirazione per il proprio capitano, Hugh si rese conto, attraverso questi e altri segnali, della presenza di un’atmosfera misteriosa, simile a quella che lo aveva così colpito all’esterno. Era impossibile ignorare la sensazione che stesse accadendo qualcosa di serio, e che sotto il frastuono delle celebrazioni pubbliche si nascondesse qualcosa di invisibile e pericoloso. Tuttavia, questo non lo influenzò affatto: era perfettamente soddisfatto della sua sistemazione e avrebbe voluto rimanere lì fino al mattino, se non fosse stato per il fatto che il suo accompagnatore si alzò poco dopo mezzanotte per tornare a casa; anche il signor Tappertit, seguendo il suo esempio, non gli lasciò alcuna scusa per restare. Così i tre lasciarono insieme la locanda, cantando canzoni a tema “No-Popery” fino a quando i campi non risuonarono del loro cupo clamore.

‘Cheer up, captain!’ cried Hugh, when they had roared themselves out of breath. ‘Another stave!’

Mr Tappertit, nothing loath, began again; and so the three went staggering on, arm-in-arm, shouting like madmen, and defying the watch with great valour. Indeed this did not require any unusual bravery or boldness, as the watchmen of that time, being selected for the office on account of excessive age and extraordinary infirmity, had a custom of shutting themselves up tight in their boxes on the first symptoms of disturbance, and remaining there until they disappeared. In these proceedings, Mr Dennis, who had a gruff voice and lungs of considerable power, distinguished himself very much, and acquired great credit with his two companions.

‘What a queer fellow you are!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘You’re so precious sly and close. Why don’t you ever tell what trade you’re of?’

‘Answer the captain instantly,’ cried Hugh, beating his hat down on his head; ‘why don’t you ever tell what trade you’re of?’

‘I’m of as gen-teel a calling, brother, as any man in England—as light a business as any gentleman could desire.’

‘Was you ‘prenticed to it?’ asked Mr Tappertit.

‘No. Natural genius,’ said Mr Dennis. ‘No ‘prenticing. It come by natur’. Muster Gashford knows my calling. Look at that hand of mine—many and many a job that hand has done, with a neatness and dexterity, never known afore. When I look at that hand,’ said Mr Dennis, shaking it in the air, ‘and remember the helegant bits of work it has turned off, I feel quite molloncholy to think it should ever grow old and feeble. But sich is life!’

He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these reflections, and putting his fingers with an absent air on Hugh’s throat, and particularly under his left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical development of that part of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner and actually shed tears.

‘You’re a kind of artist, I suppose—eh!’ said Mr Tappertit.

‘Yes,’ rejoined Dennis; ‘yes—I may call myself a artist—a fancy workman—art improves natur’—that’s my motto.’

‘And what do you call this?’ said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of his hand.

‘That’s my portrait atop,’ Dennis replied; ‘d’ye think it’s like?’

‘Why—it’s a little too handsome,’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Who did it? You?’

‘I!’ repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image. ‘I wish I had the 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.’

“Risali in morale, capitano!”, gridò Hugh quando si furono messi a ridere fino ad esaurire il fiato. “Un’altra strofa!”

Il signor Tappertit, senza alcuna esitazione, ricominciò; e così i tre continuarono ad avanzare barcollando, abbracciati l’uno all’altro, gridando come pazzi e sfidando con grande coraggio le guardie di notte. In realtà, non era necessaria alcuna particolare audacia o coraggio, poiché le guardie di quell’epoca, selezionate per quel compito a causa dell’eccessiva età e delle gravi malattie, avevano l’abitudine di chiudersi dentro le loro casette non appena si verificavano i primi segni di disturbo, restandovi fino a quando tutto non tornava alla calma. In queste circostanze, il signor Dennis, che aveva una voce roca e polmoni particolarmente potenti, si distinse molto e guadagnò grande stima dai suoi due compagni.

“Che tipo strano sei!” disse il signor Tappertit. “Sei così astuto e reticente. Perché non ci dici mai a quale mestiere ti dedichi?”

“Rispondi immediatamente al capitano,” gridò Hugh, battendosi il cappello sulla testa; “perché non dici mai a quale mestiere ti dedichi?”

“Ho una professione altrettanto nobile, fratello, quanto quella di qualsiasi altro uomo in Inghilterra; si tratta di un’attività tanto onorevole quanto qualsiasi gentiluomo possa desiderare.”

“Sei stato istruito in questo mestiere?” chiese il signor Tappertit.

“No. Un vero genio naturale,” disse il signor Dennis. “Nessuna formazione. È qualcosa che viene dalla natura stessa. Il sergente Gashford conosce la mia vocazione. Guardate quella mia mano: quante cose ha fatto, con una precisione e destrezza mai viste prima. Quando la guardo,” continuò il signor Dennis scuotendola in aria, “e ricordo i lavori raffinati che ha eseguito, mi viene da pensare con tristezza che possa un giorno invecchiare e indebolirsi. Ma così è la vita, ”

Emise un profondo sospiro mentre si perdeva in queste riflessioni; poi, con aria assente, posò le dita sulla gola di Hugh, soprattutto sotto l’orecchio sinistro, come se stesse studiando lo sviluppo anatomico di quella parte del suo corpo. Scosse la testa in modo scoraggiato e, versò davvero lacrime.

“Suppongo che tu sia una sorta di artista, eh!”, disse il signor Tappertit.

“Sì,” rispose Dennis; “sì, posso considerarmi un artista, un artigiano raffinato, l’arte migliora la natura, questo è il mio motto.”

“E come chiami questa cosa?” disse il signor Tappertit, tirando fuori il suo bastone dalla mano.

“Quello è il mio ritratto lassù,” rispose Dennis; “che ne pensi?”

“Perché, è davvero troppo bello,” disse il signor Tappertit. “Chi l’ha fatto? Tu?”

“‘Io!’” ripeté Dennis, guardando con affetto la propria immagine. “Vorrei avere quel talento. Quella scultura è stata realizzata da un mio amico, che ormai non c’è più. Il giorno prima di morire, l’ha scolpita con il suo portacipolle, ispirandosi alla memoria! ‘Morirò giocando,’ diceva il mio amico, ‘I miei ultimi momenti saranno dedicati a realizzare la statua di Dennis.’ Ecco tutto.”

“Che strana idea, non è vero?” disse il signor Tappertit.

“Era davvero un’idea strana,” riprese l’altro, soffiando sul proprio naso immaginario e lucidandolo con il polsino del cappotto, “ma quell’uomo era davvero un tipo insolito, una sorta di zingaro, uno dei migliori individui che si possano incontrare. Ah! Mi ha raccontato alcune cose che potrebbero sorprendervi, quel mio amico, la mattina in cui è morto.”

“Eri con lui in quel momento, vero?” disse il signor Tappertit.

“Sì,” rispose lui con uno sguardo curioso, “ero lì. Oh! sì, sicuramente, ero lì. Non sarebbe mai riuscito a farlo senza di me. In circostanze simili, ero stato con tre o quattro membri della sua famiglia. Erano tutti persone davvero perbene.”

“Deve esserci stato affetto tra di voi,” osservò il signor Tappertit, guardandolo di sguardo.

“Non so se gli piacessi davvero molto,” disse Dennis, con un po’ di esitazione, “ma tutti mi avevano vicino quando sono morti. Mi occupo anche dei loro vestiti. Questo fazzoletto che vedete intorno al mio collo apparteneva a lui di cui stavo parlando. E lo stesso vale per quel ritratto.”

Il signor Tappertit diede un’occhiata all’articolo di cui si parlava e sembrò ritenere che le idee della defunta riguardo al vestire fossero piuttosto particolari, e certamente non di tipo costoso. Tuttavia non fece alcun commento in merito e lasciò che il suo misterioso compagno continuasse senza interruzioni.

“Questi piccoli oggetti,” disse Dennis, strofinandosi le gambe; “questi piccolissimi oggetti, appartenevano a un mio amico che ormai ha lasciato per sempre tutte queste incombenze: anche questo cappotto. Spesso camminavo dietro di esso per strada, chiedendomi se mai mi sarebbe appartenuto; questi stivali, hanno “ballato” davanti ai miei occhi per un altro uomo, almeno una mezza dozzina di volte. E quanto a questo cappello,” aggiunse, togliendoselo e facendolo girare intorno al pugno, “Dio mio! L’ho visto salire su un calesino lungo Holborn, ah, molti, molti giorni fa!”

“Non vorrai dire che tutti coloro che la indossavano in passato sono morti. Spero di no”, disse il signor Tappertit, allontanandosi leggermente da lui mentre parlava.

“Ognuno di loro,” rispose Dennis. “Senza eccezione!”

C’era qualcosa di davvero orribile in quella situazione; sembrava spiegare, in modo così strano e cupo, il motivo per cui i suoi vestiti erano logori e macchiati, come se fossero stati contaminati dalla terra delle tombe. Così, il signor Tappertit decise improvvisamente di prendere un’altra direzione e, fermandosi, augurò ai suoi compagni la buona notte con grande cordialità. Poiché si trovavano vicino al Old Bailey, e il signor Dennis sapeva che nella guardiola c’erano custodi con cui poteva trascorrere la notte discutendo di argomenti professionali di interesse comune, davanti a un fuoco caldo e con un bicchiere di vino in mano, si separò dai suoi compagni senza alcun rimpianto. Dopo aver stretto calorosamente la mano a Hugh e concordato un appuntamento per il giorno seguente al The Boot, li lasciò proseguire per la loro strada.

“È un tipo davvero strano,” disse il signor Tappertit, osservando il cappello del cocchiere che dondolava lungo la strada. “Non so proprio cosa pensare di lui. Perché non può farsi fare i vestiti su misura, o almeno indossare abiti decenti?”

“È un uomo fortunato, capitano,” esclamò Hugh. “Mi piacerebbe avere amici come lui.”

“Spero che non riescano a far loro redigere un testamento e poi a ucciderli”, disse il signor Tappertit, pensieroso. “Ma andiamo. Gli United B. mi aspettano. Via. Che c’è?”

“Me n’ero completamente dimenticato,” disse Hugh, che si era svegliato al suono di un vicino orologio. “Stasera devo incontrare qualcuno. Devo tornare subito indietro. Tutti quei brindisi e quelle canzoni me l’avevano fatto dimenticare. Finalmente mi è ricordato!”

Il signor Tappertit lo guardò come se stesse per esprimere sentimenti molto solenni riguardo a questo atto di abbandono, ma poiché era evidente, dal comportamento affrettato di Hugh, che si trattava di un impegno di natura urgente, egli gentilmente rinunciò e gli concesse il permesso di andarsene immediatamente; Hugh ringraziò con una risata.

“Buona notte, capitano!”, gridò. “Sono al vostro servizio fino alla morte, ricordatelo!”

“Addio!”, disse il signor Tappertit, agitando la mano. “Siate coraggiosi e attenti!”

“Niente papismo, capitano!”, gridò Hugh.

“Prima l’Inghilterra nel sangue!”, gridò il suo disperato leader. Allora Hugh rise e si mise a correre come un levriero.

“Quell’uomo sarà un onore per il mio corpo,” disse Simon, voltandosi pensierosamente. “E lasciami riflettere. In una società trasformata – che sicuramente seguirà se riusciremo a ribellarci e a vincere – quando il figlio di quel fabbro sarà mio, dovrò sbarazzarmi in qualche modo di Miggs. Altrimenti, un giorno, mentre non ci sono, potrebbe avvelenare la teiera. Forse potrebbe sposarla, se fosse abbastanza ubriaco. Bisogna farlo. Ne prenderò nota.”

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?’

Capitolo 40

Senza nemmeno pensare al piano per una vita felice e stabile che gli era balenato nella mente del suo premuroso comandante, Hugh non esitò un attimo finché i “giganti” di Saint Dunstan non segnalarono l’ora giusta. Allora prese a manovrare con forza la leva di una pompa che si trovava lì vicino, infilò la testa sotto lo scarico e lasciò che l’acqua gli scorresse addosso fino a quando un piccolo ruscello non iniziò a scorrere lungo ogni singola ciocca di capelli; rimase bagnato fino alla vita. Notevolmente rinfrescato, sia mentalmente che fisicamente, e quasi sobrio per l’momento, si asciugò come poté, poi attraversò la strada e bussò alla porta del Middle Temple.

Il portiere di notte guardò attraverso una piccola grata presente nel portale con uno sguardo scocciato, e gridò “Salve!”. Hugh rispose allo stesso modo e gli chiese di aprire rapidamente.

“Qui non vendiamo birra,” gridò l’uomo; “che altro volete?”

“Per entrare,” rispose Hugh, dando un calcio alla porta.

“Dove andare?”

“Edifici di carta”.

“Di chi sono queste stanze?”

“Di ‘Sir John Chester’.” Ognuna di queste risposte, sottolineò lui dando un altro calcio.

Dopo un po’ di ringhi dall’altra parte, il cancello si aprì e lui entrò, venendo attentamente ispezionato dal portiere nel frattempo.

“Voi che volete Sir John, a quest’ora di notte!”, disse l’uomo.

“Ah!” esclamò Hugh. “Io? E che c’entra questo con me?”

“Ma certo che devo venire con te per assicurarmi che tu lo faccia. Non ci credo proprio.”

“Allora, andiamo.”

Guardandolo con sospetti, l’uomo, munito di chiave e lanterna, lo accompagnò fino alla porta di Sir John Chester. Hugh bussò una volta; il suono risuonò nell’oscura scala come un richiamo spettrale, facendo tremolare la luce fioca della lampada.

“Pensi che ora mi voglia?” disse Hugh.

Prima che l’uomo avesse il tempo di rispondere, si sentì un passo all’interno; apparve una luce e Sir John, in pigiama e pantofole, aprì la porta.

“Chiedo scusa, signor John,” disse il portiere, togliendosi il cappello. “C’è un giovane che vuole parlarvi. È tardi per gli estranei; ho pensato fosse meglio assicurarmi che tutto andasse bene.”

‘Aha!’, esclamò Sir John alzando le sopracciglia. ‘Sei tu, messaggero, vero? Entra pure. Molto bene, amico. Apprezzo davvero la tua prudenza. Grazie. Che Dio ti benedica. Buona notte.’

Dovrebbe essere lodato, ringraziato, benedetto da Dio e augurargli una buona notte chi, portando “Sir” davanti al proprio nome e scrivendosi addirittura “M.P.”, si comportava in modo degno di un portiere. Si ritirò con grande umiltà e rispetto. Sir John seguì il suo recente visitatore nella stanza da vestire; sedutosi nella sua poltrona davanti al focolare e spostandola in modo da poterlo vedere mentre stava in piedi, con il cappello in mano accanto alla porta, lo osservò dalla testa ai piedi.

Quel volto anziano, calmo e piacevole come sempre; la pelle, ancora giovane nella sua freschezza e chiarezza; lo stesso sorriso; l’abituale precisione ed eleganza nell’abbigliamento; i denti bianchi e ben ordinati; le mani delicate; l’atteggiamento composto e tranquillo. Tutto come prima: nessun segno di età, passione, invidia, odio o insoddisfazione. Tutto sereno e incantevole da vedere.

Si autodefinì M.P. – ma come? Beh, così. Era una famiglia orgogliosa, anzi, più orgogliosa che ricca. Aveva rischiato di essere arrestato; di affrontare gli ufficiali giudiziari e la prigione, una prigione comune, a cui finivano le persone con redditi modesti. I gentiluomini di antiche famiglie non avevano il privilegio di essere esentati da leggi così crudeli, a meno che non appartenessero a una delle grandi casate nobiliari; in quel caso sì, avevano tale diritto. Un uomo orgoglioso della sua condizione sociale aveva i mezzi per farlo finire lì. Gli offrì, non certo di pagare i suoi debiti, ma di permettergli di occupare un seggio elettorale fino a quando suo figlio non avrebbe raggiunto la maggiore età; questo, se fosse vissuto, sarebbe accaduto tra vent’anni. Era praticamente lo stesso che ottenere l’esenzione tramite leggi speciali, ma in modo molto più dignitoso. E così Sir John Chester divenne membro del Parlamento.

Ma come, Sir John? Niente di così semplice. Un solo tocco con una _spada di stato, e la trasformazione fu immediata. John Chester, gentiluomo e membro del Parlamento, partecipò alla _corte, tenne un discorso e guidò una delegazione. Una tale eleganza nel comportamento, tali doti nella conversazione. Non potevano certo passare inosservati. Tuttavia, il suo nome era troppo comune per meriti del genere. Un uomo così gentiluomo avrebbe dovuto nascere, ma la Fortuna è capricciosa: nacque duca, proprio come alcuni duchi avrebbero dovuto nascere lavoratori. Colpì l’immaginazione del re: si inginocchiò e, ne uscì trasformato in una farfalla. John Chester fu nominato cavaliere e divenne Sir John.

“Pensavo che, lasciandomi stasera, mio stimato conoscente,” disse Sir John dopo un lungo silenzio, “volessi tornare il prima possibile, ”

“Sì, signore, l’ho fatto.”

“E quindi è così?” ribatté, guardando l’orologio. “È questo che vorresti dire?”

Invece di rispondere, Hugh cambiò la gamba su cui si appoggiava, si mosse il cappello da una mano all’altra, guardò il pavimento, il muro, il soffitto, e infine Sir John stesso; davanti al cui volto gentile abbassò di nuovo lo sguardo, fissandolo sul pavimento.

“E intanto, come hai trascorso il tuo tempo?” chiese Sir John, incrociando pigramente le gambe. “Dove sei stato? Che cosa hai fatto?”

“Nessun danno, padrone,” ringhiò Hugh con umiltà. “Ho fatto soltanto ciò che mi avete ordinato.”

“‘Come cosa?’”, rispose Sir John.

“Allora,” disse Hugh con imbarazzo, “come hai consigliato tu, o come hai detto che avrei dovuto fare, o che potevo fare, o che saresti tu fatto al mio posto. Non essere troppo severo con me, padrone.”

Qualcosa che assomigliava a un’espressione di trionfo, dovuta al perfetto controllo che aveva acquisito su questo “strumento” impacciato, apparve per un istante sul volto del cavaliere; ma scomparve immediatamente, mentre lui, parlando, si limava le unghie.

“Quando dici che ti ho ordinato di farlo, mio buon amico, intendi dire che ti ho detto di compiere qualcosa per me, qualcosa che volevo fosse fatto, qualcosa a mio vantaggio e per i miei scopi personali. Capisci? Ora sono sicuro che non sia necessario approfondire ulteriormente l’assurdità estrema di un’idea del genere, anche se involontaria; quindi, per favore, ” E qui girò lo sguardo verso di lui, “sii più cauto. Lo farai?”

‘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.’

‘I have come to and fro, master, all through that time, when there was anything to tell, because I knew that you’d be angry with me if I stayed away,’ said Hugh, blurting the words out, after an embarrassed silence; ‘and because I wished to please you if I could, and not to have you go against me. There. That’s the true reason why I came to-night. You know that, master, I am sure.’

‘You are a specious fellow,’ returned Sir John, fixing his eyes upon him, ‘and carry two faces under your hood, as well as the best. Didn’t you give me in this room, this evening, any other reason; no dislike of anybody who has slighted you lately, on all occasions, abused you, treated you with rudeness; acted towards you, more as if you were a mongrel dog than a man like himself?’

‘To be sure I did!’ cried Hugh, his passion rising, as the other meant it should; ‘and I say it all over now, again. I’d do anything to have some revenge on him—anything. And when you told me that he and all the Catholics would suffer from those who joined together under that handbill, I said I’d make one of ‘em, if their master was the devil himself. I AM one of ‘em. See whether I am as good as my word and turn out to be among the foremost, or no. I mayn’t have much head, master, but I’ve head enough to remember those that use me ill. You shall see, and so shall he, and so shall hundreds more, how my spirit backs me when the time comes. My bark is nothing to my bite. Some that I know had better have a wild lion among ‘em than me, when I am fairly loose—they had!’

The knight looked at him with a smile of far deeper meaning than ordinary; and pointing to the old cupboard, followed him with his eyes while he filled and drank a glass of liquor; and smiled when his back was turned, with deeper meaning yet.

‘You are in a blustering mood, my friend,’ he said, when Hugh confronted him again.

‘Not I, master!’ cried Hugh. ‘I don’t say half I mean. I can’t. I haven’t got the gift. There are talkers enough among us; I’ll be one of the doers.’

‘Oh! you have joined those fellows then?’ said Sir John, with an air of most profound indifference.

‘Yes. I went up to the house you told me of; and got put down upon the muster. There was another man there, named Dennis—’

‘Dennis, eh!’ cried Sir John, laughing. ‘Ay, ay! a pleasant fellow, I believe?’

‘A roaring dog, master—one after my own heart—hot upon the matter too—red hot.’

‘So I have heard,’ replied Sir John, carelessly. ‘You don’t happen to know his trade, do you?’

‘He wouldn’t say,’ cried Hugh. ‘He keeps it secret.’

‘Ha ha!’ laughed Sir John. ‘A strange fancy—a weakness with some persons—you’ll know it one day, I dare swear.’

‘We’re intimate already,’ said Hugh.

‘Quite natural! And have been drinking together, eh?’ pursued Sir John. ‘Did you say what place you went to in company, when you left Lord George’s?’

Hugh had not said or thought of saying, but he told him; and this inquiry being followed by a long train of questions, he related all that had passed both in and out of doors, the kind of people he had seen, their numbers, state of feeling, mode of conversation, apparent expectations and intentions. His questioning was so artfully contrived, that he seemed even in his own eyes to volunteer all this information rather than to have it wrested from him; and he was brought to this state of feeling so naturally, that when Mr Chester yawned at length and declared himself quite wearied out, he made a rough kind of excuse for having talked so much.

‘There—get you gone,’ said Sir John, holding the door open in his hand. ‘You have made a pretty evening’s work. I told you not to do this. You may get into trouble. You’ll have an opportunity of revenging yourself on your proud friend Haredale, though, and for that, you’d hazard anything, I suppose?’

‘I would,’ retorted Hugh, stopping in his passage out and looking back; ‘but what do I risk! What do I stand a chance of losing, master? Friends, home? A fig for ‘em all; I have none; they are nothing to me. Give me a good scuffle; let me pay off old scores in a bold riot where there are men to stand by me; and then use me as you like—it don’t matter much to me what the end is!’

‘What have you done with that paper?’ said Sir John.

‘I have it here, master.’

‘Drop it again as you go along; it’s as well not to keep such things about you.’

Hugh nodded, and touching his cap with an air of as much respect as he could summon up, departed.

Sir John, fastening the doors behind him, went back to his dressing-room, and sat down once again before the fire, at which he gazed for a long time, in earnest meditation.

‘This happens fortunately,’ he said, breaking into a smile, ‘and promises well. Let me see. My relative and I, who are the most Protestant fellows in the world, give our worst wishes to the Roman Catholic cause; and to Saville, who introduces their bill, I have a personal objection besides; but as each of us has himself for the first article in his creed, we cannot commit ourselves by joining with a very extravagant madman, such as this Gordon most undoubtedly is. Now really, to foment his disturbances in secret, through the medium of such a very apt instrument as my savage friend here, may further our real ends; and to express at all becoming seasons, in moderate and polite terms, a disapprobation of his proceedings, though we agree with him in principle, will certainly be to gain a character for honesty and uprightness of purpose, which cannot fail to do us infinite service, and to raise us into some importance. Good! So much for public grounds. As to private considerations, I confess that if these vagabonds WOULD make some riotous demonstration (which does not appear impossible), and WOULD inflict some little chastisement on Haredale as a not inactive man among his sect, it would be extremely agreeable to my feelings, and would amuse me beyond measure. Good again! Perhaps better!’

When he came to this point, he took a pinch of snuff; then beginning slowly to undress, he resumed his meditations, by saying with a smile:

‘I fear, I DO fear exceedingly, that my friend is following fast in the footsteps of his mother. His intimacy with Mr Dennis is very ominous. But I have no doubt he must have come to that end any way. If I lend him a helping hand, the only difference is, that he may, upon the whole, possibly drink a few gallons, or puncheons, or hogsheads, less in this life than he otherwise would. It’s no business of mine. It’s a matter of very small importance!’

So he took another pinch of snuff, and went to bed.

“Non volevo offenderti,” disse Hugh. “Non so cosa dire. Mi hai colto completamente di sorpresa.”

“Ti cattureranno molto prima, mio caro amico, infinitamente prima, puoi starne certo,” rispose il suo protettore con calma. “A proposito, invece di chiederti perché ci hai messo così tanto tempo, la mia vera domanda dovrebbe essere: perché sei venuto affatto? Perché?”

“Sa, padrone,” disse Hugh, “non sono riuscito a leggere la fattura che ho trovato; e, visto come era avvolta, ho pensato potesse trattarsi di qualcosa di importante, quindi l’ho portata qui.”

“Non potresti chiedere a qualcun altro di leggerlo al posto tuo, Bruin?” disse Sir John.

“Nessuno in grado di fidarsi dei miei segreti, padrone. Da quando Barnaby Rudge è scomparso per sempre, e ci sono già cinque anni, non ho parlato con nessuno se non con voi.”

“Mi hai reso un grande ‘onore, ne sono sicuro.”

“Sono andato avanti e indietro, padrone, per tutto quel tempo, ogni volta che c’era qualcosa da dirvi, perché sapevo che vi sareste arrabbiati se non fossi venuto,” disse Hugh, pronunciando quelle parole in fretta, dopo un imbarazzante silenzio. “E perché volevo farvi contento, se possibile, e non volevo che vi metteste contro di me. Ecco, questa è la vera ragione per cui sono venuto, quella notte. Lo sapete, padrone, ne sono sicuro.”

“Sei un individuo doppiogiochista,” rispose Sir John, fissandolo negli occhi, “e sotto il tuo cappuccio nascondi due facce, proprio come fanno i migliori. Non mi hai forse dato questa sera, in questa stanza, qualche altro motivo per agire così? Nessun rancore verso qualcuno che ti ha offeso di recente, che ti ha maltrattato, trattato con scortesia. Che si è comportato con te come se fossi un cane randagio e non un uomo come lui?”

“Certo che lo farò!” gridò Hugh, con la passione che cresceva nel sentirsi esprimere ciò che l’altro voleva che dicesse; “e lo ripeto ancora una volta: farei qualsiasi cosa pur di vendicarmi di lui, qualsiasi cosa. E quando mi hai detto che lui e tutti i cattolici avrebbero sofferto a causa di coloro che si erano uniti sotto quel manifesto, ho detto che ne sarei diventato uno anch’io, anche se il loro capo fosse stato il diavolo stesso. E IO NE SONO UNO. Vedrete se mantengo la mia parola e mi troverò tra i primi, o no. Forse non sono molto intelligente, ma abbastanza per ricordare chi mi ha trattato male. Lo vedrete voi, lui lo vedrà, e lo vedranno anche centinaia di altre persone: quando arriverà il momento giusto, il mio spirito sarà al mio fianco. La mia apparenza esteriore non conta nulla rispetto a ciò che sono veramente capace di fare. Alcuni, che conosco bene, avrebbero fatto meglio ad avere un leone tra loro piuttosto che me, quando sarò completamente libero. E infatti, l’hanno fatto!”

Il cavaliere lo guardò con un sorriso di significato molto più profondo del solito; poi, indicando l’antico armadio, continuò a seguirlo con lo sguardo mentre lui riempiva e beveva un bicchiere di liquore; e quando lui si girò, sorrise ancora, con un significato ancora più profondo.

“Sei di cattivo umore stasera, amico mio,” disse quando Hugh lo affrontò di nuovo.

“Non io, padrone!” gridò Hugh. “Non dico nemmeno la metà di ciò che intendo. Non posso. Non ho quel dono. Tra noi ci sono già abbastanza persone che parlano; io sarò uno di quelli che agiscono.”

“Ah! Quindi ti sei unito a quei tipi?” disse Sir John con un tono di profonda indifferenza.

“Sì. Sono andato alla casa che mi avevi indicato; e sono stato fatto partecipare all’appello. C’era un altro uomo lì, di nome Dennis, ”

“Dennis, eh!” esclamò Sir John ridendo. “Sì, sì, un bravo ragazzo, vero?”

“Un cane furioso, padrone, proprio come piace a me, molto aggressivo anche, davvero inferocito.”

“Lo so, l’ho sentito dire,” rispose Sir John con noncuranza. “Non saprà mica qual è il suo mestiere, vero?”

“Non vuole dirlo”, gridò Hugh. “Lo tiene segreto”.

“Ah ah!” rise Sir John. “Una strana fantasia, una debolezza che alcuni hanno. Ne sarai consapevole un giorno, ne sono sicuro.”

“Siamo già molto intimi,” disse Hugh.

“Del tutto naturale! E avete anche bevuto insieme, vero?” insistette Sir John.
“Hai detto dove siete andati insieme, dopo essere lasciato da Lord George?”

Hugh non aveva detto nulla, né aveva intenzione di dirlo, ma gli raccontò tutto; e dopo questa domanda ne seguirono molte altre, così che Hugh descrisse in dettaglio tutto ciò che era accaduto sia all’interno che all’esterno della casa: le persone che aveva incontrato, il loro numero, lo stato d’animo, il modo in cui conversavano, nonché le loro aspettative e intenzioni apparenti. Le domande di Hugh erano così abilmente formulate che, ai suoi stessi occhi, sembrava che fosse lui stesso a fornire volontariamente tutte queste informazioni, piuttosto che essere costretto a farlo; e tutto ciò accadeva in modo così naturale che, quando finalmente il signor Chester sbadigliò e dichiarò di essere completamente stanco, Hugh trovò persino delle scuse per aver parlato così tanto.

“Vai pure, ”, disse Sir John, tenendo la porta aperta con la mano. “Hai combinato un bel guaio stasera. Ti avevo detto di non farlo. Potresti finire nei guai. Ma avrai l’opportunità di vendicarti del tuo orgoglioso amico Haredale, no? Per questo, immagino che saresti disposto a rischiare qualsiasi cosa, ”

“Lo farei,” ribatté Hugh, fermandosi un attimo prima di uscire e guardando indietro; “ma a cosa rischio? Cosa potrei perdere, padrone? Amici, una casa? Non ne ho; per me non significano nulla. Datemi l’opportunità di combattere; lasciate che saldi vecchi conti in un’audace rissa, dove ci siano uomini disposti a sostenermi. E poi fate di me ciò che volete: non mi importa molto quale sia la fine.”

“Cosa ne hai fatto di quel foglio?” disse Sir John.

“L’ho qui, padrone.”

“Lascialo andare mentre cammini; è davvero meglio non tenere cose del genere con te.”

Hugh annuì e, toccandosi il cappello con un gesto di rispetto tutto quanto riuscisse a mostrare, se ne andò.

Sir John, dopo aver chiuso a chiave le porte dietro di sé, tornò nel suo bagno e si sedette nuovamente davanti al focolare, fissandolo per un lungo tempo in profonda meditazione.

“Fortunatamente succede così,” disse, sorridendo, “e promette molto bene. Ascoltate: io e il mio parente, che siamo i più protestanti di tutto il mondo, esprimiamo le nostre peggiori preghiere a favore della causa cattolica romana; per quanto riguarda Saville, che presenta il loro progetto, ho anche obiezioni personali. Ma poiché ognuno di noi tiene la propria fede come principio fondamentale del proprio credo, non possiamo impegnarci al fianco di un pazzo così estremista come Gordon. In realtà, promuovere i suoi disordini in segreto, attraverso uno strumento così adatto come il mio “amico selvaggio”, potrebbe aiutarci a raggiungere i nostri veri obiettivi. E esprimere, nei modi più appropriati e cortesi, il nostro dissenso nei suoi confronti, anche se concordiamo con lui in linea di principio, ci farà sicuramente guadagnare una reputazione di onestà e integrità, il che ci sarà di grande aiuto e ci porterà a raggiungere un certo rilievo. Bene! Per quanto riguarda le considerazioni personali. Confesso che se questi vagabondi organizzassero qualche dimostrazione turbolenta e infliggessero una piccola punizione a Haredale, che è senz’altro un uomo attivo nella sua setta, mi piacerebbe moltissimo. E mi divertirebbe enormemente. Forse anche di più, ”

Quando arrivò a questo punto, prese un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto; poi, iniziando lentamente a spogliarsi, riprese le sue meditazioni, dicendo con un sorriso:

‘Ho paura, ho davvero molta paura che mio amico stia seguendo fedelmente le orme di sua madre. La sua intimità con il signor Dennis è molto inquietante. Ma non ho alcun dubbio che comunque sia destinato a finire così. Se gli do una mano, l’unica differenza sarà che forse in questa vita berrà qualche gallone, o qualche secchio, in meno di quanto altrimenti avrebbe bevuto. Ma non è affar mio. È una questione di scarsa importanza.’

Allora prese un’altra pizzicata di tabacco in polvere e andò a letto.

Chapter 41

From the workshop of the Golden Key, there issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good-humoured, that it suggested the idea of some one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No man who hammered on at a dull monotonous duty, could have brought such cheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. He might have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in a jolting waggon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he would have brought some harmony out of it.

Tink, tink, tink—clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause of the streets’ harsher noises, as though it said, ‘I don’t care; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to be happy.’ Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck in again, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrusting itself on people’s notice a bit the more for having been outdone by louder sounds—tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.

It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind; foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger near it; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good-humour stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees became quite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; still the same magical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key.

Who but the locksmith could have made such music! A gleam of sun shining through the unsashed window, and chequering the dark workshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted by his sunny heart. There he stood working at his anvil, his face all radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off his shining forehead—the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the world. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking in the light, and falling every now and then into an idle doze, as from excess of comfort. Toby looked on from a tall bench hard by; one beaming smile, from his broad nut-brown face down to the slack-baked buckles in his shoes. The very locks that hung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on their infirmities. There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene. It seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison-door. Cellars of beer and wine, rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter—these were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust and cruelty, and restraint, they would have left quadruple-locked for ever.

Tink, tink, tink. The locksmith paused at last, and wiped his brow. The silence roused the cat, who, jumping softly down, crept to the door, and watched with tiger eyes a bird-cage in an opposite window. Gabriel lifted Toby to his mouth, and took a hearty draught.

Then, as he stood upright, with his head flung back, and his portly chest thrown out, you would have seen that Gabriel’s lower man was clothed in military gear. Glancing at the wall beyond, there might have been espied, hanging on their several pegs, a cap and feather, broadsword, sash, and coat of scarlet; which any man learned in such matters would have known from their make and pattern to be the uniform of a serjeant in the Royal East London Volunteers.

As the locksmith put his mug down, empty, on the bench whence it had smiled on him before, he glanced at these articles with a laughing eye, and looking at them with his head a little on one side, as though he would get them all into a focus, said, leaning on his hammer:

‘Time was, now, I remember, when I was like to run mad with the desire to wear a coat of that colour. If any one (except my father) had called me a fool for my pains, how I should have fired and fumed! But what a fool I must have been, sure-ly!’

‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs Varden, who had entered unobserved. ‘A fool indeed. A man at your time of life, Varden, should know better now.’

‘Why, what a ridiculous woman you are, Martha,’ said the locksmith, turning round with a smile.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mrs V. with great demureness. ‘Of course I am. I know that, Varden. Thank you.’

‘I mean—’ began the locksmith.

‘Yes,’ said his wife, ‘I know what you mean. You speak quite plain enough to be understood, Varden. It’s very kind of you to adapt yourself to my capacity, I am sure.’

‘Tut, tut, Martha,’ rejoined the locksmith; ‘don’t take offence at nothing. I mean, how strange it is of you to run down volunteering, when it’s done to defend you and all the other women, and our own fireside and everybody else’s, in case of need.’

‘It’s unchristian,’ cried Mrs Varden, shaking her head.

‘Unchristian!’ said the locksmith. ‘Why, what the devil—’

Mrs Varden looked at the ceiling, as in expectation that the consequence of this profanity would be the immediate descent of the four-post bedstead on the second floor, together with the best sitting-room on the first; but no visible judgment occurring, she heaved a deep sigh, and begged her husband, in a tone of resignation, to go on, and by all means to blaspheme as much as possible, because he knew she liked it.

The locksmith did for a moment seem disposed to gratify her, but he gave a great gulp, and mildly rejoined:

‘I was going to say, what on earth do you call it unchristian for? Which would be most unchristian, Martha—to sit quietly down and let our houses be sacked by a foreign army, or to turn out like men and drive ‘em off? Shouldn’t I be a nice sort of a Christian, if I crept into a corner of my own chimney and looked on while a parcel of whiskered savages bore off Dolly—or you?’

Capitolo 41

Dall’officina della Chiave d’Oro proveniva un suono tintinnante, così allegro e gioioso che evocava l’immagine di qualcuno che lavorava con felicità, producendo musica davvero piacevole. Nessun uomo che si impegnasse in un compito noioso e monotono avrebbe potuto estrarre note così allegra dal ferro e dall’acciaio; solo una persona vivace, sana di mente e onesta, che sfruttava al meglio ogni cosa e provava simpatia per tutti, avrebbe potuto farlo. Anche se fosse stato un fabbro di rame, avrebbe comunque posseduto un talento musicale. Sembrava che, anche seduto in una carrozza traballante piena di barre di ferro, sarebbe riuscito a creare armonia da tutto ciò.

Tink, tink, tink. Chiara come una campanella d’argento, udibile in ogni momento, nonostante il frastuono delle strade; sembrava dire: “Non mi interessa nulla; niente può rovinarmi l’umore; sono decisa a essere felice”. Le donne rimproveravano, i bambini piangevano, i carri pesanti rumolavano lungo la strada, gli ambulanti emettevano grida terribili. Eppure quel suono continuava ad echeggiare, né più alto, né più basso, né più forte, né più debole; non cercava affatto di attirare l’attenzione delle persone solo perché altri rumori erano più intensi. Tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.

Era l’incarnazione perfetta di quella voce dolce e gentile, libera da ogni freddo, raucedine o asprezza; i passanti rallentavano il passo e tendevano a soffermarsi vicino ad essa; i vicini che quella mattina si erano alzati di cattivo umore si sentivano improvvisamente più sereni mentre la ascoltavano, e gradualmente diventavano molto più allegri; le madri ballavano con i loro bambini al suono di quel dolce tintinnio. Ancora lo stesso magico “tintin, tintin, tintin” proveniva gioiosamente dal laboratorio della “Chiave d’Oro”.

Chi altro se non un fabbro chiave avrebbe potuto creare una musica del genere! Un raggio di sole che filtrava attraverso la finestra aperta illuminava a tratti il buio laboratorio, cadendo proprio su di lui, come se fosse attratto dal suo cuore sereno e felice. Lì stava, intento al suo lavoro: il viso radioso per lo sforzo e la gioia, le maniche arrotolate in alto, la parrucca spostata dalla fronte luminosa, l’uomo più rilassato, libero e felice del mondo. Accanto a lui c’era un gatto lucido che miagolava e sbatteva le palpebre alla luce, cadendo di tanto in tanto in un sonnellino pigro, forse per eccesso di comfort. Toby lo osservava da un alto banco vicino; sul suo viso largo e color noce bruna si leggeva un sorriso radioso. Anche le chiavi appese lì intorno sembravano avere un’aria allegra nel loro arrugginimento, come se fossero gentiluomini robusti e scherzosi, disposti a prendersi gioco delle proprie “debolezze”. Non c’era nulla di cupo o severo in quella scena. Sembrava impossibile che una qualsiasi di quelle innumerevoli chiavi potesse adattarsi a una cassaforte ostile o a una porta di prigione. Cantine piene di birra e vino, stanze con fuochi accesi, libri, chiacchiere e risate. Questi erano il loro vero ambiente naturale. Luoghi di diffidenza, crudeltà e restrizioni? Li avrebbero lasciati chiusi a doppio lucchetto per sempre.

Tink, tink, tink. Alla fine il fabbro chiuse il silenzio e si asciugò la fronte. Il silenzio svegliò il gatto, che, scendendo silenziosamente, si avvicinò alla porta e osservò con occhi attenti una gabbia per uccelli situata nell’finestra di fronte. Gabriel sollevò Toby verso la sua bocca e bevve avidamente.

Poi, quando si alzò in piedi, con la testa gettata all’indietro e il petto robusto in avanti, si sarebbe potuto notare che l’uomo di Gabriel indossava un equipaggiamento militare. Guardando verso il muro alle sue spalle, si sarebbero potuti scorgere, appesi a diversi ganci, un cappello con piuma, una spada larga, una cintura e un mantello rosso; qualsiasi persona esperta in tali cose avrebbe riconosciuto, dal loro design e dalla loro fattura, che si trattava dell’uniforme di un sergente dei Royal East London Volunteers.

Mentre il fabbro chiusei la sua tazza, vuota, sul banco da dove poco prima gli aveva fatto “un sorriso”, lanciò un’occhiata ironica a quegli oggetti. Guardandoli con la testa leggermente inclinata da una parte, come se volesse metterli tutti “nel giusto focale”, disse appoggiandosi al suo martello:

‘Era proprio allora, ricordo bene, che ero disposto a fare di tutto per avere un cappotto di quel colore. Se qualcuno (tranne mio padre) mi avesse chiamato stupido per i miei sforzi, come sarei stato arrabbiato! Ma, devo essere stato davvero un stupido, senza dubbio.’

“Ah!” sospirò la signora Varden, che era entrata senza essere vista. “Che stupido. Un uomo alla tua età, Varden, dovrebbe saper fare di meglio ormai.”

“Ma che donna ridicola sei, Martha,” disse il fabbro chiave, girandosi con un sorriso.

“Certamente,” rispose la signora V. con grande modestia. “Certo che lo sono. Lo so, Varden. Grazie.”

“Voglio dire, ” iniziò il fabbro chiave.

“Sì,” disse sua moglie, “so cosa intendi. Parli abbastanza chiaramente da essere compreso, Varden. È molto gentile da parte tua ad adattarti alle mie capacità, ne sono sicura.”

“Tut, tut, Martha,” rispose il fabbro chiave; “non prendertela per nulla. Voglio dire, è davvero strano da parte tua correre volontariamente a farlo, quando in realtà si fa per difenderti e tutte le altre donne, nonché il nostro focolare domestico e quello di tutti gli altri, nel caso ce ne fosse bisogno.”

“È immorale,” gridò la signora Varden, scuotendo la testa.

“Non cristiano!”, esclamò il fabbro chiave. “Ma che diavolo, ”

La signora Varden guardò il soffitto, come se si aspettasse che la conseguenza di tale blasfemia fosse l’immediata caduta del letto a quattro colonne al secondo piano, insieme alla migliore sala da pranzo al primo; ma poiché nulla accadde, sospirò profondamente e pregò il marito, con tono di resignazione, di continuare e, soprattutto, di blasfemare il più possibile, perché sapeva che a lei piaceva.

Per un momento, il fabbro sembrò disposto ad accontentarla, ma poi fece un grande sorso d’acqua e rispose in tono gentile:

“Stavo per dire: che cos’è esattamente ciò che si considera ‘anticristiano’? Cosa sarebbe davvero più anticristiano, Martha: sedersi in silenzio e lasciare che le nostre case vengano saccheggiate da un esercito straniero, oppure comportarsi da veri uomini e scacciarli via? Non dovrei forse essere considerato un buon cristiano, se mi nascondessi in un angolo del mio camino e guardassi senza fare nulla mentre un gruppo di selvaggi portasse via Dolly, o te?”

When he said ‘or you,’ Mrs Varden, despite herself, relaxed into a smile. There was something complimentary in the idea. ‘In such a state of things as that, indeed—’ she simpered.

‘As that!’ repeated the locksmith. ‘Well, that would be the state of things directly. Even Miggs would go. Some black tambourine-player, with a great turban on, would be bearing HER off, and, unless the tambourine-player was proof against kicking and scratching, it’s my belief he’d have the worst of it. Ha ha ha! I’d forgive the tambourine-player. I wouldn’t have him interfered with on any account, poor fellow.’ And here the locksmith laughed again so heartily, that tears came into his eyes—much to Mrs Varden’s indignation, who thought the capture of so sound a Protestant and estimable a private character as Miggs by a pagan negro, a circumstance too shocking and awful for contemplation.

The picture Gabriel had drawn, indeed, threatened serious consequences, and would indubitably have led to them, but luckily at that moment a light footstep crossed the threshold, and Dolly, running in, threw her arms round her old father’s neck and hugged him tight.

‘Here she is at last!’ cried Gabriel. ‘And how well you look, Doll, and how late you are, my darling!’

How well she looked? Well? Why, if he had exhausted every laudatory adjective in the dictionary, it wouldn’t have been praise enough. When and where was there ever such a plump, roguish, comely, bright-eyed, enticing, bewitching, captivating, maddening little puss in all this world, as Dolly! What was the Dolly of five years ago, to the Dolly of that day! How many coachmakers, saddlers, cabinet-makers, and professors of other useful arts, had deserted their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and, most of all, their cousins, for the love of her! How many unknown gentlemen—supposed to be of mighty fortunes, if not titles—had waited round the corner after dark, and tempted Miggs the incorruptible, with golden guineas, to deliver offers of marriage folded up in love-letters! How many disconsolate fathers and substantial tradesmen had waited on the locksmith for the same purpose, with dismal tales of how their sons had lost their appetites, and taken to shut themselves up in dark bedrooms, and wandering in desolate suburbs with pale faces, and all because of Dolly Varden’s loveliness and cruelty! How many young men, in all previous times of unprecedented steadiness, had turned suddenly wild and wicked for the same reason, and, in an ecstasy of unrequited love, taken to wrench off door-knockers, and invert the boxes of rheumatic watchmen! How had she recruited the king’s service, both by sea and land, through rendering desperate his loving subjects between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five! How many young ladies had publicly professed, with tears in their eyes, that for their tastes she was much too short, too tall, too bold, too cold, too stout, too thin, too fair, too dark—too everything but handsome! How many old ladies, taking counsel together, had thanked Heaven their daughters were not like her, and had hoped she might come to no harm, and had thought she would come to no good, and had wondered what people saw in her, and had arrived at the conclusion that she was ‘going off’ in her looks, or had never come on in them, and that she was a thorough imposition and a popular mistake!

And yet here was this same Dolly Varden, so whimsical and hard to please that she was Dolly Varden still, all smiles and dimples and pleasant looks, and caring no more for the fifty or sixty young fellows who at that very moment were breaking their hearts to marry her, than if so many oysters had been crossed in love and opened afterwards.

Dolly hugged her father as has been already stated, and having hugged her mother also, accompanied both into the little parlour where the cloth was already laid for dinner, and where Miss Miggs—a trifle more rigid and bony than of yore—received her with a sort of hysterical gasp, intended for a smile. Into the hands of that young virgin, she delivered her bonnet and walking dress (all of a dreadful, artful, and designing kind), and then said with a laugh, which rivalled the locksmith’s music, ‘How glad I always am to be at home again!’

‘And how glad we always are, Doll,’ said her father, putting back the dark hair from her sparkling eyes, ‘to have you at home. Give me a kiss.’

If there had been anybody of the male kind there to see her do it—but there was not—it was a mercy.

‘I don’t like your being at the Warren,’ said the locksmith, ‘I can’t bear to have you out of my sight. And what is the news over yonder, Doll?’

‘What news there is, I think you know already,’ replied his daughter. ‘I am sure you do though.’

‘Ay?’ cried the locksmith. ‘What’s that?’

‘Come, come,’ said Dolly, ‘you know very well. I want you to tell me why Mr Haredale—oh, how gruff he is again, to be sure!—has been away from home for some days past, and why he is travelling about (we know he IS travelling, because of his letters) without telling his own niece why or wherefore.’

‘Miss Emma doesn’t want to know, I’ll swear,’ returned the locksmith.

‘I don’t know that,’ said Dolly; ‘but I do, at any rate. Do tell me. Why is he so secret, and what is this ghost story, which nobody is to tell Miss Emma, and which seems to be mixed up with his going away? Now I see you know by your colouring so.’

‘What the story means, or is, or has to do with it, I know no more than you, my dear,’ returned the locksmith, ‘except that it’s some foolish fear of little Solomon’s—which has, indeed, no meaning in it, I suppose. As to Mr Haredale’s journey, he goes, as I believe—’

‘Yes,’ said Dolly.

‘As I believe,’ resumed the locksmith, pinching her cheek, ‘on business, Doll. What it may be, is quite another matter. Read Blue Beard, and don’t be too curious, pet; it’s no business of yours or mine, depend upon that; and here’s dinner, which is much more to the purpose.’

Quando disse “o tu”, la signora Varden, nonostante se stessa, si lasciò andare a un sorriso. C’era qualcosa di lusinghiero in quell’idea, “In una situazione del genere, davvero, ” mormorò lei con un sorrisetto.

“Proprio così!” ripeté il fabbro chiave. “Beh, in quel caso le cose andrebbero proprio così. Anche Miggs verrebbe portato via. Qualcuno che suona la tamburina, con un grande turbante addosso, se la porterà via. E a meno che quel suonatore di tamburina non sia indifferente ai calci e alle graffiature, credo che finisca nei guai. Ah ah ah! Perdonerei quel suonatore di tamburina. Non vorrei assolutamente che interferisse in nulla, poveretto, ” E qui il fabbro chiave rise di nuovo così forte che gli vennero le lacrime agli occhi. Il che provocò grande indignazione da parte della signora Varden, che trovava scandaloso e terribile che un buon protestante e una persona stimabile come Miggs venisse catturato da un negro pagano.

Il dipinto che Gabriel aveva realizzato rappresentava davvero un pericolo serio; senza dubbio avrebbe portato a conseguenze gravi, ma fortunatamente in quel momento si sentirono dei passi leggeri sulla soglia: Dolly entrò di corsa, gettò le braccia intorno al collo di suo padre e lo abbracciò stretto.

“Eccola finalmente!” esclamò Gabriel. “Ma come sei bella, Dol. E che ora è tarda, mia cara!”

Com’era bella. Se avesse esaurito tutti gli aggettivi lusinghieri del dizionario, non sarebbe comunque bastato per descriverla. Quando e dove esisteva al mondo una creatura così rotonda, birichina, graziosa, dagli occhi luminosi, seducente, incantevole, come Dolly? Quella Dolly di cinque anni fa, rispetto a quella di quel giorno. Quanti costruttori di carrozze, sellai, mobiliere e professori di altre arti utili avevano abbandonato genitori, sorelle, fratelli, e soprattutto cugini, per l’amore di lei! Quanti gentiluomini sconosciuti – presumibilmente molto ricchi, se non addirittura titolati – aspettavano al buio all’angolo della strada, offrendo a Miggs, l’incorruptibile, ingenti somme di denaro in cambio di proposte di matrimonio scritte in lettere d’amore. Quanti padri disperati e commercianti rispettabili avevano cercato lo stesso scopo presso i fabbri chiavi, raccontando storie tristi su come i loro figli avessero perso l’appetito, si chiudessero in stanze buie e vagassero per quartieri desolati con il viso pallido. Tutto a causa della bellezza, e della crudeltà di Dolly Varden! Quanti giovani, prima d’allora sempre così stabili, erano diventati improvvisamente folli e malvagi per lo stesso motivo. In un’estasi d’amore non corrisposto, strappavano campanelli dalle porte e rovesciavano le scatole dei custodi notturni delle case. Come era riuscita a conquistare i favori del re, sia in mare che sulla terra, facendo impazzire i suoi sudditi tra i diciotto e i ventiquattro anni. Quante giovani donne avevano dichiarato pubblicamente, con le lacrime agli occhi, che per i loro gusti lei era troppo bassa, troppo alta, troppo audace, troppo fredda, troppo grassa, troppo magra, troppo bella, o troppo brutta! Quante anziane donne, consultandosi a vicenda, ringraziavano il cielo che le loro figlie non fossero come lei. Speravano che non le succedesse nulla di male. Pensavano che non avrebbe portato a niente di buono. Si chiedevano cosa vedessero in lei la gente. E concludevano che il suo aspetto fosse solo un’illusione, o addirittura che non avesse alcun fascino. Che fosse semplicemente una persona fastidiosa e un errore comune.

Eppure c’era ancora questa stessa Dolly Varden, così capricciosa e difficile da soddisfare, che rimaneva sempre la solita Dolly Varden: con i suoi sorrisi, le fossette e un aspetto piacevole, senza curarsi affatto dei cinquanta o sessanta giovani che in quel momento erano disperati per poterla sposare, come se tutti quegli ostrici fossero stati “incrociati” nell’amore e poi aperti dopo.

Dolly abbracciò suo padre, come già detto; dopo aver abbracciato anche sua madre, accompagnò entrambi nella piccola sala da pranzo, dove il tavolo era già preparato per la cena. Lì, Miss Miggs – un po’ più rigida e ossuta di una volta – la accolse con un sospiro isterico che in realtà voleva essere un sorriso. Tra le mani di quella giovane vergine, lei consegnò il proprio cappello e l’abito da passeggio (entrambi di un gusto orribile, artefatto e calcolato), poi disse ridendo, con una risata che poteva competere con la musica del fabbro: “Che felicità essere di nuovo a >casa!”

“E quanto siamo sempre felici, Dol,” disse suo padre, scostando i capelli neri dai suoi occhi luminosi, “di averti a >casa. Dammi un bacio.”

Se ci fosse stato qualcuno di sesso maschile lì per vederla farlo, ma non c’era nessuno; è stata una vera e propria miseria.

“Non mi piace che tu sia da Warren,” disse il fabbro chiave, “non riesco a sopportare l’idea di non averti sotto gli occhi. E allora, Doll, quali novità ci sono laggiù?”

“Qualsiasi notizia ci sia, penso che tu la sappia già,” rispose sua figlia. “Sono sicura che tu la conosca.”

“Eh?”, esclamò il fabbro chiave. “Che cos’è?”

“Come, come,” disse Dolly, “tu lo sai molto bene. Voglio che tu mi spieghi perché il signor Haredale, oh, quanto è ancora brusco, davvero!, sia stato via da casa per diversi giorni e perché viaggi senza dire a sua nipote il motivo o la destinazione.”

“La signorina Emma non vuole saperlo, lo giuro,” rispose il fabbro chiave.

“Non lo so,” disse Dolly; “ma comunque lo so. Dimmelo, per favore. Perché è così misterioso, e qual è questa storia di fantasma che a nessuno è permesso raccontare alla signorina Emma, e che sembra essere collegata alla sua partenza? Ora capisco che tu ne sai qualcosa, a giudicare dal tuo colore.”

“Cosa significhi questa storia, o cosa abbia a che fare con essa, non ne so più di te, mio caro,” rispose il fabbro chiave, “tranne che si tratti di qualche sciocca >paura legata a quel piccolo Solomon, che, in effetti, non ha alcun senso. Per quanto riguarda il Viaggio del signor Haredale, credo che vada, ”

“Sì,” disse Dolly.

“Come credo,” riprese il fabbro chiave, pizzicandole la guancia, “si tratta di un affare. Di cosa si tratti esattamente, è un’altra questione. Leggi ‘Barba Blu’ e non essere troppo curiosa, tesoro; non è affar tuo né mio, fidati; e ecco la cena, che invece è molto più importante.”

Dolly might have remonstrated against this summary dismissal of the subject, notwithstanding the appearance of dinner, but at the mention of Blue Beard Mrs Varden interposed, protesting she could not find it in her conscience to sit tamely by, and hear her child recommended to peruse the adventures of a Turk and Mussulman—far less of a fabulous Turk, which she considered that potentate to be. She held that, in such stirring and tremendous times as those in which they lived, it would be much more to the purpose if Dolly became a regular subscriber to the Thunderer, where she would have an opportunity of reading Lord George Gordon’s speeches word for word, which would be a greater comfort and solace to her, than a hundred and fifty Blue Beards ever could impart. She appealed in support of this proposition to Miss Miggs, then in waiting, who said that indeed the peace of mind she had derived from the perusal of that paper generally, but especially of one article of the very last week as ever was, entitled ‘Great Britain drenched in gore,’ exceeded all belief; the same composition, she added, had also wrought such a comforting effect on the mind of a married sister of hers, then resident at Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post, that, being in a delicate state of health, and in fact expecting an addition to her family, she had been seized with fits directly after its perusal, and had raved of the Inquisition ever since; to the great improvement of her husband and friends. Miss Miggs went on to say that she would recommend all those whose hearts were hardened to hear Lord George themselves, whom she commended first, in respect of his steady Protestantism, then of his oratory, then of his eyes, then of his nose, then of his legs, and lastly of his figure generally, which she looked upon as fit for any statue, prince, or angel, to which sentiment Mrs Varden fully subscribed.

Mrs Varden having cut in, looked at a box upon the mantelshelf, painted in imitation of a very red-brick dwelling-house, with a yellow roof; having at top a real chimney, down which voluntary subscribers dropped their silver, gold, or pence, into the parlour; and on the door the counterfeit presentment of a brass plate, whereon was legibly inscribed ‘Protestant Association:’—and looking at it, said, that it was to her a source of poignant misery to think that Varden never had, of all his substance, dropped anything into that temple, save once in secret—as she afterwards discovered—two fragments of tobacco-pipe, which she hoped would not be put down to his last account. That Dolly, she was grieved to say, was no less backward in her contributions, better loving, as it seemed, to purchase ribbons and such gauds, than to encourage the great cause, then in such heavy tribulation; and that she did entreat her (her father she much feared could not be moved) not to despise, but imitate, the bright example of Miss Miggs, who flung her wages, as it were, into the very countenance of the Pope, and bruised his features with her quarter’s money.

‘Oh, mim,’ said Miggs, ‘don’t relude to that. I had no intentions, mim, that nobody should know. Such sacrifices as I can make, are quite a widder’s mite. It’s all I have,’ cried Miggs with a great burst of tears—for with her they never came on by degrees—‘but it’s made up to me in other ways; it’s well made up.’

This was quite true, though not perhaps in the sense that Miggs intended. As she never failed to keep her self-denial full in Mrs Varden’s view, it drew forth so many gifts of caps and gowns and other articles of dress, that upon the whole the red-brick house was perhaps the best investment for her small capital she could possibly have hit upon; returning her interest, at the rate of seven or eight per cent in money, and fifty at least in personal repute and credit.

‘You needn’t cry, Miggs,’ said Mrs Varden, herself in tears; ‘you needn’t be ashamed of it, though your poor mistress IS on the same side.’

Miggs howled at this remark, in a peculiarly dismal way, and said she knowed that master hated her. That it was a dreadful thing to live in families and have dislikes, and not give satisfactions. That to make divisions was a thing she could not abear to think of, neither could her feelings let her do it. That if it was master’s wishes as she and him should part, it was best they should part, and she hoped he might be the happier for it, and always wished him well, and that he might find somebody as would meet his dispositions. It would be a hard trial, she said, to part from such a missis, but she could meet any suffering when her conscience told her she was in the rights, and therefore she was willing even to go that lengths. She did not think, she added, that she could long survive the separations, but, as she was hated and looked upon unpleasant, perhaps her dying as soon as possible would be the best 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.

Dolly avrebbe potuto obiettare a questa liquidazione sommaria dell’argomento, nonostante fosse già ora di cena, ma all’allusione al “Barba Blu” la signora Varden intervenne, protestando che non avrebbe mai potuto accettare di stare in silenzio mentre sua figlia veniva incoraggiata a leggere le avventure di un turco e di un musulmano, figuriamoci di un “turco fantastico”, che lei considerava nientemeno che un sovrano. Riteneva che, in tempi così turbolenti come quelli in cui vivevano, sarebbe stato molto più utile se Dolly si fosse iscritta regolarmente a quel giornale, dove avrebbe potuto leggere parola per parola i discorsi di Lord George Gordon: questo le avrebbe fornito un conforto e una consolazione molto maggiori di quanto potessero offrire centocinquanta “Barbe Blu”. Per sostenere questa proposta, si rivolse anche a Miss Miggs, all’epoca in qualità di assistente, la quale dichiarò che davvero il sollievo che aveva tratto dalla lettura di quel giornale – soprattutto di un articolo pubblicato la settimana precedente, intitolato “La Gran Bretagna immersa nel sangue” – andava al di là di ogni credibile descrizione. Aggiunse inoltre che lo stesso articolo aveva avuto un effetto altrettanto confortante anche su sua sorella sposata, residente a Golden Lion Court, numero ventiquattro. Quest’ultima, essendo in uno stato di salute delicato e aspettando un figlio, era stata colpita da violenti attacchi dopo averlo letto, e da allora parlava solo dell’“Inquisizione”; il che aveva portato a notevoli miglioramenti nel comportamento di suo marito e dei suoi amici. Miss Miggs concluse quindi raccomandando a tutti coloro i cui cuori fossero induriti di ascoltare direttamente le parole di Lord George Gordon: lo lodò prima per il suo ferreo protestantesimo, poi per il suo eloquio, per i suoi occhi, per il suo naso, per le sue gambe, e infine per la sua figura nel complesso, che considerava adatta a diventare soggetto di statue, principe o angelo. La signora Varden concordò pienamente con questo punto di vista.

La signora Varden, interrompendo il discorso, guardò una scatola posizionata sul caminetto: era dipinta in modo da imitare fedelmente l’aspetto di una casa in mattoni rossi, con un tetto giallo; sulla sommità c’era davvero un camino, attraverso il quale i donatori volontari gettavano argento, oro o penny nella sala principale. Sulla porta era appesa una falsa targa di bronzo su cui era chiaramente scritto “Associazione Protestante”. Guardandola, la signora Varden esclamò che per lei rappresentava una fonte di profonda angoscia il pensiero che Varden, con tutto il suo patrimonio, non avesse mai versato nulla in quel “tempio”, se non una volta in segreto, due frammenti di pipa da tabacco, che sperava non venissero inclusi nel suo ultimo conto finanziario. Era addolorata anche dal fatto che Dolly fosse altrettanto negligente nelle sue donazioni: sembrava preferire acquistare nastri e frivolezze piuttosto che sostenere una causa così importante in un momento di grave difficoltà. E le chiese, con insistenza (temendo che suo padre non potesse essere persuaso), di non disprezzare, ma invece imitare l’esempio luminoso della signorina Miggs, che aveva gettato i propri guadagni direttamente “in faccia al Papa”, offendendolo con i suoi pochi penny.

“Oh, Mim,” disse Miggs, “non pensare più a quella cosa. Non avevo alcuna intenzione che nessuno lo sapesse. Sacrifici del genere sono davvero poca cosa. È tutto ciò che ho,” gridò Miggs con un fiume di lacrime – perché per lei le lacrime non arrivavano mai gradualmente – “ma in altri modi mi viene compensato. È davvero così.”

Questo era abbastanza vero, anche se forse non nel senso inteso da Miggs. Poiché lei non mancava mai di praticare un severo auto-sacrificio agli occhi della signora Varden, ciò le permise di ricevere così tanti doni in forma di cappelli, abiti e altri articoli di vestiario, che nel complesso quella casa di mattoni rossi rappresentava probabilmente l’investimento migliore che lei potesse effettuare con il suo modesto capitale; le rendeva infatti un interesse del settanta-ottanta per cento in termini monetari, e almeno il cinquanta per cento in termini di reputazione personale e credito.

“Non devi piangere, Miggs,” disse la signora Varden, anch’essa in lacrime; “non dovresti vergognartene, anche se tua povera padrona si trova dalla stessa parte.”

Miggs urlò in risposta a queste parole, in un modo particolarmente desolato, e disse di sapere che il padrone la odiava. Che fosse terribile vivere in una famiglia, avere dei disaccordi e non riuscire a trovare soddisfazione. Che creare divisioni fosse qualcosa a cui non poteva nemmeno pensare, e che i suoi sentimenti non le permettevano di farlo. Che, se era desiderio del padrone che si separassero, allora era meglio farlo; sperava che lui ne risultasse più felice, e gli augurava sempre il bene, affinché potesse trovare qualcuno che gli si adattasse. Disse che sarebbe stato un duro sacrificio lasciare una padrona del genere, ma era pronta a sopportare qualsiasi sofferenza se la sua conscienza le avesse detto di avere ragione; quindi era disposta ad andare fino in fondo. Aggiunse che non credeva di poter sopravvivere a lungo a una separazione del genere, ma poiché veniva odiata e considerata sgradevole, forse morire il prima possibile sarebbe stato il miglior risultato per tutte le parti coinvolte. Con questa commovente conclusione, Miss Miggs versò ancora più lacrime e pianse amaramente.

“Riesci a sopportarlo, Varden?”, disse sua moglie con voce solenne, posando forchetta e coltello.

“Beh, non molto bene, cara mia,” rispose il fabbro chiave, “ma cerco di mantenere la calma.”

“Non lasciate che si parli di me, Mim,” singhiozzò Miggs. “È molto meglio che ci separiamo. Non resterei, oh, mio Dio, per causare litigi, nemmeno per una miniera d’oro che si trovasse nel tè e lo zucchero.”

Per evitare che il lettore resti perplesso nel cercare di comprendere la causa dell’intensa emozione della signorina Mills, si può sussurrare che, essendo capitata a sentire, come spesso faceva, mentre Gabriel e sua moglie conversavano, aveva ascoltato lo scherzo del fabbro sulla straniera di colore che suonava il tamburello; travolta dai sentimenti malvagi suscitati da quell’insulto nel suo cuore gentile, aveva reagito nel modo che abbiamo visto. Ora che la situazione è giunta a una crisi, il fabbro, come al solito e per il bene della pace e del silenzio, ha ceduto.

‘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.

“Perché piangi, ragazza?” disse lui. “Che cosa ti è successo? Di quale odio stai parlando? Non ti odio; non odio nessuno. Asciuga le lacrime e sii gentile, per l’amor del cielo, e facciamo tutti felici finché possiamo.”

Le potenze alleate, ritenendo che questo rappresentasse una valida scusa da parte del nemico e una confessione del proprio errore, asciugarono le lacrime e accettarono la cosa con favore. La signorina Miggs osservò che non nutriva alcun rancore, nemmeno nei confronti del suo più grande nemico, anzi lo amava ancora di più per le persecuzioni che subiva. La signora Varden lodò molto questo spirito umile e perdonose, e inoltre decise che quella stessa notte Dolly l’avrebbe accompagnata alla filiale dell’associazione a Clerkenwell. Questo fu un esempio straordinario della sua grande prudenza e astuzia: aveva già in mente questo obiettivo fin dall’inizio e, temendo che il fabbro chiave (che si comportava in modo audace quando c’era di mezzo Dolly) potesse opporsi, aveva sostenuto la signorina Miggs fino a quel punto, al fine di metterlo in una posizione svantaggiosa. La manovra riuscì così bene che Gabriel si limitò a fare una smorfia e, ricordando appena in tempo l’avvertimento ricevuto, non osò dire una parola.

La differenza, quindi, si risolse nel fatto che a Miggs vennero regalati un abito da parte di Mrs Varden e mezza corona da parte di Dolly, come se lei si fosse distintamente distinta lungo i sentieri della moralità e della bontà. Secondo l’usanza, Mrs V. esprimeva la sua >speranza che Varden traggesse una lezione da quanto accaduto e imparasse a comportarsi in modo più generoso in futuro; poiché la cena ormai era fredda e l’appetito di nessuno era molto migliorato a causa degli eventi appena trascorsi, continuarono a mangiare, come disse Mrs Varden, “come cristiani”.

Poiché quel pomeriggio doveva svolgersi una grande parata dei Volontari del Royal East London, il fabbro chiave non fece più nulla; si sedette comodamente, con la pipa in bocca e un braccio intorno alla vita della sua bella figlia, guardando con affetto la signora V. Da un momento all’altro, mostrava, dalla testa ai piedi, un’espressione sorridente e di buon umore. E davvero, quando arrivò il momento di vestirlo con l’uniforme militare, e Dolly, muovendosi intorno a lui in modi graziosi e affettuosi, lo aiutò a abbottonarsi, sistemarsi e indossare uno dei cappotti più stretti mai fatti da un sarto mortale, fu il padre più orgoglioso di tutta l’Inghilterra.

“Che giada davvero utile!” disse il fabbro chiave alla signora Varden, che stava lì in piedi con le mani incrociate – anche lei piuttosto orgogliosa di suo marito – mentre Miggs teneva il suo cappello e la sua spada a distanza, come se non si fidasse del fatto che quest’ultima potesse colpire qualcuno da sola; “ma mai sposare un soldato, Doll, mia cara.”

Dolly non chiese il motivo del rifiuto, né disse una parola; anzi, abbassò molto la testa per legargli la cintura.

“Non indosso mai questo vestito,” disse l’onesto Gabriel, “ma penso al povero Joe Willet. Lo amavo molto; era sempre stato uno dei miei preferiti. Povero Joe. Cara, non legarmi troppo stretto.”

Dolly rise in risate – una risata del tutto diversa da quella sua abituale, la risata più strana che si potesse immaginare – e tenne ancora di più la testa bassa.

“Povero Joe!”, continuò il fabbro chiave, mormorando tra sé; “Avrei sempre voluto che fosse venuto da me. Forse avrei potuto risolvere la situazione tra loro, se lo avesse fatto. Ah! Il vecchio John ha commesso un grosso errore nel modo in cui si è comportato con quel ragazzo. Un grosso errore. Ma hai quasi finito di legare quella cintura, cara?”

Che cintura mal fatta. Ecco, era di nuovo slacciata e penzolava a terra. Dolly dovette inginocchiarsi e ricominciare da capo.

“Lascia stare il giovane Willet, Varden,” disse sua moglie con un sopracciglio corrugato; “penso che potresti trovare qualcuno più degno di essere preso in considerazione per una conversazione.”

Miss Miggs fece un grande “sniff” con lo stesso scopo.

“No, Martha,” gridò il fabbro chiave, “non dobbiamo essere troppo duri con lui. Se quel ragazzo è davvero morto, onoreremo almeno la sua memoria.”

“Una fuggitiva e una vagabonda!” disse la signora Varden.

La signorina Miggs esprimeva il suo accordo, come prima.

“Un ragazzo scappato di casa, mia cara, ma non un vagabondo,” rispose il fabbro con tono gentile. “Si è comportato bene, vero Joe, sempre, ed era un giovane robusto e dignitoso. Non chiamarlo vagabondo, Martha.”

La signora Varden tossì, e lo fece anche Miggs.

“Ha fatto di tutto per guadagnarsi la tua stima, Martha, te lo posso dire,” disse il fabbro chiave sorridendo e accarezzandosi il mento. “Ah! Sì, davvero. Sembra che sia stato solo ieri che una notte mi ha seguito fino alla porta del palo di maggio e mi ha supplicato di non dire quanto lo trattassero come un ragazzo. Intendeva qui, a casa, anche se all’epoca non capii. ‘E come sta la signorina Dolly, signore?’ mi chiese Joe,” proseguì il fabbro chiave con aria pensierosa e triste. “Ah! Povero Joe, ”

“Beh,” esclamò Miggs, “lo dichiaro apertamente. Oh, mio Dio!”

“Che c’è adesso?” disse Gabriel, girandosi bruscamente verso di lei.

“Ma se qui non c’è la signorina Dolly,” disse la cameriera, chinandosi per guardarla in faccia, “come fa ad avere gli occhi pieni di lacrime? Oh mio Dio. Oh signore! Davvero, mi sconvolge così tanto,” esclamò la sensibile ragazza, premendosi una mano sul petto per calmare il battito accelerato del suo cuore, “che sembrerebbe che bastasse un soffio per farmi cadere a terra.”

Il fabbro chiave, dopo aver gettato un’occhiata alla signorina Miggs come se desiderasse che gli portassero immediatamente una piuma, la fissò con uno sguardo stupito mentre Dolly si allontanava di fretta, seguita da quella giovane donna compassionevole. Poi, rivolgendosi a sua moglie, balbettò: “Dolly è malata? Ho fatto qualcosa di sbagliato? È colpa mia?”

“È tutta colpa tua!”, esclamò la signora V. in tono di rimprovero. “Vai, faresti meglio ad andartene subito.”

“Cosa ho fatto?” disse povero Gabriel. “Avevamo concordato che il nome del signor Edward non dovesse mai essere menzionato, e io non l’ho affatto nominato, vero?”

La signora Varden rispose semplicemente che non aveva pazienza con lui e se ne andò insieme agli altri due. Il sfortunato fabbro chiuse la cintura attorno al proprio corpo, indossò la propria _spada, si mise il cappello e uscì.

“Non sono molto bravo nell’esercizio fisico,” disse sottovoce, “ma in quel lavoro finirò per trovarmi nei guai meno spesso che in questo. Ogni uomo nasce con uno scopo; il mio compito sembra essere quello di far piangere ogni donna, senza nemmeno volerlo. È davvero difficile!”

Ma se ne dimenticò prima di arrivare alla fine della strada, e continuò il suo cammino con un viso sorridente, salutando i vicini e distribuendo i suoi cordiali saluti come una pioggia leggera di primavera.

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, save once a-week or so, when an old neighbour visits it to scare away the rats. I am on my way there now.’

‘For what purpose?’ asked the locksmith.

‘To pass the night there,’ he replied; ‘and not to-night alone, but many nights. This is a secret which I trust to you in case of any unexpected emergency. You will not come, unless in case of strong necessity, to me; from dusk to broad day I shall be there. Emma, your daughter, and the rest, suppose me out of London, as I have been until within this hour. Do not undeceive them. This is the errand I am bound upon. I know I may confide it to you, and I rely upon your questioning me no more at this time.’

With that, as if to change the theme, he led the astounded locksmith back to the night of the Maypole highwayman, to the robbery of Edward Chester, to the reappearance of the man at Mrs Rudge’s house, and to all the strange circumstances which afterwards occurred. He even asked him carelessly about the man’s height, his face, his figure, whether he was like any one he had ever seen—like Hugh, for instance, or any man he had known at any time—and put many questions of that sort, which the locksmith, considering them as mere devices to engage his attention and prevent his expressing the astonishment he felt, answered pretty much at random.

At length, they arrived at the corner of the street in which the house stood, where Mr Haredale, alighting, dismissed the coach. ‘If you desire to see me safely lodged,’ he said, turning to the locksmith with a gloomy smile, ‘you can.’

Gabriel, to whom all former marvels had been nothing in comparison with this, followed him along the narrow pavement in silence. When they reached the door, Mr Haredale softly opened it with a key he had about him, and closing it when Varden entered, they were left in thorough darkness.

They groped their way into the ground-floor room. Here Mr Haredale struck a light, and kindled a pocket taper he had brought with him for the purpose. It was then, when the flame was full upon him, that the locksmith saw for the first time how haggard, pale, and changed he looked; how worn and thin he was; how perfectly his whole appearance coincided with all that he had said so strangely as they rode along. It was not an unnatural impulse in Gabriel, after what he had heard, to note curiously the expression of his eyes. It was perfectly collected and rational;—so much so, indeed, that he felt ashamed of his momentary suspicion, and drooped his own when Mr Haredale looked towards him, as if he feared they would betray his thoughts.

‘Will you walk through the house?’ said Mr Haredale, with a glance towards the window, the crazy shutters of which were closed and fastened. ‘Speak low.’

There was a kind of awe about the place, which would have rendered it difficult to speak in any other manner. Gabriel whispered ‘Yes,’ and followed him upstairs.

Everything was just as they had seen it last. There was a sense of closeness from the exclusion of fresh air, and a gloom and heaviness around, as though long imprisonment had made the very silence sad. The homely hangings of the beds and windows had begun to droop; the dust lay thick upon their dwindling folds; and damps had made their way through ceiling, wall, and floor. The boards creaked beneath their tread, as if resenting the unaccustomed intrusion; nimble spiders, paralysed by the taper’s glare, checked the motion of their hundred legs upon the wall, or dropped like lifeless things upon the ground; the death-watch ticked; and the scampering feet of rats and mice rattled behind the wainscot.

As they looked about them on the decaying furniture, it was strange to find how vividly it presented those to whom it had belonged, and with whom it was once familiar. Grip seemed to perch again upon his high-backed chair; Barnaby to crouch in his old favourite corner by the fire; the mother to resume her usual seat, and watch him as of old. Even when they could separate these objects from the phantoms of the mind which they invoked, the latter only glided out of sight, but lingered near them still; for then they seemed to lurk in closets and behind the doors, ready to start out and suddenly accost them in well-remembered tones.

They went downstairs, and again into the room they had just now left. Mr Haredale unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, with a pair of pocket pistols; then told the locksmith he would light him to the door.

‘But this is a dull place, sir,’ said Gabriel lingering; ‘may no one share your watch?’

He shook his head, and so plainly evinced his wish to be alone, that Gabriel could say no more. In another moment the locksmith was standing in the street, whence he could see that the light once more travelled upstairs, and soon returning to the room below, shone brightly through the chinks of the shutters.

If ever man were sorely puzzled and perplexed, the locksmith was, that night. Even when snugly seated by his own fireside, with Mrs Varden opposite in a nightcap and night-jacket, and Dolly beside him (in a most distracting dishabille) curling her hair, and smiling as if she had never cried in all her life and never could—even then, with Toby at his elbow and his pipe in his mouth, and Miggs (but that perhaps was not much) falling asleep in the background, he could not quite discard his wonder and uneasiness. So in his dreams—still there was Mr Haredale, haggard and careworn, listening in the solitary house to every sound that stirred, with the taper shining through the chinks until the day should turn it pale and end his lonely watching.

Capitolo 42

I Volontari Reali di East London offrirono quel giorno uno spettacolo straordinario: si disposero in file, quadrati, cerchi, triangoli e altre forme, al ritmo dei tamburi e sotto la sventolazione delle bandiere; eseguirono poi un gran numero di manovre complesse, nelle quali il Sergente Varden ebbe un ruolo di primo piano. Dopo aver dimostrato al massimo le loro capacità militari in queste manifestazioni guerriere, marciarono in ordine perfetto verso la Chelsea Bun House e si divertirono nelle taverne adiacenti fino a notte fonda. Poi, al suono dei tamburi, si riorganizzarono e tornarono, tra gli applausi dei sottoposti di Sua Maestà, al luogo da cui erano partiti.

Il ritorno a casa fu un po’ ritardato, a causa del comportamento poco consono a un soldato da parte di alcuni sottufficiali che, essendo persone dedite ad attività sedentarie nella vita privata ma facilmente eccitabili all’aperto, rompevano diverse finestre con le loro baionette, costringendo il comandante ad affidarli a una guardia armata. Lungo la strada, questi continuavano a combattere contro i soldati della guardia; fu quindi alle nove di ore che il fabbro chiave arrivò a casa. Una carrozza lo stava aspettando vicino alla porta; mentre vi passava accanto, il signor Haredale lo chiamò per nome dalla finestra.

“Vederla è davvero un piacere per gli occhi, signore,” disse il fabbro chiave avvicinandosi a lui. “Avrei preferito che entrasse invece di aspettare qui fuori.”

“Non c’è nessuno in casa, a quanto pare,” rispose il signor Haredale; “inoltre, desideravo mantenere la massima discrezione possibile.”

“Hmph!”, mormorò il fabbro chiave, guardandosi intorno nella sua casa. “Se n’è andato con Simon Tappertit verso quel prezioso Ramo, senza alcun dubbio.”

Il signor Haredale lo invitò ad entrare nel calesse e, se non fosse stato stanco o desideroso di tornare a casa, gli propose di fare un po’ di strada insieme per poter parlare. Gabriel acconsentì volentieri, e il cocchiere salì sul suo sedile e partì.

“Varden,” disse il signor Haredale dopo un minuto di pausa, “sarai sorpreso di sapere quale missione ho in mente; sembrerà davvero molto strana.”

“Non ho alcun dubbio che sia una richiesta ragionevole, signore, e che abbia un senso,” rispose il fabbro chiave; “altrimenti non sarebbe affatto per voi. Siete appena tornato in città, signore?”

“Ma mezz’ora fa, ”

“Nessuna notizia di Barnaby, né di sua madre?” chiese il fabbro chiave con scetticismo. “Ah! Non c’è bisogno che scuotiate la testa, signore. È stata una ricerca inutile. Lo temevo fin dall’inizio. Hanno esaurito tutti i mezzi ragionevoli per trovarli quando se ne sono andati. Riprovarci dopo così tanto tempo è impossibile, signore. Assolutamente impossibile.”

“Ma dove sono?”, chiese impazientemente. “Dove possono essere. Sopra terra?”

“Dio solo lo sa,” ribatté il fabbro chiave, “molti di quelli che conoscevo cinque anni fa sono ormai sepolti sotto l’erba. E il mondo è un posto vasto. È un tentativo senza speranza, signore, credetemi. Dobbiamo lasciare la soluzione di questo mistero, come di tutti gli altri, al tempo, al caso e alla volontà del Cielo.”

“Varden, mio caro amico,” disse il signor Haredale, “il motivo della mia attuale ansia nel volerli scoprire è molto più profondo di quanto tu possa immaginare. Non si tratta semplicemente di un capriccio; non è nemmeno il ritorno casuale dei miei vecchi desideri. Ma di un proposito serio, solenne. I miei pensieri e i miei sogni sono tutti orientati in questa direzione e li hanno fissati nella mia mente. Non ho pace né di giorno né di notte; sono perseguitato da questi pensieri.”

La sua voce era così diversa dai suoi toni abituali, e il suo comportamento esprimeva tante emozioni, che Gabriel, pieno di stupore, poté solo sedersi e guardarlo nell’oscurità, immaginando l’espressione sul suo viso.

“Non chiedetemi di spiegarmi,” continuò il signor Haredale, “se lo facessi, pensereste che fossi vittima di qualche orribile allucinazione. Basta che sia così, e che io non possa, no, semplicemente non posso, restare tranquillamente a letto senza fare ciò che per voi sembrerebbe incomprensibile.”

“Da quando, signore?”, disse il fabbro dopo una pausa, “vi sentite così a disagio?”

Il signor Haredale esitò per alcuni momenti, poi rispose: “Dalla notte della tempesta. In breve, da diciannove marzo scorso.”

Come se temesse che Varden potesse mostrare sorpresa o cercare di ragionare con lui, proseguì in fretta:

“Voi penserete che io sia vittima di qualche illusione. Forse lo sono davvero. Ma non si tratta di un’illusione morbosa; è piuttosto un processo mentale sano, basato sul ragionamento riguardo a fatti concreti. Sapete bene che i mobili della signora Rudge rimangono nella sua casa e che sono stati chiusi, per ordine mio, da quando se n’è andata. Tranne una volta alla settimana, circa, quando un vecchio vicino viene a controllarli per scacciare i topi. In questo momento sto proprio andandoci.”

“Per quale scopo?” chiese il fabbro chiave.

“Trascorrerò la notte lì,” rispose; “e non da solo, ma per molte notti consecutive. Questo è un segreto che ti affido in caso di qualsiasi emergenza inaspettata. Non verrai da me se non in circostanze estremamente necessarie; dal tramonto al mattino sarò lì. Emma, tua figlia, e gli altri pensino pure che io sia fuori da Londra, come è stato fino a poco fa. Non deludeteli. Questo è il compito che devo svolgere. So di potermi fidare di te e conto sul fatto che non mi farai altre domande in questo momento.”

Con questo, come se volesse cambiare argomento, condusse lo sbalordito fabbro nella notte in cui il bandito aveva attaccato sulla strada del Maypole, nel rapimento di Edward Chester, nel ricomparire dell’uomo presso la casa della signora Rudge, e in tutte le altre circostanze strane che erano seguite. Gli chiese anche, in modo apparentemente casuale, l’altezza di quell’uomo, il suo aspetto, la sua figura, se assomigliasse a qualcuno che avesse mai visto – ad esempio a Hugh, o a qualche altro uomo che conoscesse in passato – e pose molte altre domande del genere. Il fabbro, considerandole semplicemente modi per distrarre la sua attenzione e impedirgli di esprimere lo stupore che provava, rispose quasi sempre a caso.

Finalmente, arrivarono all’angolo di strada dove sorgeva la casa; Mr Haredale scese dal carrozzone e lo fece fermare. “Se desiderate assicurarvi che io sia al sicuro”, disse, rivolgendosi al fabbro con un sorriso cupo, “potete farlo.”

Gabriel, per il quale tutte le meraviglie precedenti non erano nulla rispetto a questa, lo seguì lungo il stretto marciapiede in silenzio. Quando raggiunsero la porta, il signor Haredale la aprì dolcemente con una chiave che aveva con sé; dopo che Varden entrò, la porta fu chiusa e loro rimasero immersi nell’oscurità totale.

Si fecero strada a tentoni verso la stanza al piano terra. Lì, il signor Haredale accese una candela da tasca che aveva portato apposta per l’occasione. Fu allora, quando la fiamma lo illuminò completamente, che il fabbro vide per la prima volta quanto fosse magro, pallido e cambiato nell’aspetto; quanto fosse consumato dallo sforzo. Il suo aspetto corrispondeva perfettamente a tutto ciò che aveva detto durante il viaggio. Dopo quello che aveva sentito, non era affatto strano che Gabriel osservasse con curiosità l’espressione negli occhi del signor Haredale. La sua attenzione era del tutto calma e razionale; tanto che si vergognò della propria momentanea sospettazione e abbassò lo sguardo quando il signor Haredale lo guardò, come se temesse che i suoi pensieri potessero essere traditi.

“Vorresti entrare in questa casa?”, chiese il signor Haredale, lanciando uno sguardo verso la finestra, le cui persiane erano chiuse e fissate saldamente. “Parla a bassa voce.”

C’era una sorta di reverenza in quel luogo, tale da rendere difficile parlare in qualsiasi altro modo. Gabriel sussurrò “Sì” e lo seguì al piano di sopra.

Tutto era esattamente come lo avevano visto l’ultima volta. C’era una sensazione di oppressione dovuta alla mancanza d’aria fresca; tutto intorno regnava oscurità e pesantezza, come se un lungo incarceramento avesse reso persino il silenzio triste. Le tende e le finestre, una volta ordinate e accoglienti, avevano iniziato a pendere; la polvere si accumulava sui loro telai logori; umidità penetrava attraverso soffitto, muri e pavimento. I listelli di legno scricchiolavano sotto i loro passi, come se protestassero contro quell’intrusione inaspettata; le agili ragnatele, paralizzate dal bagliore della lampada, interrompevano il movimento delle loro centinaia di zampe sul muro o cadevano a terra come cose prive di vita; l’orologio che segnava il tempo della morte ticchettava; e i passi frettolosi dei topi rimbombavano dietro le tramezze.

Mentre guardavano intorno quei mobili in decadenza, era strano notare quanto vividamente rievocassero le persone a cui erano appartenuti e con cui un tempo erano stati familiari. Sembrava che Grip fosse di nuovo seduto sulla sua sedia a schienale alto; Barnaby si accovacciava nel suo vecchio angolo preferito vicino al focolare; la madre riprendeva il suo solito posto, osservandolo come un tempo. Anche quando riuscivano a separare questi oggetti dagli fantasmi della mente che li evocavano, questi ultimi scomparivano solo per rimanere ancora vicini a loro; sembrava infatti che si nascondessero nei ripostigli e dietro le porte, pronti a uscire e avvicinarsi loro improvvisamente con voci ben ricordate.

Scesero le scale e rientrarono nella stanza che avevano appena lasciato. Il signor Haredale slacciò la sua _spada e la posò sul tavolo, insieme a un paio di pistole da tasca; poi chiese al fabbro di accompagnarlo fino alla porta.

“Ma questo è un posto noioso, signore,” disse Gabriel esitando; “non c’è nessuno che possa condividere il vostro orologio?”

Scosse la testa, manifestando in modo così chiaro il suo desiderio di essere solo, che Gabriel non poté dire nulla di più. Un attimo dopo, il fabbro chiave si trovava già in strada; da lì vide che la luce saliva nuovamente al piano di sopra e, poco dopo, tornando nella stanza sottostante, brillava intensamente attraverso le fessure delle persiane.

Se mai un uomo si trovò profondamente perplesso e confuso, quel uomo lo fu quella notte. Anche quando era seduto comodamente accanto al proprio camino, con la signora Varden di fronte a lui in cappello da notte e giacca da sera, e Dolly accanto a lui (in uno stato di estrema disordinata trasandatezza), mentre si sistemava i capelli sorridendo come se non avesse mai pianto in tutta la sua vita, anche allora, con Toby al suo fianco e la pipa in bocca, e Miggs che forse si stava addormentando in sottofondo, non riusciva del tutto a scacciare la propria perplessità e inquietudine. Anche nei suoi sogni, c’era sempre il signor Haredale: pallido e stanco, che ascoltava in quella casa desolata ogni minimo rumore che si udiva, mentre la candela continuava a brillare attraverso le fessure, fino a quando non arrivasse il giorno a farla spegnere, ponendo fine alla sua solitaria veglia.

Chapter 43

Next morning brought no satisfaction to the locksmith’s thoughts, nor next day, nor the next, nor many others. Often after nightfall he entered the street, and turned his eyes towards the well-known house; and as surely as he did so, there was the solitary light, still gleaming through the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was motionless, noiseless, cheerless, as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr Haredale’s favour by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured to knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way. But whenever strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot—which was not seldom—the light was always there.

If he could have known what passed within, the knowledge would have yielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At twilight, Mr Haredale shut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never missed a night, always came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings in the least degree.

The manner of his watch was this. At dusk, he entered the house in the same way as when the locksmith bore him company, kindled a light, went through the rooms, and narrowly examined them. That done, he returned to the chamber on the ground-floor, and laying his sword and pistols on the table, sat by it until morning.

He usually had a book with him, and often tried to read, but never fixed his eyes or thoughts upon it for five minutes together. The slightest noise without doors, caught his ear; a step upon the pavement seemed to make his heart leap.

He was not without some refreshment during the long lonely hours; generally carrying in his pocket a sandwich of bread and meat, and a small flask of wine. The latter diluted with large quantities of water, he drank in a heated, feverish way, as though his throat were dried; but he scarcely ever broke his fast, by so much as a crumb of bread.

If this voluntary sacrifice of sleep and comfort had its origin, as the locksmith on consideration was disposed to think, in any superstitious expectation of the fulfilment of a dream or vision connected with the event on which he had brooded for so many years, and if he waited for some ghostly visitor who walked abroad when men lay sleeping in their beds, he showed no trace of fear or wavering. His stern features expressed inflexible resolution; his brows were puckered, and his lips compressed, with deep and settled purpose; and when he started at a noise and listened, it was not with the start of fear but hope, and catching up his sword as though the hour had come at last, he would clutch it in his tight-clenched hand, and listen with sparkling eyes and eager looks, until it died away.

These disappointments were numerous, for they ensued on almost every sound, but his constancy was not shaken. Still, every night he was at his post, the same stern, sleepless, sentinel; and still night passed, and morning dawned, and he must watch again.

This went on for weeks; he had taken a lodging at Vauxhall in which to pass the day and rest himself; and from this place, when the tide served, he usually came to London Bridge from Westminster by water, in order that he might avoid the busy streets.

One evening, shortly before twilight, he came his accustomed road upon the river’s bank, intending to pass through Westminster Hall into Palace Yard, and there take boat to London Bridge as usual. There was a pretty large concourse of people assembled round the Houses of Parliament, looking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving vent to rather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their known opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or twice the No-Popery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the ears of most men; but holding it in very slight regard, and observing that the idlers were of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared about it, but made his way along, with perfect indifference.

There were many little knots and groups of persons in Westminster Hall: some few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and at the rays of evening light, tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in aslant through its small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees, were quenched in the gathering gloom below; some, noisy passengers, mechanics going home from work, and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with their voices, and soon darkening the small door in the distance, as they passed into the street beyond; some, in busy conference together on political or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that sought the ground, and seeming, by their attitudes, to listen earnestly from head to foot. Here, a dozen squabbling urchins made a very Babel in the air; there, a solitary man, half clerk, half mendicant, paced up and down with hungry dejection in his look and gait; at his elbow passed an errand-lad, swinging his basket round and round, and with his shrill whistle riving the very timbers of the roof; while a more observant schoolboy, half-way through, pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant beadle as he came looming on. It was that time of evening when, if you shut your eyes and open them again, the darkness of an hour appears to have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn pavement, dusty with footsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate the shuffle and the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some heavy door resounded through the building like a clap of thunder, and drowned all other noises in its rolling sound.

Mr Haredale, glancing only at such of these groups as he passed nearest to, and then in a manner betokening that his thoughts were elsewhere, had nearly traversed the Hall, when two persons before him caught his attention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire, carried in his hand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered on; the other, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what he said—at times throwing in a humble word himself—and, with his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, rubbed his hands submissively, or answered at intervals by an inclination of the head, half-way between a nod of acquiescence, and a bow of most profound respect.

Capitolo 43

Il giorno seguente, né la mattina dopo, né ancora il giorno successivo, né molti altri giorni dopo, i pensieri del fabbro chiave trovarono alcuna soddisfazione. Spesso, dopo il calare della notte, entrava in quella strada e fissava lo sguardo verso la ben nota casa; ogni volta, con certezza, vedeva quella luce solitaria che brillava ancora attraverso le fessure delle persiane. Mentre tutto all’interno era immobile, silenzioso, desolato, come una tomba. Riluttante a rischiare di perdere la favore del signor Haredale disobbedendo alle sue rigide istruzioni, non osava mai bussare alla porta o far sapere della sua presenza in alcun modo. Tuttavia, ogni volta che un forte interesse e una curiosità lo attiravano in quel luogo – il che accadeva spesso – la luce c’era sempre.

Se avesse potuto sapere ciò che accadeva dentro di lui, quella conoscenza non gli avrebbe fornito alcuna spiegazione su questa misteriosa veglia. Al tramonto, il signor Haredale si chiudeva in se stesso; all’alba usciva di nuovo. Non mancava mai una notte, andava e veniva sempre da solo e non modificava mai minimamente le sue abitudini.

Il modo in cui faceva la sua ispezione era questo: al tramonto entrava nella casa nello stesso modo in cui il fabbro gli aveva fatto da guida, accendeva una luce, percorreva tutte le stanze e le esaminava attentamente. Una volta terminato, tornava nella stanza al piano terra, posizionava la sua _spada e le pistole sul tavolo e vi rimaneva seduto fino all’alba.

Di solito aveva un libro con sé e spesso cercava di leggere, ma mai riusciva a concentrarsi per più di cinque minuti consecutivi. Il minimo rumore lo attirava immediatamente l’attenzione; anche il suono di un passo sul marciapiede sembrava fargli accelerare il battito del cuore.

Durante quelle lunghe e solitarie ore, non mancavano certo alcune cose per rinfrescarsi; di solito portava con sé in tasca un panino con carne e una piccola fiaschetta di vino. Quest’ultimo, diluito con grandi quantità di acqua, lo beveva in modo frenetico, come se la sua gola fosse completamente asciutta; tuttavia, quasi mai pranzava, nemmeno con un semplice pezzetto di pane.

Se questo volontario sacrificio di sonno e comodità aveva origine, come il fabbro chiave era disposto a credere, da qualche aspettativa superstiziosa legata al realizzarsi di un sogno o di una visione relativa all’evento su cui aveva riflettuto per tanti anni, e se attendeva l’arrivo di qualche visitatore fantasma che si muovesse di notte, quando tutti dormivano nei loro letti, non mostrava alcun segno di paura o esitazione. I suoi tratti severi esprimevano una risoluzione inamovibile; le sue sopracciglia erano corrugate e le labbra strette, a testimonianza di una determinazione ferma e decisa. Quando si svegliava per un rumore e ascoltava attentamente, non era per paura, ma per speranza; afferrava rapidamente la sua _spada, come se finalmente fosse arrivato il momento giusto, e ascoltava con occhi brillanti e attenti, fino a quando il rumore si placava.

Questi delusioni erano numerose, poiché si verificavano quasi ogni volta che si udiva un qualche suono, ma la sua determinazione non vacillò mai. Ogni notte rimaneva al suo posto, lo stesso guardiano severo e insonne; e ancora una notte trascorreva, poi arrivava l’alba, e lui doveva riprendere il suo dovere.

Questo andò avanti per settimane; aveva preso alloggio a Vauxhall, dove trascorreva le giornate e si riposava; da quel luogo, quando la marea era favorevole, di solito raggiungeva il London Bridge da Westminster via acqua, per evitare le strade affollate.

Una sera, poco prima del tramonto, percorse il solito percorso lungo la riva del fiume, intenzionato di passare attraverso Westminster Hall e raggiungere Palace Yard, da dove prendere la barca per il London Bridge, come al solito. C’era un notevole affollamento intorno ai Palazzi del Parlamento: le persone osservavano i membri mentre entravano ed uscivano, esprimendo con rumori piuttosto forti il proprio apprezzamento o disapprovazione, in base alle loro opinioni note. Mentre si faceva strada tra la folla, sentì un paio di volte il grido “No Popery”, ormai abbastanza familiare alle orecchie della maggior parte delle persone; ma non vi prestò alcuna attenzione, ritenendo che quei manifestanti fossero di estrazione molto bassa. Continuò quindi per la sua strada, con totale indifferenza.

C’erano molti piccoli gruppi di persone nella Sala di Westminster: alcuni alzavano lo sguardo verso il suo nobile soffitto e verso i raggi di luce serale, tinti dal sole morente, che filtravano obliquamente attraverso le sue piccole finestre, indebolendosi gradualmente nel buio circostante; altri erano passeggeri rumorosi, operai che tornavano a casa dal lavoro, e via dicendo; questi ultimi passavano velocemente, facendo risuonare le loro voci nell’ambiente silenzioso, fino a quando scomparivano nella distanza, oltre la porta. Alcuni erano impegnati in conversazioni politiche o private, camminando avanti e indietro con lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento, ascoltando attentamente ciò che veniva detto. Lì, una dozzina di monelli litigiosi creavano un gran clamore; là, un uomo solitario, a metà impiegato e a metà mendicante, camminava avanti e indietro con uno sguardo e un passo pieni di desolazione; accanto a lui passò un ragazzo che portava un cesto, facendo dondolare il suo carico e suonando con il suo fischio acuto, quasi a far tremare le travi del soffitto. Un ragazzo più attento, a metà strada, mise via la palla e osservò il custode che si avvicinava lentamente. Era quel momento della sera in cui, se chiudi gli occhi e li riapri subito dopo, sembra che l’oscurità di un’intera ora si sia accumulata in un istante. Il selciato logoro, coperto di polvere lasciata dai passi delle persone, continuava a far risuonare il rumore dei loro passi contro le alte pareti; solo quando una porta pesante si chiudeva con un tonfo, come un tuono, tutti gli altri suoni venivano soffocati dal suo fragore.

Il signor Haredale, dando un’occhiata solo ai gruppi che gli passavano più vicino e poi proseguendo con aria distratta, stava quasi per attraversare l’intera sala quando due persone attirarono la sua attenzione. Una di queste era un gentiluomo dall’aspetto elegante, che portava in mano un bastone e lo girava con noncuranza mentre si soffermava; l’altra era una figura ossequiosa, pieghevole e adulante, che ascoltava ciò che lui diceva, intervenendo di tanto in tanto con parole umili, e che, con le spalle alzate fino alle orecchie, si sfregava le mani in segno di sottomissione o rispondeva annuendo, a metà strada tra un cenno di assenso e un inchino di profondo rispetto.

In the abstract there was nothing very remarkable in this pair, for servility waiting on a handsome suit of clothes and a cane—not to speak of gold and silver sticks, or wands of office—is common enough. But there was that about the well-dressed man, yes, and about the other likewise, which struck Mr Haredale with no pleasant feeling. He hesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of his path, but at the moment, the other two faced about quickly, and stumbled upon him before he could avoid them.

The gentleman with the cane lifted his hat and had begun to tender an apology, which Mr Haredale had begun as hastily to acknowledge and walk away, when he stopped short and cried, ‘Haredale! Gad bless me, this is strange indeed!’

‘It is,’ he returned impatiently; ‘yes—a—’

‘My dear friend,’ cried the other, detaining him, ‘why such great speed? One minute, Haredale, for the sake of old acquaintance.’

‘I am in haste,’ he said. ‘Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it be a brief one. Good night!’

‘Fie, fie!’ replied Sir John (for it was he), ‘how very churlish! We were speaking of you. Your name was on my lips—perhaps you heard me mention it? No? I am sorry for that. I am really sorry.—You know our friend here, Haredale? This is really a most remarkable meeting!’

The friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John’s arm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of avoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John’s purpose, however, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of these silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he spoke, to call attention to him more particularly.

The friend, therefore, had nothing for it, but to muster up the pleasantest smile he could, and to make a conciliatory bow, as Mr Haredale turned his eyes upon him. Seeing that he was recognised, he put out his hand in an awkward and embarrassed manner, which was not mended by its contemptuous rejection.

‘Mr Gashford!’ said Haredale, coldly. ‘It is as I have heard then. You have left the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions you formerly held, with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an honour, sir, to any cause. I wish the one you espouse at present, much joy of the acquisition it has made.’

The secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm his adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again exclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, ‘Now, really, this is a most remarkable meeting!’ and took a pinch of snuff with his usual self-possession.

‘Mr Haredale,’ said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and letting them drop again when they met the other’s steady gaze, ‘is too conscientious, too honourable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy motives to an honest change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt of those he holds himself. Mr Haredale is too just, too generous, too clear-sighted in his moral vision, to—’

‘Yes, sir?’ he rejoined with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary stopped. ‘You were saying’—

Gashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and looking on the ground again, was silent.

‘No, but let us really,’ interposed Sir John at this juncture, ‘let us really, for a moment, contemplate the very remarkable character of this meeting. Haredale, my dear friend, pardon me if I think you are not sufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand, by no previous appointment or arrangement, three old schoolfellows, in Westminster Hall; three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady seminary at Saint Omer’s, where you, being Catholics and of necessity educated out of England, were brought up; and where I, being a promising young Protestant at that time, was sent to learn the French tongue from a native of Paris!’

‘Add to the singularity, Sir John,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘that some of you Protestants of promise are at this moment leagued in yonder building, to prevent our having the surpassing and unheard-of privilege of teaching our children to read and write—here—in this land, where thousands of us enter your service every year, and to preserve the freedom of which, we die in bloody battles abroad, in heaps: and that others of you, to the number of some thousands as I learn, are led on to look on all men of my creed as wolves and beasts of prey, by this man Gashford. Add to it besides the bare fact that this man lives in society, walks the streets in broad day—I was about to say, holds up his head, but that he does not—and it will be strange, and very strange, I grant you.’

‘Oh! you are hard upon our friend,’ replied Sir John, with an engaging smile. ‘You are really very hard upon our friend!’

‘Let him go on, Sir John,’ said Gashford, fumbling with his gloves. ‘Let him go on. I can make allowances, Sir John. I am honoured with your good opinion, and I can dispense with Mr Haredale’s. Mr Haredale is a sufferer from the penal laws, and I can’t expect his favour.’

‘You have so much of my favour, sir,’ retorted Mr Haredale, with a bitter glance at the third party in their conversation, ‘that I am glad to see you in such good company. You are the essence of your great Association, in yourselves.’

‘Now, there you mistake,’ said Sir John, in his most benignant way. ‘There—which is a most remarkable circumstance for a man of your punctuality and exactness, Haredale—you fall into error. I don’t belong to the body; I have an immense respect for its members, but I don’t belong to it; although I am, it is certainly true, the conscientious opponent of your being relieved. I feel it my duty to be so; it is a most unfortunate necessity; and cost me a bitter struggle.—Will you try this box? If you don’t object to a trifling infusion of a very chaste scent, you’ll find its flavour exquisite.’

‘I ask your pardon, Sir John,’ said Mr Haredale, declining the proffer with a motion of his hand, ‘for having ranked you among the humble instruments who are obvious and in all men’s sight. I should have done more justice to your genius. Men of your capacity plot in secrecy and safety, and leave exposed posts to the duller wits.’

In apparenza, non c’era nulla di particolarmente notevole in quella coppia: la servilità dimostrata davanti a un bel abito e a un bastone – per non parlare di bacchette d’oro o simboli di autorità – è piuttosto comune. Tuttavia, c’era qualcosa nel modo in cui quei due uomini si comportavano che suscitò in Mr Haredale una sensazione tutt’altro che piacevole. Esitò, si fermò e avrebbe voluto spostarsi di lato per evitarli, ma in quel momento gli altri due si girarono rapidamente verso di lui, facendogli inciampare prima che potesse sfuggire loro.

Il signore con il bastone sollevò il cappello e iniziò a scusarsi; ma il signor Haredale, rispondendo in modo affrettato, si allontanò subito. Poi però si fermò di colpo e esclamò: “Haredale! Perbacco, questa è davvero strana, ”

“È così,” rispose impazientemente; “sì, un, ”

“Mio caro amico,” gridò l’altro trattenendolo, “perché tanta fretta? Un minuto solo, Haredale, per il bene dell’antica amicizia.”

“Sono di fretta,” disse. “Nessuno di noi ha voluto questo incontro. Che sia breve, allora. Buona notte!”

“Ahimè, ahimè!” rispose Sir John (poiché era proprio lui), “che scortesia da parte tua! Stavamo parlando di te. Il tuo nome era sulle mie labbra. Forse mi hai sentito menzionarlo? No? Mi dispiace molto. Conosci il nostro amico qui, Haredale? Davvero, è un incontro straordinario!”

L’amico, chiaramente molto a disagio, aveva osato prendere il braccio di Sir John e dargli altri segnali evidenti del suo desiderio di evitare quell’incontro. Tuttavia, poiché questo non corrispondeva agli scopi di Sir John, egli sembrava del tutto ignaro di questi sottili rimproveri e, mentre parlava, tendeva la mano verso di lui per attirarne maggiormente l’attenzione.

Quindi, l’amico non poté fare altro che sfoggiare il sorriso più cordiale possibile e inchinarsi in segno di conciliazione quando il signor Haredale lo guardò. Vedendo di essere stato riconosciuto, tese la mano in modo goffo ed imbarazzato; una risposta sprezzante non fece che peggiorare la situazione.

“Signor Gashford!”, disse Haredale in tono freddo. “Quindi è vero ciò che ho sentito. Avete abbandonato l’oscurità per la luce, signore, e odiate coloro le cui opinioni condividevate un tempo, con tutta la amarezza di chi si è rinnegato. Siete davvero una onorabilità per qualsiasi causa vi impegniate. Auguro alla causa che sostenete ora tutto il successo possibile.”

Il segretario si strofinò le mani e fece un inchino, come se volesse disarmare il suo avversario umiliandosi davanti a lui. Sir John Chester esclamò di nuovo, con grande allegria: “Davvero, questa è una riunione straordinaria!”, e prese un pizzico di tabacco con la solita sua compostezza.

“Signor Haredale,” disse Gashford, alzando furtivamente lo sguardo per poi abbassarlo di nuovo quando incontrò il suo sguardo fermo, “è troppo coscienzioso, troppo onesto, troppo nobile. Sicuramente non potrebbe attribuire motivi disonesti a un onesto cambiamento di opinione, anche se ciò implicasse qualche >dubbio riguardo alle sue convinzioni. Il signor Haredale è troppo giusto, troppo generoso, troppo perspicace nella sua visione morale, per poter fare una cosa del genere.”

“Sì, signore?”, rispose lui con un sorriso sarcastico, notando che il segretario si era fermato. “Stavate dicendo, ”

Gashford alzò le spalle in modo mansueto e, guardando di nuovo a terra, rimase in silenzio.

“No, ma permetteteci davvero,” intervenne Sir John in quel momento, “permetteteci di riflettere, anche solo per un istante, sul carattere davvero straordinario di questo incontro. Haredale, mio caro amico, perdonami se ritengo che tu non abbia apprezzato a sufficienza la sua unicità. Ci troviamo qui, senza alcun appuntamento o accordo pregresso: tre vecchi compagni di scuola, nella Westminster Hall; tre ex studenti di un seminario estremamente noioso e poco illuminante a Saint Omer’s, dove tu, essendo cattolico e quindi necessariamente educato al di fuori d’Inghilterra, sei cresciuto; e dove io, all’epoca un giovane protestante promettente, sono stato mandato per imparare il francese da un nativo di Parigi!”

“Aggiungete alla singolarità di questa situazione, signor John,” disse il signor Haredale, “il fatto che alcuni di voi, protestanti di buone intenzioni, in questo stesso momento si siano alleati con quelle persone per impedirci di godere del privilegio straordinario e senza precedenti di insegnare ai nostri figli a leggere e scrivere, proprio qui, in questa terra, dove migliaia di noi entrano al vostro servizio ogni anno. Questo perché vogliono preservare quella libertà per cui noi moriamo nelle battaglie sanguinose all’estero. Inoltre, altri di voi, per numero pari a qualche migliaio, sono indotti da quest’uomo, Gashford, a considerare tutti coloro che condividono le mie credenze come lupi e bestie feroci. Aggiungete anche il semplice fatto che quest’uomo vive in mezzo alla gente, cammina per le strade a pieno giorno. Volevo dire, che mostra apertamente la sua faccia, ma in realtà non lo fa. E questo sarà davvero strano, molto strano, lo ammetto.”

“Ah! Siete davvero troppo duri con il nostro amico,” rispose Sir John, con un sorriso affascinante. “Siete davvero molto crudeli con il nostro amico!”

“Lasciatelo continuare, signor John,” disse Gashford, armeggiando con i guanti. “Lasciatelo continuare. Posso essere comprensivo, signor John. È un onore per me avere la vostra stima; non ho bisogno del favore di Mr Haredale. Dopotutto, lui è una vittima delle leggi penali, ”

“Avete tutta la mia stima, signore,” ribatté il signor Haredale, lanciando uno sguardo amaro verso la terza persona presente nella loro conversazione, “che sono felice di vedervi in così buona compagnia. Voi rappresentate l’essenza della vostra grande associazione, nel vostro stesso essere.”

“Ora, ecco dove vi sbagliate,” disse Sir John con il suo tono più gentile. “Vedete, una circostanza davvero notevole per un uomo della vostra puntualità e precisione, Haredale: vi sbagliate. Non appartengo a quell’organizzazione; ho un enorme rispetto per i suoi membri, ma non ne faccio parte; tuttavia è certamente vero che sono il loro oppositore convinto nel voler impedire che veniate sollevato da quella responsabilità. Ritengo sia mio dovere agire così. È una necessità molto sfortunata, e mi è costata una lotta interna durissima. Provate questa scatola: se non vi dispiace un leggero profumo molto delicato, troverete che il suo sapore è squisito.”

“Chiedo scusa, signor John,” disse il signor Haredale, rifiutando l’offerta con un gesto della mano, “per avervi considerato tra quegli strumenti umili che sono evidenti e visibili a tutti. Avrei dovuto rendere giustizia maggiore al vostro genio. Uomini del vostro calibro agiscono in segreto e con sicurezza, lasciando invece i compiti più evidenti ai cervelli meno brillanti.”

‘Don’t apologise, for the world,’ replied Sir John sweetly; ‘old friends like you and I, may be allowed some freedoms, or the deuce is in it.’

Gashford, who had been very restless all this time, but had not once looked up, now turned to Sir John, and ventured to mutter something to the effect that he must go, or my lord would perhaps be waiting.

‘Don’t distress yourself, good sir,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I’ll take my leave, and put you at your ease—’ which he was about to do without ceremony, when he was stayed by a buzz and murmur at the upper end of the hall, and, looking in that direction, saw Lord George Gordon coming in, with a crowd of people round him.

There was a lurking look of triumph, though very differently expressed, in the faces of his two companions, which made it a natural impulse on Mr Haredale’s part not to give way before this leader, but to stand there while he passed. He drew himself up and, clasping his hands behind him, looked on with a proud and scornful aspect, while Lord George slowly advanced (for the press was great about him) towards the spot where they were standing.

He had left the House of Commons but that moment, and had come straight down into the Hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence of what had been said that night in reference to the Papists, and what petitions had been presented in their favour, and who had supported them, and when the bill was to be brought in, and when it would be advisable to present their own Great Protestant petition. All this he told the persons about him in a loud voice, and with great abundance of ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made comments to each other, and vented threats and murmurings; those who were outside the crowd cried, ‘Silence,’ and ‘Stand back,’ or closed in upon the rest, endeavouring to make a forcible exchange of places: and so they came driving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner of a crowd to do.

When they were very near to where the secretary, Sir John, and Mr Haredale stood, Lord George turned round and, making a few remarks of a sufficiently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual sentiment, and called for three cheers to back it. While these were in the act of being given with great energy, he extricated himself from the press, and stepped up to Gashford’s side. Both he and Sir John being well known to the populace, they fell back a little, and left the four standing together.

‘Mr Haredale, Lord George,’ said Sir John Chester, seeing that the nobleman regarded him with an inquisitive look. ‘A Catholic gentleman unfortunately—most unhappily a Catholic—but an esteemed acquaintance of mine, and once of Mr Gashford’s. My dear Haredale, this is Lord George Gordon.’

‘I should have known that, had I been ignorant of his lordship’s person,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘I hope there is but one gentleman in England who, addressing an ignorant and excited throng, would speak of a large body of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language as I heard this moment. For shame, my lord, for shame!’

‘I cannot talk to you, sir,’ replied Lord George in a loud voice, and waving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner; ‘we have nothing in common.’

‘We have much in common—many things—all that the Almighty gave us,’ said Mr Haredale; ‘and common charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling you that you disgrace your station.’

‘I don’t hear you, sir,’ he replied in the same manner as before; ‘I can’t hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don’t retort, Gashford,’ for the secretary had made a show of wishing to do so; ‘I can hold no communion with the worshippers of idols.’

As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and eyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and smiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader.

‘HE retort!’ cried Haredale. ‘Look you here, my lord. Do you know this man?’

Lord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing secretary, and viewing him with a smile of confidence.

‘This man,’ said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe, ‘who in his boyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a servile, false, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept through life, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon: this sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who robbed his benefactor’s daughter of her virtue, and married her to break her heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has whined at kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence at our chapel doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience cannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced—Do you know this man?’

‘Oh, really—you are very, very hard upon our friend!’ exclaimed Sir John.

‘Let Mr Haredale go on,’ said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the perspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; ‘I don’t mind him, Sir John; it’s quite as indifferent to me what he says, as it is to my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John, how can I hope to escape?’

‘Is it not enough, my lord,’ Mr Haredale continued, ‘that I, as good a gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at which the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to head your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!’

The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester, as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a shrug or look, ‘Oh dear me! no.’ He now said, in the same loud key, and in the same strange manner as before:

“Non scusarti per nulla al mondo,” rispose gentilmente Sir John; “a vecchi amici come te e me si possono concedere alcune libertà, altrimenti non saprei cosa fare.”

Gashford, che era stato molto irrequieto per tutto questo tempo senza mai alzare lo sguardo, si rivolse ora a Sir John e osò mormorare qualcosa del tipo: “Devo andare, altrimenti mio signore potrebbe stare aspettando”.

“Non si preoccupi, signore,” disse il signor Haredale, “me ne andrò subito e vi lascerò in pace, ” Stava per farlo senza alcuna cerimonia, quando fu fermato da un rumore e dei mormori provenienti dall’estremità superiore del corridoio. Guardando in quella direzione, vide Lord George Gordon entrare, circondato da una folla di persone.

Negli sguardi dei suoi due compagni si leggeva un’ombra di trionfo, sebbene espresso in modo molto diverso; questo spinse naturalmente il signor Haredale a non cedere terreno davanti a quel leader, ma ad attendere lì mentre questi si avvicinava. Si eresse in tutta la sua statura, incrociò le mani dietro la schiena e osservò con un’espressione orgogliosa e sprezzante, mentre Lord George avanzava lentamente (poiché c’era molta folla intorno a lui) verso il punto in cui si trovavano.

Aveva lasciato la Casa dei Comuni, ma in quel momento era entrato direttamente nella Sala, portando con sé, come al solito, informazioni su ciò che era stato detto quella notte riguardo ai Papisti, su quali petizioni erano state presentate a loro favore, chi le aveva sostenute, quando sarebbe stata presentata la proposta di legge e quando fosse stato opportuno presentare la propria grande petizione protestante. Tutto ciò lo raccontava ad alta voce, accompagnando le parole con gesti goffi e smisurati. Quelli che erano più vicini a lui si scambiavano commenti, lanciando minacce e mormorii; quelli che si trovavano all’esterno della folla gridavano “Silenzio” o “Fatevi da parte”, cercando di spostarsi verso il centro per poter scambiare posto con gli altri. Così, la folla procedeva in modo assai disordinato e irregolare, proprio come è tipico delle folle.

Quando si trovarono molto vicini al punto in cui si trovavano il segretario, Sir John, e il signor Haredale, Lord George si girò e, dopo aver fatto alcune osservazioni piuttosto violente e incoerenti, concluse con il solito discorso, chiedendo che venissero gridati tre evviva a sostegno delle sue parole. Mentre questi evvivi venivano gridati con grande entusiasmo, lui si fece strada tra la folla e si avvicinò a Gashford. Poiché sia lui che Sir John erano ben conosciuti dalla gente, questi ultimi fecero un passo indietro, lasciando i quattro da soli.

“Signor Haredale, Lord George,” disse Sir John Chester, vedendo che il nobile lo guardava con aria curiosa. “Un gentiluomo cattolico, purtroppo, molto sfortunatamente un cattolico, ma un mio stimato conoscente, e un tempo anche di Mr Gashford. Caro Haredale, questo è Lord George Gordon.”

“Avrei dovuto saperlo,” disse il signor Haredale, “se non conoscessi la persona del suo signore. Spero che in Inghilterra esista soltanto un gentiluomo che, rivolgendosi a una folla ignorante ed eccitata, userebbe un linguaggio così offensivo nei confronti di un gran numero dei suoi connazionali come quello che ho appena sentito. Per l’amor del cielo, mio signore, ”

“Non posso parlare con voi, signore,” rispose Lord George ad alta voce, agitando la mano in modo nervoso e turbato; “non abbiamo nulla in comune.”

“Abbiamo molto in comune – molte cose – tutto ciò che il Potente ci ha dato,” disse il signor Haredale; “e una comune carità, per non parlare di buon senso e decenza, dovrebbe insegnarvi a astenervi da queste azioni. Se in questo momento ognuno di quegli uomini avesse armi in mano, proprio come le hanno nella mente, non lascerei questo posto senza dirvi che state disonorando la vostra posizione.”

“Non vi sento, signore,” rispose lui nello stesso modo di prima; “Non riesco a sentirvi. Non mi interessa affatto ciò che dite. Non ribattete, Gashford,” poiché il segretario aveva fatto finta di volerlo fare; “Non posso avere alcun rapporto con coloro che venerano gli idoli.”

Mentre lo diceva, gettò un’occhiata a Sir John, il quale alzò le mani e le sopracciglia, come se deplorasse il comportamento irragionevole del signor Haredale, e sorrise con ammirazione per la folla e per il suo leader.

“Risponde lui!”, esclamò Haredale. “Guardate qui, mio signore. Conoscete quest’uomo?”

Lord George rispose mettendo una mano sulla spalla del suo segretario imbarazzato e guardandolo con un sorriso di fiducia.

“Quest’uomo,” disse il signor Haredale, osservandolo dalla testa ai piedi, “che da ragazzo era un ladro, e da allora fino ad oggi è stato un individuo servile, bugiardo e ipocrita: quest’uomo che si è strisciato lungo la vita, ferendo coloro che poi leccava e mordendo coloro a cui faceva l’obbedienza; questo adulatore che non ha mai conosciuto il significato di onore, verità o coraggio; quest’uomo che ha rapito la virtù della figlia del suo benefattore e l’ha sposata per spezzarle il cuore, facendolo con violenza e crudeltà; questa creatura che si è lamentata davanti alle finestre delle cucine per il cibo avanzato e ha chiesto l’elemosina alla porta della nostra cappella. Questo ‘apostolo della fede’, la cui debole conscienza non riesce a sopportare gli altari su cui la sua vita malvagia è stata pubblicamente denunciata. Lo conoscete?”

“Oh, davvero, siete molto, molto duri con il nostro amico!” esclamò Sir John.

“Lasciate che il signor Haredale continui,” disse Gashford; sul suo viso malaticcio la sudorazione aveva formato macchie umide durante quel discorso. “Non mi dà fastidio, Sir John. Per me è del tutto indifferente ciò che dice, proprio come lo è per mio signore. Se insulta mio signore, come avete sentito, Sir John, come posso sperare di scamparla?”

“Non è forse sufficiente, mio signore,” continuò il signor Haredale, “che io, come gentiluomo quanto voi, debba mantenere le mie proprietà in modo fraudolento, un metodo tollerato dallo stato a causa di queste severe leggi; che non possiamo insegnare ai nostri giovani nelle scuole i principi fondamentali del giusto e dell’ingiusto; e che dobbiamo essere denunciati e perseguitati da persone come questa! Ecco un uomo pronto a guidare la vostra campagna contro il “No-Popery”. Che vergogna. Che vergogna!”

Il nobiluomo infatuato aveva già guardato più volte verso Sir John Chester, come se volesse verificare se ci fosse qualche verità in quelle affermazioni riguardo a Gashford; e Sir John, ogni volta, rispondeva chiaramente con un’alzata di spalle o uno sguardo, dicendo: “Oh, mio Dio, no.” Ora ripeté la stessa cosa, sempre con lo stesso tono alto e allo stesso modo strano di prima.

‘I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything more. I beg you won’t obtrude your conversation, or these personal attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!’

They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the Hall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any leave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand, and hailed the only boatman who remained there.

But the throng of people—the foremost of whom had heard every word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him for his advocacy of the popular cause—came pouring out pell-mell, and, forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.

They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said, ‘Down with the Papists!’ and there was a pretty general cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, ‘Stone him;’ another, ‘Duck him;’ another, in a stentorian voice, ‘No Popery!’ This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.

Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.

The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall back, demanded:

‘Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.’

Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.

‘Who did that?’ he repeated. ‘Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand—I know you.’

He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.

‘My lord—Sir John,’—he cried, ‘draw, one of you—you are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.’ With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all.

For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John’s smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale’s arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the crowd.

‘My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion—it’s very natural, extremely natural—but you don’t know friends from foes.’

‘I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well—’ he retorted, almost mad with rage. ‘Sir John, Lord George—do you hear me? Are you cowards?’

‘Never mind, sir,’ said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him towards the stairs with friendly violence, ‘never mind asking that. For God’s sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are as many more in the next street, who’ll be round directly,’—indeed they began to pour in as he said the words—‘you’d be giddy from that cut, in the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it you’ll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste—as quick as you can.’

Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend’s assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed.

There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent this interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and wearing besides Lord George’s livery, they thought better of it, and contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the stream.

From this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left the street quite clear.

“Non ho nulla da dire in risposta, signore, e non desidero ascoltare altro. Vi prego di non intralciare la vostra conversazione né di continuare con queste attacchi personali nei miei confronti. Nessun tentativo, sia che provenga dagli emissari del Papa o meno, mi impedirà di adempiere al mio dovere verso il mio paese e i miei connazionali, ve lo assicuro. Andiamo, Gashford!”

Avevano camminato per qualche passo mentre parlavano, e ora si trovavano davanti alla porta d’ingresso, attraverso la quale entrarono insieme. Il signor Haredale, senza dire addio, si diresse verso le scale che conducevano al fiume, situate poco lontano, e chiamò l’unico barcaiolo ancora presente lì.

Ma la folla di persone – tra cui i primi in fila avevano ascoltato ogni parola detta da Lord George Gordon e la voce che quel forestiero fosse un papista e lo criticasse per il suo sostegno alla causa popolare si era diffusa rapidamente – si riversò fuori tutti insieme. Spingendo avanti il nobile, il suo segretario e Sir John Chester, come se fossero loro a guidare la processione, si ammassarono in cima alle scale dove il signor Haredale aspettava che la barca fosse pronta. Lì rimasero immobili, lasciandolo da solo in un piccolo spazio libero.

Tuttavia, non rimasero in silenzio, anche se inattivi. All’inizio si udirono tra di loro alcuni mormorii indistinti, seguiti da uno o due sibili; questi rumori gradualmente si trasformarono in una vera e propria tempesta di proteste. Poi una voce gridò: “Giù i papisti!”, e ci fu un coro generale di approvazione, ma nient’altro. Dopo un breve silenzio, uno degli uomini esclamò: “Pietratelo!”, un altro: “Tuffatelo!”, e un terzo, con voce tonante: “Niente papismo!” Questo grido fu ripreso da tutti, e la folla, che poteva contare duecento persone, si unì in un unico urlo.

Il signor Haredale stava tranquillamente in piedi sul bordo delle scale, fino a quando non ebbero fatto questa dimostrazione; allora guardò intorno con disprezzo e scese le scale lentamente. Era quasi arrivato alla barca quando Gashford, come se per caso, si girò. Subito dopo, qualcuno nella folla lanciò una grande pietra che lo colpì in testa, facendolo barcollare come un ubriaco.

Il sangue sgorgava liberamente dalla ferita e scorreva giù lungo il suo mantello. Si girò di scatto e, salendo i gradini con una baldanza e una passione tali da far indietreggiare tutti, esclamò:

“Chi è stato? Mostratemi l’uomo che mi ha colpito.”

Nessuna ‘anima si mosse; tranne alcuni che si allontanarono di nascosto e, rifugiandosi dall’altra parte della strada, osservarono la scena come spettatori indifferenti.

“Chi è stato?” ripeté. “Mostratemi l’uomo che l’ha fatto. Cane, sei stato tu? È stata opera tua, anche se non con le tue mani, ti conosco.”

Si gettò addosso a Gashford mentre pronunciava quelle parole e lo scaraventò a terra. Ci fu un movimento improvviso nella folla; alcune persone cercarono di afferrarlo, ma la sua _spada era già pronta, quindi riuscirono a sfuggire.

“Mio signore. Sir John,” gridò, “affrontatemi, uno di voi. Siete voi responsabili di questo atto oltraggioso, e mi aspetto che vi comportiate da gentiluomini. Affrontatemi, se siete davvero cavalieri.” Detto ciò, colpì Sir John al petto con la lama piatta della sua arma, poi, con il viso arrossato e gli occhi lampeggianti, rimase fermo ad aspettare. solo, di fronte a tutti loro.

Per un istante, nel più breve spazio di tempo, la mente può facilmente concepire che ci fosse un cambiamento sul volto liscio di Sir John, un cambiamento che nessuno aveva mai visto prima. Nel momento successivo, fece un passo avanti, posò una mano sul braccio del signor Haredale e con l’altra cercò di calmare la folla.

“Mio caro amico, mio buon Haredale, sei accecato dalla passione. È molto naturale, estremamente naturale, ma non riesci a distinguere gli amici dai nemici.”

“Li conosco tutti, signore, riesco a distinguerli molto bene, ” ribatté, quasi impazzito di rabbia. “Signor John, Lord George. Mi sentite? Siete forse dei codardi?”

“Non importa, signore,” disse un uomo, facendosi strada tra la folla e spingendolo verso le scale con una sorta di “amichevole violenza”. “Per l’amor di Dio, andatevene. Cosa potete fare contro così tante persone? Ne ci sono molte altre nella strada accanto, arriveranno subito.” E infatti, mentre parlava, quelle persone iniziarono ad affollarsi intorno a loro. “Vi ferirebbero gravemente già nel primo scontro. Andatevene, vi dico! O credetemi: finireste peggio di quanto potrebbe accadervi anche se tutte le persone in quella folla fossero donne, e quella donna fosse proprio Bloody Mary. Forza, signore, andatevene il prima possibile.”

Il signor Haredale, che iniziava ad accusare vertigini e malessere, si rese conto di quanto fosse sensato questo consiglio e scese i gradini con l’aiuto del suo sconosciuto amico. John Grueby lo aiutò a salire sulla barca; dopo averla spinta via, facendola avanzare di circa trenta piedi nella corrente, ordinò al barcaiolo di partire con la solita determinazione tipica dei britannici; poi tornò su terra con estrema calma, come se fosse appena sbarcato.

All’inizio, la folla mostrò un certo disappunto per questa interferenza; ma poiché John sembrava particolarmente forte e calmo, e inoltre indossava l’uniforme di Lord George, decisero di non fare nulla di più e si accontentarono di lanciare alcuni proiettili verso la barca, che però finirono innocuamente nell’acqua; ormai la barca aveva già superato il ponte e filava veloce lungo il centro del fiume.

Dopo questo divertimento, continuarono a bussare alle porte delle case private con modi provocatori, rompendo alcune lampade e aggredendo alcuni poliziotti che passavano per caso. Ma, avendo sentito sussurrare che era stata chiamata una squadra di guardie del corpo, se la svignarono in fretta, lasciando la strada completamente deserta.

Chapter 44

When the concourse separated, and, dividing into chance clusters, drew off in various directions, there still remained upon the scene of the late disturbance, one man. This man was Gashford, who, bruised by his late fall, and hurt in a much greater degree by the indignity he had undergone, and the exposure of which he had been the victim, limped up and down, breathing curses and threats of vengeance.

It was not the secretary’s nature to waste his wrath in words. While he vented the froth of his malevolence in those effusions, he kept a steady eye on two men, who, having disappeared with the rest when the alarm was spread, had since returned, and were now visible in the moonlight, at no great distance, as they walked to and fro, and talked together.

He made no move towards them, but waited patiently on the dark side of the street, until they were tired of strolling backwards and forwards and walked away in company. Then he followed, but at some distance: keeping them in view, without appearing to have that object, or being seen by them.

They went up Parliament Street, past Saint Martin’s church, and away by Saint Giles’s to Tottenham Court Road, at the back of which, upon the western side, was then a place called the Green Lanes. This was a retired spot, not of the choicest kind, leading into the fields. Great heaps of ashes; stagnant pools, overgrown with rank grass and duckweed; broken turnstiles; and the upright posts of palings long since carried off for firewood, which menaced all heedless walkers with their jagged and rusty nails; were the leading features of the landscape: while here and there a donkey, or a ragged horse, tethered to a stake, and cropping off a wretched meal from the coarse stunted turf, were quite in keeping with the scene, and would have suggested (if the houses had not done so, sufficiently, of themselves) how very poor the people were who lived in the crazy huts adjacent, and how foolhardy it might prove for one who carried money, or wore decent clothes, to walk that way alone, unless by daylight.

Poverty has its whims and shows of taste, as wealth has. Some of these cabins were turreted, some had false windows painted on their rotten walls; one had a mimic clock, upon a crazy tower of four feet high, which screened the chimney; each in its little patch of ground had a rude seat or arbour. The population dealt in bones, in rags, in broken glass, in old wheels, in birds, and dogs. These, in their several ways of stowage, filled the gardens; and shedding a perfume, not of the most delicious nature, in the air, filled it besides with yelps, and screams, and howling.

Into this retreat, the secretary followed the two men whom he had held in sight; and here he saw them safely lodged, in one of the meanest houses, which was but a room, and that of small dimensions. He waited without, until the sound of their voices, joined in a discordant song, assured him they were making merry; and then approaching the door, by means of a tottering plank which crossed the ditch in front, knocked at it with his hand.

‘Muster Gashford!’ said the man who opened it, taking his pipe from his mouth, in evident surprise. ‘Why, who’d have thought of this here honour! Walk in, Muster Gashford—walk in, sir.’

Gashford required no second invitation, and entered with a gracious air. There was a fire in the rusty grate (for though the spring was pretty far advanced, the nights were cold), and on a stool beside it Hugh sat smoking. Dennis placed a chair, his only one, for the secretary, in front of the hearth; and took his seat again upon the stool he had left when he rose to give the visitor admission.

‘What’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford?’ he said, as he resumed his pipe, and looked at him askew. ‘Any orders from head-quarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to Hugh. ‘We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day—eh, Dennis?’

‘A very little one,’ growled the hangman. ‘Not half enough for me.’

‘Nor me neither!’ cried Hugh. ‘Give us something to do with life in it—with life in it, master. Ha, ha!’

‘Why, you wouldn’t,’ said the secretary, with his worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, ‘have anything to do, with—with death in it?’

‘I don’t know that,’ replied Hugh. ‘I’m open to orders. I don’t care; not I.’

‘Nor I!’ vociferated Dennis.

‘Brave fellows!’ said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he were commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity. ‘By the bye’—and here he stopped and warmed his hands: then suddenly looked up—‘who threw that stone to-day?’

Mr Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, ‘A mystery indeed!’ Hugh sat and smoked in silence.

‘It was well done!’ said the secretary, warming his hands again. ‘I should like to know that man.’

‘Would you?’ said Dennis, after looking at his face to assure himself that he was serious. ‘Would you like to know that man, Muster Gashford?’

‘I should indeed,’ replied the secretary.

‘Why then, Lord love you,’ said the hangman, in his hoarest chuckle, as he pointed with his pipe to Hugh, ‘there he sits. That’s the man. My stars and halters, Muster Gashford,’ he added in a whisper, as he drew his stool close to him and jogged him with his elbow, ‘what a interesting blade he is! He wants as much holding in as a thorough-bred bulldog. If it hadn’t been for me to-day, he’d have had that ‘ere Roman down, and made a riot of it, in another minute.’

‘And why not?’ cried Hugh in a surly voice, as he overheard this last remark. ‘Where’s the good of putting things off? Strike while the iron’s hot; that’s what I say.’

‘Ah!’ retorted Dennis, shaking his head, with a kind of pity for his friend’s ingenuous youth; ‘but suppose the iron an’t hot, brother! You must get people’s blood up afore you strike, and have ‘em in the humour. There wasn’t quite enough to provoke ‘em to-day, I tell you. If you’d had your way, you’d have spoilt the fun to come, and ruined us.’

‘Dennis is quite right,’ said Gashford, smoothly. ‘He is perfectly correct. Dennis has great knowledge of the world.’

‘I ought to have, Muster Gashford, seeing what a many people I’ve helped out of it, eh?’ grinned the hangman, whispering the words behind his hand.

The secretary laughed at this jest as much as Dennis could desire, and when he had done, said, turning to Hugh:

‘Dennis’s policy was mine, as you may have observed. You saw, for instance, how I fell when I was set upon. I made no resistance. I did nothing to provoke an outbreak. Oh dear no!’

‘No, by the Lord Harry!’ cried Dennis with a noisy laugh, ‘you went down very quiet, Muster Gashford—and very flat besides. I thinks to myself at the time “it’s all up with Muster Gashford!” I never see a man lay flatter nor more still—with the life in him—than you did to-day. He’s a rough ‘un to play with, is that ‘ere Papist, and that’s the fact.’

The secretary’s face, as Dennis roared with laughter, and turned his wrinkled eyes on Hugh who did the like, might have furnished a study for the devil’s picture. He sat quite silent until they were serious again, and then said, looking round:

‘We are very pleasant here; so very pleasant, Dennis, that but for my lord’s particular desire that I should sup with him, and the time being very near at hand, I should be inclined to stay, until it would be hardly safe to go homeward. I come upon a little business—yes, I do—as you supposed. It’s very flattering to you; being this. If we ever should be obliged—and we can’t tell, you know—this is a very uncertain world’—

‘I believe you, Muster Gashford,’ interposed the hangman with a grave nod. ‘The uncertainties as I’ve seen in reference to this here state of existence, the unexpected contingencies as have come about!—Oh my eye!’ Feeling the subject much too vast for expression, he puffed at his pipe again, and looked the rest.

‘I say,’ resumed the secretary, in a slow, impressive way; ‘we can’t tell what may come to pass; and if we should be obliged, against our wills, to have recourse to violence, my lord (who has suffered terribly to-day, as far as words can go) consigns to you two—bearing in mind my recommendation of you both, as good staunch men, beyond all doubt and suspicion—the pleasant task of punishing this Haredale. You may do as you please with him, or his, provided that you show no mercy, and no quarter, and leave no two beams of his house standing where the builder placed them. You may sack it, burn it, do with it as you like, but it must come down; it must be razed to the ground; and he, and all belonging to him, left as shelterless as new-born infants whom their mothers have exposed. Do you understand me?’ said Gashford, pausing, and pressing his hands together gently.

‘Understand you, master!’ cried Hugh. ‘You speak plain now. Why, this is hearty!’

‘I knew you would like it,’ said Gashford, shaking him by the hand; ‘I thought you would. Good night! Don’t rise, Dennis: I would rather find my way alone. I may have to make other visits here, and it’s pleasant to come and go without disturbing you. I can find my way perfectly well. Good night!’

He was gone, and had shut the door behind him. They looked at each other, and nodded approvingly: Dennis stirred up the fire.

‘This looks a little more like business!’ he said.

‘Ay, indeed!’ cried Hugh; ‘this suits me!’

‘I’ve heerd it said of Muster Gashford,’ said the hangman, ‘that he’d a surprising memory and wonderful firmness—that he never forgot, and never forgave.—Let’s drink his health!’

Hugh readily complied—pouring no liquor on the floor when he drank this toast—and they pledged the secretary as a man after their own hearts, in a bumper.

Capitolo 44

Quando la folla si disperse, dividendosi in gruppi casuali e diramandosi in varie direzioni, sul luogo della recente agitazione rimase ancora un uomo. Quest’uomo era Gashford: ferito a causa della sua recente caduta e ancora più gravemente offeso dall’umiliazione subita e dalla pubblica esposizione di tale umiliazione, zoppicava avanti e indietro, pronunciando maledizioni e minacce di vendetta.

Non era nella natura del segretario sprecare la sua rabbia a parole. Mentre sfogava tutta la sua malvagità in quei discorsi, teneva d’occhio due uomini che, dopo essere scomparsi insieme agli altri all’annuncio dell’allarme, erano tornati e ora si vedevano chiaramente alla luce della luna, a non grande distanza, mentre camminavano avanti e indietro e parlavano tra loro.

Non fece alcun movimento verso di loro, ma aspettò pazientemente sul lato buio della strada, finché non si stancarono di camminare avanti e indietro e se ne andarono insieme. Allora li seguì, mantenendo una certa distanza: tenendoli sempre sotto vista, senza che sembrasse avere alcun intento particolare o essere visto da loro.

Salirono per Parliament Street, passarono davanti alla chiesa di Saint Martin’s e proseguirono lungo Saint Giles’s fino a Tottenham Court Road; sul lato ovest di questa strada si trovava un luogo chiamato Green Lanes. Era un angolo remoto e poco attraente, che conduceva nei campi. Grandi mucchi di cenere, stagni pieni di erbacce e lenticchie d’acqua, tornelli rotti, e pali di recinzione da tempo portati via per essere usati come legna da ardere. Questi erano gli elementi caratteristici di quel luogo. Ovunque si vedevano asini o cavalli malandati, legati a pali e intenti a brucare l’erba stenta; tutto ciò contribuiva ad evocare un’immagine di povertà estrema. E se non fossero stati i caseggi circostanti a rivelare chiaramente quanto fossero miseri gli abitanti di quelle baracche, sarebbe stato facile intuire quanto potesse essere pericoloso per chi possedeva denaro o indossava abiti decenti attraversare quel luogo da solo, a meno che non fosse giorno.

La povertà ha le sue stranezze e i suoi “taste”, proprio come la ricchezza. Alcune di queste capanne avevano torri, altre avevano finestre finte dipinte sui loro muri marci; una in particolare aveva un’imitazione di orologio posta su una torretta alta quattro piedi, che nascondeva il camino; ognuna, nel proprio piccolo spazio, disponeva di un semplice sedile o di un pergolato. La gente si dedicava al commercio di ossa, stracci, vetro rotto, ruote vecchie, uccelli e cani. Questi animali, sistemati in modi diversi nei giardini, diffondevano nell’aria non certo un profumo delizioso, ma anche ululati, strilli e guaiti.

In questo rifugio, il segretario seguì i due uomini che aveva tenuti d’occhio; e li vide sistemarsi al sicuro in una delle case più misere, che non era altro che una stanza di piccole dimensioni. Aspettò fuori fino a quando non sentì le loro voci intonare una canzone discordante, il che gli fece capire che si stavano divertendo; allora si avvicinò alla porta, utilizzando un trave traballante che attraversava il fossato davanti ad essa, e bussò.

“Mastro Gashford!” disse l’uomo che lo aveva aperto, togliendosi la pipa dalla bocca con evidente sorpresa. “Ma chi avrebbe mai pensato a una cosa del genere qui. Che onore! Entrate pure, Mastro Gashford. Entrate, signore.”

Gashford non ebbe bisogno di una seconda invito e entrò con aria distinta. C’era un fuoco nel camino arrugginito (poiché la primavera era ormai inoltrata, le notti erano ancora fredde), e accanto ad esso Hugh sedeva fumando su uno sgabello. Dennis mise una sedia, l’unica che aveva, davanti al camino per il segretario; poi tornò a sedersi sullo stesso sgabello da cui si era alzato per far entrare il visitatore.

“Cosa c’è in giro adesso, Sergente Gashford?” disse, riprendendo a fumare la pipa e guardandolo di sottecchi. “Ci sono ordini dal quartier generale? Cominceremo presto? Di cosa si tratta, Sergente Gashford?”

“Ah, niente, niente,” rispose il segretario, facendo un cenno amichevole a Hugh. “Comunque, abbiamo rotto il ghiaccio. Oggi c’è stata una piccola svolta, eh, Dennis?”

“Molto poco, ”, ringhiò il boia. “Non è nemmeno la metà di ciò che mi serve.”

“Nemmeno io!” gridò Hugh. “Dategliamo qualcosa da fare nella vita. Qualcosa che abbia senso, padrone. Ahah!”

“Perché mai, non lo fareste,” disse il segretario, con l’espressione più cupa del suo viso e nel tono più gentile possibile, “avere a che fare con, con la morte?”

“Non lo so,” rispose Hugh. “Sono disposto ad obbedire agli ordini. Non mi interessa, davvero.”

“Nemmeno io!” gridò Dennis.

“Bravi ragazzi!” disse il segretario con una voce così simile a quella di un pastore, come se stesse lodandoli per qualche atto straordinario di coraggio e generosità. “A proposito, ” – si fermò, si scaldò le mani, poi alzò lo sguardo all’improvviso – “chi ha gettato quella pietra oggi?”

Il signor Dennis tossì e scosse la testa, come a dire: “Davvero un mistero!” Hugh rimase seduto a fumare in silenzio.

“È stato fatto davvero bene!”, disse il segretario, riscaldandosi di nuovo le mani. “Vorrei conoscere quell’uomo.”

“Lo faresti davvero?” disse Dennis, dopo averlo guardato in faccia per assicurarsi che fosse serio. “Vuoi davvero conoscere quell’uomo, il Sergente Maggiore Gashford?”

“Dovrei davvero farlo,” rispose il segretario.

“Allora perché, mio Signore amore”, disse il boia con la sua risata più rauca, “lo ami? Ecco lì seduto: quello è l’uomo. Miei stelle e mie corde. Sergente Gashford”, aggiunse sottovoce, avvicinando lo sgabello a sé e dandogli una spallata con il gomito, “che individuo interessante! Ha la stessa forza di un vero bulldog. Se non fosse stato per me oggi, avrebbe già messo quel ‘romano’ a terra e scatenato un putiferio in un attimo.”

“E perché no?” esclamò Hugh con voce irritata, sentendo quest’ultima osservazione. “A che serve rimandare le cose? Colpisci mentre il ferro è caldo. È quello che dico io.”

“Ah!” ribatté Dennis scuotendo la testa, con una sorta di compassione per l’ingenuità giovanile del suo amico; “ma supponiamo che il ferro non sia abbastanza caldo. Devi prima far scorrere il sangue delle persone e metterle nello stato d’animo giusto. Oggi non c’era abbastanza per provocarle, te lo dico io. Se avessi fatto a modo tuo, avresti rovinato tutto il divertimento che sarebbe venuto dopo, e ci avresti distrutti.”

“Dennis ha perfettamente ragione,” disse Gashford con disinvoltura. “Ha davvero ragione. Dennis possiede una grande conoscenza del mondo.”

“Avrei dovuto farlo, Muster Gashford, visto quante persone ho aiutato in questa situazione, no?” sorrise il boia, sussurrando le parole dietro la mano.

La segretaria rise a questa battuta tanto quanto Dennis avrebbe voluto, e quando finì di ridere, disse rivolgendosi a Hugh:

“La politica di Dennis era la mia, come avrete sicuramente notato. Avete visto, ad esempio, come sono caduto quando sono stato assalito. Non ho opposto alcuna resistenza; non ho fatto nulla per provocare una reazione violenta. Oh no, assolutamente no!”

“No, per il Signore Harry!”, gridò Dennis ridendo ad alta voce, “sei caduto molto silenziosamente, Sergente Gashford, e anche in modo piuttosto pacifico. In quel momento ho pensato: ‘È finita per il Sergente Gashford!’ Non ho mai visto un uomo sdraiarsi in modo più immobile e tranquillo, nonostante avesse ancora vita in sé, come hai fatto tu oggi. È davvero un tipo pericoloso con cui scherzare, quel papista lì, ed è proprio la verità.”

Il viso della segretaria, mentre Dennis rideva a crepapelle e rivolgeva i suoi occhi rugosi verso Hugh che faceva lo stesso, avrebbe potuto essere l’ispirazione per un ritratto del diavolo. Rimase in silenzio fino a quando non tornarono seri, poi disse, guardandosi intorno:

“Qui ci troviamo molto bene; davvero molto bene, Dennis. Se non fosse per il particolare desiderio del mio signore che io cenassi con lui, e considerando che il momento è ormai vicino, sarei propenso a restare fino a quando non diventasse pericoloso tornare a casa. Ho un piccolo impegno da sbrigare. Sì, proprio. Come hai immaginato. È molto lusinghiero per te. Se mai dovessimo trovarci costretti. E non possiamo saperlo, sai. Questo è un mondo davvero incerto, ”

“Credo a te, Muster Gashford,” intervenne l’impiccatore con un serio cenno del capo. “Le incertezze che ho osservato riguardo a questo stato di esistenza, le impreviste contingenze che sono sorte. Oh mio Dio!” Sentendo che l’argomento era troppo vasto per poterlo esprimere a parole, soffiò di nuovo nella sua pipa e guardò gli altri.

“Dico,” riprese il segretario, con voce lenta e imponente; “non possiamo prevedere cosa potrebbe accadere; e se dovessimo essere costretti, contro la nostra volontà, a ricorrere alla violenza, mio signore (che oggi ha sofferto terribilmente, per quanto le parole possano esprimere), vi affida entrambi, tenendo presente la mia raccomandazione nei vostri confronti, come uomini onesti e affidabili, al di là di ogni dubbio o sospetto, il compito di punire questo Haredale. Potete fare di lui ciò che volete, ma senza alcuna pietà, senza risparmiare nulla, e lasciando che nessuna traccia della sua casa rimanga in piedi dove l’architetto l’aveva costruita. Potete saccheggiarla, bruciarla, fate ciò che volete, ma deve essere distrutta completamente; lui e tutto ciò che gli appartiene devono rimanere senza riparo, come neonati abbandonati dalle loro madri. Capite?” disse Gashford, fermandosi per un attimo e stringendo dolcemente le mani una contro l’altra.

“Capisco perfettamente, padrone!” esclamò Hugh. “Ora parlate chiaramente. Davvero, è molto incoraggiante!”

“Sapevo che ti sarebbe piaciuto,” disse Gashford, stringendogli la mano; “pensavo proprio che lo fosse. Buona notte! Non alzarti, Dennis: preferisco trovare da solo la strada. Potrei dover fare altre visite qui, e è piacevole poter andare e venire senza disturbarti. So orientarmi benissimo da solo. Buona notte!”

Se n’era andato, chiudendo la porta dietro di sé. Si guardarono l’un l’altro e annuirono in segno di approvazione: Dennis ravvivò il fuoco.

“Questo sembra più un affare, ” disse.

“Ah sì, proprio così!” esclamò Hugh; “mi piace molto!”

“Ho sentito dire di Muster Gashford,” disse il boia, “che avesse una memoria sorprendente e una fermezza straordinaria, che non dimenticasse mai nulla, né perdonasse mai nessuno. Brindiamo alla sua salute!”

Hugh obbedì senza esitazione: non versò nemmeno una goccia di alcol per terra mentre beveva quel brindisi; inoltre, tutti dichiararono pubblicamente che il segretario era un uomo a loro piacimento.

Chapter 45

While the worst passions of the worst men were thus working in the dark, and the mantle of religion, assumed to cover the ugliest deformities, threatened to become the shroud of all that was good and peaceful in society, a circumstance occurred which once more altered the position of two persons from whom this history has long been separated, and to whom it must now return.

In a small English country town, the inhabitants of which supported themselves by the labour of their hands in plaiting and preparing straw for those who made bonnets and other articles of dress and ornament from that material,—concealed under an assumed name, and living in a quiet poverty which knew no change, no pleasures, and few cares but that of struggling on from day to day in one great toil for bread,—dwelt Barnaby and his mother. Their poor cottage had known no stranger’s foot since they sought the shelter of its roof five years before; nor had they in all that time held any commerce or communication with the old world from which they had fled. To labour in peace, and devote her labour and her life to her poor son, was all the widow sought. If happiness can be said at any time to be the lot of one on whom a secret sorrow preys, she was happy now. Tranquillity, resignation, and her strong love of him who needed it so much, formed the small circle of her quiet joys; and while that remained unbroken, she was contented.

For Barnaby himself, the time which had flown by, had passed him like the wind. The daily suns of years had shed no brighter gleam of reason on his mind; no dawn had broken on his long, dark night. He would sit sometimes—often for days together on a low seat by the fire or by the cottage door, busy at work (for he had learnt the art his mother plied), and listening, God help him, to the tales she would repeat, as a lure to keep him in her sight. He had no recollection of these little narratives; the tale of yesterday was new to him upon the morrow; but he liked them at the moment; and when the humour held him, would remain patiently within doors, hearing her stories like a little child, and working cheerfully from sunrise until it was too dark to see.

At other times,—and then their scanty earnings were barely sufficient to furnish them with food, though of the coarsest sort,—he would wander abroad from dawn of day until the twilight deepened into night. Few in that place, even of the children, could be idle, and he had no companions of his own kind. Indeed there were not many who could have kept up with him in his rambles, had there been a legion. But there were a score of vagabond dogs belonging to the neighbours, who served his purpose quite as well. With two or three of these, or sometimes with a full half-dozen barking at his heels, he would sally forth on some long expedition that consumed the day; and though, on their return at nightfall, the dogs would come home limping and sore-footed, and almost spent with their fatigue, Barnaby was up and off again at sunrise with some new attendants of the same class, with whom he would return in like manner. On all these travels, Grip, in his little basket at his master’s back, was a constant member of the party, and when they set off in fine weather and in high spirits, no dog barked louder than the raven.

Their pleasures on these excursions were simple enough. A crust of bread and scrap of meat, with water from the brook or spring, sufficed for their repast. Barnaby’s enjoyments were, to walk, and run, and leap, till he was tired; then to lie down in the long grass, or by the growing corn, or in the shade of some tall tree, looking upward at the light clouds as they floated over the blue surface of the sky, and listening to the lark as she poured out her brilliant song. There were wild-flowers to pluck—the bright red poppy, the gentle harebell, the cowslip, and the rose. There were birds to watch; fish; ants; worms; hares or rabbits, as they darted across the distant pathway in the wood and so were gone: millions of living things to have an interest in, and lie in wait for, and clap hands and shout in memory of, when they had disappeared. In default of these, or when they wearied, there was the merry sunlight to hunt out, as it crept in aslant through leaves and boughs of trees, and hid far down—deep, deep, in hollow places—like a silver pool, where nodding branches seemed to bathe and sport; sweet scents of summer air breathing over fields of beans or clover; the perfume of wet leaves or moss; the life of waving trees, and shadows always changing. When these or any of them tired, or in excess of pleasing tempted him to shut his eyes, there was slumber in the midst of all these soft delights, with the gentle wind murmuring like music in his ears, and everything around melting into one delicious dream.

Their hut—for it was little more—stood on the outskirts of the town, at a short distance from the high road, but in a secluded place, where few chance passengers strayed at any season of the year. It had a plot of garden-ground attached, which Barnaby, in fits and starts of working, trimmed, and kept in order. Within doors and without, his mother laboured for their common good; and hail, rain, snow, or sunshine, found no difference in her.

Though so far removed from the scenes of her past life, and with so little thought or hope of ever visiting them again, she seemed to have a strange desire to know what happened in the busy world. Any old newspaper, or scrap of intelligence from London, she caught at with avidity. The excitement it produced was not of a pleasurable kind, for her manner at such times expressed the keenest anxiety and dread; but it never faded in the least degree. Then, and in stormy winter nights, when the wind blew loud and strong, the old expression came into her face, and she would be seized with a fit of trembling, like one who had an ague. But Barnaby noted little of this; and putting a great constraint upon herself, she usually recovered her accustomed manner before the change had caught his observation.

Capitolo 45

Mentre le peggiori passioni degli uomini più malvagi agivano nell’oscurità, e il manto della religione, che avrebbe dovuto nascondere le deformità più orribili, minacciava di diventare il velo di tutto ciò che era buono e pacifico nella società, accadde un evento che cambiò nuovamente la sorte di due persone da cui questa storia era stata separata per molto tempo, e a cui ora deve tornare.

In una piccola cittadina inglese, i cui abitanti si sostentavano con il lavoro delle loro mani, intrecciando e preparando paglia per coloro che ne facevano cappelli e altri oggetti di vestito e ornamento. Nascondendosi sotto un nome falso e vivendo in una tranquilla povertà priva di cambiamenti, piaceri o preoccupazioni, se non quella di lottare giorno dopo giorno per guadagnarsi da vivere. Vivevano Barnaby e sua madre. La loro povera casetta non aveva mai visto il passo di uno sconosciuto da quando vi si erano rifugiati cinque anni prima; in tutto quel tempo non avevano mai avuto alcun contatto con il mondo esterno dal quale erano fuggiti. Lavorare in pace e dedicare tutto il proprio lavoro e la propria vita a quel figlio povero. Era tutto ciò che desiderava quella vedova. Se si può definire felicità la sorte di chi è afflitto da un dolore segreto, allora lei era felice. La tranquillità, la resignazione e il suo forte amore per colui che ne aveva così disperatamente bisogno, costituivano l’unico cerchio dei suoi piccoli piaceri. E finché tutto ciò rimaneva intatto, lei era soddisfatta.

Per Barnaby stesso, il tempo che era trascorso gli era passato come il vento. I giorni e gli anni non avevano mai fatto splendere una luce più intensa di ragione nella sua mente; nessuna ‘alba era sorta nella sua lunga, oscura -notte. A volte si sedeva – spesso per interi giorni – su un basso sgabello vicino al focolare o alla porta della capanna, impegnato nel suo lavoro (poiché aveva imparato l’arte che sua madre praticava), e ascoltava, che Dio lo aiutasse, le storie che lei gli raccontava, come un modo per tenerlo sotto il proprio sguardo. Non ricordava mai queste piccole narrazioni; la storia di ieri gli sembrava nuova il giorno dopo. Ma in quel momento gli piacevano molto; e quando l’umore lo permetteva, rimaneva pazientemente in casa, ascoltando le sue storie come un piccolo bambino, e lavorando felicemente dal sorgere del sole fino a quando non faceva troppo buio per vedere.

In altri momenti, e allora i loro scarsi guadagni erano appena sufficienti per procurarsi del cibo, anche se di qualità molto scarsa, lui si allontanava da casa dall’alba fino a quando il crepuscolo non diventava notte fonda. In quel luogo pochi, persino i bambini, potevano stare senza fare nulla, e lui non aveva compagni della sua stessa condizione. Infatti, non c’erano molte persone in grado di seguirlo nelle sue escursioni, anche se ci fossero state molte. Ma c’erano una ventina di cani randagi dei vicini che gli servivano altrettanto bene. Con due o tre di loro, o a volte con mezza dozzina che abbaiavano alle sue calcagna, lui partiva per lunghe escursioni che duravano l’intera giornata; e anche se al ritorno, al tramonto, i cani tornavano a casa zoppicanti e stanchi morti, Barnaby si rimetteva in viaggio all’alba con nuovi compagni dello stesso tipo. In tutte queste avventure, Grip, nel suo piccolo cestino sul dorso del padrone, faceva sempre parte del gruppo; e quando partivano in tempo sereno e di buon umore, nessun cane abbaiava più forte di lui.

I loro piaceri durante queste escursioni erano abbastanza semplici: un pezzo di pane e un po’ di carne, accompagnati da acqua del ruscello o della sorgente, bastavano per il loro pasto. I divertimenti di Barnaby consistevano nel camminare, correre e saltare, fino a quando non si stancava; poi si sdraiava nell’erba alta, accanto ai campi di mais in crescita o all’ombra di qualche albero alto, guardando le nuvole bianche che fluttuavano sul cielo azzurro e ascoltando il canto brillante della allodola. C’erano fiori selvatici da raccogliere: il papavero rosso brillante, la campanula delicata, il fiore di campo e la rosa. C’erano anche uccelli da osservare, pesci, formiche, vermi; conigli che correvano lungo i sentieri nel bosco per poi scomparire. Milioni di esseri viventi su cui concentrarsi, che aspettavano di essere scoperti, e di cui ricordarsi con gioia quando sparivano. E se tutto ciò non fosse stato sufficiente, o se si fossero stancati, c’era sempre la luce del sole splendente da osservare mentre filtrava tra le foglie degli alberi, nascondendosi in profondità nelle cavità, come laghetti d’argento. Profumi dolci dell’aria estiva che avvolgevano i campi di fagioli o trifoglio; il profumo delle foglie umide o del muschio; la vita vibrante degli alberi e le ombre in costante movimento. Quando tutto ciò non fosse stato sufficiente, o quando il piacere diventasse troppo intenso, c’era sempre il sonno, tra tutte queste dolci delizie: la brezza leggera che mormorava come musica nelle loro orecchie, e tutto intorno che si fondeva in un sogno meraviglioso.

La loro capanna – poiché non era molto di più – sorgeva ai margini della città, a breve distanza dalla strada principale, ma in un luogo isolato, dove raramente qualche viaggiatore casuale si avventurava in qualsiasi stagione dell’anno. Avevano anche un piccolo pezzo di terreno destinato al giardino, che Barnaby, con lavori intermittenti, curava e teneva in ordine. Dentro e fuori casa, sua madre si dedicava con impegno al bene comune; né la neve, né la pioggia, né il sole facevano alcuna differenza per lei.

Sebbene fosse così lontana dalle scene della sua vita passata, e con pochissime probabilità o speranze di tornarvi mai, sembrava provare un strano desiderio di sapere cosa fosse accaduto in quel mondo frenetico. Qualsiasi vecchio giornale o qualsiasi notizia proveniente da Londra veniva afferrato con avidità. L’emozione che provava non era certo piacevole; anzi, il suo comportamento in quei momenti rifletteva una profonda ansia e paura. Ma quel sentimento non svaniva mai nemmeno per un istante. Poi, nelle tempestose notti d’inverno, quando il vento soffiava forte, quell’espressione cupa riappariva sul suo viso, e lei iniziava a tremare, come se avesse la febbre. Ma Barnaby non si accorgeva quasi mai di nulla; lei, invece, imponendosi grandi restrizioni, riusciva solitamente a riprendere il proprio comportamento abituale prima che lui potesse notare quel cambiamento.

Grip was by no means an idle or unprofitable member of the humble household. Partly by dint of Barnaby’s tuition, and partly by pursuing a species of self-instruction common to his tribe, and exerting his powers of observation to the utmost, he had acquired a degree of sagacity which rendered him famous for miles round. His conversational powers and surprising performances were the universal theme: and as many persons came to see the wonderful raven, and none left his exertions unrewarded—when he condescended to exhibit, which was not always, for genius is capricious—his earnings formed an important item in the common stock. Indeed, the bird himself appeared to know his value well; for though he was perfectly free and unrestrained in the presence of Barnaby and his mother, he maintained in public an amazing gravity, and never stooped to any other gratuitous performances than biting the ankles of vagabond boys (an exercise in which he much delighted), killing a fowl or two occasionally, and swallowing the dinners of various neighbouring dogs, of whom the boldest held him in great awe and dread.

Time had glided on in this way, and nothing had happened to disturb or change their mode of life, when, one summer’s night in June, they were in their little garden, resting from the labours of the day. The widow’s work was yet upon her knee, and strewn upon the ground about her; and Barnaby stood leaning on his spade, gazing at the brightness in the west, and singing softly to himself.

‘A brave evening, mother! If we had, chinking in our pockets, but a few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be rich for life.’

‘We are better as we are,’ returned the widow with a quiet smile. ‘Let us be contented, and we do not want and need not care to have it, though it lay shining at our feet.’

‘Ay!’ said Barnaby, resting with crossed arms on his spade, and looking wistfully at the sunset, ‘that’s well enough, mother; but gold’s a good thing to have. I wish that I knew where to find it. Grip and I could do much with gold, be sure of that.’

‘What would you do?’ she asked.

‘What! A world of things. We’d dress finely—you and I, I mean; not Grip—keep horses, dogs, wear bright colours and feathers, do no more work, live delicately and at our ease. Oh, we’d find uses for it, mother, and uses that would do us good. I would I knew where gold was buried. How hard I’d work to dig it up!’

‘You do not know,’ said his mother, rising from her seat and laying her hand upon his shoulder, ‘what men have done to win it, and how they have found, too late, that it glitters brightest at a distance, and turns quite dim and dull when handled.’

‘Ay, ay; so you say; so you think,’ he answered, still looking eagerly in the same direction. ‘For all that, mother, I should like to try.’

‘Do you not see,’ she said, ‘how red it is? Nothing bears so many stains of blood, as gold. Avoid it. None have such cause to hate its name as we have. Do not so much as think of it, dear love. It has brought such misery and suffering on your head and mine as few have known, and God grant few may have to undergo. I would rather we were dead and laid down in our graves, than you should ever come to love it.’

For a moment Barnaby withdrew his eyes and looked at her with wonder. Then, glancing from the redness in the sky to the mark upon his wrist as if he would compare the two, he seemed about to question her with earnestness, when a new object caught his wandering attention, and made him quite forgetful of his purpose.

This was a man with dusty feet and garments, who stood, bare-headed, behind the hedge that divided their patch of garden from the pathway, and leant meekly forward as if he sought to mingle with their conversation, and waited for his time to speak. His face was turned towards the brightness, too, but the light that fell upon it showed that he was blind, and saw it not.

‘A blessing on those voices!’ said the wayfarer. ‘I feel the beauty of the night more keenly, when I hear them. They are like eyes to me. Will they speak again, and cheer the heart of a poor traveller?’

‘Have you no guide?’ asked the widow, after a moment’s pause.

‘None but that,’ he answered, pointing with his staff towards the sun; ‘and sometimes a milder one at night, but she is idle now.’

‘Have you travelled far?’

‘A weary way and long,’ rejoined the traveller as he shook his head. ‘A weary, weary, way. I struck my stick just now upon the bucket of your well—be pleased to let me have a draught of water, lady.’

‘Why do you call me lady?’ she returned. ‘I am as poor as you.’

‘Your speech is soft and gentle, and I judge by that,’ replied the man. ‘The coarsest stuffs and finest silks, are—apart from the sense of touch—alike to me. I cannot judge you by your dress.’

‘Come round this way,’ said Barnaby, who had passed out at the garden-gate and now stood close beside him. ‘Put your hand in mine. You’re blind and always in the dark, eh? Are you frightened in the dark? Do you see great crowds of faces, now? Do they grin and chatter?’

‘Alas!’ returned the other, ‘I see nothing. Waking or sleeping, nothing.’

Barnaby looked curiously at his eyes, and touching them with his fingers, as an inquisitive child might, led him towards the house.

‘You have come a long distance,’ said the widow, meeting him at the door. ‘How have you found your way so far?’

‘Use and necessity are good teachers, as I have heard—the best of any,’ said the blind man, sitting down upon the chair to which Barnaby had led him, and putting his hat and stick upon the red-tiled floor. ‘May neither you nor your son ever learn under them. They are rough masters.’

‘You have wandered from the road, too,’ said the widow, in a tone of pity.

Grip non era affatto un membro inutile o improduttivo di quella umile famiglia. In parte grazie all’insegnamento di Barnaby, e in parte attraverso una sorta di autoistruzione tipica della sua tribù, oltre a sfruttare al massimo le proprie capacità di osservazione, aveva acquisito un grado di saggezza che lo rendeva famoso in tutta la zona. Le sue abilità conversazionali e i suoi spettacoli sorprendenti erano l’argomento di conversazione generale; molte persone venivano a vedere quel meraviglioso corvo, e nessuno se ne andava senza aver ricevuto qualcosa in cambio. Quando si degnava di esibirsi – il che non accadeva sempre, poiché il genio è capriccioso – i suoi guadagni rappresentavano una parte importante del reddito familiare. Infatti, sembrava proprio che l’uccello stesso fosse consapevole del proprio valore: sebbene fosse completamente libero e senza restrizioni in presenza di Barnaby e sua madre, in pubblico manteneva un’aria estremamente seria e non si abbassava mai a compiere altre esibizioni “inutili”, se non mordere le caviglie dei ragazzi vagabondi – un’attività che gli piaceva molto – uccidere occasionalmente un paio di polli, o ingoiare il cibo di vari cani del vicinato, i quali lo temevano e lo rispettavano moltissimo.

Il tempo trascorreva in questo modo, e nulla disturbava o cambiava il loro stile di vita, quando, una notte d’estate, a giugno, si trovavano nel loro piccolo jardino, riposando dopo le fatiche della giornata. Il lavoro della vedova era ancora davanti a lei, sparpagliato sul terreno intorno; Barnaby, invece, stava appoggiato alla sua zappa, guardando il cielo verso ovest e cantando sottovoce per sé stesso.

“Buona serata, mamma! Se avessimo nelle tasche anche solo un po’ di quell’oro che si accumula lassù nel cielo, saremmo ricchi per tutta la vita.”

“Siamo meglio così come siamo,” rispose la vedova con un sorriso tranquillo. “Lasciateci essere soddisfatte; non vogliamo e non abbiamo bisogno di desiderare qualcosa che potrebbe trovarsi ai nostri piedi.”

“Ah!” disse Barnaby, appoggiato con le braccia incrociate sulla sua spada e guardando malinconicamente il tramonto, “Va bene così, mamma, ma l’oro è davvero una cosa preziosa. Vorrei solo sapere dove trovarlo. Con dell’oro, io e Grip potremmo fare molte cose, ne sono sicuro.”

“Cosa faresti tu?” chiese lei.

‘Che cosa! Un mondo pieno di possibilità. Ci vestiremmo con eleganza, tu ed io; non dovremmo più lavorare, tenere cavalli, cani, indossare colori vivaci e piume. Vivremmo in modo raffinato e comodo. Oh, troveremmo sicuramente modi per utilizzare tutto questo, mamma. Modi che ci farebbero del bene. Vorrei solo sapere dove sia sepolto l’oro. Lavorerei sodo per scavarlo fuori!’

“Non lo sai,” disse sua madre, alzandosi dal suo posto e posando la mano sulla sua spalla, “quello che gli uomini hanno fatto per ottenerla, e come abbiano scoperto, troppo tardi, che brilla di più da lontano, ma diventa molto pallida e opaca quando viene toccata.”

“Ah, ah, dici così, pensi così,” rispose lui, continuando a guardare con ansia nella stessa direzione. “Comunque sia, mamma, vorrei provare.”

“Non vedi,” disse lei, “quanto sia rossa? Niente porta addosso tante macchie di sangue quanto l’oro. Evitalo. Nessuno ha motivi più forti del nostro per odiare il suo nome. Non pensarci nemmeno, caro amore mio. Ha portato su di te e su di me tanta miseria e sofferenza come pochi hanno mai conosciuto. E che Dio non faccia sì che altri debbano subirla. Preferirei morire e essere sepolta nella mia tomba, piuttosto che tu potessi mai innamorarti di esso.”

Per un momento Barnaby distolse lo sguardo da lei e la fissò con stupore. Poi, passando dall’arancione del cielo al segno sul suo polso, come se volesse confrontare i due, sembrò volerle porre delle domande con serietà. Ma un altro oggetto attirò la sua attenzione, facendogli completamente dimenticare il motivo per cui era lì.

Era un uomo con i piedi e i vestiti pieni di polvere; stava in piedi, a capo scoperto, dietro la siepe che separava il loro pezzo di giardino dal sentiero. Si sporgeva in avanti con umiltà, come se volesse unirsi alla loro conversazione, aspettando il proprio momento per parlare. Anche il suo viso era rivolto verso la luce, ma quella che lo illuminava mostrava chiaramente che era cieco e non la vedeva affatto.

“Che benedizione quelle voci!” disse il viandante. “Quando le ascolto, percepisco ancora più intensamente la bellezza della notte. Sono come occhi per me. Parleranno di nuovo, forse, per rallegrare il cuore di un povero viaggiatore?”

“Non hai nessun guida?” chiese la vedova, dopo un momento di silenzio.

“Nient’altro che quello,” rispose, indicando con il suo bastone verso il sole; “e a volte, di notte, ne appare uno più debole, ma ora è inattivo.”

“Hai viaggiato lontano?”

“Un cammino lungo e faticoso,” rispose il viaggiatore scuotendo la testa. “Un cammino davvero molto lungo e faticoso. Poco fa ho colpito con il mio bastone il secchio del vostro pozzo; per favore, permettetemi di bere un sorso d’acqua, signora.”

“Perché mi chiamate signora? Sono povera quanto voi,” rispose lei.

“La tua voce è dolce e gentile; giudico in base a questo”, rispose l’uomo.
“I materiali più ruvidi e i tessuti di seta più pregiati, a parte il senso del tatto, sono per me tutti uguali. Non posso giudicarti in base al tuo abbigliamento.”

“Vieni da questa parte,” disse Barnaby, che si era addormentato alla porta del giardino e ora stava accanto a lui. “Metti la tua mano nella mia. Sei cieco e vivi sempre al buio, vero? Hai paura nel buio? Vedi adesso grandi folle di persone, sorridono e chiacchierano?”

“Ahimè!”, rispose l’altro, “non vedo nulla. Sia sveglio che addormentato, non vedo nulla.”

Barnaby guardò i suoi occhi con curiosità e, toccandoli con le dita, come avrebbe fatto un bambino curioso, lo guidò verso la casa.

“Hai percorso una lunga strada,” disse la vedova incontrandolo alla porta. “Come hai fatto a trovare la strada fino qui?”

“L’uso e la necessità sono ottimi insegnanti, come ho sentito dire, i migliori di tutti,” disse l’uomo cieco, sedendosi sulla sedia verso cui Barnaby lo aveva guidato, e posando il suo cappello e il suo bastone sul pavimento in lastre rosse. “Che né tu né tuo figlio dobbiate mai imparare da loro. Sono maestri duri e spietati.”

“Anche tu ti sei allontanato dalla strada giusta”, disse la vedova con tono di compassione.

‘Maybe, maybe,’ returned the blind man with a sigh, and yet with something of a smile upon his face, ‘that’s likely. Handposts and milestones are dumb, indeed, to me. Thank you the more for this rest, and this refreshing drink!’

As he spoke, he raised the mug of water to his mouth. It was clear, and cold, and sparkling, but not to his taste nevertheless, or his thirst was not very great, for he only wetted his lips and put it down again.

He wore, hanging with a long strap round his neck, a kind of scrip or wallet, in which to carry food. The widow set some bread and cheese before him, but he thanked her, and said that through the kindness of the charitable he had broken his fast once since morning, and was not hungry. When he had made her this reply, he opened his wallet, and took out a few pence, which was all it appeared to contain.

‘Might I make bold to ask,’ he said, turning towards where Barnaby stood looking on, ‘that one who has the gift of sight, would lay this out for me in bread to keep me on my way? Heaven’s blessing on the young feet that will bestir themselves in aid of one so helpless as a sightless man!’

Barnaby looked at his mother, who nodded assent; in another moment he was gone upon his charitable errand. The blind man sat listening with an attentive face, until long after the sound of his retreating footsteps was inaudible to the widow, and then said, suddenly, and in a very altered tone:

‘There are various degrees and kinds of blindness, widow. There is the connubial blindness, ma’am, which perhaps you may have observed in the course of your own experience, and which is a kind of wilful and self-bandaging blindness. There is the blindness of party, ma’am, and public men, which is the blindness of a mad bull in the midst of a regiment of soldiers clothed in red. There is the blind confidence of youth, which is the blindness of young kittens, whose eyes have not yet opened on the world; and there is that physical blindness, ma’am, of which I am, contrairy to my own desire, a most illustrious example. Added to these, ma’am, is that blindness of the intellect, of which we have a specimen in your interesting son, and which, having sometimes glimmerings and dawnings of the light, is scarcely to be trusted as a total darkness. Therefore, ma’am, I have taken the liberty to get him out of the way for a short time, while you and I confer together, and this precaution arising out of the delicacy of my sentiments towards yourself, you will excuse me, ma’am, I know.’

Having delivered himself of this speech with many flourishes of manner, he drew from beneath his coat a flat stone bottle, and holding the cork between his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion of the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her health, and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with infinite relish.

‘I am a citizen of the world, ma’am,’ said the blind man, corking his bottle, ‘and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore. You wonder who I am, ma’am, and what has brought me here. Such experience of human nature as I have, leads me to that conclusion, without the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soul as depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosity immediately, ma’am; immediately.’ With that he slapped his bottle on its broad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed his legs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous to proceeding any further.

The change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickedness of his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition—for we are accustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense, something in its place almost divine—and this alteration bred so many fears in her whom he addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, as it seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitor resumed:

‘Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour of meeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman’s name in your ear.—Zounds, ma’am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be glad to whisper my friend’s name in your ear?’

‘You need not repeat it,’ said the widow, with a stifled groan; ‘I see too well from whom you come.’

‘But as a man of honour, ma’am,’ said the blind man, striking himself on the breast, ‘whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say that I WILL mention that gentleman’s name. Ay, ay,’ he added, seeming to catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, ‘but not aloud. With your leave, ma’am, I desire the favour of a whisper.’

She moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in her ear; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in silence.

‘You are slow in conversation, widow,’ he said after a time, pausing in his draught. ‘We shall have to talk before your son.’

‘What would you have me do?’ she answered. ‘What do you want?’

‘We are poor, widow, we are poor,’ he retorted, stretching out his right hand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.

‘Poor!’ she cried. ‘And what am I?’

‘Comparisons are odious,’ said the blind man. ‘I don’t know, I don’t care. I say that we are poor. My friend’s circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?’

She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly before him, she said:

“Forse, forse,” rispose l’uomo cieco con un sospiro, ma sul suo viso c’era anche un leggero sorriso, “è probabile. I cartelli stradali e i punti di riferimento sono davvero inutili per me. Grazie ancora per questo riposo e per questa bevanda rinfrescante!”

Mentre parlava, sollevò la tazza di acqua alle labbra. Era limpida, fredda e ghiacciata, ma comunque non era di suo gusto; inoltre, la sua sete non era molto forte, perché si limitò a inumidire le labbra prima di posare di nuovo la tazza.

Indossava, appeso al collo con una lunga cinghia, un tipo di taccuino o portafoglio in cui conservare il cibo. La vedova gli mise davanti del pane e del formaggio, ma lui la ringraziò, dicendo che grazie alla gentilezza delle persone caritatevoli aveva già mangiato qualcosa quella mattina e non aveva fame. Dopo averle risposto così, aprì il suo portafoglio e ne tirò fuori alcune monete, che sembravano essere tutto ciò che conteneva.

“Posso osare chiedere, ”, disse, voltandosi verso il punto dove Barnaby stava osservando la scena, “quello che possiede il dono della vista potrebbe forse prepararmi del pane per permettermi di proseguire il mio cammino? Che la benedizione del cielo sia su quelle giovani gambe che si muovono al servizio di uno così indifeso come un uomo non vedente!”

Barnaby guardò sua madre, che annuì in segno di assenso; un attimo dopo se ne andò per compiere la sua buona azione. L’uomo cieco rimase seduto ad ascoltare con aria attenta, fino a quando il suono dei suoi passi non scomparve del tutto; poi, all’improvviso, cambiando completamente tono, disse:

“Esistono vari gradi e tipi di cecità, signora. C’è la cecità derivante dalle relazioni coniugali, che forse avrete potuto osservare nella vostra stessa esperienza; si tratta di una sorta di cecità volontaria, causata dall’autocompiacimento. C’è poi la cecità dovuta alle parti politiche in conflitto, quella dei pubblici figure, simile alla cecità di un toro furioso in mezzo a un reggimento di soldati vestiti di rosso. C’è infine la cecità della giovinezza, quella degli agnellini che non hanno ancora aperto gli occhi sul mondo; e poi c’è quella cecità fisica, di cui io stesso, contro ogni mia volontà, sono un esempio molto evidente. A queste si aggiunge, signora, quella cecità dell’intelletto: ne abbiamo un esempio nel vostro interessante figlio; essa, sebbene a volte presenti barlumi di luce, difficilmente può essere considerata una totale oscurità. Pertanto, ho preso la libertà di allontanarlo per un breve periodo, mentre voi ed io discutiamo insieme. Questa precauzione deriva dalla delicatezza dei miei sentimenti verso di voi; vi prego di scusarmi, signora, lo so.”

Dopo aver pronunciato questo discorso con molte enfasi e gesti teatrali, tirò fuori da sotto il suo cappotto una bottiglia di pietra piatta; tenendo il tappo tra i denti, ne versò abbondantemente il contenuto nel proprio bicchiere d’acqua. Brindò educatamente alla sua salute e a quella delle altre signore, poi, dopo aver posato la bottiglia vuota, si leccò le labbra con grande piacere.

“Sono un cittadino del mondo, signora,” disse l’uomo cieco, chiudendo la sua bottiglia, “e se sembro comportarmi con libertà, è proprio per questo motivo. Voi vi chiedete chi io sia e cosa mi abbia portato qui. Una esperienza così profonda della natura umana, come la mia, mi porta a questa conclusione, senza l’aiuto degli occhi che permettano di leggere i movimenti della vostra ‘anima riflessi nei vostri tratti femminili. Risponderò immediatamente alla vostra curiosità, signora. Subito.” Detto ciò, batté la bottiglia sul suo dorso largo, la ripose sotto i vestiti come prima, incrociò le gambe, intrecciò le mani e si sistemò nella sedia, pronto a proseguire.

Il cambiamento nel suo comportamento fu così inaspettato; l’astuzia e la malvagità delle sue azioni furono ulteriormente accentuate dalle sue condizioni particolari. Poiché siamo abituati a vedere, nelle persone che hanno perso il senso umano, qualcosa che ne prende il posto, quasi divino. E questo cambiamento suscitò in lei tanta paura che non riuscì a pronunciare nemmeno una parola. Dopo aver atteso, apparentemente, qualche commento o risposta, senza ottenere nulla, la visitatrice proseguì:

‘Signora, il mio nome è Stagg. Un mio amico, che desiderava l’onore di incontrarvi in qualsiasi momento negli ultimi cinque anni, mi ha incaricato di venire a trovarvi. Sarei felice di sussurrarvi il nome di quel gentiluomo all’orecchio. Perbacco, signora, siete sorda? Non sentite che vi dico che sarei felice di sussurrarvi il nome del mio amico?’

“Non c’è bisogno che lo ripeti,” disse la vedova con un gemito soffocato; “so fin troppo bene da chi vieni.”

“Ma come uomo d’‘onore, signora,” disse l’uomo cieco, battendosi il petto, “la cui credibilità non può essere messa in discussione, mi permetto di dire che RIVELERÒ il nome di quel gentiluomo. Ah, ah,” aggiunse, come se avesse percepito con l’udito acuto il movimento della sua mano, “ma non ad alta voce. Con il vostro permesso, signora, desidero chiedervi un sussurro.”

Si avvicinò a lui e si chinò. Lui mormorò qualcosa all’orecchio di lei; lei, stringendosi le mani, camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza come se fosse distratta. Il cieco, con perfetta calma, tirò fuori di nuovo la sua bottiglia, preparò un altro bicchiere, lo riempì come prima e, bevendo di tanto in tanto, la seguiva in silenzio.

“Parli lentamente, vedova,” disse dopo un po’, interrompendosi mentre beveva il suo bicchiere. “Dovremo parlare prima che arrivi tuo figlio.”

“Cosa vuoi che faccia?”, rispose lei. “Che cosa desideri?”

“Siamo poveri, siamo vedove, siamo poveri,” ribatté lui, stendendo la mano destra e strofinando il pollice contro il palmo.

“Povera!” gridò. “E io allora?”

“Le comparazioni sono odiose,” disse l’uomo cieco. “Non lo so, non mi interessa. Dico solo che siamo poveri. Le condizioni di mio amico sono indifferenti, così come le mie. Dobbiamo avere i nostri diritti, vedova, altrimenti dovremo essere comprati. Ma tu lo sai bene, tanto quanto me, quindi a cosa serve parlare?”

Continuava a camminare avanti e indietro in modo frenetico. Alla fine, si fermò di colpo davanti a lui e disse.

‘Is he near here?’

‘He is. Close at hand.’

‘Then I am lost!’

‘Not lost, widow,’ said the blind man, calmly; ‘only found. Shall I call him?’

‘Not for the world,’ she answered, with a shudder.

‘Very good,’ he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would rise and walk to the door. ‘As you please, widow. His presence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live; to live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:—I say no more.’

‘Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?’ she retorted. ‘I do not think you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on this poor place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.’

The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:

‘—Beside the question, ma’am, beside the question. I have the softest heart in the world, but I can’t live upon it. Many a gentleman lives well upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very great drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which sympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish to arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the case stands.—If you are very poor now, it’s your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you and he being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as I 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.

“È vicino qui?”

“È qui, proprio vicino a noi.”

“Allora sono perduto!”

“Non è perso, vedova,” disse l’uomo cieco con calma; “è solo stato trovato. Devo chiamarlo?”

“Per nulla al mondo,” rispose lei, rabbrividendo.

“Molto bene,” rispose lui, incrociando di nuovo le gambe, come se avesse intenzione di alzarsi e andare verso la porta. “Come vuoi tu, vedova. Non credo che la sua presenza sia necessaria. Ma sia lui che io dobbiamo vivere; per vivere, dobbiamo mangiare e bere; per mangiare e bere, abbiamo bisogno di denaro. Non ho altro da dire.”

“Sai quanto sia povera e in difficoltà?” ribatté lei. “Non credo che tu lo sappia, né che possa capirlo. Se avessi occhi e potessi guardarti intorno in questo posto misero, provheresti compassione per me. Oh! Lascia che la tua stessa sofferenza ti renda più compassionevole nei miei confronti, amica mia.”

Il cieco schioccò le dita mentre rispondeva:

‘– A parte questa questione, signora. A parte questa questione. Ho il cuore più tenero del mondo, ma non posso vivere basandomi solo su quello. Molti gentiluomini se la cavano benissimo con un cuore “tenero”, ma considererebbero una simile qualità un grande svantaggio. Ascoltate me: si tratta di una questione di affari, e le emozioni personali non c’entrano nulla. Come amici, desideriamo risolverla in modo soddisfacente, se possibile. Se ora siete molto povera, è stata una vostra scelta. Avete degli amici pronti ad aiutarvi in caso di bisogno. Il mio amico, invece, si trova in una situazione ancora più difficile della maggior parte delle persone; essendo legati da un obiettivo comune, naturalmente si affida a voi per ricevere aiuto. Vive con me da molto tempo, (come ho detto prima, ho davvero un cuore tenero) e approvo pienamente la sua decisione. Voi avete sempre avuto un tetto sopra la testa; lui, invece, è sempre stato un escluso. Voi avete vostro figlio che vi consola e vi aiuta; lui, invece, non ha nessuno. Gli svantaggi non possono essere distribuiti in modo così squilibrato. Siete nella stessa situazione: dobbiamo dividere il “carico” in modo più equo.’

Stava per parlare, ma lui la fermò e continuò da solo.

“L’unico modo per farlo è preparare di tanto in tanto una piccola borsa per il mio amico; ed è questo che consiglio. Per quel che ne so, non nutre alcun rancore verso di voi, signora: così poco, che anche se lo avete trattato con durezza più volte e, potrei dire, lo avete cacciato via, lui ha ancora tanta stima per voi che credo che anche se lo deludeste ora, accetterebbe comunque di prendersi cura di vostro figlio e di farne un uomo.”

Poneva molta enfasi su queste ultime parole e fece una pausa, come se volesse vedere quale effetto avessero prodotto. Lei rispose soltanto con le sue lacrime.

“È un ragazzo perbene,” disse il cieco, pensieroso, “per molti versi. E non sembra contrario all’idea di provare fortuna in qualche piccolo cambiamento o attività frenetica, a giudicare da ciò che ho sentito della sua conversazione con te ieri sera. Insomma, il mio amico ha un bisogno urgente di venti sterline. Tu, che puoi rinunciare a un’annuità, potresti procurargli quella somma. È un peccato che tu debba metterti nei guai. Sembri vivere molto bene qui, e vale davvero la pena continuare così. Venti sterline, vedova. È una richiesta moderata. Sai dove chiederle; una lettera di raccomandazione te le farà ottenere facilmente. Venti sterline!”

Stava per rispondergli di nuovo, ma lui la fermò ancora una volta.

“Non dica nulla affrettatamente; potrebbe pentirsene dopo. Pensici un po’. Venti sterline, denaro altrui. Che facilità! Riflettici bene. Non ho fretta. Sta arrivando la notte, e se non dormo qui, non andrò lontano. Venti sterline. Pensaci, signora, per venti minuti; dedicami un minuto a ogni sterlina. È un tempo più che sufficiente. Nel frattempo godrò dell’aria fresca, che in queste zone è davvero dolce e piacevole.”

Con queste parole, si diresse verso la porta, portando con sé la sua sedia. Poi, sedutosi sotto un rampicante di gelsomino e stendendo le gambe oltre la soglia in modo che nessuno potesse entrare o uscire senza che se ne accorgesse, tirò fuori dalla tasca una pipa, pietra focaia, acciaio e scatola di esca, e cominciò a fumare. Era una bella serata, di quel tipo dolce e tranquillo, in quella epoca dell’anno in cui il crepuscolo è più incantevole. Di tanto in tanto si fermava per lasciare che il fumo si disperdesse lentamente nell’aria e per annusare il profumo delizioso dei >fiori, seduto lì tranquillamente, come se quella casetta fosse la sua dimora legittima e ne avesse posseduto l’usufrutto esclusivo per tutta la vita. Aspettando la risposta della vedova e il ritorno di Barnaby.

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 ourselves in that wide place—there would be some trace of us in any other town—then travel on again, and find some new abode.’

Little persuasion was required to reconcile Barnaby to anything that promised change. In another minute, he was wild with delight; in another, full of grief at the prospect of parting with his friends the dogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful of what she had said to prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of terrors and strange questions. His light-heartedness in the end surmounted all his other feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might be ready on the morrow, he soon fell fast asleep before the poor turf fire.

His mother did not close her eyes, but sat beside him, watching. Every breath of wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstep at the door, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night, a night of horror. At length the welcome day appeared. When she had made the little preparations which were needful for their journey, and had prayed upon her knees with many tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up gaily at her summons.

His clothes were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour of love. As the sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of their deserted home, and turned away. The sky was blue and bright. The air was fresh and filled with a thousand perfumes. Barnaby looked upward, and laughed with all his heart.

But it was a day he usually devoted to a long ramble, and one of the dogs—the ugliest of them all—came bounding up, and jumping round him in the fulness of his joy. He had to bid him go back in a surly tone, and his heart smote him while he did so. The dog retreated; turned with a half-incredulous, half-imploring look; came a little back; and stopped.

It was the last appeal of an old companion and a faithful friend—cast off. Barnaby could bear no more, and as he shook his head and waved his playmate home, he burst into tears.

‘Oh mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches at the door, and finds it always shut!’

There was such a sense of home in the thought, that though her own eyes overflowed she would not have obliterated the recollection of it, either from her own mind or from his, for the wealth of the whole wide world.

Capitolo 46

Quando Barnaby tornò con il pane, la vista del pio vecchio >pellegrino che fumava la sua pipa e si comportava come se fosse davvero a >casa, sembrò sorprendere anche lui; tanto più che quell’uomo onesto, invece di mettere il pane nel proprio portafoglio come un oggetto raro e prezioso, lo gettò con noncuranza sul tavolo e, dopo aver tirato fuori la sua bottiglia, gli disse di sedersi e bere.

“Perché porto con me un po’ di conforto, capite?” disse. “Provateci. È buono?”

Le lacrime riempirono gli occhi di Barnaby mentre tossiva a causa del forte vento e rispose affermativamente.

“Bevi ancora un po’,” disse l’uomo cieco; “non aver paura. Di solito non assaggi nulla del genere, vero?”

“Spesso!”, esclamò Barnaby. “Mai!”.

“Troppo poveri?” rispose l’uomo cieco con un sospiro. “Ah. È davvero triste. Tua madre, povera ‘anima, sarebbe più felice se fosse più ricca, Barnaby.”

“Beh, le dirò esattamente quello che le ho detto proprio prima che tu arrivassi, quella notte, quando tutto quel oro era nel cielo,” disse Barnaby, avvicinando la sedia a sé e guardandolo con attenzione. “Dimmi, esiste qualche modo per diventare ricchi? Posso scoprirlo?”

“Qualsiasi modo. Cento modi possibili.”

“Ah, ah?” rispose lui. “Dici davvero? Che cosa sono?. No, madre, lo chiedo per il tuo bene; non per il mio. Davvero, per il tuo bene. Che cosa sono?”

L’uomo cieco girò il viso, sul quale si leggeva un sorriso di trionfo, verso il punto dove la vedova stava in grande angoscia; e rispose.

“Ma certo, non sono cose che possono essere scoperte da chi se ne sta sempre in casa, mio caro amico.”

“Perché resti sempre in casa?”, gridò Barnaby, tirando la manica del ragazzo. “Ma io non sono uno di quelli. Ora, ti sbagli: spesso esco prima dell’alba e torno a casa quando il sole è già andato a riposare. Sono nei boschi prima ancora che il giorno raggiunga gli angoli ombrosi; spesso mi trovo lì anche quando la brillante luna spia tra i rami, guardando giù verso un’altra ‘luna’ che vive nell’acqua. Mentre cammino, cerco tra l’erba e il muschio quel po’ di denaro per cui lei lavora così sodo e che le ha fatto versare tante lacrime. Quando dormo all’ombra, sogno di trovarlo: lo immagino ammucchiato, nascosto tra i cespugli. Lo vedo brillare, come le gocce di rugiada tra le foglie. Ma non lo trovo mai. Ditemi dove si trova. Andrei lì anche se il viaggio durasse un intero anno. So che lei sarebbe molto più felice se tornassi a casa con qualcosa per lei. Parlate ancora. Vi ascolterò, anche se parlate tutta la notte, ”

L’uomo cieco passò dolcemente la mano sul viso di quel poveretto; notando che i suoi gomiti erano appoggiati sulla tavola, che il mento riposava sulle mani, che si sporgeva in avanti con grande interesse e ansia, esitò per un momento, come se volesse che la vedova osservasse tutto ciò attentamente, poi rispose:

“È nel mondo, coraggioso Barnaby, nel mondo gioioso e vivace; non in luoghi solitari come quelli in cui trascorri il tuo tempo, ma nelle folle, dove c’è rumore e movimento.”

“Bene! Bene!” esclamò Barnaby strofinandosi le mani. “Sì! A me piace molto. Anche a Grip gli piace. Ci sta bene a entrambi. È davvero coraggioso!”

“–Quei tipi di posti,” disse l’uomo cieco, “che a un giovane piacciono, e in cui un buon figlio possa fare di più per sua madre, e anche per sé stesso, in un mese, di quanto potrebbe fare qui in tutta la vita. Cioè, se avesse un amico, capisci, e qualcuno con cui consultarsi.”

“Lo senti questo, mamma?” gridò Barnaby, voltandosi verso di lei con gioia.
“Mai dirmi che non dovremmo prestarci attenzione, anche se ci fosse davanti ai nostri piedi. Perché ora ci diamo così tanta importanza? Perché lavori dalla mattina fino alla notte?”

“Certamente,” disse l’uomo cieco, “certamente. Non hai nessuna risposta, vedova? La tua mente,” aggiunse lentamente, “non è ancora pronta a decidere?”

“Lasciami parlare con te in privato”, rispose lei.

“Metti la tua mano sulla mia manica,” disse Stagg alzandosi dal tavolo; “e portami dove vuoi. Coraggio, Barnaby. Ne parleremo ancora: ho un debole per te. Aspettami lì finché non torno. Ora, vedova, ”

Lo portò fuori dalla porta, nel piccolo giardino, dove si fermarono.

“Sei un agente davvero competente,” disse lei, con voce leggermente affannata, “e rappresenti molto bene l’uomo che ti ha mandato qui.”

“Gli dirò che è stato tu a dirlo,” ribatté Stagg. “Lui ha stima per te, e mi rispetterà ancora di più (se possibile) per il tuo complimento. Dobbiamo avere i nostri diritti, vedova.”

“Diritti! Lo sai?” disse lei, “che una mia parola, ”

“Perché ti fermi?” rispose calmo l’uomo cieco, dopo una lunga pausa.
“So forse che una tua parola potrebbe mettere mio amico nella posizione finale della danza della vita? Sì, lo so. E allora? Quella parola non verrà mai pronunciata, vedova.”

“Ne sei sicuro?”

“Assolutamente. Sono così sicuro che non sono venuto qui per discutere questa questione. Dico soltanto che dobbiamo avere i nostri diritti, altrimenti dovremo essere comprati con denaro. Restate su questo punto, oppure lasciate che torni al mio giovane amico. Ho un interesse per lui e desidero aiutarlo a farsi una fortuna. Bah! Non c’è bisogno di parlare,” aggiunse in fretta; “so già cosa direste: l’avete già accennato una volta. Forse non provo nulla per voi perché sono cieco? No, non è vero. Perché dovrei essere diverso dagli uomini che vedono? La volontà del Cielo si manifesta nel fatto che io non abbia occhi, proprio come si manifesta nel fatto che voi ne abbiate due? Voi vi scandalizzate se un cieco ruba o mente. Ma per lui, che a malapena riesce a sopravvivere con pochi penny gettati per strada, è molto peggio che per voi, che potete vedere, lavorare e non dipendere dalla misericordia altrui. Maledizione su di voi! Voi, che avete cinque sensi, potete comportarvi male come volete; noi, che ne abbiamo quattro e ci manca il più importante, dobbiamo vivere e comportarci moralmente nonostante la nostra sofferenza. Questa è la vera carità e giustizia da parte dei ricchi verso i poveri, in tutto il mondo, ”

Si fermò per un momento dopo aver detto queste parole, e sentì il suono dei soldi che tintinnavano nella sua mano.

“‘Beh?’” esclamò, riprendendo rapidamente il suo solito tono. “Dovrebbe portare a qualcosa. Il punto, vedova?”

“Prima rispondi a una domanda,” replicò lei. “Dici che è vicino. Ha lasciato Londra?”

“Essendo così vicino, vedova, sembra proprio che lo abbia,” rispose l’uomo cieco.

“Voglio dire, per sempre? Lo sai bene.”

“Sì, per sempre. La verità è che, vedova mia, se fosse rimasto lì più a lungo, avrebbero potuto verificarsi conseguenze sgradevoli. È partito proprio per questo motivo.”

“Ascolta,” disse la vedova, distribuendo del denaro su un banco accanto a loro. “Conta.”

“Sei,” disse l’uomo cieco, ascoltando attentamente. “Ce ne sono altri?”

“Sono i risparmi di cinque anni,” rispose lei, “sei ghinee.”

Tese la mano per prendere una delle monete; la esaminò attentamente, se la mise tra i denti e la fece tintinnare contro il banco; poi annuì verso di lei per farle continuare.

‘Queste cose sono state raccolte e messe insieme affinché la malattia o la morte non separassero me dal mio figlio. Sono state acquistate al prezzo di molta fame, duro lavoro e mancanza di riposo. Se LE potete prendere, fatelo, a condizione che lasciate immediatamente questo posto e non entriate più in quella stanza dove lui ora si trova, aspettando il vostro ritorno.’

“Sei ghinee,” disse l’uomo cieco scuotendo la testa, “anche se fossero le monete più pesanti mai coniate, non arrivano nemmeno lontanamente alle venti sterline, vedova.”

“Per una somma del genere, come sapete, devo scrivere in una parte lontana del paese. Per farlo e ricevere una risposta, ho bisogno di tempo.”

“Due giorni?” disse Stagg.

“Di più.”

“Quattro giorni?”

“Una settimana. Torna in questo stesso giorno della settimana, alla stessa ora, ma non andare alla casa. Aspetta all’angolo del vicolo.”

“Certo,” disse l’uomo cieco, con uno sguardo astuto, “ti troverò lì, vero?”

“Dove altro posso cercare rifugio? Non è già abbastanza che mi abbiate ridotto in povertà e che io abbia sacrificato tutto ciò che avevo guadagnato con tanta fatica per preservare questa >casa?”

“Hmph!”, disse l’uomo cieco dopo averci pensato un po’. “Mettimi con il viso rivolto verso il punto di cui parli, e nel mezzo della strada. È questo il luogo?”

‘It is.’

“In questo giorno, a quest’ora del tramonto. E pensate a lui, al sicuro tra le mura di casa. Per ora, buona notte.”

Non gli rispose nulla, e nemmeno lui si fermò per aspettare una risposta. Se ne andò lentamente, girando la testa di tanto in tanto, come se fosse curioso di sapere se qualcuno lo stesse osservando. Le ombre della notte si stavano avvicinando rapidamente, e presto scomparve nel buio. Tuttavia, solo dopo essersi assicurata che se ne fosse andato del tutto, rientrò nella capanna e chiuse rapidamente la porta e le finestre.

“Mamma!”, disse Barnaby. “Che c’è? Dove è quell’uomo non vedente?”

“È andato.”

“Se n’è andato!” gridò, alzandosi in piedi. “Devo parlare di nuovo con lui. In quale direzione è andato?”

“Non lo so,” rispose lei, incrociando le braccia intorno a lui. “Non devi uscire di notte. Là fuori ci sono fantasmi e >sogni.”

“Eh?” disse Barnaby, sussurrando spaventato.

“Non è sicuro muoversi; dobbiamo lasciare questo posto domani.”

“Questo posto! Questo cottage, e il piccolo giardino, mamma!”

“Sì! Domani mattina, all’alba. Dobbiamo recarci a Londra; perderci in quel vasto luogo. In qualche altro paese non ci sarebbero tracce di noi. Poi proseguire il viaggio e trovare una nuova dimora.”

Non fu necessaria molta persuasione per far accettare a Barnaby qualsiasi cosa promettesse cambiamento. In un momento era pieno di gioia; in un altro, colmo di tristezza all’idea di dover separarsi dai suoi amici, i cani; poi di nuovo felice. Poi iniziò ad avere paura di ciò che lei gli aveva detto per impedirgli di vagabondare quella notte, e fu assalito da terrore e domande strane. Alla fine, la sua spensieratezza prevalse su tutti gli altri sentimenti; si sdraiò nei suoi vestiti, pronto a partire il giorno dopo, e presto si addormentò davanti al povero fuoco di torba.

Sua madre non chiuse gli occhi, ma rimase seduta accanto a lui, osservando tutto. Ogni soffio di >vento le risuonava nelle orecchie come quei passi temuti alla porta, o come quella mano che si posava sulla serratura, trasformando la tranquilla estate in una notte di terrore. Finalmente arrivò il giorno tanto atteso. Dopo aver fatto le piccole preparazioni necessarie per il loro viaggio e aver pregato in ginocchio, con molte lacrime, svegliò Barnaby, che si alzò felice non appena la chiamò.

I suoi vestiti erano già pochi, e portare con sé Grip rappresentava un vero sforzo, fatto per amore. Quando il sole iniziò a riversare i suoi primi raggi sulla terra, chiusero la porta della loro abitazione deserta e se ne andarono. Il cielo era blu e luminoso; l’aria era fresca e piena di mille profumi. Barnaby alzò lo sguardo e rise con tutto il cuore.

Ma era proprio il giorno che di solito dedicava a lunghe passeggiate. Uno dei >cani – il più brutto di tutti – arrivò correndo verso di lui, saltando intorno a lui per la sua grande gioia. Fu costretto a mandarlo via con tono brusco; e mentre lo faceva, il suo cuore si strinse nel dolore. Il cane si allontanò, poi tornò indietro con uno sguardo a metà incredulo, a metà supplichevole. Si avvicinò ancora un po’, poi si fermò di nuovo.

Era l’ultima richiesta di un vecchio compagno e un fedele amico, rifiutata. Barnaby non ne poteva più; scuotendo la testa e salutando con la mano il suo compagno di giochi, scoppiò in lacrime.

“Oh madre, madre, quanto sarà triste quando cercherà di grattare alla porta e la troverà sempre chiusa!”

In quel pensiero c’era un senso così forte di >casa che, anche se le sue stesse lacrime avessero inondato tutto, non avrebbe mai voluto cancellare quel ricordo, né dalla propria mente né dalla sua, per tutta la ricchezza del mondo intero.

Chapter 47

In the exhaustless catalogue of Heaven’s mercies to mankind, the power we have of finding some germs of comfort in the hardest trials must ever occupy the foremost place; not only because it supports and upholds us when we most require to be sustained, but because in this source of consolation there is something, we have reason to believe, of the divine spirit; something of that goodness which detects amidst our own evil doings, a redeeming quality; something which, even in our fallen nature, we possess in common with the angels; which had its being in the old time when they trod the earth, and lingers on it yet, in pity.

How often, on their journey, did the widow remember with a grateful heart, that out of his deprivation Barnaby’s cheerfulness and affection sprung! How often did she call to mind that but for that, he might have been sullen, morose, unkind, far removed from her—vicious, perhaps, and cruel! How often had she cause for comfort, in his strength, and hope, and in his simple nature! Those feeble powers of mind which rendered him so soon forgetful of the past, save in brief gleams and flashes,—even they were a comfort now. The world to him was full of happiness; in every tree, and plant, and flower, in every bird, and beast, and tiny insect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground, he had delight. His delight was hers; and where many a wise son would have made her sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast with thankfulness and love.

Their stock of money was low, but from the hoard she had told into the blind man’s hand, the widow had withheld one guinea. This, with the few pence she possessed besides, was to two persons of their frugal habits, a goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had Grip in company; and when they must otherwise have changed the guinea, it was but to make him exhibit outside an alehouse door, or in a village street, or in the grounds or gardens of a mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have given nothing in charity, were ready to bargain for more amusement from the talking bird.

One day—for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides in carts and waggons, were on the road a week—Barnaby, with Grip upon his shoulder and his mother following, begged permission at a trim lodge to go up to the great house, at the other end of the avenue, and show his raven. The man within was inclined to give them admittance, and was indeed about to do so, when a stout gentleman with a long whip in his hand, and a flushed face which seemed to indicate that he had had his morning’s draught, rode up to the gate, and called in a loud voice and with more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant to have it opened directly.

‘Who hast thou got here?’ said the gentleman angrily, as the man threw the gate wide open, and pulled off his hat, ‘who are these? Eh? art a beggar, woman?’

The widow answered with a curtsey, that they were poor travellers.

‘Vagrants,’ said the gentleman, ‘vagrants and vagabonds. Thee wish to be made acquainted with the cage, dost thee—the cage, the stocks, and the whipping-post? Where dost come from?’

She told him in a timid manner,—for he was very loud, hoarse, and red-faced,—and besought him not to be angry, for they meant no harm, and would go upon their way that moment.

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ replied the gentleman, ‘we don’t allow vagrants to roam about this place. I know what thou want’st—stray linen drying on hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What hast got in that basket, lazy hound?’

‘Grip, Grip, Grip—Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip the knowing—Grip, Grip, Grip,’ cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up on the approach of this stern personage. ‘I’m a devil I’m a devil I’m a devil, Never say die Hurrah Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we’ll all have tea.’

‘Take the vermin out, scoundrel,’ said the gentleman, ‘and let me see him.’

Barnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not without much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground; which he had no sooner done than Grip drew fifty corks at least, and then began to dance; at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprising insolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that he appeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot.

The cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman’s mind, than the raven’s power of speech, and was indeed particularly adapted to his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again, but despite his being very peremptory, and notwithstanding that Barnaby coaxed to the utmost, Grip turned a deaf ear to the request, and preserved a dead silence.

‘Bring him along,’ said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip, who had watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on before them;—constantly flapping his wings, and screaming ‘cook!’ meanwhile, as a hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collation would be acceptable.

Barnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman on horseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud and coarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the tone of which alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and, as a matter of course, could make him no reply. On one of these occasions, when the gentleman appeared disposed to exercise his horsewhip, the widow ventured to inform him in a low voice and with tears in her eyes, that her son was of weak mind.

‘An idiot, eh?’ said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. ‘And how long hast thou been an idiot?’

‘She knows,’ was Barnaby’s timid answer, pointing to his mother—‘I—always, I believe.’

‘From his birth,’ said the widow.

‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the gentleman, ‘not a bit of it. It’s an excuse not to work. There’s nothing like flogging to cure that disorder. I’d make a difference in him in ten minutes, I’ll be bound.’

Capitolo 47

Nel catalogo infinito delle misericordie del Cielo verso l’umanità, il potere che abbiamo di trovare qualche germoglio di conforto nelle prove più difficili deve occupare senza dubbio il primo posto; non solo perché ci sostiene e ci aiuta proprio quando ne abbiamo maggior bisogno, ma anche perché in questa fonte di consolazione c’è qualcosa – ne abbiamo motivo di credere – che appartiene allo spirito divino: qualcosa di quella bontà che, tra le nostre azioni malvagie, riesce a individuare aspetti redentori; qualcosa che, anche nella nostra natura decaduta, possediamo in comune con gli angeli; qualcosa che esisteva già nell’antichità, quando essi camminavano sulla terra, e che ancora oggi sopravvive su di essa, per pietà.

Quante volte, durante il loro Viaggio, la vedova ricordava con gratitudine che proprio grazie alla sua allegria e affetto Barnaby riusciva a superare le difficoltà! Quante volte pensava che senza di esse, lui avrebbe potuto essere cupo, malinconico, crudele, forse persino violento e spietato. Eppure, nella sua forza, nella sua >Speranza e nella sua semplice >Natura, trovava sempre motivo di conforto. Anche quelle deboli capacità mentali che lo facevano dimenticare facilmente il passato, sebbene solo per brevi istanti, rappresentavano ora una vera consolazione per lei. Il mondo intero era pieno di felicità per lui: in ogni albero, pianta e fiore, in ogni uccello, animale e piccolo insetto, trovava gioia ovunque. La sua gioia era anche la sua; mentre molti figli saggi avrebbero potuto rattristarla, questo povero ragazzo ingenuo le riempiva il cuore di gratitudine e Amore.

Il loro denaro era poco, ma dalla somma che aveva dato al cieco, la vedova ne aveva tenuto da parte una ghinea. Questa, unita ai pochi penny che possedeva ancora, rappresentava per due persone dalle abitudini frugali una somma considerevole. Inoltre, avevano Grip con loro; e quando dovevano cambiare quella ghinea, lo facevano soltanto per farla esibire fuori da una taverna, in una strada di villaggio o nei giardini di una residenza più elegante. Decine di persone che altrimenti non avrebbero dato nulla in carità, erano pronte a pagare molto per godersi le buffonate di quel “uccello parlante”.

Un giorno – poiché viaggiavano lentamente e, nonostante facessero molte spese di carrozza e vagone, trascorrevano comunque una settimana intera sulla strada – Barnaby, con Grip sulle spalle e sua madre che li seguiva, chiese il permesso in una graziosa locanda per poter andare fino alla grande casa all’altra estremità dell’avenue e mostrare il suo corvo. L’uomo che si trovava all’interno era disposto ad acconsentire e stava proprio per farlo, quando un signore robusto, con un lungo frustino in mano e il viso arrossato – segno probabilmente del fatto che aveva appena bevuto la sua dose mattutina di alcol – arrivò alla porta, chiamò ad alta voce e, usando più imprecazioni del necessario, fece aprire immediatamente l’ingresso.

“Chi hai portato qui?” disse il gentiluomo arrabbiato, mentre l’uomo apriva completamente il cancello e si toglieva il cappello. “Chi sono queste persone? Ehi, sei forse una mendicante, donna?”

La vedova rispose con un inchino, dicendo che erano poveri viaggiatori.

“Vagabondi,” disse il gentiluomo, “veri vagabondi. Volete conoscere la prigione, vero, la prigione, le catene e il palo per le frustate? Da dove venite?”

Glielo disse in modo timido, perché lui era molto rumoroso, raucoso e aveva il viso rosso; lo pregò di non arrabbiarsi, perché non volevano fare del male e avrebbero proseguito immediatamente per la loro strada.

“Non ne essere troppo sicuro,” rispose il gentiluomo, “non permettiamo che i vagabondi gironzolino in queste zone. So cosa vuoi: lenzuola abbandonate ad asciugare sugli steccati e pollame disperso, eh? Cosa c’è in quel cesto, pigro scansafatiche?”

“Grip, Grip, Grip. Afferrate i furbi, afferrate i malvagi, afferrate coloro che sanno tutto. Grip, Grip, Grip,” gridava il corvo, che Barnaby aveva fatto tacere all’avvicinarsi di quella persona severa. “Sono un diavolo. Sono un diavolo. Mai dire mai. Evviva! Polly, metti su il bollitore. Prenderemo tutti il tè.”

“Porta via quel verme, mascalzone,” disse il gentiluomo, “e fammi vederlo.”

Barnaby, così addressato in modo condiscendente, tirò fuori il suo uccello, ma non senza molta >paura e tremore, e lo posò a terra; appena lo fece, Grip estrasse almeno cinquanta tappi di bottiglia e poi iniziò a )danzare, guardando intanto il gentiluomo con un’insolenza sorprendente nel comportamento, e girando la testa così tanto da una parte che sembrava volerla staccare lì sul posto.

Quel gesto di estrarre il tappo sembrava aver lasciato un’impressione più profonda nella mente del gentiluomo rispetto al potere oratorio dell’-corvo; in effetti, quel comportamento si adattava particolarmente alle sue abitudini e capacità. Desiderava che si ripetesse, ma nonostante fosse molto insistente, e nonostante Barnaby cercasse di persuaderlo con ogni mezzo, Grip ignorò completamente la sua richiesta e mantenne un silenzio assoluto.

“Portatelo con voi,” disse il gentiluomo, indicando la casa. Ma Grip, che aveva osservato tutta la scena, anticipò il suo padrone saltando su davanti a loro; sbatteva continuamente le ali e gridava “cuoco!”, forse per suggerire che stava arrivando qualcuno e che sarebbe stato gradito un piccolo rinfresco.

Barnaby e sua madre continuarono il cammino, uno da un lato e l’altro del gentiluomo a cavallo, che li osservava di tanto in tanto con aria orgogliosa e scortese, ponendo loro occasionalmente domande il cui tono spaventava così tanto Barnaby da impedirgli di trovare una risposta, e, naturalmente, di poterla dare. In una di queste occasioni, quando il gentiluomo sembrò intenzionato ad usare la frusta, la vedova osò informarlo a bassa voce, con le lacrime agli occhi, che suo figlio aveva una mente debole.

“Un idiota, eh?”, disse il gentiluomo, guardando Barnaby mentre parlava. “E da quanto tempo sei un idiota?”

“Lo sa,” rispose timidamente Barnaby, indicando sua madre: “Io, credo sempre che lo sappia.”

“Dalla sua nascita,” disse la vedova.

“Non ci credo,” gridò il gentiluomo, “assolutamente no. È solo una scusa per non lavorare. Non c’è niente di meglio del castigo per curare quel tipo di problema. Sono sicuro che in dieci minuti riuscirei a far cambiare le cose in lui.”

‘Heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir,’ said the widow mildly.

‘Then why don’t you shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions, damn ‘em. But thou’d rather drag him about to excite charity—of course. Ay, I know thee.’

Now, this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his intimate friends. By some he was called ‘a country gentleman of the true school,’ by some ‘a fine old country gentleman,’ by some ‘a sporting gentleman,’ by some ‘a thorough-bred Englishman,’ by some ‘a genuine John Bull;’ but they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that it was a pity there were not more like him, and that because there were not, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. He was in the commission of the peace, and could write his name almost legibly; but his greatest qualifications were, that he was more severe with poachers, was a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better dogs, could eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every night more drunk and get up every morning more sober, than any man in the county. In knowledge of horseflesh he was almost equal to a farrier, in stable learning he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony not a pig on his estate was a match for him. He had no seat in Parliament himself, but he was extremely patriotic, and usually drove his voters up to the poll with his own hands. He was warmly attached to church and state, and never appointed to the living in his gift any but a three-bottle man and a first-rate fox-hunter. He mistrusted the honesty of all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret jealousy of his own wife (a young lady whom he had married for what his friends called ‘the good old English reason,’ that her father’s property adjoined his own) for possessing those accomplishments in a greater degree than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot, and Grip a creature of mere brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what this gentleman was.

He rode up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flight of steps, where a man was waiting to take his horse, and led the way into a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the fumes of last night’s stale debauch. Greatcoats, riding-whips, bridles, top-boots, spurs, and such gear, were strewn about on all sides, and formed, with some huge stags’ antlers, and a few portraits of dogs and horses, its principal embellishments.

Throwing himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he often snored away the night, when he had been, according to his admirers, a finer country gentleman than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistress to come down: and presently there appeared, a little flurried, as it seemed, by the unwonted summons, a lady much younger than himself, who had the appearance of being in delicate health, and not too happy.

‘Here! Thou’st no delight in following the hounds as an Englishwoman should have,’ said the gentleman. ‘See to this here. That’ll please thee perhaps.’

The lady smiled, sat down at a little distance from him, and glanced at Barnaby with a look of pity.

‘He’s an idiot, the woman says,’ observed the gentleman, shaking his head; ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Are you his mother?’ asked the lady.

She answered yes.

‘What’s the use of asking HER?’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets. ‘She’ll tell thee so, of course. Most likely he’s hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.’

Grip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, at Barnaby’s solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and to go through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The corks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delight that he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, until Grip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word, good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closing point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a roar of laughter, and demanded his price.

Barnaby looked as though he didn’t understand his meaning. Probably he did not.

‘His price,’ said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets, ‘what dost want for him? How much?’

‘He’s not to be sold,’ replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a great hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. ‘Mother, come away.’

‘Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,’ said the gentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. ‘He can make a bargain. What dost want for him, old woman?’

‘He is my son’s constant companion,’ said the widow. ‘He is not to be sold, sir, indeed.’

‘Not to be sold!’ cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder, hoarser, and louder than before. ‘Not to be sold!’

‘Indeed no,’ she answered. ‘We have never thought of parting with him, sir, I do assure you.’

He was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few murmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned sharply round, and said, ‘Eh? What?’

‘We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own desire,’ she faltered. ‘If they prefer to keep him—’

‘Prefer to keep him!’ he echoed. ‘These people, who go tramping about the country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep a bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That old woman’s been to school. I know she has. Don’t tell me no,’ he roared to the widow, ‘I say, yes.’

Barnaby’s mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was no harm in it.

‘No harm!’ said the gentleman. ‘No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not a bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I’d set ye in the stocks, I would, or lay ye in jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty larcenies, ye limb of a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out, shove ‘em into the road, out with ‘em! Ye don’t want to sell the bird, ye that come here to beg, don’t ye? If they an’t out in double-quick, set the dogs upon ‘em!’

“Da più di vent’anni, signore, il cielo non ha creato nessuno”, disse la vedova con dolcezza.

“Allora perché non lo fai tacere? Paghiamo abbastanza per le istituzioni comunali, maledette siano. Ma tu preferisci trascinarlo in giro solo per suscitare la carità. Certo. Ah, ti conosco bene.”

Ora, questo signore aveva varie affettuose denominazioni tra i suoi amici intimi: alcuni lo chiamavano “un vero gentiluomo di campagna”, altri “un nobile vecchio gentiluomo di campagna”, ancora altri “un gentiluomo appassionato di sport”, alcuni lo definivano “un autentico inglese di razza”, e alcuni addirittura “un vero e proprio John Bull”; tuttavia, tutti erano d’accordo su un punto: era un peccato che non ci fossero più persone come lui, e poiché non ce n’erano, il paese andava incontro al declino ogni giorno. Faceva parte del comitato per la pace e riusciva a scrivere il proprio nome in modo quasi leggibile; ma le sue principali qualità erano queste: era più severo con i bracconieri, un miglior tiratore, un cavaliere più abile, possedeva cavalli migliori, aveva cani più validi, riusciva a mangiare cibi solidi in quantità maggiore, beveva vini più forti, andava a letto ogni notte ubriaco e si alzava ogni mattina sobrio, più di qualsiasi altro uomo della contea. Per quanto riguardava la conoscenza dei cavalli, era quasi all’altezza di un ferratore; nell’apprendimento legato alle stalle superava persino il proprio stalliere personale; in termini di gola, nessun maiale presente nella sua tenuta poteva competere con lui. Non aveva alcun seggio in Parlamento, ma era estremamente patriottico e di solito accompagnava personalmente i propri elettori alle urne. Era profondamente devoto alla chiesa e allo stato, e per le cariche ecclesiastiche assegnava sempre persone che bevevano almeno tre bottiglie di vino al giorno e erano ottimi cacciatori di volpi. Non fidava affatto dell’onestà di tutti quei poveri che sapevano leggere e scrivere, e provava una segreta gelosia verso sua moglie (una giovane donna che aveva sposato per quello che i suoi amici definivano “il buon vecchio motivo inglese”: il fatto che la proprietà di suo padre confinasse con la sua) perché lei possedeva queste capacità in misura maggiore rispetto a lui. In breve, poiché Barnaby era un idiota e Grip una creatura guidata soltanto dall’istinto animale, sarebbe stato molto difficile definire davvero che tipo di persona fosse questo signore.

Si avvicinò alla porta di una bella casa, preceduta da un lungo viale di gradini; lì c’era un uomo ad aspettarlo per prendere il suo cavallo. Questi lo guidò in un grande salone che, sebbene ampio, era impregnato dal fetore delle eccessive baldorie della sera precedente. Cappotti pesanti, fruste da cavaliere, morsi, stivali alti, speroni e altri accessori erano sparsi ovunque; insieme a enormi corna di cervo e alcuni ritratti di cani e cavalli, costituivano i principali elementi decorativi della stanza.

Gettandosi in una grande poltrona (nella quale, tra l’altro, spesso russava per tutta la notte, quando, secondo i suoi ammiratori, era un vero gentiluomo di campagna più raffinato del solito), ordinò all’uomo di chiamare sua moglie: poco dopo apparve, visibilmente agitata per quell’inattesa convocazione, una signora molto più giovane di lui, che sembrava essere in cattive condizioni di salute e non troppo felice.

“Ecco! Non troveresti certo piacere nel seguire i cani, come dovrebbe fare una donna inglese,” disse il gentiluomo. “Occupati di questo. Forse ti piacerà.”

La signora sorrise, si sedette a una certa distanza da lui e lanciò uno sguardo di compassione verso Barnaby.

“È un idiota,” disse la donna, “lo penso davvero,” osservò il gentiluomo scuotendo la testa; “io non ci credo.”

“È sua madre?” chiese la signora.

Rispose di sì.

“Che senso ha chiederlo A LEI?”, disse il gentiluomo, infilando le mani nelle tasche dei suoi calzoni. “Certo che te lo dirà. Molto probabilmente è stato assunto, per una certa paga al giorno. Forza, muoviti. Fai sì che faccia qualcosa.”

A quel punto, Grip aveva già ripreso la sua abituale urbanità; su esortazione di Barnaby, acconsentì a ripetere le sue varie frasi e ad eseguire nuovamente tutte le sue performance, con estremo successo. Le battute tipo “I tappi, mai dire mai morire, ” procurarono al gentiluomo così tanto divertimento che chiese di ripetere quella parte dello spettacolo, fino a quando Grip non finì nel suo cesto e si rifiutò categoricamente di pronunciare una parola, né buona né cattiva. Anche la signora si divertì molto con lui; l’epilogo della sua testardaggine fece ridere a crepapelle il suo marito, che allora chiese il prezzo del suo servizio.

Barnaby sembrava non capire il significato di quelle parole. Probabilmente non lo capiva davvero.

“Il suo prezzo, ”, disse il gentiluomo, facendo tintinnare i soldi nelle sue tasche, “quanto ne vuoi per lui? Quanto?”

“Non deve essere venduto,” rispose Barnaby, chiudendo rapidamente il cesto e mettendosi la tracolla sulla spalla. “Mamma, andiamo via.”

“Vedi bene quanto sia idiota quel tipo che passa le giornate a studiare libri,” disse il gentiluomo, guardando con disprezzo sua moglie. “È capace persino di fare affari. Cosa vuoi che facciamo di lui, vecchia donna?”

“È il compagno costante di mio figlio”, disse la vedova. “Non deve assolutamente essere venduto, signore”.

“Non deve essere venduto!”, gridò il gentiluomo, arrossendo dieci volte di più, diventando ancora più roco e più forte di prima. “Non deve essere venduto!”

“Assolutamente no,” rispose lei. “Non abbiamo mai pensato di separarci da lui, signore, vi assicuro.”

Evidentemente stava per fare una risposta molto appassionata, quando alcune parole mormorate da sua moglie gli arrivarono all’orecchio; si girò bruscamente e disse: “Eh? Cosa?”

“Dovremmo essere realistici: non possiamo certo aspettarci che vendano quell’uccello contro la loro stessa volontà”, esitò lei. “Se preferiscono tenerlo, ”

“Preferisco tenerlo!” ripeté. “Queste persone, che vanno in giro per il paese a rubare e a vagabondare dappertutto, preferiscono tenersi un uccello, anche quando un proprietario terriero o un giudice chiede loro il prezzo! Quella vecchia donna è andata a scuola. Lo so per certo. Non ditemi di no,” gridò alla vedova, “io dico di sì.”

La madre di Barnaby ammise la propria colpevolezza riguardo all’accusa e sperava che non ci fossero conseguenze negative.

“Nessun danno!” disse il gentiluomo. “No, nessun danno, vecchio ribelle. Nemmeno un po’ di danno. Se solo il mio impiegato fosse qui, ti metterei in ceppi, lo farei davvero. O ti manderei in prigione per gironzolare in giro alla ricerca di piccoli furti, tu, maledetto zingaro! Ehi, Simon, butta fuori questi ladri, spingili per la strada. Non vuoi mica vendere quell’uccello, vero? Se non se ne vanno immediatamente, manda i cani contro di loro!”

They waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving the gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had already retreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who, excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on having been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the widow’s hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently from the gate.

This incident only suggested to the widow’s mind, when they halted at an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice’s character as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of stomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form either a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or a genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimes misappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that a circumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; but time and experience enlightened her in this respect.

‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon which was to take them within ten miles of the capital, ‘we’re going to London first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?’

She was about to answer ‘Heaven forbid!’ but checked herself, and told him No, she thought not; why did he ask?

‘He’s a wise man,’ said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. ‘I wish that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds? That gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a crowded place; I think we shall meet him there.’

‘But why do you desire to see him, love?’ she asked.

‘Because,’ said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, ‘he talked to me about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so strangely—just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed’s foot in the night, and say what I can’t remember when the bright day returns. He told me he’d come back. I wonder why he broke his word!’

‘But you never thought of being rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You have always been contented.’

He laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, ‘Ay ay—oh yes,’ and laughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and the topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as fleeting.

But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the point more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man’s visit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind. Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time on looking at the golden clouds that evening—and images were often presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and distant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it, by contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of the blind man’s pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at the moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the man being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked before; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover, but in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in the dark.

It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but all that she could do, was to lead him quickly to some other subject, and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor, to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be, she feared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were possible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.

They reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles of London, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on for a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and was to start at five o’clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the road good—save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry—and at seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand seven hundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge, bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on the scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such busy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with uncommon lustre.

Non aspettarono alcun altro ordine di allontanarsi e fuggirono precipitosamente, lasciando il gentiluomo da solo a sfogare la sua rabbia (poiché la povera signora si era già ritirata). Fecero innumerevoli tentativi vani per zittire Grip, che, eccitato dal rumore, aveva estratto abbastanza tappi da poter organizzare una vera e propria festa. Mentre si affrettavano lungo la strada, sembrava davvero compiaciuto di essere stato la causa di tutto quel trambusto. Quando erano quasi arrivati alla locanda, un altro servitore emerse dai cespugli e fingeva di ordinare loro di andarsene con molta insistenza; in realtà, però, mise una corona nella mano della vedova e, sussurrando che era stata inviata dalla sua padrona, li spinse dolcemente fuori dal cancello.

Questo incidente fece solo sorgere nel pensiero della vedova, quando si fermarono in una taverna qualche miglio più avanti e sentirono descrivere il carattere del giudice da parte dei suoi amici, l’idea che forse per diventare un vero gentiluomo di campagna, un inglese autentico o un vero “John Bull”, fossero necessarie qualità ben diverse oltre alla semplice capacità di mangiare bene e avere gusti raffinati. E che forse questi termini venivano a volte utilizzati in modo improprio, per non dire disonorevole. All’epoca, lei non avrebbe mai pensato che un evento così insignificante potesse influenzare il loro futuro; ma il tempo e l’esperienza le fecero capire meglio la situazione.

“Mamma,” disse Barnaby il giorno dopo, mentre erano seduti in una carrozza che li avrebbe portati a meno di dieci miglia dalla capitale, “hai detto che prima saremmo andati a Londra. Potremmo andare a vedere quel cieco, là?”

Stava per rispondere “Per l’amor del cielo!”, ma si trattenne e gli disse di no; pensò che non fosse necessario; perché mai gliel’aveva chiesto?

“È un uomo saggio,” disse Barnaby con un’espressione pensierosa. “Spero che possiamo incontrarlo di nuovo. Cosa aveva detto riguardo alle folle? Che l’oro si trova dove la gente si raduna, e non tra gli alberi o in posti tranquilli. Parlava come se lo amasse; Londra è un posto affollato. Penso che lo incontreremo lì.”

“Ma perché desideri vederlo così tanto, amore mio?” chiese lei.

“Perché,” disse Barnaby, guardandola con tristezza, “mi parlò d’oro, che è una cosa rara, e, diciamolo pure, qualcosa che tutti vorrebbero avere, lo so. E perché se ne andò in modo così strano, proprio come quegli anziani dalla testa bianca che a volte vengono ai piedi del mio letto di notte, e dicono cose che non ricordo più quando arriva il giorno. Mi disse che sarebbe tornato. Mi chiedo perché abbia mancato alla sua promessa, ”

“Ma prima non hai mai pensato di diventare ricco o gay, caro Barnaby. Sei sempre stato soddisfatto di ciò che avevi.”

Rise e le chiese di ripetere quelle parole, poi pianse: “Ah sì, oh, certo”, e rise di nuovo. Poi qualcosa attirò la sua attenzione, e il pensiero gli sfuggì; ne fu sostituito un altro, altrettanto fugace.

Ma era evidente, da ciò che aveva detto e dal fatto che ritornò più volte su quell’argomento quel giorno stesso e il giorno dopo, che la visita di quell’uomo cieco, e soprattutto le sue parole, avevano profondamente influenzato la sua mente. Se l’idea della ricchezza gli fosse venuta per la prima volta guardando quelle nuvole dorate quella sera – poiché spesso i suoi pensieri erano stimolati da oggetti esterni, anche molto distanti e irrilevanti – oppure se fosse stata suggerita dal loro modo di vita povero e umile, in contrasto con ciò che vedeva intorno a sé; o ancora se l’avesse fatta pensare l’episodio casuale (così lui lo considerava) in cui quell’uomo cieco aveva ripreso il filo delle sue stesse parole. Non si poteva sapere. Lei provò tutti i mezzi per scoprirlo, ma invano; e probabilmente anche Barnaby stesso non ne aveva idea.

Lei provava un senso di disagio nel vederlo insistere su questo argomento, ma tutto ciò che poteva fare era cambiare rapidamente discorso e cercare di far dimenticare l’argomento a lui. Avvertirlo riguardo al loro visitatore, mostrare qualsiasi tipo di paura o sospetto nei suoi confronti, avrebbe soltanto, temeva, aumentato l’interesse che Barnaby provava per lui e rafforzato il suo desiderio di incontrarlo di nuovo. Sperava che immergendosi nella folla potesse liberarsi di quel terribile inseguitore e, poi, allontanandosi e prendendo maggiori precauzioni, se ciò fosse stato possibile, vivere di nuovo nell’anonimato, in segreto e in pace.

Nel corso del tempo, raggiunsero il loro luogo di sosta a meno di dieci miglia da Londra e vi riposarono per la notte, dopo aver concordato che il giorno seguente li portassero avanti con un furgoncino leggero che tornava vuoto, partendo alle cinque del mattino. Il conducente fu puntuale; la strada era in buone condizioni, a parte la polvere, poiché il tempo era molto caldo e secco. Alle sette di venerdì mattina, due giugno millesettecentottanta, scesero ai piedi del Ponte di Westminster, salutarono il conducente e si trovarono soli, uno accanto all’altro, sul marciapiede rovente. La freschezza che la notte dona a queste strade trafficate era ormai svanita; il sole splendeva con un bagliore insolito.

Chapter 48

Uncertain where to go next, and bewildered by the crowd of people who were already astir, they sat down in one of the recesses on the bridge, to rest. They soon became aware that the stream of life was all pouring one way, and that a vast throng of persons were crossing the river from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, in unusual haste and evident excitement. They were, for the most part, in knots of two or three, or sometimes half-a-dozen; they spoke little together—many of them were quite silent; and hurried on as if they had one absorbing object in view, which was common to them all.

They were surprised to see that nearly every man in this great concourse, which still came pouring past, without slackening in the least, wore in his hat a blue cockade; and that the chance passengers who were not so decorated, appeared timidly anxious to escape observation or attack, and gave them the wall as if they would conciliate them. This, however, was natural enough, considering their inferiority in point of numbers; for the proportion of those who wore blue cockades, to those who were dressed as usual, was at least forty or fifty to one. There was no quarrelling, however: the blue cockades went swarming on, passing each other when they could, and making all the speed that was possible in such a multitude; and exchanged nothing more than looks, and very often not even those, with such of the passers-by as were not of their number.

At first, the current of people had been confined to the two pathways, and but a few more eager stragglers kept the road. But after half an hour or so, the passage was completely blocked up by the great press, which, being now closely wedged together, and impeded by the carts and coaches it encountered, moved but slowly, and was sometimes at a stand for five or ten minutes together.

After the lapse of nearly two hours, the numbers began to diminish visibly, and gradually dwindling away, by little and little, left the bridge quite clear, save that, now and then, some hot and dusty man, with the cockade in his hat, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, went panting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way his friends had taken, and being directed, hastened on again like one refreshed. In this comparative solitude, which seemed quite strange and novel after the late crowd, the widow had for the first time an opportunity of inquiring of an old man who came and sat beside them, what was the meaning of that great assemblage.

‘Why, where have you come from,’ he returned, ‘that you haven’t heard of Lord George Gordon’s great association? This is the day that he presents the petition against the Catholics, God bless him!’

‘What have all these men to do with that?’ she said.

‘What have they to do with it!’ the old man replied. ‘Why, how you talk! Don’t you know his lordship has declared he won’t present it to the house at all, unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good and true men at least? There’s a crowd for you!’

‘A crowd indeed!’ said Barnaby. ‘Do you hear that, mother!’

‘And they’re mustering yonder, as I am told,’ resumed the old man, ‘nigh upon a hundred thousand strong. Ah! Let Lord George alone. He knows his power. There’ll be a good many faces inside them three windows over there,’ and he pointed to where the House of Commons overlooked the river, ‘that’ll turn pale when good Lord George gets up this afternoon, and with reason too! Ay, ay. Let his lordship alone. Let him alone. HE knows!’ And so, with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of his forefinger, he rose, with the assistance of his stick, and tottered off.

‘Mother!’ said Barnaby, ‘that’s a brave crowd he talks of. Come!’

‘Not to join it!’ cried his mother.

‘Yes, yes,’ he answered, plucking at her sleeve. ‘Why not? Come!’

‘You don’t know,’ she urged, ‘what mischief they may do, where they may lead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake—’

‘For your sake!’ he cried, patting her hand. ‘Well! It IS for your sake, mother. You remember what the blind man said, about the gold. Here’s a brave crowd! Come! Or wait till I come back—yes, yes, wait here.’

She tried with all the earnestness her fears engendered, to turn him from his purpose, but in vain. He was stooping down to buckle on his shoe, when a hackney-coach passed them rather quickly, and a voice inside called to the driver to stop.

‘Young man,’ said a voice within.

‘Who’s that?’ cried Barnaby, looking up.

‘Do you wear this ornament?’ returned the stranger, holding out a blue cockade.

‘In Heaven’s name, no. Pray do not give it him!’ exclaimed the widow.

‘Speak for yourself, woman,’ said the man within the coach, coldly. ‘Leave the young man to his choice; he’s old enough to make it, and to snap your apron-strings. He knows, without your telling, whether he wears the sign of a loyal Englishman or not.’

Barnaby, trembling with impatience, cried, ‘Yes! yes, yes, I do,’ as he had cried a dozen times already. The man threw him a cockade, and crying, ‘Make haste to St George’s Fields,’ ordered the coachman to drive on fast; and left them.

With hands that trembled with his eagerness to fix the bauble in his hat, Barnaby was adjusting it as he best could, and hurriedly replying to the tears and entreaties of his mother, when two gentlemen passed on the opposite side of the way. Observing them, and seeing how Barnaby was occupied, they stopped, whispered together for an instant, turned back, and came over to them.

‘Why are you sitting here?’ said one of them, who was dressed in a plain suit of black, wore long lank hair, and carried a great cane. ‘Why have you not gone with the rest?’

‘I am going, sir,’ replied Barnaby, finishing his task, and putting his hat on with an air of pride. ‘I shall be there directly.’

‘Say “my lord,” young man, when his lordship does you the honour of speaking to you,’ said the second gentleman mildly. ‘If you don’t know Lord George Gordon when you see him, it’s high time you should.’

Capitolo 48

Non sapendo dove andare next e confusi dalla folla di persone già sveglie, si sedettero in un angolo del ponte per riposarsi. Presto si resero conto che tutta la gente stava dirigendosi nella stessa direzione: un enorme numero di persone attraversava il fiume da Middlesex verso la riva di Surrey, con grande fretta ed evidente eccitazione. Per lo più viaggiavano in gruppi di due o tre, a volte anche di sei; parlavano poco tra loro – molti rimanevano del tutto in silenzio – e proseguivano il loro cammino come se avessero un obiettivo comune che li guidava tutti.

Furono sorpresi nel vedere che quasi ogni uomo in questa grande folla, che continuava ad affluire senza alcun rallentamento, indossava sul cappello una coccarda blu; e che i passeggeri occasionali che non erano così decorati sembravano timorosi di attirare l’attenzione o di essere aggrediti, e si allontanavano dal gruppo come se volessero evitare ogni contatto. Questo, tuttavia, era del tutto naturale, considerando la loro inferiorità numerica: il rapporto tra coloro che indossavano coccarde blu e quelli vestiti normalmente era di almeno quaranta o cinquanta a uno. Non ci furono litigi: le persone con le coccarde blu si muovevano affollatamente, cercando di superarsi a vicenda e facendo del loro meglio per avanzare in mezzo a tanta gente; scambiavano soltanto sguardi, e spesso nemmeno quelli, con i passanti che non appartenevano al loro gruppo.

All’inizio, il flusso di persone era confinato nei due sentieri principali; solo pochi individui più desiderosi di unirsi al gruppo continuavano a percorrere la strada principale. Ma dopo circa mezz’ora, il passaggio fu completamente bloccato dalla folla densa e compatta che, ostacolata dai carri e dalle carrozze incontrate lungo il cammino, si muoveva molto lentamente, e a volte rimaneva ferma per cinque o dieci minuti di seguito.

Dopo quasi due ore, i numeri iniziarono a diminuire visibilmente; gradualmente, riducendosi poco a poco, lasciarono il ponte completamente libero, tranne che, di tanto in tanto, qualche uomo sudato e polveroso, con la coccarda sul cappello e il cappotto gettato sulle spalle, passava di corsa, temendo di essere in ritardo; si fermava per chiedere in quale direzione fossero andati i suoi amici e, ricevuta indicazione, ripartiva di fretta, come se si fosse rinfrescato. In questa relativa solitudine, che sembrava davvero strana e nuova dopo la folla di poco prima, la vedova ebbe per la prima volta l’opportunità di chiedere a un vecchio che si era seduto accanto a loro quale fosse il significato di quella grande assemblea.

“Ma dove sei stato fino ad ora?” rispose lui, “per non aver mai sentito parlare della grande associazione di Lord George Gordon? Oggi è il giorno in cui presenterà la petizione contro i cattolici. Che Dio lo benedica!”

“Cosa c’entrano tutti questi uomini con quella faccenda?” disse lei.

“Cosa c’entran loro in questa faccenda!”, rispose l’uomo anziano. “Ma come parli. Non sai forse che il suo signoraggio ha dichiarato di non volerlo presentare alla casa affatto, a meno che non vi siano almeno quarantamila uomini buoni e onesti ad accompagnarlo fino alla porta? Hai davvero una bella idea, ”

“Una folla davvero numerosa!”, disse Barnaby. “Lo senti, mamma?”

“E si stanno radunando laggiù, a quanto mi è stato detto,” continuò l’uomo anziano, “quasi centomila uomini forti. Ah! Lasciamo che sia Lord George ad agire da solo. Lui conosce la propria forza. Ci saranno molte facce che impallidiranno quando Lord George si alzerà questo pomeriggio. E con buon motivo, per di più! Sì, lasciamolo fare da solo. LUI sa cosa fare!” E così, borbottando, ridacchiando e scuotendo il dito indice, si alzò in piedi con l’aiuto del suo bastone e barcollò via.

“Mamma!”, disse Barnaby, “quella gente di cui parla è davvero coraggiosa. Andiamo!”

“Non voglio partecipare!” gridò sua madre.

“Sì, sì,” rispose lui, tirandola per la manica. “Perché no? Vieni!”

“Non lo sai,” insistette lei, “quanti guai potrebbero causare, dove potrebbero portarti, quale sia il loro vero scopo. Caro Barnaby, per amor mio, ”

“Per il tuo bene!” gridò, accarezzandole la mano. “Beh, è davvero per il tuo bene, madre. Ricordi quello che ha detto l’uomo cieco riguardo all’oro? Ecco una bella folla. Vieni! O aspetta che torni. Sì, aspetta qui.”

Con tutta la sincerità che i suoi timori le ispiravano, cercò di farlo desistere dal suo proposito, ma invano. Mentre si chinava per allacciarsi la scarpa, un calesse passò loro piuttosto velocemente e una voce dall’interno chiamò il conducente perché si fermasse.

“Giovane uomo,” disse una voce dentro di lui.

“Chi è?” gridò Barnaby, alzando lo sguardo.

“Indossi questo ornamento?” rispose lo sconosciuto, porgendo una coccarda blu.

“Per il nome del cielo, no. Per favore, non darglielo!” esclamò la vedova.

“Parla per te stessa, donna,” disse freddamente l’uomo all’interno della carrozza. “Lascia che il giovane faccia la sua scelta; è abbastanza grande per decidere da solo, e anche per sfidare le tue interferenze. Lui sa, senza che tu glielo dica, se porta o meno i segni di un vero inglese leale.”

Barnaby, tremando per l’impazienza, gridò: “Sì! sì, sì, lo faccio,” proprio come aveva già detto una dozzina di volte prima. L’uomo gli gettò un fiore all’occhiello e, gridando ancora “Affrettati verso St George’s Fields”, ordinò al cocchiere di accelerare la velocità; poi li lasciò.

Con mani che tremavano per l’impazienza di sistemare quell’ornamento sul suo cappello, Barnaby cercava di farlo nel modo migliore possibile, rispondendo in fretta alle lacrime e alle suppliche di sua madre, quando due signori passarono dall’altra parte della strada. Notandolo e vedendolo così impegnato, si fermarono, si scambiarono qualche parola, poi tornarono indietro e si avvicinarono a lui.

“Perché sei seduto qui?” disse uno di loro, vestito con un semplice abito nero, con i capelli lunghi e lisci e portando un grosso bastone. “Perché non sei andato con gli altri?”

“Vado subito, signore,” rispose Barnaby, finendo il suo compito e mettendosi il cappello con un’aria di orgoglio. “Arriverò lì immediatamente.”

“Dite ‘mio signore’, giovane uomo, quando Sua Signoria vi fa l’onore di parlare con voi,” disse gentilmente il secondo gentiluomo. “Se non riconoscete Lord George Gordon quando lo vedete, è davvero arrivato il momento che lo facciate.”

‘Nay, Gashford,’ said Lord George, as Barnaby pulled off his hat again and made him a low bow, ‘it’s no great matter on a day like this, which every Englishman will remember with delight and pride. Put on your hat, friend, and follow us, for you lag behind and are late. It’s past ten now. Didn’t you know that the hour for assembling was ten o’clock?’

Barnaby shook his head and looked vacantly from one to the other.

‘You might have known it, friend,’ said Gashford, ‘it was perfectly understood. How came you to be so ill informed?’

‘He cannot tell you, sir,’ the widow interposed. ‘It’s of no use to ask him. We are but this morning come from a long distance in the country, and know nothing of these matters.’

‘The cause has taken a deep root, and has spread its branches far and wide,’ said Lord George to his secretary. ‘This is a pleasant hearing. I thank Heaven for it!’

‘Amen!’ cried Gashford with a solemn face.

‘You do not understand me, my lord,’ said the widow. ‘Pardon me, but you cruelly mistake my meaning. We know nothing of these matters. We have no desire or right to join in what you are about to do. This is my son, my poor afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. In mercy’s name, my lord, go your way alone, and do not tempt him into danger!’

‘My good woman,’ said Gashford, ‘how can you!—Dear me!—What do you mean by tempting, and by danger? Do you think his lordship is a roaring lion, going about and seeking whom he may devour? God bless me!’

‘No, no, my lord, forgive me,’ implored the widow, laying both her hands upon his breast, and scarcely knowing what she did, or said, in the earnestness of her supplication, ‘but there are reasons why you should hear my earnest, mother’s prayer, and leave my son with me. Oh do! He is not in his right senses, he is not, indeed!’

‘It is a bad sign of the wickedness of these times,’ said Lord George, evading her touch, and colouring deeply, ‘that those who cling to the truth and support the right cause, are set down as mad. Have you the heart to say this of your own son, unnatural mother!’

‘I am astonished at you!’ said Gashford, with a kind of meek severity. ‘This is a very sad picture of female depravity.’

‘He has surely no appearance,’ said Lord George, glancing at Barnaby, and whispering in his secretary’s ear, ‘of being deranged? And even if he had, we must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness. Which of us’—and here he turned red again—‘would be safe, if that were made the law!’

‘Not one,’ replied the secretary; ‘in that case, the greater the zeal, the truth, and talent; the more direct the call from above; the clearer would be the madness. With regard to this young man, my lord,’ he added, with a lip that slightly curled as he looked at Barnaby, who stood twirling his hat, and stealthily beckoning them to come away, ‘he is as sensible and self-possessed as any one I ever saw.’

‘And you desire to make one of this great body?’ said Lord George, addressing him; ‘and intended to make one, did you?’

‘Yes—yes,’ said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. ‘To be sure I did! I told her so myself.’

‘I see,’ replied Lord George, with a reproachful glance at the unhappy mother. ‘I thought so. Follow me and this gentleman, and you shall have your wish.’

Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek, and bidding her be of good cheer, for their fortunes were both made now, did as he was desired. She, poor woman, followed too—with how much fear and grief it would be hard to tell.

They passed quickly through the Bridge Road, where the shops were all shut up (for the passage of the great crowd and the expectation of their return had alarmed the tradesmen for their goods and windows), and where, in the upper stories, all the inhabitants were congregated, looking down into the street below, with faces variously expressive of alarm, of interest, expectancy, and indignation. Some of these applauded, and some hissed; but regardless of these interruptions—for the noise of a vast congregation of people at a little distance, sounded in his ears like the roaring of the sea—Lord George Gordon quickened his pace, and presently arrived before St George’s Fields.

They were really fields at that time, and of considerable extent. Here an immense multitude was collected, bearing flags of various kinds and sizes, but all of the same colour—blue, like the cockades—some sections marching to and fro in military array, and others drawn up in circles, squares, and lines. A large portion, both of the bodies which paraded the ground, and of those which remained stationary, were occupied in singing hymns or psalms. With whomsoever this originated, it was well done; for the sound of so many thousand voices in the air must have stirred the heart of any man within him, and could not fail to have a wonderful effect upon enthusiasts, however mistaken.

Scouts had been posted in advance of the great body, to give notice of their leader’s coming. These falling back, the word was quickly passed through the whole host, and for a short interval there ensued a profound and deathlike silence, during which the mass was so still and quiet, that the fluttering of a banner caught the eye, and became a circumstance of note. Then they burst into a tremendous shout, into another, and another; and the air seemed rent and shaken, as if by the discharge of cannon.

‘Gashford!’ cried Lord George, pressing his secretary’s arm tight within his own, and speaking with as much emotion in his voice, as in his altered face, ‘I am called indeed, now. I feel and know it. I am the leader of a host. If they summoned me at this moment with one voice to lead them on to death, I’d do it—Yes, and fall first myself!’

‘It is a proud sight,’ said the secretary. ‘It is a noble day for England, and for the great cause throughout the world. Such homage, my lord, as I, an humble but devoted man, can render—’

“No, Gashford,” disse Lord George, mentre Barnaby si toglieva di nuovo il cappello e gli faceva un profondo inchino, “non è una questione importante in una giornata come questa, che ogni inglese ricorderà con gioia e orgoglio. Metti il cappello, amico, e vieni con noi; sei indietro e in ritardo. Sono già passate le dieci. Non sapevi che l’ora dell’incontro era alle dieci in punto?”

Barnaby scosse la testa e guardò loro uno dopo l’altro con aria vuota.

“Avresti potuto saperlo, amico,” disse Gashford, “era tutto perfettamente chiaro. Come mai sei stato così mal informato?”

“Non può dirvelo, signore,” intervenne la vedova. “Non ha senso chiederglielo. Siamo arrivati stamattina da una lontana regione della campagna e non sappiamo nulla di queste faccende.”

“La causa ha messo radici profonde e ha diffuso i suoi rami in ogni direzione,” disse Lord George al suo segretario. “È una notizia piacevole. Ringrazio il Cielo per questo!”

“Amén!”, esclamò Gashford con un viso solenne.

“Non mi capite, mio signore,” disse la vedova. “Perdonatemi, ma sbagliate completamente il significato delle mie parole. Non sappiamo nulla di queste faccende; non abbiamo alcun desiderio né diritto di partecipare a ciò che state per fare. Questo è mio figlio, il mio povero e sofferente figlio, più caro della mia stessa vita. Per il nome della misericordia, mio signore, andatevene da soli e non tentatelo di mettere in pericolo!”

“Mia buona donna,” disse Gashford, “come può lei. Oh mio Dio! Cosa intende dire con ‘tentare’ e ‘pericolo’? Pensa forse che il suo signore sia una feroce leone che va in giro alla ricerca di qualcuno da divorare? Che Dio mi benedica!”

“No, no, mio signore, perdonatemi,” implorò la vedova, posando entrambe le mani sul suo petto; a malapena sapeva ciò che stava facendo o dicendo, nella sua disperata supplica. “Ma ci sono ragioni per cui dovreste ascoltare questa preghiera sincera di una madre. Lasciate mio figlio con me, vi prego! Non è in sé. Davvero!”

“È un cattivo segno della malvagità di questi tempi,” disse Lord George, evitando il suo contatto e arrossendo profondamente, “che coloro che si attaccano alla verità e sostengono la causa giusta vengano considerati pazzi. Hai il cuore di dire una cosa del genere di tuo figlio, madre innaturale!”

“Sono davvero sorpreso da te!”, disse Gashford con una sorta di severità gentile. “Questa è un’immagine molto triste della corruzione femminile.”

“Di certo non ha l’aspetto di una persona squilibrata,” disse Lord George, lanciando un’occhiata a Barnaby e sussurrando all’orecchio del suo segretario, “e anche se lo avesse, non dovremmo attribuire alcuna piccola peculiarità al >pazzia. Chi di noi”, e qui arrossì di nuovo, “sarebbe al sicuro se ciò diventasse la legge?”

“Nessuno,” rispose il segretario; “in tal caso, maggiore è lo zelo, la verità e il talento; più diretta è la chiamata dall’alto; più chiara diventa la follezza. Per quanto riguarda questo giovane,” aggiunse, con un angolo della bocca che si incurvava leggermente mentre guardava Barnaby, il quale stava lì a girare il cappello e a far loro segni di avvicinarsi in segreto, “è altrettanto saggio e padrone di sé quanto chiunque abbia mai incontrato.”

“E tu desideri far parte di questo grande corpo?”, gli chiese Lord George, “intendi davvero farne parte?”

“Sì, sì,” disse Barnaby, con gli occhi che brillavano. “Certo che l’ho fatto! Gliel’ho detto io stesso.”

“Capisco,” rispose Lord George, lanciando uno sguardo di rimprovero alla madre sfortunata. “Me lo aspettavo. Seguite me e questo signore, e avrete realizzato il vostro desiderio.”

Barnaby baciò dolcemente sua madre sulla guancia e, incoraggiandola a non preoccuparsi, poiché ora entrambi avevano raggiunto la loro fortuna, fece ciò che lei desiderava. Lei, povera donna, lo seguì, con quanta >paura e dolore, sarebbe stato difficile dire.

Attraversarono rapidamente la strada del Ponte, dove tutti i negozi erano chiusi (poiché il passaggio di quella grande folla e l’attesa del loro ritorno avevano allarmato i commercianti per le loro merci e le loro vetrine); nelle stanze superiori, tutti gli abitanti si erano radunati, guardando giù in strada con volti che esprimevano varie emozioni: allarme, interesse, attesa, indignazione. Alcuni di loro applaudivano, altri sibilavano; ma nonostante queste interruzioni – poiché il rumore di una vasta folla, a poca distanza, risuonava nelle sue orecchie come il ruggito del mare – Lord George Gordon accelerò il passo e presto arrivò davanti a St George’s Fields.

A quel tempo, erano davvero campi di una certa estensione. Qui si radunò un’immensa folla, munita di bandiere di varie forme e dimensioni, ma tutte dello stesso colore: blu, come le coccarde. Alcune sezioni marciavano avanti e indietro in formazione militare, altre si disponevano a cerchi, quadrati o file. Una grande parte sia delle formazioni che marciano sia di quelle ferme era impegnata nel cantare inni e salmi. Chiunque fosse il responsabile di tutto ciò, l’aveva fatto benissimo; infatti, il suono di tante migliaia di voci nell’aria doveva aver commosso il cuore di chiunque, e senza dubbio aveva un effetto straordinario sugli entusiasti, anche se le loro convinzioni fossero state errate.

Gli scout erano stati disposti in anticipo davanti alla grande massa per annunciare l’arrivo del loro leader. Quando questi si ritirarono, la notizia si diffuse rapidamente in tutto il gruppo; per un breve istante calò un silenzio profondo e teso, durante il quale tutto rimase immobile e silenzioso al punto che il movimento di una bandiera divenne qualcosa di degno di nota. Poi scoppiarono in grida enormi, una dopo l’altra; l’aria sembrava squarciata e scossa, come se fosse stata colpita da cannonate.

“Gashford!” gridò Lord George, stringendo forte il braccio del suo segretario e parlando con tale emozione nella voce, come nel suo viso cambiato, “Ora sono davvero chiamato. Lo sento, lo so. Sono il capo di un esercito. Se in questo momento mi chiamassero tutti insieme a guidarli verso la morte, lo farei. Sì, e sarei io il primo a cadere!”

“È una scena davvero degna di orgoglio,” disse il segretario. “È un giorno nobile per l’Inghilterra, e per la grande causa che riguarda tutto il mondo. Un omaggio del genere, mio signore, è tutto ciò che io, un uomo umile ma devoto, posso offrire.”

‘What are you doing?’ cried his master, catching him by both hands; for he had made a show of kneeling at his feet. ‘Do not unfit me, dear Gashford, for the solemn duty of this glorious day—’ the tears stood in the eyes of the poor gentleman as he said the words.—‘Let us go among them; we have to find a place in some division for this new recruit—give me your hand.’

Gashford slid his cold insidious palm into his master’s grasp, and so, hand in hand, and followed still by Barnaby and by his mother too, they mingled with the concourse.

They had by this time taken to their singing again, and as their leader passed between their ranks, they raised their voices to their utmost. Many of those who were banded together to support the religion of their country, even unto death, had never heard a hymn or psalm in all their lives. But these fellows having for the most part strong lungs, and being naturally fond of singing, chanted any ribaldry or nonsense that occurred to them, feeling pretty certain that it would not be detected in the general chorus, and not caring much if it were. Many of these voluntaries were sung under the very nose of Lord George Gordon, who, quite unconscious of their burden, passed on with his usual stiff and solemn deportment, very much edified and delighted by the pious conduct of his followers.

So they went on and on, up this line, down that, round the exterior of this circle, and on every side of that hollow square; and still there were lines, and squares, and circles out of number to review. The day being now intensely hot, and the sun striking down his fiercest rays upon the field, those who carried heavy banners began to grow faint and weary; most of the number assembled were fain to pull off their neckcloths, and throw their coats and waistcoats open; and some, towards the centre, quite overpowered by the excessive heat, which was of course rendered more unendurable by the multitude around them, lay down upon the grass, and offered all they had about them for a drink of water. Still, no man left the ground, not even of those who were so distressed; still Lord George, streaming from every pore, went on with Gashford; and still Barnaby and his mother followed close behind them.

They had arrived at the top of a long line of some eight hundred men in single file, and Lord George had turned his head to look back, when a loud cry of recognition—in that peculiar and half-stifled tone which a voice has, when it is raised in the open air and in the midst of a great concourse of persons—was heard, and a man stepped with a shout of laughter from the rank, and smote Barnaby on the shoulders with his heavy hand.

‘How now!’ he cried. ‘Barnaby Rudge! Why, where have you been hiding for these hundred years?’

Barnaby had been thinking within himself that the smell of the trodden grass brought back his old days at cricket, when he was a young boy and played on Chigwell Green. Confused by this sudden and boisterous address, he stared in a bewildered manner at the man, and could scarcely say ‘What! Hugh!’

‘Hugh!’ echoed the other; ‘ay, Hugh—Maypole Hugh! You remember my dog? He’s alive now, and will know you, I warrant. What, you wear the colour, do you? Well done! Ha ha ha!’

‘You know this young man, I see,’ said Lord George.

‘Know him, my lord! as well as I know my own right hand. My captain knows him. We all know him.’

‘Will you take him into your division?’

‘It hasn’t in it a better, nor a nimbler, nor a more active man, than Barnaby Rudge,’ said Hugh. ‘Show me the man who says it has! Fall in, Barnaby. He shall march, my lord, between me and Dennis; and he shall carry,’ he added, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man who tendered it, ‘the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army.’

‘In the name of God, no!’ shrieked the widow, darting forward. ‘Barnaby—my lord—see—he’ll come back—Barnaby—Barnaby!’

‘Women in the field!’ cried Hugh, stepping between them, and holding her off. ‘Holloa! My captain there!’

‘What’s the matter here?’ cried Simon Tappertit, bustling up in a great heat. ‘Do you call this order?’

‘Nothing like it, captain,’ answered Hugh, still holding her back with his outstretched hand. ‘It’s against all orders. Ladies are carrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty. The word of command, captain! They’re filing off the ground. Quick!’

‘Close!’ cried Simon, with the whole power of his lungs. ‘Form! March!’

She was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in motion; Barnaby was whirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and she saw him no more.

“Cosa stai facendo?” gridò il suo padrone, afferrandolo per entrambe le mani; infatti lui aveva appena fatto finta di inginocchiarsi ai suoi piedi. “Non rovinarmi, caro Gashford, per il dovere solenne di questa giornata gloriosa, ” Le lacrime gli riempirono gli occhi mentre pronunciava queste parole, “Andiamo tra loro; dobbiamo trovare un posto in qualche unità per questo nuovo reclute. Dammi la mano.”

Gashford infilò la sua mano fredda e insidiosa nella presa del suo padrone; così, mano nella mano, seguiti anche da Barnaby e dalla sua madre, si mescolarono tra la folla.

A quel momento, avevano già ripreso a cantare; mentre il loro leader passava tra le loro file, alzavano la voce al massimo delle loro possibilità. Molti di coloro che si erano uniti per sostenere la religione del loro paese, persino fino alla morte, non avevano mai sentito una inno o un salmo in tutta la loro vita. Ma questi uomini, nella maggior parte dei casi dotati di voci potenti e naturalmente appassionati di canto, intonavano qualsiasi sciocchezza o oscenità gli venisse in mente, convinti che non sarebbe stata notata nel coro generale e senza curarsene affatto. Molti di questi volontari cantavano proprio sotto il naso di Lord George Gordon, il quale, del tutto ignaro di ciò che avveniva intorno a lui, proseguiva con il suo solito atteggiamento rigido e solenne, profondamente edificato e compiaciuto dal comportamento pio dei suoi seguaci.

Continuavano all’infinito, lungo questa linea, giù per quella, attorno al perimetro di questo cerchio, e su ogni lato di quel quadrato cavo; c’erano ancora innumerevoli linee, quadrati e cerchi da esaminare. Poiché il giorno era estremamente caldo e il sole riversava i suoi raggi più intensi sul campo, coloro che portavano pesanti stendardi iniziarono a sentirsi deboli e stanchi; la maggior parte di loro si tolse i fazzoletti da collo e aprì giacche e gilet; alcuni, nel centro del gruppo, sopraffatti dal calore insopportabile – reso ancora più intenso dalla folla che li circondava – si sdraiarono sull’erba, offrendo tutto ciò che avevano con sé in cambio di un sorso d’acqua. Eppure nessuno lasciò il campo, nemmeno coloro che erano così sofferenti; Lord George, sudato copiosamente, continuava ad avanzare insieme a Gashford; Barnaby e sua madre lo seguivano da vicino.

Erano arrivati in cima a una lunga fila di circa ottocento uomini, schierati in fila indiana; Lord George si voltò per guardare indietro quando si udì un forte grido di riconoscimento – con quel tono particolare e leggermente soffocato che una voce assume quando viene alzata all’aperto, in mezzo a una grande folla – e un uomo, ridendo ad alta voce, uscì dalla fila e diede una forte pacca sulle spalle di Barnaby con la sua mano pesante.

“Che cosa succede ora!” esclamò. “Barnaby Rudge! Ma dove ti sei nascosto in questi cento anni?”

Barnaby stava pensando tra sé che l’odore dell’erba calpestata gli riportasse indietro i ricordi delle sue vecchie partite di cricket, quando era ancora un bambino e giocava a Chigwell Green. Confuso da quell’improvvisa e vivace interazione, fissò l’uomo con aria perplessa e riuscì a malapena a dire: “Cosa! Hugh!”

“Hugh!” risuonò l’altro; “ah, Hugh. Hugh il Giustiziere! Ti ricordi del mio cane? Ora è vivo, e sono sicuro che ti riconoscerà. Ehi, indossi quel colore. Ottimo lavoro! Ha ha ha!”

“Conosci questo giovane, vedo,” disse Lord George.

“Conoscetelo, mio signore, tanto bene quanto conosco la mia stessa mano destra. Il mio capitano lo conosce. Lo conosciamo tutti.”

“Lo prenderai nella tua squadra?”

“Non c’è nessun uomo migliore, più agile o più attivo di Barnaby Rudge,” disse Hugh. “Mostratemi qualcuno che sostenga il contrario! Entra, Barnaby. Sarà lui ad avanzare tra me e Dennis; e porterà,” aggiunse, prendendo una -bandiera dalle mani di un uomo stanco che gliela porgeva, “la più bella bandiera di seta in tutto questo valoroso esercito.”

“Nel nome di Dio, no!” gridò la vedova, precipitandosi in avanti.
“Barnaby, mio signore, vedete, tornerà indietro. Barnaby, ”

“Donne in campo!”, gridò Hugh, mettendosi tra di loro e trattenendola. “Ehi! Il mio capitano è laggiù!”

“Che cosa sta succedendo qui?” gridò Simon Tappertit, arrivando di corsa, molto agitato. “Questo vi sembra un ordine?”

“Niente del genere, capitano,” rispose Hugh, continuando a trattenerla con la mano tesa. “È contro tutte le regole. Le signore stanno portando via i nostri valorosi soldati dal loro dovere. È un ordine diretto, capitano! Stanno già decollando. Presto!”

“Chiudetevi!” gridò Simon con tutta la forza dei suoi polmoni. “Formazione! In marcia!”

Fu gettata a terra; l’intero campo era in movimento; Barnaby fu trascinato via nel cuore di una folla densa di persone, e lei non lo vide più.

Chapter 49

The mob had been divided from its first assemblage into four divisions; the London, the Westminster, the Southwark, and the Scotch. Each of these divisions being subdivided into various bodies, and these bodies being drawn up in various forms and figures, the general arrangement was, except to the few chiefs and leaders, as unintelligible as the plan of a great battle to the meanest soldier in the field. It was not without its method, however; for, in a very short space of time after being put in motion, the crowd had resolved itself into three great parties, and were prepared, as had been arranged, to cross the river by different bridges, and make for the House of Commons in separate detachments.

At the head of that division which had Westminster Bridge for its approach to the scene of action, Lord George Gordon took his post; with Gashford at his right hand, and sundry ruffians, of most unpromising appearance, forming a kind of staff about him. The conduct of a second party, whose route lay by Blackfriars, was entrusted to a committee of management, including perhaps a dozen men: while the third, which was to go by London Bridge, and through the main streets, in order that their numbers and their serious intentions might be the better known and appreciated by the citizens, were led by Simon Tappertit (assisted by a few subalterns, selected from the Brotherhood of United Bulldogs), Dennis the hangman, Hugh, and some others.

The word of command being given, each of these great bodies took the road assigned to it, and departed on its way, in perfect order and profound silence. That which went through the City greatly exceeded the others in number, and was of such prodigious extent that when the rear began to move, the front was nearly four miles in advance, notwithstanding that the men marched three abreast and followed very close upon each other.

At the head of this party, in the place where Hugh, in the madness of his humour, had stationed him, and walking between that dangerous companion and the hangman, went Barnaby; as many a man among the thousands who looked on that day afterwards remembered well. Forgetful of all other things in the ecstasy of the moment, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling with delight, heedless of the weight of the great banner he carried, and mindful only of its flashing in the sun and rustling in the summer breeze, on he went, proud, happy, elated past all telling:—the only light-hearted, undesigning creature, in the whole assembly.

‘What do you think of this?’ asked Hugh, as they passed through the crowded streets, and looked up at the windows which were thronged with spectators. ‘They have all turned out to see our flags and streamers? Eh, Barnaby? Why, Barnaby’s the greatest man of all the pack! His flag’s the largest of the lot, the brightest too. There’s nothing in the show, like Barnaby. All eyes are turned on him. Ha ha ha!’

‘Don’t make that din, brother,’ growled the hangman, glancing with no very approving eyes at Barnaby as he spoke: ‘I hope he don’t think there’s nothing to be done, but carrying that there piece of blue rag, like a boy at a breaking up. You’re ready for action I hope, eh? You, I mean,’ he added, nudging Barnaby roughly with his elbow. ‘What are you staring at? Why don’t you speak?’

Barnaby had been gazing at his flag, and looked vacantly from his questioner to Hugh.

‘He don’t understand your way,’ said the latter. ‘Here, I’ll explain it to him. Barnaby old boy, attend to me.’

‘I’ll attend,’ said Barnaby, looking anxiously round; ‘but I wish I could see her somewhere.’

‘See who?’ demanded Dennis in a gruff tone. ‘You an’t in love I hope, brother? That an’t the sort of thing for us, you know. We mustn’t have no love here.’

‘She would be proud indeed to see me now, eh Hugh?’ said Barnaby. ‘Wouldn’t it make her glad to see me at the head of this large show? She’d cry for joy, I know she would. Where CAN she be? She never sees me at my best, and what do I care to be gay and fine if SHE’S not by?’

‘Why, what palaver’s this?’ asked Mr Dennis with supreme disdain. ‘We an’t got no sentimental members among us, I hope.’

‘Don’t be uneasy, brother,’ cried Hugh, ‘he’s only talking of his mother.’

‘Of his what?’ said Mr Dennis with a strong oath.

‘His mother.’

‘And have I combined myself with this here section, and turned out on this here memorable day, to hear men talk about their mothers!’ growled Mr Dennis with extreme disgust. ‘The notion of a man’s sweetheart’s bad enough, but a man’s mother!’—and here his disgust was so extreme that he spat upon the ground, and could say no more.

‘Barnaby’s right,’ cried Hugh with a grin, ‘and I say it. Lookee, bold lad. If she’s not here to see, it’s because I’ve provided for her, and sent half-a-dozen gentlemen, every one of ‘em with a blue flag (but not half as fine as yours), to take her, in state, to a grand house all hung round with gold and silver banners, and everything else you please, where she’ll wait till you come, and want for nothing.’

‘Ay!’ said Barnaby, his face beaming with delight: ‘have you indeed? That’s a good hearing. That’s fine! Kind Hugh!’

‘But nothing to what will come, bless you,’ retorted Hugh, with a wink at Dennis, who regarded his new companion in arms with great astonishment.

‘No, indeed?’ cried Barnaby.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Hugh. ‘Money, cocked hats and feathers, red coats and gold lace; all the fine things there are, ever were, or will be; will belong to us if we are true to that noble gentleman—the best man in the world—carry our flags for a few days, and keep ‘em safe. That’s all we’ve got to do.’

‘Is that all?’ cried Barnaby with glistening eyes, as he clutched his pole the tighter; ‘I warrant you I keep this one safe, then. You have put it in good hands. You know me, Hugh. Nobody shall wrest this flag away.’

Capitolo 49

La folla era stata divisa, fin dalla sua prima riunione, in quattro gruppi: quello di Londra, quello di Westminster, quello di Southwark e quello degli scozzesi. Ognuno di questi gruppi era a sua volta suddiviso in varie unità, le quali si disponevano in forme e schieramenti diversi. Per quanto riguarda i pochi capi e leader, l’intero organizzazione risultava altrettanto incomprensibile per loro quanto il piano di una grande battaglia lo sarebbe stato per un semplice soldato sul campo. Tuttavia, questa organizzazione non era priva di logica: in un brevissimo lasso di tempo dopo essere stata messa in movimento, la folla si divise in tre grandi gruppi e, secondo i piani prestabiliti, attraversò il fiume attraverso diversi ponti, dirigendosi poi verso la Casa dei Comuni in formazioni separate.

In testa a quella divisione la cui via d’accesso al luogo dell’azione passava per il Ponte di Westminster, Lord George Gordon prese posizione; al suo fianco c’era Gashford, insieme ad alcuni individui dall’aspetto tutt’altro che promettente, che formavano una sorta di staff intorno a lui. La guida della seconda squadra, la cui rotta passava per Blackfriars, fu affidata a un comitato di gestione composto da circa una dozzina di uomini; mentre la terza squadra, che avrebbe attraversato il Ponte di Londra e le strade principali, al fine di far conoscere meglio il proprio numero e le proprie intenzioni serie ai cittadini, era guidata da Simon Tappertit (assistito da alcuni subordinati selezionati dalla Fratellanza dei “United Bulldogs”), Dennis l’impiccatore, Hugh e altri ancora.

Non appena fu dato l’ordine, ciascuna di queste grandi formazioni prese la strada assegnatale e si mise in marcia, in perfetto ordine e nel più profondo silenzio. Quella che attraversava la Città superava di gran lunga le altre per numero, e la sua estensione era tale che quando la parte posteriore iniziava a muoversi, la parte anteriore si trovava già a quasi quattro miglia di distanza, nonostante gli uomini marciassero tre affiancati e molto vicini l’uno all’altro.

In testa a quella processione, nel luogo dove Hugh, nella sua follia e nel suo spirito bizzarro, lo aveva messo, camminando tra quel pericoloso compagno e il boia, c’era Barnaby; molti degli uomini che assistettero a quella scena in seguito se ne ricordarono benissimo. Dimenticatosi di tutto il resto nell’ebbrezza di quell’istante, con il viso arrossato e gli occhi brillanti di gioia, ignaro del peso del grande stendardo che portava con sé, pensando soltanto al modo in cui lampeggiava al sole e frusciava nella brezza estiva, proseguì lungo la strada, orgoglioso, felice, esaltato, l’unica creatura spensierata e innocente in tutta quella folla.

“Che ne pensi di questo?” chiese Hugh, mentre attraversavano le strade affollate e alzavano lo sguardo verso le finestre piene di spettatori. “Sono tutti usciti per vedere le nostre bandiere e i nostri stendardi? Eh, Barnaby. Ma lui è davvero l’uomo più importante di tutti! La sua bandiera è la più grande e anche la più brillante di tutte. Nella mostra non c’è nulla che possa competere con Barnaby. Tutti gli occhi sono fissi su di lui. Ha ha ha!”

“Non fare tutto quel rumore, fratello,” ringhiò il boia, guardando Barnaby con occhi tutt’altro che approvatori: “Spero che non pensi che non ci sia nulla da fare, se non portare quella striscia di stoffa blu, come un bambino in lutto. Spero tu sia pronto all’azione, eh? Intendo dire te,” aggiunse, spingendo rudemente Barnaby con il gomito. “A cosa stai fissando? Perché non parli?”

Barnaby stava fissando la sua bandiera, poi guardò con aria vuota dall’interrogatore a Hugh.

“Lui non capisce il tuo modo di fare,” disse quest’ultimo. “Ascolta, gli spiegherò io. Barnaby, ascoltami attentamente.”

“Parteciperò,” disse Barnaby, guardandosi intorno con ansia; “ma vorrei tanto riuscire a vederla da qualche parte.”

“Vedi con chi?” chiese Dennis con tono brusco. “Spero che tu non sia innamorato, fratello. Non è il genere di cose adatte a noi, capisci? Qui non dobbiamo avere amore.”

“Sarebbe davvero orgogliosa di vedermi ora, eh Hugh?” disse Barnaby.
“Non le farebbe piacere vedere me alla guida di questo grande progetto? Piangerebbe di gioia, ne sono sicuro. Dove può essere? Non mi vede mai nel mio momento migliore. E a cosa serve che io sia felice e bello se lei non è qui?”

“Ma di cosa state parlando?” chiese il signor Dennis con estremo disprezzo. “Spero che tra noi non ci siano membri sentimentali, ”

“Non preoccuparti, fratello,” gridò Hugh, “sta solo parlando di sua madre.”

“Di cosa suo?” disse il signor Dennis imprecando forte.

“Sua madre.”

“E così mi sono unito a questa riunione, proprio in questo giorno memorabile, per ascoltare degli uomini parlare delle loro madri!” ringhiò il signor Dennis con estrema disgusto. “L’idea che l’amante di un uomo possa essere qualcosa di brutto è già abbastanza disgustosa, ma la madre di un uomo?!” E a quel punto il suo disgusto era così intenso che sputò a terra e non riuscì più a dire nulla.

“Barnaby ha ragione,” esclamò Hugh sorridendo, “e lo dico apertamente. Guarda, coraggioso ragazzo. Se lei non è qui, è perché io me ne sono occupato: ho mandato sei gentiluomini, ognuno con una bandiera blu (ma nemmeno lontanamente bella come la tua), per portarla in un grandioso palazzo decorato di stendardi d’oro e d’argento, dove aspetterà il tuo arrivo senza mancare di nulla.”

“Ah!” esclamò Barnaby, con il viso illuminato dalla gioia: “Davvero l’hai? Che bella notizia. Ottimo, caro Hugh!”

“Ma niente rispetto a ciò che verrà. Che tu sia benedetto,” ribatté Hugh, facendo l’occhiolino a Dennis, il quale guardava il suo nuovo compagno d’armi con grande stupore.

“Davvero no?”, esclamò Barnaby.

“Niente affatto,” disse Hugh. “Denaro, cappelli piumati e piume, redingotti rossi e merletti d’oro; tutte le cose belle che ci sono, che ci sono state o che ci saranno. Apparteranno a noi se saremo fedeli a quel nobile signore. L’uomo migliore del mondo. Se porteremo le sue bandiere per qualche giorno e le terremo al sicuro. Questo è tutto ciò che dobbiamo fare.”

“È tutto?” gridò Barnaby con gli occhi che brillavano, stringendo ancora di più la sua asta; “Vi assicuro che terrò questa al sicuro. L’avete affidata a buone mani. Mi conoscete bene, Hugh: nessuno riuscirà a strapparmi questa bandiera.”

‘Well said!’ cried Hugh. ‘Ha ha! Nobly said! That’s the old stout Barnaby, that I have climbed and leaped with, many and many a day—I knew I was not mistaken in Barnaby.—Don’t you see, man,’ he added in a whisper, as he slipped to the other side of Dennis, ‘that the lad’s a natural, and can be got to do anything, if you take him the right way? Letting alone the fun he is, he’s worth a dozen men, in earnest, as you’d find if you tried a fall with him. Leave him to me. You shall soon see whether he’s of use or not.’

Mr Dennis received these explanatory remarks with many nods and winks, and softened his behaviour towards Barnaby from that moment. Hugh, laying his finger on his nose, stepped back into his former place, and they proceeded in silence.

It was between two and three o’clock in the afternoon when the three great parties met at Westminster, and, uniting into one huge mass, raised a tremendous shout. This was not only done in token of their presence, but as a signal to those on whom the task devolved, that it was time to take possession of the lobbies of both Houses, and of the various avenues of approach, and of the gallery stairs. To the last-named place, Hugh and Dennis, still with their pupil between them, rushed straightway; Barnaby having given his flag into the hands of one of their own party, who kept them at the outer door. Their followers pressing on behind, they were borne as on a great wave to the very doors of the gallery, whence it was impossible to retreat, even if they had been so inclined, by reason of the throng which choked up the passages. It is a familiar expression in describing a great crowd, that a person might have walked upon the people’s heads. In this case it was actually done; for a boy who had by some means got among the concourse, and was in imminent danger of suffocation, climbed to the shoulders of a man beside him and walked upon the people’s hats and heads into the open street; traversing in his passage the whole length of two staircases and a long gallery. Nor was the swarm without less dense; for a basket which had been tossed into the crowd, was jerked from head to head, and shoulder to shoulder, and went spinning and whirling on above them, until it was lost to view, without ever once falling in among them or coming near the ground.

Through this vast throng, sprinkled doubtless here and there with honest zealots, but composed for the most part of the very scum and refuse of London, whose growth was fostered by bad criminal laws, bad prison regulations, and the worst conceivable police, such of the members of both Houses of Parliament as had not taken the precaution to be already at their posts, were compelled to fight and force their way. Their carriages were stopped and broken; the wheels wrenched off; the glasses shivered to atoms; the panels beaten in; drivers, footmen, and masters, pulled from their seats and rolled in the mud. Lords, commoners, and reverend bishops, with little distinction of person or party, were kicked and pinched and hustled; passed from hand to hand through various stages of ill-usage; and sent to their fellow-senators at last with their clothes hanging in ribands about them, their bagwigs torn off, themselves speechless and breathless, and their persons covered with the powder which had been cuffed and beaten out of their hair. One lord was so long in the hands of the populace, that the Peers as a body resolved to sally forth and rescue him, and were in the act of doing so, when he happily appeared among them covered with dirt and bruises, and hardly to be recognised by those who knew him best. The noise and uproar were on the increase every moment. The air was filled with execrations, hoots, and howlings. The mob raged and roared, like a mad monster as it was, unceasingly, and each new outrage served to swell its fury.

Within doors, matters were even yet more threatening. Lord George—preceded by a man who carried the immense petition on a porter’s knot through the lobby to the door of the House of Commons, where it was received by two officers of the house who rolled it up to the table ready for presentation—had taken his seat at an early hour, before the Speaker went to prayers. His followers pouring in at the same time, the lobby and all the avenues were immediately filled, as we have seen. Thus the members were not only attacked in their passage through the streets, but were set upon within the very walls of Parliament; while the tumult, both within and without, was so great, that those who attempted to speak could scarcely hear their own voices: far less, consult upon the course it would be wise to take in such extremity, or animate each other to dignified and firm resistance. So sure as any member, just arrived, with dress disordered and dishevelled hair, came struggling through the crowd in the lobby, it yelled and screamed in triumph; and when the door of the House, partially and cautiously opened by those within for his admission, gave them a momentary glimpse of the interior, they grew more wild and savage, like beasts at the sight of prey, and made a rush against the portal which strained its locks and bolts in their staples, and shook the very beams.

The strangers’ gallery, which was immediately above the door of the House, had been ordered to be closed on the first rumour of disturbance, and was empty; save that now and then Lord George took his seat there, for the convenience of coming to the head of the stairs which led to it, and repeating to the people what had passed within. It was on these stairs that Barnaby, Hugh, and Dennis were posted. There were two flights, short, steep, and narrow, running parallel to each other, and leading to two little doors communicating with a low passage which opened on the gallery. Between them was a kind of well, or unglazed skylight, for the admission of light and air into the lobby, which might be some eighteen or twenty feet below.

“Ben detto!” esclamò Hugh. “Ah ah! Davvero nobile da parte sua. Quello è il vecchio e robusto Barnaby, con cui ho scalato e saltato innumerevoli volte. Sapevo di non sbagliarmi riguardo a lui. Non capisci, amico?” aggiunse sussurrando, mentre si spostava dall’altra parte di Dennis. “Quel ragazzo è nato per fare cose straordinarie; si può convincerlo a fare qualsiasi cosa, basta prendere la strada giusta. Lasciandolo libero di divertirsi come vuole, vale davvero il posto di una dozzina di uomini. Prova a metterti alla prova con lui. Vedrai presto se è utile o no.”

Il signor Dennis accolse queste spiegazioni con numerosi cenni del capo e sorrisetti, e da quel momento modificò il proprio comportamento verso Barnaby. Hugh, mettendosi un dito sul naso, tornò al suo posto precedente, e continuarono la conversazione in silenzio.

Era tra le due e le tre del pomeriggio quando i tre grandi gruppi si incontrarono a Westminster; unendosi in un’unica massa, lanciarono un grido enorme. Questo non fu fatto soltanto per segnalare la loro presenza, ma anche come segnale a coloro a cui spettava compiere l’azione successiva: era arrivato il momento di prendere possesso dei corridoi delle due Camere, delle varie vie d’accesso e delle scale della galleria. Hugh e Dennis, ancora con il loro discepolo in mezzo a loro, si precipitarono immediatamente verso quest’ultima; Barnaby aveva affidato la sua bandiera a uno dei loro compagni, che la tenne alla porta d’ingresso. I loro seguaci, spingendosi avanti, furono portati come su un’enorme ondata fino alle porte della galleria; da lì non era possibile ritirarsi, nemmeno se lo avessero voluto, a causa della folla che bloccava tutti i passaggi. È un’espressione comune per descrivere una grande folla: si potrebbe dire che qualcuno possa camminare sulle teste delle persone. In questo caso, ciò accadde davvero: un ragazzo, che in qualche modo era riuscito a infiltrarsi nella calca e rischiava di soffocare, salì sulle spalle di un uomo accanto a lui e proseguì il suo cammino camminando sui cappelli e sulle teste della folla, attraversando due intere scale e una lunga galleria. La folla era altrettanto densa: un cesto gettato tra la gente venne spinto avanti e indietro, da una testa all’altra, girando e vorticando sopra di loro, fino a quando scomparve dalla vista, senza mai cadere tra la folla o avvicinarsi al suolo.

In mezzo a questa vasta folla, certamente mescolata qua e là con sinceri entusiasti, ma composta per la maggior parte dalla feccia e dai rifiuti di Londra, il cui aumento era stato favorito da cattive leggi penali, scarse regolamentazioni carcerarie e da una polizia delle peggiori. Membri di entrambe le Camere del Parlamento che non avevano preso la precauzione di trovarsi già ai loro posti furono costretti a lottare e farsi strada a forza. I loro carri venivano fermati e distrutti; le ruote venivano strappate via; i bicchieri andavano in frantumi; i pannelli dei veicoli venivano rovinati; cocchieri, servitori e padroni venivano trascinati giù dai loro posti e rotolavano nel fango. Lord, comuni cittadini e rispettabili vescovi, senza alcuna distinzione di rango o partito politico, venivano calciati, strappati i vestiti, i cappelli distrutti; rimanevano senza parole, senza fiato, con i capelli coperti di polvere. Un lord rimase per molto tempo nelle mani della folla; i nobili, come corpo collettivo, decisero di intervenire per salvarlo, ma proprio mentre stavano per farlo, lui apparve tra loro, coperto di fango e lividi, a malapena riconoscibile da coloro che lo conoscevano meglio. Il rumore e il tumulto aumentavano di minuto in minuto; l’aria era piena di insulti, grida e urla. La folla impazziva, ruggendo senza sosta; ogni nuovo atto di violenza alimentava ancora di più la sua furia.

All’interno dell’edificio, la situazione era ancora più minacciosa. Lord George – preceduto da un uomo che portava quella enorme petizione legata con un nodo da facchino attraverso l’atrio fino alla porta della Casa dei Comuni, dove fu ricevuta da due funzionari dell’istituzione che la arrotolarono sul tavolo, pronta per essere presentata – si era seduto molto presto, prima ancora che il Presidente della Camera andasse a pregare. I suoi seguaci, affluendo nello stesso momento, riempirono immediatamente l’atrio e tutte le vie adiacenti, come abbiamo già visto. Così i membri del Parlamento venivano attaccati non solo mentre percorrevano le strade, ma anche all’interno delle mura stesse dell’edificio; il tumulto, sia dentro che fuori, era così grande che coloro che cercavano di parlare a malapena riuscivano a sentire la propria voce, figuriamoci discutere su quale fosse la linea d’azione più saggia in una situazione del genere o incoraggiarsi a resistere con dignità e determinazione. Ogni nuovo membro che arrivava, con i vestiti in disordine e i capelli scompigliati, mentre lottava per farsi strada nella folla nell’atrio, suscitava grida di trionfo da parte dei presenti; e quando la porta della Casa veniva aperta parzialmente e con cautela dai membri all’interno per farlo entrare, offrendo loro una fugace visione dell’interno, la folla diventava ancora più selvaggia, come bestie che avessero scorto la preda, e si lanciava contro il portale, strappando via le serrature e scuotendo con forza le travi di sostegno.

La galleria degli sconosciuti, situata immediatamente sopra la porta della Casa, veniva chiusa non appena si diffondeva la minima notizia di disordini; in quel momento era vuota, tranne che di tanto in tanto Lord George vi prendeva posto per poter raggiungere facilmente la cima delle scale che vi conducevano e ripetere alle persone ciò che era accaduto all’interno. Fu su quelle stesse scale che Barnaby, Hugh e Dennis furono piazzati di guardia. C’erano due rampe di scale, corte, ripide e strette, disposte una accanto all’altra e che conducevano a due piccole porte comunicanti con un corridoio basso che si apriva sulla galleria. Tra le due rampe c’era una sorta di finestra senza vetri, destinata ad far entrare luce e aria nel vestibolo, situato probabilmente a circa diciotto o venti piedi di distanza.

Upon one of these little staircases—not that at the head of which Lord George appeared from time to time, but the other—Gashford stood with his elbow on the bannister, and his cheek resting on his hand, with his usual crafty aspect. Whenever he varied this attitude in the slightest degree—so much as by the gentlest motion of his arm—the uproar was certain to increase, not merely there, but in the lobby below; from which place no doubt, some man who acted as fugleman to the rest, was constantly looking up and watching him.

‘Order!’ cried Hugh, in a voice which made itself heard even above the roar and tumult, as Lord George appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘News! News from my lord!’

The noise continued, notwithstanding his appearance, until Gashford looked round. There was silence immediately—even among the people in the passages without, and on the other staircases, who could neither see nor hear, but to whom, notwithstanding, the signal was conveyed with marvellous rapidity.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Lord George, who was very pale and agitated, ‘we must be firm. They talk of delays, but we must have no delays. They talk of taking your petition into consideration next Tuesday, but we must have it considered now. Present appearances look bad for our success, but we must succeed and will!’

‘We must succeed and will!’ echoed the crowd. And so among their shouts and cheers and other cries, he bowed to them and retired, and presently came back again. There was another gesture from Gashford, and a dead silence directly.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, this time, ‘that we have little reason, gentlemen, to hope for any redress from the proceedings of Parliament. But we must redress our own grievances, we must meet again, we must put our trust in Providence, and it will bless our endeavours.’

This speech being a little more temperate than the last, was not so favourably received. When the noise and exasperation were at their height, he came back once more, and told them that the alarm had gone forth for many miles round; that when the King heard of their assembling together in that great body, he had no doubt, His Majesty would send down private orders to have their wishes complied with; and—with the manner of his speech as childish, irresolute, and uncertain as his matter—was proceeding in this strain, when two gentlemen suddenly appeared at the door where he stood, and pressing past him and coming a step or two lower down upon the stairs, confronted the people.

The boldness of this action quite took them by surprise. They were not the less disconcerted, when one of the gentlemen, turning to Lord George, spoke thus—in a loud voice that they might hear him well, but quite coolly and collectedly:

‘You may tell these people, if you please, my lord, that I am General Conway of whom they have heard; and that I oppose this petition, and all their proceedings, and yours. I am a soldier, you may tell them, and I will protect the freedom of this place with my sword. You see, my lord, that the members of this House are all in arms to-day; you know that the entrance to it is a narrow one; you cannot be ignorant that there are men within these walls who are determined to defend that pass to the last, and before whom many lives must fall if your adherents persevere. Have a care what you do.’

‘And my Lord George,’ said the other gentleman, addressing him in like manner, ‘I desire them to hear this, from me—Colonel Gordon—your near relation. If a man among this crowd, whose uproar strikes us deaf, crosses the threshold of the House of Commons, I swear to run my sword that moment—not into his, but into your body!’

With that, they stepped back again, keeping their faces towards the crowd; took each an arm of the misguided nobleman; drew him into the passage, and shut the door; which they directly locked and fastened on the inside.

This was so quickly done, and the demeanour of both gentlemen—who were not young men either—was so gallant and resolute, that the crowd faltered and stared at each other with irresolute and timid looks. Many tried to turn towards the door; some of the faintest-hearted cried they had best go back, and called to those behind to give way; and the panic and confusion were increasing rapidly, when Gashford whispered Hugh.

‘What now!’ Hugh roared aloud, turning towards them. ‘Why go back? Where can you do better than here, boys! One good rush against these doors and one below at the same time, will do the business. Rush on, then! As to the door below, let those stand back who are afraid. Let those who are not afraid, try who shall be the first to pass it. Here goes! Look out down there!’

Without the delay of an instant, he threw himself headlong over the bannisters into the lobby below. He had hardly touched the ground when Barnaby was at his side. The chaplain’s assistant, and some members who were imploring the people to retire, immediately withdrew; and then, with a great shout, both crowds threw themselves against the doors pell-mell, and besieged the House in earnest.

At that moment, when a second onset must have brought them into collision with those who stood on the defensive within, in which case great loss of life and bloodshed would inevitably have ensued,—the hindmost portion of the crowd gave way, and the rumour spread from mouth to mouth that a messenger had been despatched by water for the military, who were forming in the street. Fearful of sustaining a charge in the narrow passages in which they were so closely wedged together, the throng poured out as impetuously as they had flocked in. As the whole stream turned at once, Barnaby and Hugh went with it: and so, fighting and struggling and trampling on fallen men and being trampled on in turn themselves, they and the whole mass floated by degrees into the open street, where a large detachment of the Guards, both horse and foot, came hurrying up; clearing the ground before them so rapidly that the people seemed to melt away as they advanced.

Su uno di quei piccoli gradini – non su quello dal quale, di tanto in tanto, Lord George compariva – ma sull’altro, Gashford stava appoggiato al corrimano, con la guancia sulla mano, con quell’espressione astuta e abituale. Ogni volta che modificava anche solo leggermente quella posizione – anche solo con il più lieve movimento del braccio – il clamore aumentava immediatamente, non solo lì, ma anche nel corridoio sottostante; da dove, senza dubbio, qualcuno che faceva da messaggero per gli altri lo osservava costantemente.

“Ordine!” gridò Hugh, con una voce che si fece sentire persino al di sopra del rumore e del caos, quando Lord George apparve in cima alle scale. “Notizie! Notizie dal mio signore!”

Il rumore continuava, nonostante la sua presenza, fino a quando Gashford non guardò intorno. Subito dopo calò il silenzio – anche tra le persone nei corridoi adiacenti e sulle altre scale, che non potevano né vedere né sentire nulla; tuttavia, il segnale venne comunque trasmesso a loro con una rapidità straordinaria.

“Signori,” disse Lord George, molto pallido e agitato, “dobbiamo essere decisi. Parlano di ritardi, ma noi non dobbiamo permetterne alcuno. Dicono che esamineranno la vostra petizione il prossimo martedì, ma noi dobbiamo che venga esaminata subito. Le circostanze attuali non sembrano favorevoli al nostro successo, ma dobbiamo riuscire, e lo faremo!”

“Dobbiamo riuscire e lo faremo!”, echeggiò la folla. E così, tra i loro gridi, gli applausi e altre esclamazioni, lui si inchinò davanti a loro e se ne andò; poco dopo tornò indietro. Gashford fece un altro gesto, e immediatamente calò un silenzio assoluto.

“Temo,” disse questa volta, “che non abbiamo molte ragioni, signori, di sperare in qualche rimedio da parte delle azioni del Parlamento. Ma dobbiamo risolvere noi stessi i nostri problemi, dobbiamo riunirci di nuovo, dobbiamo confidare nella Provvidenza, e lei benedirà i nostri sforzi.”

Questo discorso, essendo un po’ più moderato rispetto al precedente, non fu accolto con lo stesso favore. Quando il clamore e l’esasperazione raggiunsero il loro apice, egli tornò ancora una volta e disse loro che l’allarme era stato diffuso per molte miglia intorno; che quando il Re aveva saputo della loro riunione in quel grande gruppo, non aveva alcun >dubbio che Sua Maestà avrebbe inviato ordini personali affinché i loro desideri venissero esauditi; e, con un tono di voce altrettanto infantile, indeciso e incerto quanto il contenuto del suo discorso, stava proseguendo in questo modo, quando improvvisamente due gentiluomini apparvero alla porta dove si trovava lui. Superandolo e scendendo un paio di gradini più in basso, si affrontarono direttamente con la folla.

L’audacia di questo gesto li colse completamente di sorpresa. Tuttavia rimasero comunque sconcertati quando uno dei gentiluomini, rivolgendosi a Lord George, parlò in questo modo: a voce alta affinché tutti potessero sentirlo chiaramente, ma con estrema calma e compostezza.

“Potete dire a queste persone, se vi compiace, mio signore, che io sono il generale Conway di cui hanno sentito parlare; e che io mi oppongo a questa petizione, così come a tutte le loro azioni e alle vostre. Sono un soldato, potete dirlo loro, e proteggerò la libertà di questo luogo con la mia spada. Vedete, mio signore, che i membri di questa Casa sono tutti armati oggi; sapete che l’ingresso è stretto; non potete ignorare che all’interno di queste mura ci sono uomini decisi a difendere quel passaggio fino all’ultimo momento, e davanti a loro molte vite dovranno essere sacrificate se i vostri sostenitori insistono. Pensate bene a ciò che fate.”

“E mio signore George,” disse l’altro gentiluomo rivolgendosi a lui nello stesso modo, “desidero che ascoltino queste parole da me: il Colonnello Gordon, vostro stretto parente. Se qualcuno tra questa folla, il cui clamore ci assorda, dovesse varcare la soglia della >Casa dei Comuni, giuro che in quel momento userò la mia _spada, non contro di lui, ma contro il vostro -corpo!”

Detto questo, si fecero di nuovo indietro, tenendo il viso rivolto verso la folla; presero ciascuno un braccio del nobile errato e lo trascinarono nel corridoio, poi chiusero la porta e la bloccarono immediatamente dall’interno.

Tutto fu fatto così rapidamente, e l’atteggiamento di entrambi quei signori – che non erano certo giovani – era così nobile e risoluto che la folla iniziò a vacillare e a guardarsi intorno con espressioni incerte e timide. Molti cercarono di dirigersi verso l’uscita; alcuni, i più deboli di cuore, gridarono che fosse meglio tornare indietro e chiesero alle persone dietro di loro di fare spazio; la panica e il caos aumentavano rapidamente, quando Gashford sussurrò qualcosa all’orecchio di Hugh.

“E ora cosa facciamo?” gridò Hugh, voltandosi verso di loro. “Perché tornare indietro? Dove potreste avere più successo di qui, ragazzi? Un attacco deciso contro queste porte, e uno sotto allo stesso tempo, basterà per risolvere tutto. Andate avanti! Per quanto riguarda la porta sotto, che si tengano indietro quelli che hanno paura. Che coloro che non hanno paura provino a vedere chi sarà il primo ad attraversarla. Forza, andiamo!”

Senza alcun indugio, si gettò giù dalle balaustrate nella sala d’ingresso sottostante. Appena toccò il suolo, Barnaby gli fu accanto. L’aiutante del cappellano e alcuni membri che stavano supplicando la gente di andarsene si ritirarono immediatamente; poi, con un grande grido, entrambe le folla si gettarono contro le porte con furia, assediando seriamente la Casa.

In quel momento, quando un secondo attacco avrebbe inevitabilmente portato loro allo scontro con coloro che si trovavano all’interno in posizione difensiva, causando così una grande perdita di vite umane e spargimento di sangue, la parte posteriore della folla iniziò a disperdersi. La voce si diffuse rapidamente: era stato inviato un messaggero via acqua per chiamare i militari che si stavano radunando in strada. Temendo di subire un attacco nei stretti passaggi in cui erano così ammassati, la folla iniziò a disperdersi con la stessa frenesia con cui si era radunata. Barnaby e Hugh furono trascinati via dal flusso della folla: lottando, calpestando uomini caduti e venendo a loro volta calpestati, riuscirono gradualmente ad uscire nella strada aperta, dove un gran numero di soldati delle Guardie, sia a cavallo che a piedi, stava arrivando di corsa. Loro avanzarono così rapidamente che la folla sembrò dissolversi al loro passaggio.

The word of command to halt being given, the soldiers formed across the street; the rioters, breathless and exhausted with their late exertions, formed likewise, though in a very irregular and disorderly manner. The commanding officer rode hastily into the open space between the two bodies, accompanied by a magistrate and an officer of the House of Commons, for whose accommodation a couple of troopers had hastily dismounted. The Riot Act was read, but not a man stirred.

In the first rank of the insurgents, Barnaby and Hugh stood side by side. Somebody had thrust into Barnaby’s hands when he came out into the street, his precious flag; which, being now rolled up and tied round the pole, looked like a giant quarter-staff as he grasped it firmly and stood upon his guard. If ever man believed with his whole heart and soul that he was engaged in a just cause, and that he was bound to stand by his leader to the last, poor Barnaby believed it of himself and Lord George Gordon.

After an ineffectual attempt to make himself heard, the magistrate gave the word and the Horse Guards came riding in among the crowd. But, even then, he galloped here and there, exhorting the people to disperse; and, although heavy stones were thrown at the men, and some were desperately cut and bruised, they had no orders but to make prisoners of such of the rioters as were the most active, and to drive the people back with the flat of their sabres. As the horses came in among them, the throng gave way at many points, and the Guards, following up their advantage, were rapidly clearing the ground, when two or three of the foremost, who were in a manner cut off from the rest by the people closing round them, made straight towards Barnaby and Hugh, who had no doubt been pointed out as the two men who dropped into the lobby: laying about them now with some effect, and inflicting on the more turbulent of their opponents, a few slight flesh wounds, under the influence of which a man dropped, here and there, into the arms of his fellows, amid much groaning and confusion.

At the sight of gashed and bloody faces, seen for a moment in the crowd, then hidden by the press around them, Barnaby turned pale and sick. But he stood his ground, and grasping his pole more firmly yet, kept his eye fixed upon the nearest soldier—nodding his head meanwhile, as Hugh, with a scowling visage, whispered in his ear.

The soldier came spurring on, making his horse rear as the people pressed about him, cutting at the hands of those who would have grasped his rein and forced his charger back, and waving to his comrades to follow—and still Barnaby, without retreating an inch, waited for his coming. Some called to him to fly, and some were in the very act of closing round him, to prevent his being taken, when the pole swept into the air above the people’s heads, and the man’s saddle was empty in an instant.

Then, he and Hugh turned and fled, the crowd opening to let them pass, and closing up again so quickly that there was no clue to the course they had taken. Panting for breath, hot, dusty, and exhausted with fatigue, they reached the riverside in safety, and getting into a boat with all despatch were soon out of any immediate danger.

As they glided down the river, they plainly heard the people cheering; and supposing they might have forced the soldiers to retreat, lay upon their oars for a few minutes, uncertain whether to return or not. But the crowd passing along Westminster Bridge, soon assured them that the populace were dispersing; and Hugh rightly guessed from this, that they had cheered the magistrate for offering to dismiss the military on condition of their immediate departure to their several homes, and that he and Barnaby were better where they were. He advised, therefore, that they should proceed to Blackfriars, and, going ashore at the bridge, make the best of their way to The Boot; where there was not only good entertainment and safe lodging, but where they would certainly be joined by many of their late companions. Barnaby assenting, they decided on this course of action, and pulled for Blackfriars accordingly.

They landed at a critical time, and fortunately for themselves at the right moment. For, coming into Fleet Street, they found it in an unusual stir; and inquiring the cause, were told that a body of Horse Guards had just galloped past, and that they were escorting some rioters whom they had made prisoners, to Newgate for safety. Not at all ill-pleased to have so narrowly escaped the cavalcade, they lost no more time in asking questions, but hurried to The Boot with as much speed as Hugh considered it prudent to make, without appearing singular or attracting an inconvenient share of public notice.

Non appena fu dato l’ordine di fermarsi, i soldati si schierarono lungo la strada; i rivoltosi, senza fiato e esausti per lo sforzo appena compiuto, si schierarono anch’essi, sebbene in modo molto disordinato. Il comandante si recò rapidamente nello spazio aperto tra le due formazioni, accompagnato da un magistrato e da un funzionario della >Casa dei Comuni, per i quali alcuni soldati si erano affrettatamente dismontati. Fu letto l’Atto contro i Tumulti, ma nessuno si mosse.

Nella prima fila degli insorti, Barnaby e Hugh stavano uno accanto all’altro. Quando uscì in strada, qualcuno gli mise nelle mani la sua preziosa bandiera; ora arrotolata e legata attorno al palo, assomigliava a un enorme bastone da comando mentre lui la stringeva saldamente, pronto a difenderla fino alla fine. Se mai un uomo ha creduto con tutto il cuore e l’‘anima di essere impegnato in una causa giusta, e che fosse suo dovere seguire il proprio leader fino alla fine, povero Barnaby credeva davvero in questo riguardo a se stesso e a Lord George Gordon.

Dopo un tentativo inefficace di farsi ascoltare, il magistrato diede l’ordine e le Guardie a Cavallo entrarono tra la folla. Ma anche allora continuarono a galoppare avanti e indietro, esortando la gente a disperdersi; e sebbene venissero lanciate pietre pesanti contro di loro e alcuni venissero gravemente feriti, l’unico ordine ricevuto era quello di catturare i ribelli più attivi e di scacciare la folla con il filo delle loro spade. Mentre le guardie avanzavano tra la calca, la folla si aprì in diversi punti; esse approfittarono della situazione per sgombrare rapidamente l’area. Tuttavia, due o tre di loro, rimasti isolati dal resto della truppa a causa della folla che li circondava, si diressero direttamente verso Barnaby e Hugh, i quali senza dubbio erano stati riconosciuti come gli uomini che erano caduti nel corridoio. Attaccarono con decisione, infliggendo ai ribelli più turbolenti alcune ferite lievi; alcuni di questi caddero a terra, tra gemiti e confusione.

Alla vista di volti feriti e sanguinanti, intravisti per un momento nella folla, poi nascosti dalla calca intorno a loro, Barnaby impallidì e si sentì male. Ma rimase fermo sul posto, stringendo ancora più forte il suo palo, e continuò a fissare il soldato più vicino; intanto annuiva, mentre Hugh, con un’espressione cupa, gli sussurrava all’orecchio.

Il soldato avanzò al galoppo, facendo indietreggiare il suo cavallo mentre la folla lo circondava; colpì con le redini coloro che cercavano di afferrarle per fermarlo e fece segno ai suoi compagni di seguirlo. E Barnaby, senza arretrare di un millimetro, aspettò il suo arrivo. Alcuni gli gridarono di fuggire; altri stavano proprio per circondarlo completamente per impedirgli di scappare, quando all’improvviso il palo si alzò in aria sopra le teste della gente, e la sella del soldato rimase vuota in un istante.

Poi, lui e Hugh si girarono e fuggirono; la folla si aprì per lasciarli passare, per poi richiudersi immediatamente, così velocemente che non rimase traccia della direzione in cui erano andati. Con il respiro affannoso, sudati, coperti di polvere e esausti per la fatica, raggiunsero sani e salvi la riva del fiume; salendo su una barca il più rapidamente possibile, furono presto al sicuro da qualsiasi pericolo immediato.

Mentre scivolavano lungo il fiume, sentirono chiaramente la gente che li acclamava; pensando che forse avrebbero potuto costringere i soldati a ritirarsi, rimasero alcuni minuti con le pagaie in mano, incerti se tornare indietro o meno. Ma la folla che passava sotto il Westminster Bridge li rassicurò presto: la gente si stava disperdendo. Hugh intuì correttamente che l’acclamazione della folla era dovuta al fatto che il magistrato aveva proposto di congedare le truppe a condizione che queste lasciassero immediatamente le loro postazioni per tornare alle rispettive case; quindi concluse che lui e Barnaby fossero meglio lì dove si trovavano. Consigliò quindi di proseguire verso Blackfriars, di sbarcare al ponte e di dirigersi subito a The Boot: lì non solo avrebbero trovato ottima compagnia e un alloggio sicuro, ma sarebbero certamente stati raggiunti da molti dei loro compagni precedenti. Barnaby acconsentì, e così decisero di agire secondo questo piano, dirigendosi verso Blackfriars.

Atterrarono in un momento critico, e fortunatamente nel momento giusto. Entrando in Fleet Street, trovarono la strada in uno stato di notevole agitazione; chiedendo il motivo, vennero informati che un gruppo di guardie a cavallo era appena passato di lì, scortando alcuni rivoltosi che avevano catturato per portarli al sicuro a Newgate. Del tutto soddisfatti di essere sfuggiti per un soffio a quella cavalcata, non persero altro tempo in domande, ma si affrettarono verso The Boot il più rapidamente possibile, secondo quanto Hugh ritenesse prudente, senza attirare l’attenzione del pubblico.

Chapter 50

They were among the first to reach the tavern, but they had not been there many minutes, when several groups of men who had formed part of the crowd, came straggling in. Among them were Simon Tappertit and Mr Dennis; both of whom, but especially the latter, greeted Barnaby with the utmost warmth, and paid him many compliments on the prowess he had shown.

‘Which,’ said Dennis, with an oath, as he rested his bludgeon in a corner with his hat upon it, and took his seat at the same table with them, ‘it does me good to think of. There was a opportunity! But it led to nothing. For my part, I don’t know what would. There’s no spirit among the people in these here times. Bring something to eat and drink here. I’m disgusted with humanity.’

‘On what account?’ asked Mr Tappertit, who had been quenching his fiery face in a half-gallon can. ‘Don’t you consider this a good beginning, mister?’

‘Give me security that it an’t a ending,’ rejoined the hangman. ‘When that soldier went down, we might have made London ours; but no;—we stand, and gape, and look on—the justice (I wish he had had a bullet in each eye, as he would have had, if we’d gone to work my way) says, “My lads, if you’ll give me your word to disperse, I’ll order off the military,” our people sets up a hurrah, throws up the game with the winning cards in their hands, and skulks away like a pack of tame curs as they are. Ah,’ said the hangman, in a tone of deep disgust, ‘it makes me blush for my feller creeturs. I wish I had been born a ox, I do!’

‘You’d have been quite as agreeable a character if you had been, I think,’ returned Simon Tappertit, going out in a lofty manner.

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ rejoined the hangman, calling after him; ‘if I was a horned animal at the present moment, with the smallest grain of sense, I’d toss every man in this company, excepting them two,’ meaning Hugh and Barnaby, ‘for his manner of conducting himself this day.’

With which mournful review of their proceedings, Mr Dennis sought consolation in cold boiled beef and beer; but without at all relaxing the grim and dissatisfied expression of his face, the gloom of which was rather deepened than dissipated by their grateful influence.

The company who were thus libelled might have retaliated by strong words, if not by blows, but they were dispirited and worn out. The greater part of them had fasted since morning; all had suffered extremely from the excessive heat; and between the day’s shouting, exertion, and excitement, many had quite lost their voices, and so much of their strength that they could hardly stand. Then they were uncertain what to do next, fearful of the consequences of what they had done already, and sensible that after all they had carried no point, but had indeed left matters worse than they had found them. Of those who had come to The Boot, many dropped off within an hour; such of them as were really honest and sincere, never, after the morning’s experience, to return, or to hold any communication with their late companions. Others remained but to refresh themselves, and then went home desponding; others who had theretofore been regular in their attendance, avoided the place altogether. The half-dozen prisoners whom the Guards had taken, were magnified by report into half-a-hundred at least; and their friends, being faint and sober, so slackened in their energy, and so drooped beneath these dispiriting influences, that by eight o’clock in the evening, Dennis, Hugh, and Barnaby, were left alone. Even they were fast asleep upon the benches, when Gashford’s entrance roused them.

‘Oh! you ARE here then?’ said the Secretary. ‘Dear me!’

‘Why, where should we be, Muster Gashford!’ Dennis rejoined as he rose into a sitting posture.

‘Oh nowhere, nowhere,’ he returned with excessive mildness. ‘The streets are filled with blue cockades. I rather thought you might have been among them. I am glad you are not.’

‘You have orders for us, master, then?’ said Hugh.

‘Oh dear, no. Not I. No orders, my good fellow. What orders should I have? You are not in my service.’

‘Muster Gashford,’ remonstrated Dennis, ‘we belong to the cause, don’t we?’

‘The cause!’ repeated the secretary, looking at him in a sort of abstraction. ‘There is no cause. The cause is lost.’

‘Lost!’

‘Oh yes. You have heard, I suppose? The petition is rejected by a hundred and ninety-two, to six. It’s quite final. We might have spared ourselves some trouble. That, and my lord’s vexation, are the only circumstances I regret. I am quite satisfied in all other respects.’

As he said this, he took a penknife from his pocket, and putting his hat upon his knee, began to busy himself in ripping off the blue cockade which he had worn all day; at the same time humming a psalm tune which had been very popular in the morning, and dwelling on it with a gentle regret.

His two adherents looked at each other, and at him, as if they were at a loss how to pursue the subject. At length Hugh, after some elbowing and winking between himself and Mr Dennis, ventured to stay his hand, and to ask him why he meddled with that riband in his hat.

‘Because,’ said the secretary, looking up with something between a snarl and a smile; ‘because to sit still and wear it, or to fall asleep and wear it, is a mockery. That’s all, friend.’

‘What would you have us do, master!’ cried Hugh.

‘Nothing,’ returned Gashford, shrugging his shoulders, ‘nothing. When my lord was reproached and threatened for standing by you, I, as a prudent man, would have had you do nothing. When the soldiers were trampling you under their horses’ feet, I would have had you do nothing. When one of them was struck down by a daring hand, and I saw confusion and dismay in all their faces, I would have had you do nothing—just what you did, in short. This is the young man who had so little prudence and so much boldness. Ah! I am sorry for him.’

‘Sorry, master!’ cried Hugh.

Capitolo 50

Erano tra i primi ad arrivare alla taverna, ma non erano trascorsi molti minuti quando diversi gruppi di uomini che facevano parte della folla entrarono uno dopo l’altro. Tra loro c’erano Simon Tappertit e il signor Dennis; entrambi, ma soprattutto quest’ultimo, salutarono Barnaby con grande calore e gli fecero molti complimenti per l’abilità che aveva dimostrato.

“Che opportunità, ”, disse Dennis, imprecando, mentre posava il suo bastone in un angolo, sopra il cappello, e si sedeva allo stesso tavolo di loro. “C’era davvero un’opportunità. Ma non è servita a nulla. Per quanto mi riguarda, non so cosa avrebbe potuto succedere. In questi tempi, la gente non ha più spirito. Portate qui qualcosa da mangiare e da bere. Sono disgustato dall’umanità.”

“Per quale motivo?” chiese il signor Tappertit, che stava rinfrescando il proprio viso arroventato con una lattina da mezzo gallone. “Non pensa che questo sia un buon inizio, signore?”

“Datemmi la garanzia che non si tratti di una fine,” ribatté il boia. “Quando quel soldato è caduto, avremmo potuto prendere Londra in nostro possesso; ma no. Restiamo lì, a bocca aperta, a guardare mentre la ‘giustizia’ (vorrei che gli avessero messo una pallottola in ogni occhio, come avrebbe meritato se avessimo agito secondo i miei piani) dice: ‘Ragazzi, se mi date la vostra parola di disperdervi, ordinerò alle truppe di andarsene.’ La nostra gente esulta, abbandona il gioco con le carte vincenti in mano e scappa via come una banda di animali domestici. Ah,” disse il boia con profondo disgusto, “mi fa vergognare dei miei simili. Vorrei essere nato un bue, ”

“Saresti stato un personaggio altrettanto gradevole se lo fossi stato, penso,” rispose Simon Tappertit con aria sprezzante, uscendo dalla stanza.

“Non ne essere troppo sicuro,” ribatté il boia, chiamandolo; “se in questo momento fossi un animale cornuto, anche con la minima traccia di buon senso, getterei via tutti gli uomini di questa compagnia, tranne quei due,” intendendo Hugh e Barnaby, “per il modo in cui si sono comportati oggi.”

Con quale triste riflessione sui loro comportamenti, il signor Dennis cercò conforto nel manzo bollito e nella birra; ma senza minimamente allentare l’espressione cupa e insoddisfatta sul suo volto, la cui oscurità anzi sembrava rafforzarsi piuttosto che dissiparsi a causa di quell’influenza “gratuita”.

La compagnia che era stata diffamata in quel modo avrebbe potuto reagire con parole dure, se non con atti violenti, ma erano tutti demoralizzati e esausti. La maggior parte di loro non aveva mangiato nulla da quella mattina; tutti avevano sofferto terribilmente a causa del caldo eccessivo; inoltre, a causa dei continui urla, dello sforzo fisico e dell’agitazione della giornata, molti avevano perso completamente la voce e gran parte delle loro forze, al punto di non riuscire quasi a stare in piedi. Non sapevano cosa fare adesso, temevano le conseguenze di ciò che avevano già fatto e si rendevano conto che, in fondo, non avevano ottenuto nulla, anzi avevano peggiorato la situazione. Tra coloro che erano venuti lì, molti caddero a terra entro un’ora; quelli che erano davvero onesti e sinceri non tornarono mai più, né mantennero alcun contatto con i loro compagni scomparsi. Altri si riposarono brevemente e poi se ne andarono a casa, scoraggiati; altri, che in precedenza partecipavano regolarmente alle riunioni, evitarono del tutto quel luogo. I sei prigionieri che le guardie avevano catturato furono esageratamente descritti nei racconti, diventando almeno cinquanta; i loro amici, essendo deboli e sobri, persero completamente la loro energia e si lasciarono sopraffare da queste influenze deprimenti, tanto che alle otto di sera Dennis, Hugh e Barnaby rimasero soli. Anche loro dormivano profondamente sui banchi quando l’arrivo di Gashford li svegliò.

“Ah, quindi sei qui?” disse il Segretario. “Mio Dio!”

“Perché, dove dovremmo essere, Muster Gashford?”, rispose Dennis mentre si alzava a sedere.

“Ah, no, affatto,” rispose lui con eccessiva dolcezza. “Le strade sono piene di cocche blu. Pensavo che forse tu fossi tra loro. Sono contento che non lo sia.”

“Allora, padrone, avete degli ordini per noi?” disse Hugh.

“Oh mio Dio, no. Non io. Nessun ordine, caro amico. Che ordini dovrei ricevere? Tu non sei al mio servizio.”

“Muster Gashford,” osservò Dennis, “noi apparteniamo a questa causa, vero?”

“La causa!” ripeté il segretario, guardandolo con un certo distacco. “Non c’è alcuna causa. La causa è persa.”

“Perduto!”

‘Oh sì. Immagino che abbiate sentito. La petizione è stata respinta con 192 voti a favore e 6 contro. È una decisione definitiva. Forse avremmo potuto risparmiarci qualche problema. Quello, e l’irritazione del mio signore, sono le uniche cose di cui mi pento. Per tutti gli altri aspetti, sono assolutamente soddisfatto.’

Mentre lo diceva, tirò fuori un coltello da tasca, posò il cappello sul ginocchio e iniziò a strappare via la coccarda blu che aveva indossato tutto il giorno; allo stesso tempo canturava una melodia di salmo che era stata molto popolare quella mattina, riflettendoci con un dolce rimpianto.

I suoi due seguaci si guardarono l’un l’altro e poi lo guardarono anche lui, come se non sapessero bene come continuare la conversazione su quell’argomento. Alla fine, dopo alcuni sussurri e occhiate tra loro e il signor Dennis, Hugh osò fermarlo e chiedergli perché si occupasse di quella striscia di stoffa nel suo cappello.

“Perché,” disse il segretario, alzando lo sguardo con un’espressione che era a metà ringhio e a metà sorriso; “perché stare seduti immobili indossandolo, o addormentarsi mentre lo si porta addosso, è una beffa. Nient’altro, amico mio.”

“Cosa vorreste che facessimo, padrone!”, gridò Hugh.

“Niente,” rispose Gashford, scrollando le spalle, “niente. Quando il mio signore fu rimproverato e minacciato per essersi schierato dalla tua parte, io, come uomo prudente, avrei voluto che tu non facessi nulla. Quando i soldati ti calpestarono sotto i loro cavalli, avrei voluto che tu non facessi nulla. Quando uno di loro fu ucciso da un gesto audace e vidi confusione e terrore sui loro volti, avrei voluto che tu non facessi nulla. Proprio quello che hai fatto, insomma. Questo è il giovane che ha avuto così poca prudenza e così tanta audacia. Ah! Mi dispiace per lui.”

“Scusi, padrone!” gridò Hugh.

‘Sorry, Muster Gashford!’ echoed Dennis.

‘In case there should be a proclamation out to-morrow, offering five hundred pounds, or some such trifle, for his apprehension; and in case it should include another man who dropped into the lobby from the stairs above,’ said Gashford, coldly; ‘still, do nothing.’

‘Fire and fury, master!’ cried Hugh, starting up. ‘What have we done, that you should talk to us like this!’

‘Nothing,’ returned Gashford with a sneer. ‘If you are cast into prison; if the young man—’ here he looked hard at Barnaby’s attentive face—‘is dragged from us and from his friends; perhaps from people whom he loves, and whom his death would kill; is thrown into jail, brought out and hanged before their eyes; still, do nothing. You’ll find it your best policy, I have no doubt.’

‘Come on!’ cried Hugh, striding towards the door. ‘Dennis—Barnaby—come on!’

‘Where? To do what?’ said Gashford, slipping past him, and standing with his back against it.

‘Anywhere! Anything!’ cried Hugh. ‘Stand aside, master, or the window will serve our turn as well. Let us out!’

‘Ha ha ha! You are of such—of such an impetuous nature,’ said Gashford, changing his manner for one of the utmost good fellowship and the pleasantest raillery; ‘you are such an excitable creature—but you’ll drink with me before you go?’

‘Oh, yes—certainly,’ growled Dennis, drawing his sleeve across his thirsty lips. ‘No malice, brother. Drink with Muster Gashford!’

Hugh wiped his heated brow, and relaxed into a smile. The artful secretary laughed outright.

‘Some liquor here! Be quick, or he’ll not stop, even for that. He is a man of such desperate ardour!’ said the smooth secretary, whom Mr Dennis corroborated with sundry nods and muttered oaths—‘Once roused, he is a fellow of such fierce determination!’

Hugh poised his sturdy arm aloft, and clapping Barnaby on the back, bade him fear nothing. They shook hands together—poor Barnaby evidently possessed with the idea that he was among the most virtuous and disinterested heroes in the world—and Gashford laughed again.

‘I hear,’ he said smoothly, as he stood among them with a great measure of liquor in his hand, and filled their glasses as quickly and as often as they chose, ‘I hear—but I cannot say whether it be true or false—that the men who are loitering in the streets to-night are half disposed to pull down a Romish chapel or two, and that they only want leaders. I even heard mention of those in Duke Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in Warwick Street, Golden Square; but common report, you know—You are not going?’

—‘To do nothing, master, eh?’ cried Hugh. ‘No jails and halter for Barnaby and me. They must be frightened out of that. Leaders are wanted, are they? Now boys!’

‘A most impetuous fellow!’ cried the secretary. ‘Ha ha! A courageous, boisterous, most vehement fellow! A man who—’

There was no need to finish the sentence, for they had rushed out of the house, and were far beyond hearing. He stopped in the middle of a laugh, listened, drew on his gloves, and, clasping his hands behind him, paced the deserted room for a long time, then bent his steps towards the busy town, and walked into the streets.

They were filled with people, for the rumour of that day’s proceedings had made a great noise. Those persons who did not care to leave home, were at their doors or windows, and one topic of discourse prevailed on every side. Some reported that the riots were effectually put down; others that they had broken out again: some said that Lord George Gordon had been sent under a strong guard to the Tower; others that an attempt had been made upon the King’s life, that the soldiers had been again called out, and that the noise of musketry in a distant part of the town had been plainly heard within an hour. As it grew darker, these stories became more direful and mysterious; and often, when some frightened passenger ran past with tidings that the rioters were not far off, and were coming up, the doors were shut and barred, lower windows made secure, and as much consternation engendered, as if the city were invaded by a foreign army.

Gashford walked stealthily about, listening to all he heard, and diffusing or confirming, whenever he had an opportunity, such false intelligence as suited his own purpose; and, busily occupied in this way, turned into Holborn for the twentieth time, when a great many women and children came flying along the street—often panting and looking back—and the confused murmur of numerous voices struck upon his ear. Assured by these tokens, and by the red light which began to flash upon the houses on either side, that some of his friends were indeed approaching, he begged a moment’s shelter at a door which opened as he passed, and running with some other persons to an upper window, looked out upon the crowd.

They had torches among them, and the chief faces were distinctly visible. That they had been engaged in the destruction of some building was sufficiently apparent, and that it was a Catholic place of worship was evident from the spoils they bore as trophies, which were easily recognisable for the vestments of priests, and rich fragments of altar furniture. Covered with soot, and dirt, and dust, and lime; their garments torn to rags; their hair hanging wildly about them; their hands and faces jagged and bleeding with the wounds of rusty nails; Barnaby, Hugh, and Dennis hurried on before them all, like hideous madmen. After them, the dense throng came fighting on: some singing; some shouting in triumph; some quarrelling among themselves; some menacing the spectators as they passed; some with great wooden fragments, on which they spent their rage as if they had been alive, rending them limb from limb, and hurling the scattered morsels high into the air; some in a drunken state, unconscious of the hurts they had received from falling bricks, and stones, and beams; one borne upon a shutter, in the very midst, covered with a dingy cloth, a senseless, ghastly heap. Thus—a vision of coarse faces, with here and there a blot of flaring, smoky light; a dream of demon heads and savage eyes, and sticks and iron bars uplifted in the air, and whirled about; a bewildering horror, in which so much was seen, and yet so little, which seemed so long, and yet so short, in which there were so many phantoms, not to be forgotten all through life, and yet so many things that could not be observed in one distracting glimpse—it flitted onward, and was gone.

As it passed away upon its work of wrath and ruin, a piercing scream was heard. A knot of persons ran towards the spot; Gashford, who just then emerged into the street, among them. He was on the outskirts of the little concourse, and could not see or hear what passed within; but one who had a better place, informed him that a widow woman had descried her son among the rioters.

‘Is that all?’ said the secretary, turning his face homewards. ‘Well! I think this looks a little more like business!’

“Scusi, Muster Gashford!”, echeggiò la voce di Dennis.

“Nel caso domani venga diffusa un’ordinanza che offra cinquecento sterline, o qualcosa del genere, per la sua cattura; e nel caso includa anche un altro uomo che sia caduto nell’atrio dalle scale sopra, ” disse Gashford, con freddezza; “comunque, non fare nulla.”

“Fuoco e furia, padrone!” gridò Hugh, alzandosi in piedi. “Cosa abbiamo fatto, perché ci parlate in questo modo?”

“Niente,” rispose Gashford con un sorriso beffardo. “Se vieni gettato in prigione; se quel giovane, – qui fissò attentamente il viso attento di Barnaby – viene portato via da noi e dai suoi amici; forse da persone che ama, e la cui morte lo distruggerebbe; se viene gettato in prigione, poi portato fuori e impiccato davanti ai loro occhi, comunque, non farete nulla. Troverete che questa è la scelta migliore, ne sono assolutamente certo.”

“Forza!” gridò Hugh, avviandosi verso la porta. “Dennis. Barnaby, venite!”

“Dove? Per fare cosa?” disse Gashford, passandogli accanto e appoggiandosi contro di esso con la schiena.

“Ovunque! Qualsiasi posto!” gridò Hugh. “Allontanatevi, padrone, altrimenti la finestra farà lo stesso ruolo della prigione. Lasciateci uscire!”

‘Ah ah ah! Sei davvero di una natura così impulsiva, ’, disse Gashford, cambiando tono in uno di estrema cordialità e piacevoli scherzi; ‘sei proprio un essere facilmente eccitabile. Ma berai qualcosa con me prima di andartene?’

“Ah sì, certamente,” ringhiò Dennis, passandosi la manica sulle labbra assetate. “Nessuna cattiva intenzione, fratello. Bevi con il Sergente Gashford!”

Hugh si asciugò la fronte sudata e sorrise rilassato. La abile segretaria scoppiò a ridere.

“Un po’ di liquore qui! Sbrigati, altrimenti non si fermerà nemmeno per questo. È un uomo di una passione così disperata!” disse il diplomatico segretario; il signor Dennis lo confermò con diversi cenni del capo e mormorii di giuramenti. “Una volta scatenato, diventa davvero un individuo di determinazione feroce, ”

Hugh alzò il suo braccio robusto e, dandogli una pacca sulla schiena a Barnaby, gli disse di non avere paura di nulla. Si strinsero la mano; povero Barnaby, evidentemente convinto di essere tra i più virtuosi e disinteressati eroi del mondo. E Gashford rise di nuovo.

“Lo so,” disse lui con calma, mentre stava tra di loro con una grande quantità di alcol in mano e riempiva i loro bicchieri velocemente e ogni volta che lo desideravano, “lo so, ma non posso dire se sia vero o falso che quegli uomini che gironzolano per le strade di notte siano disposti a distruggere una o due chiese cattoliche, e che abbiano soltanto bisogno di un leader. Ho persino sentito parlare di loro in Duke Street, nei pressi dell’Inn Fields di Lincoln e in Warwick Street, vicino a Golden Square. Ma si tratta solo di voci, capite. Non andate?”

“Non fare nulla, padrone, eh?” gridò Hugh. “Nessuna prigione né corda per Barnaby e me. Devono essere spaventati a morte. Servono dei leader, vero? Ora, ragazzi!”

“Un tipo davvero impulsivo!” esclamò il segretario. “Ah ah! Un uomo coraggioso, vivace, estremamente appassionato. Un uomo che, ”

Non c’era bisogno di completare la frase, perché erano già corsi fuori dalla >casa e ormai erano troppo lontani per poter sentire. Lui si fermò a metà risata, ascoltò attentamente, infilò i guanti e, incrociando le mani dietro la schiena, camminò avanti e indietro nella stanza deserta per molto tempo, poi prese la direzione della città affollata e uscì nelle strade.

Erano piene di persone: la voce di quanto era accaduto quel giorno aveva suscitato grande agitazione. Coloro che non desideravano lasciare le proprie case si trovavano alle porte o alle finestre, e un unico argomento dominava ogni conversazione. Alcuni affermavano che i disordini fossero stati effettivamente sedati; altri sostenevano che fossero ricominciati; alcuni dicevano che Lord George Gordon fosse stato portato sotto scorta alla Torre di Londra; altri ancora riferivano che fosse stata tentata un’aggressione contro la vita del Re, che i soldati fossero stati nuovamente chiamati alle armi, e che il rumore degli spari in una zona lontana della città fosse stato chiaramente udito entro un’ora. Con l’avanzare della notte, queste storie diventavano sempre più terribili e misteriose; e spesso, quando qualche viaggiatore spaventato passava di corsa portando la notizia che i rivoltosi erano vicini e stavano avanzando, le porte venivano chiuse a chiave, le finestre inferiori protette, e si scatenava un’agitazione tale, come se l’intera città fosse stata invasa da un esercito straniero.

Gashford si muoveva furtivamente, ascoltando tutto ciò che udiva e, ogni volta che ne aveva l’opportunità, diffondendo o confermando informazioni false che servissero ai suoi scopi; impegnato in questo modo, arrivò a Holborn per la ventesima volta. In quel momento, molte donne e bambini correvano lungo la strada, spesso ansimanti e guardandosi indietro; il confuso mormorio di numerose voci raggiunse le sue orecchie. Convinto da questi segnali, nonché dal bagliore rosso che iniziava ad apparire sulle case su entrambi i lati della strada, che indicava l’avvicinamento di alcuni dei suoi amici, chiese ospitalità per un momento presso una porta che si aprì mentre lui passava. Poi, insieme ad altre persone, corse verso una finestra al piano superiore e guardò fuori verso la folla.

Avevano torce con loro, e i volti dei capi erano chiaramente visibili. Era evidente che avevano distrutto qualche edificio; inoltre, il fatto che si trattasse di un luogo di culto cattolico risultava chiaro dai trofei che portavano con sé: vestiti sacerdotali e ricchi frammenti di arredi per altari. Coperti di fuliggine, fango, polvere e calce; i loro abiti strappati a brandelli; i capelli arruffati; mani e volti feriti dai chiodi arrugginiti. Barnaby, Hugh e Dennis procedevano davanti a tutti, come orribili pazzi. Dietro di loro, la folla densa continuava ad avanzare: alcuni cantavano, altri gridavano trionfanti, alcuni litigavano tra loro, altri minacciavano gli spettatori; alcuni usavano grandi pezzi di legno per sfogare la loro rabbia, come se fossero stati vivi, strappandoli in pezzi e lanciandoli in aria; alcuni, ubriachi, non si rendevano conto dei danni causati da mattoni, pietre e travi che cadevano. Uno di loro veniva portato su un telone, nel mezzo della folla, coperto da un pezzo di stoffa logora: un mucchio inanimato e orribile. Così, una visione di volti brutti, qua e là illuminati da luci fumose e tremolanti; un sogno di teste demoniache, occhi selvaggi, bastoni e barre di ferro sollevate in aria e girate vorticosamente; un orrore confuso, in cui si vedeva così tanto, eppure così poco; che sembrava durare a lungo, eppure era breve; pieno di fantasmi che non si potevano dimenticare per tutta la vita, eppure di cose che non si riusciva nemmeno a osservare in quell’unico, confuso istante. Tutto ciò svanì rapidamente.

Mentre quell’essere terminava la sua opera di furia e distruzione, si udì un grido straziante. Un gruppo di persone corse verso il luogo; tra loro c’era anche Gashford, che in quel momento era appena uscito in strada. Si trovava ai margini della piccola folla e non riusciva a vedere né sentire ciò che accadeva all’interno; ma qualcuno che si trovava in una posizione migliore gli riferì che una vedova aveva riconosciuto suo figlio tra i rivoltosi.

“È tutto?” disse il segretario, voltando il viso verso casa. “Beh, penso che ora sembri davvero più un affare!”

Chapter 51

Promising as these outrages were to Gashford’s view, and much like business as they looked, they extended that night no farther. The soldiers were again called out, again they took half-a-dozen prisoners, and again the crowd dispersed after a short and bloodless scuffle. Hot and drunken though they were, they had not yet broken all bounds and set all law and government at defiance. Something of their habitual deference to the authority erected by society for its own preservation yet remained among them, and had its majesty been vindicated in time, the secretary would have had to digest a bitter disappointment.

By midnight, the streets were clear and quiet, and, save that there stood in two parts of the town a heap of nodding walls and pile of rubbish, where there had been at sunset a rich and handsome building, everything wore its usual aspect. Even the Catholic gentry and tradesmen, of whom there were many resident in different parts of the City and its suburbs, had no fear for their lives or property, and but little indignation for the wrong they had already sustained in the plunder and destruction of their temples of worship. An honest confidence in the government under whose protection they had lived for many years, and a well-founded reliance on the good feeling and right thinking of the great mass of the community, with whom, notwithstanding their religious differences, they were every day in habits of confidential, affectionate, and friendly intercourse, reassured them, even under the excesses that had been committed; and convinced them that they who were Protestants in anything but the name, were no more to be considered as abettors of these disgraceful occurrences, than they themselves were chargeable with the uses of the block, the rack, the gibbet, and the stake in cruel Mary’s reign.

The clock was on the stroke of one, when Gabriel Varden, with his lady and Miss Miggs, sat waiting in the little parlour. This fact; the toppling wicks of the dull, wasted candles; the silence that prevailed; and, above all, the nightcaps of both maid and matron, were sufficient evidence that they had been prepared for bed some time ago, and had some reason for sitting up so far beyond their usual hour.

If any other corroborative testimony had been required, it would have been abundantly furnished in the actions of Miss Miggs, who, having arrived at that restless state and sensitive condition of the nervous system which are the result of long watching, did, by a constant rubbing and tweaking of her nose, a perpetual change of position (arising from the sudden growth of imaginary knots and knobs in her chair), a frequent friction of her eyebrows, the incessant recurrence of a small cough, a small groan, a gasp, a sigh, a sniff, a spasmodic start, and by other demonstrations of that nature, so file down and rasp, as it were, the patience of the locksmith, that after looking at her in silence for some time, he at last broke out into this apostrophe:—

‘Miggs, my good girl, go to bed—do go to bed. You’re really worse than the dripping of a hundred water-butts outside the window, or the scratching of as many mice behind the wainscot. I can’t bear it. Do go to bed, Miggs. To oblige me—do.’

‘You haven’t got nothing to untie, sir,’ returned Miss Miggs, ‘and therefore your requests does not surprise me. But missis has—and while you sit up, mim’—she added, turning to the locksmith’s wife, ‘I couldn’t, no, not if twenty times the quantity of cold water was aperiently running down my back at this moment, go to bed with a quiet spirit.’

Having spoken these words, Miss Miggs made divers efforts to rub her shoulders in an impossible place, and shivered from head to foot; thereby giving the beholders to understand that the imaginary cascade was still in full flow, but that a sense of duty upheld her under that and all other sufferings, and nerved her to endurance.

Mrs Varden being too sleepy to speak, and Miss Miggs having, as the phrase is, said her say, the locksmith had nothing for it but to sigh and be as quiet as he could.

But to be quiet with such a basilisk before him was impossible. If he looked another way, it was worse to feel that she was rubbing her cheek, or twitching her ear, or winking her eye, or making all kinds of extraordinary shapes with her nose, than to see her do it. If she was for a moment free from any of these complaints, it was only because of her foot being asleep, or of her arm having got the fidgets, or of her leg being doubled up with the cramp, or of some other horrible disorder which racked her whole frame. If she did enjoy a moment’s ease, then with her eyes shut and her mouth wide open, she would be seen to sit very stiff and upright in her chair; then to nod a little way forward, and stop with a jerk; then to nod a little farther forward, and stop with another jerk; then to recover herself; then to come forward again—lower—lower—lower—by very slow degrees, until, just as it seemed impossible that she could preserve her balance for another instant, and the locksmith was about to call out in an agony, to save her from dashing down upon her forehead and fracturing her skull, then all of a sudden and without the smallest notice, she would come upright and rigid again with her eyes open, and in her countenance an expression of defiance, sleepy but yet most obstinate, which plainly said, ‘I’ve never once closed ‘em since I looked at you last, and I’ll take my oath of it!’

At length, after the clock had struck two, there was a sound at the street door, as if somebody had fallen against the knocker by accident. Miss Miggs immediately jumping up and clapping her hands, cried with a drowsy mingling of the sacred and profane, ‘Ally Looyer, mim! there’s Simmuns’s knock!’

‘Who’s there?’ said Gabriel.

Capitolo 51

Per quanto tali atti di violenza fossero promettenti agli occhi di Gashford, e per quanto sembrassero conformi alle abitudini del luogo, quella notte non andò oltre. I soldati furono nuovamente chiamati in azione; catturarono ancora una mezza dozzina di prigionieri e la folla si disperse dopo uno scontro breve e senza spargimento di sangue. Nonostante fossero ubriachi e arrabbiati, non avevano ancora superato tutti i limiti, né sfidato apertamente la legge e il governo esistenti. In loro persisteva ancora una certa rispetto per l’autorità istituita dalla società al proprio fine di mantenere l’ordine; se solo questa autorità fosse stata riconosciuta in quel momento, il segretario avrebbe dovuto subire una delusione amara.

Entro mezzanotte, le strade erano deserte e silenziose; ad eccezione di due zone della città dove si trovavano mucchi di rovine e detriti, dove un tempo sorgeva un edificio imponente, tutto aveva ripreso il suo aspetto abituale. Anche i nobili e i commercianti cattolici, molti dei quali risiedevano in diverse parti della >Città e dei suoi sobborghi, non provavano alcuna paura per la propria vita o i propri beni, né grande indignazione per le ingiustizie subite a causa del saccheggio e della distruzione dei loro luoghi di culto. Una sincera fiducia nella governo che li aveva protetti per molti anni, insieme alla convinzione che la maggior parte della popolazione condividesse valori morali simili ai loro – nonostante le differenze religiose – li rassicurava, anche di fronte agli eccessi commessi. Questo li portava a credere che coloro che erano protestanti, se non per nome, non fossero affatto responsabili di tali atti vergognosi, così come loro stessi non potevano essere ritenuti colpevoli dell’uso della forca, del patibolo e delle altre forme di tortura durante il regno crudele di Maria.

L’orologio segnava le una quando Gabriel Varden, insieme alla sua signora e a Miss Miggs, sedeva ad aspettare nella piccola sala da pranzo. Questo fatto, le candele spente con i loro stoppini rovinati, il silenzio che regnava nell’ambiente, e soprattutto le pantofole da notte indossate sia dalla cameriera che dalla padrona di casa, costituivano prove sufficienti del fatto che fossero già andati a letto da un po’ di tempo e avessero motivo di rimanere seduti oltre l’ora solita.

Se fosse stato necessario qualche altro testimone o prova a sostegno di quanto detto, essa sarebbe stata ampiamente fornita dalle azioni della signorina Miggs. Essa, essendo giunta in quello stato di inquietudine e in quella condizione sensibile del sistema nervoso causati da lunghi periodi di attenzione continua, si dedicava a continui movimenti: strofinava e manipolava costantemente il proprio naso, cambiava continuamente posizione sulla sedia (a causa della formazione improvvisa, nella sua immaginazione, di nodi e protuberanze), sfregava frequentemente le sopracciglia, emetteva continui colpi di tosse, gemiti, sospiri, sniffate, sobbalzi spasmodici, e con altre simili manifestazioni della propria natura, finiva per logorare completamente la pazienza del fabbro chiave. Dopo averla osservata in silenzio per qualche tempo, questi alla fine esclamò:

“Miggs, mia buona ragazza, vai a letto, per favore, vai a letto. Sei davvero peggio del gocciolio di cento rubinetti fuori dalla finestra, o del graffiare di centinaia di topi dietro la tappezzeria. Non ce la faccio più. Vai a letto, Miggs, per favore.”

“Non c’è nulla da sciogliere, signore,” rispose Miss Miggs, “quindi le sue richieste non mi sorprendono. Ma la signora. E mentre lei è ancora in piedi, ” aggiunse, rivolgendosi alla moglie del fabbro chiave, “non potrei, no, nemmeno se venti volte più acqua fredda scorresse lungo la mia schiena in questo momento, andare a letto con la mente tranquilla.”

Dopo aver detto queste parole, la signorina Miggs fece vari tentativi per strofinarsi le spalle in posti impossibili, e tremò dalla testa ai piedi; ciò fece capire a chi la osservava che quella “cascatta immaginaria” continuava ancora a scorrere, ma che un senso del dovere la sosteneva di fronte a tutti quei dolori, dandole la forza necessaria per resistere.

La signora Varden era troppo assonnata per parlare, e la signorina Miggs, essendo ormai detta la sua parola, non restò al fabbro che sospirare e stare il più silenzioso possibile.

Ma stare in silenzio di fronte a un simile basilisco era impossibile. Se lui distoglieva lo sguardo, era ancora peggio: sentirla strofinarsi la guancia, muovere l’orecchio, fare l’occhiolino o formare con il naso ogni sorta di strane figure era molto più insopportabile che vederla farlo davvero. Se per un momento riusciva a liberarsi da queste “distrazioni”, era soltanto perché le si intorpidiva un piede, le si muoveva un braccio o le si contraeva una gamba, o per qualche altro terribile disturbo che la tormentava. Quando finalmente riusciva a riposare un attimo, con gli occhi chiusi e la bocca aperta, sembrava seduta molto dritta sulla sedia; poi annuiva leggermente in avanti, si fermava di scatto, annuiva ancora un po’, e così via, lentissimamente. Proprio quando sembrava impossibile che riuscisse a mantenere l’equilibrio per un altro istante, e il “chiaveggiatore” stava per gridare in preda all’angoscia per salvarla dal cadere in avanti e rompersi il cranio, all’improvviso, senza alcun preavviso, si raddrizzava di nuovo, con gli occhi aperti, e sul suo viso si leggeva un’espressione di sfida, sonnolenta ma ostinata, come a dire: “Non li ho mai chiusi da quando ti ho visto l’ultima volta. Lo giuro!”

Finalmente, dopo che l’orologio aveva battuto le due, si sentì un rumore alla porta di strada, come se qualcuno fosse inciampato accidentalmente nel bussolo. La signorina Miggs, alzandosi immediatamente e battendo le mani, gridò con voce assonnata, mescolando ciò che era sacro con ciò che era profano: “Ally Looyer, presto! È la suoneria di Simmuns!”

“Chi c’è?” disse Gabriel.

‘Me!’ cried the well-known voice of Mr Tappertit. Gabriel opened the door, and gave him admission.

He did not cut a very insinuating figure, for a man of his stature suffers in a crowd; and having been active in yesterday morning’s work, his dress was literally crushed from head to foot: his hat being beaten out of all shape, and his shoes trodden down at heel like slippers. His coat fluttered in strips about him, the buckles were torn away both from his knees and feet, half his neckerchief was gone, and the bosom of his shirt was rent to tatters. Yet notwithstanding all these personal disadvantages; despite his being very weak from heat and fatigue; and so begrimed with mud and dust that he might have been in a case, for anything of the real texture (either of his skin or apparel) that the eye could discern; he stalked haughtily into the parlour, and throwing himself into a chair, and endeavouring to thrust his hands into the pockets of his small-clothes, which were turned inside out and displayed upon his legs, like tassels, surveyed the household with a gloomy dignity.

‘Simon,’ said the locksmith gravely, ‘how comes it that you return home at this time of night, and in this condition? Give me an assurance that you have not been among the rioters, and I am satisfied.’

‘Sir,’ replied Mr Tappertit, with a contemptuous look, ‘I wonder at YOUR assurance in making such demands.’

‘You have been drinking,’ said the locksmith.

‘As a general principle, and in the most offensive sense of the words, sir,’ returned his journeyman with great self-possession, ‘I consider you a liar. In that last observation you have unintentionally—unintentionally, sir,—struck upon the truth.’

‘Martha,’ said the locksmith, turning to his wife, and shaking his head sorrowfully, while a smile at the absurd figure beside him still played upon his open face, ‘I trust it may turn out that this poor lad is not the victim of the knaves and fools we have so often had words about, and who have done so much harm to-day. If he has been at Warwick Street or Duke Street to-night—’

‘He has been at neither, sir,’ cried Mr Tappertit in a loud voice, which he suddenly dropped into a whisper as he repeated, with eyes fixed upon the locksmith, ‘he has been at neither.’

‘I am glad of it, with all my heart,’ said the locksmith in a serious tone; ‘for if he had been, and it could be proved against him, Martha, your Great Association would have been to him the cart that draws men to the gallows and leaves them hanging in the air. It would, as sure as we’re alive!’

Mrs Varden was too much scared by Simon’s altered manner and appearance, and by the accounts of the rioters which had reached her ears that night, to offer any retort, or to have recourse to her usual matrimonial policy. Miss Miggs wrung her hands, and wept.

‘He was not at Duke Street, or at Warwick Street, G. Varden,’ said Simon, sternly; ‘but he WAS at Westminster. Perhaps, sir, he kicked a county member, perhaps, sir, he tapped a lord—you may stare, sir, I repeat it—blood flowed from noses, and perhaps he tapped a lord. Who knows? This,’ he added, putting his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and taking out a large tooth, at the sight of which both Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed, ‘this was a bishop’s. Beware, G. Varden!’

‘Now, I would rather,’ said the locksmith hastily, ‘have paid five hundred pounds, than had this come to pass. You idiot, do you know what peril you stand in?’

‘I know it, sir,’ replied his journeyman, ‘and it is my glory. I was there, everybody saw me there. I was conspicuous, and prominent. I will abide the consequences.’

The locksmith, really disturbed and agitated, paced to and fro in silence—glancing at his former ‘prentice every now and then—and at length stopping before him, said:

‘Get to bed, and sleep for a couple of hours that you may wake penitent, and with some of your senses about you. Be sorry for what you have done, and we will try to save you. If I call him by five o’clock,’ said Varden, turning hurriedly to his wife, and he washes himself clean and changes his dress, he may get to the Tower Stairs, and away by the Gravesend tide-boat, before any search is made for him. From there he can easily get on to Canterbury, where your cousin will give him work till this storm has blown over. I am not sure that I do right in screening him from the punishment he deserves, but he has lived in this house, man and boy, for a dozen years, and I should be sorry if for this one day’s work he made a miserable end. Lock the front-door, Miggs, and show no light towards the street when you go upstairs. Quick, Simon! Get to bed!’

‘And do you suppose, sir,’ retorted Mr Tappertit, with a thickness and slowness of speech which contrasted forcibly with the rapidity and earnestness of his kind-hearted master—‘and do you suppose, sir, that I am base and mean enough to accept your servile proposition?—Miscreant!’

‘Whatever you please, Sim, but get to bed. Every minute is of consequence. The light here, Miggs!’

‘Yes yes, oh do! Go to bed directly,’ cried the two women together.

Mr Tappertit stood upon his feet, and pushing his chair away to show that he needed no assistance, answered, swaying himself to and fro, and managing his head as if it had no connection whatever with his body:

‘You spoke of Miggs, sir—Miggs may be smothered!’

‘Oh Simmun!’ ejaculated that young lady in a faint voice. ‘Oh mim! Oh sir! Oh goodness gracious, what a turn he has give me!’

‘This family may ALL be smothered, sir,’ returned Mr Tappertit, after glancing at her with a smile of ineffable disdain, ‘excepting Mrs V. I have come here, sir, for her sake, this night. Mrs Varden, take this piece of paper. It’s a protection, ma’am. You may need it.’

With these words he held out at arm’s length, a dirty, crumpled scrap of writing. The locksmith took it from him, opened it, and read as follows:

“Me!”, gridò la ben nota voce del signor Tappertit. Gabriel aprì la porta e lo fece entrare.

Non aveva un aspetto molto presentabile; per un uomo della sua statura, infatti, stare in mezzo alla folla rappresenta una vera e propria sofferenza. Dopo aver partecipato attivamente ai lavori di ieri mattina, i suoi vestiti erano letteralmente distrutti: il cappello era completamente rovinato, le scarpe ridotte a stracci, e il suo soprabito si agitava intorno a lui in brandelli. I bottoni sia alle ginocchia che ai piedi erano stati strappati via, metà del fazzoletto era scomparso, e la parte anteriore della sua camicia era ridotta a pezzi. Nonostante tutte queste condizioni disastrose – nonostante fosse molto debole a causa del caldo e della stanchezza, e nonostante fosse coperto di fango e polvere al punto che non si riusciva nemmeno a distinguere la natura reale della sua pelle o dei suoi vestiti – entrò con aria maestosa nel salotto, si gettò su una sedia e cercò di infilare le mani nelle tasche dei suoi pantaloni, che erano stati rivoltati all’interno e appesi ai suoi piedi come frange. Poi osservò tutta la famiglia con un’aria cupa e dignitosa.

“Simon,” disse seriamente il fabbro chiave, “come mai torni a casa a quest’ora di notte, e in questo stato? Dammi la tua parola che non sei stato tra i rivoltosi, e allora sarò soddisfatto.”

“Signore,” rispose il signor Tappertit con un’aria di disprezzo, “mi chiedo davvero da dove derivi tutta questa sicurezza nel fare simili richieste.”

“Hai bevuto,” disse il fabbro chiave.

“In linea di principio, e nel senso più offensivo della parola, signore,” rispose il suo apprendista con grande padronanza di sé, “io vi considero un bugiardo. Nell’ultima vostra osservazione avete, involontariamente, involontariamente, signore, colpito nel segno della verità.”

“Martha,” disse il fabbro chiave, rivolgendosi a sua moglie e scuotendo tristemente la testa; sul suo viso, però, si leggeva ancora un sorriso di fronte alla figura assurda che gli stava accanto. “Spero davvero che questo povero ragazzo non sia vittima di quei furfanti e sciocchi di cui abbiamo parlato così spesso e che hanno causato tanto danno oggi. Se ieri sera è stato in Warwick Street o in Duke Street, ”

“Non è stato né in uno né nell’altro, signore,” gridò il signor Tappertit ad alta voce, per poi improvvisamente abbassare la voce a un sussurro mentre ripeteva, fissando il fabbro chiave: “Non è stato né in uno né nell’altro.”

“Ne sono felice, con tutto il mio cuore,” disse il fabbro chiave con tono serio; “perché se fosse stato vero e si potesse provarlo contro di lui, Martha, la vostra Grande Associazione sarebbe stata per lui come quel carro che porta gli uomini al patibolo e li lascia appesi in aria. Ne sono sicuro, tanto quanto siamo vivi!”

La signora Varden era troppo spaventata dal comportamento e dall’aspetto cambiato di Simon, e anche dalle descrizioni dei disordini che le erano giunte alle orecchie quella notte, per riuscire a replicare o ad attuare la sua solita strategia coniugale. La signorina Miggs si torceva le mani e piangeva.

“Non era né in Duke Street, né in Warwick Street, G. Varden,” disse Simon con fermezza; “ma era a Westminster. Forse, signore, ha colpito un membro del parlamento, forse ha colpito un lord, possiate stupirvi, ma ripeto: il sangue è scorso dalle loro narici. Chi lo sa? Questo,” aggiunse, mettendo la mano nella tasca della giacca e tirando fuori un dente enorme; alla vista di quel dente, sia Miggs che la signora Varden urlarono, “apparteneva a un vescovo. State attento, G. Varden!”

“Ora, preferirei di gran lunga,” disse il fabbro chiudile in fretta, “aver pagato cinquecento sterline, piuttosto che che tutto questo accadesse. Idiota, sai davvero in quale pericolo ti trovi?”

“Lo so, signore,” rispose il suo apprendista, “e questa è la mia gloria. Ero lì, tutti mi hanno visto lì. Ero evidente, ero in primo piano. Affronterò le conseguenze.”

Il fabbro chiave, davvero turbato e agitato, camminava avanti e indietro nel silenzio, lanciando di tanto in tanto uno sguardo al suo ex “apprendista”; alla fine si fermò davanti a lui e disse:

“Va a letto e dormi per un paio d’ore, così potrai svegliarti pentito e con tutti i tuoi sensi intatti. Pensa a ciò che hai fatto e cercheremo di salvarti. Se lo chiamo entro le cinque di mattina,” disse Varden, rivolgendosi in fretta a sua moglie, “si potrà lavare bene e cambiarsi d’abito; così riuscirà ad arrivare alle scale della Torre e poi, con la barca che parte da Gravesend, sfuggire prima che inizino le ricerche. Da lì potrà facilmente recarsi a Canterbury, dove tuo cugino gli troverà lavoro finché questa tempesta non sarà passata. Non sono sicuro di fare la cosa giusta nel proteggerlo dal castigo che merita. Ma è vissuto in questa casa da ragazzo e da adulto per dodici anni; mi dispiacerebbe se, a causa di questo unico giorno di lavoro, dovesse finire nei guai. Miggs, chiudi la porta d’ingresso e non lasciare trapelare luce verso la strada quando salirai al piano di sopra. Presto, Simon! Vai a letto!”

“E lei crede davvero, signore,” ribatté il signor Tappertit con una voce roca e lenta, che contrastava fortemente con la rapidità e la sincerità del suo buon cuore padrone, “E lei crede davvero che io sia abbastanza meschino da accettare la sua proposta servile? – Maledetto!”

“Fai pure come vuoi, Sim, ma vai a letto. Ogni minuto è importante. Spenga questa luce, Miggs!”

“Sì sì, oh sì! Vai a letto subito,” gridarono insieme le due donne.

Il signor Tappertit si alzò in piedi, spostò la sedia da parte per dimostrare di non aver bisogno di aiuto, e rispose, dondolando avanti e indietro e muovendo la testa come se non fosse affatto collegata al suo corpo:

“Ha menzionato Miggs, signore. Miggs potrebbe finire soffocato!”

“Oh Simmun!” esclamò quella giovane donna con voce debole. “Oh mio Dio. Che sorpresa mi ha riservato!”

“Tutta questa famiglia potrebbe essere soffocata, signore,” rispose il signor Tappertit dopo averla guardata con un sorriso di disprezzo inesprimibile, “tranne la signora V. Sono venuto qui stasera per lei. Signora Varden, prenda questo pezzo di carta: è una protezione. Potrebbe esservi utile.”

Con queste parole, tese in avanti, a distanza di braccio, un pezzo di carta sporco e accartocciato. Il fabbro lo prese, lo aprì e lesse quanto segue:

‘All good friends to our cause, I hope will be particular, and do no injury to the property of any true Protestant. I am well assured that the proprietor of this house is a staunch and worthy friend to the cause.

GEORGE GORDON.’

‘What’s this!’ said the locksmith, with an altered face.

‘Something that’ll do you good service, young feller,’ replied his journeyman, ‘as you’ll find. Keep that safe, and where you can lay your hand upon it in an instant. And chalk “No Popery” on your door to-morrow night, and for a week to come—that’s all.’

‘This is a genuine document,’ said the locksmith, ‘I know, for I have seen the hand before. What threat does it imply? What devil is abroad?’

‘A fiery devil,’ retorted Sim; ‘a flaming, furious devil. Don’t you put yourself in its way, or you’re done for, my buck. Be warned in time, G. Varden. Farewell!’

But here the two women threw themselves in his way—especially Miss Miggs, who fell upon him with such fervour that she pinned him against the wall—and conjured him in moving words not to go forth till he was sober; to listen to reason; to think of it; to take some rest, and then determine.

‘I tell you,’ said Mr Tappertit, ‘that my mind is made up. My bleeding country calls me and I go! Miggs, if you don’t get out of the way, I’ll pinch you.’

Miss Miggs, still clinging to the rebel, screamed once vociferously—but whether in the distraction of her mind, or because of his having executed his threat, is uncertain.

‘Release me,’ said Simon, struggling to free himself from her chaste, but spider-like embrace. ‘Let me go! I have made arrangements for you in an altered state of society, and mean to provide for you comfortably in life—there! Will that satisfy you?’

‘Oh Simmun!’ cried Miss Miggs. ‘Oh my blessed Simmun! Oh mim! what are my feelings at this conflicting moment!’

Of a rather turbulent description, it would seem; for her nightcap had been knocked off in the scuffle, and she was on her knees upon the floor, making a strange revelation of blue and yellow curl-papers, straggling locks of hair, tags of staylaces, and strings of it’s impossible to say what; panting for breath, clasping her hands, turning her eyes upwards, shedding abundance of tears, and exhibiting various other symptoms of the acutest mental suffering.

‘I leave,’ said Simon, turning to his master, with an utter disregard of Miggs’s maidenly affliction, ‘a box of things upstairs. Do what you like with ‘em. I don’t want ‘em. I’m never coming back here, any more. Provide yourself, sir, with a journeyman; I’m my country’s journeyman; henceforward that’s MY line of business.’

‘Be what you like in two hours’ time, but now go up to bed,’ returned the locksmith, planting himself in the doorway. ‘Do you hear me? Go to bed!’

‘I hear you, and defy you, Varden,’ rejoined Simon Tappertit. ‘This night, sir, I have been in the country, planning an expedition which shall fill your bell-hanging soul with wonder and dismay. The plot demands my utmost energy. Let me pass!’

‘I’ll knock you down if you come near the door,’ replied the locksmith. ‘You had better go to bed!’

Simon made no answer, but gathering himself up as straight as he could, plunged head foremost at his old master, and the two went driving out into the workshop together, plying their hands and feet so briskly that they looked like half-a-dozen, while Miggs and Mrs Varden screamed for twelve.

It would have been easy for Varden to knock his old ‘prentice down, and bind him hand and foot; but as he was loth to hurt him in his then defenceless state, he contented himself with parrying his blows when he could, taking them in perfect good part when he could not, and keeping between him and the door, until a favourable opportunity should present itself for forcing him to retreat up-stairs, and shutting him up in his own room. But, in the goodness of his heart, he calculated too much upon his adversary’s weakness, and forgot that drunken men who have lost the power of walking steadily, can often run. Watching his time, Simon Tappertit made a cunning show of falling back, staggered unexpectedly forward, brushed past him, opened the door (he knew the trick of that lock well), and darted down the street like a mad dog. The locksmith paused for a moment in the excess of his astonishment, and then gave chase.

It was an excellent season for a run, for at that silent hour the streets were deserted, the air was cool, and the flying figure before him distinctly visible at a great distance, as it sped away, with a long gaunt shadow following at its heels. But the short-winded locksmith had no chance against a man of Sim’s youth and spare figure, though the day had been when he could have run him down in no time. The space between them rapidly increased, and as the rays of the rising sun streamed upon Simon in the act of turning a distant corner, Gabriel Varden was fain to give up, and sit down on a doorstep to fetch his breath. Simon meanwhile, without once stopping, fled at the same degree of swiftness to The Boot, where, as he well knew, some of his company were lying, and at which respectable hostelry—for he had already acquired the distinction of being in great peril of the law—a friendly watch had been expecting him all night, and was even now on the look-out for his coming.

‘Go thy ways, Sim, go thy ways,’ said the locksmith, as soon as he could speak. ‘I have done my best for thee, poor lad, and would have saved thee, but the rope is round thy neck, I fear.’

So saying, and shaking his head in a very sorrowful and disconsolate manner, he turned back, and soon re-entered his own house, where Mrs Varden and the faithful Miggs had been anxiously expecting his return.

Now Mrs Varden (and by consequence Miss Miggs likewise) was impressed with a secret misgiving that she had done wrong; that she had, to the utmost of her small means, aided and abetted the growth of disturbances, the end of which it was impossible to foresee; that she had led remotely to the scene which had just passed; and that the locksmith’s time for triumph and reproach had now arrived indeed. And so strongly did Mrs Varden feel this, and so crestfallen was she in consequence, that while her husband was pursuing their lost journeyman, she secreted under her chair the little red-brick dwelling-house with the yellow roof, lest it should furnish new occasion for reference to the painful theme; and now hid the same still more, with the skirts of her dress.

“A tutti i veri amici della nostra causa, spero di essere particolarmente attento e di non causare alcun danno alla proprietà di nessun vero protestante. Sono assolutamente certo che il proprietario di questa casa sia un fedele e degno alleato della nostra causa.”

George Gordon

“Che cos’è questo!”, disse il fabbro chiave, con un’espressione cambiata.

“Qualcosa che ti sarà davvero utile, giovane,” rispose il suo compagno di viaggio, “te ne renderai conto. Tienilo al sicuro, in modo da poterlo prendere immediatamente quando ne avrai bisogno. E domani sera, e per tutta la settimana a venire, scrivi ‘No Papismo’ sulla tua porta. È tutto.”

“Questo è un documento autentico,” disse il fabbro chiave, “lo so perché ho già visto quella calligrafia in precedenza. Quala minaccia rappresenta? Quale demone è all’opera?”

“Un diavolo infernale,” ribatté Sim; “un diavolo fiammeggiante, furioso. Non metterti sulla sua strada, altrimenti sei finito, te lo dico io. Sii avvertito in tempo, G. Varden. Addio!”

Ma in quel momento le due donne si interposero davanti a lui – soprattutto la signorina Miggs, che gli si gettò addosso con tale fervore da spingerlo contro il muro – e lo esortarono con parole commoventi a non andarsene finché non si fosse ripreso; ad ascoltare la ragione, a rifletterci bene, a riposarsi un po’ prima di prendere una decisione.

“Ve lo dico,” disse il signor Tappertit, “ho preso la mia decisione. Il mio povero paese ha bisogno di me e io ci vado! Miggs, se non ti sposti di mezzo, ti strapperò un pelo.”

Miss Miggs, ancora aggrappata a quel ribelle, gridò ad alta voce una volta. Ma non si sa se per distrazione mentale o perché lui avesse messo in atto la sua minaccia.

“Lasciami andare,” disse Simon, lottando per liberarsi dall’abbraccio casto ma tenace di lei. “Lasciami andare! Ho fatto dei preparativi per te in un contesto sociale diverso e intendo assicurarti una vita comoda. Va bene così? Ti soddisfa?”

“Oh, Simmun!” gridò la signorina Miggs. “Oh mio caro Simmun. Oh, che sentimenti provo in questo momento così contrastante, ”

Una descrizione piuttosto turbolenta, a quanto pare. Poiché il suo bicchiere da notte era stato rovesciato durante la confusione, lei si trovava in ginocchio sul pavimento, mostrando una serie di oggetti strani: foglietti colorati blu e giallo, ciocche di capelli disordinate, nastri per i capelli. Era senza fiato, stringeva le mani, alzava lo sguardo verso l’alto, versava abbondanti lacrime e mostrava tutti gli altri segni di un acuto dolore mentale.

“Me ne vado,” disse Simon, rivolgendosi al suo padrone, ignorando completamente il dolore verginale di Miggs. “Ho lasciato una scatola di cose di sopra. Fai ciò che vuoi con esse. Non le voglio più; non tornerò mai qui. Trovati un apprendista, signore. Io sono l’apprendista del mio paese; da ora in poi, quella sarà la mia professione.”

“Diventa ciò che vuoi tra due ore,” disse il fabbro chiave, “ma ora vai a letto,” aggiunse, piazzandosi sulla soglia. “Mi hai sentito? Vai a letto!”

“Vi ascolto, ma vi sfido, Varden,” ribatté Simon Tappertit. “Stasera, signore, sono stato in campagna a pianificare un’impresa che riempirà la vostra anima di meraviglia e terrore. Questo piano richiede tutta la mia energia. Lasciatemi passare!”

“Ti farò cadere a terra se ti avvicini alla porta,” rispose il fabbro chiave. “È meglio che tu vada a letto!”

Simon non rispose nulla; si rialzò invece dritto come poté e si gettò contro il suo vecchio padrone. I due iniziarono subito a lavorare insieme nella bottega, muovendosi con tale rapidità che sembravano una mezza dozzina di persone; intanto Miggs e la signora Varden gridavano per paura.

Sarebbe stato facile per Varden far cadere il suo vecchio “apprendista” e legargli mani e piedi; ma poiché non voleva fargli del male in quella condizione di totale indifesa, si accontentò di parare i suoi colpi quando poteva, di sopportarli con pazienza quando non riusciva a evitarli, e di tenersi sempre tra lui e la porta, in attesa che si presentasse l’occasione giusta per costringerlo a ritirarsi al piano di sopra e chiuderlo nella sua stanza. Tuttavia, per bontà d’animo, sottovalutò troppo la debolezza del suo avversario, dimenticando che gli uomini ubriachi, privi della capacità di camminare in modo stabile, spesso riescono a correre velocemente. Aspettando il momento giusto, Simon Tappertit fingette di indietreggiare, poi si precipitò improvvisamente in avanti, lo superò, aprì la porta (conosceva bene quel sistema di chiusura) e fuggì per strada come un cane impazzito. Il fabbro chiusei rimase per un momento sbalordito, poi lo inseguì.

Era una stagione ideale per correre: in quell’ora di silenzio le strade erano deserte, l’aria era fresca e la figura che correva davanti a lui si vedeva chiaramente a grande distanza, mentre una lunga ombra magra la seguiva. Ma quel fabbro con il fiato corto non aveva alcuna possibilità contro un uomo giovane e snello come Simon, anche se in pieno giorno avrebbe potuto raggiungerlo in un attimo. La distanza tra loro aumentava rapidamente; quando i raggi del sole nascente illuminarono Simon mentre svoltava l’angolo, Gabriel Varden dovette arrendersi e sedersi su un gradino per riprendere fiato. Simon, invece, senza mai fermarsi, continuò a correre con la stessa velocità verso The Boot, dove, come sapeva bene, alcuni dei suoi compagni si trovavano. In quell’onesto ostello – poiché ormai era considerato un individuo in grave pericolo per la legge – qualcuno lo aspettava tutta la notte, pronto ad accoglierlo non appena fosse arrivato.

“Vai pure per la tua strada, Sim, vai pure,” disse il fabbro chiave non appena riuscì a parlare. “Ho fatto del mio meglio per te, povero ragazzo. Avrei potuto salvarti, ma la corda è intorno al tuo collo. Ho paura.”

Dicendo questo e scuotendo la testa in modo molto triste e desolato, tornò indietro e presto rientrò nella sua >casa, dove la signora Varden e la fedele Miggs lo aspettavano con ansia.

Ora la signora Varden (e di conseguenza anche la signorina Miggs) provava un segreto rimorso, convinta di aver commesso un errore; di aver, con tutte le sue modeste risorse, contribuito allo sviluppo di quei disordini i cui esiti erano impossibili da prevedere; di essere stata in qualche modo responsabile della situazione appena verificatasi; e che il momento del trionfo e delle rimproveri per il fabbro chiave fosse finalmente arrivato. Questo sentimento era così forte in lei, e la lasciava così sconfortata, che mentre suo marito continuava alla ricerca del loro artigiano disperso, lei nascose sotto la sua sedia quella piccola casa di mattoni rossi con il tetto giallo, per evitare che potesse fornire nuove occasioni per parlare di quell’argomento doloroso; e in seguito nascose anche quel luogo ancora meglio, usando le falde del suo abito.

But it happened that the locksmith had been thinking of this very article on his way home, and that, coming into the room and not seeing it, he at once demanded where it was.

Mrs Varden had no resource but to produce it, which she did with many tears, and broken protestations that if she could have known—

‘Yes, yes,’ said Varden, ‘of course—I know that. I don’t mean to reproach you, my dear. But recollect from this time that all good things perverted to evil purposes, are worse than those which are naturally bad. A thoroughly wicked woman, is wicked indeed. When religion goes wrong, she is very wrong, for the same reason. Let us say no more about it, my dear.’

So he dropped the red-brick dwelling-house on the floor, and setting his heel upon it, crushed it into pieces. The halfpence, and sixpences, and other voluntary contributions, rolled about in all directions, but nobody offered to touch them, or to take them up.

‘That,’ said the locksmith, ‘is easily disposed of, and I would to Heaven that everything growing out of the same society could be settled as easily.’

‘It happens very fortunately, Varden,’ said his wife, with her handkerchief to her eyes, ‘that in case any more disturbances should happen—which I hope not; I sincerely hope not—’

‘I hope so too, my dear.’

‘—That in case any should occur, we have the piece of paper which that poor misguided young man brought.’

‘Ay, to be sure,’ said the locksmith, turning quickly round. ‘Where is that piece of paper?’

Mrs Varden stood aghast as he took it from her outstretched hand, tore it into fragments, and threw them under the grate.

‘Not use it?’ she said.

‘Use it!’ cried the locksmith. No! Let them come and pull the roof about our ears; let them burn us out of house and home; I’d neither have the protection of their leader, nor chalk their howl upon my door, though, for not doing it, they shot me on my own threshold. Use it! Let them come and do their worst. The first man who crosses my doorstep on such an errand as theirs, had better be a hundred miles away. Let him look to it. The others may have their will. I wouldn’t beg or buy them off, if, instead of every pound of iron in the place, there was a hundred weight of gold. Get you to bed, Martha. I shall take down the shutters and go to work.’

‘So early!’ said his wife.

‘Ay,’ replied the locksmith cheerily, ‘so early. Come when they may, they shall not find us skulking and hiding, as if we feared to take our portion of the light of day, and left it all to them. So pleasant dreams to you, my dear, and cheerful sleep!’

With that he gave his wife a hearty kiss, and bade her delay no longer, or it would be time to rise before she lay down to rest. Mrs Varden quite amiably and meekly walked upstairs, followed by Miggs, who, although a good deal subdued, could not refrain from sundry stimulative coughs and sniffs by the way, or from holding up her hands in astonishment at the daring conduct of master.

Ma capitò che il fabbro ci avesse già pensato durante il tragitto verso casa; entrato nella stanza e non vedendola subito, chiese immediatamente dove fosse finita.

La signora Varden non ebbe altra scelta se non quella di produrlo, e lo fece con molte lacrime e con proteste disperate, dicendo che se solo avesse saputo.

“Sì, sì,” disse Varden, “certamente, lo so bene. Non intendo rimproverarti, cara mia. Ma ricorda questa occasione: tutte le cose buone che vengono utilizzate a scopi malvagi sono peggiori di quelle che sono naturalmente cattive. Una donna completamente malvagia lo è davvero. Quando la religione si sbaglia, sbaglia gravemente, per lo stesso motivo. Lasciamo perdere, cara mia.”

Così lasciò cadere quella casa fatta di mattoni rossi sul pavimento e, appoggiandoci il tacco del piede, la ridusse in pezzi. I mezzini, i sei penny e le altre donazioni volontarie rotolarono dappertutto, ma nessuno si offrì di raccoglierli o di prenderli.

“Quello,” disse il fabbro chiave, “si può risolvere facilmente. E prego il Cielo che tutto ciò che nasce da quella stessa società possa essere sistemato altrettanto facilmente.”

“Accade molto fortunatamente, Varden,” disse sua moglie, tenendosi il fazzoletto sugli occhi, “che nel caso dovessero verificarsi altri disordini, il che io non spero affatto; lo spero davvero con tutto il cuore, ”

“Anch’io lo spero, caro mio.”

“–Per ogni evenienza, abbiamo quel pezzo di carta che quel povero giovane ingannato ha portato con sé.”

“Ah, certo,” disse il fabbro chiave, girandosi rapidamente. “Dove è quel pezzo di carta?”

La signora Varden rimase sbalordita quando lui prese il foglio dalla sua mano tesa, lo strappò in pezzi e li gettò sotto la grata.

“Non usarlo?”, disse lei.

“Usatelo!”, gridò il fabbro chiave. No! Lasciate che vengano e ci rovinino tutto; lasciate che ci brucino via la casa. Non avrei né la protezione del loro capo, né il loro “grido di minaccia” sulla mia porta. Anche se, per non farlo, mi sparassero proprio sul mio portone. Usatelo pure. Lasciate che facciano ciò che vogliono. Il primo che venga da me con un simile scopo dovrebbe trovarsi a cento miglia di distanza. Che si arrangi lui. Gli altri possono fare ciò che vogliono. Non li supplicherei né li comprerei, anche se al posto di ogni singola libbra di ferro qui presente ci fossero cento chili d’oro. Vai a letto, Martha. Io abbasserò le persiane e inizierò il mio lavoro.

“Arrivo presto!”, disse sua moglie.

“Ah,” rispose allegramente il fabbro chiave, “così presto. Vengano pure quando vogliono: non ci troveranno certo a nasconderci, come se avessimo paura di goderci la nostra parte di luce del giorno e lasciarla tutta a loro. Che bei sogni hai, mia cara. E che sonno sereno!”

Dopo aver detto questo, le diede un bacio appassionato e le disse di non indugiare oltre, altrimenti sarebbe stato troppo tardi per andare a letto. La signora Varden salì le scale in modo molto gentile e docile, seguita da Miggs, che, sebbene fosse piuttosto intimidita, non riusciva a trattenersi dal tossire o dal fare dei suoni di sorpresa di fronte al comportamento audace del padrone.

Chapter 52

A mob is usually a creature of very mysterious existence, particularly in a large city. Where it comes from or whither it goes, few men can tell. Assembling and dispersing with equal suddenness, it is as difficult to follow to its various sources as the sea itself; nor does the parallel stop here, for the ocean is not more fickle and uncertain, more terrible when roused, more unreasonable, or more cruel.

The people who were boisterous at Westminster upon the Friday morning, and were eagerly bent upon the work of devastation in Duke Street and Warwick Street at night, were, in the mass, the same. Allowing for the chance accessions of which any crowd is morally sure in a town where there must always be a large number of idle and profligate persons, one and the same mob was at both places. Yet they spread themselves in various directions when they dispersed in the afternoon, made no appointment for reassembling, had no definite purpose or design, and indeed, for anything they knew, were scattered beyond the hope of future union.

At The Boot, which, as has been shown, was in a manner the head-quarters of the rioters, there were not, upon this Friday night, a dozen people. Some slept in the stable and outhouses, some in the common room, some two or three in beds. The rest were in their usual homes or haunts. Perhaps not a score in all lay in the adjacent fields and lanes, and under haystacks, or near the warmth of brick-kilns, who had not their accustomed place of rest beneath the open sky. As to the public ways within the town, they had their ordinary nightly occupants, and no others; the usual amount of vice and wretchedness, but no more.

The experience of one evening, however, had taught the reckless leaders of disturbance, that they had but to show themselves in the streets, to be immediately surrounded by materials which they could only have kept together when their aid was not required, at great risk, expense, and trouble. Once possessed of this secret, they were as confident as if twenty thousand men, devoted to their will, had been encamped about them, and assumed a confidence which could not have been surpassed, though that had really been the case. All day, Saturday, they remained quiet. On Sunday, they rather studied how to keep their men within call, and in full hope, than to follow out, by any fierce measure, their first day’s proceedings.

‘I hope,’ said Dennis, as, with a loud yawn, he raised his body from a heap of straw on which he had been sleeping, and supporting his head upon his hand, appealed to Hugh on Sunday morning, ‘that Muster Gashford allows some rest? Perhaps he’d have us at work again already, eh?’

‘It’s not his way to let matters drop, you may be sure of that,’ growled Hugh in answer. ‘I’m in no humour to stir yet, though. I’m as stiff as a dead body, and as full of ugly scratches as if I had been fighting all day yesterday with wild cats.’

‘You’ve so much enthusiasm, that’s it,’ said Dennis, looking with great admiration at the uncombed head, matted beard, and torn hands and face of the wild figure before him; ‘you’re such a devil of a fellow. You hurt yourself a hundred times more than you need, because you will be foremost in everything, and will do more than the rest.’

‘For the matter of that,’ returned Hugh, shaking back his ragged hair and glancing towards the door of the stable in which they lay; ‘there’s one yonder as good as me. What did I tell you about him? Did I say he was worth a dozen, when you doubted him?’

Mr Dennis rolled lazily over upon his breast, and resting his chin upon his hand in imitation of the attitude in which Hugh lay, said, as he too looked towards the door:

‘Ay, ay, you knew him, brother, you knew him. But who’d suppose to look at that chap now, that he could be the man he is! Isn’t it a thousand cruel pities, brother, that instead of taking his nat’ral rest and qualifying himself for further exertions in this here honourable cause, he should be playing at soldiers like a boy? And his cleanliness too!’ said Mr Dennis, who certainly had no reason to entertain a fellow feeling with anybody who was particular on that score; ‘what weaknesses he’s guilty of; with respect to his cleanliness! At five o’clock this morning, there he was at the pump, though any one would think he had gone through enough, the day before yesterday, to be pretty fast asleep at that time. But no—when I woke for a minute or two, there he was at the pump, and if you’d seen him sticking them peacock’s feathers into his hat when he’d done washing—ah! I’m sorry he’s such a imperfect character, but the best on us is incomplete in some pint of view or another.’

The subject of this dialogue and of these concluding remarks, which were uttered in a tone of philosophical meditation, was, as the reader will have divined, no other than Barnaby, who, with his flag in hand, stood sentry in the little patch of sunlight at the distant door, or walked to and fro outside, singing softly to himself; and keeping time to the music of some clear church bells. Whether he stood still, leaning with both hands on the flagstaff, or, bearing it upon his shoulder, paced slowly up and down, the careful arrangement of his poor dress, and his erect and lofty bearing, showed how high a sense he had of the great importance of his trust, and how happy and how proud it made him. To Hugh and his companion, who lay in a dark corner of the gloomy shed, he, and the sunlight, and the peaceful Sabbath sound to which he made response, seemed like a bright picture framed by the door, and set off by the stable’s blackness. The whole formed such a contrast to themselves, as they lay wallowing, like some obscene animals, in their squalor and wickedness on the two heaps of straw, that for a few moments they looked on without speaking, and felt almost ashamed.

Capitolo 52

Una folla è solitamente una creatura di esistenza molto misteriosa, specialmente in una grande città. Da dove proviene o dove va, pochi uomini possono saperlo. Si raduna e si disperde con la stessa rapidità; è altrettanto difficile rintracciare le sue origini quanto seguire il corso del mare stesso. E la somiglianza non finisce qui: l’oceano, infatti, non è meno capriccioso e imprevedibile, né meno terribile quando si scatena la sua furia, né meno irragionevole o crudele.

Le persone che avevano causato tanto trambusto a Westminster quella mattina di venerdì, e che con grande fervore si erano dedicate alle attività di distruzione in Duke Street e Warwick Street di notte, erano per lo più le stesse. Tenendo conto dei nuovi elementi che, in una città dove sempre esiste un gran numero di persone oziose e dissolute, possono aggregarsi a qualsiasi folla, si trattava della stessa banda di teppisti in entrambi i luoghi. Tuttavia, quando si dispersero nel pomeriggio, si diramarono in varie direzioni, senza alcun accordo preciso per riunirsi nuovamente, senza un obiettivo o una strategia definiti; anzi, per quel che ne sapevano loro, erano ormai così dispersi da rendere impossibile qualsiasi futura riunione.

Al “The Boot”, che, come è stato dimostrato, fungeva in un certo senso da quartier generale dei rivoltosi, quella notte di venerdì non c’erano nemmeno una dozzina di persone. Alcune dormivano nella stalla e nelle stanze esterne, altre nella sala comune, alcune in letti singoli o in piccoli gruppi. Le restanti si trovavano nelle loro abitazioni o nei luoghi abituali. Forse non c’erano nemmeno venti persone in tutto nei campi circostanti, sotto i mucchi di fieno o vicino ai forni per la cottura dei mattoni: tutti avevano il proprio solito posto dove riposare, all’aperto. Per quanto riguarda le strade della città, esse erano occupate dai soliti frequentatori notturni, e nessun altro; c’era la solita quantità di vizi e miseria, ma nient’altro di più.

Tuttavia, l’esperienza di quella sera insegnò ai capi sconsiderati dei disordini che bastava loro comparire per strada perché subito venissero circondati da risorse che avrebbero potuto mantenere solo con grande rischio, spesa e difficoltà, quando non erano necessarie. Una volta conosciuta questa verità, si sentirono così sicuri come se ventimila uomini fedeli alla loro volontà fossero accampati intorno a loro, e assunsero un’arroganza che nessuno avrebbe potuto eguagliare, anche se in realtà non era affatto così. Per tutto il sabato rimasero tranquilli; la domenica, invece, si concentrarono soprattutto sul modo per tenere i loro uomini pronti all’azione, piuttosto che ricorrere a misure drastiche come il giorno precedente.

“Spero,” disse Dennis, mentre con un grande sbadiglio si alzava da un mucchio di paglia su cui aveva dormito, appoggiandosi la testa sulla mano, e rivolgendosi a Hugh una domanda il domenica mattina: “Che Muster Gashford ci permetta di riposare un po’, no? Forse già ci avrà fatto tornare al lavoro, eh?”

“Non è nel suo carattere lasciare le cose come stanno, di questo puoi essere sicuro,” ringhiò Hugh in risposta. “Però al momento non ho affatto voglia di muovermi. Sono rigido come un cadavere e pieno di brutti graffi, come se ieri intera la giornata avessi combattuto con gatti selvatici.”

“Hai così tanto entusiasmo, è proprio questo che ti caratterizza,” disse Dennis, guardando con grande ammirazione quella figura selvaggia davanti a lui: i capelli disordinati, la barba arruffata, le mani e il viso graffiati. “Sei davvero un tipo straordinario. Ti ferisci cento volte più del necessario, perché vuoi sempre essere il primo in tutto e fare di più degli altri.”

“Per quanto riguarda questo,” rispose Hugh, scuotendo i suoi capelli arruffati e guardando verso la porta dello stallo in cui si trovavano; “ce n’è uno là che è altrettanto bravo di me. Cosa vi avevo detto di lui? Vi ho detto che valeva una dozzina, quando ne dubitavate, vero?”

Il signor Dennis si girò pigramente sul petto, appoggiando il mento sulla mano, imitando l’atteggiamento di Hugh, e disse, guardando anche lui verso la porta:

“Ah, ah. Lo conoscevi bene, fratello. Ma chi avrebbe mai pensato che quel ragazzo potesse diventare l’uomo che è ora! Non è davvero una grande tragedia, fratello? Invece di riposarsi e prepararsi a continuare a impegnarsi in questa nobile causa, si comporta come un bambino che gioca a soldatini. E poi, quella sua mancanza di pulizia, ” disse il signor Dennis, che certamente non aveva alcun motivo per provare simpatia per chi era così rigido su queste questioni; “Che debolezze. Quella sua mancanza di cura personale! Alle cinque di questa mattina, eccolo già alla fontana. Anche se si potrebbe pensare che il giorno prima avesse già fatto abbastanza da essere profondamente addormentato a quell’ora. Ma no. Quando mi sono svegliato per un attimo, lo ho visto ancora lì. E poi, quando finiva di lavarsi, si metteva persino piume di pavone nel cappello. Ah. Mi dispiace che sia una persona così imperfetta. Ma anche il migliore di noi è incompleto sotto qualche aspetto, ”

L’oggetto di questo dialogo e di queste osservazioni conclusive, pronunciate con tono di meditazione filosofica, non era altri che Barnaby: egli, con la sua -bandiera in mano, stava di guardia nel riquadro di luce solare presso la porta lontana, o camminava avanti e indietro all’esterno, cantando sottovoce tra sé, seguendo il ritmo delle chiare note delle campane della chiesa. Che stesse fermo, appoggiato con entrambe le mani al palo della bandiera, oppure la portasse sulle spalle camminando lentamente avanti e indietro, l’accurata cura con cui aveva sistemato i propri poveri abiti, nonché il suo portamento eretto e maestoso, dimostravano quanto fosse consapevole dell’enorme importanza della fiducia che gli era stata affidata, e quanto ciò lo rendesse felice e orgoglioso. Per Hugh e il suo compagno, che giacevano in un angolo buio del capanno oscuro, lui, la luce solare e quei suoni tranquilli del sabato a cui rispondeva sembravano una bella immagine incorniciata dalla porta e messa in risalto dall’oscurità dello stallo. Tutto ciò formava un contrasto così marcato rispetto alla loro condizione miserabile – giacevano infatti nel loro sporco e nella loro malvagità, tra due mucchi di paglia – che per qualche momento rimasero a guardare in silenzio, provando quasi vergogna.

‘Ah!’ said Hugh at length, carrying it off with a laugh: ‘He’s a rare fellow is Barnaby, and can do more, with less rest, or meat, or drink, than any of us. As to his soldiering, I put him on duty there.’

‘Then there was a object in it, and a proper good one too, I’ll be sworn,’ retorted Dennis with a broad grin, and an oath of the same quality. ‘What was it, brother?’

‘Why, you see,’ said Hugh, crawling a little nearer to him, ‘that our noble captain yonder, came in yesterday morning rather the worse for liquor, and was—like you and me—ditto last night.’

Dennis looked to where Simon Tappertit lay coiled upon a truss of hay, snoring profoundly, and nodded.

‘And our noble captain,’ continued Hugh with another laugh, ‘our noble captain and I, have planned for to-morrow a roaring expedition, with good profit in it.’

‘Again the Papists?’ asked Dennis, rubbing his hands.

‘Ay, against the Papists—against one of ‘em at least, that some of us, and I for one, owe a good heavy grudge to.’

‘Not Muster Gashford’s friend that he spoke to us about in my house, eh?’ said Dennis, brimfull of pleasant expectation.

‘The same man,’ said Hugh.

‘That’s your sort,’ cried Mr Dennis, gaily shaking hands with him, ‘that’s the kind of game. Let’s have revenges and injuries, and all that, and we shall get on twice as fast. Now you talk, indeed!’

‘Ha ha ha! The captain,’ added Hugh, ‘has thoughts of carrying off a woman in the bustle, and—ha ha ha!—and so have I!’

Mr Dennis received this part of the scheme with a wry face, observing that as a general principle he objected to women altogether, as being unsafe and slippery persons on whom there was no calculating with any certainty, and who were never in the same mind for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch. He might have expatiated on this suggestive theme at much greater length, but that it occurred to him to ask what connection existed between the proposed expedition and Barnaby’s being posted at the stable-door as sentry; to which Hugh cautiously replied in these words:

‘Why, the people we mean to visit, were friends of his, once upon a time, and I know that much of him to feel pretty sure that if he thought we were going to do them any harm, he’d be no friend to our side, but would lend a ready hand to the other. So I’ve persuaded him (for I know him of old) that Lord George has picked him out to guard this place to-morrow while we’re away, and that it’s a great honour—and so he’s on duty now, and as proud of it as if he was a general. Ha ha! What do you say to me for a careful man as well as a devil of a one?’

Mr Dennis exhausted himself in compliments, and then added,

‘But about the expedition itself—’

‘About that,’ said Hugh, ‘you shall hear all particulars from me and the great captain conjointly and both together—for see, he’s waking up. Rouse yourself, lion-heart. Ha ha! Put a good face upon it, and drink again. Another hair of the dog that bit you, captain! Call for drink! There’s enough of gold and silver cups and candlesticks buried underneath my bed,’ he added, rolling back the straw, and pointing to where the ground was newly turned, ‘to pay for it, if it was a score of casks full. Drink, captain!’

Mr Tappertit received these jovial promptings with a very bad grace, being much the worse, both in mind and body, for his two nights of debauch, and but indifferently able to stand upon his legs. With Hugh’s assistance, however, he contrived to stagger to the pump; and having refreshed himself with an abundant draught of cold water, and a copious shower of the same refreshing liquid on his head and face, he ordered some rum and milk to be served; and upon that innocent beverage and some biscuits and cheese made a pretty hearty meal. That done, he disposed himself in an easy attitude on the ground beside his two companions (who were carousing after their own tastes), and proceeded to enlighten Mr Dennis in reference to to-morrow’s project.

That their conversation was an interesting one, was rendered manifest by its length, and by the close attention of all three. That it was not of an oppressively grave character, but was enlivened by various pleasantries arising out of the subject, was clear from their loud and frequent roars of laughter, which startled Barnaby on his post, and made him wonder at their levity. But he was not summoned to join them, until they had eaten, and drunk, and slept, and talked together for some hours; not, indeed, until the twilight; when they informed him that they were about to make a slight demonstration in the streets—just to keep the people’s hands in, as it was Sunday night, and the public might otherwise be disappointed—and that he was free to accompany them if he would.

Without the slightest preparation, saving that they carried clubs and wore the blue cockade, they sallied out into the streets; and, with no more settled design than that of doing as much mischief as they could, paraded them at random. Their numbers rapidly increasing, they soon divided into parties; and agreeing to meet by-and-by, in the fields near Welbeck Street, scoured the town in various directions. The largest body, and that which augmented with the greatest rapidity, was the one to which Hugh and Barnaby belonged. This took its way towards Moorfields, where there was a rich chapel, and in which neighbourhood several Catholic families were known to reside.

Beginning with the private houses so occupied, they broke open the doors and windows; and while they destroyed the furniture and left but the bare walls, made a sharp search for tools and engines of destruction, such as hammers, pokers, axes, saws, and such like instruments. Many of the rioters made belts of cord, of handkerchiefs, or any material they found at hand, and wore these weapons as openly as pioneers upon a field-day. There was not the least disguise or concealment—indeed, on this night, very little excitement or hurry. From the chapels, they tore down and took away the very altars, benches, pulpits, pews, and flooring; from the dwelling-houses, the very wainscoting and stairs. This Sunday evening’s recreation they pursued like mere workmen who had a certain task to do, and did it. Fifty resolute men might have turned them at any moment; a single company of soldiers could have scattered them like dust; but no man interposed, no authority restrained them, and, except by the terrified persons who fled from their approach, they were as little heeded as if they were pursuing their lawful occupations with the utmost sobriety and good conduct.

In the same manner, they marched to the place of rendezvous agreed upon, made great fires in the fields, and reserving the most valuable of their spoils, burnt the rest. Priestly garments, images of saints, rich stuffs and ornaments, altar-furniture and household goods, were cast into the flames, and shed a glare on the whole country round; but they danced and howled, and roared about these fires till they were tired, and were never for an instant checked.

As the main body filed off from this scene of action, and passed down Welbeck Street, they came upon Gashford, who had been a witness of their proceedings, and was walking stealthily along the pavement. Keeping up with him, and yet not seeming to speak, Hugh muttered in his ear:

‘Is this better, master?’

‘No,’ said Gashford. ‘It is not.’

‘What would you have?’ said Hugh. ‘Fevers are never at their height at once. They must get on by degrees.’

‘I would have you,’ said Gashford, pinching his arm with such malevolence that his nails seemed to meet in the skin; ‘I would have you put some meaning into your work. Fools! Can you make no better bonfires than of rags and scraps? Can you burn nothing whole?’

‘A little patience, master,’ said Hugh. ‘Wait but a few hours, and you shall see. Look for a redness in the sky, to-morrow night.’

With that, he fell back into his place beside Barnaby; and when the secretary looked after him, both were lost in the crowd.

Chapter 53

The next day was ushered in by merry peals of bells, and by the firing of the Tower guns; flags were hoisted on many of the church-steeples; the usual demonstrations were made in honour of the anniversary of the King’s birthday; and every man went about his pleasure or business as if the city were in perfect order, and there were no half-smouldering embers in its secret places, which, on the approach of night, would kindle up again and scatter ruin and dismay abroad. The leaders of the riot, rendered still more daring by the success of last night and by the booty they had acquired, kept steadily together, and only thought of implicating the mass of their followers so deeply that no hope of pardon or reward might tempt them to betray their more notorious confederates into the hands of justice.

Indeed, the sense of having gone too far to be forgiven, held the timid together no less than the bold. Many who would readily have pointed out the foremost rioters and given evidence against them, felt that escape by that means was hopeless, when their every act had been observed by scores of people who had taken no part in the disturbances; who had suffered in their persons, peace, or property, by the outrages of the mob; who would be most willing witnesses; and whom the government would, no doubt, prefer to any King’s evidence that might be offered. Many of this class had deserted their usual occupations on the Saturday morning; some had been seen by their employers active in the tumult; others knew they must be suspected, and that they would be discharged if they returned; others had been desperate from the beginning, and comforted themselves with the homely proverb, that, being hanged at all, they might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. They all hoped and believed, in a greater or less degree, that the government they seemed to have paralysed, would, in its terror, come to terms with them in the end, and suffer them to make their own conditions. The least sanguine among them reasoned with himself that, at the worst, they were too many to be all punished, and that he had as good a chance of escape as any other man. The great mass never reasoned or thought at all, but were stimulated by their own headlong passions, by poverty, by ignorance, by the love of mischief, and the hope of plunder.

One other circumstance is worthy of remark; and that is, that from the moment of their first outbreak at Westminster, every symptom of order or preconcerted arrangement among them vanished. When they divided into parties and ran to different quarters of the town, it was on the spontaneous suggestion of the moment. Each party swelled as it went along, like rivers as they roll towards the sea; new leaders sprang up as they were wanted, disappeared when the necessity was over, and reappeared at the next crisis. Each tumult took shape and form from the circumstances of the moment; sober workmen, going home from their day’s labour, were seen to cast down their baskets of tools and become rioters in an instant; mere boys on errands did the like. In a word, a moral plague ran through the city. The noise, and hurry, and excitement, had for hundreds and hundreds an attraction they had no firmness to resist. The contagion spread like a dread fever: an infectious madness, as yet not near its height, seized on new victims every hour, and society began to tremble at their ravings.

It was between two and three o’clock in the afternoon when Gashford looked into the lair described in the last chapter, and seeing only Barnaby and Dennis there, inquired for Hugh.

He was out, Barnaby told him; had gone out more than an hour ago; and had not yet returned.

‘Dennis!’ said the smiling secretary, in his smoothest voice, as he sat down cross-legged on a barrel, ‘Dennis!’

The hangman struggled into a sitting posture directly, and with his eyes wide open, looked towards him.

‘How do you do, Dennis?’ said Gashford, nodding. ‘I hope you have suffered no inconvenience from your late exertions, Dennis?’

‘I always will say of you, Muster Gashford,’ returned the hangman, staring at him, ‘that that ‘ere quiet way of yours might almost wake a dead man. It is,’ he added, with a muttered oath—still staring at him in a thoughtful manner—‘so awful sly!’

‘So distinct, eh Dennis?’

‘Distinct!’ he answered, scratching his head, and keeping his eyes upon the secretary’s face; ‘I seem to hear it, Muster Gashford, in my wery bones.’

‘I am very glad your sense of hearing is so sharp, and that I succeed in making myself so intelligible,’ said Gashford, in his unvarying, even tone. ‘Where is your friend?’

Mr Dennis looked round as in expectation of beholding him asleep upon his bed of straw; then remembering he had seen him go out, replied:

‘I can’t say where he is, Muster Gashford, I expected him back afore now. I hope it isn’t time that we was busy, Muster Gashford?’

‘Nay,’ said the secretary, ‘who should know that as well as you? How can I tell you, Dennis? You are perfect master of your own actions, you know, and accountable to nobody—except sometimes to the law, eh?’

Dennis, who was very much baffled by the cool matter-of-course manner of this reply, recovered his self-possession on his professional pursuits being referred to, and pointing towards Barnaby, shook his head and frowned.

‘Hush!’ cried Barnaby.

‘Ah! Do hush about that, Muster Gashford,’ said the hangman in a low voice, ‘pop’lar prejudices—you always forget—well, Barnaby, my lad, what’s the matter?’

‘I hear him coming,’ he answered: ‘Hark! Do you mark that? That’s his foot! Bless you, I know his step, and his dog’s too. Tramp, tramp, pit-pat, on they come together, and, ha ha ha!—and here they are!’ he cried, joyfully welcoming Hugh with both hands, and then patting him fondly on the back, as if instead of being the rough companion he was, he had been one of the most prepossessing of men. ‘Here he is, and safe too! I am glad to see him back again, old Hugh!’

Capitolo 53

Il giorno seguente iniziò con allegri rintocchi di campane e con il fuoco delle artiglierie della Torre; molte guglie delle chiese issarono le bandiere; si tennero le solite celebrazioni in onore dell’anniversario del compleanno del Re; e tutti andavano per i fatti loro, come se la città fosse in perfetto ordine, senza alcun segno di disordine nascosto che, con l’avvicinarsi della notte, avrebbe potuto riaccendersi e causare distruzione e panico. I capi della rivolta, resi ancora più audaci dal successo della scorsa notte e dai bottini ottenuti, rimasero uniti e pensarono soltanto a coinvolgere il maggior numero possibile dei loro seguaci in modo che nessuna speranza di perdono o ricompensa potesse indurli a tradire i loro complici più notori e consegnarli alla giustizia.

Infatti, la sensazione di aver fatto troppo per essere perdonati teneva uniti tanto i timidi quanto i coraggiosi. Molti coloro che avrebbero facilmente potuto indicare i principali responsabili dei disordini e fornire prove contro di loro ritenevano che fuggire in quel modo fosse impossibile, poiché ogni loro azione era stata osservata da molte persone che non avevano partecipato ai tumulti; persone che avevano sofferto personalmente, per la propria pace o proprietà, a causa delle violenze della folla; persone che sarebbero state più che felici di testimoniare contro di loro; e persone che, senza dubbio, il governo avrebbe preferito alle eventuali testimonianze di qualsiasi re potessero essere fornite. Molti di questi individui avevano abbandonato le proprie occupazioni abituali sabato mattina; alcuni erano stati visti dai loro datori di lavoro mentre partecipavano ai disordini; altri sapevano di essere sospettati e che sarebbero stati licenziati se fossero tornati al lavoro; altri ancora erano già disperati fin dall’inizio, e si consolavano con il vecchio detto secondo cui, essendo destinati comunque alla morte per impiccagione, tanto valeva che morissero per una pecora quanto per un agnello. Tutti speravano, in misura maggiore o minore, che il governo che sembrava averli paralizzati, alla fine, spinto dal terrore, avrebbe accettato le loro condizioni. I meno ottimisti tra loro ragionavano che, nel peggiore dei casi, erano troppi per essere tutti puniti, e quindi avevano le stesse possibilità di scappare degli altri. La grande maggioranza, invece, non ragionava affatto; veniva spinta soltanto dalle proprie passioni irrefrenabili, dalla povertà, dall’ignoranza, dal desiderio di causare problemi e dalla speranza di ottenere bottini.

Un’altra circostanza merita di essere menzionata: da quel momento in cui i primi disordini scoppiarono a Westminster, ogni traccia di ordine o organizzazione premeditata tra loro scomparve. Quando si divisero in fazioni e si dispersero nelle varie zone della città, fu su spinta spontanea del momento stesso. Ogni fazione si ingrandiva man mano che avanzava, come i fiumi che scorrono verso il mare; nuovi leader emergevano quando ne era necessario l’uso, scomparivano non appena la loro funzione terminava e ricomparivano durante la crisi successiva. Ogni tumulto prendeva forma in base alle circostanze del momento: onesti lavoratori che tornavano a casa dopo una giornata di fatica si trasformavano all’istante in rivoltosi; persino ragazzi che andavano a fare commissioni facevano lo stesso. In breve, una sorta di “peste morale” dilagò nella città. Il rumore, l’agitazione e l’eccitazione esercitavano su centinaia di persone un fascino al quale era impossibile resistere. La contagiosità si diffondeva come una terribile febbre: una follia contagiosa, che non aveva ancora raggiunto il suo apice, colpiva nuove vittime ogni ora, e la società iniziava a tremare di fronte ai loro atti distruttivi.

Era tra le due e le tre del pomeriggio quando Gashford guardò nella tana descritta nel capitolo precedente e, vedendo lì solo Barnaby e Dennis, chiese di Hugh.

Era uscito, gli disse Barnaby; era andato via più di un’ora prima e non era ancora tornato.

“Dennis!” disse la segretaria sorridente, con la sua voce più dolce, mentre si sedeva con le gambe incrociate su un barile. “Dennis!”

L’impiccatore riuscì a mettersi a sedere di scatto; con gli occhi spalancati, lo guardò direttamente.

“Come sta, Dennis?” disse Gashford annuendo. “Spero che non abbia sofferto alcun inconveniente a causa degli sforzi fatti di recente, Dennis, ”

“Sempre dirò di te, Muster Gashford,” rispose il boia, fissandolo, “che quel tuo modo così tranquillo potrebbe quasi svegliare un morto. È davvero, ” aggiunse, mormorando una bestemmia mentre continuava a guardarlo con aria pensierosa, “così terribilmente astuto!”

“Così diversi, vero, Dennis?”

“Distinto!” rispose, grattandosi la testa e fissando il viso del segretario; “Sembra che lo senta davvero, Mastro Gashford, nelle mie stesse ossa.”

“Sono molto contento che la tua capacità uditiva sia così acuta, e che riesca a farmi capire così bene,” disse Gashford, con il suo solito tono uniforme e pacato. “Dove è tuo amico?”

Il signor Dennis guardò intorno, aspettandosi di vederlo addormentato sul suo letto di paglia; poi, ricordando di averlo visto uscire, rispose:

“Non posso dire dove si trovi, Sergente Gashford. Mi aspettavo che tornasse prima d’ora. Spero che non sia arrivato il momento in cui dovremmo occuparci di altre cose, Sergente Gashford, ”

“No,” disse il segretario, “chi potrebbe saperlo meglio di te? Come posso dirtelo, Dennis? Tu sei il perfetto padrone delle tue azioni, lo sai, e non devi rendere conto a nessuno, tranne, a volte, alla legge, eh?”

Dennis, molto perplesso dal tono disinvolto e naturale di quella risposta, riacquistò la propria calma quando si trattò di questioni professionali. Indicando poi Barnaby, scosse la testa e fece una smorfia.

“Zitti!” gridò Barnaby.

“Ah! State zitto su questo argomento, Muster Gashford,” disse il boia a bassa voce, “quei pregiudizi stupidi. Vi dimenticate sempre, Barnaby, mio ragazzo, di cosa si tratta veramente.”

“Lo sento arrivare,” rispose: “Ascolta! Riconosci quel rumore? Sono i suoi passi. Benedetto te, conosco bene il suo modo di camminare, e anche quello del suo cane. Tic-tac, tic-tac. Arrivano insieme, e, ahahah! Ecco che sono qui!” esclamò, accogliendo Hugh con entrambe le mani pieno di gioia, poi gli diede affettuosamente una pacca sulla schiena, come se invece di essere quel compagno un po’ ruvido, fosse stato uno degli uomini più affascinanti che ci fossero. “Eccolo qui, e anche sano e salvo! Sono felice di rivederlo, vecchio Hugh!”

‘I’m a Turk if he don’t give me a warmer welcome always than any man of sense,’ said Hugh, shaking hands with him with a kind of ferocious friendship, strange enough to see. ‘How are you, boy?’

‘Hearty!’ cried Barnaby, waving his hat. ‘Ha ha ha! And merry too, Hugh! And ready to do anything for the good cause, and the right, and to help the kind, mild, pale-faced gentleman—the lord they used so ill—eh, Hugh?’

‘Ay!’ returned his friend, dropping his hand, and looking at Gashford for an instant with a changed expression before he spoke to him. ‘Good day, master!’

‘And good day to you,’ replied the secretary, nursing his leg.

‘And many good days—whole years of them, I hope. You are heated.’

‘So would you have been, master,’ said Hugh, wiping his face, ‘if you’d been running here as fast as I have.’

‘You know the news, then? Yes, I supposed you would have heard it.’

‘News! what news?’

‘You don’t?’ cried Gashford, raising his eyebrows with an exclamation of surprise. ‘Dear me! Come; then I AM the first to make you acquainted with your distinguished position, after all. Do you see the King’s Arms a-top?’ he smilingly asked, as he took a large paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out for Hugh’s inspection.

‘Well!’ said Hugh. ‘What’s that to me?’

‘Much. A great deal,’ replied the secretary. ‘Read it.’

‘I told you, the first time I saw you, that I couldn’t read,’ said Hugh, impatiently. ‘What in the Devil’s name’s inside of it?’

‘It is a proclamation from the King in Council,’ said Gashford, ‘dated to-day, and offering a reward of five hundred pounds—five hundred pounds is a great deal of money, and a large temptation to some people—to any one who will discover the person or persons most active in demolishing those chapels on Saturday night.’

‘Is that all?’ cried Hugh, with an indifferent air. ‘I knew of that.’

‘Truly I might have known you did,’ said Gashford, smiling, and folding up the document again. ‘Your friend, I might have guessed—indeed I did guess—was sure to tell you.’

‘My friend!’ stammered Hugh, with an unsuccessful effort to appear surprised. ‘What friend?’

‘Tut tut—do you suppose I don’t know where you have been?’ retorted Gashford, rubbing his hands, and beating the back of one on the palm of the other, and looking at him with a cunning eye. ‘How dull you think me! Shall I say his name?’

‘No,’ said Hugh, with a hasty glance towards Dennis.

‘You have also heard from him, no doubt,’ resumed the secretary, after a moment’s pause, ‘that the rioters who have been taken (poor fellows) are committed for trial, and that some very active witnesses have had the temerity to appear against them. Among others—’ and here he clenched his teeth, as if he would suppress by force some violent words that rose upon his tongue; and spoke very slowly. ‘Among others, a gentleman who saw the work going on in Warwick Street; a Catholic gentleman; one Haredale.’

Hugh would have prevented his uttering the word, but it was out already. Hearing the name, Barnaby turned swiftly round.

‘Duty, duty, bold Barnaby!’ cried Hugh, assuming his wildest and most rapid manner, and thrusting into his hand his staff and flag which leant against the wall. ‘Mount guard without loss of time, for we are off upon our expedition. Up, Dennis, and get ready! Take care that no one turns the straw upon my bed, brave Barnaby; we know what’s underneath it—eh? Now, master, quick! What you have to say, say speedily, for the little captain and a cluster of ‘em are in the fields, and only waiting for us. Sharp’s the word, and strike’s the action. Quick!’

Barnaby was not proof against this bustle and despatch. The look of mingled astonishment and anger which had appeared in his face when he turned towards them, faded from it as the words passed from his memory, like breath from a polished mirror; and grasping the weapon which Hugh forced upon him, he proudly took his station at the door, beyond their hearing.

‘You might have spoiled our plans, master,’ said Hugh. ‘YOU, too, of all men!’

‘Who would have supposed that HE would be so quick?’ urged Gashford.

‘He’s as quick sometimes—I don’t mean with his hands, for that you know, but with his head—as you or any man,’ said Hugh. ‘Dennis, it’s time we were going; they’re waiting for us; I came to tell you. Reach me my stick and belt. Here! Lend a hand, master. Fling this over my shoulder, and buckle it behind, will you?’

‘Brisk as ever!’ said the secretary, adjusting it for him as he desired.

‘A man need be brisk to-day; there’s brisk work a-foot.’

‘There is, is there?’ said Gashford. He said it with such a provoking assumption of ignorance, that Hugh, looking over his shoulder and angrily down upon him, replied:

‘Is there! You know there is! Who knows better than you, master, that the first great step to be taken is to make examples of these witnesses, and frighten all men from appearing against us or any of our body, any more?’

‘There’s one we know of,’ returned Gashford, with an expressive smile, ‘who is at least as well informed upon that subject as you or I.’

‘If we mean the same gentleman, as I suppose we do,’ Hugh rejoined softly, ‘I tell you this—he’s as good and quick information about everything as—’ here he paused and looked round, as if to make sure that the person in question was not within hearing, ‘as Old Nick himself. Have you done that, master? How slow you are!’

‘It’s quite fast now,’ said Gashford, rising. ‘I say—you didn’t find that your friend disapproved of to-day’s little expedition? Ha ha ha! It is fortunate it jumps so well with the witness policy; for, once planned, it must have been carried out. And now you are going, eh?’

‘Now we are going, master!’ Hugh replied. ‘Any parting words?’

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Gashford sweetly. ‘None!’

‘You’re sure?’ cried Hugh, nudging the grinning Dennis.

“Sono un turco, se non mi dà sempre una accoglienza più calorosa di qualsiasi altro uomo sano di mente,” disse Hugh, stringendogli la mano con una sorta di ferrea amicizia, strana, a dire il vero. “Come stai, ragazzo?”

“Che allegria!” esclamò Barnaby, agitando il suo cappello. “Ah ah ah! E anche molto divertente, Hugh! E sempre pronto a fare qualsiasi cosa per una causa giusta e nobile, per aiutare quel gentiluomo buono, mite e dal viso pallido, quel signore che sono stati così crudeli con lui, eh, Hugh?”

“Ah!” rispose il suo amico, lasciando andare la sua mano e guardando Gashford per un istante con un’espressione diversa prima di parlargli. “Buongiorno, padrone!”

“E buon giorno a voi,” rispose il segretario, tenendosi la gamba.

“E molti giorni felici, anni interi, spero. Sei arrabbiato.”

“Anch’io avrei fatto lo stesso, padrone,” disse Hugh, asciugandosi il viso, “se fossi corso qui così velocemente come ho fatto io.”

“Allora conosci la notizia, giusto? Sì, immaginavo che l’avessi già sentita.”

“Notizie! Che notizie?”

“Non lo sai?” esclamò Gashford, alzando le sopracciglia in segno di sorpresa. “Mio Dio! Allora sono io il primo ad informarti della tua nobile posizione. Vedi le armi del Re in cima?” chiese sorridendo, mentre tirava fuori un grande foglio di carta dalla tasca, lo apriva e lo mostrava a Hugh.

“Beh!”, disse Hugh. “Cosa c’entra questo con me?”

“Molto. Molto di più,” rispose il segretario. “Leggilo.”

“Te l’avevo detto, la prima volta che ti ho visto, che non riuscivo a leggerlo,” disse Hugh, impazientemente. “Cosa diavolo c’è dentro?”

“È un proclama del Re emesso in Consiglio,” disse Gashford, “datato di oggi e che offre una ricompensa di cinquecento sterline. Cinquecento sterline sono una somma considerevole, e rappresentano una grande tentazione per alcune persone. Per chiunque sia in grado di individuare la o le persone più coinvolte nella distruzione di quelle cappelle sabato sera.”

“È tutto qui?” esclamò Hugh con indifferenza. “Lo sapevo già.”

“Veramente avrei potuto immaginarlo,” disse Gashford sorridendo e ripiegando di nuovo il documento. “Il tuo amico, probabilmente te l’avrebbe detto.”

“Mio amico!”, balbettò Hugh, nel tentativo fallito di sembrare sorpreso. “Quale amico?”

“Tut tut, pensi davvero che non sappia dove sei stato?” ribatté Gashford, strofinandosi le mani e battendone una contro l’altra, mentre lo guardava con occhi astuti. “Che stupido mi consideri! Devo forse dire il suo nome?”

“No,” disse Hugh, lanciando un’occhiata frettolosa verso Dennis.

“Avete anche sentito da lui, senza alcun >dubbio”, riprese il segretario dopo un momento di pausa, “che i rivoltosi che sono stati arrestati (poveri uomini) saranno processati, e che alcuni testimoni molto attivi hanno avuto la sfrontatezza di presentarsi contro di loro. Tra questi, ”, e qui strinse i denti, come se volesse reprimere a forza alcune parole violente che gli erano salite alle labbra; parlò quindi molto lentamente. “Tra questi, un gentiluomo che ha assistito ai fatti avvenuti in Warwick Street; un gentiluomo cattolico, uno di nome Haredale.”

Hugh avrebbe potuto impedirgli di pronunciare quella parola, ma ormai era già stata detta. Sentendo quel nome, Barnaby si girò rapidamente.

“Dovere, dovere, coraggioso Barnaby!” gridò Hugh, assumendo il suo tono più deciso e veloce, e porgendogli il suo bastone e la sua bandiera appoggiati al muro. “Monta di guardia senza perdere tempo, perché partiamo subito per l’impresa. Su, Dennis, preparati! Assicurati che nessuno ribalti la paglia sul mio letto, coraggioso Barnaby; sappiamo cosa c’è sotto, eh? Ora, padrone, sbrigati! Quello che hai da dire, dilllo in fretta, il piccolo capitano e gli altri ci stanno aspettando nei campi. Bisogna agire rapidamente, ”

Barnaby non era immune a tutto questo trambusto e affanno. L’espressione di stupore e rabbia che gli era apparsa sul viso quando si era girato verso di loro svanì non appena quelle parole tornarono nella sua memoria, come un respiro su uno specchio lucido; poi, afferrando l’arma che Hugh gli aveva imposto, prese con orgoglio posizione alla porta, al di là del loro udito.

“Avresti potuto rovinare i nostri piani, padrone,” disse Hugh. “Tu, proprio tu, tra tutte le persone!”

“Chi avrebbe mai pensato che fosse così veloce?”, insistette Gashford.

“A volte è altrettanto veloce. Non intendo dire con le mani, per quello lo sai già, ma con la testa. Proprio come te o qualsiasi altro uomo,” disse Hugh. “Dennis, è ora di andare; ci stanno aspettando; sono venuto solo per avvisarti. Dammi il mio bastone e la cintura. Ecco! Aiutami un po’, padrone. Mettimi questa cosa sulla spalla e allacciamela, per favore.”

“Come sempre, veloce!” disse il segretario, sistemandolo secondo i suoi desideri.

“Oggi bisogna essere veloci: c’è del lavoro urgente da svolgere.”

“C’è davvero, c’è?” disse Gashford. Lo disse con un tono così provocatorio, come se fingesse di non saperlo, che Hugh, guardandolo da sopra la spalla e con rabbia, rispose:

“C’è davvero! Lo sai bene che c’è! Chi potrebbe saperlo meglio di te, padrone, se non tu stesso? Il primo grande passo da compiere è proprio quello di dare l’esempio con questi testimoni, per spaventare tutti coloro che osassero opporsi a noi o a qualsiasi membro del nostro corpo.”

“Ne conosciamo uno,” rispose Gashford con un sorriso significativo, “che è almeno altrettanto ben informato su quell’argomento di te o di me.”

“Se ci riferiamo allo stesso gentiluomo, come credo che sia il caso,” riprese Hugh dolcemente, “vi dico questo: è altrettanto affidabile e informato su tutto quanto, come, beh, come Old Nick in persona. L’hai già fatto, padrone? Che lentezza!”

“Ora va abbastanza velocemente,” disse Gashford alzandosi. “Dico, non hai notato che il tuo amico non approvava questa piccola spedizione di oggi? Ah ah ah! È fortunato che tutto sia andato così bene con la politica dei testimoni; perché, una volta pianificata, l’operazione doveva essere portata a termine. E ora te ne vai, eh?”

“Ora possiamo andare, padrone!” rispose Hugh. “Qualche parola d’addio?”

“Oh no, davvero,” disse Gashford con dolcezza. “Nessuno!”

“Sei sicuro?” gridò Hugh, spingendo il sorridente Dennis.

‘Quite sure, eh, Muster Gashford?’ chuckled the hangman.

Gashford paused a moment, struggling with his caution and his malice; then putting himself between the two men, and laying a hand upon the arm of each, said, in a cramped whisper:

‘Do not, my good friends—I am sure you will not—forget our talk one night—in your house, Dennis—about this person. No mercy, no quarter, no two beams of his house to be left standing where the builder placed them! Fire, the saying goes, is a good servant, but a bad master. Make it his master; he deserves no better. But I am sure you will be firm, I am sure you will be very resolute, I am sure you will remember that he thirsts for your lives, and those of all your brave companions. If you ever acted like staunch fellows, you will do so to-day. Won’t you, Dennis—won’t you, Hugh?’

The two looked at him, and at each other; then bursting into a roar of laughter, brandished their staves above their heads, shook hands, and hurried out.

When they had been gone a little time, Gashford followed. They were yet in sight, and hastening to that part of the adjacent fields in which their fellows had already mustered; Hugh was looking back, and flourishing his hat to Barnaby, who, delighted with his trust, replied in the same way, and then resumed his pacing up and down before the stable-door, where his feet had worn a path already. And when Gashford himself was far distant, and looked back for the last time, he was still walking to and fro, with the same measured tread; the most devoted and the blithest champion that ever maintained a post, and felt his heart lifted up with a brave sense of duty, and determination to defend it to the last.

Smiling at the simplicity of the poor idiot, Gashford betook himself to Welbeck Street by a different path from that which he knew the rioters would take, and sitting down behind a curtain in one of the upper windows of Lord George Gordon’s house, waited impatiently for their coming. They were so long, that although he knew it had been settled they should come that way, he had a misgiving they must have changed their plans and taken some other route. But at length the roar of voices was heard in the neighbouring fields, and soon afterwards they came thronging past, in a great body.

However, they were not all, nor nearly all, in one body, but were, as he soon found, divided into four parties, each of which stopped before the house to give three cheers, and then went on; the leaders crying out in what direction they were going, and calling on the spectators to join them. The first detachment, carrying, by way of banners, some relics of the havoc they had made in Moorfields, proclaimed that they were on their way to Chelsea, whence they would return in the same order, to make of the spoil they bore, a great bonfire, near at hand. The second gave out that they were bound for Wapping, to destroy a chapel; the third, that their place of destination was East Smithfield, and their object the same. All this was done in broad, bright, summer day. Gay carriages and chairs stopped to let them pass, or turned back to avoid them; people on foot stood aside in doorways, or perhaps knocked and begged permission to stand at a window, or in the hall, until the rioters had passed: but nobody interfered with them; and when they had gone by, everything went on as usual.

There still remained the fourth body, and for that the secretary looked with a most intense eagerness. At last it came up. It was numerous, and composed of picked men; for as he gazed down among them, he recognised many upturned faces which he knew well—those of Simon Tappertit, Hugh, and Dennis in the front, of course. They halted and cheered, as the others had done; but when they moved again, they did not, like them, proclaim what design they had. Hugh merely raised his hat upon the bludgeon he carried, and glancing at a spectator on the opposite side of the way, was gone.

Gashford followed the direction of his glance instinctively, and saw, standing on the pavement, and wearing the blue cockade, Sir John Chester. He held his hat an inch or two above his head, to propitiate the mob; and, resting gracefully on his cane, smiling pleasantly, and displaying his dress and person to the very best advantage, looked on in the most tranquil state imaginable. For all that, and quick and dexterous as he was, Gashford had seen him recognise Hugh with the air of a patron. He had no longer any eyes for the crowd, but fixed his keen regards upon Sir John.

He stood in the same place and posture until the last man in the concourse had turned the corner of the street; then very deliberately took the blue cockade out of his hat; put it carefully in his pocket, ready for the next emergency; refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff; put up his box; and was walking slowly off, when a passing carriage stopped, and a lady’s hand let down the glass. Sir John’s hat was off again immediately. After a minute’s conversation at the carriage-window, in which it was apparent that he was vastly entertaining on the subject of the mob, he stepped lightly in, and was driven away.

The secretary smiled, but he had other thoughts to dwell upon, and soon dismissed the topic. Dinner was brought him, but he sent it down untasted; and, in restless pacings up and down the room, and constant glances at the clock, and many futile efforts to sit down and read, or go to sleep, or look out of the window, consumed four weary hours. When the dial told him thus much time had crept away, he stole upstairs to the top of the house, and coming out upon the roof sat down, with his face towards the east.

Heedless of the fresh air that blew upon his heated brow, of the pleasant meadows from which he turned, of the piles of roofs and chimneys upon which he looked, of the smoke and rising mist he vainly sought to pierce, of the shrill cries of children at their evening sports, the distant hum and turmoil of the town, the cheerful country breath that rustled past to meet it, and to droop, and die; he watched, and watched, till it was dark save for the specks of light that twinkled in the streets below and far away—and, as the darkness deepened, strained his gaze and grew more eager yet.

‘Nothing but gloom in that direction, still!’ he muttered restlessly. ‘Dog! where is the redness in the sky, you promised me!’

“Piuttosto sicuro, vero, Muster Gashford?”, ridacchiò il boia.

Gashford esitò per un momento, lottando tra la sua prudenza e la sua malvagità; poi si mise tra i due uomini, posò una mano sul braccio di ciascuno di loro e disse, sussurrando a bassa voce:

“Non fatelo, miei buoni amici. Sono certo che non lo farete. Non dimenticateci quella conversazione di una notte nella vostra casa, Dennis, riguardo a questa persona. Nessuna pietà, nessun rispetto. Né un solo pilastro della sua casa deve rimanere dove l’architetto l’ha posizionato! Si dice che il fuoco sia un buon servitore, ma un cattivo padrone. Fatelo diventare il suo padrone. Non merita nient’altro. Ma sono certo che sarete fermi, che sarete molto risoluti. Ricorderete sicuramente che desidera le vostre vite, e quelle di tutti i vostri coraggiosi compagni. Se avete mai dimostrato di essere uomini decisi, lo farete anche oggi. Non è vero, Dennis. Non è vero, Hugh?”

I due lo guardarono, poi si guardarono l’un l’altro; quindi scoppiarono in una risata fragorosa, agitarono i loro bastoni sopra la testa, si strinsero la mano e uscirono di corsa.

Dopo che se ne furono andati da un po’, Gashford li seguì. Erano ancora visibili mentre si affrettavano verso quella parte dei campi adiacenti dove i loro compagni si erano già radunati; Hugh si voltò indietro e salutò Barnaby con il cappello, il quale, felice della sua fiducia, rispose allo stesso modo. Poi continuò a camminare avanti e indietro davanti alla porta dello stallo, dove i suoi passi avevano già creato un sentiero. E quando anche Gashford si allontanò abbastanza da non poterli più vedere, li scorse ancora mentre camminavano avanti e indietro con lo stesso passo regolare; il più devoto e fedele difensore che mai abbia mantenuto una postazione del genere. Sentì il proprio cuore gonfiarsi di coraggio, di senso del dovere e di determinazione a difenderla fino all’ultimo.

Sorridendo della semplicità di quel povero idiota, Gashford prese un percorso diverso da quello che sapeva sarebbero stati i rivoltosi ad utilizzare, e si sedette dietro una tenda in una delle finestre superiori della casa di Lord George Gordon, aspettando con impazienza il loro arrivo. Aspettarono così a lungo che, sebbene sapesse con certezza che avrebbero dovuto passare da quella strada, iniziò a temere che avessero cambiato i loro piani e preso un altro itinerario. Ma finalmente si udì il rumore delle voci nei campi vicini, e poco dopo arrivarono tutti insieme, in gran numero.

Tuttavia, non erano tutti, né nemmeno quasi tutti, riuniti in un solo corpo; anzi, come lui scoprì presto, erano divisi in quattro gruppi. Ogni gruppo si fermava davanti alla casa per esultare tre volte, poi proseguiva il suo cammino; i capi gridavano indicando la direzione in cui stavano andando e invitavano gli spettatori a unirsi a loro. Il primo gruppo, portando con sé come stendardi alcune reliquie dei danni causati a Moorfields, annunciò di essere diretto a Chelsea, da dove sarebbe tornato nello stesso ordine per utilizzare i bottini raccolti per accendere un grande falò nelle vicinanze. Il secondo gruppo dichiarò di essere in viaggio verso Wapping per distruggere una cappella; il terzo, che la sua destinazione era East Smithfield e lo scopo dello stesso. Tutto ciò avveniva in una giornata calda e luminosa d’estate. Carri e sedie si fermavano per lasciarli passare o si giravano per evitarli; le persone a piedi si facevano da parte alle porte delle case, oppure bussavano chiedendo il permesso di stare alle finestre o nell’atrio, finché i rivoltosi non fossero passati. Ma nessuno interveniva contro di loro; e una volta che se ne andavano, tutto riprendeva come al solito.

Restava ancora il quarto corpo, e per quello il segretario lo cercava con estrema ansia. Finalmente fu trovato: era composto da uomini selezionati; mentre li osservava, riconobbe molti volti che conosceva bene, quelli di Simon Tappertit, Hugh e Dennis, naturalmente. Si fermarono e gridarono di gioia, proprio come gli altri; ma quando ripresero il cammino, non dichiararono mai quale fosse il loro piano. Hugh si limitò a sollevare il cappello in segno di saluto verso il bastone che portava con sé, poi, lanciando un’occhiata a uno spettatore dall’altra parte della strada, se ne andò.

Gashford seguì istintivamente la direzione del suo sguardo e vide, in piedi sul marciapiede e indossando il berretto blu con la piuma, Sir John Chester. Teneva il cappello a un paio di pollici sopra la testa per compiacere la folla; appoggiato con grazia al suo bastone, sorrideva amabilmente e mostrava il proprio abbigliamento e la propria figura nel modo più vantaggioso possibile, sembrando estremamente tranquillo. Nonostante ciò, e nonostante fosse veloce e agile, Gashford vide che Sir John aveva riconosciuto Hugh con l’aria di un protettore. Non prestava più attenzione alla folla, ma fissava intensamente Sir John.

Rimase fermo nello stesso posto e nella stessa posizione fino a quando l’ultimo uomo nel viale non ebbe svoltato l’angolo della strada; poi, con grande calma, tolse il berretto blu dal proprio cappello, lo mise con cura in tasca, pronto per la prossima emergenza, si rinfrescò con un pizzico di tabacco, ripose il suo cappello e se ne andò lentamente. In quel momento, una carrozza che passava si fermò e una signora abbassò il finestrino; immediatamente, il berretto di Sir John fu di nuovo sollevato. Dopo un minuto di conversazione alla finestra della carrozza, durante la quale era evidente che stesse raccontando con grande entusiasmo dell’argomento della folla, salì leggermente a bordo e fu portato via.

Il segretario sorrise, ma aveva altre cose a cui pensare e presto abbandonò l’argomento. Gli portarono la cena, ma la lasciò intatta; camminando avanti e indietro nella stanza con inquietudine, guardando continuamente l’orologio e cercando invano di sedersi a leggere, di andare a )dormire o di guardare fuori dalla finestra, trascorse quattro ore estenuanti. Quando l’orologio gli mostrò quanto tempo fosse passato, salì di nascosto al piano di sopra, fino alla cima della casa, e sedutosi sul tetto, rivolse il viso verso est.

Indifferente all’aria fresca che soffiava sulla sua fronte accaldata, ai piacevoli prati da cui si era allontanato, alle file di tetti e camini che osservava, al fumo e alla nebbia che cercava invano di penetrare, ai gridolini dei bambini durante i loro giochi serali, al lontano rumore e al trambusto della città, all’aria fresca e gioiosa del paesaggio che lo circondava, continuò a guardare, fino a quando non calò il buio, salvo per le luci tremolanti che brillavano nelle strade sottostanti e in lontananza. E man mano che l’oscurità si addensava, stringeva ancora di più lo sguardo, diventando sempre più ansioso.

“Nient’altro che oscurità in quella direzione, ancora!” mormorò lui, irrequieto.
“Maledetto cane! Dov’è il rosso nel cielo? Me l’avevi promesso!”

Chapter 54

Rumours of the prevailing disturbances had, by this time, begun to be pretty generally circulated through the towns and villages round London, and the tidings were everywhere received with that appetite for the marvellous and love of the terrible which have probably been among the natural characteristics of mankind since the creation of the world. These accounts, however, appeared, to many persons at that day—as they would to us at the present, but that we know them to be matter of history—so monstrous and improbable, that a great number of those who were resident at a distance, and who were credulous enough on other points, were really unable to bring their minds to believe that such things could be; and rejected the intelligence they received on all hands, as wholly fabulous and absurd.

Mr Willet—not so much, perhaps, on account of his having argued and settled the matter with himself, as by reason of his constitutional obstinacy—was one of those who positively refused to entertain the current topic for a moment. On this very evening, and perhaps at the very time when Gashford kept his solitary watch, old John was so red in the face with perpetually shaking his head in contradiction of his three ancient cronies and pot companions, that he was quite a phenomenon to behold, and lighted up the Maypole Porch wherein they sat together, like a monstrous carbuncle in a fairy tale.

‘Do you think, sir,’ said Mr Willet, looking hard at Solomon Daisy—for it was his custom in cases of personal altercation to fasten upon the smallest man in the party—‘do you think, sir, that I’m a born fool?’

‘No, no, Johnny,’ returned Solomon, looking round upon the little circle of which he formed a part: ‘We all know better than that. You’re no fool, Johnny. No, no!’

Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes shook their heads in unison, muttering, ‘No, no, Johnny, not you!’ But as such compliments had usually the effect of making Mr Willet rather more dogged than before, he surveyed them with a look of deep disdain, and returned for answer:

‘Then what do you mean by coming here, and telling me that this evening you’re a-going to walk up to London together—you three—you—and have the evidence of your own senses? An’t,’ said Mr Willet, putting his pipe in his mouth with an air of solemn disgust, ‘an’t the evidence of MY senses enough for you?’

‘But we haven’t got it, Johnny,’ pleaded Parkes, humbly.

‘You haven’t got it, sir?’ repeated Mr Willet, eyeing him from top to toe. ‘You haven’t got it, sir? You HAVE got it, sir. Don’t I tell you that His blessed Majesty King George the Third would no more stand a rioting and rollicking in his streets, than he’d stand being crowed over by his own Parliament?’

‘Yes, Johnny, but that’s your sense—not your senses,’ said the adventurous Mr Parkes.

‘How do you know?’ retorted John with great dignity. ‘You’re a contradicting pretty free, you are, sir. How do YOU know which it is? I’m not aware I ever told you, sir.’

Mr Parkes, finding himself in the position of having got into metaphysics without exactly seeing his way out of them, stammered forth an apology and retreated from the argument. There then ensued a silence of some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, at the expiration of which period Mr Willet was observed to rumble and shake with laughter, and presently remarked, in reference to his late adversary, ‘that he hoped he had tackled him enough.’ Thereupon Messrs Cobb and Daisy laughed, and nodded, and Parkes was looked upon as thoroughly and effectually put down.

‘Do you suppose if all this was true, that Mr Haredale would be constantly away from home, as he is?’ said John, after another silence. ‘Do you think he wouldn’t be afraid to leave his house with them two young women in it, and only a couple of men, or so?’

‘Ay, but then you know,’ returned Solomon Daisy, ‘his house is a goodish way out of London, and they do say that the rioters won’t go more than two miles, or three at the farthest, off the stones. Besides, you know, some of the Catholic gentlefolks have actually sent trinkets and suchlike down here for safety—at least, so the story goes.’

‘The story goes!’ said Mr Willet testily. ‘Yes, sir. The story goes that you saw a ghost last March. But nobody believes it.’

‘Well!’ said Solomon, rising, to divert the attention of his two friends, who tittered at this retort: ‘believed or disbelieved, it’s true; and true or not, if we mean to go to London, we must be going at once. So shake hands, Johnny, and good night.’

‘I shall shake hands,’ returned the landlord, putting his into his pockets, ‘with no man as goes to London on such nonsensical errands.’

The three cronies were therefore reduced to the necessity of shaking his elbows; having performed that ceremony, and brought from the house their hats, and sticks, and greatcoats, they bade him good night and departed; promising to bring him on the morrow full and true accounts of the real state of the city, and if it were quiet, to give him the full merit of his victory.

John Willet looked after them, as they plodded along the road in the rich glow of a summer evening; and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, laughed inwardly at their folly, until his sides were sore. When he had quite exhausted himself—which took some time, for he laughed as slowly as he thought and spoke—he sat himself comfortably with his back to the house, put his legs upon the bench, then his apron over his face, and fell sound asleep.

How long he slept, matters not; but it was for no brief space, for when he awoke, the rich light had faded, the sombre hues of night were falling fast upon the landscape, and a few bright stars were already twinkling overhead. The birds were all at roost, the daisies on the green had closed their fairy hoods, the honeysuckle twining round the porch exhaled its perfume in a twofold degree, as though it lost its coyness at that silent time and loved to shed its fragrance on the night; the ivy scarcely stirred its deep green leaves. How tranquil, and how beautiful it was!

Capitolo 54

A quell’epoca, voci riguardanti i disordini in corso avevano già iniziato a diffondersi ampiamente nelle città e nei villaggi intorno a Londra; queste notizie venivano accettate ovunque con quella sete di meraviglie e quell’amore per il terribile che probabilmente fanno parte delle caratteristiche innate dell’umanità fin dalla creazione del mondo. Tuttavia, a molti di coloro che vivevano lontano da quei luoghi – così come accadrebbe a noi oggi, se non sapessimo che si tratta di fatti storici – queste storie sembravano troppo mostruose e inverosimili; per questo un gran numero di persone, pur essendo inclini a credere in altre cose, rifiutava categoricamente di accettarle, considerandole completamente false e assurde.

Il signor Willet – forse non tanto perché aveva già discusso e risolto la questione da solo, quanto piuttosto a causa della sua ostinazione naturale – era uno di quelli che rifiutavano categoricamente di affrontare l’argomento in discussione anche per un momento. Proprio quella sera, forse proprio nel momento in cui Gashford faceva la sua solitaria veglia, il vecchio John aveva il viso così rosso per via del continuo scuotere della testa in disaccordo con i suoi tre vecchi amici e compagni di bevute, che era davvero uno spettacolo notevole da vedere; illuminava l’atrio dove sedevano insieme come un mostruoso foruncolo in una favola.

“Credete davvero, signore,” disse il signor Willet, fissando attentamente Solomon Daisy – poiché era sua abitudine, in caso di dispute personali, concentrarsi sul più piccolo tra i presenti – “credete davvero che io sia un vero e proprio idiota?”

“No, no, Johnny,” rispose Solomon, guardandosi intorno nel piccolo cerchio di cui faceva parte: “Tutti noi sappiamo qualcosa di meglio. Non sei mica un idiota, Johnny. No, no!”

Il signor Cobb e il signor Parkes scossero la testa all’unisono, mormorando: “No, no, Johnny, non tu!” Ma poiché simili complimenti di solito avevano l’effetto di rendere il signor Willet ancora più ostinato del solito, lui li guardò con profondo disprezzo e rispose:

“Allora, cosa intendi dire venendo qui e dicendomi che stasera andrete tutti e tre insieme fino a Londra, e avrete le prove fornite dai vostri stessi sensi? Non è forse,” disse il signor Willet, mettendosi la pipa in bocca con un’espressione di profondo disgusto, “abbastanza anche per i miei sensi?”

“Ma non l’abbiamo ancora, Johnny,” supplicò Parkes, umilmente.

“Non l’avete ancora capito, signore?”, ripeté il signor Willet, osservandolo dalla testa ai piedi. “Non l’avete ancora capito, signore. Invece sì che l’avete capito! Vi dico forse che Sua Maestà il benedetto Re Giovanni III non tollererebbe mai più tumulti e disordini nelle sue strade, proprio come non tollererebbe di essere acclamato dal suo stesso Parlamento, ”

“Sì, Johnny, ma quello è il tuo senso, non i tuoi sensi,” disse l’avventuroso signor Parkes.

“Come fai a saperlo?” ribatté John con grande dignità. “Contraddici abbastanza liberamente, non è vero? Come fai TU a sapere quale sia la risposta giusta? Non ricordo di avertelo mai detto, signore.”

Il signor Parkes, trovandosi nella situazione di essersi immisso nel regno della metafisica senza riuscire esattamente a trovare una via d’uscita, balbettò delle scuse e si ritirò dall’argomento. Seguì quindi un silenzio di circa dieci minuti o quindici minuti; al termine di questo periodo, si notò che il signor Willet rideva a crepapelle e, dopo un po’, commentò riguardo al suo avversario: “Spero di averlo messo abbastanza in difficoltà”. A quel punto, i signori Cobb e Daisy risero e annuirono, e il signor Parkes fu considerato completamente sconfitto.

“Pensi davvero che, se tutto questo fosse vero, il signor Haredale sarebbe sempre via da casa, come invece è adesso?” disse John, dopo un altro breve silenzio. “Credi che non avrebbe paura di lasciare la sua casa con quelle due giovani donne al suo interno, e soltanto un paio di uomini a proteggerla?”

“Ah, ma sai com’è, ”, rispose Solomon Daisy, “la sua casa si trova abbastanza lontano da Londra, e si dice che i rivoltosi non vadano mai oltre due o tre miglia dai luoghi presidiati dalle truppe. Inoltre, sai, alcuni gentiluomini cattolici hanno davvero mandato qui dei gingilli e altre cose per garantire la propria sicurezza, almeno, così si dice.”

“La storia va così!”, disse il signor Willet con tono esasperato. “Sì, signore. La storia dice che l’anno scorso, a marzo, abbiate visto un fantasma. Ma nessuno ci crede.”

“‘Beh!’” disse Solomon alzandosi, per distogliere l’attenzione dei suoi due amici, che risero a questa replica: “Che ci crediate o no, è la verità; e sia vera o meno, se vogliamo andare a Londra, dobbiamo partire subito. Quindi stringiamoci la mano, Johnny, e buona notte.”

“Stringerò la mano,” rispose il padrone di casa, mettendosi le mani in tasca, “a nessuno che vada a Londra per missioni così assurde.”

I tre complici si videro quindi costretti a scuotergli le spalle; dopo aver eseguito questa “cerimonia”, presero i loro cappelli, bastoni e cappotti dall’casa e gli augurarono la buona :notte prima di andarsene, promettendogli di portargli il giorno dopo informazioni complete e accurate sulla vera situazione della città; inoltre, se tutto fosse rimasto tranquillo, gli avrebbero riconosciuto pienamente i meriti della sua vittoria.

John Willet si prendeva cura di loro mentre avanzavano lentamente lungo la strada sotto il caldo bagliore di una serata estiva; scuotendo via la cenere dalla sua pipa, rideva dentro di sé della loro follia, fino a quando non gli dolevano le costole. Quando si fu completamente stancato – il che richiese un po’ di tempo, visto che rideva lentamente quanto pensava e parlava – si sedette comodamente con la schiena appoggiata alla casa, mise le gambe sul banco, poi si coprì il viso con il grembiule e si addormentò profondamente.

Quanto tempo abbia dormito non ha importanza; ma certamente non per poco, perché quando si svegliò, la luce intensa era già svanita, e le tinte scure della notte stavano rapidamente avvolgendo il paesaggio. Alcune luminose stelle iniziavano già a brillare nel cielo. Gli uccelli si erano tutti ritirati nei loro nidi, i margheriti sul prato avevano chiuso i loro “veli fatati”, e il gelsomino che si arrampicava lungo il portico diffondeva il suo profumo ancora più intensamente, come se in quel silenzio della notte perdesse la sua timidezza e desiderasse donare tutta la sua fragranza alla notte stessa. L’edera non muoveva quasi le sue foglie verdi scure. Che tranquillità, che bellezza!

Was there no sound in the air, besides the gentle rustling of the trees and the grasshopper’s merry chirp? Hark! Something very faint and distant, not unlike the murmuring in a sea-shell. Now it grew louder, fainter now, and now it altogether died away. Presently, it came again, subsided, came once more, grew louder, fainter—swelled into a roar. It was on the road, and varied with its windings. All at once it burst into a distinct sound—the voices, and the tramping feet of many men.

It is questionable whether old John Willet, even then, would have thought of the rioters but for the cries of his cook and housemaid, who ran screaming upstairs and locked themselves into one of the old garrets,—shrieking dismally when they had done so, by way of rendering their place of refuge perfectly secret and secure. These two females did afterwards depone that Mr Willet in his consternation uttered but one word, and called that up the stairs in a stentorian voice, six distinct times. But as this word was a monosyllable, which, however inoffensive when applied to the quadruped it denotes, is highly reprehensible when used in connection with females of unimpeachable character, many persons were inclined to believe that the young women laboured under some hallucination caused by excessive fear; and that their ears deceived them.

Be this as it may, John Willet, in whom the very uttermost extent of dull-headed perplexity supplied the place of courage, stationed himself in the porch, and waited for their coming up. Once, it dimly occurred to him that there was a kind of door to the house, which had a lock and bolts; and at the same time some shadowy ideas of shutters to the lower windows, flitted through his brain. But he stood stock still, looking down the road in the direction in which the noise was rapidly advancing, and did not so much as take his hands out of his pockets.

He had not to wait long. A dark mass, looming through a cloud of dust, soon became visible; the mob quickened their pace; shouting and whooping like savages, they came rushing on pell mell; and in a few seconds he was bandied from hand to hand, in the heart of a crowd of men.

‘Halloa!’ cried a voice he knew, as the man who spoke came cleaving through the throng. ‘Where is he? Give him to me. Don’t hurt him. How now, old Jack! Ha ha ha!’

Mr Willet looked at him, and saw it was Hugh; but he said nothing, and thought nothing.

‘These lads are thirsty and must drink!’ cried Hugh, thrusting him back towards the house. ‘Bustle, Jack, bustle. Show us the best—the very best—the over-proof that you keep for your own drinking, Jack!’

John faintly articulated the words, ‘Who’s to pay?’

‘He says “Who’s to pay?”’ cried Hugh, with a roar of laughter which was loudly echoed by the crowd. Then turning to John, he added, ‘Pay! Why, nobody.’

John stared round at the mass of faces—some grinning, some fierce, some lighted up by torches, some indistinct, some dusky and shadowy: some looking at him, some at his house, some at each other—and while he was, as he thought, in the very act of doing so, found himself, without any consciousness of having moved, in the bar; sitting down in an arm-chair, and watching the destruction of his property, as if it were some queer play or entertainment, of an astonishing and stupefying nature, but having no reference to himself—that he could make out—at all.

Yes. Here was the bar—the bar that the boldest never entered without special invitation—the sanctuary, the mystery, the hallowed ground: here it was, crammed with men, clubs, sticks, torches, pistols; filled with a deafening noise, oaths, shouts, screams, hootings; changed all at once into a bear-garden, a madhouse, an infernal temple: men darting in and out, by door and window, smashing the glass, turning the taps, drinking liquor out of China punchbowls, sitting astride of casks, smoking private and personal pipes, cutting down the sacred grove of lemons, hacking and hewing at the celebrated cheese, breaking open inviolable drawers, putting things in their pockets which didn’t belong to them, dividing his own money before his own eyes, wantonly wasting, breaking, pulling down and tearing up: nothing quiet, nothing private: men everywhere—above, below, overhead, in the bedrooms, in the kitchen, in the yard, in the stables—clambering in at windows when there were doors wide open; dropping out of windows when the stairs were handy; leaping over the bannisters into chasms of passages: new faces and figures presenting themselves every instant—some yelling, some singing, some fighting, some breaking glass and crockery, some laying the dust with the liquor they couldn’t drink, some ringing the bells till they pulled them down, others beating them with pokers till they beat them into fragments: more men still—more, more, more—swarming on like insects: noise, smoke, light, darkness, frolic, anger, laughter, groans, plunder, fear, and ruin!

Nearly all the time while John looked on at this bewildering scene, Hugh kept near him; and though he was the loudest, wildest, most destructive villain there, he saved his old master’s bones a score of times. Nay, even when Mr Tappertit, excited by liquor, came up, and in assertion of his prerogative politely kicked John Willet on the shins, Hugh bade him return the compliment; and if old John had had sufficient presence of mind to understand this whispered direction, and to profit by it, he might no doubt, under Hugh’s protection, have done so with impunity.

At length the band began to reassemble outside the house, and to call to those within, to join them, for they were losing time. These murmurs increasing, and attaining a high pitch, Hugh, and some of those who yet lingered in the bar, and who plainly were the leaders of the troop, took counsel together, apart, as to what was to be done with John, to keep him quiet until their Chigwell work was over. Some proposed to set the house on fire and leave him in it; others, that he should be reduced to a state of temporary insensibility, by knocking on the head; others, that he should be sworn to sit where he was until to-morrow at the same hour; others again, that he should be gagged and taken off with them, under a sufficient guard. All these propositions being overruled, it was concluded, at last, to bind him in his chair, and the word was passed for Dennis.

Non c’era alcun suono nell’aria, se non il leggero fruscio degli alberi e il gioioso canto della cavalletta. Ascoltate! Qualcosa di molto debole e lontano, simile al mormorio che si sente dentro una conchiglia marina. Ora diventava più forte, poi più debole, fino a scomparire del tutto. Poi tornava ancora, si attenuava di nuovo, riappariva, diventava più forte, più debole, fino a trasformarsi in un ruggito. Proveniva dalla strada e cambiava man mano che questa serpeggiava. All’improvviso, si trasformò in suoni chiari e distinti: le voci di molte persone e il rumore dei loro passi.

È discutibile se il vecchio John Willet, anche allora, avrebbe pensato ai rivoltosi se non fosse stato per le grida della sua cuoca e della cameriera, che corsero urlando su per le scale e si chiusero a chiave in una delle vecchie soffitte. Urlavano disperatamente dopo averlo fatto, nel tentativo di rendere il loro rifugio perfettamente segreto e sicuro. Queste due donne dichiararono in seguito che il signor Willet, nella sua costernazione, aveva pronunciato una sola parola, chiamandola su per le scale a voce tonante, sei volte consecutive. Ma poiché si trattava di una parola monosillabica, che, sebbene inoffensiva quando riferita a un quadrupede, è assolutamente riprovevole quando usata in relazione a donne di carattere irreprensibile, molte persone erano incline a credere che le giovani donne soffrissero di qualche allucinazione causata da un eccessivo terrore, e che i loro orecchi le avessero ingannate.

Comunque fosse, John Willet, il cui carattere era rappresentato dall’estrema stupidità e confusione al posto del vero coraggio, si mise ad aspettare sul portico l’arrivo di loro. Una volta gli venne in mente che c’era una sorta di porta sulla casa, munita di chiave e catenacci; nello stesso momento gli attraversarono la mente anche vaghe idee riguardo alle persiane delle finestre inferiori. Ma rimase fermo immobile, guardando lungo la strada nella direzione da cui il rumore si avvicinava sempre di più, senza nemmeno togliersi le mani dalle tasche.

Non dovette aspettare a lungo. Una massa scura, che emergeva da una nuvola di polvere, divenne presto visibile; la folla accelerò il passo, gridando e urlando come selvaggi, e in pochi secondi lui fu trascinato avanti e indietro, al centro di quella massa umana.

“Salve!” gridò una voce che riconobbe, mentre l’uomo che aveva parlato si faceva strada tra la folla. “Dov’è? Datemelo. Non fategli del male. Ehi, vecchio Jack! Ah ah ah!”

Il signor Willet lo guardò e vide che era Hugh; ma non disse nulla e non pensò a nulla.

“Questi ragazzi hanno sete e devono bere!”, gridò Hugh, spingendolo di nuovo verso la casa. “Sbrigati, Jack, sbrigati. Mostraci il meglio. Il vero meglio. Quello che tieni da parte per te stesso, Jack!”

“Chi dovrà pagare?”, disse John con voce debole.

“Chi dovrà pagare?”, gridò Hugh, scoppiando in una risata che fu ripresa con forza dal pubblico. Poi, rivolgendosi a John, aggiunse: “Pagare? Ma nessuno.”

John guardò intorno a quella folla di volti: alcuni sorridevano, altri avevano un’espressione minacciosa; alcuni erano illuminati dalle torce, altri erano indistinti o avvolti nell’oscurità; alcuni lo fissavano, altri guardavano la sua casa, altri ancora si osservavano a vicenda. E mentre lui, come pensava, stava facendo tutto questo, si ritrovò, senza nemmeno rendersene conto, nel bar: seduto in una poltrona, osservava la distruzione delle sue proprietà, come se si trattasse di uno strano spettacolo o di un’attrazione di una natura sorprendente e sconcertante, ma senza che ci fosse alcun legame, per lui, con quanto stava accadendo.

Sì. Ecco il bar – quel bar al quale nemmeno i più coraggiosi osavano entrare senza un invito speciale; quel luogo sacro, misterioso e inviolabile. Era pieno di uomini, mazze, bastoni, torce, pistole; riecheggiava del rumore assordante di giuramenti, grida, urla. All’improvviso si trasformò in un “giardino dei orsi”, in un manicomio, in un tempio infernale: uomini che correvano avanti e indietro, entrando e uscendo da porte e finestre, rompendo vetri, aprendo rubinetti, bevendo alcolici direttamente dalle ciotole di porcellana. Seduti sui barili, fumavano pipe personali, tagliavano via i rami degli alberi sacri, distruggevano il famoso formaggio. Aprivano cassetti inviolabili, mettevano cose che non gli appartenevano nelle proprie tasche, dividevano i propri soldi davanti ai loro occhi. Rubavano, distruggevano tutto senza pietà. Niente di tranquillo, niente di privato. Uomini ovunque: sopra, sotto, dentro le stanze da letto, in cucina, nel cortile, nelle stalle. Arrampicavano sulle finestre quando le porte erano aperte; saltavano giù dalle finestre quando c’erano le scale a portata di mano. Nuovi volti e figure apparivano continuamente: alcuni urlavano, altri cantavano, altri litigavano, altri rompevano vetri e stoviglie. Alcuni spargevano polvere dappertutto insieme all’alcol che non riuscivano a bere; altri suonavano le campane fino a farle cadere; altri ancora le colpivano con dei pali fino a ridurle in pezzi. E ancora più uomini. Sempre di più. Come insetti. Rumore, fumo, luce, oscurità. Giochi, rabbia, risate, gemiti. Ruberie, paura, e distruzione!

Quasi tutto il tempo in cui John osservava questa scena confusa, Hugh rimaneva al suo fianco; e sebbene fosse il più rumoroso, il più selvaggio e il più distruttivo dei villani presenti, molte volte salvò la vita del proprio vecchio padrone. Anzi, anche quando il signor Tappertit, eccitato dall’alcol, si avvicinava e, affermando i propri diritti, calciava John Willet sulle gambe, Hugh gli ordinava di ricambiare il gesto; e se il vecchio John avesse avuto abbastanza presenza di spirito per comprendere questo suggerimento e agire di conseguenza, senza dubbio avrebbe potuto farlo indisturbato, sotto la protezione di Hugh.

Finalmente, il gruppo iniziò a riunirsi fuori dalla casa e chiamò coloro che si trovavano all’interno per unirsi a loro, poiché stavano perdendo tempo. Questi mormorii aumentarono di intensità fino a raggiungere un tono molto alto; Hugh e alcuni degli altri che ancora si trovavano nel bar – chiaramente i leader del gruppo – si riunirono in privato per decidere cosa fare di John: dovevano tenerlo calmo finché il loro piano non fosse stato portato a termine. Alcuni proposero di dare fuoco alla casa e lasciarlo dentro; altri suggerirono di renderlo temporaneamente incosciente colpendolo alla testa; ancora altri vollero che giurasse di rimanere fermo nel posto in cui si trovava fino all’ora stessa del giorno seguente; infine, c’era chi proponeva di imbavagliarlo e portarlo via con loro, sotto una protezione adeguata. Dopo aver esaminato tutte queste possibilità, decisero alla fine di legarlo alla sedia e incaricarono Dennis di occuparsene.

‘Look’ee here, Jack!’ said Hugh, striding up to him: ‘We are going to tie you, hand and foot, but otherwise you won’t be hurt. D’ye hear?’

John Willet looked at another man, as if he didn’t know which was the speaker, and muttered something about an ordinary every Sunday at two o’clock.

‘You won’t be hurt I tell you, Jack—do you hear me?’ roared Hugh, impressing the assurance upon him by means of a heavy blow on the back. ‘He’s so dead scared, he’s woolgathering, I think. Give him a drop of something to drink here. Hand over, one of you.’

A glass of liquor being passed forward, Hugh poured the contents down old John’s throat. Mr Willet feebly smacked his lips, thrust his hand into his pocket, and inquired what was to pay; adding, as he looked vacantly round, that he believed there was a trifle of broken glass—

‘He’s out of his senses for the time, it’s my belief,’ said Hugh, after shaking him, without any visible effect upon his system, until his keys rattled in his pocket. ‘Where’s that Dennis?’

The word was again passed, and presently Mr Dennis, with a long cord bound about his middle, something after the manner of a friar, came hurrying in, attended by a body-guard of half-a-dozen of his men.

‘Come! Be alive here!’ cried Hugh, stamping his foot upon the ground. ‘Make haste!’

Dennis, with a wink and a nod, unwound the cord from about his person, and raising his eyes to the ceiling, looked all over it, and round the walls and cornice, with a curious eye; then shook his head.

‘Move, man, can’t you!’ cried Hugh, with another impatient stamp of his foot. ‘Are we to wait here, till the cry has gone for ten miles round, and our work’s interrupted?’

‘It’s all very fine talking, brother,’ answered Dennis, stepping towards him; ‘but unless—’ and here he whispered in his ear—‘unless we do it over the door, it can’t be done at all in this here room.’

‘What can’t?’ Hugh demanded.

‘What can’t!’ retorted Dennis. ‘Why, the old man can’t.’

‘Why, you weren’t going to hang him!’ cried Hugh.

‘No, brother?’ returned the hangman with a stare. ‘What else?’

Hugh made no answer, but snatching the rope from his companion’s hand, proceeded to bind old John himself; but his very first move was so bungling and unskilful, that Mr Dennis entreated, almost with tears in his eyes, that he might be permitted to perform the duty. Hugh consenting, he achieved it in a twinkling.

‘There,’ he said, looking mournfully at John Willet, who displayed no more emotion in his bonds than he had shown out of them. ‘That’s what I call pretty and workmanlike. He’s quite a picter now. But, brother, just a word with you—now that he’s ready trussed, as one may say, wouldn’t it be better for all parties if we was to work him off? It would read uncommon well in the newspapers, it would indeed. The public would think a great deal more on us!’

Hugh, inferring what his companion meant, rather from his gestures than his technical mode of expressing himself (to which, as he was ignorant of his calling, he wanted the clue), rejected this proposition for the second time, and gave the word ‘Forward!’ which was echoed by a hundred voices from without.

‘To the Warren!’ shouted Dennis as he ran out, followed by the rest. ‘A witness’s house, my lads!’

A loud yell followed, and the whole throng hurried off, mad for pillage and destruction. Hugh lingered behind for a few moments to stimulate himself with more drink, and to set all the taps running, a few of which had accidentally been spared; then, glancing round the despoiled and plundered room, through whose shattered window the rioters had thrust the Maypole itself,—for even that had been sawn down,—lighted a torch, clapped the mute and motionless John Willet on the back, and waving his light above his head, and uttering a fierce shout, hastened after his companions.

“Guarda qui, Jack!” disse Hugh avvicinandosi a lui: “Ti legheremo mani e piedi, ma altrimenti non ti faranno del male. Capisci?”

John Willet guardò un altro uomo, come se non sapesse quale fosse il parlante, e mormorò qualcosa riguardo a una riunione ordinaria ogni )domenica alle due in punto.

“Non ti farai male, te lo dico io, Jack. Mi senti?”, gridò Hugh, dando a queste parole maggiore credibilità con un forte colpo sulla schiena del ragazzo. “È così spaventato che probabilmente sta delirando. Dategli qualcosa da bere. Qualcuno di voi, per favore.”

Un bicchiere di alcol venne passato avanti; Hugh ne versò il contenuto nella gola di vecchio John. Il signor Willet schiuse debolmente le labbra, infilò la mano in tasca e chiese quanto dovesse pagare; aggiunse poi, guardandosi intorno con aria vaga, che credeva ci fossero alcuni pezzetti di vetro rotto.

“È completamente fuori di testa in questo momento,” disse Hugh, dopo averlo scosso senza che ci fosse alcun effetto visibile su di lui, fino a quando le sue chiavi non iniziarono a tintinnare nella tasca. “Dove si è cacciato quel Dennis?”

La parola fu di nuovo trasmessa, e poco dopo il signor Dennis, con una lunga corda legata intorno alla vita, in qualche modo simile a un frate, entrò di fretta, accompagnato da una scorta di mezza dozzina dei suoi uomini.

“Vieni! Svegliati!” gridò Hugh, battendo il piede a terra.
“Affrettati!”

Dennis, con un battito di ciglia e un cenno del capo, sciolse il laccio che aveva intorno al corpo, alzò lo sguardo verso il soffitto, lo esaminò attentamente insieme alle pareti e alla cornice, con uno sguardo curioso; poi scosse la testa.

“Muoviti, per l’amor di Dio, non puoi farlo?” gridò Hugh, battendo impazientemente il piede. “Dobbiamo aspettare qui fino a quando il grido non si sarà diffuso per dieci miglia intorno, e così interrompere il nostro lavoro?”

“Tutte queste parole sono molto belle, fratello,” rispose Dennis avvicinandosi a lui; “ma a meno che, ” e qui sussurrò all’orecchio, “a meno che non lo facciamo fuori dalla porta, non sarà possibile farlo affatto in questa stanza.”

“Cosa non può essere fatto?”, chiese Hugh.

“Cosa non può fare?”, ribatté Dennis. “Beh, quell’uomo anziano semplicemente non può.”

“Ma non avevi intenzione di impiccarlo!”, gridò Hugh.

“No, fratello?” rispose il boia con uno sguardo minaccioso. “Cosa altro vuoi?”

Hugh non rispose nulla; afferrò invece la corda dalla mano del suo compagno e iniziò a legare da solo il vecchio John. Tuttavia, il suo primo tentativo fu così goffo e maldestro che il signor Dennis, con le lacrime agli occhi, gli chiese di lasciargli fare quel compito. Dopo che Hugh acconsentì, lui riuscì nell’impresa in un attimo.

“Ecco,” disse, guardando con tristezza John Willet, il quale non mostrava alcuna emozione né mentre era legato né dopo essere stato liberato. “Questo sì che è bel lavoro, fatto con cura e abilità. Ora è davvero un bravo pittore. Ma, fratello, lasciami parlarti un attimo: ora che è pronto, per così dire, non sarebbe meglio per tutti se lo facessimo partire? Ne parlerebbero molto bene i giornali. Il pubblico penserebbe molto di più a noi!”

Hugh, intuendo ciò che il suo compagno intendeva piuttosto dai suoi gesti che dal modo tecnico in cui si esprimeva (di cui, essendo ignaro della propria vocazione, cercava indicazioni), rifiutò questa proposta per la seconda volta e gridò “Avanti!”, un comando che fu ripetuto da centinaia di voci dall’esterno.

“Verso la casa dei Warren!” gridò Dennis mentre correva fuori, seguito dagli altri. “La casa di un testimone, ragazzi miei!”

Seguì un grido forte, e tutta la folla si allontanò di corsa, assetata di saccheggio e distruzione. Hugh rimase indietro per qualche momento, per bere ancora un po’ e far aprire tutte le tubature che, per caso, erano state risparmiate; poi, guardandosi intorno nella stanza devastata e saccheggiata – attraverso la cui finestra infranta i rivoltosi avevano fatto entrare lo stesso albero di maggio, che era stato addirittura tagliato a pezzi – accese una torcia, diede una pacca sulla schiena a John Willet, immobile e silenzioso, agitò la torcia sopra la testa e, emettendo un grido feroce, si affrettò a seguire i suoi compagni.

Chapter 55

John Willet, left alone in his dismantled bar, continued to sit staring about him; awake as to his eyes, certainly, but with all his powers of reason and reflection in a sound and dreamless sleep. He looked round upon the room which had been for years, and was within an hour ago, the pride of his heart; and not a muscle of his face was moved. The night, without, looked black and cold through the dreary gaps in the casement; the precious liquids, now nearly leaked away, dripped with a hollow sound upon the floor; the Maypole peered ruefully in through the broken window, like the bowsprit of a wrecked ship; the ground might have been the bottom of the sea, it was so strewn with precious fragments. Currents of air rushed in, as the old doors jarred and creaked upon their hinges; the candles flickered and guttered down, and made long winding-sheets; the cheery deep-red curtains flapped and fluttered idly in the wind; even the stout Dutch kegs, overthrown and lying empty in dark corners, seemed the mere husks of good fellows whose jollity had departed, and who could kindle with a friendly glow no more. John saw this desolation, and yet saw it not. He was perfectly contented to sit there, staring at it, and felt no more indignation or discomfort in his bonds than if they had been robes of honour. So far as he was personally concerned, old Time lay snoring, and the world stood still.

Save for the dripping from the barrels, the rustling of such light fragments of destruction as the wind affected, and the dull creaking of the open doors, all was profoundly quiet: indeed, these sounds, like the ticking of the death-watch in the night, only made the silence they invaded deeper and more apparent. But quiet or noisy, it was all one to John. If a train of heavy artillery could have come up and commenced ball practice outside the window, it would have been all the same to him. He was a long way beyond surprise. A ghost couldn’t have overtaken him.

By and by he heard a footstep—a hurried, and yet cautious footstep—coming on towards the house. It stopped, advanced again, then seemed to go quite round it. Having done that, it came beneath the window, and a head looked in.

It was strongly relieved against the darkness outside by the glare of the guttering candles. A pale, worn, withered face; the eyes—but that was owing to its gaunt condition—unnaturally large and bright; the hair, a grizzled black. It gave a searching glance all round the room, and a deep voice said:

‘Are you alone in this house?’

John made no sign, though the question was repeated twice, and he heard it distinctly. After a moment’s pause, the man got in at the window. John was not at all surprised at this, either. There had been so much getting in and out of window in the course of the last hour or so, that he had quite forgotten the door, and seemed to have lived among such exercises from infancy.

The man wore a large, dark, faded cloak, and a slouched hat; he walked up close to John, and looked at him. John returned the compliment with interest.

‘How long have you been sitting thus?’ said the man.

John considered, but nothing came of it.

‘Which way have the party gone?’

Some wandering speculations relative to the fashion of the stranger’s boots, got into Mr Willet’s mind by some accident or other, but they got out again in a hurry, and left him in his former state.

‘You would do well to speak,’ said the man; ‘you may keep a whole skin, though you have nothing else left that can be hurt. Which way have the party gone?’

‘That!’ said John, finding his voice all at once, and nodding with perfect good faith—he couldn’t point; he was so tightly bound—in exactly the opposite direction to the right one.

‘You lie!’ said the man angrily, and with a threatening gesture. ‘I came that way. You would betray me.’

It was so evident that John’s imperturbability was not assumed, but was the result of the late proceedings under his roof, that the man stayed his hand in the very act of striking him, and turned away.

John looked after him without so much as a twitch in a single nerve of his face. He seized a glass, and holding it under one of the little casks until a few drops were collected, drank them greedily off; then throwing it down upon the floor impatiently, he took the vessel in his hands and drained it into his throat. Some scraps of bread and meat were scattered about, and on these he fell next; eating them with voracity, and pausing every now and then to listen for some fancied noise outside. When he had refreshed himself in this manner with violent haste, and raised another barrel to his lips, he pulled his hat upon his brow as though he were about to leave the house, and turned to John.

‘Where are your servants?’

Mr Willet indistinctly remembered to have heard the rioters calling to them to throw the key of the room in which they were, out of window, for their keeping. He therefore replied, ‘Locked up.’

‘Well for them if they remain quiet, and well for you if you do the like,’ said the man. ‘Now show me the way the party went.’

This time Mr Willet indicated it correctly. The man was hurrying to the door, when suddenly there came towards them on the wind, the loud and rapid tolling of an alarm-bell, and then a bright and vivid glare streamed up, which illumined, not only the whole chamber, but all the country.

It was not the sudden change from darkness to this dreadful light, it was not the sound of distant shrieks and shouts of triumph, it was not this dread invasion of the serenity and peace of night, that drove the man back as though a thunderbolt had struck him. It was the Bell. If the ghastliest shape the human mind has ever pictured in its wildest dreams had risen up before him, he could not have staggered backward from its touch, as he did from the first sound of that loud iron voice. With eyes that started from his head, his limbs convulsed, his face most horrible to see, he raised one arm high up into the air, and holding something visionary back and down, with his other hand, drove at it as though he held a knife and stabbed it to the heart. He clutched his hair, and stopped his ears, and travelled madly round and round; then gave a frightful cry, and with it rushed away: still, still, the Bell tolled on and seemed to follow him—louder and louder, hotter and hotter yet. The glare grew brighter, the roar of voices deeper; the crash of heavy bodies falling, shook the air; bright streams of sparks rose up into the sky; but louder than them all—rising faster far, to Heaven—a million times more fierce and furious—pouring forth dreadful secrets after its long silence—speaking the language of the dead—the Bell—the Bell!

Capitolo 55

John Willet, lasciato solo nel suo bar ormai deserto, continuava a sedersi fissando intorno a sé; sveglio, certamente, ma con tutte le sue facoltà di ragionamento e riflessione immerse in un sonno profondo e senza sogni. Guardava la stanza che, per anni, ed ancora fino a un’ora prima, era stata l’orgoglio della sua vita; nessun muscolo del suo viso si muoveva. La notte, cupa e fredda, filtrava attraverso le fessure delle finestre; i liquidi preziosi, ormai quasi esauriti, gocciolavano sul pavimento con un suono vuoto; il palo di maggio si intravedeva tristemente attraverso la finestra rotta, come l’albero maestro di una nave distrutta; il pavimento sembrava essere il fondo del mare, tanto era coperto di frammenti preziosi. Correnti d’aria entravano nella stanza mentre le vecchie porte si aprivano e si chiudevano con un cigolio; le candele tremolavano e si spegnevano, lasciando dietro di sé strisce di cera; le allegre tende rosse svolazzavano inutilmente nel vento; persino i robusti barili olandesi, rovesciati e abbandonati negli angoli bui, sembravano soltanto gusci vuoti di persone un tempo gioiose, le cui risate non avrebbero più risuonato. John vedeva tutta questa desolazione, ma in realtà non la vedeva affatto. Era completamente soddisfatto di sedersi lì, a fissarla, senza provare né indignazione né disagio; anzi, quelle catene sembravano addirittura vestiti d’onore per lui. Per quanto lo riguardava personalmente, l’antico Tempo dormiva profondamente e il mondo intero era fermo.

A parte il gocciolio che proveniva dai barili, lo fruscio di quei leggeri frammenti di distruzione mossi dal vento, e il cupo scricchiolio delle porte aperte, tutto era profondamente silenzioso: anzi, questi suoni, simili al ticchettio dell’orologio della morte nella notte, rendevano ancora più profondo e evidente il silenzio che invadevano. Ma che fosse silenzioso o rumoroso, per John non faceva alcuna differenza. Anche se un convoglio di artiglieria pesante fosse arrivato e avesse iniziato a sparare fuori dalla finestra, per lui sarebbe stato lo stesso. Era ormai al di là di ogni sorpresa. Nemmeno un fantasma avrebbe potuto raggiungerlo.

Dopo un po’, sentì dei passi: passi affrettati, ma cauti, che si avvicinavano alla casa. Si fermarono, poi ripresero ad avanzare, per poi sembrare girare attorno all’edificio. Una volta fatto ciò, si avvicinarono alla finestra e qualcuno guardò dentro.

Era fortemente illuminata rispetto all’oscurità esterna dal bagliore delle candele. Un viso pallido, consumato, appassito; gli occhi, ma questo era dovuto alla sua condizione emaciata – insolitamente grandi e luminosi; i capelli, neri con striature grigie. Gettò uno sguardo attento in tutta la stanza, poi una voce profonda disse:

“Sei sicuro di essere solo in questa casa?”

John non fece alcun segno, anche se la domanda fu ripetuta due volte e lui la sentì chiaramente. Dopo un momento di pausa, l’uomo entrò dalla finestra. Nemmeno questo sorprese John: nell’arco dell’ultima ora circa, c’era stata così tanta gente che entrava e usciva dalla finestra, che lui aveva quasi dimenticato l’esistenza della porta. Sembrava davvero essersi abituato a queste situazioni fin da quando era bambino.

L’uomo indossava un grande mantello scuro e logoro, insieme a un cappello calato in avanti; si avvicinò a John e lo guardò. John ricambiò il suo sguardo con interesse.

“Da quanto tempo sei seduto in questo modo?” chiese l’uomo.

John ci pensò, ma nulla ne risultò.

“Che direzione hanno preso i partecipanti alla festa?”

Alcune vaghe congetture riguardo al modo in cui erano fatte le scarpe di quel forestiero entrarono per qualche motivo nella mente del signor Willet, ma poi vennero rapidamente scacciate via, lasciandolo nuovamente nel suo stato precedente.

“Saresti meglio se parlassi,” disse l’uomo; “potrai conservare tutta la tua pelle, anche se non ti è rimasto più nulla che possa essere ferito. In quale direzione sono andati quegli uomini?”

“Quello!” disse John, ritrovando improvvisamente la voce, e annuendo con perfetta e sincera fede. Non riusciva a indicare nella direzione giusta; era legato troppo strettamente, esattamente nella direzione opposta.

“Menti!” disse l’uomo con rabbia, facendo un gesto minaccioso. “Sono venuto da quella parte. Mi tradiresti.”

Era così evidente che l’imperturbabilità di John non era una finzione, ma il risultato degli eventi avvenuti sotto il suo tetto, che quell’uomo, mentre stava per colpirlo, si fermò e se ne andò.

John si prese cura di lui senza che un solo muscolo del suo viso si muovesse. Prese un bicchiere, lo tenne sotto uno dei piccoli barili fino a quando non ne raccolse alcune gocce, le bevve avidamente; poi, gettandolo impazientemente a terra, prese il recipiente e lo svuotò completamente nella propria bocca. Intorno c’erano alcuni pezzi di pane e carne sparsi; vi si gettò sopra e li mangiò con voracità, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per ascoltare eventuali rumori provenienti dall’esterno. Dopo essersi ristorato in questo modo con estrema fretta, sollevò un altro barile alle labbra; si mise il cappello sulla fronte, come se stesse per lasciare la casa, e si rivolse a John.

“Dove sono i tuoi servitori?”

Il signor Willet ricordava vagamente di aver sentito i rivoltosi chiamarli a gettare fuori dalla finestra la chiave della stanza in cui si trovavano, affinché la tenessero loro. Così rispose: “Chiuso a chiave.”

“Va bene per loro se rimangono in silenzio, e va bene anche per te se fai lo stesso,” disse l’uomo. “Ora mostrami la direzione in cui è andata la banda.”

Questa volta il signor Willet ha indicato correttamente. L’uomo stava affrettandosi verso la porta quando, all’improvviso, sul vento si udì il suono forte e rapido di una campana d’allarme; poi un bagliore intenso e vivido illuminò non solo l’intera stanza, ma anche tutta la campagna circostante.

Non fu il repentino passaggio dall’oscurità a questa luce terribile, non furono i suoni di grida lontane e di esultanza trionfale, non fu questa invasione spaventosa della serenità e della pace della notte che spinse quell’uomo ad indietreggiare, come se fosse stato colpito da un fulmine. Fu il Campanello. Anche se davanti a lui si fosse materializzato l’aspetto più orribile mai immaginato dalla mente umana nei suoi sogni più folli, non avrebbe potuto indietreggiare di fronte a esso tanto quanto lo fece al suono di quella voce metallica e potente. Con gli occhi fuori dalle orbite, le membra convulse, il volto orribile da vedere, sollevò un braccio in alto nell’aria; con l’altra mano stringeva qualcosa di irreale e lo colpiva con violenza, come se impugnasse un pugnale e lo conficcasse nel cuore. Si afferrò i capelli, si tappò le orecchie e iniziò a correre in cerchio, follemente; poi emise un grido terribile e fuggì via. Ma il Campanello continuava a suonare, sempre più forte, sempre più minaccioso. Il bagliore diventava sempre più intenso, il rumore delle voci sempre più cupo; il tonfo di corpi pesanti che cadevano scuoteva l’aria. Strisce luminose di scintille si alzavano verso il cielo. Ma più forte di tutto, sempre più veloce, verso il cielo, un milione di volte più feroce e furioso, sgorgando orribili segreti dopo una lunga silenzio, parlando la lingua dei morti. Il Campanello, il Campanello!

What hunt of spectres could surpass that dread pursuit and flight! Had there been a legion of them on his track, he could have better borne it. They would have had a beginning and an end, but here all space was full. The one pursuing voice was everywhere: it sounded in the earth, the air; shook the long grass, and howled among the trembling trees. The echoes caught it up, the owls hooted as it flew upon the breeze, the nightingale was silent and hid herself among the thickest boughs: it seemed to goad and urge the angry fire, and lash it into madness; everything was steeped in one prevailing red; the glow was everywhere; nature was drenched in blood: still the remorseless crying of that awful voice—the Bell, the Bell!

It ceased; but not in his ears. The knell was at his heart. No work of man had ever voice like that which sounded there, and warned him that it cried unceasingly to Heaven. Who could hear that bell, and not know what it said! There was murder in its every note—cruel, relentless, savage murder—the murder of a confiding man, by one who held his every trust. Its ringing summoned phantoms from their graves. What face was that, in which a friendly smile changed to a look of half incredulous horror, which stiffened for a moment into one of pain, then changed again into an imploring glance at Heaven, and so fell idly down with upturned eyes, like the dead stags’ he had often peeped at when a little child: shrinking and shuddering—there was a dreadful thing to think of now!—and clinging to an apron as he looked! He sank upon the ground, and grovelling down as if he would dig himself a place to hide in, covered his face and ears: but no, no, no,—a hundred walls and roofs of brass would not shut out that bell, for in it spoke the wrathful voice of God, and from that voice, the whole wide universe could not afford a refuge!

While he rushed up and down, not knowing where to turn, and while he lay crouching there, the work went briskly on indeed. When they left the Maypole, the rioters formed into a solid body, and advanced at a quick pace towards the Warren. Rumour of their approach having gone before, they found the garden-doors fast closed, the windows made secure, and the house profoundly dark: not a light being visible in any portion of the building. After some fruitless ringing at the bells, and beating at the iron gates, they drew off a few paces to reconnoitre, and confer upon the course it would be best to take.

Very little conference was needed, when all were bent upon one desperate purpose, infuriated with liquor, and flushed with successful riot. The word being given to surround the house, some climbed the gates, or dropped into the shallow trench and scaled the garden wall, while others pulled down the solid iron fence, and while they made a breach to enter by, made deadly weapons of the bars. The house being completely encircled, a small number of men were despatched to break open a tool-shed in the garden; and during their absence on this errand, the remainder contented themselves with knocking violently at the doors, and calling to those within, to come down and open them on peril of their lives.

No answer being returned to this repeated summons, and the detachment who had been sent away, coming back with an accession of pickaxes, spades, and hoes, they,—together with those who had such arms already, or carried (as many did) axes, poles, and crowbars,—struggled into the foremost rank, ready to beset the doors and windows. They had not at this time more than a dozen lighted torches among them; but when these preparations were completed, flaming links were distributed and passed from hand to hand with such rapidity, that, in a minute’s time, at least two-thirds of the whole roaring mass bore, each man in his hand, a blazing brand. Whirling these about their heads they raised a loud shout, and fell to work upon the doors and windows.

Amidst the clattering of heavy blows, the rattling of broken glass, the cries and execrations of the mob, and all the din and turmoil of the scene, Hugh and his friends kept together at the turret-door where Mr Haredale had last admitted him and old John Willet; and spent their united force on that. It was a strong old oaken door, guarded by good bolts and a heavy bar, but it soon went crashing in upon the narrow stairs behind, and made, as it were, a platform to facilitate their tearing up into the rooms above. Almost at the same moment, a dozen other points were forced, and at every one the crowd poured in like water.

A few armed servant-men were posted in the hall, and when the rioters forced an entrance there, they fired some half-a-dozen shots. But these taking no effect, and the concourse coming on like an army of devils, they only thought of consulting their own safety, and retreated, echoing their assailants’ cries, and hoping in the confusion to be taken for rioters themselves; in which stratagem they succeeded, with the exception of one old man who was never heard of again, and was said to have had his brains beaten out with an iron bar (one of his fellows reported that he had seen the old man fall), and to have been afterwards burnt in the flames.

The besiegers being now in complete possession of the house, spread themselves over it from garret to cellar, and plied their demon labours fiercely. While some small parties kindled bonfires underneath the windows, others broke up the furniture and cast the fragments down to feed the flames below; where the apertures in the wall (windows no longer) were large enough, they threw out tables, chests of drawers, beds, mirrors, pictures, and flung them whole into the fire; while every fresh addition to the blazing masses was received with shouts, and howls, and yells, which added new and dismal terrors to the conflagration. Those who had axes and had spent their fury on the movables, chopped and tore down the doors and window frames, broke up the flooring, hewed away the rafters, and buried men who lingered in the upper rooms, in heaps of ruins. Some searched the drawers, the chests, the boxes, writing-desks, and closets, for jewels, plate, and money; while others, less mindful of gain and more mad for destruction, cast their whole contents into the courtyard without examination, and called to those below, to heap them on the blaze. Men who had been into the cellars, and had staved the casks, rushed to and fro stark mad, setting fire to all they saw—often to the dresses of their own friends—and kindling the building in so many parts that some had no time for escape, and were seen, with drooping hands and blackened faces, hanging senseless on the window-sills to which they had crawled, until they were sucked and drawn into the burning gulf. The more the fire crackled and raged, the wilder and more cruel the men grew; as though moving in that element they became fiends, and changed their earthly nature for the qualities that give delight in hell.

Quale caccia agli spettri potrebbe superare quella terribile inseguita e fuga? Anche se ci fosse stata un’intera legione di spettri al suo inseguimento, lui avrebbe potuto sopportarlo meglio. Quegli spettri avrebbero avuto un inizio e una fine, ma qui tutto lo spazio era pieno di loro. Quella voce che lo perseguitava era ovunque: risuonava nella terra, nell’aria; scuoteva l’erba alta e ululava tra gli alberi tremanti. Gli echi la rincorrevano; le civette ululavano mentre quella voce volava portata dal vento. Il usignolo taceva, nascosto tra i rami più fitti. Sembrava che incitasse e spingesse quell’iraconda fiamma, trasformandola in follia. Tutto era immerso in un rosso uniforme; il bagliore si diffondeva ovunque. La natura era inzuppata nel sangue. Eppure, quel terribile grido continuava senza sosta. Il Campanello, il Campanello!

Si era fermato; ma non nei suoi orecchi. Quel suono risuonava nel suo cuore. Nessun’opera umana aveva mai una voce del genere: un richiamo incessante rivolto al Cielo. Chi poteva ascoltare quel suono senza capirne il significato? In ogni sua nota c’era l’eco di un omicidio crudele, spietato, l’omicidio di un uomo che aveva riposto tutta la propria fiducia in colui che lo aveva tradito. Quel suono evocava fantasmi dalle loro tombe. Quale volto era quello, in cui un sorriso amichevole si trasformava in uno sguardo di orrore incredulo, per poi diventare uno sguardo supplicante rivolto al Cielo. E infine quel volto cadeva giù, con gli occhi fissi verso l’alto, come i cervi morti che aveva spesso visto da bambino. C’era qualcosa di terribile da pensare. Si aggrappò a un grembiule mentre guardava intorno. Cadde a terra, cercando disperatamente di nascondersi. Si coprì il viso e le orecchie. Ma no. Nemmeno cento muri di bronzo avrebbero potuto bloccare quel suono. Perché in esso risuonava la voce furiosa di Dio. E davanti a quella voce, l’intero universo non poteva offrire rifugio.

Mentre correva avanti e indietro, senza sapere dove dirigersi, e mentre si accovacciava lì, i lavori proseguivano rapidamente. Quando lasciarono il palo di maggio, i rivoltosi si formarono in un gruppo compatto e avanzarono a passo veloce verso la casa di Warren. Poiché la notizia del loro arrivo era già giunta in anticipo, trovarono le porte del giardino ben chiuse, le finestre protette e la casa completamente al buio: non si vedeva alcuna luce in nessuna parte dell’edificio. Dopo alcuni tentativi infruttuosi di suonare le campane e di bussare alle porte di ferro, si allontanarono per qualche passo per studiare la situazione e decidere quale fosse il modo migliore per procedere.

Non fu necessaria molta discussione: tutti erano animati da uno stesso scopo disperato, furiosi a causa dell’alcol e eccitati dal successo della loro azione violenta. Dopo che fu deciso di circondare la casa, alcuni salirono sulle porte, altri si calarono nella fossata poco profonda e scalarono il muro del jardino; altri ancora abbatterono la solida recinzione di ferro. Una volta che la casa fu completamente circondata, un piccolo gruppo di uomini andò a rompere una capanna per gli attrezzi nel jardino; mentre questi erano assenti, il resto continuava a bussare violentemente alle porte, chiamando coloro che si trovavano all’interno di uscire immediatamente, minacciandoli di morte se non lo avessero fatto.

Non ricevendo alcuna risposta a questi ripetuti appelli, il distaccamento che era stato inviato tornò con un gran numero di picconi, pale e zappe. Loro, insieme a coloro che già possedevano tali armi, o che portavano con sé asce, bastoni e leve, si affrettarono a prendere posizione in prima linea, pronti ad assaltare porte e finestre. A quel momento, tra di loro c’erano soltanto una dozzina di torce accese; ma non appena queste preparativi furono completati, delle fiamme furono distribuite rapidamente da mano a mano, tanto che in un minuto almeno due terzi dell’intero gruppo impugnavano ciascuno una torcia ardente. Girandole sopra la testa, lanciarono un grido possente e iniziarono ad attaccare le porte e le finestre.

Tra il rumore dei colpi violenti, lo schianto dei vetri rotti, le grida e gli insulti della folla, nonché tutto il clamore e il caos di quella scena, Hugh e i suoi amici rimasero uniti davanti alla porta della torre, proprio dove il signor Haredale li aveva fatti entrare l’ultima volta insieme al vecchio John Willet; concentrarono tutte le loro forze su quella porta. Era una solida porta di quercia, protetta da buoni chiavioni e da un pesante barriera, ma presto si aprì, permettendo alla folla di riversarsi all’interno attraverso la stretta scala che conduceva ai piani superiori. Quasi contemporaneamente, altre dozzine di porte furono forzate, e in ognuna di esse la folla irruppe come acqua che rompe una diga.

Alcuni servitori armati erano di guardia nel salone; quando i rivoltosi cercarono di entrare, spararono una mezza dozzina di colpi. Ma poiché questi non ebbero alcun effetto e la folla avanzava come un esercito di demoni, pensarono soltanto alla propria sicurezza e si ritirarono, ripetendo le grida dei loro assalitori, nella speranza che, nel caos, venissero scambiati per i rivoltosi stessi. Questo stratagemma riuscì, ad eccezione di un vecchio che non fu mai più visto; si diceva che gli fossero stati fracassati i cervelli con una barra di ferro (uno dei suoi compagni affermava di averlo visto cadere) e che in seguito fosse stato bruciato nelle fiamme.

Gli assedianti, ora padroni assoluti della casa, si dispersero in ogni angolo di essa, dal tetto al seminterrato, e continuarono con furia i loro atti distruttivi. Alcuni accendevano falò sotto le finestre; altri rompevano i mobili e gettavano i frammenti nel fuoco; dove le aperture nelle pareti erano abbastanza grandi, gettavano dentro tavoli, armadi, letti, specchi, quadri. Ogni nuovo oggetto aggiunto alle fiamme suscitava grida, urla e lamenti che aumentavano ancora di più l’orrore della situazione. Coloro che avevano asce distrussero porte e infissi delle finestre, rompevano il pavimento, tagliavano via le travi e seppellivano coloro che si trovavano nei piani superiori sotto mucchi di rovine. Alcuni cercavano gioielli, argenteria e denaro nelle cassetti, negli armadi; altri, meno interessati al bottino e più ossessionati dalla distruzione, gettavano tutto quanto nel cortile senza nemmeno controllare il contenuto, chiamando coloro che erano sotto a gettarlo sul fuoco. Coloro che si trovavano nei seminterrati correvano avanti e indietro, impazziti, appiccando il fuoco a tutto ciò che vedevano, spesso anche ai vestiti dei loro stessi amici. Il edificio prese fuoco in così tante parti che alcuni non ebbero nemmeno il tempo di fuggire; vennero visti, con le mani penzolanti e i volti anneriti, appesi agli stipiti delle finestre, fino a quando non furono trascinati dentro l’abisso ardente. Più il fuoco divampava, più gli uomini diventavano selvaggi e crudeli; come se in quel ambiente infernale si fossero trasformati in demoni, perdendo ogni traccia della loro natura umana.

The burning pile, revealing rooms and passages red hot, through gaps made in the crumbling walls; the tributary fires that licked the outer bricks and stones, with their long forked tongues, and ran up to meet the glowing mass within; the shining of the flames upon the villains who looked on and fed them; the roaring of the angry blaze, so bright and high that it seemed in its rapacity to have swallowed up the very smoke; the living flakes the wind bore rapidly away and hurried on with, like a storm of fiery snow; the noiseless breaking of great beams of wood, which fell like feathers on the heap of ashes, and crumbled in the very act to sparks and powder; the lurid tinge that overspread the sky, and the darkness, very deep by contrast, which prevailed around; the exposure to the coarse, common gaze, of every little nook which usages of home had made a sacred place, and the destruction by rude hands of every little household favourite which old associations made a dear and precious thing: all this taking place—not among pitying looks and friendly murmurs of compassion, but brutal shouts and exultations, which seemed to make the very rats who stood by the old house too long, creatures with some claim upon the pity and regard of those its roof had sheltered:—combined to form a scene never to be forgotten by those who saw it and were not actors in the work, so long as life endured.

And who were they? The alarm-bell rang—and it was pulled by no faint or hesitating hands—for a long time; but not a soul was seen. Some of the insurgents said that when it ceased, they heard the shrieks of women, and saw some garments fluttering in the air, as a party of men bore away no unresisting burdens. No one could say that this was true or false, in such an uproar; but where was Hugh? Who among them had seen him, since the forcing of the doors? The cry spread through the body. Where was Hugh!

‘Here!’ he hoarsely cried, appearing from the darkness; out of breath, and blackened with the smoke. ‘We have done all we can; the fire is burning itself out; and even the corners where it hasn’t spread, are nothing but heaps of ruins. Disperse, my lads, while the coast’s clear; get back by different ways; and meet as usual!’ With that, he disappeared again,—contrary to his wont, for he was always first to advance, and last to go away,—leaving them to follow homewards as they would.

It was not an easy task to draw off such a throng. If Bedlam gates had been flung wide open, there would not have issued forth such maniacs as the frenzy of that night had made. There were men there, who danced and trampled on the beds of flowers as though they trod down human enemies, and wrenched them from the stalks, like savages who twisted human necks. There were men who cast their lighted torches in the air, and suffered them to fall upon their heads and faces, blistering the skin with deep unseemly burns. There were men who rushed up to the fire, and paddled in it with their hands as if in water; and others who were restrained by force from plunging in, to gratify their deadly longing. On the skull of one drunken lad—not twenty, by his looks—who lay upon the ground with a bottle to his mouth, the lead from the roof came streaming down in a shower of liquid fire, white hot; melting his head like wax. When the scattered parties were collected, men—living yet, but singed as with hot irons—were plucked out of the cellars, and carried off upon the shoulders of others, who strove to wake them as they went along, with ribald jokes, and left them, dead, in the passages of hospitals. But of all the howling throng not one learnt mercy from, or sickened at, these sights; nor was the fierce, besotted, senseless rage of one man glutted.

Slowly, and in small clusters, with hoarse hurrahs and repetitions of their usual cry, the assembly dropped away. The last few red-eyed stragglers reeled after those who had gone before; the distant noise of men calling to each other, and whistling for others whom they missed, grew fainter and fainter; at length even these sounds died away, and silence reigned alone.

Silence indeed! The glare of the flames had sunk into a fitful, flashing light; and the gentle stars, invisible till now, looked down upon the blackening heap. A dull smoke hung upon the ruin, as though to hide it from those eyes of Heaven; and the wind forbore to move it. Bare walls, roof open to the sky—chambers, where the beloved dead had, many and many a fair day, risen to new life and energy; where so many dear ones had been sad and merry; which were connected with so many thoughts and hopes, regrets and changes—all gone. Nothing left but a dull and dreary blank—a smouldering heap of dust and ashes—the silence and solitude of utter desolation.

La pila ardente, che rivelava stanze e passaggi incandescenti attraverso le fessure nelle pareti in rovina; i fuochi secondari che lambivano gli mattoni e le pietre esterne, con le loro lunghe lingue biforcate, e si univano alla massa luminosa all’interno; il bagliore delle fiamme sui malviventi che li osservavano e li alimentavano; il ruggito furioso del fuoco, così intenso e alto da sembrare aver inghiottito persino il fumo stesso; i frammenti infuocati portati via rapidamente dal vento, come una tempesta di neve ardente; il silenzioso crollo di grandi travi di legno, che cadevano come piume sul mucchio di cenere e si frantumavano in scintille e polvere; il colore cupo che si diffondeva nel cielo, e l’oscurità profonda che regnava intorno; la vista di ogni angolo che gli usi domestici avevano reso sacro, distrutto dalle mani rozze. Tutto questo accadeva non tra sguardi compassionevoli o mormori di simpatia, ma tra grida brutali ed esultazioni, tanto da far sembrare persino i ratti che si trovavano vicino a quella vecchia casa meritevoli della pietà e dell’attenzione di coloro che ne erano stati protetti. Tutto ciò insieme formava una scena che chi l’aveva vista, senza esserne parte attiva, non avrebbe mai dimenticato, finché avesse vissuto.

E chi erano loro? La campana d’allarme suonò – e non furono mani deboli o esitanti a tirarla – per un lungo tempo; ma nessuna ‘anima fu vista. Alcuni dei ribelli dissero che, quando il suono cessò, udirono le grida delle donne e videro alcuni abiti fluttuare nell’aria, mentre un gruppo di uomini portava via carichi che nessuno cercava di impedire. Nessuno poteva dire se ciò fosse vero o falso, in mezzo a tutto quel trambusto; ma dove era Hugh? Chi di loro l’aveva visto, dopo che le porte erano state forzate? Il grido si diffuse in tutta la comunità. Dove era Hugh?!

“Eccomi!” gridò con voce rauca, emergendo dall’oscurità; era senza fiato e il viso era annerito dal fumo. “Abbiamo fatto tutto il possibile; l’fuoco si sta spegnendo da solo; anche le zone dove non si è diffuso sono ridotte a mucchi di rovine. Disperdetevi, ragazzi, tornate a casa per strade diverse e ritroviatemi come al solito!” Detto questo, scomparve di nuovo, contro la sua abitudine, poiché di solito era sempre il primo ad avanzare e l’ultimo ad andarsene, lasciandoli liberi di tornare a casa a loro piacimento.

Non era un compito facile allontanare una tale folla. Anche se le porte di Bedlam fossero state spalancate, non sarebbero usciti tanti pazzi come quelli che quella notte aveva scatenato. C’erano uomini che ballavano e calpestavano i giardini pieni di >fiori, come se calpestassero nemici umani, strappandoli dai gambi con violenza, come selvaggi che spezzano il collo alle persone. Alcuni gettavano torce accese in aria, lasciando che cadessero sui loro capelli e volti, causando ustioni profonde e indecenti. Altri si avvicinavano al >fuoco e vi si immersivano con le mani, come se fosse acqua; altri ancora venivano trattenuti a forza per impedire che si gettassero dentro, nel tentativo di soddisfare la loro mortale brama. Sul cranio di un giovane ubriaco – che a giudicare dall’aspetto non aveva nemmeno vent’anni e giaceva a terra con una bottiglia alle labbra – il piombo caduto dal soffitto si riversò su di lui come una pioggia di fuoco liquido, incenerendogli la testa come se fosse cera. Quando le varie fazioni disperse furono radunate, uomini ancora vivi, ma ustionati gravemente, vennero tratti fuori dai sotterranei e portati via sulle spalle di altri; questi cercavano di svegliarli lungo la strada con battute volgari, per poi abbandonarli morti nei corridoi degli ospedali. Ma tra tutta quella folla urlante, nessuno provò pietà o disgusto di fronte a queste scene; né l’ira furiosa e folle di uno solo di quegli uomini venne placata.

Lentamente, e in piccoli gruppi, accompagnati da grida rauche e ripetizioni del loro solito richiamo, la folla si disperse. Gli ultimi rimasti, con gli occhi rossi per la stanchezza, seguirono coloro che erano già andati via; il rumore lontano delle voci che si chiamavano a vicenda, e dei fischi rivolti a chi mancava, divenne sempre più debole; infine anche questi suoni scomparvero, e il silenzio regnò da solo.

Silenzio, davvero! Il bagliore delle fiamme si era trasformato in un chiarore intermittente e lampeggiante; le dolci stelle, fino ad allora invisibili, guardavano giù verso quella massa nerastra. Un fumo denso aleggiava sulle rovine, come se volesse nasconderle da quegli occhi del Cielo; e il >vento stesso si asteneva dal soffiare. Muri spogli, tetti aperti al cielo, stanze in cui i cari defunti, in molti bei giorni, avevano riacquistato vita e energia; dove tante persone avevano condiviso momenti di tristezza e gioia; stanze legate a così tanti pensieri, speranze, rimpianti e cambiamenti, tutto era scomparso. Non restava nulla se non un vuoto desolato, una massa fumante di polvere e ceneri, il silenzio e la solitudine di una desolazione assoluta.

Chapter 56

The Maypole cronies, little dreaming of the change so soon to come upon their favourite haunt, struck through the Forest path upon their way to London; and avoiding the main road, which was hot and dusty, kept to the by-paths and the fields. As they drew nearer to their destination, they began to make inquiries of the people whom they passed, concerning the riots, and the truth or falsehood of the stories they had heard. The answers went far beyond any intelligence that had spread to quiet Chigwell. One man told them that that afternoon the Guards, conveying to Newgate some rioters who had been re-examined, had been set upon by the mob and compelled to retreat; another, that the houses of two witnesses near Clare Market were about to be pulled down when he came away; another, that Sir George Saville’s house in Leicester Fields was to be burned that night, and that it would go hard with Sir George if he fell into the people’s hands, as it was he who had brought in the Catholic bill. All accounts agreed that the mob were out, in stronger numbers and more numerous parties than had yet appeared; that the streets were unsafe; that no man’s house or life was worth an hour’s purchase; that the public consternation was increasing every moment; and that many families had already fled the city. One fellow who wore the popular colour, damned them for not having cockades in their hats, and bade them set a good watch to-morrow night upon their prison doors, for the locks would have a straining; another asked if they were fire-proof, that they walked abroad without the distinguishing mark of all good and true men;—and a third who rode on horseback, and was quite alone, ordered them to throw each man a shilling, in his hat, towards the support of the rioters. Although they were afraid to refuse compliance with this demand, and were much alarmed by these reports, they agreed, having come so far, to go forward, and see the real state of things with their own eyes. So they pushed on quicker, as men do who are excited by portentous news; and ruminating on what they had heard, spoke little to each other.

It was now night, and as they came nearer to the city they had dismal confirmation of this intelligence in three great fires, all close together, which burnt fiercely and were gloomily reflected in the sky. Arriving in the immediate suburbs, they found that almost every house had chalked upon its door in large characters ‘No Popery,’ that the shops were shut, and that alarm and anxiety were depicted in every face they passed.

Noting these things with a degree of apprehension which neither of the three cared to impart, in its full extent, to his companions, they came to a turnpike-gate, which was shut. They were passing through the turnstile on the path, when a horseman rode up from London at a hard gallop, and called to the toll-keeper in a voice of great agitation, to open quickly in the name of God.

The adjuration was so earnest and vehement, that the man, with a lantern in his hand, came running out—toll-keeper though he was—and was about to throw the gate open, when happening to look behind him, he exclaimed, ‘Good Heaven, what’s that! Another fire!’

At this, the three turned their heads, and saw in the distance—straight in the direction whence they had come—a broad sheet of flame, casting a threatening light upon the clouds, which glimmered as though the conflagration were behind them, and showed like a wrathful sunset.

‘My mind misgives me,’ said the horseman, ‘or I know from what far building those flames come. Don’t stand aghast, my good fellow. Open the gate!’

‘Sir,’ cried the man, laying his hand upon his horse’s bridle as he let him through: ‘I know you now, sir; be advised by me; do not go on. I saw them pass, and know what kind of men they are. You will be murdered.’

‘So be it!’ said the horseman, looking intently towards the fire, and not at him who spoke.

‘But sir—sir,’ cried the man, grasping at his rein more tightly yet, ‘if you do go on, wear the blue riband. Here, sir,’ he added, taking one from his own hat, ‘it’s necessity, not choice, that makes me wear it; it’s love of life and home, sir. Wear it for this one night, sir; only for this one night.’

‘Do!’ cried the three friends, pressing round his horse. ‘Mr Haredale—worthy sir—good gentleman—pray be persuaded.’

‘Who’s that?’ cried Mr Haredale, stooping down to look. ‘Did I hear Daisy’s voice?’

‘You did, sir,’ cried the little man. ‘Do be persuaded, sir. This gentleman says very true. Your life may hang upon it.’

‘Are you,’ said Mr Haredale abruptly, ‘afraid to come with me?’

‘I, sir?—N-n-no.’

‘Put that riband in your hat. If we meet the rioters, swear that I took you prisoner for wearing it. I will tell them so with my own lips; for as I hope for mercy when I die, I will take no quarter from them, nor shall they have quarter from me, if we come hand to hand to-night. Up here—behind me—quick! Clasp me tight round the body, and fear nothing.’

In an instant they were riding away, at full gallop, in a dense cloud of dust, and speeding on, like hunters in a dream.

It was well the good horse knew the road he traversed, for never once—no, never once in all the journey—did Mr Haredale cast his eyes upon the ground, or turn them, for an instant, from the light towards which they sped so madly. Once he said in a low voice, ‘It is my house,’ but that was the only time he spoke. When they came to dark and doubtful places, he never forgot to put his hand upon the little man to hold him more securely in his seat, but he kept his head erect and his eyes fixed on the fire, then, and always.

The road was dangerous enough, for they went the nearest way—headlong—far from the highway—by lonely lanes and paths, where waggon-wheels had worn deep ruts; where hedge and ditch hemmed in the narrow strip of ground; and tall trees, arching overhead, made it profoundly dark. But on, on, on, with neither stop nor stumble, till they reached the Maypole door, and could plainly see that the fire began to fade, as if for want of fuel.

Capitolo 56

I fedeli seguaci del palo di maggio, che non sospettavano affatto il cambiamento imminente nel loro luogo preferito di ritrovo, percorrevano i sentieri della foresta dirigendosi verso Londra; evitando la strada principale, calda e polverosa, preferivano i sentieri secondari e i campi. Man mano che si avvicinavano alla loro destinazione, iniziarono a chiedere informazioni alle persone che incrociavano riguardo ai disordini e alla veridicità delle storie che avevano sentito. Le risposte andavano ben oltre qualsiasi notizia fosse giunta fino al tranquillo Chigwell. Un uomo disse loro che quel pomeriggio le guardie, mentre trasportavano alcuni rivoltosi ricondotti in prigione a Newgate, erano state assalite dalla folla e costrette a ritirarsi; un altro raccontò che le case di due testimoni vicino al Clare Market stavano per essere demolite quando se n’era andato; un terzo aggiunse che la casa di Sir George Saville nei Leicester Fields sarebbe stata data alle fiamme quella notte, e che Sir George avrebbe avuto grandi guai se fosse caduto nelle mani della gente, poiché era stato lui ad introdurre il progetto legale a favore dei cattolici. Tutti concordavano sul fatto che la folla fosse uscita in strada in numero molto maggiore rispetto alle volte precedenti; che le strade fossero pericolose; che nessuna casa né vita umana fossero al sicuro; che il panico pubblico aumentasse di momento in momento; e che molte famiglie avessero già abbandonato la città. Un uomo che indossava il colore simbolo della folla li rimproverò per non avere le cocche sui cappelli, e li esortò a tenere d’occhio la sera seguente le porte della prigione, poiché i lucchetti sarebbero stati probabilmente forzati; un altro chiese se quelle case fossero resistenti al fuoco, dato che loro uscivano in strada senza il segno distintivo di tutti gli uomini onesti e veritieri. Un terzo, che viaggiava da solo a cavallo, ordinò loro di gettare ciascuno un penny nel proprio cappello a sostegno dei rivoltosi. Sebbene temessero di rifiutare questa richiesta e fossero molto allarmati da queste notizie, decisero comunque di proseguire per vedere con i propri occhi la situazione reale. Così accelerarono il passo, come fanno le persone eccitate da notizie infauste; riflettendo su quanto avevano sentito, parlavano poco tra loro.

Era ormai notte, e man mano che si avvicinavano alla città, ebbero una triste conferma di queste informazioni: tre grandi incendi, tutti vicini tra loro, bruciavano con violenza e le loro fiamme si riflettevano cupamente nel cielo. Arrivati nei sobborghi immediatamente circostanti, scoprirono che quasi ogni casa aveva sulla porta scritto a grandi caratteri “Niente Papismo”; i negozi erano chiusi, e in ogni volto che incrociavano si leggevano segni di allarme e ansia.

Notando queste cose con un certo grado di apprensione che nessuno dei tre volle condividere completamente con i suoi compagni, arrivarono davanti a un casello chiuso. Mentre stavano attraversando il tornello sul sentiero, un cavaliere arrivò da Londra al galoppo e chiamò il custode del casello con voce molto agitata, pregandolo di aprire immediatamente in nome di Dio.

Quell’invocazione era così sincera e appassionata che l’uomo, con una lanterna in mano, corse fuori di casa, nonostante fosse il custode della porta, e stava per aprirla quando, guardando indietro, esclamò: “Mio Dio, cos’è quello? Un altro incendio!”

In quel momento, i tre girarono la testa e videro in lontananza – esattamente nella direzione da cui erano venuti – un vasto alone di fiamme che proiettava una luce minacciosa sulle nuvole; queste brillavano come se l’incendio si trovasse alle loro spalle, formando un paesaggio simile a un tramonto furioso.

“Mi sembra strano, ”, disse il cavaliere, “so da quale distanza provengono quelle fiamme. Non spaventarti, mio buon amico. Apri il cancello!”

“Signore,” gridò l’uomo, mettendo la mano sulla briglia del suo cavallo mentre lo lasciava passare: “Ora vi riconosco, signore; ascoltatemi: non andate avanti. Li ho visti passare e so di che tipo di persone si tratta. Vi uccideranno.”

“Che sia così!” disse il cavaliere, guardando attentamente verso la fiamma, e non verso colui che aveva parlato.

“Ma signore, signore,” gridò l’uomo, stringendo ancora di più le redini, “se proprio deve andare, indossi almeno il nastro blu. Ecco, signore,” aggiunse, prendendone uno dal proprio cappello, “è la necessità, non una scelta personale, a costringermi a portarlo; è l’amore per la vita e per la casa, signore. Indossatelo solo questa notte, signore, solo per questa notte.”

“Fatelo!”, gridarono i tre amici, stringendosi intorno al suo cavallo. “Signor Haredale, nobile signore, gentile uomo, vi preghiamo, lasciatevi convincere.”

“Chi è?” gridò il signor Haredale, chinandosi per guardare. “Ho sentito la voce di Daisy?”

“Lo avete fatto, signore,” gridò il piccolo uomo. “Per favore, credetemi: quest’uomo dice la verità. La vostra vita potrebbe dipendere da questo.”

“Lei ha paura di venire con me?”, chiese bruscamente il signor Haredale.

“Io, signore?. No.”

“Metti quella striscia di stoffa nel tuo cappello. Se incontriamo quei ribelli, giura che ti ho preso prigioniero perché la indossavi. Lo dirò loro con le mie stesse parole; perché, così come spero nella misericordia quando morirò, non avrò pietà per loro, e nemmeno loro ne avranno per me, se dovremo affrontarci di persona. Di notte. Vieni qui, dietro di me. Presto! Abbracciami forte attorno al -corpo e non avere paura di nulla.”

In un istante se ne andarono al galoppo, tra una densa nuvola di polvere, e continuarono la loro corsa come cacciatori in un sogno.

Era proprio perché il buon cavallo conosceva bene la strada che percorreva; infatti, nemmeno una volta – no, mai una sola volta durante tutto il viaggio– il signor Haredale abbassò lo sguardo a terra, né lo distolse, nemmeno per un istante, dalla luce verso cui si dirigeva con tanta frenesia. Una volta disse a bassa voce: “È la mia casa, ”, ma quella fu l’unica volta che parlò. Quando arrivavano in luoghi bui e incerti, non dimenticava mai di posare una mano sul piccolo uomo per tenerlo più saldamente seduto; teneva sempre la testa alta e lo sguardo fisso sul fuoco, allora come sempre.

La strada era già abbastanza pericolosa; così decisero di prendere la strada più breve, diretta e lontana dall’autostrada, attraverso sentieri solitari dove le ruote dei carri avevano lasciato profonde orme; dove siepi e fossati delimitavano quella stretta striscia di terreno; e dove alberi alti, con i loro rami intrecciati, creavano un’oscurità profonda. Ma continuarono ad andare avanti, senza mai fermarsi o inciampare, fino a quando non raggiunsero la porta della casa vicino al palo di maggio e videro chiaramente che il fuoco stava iniziando a spegnersi, forse per mancanza di combustibile.

‘Down—for one moment—for but one moment,’ said Mr Haredale, helping Daisy to the ground, and following himself. ‘Willet—Willet—where are my niece and servants—Willet!’

Crying to him distractedly, he rushed into the bar.—The landlord bound and fastened to his chair; the place dismantled, stripped, and pulled about his ears;—nobody could have taken shelter here.

He was a strong man, accustomed to restrain himself, and suppress his strong emotions; but this preparation for what was to follow—though he had seen that fire burning, and knew that his house must be razed to the ground—was more than he could bear. He covered his face with his hands for a moment, and turned away his head.

‘Johnny, Johnny,’ said Solomon—and the simple-hearted fellow cried outright, and wrung his hands—‘Oh dear old Johnny, here’s a change! That the Maypole bar should come to this, and we should live to see it! The old Warren too, Johnny—Mr Haredale—oh, Johnny, what a piteous sight this is!’

Pointing to Mr Haredale as he said these words, little Solomon Daisy put his elbows on the back of Mr Willet’s chair, and fairly blubbered on his shoulder.

While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staring at him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible symptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was silent again, John followed with his great round eyes the direction of his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that somebody had come to see him.

‘You know us, don’t you, Johnny?’ said the little clerk, rapping himself on the breast. ‘Daisy, you know—Chigwell Church—bell-ringer—little desk on Sundays—eh, Johnny?’

Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it were mechanically: ‘Let us sing to the praise and glory of—’

‘Yes, to be sure,’ cried the little man, hastily; ‘that’s it—that’s me, Johnny. You’re all right now, an’t you? Say you’re all right, Johnny.’

‘All right?’ pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely between himself and his conscience. ‘All right? Ah!’

‘They haven’t been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any other blunt instruments—have they, Johnny?’ asked Solomon, with a very anxious glance at Mr Willet’s head. ‘They didn’t beat you, did they?’

John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engaged in some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the total would not come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to his shoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar. And then a great, round, leaden-looking, and not at all transparent tear, came rolling out of each eye, and he said, as he shook his head:

‘If they’d only had the goodness to murder me, I’d have thanked ‘em kindly.’

‘No, no, no, don’t say that, Johnny,’ whimpered his little friend. ‘It’s very, very bad, but not quite so bad as that. No, no!’

‘Look’ee here, sir!’ cried John, turning his rueful eyes on Mr Haredale, who had dropped on one knee, and was hastily beginning to untie his bonds. ‘Look’ee here, sir! The very Maypole—the old dumb Maypole—stares in at the winder, as if it said, “John Willet, John Willet, let’s go and pitch ourselves in the nighest pool of water as is deep enough to hold us; for our day is over!”’

‘Don’t, Johnny, don’t,’ cried his friend: no less affected with this mournful effort of Mr Willet’s imagination, than by the sepulchral tone in which he had spoken of the Maypole. ‘Please don’t, Johnny!’

‘Your loss is great, and your misfortune a heavy one,’ said Mr Haredale, looking restlessly towards the door: ‘and this is not a time to comfort you. If it were, I am in no condition to do so. Before I leave you, tell me one thing, and try to tell me plainly, I implore you. Have you seen, or heard of Emma?’

‘No!’ said Mr Willet.

‘Nor any one but these bloodhounds?’

‘No!’

‘They rode away, I trust in Heaven, before these dreadful scenes began,’ said Mr Haredale, who, between his agitation, his eagerness to mount his horse again, and the dexterity with which the cords were tied, had scarcely yet undone one knot. ‘A knife, Daisy!’

‘You didn’t,’ said John, looking about, as though he had lost his pocket-handkerchief, or some such slight article—‘either of you gentlemen—see a—a coffin anywheres, did you?’

‘Willet!’ cried Mr Haredale. Solomon dropped the knife, and instantly becoming limp from head to foot, exclaimed ‘Good gracious!’

‘—Because,’ said John, not at all regarding them, ‘a dead man called a little time ago, on his way yonder. I could have told you what name was on the plate, if he had brought his coffin with him, and left it behind. If he didn’t, it don’t signify.’

His landlord, who had listened to these words with breathless attention, started that moment to his feet; and, without a word, drew Solomon Daisy to the door, mounted his horse, took him up behind again, and flew rather than galloped towards the pile of ruins, which that day’s sun had shone upon, a stately house. Mr Willet stared after them, listened, looked down upon himself to make quite sure that he was still unbound, and, without any manifestation of impatience, disappointment, or surprise, gently relapsed into the condition from which he had so imperfectly recovered.

Mr Haredale tied his horse to the trunk of a tree, and grasping his companion’s arm, stole softly along the footpath, and into what had been the garden of his house. He stopped for an instant to look upon its smoking walls, and at the stars that shone through roof and floor upon the heap of crumbling ashes. Solomon glanced timidly in his face, but his lips were tightly pressed together, a resolute and stern expression sat upon his brow, and not a tear, a look, or gesture indicating grief, escaped him.

He drew his sword; felt for a moment in his breast, as though he carried other arms about him; then grasping Solomon by the wrist again, went with a cautious step all round the house. He looked into every doorway and gap in the wall; retraced his steps at every rustling of the air among the leaves; and searched in every shadowed nook with outstretched hands. Thus they made the circuit of the building: but they returned to the spot from which they had set out, without encountering any human being, or finding the least trace of any concealed straggler.

“Giù, per un momento solo, per un breve istante,” disse il signor Haredale, aiutando Daisy a mettersi a terra e seguendola subito dopo. “Willet. Willet, dove sono mia nipote e i miei servitori. Willet!”

Piangendo distrattamente, si precipitò nel bar. Il proprietario lo legò saldamente alla sedia; il locale fu smantellato, svuotato e messo a soqquadro. Nessuno avrebbe potuto trovare rifugio lì dentro.

Era un uomo forte, abituato a trattenersi e a soffocare le proprie emozioni forti; ma questa preparazione a ciò che stava per accadere – nonostante avesse visto quel fuoco ardere e sapesse che la sua casa sarebbe stata rasa al suolo – era qualcosa che non riusciva a sopportare. Si coprì il viso con le mani per un momento, poi distolse lo sguardo.

“Johnny, Johnny,” disse Solomon. E quel ragazzo dal cuore semplice scoppiò in lacrime, stringendosi le mani: “Oh caro vecchio Johnny, che cambiamento. Che il palo di maggio possa finire in questo modo. E che noi possiamo viverci per assistervi! Anche il vecchio Warren. Il signor Haredale. Oh, Johnny, che vista così triste, ”

Indicando il signor Haredale mentre pronunciava queste parole, il piccolo Solomon Daisy appoggiò i gomiti sullo schienale della sedia del signor Willet e scoppiò in lacrime sulla sua spalla.

Mentre Solomon parlava, il vecchio John sedeva in silenzio, immobile come un pesce congelato, fissandolo con uno sguardo strano e mostrando, con ogni segno possibile, di essere completamente privo di coscienza. Ma quando Solomon tacque di nuovo, John seguì con i suoi grandi occhi rotondi la direzione del suo sguardo, e sembrò davvero avere l’impressione che qualcuno fosse venuto a trovarlo.

“Ci conosci, vero, Johnny?” disse il piccolo impiegato, battendosi il petto. “Daisy, la chiesa di Chigwell, il campanaro, il piccolo banco al servizio domenicale, eh, Johnny?”

Il signor Willet rifletté per alcuni momenti, poi mormorò, quasi meccanicamente: “Cantiamo in lode e gloria di, ”

“Sì, sicuramente,” gridò il piccolo uomo in fretta; “è proprio io, sono Johnny. Ora stai bene, vero? Dimmi che stai bene, Johnny.”

“Va bene?” rifletté il signor Willet, come se si trattasse di una questione esclusivamente tra lui e la sua coscienza. “Va bene? Ah!”

“Non ti hanno maltrattato usando bastoni, pugnali o altri strumenti appuntiti, vero, Johnny?” chiese Solomon, guardando con grande ansia la testa del signor Willet. “Non ti hanno picchiato, giusto?”

John si aggrottò la fronte; guardò verso il basso, come se stesse facendo un calcolo aritmetico nella sua mente; poi alzò lo sguardo, come se il risultato non fosse quello che si aspettava; quindi fissò Solomon Daisy, dalla sua fronte fino alla fibbia della scarpa; infine, molto lentamente, le lacrime cominciarono a scorrere giù dai suoi occhi. Erano grandi, rotonde, sembravano di piombo e assolutamente trasparenti. E lui, scuotendo la testa, disse:

“Se solo avessero avuto la gentilezza di uccidermi, gliene sarei stato grato, ”

“No, no, no, non dirlo, Johnny,” singhiozzò il suo piccolo amico. “È molto, molto grave, ma non così terribile. No, no!”

“Guardate qui, signore!”, gridò John, rivolgendo i suoi occhi pieni di rammarico verso il signor Haredale, che si era inginocchiato e stava rapidamente cercando di sciogliere le corde che lo legavano. “Guardate qui, signore! Quel vecchio palo di maggio, sembra fissare il vento, come se dicesse: ‘John Willet, andiamo a gettarci nel primo stagno d’acqua abbastanza profondo da trascinarci via; perché il nostro tempo è finito!’”

“Non farlo, Johnny, per favore,” gridò il suo amico: altrettanto commosso da questo triste sforzo dell’immaginazione del signor Willet, quanto dal tono funebre con cui aveva parlato del palo di maggio. “Per favore, non farlo, Johnny!”

“La tua perdita è grande, e la tua sfortuna molto grave,” disse il signor Haredale, guardando con inquietudine verso la porta: “e questo non è il momento adatto per consolarti. Anche se lo fosse, io non sono nelle condizioni di farlo. Prima di andarmene, dimmi una cosa, e cerca di dirmela chiaramente, te ne prego. Hai visto o sentito parlare di Emma?”

“No!”, disse il signor Willet.

“Nessuno altro oltre a questi cani da caccia?”

‘No!’

“Se ne sono andati, confido nel Cielo, prima che iniziassero queste terribili scene,” disse il signor Haredale, il quale, a causa del suo agitamento, della sua fretta di montare di nuovo sul proprio cavallo e della destrezza con cui aveva legato le corde, non era ancora riuscito a sciogliere nemmeno un nodo. “Una coltello, Daisy!”

“Non l’avete fatto,” disse John, guardandosi intorno come se avesse perso il fazzoletto da tasca o qualche altro oggetto insignificante, “Nessuno di voi due, signori, ha visto una bara da qualche parte, per caso?”

“Willet!” gridò il signor Haredale. Solomon lasciò cadere il coltello e, all’istante, diventando inerte dalla testa ai piedi, esclamò: “Mio Dio!”

“–Perché,” disse John, senza preoccuparsi affatto di loro, “un uomo morto è passato di lì poco fa. Avrei potuto dirvi quale nome c’era sulla targa, se avesse portato con sé la sua bara e l’avesse lasciata qui. Ma se non l’ha fatto, non significa nulla.”

Il suo padrone di casa, che aveva ascoltato queste parole con attenzione spasmodica, si alzò in piedi all’istante; senza dire una parola, trascinò Solomon Daisy verso la porta, montò sul proprio cavallo, lo fece salire dietro di sé e partì a tutta velocità, più che galoppare, verso quella rovina che quel giorno il sole aveva illuminato, un’antica e maestosa casa. Il signor Willet li guardò allontanarsi, ascoltò attentamente, si guardò intorno per assicurarsi di essere ancora libero, e, senza mostrare alcuna impazienza, delusione o sorpresa, tornò lentamente alla condizione in cui si trovava prima, una condizione da cui non era riuscito a liberarsi completamente.

Il signor Haredale legò il suo cavallo al tronco di un albero, afferrò il braccio del suo compagno e si avviò silenziosamente lungo il sentiero, fino a raggiungere ciò che un tempo era stato il giardino della sua casa. Si fermò per un istante ad osservare le sue mura fumanti e le stelle che brillavano attraverso il tetto e il pavimento, illuminando la pila di ceneri. Solomon lo guardò timidamente, ma le sue labbra erano strette; sul suo volto si leggeva un’espressione risoluta e severa, e non sfuggì nemmeno una lacrima, uno sguardo o un gesto che potesse indicare dolore.

Estrasse la sua _spada; per un momento sentì qualcosa nel proprio petto, come se avesse altre braccia intorno a sé; poi, afferrando di nuovo Solomon per il polso, procedette con passi cauti intorno all’intera _casa. Guardò in ogni porta e in ogni fessura del muro; tornò indietro ogni volta che si sentiva un fruscio tra le _foglie; esaminò ogni angolo buio, tendendo le mani verso l’interno. Così fecero il giro dell’edificio, ma tornarono al punto di partenza senza incontrare alcuna persona, né trovare la minima traccia di qualcuno nascosto lì dentro.

After a short pause, Mr Haredale shouted twice or thrice. Then cried aloud, ‘Is there any one in hiding here, who knows my voice! There is nothing to fear now. If any of my people are near, I entreat them to answer!’ He called them all by name; his voice was echoed in many mournful tones; then all was silent as before.

They were standing near the foot of the turret, where the alarm-bell hung. The fire had raged there, and the floors had been sawn, and hewn, and beaten down, besides. It was open to the night; but a part of the staircase still remained, winding upward from a great mound of dust and cinders. Fragments of the jagged and broken steps offered an insecure and giddy footing here and there, and then were lost again, behind protruding angles of the wall, or in the deep shadows cast upon it by other portions of the ruin; for by this time the moon had risen, and shone brightly.

As they stood here, listening to the echoes as they died away, and hoping in vain to hear a voice they knew, some of the ashes in this turret slipped and rolled down. Startled by the least noise in that melancholy place, Solomon looked up in his companion’s face, and saw that he had turned towards the spot, and that he watched and listened keenly.

He covered the little man’s mouth with his hand, and looked again. Instantly, with kindling eyes, he bade him on his life keep still, and neither speak nor move. Then holding his breath, and stooping down, he stole into the turret, with his drawn sword in his hand, and disappeared.

Terrified to be left there by himself, under such desolate circumstances, and after all he had seen and heard that night, Solomon would have followed, but there had been something in Mr Haredale’s manner and his look, the recollection of which held him spellbound. He stood rooted to the spot; and scarcely venturing to breathe, looked up with mingled fear and wonder.

Again the ashes slipped and rolled—very, very softly—again—and then again, as though they crumbled underneath the tread of a stealthy foot. And now a figure was dimly visible; climbing very softly; and often stopping to look down; now it pursued its difficult way; and now it was hidden from the view again.

It emerged once more, into the shadowy and uncertain light—higher now, but not much, for the way was steep and toilsome, and its progress very slow. What phantom of the brain did he pursue; and why did he look down so constantly? He knew he was alone. Surely his mind was not affected by that night’s loss and agony. He was not about to throw himself headlong from the summit of the tottering wall. Solomon turned sick, and clasped his hands. His limbs trembled beneath him, and a cold sweat broke out upon his pallid face.

If he complied with Mr Haredale’s last injunction now, it was because he had not the power to speak or move. He strained his gaze, and fixed it on a patch of moonlight, into which, if he continued to ascend, he must soon emerge. When he appeared there, he would try to call to him.

Again the ashes slipped and crumbled; some stones rolled down, and fell with a dull, heavy sound upon the ground below. He kept his eyes upon the piece of moonlight. The figure was coming on, for its shadow was already thrown upon the wall. Now it appeared—and now looked round at him—and now—

The horror-stricken clerk uttered a scream that pierced the air, and cried, ‘The ghost! The ghost!’

Long before the echo of his cry had died away, another form rushed out into the light, flung itself upon the foremost one, knelt down upon its breast, and clutched its throat with both hands.

‘Villain!’ cried Mr Haredale, in a terrible voice—for it was he. ‘Dead and buried, as all men supposed through your infernal arts, but reserved by Heaven for this—at last—at last I have you. You, whose hands are red with my brother’s blood, and that of his faithful servant, shed to conceal your own atrocious guilt—You, Rudge, double murderer and monster, I arrest you in the name of God, who has delivered you into my hands. No. Though you had the strength of twenty men,’ he added, as the murderer writhed and struggled, ‘you could not escape me or loosen my grasp to-night!’

Dopo una breve pausa, il signor Haredale gridò due o tre volte. Poi esclamò ad alta voce: “C’è qualcuno qui nascosto che riconosca la mia voce? Non c’è più nulla da temere. Se qualcuno dei miei uomini è nelle vicinanze, lo prego di rispondere!” Chiamò tutti per nome; la sua voce echeggiò in molti toni tristi. Poi tutto tornò silenzioso come prima.

Stavano in piedi vicino alla base della torre, dove pendeva la campana d’allarme. L’incendio aveva devastato quella zona: i pavimenti erano stati tagliati, distrutti e abbattuti. Era aperto verso la notte, ma una parte della scala era ancora intatta, serpeggiando verso l’alto tra grandi mucchi di polvere e ceneri. Frammenti dei gradini frastagliati offrivano un appoggio instabile e pericoloso; poi scomparivano di nuovo dietro angoli sporgenti del muro o nelle profonde ombre proiettate dalle altre parti delle rovine. A quel momento, infatti, la luna era già sorta e brillava intensamente.

Mentre stavano lì ad ascoltare gli echi che si spegnevano lentamente, sperando invano di sentire una voce che conoscevano, alcune ceneri presenti in quella torre scivolarono e rotolarono giù. Sorpreso dal minimo rumore in quel luogo melancolico, Solomon alzò lo sguardo sul volto del suo compagno e vide che questi si era girato verso quel punto, osservandolo e ascoltando con attenzione.

Gli coprì la bocca con la mano e guardò di nuovo. All’istante, con gli occhi pieni di gentilezza, gli ordinò con fermezza di stare fermo, senza parlare né muoversi. Poi trattenendo il respiro e chinandosi, entrò furtivamente nella torre, con la sua _spada sguainata in mano, e scomparve.

Spaventato all’idea di essere lasciato lì da solo, in circostanze così desolate, e dopo tutto ciò che aveva visto e sentito quella notte, Solomon avrebbe voluto seguirlo. Ma c’era qualcosa nel modo di fare e nello sguardo del signor Haredale che lo immobilizzava; non osava quasi respirare, e alzava lo sguardo con un misto di paura e stupore.

Di nuovo le ceneri scivolarono e rotolarono, molto, molto lentamente, ancora una volta, e poi ancora, come se si sbriciolassero sotto il passo di un piede furtivo. Ora una figura era appena visibile; saliva molto silenziosamente, fermandosi spesso per guardare in basso; a volte proseguiva nel suo difficile cammino, altre volte spariva di nuovo dalla vista.

Riemerse ancora una volta, nella luce oscura e incerta, ora più in alto, ma di poco, perché il percorso era ripido e faticoso, e il suo avanzamento molto lento. Quale fantasma del proprio cervello stava inseguendo? E perché guardava costantemente verso il basso? Sapeva di essere sicuramente solo. Di certo la sua mente non era stata influenzata da quella perdita e da quell’agonia vissute quella notte. Non stava certo per gettarsi giù dal vertice di quel muro traballante. Solomon si sentì male, strinse le mani; le sue membra tremavano, e un sudore freddo gli apparve sul viso pallido.

Se ora obbediva all’ultima richiesta del signor Haredale, era perché non aveva la forza di parlare né di muoversi. Strinse lo sguardo e lo fissò su un raggio di luna: se avesse continuato a “salire” verso quella luce, presto sarebbe emerso. Quando fosse apparso lì, avrebbe provato a chiamarlo.

Di nuovo le ceneri scivolarono e si sbriciolarono; alcune pietre rotolarono giù, cadendo con un suono cupo e pesante sul terreno sottostante. Lui continuava a fissare quel raggio di luna. La figura stava avvicinandosi, perché la sua ombra era già proiettata sulla parete. Ora apparve, ora si guardò intorno, ora.

Il commesso, preso dal terrore, emise un urlo che riecheggiò nell’aria e gridò: “Lo fantasma! Lo fantasma!”

Molto prima che l’eco del suo grido si spegnesse, un’altra figura uscì di corsa nella luce, si gettò addosso alla prima, si inginocchiò sul suo petto e le strinse la gola con entrambe le mani.

“‘Il mostro!’ gridò il signor Haredale con una voce terribile, perché era proprio lui. ‘Morto e sepolto, come tutti credevano a causa delle tue infernali arti, ma riservato dal Cielo per questo momento. Finalmente ti ho catturato! Tu, il cui sangue è macchiato dal sangue di mio fratello e da quello del suo fedele servitore, versato soltanto per nascondere la tua atroce colpa. Tu, Rudge, doppio assassino e mostro. Ti arresto in nome di Dio, che ti ha consegnato nelle mie mani. No. Anche se avessi la forza di venti uomini,’ aggiunse mentre l’assassino si contorceva e lottava disperatamente, ‘non riusciresti a sfuggirmi né a liberarti dalla mia presa, nemmeno di notte!’”

Chapter 57

Barnaby, armed as we have seen, continued to pace up and down before the stable-door; glad to be alone again, and heartily rejoicing in the unaccustomed silence and tranquillity. After the whirl of noise and riot in which the last two days had been passed, the pleasures of solitude and peace were enhanced a thousandfold. He felt quite happy; and as he leaned upon his staff and mused, a bright smile overspread his face, and none but cheerful visions floated into his brain.

Had he no thoughts of her, whose sole delight he was, and whom he had unconsciously plunged in such bitter sorrow and such deep affliction? Oh, yes. She was at the heart of all his cheerful hopes and proud reflections. It was she whom all this honour and distinction were to gladden; the joy and profit were for her. What delight it gave her to hear of the bravery of her poor boy! Ah! He would have known that, without Hugh’s telling him. And what a precious thing it was to know she lived so happily, and heard with so much pride (he pictured to himself her look when they told her) that he was in such high esteem: bold among the boldest, and trusted before them all! And when these frays were over, and the good lord had conquered his enemies, and they were all at peace again, and he and she were rich, what happiness they would have in talking of these troubled times when he was a great soldier: and when they sat alone together in the tranquil twilight, and she had no longer reason to be anxious for the morrow, what pleasure would he have in the reflection that this was his doing—his—poor foolish Barnaby’s; and in patting her on the cheek, and saying with a merry laugh, ‘Am I silly now, mother—am I silly now?’

With a lighter heart and step, and eyes the brighter for the happy tear that dimmed them for a moment, Barnaby resumed his walk; and singing gaily to himself, kept guard upon his quiet post.

His comrade Grip, the partner of his watch, though fond of basking in the sunshine, preferred to-day to walk about the stable; having a great deal to do in the way of scattering the straw, hiding under it such small articles as had been casually left about, and haunting Hugh’s bed, to which he seemed to have taken a particular attachment. Sometimes Barnaby looked in and called him, and then he came hopping out; but he merely did this as a concession to his master’s weakness, and soon returned again to his own grave pursuits: peering into the straw with his bill, and rapidly covering up the place, as if, Midas-like, he were whispering secrets to the earth and burying them; constantly busying himself upon the sly; and affecting, whenever Barnaby came past, to look up in the clouds and have nothing whatever on his mind: in short, conducting himself, in many respects, in a more than usually thoughtful, deep, and mysterious manner.

As the day crept on, Barnaby, who had no directions forbidding him to eat and drink upon his post, but had been, on the contrary, supplied with a bottle of beer and a basket of provisions, determined to break his fast, which he had not done since morning. To this end, he sat down on the ground before the door, and putting his staff across his knees in case of alarm or surprise, summoned Grip to dinner.

This call, the bird obeyed with great alacrity; crying, as he sidled up to his master, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a Polly, I’m a kettle, I’m a Protestant, No Popery!’ Having learnt this latter sentiment from the gentry among whom he had lived of late, he delivered it with uncommon emphasis.

‘Well said, Grip!’ cried his master, as he fed him with the daintiest bits. ‘Well said, old boy!’

‘Never say die, bow wow wow, keep up your spirits, Grip Grip Grip, Holloa! We’ll all have tea, I’m a Protestant kettle, No Popery!’ cried the raven.

‘Gordon for ever, Grip!’ cried Barnaby.

The raven, placing his head upon the ground, looked at his master sideways, as though he would have said, ‘Say that again!’ Perfectly understanding his desire, Barnaby repeated the phrase a great many times. The bird listened with profound attention; sometimes repeating the popular cry in a low voice, as if to compare the two, and try if it would at all help him to this new accomplishment; sometimes flapping his wings, or barking; and sometimes in a kind of desperation drawing a multitude of corks, with extraordinary viciousness.

Barnaby was so intent upon his favourite, that he was not at first aware of the approach of two persons on horseback, who were riding at a foot-pace, and coming straight towards his post. When he perceived them, however, which he did when they were within some fifty yards of him, he jumped hastily up, and ordering Grip within doors, stood with both hands on his staff, waiting until he should know whether they were friends or foes.

He had hardly done so, when he observed that those who advanced were a gentleman and his servant; almost at the same moment he recognised Lord George Gordon, before whom he stood uncovered, with his eyes turned towards the ground.

‘Good day!’ said Lord George, not reining in his horse until he was close beside him. ‘Well!’

‘All quiet, sir, all safe!’ cried Barnaby. ‘The rest are away—they went by that path—that one. A grand party!’

‘Ay?’ said Lord George, looking thoughtfully at him. ‘And you?’

‘Oh! They left me here to watch—to mount guard—to keep everything secure till they come back. I’ll do it, sir, for your sake. You’re a good gentleman; a kind gentleman—ay, you are. There are many against you, but we’ll be a match for them, never fear!’

‘What’s that?’ said Lord George—pointing to the raven who was peeping out of the stable-door—but still looking thoughtfully, and in some perplexity, it seemed, at Barnaby.

‘Why, don’t you know!’ retorted Barnaby, with a wondering laugh. ‘Not know what HE is! A bird, to be sure. My bird—my friend—Grip.’

Capitolo 57

Barnaby, armato come abbiamo visto, continuava ad andare avanti e indietro davanti alla porta dello stallo; felice di essere di nuovo solo, si rallegrava profondamente per quel silenzio e quella tranquillità insoliti. Dopo il caos e le follie dei due giorni precedenti, i piaceri della solitudine e della pace sembravano mille volte più intensi. Si sentiva davvero felice; appoggiato al suo bastone e immerso nei suoi pensieri, un sorriso radioso gli apparve sul viso, e nella sua mente non volevano sorgere che immagini gioiose.

Non aveva forse alcun pensiero per lei, la cui unica gioia era lui stesso, e che aveva inconsapevolmente gettato in tanta amara tristezza e profonda sofferenza? Oh sì. Lei era al centro di tutte le sue speranze gioiose e dei suoi pensieri orgogliosi. Era per lei che tutta questa onore e distinzione erano destinate a portare felicità; la gioia e il beneficio derivavano tutti da lei. Quanto le doveva essere piacevole sentire parlare del coraggio di suo figlio povero. Ah! Avrebbe potuto saperlo anche senza che Hugh glielo dicesse. E quanto era prezioso sapere che viveva così felicemente, e che ascoltava con tanta orgoglio (si immaginava il suo viso quando le veniva detto) che era tanto stimato. Coraggioso tra i più coraggiosi, e ammirato da tutti! E quando tutte queste difficoltà fossero finite, e il buon Signore avesse sconfitto i suoi nemici, e tutto sarebbe tornato alla pace. Quando lui e lei fossero stati ricchi. Quanta felicità avrebbero provato a parlare di quei tempi difficili in cui lui era stato un grande soldato. E quando si sarebbero seduti da soli nella tranquilla penombra del crepuscolo, e lei non avesse più motivo di preoccuparsi per il domani. Quanta gioia avrebbe provato nel pensare che tutto ciò era stato frutto delle sue azioni, delle sue, povere, sciocche azioni. E nel accarezzarle la guancia, dicendole con una risata allegra: “Sono davvero stupido adesso, mamma, sono davvero stupido adesso?”

Con un cuore più leggero e passi più spediti, e occhi ancora più luminosi per quella lacrima di felicità che per un momento li aveva offuscati, Barnaby riprese il suo cammino; cantando allegramente tra sé, continuò a vigilare sul proprio tranquillo incarico.

Il suo compagno Grip, il partner di guardia, sebbene amasse godersi il sole, preferì oggi passeggiare nella stalla; aveva molto da fare: spargere la paglia, nascondere sotto di essa piccoli oggetti lasciati lì per caso e “infestare” il letto di Hugh, al quale sembrava essersi particolarmente affezionato. A volte Barnaby lo chiamava, e allora lui usciva saltellando; ma lo faceva soltanto per concedere alla debolezza del suo padrone, per poi tornare subito alle sue occupazioni abituali: scrutare nella paglia con il becco e coprire rapidamente quei luoghi, come se, simile a Midas, stesse sussurrando “segreti” alla terra e seppellendoli; si occupava sempre di cose nascoste e, ogni volta che Barnaby gli passava accanto, fingeva di guardare le nuvole, come se non avesse nulla in mente. Insomma, si comportava, in molti modi, in modo più pensieroso, profondo e misterioso del solito.

Con l’avanzare della giornata, Barnaby, che non aveva ricevuto alcuna istruzione che gli vietasse di mangiare e bere sul posto di guardia, anzi era stato fornito di una bottiglia di birra e un cesto di provviste, decise di rompere il digiuno, che durava da tutta la mattina. Per questo scopo si sedette a terra davanti alla porta, posizionando il suo bastone sulle ginocchia per ogni evenienza imprevista, e chiamò Grip a cena.

A questo richiamo, l’uccello obbedì con grande sollecitudine; mentre si avvicinava al suo padrone, gridava: “Sono un diavolo, sono Polly, sono una pentola, sono un protestante. Niente papismo!” Avendo imparato quest’ultimo concetto dai nobili tra cui aveva vissuto di recente, lo esprimeva con particolare enfasi.

“Ben detto, Grip!” esclamò il suo padrone mentre gli dava da mangiare i pezzetti più deliziosi. “Ben detto, vecchio mio!”

“Mai dire mai, bow wow wow, tieni alto il morale, Grip Grip Grip. Holloa! Tutti avremo il tè, io sono una teiera protestante. Niente papismo!” gridò il corvo.

“Gordon per sempre, Grip!”, gridò Barnaby.

Il corvo, appoggiando la testa a terra, guardò il suo padrone di sbieco, come se volesse dire: “Ripetilo!” Comprendendo perfettamente il suo desiderio, Barnaby ripeté quella frase molte volte. L’uccello ascoltava con grande attenzione; a volte ripeteva quel grido popolare a bassa voce, come per confrontarli e vedere se potesse aiutarlo in questo nuovo tentativo; altre volte sbatteva le ali o abbaiava; e ancora altre volte, in un certo senso di disperazione, estraeva numerosi tappi con una violenza straordinaria.

Barnaby era così assorto nella sua attività preferita che all’inizio non si accorse dell’avvicinamento di due persone a cavallo; queste procedevano ad un passo lento e si dirigevano direttamente verso il suo posto di guardia. Tuttavia, quando le vide – quando erano ormai a circa cinquanta metri da lui – balzò in piedi rapidamente, ordinò a Grip di rimanere dentro casa e, appoggiandosi con entrambe le mani al suo bastone, attese per scoprire se si trattasse di amici o nemici.

Appena lo ebbe fatto, notò che coloro che si avvicinavano erano un gentiluomo e il suo servitore; quasi nello stesso istante riconobbe Lord George Gordon, davanti al quale si trovava in piedi senza coprirsi la testa, con lo sguardo rivolto a terra.

“Buongiorno!”, disse Lord George, senza frenare il suo cavallo finché non si trovò proprio accanto a lui. “Benissimo!”

“Tutto a posto, signore, siamo al sicuro!” gridò Barnaby. “Gli altri se ne sono andati, sono passati da quel sentiero. Quella strada lì. Una vera e propria festa!”

“Ah?” disse Lord George, guardandolo pensierosamente. “E tu?”

‘Oh! Mi hanno lasciato qui per fare la guardia, per assicurare che tutto rimanga al sicuro fino al loro ritorno. Lo farò, signore, per il vostro bene. Siete un gentiluomo davvero; un uomo buono e gentile. C’è molta gente contro di voi, ma noi saremo all’altezza, non temete mai!’

“Che cos’è quello?” disse Lord George, indicando il corvo che sbirciava fuori dalla porta dello stallo; sembrava però ancora assorto nei suoi pensieri, e anche un po’ perplesso, mentre fissava Barnaby.

“Ma come, non lo sai!” ribatté Barnaby, con una risata perplessa. “Non sai cosa è. Sicuramente un uccello. Il mio uccello, il mio amico. Grip.”

‘A devil, a kettle, a Grip, a Polly, a Protestant, no Popery!’ cried the raven.

‘Though, indeed,’ added Barnaby, laying his hand upon the neck of Lord George’s horse, and speaking softly: ‘you had good reason to ask me what he is, for sometimes it puzzles me—and I am used to him—to think he’s only a bird. He’s my brother, Grip is—always with me—always talking—always merry—eh, Grip?’

The raven answered by an affectionate croak, and hopping on his master’s arm, which he held downward for that purpose, submitted with an air of perfect indifference to be fondled, and turned his restless, curious eye, now upon Lord George, and now upon his man.

Lord George, biting his nails in a discomfited manner, regarded Barnaby for some time in silence; then beckoning to his servant, said:

‘Come hither, John.’

John Grueby touched his hat, and came.

‘Have you ever seen this young man before?’ his master asked in a low voice.

‘Twice, my lord,’ said John. ‘I saw him in the crowd last night and Saturday.’

‘Did—did it seem to you that his manner was at all wild or strange?’ Lord George demanded, faltering.

‘Mad,’ said John, with emphatic brevity.

‘And why do you think him mad, sir?’ said his master, speaking in a peevish tone. ‘Don’t use that word too freely. Why do you think him mad?’

‘My lord,’ John Grueby answered, ‘look at his dress, look at his eyes, look at his restless way, hear him cry “No Popery!” Mad, my lord.’

‘So because one man dresses unlike another,’ returned his angry master, glancing at himself; ‘and happens to differ from other men in his carriage and manner, and to advocate a great cause which the corrupt and irreligious desert, he is to be accounted mad, is he?’

‘Stark, staring, raving, roaring mad, my lord,’ returned the unmoved John.

‘Do you say this to my face?’ cried his master, turning sharply upon him.

‘To any man, my lord, who asks me,’ answered John.

‘Mr Gashford, I find, was right,’ said Lord George; ‘I thought him prejudiced, though I ought to have known a man like him better than to have supposed it possible!’

‘I shall never have Mr Gashford’s good word, my lord,’ replied John, touching his hat respectfully, ‘and I don’t covet it.’

‘You are an ill-conditioned, most ungrateful fellow,’ said Lord George: ‘a spy, for anything I know. Mr Gashford is perfectly correct, as I might have felt convinced he was. I have done wrong to retain you in my service. It is a tacit insult to him as my choice and confidential friend to do so, remembering the cause you sided with, on the day he was maligned at Westminster. You will leave me to-night—nay, as soon as we reach home. The sooner the better.’

‘If it comes to that, I say so too, my lord. Let Mr Gashford have his will. As to my being a spy, my lord, you know me better than to believe it, I am sure. I don’t know much about causes. My cause is the cause of one man against two hundred; and I hope it always will be.’

‘You have said quite enough,’ returned Lord George, motioning him to go back. ‘I desire to hear no more.’

‘If you’ll let me have another word, my lord,’ returned John Grueby, ‘I’d give this silly fellow a caution not to stay here by himself. The proclamation is in a good many hands already, and it’s well known that he was concerned in the business it relates to. He had better get to a place of safety if he can, poor creature.’

‘You hear what this man says?’ cried Lord George, addressing Barnaby, who had looked on and wondered while this dialogue passed. ‘He thinks you may be afraid to remain upon your post, and are kept here perhaps against your will. What do you say?’

‘I think, young man,’ said John, in explanation, ‘that the soldiers may turn out and take you; and that if they do, you will certainly be hung by the neck till you’re dead—dead—dead. And I think you had better go from here, as fast as you can. That’s what I think.’

‘He’s a coward, Grip, a coward!’ cried Barnaby, putting the raven on the ground, and shouldering his staff. ‘Let them come! Gordon for ever! Let them come!’

‘Ay!’ said Lord George, ‘let them! Let us see who will venture to attack a power like ours; the solemn league of a whole people. THIS a madman! You have said well, very well. I am proud to be the leader of such men as you.’

Barnaby’s heart swelled within his bosom as he heard these words. He took Lord George’s hand and carried it to his lips; patted his horse’s crest, as if the affection and admiration he had conceived for the man extended to the animal he rode; then unfurling his flag, and proudly waving it, resumed his pacing up and down.

Lord George, with a kindling eye and glowing cheek, took off his hat, and flourishing it above his head, bade him exultingly Farewell!—then cantered off at a brisk pace; after glancing angrily round to see that his servant followed. Honest John set spurs to his horse and rode after his master, but not before he had again warned Barnaby to retreat, with many significant gestures, which indeed he continued to make, and Barnaby to resist, until the windings of the road concealed them from each other’s view.

Left to himself again with a still higher sense of the importance of his post, and stimulated to enthusiasm by the special notice and encouragement of his leader, Barnaby walked to and fro in a delicious trance rather than as a waking man. The sunshine which prevailed around was in his mind. He had but one desire ungratified. If she could only see him now!

The day wore on; its heat was gently giving place to the cool of evening; a light wind sprung up, fanning his long hair, and making the banner rustle pleasantly above his head. There was a freedom and freshness in the sound and in the time, which chimed exactly with his mood. He was happier than ever.

He was leaning on his staff looking towards the declining sun, and reflecting with a smile that he stood sentinel at that moment over buried gold, when two or three figures appeared in the distance, making towards the house at a rapid pace, and motioning with their hands as though they urged its inmates to retreat from some approaching danger. As they drew nearer, they became more earnest in their gestures; and they were no sooner within hearing, than the foremost among them cried that the soldiers were coming up.

“Un diavolo, una pentola, un Grip, una Polly, un protestante, niente papismo!” gridò il corvo.

“Tuttavia,” aggiunse Barnaby, posando la mano sul collo del cavallo di Lord George e parlando sottovoce, “avevi tutte le ragioni per chiedermi chi fosse. A volte anche a me sembra strano – eppure sono abituato a lui – pensare che sia solo un uccello. Lui è mio fratello. Grip. Sempre con me, sempre che parla, sempre allegro. Eh, Grip, ”

Il corvo rispose con un grugnito affettuoso; saltò sul braccio del suo padrone, che lo teneva abbassato a tale scopo, e si lasciò accarezzare con aria di perfetta indifferenza, mentre il suo sguardo inquieto e curioso passava ora su Lord George, ora sul suo uomo.

Lord George, mordendosi le unghie in modo nervoso, fissò Barnaby per qualche momento in silenzio; poi, chiamando il suo servitore, disse:

“Vieni qui, John.”

John Grueby si toccò il cappello e venne avanti.

“Hai mai visto questo giovane prima d’ora?” chiese il suo padrone a bassa voce.

“Due volte, mio signore,” disse John. “L’ho visto nella folla la scorsa notte e anche sabato.”

“Vi è sembrato che il suo comportamento fosse in qualche modo strano o insolito?” chiese Lord George, esitando.

“Mamma,” disse John, in modo breve ed enfatico.

“E perché pensate che sia pazzo, signore?” disse il suo padrone, con tono irritato. “Non usate quella parola troppo liberamente. Perché pensate che sia pazzo?”

“Mio signore,” rispose John Grueby, “guardate il suo abito, guardate i suoi occhi, osservate il suo comportamento inquieto. Sentite come grida ‘Niente papismo!’. È pazzo, mio signore.”

“Lo so perché un uomo si veste diversamente dagli altri,” rispose il suo furioso padrone, guardandosi; “e se per caso si distingue dagli altri nel proprio comportamento e nei propri modi, e se difende una grande causa che i corrotti e gli irreligiosi abbandonano, allora deve essere considerato pazzo, vero?”

“Stark, con lo sguardo fisso, delirante, urlante di rabbia, mio signore,” rispose John, impassibile.

“Lo dici davanti a me?” gridò il suo padrone, girandosi bruscamente verso di lui.

“Per qualsiasi uomo, mio signore, che me lo chieda,” rispose Giovanni.

“Signor Gashford, a quanto pare aveva ragione,” disse Lord George; “lo consideravo prevenuto, anche se avrei dovuto conoscere meglio un uomo del genere per non pensare che fosse possibile!”

“Non otterrò mai le lodi del signor Gashford, mio signore,” rispose John, toccando rispettosamente il cappello, “e non le desidero nemmeno.”

“Sei un individuo malandato e estremamente ingrato,” disse Lord George: “un traditore, a giudicare da tutto. Il signor Gashford ha perfettamente ragione; anch’io avrei potuto convincermene. Ho commesso un errore a tenerti al mio servizio. È un insulto implicito nei suoi confronti, considerando che lui è il mio amico fidato e la mia scelta personale. E poi, ricordando da quale parte ti sei schierato il giorno in cui fu diffamato a Westminster. Devi lasciarmi, stasera, anzi, non appena arriveremo a casa. Più presto sarà meglio.”

“Se dovesse arrivare a quel punto, anch’io lo direi, mio signore. Lasciate che il signor Gashford faccia ciò che desidera. Per quanto riguarda l’accusa di essere una spia, voi mi conoscete meglio di chiunque altro, e sono certo che non la credereste mai. Non so molto di questioni politiche o strategiche. La mia causa è quella di un uomo contro duecento; e spero che rimanga sempre così.”

“Hai detto abbastanza,” rispose Lord George, facendogli segno di tornare indietro. “Non desidero sentire altro.”

“Se mi permettete di dire un’altra parola, mio signore,” rispose John Grueby, “vorrei avvertire questo povero ragazzo di non restare qui da solo. La proclamazione è già in molte mani, e è ben noto che lui sia coinvolto in quella faccenda. Farà meglio a trovare un posto sicuro, se possibile. Poveretto.”

“Sentite cosa dice quest’uomo?” gridò Lord George rivolgendosi a Barnaby, che aveva osservato tutto con curiosità durante quel dialogo. “Lui pensa che forse abbiate paura di rimanere al vostro posto e che siate trattenuti qui contro la vostra volontà. Cosa ne dite?”

“Penso, giovane,” disse John per spiegare, “che gli soldati possano venire a prenderti; e se lo faranno, sicuramente ti impiccheranno fino a farti morire, morto, morto. Penso che sia meglio che tu te ne vada da qui il prima possibile. È quello che penso.”

“È un codardo, Grip, un vero codardo!” gridò Barnaby, mettendo a terra il .corvo e prendendo in spalla il suo bastone. “Che vengano pure! Gordon per sempre. Che vengano!”

“Ah!” disse Lord George, “lasciateli fare! Vediamo chi oserebbe attaccare un potere come il nostro. L’alleanza solenne di un intero popolo. Questo è pazzo! Hai detto molto bene, davvero molto bene. Sono orgoglioso di essere il leader di uomini come te.”

Il cuore di Barnaby si gonfiò d’emozione mentre ascoltava queste parole. Prese la mano di Lord George e la portò alle labbra; accarezzò anche la criniera del suo cavallo, come se l’affetto e l’ammirazione che provava per quell’uomo si estendessero anche all’animale su cui cavalcava. Poi svolse la sua -bandiera e la sventolò con orgoglio, riprendendo a camminare avanti e indietro.

Lord George, con gli occhi scintillanti e le guance arrossate, si tolse il cappello, lo agitò sopra la testa e gridò esultante: “Addio!”, poi se ne andò al trotto veloce. Dopo essersi guardato intorno con rabbia per assicurarsi che il suo servitore lo seguisse, onesto John spronò il proprio cavallo e partì all’inseguimento del padrone. Prima di andarsene, però, avvertì ancora una volta Barnaby di ritirarsi, facendo molti gesti significativi; Barnaby, intanto, continuava a resistere, fino a quando i tornanti della strada li nascosero l’uno dall’altro.

Rimasto di nuovo da solo, con una consapevolezza ancora maggiore dell’importanza del proprio incarico, e stimolato dall’attenzione particolare e dal sostegno del proprio leader, Barnaby camminava avanti e indietro in uno stato di estrema eccitazione, più che come un uomo sveglio. Il sole splendente intorno a lui era presente anche nella sua mente. Aveva soltanto un desiderio irrealizzato: se solo lei potesse vederlo ora!

Il giorno proseguiva; il suo calore iniziava lentamente a lasciare il posto alla frescura della sera; una leggera brezza si alzò, accarezzando i suoi lunghi capelli e facendo sussurrare piacevolmente la bandiera sopra la sua testa. C’era una sensazione di libertà e freschezza nel suono e nel tempo che scorreva, in perfetta armonia con il suo umore. Era più felice che mai.

Appoggiato al suo bastone, guardava il sole che tramontava, e con un sorriso pensava a come in quel momento stesse “facendo la guardia” su dell’oro sepolto. Quando due o tre figure apparvero in lontananza, dirigendosi verso la >casa a passi rapidi e facendo segni con le mani, come per esortare chi vi abitava a ritirarsi da qualche pericolo imminente. Man mano che si avvicinavano, i loro gesti diventavano sempre più urgenti; non appena furono a portata di voce, il primo di loro gridò che i soldati stavano arrivando.

At these words, Barnaby furled his flag, and tied it round the pole. His heart beat high while he did so, but he had no more fear or thought of retreating than the pole itself. The friendly stragglers hurried past him, after giving him notice of his danger, and quickly passed into the house, where the utmost confusion immediately prevailed. As those within hastily closed the windows and the doors, they urged him by looks and signs to fly without loss of time, and called to him many times to do so; but he only shook his head indignantly in answer, and stood the firmer on his post. Finding that he was not to be persuaded, they took care of themselves; and leaving the place with only one old woman in it, speedily withdrew.

As yet there had been no symptom of the news having any better foundation than in the fears of those who brought it, but The Boot had not been deserted five minutes, when there appeared, coming across the fields, a body of men who, it was easy to see, by the glitter of their arms and ornaments in the sun, and by their orderly and regular mode of advancing—for they came on as one man—were soldiers. In a very little time, Barnaby knew that they were a strong detachment of the Foot Guards, having along with them two gentlemen in private clothes, and a small party of Horse; the latter brought up the rear, and were not in number more than six or eight.

They advanced steadily; neither quickening their pace as they came nearer, nor raising any cry, nor showing the least emotion or anxiety. Though this was a matter of course in the case of regular troops, even to Barnaby, there was something particularly impressive and disconcerting in it to one accustomed to the noise and tumult of an undisciplined mob. For all that, he stood his ground not a whit the less resolutely, and looked on undismayed.

Presently, they marched into the yard, and halted. The commanding-officer despatched a messenger to the horsemen, one of whom came riding back. Some words passed between them, and they glanced at Barnaby; who well remembered the man he had unhorsed at Westminster, and saw him now before his eyes. The man being speedily dismissed, saluted, and rode back to his comrades, who were drawn up apart at a short distance.

The officer then gave the word to prime and load. The heavy ringing of the musket-stocks upon the ground, and the sharp and rapid rattling of the ramrods in their barrels, were a kind of relief to Barnaby, deadly though he knew the purport of such sounds to be. When this was done, other commands were given, and the soldiers instantaneously formed in single file all round the house and stables; completely encircling them in every part, at a distance, perhaps, of some half-dozen yards; at least that seemed in Barnaby’s eyes to be about the space left between himself and those who confronted him. The horsemen remained drawn up by themselves as before.

The two gentlemen in private clothes who had kept aloof, now rode forward, one on either side the officer. The proclamation having been produced and read by one of them, the officer called on Barnaby to surrender.

He made no answer, but stepping within the door, before which he had kept guard, held his pole crosswise to protect it. In the midst of a profound silence, he was again called upon to yield.

Still he offered no reply. Indeed he had enough to do, to run his eye backward and forward along the half-dozen men who immediately fronted him, and settle hurriedly within himself at which of them he would strike first, when they pressed on him. He caught the eye of one in the centre, and resolved to hew that fellow down, though he died for it.

Again there was a dead silence, and again the same voice called upon him to deliver himself up.

Next moment he was back in the stable, dealing blows about him like a madman. Two of the men lay stretched at his feet: the one he had marked, dropped first—he had a thought for that, even in the hot blood and hurry of the struggle. Another blow—another! Down, mastered, wounded in the breast by a heavy blow from the butt-end of a gun (he saw the weapon in the act of falling)—breathless—and a prisoner.

An exclamation of surprise from the officer recalled him, in some degree, to himself. He looked round. Grip, after working in secret all the afternoon, and with redoubled vigour while everybody’s attention was distracted, had plucked away the straw from Hugh’s bed, and turned up the loose ground with his iron bill. The hole had been recklessly filled to the brim, and was merely sprinkled with earth. Golden cups, spoons, candlesticks, coined guineas—all the riches were revealed.

They brought spades and a sack; dug up everything that was hidden there; and carried away more than two men could lift. They handcuffed him and bound his arms, searched him, and took away all he had. Nobody questioned or reproached him, or seemed to have much curiosity about him. The two men he had stunned, were carried off by their companions in the same business-like way in which everything else was done. Finally, he was left under a guard of four soldiers with fixed bayonets, while the officer directed in person the search of the house and the other buildings connected with it.

This was soon completed. The soldiers formed again in the yard; he was marched out, with his guard about him; and ordered to fall in, where a space was left. The others closed up all round, and so they moved away, with the prisoner in the centre.

When they came into the streets, he felt he was a sight; and looking up as they passed quickly along, could see people running to the windows a little too late, and throwing up the sashes to look after him. Sometimes he met a staring face beyond the heads about him, or under the arms of his conductors, or peering down upon him from a waggon-top or coach-box; but this was all he saw, being surrounded by so many men. The very noises of the streets seemed muffled and subdued; and the air came stale and hot upon him, like the sickly breath of an oven.

Tramp, tramp. Tramp, tramp. Heads erect, shoulders square, every man stepping in exact time—all so orderly and regular—nobody looking at him—nobody seeming conscious of his presence,—he could hardly believe he was a Prisoner. But at the word, though only thought, not spoken, he felt the handcuffs galling his wrists, the cord pressing his arms to his sides: the loaded guns levelled at his head; and those cold, bright, sharp, shining points turned towards him: the mere looking down at which, now that he was bound and helpless, made the warm current of his life run cold.

All’udire queste parole, Barnaby arrotolò la sua bandiera e la legò intorno al palo. Il suo cuore batteva forte mentre lo faceva, ma non provava più alcuna >paura né pensava di ritirarsi, proprio come il palo stesso. Gli stranieri che lo avevano avvisato del pericolo gli passarono rapidamente accanto e entrarono nella >casa, dove immediatamente scoppiò un grande trambusto. Mentre le persone all’interno chiudevano in fretta finestre e porte, lo esortavano con sguardi e gesti a fuggire senza perdere tempo, chiamandolo più volte ad agire; ma lui scosse indignato la testa e rimase fermo sul suo posto. Vedendo che non era possibile convincerlo, loro se ne andarono, lasciando nella casa soltanto una vecchia donna.

Finora non c’erano segni che le notizie avessero una base più solida di quelle delle paure di coloro che le avevano diffuse; tuttavia, non erano trascorsi nemmeno cinque minuti da quando The Boot era stato abbandonato, quando apparve, attraversando i campi, un gruppo di uomini che, a giudicare dal luccichio delle loro armi e ornamenti al sole, nonché dal modo ordinato e coordinato con cui avanzavano – poiché procedevano tutti insieme – erano chiaramente soldati. In poco tempo, Barnaby capì che si trattava di un forte distaccamento della Guardia a Piedi; con loro c’erano anche due signori in abiti civili e un piccolo gruppo di Cavalieri; questi ultimi procedevano in retroguardia e il loro numero non superava le sei o otto persone.

Avanzavano con regolarità; né acceleravano il passo avvicinandosi, né emettevano alcun grido, né mostravano la minima emozione o ansia. Sebbene ciò fosse del tutto normale per truppe regolari, anche per Barnaby c’era qualcosa di particolarmente impressionante e inquietante in quel comportamento, soprattutto per chi era abituato al rumore e al tumulto di una folla indisciplinata. Nonostante ciò, rimase fermo sulle sue posizioni con la stessa determinazione e osservava la situazione senza battere ciglio.

In quel momento, entrarono nel cortile e si fermarono. Il comandante inviò un messaggero ai cavalieri; uno di loro tornò subito indietro a cavallo. Si scambiarono alcune parole, poi gettarono uno sguardo su Barnaby, il quale ricordava bene quell’uomo che aveva fatto cadere da cavallo a Westminster, e ora lo vedeva davanti ai suoi occhi. Dopo aver ricevuto istruzioni, l’uomo salutò e tornò dai suoi compagni, che si erano schierati a una certa distanza.

L’ufficiale diede quindi l’ordine di preparare e caricare le armi. Il pesante rumore prodotto dai fusti dei moschetti che toccavano il terreno, insieme al rapido e secco scatto delle baionette all’interno dei loro cannetti, rappresentava in qualche modo un sollievo per Barnaby, anche se sapeva perfettamente quale fosse lo scopo di quei suoni. Una volta terminata questa operazione, furono dati altri ordini e i soldati si schierarono immediatamente in fila lungo l’intera circonferenza della >casa e degli stabili; circondandoli completamente da tutte le parti, a una distanza di circa mezzo miglio, almeno così sembrava agli occhi di Barnaby. Gli uomini a cavallo rimasero schierati come prima.

I due signori in abiti civili che fino ad allora erano rimasti in disparte, ora avanzarono, uno da ciascun lato dell’ufficiale. Dopo che uno di loro ebbe prodotto e letto la proclamazione, l’ufficiale chiese a Barnaby di arrendersi.

Non rispose nulla, ma entrando nella stanza, davanti alla quale aveva mantenuto la guardia, posizionò il suo bastone orizzontalmente per proteggerla. Nel mezzo di un profondo silenzio, fu nuovamente chiamato a cedere il passo.

Tuttavia non rispose. Aveva davvero abbastanza da fare: doveva osservare attentamente quei sei uomini che gli si erano immediatamente messi di fronte, e decidere in fretta su quale di loro attaccare per primo quando lo avessero assalito. Incrociò lo sguardo di uno di loro al centro e decise di colpirlo, anche a costo della propria vita.

Di nuovo calò un silenzio mortale, e di nuovo la stessa voce lo esortò a consegnarsi.

Nel momento successivo era di nuovo nella stalla, colpendo tutti intorno come un pazzo. Due degli uomini giacevano ai suoi piedi: quello che aveva preso di mira era caduto per primo. Ci aveva pensato anche in mezzo al calore del sangue e alla frenesia della lotta. Un altro colpo, un altro ancora! Era stato sconfitto, ferito al petto da un violento colpo alla base del calcio di una pistola (aveva visto l’arma mentre cadeva). Senza fiato, ormai prigioniero.

Un’esclamazione di sorpresa da parte dell’ufficiale lo riportò, in qualche modo, alla realtà. Si guardò intorno: Grip, dopo aver lavorato in segreto per tutto il pomeriggio e con raddoppiata energia mentre l’attenzione di tutti era distratta, aveva rimosso la paglia dal letto di Hugh e rivoltato la terra soffice con il suo becco di ferro. Il buco era stato riempito in modo imprudente fino all’orlo ed era stato soltanto cosparso di terra. Coppe dorate, cucchiai, candelabri, monete d’oro, tutte le ricchezze erano state rivelate.

Portarono scope e un sacco; dissotterrarono tutto ciò che era nascosto lì; se ne portarono via più di quanto due uomini potessero sollevare. Gli misero le manette, gli legarono le braccia, lo perquisirono e gli presero tutto ciò che aveva. Nessuno lo interrogò o lo rimproverò, né sembrava avere molta curiosità nei suoi confronti. I due uomini che aveva stordito furono portati via dai loro compagni nello stesso modo efficiente e metodico con cui era stato fatto tutto il resto. Alla fine, fu lasciato sotto la guardia di quattro soldati con le baionette puntate; l’ufficiale, intanto, dirigeva personalmente la perquisizione della >casa e degli altri edifici ad essa collegati.

Il lavoro fu completato in poco tempo. Gli soldati si riorganizzarono di nuovo nel cortile; lui fu fatto marciare, circondato dalla sua guardia, e gli fu ordinato di mettersi in formazione in un punto dove era stato lasciato libero uno spazio. Gli altri lo circondarono completamente e così si allontanarono, con il prigioniero al centro.

Quando uscì in strada, si rese conto di essere un vero spettacolo per gli occhi degli altri; guardando in su mentre loro passavano velocemente, vedeva le persone correre verso le finestre un po’ troppo tardi e sollevare le persiane per guardarlo. A volte incrociava volti che lo fissavano da dietro le teste delle persone intorno a lui, o da sotto le braccia dei suoi accompagnatori, o ancora che lo spiavano dal tetto di un carro o dalla cabina di una vettura; ma era tutto ciò che riusciva a vedere, essendo circondato da così tante persone. Anche i rumori delle strade sembravano attutiti e soffocati; l’aria che lo circondava era stantia e calda, come il respiro afoso di un forno.

Tramp, tramp. Testa alta, spalle dritte, ogni uomo muovendosi con perfetto tempo. Tutto così ordinato e regolare. Nessuno lo guardava. Nessuno sembrava accorgersi della sua presenza. A malapena riusciva a credere di essere un prigioniero. Ma non appena quella parola fu pronunciata – anche se solo nella sua mente, senza essere detta ad alta voce – sentì le manette stringergli i polsi, la corda premere i suoi bracci contro i fianchi; le armi cariche puntate verso la sua testa. Quei freddi, luminosi, affilati oggetti puntati contro di lui. Solo il pensiero di doverli guardare, ora che era legato e indifeso, bastava a far gelare il calore della sua vita.

Chapter 58

They were not long in reaching the barracks, for the officer who commanded the party was desirous to avoid rousing the people by the display of military force in the streets, and was humanely anxious to give as little opportunity as possible for any attempt at rescue; knowing that it must lead to bloodshed and loss of life, and that if the civil authorities by whom he was accompanied, empowered him to order his men to fire, many innocent persons would probably fall, whom curiosity or idleness had attracted to the spot. He therefore led the party briskly on, avoiding with a merciful prudence the more public and crowded thoroughfares, and pursuing those which he deemed least likely to be infested by disorderly persons. This wise proceeding not only enabled them to gain their quarters without any interruption, but completely baffled a body of rioters who had assembled in one of the main streets, through which it was considered certain they would pass, and who remained gathered together for the purpose of releasing the prisoner from their hands, long after they had deposited him in a place of security, closed the barrack-gates, and set a double guard at every entrance for its better protection.

Arrived at this place, poor Barnaby was marched into a stone-floored room, where there was a very powerful smell of tobacco, a strong thorough draught of air, and a great wooden bedstead, large enough for a score of men. Several soldiers in undress were lounging about, or eating from tin cans; military accoutrements dangled on rows of pegs along the whitewashed wall; and some half-dozen men lay fast asleep upon their backs, snoring in concert. After remaining here just long enough to note these things, he was marched out again, and conveyed across the parade-ground to another portion of the building.

Perhaps a man never sees so much at a glance as when he is in a situation of extremity. The chances are a hundred to one, that if Barnaby had lounged in at the gate to look about him, he would have lounged out again with a very imperfect idea of the place, and would have remembered very little about it. But as he was taken handcuffed across the gravelled area, nothing escaped his notice. The dry, arid look of the dusty square, and of the bare brick building; the clothes hanging at some of the windows; and the men in their shirt-sleeves and braces, lolling with half their bodies out of the others; the green sun-blinds at the officers’ quarters, and the little scanty trees in front; the drummer-boys practising in a distant courtyard; the men at drill on the parade; the two soldiers carrying a basket between them, who winked to each other as he went by, and slily pointed to their throats; the spruce serjeant who hurried past with a cane in his hand, and under his arm a clasped book with a vellum cover; the fellows in the ground-floor rooms, furbishing and brushing up their different articles of dress, who stopped to look at him, and whose voices as they spoke together echoed loudly through the empty galleries and passages;—everything, down to the stand of muskets before the guard-house, and the drum with a pipe-clayed belt attached, in one corner, impressed itself upon his observation, as though he had noticed them in the same place a hundred times, or had been a whole day among them, in place of one brief hurried minute.

He was taken into a small paved back yard, and there they opened a great door, plated with iron, and pierced some five feet above the ground with a few holes to let in air and light. Into this dungeon he was walked straightway; and having locked him up there, and placed a sentry over him, they left him to his meditations.

The cell, or black hole, for it had those words painted on the door, was very dark, and having recently accommodated a drunken deserter, by no means clean. Barnaby felt his way to some straw at the farther end, and looking towards the door, tried to accustom himself to the gloom, which, coming from the bright sunshine out of doors, was not an easy task.

There was a kind of portico or colonnade outside, and this obstructed even the little light that at the best could have found its way through the small apertures in the door. The footsteps of the sentinel echoed monotonously as he paced its stone pavement to and fro (reminding Barnaby of the watch he had so lately kept himself); and as he passed and repassed the door, he made the cell for an instant so black by the interposition of his body, that his going away again seemed like the appearance of a new ray of light, and was quite a circumstance to look for.

When the prisoner had sat sometime upon the ground, gazing at the chinks, and listening to the advancing and receding footsteps of his guard, the man stood still upon his post. Barnaby, quite unable to think, or to speculate on what would be done with him, had been lulled into a kind of doze by his regular pace; but his stopping roused him; and then he became aware that two men were in conversation under the colonnade, and very near the door of his cell.

How long they had been talking there, he could not tell, for he had fallen into an unconsciousness of his real position, and when the footsteps ceased, was answering aloud some question which seemed to have been put to him by Hugh in the stable, though of the fancied purport, either of question or reply, notwithstanding that he awoke with the latter on his lips, he had no recollection whatever. The first words that reached his ears, were these:

‘Why is he brought here then, if he has to be taken away again so soon?’

‘Why where would you have him go! Damme, he’s not as safe anywhere as among the king’s troops, is he? What WOULD you do with him? Would you hand him over to a pack of cowardly civilians, that shake in their shoes till they wear the soles out, with trembling at the threats of the ragamuffins he belongs to?’

‘That’s true enough.’

Capitolo 58

Non impiegarono molto ad arrivare alle caserme, poiché l’ufficiale che comandava il gruppo desiderava evitare di suscitare allarme tra la gente mostrando la forza militare per le strade, e anzi cercava in ogni modo di ridurre al minimo le possibilità di eventuali tentativi di salvataggio. Sapeva bene che ciò avrebbe portato a spargimento di sangue e perdite di vite; inoltre, se le autorità civili che lo accompagnavano gli avessero dato l’autorizzazione di ordinare ai suoi uomini di sparare, molte persone innocenti sarebbero probabilmente morte, attratte lì soltanto dalla curiosità o dall’ozio. Per questo motivo guidò il gruppo con rapidità, evitando con prudenza le strade più pubbliche e affollate, preferendo quelle che riteneva meno probabili fossero contaminate da persone disordinate. Questa saggezza non solo permise loro di raggiungere le caserme senza alcun intoppo, ma anche riuscì completamente a sventare i piani di un gruppo di rivoltosi che si era radunato in una delle strade principali, convinti che sarebbero passati di lì. Quei ribelli rimasero riuniti con l’intento di liberare il prigioniero dalle loro mani, anche dopo che questi era già stato messo al sicuro, le porte delle caserme erano state chiuse e ogni ingresso presidiato da guardie per garantirne la protezione.

Arrivato in questo posto, povero Barnaby fu portato in una stanza con il pavimento di pietra; c’era un forte odore di tabacco, l’aria era molto fresca e c’era un grande letto di legno, abbastanza largo da ospitare diverse persone. Alcuni soldati, seminudi, se ne stavano sdraiati o mangiavano da scatole di latta; gli equipaggiamenti militari erano appesi a delle grucce lungo il muro intonacato; e circa sei uomini dormivano profondamente, russando tutti insieme. Dopo essere rimasto lì solo il tempo necessario per notare queste cose, fu portato via di nuovo e condotto in un’altra parte dell’edificio.

Forse un uomo non vede mai così tanto in un solo sguardo come quando si trova in una situazione estrema. È molto probabile che, se Barnaby fosse semplicemente rimasto fermo all’ingresso per osservare intorno a sé, ne avrebbe ricordato ben poco, con un’immagine assai incompleta del luogo. Ma essendo stato portato via ammanettato attraverso quell’area lastricata, nulla gli è sfuggito: l’aspetto arido e polveroso della piazza, l’edificio di mattoni nudi; i vestiti appesi alle finestre; gli uomini in maniche corte che si sdraiavano con metà del corpo fuori dalle finestre; le tende verdi davanti agli uffici degli ufficiali e gli alberelli stenti davanti ad essi; i ragazzi che si esercitavano nel cortile lontano; gli uomini che si allenavano in parata; i due soldati che portavano un cesto tra loro, che gli fecero l’occhiolino e indicarono furtivamente le proprie gole. Tutto, fino alle baionette allineate davanti alla caserma della guardia e al tamburo con la cintura di argilla, gli è rimasto impresso nella memoria, come se li avesse notati nello stesso posto centinaia di volte, o come se vi fosse trascorso un intero giorno, invece che solo un breve istante.

Fu portato in un piccolo cortile lastricato; lì aprirono una grande porta rivestita di ferro, con alcune aperture situate a circa cinque piedi dal suolo per far entrare aria e luce. Lo condussero direttamente in quella prigione; dopo averlo chiuso lì dentro e piazzato una sentinella sopra di lui, lo lasciarono alle sue riflessioni.

La cella, o meglio il buco nero, poiché su quella porta erano dipinte proprio quelle parole, era molto buia; inoltre, avendo recentemente ospitato un disertore ubriaco, non era affatto pulita. Barnaby si fece strada verso alcuni steli di paglia all’estremità opposta della cella e, guardando verso la porta, cercò di abituarsi a quell’oscurità, il che, data la luce intensa del sole fuori, non era affatto facile.

All’esterno c’era una sorta di portico o colonnata che ostacolava persino quella debole luce che, al massimo, avrebbe potuto filtrare attraverso le piccole aperture della porta. I passi del sentinella risuonavano monotoni mentre camminava avanti e indietro sul selciato di pietra (ricordando a Barnaby la guardia che aveva appena svolto); e ogni volta che passava davanti alla porta, il suo corpo oscurava completamente la cella per un istante, tanto che il suo allontanarsi sembrava l’apparizione di un nuovo raggio di luce. Una scena davvero degna di nota.

Dopo essere rimasto seduto a terra per un po’, fissando le fessure e ascoltando i passi del suo guardiano che si avvicinavano e poi si allontanavano, l’uomo rimase immobile al proprio posto. Barnaby, completamente incapace di pensare o di indovinare cosa gli sarebbe accaduto, era caduto in una sorta di torpore a causa del ritmo regolare dei passi; ma il silenzio improvviso lo svegliò, e allora si rese conto che due uomini stavano conversando sotto la colonnata, molto vicino alla porta della sua cella.

Non riusciva a ricordare da quanto tempo stessero parlando lì, perché aveva perso ogni consapevolezza della propria situazione reale. Quando i passi si fermarono, rispose ad alta voce a una domanda che sembrava essere stata posta da Hugh nella stalla; tuttavia, non ricordava affatto il contenuto di quella domanda né la risposta che aveva dato. Le prime parole che gli raggiunsero le orecchie furono queste:

“Perché allora lo portano qui, se dovranno riprenderlo via così presto?”

“Perché mai vorresti che andasse da qualche altra parte! Mio Dio, nessun posto è più sicuro per lui delle truppe del re, vero? Cosa vorresti fare di lui? Lo consegneresti a un gruppo di civili codardi che tremano alle minacce di quei teppisti a cui appartiene?”

“È vero abbastanza.”

‘True enough!—I’ll tell you what. I wish, Tom Green, that I was a commissioned instead of a non-commissioned officer, and that I had the command of two companies—only two companies—of my own regiment. Call me out to stop these riots—give me the needful authority, and half-a-dozen rounds of ball cartridge—’

‘Ay!’ said the other voice. ‘That’s all very well, but they won’t give the needful authority. If the magistrate won’t give the word, what’s the officer to do?’

Not very well knowing, as it seemed, how to overcome this difficulty, the other man contented himself with damning the magistrates.

‘With all my heart,’ said his friend.

‘Where’s the use of a magistrate?’ returned the other voice. ‘What’s a magistrate in this case, but an impertinent, unnecessary, unconstitutional sort of interference? Here’s a proclamation. Here’s a man referred to in that proclamation. Here’s proof against him, and a witness on the spot. Damme! Take him out and shoot him, sir. Who wants a magistrate?’

‘When does he go before Sir John Fielding?’ asked the man who had spoken first.

‘To-night at eight o’clock,’ returned the other. ‘Mark what follows. The magistrate commits him to Newgate. Our people take him to Newgate. The rioters pelt our people. Our people retire before the rioters. Stones are thrown, insults are offered, not a shot’s fired. Why? Because of the magistrates. Damn the magistrates!’

When he had in some degree relieved his mind by cursing the magistrates in various other forms of speech, the man was silent, save for a low growling, still having reference to those authorities, which from time to time escaped him.

Barnaby, who had wit enough to know that this conversation concerned, and very nearly concerned, himself, remained perfectly quiet until they ceased to speak, when he groped his way to the door, and peeping through the air-holes, tried to make out what kind of men they were, to whom he had been listening.

The one who condemned the civil power in such strong terms, was a serjeant—engaged just then, as the streaming ribands in his cap announced, on the recruiting service. He stood leaning sideways against a pillar nearly opposite the door, and as he growled to himself, drew figures on the pavement with his cane. The other man had his back towards the dungeon, and Barnaby could only see his form. To judge from that, he was a gallant, manly, handsome fellow, but he had lost his left arm. It had been taken off between the elbow and the shoulder, and his empty coat-sleeve hung across his breast.

It was probably this circumstance which gave him an interest beyond any that his companion could boast of, and attracted Barnaby’s attention. There was something soldierly in his bearing, and he wore a jaunty cap and jacket. Perhaps he had been in the service at one time or other. If he had, it could not have been very long ago, for he was but a young fellow now.

‘Well, well,’ he said thoughtfully; ‘let the fault be where it may, it makes a man sorrowful to come back to old England, and see her in this condition.’

‘I suppose the pigs will join ‘em next,’ said the serjeant, with an imprecation on the rioters, ‘now that the birds have set ‘em the example.’

‘The birds!’ repeated Tom Green.

‘Ah—birds,’ said the serjeant testily; ‘that’s English, an’t it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Go to the guard-house, and see. You’ll find a bird there, that’s got their cry as pat as any of ‘em, and bawls “No Popery,” like a man—or like a devil, as he says he is. I shouldn’t wonder. The devil’s loose in London somewhere. Damme if I wouldn’t twist his neck round, on the chance, if I had MY way.’

The young man had taken two or three steps away, as if to go and see this creature, when he was arrested by the voice of Barnaby.

‘It’s mine,’ he called out, half laughing and half weeping—‘my pet, my friend Grip. Ha ha ha! Don’t hurt him, he has done no harm. I taught him; it’s my fault. Let me have him, if you please. He’s the only friend I have left now. He’ll not dance, or talk, or whistle for you, I know; but he will for me, because he knows me and loves me—though you wouldn’t think it—very well. You wouldn’t hurt a bird, I’m sure. You’re a brave soldier, sir, and wouldn’t harm a woman or a child—no, no, nor a poor bird, I’m certain.’

This latter adjuration was addressed to the serjeant, whom Barnaby judged from his red coat to be high in office, and able to seal Grip’s destiny by a word. But that gentleman, in reply, surlily damned him for a thief and rebel as he was, and with many disinterested imprecations on his own eyes, liver, blood, and body, assured him that if it rested with him to decide, he would put a final stopper on the bird, and his master too.

‘You talk boldly to a caged man,’ said Barnaby, in anger. ‘If I was on the other side of the door and there were none to part us, you’d change your note—ay, you may toss your head—you would! Kill the bird—do. Kill anything you can, and so revenge yourself on those who with their bare hands untied could do as much to you!’

Having vented his defiance, he flung himself into the furthest corner of his prison, and muttering, ‘Good bye, Grip—good bye, dear old Grip!’ shed tears for the first time since he had been taken captive; and hid his face in the straw.

He had had some fancy at first, that the one-armed man would help him, or would give him a kind word in answer. He hardly knew why, but he hoped and thought so. The young fellow had stopped when he called out, and checking himself in the very act of turning round, stood listening to every word he said. Perhaps he built his feeble trust on this; perhaps on his being young, and having a frank and honest manner. However that might be, he built on sand. The other went away directly he had finished speaking, and neither answered him, nor returned. No matter. They were all against him here: he might have known as much. Good bye, old Grip, good bye!

‘È vero! Ascolta: vorrei davvero essere un ufficiale anziché un sottufficiale, e avere il comando di due compagnie, solo due compagnie, del mio stesso reggimento. Chiamami per fermare questi disordini, dammi l’autorità necessaria e mezzo dozzina di cartucce, ’

“Ah!” disse l’altra voce. “Tutto questo è molto bene, ma non otterremo l’autorizzazione necessaria. Se il magistrato non dà l’ordine, cosa può fare l’ufficiale?”

Non sapendo molto bene, a quanto pare, come superare questa difficoltà, l’altro uomo si accontentò di denunciare i magistrati.

“Con tutto il mio cuore,” disse il suo amico.

“Di che utilità può essere un magistrato?” rispose l’altra voce. “In questo caso, che cos’è un magistrato se non una sorta di interferenza inopportuna, superflua e incostituzionale? Ecco un proclama. Ecco un uomo menzionato in quel proclama. Ecco le prove contro di lui, e un testimone presente sul posto. Dannazione! Portatelo via e sparategli, signore. A chi serve un magistrato?”

“Quando va dal signor John Fielding?” chiese l’uomo che aveva parlato per primo.

‘Stasera alle otto in punto,’ rispose l’altro. ‘Osservate bene ciò che accadrà: il magistrato lo consegna a Newgate. I nostri uomini lo portano a Newgate. Gli insorti attaccano i nostri uomini. I nostri uomini si ritirano di fronte agli insorti. Vengono lanciate pietre, vengono fatti insulti, ma non viene sparato un solo colpo. Perché? Grazie ai magistrati. Maledetti i magistrati!’

Dopo essersi in qualche modo sfogato maledicendo i magistrati con varie altre espressioni, l’uomo rimase in silenzio, tranne che per un basso ringhiamento, ancora rivolto verso quelle autorità che, di tanto in tanto, gli sfuggivano di mente.

Barnaby, che aveva abbastanza intelligenza per capire che quella conversazione lo riguardava, anzi lo riguardava molto da vicino, rimase perfettamente in silenzio fino a quando non smisero di parlare. Allora si avviò verso la porta e, spiando attraverso le fessure, cercò di capire di che tipo di persone si trattasse, quelle a cui aveva ascoltato.

Colui che condannò il potere civile in termini così duri era un sergente: era stato arruolato proprio in quel momento, come indicavano le strisce colorate sulla sua giacca durante il servizio di reclutamento. Stava appoggiato a un pilastro, quasi di fronte alla porta; mentre borbottava tra sé, disegnava figure sul marciapiede con il suo bastone. L’altro uomo aveva le spalle rivolte verso la prigione, quindi Barnaby riusciva a vedere solo la sua figura. A giudicare da ciò che vedeva, si trattava di un uomo coraggioso, virile e attraente, ma aveva perso il braccio sinistro: gli era stato amputato tra il gomito e la spalla; la manica vuota della giacca penzolava sul suo petto.

Probabilmente fu questa circostanza ad attribuirgli un interesse superiore a quello di qualsiasi altro suo compagno, e ad attirare l’attenzione di Barnaby. Nel suo modo di comportarsi c’era qualcosa di tipico di un soldato; indossava inoltre un berretto e una giacca molto alla moda. Forse in passato aveva prestato servizio nell’esercito. Ma se era così, non doveva essere stato molto tempo fa, perché ora era ancora giovane.

“Beh, beh, ”, disse pensierosamente; “indipendentemente dal motivo, è triste tornare in vecchia Inghilterra e vederla in queste condizioni.”

“Suppongo che ora anche i maiali si uniranno a loro,” disse il sergente, pronunciando una maledizione contro i rivoltosi, “adesso che gli uccelli hanno dato l’esempio.”

“Gli uccelli!” ripeté Tom Green.

“Ah, gli uccelli, ”, disse il sergente con tono esasperato; “Questo è inglese, vero?”

“Non so cosa intendi.”

“Vai alla guardia-casa e guarda. Lì troverai un uccello il cui verso è proprio come quello degli altri, ma grida ‘No Papismo’ come un uomo, o forse come un diavolo, visto che lui stesso dice di esserlo. Non dovrei meravigliarmi: il diavolo deve essere a piede libero da qualche parte in )Londra. Se potessi decidere io, gli torcerei immediatamente il collo.”

Il giovane aveva fatto due o tre passi indietro, come se volesse andare a vedere questa creatura, quando fu fermato dalla voce di Barnaby.

“È mio,” gridò, metà ridendo e metà piangendo, “il mio animale domestico, il mio amico Grip. Ah ah ah! Non fatelo del male, non ha fatto nulla di male. Sono stato io ad allenarlo; è colpa mia. Lasciatemelo, per favore. È l’unico amico che mi sia rimasto. So che non danzerà, né parlerà, né suonerà per voi. Ma lo farà per me, perché mi conosce e mi ama. Anche se forse voi non lo pensereste. Molto bene, davvero.” “Sicuramente non fareste del male a un uccellino,” aggiunse. “Siete un bravo soldato, signore. Non fareste mai del male a una donna o a un bambino. No, nemmeno a un povero uccellino, ”

Quest’ultimo incantesimo era rivolto al sergente, che Barnaby, a giudicare dal suo mantello rosso, riteneva fosse una persona di alto rango e in grado, con una sola parola, di decidere del destino di Grip. Ma quel gentiluomo, in risposta, lo maledisse aspramente definendolo un ladro e un ribelle, e pronunciò molte imprecazioni contro i suoi occhi, il suo fegato, il suo sangue e il suo -corpo, assicurandogli che, se fosse stato lui a decidere, avrebbe posto fine una volta per tutte sia a quella “bestia” che al suo padrone.

“Parli con troppa audacia a un uomo intrappolato in una gabbia,” disse Barnaby, arrabbiato. “Se fossi io dall’altra parte della porta e non ci fosse nessuno a separarci, cambieresti immediatamente tono. Ah, puoi anche scuotere la testa, ma lo faresti! Uccidi quell’uccello. Uccidi qualunque cosa tu possa, e così vendicati su coloro che, con le loro sole mani, potrebbero farti altrettanto male!”

Dopo aver espresso il proprio disprezzo, si gettò nell’angolo più remoto della sua prigione, mormorando: “Addio, Grip, addio, caro vecchio Grip!”, e versò lacrime per la prima volta da quando era stato catturato; poi nascose il viso nella paglia.

All’inizio aveva avuto qualche speranza che quell’uomo senza una mano lo aiutasse, o gli rispondesse con parole gentili. Non sapeva bene il perché, ma sperava proprio così. Il giovane si era fermato quando lui l’aveva chiamato; mentre si girava, aveva ascoltato attentamente ogni sua parola. Forse la sua debole fiducia si basava su questo, o forse sul fatto che fosse giovane e avesse un modo di comportarsi franco ed onesto. Comunque fosse, quella fiducia era destinata a fallire. L’altro se n’era andato non appena aveva finito di parlare; né gli aveva risposto, né era tornato indietro. Non importava, tutti erano contro di lui; avrebbe dovuto saperlo fin dall’inizio. Addio, vecchio Grip, addio!

After some time, they came and unlocked the door, and called to him to come out. He rose directly, and complied, for he would not have THEM think he was subdued or frightened. He walked out like a man, and looked from face to face.

None of them returned his gaze or seemed to notice it. They marched him back to the parade by the way they had brought him, and there they halted, among a body of soldiers, at least twice as numerous as that which had taken him prisoner in the afternoon. The officer he had seen before, bade him in a few brief words take notice that if he attempted to escape, no matter how favourable a chance he might suppose he had, certain of the men had orders to fire upon him, that moment. They then closed round him as before, and marched him off again.

In the same unbroken order they arrived at Bow Street, followed and beset on all sides by a crowd which was continually increasing. Here he was placed before a blind gentleman, and asked if he wished to say anything. Not he. What had he got to tell them? After a very little talking, which he was careless of and quite indifferent to, they told him he was to go to Newgate, and took him away.

He went out into the street, so surrounded and hemmed in on every side by soldiers, that he could see nothing; but he knew there was a great crowd of people, by the murmur; and that they were not friendly to the soldiers, was soon rendered evident by their yells and hisses. How often and how eagerly he listened for the voice of Hugh! There was not a voice he knew among them all. Was Hugh a prisoner too? Was there no hope!

As they came nearer and nearer to the prison, the hootings of the people grew more violent; stones were thrown; and every now and then, a rush was made against the soldiers, which they staggered under. One of them, close before him, smarting under a blow upon the temple, levelled his musket, but the officer struck it upwards with his sword, and ordered him on peril of his life to desist. This was the last thing he saw with any distinctness, for directly afterwards he was tossed about, and beaten to and fro, as though in a tempestuous sea. But go where he would, there were the same guards about him. Twice or thrice he was thrown down, and so were they; but even then, he could not elude their vigilance for a moment. They were up again, and had closed about him, before he, with his wrists so tightly bound, could scramble to his feet. Fenced in, thus, he felt himself hoisted to the top of a low flight of steps, and then for a moment he caught a glimpse of the fighting in the crowd, and of a few red coats sprinkled together, here and there, struggling to rejoin their fellows. Next moment, everything was dark and gloomy, and he was standing in the prison lobby; the centre of a group of men.

A smith was speedily in attendance, who riveted upon him a set of heavy irons. Stumbling on as well as he could, beneath the unusual burden of these fetters, he was conducted to a strong stone cell, where, fastening the door with locks, and bolts, and chains, they left him, well secured; having first, unseen by him, thrust in Grip, who, with his head drooping and his deep black plumes rough and rumpled, appeared to comprehend and to partake, his master’s fallen fortunes.

Dopo un po’ di tempo, vennero ad aprire la porta e lo chiamarono per farlo uscire. Lui si alzò immediatamente e obbedì, perché non voleva che pensassero che fosse stato sottomesso o spaventato. Uscì con dignità e si trovò di fronte a loro faccia a faccia.

Nessuno di loro ricambiò il suo sguardo né sembrò accorgersene. Lo riportarono alla parata esattamente come lo avevano portato via, e lì si fermarono, in mezzo a un gruppo di soldati almeno il doppio più numeroso di quello che lo aveva catturato nel pomeriggio. L’ufficiale che aveva visto prima gli disse, in poche parole, che se avesse tentato di fuggire, indipendentemente dalle possibilità che potesse ritenersi di avere, alcuni uomini avevano l’ordine di sparargli all’istante. Poi lo circondarono di nuovo e lo portarono via.

Nello stesso ordine ininterrotto arrivarono a Bow Street, seguiti e assediati da una folla che continuava ad aumentare. Qui fu portato davanti a un gentiluomo non vedente e gli chiesero se volesse dire qualcosa. No. Cosa avrebbe potuto dirgli? Dopo poche parole, alle quali non prestò alcuna attenzione e che lo lasciarono completamente indifferente, gli dissero di andare a Newgate e lo portarono via.

Uscì in strada; era completamente circondato da soldati su tutti i lati, al punto di non riuscire a vedere nulla; ma capiva che c’era una grande folla di persone, e che il loro atteggiamento nei confronti dei soldati non era affatto amichevole, come dimostravano chiaramente i loro urli e fischi. Quante volte, con quanta ansia, ascoltò in cerca della voce di Hugh. Ma tra tutte quelle voci, non ne riconobbe nessuna. Anche Hugh era prigioniero? Non c’era alcuna >speranza?

Man mano che si avvicinavano sempre di più alla prigione, le grida della folla diventavano sempre più violente; venivano lanciate pietre, e di tanto in tanto si verificavano assalti contro i soldati, che barcollavano sotto il loro attacco. Uno di loro, proprio davanti a lui, colpito alla tempia, puntò il fucile, ma l’ufficiale lo colpì con la sua _spada, ordinandogli di smettere al rischio della vita. Questa fu l’ultima cosa che vide chiaramente, perché subito dopo venne scaraventato avanti e indietro, come se si trovasse in un mare tempestoso. Ma ovunque andasse, c’erano sempre le stesse guardie intorno a lui. Due o tre volte fu gettato a terra, e loro con lui; ma anche allora non riuscì per un momento a eludere la loro vigilanza. Si rialzavano subito e lo circondavano di nuovo, prima che lui, con i polsi così strettamente legati, potesse rialzarsi in piedi. Così intrappolato, venne portato in cima a una bassa gradinata; per un attimo vide le lotte nella folla, alcuni uomini in abiti rossi che lottavano per raggiungere i loro compagni. Poi tutto divenne buio e cupo, e si trovò nel corridoio della prigione, al centro di un gruppo di persone.

Un >fabbro arrivò immediatamente e gli applicò un insieme di pesanti ferri. Inciampando il più possibile sotto quel peso insolito, fu condotto in una robusta cella di pietra; dopo aver chiuso la porta a chiave, catene e barre, lo lasciarono ben sicuramente rinchiuso. Prima di andarsene, senza che lui se ne accorgesse, misero dentro anche Grip, il quale, con la testa bassa e le sue piume nere ruvide e arruffate, sembrava comprendere e condividere la sfortuna toccata al suo padrone.

Chapter 59

It is necessary at this juncture to return to Hugh, who, having, as we have seen, called to the rioters to disperse from about the Warren, and meet again as usual, glided back into the darkness from which he had emerged, and reappeared no more that night.

He paused in the copse which sheltered him from the observation of his mad companions, and waited to ascertain whether they drew off at his bidding, or still lingered and called to him to join them. Some few, he saw, were indisposed to go away without him, and made towards the spot where he stood concealed as though they were about to follow in his footsteps, and urge him to come back; but these men, being in their turn called to by their friends, and in truth not greatly caring to venture into the dark parts of the grounds, where they might be easily surprised and taken, if any of the neighbours or retainers of the family were watching them from among the trees, soon abandoned the idea, and hastily assembling such men as they found of their mind at the moment, straggled off.

When he was satisfied that the great mass of the insurgents were imitating this example, and that the ground was rapidly clearing, he plunged into the thickest portion of the little wood; and, crashing the branches as he went, made straight towards a distant light: guided by that, and by the sullen glow of the fire behind him.

As he drew nearer and nearer to the twinkling beacon towards which he bent his course, the red glare of a few torches began to reveal itself, and the voices of men speaking together in a subdued tone broke the silence which, save for a distant shouting now and then, already prevailed. At length he cleared the wood, and, springing across a ditch, stood in a dark lane, where a small body of ill-looking vagabonds, whom he had left there some twenty minutes before, waited his coming with impatience.

They were gathered round an old post-chaise or chariot, driven by one of themselves, who sat postilion-wise upon the near horse. The blinds were drawn up, and Mr Tappertit and Dennis kept guard at the two windows. The former assumed the command of the party, for he challenged Hugh as he advanced towards them; and when he did so, those who were resting on the ground about the carriage rose to their feet and clustered round him.

‘Well!’ said Simon, in a low voice; ‘is all right?’

‘Right enough,’ replied Hugh, in the same tone. ‘They’re dispersing now—had begun before I came away.’

‘And is the coast clear?’

‘Clear enough before our men, I take it,’ said Hugh. ‘There are not many who, knowing of their work over yonder, will want to meddle with ‘em to-night.—Who’s got some drink here?’

Everybody had some plunder from the cellar; half-a-dozen flasks and bottles were offered directly. He selected the largest, and putting it to his mouth, sent the wine gurgling down his throat. Having emptied it, he threw it down, and stretched out his hand for another, which he emptied likewise, at a draught. Another was given him, and this he half emptied too. Reserving what remained to finish with, he asked:

‘Have you got anything to eat, any of you? I’m as ravenous as a hungry wolf. Which of you was in the larder—come?’

‘I was, brother,’ said Dennis, pulling off his hat, and fumbling in the crown. ‘There’s a matter of cold venison pasty somewhere or another here, if that’ll do.’

‘Do!’ cried Hugh, seating himself on the pathway. ‘Bring it out! Quick! Show a light here, and gather round! Let me sup in state, my lads! Ha ha ha!’

Entering into his boisterous humour, for they all had drunk deeply, and were as wild as he, they crowded about him, while two of their number who had torches, held them up, one on either side of him, that his banquet might not be despatched in the dark. Mr Dennis, having by this time succeeded in extricating from his hat a great mass of pasty, which had been wedged in so tightly that it was not easily got out, put it before him; and Hugh, having borrowed a notched and jagged knife from one of the company, fell to work upon it vigorously.

‘I should recommend you to swallow a little fire every day, about an hour afore dinner, brother,’ said Dennis, after a pause. ‘It seems to agree with you, and to stimulate your appetite.’

Hugh looked at him, and at the blackened faces by which he was surrounded, and, stopping for a moment to flourish his knife above his head, answered with a roar of laughter.

‘Keep order, there, will you?’ said Simon Tappertit.

‘Why, isn’t a man allowed to regale himself, noble captain,’ retorted his lieutenant, parting the men who stood between them, with his knife, that he might see him,—‘to regale himself a little bit after such work as mine? What a hard captain! What a strict captain! What a tyrannical captain! Ha ha ha!’

‘I wish one of you fellers would hold a bottle to his mouth to keep him quiet,’ said Simon, ‘unless you want the military to be down upon us.’

‘And what if they are down upon us!’ retorted Hugh. ‘Who cares? Who’s afraid? Let ‘em come, I say, let ‘em come. The more, the merrier. Give me bold Barnaby at my side, and we two will settle the military, without troubling any of you. Barnaby’s the man for the military. Barnaby’s health!’

But as the majority of those present were by no means anxious for a second engagement that night, being already weary and exhausted, they sided with Mr Tappertit, and pressed him to make haste with his supper, for they had already delayed too long. Knowing, even in the height of his frenzy, that they incurred great danger by lingering so near the scene of the late outrages, Hugh made an end of his meal without more remonstrance, and rising, stepped up to Mr Tappertit, and smote him on the back.

‘Now then,’ he cried, ‘I’m ready. There are brave birds inside this cage, eh? Delicate birds,—tender, loving, little doves. I caged ‘em—I caged ‘em—one more peep!’

Capitolo 59

In questo momento è necessario tornare a Hugh: dopo aver esortato i rivoltosi a disperdersi dalla zona di Warren e a riunirsi come al solito, egli si è nuovamente dissolto nell’oscurità da cui era emerso e non è più ricomparso fino alla notte seguente.

Si fermò tra i cespugli che lo nascondevano dagli sguardi dei suoi compagni pazzi, in attesa di vedere se si sarebbero allontanati al suo comando o se invece avrebbero continuato ad aspettarlo chiamandolo a raggiungerli. Notò che alcuni di loro non erano disposti ad andarsene senza di lui e si dirigevano verso il punto in cui si nascondeva, come se volessero seguirne le orme e convincerlo a tornare indietro; ma questi uomini, a loro volta chiamati dai loro amici e in realtà poco desiderosi di avventurarsi nelle zone oscure del terreno, dove avrebbero potuto essere facilmente sorpresi e catturati se qualche vicino o servitore della famiglia li stesse osservando tra gli alberi, abbandonarono presto l’idea e si allontanarono in fretta, radunando quelli che in quel momento riuscirono a trovare.

Quando si assicurò che la maggior parte degli insorti stesse imitando questo esempio e che il terreno si stesse rapidamente liberando, si addentrò nella parte più fitta del piccolo bosco; spezzando i rami al suo passaggio, si diresse dritto verso una luce lontana: guidato da quella luce e dal tenue bagliore del fuoco alle sue spalle.

Man mano che si avvicinava sempre di più al bagliore tremolante verso cui stava dirigendosi, il rosso bagliore di alcune torce iniziò a farsi vedere, e le voci degli uomini che parlavano tra loro a bassa voce ruppero il silenzio che, ad eccezione di qualche lontano grido occasionale, regnava già nella zona. Alla fine uscì dal bosco, attraversò un fossato e si trovò in una strada buia, dove un piccolo gruppo di vagabondi dall’aspetto poco presentabile, che aveva lasciato lì circa venti minuti prima, lo aspettava con impazienza.

Erano riuniti intorno a un vecchio calesse, guidato da uno di loro che sedeva sul cavallo anteriore. Le tende erano tirate su, e il signor Tappertit insieme a Dennis facevano la guardia alle due finestre. Il primo aveva assunto il comando del gruppo: quando Hugh si avvicinò, lo affrontò; e allora coloro che stavano riposando a terra intorno al calesse si alzarono in piedi e si radunarono intorno a lui.

“‘Beh, ’”, disse Simon a bassa voce, “tutto a posto?”

“Esatto,” rispose Hugh, con lo stesso tono. “Stanno disperdendosi ora, avevano già iniziato prima che me ne andassi.”

“E la strada è libera?”

“Abbastanza chiaro, a quanto pare, per i nostri uomini,” disse Hugh. “Non ci sono molti che, conoscendo quello che fanno laggiù, vorrebbero immischiarsi con loro di notte. Chi ha qualcosa da bere qui?”

Ognuno aveva preso qualcosa dal seminterrato; mezza dozzina di fiasche e bottiglie furono offerte direttamente a lui. Ne scelse la più grande, se la portò alla bocca e fece scorrere il vino giù per la gola. Dopo averla svuotata, la gettò via e tese la mano per un’altra, che bevve anch’essa d’un fiato. Gli ne diedero un’altra, e ne bevve anche metà. Tenendo da parte il resto per berlo più tardi, chiese:

“Avete qualcosa da mangiare? Sono affamato come un lupo. Chi di voi era nella dispensa? Venite qui.”

“Lo ero, fratello,” disse Dennis, togliendosi il cappello e frugando nella corona. “Da qualche parte qui ci deve essere della carne di cervo fredda e stufata. Se ti va bene.”

“Dai!” gridò Hugh, sedendosi sul sentiero. “Portamelo fuori! In fretta! Accendi una luce qui e radunatevi tutti intorno! Lasciate che mi rifocili decentemente, ragazzi miei. Ah ah ah!”

Entrando nel suo spirito vivace e rumoroso – poiché tutti avevano bevuto molto ed erano altrettanto scatenati quanto lui – si affollarono intorno a lui; due di loro, muniti di torce, le tennero sollevate ai suoi lati, in modo che il banchetto potesse proseguire senza essere interrotto dall’oscurità. A quel punto, il signor Dennis riuscì finalmente a estrarre dalla propria testa un grosso pezzo di pasta molle che si era incastrato così saldamente da non essere facile da rimuovere; lo mise davanti a sé, mentre Hugh, preso in prestito un coltello dentellato da uno dei presenti, iniziò a lavorarci con energia.

“Dovrei consigliarti di ingoiare un po’ di fuoco ogni giorno, circa un’ora prima di cena, fratello,” disse Dennis dopo una pausa. “Sembra che ti faccia bene e stimoli il tuo appetito.”

Hugh lo guardò, e poi osservò i volti anneriti che lo circondavano; dopo essersi fermato per un momento e aver agitato il coltello sopra la testa, rispose con una risata fragorosa.

“Mantenete l’ordine, per favore,” disse Simon Tappertit.

“Ma perché un uomo non dovrebbe concedersi qualcosa di piacevole, nobile capitano?” ribatté il suo tenente, aprendo con il coltello la folla che si trovava tra loro per poterlo vedere chiaramente. “Dopo uno sforzo come il mio, non ha forse diritto a un piccolo piacere? Che capitano severo, che capitano rigido, che capitano tirannico! Ah ah ah!”

“Vorrei che qualcuno di voi tenesse una bottiglia davanti alla bocca di quel tizio per farlo stare zitto,” disse Simon, “a meno che non vogliate che l’esercito ci piombi addosso.”

“E se ci attaccassero?” ribatté Hugh. “A chi importa? Chi ha paura? Lasciateli venire, dico io. Più sono, meglio è. Datemi il coraggioso Barnaby al mio fianco, e noi due risolveremo la questione militare senza disturbare nessuno di voi. Barnaby è l’uomo giusto per queste cose. La salute di Barnaby!”

Ma poiché la maggior parte delle persone presenti non aveva affatto voglia di un secondo incontro quella notte, essendo già stanche ed esauste, si schierarono dalla parte del signor Tappertit e lo esortarono ad affrettarsi a finire la cena, poiché avevano già ritardato troppo. Hugh, pur conoscendo, anche nel pieno della sua follia, che rimanere così vicini al luogo degli ultimi atti violenti li esponesse a grandi pericoli, terminò il suo pasto senza ulteriori proteste. Poi si alzò, si avvicinò al signor Tappertit e gli diede una pacca sulla schiena.

“Ora allora,” gridò, “sono pronto. Dentro questa gabbia ci sono degli coraggiosi uccelli, vero? Dei delicati uccellini, teneri, amorevoli, piccole colombe. Li ho rinchiusi qui. Un’ultima occhiata!”

He thrust the little man aside as he spoke, and mounting on the steps, which were half let down, pulled down the blind by force, and stared into the chaise like an ogre into his larder.

‘Ha ha ha! and did you scratch, and pinch, and struggle, pretty mistress?’ he cried, as he grasped a little hand that sought in vain to free itself from his grip: ‘you, so bright-eyed, and cherry-lipped, and daintily made? But I love you better for it, mistress. Ay, I do. You should stab me and welcome, so that it pleased you, and you had to cure me afterwards. I love to see you proud and scornful. It makes you handsomer than ever; and who so handsome as you at any time, my pretty one!’

‘Come!’ said Mr Tappertit, who had waited during this speech with considerable impatience. ‘There’s enough of that. Come down.’

The little hand seconded this admonition by thrusting Hugh’s great head away with all its force, and drawing up the blind, amidst his noisy laughter, and vows that he must have another look, for the last glimpse of that sweet face had provoked him past all bearing. However, as the suppressed impatience of the party now broke out into open murmurs, he abandoned this design, and taking his seat upon the bar, contented himself with tapping at the front windows of the carriage, and trying to steal a glance inside; Mr Tappertit, mounting the steps and hanging on by the door, issued his directions to the driver with a commanding voice and attitude; the rest got up behind, or ran by the side of the carriage, as they could; some, in imitation of Hugh, endeavoured to see the face he had praised so highly, and were reminded of their impertinence by hints from the cudgel of Mr Tappertit. Thus they pursued their journey by circuitous and winding roads; preserving, except when they halted to take breath, or to quarrel about the best way of reaching London, pretty good order and tolerable silence.

In the mean time, Dolly—beautiful, bewitching, captivating little Dolly—her hair dishevelled, her dress torn, her dark eyelashes wet with tears, her bosom heaving—her face, now pale with fear, now crimsoned with indignation—her whole self a hundred times more beautiful in this heightened aspect than ever she had been before—vainly strove to comfort Emma Haredale, and to impart to her the consolation of which she stood in so much need herself. The soldiers were sure to come; they must be rescued; it would be impossible to convey them through the streets of London when they set the threats of their guards at defiance, and shrieked to the passengers for help. If they did this when they came into the more frequented ways, she was certain—she was quite certain—they must be released. So poor Dolly said, and so poor Dolly tried to think; but the invariable conclusion of all such arguments was, that Dolly burst into tears; cried, as she wrung her hands, what would they do or think, or who would comfort them, at home, at the Golden Key; and sobbed most piteously.

Miss Haredale, whose feelings were usually of a quieter kind than Dolly’s, and not so much upon the surface, was dreadfully alarmed, and indeed had only just recovered from a swoon. She was very pale, and the hand which Dolly held was quite cold; but she bade her, nevertheless, remember that, under Providence, much must depend upon their own discretion; that if they remained quiet and lulled the vigilance of the ruffians into whose hands they had fallen, the chances of their being able to procure assistance when they reached the town, were very much increased; that unless society were quite unhinged, a hot pursuit must be immediately commenced; and that her uncle, she might be sure, would never rest until he had found them out and rescued them. But as she said these latter words, the idea that he had fallen in a general massacre of the Catholics that night—no very wild or improbable supposition after what they had seen and undergone—struck her dumb; and, lost in the horrors they had witnessed, and those they might be yet reserved for, she sat incapable of thought, or speech, or outward show of grief: as rigid, and almost as white and cold, as marble.

Oh, how many, many times, in that long ride, did Dolly think of her old lover,—poor, fond, slighted Joe! How many, many times, did she recall that night when she ran into his arms from the very man now projecting his hateful gaze into the darkness where she sat, and leering through the glass in monstrous admiration! And when she thought of Joe, and what a brave fellow he was, and how he would have rode boldly up, and dashed in among these villains now, yes, though they were double the number—and here she clenched her little hand, and pressed her foot upon the ground—the pride she felt for a moment in having won his heart, faded in a burst of tears, and she sobbed more bitterly than ever.

As the night wore on, and they proceeded by ways which were quite unknown to them—for they could recognise none of the objects of which they sometimes caught a hurried glimpse—their fears increased; nor were they without good foundation; it was not difficult for two beautiful young women to find, in their being borne they knew not whither by a band of daring villains who eyed them as some among these fellows did, reasons for the worst alarm. When they at last entered London, by a suburb with which they were wholly unacquainted, it was past midnight, and the streets were dark and empty. Nor was this the worst, for the carriage stopping in a lonely spot, Hugh suddenly opened the door, jumped in, and took his seat between them.

It was in vain they cried for help. He put his arm about the neck of each, and swore to stifle them with kisses if they were not as silent as the grave.

‘I come here to keep you quiet,’ he said, ‘and that’s the means I shall take. So don’t be quiet, pretty mistresses—make a noise—do—and I shall like it all the better.’

Mentre parlava, spostò da parte quell’uomo piccolo; poi salì i gradini, che erano parzialmente abbassati, e con forza tirò giù le tende, fissando l’interno della carrozza come un mostro che guarda nel proprio magazzino.

“Ah ah ah! E hai grattato, pizzicato e lottato, bella mia?” gridò lui, afferrando una manina che invano cercava di liberarsi dalla sua presa: “Tu, con quegli occhi luminosi, quelle labbra rosse come ciliegie e quel corpo così delicato. Ma proprio per questo ti amo ancora di più, mia cara. Ah sì, davvero. Dovresti pugnalarmi e accogliere il mio gesto con gioia, solo perché ti fa piacere. E poi dovresti curarmi dopo. Adoro vederti orgogliosa e sprezzante. Questo ti rende ancora più bella di prima. E chi potrebbe essere più bello di te in qualsiasi momento, mia adorata?”

“Che cosa!” disse il signor Tappertit, che aveva aspettato con notevole impazienza durante quel discorso. “Basta così. Scendi giù.”

La piccola mano, con tutte le sue forze, allontanò la grande testa di Hugh e tirò giù le tende, tra le risate rumorose di tutti; promise anche che avrebbe voluto dare un’altra occhiata, perché quell’ultimo sguardo a quel viso dolce l’aveva reso completamente incontrollabile. Tuttavia, quando l’impazienza repressa del gruppo iniziò a manifestarsi sotto forma di mormori aperti, abbandonò questo progetto e si sedette al bancone, accontentandosi di battere sulle finestre anteriori della carrozza e cercando di gettare uno sguardo all’interno. Il signor Tappertit, salendo i gradini e appoggiandosi alla porta, diede istruzioni al conducente con voce e atteggiamento autoritari; gli altri si misero dietro la carrozza o corsero lungo i suoi fianchi, nel modo che riuscivano; alcuni, imitando Hugh, cercarono anch’essi di vedere quel viso che aveva lodato così tanto, ma vennero rimproverati per la loro impertinenza dai colpi del bastone del signor Tappertit. Così proseguirono il loro viaggio lungo strade tortuose e serpeggianti; mantenendo, tranne quando si fermavano per riposare o per discutere su quale fosse il modo migliore per raggiungere Londra, un certo ordine e un silenzio tollerabile.

Nel frattempo, Dolly – bella, incantevole, affascinante, con i capelli scompigliati, il vestito strappato, le ciglia scure bagnate di lacrime, il petto che si sollevava convulsivamente, il viso ora pallido per la paura, ora arrossato dall’indignazione, l’intera sua personalità cento volte più bella in quel momento di qualsiasi altro, cercava invano di consolare Emma Haredale e di darle quella consolazione di cui lei stessa aveva così disperatamente bisogno. I soldati sarebbero sicuramente arrivati; dovevano essere salvati. Sarebbe stato impossibile farli passare per le strade di Londra se avessero sfidato le minacce delle guardie e chiesto aiuto ai passanti. Se avessero fatto così anche entrando nelle zone più affollate, lei ne era certa, erano sicuramente destinati a essere liberati. Così diceva povera Dolly, e così cercava di pensare. Ma l’unica conclusione possibile di tutti quei ragionamenti era sempre la stessa: Dolly scoppiava in lacrime, piangeva disperatamente, chiedendosi cosa avrebbero fatto o pensato, e chi li avrebbe consolati a casa, alla Golden Key.

Miss Haredale, la cui natura era solitamente più tranquilla di quella di Dolly e i cui sentimenti non erano così evidenti in superficie, fu terribilmente allarmata; anzi, aveva appena ripreso i sensi dopo essere svenuta. Era molto pallida, e la mano che Dolly teneva era fredda come il ghiaccio; tuttavia le disse di ricordare che, sotto la Provvidenza, molte cose dipendevano dalla loro discrezione: se avessero mantenuto il silenzio e allentato la vigilanza dei malviventi in mano ai quali erano cadute, le possibilità di ottenere aiuto una volta raggiunta la città sarebbero aumentate notevolmente; inoltre, a meno che la società non fosse completamente impazzita, un’inseguimento immediato doveva essere avviato senza indugio; e lei era certa che suo zio non si sarebbe mai dato pace finché non le avesse trovate e salvate. Ma mentre pronunciava queste parole, l’idea che lui potesse essere stato ucciso nella strage dei cattolici avvenuta quella notte – un’ipotesi tutt’altro che assurda, considerando ciò che avevano visto e vissuto – la lasciò senza parole; persa nei terribili eventi a cui avevano assistito e in quelli che forse li aspettavano ancora, rimase immobile, pallida come il marmo, incapace di pensare, parlare o manifestare alcun segno di dolore.

Oh, quante, quante volte, durante quel lungo viaggio, Dolly pensò al suo vecchio amante, povero, affettuoso, ingannato Joe! Quante, quante volte ricordò quella notte in cui si rifugiò tra le sue braccia, proprio dall’uomo che ora fissava con odio la oscurità in cui lei sedeva, osservandola attraverso il vetro con uno sguardo orribile e pieno di desiderio! E quando pensava a Joe, a quanto fosse coraggioso, a come sarebbe stato pronto ad affrontare quei malviventi, anche se erano il doppio in numero. Allora stringeva forte la sua piccola mano e premeva il piede a terra. L’orgoglio che provava nel sapere di aver conquistato il suo cuore svaniva immediatamente, sostituito da un fiume di lacrime, e lei singhiozzava più amaramente che mai.

Con il passare della notte, e mentre percorrevano strade del tutto sconosciute a loro – poiché non riconoscevano nessuno degli oggetti che di tanto in tanto intravedevano fugacemente – i loro timori aumentavano; e questi timori non erano infondati. Per due bellissime giovani donne, essere trasportate chissà dove da un gruppo di audaci malviventi che le guardavano con occhi pieni di desiderio, rappresentava certamente motivo di grande preoccupazione. Quando finalmente entrarono a Londra, in una periferia loro del tutto sconosciuta, era già passata la mezzanotte; le strade erano buie e deserte. E questo non era nemmeno il peggio: quando la carrozza si fermò in un luogo isolato, Hugh aprì improvvisamente la porta, salì a bordo e prese posto tra di loro.

Inutile fu il loro chiamare aiuto. Li strinse entrambi per il collo e giurò che li soffocerebbe di baci se non fossero rimasti silenziosi come la tomba.

“Vengo qui per farvi stare zitte,” disse, “e è proprio questo il metodo che userò. Quindi non state zitte, belle signore, fate rumore, così mi piacerà ancora di più.”

They were proceeding at a rapid pace, and apparently with fewer attendants than before, though it was so dark (the torches being extinguished) that this was mere conjecture. They shrunk from his touch, each into the farthest corner of the carriage; but shrink as Dolly would, his arm encircled her waist, and held her fast. She neither cried nor spoke, for terror and disgust deprived her of the power; but she plucked at his hand as though she would die in the effort to disengage herself; and crouching on the ground, with her head averted and held down, repelled him with a strength she wondered at as much as he. The carriage stopped again.

‘Lift this one out,’ said Hugh to the man who opened the door, as he took Miss Haredale’s hand, and felt how heavily it fell. ‘She’s fainted.’

‘So much the better,’ growled Dennis—it was that amiable gentleman. ‘She’s quiet. I always like ‘em to faint, unless they’re very tender and composed.’

‘Can you take her by yourself?’ asked Hugh.

‘I don’t know till I try. I ought to be able to; I’ve lifted up a good many in my time,’ said the hangman. ‘Up then! She’s no small weight, brother; none of these here fine gals are. Up again! Now we have her.’

Having by this time hoisted the young lady into his arms, he staggered off with his burden.

‘Look ye, pretty bird,’ said Hugh, drawing Dolly towards him. ‘Remember what I told you—a kiss for every cry. Scream, if you love me, darling. Scream once, mistress. Pretty mistress, only once, if you love me.’

Thrusting his face away with all her force, and holding down her head, Dolly submitted to be carried out of the chaise, and borne after Miss Haredale into a miserable cottage, where Hugh, after hugging her to his breast, set her gently down upon the floor.

Poor Dolly! Do what she would, she only looked the better for it, and tempted them the more. When her eyes flashed angrily, and her ripe lips slightly parted, to give her rapid breathing vent, who could resist it? When she wept and sobbed as though her heart would break, and bemoaned her miseries in the sweetest voice that ever fell upon a listener’s ear, who could be insensible to the little winning pettishness which now and then displayed itself, even in the sincerity and earnestness of her grief? When, forgetful for a moment of herself, as she was now, she fell on her knees beside her friend, and bent over her, and laid her cheek to hers, and put her arms about her, what mortal eyes could have avoided wandering to the delicate bodice, the streaming hair, the neglected dress, the perfect abandonment and unconsciousness of the blooming little beauty? Who could look on and see her lavish caresses and endearments, and not desire to be in Emma Haredale’s place; to be either her or Dolly; either the hugging or the hugged? Not Hugh. Not Dennis.

‘I tell you what it is, young women,’ said Mr Dennis, ‘I an’t much of a lady’s man myself, nor am I a party in the present business further than lending a willing hand to my friends: but if I see much more of this here sort of thing, I shall become a principal instead of a accessory. I tell you candid.’

‘Why have you brought us here?’ said Emma. ‘Are we to be murdered?’

‘Murdered!’ cried Dennis, sitting down upon a stool, and regarding her with great favour. ‘Why, my dear, who’d murder sich chickabiddies as you? If you was to ask me, now, whether you was brought here to be married, there might be something in it.’

And here he exchanged a grin with Hugh, who removed his eyes from Dolly for the purpose.

‘No, no,’ said Dennis, ‘there’ll be no murdering, my pets. Nothing of that sort. Quite the contrairy.’

‘You are an older man than your companion, sir,’ said Emma, trembling. ‘Have you no pity for us? Do you not consider that we are women?’

‘I do indeed, my dear,’ retorted Dennis. ‘It would be very hard not to, with two such specimens afore my eyes. Ha ha! Oh yes, I consider that. We all consider that, miss.’

He shook his head waggishly, leered at Hugh again, and laughed very much, as if he had said a noble thing, and rather thought he was coming out.

‘There’ll be no murdering, my dear. Not a bit on it. I tell you what though, brother,’ said Dennis, cocking his hat for the convenience of scratching his head, and looking gravely at Hugh, ‘it’s worthy of notice, as a proof of the amazing equalness and dignity of our law, that it don’t make no distinction between men and women. I’ve heerd the judge say, sometimes, to a highwayman or housebreaker as had tied the ladies neck and heels—you’ll excuse me making mention of it, my darlings—and put ‘em in a cellar, that he showed no consideration to women. Now, I say that there judge didn’t know his business, brother; and that if I had been that there highwayman or housebreaker, I should have made answer: “What are you a talking of, my lord? I showed the women as much consideration as the law does, and what more would you have me do?” If you was to count up in the newspapers the number of females as have been worked off in this here city alone, in the last ten year,’ said Mr Dennis thoughtfully, ‘you’d be surprised at the total—quite amazed, you would. There’s a dignified and equal thing; a beautiful thing! But we’ve no security for its lasting. Now that they’ve begun to favour these here Papists, I shouldn’t wonder if they went and altered even THAT, one of these days. Upon my soul, I shouldn’t.’

The subject, perhaps from being of too exclusive and professional a nature, failed to interest Hugh as much as his friend had anticipated. But he had no time to pursue it, for at this crisis Mr Tappertit entered precipitately; at sight of whom Dolly uttered a scream of joy, and fairly threw herself into his arms.

‘I knew it, I was sure of it!’ cried Dolly. ‘My dear father’s at the door. Thank God, thank God! Bless you, Sim. Heaven bless you for this!’

Procedevano a un ritmo rapido, e apparentemente con meno accompagnatori di prima; tuttavia, poiché faceva così buio (le torce erano state spente), si trattava soltanto di una congettura. Si allontanavano dal suo tocco, ognuna rifugiandosi nell’angolo più remoto della carrozza; ma nonostante ciò, Dolly rimase stretta tra le sue braccia: il suo braccio le cingeva la vita e la teneva saldamente ferma. Non piangeva né parlava, poiché il terrore e lo disgusto le avevano tolto ogni forza; cercava però di liberarsi dalla sua presa con tutte le sue forze, come se volesse morire nel tentativo di sfuggirgli. Accovacciata a terra, con la testa girata da un lato e premuta contro il pavimento, lo respingeva con una forza che sia lei che lui trovavano incomprensibile. La carrozza si fermò di nuovo.

“Toglietela fuori,” disse Hugh all’uomo che aveva aperto la porta, mentre prendeva la mano di Miss Haredale e si rendeva conto di quanto fosse pesante, “È svenuta.”

“Molto meglio così,” ringhiò Dennis, che in realtà era quel gentiluomo così affabile. “È silenziosa. Mi piacciono sempre quando sveniscono, a meno che non siano molto delicate e composte.”

“Puoi portarla tu da solo?” chiese Hugh.

“Non lo so finché non provo. Dovrei riuscirci; ne ho sollevati molti, nei miei tempi,” disse il boia. “Alzala adesso! Non è certo leggera. Nessuna di queste ragazze belle e snelle lo è. Alzala ancora. Ora l’abbiamo.”

A quel momento, dopo aver sollevato la giovane donna tra le braccia, barcollò via con il suo fardello.

“Guarda, bellissima piccola,” disse Hugh, attirando Dolly verso di sé. “Ricorda quello che ti ho detto: un bacio per ogni grido. Urla, se mi ami, tesoro. Urla una volta sola, mia cara. Solo una volta, se mi ami.”

Tenendo il viso nascosto con tutte le sue forze e premendosi la testa giù, Dolly si lasciò portare fuori dalla carrozza e condurre, insieme a Miss Haredale, in una misera capanna. Lì, Hugh, dopo averla abbracciata stretta a sé, la adagiò dolcemente sul pavimento.

Povera Dolly! Qualunque cosa facesse, sembrava ancora più bella e li attirava ancora di più. Quando i suoi occhi lampeggiavano di rabbia e le sue labbra si schiudevano leggermente per lasciare uscire il suo respiro affannoso, chi avrebbe potuto resistere? Quando piangeva e singhiozzava come se il cuore le dolesse, lamentando le proprie sfortune con la voce più dolce che si possa immaginare, chi avrebbe potuto rimanere indifferente di fronte a quella sua grazia spontanea, anche quando mostrava sincerità e profonda tristezza? Quando, per un momento dimenticandosi di sé stessa, si inginocchiava accanto alla sua amica, le posava la guancia sulla propria, l’abbracciava, che occhio umano avrebbe potuto evitare di fissarsi su quel corpo delicato, quei capelli lunghi e splendenti, quell’abito trascurato, su quella giovane bellezza così spontanea e inconsapevole del proprio fascino? Chi avrebbe potuto assistere a quelle sue carezze appassionate senza desiderare di essere al posto di Emma Haredale, di essere lei o Dolly, di abbracciare o di essere abbracciato? Nessuno, né Hugh, né Dennis.

“Vi dico cosa penso, giovani donne,” disse il signor Dennis, “io stesso non sono certo un esperto in questioni di cortesia femminile, e in questa faccenda non faccio altro che aiutare volentieri i miei amici; ma se continuerà a succedere spesso questo genere di cose, diventerò un responsabile principale, invece che solo un complice. Ve lo dico onestamente.”

“Perché ci hai portati qui?” disse Emma. “Dovremo essere uccisi?”

“Uccisa!”, gridò Dennis, sedendosi su uno sgabello e guardandola con grande affetto. “Ma chi mai ucciderebbe creature dolci e innocenti come te? Se me lo chiedessi ora, potrei anche pensare che tu sia stata portata qui per sposarti, ”

E qui scambiò un sorriso con Hugh, che per l’occasione distolse lo sguardo da Dolly.

“No, no,” disse Dennis, “non ci sarà alcun omicidio, i miei animali domestici. Niente del genere. Anzi, tutto il contrario.”

“Signore, lei è più anziano del suo compagno,” disse Emma, tremando. “Non prova alcuna pietà per noi? Non le sembra che siamo donne?”

“Certo che sì, mia cara,” ribatté Dennis. “Sarebbe davvero molto difficile non farlo, con due esempi del genere davanti ai miei occhi. Ah ah! Sì, lo penso davvero; tutti noi lo pensiamo, signorina.”

Scosse la testa in modo buffo, guardò di nuovo Hugh con un sorriso malizioso e rise molto, come se avesse detto qualcosa di nobile. E sembrava davvero convinto di aver fatto una grande cosa.

“Non ci saranno omicidi, cara mia. Assolutamente no. Ma ascolta, fratello,” disse Dennis, sistemandosi il cappello per potersi grattare la testa e guardando seriamente Hugh, “è degno di nota, come prova dell’equità e della dignità straordinarie della nostra legge, il fatto che essa non faccia distinzioni tra uomini e donne. Ho sentito il giudice dire, a volte, a un brigante o a uno scassinatore che aveva legato le mani e i piedi delle donne. Perdonami se menziono queste cose, mie care, e le aveva rinchiuse in una cantina, che non mostrava alcuna considerazione per loro. Beh, io dico che quel giudice non capiva nulla di queste cose. E se fossi stato io quel brigante o scassinatore, avrei risposto: ‘Di cosa sta parlando, mio signore? Ho trattato le donne con la stessa considerazione che impone la legge. Cosa vorrebbe che facessi di più?’ Se si contassero tutti i casi in cui donne sono state maltrattate in questa città, negli ultimi dieci anni, ” disse Dennis pensierosamente, “si rimarrebbe sorpresi dal totale. Davvero sbalorditi. C’è qualcosa di nobile ed equo in questo. Qualcosa di meraviglioso! Ma non abbiamo alcuna garanzia che tutto ciò duri. Ora che hanno iniziato a favorire questi Papisti, non mi sorprenderebbe affatto se un giorno modificassero anche questa legge. Per la mia anima, non mi sorprenderebbe affatto.”

L’argomento, forse per essere di natura troppo esclusiva e professionale, non riuscì ad interessare Hugh tanto quanto suo amico aveva previsto. Ma lui non aveva il tempo di approfondirlo, perché in quel momento il signor Tappertit entrò improvvisamente; alla sua vista Dolly emise un grido di gioia e si gettò letteralmente tra le sue braccia.

“Lo sapevo, ne ero sicura!” esclamò Dolly. “Mio caro padre è alla porta. Grazie a Dio, grazie a Dio! Ti benedico, Sim. Che il cielo ti benedica per questo!”

Simon Tappertit, who had at first implicitly believed that the locksmith’s daughter, unable any longer to suppress her secret passion for himself, was about to give it full vent in its intensity, and to declare that she was his for ever, looked extremely foolish when she said these words;—the more so, as they were received by Hugh and Dennis with a loud laugh, which made her draw back, and regard him with a fixed and earnest look.

‘Miss Haredale,’ said Sim, after a very awkward silence, ‘I hope you’re as comfortable as circumstances will permit of. Dolly Varden, my darling—my own, my lovely one—I hope YOU’RE pretty comfortable likewise.’

Poor little Dolly! She saw how it was; hid her face in her hands; and sobbed more bitterly than ever.

‘You meet in me, Miss V.,’ said Simon, laying his hand upon his breast, ‘not a ‘prentice, not a workman, not a slave, not the wictim of your father’s tyrannical behaviour, but the leader of a great people, the captain of a noble band, in which these gentlemen are, as I may say, corporals and serjeants. You behold in me, not a private individual, but a public character; not a mender of locks, but a healer of the wounds of his unhappy country. Dolly V., sweet Dolly V., for how many years have I looked forward to this present meeting! For how many years has it been my intention to exalt and ennoble you! I redeem it. Behold in me, your husband. Yes, beautiful Dolly—charmer—enslaver—S. Tappertit is all your own!’

As he said these words he advanced towards her. Dolly retreated till she could go no farther, and then sank down upon the floor. Thinking it very possible that this might be maiden modesty, Simon essayed to raise her; on which Dolly, goaded to desperation, wound her hands in his hair, and crying out amidst her tears that he was a dreadful little wretch, and always had been, shook, and pulled, and beat him, until he was fain to call for help, most lustily. Hugh had never admired her half so much as at that moment.

‘She’s in an excited state to-night,’ said Simon, as he smoothed his rumpled feathers, ‘and don’t know when she’s well off. Let her be by herself till to-morrow, and that’ll bring her down a little. Carry her into the next house!’

Hugh had her in his arms directly. It might be that Mr Tappertit’s heart was really softened by her distress, or it might be that he felt it in some degree indecorous that his intended bride should be struggling in the grasp of another man. He commanded him, on second thoughts, to put her down again, and looked moodily on as she flew to Miss Haredale’s side, and clinging to her dress, hid her flushed face in its folds.

‘They shall remain here together till to-morrow,’ said Simon, who had now quite recovered his dignity—‘till to-morrow. Come away!’

‘Ay!’ cried Hugh. ‘Come away, captain. Ha ha ha!’

‘What are you laughing at?’ demanded Simon sternly.

‘Nothing, captain, nothing,’ Hugh rejoined; and as he spoke, and clapped his hand upon the shoulder of the little man, he laughed again, for some unknown reason, with tenfold violence.

Mr Tappertit surveyed him from head to foot with lofty scorn (this only made him laugh the more), and turning to the prisoners, said:

‘You’ll take notice, ladies, that this place is well watched on every side, and that the least noise is certain to be attended with unpleasant consequences. You’ll hear—both of you—more of our intentions to-morrow. In the mean time, don’t show yourselves at the window, or appeal to any of the people you may see pass it; for if you do, it’ll be known directly that you come from a Catholic house, and all the exertions our men can make, may not be able to save your lives.’

With this last caution, which was true enough, he turned to the door, followed by Hugh and Dennis. They paused for a moment, going out, to look at them clasped in each other’s arms, and then left the cottage; fastening the door, and setting a good watch upon it, and indeed all round the house.

‘I say,’ growled Dennis, as they walked away in company, ‘that’s a dainty pair. Muster Gashford’s one is as handsome as the other, eh?’

‘Hush!’ said Hugh, hastily. ‘Don’t you mention names. It’s a bad habit.’

‘I wouldn’t like to be HIM, then (as you don’t like names), when he breaks it out to her; that’s all,’ said Dennis. ‘She’s one of them fine, black-eyed, proud gals, as I wouldn’t trust at such times with a knife too near ‘em. I’ve seen some of that sort, afore now. I recollect one that was worked off, many year ago—and there was a gentleman in that case too—that says to me, with her lip a trembling, but her hand as steady as ever I see one: “Dennis, I’m near my end, but if I had a dagger in these fingers, and he was within my reach, I’d strike him dead afore me;”—ah, she did—and she’d have done it too!’

Strike who dead?’ demanded Hugh.

‘How should I know, brother?’ answered Dennis. ‘SHE never said; not she.’

Hugh looked, for a moment, as though he would have made some further inquiry into this incoherent recollection; but Simon Tappertit, who had been meditating deeply, gave his thoughts a new direction.

‘Hugh!’ said Sim. ‘You have done well to-day. You shall be rewarded. So have you, Dennis.—There’s no young woman YOU want to carry off, is there?’

‘N—no,’ returned that gentleman, stroking his grizzly beard, which was some two inches long. ‘None in partickler, I think.’

‘Very good,’ said Sim; ‘then we’ll find some other way of making it up to you. As to you, old boy’—he turned to Hugh—‘you shall have Miggs (her that I promised you, you know) within three days. Mind. I pass my word for it.’

Hugh thanked him heartily; and as he did so, his laughing fit returned with such violence that he was obliged to hold his side with one hand, and to lean with the other on the shoulder of his small captain, without whose support he would certainly have rolled upon the ground.

Simon Tappertit, che all’inizio aveva creduto, in modo implicito, che la figlia del fabbro, ormai incapace di reprimere il suo segreto amore per lui, stesse per esprimerlo apertamente e dichiarare che lo amava per sempre, sembrò estremamente ridicolo quando pronunciò quelle parole; tanto più che Hugh e Dennis le accolsero con una risata fragorosa, il che la fece arretrare e guardarli con uno sguardo fisso e serio.

“Miss Haredale,” disse Sim, dopo un lungo e imbarazzante silenzio, “spero che vi troviate il più comodamente possibile, date le circostanze. Dolly Varden, mia cara, la mia adorata, spero anche voi siate abbastanza a vostro agio.”

Povera piccola Dolly! Vide com’era la situazione, nascose il viso tra le mani e pianse ancora più amaramente di prima.

“Vi trovate davanti a me, signorina V, ”, disse Simon, posando la mano sul petto, “non un apprendista, non un lavoratore, non uno schiavo, né vittima del comportamento tirannico di vostro padre, ma il leader di un grande popolo, il comandante di un nobile gruppo nel quale questi signori sono, per così dire, sottufficiali e sergenti. Vedete in me non un individuo privato, ma una figura pubblica; non un semplice artigiano, ma colui che guarisce le ferite del suo sfortunato paese. Dolly V, dolce Dolly V, per quanti anni ho atteso questo incontro! Per quanti anni ho desiderato elevare e onorarvi! Ora lo realizzo. Vedete in me vostro marito. Sì, bella Dolly, incantevole, dominatrice. S. Tappertit appartiene interamente a voi!”

Mentre pronunciava queste parole, si avvicinò a lei. Dolly indietreggiò fino a quando non poté andare oltre, poi si accasciò a terra. Ritenendo molto probabile che si trattasse della timidezza tipica di una fanciulla vergine, Simon cercò di aiutarla ad alzarsi; ma Dolly, spinta alla disperazione, afferrò i suoi capelli e, tra le lacrime, lo definì un terribile individuo, dichiarando che sempre lo era stato. Lo scosse, lo tirò e lo colpì fino a quando lui non chiamò aiuto ad alta voce. In quel momento, Hugh la trovò più attraente che mai.

“È in uno stato di eccitazione terribile, di notte,” disse Simon, mentre si sistemava le piume arruffate, “e non sappiamo quando si calmerà. Lasciatela da sola fino a domani; così si tranquillizzerà un po’. Portatela nella casa accanto!”

Hugh la tenne immediatamente tra le braccia. Forse il cuore del signor Tappertit si era davvero addolcito per il suo dolore, o forse riteneva indecoroso che la sua futura sposa fosse tra le braccia di un altro uomo. Dopo averci pensato meglio, gli ordinò di metterla giù di nuovo, e osservò con aria cupa mentre lei correva dal lato della signorina Haredale, si aggrappava alla sua gonna e nascondeva il viso arrossito tra le sue pieghe.

“Rimarranno qui insieme fino a domani,” disse Simon, che ormai aveva completamente riacquistato la sua dignità; “fino a domani. Andiamo!”

“Ahì!” gridò Hugh. “Andiamo via, capitano. Ahahah!”

“Di cosa stai ridendo?” chiese severamente Simon.

“Niente, capitano, niente,” rispose Hugh; e mentre parlava, posò la mano sulla spalla dell’uomo più piccolo, ridendo di nuovo, per qualche motivo sconosciuto, con una violenza dieci volte maggiore.

Il signor Tappertit lo esaminò dalla testa ai piedi con un profondo disprezzo (il che lo fece ridere ancora di più), poi si rivolse ai prigionieri e disse:

“Signore mie, noterete che questo posto è attentamente sorvegliato da tutte le parti, e che il minimo rumore potrebbe comportare conseguenze sgradevoli. Domani sentirete maggiori dettagli sulle nostre intenzioni. Nel frattempo, non mostratevi alla finestra né chiamate l’attenzione delle persone che possano passarci davanti; altrimenti verrà subito scoperto che provenite da una casa cattolica, e tutti gli sforzi dei nostri uomini potrebbero non essere sufficienti a salvare le vostre vite.”

Con quest’ultima precauzione, che del resto era più che giusta, si diresse verso la porta; lo seguirono Hugh e Dennis. Si fermarono un attimo prima di uscire per osservarli mentre erano abbracciati l’uno all’altro, poi lasciarono la capanna; chiusero a chiave la porta e presero grandissime precauzioni sia con essa che intorno all’intera >casa.

“Dico,” ringhiò Dennis mentre si allontanavano insieme, “che sono davvero una bella coppia. Quella di Gashford è altrettanto attraente dell’altra, vero?”

“Zitta!” disse Hugh in fretta. “Non menzionare i nomi. È una cattiva abitudine.”

“Non vorrei essere INVECE DI LUI (poiché a te non piacciono i nomi), quando glielo dirà. È tutto,” disse Dennis. “È una di quelle ragazze belle, con gli occhi neri, orgogliose. Di quelle non mi fiderei nemmeno con un coltello nelle vicinanze. Ne ho già viste alcune. Ricordo una che fu portata via molti anni fa. C’era anche un gentiluomo coinvolto in quella storia. Lei, con le labbra tremanti ma la mano ferma come sempre, mi disse: ‘Dennis, sono agli sgoccioli. Ma se avessi un pugnale tra queste dita e lui fosse a portata di mano, lo ucciderei davanti ai miei occhi’. Ah, lo fece davvero, ”

“Chi dovrei uccidere?”, chiese Hugh.

“Come potrei saperlo, fratello?”, rispose Dennis. “Non l’ha mai detto, lei no.”

Hugh sembrò per un momento voler approfondire ulteriormente questa ricordo incoerente; ma Simon Tappertit, che aveva riflettuto profondamente, diede una nuova direzione ai suoi pensieri.

“Hugh!” disse Sim. “Oggi hai fatto davvero bene. Sarai ricompensato.”
Anche tu, Dennis. Non c’è qualche giovane donna che vuoi portarti via, vero?

“N-no,” rispose quel gentiluomo, accarezzando la sua barba grigiastra, lunga circa due pollici. “Nessuno, in particolare, credo.”

“Molto bene,” disse Sim; “allora troveremo un altro modo per rimediare con te. Per quanto riguarda te, vecchio mio” – si rivolse a Hugh – “avrai Miggs entro tre giorni. Ascolta: ti do la mia parola.”

Hugh gli ringraziò con sincerità; e mentre lo faceva, la sua crisi di risate ricominciò con tale violenza che dovette tenersi il fianco con una mano e appoggiarsi con l’altra al collo del suo giovane capitano, senza il cui sostegno sicuramente sarebbe caduto a terra.

Chapter 60

The three worthies turned their faces towards The Boot, with the intention of passing the night in that place of rendezvous, and of seeking the repose they so much needed in the shelter of their old den; for now that the mischief and destruction they had purposed were achieved, and their prisoners were safely bestowed for the night, they began to be conscious of exhaustion, and to feel the wasting effects of the madness which had led to such deplorable results.

Notwithstanding the lassitude and fatigue which oppressed him now, in common with his two companions, and indeed with all who had taken an active share in that night’s work, Hugh’s boisterous merriment broke out afresh whenever he looked at Simon Tappertit, and vented itself—much to that gentleman’s indignation—in such shouts of laughter as bade fair to bring the watch upon them, and involve them in a skirmish, to which in their present worn-out condition they might prove by no means equal. Even Mr Dennis, who was not at all particular on the score of gravity or dignity, and who had a great relish for his young friend’s eccentric humours, took occasion to remonstrate with him on this imprudent behaviour, which he held to be a species of suicide, tantamount to a man’s working himself off without being overtaken by the law, than which he could imagine nothing more ridiculous or impertinent.

Not abating one jot of his noisy mirth for these remonstrances, Hugh reeled along between them, having an arm of each, until they hove in sight of The Boot, and were within a field or two of that convenient tavern. He happened by great good luck to have roared and shouted himself into silence by this time. They were proceeding onward without noise, when a scout who had been creeping about the ditches all night, to warn any stragglers from encroaching further on what was now such dangerous ground, peeped cautiously from his hiding-place, and called to them to stop.

‘Stop! and why?’ said Hugh.

Because (the scout replied) the house was filled with constables and soldiers; having been surprised that afternoon. The inmates had fled or been taken into custody, he could not say which. He had prevented a great many people from approaching nearer, and he believed they had gone to the markets and such places to pass the night. He had seen the distant fires, but they were all out now. He had heard the people who passed and repassed, speaking of them too, and could report that the prevailing opinion was one of apprehension and dismay. He had not heard a word of Barnaby—didn’t even know his name—but it had been said in his hearing that some man had been taken and carried off to Newgate. Whether this was true or false, he could not affirm.

The three took counsel together, on hearing this, and debated what it might be best to do. Hugh, deeming it possible that Barnaby was in the hands of the soldiers, and at that moment under detention at The Boot, was for advancing stealthily, and firing the house; but his companions, who objected to such rash measures unless they had a crowd at their backs, represented that if Barnaby were taken he had assuredly been removed to a stronger prison; they would never have dreamed of keeping him all night in a place so weak and open to attack. Yielding to this reasoning, and to their persuasions, Hugh consented to turn back and to repair to Fleet Market; for which place, it seemed, a few of their boldest associates had shaped their course, on receiving the same intelligence.

Feeling their strength recruited and their spirits roused, now that there was a new necessity for action, they hurried away, quite forgetful of the fatigue under which they had been sinking but a few minutes before; and soon arrived at their new place of destination.

Fleet Market, at that time, was a long irregular row of wooden sheds and penthouses, occupying the centre of what is now called Farringdon Street. They were jumbled together in a most unsightly fashion, in the middle of the road; to the great obstruction of the thoroughfare and the annoyance of passengers, who were fain to make their way, as they best could, among carts, baskets, barrows, trucks, casks, bulks, and benches, and to jostle with porters, hucksters, waggoners, and a motley crowd of buyers, sellers, pick-pockets, vagrants, and idlers. The air was perfumed with the stench of rotten leaves and faded fruit; the refuse of the butchers’ stalls, and offal and garbage of a hundred kinds. It was indispensable to most public conveniences in those days, that they should be public nuisances likewise; and Fleet Market maintained the principle to admiration.

To this place, perhaps because its sheds and baskets were a tolerable substitute for beds, or perhaps because it afforded the means of a hasty barricade in case of need, many of the rioters had straggled, not only that night, but for two or three nights before. It was now broad day, but the morning being cold, a group of them were gathered round a fire in a public-house, drinking hot purl, and smoking pipes, and planning new schemes for to-morrow.

Hugh and his two friends being known to most of these men, were received with signal marks of approbation, and inducted into the most honourable seats. The room-door was closed and fastened to keep intruders at a distance, and then they proceeded to exchange news.

‘The soldiers have taken possession of The Boot, I hear,’ said Hugh. ‘Who knows anything about it?’

Several cried that they did; but the majority of the company having been engaged in the assault upon the Warren, and all present having been concerned in one or other of the night’s expeditions, it proved that they knew no more than Hugh himself; having been merely warned by each other, or by the scout, and knowing nothing of their own knowledge.

‘We left a man on guard there to-day,’ said Hugh, looking round him, ‘who is not here. You know who it is—Barnaby, who brought the soldier down, at Westminster. Has any man seen or heard of him?’

They shook their heads, and murmured an answer in the negative, as each man looked round and appealed to his fellow; when a noise was heard without, and a man was heard to say that he wanted Hugh—that he must see Hugh.

‘He is but one man,’ cried Hugh to those who kept the door; ‘let him come in.’

‘Ay, ay!’ muttered the others. ‘Let him come in. Let him come in.’

The door was accordingly unlocked and opened. A one-armed man, with his head and face tied up with a bloody cloth, as though he had been severely beaten, his clothes torn, and his remaining hand grasping a thick stick, rushed in among them, and panting for breath, demanded which was Hugh.

‘Here he is,’ replied the person he inquired for. ‘I am Hugh. What do you want with me?’

‘I have a message for you,’ said the man. ‘You know one Barnaby.’

‘What of him? Did he send the message?’

‘Yes. He’s taken. He’s in one of the strong cells in Newgate. He defended himself as well as he could, but was overpowered by numbers. That’s his message.’

‘When did you see him?’ asked Hugh, hastily.

‘On his way to prison, where he was taken by a party of soldiers. They took a by-road, and not the one we expected. I was one of the few who tried to rescue him, and he called to me, and told me to tell Hugh where he was. We made a good struggle, though it failed. Look here!’

He pointed to his dress and to his bandaged head, and still panting for breath, glanced round the room; then faced towards Hugh again.

‘I know you by sight,’ he said, ‘for I was in the crowd on Friday, and on Saturday, and yesterday, but I didn’t know your name. You’re a bold fellow, I know. So is he. He fought like a lion tonight, but it was of no use. I did my best, considering that I want this limb.’

Again he glanced inquisitively round the room or seemed to do so, for his face was nearly hidden by the bandage—and again facing sharply towards Hugh, grasped his stick as if he half expected to be set upon, and stood on the defensive.

If he had any such apprehension, however, he was speedily reassured by the demeanour of all present. None thought of the bearer of the tidings. He was lost in the news he brought. Oaths, threats, and execrations, were vented on all sides. Some cried that if they bore this tamely, another day would see them all in jail; some, that they should have rescued the other prisoners, and this would not have happened. One man cried in a loud voice, ‘Who’ll follow me to Newgate!’ and there was a loud shout and general rush towards the door.

But Hugh and Dennis stood with their backs against it, and kept them back, until the clamour had so far subsided that their voices could be heard, when they called to them together that to go now, in broad day, would be madness; and that if they waited until night and arranged a plan of attack, they might release, not only their own companions, but all the prisoners, and burn down the jail.

‘Not that jail alone,’ cried Hugh, ‘but every jail in London. They shall have no place to put their prisoners in. We’ll burn them all down; make bonfires of them every one! Here!’ he cried, catching at the hangman’s hand. ‘Let all who’re men here, join with us. Shake hands upon it. Barnaby out of jail, and not a jail left standing! Who joins?’

Every man there. And they swore a great oath to release their friends from Newgate next night; to force the doors and burn the jail; or perish in the fire themselves.

Capitolo 60

I tre valorosi voltarono il viso verso The Boot, con l’intenzione di trascorrere la notte in quel luogo d’incontro e cercare il riposo di cui avevano tanto bisogno all’ombra del loro vecchio rifugio; poiché ora che i malvagi progetti e le distruzioni che avevano pianificato erano stati realizzati e i loro prigionieri erano al sicuro, iniziarono a provare stanchezza e a sentire gli effetti negativi della pazzia che aveva portato a tali risultati deplorevoli.

Nonostante la stanchezza e la fatica che lo opprimevano in quel momento, così come i suoi due compagni e tutti coloro che avevano partecipato attivamente alle attività di quella notte, l’allegria travolgente di Hugh riemergeva ogni volta che guardava Simon Tappertit; esprimevasi in grida di risate così sonore da poter facilmente attirare l’attenzione della guardia e farli finire in una rissa, nella quale, in quelle condizioni di estrema stanchezza, non avrebbero certo potuto reggere. Anche il signor Dennis, che non era affatto rigido per quanto riguardava la gravità o la dignità e apprezzava molto gli umori eccentrici del suo giovane amico, si prese la briga di rimproverarlo per questo comportamento imprudente, considerandolo una sorta di suicidio, equivalente a un uomo che si logora fino allo sfinimento senza essere raggiunto dalla legge; non riusciva a immaginare nulla di più ridicolo o inappropriato.

Senza minimamente attenuare la sua rumorosa allegria nonostante queste remore, Hugh continuò a camminare tra di loro, tenendo un braccio ciascuno, finché non apparve davanti ai loro occhi The Boot, e si trovarono a meno di uno o due campi da quella comoda taverna. Per grande fortuna, entro quel momento era riuscito a far tacere tutti con i suoi urla e le sue grida. Proseguirono il cammino in silenzio, quando un esploratore che aveva girovagato lungo i fossati per tutta la notte, al fine di avvertire eventuali ritardatari di non avvicinarsi ulteriormente a quel terreno ormai così pericoloso, spuntò cautamente dal suo nascondiglio e li chiamò ad arrestarsi.

“Fermati! E perché?” disse Hugh.

Perché (rispose lo scout) la casa era piena di poliziotti e soldati; essendo stata sorpresa quel pomeriggio, gli occupanti avevano fugito o erano stati arrestati, non sapeva dire quale delle due cose fosse accaduta. Aveva impedito a molte persone di avvicinarsi di più, e credeva che fossero andate nei mercati o in altri luoghi per trascorrere la notte. Aveva visto dei fuochi in lontananza, ma ora erano tutti spenti. Aveva sentito le persone che passavano parlare di loro, e poteva riferire che l’opinione generale era di preoccupazione e timore. Non aveva sentito pronunciare il nome di Barnaby – nemmeno sapeva come si chiamasse – ma gli era stato detto che qualcuno era stato arrestato e portato a Newgate. Se ciò fosse vero o falso, non poteva dirlo con certezza.

I tre si consultarono insieme, dopo aver sentito ciò che era accaduto, e discussero su quale potesse essere la cosa migliore da fare. Hugh, ritenendo possibile che Barnaby fosse nelle mani dei soldati e in quel momento tenuto prigioniero a The Boot, propose di avanzare furtivamente e di attaccare la casa; ma i suoi compagni, oppositori di una simile mossa avventata se non avessero avuto un gran numero di persone al loro fianco, sostennero che, se Barnaby fosse stato catturato, sicuramente sarebbe stato trasferito in una prigione più sicura; non avrebbero mai pensato di tenerlo tutta la notte in un luogo così debole e esposto agli attacchi. Dopo aver ascoltato queste ragioni e le loro argomentazioni, Hugh acconsentì a tornare indietro e dirigersi verso Fleet Market; sembrava infatti che alcuni dei loro compagni più coraggiosi avessero già preso quella stessa direzione, dopo aver ricevuto lo stesso informazione.

Sentendo la propria forza risvegliarsi e lo spirito animarsi, ora che c’era una nuova necessità di agire, si affrettarono a partire, dimenticando completamente la stanchezza che pochi minuti prima li opprimeva; e presto arrivarono al loro nuovo luogo di destinazione.

Il mercato di Fleet, a quell’epoca, era costituito da una lunga fila irregolare di capanne e attici in legno, situati nel centro di ciò che oggi viene chiamata Farringdon Street. Erano ammassati in modo assai disordinato, proprio nel mezzo della strada, causando notevoli ostacoli al traffico e infastidendo i passanti, costretti a farsi strada tra carri, cesti, carriole, camion, barili, merci varie e panche, mentre venivano spesso urtati da portatori, ambulanti, carrettieri e una folla eterogenea di compratori, venditori, borseggiatori, vagabondi e oziosi. L’aria era impregnata dall’odore nauseabondo di foglie marce e frutta appassita, nonché dai rifiuti delle bancarelle dei macellai e da ogni sorta di spazzatura. A quei tempi, per gran parte dei servizi pubblici era inevitabile che rappresentassero anche un fastidio per la comunità; il mercato di Fleet, in questo senso, manteneva fedelmente questa “tradizione”.

In questo luogo, forse perché i suoi capanni e le sue ceste costituivano un sostituto accettabile dei letti, o forse perché permetteva di allestire rapidamente barricate in caso di necessità, molti dei rivoltosi si erano rifugiati lì non solo quella notte, ma anche nelle due o tre notti precedenti. Ora era giorno fermo, ma poiché la mattina faceva freddo, un gruppo di loro si era riunito intorno a un fuoco in una casa pubblica, bevendo purl caldo e fumando pipe, mentre pianificavano nuove strategie per il giorno seguente.

Hugh e i suoi due amici, essendo conosciuti da la maggior parte di questi uomini, furono accolti con evidenti segni di approvazione e invitati a prendere posto nelle posizioni più onorevoli. La porta della stanza fu chiusa e serrata per tenere gli intrusi alla larga, dopodiché iniziarono a scambiarsi notizie.

“Ho sentito dire che i soldati hanno preso possesso di ‘The Boot’,” disse Hugh. “Chi ne sa qualcosa?”

Molti affermarono di sì; ma poiché la maggior parte del gruppo aveva partecipato all’assalto al Warren e tutti i presenti erano stati coinvolti in una o più delle spedizioni notturne, risultò che non sapevano nulla di più di Hugh stesso: erano stati semplicemente avvisati gli uni dagli altri o dal ricognitore, e non possedevano alcuna informazione autonoma.

“Oggi abbiamo lasciato un uomo di guardia lì,” disse Hugh, guardandosi intorno, “ma lui non è qui. Sapete chi sia. Barnaby, quello che ha aiutato il soldato a scappare a Westminster. Qualcuno l’ha visto o sentito qualcosa su di lui?”

Scossero la testa e mormorarono una risposta negativa; ognuno di loro guardò intorno e si rivolse ai suoi compagni. Poi si udì un rumore dall’esterno, e qualcuno disse che voleva vedere Hugh, che doveva assolutamente incontrare Hugh.

“È solo un uomo”, gridò Hugh a coloro che tenevano la porta; “lasciatelo entrare”.

“Ah, ah!”, mormorarono gli altri. “Lasciatelo entrare. Lasciatelo entrare.”

La porta fu quindi aperta senza chiave. Un uomo con un braccio solo, la testa e il viso avvolti in un pezzo di stoffa insanguinata, come se fosse stato brutalmente picchiato, i vestiti strappati, e l’unico braccio rimasto che stringeva una grossa bastona, irruppe tra loro ansimando e chiese chi fosse Hugh.

“Eccolo qui,” rispose la persona che stava cercando. “Sono Hugh. Cosa vuoi da me?”

“Ho un messaggio per te,” disse l’uomo. “Conosci qualcuno di nome Barnaby, vero?”

“E lui? Ha inviato il messaggio?”

“Sì. È stato catturato. Si trova in una delle celle più sicure di Newgate. Si è difeso il meglio che poteva, ma è stato sopraffatto dal numero superiore degli avversari. Questo è il messaggio che ci ha lasciato.”

“Quando l’hai visto?” chiese Hugh, in fretta.

‘Sul suo cammino verso la prigione, dove fu portato da un gruppo di soldati. Presero una strada secondaria, non quella che ci aspettavamo. Io fui uno dei pochi che cercarono di salvarlo; lui mi chiamò e mi disse di riferire a Hugh dove si trovava. Lottammo con tutte le nostre forze, ma senza successo. Guardate qui!’

Indicò il proprio abito e la testa fasciata, continuando a respirare affannosamente, guardò intorno nella stanza; poi si rivolse di nuovo verso Hugh.

“Ti conosco di vista,” disse, “perché ero nella folla venerdì, sabato e ieri, ma non conoscevo il tuo nome. So che sei un tipo coraggioso. Lo è anche lui. Stasera ha combattuto come un leone, ma senza successo. Ho fatto del mio meglio, considerando che voglio conservare questa gamba.”

Di nuovo guardò intorno alla stanza con aria inquisitoria, o almeno sembrò farlo, poiché il suo viso era quasi completamente nascosto dalla benda; poi, rivolgendosi bruscamente verso Hugh, afferrò il proprio bastone come se si aspettasse di essere attaccato, assumendo una posizione difensiva.

Tuttavia, se avesse avuto qualche timore del genere, sarebbe stato subito rassicurato dal comportamento di tutti i presenti. Nessuno pensava al portatore della notizia; erano tutti concentrati sulle informazioni che aveva portato. Giuramenti, minacce e imprecazioni echeggiavano da tutte le parti. Alcuni gridavano che se avessero accettato tutto questo passivamente, un altro giorno si sarebbero trovati tutti in prigione; altri sostenevano che avrebbero dovuto salvare gli altri prigionieri, e così non sarebbe successo nulla. Un uomo gridò ad alta voce: “Chi mi seguirà a Newgate?”, e ci fu un gran clamore e una folla si precipitò verso la porta.

Ma Hugh e Dennis rimasero lì, con le spalle appoggiate al muro, impedendo loro di avanzare, finché il clamore non si placò abbastanza da permettere che le loro voci fossero udite. Allora li esortarono tutti insieme a dire che andarsene ora, in pieno giorno, sarebbe stato un vero e proprio pazzesco; e che se avessero aspettato fino alla notte per pianificare l’attacco, avrebbero potuto liberare non solo i loro compagni, ma anche tutti i prigionieri, e bruciare la prigione stessa.

“Non quella prigione sola,” gridò Hugh, “ma tutte le prigioni di Londra. Non avranno più posto dove mettere i loro prigionieri. Le bruceremo tutte; ne faremo dei falò! Ecco!” gridò, afferrando la mano del boia. “Che tutti coloro che sono uomini qui si uniscano a noi. Stringiamoci la mano su questo. Liberiamo Barnaby dalla prigione, e che non resti in piedi nemmeno una prigione! Chi si unisce?”

Ogni uomo lì presente giurò solennemente che la notte seguente avrebbe liberato i propri amici da Newgate, forzando le porte e bruciando la prigione, o perirebbe lui stesso nell’fuoco.

Chapter 61

On that same night—events so crowd upon each other in convulsed and distracted times, that more than the stirring incidents of a whole life often become compressed into the compass of four-and-twenty hours—on that same night, Mr Haredale, having strongly bound his prisoner, with the assistance of the sexton, and forced him to mount his horse, conducted him to Chigwell; bent upon procuring a conveyance to London from that place, and carrying him at once before a justice. The disturbed state of the town would be, he knew, a sufficient reason for demanding the murderer’s committal to prison before daybreak, as no man could answer for the security of any of the watch-houses or ordinary places of detention; and to convey a prisoner through the streets when the mob were again abroad, would not only be a task of great danger and hazard, but would be to challenge an attempt at rescue. Directing the sexton to lead the horse, he walked close by the murderer’s side, and in this order they reached the village about the middle of the night.

The people were all awake and up, for they were fearful of being burnt in their beds, and sought to comfort and assure each other by watching in company. A few of the stoutest-hearted were armed and gathered in a body on the green. To these, who knew him well, Mr Haredale addressed himself, briefly narrating what had happened, and beseeching them to aid in conveying the criminal to London before the dawn of day.

But not a man among them dared to help him by so much as the motion of a finger. The rioters, in their passage through the village, had menaced with their fiercest vengeance, any person who should aid in extinguishing the fire, or render the least assistance to him, or any Catholic whomsoever. Their threats extended to their lives and all they possessed. They were assembled for their own protection, and could not endanger themselves by lending any aid to him. This they told him, not without hesitation and regret, as they kept aloof in the moonlight and glanced fearfully at the ghostly rider, who, with his head drooping on his breast and his hat slouched down upon his brow, neither moved nor spoke.

Finding it impossible to persuade them, and indeed hardly knowing how to do so after what they had seen of the fury of the crowd, Mr Haredale besought them that at least they would leave him free to act for himself, and would suffer him to take the only chaise and pair of horses that the place afforded. This was not acceded to without some difficulty, but in the end they told him to do what he would, and go away from them in heaven’s name.

Leaving the sexton at the horse’s bridle, he drew out the chaise with his own hands, and would have harnessed the horses, but that the post-boy of the village—a soft-hearted, good-for-nothing, vagabond kind of fellow—was moved by his earnestness and passion, and, throwing down a pitchfork with which he was armed, swore that the rioters might cut him into mincemeat if they liked, but he would not stand by and see an honest gentleman who had done no wrong, reduced to such extremity, without doing what he could to help him. Mr Haredale shook him warmly by the hand, and thanked him from his heart. In five minutes’ time the chaise was ready, and this good scapegrace in his saddle. The murderer was put inside, the blinds were drawn up, the sexton took his seat upon the bar, Mr Haredale mounted his horse and rode close beside the door; and so they started in the dead of night, and in profound silence, for London.

The consternation was so extreme that even the horses which had escaped the flames at the Warren, could find no friends to shelter them. They passed them on the road, browsing on the stunted grass; and the driver told them, that the poor beasts had wandered to the village first, but had been driven away, lest they should bring the vengeance of the crowd on any of the inhabitants.

Nor was this feeling confined to such small places, where the people were timid, ignorant, and unprotected. When they came near London they met, in the grey light of morning, more than one poor Catholic family who, terrified by the threats and warnings of their neighbours, were quitting the city on foot, and who told them they could hire no cart or horse for the removal of their goods, and had been compelled to leave them behind, at the mercy of the crowd. Near Mile End they passed a house, the master of which, a Catholic gentleman of small means, having hired a waggon to remove his furniture by midnight, had had it all brought down into the street, to wait the vehicle’s arrival, and save time in the packing. But the man with whom he made the bargain, alarmed by the fires that night, and by the sight of the rioters passing his door, had refused to keep it: and the poor gentleman, with his wife and servant and their little children, were sitting trembling among their goods in the open street, dreading the arrival of day and not knowing where to turn or what to do.

It was the same, they heard, with the public conveyances. The panic was so great that the mails and stage-coaches were afraid to carry passengers who professed the obnoxious religion. If the drivers knew them, or they admitted that they held that creed, they would not take them, no, though they offered large sums; and yesterday, people had been afraid to recognise Catholic acquaintance in the streets, lest they should be marked by spies, and burnt out, as it was called, in consequence. One mild old man—a priest, whose chapel was destroyed; a very feeble, patient, inoffensive creature—who was trudging away, alone, designing to walk some distance from town, and then try his fortune with the coaches, told Mr Haredale that he feared he might not find a magistrate who would have the hardihood to commit a prisoner to jail, on his complaint. But notwithstanding these discouraging accounts they went on, and reached the Mansion House soon after sunrise.

Capitolo 61

Nella stessa notte – eventi che, in tempi di caos e confusione, si sovrappongono l’uno all’altro fino a comprimersi nell’arco di soli ventiquattro ore – il signor Haredale, dopo aver legato saldamente il prigioniero con l’aiuto del sagrestano e costringendolo a montare a cavallo, lo portò a Chigwell. Intendeva procurarsi un mezzo per trasportarlo immediatamente a Londra e presentarlo davanti a un giudice. Sapeva che lo stato di turbolenza della città sarebbe stato motivo sufficiente per richiedere che il assassino venisse rinchiuso in prigione prima dell’alba, poiché nessuno avrebbe potuto garantire la sicurezza delle caserme di guardia o degli ordinari luoghi di detenzione; inoltre, trasportare un prigioniero per le strade mentre la folla era ancora in giro avrebbe rappresentato non solo un’operazione estremamente rischiosa, ma anche una palese provocazione a eventuali tentativi di salvataggio. Mentre il sagrestano guidava il cavallo, lui camminava al fianco del prigioniero; in questo modo raggiunsero il villaggio verso metà della notte.

Tutti erano svegli e in piedi, poiché temevano di essere bruciati a letto; cercavano quindi di consolarsi a vicenda osservando insieme ciò che accadeva. Alcuni dei più coraggiosi si armarono e si radunarono nel prato. A questi, che lo conoscevano bene, il signor Haredale si rivolse, raccontando brevemente quanto era accaduto e supplicandoli di aiutarlo a portare il criminale a Londra prima dell’‘alba.

Ma nessuno di loro osò aiutarlo nemmeno con il minimo gesto. I rivoltosi, passando per il villaggio, avevano minacciato con la più feroce vendetta chiunque avesse cercato di spegnere l’incendio, di prestargli qualsiasi aiuto o di soccorrere un qualsiasi cattolico. Le loro minacce riguardavano sia la vita che tutto ciò che possedevano. Erano riuniti per proteggersi, e non potevano correre il rischio di mettersi in pericolo aiutandolo. Glielo dissero con esitazione e rimorso, mentre si tenevano a distanza, sotto la luce della luna, lanciando occhiate timide verso quel cavaliere spettrale che, con la testa china sul petto e il cappello calato sulla fronte, non si muoveva né parlava.

Ritenendo impossibile convincerli, e in realtà non sapendo proprio come farlo dopo aver visto la furia della folla, il signor Haredale li pregò almeno di lasciarlo libero di agire da solo, permettendogli di prendere l’unica carrozza e i due cavalli disponibili in quel luogo. Questa richiesta fu accettata non senza alcune difficoltà, ma alla fine gli dissero di fare ciò che voleva e di andarsene, per il nome del cielo.

Lasciando il postiglione alla briglia del cavallo, prese personalmente in mano la carrozza e stava per attaccare i cavalli quando un ragazzo del villaggio – un individuo dal cuore tenero, indolente e vagabondo –, commosso dalla sua determinazione e passione, gettò a terra una forca con cui si era armato e giurò che, anche se i ribelli avessero voluto tagliarlo a pezzi, lui non avrebbe assistito senza fare nulla per aiutare un onesto gentiluomo che non aveva commesso alcun torto. Il signor Haredale gli strinse calorosamente la mano e lo ringraziò sinceramente. In cinque minuti la carrozza fu pronta, e quel buon ragazzo salì a cavallo. Il assassino venne messo all’interno, le tendine furono tirate su, il postiglione prese il suo posto sul sedile anteriore, il signor Haredale montò il suo cavallo e si mise al fianco della carrozza; così partirono nel cuore della notte, in un profondo silenzio, diretti verso Londra.

Lo sconcerto era così estremo che persino i cavalli che erano riusciti a sfuggire alle fiamme presso il Warren non trovarono nessuno che li proteggesse. Li si vide lungo la strada, mentre brucavano l’erba stentata; il conducente raccontò che quelle povere bestie erano prima arrivate nel villaggio, ma poi erano state scacciate via per evitare che attirassero su qualche abitante la vendetta della folla.

Questo sentimento non era limitato a luoghi così piccoli, dove le persone erano timide, ignoranti e indifese. Quando si avvicinavano a Londra, nella luce grigia dell’alba, incontravano molte famiglie cattoliche povere che, terrorizzate dalle minacce e dai moniti dei loro vicini, abbandonavano la città a piedi. Queste persone raccontavano di non riuscire a noleggiare carri o cavalli per trasportare i propri beni, e quindi erano costrette a lasciarli lì, alla mercé della folla. Vicino a Mile End passarono davanti a una casa: il proprietario, un gentiluomo cattolico di modeste condizioni, aveva noleggiato un carro per trasportare i propri mobili entro mezzanotte; tuttavia, l’uomo con cui aveva fatto l’accordo, spaventato dai disordini della notte e dal passaggio dei rivoltosi davanti alla sua porta, si era rifiutato di mantenere l’appuntamento. Il povero gentiluomo, insieme a sua moglie, al servitore e ai loro bambini, sedeva tremante tra i propri beni in mezzo alla strada, temendo l’arrivo del giorno e non sapendo dove rivolgersi o cosa fare.

Era lo stesso anche per i mezzi di trasporto pubblico: il panico era tale che le diligenze e gli altri veicoli temevano di trasportare passeggeri che professavano quella religione odiosa. Se i conducenti li riconoscevano, o se questi ammettevano di credere in quel credo, non li avrebbero presi, nemmeno se offrivano somme ingenti; ieri, la gente aveva paura di riconoscere conoscenti cattolici per le strade, nel timore di essere segnalati dai spie e quindi bruciati, come si diceva all’epoca. Un anziano gentile – un prete la cui cappella era stata distrutta – una persona molto debole, paziente e inoffensiva, che camminava da solo, con l’intenzione di allontanarsi dalla città per poi provare a prendere un veicolo, disse al signor Haredale di temere di non riuscire a trovare un magistrato disposto ad arrestare un prigioniero su sua denuncia. Ma nonostante queste notizie scoraggianti, continuarono il loro viaggio e arrivarono alla dimora poco dopo l’alba.

Mr Haredale threw himself from his horse, but he had no need to knock at the door, for it was already open, and there stood upon the step a portly old man, with a very red, or rather purple face, who with an anxious expression of countenance, was remonstrating with some unseen personage upstairs, while the porter essayed to close the door by degrees and get rid of him. With the intense impatience and excitement natural to one in his condition, Mr Haredale thrust himself forward and was about to speak, when the fat old gentleman interposed:

‘My good sir,’ said he, ‘pray let me get an answer. This is the sixth time I have been here. I was here five times yesterday. My house is threatened with destruction. It is to be burned down to-night, and was to have been last night, but they had other business on their hands. Pray let me get an answer.’

‘My good sir,’ returned Mr Haredale, shaking his head, ‘my house is burned to the ground. But heaven forbid that yours should be. Get your answer. Be brief, in mercy to me.’

‘Now, you hear this, my lord?’—said the old gentleman, calling up the stairs, to where the skirt of a dressing-gown fluttered on the landing-place. ‘Here is a gentleman here, whose house was actually burnt down last night.’

‘Dear me, dear me,’ replied a testy voice, ‘I am very sorry for it, but what am I to do? I can’t build it up again. The chief magistrate of the city can’t go and be a rebuilding of people’s houses, my good sir. Stuff and nonsense!’

‘But the chief magistrate of the city can prevent people’s houses from having any need to be rebuilt, if the chief magistrate’s a man, and not a dummy—can’t he, my lord?’ cried the old gentleman in a choleric manner.

‘You are disrespectable, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor—‘leastways, disrespectful I mean.’

‘Disrespectful, my lord!’ returned the old gentleman. ‘I was respectful five times yesterday. I can’t be respectful for ever. Men can’t stand on being respectful when their houses are going to be burnt over their heads, with them in ‘em. What am I to do, my lord? AM I to have any protection!’

‘I told you yesterday, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor, ‘that you might have an alderman in your house, if you could get one to come.’

‘What the devil’s the good of an alderman?’ returned the choleric old gentleman.

‘—To awe the crowd, sir,’ said the Lord Mayor.

‘Oh Lord ha’ mercy!’ whimpered the old gentleman, as he wiped his forehead in a state of ludicrous distress, ‘to think of sending an alderman to awe a crowd! Why, my lord, if they were even so many babies, fed on mother’s milk, what do you think they’d care for an alderman! Will YOU come?’

‘I!’ said the Lord Mayor, most emphatically: ‘Certainly not.’

‘Then what,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘what am I to do? Am I a citizen of England? Am I to have the benefit of the laws? Am I to have any return for the King’s taxes?’

‘I don’t know, I am sure,’ said the Lord Mayor; ‘what a pity it is you’re a Catholic! Why couldn’t you be a Protestant, and then you wouldn’t have got yourself into such a mess? I’m sure I don’t know what’s to be done.—There are great people at the bottom of these riots.—Oh dear me, what a thing it is to be a public character!—You must look in again in the course of the day.—Would a javelin-man do?—Or there’s Philips the constable,—HE’S disengaged,—he’s not very old for a man at his time of life, except in his legs, and if you put him up at a window he’d look quite young by candle-light, and might frighten ‘em very much.—Oh dear!—well!—we’ll see about it.’

‘Stop!’ cried Mr Haredale, pressing the door open as the porter strove to shut it, and speaking rapidly, ‘My Lord Mayor, I beg you not to go away. I have a man here, who committed a murder eight-and-twenty years ago. Half-a-dozen words from me, on oath, will justify you in committing him to prison for re-examination. I only seek, just now, to have him consigned to a place of safety. The least delay may involve his being rescued by the rioters.’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the Lord Mayor. ‘God bless my soul—and body—oh Lor!—well I!—there are great people at the bottom of these riots, you know.—You really mustn’t.’

‘My lord,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘the murdered gentleman was my brother; I succeeded to his inheritance; there were not wanting slanderous tongues at that time, to whisper that the guilt of this most foul and cruel deed was mine—mine, who loved him, as he knows, in Heaven, dearly. The time has come, after all these years of gloom and misery, for avenging him, and bringing to light a crime so artful and so devilish that it has no parallel. Every second’s delay on your part loosens this man’s bloody hands again, and leads to his escape. My lord, I charge you hear me, and despatch this matter on the instant.’

‘Oh dear me!’ cried the chief magistrate; ‘these an’t business hours, you know—I wonder at you—how ungentlemanly it is of you—you mustn’t—you really mustn’t.—And I suppose you are a Catholic too?’

‘I am,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘God bless my soul, I believe people turn Catholics a’purpose to vex and worrit me,’ cried the Lord Mayor. ‘I wish you wouldn’t come here; they’ll be setting the Mansion House afire next, and we shall have you to thank for it. You must lock your prisoner up, sir—give him to a watchman—and—call again at a proper time. Then we’ll see about it!’

Before Mr Haredale could answer, the sharp closing of a door and drawing of its bolts, gave notice that the Lord Mayor had retreated to his bedroom, and that further remonstrance would be unavailing. The two clients retreated likewise, and the porter shut them out into the street.

‘That’s the way he puts me off,’ said the old gentleman, ‘I can get no redress and no help. What are you going to do, sir?’

Il signor Haredale si gettò giù dal suo cavallo, ma non ebbe bisogno di bussare alla porta, poiché era già aperta. Sulla soglia c’era un uomo anziano e robusto, con il viso molto rosso, o meglio viola; quest’uomo, con un’espressione ansiosa sul volto, stava rimproverando qualcuno che si trovava al piano di sopra, mentre il portiere cercava di chiudere la porta gradualmente per liberarsi di lui. Con l’intensa impazienza e eccitazione tipiche di una persona nella sua situazione, il signor Haredale fece un passo avanti per parlare, ma l’anziano signore interruppe:

“Mio buon signore,” disse, “per favore mi dia una risposta. È la sesta volta che vengo qui; ieri sono stato qui cinque volte. La mia casa è minacciata di distruzione: verrà bruciata stanotte. Avrebbe dovuto essere bruciata già ieri sera, ma avevano altre cose da fare. Per favore, mi dia una risposta.”

“Mio buon signore,” rispose il signor Haredale scuotendo la testa, “la mia casa è stata distrutta completamente dal fuoco. Ma che Dio non permetta che accada lo stesso alla sua. Ottenga la sua risposta. Sia breve, per misericordia mia.”

“Ora, state attento a quello che vi dico, mio signore, ” disse il vecchio gentiluomo, chiamando verso le scale, dove la gonna di un pigiama svolazzava sul pianerottolo. “Ecco qui un gentiluomo il cui casa è stata davvero distrutta stanotte.”

“Dio mio, Dio mio,” rispose una voce irritata, “mi dispiace molto, ma cosa posso fare? Non posso ricostruirlo di nuovo. Il magistrato capo della città non può certo occuparsi della ricostruzione delle case delle persone, mio caro signore. Sciocchezze!”

“Ma il magistrato capo della città può evitare che le case delle persone debbano essere ricostruite, se quel magistrato è un uomo e non una marionetta. Non può farlo, mio signore?” gridò l’anziano gentiluomo in tono irritato.

“Siete irrispettoso, signore,” disse il Presidente del Consiglio Municipale–“o per lo meno, mancate di rispetto.”

“Insolente, mio signore!” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo. “Ieri sono stato rispettoso cinque volte. Non posso continuare a essere rispettoso all’infinito. Le persone non possono sopportare di essere sempre rispettose quando le loro case stanno per essere bruciate sotto i loro occhi, con loro dentro. Cosa devo fare, mio signore? Devo forse aspettarmi qualche protezione?”

“Gliel’ho detto ieri, signore,” disse il Presidente del Consiglio Municipale, “che avreste potuto avere un assessore nella vostra casa, se foste riusciti a convincerlo ad andare.”

“Di che utilità può essere un assessore?” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo collerico.

“–Per impressionare la folla, signore,” disse il Lord Mayor.

“Oh Signore, abbia misericordia!” singhiozzò il vecchio gentiluomo, asciugandosi la fronte in uno stato di evidente angoscia. “Pensare che si debba mandare un assessore per intimidire una folla. Ma mio signore, anche se fossero tutti bambini allattati al seno della madre, cosa credete che gli importerebbe di un assessore? Verrà lei stesso?”

“Assolutamente no,” disse con grande enfasi il Sindaco.

“Allora cosa devo fare?” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo. “Sono un cittadino d’Inghilterra? Devo godere dei benefici delle leggi? Devo ricevere qualche compensazione per le tasse pagate dal Re?”

“Non lo so. Sono sicuro,” disse il Lord Mayor; “che peccato che tu sia cattolico! Perché non puoi essere protestante? In quel caso non ti troveresti in questo guaio. Non so davvero cosa fare. Ci sono persone molto influenti dietro questi disordini. Oh, mio Dio. Che situazione difficile essere una figura pubblica. Dovresti riprovarci durante la giornata. Un uomo che lancia giavellotti potrebbe farlo? O magari c’è il poliziotto Philips. Lui è disponibile. Non è molto vecchio per la sua età, tranne che per le gambe. Se lo mettessimo davanti a una finestra, sotto la luce delle candele sembrerebbe molto giovane e potrebbe spaventarli davvero. Oh, mio Dio. Beh, vedremo cosa possiamo fare.”

“Fermatevi!” gridò il signor Haredale, spingendo la porta aperta mentre il portiere cercava di chiuderla, e parlando rapidamente: “Mio Signore Sindaco, la prego, non andiate via. Ho qui un uomo che ha commesso un omicidio ottantadue anni fa. Se mi date solo mezza dozzina di parole, giurate sul serio, vi darò motivo sufficiente per consegnarlo in prigione affinché venga riesaminato. Tutto ciò che desidero è che venga messo al sicuro. Qualsiasi ritardo potrebbe far sì che venga salvato dai rivoltosi.”

“Oh mio Dio!”, esclamò il Lord Mayor. “Dio benedica la mia ‘anima, e il mio -corpo. Oh, signori, ci sono persone molto influenti dietro questi disordini, lo sapete. Davvero non dovreste farlo.”

“Mio signore,” disse il signor Haredale, “il gentiluomo assassinato era mio fratello; ho ereditato la sua fortuna. In quel tempo non mancavano persone pronte a diffondere calunnie, sussurrando che l’colpa di questo atto così orribile e crudele fosse mia. Mia, che lo amavo profondamente, come lui sa, in cielo. Dopo tutti questi anni di dolore e miseria, è finalmente arrivato il momento di vendicarlo e di far luce su un crimine così astuto e malvagio da non avere eguali. Ogni secondo di ritardo da parte vostra permetterà a quell’uomo di sfuggire ancora una volta. Mio signore, vi supplico: ascoltatemi e risolvete questa questione immediatamente.”

“Oh mio Dio!”, esclamò il magistrato capo; “non sono ore adatte per queste cose, lo sapete. Mi chiedo come possiate comportarvi in questo modo. È davvero scortese da parte vostra. Non dovreste farlo. Davvero non dovreste. E suppongo che siate anche cattolico, ”

“Lo sono,” disse il signor Haredale.

“Dio benedica la mia ‘anima. Credo che le persone diventino cattoliche apposta per infastidirmi e darmi fastidio,” gridò il Lord Mayor. “Vorrei che non veniste qui. Presto daranno fuoco anche alla Mansion House, e sarete voi a doverne rispondere. Dovete chiudere a chiave il vostro prigioniero, signore, affidatelo a un custode. E tornate solo in un momento appropriato. Allora ne parleremo!”

Prima che il signor Haredale potesse rispondere, il violento chiudersi di una porta e il serrarsi delle sue serrature indicarono che il Lord Mayor si era ritirato nella sua camera da letto, e che ulteriori tentativi di persuasione sarebbero stati inutili. Anche i due clienti se ne andarono, e il portiere li lasciò fuori, in strada.

“È proprio in questo modo che riesce a mettermi nei guai,” disse il vecchio signore, “non riesco ad ottenere alcuna giustizia né aiuto. Cosa intende fare, signore?”

‘To try elsewhere,’ answered Mr Haredale, who was by this time on horseback.

‘I feel for you, I assure you—and well I may, for we are in a common cause,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I may not have a house to offer you to-night; let me tender it while I can. On second thoughts though,’ he added, putting up a pocket-book he had produced while speaking, ‘I’ll not give you a card, for if it was found upon you, it might get you into trouble. Langdale—that’s my name—vintner and distiller—Holborn Hill—you’re heartily welcome, if you’ll come.’

Mr Haredale bowed, and rode off, close beside the chaise as before; determining to repair to the house of Sir John Fielding, who had the reputation of being a bold and active magistrate, and fully resolved, in case the rioters should come upon them, to do execution on the murderer with his own hands, rather than suffer him to be released.

They arrived at the magistrate’s dwelling, however, without molestation (for the mob, as we have seen, were then intent on deeper schemes), and knocked at the door. As it had been pretty generally rumoured that Sir John was proscribed by the rioters, a body of thief-takers had been keeping watch in the house all night. To one of them Mr Haredale stated his business, which appearing to the man of sufficient moment to warrant his arousing the justice, procured him an immediate audience.

No time was lost in committing the murderer to Newgate; then a new building, recently completed at a vast expense, and considered to be of enormous strength. The warrant being made out, three of the thief-takers bound him afresh (he had been struggling, it seemed, in the chaise, and had loosened his manacles); gagged him lest they should meet with any of the mob, and he should call to them for help; and seated themselves, along with him, in the carriage. These men being all well armed, made a formidable escort; but they drew up the blinds again, as though the carriage were empty, and directed Mr Haredale to ride forward, that he might not attract attention by seeming to belong to it.

The wisdom of this proceeding was sufficiently obvious, for as they hurried through the city they passed among several groups of men, who, if they had not supposed the chaise to be quite empty, would certainly have stopped it. But those within keeping quite close, and the driver tarrying to be asked no questions, they reached the prison without interruption, and, once there, had him out, and safe within its gloomy walls, in a twinkling.

With eager eyes and strained attention, Mr Haredale saw him chained, and locked and barred up in his cell. Nay, when he had left the jail, and stood in the free street, without, he felt the iron plates upon the doors, with his hands, and drew them over the stone wall, to assure himself that it was real; and to exult in its being so strong, and rough, and cold. It was not until he turned his back upon the jail, and glanced along the empty streets, so lifeless and quiet in the bright morning, that he felt the weight upon his heart; that he knew he was tortured by anxiety for those he had left at home; and that home itself was but another bead in the long rosary of his regrets.

“Provare altrove,” rispose il signor Haredale, che a quel momento era già in sella al cavallo.

“Mi dispiace per te, te lo assicuro. E in fondo, posso davvero farlo, perché siamo dalla stessa parte,” disse il vecchio signore. “Forse non ho una casa da offrirti per la notte; lascia che ti ospiti finché ne ho l’opportunità. Ma poi, riflettendoci meglio, ” aggiunse, estraendo un portafogli che aveva tirato fuori durante il discorso, “non ti darò una carta d’identità. Perché se qualcuno la trovasse su di te, potresti finire nei guai. Langdale, questo è il mio nome, produttore di vino e distillatore. Holborn Hill. Se vieni, sei più che benvenuto.”

Il signor Haredale si inchinò e partì, ancora una volta al fianco della carrozza; aveva deciso di recarsi alla casa di Sir John Fielding, che godeva della reputazione di essere un magistrato coraggioso e energico. Era fermamente determinato a uccidere personalmente il colpevole qualora i rivoltosi li assalissero, piuttosto che permettergli di scappare.

Arrivarono alla residenza del magistrato, tuttavia senza essere molestati (poiché la folla, come abbiamo visto, era in quel momento intenta a piani più ambiziosi), e bussarono alla porta. Poiché si diffondevano voci secondo cui Sir John fosse stato bandito dai rivoltosi, un gruppo di cacciatori di ladri stava facendo la guardia nella casa per tutta la notte. Uno di loro ascoltò le ragioni del signor Haredale e, ritenendole sufficientemente importanti da giustificare l’intervento della giustizia, gli garantì un’udienza immediata.

Non si perse alcun tempo nell’accompagnare il assassino a Newgate; la prigione era un edificio nuovo, appena completato a grandi spese e considerato estremamente sicuro. Una volta emesso l’ordine di arresto, tre dei poliziotti lo legarono di nuovo (sembrava che si fosse divincolato durante il trasporto in carrozza, riuscendo così a liberarsi dalle manette); gli imbaviarono la bocca per evitare che chiamasse aiuto alla folla; infine salirono tutti insieme nella carrozza. Essendo questi uomini ben armati, costituivano una scorta davvero imponente; tuttavia abbassarono di nuovo le tende, come se la carrozza fosse vuota, e ordinarono a Mr Haredale di viaggiare in testa al convoglio, per evitare che attirasse l’attenzione.

La saggezza di questa azione era abbastanza evidente: mentre si affrettavano attraverso la >città, passarono accanto a diversi gruppi di persone che, se avessero pensato che la carrozza fosse completamente vuota, sicuramente l’avrebbero fermata. Ma poiché coloro all’interno rimasero molto vicini e il cocchiere si trattenne per evitare domande, raggiunsero la prigione senza intoppi. Una volta arrivati, lo fecero uscire e lo portarono al sicuro, all’interno delle sue tetre mura, in un attimo.

Con occhi pieni di desiderio e attenzione concentrata, il signor Haredale lo vide incatenato, chiuso a chiave nella sua cella. No: anche dopo essere uscito dalla prigione e aver messo piede nelle strade libere, sentiva ancora le lastre di ferro sulle porte; con le mani ne verificava la solidità, la ruvidezza e il freddo, esultando nel constatare quanto fossero resistenti. Solo quando si allontanò dalla prigione e guardò lungo le strade deserte, così silenziose e prive di vita in quella mattina luminosa, sentì il peso sul cuore; capì che era tormentato dall’ansia per coloro che aveva lasciato a >casa. E che )casa stessa non era altro che un altro granello nel lungo rosario dei suoi rimpianti.

Chapter 62

The prisoner, left to himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands, remained in that attitude for hours. It would be hard to say, of what nature his reflections were. They had no distinctness, and, saving for some flashes now and then, no reference to his condition or the train of circumstances by which it had been brought about. The cracks in the pavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall where stone was joined to stone, the bars in the window, the iron ring upon the floor,—such things as these, subsiding strangely into one another, and awakening an indescribable kind of interest and amusement, engrossed his whole mind; and although at the bottom of his every thought there was an uneasy sense of guilt, and dread of death, he felt no more than that vague consciousness of it, which a sleeper has of pain. It pursues him through his dreams, gnaws at the heart of all his fancied pleasures, robs the banquet of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes happiness itself unhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom without shape, or form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but having no existence; recognisable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or touched, or met with face to face, until the sleep is past, and waking agony returns.

After a long time the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw the blind man enter; and relapsed into his former position.

Guided by his breathing, the visitor advanced to where he sat; and stopping beside him, and stretching out his hand to assure himself that he was right, remained, for a good space, silent.

‘This is bad, Rudge. This is bad,’ he said at length.

The prisoner shuffled with his feet upon the ground in turning his body from him, but made no other answer.

‘How were you taken?’ he asked. ‘And where? You never told me more than half your secret. No matter; I know it now. How was it, and where, eh?’ he asked again, coming still nearer to him.

‘At Chigwell,’ said the other.

‘At Chigwell! How came you there?’

‘Because I went there to avoid the man I stumbled on,’ he answered. ‘Because I was chased and driven there, by him and Fate. Because I was urged to go there, by something stronger than my own will. When I found him watching in the house she used to live in, night after night, I knew I never could escape him—never! and when I heard the Bell—’

He shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and down the narrow cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old posture.

‘You were saying,’ said the blind man, after another pause, ‘that when you heard the Bell—’

‘Let it be, will you?’ he retorted in a hurried voice. ‘It hangs there yet.’

The blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him, but he continued to speak, without noticing him.

‘I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I have been so hunted and beset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety lay in joining them. They had gone on before; I followed them when it left off.’

‘When what left off?’

‘The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped that some of them might be still lingering among the ruins, and was searching for them when I heard—’ he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve—‘his voice.’

‘Saying what?’

‘No matter what. I don’t know. I was then at the foot of the turret, where I did the—’

‘Ay,’ said the blind man, nodding his head with perfect composure, ‘I understand.’

‘I climbed the stair, or so much of it as was left; meaning to hide till he had gone. But he heard me; and followed almost as soon as I set foot upon the ashes.’

‘You might have hidden in the wall, and thrown him down, or stabbed him,’ said the blind man.

‘Might I? Between that man and me, was one who led him on—I saw it, though he did not—and raised above his head a bloody hand. It was in the room above that HE and I stood glaring at each other on the night of the murder, and before he fell he raised his hand like that, and fixed his eyes on me. I knew the chase would end there.’

‘You have a strong fancy,’ said the blind man, with a smile.

‘Strengthen yours with blood, and see what it will come to.’

He groaned, and rocked himself, and looking up for the first time, said, in a low, hollow voice:

‘Eight-and-twenty years! Eight-and-twenty years! He has never changed in all that time, never grown older, nor altered in the least degree. He has been before me in the dark night, and the broad sunny day; in the twilight, the moonlight, the sunlight, the light of fire, and lamp, and candle; and in the deepest gloom. Always the same! In company, in solitude, on land, on shipboard; sometimes leaving me alone for months, and sometimes always with me. I have seen him, at sea, come gliding in the dead of night along the bright reflection of the moon in the calm water; and I have seen him, on quays and market-places, with his hand uplifted, towering, the centre of a busy crowd, unconscious of the terrible form that had its silent stand among them. Fancy! Are you real? Am I? Are these iron fetters, riveted on me by the smith’s hammer, or are they fancies I can shatter at a blow?’

The blind man listened in silence.

‘Fancy! Do I fancy that I killed him? Do I fancy that as I left the chamber where he lay, I saw the face of a man peeping from a dark door, who plainly showed me by his fearful looks that he suspected what I had done? Do I remember that I spoke fairly to him—that I drew nearer—nearer yet—with the hot knife in my sleeve? Do I fancy how HE died? Did he stagger back into the angle of the wall into which I had hemmed him, and, bleeding inwardly, stand, not fall, a corpse before me? Did I see him, for an instant, as I see you now, erect and on his feet—but dead!’

Capitolo 62

Il prigioniero, lasciato a se stesso, si sedette sul suo letto: appoggiò i gomiti sulle ginocchia e il mento sulle mani, rimanendo in quella posizione per ore intere. Sarebbe difficile dire di che natura fossero i suoi pensieri; essi non avevano alcuna chiarezza, e, fatta eccezione per alcuni brevi momenti di riflessione, non riguardavano mai la sua condizione né la serie di circostanze che l’avevano portata a quella situazione. Le crepe nel pavimento della sua cella, le fessure nei muri dove una pietra si univa all’altra, le sbarre della finestra, il anello di ferro sul pavimento. Questi oggetti, mescolandosi in modo strano tra loro, suscitavano in lui un interesse e un divertimento indescrivibili, assorbendo completamente la sua attenzione. E sebbene, nel profondo dei suoi pensieri, persistesse una sensazione di disagio legata al peccato e alla paura della morte, egli percepiva soltanto quella vaga consapevolezza di esse, simile a quella che un dormiente ha del dolore. Questa sensazione lo perseguitava nei suoi sogni, rovinava il piacere di ogni sua fantasia, privava i momenti felici della loro dolcezza e rendeva la stessa felicità qualcosa di infelice. Tuttavia, non si trattava di una sensazione fisica, ma di un fantasma senza forma, né esistenza concreta; qualcosa che pervadeva tutto, ma che in realtà non esisteva affatto. Riconoscibile ovunque, ma mai visibile, né toccabile, né incontrata faccia a faccia. Fino a quando il sogno non finiva e l’angoscia del risveglio non tornava.

Dopo un lungo tempo, la porta della sua cella si aprì. Alzò lo sguardo; vide entrare l’uomo non vedente; e tornò immediatamente nella sua posizione precedente.

Guidato dal suo respiro, il visitatore si avvicinò al punto in cui sedeva; si fermò accanto a lui e, tendendo la mano per assicurarsi che fosse proprio lui, rimase in silenzio per un lungo momento.

“È grave, Rudge. È davvero grave,” disse infine.

Il prigioniero si muoveva con i piedi sul terreno mentre girava il proprio -corpo lontano da sé, ma non rispose in alcun altro modo.

“Come sei stato portato via?” chiese. “E dove? Non mi hai mai raccontato più di metà del tuo segreto. Ma non importa; ora lo so. Come è successo, e dove, eh?” ripeté, avvicinandosi ancora di più a lui.

“Ad Chigwell,” disse l’altro.

“Ad Chigwell! Come ci sei finito?”

“Perché sono andato lì per evitare quell’uomo che avevo incontrato per caso,” rispose.
“Perché sono stato inseguito e costretto ad andarci, da lui e dal Destino. Perché qualcosa di più forte della mia volontà mi ha spinto ad andarci. Quando l’ho visto osservarmi nella casa in cui lei viveva, notte dopo notte, ho capito che non avrei mai potuto sfuggirgli, mai! E quando ho sentito quel campanello, ”

Tremò, mormorò che faceva molto freddo, camminò avanti e indietro velocemente nella stretta cella; poi, sedutosi di nuovo, riprese la sua solita posizione.

“Stavi dicendo,” disse l’uomo cieco, dopo un’altra pausa, “che quando hai sentito la Campana, ”

“Lascia stare, per favore”, rispose lui con voce affrettata. “È ancora lì”.

L’uomo cieco girò verso di lui un viso pieno di malinconia e curiosità, ma lui continuò a parlare, senza accorgersi della sua presenza.

“Sono andato a Chigwell, alla ricerca di quella banda. Quell’uomo mi ha perseguitato e assillato così tanto che ho capito che la mia unica speranza di salvezza stava nel unirmi a loro. Loro erano già partiti; li ho seguiti non appena hanno lasciato il posto.”

“Quando finirà tutto questo?”

“La Campana. Avevano già lasciato quel posto. Speravo che qualcuno di loro fosse ancora tra le rovine, e stavo cercandoli quando sentii, ”, fece un lungo respiro e si asciugò la fronte con il gomito, “la sua voce.”

“Che cosa stai dicendo?”

“Non so. In quel momento mi trovavo ai piedi della torre, dove ho fatto, ”

“Ah,” disse l’uomo cieco, annuendo con perfetta calma, “capisco.”

“Salii le scale, o quanto ne era rimasto; intenzionato a nascondermi finché non se ne fosse andato. Ma mi sentì; e iniziò a seguirmi quasi non appena misi piede sulle ceneri.”

“Avresti potuto nasconderti dietro il muro, buttarlo giù o pugnalarlo,” disse l’uomo cieco.

“Posso farlo? Tra quell’uomo e me, c’era qualcuno che lo guidava verso il pericolo. L’ho visto, anche se lui no. Qualcuno che gli alzò sopra la testa una mano insanguinata. Era nella stanza di sopra. Quella notte dell’omicidio, io e lui ci fissavamo a vicenda. Prima di cadere, alzò di nuovo quella mano e fissò i suoi occhi nei miei. Sapevo che la caccia sarebbe finita lì.”

“Hai davvero una grande fantasia,” disse l’uomo cieco, sorridendo.

“Rafforza i tuoi legami con il %sangue e vedrai cosa ne consegue.”

Gemette, si dondolò avanti e indietro, e alzando lo sguardo per la prima volta, disse con una voce bassa e vuota:

“Ventiotto anni. Ventiotto anni! Non è mai cambiato in tutto questo tempo: non è invecchiato, né ha subito la minima alterazione. L’ho visto nelle oscure notti, nei luminosi giorni soleggiati; al crepuscolo, sotto la luce della luna, del sole, del fuoco, delle lampade e delle candele. E anche nell’oscurità più profonda. Sempre lo stesso! In compagnia, nella solitudine, sulla terraferma, a bordo di una nave. A volte mi lasciava da solo per mesi, altre volte era sempre con me. L’ho visto in mare, mentre scivolava silenziosamente nella notte, lungo il riflesso luminoso della luna sull’acqua calma; l’ho visto nei porti e nelle piazze, con la mano alzata, dominante tra la folla. Ignaro della terribile forma che stava in mezzo a loro. Immaginate. È reale? Lo sono io? Queste catene di ferro, fissate su di me dal martello del ferriere, esistono davvero, o sono solo illusioni che posso distruggere con un semplice gesto?”

L’uomo cieco ascoltava in silenzio.

‘Mio Dio! Mi pare davvero di averlo ucciso. Mi sembra di aver visto, mentre lasciavo la stanza dove giaceva, il volto di un uomo che spiava da una porta buia; i suoi sguardi spaventati dimostravano chiaramente che sospettava ciò che avevo fatto. Ricordo di aver parlato con lui gentilmente, di essermi avvicinato sempre di più, con il coltello affilato nascosto nella manica. Mi sembra di ricordare come sia morto. Si è ritirato nell’angolo del muro dove lo avevo intrappolato. È rimasto lì, in piedi, sanguinando internamente, un cadavere davanti a me. Per un istante, mi sembra di vederlo ancora adesso: eretto, in piedi, ma morto.’

The blind man, who knew that he had risen, motioned him to sit down again upon his bedstead; but he took no notice of the gesture.

‘It was then I thought, for the first time, of fastening the murder upon him. It was then I dressed him in my clothes, and dragged him down the back-stairs to the piece of water. Do I remember listening to the bubbles that came rising up when I had rolled him in? Do I remember wiping the water from my face, and because the body splashed it there, in its descent, feeling as if it MUST be blood?

‘Did I go home when I had done? And oh, my God! how long it took to do! Did I stand before my wife, and tell her? Did I see her fall upon the ground; and, when I stooped to raise her, did she thrust me back with a force that cast me off as if I had been a child, staining the hand with which she clasped my wrist? Is THAT fancy?

‘Did she go down upon her knees, and call on Heaven to witness that she and her unborn child renounced me from that hour; and did she, in words so solemn that they turned me cold—me, fresh from the horrors my own hands had made—warn me to fly while there was time; for though she would be silent, being my wretched wife, she would not shelter me? Did I go forth that night, abjured of God and man, and anchored deep in hell, to wander at my cable’s length about the earth, and surely be drawn down at last?’

‘Why did you return? said the blind man.

‘Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live without breath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn back, through every difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a mighty engine. Nothing could stop me. The day and hour were none of my choice. Sleeping and waking, I had been among the old haunts for years—had visited my own grave. Why did I come back? Because this jail was gaping for me, and he stood beckoning at the door.’

‘You were not known?’ said the blind man.

‘I was a man who had been twenty-two years dead. No. I was not known.’

‘You should have kept your secret better.’

‘MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could whisper at its will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the water in its flowing, the leaves in their rustling, the seasons in their return. It lurked in strangers’ faces, and their voices. Everything had lips on which it always trembled.—MY secret!’

‘It was revealed by your own act at any rate,’ said the blind man.

‘The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was forced at times to wander round, and round, and round that spot. If you had chained me up when the fit was on me, I should have broken away, and gone there. As truly as the loadstone draws iron towards it, so he, lying at the bottom of his grave, could draw me near him when he would. Was that fancy? Did I like to go there, or did I strive and wrestle with the power that forced me?’

The blind man shrugged his shoulders, and smiled incredulously. The prisoner again resumed his old attitude, and for a long time both were mute.

‘I suppose then,’ said his visitor, at length breaking silence, ‘that you are penitent and resigned; that you desire to make peace with everybody (in particular, with your wife who has brought you to this); and that you ask no greater favour than to be carried to Tyburn as soon as possible? That being the case, I had better take my leave. I am not good enough to be company for you.’

‘Have I not told you,’ said the other fiercely, ‘that I have striven and wrestled with the power that brought me here? Has my whole life, for eight-and-twenty years, been one perpetual struggle and resistance, and do you think I want to lie down and die? Do all men shrink from death—I most of all!’

‘That’s better said. That’s better spoken, Rudge—but I’ll not call you that again—than anything you have said yet,’ returned the blind man, speaking more familiarly, and laying his hands upon his arm. ‘Lookye,—I never killed a man myself, for I have never been placed in a position that made it worth my while. Farther, I am not an advocate for killing men, and I don’t think I should recommend it or like it—for it’s very hazardous—under any circumstances. But as you had the misfortune to get into this trouble before I made your acquaintance, and as you have been my companion, and have been of use to me for a long time now, I overlook that part of the matter, and am only anxious that you shouldn’t die unnecessarily. Now, I do not consider that, at present, it is at all necessary.’

‘What else is left me?’ returned the prisoner. ‘To eat my way through these walls with my teeth?’

‘Something easier than that,’ returned his friend. ‘Promise me that you will talk no more of these fancies of yours—idle, foolish things, quite beneath a man—and I’ll tell you what I mean.’

‘Tell me,’ said the other.

‘Your worthy lady with the tender conscience; your scrupulous, virtuous, punctilious, but not blindly affectionate wife—’

‘What of her?’

‘Is now in London.’

‘A curse upon her, be she where she may!’

‘That’s natural enough. If she had taken her annuity as usual, you would not have been here, and we should have been better off. But that’s apart from the business. She’s in London. Scared, as I suppose, and have no doubt, by my representation when I waited upon her, that you were close at hand (which I, of course, urged only as an inducement to compliance, knowing that she was not pining to see you), she left that place, and travelled up to London.’

‘How do you know?’

‘From my friend the noble captain—the illustrious general—the bladder, Mr Tappertit. I learnt from him the last time I saw him, which was yesterday, that your son who is called Barnaby—not after his father, I suppose—’

‘Death! does that matter now!’

L’uomo cieco, che sapeva di essere risorto, gli fece segno di sedersi di nuovo sul suo letto; ma lui non prestò attenzione a quel gesto.

Fu allora che, per la prima volta, pensai di incolparlo dell’omicidio. Fu allora che lo vestii con i miei abiti e lo trascinai giù per le scale posteriori fino al punto in cui c’era l’acqua. Ricordo di aver ascoltato i bolle che si formavano quando lo rotolavo nell’acqua. Ricordo anche di essermi pulita il viso dall’acqua; e poiché il corpo, cadendo, la spargeva su di me, ebbi l’impressione che si trattasse sicuramente di sangue.

“Sono tornato a casa quando ho finito? E, mio Dio, quanto tempo ci è voluto per farlo! Sono andato da mia moglie e gliel’ho detto? L’ho vista cadere a terra; e quando mi sono chinato per aiutarla, lei mi ha spinto via con tale forza che sono stato scaraventato via come se fossi un bambino, e la mano con cui aveva afferrato il mio polso è rimasta macchiata. È davvero così che è successo?”

“Si è forse inginocchiata e ha chiamato il Cielo a testimoniare che lei e il suo feto mi rinnegavano da quel momento in poi; e con parole così solenni da farmi rabbrividire – io, appena uscito dagli orrori che le mie stesse mani avevano causato – mi ha avvertito di fuggire finché c’era ancora tempo. Perché anche se fosse rimasta in silenzio, essendo mia moglie infelice, non mi avrebbe certo protetto? Quella notte, ho forse abbandonato Dio e gli uomini, per finire intrappolato all’inferno, a vagare per la terra legato al mio stesso cavo, per essere infine trascinato giù?”

“Perché sei tornato?” disse l’uomo cieco.

“Perché il sangue è rosso? Non potevo farci nulla, proprio come non potrei vivere senza respirare. Lottavo contro quell’impulso, ma venivo sempre riattirato indietro, attraverso ogni difficoltà e ostacolo, come se fossi trascinato da una potente forza. Niente poteva fermarmi. Il giorno e l’ora non dipendevano da me. Dormendo o sveglio, ero da anni tra quegli stessi luoghi. Avevo visitato persino la mia propria tomba. Perché sono tornato? Perché questa prigione mi aspettava. Lui stava lì, ad attendermi alla porta.”

“Non eri conosciuto?” disse l’uomo cieco.

“Ero un uomo che da ventidue anni era morto. No, in realtà nessuno mi conosceva.”

“Avresti dovuto tenere il tuo segreto meglio.”

“Il mio segreto? Mio? Era un segreto, qualsiasi soffio d’aria poteva sussurrarlo a piacimento. Le stelle lo nascondevano nel loro luccichio, l’acqua nel suo scorrere, le foglie nel loro fruscio, le stagioni nel loro ritorno. Si nascondeva anche nei volti degli sconosciuti, nelle loro voci. Tutto aveva “labbra” su cui tremolava sempre, – Il mio segreto!”

“Comunque sia, è stato rivelato dal tuo stesso gesto,” disse l’uomo cieco.

‘Quel gesto non era mio. L’ho fatto, ma non era mio. A volte venivo costretto a vagare continuamente in quel luogo. Se mi aveste incatenato quando avevo quei momenti di follia, sarei comunque riuscito a liberarmi e andarci. Proprio come il magnete attira l’ferro verso di sé, lui, giacente nel basso della sua tomba, poteva attirarmi verso di sé quando voleva. Era solo un’illusione? Mi piaceva davvero andare lì, o lottavo contro quella forza che mi costringeva?’

L’uomo cieco alzò le spalle e sorrise in modo incredulo. Il prigioniero riprese nuovamente il suo vecchio atteggiamento, e per un lungo tempo entrambi rimasero in silenzio.

“Allora suppongo,” disse infine il suo visitatore rompendo il silenzio, “che tu sia pentito e rassegnato; che desideri fare pace con tutti (in particolare con tua moglie, che ti ha portato in questa situazione); e che non chieda nient’altro se non di essere portato a Tyburn il prima possibile. Se è così, sarà meglio che me ne vada. Non sono abbastanza buono da poter stare in tua compagnia.”

“Non te l’ho forse detto,” disse l’altro con ferocia, “che ho lottato e combattuto contro quella forza che mi ha portato qui? Non è stata tutta la mia vita, per ventotto anni, un continuo sforzo e resistenza? E pensi davvero che io voglia sdraiarmi e morire? Tutti gli uomini temono la morte, ma soprattutto io!”

“Detto meglio così. Parlato meglio così, Rudge. Ma non ti chiamerò più in quel modo. È molto meglio di tutto ciò che hai detto finora,” rispose l’uomo cieco, parlando in tono più confidenziale e posando le mani sul suo braccio. “Ascolta. Io stesso non ho mai ucciso nessuno, perché non mi sono mai trovato in una situazione che rendesse necessario farlo. Inoltre, non sono un sostenitore dell’omicidio. Non credo nemmeno che si debba raccomandarlo o approvarlo. È un’azione molto pericolosa, in qualsiasi circostanza. Ma poiché sei stato così sfortunato da finire nei guai prima di conoscermi, e poiché sei stato mio compagno e mi sei stato utile per molto tempo. Ignoro completamente quel aspetto della questione. E voglio solo che tu non muoia inutilmente. Ora. Non credo affatto che sia necessario che tu muoia.”

“Cosa mi resta ancora?” rispose il prigioniero. “Mangiare queste pareti con i miei denti?”

“Qualcosa di più semplice di così,” rispose il suo amico. “Promettimi che non parlerai più di queste tue fantasie, cose inutili, stupide, davvero indegne di un uomo, e ti dirò cosa intendo.”

“Dimmelo,” disse l’altro.

“La vostra nobile signora, dalla tenera coscienza; la vostra moglie scrupolosa, virtuosa, puntuale, ma non appassionata in modo cieco, ”

“E lei?”

“Ora si trova a Londra.”

“Maledizione su di lei, ovunque si trovi!”

“È del tutto naturale. Se avesse preso la sua pensione come al solito, tu non saresti qui e noi staremmo meglio. Ma questo è un altro discorso. Si trova a Londra, spaventata, suppongo. E, senza dubbio, a causa delle mie parole quando l’ho incontrata, ha pensato che tu fossi vicino (cosa che, ovviamente, ho detto solo per convincerla ad obbedire, sapendo bene che non aveva alcun desiderio di rivederti), quindi ha lasciato quel posto e si è recata a Londra.”

“Come fai a saperlo?”

“Dal mio amico, il nobile capitano, il illustre generale, il signor Tappertit. L’ultima volta che l’ho visto, ieri, mi ha detto che vostro figlio, chiamato Barnaby, non credo che prenda il nome dal padre, ”

‘Morte! Ha ancora importanza ora?’

‘—You are impatient,’ said the blind man, calmly; ‘it’s a good sign, and looks like life—that your son Barnaby had been lured away from her by one of his companions who knew him of old, at Chigwell; and that he is now among the rioters.’

‘And what is that to me? If father and son be hanged together, what comfort shall I find in that?’

‘Stay—stay, my friend,’ returned the blind man, with a cunning look, ‘you travel fast to journeys’ ends. Suppose I track my lady out, and say thus much: “You want your son, ma’am—good. I, knowing those who tempt him to remain among them, can restore him to you, ma’am—good. You must pay a price, ma’am, for his restoration—good again. The price is small, and easy to be paid—dear ma’am, that’s best of all.”’

‘What mockery is this?’

‘Very likely, she may reply in those words. “No mockery at all,” I answer: “Madam, a person said to be your husband (identity is difficult of proof after the lapse of many years) is in prison, his life in peril—the charge against him, murder. Now, ma’am, your husband has been dead a long, long time. The gentleman never can be confounded with him, if you will have the goodness to say a few words, on oath, as to when he died, and how; and that this person (who I am told resembles him in some degree) is no more he than I am. Such testimony will set the question quite at rest. Pledge yourself to me to give it, ma’ am, and I will undertake to keep your son (a fine lad) out of harm’s way until you have done this trifling service, when he shall be delivered up to you, safe and sound. On the other hand, if you decline to do so, I fear he will be betrayed, and handed over to the law, which will assuredly sentence him to suffer death. It is, in fact, a choice between his life and death. If you refuse, he swings. If you comply, the timber is not grown, nor the hemp sown, that shall do him any harm.”’

‘There is a gleam of hope in this!’ cried the prisoner.

‘A gleam!’ returned his friend, ‘a noon-blaze; a full and glorious daylight. Hush! I hear the tread of distant feet. Rely on me.’

‘When shall I hear more?’

‘As soon as I do. I should hope, to-morrow. They are coming to say that our time for talk is over. I hear the jingling of the keys. Not another word of this just now, or they may overhear us.’

As he said these words, the lock was turned, and one of the prison turnkeys appearing at the door, announced that it was time for visitors to leave the jail.

‘So soon!’ said Stagg, meekly. ‘But it can’t be helped. Cheer up, friend. This mistake will soon be set at rest, and then you are a man again! If this charitable gentleman will lead a blind man (who has nothing in return but prayers) to the prison-porch, and set him with his face towards the west, he will do a worthy deed. Thank you, good sir. I thank you very kindly.’

So saying, and pausing for an instant at the door to turn his grinning face towards his friend, he departed.

When the officer had seen him to the porch, he returned, and again unlocking and unbarring the door of the cell, set it wide open, informing its inmate that he was at liberty to walk in the adjacent yard, if he thought proper, for an hour.

The prisoner answered with a sullen nod; and being left alone again, sat brooding over what he had heard, and pondering upon the hopes the recent conversation had awakened; gazing abstractedly, the while he did so, on the light without, and watching the shadows thrown by one wall on another, and on the stone-paved ground.

It was a dull, square yard, made cold and gloomy by high walls, and seeming to chill the very sunlight. The stone, so bare, and rough, and obdurate, filled even him with longing thoughts of meadow-land and trees; and with a burning wish to be at liberty. As he looked, he rose, and leaning against the door-post, gazed up at the bright blue sky, smiling even on that dreary home of crime. He seemed, for a moment, to remember lying on his back in some sweet-scented place, and gazing at it through moving branches, long ago.

His attention was suddenly attracted by a clanking sound—he knew what it was, for he had startled himself by making the same noise in walking to the door. Presently a voice began to sing, and he saw the shadow of a figure on the pavement. It stopped—was silent all at once, as though the person for a moment had forgotten where he was, but soon remembered—and so, with the same clanking noise, the shadow disappeared.

He walked out into the court and paced it to and fro; startling the echoes, as he went, with the harsh jangling of his fetters. There was a door near his, which, like his, stood ajar.

He had not taken half-a-dozen turns up and down the yard, when, standing still to observe this door, he heard the clanking sound again. A face looked out of the grated window—he saw it very dimly, for the cell was dark and the bars were heavy—and directly afterwards, a man appeared, and came towards him.

For the sense of loneliness he had, he might have been in jail a year. Made eager by the hope of companionship, he quickened his pace, and hastened to meet the man half way—

What was this! His son!

They stood face to face, staring at each other. He shrinking and cowed, despite himself; Barnaby struggling with his imperfect memory, and wondering where he had seen that face before. He was not uncertain long, for suddenly he laid hands upon him, and striving to bear him to the ground, cried:

‘Ah! I know! You are the robber!’

He said nothing in reply at first, but held down his head, and struggled with him silently. Finding the younger man too strong for him, he raised his face, looked close into his eyes, and said,

‘I am your father.’

God knows what magic the name had for his ears; but Barnaby released his hold, fell back, and looked at him aghast. Suddenly he sprung towards him, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his head against his cheek.

Yes, yes, he was; he was sure he was. But where had he been so long, and why had he left his mother by herself, or worse than by herself, with her poor foolish boy? And had she really been as happy as they said? And where was she? Was she near there? She was not happy now, and he in jail? Ah, no.

Not a word was said in answer; but Grip croaked loudly, and hopped about them, round and round, as if enclosing them in a magic circle, and invoking all the powers of mischief.

“–Sei impaziente,” disse l’uomo cieco con calma; “è un buon segno, sembra proprio la vita stessa che tuo figlio Barnaby sia stato allontanato da lei da uno dei suoi compagni che lo conoscevano da tempo, a Chigwell, e che ora si trovi tra i rivoltosi.”

“E che significato ha tutto ciò per me? Se padre e figlio vengono impiccati insieme, quale conforto potrò trarne?”

“Resta, resta, mio amico,” rispose l’uomo cieco con uno sguardo astuto, “tu viaggi troppo in fretta verso la fine dei tuoi viaggi. Supponiamo che io rintracci mia signora e le dica qualcosa del genere: ‘Desiderate riavere vostro figlio, signora, bene. Io, conoscendo coloro che lo spingono a rimanere con loro, posso restituirvelo, ma dovete pagare un prezzo, signora.’ Il prezzo è piccolo e facile da pagare, cara signora, questo è davvero il meglio.”

“Che sorta di beffa è questa?”

“È molto probabile che risponda proprio con quelle parole: ‘Assolutamente nessuna derisione’, risponderò io. ‘Signora, una persona che si dice sia vostro marito (la cui identità è difficile da verificare dopo tanti anni) si trova in prigione e la sua vita è in pericolo: l’accusa contro di lui è omicidio. Ora, signora, vostro marito è morto da molto tempo. Quell’uomo non può assolutamente essere confuso con lui. Se vi compiacete di dire, sotto giuramento, quando e come è morto, e che questa persona (di cui mi dicono assomigli a lui in qualche modo) non è altro che me stesso, tale testimonianza risolverà completamente la questione. Promettetemelo, signora, e vi garantisco che terrò vostro figlio al sicuro fino a quando non avrete reso questo piccolo servizio; dopo, vi sarà restituito sano e salvo. D’altra parte, se rifiutate di farlo, temo che venga tradito e consegnato alla giustizia, la quale sicuramente lo condannerà a morte. È, in realtà, una scelta tra la sua vita e la morte. Se rifiutate, lui morirà; se acconsentite, nessuno gli farà del male.’”

“C’è un barlume di >speranza in tutto questo!”, gridò il prigioniero.

“Un bagliore!” rispose il suo amico, “un chiaro di sole a mezzogiorno, una luce piena e splendente. Zitto! Sento i passi di qualcuno in lontananza. Fidati di me.”

“Quando potrò sapere di più?”

Non appena lo farò. Dovrei sperare che sia domani. Stanno per venire a dirci che il nostro momento per parlare è finito. Sento il tintinnio delle chiavi. Non una parola di più in questo momento, altrimenti potrebbero sentirci.

Mentre pronunciava queste parole, la serratura si aprì e uno dei carcerieri che apparve alla porta annunciò che era arrivato il orario in cui i visitatori potevano lasciare la prigione.

“Così presto!” disse Stagg, umilmente. “Ma non si può fare altrimenti. Rincuorati, amico. Questo errore verrà presto corretto, e allora sarai di nuovo un uomo libero! Se questo gentile signore vorrà accompagnare un uomo cieco (che non ha nulla in cambio se non le sue preghiere) fino al portone della prigione e posizionarlo con il viso rivolto a ovest, compirà un atto davvero meritevole. Grazie, signore. Le sono molto grato.”

Detto questo, si fermò un attimo alla porta per girare il suo viso sorridente verso il suo amico, poi se ne andò.

Dopo averlo accompagnato fino al portico, l’ufficiale tornò indietro, aprì di nuovo la porta della cella e la lasciò completamente spalancata, informando il detenuto che poteva andare nel cortile adiacente, se lo desiderava, per un’ora.

Il prigioniero rispose con un cenno del capo cupo; e rimasto di nuovo solo, sedette a riflettere su ciò che aveva sentito, ponderando sulle speranze suscitate da quella recente conversazione; mentre lo faceva, fissava distrattamente la luce esterna, osservando le ombre proiettate da un muro sull’altro e sul terreno lastricato di pietra.

Era un cortile quadrato e desolato, reso freddo e cupo da muri alti che sembravano anche raffreddare la luce del sole. La pietra, così nuda, ruvida e dura, suscitava in lui pensieri di praterie e alberi; e un forte desiderio di libertà. Mentre guardava intorno, si alzò in piedi, appoggiandosi allo stipite della porta, e fissò il cielo azzurro brillante. Sorridendo, anche in quel triste “luogo” di crimine. Per un momento, sembrò ricordare di essersi sdraiato in qualche luogo profumato, guardando intorno attraverso rami che si muovevano. Molto tempo fa.

La sua attenzione fu improvvisamente attratta da un suono metallico; sapeva perfettamente di cosa si trattasse, perché lo stesso rumore lo aveva fatto sobbalzare mentre camminava verso la porta. Poco dopo, una voce iniziò a cantare e vide l’ombra di una figura sul marciapiede. Quell’ombra si fermò, divenne improvvisamente silenziosa, come se quella persona per un momento avesse dimenticato dove si trovava, ma presto ricordò. E così, con lo stesso suono metallico, l’ombra scomparve.

Uscì nel cortile e iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro, facendo risuonare gli echi con il rumore stridulo delle sue catene. C’era una porta vicino a lui, che, come la sua, era semiaperta.

Non aveva ancora fatto nemmeno sei giri per il cortile, quando, fermandosi per osservare quella porta, sentì di nuovo quel suono metallico. Una faccia apparve dalla grata della finestra; la vedeva molto vagamente, perché la cella era buia e le sbarre erano pesanti. Subito dopo, un uomo uscì e si avvicinò a lui.

A causa di quel senso di solitudine che provava, avrebbe potuto passare un anno in prigione. Spinto dalla >speranza di trovare compagnia, accelerò il passo e si affrettò a incontrare quell’uomo a metà strada.

Che cosa era questo. Suo figlio!

Si trovarono faccia a faccia, fissandosi a vicenda. Lui si ritraeva e si intimidiva, nonostante se stesso; Barnaby, invece, lottava con la propria memoria imperfetta, chiedendosi dove avesse già visto quel volto. Non dovette aspettare a lungo: all’improvviso afferrò quell’uomo e, cercando di gettarlo a terra, gridò.

“Ah! Lo so! Sei tu il ladro!”

All’inizio non disse nulla in risposta, ma abbassò la testa e lottò silenziosamente contro di lui. Rendendosi conto che l’uomo più giovane era troppo forte per lui, alzò lo sguardo, fissò i suoi occhi e disse:

“Sono tuo padre.”

Dio solo sa quale magia quel nome avesse per le sue orecchie; ma Barnaby allentò la presa, indietreggiò e lo guardò con orrore. All’improvviso si precipitò verso di lui, gli mise le braccia intorno al collo e premette la sua testa contro la propria guancia.

Sì, sì, ne era sicuro. Ma dove era stato per tutto quel tempo, e perché aveva lasciato sua madre da sola, o peggio ancora, con suo figlio povero e sciocco? E lei era davvero stata così felice come dicevano? E dove si trovava adesso? Era vicina lì? Ora non era affatto felice, e lui era in prigione. Ah, no.

Non fu detto una parola in risposta; ma Grip gracchiò ad alta voce e saltellò intorno a loro, in cerchio, come se li stesse racchiudendo in un cerchio magico, invocando tutte le forze del male.

Chapter 63

During the whole of this day, every regiment in or near the metropolis was on duty in one or other part of the town; and the regulars and militia, in obedience to the orders which were sent to every barrack and station within twenty-four hours’ journey, began to pour in by all the roads. But the disturbance had attained to such a formidable height, and the rioters had grown, with impunity, to be so audacious, that the sight of this great force, continually augmented by new arrivals, instead of operating as a check, stimulated them to outrages of greater hardihood than any they had yet committed; and helped to kindle a flame in London, the like of which had never been beheld, even in its ancient and rebellious times.

All yesterday, and on this day likewise, the commander-in-chief endeavoured to arouse the magistrates to a sense of their duty, and in particular the Lord Mayor, who was the faintest-hearted and most timid of them all. With this object, large bodies of the soldiery were several times despatched to the Mansion House to await his orders: but as he could, by no threats or persuasions, be induced to give any, and as the men remained in the open street, fruitlessly for any good purpose, and thrivingly for a very bad one; these laudable attempts did harm rather than good. For the crowd, becoming speedily acquainted with the Lord Mayor’s temper, did not fail to take advantage of it by boasting that even the civil authorities were opposed to the Papists, and could not find it in their hearts to molest those who were guilty of no other offence. These vaunts they took care to make within the hearing of the soldiers; and they, being naturally loth to quarrel with the people, received their advances kindly enough: answering, when they were asked if they desired to fire upon their countrymen, ‘No, they would be damned if they did;’ and showing much honest simplicity and good nature. The feeling that the military were No-Popery men, and were ripe for disobeying orders and joining the mob, soon became very prevalent in consequence. Rumours of their disaffection, and of their leaning towards the popular cause, spread from mouth to mouth with astonishing rapidity; and whenever they were drawn up idly in the streets or squares, there was sure to be a crowd about them, cheering and shaking hands, and treating them with a great show of confidence and affection.

By this time, the crowd was everywhere; all concealment and disguise were laid aside, and they pervaded the whole town. If any man among them wanted money, he had but to knock at the door of a dwelling-house, or walk into a shop, and demand it in the rioters name; and his demand was instantly complied with. The peaceable citizens being afraid to lay hands upon them, singly and alone, it may be easily supposed that when gathered together in bodies, they were perfectly secure from interruption. They assembled in the streets, traversed them at their will and pleasure, and publicly concerted their plans. Business was quite suspended; the greater part of the shops were closed; most of the houses displayed a blue flag in token of their adherence to the popular side; and even the Jews in Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and those quarters, wrote upon their doors or window-shutters, ‘This House is a True Protestant.’ The crowd was the law, and never was the law held in greater dread, or more implicitly obeyed.

It was about six o’clock in the evening, when a vast mob poured into Lincoln’s Inn Fields by every avenue, and divided—evidently in pursuance of a previous design—into several parties. It must not be understood that this arrangement was known to the whole crowd, but that it was the work of a few leaders; who, mingling with the men as they came upon the ground, and calling to them to fall into this or that parry, effected it as rapidly as if it had been determined on by a council of the whole number, and every man had known his place.

It was perfectly notorious to the assemblage that the largest body, which comprehended about two-thirds of the whole, was designed for the attack on Newgate. It comprehended all the rioters who had been conspicuous in any of their former proceedings; all those whom they recommended as daring hands and fit for the work; all those whose companions had been taken in the riots; and a great number of people who were relatives or friends of felons in the jail. This last class included, not only the most desperate and utterly abandoned villains in London, but some who were comparatively innocent. There was more than one woman there, disguised in man’s attire, and bent upon the rescue of a child or brother. There were the two sons of a man who lay under sentence of death, and who was to be executed along with three others, on the next day but one. There was a great party of boys whose fellow-pickpockets were in the prison; and at the skirts of all, a score of miserable women, outcasts from the world, seeking to release some other fallen creature as miserable as themselves, or moved by a general sympathy perhaps—God knows—with all who were without hope, and wretched.

Old swords, and pistols without ball or powder; sledge-hammers, knives, axes, saws, and weapons pillaged from the butchers’ shops; a forest of iron bars and wooden clubs; long ladders for scaling the walls, each carried on the shoulders of a dozen men; lighted torches; tow smeared with pitch, and tar, and brimstone; staves roughly plucked from fence and paling; and even crutches taken from crippled beggars in the streets; composed their arms. When all was ready, Hugh and Dennis, with Simon Tappertit between them, led the way. Roaring and chafing like an angry sea, the crowd pressed after them.

Instead of going straight down Holborn to the jail, as all expected, their leaders took the way to Clerkenwell, and pouring down a quiet street, halted before a locksmith’s house—the Golden Key.

Capitolo 63

Per tutta la giornata, ogni reggimento presente nella capitale o nelle sue vicinanze era di servizio in una parte o nell’altra della città; i regolari e la milizia, obbedendo agli ordini inviati a tutte le caserme e le stazioni entro ventiquattro ore di viaggio, iniziarono ad affluire da tutte le direzioni. Tuttavia, il disordine aveva raggiunto proporzioni così terribili, e i rivoltosi, impuniti, erano diventati così audaci che la vista di queste grandi forze, continuamente rafforzate dai nuovi arrivi, invece di costituire un ostacolo, li stimolava a commettere atti ancora più violenti di quelli precedenti; inoltre, contribuiva ad accendere una furia nel Londra come non se ne era mai vista nemmeno nei suoi tempi antichi e ribelli.

Ieri, e allo stesso modo anche oggi, il comandante in capo cercò di suscitare nei magistrati un senso del loro dovere, in particolare nel Lord Mayor, che era il più debole di cuore e il più timido di tutti. A questo scopo, grandi numeri di soldati furono inviati più volte alla residenza ufficiale del Lord Mayor per attendere i suoi ordini; ma poiché egli non si lasciava persuadere né minacciare a dare alcun ordine, e poiché i soldati rimanevano per strada senza ottenere alcun risultato positivo, anzi contribuendo a situazioni negative, questi tentativi, pur lodevoli, finirono per nuocere più che aiutare. La folla, infatti, conoscendo bene il carattere del Lord Mayor, ne approfittò per vantarsi che anche le autorità civili erano contrarie ai Papisti e non avevano alcuna intenzione di molestare coloro che non avevano commesso alcun reato. Questi discorsi venivano fatti ad alta voce davanti ai soldati, i quali, essendo naturalmente riluttanti a litigare con la gente, li accoglievano con gentilezza, rispondendo alle domande su eventuali intenzioni di attaccare i loro connazionali con frasi del tipo: “No, sarebbero maledetti se lo facessero”; dimostrando così grande onestà e buona natura. La convinzione che l’esercito fosse contrario ai Papisti e pronto a disobbedire agli ordini per unirsi alla folla si diffuse rapidamente. Voci sulla loro disaffezione e sul loro orientamento verso la causa popolare circolavano con sorprendente velocità; e ogni volta che i soldati si radunavano oziosamente nelle strade o nelle piazze, c’era sempre una folla intorno a loro, che li acclamava, gli stringeva la mano e li trattava con grande fiducia e affetto.

A quell’ora, la folla era ovunque; ogni tipo di nascondimento e travestimento venne abbandonato, e loro invasero l’intera città. Se qualcuno di loro desiderava del denaro, bastava bussare alla porta di una casa o entrare in un negozio e chiederlo a nome dei rivoltosi; la sua richiesta veniva immediatamente esaudita. I cittadini pacifici, temendo di intervenire contro di loro uno per uno, si possono facilmente immaginare che, riuniti in gruppo, fossero completamente al sicuro da qualsiasi interferenza. Si radunavano nelle strade, le percorrevano a piacimento e concordavano apertamente i loro piani. Le attività commerciali venivano completamente sospese; la maggior parte dei negozi rimaneva chiusa; molte case esibivano una bandiera blu come segno di appoggio al partito popolare; persino gli ebrei di Houndsditch, Whitechapel e delle zone circostanti scrivevano sulle porte o sulle persiane delle finestre: “Questa casa è un vero protestante”. La folla era la legge stessa, e mai prima d’allora la legge fu rispettata con tale timore reverenziale e obbedienza cieca.

Era circa le sei di sera quando una vasta folla si riversò in Lincoln’s Inn Fields da tutte le direzioni, dividendosi poi – evidentemente secondo un piano prestabilito in precedenza – in diversi gruppi. Non bisogna pensare che tutta la folla fosse a conoscenza di questa organizzazione; piuttosto, si trattava dell’iniziativa di alcuni leader che, mescolandosi tra la gente appena arrivata sul posto e invitandola ad unirsi a questo o quel gruppo, riuscirono a realizzare tutto con estrema rapidità, come se l’intera decisione fosse stata presa da un consiglio composto da tutti i partecipanti, e ogni persona sapesse esattamente il proprio ruolo.

Era perfettamente noto a tutti che il più grande gruppo di persone, che rappresentava circa due terzi dell’intera comunità, era stato organizzato appositamente per attaccare Newgate. Questo gruppo comprendeva tutti i rivoltosi che avevano avuto un ruolo importante nelle precedenti sommosse; tutti coloro che venivano considerati individui audaci e adatti a compiere quel compito; tutti coloro i cui compagni erano stati arrestati durante le rivolte; e un gran numero di persone che erano parenti o amici di criminali detenuti in prigione. Quest’ultima categoria includeva non solo i più disperati e completamente perduti individui di Londra, ma anche alcuni che, in realtà, erano relativamente innocenti. C’erano più di una donna lì, travestita da uomo, decisa a salvare un >bambino o un fratello. C’erano i due figli di un uomo condannato a morte, che avrebbe dovuto essere giustiziato insieme ad altri tre il giorno dopo. C’era anche un gran numero di ragazzi i cui complici erano in prigione; e, intorno a tutti loro, una ventina di donne misere, escluse dalla società, desiderose di liberare altre creature altrettanto sfortunate, o forse mosse da una compassione generale verso chiunque fosse privo di >speranza e condannato alla miseria.

Antichi spade e pistole prive di palline o polvere da sparo; martelli pesanti, coltelli, asce, seghe e armi saccheggiate dalle botteghe dei macellai; una foresta di sbarre di ferro e mazze di legno; lunghi scale per scalare le mura, ognuna portata sulle spalle da una dozzina di uomini; torce accese; corde impregnate di pece, catrame e zolfo; bastoni presi rudemente dalle recinzioni e dai pali. E persino stampelle prese dai mendicanti zoppichi per le strade: tutto questo costituiva il loro armamento. Quando tutto fu pronto, Hugh e Dennis, con Simon Tappertit in mezzo a loro, presero l’iniziativa. Con un rumore assordante e minaccioso, la folla li seguì.

Invece di dirigersi dritti verso Holborn per raggiungere la prigione, come tutti si aspettavano, i loro leader presero la strada per Clerkenwell. Percorrendo una via tranquilla, si fermarono davanti alla casa di un fabbro chiave – il Golden Key.

‘Beat at the door,’ cried Hugh to the men about him. ‘We want one of his craft to-night. Beat it in, if no one answers.’

The shop was shut. Both door and shutters were of a strong and sturdy kind, and they knocked without effect. But the impatient crowd raising a cry of ‘Set fire to the house!’ and torches being passed to the front, an upper window was thrown open, and the stout old locksmith stood before them.

‘What now, you villains!’ he demanded. ‘Where is my daughter?’

‘Ask no questions of us, old man,’ retorted Hugh, waving his comrades to be silent, ‘but come down, and bring the tools of your trade. We want you.’

‘Want me!’ cried the locksmith, glancing at the regimental dress he wore: ‘Ay, and if some that I could name possessed the hearts of mice, ye should have had me long ago. Mark me, my lad—and you about him do the same. There are a score among ye whom I see now and know, who are dead men from this hour. Begone! and rob an undertaker’s while you can! You’ll want some coffins before long.’

‘Will you come down?’ cried Hugh.

‘Will you give me my daughter, ruffian?’ cried the locksmith.

‘I know nothing of her,’ Hugh rejoined. ‘Burn the door!’

‘Stop!’ cried the locksmith, in a voice that made them falter—presenting, as he spoke, a gun. ‘Let an old man do that. You can spare him better.’

The young fellow who held the light, and who was stooping down before the door, rose hastily at these words, and fell back. The locksmith ran his eye along the upturned faces, and kept the weapon levelled at the threshold of his house. It had no other rest than his shoulder, but was as steady as the house itself.

‘Let the man who does it, take heed to his prayers,’ he said firmly; ‘I warn him.’

Snatching a torch from one who stood near him, Hugh was stepping forward with an oath, when he was arrested by a shrill and piercing shriek, and, looking upward, saw a fluttering garment on the house-top.

There was another shriek, and another, and then a shrill voice cried, ‘Is Simmun below!’ At the same moment a lean neck was stretched over the parapet, and Miss Miggs, indistinctly seen in the gathering gloom of evening, screeched in a frenzied manner, ‘Oh! dear gentlemen, let me hear Simmuns’s answer from his own lips. Speak to me, Simmun. Speak to me!’

Mr Tappertit, who was not at all flattered by this compliment, looked up, and bidding her hold her peace, ordered her to come down and open the door, for they wanted her master, and would take no denial.

‘Oh good gentlemen!’ cried Miss Miggs. ‘Oh my own precious, precious Simmun—’

‘Hold your nonsense, will you!’ retorted Mr Tappertit; ‘and come down and open the door.—G. Varden, drop that gun, or it will be worse for you.’

‘Don’t mind his gun,’ screamed Miggs. ‘Simmun and gentlemen, I poured a mug of table-beer right down the barrel.’

The crowd gave a loud shout, which was followed by a roar of laughter.

‘It wouldn’t go off, not if you was to load it up to the muzzle,’ screamed Miggs. ‘Simmun and gentlemen, I’m locked up in the front attic, through the little door on the right hand when you think you’ve got to the very top of the stairs—and up the flight of corner steps, being careful not to knock your heads against the rafters, and not to tread on one side in case you should fall into the two-pair bedroom through the lath and plasture, which do not bear, but the contrairy. Simmun and gentlemen, I’ve been locked up here for safety, but my endeavours has always been, and always will be, to be on the right side—the blessed side and to prenounce the Pope of Babylon, and all her inward and her outward workings, which is Pagin. My sentiments is of little consequences, I know,’ cried Miggs, with additional shrillness, ‘for my positions is but a servant, and as sich, of humilities, still I gives expressions to my feelings, and places my reliances on them which entertains my own opinions!’

Without taking much notice of these outpourings of Miss Miggs after she had made her first announcement in relation to the gun, the crowd raised a ladder against the window where the locksmith stood, and notwithstanding that he closed, and fastened, and defended it manfully, soon forced an entrance by shivering the glass and breaking in the frames. After dealing a few stout blows about him, he found himself defenceless, in the midst of a furious crowd, which overflowed the room and softened off in a confused heap of faces at the door and window.

They were very wrathful with him (for he had wounded two men), and even called out to those in front, to bring him forth and hang him on a lamp-post. But Gabriel was quite undaunted, and looked from Hugh and Dennis, who held him by either arm, to Simon Tappertit, who confronted him.

‘You have robbed me of my daughter,’ said the locksmith, ‘who is far dearer to me than my life; and you may take my life, if you will. I bless God that I have been enabled to keep my wife free of this scene; and that He has made me a man who will not ask mercy at such hands as yours.’

‘And a wery game old gentleman you are,’ said Mr Dennis, approvingly; ‘and you express yourself like a man. What’s the odds, brother, whether it’s a lamp-post to-night, or a feather-bed ten year to come, eh?’

The locksmith glanced at him disdainfully, but returned no other answer.

‘For my part,’ said the hangman, who particularly favoured the lamp-post suggestion, ‘I honour your principles. They’re mine exactly. In such sentiments as them,’ and here he emphasised his discourse with an oath, ‘I’m ready to meet you or any man halfway.—Have you got a bit of cord anywheres handy? Don’t put yourself out of the way, if you haven’t. A handkecher will do.’

‘Don’t be a fool, master,’ whispered Hugh, seizing Varden roughly by the shoulder; ‘but do as you’re bid. You’ll soon hear what you’re wanted for. Do it!’

‘I’ll do nothing at your request, or that of any scoundrel here,’ returned the locksmith. ‘If you want any service from me, you may spare yourselves the pains of telling me what it is. I tell you, beforehand, I’ll do nothing for you.’

“Bussate alla porta,” gridò Hugh agli uomini intorno a lui. “Vogliamo una delle sue imbarcazioni per stanotte. Se nessuno risponde, sfondatela.”

Il negozio era chiuso. Sia la porta che le persiane erano di tipo robusto e solido; bussarono senza ottenere alcun risultato. Ma la folla impaziente gridò “Dategli fuoco alla casa!”, e quando le torce furono passate avanti, una finestra al piano superiore si aprì all’improvviso, e davanti a loro comparve il robusto vecchio fabbro chiave.

“Che cosa fate ora, maledetti!” esclamò. “Dov’è mia figlia?”

“Non ponci domande su di noi, vecchio,” ribatté Hugh, facendo segno ai suoi compagni di tacere, “ma scendi e porta con te gli strumenti del tuo mestiere. Ti vogliamo.”

“Volete me?”, gridò il fabbro chiave, guardando l’uniforme militare che indossava: “Ah, se solo alcune delle persone che potrei nominare avessero il cuore di un topo, mi avreste già avuto da tempo. Ascoltatemi bene, ragazzo, e voi fate lo stesso con lui. Ci sono una dozzina tra voi, che vedo ora e conosco, che da questo momento in poi sono già morti. Andatevene! E rubate pure tutto ciò che potete dagli impresari funebri. Presto ne avrete bisogno.”

“Scenderai giù?” gridò Hugh.

“Mi restituirai mia figlia, mascalzone?”, gridò il fabbro chiave.

“Non so nulla di lei,” ribatté Hugh. “Bruciate la porta!”

“Fermatevi!” gridò il fabbro chiave, con una voce che li fece tremare, mostrando loro una pistola mentre parlava. “Lasciate che sia un vecchio ad occuparsene. È meglio per voi.”

Il giovane che teneva la lampada e si trovava chino davanti alla porta si alzò di scatto alle sue parole e indietreggiò. Il fabbro serramentista scrutò i volti rivolti verso l’alto e tenne l’arma puntata verso la soglia della sua casa. L’unica cosa su cui poteva appoggiarla era la sua spalla, ma l’arma rimase ferma come se fosse fissata al muro stesso della casa.

“Che colui che lo fa stia attento alle sue preghiere,” disse con fermezza; “lo avverto.”

Afferrando una torcia da qualcuno che si trovava vicino a lui, Hugh stava per avanzare con un giuramento quando fu arrestato da un grido acuto e penetrante; alzando lo sguardo, vide un indumento che svolazzava sulla cima della casa.

Ci furono altri due strilli, poi una voce acuta gridò: “È Simmun laggiù!” Nello stesso istante, un collo snello si sporse oltre la balaustra; Miss Miggs, appena visibile nella semioscurità della sera, urlò in modo frenetico: “Oh! Signori, lasciate che senta la risposta di Simmun dalle sue stesse labbra. Parlate con me, Simmun. Parlate con me!”

Il signor Tappertit, che per niente si sentì lusingato da questo complimento, alzò lo sguardo, le ordinò di stare zitta e di scendere ad aprire la porta, poiché volevano parlare con il suo padrone e non avrebbero accettato rifiuti.

“Ah, cari signori!” esclamò la signorina Miggs. “Ah, mio adorato, adorato Simmun, ”

“Basta con queste sciocchezze, per favore!” ribatté il signor Tappertit; “scendi e apri la porta. – G. Varden, metti giù quell’arma, altrimenti ti andrà ancora peggio.”

“Non fate caso alla sua pistola,” gridò Miggs. “Signori, ho versato una tazza di birra direttamente nel cannone della pistola.”

La folla emise un grido forte, seguito da una risata fragorosa.

“Non partirebbe mai, nemmeno se lo caricassi fino alla canna,” gridò Miggs. “Simmun e signori, sono chiuso nel sottotetto anteriore, attraverso la piccola porta a destra, quando pensate di essere arrivati in cima alle scale. Salite poi quei gradini angolari, facendo attenzione a non battervi la testa contro le travi e a non calpestare da un lato, per non cadere nella camera da letto separata dalle assi e dalla plastica, che, anzi, dovrebbero tenere insieme quelle parti, ma non è così. Simmun e signori, sono stato chiuso qui per sicurezza. Ma i miei sforzi sono sempre stati, e sempre saranno, quelli di stare dal lato giusto, dal lato benedetto, di denunciare il Papa di Babilonia e tutte le sue azioni interne ed esterne, che in realtà sono quelle di Pagin. So che i miei sentimenti hanno poca importanza,” continuò Miggs, con voce ancora più stridula, “poiché la mia posizione è solo quella di un servitore, e quindi di una persona umile. Tuttavia esprimo comunque apertamente le mie opinioni, e ci affido, poiché rappresentano ciò in cui credo!”

Senza prestare molta attenzione a queste reazioni della signorina Miggs dopo il suo primo annuncio riguardo alla pistola, la folla appoggiò una scala contro la finestra dove si trovava lo scassinatore. Nonostante questi cercasse di chiuderla, fissarla e difenderla con coraggio, la folla riuscì presto a forzare l’ingresso, rompendo i vetri e gli infissi. Dopo alcuni colpi violenti, lo scassinatore si trovò senza difese, in mezzo a una folla furiosa che invase tutta la stanza; poi, poco a poco, quella folla si disperse in un groviglio di volti davanti alla porta e alla finestra.

Erano molto arrabbiati con lui (poiché aveva ferito due uomini) e persino chiamarono quelli che erano davanti a loro per farlo portare fuori e impiccare a un palo della luce. Ma Gabriel non si lasciò intimidire affatto; guardò da Hugh e Dennis, che lo tenevano per le braccia, fino a Simon Tappertit, che gli stava di fronte.

“Mi avete rubato mia figlia,” disse il fabbro chiave, “che per me è molto più preziosa della mia vita; e potete anche prendere la mia vita, se volete. Ringrazio Dio di avermi permesso di tenere mia moglie lontana da questa scena; e di avermi reso un uomo che non chiederà pietà a mani come le vostre.”

“E davvero un signore molto distinto,” disse il signor Dennis con approvazione;
“e vi esprimete come un vero uomo. Quali sono le probabilità, fratello, che si tratti di un lampione di notte, o di un letto di piume tra dieci anni, eh?”

Il fabbro chiave lo guardò con disprezzo, ma non rispose nulla.

“Per quanto mi riguarda,” disse il boia, che particolarmente apprezzava l’idea legata al lampione, “rispetto i vostri principi. Sono esattamente i miei stessi. In sentimenti del genere,” e qui enfatizzò le sue parole con un giuramento, “sono disposto ad andare incontro a voi o a chiunque altro a metà strada. Avete per caso un po’ di corda a portata di mano? Se non l’avete, non vi preoccupate: anche un fazzoletto andrà bene.”

“Non essere uno idiota, padrone,” sussurrò Hugh, afferrando bruscamente Varden per la spalla; “ma fai ciò che ti viene ordinato. Presto scoprirai il motivo per cui sei stato chiamato. Fallo!”

“Non farò nulla su tua richiesta, né su quella di alcun altro individuo spregevole,” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Se vuoi che ti presti qualche servizio, puoi risparmiarti la fatica di dirmelo. Ti avverto in anticipo: non farò nulla per te.”

Mr Dennis was so affected by this constancy on the part of the staunch old man, that he protested—almost with tears in his eyes—that to baulk his inclinations would be an act of cruelty and hard dealing to which he, for one, never could reconcile his conscience. The gentleman, he said, had avowed in so many words that he was ready for working off; such being the case, he considered it their duty, as a civilised and enlightened crowd, to work him off. It was not often, he observed, that they had it in their power to accommodate themselves to the wishes of those from whom they had the misfortune to differ. Having now found an individual who expressed a desire which they could reasonably indulge (and for himself he was free to confess that in his opinion that desire did honour to his feelings), he hoped they would decide to accede to his proposition before going any further. It was an experiment which, skilfully and dexterously performed, would be over in five minutes, with great comfort and satisfaction to all parties; and though it did not become him (Mr Dennis) to speak well of himself he trusted he might be allowed to say that he had practical knowledge of the subject, and, being naturally of an obliging and friendly disposition, would work the gentleman off with a deal of pleasure.

These remarks, which were addressed in the midst of a frightful din and turmoil to those immediately about him, were received with great favour; not so much, perhaps, because of the hangman’s eloquence, as on account of the locksmith’s obstinacy. Gabriel was in imminent peril, and he knew it; but he preserved a steady silence; and would have done so, if they had been debating whether they should roast him at a slow fire.

As the hangman spoke, there was some stir and confusion on the ladder; and directly he was silent—so immediately upon his holding his peace, that the crowd below had no time to learn what he had been saying, or to shout in response—some one at the window cried:

‘He has a grey head. He is an old man: Don’t hurt him!’

The locksmith turned, with a start, towards the place from which the words had come, and looked hurriedly at the people who were hanging on the ladder and clinging to each other.

‘Pay no respect to my grey hair, young man,’ he said, answering the voice and not any one he saw. ‘I don’t ask it. My heart is green enough to scorn and despise every man among you, band of robbers that you are!’

This incautious speech by no means tended to appease the ferocity of the crowd. They cried again to have him brought out; and it would have gone hard with the honest locksmith, but that Hugh reminded them, in answer, that they wanted his services, and must have them.

‘So, tell him what we want,’ he said to Simon Tappertit, ‘and quickly. And open your ears, master, if you would ever use them after to-night.’

Gabriel folded his arms, which were now at liberty, and eyed his old ‘prentice in silence.

‘Lookye, Varden,’ said Sim, ‘we’re bound for Newgate.’

‘I know you are,’ returned the locksmith. ‘You never said a truer word than that.’

‘To burn it down, I mean,’ said Simon, ‘and force the gates, and set the prisoners at liberty. You helped to make the lock of the great door.’

‘I did,’ said the locksmith. ‘You owe me no thanks for that—as you’ll find before long.’

‘Maybe,’ returned his journeyman, ‘but you must show us how to force it.’

‘Must I!’

‘Yes; for you know, and I don’t. You must come along with us, and pick it with your own hands.’

‘When I do,’ said the locksmith quietly, ‘my hands shall drop off at the wrists, and you shall wear them, Simon Tappertit, on your shoulders for epaulettes.’

‘We’ll see that,’ cried Hugh, interposing, as the indignation of the crowd again burst forth. ‘You fill a basket with the tools he’ll want, while I bring him downstairs. Open the doors below, some of you. And light the great captain, others! Is there no business afoot, my lads, that you can do nothing but stand and grumble?’

They looked at one another, and quickly dispersing, swarmed over the house, plundering and breaking, according to their custom, and carrying off such articles of value as happened to please their fancy. They had no great length of time for these proceedings, for the basket of tools was soon prepared and slung over a man’s shoulders. The preparations being now completed, and everything ready for the attack, those who were pillaging and destroying in the other rooms were called down to the workshop. They were about to issue forth, when the man who had been last upstairs, stepped forward, and asked if the young woman in the garret (who was making a terrible noise, he said, and kept on screaming without the least cessation) was to be released?

For his own part, Simon Tappertit would certainly have replied in the negative, but the mass of his companions, mindful of the good service she had done in the matter of the gun, being of a different opinion, he had nothing for it but to answer, Yes. The man, accordingly, went back again to the rescue, and presently returned with Miss Miggs, limp and doubled up, and very damp from much weeping.

As the young lady had given no tokens of consciousness on their way downstairs, the bearer reported her either dead or dying; and being at some loss what to do with her, was looking round for a convenient bench or heap of ashes on which to place her senseless form, when she suddenly came upon her feet by some mysterious means, thrust back her hair, stared wildly at Mr Tappertit, cried, ‘My Simmuns’s life is not a wictim!’ and dropped into his arms with such promptitude that he staggered and reeled some paces back, beneath his lovely burden.

‘Oh bother!’ said Mr Tappertit. ‘Here. Catch hold of her, somebody. Lock her up again; she never ought to have been let out.’

‘My Simmun!’ cried Miss Miggs, in tears, and faintly. ‘My for ever, ever blessed Simmun!’

‘Hold up, will you,’ said Mr Tappertit, in a very unresponsive tone, ‘I’ll let you fall if you don’t. What are you sliding your feet off the ground for?’

‘My angel Simmuns!’ murmured Miggs—‘he promised—’

‘Promised! Well, and I’ll keep my promise,’ answered Simon, testily. ‘I mean to provide for you, don’t I? Stand up!’

‘Where am I to go? What is to become of me after my actions of this night!’ cried Miggs. ‘What resting-places now remains but in the silent tombses!’

‘I wish you was in the silent tombses, I do,’ cried Mr Tappertit, ‘and boxed up tight, in a good strong one. Here,’ he cried to one of the bystanders, in whose ear he whispered for a moment: ‘Take her off, will you. You understand where?’

The fellow nodded; and taking her in his arms, notwithstanding her broken protestations, and her struggles (which latter species of opposition, involving scratches, was much more difficult of resistance), carried her away. They who were in the house poured out into the street; the locksmith was taken to the head of the crowd, and required to walk between his two conductors; the whole body was put in rapid motion; and without any shouts or noise they bore down straight on Newgate, and halted in a dense mass before the prison-gate.

Il signor Dennis fu così commosso da questa costanza da parte di quell’uomo anziano e fedele, che protestò – quasi con le lacrime agli occhi – che rifiutare i suoi desideri sarebbe stato un atto di crudeltà e ingiustizia a cui lui, personalmente, non avrebbe mai potuto riconciliarsi la sua coscienza. Disse che quell’uomo aveva espresso chiaramente di essere disposto a lavorare; pertanto riteneva fosse loro dovere, come persone civili e illuminate, aiutarlo a farlo. Non era frequente, osservò, che avessero la possibilità di soddisfare i desideri di coloro con cui sfortunatamente non erano d’accordo. Ora che avevano trovato una persona il cui desiderio poteva essere ragionevolmente accolto (e lui stesso doveva ammettere che, a suo parere, quel desiderio rispettava i suoi sentimenti), sperava che decidessero di accettare la sua proposta prima di procedere oltre. Si trattava di un esperimento che, se condotto con abilità e destrezza, sarebbe terminato in cinque minuti, con grande comfort e soddisfazione per tutte le parti coinvolte; e anche se non spettava a lui (il signor Dennis) parlare bene di sé stesso, sperava di poter dire di possedere una conoscenza pratica della materia in questione, e che, essendo naturalmente una persona disponibile e amichevole, avrebbe aiutato quell’uomo con piacere.

Queste osservazioni, pronunciate in mezzo a un terribile clamore e confusione da parte di coloro che gli erano immediatamente intorno, furono accolte con grande favore; forse non tanto per l’eloquenza del boia, quanto piuttosto per la testardaggine del fabbro chiave. Gabriel si trovava in grave pericolo e lo sapeva; tuttavia mantenne un silenzio assoluto; avrebbe fatto lo stesso anche se loro stessero discutendo se arrostirlo a fuoco lento o meno.

Mentre l’impiccatore parlava, si verificò un certo trambusto e confusione sulla scala; appena tacque, così rapidamente che la folla sotto non ebbe nemmeno il tempo di capire cosa avesse detto o di rispondere gridando. Qualcuno alla finestra gridò:

“Ha i capelli grigi. È un vecchio uomo: non fategli del male!”

Il fabbro chiave si girò di scatto verso la direzione da cui provenivano quelle parole e guardò in fretta le persone che erano appese alla scala e si tenevano l’una all’altra.

“Non rispettate i miei capelli grigi, giovani uomini,” disse, rispondendo a quella voce e non a nessuno di quelli che vedeva. “Non lo chiedo nemmeno. Il mio cuore è abbastanza pieno di rabbia da disprezzare ogni uomo tra voi, banda di ladri che siete!”

Questo discorso imprudente non fece affatto diminuire la ferocia della folla. Gridarono di nuovo che lo portassero fuori; e sarebbe finita male per l’onesto fabbro chiave, se non fosse stato per Hugh, che ricordò loro che avevano bisogno dei suoi servizi e dovevano assolutamente ottenerli.

“Dìgli cosa vogliamo,” disse a Simon Tappertit, “e fallo in fretta. E stai attento, padrone, nel caso mai decidessi di usarle ancora, dopo questa notte.”

Gabriel incrociò le braccia, ormai libere, e osservò il suo vecchio “apprendista” in silenzio.

“Guarda, Varden,” disse Sim, “stiamo andando verso Newgate.”

“Lo so che lo sei,” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Non hai mai detto una parola più vera di quella.”

“Per bruciarlo, intendo,” disse Simon, “e forzare le porte, per liberare i prigionieri. Tu hai contribuito a costruire la serratura della grande porta.”

“L’ho fatto,” disse il fabbro chiave. “Non mi dovete ringraziare per questo, come scoprirete presto.”

“Forse,” rispose il suo apprendista, “ma dovete mostrarci come farlo.”

“Devo proprio farlo?”

“Sì; perché tu lo sai, mentre io no. Devi venire con noi e prenderlo con le tue stesse mani.”

“Quando lo farò,” disse il fabbro chiaramente, “le mie mani mi cadranno alle nocche, e tu, Simon Tappertit, le porterai sulle spalle come epaulette.”

“Lo vedremo,” gridò Hugh intervenendo, mentre la rabbia della folla scoppiava di nuovo. “Voi riempite un cesto con gli strumenti che avrà bisogno, intanto io lo porterò giù. Qualcuno di voi apra le porte al piano di sotto. E altri accendano le luci per il grande capitano! Non c’è nessun lavoro da svolgere, ragazzi miei? Non potete fare altro che stare lì a brontolare?”

Si guardarono l’un l’altro e, dopo essersi rapidamente dispersi, si riversarono nella casa, saccheggiando e distruggendo tutto secondo le loro abitudini, portandosene via oggetti di valore che piacessero loro. Non ebbero molto tempo a disposizione per queste attività, poiché il cesto con gli attrezzi fu presto pronto e messo sulle spalle di qualcuno. Una volta completati tutti i preparativi, coloro che stavano saccheggiando nelle altre stanze furono chiamati nel laboratorio. Stavano per partire quando l’uomo che era rimasto ultimo al piano di sopra si fece avanti e chiese se la giovane donna nello scantinato (che, secondo lui, faceva un terribile rumore e continuava a urlare senza sosta) dovesse essere liberata.

Per quanto lo riguardava, Simon Tappertit avrebbe sicuramente risposto di no, ma la maggior parte dei suoi compagni, ricordando i buoni servizi che lei aveva reso in merito alla pistola, erano di opinione diversa; quindi non gli restò altra scelta se non quella di rispondere “Sì”. L’uomo tornò quindi nuovamente a salvare la situazione e poco dopo ritornò con Miss Miggs: era priva di forze, piegata in due dal dolore e molto bagnata per via dei continui pianti.

Poiché la giovane signora non aveva mostrato alcun segno di coscienza durante il tragitto verso il piano inferiore, il portatore riferì che fosse morta o moribonda; non sapendo cosa fare di lei, cercava intorno un banco o un mucchio di ceneri su cui adagiarla, quando improvvisamente lei si rialzò in piedi per qualche misterioso motivo, si sistemò i capelli e fissò con occhi folli il signor Tappertit, gridando: “La vita di mio fratello Simmuns non deve essere sprecata!” Poi cadde tra le sue braccia con tale rapidità che lui barcollò all’indietro per alcuni passi, sotto quel delizioso fardello.

“Accidenti!” disse il signor Tappertit. “Ecco. Qualcuno la prenda e la rinchiuda di nuovo; non avrebbe mai dovuto essere lasciata uscire.”

“Mio Simmun!” gridò la signorina Miggs, tra le lacrime, e con voce debole. “Il mio adorato, per sempre benedetto Simmun, ”

“Aspetta un attimo, per favore,” disse il signor Tappertit con un tono molto scortese, “se non lo fai, ti farò cadere. Perché stai cercando di allontanare i piedi dal suolo?”

“Mio angelo Simmuns, ”, mormorò Miggs, “mi aveva promesso, ”

“Promesso! Beh, manterrò la mia promessa,” rispose Simon con riluttanza. “Intanto voglio assicurarmi che tu abbia tutto ciò di cui hai bisogno, vero? Alzati!”

“Dove dovrei andare? Cosa ne sarà di me dopo le mie azioni di questa notte!”, gridò Miggs. “Quali luoghi di riposo mi restano, se non le silenziose tombe?”

“Vorrei che fossi nelle tombe silenziose, davvero,” gridò il signor Tappertit. “Chiusa dentro una bara solida e robusta. Ehi,” disse poi a uno dei presenti, sussurrandogli all’orecchio per un momento: “Portala via, per favore. Capisci dove?”

L’uomo annuì; e, nonostante le sue proteste e i suoi tentativi di resistenza (che consistevano soprattutto in graffi e non erano affatto facili da contrastare), la prese tra le braccia e se la portò via. Quelli che si trovavano nella casa uscirono tutti in strada; il fabbro chiave fu portato in testa alla folla e costretto a camminare tra i due uomini che lo guidavano; l’intera folla si mise in movimento rapidamente; e senza alcun grido o rumore avanzarono dritti verso Newgate, fermandosi in un gruppo compatto davanti al cancello della prigione.

Chapter 64

Breaking the silence they had hitherto preserved, they raised a great cry as soon as they were ranged before the jail, and demanded to speak to the governor. This visit was not wholly unexpected, for his house, which fronted the street, was strongly barricaded, the wicket-gate of the prison was closed up, and at no loophole or grating was any person to be seen. Before they had repeated their summons many times, a man appeared upon the roof of the governor’s house, and asked what it was they wanted.

Some said one thing, some another, and some only groaned and hissed. It being now nearly dark, and the house high, many persons in the throng were not aware that any one had come to answer them, and continued their clamour until the intelligence was gradually diffused through the whole concourse. Ten minutes or more elapsed before any one voice could be heard with tolerable distinctness; during which interval the figure remained perched alone, against the summer-evening sky, looking down into the troubled street.

‘Are you,’ said Hugh at length, ‘Mr Akerman, the head jailer here?’

‘Of course he is, brother,’ whispered Dennis. But Hugh, without minding him, took his answer from the man himself.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’

‘You have got some friends of ours in your custody, master.’

‘I have a good many people in my custody.’ He glanced downward, as he spoke, into the jail: and the feeling that he could see into the different yards, and that he overlooked everything which was hidden from their view by the rugged walls, so lashed and goaded the mob, that they howled like wolves.

‘Deliver up our friends,’ said Hugh, ‘and you may keep the rest.’

‘It’s my duty to keep them all. I shall do my duty.’

‘If you don’t throw the doors open, we shall break ‘em down,’ said Hugh; ‘for we will have the rioters out.’

‘All I can do, good people,’ Akerman replied, ‘is to exhort you to disperse; and to remind you that the consequences of any disturbance in this place, will be very severe, and bitterly repented by most of you, when it is too late.’

He made as though he would retire when he said these words, but he was checked by the voice of the locksmith.

‘Mr Akerman,’ cried Gabriel, ‘Mr Akerman.’

‘I will hear no more from any of you,’ replied the governor, turning towards the speaker, and waving his hand.

‘But I am not one of them,’ said Gabriel. ‘I am an honest man, Mr Akerman; a respectable tradesman—Gabriel Varden, the locksmith. You know me?’

‘You among the crowd!’ cried the governor in an altered voice.

‘Brought here by force—brought here to pick the lock of the great door for them,’ rejoined the locksmith. ‘Bear witness for me, Mr Akerman, that I refuse to do it; and that I will not do it, come what may of my refusal. If any violence is done to me, please to remember this.’

‘Is there no way of helping you?’ said the governor.

‘None, Mr Akerman. You’ll do your duty, and I’ll do mine. Once again, you robbers and cut-throats,’ said the locksmith, turning round upon them, ‘I refuse. Ah! Howl till you’re hoarse. I refuse.’

‘Stay—stay!’ said the jailer, hastily. ‘Mr Varden, I know you for a worthy man, and one who would do no unlawful act except upon compulsion—’

‘Upon compulsion, sir,’ interposed the locksmith, who felt that the tone in which this was said, conveyed the speaker’s impression that he had ample excuse for yielding to the furious multitude who beset and hemmed him in, on every side, and among whom he stood, an old man, quite alone; ‘upon compulsion, sir, I’ll do nothing.’

‘Where is that man,’ said the keeper, anxiously, ‘who spoke to me just now?’

‘Here!’ Hugh replied.

‘Do you know what the guilt of murder is, and that by keeping that honest tradesman at your side you endanger his life!’

‘We know it very well,’ he answered, ‘for what else did we bring him here? Let’s have our friends, master, and you shall have your friend. Is that fair, lads?’

The mob replied to him with a loud Hurrah!

‘You see how it is, sir?’ cried Varden. ‘Keep ‘em out, in King George’s name. Remember what I have said. Good night!’

There was no more parley. A shower of stones and other missiles compelled the keeper of the jail to retire; and the mob, pressing on, and swarming round the walls, forced Gabriel Varden close up to the door.

In vain the basket of tools was laid upon the ground before him, and he was urged in turn by promises, by blows, by offers of reward, and threats of instant death, to do the office for which they had brought him there. ‘No,’ cried the sturdy locksmith, ‘I will not!’

He had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could move him. The savage faces that glared upon him, look where he would; the cries of those who thirsted, like wild animals, for his blood; the sight of men pressing forward, and trampling down their fellows, as they strove to reach him, and struck at him above the heads of other men, with axes and with iron bars; all failed to daunt him. He looked from man to man, and face to face, and still, with quickened breath and lessening colour, cried firmly, ‘I will not!’

Dennis dealt him a blow upon the face which felled him to the ground. He sprung up again like a man in the prime of life, and with blood upon his forehead, caught him by the throat.

‘You cowardly dog!’ he said: ‘Give me my daughter. Give me my daughter.’

They struggled together. Some cried ‘Kill him,’ and some (but they were not near enough) strove to trample him to death. Tug as he would at the old man’s wrists, the hangman could not force him to unclench his hands.

‘Is this all the return you make me, you ungrateful monster?’ he articulated with great difficulty, and with many oaths.

‘Give me my daughter!’ cried the locksmith, who was now as fierce as those who gathered round him: ‘Give me my daughter!’

Capitolo 64

Rompendo il silenzio che avevano mantenuto fino ad allora, alzarono un gran clamore non appena si trovarono di fronte alla prigione e chiesero di parlare con il governatore. Questa visita non era del tutto inaspettata, poiché la sua casa, che dava sulla strada, era solidamente barricata; il cancello della prigione era chiuso e non si vedeva nessuno dietro alcuna feritoia o griglia. Prima ancora che potessero ripetere più volte la loro richiesta, un uomo apparve sul tetto della casa del governatore e chiese loro cosa volessero.

Alcuni dicevano una cosa, altri un’altra; alcuni si limitavano a gemere e sibilare. Poiché ormai era quasi buio e la casa si trovava in alto, molte persone nella folla non si rendevano conto che qualcuno fosse venuto a rispondere alle loro domande, e continuarono a gridare finché la notizia non si diffuse gradualmente in tutto il gruppo. Trascorsero dieci minuti o più prima che si potesse udire una voce chiara e distinta; nel frattempo, quella figura rimase sola, appoggiata al cielo serale estivo, a guardare giù nella strada agitata.

“Lei è, ”, disse finalmente Hugh, “il signor Akerman, il direttore del carcere?”

“Certo che lo è, fratello,” sussurrò Dennis. Ma Hugh, senza dargli retta, attese la risposta direttamente dall’uomo stesso.

“Sì,” disse. “Lo sono.”

“Signore, avete alcuni dei nostri amici sotto custodia vostra.”

“Ho molte persone sotto la mia custodia,” disse, guardando verso il basso, nella prigione. La sensazione di poter vedere attraverso le varie ali della prigione, di poter osservare tutto ciò che era nascosto dalle sue imponenti mura, stimolò e incitò la folla a tal punto che iniziarono a urlare come lupi.

“Ridateci i nostri amici,” disse Hugh, “e potrete tenervi il resto.”

“È mio dovere tenerli tutti. Farò il mio dovere.”

“Se non aprite subito le porte, le sfonderemo,” disse Hugh; “dobbiamo far uscire quei rivoltosi.”

“Tutto ciò che posso fare, buone persone,” rispose Akerman, “è esortarvi a disperdervi; e ricordarvi che le conseguenze di qualsiasi turbamento in questo luogo saranno molto gravi, e che la maggior parte di voi se ne pentirà amaramente quando sarà troppo tardi.”

Fece finta di volersi ritirare quando pronunciò queste parole, ma fu fermato dalla voce del fabbro chiave.

“Signor Akerman!”, gridò Gabriel. “Signor Akerman!”

“Non voglio sentire più nulla da nessuno di voi,” rispose il governatore, voltandosi verso chi aveva parlato e facendo un gesto con la mano.

“Ma io non faccio parte di loro,” disse Gabriel. “Sono un uomo onesto, signor Akerman; un rispettabile artigiano. Gabriel Varden, il fabbro chiave. Mi conosce?”

“Voi, tra la folla!” gridò il governatore con voce cambiata.

“Portato qui con la forza, portato qui per aprire la serratura della grande porta per loro,” ribatté il fabbro chiave. “Testimoniate per me, signor Akerman: rifiuto di farlo, e non lo farò, a qualunque conseguenza possa derivarne dal mio rifiuto. Se dovesse accadermi qualche violenza, vi prego di ricordarlo.”

“Non esiste alcun modo per aiutarti?” disse il governatore.

“Niente, signor Akerman. Voi farete la vostra parte, e io farò la mia. Ancora una volta: voi ladri e assassini,” disse il fabbro chiave, girandosi verso di loro, “rifiuto. Ah! Urlate pure fino a perdere la voce. Rifiuto.”

“Restate, restate!” disse il carceriere in fretta. “Signor Varden, so che siete una persona onesta e che non commettereste mai un atto illegale se non vi fosse costretto, ”

“Per costrizione, signore,” intervenne il fabbro chiave, che sentiva che il tono con cui queste parole erano state pronunciate trasmetteva l’impressione che colui che le aveva dette avesse tutte le ragioni per cedere alle pressioni della folla furiosa che lo circondava da ogni parte; lui, un vecchio uomo, si trovava completamente solo in mezzo a loro. “Per costrizione, signore, non farò nulla.”

“Dove è quell’uomo”, disse ansiosamente il custode, “quello che mi ha parlato poco fa?”

“Eccola!” rispose Hugh.

“Sai cosa significa la colpa di omicidio? Tenendo quell’onesto commerciante al tuo fianco, stai mettendo in pericolo la sua vita!”

“Lo sappiamo molto bene,” rispose, “altrimenti perché lo avremmo portato qui? Chiamiamo i nostri amici; tu avrai il tuo amico, padrone. È giusto, ragazzi?”

La folla gli rispose con un forte “Urrà!”.

“Vede com’è la situazione, signore?” gridò Varden. “Teneteli fuori, per il nome di -Re Giorgio. Ricordate quello che ho detto. Buona :notte!”

Non ci furono più negoziati. Una pioggia di pietre e altre munizioni costrinse il custode della prigione a ritirarsi; la folla, avanzando in massa e assediando le mura, spinse Gabriel Varden fino alla porta.

Inutilmente il cesto con gli attrezzi fu posato a terra davanti a lui; venne esortato alternativamente con promesse, colpi, offerte di ricompensa e minacce di una immediata morte ad eseguire il compito per cui lo avevano portato lì. “No,” gridò il robusto fabbro chiave, “non lo farò!”

Non aveva mai amato la sua vita così )bene come in quel momento, ma nulla riusciva a scuoterlo. I volti selvaggi che lo fissavano ovunque si girasse; le grida di coloro che, come feroci animali, bramavano il suo sangue; la vista degli uomini che avanzavano, calpestando i propri compagni nel tentativo di raggiungerlo e colpendolo sopra le teste altrui con asce e barre di ferro. Tutto ciò non riuscì a intimidirlo. Guardò uno dopo l’altro, faccia a faccia, e ancora, con il respiro affannoso e il viso sempre più pallido, gridò con forza: “Non lo farò!”

Dennis gli sferrò un colpo in faccia che lo fece cadere a terra. Lui si rialzò di nuovo come un uomo nel fiore degli anni; con il sangue sulla fronte, afferrò Dennis per la gola.

“Maledetto codardo!” disse: “Dammi mia figlia. Dammi mia figlia.”

Lottavano insieme. Alcuni gridavano “Uccidetelo”, altri (ma non erano abbastanza vicini) cercavano di calpestarlo fino alla morte. Nonostante il boia tirasse con forza sui polsi dell’uomo anziano, questi rifiutava ostinatamente di aprire le mani.

“È tutto il ringraziamento che mi riservi, tu ingrato mostro?” disse con grande difficoltà, pronunciando molte imprecazioni.

“Restituitemi mia figlia!”, gridò il fabbro chiave, ormai altrettanto feroce quanto coloro che si erano radunati intorno a lui: “Restituitemi mia figlia!”

He was down again, and up, and down once more, and buffeting with a score of them, who bandied him from hand to hand, when one tall fellow, fresh from a slaughter-house, whose dress and great thigh-boots smoked hot with grease and blood, raised a pole-axe, and swearing a horrible oath, aimed it at the old man’s uncovered head. At that instant, and in the very act, he fell himself, as if struck by lightning, and over his body a one-armed man came darting to the locksmith’s side. Another man was with him, and both caught the locksmith roughly in their grasp.

‘Leave him to us!’ they cried to Hugh—struggling, as they spoke, to force a passage backward through the crowd. ‘Leave him to us. Why do you waste your whole strength on such as he, when a couple of men can finish him in as many minutes! You lose time. Remember the prisoners! remember Barnaby!’

The cry ran through the mob. Hammers began to rattle on the walls; and every man strove to reach the prison, and be among the foremost rank. Fighting their way through the press and struggle, as desperately as if they were in the midst of enemies rather than their own friends, the two men retreated with the locksmith between them, and dragged him through the very heart of the concourse.

And now the strokes began to fall like hail upon the gate, and on the strong building; for those who could not reach the door, spent their fierce rage on anything—even on the great blocks of stone, which shivered their weapons into fragments, and made their hands and arms to tingle as if the walls were active in their stout resistance, and dealt them back their blows. The clash of iron ringing upon iron, mingled with the deafening tumult and sounded high above it, as the great sledge-hammers rattled on the nailed and plated door: the sparks flew off in showers; men worked in gangs, and at short intervals relieved each other, that all their strength might be devoted to the work; but there stood the portal still, as grim and dark and strong as ever, and, saving for the dints upon its battered surface, quite unchanged.

While some brought all their energies to bear upon this toilsome task; and some, rearing ladders against the prison, tried to clamber to the summit of the walls they were too short to scale; and some again engaged a body of police a hundred strong, and beat them back and trod them under foot by force of numbers; others besieged the house on which the jailer had appeared, and driving in the door, brought out his furniture, and piled it up against the prison-gate, to make a bonfire which should burn it down. As soon as this device was understood, all those who had laboured hitherto, cast down their tools and helped to swell the heap; which reached half-way across the street, and was so high, that those who threw more fuel on the top, got up by ladders. When all the keeper’s goods were flung upon this costly pile, to the last fragment, they smeared it with the pitch, and tar, and rosin they had brought, and sprinkled it with turpentine. To all the woodwork round the prison-doors they did the like, leaving not a joist or beam untouched. This infernal christening performed, they fired the pile with lighted matches and with blazing tow, and then stood by, awaiting the result.

The furniture being very dry, and rendered more combustible by wax and oil, besides the arts they had used, took fire at once. The flames roared high and fiercely, blackening the prison-wall, and twining up its loftly front like burning serpents. At first they crowded round the blaze, and vented their exultation only in their looks: but when it grew hotter and fiercer—when it crackled, leaped, and roared, like a great furnace—when it shone upon the opposite houses, and lighted up not only the pale and wondering faces at the windows, but the inmost corners of each habitation—when through the deep red heat and glow, the fire was seen sporting and toying with the door, now clinging to its obdurate surface, now gliding off with fierce inconstancy and soaring high into the sky, anon returning to fold it in its burning grasp and lure it to its ruin—when it shone and gleamed so brightly that the church clock of St Sepulchre’s so often pointing to the hour of death, was legible as in broad day, and the vane upon its steeple-top glittered in the unwonted light like something richly jewelled—when blackened stone and sombre brick grew ruddy in the deep reflection, and windows shone like burnished gold, dotting the longest distance in the fiery vista with their specks of brightness—when wall and tower, and roof and chimney-stack, seemed drunk, and in the flickering glare appeared to reel and stagger—when scores of objects, never seen before, burst out upon the view, and things the most familiar put on some new aspect—then the mob began to join the whirl, and with loud yells, and shouts, and clamour, such as happily is seldom heard, bestirred themselves to feed the fire, and keep it at its height.

Although the heat was so intense that the paint on the houses over against the prison, parched and crackled up, and swelling into boils, as it were from excess of torture, broke and crumbled away; although the glass fell from the window-sashes, and the lead and iron on the roofs blistered the incautious hand that touched them, and the sparrows in the eaves took wing, and rendered giddy by the smoke, fell fluttering down upon the blazing pile; still the fire was tended unceasingly by busy hands, and round it, men were going always. They never slackened in their zeal, or kept aloof, but pressed upon the flames so hard, that those in front had much ado to save themselves from being thrust in; if one man swooned or dropped, a dozen struggled for his place, and that although they knew the pain, and thirst, and pressure to be unendurable. Those who fell down in fainting-fits, and were not crushed or burnt, were carried to an inn-yard close at hand, and dashed with water from a pump; of which buckets full were passed from man to man among the crowd; but such was the strong desire of all to drink, and such the fighting to be first, that, for the most part, the whole contents were spilled upon the ground, without the lips of one man being moistened.

Era di nuovo a terra, poi si rialzava, e ancora una volta cadde, colpito da più persone che lo gettavano avanti e indietro. In quel momento, un uomo alto, appena uscito da un luogo dove si era compiuta una strage – il cui abito e i grandi stivali erano imbrattati di grasso e sangue – sollevò un’ascia e, pronunciando un orribile giuramento, la puntò verso la testa scoperta dell’anziano. Proprio in quell’istante, l’uomo stesso cadde a terra, come se fosse stato colpito dal fulmine. E sopra il suo corpo apparve un uomo senza una mano, che corse subito al fianco del fabbro chiave. C’era anche un altro uomo con lui; entrambi afferrarono brutalmente il fabbro chiave.

“Lasciatelo a noi!” gridarono a Hugh, lottando intanto per farsi strada verso il retro della folla. “Lasciatelo a noi. Perché sprecare tutta la vostra forza in uno come lui, quando un paio di uomini potrebbero finirlo in pochi minuti? State perdendo tempo. Ricordatevi dei prigionieri! Ricordatevi di Barnaby!”

Quel grido si diffuse tra la folla. Gli martelli iniziarono a battere contro i muri; tutti cercavano disperatamente di raggiungere la prigione e di essere tra i primi ad entrarvi. Lottando con violenza per farsi strada tra la calca, come se si trovassero tra nemici anziché tra amici, i due uomini si ritirarono trascinando con sé il fabbro chiave, portandolo proprio nel cuore della folla.

E ora i colpi cominciarono a cadere come grandine sulla porta e sull’imponente edificio; coloro che non riuscivano ad arrivare fino alla porta sfogavano la loro furia su qualsiasi cosa, persino sui grandi blocchi di pietra, i quali facevano tremare le loro armi trasformandole in frammenti, e facevano formicolare loro mani e braccia, come se le pareti stesse stesse opponendo una tenace resistenza, restituendo loro i colpi che ricevevano. Il clangore del ferro contro il ferro si mescolava al frastuono assordante; i grandi martelli sbattevano con forza sulla porta inchiodata e rivestita di metallo: scintille volavano ovunque; gli uomini lavoravano in gruppi, sostituendosi a intervalli brevi, affinché tutta la loro forza potesse essere dedicata al compito. Ma la porta rimaneva immobile, cupa e solida come sempre; a parte le macchie presenti sulla sua superficie danneggiata, non era cambiata affatto.

Mentre alcuni dedicavano tutte le loro energie a questa faticosa impresa; altri, appoggiando scale contro la prigione, cercavano di arrampicarsi fino in cima alle mura, troppo alte per essere scalate; ancora altri affrontarono un gruppo di cento poliziotti, sconfiggendoli e calpestandoli con il loro numero superiore; altri ancora assediarono la casa dove si era rifugiato il carceriere, sfondarono la porta, portarono fuori i suoi mobili e li ammucchiarono davanti al cancello della prigione per accendervi un rogo che potesse distruggerlo. Non appena questo piano fu compreso da tutti, coloro che fino ad allora avevano lavorato con impegno abbandonarono gli strumenti e contribuirono ad aumentare l’ammasso di materiali; quest’ultimo raggiunse metà della strada ed era così alto che coloro che aggiungevano altra legna potevano arrampicarsi fino in cima usando delle scale. Quando tutti i beni del carceriere furono gettati su quel mucchio, fino all’ultimo frammento, vi spalmarono sopra pece, catrame e rosinella, e ne spruzzarono anche della trementina. Fecero lo stesso con tutte le strutture in legno intorno alle porte della prigione, senza lasciare intatto nessun travezzo o asse. Una volta completata questa “cerimonia infernale”, appiccarono il fuoco utilizzando fiammiferi accesi e stracci infuocati, poi rimasero in attesa del risultato.

I mobili, essendo molto secchi e resi ancora più infiammabili dallo strato di cera e olio, presero fuoco all’istante. Le fiamme si alzarono alte e violente, annerendo le pareti della prigione e serpeggiando lungo il suo frontone come serpenti in fiamme. All’inizio la gente si radunò intorno al rogo, esprimendo la propria eccitazione solo con lo sguardo; ma quando il fuoco divenne ancora più intenso – quando crepitava, balzava in alto e ruggiva come una grande fornace – quando illuminò le case vicine, non solo i volti pallidi e stupiti alle finestre, ma anche gli angoli più remoti di ogni abitazione; quando, attraverso il calore rossastro, si poteva vedere il fuoco giocare con le porte, ora attaccandosi alla loro superficie dura, ora allontanandosi con violenza per poi innalzarsi verso il cielo, per poi tornare a stringerle nella sua fiamma distruttiva, quando tutto brillava così intensamente che l’orologio della chiesa di St Sepulchre, che di solito indicava solo l’ora della morte, diventò leggibile come in pieno giorno, e la banderuola sulla sua cima scintillava nella luce insolita come se fosse ricoperta di gioielli, allora la folla iniziò a partecipare con entusiasmo al fuoco, gridando e urlando in modo così gioioso da essere raro sentire. Tutti si impegnarono a alimentare le fiamme e a mantenerle alte.

Nonostante il calore fosse così intenso che la vernice delle case di fronte alla prigione si secchisse, si crepasse e si gonfiasse come se soffrisse per un eccesso di tormenti, fino a rompersi e disintegrarsi; nonostante i vetri cadessero dalle finestre e il piombo e il ferro sui tetti scottassero la mano incauta che li toccava, nonostante gli uccellini sugli spioventi prendessero il volo e, storditi dal fumo, cadessero tremolanti sul mucchio di legna in fiamme; tuttavia, la fiamma veniva continuamente alimentata da mani instancabili, e intorno ad essa le persone non smettevano mai di muoversi. Non diminuivano mai nel loro zelo, né si tenevano a distanza: spingevano le fiamme con tale forza che coloro che erano davanti avevano molta difficoltà a non essere schiacciati indietro; se uno sveniva o cadeva, una dozzina di persone lottava per prendere il suo posto, anche se conoscevano bene la dolore, la sete e la pressione insopportabili. Coloro che cadevano svenuti e non venivano schiacciati o bruciati venivano portati in un cortile vicino e lavati con l’acqua prelevata da una pompa; secchi pieni d’acqua venivano passati di mano in mano tra la folla, ma tale era la forte desiderio di tutti di bere, e tanta la concorrenza per essere i primi a riceverla, che nella maggior parte dei casi l’intero contenuto dell’acqua veniva versato a terra, senza che nemmeno una persona riuscisse a inumidirsi le labbra.

Meanwhile, and in the midst of all the roar and outcry, those who were nearest to the pile, heaped up again the burning fragments that came toppling down, and raked the fire about the door, which, although a sheet of flame, was still a door fast locked and barred, and kept them out. Great pieces of blazing wood were passed, besides, above the people’s heads to such as stood about the ladders, and some of these, climbing up to the topmost stave, and holding on with one hand by the prison wall, exerted all their skill and force to cast these fire-brands on the roof, or down into the yards within. In many instances their efforts were successful; which occasioned a new and appalling addition to the horrors of the scene: for the prisoners within, seeing from between their bars that the fire caught in many places and thrived fiercely, and being all locked up in strong cells for the night, began to know that they were in danger of being burnt alive. This terrible fear, spreading from cell to cell and from yard to yard, vented itself in such dismal cries and wailings, and in such dreadful shrieks for help, that the whole jail resounded with the noise; which was loudly heard even above the shouting of the mob and roaring of the flames, and was so full of agony and despair, that it made the boldest tremble.

It was remarkable that these cries began in that quarter of the jail which fronted Newgate Street, where, it was well known, the men who were to suffer death on Thursday were confined. And not only were these four who had so short a time to live, the first to whom the dread of being burnt occurred, but they were, throughout, the most importunate of all: for they could be plainly heard, notwithstanding the great thickness of the walls, crying that the wind set that way, and that the flames would shortly reach them; and calling to the officers of the jail to come and quench the fire from a cistern which was in their yard, and full of water. Judging from what the crowd outside the walls could hear from time to time, these four doomed wretches never ceased to call for help; and that with as much distraction, and in as great a frenzy of attachment to existence, as though each had an honoured, happy life before him, instead of eight-and-forty hours of miserable imprisonment, and then a violent and shameful death.

But the anguish and suffering of the two sons of one of these men, when they heard, or fancied that they heard, their father’s voice, is past description. After wringing their hands and rushing to and fro as if they were stark mad, one mounted on the shoulders of his brother, and tried to clamber up the face of the high wall, guarded at the top with spikes and points of iron. And when he fell among the crowd, he was not deterred by his bruises, but mounted up again, and fell again, and, when he found the feat impossible, began to beat the stones and tear them with his hands, as if he could that way make a breach in the strong building, and force a passage in. At last, they cleft their way among the mob about the door, though many men, a dozen times their match, had tried in vain to do so, and were seen, in—yes, in—the fire, striving to prize it down, with crowbars.

Nor were they alone affected by the outcry from within the prison. The women who were looking on, shrieked loudly, beat their hands together, stopped their ears; and many fainted: the men who were not near the walls and active in the siege, rather than do nothing, tore up the pavement of the street, and did so with a haste and fury they could not have surpassed if that had been the jail, and they were near their object. Not one living creature in the throng was for an instant still. The whole great mass were mad.

A shout! Another! Another yet, though few knew why, or what it meant. But those around the gate had seen it slowly yield, and drop from its topmost hinge. It hung on that side by but one, but it was upright still, because of the bar, and its having sunk, of its own weight, into the heap of ashes at its foot. There was now a gap at the top of the doorway, through which could be descried a gloomy passage, cavernous and dark. Pile up the fire!

It burnt fiercely. The door was red-hot, and the gap wider. They vainly tried to shield their faces with their hands, and standing as if in readiness for a spring, watched the place. Dark figures, some crawling on their hands and knees, some carried in the arms of others, were seen to pass along the roof. It was plain the jail could hold out no longer. The keeper, and his officers, and their wives and children, were escaping. Pile up the fire!

The door sank down again: it settled deeper in the cinders—tottered—yielded—was down!

As they shouted again, they fell back, for a moment, and left a clear space about the fire that lay between them and the jail entry. Hugh leapt upon the blazing heap, and scattering a train of sparks into the air, and making the dark lobby glitter with those that hung upon his dress, dashed into the jail.

The hangman followed. And then so many rushed upon their track, that the fire got trodden down and thinly strewn about the street; but there was no need of it now, for, inside and out, the prison was in flames.

Nel frattempo, nonostante tutto il clamore e il tumulto, coloro che si trovavano più vicini al mucchio di legna incendiata raccoglievano di nuovo i pezzi che continuavano a cadere e li spargevano intorno alla porta; sebbene questa fosse solo un velo di fiamme, rimaneva comunque chiusa a chiave e sbarrata, impedendo l’ingresso. Grandi pezzi di legno ardente venivano anche passati sopra le teste delle persone che si trovavano intorno alle scale; alcuni di loro, salendo fino all’estremità più alta delle stesse, si aggrappavano con una mano al muro della prigione e utilizzavano tutte le loro forze per gettare quei tizzoni sul tetto o giù negli spazi interni. In molti casi i loro sforzi riuscivano; questo causava un nuovo e terribile aumento delle paure che regnavano in quel luogo: i prigionieri, infatti, vedendo dalle sbarre che il fuoco si era diffuso in molte parti e divampava con violenza, e essendo tutti rinchiusi nelle loro celle per la notte, cominciarono a rendersi conto di essere in pericolo di morire bruciati vivi. Questo terribile timore, diffondendosi da una cella all’altra e da uno spazio all’altro, si manifestava in grida disperate, lamenti angosciosi e richieste d’aiuto così strazianti che l’intera prigione risuonava di quel clamore; un suono così intenso da essere chiaramente udito anche al di sopra dei gridi della folla e del ruggito delle fiamme, e così pieno di dolore e disperazione da far tremare persino i più coraggiosi.

Era notevole che questi gridi iniziassero proprio in quella parte della prigione che si affacciava su Newgate Street, dove, come era ben noto, erano rinchiusi gli uomini destinati a morire di morte capitale il giovedì. E non solo quei quattro, che avevano così poco tempo da vivere, furono i primi ad essere assaliti dal terrore di essere bruciati, ma in generale erano anche i più disperati tra tutti: si poteva chiaramente sentirli gridare, nonostante lo spessore delle mura, dicendo che il vento soffiava in quella direzione e che le fiamme avrebbero presto raggiunto loro; chiedevano anche agli agenti della prigione di venire ad estinguere l’fuoco utilizzando una cisterna presente nel cortile, piena d’acqua. A giudicare da ciò che la folla all’esterno delle mura riusciva a sentire, quei quattro sventurati non smettevano mai di chiedere aiuto; e lo facevano con tale disperazione e con un attaccamento così folle alla vita, come se ognuno di loro avesse davanti a sé una vita onorata e felice, invece di soltanto ottantaquattro ore di misera prigionia e poi una morte violenta e vergognosa.

Ma l’angoscia e il dolore dei due figli di uno di questi uomini, quando udirono, o pensarono di aver udito, la voce di loro padre, sono indescrivibili. Dopo essersi strappati i capelli e corruti avanti e indietro come se fossero completamente pazzi, uno di loro salì sulle spalle del fratello e cercò di arrampicarsi lungo il muro alto, protetto in cima da spuntoni e punte di ferro. Quando cadde tra la folla, non si arrese nemmeno davanti ai lividi; provò ancora, cadde di nuovo, e quando capì che era impossibile, iniziò a colpire le pietre e a strapparle con le mani, come se così potesse creare un varco in quell’edificio imponente e forzarsi un passaggio. Alla fine riuscirono a farsi strada tra la folla intorno alla porta; anche se molti uomini, dieci volte più forti di loro, avevano tentato invano e venivano visti, sì, nel fuoco, mentre cercavano di abbatterla usando le leve.

Nessuno fu l’unico ad essere colpito dall’orrore che si diffondeva all’interno della prigione. Le donne che assistevano gridavano forte, si battevano le mani e si tappavano le orecchie; molte svenivano. Gli uomini che non erano vicini alle mura e non partecipavano direttamente all’assedio, invece di stare inerti, strappavano via la pavimentazione della strada con una furia tale da non poter essere superata nemmeno se si fosse trattato davvero della prigione. E stavano proprio vicini al loro obiettivo. Nessuna creatura vivente nella folla rimase immobile per un istante; l’intera massa era impazzita.

Un grido! Un altro ancora. Anche se pochi sapevano il motivo o il significato di quel suono. Ma coloro che si trovavano intorno al cancello avevano visto che la parte superiore del cancello si stava lentamente piegando e staccandosi dall’asse più in alto. Rimaneva sospesa soltanto da un lato, ma era ancora dritta grazie alla barra di sostegno; questa, però, si era abbassata sotto il peso del cancello stesso, finendo nel mucchio di ceneri ai suoi piedi. Ora, nella parte superiore dell’ingresso, si era aperta una fessura attraverso la quale si poteva intravedere un passaggio oscuro, cavernoso e buio. Accendete il fuoco!

Bruciava con violenza. La porta era rovente, e la fessura si stava allargando. Tentarono invano di proteggere il viso con le mani, e rimasero in attesa, pronti a qualsiasi eventuale movimento improvviso. Si vedevano figure scure: alcune strisciavano sulle mani e sulle ginocchia, altre venivano trasportate da altre persone; si muovevano lungo il tetto. Era evidente che la prigione non avrebbe potuto resistere a lungo. Il custode, i suoi ufficiali, insieme alle loro mogli e ai loro figli, stavano fuggendo. Accendete ancora di più il fuoco!

La porta si abbassò di nuovo: affondò ancora di più tra le ceneri, vacillò, cedette, ed era completamente giù!

Mentre gridavano di nuovo, arretrarono per un momento, lasciando uno spazio libero intorno al fuoco che si trovava tra loro e l’ingresso della prigione. Hugh saltò su quel mucchio di legna in fiamme; scagliando scintille nell’aria e facendo brillare il buio corridoio con quelle che rimasero attaccate al suo abito, si precipitò all’interno della prigione.

Il boia li seguì. Poi molte persone si precipitarono sul loro percorso, tanto che la fiamma venne calpestata e sparse sull’intera strada; ma ormai non ce n’era più bisogno, perché, sia all’interno che all’esterno, la prigione era completamente avvolta dalle fiamme.

Chapter 65

During the whole course of the terrible scene which was now at its height, one man in the jail suffered a degree of fear and mental torment which had no parallel in the endurance, even of those who lay under sentence of death.

When the rioters first assembled before the building, the murderer was roused from sleep—if such slumbers as his may have that blessed name—by the roar of voices, and the struggling of a great crowd. He started up as these sounds met his ear, and, sitting on his bedstead, listened.

After a short interval of silence the noise burst out again. Still listening attentively, he made out, in course of time, that the jail was besieged by a furious multitude. His guilty conscience instantly arrayed these men against himself, and brought the fear upon him that he would be singled out, and torn to pieces.

Once impressed with the terror of this conceit, everything tended to confirm and strengthen it. His double crime, the circumstances under which it had been committed, the length of time that had elapsed, and its discovery in spite of all, made him, as it were, the visible object of the Almighty’s wrath. In all the crime and vice and moral gloom of the great pest-house of the capital, he stood alone, marked and singled out by his great guilt, a Lucifer among the devils. The other prisoners were a host, hiding and sheltering each other—a crowd like that without the walls. He was one man against the whole united concourse; a single, solitary, lonely man, from whom the very captives in the jail fell off and shrunk appalled.

It might be that the intelligence of his capture having been bruited abroad, they had come there purposely to drag him out and kill him in the street; or it might be that they were the rioters, and, in pursuance of an old design, had come to sack the prison. But in either case he had no belief or hope that they would spare him. Every shout they raised, and every sound they made, was a blow upon his heart. As the attack went on, he grew more wild and frantic in his terror: tried to pull away the bars that guarded the chimney and prevented him from climbing up: called loudly on the turnkeys to cluster round the cell and save him from the fury of the rabble; or put him in some dungeon underground, no matter of what depth, how dark it was, or loathsome, or beset with rats and creeping things, so that it hid him and was hard to find.

But no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he cried to them, of attracting attention, he was silent. By and bye, he saw, as he looked from his grated window, a strange glimmering on the stone walls and pavement of the yard. It was feeble at first, and came and went, as though some officers with torches were passing to and fro upon the roof of the prison. Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down, spattering the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners. One rolled beneath a wooden bench, and set it in a blaze; another caught a water-spout, and so went climbing up the wall, leaving a long straight track of fire behind it. After a time, a slow thick shower of burning fragments, from some upper portion of the prison which was blazing nigh, began to fall before his door. Remembering that it opened outwards, he knew that every spark which fell upon the heap, and in the act lost its bright life, and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish, helped to entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded with shrieks and cries for help,—though the fire bounded up as if each separate flame had had a tiger’s life, and roared as though, in every one, there were a hungry voice—though the heat began to grow intense, and the air suffocating, and the clamour without increased, and the danger of his situation even from one merciless element was every moment more extreme,—still he was afraid to raise his voice again, lest the crowd should break in, and should, of their own ears or from the information given them by the other prisoners, get the clue to his place of confinement. Thus fearful alike, of those within the prison and of those without; of noise and silence; light and darkness; of being released, and being left there to die; he was so tortured and tormented, that nothing man has ever done to man in the horrible caprice of power and cruelty, exceeds his self-inflicted punishment.

Now, now, the door was down. Now they came rushing through the jail, calling to each other in the vaulted passages; clashing the iron gates dividing yard from yard; beating at the doors of cells and wards; wrenching off bolts and locks and bars; tearing down the door-posts to get men out; endeavouring to drag them by main force through gaps and windows where a child could scarcely pass; whooping and yelling without a moment’s rest; and running through the heat and flames as if they were cased in metal. By their legs, their arms, the hair upon their heads, they dragged the prisoners out. Some threw themselves upon the captives as they got towards the door, and tried to file away their irons; some danced about them with a frenzied joy, and rent their clothes, and were ready, as it seemed, to tear them limb from limb. Now a party of a dozen men came darting through the yard into which the murderer cast fearful glances from his darkened window; dragging a prisoner along the ground whose dress they had nearly torn from his body in their mad eagerness to set him free, and who was bleeding and senseless in their hands. Now a score of prisoners ran to and fro, who had lost themselves in the intricacies of the prison, and were so bewildered with the noise and glare that they knew not where to turn or what to do, and still cried out for help, as loudly as before. Anon some famished wretch whose theft had been a loaf of bread, or scrap of butcher’s meat, came skulking past, barefooted—going slowly away because that jail, his house, was burning; not because he had any other, or had friends to meet, or old haunts to revisit, or any liberty to gain, but liberty to starve and die. And then a knot of highwaymen went trooping by, conducted by the friends they had among the crowd, who muffled their fetters as they went along, with handkerchiefs and bands of hay, and wrapped them in coats and cloaks, and gave them drink from bottles, and held it to their lips, because of their handcuffs which there was no time to remove. All this, and Heaven knows how much more, was done amidst a noise, a hurry, and distraction, like nothing that we know of, even in our dreams; which seemed for ever on the rise, and never to decrease for the space of a single instant.

Capitolo 65

Durante l’intero svolgimento di quella terribile scena, che ormai era al suo apice, un uomo nella prigione provò un grado di >paura e tormento mentale senza precedenti, nemmeno tra coloro che erano condannati a morte.

Quando i rivoltosi si radunarono per la prima volta davanti all’edificio, l’assassino fu svegliato dal sonno – se mai simili sonnellini possano essere chiamati con tale nome beato – dal rumore delle voci e dal movimento della folla. Si alzò non appena questi suoni raggiunsero le sue orecchie e, seduto sul letto, iniziò ad ascoltare.

Dopo un breve intervallo di silenzio, il rumore scoppiò di nuovo. Continuando ad ascoltare attentamente, col passare del tempo riuscì a capire che la prigione era assediata da una folla furiosa. La sua colpevole coscienza fece immediatamente sì che questi uomini si rivolgessero contro di lui, suscitando in lui la >paura di essere individuato e distrutto.

Una volta colpito dal terrore di questa sua presunzione, tutto tendeva a confermarla e rafforzarla. Il suo doppio crimine, le circostanze in cui era stato commesso, il lungo tempo trascorso e il fatto che fosse stato scoperto nonostante tutto lo rendevano, per così dire, l’oggetto visibile della collera dell’Onnipotente. In tutta la malvagità, nel vizio e nell’oscurità morale di quella grande “casa del male” che era la prigione della capitale, lui stava solo, segnalato e distinto dalla sua enorme colpa; un vero Lucifero tra i demoni. Gli altri prigionieri formavano un gruppo, che si nascondeva e si proteggeva a vicenda, una folla senza mura. Lui era un uomo solo contro l’intero gruppo; un individuo solitario, isolato, dal quale persino i prigionieri della stessa prigione si allontanavano, spaventati.

Forse perché la notizia della sua cattura era già trapelata all’estero, erano venuti apposta lì per portarlo fuori e ucciderlo in strada; oppure forse erano loro i rivoltosi che, seguendo un piano preesistente, erano venuti a saccheggiare la prigione. In ogni caso, non aveva alcuna fiducia né speranza che lo risparmiassero. Ogni grido che lanciavano, ogni rumore che facevano, rappresentava un colpo per il suo cuore. Man mano che l’attacco proseguiva, diventava sempre più folle e disperato dal terrore: provava a strappare via le sbarre che impedivano di salire dalla ciminiera; chiamava ad alta voce i carcerieri perché si radunassero intorno alla cella per salvarlo dalla furia della folla; o li pregava di rinchiuderlo in qualche prigione sotterranea, qualunque fosse la sua profondità, oscurità, orrore o presenza di ratti e altre creature disgustose, purché lo nascondesse e rendesse difficile trovarlo.

Ma nessuno venne, né gli rispose. Spaventato, anche mentre li chiamava a gran voce, temeva di attirare l’attenzione, quindi rimase in silenzio. Dopo un po’, guardando dalla sua finestra, vide un strano bagliore sulle mura di pietra e sul selciato del cortile. All’inizio era debole, si accendeva e si spegneva, come se alcuni uomini con torce stessero camminando avanti e indietro sul tetto della prigione. Poi il bagliore divenne più intenso; pezzi di fuoco iniziarono a cadere a terra, spargendo fiamme ovunque e bruciando negli angoli. Uno dei frammenti rotolò sotto un banco di legno, incendiandolo; un altro si attaccò a una fontanella d’acqua e iniziò ad arrampicarsi lungo il muro, lasciando dietro di sé una scia di fuoco. Dopo un po’, iniziarono a cadere frammenti ardenti dal piano superiore della prigione; ricordandosi che la porta si apriva verso l’esterno, capì che ogni scintilla che cadeva veniva spenta immediatamente, trasformandosi in piccoli grumi di polvere e cenere. E tutto ciò lo avrebbe sepolto vivo in quella prigione. Nonostante i gridi di aiuto che risuonavano all’interno, nonostante il fuoco diventasse sempre più intenso, nonostante il calore soffocante e il pericolo crescente, non osava alzare la voce, per paura che qualcuno scoprisse dove si trovava. Così, temendo sia coloro che erano dentro la prigione sia quelli fuori; temendo il rumore e il silenzio, la luce e l’oscurità, temendo di essere liberato o lasciato lì a morire, soffriva in modo tale che nessuna delle cose orribili che gli esseri umani possono infliggere ad altri, nell’arco del loro potere e della loro crudeltà, poteva eguagliare la punizione che si era inflitto da solo.

Ora, ora, la porta era stata abbassata. Ora entrarono di corsa nella prigione, chiamandosi a vicenda nei corridoi bui e tortuosi; urtavano le porte di ferro che separavano un cortile dall’altro; battevano contro le porte delle celle; strappavano via i chiavioni, le serrature e le sbarre; abbattevano gli stipiti per far uscire gli uomini, cercavano di trascinarli a forza attraverso aperture e finestre così strette che a malapena un bambino avrebbe potuto passare; urlavano senza sosta, correndo tra il calore e le fiamme, come se fossero fatti di metallo. Trascinavano fuori i prigionieri per le gambe, per le braccia, per i capelli. Alcuni si gettavano addosso ai detenuti mentre questi cercavano di raggiungere la porta, tentando di strappare via le loro catene; altri danzavano intorno a loro con gioia folle, strappandosi i vestiti e pronti, sembrava, a dilaniarli pezzo per pezzo. Una dozzina di uomini corse nel cortile da cui il assassino lanciava sguardi spaventati dalla sua finestra oscura; trascinavano con sé un prigioniero il cui abito stavano quasi strappando via dal suo corpo, nella loro frenesia di liberarlo. L’uomo sanguinava e perdeva i sensi tra le loro mani. Una ventina di prigionieri correvano avanti e indietro, persi nelle complesse strutture della prigione; erano così confusi dal rumore e dalla luce accecante che non sapevano dove andare o cosa fare. Continuavano a chiedere aiuto, con la stessa forza di prima. Un povero disgraziato, derubato di un pane o di un pezzo di carne, si muoveva furtivamente, a piedi nudi. Si allontanava lentamente perché quella prigione, la sua casa, stava bruciando. Non perché avesse un’altra casa, amici da incontrare, vecchi luoghi dove tornare, né alcuna libertà da conquistare, ma solo la libertà di morire di fame. Poi passò un gruppo di briganti, guidati dai loro complici tra la folla; si coprivano le manette con fazzoletti e strisce di paglia, li avvolgevano in cappotti e mantelli, gli davano da bere, perché non c’era tempo per togliere loro le manette. Tutto questo, e chissà quante altre cose ancora, accadeva in mezzo a un rumore assordante, a una frenesia incontrollabile, come nulla di ciò che conosciamo, nemmeno nei nostri sogni. Sembrava che quel caos continuasse all’infinito, senza mai diminuire nemmeno per un istante.

He was still looking down from his window upon these things, when a band of men with torches, ladders, axes, and many kinds of weapons, poured into the yard, and hammering at his door, inquired if there were any prisoner within. He left the window when he saw them coming, and drew back into the remotest corner of the cell; but although he returned them no answer, they had a fancy that some one was inside, for they presently set ladders against it, and began to tear away the bars at the casement; not only that, indeed, but with pickaxes to hew down the very stones in the wall.

As soon as they had made a breach at the window, large enough for the admission of a man’s head, one of them thrust in a torch and looked all round the room. He followed this man’s gaze until it rested on himself, and heard him demand why he had not answered, but made him no reply.

In the general surprise and wonder, they were used to this; without saying anything more, they enlarged the breach until it was large enough to admit the body of a man, and then came dropping down upon the floor, one after another, until the cell was full. They caught him up among them, handed him to the window, and those who stood upon the ladders passed him down upon the pavement of the yard. Then the rest came out, one after another, and, bidding him fly, and lose no time, or the way would be choked up, hurried away to rescue others.

It seemed not a minute’s work from first to last. He staggered to his feet, incredulous of what had happened, when the yard was filled again, and a crowd rushed on, hurrying Barnaby among them. In another minute—not so much: another minute! the same instant, with no lapse or interval between!—he and his son were being passed from hand to hand, through the dense crowd in the street, and were glancing backward at a burning pile which some one said was Newgate.

From the moment of their first entrance into the prison, the crowd dispersed themselves about it, and swarmed into every chink and crevice, as if they had a perfect acquaintance with its innermost parts, and bore in their minds an exact plan of the whole. For this immediate knowledge of the place, they were, no doubt, in a great degree, indebted to the hangman, who stood in the lobby, directing some to go this way, some that, and some the other; and who materially assisted in bringing about the wonderful rapidity with which the release of the prisoners was effected.

But this functionary of the law reserved one important piece of intelligence, and kept it snugly to himself. When he had issued his instructions relative to every other part of the building, and the mob were dispersed from end to end, and busy at their work, he took a bundle of keys from a kind of cupboard in the wall, and going by a kind of passage near the chapel (it joined the governors house, and was then on fire), betook himself to the condemned cells, which were a series of small, strong, dismal rooms, opening on a low gallery, guarded, at the end at which he entered, by a strong iron wicket, and at its opposite extremity by two doors and a thick grate. Having double locked the wicket, and assured himself that the other entrances were well secured, he sat down on a bench in the gallery, and sucked the head of his stick with the utmost complacency, tranquillity, and contentment.

It would have been strange enough, a man’s enjoying himself in this quiet manner, while the prison was burning, and such a tumult was cleaving the air, though he had been outside the walls. But here, in the very heart of the building, and moreover with the prayers and cries of the four men under sentence sounding in his ears, and their hands, stretched out through the gratings in their cell-doors, clasped in frantic entreaty before his very eyes, it was particularly remarkable. Indeed, Mr Dennis appeared to think it an uncommon circumstance, and to banter himself upon it; for he thrust his hat on one side as some men do when they are in a waggish humour, sucked the head of his stick with a higher relish, and smiled as though he would say, ‘Dennis, you’re a rum dog; you’re a queer fellow; you’re capital company, Dennis, and quite a character!’

He sat in this way for some minutes, while the four men in the cells, who were certain that somebody had entered the gallery, but could not see who, gave vent to such piteous entreaties as wretches in their miserable condition may be supposed to have been inspired with: urging, whoever it was, to set them at liberty, for the love of Heaven; and protesting, with great fervour, and truly enough, perhaps, for the time, that if they escaped, they would amend their ways, and would never, never, never again do wrong before God or man, but would lead penitent and sober lives, and sorrowfully repent the crimes they had committed. The terrible energy with which they spoke, would have moved any person, no matter how good or just (if any good or just person could have strayed into that sad place that night), to have set them at liberty: and, while he would have left any other punishment to its free course, to have saved them from this last dreadful and repulsive penalty; which never turned a man inclined to evil, and has hardened thousands who were half inclined to good.

Mr Dennis, who had been bred and nurtured in the good old school, and had administered the good old laws on the good old plan, always once and sometimes twice every six weeks, for a long time, bore these appeals with a deal of philosophy. Being at last, however, rather disturbed in his pleasant reflection by their repetition, he rapped at one of the doors with his stick, and cried:

‘Hold your noise there, will you?’

At this they all cried together that they were to be hanged on the next day but one; and again implored his aid.

Era ancora intento a guardare fuori dalla sua finestra quando un gruppo di uomini armati di torce, scale, asce e vari tipi di armi irruppe nel cortile, bussando alla sua porta e chiedendo se ci fossero prigionieri all’interno. Quando li vide arrivare, abbandonò la finestra e si nascose nell’angolo più remoto della cella; tuttavia, anche se non rispose loro, loro pensarono che qualcuno ci fosse dentro, perché subito iniziarono ad appoggiare le scale contro la finestra e cominciarono a strappare via le sbarre; anzi, usarono persino picconi per distruggere anche le pietre del muro.

Non appena riuscirono a creare un varco nella finestra, abbastanza grande da far passare la testa di un uomo, uno di loro infilò una torcia e guardò intorno nella stanza. Seguì lo sguardo di quell’uomo fino a quando non si posò su di lui stesso; sentì anche che gli chiedeva perché non avesse risposto, ma non disse nulla.

Nel generale stupore e meraviglia che provavano, erano già abituati a queste cose; senza dire altro, allargarono la breccia fino a renderla abbastanza grande da far passare il -corpo di un uomo, poi iniziarono a scendere uno dopo l’altro, finché la cella non fu piena. Lo presero con loro, lo portarono vicino alla finestra, e quelli che stavano sulle scale lo fecero scendere sul selciato del cortile. Poi gli altri uscirono uno dopo l’altro, gli dissero di andarsene in fretta, senza perdere tempo, altrimenti il passaggio sarebbe stato bloccato, e si affrettarono a salvare gli altri.

Sembrava che tutto fosse avvenuto in un attimo, dall’inizio alla fine. Si alzò barcollando, incredulo di ciò che era accaduto, quando il cortile si riempì nuovamente di gente e una folla lo spinse via insieme a suo figlio. In un altro minuto, no, forse meno: in quell’istante stesso, senza alcun intervallo! Lui e suo figlio venivano passati di mano in mano attraverso la folla densa per le strade, mentre guardavano indietro verso una pila ardente che qualcuno disse essere Newgate.

Dal momento del loro primo ingresso nella prigione, la folla si disperse all’interno di essa, infiltrandosi in ogni angolo e crepa, come se conoscesse perfettamente le sue parti più interne e avesse in mente un piano preciso per l’intera struttura. Questa conoscenza immediata del luogo doveva, senza dubbio, molto al boia che si trovava nell’atrio, dirigendo alcuni verso questa direzione, altri verso quella; egli contribuì in modo determinante a rendere possibile la rapida liberazione dei prigionieri.

Ma questo funzionario della legge riservò per sé un’informazione importante e la tenne gelosamente segreta. Dopo aver impartito le sue istruzioni riguardo a tutte le altre parti dell’edificio e dopo che la folla si era dispersa in ogni direzione, impegnata nei propri compiti, prese un mazzo di chiavi da un armadietto situato nel muro e, attraversando un passaggio vicino alla cappella (che collegava l’edificio dei funzionari con l’abitazione del governatore, e che in quel momento era in fiamme), si recò nelle celle dei condannati. Queste celle erano una serie di piccole, robuste stanze tetre, che si affacciavano su un corridoio basso; all’estremità da cui entrò c’era una solida sbarra di ferro a chiave, mentre all’altra estremità si trovavano due porte e una spessa grata. Dopo aver chiuso a doppia chiave la sbarra e verificato che anche le altre entrate fossero ben protette, si sedette su un banco nel corridoio e iniziò a succhiare con estrema soddisfazione la punta del suo bastone.

Sarebbe già stato abbastanza strano che un uomo si divertisse in questo modo tranquillo, mentre la prigione stava bruciando e un tale tumulto riempiva l’aria, anche se lui si trovava al di fuori delle mura. Ma qui, nel cuore stesso dell’edificio, e soprattutto con le preghiere e i gridi dei quattro uomini sotto processo che risuonavano nelle sue orecchie, e con le loro mani tese attraverso le sbarre delle porte delle loro celle, che si aggrappavano disperatamente davanti ai suoi occhi, la cosa diventava particolarmente straordinaria. Infatti, il signor Dennis sembrava considerarlo un caso insolito e ne rideva; infilò il cappello da una parte, come fanno alcuni quando sono di umore scherzoso, succhiò con maggiore gusto la punta del suo bastone e sorrise, come se volesse dire: “Dennis, sei davvero un tipo strano. Sei un compagno divertente, Dennis. Un vero personaggio!”

Rimase seduto in quella posizione per alcuni minuti, mentre i quattro uomini nelle celle, certi che qualcuno fosse entrato nella galleria ma incapaci di vedere chi fosse, esprimevano suppliche così disperate e patetiche, come si potrebbe immaginare che persone in una condizione così miserabile possano essere spinte a dire: esortavano chiunque fosse responsabile a liberarli, per l’amore del Cielo; e protestavano con grande fervore, e forse davvero, almeno per quella volta, che se avessero potuto scappare, avrebbero cambiato vita, e non avrebbero mai più commesso errori né di fronte a Dio né agli uomini, ma avrebbero condotto una vita di penitenza e sobrietà, pentendosi profondamente dei crimini che avevano compiuto. L’intensità con cui parlavano avrebbe commosso chiunque, per quanto buono o giusto fosse (se mai esistesse qualcuno del genere in quel luogo triste e orribile quella notte), inducendolo a liberarli; e, pur lasciando che qualsiasi altra punizione seguisse il suo corso naturale, avrebbe salvato quegli uomini da questa ultima pena terribile e disgustosa, una pena che non ha mai fatto cambiare strada a nessuno incline al male, ma ha reso ancora più duri di cuore migliaia di persone che prima erano solo leggermente propense al bene.

Il signor Dennis, che era stato educato secondo le vecchie tradizioni e aveva sempre applicato quelle stesse leggi, una volta o anche due volte ogni sei settimane, per un lungo periodo di tempo, accettava queste richieste con una certa filosofia. Tuttavia, alla fine, disturbato dalla loro ripetizione, bussò con il suo bastone a una delle porte e gridò:

“Stai zitto un attimo, per favore?”

In quel momento tutti piansero insieme, dicendo che sarebbero stati impiccati il giorno dopo; e ancora una volta lo supplicarono di aiutarli.

‘Aid! For what!’ said Mr Dennis, playfully rapping the knuckles of the hand nearest him.

‘To save us!’ they cried.

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr Dennis, winking at the wall in the absence of any friend with whom he could humour the joke. ‘And so you’re to be worked off, are you, brothers?’

‘Unless we are released to-night,’ one of them cried, ‘we are dead men!’

‘I tell you what it is,’ said the hangman, gravely; ‘I’m afraid, my friend, that you’re not in that ‘ere state of mind that’s suitable to your condition, then; you’re not a-going to be released: don’t think it—Will you leave off that ‘ere indecent row? I wonder you an’t ashamed of yourselves, I do.’

He followed up this reproof by rapping every set of knuckles one after the other, and having done so, resumed his seat again with a cheerful countenance.

‘You’ve had law,’ he said, crossing his legs and elevating his eyebrows: ‘laws have been made a’ purpose for you; a wery handsome prison’s been made a’ purpose for you; a parson’s kept a purpose for you; a constitootional officer’s appointed a’ purpose for you; carts is maintained a’ purpose for you—and yet you’re not contented!—WILL you hold that noise, you sir in the furthest?’

A groan was the only answer.

‘So well as I can make out,’ said Mr Dennis, in a tone of mingled badinage and remonstrance, ‘there’s not a man among you. I begin to think I’m on the opposite side, and among the ladies; though for the matter of that, I’ve seen a many ladies face it out, in a manner that did honour to the sex.—You in number two, don’t grind them teeth of yours. Worse manners,’ said the hangman, rapping at the door with his stick, ‘I never see in this place afore. I’m ashamed of you. You’re a disgrace to the Bailey.’

After pausing for a moment to hear if anything could be pleaded in justification, Mr Dennis resumed in a sort of coaxing tone:

‘Now look’ee here, you four. I’m come here to take care of you, and see that you an’t burnt, instead of the other thing. It’s no use your making any noise, for you won’t be found out by them as has broken in, and you’ll only be hoarse when you come to the speeches,—which is a pity. What I say in respect to the speeches always is, “Give it mouth.” That’s my maxim. Give it mouth. I’ve heerd,’ said the hangman, pulling off his hat to take his handkerchief from the crown and wipe his face, and then putting it on again a little more on one side than before, ‘I’ve heerd a eloquence on them boards—you know what boards I mean—and have heerd a degree of mouth given to them speeches, that they was as clear as a bell, and as good as a play. There’s a pattern! And always, when a thing of this natur’s to come off, what I stand up for, is, a proper frame of mind. Let’s have a proper frame of mind, and we can go through with it, creditable—pleasant—sociable. Whatever you do (and I address myself in particular, to you in the furthest), never snivel. I’d sooner by half, though I lose by it, see a man tear his clothes a’ purpose to spile ‘em before they come to me, than find him snivelling. It’s ten to one a better frame of mind, every way!’

While the hangman addressed them to this effect, in the tone and with the air of a pastor in familiar conversation with his flock, the noise had been in some degree subdued; for the rioters were busy in conveying the prisoners to the Sessions House, which was beyond the main walls of the prison, though connected with it, and the crowd were busy too, in passing them from thence along the street. But when he had got thus far in his discourse, the sound of voices in the yard showed plainly that the mob had returned and were coming that way; and directly afterwards a violent crashing at the grate below, gave note of their attack upon the cells (as they were called) at last.

It was in vain the hangman ran from door to door, and covered the grates, one after another, with his hat, in futile efforts to stifle the cries of the four men within; it was in vain he dogged their outstretched hands, and beat them with his stick, or menaced them with new and lingering pains in the execution of his office; the place resounded with their cries. These, together with the feeling that they were now the last men in the jail, so worked upon and stimulated the besiegers, that in an incredibly short space of time they forced the strong grate down below, which was formed of iron rods two inches square, drove in the two other doors, as if they had been but deal partitions, and stood at the end of the gallery with only a bar or two between them and the cells.

‘Halloa!’ cried Hugh, who was the first to look into the dusky passage: ‘Dennis before us! Well done, old boy. Be quick, and open here, for we shall be suffocated in the smoke, going out.’

‘Go out at once, then,’ said Dennis. ‘What do you want here?’

‘Want!’ echoed Hugh. ‘The four men.’

‘Four devils!’ cried the hangman. ‘Don’t you know they’re left for death on Thursday? Don’t you respect the law—the constitootion—nothing? Let the four men be.’

‘Is this a time for joking?’ cried Hugh. ‘Do you hear ‘em? Pull away these bars that have got fixed between the door and the ground; and let us in.’

‘Brother,’ said the hangman, in a low voice, as he stooped under pretence of doing what Hugh desired, but only looked up in his face, ‘can’t you leave these here four men to me, if I’ve the whim! You do what you like, and have what you like of everything for your share,—give me my share. I want these four men left alone, I tell you!’

‘Pull the bars down, or stand out of the way,’ was Hugh’s reply.

‘You can turn the crowd if you like, you know that well enough, brother,’ said the hangman, slowly. ‘What! You WILL come in, will you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You won’t let these men alone, and leave ‘em to me? You’ve no respect for nothing—haven’t you?’ said the hangman, retreating to the door by which he had entered, and regarding his companion with a scowl. ‘You WILL come in, will you, brother!’

“Aiuto! Perché?” disse il signor Dennis, battendo scherzosamente le nocche della mano più vicina a lui.

“Per salvarci!”, gridarono.

“Certo,” disse il signor Dennis, facendo l’occhiolino verso il muro, poiché non aveva alcun amico con cui poter scherzare su quella battuta. “Quindi voi verrete licenziati, giusto, ragazzi?”

“Se non veniamo rilasciati entro la notte,” gridò uno di loro, “saremo morti!”

“Vi dico cosa è,” disse il boia con gravità; “Temo, amico mio, che non siate nello stato mentale adatto alla vostra situazione. Non verrete rilasciati: non fatelo credere. Smetterete di cantare quella canzone indecente? Mi chiedo davvero se vi vergogniate di voi stessi, ”

Dopo questa rimprovera, iniziò a battere ogni nocca uno dopo l’altro; una volta fatto ciò, tornò a sedersi con un’espressione allegra.

“Avete avuto le leggi,” disse, incrociando le gambe e alzando le sopracciglia: “Le leggi sono state create apposta per voi; un bellissimo carcere è stato creato apposta per voi; un prete ha uno scopo nella sua esistenza per voi; un funzionario costituzionale è stato nominato apposta per voi; i carri vengono mantenuti apposta per voi. Eppure non siete soddisfatti! Continuerete a fare questo rumore, voi signore lì in fondo?”

Un gemito fu l’unica risposta.

“So bene quanto posso capire,” disse il signor Dennis, con un tono che mescolava scherzo e rimprovero, “non c’è nemmeno un uomo tra di voi. Comincio a pensare di trovarmi dall’altra parte, tra le donne; anche se, a dire il vero, ho visto molte donne affrontare questa situazione in modo che facesse davvero onore al loro sesso. Voi, lì in seconda fila, smettete di digrignare i denti: comportamenti peggiori non ne ho mai visti in questo posto. Vi vergogno. Siete una vergogna per il tribunale.”

Dopo essersi fermato per un momento per vedere se ci fosse qualcosa che potesse essere addotto a giustificazione, il signor Dennis riprese con un tono quasi persuasivo:

“Ora ascoltate bene voi quattro: sono venuto qui per prendermi cura di voi e assicurarmi che non vi succeda nulla di male, invece di altro. Non ha senso fare rumore: loro non scopriranno mai chi è entrato di nascosto, e vi limiterete solo a perdere la voce durante i discorsi, il che è un peccato. Quanto ai discorsi, io dico sempre: ‘Dateci il massimo!’ Questa è la mia regola. Ho sentito,” disse il boia, togliendosi il cappello per prendere il fazzoletto dalla corona e asciugarsi il viso, poi rimettendoselo un po’ di lato rispetto a prima, “ho sentito discorsi davvero eloquenti, chiari come una campana, belli quanto un’opera teatrale. C’è davvero un modello da seguire! E sempre, quando si tratta di qualcosa del genere, ciò che conta è avere la giusta mentalità. Se abbiamo la giusta mentalità, possiamo riuscirci in modo dignitoso, piacevole e socievole. Quello che dico, soprattutto a voi, è: mai piangere. Preferirei di gran lunga vedere un uomo strapparsi i vestiti per rovinarli prima ancora che arrivassero da me, piuttosto che vederlo piangere. Con ogni probabilità, avere la giusta mentalità è sempre la scelta migliore!”

Mentre l’impiccatore si rivolgeva a loro in questo modo, con il tono e l’aria di un pastore che conversa familiarmente con il suo gregge, il rumore era stato in qualche misura attenuato; infatti i ribelli erano impegnati a trasportare i prigionieri verso la Casa delle Assise, situata al di là dei muri principali della prigione, sebbene collegata ad essa, e anche la folla era occupata a accompagnarli lungo la strada. Ma quando l’impiccatore ebbe terminato il suo discorso, il suono delle voci nel cortile fece chiaramente capire che la folla era tornata e stava avanzando in quella direzione; poco dopo, un violento rumore proveniente dalla grata sottostante indicò che avevano finalmente iniziato l’assalto alle celle.

Inutile fu che il boia corresse da una porta all’altra e coprisse una dopo l’altra le sbarre con il suo cappello, nel vano tentativo di soffocare i gridi dei quattro uomini al loro interno; inutile fu anche che cercasse di colpire le loro mani tese, che li picchiasse con il suo bastone o che li minacciasse di nuovi e atroci tormenti nell’esecuzione del proprio compito; il luogo risuonava dei loro strilli. Questi, uniti al pensiero che ora fossero gli ultimi uomini rimasti in prigione, stimolarono ulteriormente i loro assalitori, tanto che in un tempo incredibilmente breve riuscirono a abbattere la solida grata fatta di barre d’acciaio spesse due pollici, ad aprire le altre due porte come se fossero semplici divisori, e si trovarono all’estremità del corridoio, con solo una o due sbarre a separarli dalle celle.

“Allooo!” gridò Hugh, che fu il primo a guardare dentro quel corridoio buio:
“Dennis è davanti a noi! Ben fatto, vecchio mio. Sbrigati ad aprire, altrimenti soffocheremo nel fumo che esce fuori.”

“Allora vattene subito,” disse Dennis. “Cosa vuoi qui?”

“Vogliono!” esclamò Hugh. “Quei quattro uomini.”

“Quattro diavoli!”, gridò il boia. “Non sapete che sono destinati alla morte il giovedì? Non rispettate la legge, la costituzione, niente? Lasciate andare quegli uomini.”

“È davvero il momento per scherzare?” gridò Hugh. “Li sentite? Togliete via queste sbarre fissate tra la porta e il suolo; lasciateci entrare.”

“Fratello,” disse il boia a bassa voce, mentre si chinava fingendo di fare ciò che Hugh desiderava, ma in realtà alzando lo sguardo sul suo viso, “non potresti lasciarmi questi quattro uomini? Se ne ho voglia. Fai pure ciò che vuoi tu, e prenditi tutto quello che desideri per la tua parte; dammi la mia. Voglio che questi quattro uomini rimangano soli, te lo dico!”

“Tira giù le sbarre, o allontanati dal percorso”, fu la risposta di Hugh.

“Puoi manipolare la folla se vuoi, lo sai bene, fratello,” disse l’impiccatore lentamente. “Cosa! Verrai davvero dentro, vero?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Non lascerai questi uomini soli e li affiderai a me? Non rispetti proprio nulla, vero?” disse il boia, allontanandosi verso la porta da cui era entrato e guardando il suo compagno con un’espressione minacciosa. “Verrai dentro, vero, fratello, ”

‘I tell you, yes. What the devil ails you? Where are you going?’

‘No matter where I’m going,’ rejoined the hangman, looking in again at the iron wicket, which he had nearly shut upon himself, and held ajar. ‘Remember where you’re coming. That’s all!’

With that, he shook his likeness at Hugh, and giving him a grin, compared with which his usual smile was amiable, disappeared, and shut the door.

Hugh paused no longer, but goaded alike by the cries of the convicts, and by the impatience of the crowd, warned the man immediately behind him—the way was only wide enough for one abreast—to stand back, and wielded a sledge-hammer with such strength, that after a few blows the iron bent and broke, and gave them free admittance.

If the two sons of one of these men, of whom mention has been made, were furious in their zeal before, they had now the wrath and vigour of lions. Calling to the man within each cell, to keep as far back as he could, lest the axes crashing through the door should wound him, a party went to work upon each one, to beat it in by sheer strength, and force the bolts and staples from their hold. But although these two lads had the weakest party, and the worst armed, and did not begin until after the others, having stopped to whisper to him through the grate, that door was the first open, and that man was the first out. As they dragged him into the gallery to knock off his irons, he fell down among them, a mere heap of chains, and was carried out in that state on men’s shoulders, with no sign of life.

The release of these four wretched creatures, and conveying them, astounded and bewildered, into the streets so full of life—a spectacle they had never thought to see again, until they emerged from solitude and silence upon that last journey, when the air should be heavy with the pent-up breath of thousands, and the streets and houses should be built and roofed with human faces, not with bricks and tiles and stones—was the crowning horror of the scene. Their pale and haggard looks and hollow eyes; their staggering feet, and hands stretched out as if to save themselves from falling; their wandering and uncertain air; the way they heaved and gasped for breath, as though in water, when they were first plunged into the crowd; all marked them for the men. No need to say ‘this one was doomed to die;’ for there were the words broadly stamped and branded on his face. The crowd fell off, as if they had been laid out for burial, and had risen in their shrouds; and many were seen to shudder, as though they had been actually dead men, when they chanced to touch or brush against their garments.

At the bidding of the mob, the houses were all illuminated that night—lighted up from top to bottom as at a time of public gaiety and joy. Many years afterwards, old people who lived in their youth near this part of the city, remembered being in a great glare of light, within doors and without, and as they looked, timid and frightened children, from the windows, seeing a FACE go by. Though the whole great crowd and all its other terrors had faded from their recollection, this one object remained; alone, distinct, and well remembered. Even in the unpractised minds of infants, one of these doomed men darting past, and but an instant seen, was an image of force enough to dim the whole concourse; to find itself an all-absorbing place, and hold it ever after.

When this last task had been achieved, the shouts and cries grew fainter; the clank of fetters, which had resounded on all sides as the prisoners escaped, was heard no more; all the noises of the crowd subsided into a hoarse and sullen murmur as it passed into the distance; and when the human tide had rolled away, a melancholy heap of smoking ruins marked the spot where it had lately chafed and roared.

“Te lo dico io. Che diavolo ti prende? Dove stai andando?”

“Non importa dove vada,” rispose il boia, guardando di nuovo la grata di ferro che aveva quasi chiuso davanti a sé, tenendola leggermente aperta. “Ricorda da dove vieni. Questo è tutto ciò che conta!”

Detto questo, gli fece un cenno di addio con la mano verso Hugh e, sorridendo in modo tale che il suo solito sorriso sembrò addirittura più affabile, scomparve e chiuse la porta.

Hugh non esitò più; spinto sia dai gridi dei prigionieri che dall’impazienza della folla, avvertì immediatamente l’uomo che gli stava dietro – il passaggio era abbastanza stretto da permettere il passaggio di una sola persona alla volta – di fare un passo indietro. Poi impugnò con forza un martello da fabbro: dopo pochi colpi, l’asta d’acciaio si piegò e si ruppe, aprendo loro il passaggio.

Se i due figli di uno di questi uomini, di cui è stata fatta menzione, fossero stati già furiosi nella loro determinazione in precedenza, ora avrebbero posseduto la rabbia e la forza dei leoni. Chiamando l’uomo all’interno di ogni cella, pregandolo di tenersi il più possibile indietro per evitare di essere ferito dagli archi che colpivano la porta, un gruppo di persone iniziò a lavorare su ciascuna cella, usando la sola forza fisica per sfondarle e strappare i chiavistelli e le assi che le tenevano chiuse. Tuttavia, sebbene questi due ragazzi avessero il gruppo più debole e fossero armati in modo peggiore, e avessero iniziato solo dopo gli altri, quella porta fu la prima ad aprirsi e quell’uomo fu il primo a uscire. Mentre lo trascinavano nella galleria per togliergli le catene, lui cadde tra di loro, ridotto a un semplice mucchio di catene, e fu portato via in quello stato, senza alcun segno di vita.

La liberazione di queste quattro misere creature, e il loro essere condotte, sbalordite e confuse, per le strade così piene di vita, uno spettacolo che non avrebbero mai pensato di rivedere, fino a quando non uscirono dalla solitudine e dal silenzio di quel loro ultimo viaggio. Quando l’aria avrebbe dovuto essere densa del respiro trattenuto da migliaia di persone, e le strade e le case sarebbero dovute essere “costruite” e “coperte” di volti umani, anziché di mattoni, tegole e pietre. Questo fu l’orrore supremo di quella scena. I loro volti pallidi e smuntiti, i loro occhi vuoti; i loro passi incerti, le mani tese come se volessero evitare di cadere. Il modo in cui ansimavano, come se fossero immersi nell’acqua al momento del loro ingresso nella folla. Tutto ciò li rendeva immediatamente riconoscibili agli occhi degli uomini. Non c’era bisogno di dire “questo è destinato a morire”; quelle parole erano già chiaramente scritte sul suo volto. La folla si allontanava da loro, come se fossero stati distesi per essere sepolti e poi risorti nei loro sudari. Molti tremavano al solo contatto con i loro abiti, come se si trattasse davvero di morti viventi.

Su ordine della folla, tutte le case furono illuminate quella notte: illuminate dalla cima alla base, come in un momento di gioia e festa pubblica. Molti anni dopo, gli anziani che da giovani vivevano in questa zona della >città ricordavano di essere stati avvolti in una forte luce, sia all’interno che all’esterno delle case; vedevano anche bambini spaventati affacciarsi alle finestre e scorgere un VOLTO che passava velocemente. Anche se tutta la folla e le altre paure legate a quel momento erano ormai svanite dalla loro memoria, quell’immagine rimaneva: unica, nitida e ben ricordata. Persino nelle menti ancora inesperte dei bambini, l’immagine di quegli uomini condannati che sfrecciavano via, vista per un istante solo, era sufficiente a offuscare ogni altra cosa; diventava qualcosa di assolutamente dominante nella loro memoria, e vi rimaneva per sempre.

Quando anche quest’ultima impresa fu compiuta, gli urli e i gridi si affievolirono; il clangore delle catene, che risuonava ovunque mentre i prigionieri fuggivano, cessò di essere udito; tutti i rumori della folla si trasformarono in un mormorio rauco e cupo man mano che si allontanavano; e quando la “marea umana” si fu dispersa, un mucchio triste di rovine fumanti segnava il luogo dove poco prima era stata così tumultuosa.

Chapter 66

Although he had had no rest upon the previous night, and had watched with little intermission for some weeks past, sleeping only in the day by starts and snatches, Mr Haredale, from the dawn of morning until sunset, sought his niece in every place where he deemed it possible she could have taken refuge. All day long, nothing, save a draught of water, passed his lips; though he prosecuted his inquiries far and wide, and never so much as sat down, once.

In every quarter he could think of; at Chigwell and in London; at the houses of the tradespeople with whom he dealt, and of the friends he knew; he pursued his search. A prey to the most harrowing anxieties and apprehensions, he went from magistrate to magistrate, and finally to the Secretary of State. The only comfort he received was from this minister, who assured him that the Government, being now driven to the exercise of the extreme prerogatives of the Crown, were determined to exert them; that a proclamation would probably be out upon the morrow, giving to the military, discretionary and unlimited power in the suppression of the riots; that the sympathies of the King, the Administration, and both Houses of Parliament, and indeed of all good men of every religious persuasion, were strongly with the injured Catholics; and that justice should be done them at any cost or hazard. He told him, moreover, that other persons whose houses had been burnt, had for a time lost sight of their children or their relatives, but had, in every case, within his knowledge, succeeded in discovering them; that his complaint should be remembered, and fully stated in the instructions given to the officers in command, and to all the inferior myrmidons of justice; and that everything that could be done to help him, should be done, with a goodwill and in good faith.

Grateful for this consolation, feeble as it was in its reference to the past, and little hope as it afforded him in connection with the subject of distress which lay nearest to his heart; and really thankful for the interest the minister expressed, and seemed to feel, in his condition; Mr Haredale withdrew. He found himself, with the night coming on, alone in the streets; and destitute of any place in which to lay his head.

He entered an hotel near Charing Cross, and ordered some refreshment and a bed. He saw that his faint and worn appearance attracted the attention of the landlord and his waiters; and thinking that they might suppose him to be penniless, took out his purse, and laid it on the table. It was not that, the landlord said, in a faltering voice. If he were one of those who had suffered by the rioters, he durst not give him entertainment. He had a family of children, and had been twice warned to be careful in receiving guests. He heartily prayed his forgiveness, but what could he do?

Nothing. No man felt that more sincerely than Mr Haredale. He told the man as much, and left the house.

Feeling that he might have anticipated this occurrence, after what he had seen at Chigwell in the morning, where no man dared to touch a spade, though he offered a large reward to all who would come and dig among the ruins of his house, he walked along the Strand; too proud to expose himself to another refusal, and of too generous a spirit to involve in distress or ruin any honest tradesman who might be weak enough to give him shelter. He wandered into one of the streets by the side of the river, and was pacing in a thoughtful manner up and down, thinking of things that had happened long ago, when he heard a servant-man at an upper window call to another on the opposite side of the street, that the mob were setting fire to Newgate.

To Newgate! where that man was! His failing strength returned, his energies came back with tenfold vigour, on the instant. If it were possible—if they should set the murderer free—was he, after all he had undergone, to die with the suspicion of having slain his own brother, dimly gathering about him—

He had no consciousness of going to the jail; but there he stood, before it. There was the crowd wedged and pressed together in a dense, dark, moving mass; and there were the flames soaring up into the air. His head turned round and round, lights flashed before his eyes, and he struggled hard with two men.

‘Nay, nay,’ said one. ‘Be more yourself, my good sir. We attract attention here. Come away. What can you do among so many men?’

‘The gentleman’s always for doing something,’ said the other, forcing him along as he spoke. ‘I like him for that. I do like him for that.’

They had by this time got him into a court, hard by the prison. He looked from one to the other, and as he tried to release himself, felt that he tottered on his feet. He who had spoken first, was the old gentleman whom he had seen at the Lord Mayor’s. The other was John Grueby, who had stood by him so manfully at Westminster.

‘What does this mean?’ he asked them faintly. ‘How came we together?’

‘On the skirts of the crowd,’ returned the distiller; ‘but come with us. Pray come with us. You seem to know my friend here?’

‘Surely,’ said Mr Haredale, looking in a kind of stupor at John.

‘He’ll tell you then,’ returned the old gentleman, ‘that I am a man to be trusted. He’s my servant. He was lately (as you know, I have no doubt) in Lord George Gordon’s service; but he left it, and brought, in pure goodwill to me and others, who are marked by the rioters, such intelligence as he had picked up, of their designs.’

—‘On one condition, please, sir,’ said John, touching his hat. No evidence against my lord—a misled man—a kind-hearted man, sir. My lord never intended this.’

‘The condition will be observed, of course,’ rejoined the old distiller. ‘It’s a point of honour. But come with us, sir; pray come with us.’

Capitolo 66

Sebbene non avesse riposato affatto la notte precedente e avesse continuato a osservare senza sosta per diverse settimane, dormendo solo di giorno per brevi periodi, il signor Haredale, dall’alba fino al tramonto, cercò sua nipote in ogni luogo dove riteneva potesse essersi rifugiata. Per tutto il giorno, non bevve nulla se non un po’ d’acqua; nonostante proseguisse le sue ricerche ovunque, non si sedette nemmeno una volta.

In ogni luogo che gli venisse in mente: a Chigwell e a Londra; nelle case dei commercianti con cui aveva a che fare, e tra gli amici che conosceva; continuò la sua ricerca. Vittima di angoscie e preoccupazioni estreme, andò da un magistrato all’altro, fino ad arrivare al Segretario di Stato. L’unica consolazione che ricevette fu da questo ministro, il quale gli assicurò che il Governo, essendo ora costretto a ricorrere alle estreme prerogative della Corona, era deciso ad esercitarle; che probabilmente l’indomani sarebbe stata emessa un’ordinanza che conferiva ai militari poteri discrezionali e illimitati per reprimere i disordini; che le simpatie del Re, dell’amministrazione, di entrambe le Camere del Parlamento, e in realtà di tutti gli uomini onesti di ogni credo religioso, erano pienamente dalla parte dei cattolici offesi; e che giustizia sarebbe stata fatta a loro a qualunque costo. Gli disse inoltre che altre persone le cui case erano state incendiate avevano, per un certo periodo, perso traccia dei propri figli o parenti, ma che, in ogni caso, secondo quanto lui sapesse, erano riuscite a trovarli; che la sua denuncia sarebbe stata tenuta presente e descritta nei dettagli nelle istruzioni impartite agli ufficiali incaricati e a tutti i funzionari giudiziari subordinati; e che si sarebbe fatto di tutto il possibile per aiutarlo, con buona volontà e in piena >fiducia.

Grato per questa consolazione, anche se debole riguardo al passato e scarsamente promettente per quanto riguardava il problema che più lo angosciava; davvero grato anche per l’interesse che il ministro aveva dimostrato verso la sua situazione; il signor Haredale si ritirò. Con l’avvicinarsi della notte, si trovò solo per le strade, senza alcun posto dove riposare.

Entrò in un hotel vicino a Charing Cross e ordinò del cibo e una stanza da letto. Notò che il suo aspetto pallido e stanco attirava l’attenzione del proprietario dell’hotel e dei suoi camerieri; temendo che potessero pensare che fosse senza soldi, tirò fuori la sua borsa e la mise sul tavolo. “Non è per questo, ”, disse il proprietario con voce tremante. “Se fosse uno di coloro che hanno sofferto a causa dei rivoltosi, non oserei offrirgli ospitalità. Ho una famiglia da mantenere, e mi sono stato avvertito due volte di stare attento ad accogliere ospiti. Prego sinceramente per il suo perdono, ma cosa posso fare?”

Niente. Nessun altro lo provava con tanta sincerità quanto il signor Haredale. Glielo disse apertamente e poi lasciò la >casa.

Sentendo che forse aveva già previsto quell’evento, dopo ciò che aveva visto quella mattina a Chigwell – dove nessuno osava toccare una pala, nonostante avesse offerto una grande ricompensa a chiunque fosse venuto a scavare tra le rovine della sua >casa – camminò lungo il Strand. Troppo orgoglioso per subire un altro rifiuto, e troppo generoso per mettere in difficoltà o rovinare qualche onesto commerciante che potesse essere abbastanza debole da offrirgli rifugio, vagò per una delle strade lungo il >fiume, camminando avanti e indietro con aria pensierosa, ricordando eventi accaduti molto tempo prima. Quando sentì un servitore chiamare qualcuno dall’alto di una finestra, dicendo che la folla stava appiccando il fuoco a Newgate.

A Newgate! dove si trovava quell’uomo. Le sue forze indebolite tornarono, le sue energie riemersero con dieci volte più vigore, in un istante. Se fosse stato possibile, se avessero liberato l’assassino, dopo tutto ciò che aveva subito, sarebbe morto con il sospetto di aver ucciso suo fratello stesso, quel sospetto che continuava a circondarlo.

Non aveva alcuna consapevolezza di essere diretto in prigione; ma si trovava lì, davanti ad essa. C’era la folla, stipata e compressa in una massa densa, oscura e in movimento; e c’erano le fiamme che si alzavano verso il cielo. La sua testa girava continuamente, luci lampeggiavano davanti ai suoi occhi, e lottava con tutte le sue forze contro due uomini.

“No, no,” disse uno. “Sii te stesso, caro signore. Qui attiriamo troppa attenzione. Andiamo via. Cosa potresti fare tra tanti uomini?”

“Gli uomini di buona famiglia sono sempre pronti a fare qualcosa,” disse l’altro, spingendolo avanti mentre parlava. “È proprio per questo che mi piacciono. Mi piacciono davvero per questo.”

A quel momento, lo avevano già portato in un tribunale, proprio vicino alla prigione. Lui guardava da uno all’altro; mentre cercava di liberarsi, sentiva che barcollava sulle gambe. Colui che aveva parlato per primo era il vecchio gentiluomo che aveva visto presso il Lord Mayor. L’altro era John Grueby, che lo aveva sostenuto con tanta coraggio a Westminster.

“Cosa significa tutto questo?”, chiese loro con voce debole. “Come mai ci siamo ritrovati insieme?”

“Sulle periferie della folla,” rispose il distillatore; “ma vieni con noi, per favore. Sembri conoscere mio amico qui, ”

“Certamente,” disse il signor Haredale, guardando John con un certo stupore.

“Allora te lo dirà lui stesso,” rispose il vecchio gentiluomo, “che sono una persona di cui ci si può fidare. Lui è mio servitore; recentemente (come sai, non ho alcun >dubbio) era al servizio di Lord George Gordon; ma l’ha lasciato e, con la migliore delle intenzioni, mi ha portato, insieme ad altre persone designate dai rivoltosi come bersaglio, tutte le informazioni che aveva raccolto sui loro piani.”

“Con una sola condizione, per favore, signore,” disse John, toccandosi il cappello. Nessuna prova contro mio signore, un uomo ingannato, un uomo dal cuore gentile, signore. Mio signore non aveva mai intenzione di fare questo.”

“Naturalmente, la condizione verrà rispettata,” ribatté l’anziano distillatore. “È una questione di onore. Ma venga con noi, per favore.”

John Grueby added no entreaties, but he adopted a different kind of persuasion, by putting his arm through one of Mr Haredale’s, while his master took the other, and leading him away with all speed.

Sensible, from a strange lightness in his head, and a difficulty in fixing his thoughts on anything, even to the extent of bearing his companions in his mind for a minute together without looking at them, that his brain was affected by the agitation and suffering through which he had passed, and to which he was still a prey, Mr Haredale let them lead him where they would. As they went along, he was conscious of having no command over what he said or thought, and that he had a fear of going mad.

The distiller lived, as he had told him when they first met, on Holborn Hill, where he had great storehouses and drove a large trade. They approached his house by a back entrance, lest they should attract the notice of the crowd, and went into an upper room which faced towards the street; the windows, however, in common with those of every other room in the house, were boarded up inside, in order that, out of doors, all might appear quite dark.

They laid him on a sofa in this chamber, perfectly insensible; but John immediately fetching a surgeon, who took from him a large quantity of blood, he gradually came to himself. As he was, for the time, too weak to walk, they had no difficulty in persuading him to remain there all night, and got him to bed without loss of a minute. That done, they gave him cordial and some toast, and presently a pretty strong composing-draught, under the influence of which he soon fell into a lethargy, and, for a time, forgot his troubles.

The vintner, who was a very hearty old fellow and a worthy man, had no thoughts of going to bed himself, for he had received several threatening warnings from the rioters, and had indeed gone out that evening to try and gather from the conversation of the mob whether his house was to be the next attacked. He sat all night in an easy-chair in the same room—dozing a little now and then—and received from time to time the reports of John Grueby and two or three other trustworthy persons in his employ, who went out into the streets as scouts; and for whose entertainment an ample allowance of good cheer (which the old vintner, despite his anxiety, now and then attacked himself) was set forth in an adjoining chamber.

These accounts were of a sufficiently alarming nature from the first; but as the night wore on, they grew so much worse, and involved such a fearful amount of riot and destruction, that in comparison with these new tidings all the previous disturbances sunk to nothing.

The first intelligence that came, was of the taking of Newgate, and the escape of all the prisoners, whose track, as they made up Holborn and into the adjacent streets, was proclaimed to those citizens who were shut up in their houses, by the rattling of their chains, which formed a dismal concert, and was heard in every direction, as though so many forges were at work. The flames too, shone so brightly through the vintner’s skylights, that the rooms and staircases below were nearly as light as in broad day; while the distant shouting of the mob seemed to shake the very walls and ceilings.

At length they were heard approaching the house, and some minutes of terrible anxiety ensued. They came close up, and stopped before it; but after giving three loud yells, went on. And although they returned several times that night, creating new alarms each time, they did nothing there; having their hands full. Shortly after they had gone away for the first time, one of the scouts came running in with the news that they had stopped before Lord Mansfield’s house in Bloomsbury Square.

Soon afterwards there came another, and another, and then the first returned again, and so, by little and little, their tale was this:—That the mob gathering round Lord Mansfield’s house, had called on those within to open the door, and receiving no reply (for Lord and Lady Mansfield were at that moment escaping by the backway), forced an entrance according to their usual custom. That they then began to demolish the house with great fury, and setting fire to it in several parts, involved in a common ruin the whole of the costly furniture, the plate and jewels, a beautiful gallery of pictures, the rarest collection of manuscripts ever possessed by any one private person in the world, and worse than all, because nothing could replace this loss, the great Law Library, on almost every page of which were notes in the Judge’s own hand, of inestimable value,—being the results of the study and experience of his whole life. That while they were howling and exulting round the fire, a troop of soldiers, with a magistrate among them, came up, and being too late (for the mischief was by that time done), began to disperse the crowd. That the Riot Act being read, and the crowd still resisting, the soldiers received orders to fire, and levelling their muskets shot dead at the first discharge six men and a woman, and wounded many persons; and loading again directly, fired another volley, but over the people’s heads it was supposed, as none were seen to fall. That thereupon, and daunted by the shrieks and tumult, the crowd began to disperse, and the soldiers went away, leaving the killed and wounded on the ground: which they had no sooner done than the rioters came back again, and taking up the dead bodies, and the wounded people, formed into a rude procession, having the bodies in the front. That in this order they paraded off with a horrible merriment; fixing weapons in the dead men’s hands to make them look as if alive; and preceded by a fellow ringing Lord Mansfield’s dinner-bell with all his might.

John Grueby non aggiunse alcuna supplica, ma adottò un altro tipo di persuasione: mise il proprio braccio attraverso quello del signor Haredale, mentre il suo padrone prendeva l’altro braccio e lo portava via il più velocemente possibile.

Sensibile, a causa di una strana leggerezza nella testa e di difficoltà nel concentrare i pensieri su qualsiasi cosa, al punto di non riuscire nemmeno a tenere in mente i suoi compagni per più di un istante senza guardarli, era evidente che il suo cervello fosse stato colpito dall’agitazione e dal dolore attraverso cui era passato, e di cui era ancora vittima. Il signor Haredale li lasciò quindi condurlo dove volevano. Mentre camminavano, si rendeva conto di non avere alcun controllo su ciò che diceva o pensava, e provava un terrore all’idea di impazzire.

Il distillatore, come gli aveva detto quando si erano conosciuti la prima volta, viveva su Holborn Hill, dove possedeva grandi magazzini e svolgeva un’attività commerciale molto importante. Si avvicinarono alla sua casa attraverso un ingresso secondario, per evitare di attirare l’attenzione della folla, e entrarono in una stanza situata al piano superiore che dava sulla strada; tuttavia, le finestre, come quelle di tutte le altre stanze della casa, erano chiuse da assi all’interno, in modo che dall’esterno sembrassero completamente buie.

Lo adagiarono su un divano in questa stanza; era completamente privo di sensi. Ma John chiamò immediatamente un chirurgo, il quale prelevò da lui una grande quantità di %sangue; poco dopo, l’uomo iniziò gradualmente a riprendersi. Poiché per il momento era troppo debole per camminare, non fu difficile convincerlo a rimanere lì tutta la notte; lo misero a letto senza perdere un minuto. Dopo aver fatto questo, gli diedero del liquido tonico e del pane tostato, oltre a una bevanda piuttosto forte che lo fece cadere presto in uno stato di torpore, permettendogli così di dimenticare, per il momento, i suoi problemi.

Il vinaio, che era un uomo anziano e robusto, e una persona onesta, non aveva affatto intenzione di andare a letto; aveva infatti ricevuto diverse minacce dai rivoltosi e quella sera era uscito per cercare di capire, dalle conversazioni della folla, se la sua casa sarebbe stata la prossima ad essere attaccata. Trascorse l’intera notte seduto in una poltrona nella stessa stanza, sonnecchiando di tanto in tanto, e riceveva continuamente notizie da John Grueby e da altre due o tre persone affidabili che erano uscite per spiare la situazione nelle strade. Per intrattenerli, nella stanza accanto venivano offerti abbondanti cibi e bevande, anche se, nonostante l’ansia, il vecchio vinaio a volte si concedeva qualche gusto.

Questi resoconti erano fin dall’inizio di una natura sufficientemente allarmante; ma man mano che la notte proseguiva, diventavano sempre peggiori e coinvolgevano quantità spaventose di violenze e distruzioni, al punto che, rispetto a queste nuove notizie, tutti i disordini precedenti sembravano insignificanti.

La prima notizia che arrivò riguardava la conquista di Newgate e la fuga di tutti i prigionieri. La loro traccia, mentre percorrevano Holborn e le strade adiacenti, veniva segnalata ai cittadini rinchiusi in casa loro dal rumore delle loro catene, che producevano un suono cupo e distinto in tutte le direzioni, come se molte fucine fossero in funzione. Anche le fiamme brillavano così intensamente attraverso le finestre dei taverne che le stanze e le scale sottostanti erano quasi altrettanto illuminate di giorno; inoltre, le grida lontane della folla sembravano scuotere persino i muri e il soffitto.

Finalmente si sentì il loro avvicinarsi alla casa, e seguirono alcuni minuti di terribile ansia. Si avvicinarono molto, poi si fermarono davanti ad essa; ma dopo aver gridato tre volte, continuarono per la loro strada. E sebbene tornassero più volte quella notte, causando nuove preoccupazioni ogni volta, non fecero nulla di concreto; avevano troppo da fare. Poco dopo che se n’erano andati per la prima volta, uno dei ricognitori corse dentro a comunicare che si erano fermati davanti alla casa di Lord Mansfield in Bloomsbury Square.

Poco dopo ne arrivarono altri, e ancora altri; poi il primo tornò indietro. E così, poco a poco, la loro storia divenne questa: la folla radunatasi intorno alla casa di Lord Mansfield chiese alle persone all’interno di aprire la porta, ma non ricevette risposta (poiché Lord e Lady Mansfield in quel momento stavano fuggendo dalla parte posteriore della casa); quindi, secondo la loro abitudine, forzarono l’ingresso. Iniziarono poi a distruggere la casa con grande furia, appiccando il fuoco in diversi punti; andarono perduti tutti i costosi mobili, le stoviglie d’argento e i gioielli, una bellissima galleria di quadri, la collezione più rara di manoscritti mai posseduta da un privato al mondo. E il peggio era che nulla avrebbe potuto sostituire queste perdite: soprattutto la grande biblioteca legale, nella quale, su quasi ogni pagina, c’erano appunti scritti di pugno dal giudice stesso, di inestimabile valore, frutto degli studi e dell’esperienza di tutta la sua vita. Mentre la folla urlava e esultava intorno al fuoco, arrivò un gruppo di soldati accompagnati da un magistrato; essendo arrivati troppo tardi (poiché il danno era già stato causato), iniziarono a disperdere la folla. Dopo aver letto l’atto che autorizzava l’uso della forza, e visto che la folla continuava a resistere, i soldati ricevettero l’ordine di sparare. Al primo colpo, sei uomini e una donna furono uccisi; molti altri rimasero feriti. caricando nuovamente le armi, spararono un altro colpo, ma questa volta i proiettili passarono sopra la testa della folla, senza causare altre vittime. Allora, spaventati dai grida e dal tumulto, la folla iniziò a disperdersi; i soldati se ne andarono, lasciando i morti e i feriti a terra. Appena loro se ne furono andati, i responsabili della rivolta tornarono indietro, presero i corpi dei morti e dei feriti e formarono una sorta di processione macabra, con i cadaveri in testa. In questo modo si misero in mostra, con un’orribile gioia; infilarono armi nelle mani dei morti per farli sembrare vivi. E davanti a loro c’era qualcuno che suonava a tutta forza la campanella della cena di Lord Mansfield.

The scouts reported further, that this party meeting with some others who had been at similar work elsewhere, they all united into one, and drafting off a few men with the killed and wounded, marched away to Lord Mansfield’s country seat at Caen Wood, between Hampstead and Highgate; bent upon destroying that house likewise, and lighting up a great fire there, which from that height should be seen all over London. But in this, they were disappointed, for a party of horse having arrived before them, they retreated faster than they went, and came straight back to town.

There being now a great many parties in the streets, each went to work according to its humour, and a dozen houses were quickly blazing, including those of Sir John Fielding and two other justices, and four in Holborn—one of the greatest thoroughfares in London—which were all burning at the same time, and burned until they went out of themselves, for the people cut the engine hose, and would not suffer the firemen to play upon the flames. At one house near Moorfields, they found in one of the rooms some canary birds in cages, and these they cast into the fire alive. The poor little creatures screamed, it was said, like infants, when they were flung upon the blaze; and one man was so touched that he tried in vain to save them, which roused the indignation of the crowd, and nearly cost him his life.

At this same house, one of the fellows who went through the rooms, breaking the furniture and helping to destroy the building, found a child’s doll—a poor toy—which he exhibited at the window to the mob below, as the image of some unholy saint which the late occupants had worshipped. While he was doing this, another man with an equally tender conscience (they had both been foremost in throwing down the canary birds for roasting alive), took his seat on the parapet of the house, and harangued the crowd from a pamphlet circulated by the Association, relative to the true principles of Christianity! Meanwhile the Lord Mayor, with his hands in his pockets, looked on as an idle man might look at any other show, and seemed mightily satisfied to have got a good place.

Such were the accounts brought to the old vintner by his servants as he sat at the side of Mr Haredale’s bed, having been unable even to doze, after the first part of the night; too much disturbed by his own fears; by the cries of the mob, the light of the fires, and the firing of the soldiers. Such, with the addition of the release of all the prisoners in the New Jail at Clerkenwell, and as many robberies of passengers in the streets, as the crowd had leisure to indulge in, were the scenes of which Mr Haredale was happily unconscious, and which were all enacted before midnight.

Gli scout riferirono inoltre che quel gruppo, unitosi ad altri che avevano svolto operazioni simili in altre zone, si era riunito in un unico corpo e, selezionando alcuni uomini tra i caduti e i feriti, si era diretto verso la residenza di Lord Mansfield a Caen Wood, tra Hampstead e Highgate; avevano l’intenzione di distruggere anche quella casa e di appiccare un grande incendio, in modo che il fumo potesse essere visto da tutta Londra da quell’altezza. Tuttavia furono delusi: poiché un gruppo di >cavalieri era arrivato prima di loro, si ritirarono più in fretta di quanto fossero partiti e tornarono immediatamente in città.

Essendo ormai molte fazioni per le strade, ognuna agì secondo il proprio umore; in poco tempo una dozzina di case presero fuoco, tra cui quelle di Sir John Fielding e di altri due giudici, oltre a quattro abitazioni situate a Holborn – una delle principali strade di Londra – che bruciarono tutte contemporaneamente fino a quando non furono completamente distrutte. La gente aveva tagliato i tubi dell’acqua antincendio, rifiutandosi di permettere ai vigili del fuoco di spegnere le fiamme. In una casa vicino a Moorfields, nelle stanze furono trovati alcuni canarini in gabbia; questi vennero gettati vivi nel fuoco. Si dice che quegli poveri animali gridassero come bambini quando venivano lanciati tra le fiamme; un uomo, commosso da questa scena, tentò invano di salvarli, il che suscitò l’indignazione della folla e gli costò quasi la vita.

Nella stessa casa, uno dei ragazzi che avevano percorso le stanze, rompendo i mobili e contribuendo alla distruzione dell’edificio, trovò la bambola di un >bambino – un povero giocattolo – e la espose alla folla sotto, come se fosse l’immagine di qualche santo impuro che gli ex inquilini avevano venerato. Mentre lo faceva, un altro uomo con una coscienza altrettanto tenera (entrambi erano stati tra i primi a gettare giù i canarini da arrostire vivi) si sedette sul parapetto della casa e incitò la folla leggendo un opuscolo diffuso dall’Associazione, che trattava dei veri principi della cristianità. Nel frattempo, il sindaco, con le mani in tasca, osservava la scena come uno spettatore qualsiasi, apparentemente molto soddisfatto di aver trovato un posto strategico per assistere allo spettacolo.

Tali furono i racconti che i suoi servitori portarono al vecchio vinaiolo mentre questi sedeva accanto al letto di Mr Haredale, incapace persino di sonnecchiare dopo la prima parte della notte; troppo turbato dai propri timori, dai gridi della folla, dalla luce dei falò e dai colpi di arma da fuoco dei soldati. A tutto ciò si aggiunse la liberazione di tutti i prigionieri della Nuova Prigione di Clerkenwell, nonché numerosi assalti ai viaggiatori per le strade, quanti ne aveva il tempo la folla. Scene di cui Mr Haredale, fortunatamente, era all’oscuro; e tutto ciò accadde prima di mezzanotte.

Chapter 67

When darkness broke away and morning began to dawn, the town wore a strange aspect indeed.

Sleep had hardly been thought of all night. The general alarm was so apparent in the faces of the inhabitants, and its expression was so aggravated by want of rest (few persons, with any property to lose, having dared go to bed since Monday), that a stranger coming into the streets would have supposed some mortal pest or plague to have been raging. In place of the usual cheerfulness and animation of morning, everything was dead and silent. The shops remained closed, offices and warehouses were shut, the coach and chair stands were deserted, no carts or waggons rumbled through the slowly waking streets, the early cries were all hushed; a universal gloom prevailed. Great numbers of people were out, even at daybreak, but they flitted to and fro as though they shrank from the sound of their own footsteps; the public ways were haunted rather than frequented; and round the smoking ruins people stood apart from one another and in silence, not venturing to condemn the rioters, or to be supposed to do so, even in whispers.

At the Lord President’s in Piccadilly, at Lambeth Palace, at the Lord Chancellor’s in Great Ormond Street, in the Royal Exchange, the Bank, the Guildhall, the Inns of Court, the Courts of Law, and every chamber fronting the streets near Westminster Hall and the Houses of Parliament, parties of soldiers were posted before daylight. A body of Horse Guards paraded Palace Yard; an encampment was formed in the Park, where fifteen hundred men and five battalions of Militia were under arms; the Tower was fortified, the drawbridges were raised, the cannon loaded and pointed, and two regiments of artillery busied in strengthening the fortress and preparing it for defence. A numerous detachment of soldiers were stationed to keep guard at the New River Head, which the people had threatened to attack, and where, it was said, they meant to cut off the main-pipes, so that there might be no water for the extinction of the flames. In the Poultry, and on Cornhill, and at several other leading points, iron chains were drawn across the street; parties of soldiers were distributed in some of the old city churches while it was yet dark; and in several private houses (among them, Lord Rockingham’s in Grosvenor Square); which were blockaded as though to sustain a siege, and had guns pointed from the windows. When the sun rose, it shone into handsome apartments filled with armed men; the furniture hastily heaped away in corners, and made of little or no account, in the terror of the time—on arms glittering in city chambers, among desks and stools, and dusty books—into little smoky churchyards in odd lanes and by-ways, with soldiers lying down among the tombs, or lounging under the shade of the one old tree, and their pile of muskets sparkling in the light—on solitary sentries pacing up and down in courtyards, silent now, but yesterday resounding with the din and hum of business—everywhere on guard-rooms, garrisons, and threatening preparations.

As the day crept on, still more unusual sights were witnessed in the streets. The gates of the King’s Bench and Fleet Prisons being opened at the usual hour, were found to have notices affixed to them, announcing that the rioters would come that night to burn them down. The wardens, too well knowing the likelihood there was of this promise being fulfilled, were fain to set their prisoners at liberty, and give them leave to move their goods; so, all day, such of them as had any furniture were occupied in conveying it, some to this place, some to that, and not a few to the brokers’ shops, where they gladly sold it, for any wretched price those gentry chose to give. There were some broken men among these debtors who had been in jail so long, and were so miserable and destitute of friends, so dead to the world, and utterly forgotten and uncared for, that they implored their jailers not to set them free, and to send them, if need were, to some other place of custody. But they, refusing to comply, lest they should incur the anger of the mob, turned them into the streets, where they wandered up and down hardly remembering the ways untrodden by their feet so long, and crying—such abject things those rotten-hearted jails had made them—as they slunk off in their rags, and dragged their slipshod feet along the pavement.

Even of the three hundred prisoners who had escaped from Newgate, there were some—a few, but there were some—who sought their jailers out and delivered themselves up: preferring imprisonment and punishment to the horrors of such another night as the last. Many of the convicts, drawn back to their old place of captivity by some indescribable attraction, or by a desire to exult over it in its downfall and glut their revenge by seeing it in ashes, actually went back in broad noon, and loitered about the cells. Fifty were retaken at one time on this next day, within the prison walls; but their fate did not deter others, for there they went in spite of everything, and there they were taken in twos and threes, twice or thrice a day, all through the week. Of the fifty just mentioned, some were occupied in endeavouring to rekindle the fire; but in general they seemed to have no object in view but to prowl and lounge about the old place: being often found asleep in the ruins, or sitting talking there, or even eating and drinking, as in a choice retreat.

Besides the notices on the gates of the Fleet and the King’s Bench, many similar announcements were left, before one o’clock at noon, at the houses of private individuals; and further, the mob proclaimed their intention of seizing on the Bank, the Mint, the Arsenal at Woolwich, and the Royal Palaces. The notices were seldom delivered by more than one man, who, if it were at a shop, went in, and laid it, with a bloody threat perhaps, upon the counter; or if it were at a private house, knocked at the door, and thrust it in the servant’s hand. Notwithstanding the presence of the military in every quarter of the town, and the great force in the Park, these messengers did their errands with impunity all through the day. So did two boys who went down Holborn alone, armed with bars taken from the railings of Lord Mansfield’s house, and demanded money for the rioters. So did a tall man on horseback who made a collection for the same purpose in Fleet Street, and refused to take anything but gold.

Capitolo 67

Quando l’oscurità si dissolse e la mattina iniziò a >sorgere, la città assumeva davvero un aspetto strano.

Durante tutta la notte non si pensava affatto al sonno. L’allarme generale era evidente sui volti degli abitanti, e il suo effetto veniva ulteriormente accentuato dalla mancanza di riposo (poche persone, che non avevano nulla da perdere, avevano osato andare a letto da lunedì). Un estraneo che fosse entrato nelle strade avrebbe pensato che qualche terribile epidemia o calamità stesse imperversando. Al posto della solita allegria e vivacità mattutina, tutto era morto e silenzioso: i negozi rimanevano chiusi, gli uffici e i magazzini sigillati, le fermate delle carrozze deserte; nessun carretto o vagone rumoreggiava per le strade che si risvegliavano lentamente. Anche i soliti richiami mattutini erano cessati; regnava un’atmosfera di cupo silenzio. Molte persone erano in giro, anche all’alba, ma si muovevano furtivamente, come se temessero il suono dei propri passi; le strade sembravano piuttosto luoghi frequentati da ombre che da persone viventi. Intorno alle rovine fumanti, la gente stava in silenzio, senza osare condannare i rivoltosi, né tantomeno farlo sottovoce.

Presso la residenza del Presidente della Corte a Piccadilly, al Lambeth Palace, presso l’abitazione del Cancelliere a Great Ormond Street, alla Royal Exchange, alla Banca d’Inghilterra, alla Guildhall, nelle locande riservate ai funzionari di corte, nei tribunali e in tutte le stanze situate lungo le strade vicine a Westminster Hall e alle Camere del Parlamento, truppe di soldati furono disposte prima dell’alba. Un distaccamento delle Guardie a Cavallo sfilò per Palace Yard; nel parco fu allestito un accampamento in cui milleduecentocinquanta uomini e cinque battaglioni di miliziani rimasero pronti all’azione; la Torre di Londra fu fortificata, i ponti levatoi sollevati, i cannoni caricati e puntati, e due reggimenti di artiglieria si dedicarono al rafforzamento della fortezza in preparazione alla difesa. Numerose truppe furono disposte anche presso il New River Head, che il popolo aveva minacciato di attaccare; si diceva che intendessero tagliare i tubi principali dell’acqua per impedire l’estinzione delle fiamme. Nel Poultry, su Cornhill e in altre zone strategiche, catene di ferro furono stese attraverso le strade; truppe furono distribuite in alcune antiche chiese della città mentre era ancora buio, nonché in diverse abitazioni private (tra cui quella di Lord Rockingham a Grosvenor Square), che vennero bloccate come se fossero sotto assedio, con cannoni puntati dalle finestre. Quando sorse il sole, i suoi raggi illuminarono splendide stanze piene di uomini armati; i mobili furono frettolosamente ammucchiati in angoli, trascurati nel terrore di quel momento critico; armi luccicavano nelle stanze della città, tra scrivanie, sedie e libri polverosi; soldati giacevano tra le tombe o riposavano all’ombra degli alberi, con i loro fucili che brillavano al sole; solitarie sentinelle camminavano avanti e indietro nei cortili, ora silenziose, ma il giorno prima ancora piene del rumore e del movimento tipici delle attività quotidiane. Dappertutto si vedevano posti di guardia, guarnigioni e preparativi minacciosi.

Con l’avanzare della giornata, nelle strade si assistette a ancora più scene insolite. Le porte delle prigioni del Re e di Fleet Prisons, aperte all’ora solita, presentavano avvisi che annunciavano come i rivoltosi sarebbero venuti quella notte per bruciarle. I carcerieri, ben consapevoli della probabilità che tale minaccia si avverasse, decisero di liberare i prigionieri e di permetter loro di portare via i propri beni. Così, per tutto il giorno, coloro che possedevano mobili si impegnarono a trasferirli: alcuni in un luogo, altri in un altro; molti li vendettero alle botteghe degli intermediari, per qualsiasi misera somma quei gentiluomini fossero disposti a pagare. Tra questi debitori c’erano anche individui distrutti, rinchiusi in prigione da troppo tempo; così miserabili e privi di amici, completamente dimenticati e abbandonati, che supplicavano i carcerieri di non liberarli e di mandarli, se necessario, in un altro luogo di detenzione. Ma questi rifiutarono di accontentarli, per paura di suscitare l’ira della folla, e li lasciarono liberi nelle strade, dove vagavano senza sapere più dove andare, piangendo, creature disperate, resi tali dalle prigioni crudeli in cui avevano trascorso così tanto tempo.

Anche tra i trecento prigionieri fuggiti da Newgate, ce n’erano alcuni – pochi, ma ce n’erano – che andarono a cercare i loro carcerieri e si consegnarono di nuovo: preferivano l’carcere e le punizioni alle orrori di un’altra notte come quella appena trascorsa. Molti dei condannati, attratti da una forza indescrivibile o dal desiderio di godersi la rovina del loro vecchio luogo di prigionia e di soddisfare la propria vendetta vedendolo ridotto in cenere, tornarono effettivamente lì, a pieno giorno, e gironzolavano intorno alle celle. Cinquanta di loro furono catturati lo stesso giorno, all’interno delle mura della prigione; ma questo non scoraggiò gli altri, che continuarono ad andarci nonostante tutto, e venivano catturati a coppie o in gruppi, due o tre volte al giorno, per tutta la settimana. Dei cinquanta appena menzionati, alcuni cercavano di riaccese il fuoco; ma in generale sembrava che non avessero alcun obiettivo preciso, se non quello di girovagare e riposarsi in quel luogo: spesso venivano trovati addormentati tra le rovine, seduti a chiacchierare lì, o persino mangiando e bevendo, come se si trovassero in un rifugio ideale.

Oltre ai manifesti affissi alle porte della Flotta e presso la Corte del Re, molte altre dichiarazioni simili vennero distribuite, prima delle una di ore di mattina, nelle abitazioni dei privati; inoltre, la folla annunciò apertamente la sua intenzione di prendere il controllo della Banca, della Zecca, dell’Arsenale di Woolwich e dei Palazzi Reali. Questi messaggi venivano raramente consegnati da più persone: se si trattava di un negozio, l’uomo entrava e li lasciava sul bancone, forse accompagnandoli con minacce violente; se invece si trattava di una casa privata, bussava alla porta e li porgeva al servitore. Nonostante la presenza delle truppe in ogni angolo della città e le grandi forze disponibili nel Parco, questi messaggeri riuscivano a compiere i loro compiti senza essere puniti, per tutto il corso della giornata. Lo stesso accadeva con due ragazzi che, armati di barre prese dalle ringhiere della casa di Lord Mansfield, andavano da soli per Holborn chiedendo denaro in nome dei rivoltosi; così come un uomo alto a cavallo che raccoglieva fondi allo stesso scopo in Fleet Street, rifiutando di accettare altro che oro.

A rumour had now got into circulation, too, which diffused a greater dread all through London, even than these publicly announced intentions of the rioters, though all men knew that if they were successfully effected, there must ensue a national bankruptcy and general ruin. It was said that they meant to throw the gates of Bedlam open, and let all the madmen loose. This suggested such dreadful images to the people’s minds, and was indeed an act so fraught with new and unimaginable horrors in the contemplation, that it beset them more than any loss or cruelty of which they could foresee the worst, and drove many sane men nearly mad themselves.

So the day passed on: the prisoners moving their goods; people running to and fro in the streets, carrying away their property; groups standing in silence round the ruins; all business suspended; and the soldiers disposed as has been already mentioned, remaining quite inactive. So the day passed on, and dreaded night drew near again.

At last, at seven o’clock in the evening, the Privy Council issued a solemn proclamation that it was now necessary to employ the military, and that the officers had most direct and effectual orders, by an immediate exertion of their utmost force, to repress the disturbances; and warning all good subjects of the King to keep themselves, their servants, and apprentices, within doors that night. There was then delivered out to every soldier on duty, thirty-six rounds of powder and ball; the drums beat; and the whole force was under arms at sunset.

The City authorities, stimulated by these vigorous measures, held a Common Council; passed a vote thanking the military associations who had tendered their aid to the civil authorities; accepted it; and placed them under the direction of the two sheriffs. At the Queen’s palace, a double guard, the yeomen on duty, the groom-porters, and all other attendants, were stationed in the passages and on the staircases at seven o’clock, with strict instructions to be watchful on their posts all night; and all the doors were locked. The gentlemen of the Temple, and the other Inns, mounted guard within their gates, and strengthened them with the great stones of the pavement, which they took up for the purpose. In Lincoln’s Inn, they gave up the hall and commons to the Northumberland Militia, under the command of Lord Algernon Percy; in some few of the city wards, the burgesses turned out, and without making a very fierce show, looked brave enough. Some hundreds of stout gentlemen threw themselves, armed to the teeth, into the halls of the different companies, double-locked and bolted all the gates, and dared the rioters (among themselves) to come on at their peril. These arrangements being all made simultaneously, or nearly so, were completed by the time it got dark; and then the streets were comparatively clear, and were guarded at all the great corners and chief avenues by the troops: while parties of the officers rode up and down in all directions, ordering chance stragglers home, and admonishing the residents to keep within their houses, and, if any firing ensued, not to approach the windows. More chains were drawn across such of the thoroughfares as were of a nature to favour the approach of a great crowd, and at each of these points a considerable force was stationed. All these precautions having been taken, and it being now quite dark, those in command awaited the result in some anxiety: and not without a hope that such vigilant demonstrations might of themselves dishearten the populace, and prevent any new outrages.

But in this reckoning they were cruelly mistaken, for in half an hour, or less, as though the setting in of night had been their preconcerted signal, the rioters having previously, in small parties, prevented the lighting of the street lamps, rose like a great sea; and that in so many places at once, and with such inconceivable fury, that those who had the direction of the troops knew not, at first, where to turn or what to do. One after another, new fires blazed up in every quarter of the town, as though it were the intention of the insurgents to wrap the city in a circle of flames, which, contracting by degrees, should burn the whole to ashes; the crowd swarmed and roared in every street; and none but rioters and soldiers being out of doors, it seemed to the latter as if all London were arrayed against them, and they stood alone against the town.

In two hours, six-and-thirty fires were raging—six-and-thirty great conflagrations: among them the Borough Clink in Tooley Street, the King’s Bench, the Fleet, and the New Bridewell. In almost every street, there was a battle; and in every quarter the muskets of the troops were heard above the shouts and tumult of the mob. The firing began in the Poultry, where the chain was drawn across the road, where nearly a score of people were killed on the first discharge. Their bodies having been hastily carried into St Mildred’s Church by the soldiers, the latter fired again, and following fast upon the crowd, who began to give way when they saw the execution that was done, formed across Cheapside, and charged them at the point of the bayonet.

The streets were now a dreadful spectacle. The shouts of the rabble, the shrieks of women, the cries of the wounded, and the constant firing, formed a deafening and an awful accompaniment to the sights which every corner presented. Wherever the road was obstructed by the chains, there the fighting and the loss of life were greatest; but there was hot work and bloodshed in almost every leading thoroughfare.

At Holborn Bridge, and on Holborn Hill, the confusion was greater than in any other part; for the crowd that poured out of the city in two great streams, one by Ludgate Hill, and one by Newgate Street, united at that spot, and formed a mass so dense, that at every volley the people seemed to fall in heaps. At this place a large detachment of soldiery were posted, who fired, now up Fleet Market, now up Holborn, now up Snow Hill—constantly raking the streets in each direction. At this place too, several large fires were burning, so that all the terrors of that terrible night seemed to be concentrated in one spot.

Ora anche un pettegolezzo aveva iniziato a circolare, diffondendo un terrore ancora maggiore in tutta Londra, persino superiore alle intenzioni apertamente dichiarate dai rivoltosi. Tutti sapevano infatti che, se tali piani avessero avuto successo, ne sarebbe seguita la bancarotta nazionale e la rovina generale. Si diceva che intendessero aprire le porte di Bedlam e liberare tutti i pazzi. Quest’idea evocava immagini terribili nella mente della gente; si trattava davvero di un atto carico di orrori nuovi e inimmaginabili, tanto da spaventare molto più di qualsiasi perdita o crudeltà di cui si potesse prevedere l’aspetto peggiore. E molti uomini sani ne furono quasi portati alla follia.

Il giorno trascorse così: i prigionieri trasportavano le loro cose; la gente correva avanti e indietro per le strade, portando via i propri beni; gruppi di persone stavano in silenzio intorno alle rovine; tutte le attività erano sospese; e gli soldati, come già detto, rimanevano del tutto inattivi. Il giorno passò, e di nuovo si avvicinò la temuta notte.

Finalmente, alle sette di sera, il Consiglio Privato emise una proclamazione solenne secondo cui era ormai necessario intervenire con le forze militari, e che gli ufficiali avevano ordini diretti ed efficaci per reprimere immediatamente i disordini; inoltre si avvertivano tutti i sudditi fedeli del Re di tenersi, insieme ai loro servitori e apprendisti, al riparo dentro le case quella notte. A ogni soldato di guardia furono distribuite trentasei cartucce; i tamburi suonarono e l’intera forza fu messa in allerta al tramonto.

Le autorità della città, stimolate da queste misure energiche, tennero un Consiglio Comune; votarono ringraziamenti alle associazioni militari che avevano offerto il loro aiuto alle autorità civili; accettarono tale aiuto e lo misero sotto la direzione dei due sceriffi. Nel palazzo della Regina, una doppia guardia, composta dai soldati di servizio, dai portieri e da tutti gli altri attendenti, fu disposta nei corridoi e sulle scale alle sette di notte, con l’ordine rigoroso di rimanere all’erta per tutta la notte; inoltre tutte le porte furono chiuse a chiave. I gentiluomini dell’Temple e degli altri ostelli presero posizione all’interno delle loro mura, rinforzandole con grandi pietre del selciato prese appositamente per questo scopo. Nell’ostello di Lincoln, il salone principale fu ceduto alla Milizia del Northumberland, sotto il comando di Lord Algernon Percy; in alcuni quartieri della città, i cittadini si radunarono e, sebbene senza grandi manifestazioni di aggressività, dimostrarono comunque sufficiente coraggio. Centinaia di uomini forti e armati fino ai denti presero possesso dei saloni delle varie compagnie militari, chiusero a doppio chiave tutte le porte e sfidarono i rivoltosi ad attaccare a loro rischio. Tutte queste misure furono attuate contemporaneamente o quasi; entro il momento in cui calò la notte, le strade erano relativamente tranquille e sorvegliate nelle principali arterie dalle truppe; inoltre gruppi di ufficiali pattugliavano in tutte le direzioni, ordinando ai dispersi di tornare a casa e esortando i residenti a rimanere dentro le loro abitazioni, promettendo che, in caso di sparatorie, nessuno avrebbe dovuto avvicinarsi alle finestre. Altre catene furono posizionate su quelle strade che potevano essere utilizzate per l’ingresso di grandi folle; in ciascun punto fu disposta una notevole forza di guardia. Dopo aver preso tutte queste precauzioni e con l’avanzare della notte, coloro che erano al comando attendevano con ansia il risultato delle misure adottate; nutrivano inoltre la speranza che tali azioni preventive potessero da sole scoraggiare la popolazione e impedire nuovi disordini.

Ma in questo calcolo si sbagliavano gravemente, perché in mezz’ora o meno, come se l’arrivo della notte fosse stato il segnale concordato in precedenza, i rivoltosi, che avevano precedentemente impedito, in piccoli gruppi, di accendere le lanterne stradali, scatenarono un incendio su vasta scala; e questo avvenne in così tanti luoghi contemporaneamente, con una furia inimmaginabile, che coloro che comandavano le truppe non sapevano all’inizio dove dirigersi o cosa fare. Uno dopo l’altro, nuovi incendi scoppiavano in ogni angolo della città, come se gli insorti avessero intenzione di avvolgere l’intera città in un cerchio di fiamme che, restringendosi gradualmente, avrebbe dovuto ridurla in cenere; la folla si riversava nelle strade urlando e gridando; e poiché fuori c’erano solo rivoltosi e soldati, a questi ultimi sembrava che tutta l’)Londra fosse schierata contro di loro, e che loro stessi si trovassero soli ad affrontare l’intera città.

In due ore, sessantatré incendi divampavano in tutto la città: sessantatré grandi roghi; tra questi, il Borough Clink in Tooley Street, la King’s Bench, il quartiere della Fleet e il New Bridewell. In quasi ogni strada si svolgevano battaglie; in ogni angolo della città si udivano i colpi dei moschetti delle truppe sovrastare le grida e il tumulto della folla. Gli spari iniziarono nel quartiere di Poultry, dove una catena era stata posta attraverso la strada; quasi venti persone furono uccise al primo attacco. I loro corpi furono rapidamente portati nella chiesa di St Mildred dai soldati, che poi spararono di nuovo. La folla, vedendo ciò che stava accadendo, iniziò a ritirarsi; i soldati attraversarono il quartiere di Cheapside e li attaccarono con le baionette.

Le strade offrivano ora uno spettacolo terribile. Le grida della folla, i urla delle donne, i lamenti dei feriti e il continuo fuoco d’artiglieria costituivano un accompagnamento assordante e orribile a quelle scene che ogni angolo offriva. Ovunque la strada fosse bloccata dalle catene, là era più intensa la lotta e il numero delle vittime; ma quasi in ogni via principale si svolgevano combattimenti cruenti e spargimento di sangue.

Sul ponte di Holborn e sulla collina di Holborn, il caos era maggiore che in qualsiasi altro luogo; infatti la folla che usciva dalla città a due grandi flussi – uno lungo Ludgate Hill e l’altro lungo Newgate Street – si univa in quel punto, formando una massa così densa che, ad ogni sparo, le persone sembravano cadere a grappoli. In quella zona era schierata un’ampia forza di soldati che sparavano ora verso Fleet Market, ora verso Holborn, ora verso Snow Hill, bombardando costantemente le strade in tutte le direzioni. Anche lì bruciavano diversi grandi incendi, tanto che tutti i terrori di quella terribile notte sembravano concentrarsi in un unico luogo.

Full twenty times, the rioters, headed by one man who wielded an axe in his right hand, and bestrode a brewer’s horse of great size and strength, caparisoned with fetters taken out of Newgate, which clanked and jingled as he went, made an attempt to force a passage at this point, and fire the vintner’s house. Full twenty times they were repulsed with loss of life, and still came back again; and though the fellow at their head was marked and singled out by all, and was a conspicuous object as the only rioter on horseback, not a man could hit him. So surely as the smoke cleared away, so surely there was he; calling hoarsely to his companions, brandishing his axe above his head, and dashing on as though he bore a charmed life, and was proof against ball and powder.

This man was Hugh; and in every part of the riot, he was seen. He headed two attacks upon the Bank, helped to break open the Toll-houses on Blackfriars Bridge, and cast the money into the street: fired two of the prisons with his own hand: was here, and there, and everywhere—always foremost—always active—striking at the soldiers, cheering on the crowd, making his horse’s iron music heard through all the yell and uproar: but never hurt or stopped. Turn him at one place, and he made a new struggle in another; force him to retreat at this point, and he advanced on that, directly. Driven from Holborn for the twentieth time, he rode at the head of a great crowd straight upon Saint Paul’s, attacked a guard of soldiers who kept watch over a body of prisoners within the iron railings, forced them to retreat, rescued the men they had in custody, and with this accession to his party, came back again, mad with liquor and excitement, and hallooing them on like a demon.

It would have been no easy task for the most careful rider to sit a horse in the midst of such a throng and tumult; but though this madman rolled upon his back (he had no saddle) like a boat upon the sea, he never for an instant lost his seat, or failed to guide him where he would. Through the very thickest of the press, over dead bodies and burning fragments, now on the pavement, now in the road, now riding up a flight of steps to make himself the more conspicuous to his party, and now forcing a passage through a mass of human beings, so closely squeezed together that it seemed as if the edge of a knife would scarcely part them,—on he went, as though he could surmount all obstacles by the mere exercise of his will. And perhaps his not being shot was in some degree attributable to this very circumstance; for his extreme audacity, and the conviction that he must be one of those to whom the proclamation referred, inspired the soldiers with a desire to take him alive, and diverted many an aim which otherwise might have been more near the mark.

The vintner and Mr Haredale, unable to sit quietly listening to the noise without seeing what went on, had climbed to the roof of the house, and hiding behind a stack of chimneys, were looking cautiously down into the street, almost hoping that after so many repulses the rioters would be foiled, when a great shout proclaimed that a parry were coming round the other way; and the dismal jingling of those accursed fetters warned them next moment that they too were led by Hugh. The soldiers had advanced into Fleet Market and were dispersing the people there; so that they came on with hardly any check, and were soon before the house.

‘All’s over now,’ said the vintner. ‘Fifty thousand pounds will be scattered in a minute. We must save ourselves. We can do no more, and shall have reason to be thankful if we do as much.’

Their first impulse was, to clamber along the roofs of the houses, and, knocking at some garret window for admission, pass down that way into the street, and so escape. But another fierce cry from below, and a general upturning of the faces of the crowd, apprised them that they were discovered, and even that Mr Haredale was recognised; for Hugh, seeing him plainly in the bright glare of the fire, which in that part made it as light as day, called to him by his name, and swore to have his life.

‘Leave me here,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘and in Heaven’s name, my good friend, save yourself! Come on!’ he muttered, as he turned towards Hugh and faced him without any further effort at concealment: ‘This roof is high, and if we close, we will die together!’

‘Madness,’ said the honest vintner, pulling him back, ‘sheer madness. Hear reason, sir. My good sir, hear reason. I could never make myself heard by knocking at a window now; and even if I could, no one would be bold enough to connive at my escape. Through the cellars, there’s a kind of passage into the back street by which we roll casks in and out. We shall have time to get down there before they can force an entry. Do not delay an instant, but come with me—for both our sakes—for mine—my dear good sir!’

As he spoke, and drew Mr Haredale back, they had both a glimpse of the street. It was but a glimpse, but it showed them the crowd, gathering and clustering round the house: some of the armed men pressing to the front to break down the doors and windows, some bringing brands from the nearest fire, some with lifted faces following their course upon the roof and pointing them out to their companions: all raging and roaring like the flames they lighted up. They saw some men thirsting for the treasures of strong liquor which they knew were stored within; they saw others, who had been wounded, sinking down into the opposite doorways and dying, solitary wretches, in the midst of all the vast assemblage; here a frightened woman trying to escape; and there a lost child; and there a drunken ruffian, unconscious of the death-wound on his head, raving and fighting to the last. All these things, and even such trivial incidents as a man with his hat off, or turning round, or stooping down, or shaking hands with another, they marked distinctly; yet in a glance so brief, that, in the act of stepping back, they lost the whole, and saw but the pale faces of each other, and the red sky above them.

Per ben venti volte, i rivoltosi, guidati da un uomo che impugnava un’ascia nella mano destra e montava un enorme e potente cavallo di birraio, bardato con ceppi presi dal carcere di Newgate che tintinnavano e scampanellavano a ogni movimento, tentarono di forzare l’ingresso in quel punto e di dare fuoco alla casa del vinaio. Per ben venti volte furono respinti con perdite umane, ma continuarono comunque a tornare indietro; e sebbene quell’uomo fosse facilmente riconoscibile, essendo l’unico rivoltoso a cavallo, nessuno riuscì a colpirlo. Ogni volta che il fumo si disperdeva, eccolo lì: gridava alle sue compagne, brandiva l’ascia sopra la testa e continuava ad avanzare come se fosse invulnerabile, protetto da qualche incantesimo.

Quest’uomo si chiamava Hugh; in ogni momento della rivolta, si poteva vederlo ovunque. guidò due attacchi contro la Banca, aiutò ad aprire le casse d’estazione sul ponte Blackfriars e gettò i soldi per strada; sparò personalmente da due prigioni; era sempre lì, ovunque, sempre in prima linea, sempre attivo: colpiva i soldati, incitava la folla, facendo risuonare il rumore degli zoccoli del suo cavallo tra tutto quel clamore e confusione, ma mai venne ferito né fermato. Se lo si spingeva in un luogo, lui iniziava una nuova battaglia altrove; se lo si costringeva a ritirarsi da un punto, avanzava immediatamente verso un altro. Scacciato da Holborn per la ventesima volta, guidò una grande folla direttamente verso Saint Paul’s; attaccò una guardia di soldati che sorvegliavano dei prigionieri all’interno delle sbarre di ferro, li costrinse a ritirarsi, liberò gli uomini che erano in loro custodia, e con questi nuovi membri aggiunti al suo gruppo, tornò indietro, folle di alcol ed eccitazione, incitando ancora la folla come un demone.

Non sarebbe stato affatto facile per il cavaliere più attento far montare un cavallo in mezzo a una folla così densa e tumultuosa; ma sebbene quel pazzo rotolasse sul dorso (non aveva sella) come una barca sul mare, non perse mai l’equilibrio né smise di guidare il suo animale verso la direzione desiderata. Attraverso le zone più affollate, sopra corpi morti e frammenti in fiamme, ora sul marciapiede, ora sulla strada, a volte salendo i gradini per farsi notare meglio dal suo gruppo, altre volte forzando un passaggio tra una massa umana così compatta che sembrava che nemmeno la lama di un coltello avrebbe potuto separarla, andava avanti, come se fosse in grado di superare ogni ostacolo semplicemente con la forza della sua volontà. Forse il fatto che non venisse ucciso era dovuto proprio a questa circostanza: la sua estrema audacia, e la convinzione che dovesse essere uno di coloro a cui si riferiva l’annuncio, spinsero i soldati a volerlo catturare vivo, deviando così molti colpi che altrimenti avrebbero potuto raggiungerlo con maggiore precisione.

Il vinaio e il signor Haredale, incapaci di rimanere seduti in silenzio ad ascoltare quel rumore senza vedere cosa stesse succedendo, erano saliti sul tetto della casa e, nascosti dietro una pila di camini, osservavano con cautela la strada sottostante, sperando quasi che, dopo tanti fallimenti, i rivoltosi venissero sconfitti. Ma un grido improvviso annunciò l’arrivo di altre truppe da un’altra direzione; in quel momento, il sinistro tintinnio di quei maledetti ceppi li avvertì che anche loro stavano essere guidati da Hugh. Gli soldati avevano già invaso il mercato di Fleet e stavano disperdendo la folla; quindi avanzarono quasi senza incontrare resistenza, raggiungendo presto la casa.

“Ora è tutto finito,” disse il vinaiolo. “Cinquanta migliaia di sterline verranno sprecate in un attimo. Dobbiamo salvare noi stessi. Non possiamo fare di più, e dovremmo essere grati se riusciamo a fare almeno questo.”

Il loro primo impulso fu di arrampicarsi sui tetti delle case, bussare a qualche finestra del sottotetto per essere fatti entrare, poi scendere per strada e così fuggire. Ma un altro grido furioso proveniente dal basso, e l’improvvisa attenzione della folla, li avvertirono che erano stati scoperti; anzi, si rese conto che il signor Haredale li aveva riconosciuti. Infatti, Hugh, vedendolo chiaramente nella vivida luce del fuoco, che in quella zona rendeva l’oscurità quasi giorno, lo chiamò per nome e giurò di vendicarsi della sua vita.

“Lasciami qui,” disse il signor Haredale, “e per amor del cielo, mio buon amico, salva te stesso! Vieni!” mormorò, mentre si voltava verso Hugh e lo affrontava senza più cercare di nascondersi: “Questo tetto è alto, e se rimaniamo qui dentro, moriremo insieme!”

“Pazzia,” disse onestamente il vinaio, trattenendolo, “vera e propria pazzia. Ascoltate la ragione, signore. Per l’amor del cielo, ascoltate! Ora non riuscirei mai a farmi sentire bussando alle finestre; e anche se ci riuscissi, nessuno avrebbe il coraggio di aiutarmi a fuggire. Attraverso le cantine c’è un passaggio che conduce in strada laterale, dove facciamo entrare e uscire i barili. Avremo tempo di scendere lì prima che riescano a forzare l’ingresso. Non perdete un istante: venite con me. Per il nostro bene. Per il mio bene, caro signore!”

Mentre parlavano e tiravano indietro il signor Haredale, entrambi gettarono uno sguardo sulla strada. Fu solo un attimo, ma bastò per vedere la folla radunarsi intorno alla casa: alcuni uomini armati si facevano avanti per rompere porte e finestre; altri portavano torce prese dal vicino incendio; ancora altri, con i volti sollevati, indicavano la direzione da seguire ai loro compagni. Tutti urlavano e si agitavano come le fiamme che avevano acceso. Videro uomini assetati dei liquori alcolici nascosti all’interno della casa; ne videro altri, feriti, accasciarsi contro le porte opposte e morire, solitari disgraziati in mezzo a tutta quella folla. C’era una donna spaventata che cercava di scappare; un bambino smarrito; e un ubriaco che, ignaro della ferita mortale alla testa, continuava a urlare e lottare fino all’ultimo istante. Tutti questi dettagli, anche quelli apparentemente insignificanti – come un uomo che si toglieva il cappello, si girava, si chinava o stringeva la mano a qualcuno – furono chiaramente percepiti in quel breve attimo. Ma nel momento stesso in cui fecero un passo indietro, persero tutto di vista; riuscirono a vedere soltanto i volti pallidi l’uno dell’altro e il cielo rosso sopra di loro.

Mr Haredale yielded to the entreaties of his companion—more because he was resolved to defend him, than for any thought he had of his own life, or any care he entertained for his own safety—and quickly re-entering the house, they descended the stairs together. Loud blows were thundering on the shutters, crowbars were already thrust beneath the door, the glass fell from the sashes, a deep light shone through every crevice, and they heard the voices of the foremost in the crowd so close to every chink and keyhole, that they seemed to be hoarsely whispering their threats into their very ears. They had but a moment reached the bottom of the cellar-steps and shut the door behind them, when the mob broke in.

The vaults were profoundly dark, and having no torch or candle—for they had been afraid to carry one, lest it should betray their place of refuge—they were obliged to grope with their hands. But they were not long without light, for they had not gone far when they heard the crowd forcing the door; and, looking back among the low-arched passages, could see them in the distance, hurrying to and fro with flashing links, broaching the casks, staving the great vats, turning off upon the right hand and the left, into the different cellars, and lying down to drink at the channels of strong spirits which were already flowing on the ground.

They hurried on, not the less quickly for this; and had reached the only vault which lay between them and the passage out, when suddenly, from the direction in which they were going, a strong light gleamed upon their faces; and before they could slip aside, or turn back, or hide themselves, two men (one bearing a torch) came upon them, and cried in an astonished whisper, ‘Here they are!’

At the same instant they pulled off what they wore upon their heads. Mr Haredale saw before him Edward Chester, and then saw, when the vintner gasped his name, Joe Willet.

Ay, the same Joe, though with an arm the less, who used to make the quarterly journey on the grey mare to pay the bill to the purple-faced vintner; and that very same purple-faced vintner, formerly of Thames Street, now looked him in the face, and challenged him by name.

‘Give me your hand,’ said Joe softly, taking it whether the astonished vintner would or no. ‘Don’t fear to shake it; it’s a friendly one and a hearty one, though it has no fellow. Why, how well you look and how bluff you are! And you—God bless you, sir. Take heart, take heart. We’ll find them. Be of good cheer; we have not been idle.’

There was something so honest and frank in Joe’s speech, that Mr Haredale put his hand in his involuntarily, though their meeting was suspicious enough. But his glance at Edward Chester, and that gentleman’s keeping aloof, were not lost upon Joe, who said bluntly, glancing at Edward while he spoke:

‘Times are changed, Mr Haredale, and times have come when we ought to know friends from enemies, and make no confusion of names. Let me tell you that but for this gentleman, you would most likely have been dead by this time, or badly wounded at the best.’

‘What do you say?’ cried Mr Haredale.

‘I say,’ said Joe, ‘first, that it was a bold thing to be in the crowd at all disguised as one of them; though I won’t say much about that, on second thoughts, for that’s my case too. Secondly, that it was a brave and glorious action—that’s what I call it—to strike that fellow off his horse before their eyes!’

‘What fellow! Whose eyes!’

‘What fellow, sir!’ cried Joe: ‘a fellow who has no goodwill to you, and who has the daring and devilry in him of twenty fellows. I know him of old. Once in the house, HE would have found you, here or anywhere. The rest owe you no particular grudge, and, unless they see you, will only think of drinking themselves dead. But we lose time. Are you ready?’

‘Quite,’ said Edward. ‘Put out the torch, Joe, and go on. And be silent, there’s a good fellow.’

‘Silent or not silent,’ murmured Joe, as he dropped the flaring link upon the ground, crushed it with his foot, and gave his hand to Mr Haredale, ‘it was a brave and glorious action;—no man can alter that.’

Both Mr Haredale and the worthy vintner were too amazed and too much hurried to ask any further questions, so followed their conductors in silence. It seemed, from a short whispering which presently ensued between them and the vintner relative to the best way of escape, that they had entered by the back-door, with the connivance of John Grueby, who watched outside with the key in his pocket, and whom they had taken into their confidence. A party of the crowd coming up that way, just as they entered, John had double-locked the door again, and made off for the soldiers, so that means of retreat was cut off from under them.

However, as the front-door had been forced, and this minor crowd, being anxious to get at the liquor, had no fancy for losing time in breaking down another, but had gone round and got in from Holborn with the rest, the narrow lane in the rear was quite free of people. So, when they had crawled through the passage indicated by the vintner (which was a mere shelving-trap for the admission of casks), and had managed with some difficulty to unchain and raise the door at the upper end, they emerged into the street without being observed or interrupted. Joe still holding Mr Haredale tight, and Edward taking the same care of the vintner, they hurried through the streets at a rapid pace; occasionally standing aside to let some fugitives go by, or to keep out of the way of the soldiers who followed them, and whose questions, when they halted to put any, were speedily stopped by one whispered word from Joe.

Il signor Haredale cedette alle suppliche del suo compagno – più perché era deciso a difenderlo, che per qualsiasi considerazione riguardante la propria vita o la propria sicurezza – e rapidamente rientrando nella casa, scesero insieme le scale. Forti colpi risuonavano contro le persiane; le chiavi inglesi erano già state infilate sotto la porta; i vetri cadevano dalle finestre; una luce intensa filtrava attraverso ogni fessura. Sentivano le voci della folla così vicine a ogni spiraglio e a ogni serratura, che sembravano sussurrare minacce direttamente nelle loro orecchie. Appena raggiunsero la base delle scale del seminterrato e chiusero la porta dietro di sé, la folla irruppe all’interno.

Le volte erano profondamente oscure; non avendo torce né candele – poiché temevano di portarle per non rivelare il loro rifugio – dovettero procedere a tentoni con le mani. Ma non passò molto che trovarono luce: non avevano camminato molto quando sentirono la folla che cercava di forzare la porta; guardando indietro, tra i passaggi ad arco basso, riuscirono a vederli in lontananza, correre avanti e indietro con le torce accese, rompere i barili, spostare i grandi tini, dirigersi a destra o a sinistra, entrando nelle diverse cantine, e poi sdraiarsi per bere dai canali dove il liquore forte scorreva già sul pavimento.

Proseguirono di fretta, senza per questo rallentare; e quando raggiunsero l’unico tunnel che li separava dal passaggio d’uscita, improvvisamente, dalla direzione da cui stavano andando, una forte luce illuminò i loro volti. Prima che potessero spostarsi di lato, tornare indietro o nascondersi, due uomini (uno dei quali portava una torcia) li incontrarono e gridarono, in un sussurro sorpreso: “Eccoli qui!”

Nello stesso istante si tolsero ciò che indossavano in testa. Il signor Haredale vide davanti a sé Edward Chester, e poi, quando il vinaiolo esclamò il suo nome, riconobbe Joe Willet.

Ah, lo stesso Joe, anche se ora gli mancava un braccio. Quello che una volta faceva il viaggio trimestrale a cavallo della giumenta grigia per pagare il conto al vinaiolo dal viso viola. Ed è proprio quel vinaiolo dal viso viola, che prima abitava in Thames Street, ora lo guardò dritto negli occhi e lo chiamò per nome.

“Dammi la tua mano,” disse Joe dolcemente, prendendola sia che il sorpreso vignaiolo lo volesse o no. “Non aver paura di stringerla; è una stretta amichevole e sincera, anche se non c’è nessun altro con me. Ma guarda com’eri in forma, e quanto sei coraggioso! E tu, che Dio ti benedica, signore. Non preoccuparti, li troveremo. Mantieni il morale alto; non abbiamo perso tempo.”

C’era qualcosa di così onesto e franco nel discorso di Joe, che il signor Haredale gli mise involontariamente la mano sulla spalla, nonostante il loro incontro fosse già abbastanza sospetto. Ma lo sguardo che Joe rivolse a Edward Chester e l’atteggiamento distaccato di quel gentiluomo non passarono inosservati a Joe, il quale disse apertamente, guardando Edward mentre parlava:

“I tempi sono cambiati, signor Haredale. Sono arrivati momenti in cui dobbiamo riconoscere gli amici dai nemici e non confondere più i nomi. Lasciate che vi dica: se non fosse stato per questo gentiluomo, molto probabilmente sareste morto a quest’ora, o al massimo gravemente ferito.”

“Che ne dici?” gridò il signor Haredale.

“Dico,” disse Joe, “primo di tutto, che è stato davvero audace trovarsi in mezzo alla folla, camuffandosi completamente come uno di loro; anche se, a pensarci bene, non posso dire molto al riguardo, perché anch’io ho fatto la stessa cosa. In secondo luogo, è stata un’azione coraggiosa e gloriosa, è così che la definisco, colpire quell’uomo e farlo cadere dal suo cavallo davanti ai loro occhi!”

“Che tipo. Che occhi!”

“Che tipo di persona, signore!”, esclamò Joe. “Un uomo che non ha alcuna buona intenzione nei vostri confronti, e che possiede la sfacciataggine e la malvagità di venti persone messe insieme. Lo conosco da tempo. Una volta, in quella casa, vi avrebbe trovato, qui o ovunque. Gli altri non vi hanno alcun rancore particolare; a meno che non vi vedano, penseranno soltanto a bere fino a morire. Ma stiamo perdendo tempo. Siete pronto?”

“Proprio così,” disse Edward. “Spenga la torcia, Joe, e continui. E stia zitto, c’è un bravo ragazzo.”

“Silenzioso o no silenzioso,” mormorò Joe, mentre gettava a terra quel pezzo di metallo incandescente, lo schiacciava con il piede e porgeva la mano a Mr Haredale, “è stata un’azione coraggiosa e gloriosa; nessuno può cambiarlo.”

Sia il signor Haredale che il rispettabile vignaiolo erano troppo sorpresi e troppo impegnati per porre altre domande, quindi seguirono i loro accompagnatori in silenzio. Da un breve sussurro che subito dopo si udì tra di loro e il vignaiolo riguardo al modo migliore per fuggire, sembrò che fossero entrati dalla porta posteriore, con la complicità di John Grueby, che li aspettava fuori con la chiave in tasca e al quale avevano confidato il loro piano. Quando un gruppo di persone arrivò da quella parte proprio nel momento in cui entrarono, John richiuse a doppio chiave la porta e fuggì verso i soldati, così che quel mezzo di ritirata venne loro precluso.

Tuttavia, poiché la porta d’ingresso era stata forzata e quel piccolo gruppo di persone, desiderose solo di raggiungere l’alcol, non aveva alcuna intenzione di perdere tempo a rompere un’altra porta; avevano quindi preso un altro percorso ed erano entrati da Holborn con il resto della folla. Quindi, il vicolo stretto alle loro spalle era completamente deserto. Così, dopo essere strisciati attraverso il passaggio indicato dal vinaio – che in realtà non era altro che un semplice corridoio per far passare i barili – e dopo aver faticosamente riuscito a scatenare e sollevare la porta sul lato superiore, uscirono in strada senza essere visti né disturbati. Joe continuava a tenere stretto il signor Haredale, mentre Edward faceva lo stesso con il vinaio; si affrettarono quindi per le strade a passo veloce, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per lasciare passare altri fuggitivi o per evitare i soldati che li seguivano. Ogni volta che questi ultimi provavano a fare domande, Joe rispondeva con una sola parola sussurrata, facendoli tacere immediatamente.

Chapter 68

While Newgate was burning on the previous night, Barnaby and his father, having been passed among the crowd from hand to hand, stood in Smithfield, on the outskirts of the mob, gazing at the flames like men who had been suddenly roused from sleep. Some moments elapsed before they could distinctly remember where they were, or how they got there; or recollected that while they were standing idle and listless spectators of the fire, they had tools in their hands which had been hurriedly given them that they might free themselves from their fetters.

Barnaby, heavily ironed as he was, if he had obeyed his first impulse, or if he had been alone, would have made his way back to the side of Hugh, who to his clouded intellect now shone forth with the new lustre of being his preserver and truest friend. But his father’s terror of remaining in the streets, communicated itself to him when he comprehended the full extent of his fears, and impressed him with the same eagerness to fly to a place of safety.

In a corner of the market among the pens for cattle, Barnaby knelt down, and pausing every now and then to pass his hand over his father’s face, or look up to him with a smile, knocked off his irons. When he had seen him spring, a free man, to his feet, and had given vent to the transport of delight which the sight awakened, he went to work upon his own, which soon fell rattling down upon the ground, and left his limbs unfettered.

Gliding away together when this task was accomplished, and passing several groups of men, each gathered round a stooping figure to hide him from those who passed, but unable to repress the clanking sound of hammers, which told that they too were busy at the same work,—the two fugitives made towards Clerkenwell, and passing thence to Islington, as the nearest point of egress, were quickly in the fields. After wandering about for a long time, they found in a pasture near Finchley a poor shed, with walls of mud, and roof of grass and brambles, built for some cowherd, but now deserted. Here, they lay down for the rest of the night.

They wandered to and fro when it was day, and once Barnaby went off alone to a cluster of little cottages two or three miles away, to purchase some bread and milk. But finding no better shelter, they returned to the same place, and lay down again to wait for night.

Heaven alone can tell, with what vague hopes of duty, and affection; with what strange promptings of nature, intelligible to him as to a man of radiant mind and most enlarged capacity; with what dim memories of children he had played with when a child himself, who had prattled of their fathers, and of loving them, and being loved; with how many half-remembered, dreamy associations of his mother’s grief and tears and widowhood; he watched and tended this man. But that a vague and shadowy crowd of such ideas came slowly on him; that they taught him to be sorry when he looked upon his haggard face, that they overflowed his eyes when he stooped to kiss him, that they kept him waking in a tearful gladness, shading him from the sun, fanning him with leaves, soothing him when he started in his sleep—ah! what a troubled sleep it was—and wondering when SHE would come to join them and be happy, is the truth. He sat beside him all that day; listening for her footsteps in every breath of air, looking for her shadow on the gently-waving grass, twining the hedge flowers for her pleasure when she came, and his when he awoke; and stooping down from time to time to listen to his mutterings, and wonder why he was so restless in that quiet place. The sun went down, and night came on, and he was still quite tranquil; busied with these thoughts, as if there were no other people in the world, and the dull cloud of smoke hanging on the immense city in the distance, hid no vices, no crimes, no life or death, or cause of disquiet—nothing but clear air.

But the hour had now come when he must go alone to find out the blind man (a task that filled him with delight) and bring him to that place; taking especial care that he was not watched or followed on his way back. He listened to the directions he must observe, repeated them again and again, and after twice or thrice returning to surprise his father with a light-hearted laugh, went forth, at last, upon his errand: leaving Grip, whom he had carried from the jail in his arms, to his care.

Fleet of foot, and anxious to return, he sped swiftly on towards the city, but could not reach it before the fires began, and made the night angry with their dismal lustre. When he entered the town—it might be that he was changed by going there without his late companions, and on no violent errand; or by the beautiful solitude in which he had passed the day, or by the thoughts that had come upon him,—but it seemed peopled by a legion of devils. This flight and pursuit, this cruel burning and destroying, these dreadful cries and stunning noises, were THEY the good lord’s noble cause!

Though almost stupefied by the bewildering scene, still he found the blind man’s house. It was shut up and tenantless.

He waited for a long while, but no one came. At last he withdrew; and as he knew by this time that the soldiers were firing, and many people must have been killed, he went down into Holborn, where he heard the great crowd was, to try if he could find Hugh, and persuade him to avoid the danger, and return with him.

If he had been stunned and shocked before, his horror was increased a thousandfold when he got into this vortex of the riot, and not being an actor in the terrible spectacle, had it all before his eyes. But there, in the midst, towering above them all, close before the house they were attacking now, was Hugh on horseback, calling to the rest!

Capitolo 68

Mentre Newgate bruciava la notte precedente, Barnaby e suo padre, passati di mano in mano tra la folla, si trovavano a Smithfield, ai margini della calca, a fissare le fiamme come persone appena destate dal sonno. Trascorsero alcuni momenti prima che riuscissero a ricordare con chiarezza dove si trovassero o come ci fossero arrivati; solo allora si resero conto che, mentre erano semplicemente spettatori inattivi e apatici di quell’incendio, avevano ancora in mano gli strumenti che qualcuno aveva loro dato frettolosamente per permettergli di liberarsi dalle catene.

Barnaby, con i suoi abiti così stirati e in ordine, se avesse seguito il suo primo impulso, o se fosse stato solo, sarebbe tornato dal lato di Hugh, che ora, nella sua mente confusa, gli appariva come il suo salvatore e il suo vero amico. Ma la paura di suo padre riguardo al rischio di rimanere per strada si trasferì a lui quando comprese tutta la gravità delle proprie paure, e lo spinse con la stessa urgenza a cercare un luogo sicuro dove rifugiarsi.

In un angolo del mercato, tra gli strumenti per il bestiame, Barnaby si inginocchiò; di tanto in tanto si fermava per passare la mano sul viso di suo padre o alzare lo sguardo su di lui con un sorriso, poi gli toglieva le catene. Quando lo vide alzarsi in piedi, finalmente libero, e non poté trattenere l’emozione gioiosa che quella vista gli suscitava, si mise a lavorare su ciò che gli spettava, ma ben presto tutto cadde a terra, lasciandolo di nuovo libero.

Dopo aver completato questa missione, si allontanarono insieme, passando accanto a diversi gruppi di uomini: ognuno di loro si era radunato intorno a una figura curva per nasconderla a chiunque li osservasse, ma non riuscivano a soffocare il rumore degli martelli, che indicava che anche loro erano impegnati nello stesso lavoro. I due fuggitivi si diressero verso Clerkenwell e, da lì, proseguirono verso Islington, il punto più vicino per uscire dalla città; in poco tempo si trovarono nei campi aperti. Dopo aver vagato a lungo, trovarono in un pascolo vicino a Finchley una misera capanna: i muri erano fatti di fango e il tetto era coperto d’erba e rovi; probabilmente era stata costruita per un pastore, ma ora era abbandonata. Lì si riposarono per il resto della notte.

Vagavano avanti e indietro durante il giorno; una volta Barnaby si allontanò da solo verso un gruppo di piccole capanne situate a due o tre miglia di distanza, per comprare del pane e del latte. Ma non trovando un rifugio migliore, tornarono nello stesso posto e si sdraiarono di nuovo in attesa della notte.

Solo il cielo può sapere con quali vaghe speranze di dovere e affetto; con quali strani impulsi della natura, comprensibili per lui come per un uomo dal cuore luminoso e dalla capacità vastissima; con quali deboli ricordi di bambini con cui aveva giocato quando anche lui era piccolo, che parlavano dei loro padri, dell’amare e di essere amati; con quante associazioni confuse e sognanti legate al dolore, alle lacrime e alla vedovanza di sua madre. Lui osservava e curava quest’uomo. Ma una folla vaga e sfocata di questi pensieri si insinuava lentamente in lui; gli insegnavano a provare compassione quando guardava il suo volto stanco, gli facevano versare lacrime quando si chinava a baciarlo, lo tenevano sveglio in una gioia piena di tristezza, lo proteggevano dal sole, lo rinfrescavano con le foglie. Ah! che sonno turbato era quello. E lui si chiedeva quando lei sarebbe venuta a unirsi a loro e a rendere felici tutti. Sedeva accanto a lui tutto il giorno; ascoltava attentamente ogni rumore, cercava la sua ombra sull’erba ondeggiante, intrecciava i fiori del giardino per il suo piacere quando lei fosse arrivata. E anche per il proprio, al risveglio. Si chinava di tanto in tanto ad ascoltare i suoi mormorii, si chiedeva perché fosse così irrequieto in quel luogo tranquillo. Il sole tramontò, calò la notte. Lui rimase ancora sereno, immerso in quei pensieri, come se non esistessero altre persone al mondo. E quella densa nuvola di fumo che gravitava sopra la vasta città lontana non nascondeva né vizi, né crimini, né vita, né morte. Niente, se non aria pura.

Ma era giunto il momento in cui doveva andare da solo per trovare quell’uomo non vedente (un compito che lo riempiva di gioia) e portarlo in quel luogo; facendo particolare attenzione a non essere osservato o seguito durante il ritorno. Ascoltò attentamente le istruzioni che doveva seguire, le ripeté più volte, e dopo essere tornato due o tre volte per sorprendere suo padre con una risata spensierata, finalmente partì per compiere la sua missione, lasciando a Grip, che aveva portato in braccio uscendo dalla prigione, il compito di prendersi cura di lui.

Veloce nei movimenti e desideroso di tornare, si affrettò verso la città, ma non riuscì ad arrivarvi prima che iniziassero gli incendi; quella notte, le fiamme brillavano con una luce sinistra e spaventosa. Quando entrò nella città, forse fu il fatto di esserci andato senza i suoi compagni defunti, e non per un compito violento; o forse a causa della bella solitudine in cui aveva trascorso la giornata, o ancora a causa dei pensieri che gli erano venuti in mente, sembrava che la città fosse popolata da una legione di demoni. Quella fuga e quella caccia, quel terribile incendio e quella distruzione, quei grida spaventosi e quei rumori assordanti. ERANO il nobile scopo del buon Signore!

Sebbene quasi stordito da quella scena confusa, riuscì comunque a trovare la casa dell’uomo cieco. Era chiusa e disabitata.

Aspettò a lungo, ma nessuno arrivò. Alla fine se ne andò; e poiché sapeva che in quel momento i soldati stavano sparando e molte persone dovevano essere morte, scese nel quartiere di Holborn, dove sentì che c’era una grande folla, per cercare di trovare Hugh e convincerlo a evitare il pericolo e tornare con lui.

Se prima era rimasto sbalordito e scioccato, il suo orrore aumentò mille volte quando si trovò immerso in quel vortice di violenza. Non essendo uno degli attori di quella terribile scena, assisteva a tutto ciò che accadeva davanti ai suoi occhi. Ma lì, al centro di tutto, ergendosi sopra tutti loro, proprio di fronte alla casa che stavano attaccando in quel momento, c’era Hugh a cavallo, che gridava agli altri!

Sickened by the sights surrounding him on every side, and by the heat and roar, and crash, he forced his way among the crowd (where many recognised him, and with shouts pressed back to let him pass), and in time was nearly up with Hugh, who was savagely threatening some one, but whom or what he said, he could not, in the great confusion, understand. At that moment the crowd forced their way into the house, and Hugh—it was impossible to see by what means, in such a concourse—fell headlong down.

Barnaby was beside him when he staggered to his feet. It was well he made him hear his voice, or Hugh, with his uplifted axe, would have cleft his skull in twain.

‘Barnaby—you! Whose hand was that, that struck me down?’

‘Not mine.’

‘Whose!—I say, whose!’ he cried, reeling back, and looking wildly round. ‘What are you doing? Where is he? Show me!’

‘You are hurt,’ said Barnaby—as indeed he was, in the head, both by the blow he had received, and by his horse’s hoof. ‘Come away with me.’

As he spoke, he took the horse’s bridle in his hand, turned him, and dragged Hugh several paces. This brought them out of the crowd, which was pouring from the street into the vintner’s cellars.

‘Where’s—where’s Dennis?’ said Hugh, coming to a stop, and checking Barnaby with his strong arm. ‘Where has he been all day? What did he mean by leaving me as he did, in the jail, last night? Tell me, you—d’ye hear!’

With a flourish of his dangerous weapon, he fell down upon the ground like a log. After a minute, though already frantic with drinking and with the wound in his head, he crawled to a stream of burning spirit which was pouring down the kennel, and began to drink at it as if it were a brook of water.

Barnaby drew him away, and forced him to rise. Though he could neither stand nor walk, he involuntarily staggered to his horse, climbed upon his back, and clung there. After vainly attempting to divest the animal of his clanking trappings, Barnaby sprung up behind him, snatched the bridle, turned into Leather Lane, which was close at hand, and urged the frightened horse into a heavy trot.

He looked back, once, before he left the street; and looked upon a sight not easily to be erased, even from his remembrance, so long as he had life.

The vintner’s house with a half-a-dozen others near at hand, was one great, glowing blaze. All night, no one had essayed to quench the flames, or stop their progress; but now a body of soldiers were actively engaged in pulling down two old wooden houses, which were every moment in danger of taking fire, and which could scarcely fail, if they were left to burn, to extend the conflagration immensely. The tumbling down of nodding walls and heavy blocks of wood, the hooting and the execrations of the crowd, the distant firing of other military detachments, the distracted looks and cries of those whose habitations were in danger, the hurrying to and fro of frightened people with their goods; the reflections in every quarter of the sky, of deep, red, soaring flames, as though the last day had come and the whole universe were burning; the dust, and smoke, and drift of fiery particles, scorching and kindling all it fell upon; the hot unwholesome vapour, the blight on everything; the stars, and moon, and very sky, obliterated;—made up such a sum of dreariness and ruin, that it seemed as if the face of Heaven were blotted out, and night, in its rest and quiet, and softened light, never could look upon the earth again.

But there was a worse spectacle than this—worse by far than fire and smoke, or even the rabble’s unappeasable and maniac rage. The gutters of the street, and every crack and fissure in the stones, ran with scorching spirit, which being dammed up by busy hands, overflowed the road and pavement, and formed a great pool, into which the people dropped down dead by dozens. They lay in heaps all round this fearful pond, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, women with children in their arms and babies at their breasts, and drank until they died. While some stooped with their lips to the brink and never raised their heads again, others sprang up from their fiery draught, and danced, half in a mad triumph, and half in the agony of suffocation, until they fell, and steeped their corpses in the liquor that had killed them. Nor was even this the worst or most appalling kind of death that happened on this fatal night. From the burning cellars, where they drank out of hats, pails, buckets, tubs, and shoes, some men were drawn, alive, but all alight from head to foot; who, in their unendurable anguish and suffering, making for anything that had the look of water, rolled, hissing, in this hideous lake, and splashed up liquid fire which lapped in all it met with as it ran along the surface, and neither spared the living nor the dead. On this last night of the great riots—for the last night it was—the wretched victims of a senseless outcry, became themselves the dust and ashes of the flames they had kindled, and strewed the public streets of London.

With all he saw in this last glance fixed indelibly upon his mind, Barnaby hurried from the city which enclosed such horrors; and holding down his head that he might not even see the glare of the fires upon the quiet landscape, was soon in the still country roads.

He stopped at about half-a-mile from the shed where his father lay, and with some difficulty making Hugh sensible that he must dismount, sunk the horse’s furniture in a pool of stagnant water, and turned the animal loose. That done, he supported his companion as well as he could, and led him slowly forward.

Rivoltato dagli spettacoli che lo circondavano da tutte le parti, dal calore, dai rumori assordanti e dai fragori, si fece strada tra la folla (dove molti lo riconobbero e, gridando, si fecero da parte per lasciarlo passare). In poco tempo raggiunse quasi Hugh, che minacciava selvaggiamente qualcuno; ma non riuscì a capire chi o cosa stesse dicendo, a causa del grande caos. In quel momento la folla irruppe nella casa, e Hugh, fu impossibile vedere con precisione come sia successo, in mezzo a tanta gente, cadde giù a testa in avanti.

Barnaby era al suo fianco quando lui barcollò in piedi. Fu davvero un bene che Barnaby gli facesse sentire la propria voce, altrimenti Hugh, con la sua ascia sollevata, gli avrebbe spaccato il cranio in due.

“Barnaby, tu! Di chi era quella mano che mi ha colpito?”

“Non è mio.”

“Di chi è! Voglio sapere di chi è!” gridò, indietreggiando e guardandosi intorno disperatamente. “Cosa state facendo? Dove si trova? Mostratemelo!”

“Sei ferito,” disse Barnaby. Infatti lo era, alla testa, sia a causa del colpo ricevuto che per il calcio dello cavallo. “Vieni con me.”

Mentre parlava, prese le redini del cavallo, lo girò e trascinò Hugh per alcuni passi. Questo li portò fuori dalla folla che stava affluendo dalla strada nelle cantine del vinaio.

“Dove, dove è Dennis?” disse Hugh, fermandosi e fissando Barnaby con il suo braccio forte. “Dove è stato tutto il giorno? Cosa voleva dire lasciandomi in prigione, la scorsa notte? Dimmelo, per favore, ”

Con un movimento veloce della sua arma pericolosa, cadde a terra come un tronco. Dopo un minuto, nonostante fosse già in preda alla follia a causa dell’alcol e della ferita alla testa, strisciò verso un ruscello di alcol ardente che scorreva lungo il canile e iniziò a berne l’acqua come se si trattasse di un normale ruscello d’acqua.

Barnaby lo tirò via e lo costrinse ad alzarsi. Anche se non riusciva né a stare in piedi né a camminare, barcollò involontariamente verso il suo cavallo, vi salì sopra e vi si aggrappò. Dopo aver tentato invano di togliere all’animale quegli ornamenti che producevano rumori metallici, Barnaby gli montò dietro, afferrò le redini, svoltò in Leather Lane, che era vicina, e spinse il cavallo spaventato a mettersi al trotto veloce.

Si voltò indietro una volta, prima di lasciare la strada; e vide una scena che non sarebbe stato facile dimenticare, nemmeno nella sua memoria, finché avesse vissuto.

La casa del vinaio, insieme ad altre sei o sette vicine, era avvolta da un enorme incendio. Per tutta la notte nessuno aveva cercato di spegnere le fiamme o fermarne la propagazione; ma ora un gruppo di soldati stava lavorando attivamente per demolire due vecchie case in legno, che rischiavano ad ogni momento di prendere fuoco e di far estendere l’incendio in modo incontrollabile. Il crollo dei muri e dei pesanti blocchi di legno, i grida della folla, gli spari provenienti da altre unità militari, lo sguardo smarrito delle persone le cui abitazioni erano in pericolo, la frenesia delle persone spaventate che correvano avanti e indietro con i loro beni. Tutto ciò creava un’atmosfera di desolazione e distruzione: sembrava che il volto stesso del cielo fosse stato cancellato, e che la notte, nella sua tranquillità e nella sua luce soffusa, non potesse più guardare verso la terra.

Ma c’era uno spettacolo ancora peggiore di questo: molto peggiore del fuoco e del fumo, persino della furia incontrollabile e folle della folla. Gli scarichi delle strade, ogni crepa e fessura nelle pietre erano pieni di quel liquido infuocato; quando venivano bloccati da mani frenetiche, il liquido traboccava sulla strada e sul selciato, formando grandi pozze in cui le persone cadevano a decine. Giacevano ammucchiati intorno a queste pozze terribili: mariti e mogli, padri e figli, madri e figlie, donne con bambini in braccio, neonati al seno, bevevano fino alla morte. Alcuni si chinavano sul bordo di quelle pozze senza mai rialzare la testa; altri, dopo aver bevuto quell’acqua infuocata, saltavano su danzando, a metà tra una folle esultanza e l’agonia dell’asfissio, finché non cadevano e i loro corpi venivano sommersi dal liquido che li aveva uccisi. Eppure nemmeno questo era il tipo di morte più terribile o spaventoso che si verificò quella notte fatale. Dalle cantine in fiamme, dove le persone bevevano da cappelli, secchi, barili, alcuni uomini venivano tratti fuori ancora vivi, ma completamente bruciati dalla testa ai piedi; nella loro sofferenza insopportabile, correvano verso qualsiasi cosa sembrasse acqua, rotolavano, sibilando in quel lago orribile, schizzando intorno liquido infuocato che divorava tutto ciò che incontrava lungo la superficie, senza risparmiare né vivi né morti. Quella fu l’ultima notte di grandi rivolte. L’ultima notte in cui accadde tutto questo. Le povere vittime di un clamore insensato divennero semplicemente polvere e cenere, sparsi per le strade di Londra.

Con tutto ciò che aveva visto, impresso indelebilmente nella sua mente, Barnaby si affrettò a lasciare quella città piena di orrori; tenendo bassa la testa per non vedere nemmeno il bagliore delle fiamme su quel paesaggio tranquillo, presto si trovò sulle quiete strade di campagna.

Si fermò a circa mezzo miglio dal capanno dove giaceva suo padre; con qualche difficoltà riuscì a far capire a Hugh che doveva scendere da cavallo, poi fece cadere le attrezzature del cavallo in una pozzanghera d’acqua stagnante e lasciò libero l’animale. Una volta fatto ciò, aiutò il suo compagno nel modo migliore possibile e lo guidò lentamente avanti.

Chapter 69

It was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with his stumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left his father; but he could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even of him, and rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or thrice that there was nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered Hugh to sink upon the ground, and followed to bring him back.

He continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him; then turned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:

‘Let me go. Do not lay hands upon me. You have told her; and you and she together have betrayed me!’

Barnaby looked at him, in silence.

‘You have seen your mother!’

‘No,’ cried Barnaby, eagerly. ‘Not for a long time—longer than I can tell. A whole year, I think. Is she here?’

His father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, and then said—drawing nearer to him as he spoke, for, seeing his face, and hearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth:

‘What man is that?’

‘Hugh—Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. HE will not harm you. Why, you’re afraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old, noisy Hugh!’

‘What man is he, I ask you,’ he rejoined so fiercely, that Barnaby stopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with a look of terrified amazement.

‘Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you are my father. Why do you speak to me so?’

—‘I want,’ he answered, putting away the hand which his son, with a timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon his sleeve,—‘I want an answer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who have you brought with you to this hiding-place, poor fool; and where is the blind man?’

‘I don’t know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no person came; that was no fault of mine. This is Hugh—brave Hugh, who broke into that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like him now, do you? You like him now!’

‘Why does he lie upon the ground?’

‘He has had a fall, and has been drinking. The fields and trees go round, and round, and round with him, and the ground heaves under his feet. You know him? You remember? See!’

They had by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped over him to look into his face.

‘I recollect the man,’ his father murmured. ‘Why did you bring him here?’

‘Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder. They were firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of blood turn you sick, father? I see it does, by your face. That’s like me—What are you looking at?’

‘At nothing!’ said the murderer softly, as he started back a pace or two, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son’s head. ‘At nothing!’

He remained in the same attitude and with the same expression on his face for a minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if he had lost something; and went shivering back, towards the shed.

‘Shall I bring him in, father?’ asked Barnaby, who had looked on, wondering.

He only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon the ground, wrapped his cloak about his head, and shrunk into the darkest corner.

Finding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or make him sensible for a moment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on a little heap of refuse hay and straw which had been his own bed; first having brought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound, and laved his hands and face. Then he lay down himself, between the two, to pass the night; and looking at the stars, fell fast asleep.

Awakened early in the morning, by the sunshine and the songs of birds, and hum of insects, he left them sleeping in the hut, and walked into the sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on his jaded senses, oppressed and burdened with the dreadful scenes of last night, and many nights before, all the beauties of opening day, which he had so often tasted, and in which he had had such deep delight, fell heavily. He thought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding on together through the woods and fields; and the recollection filled his eyes with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having done wrong, nor had he any new perception of the merits of the cause in which he had been engaged, or those of the men who advocated it; but he was full of cares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections, and wishes (quite unknown to him before) that this or that event had never happened, and that the sorrow and suffering of so many people had been spared. And now he began to think how happy they would be—his father, mother, he, and Hugh—if they rambled away together, and lived in some lonely place, where there were none of these troubles; and that perhaps the blind man, who had talked so wisely about gold, and told him of the great secrets he knew, could teach them how to live without being pinched by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that he had not seen him last night; and he was still brooding over this regret, when his father came, and touched him on the shoulder.

‘Ah!’ cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. ‘Is it only you?’

‘Who should it be?’

‘I almost thought,’ he answered, ‘it was the blind man. I must have some talk with him, father.’

‘And so must I, for without seeing him, I don’t know where to fly or what to do, and lingering here, is death. You must go to him again, and bring him here.’

‘Must I!’ cried Barnaby, delighted; ‘that’s brave, father. That’s what I want to do.’

‘But you must bring only him, and none other. And though you wait at his door a whole day and night, still you must wait, and not come back without him.’

‘Don’t you fear that,’ he cried gaily. ‘He shall come, he shall come.’

Capitolo 69

Era nel cuore della notte e faceva molto buio quando Barnaby, insieme al suo compagno inciampolone, si avvicinò al luogo dove aveva lasciato suo padre; ma non riuscì a vederlo: sembrava che si stesse allontanando nell’oscurità, diffidente persino nei suoi confronti, e si ritirava rapidamente. Dopo averlo chiamato due o tre volte, assicurandogli che non c’era nulla da temere, senza ottenere risposta, lasciò Hugh sdraiarsi a terra e lo seguì per riportarlo indietro.

Continuò ad allontanarsi furtivamente, finché Barnaby non gli fu vicino; poi si girò e disse con una voce terribile, sebbene soffocata:

“Lasciami andare. Non mettermi le mani addosso. Le hai già detto tutto; e voi due insieme mi avete tradito!”

Barnaby lo guardò, in silenzio.

“Hai visto tua madre!”

“No,” gridò Barnaby con impazienza. “Non per molto tempo, più a lungo di quanto io possa ricordare. Un intero anno, credo. È qui?”

Suo padre lo fissò con determinazione per alcuni momenti, poi disse, avvicinandosi a lui mentre parlava, perché, vedendo il suo viso e ascoltando le sue parole, era impossibile mettere in dubbio la sua verità.

“Chi è quell’uomo?”

“Hugh. Solo Hugh. Lo conosci bene. LUI non ti farà del male. Ma guarda. Hai paura di Hugh! Ah ah ah! Paura di quel vecchio, ruvido e rumoroso Hugh, ”

“Chi è quest’uomo, vi chiedo,” riprese con tale ferocia che Barnaby smise di ridere e, indietreggiando, lo guardò con un’espressione di terrore e meraviglia.

“Perché, quanto sei severo. Mi fai temere, anche se sei mio padre. Perché parli con me in questo modo?”

“Voglio una risposta,” disse lui, allontanando la mano che suo figlio, con un timido desiderio di compiacerlo, aveva posato sulla sua manica. “Voglio una risposta, e voi mi date solo derisioni e domande. Chi hai portato con te in questo nascondiglio, povero stupido; e dove è quell’uomo cieco?”

“Non so dove. La sua casa era chiusa a chiave. Ho aspettato, ma nessuno è venuto; non è stata colpa mia. Questo è Hugh, il coraggioso Hugh, che è entrato in quella orribile prigione e ci ha liberati. Ahah! Ora vi piace, vero? Ora vi piace!”

“Perché giace a terra?”

‘È caduto e ha iniziato a bere. I campi e gli alberi sembrano girare intorno a lui continuamente, e il terreno si solleva sotto i suoi piedi. Lo conosci? Te lo ricordi? Vedi!’

A quel momento, erano tornati dove giaceva e entrambi si chinarono su di lui per guardargli il viso.

“Ricordo quell’uomo”, mormorò suo padre. “Perché l’hai portato qui?”

“Perché sarebbe stato ucciso se lo avessi lasciato laggiù. Stavano sparando e versando sangue. Vi fa venire la nausea vedere il sangue, padre? A giudicare dal vostro viso, sì. È lo stesso per me. Cosa state guardando?”

“Niente!” disse il assassino sottovoce, indietreggiando di un paio di passi e fissando con la mascella cascante e gli occhi sbarrati sopra la testa di suo figlio. “Niente!”

Rimase nella stessa posizione e con lo stesso espressione sul viso per un minuto o più; poi guardò lentamente intorno, come se avesse perso qualcosa; e tornò indietro, tremando, verso il capanno.

“Devo farlo entrare, padre?”, chiese Barnaby, che aveva osservato la scena con curiosità.

Rispose soltanto con un gemito soffocato; poi si sdraiò a terra, avvolse il mantello intorno alla testa e si rintanò nell’angolo più buio.

Rendendosi conto che nulla avrebbe più potuto svegliare Hugh o fargli riprendere i sensi, Barnaby lo trascinò lungo l’erba e lo adagiò su un piccolo mucchio di paglia e rifiuti che avevano fatto da suo letto; prima di tutto, prese dell’acqua da un ruscello vicino, lavò la sua ferita e gli pulì le mani e il viso. Poi si sdraiò anche lui accanto a lui per trascorrere la notte; guardando le stelle, si addormentò immediatamente.

Svegliatosi presto al mattino, sotto il sole e i canti degli uccelli, insieme al ronzio degli insetti, li lasciò dormire nella capanna e uscì nell’aria fresca e piacevole. Ma sentiva che, sui suoi sensi ormai stanchi e oppressi dai terribili eventi della scorsa notte e di molte altre notti precedenti, tutte le bellezze di quel nuovo giorno, che aveva così spesso assaporato con gioia profonda, sembravano svanite. Ricordava le mattine felici in cui lui e i cani correvano insieme nei boschi e nei campi; il pensiero di quelle scene gli riempì gli occhi di lacrime. Non aveva alcuna consapevolezza di aver commesso errori, né una nuova comprensione dei meriti della causa per cui si era impegnato, né di quelli delle persone che la sostenevano; ora invece era pieno di preoccupazioni, rimpianti e tristi ricordi, e desiderava (cosa che prima non gli sarebbe mai passata per la mente) che tutto ciò non fosse mai accaduto, che il dolore e le sofferenze di tante persone potessero essere evitati. Cominciò a pensare quanto sarebbero stati felici suo padre, sua madre, lui stesso e Hugh se avessero potuto vivere insieme in un luogo isolato, lontano da tutti questi problemi; forse quel cieco, che aveva parlato con tanta saggezza dell’oro e gli aveva rivelato grandi segreti, avrebbe potuto insegnare loro come vivere senza privazioni. Mentre queste idee gli attraversavano la mente, si pentì ancora di più di non averlo incontrato la scorsa notte; era ancora immerso in questo rimpianto quando suo padre arrivò e lo toccò sulla spalla.

“Ah!” esclamò Barnaby, uscendo dal suo stato di riflessione. “Sei solo tu?”

“Chi dovrebbe essere?”

“Quasi pensavo,” rispose, “che fosse il cieco. Devo parlare con lui, padre.”

“Anch’io devo farlo, perché senza vederlo non so dove volare o cosa fare; restare qui significa morte. Devi tornare da lui e portarlo qui.”

“Devo proprio farlo!”, esclamò Barnaby, felice. “È coraggioso, papà. È proprio quello che voglio fare.”

“Ma devi portare solo lui, e nessun altro. E anche se aspetti davanti alla sua porta per un intero giorno e una notte, devi comunque aspettare, e non tornare indietro senza di lui.”

“Non hai paura che, ” gridò felicemente. “Arriverà, arriverà.”

‘Trim off these gewgaws,’ said his father, plucking the scraps of ribbon and the feathers from his hat, ‘and over your own dress wear my cloak. Take heed how you go, and they will be too busy in the streets to notice you. Of your coming back you need take no account, for he’ll manage that, safely.’

‘To be sure!’ said Barnaby. ‘To be sure he will! A wise man, father, and one who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I know him, I know him.’

He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be. With a lighter heart he then set off upon his second journey, leaving Hugh, who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon the ground within the shed, and his father walking to and fro before it.

The murderer, full of anxious thoughts, looked after him, and paced up and down, disquieted by every breath of air that whispered among the boughs, and by every light shadow thrown by the passing clouds upon the daisied ground. He was anxious for his safe return, and yet, though his own life and safety hung upon it, felt a relief while he was gone. In the intense selfishness which the constant presence before him of his great crimes, and their consequences here and hereafter, engendered, every thought of Barnaby, as his son, was swallowed up and lost. Still, his presence was a torture and reproach; in his wild eyes, there were terrible images of that guilty night; with his unearthly aspect, and his half-formed mind, he seemed to the murderer a creature who had sprung into existence from his victim’s blood. He could not bear his look, his voice, his touch; and yet he was forced, by his own desperate condition and his only hope of cheating the gibbet, to have him by his side, and to know that he was inseparable from his single chance of escape.

He walked to and fro, with little rest, all day, revolving these things in his mind; and still Hugh lay, unconscious, in the shed. At length, when the sun was setting, Barnaby returned, leading the blind man, and talking earnestly to him as they came along together.

The murderer advanced to meet them, and bidding his son go on and speak to Hugh, who had just then staggered to his feet, took his place at the blind man’s elbow, and slowly followed, towards the shed.

‘Why did you send HIM?’ said Stagg. ‘Don’t you know it was the way to have him lost, as soon as found?’

‘Would you have had me come myself?’ returned the other.

‘Humph! Perhaps not. I was before the jail on Tuesday night, but missed you in the crowd. I was out last night, too. There was good work last night—gay work—profitable work’—he added, rattling the money in his pockets.

‘Have you—’

—‘Seen your good lady? Yes.’

‘Do you mean to tell me more, or not?’

‘I’ll tell you all,’ returned the blind man, with a laugh. ‘Excuse me—but I love to see you so impatient. There’s energy in it.’

‘Does she consent to say the word that may save me?’

‘No,’ returned the blind man emphatically, as he turned his face towards him. ‘No. Thus it is. She has been at death’s door since she lost her darling—has been insensible, and I know not what. I tracked her to a hospital, and presented myself (with your leave) at her bedside. Our talk was not a long one, for she was weak, and there being people near I was not quite easy. But I told her all that you and I agreed upon, and pointed out the young gentleman’s position, in strong terms. She tried to soften me, but that, of course (as I told her), was lost time. She cried and moaned, you may be sure; all women do. Then, of a sudden, she found her voice and strength, and said that Heaven would help her and her innocent son; and that to Heaven she appealed against us—which she did; in really very pretty language, I assure you. I advised her, as a friend, not to count too much on assistance from any such distant quarter—recommended her to think of it—told her where I lived—said I knew she would send to me before noon, next day—and left her, either in a faint or shamming.’

When he had concluded this narration, during which he had made several pauses, for the convenience of cracking and eating nuts, of which he seemed to have a pocketful, the blind man pulled a flask from his pocket, took a draught himself, and offered it to his companion.

‘You won’t, won’t you?’ he said, feeling that he pushed it from him. ‘Well! Then the gallant gentleman who’s lodging with you, will. Hallo, bully!’

‘Death!’ said the other, holding him back. ‘Will you tell me what I am to do!’

‘Do! Nothing easier. Make a moonlight flitting in two hours’ time with the young gentleman (he’s quite ready to go; I have been giving him good advice as we came along), and get as far from London as you can. Let me know where you are, and leave the rest to me. She MUST come round; she can’t hold out long; and as to the chances of your being retaken in the meanwhile, why it wasn’t one man who got out of Newgate, but three hundred. Think of that, for your comfort.’

‘We must support life. How?’

‘How!’ repeated the blind man. ‘By eating and drinking. And how get meat and drink, but by paying for it! Money!’ he cried, slapping his pocket. ‘Is money the word? Why, the streets have been running money. Devil send that the sport’s not over yet, for these are jolly times; golden, rare, roaring, scrambling times. Hallo, bully! Hallo! Hallo! Drink, bully, drink. Where are ye there! Hallo!’

With such vociferations, and with a boisterous manner which bespoke his perfect abandonment to the general licence and disorder, he groped his way towards the shed, where Hugh and Barnaby were sitting on the ground.

‘Put it about!’ he cried, handing his flask to Hugh. ‘The kennels run with wine and gold. Guineas and strong water flow from the very pumps. About with it, don’t spare it!’

Exhausted, unwashed, unshorn, begrimed with smoke and dust, his hair clotted with blood, his voice quite gone, so that he spoke in whispers; his skin parched up by fever, his whole body bruised and cut, and beaten about, Hugh still took the flask, and raised it to his lips. He was in the act of drinking, when the front of the shed was suddenly darkened, and Dennis stood before them.

“Taglia via queste cose inutili,” disse suo padre, togliendo i pezzetti di nastro e le piume dal suo cappello, “e indossa il mio mantello sopra il tuo vestito. Fa’ attenzione a come ti muovi: in strada saranno troppo occupati per notarti. Non devi preoccuparti del tuo ritorno, lui se ne occuperà senza problemi.”

“Certo che sì!” disse Barnaby. “Senza dubbio lo farà! È un uomo saggio, padre, e può insegnarci a diventare ricchi. Oh! Lo conosco bene, lo conosco davvero.”

Si vestì rapidamente e si camuffò al meglio possibile. Con il cuore più leggero, partì quindi per la sua seconda viaggio, lasciando Hugh, ancora immerso nello stordimento dell’ubriachezza, disteso a terra nella capanna, mentre suo padre andava avanti e indietro davanti ad essa.

Il assassino, pieno di pensieri angosciosi, lo teneva d’occhio e camminava avanti e indietro, inquieto per ogni soffio d’aria che si insinuava tra i rami degli alberi, per ogni ombra leggera proiettata dalle nuvole in movimento sul prato fiorito. Era ansioso che tornasse sano e salvo, eppure, nonostante la sua stessa vita dipendesse da ciò, provava un certo sollievo mentre lui era lontano. Nell’egoismo estremo generato dalla costante presenza dei suoi crimini orribili e delle loro conseguenze, ogni pensiero legato a Barnaby, come suo figlio, veniva sommerso e dimenticato. Tuttavia, la sua stessa esistenza rappresentava una tortura e un rimprovero per l’assassino; nei suoi occhi folli si riflettevano terribili immagini di quella notte colpevole; con il suo aspetto spettrale e la sua mente ancora incompleta, sembrava a lui una creatura nata dal sangue della sua vittima. Non riusciva a sopportare il suo sguardo, la sua voce, il suo tocco. Eppure, a causa della sua situazione disperata e dell’unica speranza di sfuggire alla forca, era costretto ad averlo accanto a sé, consapevole che fosse indispensabile per qualsiasi possibilità di fuga avesse.

Camminava avanti e indietro, senza quasi riposare per tutto il giorno, rigirando queste idee nella sua mente; intanto Hugh giaceva ancora privo di sensi nel capanno. Alla fine, quando il sole stava per tramontare, Barnaby tornò, accompagnato dall’uomo cieco, e parlava seriamente con lui mentre camminavano insieme.

Il assassino avanzò per incontrarli; ordinò a suo figlio di continuare a parlare con Hugh, che in quel momento si era appena rialzato in piedi, poi prese il posto accanto al braccio del cieco e lo seguì lentamente verso il capanno.

“Perché l’hai mandato LUI?” disse Stagg. “Non capisci che era proprio il modo per farlo perdere, non appena lo avevamo trovato?”

“Avresti voluto che venissi io stesso?” rispose l’altro.

‘Humph! Forse no. Ero davanti al carcere martedì sera, ma non ti ho visto nella folla. Sono uscito anche ieri sera. C’è stato un buon lavoro ieri notte. Lavoro redditizio,’ aggiunse, facendo tintinnare i soldi nelle sue tasche.

“Hai mai, ”

“L’hai vista la tua signora? Sì.”

“Vuoi dirmi di più, o no?”

“Ve lo dirò tutto,” rispose l’uomo cieco, ridendo. “Scusatemi, ma mi piace vedere quanto siate impazienti. C’è energia in questo.”

“Consente davvero a pronunciare quella parola che potrebbe salvarmi?”

“No,” rispose l’uomo cieco con fermezza, voltando il viso verso di lui. “No. È così: da quando ha perso il suo caro, è stata alla porta della morte. È rimasta priva di sensi. Non so cosa sia successo. L’ho seguita fino in un ospedale e mi sono presentato al suo capezzale (con il tuo permesso). La nostra conversazione non è durata a lungo: era debole, e c’erano altre persone nelle vicinanze. Ma le ho detto tutto ciò su cui tu ed io avevamo concordato, e ho spiegato con chiarezza la situazione di quel giovane signore. Ha cercato di convincermi a cambiare idea, ma, come le avevo detto, era un’impresa inutile. Ha pianto e si è lamentata. Tutto ciò che fanno le donne. Poi, all’improvviso, ha ritrovato la voce e la forza. Ha detto che il Cielo l’avrebbe aiutata lei e suo figlio innocente. E che si sarebbe rivolta al Cielo contro di noi. Lo ha fatto. In termini davvero molto belli, ti assicuro. Come amico, le ho consigliato di non contare troppo sull’aiuto di persone così lontane. Le ho suggerito di pensarci bene. Le ho detto dove abitavo. E le ho detto che sapevo che mi avrebbe contattato prima dell’mattino del giorno dopo. Poi me ne sono andato. Forse era priva di sensi, o fingeva, ”

Quando ebbe terminato questo racconto, interrotto più volte per mangiare delle noci che sembrava avere in abbondanza nella tasca, l’uomo cieco tirò fuori una fiaschetta dalla tasca, ne bevve un sorso e la offrì al suo compagno.

“Non lo farai, vero?” disse lui, sentendo che qualcuno stava cercando di spingerlo a farlo.
“Allora quel nobile signore che soggiorna con te lo farà. Ehi, mascalzone!”

“‘Morte!’” disse l’altro, trattenendolo. “Mi dirai cosa devo fare?”

“Fai pure! Non c’è nulla di più facile. In due ore, con l’aiuto di quel giovane signore (che è già pronto; gli ho dato ottimi consigli lungo la strada), allontanati il più possibile da Londra. Fammi sapere dove ti trovi e lascia che pensi io al resto. Lei DOVREBBE venire qui; non riuscirà a resistere a lungo. E per quanto riguarda la possibilità che tu venga riportato indietro nel frattempo, pensa solo a questo: non è stato un uomo ad uscire da Newgate, ma trecento. Considera questa realtà, per consolarti.”

“Dobbiamo sostenere la vita. Come?”

“Come!” ripeté l’uomo cieco. “Mangiando e bevendo. E come si ottengono carne e bevande, se non pagandole? Denaro!” gridò, battendosi la tasca. “È davvero il denaro la soluzione? Ma le strade sono piene di denaro. Che il diavolo mandi a monte questa situazione: questi sono tempi meravigliosi. Tempi d’oro, tempi folli. Ehi, tu! Bevi, bevi. Dove sei finito? Ehi!”

Con tali grida e con un comportamento turbolento che dimostrava il suo totale abbandono alla licenzia e al disordine generale, si fece strada verso lo sgabuzzino, dove Hugh e Barnaby erano seduti a terra.

“Distribuitelo!” gridò, porgendo la sua fiasca a Hugh. “Le cuccie sono piene di vino e oro. Ghinee e forte acqua scorrono direttamente dalle pompe. Distribuitelo senza risparmio!”

Esausto, non lavato, senza barba, coperto di fumo e polvere, i capelli impregnati di %sangue, la voce completamente rovinata al punto di dover parlare sottovoce; la pelle secca a causa della febbre, tutto il suo -corpo pieno di lividi e ferite. Hugh prese comunque la fiasca e la portò alle labbra. Mentre stava per bere, l’ingresso del capanno si oscurò improvvisamente: Dennis apparve davanti a loro.

‘No offence, no offence,’ said that personage in a conciliatory tone, as Hugh stopped in his draught, and eyed him, with no pleasant look, from head to foot. ‘No offence, brother. Barnaby here too, eh? How are you, Barnaby? And two other gentlemen! Your humble servant, gentlemen. No offence to YOU either, I hope. Eh, brothers?’

Notwithstanding that he spoke in this very friendly and confident manner, he seemed to have considerable hesitation about entering, and remained outside the roof. He was rather better dressed than usual: wearing the same suit of threadbare black, it is true, but having round his neck an unwholesome-looking cravat of a yellowish white; and, on his hands, great leather gloves, such as a gardener might wear in following his trade. His shoes were newly greased, and ornamented with a pair of rusty iron buckles; the packthread at his knees had been renewed; and where he wanted buttons, he wore pins. Altogether, he had something the look of a tipstaff, or a bailiff’s follower, desperately faded, but who had a notion of keeping up the appearance of a professional character, and making the best of the worst means.

‘You’re very snug here,’ said Mr Dennis, pulling out a mouldy pocket-handkerchief, which looked like a decomposed halter, and wiping his forehead in a nervous manner.

‘Not snug enough to prevent your finding us, it seems,’ Hugh answered, sulkily.

‘Why I’ll tell you what, brother,’ said Dennis, with a friendly smile, ‘when you don’t want me to know which way you’re riding, you must wear another sort of bells on your horse. Ah! I know the sound of them you wore last night, and have got quick ears for ‘em; that’s the truth. Well, but how are you, brother?’

He had by this time approached, and now ventured to sit down by him.

‘How am I?’ answered Hugh. ‘Where were you yesterday? Where did you go when you left me in the jail? Why did you leave me? And what did you mean by rolling your eyes and shaking your fist at me, eh?’

‘I shake my fist!—at you, brother!’ said Dennis, gently checking Hugh’s uplifted hand, which looked threatening.

‘Your stick, then; it’s all one.’

‘Lord love you, brother, I meant nothing. You don’t understand me by half. I shouldn’t wonder now,’ he added, in the tone of a desponding and an injured man, ‘but you thought, because I wanted them chaps left in the prison, that I was a going to desert the banners?’

Hugh told him, with an oath, that he had thought so.

‘Well!’ said Mr Dennis, mournfully, ‘if you an’t enough to make a man mistrust his feller-creeturs, I don’t know what is. Desert the banners! Me! Ned Dennis, as was so christened by his own father!—Is this axe your’n, brother?’

‘Yes, it’s mine,’ said Hugh, in the same sullen manner as before; ‘it might have hurt you, if you had come in its way once or twice last night. Put it down.’

‘Might have hurt me!’ said Mr Dennis, still keeping it in his hand, and feeling the edge with an air of abstraction. ‘Might have hurt me! and me exerting myself all the time to the wery best advantage. Here’s a world! And you’re not a-going to ask me to take a sup out of that ‘ere bottle, eh?’

Hugh passed it towards him. As he raised it to his lips, Barnaby jumped up, and motioning them to be silent, looked eagerly out.

‘What’s the matter, Barnaby?’ said Dennis, glancing at Hugh and dropping the flask, but still holding the axe in his hand.

‘Hush!’ he answered softly. ‘What do I see glittering behind the hedge?’

‘What!’ cried the hangman, raising his voice to its highest pitch, and laying hold of him and Hugh. ‘Not SOLDIERS, surely!’

That moment, the shed was filled with armed men; and a body of horse, galloping into the field, drew up before it.

‘There!’ said Dennis, who remained untouched among them when they had seized their prisoners; ‘it’s them two young ones, gentlemen, that the proclamation puts a price on. This other’s an escaped felon.—I’m sorry for it, brother,’ he added, in a tone of resignation, addressing himself to Hugh; ‘but you’ve brought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; you wouldn’t respect the soundest constitootional principles, you know; you went and wiolated the wery framework of society. I had sooner have given away a trifle in charity than done this, I would upon my soul.—If you’ll keep fast hold on ‘em, gentlemen, I think I can make a shift to tie ‘em better than you can.’

But this operation was postponed for a few moments by a new occurrence. The blind man, whose ears were quicker than most people’s sight, had been alarmed, before Barnaby, by a rustling in the bushes, under cover of which the soldiers had advanced. He retreated instantly—had hidden somewhere for a minute—and probably in his confusion mistaking the point at which he had emerged, was now seen running across the open meadow.

An officer cried directly that he had helped to plunder a house last night. He was loudly called on, to surrender. He ran the harder, and in a few seconds would have been out of gunshot. The word was given, and the men fired.

There was a breathless pause and a profound silence, during which all eyes were fixed upon him. He had been seen to start at the discharge, as if the report had frightened him. But he neither stopped nor slackened his pace in the least, and ran on full forty yards further. Then, without one reel or stagger, or sign of faintness, or quivering of any limb, he dropped.

Some of them hurried up to where he lay;—the hangman with them. Everything had passed so quickly, that the smoke had not yet scattered, but curled slowly off in a little cloud, which seemed like the dead man’s spirit moving solemnly away. There were a few drops of blood upon the grass—more, when they turned him over—that was all.

‘Look here! Look here!’ said the hangman, stooping one knee beside the body, and gazing up with a disconsolate face at the officer and men. ‘Here’s a pretty sight!’

“Nessuna offesa, nessuna offesa,” disse quella persona con tono conciliante, mentre Hugh si fermava nel suo movimento e lo guardava da capo a piedi con un’espressione tutt’altro che cordiale. “Nessuna offesa, fratello. E anche Barnaby qui, eh? Come stai, Barnaby? E anche due altri gentiluomini! Il vostro umile servitore, signori. Spero non ci sia stata nessuna offesa nemmeno per VOI. Eh, fratelli, ”

Nonostante parlasse in modo così amichevole e sicuro di sé, sembrava esitare notevolmente nell’entrare e rimase fuori dal tetto. Era vestito piuttosto meglio del solito: indossava sempre lo stesso abito nero logoro, è vero, ma intorno al collo portava una cravatta di un bianco giallastro dall’aspetto poco salutare; sulle mani aveva grandi guanti di pelle, del tipo che potrebbe usare un giardiniere nel suo lavoro. I suoi scarpi erano stati appena lucidati e decorati con due fibbie di ferro arrugginite; il filo che gli legava le ginocchia era stato rinnovato; e dove mancavano i bottoni, indossava spilli. In definitiva, aveva l’aspetto di un messaggero o di uno scagnozzo, estremamente logoro, ma che cercava disperatamente di mantenere l’apparenza di una persona professionista, sfruttando al massimo i mezzi a disposizione.

“Qui sei molto al caldo,” disse il signor Dennis, estraendo un fazzoletto di tasca ammuffito che sembrava un collare in decomposizione, e asciugandosi la fronte in modo nervoso.

“Non sembra abbastanza sicuro per impedirti di trovarci,” rispose Hugh, in tono malinconico.

“Senti un po’, fratello,” disse Dennis con un sorriso amichevole, “se non vuoi che io sappia in quale direzione stai andando, devi sicuramente mettere un altro tipo di campane sul tuo cavallo. Ah! Conosco bene il suono di quelle che hai usato l’ultima notte; ho davvero orecchie fini per riconoscerle. Questa è la verità. Allora, come stai, fratello?”

A quel punto si era avvicinato e ora osò sedersi accanto a lui.

“Come sto?” rispose Hugh. “Dove eri ieri? Dove sei andato quando mi hai lasciato in prigione? Perché mi hai abbandonato? E cosa intendevi con quel gesto di roteare gli occhi e di minacciarmi con il pugno, eh?”

“Scuoto il pugno, verso di te, fratello!” disse Dennis, abbassando dolcemente la mano alzata di Hugh, che sembrava minacciosa.

“Allora prendi la tua bacchetta; è tutto ciò che abbiamo.”

“Lord amore ti ama, fratello. Non volevo dire nulla di male. Non mi capisci affatto. Ora non dovrei più meravigliarmi,” aggiunse con tono scoraggiato e ferito, “ma tu hai pensato che, perché volevo che quei ragazzi rimanessero nella prigione, io stessi per abbandonare le nostre cause, ”

Hugh gli disse, giurando, che era proprio quello che pensava.

“‘Beh!’” disse il signor Dennis con tristezza, “se non basta questo per far sì che un uomo dubiti dei suoi simili, allora non so davvero cosa possa bastare. Abbandonate quelle bandiere! Io. Ned Dennis, così chiamato dal proprio padre. Quest’ascia è tua, fratello?”

“Sì, è mio,” disse Hugh, con lo stesso tono cupo di prima; “avrebbe potuto farti male, se fossi entrato nel suo percorso una o due volte la scorsa notte. Mettilo giù.”

“Avrebbe potuto ferirmi!” disse il signor Dennis, tenendola ancora in mano e sfiorandone il bordo con aria distaccata. “Avrebbe potuto ferirmi, mentre io mi sforzo sempre al massimo per fare del mio meglio. Che mondo questo. E non vorrete mica che beva qualcosa da quella ‘bottiglia’, vero?”

Hugh glielo passò. Mentre lo avvicinava alle labbra, Barnaby saltò su e, facendo segno loro di stare in silenzio, guardò fuori con ansia.

“Che c’è, Barnaby?” disse Dennis, lanciando un’occhiata a Hugh e lasciando cadere la fiasca, ma tenendo ancora l’ascia in mano.

“Zitto!”, rispose dolcemente. “Cosa vedo brillare dietro la siepe?”

“Che cosa!” gridò il boia, alzando la voce al massimo, e afferrando sia lui che Hugh. “Non possono essere soldati, sicuramente!”

In quel momento, il capanno era pieno di uomini armati; e un gruppo di cavalli, galoppando nel campo, si fermò davanti ad esso.

“Eccoli!” disse Dennis, che era rimasto illeso tra di loro mentre gli altri catturavano i prigionieri; “sono quei due giovani, signori. È su di loro che la proclamazione ha messo una taglia. L’altro invece è un criminale in fuga. Mi dispiace, fratello,” aggiunse con tono di resignazione, rivolgendosi a Hugh; “ma è stata colpa vostra. Avete costretto me a farlo. Non rispettavate nemmeno i principi fondamentali della Costituzione. Avete distrutto l’intera struttura sociale. Preferirei dare via qualcosa in carità piuttosto che fare una cosa del genere, lo giuro sulla mia ‘anima. Se riuscite a tenerli ben stretti, signori, credo di poterli legare meglio di quanto possiate farlo voi.”

Ma questa operazione fu rinviata per qualche momento a causa di un nuovo evento. Il cieco, le cui orecchie erano più acute della vista della maggior parte delle persone, era stato allarmato, prima ancora che Barnaby se ne accorgesse, da un fruscio tra i cespugli: sotto quel rumore i soldati avevano fatto il loro avvicinamento. Si ritirò immediatamente, si nascose da qualche parte per un minuto, e probabilmente, nella sua confusione, confondendo il punto da cui era uscito, fu visto ora correre attraverso la prateria aperta.

Un ufficiale ammise apertamente di aver aiutato a saccheggiare una casa la scorsa notte. Gli fu chiesto ad alta voce di arrendersi; lui corse ancora più velocemente, e in pochi secondi avrebbe raggiunto un punto al di fuori della portata dei colpi. Alla fine, gli uomini spararono.

Ci fu un attimo di silenzio carico di tensione; tutti gli occhi erano fissi su di lui. Si era visto che aveva sussultato all’udire quella notizia, come se l’avesse spaventato. Ma non rallentò né si fermò minimamente, continuando a correre per altri quaranta metri. Poi, senza alcun inciampo, senza segni di debolezza o tremore nelle membra, crollò a terra.

Alcuni di loro si affrettarono verso il luogo dove giaceva; c’era anche l’impiccatore con loro. Tutto era accaduto così rapidamente che il fumo non si era ancora disperso, ma si arricciava lentamente in una piccola nuvola, che sembrava l’anima dell’uomo morto allontanarsi solennemente. C’erano alcune gocce di sangue sull’erba, e ancora di più quando lo girarono. Ma era tutto ciò.

“Guardate qui! Guardate qui!” disse il boia, piegando un ginocchio accanto al corpo e alzando lo sguardo con un’espressione desolata verso l’ufficiale e gli uomini. “Che spettacolo davvero, ”

‘Stand out of the way,’ replied the officer. ‘Serjeant! see what he had about him.’

The man turned his pockets out upon the grass, and counted, besides some foreign coins and two rings, five-and-forty guineas in gold. These were bundled up in a handkerchief and carried away; the body remained there for the present, but six men and the serjeant were left to take it to the nearest public-house.

‘Now then, if you’re going,’ said the serjeant, clapping Dennis on the back, and pointing after the officer who was walking towards the shed.

To which Mr Dennis only replied, ‘Don’t talk to me!’ and then repeated what he had said before, namely, ‘Here’s a pretty sight!’

‘It’s not one that you care for much, I should think,’ observed the serjeant coolly.

‘Why, who,’ said Mr Dennis rising, ‘should care for it, if I don’t?’

‘Oh! I didn’t know you was so tender-hearted,’ said the serjeant. ‘That’s all!’

‘Tender-hearted!’ echoed Dennis. ‘Tender-hearted! Look at this man. Do you call THIS constitootional? Do you see him shot through and through instead of being worked off like a Briton? Damme, if I know which party to side with. You’re as bad as the other. What’s to become of the country if the military power’s to go a superseding the ciwilians in this way? Where’s this poor feller-creetur’s rights as a citizen, that he didn’t have ME in his last moments! I was here. I was willing. I was ready. These are nice times, brother, to have the dead crying out against us in this way, and sleep comfortably in our beds arterwards; wery nice!’

Whether he derived any material consolation from binding the prisoners, is uncertain; most probably he did. At all events his being summoned to that work, diverted him, for the time, from these painful reflections, and gave his thoughts a more congenial occupation.

They were not all three carried off together, but in two parties; Barnaby and his father, going by one road in the centre of a body of foot; and Hugh, fast bound upon a horse, and strongly guarded by a troop of cavalry, being taken by another.

They had no opportunity for the least communication, in the short interval which preceded their departure; being kept strictly apart. Hugh only observed that Barnaby walked with a drooping head among his guard, and, without raising his eyes, that he tried to wave his fettered hand when he passed. For himself, he buoyed up his courage as he rode along, with the assurance that the mob would force his jail wherever it might be, and set him at liberty. But when they got into London, and more especially into Fleet Market, lately the stronghold of the rioters, where the military were rooting out the last remnant of the crowd, he saw that this hope was gone, and felt that he was riding to his death.

“Mettiti da parte,” rispose l’ufficiale. “Sergente, controlla cosa ha addosso.”

L’uomo rovesciò le tasche sull’erba e contò, oltre a alcune monete straniere e due anelli, cinquantaquattro ghinee d’oro. Queste furono raccolte in un fazzoletto e portate via; il corpo rimase lì per il momento, ma sei uomini e il sergente furono incaricati di trasportarlo presso la più vicina stazione di polizia.

“Allora, se proprio vuoi andare,” disse il sergente, dandogli una pacca sulla schiena e indicando l’ufficiale che stava camminando verso il capanno.

A cui il signor Dennis rispose soltanto: “Non parlarmi!”, e poi ripeté ciò che aveva detto prima, cioè: “Che bella vista!”

“Non è certo qualcosa che ti interessi molto, direi,” osservò il sergente con calma.

“Perché mai, chi mai dovrebbe curarsene, se non io?” disse il signor Dennis alzandosi in piedi.

“Ah, non sapevo che fossi così compassionevole,” disse il sergente.
“E basta!”

“Di cuore tenero, ”, echeggiò Dennis. “Di cuore tenero! Guardate quest’uomo: lo considerate davvero un cittadino a tutti gli effetti? Lo vedete forse trapassato da colpi d’arma da fuoco, invece di essere trattato con rispetto come un britannico? Dannazione, non so più da che parte schierarmi. Siete altrettanto cattivi degli altri. Cosa ne sarà del paese se il potere militare inizierà a soppiantare i civili in questo modo? Dove sono i diritti di questo povero uomo come cittadino. Non ho nemmeno potuto essere al suo fianco negli ultimi momenti! Ero qui, ero disposto ad aiutarlo. Che bei tempi davvero: vedere i morti che gridano contro di noi in questo modo, e poi poter dormire tranquillamente nei nostri letti. Davvero molto “belli”, ”

Se abbia tratto qualche conforto concreto dal legare i prigionieri, non è certo; molto probabilmente sì. In ogni caso, essere stato chiamato a svolgere quel compito lo distrasse, almeno per il momento, da queste riflessioni dolorose e gli fornì un’occupazione più congeniale per i suoi pensieri.

Non furono portati via tutti e tre insieme, ma in due gruppi: Barnaby e suo padre viaggiarono lungo una certa strada, al centro di un gruppo di persone a piedi; Hugh, invece, legato saldamente a un cavallo e protetto da un distaccamento di cavalleria, fu portato via con un altro gruppo.

Non ebbero alcuna possibilità di comunicare nemmeno per un istante, nel breve lasso di tempo che precedette la loro partenza; venivano tenuti rigorosamente separati. Hugh notò soltanto che Barnaby camminava con la testa bassa tra le guardie e, senza alzare lo sguardo, cercava di salutare con la mano incatenata ogni volta che li superava. Per quanto riguardava lui stesso, cercava di raccogliere tutto il proprio coraggio, convinto che la folla avrebbe forzato l’apertura della sua prigione, qualunque fosse il suo luogo, e lo avrebbe liberato. Ma quando arrivarono a Londra e, soprattutto, nel mercato di Fleet, da poco diventato roccaforte dei rivoltosi, dove le truppe stavano eliminando gli ultimi resti della folla, capì che quella speranza era svanita e che stava andando verso la sua morte.

Chapter 70

Mr Dennis having despatched this piece of business without any personal hurt or inconvenience, and having now retired into the tranquil respectability of private life, resolved to solace himself with half an hour or so of female society. With this amiable purpose in his mind, he bent his steps towards the house where Dolly and Miss Haredale were still confined, and whither Miss Miggs had also been removed by order of Mr Simon Tappertit.

As he walked along the streets with his leather gloves clasped behind him, and his face indicative of cheerful thought and pleasant calculation, Mr Dennis might have been likened unto a farmer ruminating among his crops, and enjoying by anticipation the bountiful gifts of Providence. Look where he would, some heap of ruins afforded him rich promise of a working off; the whole town appeared to have been ploughed and sown, and nurtured by most genial weather; and a goodly harvest was at hand.

Having taken up arms and resorted to deeds of violence, with the great main object of preserving the Old Bailey in all its purity, and the gallows in all its pristine usefulness and moral grandeur, it would perhaps be going too far to assert that Mr Dennis had ever distinctly contemplated and foreseen this happy state of things. He rather looked upon it as one of those beautiful dispensations which are inscrutably brought about for the behoof and advantage of good men. He felt, as it were, personally referred to, in this prosperous ripening for the gibbet; and had never considered himself so much the pet and favourite child of Destiny, or loved that lady so well or with such a calm and virtuous reliance, in all his life.

As to being taken up, himself, for a rioter, and punished with the rest, Mr Dennis dismissed that possibility from his thoughts as an idle chimera; arguing that the line of conduct he had adopted at Newgate, and the service he had rendered that day, would be more than a set-off against any evidence which might identify him as a member of the crowd. That any charge of companionship which might be made against him by those who were themselves in danger, would certainly go for nought. And that if any trivial indiscretion on his part should unluckily come out, the uncommon usefulness of his office, at present, and the great demand for the exercise of its functions, would certainly cause it to be winked at, and passed over. In a word, he had played his cards throughout, with great care; had changed sides at the very nick of time; had delivered up two of the most notorious rioters, and a distinguished felon to boot; and was quite at his ease.

Saving—for there is a reservation; and even Mr Dennis was not perfectly happy—saving for one circumstance; to wit, the forcible detention of Dolly and Miss Haredale, in a house almost adjoining his own. This was a stumbling-block; for if they were discovered and released, they could, by the testimony they had it in their power to give, place him in a situation of great jeopardy; and to set them at liberty, first extorting from them an oath of secrecy and silence, was a thing not to be thought of. It was more, perhaps, with an eye to the danger which lurked in this quarter, than from his abstract love of conversation with the sex, that the hangman, quickening his steps, now hastened into their society, cursing the amorous natures of Hugh and Mr Tappertit with great heartiness, at every step he took.

When he entered the miserable room in which they were confined, Dolly and Miss Haredale withdrew in silence to the remotest corner. But Miss Miggs, who was particularly tender of her reputation, immediately fell upon her knees and began to scream very loud, crying, ‘What will become of me!’—‘Where is my Simmuns!’—‘Have mercy, good gentlemen, on my sex’s weaknesses!’—with other doleful lamentations of that nature, which she delivered with great propriety and decorum.

‘Miss, miss,’ whispered Dennis, beckoning to her with his forefinger, ‘come here—I won’t hurt you. Come here, my lamb, will you?’

On hearing this tender epithet, Miss Miggs, who had left off screaming when he opened his lips, and had listened to him attentively, began again, crying: ‘Oh I’m his lamb! He says I’m his lamb! Oh gracious, why wasn’t I born old and ugly! Why was I ever made to be the youngest of six, and all of ‘em dead and in their blessed graves, excepting one married sister, which is settled in Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, second bell-handle on the—!’

‘Don’t I say I an’t a-going to hurt you?’ said Dennis, pointing to a chair. ‘Why miss, what’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know what mayn’t be the matter!’ cried Miss Miggs, clasping her hands distractedly. ‘Anything may be the matter!’

‘But nothing is, I tell you,’ said the hangman. ‘First stop that noise and come and sit down here, will you, chuckey?’

The coaxing tone in which he said these latter words might have failed in its object, if he had not accompanied them with sundry sharp jerks of his thumb over one shoulder, and with divers winks and thrustings of his tongue into his cheek, from which signals the damsel gathered that he sought to speak to her apart, concerning Miss Haredale and Dolly. Her curiosity being very powerful, and her jealousy by no means inactive, she arose, and with a great deal of shivering and starting back, and much muscular action among all the small bones in her throat, gradually approached him.

‘Sit down,’ said the hangman.

Suiting the action to the word, he thrust her rather suddenly and prematurely into a chair, and designing to reassure her by a little harmless jocularity, such as is adapted to please and fascinate the sex, converted his right forefinger into an ideal bradawl or gimlet, and made as though he would screw the same into her side—whereat Miss Miggs shrieked again, and evinced symptoms of faintness.

Capitolo 70

Dopo aver risolto questa questione senza subire alcun danno personale o inconvenienti, il signor Dennis si era ritirato nella tranquilla e rispettabile vita privata, deciso a consolarsi con un po’ di compagnia femminile. Con questo gentile proposito in mente, si diresse verso la casa dove Dolly e Miss Haredale erano ancora recluse, e dove anche Miss Miggs era stata trasferita su ordine del signor Simon Tappertit.

Mentre camminava per le strade, con i guanti di pelle stretti dietro la schiena e un volto che esprimeva pensieri gioiosi e calcoli piacevoli, il signor Dennis avrebbe potuto essere paragonato a un contadino che rifletteva tra i suoi raccolti, godendosi in anticipo i generosi doni della Provvidenza. Ovunque guardasse, mucchi di rovine gli offrivano la promessa di un lavoro da svolgere; l’intera città sembrava essere stata arata, seminata e coltivata sotto il clima più favorevole possibile. E una buona raccolta era ormai imminente.

Essendo armatosi e ricorsi ad atti di violenza, con l’obiettivo principale di preservare il Old Bailey nella sua integrità, nonché la forca nella sua utilità originale e nella sua maestosità morale, forse sarebbe esagerato affermare che il signor Dennis avesse mai chiaramente contemplato e previsto questo felice sviluppo degli eventi. Piuttosto, lo considerava uno di quei casi fortunati che, in modo inspiegabile, si verificano a vantaggio dei buoni uomini. Si sentiva, per così dire, personalmente coinvolto in questa “prospera maturazione” della forca; e non si era mai considerato prima d’allora il favorito del Destino, né aveva mai amato quella “dama” con tanta tranquillità e fiducia virtuosa in tutta la sua vita.

Per quanto riguarda l’accusa di essere stato coinvolto nei disordini e di essere stato punito insieme agli altri, il signor Dennis scartò immediatamente questa possibilità, ritenendola una semplice chimera; sosteneva infatti che il comportamento da lui tenuto a Newgate, nonché il servizio reso quel giorno, avrebbero più che compensato qualsiasi prova potesse identificarlo come membro della folla. Ogni accusa di complicità avanzata da persone che si trovavano esse stesse in pericolo sarebbe sicuramente caduta nel vuoto. Inoltre, qualora qualche piccola imprudenza da parte sua dovesse venire alla luce, l’eccezionale utilità del suo incarico al momento e la grande richiesta di persone che svolgessero tali funzioni avrebbero sicuramente fatto sì che tale errore venisse ignorato. In breve, aveva giocato le sue carte con estrema attenzione; aveva cambiato schieramento nel momento giusto; aveva consegnato due dei più noti teppisti, oltre a un criminale di rilievo, e ora si trovava completamente al sicuro.

Aveva delle riserve. E nemmeno il signor Dennis era del tutto soddisfatto. A causa di una circostanza in particolare: l’arresto forzato di Dolly e della signorina Haredale, in una casa quasi adiacente alla sua. Questo rappresentava un ostacolo serio; se venissero scoperte e rilasciate, avrebbero potuto, con le testimonianze che erano in grado di fornire, metterlo in grave pericolo. Liberarle, invece, richiedeva prima di tutto di estorcere loro un giuramento di silenzio. E questo non era affatto una possibilità da prendere in considerazione. Forse, più che per il desiderio di conversare con il sesso femminile, fu proprio a causa del pericolo insito in quella zona che l’impiccatore accelerò il passo, maledicendo con grande fervore la natura amorosa di Hugh e del signor Tappertit ad ogni passo che faceva.

Quando entrò nella misera stanza in cui erano rinchiusi, Dolly e Miss Haredale si ritirarono in silenzio nell’angolo più remoto della stanza. Ma Miss Mills, che teneva particolarmente alla propria reputazione, cadde immediatamente in ginocchio e iniziò a gridare molto forte, dicendo: “Che fine farò io?!”, “Dove è il mio Simmuns?!”, “Avete pietà, gentiluomini, delle debolezze del mio sesso!, ” – con altre lamenti tristi e tipici di quella natura, espressi con grande dignità e decoro.

“Signorina, signorina,” sussurrò Dennis, chiamandola con il dito indice,
“vieni qui. Non ti farò del male. Vieni qui, la mia agnellina, vuoi?”

Sentendo questo tenero epiteto, Miss Miggs, che aveva smesso di urlare non appena lui aveva aperto bocca e lo aveva ascoltato attentamente, ricominciò a piangere: “Oh, sono il suo agnello! Dice che sono il suo agnello. Oh, perché non sono nata vecchia e brutta? Perché sono stata fatta la più giovane di sei figli, tutti morti e sepolti nella loro beata dimora, tranne una sorella sposata, che vive a Golden LionCourt, numero ventiquattro,!”

“Non ti dico forse che non intendo farti del male?” disse Dennis, indicando una sedia. “Perché, signorina, cosa c’è?”

“Non so cosa possa esserci che non va!” gridò la signorina Miggs, stringendo le mani in preda all’ansia. “Qualsiasi cosa potrebbe essere, ”

“Ma niente è vero, te lo dico,” disse il boia. “Prima di tutto, smetti quel rumore e vieni a sederti qui, vuoi?”

Il tono suadente con cui pronunciò queste ultime parole avrebbe potuto non ottenere l’effetto desiderato, se non le avesse accompagnate con diversi movimenti bruschi del pollice sulla spalla, nonché con occhiate e movimenti della lingua contro la guancia; da questi segnali la ragazza capì che lui voleva parlarle in privato riguardo a Miss Haredale e Dolly. La sua curiosità era molto forte, e la sua invidia assolutamente attiva; quindi si alzò, tremando e facendo dei passi indietro, mentre i muscoli del suo collo si muovevano convulsivamente, e gradualmente gli si avvicinò.

“Siediti,” disse il boia.

In linea con le sue parole, la spinse improvvisamente e prematuramente in una sedia, con l’intento di rassicurarla attraverso qualche scherzo innocuo, del tipo che si usa per compiacere e affascinare il sesso opposto. Ma trasformò il proprio dito indice destro in un vero e proprio trapano, fingendo di volgerlo nella sua carne. A quel punto, la signorina Miggs gridò di nuovo, mostrando segni di svenimento.

‘Lovey, my dear,’ whispered Dennis, drawing his chair close to hers. ‘When was your young man here last, eh?’

‘MY young man, good gentleman!’ answered Miggs in a tone of exquisite distress.

‘Ah! Simmuns, you know—him?’ said Dennis.

‘Mine indeed!’ cried Miggs, with a burst of bitterness—and as she said it, she glanced towards Dolly. ‘MINE, good gentleman!’

This was just what Mr Dennis wanted, and expected.

‘Ah!’ he said, looking so soothingly, not to say amorously on Miggs, that she sat, as she afterwards remarked, on pins and needles of the sharpest Whitechapel kind, not knowing what intentions might be suggesting that expression to his features: ‘I was afraid of that. I saw as much myself. It’s her fault. She WILL entice ‘em.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ cried Miggs, folding her hands and looking upwards with a kind of devout blankness, ‘I wouldn’t lay myself out as she does; I wouldn’t be as bold as her; I wouldn’t seem to say to all male creeturs “Come and kiss me”’—and here a shudder quite convulsed her frame—‘for any earthly crowns as might be offered. Worlds,’ Miggs added solemnly, ‘should not reduce me. No. Not if I was Wenis.’

‘Well, but you ARE Wenus, you know,’ said Mr Dennis, confidentially.

‘No, I am not, good gentleman,’ answered Miggs, shaking her head with an air of self-denial which seemed to imply that she might be if she chose, but she hoped she knew better. ‘No, I am not, good gentleman. Don’t charge me with it.’

Up to this time she had turned round, every now and then, to where Dolly and Miss Haredale had retired and uttered a scream, or groan, or laid her hand upon her heart and trembled excessively, with a view of keeping up appearances, and giving them to understand that she conversed with the visitor, under protest and on compulsion, and at a great personal sacrifice, for their common good. But at this point, Mr Dennis looked so very full of meaning, and gave such a singularly expressive twitch to his face as a request to her to come still nearer to him, that she abandoned these little arts, and gave him her whole and undivided attention.

‘When was Simmuns here, I say?’ quoth Dennis, in her ear.

‘Not since yesterday morning; and then only for a few minutes. Not all day, the day before.’

‘You know he meant all along to carry off that one!’ said Dennis, indicating Dolly by the slightest possible jerk of his head:—‘And to hand you over to somebody else.’

Miss Miggs, who had fallen into a terrible state of grief when the first part of this sentence was spoken, recovered a little at the second, and seemed by the sudden check she put upon her tears, to intimate that possibly this arrangement might meet her views; and that it might, perhaps, remain an open question.

‘—But unfort’nately,’ pursued Dennis, who observed this: ‘somebody else was fond of her too, you see; and even if he wasn’t, somebody else is took for a rioter, and it’s all over with him.’

Miss Miggs relapsed.

‘Now I want,’ said Dennis, ‘to clear this house, and to see you righted. What if I was to get her off, out of the way, eh?’

Miss Miggs, brightening again, rejoined, with many breaks and pauses from excess of feeling, that temptations had been Simmuns’s bane. That it was not his faults, but hers (meaning Dolly’s). That men did not see through these dreadful arts as women did, and therefore was caged and trapped, as Simmun had been. That she had no personal motives to serve—far from it—on the contrary, her intentions was good towards all parties. But forasmuch as she knowed that Simmun, if united to any designing and artful minxes (she would name no names, for that was not her dispositions)—to ANY designing and artful minxes—must be made miserable and unhappy for life, she DID incline towards prewentions. Such, she added, was her free confessions. But as this was private feelings, and might perhaps be looked upon as wengeance, she begged the gentleman would say no more. Whatever he said, wishing to do her duty by all mankind, even by them as had ever been her bitterest enemies, she would not listen to him. With that she stopped her ears, and shook her head from side to side, to intimate to Mr Dennis that though he talked until he had no breath left, she was as deaf as any adder.

‘Lookee here, my sugar-stick,’ said Mr Dennis, ‘if your view’s the same as mine, and you’ll only be quiet and slip away at the right time, I can have the house clear to-morrow, and be out of this trouble.—Stop though! there’s the other.’

‘Which other, sir?’ asked Miggs—still with her fingers in her ears and her head shaking obstinately.

‘Why, the tallest one, yonder,’ said Dennis, as he stroked his chin, and added, in an undertone to himself, something about not crossing Muster Gashford.

Miss Miggs replied (still being profoundly deaf) that if Miss Haredale stood in the way at all, he might make himself quite easy on that score; as she had gathered, from what passed between Hugh and Mr Tappertit when they were last there, that she was to be removed alone (not by them, but by somebody else), to-morrow night.

Mr Dennis opened his eyes very wide at this piece of information, whistled once, considered once, and finally slapped his head once and nodded once, as if he had got the clue to this mysterious removal, and so dismissed it. Then he imparted his design concerning Dolly to Miss Miggs, who was taken more deaf than before, when he began; and so remained, all through.

The notable scheme was this. Mr Dennis was immediately to seek out from among the rioters, some daring young fellow (and he had one in his eye, he said), who, terrified by the threats he could hold out to him, and alarmed by the capture of so many who were no better and no worse than he, would gladly avail himself of any help to get abroad, and out of harm’s way, with his plunder, even though his journey were incumbered by an unwilling companion; indeed, the unwilling companion being a beautiful girl, would probably be an additional inducement and temptation. Such a person found, he proposed to bring him there on the ensuing night, when the tall one was taken off, and Miss Miggs had purposely retired; and then that Dolly should be gagged, muffled in a cloak, and carried in any handy conveyance down to the river’s side; where there were abundant means of getting her smuggled snugly off in any small craft of doubtful character, and no questions asked. With regard to the expense of this removal, he would say, at a rough calculation, that two or three silver tea or coffee-pots, with something additional for drink (such as a muffineer, or toast-rack), would more than cover it. Articles of plate of every kind having been buried by the rioters in several lonely parts of London, and particularly, as he knew, in St James’s Square, which, though easy of access, was little frequented after dark, and had a convenient piece of water in the midst, the needful funds were close at hand, and could be had upon the shortest notice. With regard to Dolly, the gentleman would exercise his own discretion. He would be bound to do nothing but to take her away, and keep her away. All other arrangements and dispositions would rest entirely with himself.

If Miss Miggs had had her hearing, no doubt she would have been greatly shocked by the indelicacy of a young female’s going away with a stranger by night (for her moral feelings, as we have said, were of the tenderest kind); but directly Mr Dennis ceased to speak, she reminded him that he had only wasted breath. She then went on to say (still with her fingers in her ears) that nothing less than a severe practical lesson would save the locksmith’s daughter from utter ruin; and that she felt it, as it were, a moral obligation and a sacred duty to the family, to wish that some one would devise one for her reformation. Miss Miggs remarked, and very justly, as an abstract sentiment which happened to occur to her at the moment, that she dared to say the locksmith and his wife would murmur, and repine, if they were ever, by forcible abduction, or otherwise, to lose their child; but that we seldom knew, in this world, what was best for us: such being our sinful and imperfect natures, that very few arrived at that clear understanding.

Having brought their conversation to this satisfactory end, they parted: Dennis, to pursue his design, and take another walk about his farm; Miss Miggs, to launch, when he left her, into such a burst of mental anguish (which she gave them to understand was occasioned by certain tender things he had had the presumption and audacity to say), that little Dolly’s heart was quite melted. Indeed, she said and did so much to soothe the outraged feelings of Miss Miggs, and looked so beautiful while doing so, that if that young maid had not had ample vent for her surpassing spite, in a knowledge of the mischief that was brewing, she must have scratched her features, on the spot.

“Amore mio caro,” sussurrò Dennis, avvicinando la sua sedia alla sua.
“Quando è stato qui l’ultima volta il tuo giovane uomo, eh?”

“Mio giovane signore, caro gentiluomo!” rispose Miggs con un tono di estrema angoscia.

“Ah! Simmuns, lo conosci, lui?” disse Dennis.

“Davvero mia!” esclamò Miggs con un tono amaro; mentre lo diceva, gettò uno sguardo verso Dolly. “MIA, caro signore, ”

Era esattamente ciò che il signor Dennis voleva e si aspettava.

“Ah!”, disse lui, guardando Miggs con un’espressione così dolce, per non dire affettuosa, che lei si trovò in uno stato di grande ansia, chiedendosi quali intenzioni potessero nascondersi dietro quel suo sguardo: “Me ne ero proprio preoccupata. L’ho visto anch’io. È colpa sua. Lei li attirerà sicuramente.”

“Non lo farei,” gridò Miggs, incrociando le mani e alzando lo sguardo con una sorta di devota vacuità, “non mi esporrei come fa lei; non sarei così audace come lei; non direi a tutti gli uomini ‘Vienite a baciarmi’, per nessuna corona terrena che mi venisse offerta. Nemmeno interi mondi,” aggiunse Miggs solennemente, “potrebbero farmi cambiare idea. No. Nemmeno se fossi Wenis.”

“Beh, ma tu SEI davvero Venere, lo sai,” disse il signor Dennis in tono confidenziale.

“No, non lo sono, buon signore,” rispose Miggs scuotendo la testa con un’aria di auto-negazione che sembrava implicare che potesse esserlo se avesse voluto, ma sperava di sapere cosa fosse meglio per lei. “No, non lo sono, buon signore. Non accusatemi di questo.”

Fino a questo momento, di tanto in tanto si girava verso il punto dove Dolly e Miss Haredale si erano ritirate, emettendo urla o gemiti, oppure mettendosi la mano sul cuore e tremando intensamente, nel tentativo di mantenere un’apparenza convincente e far credere loro che stesse conversando con l’ospite soltanto per loro, contro la sua volontà e a grande sacrificio personale. Ma in quel momento, il signor Dennis assunse un’espressione molto significativa e fece un gesto del viso estremamente eloquente, invitandola ad avvicinarsi ancora di più a lui; così lei abbandonò queste piccole strategie e gli dedicò tutta la sua attenzione, senza distrazioni.

“Quando è stato qui Simmuns, dimmi?” disse Dennis sottovoce all’orecchio di lei.

“Non dal mattino di ieri; e poi solo per pochi minuti. Non per tutta la giornata, né il giorno prima.”

“Sai bene che fin dall’inizio aveva intenzione di portare a termine quel piano!” disse Dennis, indicando Dolly con un lieve movimento della testa: “E di consegnarti poi a qualcun altro.”

Miss Miggs, che era caduta in uno stato terribile di dolore quando fu pronunciata la prima parte di questa frase, si riprese un po’ alla seconda; e dal modo improvviso in cui trattenne le sue lacrime, sembrò intendere che forse questo accordo potesse soddisfare i suoi desideri. E che, forse, la questione potesse rimanere ancora aperta.

“–Ma purtroppo,” continuò Dennis, osservando ciò che era accaduto, “c’era anche qualcun altro che la amava; e anche se non l’amasse, comunque qualcun altro è stato scambiato per un ribelle. E ora è finita per lui.”

La signorina Miggs ha avuto una ricaduta.

“Ora voglio,” disse Dennis, “ripulire questa casa e vedere che tu venga rimesso in sesto. E se provassi a farla andare via, a toglierla di mezzo, eh?”

Miss Miggs, tornata a essere allegra e vivace, riprese a parlare, interrompendosi spesso a causa dell’emozione: disse che le tentazioni erano state la rovina di Simmuns; che non era colpa sua, ma di Dolly; che gli uomini non vedevano attraverso queste orribili arti come facevano le donne, e per questo Simmuns era finito in trappola. Aggiunse anche di non avere motivi personali per agire in quel modo, anzi, le sue intenzioni erano buone verso tutti. Ma poiché sapeva che se Simmuns si fosse unito a qualche donna astuta e calcolatrice (non avrebbe menzionato nomi specifici, perché non era nel suo carattere farlo), lui sarebbe diventato infelice per tutta la vita, quindi aveva deciso di intervenire. Questa, aggiunse, era la sua sincera confessione. Ma poiché si trattava di sentimenti privati e forse potevano essere considerati una forma di vendetta, pregò il gentiluomo di non dire altro. Qualunque cosa avesse detto, lei, desiderosa di adempiere al proprio dovere verso tutta l’umanità, anche verso coloro che erano stati i suoi più acerrimi nemici, non lo avrebbe ascoltato. Così chiuse le orecchie e scosse la testa, per far capire a Mr Dennis che, anche se lui continuava a parlare fino a perdere il fiato, lei era sorda come un serpente.

“Guarda qui, tesoro mio,” disse il signor Dennis, “se la tua opinione è la stessa della mia, e se starai tranquilla e te ne andrai nel momento giusto, domani potrò liberare la casa da tutto questo disordine e liberarmi di questi problemi. Ma aspetta! C’è anche l’altro.”

“Qual altro, signore?” chiese Miggs, ancora con le dita nelle orecchie e scuotendo ostinatamente la testa.

“Quello più alto, laggiù,” disse Dennis, accarezzandosi il mento, e aggiunse sottovoce a se stesso qualcosa riguardo al fatto di non dover mai contrariare Muster Gashford.

Miss Miggs rispose (essendo ancora profondamente sorda) che se Miss Haredale si fosse messa di mezzo in qualche modo, lui avrebbe potuto facilmente risolvere la questione; poiché aveva capito, da ciò che era accaduto tra Hugh e Mr Tappertit l’ultima volta che erano stati lì, che lei sarebbe stata allontanata da sola (non da loro, ma da qualcun altro), la prossima notte.

Il signor Dennis aprì molto gli occhi di fronte a questa informazione: fischiò una volta, ci pensò un attimo, poi si diede una pacca sulla testa e annuì, come se avesse finalmente capito il mistero di quella scomparsa, e così decise di lasciar perdere la questione. Poi comunicò a Miss Miggs il suo piano riguardante Dolly; lei, però, rimase ancora più confusa di prima quando lui iniziò a spiegarle, e continuò ad essere confusa per tutto il tempo.

Il piano consisteva nel seguente: il signor Dennis avrebbe immediatamente cercato tra i rivoltosi un giovane audace (ne aveva già uno in mente, disse), il quale, spaventato dalle minacce che gli avrebbero potuto essere fatte e allarmato dalla cattura di tante persone non molto diverse da lui, sarebbe stato felice di approfittare di qualsiasi aiuto per andarsene all’estero e mettersi in salvo con il proprio bottino, anche se il suo viaggio fosse stato ostacolato da un compagno riluttante. Anzi, dato che quel compagno riluttante era una bella ragazza, questo avrebbe probabilmente rappresentato un ulteriore incentivo e tentazione. Una volta trovata tale persona, avrebbe proposto di portarla lì la notte seguente, quando il ragazzo alto sarebbe stato portato via e la signorina Miggs si fosse ritirata intenzionalmente; poi Dolly sarebbe stata imbavagliata, avvolta in un mantello e trasportata con qualsiasi mezzo disponibile fino alla riva del fiume. Lì ci sarebbero stati molti modi per farla partire di nascosto su una piccola imbarcazione di dubbia provenienza, senza che nessuno facesse domande. Per quanto riguardava le spese per questo trasferimento, calcolava approssimativamente che due o tre teiere d’argento, insieme a qualche altra cosa da bere (come un muffiniera o una griglia per il pane tostato), sarebbero stati più che sufficienti. Poiché oggetti di valore erano stati sepolti dai rivoltosi in diversi luoghi solitari di Londra, soprattutto nella piazza di St James’s, facilmente accessibile ma poco frequentata di notte e dotata di un comodo corso d’acqua nel mezzo, i fondi necessari erano a portata di mano e potevano essere reperiti in breve tempo. Per quanto riguardava Dolly, beh, il gentiluomo avrebbe agito secondo la propria discrezione: si sarebbe limitato a prenderla con sé e tenerla lontana da tutto pericolo. Tutti gli altri accordi e decisioni sarebbero spettati esclusivamente a lui.

Se la signorina Miggs avesse avuto l’udito, non c’è dubbio che sarebbe rimasta profondamente scioccata dall’indelicatezza di una giovane donna che se ne andasse con uno sconosciuto di notte (poiché, come abbiamo detto, i suoi principi morali erano dei più delicati); ma non appena il signor Dennis smise di parlare, lei gli ricordò che aveva solo sprecato parole. Poi continuò a dire (tenendo ancora le dita nelle orecchie) che soltanto una lezione severa e concreta avrebbe potuto salvare la figlia del fabbro da un disastro totale; e che riteneva fosse un dovere morale e sacro, per tutta la famiglia, desiderare che qualcuno trovasse il modo di farla rimediare. La signorina Miggs osservò, e con piena ragione, che si trattava soltanto di un pensiero astratto che le era venuto in quel momento; aggiunse però che osava immaginare che il fabbro e sua moglie avrebbero protestato e sofferto molto se avessero perso la loro figlia per via di un rapimento o di altro; ma che spesso, in questo mondo, non sappiamo cosa sia meglio per noi: a causa della nostra natura peccaminosa e imperfetta, pochi riescono davvero ad arrivare a una comprensione chiara delle cose.

Avendo portato la loro conversazione a questo soddisfacente termine, si separarono: Dennis, per proseguire nel suo intento e fare un’altra passeggiata nella sua fattoria; Miss Miggs, invece, quando lui se ne andò, fu assalita da un tale accesso di angoscia mentale (che fece capire loro essere causato da alcune cose dolci che lui aveva avuto la presunzione e l’audacia di dire), che il cuore della piccola Dolly si sciolse completamente. Infatti, lei fece tanto per consolare i sentimenti offesi di Miss Miggs e apparve così bella nel farlo, che se quella giovane ragazza non avesse trovato un modo adeguato per sfogare la sua profonda rabbia, conoscendo il danno che stava per essere causato, probabilmente si sarebbe graffiata il viso sul posto.

Chapter 71

All next day, Emma Haredale, Dolly, and Miggs, remained cooped up together in what had now been their prison for so many days, without seeing any person, or hearing any sound but the murmured conversation, in an outer room, of the men who kept watch over them. There appeared to be more of these fellows than there had been hitherto; and they could no longer hear the voices of women, which they had before plainly distinguished. Some new excitement, too, seemed to prevail among them; for there was much stealthy going in and out, and a constant questioning of those who were newly arrived. They had previously been quite reckless in their behaviour; often making a great uproar; quarrelling among themselves, fighting, dancing, and singing. They were now very subdued and silent, conversing almost in whispers, and stealing in and out with a soft and stealthy tread, very different from the boisterous trampling in which their arrivals and departures had hitherto been announced to the trembling captives.

Whether this change was occasioned by the presence among them of some person of authority in their ranks, or by any other cause, they were unable to decide. Sometimes they thought it was in part attributable to there being a sick man in the chamber, for last night there had been a shuffling of feet, as though a burden were brought in, and afterwards a moaning noise. But they had no means of ascertaining the truth: for any question or entreaty on their parts only provoked a storm of execrations, or something worse; and they were too happy to be left alone, unassailed by threats or admiration, to risk even that comfort, by any voluntary communication with those who held them in durance.

It was sufficiently evident, both to Emma and to the locksmith’s poor little daughter herself, that she, Dolly, was the great object of attraction; and that so soon as they should have leisure to indulge in the softer passion, Hugh and Mr Tappertit would certainly fall to blows for her sake; in which latter case, it was not very difficult to see whose prize she would become. With all her old horror of that man revived, and deepened into a degree of aversion and abhorrence which no language can describe; with a thousand old recollections and regrets, and causes of distress, anxiety, and fear, besetting her on all sides; poor Dolly Varden—sweet, blooming, buxom Dolly—began to hang her head, and fade, and droop, like a beautiful flower. The colour fled from her cheeks, her courage forsook her, her gentle heart failed. Unmindful of all her provoking caprices, forgetful of all her conquests and inconstancy, with all her winning little vanities quite gone, she nestled all the livelong day in Emma Haredale’s bosom; and, sometimes calling on her dear old grey-haired father, sometimes on her mother, and sometimes even on her old home, pined slowly away, like a poor bird in its cage.

Light hearts, light hearts, that float so gaily on a smooth stream, that are so sparkling and buoyant in the sunshine—down upon fruit, bloom upon flowers, blush in summer air, life of the winged insect, whose whole existence is a day—how soon ye sink in troubled water! Poor Dolly’s heart—a little, gentle, idle, fickle thing; giddy, restless, fluttering; constant to nothing but bright looks, and smiles and laughter—Dolly’s heart was breaking.

Emma had known grief, and could bear it better. She had little comfort to impart, but she could soothe and tend her, and she did so; and Dolly clung to her like a child to its nurse. In endeavouring to inspire her with some fortitude, she increased her own; and though the nights were long, and the days dismal, and she felt the wasting influence of watching and fatigue, and had perhaps a more defined and clear perception of their destitute condition and its worst dangers, she uttered no complaint. Before the ruffians, in whose power they were, she bore herself so calmly, and with such an appearance, in the midst of all her terror, of a secret conviction that they dared not harm her, that there was not a man among them but held her in some degree of dread; and more than one believed she had a weapon hidden in her dress, and was prepared to use it.

Such was their condition when they were joined by Miss Miggs, who gave them to understand that she too had been taken prisoner because of her charms, and detailed such feats of resistance she had performed (her virtue having given her supernatural strength), that they felt it quite a happiness to have her for a champion. Nor was this the only comfort they derived at first from Miggs’s presence and society: for that young lady displayed such resignation and long-suffering, and so much meek endurance, under her trials, and breathed in all her chaste discourse a spirit of such holy confidence and resignation, and devout belief that all would happen for the best, that Emma felt her courage strengthened by the bright example; never doubting but that everything she said was true, and that she, like them, was torn from all she loved, and agonised by doubt and apprehension. As to poor Dolly, she was roused, at first, by seeing one who came from home; but when she heard under what circumstances she had left it, and into whose hands her father had fallen, she wept more bitterly than ever, and refused all comfort.

Miss Miggs was at some trouble to reprove her for this state of mind, and to entreat her to take example by herself, who, she said, was now receiving back, with interest, tenfold the amount of her subscriptions to the red-brick dwelling-house, in the articles of peace of mind and a quiet conscience. And, while on serious topics, Miss Miggs considered it her duty to try her hand at the conversion of Miss Haredale; for whose improvement she launched into a polemical address of some length, in the course whereof, she likened herself unto a chosen missionary, and that young lady to a cannibal in darkness. Indeed, she returned so often to these subjects, and so frequently called upon them to take a lesson from her,—at the same time vaunting and, as it were, rioting in, her huge unworthiness, and abundant excess of sin,—that, in the course of a short time, she became, in that small chamber, rather a nuisance than a comfort, and rendered them, if possible, even more unhappy than they had been before.

Capitolo 71

Il giorno seguente, Emma Haredale, Dolly e Miggs rimasero rinchiusi insieme in ciò che ormai da molti giorni era diventato la loro prigione, senza vedere nessuno né sentire alcun suono, se non il mormorio delle conversazioni degli uomini incaricati di sorvegliarli. Sembrava che ce ne fossero più di prima; inoltre, non riuscivano più a distinguere le voci delle donne, che prima potevano udire chiaramente. Tra loro sembrava regnare un’atmosfera di tensione e agitazione: c’era molto andirivieni furtivo, e continue domande da parte di coloro che erano appena arrivati. In precedenza si comportavano in modo molto scatenato, facendo spesso molto rumore, litigando tra loro, combattendo, ballando e cantando; ora invece erano molto più tranquilli e silenziosi, parlavano quasi sussurrando e si muovevano con passi leggeri e furtivi, molto diversi dal frastuoso rumore che in precedenza caratterizzava i loro movimenti.

Se questo cambiamento fosse stato causato dalla presenza, tra di loro, di qualche persona autorevole, o da qualche altra ragione, non riuscivano a stabilirlo. A volte pensavano che ciò fosse dovuto, in parte, alla presenza di un uomo malato nella stanza: la sera precedente avevano infatti sentito dei passi furtivi, come se qualcosa venisse portato dentro, seguiti da suoni di lamento. Ma non avevano alcun modo per verificare la verità; qualsiasi domanda o richiesta da parte loro suscitava soltanto una tempesta di insulti, o qualcosa di peggio. E erano troppo felici di essere lasciati soli, senza minacce né lodi, per rischiare anche quel conforto, tentando qualsiasi forma di comunicazione con coloro che li tenevano prigionieri.

Era abbastanza evidente, sia per Emma che per la povera figlia del fabbro, che lei, Dolly, era l’oggetto principale di attrazione; e che non appena avessero avuto il tempo di indulgere in passioni più tenere, Hugh e il signor Tappertit sarebbero sicuramente venuti alle mani per causa sua. In tal caso, non era difficile immaginare chi ne sarebbe diventata la preda. Con tutto il suo vecchio orrore verso quell’uomo rinnovatosi e approfonditosi fino a diventare un sentimento di avversione e disgusto indescrivibile con le parole; con mille vecchi ricordi, rimpianti e cause di angoscia, ansia e paura che la assediavano da tutte le parti, povera Dolly Varden – dolce, giovane e graziosa Dolly – iniziò a abbassare la testa, ad appassire e a perdere il suo splendore, come un bellissimo fiore. Il colore le svanì dalle guance, il suo coraggio la abbandonò, il suo cuore gentile si spezzò. Ignorando tutti i suoi capricci provocatori, dimenticando tutte le sue conquiste e inconstanze, perdendo ogni traccia delle sue piccole vanità, passava tutto il giorno tra le braccia di Emma Haredale; a volte chiamava suo padre dai capelli grigi, a volte sua madre, e a volte persino la sua vecchia casa, morendo lentamente, come un povero uccellino in gabbia.

Cuori leggeri, cuori leggeri, che galleggiano così felicemente su un corso d’acqua tranquillo, che brillano e sono così spensierati al sole. Posati sui frutti, sui fiori, arrossiscono nell’aria estiva. La vita degli insetti alati, la cui intera esistenza è come una giornata. Quanto in fretta affondano, invece, in acque turbolente! Povero cuore di Dolly. Un cuore piccolo, gentile, capriccioso, instabile. Costantemente attratto solo da bei volti, sorrisi e risate. Il cuore di Dolly stava spezzandosi.

Emma aveva conosciuto la tristezza e sapeva come affrontarla. Non aveva molto da offrire in termini di conforto, ma poteva consolarla e prendersi cura di lei, e lo fece; Dolly si aggrappava a lei come un bambino alla sua nutrice. Nel tentativo di infonderle forza, Emma ne acquisì lei stessa; e sebbene le notti fossero lunghe e i giorni cupi, sebbene sentisse l’effetto devastante della preoccupazione e della fatica, e sebbene avesse una percezione più chiara e netta della loro condizione di povertà e dei peggiori pericoli che le minacciavano, non emise mai una lamentela. Di fronte ai malviventi che avevano il potere su di loro, si comportava con tale calma e con un’aria così serena, nonostante tutto il terrore che provava, che tutti quanti la temevano; anzi, molti pensavano che nascondesse un’arma nel suo abito e fosse pronta a usarla.

Era questa la loro situazione quando si unì a loro Miss Miggs, la quale fece capire loro che anche lei era stata fatta prigioniera a causa dei suoi fascini, e descrisse in dettaglio le imprese di resistenza che aveva compiuto (la sua virtù le aveva donato una forza sovrannaturale), tanto che trovarono davvero una grande consolazione nell’averla come loro alleata. Non fu questa l’unica fonte di conforto che ricevettero all’inizio dalla presenza e dalla compagnia di Miggs: quella giovane donna dimostrava infatti una tale rassegnazione e un così lungo sofferimento, nonché tanta umiltà e pazienza di fronte alle avversità; inoltre, ogni sua parola era pervasa da uno spirito di sacra fiducia, rassegnazione e profonda convinzione che tutto sarebbe andato per il meglio. Per questo motivo, Emma sentì il proprio coraggio rafforzarsi grazie al suo esempio; non dubitava mai che quanto diceva fosse vero, e credeva fermamente che anche lei, come loro, fosse stata strappata da tutto ciò che amava e soffrisse per dubbio e angoscia. Quanto alla povera Dolly, all’inizio fu sollevata nel vedere qualcuno provenire dalla sua casa; ma quando seppe in quali circostanze aveva lasciato la propria famiglia e nelle mani di chi era finito suo padre, pianse ancora più amaramente e rifiutò qualsiasi conforto le venisse offerto.

La signorina Miggs ebbe non poche difficoltà nel rimproverarla per questo stato d’animo e nel supplicarla di prendere esempio da lei stessa, poiché, diceva, ora riceveva indietro, con interessi considerevoli, il decuplo dell’importo delle sue abbonamenti alla casa in mattoni rossi, in cambio di pace interiore e coscienza tranquilla. E, quando si trattava di argomenti seri, la signorina Miggs riteneva fosse suo dovere tentare di convertire la signorina Haredale; per il miglioramento di questa ultima, infatti, intraprese un discorso piuttosto lungo e polemico, nel corso del quale si paragonò a una missionaria scelta dal cielo, mentre quella giovane donna fu definita una “cannibala nell’oscurità”. In effetti, tornava continuamente su questi argomenti, esortandoli ripetutamente a prendere esempio da lei; allo stesso tempo, però, si vantava apertamente della propria enorme inadeguatezza e del proprio eccesso di peccato, rendendo loro, se possibile, ancora più infelici di prima.

The night had now come; and for the first time (for their jailers had been regular in bringing food and candles), they were left in darkness. Any change in their condition in such a place inspired new fears; and when some hours had passed, and the gloom was still unbroken, Emma could no longer repress her alarm.

They listened attentively. There was the same murmuring in the outer room, and now and then a moan which seemed to be wrung from a person in great pain, who made an effort to subdue it, but could not. Even these men seemed to be in darkness too; for no light shone through the chinks in the door, nor were they moving, as their custom was, but quite still: the silence being unbroken by so much as the creaking of a board.

At first, Miss Miggs wondered greatly in her own mind who this sick person might be; but arriving, on second thoughts, at the conclusion that he was a part of the schemes on foot, and an artful device soon to be employed with great success, she opined, for Miss Haredale’s comfort, that it must be some misguided Papist who had been wounded: and this happy supposition encouraged her to say, under her breath, ‘Ally Looyer!’ several times.

‘Is it possible,’ said Emma, with some indignation, ‘that you who have seen these men committing the outrages you have told us of, and who have fallen into their hands, like us, can exult in their cruelties!’

‘Personal considerations, miss,’ rejoined Miggs, ‘sinks into nothing, afore a noble cause. Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer! Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!’

It seemed from the shrill pertinacity with which Miss Miggs repeated this form of acclamation, that she was calling the same through the keyhole of the door; but in the profound darkness she could not be seen.

‘If the time has come—Heaven knows it may come at any moment—when they are bent on prosecuting the designs, whatever they may be, with which they have brought us here, can you still encourage, and take part with them?’ demanded Emma.

‘I thank my goodness-gracious-blessed-stars I can, miss,’ returned Miggs, with increased energy.—‘Ally Looyer, good gentlemen!’

Even Dolly, cast down and disappointed as she was, revived at this, and bade Miggs hold her tongue directly.

‘WHICH, was you pleased to observe, Miss Varden?’ said Miggs, with a strong emphasis on the irrelative pronoun.

Dolly repeated her request.

‘Ho, gracious me!’ cried Miggs, with hysterical derision. ‘Ho, gracious me! Yes, to be sure I will. Ho yes! I am a abject slave, and a toiling, moiling, constant-working, always-being-found-fault-with, never-giving-satisfactions, nor-having-no-time-to-clean-oneself, potter’s wessel—an’t I, miss! Ho yes! My situations is lowly, and my capacities is limited, and my duties is to humble myself afore the base degenerating daughters of their blessed mothers as is—fit to keep companies with holy saints but is born to persecutions from wicked relations—and to demean myself before them as is no better than Infidels—an’t it, miss! Ho yes! My only becoming occupations is to help young flaunting pagins to brush and comb and titiwate theirselves into whitening and suppulchres, and leave the young men to think that there an’t a bit of padding in it nor no pinching ins nor fillings out nor pomatums nor deceits nor earthly wanities—an’t it, miss! Yes, to be sure it is—ho yes!’

Having delivered these ironical passages with a most wonderful volubility, and with a shrillness perfectly deafening (especially when she jerked out the interjections), Miss Miggs, from mere habit, and not because weeping was at all appropriate to the occasion, which was one of triumph, concluded by bursting into a flood of tears, and calling in an impassioned manner on the name of Simmuns.

What Emma Haredale and Dolly would have done, or how long Miss Miggs, now that she had hoisted her true colours, would have gone on waving them before their astonished senses, it is impossible to tell. Nor is it necessary to speculate on these matters, for a startling interruption occurred at that moment, which took their whole attention by storm.

This was a violent knocking at the door of the house, and then its sudden bursting open; which was immediately succeeded by a scuffle in the room without, and the clash of weapons. Transported with the hope that rescue had at length arrived, Emma and Dolly shrieked aloud for help; nor were their shrieks unanswered; for after a hurried interval, a man, bearing in one hand a drawn sword, and in the other a taper, rushed into the chamber where they were confined.

It was some check upon their transport to find in this person an entire stranger, but they appealed to him, nevertheless, and besought him, in impassioned language, to restore them to their friends.

‘For what other purpose am I here?’ he answered, closing the door, and standing with his back against it. ‘With what object have I made my way to this place, through difficulty and danger, but to preserve you?’

With a joy for which it was impossible to find adequate expression, they embraced each other, and thanked Heaven for this most timely aid. Their deliverer stepped forward for a moment to put the light upon the table, and immediately returning to his former position against the door, bared his head, and looked on smilingly.

‘You have news of my uncle, sir?’ said Emma, turning hastily towards him.

‘And of my father and mother?’ added Dolly.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Good news.’

‘They are alive and unhurt?’ they both cried at once.

‘Yes, and unhurt,’ he rejoined.

‘And close at hand?’

‘I did not say close at hand,’ he answered smoothly; ‘they are at no great distance. YOUR friends, sweet one,’ he added, addressing Dolly, ‘are within a few hours’ journey. You will be restored to them, I hope, to-night.’

‘My uncle, sir—’ faltered Emma.

‘Your uncle, dear Miss Haredale, happily—I say happily, because he has succeeded where many of our creed have failed, and is safe—has crossed the sea, and is out of Britain.’

La notte era ormai calata; e per la prima volta (poiché i loro carcerieri avevano sempre portato cibo e candele regolarmente), furono lasciati nell’oscurità. Qualsiasi cambiamento nella loro situazione in un posto del genere suscitava nuove paure; e quando alcune ore trascorsero senza che l’oscurità si diradasse, Emma non riuscì più a reprimere la sua angoscia.

Ascoltavano attentamente. Nella stanza esterna si udiva lo stesso mormorio, e di tanto in tanto un lamento che sembrava provenire da una persona che soffriva terribilmente; quella persona cercava di trattenersi, ma non ci riusciva. Anche questi uomini sembravano essere immersi nell’oscurità: nessuna luce filtrava attraverso le fessure della porta, e non si muovevano, come era loro abitudine; il silenzio era rotto soltanto dal cigolio di un’asse.

All’inizio, la signorina Miggs si chiese molto chi potesse essere questa persona malata; ma dopo averci pensato meglio, giunse alla conclusione che fosse coinvolta in qualche complotto in corso e che presto sarebbe stata utilizzata con grande successo. Per tranquillizzare la signorina Haredale, pensò che si trattasse di qualche papista fuorviato che era stato ferito; questa felice ipotesi la spinse a sussurrare più volte: “Ally Looyer!”.

“È possibile,” disse Emma con un certo indignazione, “che tu, che hai visto questi uomini commettere le atrocità di cui ci hai parlato e che sei caduto nelle loro mani, proprio come noi, possa esultare per la loro crudeltà?”

“Considerazioni personali, signorina,” ribatté Miggs, “non contano nulla di fronte a una causa nobile. Alleati, Looyer! Alleati, Looyer! Alleati, Looyer, gentiluomini valorosi!”

Sembrava, dal tono stridulo e insistente con cui la signorina Miggs ripeteva questa esclamazione, che stesse chiamando qualcuno attraverso lo spiraglio della porta; ma nell’oscurità totale non si riusciva a vederla.

“Se è giunto il momento – e Dio sa che potrebbe arrivare in qualsiasi istante – in cui sono decisi a portare avanti i loro piani, qualunque essi siano, quelli con cui ci hanno condotti qui, puoi ancora incoraggiarli e partecipare con loro?” chiese Emma.

“Grazie alle mie benedette stelle, posso farlo, signorina,” rispose Migs, con maggiore energia. “Ally Looyer, buoni signori!”

Anche Dolly, pur essendo stata umiliata e delusa, si rianimò in quel momento e ordinò a Miggs di stare zitta all’istante.

“Quale, come avrete sicuramente notato, signorina Varden?” disse Miggs, ponendo particolare enfasi su quel pronome irrilevante.

Dolly ripeté la sua richiesta.

“Ho, oh, mio Dio!” gridò Miggs con isterico disprezzo. “Ho, sì, certamente lo farò. Sono una schiava abietta, una lavoratrice instancabile, sempre criticata, mai apprezzata, senza nemmeno il tempo di prendersi cura di me stessa, una vera serva, non è vero, signorina? La mia condizione è umile, le mie capacità limitate. Il mio compito è umiliarmi davanti a quelle figlie degenerate delle loro madri benedette, adatte soltanto a stare in compagnia di santi, ma destinate invece alle persecuzioni dei malvagi, e degradarmi davanti a loro come se fossi una nemica della fede, non è vero, signorina? L’unica occupazione che mi spetta è aiutare quelle giovani vanitose a truccarsi, a curare il proprio aspetto, lasciando che i ragazzi pensino che in loro non ci sia nulla di autentico, né bellezza interiore, né virtù, né alcuna verità, non è vero, signorina? Sì, certamente, ho!”

Avendo recitato questi passaggi ironici con una grande fluidità e con un tono acuto che era davvero assordante (soprattutto quando pronunciava le interiezioni), la signorina Miggs, per semplice abitudine – e non perché piangere fosse affatto appropriato a quell’occasione di trionfo – concluse scoppiando in un pianto dirotto e chiamando con passione il nome di Simmuns.

Ciò che Emma Haredale e Dolly avrebbero fatto, o per quanto tempo Miss Miggs, ora che aveva mostrato apertamente le sue vere intenzioni, avrebbe continuato a “sventolarle” davanti ai loro occhi stupiti, è impossibile dirlo. Né c’è bisogno di speculare su queste cose, poiché in quel momento ebbe luogo un’interruzione sorprendente che attirò completamente la loro attenzione.

Si udì un violento bussare alla porta della casa, seguito immediatamente dal suo improvviso aprirsi; subito dopo ci furono rumori di lotta all’interno e il clangore delle armi. Convinta che finalmente fosse arrivata la salvezza, Emma insieme a Dolly gridarono disperatamente chiedendo aiuto; i loro richiami non rimasero inascoltati: dopo un attimo, un uomo, con una spada sguainata in una mano e una candela nell’altra, irruppe nella stanza dove erano rinchiuse.

Durante il trasporto, si scoprì che questa persona era in realtà un perfetto sconosciuto; tuttavia, essi gli chiesero aiuto con parole appassionate, supplicandolo di riportarli dai loro amici.

“Per quale altro scopo sono qui?” rispose, chiudendo la porta e appoggiandosi contro di essa. “Con quale intento sono venuto in questo luogo, attraverso difficoltà e pericoli, se non per proteggerti?”

Con una gioia per la quale era impossibile trovare un’espressione adeguata, si abbracciarono e ringraziarono il Cielo per questo aiuto così tempestivo. Il loro salvatore fece un passo avanti per posizionare la lampada sul tavolo, poi tornò immediatamente al suo posto vicino alla porta, scoprì la testa e li guardò sorridendo.

“Avete notizie di mio zio, signore?”, chiese Emma, voltandosi rapidamente verso di lui.

“E di mio padre e mia madre?” aggiunse Dolly.

“Sì,” disse. “Buone notizie.”

“Sono vivi e illesi?” esclamarono entrambi all’unisono.

“Sì, e senza alcun ferimento,” rispose lui.

“E proprio qui vicino?”

“Non ho detto che sono vicini,” rispose lui con disinvoltura; “non si trovano a grande distanza. I TUOI amici, cara,” aggiunse rivolgendosi a Dolly, “sono a poche ore di viaggio da qui. Spero che tu possa riunirti a loro entro stanotte.”

“Mio zio, signore, ” balbettò Emma.

“Vostro zio, cara signorina Haredale, è felicemente, dico felicemente, perché è riuscito dove molti altri hanno fallito; è al sicuro, ha attraversato il mare ed è ormai lontano dalla Gran Bretagna.”

‘I thank God for it,’ said Emma, faintly.

‘You say well. You have reason to be thankful: greater reason than it is possible for you, who have seen but one night of these cruel outrages, to imagine.’

‘Does he desire,’ said Emma, ‘that I should follow him?’

‘Do you ask if he desires it?’ cried the stranger in surprise. ‘IF he desires it! But you do not know the danger of remaining in England, the difficulty of escape, or the price hundreds would pay to secure the means, when you make that inquiry. Pardon me. I had forgotten that you could not, being prisoner here.’

‘I gather, sir,’ said Emma, after a moment’s pause, ‘from what you hint at, but fear to tell me, that I have witnessed but the beginning, and the least, of the violence to which we are exposed, and that it has not yet slackened in its fury?’

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, lifted up his hands; and with the same smooth smile, which was not a pleasant one to see, cast his eyes upon the ground, and remained silent.

‘You may venture, sir, to speak plain,’ said Emma, ‘and to tell me the worst. We have undergone some preparation for it.’

But here Dolly interposed, and entreated her not to hear the worst, but the best; and besought the gentleman to tell them the best, and to keep the remainder of his news until they were safe among their friends again.

‘It is told in three words,’ he said, glancing at the locksmith’s daughter with a look of some displeasure. ‘The people have risen, to a man, against us; the streets are filled with soldiers, who support them and do their bidding. We have no protection but from above, and no safety but in flight; and that is a poor resource; for we are watched on every hand, and detained here, both by force and fraud. Miss Haredale, I cannot bear—believe me, that I cannot bear—by speaking of myself, or what I have done, or am prepared to do, to seem to vaunt my services before you. But, having powerful Protestant connections, and having my whole wealth embarked with theirs in shipping and commerce, I happily possessed the means of saving your uncle. I have the means of saving you; and in redemption of my sacred promise, made to him, I am here; pledged not to leave you until I have placed you in his arms. The treachery or penitence of one of the men about you, led to the discovery of your place of confinement; and that I have forced my way here, sword in hand, you see.’

‘You bring,’ said Emma, faltering, ‘some note or token from my uncle?’

‘No, he doesn’t,’ cried Dolly, pointing at him earnestly; ‘now I am sure he doesn’t. Don’t go with him for the world!’

‘Hush, pretty fool—be silent,’ he replied, frowning angrily upon her. ‘No, Miss Haredale, I have no letter, nor any token of any kind; for while I sympathise with you, and such as you, on whom misfortune so heavy and so undeserved has fallen, I value my life. I carry, therefore, no writing which, found upon me, would lead to its certain loss. I never thought of bringing any other token, nor did Mr Haredale think of entrusting me with one—possibly because he had good experience of my faith and honesty, and owed his life to me.’

There was a reproof conveyed in these words, which to a nature like Emma Haredale’s, was well addressed. But Dolly, who was differently constituted, was by no means touched by it, and still conjured her, in all the terms of affection and attachment she could think of, not to be lured away.

‘Time presses,’ said their visitor, who, although he sought to express the deepest interest, had something cold and even in his speech, that grated on the ear; ‘and danger surrounds us. If I have exposed myself to it, in vain, let it be so; but if you and he should ever meet again, do me justice. If you decide to remain (as I think you do), remember, Miss Haredale, that I left you with a solemn caution, and acquitting myself of all the consequences to which you expose yourself.’

‘Stay, sir!’ cried Emma—‘one moment, I beg you. Cannot we’—and she drew Dolly closer to her—‘cannot we go together?’

‘The task of conveying one female in safety through such scenes as we must encounter, to say nothing of attracting the attention of those who crowd the streets,’ he answered, ‘is enough. I have said that she will be restored to her friends to-night. If you accept the service I tender, Miss Haredale, she shall be instantly placed in safe conduct, and that promise redeemed. Do you decide to remain? People of all ranks and creeds are flying from the town, which is sacked from end to end. Let me be of use in some quarter. Do you stay, or go?’

‘Dolly,’ said Emma, in a hurried manner, ‘my dear girl, this is our last hope. If we part now, it is only that we may meet again in happiness and honour. I will trust to this gentleman.’

‘No no-no!’ cried Dolly, clinging to her. ‘Pray, pray, do not!’

‘You hear,’ said Emma, ‘that to-night—only to-night—within a few hours—think of that!—you will be among those who would die of grief to lose you, and who are now plunged in the deepest misery for your sake. Pray for me, dear girl, as I will for you; and never forget the many quiet hours we have passed together. Say one “God bless you!” Say that at parting!’

But Dolly could say nothing; no, not when Emma kissed her cheek a hundred times, and covered it with tears, could she do more than hang upon her neck, and sob, and clasp, and hold her tight.

‘We have time for no more of this,’ cried the man, unclenching her hands, and pushing her roughly off, as he drew Emma Haredale towards the door: ‘Now! Quick, outside there! are you ready?’

‘Ay!’ cried a loud voice, which made him start. ‘Quite ready! Stand back here, for your lives!’

And in an instant he was felled like an ox in the butcher’s shambles—struck down as though a block of marble had fallen from the roof and crushed him—and cheerful light, and beaming faces came pouring in—and Emma was clasped in her uncle’s embrace, and Dolly, with a shriek that pierced the air, fell into the arms of her father and mother.

“Grazie a Dio per questo,” disse Emma con voce debole.

“Dici bene. Hai motivo di essere grato: un motivo molto più grande di quanto tu possa immaginare, visto che hai assistito soltanto a una sola notte di queste crudeli atrocità.”

“Desidera forse,” disse Emma, “che io lo segua?”

“Vi chiedete se lo desideri?” esclamò lo sconosciuto sorpreso. “SE lo desidera! Ma non conoscete il pericolo di rimanere in Inghilterra, le difficoltà per fuggire, o il prezzo che centinaia di persone sarebbero disposte a pagare pur di ottenere i mezzi necessari. Perdonatemi, avevo dimenticato che voi non potete farlo, essendo prigionieri qui.”

“Credo, signore,” disse Emma, dopo un momento di pausa, “da ciò che voi lasciate intendere, ma temo di dovervi dire che ho assistito soltanto all’inizio, e forse al minimo degli atti di violenza a cui siamo esposti. E che tali atti non hanno ancora diminuito d’intensità.”

Alzò le spalle, scosse la testa, sollevò le mani; e con lo stesso sorriso smagliante, che però non era affatto piacevole da vedere, abbassò lo sguardo a terra e rimase in silenzio.

“Potete parlare apertamente, signore,” disse Emma, “e dirmi anche la cosa peggiore. Siamo preparate ad affrontarla.”

Ma in quel momento intervenne Dolly, pregandola di non ascoltare le cose peggiori, ma solo quelle migliori; e supplicò il gentiluomo di raccontare loro soltanto il meglio, riservando il resto delle notizie fino a quando non fossero di nuovo al sicuro tra i loro amici.

“Si può dire in tre parole,” disse, lanciando uno sguardo di disappunto alla figlia del fabbro chiave. “Il popolo si è sollevato contro di noi; le strade sono piene di soldati che li sostengono e eseguono i loro ordini. Non abbiamo alcuna protezione se non da lassù, e nessuna sicurezza se non fuggendo. Ma questa è una scelta difficile: siamo osservati da tutte le parti e trattenuti qui, sia con la forza che con l’inganno. Signorina Haredale, non posso sopportarlo. Credetemi, davvero non posso sopportare il pensiero di vantarmi davanti a voi dei miei meriti, di ciò che ho fatto o intendo fare. Tuttavia, grazie alle mie potenti connessioni protestanti e al fatto che tutta la mia ricchezza è impegnata in affari marittimi con loro, ho avuto i mezzi per salvare vostro zio. E ora ho anche i mezzi per salvarvi voi. Per mantenere la promessa sacra fatta a lui, sono qui: giuro di non lasciarvi finché non vi avrò messo tra le sue braccia. La tradizione o il pentimento di uno dei presenti hanno portato alla scoperta del vostro luogo di prigionia. E voi vedete che sono arrivato qui con la spada in mano.”

“Porti con te,” disse Emma, esitando, “qualche messaggio o pegno da parte di mio zio?”

“No, non lo fa,” gridò Dolly, indicandolo con insistenza; “ora sono sicura che non lo fa. Per nessun motivo andare con lui!”

“Zitta, cara sciocchina, taci,” le rispose, aggrottando la fronte con rabbia.
“No, signorina Haredale: non ho alcuna lettera, né alcun altro segno che possa compromettermi. Anche se provo compassione per voi e per persone come voi, colpite da una sfortuna così grave e ingiusta, tengo molto alla mia vita. Pertanto, non porto con me nulla che, se trovato su di me, potrebbe costarmi la vita. Non ho mai pensato di portare altri segni con me, e nemmeno il signor Haredale ha pensato di affidarmene alcuno: forse perché conosceva bene la mia fiducia e onestà, e probabilmente gli dovevo la vita.”

In queste parole c’era un rimprovero che, per una >natura come quella di Emma Haredale, era assolutamente appropriato. Ma Dolly, la cui natura era diversa, non ne fu affatto turbata; anzi, con tutti i termini d’affetto e di attaccamento che le venivano in mente, cercò di convincerla a non lasciarlo andare.

“Il tempo stringe”, disse il loro visitatore; sebbene cercasse di esprimere il più profondo interesse, nel suo discorso c’era qualcosa di freddo e persino spiacevole da ascoltare; “e il pericolo ci circonda. Se mi sono esposto a esso invano, che sia così; ma se voi due doveste incontrarvi di nuovo, fatevi giustizia di me. Se deciderete di rimanere (come credo farete), ricordatevi, signorina Haredale, che vi ho lasciato con un avvertimento solenne, e che assumo tutte le conseguenze a cui vi esponete”.

“Restate, signore!” gridò Emma – “un attimo solo, vi prego. Non possiamo forse, ” e avvicinò di più Dolly a sé – “non possiamo andare insieme?”

“La missione di far arrivare sana e salva una donna in mezzo a scene del genere che dovremo affrontare, per non parlare dell’attirare l’attenzione di coloro che affollano le strade, ”, rispose, “è già abbastanza impegnativa. Ho detto che lei sarà restituita ai suoi amici entro la notte. Se accettate il mio aiuto, signorina Haredale, verrà immediatamente messa in salvo e quella promessa verrà mantenuta. Decidete: rimanete o andate?”

“Dolly,” disse Emma in fretta, “mia cara ragazza, questa è la nostra ultima speranza. Se ci separiamo ora, è solo per poterci riunire di nuovo nella felicità e nell’onore. Mi fiderò di questo signore.”

“Mai mai mai!” gridò Dolly, aggrappandosi a lei. “Per favore, per favore, non farlo!”

“Ascolta,” disse Emma, “questa notte, solo questa notte, in poche ore, pensaci, sarai tra coloro che morirebbero di dolore se ti perdessero, e che ora sono immersi nella più profonda miseria a causa tua. Prega per me, cara ragazza, come io pregherò per te; e non dimenticare mai le tante ore tranquille che abbiamo trascorso insieme. Dì ‘Dio ti benedica!’ quando ci separiamo, ”

Ma Dolly non poteva dire nulla; no, non quando Emma le baciava la guancia centinaia di volte e la copriva di lacrime, cosa poteva fare se non abbracciarla forte, singhiozzare e tenersela stretta?

“Non abbiamo più tempo per queste cose,” gridò l’uomo, liberando le sue mani e spingendola via con forza mentre tirava Emma Haredale verso la porta: “Ora! In fretta, fuori! Sei pronta?”

“Ahì!” gridò una voce forte, che lo fece sobbalzare. “Sono completamente pronto! Allontanatevi da qui, per la vostra salvezza!”

E in un istante fu abbattuto come un bue nel mattatoio: colpito come se un blocco di marmo fosse caduto dal soffitto e lo avesse schiacciato. Luce gioiosa e volti sorridenti si riversarono all’interno; Emma fu stretta tra le braccia di suo zio, mentre Dolly, con un grido che penetrò l’aria, cadde tra le braccia dei suoi genitori.

What fainting there was, what laughing, what crying, what sobbing, what smiling, how much questioning, no answering, all talking together, all beside themselves with joy; what kissing, congratulating, embracing, shaking of hands, and falling into all these raptures, over and over and over again; no language can describe.

At length, and after a long time, the old locksmith went up and fairly hugged two strangers, who had stood apart and left them to themselves; and then they saw—whom? Yes, Edward Chester and Joseph Willet.

‘See here!’ cried the locksmith. ‘See here! where would any of us have been without these two? Oh, Mr Edward, Mr Edward—oh, Joe, Joe, how light, and yet how full, you have made my old heart to-night!’

‘It was Mr Edward that knocked him down, sir,’ said Joe: ‘I longed to do it, but I gave it up to him. Come, you brave and honest gentleman! Get your senses together, for you haven’t long to lie here.’

He had his foot upon the breast of their sham deliverer, in the absence of a spare arm; and gave him a gentle roll as he spoke. Gashford, for it was no other, crouching yet malignant, raised his scowling face, like sin subdued, and pleaded to be gently used.

‘I have access to all my lord’s papers, Mr Haredale,’ he said, in a submissive voice: Mr Haredale keeping his back towards him, and not once looking round: ‘there are very important documents among them. There are a great many in secret drawers, and distributed in various places, known only to my lord and me. I can give some very valuable information, and render important assistance to any inquiry. You will have to answer it, if I receive ill usage.

‘Pah!’ cried Joe, in deep disgust. ‘Get up, man; you’re waited for, outside. Get up, do you hear?’

Gashford slowly rose; and picking up his hat, and looking with a baffled malevolence, yet with an air of despicable humility, all round the room, crawled out.

‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Joe, who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, for all the rest were silent; ‘the sooner we get back to the Black Lion, the better, perhaps.’

Mr Haredale nodded assent, and drawing his niece’s arm through his, and taking one of her hands between his own, passed out straightway; followed by the locksmith, Mrs Varden, and Dolly—who would scarcely have presented a sufficient surface for all the hugs and caresses they bestowed upon her though she had been a dozen Dollys. Edward Chester and Joe followed.

And did Dolly never once look behind—not once? Was there not one little fleeting glimpse of the dark eyelash, almost resting on her flushed cheek, and of the downcast sparkling eye it shaded? Joe thought there was—and he is not likely to have been mistaken; for there were not many eyes like Dolly’s, that’s the truth.

The outer room through which they had to pass, was full of men; among them, Mr Dennis in safe keeping; and there, had been since yesterday, lying in hiding behind a wooden screen which was now thrown down, Simon Tappertit, the recreant ‘prentice, burnt and bruised, and with a gun-shot wound in his body; and his legs—his perfect legs, the pride and glory of his life, the comfort of his existence—crushed into shapeless ugliness. Wondering no longer at the moans they had heard, Dolly kept closer to her father, and shuddered at the sight; but neither bruises, burns, nor gun-shot wound, nor all the torture of his shattered limbs, sent half so keen a pang to Simon’s breast, as Dolly passing out, with Joe for her preserver.

A coach was ready at the door, and Dolly found herself safe and whole inside, between her father and mother, with Emma Haredale and her uncle, quite real, sitting opposite. But there was no Joe, no Edward; and they had said nothing. They had only bowed once, and kept at a distance. Dear heart! what a long way it was to the Black Lion!

Quanti svenimenti, quante risate, quanti pianti, quanti singhiozzi, quanti sorrisi, quante domande, nessuna risposta, tutti che parlavano insieme, tutti fuori di sé per la gioia; quanti baci, congratulazioni, abbracci, strette di mano, e tutto questo ancora e ancora; nessuna lingua può descriverlo.

Finalmente, dopo molto tempo, il vecchio fabbro chiave salì e abbracciò calorosamente due sconosciuti che si erano tenuti in disparte, lasciandoli soli; poi loro riconobbero, chi? Sì, Edward Chester e Joseph Willet.

“Guardate qui!” gridò il fabbro chiave. “Guardate qui! Dove saremmo finiti senza questi due? Oh, signor Edward, signor Edward, oh, Joe, Joe, quanto siete stato leggero nel vostro comportamento, eppure quanto ricco di significato. Oh, come avete rallegrato il mio vecchio cuore, ”

“È stato il signor Edward a farlo cadere, signore,” disse Joe: “Avrei voluto farlo io, ma l’ho lasciato a lui. Su, nobile e onesto gentiluomo, riprendetevi, perché non vi resterà molto da stare qui.”

Aveva il piede posato sul petto di quel loro falso salvatore; in assenza di un braccio libero, lo fece rotolare dolcemente mentre parlava. Gashford, poiché non era altri che lui, accovacciato ma malvagio, sollevò il suo volto cupo, come se il peccato fosse stato sconfitto, e pregò di essere trattato con gentilezza.

“Ho accesso a tutti i documenti di mio signore, signor Haredale,” disse lui con voce sottomessa; il signor Haredale continuava a girargli le spalle, senza mai voltarsi: “Tra di essi ci sono documenti molto importanti. Molti si trovano in cassetti segreti, distribuiti in varie parti, conosciuti solo da mio signore e da me. Posso fornire informazioni di grande valore e offrire un aiuto decisivo a qualsiasi indagine. Tuttavia, dovrete garantirmi che non subirò alcun trattamento ingiusto.”

“Pah!” esclamò Joe, con profondo disgusto. “Alzati, amico; ti stanno aspettando fuori. Alzati, capisci?”

Gashford si alzò lentamente; poi, prendendo il suo cappello e guardando intorno con un’espressione di malvagia perplessità, ma anche con un’aria di spregevole umiltà, uscì dalla stanza.

“E ora, signori,” disse Joe, che sembrava essere il portavoce del gruppo, poiché gli altri tacevano tutti; “più presto torneremo al Nero Leone, meglio sarà.”

Il signor Haredale annuì in segno di assenso, prese il braccio della sua nipote e tenne una delle sue mani tra le proprie; subito dopo si addormentò. Lo seguirono lo scassinatore, la signora Varden e Dolly, che, anche se fossero state una dozzina, avrebbero comunque avuto a disposizione abbastanza superficie per tutti gli abbracci e i baci che le diedero. Edward Chester e Joe li seguirono.

E Dolly non si voltò mai indietro, nemmeno una volta? Non ci fu almeno un breve istante in cui si potesse intravedere quella lunga ciglia nera, quasi appoggiata sulla sua guancia arrossita, e quegli occhi abbassati e scintillanti che essa nascondeva? Joe pensava di sì. E è improbabile che si sbagliasse; perché non ce n’erano molte come gli occhi di Dolly, questa è la verità.

La stanza esterna attraverso cui dovevano passare era piena di uomini; tra loro c’era anche il signor Dennis, al sicuro. Lì, da ieri, si nascondeva dietro una tenda di legno ora rimossa: Simon Tappertit, quel disonesto “apprendista”, bruciato e ferito da un proiettile nella gamba; le sue gambe, le sue bellissime gambe, l’orgoglio e la gioia della sua vita, erano ridotte a una bruttezza informe. Ormai senza più meravigliarsi dei lamenti che avevano sentito, Dolly si tenne più vicina a suo padre e rabbrividì alla vista di quella scena; ma né le ferite, né i bruciamenti, né il proiettile, né tutta la sofferenza causata dalle sue gambe spezzate provocarono in Simon un dolore altrettanto intenso quanto la vista di Dolly svenire, con Joe al suo fianco a proteggerla.

Un treno era pronto alla porta, e Dolly si trovò al sicuro, tra suo padre e sua madre, insieme a Emma Haredale e suo zio, tutti molto reali, seduti di fronte a lei. Ma non c’era né Joe né Edward; e loro non avevano detto nulla. Si erano semplicemente inchinati una volta e poi si erano tenuti a distanza. Caro cuore, che lungo cammino fino al “Nero Leone”!

Chapter 72

The Black Lion was so far off, and occupied such a length of time in the getting at, that notwithstanding the strong presumptive evidence she had about her of the late events being real and of actual occurrence, Dolly could not divest herself of the belief that she must be in a dream which was lasting all night. Nor was she quite certain that she saw and heard with her own proper senses, even when the coach, in the fulness of time, stopped at the Black Lion, and the host of that tavern approached in a gush of cheerful light to help them to dismount, and give them hearty welcome.

There too, at the coach door, one on one side, one upon the other, were already Edward Chester and Joe Willet, who must have followed in another coach: and this was such a strange and unaccountable proceeding, that Dolly was the more inclined to favour the idea of her being fast asleep. But when Mr Willet appeared—old John himself—so heavy-headed and obstinate, and with such a double chin as the liveliest imagination could never in its boldest flights have conjured up in all its vast proportions—then she stood corrected, and unwillingly admitted to herself that she was broad awake.

And Joe had lost an arm—he—that well-made, handsome, gallant fellow! As Dolly glanced towards him, and thought of the pain he must have suffered, and the far-off places in which he had been wandering, and wondered who had been his nurse, and hoped that whoever it was, she had been as kind and gentle and considerate as she would have been, the tears came rising to her bright eyes, one by one, little by little, until she could keep them back no longer, and so before them all, wept bitterly.

‘We are all safe now, Dolly,’ said her father, kindly. ‘We shall not be separated any more. Cheer up, my love, cheer up!’

The locksmith’s wife knew better perhaps, than he, what ailed her daughter. But Mrs Varden being quite an altered woman—for the riots had done that good—added her word to his, and comforted her with similar representations.

‘Mayhap,’ said Mr Willet, senior, looking round upon the company, ‘she’s hungry. That’s what it is, depend upon it—I am, myself.’

The Black Lion, who, like old John, had been waiting supper past all reasonable and conscionable hours, hailed this as a philosophical discovery of the profoundest and most penetrating kind; and the table being already spread, they sat down to supper straightway.

The conversation was not of the liveliest nature, nor were the appetites of some among them very keen. But, in both these respects, old John more than atoned for any deficiency on the part of the rest, and very much distinguished himself.

It was not in point of actual conversation that Mr Willet shone so brilliantly, for he had none of his old cronies to ‘tackle,’ and was rather timorous of venturing on Joe; having certain vague misgivings within him, that he was ready on the shortest notice, and on receipt of the slightest offence, to fell the Black Lion to the floor of his own parlour, and immediately to withdraw to China or some other remote and unknown region, there to dwell for evermore, or at least until he had got rid of his remaining arm and both legs, and perhaps an eye or so, into the bargain. It was with a peculiar kind of pantomime that Mr Willet filled up every pause; and in this he was considered by the Black Lion, who had been his familiar for some years, quite to surpass and go beyond himself, and outrun the expectations of his most admiring friends.

The subject that worked in Mr Willet’s mind, and occasioned these demonstrations, was no other than his son’s bodily disfigurement, which he had never yet got himself thoroughly to believe, or comprehend. Shortly after their first meeting, he had been observed to wander, in a state of great perplexity, to the kitchen, and to direct his gaze towards the fire, as if in search of his usual adviser in all matters of doubt and difficulty. But there being no boiler at the Black Lion, and the rioters having so beaten and battered his own that it was quite unfit for further service, he wandered out again, in a perfect bog of uncertainty and mental confusion, and in that state took the strangest means of resolving his doubts: such as feeling the sleeve of his son’s greatcoat as deeming it possible that his arm might be there; looking at his own arms and those of everybody else, as if to assure himself that two and not one was the usual allowance; sitting by the hour together in a brown study, as if he were endeavouring to recall Joe’s image in his younger days, and to remember whether he really had in those times one arm or a pair; and employing himself in many other speculations of the same kind.

Finding himself at this supper, surrounded by faces with which he had been so well acquainted in old times, Mr Willet recurred to the subject with uncommon vigour; apparently resolved to understand it now or never. Sometimes, after every two or three mouthfuls, he laid down his knife and fork, and stared at his son with all his might—particularly at his maimed side; then, he looked slowly round the table until he caught some person’s eye, when he shook his head with great solemnity, patted his shoulder, winked, or as one may say—for winking was a very slow process with him—went to sleep with one eye for a minute or two; and so, with another solemn shaking of his head, took up his knife and fork again, and went on eating. Sometimes, he put his food into his mouth abstractedly, and, with all his faculties concentrated on Joe, gazed at him in a fit of stupefaction as he cut his meat with one hand, until he was recalled to himself by symptoms of choking on his own part, and was by that means restored to consciousness. At other times he resorted to such small devices as asking him for the salt, the pepper, the vinegar, the mustard—anything that was on his maimed side—and watching him as he handed it. By dint of these experiments, he did at last so satisfy and convince himself, that, after a longer silence than he had yet maintained, he laid down his knife and fork on either side his plate, drank a long draught from a tankard beside him (still keeping his eyes on Joe), and leaning backward in his chair and fetching a long breath, said, as he looked all round the board:

Capitolo 72

Il Nero Leone era così lontano, e il percorso necessario per raggiungerlo richiedeva un periodo di tempo così lungo, che nonostante le forti prove che aveva riguardo al fatto che gli eventi recenti fossero realmente accaduti, Dolly non riusciva a scacciare l’idea che si trovasse in un sogno che durava tutta la -notte. Non era nemmeno del tutto certa di vedere e sentire con i propri sensi normali, anche quando il calesse, al termine del suo viaggio, si fermò davanti al Nero Leone, e il personale della taverna si avvicinò, illuminato da una luce allegra, per aiutarli a scendere e dar loro un caloroso benvenuto.

Anche lì, davanti alla porta della carrozza, uno da un lato e l’altro dall’altro, c’erano già Edward Chester e Joe Willet, che dovevano essere arrivati con un’altra carrozza: e questa era una procedura così strana e inspiegabile che Dolly fu ancora più propensa a credere di essere profondamente addormentata. Ma quando apparve il signor Willet – lo stesso vecchio John – così sonnolento e ostinato, con quel doppio mento che nemmeno la più fervida immaginazione avrebbe mai potuto concepire in tutte le sue dimensioni, allora capì di essere completamente sveglia e dovette ammetterlo a se stessa.

E Joe aveva perso un braccio. Lui, quel ragazzo così ben fatto, attraente e coraggioso!
Mentre Dolly lo guardava e pensava al dolore che doveva aver sofferto, ai luoghi lontani in cui aveva vagabondato, si chiedeva chi fosse stata la sua infermiera e sperava che, qualunque essa fosse, fosse stata gentile, premurosa e considerata come avrebbe voluto essere lei stessa. Allora le lacrime iniziarono a salire ai suoi occhi, una dopo l’altra, finché non riuscì più a trattenersi e scoppiò in lacrime davanti a tutti.

“Ora siamo tutti al sicuro, Dolly,” disse suo padre con dolcezza. “Non saremo più separati. Sii felice, mio amore, sii felice!”

Forse la moglie del fabbro chiave sapeva meglio di lui cosa fosse successo a sua figlia. Ma poiché la signora Varden era diventata una donna completamente diversa – grazie proprio ai disordini – lei diede credito alle sue parole e la consolò con argomentazioni simili.

“Forse,” disse il signor Willet, il maggiore, guardandosi intorno nel gruppo, “ha fame. È sicuramente per questo. Anche io, del resto, ho fame.”

Il nero Leone, che, proprio come il vecchio John, aveva atteso la cena ben oltre le ore ragionevoli e decenti, considerò questa situazione una scoperta filosofica di natura profonda e penetrante; poiché la tavola era già imbandita, si sedettero subito a mangiare.

La conversazione non era certo delle più vivaci, né l’appetito di alcuni di loro era molto intenso. Tuttavia, in entrambi questi aspetti, il vecchio John compensava ampiamente eventuali carenze da parte degli altri, distinguendosi notevolmente.

Non fu certo nel campo delle conversazioni vere e proprie che il signor Willet brillò in modo così eccezionale: non aveva infatti nessuno dei suoi vecchi amici con cui “affrontare” argomenti delicati, ed era piuttosto timido all’idea di approfondire la discussione con Joe. Provava infatti alcuni vaghi timori che, al minimo sospetto o alla più piccola offesa, lo spingessero a colpire il “Nero Leone” proprio nel suo salotto, per poi immediatamente rifugiarsi in Cina o in qualche altro luogo remoto e sconosciuto, dove vivere per sempre, o almeno fino a quando non si fosse liberato dell’ultimo braccio, delle ultime gambe, e forse anche di un occhio, tanto per fare numero. Il signor Willet riempiva ogni pausa con una sorta di pantomima; e in questo campo, il “Nero Leone”, che lo conosceva da alcuni anni, riteneva che egli superasse di gran lunga se stesso, e andasse ben oltre le aspettative dei suoi amici più devoti.

Il problema che occupava la mente del signor Willet e che causava queste manifestazioni non era altro che il difetto fisico di suo figlio, di cui egli stesso non riusciva ancora ad accettare o a comprendere appieno la realtà. Poco dopo il loro primo incontro, fu notato mentre girovagava in cucina, in uno stato di grande confusione, fissando il focolare come se cercasse lì il solito consigliere per tutte le sue incertezze e difficoltà. Tuttavia, poiché nella casa dei Black Lion non c’era alcun boiler, e quello che lui stesso aveva era stato così danneggiato dai violenti da essere completamente inutilizzabile, egli continuò a vagare nel caos della incertezza, ricorrendo a metodi strani per cercare di risolvere i suoi dubbi: ad esempio toccando la manica del cappotto di suo figlio, come se potesse ancora trovarvi il braccio; osservando i propri e gli altri bracci, per assicurarsi che fossero due e non uno; seduto per ore in un angolo tranquillo della casa, nel tentativo di ricordare l’aspetto di Joe da giovane, per capire se allora avesse davvero un braccio o due. E molte altre simili speculazioni.

Trovandosi a quella cena, circondato da volti che un tempo conosceva molto bene, il signor Willet riprese l’argomento con insolita determinazione; sembrava deciso a capirlo una volta per tutte. A volte, dopo ogni due o tre bocconi, posava forchetta e coltello e fissava suo figlio con tutta la sua attenzione, soprattutto il lato del suo corpo ferito; poi guardava lentamente intorno al tavolo fino a incrociare lo sguardo di qualcuno, scuoteva la testa con grande solennità, gli dava una pacca sulla spalla, gli faceva l’occhiolino, o, per meglio dire, poiché far l’occhiolino per lui era un processo molto lento, finiva per addormentarsi per un minuto o due con un occhio aperto; poi, dopo un altro solenne scuotimento della testa, riprendeva a mangiare. Altre volte metteva il cibo in bocca distrattamente, concentrandosi interamente su Joe mentre lo osservava mentre tagliava la carne con una mano, fino a quando non iniziava a soffocarsi e tornava in sé. In altri momenti ricorreva a piccoli trucchi come chiedergli sale, pepe, aceto, senape, qualsiasi cosa si trovasse sul lato del suo corpo ferito, e lo osservava mentre glieli passava. Attraverso questi tentativi, riuscì finalmente a convincersi completamente; dopo un lungo silenzio, posò forchetta e coltello ai lati del piatto, bevve un lungo sorso dalla brocca accanto a lui (continuando a fissare Joe), si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e, dopo aver preso un profondo respiro, disse, guardando intorno al tavolo:

‘It’s been took off!’

‘By George!’ said the Black Lion, striking the table with his hand, ‘he’s got it!’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Willet, with the look of a man who felt that he had earned a compliment, and deserved it. ‘That’s where it is. It’s been took off.’

‘Tell him where it was done,’ said the Black Lion to Joe.

‘At the defence of the Savannah, father.’

‘At the defence of the Salwanners,’ repeated Mr Willet, softly; again looking round the table.

‘In America, where the war is,’ said Joe.

‘In America, where the war is,’ repeated Mr Willet. ‘It was took off in the defence of the Salwanners in America where the war is.’ Continuing to repeat these words to himself in a low tone of voice (the same information had been conveyed to him in the same terms, at least fifty times before), Mr Willet arose from table, walked round to Joe, felt his empty sleeve all the way up, from the cuff, to where the stump of his arm remained; shook his hand; lighted his pipe at the fire, took a long whiff, walked to the door, turned round once when he had reached it, wiped his left eye with the back of his forefinger, and said, in a faltering voice: ‘My son’s arm—was took off—at the defence of the—Salwanners—in America—where the war is’—with which words he withdrew, and returned no more that night.

Indeed, on various pretences, they all withdrew one after another, save Dolly, who was left sitting there alone. It was a great relief to be alone, and she was crying to her heart’s content, when she heard Joe’s voice at the end of the passage, bidding somebody good night.

Good night! Then he was going elsewhere—to some distance, perhaps. To what kind of home COULD he be going, now that it was so late!

She heard him walk along the passage, and pass the door. But there was a hesitation in his footsteps. He turned back—Dolly’s heart beat high—he looked in.

‘Good night!’—he didn’t say Dolly, but there was comfort in his not saying Miss Varden.

‘Good night!’ sobbed Dolly.

‘I am sorry you take on so much, for what is past and gone,’ said Joe kindly. ‘Don’t. I can’t bear to see you do it. Think of it no longer. You are safe and happy now.’

Dolly cried the more.

‘You must have suffered very much within these few days—and yet you’re not changed, unless it’s for the better. They said you were, but I don’t see it. You were—you were always very beautiful,’ said Joe, ‘but you are more beautiful than ever, now. You are indeed. There can be no harm in my saying so, for you must know it. You are told so very often, I am sure.’

As a general principle, Dolly DID know it, and WAS told so, very often. But the coachmaker had turned out, years ago, to be a special donkey; and whether she had been afraid of making similar discoveries in others, or had grown by dint of long custom to be careless of compliments generally, certain it is that although she cried so much, she was better pleased to be told so now, than ever she had been in all her life.

‘I shall bless your name,’ sobbed the locksmith’s little daughter, ‘as long as I live. I shall never hear it spoken without feeling as if my heart would burst. I shall remember it in my prayers, every night and morning till I die!’

‘Will you?’ said Joe, eagerly. ‘Will you indeed? It makes me—well, it makes me very glad and proud to hear you say so.’

Dolly still sobbed, and held her handkerchief to her eyes. Joe still stood, looking at her.

‘Your voice,’ said Joe, ‘brings up old times so pleasantly, that, for the moment, I feel as if that night—there can be no harm in talking of that night now—had come back, and nothing had happened in the mean time. I feel as if I hadn’t suffered any hardships, but had knocked down poor Tom Cobb only yesterday, and had come to see you with my bundle on my shoulder before running away.—You remember?’

Remember! But she said nothing. She raised her eyes for an instant. It was but a glance; a little, tearful, timid glance. It kept Joe silent though, for a long time.

‘Well!’ he said stoutly, ‘it was to be otherwise, and was. I have been abroad, fighting all the summer and frozen up all the winter, ever since. I have come back as poor in purse as I went, and crippled for life besides. But, Dolly, I would rather have lost this other arm—ay, I would rather have lost my head—than have come back to find you dead, or anything but what I always pictured you to myself, and what I always hoped and wished to find you. Thank God for all!’

Oh how much, and how keenly, the little coquette of five years ago, felt now! She had found her heart at last. Never having known its worth till now, she had never known the worth of his. How priceless it appeared!

‘I did hope once,’ said Joe, in his homely way, ‘that I might come back a rich man, and marry you. But I was a boy then, and have long known better than that. I am a poor, maimed, discharged soldier, and must be content to rub through life as I can. I can’t say, even now, that I shall be glad to see you married, Dolly; but I AM glad—yes, I am, and glad to think I can say so—to know that you are admired and courted, and can pick and choose for a happy life. It’s a comfort to me to know that you’ll talk to your husband about me; and I hope the time will come when I may be able to like him, and to shake hands with him, and to come and see you as a poor friend who knew you when you were a girl. God bless you!’

His hand DID tremble; but for all that, he took it away again, and left her.

“È stato portato via!”

“Per Giove!”, disse il Nero Leone, battendo il pugno sul tavolo, “l’ha ottenuto!”

“Sì, signore,” disse il signor Willet, con l’espressione di chi si sentisse di aver meritato quel complimento. “È proprio lì. È stato rimosso.”

“Digli dove è stato fatto,” disse il Nero Leone a Joe.

“In difesa della Savana, padre.”

“In difesa della famiglia Salwan,” ripeté gentilmente il signor Willet, guardandosi intorno al tavolo ancora una volta.

“In America, dove c’è la guerra,” disse Joe.

“In America, dove c’è la guerra,” ripeté il signor Willet. “È stato amputato in difesa dei Salwanner in America, dove c’è la guerra.” Continuando a ripetere queste parole a bassa voce (le stesse informazioni gli erano state comunicate nello stesso modo almeno cinquanta volte prima), il signor Willet si alzò da tavola, andò da Joe, gli tastò la manica vuota dalla manica fino alla parte in cui rimaneva il moncone del suo braccio; gli strinse la mano, accese la pipa vicino al focolare, tirò una lunga boccata, andò verso la porta, si girò una volta arrivato lì, si asciugò l’occhio sinistro con il dorso del dito indice e disse, con voce tremante: “Il braccio di mio figlio, è stato amputato, in difesa dei Salwanner, in America, dove c’è la guerra, ” Dopo queste parole se ne andò e non tornò più quella notte.

Infatti, con varie scuse, uno dopo l’altro se ne andarono tutti, tranne Dolly, che rimase seduta lì da sola. Essere da sola fu un grande sollievo per lei; piangeva a dirotto quando, in fondo al corridoio, sentì la voce di Joe che augurava buonanotte a qualcuno.

Buona notte! Poi se ne andò da qualche altra parte, forse lontano. A quale tipo di casa poteva essere diretto, ora che era così tardi?

Lo sentì camminare lungo il corridoio e passare davanti alla porta. Ma i suoi passi erano incerti. Si girò indietro. Il cuore di Dolly batteva all’impazzata. Guardò dentro.

“Buona notte!” – non disse “Dolly”, ma c’era comunque un senso di conforto nel fatto che non pronunciò il nome “Miss Varden”.

“Buona notte!” singhiozzò Dolly.

“Mi dispiace che tu debba sopportare tutto questo, per ciò che è passato e ormai finito,” disse Joe con gentilezza. “Non farlo. Non riesco a sopportare di vederti soffrire così. Lascia perdere. Ora sei al sicuro e felice.”

Dolly piangeva ancora di più.

“Devi aver sofferto molto in questi pochi giorni. Eppure non sei cambiata, a meno che non sia in meglio. Dicevano che lo fossi, ma io non lo vedo. Eri, eri sempre stata molto bella,” disse Joe, “ma ora sei ancora più bella di prima. Davvero. Non c’è nulla di male nel dirlo, perché devi saperlo. Sicuramente te lo dicono spesso.”

In linea di massima, Dolly lo sapeva davvero, e le veniva detto molto spesso.
Ma anni prima si era scoperto che il costruttore di carri era in realtà un particolare asino;
e non si sa se avesse paura di fare scoperte simili in altre persone, o se, con il passare del tempo, fosse diventata indifferente ai complimenti. Di certo, però, anche se piangeva molto, le faceva davvero piacere sentirsi dire quelle cose ora, più di quanto le fossero mai piaciute in tutta la sua vita.

“Benedirò il tuo nome,” singhiozzava la piccola figlia del fabbro chiave, “finché vivrò. Non sentirò mai pronunciare il tuo nome senza sentire come se il mio cuore dovesse esplodere. Lo ricorderò nelle mie preghiere, ogni notte e ogni mattina, fino alla mia morte!”

“Lo farai davvero?” chiese Joe con impazienza. “Davvero lo farai? Mi rende molto felice e orgoglioso sentirti dire così.”

Dolly continuava a singhiozzare, tenendosi il fazzoletto sugli occhi. Joe era ancora lì, a guardarla.

“La tua voce,” disse Joe, “riporta così piacevolmente a mente quei vecchi tempi che, per un momento, ho l’impressione che quella notte, non ci può essere alcun danno nel parlarne ora, sia tornata, e che nulla sia accaduto in tutto questo tempo intermedio. Ho l’impressione di non aver sofferto alcuna difficoltà, ma di aver semplicemente battuto quel povero Tom Cobb ieri stesso, e di essere venuto a trovarti con il mio fardello in spalla prima di scappare. Te lo ricordi?”

Ricorda! Ma lei non disse nulla. Alzò lo sguardo per un istante. Fu solo uno sguardo: breve, lacrimoso, timido. Quell’uno sguardo fece rimanere Joe in silenzio, per molto tempo.

“Beh!”, disse con fermezza, “avrebbe dovuto essere diversamente, e invece è stato così. Sono stato all’estero, a combattere per tutto l’estate e ho passato l’inverno congelando. Sono tornato povero come quando sono partito, e inoltre invalido per tutta la vita. Ma, Dolly, preferirei perdere anche l’altra mano, sì, preferirei persino perdere la testa, piuttosto che ritrovarvi morta, o diversa da come vi immaginavo sempre, da come speravo e desideravo che foste. Grazie a Dio per tutto!”

Oh, quanto intensamente e profondamente quella piccola civetta di cinque anni fa provava ora! Aveva finalmente trovato il suo cuore. Non avendo mai conosciuto il suo valore fino ad allora, non aveva nemmeno compreso il valore del suo. Sembrava davvero inestimabile.

“Una volta ho sperato,” disse Joe, nel suo modo schietto e semplice, “di poter tornare ricco e sposarti. Ma allora ero solo un ragazzo. Ora so molto meglio. Sono un soldato povero, disabile, congedato. Devo accontentarmi di vivere come posso. Anche ora non posso dire di essere felice se tu ti sposi, Dolly. Ma sono contento. Sì, lo sono davvero. E mi fa piacere pensare di poterlo dire. È un conforto sapere che qualcuno ti apprezza e ti corteggia. Che puoi scegliere liberamente il tuo futuro felice. Mi rincuora anche il fatto che parlerai di me con tuo marito. E spero che arrivi il giorno in cui potrò conoscerlo, stringergli la mano. E venire a trovarti come un vecchio amico che ti conosceva da quando eri una ragazza. Che Dio ti benedica!”

La sua mano tremava; ma nonostante ciò, la prese di nuovo e la lasciò andare.

Chapter 73

By this Friday night—for it was on Friday in the riot week, that Emma and Dolly were rescued, by the timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester—the disturbances were entirely quelled, and peace and order were restored to the affrighted city. True, after what had happened, it was impossible for any man to say how long this better state of things might last, or how suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those so lately witnessed, might burst forth and fill its streets with ruin and bloodshed; for this reason, those who had fled from the recent tumults still kept at a distance, and many families, hitherto unable to procure the means of flight, now availed themselves of the calm, and withdrew into the country. The shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still shut; and very little business was transacted in any of the places of great commercial resort. But, notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy forebodings of that numerous class of society who see with the greatest clearness into the darkest perspectives, the town remained profoundly quiet. The strong military force disposed in every advantageous quarter, and stationed at every commanding point, held the scattered fragments of the mob in check; the search after rioters was prosecuted with unrelenting vigour; and if there were any among them so desperate and reckless as to be inclined, after the terrible scenes they had beheld, to venture forth again, they were so daunted by these resolute measures, that they quickly shrunk into their hiding-places, and had no thought but for their safety.

In a word, the crowd was utterly routed. Upwards of two hundred had been shot dead in the streets. Two hundred and fifty more were lying, badly wounded, in the hospitals; of whom seventy or eighty died within a short time afterwards. A hundred were already in custody, and more were taken every hour. How many perished in the conflagrations, or by their own excesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible grave in the hot ashes of the flames they had kindled, or crept into vaults and cellars to drink in secret or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light again, is certain. When the embers of the fires had been black and cold for many weeks, the labourers’ spades proved this, beyond a doubt.

Seventy-two private houses and four strong jails were destroyed in the four great days of these riots. The total loss of property, as estimated by the sufferers, was one hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds; at the lowest and least partial estimate of disinterested persons, it exceeded one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. For this immense loss, compensation was soon afterwards made out of the public purse, in pursuance of a vote of the House of Commons; the sum being levied on the various wards in the city, on the county, and the borough of Southwark. Both Lord Mansfield and Lord Saville, however, who had been great sufferers, refused to accept of any compensation whatever.

The House of Commons, sitting on Tuesday with locked and guarded doors, had passed a resolution to the effect that, as soon as the tumults subsided, it would immediately proceed to consider the petitions presented from many of his Majesty’s Protestant subjects, and would take the same into its serious consideration. While this question was under debate, Mr Herbert, one of the members present, indignantly rose and called upon the House to observe that Lord George Gordon was then sitting under the gallery with the blue cockade, the signal of rebellion, in his hat. He was not only obliged, by those who sat near, to take it out; but offering to go into the street to pacify the mob with the somewhat indefinite assurance that the House was prepared to give them ‘the satisfaction they sought,’ was actually held down in his seat by the combined force of several members. In short, the disorder and violence which reigned triumphant out of doors, penetrated into the senate, and there, as elsewhere, terror and alarm prevailed, and ordinary forms were for the time forgotten.

On the Thursday, both Houses had adjourned until the following Monday se’nnight, declaring it impossible to pursue their deliberations with the necessary gravity and freedom, while they were surrounded by armed troops. And now that the rioters were dispersed, the citizens were beset with a new fear; for, finding the public thoroughfares and all their usual places of resort filled with soldiers entrusted with the free use of fire and sword, they began to lend a greedy ear to the rumours which were afloat of martial law being declared, and to dismal stories of prisoners having been seen hanging on lamp-posts in Cheapside and Fleet Street. These terrors being promptly dispelled by a Proclamation declaring that all the rioters in custody would be tried by a special commission in due course of law, a fresh alarm was engendered by its being whispered abroad that French money had been found on some of the rioters, and that the disturbances had been fomented by foreign powers who sought to compass the overthrow and ruin of England. This report, which was strengthened by the diffusion of anonymous handbills, but which, if it had any foundation at all, probably owed its origin to the circumstance of some few coins which were not English money having been swept into the pockets of the insurgents with other miscellaneous booty, and afterwards discovered on the prisoners or the dead bodies,—caused a great sensation; and men’s minds being in that excited state when they are most apt to catch at any shadow of apprehension, was bruited about with much industry.

All remaining quiet, however, during the whole of this Friday, and on this Friday night, and no new discoveries being made, confidence began to be restored, and the most timid and desponding breathed again. In Southwark, no fewer than three thousand of the inhabitants formed themselves into a watch, and patrolled the streets every hour. Nor were the citizens slow to follow so good an example: and it being the manner of peaceful men to be very bold when the danger is over, they were abundantly fierce and daring; not scrupling to question the stoutest passenger with great severity, and carrying it with a very high hand over all errand-boys, servant-girls, and ‘prentices.

Capitolo 73

Quella sera di venerdì – poiché fu proprio in un venerdì della settimana dei disordini che Emma e Dolly furono salvate grazie all’assistenza tempestiva di Joe e Edward Chester – i disordini furono completamente sedati, e pace e ordine tornarono nella spaventata >città. Certo, dopo quanto era accaduto, nessuno poteva prevedere per quanto tempo sarebbe durato questo miglioramento delle cose, né come improvvisamente potessero scoppiare nuovi atti di violenza ancora più terribili di quelli appena visti, riempiendo le strade di distruzione e sangue. Per questa ragione, coloro che erano fuggiti dai recenti tumulti continuarono a mantenere le distanze, e molte famiglie, fino ad allora impossibilitate a trovare i mezzi per fuggire, approfittarono della calma per ritirarsi in campagna. Anche i negozi, da Tyburn a Whitechapel, erano ancora chiusi; pochissimi affari venivano condotti nei luoghi di maggior attività commerciale. Tuttavia, nonostante le cupe previsioni di quella vasta parte della società che riesce a vedere con estrema chiarezza anche i contesti più oscuri, la città rimase profondamente tranquilla. Le forze militari disposte in ogni zona strategica e stanziate in tutti i punti di controllo tenevano a bada i resti della folla; le ricerche dei responsabili dei disordini proseguivano con determinazione inarrestabile; e chiunque, tra loro, fosse così disperato e imprudente da voler rischiare ancora dopo quanto aveva visto, veniva immediatamente dissuaso da queste misure decise, costringendolo a ritirarsi rapidamente nei suoi nascondigli, pensando soltanto alla propria sicurezza.

In breve, la folla fu completamente sconfitta. Oltre duecento persone furono uccise per strada; altre duecentocinquanta giacevano gravemente ferite negli ospedali, e settanta o ottanta di queste morirono poco dopo. Cento individui erano già in custodia, e ne venivano catturati altri ogni ora. Quanti morirono a causa delle incendi o dei propri eccessi è sconosciuto; ma è certo che molti finirono nelle fiamme ardenti che avevano stesso scatenato, oppure si nascosero in cantine e soffitte per bere di nascosto o curare le proprie ferite, senza mai più rivedere la luce del giorno. Quando le braci dei fuochi erano ormai fredde da molte settimane, le pale dei lavoratori ne diedero la conferma in modo inequivocabile.

Settantadue case private e quattro prigioni robuste furono distrutte durante quei quattro giorni di rivolte. La perdita totale di proprietà, secondo le stime delle persone colpite, ammontava a centocinquantacinque migliaia di sterline; secondo le valutazioni più basse e meno parziali di persone imparziali, superava però le centoventicinque migliaia di sterline. Per compensare questa immensa perdita, venne presto stanziato un importo dal bilancio pubblico, su proposta della Casa dei Comuni; tale somma fu riscossa dalle varie zone della >città, dalla contea e dal borough di Southwark. Tuttavia, sia Lord Mansfield che Lord Saville, che avevano subito gravi danni personali, rifiutarono di accettare qualsiasi tipo di compensazione.

La >Casa dei Comuni, riunitasi di martedì con porte chiuse e sorvegliate, aveva approvato una risoluzione secondo cui, non appena i disordini si fossero placati, avrebbe immediatamente iniziato a esaminare le petizioni presentate da molti dei sudditi protestanti di Sua Maestà, prendendole seriamente in considerazione. Mentre questa questione era ancora oggetto di debatte, il signor Herbert, uno dei membri presenti, si alzò indignato e richiamò l’attenzione della >Casa sul fatto che Lord George Gordon si trovava in quel momento nella galleria, con un cappello ornato dalla coccarda blu, simbolo di ribellione. Coloro che sedevano vicino a lui lo costrinsero non solo a togliersela, ma anche, quando egli propose di uscire in strada per placare la folla, gli impedirono di farlo, assicurandogli in modo vago che la >Casa era pronta a dare loro “la soddisfazione che cercavano”. In breve, il disordine e la violenza che regnavano all’esterno penetrarono anche all’interno della sede parlamentare; lì, come altrove, prevalse il terrore e lo sconcerto, e le normali procedure legislative furono temporaneamente dimenticate.

Nel >Giovedì, entrambe le Camere decisero di sospendere i lavori fino al lunedì successivo, dichiarando impossibile proseguire le deliberazioni con la necessaria serietà e libertà, mentre si trovavano circondate da truppe armate. Ora che i rivoltosi erano stati dispersi, i cittadini furono assaliti da un nuovo timore: infatti, trovando le strade pubbliche e tutti i luoghi di ritrovo soliti pieni di soldati a cui era stato concesso l’uso libero di fuoco e spada, iniziarono ad ascoltare con attenzione le voci che circolavano riguardo all’imposizione della legge marziale, nonché storie tragiche su prigionieri impiccati ai lampioni di Cheapside e Fleet Street. Queste paure furono però rapidamente dissipate da un proclama che annunciava che tutti i rivoltosi in custodia sarebbero stati processati da una commissione speciale secondo le leggi ordinarie. Tuttavia, nuove voci iniziarono a diffondersi: si diceva che su alcuni dei rivoltosi fosse stato trovato denaro francese e che i disordini fossero stati fomentati da potenze straniere intenzionate a rovesciare l’Inghilterra. Queste notizie, rafforzate dalla diffusione di volantini anonimi, sebbene probabilmente prive di fondamento reale, derivavano probabilmente dal fatto che alcune monete straniere fossero finite nelle tasche degli insorti insieme ad altri oggetti rubati, per poi essere ritrovate sui prigionieri o sui cadaveri. Queste voci causarono grande allarme; in un momento di tensione come quello, le persone erano particolarmente propense a credere in qualsiasi minaccia potenziale, e così queste dicerie furono diffuse con grande insistenza.

Tuttavia, il resto della giornata trascorse in tranquillità; anche durante quella notte di venerdì, e poiché non furono fatte nuove scoperte, la fiducia iniziò a ripristinarsi, e persino i più timidi e disperati respirarono di nuovo sollevati. A Southwark, non meno di tremila abitanti si organizzarono in gruppi di sorveglianza, pattugliando le strade ogni ora. Anche i cittadini non esitarono a seguire un tale esempio: essendo tipico delle persone pacifiche mostrare grande coraggio una volta superato il pericolo, essi divennero estremamente decisi e audaci; non esitavano a interrogare con severità anche i passeggeri più rispettabili, e trattavano in modo molto duro tutti i ragazzi che portavano messaggi, le cameriere e gli apprendisti.

As day deepened into evening, and darkness crept into the nooks and corners of the town as if it were mustering in secret and gathering strength to venture into the open ways, Barnaby sat in his dungeon, wondering at the silence, and listening in vain for the noise and outcry which had ushered in the night of late. Beside him, with his hand in hers, sat one in whose companionship he felt at peace. She was worn, and altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted; but the same to him.

‘Mother,’ he said, after a long silence: ‘how long,—how many days and nights,—shall I be kept here?’

‘Not many, dear. I hope not many.’

‘You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but they don’t mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?’

The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy croak. It said ‘Nobody,’ as plainly as a croak could speak.

‘Who cares for Grip, except you and me?’ said Barnaby, smoothing the bird’s rumpled feathers with his hand. ‘He never speaks in this place; he never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in his dark corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet. But who cares for Grip?’

The raven croaked again—Nobody.

‘And by the way,’ said Barnaby, withdrawing his hand from the bird, and laying it upon his mother’s arm, as he looked eagerly in her face; ‘if they kill me—they may: I heard it said they would—what will become of Grip when I am dead?’

The sound of the word, or the current of his own thoughts, suggested to Grip his old phrase ‘Never say die!’ But he stopped short in the middle of it, drew a dismal cork, and subsided into a faint croak, as if he lacked the heart to get through the shortest sentence.

‘Will they take HIS life as well as mine?’ said Barnaby. ‘I wish they would. If you and I and he could die together, there would be none to feel sorry, or to grieve for us. But do what they will, I don’t fear them, mother!’

‘They will not harm you,’ she said, her tears choking her utterance. ‘They never will harm you, when they know all. I am sure they never will.’

‘Oh! Don’t be too sure of that,’ cried Barnaby, with a strange pleasure in the belief that she was self-deceived, and in his own sagacity. ‘They have marked me from the first. I heard them say so to each other when they brought me to this place last night; and I believe them. Don’t you cry for me. They said that I was bold, and so I am, and so I will be. You may think that I am silly, but I can die as well as another.—I have done no harm, have I?’ he added quickly.

‘None before Heaven,’ she answered.

‘Why then,’ said Barnaby, ‘let them do their worst. You told me once—you—when I asked you what death meant, that it was nothing to be feared, if we did no harm—Aha! mother, you thought I had forgotten that!’

His merry laugh and playful manner smote her to the heart. She drew him closer to her, and besought him to talk to her in whispers and to be very quiet, for it was getting dark, and their time was short, and she would soon have to leave him for the night.

‘You will come to-morrow?’ said Barnaby.

Yes. And every day. And they would never part again.

He joyfully replied that this was well, and what he wished, and what he had felt quite certain she would tell him; and then he asked her where she had been so long, and why she had not come to see him when he had been a great soldier, and ran through the wild schemes he had had for their being rich and living prosperously, and with some faint notion in his mind that she was sad and he had made her so, tried to console and comfort her, and talked of their former life and his old sports and freedom: little dreaming that every word he uttered only increased her sorrow, and that her tears fell faster at the freshened recollection of their lost tranquillity.

‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they heard the man approaching to close the cells for the night, ‘when I spoke to you just now about my father you cried “Hush!” and turned away your head. Why did you do so? Tell me why, in a word. You thought HE was dead. You are not sorry that he is alive and has come back to us. Where is he? Here?’

‘Do not ask any one where he is, or speak about him,’ she made answer.

‘Why not?’ said Barnaby. ‘Because he is a stern man, and talks roughly? Well! I don’t like him, or want to be with him by myself; but why not speak about him?’

‘Because I am sorry that he is alive; sorry that he has come back; and sorry that he and you have ever met. Because, dear Barnaby, the endeavour of my life has been to keep you two asunder.’

‘Father and son asunder! Why?’

‘He has,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘he has shed blood. The time has come when you must know it. He has shed the blood of one who loved him well, and trusted him, and never did him wrong in word or deed.’

Barnaby recoiled in horror, and glancing at his stained wrist for an instant, wrapped it, shuddering, in his dress.

‘But,’ she added hastily as the key turned in the lock, ‘although we shun him, he is your father, dearest, and I am his wretched wife. They seek his life, and he will lose it. It must not be by our means; nay, if we could win him back to penitence, we should be bound to love him yet. Do not seem to know him, except as one who fled with you from the jail, and if they question you about him, do not answer them. God be with you through the night, dear boy! God be with you!’

She tore herself away, and in a few seconds Barnaby was alone. He stood for a long time rooted to the spot, with his face hidden in his hands; then flung himself, sobbing, on his miserable bed.

Man mano che il giorno si trasformava in sera e l’oscurità invadeva ogni angolo della città, come se si stesse radunando in segreto per affrontare le strade aperte, Barnaby sedeva nella sua prigione, meravigliandosi di quel silenzio e ascoltando invano i suoni e le grida che avevano annunciato l’arrivo della notte. Accanto a lui, con la mano nella sua, c’era qualcuno con il cui compagnamento si sentiva in pace. Lei era stanca, cambiata, piena di dolore e con il cuore pesante. Ma per lui restava sempre la stessa.

“Mamma,” disse dopo un lungo silenzio: “Per quanto tempo ancora, per quanti giorni e notti dovrò rimanere qui?”

“Non molti, caro. Spero proprio che non siano molti.”

“Tu speri. Ma le tue speranze non riusciranno a spezzare queste catene. Io spero anch’io, ma a loro non importa nulla. Le persone si aggrappano alle speranze. Ma a chi importa davvero di quelle?”

Il corvo emise un breve, cupo e melancolico gracchiare. Disse “Nessuno”, con la chiarezza che solo un gracchiare può esprimere.

“Chi si preoccupa di Grip, se non tu e io?” disse Barnaby, lisciando con la mano le piume arruffate dell’uccello. “Lui non parla mai in questo posto; non dice una parola nemmeno in prigione. Se ne sta tutto il giorno seduto nel suo angolo buio, a volte sonnecchiando, altre volte fissando la luce che filtra attraverso le sbarre e illumina i suoi occhi luminosi. Come se una scintilla di quei grandi fuochi fosse caduta nella stanza e continuasse ancora ad ardere. Ma chi si preoccupa davvero di Grip?”

Il corvo gracchiò di nuovo. Nessuno.

“E a proposito,” disse Barnaby, togliendo la mano dall’uccello e posandola sul braccio di sua madre, mentre la guardava con ansia; “se mi uccidono, potrebbero farlo: ho sentito dire che lo faranno, cosa ne sarà di Grip quando sarò morto?”

Il suono di quella parola, o il flusso dei suoi stessi pensieri, gli fece venire in mente la sua vecchia espressione: “Mai dire mai!”. Ma si fermò a metà frase, emise un suono debole e sommesso, come se non avesse il coraggio di completare nemmeno una frase così breve.

“Prenderanno anche LA SUA vita, proprio come la mia?” disse Barnaby. “Vorrei che lo facessero. Se tu, io e lui potessimo morire insieme, nessuno si dispererebbe o piangerebbe per noi. Ma facciano pure ciò che vogliono. Non ho paura di loro, madre!”

“Non ti faranno del male,” disse lei, con le lacrime che le impedivano di parlare chiaramente.
“Non ti faranno mai del male, quando sapranno tutto. Ne sono sicura.”

“Oh! Non ne essere troppo sicuro,” gridò Barnaby, provando una strana soddisfazione all’idea che lei si stesse ingannando da sola e che lui fosse davvero astuto. “Mi hanno notato fin dall’inizio. Li ho sentiti dirlo l’uno all’altro quando mi hanno portato in questo posto la scorsa notte; e io ci credo. Non piangere per me. Hanno detto che sono coraggioso, ed è vero: lo sarò sempre. Forse pensi che sia stupido, ma posso morire altrettanto bene di chiunque altro. Non ho fatto del male, vero?” aggiunse in fretta.

“Nessuno prima del Cielo,” rispose lei.

“Allora,” disse Barnaby, “lasciamo che facciano del loro peggio. Mi hai detto una volta, quando ti ho chiesto cosa significasse la morte, che non c’era nulla da temere, purché non facessimo del male. Ahah! Madre, pensavi che me ne fossi dimenticato!”

La sua risata allegra e il suo modo giocoso la colpirono profondamente nel cuore. Lo attirò più vicino a sé e lo pregò di parlare sottovoce e di fare molto silenzio, perché stava facendo buio e il loro tempo era breve; presto avrebbe dovuto lasciarlo per la notte.

“Verrai domani?” chiese Barnaby.

Sì. E ogni giorno. E non si separarono mai più.

Rispose felicemente che tutto andava bene, che era esattamente ciò che desiderava e di cui era abbastanza certo che lei gli avrebbe detto; poi le chiese dove fosse stata per tanto tempo e perché non fosse venuta a trovarlo quando lui era diventato un grande soldato. Le raccontò tutte le sue idee su come diventare ricchi e vivere felicemente, e, con una vaga intuizione che lei potesse essere triste a causa sua, cercò di consolarla parlando del loro passato, dei suoi vecchi giochi e della sua antica libertà. Non immaginava affatto che ogni sua parola aumentasse solo il suo dolore, e che le sue lacrime iniziassero a scendere ancora più copiose al ricordo di quella tranquillità perduta.

“Mamma,” disse Barnaby, mentre sentivano l’uomo avvicinarsi per chiudere le celle per la notte, “quando ti ho parlato poco fa di mio padre, hai detto ‘Taci!’ e hai girato la testa via. Perché l’hai fatto? Dimmelo, in poche parole. Pensavi che fosse morto. Non sei contenta che sia vivo e sia tornato da noi. Dove è? Qui?”

“Non chiedere a nessuno dove si trovi, né parlarne,” rispose lei.

“Perché no?” disse Barnaby. “Perché è un uomo severo e parla in modo brusco? Beh. Non mi piace, né voglio stare da solo con lui; ma perché non parlare di lui?”

“Perché mi dispiace che sia ancora vivo; mi dispiace che sia tornato. E mi dispiace anche che voi due vi siate mai incontrati. Perché, caro Barnaby, lo scopo della mia vita è sempre stato quello di tenervi lontani l’uno dall’altro.”

“Padre e figlio separati. Perché?”

“L’ha fatto,” sussurrò lei all’orecchio suo, “ha versato del sangue. È arrivato il momento in cui devi saperlo. Ha versato il sangue di qualcuno che lo amava molto, che aveva fiducia in lui e che non gli ha mai fatto del male, né con le parole né con i fatti.”

Barnaby indietreggiò, inorridito; dopo aver gettato uno sguardo al suo polso macchiato, lo avvolse tremando nella sua gonna.

“Ma,” aggiunse in fretta mentre la chiave girava nella serratura, “anche se lo evitiamo, lui è tuo padre, caro, e io sono sua moglie sventurata. Vogliono ucciderlo, e lui perderà la vita. Ma non deve accadere per colpa nostra; anzi, se riuscissimo a farlo tornare alla penitenza, dovremmo pur amarlo ancora. Fai finta di non conoscerlo, tranne come colui che è fuggito con te dalla prigione. E se qualcuno ti chiedesse di lui, non rispondere. Che Dio sia con te questa notte, caro ragazzo. Che Dio sia con te!”

Si allontanò di scatto, e in pochi secondi Barnaby rimase sicuro. Rimase fermo lì per molto tempo, con il viso nascosto tra le mani; poi, singhiozzando, si gettò sul suo misero letto.

But the moon came slowly up in all her gentle glory, and the stars looked out, and through the small compass of the grated window, as through the narrow crevice of one good deed in a murky life of guilt, the face of Heaven shone bright and merciful. He raised his head; gazed upward at the quiet sky, which seemed to smile upon the earth in sadness, as if the night, more thoughtful than the day, looked down in sorrow on the sufferings and evil deeds of men; and felt its peace sink deep into his heart. He, a poor idiot, caged in his narrow cell, was as much lifted up to God, while gazing on the mild light, as the freest and most favoured man in all the spacious city; and in his ill-remembered prayer, and in the fragment of the childish hymn, with which he sung and crooned himself asleep, there breathed as true a spirit as ever studied homily expressed, or old cathedral arches echoed.

As his mother crossed a yard on her way out, she saw, through a grated door which separated it from another court, her husband, walking round and round, with his hands folded on his breast, and his head hung down. She asked the man who conducted her, if she might speak a word with this prisoner. Yes, but she must be quick for he was locking up for the night, and there was but a minute or so to spare. Saying this, he unlocked the door, and bade her go in.

It grated harshly as it turned upon its hinges, but he was deaf to the noise, and still walked round and round the little court, without raising his head or changing his attitude in the least. She spoke to him, but her voice was weak, and failed her. At length she put herself in his track, and when he came near, stretched out her hand and touched him.

He started backward, trembling from head to foot; but seeing who it was, demanded why she came there. Before she could reply, he spoke again.

‘Am I to live or die? Do you murder too, or spare?’

‘My son—our son,’ she answered, ‘is in this prison.’

‘What is that to me?’ he cried, stamping impatiently on the stone pavement. ‘I know it. He can no more aid me than I can aid him. If you are come to talk of him, begone!’

As he spoke he resumed his walk, and hurried round the court as before. When he came again to where she stood, he stopped, and said,

‘Am I to live or die? Do you repent?’

‘Oh!—do YOU?’ she answered. ‘Will you, while time remains? Do not believe that I could save you, if I dared.’

‘Say if you would,’ he answered with an oath, as he tried to disengage himself and pass on. ‘Say if you would.’

‘Listen to me for one moment,’ she returned; ‘for but a moment. I am but newly risen from a sick-bed, from which I never hoped to rise again. The best among us think, at such a time, of good intentions half-performed and duties left undone. If I have ever, since that fatal night, omitted to pray for your repentance before death—if I omitted, even then, anything which might tend to urge it on you when the horror of your crime was fresh—if, in our later meeting, I yielded to the dread that was upon me, and forgot to fall upon my knees and solemnly adjure you, in the name of him you sent to his account with Heaven, to prepare for the retribution which must come, and which is stealing on you now—I humbly before you, and in the agony of supplication in which you see me, beseech that you will let me make atonement.’

‘What is the meaning of your canting words?’ he answered roughly. ‘Speak so that I may understand you.’

‘I will,’ she answered, ‘I desire to. Bear with me for a moment more. The hand of Him who set His curse on murder, is heavy on us now. You cannot doubt it. Our son, our innocent boy, on whom His anger fell before his birth, is in this place in peril of his life—brought here by your guilt; yes, by that alone, as Heaven sees and knows, for he has been led astray in the darkness of his intellect, and that is the terrible consequence of your crime.’

‘If you come, woman-like, to load me with reproaches—’ he muttered, again endeavouring to break away.

‘I do not. I have a different purpose. You must hear it. If not to-night, to-morrow; if not to-morrow, at another time. You MUST hear it. Husband, escape is hopeless—impossible.’

‘You tell me so, do you?’ he said, raising his manacled hand, and shaking it. ‘You!’

‘Yes,’ she said, with indescribable earnestness. ‘But why?’

‘To make me easy in this jail. To make the time ‘twixt this and death, pass pleasantly. For my good—yes, for my good, of course,’ he said, grinding his teeth, and smiling at her with a livid face.

‘Not to load you with reproaches,’ she replied; ‘not to aggravate the tortures and miseries of your condition, not to give you one hard word, but to restore you to peace and hope. Husband, dear husband, if you will but confess this dreadful crime; if you will but implore forgiveness of Heaven and of those whom you have wronged on earth; if you will dismiss these vain uneasy thoughts, which never can be realised, and will rely on Penitence and on the Truth, I promise you, in the great name of the Creator, whose image you have defaced, that He will comfort and console you. And for myself,’ she cried, clasping her hands, and looking upward, ‘I swear before Him, as He knows my heart and reads it now, that from that hour I will love and cherish you as I did of old, and watch you night and day in the short interval that will remain to us, and soothe you with my truest love and duty, and pray with you, that one threatening judgment may be arrested, and that our boy may be spared to bless God, in his poor way, in the free air and light!’

He fell back and gazed at her while she poured out these words, as though he were for a moment awed by her manner, and knew not what to do. But anger and fear soon got the mastery of him, and he spurned her from him.

Ma la luna sorse lentamente, con tutta la sua dolce maestosità; le stelle brillavano intorno. E attraverso quel piccolo riquadro della finestra, come attraverso una stretta fessura in una vita piena di peccato, il volto del Cielo splendeva chiaro e misericordioso. Alzò lo sguardo verso il cielo silenzioso, che sembrava sorridere tristemente sulla terra. Come se la notte, più riflessiva del giorno, guardasse con dolore le sofferenze e i malefici degli uomini. Sentì la sua pace penetrare profondamente nel suo cuore. Lui, un povero idiota rinchiuso in quella stretta cella, si sentiva elevato verso Dio tanto quanto l’uomo più libero e favorito di tutta quella vasta città; e nella sua preghiera appena ricordata, nel frammento di quel canto infantile con cui si addormentava, risuonava uno spirito altrettanto vero di quelli espressi nelle omelie o che echeggiavano negli antichi archi delle cattedrali.

Mentre sua madre attraversava il cortile per uscire, vide, attraverso una porta a grate che lo separava da un altro cortile, suo marito che camminava avanti e indietro, con le mani incrociate sul petto e la testa bassa. Chiese all’uomo che la accompagnava se potesse parlare per un momento con quel prigioniero. “Sì”, le rispose, “ma deve sbrigarsi: sta per chiudere a notte e le resta solo un minuto o poco”. Detto questo, aprì la porta e le fece entrare.

Si aprì con un rumore stridulo sui suoi cardini, ma lui era sordo a quel suono e continuava a camminare avanti e indietro nel piccolo cortile, senza alzare la testa né cambiare minimamente la sua posizione. Lei gli parlò, ma la sua voce era debole e le mancava la forza per proseguire. Alla fine lo seguì, e quando lui si avvicinò, tese la mano e lo toccò.

Iniziò a indietreggiare, tremando dalla testa ai piedi; ma vedendo chi fosse, le chiese perché fosse venuta lì. Prima che potesse rispondere, lui parlò di nuovo.

“Devo vivere o morire? Anche voi uccidete, o risparmiate?”

“Mio figlio, nostro figlio,” rispose lei, “è in questa prigione.”

“Cosa significa tutto questo per me?”, gridò, battendo impazientemente il piede sul selciato di pietra. “Lo so bene: lui non può aiutarmi più di quanto io possa aiutarlo lui. Se siete venuti a parlare di lui, andatevene!”

Mentre parlava, riprese a camminare e attraversò di fretta il cortile, come prima. Quando tornò nel punto in cui lei stava, si fermò e disse:

Devo vivere o morire? Ti penti?

“Oh, davvero?” rispose lei. “Lo farai, finché c’è ancora tempo? Non credere che potrei salvarti, anche se lo volessi.”

“Dì pure se lo vuoi,” rispose lui giurando, mentre cercava di liberarsi e andarsene. “Dì pure se lo vuoi.”

“Ascoltami per un momento solo,” riprese; “solo per un momento. Sono appena risalita dal letto di malattia, dal quale non speravo mai più di alzarmi. I migliori tra noi, in momenti del genere, pensano a buone intenzioni rimaste incompiute e a doveri lasciati in sospeso. Se da quella fatale notte ho mai trascurato di pregare per il tuo pentimento prima della morte, se anche allora ho omesso qualcosa che potesse spingerti a pentirti, mentre l’orrore del tuo crimine era ancora fresco, se, nel nostro incontro successivo, ho ceduto al terrore che mi assaliva e ho dimenticato di inginocchiarmi e di supplicarti solennemente, in nome di colui che hai mandato davanti a Dio per essere giudicato, affinché ti preparassi alla punizione che ormai si avvicina, allora ti prego umilmente, nella disperazione della mia supplica, di permettermi di espiare.”

“Che significato hanno queste tue parole cantate?”, rispose bruscamente. “Parla in modo che io possa capirti.”

“Lo farò,” rispose lei, “lo desidero fare. Permettetemi ancora un momento. La mano Di Colui che ha maledetto l’omicidio grava ora su di noi; non potete dubitarne. Nostro figlio, il nostro innocente ragazzo, su cui la Sua ira è caduta prima ancora della sua nascita, si trova in questo luogo, minacciato di morte. Portato qui dalla vostra colpa; sì, soltanto per quella colpa, come il Cielo vede e sa. È stato traviato nell’oscurità della sua mente. E questa è la terribile conseguenza del vostro crimine.”

“Se vieni qui, comportandoti come una donna, per riempirmi di rimproveri, ” mormorò, cercando ancora di liberarsi.

“Non lo farò. Ho un altro scopo. Dovete ascoltarmi. Se non stasera, allora domani; se non domani, in un’altra occasione. DOVETE assolutamente ascoltarmi. Marito, fuggire è impossibile, senza speranza.”

“Lo dici tu, vero?”, disse, alzando la mano incatenata e scuotendola. “Tu!”

“Sì,” disse lei, con un’onestà indescrivibile. “Ma perché?”

“Per rendere la mia vita più facile in questa prigione. Per far sì che il tempo trascorso tra ora e la morte sia piacevole. Per il mio bene, sì, per il mio bene, naturalmente,” disse, stringendo i denti e sorridendole con un viso pallido.

“Non per caricarti di rimproveri,” rispose lei; “non per aggravare le torture e le miserie della tua condizione, non per dire una parola dura, ma per restituirti la pace e la speranza. Marito mio caro, se solo confesserai questo terribile crimine; se solo implorerai il perdono del Cielo e di coloro che hai offeso sulla terra; se solo abbandonerai queste vane e angosciose idee, che mai potranno realizzarsi, e confiderai nella Penitenza e nella Verità, ti prometto, nel grande nome del Creatore, il cui volto hai offeso, che Lui ti consolerà e ti darà conforto. E per quanto mi riguarda,” gridò, stringendo le mani e alzando lo sguardo verso l’alto, “giuro davanti a Lui, poiché Egli conosce il mio cuore e lo legge in questo momento, che da quell’ora ti amerò e ti custodirò come un tempo; ti seguirò giorno e notte nel breve periodo di vita che ci rimane, e ti consolerò con il mio più sincero amore e dovere. E pregherò insieme a te affinché quel terribile giudizio venga sospeso, e affinché nostro figlio possa essere risparmiato, per poter lodare Dio nel suo modo semplice, all’aria aperta e alla luce del sole!”

Si appoggiò indietro e la fissò mentre lei pronunciava queste parole, come se per un momento fosse stato colpito dal suo modo di fare e non sapesse cosa fare. Ma presto la rabbia e la paura presero il sopravvento su di lui, e la allontanò da sé.

‘Begone!’ he cried. ‘Leave me! You plot, do you! You plot to get speech with me, and let them know I am the man they say I am. A curse on you and on your boy.’

‘On him the curse has already fallen,’ she replied, wringing her hands.

‘Let it fall heavier. Let it fall on one and all. I hate you both. The worst has come to me. The only comfort that I seek or I can have, will be the knowledge that it comes to you. Now go!’

She would have urged him gently, even then, but he menaced her with his chain.

‘I say go—I say it for the last time. The gallows has me in its grasp, and it is a black phantom that may urge me on to something more. Begone! I curse the hour that I was born, the man I slew, and all the living world!’

In a paroxysm of wrath, and terror, and the fear of death, he broke from her, and rushed into the darkness of his cell, where he cast himself jangling down upon the stone floor, and smote it with his ironed hands. The man returned to lock the dungeon door, and having done so, carried her away.

On that warm, balmy night in June, there were glad faces and light hearts in all quarters of the town, and sleep, banished by the late horrors, was doubly welcomed. On that night, families made merry in their houses, and greeted each other on the common danger they had escaped; and those who had been denounced, ventured into the streets; and they who had been plundered, got good shelter. Even the timorous Lord Mayor, who was summoned that night before the Privy Council to answer for his conduct, came back contented; observing to all his friends that he had got off very well with a reprimand, and repeating with huge satisfaction his memorable defence before the Council, ‘that such was his temerity, he thought death would have been his portion.’

On that night, too, more of the scattered remnants of the mob were traced to their lurking-places, and taken; and in the hospitals, and deep among the ruins they had made, and in the ditches, and fields, many unshrouded wretches lay dead: envied by those who had been active in the disturbances, and who pillowed their doomed heads in the temporary jails.

And in the Tower, in a dreary room whose thick stone walls shut out the hum of life, and made a stillness which the records left by former prisoners with those silent witnesses seemed to deepen and intensify; remorseful for every act that had been done by every man among the cruel crowd; feeling for the time their guilt his own, and their lives put in peril by himself; and finding, amidst such reflections, little comfort in fanaticism, or in his fancied call; sat the unhappy author of all—Lord George Gordon.

He had been made prisoner that evening. ‘If you are sure it’s me you want,’ he said to the officers, who waited outside with the warrant for his arrest on a charge of High Treason, ‘I am ready to accompany you—’ which he did without resistance. He was conducted first before the Privy Council, and afterwards to the Horse Guards, and then was taken by way of Westminster Bridge, and back over London Bridge (for the purpose of avoiding the main streets), to the Tower, under the strongest guard ever known to enter its gates with a single prisoner.

Of all his forty thousand men, not one remained to bear him company. Friends, dependents, followers,—none were there. His fawning secretary had played the traitor; and he whose weakness had been goaded and urged on by so many for their own purposes, was desolate and alone.

“Vattene!” gridò. “Lasciami in pace! Stai tramando qualcosa, vero? Cerchi di parlare con me per far sapere a tutti che sono davvero l’uomo che dicono io sia. Maledetto tu e maledetto tuo figlio.”

“La maledizione è già caduta su di lui,” rispose lei, stringendosi le mani.

“Lascia che cada più forte. Lascia che colpisca tutti quanti. Vi odio entrambi. Il peggio mi è accaduto. L’unica consolazione che cerco, o che posso avere, è sapere che ora è successo anche a voi. Ora andate!”

Anche in quel momento, lei avrebbe cercato di persuaderlo con dolcezza, ma lui la minacciò con la sua catena.

“Dico di andare, lo dico per l’ultima volta. La forca mi ha già afferrato; è un oscuro fantasma che potrebbe spingermi a compiere qualcosa di ancora più terribile. Vattene! Maledico l’ora in cui sono nato, l’uomo che ho ucciso, e tutto il mondo vivente!”

In un parossismo di rabbia, terrore e >paura della morte, si staccò da lei e corse nella oscurità della sua cella, dove si gettò a terra sul pavimento di pietra, colpendolo con le sue mani. L’uomo tornò poi a chiudere la porta del carcere e, dopo averlo fatto, se ne andò portandola via con sé.

In quella calda e serena notte di giugno, in tutte le parti della città si vedevano volti felici e cuori leggeri; il )sogno, scacciato dalle terribili esperienze appena trascorse, era accolto con doppio entusiasmo. Quella notte, le famiglie si rallegravano nelle loro case, congratulandosi a vicenda per essere scampate al pericolo comune; coloro che erano stati denunciati osavano uscire in strada, e quelli che avevano subito rapine trovavano un rifugio sicuro. Anche il timido Presidente del Consiglio Municipale, convocato quella notte davanti al Consiglio Privato per rispondere delle sue azioni, tornò soddisfatto, raccontando a tutti i suoi amici di essere uscito indenne da una semplice rimprovera, e ripetendo con grande compiacimento la sua memorabile difesa davanti al Consiglio: “Data la mia temerarietà, pensavo che la morte fosse il mio destino”.

Anche quella notte, molti dei resti sparsi della folla furono rintracciati nei loro nascondigli e catturati; negli ospedali, tra le rovine che avevano causato, nelle fosse e nei campi, giacevano morti molti di quegli sventurati: oggetto d’invidia da parte di coloro che avevano partecipato attivamente ai disordini e che ora riposavano nelle prigioni temporanee.

E nella Torre, in una stanza desolata le cui spesse mura di pietra isolavano il rumore della vita esterna, creando un silenzio che sembrava essere ancora più profondo e intenso a causa dei ricordi lasciati da prigionieri precedenti; pieno di rimorso per ogni azione compiuta da ognuno di quegli uomini crudeli; sentendo come se la propria colpa fosse anche quella loro, e come se le loro vite fossero in pericolo a causa delle sue stesse decisioni; e trovando, tra tali riflessioni, poca consolazione né nel fanatismo né nella sua presunta vocazione, così sedeva l’infelice autore di tutto ciò: Lord George Gordon.

Quella sera fu fatto prigioniero. “Se siete sicuri che sia proprio me che volete,” disse agli ufficiali che lo aspettavano fuori con l’ordine di arresto per alto tradimento, “sono pronto ad accompagnarvi, ” E così fece, senza opporre resistenza. Fu prima portato davanti al Consiglio Privato, poi alle Guardie a Cavallo; successivamente fu condotto attraverso il Ponte di Westminster e, per evitare le strade principali, attraversò nuovamente il Ponte di Londra fino alla Torre di Londra, sotto la scorta più stretta mai vista prima per l’arresto di un singolo prigioniero.

Di tutti i suoi quarantamila uomini, nessuno rimase ad accompagnarlo. Amici, dipendenti, seguaci, nessuno c’era. Il suo servitore obbediente lo aveva tradito; e lui, la cui debolezza era stata sfruttata da tanti per i loro propri scopi, si trovava solo e abbandonato.

Chapter 74

Mr Dennis, having been made prisoner late in the evening, was removed to a neighbouring round-house for that night, and carried before a justice for examination on the next day, Saturday. The charges against him being numerous and weighty, and it being in particular proved, by the testimony of Gabriel Varden, that he had shown a special desire to take his life, he was committed for trial. Moreover he was honoured with the distinction of being considered a chief among the insurgents, and received from the magistrate’s lips the complimentary assurance that he was in a position of imminent danger, and would do well to prepare himself for the worst.

To say that Mr Dennis’s modesty was not somewhat startled by these honours, or that he was altogether prepared for so flattering a reception, would be to claim for him a greater amount of stoical philosophy than even he possessed. Indeed this gentleman’s stoicism was of that not uncommon kind, which enables a man to bear with exemplary fortitude the afflictions of his friends, but renders him, by way of counterpoise, rather selfish and sensitive in respect of any that happen to befall himself. It is therefore no disparagement to the great officer in question to state, without disguise or concealment, that he was at first very much alarmed, and that he betrayed divers emotions of fear, until his reasoning powers came to his relief, and set before him a more hopeful prospect.

In proportion as Mr Dennis exercised these intellectual qualities with which he was gifted, in reviewing his best chances of coming off handsomely and with small personal inconvenience, his spirits rose, and his confidence increased. When he remembered the great estimation in which his office was held, and the constant demand for his services; when he bethought himself, how the Statute Book regarded him as a kind of Universal Medicine applicable to men, women, and children, of every age and variety of criminal constitution; and how high he stood, in his official capacity, in the favour of the Crown, and both Houses of Parliament, the Mint, the Bank of England, and the Judges of the land; when he recollected that whatever Ministry was in or out, he remained their peculiar pet and panacea, and that for his sake England stood single and conspicuous among the civilised nations of the earth: when he called these things to mind and dwelt upon them, he felt certain that the national gratitude MUST relieve him from the consequences of his late proceedings, and would certainly restore him to his old place in the happy social system.

With these crumbs, or as one may say, with these whole loaves of comfort to regale upon, Mr Dennis took his place among the escort that awaited him, and repaired to jail with a manly indifference. Arriving at Newgate, where some of the ruined cells had been hastily fitted up for the safe keeping of rioters, he was warmly received by the turnkeys, as an unusual and interesting case, which agreeably relieved their monotonous duties. In this spirit, he was fettered with great care, and conveyed into the interior of the prison.

‘Brother,’ cried the hangman, as, following an officer, he traversed under these novel circumstances the remains of passages with which he was well acquainted, ‘am I going to be along with anybody?’

‘If you’d have left more walls standing, you’d have been alone,’ was the reply. ‘As it is, we’re cramped for room, and you’ll have company.’

‘Well,’ returned Dennis, ‘I don’t object to company, brother. I rather like company. I was formed for society, I was.’

‘That’s rather a pity, an’t it?’ said the man.

‘No,’ answered Dennis, ‘I’m not aware that it is. Why should it be a pity, brother?’

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said the man carelessly. ‘I thought that was what you meant. Being formed for society, and being cut off in your flower, you know—’

‘I say,’ interposed the other quickly, ‘what are you talking of? Don’t. Who’s a-going to be cut off in their flowers?’

‘Oh, nobody particular. I thought you was, perhaps,’ said the man.

Mr Dennis wiped his face, which had suddenly grown very hot, and remarking in a tremulous voice to his conductor that he had always been fond of his joke, followed him in silence until he stopped at a door.

‘This is my quarters, is it?’ he asked facetiously.

‘This is the shop, sir,’ replied his friend.

He was walking in, but not with the best possible grace, when he suddenly stopped, and started back.

‘Halloa!’ said the officer. ‘You’re nervous.’

‘Nervous!’ whispered Dennis in great alarm. ‘Well I may be. Shut the door.’

‘I will, when you’re in,’ returned the man.

‘But I can’t go in there,’ whispered Dennis. ‘I can’t be shut up with that man. Do you want me to be throttled, brother?’

The officer seemed to entertain no particular desire on the subject one way or other, but briefly remarking that he had his orders, and intended to obey them, pushed him in, turned the key, and retired.

Dennis stood trembling with his back against the door, and involuntarily raising his arm to defend himself, stared at a man, the only other tenant of the cell, who lay, stretched at his full length, upon a stone bench, and who paused in his deep breathing as if he were about to wake. But he rolled over on one side, let his arm fall negligently down, drew a long sigh, and murmuring indistinctly, fell fast asleep again.

Relieved in some degree by this, the hangman took his eyes for an instant from the slumbering figure, and glanced round the cell in search of some ‘vantage-ground or weapon of defence. There was nothing moveable within it, but a clumsy table which could not be displaced without noise, and a heavy chair. Stealing on tiptoe towards this latter piece of furniture, he retired with it into the remotest corner, and intrenching himself behind it, watched the enemy with the utmost vigilance and caution.

Capitolo 74

Il signor Dennis, fatto prigioniero verso la fine della serata, fu trasferito in una vicina casa circolare per quella notte e portato davanti a un giudice il giorno seguente, sabato. Le accuse contro di lui erano numerose e gravi; in particolare, grazie alla testimonianza di Gabriel Varden, fu dimostrato che aveva mostrato un forte desiderio di porre fine alla propria vita. Pertanto fu messo sotto processo. Inoltre, gli fu riconosciuto il ruolo di leader tra i ribelli e il magistrato gli assicurò che si trovava in una situazione di grave pericolo, consigliandogli di prepararsi al peggio.

Affermare che la modestia del signor Dennis non sia stata in qualche modo sorpresa da queste onori, o che fosse completamente preparato a un’accoglienza così lusinghiera, equivarrebbe ad attribuirgli una dose di stoica filosofia maggiore di quella che in realtà possedesse. Infatti, lo stoicismo di questo gentiluomo apparteneva a quel tipo non raro che permette a un uomo di sopportare con esemplare forza le sofferenze dei propri amici, ma che, come contrappeso, lo rende piuttosto egoista e sensibile riguardo alle avversità che potrebbero colpirlo personalmente. Pertanto, non è affatto una critica nei confronti di questo importante funzionario a riconoscere, senza alcun velo o nascondimento, che all’inizio fu molto allarmato e manifestò diverse emozioni di >paura, fino a quando le sue facoltà razionali non intervennero per tranquillizzarlo, offrendogli prospettive più incoraggianti.

Nella misura in cui il signor Dennis metteva a frutto queste qualità intellettuali di cui era dotato, riflettendo sulle sue migliori possibilità di ottenere buoni risultati con il minimo disagio personale, il suo spirito si sollevava e la sua fiducia aumentava. Quando ricordava l’alta stima in cui il suo incarico era tenuto e la costante richiesta dei suoi servizi; quando pensava a come lo Statuto lo considerasse una sorta di “medicina universale” adatta a uomini, donne e bambini di ogni età e con diverse caratteristiche criminali; e quando si rendeva conto di quanto fosse apprezzato, nel suo ruolo ufficiale, dalla Corona, dalle due Camere del Parlamento, dalla Zecca, dalla Banca d’Inghilterra e dai giudici del paese; quando ricordava che, qualunque fosse il governo al potere, lui rimaneva la loro “panacea” preferita e che, per merito suo, l’Inghilterra si distingueva tra le nazioni civili della terra. Quando rifletteva su tutte queste cose, era certo che la gratitudine nazionale lo avrebbe certamente liberato dalle conseguenze delle sue azioni passate e lo avrebbe riportato al suo vecchio posto in quel felice sistema sociale.

Con questi “briciole”, o per meglio dire, con queste vere e proprie “fette di conforto” da offrire, il signor Dennis prese posto tra la scorta che lo aspettava e si recò in prigione con una sorta di disinvolta indifferenza. Arrivato a Newgate, dove alcune celle in rovina erano state frettolosamente adattate per ospitare i rivoltosi, fu accolto calorosamente dai carcerieri: considerato un caso insolito e interessante, il suo arrivo alleviò piacevolmente le loro noiose mansioni. Con grande cura, venne incatenato e portato all’interno della prigione.

“Fratello,” gridò il boia, mentre, seguendo un ufficiale, attraversava in queste nuove circostanze i resti di corridoi che conosceva molto bene, “devo andare insieme a qualcuno?”

“Se avessi lasciato più muri in piedi, saresti stato solo”, fu la risposta. “Così com’è, ci manca lo spazio, e avrai compagnia.”

“Beh,” rispose Dennis, “non ho nulla in contrario alla compagnia, fratello. Anzi, mi piace molto. Sono stato creato per vivere in società, dopotutto.”

“È davvero un peccato, non credi?” disse l’uomo.

“No,” rispose Dennis, “non ne sono consapevole. Perché dovrebbe essere una cosa da compatire, fratello?”

“Oh! Non lo so,” disse l’uomo con noncuranza. “Pensavo che fosse quello che volevi dire. Essere fatti per la società, e poi essere interrotti nel loro sviluppo, capisci, ”

“Dico io,” intervenne l’altro rapidamente, “di cosa stai parlando? Non farlo. Chi mai verrebbe privato delle sue >fioriture?”

“Ah, nessuno in particolare. Pensavo che fossi tu, forse,” disse l’uomo.

Il signor Dennis si asciugò il viso, che all’improvviso era diventato molto caldo, e, con voce tremante, disse al suo direttore d’orchestra che aveva sempre amato quella sua battuta; poi lo seguì in silenzio fino a quando non si fermò davanti a una porta.

“Questi sono i miei alloggi, giusto?” chiese scherzando.

“Questa è la bottega, signore,” rispose il suo amico.

Stava entrando, ma non con la massima grazia possibile; all’improvviso si fermò e tornò indietro.

“Salve!”, disse l’ufficiale. “Sei nervoso”.

“Nervoso!”, sussurrò Dennis, molto preoccupato. “Beh, forse lo sono. Chiudi la porta.”

“Lo farò, quando sarai qui,” rispose l’uomo.

“Ma non posso entrare lì dentro,” sussurrò Dennis. “Non posso rimanere chiuso con quell’uomo. Vuoi davvero che mi strangolino, fratello?”

L’ufficiale non sembrava avere alcun particolare desiderio al riguardo, ma dopo aver brevemente affermato di avere ricevuto gli ordini e di intenzione ad attuarli, lo fece entrare, girò la chiave e se ne andò.

Dennis stava in piedi, tremante, appoggiato alla porta; involontariamente alzò il braccio per difendersi e fissò un uomo, l’unico altro detenuto della cella. Quell’uomo giaceva disteso su una panca di pietra, e per un momento interruppe il suo respiro profondo, come se stesse per svegliarsi. Ma poi rotolò su un lato, lasciò cadere il braccio con noncuranza, emise un lungo sospiro e, mormorando qualcosa in modo indistinto, si addormentò di nuovo.

In parte sollevato da questo, l’impiccatore distolse per un istante lo sguardo dalla figura addormentata e guardò intorno nella cella alla ricerca di qualche “punto vantaggioso o arma di difesa”. Non c’era nulla di mobile all’interno, se non un tavolo goffo che non poteva essere spostato senza fare rumore, e una sedia pesante. Avanzando in punta di piedi verso quest’ultima, si ritirò nell’angolo più remoto della cella, si nascose dietro di essa e osservò l’avversario con la massima attenzione e cautela.

The sleeping man was Hugh; and perhaps it was not unnatural for Dennis to feel in a state of very uncomfortable suspense, and to wish with his whole soul that he might never wake again. Tired of standing, he crouched down in his corner after some time, and rested on the cold pavement; but although Hugh’s breathing still proclaimed that he was sleeping soundly, he could not trust him out of his sight for an instant. He was so afraid of him, and of some sudden onslaught, that he was not content to see his closed eyes through the chair-back, but every now and then, rose stealthily to his feet, and peered at him with outstretched neck, to assure himself that he really was still asleep, and was not about to spring upon him when he was off his guard.

He slept so long and so soundly, that Mr Dennis began to think he might sleep on until the turnkey visited them. He was congratulating himself upon these promising appearances, and blessing his stars with much fervour, when one or two unpleasant symptoms manifested themselves: such as another motion of the arm, another sigh, a restless tossing of the head. Then, just as it seemed that he was about to fall heavily to the ground from his narrow bed, Hugh’s eyes opened.

It happened that his face was turned directly towards his unexpected visitor. He looked lazily at him for some half-dozen seconds without any aspect of surprise or recognition; then suddenly jumped up, and with a great oath pronounced his name.

‘Keep off, brother, keep off!’ cried Dennis, dodging behind the chair. ‘Don’t do me a mischief. I’m a prisoner like you. I haven’t the free use of my limbs. I’m quite an old man. Don’t hurt me!’

He whined out the last three words in such piteous accents, that Hugh, who had dragged away the chair, and aimed a blow at him with it, checked himself, and bade him get up.

‘I’ll get up certainly, brother,’ cried Dennis, anxious to propitiate him by any means in his power. ‘I’ll comply with any request of yours, I’m sure. There—I’m up now. What can I do for you? Only say the word, and I’ll do it.’

‘What can you do for me!’ cried Hugh, clutching him by the collar with both hands, and shaking him as though he were bent on stopping his breath by that means. ‘What have you done for me?’

‘The best. The best that could be done,’ returned the hangman.

Hugh made him no answer, but shaking him in his strong grip until his teeth chattered in his head, cast him down upon the floor, and flung himself on the bench again.

‘If it wasn’t for the comfort it is to me, to see you here,’ he muttered, ‘I’d have crushed your head against it; I would.’

It was some time before Dennis had breath enough to speak, but as soon as he could resume his propitiatory strain, he did so.

‘I did the best that could be done, brother,’ he whined; ‘I did indeed. I was forced with two bayonets and I don’t know how many bullets on each side of me, to point you out. If you hadn’t been taken, you’d have been shot; and what a sight that would have been—a fine young man like you!’

‘Will it be a better sight now?’ asked Hugh, raising his head, with such a fierce expression, that the other durst not answer him just then.

‘A deal better,’ said Dennis meekly, after a pause. ‘First, there’s all the chances of the law, and they’re five hundred strong. We may get off scot-free. Unlikelier things than that have come to pass. Even if we shouldn’t, and the chances fail, we can but be worked off once: and when it’s well done, it’s so neat, so skilful, so captiwating, if that don’t seem too strong a word, that you’d hardly believe it could be brought to sich perfection. Kill one’s fellow-creeturs off, with muskets!—Pah!’ and his nature so revolted at the bare idea, that he spat upon the dungeon pavement.

His warming on this topic, which to one unacquainted with his pursuits and tastes appeared like courage; together with his artful suppression of his own secret hopes, and mention of himself as being in the same condition with Hugh; did more to soothe that ruffian than the most elaborate arguments could have done, or the most abject submission. He rested his arms upon his knees, and stooping forward, looked from beneath his shaggy hair at Dennis, with something of a smile upon his face.

‘The fact is, brother,’ said the hangman, in a tone of greater confidence, ‘that you got into bad company. The man that was with you was looked after more than you, and it was him I wanted. As to me, what have I got by it? Here we are, in one and the same plight.’

‘Lookee, rascal,’ said Hugh, contracting his brows, ‘I’m not altogether such a shallow blade but I know you expected to get something by it, or you wouldn’t have done it. But it’s done, and you’re here, and it will soon be all over with you and me; and I’d as soon die as live, or live as die. Why should I trouble myself to have revenge on you? To eat, and drink, and go to sleep, as long as I stay here, is all I care for. If there was but a little more sun to bask in, than can find its way into this cursed place, I’d lie in it all day, and not trouble myself to sit or stand up once. That’s all the care I have for myself. Why should I care for YOU?’

Finishing this speech with a growl like the yawn of a wild beast, he stretched himself upon the bench again, and closed his eyes once more.

After looking at him in silence for some moments, Dennis, who was greatly relieved to find him in this mood, drew the chair towards his rough couch and sat down near him—taking the precaution, however, to keep out of the range of his brawny arm.

‘Well said, brother; nothing could be better said,’ he ventured to observe. ‘We’ll eat and drink of the best, and sleep our best, and make the best of it every way. Anything can be got for money. Let’s spend it merrily.’

‘Ay,’ said Hugh, coiling himself into a new position.—‘Where is it?’

‘Why, they took mine from me at the lodge,’ said Mr Dennis; ‘but mine’s a peculiar case.’

‘Is it? They took mine too.’

‘Why then, I tell you what, brother,’ Dennis began. ‘You must look up your friends—’

‘My friends!’ cried Hugh, starting up and resting on his hands. ‘Where are my friends?’

‘Your relations then,’ said Dennis.

‘Ha ha ha!’ laughed Hugh, waving one arm above his head. ‘He talks of friends to me—talks of relations to a man whose mother died the death in store for her son, and left him, a hungry brat, without a face he knew in all the world! He talks of this to me!’

‘Brother,’ cried the hangman, whose features underwent a sudden change, ‘you don’t mean to say—’

‘I mean to say,’ Hugh interposed, ‘that they hung her up at Tyburn. What was good enough for her, is good enough for me. Let them do the like by me as soon as they please—the sooner the better. Say no more to me. I’m going to sleep.’

‘But I want to speak to you; I want to hear more about that,’ said Dennis, changing colour.

‘If you’re a wise man,’ growled Hugh, raising his head to look at him with a frown, ‘you’ll hold your tongue. I tell you I’m going to sleep.’

Dennis venturing to say something more in spite of this caution, the desperate fellow struck at him with all his force, and missing him, lay down again with many muttered oaths and imprecations, and turned his face towards the wall. After two or three ineffectual twitches at his dress, which he was hardy enough to venture upon, notwithstanding his dangerous humour, Mr Dennis, who burnt, for reasons of his own, to pursue the conversation, had no alternative but to sit as patiently as he could: waiting his further pleasure.

L’uomo addormentato era Hugh; e forse non era affatto strano che Dennis si trovasse in uno stato di grande ansia e desiderasse con tutta la sua ‘anima che Hugh non si svegliasse mai più. Stanco di stare in piedi, dopo un po’ si accovacciò nell’angolo, appoggiandosi al freddo marciapiede; ma anche se il respiro di Hugh indicava chiaramente che dormiva profondamente, non osava allontanarsi da lui nemmeno per un istante. Aveva troppa paura di lui e di qualche attacco improvviso; quindi non si accontentava di vedere i suoi occhi chiusi attraverso lo schienale della sedia, ma ogni tanto si alzava furtivamente in piedi e lo osservava attentamente, per assicurarsi che davvero continuasse a dormire e non stesse per attaccarlo mentre era indifeso.

Dormì così a lungo e così profondamente che il signor Dennis iniziò a pensare che potesse continuare a dormire fino all’arrivo del carceriere. Si stava congratulando con se stesso per questi segnali promettenti e ringraziava fervidamente le sue “stelle” quando apparvero uno o due sintomi sgradevoli: un altro movimento del braccio, un altro sospiro, un continuo agitarsi della testa. Proprio in quel momento, mentre sembrava che stesse per cadere giù dal suo letto stretto, gli occhi di Hugh si aprirono.

Accadde che il suo viso fosse rivolto direttamente verso il visitatore inaspettato. Lo guardò con indolenza per circa sei secondi, senza mostrare alcun segno di sorpresa o riconoscimento; poi all’improvviso balzò in piedi e, pronunciando un forte giuramento, disse il suo nome.

“Stai lontano, fratello, stai lontano!” gridò Dennis, nascondendosi dietro la sedia.
“Non farmi del male. Anch’io sono un prigioniero come te; non posso muovermi liberamente. Sono ormai un vecchio uomo. Non mi fare del male!”

Egli pronunciò le ultime tre parole con un tono così patetico che Hugh, che aveva già trascinato via la sedia e stava per colpirlo con essa, si trattenne e gli ordinò di alzarsi.

“Certo che mi alzerò, fratello,” gridò Dennis, desideroso di compiacerlo in qualsiasi modo possibile. “Obedirò a qualsiasi tua richiesta, ne sono sicuro. Ecco, ora mi sono alzato. Cosa posso fare per te? Basta che tu dica una parola, e la farò.”

“Cosa puoi fare per me!”, gridò Hugh, afferrandolo per il colletto con entrambe le mani e scuotendolo come se volesse impedirgli di respirare. “Cosa hai fatto per me?”

“Il meglio. Il meglio che si potesse fare,” rispose l’impiccatore.

Hugh non gli rispose nulla; lo scosse con forza fino a fargli battere i denti, poi lo gettò a terra e si rimise a sedere sul banco.

“Se non fosse per il conforto che mi dà vederti qui,” mormorò, “ti avrei schiacciato la testa contro quel muro. Lo avrei fatto.”

Trascorse un po’ di tempo prima che Dennis riuscisse a riprendere fiato abbastanza da parlare, ma non appena ne ebbe la possibilità, lo fece immediatamente.

“Ho fatto del mio meglio, fratello,” si lamentò; “Davvero. Sono stato costretto, con due baionette e chissà quante pallottole da entrambi i lati, a indicarti la strada giusta. Se non fossi stato portato via, saresti stato colpito. E che spettacolo sarebbe stato. Un giovane così bravo come te!”

“Ora sarà una vista migliore?” chiese Hugh, alzando la testa con un’espressione così feroce che l’altro non osò rispondergli in quel momento.

“Un piano molto migliore,” disse Dennis in tono umile, dopo una pausa. “Prima di tutto, ci sono tutte le possibilità che la legge intervienti, e loro sono cinquecento persone. Potremmo anche cavarcela senza conseguenze. Sono già accadute cose più improbabili di questa. Anche se non riuscissimo, e il piano fallisse, potremmo sempre trovare un modo per uscirne. E quando viene eseguito bene, in modo così pulito, abile e convincente – anche se questa parola sembra troppo forte – è difficile credere che possa raggiungere una tale perfezione. Uccidere i propri simili con le moschette. Bah!” La sua natura si ribellava semplicemente all’idea; sputò sul pavimento della prigione.

Il suo atteggiamento caloroso su questo argomento, che per chi non conoscesse le sue aspirazioni e i suoi gusti poteva sembrare addirittura coraggio; unito al modo abile in cui nascondeva le proprie speranze segrete e al fatto che si descriveva come essere nella stessa situazione di Hugh, riuscì a placare quel ribelle meglio di qualsiasi argomentazione elaborata o sottomissione totale. Appoggiò le braccia sulle ginocchia, si chinò in avanti e, guardando Dennis da sotto i suoi capelli arruffati, gli rivolse un sorriso.

“La verità è, fratello,” disse il boia con tono più sicuro, “che ti sei messo in cattive compagnie. L’uomo che era con te ha ricevuto più attenzioni di te, ed era lui che volevo. Per quanto mi riguarda, cosa ne ho guadagnato? Ecco qui, nella stessa situazione disperata.”

“Guarda bene, birichino,” disse Hugh, aggrottando la fronte, “non sono certo una persona così superficiale. So che ti aspettavi di ottenere qualcosa da tutto questo, altrimenti non l’avresti fatto. Ma ormai è fatta, e sei qui. Tra poco tutto sarà finito per te e per me; preferirei morire piuttosto che vivere. O vivere piuttosto che morire. Perché dovrei preoccuparmi di vendicarmi di te? Mangiare, bere, dormire. Finché resto qui, è tutto ciò che desidero. Se solo ci fosse un po’ più di sole in questo maledetto posto. Mi sdraierei lì tutto il giorno, senza nemmeno alzarmi per sedermi o in piedi. Questa è tutta la cura che ho per me stesso. Perché dovrei preoccuparmi DI TE?”

Concludendo quel discorso con un ringhio simile allo sbadiglio di una bestia selvatica, si distese di nuovo sul banco e chiuse gli occhi ancora una volta.

Dopo averlo osservato in silenzio per alcuni momenti, Dennis, che si sentì molto sollevato nel vederlo in quel stato d’animo, tirò la sedia vicino al suo vecchio divano e si sedette accanto a lui, prendendo però la precauzione di non trovarsi all’interno del raggio del suo braccio muscoloso.

“Ben detto, fratello; non si potrebbe dire di meglio,” osò osservare. “Mangeremo e berremo il meglio, dormiremo al meglio, e sfrutteremo ogni opportunità nel modo migliore possibile. Con i soldi si può ottenere qualsiasi cosa. Dovremmo spenderli con gioia.”

“Ah,” disse Hugh, sistemandosi in una nuova posizione. “Dove si trova?”

“Perché me l’hanno preso alla locanda,” disse il signor Dennis; “ma il mio caso è particolare.”

“Davvero? Hanno preso anche il mio.”

“Allora, ascolta bene, fratello,” iniziò Dennis. “Dovresti contattare i tuoi amici, ”

“Amici miei!” gridò Hugh, alzandosi e appoggiando le mani sulle ginocchia. “Dove sono i miei amici?”

“Allora, le tue relazioni, ”, disse Dennis.

‘Ha ha ha!’ rise Hugh, agitando un braccio sopra la testa. ‘Mi parla di amici. Mi parla di parenti per un uomo il cui madre è morta proprio della stessa morte che era destinata a suo figlio, lasciandolo solo, un bambino affamato, senza una persona al mondo che conoscesse! E mi parla di queste cose!’

“Fratello,” gridò il boia, le cui sembianze subirono un improvviso cambiamento,
“non vuoi dire che, ”

“Voglio dire,” intervenne Hugh, “che l’hanno impiccata a Tyburn. Quello che è stato sufficiente per lei, è sufficiente anche per me. Lasciate che facciano lo stesso con me quando vogliono. Più presto sarà meglio. Non ditemi nient’altro. Ora andrò a dormire.”

“Ma voglio parlarti; voglio sapere di più su questo”, disse Dennis, cambiando colore.

“Se sei un uomo saggio,” ringhiò Hugh, alzando la testa per guardarlo con un cipiglio, “ti terrai zitto. Ti dico che ora andrò a dormire.”

Nonostante questa cautela, Dennis osò dire qualcos’altro; il disperato individuo lo colpì con tutte le sue forze, ma fallì nel suo intento e si sdraiò di nuovo, mormorando insulti e imprecazioni, poi girò la faccia verso il muro. Dopo aver tentato invano due o tre volte di afferrare i suoi vestiti – nonostante il suo pericoloso stato d’animo – Dennis, desideroso a tutti i costi di continuare la conversazione, non ebbe altra scelta se non quella di aspettare pazientemente che l’altro decidesse cosa fare.

Chapter 75

A month has elapsed,—and we stand in the bedchamber of Sir John Chester. Through the half-opened window, the Temple Garden looks green and pleasant; the placid river, gay with boat and barge, and dimpled with the plash of many an oar, sparkles in the distance; the sky is blue and clear; and the summer air steals gently in, filling the room with perfume. The very town, the smoky town, is radiant. High roofs and steeple-tops, wont to look black and sullen, smile a cheerful grey; every old gilded vane, and ball, and cross, glitters anew in the bright morning sun; and, high among them all, St Paul’s towers up, showing its lofty crest in burnished gold.

Sir John was breakfasting in bed. His chocolate and toast stood upon a little table at his elbow; books and newspapers lay ready to his hand, upon the coverlet; and, sometimes pausing to glance with an air of tranquil satisfaction round the well-ordered room, and sometimes to gaze indolently at the summer sky, he ate, and drank, and read the news luxuriously.

The cheerful influence of the morning seemed to have some effect, even upon his equable temper. His manner was unusually gay; his smile more placid and agreeable than usual; his voice more clear and pleasant. He laid down the newspaper he had been reading; leaned back upon his pillow with the air of one who resigned himself to a train of charming recollections; and after a pause, soliloquised as follows:

‘And my friend the centaur, goes the way of his mamma! I am not surprised. And his mysterious friend Mr Dennis, likewise! I am not surprised. And my old postman, the exceedingly free-and-easy young madman of Chigwell! I am quite rejoiced. It’s the very best thing that could possibly happen to him.’

After delivering himself of these remarks, he fell again into his smiling train of reflection; from which he roused himself at length to finish his chocolate, which was getting cold, and ring the bell for more.

The new supply arriving, he took the cup from his servant’s hand; and saying, with a charming affability, ‘I am obliged to you, Peak,’ dismissed him.

‘It is a remarkable circumstance,’ he mused, dallying lazily with the teaspoon, ‘that my friend the madman should have been within an ace of escaping, on his trial; and it was a good stroke of chance (or, as the world would say, a providential occurrence) that the brother of my Lord Mayor should have been in court, with other country justices, into whose very dense heads curiosity had penetrated. For though the brother of my Lord Mayor was decidedly wrong; and established his near relationship to that amusing person beyond all doubt, in stating that my friend was sane, and had, to his knowledge, wandered about the country with a vagabond parent, avowing revolutionary and rebellious sentiments; I am not the less obliged to him for volunteering that evidence. These insane creatures make such very odd and embarrassing remarks, that they really ought to be hanged for the comfort of society.’

The country justice had indeed turned the wavering scale against poor Barnaby, and solved the doubt that trembled in his favour. Grip little thought how much he had to answer for.

‘They will be a singular party,’ said Sir John, leaning his head upon his hand, and sipping his chocolate; ‘a very curious party. The hangman himself; the centaur; and the madman. The centaur would make a very handsome preparation in Surgeons’ Hall, and would benefit science extremely. I hope they have taken care to bespeak him.—Peak, I am not at home, of course, to anybody but the hairdresser.’

This reminder to his servant was called forth by a knock at the door, which the man hastened to open. After a prolonged murmur of question and answer, he returned; and as he cautiously closed the room-door behind him, a man was heard to cough in the passage.

‘Now, it is of no use, Peak,’ said Sir John, raising his hand in deprecation of his delivering any message; ‘I am not at home. I cannot possibly hear you. I told you I was not at home, and my word is sacred. Will you never do as you are desired?’

Having nothing to oppose to this reproof, the man was about to withdraw, when the visitor who had given occasion to it, probably rendered impatient by delay, knocked with his knuckles at the chamber-door, and called out that he had urgent business with Sir John Chester, which admitted of no delay.

‘Let him in,’ said Sir John. ‘My good fellow,’ he added, when the door was opened, ‘how come you to intrude yourself in this extraordinary manner upon the privacy of a gentleman? How can you be so wholly destitute of self-respect as to be guilty of such remarkable ill-breeding?’

‘My business, Sir John, is not of a common kind, I do assure you,’ returned the person he addressed. ‘If I have taken any uncommon course to get admission to you, I hope I shall be pardoned on that account.’

‘Well! we shall see; we shall see,’ returned Sir John, whose face cleared up when he saw who it was, and whose prepossessing smile was now restored. ‘I am sure we have met before,’ he added in his winning tone, ‘but really I forget your name?’

‘My name is Gabriel Varden, sir.’

‘Varden, of course, Varden,’ returned Sir John, tapping his forehead. ‘Dear me, how very defective my memory becomes! Varden to be sure—Mr Varden the locksmith. You have a charming wife, Mr Varden, and a most beautiful daughter. They are well?’

Gabriel thanked him, and said they were.

‘I rejoice to hear it,’ said Sir John. ‘Commend me to them when you return, and say that I wished I were fortunate enough to convey, myself, the salute which I entrust you to deliver. And what,’ he asked very sweetly, after a moment’s pause, ‘can I do for you? You may command me freely.’

‘I thank you, Sir John,’ said Gabriel, with some pride in his manner, ‘but I have come to ask no favour of you, though I come on business.—Private,’ he added, with a glance at the man who stood looking on, ‘and very pressing business.’

Capitolo 75

È trascorso un mese, e ci troviamo nella camera da letto di Sir John Chester. Attraverso la finestra semiaperta, il Giardino del Tempio appare verde e piacevole; il tranquillo >fiume, animato da barche e chiatte e increspato dal movimento delle pale, luccica in lontananza; il cielo è blu e sereno; e l’aria estiva penetra dolcemente nella stanza, riempiendola di profumo. Anche la città stessa, solitamente cupa e fumosa, appare radiosa: i tetti alti e le guglie sorridono con un colore grigio allegro; ogni vecchio ornamento dorato scintilla nuovamente sotto il sole mattutino; e, in mezzo a tutti, si ergono le torri di San Paolo, con la loro cima dorata che brilla al sole.

Sir John stava facendo colazione a letto. Il cioccolato e il pane tostato erano posizionati su un piccolo tavolino accanto a lui; libri e giornali erano pronti alla sua portata, sopra la coperta. A volte si fermava per osservare con aria di tranquilla soddisfazione la stanza ordinatissima, altre volte guardava pigramente il cielo estivo. Mangiava, beveva e leggeva le notizie con grande piacere.

L’influenza allegra della mattina sembrava avere qualche effetto anche sul suo carattere equilibrato. Il suo comportamento era insolitamente gioioso; il suo sorriso più sereno e piacevole del solito; la sua voce più chiara e gradevole. Posò il giornale che stava leggendo, si appoggiò allo schienale del cuscino con l’aria di chi si abbandonasse a una serie di ricordi incantevoli; dopo un attimo di silenzio, iniziò a dire tra sé e sé quanto segue:

‘E il mio amico il centauro, segue le orme di sua madre! Non mi sorprende affatto. E il suo misterioso amico, il signor Dennis, allo stesso modo! Nemmeno questo mi sorprende. E il mio vecchio postino, quel giovane pazzo estremamente spensierato di Chigwell, ne sono davvero felice. È la cosa migliore che potesse mai succedergli.’

Dopo aver espresso queste osservazioni, ricadde di nuovo nel suo stato di riflessione sorridente; solo alla fine si riscosse per finire la cioccolata, che ormai stava diventando fredda, e suonò il campanello per ne chiedere dell’altra.

Con l’arrivo della nuova fornitura, prese la tazza dalle mani del suo servitore; e, con un tono affabile e incantevole, disse: “Devo ringraziarti, Peak”, poi lo congedò.

“È una circostanza notevole,” rifletté lui, giocherellando pigramente con la cucchiaino, “che il mio amico, quel pazzo, fosse così vicino a scappare durante il processo; e è stata davvero una fortuna (o, come direbbero in molti, un evento provvidenziale) che il fratello del mio signor Sindaco si trovasse in tribunale insieme ad altri giudici provinciali, i cui cervelli, per quanto densi, erano stati colpiti dalla curiosità. Perché, anche se il fratello del mio signor Sindaco aveva assolutamente torto e aveva dimostrato con certezza la sua stretta parentela con quella persona così strana, affermando che il mio amico fosse sano di mente e che, per quanto ne sapeva lui, si aggirasse per il paese insieme a un genitore vagabondo, esprimendo sentimenti rivoluzionari e ribelli, non posso comunque non ringraziarlo per aver fornito volontariamente quelle informazioni. Queste creature pazzesche dicono cose così strane ed imbarazzanti che davvero dovrebbero essere impiccate, solo per il bene della società.”

La giustizia nazionale aveva effettivamente inclinato la bilancia a sfavore del povero Barnaby, risolvendo le dubbi che esistevano a suo favore. Little Grip non si rendeva conto di quanto dovesse rispondere delle sue azioni.

“Sarà una compagnia davvero insolita,” disse Sir John, appoggiando la testa sulla mano e sorseggiando il cioccolato; “una compagnia molto curiosa. Il boia stesso, il centauro e il pazzo. Il centauro potrebbe fare preparativi davvero notevoli presso l’Ospedale dei Chirurghi e sarebbe di grande aiuto per la scienza. Spero che abbiano pensato anche a lui. Peak, ovviamente non sono a casa, tranne che per la parrucchiera.”

Questo ricordo rivolto al suo servo fu scatenato da un bussare alla porta, che l’uomo si affrettò ad aprire. Dopo un lungo scambio di domande e risposte, tornò indietro; e mentre chiudeva con cautela la porta della stanza, si sentì qualcuno tossire nel corridoio.

“Ora, non ha più senso, Peak,” disse Sir John, alzando la mano in segno di rifiuto all’idea di trasmettere qualsiasi messaggio; “non sono a casa. Non posso assolutamente sentirti. Ti ho detto che non ero a casa, e la mia parola è sacra. Perché non fai mai ciò che ti viene chiesto?”

Non avendo nulla da obiettare a questa rimprovera, l’uomo stava per andarsene, quando il visitatore che ne era la causa, probabilmente impaziente per l’attesa, bussò con i pollici alla porta della stanza e gridò che aveva un affare urgente da sbrigare con Sir John Chester, che non poteva attendere.

“Lasciatelo entrare,” disse Sir John. “Mio buon amico,” aggiunse quando la porta fu aperta, “come mai vi permettete di invadere in questo modo la privacy di un gentiluomo? Come può essere che siate così completamente privi di rispetto per voi stessi da commettere simili comportamenti indegni?”

“La mia faccenda, signor John, non è di natura comune, vi assicuro,” rispose la persona a cui si rivolgeva. “Se ho adottato metodi insoliti per ottenere il vostro permesso di parlare con voi, spero che mi si perdoni per questo.”

“Beh! Vedremo, vedremo,” rispose Sir John; il suo viso si illuminò quando capì chi fosse la persona di fronte a lui, e il suo sorriso affascinante tornò immediatamente. “Sono sicuro che ci siamo già incontrati in passato,” aggiunse con quel tono cordiale, “ma davvero non ricordo il tuo nome, ”

“Il mio nome è Gabriel Varden, signore.”

“Varden, naturalmente, Varden,” rispose Sir John, battendosi la fronte.
“Mio Dio, quanto diventa debole la mia memoria. Sicuramente Varden: il signor Varden, lo scassinatore. Ha una moglie incantevole, il signor Varden, e una figlia davvero bellissima. Stanno >bene?”

Gabriel gli ringraziò e disse che lo erano davvero.

“Mi rallegro molto di saperlo,” disse Sir John. “Salutameli quando tornerai e dì loro che avrei voluto avere la fortuna di portare personalmente il saluto che ti incarico di consegnare. E, ”, chiese dolcemente, dopo una breve pausa, “cosa posso fare per te? Puoi comandarmi liberamente.”

“Grazie, signor John,” disse Gabriel, con un certo orgoglio nel suo tono, “ma non sono venuto per chiedervi alcun favore, anche se sono qui per affari importanti. Un privato,” aggiunse, lanciando uno sguardo all’uomo che stava osservando la scena, “e molto urgenti.”

‘I cannot say you are the more welcome for being independent, and having nothing to ask of me,’ returned Sir John, graciously, ‘for I should have been happy to render you a service; still, you are welcome on any terms. Oblige me with some more chocolate, Peak, and don’t wait.’

The man retired, and left them alone.

‘Sir John,’ said Gabriel, ‘I am a working-man, and have been so, all my life. If I don’t prepare you enough for what I have to tell; if I come to the point too abruptly; and give you a shock, which a gentleman could have spared you, or at all events lessened very much; I hope you will give me credit for meaning well. I wish to be careful and considerate, and I trust that in a straightforward person like me, you’ll take the will for the deed.’

‘Mr Varden,’ returned the other, perfectly composed under this exordium; ‘I beg you’ll take a chair. Chocolate, perhaps, you don’t relish? Well! it IS an acquired taste, no doubt.’

‘Sir John,’ said Gabriel, who had acknowledged with a bow the invitation to be seated, but had not availed himself of it. ‘Sir John’—he dropped his voice and drew nearer to the bed—‘I am just now come from Newgate—’

‘Good Gad!’ cried Sir John, hastily sitting up in bed; ‘from Newgate, Mr Varden! How could you be so very imprudent as to come from Newgate! Newgate, where there are jail-fevers, and ragged people, and bare-footed men and women, and a thousand horrors! Peak, bring the camphor, quick! Heaven and earth, Mr Varden, my dear, good soul, how COULD you come from Newgate?’

Gabriel returned no answer, but looked on in silence while Peak (who had entered with the hot chocolate) ran to a drawer, and returning with a bottle, sprinkled his master’s dressing-gown and the bedding; and besides moistening the locksmith himself, plentifully, described a circle round about him on the carpet. When he had done this, he again retired; and Sir John, reclining in an easy attitude upon his pillow, once more turned a smiling face towards his visitor.

‘You will forgive me, Mr Varden, I am sure, for being at first a little sensitive both on your account and my own. I confess I was startled, notwithstanding your delicate exordium. Might I ask you to do me the favour not to approach any nearer?—You have really come from Newgate!’

The locksmith inclined his head.

‘In-deed! And now, Mr Varden, all exaggeration and embellishment apart,’ said Sir John Chester, confidentially, as he sipped his chocolate, ‘what kind of place IS Newgate?’

‘A strange place, Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, ‘of a sad and doleful kind. A strange place, where many strange things are heard and seen; but few more strange than that I come to tell you of. The case is urgent. I am sent here.’

‘Not—no, no—not from the jail?’

‘Yes, Sir John; from the jail.’

‘And my good, credulous, open-hearted friend,’ said Sir John, setting down his cup, and laughing,—‘by whom?’

‘By a man called Dennis—for many years the hangman, and to-morrow morning the hanged,’ returned the locksmith.

Sir John had expected—had been quite certain from the first—that he would say he had come from Hugh, and was prepared to meet him on that point. But this answer occasioned him a degree of astonishment, which, for the moment, he could not, with all his command of feature, prevent his face from expressing. He quickly subdued it, however, and said in the same light tone:

‘And what does the gentleman require of me? My memory may be at fault again, but I don’t recollect that I ever had the pleasure of an introduction to him, or that I ever numbered him among my personal friends, I do assure you, Mr Varden.’

‘Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, gravely, ‘I will tell you, as nearly as I can, in the words he used to me, what he desires that you should know, and what you ought to know without a moment’s loss of time.’

Sir John Chester settled himself in a position of greater repose, and looked at his visitor with an expression of face which seemed to say, ‘This is an amusing fellow! I’ll hear him out.’

‘You may have seen in the newspapers, sir,’ said Gabriel, pointing to the one which lay by his side, ‘that I was a witness against this man upon his trial some days since; and that it was not his fault I was alive, and able to speak to what I knew.’

‘MAY have seen!’ cried Sir John. ‘My dear Mr Varden, you are quite a public character, and live in all men’s thoughts most deservedly. Nothing can exceed the interest with which I read your testimony, and remembered that I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with you.---I hope we shall have your portrait published?’

‘This morning, sir,’ said the locksmith, taking no notice of these compliments, ‘early this morning, a message was brought to me from Newgate, at this man’s request, desiring that I would go and see him, for he had something particular to communicate. I needn’t tell you that he is no friend of mine, and that I had never seen him, until the rioters beset my house.’

Sir John fanned himself gently with the newspaper, and nodded.

‘I knew, however, from the general report,’ resumed Gabriel, ‘that the order for his execution to-morrow, went down to the prison last night; and looking upon him as a dying man, I complied with his request.’

‘You are quite a Christian, Mr Varden,’ said Sir John; ‘and in that amiable capacity, you increase my desire that you should take a chair.’

‘He said,’ continued Gabriel, looking steadily at the knight, ‘that he had sent to me, because he had no friend or companion in the whole world (being the common hangman), and because he believed, from the way in which I had given my evidence, that I was an honest man, and would act truly by him. He said that, being shunned by every one who knew his calling, even by people of the lowest and most wretched grade, and finding, when he joined the rioters, that the men he acted with had no suspicion of it (which I believe is true enough, for a poor fool of an old ‘prentice of mine was one of them), he had kept his own counsel, up to the time of his being taken and put in jail.’

“Non posso dire che tu sia il benvenuto soprattutto per la tua indipendenza e perché non hai nulla da chiedermi,” rispose Sir John con gentilezza, “perché sarei stato felice di poterti essere d’aiuto; comunque, sei il benvenuto in qualsiasi modo. Fammi il favore di darmi ancora un po’ di cioccolato, Peak, e non aspettare.”

L’uomo andò in pensione e li lasciò soli.

“Sir John,” disse Gabriel, “io sono un lavoratore e lo sono stato per tutta la mia vita. Se non vi preparo abbastanza a ciò che devo dirvi; se arrivo troppo bruscamente al punto cruciale e vi causo uno shock che un gentiluomo avrebbe potuto evitare, o comunque attenuare notevolmente; spero che mi perdonerete, considerando le mie intenzioni sincere. Desidero essere attento e premuroso, e confido che in una persona onesta come me possiate riconoscere le mie buone intenzioni.”

“Signor Varden,” rispose l’altro, mantenendo perfettamente la calma di fronte a quell’esordio;
“Le prego, si sieda. Forse non le piace il cioccolato. Beh!
È sicuramente un gusto acquisito, senza alcun >dubbio.”

“Sir John,” disse Gabriel, che aveva accettato con un inchino l’invito a sedersi, ma non se n’era approfittato. “Sir John”, abbassò la voce e si avvicinò al letto: “Sono appena tornato da Newgate, ”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Sir John, alzandosi di scatto dal letto; “Da Newgate. Signor Varden! Come avete potuto essere così imprudente da venire da Newgate? Newgate, dove ci sono febbri carcerarie, persone in miseria, uomini e donne a piedi nudi. Mille orrori! Peak, portami subito il camphoro! Per l’amor del cielo, Signor Varden, mio caro, buon amico. Come avete potuto venire da Newgate?”

Gabriel non rispose nulla, ma rimase ad osservare in silenzio mentre Peak – che era entrato con il cioccolato caldo – corse verso un cassetto e tornò con una bottiglia; ne versò il contenuto sul pigiama del suo padrone e sui lenzuola. Inoltre, oltre ad inumidire abbondantemente il fabbro chiave stesso, disegnò anche un cerchio intorno a lui sul tappeto. Una volta terminato il compito, si ritirò di nuovo; Sir John, appoggiato comodamente ai cuscini, rivolse nuovamente un sorriso al suo visitatore.

“Mi perdonerà, signor Varden, ne sono sicuro. All’inizio ero un po’ sensibile, sia per quanto la riguarda lei che per quanto mi riguarda. Ammetto di essere rimasto sorpreso, nonostante il suo modo delicato di esprimersi. Potrebbe farmi il favore di non avvicinarsi ulteriormente?. Davvero è venuto da Newgate!”

Il fabbro chiusei la testa.

“Davvero! E ora, signor Varden, mettendo da parte ogni esagerazione e ornamento,” disse Sir John Chester in tono confidenziale, mentre sorseggiava il suo cioccolato, “che tipo di posto è davvero Newgate?”

“Un posto strano, signor John,” rispose il fabbro chiave, “di un genere triste e malinconico. Un posto strano, dove si sentono e si vedono molte cose insolite; ma poche sono più strane di quella di cui devo parlarvi. La situazione è urgente. Sono stato mandato qui apposta.”

“Mai, mai uscito di prigione?”

“Sì, signor John, direttamente dalla prigione.”

“E il mio buon amico, credulone e dal cuore aperto,” disse Sir John, posando la tazza e ridendo, “di chi si tratta?”

“Da un uomo di nome Dennis, per molti anni boia, e domani mattina impiccato,” rispose il fabbro chiave.

Sir John si aspettava – anzi ne era assolutamente certo fin dall’inizio – che quell’uomo dichiarasse di essere venuto da Hugh, e quindi era preparato ad affrontare questa eventualità. Ma quella risposta lo sorprese notevolmente; per il momento, nonostante tutto il suo controllo sul proprio volto, non riuscì a nascondere la sua reazione. Tuttavia, si riprese rapidamente e continuò a parlare con lo stesso tono tranquillo:

‘E allora, cosa desidera da me questo signore? La mia memoria forse mi tradisce di nuovo, ma non ricordo di aver mai avuto l’onore di conoscerlo, né di considerarlo tra i miei amici personali. Vi assicuro, signor Varden.’

“Signor John,” rispose seriamente il fabbro chiave, “vi dirò, nel modo più preciso possibile e con le stesse parole che lui ha usato con me, ciò che desidera che voi sappiate, e ciò che è necessario che sappiate senza perdere un istante di tempo.”

Sir John Chester si sistemò in una posizione più comoda e guardò il suo visitatore con un’espressione che sembrava dire: “Quest’uomo è davvero divertente. Lo ascolterò fino in fondo.”

“Probabilmente avrete letto sui giornali, signore,” disse Gabriel, indicando quello che giaceva accanto a lui, “che alcuni giorni fa sono stato un testimone contro quest’uomo al suo processo; e che non è stata colpa sua il fatto che io fossi ancora vivo e in grado di raccontare ciò che sapevo.”

“Potrebbe aver visto!” esclamò Sir John. “Mio caro signor Varden, lei è davvero una figura pubblica e occupa giustamente i pensieri di tutti. Non c’è nulla di più interessante della sua testimonianza; inoltre, ricordo con piacere di aver avuto l’onore di conoscerla brevemente, ---Spero che il suo ritratto venga pubblicato.”

“Stamattina, signore,” disse il fabbro chiave, ignorando completamente questi complimenti, “all’alba è stata portata una lettera da Newgate, su richiesta di quest’uomo, che desiderava fosse io ad andarlo a trovare, poiché aveva qualcosa di particolare da comunicarmi. Non c’è bisogno che vi dica che non è affatto un mio amico, e che non l’avevo mai visto prima, fino a quando i rivoltosi non assediarono la mia casa.”

Sir John si accarezzò dolcemente il viso con il giornale e annuì.

“Tuttavia,” proseguì Gabriel, “dalla relazione generale sapevo che l’ordine della sua esecuzione per domani era stato inviato alla prigione la scorsa notte; e poiché lo consideravo un uomo morente, acconsentii alla sua richiesta.”

“Siete davvero un bravo cristiano, signor Varden,” disse Sir John; “e in questa veste così amabile, aumentate ancora di più il mio desiderio che vi sediate.”

“Disse,” continuò Gabriel, guardando fisso il cavaliere, “che mi aveva mandato perché non aveva alcun amico o compagno al mondo intero (essendo soltanto un comune boia), e perché riteneva, dal modo in cui avevo fornito le mie testimonianze, che fossi una persona onesta e che avrei agito sinceramente per lui. Disse anche che, essendo evitato da tutti coloro che conoscevano la sua professione, persino dalle persone delle classi più basse e misere, e scoprendo che, quando si era unito ai rivoltosi, nessuno di loro sospettava nulla (cosa che credo sia vera, poiché uno dei loro era un povero idiot che un tempo era stato mio apprendista), aveva deciso di agire da solo, fino al momento in cui fu catturato e messo in prigione.”

‘Very discreet of Mr Dennis,’ observed Sir John with a slight yawn, though still with the utmost affability, ‘but—except for your admirable and lucid manner of telling it, which is perfect—not very interesting to me.’

‘When,’ pursued the locksmith, quite unabashed and wholly regardless of these interruptions, ‘when he was taken to the jail, he found that his fellow-prisoner, in the same room, was a young man, Hugh by name, a leader in the riots, who had been betrayed and given up by himself. From something which fell from this unhappy creature in the course of the angry words they had at meeting, he discovered that his mother had suffered the death to which they both are now condemned.—The time is very short, Sir John.’

The knight laid down his paper fan, replaced his cup upon the table at his side, and, saving for the smile that lurked about his mouth, looked at the locksmith with as much steadiness as the locksmith looked at him.

‘They have been in prison now, a month. One conversation led to many more; and the hangman soon found, from a comparison of time, and place, and dates, that he had executed the sentence of the law upon this woman, himself. She had been tempted by want—as so many people are—into the easy crime of passing forged notes. She was young and handsome; and the traders who employ men, women, and children in this traffic, looked upon her as one who was well adapted for their business, and who would probably go on without suspicion for a long time. But they were mistaken; for she was stopped in the commission of her very first offence, and died for it. She was of gipsy blood, Sir John—’

It might have been the effect of a passing cloud which obscured the sun, and cast a shadow on his face; but the knight turned deadly pale. Still he met the locksmith’s eye, as before.

‘She was of gipsy blood, Sir John,’ repeated Gabriel, ‘and had a high, free spirit. This, and her good looks, and her lofty manner, interested some gentlemen who were easily moved by dark eyes; and efforts were made to save her. They might have been successful, if she would have given them any clue to her history. But she never would, or did. There was reason to suspect that she would make an attempt upon her life. A watch was set upon her night and day; and from that time she never spoke again—’

Sir John stretched out his hand towards his cup. The locksmith going on, arrested it half-way.

—‘Until she had but a minute to live. Then she broke silence, and said, in a low firm voice which no one heard but this executioner, for all other living creatures had retired and left her to her fate, “If I had a dagger within these fingers and he was within my reach, I would strike him dead before me, even now!” The man asked “Who?” She said, “The father of her boy.”’

Sir John drew back his outstretched hand, and seeing that the locksmith paused, signed to him with easy politeness and without any new appearance of emotion, to proceed.

‘It was the first word she had ever spoken, from which it could be understood that she had any relative on earth. “Was the child alive?” he asked. “Yes.” He asked her where it was, its name, and whether she had any wish respecting it. She had but one, she said. It was that the boy might live and grow, in utter ignorance of his father, so that no arts might teach him to be gentle and forgiving. When he became a man, she trusted to the God of their tribe to bring the father and the son together, and revenge her through her child. He asked her other questions, but she spoke no more. Indeed, he says, she scarcely said this much, to him, but stood with her face turned upwards to the sky, and never looked towards him once.’

Sir John took a pinch of snuff; glanced approvingly at an elegant little sketch, entitled ‘Nature,’ on the wall; and raising his eyes to the locksmith’s face again, said, with an air of courtesy and patronage, ‘You were observing, Mr Varden—’

‘That she never,’ returned the locksmith, who was not to be diverted by any artifice from his firm manner, and his steady gaze, ‘that she never looked towards him once, Sir John; and so she died, and he forgot her. But, some years afterwards, a man was sentenced to die the same death, who was a gipsy too; a sunburnt, swarthy fellow, almost a wild man; and while he lay in prison, under sentence, he, who had seen the hangman more than once while he was free, cut an image of him on his stick, by way of braving death, and showing those who attended on him, how little he cared or thought about it. He gave this stick into his hands at Tyburn, and told him then, that the woman I have spoken of had left her own people to join a fine gentleman, and that, being deserted by him, and cast off by her old friends, she had sworn within her own proud breast, that whatever her misery might be, she would ask no help of any human being. He told him that she had kept her word to the last; and that, meeting even him in the streets—he had been fond of her once, it seems—she had slipped from him by a trick, and he never saw her again, until, being in one of the frequent crowds at Tyburn, with some of his rough companions, he had been driven almost mad by seeing, in the criminal under another name, whose death he had come to witness, herself. Standing in the same place in which she had stood, he told the hangman this, and told him, too, her real name, which only her own people and the gentleman for whose sake she had left them, knew. That name he will tell again, Sir John, to none but you.’

‘To none but me!’ exclaimed the knight, pausing in the act of raising his cup to his lips with a perfectly steady hand, and curling up his little finger for the better display of a brilliant ring with which it was ornamented: ‘but me!—My dear Mr Varden, how very preposterous, to select me for his confidence! With you at his elbow, too, who are so perfectly trustworthy!’

“Molto discreto da parte del signor Dennis,” osservò Sir John con un leggero sbadiglio, “ma, a parte il vostro modo ammirevole e chiaro di raccontare, che è davvero perfetto, non mi è sembrato molto interessante.”

“Quando,” continuò il fabbro chiave, del tutto imperturbato e senza curarsi affatto di queste interruzioni, “quando fu portato in prigione, scoprì che il suo compagno di cella, nella stessa stanza, era un giovane di nome Hugh, uno dei capi dei disordini, che era stato tradito e consegnato proprio da lui stesso. Da qualcosa che quel poveretto disse durante le loro aspre discussioni, capì che sua madre aveva subito la morte a cui ora entrambi sono condannati. Il tempo sta per scadere, Sir John.”

Il cavaliere posò il suo ventaglio di carta, ripose la tazza sul tavolo accanto a sé e, ad eccezione del sorriso che gli aleggiava sulle labbra, guardò il fabbro chiave con la stessa fermezza con cui il fabbro chiave lo guardava.

‘Sono stati in prigione ormai un mese. Una conversazione ne portò a molte altre; e il boia, dopo aver confrontato i tempi, i luoghi e le date, si rese conto di aver egli stesso eseguito la sentenza della legge contro questa donna. Era stata tentata dalla povertà – come tante altre persone – dal facile crimine di distribuire banconote false. Era giovane e attraente; e i commercianti che impiegano uomini, donne e bambini in questo traffico la consideravano perfettamente adatta al loro lavoro, e pensavano che probabilmente avrebbe continuato senza destare sospetti per molto tempo. Ma si sbagliavano: fu fermata proprio mentre commetteva il suo primo reato e morì per esso. Era di sangue zingaro, Sir John, ’

Forse fu l’effetto di una nuvola che oscurò il sole, gettando un’ombra sul suo viso; ma il cavaliere impallidì mortalmente. Tuttavia, continuò a guardare negli occhi del fabbro chiave, come prima.

“Era di sangue zingaro, Sir John,” ripeté Gabriel, “e aveva uno spirito libero e orgoglioso. Questo, insieme alla sua bellezza e al suo portamento nobile, attirò l’attenzione di alcuni gentiluomini che si lasciavano facilmente commuovere dagli occhi scuri; furono fatti tutti gli sforzi possibili per salvarla. Avrebbero potuto riuscirci, se solo lei avesse fornito qualche indizio sulla sua storia. Ma non lo fece mai. C’erano motivi per sospettare che potesse tentare di togliersi la vita. Fu tenuta sotto costante sorveglianza, giorno e notte; da quel momento in poi, non parlò più mai, ”

Sir John allungò la mano verso la sua tazza. Il fabbro chiave, però, lo fermò a metà strada.

–“Fino a quando le rimase solo un minuto di vita. Allora ruppe il silenzio e disse, con una voce bassa ma decisa che nessuno altro sentì se non l’esecutore, poiché tutte le altre creature viventi si erano allontanate lasciandola al suo destino: ‘Se avessi un pugnale tra queste dita e lui fosse a portata di mano, lo ucciderei davanti ai miei occhi, anche ora!’ L’uomo chiese: ‘Chi?’ Lei rispose: ‘Il padre di suo figlio.’”

Sir John ritirò la mano tesa e, vedendo che il fabbro chiuse per un momento, gli fece segno con gentilezza e senza mostrare alcuna nuova emozione di continuare.

‘Fu la prima parola che lei pronunciò mai; da essa si poteva capire che avesse qualche parente al mondo. “Il bambino è vivo?” chiese lui. “Sì.” Le chiese dove si trovasse, come si chiamasse e se avesse qualche desiderio per lui. Lei ne aveva solo uno: che il ragazzo potesse vivere e crescere, senza mai conoscere l’identità di suo padre, in modo che nessuna esperienza potesse insegnargli ad essere gentile e tollerante. Quando sarebbe diventato un uomo, lei confidava nel Dio della loro tribù affinché riunisse padre e figlio e le permettesse di vendicarsi attraverso suo figlio. Le fece altre domande, ma lei non rispose più. Infatti, dice lui, lei pronunciò a malapena queste parole; rimase semplicemente in piedi, con il viso rivolto verso il cielo, senza mai guardarlo.’

Sir John prese un pizzico di tabacco da naso; lanciò uno sguardo approvativo verso un grazioso piccolo disegno appeso al muro, intitolato “>Natura”; poi, rialzando lo sguardo sul volto del fabbro, disse con tono cortese e condiscendente: “Stavate osservando, signor Varden, ”

“Che lei non lo guardò mai nemmeno una volta, signor John,” rispose il fabbro chiave, il quale non si lasciava distogliere da alcun artificio dal suo atteggiamento deciso e dal suo sguardo fermo. “E così morì, e lui la dimenticò. Ma alcuni anni dopo, un uomo fu condannato a morte nello stesso modo; era anche lui un zingaro: un individuo abbronzato, scuro di pelle, quasi selvaggio. Mentre si trovava in prigione, aspettando l’esecuzione, lui – che aveva visto più volte il boia quando era libero – incise l’immagine di quest’ultimo sul proprio bastone, come modo per sfidare la morte e dimostrare a coloro che lo assistevano quanto poco gliene importasse. Alla ghigliottina, a Tyburn, gli consegnò quel bastone e gli raccontò che la donna di cui aveva parlato aveva lasciato la sua gente per unirsi a un nobile gentiluomo; abbandonata da lui e rifiutata dai suoi vecchi amici, aveva giurato nel suo orgoglioso cuore che, qualunque fosse stata la sua miseria, non avrebbe chiesto aiuto ad alcun essere umano. Gli disse anche che aveva mantenuto quella promessa fino alla fine; e che, persino incontrandolo per strada – sembrava che un tempo lui l’avesse amata – lei gli era sfuggita con un trucco. E lui non la rivide mai più, finché, durante una delle solite folle presenti a Tyburn, insieme ad alcuni dei suoi compagni rozzi, non fu quasi sopraffatto dall’emozione nel riconoscere in quel condannato, sotto un altro nome, proprio lei. Stava nello stesso posto in cui era stata lei; gli raccontò tutto questo, e anche il suo vero nome. Un nome che conoscevano solo la sua gente e il gentiluomo per amore del quale l’aveva lasciata. Quel nome, signor John, lo dirà ancora a nessuno, tranne che a voi.”

“Solo a me!” esclamò il cavaliere, fermandosi nel momento in cui stava alzando la coppa alle labbra con mano perfettamente ferma, e piegando il mignolo per far meglio risaltare l’anello splendente che lo ornava: “Solo a me. Mio caro signor Varden, quanto è assurdo scegliermi come confidente! Con voi al suo fianco, che siete così completamente affidabili, ”

‘Sir John, Sir John,’ returned the locksmith, ‘at twelve tomorrow, these men die. Hear the few words I have to add, and do not hope to deceive me; for though I am a plain man of humble station, and you are a gentleman of rank and learning, the truth raises me to your level, and I KNOW that you anticipate the disclosure with which I am about to end, and that you believe this doomed man, Hugh, to be your son.’

‘Nay,’ said Sir John, bantering him with a gay air; ‘the wild gentleman, who died so suddenly, scarcely went as far as that, I think?’

‘He did not,’ returned the locksmith, ‘for she had bound him by some pledge, known only to these people, and which the worst among them respect, not to tell your name: but, in a fantastic pattern on the stick, he had carved some letters, and when the hangman asked it, he bade him, especially if he should ever meet with her son in after life, remember that place well.’

‘What place?’

‘Chester.’

The knight finished his cup of chocolate with an appearance of infinite relish, and carefully wiped his lips upon his handkerchief.

‘Sir John,’ said the locksmith, ‘this is all that has been told to me; but since these two men have been left for death, they have conferred together closely. See them, and hear what they can add. See this Dennis, and learn from him what he has not trusted to me. If you, who hold the clue to all, want corroboration (which you do not), the means are easy.’

‘And to what,’ said Sir John Chester, rising on his elbow, after smoothing the pillow for its reception; ‘my dear, good-natured, estimable Mr Varden—with whom I cannot be angry if I would—to what does all this tend?’

‘I take you for a man, Sir John, and I suppose it tends to some pleading of natural affection in your breast,’ returned the locksmith. ‘I suppose to the straining of every nerve, and the exertion of all the influence you have, or can make, in behalf of your miserable son, and the man who has disclosed his existence to you. At the worst, I suppose to your seeing your son, and awakening him to a sense of his crime and danger. He has no such sense now. Think what his life must have been, when he said in my hearing, that if I moved you to anything, it would be to hastening his death, and ensuring his silence, if you had it in your power!’

‘And have you, my good Mr Varden,’ said Sir John in a tone of mild reproof, ‘have you really lived to your present age, and remained so very simple and credulous, as to approach a gentleman of established character with such credentials as these, from desperate men in their last extremity, catching at any straw? Oh dear! Oh fie, fie!’

The locksmith was going to interpose, but he stopped him:

‘On any other subject, Mr Varden, I shall be delighted—I shall be charmed—to converse with you, but I owe it to my own character not to pursue this topic for another moment.’

‘Think better of it, sir, when I am gone,’ returned the locksmith; ‘think better of it, sir. Although you have, thrice within as many weeks, turned your lawful son, Mr Edward, from your door, you may have time, you may have years to make your peace with HIM, Sir John: but that twelve o’clock will soon be here, and soon be past for ever.’

‘I thank you very much,’ returned the knight, kissing his delicate hand to the locksmith, ‘for your guileless advice; and I only wish, my good soul, although your simplicity is quite captivating, that you had a little more worldly wisdom. I never so much regretted the arrival of my hairdresser as I do at this moment. God bless you! Good morning! You’ll not forget my message to the ladies, Mr Varden? Peak, show Mr Varden to the door.’

Gabriel said no more, but gave the knight a parting look, and left him. As he quitted the room, Sir John’s face changed; and the smile gave place to a haggard and anxious expression, like that of a weary actor jaded by the performance of a difficult part. He rose from his bed with a heavy sigh, and wrapped himself in his morning-gown.

‘So she kept her word,’ he said, ‘and was constant to her threat! I would I had never seen that dark face of hers,—I might have read these consequences in it, from the first. This affair would make a noise abroad, if it rested on better evidence; but, as it is, and by not joining the scattered links of the chain, I can afford to slight it.—Extremely distressing to be the parent of such an uncouth creature! Still, I gave him very good advice. I told him he would certainly be hanged. I could have done no more if I had known of our relationship; and there are a great many fathers who have never done as much for THEIR natural children.—The hairdresser may come in, Peak!’

The hairdresser came in; and saw in Sir John Chester (whose accommodating conscience was soon quieted by the numerous precedents that occurred to him in support of his last observation), the same imperturbable, fascinating, elegant gentleman he had seen yesterday, and many yesterdays before.

“Sir John, Sir John,” rispose il fabbro chiave, “domani alle dodici questi uomini moriranno. Ascoltate le poche parole che ho da aggiungere, e non sperate di ingannarmi; perché sebbene io sia un uomo semplice e di umile condizione, e voi siate un gentiluomo di alto rango e istruito, la verità mi eleva al vostro livello, e so che aspettate la rivelazione che sto per fare, e che credete che quest’uomo condannato a morte, Hugh, sia vostro figlio.”

“No,” disse Sir John scherzando in tono allegro; “quel gentiluomo selvaggio, che è morto così improvvisamente, credo non sia mai arrivato nemmeno fino a quel punto, vero?”

“Non l’ha fatto,” rispose il fabbro chiave, “perché lei lo aveva legato con un giuramento, noto solo a queste persone, e che anche i peggiori tra loro rispettano: non dire il tuo nome. Ma sul bastone, in un disegno fantastico, aveva inciso alcune lettere; quando l’impiccagione glielo chiese, gli disse di ricordare bene quel luogo, soprattutto se un giorno dovesse incontrare suo figlio nell’aldilà.”

“Quale luogo?”

“Chester.”

Il cavaliere finì la sua tazza di cioccolato con un’espressione di infinito piacere, e si pulì attentamente le labbra con il fazzoletto.

“Sir John,” disse il fabbro chiave, “questo è tutto ciò che mi è stato detto; ma poiché questi due uomini sono stati condannati a morte, hanno discusso a lungo tra loro. Andate da loro e ascoltate ciò che possono aggiungere. Guardate questo Dennis e scoprite da lui ciò che non ha voluto confidarmi. Se voi, che possedete la chiave di tutto, desiderate ulteriori conferme (cosa che probabilmente non è necessario), i mezzi per ottenerle sono semplici.”

“E a cosa,” disse Sir John Chester, alzandosi sul gomito dopo aver sistemato il cuscino; “mio caro, gentile e stimabile signor Varden, con cui non potrei arrabbiarmi nemmeno se volessi, a cosa tende tutto questo?”

“Vi considero un uomo, signor John, e presumo che nel vostro cuore ci sia una certa compassione, un sentimento di affetto naturale,” rispose il fabbro chiave. “Presumo che si tratti dello sforzo massimo di ogni vostro nervo, dell’uso di tutta l’influenza che avete, o che potete esercitare, a favore di vostro figlio misero e di quell’uomo che vi ha rivelato la sua esistenza. Nel peggiore dei casi, si tratta comunque del desiderio di vedere vostro figlio e di farlo rendere conto del suo crimine e del pericolo in cui si trova. Lui al momento non ne è consapevole. Pensate un po’ a quale vita debba aver condotto, quando ha detto davanti a me che, se mai riuscissi a convincervi di qualcosa, sarebbe solo per accelerare la sua morte e assicurargli il suo silenzio, se solo ne aveste il potere, ”

“E lei, mio caro signor Varden,” disse Sir John con un tono di leggera rimproverazione, “ha davvero vissuto fino a quest’età senza diventare più saggio e scettico, al punto da avvicinarsi a un gentiluomo di buona reputazione con prove del genere, fornite da uomini disperati nelle loro ultime difficoltà, che afferrano qualsiasi cosa possa offrire una speranza? Oh mio Dio. Oh, quanto è grave!”

“Il fabbro intenzionava intervenire, ma qualcuno lo fermò.”

“Su qualsiasi altro argomento, signor Varden, sarei felice – anzi, incantato – di conversare con voi, ma devo rispettare i principi del mio carattere e non continuare a parlare di questo argomento nemmeno per un istante.”

“Rifletteteci bene, signore, quando me ne sarò andato,” rispose il fabbro chiave;
“rifletteteci bene, signore. Anche se avete cacciato via vostro figlio legittimo, il signor Edward, tre volte in altrettante settimane, potreste ancora avere del tempo, potreste avere anni per riconciliarvi con LUI, signor John. Ma quelle dodici ore saranno presto qui, e poi passeranno per sempre.”

“Grazie mille,” rispose il cavaliere baciando la delicata mano del fabbro chiave, “per i tuoi consigli onesti e sinceri; vorrei soltanto, mio buon amico, che, nonostante la tua semplicità sia davvero affascinante, possedessi un po’ più di saggezza mondana. Non ho mai rimpianto tanto l’arrivo del mio parrucchiere come in questo momento. Che Dio ti benedica! Buongiorno! Non dimenticherai di portare il mio messaggio alle signore, vero, signor Varden? Peak, accompagni il signor Varden alla porta.”

Gabriel non disse più nulla, ma lanciò al cavaliere uno sguardo d’addio e se ne andò. Mentre lasciava la stanza, il volto di Sir John cambiò: il sorriso lasciò il posto a un’espressione tesa e ansiosa, simile a quella di un attore stanco, logorato dall’interpretazione di un ruolo difficile. Si alzò dal letto con un profondo sospiro e si avvolse nella sua vestaglia mattutina.

“So che ha mantenuto la sua promessa,” disse, “e che è stata fedele alla sua minaccia! Se solo non avessi mai visto quel suo volto cupo. Forse avrei potuto intuire queste conseguenze fin dall’inizio. Questa faccenda avrebbe causato un grande scalpore se fosse stata supportata da prove più solide; ma così come stanno le cose, e poiché non sto unendo i vari anelli di questa catena di eventi, posso semplicemente ignorarla. È estremamente doloroso essere il genitore di una creatura così rozza! Comunque, gli ho dato dei consigli molto seri: gli ho detto che sicuramente sarebbe stato impiccato. Non avrei potuto fare di più se avessi conosciuto la nostra relazione. E ci sono molti padri che non hanno mai fatto nulla di simile per i loro figli biologici, ” “Può entrare il parrucchiere, Peak!”

Il parrucchiere entrò e vide in Sir John Chester (la cui coscienza, abbastanza accomodante, fu presto tranquillizzata dai numerosi esempi che gli vennero in mente a sostegno della sua ultima osservazione) lo stesso gentiluomo imperturbabile, affascinante ed elegante che aveva visto ieri, e molti giorni prima ancora.

Chapter 76

As the locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John Chester’s chambers, he lingered under the trees which shaded the path, almost hoping that he might be summoned to return. He had turned back thrice, and still loitered at the corner, when the clock struck twelve.

It was a solemn sound, and not merely for its reference to to-morrow; for he knew that in that chime the murderer’s knell was rung. He had seen him pass along the crowded street, amidst the execration of the throng; and marked his quivering lip, and trembling limbs; the ashy hue upon his face, his clammy brow, the wild distraction of his eye—the fear of death that swallowed up all other thoughts, and gnawed without cessation at his heart and brain. He had marked the wandering look, seeking for hope, and finding, turn where it would, despair. He had seen the remorseful, pitiful, desolate creature, riding, with his coffin by his side, to the gibbet. He knew that, to the last, he had been an unyielding, obdurate man; that in the savage terror of his condition he had hardened, rather than relented, to his wife and child; and that the last words which had passed his white lips were curses on them as his enemies.

Mr Haredale had determined to be there, and see it done. Nothing but the evidence of his own senses could satisfy that gloomy thirst for retribution which had been gathering upon him for so many years. The locksmith knew this, and when the chimes had ceased to vibrate, hurried away to meet him.

‘For these two men,’ he said, as he went, ‘I can do no more. Heaven have mercy on them!—Alas! I say I can do no more for them, but whom can I help? Mary Rudge will have a home, and a firm friend when she most wants one; but Barnaby—poor Barnaby—willing Barnaby—what aid can I render him? There are many, many men of sense, God forgive me,’ cried the honest locksmith, stopping in a narrow court to pass his hand across his eyes, ‘I could better afford to lose than Barnaby. We have always been good friends, but I never knew, till now, how much I loved the lad.’

There were not many in the great city who thought of Barnaby that day, otherwise than as an actor in a show which was to take place to-morrow. But if the whole population had had him in their minds, and had wished his life to be spared, not one among them could have done so with a purer zeal or greater singleness of heart than the good locksmith.

Barnaby was to die. There was no hope. It is not the least evil attendant upon the frequent exhibition of this last dread punishment, of Death, that it hardens the minds of those who deal it out, and makes them, though they be amiable men in other respects, indifferent to, or unconscious of, their great responsibility. The word had gone forth that Barnaby was to die. It went forth, every month, for lighter crimes. It was a thing so common, that very few were startled by the awful sentence, or cared to question its propriety. Just then, too, when the law had been so flagrantly outraged, its dignity must be asserted. The symbol of its dignity,—stamped upon every page of the criminal statute-book,—was the gallows; and Barnaby was to die.

They had tried to save him. The locksmith had carried petitions and memorials to the fountain-head, with his own hands. But the well was not one of mercy, and Barnaby was to die.

From the first his mother had never left him, save at night; and with her beside him, he was as usual contented. On this last day, he was more elated and more proud than he had been yet; and when she dropped the book she had been reading to him aloud, and fell upon his neck, he stopped in his busy task of folding a piece of crape about his hat, and wondered at her anguish. Grip uttered a feeble croak, half in encouragement, it seemed, and half in remonstrance, but he wanted heart to sustain it, and lapsed abruptly into silence.

With them who stood upon the brink of the great gulf which none can see beyond, Time, so soon to lose itself in vast Eternity, rolled on like a mighty river, swollen and rapid as it nears the sea. It was morning but now; they had sat and talked together in a dream; and here was evening. The dreadful hour of separation, which even yesterday had seemed so distant, was at hand.

They walked out into the courtyard, clinging to each other, but not speaking. Barnaby knew that the jail was a dull, sad, miserable place, and looked forward to to-morrow, as to a passage from it to something bright and beautiful. He had a vague impression too, that he was expected to be brave—that he was a man of great consequence, and that the prison people would be glad to make him weep. He trod the ground more firmly as he thought of this, and bade her take heart and cry no more, and feel how steady his hand was. ‘They call me silly, mother. They shall see to-morrow!’

Dennis and Hugh were in the courtyard. Hugh came forth from his cell as they did, stretching himself as though he had been sleeping. Dennis sat upon a bench in a corner, with his knees and chin huddled together, and rocked himself to and fro like a person in severe pain.

The mother and son remained on one side of the court, and these two men upon the other. Hugh strode up and down, glancing fiercely every now and then at the bright summer sky, and looking round, when he had done so, at the walls.

‘No reprieve, no reprieve! Nobody comes near us. There’s only the night left now!’ moaned Dennis faintly, as he wrung his hands. ‘Do you think they’ll reprieve me in the night, brother? I’ve known reprieves come in the night, afore now. I’ve known ‘em come as late as five, six, and seven o’clock in the morning. Don’t you think there’s a good chance yet,—don’t you? Say you do. Say you do, young man,’ whined the miserable creature, with an imploring gesture towards Barnaby, ‘or I shall go mad!’

‘Better be mad than sane, here,’ said Hugh. ‘GO mad.’

‘But tell me what you think. Somebody tell me what he thinks!’ cried the wretched object,—so mean, and wretched, and despicable, that even Pity’s self might have turned away, at sight of such a being in the likeness of a man—‘isn’t there a chance for me,—isn’t there a good chance for me? Isn’t it likely they may be doing this to frighten me? Don’t you think it is? Oh!’ he almost shrieked, as he wrung his hands, ‘won’t anybody give me comfort!’

‘You ought to be the best, instead of the worst,’ said Hugh, stopping before him. ‘Ha, ha, ha! See the hangman, when it comes home to him!’

‘You don’t know what it is,’ cried Dennis, actually writhing as he spoke: ‘I do. That I should come to be worked off! I! I! That I should come!’

‘And why not?’ said Hugh, as he thrust back his matted hair to get a better view of his late associate. ‘How often, before I knew your trade, did I hear you talking of this as if it was a treat?’

‘I an’t unconsistent,’ screamed the miserable creature; ‘I’d talk so again, if I was hangman. Some other man has got my old opinions at this minute. That makes it worse. Somebody’s longing to work me off. I know by myself that somebody must be!’

‘He’ll soon have his longing,’ said Hugh, resuming his walk. ‘Think of that, and be quiet.’

Although one of these men displayed, in his speech and bearing, the most reckless hardihood; and the other, in his every word and action, testified such an extreme of abject cowardice that it was humiliating to see him; it would be difficult to say which of them would most have repelled and shocked an observer. Hugh’s was the dogged desperation of a savage at the stake; the hangman was reduced to a condition little better, if any, than that of a hound with the halter round his neck. Yet, as Mr Dennis knew and could have told them, these were the two commonest states of mind in persons brought to their pass. Such was the wholesome growth of the seed sown by the law, that this kind of harvest was usually looked for, as a matter of course.

In one respect they all agreed. The wandering and uncontrollable train of thought, suggesting sudden recollections of things distant and long forgotten and remote from each other—the vague restless craving for something undefined, which nothing could satisfy—the swift flight of the minutes, fusing themselves into hours, as if by enchantment—the rapid coming of the solemn night—the shadow of death always upon them, and yet so dim and faint, that objects the meanest and most trivial started from the gloom beyond, and forced themselves upon the view—the impossibility of holding the mind, even if they had been so disposed, to penitence and preparation, or of keeping it to any point while one hideous fascination tempted it away—these things were common to them all, and varied only in their outward tokens.

‘Fetch me the book I left within—upon your bed,’ she said to Barnaby, as the clock struck. ‘Kiss me first.’

He looked in her face, and saw there, that the time was come. After a long embrace, he tore himself away, and ran to bring it to her; bidding her not stir till he came back. He soon returned, for a shriek recalled him,—but she was gone.

He ran to the yard-gate, and looked through. They were carrying her away. She had said her heart would break. It was better so.

‘Don’t you think,’ whimpered Dennis, creeping up to him, as he stood with his feet rooted to the ground, gazing at the blank walls—‘don’t you think there’s still a chance? It’s a dreadful end; it’s a terrible end for a man like me. Don’t you think there’s a chance? I don’t mean for you, I mean for me. Don’t let HIM hear us (meaning Hugh); ‘he’s so desperate.’

‘Now then,’ said the officer, who had been lounging in and out with his hands in his pockets, and yawning as if he were in the last extremity for some subject of interest: ‘it’s time to turn in, boys.’

‘Not yet,’ cried Dennis, ‘not yet. Not for an hour yet.’

‘I say,—your watch goes different from what it used to,’ returned the man. ‘Once upon a time it was always too fast. It’s got the other fault now.’

‘My friend,’ cried the wretched creature, falling on his knees, ‘my dear friend—you always were my dear friend—there’s some mistake. Some letter has been mislaid, or some messenger has been stopped upon the way. He may have fallen dead. I saw a man once, fall down dead in the street, myself, and he had papers in his pocket. Send to inquire. Let somebody go to inquire. They never will hang me. They never can.—Yes, they will,’ he cried, starting to his feet with a terrible scream. ‘They’ll hang me by a trick, and keep the pardon back. It’s a plot against me. I shall lose my life!’ And uttering another yell, he fell in a fit upon the ground.

‘See the hangman when it comes home to him!’ cried Hugh again, as they bore him away—‘Ha ha ha! Courage, bold Barnaby, what care we? Your hand! They do well to put us out of the world, for if we got loose a second time, we wouldn’t let them off so easy, eh? Another shake! A man can die but once. If you wake in the night, sing that out lustily, and fall asleep again. Ha ha ha!’

Barnaby glanced once more through the grate into the empty yard; and then watched Hugh as he strode to the steps leading to his sleeping-cell. He heard him shout, and burst into a roar of laughter, and saw him flourish his hat. Then he turned away himself, like one who walked in his sleep; and, without any sense of fear or sorrow, lay down on his pallet, listening for the clock to strike again.

Capitolo 76

Mentre il fabbro chiave si allontanava lentamente dalle stanze di Sir John Chester, indugiò sotto gli alberi che ombreggiavano il sentiero, quasi sperando di essere chiamato indietro. Si era girato tre volte e continuava ancora ad attendere all’angolo quando l’orologio suonò le dodici.

Era un suono solenne, e non solo per il suo riferimento al domani; perché sapeva che in quel suono risuonava la campana della morte del colpevole. L’aveva visto passare lungo la strada affollata, tra le maledizioni della folla; aveva notato le sue labbra tremanti, i suoi arti tremolanti, il pallore cenereo sul suo viso, la fronte sudata, lo sguardo disperato. La paura della morte che inghiottiva tutti gli altri pensieri e tormentava incessantemente il suo cuore e la sua mente. Aveva visto quell’atteggiamento smarrito, alla ricerca di speranza, ma ovunque si voltasse, trovava solo disperazione. Aveva visto quella creatura piena di rimorso, patetica e desolata, accompagnare il proprio feretro verso la forca. Sapeva che, fino all’ultimo momento, era stato un uomo irremovibile, spietato; che nel terrore selvaggio della sua condizione si era indurito, anziché pentirsi, nei confronti di sua moglie e suo figlio. E sapeva anche che le ultime parole uscite dalle sue labbra pallide erano state maledizioni contro di loro, come se fossero stati suoi nemici.

Il signor Haredale aveva deciso di essere lì e di assicurarsi che tutto venisse fatto. Solo le prove fornite dai suoi stessi sensi potevano soddisfare quella cupa sete di vendetta che si era accumulata in lui per tanti anni. Il fabbro chiave lo sapeva, e quando i campanelli smisero di suonare, si affrettò ad andargli incontro.

“Per questi due uomini,” disse mentre se ne andava, “non posso fare più nulla. Che il cielo abbia misericordia di loro. Ahimè! Dico che non posso aiutarli, ma chi altro posso salvare? Mary Rudge avrà una casa e un amico fedele proprio quando ne avrà più bisogno; ma Barnaby, povero Barnaby, quale aiuto posso offrirgli? Ci sono molti uomini saggi, che Dio mi perdoni,” esclamò l’onesto fabbro chiave, fermandosi in un angusto cortile per asciugarsi gli occhi con la mano. “Preferirei perdere io stesso piuttosto che Barnaby. Siamo sempre stati buoni amici, ma solo ora mi rendo conto di quanto io ami quel ragazzo.”

In quella grande città, non erano molti coloro che pensassero a Barnaby quel giorno; la maggior parte lo considerava soltanto un attore in uno spettacolo che si sarebbe tenuto il giorno dopo. Ma se tutta la popolazione avesse avuto lui in mente e desiderato che la sua vita fosse risparmiata, nessuno di loro avrebbe potuto farlo con un impegno più sincero o un cuore più puro del buon fabbro chiave.

Barnaby doveva morire. Non c’era alcuna >speranza. Il fatto che la frequente applicazione di questa terribile punizione, la Morte, renda più duri i cuori di coloro che la infliggono, e li faccia, pur essendo persone per il resto gentili, indifferenti o inconsapevoli della loro grande responsabilità, non rappresenta certo il minore degli aspetti negativi di questa pratica. La notizia che Barnaby sarebbe morto era già stata diffusa; accadeva ogni mese anche per reati meno gravi. Era una cosa così comune che pochissimi si sorprendevano di quella terribile sentenza, né si preoccupavano di metterne in discussione la legittimità. Proprio in quel momento, quando la legge era stata così flagrantemente violata, era necessario ristabilire la sua dignità. Il simbolo di tale dignità – impresso su ogni pagina del codice penale – era la forca; e Barnaby doveva morire.

Avevano cercato di salvarlo. Il fabbro chiave aveva portato personalmente petizioni e memoriali presso la sorgente; ma quell’pozzo non conosceva la misericordia, e Barnaby doveva morire.

Fin da piccolo, sua madre non lo aveva mai lasciato, tranne di notte; e con lei al suo fianco, era sempre stato felice. In quelultimo giorno, era ancora più eccitato e orgoglioso del solito; quando lei posò il libro che gli stava leggendo ad alta voce e si gettò sul suo collo, lui smise di occuparsi del compito di avvolgere un pezzo di lutto intorno al cappello e si chiese la causa della sua angoscia. Grip emise un debole suono, sembrava un incoraggiamento, ma anche una rimproverazione; tuttavia non aveva abbastanza forza per continuare a parlare, e improvvisamente cadde nel silenzio.

Con coloro che si trovavano sul bordo di quell’immenso abisso che nessuno può vedere al di là, il Tempo, che presto si perderà nell’infinita Eternità, scorreva come un potente >fiume, gonfio e impetuoso mentre si avvicinava al mare. Era mattina, ma ora era già sera. L’orribile momento della separazione, che ancora ieri sembrava così lontano, era ormai imminente.

Uscirono nel cortile, tenendosi per mano, ma senza parlare. Barnaby sapeva che la prigione era un posto noioso, triste e miserabile, e aspettava con impazienza il giorno seguente, come se fosse l’inizio di qualcosa di luminoso e bello. Aveva anche una vaga sensazione che si aspettasse da lui coraggio, che fosse una persona di grande importanza, e che le persone della prigione sarebbero felici se lo avessero fatto piangere. Mentre ci pensava, camminava con maggiore sicurezza e le disse di farsi forza, di smettere di piangere e di notare quanto fosse ferma la sua mano. “Mi chiamano sciocco, mamma. Ma domani vedranno!”

Dennis e Hugh erano nel cortile. Mentre uscivano dalla loro cella, Hugh si stiracchiò come se avesse appena dormito. Dennis sedeva su una panchina in un angolo, con le ginocchia e il mento stretti l’uno contro l’altro, dondolando avanti e indietro come una persona che soffriva terribilmente di dolore.

La madre e il figlio rimasero da un lato del cortile, mentre questi due uomini dall’altro. Hugh camminava avanti e indietro, lanciando di tanto in tanto occhiate furiose verso il cielo luminoso dell’estate, e poi guardandosi intorno, osservando le mura circostanti.

“Nessun rinvio, nessun rinvio! Nessuno si avvicina a noi. Ora rimane solo la notte!” gemette debolmente Dennis, stringendosi le mani. “Pensi che mi concederanno un rinvio questa notte, fratello? In passato ci sono stati rinvii anche fino alle cinque, alle sei, alle sette di mattina. Non credi che ci sia ancora una possibilità? Dimmi di sì. Dimmelo, giovane, ” supplicò quella creatura miserabile, facendo un gesto implorante verso Barnaby. “Altrimenti impazzirò, ”

“Meglio essere pazzi che sani, in questo posto”, disse Hugh. “Diventa pazzo.”

“Ma ditemi cosa ne pensate. Qualcuno mi dica cosa lui pensa!” gridava quell’essere miserabile, così spregevole e degradato che persino la stessa Compassione avrebbe distolto lo sguardo di fronte a una creatura del genere, simile a un uomo, “Non c’è nessuna possibilità per me. Non esiste alcuna possibilità positiva? Forse lo fanno solo per spaventarmi. Non credete anche voi? Oh, ” gridò quasi, stringendosi le mani, “non ci sarà nessuno che mi dia conforto?”

“Dovresti essere il migliore, invece del peggiore,” disse Hugh, fermandosi davanti a lui. “Ahahah! Guarda il boia, quando arriverà il momento per lui, ”

“Non sai cosa significa,” gridò Dennis, contorcendosi davvero mentre parlava: “Lo so io. Che dovrei essere sfruttato! Io! Io! Che dovrei finire in questo stato, ”

“E perché no?” disse Hugh, spingendo indietro i suoi capelli arruffati per vedere meglio il suo ex collega. “Quante volte, prima di conoscere il tuo lavoro, ti ho sentito parlare di questo come se fosse qualcosa di davvero piacevole?”

“Non sono incoerente,” gridò quella creatura miserabile; “parlerei così di nuovo, anche se fossi il boia. In questo momento, altre persone hanno preso il posto delle mie vecchie opinioni. Questo rende le cose ancora peggiori. Qualcuno vuole sicuramente sbarazzarsi di me. Lo so per certo!”

“Ben presto avrà soddisfatto il suo desiderio,” disse Hugh, riprendendo a camminare. “Pensa a questo e stai zitto.”

Sebbene uno di questi uomini dimostrasse, nel suo discorso e nel suo comportamento, una temerarietà estrema; e l’altro, in ogni sua parola e azione, manifestasse un livello di codardia così profonda da essere umiliante da osservare; sarebbe difficile dire quale dei due avrebbe potuto respingere o scioccare di più un osservatore. Quello di Hugh era il disperato coraggio di una bestia condannata a morte; l’impiccagione aveva ridotto quell’uomo a uno stato poco migliore, se non addirittura peggiore, di quello di un cane con la morsa al collo. Eppure, come il signor Dennis sapeva e avrebbe potuto loro spiegare, questi erano i due stati d’animo più comuni nelle persone che si trovavano in una situazione disperata. Era proprio questo il risultato naturale delle leggi vigenti: un raccolto del genere veniva considerato, di fatto, qualcosa di assolutamente normale.

In un certo senso, tutti erano d’accordo. Quel flusso di pensieri erranti e incontrollabili, che suscitavano improvvisi ricordi di cose lontane e da tempo dimenticate; quella vaga e inquieta sete di qualcosa di indefinito, che nulla poteva soddisfare; la rapidità con cui i minuti si fondevano nelle ore, come per incanto; l’arrivo improvviso della solenne notte; l’ombra dell’morte che incombeva su di loro, ma così tenue e sfocata da far emergere dall’oscurità gli oggetti più banali e insignificanti. Queste cose erano comuni a tutti loro, e differivano soltanto nei loro manifesti esteriori.

“Portami il libro che ho lasciato lì, sul tuo letto,” disse a Barnaby quando la orologio suonò. “Baciami prima.”

La guardò in faccia e capì che quel momento era finalmente arrivato. Dopo un lungo abbraccio, si staccò da lei e corse ad portarle ciò che le aveva promesso; le disse di non muoversi fino al suo ritorno. Tornò presto, ma un grido lo richiamò indietro: lei era già sparita.

Corse verso il cancello del cortile e guardò attraverso di esso: la stavano portando via. Aveva detto che il suo cuore si sarebbe spezzato. Forse era meglio così.

“Non pensi che ci sia ancora una possibilità?” sussurrò Dennis avvicinandosi a lui, mentre quest’ultimo stava fermo immobile, fissando le pareti vuote, “È una fine terribile. Una fine orribile per un uomo come me. Non credi che ci sia ancora una speranza? Non intendo per te, ma per me. Non far sì che LUI ci senta (intendo Hugh); è così disperato, ”

“Bene,” disse l’ufficiale, che fino ad allora era stato sdraiato avanti e indietro con le mani in tasca, sbadigliando come se fosse alla disperata ricerca di qualcosa di interessante da discutere: “È ora di andare a letto, ragazzi.”

“Non ancora,” gridò Dennis, “non ancora. Non per un’ora almeno.”

“Dico, il tuo orologio ora funziona in modo diverso rispetto a prima,” rispose l’uomo. “Una volta, andava sempre troppo veloce; ora ha il problema opposto.”

“Mio amico, ”, gridò quella povera creatura, gettandosi in ginocchio, “mio caro amico. Tu sei sempre stato il mio caro amico. Deve esserci un errore. Qualche lettera deve essere andata persa, o qualche messaggero è stato trattenuto lungo la strada. Potrebbe essere morto. Io stesso ho visto un uomo morire per strada, e aveva dei documenti in tasca. Mandate qualcuno a indagare. Non mi impiccheranno mai. Mai, ”, gridò di nuovo, alzandosi in piedi con un urlo terribile. “Mi impiccheranno con qualche trucco e terranno nascosto il perdono. È una trappola contro di me. Perderò la vita, ” E dopo un altro grido, cadde a terra privo di sensi.

“Guardate il boia quando tornerà a casa sua!” gridò di nuovo Hugh mentre lo portavano via, “Ah ah ah! Coraggio, coraggioso Barnaby. A noi che importa? La tua mano. Fanno bene a farci morire, perché se riuscissimo a scappare un’altra volta, non li lascieremmo andare così facilmente, eh? Un altro scossone. Un uomo può morire solo una volta. Se ti svegli di notte, canta forte quella canzone e poi riprendi sonno. Ah ah ah!”

Barnaby guardò ancora una volta attraverso la grata nel cortile vuoto; poi osservò Hugh mentre si dirigeva verso le scale che conducevano alla sua cella. Lo sentì gridare e scoppiò in una risata fragorosa; vide anche lui agitare il cappello. Poi se ne andò, come se fosse addormentato. Senza provare paura né tristezza, si sdraiò sul suo giaciglio, aspettando che l’orologio suonasse di nuovo.

Chapter 77

The time wore on. The noises in the streets became less frequent by degrees, until silence was scarcely broken save by the bells in church towers, marking the progress—softer and more stealthy while the city slumbered—of that Great Watcher with the hoary head, who never sleeps or rests. In the brief interval of darkness and repose which feverish towns enjoy, all busy sounds were hushed; and those who awoke from dreams lay listening in their beds, and longed for dawn, and wished the dead of the night were past.

Into the street outside the jail’s main wall, workmen came straggling at this solemn hour, in groups of two or three, and meeting in the centre, cast their tools upon the ground and spoke in whispers. Others soon issued from the jail itself, bearing on their shoulders planks and beams: these materials being all brought forth, the rest bestirred themselves, and the dull sound of hammers began to echo through the stillness.

Here and there among this knot of labourers, one, with a lantern or a smoky link, stood by to light his fellows at their work; and by its doubtful aid, some might be dimly seen taking up the pavement of the road, while others held great upright posts, or fixed them in the holes thus made for their reception. Some dragged slowly on, towards the rest, an empty cart, which they brought rumbling from the prison-yard; while others erected strong barriers across the street. All were busily engaged. Their dusky figures moving to and fro, at that unusual hour, so active and so silent, might have been taken for those of shadowy creatures toiling at midnight on some ghostly unsubstantial work, which, like themselves, would vanish with the first gleam of day, and leave but morning mist and vapour.

While it was yet dark, a few lookers-on collected, who had plainly come there for the purpose and intended to remain: even those who had to pass the spot on their way to some other place, lingered, and lingered yet, as though the attraction of that were irresistible. Meanwhile the noise of saw and mallet went on briskly, mingled with the clattering of boards on the stone pavement of the road, and sometimes with the workmen’s voices as they called to one another. Whenever the chimes of the neighbouring church were heard—and that was every quarter of an hour—a strange sensation, instantaneous and indescribable, but perfectly obvious, seemed to pervade them all.

Gradually, a faint brightness appeared in the east, and the air, which had been very warm all through the night, felt cool and chilly. Though there was no daylight yet, the darkness was diminished, and the stars looked pale. The prison, which had been a mere black mass with little shape or form, put on its usual aspect; and ever and anon a solitary watchman could be seen upon its roof, stopping to look down upon the preparations in the street. This man, from forming, as it were, a part of the jail, and knowing or being supposed to know all that was passing within, became an object of as much interest, and was as eagerly looked for, and as awfully pointed out, as if he had been a spirit.

By and by, the feeble light grew stronger, and the houses with their signboards and inscriptions, stood plainly out, in the dull grey morning. Heavy stage waggons crawled from the inn-yard opposite; and travellers peeped out; and as they rolled sluggishly away, cast many a backward look towards the jail. And now, the sun’s first beams came glancing into the street; and the night’s work, which, in its various stages and in the varied fancies of the lookers-on had taken a hundred shapes, wore its own proper form—a scaffold, and a gibbet.

As the warmth of the cheerful day began to shed itself upon the scanty crowd, the murmur of tongues was heard, shutters were thrown open, and blinds drawn up, and those who had slept in rooms over against the prison, where places to see the execution were let at high prices, rose hastily from their beds. In some of the houses, people were busy taking out the window-sashes for the better accommodation of spectators; in others, the spectators were already seated, and beguiling the time with cards, or drink, or jokes among themselves. Some had purchased seats upon the house-tops, and were already crawling to their stations from parapet and garret-window. Some were yet bargaining for good places, and stood in them in a state of indecision: gazing at the slowly-swelling crowd, and at the workmen as they rested listlessly against the scaffold—affecting to listen with indifference to the proprietor’s eulogy of the commanding view his house afforded, and the surpassing cheapness of his terms.

A fairer morning never shone. From the roofs and upper stories of these buildings, the spires of city churches and the great cathedral dome were visible, rising up beyond the prison, into the blue sky, and clad in the colour of light summer clouds, and showing in the clear atmosphere their every scrap of tracery and fretwork, and every niche and loophole. All was brightness and promise, excepting in the street below, into which (for it yet lay in shadow) the eye looked down as into a dark trench, where, in the midst of so much life, and hope, and renewal of existence, stood the terrible instrument of death. It seemed as if the very sun forbore to look upon it.

But it was better, grim and sombre in the shade, than when, the day being more advanced, it stood confessed in the full glare and glory of the sun, with its black paint blistering, and its nooses dangling in the light like loathsome garlands. It was better in the solitude and gloom of midnight with a few forms clustering about it, than in the freshness and the stir of morning: the centre of an eager crowd. It was better haunting the street like a spectre, when men were in their beds, and influencing perchance the city’s dreams, than braving the broad day, and thrusting its obscene presence upon their waking senses.

Capitolo 77

Il tempo passava. I rumori per le strade diventavano sempre più rari, fino a quando il silenzio veniva interrotto soltanto dai campanelli delle chiese, che segnavano il trascorrere del tempo, un tempo più lento e silenzioso, mentre la città dormiva. Quel Grande Guardiano dalla testa canuta non dormiva mai, né si riposava mai. Nel breve intervallo di oscurità e tranquillità che le città febbrili possono godersi, tutti i rumori cessavano; coloro che si svegliavano dai sogni ascoltavano in silenzio nel loro letto, desiderando ardentemente l’alba, e sperando che la notte fosse ormai finita.

Nella strada esterna al muro principale della prigione, gli operai arrivarono uno dopo l’altro in quest’ora solenne, a gruppi di due o tre; nel centro si riunirono, gettarono gli attrezzi a terra e parlottarono sottovoce. Poco dopo ne uscirono altri dalla prigione stessa, portando con sé assi e travi: una volta raccolti tutti questi materiali, gli altri iniziarono ad agire; il monotono suono dei martelli cominciò allora a risuonare nella quiete circostante.

Qui e là, tra quel gruppo di lavoratori, qualcuno, munito di lanterna o di un bastone fumante, si fermava per aiutare i compagni nel loro lavoro; con il suo debole chiarore, era possibile intravedere alcune persone che sistemavano i gradini lungo la strada, mentre altre reggevano grandi pali o li fissavano nelle buche appositamente scavate. Alcuni trascinavano lentamente un carretto vuoto, portandolo dal cortile della prigione; altri erigevano solide barriere attraverso la strada. Tutti erano impegnati in attività frenetiche. Le loro figure scure, che si muovevano avanti e indietro a quell’ora insolita, così attive e silenziose, avrebbero potuto essere scambiate per quelle di creature oscure al lavoro a mezzanotte su compiti fantomatici e insostanziali. Compiti che, proprio come loro, sarebbero svaniti con il primo bagliore dell’alba, lasciando solo nebbia e vapori mattutini.

Mentre era ancora buio, si radunarono alcuni spettatori che erano chiaramente venuti apposta per quell’evento e intenzionati a rimanere; anche coloro che dovevano passare da quel luogo per recarsi altrove indugiarono, come se l’attrazione di quel posto fosse irresistibile. Nel frattempo, il rumore delle seghe e dei martelli proseguiva incessantemente, mescolandosi con lo stridio dei listoni sul selciato di pietra della strada e, a volte, con le voci degli operai che si chiamavano a vicenda. Ogni volta che risuonavano i rintocchi della chiesa vicina – e ciò accadeva ogni quarto d’ora – un senso strano, istantaneo e indescrivibile, ma perfettamente evidente, sembrava pervadere tutti quanti.

Gradualmente, una debole luce apparve a est; l’aria, che era stata molto calda per tutta la notte, divenne fresca e pungente. Sebbene non ci fosse ancora luce di giorno, l’oscurità si attenuava e le stelle sembravano più pallide. La prigione, che prima era solo una massa nera senza forma o contorni distinti, riprendeva il suo aspetto abituale; di tanto in tanto si poteva vedere un singolo guardiano sul suo tetto, fermarsi a osservare le attività che avvenivano per strada. Quest’uomo, essendo praticamente parte della prigione e conoscendo – o almeno presumendosi che conoscesse – tutto ciò che vi accadeva all’interno, diventava un oggetto di grande interesse; veniva osservato con attenzione e indicato con timore, come se fosse uno spirito.

Col passare del tempo, la debole luce divenne più intensa; le case, con i loro cartelli e iscrizioni, si distinguevano chiaramente nella grigia mattina. Pesanti carri da teatro uscivano lentamente dal cortile della locanda di fronte; i viaggiatori sbirciavano fuori dai finestrini e, mentre questi carri si allontanavano con lentezza, molti di loro gettavano uno sguardo indietro verso la prigione. Ora, i primi raggi del sole iniziavano a filtrare nella strada; il “lavoro” della notte, che nelle varie fasi e nelle diverse interpretazioni degli spettatori aveva assunto centinaia di forme, assumeva finalmente la sua vera natura: una forca e un patibolo.

Mentre il calore di una giornata serena iniziava a diffondersi su quella piccola folla, si udì il mormorio delle voci; le persiane vennero aperte e le tende sollevate. Coloro che avevano dormito nelle stanze situate di fronte alla prigione, dove i posti per assistere all’esecuzione venivano venduti a prezzi elevati, si alzarono in fretta dai loro letti. In alcune case, la gente era impegnata ad aprire le finestre per permettere ai spettatori di vedere meglio; in altre, gli spettatori erano già seduti e passavano il tempo giocando a carte, bevendo o scherzando tra loro. Alcuni avevano acquistato posti sul tetto delle case e si stavano arrampicando verso le loro posizioni, attraverso parapetti e finestre dei tetti. Altri ancora discutevano per ottenere posti migliori, esitanti e indecisi; fissavano la folla che si stava lentamente radunando e osservavano i lavoratori sdraiati pigramente contro la forca. Fingevano di ascoltare con indifferenza le lodi del proprietario riguardo alla splendida vista offerta dalla sua casa, nonché all’eccezionale convenienza dei suoi prezzi.

Una mattina più splendida non era mai esistita. Dai tetti e dai piani superiori di questi edifici si vedevano le guglie delle chiese della città e la grande cupola della cattedrale, che si elevavano al di sopra della prigione, nel cielo azzurro; erano avvolte dal colore dei nuvoli estivi, e nella limpida atmosfera si potevano distinguere ogni dettaglio delle loro decorazioni, ogni nicchia e ogni feritoia. Tutto era luce e promesse, tranne per la strada sottostante: ancora avvolta nell’oscurità, sembrava un oscuro burrone; in mezzo a tanta vita, speranza e rinascita dell’esistenza, vi si trovava quell’orribile strumento della morte. Sembrava che persino il sole si rifiutasse di guardarla.

Ma era meglio così, nella penombra cupa e tenebrosa, che quando, con l’avanzare del giorno, veniva esposto alla luce intensa e splendente del sole: la sua vernice nera si squamava, i suoi nodi pendevano nella luce come orribili ghirlande. Era meglio così, nella solitudine e nel buio della mezzanotte, con poche figure che gli si radunavano intorno, che nella freschezza e nell’agitazione del mattino. Nel cuore di una folla ansiosa. Era meglio che infestasse le strade come uno spettro, mentre gli uomini erano a letto, influenzando forse i sogni della città, piuttosto che affrontare la luce del giorno e imporre la sua presenza oscena ai loro sensi svegli.

Five o’clock had struck—six—seven—and eight. Along the two main streets at either end of the cross-way, a living stream had now set in, rolling towards the marts of gain and business. Carts, coaches, waggons, trucks, and barrows, forced a passage through the outskirts of the throng, and clattered onward in the same direction. Some of these which were public conveyances and had come from a short distance in the country, stopped; and the driver pointed to the gibbet with his whip, though he might have spared himself the pains, for the heads of all the passengers were turned that way without his help, and the coach-windows were stuck full of staring eyes. In some of the carts and waggons, women might be seen, glancing fearfully at the same unsightly thing; and even little children were held up above the people’s heads to see what kind of a toy a gallows was, and learn how men were hanged.

Two rioters were to die before the prison, who had been concerned in the attack upon it; and one directly afterwards in Bloomsbury Square. At nine o’clock, a strong body of military marched into the street, and formed and lined a narrow passage into Holborn, which had been indifferently kept all night by constables. Through this, another cart was brought (the one already mentioned had been employed in the construction of the scaffold), and wheeled up to the prison-gate. These preparations made, the soldiers stood at ease; the officers lounged to and fro, in the alley they had made, or talked together at the scaffold’s foot; and the concourse, which had been rapidly augmenting for some hours, and still received additions every minute, waited with an impatience which increased with every chime of St Sepulchre’s clock, for twelve at noon.

Up to this time they had been very quiet, comparatively silent, save when the arrival of some new party at a window, hitherto unoccupied, gave them something new to look at or to talk of. But, as the hour approached, a buzz and hum arose, which, deepening every moment, soon swelled into a roar, and seemed to fill the air. No words or even voices could be distinguished in this clamour, nor did they speak much to each other; though such as were better informed upon the topic than the rest, would tell their neighbours, perhaps, that they might know the hangman when he came out, by his being the shorter one: and that the man who was to suffer with him was named Hugh: and that it was Barnaby Rudge who would be hanged in Bloomsbury Square.

The hum grew, as the time drew near, so loud, that those who were at the windows could not hear the church-clock strike, though it was close at hand. Nor had they any need to hear it, either, for they could see it in the people’s faces. So surely as another quarter chimed, there was a movement in the crowd—as if something had passed over it—as if the light upon them had been changed—in which the fact was readable as on a brazen dial, figured by a giant’s hand.

Three quarters past eleven! The murmur now was deafening, yet every man seemed mute. Look where you would among the crowd, you saw strained eyes and lips compressed; it would have been difficult for the most vigilant observer to point this way or that, and say that yonder man had cried out. It were as easy to detect the motion of lips in a sea-shell.

Three quarters past eleven! Many spectators who had retired from the windows, came back refreshed, as though their watch had just begun. Those who had fallen asleep, roused themselves; and every person in the crowd made one last effort to better his position—which caused a press against the sturdy barriers that made them bend and yield like twigs. The officers, who until now had kept together, fell into their several positions, and gave the words of command. Swords were drawn, muskets shouldered, and the bright steel winding its way among the crowd, gleamed and glittered in the sun like a river. Along this shining path, two men came hurrying on, leading a horse, which was speedily harnessed to the cart at the prison-door. Then, a profound silence replaced the tumult that had so long been gathering, and a breathless pause ensued. Every window was now choked up with heads; the house-tops teemed with people—clinging to chimneys, peering over gable-ends, and holding on where the sudden loosening of any brick or stone would dash them down into the street. The church tower, the church roof, the church yard, the prison leads, the very water-spouts and lampposts—every inch of room—swarmed with human life.

At the first stroke of twelve the prison-bell began to toll. Then the roar—mingled now with cries of ‘Hats off!’ and ‘Poor fellows!’ and, from some specks in the great concourse, with a shriek or groan—burst forth again. It was terrible to see—if any one in that distraction of excitement could have seen—the world of eager eyes, all strained upon the scaffold and the beam.

The hollow murmuring was heard within the jail as plainly as without. The three were brought forth into the yard, together, as it resounded through the air. They knew its import well.

‘D’ye hear?’ cried Hugh, undaunted by the sound. ‘They expect us! I heard them gathering when I woke in the night, and turned over on t’other side and fell asleep again. We shall see how they welcome the hangman, now that it comes home to him. Ha, ha, ha!’

The Ordinary coming up at this moment, reproved him for his indecent mirth, and advised him to alter his demeanour.

‘And why, master?’ said Hugh. ‘Can I do better than bear it easily? YOU bear it easily enough. Oh! never tell me,’ he cried, as the other would have spoken, ‘for all your sad look and your solemn air, you think little enough of it! They say you’re the best maker of lobster salads in London. Ha, ha! I’ve heard that, you see, before now. Is it a good one, this morning—is your hand in? How does the breakfast look? I hope there’s enough, and to spare, for all this hungry company that’ll sit down to it, when the sight’s over.’

Le cinque ore avevano già suonato, sei, sette, otto. Lungo le due strade principali, ai lati dell’incrocio, un flusso continuo di persone si dirigeva verso i luoghi di commercio e affari. Carri, cocchi, vagoni e carretti faticavano a farsi strada tra la folla, avanzando tutti nella stessa direzione. Alcuni di questi veicoli, provenienti da distanze non troppo lunghe dalla campagna, si fermarono; i conducenti indicarono con le fruste la forca, anche se avrebbero potuto risparmiarsi quel gesto: infatti tutti i passeggeri avevano già rivolto lo sguardo in quella direzione, e dai finestrini dei veicoli si potevano vedere occhi fissi su quell’orribile spettacolo. In alcuni carri e vagoni si vedevano donne che guardavano con terrore quella stessa scena; persino i bambini venivano sollevati sopra le teste della folla per osservare quale tipo di “gioco” fosse una forca, e per imparare come gli uomini venissero impiccati.

Due dei rivoltosi morirono davanti alla prigione, quelli che avevano partecipato all’attacco contro di essa; un altro fu ucciso subito dopo in Bloomsbury Square. Alle nove in punto, un forte gruppo di militari marciò nella strada e formò una fila stretta per permettere il passaggio verso Holborn, una via che durante tutta la notte era stata scarsamente presidiata dalla polizia. Attraverso questa via fu portato un altro carrello (quello già menzionato era stato utilizzato per costruire la forca); il carrello venne condotto fino alla porta della prigione. Una volta completati questi preparativi, i soldati rimasero in attesa; gli ufficiali passeggiavano avanti e indietro lungo il percorso appena creato o chiacchieravano sotto la forca. La folla, che si era rapidamente aumentata nel corso delle ore precedenti e continuava ad ingrossarsi minuto dopo minuto, attendeva con crescente impazienza l’ora di mezzogiorno.

Fino a quel momento, erano rimasti molto silenziosi, relativamente tranquilli, tranne quando l’arrivo di qualche nuova persona davanti a una finestra, fino ad allora inutilizzata, offriva loro qualcosa di nuovo da osservare o di cui parlare. Ma man mano che l’ora si avvicinava, un brusio e un rumore crescevano sempre di più, fino a trasformarsi in un fragore assordante che sembrava riempire tutto l’aria. In quel clamore non era possibile distinguere alcuna parola o voce; inoltre, non parlavano molto tra loro. Tuttavia, coloro che erano meglio informati sull’argomento raccontavano ai loro vicini che avrebbero potuto riconoscere il boia quando sarebbe uscito: si sarebbe distinto per essere più basso degli altri; che l’uomo che avrebbe subito la stessa sorte si chiamava Hugh; e che sarebbe stato Barnaby Rudge ad essere impiccato in Bloomsbury Square.

Il rumore aumentava man mano che il tempo si avvicinava; diventava così forte che coloro che erano alle finestre non riuscivano a sentire il suono dell’orologio della chiesa, anche se era proprio lì vicino. In realtà, non avevano nemmeno bisogno di sentirlo: potevano leggerlo sulle facce delle persone. Appena suonò il quarto d’ora successivo, ci fu un movimento nella folla, come se qualcosa fosse passato sopra di loro, come se la luce che li illuminava fosse cambiata. E quel cambiamento era così evidente da poter essere letto chiaramente, proprio come i numeri su un quadrante di bronzo, disegnati dalla mano di un gigante.

Le tre quarti dopo le undici! Il mormorio adesso era assordante, eppure tutti sembravano muti. Ovunque si guardasse nella folla, si vedevano occhi tesi e labbra strette; sarebbe stato difficile persino per l’osservatore più attento indicare in quale direzione qualcuno avesse gridato. Era altrettanto impossibile notare il movimento delle labbra all’interno di una conchiglia marina.

Le undici e tre quarti! Molti spettatori che si erano allontanati dalle finestre tornarono, rinvigoriti, come se il loro orologio avesse appena iniziato a funzionare. Quelli che si erano addormentati si risvegliarono; e ognuno nella folla fece un ultimo tentativo per migliorare la propria posizione, il che causò una pressione intensa contro le solide barriere, che si piegarono e cedettero come rami. Gli ufficiali, che fino ad allora erano rimasti uniti, presero le loro rispettive posizioni e diedero gli ordini necessari. Le spade furono sguainate, i fucili imbracciati; la luce brillante dell’acciaio si snodava tra la folla, scintillando al sole come un fiume. Lungo questo percorso luminoso, due uomini corsero velocemente, guidando un cavallo che fu rapidamente attaccato al carro davanti alla porta della prigione. Poi, un profondo silenzio sostituì il tumulto che si era accumulato per tanto tempo; seguì un momento di immobilità totale. Ogni finestra era ora piena di teste; i tetti delle case erano affollati di persone: aggrappate ai comignoli, sporgendosi oltre gli angoli dei tetti, tenendosi saldamente dove qualsiasi mattone o pietra staccata avrebbe potuto farle cadere in strada. La torre della chiesa, il tetto della chiesa, il cortile della chiesa, i passaggi che conducevano alla prigione, persino le bocche delle fontane e i lampioni, ogni centimetro di spazio era invaso dalla folla umana.

Al primo rintocco delle dodici, la campana della prigione iniziò a suonare. Poi il fragore – ora mescolato a grida di “Toglietevi il cappello!” e “Poveretti!”, e da alcune parti della folla, a urla o gemiti – scoppiò nuovamente. Era terribile da vedere, se qualcuno, in mezzo a tutta quell’eccitazione, fosse stato in grado di osservare, quel mare di occhi ansiosi, tutti fissi sulla forca e sul palo.

Il mormorio sommesso si udiva all’interno della prigione con la stessa chiarezza sia dentro che fuori. I tre furono portati fuori nel cortile tutti insieme, mentre quel suono risuonava nell’aria. Conoscevano bene il significato di quel rumore.

“Sentite?” gridò Hugh, senza lasciarsi intimidire dal rumore. “Ci aspettano! Li ho sentiti radunarsi quando mi sono svegliato di notte, quindi mi sono girato dall’altra parte e mi sono addormentato di nuovo. Vedremo come accoglieranno il boia, ora che è tornato a >casa. Ahahah!”

In quel momento, l’Uomo Comune lo rimproverò per la sua risata indecente e gli consigliò di cambiare il proprio comportamento.

“E perché, padrone?” disse Hugh. “Posso fare di meglio che sopportarlo con facilità? VOI lo sopportate abbastanza facilmente. Oh! Non ditemi mai,” gridò, come l’altro avrebbe potuto dire, “perché nonostante il vostro aspetto triste e il vostro tono solenne, ne pensate davvero poco! Dicono che siate il miglior preparatore di insalate di aragoste a Londra. Ahah. L’ho già sentito dire prima d’ora. Questa mattina è una buona insalata. Avete messo la mano nel condimento? Com’è il breakfast? Spero che ci sia abbastanza, e anche in abbondanza, per tutta questa compagnia affamata che si siederà a mangiare dopo lo spettacolo.”

‘I fear,’ observed the clergyman, shaking his head, ‘that you are incorrigible.’

‘You’re right. I am,’ rejoined Hugh sternly. ‘Be no hypocrite, master! You make a merry-making of this, every month; let me be merry, too. If you want a frightened fellow there’s one that’ll suit you. Try your hand upon him.’

He pointed, as he spoke, to Dennis, who, with his legs trailing on the ground, was held between two men; and who trembled so, that all his joints and limbs seemed racked by spasms. Turning from this wretched spectacle, he called to Barnaby, who stood apart.

‘What cheer, Barnaby? Don’t be downcast, lad. Leave that to HIM.’

‘Bless you,’ cried Barnaby, stepping lightly towards him, ‘I’m not frightened, Hugh. I’m quite happy. I wouldn’t desire to live now, if they’d let me. Look at me! Am I afraid to die? Will they see ME tremble?’

Hugh gazed for a moment at his face, on which there was a strange, unearthly smile; and at his eye, which sparkled brightly; and interposing between him and the Ordinary, gruffly whispered to the latter:

‘I wouldn’t say much to him, master, if I was you. He may spoil your appetite for breakfast, though you ARE used to it.’

He was the only one of the three who had washed or trimmed himself that morning. Neither of the others had done so, since their doom was pronounced. He still wore the broken peacock’s feathers in his hat; and all his usual scraps of finery were carefully disposed about his person. His kindling eye, his firm step, his proud and resolute bearing, might have graced some lofty act of heroism; some voluntary sacrifice, born of a noble cause and pure enthusiasm; rather than that felon’s death.

But all these things increased his guilt. They were mere assumptions. The law had declared it so, and so it must be. The good minister had been greatly shocked, not a quarter of an hour before, at his parting with Grip. For one in his condition, to fondle a bird!—The yard was filled with people; bluff civic functionaries, officers of justice, soldiers, the curious in such matters, and guests who had been bidden as to a wedding. Hugh looked about him, nodded gloomily to some person in authority, who indicated with his hand in what direction he was to proceed; and clapping Barnaby on the shoulder, passed out with the gait of a lion.

They entered a large room, so near to the scaffold that the voices of those who stood about it, could be plainly heard: some beseeching the javelin-men to take them out of the crowd: others crying to those behind, to stand back, for they were pressed to death, and suffocating for want of air.

In the middle of this chamber, two smiths, with hammers, stood beside an anvil. Hugh walked straight up to them, and set his foot upon it with a sound as though it had been struck by a heavy weapon. Then, with folded arms, he stood to have his irons knocked off: scowling haughtily round, as those who were present eyed him narrowly and whispered to each other.

It took so much time to drag Dennis in, that this ceremony was over with Hugh, and nearly over with Barnaby, before he appeared. He no sooner came into the place he knew so well, however, and among faces with which he was so familiar, than he recovered strength and sense enough to clasp his hands and make a last appeal.

‘Gentlemen, good gentlemen,’ cried the abject creature, grovelling down upon his knees, and actually prostrating himself upon the stone floor: ‘Governor, dear governor—honourable sheriffs—worthy gentlemen—have mercy upon a wretched man that has served His Majesty, and the Law, and Parliament, for so many years, and don’t—don’t let me die—because of a mistake.’

‘Dennis,’ said the governor of the jail, ‘you know what the course is, and that the order came with the rest. You know that we could do nothing, even if we would.’

‘All I ask, sir,—all I want and beg, is time, to make it sure,’ cried the trembling wretch, looking wildly round for sympathy. ‘The King and Government can’t know it’s me; I’m sure they can’t know it’s me; or they never would bring me to this dreadful slaughterhouse. They know my name, but they don’t know it’s the same man. Stop my execution—for charity’s sake stop my execution, gentlemen—till they can be told that I’ve been hangman here, nigh thirty year. Will no one go and tell them?’ he implored, clenching his hands and glaring round, and round, and round again—‘will no charitable person go and tell them!’

‘Mr Akerman,’ said a gentleman who stood by, after a moment’s pause, ‘since it may possibly produce in this unhappy man a better frame of mind, even at this last minute, let me assure him that he was well known to have been the hangman, when his sentence was considered.’

‘—But perhaps they think on that account that the punishment’s not so great,’ cried the criminal, shuffling towards this speaker on his knees, and holding up his folded hands; ‘whereas it’s worse, it’s worse a hundred times, to me than any man. Let them know that, sir. Let them know that. They’ve made it worse to me by giving me so much to do. Stop my execution till they know that!’

The governor beckoned with his hand, and the two men, who had supported him before, approached. He uttered a piercing cry:

‘Wait! Wait. Only a moment—only one moment more! Give me a last chance of reprieve. One of us three is to go to Bloomsbury Square. Let me be the one. It may come in that time; it’s sure to come. In the Lord’s name let me be sent to Bloomsbury Square. Don’t hang me here. It’s murder.’

They took him to the anvil: but even then he could be heard above the clinking of the smiths’ hammers, and the hoarse raging of the crowd, crying that he knew of Hugh’s birth—that his father was living, and was a gentleman of influence and rank—that he had family secrets in his possession—that he could tell nothing unless they gave him time, but must die with them on his mind; and he continued to rave in this sort until his voice failed him, and he sank down a mere heap of clothes between the two attendants.

“Le vostre paure, ”, osservò il prete scuotendo la testa, “dicono che siate irrimediabili.”

“Hai ragione. Lo sono,” rispose Hugh con severità. “Non essere ipocrita, padrone! Ogni mese fai tutto questo per divertirti; lasciami divertirmi anch’io. Se vuoi qualcuno spaventato, ce n’è uno che ti andrà bene. Prova a provare con lui.”

Mentre parlava, indicò Dennis, che, con le gambe trascinate a terra, era tenuto fermo tra due uomini; tremava così tanto che tutte le sue articolazioni e i suoi membri sembravano essere scossi da spasmi. Distogliendo lo sguardo da questa tragica scena, chiamò Barnaby, che stava in disparte.

“Che c’è che ti rattrista, Barnaby? Non essere triste, ragazzo. Lascia che se ne occupi LUI.”

“Che tu sia benedetto,” esclamò Barnaby avvicinandosi a lui con passi leggeri, “non ho paura, Hugh. Sono davvero felice. Ora non desidererei più vivere, se solo me lo permettessero. Guardami: ho paura di morire? Vedranno che tremo?”

Hugh fissò per un momento il suo volto, sul quale c’era un sorriso strano, innaturale; e i suoi occhi, che brillavano intensamente. Poi, interponendosi tra lui e l’Ordinario, sussurrò bruscamente all’ultimo:

“Non gli direi molto, padrone, se fossi in voi. Potrebbe rovinarvi l’appetito per la colazione, anche se ormai ci siete abituati.”

Era l’unico dei tre ad essersi lavato o curato quella mattina. Gli altri due non lo avevano fatto, poiché la loro condanna era già stata pronunciata. Indossava ancora le piume spezzate del pavone nel suo cappello; e tutti i suoi soliti ornamenti erano stati attentamente disposti intorno a lui. Il suo sguardo brillante, il passo deciso, l’atteggiamento orgoglioso e risoluto avrebbero potuto essere adatti a un nobile atto di eroismo, a un sacrificio volontario nato da una causa nobile ed entusiasmo puro, piuttosto che alla morte di quel criminale.

Ma tutte queste cose aumentavano la sua colpa. Erano soltanto supposizioni. La legge lo aveva stabilito così, e quindi doveva essere così. Il buon ministro era stato profondamente scioccato, meno di un quarto d’ora prima, al momento del suo addio a Grip. Per una persona nella sua condizione, accarezzare un uccello,! Il cortile era pieno di gente: funzionari civici, ufficiali di giustizia, soldati, curiosi e invitati che erano stati convocati come per un matrimonio. Hugh si guardò intorno, annuì cupamente verso qualcuno in posizione di autorità, che gli indicò con la mano la direzione da prendere; poi, dando una pacca sulla spalla a Barnaby, se ne andò con l’andatura maestosa di un leone.

Entrarono in una grande stanza, così vicina alla forca che le voci di coloro che si trovavano intorno potevano essere chiaramente udite: alcuni supplicavano i soldati armati di giavellotto di portarli via dalla folla; altri gridavano a quelli dietro di loro di fare spazio, perché erano schiacciati contro la forca e stavano soffocando per mancanza d’aria.

Al centro di questa stanza, due fabbri, armati di martelli, stavano accanto a un incudine. Hugh si avvicinò direttamente a loro e vi posò il piede sopra con un tonfo tale da far pensare che fosse stato colpito da un’arma pesante. Poi, con le braccia incrociate, rimase in attesa che gli togliessero i ferri: con un’espressione sprezzante sul viso, mentre coloro che erano presenti lo osservavano con sospetto e bisbigliavano tra loro.

Ci volle così tanto tempo per far entrare Dennis che la cerimonia era già finita per Hugh, e quasi terminata anche per Barnaby, quando lui arrivò. Tuttavia, non appena entrò in quel luogo che conosceva così bene, tra volti che gli erano così familiari, riacquistò abbastanza forza e lucidità da unire le mani e fare un ultimo appello.

“Signori, gentili signori,” gridò quella creatura disperata, inginocchiandosi e prostrandosi sul pavimento di pietra: “Governatore, caro governatore, onorevoli sceriffi, nobili signori, abbiate pietà di un uomo misero che ha servito Sua Maestà, la Legge e il Parlamento per tanti anni. Non lasciate che muoia a causa di un errore.”

“Dennis,” disse il direttore della prigione, “tu sai quale è la procedura da seguire, e sai anche che l’ordine è arrivato insieme al resto delle istruzioni. Sai bene che non avremmo potuto fare nulla, anche se lo avessimo voluto.”

“Tutto ciò che chiedo, signori, tutto ciò che desidero e prego è del tempo per poter verificare la verità,” gridò quella povera creatura tremante, guardandosi intorno disperatamente in cerca di compassione. “Il -Re e il Governo non possono sapere che sono io; sono sicuro che non lo sappiano. Altrimenti non mi avrebbero mai portato in questo orribile luogo di morte. Conoscono il mio nome, ma non sanno che si tratta della stessa persona. Fermate la mia esecuzione, per pietà, fermatela, finché non verrà detto loro che sono stato io l’impiccatore qui, per quasi trent’anni. Non c’è nessuno che possa andare a dirglielo?” supplicò, stringendo le mani e guardandosi intorno con occhi disperati, “Non c’è nessuna persona compassionevole che possa farlo?”

“Signor Akerman,” disse un gentiluomo che si trovava lì vicino, dopo una breve pausa, “poiché forse questo potrebbe aiutare quest’uomo sfortunato a riprendere il controllo di sé, anche in questo ultimo momento, lasciate che gli assicuri che tutti sapevano bene che lui fosse l’impiccatore quando è stata emessa la sua sentenza.”

“–Ma forse pensano che, per questo motivo, la punizione non sia così grave,” gridò il criminale, muovendosi verso chi parlava in ginocchio e tenendo le mani giunte; “mentre in realtà è molto peggio, cento volte peggio per me di quanto possa essere per qualsiasi altro uomo. Diteglielo, signore. Ditegli che hanno reso la mia situazione ancora più difficile dando mi così tante cose da fare. Fermate l’esecuzione finché non lo sapranno!”

Il governatore fece un cenno con la mano, e i due uomini che lo avevano sostenuto in precedenza si avvicinarono. Lui emise un grido acuto:

“Aspetta! Solo un momento, solo un altro attimo! Dammi un’ultima possibilità. Uno di noi tre dovrà andare in Bloomsbury Square. Lascia che sia io. Potrebbe accadere proprio in quel momento; sicuramente accadrà. Per il nome del Signore, lasciami andare in Bloomsbury Square. Non impicarmi qui. È omicidio.”

Lo portarono davanti all’incudine; ma anche allora si poteva ancora sentirlo parlare, nonostante il rumore degli martelli dei fabbri e le grida rauche della folla che lo accusava di conoscere i dettagli sulla nascita di Hugh, di sapere che suo padre era ancora vivo e fosse un gentiluomo influente e di alto rango, e di possedere segreti familiari. Dicevano che non avrebbe parlato a meno che non gli venisse dato del tempo, ma che in caso contrario sarebbe morto portandosi quei segreti nella tomba; continuò a gridare in questo modo fino a quando la voce gli mancò, e poi cadde a terra, diventando soltanto un mucchio di vestiti tra i due assistenti.

It was at this moment that the clock struck the first stroke of twelve, and the bell began to toll. The various officers, with the two sheriffs at their head, moved towards the door. All was ready when the last chime came upon the ear.

They told Hugh this, and asked if he had anything to say.

‘To say!’ he cried. ‘Not I. I’m ready.—Yes,’ he added, as his eye fell upon Barnaby, ‘I have a word to say, too. Come hither, lad.’

There was, for the moment, something kind, and even tender, struggling in his fierce aspect, as he wrung his poor companion by the hand.

‘I’ll say this,’ he cried, looking firmly round, ‘that if I had ten lives to lose, and the loss of each would give me ten times the agony of the hardest death, I’d lay them all down—ay, I would, though you gentlemen may not believe it—to save this one. This one,’ he added, wringing his hand again, ‘that will be lost through me.’

‘Not through you,’ said the idiot, mildly. ‘Don’t say that. You were not to blame. You have always been very good to me.—Hugh, we shall know what makes the stars shine, NOW!’

‘I took him from her in a reckless mood, and didn’t think what harm would come of it,’ said Hugh, laying his hand upon his head, and speaking in a lower voice. ‘I ask her pardon; and his.—Look here,’ he added roughly, in his former tone. ‘You see this lad?’

They murmured ‘Yes,’ and seemed to wonder why he asked.

‘That gentleman yonder—’ pointing to the clergyman—‘has often in the last few days spoken to me of faith, and strong belief. You see what I am—more brute than man, as I have been often told—but I had faith enough to believe, and did believe as strongly as any of you gentlemen can believe anything, that this one life would be spared. See what he is!—Look at him!’

Barnaby had moved towards the door, and stood beckoning him to follow.

‘If this was not faith, and strong belief!’ cried Hugh, raising his right arm aloft, and looking upward like a savage prophet whom the near approach of Death had filled with inspiration, ‘where are they! What else should teach me—me, born as I was born, and reared as I have been reared—to hope for any mercy in this hardened, cruel, unrelenting place! Upon these human shambles, I, who never raised this hand in prayer till now, call down the wrath of God! On that black tree, of which I am the ripened fruit, I do invoke the curse of all its victims, past, and present, and to come. On the head of that man, who, in his conscience, owns me for his son, I leave the wish that he may never sicken on his bed of down, but die a violent death as I do now, and have the night-wind for his only mourner. To this I say, Amen, amen!’

His arm fell downward by his side; he turned; and moved towards them with a steady step, the man he had been before.

‘There is nothing more?’ said the governor.

Hugh motioned Barnaby not to come near him (though without looking in the direction where he stood) and answered, ‘There is nothing more.’

‘Move forward!’

‘—Unless,’ said Hugh, glancing hurriedly back,—‘unless any person here has a fancy for a dog; and not then, unless he means to use him well. There’s one, belongs to me, at the house I came from, and it wouldn’t be easy to find a better. He’ll whine at first, but he’ll soon get over that.—You wonder that I think about a dog just now,’ he added, with a kind of laugh. ‘If any man deserved it of me half as well, I’d think of HIM.’

He spoke no more, but moved onward in his place, with a careless air, though listening at the same time to the Service for the Dead, with something between sullen attention, and quickened curiosity. As soon as he had passed the door, his miserable associate was carried out; and the crowd beheld the rest.

Barnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time—indeed he would have gone before them, but in both attempts he was restrained, as he was to undergo the sentence elsewhere. In a few minutes the sheriffs reappeared, the same procession was again formed, and they passed through various rooms and passages to another door—that at which the cart was waiting. He held down his head to avoid seeing what he knew his eyes must otherwise encounter, and took his seat sorrowfully,—and yet with something of a childish pride and pleasure,—in the vehicle. The officers fell into their places at the sides, in front and in the rear; the sheriffs’ carriages rolled on; a guard of soldiers surrounded the whole; and they moved slowly forward through the throng and pressure toward Lord Mansfield’s ruined house.

It was a sad sight—all the show, and strength, and glitter, assembled round one helpless creature—and sadder yet to note, as he rode along, how his wandering thoughts found strange encouragement in the crowded windows and the concourse in the streets; and how, even then, he felt the influence of the bright sky, and looked up, smiling, into its deep unfathomable blue. But there had been many such sights since the riots were over—some so moving in their nature, and so repulsive too, that they were far more calculated to awaken pity for the sufferers, than respect for that law whose strong arm seemed in more than one case to be as wantonly stretched forth now that all was safe, as it had been basely paralysed in time of danger.

Two cripples—both mere boys—one with a leg of wood, one who dragged his twisted limbs along by the help of a crutch, were hanged in this same Bloomsbury Square. As the cart was about to glide from under them, it was observed that they stood with their faces from, not to, the house they had assisted to despoil; and their misery was protracted that this omission might be remedied. Another boy was hanged in Bow Street; other young lads in various quarters of the town. Four wretched women, too, were put to death. In a word, those who suffered as rioters were, for the most part, the weakest, meanest, and most miserable among them. It was a most exquisite satire upon the false religious cry which had led to so much misery, that some of these people owned themselves to be Catholics, and begged to be attended by their own priests.

One young man was hanged in Bishopsgate Street, whose aged grey-headed father waited for him at the gallows, kissed him at its foot when he arrived, and sat there, on the ground, till they took him down. They would have given him the body of his child; but he had no hearse, no coffin, nothing to remove it in, being too poor—and walked meekly away beside the cart that took it back to prison, trying, as he went, to touch its lifeless hand.

But the crowd had forgotten these matters, or cared little about them if they lived in their memory: and while one great multitude fought and hustled to get near the gibbet before Newgate, for a parting look, another followed in the train of poor lost Barnaby, to swell the throng that waited for him on the spot.

Fu in quel momento che l’orologio suonò il primo rintocco delle dodici, e la campana iniziò a suonare. I vari ufficiali, guidati dai due sceriffi, si diressero verso la porta. Tutto era pronto quando risuonò l’ultimo rintocco.

Glielo dissero e gli chiesero se avesse qualcosa da dire.

“Dire che,!” esclamò. “No, non io. Sono pronto. Sì,” aggiunse, quando i suoi occhi incontrarono Barnaby, “anch’io ho qualcosa da dire. Vieni qui, ragazzo.”

In quel momento, c’era qualcosa di gentile, persino di tenero, che lottava dentro il suo aspetto feroce, mentre stringeva la mano della sua povera compagna.

“Lo dico chiaro,” gridò, guardandosi intorno con determinazione, “se avessi dieci vite da perdere, e la perdita di ciascuna mi causasse dieci volte l’agonia più terribile della morte stessa, le darei tutte, sì, lo farei, anche se voi signori potreste non crederci, per salvare questa persona. Questa persona,” aggiunse, stringendo di nuovo la mano, “che perderà a causa mia.”

“Non per colpa tua,” disse l’idiota con tono gentile. “Non dirlo. Non era certo colpa tua. Sei sempre stato molto buono con me. Hugh, ora sapremo cosa fa brillare le stelle!”

“L’ho preso da lei in un momento di impulsività, senza pensare a quali conseguenze ci sarebbero state,” disse Hugh, mettendosi una mano sulla testa e parlando a voce più bassa. “Le chiedo scusa. E anche a lui. Guarda qui,” aggiunse bruscamente, tornando al suo tono precedente. “Vedi questo ragazzo?”

Mormorarono “Sì” e sembravano chiedersi perché lo avesse chiesto.

“Quel gentiluomo laggiù, ”, indicando il prete, “negli ultimi giorni mi ha spesso parlato di fede e di una fede profonda. Vedete com’è fatto io: più bestia che uomo, come mi è stato detto molte volte. Ma avevo abbastanza fede per credere, e credevo con la stessa forza con cui voi signori potete credere in qualsiasi cosa. Credevo davvero che questa mia vita sarebbe stata risparmiata. Guardatelo!”

Barnaby si era avvicinato alla porta e stava facendo segno di seguirlo.

“Se questo non fosse fede e una forte convinzione, ”, gridò Hugh, alzando il braccio destro verso l’alto e guardando in alto come un selvaggio profeta ispirato dall’avvicinarsi della Morte, “dove sono allora tutte queste cose? Cosa altro potrebbe insegnarmi, a me, nato così com’ero e cresciuto in questo modo, ad avere ancora speranza in qualche forma di misericordia in questo posto crudele e spietato? Su questi resti umani, io, che fino ad ora non ho mai alzato questa mano in preghiera, invoco la collera di Dio! Su quell’albero nero, di cui sono il frutto maturo, invoco la maledizione di tutte le sue vittime, passate, presenti e future. Sulla testa di quell’uomo che, nella sua coscienza, mi riconosce come suo figlio, lascio che desideri di morire una morte violenta, proprio come sto morendo io ora, e che l’unica persona a piangerlo sia il vento della notte. E su tutto questo dico: Amen, amen!”

Il suo braccio cadde giù lungo il fianco; si girò e si diresse verso di loro con passi decisi, tornando ad essere l’uomo che era stato prima.

“Non c’è nient’altro?” chiese il governatore.

Hugh fece segno a Barnaby di non avvicinarsi a lui (senza nemmeno guardare nella direzione in cui si trovava) e rispose: “Non c’è nient’altro da dire.”

“Avanti!”

“–A meno che, “, disse Hugh, guardando indietro in fretta, “a meno che qualcuno qui non abbia voglia di un cane; e anche in quel caso, solo se intenda usarlo davvero bene. Ne ho uno, appartiene a me, nella casa da cui vengo; non sarebbe facile trovarne uno migliore. All’inizio piangerà, ma presto si abituerà, –Vi chiederete perché proprio ora penso a un cane“, aggiunse con una sorta di risata. “Se qualcuno meritasse che io pensassi a lui anche solo la metà di quanto merita quel cane, penserei a LUI.“

Non disse più nulla, ma continuò ad avanzare con aria indifferente, pur ascoltando allo stesso tempo la cerimonia per i morti, con un atteggiamento che mescolava attenzione cupa e curiosità crescente. Non appena ebbe superato la porta, il suo misero compagno fu portato via; il pubblico assistette al resto degli eventi.

Barnaby avrebbe salito i gradini nello stesso momento, anzi, sarebbe persino andato avanti di loro, ma in entrambi i casi fu trattenuto, poiché la sua punizione doveva essere eseguita altrove. Dopo pochi minuti, gli sceriffi ricomparvero; la stessa processione si riorganizzò e attraversò diverse stanze e corridoi fino ad un’altra porta, quella davanti alla quale attendeva il carro. Barnaby tenne bassa la testa per non vedere ciò che sapeva sarebbe stato inevitabile, e prese posto nel veicolo con tristezza, ma anche con una sorta di infantile orgoglio e piacere. Gli ufficiali presero i loro posti sui lati, davanti e dietro; le carrozze degli sceriffi si misero in movimento; una guardia di soldati circondò tutto il gruppo, e lentamente avanzarono tra la folla verso la distrutta casa di Lord Mansfield.

Era una scena triste: tutto lo spettacolo, tutta la forza, tutto il lusso raccolti intorno a una creatura indifesa. E ancora più triste era notare, mentre lui viaggiava, come i suoi pensieri erranti trovassero un’insolita ispirazione nelle vetrine affollate e nella folla per le strade; e come, anche allora, sentisse l’influenza del cielo luminoso, alzando lo sguardo con un sorriso verso il suo profondo blu insondabile. Ma da quando erano finite le rivolte, ce n’erano state molte altre scene simili: alcune così commoventi nella loro natura, eppure così ripugnanti, che suscitavano molto più compassione per le vittime che rispetto per quella legge la cui mano ferma sembrava ora essere estesa con troppa arbitrarietà, proprio quando tutto era al sicuro, proprio come in tempi di pericolo fosse stata bassezzamente paralizzata.

Due invalidi – entrambi semplici ragazzi: uno con una gamba di legno, l’altro che trascinava le proprie membra contorte con l’aiuto di un bastone – furono impiccati proprio in questa piazza di Bloomsbury Square. Mentre il carro stava per allontanarsi da loro, si notò che stavano rivolti non verso la casa che avevano contribuito a derubare, ma nella direzione opposta; così la loro sofferenza fu prolungata di proposito, affinché questo errore potesse essere corretto. Un altro ragazzo fu impiccato in Bow Street; altri giovani in varie zone della città. Anche quattro donne misere furono condannate a morte. In breve, coloro che soffrirono come rivoltosi erano, per lo più, i più deboli, i più meschini e i più sfortunati tra loro. Fu una vera e propria satira crudele contro quel falso grido religioso che aveva causato tanta sofferenza: alcuni di questi individui si dichiaravano cattolici e chiedevano addirittura che fossero assistiti dai loro stessi preti.

Un giovane fu impiccato in Bishopsgate Street; suo padre, anziano e con i capelli grigi, lo attendeva alla forca, lo baciò ai suoi piedi quando arrivò e rimase lì, a terra, fino a quando non lo portarono via. Avrebbero voluto dargli il corpo del suo figlio; ma lui non aveva né una bara né nulla con cui trasportarlo, essendo troppo povero. E se ne andò umilmente accanto al carro che lo riportava in prigione, cercando, mentre camminava, di toccare quella mano ormai senza vita.

Ma la folla aveva dimenticato queste cose, o se ne curava ben poco; anche se le teneva nella propria memoria. Mentre una grande moltitudine lottava e si affrettava per avvicinarsi al patibolo di Newgate, nell’ultimo istante, un’altra folla seguiva il povero e smarrito Barnaby, aumentando così la calca di persone che lo aspettavano sul posto.

Chapter 78

On this same day, and about this very hour, Mr Willet the elder sat smoking his pipe in a chamber at the Black Lion. Although it was hot summer weather, Mr Willet sat close to the fire. He was in a state of profound cogitation, with his own thoughts, and it was his custom at such times to stew himself slowly, under the impression that that process of cookery was favourable to the melting out of his ideas, which, when he began to simmer, sometimes oozed forth so copiously as to astonish even himself.

Mr Willet had been several thousand times comforted by his friends and acquaintance, with the assurance that for the loss he had sustained in the damage done to the Maypole, he could ‘come upon the county.’ But as this phrase happened to bear an unfortunate resemblance to the popular expression of ‘coming on the parish,’ it suggested to Mr Willet’s mind no more consolatory visions than pauperism on an extensive scale, and ruin in a capacious aspect. Consequently, he had never failed to receive the intelligence with a rueful shake of the head, or a dreary stare, and had been always observed to appear much more melancholy after a visit of condolence than at any other time in the whole four-and-twenty hours.

It chanced, however, that sitting over the fire on this particular occasion—perhaps because he was, as it were, done to a turn; perhaps because he was in an unusually bright state of mind; perhaps because he had considered the subject so long; perhaps because of all these favouring circumstances, taken together—it chanced that, sitting over the fire on this particular occasion, Mr Willet did, afar off and in the remotest depths of his intellect, perceive a kind of lurking hint or faint suggestion, that out of the public purse there might issue funds for the restoration of the Maypole to its former high place among the taverns of the earth. And this dim ray of light did so diffuse itself within him, and did so kindle up and shine, that at last he had it as plainly and visibly before him as the blaze by which he sat; and, fully persuaded that he was the first to make the discovery, and that he had started, hunted down, fallen upon, and knocked on the head, a perfectly original idea which had never presented itself to any other man, alive or dead, he laid down his pipe, rubbed his hands, and chuckled audibly.

‘Why, father!’ cried Joe, entering at the moment, ‘you’re in spirits to-day!’

‘It’s nothing partickler,’ said Mr Willet, chuckling again. ‘It’s nothing at all partickler, Joseph. Tell me something about the Salwanners.’ Having preferred this request, Mr Willet chuckled a third time, and after these unusual demonstrations of levity, he put his pipe in his mouth again.

‘What shall I tell you, father?’ asked Joe, laying his hand upon his sire’s shoulder, and looking down into his face. ‘That I have come back, poorer than a church mouse? You know that. That I have come back, maimed and crippled? You know that.’

‘It was took off,’ muttered Mr Willet, with his eyes upon the fire, ‘at the defence of the Salwanners, in America, where the war is.’

‘Quite right,’ returned Joe, smiling, and leaning with his remaining elbow on the back of his father’s chair; ‘the very subject I came to speak to you about. A man with one arm, father, is not of much use in the busy world.’

This was one of those vast propositions which Mr Willet had never considered for an instant, and required time to ‘tackle.’ Wherefore he made no answer.

‘At all events,’ said Joe, ‘he can’t pick and choose his means of earning a livelihood, as another man may. He can’t say “I will turn my hand to this,” or “I won’t turn my hand to that,” but must take what he can do, and be thankful it’s no worse.—What did you say?’

Mr Willet had been softly repeating to himself, in a musing tone, the words ‘defence of the Salwanners:’ but he seemed embarrassed at having been overheard, and answered ‘Nothing.’

‘Now look here, father.—Mr Edward has come to England from the West Indies. When he was lost sight of (I ran away on the same day, father), he made a voyage to one of the islands, where a school-friend of his had settled; and, finding him, wasn’t too proud to be employed on his estate, and—and in short, got on well, and is prospering, and has come over here on business of his own, and is going back again speedily. Our returning nearly at the same time, and meeting in the course of the late troubles, has been a good thing every way; for it has not only enabled us to do old friends some service, but has opened a path in life for me which I may tread without being a burden upon you. To be plain, father, he can employ me; I have satisfied myself that I can be of real use to him; and I am going to carry my one arm away with him, and to make the most of it.’

In the mind’s eye of Mr Willet, the West Indies, and indeed all foreign countries, were inhabited by savage nations, who were perpetually burying pipes of peace, flourishing tomahawks, and puncturing strange patterns in their bodies. He no sooner heard this announcement, therefore, than he leaned back in his chair, took his pipe from his lips, and stared at his son with as much dismay as if he already beheld him tied to a stake, and tortured for the entertainment of a lively population. In what form of expression his feelings would have found a vent, it is impossible to say. Nor is it necessary: for, before a syllable occurred to him, Dolly Varden came running into the room, in tears, threw herself on Joe’s breast without a word of explanation, and clasped her white arms round his neck.

‘Dolly!’ cried Joe. ‘Dolly!’

‘Ay, call me that; call me that always,’ exclaimed the locksmith’s little daughter; ‘never speak coldly to me, never be distant, never again reprove me for the follies I have long repented, or I shall die, Joe.’

‘I reprove you!’ said Joe.

Capitolo 78

Nello stesso giorno, e più o meno alla stessa ora, il signor Willet il vecchio sedeva a fumare la sua pipa in una stanza del Black Lion. Nonostante facesse un caldo estivo, il signor Willet si trovava vicino al focolare. Era immerso in profonde riflessioni, perso nei propri pensieri; era sua abitudine, in momenti del genere, lasciare che i suoi pensieri “cuocessero” lentamente, convinto che questo processo fosse utile per farli emergere più chiaramente. A volte, quando questi pensieri iniziavano a “bollire”, ne risultava un flusso così abbondante da sorprendere persino lui stesso.

Il signor Willet era stato consolato migliaia di volte dai suoi amici e conoscenti, che gli assicuravano che per la perdita subita a causa dei danni arrecati al palo di maggio potesse “contare sull’aiuto della contea”. Tuttavia, poiché questa espressione presentava una sfortunata somiglianza con l’uso popolare di “chiedere aiuto alla parrocchia”, nella mente del signor Willet evocava soltanto immagini di povertà su larga scala e rovina totale. Pertanto, ogni volta che riceveva queste parole di conforto, scuoteva la testa con rammarico o fissava lo sguardo cupo; inoltre, dopo ogni visita di condoglianze, appariva sempre molto più melanconico di quanto lo fosse in qualsiasi altro momento delle ventiquattro ore.

Accadde però che, seduto davanti al focolare in quella particolare occasione – forse perché si sentiva, in un certo senso, stanco; forse perché era in uno stato d’animo insolitamente sereno; forse perché aveva riflettuto a lungo sull’argomento; o forse per tutte queste circostanze favorevoli messe insieme – accadde che il signor Willet, seduto davanti al focolare in quella particolare occasione, nelle profondità più recondite della sua mente, percepì un vago indizio, una debole suggestione, secondo cui i fondi necessari per ripristinare il Maypole nel suo antico posto tra le taverne della città potrebbero provenire dal denaro pubblico. Questo tenue barlume di intuizione si diffuse dentro di lui, si accese e brillò sempre più intensamente, fino a diventare chiaro e evidente come il fuoco davanti al quale sedeva; e, convinto assolutamente di essere il primo ad aver fatto questa scoperta – di essersi imbattuto in un’idea del tutto originale che nessun altro, vivo o morto, aveva mai avuto prima – posò la pipa, si strofinò le mani e rise ad alta voce.

“Ma papà!”, esclamò Joe entrando in quel momento, “sei davvero di buon umore oggi!”

“Non è niente di particolare,” disse il signor Willet, ridacchiando di nuovo. “Davvero niente di particolare, Joseph. Raccontami qualcosa sui Salwanner.” Avendo espresso questa richiesta, il signor Willet rise per la terza volta; dopo queste insolite manifestazioni di allegria, riprese a fumare la sua pipa.

“Cosa dovrei dirvi, padre?” chiese Joe, mettendo una mano sulla spalla di suo padre e guardandolo negli occhi. “Che sono tornato più povero di un topo di chiesa? Lo sapete già. Che sono tornato mutilato e invalido. Lo sapete anche questo.”

“È stato inviato,” mormorò il signor Willet, con lo sguardo fisso sul fuoco, “per difendere i Salwanner, in America, dove è in corso la guerra.”

“Esatto,” rispose Joe sorridendo, appoggiando l’altro gomito sullo schienale della sedia di suo padre; “è proprio di questo che sono venuto a parlarti. Un uomo con un solo braccio, papà, non è molto utile in questo mondo frenetico.”

Si trattava di una di quelle proposte vaste e complesse che il signor Willet non aveva mai nemmeno preso in considerazione per un istante; quindi gli servì del tempo per rifletterci sopra. Per questo motivo, non rispose affatto.

“Comunque,” disse Joe, “non può scegliere liberamente i mezzi per guadagnarsi da vivere, come fanno altri. Non può dire ‘Farò questo’ o ‘Non farò quello’, ma deve prendere ciò che gli è possibile e rallegrarsi che non sia peggio. Cosa hai detto?”

Il signor Willet ripeteva sottovoce, con tono meditativo, le parole “difesa della famiglia Salwan”; sembrava però imbarazzato all’idea di essere stato sentito e rispose: “Niente.”

“Ora ascoltami bene, padre. Il signor Edward è arrivato in Inghilterra dalle Indie Occidentali. Quando ci siamo persi di vista (io sono scappato lo stesso giorno, padre), lui ha fatto un viaggio verso una delle isole dove uno dei suoi compagni di scuola si era stabilito; trovandolo, non si è rifiutato di assumermi nella sua tenuta. Insomma, le cose gli sono andate bene: ora sta facendo affari personali ed è sul punto di ripartire. Il nostro ritorno quasi nello stesso momento, e il fatto che ci siamo incontrati durante questi ultimi eventi difficili, è stato davvero positivo. Non solo ci ha permesso di aiutare alcuni vecchi amici, ma mi ha anche aperto una strada nella vita, permettendomi di non essere un peso per te. In breve, padre: lui può assumermi; sono sicuro di potergli essere davvero utile. E porterò con me il mio braccio, e ne farò il miglior uso possibile.”

Nella mente di Mr Willet, le Indie Occidentali, e in realtà tutti i paesi stranieri, erano abitati da popoli selvaggi che continuamente seppellivano pipe della pace, brandivano tomahawk e si incidevano strani disegni sul corpo. Non appena udì questa notizia, si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia, tolse la pipa dalle labbra e fissò suo figlio con un’espressione di orrore, come se lo vedesse già legato a una stella e torturato per divertimento della folla. In che forma avrebbero potuto esprimersi i suoi sentimenti è impossibile dirlo. E non è nemmeno necessario: infatti, prima ancora che riuscisse a pronunciare una parola, Dolly Varden entrò di corsa nella stanza in lacrime, si gettò tra le braccia di Joe senza dire una parola e gli avvolse le braccia bianche intorno al collo.

“Dolly!”, gridò Joe. “Dolly!”

“Ah, chiamami così; chiamami sempre così,” esclamò la piccola figlia del fabbro chiave; “mai parlarmi in modo freddo, mai essere distante con me, e soprattutto non rimproverarmi più per le sciocchezze di cui mi pento da tempo. Altrimenti morirò, Joe.”

“Ti rimprovero!” disse Joe.

‘Yes—for every kind and honest word you uttered, went to my heart. For you, who have borne so much from me—for you, who owe your sufferings and pain to my caprice—for you to be so kind—so noble to me, Joe—’

He could say nothing to her. Not a syllable. There was an odd sort of eloquence in his one arm, which had crept round her waist: but his lips were mute.

‘If you had reminded me by a word—only by one short word,’ sobbed Dolly, clinging yet closer to him, ‘how little I deserved that you should treat me with so much forbearance; if you had exulted only for one moment in your triumph, I could have borne it better.’

‘Triumph!’ repeated Joe, with a smile which seemed to say, ‘I am a pretty figure for that.’

‘Yes, triumph,’ she cried, with her whole heart and soul in her earnest voice, and gushing tears; ‘for it is one. I am glad to think and know it is. I wouldn’t be less humbled, dear—I wouldn’t be without the recollection of that last time we spoke together in this place—no, not if I could recall the past, and make our parting, yesterday.’

Did ever lover look as Joe looked now!

‘Dear Joe,’ said Dolly, ‘I always loved you—in my own heart I always did, although I was so vain and giddy. I hoped you would come back that night. I made quite sure you would. I prayed for it on my knees. Through all these long, long years, I have never once forgotten you, or left off hoping that this happy time might come.’

The eloquence of Joe’s arm surpassed the most impassioned language; and so did that of his lips—yet he said nothing, either.

‘And now, at last,’ cried Dolly, trembling with the fervour of her speech, ‘if you were sick, and shattered in your every limb; if you were ailing, weak, and sorrowful; if, instead of being what you are, you were in everybody’s eyes but mine the wreck and ruin of a man; I would be your wife, dear love, with greater pride and joy, than if you were the stateliest lord in England!’

‘What have I done,’ cried Joe, ‘what have I done to meet with this reward?’

‘You have taught me,’ said Dolly, raising her pretty face to his, ‘to know myself, and your worth; to be something better than I was; to be more deserving of your true and manly nature. In years to come, dear Joe, you shall find that you have done so; for I will be, not only now, when we are young and full of hope, but when we have grown old and weary, your patient, gentle, never-tiring wife. I will never know a wish or care beyond our home and you, and I will always study how to please you with my best affection and my most devoted love. I will: indeed I will!’

Joe could only repeat his former eloquence—but it was very much to the purpose.

‘They know of this, at home,’ said Dolly. ‘For your sake, I would leave even them; but they know it, and are glad of it, and are as proud of you as I am, and as full of gratitude.—You’ll not come and see me as a poor friend who knew me when I was a girl, will you, dear Joe?’

Well, well! It don’t matter what Joe said in answer, but he said a great deal; and Dolly said a great deal too: and he folded Dolly in his one arm pretty tight, considering that it was but one; and Dolly made no resistance: and if ever two people were happy in this world—which is not an utterly miserable one, with all its faults—we may, with some appearance of certainty, conclude that they were.

To say that during these proceedings Mr Willet the elder underwent the greatest emotions of astonishment of which our common nature is susceptible—to say that he was in a perfect paralysis of surprise, and that he wandered into the most stupendous and theretofore unattainable heights of complicated amazement—would be to shadow forth his state of mind in the feeblest and lamest terms. If a roc, an eagle, a griffin, a flying elephant, a winged sea-horse, had suddenly appeared, and, taking him on its back, carried him bodily into the heart of the ‘Salwanners,’ it would have been to him as an everyday occurrence, in comparison with what he now beheld. To be sitting quietly by, seeing and hearing these things; to be completely overlooked, unnoticed, and disregarded, while his son and a young lady were talking to each other in the most impassioned manner, kissing each other, and making themselves in all respects perfectly at home; was a position so tremendous, so inexplicable, so utterly beyond the widest range of his capacity of comprehension, that he fell into a lethargy of wonder, and could no more rouse himself than an enchanted sleeper in the first year of his fairy lease, a century long.

‘Father,’ said Joe, presenting Dolly. ‘You know who this is?’

Mr Willet looked first at her, then at his son, then back again at Dolly, and then made an ineffectual effort to extract a whiff from his pipe, which had gone out long ago.

‘Say a word, father, if it’s only “how d’ye do,”’ urged Joe.

‘Certainly, Joseph,’ answered Mr Willet. ‘Oh yes! Why not?’

‘To be sure,’ said Joe. ‘Why not?’

‘Ah!’ replied his father. ‘Why not?’ and with this remark, which he uttered in a low voice as though he were discussing some grave question with himself, he used the little finger—if any of his fingers can be said to have come under that denomination—of his right hand as a tobacco-stopper, and was silent again.

And so he sat for half an hour at least, although Dolly, in the most endearing of manners, hoped, a dozen times, that he was not angry with her. So he sat for half an hour, quite motionless, and looking all the while like nothing so much as a great Dutch Pin or Skittle. At the expiration of that period, he suddenly, and without the least notice, burst (to the great consternation of the young people) into a very loud and very short laugh; and repeating, ‘Certainly, Joseph. Oh yes! Why not?’ went out for a walk.

“Sì. Ogni parola tua sincera e gentile è arrivata fino al mio cuore. Per te, che hai sopportato così tanto a causa mia. Per te, che hai dovuto subire sofferenze e dolore a causa del mio capriccio. Per il fatto che tu sia stato così gentile, così nobile con me, Joe, ”

Non riusciva a dirle nulla. Nemmeno una parola. C’era una sorta di eloquenza strana nella sua unica mano, che le aveva circondato la vita. Ma le sue labbra rimanevano mute.

“Se solo mi avessi ricordato con una parola, anche solo una breve parola,” singhiozzò Dolly, stringendosi ancora di più a lui, “quanto poco meritavo che tu mi trattassi con tanta pazienza; se solo per un momento avessi esultato per la tua vittoria, avrei potuto sopportarlo meglio.”

“Trionfo!”, ripeté Joe, con un sorriso che sembrava dire: “Sono davvero una figura notevole in questa situazione”.

“Sì, trionfo,” gridò lei con tutto il cuore e l’‘anima nella sua voce sincera, mentre le lacrime scorrevano copiose; “perché è davvero un trionfo. Sono felice di pensarci e di saperlo. Non sarei affatto meno umile. Non dimenticherei mai quell’ultima volta in cui abbiamo parlato insieme in questo posto. No, nemmeno se potessi ricordare tutto il passato e rivivere il nostro addio di ieri.”

Qualcun altro innamorato è mai sembrato come Joe in questo momento?

“Caro Joe,” disse Dolly, “ti ho sempre amato. Nel mio cuore lo hai sempre fatto, anche se ero così vanitosa e frivola. Speravo che tornassi quella notte. Ero sicura che l’avresti fatto. Ne ho pregato in ginocchio. Per tutti questi lunghi anni, non ti ho mai dimenticato, né ho smesso di sperare che arrivasse questo felice momento.”

L’eloquenza del braccio di Joe superava qualsiasi linguaggio più appassionato; lo stesso valeva per le parole che uscivano dalle sue labbra, eppure anche lui non disse nulla.

“E ora, finalmente,” esclamò Dolly, tremando per l’entusiasmo delle sue parole, “se fossi malato, se i tuoi arti fossero tutti spezzati; se fossi malato, debole e pieno di dolore; se, invece di essere ciò che sei, agli occhi di tutti tranne i miei fossi il rovino e la distruzione di un uomo, io sarei tua moglie, caro amore mio, con ancora più orgoglio e gioia di quanto lo sarei se fossi il signore più potente d’Inghilterra!”

“Cosa ho fatto, ”, gridò Joe, “cosa ho mai fatto per meritarmi una punizione del genere?”

“Mi hai insegnato,” disse Dolly, alzando il suo bel viso verso di lui, “a conoscere me stessa e il tuo valore; a diventare qualcosa di meglio di ciò che ero; a meritare di più la tua vera e nobile >natura maschile. Nei prossimi anni, caro Joe, scoprirai di averlo fatto davvero; perché io sarò, non solo ora che siamo giovani e pieni di >speranza, ma anche quando invecchieremo e ci stancheremo, la tua moglie paziente, gentile e mai stanca. Non conoscerò mai desideri o preoccupazioni al di fuori della nostra >casa e di te; imparerò sempre come compiacerti con il mio massimo affetto e il mio più devoto amore. Lo farò, davvero lo farò!”

Joe poteva solo ripetere la sua precedente eloquenza, ma era esattamente ciò che serviva.

“Loro lo sanno, a >casa,” disse Dolly. “Per il tuo bene, lascerei anche loro; ma lo sanno e ne sono felici. Sono orgogliosi di te tanto quanto lo sono io, e pieni di gratitudine. Non verrai a trovarmi come una povera amica che mi conosceva da quando ero ragazza, vero, caro Joe?”

Beh, insomma! Non importa cosa abbia detto Joe in risposta, ma ha detto molte cose interessanti; e anche Dolly ha detto molto. Lui l’ha stretta forte contro di sé con un solo braccio, considerando che ne aveva soltanto uno; e Dolly non ha opposto resistenza. Se mai due persone sono state felici in questo mondo – il quale, nonostante tutti i suoi difetti, non è affatto un posto miserabile – possiamo con una certa sicurezza concludere che lo erano.

Dire che durante questi avvenimenti il signor Willet il vecchio provò le più grandi emozioni di stupore di cui la nostra comune >natura sia suscettibile; dire che fu colto da una paralisi totale per la sorpresa, e che raggiunse i livelli più straordinari e fino ad allora inimmaginabili di meraviglia, significherebbe descrivere il suo stato d’animo in termini troppo deboli e imprecisi. Se una rocca, un’aquila, un grifone, un elefante volante o un cavallo marino alato fossero improvvisamente apparsi e lo avessero portato con sé nel cuore delle “Salwanner”, per lui sarebbe stato qualcosa di ordinario, rispetto a ciò che stava ora vedendo. Starsene seduto in silenzio, assistere a tutto questo senza essere notato, ignorato completamente mentre suo figlio e una giovane donna si parlavano con passione, si baciavano e si comportavano in modo del tutto naturale, era una situazione così incredibile, così al di là della sua capacità di comprensione, che cadde in uno stato di stupore profondo, incapace di riprendersi, proprio come un sonnambulo incantato nel primo anno del suo lungo sogno fatato.

“Padre,” disse Joe, presentando Dolly. “Sapete chi è?”

Il signor Willet guardò prima lei, poi suo figlio, di nuovo Dolly, e infine cercò invano di aspirare qualche boccata dalla sua pipa, che ormai da tempo era spenta.

“Dì una parola, padre, anche solo ‘come stai’”, insistette Joe.

“Certamente, Joseph,” rispose il signor Willet. “Oh sì! Perché no?”

“Certo,” disse Joe. “Perché no?”

“Ah!”, rispose suo padre. “Perché no?” E con queste parole, pronunciate a bassa voce come se stesse discutendo con se stesso di qualche questione grave, utilizzò il mignolo della sua mano destra – se si può davvero definire così uno dei suoi dita – per fermare la sigaretta, e poi rimase in silenzio.

E così rimase seduto per almeno mezz’ora; anche se Dolly, con modi davvero adorabili, sperava un sacco di volte che non fosse arrabbiato con lei. Rimase immobile per tutto quel tempo, e sembrava proprio una grande biglia da gioco olandese. Alla fine, all’improvviso e senza alcun preavviso, scoppiò in una risata molto forte e breve; poi, ripetendo “Certo, Joseph. Oh sì! Perché no?”, uscì a fare una passeggiata.

Chapter 79

Old John did not walk near the Golden Key, for between the Golden Key and the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of streets—as everybody knows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of Clerkenwell and Whitechapel—and he was by no means famous for pedestrian exercises. But the Golden Key lies in our way, though it was out of his; so to the Golden Key this chapter goes.

The Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the locksmith’s trade, had been pulled down by the rioters, and roughly trampled under foot. But, now, it was hoisted up again in all the glory of a new coat of paint, and showed more bravely even than in days of yore. Indeed the whole house-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that if there yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned in the attack upon it, the sight of the old, goodly, prosperous dwelling, so revived, must have been to them as gall and wormwood.

The shutters of the shop were closed, however, and the window-blinds above were all pulled down, and in place of its usual cheerful appearance, the house had a look of sadness and an air of mourning; which the neighbours, who in old days had often seen poor Barnaby go in and out, were at no loss to understand. The door stood partly open; but the locksmith’s hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy forge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.

On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. The younger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, which seemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomed to go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them.

Entering the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs, abrupt and steep, and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into the best room; the pride of Mrs Varden’s heart, and erst the scene of Miggs’s household labours.

‘Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?’ said Mr Haredale.

‘She is above-stairs now—in the room over here,’ Edward rejoined. ‘Her grief, they say, is past all telling. I needn’t add—for that you know beforehand, sir—that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good people have no bounds.’

‘I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden is out?’

‘He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of his coming home himself. He was out the whole night—but that of course you know. He was with you the greater part of it?’

‘He was. Without him, I should have lacked my right hand. He is an older man than I; but nothing can conquer him.’

‘The cheeriest, stoutest-hearted fellow in the world.’

‘He has a right to be. He has a right to he. A better creature never lived. He reaps what he has sown—no more.’

‘It is not all men,’ said Edward, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘who have the happiness to do that.’

‘More than you imagine,’ returned Mr Haredale. ‘We note the harvest more than the seed-time. You do so in me.’

In truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so far influenced the remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss to answer him.

‘Tut, tut,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘’twas not very difficult to read a thought so natural. But you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had my share of sorrows—more than the common lot, perhaps, but I have borne them ill. I have broken where I should have bent; and have mused and brooded, when my spirit should have mixed with all God’s great creation. The men who learn endurance, are they who call the whole world, brother. I have turned FROM the world, and I pay the penalty.’

Edward would have interposed, but he went on without giving him time.

‘It is too late to evade it now. I sometimes think, that if I had to live my life once more, I might amend this fault—not so much, I discover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for my own sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctively recoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and in this circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still be the same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with its experience to guide me.’

‘Nay, you make too sure of that,’ said Edward.

‘You think so,’ Mr Haredale answered, ‘and I am glad you do. I know myself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave this subject for another—not so far removed from it as it might, at first sight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still attached to you.’

‘I have that assurance from her own lips,’ said Edward, ‘and you know—I am sure you know—that I would not exchange it for any blessing life could yield me.’

‘You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,’ said Mr Haredale; ‘you have forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once-jaundiced mind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.’

He left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. ‘On that first and only time,’ he said, looking from the one to the other, ‘when we three stood together under her father’s roof, I told you to quit it, and charged you never to return.’

‘It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,’ observed Edward, ‘that I have forgotten.’

‘You own a name,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I had deep reason to remember. I was moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, I know, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever, lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having acted—however much I was mistaken—with any other impulse than the one pure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature lay, the father she had lost.’

‘Dear uncle,’ cried Emma, ‘I have known no parent but you. I have loved the memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was father kinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval of one harsh hour, since I can first remember.’

Capitolo 79

Il vecchio John non si avvicinava nemmeno alla Chiave d’Oro, perché tra la Chiave d’Oro e il Nero Leone c’era un labirinto di strade – come tutti sanno chi conosca bene le posizioni relative di Clerkenwell e Whitechapel – e lui certamente non era famoso per le sue escursioni a piedi. Ma la Chiave d’Oro si trovava proprio sulla nostra strada, anche se non era affatto nella sua giurisdizione. Quindi questo capitolo ci porterà verso la Chiave d’Oro.

La stessa chiave d’oro, simbolo prezioso del mestiere del fabbro chiavi, era stata strappata giù dai rivoltosi e calpestata brutalmente. Ora, però, era stata di nuovo issata in tutto il suo splendore, dopo essere stata dipinta di nuovo; appariva ancora più imponente che ai tempi passati. L’intera facciata della casa era pulita e ordinata, completamente rinnovata; quindi, se ancora qualcuno dei rivoltosi responsabili dell’attacco fosse stato in giro, la vista di quella bella, prospera dimora così restaurata sarebbe stata per loro davvero insopportabile.

Le persiane del negozio erano chiuse, e le tende della finestra sopra erano state tutte tirate giù; al posto del solito aspetto allegra, la casa aveva un’aria triste e malinconica. I vicini, che in passato spesso vedevano il povero Barnaby entrare ed uscire, capirono subito cosa stesse succedendo. La porta era semiaperta; ma non si sentiva alcun rumore provenire dal laboratorio del fabbro; il gatto se ne stava seduto tristemente sulla forgia coperta di cenere. Tutto era deserto, buio e silenzioso.

Sul ciglio di questa porta, il signor Haredale e Edward Chester si incontrarono. L’uomo più giovane fece spazio; entrambi entrarono con un atteggiamento familiare, che sembrava indicare che vi soggiornassero abitualmente o fossero ben abituati a andare e venire lì senza problemi, poi chiusero la porta dietro di sé.

Entrando nella vecchia sala sul retro e salendo la scala ripida, stretta e dall’aspetto antico, arrivarono nella stanza migliore: l’orgoglio del cuore di Mrs Varden, e un tempo il luogo dove Miggs svolgeva le sue faccende domestiche.

“Varden ha portato qui la madre ieri sera, mi ha detto?” disse il signor Haredale.

“Adesso è al piano di sopra, nella stanza laggiù,” riprese Edward. “Si dice che il suo dolore sia indescrivibile. Non c’è bisogno che aggiunga altro: voi lo sapete già, signore. L’attenzione, la gentilezza e la compassione di queste brave persone sono senza limiti.”

“Ne sono sicuro. Che il cielo li ricompensi per questo, e per molto altro ancora! Varden è uscito?”

“È tornato con il tuo messaggero, che è arrivato quasi nello stesso momento in cui lui stesso stava rientrando a casa. È stato fuori per tutta la notte, ma naturalmente tu lo sai. È stato con te per la maggior parte di quel tempo, vero?”

“Lo era. Senza di lui, avrei perso la mia ‘mano destra’. È un uomo più anziano di me; ma nulla può sconfiggerlo.”

“L’uomo più allegro e dal cuore più coraggioso del mondo.”

“Ha il diritto di esistere. Ha il diritto di essere ciò che è. Non c’è mai stata una creatura migliore di lui. Raccoglie ciò che ha seminato, e basta.”

“Non tutti gli uomini,” disse Edward, dopo un momento di esitazione, “hanno la fortuna di poterlo fare.”

“Più di quanto tu possa immaginare,” rispose il signor Haredale. “Noi notiamo il raccolto molto più della fase in cui vengono piantate le semine. Lo stesso vale per te riguardo a me.”

Nella verità, il suo volto pallido e segnato dalla fatica, nonché il suo atteggiamento cupo, avevano influenzato così tanto le opinioni altrui che Edward, per un momento, non riuscì a rispondergli.

“Tut, tut,” disse il signor Haredale, “non è stato molto difficile leggere un pensiero così naturale. Ma ti sbagli comunque. Ho avuto la mia parte di dolori – forse più della norma – ma li ho sopportati male. Ho resistito quando avrei dovuto cedere; e ho riflettuto troppo, mentre il mio spirito avrebbe dovuto unirsi a tutta la grande creazione di Dio. Gli uomini che imparano l’resilienza sono quelli che chiamano tutto il mondo ‘fratello’. Io invece mi sono allontanato dal mondo. E ora ne pago le conseguenze.”

Edward avrebbe voluto intervenire, ma continuò senza dargli il tempo necessario.

‘È troppo tardi per evitarlo ora. A volte penso che, se potessi vivere di nuovo la mia vita, forse correggerei questo errore. Non tanto per amore della giustizia, quanto piuttosto per mio stesso bene. Ma anche quando prendo queste decisioni, istintivamente mi ritraggo all’idea di dover soffrire di nuovo ciò che ho già vissuto; e in questa situazione mi rendo conto, con riluttanza, che sarei ancora lo stesso uomo. Anche se potessi cancellare il passato e iniziare da capo, lasciando che le esperienze precedenti mi guidassero.’

“No, ne sei troppo sicuro,” disse Edward.

“Pensi davvero così,” rispose il signor Haredale, “e sono felice che tu lo creda. Conosco meglio me stesso, e per questo mi sfido di meno. Lasciamo questo argomento per un altro, non così lontano da esso come potrebbe sembrare a prima vista. Signore, lei ancora ama mia nipote, e lei è ancora legata a voi.”

“Ho quella garanzia uscita direttamente dalle sue stesse labbra,” disse Edward, “e voi sapete, sono sicuro che lo sapete, che non la scambierei con nessuna benedizione che la vita potesse offrirmi.”

“Sei franco, onesto e disinteressato,” disse il signor Haredale; “hai convinto anche la mia mente un tempo prevenuta che lo sei davvero, e io ti credo. Aspetta qui finché non torno.”

Uscì dalla stanza mentre parlava; ma presto tornò con sua nipote. “Quella prima e unica volta,” disse, guardando alternativamente l’una e l’altra, “quando noi tre ci trovammo insieme sotto il tetto di suo padre, vi dissi di smettere e vi ordinai di non tornare mai più.”

“È l’unica circostanza che deriva dal nostro amore”, osservò Edward, “che ho dimenticato”.

“Hai un nome,” disse il signor Haredale, “e avevo motivi profondi per ricordarlo. So che fui spinto e influenzato dai ricordi di ingiustizie e offese personali subite, ma anche ora non posso accusarmi di aver mai dimenticato il sincero desiderio che lei fosse veramente felice; né di aver agito – per quanto io possa essermi sbagliato – spinto da altro impulso se non da quel desiderio puro, sincero e profondo di essere, nella misura delle mie limitate capacità, il padre che lei aveva perso.”

“Caro zio,” gridò Emma, “non ho conosciuto altri genitori se non te. Ho amato i ricordi degli altri, ma ti ho amato tutta la mia vita. Mai mio padre è stato così gentile con suo figlio come lo sei stato tu con me, nemmeno per un istante, da quando ho memoria.”

‘You speak too fondly,’ he answered, ‘and yet I cannot wish you were less partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall have in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing else could give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edward, for she and I have been together many years; and although I believe that in resigning her to you I put the seal upon her future happiness, I find it needs an effort.’

He pressed her tenderly to his bosom, and after a minute’s pause, resumed:

‘I have done you wrong, sir, and I ask your forgiveness—in no common phrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness and sincerity. In the same spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has been when I connived at treachery and falsehood—which if I did not perpetrate myself, I still permitted—to rend you two asunder.’

‘You judge yourself too harshly,’ said Edward. ‘Let these things rest.’

‘They rise in judgment against me when I look back, and not now for the first time,’ he answered. ‘I cannot part from you without your full forgiveness; for busy life and I have little left in common now, and I have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without addition to the stock.’

‘You bear a blessing from us both,’ said Emma. ‘Never mingle thoughts of me—of me who owe you so much love and duty—with anything but undying affection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the future.’

‘The future,’ returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, ‘is a bright word for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes. Mine is of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, from care or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There are cloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are set at rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I am growing old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of it again—not once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerful counsel, Emma.’

‘And you will take it?’ asked his niece.

‘I’ll listen to it,’ he answered, with a kiss, ‘and it will have its weight, be certain. What have I left to say? You have, of late, been much together. It is better and more fitting that the circumstances attendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and sowed between you suspicion and distrust, should not be entered on by me.’

‘Much, much better,’ whispered Emma.

‘I avow my share in them,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘though I held it, at the time, in detestation. Let no man turn aside, ever so slightly, from the broad path of honour, on the plausible pretence that he is justified by the goodness of his end. All good ends can be worked out by good means. Those that cannot, are bad; and may be counted so at once, and left alone.’

He looked from her to Edward, and said in a gentler tone:

‘In goods and fortune you are now nearly equal. I have been her faithful steward, and to that remnant of a richer property which my brother left her, I desire to add, in token of my love, a poor pittance, scarcely worth the mention, for which I have no longer any need. I am glad you go abroad. Let our ill-fated house remain the ruin it is. When you return, after a few thriving years, you will command a better, and a more fortunate one. We are friends?’

Edward took his extended hand, and grasped it heartily.

‘You are neither slow nor cold in your response,’ said Mr Haredale, doing the like by him, ‘and when I look upon you now, and know you, I feel that I would choose you for her husband. Her father had a generous nature, and you would have pleased him well. I give her to you in his name, and with his blessing. If the world and I part in this act, we part on happier terms than we have lived for many a day.’

He placed her in his arms, and would have left the room, but that he was stopped in his passage to the door by a great noise at a distance, which made them start and pause.

It was a loud shouting, mingled with boisterous acclamations, that rent the very air. It drew nearer and nearer every moment, and approached so rapidly, that, even while they listened, it burst into a deafening confusion of sounds at the street corner.

‘This must be stopped—quieted,’ said Mr Haredale, hastily. ‘We should have foreseen this, and provided against it. I will go out to them at once.’

But, before he could reach the door, and before Edward could catch up his hat and follow him, they were again arrested by a loud shriek from above-stairs: and the locksmith’s wife, bursting in, and fairly running into Mr Haredale’s arms, cried out:

‘She knows it all, dear sir!—she knows it all! We broke it out to her by degrees, and she is quite prepared.’ Having made this communication, and furthermore thanked Heaven with great fervour and heartiness, the good lady, according to the custom of matrons, on all occasions of excitement, fainted away directly.

They ran to the window, drew up the sash, and looked into the crowded street. Among a dense mob of persons, of whom not one was for an instant still, the locksmith’s ruddy face and burly form could be descried, beating about as though he was struggling with a rough sea. Now, he was carried back a score of yards, now onward nearly to the door, now back again, now forced against the opposite houses, now against those adjoining his own: now carried up a flight of steps, and greeted by the outstretched hands of half a hundred men, while the whole tumultuous concourse stretched their throats, and cheered with all their might. Though he was really in a fair way to be torn to pieces in the general enthusiasm, the locksmith, nothing discomposed, echoed their shouts till he was as hoarse as they, and in a glow of joy and right good-humour, waved his hat until the daylight shone between its brim and crown.

“Parli con troppa tenerezza,” rispose lui, “eppure non vorrei che fossi meno affettuoso nei miei confronti; perché mi dà piacere ascoltare queste parole e le ricorderò quando saremo lontani l’uno dall’altro, qualcosa che nient’altro potrebbe darmi. Permettimi di rimanere ancora un po’ con te, Edward. Lei ed io siamo stati insieme per molti anni; e anche se credo che cedendola a te io garantisca la sua futura felicità, so che ci vorrà uno sforzo.”

La strinse dolcemente al suo petto e, dopo un breve attimo di silenzio, continuò:

‘Ho commesso un errore nei vostri confronti, signore, e vi chiedo il vostro perdono. Non con frasi banali o manifestazioni di dolore, ma con sincerità e profonda gratitudine. Nello stesso spirito, devo ammettere che ci sono stati momenti in cui ho tollerato tradimenti e menzogne, azioni che, anche se non le ho compiute personalmente, ho comunque permesso che avvenissero, al fine di separarvi.’

“Giudichi te stesso troppo severamente“, disse Edward. “Lascia che queste cose rimangano dove sono.“

“Quando ripenso al passato, mi giudicano negativamente. E non è la prima volta”, rispose. “Non posso lasciarti senza il tuo pieno perdono; a causa della vita frenetica, ormai abbiamo poco in comune. Ho già abbastanza rimpianti da portare con me nella solitudine, senza bisogno di aggiungerne altri.”

“Porti una benedizione da entrambi noi,” disse Emma. “Non mescolare mai i pensieri su di me – su di me che ti devo così tanto amore e dovere – con nulla altro se non affetto eterno e gratitudine per il passato, e speranze luminose per il futuro.”

“Il futuro,” rispose suo zio con un sorriso melancolico, “è una parola piena di speranza per te, e la sua immagine dovrebbe essere avvolta in nuvole di gioia. Il mio futuro è di altro genere, ma sarà sicuramente uno di pace, libero, spero, da preoccupazioni o passioni. Quando tu lascerai l’Inghilterra, anch’io la lascerò. All’estero ci sono molti monasteri; e ora che i due grandi obiettivi della mia vita sono stati realizzati, non conosco un altro luogo dove poter vivere. Tu sembri preoccupata per questo, ma dimentichi che sto invecchiando, e che la mia vita sta per giungere al termine. Beh, ne parleremo ancora molte volte; tu mi darai consigli gioiosi, Emma.”

“E tu lo prenderai?” chiese sua nipote.

“Lo ascolterò,” rispose lui, baciandola, “e avrà il suo peso, ne sono certo. Cosa potrei aggiungere? Ultimamente siete stati molto insieme. È meglio, e più appropriato, che io non menzioni le circostanze del passato che hanno causato la vostra separazione e hanno seminato tra di voi sospetto e diffidenza.”

“Molto, molto meglio,” sussurrò Emma.

“Ammetto di aver avuto una parte in queste cose,” disse il signor Haredale, “sebbene all’epoca le disdegnassi profondamente. Che nessuno si allontani, anche solo di poco, dal sentiero maestro dell’‘onore, sotto la pretestazione plausibile che il fine nobile lo giustifichi. Tutti i fini nobili possono essere raggiunti con mezzi onesti; quelli che non lo possono sono malvagi, e possono essere considerati tali fin da subito, lasciandoli da soli.”

Guardò prima lei e poi Edward, e disse con un tono più dolce:

“In termini di beni e fortuna, ora siete quasi uguali. Sono stato il suo fedele custode, e a quel resto di proprietà che mio fratello le ha lasciato, desidero aggiungere, in segno del mio amore, una somma modesta, appena degna di essere menzionata, di cui ormai non ho più bisogno. Sono felice che tu vada all’estero. Lasciamo che la nostra sfortunata casa rimanga nella rovina in cui si trova. Quando tornerai, dopo alcuni anni di successo, disporrai di una casa migliore e più fortunata. Siamo ancora amici?”

Edward prese la sua mano tesa e la strinse con calore.

“Non sei né lento né freddo nelle tue risposte,” disse il signor Haredale, facendo lo stesso, “e ora che ti guardo e ti conosco, sento di volerti scegliere come marito per lei. Suo padre aveva un carattere generoso, e tu gli saresti piaciuto molto. Te la do in suo nome, e con la sua benedizione. Se anche il mondo e io dovessimo separarci a causa di questo atto, lo faremmo in termini più felici di quelli in cui abbiamo vissuto per molti giorni.”

La prese tra le braccia e stava per lasciare la stanza, ma fu fermato sulla soglia da un forte rumore in lontananza che li fece sobbalzare e fermarsi.

Era un grido forte, mescolato a clamori tumultuosi, che squarciava l’aria stessa. Si avvicinava sempre di più, con tale rapidità che, mentre lo ascoltavano, arrivò fino all’angolo della strada trasformandosi in un caos assordante di suoni.

“Questo deve essere fermato, placato,” disse il signor Haredale in fretta. “Avremmo dovuto prevederlo e prendere delle contromisure. Andrò da loro immediatamente.”

Ma prima che potesse raggiungere la porta, e prima che Edward riuscisse a prendere il suo cappello e seguirlo, furono di nuovo arrestati da un grido forte proveniente dal piano di sopra: la moglie del fabbro chiave, irrompendo nella stanza e correndo direttamente tra le braccia di Mr Haredale, gridò:

“Lo sa tutto, caro signore, lo sa davvero tutto! Glielo abbiamo rivelato poco a poco, e lei è completamente preparata.” Dopo aver fatto questa dichiarazione e ringraziato il Cielo con grande fervore e sincerità, la gentile signora, secondo l’usanza delle donne in momenti di emozione intensa, svenne all’istante.

Corsero verso la finestra, alzarono la persiana e guardarono nella strada affollata. Tra una folla densa di persone, nessuna delle quali rimaneva ferma un istante, si potevano distinguere il viso rosso e la corporatura robusta del fabbro chiave: lui lottava come se fosse immerso in un mare tempestoso. A volte veniva spinto indietro di una ventina di metri, altre volte avanzava quasi fino alla porta, poi di nuovo veniva respinto; a volte si schiacciava contro gli edifici di fronte, altre volte contro quelli adiacenti al suo. A un certo punto fu portato su per delle scale, e mezzo centinaio di persone gli tese le mani verso di lui; l’intera folla gridava e acclamava con tutte le sue forze. Nonostante rischiasse davvero di essere strappato a pezzi da quell’entusiasmo generale, il fabbro chiave, del tutto imperturbabile, continuò a ripetere i loro slogan fino a quando non divenne rauco quanto loro; poi, in un bagliore di gioia e buon umore, agitò il suo cappello finché la luce del giorno non ne illuminò il bordo e la tesa.

But in all the bandyings from hand to hand, and strivings to and fro, and sweepings here and there, which—saving that he looked more jolly and more radiant after every struggle—troubled his peace of mind no more than if he had been a straw upon the water’s surface, he never once released his firm grasp of an arm, drawn tight through his. He sometimes turned to clap this friend upon the back, or whisper in his ear a word of staunch encouragement, or cheer him with a smile; but his great care was to shield him from the pressure, and force a passage for him to the Golden Key. Passive and timid, scared, pale, and wondering, and gazing at the throng as if he were newly risen from the dead, and felt himself a ghost among the living, Barnaby—not Barnaby in the spirit, but in flesh and blood, with pulses, sinews, nerves, and beating heart, and strong affections—clung to his stout old friend, and followed where he led.

And thus, in course of time, they reached the door, held ready for their entrance by no unwilling hands. Then slipping in, and shutting out the crowd by main force, Gabriel stood between Mr Haredale and Edward Chester, and Barnaby, rushing up the stairs, fell upon his knees beside his mother’s bed.

‘Such is the blessed end, sir,’ cried the panting locksmith, to Mr Haredale, ‘of the best day’s work we ever did. The rogues! it’s been hard fighting to get away from ‘em. I almost thought, once or twice, they’d have been too much for us with their kindness!’

They had striven, all the previous day, to rescue Barnaby from his impending fate. Failing in their attempts, in the first quarter to which they addressed themselves, they renewed them in another. Failing there, likewise, they began afresh at midnight; and made their way, not only to the judge and jury who had tried him, but to men of influence at court, to the young Prince of Wales, and even to the ante-chamber of the King himself. Successful, at last, in awakening an interest in his favour, and an inclination to inquire more dispassionately into his case, they had had an interview with the minister, in his bed, so late as eight o’clock that morning. The result of a searching inquiry (in which they, who had known the poor fellow from his childhood, did other good service, besides bringing it about) was, that between eleven and twelve o’clock, a free pardon to Barnaby Rudge was made out and signed, and entrusted to a horse-soldier for instant conveyance to the place of execution. This courier reached the spot just as the cart appeared in sight; and Barnaby being carried back to jail, Mr Haredale, assured that all was safe, had gone straight from Bloomsbury Square to the Golden Key, leaving to Gabriel the grateful task of bringing him home in triumph.

‘I needn’t say,’ observed the locksmith, when he had shaken hands with all the males in the house, and hugged all the females, five-and-forty times, at least, ‘that, except among ourselves, I didn’t want to make a triumph of it. But, directly we got into the street we were known, and this hubbub began. Of the two,’ he added, as he wiped his crimson face, ‘and after experience of both, I think I’d rather be taken out of my house by a crowd of enemies, than escorted home by a mob of friends!’

It was plain enough, however, that this was mere talk on Gabriel’s part, and that the whole proceeding afforded him the keenest delight; for the people continuing to make a great noise without, and to cheer as if their voices were in the freshest order, and good for a fortnight, he sent upstairs for Grip (who had come home at his master’s back, and had acknowledged the favours of the multitude by drawing blood from every finger that came within his reach), and with the bird upon his arm presented himself at the first-floor window, and waved his hat again until it dangled by a shred, between his finger and thumb. This demonstration having been received with appropriate shouts, and silence being in some degree restored, he thanked them for their sympathy; and taking the liberty to inform them that there was a sick person in the house, proposed that they should give three cheers for King George, three more for Old England, and three more for nothing particular, as a closing ceremony. The crowd assenting, substituted Gabriel Varden for the nothing particular; and giving him one over, for good measure, dispersed in high good-humour.

What congratulations were exchanged among the inmates at the Golden Key, when they were left alone; what an overflowing of joy and happiness there was among them; how incapable it was of expression in Barnaby’s own person; and how he went wildly from one to another, until he became so far tranquillised, as to stretch himself on the ground beside his mother’s couch and fall into a deep sleep; are matters that need not be told. And it is well they happened to be of this class, for they would be very hard to tell, were their narration ever so indispensable.

Before leaving this bright picture, it may be well to glance at a dark and very different one which was presented to only a few eyes, that same night.

The scene was a churchyard; the time, midnight; the persons, Edward Chester, a clergyman, a grave-digger, and the four bearers of a homely coffin. They stood about a grave which had been newly dug, and one of the bearers held up a dim lantern,—the only light there—which shed its feeble ray upon the book of prayer. He placed it for a moment on the coffin, when he and his companions were about to lower it down. There was no inscription on the lid.

The mould fell solemnly upon the last house of this nameless man; and the rattling dust left a dismal echo even in the accustomed ears of those who had borne it to its resting-place. The grave was filled in to the top, and trodden down. They all left the spot together.

‘You never saw him, living?’ asked the clergyman, of Edward.

‘Often, years ago; not knowing him for my brother.’

‘Never since?’

‘Never. Yesterday, he steadily refused to see me. It was urged upon him, many times, at my desire.’

‘Still he refused? That was hardened and unnatural.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I infer that you do not?’

‘You are right. We hear the world wonder, every day, at monsters of ingratitude. Did it never occur to you that it often looks for monsters of affection, as though they were things of course?’

They had reached the gate by this time, and bidding each other good night, departed on their separate ways.

Ma nonostante tutte quelle lotte, quei movimenti avanti e indietro, quelle spinte da una parte all’altra, a parte il fatto che dopo ogni scontro sembrava più allegro e radioso, nulla turbava la sua serenità interiore; anzi, era come se fosse solo un filo d’erba sulla superficie dell’acqua. Non allentò mai la presa salda sul braccio del suo amico. A volte si girava per dargli una pacca sulla spalla, sussurrargli parole di incoraggiamento o sorridere per rincuorarlo; il suo unico pensiero era proteggerlo da ogni pressione e fargli strada verso la “Chiave d’Oro”. Passivo e timido, pallido e confuso, guardando la folla come se fosse appena risorto dai morti. Barnaby – non nel spirito, ma in carne e sangue, con pulsazioni, muscoli, nervi e un cuore che batteva forte – si aggrappava al suo vecchio amico e lo seguiva ovunque andasse.

E così, nel corso del tempo, raggiunsero la porta, pronta per il loro ingresso da parte di nessuna mano riluttante. Poi, entrando furtivamente e scacciando via la folla con la forza, Gabriel si pose tra il signor Haredale ed Edward Chester; Barnaby, intanto, correndo su per le scale, cadde in ginocchio accanto al letto di sua madre.

“Ecco dunque il lieto fine, signore,” gridò il lucchidore, ansimante, a Mr Haredale, “del lavoro più soddisfacente che abbiamo mai svolto. Quei furfanti. È stato davvero difficile liberarci di loro! Un paio di volte ho pensato che la loro ‘gentilezza’ potesse rivelarsi contro di noi, ”

Per tutto il giorno precedente, avevano cercato in tutti i modi di salvare Barnaby dal destino che lo minacciava. Non riuscendo nei loro tentativi nel primo momento in cui si erano impegnati, avevano riprovato in un altro modo. Ancora una volta senza successo, avevano ricominciato a mezzanotte; e non si erano limitati a contattare il giudice e la giuria che lo avevano processato, ma anche persone influenti presso la corte, il giovane Principe di Galles, e persino l’anticamera dello stesso -Re. Alla fine, riuscendo a suscitare interesse a suo favore e a far sì che si indagasse più oggettivamente sul suo caso, avevano avuto un colloquio con il ministro, addirittura nella sua stanza da letto, alle otto di quella mattina. Il risultato delle indagini approfondite (durante le quali, essendo persone che conoscevano quel povero ragazzo fin dall’infanzia, avevano anche reso altri importanti servizi) fu che, tra l’undici e le dodici, venne emesso un perdono ufficiale per Barnaby Rudge, firmato immediatamente e affidato a un soldato a cavallo affinché lo portasse subito al luogo dell’esecuzione. Questo messaggero arrivò proprio nel momento in cui la carretta comparve all’orizzonte; Barnaby fu riportato in prigione, e il signor Haredale, assicurandogli che tutto era a posto, si recò direttamente da Bloomsbury Square al Golden Key, lasciando a Gabriel il compito di riaccompagnarlo a casa trionfante.

“Non c’è bisogno che lo dica,” osservò il fabbro chiave dopo aver stretto la mano a tutti gli uomini della casa e abbracciato tutte le donne, almeno cinquantacinque volte. “Che, a parte noi stessi, non volevo celebrare questa vittoria in modo troppo evidente. Ma appena siamo usciti in strada, siamo stati riconosciuti e hanno iniziato tutti questi rumori. Di queste due situazioni,” aggiunse asciugandosi il viso rosso sangue, “dopo averle sperimentate entrambe, credo che preferirei essere portato fuori dalla mia casa da un gruppo di nemici, piuttosto che essere scortato a casa da una folla di amici!”

Era abbastanza evidente, tuttavia, che si trattasse soltanto di parole da parte di Gabriel, e che l’intera scena gli procurasse il massimo divertimento; poiché la folla continuava a fare un gran baccano e a esultare come se le sue voci fossero in perfette condizioni, capaci di durare almeno due settimane, fece chiamare Grip (che era tornato a casa insieme al suo padrone e aveva ringraziato la folla donando loro un po’ di sangue da ogni dito a portata di mano), e con l’uccello in braccio si presentò alla finestra del primo piano, agitando il cappello fino a quando non rimase appeso solo per un filo tra il dito indice e il pollice. Questa dimostrazione fu accolta con appropriate acclamazioni e, dopo che il silenzio fu in parte ripristinato, ringraziò la folla per la sua solidarietà; poi, prendendosi la libertà di informarli che c’era una persona malata in casa, propose che gridassero tre volte “Viva il Re Giorgio”, altre tre volte “Viva l’antica Inghilterra”, e ancora tre volte senza un motivo specifico, come conclusione della cerimonia. La folla acconsentì, sostituendo “senza un motivo specifico” con il nome di Gabriel Varden; e dopo avergli dedicato un’altra acclamazione, si disperse in altissimo spirito di buon umore.

Quanti complimenti si scambiarono tra i detenuti di Golden Key quando rimasero soli; quale fu l’esplosione di gioia e felicità tra loro; quanto fosse difficile per Barnaby stesso esprimere ciò che provava; e come corresse da un detenuto all’altro, fino a quando non si calmò completamente, sdraiandosi a terra accanto al divano di sua madre e addormentandosi profondamente. Queste cose non hanno bisogno di essere descritte. E è davvero bene che siano avvenute in questo modo, perché sarebbe stato molto difficile raccontarle, anche se la loro narrazione fosse stata assolutamente necessaria.

Prima di lasciare questa immagine luminosa, potrebbe essere utile dare un’occhiata anche a un’immagine oscura e molto diversa, quella che fu mostrata solo a pochi occhi, proprio quella stessa notte.

La scena si svolgeva in un cimitero; l’ora era mezzanotte; le persone presenti erano Edward Chester, un clérigo, un sepoltore e i quattro portatori di un semplice feretro. Stavano intorno a una tomba appena scavata; uno dei portatori teneva sollevata una lanterna fioca, l’unica fonte di luce in quel luogo, la quale proiettava un debole raggio sul libro delle preghiere. Per un momento, il portatore posò il libro sopra il feretro, prima che lui e i suoi compagni lo abbassassero nella tomba. Sul coperchio del feretro non c’era alcuna iscrizione.

La bara fu posata solennemente sull’ultima dimora di quest’uomo senza nome; la polvere che ne derivò lasciò un eco cupo anche nelle orecchie di coloro che l’avevano portata al suo luogo di riposo. La tomba fu riempita fino in cima e calpestata. Tutti se ne andarono insieme da quel luogo.

“Non l’hai mai visto vivo, vero?”, chiese il prete a Edward.

“Spesso, anni fa, senza sapere che fosse mio fratello.”

“Mai più da allora?”

“Mai. Ieri, ha continuato a rifiutarsi di vedermi. Glielo ho chiesto molte volte, per il mio desiderio.”

“Eppure si rifiutò ancora? Era davvero ostinato e innaturale.”

‘Pensi davvero?’

“Infatti, non sembra che lo facciate, ”

Hai ragione. Ogni giorno sentiamo il mondo meravigliarsi di mostri di ingratitudine. Non ti è mai venuto in mente che spesso si cerca invece nei mostri dell’affetto, come se fossero qualcosa di del tutto naturale?

A quell’ora, erano già arrivati al cancello e, dopo essersi augurati la buona notte, si separarono per tornare ognuno per la propria strada.

Chapter 80

That afternoon, when he had slept off his fatigue; had shaved, and washed, and dressed, and freshened himself from top to toe; when he had dined, comforted himself with a pipe, an extra Toby, a nap in the great arm-chair, and a quiet chat with Mrs Varden on everything that had happened, was happening, or about to happen, within the sphere of their domestic concern; the locksmith sat himself down at the tea-table in the little back-parlour: the rosiest, cosiest, merriest, heartiest, best-contented old buck, in Great Britain or out of it.

There he sat, with his beaming eye on Mrs V., and his shining face suffused with gladness, and his capacious waistcoat smiling in every wrinkle, and his jovial humour peeping from under the table in the very plumpness of his legs; a sight to turn the vinegar of misanthropy into purest milk of human kindness. There he sat, watching his wife as she decorated the room with flowers for the greater honour of Dolly and Joseph Willet, who had gone out walking, and for whom the tea-kettle had been singing gaily on the hob full twenty minutes, chirping as never kettle chirped before; for whom the best service of real undoubted china, patterned with divers round-faced mandarins holding up broad umbrellas, was now displayed in all its glory; to tempt whose appetites a clear, transparent, juicy ham, garnished with cool green lettuce-leaves and fragrant cucumber, reposed upon a shady table, covered with a snow-white cloth; for whose delight, preserves and jams, crisp cakes and other pastry, short to eat, with cunning twists, and cottage loaves, and rolls of bread both white and brown, were all set forth in rich profusion; in whose youth Mrs V. herself had grown quite young, and stood there in a gown of red and white: symmetrical in figure, buxom in bodice, ruddy in cheek and lip, faultless in ankle, laughing in face and mood, in all respects delicious to behold—there sat the locksmith among all and every these delights, the sun that shone upon them all: the centre of the system: the source of light, heat, life, and frank enjoyment in the bright household world.

And when had Dolly ever been the Dolly of that afternoon? To see how she came in, arm-in-arm with Joe; and how she made an effort not to blush or seem at all confused; and how she made believe she didn’t care to sit on his side of the table; and how she coaxed the locksmith in a whisper not to joke; and how her colour came and went in a little restless flutter of happiness, which made her do everything wrong, and yet so charmingly wrong that it was better than right!—why, the locksmith could have looked on at this (as he mentioned to Mrs Varden when they retired for the night) for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and never wished it done.

The recollections, too, with which they made merry over that long protracted tea! The glee with which the locksmith asked Joe if he remembered that stormy night at the Maypole when he first asked after Dolly—the laugh they all had, about that night when she was going out to the party in the sedan-chair—the unmerciful manner in which they rallied Mrs Varden about putting those flowers outside that very window—the difficulty Mrs Varden found in joining the laugh against herself, at first, and the extraordinary perception she had of the joke when she overcame it—the confidential statements of Joe concerning the precise day and hour when he was first conscious of being fond of Dolly, and Dolly’s blushing admissions, half volunteered and half extorted, as to the time from which she dated the discovery that she ‘didn’t mind’ Joe—here was an exhaustless fund of mirth and conversation.

Then, there was a great deal to be said regarding Mrs Varden’s doubts, and motherly alarms, and shrewd suspicions; and it appeared that from Mrs Varden’s penetration and extreme sagacity nothing had ever been hidden. She had known it all along. She had seen it from the first. She had always predicted it. She had been aware of it before the principals. She had said within herself (for she remembered the exact words) ‘that young Willet is certainly looking after our Dolly, and I must look after HIM.’ Accordingly, she had looked after him, and had observed many little circumstances (all of which she named) so exceedingly minute that nobody else could make anything out of them even now; and had, it seemed from first to last, displayed the most unbounded tact and most consummate generalship.

Of course the night when Joe WOULD ride homeward by the side of the chaise, and when Mrs Varden WOULD insist upon his going back again, was not forgotten—nor the night when Dolly fainted on his name being mentioned—nor the times upon times when Mrs Varden, ever watchful and prudent, had found her pining in her own chamber. In short, nothing was forgotten; and everything by some means or other brought them back to the conclusion, that that was the happiest hour in all their lives; consequently, that everything must have occurred for the best, and nothing could be suggested which would have made it better.

While they were in the full glow of such discourse as this, there came a startling knock at the door, opening from the street into the workshop, which had been kept closed all day that the house might be more quiet. Joe, as in duty bound, would hear of nobody but himself going to open it; and accordingly left the room for that purpose.

It would have been odd enough, certainly, if Joe had forgotten the way to this door; and even if he had, as it was a pretty large one and stood straight before him, he could not easily have missed it. But Dolly, perhaps because she was in the flutter of spirits before mentioned, or perhaps because she thought he would not be able to open it with his one arm—she could have had no other reason—hurried out after him; and they stopped so long in the passage—no doubt owing to Joe’s entreaties that she would not expose herself to the draught of July air which must infallibly come rushing in on this same door being opened—that the knock was repeated, in a yet more startling manner than before.

Capitolo 80

Quel pomeriggio, dopo essersi riposato dallo sforzo, essersi rasato, lavato, vestito e rinfrescato completamente; dopo aver pranzato, essersi consolato con una pipa, un bicchiere di birra in più, un pisolino nella grande poltrona e una tranquilla chiacchierata con la signora Varden su tutto ciò che era accaduto, stava accadendo o stava per accadere nell’ambito delle loro preoccupazioni domestiche; il fabbro chiave si sedette al tavolino da tè nel piccolo salotto posteriore: l’uomo più felice, più soddisfatto, più allegro e più contento d’Inghilterra, o forse del mondo intero.

Lì sedeva, con i suoi occhi splendenti fissi su Mrs V., il suo viso radioso di gioia; il suo ampio gilet sembrava sorridere attraverso ogni piega, e il suo umore allegro traspariva chiaramente dalla sua figura robusta. Una vista tale da trasformare persino l’acido della malinconia in latte di pura gentilezza umana. Lì sedeva, a osservare sua moglie mentre decorava la stanza con fiori, per onorare maggiormente Dolly e Joseph Willet, che erano usciti a fare una passeggiata; il bollitore sul fornello cantava allegramente da venti minuti. Per loro venivano serviti i migliori piatti in porcellana autentica, decorati con mandarini rotondi che reggevano ombrelli larghi; per stimolare il loro appetito, c’era prosciutto fresco e succoso, guarnito di lattuga verde e cetrioli profumati, disposto su un tavolo coperto da una tovaglia bianca come la neve. Per deliziarli, c’erano marmellate, torte croccanti, pane bianco e nero. Mrs V., in quel momento, sembrava ancora più giovane; indossava un abito rosso e bianco, con una figura armoniosa, guance rosee, piedi perfetti. Sorrideva felice in ogni modo. Lì sedeva il “chiaveggiere” di tutta quella gioia, il sole che illuminava tutto ciò. Il centro di quel mondo luminoso e sereno. La fonte di luce, calore, vita e vera felicità.

E quando mai Dolly era stata davvero la Dolly di quel pomeriggio? Vedere come fosse entrata, a braccetto con Joe; come si sforzasse di non arrossire né sembrare per niente confusa; come fingesse di non voler sedersi dal suo lato del tavolo; come sussurrasse al fabbro per fargli smettere di scherzare. E il suo viso, che si illuminava e poi si oscurava in un fremito di felicità, rendeva ogni sua azione, sbagliata, ma in modo così incantevole che era persino meglio di essere giusta! Il fabbro avrebbe potuto osservare tutto questo per ventiquattro ore consecutive (come raccontò a Mrs Varden quando si ritirarono per la notte), senza mai desiderare che finisse.

I ricordi con cui si divertivano durante quelle lunghe e interminabili serate a bere tè. La gioia con cui il fabbro chiese a Joe se si ricordasse quella tempestosa notte presso il palo di maggio, quando per la prima volta aveva chiesto notizie di Dolly. Le risate che tutti fecero riguardo a quella notte in cui lei era uscita per partecipare alla festa nella portantina. Il modo spietato con cui lo spinsero a convincere la signora Varden ad appendere quelle fiori proprio davanti a quella finestra. La difficoltà che la signora Varden ebbe all’inizio nel unirsi alle loro risate, e poi la sua straordinaria capacità di comprendere lo scherzo quando finalmente ci riuscì. Le confidenze di Joe riguardo al giorno esatto in cui si rese conto di provare affetto per Dolly. E le ammissioni imbarazzate di Dolly, in parte spontanee e in parte estorte, su quando aveva capito che “non le dispiaceva” Joe. Tutto questo costituiva una fonte inesauribile di divertimento e argomenti di conversazione.

Allora, c’era molto da dire riguardo ai dubbi della signora Varden, alle sue preoccupazioni materne e alle sue sospetti astuti; sembrava che, grazie alla perspicacia e all’estrema saggezza della signora Varden, nulla fosse mai riuscito a rimanere nascosto. Lei lo sapeva già da sempre; se ne era accorta fin dall’inizio; l’aveva previsto costantemente; ne era a conoscenza persino prima degli altri interessati. Si era detta (ricordava esattamente le parole) che “quel giovane Willet si sta sicuramente prendendo cura di nostra Dolly, e quindi IO devo prendermi cura DI LUI”. E così fece: lo sorvegliò attentamente, notando molte piccole circostanze – tutte estremamente dettagliate – che nessun altro avrebbe mai potuto comprendere; e, da principio a fine, dimostrò un tatto infinito e una capacità organizzativa davvero eccezionale.

Certo, non veniva dimenticata quella notte in cui Joe tornava a casa al fianco della carrozza, né quella in cui la signora Varden insisteva affinché ritornasse indietro; né ancora quella notte in cui Dolly svenne quando il suo nome fu menzionato. E nemmeno tutte le altre volte in cui la signora Varden, sempre attenta e prudente, lo trovava a piangere nella sua stanza. In breve, nulla veniva dimenticato; e tutto, in un modo o nell’altro, li portava alla conclusione che quella fosse l’ora più felice di tutta la loro vita. E quindi, che tutto fosse accaduto per il meglio, e che non ci fosse nulla che potesse rendere quella situazione ancora migliore.

Mentre erano immersi in quel tipo di conversazione, si udì un colpo improvviso alla porta, che dava sulla strada e conduceva nel laboratorio, tenuto chiuso tutto il giorno affinché la casa potesse godere di più tranquillità. Joe, essendo il responsabile, non avrebbe permesso a nessuno altro che a sé stesso di aprirla; quindi lasciò la stanza per farlo.

Sarebbe stato già abbastanza strano se Joe avesse dimenticato la strada per questa porta; e anche se l’avesse dimenticata, dato che si trattava di una porta piuttosto grande e situata proprio davanti a lui, non avrebbe certo potuto perderla facilmente. Ma Dolly, forse perché era ancora sotto l’effetto dell’eccitazione menzionata in precedenza, o forse perché pensava che Joe non sarebbe riuscito ad aprirla con un solo braccio – e non doveva esserci alcun altro motivo – lo seguì di corsa; e si fermarono a lungo nel corridoio. Non c’era >dubbio che, a causa delle suppliche di Joe, lei non si sarebbe esposta al freddo vento di luglio che sicuramente avrebbe invaso la stanza non appena la porta fosse stata aperta. Così il colpo bussato fu ripetuto, in modo ancora più sorprendente del precedente.

‘Is anybody going to open that door?’ cried the locksmith. ‘Or shall I come?’

Upon that, Dolly went running back into the parlour, all dimples and blushes; and Joe opened it with a mighty noise, and other superfluous demonstrations of being in a violent hurry.

‘Well,’ said the locksmith, when he reappeared: ‘what is it? eh Joe? what are you laughing at?’

‘Nothing, sir. It’s coming in.’

‘Who’s coming in? what’s coming in?’ Mrs Varden, as much at a loss as her husband, could only shake her head in answer to his inquiring look: so, the locksmith wheeled his chair round to command a better view of the room-door, and stared at it with his eyes wide open, and a mingled expression of curiosity and wonder shining in his jolly face.

Instead of some person or persons straightway appearing, divers remarkable sounds were heard, first in the workshop and afterwards in the little dark passage between it and the parlour, as though some unwieldy chest or heavy piece of furniture were being brought in, by an amount of human strength inadequate to the task. At length after much struggling and humping, and bruising of the wall on both sides, the door was forced open as by a battering-ram; and the locksmith, steadily regarding what appeared beyond, smote his thigh, elevated his eyebrows, opened his mouth, and cried in a loud voice expressive of the utmost consternation:

‘Damme, if it an’t Miggs come back!’

The young damsel whom he named no sooner heard these words, than deserting a small boy and a very large box by which she was accompanied, and advancing with such precipitation that her bonnet flew off her head, burst into the room, clasped her hands (in which she held a pair of pattens, one in each), raised her eyes devotedly to the ceiling, and shed a flood of tears.

‘The old story!’ cried the locksmith, looking at her in inexpressible desperation. ‘She was born to be a damper, this young woman! nothing can prevent it!’

‘Ho master, ho mim!’ cried Miggs, ‘can I constrain my feelings in these here once agin united moments! Ho Mr Warsen, here’s blessedness among relations, sir! Here’s forgivenesses of injuries, here’s amicablenesses!’

The locksmith looked from his wife to Dolly, and from Dolly to Joe, and from Joe to Miggs, with his eyebrows still elevated and his mouth still open. When his eyes got back to Miggs, they rested on her; fascinated.

‘To think,’ cried Miggs with hysterical joy, ‘that Mr Joe, and dear Miss Dolly, has raly come together after all as has been said and done contrairy! To see them two a-settin’ along with him and her, so pleasant and in all respects so affable and mild; and me not knowing of it, and not being in the ways to make no preparations for their teas. Ho what a cutting thing it is, and yet what sweet sensations is awoke within me!’

Either in clasping her hands again, or in an ecstasy of pious joy, Miss Miggs clinked her pattens after the manner of a pair of cymbals, at this juncture; and then resumed, in the softest accents:

‘And did my missis think—ho goodness, did she think—as her own Miggs, which supported her under so many trials, and understood her natur’ when them as intended well but acted rough, went so deep into her feelings—did she think as her own Miggs would ever leave her? Did she think as Miggs, though she was but a servant, and knowed that servitudes was no inheritances, would forgit that she was the humble instruments as always made it comfortable between them two when they fell out, and always told master of the meekness and forgiveness of her blessed dispositions! Did she think as Miggs had no attachments! Did she think that wages was her only object!’

To none of these interrogatories, whereof every one was more pathetically delivered than the last, did Mrs Varden answer one word: but Miggs, not at all abashed by this circumstance, turned to the small boy in attendance—her eldest nephew—son of her own married sister—born in Golden Lion Court, number twenty-sivin, and bred in the very shadow of the second bell-handle on the right-hand door-post—and with a plentiful use of her pocket-handkerchief, addressed herself to him: requesting that on his return home he would console his parents for the loss of her, his aunt, by delivering to them a faithful statement of his having left her in the bosom of that family, with which, as his aforesaid parents well knew, her best affections were incorporated; that he would remind them that nothing less than her imperious sense of duty, and devoted attachment to her old master and missis, likewise Miss Dolly and young Mr Joe, should ever have induced her to decline that pressing invitation which they, his parents, had, as he could testify, given her, to lodge and board with them, free of all cost and charge, for evermore; lastly, that he would help her with her box upstairs, and then repair straight home, bearing her blessing and her strong injunctions to mingle in his prayers a supplication that he might in course of time grow up a locksmith, or a Mr Joe, and have Mrs Vardens and Miss Dollys for his relations and friends.

Having brought this admonition to an end—upon which, to say the truth, the young gentleman for whose benefit it was designed, bestowed little or no heed, having to all appearance his faculties absorbed in the contemplation of the sweetmeats,—Miss Miggs signified to the company in general that they were not to be uneasy, for she would soon return; and, with her nephew’s aid, prepared to bear her wardrobe up the staircase.

‘My dear,’ said the locksmith to his wife. ‘Do you desire this?’

‘I desire it!’ she answered. ‘I am astonished—I am amazed—at her audacity. Let her leave the house this moment.’

Miggs, hearing this, let her end of the box fall heavily to the floor, gave a very loud sniff, crossed her arms, screwed down the corners of her mouth, and cried, in an ascending scale, ‘Ho, good gracious!’ three distinct times.

“C’è qualcuno che aprirà quella porta?”, gridò il fabbro chiave. “Oppure devo venire io?”

Allora, Dolly corse di nuovo nel salotto, tutta piena di fossette e rossori; mentre Joe lo aprì con un gran rumore, accompagnato da altre manifestazioni eccessive di fretta.

“Beh,” disse il fabbro chiave quando ricomparve, “di cosa si tratta? Ehi, Joe, di cosa stai ridendo?”

“Niente, signore. Sta arrivando.”

“Chi sta entrando? Cosa sta entrando?” La signora Varden, tanto perplessa quanto suo marito, poté solo scuotere la testa in risposta al suo sguardo interrogativo: così, il fabbro serramentista girò la sua sedia per avere una vista migliore della porta della stanza, e la fissò a bocca aperta, con un’espressione mista di curiosità e stupore sul suo viso allegro.

Invece che una o più persone apparissero immediatamente, si udirono diversi suoni strani: prima nel laboratorio, poi nel piccolo corridoio buio tra esso e il salotto, come se qualche armadio ingombrante o pezzo di mobilia pesante venisse trascinato lì dentro da una forza umana insufficiente per compiere quel compito. Dopo molti sforzi e movimenti disordinati, che causarono anche dei danni al muro su entrambi i lati, la porta fu finalmente aperta con violenza; il fabbro, osservando attentamente ciò che si trovava all’interno, si colpì la coscia con il pugno, sollevò le sopracciglia, aprì la bocca e gridò ad alta voce, esprimendo il massimo terrore.

“Maledizione, se non fosse per il ritorno di Miggs, ”

La giovane damigella, non appena udì queste parole, abbandonò un bambino piccolo e una scatola molto grande che la accompagnavano, e corse dentro la stanza con tale fretta che il suo cappello le volò via dalla testa. Poi si mise le mani davanti al viso (nelle quali teneva un paio di scarpe da bambino, una per mano), alzò lo sguardo verso il soffitto e scoppiò in lacrime.

“Quella vecchia storia!” esclamò il fabbro chiave, guardandola con un disperazione indescrivibile. “Questa giovane donna è nata per rovinare tutto. Niente può impedirlo!”

“Ho il mio maestro, ho il mio amico!” gridò Miggs, “Posso forse trattenere i miei sentimenti in questi momenti di riunione? Ecco il signor Warsen. Che felicità trovarsi tra parenti, signore! Che possibilità di perdonare gli errori commessi, che atmosfera di amicizia!”

Il fabbro chiave guardò prima sua moglie, poi Dolly, quindi Joe, e infine Miggs, con le sopracciglia ancora sollevate e la bocca ancora aperta. Quando i suoi occhi tornarono su Miggs, si fermarono su di lei, affascinati.

“Pensare solo, ” gridò Miggs con gioia isterica, “che il signor Joe e la cara signorina Dolly siano davvero tornati insieme, nonostante tutto ciò che si era detto e fatto al contrario! Vederli insieme, così felici e gentili in ogni modo. E io che non ne sapevo nulla, e non avevo nemmeno preparato nulla per il loro tè. Che ironia. Eppure, quali dolci sentimenti questo mi ha suscitato!”

Sia stringendo di nuovo le mani, sia nell’estasi di una gioia devota, a quel momento la signorina Miggson fece tintinnare i suoi pattini come se fossero due cimbali; poi riprese a parlare con i toni più dolci:

“E mia moglie, pensava forse, mio Dio, pensava davvero che Miggs, che l’aveva sostenuta in tante difficoltà e conosceva bene la sua natura, avrebbe mai potuto abbandonarla? Pensava che Miggs, anche se era solo una serva e sapeva che la schiavitù non è ereditaria, avrebbe dimenticato di essere stata l’instrumento umile che aveva sempre contribuito a mantenere l’armonia tra loro quando si scontravano, e che aveva sempre raccomandato al padrone la sua umiltà e il suo perdono? Pensava davvero che Miggs non avesse alcun legame affettivo con lei, o che lo stipendio fosse l’unico scopo della sua esistenza?”

A nessuna di queste domande, ognuna delle quali veniva pronunciata in modo sempre più patetico, la signora Varden rispose una parola; ma Miggs, del tutto indifferente a questa situazione, si rivolse al piccolo ragazzo presente lì: suo nipote maggiore, figlio di sua sorella sposata, nato nel numero ventiquattro di Golden Lion Court e cresciuto proprio all’ombra della seconda maniglia della porta sul lato destro. E, usando abbondantemente il fazzoletto da tasca, gli chiese di consolare i suoi genitori per la perdita di lei, sua zia, riferendo loro fedelmente che l’aveva lasciata tra le braccia di quella famiglia, con cui, come i suoi genitori ben sapevano, lei aveva legami molto stretti; gli chiese inoltre di ricordare loro che soltanto il suo forte senso del dovere e la sua devozione verso il suo vecchio padrone e la sua padrona, nonché verso Miss Dolly e il giovane Mr Joe, l’avevano indotta a rifiutare quell’invito insistente che loro, i suoi genitori, le avevano fatto, di stabilirsi con loro gratuitamente, per sempre; infine, gli chiese di aiutarla a portare la sua valigia al piano di sopra e poi di tornare subito a casa, portando con sé i suoi auguri e il suo forte desiderio che, col tempo, diventasse un fabbro chiave, o qualcuno come Mr Joe, e che la signora Varden e Miss Dolly diventassero le sue parenti e amiche.

Dopo aver concluso questo monito – e devo dire la verità – il giovane signore a cui era rivolto mostrò poca o nessuna attenzione, poiché, a quanto pare, tutte le sue facoltà erano assorbite nella contemplazione di quelle delizie. La signorina Miggs comunicò quindi al gruppo che non c’era motivo di preoccuparsi, poiché sarebbe tornata presto; e, con l’aiuto di suo nipote, si preparò a portare il proprio vestito su per le scale.

“Mia cara,” disse il fabbro chiave a sua moglie. “Lo >desideri davvero?”

“Lo desidero!” rispose lei. “Sono sbalordita. Sono davvero sbalordita dalla sua audacia. Lasciatela uscire da questa casa immediatamente.”

Sentendo questo, Miggs fece cadere pesantemente l’estremità della scatola per terra, emise un forte singhiozzo, incrociò le braccia, serrò le labbra e pianse, salendo di tono, “Oh, mio Dio!” tre volte.

‘You hear what your mistress says, my love,’ remarked the locksmith. ‘You had better go, I think. Stay; take this with you, for the sake of old service.’

Miss Miggs clutched the bank-note he took from his pocket-book and held out to her; deposited it in a small, red leather purse; put the purse in her pocket (displaying, as she did so, a considerable portion of some under-garment, made of flannel, and more black cotton stocking than is commonly seen in public); and, tossing her head, as she looked at Mrs Varden, repeated—

‘Ho, good gracious!’

‘I think you said that once before, my dear,’ observed the locksmith.

‘Times is changed, is they, mim!’ cried Miggs, bridling; ‘you can spare me now, can you? You can keep ‘em down without me? You’re not in wants of any one to scold, or throw the blame upon, no longer, an’t you, mim? I’m glad to find you’ve grown so independent. I wish you joy, I’m sure!’

With that she dropped a curtsey, and keeping her head erect, her ear towards Mrs Varden, and her eye on the rest of the company, as she alluded to them in her remarks, proceeded:

‘I’m quite delighted, I’m sure, to find sich independency, feeling sorry though, at the same time, mim, that you should have been forced into submissions when you couldn’t help yourself—he he he! It must be great vexations, ‘specially considering how ill you always spoke of Mr Joe—to have him for a son-in-law at last; and I wonder Miss Dolly can put up with him, either, after being off and on for so many years with a coachmaker. But I HAVE heerd say, that the coachmaker thought twice about it—he he he!—and that he told a young man as was a frind of his, that he hoped he knowed better than to be drawed into that; though she and all the family DID pull uncommon strong!’

Here she paused for a reply, and receiving none, went on as before.

‘I HAVE heerd say, mim, that the illnesses of some ladies was all pretensions, and that they could faint away, stone dead, whenever they had the inclinations so to do. Of course I never see sich cases with my own eyes—ho no! He he he! Nor master neither—ho no! He he he! I HAVE heerd the neighbours make remark as some one as they was acquainted with, was a poor good-natur’d mean-spirited creetur, as went out fishing for a wife one day, and caught a Tartar. Of course I never to my knowledge see the poor person himself. Nor did you neither, mim—ho no. I wonder who it can be—don’t you, mim? No doubt you do, mim. Ho yes. He he he!’

Again Miggs paused for a reply; and none being offered, was so oppressed with teeming spite and spleen, that she seemed like to burst.

‘I’m glad Miss Dolly can laugh,’ cried Miggs with a feeble titter. ‘I like to see folks a-laughing—so do you, mim, don’t you? You was always glad to see people in spirits, wasn’t you, mim? And you always did your best to keep ‘em cheerful, didn’t you, mim? Though there an’t such a great deal to laugh at now either; is there, mim? It an’t so much of a catch, after looking out so sharp ever since she was a little chit, and costing such a deal in dress and show, to get a poor, common soldier, with one arm, is it, mim? He he! I wouldn’t have a husband with one arm, anyways. I would have two arms. I would have two arms, if it was me, though instead of hands they’d only got hooks at the end, like our dustman!’

Miss Miggs was about to add, and had, indeed, begun to add, that, taking them in the abstract, dustmen were far more eligible matches than soldiers, though, to be sure, when people were past choosing they must take the best they could get, and think themselves well off too; but her vexation and chagrin being of that internally bitter sort which finds no relief in words, and is aggravated to madness by want of contradiction, she could hold out no longer, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears.

In this extremity she fell on the unlucky nephew, tooth and nail, and plucking a handful of hair from his head, demanded to know how long she was to stand there to be insulted, and whether or no he meant to help her to carry out the box again, and if he took a pleasure in hearing his family reviled: with other inquiries of that nature; at which disgrace and provocation, the small boy, who had been all this time gradually lashed into rebellion by the sight of unattainable pastry, walked off indignant, leaving his aunt and the box to follow at their leisure. Somehow or other, by dint of pushing and pulling, they did attain the street at last; where Miss Miggs, all blowzed with the exertion of getting there, and with her sobs and tears, sat down upon her property to rest and grieve, until she could ensnare some other youth to help her home.

‘It’s a thing to laugh at, Martha, not to care for,’ whispered the locksmith, as he followed his wife to the window, and good-humouredly dried her eyes. ‘What does it matter? You had seen your fault before. Come! Bring up Toby again, my dear; Dolly shall sing us a song; and we’ll be all the merrier for this interruption!’

“Ascolta ciò che dice la tua padrona, mio amore”, osservò il fabbro chiave. “È meglio che tu vada, penso. Resta, però; prendi questo con te, in segno di vecchia amicizia.”

Miss Miggs afferrò la banconota che lui aveva tirato fuori dal portafoglio e gliela tese; la mise in una piccola borsa di pelle rossa; poi infilò la borsa nella tasca (mostrando, nel farlo, una buona parte di un indumento intimo fatto di flanella, nonché delle calze di cotone nero più numerose di quanto si possa solitamente vedere in pubblico); e, scuotendo la testa mentre guardava la signora Varden, ripeté.

“Mio Dio!”

“Credo di averlo già detto una volta, cara,” osservò il fabbro chiave.

“I tempi sono cambiati, vero, Mim?” gridò Miggs, controllando a fatica la propria rabbia; “Ora puoi fare a meno di me, no? Puoi gestire tutto da sola senza il mio aiuto. Non hai più bisogno di nessuno che ti rimproveri o su cui riversare la colpa, vero, Mim? Sono contenta che tu sia diventata così indipendente. Ti auguro tutta la felicità del mondo!”

Con questo, fece un breve inchino; tenendo la testa eretta, l’orecchio rivolto verso la signora Varden e lo sguardo fisso sul resto del gruppo di persone a cui si riferiva nelle sue parole, proseguì:

“Sono davvero molto felice, ne sono sicura, di scoprire questa indipendenza. Anche se, allo stesso tempo, mi dispiace che tu sia stato costretto a sottometterti quando non potevi farne a meno. He he he! Deve essere una grande frustrazione, soprattutto considerando quanto male parlassi sempre di Mr Joe. Adesso che finalmente è diventato tuo genero. Mi chiedo se Miss Dolly riesca davvero a sopportarlo, dopo aver avuto rapporti intermittenti per tanti anni con quel costruttore di carrozze. Ma ho sentito dire che il costruttore di carrozze ci abbia pensato bene due volte. He he he! E che abbia detto a un suo amico che sperava lui sapesse cosa fosse meglio per sé. Anche se lei e tutta la famiglia hanno insistito molto, ”

Qui si fermò in attesa di una risposta, ma non ricevendone alcuna, continuò come prima.

‘Ho sentito dire che le malattie di alcune signore sono solo finzioni, e che possono svenire o morire all’istante se ne hanno l’intenzione. Ovviamente non ho mai visto casi del genere con i miei occhi. No! He he he! Nemmeno il mio padrone. No! He he he! Ho sentito i vicini dire che una persona che conoscevano era una povera creatura di buon cuore ma dal carattere meschino; un giorno è andata a cercare moglie e, ha “pescato” una tartara. Ovviamente non ho mai incontrato quella poveretta di persona. E nemmeno tu, vero? No. Mi chiedo chi possa essere. Non pensi anche tu? Sicuramente sì. He he he!’

Di nuovo, Miggs attese una risposta; poiché nessuna arrivò, fu così sopraffatta da un’immensa rabbia e amarezza che sembrava sul punto di esplodere.

“Sono contenta che la signorina Dolly riesca a ridere,” esclamò Miggs con un debole singhiozzo. “Mi piace vedere le persone ridere. Anche a te piace, vero, cara? Tu eri sempre felice quando vedevi gente allegra, non è vero? E facevi sempre del tuo meglio per tenerle di buon umore, giusto? Anche se ormai non c’è molto di cui ridere. Non è così, cara? Dopo tutto quello che ha dovuto fare da piccola, e dopo aver speso così tanto in vestiti e frivolezze. Per ottenere un povero soldato senza una mano. Che sciocchezza, vero? Io, comunque, non vorrei mai avere un marito senza una mano. Vorrei che avesse due mani. Due mani, anche se al posto delle dita avessero solo degli uncini, come quelli del nostro spazzino, ”

Miss Miggs stava per aggiungere, e infatti aveva già iniziato a dire, che, presi in astratto, i spazzini fossero partner molto più adatti dei soldati; tuttavia, quando le persone non potevano più scegliere, dovevano accontentarsi di ciò che riuscivano a trovare e considerarsi comunque fortunate. Ma la sua angoscia e il suo dolore erano di quel tipo amaro e interiore che non trova sollievo nelle parole, e che diventa ancora più insopportabile per mancanza di opposizioni; quindi non riuscì più a trattenersi e scoppiò in un pianto disperato.

In questa situazione disperata, si scagliò contro quel nipote sfortunato con tutte le sue forze; strappandogli un ciuffo di capelli, gli chiese quanto tempo dovesse ancora sopportare tali insulti e se avesse intenzione di aiutarla a riportare indietro quella scatola, o se provasse piacere nell’ascoltare la sua famiglia insultata. E altre domande del genere. Di fronte a tale umiliazione e provocazione, il piccolo ragazzo, che per tutto quel tempo era stato gradualmente spinto alla ribellione dal vedere quei dolci inarrivabili, se ne andò indignato, lasciando zia e scatola a seguirlo quando volevano. In qualche modo, dopo molte difficoltà, riuscirono finalmente ad arrivare in strada; lì, Miss Miggs, completamente esausta per lo sforzo compiuto e con i suoi singhiozzi e lacrime, si sedette sulla sua “proprietà” per riposarsi e piangere, fino a quando non avrebbe trovato un altro giovane disposto ad aiutarla a tornare a casa.

“È una cosa da ridere di, Martha, non qualcosa per cui preoccuparsi,” sussurrò il fabbro, seguendo sua moglie verso la finestra e asciugandole gentilmente le lacrime. “Che importanza ha? Hai già visto i tuoi errori in passato. Vieni! Parliamo di nuovo di Toby, cara; Dolly ci canterà una CANZONA, e saremo ancora più felici per questa distrazione!”

Chapter 81

Another month had passed, and the end of August had nearly come, when Mr Haredale stood alone in the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although but a few weeks had intervened since his conversation with Edward Chester and his niece, in the locksmith’s house, and he had made no change, in the mean time, in his accustomed style of dress, his appearance was greatly altered. He looked much older, and more care-worn. Agitation and anxiety of mind scatter wrinkles and grey hairs with no unsparing hand; but deeper traces follow on the silent uprooting of old habits, and severing of dear, familiar ties. The affections may not be so easily wounded as the passions, but their hurts are deeper, and more lasting. He was now a solitary man, and the heart within him was dreary and lonesome.

He was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusion and retirement. This was no better preparation than a round of social cheerfulness: perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility. He had been so dependent upon her for companionship and love; she had come to be so much a part and parcel of his existence; they had had so many cares and thoughts in common, which no one else had shared; that losing her was beginning life anew, and being required to summon up the hope and elasticity of youth, amid the doubts, distrusts, and weakened energies of age.

The effort he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness and hope—and they had parted only yesterday—left him the more depressed. With these feelings, he was about to revisit London for the last time, and look once more upon the walls of their old home, before turning his back upon it, for ever.

The journey was a very different one, in those days, from what the present generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longest journey will, and he stood again in the streets of the metropolis. He lay at the inn where the coach stopped, and resolved, before he went to bed, that he would make his arrival known to no one; would spend but another night in London; and would spare himself the pang of parting, even with the honest locksmith.

Such conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey when he lay down to rest, are favourable to the growth of disordered fancies, and uneasy visions. He knew this, even in the horror with which he started from his first sleep, and threw up the window to dispel it by the presence of some object, beyond the room, which had not been, as it were, the witness of his dream. But it was not a new terror of the night; it had been present to him before, in many shapes; it had haunted him in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and again. If it had been but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his sleep, its return, in its old form, might have awakened a momentary sensation of fear, which, almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. This disquiet, however, lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. When he closed his eyes again, he felt it hovering near; as he slowly sunk into a slumber, he was conscious of its gathering strength and purpose, and gradually assuming its recent shape; when he sprang up from his bed, the same phantom vanished from his heated brain, and left him filled with a dread against which reason and waking thought were powerless.

The sun was up, before he could shake it off. He rose late, but not refreshed, and remained within doors all that day. He had a fancy for paying his last visit to the old spot in the evening, for he had been accustomed to walk there at that season, and desired to see it under the aspect that was most familiar to him. At such an hour as would afford him time to reach it a little before sunset, he left the inn, and turned into the busy street.

He had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making his way among the noisy crowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, turning, recognised one of the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon, but he had left his sword behind him.

‘Why have you brought it to me?’ he asked, stretching out his hand, and yet not taking it from the man, but looking at him in a disturbed and agitated manner.

The man was sorry to have disobliged him, and would carry it back again. The gentleman had said that he was going a little way into the country, and that he might not return until late. The roads were not very safe for single travellers after dark; and, since the riots, gentlemen had been more careful than ever, not to trust themselves unarmed in lonely places. ‘We thought you were a stranger, sir,’ he added, ‘and that you might believe our roads to be better than they are; but perhaps you know them well, and carry fire-arms—’

He took the sword, and putting it up at his side, thanked the man, and resumed his walk.

It was long remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, and with such a trembling hand, that the messenger stood looking after his retreating figure, doubtful whether he ought not to follow, and watch him. It was long remembered that he had been heard pacing his bedroom in the dead of the night; that the attendants had mentioned to each other in the morning, how fevered and how pale he looked; and that when this man went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant that what he had observed in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind, and that he feared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never come back alive.

With a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man’s attention (remembering the expression of his face when they parted), Mr Haredale quickened his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches, bargained with the driver of the best to carry him so far on his road as the point where the footway struck across the fields, and to await his return at a house of entertainment which was within a stone’s-throw of that place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted and pursued his way on foot.

Capitolo 81

Un altro mese era trascorso, e la fine di agosto stava per arrivare, quando il signor Haredale si trovò da solo nell’ufficio della posta ferroviaria di Bristol. Sebbene fossero passate soltanto poche settimane dalla sua conversazione con Edward Chester e sua nipote nella casa del fabbro chiave, e non avesse cambiato nulla nel suo abituale stile di vestire, il suo aspetto era notevolmente mutato. Sembrava molto più anziano e più segnato dal tempo. L’agitazione e l’ansia possono causare rughe e capelli grigi in modo immediato; ma i segni più profondi derivano dalla distruzione silenziosa di vecchie abitudini e dal taglio di legami cari e familiari. Gli affetti, forse, non vengono feriti con la stessa facilità delle passioni, ma il loro dolore è più profondo e duraturo. Ora era un uomo solo, e il suo cuore si sentiva desolato e solitario.

Non per questo era meno solitario, nonostante avesse trascorso molti anni in solitudine e ritiro. Questo tipo di vita non rappresentava certo una preparazione migliore rispetto a un ambiente caratterizzato da allegria sociale: anzi, forse aumentava ancora di più la sensibilità e l’empatia che possedeva. Era stato così dipendente da lei per compagnia e amore; lei era diventata una parte essenziale della sua esistenza; condividevano tante preoccupazioni e pensieri che nessun altro avrebbe potuto comprendere. Perdere lei significava dover ricominciare tutto da capo, raccogliere la >speranza e l’energia tipiche della giovinezza, nonostante i dubbi, le sfiducie e la debolezza legati all’età.

Lo sforzo che aveva fatto per lasciarla con apparente allegria e >speranza – e si erano separati solo ieri – lo lasciò ancora più depresso. Con questi sentimenti, stava per tornare a )Londra per l’ultima volta, per guardare un’altra volta le mura della loro vecchia >casa, prima di voltarle le spalle per sempre.

Il Viaggio di quei tempi era molto diverso da quello che la generazione attuale considera normale; ma, come accade per ogni lungo Viaggio, anche questo giunse al termine, e lui si ritrovò di nuovo nelle strade della metropoli. Si fermò in una locanda dove il carro si era arrestato, e decise, prima di andare a letto, di non far sapere a nessuno del suo arrivo; avrebbe trascorso soltanto un’altra Notte a >Londra, evitando così il dolore della separazione, anche da parte dell’onesto fabbro chiave.

Tali condizioni mentali, di cui era vittima ogni volta che si addormentava, erano favorevoli alla nascita di fantasie disordinate e visioni inquietanti. Lo sapeva bene; già al momento del primo risveglio, colto dal terrore, aveva spalancato la finestra nella speranza che la vista di un oggetto esterno potesse dissipare quelle paure. Ma non si trattava di una nuova minaccia notturna: quel fantasma gli era già apparso in molte forme in passato; lo aveva perseguitato in tempi lontani, e ora tornava ancora a tormentarlo. Se solo fosse stato un semplice oggetto orribile, uno spettro infantile che disturbasse il suo sonno. Il suo ritorno, sotto la stessa forma di sempre, avrebbe forse suscitato un momento di paura, ma quella paura sarebbe svanita quasi immediatamente dopo il risveglio. Invece, quell’inquietudine persisteva, irriducibile a nulla. Quando chiudeva di nuovo gli occhi, la sentiva fluttuare intorno a sé; mentre lentamente si addormentava, era consapevole del suo crescente potere e della sua forma sempre più definita. Quando si alzava dal letto, lo stesso fantasma scompariva dalla sua mente agitata, lasciandolo pervaso da un terrore contro cui né la ragione né il pensiero lucido potevano nulla.

Il sole era già sorto quando cercò di scacciar via quella sensazione. Si era alzato tardi, ma non si sentiva rinfrescato; perciò rimase chiuso in casa tutto il giorno. Gli venne l’idea di fare un ultimo giro nel luogo dove era solito andare in quel periodo dell’anno, desideroso di vederlo sotto l’aspetto che gli era più familiare. All’ora giusta, così da avere il tempo di raggiungerlo poco prima del tramonto, lasciò l’ostello e si incamminò per la strada affollata.

Non aveva camminato molto quando, mentre si faceva strada con attenzione tra la folla rumorosa, sentì una mano posarsi sulla sua spalla. Girandosi, riconobbe uno dei camerieri dell’ostello che gli chiese scusa, ma lui si rese conto di aver dimenticato la propria _spada lì dietro.

“Perché me l’hai portato?” chiese, tendendo la mano, ma senza prenderla dall’uomo, bensì guardandolo in modo turbato e agitato.

L’uomo si dispiaceva di avergli disobbedito e avrebbe riportato indietro ciò che gli era stato chiesto. Il gentiluomo aveva detto che sarebbe andato un po’ lontano in campagna e che forse non sarebbe tornato fino a tardi. Le strade, di notte, non erano molto sicure per i viaggiatori solitari; inoltre, dopo gli scontri, le persone erano ancora più caute nel non affidarsi completamente a se stesse in luoghi isolati. “Pensavamo che fosse uno straniero, signore”, aggiunse l’uomo, “e che potesse credere che le nostre strade fossero migliori di quanto siano in realtà; ma forse lei le conosce bene e possiede armi da fuoco, ”

Prese la _spada, se la mise al fianco, ringraziò l’uomo e riprese il suo cammino.

Si ricordò a lungo che aveva fatto tutto questo in un modo così strano, e con mani così tremanti, che il messaggero rimase fermo a guardare la sua figura che si allontanava, chiedendosi se dovesse seguirlo e tenerlo d’occhio. Si ricordò anche a lungo che lo si era sentito camminare avanti e indietro nella sua stanza da letto nel cuore della notte; che i servitori ne avevano parlato tra loro la mattina seguente, descrivendo quanto fosse febbrile e pallido; e che quando quell’uomo tornò all’ostello, disse a un altro servitore che ciò che aveva osservato durante quel breve incontro lo turbava profondamente, e temeva che il gentiluomo avesse intenzione di suicidarsi e che non sarebbe mai più tornato in vita.

Con una sorta di semicoscienza, si rese conto che il suo comportamento aveva attirato l’attenzione dell’uomo (ricordando l’espressione sul suo viso quando si erano separati); quindi il signor Haredale accelerò il passo. Arrivato presso una stazione di carrozze, negoziò con il conducente della migliore per farsi portare fino al punto in cui il sentiero attraversava i campi, e gli chiese di aspettarlo nel luogo dove si trovava una casa di divertimenti, situata a pochi passi da lì. Arrivato a destinazione, scese dalla carrozza e proseguì a piedi.

He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from among the trees, while a flock of pigeons—some of its old inhabitants, doubtless—sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the unclouded sky. ‘The old house will brighten up now,’ he said, as he looked towards it, ‘and there will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is some comfort to know that everything will not be blighted hereabouts. I shall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to, in my mind!’

He resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was a clear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the leaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsy sheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and, at intervals, the far-off lowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The sky was radiant with the softened glory of sunset; and on the earth, and in the air, a deep repose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the deserted mansion which had been his home so long, and looked for the last time upon its blackened walls.

The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in them there is an image of death and ruin,—of something that has been bright, and is but dull, cold, dreary dust,—with which our nature forces us to sympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting down of that great altar, where the worst among us sometimes perform the worship of the heart; and where the best have offered up such sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as, chronicled, would put the proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting annals, to the blush!

He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowly round the house. It was by this time almost dark.

He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a half-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an easy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin with an expression of pleasure,—a pleasure so keen that it overcame his habitual indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly free from all restraint or reserve,—before him, on his own ground, and triumphing then, as he had triumphed in every misfortune and disappointment of his life, stood the man whose presence, of all mankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could the least endure.

Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath so stirred within him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierce constraint upon himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes, and he would have gone on, and not turned, though to resist the Devil who poured such hot temptation in his brain, required an effort scarcely to be achieved, if this man had not himself summoned him to stop: and that, with an assumed compassion in his voice which drove him well-nigh mad, and in an instant routed all the self-command it had been anguish—acute, poignant anguish—to sustain.

All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything by which a goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him as he turned back. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly—far more calmly than he had ever spoken to him before:

‘Why have you called to me?’

‘To remark,’ said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, ‘what an odd chance it is, that we should meet here!’

‘It IS a strange chance.’

‘Strange? The most remarkable and singular thing in the world. I never ride in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whim seized me, quite unaccountably, in the middle of last night.—How very picturesque this is!’—He pointed, as he spoke, to the dismantled house, and raised his glass to his eye.

‘You praise your own work very freely.’

Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with an air of the most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his head as though he were remarking to himself, ‘I fear this animal is going mad!’

‘I say you praise your own work very freely,’ repeated Mr Haredale.

‘Work!’ echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. ‘Mine!—I beg your pardon, I really beg your pardon—’

‘Why, you see,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘those walls. You see those tottering gables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have raged. You see the destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?’

‘My good friend,’ returned the knight, gently checking his impatience with his hand, ‘of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when you stand aside, and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. I am very sorry for you. If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here, I think I should have written to tell you so. But you don’t bear it as well as I had expected—excuse me—no, you don’t indeed.’

He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air of a man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right to read a moral lesson to another, continued:

‘For you are a philosopher, you know—one of that stern and rigid school who are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed, a long way, from the frailties of the crowd. You contemplate them from a height, and rail at them with a most impressive bitterness. I have heard you.’

—‘And shall again,’ said Mr Haredale.

‘Thank you,’ returned the other. ‘Shall we walk as we talk? The damp falls rather heavily. Well,—as you please. But I grieve to say that I can spare you only a very few moments.’

‘I would,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘you had spared me none. I would, with all my soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrous lie could be enacted), rather than here to-night.’

‘Nay,’ returned the other—‘really—you do yourself injustice. You are a rough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.’

Passò così vicino al Maypole che ne poteva vedere il fumo salire tra gli alberi, mentre uno stormo di piccioni — alcuni dei suoi vecchi abitanti, senza dubbio — veleggiava allegramente verso casa per appollaiarsi, tra lui e il cielo senza nubi. ‘La vecchia casa si rallegrerà ora,’ disse, guardando in quella direzione, ‘e ci sarà un focolare lieto sotto il suo tetto coperto d’edera. È un certo conforto sapere che non tutto sarà devastato da queste parti. Sarò contento di avere almeno un quadro di vita e di allegria a cui rivolgermi, nella mia mente!’

Riprese il cammino e volse i passi verso il Warren. Era una sera limpida, calma, silenziosa, senza quasi un soffio di vento a muovere le foglie, né alcun suono a rompere l’immobilità di quel tempo, se non i sonnolenti campanelli delle pecore che tintinnavano in lontananza e, a intervalli, il muggito remoto delle mandrie o l’abbaiare dei cani del villaggio. Il cielo era radioso della gloria addolcita del tramonto; e sulla terra, e nell’aria, regnava un profondo riposo. A quell’ora giunse alla magione deserta che era stata per tanto tempo la sua casa, e guardò per l’ultima volta le sue mura annerite.

Le ceneri del fuoco più comune sono cose malinconiche, perché in esse vi è un’immagine di morte e di rovina — di qualcosa che è stato splendente e non è più che opaca, fredda, desolata polvere — con cui la nostra natura ci costringe a simpatizzare. Quanto più tristi le braci sbriciolate di una casa: l’abbattimento di quel grande altare dove i peggiori fra noi talvolta celebrano il culto del cuore; e dove i migliori hanno offerto tali sacrifici, e compiuto tali gesta di eroismo, che, se fossero messe in cronaca, farebbero arrossire i più orgogliosi templi dell’antico Tempo, con tutti i loro vanagloriosi annali!

Si scosse da una lunga trama di meditazioni e girò lentamente attorno alla casa. A quell’ora era già quasi buio.

Aveva quasi compiuto il giro dell’edificio, quando emise un’esclamazione a metà soffocata, sussultò e rimase immobile. Adagiato in un atteggiamento comodo, con la schiena appoggiata a un albero, e contemplando la rovina con un’espressione di piacere — un piacere così intenso che vinceva la sua abituale indolenza e il dominio dei suoi tratti, e si mostrava del tutto libero da ogni ritegno o riserva — davanti a lui, sul suo stesso terreno, e trionfante allora come aveva trionfato in ogni sventura e delusione della sua vita, stava l’uomo la cui presenza, fra tutti gli uomini, in qualunque luogo, e meno che mai in quello, gli era la meno tollerabile.

Sebbene il suo sangue si sollevasse tanto contro quell’uomo, e l’ira gli si agitasse dentro a tal punto che avrebbe potuto abbatterlo morto, si impose una costrizione così fiera da passargli accanto senza una parola né uno sguardo. Sì, e avrebbe tirato avanti, senza voltarsi, sebbene resistere al Diavolo che gli versava nel cervello una così ardente tentazione richiedesse uno sforzo appena sostenibile, se quell’uomo non l’avesse chiamato lui stesso a fermarsi: e questo con una compassione simulata nella voce che lo fece quasi impazzire, e in un istante mise in rotta tutto l’autocontrollo che gli era costata un’angoscia — acuta, lancinante angoscia — mantenere.

Ogni considerazione, riflessione, pietà, pazienza; tutto ciò con cui un uomo tormentato può frenare la propria rabbia e la propria passione, lo abbandonò mentre si voltava. E tuttavia disse, lentamente e con tutta calma — con molta più calma di quanta ne avesse mai usata parlandogli prima:

‘Perché mi ha chiamato?’

‘Per osservare,’ disse Sir John Chester con la sua consueta compostezza, ‘che strano caso è, che noi ci incontriamo qui!’

‘È DAVVERO uno strano caso.’

‘Strano? La cosa più notevole e singolare del mondo. Io non cavalco mai di sera; non lo faccio da anni. Il capriccio mi ha preso, in modo del tutto inspiegabile, nel mezzo della notte scorsa. — Com’è pittoresco tutto questo!’ — Additò, mentre parlava, la casa smantellata, e si portò l’occhialino all’occhio.

‘Lei loda molto liberamente la propria opera.’

Sir John lasciò cadere l’occhialino; inclinò il viso verso di lui con l’aria della più cortese interrogazione; e scosse leggermente la testa come se osservasse tra sé: ‘Ho paura che questo animale stia impazzendo!’

‘Dico che lei loda molto liberamente la propria opera,’ ripeté il signor Haredale.

‘Opera!’ fece eco Sir John, guardandosi intorno con un sorriso. ‘Mia! — Le chiedo scusa, le chiedo davvero scusa —’

‘Ebbene, vede,’ disse il signor Haredale, ‘quei muri. Vede quei frontoni vacillanti. Vede da ogni parte i luoghi dove il fuoco e il fumo hanno infuriato. Vede la distruzione che qui è stata compiuta per puro capriccio. Non la vede?’

‘Mio buon amico,’ rispose il cavaliere, frenando gentilmente con la mano la sua impazienza, ‘certo che la vedo. Vedo tutto ciò di cui parla, quando lei si fa da parte e non si frappone tra la veduta e me. Mi dispiace molto per lei. Se non avessi avuto il piacere di incontrarla qui, credo che le avrei scritto per dirglielo. Ma lei non la prende così bene come mi aspettavo — mi scusi — no, davvero non la prende bene.’

Tirò fuori la tabacchiera e, rivolgendosi a lui con l’aria di superiorità di un uomo che, in virtù della propria natura più alta, ha il diritto di impartire una lezione morale a un altro, continuò:

‘Perché lei è un filosofo, sa — uno di quella scuola severa e rigida che sta molto al di sopra delle debolezze dell’umanità in generale. Lei è rimosso, e di molto, dalle fragilità della folla. Le contempla dall’alto e le fustiga con un’amarezza davvero impressionante. L’ho sentita.’

— ‘E mi sentirà ancora,’ disse il signor Haredale.

‘Grazie,’ rispose l’altro. ‘Camminiamo, mentre parliamo? L’umidità cade piuttosto pesante. Bene, — come preferisce. Ma mi duole dire che posso concederle soltanto pochissimi momenti.’

‘Vorrei,’ disse il signor Haredale, ‘che non me ne avesse concesso alcuno. Vorrei, con tutta la mia anima, che lei fosse in Paradiso (se una menzogna così mostruosa potesse compiersi), piuttosto che qui questa notte.’

‘Suvvia,’ rispose l’altro — ‘davvero — lei è ingiusto verso se stesso. Lei è un compagno rude, ma non andrei così lontano per evitarla.’

‘Listen to me,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘Listen to me.’

‘While you rail?’ inquired Sir John.

‘While I deliver your infamy. You urged and stimulated to do your work a fit agent, but one who in his nature—in the very essence of his being—is a traitor, and who has been false to you (despite the sympathy you two should have together) as he has been to all others. With hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you set on Gashford to this work—this work before us now. With these same hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are nothing, you urged him on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me—I have earned it, I thank Heaven—by the abduction and dishonour of my niece. You did. I see denial in your looks,’ he cried, abruptly pointing in his face, and stepping back, ‘and denial is a lie!’

He had his hand upon his sword; but the knight, with a contemptuous smile, replied to him as coldly as before.

‘You will take notice, sir—if you can discriminate sufficiently—that I have taken the trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fine enough for the perusal of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech; nor has it ever been, that I remember; or, in one face that I could name, you would have read indifference, not to say disgust, somewhat sooner than you did. I speak of a long time ago,—but you understand me.’

‘Disguise it as you will, you mean denial. Denial explicit or reserved, expressed or left to be inferred, is still a lie. You say you don’t deny. Do you admit?’

‘You yourself,’ returned Sir John, suffering the current of his speech to flow as smoothly as if it had been stemmed by no one word of interruption, ‘publicly proclaimed the character of the gentleman in question (I think it was in Westminster Hall) in terms which relieve me from the necessity of making any further allusion to him. You may have been warranted; you may not have been; I can’t say. Assuming the gentleman to be what you described, and to have made to you or any other person any statements that may have happened to suggest themselves to him, for the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money, or for his own amusement, or for any other consideration,—I have nothing to say of him, except that his extremely degrading situation appears to me to be shared with his employers. You are so very plain yourself, that you will excuse a little freedom in me, I am sure.’

‘Attend to me again, Sir John but once,’ cried Mr Haredale; ‘in your every look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not your act. I tell you that it was, and that you tampered with the man I speak of, and with your wretched son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk of degradation and character. You told me once that you had purchased the absence of the poor idiot and his mother, when (as I have discovered since, and then suspected) you had gone to tempt them, and had found them flown. To you I traced the insinuation that I alone reaped any harvest from my brother’s death; and all the foul attacks and whispered calumnies that followed in its train. In every action of my life, from that first hope which you converted into grief and desolation, you have stood, like an adverse fate, between me and peace. In all, you have ever been the same cold-blooded, hollow, false, unworthy villain. For the second time, and for the last, I cast these charges in your teeth, and spurn you from me as I would a faithless dog!’

With that he raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that he staggered. Sir John, the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threw away the scabbard and his hat, and running on his adversary made a desperate lunge at his heart, which, but that his guard was quick and true, would have stretched him dead upon the grass.

In the act of striking him, the torrent of his opponent’s rage had reached a stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them, and called to him, with a frantic kind of terror in his face, to keep back.

‘Not to-night! not to-night!’ he cried. ‘In God’s name, not tonight!’

Seeing that he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn, Sir John lowered his.

‘Not to-night!’ his adversary cried. ‘Be warned in time!’

‘You told me—it must have been in a sort of inspiration—’ said Sir John, quite deliberately, though now he dropped his mask, and showed his hatred in his face, ‘that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Did you believe our last meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that your every word and look was not to be accounted for, and was not well remembered? Do you believe that I have waited your time, or you mine? What kind of man is he who entered, with all his sickening cant of honesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a marriage he affected to dislike, and when I had redeemed my part to the spirit and the letter, skulked from his, and brought the match about in his own time, to rid himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spurious lustre on his house?’

‘I have acted,’ cried Mr Haredale, ‘with honour and in good faith. I do so now. Do not force me to renew this duel to-night!’

‘You said my “wretched” son, I think?’ said Sir John, with a smile. ‘Poor fool! The dupe of such a shallow knave—trapped into marriage by such an uncle and by such a niece—he well deserves your pity. But he is no longer a son of mine: you are welcome to the prize your craft has made, sir.’

‘Once more,’ cried his opponent, wildly stamping on the ground, ‘although you tear me from my better angel, I implore you not to come within the reach of my sword to-night. Oh! why were you here at all! Why have we met! To-morrow would have cast us far apart for ever!’

“Ascoltatemi,” disse il signor Haredale. “Ascoltatemi.”

“Mentre tu ti lamenti?”, chiese Sir John.

“Mentre io diffondo la tua infamia. Tu lo hai incoraggiato e stimolato ad agire, quel sicario perfetto, ma che, nella sua natura – nell’essenza stessa della sua essenza – è un traditore. Ti ha tradito, proprio come ha tradito tutti gli altri. Con allusioni, sguardi e parole astute, che in realtà non significano nulla. Tu lo hai spinto a compiere questo atto orribile. Questo atto che ora abbiamo davanti agli occhi. Con le stesse allusioni, gli stessi sguardi, le stesse parole astute, tu lo hai incoraggiato a soddisfare quell’odio mortale che nutre verso di me. L’ho meritato. Grazie al cielo, per l’rapimento e l’umiliazione di mia nipote. Sei stato tu. Vedo negazione nei tuoi occhi, ” gridò, puntando improvvisamente il dito contro di lui e facendo un passo indietro, “E la negazione è una menzogna!”

Aveva la mano sulla sua _spada; ma il cavaliere, con un sorriso di disprezzo, gli rispose altrettanto freddamente come prima.

‘Noterete, signore – se siete abbastanza perspicace – che mi sono preso la briga di non negare nulla. La vostra capacità di osservazione non è certo abbastanza fine da permettervi di interpretare i volti, soprattutto non di quelli rozzi come il vostro modo di parlare; inoltre, per quanto ricordi, non lo è mai stata. E nemmeno in un volto che potrei menzionare specificamente: avreste rilevato indifferenza, se non addirittura disgusto, molto prima di ciò che avete effettivamente notato. Parlo di molto tempo fa. Ma capite cosa intendo.’

“Per quanto tu possa cercare di nasconderlo, ciò che intendi è la negazione. La negazione esplicita o velata, dichiarata apertamente o lasciata all’interpretazione altrui, rimane comunque una menzogna. Dici di non negare. Ma ammetti forse qualcosa?”

“Voi stesso,” rispose Sir John, lasciando che il flusso delle sue parole proseguisse senza alcuna interruzione, “avete dichiarato pubblicamente la natura di quel gentiluomo (credo fosse nella Westminster Hall) in termini che mi esentano dal dover fare ulteriori allusioni a lui. Forse avevate ragione; forse no. Non posso dirlo. Ammettendo che quel gentiluomo sia davvero ciò che avete descritto, e che abbia fatto a voi o a qualcun altro dichiarazioni che potrebbero essere nate da motivi legati alla sua sicurezza, al denaro, al proprio divertimento, o a qualsiasi altra considerazione. Non ho nulla da dire su di lui, se non che la sua situazione estremamente degradante sembra essere condivisa anche dai suoi datori di lavoro. Voi stesso siete così schietto e diretto, che sicuramente perdonerete questa piccola, ” “libertà” da parte mia.”

“Prendetevi cura di me ancora una volta, Signor John, ma solo una volta,” gridò il signor Haredale; “in ogni vostro sguardo, parola e gesto, mi dite che questo non è stato un atto vostra. Io vi dico invece che lo è stato: avete manipolato quell’uomo di cui parlo, e anche vostro povero figlio (che Dio gli perdoni!), per compiere questo crimine. Parlate di degradazione e onore. Mi avevate detto una volta di aver “comprato” l’assenza di quel povero idiota e di sua madre; in realtà, come ho scoperto in seguito, eravate andati a tentarli, solo per trovarli già fuggiti. Siete stato voi ad insinuare che fossi io l’unico responsabile della morte di mio fratello. E siete stato voi a lanciare tutte quelle calunnie e insinuazioni vili. In ogni azione della mia vita, da quella prima speranza che avete trasformato in dolore e desolazione, siete sempre stato come un destino ostile tra me e la pace. In tutto, siete sempre stato lo stesso individuo freddo, vuoto, falso e indegno. Per la seconda e ultima volta, vi lancio queste accuse in faccia, e vi respingo da me, come si farebbe con un cane infedele!”

Con quel gesto alzò il braccio e lo colpì al petto, facendolo barcollare. Sir John, non appena si riprese, sguainò la sua _spada, gettò via la custodia e il cappello, e correndo verso il suo avversario sferrò un attacco disperato al cuore; se non fosse stato per la sua pronta e precisa difesa, l’avversario sarebbe morto sul posto.

Nel momento in cui lo colpì, il flusso di rabbia del suo avversario si fermò. Parò i suoi rapidi attacchi senza contrattaccare e gli gridò, con un terrore folle sul viso, di fermarsi.

“Non stasera. Non stasera!” gridò. “Per l’amor di Dio, non stasera!”

Vedendo che aveva abbassato la sua arma e che non intendeva attaccare a sua volta, Sir John anche lui abbassò la sua.

“Non fino a stanotte!” gridò il suo avversario. “Fatti avvertire in tempo!”

“Mi avevi detto, deve essere stato per ispirazione, ”, disse Sir John con deliberata chiarezza, anche se ora aveva abbassato la maschera e mostrava apertamente il proprio odio, “che questa fosse l’ultima volta. Ebbene, lo è davvero! Pensi che il nostro ultimo incontro sia stato dimenticato? Pensi che ogni tua parola e ogni tuo sguardo non abbiano avuto importanza, o che non siano stati ben ricordati? Pensi che io abbia aspettato il tuo momento, o il mio? Che tipo di uomo è quello che, con tutta la sua nauseabonda retorica sulla ‘onestà’ e sulla ‘verità’, si è impegnato con me per impedire un matrimonio che fingeva di disapprovare; e poi, quando ho adempiuto ai miei doveri sia in senso spirituale che letterale, se l’è svignata e ha fatto sì che tutto accadesse nel suo momento, solo per liberarsi di un peso che gli era diventato insopportabile, e per dare un falso lustro alla sua ‘casa’?”

“Ho agito,” gridò il signor Haredale, “con onore e in buona fede. Lo faccio anche ora. Non costringetemi a riprendere questo duello fino a notte!”

“Avete detto ‘il mio povero figlio’, giusto?”, disse Sir John sorridendo.
“Povero stupido. Vittima di un individuo così superficiale. Intrappolato in un matrimonio orchestrato da un zio e una nipote del genere. Merita davvero la vostra compassione. Ma non è più mio figlio: potete prendervi pure quella ‘premiazione’ che il vostro inganno vi ha permesso di ottenere, signore.”

“Un’altra volta ancora,” gridò il suo avversario, calpestando furiosamente il terreno, “anche se mi strappi via l’angelo che è in me, ti prego di non avvicinarti mai alla portata della mia _spada. Oh! Perché sei mai arrivato qui? Perché ci siamo incontrati? Domani ci avrebbe separati per sempre, ”

‘That being the case,’ returned Sir John, without the least emotion, ‘it is very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always despised you, as you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brute courage. For the honour of my judgment, which I had thought a good one, I am sorry to find you a coward.’

Not another word was spoken on either side. They crossed swords, though it was now quite dusk, and attacked each other fiercely. They were well matched, and each was thoroughly skilled in the management of his weapon.

After a few seconds they grew hotter and more furious, and pressing on each other inflicted and received several slight wounds. It was directly after receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr Haredale, making a keener thrust as he felt the warm blood spirting out, plunged his sword through his opponent’s body to the hilt.

Their eyes met, and were on each other as he drew it out. He put his arm about the dying man, who repulsed him, feebly, and dropped upon the turf. Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant, with scorn and hatred in his look; but, seeming to remember, even then, that this expression would distort his features after death, he tried to smile, and, faintly moving his right hand, as if to hide his bloody linen in his vest, fell back dead—the phantom of last night.

Chapter the Last

A parting glance at such of the actors in this little history as it has not, in the course of its events, dismissed, will bring it to an end.

Mr Haredale fled that night. Before pursuit could be begun, indeed before Sir John was traced or missed, he had left the kingdom. Repairing straight to a religious establishment, known throughout Europe for the rigour and severity of its discipline, and for the merciless penitence it exacted from those who sought its shelter as a refuge from the world, he took the vows which thenceforth shut him out from nature and his kind, and after a few remorseful years was buried in its gloomy cloisters.

Two days elapsed before the body of Sir John was found. As soon as it was recognised and carried home, the faithful valet, true to his master’s creed, eloped with all the cash and movables he could lay his hands on, and started as a finished gentleman upon his own account. In this career he met with great success, and would certainly have married an heiress in the end, but for an unlucky check which led to his premature decease. He sank under a contagious disorder, very prevalent at that time, and vulgarly termed the jail fever.

Lord George Gordon, remaining in his prison in the Tower until Monday the fifth of February in the following year, was on that day solemnly tried at Westminster for High Treason. Of this crime he was, after a patient investigation, declared Not Guilty; upon the ground that there was no proof of his having called the multitude together with any traitorous or unlawful intentions. Yet so many people were there, still, to whom those riots taught no lesson of reproof or moderation, that a public subscription was set on foot in Scotland to defray the cost of his defence.

For seven years afterwards he remained, at the strong intercession of his friends, comparatively quiet; saving that he, every now and then, took occasion to display his zeal for the Protestant faith in some extravagant proceeding which was the delight of its enemies; and saving, besides, that he was formally excommunicated by the Archbishop of Canterbury, for refusing to appear as a witness in the Ecclesiastical Court when cited for that purpose. In the year 1788 he was stimulated by some new insanity to write and publish an injurious pamphlet, reflecting on the Queen of France, in very violent terms. Being indicted for the libel, and (after various strange demonstrations in court) found guilty, he fled into Holland in place of appearing to receive sentence: from whence, as the quiet burgomasters of Amsterdam had no relish for his company, he was sent home again with all speed. Arriving in the month of July at Harwich, and going thence to Birmingham, he made in the latter place, in August, a public profession of the Jewish religion; and figured there as a Jew until he was arrested, and brought back to London to receive the sentence he had evaded. By virtue of this sentence he was, in the month of December, cast into Newgate for five years and ten months, and required besides to pay a large fine, and to furnish heavy securities for his future good behaviour.

After addressing, in the midsummer of the following year, an appeal to the commiseration of the National Assembly of France, which the English minister refused to sanction, he composed himself to undergo his full term of punishment; and suffering his beard to grow nearly to his waist, and conforming in all respects to the ceremonies of his new religion, he applied himself to the study of history, and occasionally to the art of painting, in which, in his younger days, he had shown some skill. Deserted by his former friends, and treated in all respects like the worst criminal in the jail, he lingered on, quite cheerful and resigned, until the 1st of November 1793, when he died in his cell, being then only three-and-forty years of age.

Many men with fewer sympathies for the distressed and needy, with less abilities and harder hearts, have made a shining figure and left a brilliant fame. He had his mourners. The prisoners bemoaned his loss, and missed him; for though his means were not large, his charity was great, and in bestowing alms among them he considered the necessities of all alike, and knew no distinction of sect or creed. There are wise men in the highways of the world who may learn something, even from this poor crazy lord who died in Newgate.

“Essendo così,” rispose Sir John senza la minima emozione, “è davvero fortunato che ci siamo incontrati stasera. Haredale, ti ho sempre disprezzato, come sai, ma ti ho riconosciuto una sorta di coraggio brutale. Per l’onore della mia giudizio, che credevo fosse accurato, mi dispiace scoprire che sei un codardo.”

Non fu pronunciata nemmeno una parola da entrambe le parti. Incrociarono le spade; ormai era quasi buio, e si attaccarono con ferocia. Erano ben bilanciati l’uno rispetto all’altro, e ciascuno era estremamente abile nell’uso della propria arma.

Dopo alcuni secondi diventarono sempre più furiosi e, spingendosi a vicenda, si inflissero diversi graffi lievi. Fu proprio dopo aver ricevuto uno di questi graffi al braccio che il signor Haredale, colpendo con ancora più forza non appena sentì il caldo sangue sgorgare, conficcò la sua _spada nel corpo del suo avversario fino alla lama.

I loro sguardi si incrociarono mentre lui lo tirava fuori. Posò il braccio attorno all’uomo morente, che lo respinse debolmente prima di cadere sul prato. Alzandosi sulle mani, lo fissò per un istante con disprezzo e odio negli occhi; ma, sembrando ricordare in quel momento stesso che quell’espressione avrebbe distorto i suoi tratti dopo la morte, cercò di sorridere e, muovendo debolmente la mano destra come se volesse nascondere il panno insanguinato nella sua giacca, cadde morto, l’fantasma della scorsa notte.

Titolo:
L’ultimo capitolo

Un ultimo sguardo a personaggi del genere in questa piccola storia, che nel corso dei suoi eventi non sono stati dimenticati, porterà inevitabilmente al suo termine.

Il signor Haredale fuggì quella notte. Prima che si potesse iniziare la sua persecuzione, anzi prima ancora che Sir John venisse rintracciato o perso di vista, aveva già lasciato il regno. Si recò direttamente in un istituto religioso, noto in tutta Europa per la rigore e la severità della sua disciplina, nonché per le penitenze spietate che imponeva a coloro che cercavano rifugio lì, lontani dal mondo. Vi prese i voti che da quel momento lo separarono per sempre dalla natura e dai suoi simili; dopo alcuni anni di rimorso, fu sepolto nei suoi cupi chiostri.

Trascorsero due giorni prima che il corpo di Sir John venisse ritrovato. Non appena fu riconosciuto e portato a casa, il fedele valletto, fedele ai principi del suo padrone, fuggì con tutto il denaro e i beni mobili che riuscì a prendere e iniziò una vita da gentiluomo indipendente. In questa sua nuova vita ottenne grande successo e sicuramente avrebbe sposato un’ereditiera, se non fosse stato per un evento sfortunato che lo portò alla morte prematura. Morì a causa di una malattia contagiosa molto diffusa in quel periodo, comunemente chiamata “febbre carceraria”.

Lord George Gordon, rimasto nella sua prigione della Torre fino al lunedì 5 febbraio dell’anno successivo, fu quel giorno processato solennemente a Westminster per alto tradimento. Dopo un’attenta indagine, fu dichiarato Non Colpevole; non esistevano infatti prove che avesse radunato la folla con intenzioni traditrici o illecite. Tuttavia, molte persone rimasero comunque convinte della sua colpevolezza, tanto da indire in Scozia una raccolta fondi pubblica per finanziare la sua difesa.

Per sette anni successivi rimase, grazie alla forte intercessione dei suoi amici, relativamente tranquillo; ad eccezione del fatto che di tanto in tanto si concedeva il lusso di dimostrare il proprio zelo per la fede protestante con comportamenti eccessivi che divertivano i suoi nemici; inoltre fu formalmente scomunicato dall’Arcivescovo di Canterbury per essersi rifiutato di comparire in tribunale come testimone quando chiamato a farlo. Nel 1788, spinto da una nuova follia, scrisse e pubblicò un pamphlet offensivo nei confronti della regina di Francia, usando termini estremamente violenti. Processato per diffamazione e dichiarato colpevole dopo varie strane manifestazioni in tribunale, fuggì in Olanda invece di presentarsi a ricevere la sentenza; poiché i tranquilli borghesi di Amsterdam non desideravano averlo tra loro, fu immediatamente rimpatriato il più rapidamente possibile. Arrivato a Harwich nel mese di luglio e successivamente a Birmingham, nell’agosto dello stesso anno dichiarò pubblicamente di aderire alla religione ebraica; vi rimase fino a quando non fu arrestato e riportato a Londra per ricevere la pena che aveva cercato di evitare. In base a questa sentenza, nel mese di dicembre fu imprigionato a Newgate per cinque anni e dieci mesi; inoltre dovette pagare una pesante multa e fornire garanzie solide per dimostrare che avrebbe comportato bene in futuro.

Dopo aver rivolto, a metà dell’estate dell’anno successivo, un appello alla compassione dell’Assemblea Nazionale francese, che il ministro inglese rifiutò di approvare, si preparò ad scontare l’intero periodo della sua pena. Lasciarsi crescere la barba fino quasi alla vita e attenersi in ogni modo alle pratiche della sua nuova religione, si dedicò allo studio della storia e, occasionalmente, all’arte pittorica, nella quale in giovane età aveva dimostrato qualche talento. Abbandonato dai suoi vecchi amici e trattato come il peggiore criminale del carcere, visse serenamente e rassegnatamente fino al 1° novembre 1793, quando morì nella sua cella all’età di soli trentaquattro anni.

Molti uomini, che provavano meno simpatia per i bisognosi e i sofferenti, che possedevano minori capacità e avevano cuori più duri, sono riusciti a lasciare un segno luminoso e una fama illustre. Lui ebbe i suoi piangenti; anche i prigionieri deplorarono la sua scomparsa e sentirono la sua mancanza. Poiché i suoi mezzi non erano abbondanti, la sua carità era grande: nel distribuire aiuti, considerava le necessità di tutti allo stesso modo, senza fare distinzioni tra sette o credenze diverse. Ci sono saggi uomini nei “viali del mondo” che possono imparare qualcosa anche da questo povero e folle signore morto a Newgate.

To the last, he was truly served by bluff John Grueby. John was at his side before he had been four-and-twenty hours in the Tower, and never left him until he died. He had one other constant attendant, in the person of a beautiful Jewish girl; who attached herself to him from feelings half religious, half romantic, but whose virtuous and disinterested character appears to have been beyond the censure even of the most censorious.

Gashford deserted him, of course. He subsisted for a time upon his traffic in his master’s secrets; and, this trade failing when the stock was quite exhausted, procured an appointment in the honourable corps of spies and eavesdroppers employed by the government. As one of these wretched underlings, he did his drudgery, sometimes abroad, sometimes at home, and long endured the various miseries of such a station. Ten or a dozen years ago—not more—a meagre, wan old man, diseased and miserably poor, was found dead in his bed at an obscure inn in the Borough, where he was quite unknown. He had taken poison. There was no clue to his name; but it was discovered from certain entries in a pocket-book he carried, that he had been secretary to Lord George Gordon in the time of the famous riots.

Many months after the re-establishment of peace and order, and even when it had ceased to be the town-talk, that every military officer, kept at free quarters by the City during the late alarms, had cost for his board and lodging four pounds four per day, and every private soldier two and twopence halfpenny; many months after even this engrossing topic was forgotten, and the United Bulldogs were to a man all killed, imprisoned, or transported, Mr Simon Tappertit, being removed from a hospital to prison, and thence to his place of trial, was discharged by proclamation, on two wooden legs. Shorn of his graceful limbs, and brought down from his high estate to circumstances of utter destitution, and the deepest misery, he made shift to stump back to his old master, and beg for some relief. By the locksmith’s advice and aid, he was established in business as a shoeblack, and opened shop under an archway near the Horse Guards. This being a central quarter, he quickly made a very large connection; and on levee days, was sometimes known to have as many as twenty half-pay officers waiting their turn for polishing. Indeed his trade increased to that extent, that in course of time he entertained no less than two apprentices, besides taking for his wife the widow of an eminent bone and rag collector, formerly of Millbank. With this lady (who assisted in the business) he lived in great domestic happiness, only chequered by those little storms which serve to clear the atmosphere of wedlock, and brighten its horizon. In some of these gusts of bad weather, Mr Tappertit would, in the assertion of his prerogative, so far forget himself, as to correct his lady with a brush, or boot, or shoe; while she (but only in extreme cases) would retaliate by taking off his legs, and leaving him exposed to the derision of those urchins who delight in mischief.

Miss Miggs, baffled in all her schemes, matrimonial and otherwise, and cast upon a thankless, undeserving world, turned very sharp and sour; and did at length become so acid, and did so pinch and slap and tweak the hair and noses of the youth of Golden Lion Court, that she was by one consent expelled that sanctuary, and desired to bless some other spot of earth, in preference. It chanced at that moment, that the justices of the peace for Middlesex proclaimed by public placard that they stood in need of a female turnkey for the County Bridewell, and appointed a day and hour for the inspection of candidates. Miss Miggs attending at the time appointed, was instantly chosen and selected from one hundred and twenty-four competitors, and at once promoted to the office; which she held until her decease, more than thirty years afterwards, remaining single all that time. It was observed of this lady that while she was inflexible and grim to all her female flock, she was particularly so to those who could establish any claim to beauty: and it was often remarked as a proof of her indomitable virtue and severe chastity, that to such as had been frail she showed no mercy; always falling upon them on the slightest occasion, or on no occasion at all, with the fullest measure of her wrath. Among other useful inventions which she practised upon this class of offenders and bequeathed to posterity, was the art of inflicting an exquisitely vicious poke or dig with the wards of a key in the small of the back, near the spine. She likewise originated a mode of treading by accident (in pattens) on such as had small feet; also very remarkable for its ingenuity, and previously quite unknown.

It was not very long, you may be sure, before Joe Willet and Dolly Varden were made husband and wife, and with a handsome sum in bank (for the locksmith could afford to give his daughter a good dowry), reopened the Maypole. It was not very long, you may be sure, before a red-faced little boy was seen staggering about the Maypole passage, and kicking up his heels on the green before the door. It was not very long, counting by years, before there was a red-faced little girl, another red-faced little boy, and a whole troop of girls and boys: so that, go to Chigwell when you would, there would surely be seen, either in the village street, or on the green, or frolicking in the farm-yard—for it was a farm now, as well as a tavern—more small Joes and small Dollys than could be easily counted. It was not a very long time before these appearances ensued; but it WAS a VERY long time before Joe looked five years older, or Dolly either, or the locksmith either, or his wife either: for cheerfulness and content are great beautifiers, and are famous preservers of youthful looks, depend upon it.

Fino all’ultimo momento, fu veramente assistito da John Grueby. Questi gli fu accanto già poche ore dopo il suo arrivo nella Torre e non lo lasciò mai fino alla sua morte. Aveva anche un altro accompagnatore costante: una bellissima ragazza ebrea che si legò a lui per motivi sia religiosi che romantici; tuttavia, il carattere virtuoso e disinteressato di questa donna sembra essere stato al di sopra di ogni critica, persino da parte delle persone più severe.

Gashford lo abbandonò, naturalmente. Per un certo periodo visse grazie al commercio dei segreti del suo padrone; ma quando quest’attività divenne impossibile a causa dell’esaurimento delle risorse, riuscì ad ottenere un incarico nell’onorevole corpo di spie e ascoltatori utilizzato dal governo. Come uno di questi miserabili subordinati, svolse i suoi compiti, a volte all’estero, a volte in casa, sopportando per molto tempo le varie miserie legate a tale posizione. Dieci o dodici anni fa – non di più – un uomo anziano, magro e malato, estremamente povero, fu trovato morto nel suo letto in una modesta locanda del Borough, dove nessuno lo conosceva. Aveva ingerito del veleno. Non esisteva alcuna traccia del suo nome; ma grazie a alcuni appunti presenti in un portafoglio che portava con sé, si scoprì che era stato segretario di Lord George Gordon al tempo delle famose rivolte.

Molti mesi dopo il ripristino della pace e dell’ordine, e anche quando l’argomento aveva smesso di essere oggetto di conversazione nella città, si sapeva ancora che ogni ufficiale militare, alloggiato gratuitamente dalla Città durante i periodi di pericolo, spendeva quattro sterline e quattro pence al giorno per vitto e alloggio; ogni soldato semplice, invece, ne spendeva due sterline e due pence e mezzo. Molti mesi dopo che anche questo argomento era stato dimenticato, e che tutti i membri dei “United Bulldogs” erano stati uccisi, imprigionati o deportati, il signor Simon Tappertit, trasferito da un ospedale in prigione e poi al tribunale, fu infine rilasciato, su due gambe di legno. Privato delle sue membra, ridotto dalla condizione di nobile a quella di estrema povertà e miseria, riuscì comunque a tornare dal suo ex padrone per chiedere aiuto. Con il consiglio e l’aiuto di un fabbro chiave, iniziò a lavorare come lucidatore di scarpe, aprendo un negozio sotto un arco vicino alle Guardie a Cavallo. Essendo situato in una zona centrale della città, riuscì rapidamente ad accumulare molti clienti; nei giorni di festa, spesso aveva fino a venti ufficiali in congedo in attesa che lucidasse le loro scarpe. Il suo lavoro andò talmente bene che, nel corso del tempo, assunse addirittura due apprendisti e prese in moglie la vedova di un famoso raccoglitore di rifiuti, originario di Millbank. Con questa donna, che lo aiutava nel negozio, visse una vita felice, sebbene talvolta soggetto a piccole “tempeste” che, in realtà, servivano solo ad arricchire la loro vita coniugale. In alcuni di questi momenti difficili, il signor Tappertit, nella sua presunzione, arrivava persino a colpire la moglie con una spazzola, una scarpa o un stivale; lei, però (solo in casi estremi), gli rispondeva togliendogli le gambe e lasciandolo esposto al deriso dei bambini che amano fare scherzi.

Miss Miggs, confusa e fallita in tutti i suoi piani, sia matrimoniali che di altro genere, e abbandonata in un mondo ingrato e indegno, divenne estremamente acida e crudele; arrivò persino a colpire, schiaffeggiare e tormentare con violenza i giovani della Golden Lion Court, tanto che fu all’unanimità espulsa da quel luogo e desiderò scegliere un altro angolo di terra dove vivere. In quel momento, i magistrati del Middlesex annunciarono pubblicamente la necessità di trovare una donna incaricata della sorveglianza del County Bridewell e fissarono una data per l’esame delle candidate. Miss Miggs, presentandosi all’ora stabilita, fu immediatamente selezionata tra centoventiquattro concorrenti e assunta nell’incarico; lo mantenne fino alla sua morte, avvenuta più di trent’anni dopo, rimanendo sempre single. Si notava che, sebbene fosse rigida e severa con tutte le donne che la circondavano, lo era ancora di più con quelle che possedevano anche solo un minimo di bellezza; spesso si diceva che questo fosse una prova della sua indomabile virtù e della sua estrema castità, poiché non mostrava mai alcuna pietà verso coloro che erano debole di carattere, colpendoli sempre al minimo pretesto, o addirittura senza alcun motivo. Tra le altre “invenzioni” utili che applicò a queste donne e che furono tramandate alle generazioni future, c’era l’arte di infliggere dolorosi pugni o colpi con la parte metallica delle chiavi nella parte bassa della schiena, vicino alla spina dorsale. Inoltre, ideò anche un metodo per calpestare accidentalmente, con i tacchi alti, coloro che avevano piedi piccoli; un sistema davvero ingegnoso e fino ad allora sconosciuto.

Non trascorse molto tempo, potete esserne certi, prima che Joe Willet e Dolly Varden diventassero marito e moglie; inoltre, grazie a una cospicua somma di denaro in banca (poiché il fabbro chiave poteva permettersi di dare alla figlia un buon dote), riaprirono il “Maypole”. Non trascorse molto tempo, neanche questo, prima che si vedesse un bambino con il viso rossiccio barcollare nel corridoio attorno al “Maypole” e saltellare sul prato davanti alla porta. E non passò molto tempo, in termini di anni, prima che nascessero una bambina con il viso rossiccio, un altro bambino con il viso rossiccio, e un intero gruppo di ragazzi e ragazze: così che, se andavate a Chigwell, sicuramente avreste visto, sia per le strade del villaggio che sul prato o mentre giocavano nel cortile della fattoria – poiché ormai quella era diventata una fattoria, tanto quanto una taverna – tantissimi piccoli Joe e piccole Dolly da non riuscire nemmeno a contarli tutti. Non trascorse molto tempo prima che questi bambini iniziassero ad apparire; ma TRASCORSE UN TEMPO MOLTO LUNGO prima che Joe sembrasse invecchiare di cinque anni, né Dolly, né il fabbro chiave, né sua moglie: perché l’allegria e la soddisfazione sono davvero grandi bellezze naturali e noti mezzi per preservare un aspetto giovane, credetemi.

It was a long time, too, before there was such a country inn as the Maypole, in all England: indeed it is a great question whether there has ever been such another to this hour, or ever will be. It was a long time too—for Never, as the proverb says, is a long day—before they forgot to have an interest in wounded soldiers at the Maypole, or before Joe omitted to refresh them, for the sake of his old campaign; or before the serjeant left off looking in there, now and then; or before they fatigued themselves, or each other, by talking on these occasions of battles and sieges, and hard weather and hard service, and a thousand things belonging to a soldier’s life. As to the great silver snuff-box which the King sent Joe with his own hand, because of his conduct in the Riots, what guest ever went to the Maypole without putting finger and thumb into that box, and taking a great pinch, though he had never taken a pinch of snuff before, and almost sneezed himself into convulsions even then? As to the purple-faced vintner, where is the man who lived in those times and never saw HIM at the Maypole: to all appearance as much at home in the best room, as if he lived there? And as to the feastings and christenings, and revellings at Christmas, and celebrations of birthdays, wedding-days, and all manner of days, both at the Maypole and the Golden Key,—if they are not notorious, what facts are?

Mr Willet the elder, having been by some extraordinary means possessed with the idea that Joe wanted to be married, and that it would be well for him, his father, to retire into private life, and enable him to live in comfort, took up his abode in a small cottage at Chigwell; where they widened and enlarged the fireplace for him, hung up the boiler, and furthermore planted in the little garden outside the front-door, a fictitious Maypole; so that he was quite at home directly. To this, his new habitation, Tom Cobb, Phil Parkes, and Solomon Daisy went regularly every night: and in the chimney-corner, they all four quaffed, and smoked, and prosed, and dozed, as they had done of old. It being accidentally discovered after a short time that Mr Willet still appeared to consider himself a landlord by profession, Joe provided him with a slate, upon which the old man regularly scored up vast accounts for meat, drink, and tobacco. As he grew older this passion increased upon him; and it became his delight to chalk against the name of each of his cronies a sum of enormous magnitude, and impossible to be paid: and such was his secret joy in these entries, that he would be perpetually seen going behind the door to look at them, and coming forth again, suffused with the liveliest satisfaction.

He never recovered the surprise the Rioters had given him, and remained in the same mental condition down to the last moment of his life. It was like to have been brought to a speedy termination by the first sight of his first grandchild, which appeared to fill him with the belief that some alarming miracle had happened to Joe. Being promptly blooded, however, by a skilful surgeon, he rallied; and although the doctors all agreed, on his being attacked with symptoms of apoplexy six months afterwards, that he ought to die, and took it very ill that he did not, he remained alive—possibly on account of his constitutional slowness—for nearly seven years more, when he was one morning found speechless in his bed. He lay in this state, free from all tokens of uneasiness, for a whole week, when he was suddenly restored to consciousness by hearing the nurse whisper in his son’s ear that he was going. ‘I’m a-going, Joseph,’ said Mr Willet, turning round upon the instant, ‘to the Salwanners’—and immediately gave up the ghost.

He left a large sum of money behind him; even more than he was supposed to have been worth, although the neighbours, according to the custom of mankind in calculating the wealth that other people ought to have saved, had estimated his property in good round numbers. Joe inherited the whole; so that he became a man of great consequence in those parts, and was perfectly independent.

Some time elapsed before Barnaby got the better of the shock he had sustained, or regained his old health and gaiety. But he recovered by degrees: and although he could never separate his condemnation and escape from the idea of a terrific dream, he became, in other respects, more rational. Dating from the time of his recovery, he had a better memory and greater steadiness of purpose; but a dark cloud overhung his whole previous existence, and never cleared away.

He was not the less happy for this, for his love of freedom and interest in all that moved or grew, or had its being in the elements, remained to him unimpaired. He lived with his mother on the Maypole farm, tending the poultry and the cattle, working in a garden of his own, and helping everywhere. He was known to every bird and beast about the place, and had a name for every one. Never was there a lighter-hearted husbandman, a creature more popular with young and old, a blither or more happy soul than Barnaby; and though he was free to ramble where he would, he never quitted Her, but was for evermore her stay and comfort.

It was remarkable that although he had that dim sense of the past, he sought out Hugh’s dog, and took him under his care; and that he never could be tempted into London. When the Riots were many years old, and Edward and his wife came back to England with a family almost as numerous as Dolly’s, and one day appeared at the Maypole porch, he knew them instantly, and wept and leaped for joy. But neither to visit them, nor on any other pretence, no matter how full of promise and enjoyment, could he be persuaded to set foot in the streets: nor did he ever conquer this repugnance or look upon the town again.

Grip soon recovered his looks, and became as glossy and sleek as ever. But he was profoundly silent. Whether he had forgotten the art of Polite Conversation in Newgate, or had made a vow in those troubled times to forego, for a period, the display of his accomplishments, is matter of uncertainty; but certain it is that for a whole year he never indulged in any other sound than a grave, decorous croak. At the expiration of that term, the morning being very bright and sunny, he was heard to address himself to the horses in the stable, upon the subject of the Kettle, so often mentioned in these pages; and before the witness who overheard him could run into the house with the intelligence, and add to it upon his solemn affirmation the statement that he had heard him laugh, the bird himself advanced with fantastic steps to the very door of the bar, and there cried, ‘I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil!’ with extraordinary rapture.

From that period (although he was supposed to be much affected by the death of Mr Willet senior), he constantly practised and improved himself in the vulgar tongue; and, as he was a mere infant for a raven when Barnaby was grey, he has very probably gone on talking to the present time.

Trascorse molto tempo prima che in tutta l’Inghilterra si creasse una locanda come il Maypole: anzi, è davvero difficile credere che sia mai esistita un’altra simile fino ad oggi, o che ne esisterà mai un’altra. Trascorse anche molto tempo – perché, come dice il proverbio, “Nessun giorno è mai troppo lungo” – prima che smettessero di interessarsi ai soldati feriti al Maypole, prima che Joe smettesse di prendersi cura di loro per via delle sue vecchie esperienze militari; prima che il sergente smettesse di andare lì di tanto in tanto a controllare. E prima che si stancassero, sia loro che gli altri, parlando di battaglie, assedi, condizioni meteorologiche avverse e tutte le altre cose legate alla vita di un soldato. Quanto alla grande scatola d’argento per il tabacco che il Re inviò personalmente a Joe per il suo comportamento durante i disordini, quale ospite, andando al Maypole, non avrebbe messo le dita dentro quella scatola e preso una generosa dose di tabacco, anche se prima non ne aveva mai assunto nemmeno un pizzico, rischiando quasi di starnutire fino alle convulsioni? Quanto al vinaio dal viso viola, dove è finito quell’uomo che, in quei tempi, era sempre presente al Maypole? Sembrava proprio che fosse a casa sua, nella stanza migliore, come se vi vivesse davvero! E quanto alle feste, ai battesimi, alle celebrazioni di Natale, compleanni, giorni di nozze e a tutte le altre occasioni festive, sia al Maypole che al Golden Key, se non sono davvero note per la loro dissolutezza, allora quali altri fatti potrebbero esserlo?

Il signor Willet il vecchio, per qualche motivo inspiegabile, aveva preso l’idea che Joe volesse sposarsi e che fosse meglio per lui se suo padre si ritirasse dalla vita pubblica per permettergli di vivere in modo confortevole. Così si stabilì in una piccola casetta a Chigwell; lì fecero ampliare il caminetto, installarono la caldaia e piantarono nel piccolo >jardino davanti alla porta un “finto albero di maggio”, in modo che si sentisse davvero a >casa. Ogni sera, Tom Cobb, Phil Parkes e Solomon Daisy andavano regolarmente da lui: nel angolo del caminetto, tutti e quattro bevevano, fumavano, chiacchieravano e sonnecchiavano, proprio come facevano un tempo. Dopo poco tempo, si scoprì per caso che il signor Willet continuava a considerarsi un proprietario terriero. Così Joe gli fornì una lavagna su cui l’uomo registrava regolarmente enormi somme per carne, bevande e tabacco. Con l’avanzare dell’età, questa passione aumentò ancora di più; per lui diventò un vero piacere scrivere cifre esorbitanti sul nome dei suoi amici, somme impossibili da pagare. Era talmente felice di quelle registrazioni che si vedeva spesso andare dietro la porta a controllarle, poi uscire con un’espressione di profonda soddisfazione.

Non riuscì mai a superare la sorpresa che i Rioters gli avevano causato e rimase nello stesso stato mentale fino all’ultimo momento della sua vita. Fu come se la vista del suo primo nipote lo avesse portato rapidamente alla fine; quel bambino sembrava fargli credere che fosse accaduto qualche miracolo straordinario a Joe. Tuttavia, grazie alle cure abili di un chirurgo, si riprese. Anche se tutti i medici concordavano sul fatto che, sei mesi dopo, avesse iniziato ad accusare sintomi di apoplessia e che quindi dovesse morire, lui rimase in vita, forse a causa della sua natura fisicamente debole, per quasi altri sette anni. Una mattina fu trovato privo di sensi nel suo letto; rimase in questo stato, senza mostrare alcun segno di malessere, per un’intera settimana, fino a quando non riprese conoscenza all’improvviso, sentendo la infermiera sussurrare all’orecchio di suo figlio che stava per andarsene. “Sto per andarmene, Joseph”, disse immediatamente il signor Willet, e poi, lasciò questo mondo.

Lasciò dietro di sé una grande somma di denaro; anzi, più di quanto si potesse aspettare che avesse guadagnato, anche se i vicini, seguendo l’abitudine umana di stimare la ricchezza che gli altri dovrebbero aver accumulato, avevano valutato le sue proprietà in cifre intere e approssimative. Joe ereditò tutto; così divenne una persona molto influente in quelle zone e completamente indipendente.

Trascorse del tempo prima che Barnaby riuscisse a superare lo shock subito o a ripristinare la sua salute e la sua allegria di un tempo. Tuttavia si riprese gradualmente: e sebbene non potesse mai scacciare l’idea di aver vissuto un terribile incubo, in altri aspetti divenne più razionale. A partire dal momento del suo recupero, sviluppò una memoria migliore e una maggiore determinazione nelle sue azioni; tuttavia, una nuvola oscura continuò ad aleggiare su tutta la sua vita precedente, senza mai dissiparsi.

Non per questo era meno felice: il suo amore per la libertà e il suo interesse per tutto ciò che si muoveva, cresceva o esisteva negli elementi rimanevano intatti in lui. Viveva con sua madre nella fattoria di Maypole, si prendeva cura del pollame e del bestiame, lavorava nel proprio giardino e aiutava in tutto ciò che era necessario. Tutti gli animali della zona lo conoscevano e ognuno aveva un nome suo. Non esisteva contadino più spensierato, creatura più amata da giovani e anziani, anima più allegra e felice di Barnaby; e sebbene potesse vagabondare liberamente dove voleva, non lasciava mai Lei: era per sempre il suo rifugio e la sua consolazione.

Era straordinario che, nonostante avesse quella vaga percezione del passato, cercasse sempre il cane di Hugh e se ne prendesse cura; inoltre, non veniva mai tentato di recarsi a Londra. Quando i disordini civili erano già trascorsi molti anni, Edward e sua moglie tornarono in Inghilterra con una famiglia quasi altrettanto numerosa quanto quella di Dolly, e un giorno apparvero davanti al portico del palo di maggio. Lui li riconobbe immediatamente, pianse di gioia e saltò per l’eccitazione. Tuttavia, né per andarli a trovare, né per alcun altro motivo, per quanto le opportunità fossero allettanti, fu mai possibile convincerlo ad mettere piede nelle strade di quella città. E quel rifiuto rimase immutato per sempre; non guardò mai più verso quella città.

Grip riprese presto il suo aspetto normale, diventando di nuovo lucido e liscio come sempre. Ma rimase profondamente silenzioso. Non si sa se avesse dimenticato l’arte della conversazione educata a Newgate, o se in quei tempi difficili si fosse imposto di astenersi, per un certo periodo, dal mostrare le proprie capacità; certo è che per un intero anno non emise mai altro suono se non un rauco e dignitoso “crack”. Alla scadenza di quel periodo, una mattina molto chiara e soleggiata, si sentì mentre parlava ai cavalli nella stalla, riguardo al “pentolone” di cui spesso si era parlato in queste pagine; prima che chi lo aveva sentito potesse correre in casa per riferire l’accaduto e aggiungere, con la sua solenne testimonianza, che lo aveva anche sentito ridere, lo stesso uccello avanzò con passi strani fino alla porta della stalla e lì gridò: “Sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo, sono un diavolo!”, con estrema esultanza.

Da quel periodo in poi (sebbene si dovesse essere molto colpito dalla morte del signor Willet senior), continuò costantemente a esercitarsi e a migliorare nella lingua volgare; e poiché era ancora un bambino piccolo quando Barnaby aveva già i capelli grigi, è molto probabile che continui a parlare in quella lingua fino ad oggi.