“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 th
e 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.
Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Page 8