Chapter 79
Old John did not walk near the Golden Key, for between the Golden Keyand the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of streets--as everybodyknows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of Clerkenwell andWhitechapel--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 theGolden Key this chapter goes.
The Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the locksmith's trade, had beenpulled 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 wholehouse-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that ifthere yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned inthe 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-blindsabove were all pulled down, and in place of its usual cheerfulappearance, 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 inand 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 ashyforge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.
On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. Theyounger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, whichseemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomedto 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 intothe best room; the pride of Mrs Varden's heart, and erst the scene ofMiggs's household labours.
'Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?' said MrHaredale.
'She is above-stairs now--in the room over here,' Edward rejoined. 'Hergrief, they say, is past all telling. I needn't add--for that you knowbeforehand, sir--that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these goodpeople have no bounds.'
'I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Vardenis out?'
'He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment ofhis coming home himself. He was out the whole night--but that of courseyou know. He was with you the greater part of it?'
'He was. Without him, I should have lacked my right hand. He is an olderman 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 neverlived. He reaps what he has sown--no more.'
'It is not all men,' said Edward, after a moment's hesitation, 'who havethe happiness to do that.'
'More than you imagine,' returned Mr Haredale. 'We note the harvest morethan the seed-time. You do so in me.'
In truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so farinfluenced the remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss toanswer him.
'Tut, tut,' said Mr Haredale, ''twas not very difficult to read athought so natural. But you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had myshare of sorrows--more than the common lot, perhaps, but I have bornethem ill. I have broken where I should have bent; and have mused andbrooded, 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 hadto live my life once more, I might amend this fault--not so much, Idiscover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for myown sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctivelyrecoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and inthis circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still bethe same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with itsexperience 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 knowmyself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave thissubject for another--not so far removed from it as it might, at firstsight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is stillattached to you.'
'I have that assurance from her own lips,' said Edward, 'and you know--Iam sure you know--that I would not exchange it for any blessing lifecould yield me.'
'You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,' said Mr Haredale; 'youhave forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once-jaundicedmind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.'
He left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. 'On thatfirst and only time,' he said, looking from the one to the other, 'whenwe 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. Iwas moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, Iknow, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever,lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with havingacted--however much I was mistaken--with any other impulse than the onepure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior naturelay, the father she had lost.'
'Dear uncle,' cried Emma, 'I have known no parent but you. I have lovedthe memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was fatherkinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval ofone harsh hour, since I can first remember.'
'You speak too fondly,' he answered, 'and yet I cannot wish you wereless partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shallhave in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing elsecould give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edward, for she and Ihave been together many years; and although I believe that in resigningher to you I put the seal upon her future happiness, I find it needs aneffort.'
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 commonphrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness and sincerity. In thesame spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has been whenI connived at treachery and falsehood--which if I did not perpetratemyself, 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 forthe first time,' he answered. 'I cannot part from you without your fullforgiveness; for busy life and I have little left in common now, andI have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without addition to thestock.'
'You bear a blessing from us both,' said Emma. 'Never mingle thoughts ofme--of me who owe you so much love and duty--with anything but undyingaffection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the future.'
'The future,' returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, 'is a brightword for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes. Mineis of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, fromcare or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There arecloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are setat rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I amgrowing old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of itagain--not once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerfulcounsel, Emma.'
'And you will take it?' asked his niece.
'I'll listen to it,' he answered, with a kiss, 'and it will have itsweight, be certain. What have I left to say? You have, of late, beenmuch together. It is better and more fitting that the circumstancesattendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and sowed betweenyou 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 thetime, in detestation. Let no man turn aside, ever so slightly, from thebroad path of honour, on the plausible pretence that he is justified bythe 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 leftalone.'
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 faithfulsteward, and to that remnant of a richer property which my brother lefther, I desire to add, in token of my love, a poor pittance, scarcelyworth the mention, for which I have no longer any need. I am glad you goabroad. 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 morefortunate 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, Ifeel that I would choose you for her husband. Her father had a generousnature, and you would have pleased him well. I give her to you in hisname, and with his blessing. If the world and I part in this act, wepart 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 wasstopped in his passage to the door by a great noise at a distance, whichmade them start and pause.
It was a loud shouting, mingled with boisterous acclamations, that rentthe very air. It drew nearer and nearer every moment, and approachedso rapidly, that, even while they listened, it burst into a deafeningconfusion of sounds at the street corner.
'This must be stopped--quieted,' said Mr Haredale, hastily. 'We shouldhave foreseen this, and provided against it. I will go out to them atonce.'
But, before he could reach the door, and before Edward could catch uphis hat and follow him, they were again arrested by a loud shriek fromabove-stairs: and the locksmith's wife, bursting in, and fairly runninginto Mr Haredale's arms, cried out:
'She knows it all, dear sir!--she knows it all! We broke it out to herby degrees, and she is quite prepared.' Having made this communication,and furthermore thanked Heaven with great fervour and heartiness, thegood lady, according to the custom of matrons, on all occasions ofexcitement, fainted away directly.
They ran to the window, drew up the sash, and looked into the crowdedstreet. Among a dense mob of persons, of whom not one was for an instantstill, the locksmith's ruddy face and burly form could be descried,beating about as though he was struggling with a rough sea. Now, he wascarried back a score of yards, now onward nearly to the door, nowback again, now forced against the opposite houses, now against thoseadjoining his own: now carried up a flight of steps, and greeted by theoutstretched hands of half a hundred men, while the whole tumultuousconcourse stretched their throats, and cheered with all their might.Though he was really in a fair way to be torn to pieces in the generalenthusiasm, the locksmith, nothing discomposed, echoed their shouts tillhe 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 jollyand more radiant after every struggle--troubled his peace of mind nomore than if he had been a straw upon the water's surface, he never oncereleased his firm grasp of an arm, drawn tight through his. He sometimesturned to clap this friend upon the back, or whisper in his ear a wordof staunch encouragement, or cheer him with a smile; but his great carewas to shield him from the pressure, and force a passage for him to theGolden Key. Passive and timid, scared, pale, and wondering, and gazingat the throng as if he were newly risen from the dead, and felt himselfa ghost among the living, Barnaby--not Barnaby in the spirit, but inflesh and blood, with pulses, sinews, nerves, and beating heart, andstrong affections--clung to his stout old friend, and followed where heled.
And thus, in course of time, they reached the door, held ready for theirentrance by no unwilling hands. Then slipping in, and shutting outthe crowd by main force, Gabriel stood between Mr Haredale and EdwardChester, and Barnaby, rushing up the stairs, fell upon his knees besidehis mother's bed.
'Such is the blessed end, sir,' cried the panting locksmith, to MrHaredale, 'of the best day's work we ever did. The rogues! it's beenhard 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 hisimpending fate. Failing in their attempts, in the first quarter to whichthey addressed themselves, they renewed them in another. Failing there,likewise, they began afresh at midnight; and made their way, not only tothe 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 Kinghimself. Successful, at last, in awakening an interest in his favour,and an inclination to inquire more dispassionately into his case, theyhad had an interview with the minister, in his bed, so late as eighto'clock that morning. The result of a searching inquiry (in whichthey, who had known the poor fellow from his childhood, did other goodservice, besides bringing it about) was, that between eleven and twelveo'clock, a free pardon to Barnaby Rudge was made out and signed, andentrusted to a horse-soldier for instant conveyance to the place ofexecution. This courier reached the spot just as the cart appeared insight; and Barnaby being carried back to jail, Mr Haredale, assured thatall was safe, had gone straight from Bloomsbury Square to the GoldenKey, leaving to Gabriel the grateful task of bringing him home intriumph.
'I needn't say,' observed the locksmith, when he had shaken hands withall the males in the house, and hugged all the females, five-and-fortytimes, at least, 'that, except among ourselves, I didn't want to make atriumph of it. But, directly we got into the street we were known, andthis 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 myhouse 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; forthe people continuing to make a great noise without, and to cheer as iftheir voices were in the freshest order, and good for a fortnight, hesent upstairs for Grip (who had come home at his master's back, and hadacknowledged the favours of the multitude by drawing blood from everyfinger that came within his reach), and with the bird upon his armpresented himself at the first-floor window, and waved his hat againuntil it dangled by a shred, between his finger and thumb. Thisdemonstration having been received with appropriate shouts, and silencebeing in some degree restored, he thanked them for their sympathy; andtaking the liberty to inform them that there was a sick person in thehouse, proposed that they should give three cheers for King George,three more for Old England, and three more for nothing particular, asa closing ceremony. The crowd assenting, substituted Gabriel Vardenfor 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 GoldenKey, when they were left alone; what an overflowing of joy and happinessthere was among them; how incapable it was of expression in Barnaby'sown person; and how he went wildly from one to another, until he becameso far tranquillised, as to stretch himself on the ground beside hismother's couch and fall into a deep sleep; are matters that need not betold. And it is well they happened to be of this class, for they wouldbe very hard to tell, were their narration ever so indispensable.
Before leaving this bright picture, it may be well to glance at a darkand very different one which was presented to only a few eyes, that samenight.
The scene was a churchyard; the time, midnight; the persons, EdwardChester, a clergyman, a grave-digger, and the four bearers of a homelycoffin. They stood about a grave which had been newly dug, and one ofthe bearers held up a dim lantern,--the only light t
here--which shedits feeble ray upon the book of prayer. He placed it for a moment on thecoffin, when he and his companions were about to lower it down. Therewas no inscription on the lid.
The mould fell solemnly upon the last house of this nameless man; andthe rattling dust left a dismal echo even in the accustomed ears ofthose who had borne it to its resting-place. The grave was filled in tothe 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 ofingratitude. Did it never occur to you that it often looks for monstersof affection, as though they were things of course?'
They had reached the gate by this time, and bidding each other goodnight, departed on their separate ways.
Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty Page 79