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 he 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 nian, 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 
be 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 be 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 
Barnahy 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 feather