Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty

“What are you crying for, girl?” he said. “What's the matter with you? What are you talking about hatred for? I don't hate you; I don't hate anybody. Dry your eyes and make yourself agreeable, in Heaven's name, and let us all be happy while we can.”

The allied powers deeming it good generalship to consider this a sufficient apology on the part of the enemy, and confession of having been in the wrong, did dry their eyes and take it in good part. Miss Miggs observed that she bore no malice, no not to her greatest foe, whom she rather loved the more indeed, the greater persecution she sustained. Mrs Varden approved of this meek and forgiving spirit in high terms, and incidentally declared as a closing article of agreement, that Dolly should accompany her to the Clerkenwell branch of the association, that very night. This was an extraordinary instance of her great prudence and policy; having had this end in view from the first, and entertaining a secret misgiving that the locksmith (who was bold when Dolly was in question) would object, she had backed Miss Miggs up to this point, in order that she might have him at a disadvantage. The manoeuvre succeeded so well that Gabriel only made a wry face, and with the warning he had just had, fresh in his mind, did not dare to say one word.

The difference ended, therefore, in Miggs being presented with a gown by Mrs Varden and half-a-crown by Dolly, as if she had eminently distinguished herself in the paths of morality and goodness. Mrs V., according to custom, expressed her hope that Varden would take a lesson from what had passed and learn more generous conduct for the time to come; and the dinner being now cold and nobody's appetite very much improved by what had passed, they went on with it, as Mrs Varden said, “like Christians.”

As there was to be a grand parade of the Royal East London Volunteers that afternoon, the locksmith did no more work; but sat down comfortably with his pipe in his mouth, and his arm round his pretty daughter's waist, looking lovingly on Mrs V., from time to time, and exhibiting from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, one smiling surface of good humour. And to be sure, when it was time to dress him in his regimentals, and Dolly, hanging about him in all kinds of graceful winning ways, helped to button and buckle and brush him up and get him into one of the tightest coats that ever was made by mortal tailor, he was the proudest father in all England.

“What a handy jade it is!” said the locksmith to Mrs Varden, who stood by with folded hands—rather proud of her husband too—while Miggs held his cap and sword at arm's length, as if mistrusting that the latter might run some one through the body of its own accord; “but never marry a soldier, Doll, my dear.”

Dolly didn't ask why not, or say a word, indeed, but stooped her head down very low to tie his sash.

“I never wear this dress,” said honest Gabriel, “but I think of poor Joe Willet. I loved Joe; he was always a favourite of mine. Poor Joe!—Dear heart, my girl, don't tie me in so tight.”

Dolly laughed—not like herself at all—the strangest little laugh that could be—and held her head down lower still.

“Poor Joe!” resumed the locksmith, muttering to himself; “I always wish he had come to me. I might have made it up between them, if he had. Ah! old John made a great mistake in his way of acting by that lad—a great mistake. —Have you nearly tied that sash, my dear?”

What an ill-made sash it was! There it was, loose again and trailing on the ground. Dolly was obliged to kneel down, and recommence at the beginning.

“Never mind young Willet, Varden,” said his wife frowning; “you might find some one more deserving to talk about, I think.”

Miss Miggs gave a great sniff to the same effect.

“Nay, Martha,” cried the locksmith, “don't let us bear too hard upon him. If the lad is dead indeed, we'll deal kindly by his memory.”

“A runaway and a vagabond!” said Mrs Varden.

Miss Miggs expressed her concurrence as before.

“A runaway, my dear, but not a vagabond,” returned the locksmith in a gentle tone. “He behaved himself well, did Joe—always—and was a handsome, manly fellow. Don't call him a vagabond, Martha.”

Mrs Varden coughed—and so did Miggs.

“He tried hard to gain your good opinion, Martha, I can tell you,” said the locksmith smiling, and stroking his chin. “Ah! that he did. It seems but yesterday that he followed me out to the Maypole door one night, and begged me not to say how like a boy they used him—say here, at home, he meant, though at the time, I recollect, I didn't understand. “And how's Miss Dolly, sir?” says Joe,” pursued the locksmith, musing sorrowfully, “Ah! Poor Joe!”

“Well, I declare,” cried Miggs. “Oh! Goodness gracious me!”

“What's the matter now?” said Gabriel, turning sharply to her, “Why, if here an't Miss Dolly,” said the handmaid, stooping down to look into her face, “a-giving way to floods of tears. Oh mim! oh sir. Raly it's give me such a turn,” cried the susceptible damsel, pressing her hand upon her side to quell the palpitation of her heart, “that you might knock me down with a feather.”

The locksmith, after glancing at Miss Miggs as if he could have wished to have a feather brought straightway, looked on with a broad stare while Dolly hurried away, followed by that sympathising young woman: then turning to his wife, stammered out, “Is Dolly ill? Have I done anything? Is it my fault?”

“Your fault!” cried Mrs V. reproachfully. “There—you had better make haste out.”

“What have I done?” said poor Gabriel. “It was agreed that Mr Edward's name was never to be mentioned, and I have not spoken of him, have I?”

Mrs Varden merely replied that she had no patience with him, and bounced off after the other two. The unfortunate locksmith wound his sash about him, girded on his sword, put on his cap, and walked out.

“I am not much of a dab at my exercise,” he said under his breath, “but I shall get into fewer scrapes at that work than at this. Every man came into the world for something; my department seems to be to make every woman cry without meaning it. It's rather hard!”

But he forgot it before he reached the end of the street, and went on with a shining face, nodding to the neighbours, and showering about his friendly greetings like mild spring rain.

The Royal East London Volunteers made a brilliant sight that day: formed into lines, squares, circles, triangles, and what not, to the beating of drums, and the streaming of flags; and performed a vast number of complex evolutions, in all of which Serjeant Varden bore a conspicuous share. Having displayed their military prowess to the utmost in these warlike shows, they marched in glittering order to the Chelsea Bun House, and regaled in the adjacent taverns until dark. Then at sound of drum they fell in again, and returned amidst the shouting of His Majesty's lieges to the place from whence they came.

The homeward march being somewhat tardy,—owing to the unsoldierlike behaviour of certain corporals, who, being gentlemen of sedentary pursuits in private life and excitable out of doors, broke several windows with their bayonets, and rendered it imperative on the commanding officer to deliver them over to a strong guard, with whom they fought at intervals as they came along,—it was nine o'clock when the locksmith reached home. A hackney-coach was waiting near his door; and as he passed it, Mr Haredale looked from the window and called him by his name.

“The sight of you is good for sore eyes, sir,” said the locksmith, stepping up to him. “I wish you had walked in though, rather than waited here.”