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

“Why, sir,” returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and lowering his voice to the tone in which the question had been asked him, “he's a good guard, you see.”

“Don't be too sure of that,” said Mr Haredale, looking towards him as he spoke. “I doubt it. He has an evil eye.”

“There's no imagination in his eye,” returned Mr Willet, glancing over his shoulder at the organ in question, “certainly.”

“There is no good there, be assured,” said Mr Haredale. “Wait in that little room, friend, and close the door between us.”

Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their whispering, did as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned to John, and bade him go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick ears yonder.

Thus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he had heard and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own sagacity, upon his great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for their peace of mind and happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than he had expected. Mr Haredale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the room, returned again, desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very words that Solomon had used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even Mr Willet was surprised.

“You did quite right,” he said, at the end of a long conversation, “to bid them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of this weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition. But Miss Haredale, though she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it if it reached her ears; it is too nearly connected with a subject very painful to us all, to be heard with indifference. You were most prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation. I thank you very much.”

This was equal to John's most sanguine expectations; but he would have preferred Mr Haredale's looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did thank him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often stopping with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like one distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did.

This, however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite forgotten his being present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber floor, sprang up on their entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and prepared to descend the stairs.

“Stay,” said Mr Haredale. “Will this man drink?”

“Drink! He'd drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir, replied John Willet. “He'll have something when he gets home. He's better without it, now, sir.”

“Nay. Half the distance is done,” said Hugh. “What a hard master you are! I shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway. Come!”

As John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and gave it to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the floor.

“What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman's house, sir?” said John.

“I'm drinking a toast,” Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale's face; “a toast to this house and its master. “ With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down the glass, preceded them without another word.

John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs, across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side for Hugh to hold the light while Mr Haredale locked it on the inner; and then John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he was very pale, and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance, that he almost seemed another man.

They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what be had just now seen, when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen swept past—the nearest brushed his shoulder even then—who, checking their steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up.

When John Willet saw that the horsemen wheeled smartly round, and drew up three abreast in the narrow road, waiting for him and his man to join them, it occurred to him with unusual precipitation that they must be highwaymen; and had Hugh been armed with a blunderbuss, in place of his stout cudgel, he would certainly have ordered him to fire it off at a venture, and would, while the word of command was obeyed, have consulted his own personal safety in immediate flight. Under the circumstances of disadvantage, however, in which he and his guard were placed, he deemed it prudent to adopt a different style of generalship, and therefore whispered his attendant to address them in the most peaceable and courteous terms. By way of acting up to the spirit and letter of this instruction, Hugh stepped forward, and flourishing his staff before the very eyes of the rider nearest to him, demanded roughly what he and his fellows meant by so nearly galloping over them, and why they scoured the king's highway at that late hour of night.

The man whom be addressed was beginning an angry reply in the same strain, when be was checked by the horseman in the centre, who, interposing with an air of authority, inquired in a somewhat loud but not harsh or unpleasant voice:

“Pray, is this the London road?”

“If you follow it right, it is,” replied Hugh roughly.

“Nay, brother,” said the same person, “you're but a churlish Englishman, if Englishman you be—which I should much doubt but for your tongue. Your companion, I am sure, will answer me more civilly. How say you, friend?”

“I say it IS the London road, sir,” answered John. “And I wish,” he added in a subdued voice, as he turned to Hugh, “that you was in any other road, you vagabond. Are you tired of your life, sir, that you go a-trying to provoke three great neck-or-nothing chaps, that could keep on running over us, back'ards and for'ards, till we was dead, and then take our bodies up behind “em, and drown us ten miles off?”

“How far is it to London ?” inquired the same speaker.

“Why, from here, sir,” answered John, persuasively, “it's thirteen very easy mile.”

The adjective was thrown in, as an inducement to the travellers to ride away with all speed; but instead of having the desired effect, it elicited from the same person, the remark, “Thirteen miles! That's a long distance!” which was followed by a short pause of indecision.

“Pray,” said the gentleman, “are there any inns hereabouts?” At the word “inns,” John plucked up his spirit in a surprising manner; his fears rolled off like smoke; all the landlord stirred within him.

“There are no inns,” rejoined Mr Willet, with a strong emphasis on the plural number; “but there's a Inn—one Inn —the Maypole Inn. That's a Inn indeed. You won't see the like of that Inn often.”

“You keep it, perhaps?” said the horseman, smiling.

“I do, sir,” replied John, greatly wondering how he had found this out.

“And how far is the Maypole from here?”

“About a mile'—John was going to add that it was the easiest mile in all the world, when the third rider, who had hitherto kept a little in the rear, suddenly interposed: