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

“Called,” said the secretary, “by Heaven.”

“I am.”

“Chosen by the people.”

“Yes.”

“Faithful to both.”

“To the block!”

It would be difficult to convey an adequate idea of the excited manner in which he gave these answers to the secretary's promptings; of the rapidity of his utterance, or the violence of his tone and gesture; in which, struggling through his Puritan's demeanour, was something wild and ungovernable which broke through all restraint. For some minutes he walked rapidly up and down the room, then stopping suddenly, exclaimed,

“Gashford—YOU moved them yesterday too. Oh yes! You did.”

“I shone with a reflected light, my lord,” replied the humble secretary, laying his hand upon his heart. “I did my best.”

“You did well,” said his master, “and are a great and worthy instrument. If you will ring for John Grueby to carry the portmanteau into my room, and will wait here while I undress, we will dispose of business as usual, if you're not too tired.”

“Too tired, my lord!—But this is his consideration! Christian from head to foot. “ With which soliloquy, the secretary tilted the jug, and looked very hard into the mulled wine, to see how much remained.

John Willet and John Grueby appeared together. The one bearing the great candlesticks, and the other the portmanteau, showed the deluded lord into his chamber; and left the secretary alone, to yawn and shake himself, and finally to fall asleep before the fire.

“Now, Mr Gashford sir,” said John Grueby in his ear, after what appeared to him a moment of unconsciousness; “my lord's abed.”

“Oh. Very good, John,” was his mild reply. “Thank you, John. Nobody need sit up. I know my room.”

“I hope you're not a-going to trouble your head to-night, or my lord's head neither, with anything more about Bloody Mary,” said John. “I wish the blessed old creetur had never been born.”

“I said you might go to bed, John,” returned the secretary. “You didn't hear me, I think.”

“Between Bloody Marys, and blue cockades, and glorious Queen Besses, and no Poperys, and Protestant associations, and making of speeches,” pursued John Grueby, looking, as usual, a long way off, and taking no notice of this hint, “my lord's half off his head. When we go out o” doors, such a set of ragamuffins comes ashouting after us, “Gordon forever!” that I'm ashamed of myself and don't know where to look. When we're indoors, they come aroaring and screaming about the house like so many devils; and my lord instead of ordering them to be drove away, goes out into the balcony and demeans himself by making speeches to “em, and calls “em “Men of England,” and “Fellow-countrymen,” as if he was fond of “em and thanked “em for coming. I can't make it out, but they're all mixed up somehow or another with that unfort'nate Bloody Mary, and call her name out till they're hoarse. They're all Protestants too—every man and boy among “em: and Protestants are very fond of spoons, I find, and silver-plate in general, whenever area-gates is left open accidentally. I wish that was the worst of it, and that no more harm might be to come; but if you don't stop these ugly customers in time, Mr Gashford (and I know you; you're the man that blows the fire), you'll find “em grow a little bit too strong for you. One of these evenings, when the weather gets warmer and Protestants are thirsty, they'll be pulling London down,—and I never heard that Bloody Mary went as far as THAT.”

Gashford had vanished long ago, and these remarks had been bestowed on empty air. Not at all discomposed by the discovery, John Grueby fixed his hat on, wrongside foremost that he might be unconscious of the shadow of the obnoxious cockade, and withdrew to bed; shaking his head in a very gloomy and prophetic manner until he reached his chamber.

Gashford, with a smiling face, but still with looks of profound deference and humility, betook himself towards his master's room, smoothing his hair down as he went, and humming a psalm tune. As he approached Lord George's door, he cleared his throat and hummed more vigorously.

There was a remarkable contrast between this man's occupation at the moment, and the expression of his countenance, which was singularly repulsive and malicious. His beetling brow almost obscured his eyes; his lip was curled contemptuously; his very shoulders seemed to sneer in stealthy whisperings with his great flapped ears.

“Hush!” he muttered softly, as he peeped in at the chamber-door. “He seems to be asleep. Pray Heaven he is! Too much watching, too much care, too much thought—ah! Lord preserve him for a martyr! He is a saint, if ever saint drew breath on this bad earth.”

Placing his light upon a table, he walked on tiptoe to the fire, and sitting in a chair before it with his back towards the bed, went on communing with himself like one who thought aloud:

“The saviour of his country and his country's religion, the friend of his poor countrymen, the enemy of the proud and harsh; beloved of the rejected and oppressed, adored by forty thousand bold and loyal English hearts—what happy slumbers his should be!” And here he sighed, and warmed his hands, and shook his head as men do when their hearts are full, and heaved another sigh, and warmed his hands again.

“Why, Gashford?” said Lord George, who was lying broad awake, upon his side, and had been staring at him from his entrance.

“My—my lord,” said Gashford, starting and looking round as though in great surprise. “I have disturbed you!”

“I have not been sleeping.”

“Not sleeping!” he repeated, with assumed confusion. “What can I say for having in your presence given utterance to thoughts—but they were sincere—they were sincere!” exclaimed the secretary, drawing his sleeve in a hasty way across his eyes; “and why should I regret your having heard them?”

“Gashford,” said the poor lord, stretching out his hand with manifest emotion. “Do not regret it. You love me well, I know— too well. I don't deserve such homage.”

Gashford made no reply, but grasped the hand and pressed it to his lips. Then rising, and taking from the trunk a little desk, he placed it on a table near the fire, unlocked it with a key he carried in his pocket, sat down before it, took out a pen, and, before dipping it in the inkstand, sucked it—to compose the fashion of his mouth perhaps, on which a smile was hovering yet.

“How do our numbers stand since last enrolling-night?” inquired Lord George. “Are we really forty thousand strong, or do we still speak in round numbers when we take the Association at that amount?”

“Our total now exceeds that number by a score and three,” Gashford replied, casting his eyes upon his papers.

“The funds?”

“Not VERY improving; but there is some manna in the wilderness, my lord. Hem! On Friday night the widows” mites dropped in. “Forty scavengers, three and fourpence. An aged pew-opener of St Martin 's parish, sixpence. A bell-ringer of the established church, sixpence. A Protestant infant, newly born, one halfpenny. The United Link Boys, three shillings—one bad. The anti-popish prisoners in Newgate, five and fourpence. A friend in Bedlam, half-a-crown. Dennis the hangman, one shilling. "”

“That Dennis,” said his lordship, “is an earnest man. I marked him in the crowd in Welbeck Street , last Friday.”

“A good man,” rejoined the secretary, “a staunch, sincere, and truly zealous man.”

“He should be encouraged,” said Lord George. “Make a note of Dennis. I'll talk with him.”

Gashford obeyed, and went on reading from his list:

“"The Friends of Reason, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Liberty, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Peace, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Charity, half-a-guinea. The Friends of Mercy, half-a-guinea. The Associated Rememberers of Bloody Mary, half-a-guinea. The United Bulldogs, half-a-guinea. "”