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 Ann 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 workman 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 half-pence 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 knew 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 into 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 tumult while they reflect indelible disgrace upon the time in which they occurred and all who had actor pardon 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 naught the commonest principles of right and wrong, that it is begotten of intolerance and persecution, that it is senseless, besotted in veteran 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-pulpery riots of 1780. However imperfectly those disturbances are set forth in the following pages, they are impartially painted by one who has no sympathy with the Romwich Church, although 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 Mary gentlemen assembled there as some other most affecting circumstances of a similar nature mentioned by Sir Samuel Romley 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 shoplifting 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.  It is a circumstance not to be forgotten that she was very young under 19 and most remarkably handsome. She went to a linen draper 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 defense was, I have the trial in my pocket, that she had lived in credit and wanted for nothing till a pressed gain 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 shoplifting 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 be in a distracted and desponding state. And the child was sucking at her breast when she set out for Tyburn. End of preface, read by Deborah Lynn. Chapter one of Barnaby Rudge. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Barnaby Rudge by Charles Dickens. Chapter one. In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest at a distance of about 12 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 travelers as could neither read nor write, and at that time a vast number both of travelers and stay-at-homes were in this condition. By the emblem reared on the roadside over against a house which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were want to present in olden times, was a fair young ash 30 feet in height and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew. The Maypole, by which term from henceforth it 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 zigzag 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 VIII, 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 paneled 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 in 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 hostel reappealed 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 exalted as in a victory. Whether these and many other stories of the light 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 if 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 favored customers smoked and drank, a and sang many a good song to sometimes reposing on two grim looking highbacked 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 twitted in the eaves. There were more pigeons about the dreary stable yard and outbuildings than anybody but the landlord could reckon up. The wheeling and circling flights of runts, fantails, tumblers and powders 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 discolored 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, wrapped its green leaves closely around the time-worn walls. It was a hail 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 luster, 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 held dismally among the bare branches of the trees, and rumbling in the wide chimneys and driving the rain against the windows of the maypole in, gave such of its frequenters as chance 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 with all 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.  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 afterwards. 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 offense, I hope, said the little man. Again John waited leisurely until the observation had thoroughly penetrated to his brain, and then replying, no offense as yet applied a light to his pipe and smoked in placid silence, now and then casting a side long 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 in 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 accoutered 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 and 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 demeanor 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. Willett wandered but once, and then, as if in mute inquiry, whether he had observed his silent neighbor. 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.   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-officekeeper, and long-filled parks, the ranger, both of whom, respected 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 guests in a particularly awkward and disconcerted manner. Well, said the stranger, well, there was not much in well, 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 weather-beaten and worn by time, and the naturally harsh expression of which was not approved 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 grisly 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 high woman, whispered Tom Cobb to Parks the Ranger. Do you suppose high women don't dress handsomer than that? replied Parks. It's a better business than you think for, Tom, and high women don't need or used to be shabby. Take my word for it. Meanwhile the subject of their speculations had done due honor 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 eyes 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 is 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? I, said the stranger, and that fifteen or twenty years ago stood in a park five times as broad, which, with other and richer property, his 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 Haerdale, Mr. Jeffrey Haerdale, and, again, he glanced in the same direction as before, and a worthy gentleman, too. Paying his 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. Phew, 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. Very well, returned the other. About the young lady, has Mr. Haerdale 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 composure, 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 and 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 there upon 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 pre-sentiment 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 leg gone lame and riding out here this blessed afternoon and comfortably littered down in our stable at this minute, and he, giving up a good hot supper in our best bed, because Miss Herodale 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.  Such an inconsiderate lad, murmured Tom Cobb. Putting himself forward and ringing the very nose of 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? Well, 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 is no time. I ought to be sure, muttered Parks, nodding gravely to the other two, who nodded likewise, observing under their breath that that was the point. The proper time is 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 argument, Joe, if anybody was to try and tackle him, said Parks. For the matter of that, Phil, observed Mr. Willet, blowing along thin spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staring at it abstractedly as it floated away. For the matter of that, Phil, argument is a gift of Nader. If Nader has gifted a man with powers of argument, a man has a right to make the best of him, 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 Nader, a flouting of her, a sliding 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. Parks 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 argument, I'm thinking, sir. If, said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face of his interrupter, and uttering a monosyllable in capitals to apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming and irreverent haste, if, sir, Nader has fixed upon me the gift of argument, 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 to better, for I am'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, Mother Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with diverse, 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 opinions wanted, you give it. When you spoke to, you speak.  The world's undergone a nice alteration since my time, certainly. My belief is that there aren'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 II. That's a very true observation, always accepting 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 naughty point being received with such marks of approval as to put John Willet into a good humor, 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 Herodale is Mr. Geoffrey Herodale'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 he should say, Let no man contradict me, for I won't believe him. The John Willet was an amazing force tonight, 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 a friend, returned John Willet, perhaps there is 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 a light, 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 was its heavy timbers and paneled 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 open 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 Haerdale, Mr. Jeffrey'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 Haerdale, Mr. Jeffrey's elder brother. The 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 Haerdale 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 of 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 behavior. Mr. Haerdale, 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 was 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 told 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.  It was just such a night as this, blowing a hurricane, lightning 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 indoors, 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 a jar, 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 them 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 moment 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 and 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 told 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 neighbors. Some were serious, and some made light of it. I don't think anybody believed it real. But that morning Mr. Reuben Herodale was found murdered in his bed-chamber, 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. Herodale 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 haunted far and wide. And far enough they might have looked for poor Mr. Rudge the steward, whose body, scarcely to be recognized by his clothes in 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 II 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, nettle 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 neighborhood. At this remark, which evidently had reference to the scrutiny he had undergone, as mentioned in the foregoing chapter, the eyes of John Willard and his friends were diverted with marvellous rapidity to the copper boiler again. Not so with Joe, who, being a meddlesome 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 in before, and in better weather than this. I thought you might know the way, as you seem strange to this part. The way, repeated the other irritably. Yes, do you know it? I'll—I'll find it, replied the man, waving his hand and turning on his heel. Landlord, take the reckoning here. John Willard 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 he took himself to the stable-yard. 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 wage you that your stopping here tonight 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 the road he don't know, mounted on a jaded horse, and leaves good quarters to do it on such an eye 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 for the 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 plowed up by the wheels of heavy wagons, 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 sure-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 neighborhood of the metropolis were infested by foot-pads, 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 traveler 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 fervor of a madman. There are times when, the elements being an unusual commotion, those who are bent on daring enterprises or agitated by great thought, 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, last 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 crossroads, one of which led by a longer route to the place once 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. Yo-ho! 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 horse flesh, 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.  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. However, 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 look around 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, blothed, hailed, 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 diverse coats and handkerchiefs, one of which passed over his crown and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin secured his three-cornered head 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 luster. 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 started as if you had come upon a ghost, cried the old man in the chase? 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 may have from long acquaintance with I can use pretty briskly.  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 chase. 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 and chafing under the tightened rain kept close beside him. Let me see your face, I say. Stand off. No masquerading tricks, said the locksmith, and tales of the club to-morrow how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice in 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. Humpf! he said when he had scanned his features. I don't know you. Don't desire to return to 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 traveler. My humor is to be avoided. Well, said the locksmith bluntly, I think you'll have your humor. I will at any cost rejoin the traveler, and proof of it lay this to heart that you were never in such peril of your life as you have been within these last few moments when you are within five minutes of breathing your last you will not be nearer death than you have been to-night.  From whose hand? From mine, replied the traveler. 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 high-women? A cutthroat? 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 star is a pretty bragg this to a stout man, poo-poo. 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 war, and 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 half-way 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 last two words very often as if to compensate for the little resolution he was going to show by peeking 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 odor of steaming grog and rare tobacco. All steeped as it were in the cheerful glow when the shadows flitting across the curtains 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 subtly 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 honor of his coming. When, super-added to these enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle sound of frying with the musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a savory 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 plotting whirling along through myry 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 flagans, 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 in treating him to enjoyment. CHAPTER III Such were the locksmith's thoughts when first seated in the snug corner and slowly recovering from a pleasant defective vision. This 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 that 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 an eye-foot, 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, as in 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 you're 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, mom-chance, and to be ordered about till they are the laughing stock of young and old? I am a byword all over Chigwell, and I say, and it's fairer am I 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 endeavoring, 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 endeavor 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 times nearly come when the maypole and I must part company.' "'Roveing stones gather no moss,' Joe,' said Gabriel. "'Normyle stones 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 a chance, Mr. Varden.' "'A bad thing to trust, too, Joe. I don't like it. I always tell my girl when we talk about a husband for her never to trust a 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 going on 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?' "'Hardy, thank ye. 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 range 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 claiming 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's 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 out stretched 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 around 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 site. Then sounds arose, the striking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the home of traffic in the streets, then outlines might be traced, tall steeples looming in the air and piles of unequal roof suppressed 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 recognizing 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 once the cries had proceeded he described 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 was 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 eyes sternly upon him caused him to desist, then pointed to the body with an inquiring look. This blood upon him, said Barnaby with a shudder, it makes me sick. How came it there? demanded Varden. Steal, steal, steal! 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?  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 the 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 taudry 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. Gert to his side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard, and some party-colored ends of ribbons 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 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 chest. He went out today, 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 helped this silly fellow, remembered 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, helped me to put him in the chase and will ride home together.  He's bloody! It's in his nature, I know, mother 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 great coat 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. End of Chapter 3, read by Debra Lynn. Chapter 4 of Barnaby Rudge. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Barnaby Rudge by Charles Dickens. 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 air 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 days. 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, parceled out in streets and plentifully 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 now at hand through which the new river took its winding course and where there was Mary Haymaking in the summertime. 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 farmhouses 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 paid 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 gear at 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 wood and plaster. It was not planned but the dull and wearsome 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 trouble 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 daytime admitting as much cold air as light and very often more. Behind this shop was a wainscotted parlor looking first to a paved yard and beyond that again into a little terrace garden raised some feet above it. Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscotted parlor 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 never suspecting that two of the most unassuming and unlikely doors in existence which the most ingenious mechanition on earth must of necessity of 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 wider 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 neighbors 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 creaky 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 a spiles to have distinguished anything but various tools of uncoothed make and shape great bunches of rusty keys of iron half finished locks and such like things which garnish 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 chance to be thrown open at the moment and the 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 humor 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 send us word said the girl ah Dolly Dolly returned to locksmith's 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 for a while she had awakened still beaming on his face when he just caught sight of his parenthesis 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 that's him 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 so 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 parenthesis garland or the parenthesis delight or the parenthesis warbler or the parenthesis 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 parlor door sim threw off the paper cap spraying from his seat 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 practicing 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 he now completed his toilette he placed the fragment of mirror on a low bench and looked over his shoulder 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-breaches were perfect curiosities of littleness he was enraptured to a degree amounting to enthusiasm he also had some majestic 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 there was a diminished 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 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 forever 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 temporarily 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 enter the terror of his hearers hint at certain reckless fellows that he knew of and at a certain lion heart he was ready to become their captain who once a foot would make the Lord Mayor tremble on his throne in respect of dress and personal decoration Simtapertit 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 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 20 in his looks much older and in conceit at least 200 that he had no objection to be gested 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 honored and 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 Simtapertit who has by this time followed the locksmith into 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 creek beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef a ham of the first magnitude 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 a top of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering to his wig indicative beyond dispute of sparkling homebrewed ale but better far than fair homebrewed 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 Simtapertit when Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his those lips within Sam'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 aye Mr. Edward and beside him Barnaby calling for help with all his might what happened as it did for the roads 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 we know 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 look you 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 a bed makes interest with his friend the doorkeeper slips him on a mask and Domino and mixes with the maskers 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 the grumble but evidently delighted with the part he had taken and with her praise very like himself so your mother said however tangled with the crowd and prettily worried and badgered he was I warrant you with people squeaking don't you know me and I 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 know sooner whispered to her what the matter was as softly doll and with nearly as much art as you could have used yourself then she gives a kind of scream and feints away what did you do what happened next asked his daughter where 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 soon tapverted 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 favorable 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 baking 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 hardly 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 Willard 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 were 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 quarter loaf on the table and breathed hard is that all return to 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 indeed 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 restorative 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 beef and ham cut thin and the Protestant manual in two volumes post-Octival like some other ladies who in remote ages flourished upon this globe Mrs. Varden was most developed 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 called a spatch 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 he could take and had kicked a great many small articles out of 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 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 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 today said Mr. Tappertit dashing it down again but grind I'll grind up all the tools grinding will suit my present humor well Joe were the grindstone was soon in motion the sparks were flying off in showers this was the occupation for his heated spirit were 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 meant me human gore were end of chapter 4 read by Debra Lynn chapter 5 of Barnaby Rudge this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Barnaby Rudge by Charles Dickens chapter 5 as soon as the business of the day was over the locksmith sallied forth alone to visit the wounded gentlemen and ascertain the progress of his recovery the house where he had left him was in a by street in south work not far from London Bridge and thither he hide with all speed bent upon returning with his little delays might be and getting to bed be times 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 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 an old John's chimney corner faith who's there 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 anyone who had bestowed but a casual glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother from the strong resemblance between them 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 that were otherwise it would not be so yet there it always lurked something forever 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 the same stamp upon the sun 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 husbands and his master's murder understood it well they recollected how the change had come and could call to mind that when her son 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 neighbor said the locksmith as he followed her with the air of an old friend into a little parlor 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 your women are such talkers what of the patient neighbor 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 tomorrow he has had visitors today said Gabriel Slyly yes old Mr. Chester has been here ever since we sent for him he 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 Barnaby 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 neighbor if I could but see him often or so if I could but tame down that terrible restlessness in good time said the locksmith kindly in good time don't be downhearted 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 is he in Barnaby's room rejoined the widow with a faint smile and a knowing blade said Barnaby shaking his head I should be sorry to talk secrets before him oh he is a deep customer I have 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 to someone knocking softly at the shutter who can it be they had been speaking in a low tone for the invalid lay overhead 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 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 suddenly 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 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 that chilled him to hear 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 born down by her passion suffered her to drag him into the house it was not until she had chained 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 shuttered as though the hand of death were on her End of Chapter 5 Read by Deborah Lynn