Barnaby Rudge

In the year 1775, there stood upon the borders of Epping Forest, at a distance of about twelve miles from London⁠—measuring from the Standard in Cornhill, or rather from the spot on or near to which the Standard used to be in days of yore⁠—a house of public entertainment called the Maypole; which fact was demonstrated to all such travellers as could neither read nor write (and at that time a vast number both of travellers and stay-at-homes were in this condition) by the emblem reared on the roadside over against the house, which, if not of those goodly proportions that Maypoles were wont to present in olden times, was a fair young ash, thirty feet in height, and straight as any arrow that ever English yeoman drew.

The Maypole⁠—by which term from henceforth is meant the house, and not its sign⁠—the Maypole was an old building, with more gable ends than a lazy man would care to count on a sunny day; huge 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 the Eighth; and there was a legend, not only that Queen Elizabeth had slept there one night while upon a hunting excursion, to wit, in a certain oak-panelled room with a deep bay window, but that next morning, while standing on a mounting block before the door with one foot in the stirrup, the virgin monarch had then and there boxed and cuffed an unlucky page for some neglect of duty. The matter-of-fact and doubtful folks, of whom there were a few among the Maypole customers, as unluckily there always are in every little community, were inclined to look upon this tradition as rather apocryphal; but, whenever the landlord of that ancient hostelry appealed to

In a low voice they all acquiesced, and Solomon went on:

“It was Mr. Reuben Haredale, Mr. Geoffrey’s elder brother, that twenty-two years ago was the owner of the Warren, which, as Joe has said⁠—not that you remember it, Joe, for a boy like you can’t do that, but because you have often heard me say so⁠—was then a much larger and better place, and a much more valuable property than it is now. His lady was lately dead, and he was left with one child⁠—the Miss Haredale you have been inquiring about⁠—who was then scarcely a year old.”

Although the speaker addressed himself to the man who had shown so much curiosity about this same family, and made a pause here as if expecting some exclamation of surprise or encouragement, the latter made no remark, nor gave any indication that he heard or was interested in what was said. Solomon therefore turned to his old companions, whose noses were brightly illuminated by the deep red glow from the bowls of their pipes; assured, by long experience, of their attention, and resolved to show his sense of such indecent behaviour.

“Mr. Haredale,” said Solomon, turning his back upon the strange man, “left this place when his lady died, feeling it lonely like, and went up to London, where he stopped some months; but finding that place as lonely as this⁠—as I suppose and have always heard say⁠—he suddenly came back again with his little girl to the Warren, bringing with him besides, that day, only two women servants, and his steward, and a gardener.”

The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the place whence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway, and, hovering round him, another person with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience, redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to the spot.

“What’s here to do?” said the old man, alighting. “How’s this⁠—what⁠—Barnaby?”

The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon him a look which told his history at once.

“You know me, Barnaby?” said Varden.

He nodded⁠—not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye sternly upon him caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an inquiring look.

“There’s blood upon him,” said Barnaby with a shudder. “It makes me sick!”

“How came it there?” demanded Varden.

“Steel, steel, steel!” he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand the thrust of a sword.

“Is he robbed?” said the locksmith.

Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded “Yes;” then pointed towards the city.

“Oh!” said the old man, bending over the body and looking round as he spoke into Barnaby’s pale face, strangely lighted up by something that was not intellect.

“It is as I feared. The very man was here tonight,” thought the locksmith, changing colour. “What dark history is this!”

“Halloa!” cried a hoarse voice in his ear. “Halloa, halloa, halloa! Bow wow wow. What’s the matter here! Halloa!”

The speaker⁠—who made the locksmith start as if he had been some supernatural agent⁠—was a large raven, who had perched upon the top of the easy-chair, unseen by him and Edward, and listened with a polite attention and a most extraordinary appearance of comprehending every word, to all they had said up to this point; turning his head from one to the other, as if his office were to judge between them, and it were of the very last importance that he should not lose a word.

“Look at him!” said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. “Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! Oh he’s a dreadful fellow!”

The raven, with his head very much on one side, and his bright eye shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a few seconds, and then replied in a voice so hoarse and distant, that it seemed to come through his thick feathers rather than out of his mouth.

“Halloa, halloa, halloa! What’s the matter here! Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow wow wow. I’m a devil, I’m a devil, I’m a devil. Hurrah!”⁠—And then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began to whistle.

“I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do,” said Varden. “Do you see how he looks at me, as if he knew what I was saying?”

Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing the streets; he was before the locksmith’s house more than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwark. As he glided down a bye street, a woman with a little basket on her arm, turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her, he sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and followed.

She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered like her evil spirit; following her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven o’clock, and the passengers in the streets were thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom still followed her.

She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first, which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped, and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along on the other side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would have tracked her down.

At length the widow⁠—for she it was⁠—reached her own door, and, panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket.