Next morning brought no satisfaction to the locksmith’s thoughts,
nor next day, nor the next, nor many others. Often after nightfall he
entered the street, and turned his eyes towards the well-known house;
and as surely as he did so, there was the solitary light, still gleaming
through the crevices of the window-shutter, while all within was
motionless, noiseless, cheerless, as a grave. Unwilling to hazard Mr
Haredale’s favour by disobeying his strict injunction, he never ventured
to knock at the door or to make his presence known in any way. But
whenever strong interest and curiosity attracted him to the spot--which
was not seldom--the light was always there.
If he could have known what passed within, the knowledge would have
yielded him no clue to this mysterious vigil. At twilight, Mr Haredale
shut himself up, and at daybreak he came forth. He never missed a night,
always came and went alone, and never varied his proceedings in the
least degree.
The manner of his watch was this. At dusk, he entered the house in the
same way as when the locksmith bore him company, kindled a light, went
through the rooms, and narrowly examined them. That done, he returned to
the chamber on the ground-floor, and laying his sword and pistols on the
table, sat by it until morning.
He usually had a book with him, and often tried to read, but never fixed
his eyes or thoughts upon it for five minutes together. The slightest
noise without doors, caught his ear; a step upon the pavement seemed to
make his heart leap.
He was not without some refreshment during the long lonely hours;
generally carrying in his pocket a sandwich of bread and meat, and a
small flask of wine. The latter diluted with large quantities of water,
he drank in a heated, feverish way, as though his throat were dried; but
he scarcely ever broke his fast, by so much as a crumb of bread.
If this voluntary sacrifice of sleep and comfort had its origin, as the
locksmith on consideration was disposed to think, in any superstitious
expectation of the fulfilment of a dream or vision connected with the
event on which he had brooded for so many years, and if he waited for
some ghostly visitor who walked abroad when men lay sleeping in their
beds, he showed no trace of fear or wavering. His stern features
expressed inflexible resolution; his brows were puckered, and his lips
compressed, with deep and settled purpose; and when he started at a
noise and listened, it was not with the start of fear but hope, and
catching up his sword as though the hour had come at last, he would
clutch it in his tight-clenched hand, and listen with sparkling eyes and
eager looks, until it died away.
These disappointments were numerous, for they ensued on almost every
sound, but his constancy was not shaken. Still, every night he was at
his post, the same stern, sleepless, sentinel; and still night passed,
and morning dawned, and he must watch again.
This went on for weeks; he had taken a lodging at Vauxhall in which
to pass the day and rest himself; and from this place, when the tide
served, he usually came to London Bridge from Westminster by water, in
order that he might avoid the busy streets.
One evening, shortly before twilight, he came his accustomed road upon
the river’s bank, intending to pass through Westminster Hall into Palace
Yard, and there take boat to London Bridge as usual. There was a pretty
large concourse of people assembled round the Houses of Parliament,
looking at the members as they entered and departed, and giving vent to
rather noisy demonstrations of approval or dislike, according to their
known opinions. As he made his way among the throng, he heard once or
twice the No-Popery cry, which was then becoming pretty familiar to the
ears of most men; but holding it in very slight regard, and observing
that the idlers were of the lowest grade, he neither thought nor cared
about it, but made his way along, with perfect indifference.
There were many little knots and groups of persons in Westminster Hall:
some few looking upward at its noble ceiling, and at the rays of evening
light, tinted by the setting sun, which streamed in aslant through
its small windows, and growing dimmer by degrees, were quenched in the
gathering gloom below; some, noisy passengers, mechanics going home from
work, and otherwise, who hurried quickly through, waking the echoes with
their voices, and soon darkening the small door in the distance, as
they passed into the street beyond; some, in busy conference together on
political or private matters, pacing slowly up and down with eyes that
sought the ground, and seeming, by their attitudes, to listen earnestly
from head to foot. Here, a dozen squabbling urchins made a very Babel in
the air; there, a solitary man, half clerk, half mendicant, paced up and
down with hungry dejection in his look and gait; at his elbow passed
an errand-lad, swinging his basket round and round, and with his shrill
whistle riving the very timbers of the roof; while a more observant
schoolboy, half-way through, pocketed his ball, and eyed the distant
beadle as he came looming on. It was that time of evening when, if you
shut your eyes and open them again, the darkness of an hour appears
to have gathered in a second. The smooth-worn pavement, dusty with
footsteps, still called upon the lofty walls to reiterate the shuffle
and the tread of feet unceasingly, save when the closing of some heavy
door resounded through the building like a clap of thunder, and drowned
all other noises in its rolling sound.
Mr Haredale, glancing only at such of these groups as he passed nearest
to, and then in a manner betokening that his thoughts were elsewhere,
had nearly traversed the Hall, when two persons before him caught his
attention. One of these, a gentleman in elegant attire, carried in his
hand a cane, which he twirled in a jaunty manner as he loitered on; the
other, an obsequious, crouching, fawning figure, listened to what
he said--at times throwing in a humble word himself--and, with his
shoulders shrugged up to his ears, rubbed his hands submissively, or
answered at intervals by an inclination of the head, half-way between a
nod of acquiescence, and a bow of most profound respect.
In the abstract there was nothing very remarkable in this pair, for
servility waiting on a handsome suit of clothes and a cane--not to speak
of gold and silver sticks, or wands of office--is common enough. But
there was that about the well-dressed man, yes, and about the other
likewise, which struck Mr Haredale with no pleasant feeling. He
hesitated, stopped, and would have stepped aside and turned out of his
path, but at the moment, the other two faced about quickly, and stumbled
upon him before he could avoid them.
The gentleman with the cane lifted his hat and had begun to tender an
apology, which Mr Haredale had begun as hastily to acknowledge and walk
away, when he stopped short and cried, ‘Haredale! Gad bless me, this is
strange indeed!’
‘It is,’ he returned impatiently; ‘yes--a--’
‘My dear friend,’ cried the other, detaining him, ‘why such great speed?
One minute, Haredale, for the sake of old acquaintance.’
‘I am in haste,’ he said. ‘Neither of us has sought this meeting. Let it
be a brief one. Good night!’
‘Fie, fie!’ replied Sir John (for it was he), ‘how very churlish! We
were speaking of you. Your name was on my lips--perhaps you heard me
mention it? No? I am sorry for that. I am really sorry.--You know our
friend here, Haredale? This is really a most remarkable meeting!’
The friend, plainly very ill at ease, had made bold to press Sir John’s
arm, and to give him other significant hints that he was desirous of
avoiding this introduction. As it did not suit Sir John’s purpose,
however, that it should be evaded, he appeared quite unconscious of
these silent remonstrances, and inclined his hand towards him, as he
spoke, to call attention to him more particularly.
The friend, therefore, had nothing for it, but to muster up the
pleasantest smile he could, and to make a conciliatory bow, as Mr
Haredale turned his eyes upon him. Seeing that he was recognised, he put
out his hand in an awkward and embarrassed manner, which was not mended
by its contemptuous rejection.
‘Mr Gashford!’ said Haredale, coldly. ‘It is as I have heard then. You
have left the darkness for the light, sir, and hate those whose opinions
you formerly held, with all the bitterness of a renegade. You are an
honour, sir, to any cause. I wish the one you espouse at present, much
joy of the acquisition it has made.’
The secretary rubbed his hands and bowed, as though he would disarm
his adversary by humbling himself before him. Sir John Chester again
exclaimed, with an air of great gaiety, ‘Now, really, this is a
most remarkable meeting!’ and took a pinch of snuff with his usual
self-possession.
‘Mr Haredale,’ said Gashford, stealthily raising his eyes, and
letting them drop again when they met the other’s steady gaze, ‘is too
conscientious, too honourable, too manly, I am sure, to attach unworthy
motives to an honest change of opinions, even though it implies a doubt
of those he holds himself. Mr Haredale is too just, too generous, too
clear-sighted in his moral vision, to--’
‘Yes, sir?’ he rejoined with a sarcastic smile, finding the secretary
stopped. ‘You were saying’--
Gashford meekly shrugged his shoulders, and looking on the ground again,
was silent.
‘No, but let us really,’ interposed Sir John at this juncture, ‘let us
really, for a moment, contemplate the very remarkable character of this
meeting. Haredale, my dear friend, pardon me if I think you are not
sufficiently impressed with its singularity. Here we stand, by no
previous appointment or arrangement, three old schoolfellows, in
Westminster Hall; three old boarders in a remarkably dull and shady
seminary at Saint Omer’s, where you, being Catholics and of necessity
educated out of England, were brought up; and where I, being a promising
young Protestant at that time, was sent to learn the French tongue from
a native of Paris!’
‘Add to the singularity, Sir John,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘that some of you
Protestants of promise are at this moment leagued in yonder building, to
prevent our having the surpassing and unheard-of privilege of teaching
our children to read and write--here--in this land, where thousands of
us enter your service every year, and to preserve the freedom of which,
we die in bloody battles abroad, in heaps: and that others of you, to
the number of some thousands as I learn, are led on to look on all men
of my creed as wolves and beasts of prey, by this man Gashford. Add
to it besides the bare fact that this man lives in society, walks the
streets in broad day--I was about to say, holds up his head, but that he
does not--and it will be strange, and very strange, I grant you.’
‘Oh! you are hard upon our friend,’ replied Sir John, with an engaging
smile. ‘You are really very hard upon our friend!’
‘Let him go on, Sir John,’ said Gashford, fumbling with his gloves. ‘Let
him go on. I can make allowances, Sir John. I am honoured with your
good opinion, and I can dispense with Mr Haredale’s. Mr Haredale is a
sufferer from the penal laws, and I can’t expect his favour.’
‘You have so much of my favour, sir,’ retorted Mr Haredale, with a
bitter glance at the third party in their conversation, ‘that I am
glad to see you in such good company. You are the essence of your great
Association, in yourselves.’
‘Now, there you mistake,’ said Sir John, in his most benignant way.
‘There--which is a most remarkable circumstance for a man of your
punctuality and exactness, Haredale--you fall into error. I don’t belong
to the body; I have an immense respect for its members, but I don’t
belong to it; although I am, it is certainly true, the conscientious
opponent of your being relieved. I feel it my duty to be so; it is a
most unfortunate necessity; and cost me a bitter struggle.--Will you try
this box? If you don’t object to a trifling infusion of a very chaste
scent, you’ll find its flavour exquisite.’
‘I ask your pardon, Sir John,’ said Mr Haredale, declining the proffer
with a motion of his hand, ‘for having ranked you among the humble
instruments who are obvious and in all men’s sight. I should have done
more justice to your genius. Men of your capacity plot in secrecy and
safety, and leave exposed posts to the duller wits.’
‘Don’t apologise, for the world,’ replied Sir John sweetly; ‘old friends
like you and I, may be allowed some freedoms, or the deuce is in it.’
Gashford, who had been very restless all this time, but had not once
looked up, now turned to Sir John, and ventured to mutter something to
the effect that he must go, or my lord would perhaps be waiting.
‘Don’t distress yourself, good sir,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I’ll take my
leave, and put you at your ease--’ which he was about to do without
ceremony, when he was stayed by a buzz and murmur at the upper end of
the hall, and, looking in that direction, saw Lord George Gordon coming
in, with a crowd of people round him.
There was a lurking look of triumph, though very differently expressed,
in the faces of his two companions, which made it a natural impulse
on Mr Haredale’s part not to give way before this leader, but to stand
there while he passed. He drew himself up and, clasping his hands behind
him, looked on with a proud and scornful aspect, while Lord George
slowly advanced (for the press was great about him) towards the spot
where they were standing.
He had left the House of Commons but that moment, and had come straight
down into the Hall, bringing with him, as his custom was, intelligence
of what had been said that night in reference to the Papists, and what
petitions had been presented in their favour, and who had supported
them, and when the bill was to be brought in, and when it would be
advisable to present their own Great Protestant petition. All this he
told the persons about him in a loud voice, and with great abundance
of ungainly gesture. Those who were nearest him made comments to each
other, and vented threats and murmurings; those who were outside the
crowd cried, ‘Silence,’ and ‘Stand back,’ or closed in upon the rest,
endeavouring to make a forcible exchange of places: and so they came
driving on in a very disorderly and irregular way, as it is the manner
of a crowd to do.
When they were very near to where the secretary, Sir John, and Mr
Haredale stood, Lord George turned round and, making a few remarks of
a sufficiently violent and incoherent kind, concluded with the usual
sentiment, and called for three cheers to back it. While these were in
the act of being given with great energy, he extricated himself from
the press, and stepped up to Gashford’s side. Both he and Sir John being
well known to the populace, they fell back a little, and left the four
standing together.
‘Mr Haredale, Lord George,’ said Sir John Chester, seeing that the
nobleman regarded him with an inquisitive look. ‘A Catholic gentleman
unfortunately--most unhappily a Catholic--but an esteemed acquaintance
of mine, and once of Mr Gashford’s. My dear Haredale, this is Lord
George Gordon.’
‘I should have known that, had I been ignorant of his lordship’s
person,’ said Mr Haredale. ‘I hope there is but one gentleman in England
who, addressing an ignorant and excited throng, would speak of a large
body of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language as I heard this
moment. For shame, my lord, for shame!’
‘I cannot talk to you, sir,’ replied Lord George in a loud voice, and
waving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner; ‘we have nothing in
common.’
‘We have much in common--many things--all that the Almighty gave us,’
said Mr Haredale; ‘and common charity, not to say common sense and
common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If
every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they
have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling
you that you disgrace your station.’
‘I don’t hear you, sir,’ he replied in the same manner as before; ‘I
can’t hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don’t retort,
Gashford,’ for the secretary had made a show of wishing to do so; ‘I can
hold no communion with the worshippers of idols.’
As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and
eyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and
smiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader.
‘HE retort!’ cried Haredale. ‘Look you here, my lord. Do you know this
man?’
Lord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing
secretary, and viewing him with a smile of confidence.
‘This man,’ said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe, ‘who in his
boyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a servile,
false, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept through
life, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon:
this sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who
robbed his benefactor’s daughter of her virtue, and married her to break
her heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has
whined at kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence
at our chapel doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience
cannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced--Do
you know this man?’
‘Oh, really--you are very, very hard upon our friend!’ exclaimed Sir
John.
‘Let Mr Haredale go on,’ said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the
perspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; ‘I
don’t mind him, Sir John; it’s quite as indifferent to me what he says,
as it is to my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John,
how can I hope to escape?’
‘Is it not enough, my lord,’ Mr Haredale continued, ‘that I, as good a
gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at
which the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not
teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but
must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to
head your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!’
The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester,
as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements
concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a
shrug or look, ‘Oh dear me! no.’ He now said, in the same loud key, and
in the same strange manner as before:
‘I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything
more. I beg you won’t obtrude your conversation, or these personal
attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my
country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed
from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!’
They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the
Hall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any
leave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand,
and hailed the only boatman who remained there.
But the throng of people--the foremost of whom had heard every word
that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been
rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him
for his advocacy of the popular cause--came pouring out pell-mell, and,
forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before
them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of
the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there
stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.
They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct
mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and
these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said,
‘Down with the Papists!’ and there was a pretty general cheer, but
nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, ‘Stone
him;’ another, ‘Duck him;’ another, in a stentorian voice, ‘No Popery!’
This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have
been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.
Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made
this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at
a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford,
as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great
stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the
head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.
The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He
turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion
which made them all fall back, demanded:
‘Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.’
Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping
to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.
‘Who did that?’ he repeated. ‘Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it
you? It was your deed, if not your hand--I know you.’
He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the
ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon
him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.
‘My lord--Sir John,’--he cried, ‘draw, one of you--you are responsible
for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen.’ With
that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon,
and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone,
before them all.
For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily
conceive, there was a change in Sir John’s smooth face, such as no man
ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand
on Mr Haredale’s arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the
crowd.
‘My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion--it’s
very natural, extremely natural--but you don’t know friends from foes.’
‘I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well--’ he retorted, almost mad
with rage. ‘Sir John, Lord George--do you hear me? Are you cowards?’
‘Never mind, sir,’ said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him
towards the stairs with friendly violence, ‘never mind asking that. For
God’s sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are
as many more in the next street, who’ll be round directly,’--indeed they
began to pour in as he said the words--‘you’d be giddy from that cut, in
the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it
you’ll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a
woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste--as quick as
you can.’
Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible
this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend’s
assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and
giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade
the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly
as if he had just landed.
There was at first a slight disposition on the part of the mob to resent
this interference; but John looking particularly strong and cool, and
wearing besides Lord George’s livery, they thought better of it, and
contented themselves with sending a shower of small missiles after the
boat, which plashed harmlessly in the water; for she had by this time
cleared the bridge, and was darting swiftly down the centre of the
stream.
From this amusement, they proceeded to giving Protestant knocks at the
doors of private houses, breaking a few lamps, and assaulting some stray
constables. But, it being whispered that a detachment of Life Guards had
been sent for, they took to their heels with great expedition, and left
the street quite clear.