Before old John had looked at the boiler quite twenty minutes,
he got his ideas into a focus, and brought them to bear upon Solomon Daisy's
story. The more he thought of it, the more impressed he became with a sense of
his own wisdom, and a desire that Mr Haredale should be impressed with it
likewise. At length, to the end that he might sustain a principal and important
character in the affair; and might have the start of Solomon and his two
friends, through whose means he knew the adventure, with a variety of
exaggerations, would be known to at least a score of people, and most likely to
Mr Haredale himself, by breakfast-time to-morrow; he determined to repair to the
Warren before going to bed.
'He's my landlord,' thought John, as he took a candle in his hand, and
setting it down in a corner out of the wind's way, opened a casement in the rear
of the house, looking towards the stables. 'We haven't met of late years so
often as we used to do--changes are taking place in the family--it's desirable
that I should stand as well with them, in point of dignity, as possible--the
whispering about of this here tale will anger him--it's good to have confidences
with a gentleman of his natur', and set one's-self right besides. Halloa there!
Hugh--Hugh. Hal-loa!'
When he had repeated this shout a dozen times, and startled every pigeon from
its slumbers, a door in one of the ruinous old buildings opened, and a rough
voice demanded what was amiss now, that a man couldn't even have his sleep in
quiet.
'What! Haven't you sleep enough, growler, that you're not to be knocked up
for once?' said John.
'No,' replied the voice, as the speaker yawned and shook himself. 'Not half
enough.'
'I don't know how you CAN sleep, with the wind a bellowsing and roaring about
you, making the tiles fly like a pack of cards,' said John; 'but no matter for
that. Wrap yourself up in something or another, and come here, for you must go
as far as the Warren with me. And look sharp about it.'
Hugh, with much low growling and muttering, went back into his lair; and
presently reappeared, carrying a lantern and a cudgel, and enveloped from head
to foot in an old, frowzy, slouching horse- cloth. Mr Willet received this
figure at the back-door, and ushered him into the bar, while he wrapped himself
in sundry greatcoats and capes, and so tied and knotted his face in shawls and
handkerchiefs, that how he breathed was a mystery.
'You don't take a man out of doors at near midnight in such weather, without
putting some heart into him, do you, master?' said Hugh.
'Yes I do, sir,' returned Mr Willet. 'I put the heart (as you call it) into
him when he has brought me safe home again, and his standing steady on his legs
an't of so much consequence. So hold that light up, if you please, and go on a
step or two before, to show the way.'
Hugh obeyed with a very indifferent grace, and a longing glance at the
bottles. Old John, laying strict injunctions on his cook to keep the doors
locked in his absence, and to open to nobody but himself on pain of dismissal,
followed him into the blustering darkness out of doors.
The way was wet and dismal, and the night so black, that if Mr Willet had
been his own pilot, he would have walked into a deep horsepond within a few
hundred yards of his own house, and would certainly have terminated his career
in that ignoble sphere of action. But Hugh, who had a sight as keen as any
hawk's, and, apart from that endowment, could have found his way blindfold to
any place within a dozen miles, dragged old John along, quite deaf to his
remonstrances, and took his own course without the slightest reference to, or
notice of, his master. So they made head against the wind as they best could;
Hugh crushing the wet grass beneath his heavy tread, and stalking on after his
ordinary savage fashion; John Willet following at arm's length, picking his
steps, and looking about him, now for bogs and ditches, and now for such stray
ghosts as might be wandering abroad, with looks of as much dismay and uneasiness
as his immovable face was capable of expressing.
At length they stood upon the broad gravel-walk before the Warren- house. The
building was profoundly dark, and none were moving near it save themselves. From
one solitary turret-chamber, however, there shone a ray of light; and towards
this speck of comfort in the cold, cheerless, silent scene, Mr Willet bade his
pilot lead him.
'The old room,' said John, looking timidly upward; 'Mr Reuben's own
apartment, God be with us! I wonder his brother likes to sit there, so late at
night--on this night too.'
'Why, where else should he sit?' asked Hugh, holding the lantern to his
breast, to keep the candle from the wind, while he trimmed it with his fingers.
'It's snug enough, an't it?'
'Snug!' said John indignantly. 'You have a comfortable idea of snugness, you
have, sir. Do you know what was done in that room, you ruffian?'
'Why, what is it the worse for that!' cried Hugh, looking into John's fat
face. 'Does it keep out the rain, and snow, and wind, the less for that? Is it
less warm or dry, because a man was killed there? Ha, ha, ha! Never believe it,
master. One man's no such matter as that comes to.'
Mr Willet fixed his dull eyes on his follower, and began--by a species of
inspiration--to think it just barely possible that he was something of a
dangerous character, and that it might be advisable to get rid of him one of
these days. He was too prudent to say anything, with the journey home before
him; and therefore turned to the iron gate before which this brief dialogue had
passed, and pulled the handle of the bell that hung beside it. The turret in
which the light appeared being at one corner of the building, and only divided
from the path by one of the garden- walks, upon which this gate opened, Mr
Haredale threw up the window directly, and demanded who was there.
'Begging pardon, sir,' said John, 'I knew you sat up late, and made bold to
come round, having a word to say to you.'
'Willet--is it not?'
'Of the Maypole--at your service, sir.'
Mr Haredale closed the window, and withdrew. He presently appeared at a door
in the bottom of the turret, and coming across the garden-walk, unlocked the
gate and let them in.
'You are a late visitor, Willet. What is the matter?'
'Nothing to speak of, sir,' said John; 'an idle tale, I thought you ought to
know of; nothing more.'
'Let your man go forward with the lantern, and give me your hand. The stairs
are crooked and narrow. Gently with your light, friend. You swing it like a
censer.'
Hugh, who had already reached the turret, held it more steadily, and ascended
first, turning round from time to time to shed his light downward on the steps.
Mr Haredale following next, eyed his lowering face with no great favour; and
Hugh, looking down on him, returned his glances with interest, as they climbed
the winding stairs.
It terminated in a little ante-room adjoining that from which they had seen
the light. Mr Haredale entered first, and led the way through it into the latter
chamber, where he seated himself at a writing-table from which he had risen when
they had rung the bell.
'Come in,' he said, beckoning to old John, who remained bowing at the door.
'Not you, friend,' he added hastily to Hugh, who entered also. 'Willet, why do
you bring that fellow here?'
'Why, sir,' returned John, elevating his eyebrows, and lowering his voice to
the tone in which the question had been asked him, 'he's a good guard, you see.'
'Don't be too sure of that,' said Mr Haredale, looking towards him as he
spoke. 'I doubt it. He has an evil eye.'
'There's no imagination in his eye,' returned Mr Willet, glancing over his
shoulder at the organ in question, 'certainly.'
'There is no good there, be assured,' said Mr Haredale. 'Wait in that little
room, friend, and close the door between us.'
Hugh shrugged his shoulders, and with a disdainful look, which showed, either
that he had overheard, or that he guessed the purport of their whispering, did
as he was told. When he was shut out, Mr Haredale turned to John, and bade him
go on with what he had to say, but not to speak too loud, for there were quick
ears yonder.
Thus cautioned, Mr Willet, in an oily whisper, recited all that he had heard
and said that night; laying particular stress upon his own sagacity, upon his
great regard for the family, and upon his solicitude for their peace of mind and
happiness. The story moved his auditor much more than he had expected. Mr
Haredale often changed his attitude, rose and paced the room, returned again,
desired him to repeat, as nearly as he could, the very words that Solomon had
used, and gave so many other signs of being disturbed and ill at ease, that even
Mr Willet was surprised.
'You did quite right,' he said, at the end of a long conversation, 'to bid
them keep this story secret. It is a foolish fancy on the part of this
weak-brained man, bred in his fears and superstition. But Miss Haredale, though
she would know it to be so, would be disturbed by it if it reached her ears; it
is too nearly connected with a subject very painful to us all, to be heard with
indifference. You were most prudent, and have laid me under a great obligation.
I thank you very much.'
This was equal to John's most sanguine expectations; but he would have
preferred Mr Haredale's looking at him when he spoke, as if he really did thank
him, to his walking up and down, speaking by fits and starts, often stopping
with his eyes fixed on the ground, moving hurriedly on again, like one
distracted, and seeming almost unconscious of what he said or did.
This, however, was his manner; and it was so embarrassing to John that he sat
quite passive for a long time, not knowing what to do. At length he rose. Mr
Haredale stared at him for a moment as though he had quite forgotten his being
present, then shook hands with him, and opened the door. Hugh, who was, or
feigned to be, fast asleep on the ante-chamber floor, sprang up on their
entrance, and throwing his cloak about him, grasped his stick and lantern, and
prepared to descend the stairs.
'Stay,' said Mr Haredale. 'Will this man drink?'
'Drink! He'd drink the Thames up, if it was strong enough, sir, replied John
Willet. 'He'll have something when he gets home. He's better without it, now,
sir.'
'Nay. Half the distance is done,' said Hugh. 'What a hard master you are! I
shall go home the better for one glassful, halfway. Come!'
As John made no reply, Mr Haredale brought out a glass of liquor, and gave it
to Hugh, who, as he took it in his hand, threw part of it upon the floor.
'What do you mean by splashing your drink about a gentleman's house, sir?'
said John.
'I'm drinking a toast,' Hugh rejoined, holding the glass above his head, and
fixing his eyes on Mr Haredale's face; 'a toast to this house and its master.'
With that he muttered something to himself, and drank the rest, and setting down
the glass, preceded them without another word.
John was a good deal scandalised by this observance, but seeing that Mr
Haredale took little heed of what Hugh said or did, and that his thoughts were
otherwise employed, he offered no apology, and went in silence down the stairs,
across the walk, and through the garden-gate. They stopped upon the outer side
for Hugh to hold the light while Mr Haredale locked it on the inner; and then
John saw with wonder (as he often afterwards related), that he was very pale,
and that his face had changed so much and grown so haggard since their entrance,
that he almost seemed another man.
They were in the open road again, and John Willet was walking on behind his
escort, as he had come, thinking very steadily of what be had just now seen,
when Hugh drew him suddenly aside, and almost at the same instant three horsemen
swept past--the nearest brushed his shoulder even then--who, checking their
steeds as suddenly as they could, stood still, and waited for their coming up.
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