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      "body": "<p class=\"indent\">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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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. 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Well well, never mind that just now. Hold your torch this way—a little further off—so. Now stand quiet while I try to see what harm is done.”</p><p class=\"indent\">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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 his wan and 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 tawdry 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. Girded to his side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some parti-coloured ends of ribands 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 and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face.</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“I know him, I know him!” cried Barnaby, clapping his hands.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Know him?” repeated the locksmith.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Hush!” said Barnaby, laying his fingers on his lips. “He went out to-day 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?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Now Heaven help this silly fellow,” murmured 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, help me to put him in the chaise, and we’ll ride home together.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“I can’t touch him!” cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as with a strong spasm; “he’s bloody.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“It’s in his nature I know,” muttered 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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Cover him then, wrap him close—don’t let me see it—smell it— hear the word. Don’t speak the word—don’t!”</p><p class=\"indent\">“No, no I’ll not. There, you see he’s covered now. Gently. 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      "body": "where could you go, you see?”<p class=\"indent\">“I must trust to chance, Mr. Varden.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“A bad thing to trust to, Joe. I don’t like it. I always tell my girl when we talk about a husband for her, never to trust to 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 gone in the harness I hope?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“No no,” said Joe—finding, however, something very engrossing to do in the way of strapping and buckling—“Miss Dolly quite well?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Hearty, thankye. She looks pretty enough to be well, and good too.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“She’s always both sir”—</p><p class=\"indent\">“So she is, thank God!”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“That’s true enough”—said the young fellow with a sigh. “I quite forgot that. Yes, that’s true!”</p><p class=\"indent\">So saying, he raised his face, which was very red,—no doubt from the exertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid,—and giving the reins to the old man, who had by this time taken his seat, sighed again and bade him good night.</p><p class=\"indent\">“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!”</p><p class=\"indent\">Returning his cheery farewell with cordial good will, Joe Willet lingered until the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears, and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house.</p><p class=\"indent\">Gabriel Varden wended his way towards London, thinking of a great many things, and most of all of flaming 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 connexion 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 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 woke 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">And now he approached the great city, which lay outstretched 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 brighter spot, where lamps were clustered about a square or market, or round 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 sight. Then sounds arose—the striking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the streets; then outlines might be traced—tall steeples looming in the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed 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.</p>",
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      "body": "<body class=\"calibre\" id=\"H5A40-eedade5bf3b744caa6f23add1e452a66\"><h3 class=\"h3b\" id=\"ch03\"><strong class=\"calibre4\"><small class=\"calibre18\">CHAPTER THE THIRD</small></strong></h3><p class=\"indent\">S<small class=\"calibre2\">UCH</small>were the locksmith’s thoughts when first seated in the snug corner, and slowly recovering from a pleasant defect of vision— pleasant, 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 a 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“So we all do, I suppose, don’t we?” observed the locksmith.</p><p class=\"indent\">“I don’t,” said Joe.</p><p class=\"indent\">“No!” cried Gabriel.</p><p class=\"indent\">“No. He struck me with his whip, the coward, when he was mounted and I afoot, and I should be better pleased that he turned out what I think him.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“And what may that be, Joe?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Hold your tongue sir,” said John Willet.</p><p class=\"indent\">“I won’t, father. It’s all along of you that he dared to do what he did. Seeing me treated like a child, and put down like a fool, <em class=\"calibre5\">he</em>plucks up a heart and has a fling at a fellow that he thinks—and may well think too—hasn’t a grain of spirit. But he’s mistaken, as I’ll show him, and as I’ll show all of you before long.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Does the boy know what he’s a saying of!” cried the astonished John Willet.</p><p class=\"indent\">“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 your 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 mumchance,*and to be ordered about till they are the laughing-stock of young and old? I am a bye-word all over Chigwell, and I say—and it’s fairer my 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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">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 endeavouring, 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 endeavour 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">“You have always been a very good friend to me, Mr. Varden,” he said, as they stood without 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 time’s nearly come when the Maypole and I must part company.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Roving stones gather no moss, Joe,” said Gabriel.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Nor mile-stones much,” replied Joe. “I’m little better than one here, and see as much of the world.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Then what would you do, Joe,” pursued the locksmith, stroking his chin reflectively. “What could you be? </p></body>",
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      "body": "“In proof of it, lay this to heart—that you were never in such peril of your life as you have been within these few moments; when you are within five minutes of breathing your last, you will not be nearer death than you have been to-night!’’<p class=\"indent\">“Aye!” said the sturdy locksmith.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Aye! and a violent death.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“From whose hand?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“From mine,” replied the traveller.</p><p class=\"indent\">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.</p><p class=\"indent\">Gabriel Varden remained standing in the road with the broken lantern in his hand, listening in stupified 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">“What in the name of wonder can this fellow be! a madman? a highwayman? a cut-throat? 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 further from it. My stars!—a pretty brag this to a stout man—pooh, pooh!”</p><p class=\"indent\">Gabriel resumed his seat, and looked wistfully up the road by which the traveller had come; murmuring in a half whisper:</p><p class=\"indent\">“The Maypole—two miles to the Maypole. I came the other road from the Warren 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 Halfway-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!”</p><p class=\"indent\">Repeating these two last words very often, as if to compensate for the little resolution he was going to show by piquing 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 odour of steaming grog and rare tobacco, all steeped as it were in the cheerful glow—when the shadows, flitting across the curtain, 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, suddenly 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 honour of his coming—when, superadded to these enticements, there stole upon him from the distant kitchen a gentle sound of frying, with a musical clatter of plates and dishes, and a savoury 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 to drive him for a refuge into its hospitable arms.</p><p class=\"indent\">“The merciful man, Joe,” said the locksmith, “is merciful to his beast. I’ll get out for a little while.”</p><p class=\"indent\">And how natural it was to get out. And how unnatural it seemed for a sober man to be plodding wearily along through miry 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 flagons, 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 entreating him to enjoyment!</p>",
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      "body": "<p class=\"indent\">The person whom the traveller had so abruptly encountered was of this kind, bluff, hale, 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 divers coats and handkerchiefs—one of which, passed over his crown and tied in a convenient crease of his double chin, secured his three-cornered hat 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 lustre.</p><p class=\"indent\">“He is not hurt,”—said the traveller at length, raising his head and the lantern together.</p><p class=\"indent\">“You have found that out at last, have you?” rejoined the old man.</p><p class=\"noindent1\">“My eyes have seen more light than yours, but I wouldn’t change with you.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“What do you mean?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">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.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Saw you never a locksmith before, that you start as if you had come upon a ghost?” cried the old man in the chaise, “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 mayhap from long acquaintance with I can use pretty briskly. You shall not have it all your own way, I promise you, if you play at that game.” With these words he stood upon the defensive.</p><p class=\"indent\">“I am not what you take me for, Gabriel Varden,” replied the other.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Then what and who are you?” returned the locksmith. “You know my name it seems. Let me know yours.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.</p><p class=\"indent\">“You have better eyes for that than you had for your horse then,” said Varden, descending nimbly from his chaise; “who are you? Let me see your face.”</p><p class=\"indent\">While the locksmith alighted, the traveller had regained his saddle, from which he now confronted the old man, who, moving as the horse moved in chafing under the tightened rein, kept close beside him.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Let me see your face, I say.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Stand off”</p><p class=\"indent\">“No masquerading tricks,” said the locksmith, “and tales at the club to-morrow how Gabriel Varden was frightened by a surly voice and a dark night. Stand—let me see your face.”</p><p class=\"indent\">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.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 was 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">Thus they regarded each other for some time, in silence.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Humph!” he said when he had scanned his features; “I don’t know you.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Don’t desire to!”—returned the other, muffling himself as before.</p><p class=\"indent\">“I don’t,” said Gabriel; “to be plain with you, friend, you don’t carry in your countenance a letter of recommendation.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“It’s not my wish,” said the traveller. “My humour is to be avoided.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Well,” said the locksmith bluntly, “I think you’ll have your humour.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“I will, at any cost,” rejoined the traveller. </p>",
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      "body": "Sharp flints and stones rolled from under his hoofs continually; the rider could scarcely see beyond the animal’s head, or further on either side than his own arm would have extended. At that time, too, all the roads in the neighbourhood of the metropolis were infested by footpads 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.<p class=\"indent\">Still, the traveller 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 fervour of a madman.</p><p class=\"indent\">There are times when, the elements being in unusual commotion, those who are bent on daring enterprises, or agitated by great thoughts 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, lashed into madness with the roaring winds and boiling waters, has become for the time as wild and merciless as the elements themselves.</p><p class=\"indent\">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 cross roads one of which led by a longer route to the place whence 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">“Yoho!” cried the voice of a man. “What’s that? who goes there?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“A friend!” replied the traveller.</p><p class=\"indent\">“A friend!” repeated the voice. “Who calls himself a friend and rides like that, abusing Heaven’s gifts in the shape of horseflesh, and endangering, not only his own neck, which might be no great matter, but the necks of other people?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“Wounded him!” cried the other, “if I haven’t killed him, it’s no fault of yours. What do you mean by galloping along the king’s highway like that, eh?”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">“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. “Hows’ever 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.”</p><p class=\"indent\">The traveller returned no answer to this speech, but holding the light near to his panting and reeking beast, examined him in limb and carcase. 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.</p><p class=\"indent\">The looker-on 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.</p>",
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