Old John did not walk near the Golden Key, for between the Golden Key and the Black Lion there lay a wilderness of streets — as everybody knows who is acquainted with the relative bearings of Clerkenwell and Whitechapel — and he was by no means famous for pedestrian exercises. But the Golden Key lies in our way, though it was out of his; so to the Golden Key this chapter goes.
The Golden Key itself, fair emblem of the locksmith’s trade, had been pulled down by the rioters, and roughly trampled under foot. But, now, it was hoisted up again in all the glory of a new coat of paint, and shewed more bravely even than in days of yore. Indeed the whole house-front was spruce and trim, and so freshened up throughout, that if there yet remained at large any of the rioters who had been concerned in the attack upon it, the sight of the old, goodly, prosperous dwelling, so revived, must have been to them as gall and wormwood.
The shutters of the shop were closed, however, and the window-blinds above were all pulled down, and in place of its usual cheerful appearance, the house had a look of sadness and an air of mourning; which the neighbours, who in old days had often seen poor Barnaby go in and out, were at no loss to understand. The door stood partly open; but the locksmith’s hammer was unheard; the cat sat moping on the ashy forge; all was deserted, dark, and silent.
On the threshold of this door, Mr Haredale and Edward Chester met. The younger man gave place; and both passing in with a familiar air, which seemed to denote that they were tarrying there, or were well-accustomed to go to and fro unquestioned, shut it behind them.
Entering the old back-parlour, and ascending the flight of stairs, abrupt and steep, and quaintly fashioned as of old, they turned into the best room; the pride of Mrs Varden’s heart, and erst the scene of Miggs’s household labours.
‘Varden brought the mother here last evening, he told me?’ said Mr Haredale.
‘She is above-stairs now — in the room over here,’ Edward rejoined. ‘Her grief, they say, is past all telling. I needn’t add — for that you know beforehand, sir — that the care, humanity, and sympathy of these good people have no bounds.’
‘I am sure of that. Heaven repay them for it, and for much more! Varden is out?’
‘He returned with your messenger, who arrived almost at the moment of his coming home himself. He was out the whole night — but that of course you know. He was with you the greater part of it?’
‘He was. Without him, I should have lacked my right hand. He is an older man than I; but nothing can conquer him.’
‘The cheeriest, stoutest-hearted fellow in the world.’
‘He has a right to be. He has a right to he. A better creature never lived. He reaps what he has sown — no more.’
‘It is not all men,’ said Edward, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘who have the happiness to do that.’
‘More than you imagine,’ returned Mr Haredale. ‘We note the harvest more than the seed-time. You do so in me.’
In truth his pale and haggard face, and gloomy bearing, had so far influenced the remark, that Edward was, for the moment, at a loss to answer him.
‘Tut, tut,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘‘twas not very difficult to read a thought so natural. But you are mistaken nevertheless. I have had my share of sorrows — more than the common lot, perhaps, but I have borne them ill. I have broken where I should have bent; and have mused and brooded, when my spirit should have mixed with all God’s great creation. The men who learn endurance, are they who call the whole world, brother. I have turned FROM the world, and I pay the penalty.’
Edward would have interposed, but he went on without giving him time.
‘It is too late to evade it now. I sometimes think, that if I had to live my life once more, I might amend this fault — not so much, I discover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for my own sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctively recoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and in this circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still be the same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with its experience to guide me.’
‘Nay, you make too sure of that,’ said Edward.
‘You think so,’ Mr Haredale answered, ‘and I am glad you do. I know myself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave this subject for another — not so far removed from it as it might, at first sight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still attached to you.’
‘I have that assurance from her own lips,’ said Edward, ‘and you know — I am sure you know — that I would not exchange it for any blessing life could yield me.’
‘You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,’ said Mr Haredale; ‘you have forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once-jaundiced mind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.’
He left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. ‘On that first and only time,’ he said, looking from the one to the other, ‘when we three stood together under her father’s roof, I told you to quit it, and charged you never to return.’
‘It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,’ observed Edward, ‘that I have forgotten.’
‘You own a name,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘I had deep reason to remember. I was moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, I know, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever, lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having acted — however much I was mistaken — with any other impulse than the one pure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature lay, the father she had lost.’
‘Dear uncle,’ cried Emma, ‘I have known no parent but you. I have loved the memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was father kinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval of one harsh hour, since I can first remember.’
‘You speak too fondly,’ he answered, ‘and yet I cannot wish you were less partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall have in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing else could give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edward, for she and I have been together many years; and although I believe that in resigning her to you I put the seal upon her future happiness, I find it needs an effort.’
He pressed her tenderly to his bosom, and after a minute’s pause, resumed:
‘I have done you wrong, sir, and I ask your forgiveness — in no common phrase, or show of sorrow; but with earnestness and sincerity. In the same spirit, I acknowledge to you both that the time has been when I connived at treachery and falsehood — which if I did not perpetrate myself, I still permitted — to rend you two asunder.’
‘You judge yourself too harshly,’ said Edward. ‘Let these things rest.’
‘They rise in judgment against me when I look back, and not now for the first time,’ he answered. ‘I cannot part from you without your full forgiveness; for busy life and I have little left in common now, and I have regrets enough to carry into solitude, without addition to the stock.’
‘You bear a blessing from us both,’ said Emma. ‘Never mingle thoughts of me — of me who owe you so much love and duty — with anything but undying affection and gratitude for the past, and bright hopes for the future.’
‘The future,’ returned her uncle, with a melancholy smile, ‘is a bright word for you, and its image should be wreathed with cheerful hopes. Mine is of another kind, but it will be one of peace, and free, I trust, from care or passion. When you quit England I shall leave it too. There are cloisters abroad; and now that the two great objects of my life are set at rest, I know no better home. You droop at that, forgetting that I am growing old, and that my course is nearly run. Well, we will speak of it again — not once or twice, but many times; and you shall give me cheerful counsel, Emma.’
‘And you will take it?’ asked his niece.
‘I’ll listen to it,’ he answered, with a kiss, ‘and it will have its weight, be certain. What have I left to say? You have, of late, been much together. It is better and more fitting that the circumstances attendant on the past, which wrought your separation, and sowed between you suspicion and distrust, should not be entered on by me.’
‘Much, much better,’ whispered Emma.
‘I avow my share in them,’ said Mr Haredale, ‘though I held it, at the time, in detestation. Let no man turn aside, ever so slightly, from the broad path of honour, on the plausible pretence that he is justified by the goodness of his end. All good ends can he worked out by good means. Those that cannot, are bad; and may be counted so at once, and left alone.’
He looked from her to Edward, and said in a gentler tone:
‘In goods and fortune you are now nearly equal. I have been her faithful steward, and to that............