Under the Mendips Part 35

"Thank you," she said; "I knew you would not be cruel to my little children. Will you all remember that I ask you to be peaceable, and to pray to G.o.d to help you and give you bread for your children. He is a kind and loving Father; don't forget that."

As Joyce stood before that seething crowd of strange, wan faces, for many of them bore too plainly the marks of fasting and hunger, the baby in her arms raised a pitiful cry, and she pressed it closer and soothed it, while the baby lifted its little hand and stroked its mother's face.

"Aye, she is of the right sort," they cried; "she is a mother who loves her child. She ain't too grand to cosset her babby. Let her go on!"

The post-boy cracked his whip, and the carriage was just starting, when Joyce suddenly turned ashen white, and sinking back in the carriage, the baby would have fallen had not Piers caught it by its cloak.

"What is it?--what is it, Joyce, my dear?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "You put too much strain on yourself; you are feeling the effects. Joyce!"

But Joyce did not speak. Her mother opened the basket, and taking out a bottle, held it to Joyce's lips.

"Take some wine; do try to sip it, Joyce."

But Joyce sat up and put it from her. "No, thank you, dear mother. I was faint, rather faint. Perhaps it _was_ too much for me speaking to that angry crowd. Oh!" and she put her hand to her eyes, "their faces, their dreadful faces! I am better now."

And, with wonderful self-restraint, Joyce did not tell her mother or Piers that, amidst that throng of ragged, wild people, she had seen the face of the man whom she believed had caused her father's death.

Falcon's voice from the "d.i.c.key" was now heard. "Here's father! here's father!"

And presently Gilbert trotted up on horseback, and was received with shouts from his little boy and deep thankfulness from those inside the carriage.

"The crowd is getting very thick in the city," he said, "and I thought I would ride out and be your escort. Why, my darling, you don't look much better for country air," he said, anxiously scanning her face.

"We have been surrounded by a mob," Piers said, "and Joyce asked them to let us pa.s.s, and that was rather too much even for her nerves. There are some two hundred men and women coming on behind us."

"Then push on," Gilbert said to the post boy, "and I will be your _avant courier_. The crowd in Bristol is fairly orderly so far, and I think we shall get through pretty well. Why, Susan!" he said, "you look almost as white as your mistress. I shall be glad to get you all safe home."

Joyce rose in the carriage again, and, turning, looked back at Susan.

Her face told that she also had recognised her father; and, with a sudden gesture of sympathy, Joyce put her hand on her faithful and trusted servant's arm, and gave it a pressure which she understood.

"Oh! dear madam," she said, "it was very dreadful."

"Yes," Joyce said, "but the danger is past now that we have Mr. Arundel with us. Hold Falcon firmly when we get into the streets."

"I shall be glad to get home now," said little Falcon. "I am as tired as mother is."

That surging crowd, increasing hourly in numbers and in vehemence, thronged the narrow streets, and made the progress of the carriage very slow.

The young man who rode before it attracted attention, and he was called upon several times to declare whether he would vote for Protheroe and Baillie, and whether he was an anti-reformer or a reformer.

These questions were generally shouted at him and followed by cries and cheers, so that the reply could not be heard.

Erect and fearless, Gilbert rode on, clearing the way for the carriage, which contained all that was most precious to him in the world. Had he turned a hair, or shown the slightest sign of fear, it is probable he would have had stones hurled at him, or insulting missives, such as rotten eggs or dead rats, thrown into the carriage. But there was something in the way Gilbert guided his horse through the throng, and in the steadfast outlook of his eyes, that won the mob, and not a finger was raised against him. He even heard cries of "pretty dears!" from behind.

"It's their father, I daresay. Pretty dears! And that's their mother, with the youngest. She is as white as a ghostie."

So on they pa.s.sed safely over Bristol Bridge, through Wine Street, and Corn Street, narrow thoroughfares, which necessitated at the best of times, but slow progress.

As they pa.s.sed along Saint Augustine's Back they left the great proportion of the crowd on the other side of the river. It was making, by way of King Street, for Queen's Square, where the great meeting was to a.s.semble before the Mansion House, and the two whig candidates were to harangue the people.

The heat of controversy was fanned continually into a fiercer flame; and moderate men, like Gilbert Arundel, were rare. While desiring any change which might give the people their just rights, and conscious of many abuses which needed reform, Gilbert took up no party cry, nor did he try to exalt his own side by heaping abuse on the other. When the need came, he would be ready to act for the defence of right and order, but he stood aloof, with singular discretion, from the hot-headed politicians of the Union, and thus he was, with many others, innocent of the great outbreak of lawlessness and riot, which, in a few short months, was to disgrace the annals of the city of Bristol.

The great thoroughfare of Park Street was comparatively empty, and Gilbert reined in his horse and rode by the side of the carriage.

"We are nearly home now," he said; "and there you will be safe. Is anything the matter?" he asked, leaning forward to Joyce.

"I will tell you," she said, in a low voice, "but not now." And then the carriage turned into Great George Street, and the children and Joyce and the luggage were deposited there, while Mrs. Falconer and Piers were taken on to Clifton. Mrs. Arundel shared the large town house with her son, but she was away on a visit, and only two servants were in the wide old-fas.h.i.+oned hall to receive the travellers.

The children's s.p.a.cious nursery was bright and cheerful, commanding a view of the cathedral just below, the tower of St. Mary Redclyffe Church, of the tall masts of the s.h.i.+ps, and of the hills beyond. A blazing fire in the old grate, and the rocking chair by the high guard, looked inviting, and Joyce sat down there with little Joy in her arms, while Susan put Lota and Lettice to rest in their cots in the next room, to sleep after the excitement of the morning; and Falcon rushed to the garden to inquire into the condition of the white rabbit, which he had left in its hutch when they went to Fair Acres some three weeks before.

Gilbert, who had been looking after the luggage, and settling the postboy's fee, soon came up, and, kneeling down by the chair, took both mother and baby in a loving embrace.

"My two Joys," he said; "my two best Joys. I am afraid you have been a good deal frightened, my darling; but cheer up now; the danger, if there was any, is over, thank G.o.d!"

"Gilbert, it was not the crowd, it was not the fear about the poor people who stopped the carriage, it was that amongst those dreadful faces I saw Bob Priday's, the man who stopped us on Mendip years ago, and who, as we think, killed dear father. Oh, it was the sight of his face which was too much for me! And poor Susan saw him also. It brought it all back. Father! father!"

Gilbert stroked his wife's head tenderly as it lay upon his shoulder, and said:

"Are you sure it was Bob Priday? So many years have pa.s.sed."

"Quite, quite sure. And, though I have not spoken to Susan yet, I _know_ she is sure also."

"You did not tell your mother, then, or Piers?"

"No, no; I would not have given mother the pain I felt, for anything.

Dear mother! I let her drive off with scarcely a good-bye, and she has been so kind at Fair Acres, and has enjoyed the children in the old house. But, oh! Gilbert," she said, rallying, "it is so delightful to be at home with you again. While we have each other nothing can be _very_ bad, can it?"

"Nothing," he said, fervently. "And now, while you are resting, I must go down to the office, for my partner is at the meeting at the "White Lion," helping to bolster up poor Hart-Davies to fight the Tories'

battle. He is a good fellow, and everybody respects him; but the truth is, the tide is too strong in Bristol now for any but some very exceptional man to battle against it."

"You think the Whigs will carry the election?"

"Without a doubt."

"Are you going to the meeting in Queen's Square?"

"I think not. We cannot both leave the office at once, and I do not greatly care about it. I do increasingly feel that these men who clamour for their cause injure it. They are exciting the mob in Bristol--always inflammable material--and this fury of rage against old Wetherall is most dangerous. Everyone expects that if he attempts to open the next a.s.size there will be a riot it will be difficult to quell. Happy little Joy," he said, kissing the baby's cheek; "to sleep on in peace while your fellow-citizens of Bristol are shouting themselves hoa.r.s.e."

Susan now came in from the next room, and took the baby from Joyce, while Gilbert left the nursery, saying:

"We must dine at a fas.h.i.+onable hour to-day. I shall not be back till five;"--and Susan and her mistress were left alone.

"Did he see us, Susan? Your father; do you think he saw us?"

"I think he did, ma'am--at least, I think he saw me."

"You feel no doubt at all that it was your father, Susan?"