Under the Mendips Part 40

Lord Maythorne soothed her with honeyed words, and declared he would not leave her till she was in a place of safety.

"Gilbert," Joyce said, beseechingly, as she followed him to the dining room, where he partook hastily of refreshment, "do not force me to go away from you; let me and Falcon stay here. We have the gardener to protect us, and the cook is a sensible woman. Pray please, let your mother take her maid and Susan, and, _do_ leave me here. Think how dreadful it would be to me to be beyond reach if--if anything happened to you, if you were hurt. Nay, Gilbert, do not refuse me."

"Well, I will yield for this one night, and to-morrow, being Sunday, there may be peace; but I doubt it. Get the others under marching orders; and, Joyce;" as she was leaving the room, "I am not very well pleased to see my uncle hanging about here, and filling that poor girl's head with nonsense. She is just as likely to fancy he is making love to her as not. Warn her, can't you?"

Joyce shook her head. "It is not easy to persuade Charlotte that everyone is not ready to fall at her feet, and I am afraid she will resent any interference; but, oh!" she continued gaily, "I will do anything now I am not to be sent away from _you_."

Then she hastened upstairs and found Susan and Mary bustling about for departure.

Joyce told Falcon he was to stay to take care of her, and he shouted for joy. He had again taken up his post at the open nursery windows, leaning over the bars, and listening to the ever increasing tumult which reigned in the city below.

"Oh! dear madam," Susan said; "I don't like to leave you."

"You like to please me, Susan, and there is no danger for me."

"The cellar window is made fast, I know," Susan said, "and he--he can never come near you again; but suppose the mob should come up here, and master not be able to reach you."

"That is not likely; by to-morrow all may be quiet, and I shall come to Down Cottage to see how you have got on. You must give mother my love, and tell her I know she will like to have Baby Joy to-night, and that you can sleep with Lettice and Lota."

"Don't be afraid, my darlings," she said, as two little serious faces were turned up to her, and two little plaintive voices said:

"We want to stay with mother. Falcon is going to stay."

"Falcon is a boy, and he likes to watch the crowds, and does not mind the noise, and he is going to take care of me. Now then, darlings, run down and tell father you are ready, while I go and see if grandmother and Mary, and cousin Charlotte are ready also."

But Mrs. Arundel had determined to remain with Joyce, and said nothing should tempt her to leave her; her maid Mary should go, and she would stay behind.

Joyce thought of the rather small accommodation at Down Cottage, and did not raise any further objection. There was only Charlotte now to hasten.

Joyce found her tying her bonnet and arranging her curls under it, and turning her head first to one side, then to the other, to catch a glimpse of her profile in the gla.s.s.

"Come, Charlotte, make haste," Joyce said; "they are all ready."

"Is Lord Maythorne coming with us?"

"Yes, as far as the Hotel. If I were you I should not desire his company."

"Oh! Joyce, he is very nice, quite delightful, and he is--"

"He is given to flatter everybody," Joyce said, "as years ago poor Melville found to his cost. So take care, Charlotte."

"Take care, indeed! I don't know what you mean," said Charlotte, pouting. "You always think no one can possibly admire _me_."

"My dear Charlotte, this is not a time for such nonsense, it is time to commend ourselves and all we love to G.o.d's care, and not to be filled with thoughts of who admires us and who does not. Lord Maythorne is Gilbert's uncle; but he has caused a great deal of sorrow in the family, and we were all very sorry when he came to live in England again. Mrs.

Arundel cannot be uncivil to him, but she has not the slightest respect for him; neither have I."

"Well, dear," said Charlotte, "now you have finished your lecture, I will go downstairs. I suppose you think, as you are--are married, you may----"

Charlotte's ready tears began to flow, and Joyce, losing her patience, pa.s.sed by her quickly, and ran down into the hall.

It was hard to bid them all "good-bye," her baby smiling at her from under her warm hood, Lettice and Lota clinging to her, and Susan looking back to the last moment, as she led the way down Great George Street with Joy in her arms.

"You must give Uncle Piers my love, you know," Joyce said, "and say I am coming to-morrow. Good-bye; good-bye."

She stood at the door watching her husband and children down the street, which opens into Park Street, kissing her hand to them as the little girls' figures disappeared round the corner.

Lord Maythorne and Charlotte were rather longer in setting out, and a great deal of hesitation on Charlotte's part, and coaxing on Lord Maythorne's, was necessary, before they too at last departed. Charlotte leaning on Lord Maythorne's arm, and walking as if at every step she expected to meet a rioter, or have a stone thrown at her!

But Great George Street was as quiet as any deserted city, and the large, respectable houses looked as if they, at least, and their inhabitants, stood aloof from all questions of dispute, and all stormy expressions of opinion.

Joyce was an object of some interest to an old lady who lived opposite, and she craned her neck over the blind in the dining-room to see if it were actually true that only Joyce and Falcon were left in the house with Mrs. Arundel.

Joyce, always sensible, and with "her wits about her," as her mother often said, now closed and bolted the front door, and closed the shutters in the hall and the dining-room.

Then she went to the door leading to the garden, called the gardener, who, in spite of the tumult below, went on sweeping the fallen leaves together in a heap, as if it were the one great business of life.

"Henry," Joyce called; and, shouldering his broom, the man came with slow but sure steps up to the level gravel path under the windows. "Will you come round with me and see that all the doors and windows on the ground-floor are safely closed and barred, and the gate locked at the bottom of the garden?"

She turned back a moment, and taking a shawl from the hall, threw it over her head.

"Bars and doors won't keep 'em out if they've a mind to get in," said Henry; "the din is getting louder and louder. When will the master be back, ma'am?"

"I don't know quite. Yes," she said, "this door is safe; and I wonder how anyone could have climbed that wall?"

Henry looked curiously at her.

"Somebody _did_ climb it," he said, "for I found great footmarks here a week ago, and showed 'em to the master."

Joyce knew well enough whose footprints they were, but she said nothing.

"I should like you to come into the cellar with me, Henry," she said, turning to retrace her steps; and Falcon shouted from his watch-tower:

"They are making a greater noise than ever, mother, and I see such lots and lots of people on the quay. Come up, mother."

"I am coming very soon, dear," she said.

Then Joyce finished her inspection of the cellar, not without a thrill of remembered fear as she heard the creaking of the door, as it closed behind her.

"You had better stay in the kitchen with cook, Henry, and be on the watch till your master's return. He may not be home till very late, for the special constables are on duty; but what an increasing noise! What can be going on now?"

"They'll tear the Recorder limb from limb if they catch him; they are just like wild beasts in their rage against him. Lor! what a pity it is to meddle; let 'em have reform if they like, or leave it alone, it's no odds to me, nor thousands of other folk. It is a great ado about nothing; what will be, will be, and there's an end of it."

These opinions of Gilbert Arundel's gardener were decidedly safe, and had they been held by the ma.s.s of the Bristol people, the ensuing scenes of strife, fire, and bloodshed, would have been spared. But all men are not of the same easy, philosophical temperament!

And, doubtless, the stirring of the waters has a salutary effect, though the storm that smote them may be fearful. We who have lived to see a second Reform Bill carried, and religious tolerance everywhere a recognised principle, are perhaps scarcely as thankful as we ought to be for all the struggles, which have, by G.o.d's help and guidance, ended well for this people and nation.

He maketh the storm to cease; "He sitteth above the water-floods; yea, the Lord remaineth a King for ever."

[Ill.u.s.tration]