Chapter XIII: Part 13

“Oh! This is too much!” the Honourable Bob cried, finding himself on a sudden a family man. “Go? I don’t care if you go to——” But there he paused. He put the temptation to tell them to go to blazes from him. After all, they were Mary’s servants. “Oh, very well! Very well!” he resumed, fuming. “There, get in! Get in!” indicating the hackney-coach. “And do you,” he continued, turning to Thomas, “tell him to drive to the White Lion. Was there ever? That old woman’s a neat artist, if ever I saw one!”

And a moment later Flixton trundled off, boxed in with the mature maid, and vowing to himself that in all his life he had never been so diddled before.

Meanwhile, within doors—for farce and tragedy are never far apart—Mary, with her furs loosened, but not removed, was resisting all Miss Sibson’s efforts to restrain her. “I must go to her!” she said with painful persistence. “I must go to her at once, if you please, Miss Sibson. Where is she?”

“She is not here,” Miss Sibson said, plump and plain.

“Not here!” Mary cried, springing from the chair into which Miss Sibson had compelled her. “Not here!”

“No. Not in this house.”

“Then why—why did she tell me to come here?” Mary cried dumbfounded.

“Her ladyship is next door. No, my dear!” And Miss Sibson interposed her ample form between Mary and the door. “You cannot go to her until you have eaten and drunk. She does not expect you, and there is no need of such haste. She may live a fortnight, three weeks, a month even! And she must not, my dear, see you with that sad face.”

Mary gave way at that. She sat down and burst into tears.

The schoolmistress knew nothing of the encounter in Parliament Street, nothing of the meeting on the coach. But she was a sagacious woman, and she discerned something more than the fatigue of the journey, something more than grief for her mother, in the girl’s depression. She said nothing, however, contenting herself with patting her guest on the shoulder and gently removing her wraps and shoes. Then she set a footstool for her in front of the fire and poured out her tea, and placed hot sweetbread before her, and toast, and Sally Lunn. And when Mary, touched by her kindness, flung her arms round her neck and kissed her, she said only, “That’s better, my dear, drink your tea, and then I will tell you all I know.”

“I cannot eat anything.”

“Oh, yes, you can! After that you are going to see your mother, and then you will come back and take a good night’s rest. To-morrow you will do as you like. Her ladyship is with an old servant next door, through whom she first heard of me.”

“Why did she not remain in Bath?” Mary asked.

“I cannot tell you,” Miss Sibson answered. “She has whims. If you ask me, I should say that she thought Sir Robert would not find her here, and so could not take you from her.”

“But the servants?” Mary said in dismay. “They will tell my father. And indeed——”

“Indeed what, my dear?”

“I do not wish to hide from him.”

“Quite right!” Miss Sibson said. “Quite right, my dear. But I fancy that that was her ladyship’s reason. Perhaps she thought also that when she—that afterwards I should be at hand to take care of you. As a fact,” Miss Sibson continued, rubbing her cheek with the handle of a teaspoon, a sure sign that she was troubled, “I wish that your mother had chosen another place. You don’t ask, my dear, where the children are.”

Mary looked at her hostess. “Oh, Miss Sibson!” she exclaimed, conscience-stricken. “You cannot have sent them away for my sake?”

“No, my dear,” Miss Sibson answered, noting with satisfaction that Mary was making a meal. “No, their parents have removed them. The Recorder is coming to-morrow, and he is so unpopular on account of this nasty Bill—which is setting everyone on horseback whether they can ride or not—and there is so much talk of trouble when he enters, that all the foolish people have taken fright and removed their children for the week. It’s pure nonsense, my dear,” Miss Sibson continued comfortably. “I’ve seen the windows of the Mansion House broken a score of times at elections, and not another house in the Square a penny the worse! Just an old custom. And so it will be to-morrow. But the noise may disturb her ladyship, and that’s why I wish her elsewhere.”

Mary did not answer, and the schoolmistress, noting her spiritless attitude and the dark shadows under her eyes, was confirmed in her notion that here was something beyond grief for the mother whom the girl had scarcely known. And Miss Sibson felt a tug at her own heartstrings. She was well-to-do and well considered in Bristol, and she was not conscious that her life was monotonous. But the gay scrap of romance which Mary’s coming had wrought into the dull patchwork of days, long toned to the note of Mrs. Chapone, was welcome to her. Her little relaxations, her cosy whist-parties, her hot suppers to follow, these she had: but here was something brighter and higher. It stirred a long-forgotten youth, old memories, the ashes of romance. She loved Mary for it.

To rouse the girl, she rose from her chair. “Now, my dear,” she said, “you can go to your room, if you will. And in ten minutes we will step next door.”

Mary looked at her with grateful eyes. “I am glad now,” she said, “I am glad that she came here.”

“Ah!” the schoolmistress answered, pursing up her lips. And she looked at the girl uncertainly. “It’s odd,” she said, “I sometimes think that you are just—Mary Smith.”

“I am!” the other answered warmly. “Always Mary Smith to you!” And the old woman took the young one to her arms.

A quarter of an hour later Mary came down, and she was Mary Smith in truth. For she had put on the grey Quaker-like dress in which she had followed her trunk from the coach-office six months before. “I thought,” she said, “that I could nurse her better in this than in my new clothes!” But she blushed deeply as she spoke: for if she had this thought she had others also in her mind. She might not often wear that dress, but she would never part with it. Arthur Vaughan’s eyes had worshipped it; his hands had touched it. And in the days to come it would lie, until she died, in some locked coffer, perfumed with lavender, and sweet with the dried rose-leaves of her dead romance. And on one day in the year she would visit it, and bury her face in its soft faded folds, and dream the old dreams.

It was but a step to the door of the neighbouring house. But the distance, though short, steadied the girl’s mind and enabled her to taste that infinity of the night, that immensity of nature, which, like a fathomless ocean, islands the littleness of our lighted homes. The groaning of strained cordage, the creaking of timbers, the far-off rattle of a boom came off the dark water that lipped the wharves which still fringe three sides of the Square. Here and there a rare gas-lamp, lately set up, disclosed the half-bare arms of trees, or some vague opening leading to the Welsh Back. But for all the two could see, as they glided from the one door to the other, the busy city about them, seething with so many passions, pregnant with so much danger, hiding in its entrails the love, the fear, the secrets of a myriad lives, might have been in another planet.

Mary owned the calming influence of the night and the stars, and before the door opened to Miss Sibson’s knock, the blush had faded from her cheek. It was with solemn thoughts that she went up the wide oaken staircase, still handsome, though dusty and fallen from its high estate. The task before her, the scene on the threshold of which she trod, brought the purest instincts of her nature into play. But her guide knocked, someone within the room bade them enter, and Mary advanced. She saw lights and a bed—a four-poster, heavily curtained. And half blinded by her tears, she glided towards the bed—or was gliding, when a querulous voice arrested her midway.

“So you are come!” it said. And Lady Sybil, who, robed in a silken dressing-gown, was lying on a small couch in a different part of the room, tossed a book, not too gently, to the floor. “What stuff! What stuff!” she ejaculated wearily. “A schoolgirl might write as good! Well, you are come,” she continued. “There,” as Mary, flung back on herself, bent timidly and kissed her, “that will do! That will do! I can’t bear anyone near me! Don’t come too near me! Sit on that chair, where I can see you!”

Mary beat back her tears and obeyed with a quivering lip. “I hope you are better,” she said.

“Better!” her mother retorted in the same peevish tone. “No, and shall not be!” Then, with a shrill scream, “Heavens, child, what have you got on?” she continued. “What have you done to yourself? You look like a _sœur de Charité!_”

“I thought that I could nurse you better in this,” Mary faltered.

“Nurse me!”

“Yes, I——”

“Rubbish!” Lady Sybil exclaimed with petulant impatience. “You nurse? Don’t be silly! Who wants you to nurse me? I want you to amuse me. And you won’t do that by dressing yourself like a dingy death’s-head moth! There, for Heaven’s sake,” with a catch in her voice which went to Mary’s heart, “don’t cry! I’m not strong enough to bear it. Tell me something! Tell me anything to make me laugh. How did you trick Sir Robert, child? How did you escape? That will amuse me,” with a mirthless laugh. “I wish I could see his solemn face when he hears that you are gone!”

Mary explained that the summons had found her in London; that her father was not there, but that still she had had to beat down Lady Worcester’s resistance before she could have her way and leave.

“I don’t know her,” Lady Sybil said shortly.

“She was very kind to me,” Mary answered.

“I dare say,” in the same tone.

“But she would not let me go until I gave her my address.”

Lady Sybil sat up sharply. “And you did that?” she shrieked. “You gave it her?”

“I was obliged to give it,” Mary stammered, “or I could not have left London.”

“Obliged? Obliged?” Lady Sybil retorted, in the same passionate tone. “Why, you fool, you might have given her fifty addresses! Any address! Any address but this! There!” Lady Sybil continued sullenly, as she sank back and pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “You’ve done it now. You’ve excited me. Give me those drops! There! Are you blind? Those! Those! And—and sit farther from me! I can’t breathe with you close to me!”

After which, when Mary, almost heartbroken, had given her the medicine, and seated herself in the appointed place, she turned her face to the wall and lay silent and morose, uttering no sound but an occasional sigh of pain.

Meantime, to eyes that could read, the room told her story, and told it eloquently. The table beside the couch was strewn with rose-bound Annuals and Keepsakes, and a dozen volumes bearing the labels of more than one library; books opened only to be cast aside. Costly toys and embroidered nothings, vinaigrettes and scent-bottles, lay scattered everywhere; and on other tables, on the mantelpiece, on the floor, a litter of similar trifles elbowed and jostled the gloomy tokens of illness. Near the invalid’s hand lay a miniature in a jewelled frame, while a packet of letters tied with a fragment of gold lace, and a buhl desk half-closed upon a broken fan told the same tale of ennui, and of a vanity which survived the charms on which it had rested. The lesson was not lost on the daughter’s heart. It moved her to purest pity; and presently, wrung by a sigh more painful than usual, she crept to the couch, sank on her knees, and pressed her cool lips to the wasted hand which hung from it. Even then for a time her mother did not move or take notice. But slowly the weary sighs grew more frequent, grew to sobs—how much less poignant!—and her weak arm drew Mary’s head to her bosom.

And by-and-by the arm tightened its hold and gripped her convulsively, the sobs grew deeper and shook the worn form at each respiration; and presently, “Ah, God, what will become of me?” burst from the depths of the poor quaking heart, too proud hitherto to make its fear known. “What will become of me?”

That cry pierced Mary like a knife, but its confession of weakness made mother and daughter one. Her feeble arms could not avert the approach of the dark shadow, whose coming terrified though it could not change. But what human love could do, what patient self-forgetfulness might teach, she vowed that she would do and teach; and what clinging hands might compass to delay the end, her hands should compass. When Miss Sibson’s message, informing her that it was time to return, was brought to her, she shook her head, smiling, and locked the door. “I shall be your nurse, after all!” she said. “I shall not leave you.” And before midnight, with a brave contentment, for which Lady Sybil’s following eyes were warrant, she had taken possession of the room and all its contents; she had tidied as much as it was good to tidy, she had knelt to heat the milk or brush the hearth, she had smoothed the pillow, and sworn a score of times that nothing, no Sir Robert, no father, no force should tear her from this her duty, this her joy—until the end.

No memory of her dull childhood, or of the days of labour and servitude which she owed to the dying woman, no thought of the joys of wealth and youth which she had lost through her, rose to mar the sincerity of her love. Much less did such reflections trouble her on whose flighty mind they should have rested so heavily. So far indeed was this from being the case, that when Mary stooped to some office which the mother’s fastidiousness deemed beneath her, “How can you do that?” Lady Sybil cried peevishly. “I’ll not have you do it! Do you hear me, girl? Let some servant see to it! What else are they for!”

“But I used to do it every day at Clapham,” Mary answered cheerfully. She had not spoken before, aware of the reproach which her words conveyed, she could have bitten her tongue.

But Lady Sybil did not wince. “Then why did you do it?” she retorted, “Why did you do it? Why were you so foolish as to stoop to such things? I’m sure you didn’t get your poor spirit from me! And Vermuyden was as stiff as a poker! But there! I remember the prince saying once that ladies went out of fashion with hoops, and gentlemen with snuffboxes. You make me think he was right. Oh, clumsy!” she continued, raising her voice, “now you are turning the light on my face! Do you wish to see me hideous?”

Mary moved it. “Is that better, mother?” she asked.

Lady Sybil cast a resentful glance at her. “There, there, let it be!” she said. “You can’t help it. You’re like your father. He could never do anything right! I suppose I am doomed to have none but helpless people about me.”

And so on, and so on. Like many invalids, she was most lively at night, and she continued to complain through long restless hours, with the candles burning lower and lower, and the snuffers coming into more frequent request. Until with the chill before the dawn she fell at last into a fitful sleep; and Mary, creeping to the close-curtained windows to cool her weary eyes, peeped out and saw the grey of the morning. Outside, the Square was beginning to discover its half-bare trees and long straight rows of houses. Through openings, here and there, the water glimmered mistily; and on the height facing her, the tall tower of St. Mary Redcliffe rose above the roofs and pointed skywards. Little did Mary think what the day would bring forth in that grey deserted place on which she looked; or in what changed conditions, under what stress of mind and heart, she would, before the sun set twice, view that Square.

XXX THE MAYOR’S RECEPTION IN QUEEN’S SQUARE

The day, of which Mary watched the cloudy opening from her mother’s window, was drawing to a close; and from a house in the same Square—but on the north side, whereas Miss Sibson’s was on the west—another pair of eyes looked out, while a heart, which a few hours before had been as sore as hers, rose a little at the prospect. Arthur Vaughan, ignorant of her proximity—to love’s shame be it said—sat in a window on the first floor of the Mansion House, and, undismayed by the occasional crash of glass, watched the movements of the swaying, shouting, mocking crowd; a crowd, numbering some thousands, which occupied the middle space of the Square, as well as the roadways, clustered upon the Immortal Memory, overflowed into the side streets, and now joined in one mighty roar of “Reform! Reform!” now groaned thunderously at the name of Wetherell. Behind Vaughan in the same room, the drawing-room of the official residence, some twenty or thirty persons argued and gesticulated; at one time approaching a window to settle a debated point, at another scattering with exclamations of anger as a stone fell or some other missile alighted among them.

“Boo! Boo!” yelled the mob below. “Throw him out! Reform! Reform!”

Vaughan looked down on the welter of moving faces. He saw that the stone-throwers were few, and the daredevils, who at times adventured to pull up the railings which guarded the forecourt, were fewer. But he saw also that the mass sympathised with them, egged them on, and applauded their exploits. And he wondered what would happen when night fell, and wondered again why the peaceable citizens who wrangled behind him made light of the position. The glass was flying, here and there an iron bar had vanished from the railings, night was approaching. For him it was very well. He had accompanied Brereton to Bristol to see what would happen, and for his part, if the adventure proved to be of the first class, so much the better. But the good pursy citizens behind him, who, when they were not deafening the little Mayor with their counsels, were making a jest of the turmoil, had wives and daughters, goods and houses within reach. And in their place he felt that he would have been far from easy.

By and by it appeared that some of them shared his feelings. For presently, in a momentary lull of the babel outside, a voice he knew rose above those in the room.

“Nothing? You call it nothing?” Mr. Cooke—for his was the voice—cried. “Nothing, that his Majesty’s Judge has been hooted and pelted from Totterdown to the Guildhall? Nothing, that the Recorder of Bristol has been hunted like a criminal from the Guildhall to this place! You call it nothing, sir, that his Majesty’s Commission has been flouted for six hours past by all the riffraff of the Docks? And with half of decent Bristol looking on and applauding!”

“Oh, no, no!” the little Mayor remonstrated. “Not applauding, Mr. Cooke!”

“Yes, sir, applauding!” Cooke retorted with vigour.

“And teach Wetherell a lesson!” someone in the background muttered.

The man spoke low, but Cooke heard the words and wheeled about. “There, sir, there!” he cried, stuttering in his indignation. “What do you say to that? Here, in your presence, the King’s Judge is insulted. But I warn you,” he continued, “I warn you all! You are playing with fire! You are laughing in your sleeves, but you’ll cry in your shirts! You, Mr. Mayor, I call upon you to do your duty! I call upon you to summon the military and give the order to clear the streets before worse comes of it.”

“I don’t—I really don’t—think that it is necessary,” the Mayor answered pacifically. “I have seen as bad as this at half a dozen elections, Mr. Cooke.”

The Town-clerk, a tall, thin man, who still wore his gown though he had laid aside his wig, struck in. “Quite true, Mr. Mayor!” he said. “The fact is, the crowd thinks itself hardly used on these occasions if it is not allowed to break the windows and do a little mischief on the lower floor.”

“By G—d, I’d teach it a lesson then!” Cooke retorted. “It seems to me it is time someone did!”

Two or three expressed the same opinion, though they did so with less decision. But the main part smiled at Cooke’s heat as at a foolish display of temper. “I’ve seen as much half a dozen times,” said one, shrugging his shoulders. “And no harm done!”

“I’ve seen worse!” another answered. “And after all,” the speaker added with a wink, “it is good for the glaziers.”

Fortunately, Cooke did not hear this last. But Vaughan heard it, and he judged that the rioters had their backers within as well as without; and that within, as without, the notion prevailed that the Government would not be best pleased if the movement were too roughly checked. An old proverb about the wisdom of dealing with the beginnings of mischief occurred to him. But he supposed that the authorities knew their business and Bristol, and, more correctly than he, could gauge the mob and the danger, of both of which they made so light.

Still he wondered. And he wondered more three minutes later. Two servants brought in lights. Unfortunately the effect of these was to reveal the interior of the room to the mob, and the change was the signal for a fusillade of stones so much more serious and violent than anything which had gone before that a quick _sauve qui peut_ took place. Vaughan was dislodged with the others—he could do no good by remaining; and in two minutes the room was empty, and the mob were celebrating their victory with peals of titanic laughter, accompanied by fierce cries of “Throw him out! Throw out the d——d Recorder! Reform!”

Meanwhile the company, with one broken head and one or two pale faces, had taken refuge on the landing behind the drawing-room, the stairs ascending to which were guarded by a reserve of constables. Vaughan saw that the Mayor and his satellites were beginning to look at one another, and leaning, quietly observant, against the wall, he noticed that more than one was shaken. Still the little Mayor retained his good-humour. “Oh, dear, dear!” he said indulgently. “This is too bad! Really too bad!”

“We’d better go upstairs,” Sergeant Ludlow, the Town-clerk, suggested. “We can see what passes as well from that floor as from this, and with less risk!”

“No, but really this is growing serious,” a third said timidly. “It’s too bad, this.”

He had scarcely spoken, and the Mayor was still standing undecided, as if he did not quite like the idea of retreat, when two persons, one with his head bandaged, came quickly up the stairs. “Where’s the Mayor?” cried the first. And then, “Mr. Mayor, they are pushing us too hard,” said the second, an officer of special constables. “We must have help, or they will pull the house about our ears.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“But it’s not nonsense, sir,” the man answered angrily.

“But——”

“You must read the Riot Act, sir,” the other, who was the Under-Sheriff, chimed in. “And the sooner the better, Mr. Mayor,” he added with decision. “We’ve half a dozen men badly hurt. In my opinion you should send for the military.”

The group on the landing looked aghast at one another. What, danger? Really—danger? Half a dozen men badly hurt? Then one made an effort to carry it off. “Send for the military?” he gasped. “Oh, but that is absurd! That would only make matters worse!”

The others did not speak, and the Mayor in particular looked upset. Perhaps for the first time he appreciated the responsibility which lay on his shoulders. Meanwhile Vaughan saw all; and Cooke also, and the latter laughed maliciously. “Perhaps you will listen now,” he said with an ill-natured chuckle. “You would not listen to me!”

“Dear, dear,” the Mayor quavered. “Is it really as serious as that, Mr. Hare?” He turned to the Town-clerk. “What do you advise?” he asked.

“I think with Mr. Hare that you had better read the Riot Act, sir.”

“Very well, I’ll come down! I’ll come down at once,” the Mayor assented with spirit. “Only,” he continued, looking round him, “I beg that some gentleman known to be on the side of Reform, will come with me. Who has the Riot Act?”

“Mr. Burges. Where is he?”

“I am here, sir,” replied the gentleman named. “I am quite ready, Mr. Mayor. If you will say a few words to the crowd; I am sure they will listen. Let us go down!”

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later the same group, but with disordered clothes and sickly faces—and as to Mr. Burges, with a broken head—were gathered again on the landing. In those twenty minutes, despite the magic of the Riot Act, the violence of the mob had grown rather than diminished. They were beginning to talk of burning the Mansion House, they were calling for straw, they were demanding lights. Darkness had fallen, too, and there could be no question now that the position was serious. The Mayor, who, below stairs, had shown no lack of courage, turned to the Town-clerk. “Ought I to call out the military?” he asked.

“I think that we should take Sir Charles Wetherell’s opinion,” the tall, thin man answered, deftly shifting the burden from his own shoulders.

“The sooner Sir Charles is gone the better, I should say!” Cooke said bluntly. “If we don’t want to have his blood on our heads.”

“I am with Mr. Cooke there,” the Under-Sheriff struck in. He was responsible for the Judge’s safety, and he spoke strongly. “Sir Charles should be got away,” he continued. “That’s the first thing to be done. He cannot hold the Assizes, and I say frankly that I will not be responsible if he stays.”

“Jonah!” someone muttered with a sneering laugh.

The Mayor turned about. “That’s very improper!” he said.

“It’s very improper to send a Judge who is a politician!” the voice answered.

“And against the Bill!” a second jeered.

“For shame! For shame!” the Mayor cried.

“And I fancy, sir,” the Under-Sheriff struck in with heat, “that the gentlemen who have just spoken—I think I can guess their names—will be sorry before morning! They will find that it is easier to kindle a fire than to put it out! But—silence, gentlemen! Silence! Here is Sir Charles!”

Wetherell had that moment opened the door of his private room, of which the window looked to the back. His face betrayed his surprise on finding twenty or thirty persons huddled in disorder at the head of the stairs. The two lights which had survived the flight from the drawing-room flared in the draught of the shattered windows, and the wavering illumination gave a sinister cast to the scene. The dull rattle of stones on the floor of the rooms exposed to the Square—varied at times by a roar of voices or a rush of feet in the hall below—suggested that the danger was near at hand, and that the assailants might at any moment break into the building.

Nevertheless Sir Charles showed no signs of fear. After letting his eyes travel over the group, “How long is this going on, Mr. Under-Sheriff?” he asked, plunging his hands deep in his breeches pockets.

“Well, Sir Charles——”

“They seem,” with a touch of sternness, “to be carrying the jest rather too far.”

“Mr. Cooke,” the Mayor said, “wishes me to call out the military.”

Wetherell shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “The occasion is not so serious as to justify that. You cannot say that life is in danger?”

The Under-Sheriff put himself forward. “I can say, sir,” he answered firmly, “that yours is in danger. And in serious danger!”

Wetherell planted his feet further apart, and thrust his hands lower into his pockets. “Oh, no, no,” he said.

“It is yes, yes, sir,” the Under-Sheriff replied bluntly. “Unless you leave the house I cannot be responsible! I cannot, indeed, Sir Charles.”

“But——”

“Listen, sir! If you don’t wish a very terrible catastrophe to happen, you must go! By G—d you must!” the Under-Sheriff repeated, forgetting his manners.

The noise below had swollen suddenly. Cries, blows, and shrieks rose up the staircase, and announced that at any moment the party above might have to defend their lives. At the prospect suddenly presented, respect for dignities took flight; panic seized the majority. Constables, thrusting aldermen and magistrates aside, raced up the stairs, and bundled down again laden with beds with which to block the windows: while the picked men who had hitherto guarded the foot of the staircase left their posts in charge of two or three of the wounded, who groaned dismally. Apparently the mob had broken into part of the ground floor, and were with difficulty held at bay.

One of the party struck his hand on the balusters—it was Mr. Cooke. “By Heavens!” he said, “this is what comes of your d——d Reform! Your d——d Reform! We shall all be murdered, every man of us! Murdered!”

“For God’s sake, Mr. Mayor,” cried a quavering voice, “send for the military.”

“Ay, ay! the soldiers. Send for the soldiers, sir!” echoed two or three.

“Certainly I will,” said the Mayor, who was cooler than most. “Who will go?”

A man volunteered. On which Vaughan, who had so far remained silent, stepped forward. “Sir Charles,” he said, “you must retire. Your duties are at an end, and your presence hampers the defence. Permit me to escort you. I am unknown here, and can pass through the streets.”

Wetherell, as brave, stout and as solid a man as any in England, hesitated. But he saw that it would soon be everyone for himself; and in that event he was doomed. The din was waxing louder and more menacing; the group on the stairs was melting away. In terror on their own account, the officials were beginning to forget his presence. Several had already disappeared, seeking to save themselves, this way and that. Others were going. Every moment the confusion increased, and the panic. He gave way. “You think I ought to go, Vaughan?” he asked in a low voice.

“I do, sir,” Vaughan answered. And, entering the Recorder’s room, he brought out Sir Charles’s hat and cloak and hastily thrust them on him, scarcely anyone else attending to them. As he did this his eye alighted on a constable’s staff which lay on the floor where its owner had dropped it. Thinking that, as he was without arms, he might as well possess himself of it, Vaughan left Wetherell’s side and went to pick it up. At that moment a roar of sound, as sudden as the explosion of a gun, burst up the staircase. Two or three cried in a frenzied way that the mob were coming; some fled this way, some that, a few to windows at the back, more to the upper story, while a handful obeyed Vaughan’s call to stand and hold the head of the stairs. For a brief space all was disorder and—save in his neighbourhood—panic. Then a voice below shouted that the soldiers were come, and a general “Thank God! Not a moment too soon!” was heard on all sides. Vaughan made sure that it was true, and then he turned to rejoin Sir Charles.

But Wetherell had vanished, and no one could say in which direction. Vaughan hurried upstairs and along the passages in anxious search; but in vain. One told him that Sir Charles had left by a window at the back; another, that he had been seen going upstairs with the Under-Sheriff. He could learn nothing certain; and he was asking himself what he should do next, when the sound of cheering reached his ear.

“What is that?” he asked a man who met him as he descended the stairs from the second floor.

“They are cheering the soldiers,” the man replied.

“I am glad to hear it!” Vaughan exclaimed.

“I’d say so too,” the other rejoined glumly, “if I was certain on which side the soldiers were! But you’re wanted, sir, in the drawing-room. The Mayor asked me to find you.”

“Very good,” Vaughan said, and without delay he followed the messenger to the room he had named. Here, with the relics of the fray about them, he found the Mayor and four or five officials who looked woefully shaken and flustered. With them were Brereton and the Honourable Bob, both in uniform. The stone-throwing had ceased, for the front of the house was now guarded by a double line of troopers in red cloaks. Lights, too, had been brought, and in the main the danger seemed to be over. But about this council there was none of that lightheartedness, none of that easy contempt which had characterised the one held in the same room an hour or two before. The lesson had been learnt in a measure.

The Mayor looked at Vaughan as he entered. “Is this the gentleman?” he asked.

“Yes, that is the gentleman who got us together at the head of the stairs,” a person, a stranger to Vaughan, answered. “If he,” the man continued, “were put in charge of the constables, who are at present at sixes and sevens, we might manage something.”

A voice in the background mentioned that it was Mr. Vaughan, the Member for Chippinge. “I shall be glad to do anything I can,” Vaughan said.

“In support of the military,” the tall, thin Town-clerk interposed, in a decided tone. “That must be understood. Eh, Mr. Burges?”

“Certainly,” the City Solicitor answered. And they both looked at Colonel Brereton, who, somewhat to Vaughan’s surprise, had not acknowledged his presence.

“Of course, of course,” said the Mayor pacifically. “That is understood. I am quite sure that Colonel Brereton will use his utmost force to clear the streets and quiet the city.”

“I shall do what I think right,” Brereton replied, standing up straight, with his hand on his sword-hilt, and looking, among the disordered citizens, like a Spanish hidalgo among a troop of peasants. “I shall do what is right,” he repeated stubbornly; and Vaughan, knowing the man well, perceived that, quiet as he seemed, he was labouring under strong excitement. “I shall walk my horses about. The crowd are perfectly good-humoured, and only need to be kept moving.”

The Town-clerk exchanged a glance with a neighbour. “But do you think, sir,” he said, “that that will be sufficient? You are aware, I suppose, that great damage has been done already, and that had your troop not arrived when it did many lives might have been sacrificed?”

“That is all I shall do,” Brereton answered. “Unless,” with a faint ring of contempt in his tone, “the Mayor gives me an express and written order to attack the people.”

The Mayor’s face was a picture. “I?” he gasped.

“Yes, sir.”

“But I—I could not take that responsibility on myself,” the Mayor cried. “I couldn’t, I really couldn’t!” he repeated, taken aback by the burden it was proposed to put on him. “I can’t judge, Colonel Brereton—I am not a military man—whether it is necessary or not.”

“I should consider it unwise,” Brereton replied formally.

“Very good! Then—then you must use your discretion.”

“Just so. That’s what I supposed,” Brereton replied, not masking his contempt for the vacillation of those about him. “In that case I shall pursue the line of action I have indicated. I shall walk my horses up and down. The crowd are perfectly good-humoured. What is it, pray?”

He turned, frowning. A man had entered the room and was whispering in the Town-clerk’s ear. The latter straightened himself with a heated face. “You call them good-humoured, sir?” he said. “I hear that two of your men, Colonel Brereton, have just been brought in severely wounded. I do not know whether you call that good-humour?”

Brereton looked a little discomposed. “They must have brought it on themselves,” he said, “by some rashness. Your constables have no discretion.”

“I think you should at least clear the Square and the neighbouring streets,” the Town-clerk persisted.

“I have indicated what I shall do,” Brereton replied, with a gloomy look. “And I am prepared to be responsible for the safety of the city. If you wish me to act beyond my judgment, the civil power must give me an express and written order.”

Still the Mayor and those about him looked uneasy, though they did not dare to do what Brereton suggested. The howls of the rabble still rang in their ears, and before their eyes they had the black, gaping casements, through which an ominous murmur entered. They had waited long before calling in the Military, they had hesitated long; for Peterloo had erased Waterloo from the memory of an ungrateful generation, and men, secure abroad and straining after Reform at home, held a red-coat in small favour, if not in suspicion. But having called the red-coats in, they looked for something more than this, for some vindication of the law and the civil power, some stroke which would cast terror into the hearts of misdoers. The Town-clerk, in particular, had his doubts, and when no one else spoke he put them into words.

“May I ask,” he said formally, “if you have any orders, Colonel Brereton, from the Secretary of State or the Horse Guards, which prevent you from obeying the directions of the magistrates?”

Brereton looked at him sternly.

“No,” he said, “I am prepared to obey your orders, stated in the manner I have laid down. Then the responsibility will not lie with me.”

But the Mayor stepped back. “I couldn’t take it on myself, sir. I—God knows what the consequences might be!” He looked round piteously. “We don’t want another Manchester massacre.”

“I fancy,” Brereton answered grimly, “that if we have another Manchester business, it will go ill with those who sign the order! Times are changed since ’19, gentlemen—and governments! And I think we understand that. You leave it to me, then, gentlemen?”

No one spoke.

“Very good,” he continued. “If your constables will do their duty with discretion—and you could not have a better man to command them than Mr. Vaughan, but he ought to be going about it now—I will answer for the peace of the city.”

“But—but we shall see you again, Colonel Brereton,” the Mayor cried in some agitation.

“See me, sir?” Brereton answered contemptuously.

“Oh, yes, you can see me, if you wish to! But——” He shrugged his shoulders, and turned away without finishing the sentence.

Vaughan, when he heard that, knew that, cool as Brereton seemed, he was not himself. A moody stubbornness had taken the place of last night’s excitement; but that was all. And as the party trooped downstairs—he had requested the Mayor to say a few words, placing the constables under his control—he swallowed his private feelings and approached Flixton.

“Flixton,” he whispered, throwing what friendliness he could into his voice. “Do you think Brereton’s right?”

Flixton turned an ill-humoured face towards him, and dragged at his sword-belt. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said irritably. “It’s his business, and I suppose he can judge. There’s a deuce of a crowd, I know, and if we go charging into it we shall be swallowed up in a twinkling!”

“But it has been whispered to me,” Vaughan replied, “that he told the people on his way here that he’s for Reform. Isn’t it unwise to let them think that the soldiers may side with them?”

“Fine talking,” Flixton answered with a sneer. “And God knows if we had five hundred men, or three hundred, I’d agree. But what can sixty or eighty men do galloping over slippery pavements in the dark? And if we fire and kill a dozen, the Government will hang us to clear themselves! And these d——d nigger-drivers and sugar-boilers behind us would be the first to swear against us!”

Vaughan had his own opinion. But they had to part then. Flixton, in his blue uniform—there were two troops present, one of the 3rd Dragoon Guards in red, and one of the 14th Dragoons in blue—went out by Brereton’s side with his spurs ringing on the stone pavement and his sword clanking. He was not acting with his troop, but as the Colonel’s aide-de-camp. Meanwhile Vaughan, who could not see the old blue uniform without a pang, went with the Mayor to marshal the constables.

Of these no more than eighty remained, and with little stomach for the task before them. This task, indeed, notwithstanding the check which the arrival of the troopers had given the mob, was far from easy. The ground-floor of the Mansion House looked like a place taken by storm and sacked. The railings which guarded the forecourt were gone, and even the wall on which they stood had been demolished to furnish missiles. The doorways and windows, where they were not clumsily barricaded, were apertures inviting entrance. In one room lay a pile of straw ready for lighting. In another lay half a dozen wounded men. Everywhere the cold wind, blowing off the water of the Welsh Back, entered a dozen openings and extinguished the flares as quickly as they could be lighted, casting now one room and now another into black shadow.

But if the men had little heart for further exertions, Vaughan’s manhood rose the higher to meet the call. Bringing his soldier’s training into play, in a few minutes he had his force divided into four companies, each under a leader. Two he held in reserve, bidding them get what rest they could; with the other two he manned the forecourt, and guarded the flank which lay open to the Welsh Back. And as long as the troopers rode up and down within a stone’s-throw all was well. But when the soldiers passed to the other side of the Square a rush was made on the house—mainly by a gang of the low Irish of the neighbourhood—and many a stout blow was struck before the rabble, who thirsted for the strong ale and wine in the cellars, could be dislodged from the forecourt and driven to a distance. The danger to life was not great, though the tale of wounded grew steadily; nor could the post of Chief Constable be held to confer much honour on one who so short a time before had dreamt of Cabinets and portfolios, and of a Senate hanging on his words. But the joy of conflict was something to a stout heart, and the sense of success. Something, too, it was to feel that where he stood his men stood also; and that where he was not, the Irish, with their brickbats and iron bars, made a way. There was a big lout, believed by some to be a Brummagem man and a tool of the Political Union, who more than once led on the assailants; and when Vaughan found that this man shunned him and chose the side where he was not, that too was a joy.

“After all, this is what I am good for,” he told himself as he stood to take breath after a _mêlée_ which was at once the most serious and the last. “I was a fool to leave the regiment,” he continued, staunching a trickle of blood which ran from a cut on his cheek bone. “For, after all, better a good blow than a bad speech! Better, perhaps, a good blow than all the speeches, good and bad!” And in the heat of the moment he swung his staff. Then—then he thought of Mary and of Flixton, and his heart sank, and his joy was at an end.

“Don’t think they’ll try us again, sir,” said an old pensioner, who had constituted himself his orderly, and who had known the neigh of the war-horse in the Peninsula. “If we had had you at the beginning we’d have had no need of the old Blues, nor the Third either!”

“Oh, that’s rubbish!” Vaughan replied. But he owned the flattery, and his heart warmed to the pensioner, whose prediction proved to be correct. The crowd melted slowly but certainly after that. By eleven o’clock there were but a couple of hundred in the Square. By twelve, even these were gone. A half-dozen troopers, and as many tatterdemalions, slinking about the dark corners, were all that remained of the combatants; and the Mayor, with many words, presented Vaughan with the thanks of the city for his services.

“It is gratifying, Mr. Vaughan,” he added, “to find that Colonel Brereton was right.”

“Yes,” Vaughan agreed. And he took his leave, carrying off his staff for a memento.

He was very weary, and it was not the shortest way to the White Lion, yet his feet carried him across the dark Square and past the Immortal Memory to the front of Miss Sibson’s house. It showed no lights to the Square, but in a first-floor window of the next house he marked a faint radiance as of a shaded taper, and the outline of a head—doubtless the head of someone looking out to make sure that the disorder was at an end. He saw, but love was at fault. No inner voice told him that the head was Mary’s! No thrill revealed to him that at that very moment, with her brow pressed to the cold pane, she was thinking of him! None! With a sigh, and a farther fall from the lightheartedness of an hour before, he went his way.

Broad Street was quiet, but half a dozen persons were gathered outside the White Lion. They were listening: and one of them told him, as he passed in, that the Blues, in beating back a party from the Council House, a short time before, had shot one of the rioters. In the hall he found several groups debating some point with heat, but they fell silent when they saw him, one nudging another; and he fancied that they paid especial attention to him. As he moved towards the office, a man detached himself from them and approached him with a formal air.

“Mr. Vaughan, I think?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Arthur Vaughan?” the man, who was a complete stranger to Vaughan, repeated. “Member of Parliament for Chippinge, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Reform Member?”

Vaughan eyed him narrowly. “If you are one of my constituents,” he said drily, “I will answer that question.”

“I am not one,” the man rejoined, with a little less confidence. “But it’s my business, nevertheless, to warn you, Mr. Vaughan, in your own interests, that the part you have been taking here will not commend you to them! You have been handling the people very roughly, I am told. Very roughly! Now, I am Mr. Here——”

“You may be Mr. Here or Mr. There,” Vaughan said, cutting him short—but very quietly. “But if you say another word to me, I will throw you through that door for your impudence! That is all. Now—have you any more to say?”

The man tried to carry it off. For there was sniggering behind him. But Vaughan’s blood was up, the agitator read it in the young man’s eye, and being a man of words, not deeds, he fell back. Vaughan went up to bed.

XXXI SUNDAY IN BRISTOL

It was far from Vaughan’s humour to play the bully, and before he had even reached his bedroom, which looked to the back, he repented of his vehemence. Between that and the natural turmoil of his feelings he lay long waking; and twice, in a stillness which proclaimed that all was well, he heard the Bristol clocks tell the hour. After all, then, Brereton had been right! For himself, had the command been his, he would have adopted more strenuous measures. He would have tried to put fear into the mob before the riot reached its height. And had he done so, how dire might have been the consequences! How many homes might at this moment be mourning his action, how many innocent persons be suffering pain and misery!

Whereas Brereton, the strong, quiet man, resisting importunity, shunning haste, keeping his head where others wavered, had carried the city through its trouble, with scarce the loss of a single life. Truly he was one whom

_Non civium ardor prava jubentium_,

_Non vultus instantis tyranni_

_Mente quatit solida!_

Vaughan thought of him with a new respect, and of himself with a new humility. He was forced to acknowledge that even in that field of action which he had quitted, and to which he was now inclined to return, he was not likely to pick up a marshal’s bâton.

He slept at length, and long and heavily, awaking towards ten o’clock with aching limbs and a cheek so sore that it brought all that had passed to instant recollection. He found his hot water at his door, and he dressed slowly and despondently, feeling the reaction and thinking of Mary, and of that sunny morning, six months back, when he had looked into Broad Street from a window of this very house, and dreamed of a modest bonnet and a sweet blushing face. An hour after that, he remembered, he had happened on the Honourable—oh, d—— Flixton! All his troubles had started from that unlucky meeting with him.

He found his breakfast laid in the next room, the coffee and bacon in a Japan cat by the fire. He ate and drank in an atmosphere of gloomy retrospect. If he had never met Flixton! If he had not gone to that unlucky dinner at Chippinge! If he had spoken to her in Parliament Street! If—if—if! The bells of half a dozen churches were ringing, drumming his regrets into him; and he stood awhile irresolute, looking through the window. The inn-yard, which was all the prospect the window commanded, was empty; an old liver-and-white pointer, scratching itself in a corner, was the only living thing in it. But while he looked, wondering if the dog had been a good dog in its time, two men came running into the yard with every sign of haste and pressure. One, in a yellow jacket, flung himself against a stable door and vanished within, leaving the door open. The other pounced on a chaise, one of half a dozen ranged under a shed, and by main force dragged it into the open.

The men’s actions impressed Vaughan with a vague uneasiness. He listened. Was it fancy, or did he catch the sound of a distant shot? And—there seemed to be an odd murmur in the air. He seized his hat, put on his caped coat—for a cold drizzle was falling—and went downstairs.

The hall was empty, but through the open doorway he could see a knot of people, standing outside, looking up the street. He made for the threshold, and asked the rearmost of the starers what it was.

“Eh, what is it?” the man answered volubly. “Oh, they’re gone! It’s true enough! And such a crowd as was never seen, I’m told—stoning them, and shouting ‘Bloody Blues!’ after them. They’re gone right away to Keynsham, and glad to be there with whole bones!”

“But what is it?” Vaughan asked impatiently. “What has happened, my man? Who’re gone?”

The man turned for the first time, and saw who it was. “You have not heard, sir?” he exclaimed.

“Not a word.”

“Not that the people have risen? And most part pulled down the Mansion House? Ay, first thing this morning, sir! They say old Pinney, the Mayor, got out at the back just in time or he’d have been murdered! He’s had to send the military away—anyways, the Blues who killed the lad last night on the Pithay.”

“Impossible!” Vaughan exclaimed, turning red with anger. “You cannot have heard aright.”

“It’s as true as true!” the man replied, rubbing his hands in excitement. “As for me,” he continued, “I was always for Reform! And this will teach the Lords a lesson! They’ll know our mind now, and that Wetherell’s a liar, begging your pardon, sir. And the old Corporation’s not much better. A set of Tories mostly! If the Welsh Back drinks their cellars dry it won’t hurt me, nor Bristol.”