Under the Mendips Part 38

"See!" Mrs. More said, "there is the little steam-packet puffing busily up the river. I am blessed in my old age, to see before my windows the two great discoveries of the age, steam-power made useful for locomotion, and coal-gas for light. I am very happy here, my dear, but remember an old woman's advice, and do not spoil Susan Priday, or any servant, by over indulgence. Very often, as in my own case, carelessness, and dislike of trouble is the real root of the evil. G.o.d bless you and keep you, my dear," she said, as Joyce bent to kiss her.

"Is there much excitement abroad about the pa.s.sing of the Reform Bill?"

"Not that I have seen," Joyce answered; "but I daresay there may be in the city."

"Well, the result is in G.o.d's hands; we must pray and labour for peace, that blessed gift of G.o.d's love--peace."

It was a sweet parting word, and one to which Joyce often recurred in later years, almost as Hannah More's legacy to her--Peace.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XIV.

THE STORM BURSTS.

It was the evening of the eighteenth of October when Joyce was seated in her nursery, awaiting her husband's return. The Bristol clocks had struck eleven; and from time to time the noise of the voices of many people reached her, borne upon the still night air. She had sent the servants to bed; and Mrs. Arundel and Charlotte were also gone to their rooms; but Joyce sat up watching for Gilbert's return.

The baby Joy, was sleeping in her cradle, and Lettice and Lota in their cribs, while Falcon lay in profound repose, a fife, upon which he had been playing hard all day, as he marched round and round the garden, was clasped in his strong, round little fingers.

Joyce bent over the children, shading the candle with her hand, to a.s.sure herself they slept, and then, leaving the nursery door open, that she might hear if they stirred or cried, she went gently down the wide staircase to the hall. The fire in the dining-room was burning low, and she put on some more coal, and saw that the kettle just simmered on the hob, ready to be put on to the fire when Gilbert came.

She moved with that quiet, almost stealthy tread, which is common with those who feel themselves the only persons awake in a house.

The stillness was broken by the ticking of the clock in the hall, and how loud that tick sounded!

Joyce went to the window, and, unfastening the shutter, looked out into the night, a dark, murky night; and from below came the low murmur of the crowds, which had not yet dispersed.

Public feeling throughout the country had reached almost to fever heat, but in Bristol the animosity against Bishops and Lords, for the rejection of the Reform Bill which the Commons had pa.s.sed, was quickened by the personal hatred, which the recorder, Sir Charles Wetherall had excited amongst the people.

Bristol reformers were enraged that he should have made a bitter attack upon Lord John Russell in the House of Commons, charging him most unfairly with encouraging illegal means for carrying the Reform Bill.

Though the whole country was in a ferment, and riots had broken out in Derby, Nottingham, and other towns, in no place was there such a personal feeling excited as against the Recorder of Bristol.

The a.s.sizes would soon open, and vengeance was vowed against him, if he attempted to enter the city to perform his duties as a judge.

Both parties vied with each other in exciting bitterness and ill feeling; and all good, moderate men felt, in their own minds, that a crisis was at hand, and that, unless some wise and able pilot could be found to guide the helm, a most disastrous s.h.i.+pwreck must follow.

Gilbert Arundel had, with some other gentlemen, done what they could to cast oil on the troubled waters. Gilbert had spoken several times at some of the smaller meetings, and had advised temperance and patience.

He was one of the very few, in those days, who appealed to the working men to help to maintain order among themselves; who showed the ruin and distress the rioters had brought upon their families in other places, and who spoke to them as having common cause with himself to do all they could to protect their wives and children. Gilbert was, in his heart, what was called a whig, but he was far, indeed, from being a hot-headed radical.

That he was known to be the grandson of a peer, and that his mother had a t.i.tle, did not win him favour with the extreme section of his own party, while the others, perhaps, were a little triumphant that the son of a n.o.ble house might yet question the wisdom of the Lords in rejecting a Bill which was so dear to the heart of the people.

Joyce gently closed the shutters and returned to her place by the fire.

Then she went out into the hall, where an oil lamp was dimly burning, and looked out from a small window by the side of the door.

A sense of fear began to creep over her, not for herself, but for Gilbert. She listened for his step with that nervous tension which is so painful, and of which we all know something.

Presently the door of the cellar, which opened into the hall, creaked; Joyce watched it breathlessly; it opened wider and wider, and a man's head appeared. In the dim light she could scarcely discern the features, but something in that face was surely familiar.

She was not left long in doubt; once more Bob Friday stood before her.

At first Joyce was literally paralysed with terror, and she could neither speak, nor call for help.

She made a movement towards the door, but the man raised a hand to prevent her.

"Don't you scream or move. I want to speak to you."

"How can you--how dare you, come here?"

"I came to tell ye that I'll see your young gent comes to no harm."

"I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, burying her face for a moment in her hands. "I know--I know what terrible grief you once brought on me and all I loved."

The accents of her voice, with the sorrowful ring in them, the quiet self-possession, for which, with a sinking heart she struggled, touched that rough, bad man, as no protestations or entreaties could have done.

"I cannot believe," she went on, "you are come to do me more harm. My four little children are asleep upstairs. There is no one in the house but women, helpless women, one of whom is your own daughter--your _own daughter_."

"I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head, nor yours, nor your childer's. I came to warn you--the folks down below will stop at nothing once they are let loose; they'd as soon tear your young gent to pieces as look at 'im. They'd fire this 'ouse for a trifle. I belong to a party of 'em, and if I know it, _he_ shan't come to no harm. Look ye, missus, I wanted to see you, to tell you the squire was riding peaceable enough----"

"Oh! don't! don't! I cannot bear it," Joyce said.

"He was riding peaceable enough, and I laid in wait for 'im. I got hold of the bridle, and the horse, she backed and reared, and the squire he fell on a sharp stone, which cut his forehead--a three corner cut--I see it now. He lay like a dog, dead, and the horse galloped off, and I--well, I made off too, and got aboard a s.h.i.+p in Bristol Docks, and only came back last Christmas. I meant to threaten the squire; but I didn't kill 'im; I didn't _want_ to kill 'im."

"Your act killed him as much as if you had thrown the stone, as we all believed you did. Oh! I pray G.o.d may forgive you."

"Say you forgive me," the man muttered; "I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head."

"I pray G.o.d to forgive you, and I try to do as the Lord Jesus would have me, and forgive you. But, oh! leave your evil ways, and turn to Him."

"It's too late," he said.

"Oh! no! no!--never! never too late!"

The man was silent for a few minutes; then he spoke in a low harsh voice:

"Give my love to poor Sue. I broke her mother's heart, and I nearly broke her's. I saw her riding in the carriage with you, like a lady, in the spring. Her mother used to pray G.o.d to take care of her, and sure enough, He has. It must be pretty nigh like heaven to live along with you. I'm a-going out by the way I came. Now you just see that the cellar winder bars is mended; that's how I got in, and others may get in too. I suppose you couldn't say, G.o.d bless you?"

The restraint Joyce had put upon herself was very great, and now that the danger seemed pa.s.sing, she began to give way.

"Yes," she said faintly; "I think you are sorry, and I say, may G.o.d pardon you and bless you."

"Thank'ee," was the rejoinder; but still, though he moved back towards the cellar door, he lingered.

"Suppose you wouldn't touch the likes of me with your little white hand?

I'd like to feel it once, just once."