Under the Mendips Part 44

Gilbert raised himself for a moment, and then fell back.

"I ought to be there," he said, "not here. Those poor people! those poor people! Is there none to help?"

"It seems as if G.o.d had forgotten to be gracious," Joyce said, faintly.

"We must not say that, darling, for we know that there is a cause. This may arouse many to think, who have never thought before, of the great needs of the ignorant and uncared-for ma.s.ses in great cities like Bristol. They know not what they do. Close the curtains again, I cannot look any longer."

He lay back on his pillow, and Joyce, drawing the curtain, resumed her post by the window.

About ten o'clock, the gardener, who kept guard in the hall, came upstairs.

"Mistress," he said, "Mr. Bengough is here, and would like to know how the master is."

Joyce raised her hand to enjoin silence, hoping that Gilbert slept, and went down into the hall.

Mr. Bengough's face was blackened, and his clothes smelt of smoke and fire.

"It is an awful scene," he said, supporting himself against the wall, while Joyce went to fetch him a gla.s.s of wine; "the palace is burnt to the ground, and the lead on the cathedral is positively melting with the heat. The deanery escaped by the pluck of the old Dean. He came out and harangued the rioters, saying, 'Wait a bit, let's have three cheers first--one cheer for the king, one cheer for the people, and one for the old Dean!' The mob cheered l.u.s.tily, and turned off to find other prey. They say Park Street is to follow, and those houses which are doomed are to have a white mark for a sign; but there is no order amongst them, and every one of the chief rioters is drunk with the Bishop's wine, taken from the cellars, which they have sold for a penny a bottle! Now they have set fire to Queen's Square, and the Mansion House is one blazing pile. The Mayor has come up to Berkley Square, where I must follow him. The special constables were separated from him in the crowd, and, can you believe it, Brereton's troops, after parading round Queen's Square, have retired to their quarters. Confusion everywhere, and no one knows what may come next. I must not stay; but, Mrs. Arundel, you may be thankful for the blow on your husband's head, yesterday, which has, perhaps, saved his life. Upon my honour, I don't believe any man outside his own doors to-night can depend upon living to see the morning break."

When Mr. Bengough was gone, Joyce heard the frightened servants crying out, that the fire was bigger than ever, and that they were sure the house would catch fire, and they would all be burned alive.

Mrs. Arundel could not calm their fears, and scarcely control her own, and Joyce alone preserved any self-possession.

"The panes of gla.s.s are hot in the nursery!" they said; "come up there, ma'am, and see if it is not true."

"Do not wake Master Falcon or disturb your master. Remember you are--we all are--in G.o.d's hands."

But, as Joyce looked out from the vantage ground of the nursery windows, the terrified servants clinging to her, with cries and exclamations, the sight was one too awful for any words to paint. The panes of gla.s.s were actually heated, and the lurid, fierce glare seemed to be ever increasing.

The scene upon which Joyce gazed, with that strange fascination, which, acting like a spell, seemed to compel her to look at what yet she shrank from as too awful, has been left on record by one who, then a boy at school, has described it in a vivid word picture, which was the outcome of the actual experience of an eye-witness. This boy, who was one day, to be foremost in the ranks of those who carried the standard of truth, and justice, and charity into the very thick of the conflict with the powers of darkness, thus spoke--long, long after most of those who had taken any part in those three awful days were dead--to an audience who were inhabitants of the city of Bristol, and to whom, therefore, the subject was of especial interest. He said:

"I was a schoolboy in Clifton, up above Bristol. I had been hearing of political disturbances, even of riots, of which I understood nothing, and for which I cared nothing.

"But on one memorable Sunday afternoon I saw an object which was distinctly not political. It was an afternoon of sullen, autumn rain.

The fog hung thick over the docks and lowlands. Glaring through the fog I saw a bright ma.s.s of flame, almost like a half-risen sun. That, I was told, was the gate of the new gaol on fire; that the prisoners had been set free. The fog rolled slowly upwards. Dark figures, even at that great distance, were flitting to and fro across what seemed the mouth of the fire.

"The flames increased, multiplied at one point after another, till by ten o'clock that night one seemed to be looking down upon Dante's Inferno, and to hear the mult.i.tudinous moan and wail of the lost spirits, surging to and fro amid the sea of fire.

"Right behind Brandon Hill rose the central ma.s.s of fire, till the little mound seemed converted into a volcano, from the peak of which the flame streamed up, not red above, but delicately green and blue, pale rose, and pearly white, while crimson sparks leapt and fell again in the midst of that rainbow, not of hope, but of despair; and dull explosions down below mingled with the roar of the mob, and the infernal hiss and crackle of the flames.

"Higher and higher the fog was scorched upward by the fierce heat below, glowing through and through with red, reflected glare, till it arched itself into one vast dome of red-hot iron, fit roof for all the madness below; and beneath it, miles away, I could see the lonely tower of Dundry Church s.h.i.+ning red--the symbol of the old Faith--looking down in stately wonder and sorrow upon the fearful birth-throes of a new age."

When morning dawned on Monday, help really seemed at hand, and five thousand men obeyed the call for the _posse comitatus_, and, furnished with a short staff and a strip of white linen round their arm as a badge, did good service for the restoration of order. Shops were all closed, business suspended, and the soldiers, and the naval and military pensioners, under Captain Cook, cleared the streets, and peace seemed in a fair way of being restored.

Peace, and at what a price! Wreck and ruin everywhere; Queen's Square, a ma.s.s of burning rubbish, strewn, too, with the charred bodies of those who had fallen in the fray. At night, by order of the Mayor, the churches and houses were lighted up, and the soldiers guarded the streets.

Transcriber's note: The footnote was placed, without an anchor, at this point in the original.

[Footnote: _Vide_ "Charles Kingsley's Life," vol. i., p. 21.]

But it was not till after the fifth of November, when an outburst of Protestant and Anti-Reform zeal was expected, that the law-abiding people of Bristol and its surrounding neighbourhood felt safe. During the whole of that week watch and ward was kept, and all demonstrations were repressed.

The Bristol Riots were over, but the day of reckoning came; and for many weeks there was nothing thought of but the restoration of lost property, the finding of dead bodies hid in the ruins of Queen's Square, and the apprehension of the ringleaders in the rebellion.

Colonel Brereton was charged by the Mayor with not acting up to his orders, and a military inquiry was appointed to try the truth of the Mayor's statement, and held at the Hall of the Merchant Venturers, and it ended in Colonel Brereton's being put under arrest, previous to his trial by court martial.

It was some time before Gilbert was fit for any exertion, and the doctor insisted on quiet and complete rest. His whole system had received a shock, and the effects of the blow were seen by constant headache, and an irritability and depression very unlike himself.

All Joyce's cheerfulness and patience were needed; and as Falcon's boyish mirth was more than his father could bear, Joyce determined to take him to Down Cottage, and bring back with her "Baby Joy," who was one of those loving doves of babies who seem born to be happy themselves and make other people happier! Joyce, therefore, packed up a few small garments in a bag for Falcon, and set off with him one bright November day to Down Cottage.

Her appearance was always the signal for a great outburst of joy, and Lota and Lettice were delighted to find that Falcon was to stay with them.

"You don't mind, mother, making the exchange," Joyce said; "I should feel so desolate with no child, and Gilbert cannot yet bear any noise. I suppose Charlotte Benson is gone home? The Wells coach is running again."

In all the excitement of the past ten days, Joyce had really thought but little of Charlotte, and when her mother did not reply to the question at once, she said:

"What day did Charlotte go home?"

"She is not gone home at all; you had better ask Piers about her."

"Is anything wrong?" Joyce asked.

"Well," said Mrs. Falconer, in her old blunt fas.h.i.+on, "I believe Charlotte thinks everything is right, not wrong, but Piers is of a different opinion. As for myself, I am no judge of lords and grand folks, nor their ways neither. But Charlotte thinks she is going to be 'my lady,' and that's about the truth."

"Mother!" Joyce exclaimed; "mother, it must be prevented; it is impossible. How wrong we have all been to be so engrossed with our own concerns and forget Charlotte's. I had really forgotten Lord Maythorne was here. What will Mrs. Arundel say? Where is Piers?"

The tap of Piers' crutches was now heard on the flag-stones before Down Cottage, and he came in.

"I am glad you are come Joyce; it is time some one interfered. I have just been acting the spy on the Observatory Hill, and there are Charlotte and her elderly beau disporting themselves."

"Oh! Piers, it is really dreadful. I must tell Gilbert at once, and Mrs.

Arundel. It will worry Gilbert dreadfully, and he is still so weak."

"You need not look so doleful, Joyce; after all, if people will make their own bed of thorns, they must bear the p.r.i.c.k when they lie down on it. It all comes of Aunt Let.i.tia's silly bringing up. Charlotte has been made a foolish, sentimental woman, and this is the end of it."

"It must not be the end; I must do all I can to prevent it. Call Susan to bring Joy, and we will go home at once. I must consult Mrs. Arundel, and ask her what it is best to do."

"You won't have time, for here they come," Piers said.

Yes; there was Charlotte, with her head on one side, and evidently simpering at some compliment, which her companion was administering.

When they came into the sitting-room, and stood face to face with Joyce, one betrayed some annoyance, and the other some triumph.

"I thought you would have gone home yesterday, Charlotte," Joyce said, after the first greeting. "Is not Aunt Let.i.tia anxious to see you? This house is very full," she added, "and Gilbert is not well enough for me to ask you to return to Great George Street."

"I am going to Wells to-morrow, dear," Charlotte said, "and--and--"