Under the Mendips: A Tale

"Oh! you are off, Mrs. Arundel. I just called to tell you that there is news of disturbances in Bristol. A great mob collected in Queen's Square last night, and political feeling is exciting the people to madness. I suppose Arundel will ride out to meet you?"

"He told me to start early, that we might get through Bristol before the afternoon."

"Ah! Well, I daresay it will be all right. Upon my word, what a pretty party you are! A rose and her rosebuds – eh! Mrs. Falconer? Where is Ralph?"

"Gone early to Bridgwater; there is a cattle sale to-day, and he and Mr. Watson went off at six o'clock."

"Ralph does not let the grass grow under his feet, – eh! Falconer? It is the early bird that finds the worm."

Melville smiled. The gorgeous colours of his dressing gown and fez came out in grand relief against the old porch, and Mr. Paget thought to himself, how odd it was that Mr. Falconer's son should be so entirely unlike either father or mother. He had dismounted; while old Thomas held the horse, he had helped Joyce into the carriage, and patted the rounded cheeks of the baby, whom her mother now took from her grandmother, and settled comfortably on her knee, while he called out to Falcon, who was in the dickey with Susan and the luggage, not to put out his eyes with a long cane he was brandishing, kicking his feet vigorously all the time, and shouting "Gee up!" at the pitch of his young lungs. The two little rosebuds of girls sat demure and quiet on the back seat with their uncle Piers; and then, with a final "Good-bye" and waving his hands, the scarlet-coated post-boy cracked his whip, and Joyce and her children were fairly off for home; for, sweet as the old home was, and full of tender memories, the large city house in Great George Street was dearer still.

Never had a cloud of mistrust or doubt come between Gilbert and his wife. They were subject, as we all are, to the little trials and annoyances of life, but these were all, outside that inner temple where, secure in each other's love, and bound by the golden chain of faith and trust in God, who had given them so many beautiful gifts and tokens of His loving care, they could always retire and feel that they were happy.

This fair and gracious temple of married love is one of the most beautiful possessions that any one can rejoice in. But it needs to be carefully watched, lest any moth should enter, or rust mar its brightness, or serpent creep into the paradise.

As the Vestals of ancient days kept their altar light pure and clear, so should the true wife pray to keep the light of this, her sacred temple, pure, and replenish it from time to time with the heavenly graces of Hope, Faith, and Charity, those three, the greatest of which is Charity; for it is one of the laws of our being, that in whatever position we find ourselves we cannot be secure without watching and prayer Sometimes the wreckage of a fair ship, or the first falling of the stone which is to end in the ruin of that house, may be traced to some small failure in duty, some slight wrong or omission unrepaired, or some angry word unrepented of. The woman who hopes to get through life loved and honoured to the end, and who would guard the first enthusiasm of her husband's love in all its freshness, must not expect to do so without continual care, forbearance in small matters, and bright, cheerful taking up of little crosses, which turns many a thorn into a flower, many a rough stone into a radiant jewel.

Mr. Paget turned away from watching the carriage roll off, and said to Melville and Harry:

"I hope they will have a safe journey; there is much ill-feeling abroad; and they are making a desperate effort in Bristol to secure the return of two Reform candidates. It is an unhappy business," said peace-loving Mr. Paget. "It is far better to let well alone."

"Yes," said Melville, who was far too indolent by nature to have any very keen political feeling, "it was great nonsense of old Wetherall to split with his party about the Papists, and now to be against Reform."

"As an old Tory, I am with him there," said Mr. Paget; "and there is something brave in the way he has put his own interests aside for what he believes to be right. But a judge ought not to be so violent a partisan. I hope Mrs. Arundel and those pretty babies of hers won't come in for any stone throwing and smashing of windows. There is to be a great meeting in Queen's Square to-day."

"Turn in to breakfast, Mr. Paget," Melville said. "My wife has a headache, and is not come down yet. But Harry and I will do the honours."

"Thank you kindly, no. I must ride into Wells. Why," he said, pulling the sleeve of Melville's dressing-gown, "you look like an Eastern Rajah! Your brother's blue jacket shows it off grandly. Upon my word, we are all very plain folks when compared with the master of Fair Acres."

Then, slipping a shilling into old Thomas's hand, Mr. Paget mounted his horse and rode away.

"A regular old country bumpkin!" Melville exclaimed. "He looks as if he had come out of the Ark, and taken the pattern of Noah's coat!"

"He is a splendid old fellow," Harry said. "I wish we had more county gentlemen like him. But I am rather sorry I did not offer to go on the box of the carriage. I hope Joyce won't get into any crowd, or come in for stone throwing and uproar."

"Oh, bother it! She will be all right. No one would want to steal her children; there is enough of that article in the world and to spare, without taking other people's."

Harry was nevertheless uneasy.

The unsettled condition of the whole district was becoming daily more serious. The popular cry in Bristol only the year before had been for Sir Charles Wetherall, and no Popery!

The people who went out to meet him when he came to open the assize, had cheered and applauded him, trying to take the horses out of the carriage and drag him into the city in triumph. But now a change had come over the mind of the people, and the Reform Bill was exciting them to frenzy and hatred of every man who opposed it, of whom their once idolized Recorder was one of the most prominent.

As we look back over the half century which lies between our own days and those of the great riots in the ancient city of Bristol, it is strange to mark how the questions, then so furiously contested, are now settled; how the pendulum, then swinging so violently, has subsided into a more regular beat; how even the second Reform Bill, carried by a large majority, is now a thing of the past; how the exclusion of any one from holding office, parliamentary or social, on the ground of religion, is now considered an act of tyrannical, and ill-judged interference, between the conscience of a man, and his duty to God.

These fifty years, full of the great events so strongly marked by the discoveries of science, are full also of lessons, which we do well to ponder. They seem to take the text and preach patience to those who are hot-headed, and eager to press on any reform, or to advocate, with intemperate zeal, any scheme, even though they honestly believe it is for the good of the people.

The wise advice of the Poet Laureate seems worthy to be followed at this very moment, when the kingdom is, from one end to the other, vibrating with the burning questions which shall decide the success, or non-success, of the two great parties which divide the nation:

"Have patience – ourselves are full

Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreamsAre but the needful preludes of the truth.This fine old world of ours is but a childYet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it timeTo learn its limbs – there is a Hand that guides."

The carriage containing the happy mother and her children went merrily on its way to Bristol.

The first glory of the spring was reigning everywhere. The hedgerows were full of starry primroses, and the copses carpeted with bluebells.

Fair companies of wind flowers quivered in the gentle breeze, and the variety of foliage in the woods was almost as great as in autumn. Every shade of green shone in the sunlight, from silvery birch to emerald lime, sober elm, and russet oak, with the young tassels hanging on the birch, and the contrasting sombre dark hue of the pines, clothing the woods with surpassing beauty.

The baby, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the regular sound of the horses' hoofs, was soon in profound slumber. Little Lota and Lettice, who bore the names of the aunt and niece in the Vicar's Close, after taking some buns from their grandmother's well-filled basket, also subsided into sleep. Lota was taken by her grandmother, and Lettice, with the support of Piers' arm, had a comfortable nap. Only Falcon, in the "dickey" behind, was wide awake. He was a noble-looking boy of five years old, with fresh, blue eyes and a fair complexion. He was like his mother in features, and his grandfather in his stout, athletic build. He had a loud, childish voice, and, as he whipped the back of the carriage, he sang lustily, in a sort of monotone, which kept time with the horses' feet:

"Home – home – home to father."

His mother heard the words, and they found an echo in her heart of "Home – home to Gilbert."

Joyce's girlish loveliness had developed into the matured beauty of the mother, which is always so attractive. Her face shone with that soft light of motherhood and happy wifehood which we look for in vain on many faces which are beautiful, but lack something. Her own mother acknowledged the charm, and often thought how much dearer and more beautiful Joyce had become in her eyes since her marriage, and how the father who had loved her so dearly would have rejoiced to see her now.

This thought was in her mind when Joyce said:

"Is not Lota too heavy for you, mother? Shall we change? Let me give you baby."

"No, dear, no; it would be a pity to wake the baby; how sweet she looks. There will never be any children in the old home now, I am afraid." And Mrs. Falconer sighed.

"I don't think they are wanted," Joyce said; "but perhaps till people have babies they don't know how delightful they are. Piers is laughing at me."

"Not at you. I was only thinking how Gratian and Melville would hate the bother of children about the house."

"They were very kind to us," Joyce said. "It seems to me that we may be very thankful Melville married Gratian."

"Yes, she keeps him in good order."

Mrs. Falconer had still a weak, very weak, place in her heart for Melville, and she said, sharply:

"That's not a becoming way to speak of your eldest brother."

Piers shrugged his shoulders. He took in, more fully than his mother could, the trouble that Melville's conduct had brought upon them all, especially on Ralph – Ralph, who might have done so well in scholarship, now acting as steward to his brother, with less thanks and less pay than he deserved. It irritated Piers to see Melville's self-satisfaction, and to know that from sheer indolence, if Ralph had not come to the rescue, he would have brought the inheritance of his fathers to hopeless ruin.

Melville had his wish now. Gratian took care that their position should be recognised, and they visited at the houses of the neighbouring gentry, where Gratian's ready tact, and powers of fascination, were acknowledged. It became the fashion to enliven a dull, heavy dinner by inviting Mrs. Melville Falconer, who could tell amusing stories, seasoned with French phrases, and listen with apparently deep interest to the stories other people told, whether they related to the weather, the crops, or the fashions.

Joyce saw the cloud on Piers' face, and hastened to say that Ralph had written a very clever treatise on draining land, and that Gilbert thought it would draw people's attention to the subject, from the masterly way in which it was treated.

"So Ralph's brains are of great use, after all;" she said.

"He is thrown away at Fair Acres. Harry says so, and I don't think it is fair or just. I never could get over Melville's horrid selfishness, and I don't wish to get over it."

"Piers!" Joyce said, reproachfully; "remember he is your brother."

"We have all good cause to remember it," was the muttered rejoinder.

And now, as they passed through the villages nearer Bristol, large knots of people were congregated here and there. Some stared at the carriage as they passed, some hissed, and angry voices cried:

"No Popery!" and "Reform!"

When within some four miles of the city, Susan Priday leaned over and said:

"There is a great crowd coming on behind us, ma'am; they look a very rough lot."

The carriage was going up a steep hill, and just as it had slowly reached the top, some fifty or sixty men came out from a lane, which turned off towards Bath, and called out to the post-boy to stop.

They were fierce, wild-looking men, and, as the post-boy tried to take no notice and whip on his horses, the bridles were seized and the carriage was surrounded.

Then a number of voices shouted —

"Reform! Reform! Are ye for Reform? you grand folks; if ye are, speak out!"

"Let go the horses' heads!" said Piers. "Let go! How dare you obstruct the high road?"

"Aye! aye! you young fool; we'll teach you manners!" and one of the men clenched his fist and shook it at Piers. In another moment the crowd from behind, which Susan Priday had seen, came breathlessly up the hill, women with children in their arms, all screaming, at the top of their voices, "Reform! Reform!"

One woman held up a child with a pinched, wan face, and said —

"You rich folks, you'd trample on us if you could, and we are starving! Look here!" and she bared the legs of the poor emaciated baby. "Look here! Look at your fat, stuffed-out childer, and look at this!"

"Look 'ee here, missus; we are a-going to Bristol to cry for Reform. If you say you will have nothing to do with the tyrant, Wetherall, and his cursed lot, you may go on. If not, we'll seize the carriage, we'll turn ye all out into the road, and we'll drive in state to the big meeting in Queen's Square! My! what a lark that will be!"

"Listen," Joyce said, standing up in the carriage with her child in her arms; "I am on my way home with these little children. Surely you will not stop me and endanger their lives?"

"We will! we will! if you don't give us your word you are for Reform and dead against Wetherall."

"Why," Joyce said fearlessly, "only a year ago, and near this very place, the men and women of Bristol shouted, 'Long live Wetherall!' And now!"

"Now we say, curse him!" growled a big, brawny man.

The little girls, awakened by the uproar, began to cry with fear, and Falcon called out, "Let mother go on, you bad men! I say, let her go on! Father will be so angry with you!"

"Hush! hush! dear Master Falcon," Susan said; "you will only make them worse. Hush!"

And now, as Joyce looked over the faces crowding round her, she beckoned to the woman, who had been thrust back by the pressure of others who wanted to see the inhabitants of the carriage.

"Come here," she said, holding out some of the buns; "I am so sorry for your hungry baby. Give her one of these buns, and do believe me when I say I am sorry for all your troubles."

The sweet, ringing voice began to have effect, and the clamour ceased.

"I am no enemy of the poor. My husband and I wish to do what we can for you, and I believe, nay, I know, he is an advocate of Reform, but not for rebellion against authority, and violence."

The execrations were changed now to cheers.

"Let 'em pass, she is a good 'un; let 'em pass, she has a kind heart; she has a pretty face, too. Here," said a man, "I am the father of that poor babby; shake hands, missus."

Joyce stretched out her hand at once, and it was taken in a strong grip.

"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 God 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 "dickey" 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 pass, 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 passed safely over Bristol Bridge, through Wine Street, and Corn Street, narrow thoroughfares, which necessitated at the best of times, but slow progress.

As they passed 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 assemble 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-fashioned hall to receive the travellers.

The children's spacious 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 ships, 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 God!"

"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 passed."

"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 assize 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 hoarse."