Under the Mendips: A Tale

There was to all noble-hearted men, something terribly humiliating in the aspect of affairs. Here was a seething, ignorant crowd of men, women, and boys, intimidating the magistrates, frightening the Mayor till he actually barricaded his windows in the Mansion House with his bed; and Sir Charles Wetherall beating an undignified retreat from the flat roof of the dining-room. There, helped by a woman's hand, who set up a ladder for him, he dropped in pitiable terror into the stables behind, and hid in a loft. Gilbert, standing on guard by the corner of the Square with four friends bravely holding their ground, and warding off with their staves the excited crowd, recognised in the dim light the Recorder slipping by, in a post-boy's dress, which actually passed him through the crowd, till he found himself safe at Kingsdown. And if the cowardice of the Recorder, in escaping for dear life from the storm he had himself roused was unprecedented, the wavering uncertainty of the Colonel in command of the troops was scarcely less reprehensible!

How Gilbert longed to take a prominent part, and how his heart burned with righteous indignation against the weakness and incapacity of those in command.

Everything seemed to go from bad to worse, till Captain Gage received orders to protect the Council-house. He then charged through High Street and Wine Street, and drove the rioters, who assailed the soldiers with stones, into the narrow lanes and alleys.

Many were wounded with sabre cuts, and Gilbert, in his efforts to save a woman and child from being trampled down, just by the old timber house at the corner of Wine Street, was overpowered by the press behind him, and, just as he had succeeded in placing the woman and her infant in safety on the high stone sill of a window, he was stunned by a blow, given at a venture from a stout stick, and would have fallen and been trampled to death, had not a pair of strong arms seized him and borne him to a comparatively quiet place on the quay.

Gilbert was stunned and hardly conscious, and when he found himself on his feet, he staggered and fell against a wall. Some soldiers riding up, chased a band of rioters out of Clare Street, and Gilbert saw the great giant who had delivered him felled by a sabre cut. The crowd passed over him, and when it had cleared, Gilbert, himself feeble and exhausted, bent over the man, and tried to drag him nearer the houses.

He was bleeding profusely, and hailing a cart passing to the Infirmary with two wounded men, Gilbert begged the driver in charge, to raise the prostrate man, and take him also to the Infirmary. It was no easy matter, but at last it was accomplished, and a pair of dark, blood-shot eyes were turned on Gilbert. The man tried to articulate, but no sound came. As the cart was moving off, Gilbert saw he made a desperate effort.

He raised his hand, and cried out with all his remaining strength, "Tell your good lady I kept my word, and I saved you from harm!"

"Stop!" Gilbert said to the driver, "stop; this man has saved my life. I must come to the Infirmary to see he has proper care and attention."

"You look fit for a 'ospital bed yourself, sir," said the man. "Jump up, and I'll take you for a consideration," he added, with a knowing twinkle of his eye.

Faint and exhausted himself, Gilbert saw the wounded man placed in one of the wards with the others, whose condition was less serious, and, bending over the man, he said:

"I recognise you now. You are Bob Priday?"

The man nodded assent.

"I've been a bad 'un," he said. "I went in for these riots, 'cause I was sick of my life; but I'd like to see your good lady once more, and poor little Sue. Her mother used to reckon her next to a saint, as she sat learning her hymns. I've scoffed and jeered at 'em, and sent the boys to the bad, and threatened the squire. I did not kill him, though; and yet, what do you think, she, the squire's daughter, your good lady, bid God bless me, and let me touch her hand; why, ever since I've kinder felt that if she could pardon, God might."

"He will pardon the chief of sinners, for Christ's sake," said Gilbert.

The man's wound was bleeding profusely, and he soon became confused and wandering; and his face assumed a livid hue as Gilbert bent over him.

"My wife will not forget that you saved my life," he said; "and I know if it is possible she will come and see you, and bring your daughter with her."

"He is nearly unconscious," said the surgeon. "Dear me! sir, what a time this is for Bristol. This is the sixth case brought in since noon. God knows where the riots will end! You were sworn in as a special constable, I suppose?"

"Yes, but to little purpose. Resistance is useless, unless well organised."

"That's true enough; but there is no head, that's the mischief of it; no head anywhere. Do you live in Bristol, sir?"

"In Great George Street; I am returning there now. You will look after this man?"

"Yes; but he won't get over it. A bad subject – a very bad subject. He is very prostrate," the surgeon continued, laying a professional finger on the great muscular wrist; "his hours are numbered. That's a bad blow on your forehead, sir; let me put a bandage on; and how are you getting home?"

"As I came, I suppose. There seems a lull in the uproar now, and I shall be able to get back by Trinity Street and up by Brandon Hill."

Gilbert submitted to the bandage, and thankfully drank a reviving draught, which the surgeon gave him, and then he turned his face homewards.

He was dizzy and bewildered, and did not feel as if he could again face the crowd, so he reached home by a circuitous road, entering Great George Street from the upper end.

It was nearly one o'clock before he stood by his own door, and he found two of his friends, who had served with him as special constables, coming out. They had left Queen's Square empty, they said, and not a rioter was to be seen there, and the troops had returned to their quarters.

Joyce, hearing her husband's voice, came downstairs, and not a moment too soon. Thoroughly exhausted, and suffering from the blow on his head, he would have fallen, had not his two friends caught him and carried him, at Joyce's request, to his own room.

Gilbert tried to make light of his condition, and said it was only the noise and shouting which had bewildered him.

"We lost sight of you after the troops cleared Queen's Square, Arundel. What became of you?"

"I got separated in the rush just by Wine Street, and there a woman and a baby were in some danger; and as I made a plunge to get them to a place of safety, someone gave me a chance thump on the head, and I might have been trampled to death had not a man saved me, in his turn to be cut down by the sabre of one of the soldiers; he now lies dying in the Infirmary; and the man, Joyce, is Bob Priday."

"He kept his promise, then." Joyce said, clasping her hands; "he kept his promise to me."

"Yes, darling, it was the touch of your little, white hand, he said, which brought to his heart the hope that God would forgive him."

Joyce, kneeling by the sofa where her husband lay, hid her face in the pillow, while Mr. Bengough and Mr. Cooper, his two friends, left the room with Mrs. Arundel, and promised to send a surgeon who lived near them in Berkley Square.

"He is as brave as a lion," Mr. Bengough said; "you may well be proud of your son."

The doctor came, and advised entire rest and quiet, and told Joyce that she might console herself with the certainty that her husband would be unfit for any action, as special constable for many a day to come.

How thankful Joyce felt that she had not left the house with her children, and that she was there to nurse and tend her husband with the thousand sweet observances which are the consolation of every true wife to render, in the hour of need.

The Sunday morning broke over an apparently quiet city, and as Joyce looked from the window of her room, after two hours of refreshing sleep, she could see no one moving in the distant streets, and heard no sound.

It seemed a true sabbath stillness, which was in itself a healing power.

As the mist of the October morning lifted, the Cathedral Tower, and that of St. Mary Redclyffe, stood out in solemn majesty, steadfast and unmoved for all the riot and confusion which had so lately reigned beneath them.

St. Stephen's stately tower, further to the left, raised its head above the street where Joyce knew her husband had been in such peril; and her heart swelled with thankfulness to God, who had preserved his life. Then her thoughts flew to the Infirmary ward, where Bob Priday lay dying, and she felt determined that, if possible, Susan should see him, and she laid her plans to effect this meeting.

As soon as Falcon woke, she lifted him from his bed and took him to the nursery, washing him and dressing him, and kneeling with him to say his morning prayers; then she said to the boy:

"Falcon, grandmamma is asleep, and so is dear father. Dear father has been hurt by the rioters, and is to lie in bed very quiet all day. I want to go up to Clifton to see the baby Joy, and Lettice and Lota. I shall leave you to watch by father, and if he stirs or wakes, call grandmamma. Will you do this?"

"Yes, mother," the boy said. Then with a sigh, "I hope the riots are over now. At first I liked to hear the noise, and watch the crowd, but I got tired of it. Are we to go to church, mother?"

"If I can get back in time, darling, you shall go to church with Mary, but I don't think I shall go to-day."

Then she gave Falcon his basin of bread and milk, moving so gently that no one heard her lighting the nursery fire, and performing with her accustomed nicety all the little household duties which had been familiar to her from early childhood. Then she shared Falcon's breakfast with him, gave him a volume of the old "Children's Friend," with the funny little woodcuts, which were the delight of the children of fifty years ago; and, establishing him in the window-seat in his father's room, left him on guard. It was beautiful to see how the noisy, high-spirited child, responded to his mother's hand, and felt a proud sense of serving her, as he was left in the room to take care of his father.

The clocks were chiming a quarter to eight as Joyce reached Park Street, where all was quiet, but she heard several passers by, say that Queen's Square was again thronged, and that the "roughs" were forcing their way back to the scene of the previous day's disturbances.

By the turn to Berkley Square, Joyce met Mr. Bengough, who was hurrying down to the Guildhall, where, he said, Major Mackworth was attempting to organise the special constables; but that Colonel Brereton's folly in removing his troops to the Leigh stables, had given the mob every encouragement.

"You may be glad, Mrs. Arundel, that your husband is out of the fray; there will be more broken heads before midnight, I expect."

"I trust and pray, you may be kept safely. Come in, later in the day, and let us hear," Joyce said, as she parted from Mr. Bengough and walked quickly towards Clifton. All was quiet there, and when Joyce arrived at Down Cottage, her two little girls came flying to meet her, looking like two daisies, fresh from their morning bath.

Joyce was struck with her mother's admirable management. She was always up with the lark in her old home at Fair Acres, and she kept up her country habits.

The breakfast was ready in the little dining-room, and everyone was there but Charlotte. Piers had the baby Joy, upon his knee, and Mrs. Falcon declared she had been as "good as gold" all night.

It was hard to believe that Clifton Down Cottage could be so near to the tumultuous city; everything seemed going on as it did every day, and no one appeared excited or troubled. When Joyce had told her story of the previous night, however, the real state of affairs seemed brought home to the little party, and Lota said:

"I want to go home to kiss father, and make his head well."

Presently Joyce said she must see Susan, and she asked Piers to come with her for a moment into his own room.

Piers delivered the baby to her grandmother, and, taking up his crutches, followed Joyce. In the passage they met Charlotte.

"How early you have come," she said. "I was called so early, as Mrs. Falconer wanted the rooms to be made tidy; but really I was not fit to get up at all. I am so dreadfully upset by yesterday's events."

"Joyce has more reason to be upset, as you call it," Piers said, "than you have, with Gilbert laid up with a blow on his head."

"Oh! how dreadful! how shocking! dearest Joyce; what can I do?"

"Nothing; but go and have your breakfast; mother hates having the things kept on the table."

"I have no patience with her," Piers said, wrathfully, as he closed the door of his den behind him and his sister; "I do verily believe she thinks she is going to be Lady Maythorne, I do indeed."

"Oh! Piers, impossible! she cannot be so foolish."

"My dear, it would be a long plumb-line to sound her folly, or his either."

"But he is in difficulties as to money; he came here because he wanted to get some out of his sister."

"Has Aunt Letitia any money?" Piers asked.

"Of course, she has her own income, and – "

"Will leave it all to Charlotte. Now do you see?"

"I see what you mean, but it must be prevented, it is too preposterous."

"But now, Piers, dear Piers, I want to ask your advice. I could not trouble Gilbert, he is very much hurt," and Joyce's voice faltered. "The man who saved Gilbert's life is Susan's father, Bob Priday."

Piers made a gesture of astonishment. "The man who took our father's life," he murmured.

"Indirectly, not intentionally quite, as we always thought. Piers, I should like to go to the Infirmary, and take Susan with me. Will you help us, and come with us?"

"You may get into another scrimmage, Joyce; is it right?"

"I think it is right," Joyce said, gently; "I asked God about it, you know."

Here was Joyce's sense of strength in weakness; she had always a refuge and a Councillor at hand. Her religion was not one of many words; it was emphatically the religion of Peace – and in quietness and confidence she could rest.

"It seems to me, Piers, as if it would be cruel to deny a dying man this last act of grace."

"He does not deserve it."

"Ah! Piers, what do we deserve of God?"

"Well," he said, "I will go with you if I can get a hackney-coach; a lame fellow like me can't very well trudge down there on foot. But as you do everything to please other people, it is only fair I should try to please you."

"I don't wish to tell mother yet, but I will go and call Susan, dear, good Susan, and tell her to get ready."

"I hope she won't make a scene," Piers said, "I hate scenes, and I don't see what good you will do, but here goes;" and Piers took his hat and went to do his sister's bidding.