“AND A MAN’S FOES SHALL BE THEY OF HIS OWN HOUSEHOLD”
THE county polling day meanwhile drew near, and with its approach party
spirit rose and the mutual exasperation of both sides increased. George
and his father were out every evening at the Institute or canvassing, and
George’s first attempts at public speaking were a success. At length the
day dawned which was to decide their fate. Cowfold was the polling
station for a large district, and both sides fully recognised its
importance. The Democratic colour was orange, and the Tory was purple.
Everybody wore rosettes, and bands of music went about the town, carrying
flags and banners, which had such an effect upon the Cowfold population,
more particularly upon that portion of it which knew nothing whatever of
the questions at issue, that the mere sound of the instruments or sight
of a bit of bunting tied to a pole was sufficient to enable them to dare
a broken head, or even death. Beer may have been partly the cause of
this peculiar mental condition, but not entirely, for sober persons felt
the contagion. We may laugh at it if we please, and no doubt it is
evidence of the weakness of human nature; but, like much more evidence of
the same order, it is double-voiced, and testifies also to our strength.
Priscilla was staying that night with her mother. Mr. Broad’s house, at
the end of the town, was very quiet, and George did not care to leave her
alone with the servant. Those were the days when the state of the poll
was published every hour, and as Cowfold lay near the centre of the
county a very fair opinion could be formed of the progress of the voting.
By three o’clock it was known that up to eleven parties were neck and
neck, and the excitement grew more and more intense. Every public-house
in Cowfold was free, and soon after dinner-time there was not a single
person in the place who was ever drunk before who had not found it
necessary to get drunk then in order to support the strain on his nerves.
Four o’clock came, and the polling-booth was shut; the numbers were made
up, and the two committees now anxiously awaited the news from the
outlying districts. The general impression seemed to be that the popular
candidate would win by about a dozen, and by eight o’clock a crowd had
assembled before the “Cross Keys” to give due welcome to the desired
announcement. Ten o’clock came, and the mob began to get impatient and
unruly. Then there was a stir and a roar, and the whole assemblage
rushed off to the “Angel,” in the square. On the balcony was a huge
placard, with the purple hero at the top—1837—and below was the orange
favourite, in small and ignominious figures—1831. Bushel stood at the
open window waving his hat, apparently half frantic. Just underneath him
was a smaller crowd of the purple faction, who were cheering and bawling
with all their might as the enemy came in sight. In an instant the
conflict had begun. The purple banners were the first objects of attack,
and disappeared every one of them, in less than five minutes, underfoot.
Seen from one of the upper storeys of the houses, the square looked like
a great pot full of boiling confusion. By degrees the wearers of purple
were driven hard against the “Angel” yard-gates, which opened to receive
them; some who were not successful in securing admittance escaping, with
bloody heads, down the side lane, and so out across the fields. There
was great difficulty in shutting the gates again; but the “Angel”
hostlers appeared on the scene with pitchforks and other weapons, which
caused an ebb of the tide for a moment. They managed in the nick of time
to swing the gates together, and the heavy wooden bar was thrown across
them. The orange party was now triumphant, but very unhappy, because it
was able to do no further mischief. Suddenly Bushel was seen again at
the window, and, as it was afterwards averred, made some insulting
gesture. A stone was the prompt response, and in five minutes there was
not a whole pane of glass left in the front of the building. “Have old
Bushel out! Smoke ’em out!” was shouted, and a rush followed towards the
door. But the insurgents had no siege train for such a fortress, and the
sight of two or three fowling-pieces somewhat damped their courage. They
therefore turned off, wrecked the brewer’s house, and forced the “Angel”
tap, which was separated from the main building. The spirit-casks were
broached, and men turned the gin and brandy taps into their mouths
without waiting for glasses. Many of them, especially those who first
entered, were at once overcome and dropped, lying about in the room and
in the gutter perfectly insensible. The remainder, who could only drink
what was left, became more and more riotous, and a general sack of all
purple property was imminent. Mr. Allen was at the “Cross Keys,” but
George was at home, and as he watched the scene he saw the mob take a
kind of lurch and sway along the street which led to Mr. Broad’s. He
thought he heard Mr. Broad’s name, and in an instant he had buttoned-up
his coat, taken the heaviest stick he could find, and was off. He had
the greatest difficulty in forcing his way, and he did not reach the
front of the crowd till it was opposite Mr. Broad’s and the destruction
of the windows had begun. He leaped over the iron railing, and presented
himself at the gate with the orange rosette on his coat and the stick in
his right hand. He was just in time, for yells of “Psalm-singing old
hypocrite!” were already in the air, and the fence was being stormed.
George administered to the foremost ruffian a blow on the shoulder which
felled him on the path outside, and then, standing on the low brick wall
on which the railings rested, showed his rosette, brandished his club,
and made some kind of inarticulate expostulation, which, happily for him
and Mr. Broad, was received with cheers. Whether taken by itself it
would have been effectual or not cannot be said, for just at that moment
a more powerful auxiliary appeared. When the “Angel” was abandoned the
imprisoned garrison, amongst whom were one or two county magistrates,
held a brief consultation. They organised their force and marched out,
the well-to-do folk in front and abreast, armed with bludgeons, the
“Angel” dependents—and about fifty more of the refugees coming in the
rear, every garden and stable weapon of offence being distributed amongst
them. They had the advantage, of course, of being sober. They advanced
at a run, and their tramp was heard just as George was beginning to try
the effect of his eloquence. Panic and scattering flight at once
followed, not, however, before some dozen or so of the fugitives had
recovered what little sense they ever had by virtue of sundry hard knocks
on their skulls, and a dozen more or so had been captured. By twelve
o’clock Cowfold was quiet and peaceable.
Citizens were left to wonder how their town, lying usually so sleepily
still, like a farmyard on a summer Sunday afternoon, could ever transform
itself after this fashion. Men unknown and never before seen seemed
suddenly to spring out of the earth, and as suddenly to disappear. Who
were they? Respectable Cowfold, which thought it knew everybody in the
place, could not tell. There was no sign of their existence on the next
day. People gathered together and looked at the mischief wrought the
night before, and talked everlastingly about it; but the doers of it
vanished, rapt away apparently into an invisible world. On Sunday next,
at one o’clock, Cowfold Square, save for a few windows not yet mended,
looked just as it always looked; that is to say, not a soul was visible
in it, and the pump was, as usual, chained.
The band of rescuers had passed George as he stood in the garden, and
when they had gone he knocked at the door. It was a long time before
anybody came, but at last it was partly opened, just as far as the chain
would permit, and the Reverend John Broad, looking very white and with a
candle in his hand appeared.
“It is I, George, Mr. Broad. Please tell me how Priscilla is, and—how
you all are after your fright. I will not come in if you are all well.”
“No, Mr. George, you will not come in. I little thought that a member of
Tanner’s Lane Church, and my daughter’s husband, would associate himself
with such disgraceful proceedings as those we have witnessed this
evening.”
“But, Mr. Broad, you are quite mistaken. I was not with the mob. I came
here as soon as I could to protect you.”
Mr. Broad, terrified and wrathful, had, however, disappeared, and George
heard the bolts drawn. He was beside himself with passion, and knocked
again and again, but there was no answer. He was inclined to try and
break open the door at first, or seek an entrance through a window, but
he thought of Priscilla, and desisted.
He was turning homewards, when he reflected that it would be useless to
attempt to go to sleep, and he wandered out into the country towards
Piddingfold, pondering over many things. The reaction of that night had
been too severe. His ardour was again almost entirely quenched when he
saw the men for whom he had worked, and who professed themselves his
supporters, filthily drunk. A noble sentence, however, from the _Idler_
came into his mind—his mother had a copy of the _Idler_ in her bedroom,
and read and re-read it, and oftentimes quoted it to her husband and her
son—“_He that has improved the virtue or advanced the happiness of one
fellow-creature . . . may be contented with his own performance_; _and_,
_with respect to mortals like himself_, _may demand_, _like Augustus_,
_to be dismissed at his departure with applause_.” He reflected that he,
an ironmonger’s son, was not born to save the world, and if the great Dr.
Johnson could say what he did, with how little ought not a humble Cowfold
tradesman to be satisfied! We all of us have too vast a conception of
the duty which Providence has imposed upon us; and one great service
which modern geology and astronomy have rendered is the abatement of the
fever by which earnest people are so often consumed. But George’s
meditations all through that night were in the main about his wife, and
as soon as he reached his shop in the morning, the first thing he did was
to write a note to her telling her to come home. This she did, although
her mother and father objected, and George found her there at
dinner-time. She looked pale and careworn, but this, of course, was set
down to fright. She was unusually quiet, and George forbore to say
anything about her father’s behaviour. He dreaded rather to open the
subject; he could not tell to what it might lead. Priscilla knew all
about George’s repulse from her father’s door, and George could tell she
knew it.
His father and he had determined that Cowfold would not be a pleasant
place for them on the following Sunday, and that business, moreover,
demanded their presence in London. Thither, accordingly, they went on
the Saturday, as usual; and Priscilla naturally communicating their
intention to her mother, Mr. Thomas Broad received an epistle from his
father something like one we have already read, but still more imperative
in its orders that the dutiful son should see whether the Allens made
Zachariah’s house their head-quarters. That they did not sleep there was
well-known, but it was believed they had constant intercourse with that
unregenerate person, a disciple of Voltaire, as the Reverend John Broad
firmly believed, and it would be “advantageous to possess accumulated
evidence of the fact.” Priscilla knew that they lodged always at the
“George and Blue Boar”; but how they spent their time on Sunday she did
not know. There was also a postscript, this time with a new import:
“It has been reported that Coleman’s daughter is a young female not
without a certain degree of attractiveness. It may perhaps, my dear
Thomas, be some day of service to me and to the church if you were to
inform me whether you have observed any tendencies towards
familiarity between George and this person. I need not at the
present moment give you my reasons for this inquiry. It will be
sufficient to say that I have nothing more in view than the welfare
of the flock which Divine Providence has committed to my charge.”
Mr. Thomas did his duty, and a letter was received by his father on the
following Tuesday, which was carefully locked up in the drawer in which
the sermons were preserved.
The next day—that is to say, on Wednesday—George was at work, as usual,
when his little maid came to say that her mistress was very bad, and
would he go home directly? She had been unwell for some days, but it was
not thought that there was anything serious the matter with her. George
followed the girl at once, and found Priscilla in bed with a violent
headache and very feverish. The doctor came, and pronounced it a case of
“low fever,” a disease well enough known in Cowfold. Let us make the
dismal story as brief as possible. Nurse Barton, hearing of her “dear
boy’s” trouble, presented herself uninvited that evening at ten o’clock,
and insisted that George should not sit up. She remained in the house,
notwithstanding Mrs. Broad’s assurances that she really was not wanted,
and watched over Priscilla till the end came.
About a week afterwards, just when Priscilla seemed to be getting a
little better—she had been delirious, but her senses had returned—and
Mrs. Allen, who had been in the house all day, had departed, a change for
the worse took place, and the doctor was summoned. George, sitting in
the parlour alone, heard Nurse Barton come downstairs.
“My dear boy,” she said as she entered, “God in His mercy strengthen you
in this trial as He has laid upon you, but I thought I’d just come and
tell you myself. The doctor wor a-comm’, but I said ‘No; my boy shall
hear it from me.’ I don’t think as your wife will get better; she don’t
seem to pull herself up a bit. She a’nt got no strength no more than a
fly. You’d better see her, I think.”
“Who is there?”
“Her mother and the doctor.”
“Can’t you get rid of them?”
“All right, my dear. I must stay with you both, but you won’t mind
me—God bless you!” and the woman put her arms round George’s neck and
kissed him tenderly.
She returned, and presently she redeemed her promise, for she actually
got Mrs. Broad away. At first she was obstinate, but Priscilla whispered
that she wished to see her husband alone, and the doctor took upon him to
warn Mrs. Broad that resistance on her part might be dangerous. She then
retreated with him, and George found himself by the bedside. His wife
was so prostrate that she was hardly able to make herself heard, but she
lifted up her finger and made a sign that he should bend his head down to
her. He bent it down, and her damp brown hair—the beautiful brown hair
he had loved so—lay on his forehead, and its scent was all about him once
more.
“George, my dear,” she just breathed out, “I am a poor silly girl, but I
always loved you.”
He stopped her instantly with his kisses, but Death had stopped her too.
He recoiled for a moment, and with a sudden scream. “O God, she’s gone!”
he fell into the arms of his nurse, who stood behind him.