VAIN QUESTS.
The preceding events had occurred upon the night of the 2d and 3d of
June. The next day, Saturday, the city was comparatively quiet.
A feeling of assurance pervaded all classes; once again it was believed
that the riots were over. On Sunday morning several priests ventured to
celebrate mass with closed doors before their little nervous
congregations, who trembled at the slightest sound from outside and
apprehensively watched the doors, thinking of the catacombs without
possessing the courage of the early Christians. But on that same Sunday,
in the afternoon, the disorders began again and increased until
nightfall. On Monday matters were aggravated.
The blind fury of the rioters augmented with their number. It was now
directed against the wealthy Catholics and such influential personages
as had cast their vote in favor of tolerance. Savile House in Leicester
Fields was assaulted and the proprietor, Sir George Savile, one of the
most enlightened, amiable, and humane men of his time, nearly lost his
reason and his life. The mob broke into the residence of Lord Mansfield,
who escaped, half-naked, with his family, by the rear entrance. They
then built an immense pile of his furniture in the street and set fire
to it. Barnard's Inn and the Langdale distillery in Holborn yielded to
the flames. Several entire districts fell a prey to the insurgent
population. A dome of smoke hung over the city from Leicester Fields to
London Bridge, which by night flared like a vault of flame.
However, no one seemed moved as yet. Curious idlers flocked to the
scene. Between a game of "quadrille" and a sitting at the magnetizer's,
the fair gamesters, with their idle, foppish escorts, arrived by the
coachful upon the theatre of riot and conflagration. It frequently
chanced that they were set upon and robbed, the men of their purses and
snuff-boxes, the women of their watches and jewels. Sometimes the traces
were cut and the horses sent flying off in terror, while the coach was
tossed upon the blazing pile. Amidst all this the peaceful watchman
passed with slow, methodical gait, appearing to see nothing, quite as if
all were calmness about him, and swinging his sickly little lantern here
and there in the blinding glare of the fires.
Whether through inertia or policy, magisterial authority moved neither
hand nor foot. Col. Woodford having given his soldiers command to fire
upon the mob, popular exasperation rose to such a degree that he was
obliged to hide himself for several days. While the Guards were leading
their prisoners to Newgate they were assailed with every description of
missile. One of them being wounded in the face and maddened by the sight
of blood, was about to fire upon the crowd, when his captain exclaimed,
"In Heaven's name, do not fire!" Such management as this made the
fortune of the insurrection.
If any one considered that King George's ministers were cowards who had
lost their heads, he was seriously mistaken. These gentlemen, with
truly British phlegm, listened to the cries of "Death!" raised against
them much in the spirit that Fielding, playing besique behind the scenes
of Drury Lane, lent one ear to the public hissing his plays. The recital
of an eye-witness describes some strange pranks during the sittings of
the Council. He affirms that there was more claret discussed than
resolutions.
"Though I," said Lord North, indicating his colleague with pretended
terror, "go about armed to the teeth, I am more afraid of Saint John's
pistol than anything else!" Thereupon they ascended to the roof of the
house. Thence they observed the conflagration, noted its phases and
progress, and exchanged conjectures upon the direction of the wind and
upon its probable effects.
"And now, gentlemen," concluded the minister, "let us return and finish
our wine."
This government, discredited on account of its external showing, cared
not to assume the odium of an energetic repression. Curious as it may
seem, it was upon the opposition that it sought to shift the
responsibility. It was said that Lord North held an interview with Fox
in the lobby of Drury Lane Theatre. A plenary reunion of the Privy
Council was held under the presidence of the king, which only occurs at
serious crises and in times of great peril to the monarchy. The judges
were convoked in order to pass their opinions upon the course of
procedure to be pursued and to give their advice upon the legal side of
the question. It was Burke, the great Liberal orator, who proposed to
proclaim the martial law.
In fact, the most alarming tidings were received hour by hour. The Fleet
and Newgate prisons had been forced, and had vomited their prisoners
upon the pavements of London. At Rag Fair and similar localities the
orgy was at its height, the license of the mob unbridled. It was no
longer a question of papism and tolerance: it was a social revolution,
greatest of all misfortunes, which had begun; it was the subversion of
law, the accession of crime. It was reported that a formidable army was
forming for the assault of the Bank of England. Inasmuch as the bank was
the vital centre, the very heart of the country, the ministers awoke
from their lethargy. As if by enchantment several regiments entered
London from all sides and encamped with their cannon in Hyde Park. A
plan had been decided upon for the total annihilation of the revolt.
Lord Amherst mounted his horse, and when by the ruddy light of the
conflagration the aged courtier was seen advancing it was generally
understood that that class of society, until now so disdainfully
indulgent, had taken a hand, and would show itself pitiless in the
defence of its property and life. Soon the firing resounded far and
wide,--at Blackfriars, at Saint George's Fields, near the Mansion House;
the victims lay about in heaps, while the Thames received many corpses
and more than one living sacrifice.
On that terrible night, during which the horrors of civil war were added
to those of incendiarism, while so many men animated by the spirit of
vengeance and the hope of pillage rushed upon one another, a little band
of kind-hearted folk, moved by so much suffering, patrolled the streets,
bearing relief to the victims. It was Levet, the surgeon of the poor,
who urged them on, and case in hand led that dangerous campaign in the
interest of humanity.
[Illustration]
As he trudged along Cheapside with his troop, who carried the litters
and ladders, he recognized Francis Monday walking in the opposite
direction, and called out to him,--
"Is that you, Frank?"
The young man quickly raised his head, perceiving his former savior,
whom he frequently went to see and for whom he cherished a grateful
friendship.
Perhaps it is time that the young artist's conduct at the Pantheon ball
was explained.
As must have been already divined, he loved Esther Woodville--loved her
with an exclusive, profound passion which was born on the same day that
the girl made her appearance upon the stage of Drury Lane. Standing in
a corner of the _parterre_, Frank had experienced those devouring
sensations which have disturbed twenty-year-old hearts ever since the
world began.
The passion which actresses inspire in young men of indigent
circumstances and timid disposition is the most romantic and delightful
of all, since it unites every impossibility and chimera.
The footlights seem an obstacle which it is impossible to surmount;
possession appears an infeasible, madly absurd dream, the very thought
of which produces vertigo. The unrecognized lover is not jealous of the
comrades who elbow his idol and speak familiarly with her; he does not
even consider the admirer or husband who awaits her behind the scenes.
They find in her but a woman like unto all other women. The mistress of
his heart is in his sight Juliet, Imogen, Ophelia, Desdemona. She
imparts her youth and beauty to the _role_, lends poetry and passion to
it. From such a _melange_ is born a perfectly adorable creature who only
exists for a few hours for the public, but continues to live for the
lover long after the curtain has fallen and when the actress has washed
off her paint and is supping with a hearty appetite.
In this fashion had Frank loved Miss Woodville until the day that he had
met her face to face in Reynolds's studio. From that moment the young
girl replaced the artist in his mind, and he fell to loving her in
another guise. Their lengthy chat on the day that Sir Joshua was absent
from the studio had for the time being awakened certain hopes in his
heart. Why should he not love her? Why should she not grow to regard
life with his eyes? Little by little, however, without the slightest
event interposing to undeceive him, he realized how poorly calculated
were his modest lot and unceasing struggle with poverty to tempt a
girl reared amidst adulation and covetousness, amidst circumstances
which could not fail to nurture her vanity and her taste for luxury.
Many times had she returned to Sir Joshua's, and each time she had
addressed him some few rapid words, always with a touch of
embarrassment,--annoyed, as he fancied, at the recollection of that hour
of freedom and intimacy, desirous perhaps of effacing it from her
memory. The thought smote him to the heart, and, though accustomed to
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, resignation came hard.
Proportionally as the great painter advanced in his work, Frank secretly
copied the portrait of Esther. One morning, while busily engaged at his
task, the source of mingled pleasure and pain, a light chuckling caused
him to start suddenly and turn.
"You accursed gypsy!" he cried, turning pale with anger, "who permitted
you to enter here? How dare you spy upon me?"
It was Rahab, who, together with her numerous vocations, joined that of
model, and frequently posed for Sir Joshua. More than once, annoyed at
the procrastination or laziness of his fair clients, the painter had set
the head of some patrician dame or artist upon Rahab's beautiful body, a
genuine living manikin whom he could pose and drape according to his
fancy. Rahab had also consented to pose for Frank; and, although she
professed disdain for Christians, her hard, ironical eyes sometimes
softened as they rested upon the young man.
To-day she was not stirred by his anger, but with a shrug of her
shoulders remarked:--
"Poor boy! She will never be yours."
"Why not? Tell me, since you pretend to read the future."
"Because she loves Lord Mowbray."
And, turning upon her heel, she danced away, humming some gypsy ditty.
That name filled the boy's soul with discouragement. Lord Mowbray! A
cold-hearted libertine, the most corrupt, 'twas said, of all the Prince
of Wales's new _coterie_. And it was towards him that Esther's heart had
been attracted! And the passing sympathy which he had inspired in her
was due, perhaps, to his resemblance to that man! His grief was
profound; he had experienced nothing akin to it since the day in his
babyhood when he had lost his precious goldpiece.
Revolving these facts in his mind, he had gone to the Pantheon. Why
should he go to a masquerade? By what sentiment was he actuated? Some
vague desire to console his aching heart by a vulgar adventure? The hope
of meeting Esther there? No: rather that instinct which sometimes impels
the downcast to air their woes in the midst of a crowd. And while he
stood absently watching that wild scene, that dance of fools, a hand was
laid upon his shoulder.
Rahab again! What would she with him, this compatriot of the Sphinx,
with her fathomless black eyes and enigmatical smile?
"The one you love is here!" she breathed.
"What! Esther?"
"Brown domino with blue ribbons. Seek and you shall find. Is not that
what you say?"
"Yes; but explain."
"The moments are precious. In a few minutes Esther will be lost, lost
forever. Hasten, if you wish to save her. In saying this I betray some
one whom I ought to serve, but I am a woman and I pity you."
He would have questioned her further, but she slipped away and vanished
among the groups of maskers.
As deeply moved and agitated as he had just been indifferent and
discouraged, Frank traversed the ballroom, searching in every direction
for the domino which had been described to him. All at once he uttered a
stifled cry; he had discovered the object of his quest. He hastened
forward and was at her side in a moment. She was alone, but her eyes,
seen through the openings in her velvet mask, seemed to be anxiously
watching.
"Esther," he said to her, "a danger menaces you. What it may be I know
not, having only received a hint of it: but permit me to follow your
footsteps that I may watch over and save you; for save you I must in
spite of yourself."
He had seized the young woman's hand and was pressing it between his
own, without for a moment doubting that the true Esther stood before
him.
The unknown answered never a word, but yielded her hand to his clasp as
though she derived some pleasure from the contact with this feverish
love. A man approached them and for an instant raised his mask. Frank
recognized him; it was Lebeau, Lord Mowbray's intimate companion. The
young man turned upon him with a menacing air, determined to prevent his
companion from following him.
"Is your ladyship ready?" inquired Lebeau.
"Quite ready. Good night, Mr. Monday."
The voice of Lady Vereker! Frank remained riveted to the spot in
amazement. So, then, the gypsy had tricked him. He left the Pantheon and
gained his lonely garret room, vainly seeking some solution of the
adventure.
Next day Mr. Fisher did not appear, as was his custom, in order to serve
Sir Joshua. However, the riot had ceased, and to all outward appearance
London had regained her wonted tranquillity. Soon it would be known that
Mr. Fisher had passed the night searching for Miss Woodville, who,
according to report, had been carried off by Lord Mowbray. The accident
was of too common occurrence to arouse spirited comment, especially at
so serious a time. The invasion of Parliament, or what almost amounted
to an invasion, was an affair of far greater importance than the
abduction of an _ingenue_. On this account Ralph, who gayly recounted
the news to the young artist, was stupefied to see him seize his hat and
rush forth into the street.
Frank hastened directly to Fisher's house, who had at once shut himself
up in prudent reserve; but, pressed by questions and touched by the
young man's emotion, he ended by narrating the night's events and
proposing that he should call upon Mrs. Marsham. The good woman had wept
incessantly and was in a fine frenzy of despair, having fallen from a
state of the most serene confidence into the extreme of despondency. Her
niece abducted; her son lost to sight but sought by justice for the
events of the preceding day, of which she was beginning to comprehend
the importance; her house occupied by soldiers; and even Maud gone, no
one knew whither nor with whom! Such a conglomeration of misfortunes
was indeed enough to disturb the steadiest brain and unseat the best
established optimism. It was amidst such disorder that Frank found her,
ignorant how to solve the problem, and fearing, if she claimed the aid
of the authorities to find her niece, that by the step she should
deliver over her son to his hunters.
There was no help to be expected from this poor, half-crazed woman;
Fisher had his clients to attend to; while O'Flannigan, believing
himself menaced as a Catholic, remained under cover in his lodgings.
Thrown upon his own resources, Frank registered a mental oath that he
would find Esther, and during those days of terror and battle,
indifferent to the prevailing trouble, insensible to his own danger, he
came and went, passing from the turbulent quarters to the more peaceful
districts, searching the lost clew with impassioned despair.
From the first day he knew beyond peradventure that Mowbray's "Folly"
was deserted. Thanks to the persuasion that resides in a goldpiece, the
footman who was left in charge of the place found no difficulty in
permitting the young man to enter. He showed him all the secrets of the
house, the subterranean passages, even the boudoir where Reuben had
passed the night.
"At daybreak," said he to Frank, "the stranger and the young lady were
placed in a berlin, and no one knows whither they went."
Frank was satisfied by Fisher's recital that "the young lady" could have
been none other than Lady Vereker. It was she who had mystified Mowbray
as she had for a moment deceived him. She, then, was the one to give him
the key to the enigma. He hastened to her residence, but was not
received. Her ladyship was not in town! He recalled the gypsy's words,
who, undoubtedly having been paid by the young nobleman, had played a
part in the comedy. In order to find her he visited every spot where the
gypsies were accustomed to camp,--Blackheath, Hampstead, the fields
adjoining the Edgeware Road and Notting Hill. All in vain! Probably the
members of the tribe had rushed into the thick of the riot which
occupied the heart of the city.
At last he understood that the gypsy had been but an instrument. As for
Lady Vereker, would she be likely to wish to save Esther or recapture
her lost lover for her own sake? Would she not play her own game? Would
she obey the will of the one who had directed the whole intrigue? It was
then that his thoughts reverted to Lebeau. That mysterious person who
was said to be the purveyor of Lord Mowbray's diversions had always
inspired him with a vague repulsion. Two or three times he had met him,
and each time he had felt annoyance at the piercing glance which the man
had fixed upon him. Still it was he who had approached Lady Vereker at
the Pantheon and had asked,--
"Are you ready?"
Frank began to suspect some shady machination to which Lebeau held the
thread.
While Lord Mowbray, accompanied by his faithful Hackman, was seen
everywhere, following with the interest of a dilettante the progress of
the riot, Lebeau was invisible. Where was he concealed, and why should
he conceal himself? Was Esther his prisoner, the victim of this
scoundrel in some undiscovered lair? Frank's blood curdled with horror
and rage at the thought.
It had been reported that at the moment Lord Mowbray's coach had carried
off a masked woman, another young woman similarly attired, and escorted
by a gentleman whose features were not distinguishable, had entered a
sedan-chair which stood in waiting for her at one of the side entrances.
This chair had been borne off rapidly in the direction of the city.
Frank had questioned every chairman he chanced to meet; no one could or
would give him the slightest satisfaction. After three days of fruitless
search in every sense, he was at last forced to avow his impotence, when
he was accosted by Levet, the surgeon.
"Come with us," said the big-hearted man; "there are Christians to be
succored, lives to be saved, for to-night the devils are loose, and I
know not which are more to be feared, the incendiaries or the soldiers.
Since so many are doing their worst, let us try to accomplish some
little good."
Without a word Frank followed him. He needed action to lessen his fever,
to make him forget his mortal anxiety. The office which he was about to
fill at Levet's side was rife with peril, but whenever did a desperate
man count the cost of his action?