Mr. Tryan was right in saying that the ‘row’ in Milby had been
preconcerted by Dempster. The placards and the caricature were prepared
before the departure of the delegates; and it had been settled that Mat
Paine, Dempster’s clerk, should ride out on Thursday morning to meet them
at Whitlow, the last place where they would change horses, that he might
gallop back and prepare an ovation for the triumvirate in case of their
success. Dempster had determined to dine at Whitlow: so that Mat Paine
was in Milby again two hours before the entrance of the delegates, and
had time to send a whisper up the back streets that there was promise of
a ‘spree’ in the Bridge Way, as well as to assemble two knots of picked
men--one to feed the flame of orthodox zeal with gin-and-water, at the
Green Man, near High Street; the other to solidify their church
principles with heady beer at the Bear and Ragged Staff in the Bridge
Way.
The Bridge Way was an irregular straggling street, where the town fringed
off raggedly into the Whitlow road: rows of new red-brick houses, in
which ribbon-looms were rattling behind long lines of window, alternating
with old, half-thatched, half-tiled cottages--one of those dismal wide
streets where dirt and misery have no long shadows thrown on them to
soften their ugliness. Here, about half-past five o’clock, Silly Caleb,
an idiot well known in Dog Lane, but more of a stranger in the Bridge
Way, was seen slouching along with a string of boys hooting at his heels;
presently another group, for the most part out at elbows, came briskly in
the same direction, looking round them with an air of expectation; and at
no long interval, Deb Traunter, in a pink flounced gown and floating
ribbons, was observed talking with great affability to two men in
seal-skin caps and fustian, who formed her cortege. The Bridge Way began
to have a presentiment of something in the wind. Phib Cook left her
evening wash-tub and appeared at her door in soap-suds, a bonnet-poke,
and general dampness; three narrow-chested ribbon-weavers, in rusty black
streaked with shreds of many-coloured silk, sauntered out with their
hands in their pockets; and Molly Beale, a brawny old virago, descrying
wiry Dame Ricketts peeping out from her entry, seized the opportunity of
renewing the morning’s skirmish. In short, the Bridge Way was in that
state of excitement which is understood to announce a ‘demonstration’ on
the part of the British public; and the afflux of remote townsmen
increasing, there was soon so large a crowd that it was time for Bill
Powers, a plethoric Goliath, who presided over the knot of beer-drinkers
at the Bear and Ragged Staff, to issue forth with his companions, and,
like the enunciator of the ancient myth, make the assemblage distinctly
conscious of the common sentiment that had drawn them together. The
expectation of the delegates’ chaise, added to the fight between Molly
Beale and Dame Ricketts, and the ill-advised appearance of a lean
bull-terrier, were a sufficient safety-valve to the popular excitement
during the remaining quarter of an hour; at the end of which the chaise
was seen approaching along the Whitlow road, with oak boughs ornamenting
the horses’ heads; and, to quote the account of this interesting scene
which was sent to the _Rotherby Guardian_, ‘loud cheers immediately
testified to the sympathy of the honest fellows collected there, with the
public-spirited exertions of their fellow-townsmen.’ Bill Powers, whose
bloodshot eyes, bent hat, and protuberant altitude, marked him out as the
natural leader of the assemblage, undertook to interpret the common
sentiment by stopping the chaise, advancing to the door with raised hat,
and begging to know of Mr. Dempster, whether the Rector had forbidden the
‘canting lecture’.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Dempster. ‘Keep up a jolly good hurray.’
No public duty could have been more easy and agreeable to Mr. Powers and
his associates, and the chorus swelled all the way to the High Street,
where, by a mysterious coincidence often observable in these spontaneous
‘demonstrations’, large placards on long poles were observed to shoot
upwards from among the crowd, principally in the direction of Tucker’s
Lane, where the Green Man was situated. One bore, ‘Down with the
Tryanites!’ another, ‘No Cant!’ another, ‘Long live our venerable
Curate!’ and one in still larger letters, ‘Sound Church Principles and no
Hypocrisy!’ But a still more remarkable impromptu was a huge caricature
of Mr. Tryan in gown and band, with an enormous aureole of yellow hair
and upturned eyes, standing on the pulpit stairs and trying to pull down
old Mr. Crewe. Groans, yells, and hisses--hisses, yells, and groans--only
stemmed by the appearance of another caricature representing Mr. Tryan
being pitched head-foremost from the pulpit stairs by a hand which the
artist, either from subtilty of intention or want of space, had left
unindicated. In the midst of the tremendous cheering that saluted this
piece of symbolical art, the chaise had reached the door of the Red Lion,
and loud cries of ‘Dempster for ever!’ with a feebler cheer now and then
for Tomlinson and Budd, were presently responded to by the appearance of
the public-spirited attorney at the large upper window, where also were
visible a little in the background the small sleek head of Mr. Budd, and
the blinking countenance of Mr. Tomlinson.
Mr. Dempster held his hat in his hand, and poked his head forward with a
butting motion by way of bow. A storm of cheers subsided at last into
dropping sounds of ‘Silence!’ ‘Hear him!’ ‘Go it, Dempster!’ and the
lawyer’s rasping voice became distinctly audible.
‘Fellow-townsmen! It gives us the sincerest pleasure--I speak for my
respected colleagues as well as myself--to witness these strong proofs of
your attachment to the principles of our excellent Church, and your zeal
for the honour of our venerable pastor. But it is no more than I expected
of you. I know you well. I’ve known you for the last twenty years to be
as honest and respectable a set of ratepayers as any in this county. Your
hearts are sound to the core! No man had better try to thrust his cant
and hypocrisy down _your_ throats. You’re used to wash them with liquor
of a better flavour. This is the proudest moment in my own life, and I
think I may say in that of my colleagues, in which I have to tell you
that our exertions in the cause of sound religion and manly morality have
been crowned with success. Yes, my fellow-townsmen! I have the
gratification of announcing to you thus formally what you have already
learned indirectly. The pulpit from which our venerable pastor has fed us
with sound doctrine for half a century is not to be invaded by a
fanatical, sectarian, double-faced, Jesuitical interloper! We are not to
have our young people demoralized and corrupted by the temptations to
vice, notoriously connected with Sunday evening lectures! We are not to
have a preacher obtruding himself upon us, who decries good works, and
sneaks into our homes perverting the faith of our wives and daughters! We
are not to be poisoned with doctrines which damp every innocent
enjoyment, and pick a poor man’s pocket of the sixpence with which he
might buy himself a cheerful glass after a hard day’s work, under
pretence of paying for bibles to send to the Chicktaws!
‘But I’m not going to waste your valuable time with unnecessary words. I
am a man of deeds’ (‘Ay, damn you, that you are, and you charge well for
’em too,’ said a voice from the crowd, probably that of a gentleman who
was immediately afterwards observed with his hat crushed over his head.)
‘I shall always be at the service of my fellow-townsmen, and whoever
dares to hector over you, or interfere with your innocent pleasures,
shall have an account to settle with Robert Dempster.
‘Now, my boys! you can’t do better than disperse and carry the good news
to all your fellow-townsmen, whose hearts are as sound as your own. Let
some of you go one way and some another, that every man, woman, and child
in Milby may know what you know yourselves. But before we part, let us
have three cheers for True Religion, and down with Cant!’
When the last cheer was dying, Mr. Dempster closed the window, and the
judiciously-instructed placards and caricatures moved off in divers
directions, followed by larger or smaller divisions of the crowd. The
greatest attraction apparently lay in the direction of Dog Lane, the
outlet towards Paddiford Common, whither the caricatures were moving; and
you foresee, of course, that those works of symbolical art were consumed
with a liberal expenditure of dry gorse-bushes and vague shouting.
After these great public exertions, it was natural that Mr. Dempster and
his colleagues should feel more in need than usual of a little social
relaxation; and a party of their friends was already beginning to
assemble in the large parlour of the Red Lion, convened partly by their
own curiosity, and partly by the invaluable Mat Paine. The most capacious
punch-bowl was put in requisition; and that born gentleman, Mr. Lowme,
seated opposite Mr. Dempster as ‘Vice’, undertook to brew the punch,
defying the criticisms of the envious men out of office, who with the
readiness of irresponsibility, ignorantly suggested more lemons. The
social festivities were continued till long past midnight, when several
friends of sound religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of
them showing a dogged determination to seat himself in the gutter.
Mr. Dempster had done as much justice to the punch as any of the party;
and his friend Boots, though aware that the lawyer could ‘carry his
liquor like Old Nick’, with whose social demeanour Boots seemed to be
particularly well acquainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well to
see so good a customer in safety to his own door, and walked quietly
behind his elbow out of the inn-yard. Dempster, however, soon became
aware of him, stopped short, and, turning slowly round upon him,
recognized the well-known drab waistcoat sleeves, conspicuous enough in
the starlight.
‘You twopenny scoundrel! What do you mean by dogging a professional man’s
footsteps in this way? I’ll break every bone in your skin if you attempt
to track me, like a beastly cur sniffing at one’s pocket. Do you think a
gentleman will make his way home any the better for having the scent of
your blacking-bottle thrust up his nostrils?’
Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humour, thinking the
lawyer’s ‘rum talk’ was doubtless part and parcel of his professional
ability; and Mr. Dempster pursued his slow way alone.
His house lay in Orchard Street, which opened on the prettiest outskirt
of the town--the church, the parsonage, and a long stretch of green
fields. It was an old-fashioned house, with an overhanging upper storey;
outside, it had a face of rough stucco, and casement windows with green
frames and shutters; inside, it was full of long passages, and rooms with
low ceilings. There was a large heavy knocker on the green door, and
though Mr. Dempster carried a latch-key, he sometimes chose to use the
knocker. He chose to do so now. The thunder resounded through Orchard
Street, and, after a single minute, there was a second clap louder than
the first. Another minute, and still the door was not opened; whereupon
Mr. Dempster, muttering, took out his latch-key, and, with less
difficulty than might have been expected, thrust it into the door. When
he opened the door the passage was dark.
‘Janet!’ in the loudest rasping tone, was the next sound that rang
through the house.
‘Janet!’ again--before a slow step was heard on the stairs, and a distant
light began to flicker on the wall of the passage.
‘Curse you! you creeping idiot! Come faster, can’t you?’
Yet a few seconds, and the figure of a tall woman, holding aslant a
heavy-plated drawing-room candlestick, appeared at the turning of the
passage that led to the broader entrance.
She had on a light dress which sat loosely about her figure, but did not
disguise its liberal, graceful outline. A heavy mass of straight
jet-black hair had escaped from its fastening, and hung over her
shoulders. Her grandly-cut features, pale with the natural paleness of a
brunette, had premature lines about them, telling that the years had been
lengthened by sorrow, and the delicately-curved nostril, which seemed
made to quiver with the proud consciousness of power and beauty, must
have quivered to the heart-piercing griefs which had given that worn look
to the corners of the mouth. Her wide open black eyes had a strangely
fixed, sightless gaze, as she paused at the turning, and stood silent
before her husband.
‘I’ll teach you to keep me waiting in the dark, you pale staring fool!’
he said, advancing with his slow drunken step. ‘What, you’ve been
drinking again, have you? I’ll beat you into your senses.’
He laid his hand with a firm grip on her shoulder, turned her round, and
pushed her slowly before him along the passage and through the
dining-room door, which stood open on their left hand.
There was a portrait of Janet’s mother, a grey-haired, dark-eyed old
woman, in a neatly fluted cap, hanging over the mantelpiece. Surely the
aged eyes take on a look of anguish as they see Janet--not trembling,
no! it would be better if she trembled--standing stupidly unmoved in
her great beauty while the heavy arm is lifted to strike her. The blow
falls--another--and another. Surely the mother hears that cry--‘O
Robert! pity! pity!’
Poor grey-haired woman! Was it for this you suffered a mother’s pangs in
your lone widowhood five-and-thirty years ago? Was it for this you kept
the little worn morocco shoes Janet had first run in, and kissed them day
by day when she was away from you, a tall girl at school? Was it for this
you looked proudly at her when she came back to you in her rich pale
beauty, like a tall white arum that has just unfolded its grand pure
curves to the sun?
The mother lies sleepless and praying in her lonely house, weeping the
difficult tears of age, because she dreads this may be a cruel night for
her child.
She too has a picture over her mantelpiece, drawn in chalk by Janet long
years ago. She looked at it before she went to bed. It is a head bowed
beneath a cross, and wearing a crown of thorns.