For a moment there was an acute, terrible silence. Mortlake's face was
that of a corpse; the face of the dead man at his side was flushed with
the hues of life. To the overstrung nerves of the onlookers, the
brooding eyes of the picture seemed sad and stern with menace, and
charged with the lightnings of doom.
It was a horrible contrast. For Wimp, alone, the painted face had
fuller, more tragical, meanings. The audience seemed turned to stone.
They sat or stood--in every variety of attitude--frozen, rigid. Arthur
Constant's picture dominated the scene, the only living thing in a hall
of the dead.
But only for a moment. Mortlake shook off the detective's hand.
"Boys!" he cried, in accents of infinite indignation, "this is a police
conspiracy."
His words relaxed the tension. The stony figures were agitated. A dull,
excited hubbub answered him. The little cobbler darted from behind his
pillar, and leaped upon a bench. The cords of his brow were swollen with
excitement. He seemed a giant overshadowing the hall.
"Boys!" he roared, in his best Victoria Park voice, "listen to me. This
charge is a foul and damnable lie."
"Bravo!" "Hear, hear!" "Hooray!" "It is!" was roared back at him from
all parts of the room. Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes,
excited to the last degree.
"Boys!" Peter roared on, "you all know me. I'm a plain man, and I want
to know if it's likely a man would murder his best friend."
"No," in a mighty volume of sound.
Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake's popularity. He stood on the
platform, pale and anxious as his prisoner.
"And if he did, why didn't they prove it the first time?"
"Hear, hear!"
"And if they want to arrest him, why couldn't they leave it till the
ceremony was over? Tom Mortlake's not the man to run away."
"Tom Mortlake! Tom Mortlake! Three cheers for Tom Mortlake! Hip, hip,
hip, hooray!"
"Three groans for the police." "Hoo! Oo! Oo!"
Wimp's melodrama was not going well. He felt like the author to whose
ears is borne the ominous sibilance of the pit. He almost wished he had
not followed the curtain-raiser with his own stronger drama.
Unconsciously the police, scattered about the hall, drew together. The
people on the platform knew not what to do. They had all risen and stood
in a densely-packed mass. Even Mr. Gladstone's speech failed him in
circumstances so novel. The groans died away; the cheers for Mortlake
rose and swelled and fell and rose again. Sticks and umbrellas were
banged and rattled, handkerchiefs were waved, the thunder deepened. The
motley crowd still surging about the hall took up the cheers, and for
hundreds of yards around people were going black in the face out of mere
irresponsible enthusiasm. At last Tom waved his hand--the thunder
dwindled, died. The prisoner was master of the situation.
Grodman stood on the platform, grasping the back of his chair, a curious
mocking Mephistophelian glitter about his eyes, his lips wreathed into a
half smile. There was no hurry for him to get Denzil Cantercot arrested
now. Wimp had made an egregious, a colossal blunder. In Grodman's heart
there was a great glad calm as of a man who has strained his sinews to
win in a famous match, and has heard the judge's word. He felt almost
kindly to Denzil now.
Tom Mortlake spoke. His face was set and stony. His tall figure was
drawn up haughtily to its full height. He pushed the black mane back
from his forehead with a characteristic gesture. The fevered audience
hung upon his lips--the men at the back leaned eagerly forward--the
reporters were breathless with fear lest they should miss a word. What
would the great labor leader have to say at this supreme moment?
"Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen: It is to me a melancholy pleasure to have
been honored with the task of unveiling to-night this portrait of a
great benefactor to Bow and a true friend to the laboring classes.
Except that he honored me with his friendship while living, and that the
aspirations of my life have, in my small and restricted way, been
identical with his, there is little reason why this honorable duty
should have fallen upon me. Gentlemen, I trust that we shall all find an
inspiring influence in the daily vision of the dead, who yet liveth in
our hearts and in this noble work of art--wrought, as Mr. Gladstone has
told us, by the hand of one who loved him." The speaker paused a moment,
his low vibrant tones faltering into silence. "If we humble workingmen
of Bow can never hope to exert individually a tithe of the beneficial
influence wielded by Arthur Constant, it is yet possible for each of us
to walk in the light he has kindled in our midst--a perpetual lamp of
self-sacrifice and brotherhood."
That was all. The room rang with cheers. Tom Mortlake resumed his seat.
To Wimp the man's audacity verged on the Sublime; to Denzil on the
Beautiful. Again there was a breathless hush. Mr. Gladstone's mobile
face was working with excitement. No such extraordinary scene had
occurred in the whole of his extraordinary experience. He seemed about
to rise. The cheering subsided to a painful stillness. Wimp cut the
situation by laying his hand again upon Tom's shoulder.
"Come quietly with me," he said. The words were almost a whisper, but in
the supreme silence they traveled to the ends of the hall.
"Don't you go, Tom!" The trumpet tones were Peter's. The call thrilled
an answering chord of defiance in every breast, and a low, ominous
murmur swept through the hall.
Tom rose, and there was silence again. "Boys," he said, "let me go.
Don't make any noise about it. I shall be with you again to-morrow."
But the blood of the Break o' Day boys was at fever heat. A hurtling
mass of men struggled confusedly from their seats. In a moment all was
chaos. Tom did not move. Half-a-dozen men, headed by Peter, scaled the
platform. Wimp was thrown to one side, and the invaders formed a ring
round Tom's chair. The platform people scampered like mice from the
center. Some huddled together in the corners, others slipped out at the
rear. The committee congratulated themselves on having had the
self-denial to exclude ladies. Mr. Gladstone's satellites hurried the
old man off and into his carriage; though the fight promised to become
Homeric. Grodman stood at the side of the platform secretly more amused
than ever, concerning himself no more with Denzil Cantercot, who was
already strengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs. The police about
the hall blew their whistles, and policemen came rushing in from outside
and the neighborhood. An Irish M. P. on the platform was waving his
gingham like a shillalah in sheer excitement, forgetting his new-found
respectability and dreaming himself back at Donnybrook Fair. Him a
conscientious constable floored with a truncheon. But a shower of fists
fell on the zealot's face, and he tottered back bleeding. Then the storm
broke in all its fury. The upper air was black with staves, sticks, and
umbrellas, mingled with the pallid hailstones of knobby fists. Yells and
groans and hoots and battle-cries blent in grotesque chorus, like one of
Dvorák's weird diabolical movements. Mortlake stood impassive, with arms
folded, making no further effort, and the battle raged round him as the
water swirls around some steadfast rock. A posse of police from the back
fought their way steadily toward him, and charged up the heights of the
platform steps, only to be sent tumbling backward, as their leader was
hurled at them like a battering ram. Upon the top of the heap fell he,
surmounting the strata of policemen. But others clambered upon them,
escalading the platform. A moment more and Mortlake would have been
taken, after being well shaken. Then the miracle happened.
As when of old a reputable goddess _ex machina_ saw her favorite hero in
dire peril, straightway she drew down a cloud from the celestial stores
of Jupiter and enveloped her fondling in kindly night, so that his
adversary strove with the darkness, so did Crowl, the cunning cobbler,
the much-daring, essay to insure his friend's safety. He turned off the
gas at the meter.
An Arctic night--unpreceded by twilight--fell, and there dawned the
sabbath of the witches. The darkness could be felt--and it left blood
and bruises behind it. When the lights were turned on again, Mortlake
was gone. But several of the rioters were arrested, triumphantly.
And through all, and over all, the face of the dead man who had sought
to bring peace on earth, brooded.
* * * * *
Crowl sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese, with his head
bandaged, while Denzil Cantercot told him the story of how he had
rescued Tom Mortlake. He had been among the first to scale the height,
and had never budged from Tom's side or from the forefront of the battle
till he had seen him safely outside and into a by-street.
[Illustration: Crowl sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese.]
"I am so glad you saw that he got away safely," said Crowl, "I wasn't
quite sure he would."
"Yes; but I wish some cowardly fool hadn't turned off the gas. I like
men to see that they are beaten."
"But it seemed--easier," faltered Crowl.
"Easier!" echoed Denzil, taking a deep draught of bitter. "Really,
Peter, I'm sorry to find you always will take such low views. It may be
easier, but it's shabby. It shocks one's sense of the Beautiful."
Crowl ate his bread and cheese shame-facedly.
"But what was the use of breaking your head to save him?" said Mrs.
Crowl with an unconscious pun. "He must be caught."
"Ah, I don't see how the Useful does come in, now," said Peter
thoughtfully. "But I didn't think of that at the time."
He swallowed his water quickly and it went the wrong way and added to
his confusion. It also began to dawn upon him that he might be called to
account. Let it be said at once that he wasn't. He had taken too
prominent a part.
Meantime, Mrs. Wimp was bathing Mr. Wimp's eye, and rubbing him
generally with arnica. Wimp's melodrama had been, indeed, a sight for
the gods. Only, virtue was vanquished and vice triumphant. The villain
had escaped, and without striking a blow.