CHAPTER XI.

MEETING.

From the time of the Bishop's visit, Mrs. Falconer began to resume her

usual employments. She covered her crape with a large apron, and pinned

back the long "weepers" of her large widow's cap, and went about the

house again, with none of her old sprightly manner, but still going

through her duties in regular order.

It was a time which needed much patience, for, as was natural, Mrs.

Falconer saw many things which she considered neglected, and Joyce felt

herself held responsible for the misdemeanours of the maids, especially

of Susan Priday.

The schoolmistress at Mendip had given Susan an excellent character, and

Mrs. More had dictated a note to Joyce from her sick bed, telling her

that she believed Susan might really prove a friend as well as a

servant, for gratitude would be the spring of all her work, gratitude to

Joyce for taking her, and holding her free from all blame in her

father's ill-doings and bad life, which had apparently been the cause

of the great sorrow which had fallen upon Fair Acres.

Mrs. Falconer had consented with the cold apathetic consent which was

discouraging enough. She had taken little or no notice of Susan's

presence in the kitchen and dairy till she began to come forth from her

seclusion. Then, indeed, poor Susan had a hard time of it; but love, and

gratitude to Joyce, were too strong for her to show any resentment for

the many unjust suspicions and sharp reproofs which she had to bear.

"It's only what I must look for, Miss Joyce," she said one day, when the

breaking of a plate, which she had never touched, was at once laid to

her charge. "It's only what I must look for. My dear mother always used

to say, when poor father beat and ill-used her, that she remembered some

words of St. Peter, that if you were buffeted for doing _well_, that is,

doing your best, and took it patiently, it was acceptable in God's

sight. Besides, Miss Joyce, I have been used to hard words, and I know

how brokenhearted the poor mistress is; why, she is even a bit cross to

Master Piers and you, which is more than I can understand, for you are

next door to an angel, Miss Joyce."

"No, Susan I don't feel at all angelic. That is a mistake. I feel angry

and discontented sometimes, if I don't show it. There are so many

troubles which can't be talked of."

"Yes, miss, I know that well enough; but you can tell them to God, and

that's a rare comfort. Dozens of times in the day I tell Him of my

biggest trouble, that I have a father who----"

Susan stopped, threw her coarse apron over her head, and ran away to

scour the pans in the dairy till they shone like silver.

The bright November weather soon vanished, and the winter closed in

rapidly. Except for a visit of a few days from Miss Falconer and

Charlotte, nothing occurred to break the monotony of this dead time of

the year. Farming and gardening operations were suspended, and Ralph got

out his beloved books again, and Piers arranged and re-arranged his

large collection of curiosities, and Christmas drew near.

Joyce had given up listening for a footstep on the road, or looking

anxiously for the old postman, who trudged from Wells, on fine days,

with the letters, but in bad weather pleased himself as to the length of

his rounds.

Mrs. Falconer worked, and knitted, and darned, and, when the wind blew

fiercely round the house on the dark winter nights, thought of her

little Middies tossing about on the wide sea; and of Melville in that

far-off land, which she knew more by its shape of a boot on the map

Piers had hung up in his room, than by any distinct notion of what was

to be seen there.

Rome, Florence, Naples, were but names to her, and as dim and distant as

Haiphong or Hong Kong are to many in the present day.

'Melville was in Italy,' and her interest in the country was expressed

in these words. Melville's letter, written on hearing of his father's

death, was sad enough. Weak natures like his, always find relief in

trouble by many words, and give vent to grief by vain protestations of

affection and of remorse.

Mrs. Falconer treasured the letter, and read it many times, and thought

Joyce unfeeling in expressing so little sympathy with her brother. There

could be no doubt that all his wilful disregard of his father's wishes

started up before Melville, now that it was too late to atone for them,

and for the time, as he said, "he was distracted with grief." But there

was no word of a desire to redeem the past by coming to Fair Acres and

doing his best to perform his duties there. Selfish people are not cured

by trouble of their selfishness. It commonly happens that they are more

selfish in their grief than in their joy, more self-absorbed by pain

than pleasure.

While Melville could write of his distracted condition, of his love for

his father, of his burning indignation against the wretch who had caused

his death, and of his determination to have him brought to justice,

Joyce was silent; only sometimes, when kneeling by Piers' bed, would she

allow her grief full vent; only when alone in the seat under the fir

trees would she cry out in the bitterness of her heart for the lost

father who had been so dear to her.

And there were other causes of trouble, which she could scarcely confess

to herself. Not another word had Gilbert Arundel written, not another

sign had he made of remembrance. She knew now, as the time went on, that

she loved him, and that, after all, she was nothing to him. How could

she have been so foolish? How often she had laughed at Charlotte's

fancied admirers, at her continual discovery that some one was in love

with her, but was kept back by circumstances from declaring his

devotion! For the minor canon was one of a long list of visionary

admirers, and he had been followed by the pale-faced clergyman she had

met at Barley Wood, about whom, during the few days Charlotte had spent

at Fair Acres, she had talked, till Joyce grew weary of the theme.

"Such nonsense!" she had said. "Besides, no girl ought to acknowledge

herself to be in love till she has had good reason given her. It is not

nice; it is not womanly."

And as day by day passed, and night after night, when she leaned against

the casement of her window, when the stars were throbbing and shining in

the deep-blue of the winter's sky, she had to confess, with deep

abasement of spirit, that she had been as weak as poor Charlotte, nay,

weaker; for as Charlotte's heroes fell from their pedestals, or vanished

into thin air like the mirage in the desert, she could always replace

them, and pour forth her romantic soul in verses addressed to new

objects, as if the old had never existed.

But Joyce told herself she must suffer the consequences of her weakness

for ever and a day. No one could ever again be to her what Gilbert had

been, in that first happy time of awakening love.

Joyce's pale cheeks and wistful eyes at last attracted her mother's

notice. In these days she would have been taken to see a doctor, ordered

change of air and scene, and put upon some _regime_ as to food. But,

except in cases of severe illness, people did not resort to doctors as

they do now-a-days, and the nervous patients and chronic invalids,

resigned themselves to unlimited home physic, and took their poor health

as a matter of course.

"Joyce," Mrs. Falconer said, one day, early in February, when the season

of Christmas they had all dreaded so much was past; "Joyce, I think it

would do you good to spend a few days with Aunt Letitia at Wells."

Joyce tried to smile.

"I don't want to be done good to, mother; besides, I can't leave you."

"Yes, you can. Mr. Paget said yesterday you looked as if you wanted a

change. It's a wonder Mrs. More has not asked you to Barley Wood again."

"She has been so ill," Joyce said; "it is not likely she could invite

me."

"And then there is Mrs. Arundel and her niece that came here last fall;

not a word have we heard of them."

"Yes, mother; you forget. I have heard twice, about--about Lord

Maythorne. Mrs. Arundel has kept him from coming here again. Besides,

she is busy settling into a home, and besides----"

"I think it is very odd, Mr. Arundel has never written, or come here

again."

"He wrote to me once," Joyce said, in a low voice.

"Did you answer the letter?"

"No, mother," Joyce said, springing up quickly, and, with a great

effort, throwing off her sadness. "No; there was nothing to answer. But

I _will_ go and stay a day or two with Aunt Letitia, if you want to get

rid of me. Ralph can take a note in to Wells to-morrow, when he goes in

to the market. I shall only stay two days, but we must find out whether

Aunt Letitia wants me first."

Miss Falconer was really pleased that Joyce should propose a visit, and

the little guest-chamber in the Vicar's Close was made ready with

willing hands, and Charlotte hailed Joyce's appearance, that she might

tell her of all her hopes and fears.

Charlotte had been twice at the Palace during the winter. Mrs. Law,

gentle and kindly, had taken an interest in the young people in Wells,

and had invited Charlotte, amongst others, to tea. Tea at six o'clock,

on some day when the bishop and his chaplain and Mr. Henry Law, were

absent on some business in the diocese.

If it had been a great thing to visit Mrs. Hannah More at Barley Wood,

it was a greater to take tea at the palace. With the wigs of the last

and preceding century, the bishops have thrown off a great deal of the

episcopal state, which was once considered a part of the duty of the

peer spiritual. And a certain air of solemnity pervaded the Wells

palace, even when presided over by such true "gentlefolks" as the

bishop and Mrs. Law. That old-fashioned word seems to suit the host and

hostess at the Wells palace far better than any other term I could use.

That innate grace and refinement of feeling is sometimes, it is true,

acquired, but it is a plant of slow growth, especially amongst those,

who suddenly raised to a position of importance in the Church, feel the

elevation makes them a little dizzy. The Bishop's wife, then presiding

over the palace, had always moved in the higher circles of society, and,

therefore, neither at Carlisle nor Wells did she find it necessary to

impress upon humbler people that she stood on a vantage ground to which

few could approach. She was dignified, though she was gentle, and no one

would ever pass the barrier which divides familiarity, from free and

pleasant intercourse. Mrs. Law, like everyone else, was greatly taken

with Joyce Falconer; and again poor Charlotte began to feel that with no

effort at all her cousin was winning her way, and making an impression

which, with all her efforts, she felt she did not succeed in doing.

Miss Falconer was surprised when, the day after the girls had spent an

evening at the palace, Mrs. Law sent a little three-cornered note of

invitation to Joyce to spend Sunday at the palace before she returned

to Fair Acres. The footman waited for a reply, and the discussion of

Mrs. Law's note caused no little excitement in the parlour, of which the

servant, if he had been so minded, could have heard every word.

"My dear Joyce, what will you do? You have no suitable dress for such a

visit; and yet it is a pity to miss it. I really do not know what to

advise."

"I think I should like to go to the palace, Aunt Letitia," Joyce said.

"Like! yes; but are you prepared for such a visit?"

"Oh! yes; I have my best frock, the black bombazine, and my crape

bonnet. That need not hinder me."

"But, my dear, people in Mrs. Law's position wear evening gowns, with

low necks and short sleeves. _I_ have moved in these circles, and of

course----"

"We must not keep the servant waiting, Aunt Letitia; if you give me

leave, I should like to accept the invitation."

"Very well," said Miss Falconer; "there is my writing-case; take care

how you write; begin, 'Miss Joyce Falconer presents her respects.'"

"But Mrs. Law addresses me as, 'Dear Miss Falconer'; had I not better

begin, 'Dear Madam, or dear Mrs. Law'?"

"Oh! _not_ 'Dear Mrs. Law.' My dear child, how ignorant you are of

etiquette."

Joyce seated herself, and wrote a few words accepting the invitation

from Saturday to the Monday following, and took it herself to the

footman.

"You should have rung for Phoebe, really Joyce, my _dear_!" But it was

too late. Charlotte, who had been "composing" in the sitting-room

upstairs, had heard voices, and now came down just as Joyce had closed

the door on the footman from the palace.

"An invitation to _stay_ at the palace! Oh! Joyce, how fortunate you

are. Mrs. Law might have asked me!"

"She knows you live in the place, my love," said Miss Falconer.

Charlotte sighed. "If I did _not_ live here it would be all the same."

But Charlotte was really an amiable girl, and her devotion to Joyce was

sincere and true.

"Well," she said, "what will you wear, dear? Can I lend you any pretty

things? My amber beads--or--my filigree comb. Oh! I forgot! Of course,

you are still in deep black."

"It is very kind of you, Charlotte," Joyce said; "you always are kind;

but I don't want anything."

The whole of that day Joyce's visit to the palace engrossed the little

party in the Vicar's Close. Some cronies of Miss Falconer came in for a

gossip by the fireside, and were duly informed of the invitation, and

were duly congratulatory and a little jealous, although there was a

certain amount of satisfaction, that it was not Charlotte whom Mrs. Law

had delighted to honour.

It was a memorable visit to Joyce, and in a way she little expected. The

first evening passed pleasantly; and with a white muslin fichu, which

Miss Falconer insisted upon making for her, crossed over her black gown,

Joyce looked her best. The sleeves of best gowns in those days were cut

rather short, and Joyce wore on her round, white arms a pair of black

lace mittens, which Charlotte had lent her.

Her beautiful hair needed no adornment; it fell round her forehead in

natural curls, and was piled up without the help of cushions or

frizzettes, a natural crown of chesnut and gold. As at Barley Wood, so

at the palace; Joyce was too simple-minded to be stiff or constrained in

manner, and she conversed so pleasantly with a young son of the bishop,

who gave her his arm when they went to dinner, that he, in his turn, did

his best to be agreeable, and she was soon telling him of her little

sailor brothers, of Piers and his collection of butterflies, of Ralph

and his love of study, and the brave way in which he had come to live

at Fair Acres and do his best to turn into a farmer.

If the Saturday evenings were pleasant, how delightful was the Sunday,

when, in the sunshine of the early February day, the party from the

palace crossed to the cloister door, and went to the morning service in

the cathedral. It has been said of Wells that it is always Sunday there;

no sounds but the ringing of bells for service; no business, and no

traffic in the streets. But certain it is, that nowhere is the real

Sabbath stillness more profound, nor more refreshing to the tired in

spirit, on a day like that February day, when Joyce was seated in the

high pew belonging to the Bishop. The cathedral is always a vision of

beauty, and when the swelling of the organ and the voices of the

choristers are hushed, and a pause occurs after the benediction has been

pronounced, the sounds without the building seem in direct harmony with

those within; for the Lady Chapel abuts on the lawn of the Sub-Dean's

residence, where the waters of St. Joseph's Well lie deep; and there is

the murmur of the streams, the chirp of birds, the soft coo of pigeons,

and the distinct chatter of the jackdaw from the West front.

Joyce went out of the cathedral filled with peaceful thoughts of the

temple, of which this was but the faint shadow, the temple which has no

need of the sun to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof.

Quite forgetting that she ought to turn towards the cloisters, Joyce

walked on down the nave before the Bishop's party had missed her. The

sweet seriousness of her face as she went out into the sunshine almost

held back the welcome, which was trembling on the lips of someone who

was standing near the porch, and had watched her coming down the wide

nave.

She was passing out, wrapt in her own meditations when Gilbert Arundel

put out his hand:

"Joyce!"

She started, and blushed rosy red.

"You did forget me, then!" he exclaimed, reproachfully.

"Forget you, no."

"You did not reply to my letter?"

"You did not ask me to write."

They now found themselves by the turnstile under the old clock, that

quaint clock which, it is said, was made to strike many times in

succession for the amusement of that gracious and sagacious King James,

who laughed till his sides ached, as the old knights, in their black

armour, hit the bell with their battle-axes, beneath the suggestive

motto, "Ne quid pereat." They hit it now with, all their wonted vigour

four times, and then the clock struck _one_.

[Illustration: Clock at Wells]

"We have come the wrong way. I am staying at the palace till to-morrow,"

Joyce said.

"At the palace! I am glad to hear it; but your mother, whom I saw

yesterday, did not know it."

"No; it was a sudden thought. I mean Mrs. Law only asked me on Friday."

"I am glad you are at the palace," Gilbert said. "I know I shall have a

friend in the Bishop."

Joyce made no remark to this, and they retraced their steps in silence

till they had crossed the drawbridge and were in the palace grounds.

"I have thought so much of you," he said, earnestly. "I am now come, as

I said I should, to present my petition. Is there any hope?"

Joyce turned away her head, and did not answer.

When they reached the palace, a footman threw open the door:

"Dinner is served," he said, in a voice which was intended to be a mild

reproof.

"Can I see his lordship?" Gilbert asked; while Joyce ran upstairs to her

room on the upper floor.

"His lordship is just sitting down to dinner, sir. What name----"

Gilbert took out a card and handed it to the man, leaving him in the

hall till he knew the Bishop's will.

Presently he reappeared.

"I am requested to beg you, sir, to go into the dining-room at once:

this way."

The Bishop rose, and gave Gilbert Arundel a very different greeting

from that which he had granted Lord Maythorne.

"My dear young friend, welcome for your _mother's_ sake, always welcome,

and for your own. How could you doubt it? Why stand on ceremony? But we

are in some distress," he said, with a sly twinkle in his eye; "we have

lost a young lady: she vanished into thin air as we left the cathedral.

Perhaps some knight-errant has carried her off. Ah! I see you know

something about her. Well, sit down; and, Barker," to one of the

servants, "Miss Falconer's place next Mr. Arundel's."

The Bishop dearly loved a little love affair, and he fancied he descried

one in "the air."

It was a great trial of Joyce's self-possession when the door of the

dining-room was opened for her by a servant, and she had to pass to her

place at the long dining-table. The Bishop's son came to the rescue,

making room for her by standing up and showing her the vacant place.

"I am sorry I was late," she said.

"It is a lovely day," was the rejoinder. "I do not wonder that you took

a turn after service."

"Yes," said Mrs. Law, kindly. "I saw your cousin in the cathedral, and I

thought it probable that you would walk home with her."

"No," Joyce said, in a low voice, "I did not go home with Charlotte."

One person at least appreciated the honesty of this confession, and

Gilbert told himself that it was a part of Joyce's crystal transparency

of character, that she would not even allow an assertion about herself

to pass if it were not absolutely true.

When Joyce was sitting after dinner, with Mrs. Law and several ladies,

in the long gallery, the Bishop's son brought her a message.

"My father would like to see you in his study for a few minutes. Will

you kindly follow me?"

Joyce obeyed, but her heart beat fast, and she dreaded what the Bishop

might have to say to her. Something about Melville; some bad news of the

little Middies: her thoughts flew in all directions.

The Bishop had already seated himself in his crimson leather chair, and,

when Mr. Law closed the door, she found herself alone with his lordship.

"My dear young lady," he said, in his slow, sonorous tones, "as I know

you are, alas! fatherless, will you allow me to stand, for the moment,

in the place of a father? A young gentleman, the son of an old friend,

has told me to-day that he seeks the honour of paying his addresses to

you. He went to Fair Acres last night and received your mother's

sanction, tempered, no doubt, with the natural pain of losing you. But

she gives her consent, and I venture to endorse it. As chief pastor and

father of the diocese, over which I have so recently come to preside, I

do earnestly commend to you the son of my old friend, Gilbert Arundel. I

propose that you should take a ramble together after service, in the

spring twilight, and when we meet at the evening meal, I hope I may find

you have made my young friend happy."

The Bishop's speech may sound to us unnecessarily long and formal, but,

sixty years ago, the old spirit of chivalrous respect towards maidens,

in approaching the subject of marriage, had not then died out. Perhaps,

also, in the time of the good Bishop, when the first gentleman in Europe

was setting so wretched an example in his behaviour, good and honourable

men felt it the more incumbent on them to give the woman the full

privileges of her position.

Love was to be sought as a favour granted, not claimed in a careless

fashion as a right; while the whole aspect of courtship and marriage was

dealt with more seriously than it is in our day.

Barriers are more easily broken down than set up again, and, perhaps,

there is too great a tendency now-a-days to treat what is grave as a

jest, and to show but little inclination to tread in the paths which

our mothers and grandmothers found safe. Thus the Bishop, when he had

heard from Gilbert's lips the object of his visit to Wells, thought it

his duty to speak to Joyce in the grave manner I have described.

The Bishop rose from his chair, and, laying his hand on Joyce's head,

solemnly pronounced a blessing, and, with crimson cheek and bowed head,

she left him, to prepare to go to the afternoon service.

Later in the day, the supreme moment in her young life came, when she

walked with Gilbert in the fields towards Dinder, turning to the left,

where, in a tangled copse, the first budding flowers of the starry

celandines were peeping amidst fallen leaves and mosses.

The clustering primrose buds were hardly yet showing themselves amongst

their crinkled leaves, and only the upright stems of the alders, and the

lowest boughs of the maples and hazel bushes displayed the first emerald

green of spring. It was a time and place for the exchange of first young

love, and confidences never to be forgotten.

And in all the changes and chances of her future life, Joyce could look

back to that first spring afternoon, and say from her heart that it was

the opening for her of a new and beautiful chapter. If the hopes of the

earlier days of their acquaintance had lain dormant during the winter,

they now sprang up with the coming life of the spring time, and were

sweet with the promise of the future.

When once Gilbert had found voice to tell his story he was eloquent, and

when once Joyce had given her response there was no further need for

reticence.

"And why did you not write to me?" he asked.

"As I said, because you did not ask me; and then when your uncle came,

he told me that you cared for Miss Anson; and I thought, _half_ thought,

it might be true."

Gilbert made an impatient gesture.

"You only _half_ thought so; you knew, Joyce, you knew better. So," he

went on under his breath, "that is the mischief he went to Fair Acres to

work. My mother soon stopped him from daring to persecute you."

"Mr. Paget and Mr. Gill said there was no lawful claim on poor Melville,

for the money had been lent him to gamble with, and that Lord Maythorne

knew he had no just claim to it."

"Of course he knew it; he thought he would frighten you, and your poor

mother. But let us not speak more of him."

"I wonder what will be done when Melville comes home, for I suppose he

will come home in the summer."

"Yes; perhaps he may have turned over a new leaf, as the children say;

anyhow, I can't help being grateful to Melville."

"To Melville?" she said.

"Yes; for was it not he who invited me to Fair Acres, to find _you_, my

darling."

Then he drew her closer, and with her hand in his arm, they walked

through the quiet fields back to the little city.

The cathedral stood up in a dark mysterious mass against the clear sky.

The last purple gleam was dying from the distant hills which encircle

Wells; Venus hung her silver lamp over the central tower of the

cathedral, and the whole scene was one of infinite peace.

They did not speak of the future, the present was sufficient for them;

but the cry of Joyce's heart, even in its happiness, found words:

"Oh! that my father knew."

"He may know, my darling," Gilbert said; "and I think we may rest in the

certainty that if he were here he would give me a welcome."

"Yes," Joyce said, softly; "yes, I know he would. Oh! dear father."

PART II.

AFTER MANY DAYS.

'Tis Nature's plan

The child should grow into the man;

The man grow wrinkled, old, and grey.

In youth the heart exults and sings,

The pulses leap, the feet have wings;

In age the cricket chirps and brings

The harvest home of day.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

ON THE ROAD TO BRISTOL.

A carriage stood before the door of Fair Acres one bright morning in

April, an old-fashioned travelling carriage, with a "dickey," or back

seat piled with luggage, and more packages waiting to be pushed under

the seat inside, which a lady was superintending and remonstrating with

a young sailor for his rough and ready help.

"Take care, take care, Harry; there is glass in that hamper. Oh! we must

have the carriage closed after all."

"Nonsense, Joyce; I'll manage it. There, let that bag go into the hold,

and heave over the box. I'll cram them all in."

"The captain is right, miss--beg your pardon, missus, I should

say"--said old Thomas, wiping his head vigorously with his pocket

handkerchief.

"Very well; now we are all ready. I hope mother is coming. Gently,

Falcon, gently; don't pull dear old Duke so roughly."

"I want to take Duke to Bristol, mother; Grannie has left Fair Acres,

and she is old; why shouldn't Duke?"

"Duke would not be happy in Great George Street; would you, dear Duke?"

Joyce bent down to the grizzled head of the friend of so many years, and

said:

"Ah! Duke, we are all getting old."

Presently more voices were heard in the hall, and Mrs. Falconer appeared

with a little grand-daughter on either side, while Susan Priday brought

up the procession with the baby in her arms.

"Now, dear mother, I think we are all ready. Have you enough wraps?

Where are Melville and Gratian and Piers?"

"Melville is not dressed," said Piers, coming forward, "and Gratian has

just had her cup of chocolate taken her in bed."

"I must run and say Good-bye to her," exclaimed Joyce. "What a pity to

lie in bed on this lovely morning!"

Joyce tripped upstairs and tapped at the door of the room which had been

her mother's in years past.

To the amazement of all the world, Gratian Anson had signified to

Melville Falconer that she was ready to be mistress of Fair Acres, and

include him in the bargain. On the whole the plan had answered fairly

well; but Mrs. Falconer had found the new _regime_ a perpetual vexation,

and three years before this time had, by her son-in-law's advice,

retired to a little cottage on Clifton Down with Piers, within reach of

the great joy and comfort of her declining years--Joyce and her husband

and children.

Gratian kept Melville in good order. There were rumours in the

neighbourhood that she took charge of the purse, and that an allowance

was doled out to her lord and master, which she never permitted him to

exceed. However that might be, Gratian certainly managed to get through

without heavy debts, and the squire's will had provided for the

maintenance of his widow, and the boys had each their portion paid from

the estate.

Mr. Watson and Ralph virtually managed the farm, and Ralph held a good

position and was greatly respected. Only one of the twins was left. The

sea rolled over the bright hair of Bunny, on his second voyage. He was

washed from the mast by a huge wave, off the coast of Africa, and

engulfed in the stormy waters, never to rise again. This sorrow had told

greatly on Mrs. Falconer, and she had aged very much since we saw her

last. But she was touchingly gentle and tender to Joyce, and her

children were the delight of her heart.

Joyce's tap was answered by a sleepy "Come in."

"We are just starting, Gratian," Joyce said; "I could not go without

bidding you good-bye, and thanking you for a very pleasant visit."

"What makes you start so early?"

"Gilbert wished us to be off by ten o'clock. He says Bristol is likely

to be in a ferment to-day, and he did not wish us to be late."

"Late! Well I should think twelve would have been time enough to start.

Bid mother and Piers good-bye for me. Is Melville down stairs?"

"I have not seen him," Joyce said; "but perhaps he is in the study."

"Good-bye again," Joyce said, stooping to kiss Gratian; "we have had a

very happy fortnight. I do like my children to know the dear old place."

"We are very glad to have you," Gratian replied; "and, Joyce, if you pay

a visit at any of the best houses at Clifton, or near Bristol, notice if

the curtains are flowered damask or watered, for new curtains we _must_

have in the dining room."

Another yawn, and "Good-bye, love to Aunt Annabella," and Gratian's

head, in the many-frilled night-cap, which scarcely hid a row of

curl-papers, fell back upon the pillow.

And now Falcon's voice was heard.

"Mother, _do_ come; why doesn't Aunt Gratian get up? mother! How lazy

she is!"

"Hush! Falcon," for Joyce saw her brother issuing forth from his

dressing-room in a magnificent loose dressing-gown, and a scarlet fez

with a tassel on his head.

"Why! Joyce, off already?" he said; "I must come down and see the last

of the infants. Thank goodness they are not mine!"

"I have been to bid Gratian good-bye, and thanked her for her kindness;

we are a large party."

"Oh! so much the better," said Melville, good-temperedly; "we are very

glad to have you. What a regular family coach! Where did that come

from?"

"From the 'Swan.' Ralph ordered it yesterday."

At last they were all packed in.

Joyce was the last, and she was just about to step into the carriage

when Mr. Paget came riding up.

"Oh! you are off, Mrs. Arundel. I just called to tell you that there is

news of disturbances in Bristol. A great mob collected in Queen's Square

last night, and political feeling is exciting the people to madness. I

suppose Arundel will ride out to meet you?"

"He told me to start early, that we might get through Bristol before the

afternoon."

"Ah! Well, I daresay it will be all right. Upon my word, what a pretty

party you are! A rose and her rosebuds--eh! Mrs. Falconer? Where is

Ralph?"

"Gone early to Bridgwater; there is a cattle sale to-day, and he and Mr.

Watson went off at six o'clock."

"Ralph does not let the grass grow under his feet,--eh! Falconer? It is

the early bird that finds the worm."

Melville smiled. The gorgeous colours of his dressing gown and fez came

out in grand relief against the old porch, and Mr. Paget thought to

himself, how odd it was that Mr. Falconer's son should be so entirely

unlike either father or mother. He had dismounted; while old Thomas held

the horse, he had helped Joyce into the carriage, and patted the rounded

cheeks of the baby, whom her mother now took from her grandmother, and

settled comfortably on her knee, while he called out to Falcon, who was

in the dickey with Susan and the luggage, not to put out his eyes with a

long cane he was brandishing, kicking his feet vigorously all the time,

and shouting "Gee up!" at the pitch of his young lungs. The two little

rosebuds of girls sat demure and quiet on the back seat with their uncle

Piers; and then, with a final "Good-bye" and waving his hands, the

scarlet-coated post-boy cracked his whip, and Joyce and her children

were fairly off for home; for, sweet as the old home was, and full of

tender memories, the large city house in Great George Street was dearer

still.

[Illustration: Queen's Square, Bristol.]

Never had a cloud of mistrust or doubt come between Gilbert and his

wife. They were subject, as we all are, to the little trials and

annoyances of life, but these were all, outside that inner temple where,

secure in each other's love, and bound by the golden chain of faith and

trust in God, who had given them so many beautiful gifts and tokens of

His loving care, they could always retire and feel that they were happy.

This fair and gracious temple of married love is one of the most

beautiful possessions that any one can rejoice in. But it needs to be

carefully watched, lest any moth should enter, or rust mar its

brightness, or serpent creep into the paradise.

As the Vestals of ancient days kept their altar light pure and clear, so

should the true wife pray to keep the light of this, her sacred temple,

pure, and replenish it from time to time with the heavenly graces of

Hope, Faith, and Charity, those three, the greatest of which is Charity;

for it is one of the laws of our being, that in whatever position we

find ourselves we cannot be secure without watching and prayer

Sometimes the wreckage of a fair ship, or the first falling of the stone

which is to end in the ruin of that house, may be traced to some small

failure in duty, some slight wrong or omission unrepaired, or some angry

word unrepented of. The woman who hopes to get through life loved and

honoured to the end, and who would guard the first enthusiasm of her

husband's love in all its freshness, must not expect to do so without

continual care, forbearance in small matters, and bright, cheerful

taking up of little crosses, which turns many a thorn into a flower,

many a rough stone into a radiant jewel.

Mr. Paget turned away from watching the carriage roll off, and said to

Melville and Harry:

"I hope they will have a safe journey; there is much ill-feeling abroad;

and they are making a desperate effort in Bristol to secure the return

of two Reform candidates. It is an unhappy business," said peace-loving

Mr. Paget. "It is far better to let well alone."

"Yes," said Melville, who was far too indolent by nature to have any

very keen political feeling, "it was great nonsense of old Wetherall to

split with his party about the Papists, and now to be against Reform."

"As an old Tory, I am with him there," said Mr. Paget; "and there is

something brave in the way he has put his own interests aside for what

he believes to be right. But a judge ought not to be so violent a

partisan. I hope Mrs. Arundel and those pretty babies of hers won't come

in for any stone throwing and smashing of windows. There is to be a

great meeting in Queen's Square to-day."

"Turn in to breakfast, Mr. Paget," Melville said. "My wife has a

headache, and is not come down yet. But Harry and I will do the

honours."

"Thank you kindly, no. I must ride into Wells. Why," he said, pulling

the sleeve of Melville's dressing-gown, "you look like an Eastern Rajah!

Your brother's blue jacket shows it off grandly. Upon my word, we are

all very plain folks when compared with the master of Fair Acres."

Then, slipping a shilling into old Thomas's hand, Mr. Paget mounted his

horse and rode away.

"A regular old country bumpkin!" Melville exclaimed. "He looks as if he

had come out of the Ark, and taken the pattern of Noah's coat!"

"He is a splendid old fellow," Harry said. "I wish we had more county

gentlemen like him. But I am rather sorry I did not offer to go on the

box of the carriage. I hope Joyce won't get into any crowd, or come in

for stone throwing and uproar."

"Oh, bother it! She will be all right. No one would want to steal her

children; there is enough of that article in the world and to spare,

without taking other people's."

Harry was nevertheless uneasy.

The unsettled condition of the whole district was becoming daily more

serious. The popular cry in Bristol only the year before had been for

Sir Charles Wetherall, and no Popery!

The people who went out to meet him when he came to open the assize, had

cheered and applauded him, trying to take the horses out of the carriage

and drag him into the city in triumph. But now a change had come over

the mind of the people, and the Reform Bill was exciting them to frenzy

and hatred of every man who opposed it, of whom their once idolized

Recorder was one of the most prominent.

As we look back over the half century which lies between our own days

and those of the great riots in the ancient city of Bristol, it is

strange to mark how the questions, then so furiously contested, are now

settled; how the pendulum, then swinging so violently, has subsided into

a more regular beat; how even the second Reform Bill, carried by a large

majority, is now a thing of the past; how the exclusion of any one from

holding office, parliamentary or social, on the ground of religion, is

now considered an act of tyrannical, and ill-judged interference,

between the conscience of a man, and his duty to God.

These fifty years, full of the great events so strongly marked by the

discoveries of science, are full also of lessons, which we do well to

ponder. They seem to take the text and preach patience to those who are

hot-headed, and eager to press on any reform, or to advocate, with

intemperate zeal, any scheme, even though they honestly believe it is

for the good of the people.

The wise advice of the Poet Laureate seems worthy to be followed at this

very moment, when the kingdom is, from one end to the other, vibrating

with the burning questions which shall decide the success, or

non-success, of the two great parties which divide the nation:

"Have patience--ourselves are full

Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams

Are but the needful preludes of the truth.

This fine old world of ours is but a child

Yet in the go-cart. _Patience!_ Give it time

To learn its limbs--there is _a Hand that guides_."

The carriage containing the happy mother and her children went merrily

on its way to Bristol.

The first glory of the spring was reigning everywhere. The hedgerows

were full of starry primroses, and the copses carpeted with bluebells.

Fair companies of wind flowers quivered in the gentle breeze, and the

variety of foliage in the woods was almost as great as in autumn. Every

shade of green shone in the sunlight, from silvery birch to emerald

lime, sober elm, and russet oak, with the young tassels hanging on the

birch, and the contrasting sombre dark hue of the pines, clothing the

woods with surpassing beauty.

The baby, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the regular sound of

the horses' hoofs, was soon in profound slumber. Little Lota and

Lettice, who bore the names of the aunt and niece in the Vicar's Close,

after taking some buns from their grandmother's well-filled basket, also

subsided into sleep. Lota was taken by her grandmother, and Lettice,

with the support of Piers' arm, had a comfortable nap. Only Falcon, in

the "dickey" behind, was wide awake. He was a noble-looking boy of five

years old, with fresh, blue eyes and a fair complexion. He was like his

mother in features, and his grandfather in his stout, athletic build. He

had a loud, childish voice, and, as he whipped the back of the carriage,

he sang lustily, in a sort of monotone, which kept time with the horses'

feet:

"Home--home--home to father."

His mother heard the words, and they found an echo in her heart of

"Home--home to Gilbert."

Joyce's girlish loveliness had developed into the matured beauty of the

mother, which is always so attractive. Her face shone with that soft

light of motherhood and happy wifehood which we look for in vain on many

faces which are beautiful, but _lack_ something. Her own mother

acknowledged the charm, and often thought how much dearer and more

beautiful Joyce had become in her eyes since her marriage, and how the

father who had loved her so dearly would have rejoiced to see her now.

This thought was in her mind when Joyce said:

"Is not Lota too heavy for you, mother? Shall we change? Let me give you

baby."

"No, dear, no; it would be a pity to wake the baby; how sweet she looks.

There will never be any children in the old home now, I am afraid." And

Mrs. Falconer sighed.

"I don't think they are wanted," Joyce said; "but perhaps till people

have babies they don't know how delightful they are. Piers is laughing

at me."

"Not at you. I was only thinking how Gratian and Melville would hate the

bother of children about the house."

"They were very kind to us," Joyce said. "It seems to me that we may be

very thankful Melville married Gratian."

"Yes, she keeps him in good order."

Mrs. Falconer had still a weak, very weak, place in her heart for

Melville, and she said, sharply:

"That's not a becoming way to speak of your eldest brother."

Piers shrugged his shoulders. He took in, more fully than his mother

could, the trouble that Melville's conduct had brought upon them all,

especially on Ralph--Ralph, who might have done so well in scholarship,

now acting as steward to his brother, with less thanks and less pay than

he deserved. It irritated Piers to see Melville's self-satisfaction, and

to know that from sheer indolence, if Ralph had not come to the rescue,

he would have brought the inheritance of his fathers to hopeless ruin.

Melville had his wish now. Gratian took care that their position should

be recognised, and they visited at the houses of the neighbouring

gentry, where Gratian's ready tact, and powers of fascination, were

acknowledged. It became the fashion to enliven a dull, heavy dinner by

inviting Mrs. Melville Falconer, who could tell amusing stories,

seasoned with French phrases, and listen with apparently deep interest

to the stories other people told, whether they related to the weather,

the crops, or the fashions.

Joyce saw the cloud on Piers' face, and hastened to say that Ralph had

written a very clever treatise on draining land, and that Gilbert

thought it would draw people's attention to the subject, from the

masterly way in which it was treated.

"So Ralph's brains are of great use, after all;" she said.

"He is thrown away at Fair Acres. Harry says so, and I don't think it is

fair or just. I never could get over Melville's horrid selfishness, and

I don't wish to get over it."

"Piers!" Joyce said, reproachfully; "remember he is your brother."

"We have all good cause to remember it," was the muttered rejoinder.

And now, as they passed through the villages nearer Bristol, large knots

of people were congregated here and there. Some stared at the carriage

as they passed, some hissed, and angry voices cried:

"No Popery!" and "Reform!"

When within some four miles of the city, Susan Priday leaned over and

said:

"There is a great crowd coming on behind us, ma'am; they look a very

rough lot."

The carriage was going up a steep hill, and just as it had slowly

reached the top, some fifty or sixty men came out from a lane, which

turned off towards Bath, and called out to the post-boy to stop.

They were fierce, wild-looking men, and, as the post-boy tried to take

no notice and whip on his horses, the bridles were seized and the

carriage was surrounded.

Then a number of voices shouted--

"Reform! Reform! Are ye for Reform? you grand folks; if ye are, speak

out!"

"Let go the horses' heads!" said Piers. "Let go! How dare you obstruct

the high road?"

"Aye! aye! you young fool; we'll teach you manners!" and one of the men

clenched his fist and shook it at Piers. In another moment the crowd

from behind, which Susan Priday had seen, came breathlessly up the hill,

women with children in their arms, all screaming, at the top of their

voices, "Reform! Reform!"

One woman held up a child with a pinched, wan face, and said--

"You rich folks, you'd trample on us if you could, and we are starving!

Look here!" and she bared the legs of the poor emaciated baby. "Look

here! Look at your fat, stuffed-out childer, and look at _this_!"

"Look 'ee here, missus; we are a-going to Bristol to cry for Reform. If

you say you will have nothing to do with the tyrant, Wetherall, and his

cursed lot, you may go on. If not, we'll seize the carriage, we'll turn

ye all out into the road, and we'll drive in state to the big meeting in

Queen's Square! My! what a lark that will be!"

"Listen," Joyce said, standing up in the carriage with her child in her

arms; "I am on my way home with these little children. Surely you will

not stop me and endanger their lives?"

"We will! we will! if you don't give us your word you are for Reform and

dead against Wetherall."

"Why," Joyce said fearlessly, "only a year ago, and near this very

place, the men and women of Bristol shouted, 'Long live Wetherall!' And

now!"

"Now we say, _curse_ him!" growled a big, brawny man.

The little girls, awakened by the uproar, began to cry with fear, and

Falcon called out, "Let mother go on, you bad men! I say, let her go on!

Father will be so angry with you!"

"Hush! hush! dear Master Falcon," Susan said; "you will only make them

worse. Hush!"

And now, as Joyce looked over the faces crowding round her, she beckoned

to the woman, who had been thrust back by the pressure of others who

wanted to see the inhabitants of the carriage.

"Come here," she said, holding out some of the buns; "I am so sorry for

your hungry baby. Give her one of these buns, and do believe me when I

say I am sorry for all your troubles."

The sweet, ringing voice began to have effect, and the clamour ceased.

"I am no enemy of the poor. My husband and I wish to do what we can for

you, and I believe, nay, I know, he is an advocate of Reform, but not

for rebellion against authority, and violence."

The execrations were changed now to cheers.

"Let 'em pass, she is a good 'un; let 'em pass, she has a kind heart;

she has a pretty face, too. Here," said a man, "I am the father of that

poor babby; shake hands, missus."

Joyce stretched out her hand at once, and it was taken in a strong grip.

"Thank you," she said; "I knew you would not be cruel to my little

children. Will you all remember that I ask you to be peaceable, and to

pray to God to help you and give you bread for your children. He is a

kind and loving Father; don't forget that."

As Joyce stood before that seething crowd of strange, wan faces, for

many of them bore too plainly the marks of fasting and hunger, the baby

in her arms raised a pitiful cry, and she pressed it closer and soothed

it, while the baby lifted its little hand and stroked its mother's face.

"Aye, she is of the right sort," they cried; "she is a mother who loves

her child. She ain't too grand to cosset her babby. Let her go on!"

The post-boy cracked his whip, and the carriage was just starting, when

Joyce suddenly turned ashen white, and sinking back in the carriage, the

baby would have fallen had not Piers caught it by its cloak.

"What is it?--what is it, Joyce, my dear?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "You put

too much strain on yourself; you are feeling the effects. Joyce!"

But Joyce did not speak. Her mother opened the basket, and taking out a

bottle, held it to Joyce's lips.

"Take some wine; do try to sip it, Joyce."

But Joyce sat up and put it from her. "No, thank you, dear mother. I was

faint, rather faint. Perhaps it _was_ too much for me speaking to that

angry crowd. Oh!" and she put her hand to her eyes, "their faces, their

dreadful faces! I am better now."

And, with wonderful self-restraint, Joyce did not tell her mother or

Piers that, amidst that throng of ragged, wild people, she had seen the

face of the man whom she believed had caused her father's death.

Falcon's voice from the "dickey" was now heard. "Here's father! here's

father!"

And presently Gilbert trotted up on horseback, and was received with

shouts from his little boy and deep thankfulness from those inside the

carriage.

"The crowd is getting very thick in the city," he said, "and I thought I

would ride out and be your escort. Why, my darling, you don't look much

better for country air," he said, anxiously scanning her face.

"We have been surrounded by a mob," Piers said, "and Joyce asked them to

let us pass, and that was rather too much even for her nerves. There are

some two hundred men and women coming on behind us."

"Then push on," Gilbert said to the post boy, "and I will be your _avant

courier_. The crowd in Bristol is fairly orderly so far, and I think we

shall get through pretty well. Why, Susan!" he said, "you look almost as

white as your mistress. I shall be glad to get you all safe home."

Joyce rose in the carriage again, and, turning, looked back at Susan.

Her face told that she also had recognised her father; and, with a

sudden gesture of sympathy, Joyce put her hand on her faithful and

trusted servant's arm, and gave it a pressure which she understood.

"Oh! dear madam," she said, "it was very dreadful."

"Yes," Joyce said, "but the danger is past now that we have Mr. Arundel

with us. Hold Falcon firmly when we get into the streets."

"I shall be glad to get home now," said little Falcon. "I am as tired as

mother is."

That surging crowd, increasing hourly in numbers and in vehemence,

thronged the narrow streets, and made the progress of the carriage very

slow.

The young man who rode before it attracted attention, and he was called

upon several times to declare whether he would vote for Protheroe and

Baillie, and whether he was an anti-reformer or a reformer.

These questions were generally shouted at him and followed by cries and

cheers, so that the reply could not be heard.

Erect and fearless, Gilbert rode on, clearing the way for the carriage,

which contained all that was most precious to him in the world. Had he

turned a hair, or shown the slightest sign of fear, it is probable he

would have had stones hurled at him, or insulting missives, such as

rotten eggs or dead rats, thrown into the carriage. But there was

something in the way Gilbert guided his horse through the throng, and in

the steadfast outlook of his eyes, that won the mob, and not a finger

was raised against him. He even heard cries of "pretty dears!" from

behind.

"It's their father, I daresay. Pretty dears! And that's their mother,

with the youngest. She is as white as a ghostie."

So on they passed safely over Bristol Bridge, through Wine Street, and

Corn Street, narrow thoroughfares, which necessitated at the best of

times, but slow progress.

As they passed along Saint Augustine's Back they left the great

proportion of the crowd on the other side of the river. It was making,

by way of King Street, for Queen's Square, where the great meeting was

to assemble before the Mansion House, and the two whig candidates were

to harangue the people.

The heat of controversy was fanned continually into a fiercer flame; and

moderate men, like Gilbert Arundel, were rare. While desiring any change

which might give the people their just rights, and conscious of many

abuses which needed reform, Gilbert took up no party cry, nor did he try

to exalt his own side by heaping abuse on the other. When the need

came, he would be ready to act for the defence of right and order, but

he stood aloof, with singular discretion, from the hot-headed

politicians of the Union, and thus he was, with many others, innocent of

the great outbreak of lawlessness and riot, which, in a few short

months, was to disgrace the annals of the city of Bristol.

The great thoroughfare of Park Street was comparatively empty, and

Gilbert reined in his horse and rode by the side of the carriage.

"We are nearly home now," he said; "and there you will be safe. Is

anything the matter?" he asked, leaning forward to Joyce.

"I will tell you," she said, in a low voice, "but not now." And then the

carriage turned into Great George Street, and the children and Joyce and

the luggage were deposited there, while Mrs. Falconer and Piers were

taken on to Clifton. Mrs. Arundel shared the large town house with her

son, but she was away on a visit, and only two servants were in the wide

old-fashioned hall to receive the travellers.

The children's spacious nursery was bright and cheerful, commanding a

view of the cathedral just below, the tower of St. Mary Redclyffe

Church, of the tall masts of the ships, and of the hills beyond. A

blazing fire in the old grate, and the rocking chair by the high guard,

looked inviting, and Joyce sat down there with little Joy in her arms,

while Susan put Lota and Lettice to rest in their cots in the next room,

to sleep after the excitement of the morning; and Falcon rushed to the

garden to inquire into the condition of the white rabbit, which he had

left in its hutch when they went to Fair Acres some three weeks before.

Gilbert, who had been looking after the luggage, and settling the

postboy's fee, soon came up, and, kneeling down by the chair, took both

mother and baby in a loving embrace.

"My two Joys," he said; "my two best Joys. I am afraid you have been a

good deal frightened, my darling; but cheer up now; the danger, if there

was any, is over, thank God!"

"Gilbert, it was not the crowd, it was not the fear about the poor

people who stopped the carriage, it was that amongst those dreadful

faces I saw Bob Priday's, the man who stopped us on Mendip years ago,

and who, as we think, killed dear father. Oh, it was the sight of his

face which was too much for me! And poor Susan saw him also. It brought

it all back. Father! father!"

Gilbert stroked his wife's head tenderly as it lay upon his shoulder,

and said:

"Are you sure it was Bob Priday? So many years have passed."

"Quite, quite sure. And, though I have not spoken to Susan yet, I _know_

she is sure also."

"You did not tell your mother, then, or Piers?"

"No, no; I would not have given mother the pain I felt, for anything.

Dear mother! I let her drive off with scarcely a good-bye, and she has

been so kind at Fair Acres, and has enjoyed the children in the old

house. But, oh! Gilbert," she said, rallying, "it is so delightful to be

at home with you again. While we have each other nothing can be _very_

bad, can it?"

"Nothing," he said, fervently. "And now, while you are resting, I must

go down to the office, for my partner is at the meeting at the "White

Lion," helping to bolster up poor Hart-Davies to fight the Tories'

battle. He is a good fellow, and everybody respects him; but the truth

is, the tide is too strong in Bristol now for any but some very

exceptional man to battle against it."

"You think the Whigs will carry the election?"

"Without a doubt."

"Are you going to the meeting in Queen's Square?"

"I think not. We cannot both leave the office at once, and I do not

greatly care about it. I do increasingly feel that these men who clamour

for their cause injure it. They are exciting the mob in Bristol--always

inflammable material--and this fury of rage against old Wetherall is

most dangerous. Everyone expects that if he attempts to open the next

assize there will be a riot it will be difficult to quell. Happy little

Joy," he said, kissing the baby's cheek; "to sleep on in peace while

your fellow-citizens of Bristol are shouting themselves hoarse."

Susan now came in from the next room, and took the baby from Joyce,

while Gilbert left the nursery, saying:

"We must dine at a fashionable hour to-day. I shall not be back till

five;"--and Susan and her mistress were left alone.

"Did he see us, Susan? Your father; do you think he saw us?"

"I think he did, ma'am--at least, I think he saw me."

"You feel no doubt at all that it was your father, Susan?"

"No, oh no!" said poor Susan, struggling to restrain her convulsive

sobs; "and I don't know what is to be done. Oh, dear, dear, madam!"

"We must leave it in God's hands, Susan."

"If he finds me out it will be so dreadful; but I don't think he will

dare to do so."

"No," Joyce said; "he will hide away from us knowing that suspicion, at

least, must have fastened on him."

"Dear madam, I wonder you have ever been able to bear to have me near

you. His daughter!--_his_ daughter!"

"I thought we had settled long ago, Susan, that your services to me and

mine, and your love for the children, must always win my gratitude

and----"

"Dear madam, I know how good you are. I know how you took me out of the

lowest depths of misery, just as no one else would have done. But if I

am to bring trouble on you by staying here, if he, my father, is to

bring more trouble on you, I would rather run away and hide myself, and

never look upon your face again."

"Do not say so, Susan; let us trust in God, and He will protect us. Your

father, if he recognised me, which I doubt, is very unlikely to come

forward when a serious charge might be brought against him. It was a

great shock at first for me to see him; but let us dismiss it from our

minds now, and do not let us speak of it to anyone but Mr. Arundel.

Certainly not to Mrs. Falconer."

"Very well, dear madam, I will do all you desire me," Susan said, and

clasping little Joy in her arms, she turned away.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

A LULL IN THE STORM.

There was a lull in the storm as soon as the two Whig candidates were

elected to represent the city of Bristol, and Mr. Hart-Davis withdrew

quietly from the contest. The undercurrent, it is true, was still

muttering and murmuring of evil times to come, and all thinking men who

looked below the surface knew that it would but need a spark to kindle a

great fire in Bristol, and that much wisdom, firmness, and decision,

would be needed amongst the rulers.

Joyce Arundel, in her happy home life, soon lost the sense of

insecurity, which after that memorable drive from Fair Acres, had at

first haunted her.

Falcon's lessons, and the interest she felt in his rapid advancement,

engrossed her every morning when her household duties were over; and

then she would pace up and down the garden overlooking the city, with

her baby in her arms, while Lota and Lettice played on the wide expanse

of even, if rather smoke-dried, turf, which sloped down from the terrace

walk at the back of the house, and tell herself a hundred times that no

wife or mother in England was happier than she was.

The early married life of a mother whose chief interests centre in her

own home, and who knows no craving for anything that lies beyond, is

happy indeed. As years pass and her children vanish, and the sweetness

of entire dependence on her ceases of necessity with infancy and

childhood, the mother, weary with the battle of life, encompassed with

difficulties, and overburdened with requirements which the failing

strength of advancing years makes it hard to fulfil, can turn back to

that fair oasis in her pilgrimage, when the children were with her day

and night, when her hand had power to soothe a childish trouble, and her

voice charm away a little pain or disappointment, or add, by her

sympathy in joys as well as in sorrows, zest to all those simple

pleasures in which children delight.

Sometimes, even to the best mothers, I know, there comes a sudden, sharp

awakening. The son of much love and many prayers goes far astray; the

daughter, her pride and joy in her early childhood, is apparently cold

and heartless. But as a rule, I think, in the retrospect the cry is

forced from many a mother's sad heart: "If only I had been more to him

in early boyhood; cared for his games, and interested myself in all his

play as well as work, it _might_ have been different"; or, "If I had

dealt more tenderly and patiently with her when she was standing on the

threshold of womanhood, it might have been different!"

Vain regrets, vain laments for some of us; but the young mother, like

Joyce Falconer, has the children and the father of the children still

with her, and may, as Joyce did, sing to herself a sweet, low song of

thanksgiving, which made Lettice stop in her play, and, running up to

her side, say:

"What a pretty song mother is singing to baby!"

And now another voice was heard, rather a sad, querulous voice, which

did not chime in well with the mother's song, or the baby's gentle coo

of gladness, or the laughter of the two little sisters, as Falcon dashed

out upon them from the open door of the hall with a big ball in his

hand, which he threw down the grass with a merry "Halloo!"

Falcon's lessons, which his mother had left him to learn, were over, and

he was free to run and jump to his heart's content.

"Joyce, are you not coming to get ready? Aunt Falconer never likes to be

kept waiting."

"Oh! I beg your pardon, Charlotte; I had forgotten you and I were to

spend the day with mother; I will be ready in a few minutes. I must just

wait till Susan can take baby." Susan appeared at this moment, and Joyce

went quickly into the hall.

Poor Charlotte's visions and dreams had never come to be anything but

dreams. She was older than Joyce, and still had never found the language

of the eyes come to a good honest declaration of love, still less to an

offer of marriage. She was just now on a visit to her cousin, Miss

Falconer being very ready to spare her, hoping that in Clifton or

Bristol she might find a cure for her low spirits, and generally

dejected air, which her aunt did not like to have remarked upon by the

gossips of Wells, and which had certainly very much increased of late.

* * * * *

Joyce ran upstairs to prepare for her visit, and on the first floor

found Mrs. Arundel.

"Mr. Bengough has been here, Joyce, with great news; the Bill was

carried with a large majority in the Commons, and now there is only the

Lords, and surely they will not turn it out."

Falcon, who had rushed up to the nursery to find his reins and whip,

that he might make a pair of ponies of his little sisters, stopped as he

heard his grandmother say:

"It is great news, and a great victory."

"What battle is it? Tell me, mother, who has been fighting?"

"It was not a battle with swords or guns, Falcon; but when you are a man

you may remember that you heard, when you were a little boy, that on the

nineteenth of September, eighteen hundred and thirty-one, the great

Reform Bill was carried by a number of votes."

"Then will all those angry people we saw when we came home from Fair

Acres be happy and good now. Susan says they shouted 'Reform, Reform,'

because they wanted bread; but I don't know what it means," said Falcon,

thoughtfully. "If it's a good thing, it ought to make people better,

oughn't it, Grannie?"

It was profound philosophy for six years old! The necessary consequence

of good must be something _better_.

Joyce, thinking of those angry faces crowding round her and her babies,

and of the one terrible face which conjured up such a host of dreadful

memories, sighed.

"Ah! Falcon," she said, "good things cannot come all at once--good

results, I mean; but give me a kiss and run away, and mind you give

Grannie no trouble while I am gone." Then Joyce turned for a moment into

the pretty sitting room which Mrs. Arundel occupied. Since Gratian's

marriage she had lived with her son and his wife. She had separate rooms

on the upper floor of the large house, and her own maid. The arrangement

was perfectly harmonious, and the little household was very happy.

"You will not mind letting the children dine with you, dear Grannie?"

Joyce said.

"Mind! it will be a great treat; do not hasten back."

"I thought after dinner, if Piers liked, we would go and see Mrs. More;

he does not get out enough."

"Take a carriage at my expense, dear, and drive to Windsor terrace, and

then over the Downs. It will be a lovely afternoon, and your mother will

enjoy it."

Joyce shook her head.

"I doubt if mother will come; but I will do my best, thank you. Gilbert

will not come home till quite a late dinner--supper, as my mother calls

all meals after six o'clock."

Joyce and Charlotte were soon walking quickly up Park Street, for their

lungs were good and their limbs strong, and Charlotte forgot her

complaints for the time, in the delight of looking in at several shop

windows lately opened in Park Street.

There was no Triangle then. The Victoria Rooms were only a dream of some

enterprising builder, and it was across a field that Joyce made her way,

till she came to the sombre houses with dark, sunless frontage called

Rodney Place, and, passing them and the stately mansion, Manilla Hall,

she turned towards some low grey-coloured houses, which rejoiced in the

name of "Down Cottages."

It was impossible for Mrs. Falconer to live in any house without leaving

her mark upon it, and the little dining and drawing rooms were as bright

and fresh as she could make them, while Piers had the third sitting room

for his "rubbish."

Piers had now a collection of birds and beasts which had grown into

large proportions since the little sparrow-hawk had been "set up" by Mr.

Plume.

He had studied natural history in all its branches, and since he had

lived in Clifton he had begun to be an earnest student of the great

subject of geology, and his light figure, leaning on his crutches, and

his pale, earnest face, were familiar to those who took their daily

airing on the Observatory Hill. Piers had made friends with the stone

cutters who spread out their stalls on Sion Hill and at the foot of the

Observatory, and there was a continual interest in getting specimens

from them.

Piers was helped in his studies by a young physician, who was then

putting his foot on the first rung of the ladder which he soon scaled to

the very top, and stood in later years pre-eminently as the first

consulting physician of the West of England. His patients at this time,

above the level of Park Street were not very numerous, and he would

laughingly assure Piers that he was very proud to attend any one in so

aristocratic a locality as Down Cottage!

He lent Piers books and instruments, and gave him a microscope, of

which, as a physician, he had several, and, indeed, was the bright

element in the lame boy's life.

He was coming out of the house now as Joyce opened the little iron gate,

his horse waiting for him at the corner.

The greeting between the doctor and Joyce was unusually warm; he admired

her beautiful, beaming face, and always liked to exchange a word with

her.

"It is great news," he said; "though the crucial test is yet to come."

"Yes," Joyce said; "but surely the dear old Lords will not obstruct the

bill."

"The dear old Bishops will do so," the doctor said, "your friend at

Wells amongst them."

"Well," Joyce said, "he is sure to do what he does because he thinks it

is right, not because other people do it."

The doctor laughed again; evidently he was not so sure of the Bishop.

Then, with a pleasant smile to Charlotte, the doctor went away, just

turning back for a moment to say, "I saw your old friend, Mrs. Hannah

More's doctor, in consultation this morning, and he incidentally

mentioned that she was failing rather visibly. Have you seen her of

late?"

"I am going there this afternoon," Joyce said. "I want so much to see

her."

"I would not delay," the doctor said, significantly, and then he was

gone.

After the first greeting. Piers dragged Joyce off to his den, to show

her a beautiful specimen of quartz, of which he had possessed himself

the day before for a mere trifle.

And then he had diagrams to show her, which he had drawn, of several

crystals, as seen through the microscope; and then he divulged the

doctor's plan, that he should prepare a good many of such diagrams for

him to use at a lecture he was to give in the Bristol Museum, some

evening in the course of the coming winter.

I do not think there is any quality more attractive than that, which

Joyce possessed in a remarkable degree, of throwing herself--not

superficially, as Gratian did, but really and heartily--into the

interests of other people.

[Illustration: Clifton and the Avon.]

Any one watching her face as she bent over Piers' treasures, and

examined his drawings, would have scarcely believed that she was the

mother of four children, to whom she was devoted.

Piers was seated at his table, and she was standing over him, with one

hand upon his shoulder, while, with the other, she now and then stroked

back his hair, as in old days.

It is strange to think how the quiet, happy life of home, and home

interests may go on, while the storm of political strife, and religious

controversy rages without. It was thus with Sir Thomas Browne, the

philosopher and physician, of Norwich, who produced his great work, the

"Religio Medici," when England stood on the eve of the greatest storm,

which ever burst over her. It was thus with many less distinguished and

simple souls, who went about their accustomed duties and pleasures, and

took up their daily burden of cares and toil, and gave but little heed

to the jarring elements without.

Presently Joyce said: "I must go to mother now and get ready for dinner.

How has mother been lately?"

"Oh! very well," Piers said. "She does not _care_ very much for

anything, that is the worst of it. She always talks of her day being

over, and that she has nothing now to live for; but she has, all the

same," Piers continued, laughing. "She bustles about every morning,

rubbing and dusting, and then she is knitting socks enough to last

Falcon till he is twenty, and all kinds of things for your baby."

"Does she get on with the servants now?"

"Oh! pretty well. Of course, there is a good scold every day of one or

the other of them, but both the maids know by this time, as we all do,

that mother's bark may be sharp, but her bite is nothing."

"I hope you are not very dull, darling Piers?" Joyce asked.

"Dull! No, thank goodness! I don't know what dullness means. I see you

have brought Charlotte with you; she is as languishing as ever."

"Poor Charlotte!" Joyce said; "she, at any rate, knows very well what

dullness means. But I must not stay; remember you and mother are to

spend Christmas with us in Great George Street."

The Clifton of fifty-five year's ago might not present such an

appearance of gaiety on a fine afternoon as it does now; but,

nevertheless, the Downs and Observatory were sprinkled with people, well

dressed, in carriages, or Bath chairs, or on foot.

It was decided that the carriage should be ordered by Joyce from the

stables at the back of Sion Hill, as she went to Windsor Terrace; that

Mrs. Falconer, Piers, and Charlotte should drive to the turnpike on the

Down, and then come to the top of Granby Hill, and wait there for Joyce.

Charlotte was quite content with this arrangement, and watched Joyce's

departure after dinner with some satisfaction. She rather liked to be

alone with Mrs. Falconer, who, as she knitted, listened to her little

complaints with patience, if not with expressed sympathy. Mrs. Arundel,

on the contrary, thought Charlotte needed rousing, and was intolerant of

perpetual headaches and low spirits.

There were many unoccupied young women like Charlotte, fifty years ago,

without any particular aim in life, except a vague idea that they ought

to be married. The years as they passed, often went by on leaden wings.

Charlotte was amiable and gentle; and Miss Falconer, disappointed with

the result of her training, would say: "Poor dear Charlotte has not

strong health; so different from Joyce, who was a perfect rustic in

that, as in other things." But Joyce was married, and Charlotte remained

single, and had not even the satisfaction of recounting her many

conquests, as her aunt so frequently did.

There is no more honourable and noble life than that of the single woman

who bravely takes up her lot, and works her way to independence, by

industry and the cultivation of the gifts God has given her, for which

the opportunities in these days are so many. But there is--I had almost

said _was_--no life more pitiable, than that of the woman whose youth is

passing, and who, having to accept her position as unmarried, does so

with a bad grace, and pines for what, by her very melancholy views of

life, she puts more and more beyond her reach, and who is perpetually

thinking of her own little pains and troubles, and forgets to be at

leisure from herself, to sympathise with those of others.

"Joyce did not ask _me_ to go and see Mrs. More; though we stayed at

Barley Wood together," Charlotte was saying. "However, I dare say Mrs.

More would not remember me."

"Her memory is getting short now," said Mrs. Falconer; "she reaped a

pretty harvest for her over-indulgence of her servants; teaching them

things that were above their station in life was the beginning of it.

They cheated her through thick and thin, and some gentlemen had to

interfere, and break up the household for her, poor old lady!"

"It must be a change for her to live in Windsor Terrace, after that

lovely place," Charlotte said.

"Not greater than for me to change Fair Acres for Down Cottage; but my

day is over, and it suits me very well, and Piers is happy, while Harry

and Ralph like to come here sometimes, and I like to be near Joyce and

the dear children."

"I think Falcon is rather tiresome and noisy," Charlotte said. "Joyce

does not reprove him as she ought."

Mrs. Falconer was touchy about her grand-children; in her eyes Falcon

was perfect, and the love that had been so unsparingly poured forth on

Melville, was now given to Falcon.

"He's a noble boy," she said, in a tone that implied it was certainly

not Charlotte's business to suggest that he had any imperfections. And

now the knitting-needles were laid aside, for the carriage stopped at

the little iron gate, and Mrs. Falconer went to call Piers, and to

prepare for her drive.

Meantime Joyce had gone down the steep hill to Windsor Terrace, and,

after some hesitation on the part of Miss Frowde, she was allowed to see

Mrs. More.

She was seated in an easy chair, propped up with cushions, enjoying the

view which lay before her.

For a moment she sought Joyce's face with an inquiring glance, as if not

quite sure of her identity; but almost immediately the recognition came,

and she greeted her, with one of her brightest smiles.

"Why, my dear Mrs. Arundel, you are quite a stranger. How are the dear

babies, and poor Susan?"

"They are all well, dear madam, and Susan is an increasingly valuable

servant."

"I am glad to hear it. I love to know that the seed sown is springing

up. We are sadly impatient, my dear; we are like children pulling up the

plant to see if the roots are grown. How are things going on at Fair

Acres?"

"Very much as usual. My brother Ralph manages the estate."

"And the others look on! Well, well, patience is the great lesson for us

all to learn, the patience that God has with us. Prayer and patient

waiting will move mountains at last."

Then, after a few more inquiries, Mrs. More came to public matters.

"I thought," she said, "I was too old to take such a deep interest in

the affairs of this kingdom and this city; but, my dear, we stand on the

edge of a volcano, and, from all I hear, Bristol is ill-prepared. There

is a growing feeling of hatred against the magistrates, and the zeal of

Sir Charles Wetherall has carried him beyond the bounds of discretion.

Would you like to borrow any books? They are at your service. In that

book-case there are many volumes written by me. I often sit here, and

think over the writing of those books, and how little I ever expected

that they would have a large sale, and bring me in, as they did, thirty

thousand pounds. It often fills me with self-abasement, not

self-glorification."

"I will not take a book to-day, dear madam; and here is Miss Frowde come

to warn me that I have stayed long enough."

"See!" Mrs. More said, "there is the little steam-packet puffing busily

up the river. I am blessed in my old age, to see before my windows the

two great discoveries of the age, steam-power made useful for

locomotion, and coal-gas for light. I am very happy here, my dear, but

remember an old woman's advice, and do not spoil Susan Priday, or any

servant, by over indulgence. Very often, as in my own case,

carelessness, and dislike of trouble is the real root of the evil. God

bless you and keep you, my dear," she said, as Joyce bent to kiss her.

"Is there much excitement abroad about the passing of the Reform Bill?"

"Not that I have seen," Joyce answered; "but I daresay there may be in

the city."

"Well, the result is in God's hands; we must pray and labour for peace,

that blessed gift of God's love--peace."

It was a sweet parting word, and one to which Joyce often recurred in

later years, almost as Hannah More's legacy to her--Peace.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

THE STORM BURSTS.

It was the evening of the eighteenth of October when Joyce was seated in

her nursery, awaiting her husband's return. The Bristol clocks had

struck eleven; and from time to time the noise of the voices of many

people reached her, borne upon the still night air. She had sent the

servants to bed; and Mrs. Arundel and Charlotte were also gone to their

rooms; but Joyce sat up watching for Gilbert's return.

The baby Joy, was sleeping in her cradle, and Lettice and Lota in their

cribs, while Falcon lay in profound repose, a fife, upon which he had

been playing hard all day, as he marched round and round the garden, was

clasped in his strong, round little fingers.

Joyce bent over the children, shading the candle with her hand, to

assure herself they slept, and then, leaving the nursery door open, that

she might hear if they stirred or cried, she went gently down the wide

staircase to the hall. The fire in the dining-room was burning low, and

she put on some more coal, and saw that the kettle just simmered on the

hob, ready to be put on to the fire when Gilbert came.

She moved with that quiet, almost stealthy tread, which is common with

those who feel themselves the only persons awake in a house.

The stillness was broken by the ticking of the clock in the hall, and

how loud that tick sounded!

Joyce went to the window, and, unfastening the shutter, looked out into

the night, a dark, murky night; and from below came the low murmur of

the crowds, which had not yet dispersed.

Public feeling throughout the country had reached almost to fever heat,

but in Bristol the animosity against Bishops and Lords, for the

rejection of the Reform Bill which the Commons had passed, was quickened

by the personal hatred, which the recorder, Sir Charles Wetherall had

excited amongst the people.

Bristol reformers were enraged that he should have made a bitter attack

upon Lord John Russell in the House of Commons, charging him most

unfairly with encouraging illegal means for carrying the Reform Bill.

Though the whole country was in a ferment, and riots had broken out in

Derby, Nottingham, and other towns, in no place was there such a

personal feeling excited as against the Recorder of Bristol.

The assizes would soon open, and vengeance was vowed against him, if he

attempted to enter the city to perform his duties as a judge.

Both parties vied with each other in exciting bitterness and ill

feeling; and all good, moderate men felt, in their own minds, that a

crisis was at hand, and that, unless some wise and able pilot could be

found to guide the helm, a most disastrous shipwreck must follow.

Gilbert Arundel had, with some other gentlemen, done what they could to

cast oil on the troubled waters. Gilbert had spoken several times at

some of the smaller meetings, and had advised temperance and patience.

He was one of the very few, in those days, who appealed to the working

men to help to maintain order among themselves; who showed the ruin and

distress the rioters had brought upon their families in other places,

and who spoke to them as having common cause with himself to do all they

could to protect their wives and children. Gilbert was, in his heart,

what was called a whig, but he was far, indeed, from being a hot-headed

radical.

That he was known to be the grandson of a peer, and that his mother had

a title, did not win him favour with the extreme section of his own

party, while the others, perhaps, were a little triumphant that the son

of a noble house might yet question the wisdom of the Lords in rejecting

a Bill which was so dear to the heart of the people.

Joyce gently closed the shutters and returned to her place by the fire.

Then she went out into the hall, where an oil lamp was dimly burning,

and looked out from a small window by the side of the door.

A sense of fear began to creep over her, not for herself, but for

Gilbert. She listened for his step with that nervous tension which is so

painful, and of which we all know something.

Presently the door of the cellar, which opened into the hall, creaked;

Joyce watched it breathlessly; it opened wider and wider, and a man's

head appeared. In the dim light she could scarcely discern the features,

but something in that face was surely familiar.

She was not left long in doubt; once more Bob Friday stood before her.

At first Joyce was literally paralysed with terror, and she could

neither speak, nor call for help.

She made a movement towards the door, but the man raised a hand to

prevent her.

"Don't you scream or move. I want to speak to you."

"How can you--how dare you, come here?"

"I came to tell ye that I'll see your young gent comes to no harm."

"I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, burying her face for a moment

in her hands. "I know--I know what terrible grief you once brought on me

and all I loved."

The accents of her voice, with the sorrowful ring in them, the quiet

self-possession, for which, with a sinking heart she struggled, touched

that rough, bad man, as no protestations or entreaties could have done.

"I cannot believe," she went on, "you are come to do me more harm. My

four little children are asleep upstairs. There is no one in the house

but women, helpless women, one of whom is your own daughter--your _own

daughter_."

"I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head, nor yours, nor your childer's. I

came to warn you--the folks down below will stop at nothing once they

are let loose; they'd as soon tear your young gent to pieces as look at

'im. They'd fire this 'ouse for a trifle. I belong to a party of 'em,

and if I know it, _he_ shan't come to no harm. Look ye, missus, I wanted

to see you, to tell you the squire was riding peaceable enough----"

"Oh! don't! don't! I cannot bear it," Joyce said.

"He was riding peaceable enough, and I laid in wait for 'im. I got hold

of the bridle, and the horse, she backed and reared, and the squire he

fell on a sharp stone, which cut his forehead--a three corner cut--I see

it now. He lay like a dog, dead, and the horse galloped off, and

I--well, I made off too, and got aboard a ship in Bristol Docks, and

only came back last Christmas. I meant to threaten the squire; but I

didn't kill 'im; I didn't _want_ to kill 'im."

"Your act killed him as much as if you had thrown the stone, as we all

believed you did. Oh! I pray God may forgive you."

"Say you forgive me," the man muttered; "I wouldn't hurt a hair of your

head."

"I pray God to forgive you, and I try to do as the Lord Jesus would have

me, and forgive you. But, oh! leave your evil ways, and turn to Him."

"It's too late," he said.

"Oh! no! no!--never! never too late!"

The man was silent for a few minutes; then he spoke in a low harsh

voice:

"Give my love to poor Sue. I broke her mother's heart, and I nearly

broke her's. I saw her riding in the carriage with you, like a lady, in

the spring. Her mother used to pray God to take care of her, and sure

enough, He has. It must be pretty nigh like heaven to live along with

you. I'm a-going out by the way I came. Now you just see that the cellar

winder bars is mended; that's how I got in, and others may get in too. I

suppose you couldn't say, God bless you?"

The restraint Joyce had put upon herself was very great, and now that

the danger seemed passing, she began to give way.

"Yes," she said faintly; "I think you are sorry, and I say, may God

pardon you and bless you."

"Thank'ee," was the rejoinder; but still, though he moved back towards

the cellar door, he lingered.

"Suppose you wouldn't touch the likes of me with your little white hand?

I'd like to feel it once, just once."

With a great effort she held out her hand, cold and trembling with fear.

The man took it up, as he would some curious and precious thing, and

then, bowing over it, he waited no longer, and the cellar-door closed

behind him.

Joyce sank upon one of the straight-backed chairs, and was just becoming

unconscious of all outward things, when the latch-key was fitted into

the lock, and Gilbert came in.

With a cry of dismay, he closed the door, and hastened to take her in

his arms.

"My darling, what is it? What can have happened?"

He carried her, half fainting, into the dining room, and chafed her cold

hands, and held some water to her lips.

A great flood of tears relieved her at last, and then clinging to her

husband's neck, and still shuddering in every limb, she managed to tell

him the story of Bob Priday's visit.

"It is a very grave matter," Gilbert said; "if the man who is guilty of

your father's death is in Bristol, he ought to be apprehended and put on

his trial."

"He seems to bear us no ill-will now, Gilbert. He is penitent, I think;

and he said dear father fell from the horse, and that he did not

actually throw the stone at him. Oh! Gilbert, it seems to bring it all

back again."

"Dismiss it from your thoughts to-night, my darling, we shall need all

our strength and courage. I am sworn in as a special constable. The

people show increasingly signs of ill-will against those in authority.

If Wetherall persists in making a public entry into Bristol next week,

God only knows what will be the consequences. No one seems to be able to

take active measures. The mayor is kindly and well-intentioned, but he

has no strength of purpose, and if once the mob gets the upper hand,

and those in authority are frightened, there will be a riot such as

Bristol has never known. I think, if things do not look more promising,

I must send you to Abbot's Leigh with my mother and the babies, and

Charlotte Benson had better go home. There is a house at Abbots Leigh,

Benson, my partner, will let me have, and you would be out of harm's way

there."

"Oh! Gilbert, surely you do not mean that I am to leave you? I could

not--I will not leave you!"

"You will do what I think is best and right, like a brave, good wife.

You would not add to my anxiety, I am sure. I have seen enough in

Bristol to-day to feel certain there will be a desperate struggle before

the city quiets down. Only imagine that man, Captain Claxton, being so

mad as to call a meeting of sailors on board the two ships now in the

harbour, the 'Charles' and the 'Earl of Liverpool,' under pretence of

voting a loyal address to the king, but really to get the sailors to

form a guard to protect Wetherall when he enters Bristol. Could anything

be more likely to enrage the other party? The meeting was broken up and

adjourned to the quay, where the anti-reformers passed the resolution in

a great uproar, protesting loyalty to the king, but declaring they will

not be made a cat's paw of by the corporation and paid agents. The

notion of protesting this publicly in the face of all the orders of the

mayor! They are going to send a deputation to Wetherall to beg him not

to persist in coming in next Saturday; but I am afraid it will be

useless. If anything could have added to my own share in the troubles of

the city, it is that Maythorne has chosen this time to come to the hotel

in Clifton. He is a mere wreck, and so broken down that he looks like an

old man instead of in his prime, but he is as bumptious as ever."

Joyce had roused herself now. The idea of Gilbert's danger was enough to

drive away every other anxiety.

She made him take the refreshment which he so greatly needed, and,

though pale and exhausted, she felt it almost a relief to busy herself

in any way which diverted her mind from the terrible half-hour she had

gone through in the hall face to face with Bob Priday.

"Why is Maythorne's coming so vexatious to you?" she asked; "I mean,

more vexatious than usual."

"My dear child," Gilbert said, "the very fact of his title, and my

connection with it, would be enough to ensure brickbats and stones to

be hurled at my head if he is seen with me. Let us hope he will keep to

the more aristocratic quarters of Clifton, and not come near us."

"I think," Joyce said, when at last they prepared to go upstairs to bed;

"I think I should like to hear you give God thanks for my safety, and

that strength was given me not to cry out or scream; but oh! Gilbert,

Gilbert, I _was_ so frightened!"

Again he soothed her and comforted her, and then he raised his voice,

the manly tones touched with pathos, and thanked God for His mercy,

committing his wife and her little children to His care.

* * * * *

All that week passed in dread and apprehension. The popular feeling grew

stronger and stronger against the Recorder, as the head and chief, as

far as Bristol was concerned, of the anti-reformers.

Efforts were made to postpone the assizes, or, in the phrase of the day,

"Deliver the gaol"; but all their efforts were vain, and the authorities

actually despatched a deputation to Lord Melbourne at the Home Office,

to beg he would send down a body of soldiers to keep the peace during

the Recorder's visit. Lord Melbourne, doubting the expediency of such a

movement, tried to get at the opinions of the two members for Bristol.

Mr. Baillie was from home, but Mr. Protheroe said he would be answerable

for order, and himself accompany Sir Charles Wetherall, if the military

were dispensed with.

The idea of an armed force to protect a judge he considered

preposterous, and more likely to inflame the people than anything else.

It was a memorable week to all those who lived in Bristol. And when the

morning of Saturday, October the twenty-ninth dawned, and the tramp of

the civic force was heard on their way to Totterdown to meet the

Recorder, many hearts sank within them.

Lord Maythorne had found his way to Great George Street much oftener

than his sister, Mrs. Arundel, wished, or Gilbert expected. He took a

very lofty standpoint, and vowed that the Recorder was a fine fellow and

did what was right, and that he should like to see sacks full of the

malcontents thrown into the Float as an easy way of getting rid of them.

Gilbert found silence his safest course with his uncle, and tried to put

a restraint on himself when in his presence. He came up from Bristol

about four o'clock in the afternoon of this memorable Saturday, weary

and dispirited, and found, to his dismay, that his uncle was in the

drawing-room.

He was lounging on a sofa, holding a skein of silk for Charlotte

Benson's embroidery, affecting, at forty, the airs and manners of a

young beau, and talking an immense deal of nonsense to poor Charlotte,

which she was only too ready to drink in.