Charlotte had begged to remain in Bristol at the early part of the week;

and, as the days passed on, it became more and more difficult to think

of leaving it. The mail coaches and passenger vans, as well as private

carriages, were continually stopped, and the travellers were roughly

asked whether they were for Reform, or against it; for the Lords, or

ready to cry "_Down with the Lords!_"

In many instances quiet people, who cared very little about politics,

and understood less, were seriously frightened, and even injured by the

swift hurling of a stone or a brickbat.

As soon as Joyce heard her husband's step, she ran out to the hall.

Susan Priday was also on the look-out, with Joy in her arms.

Gilbert looked worn out, and threw himself into a chair, saying:

"I believe it is all but impossible to avoid a riot now. I wish you and

the children and my mother were safe at Abbot's Leigh. Indeed, it is

not too late now to get you up to Down Cottage, and----"

[Illustration: High Street, Bristol.]

"I cannot leave you, Gilbert; do not ask me," Joyce said.

"Tell us what has happened in Bristol. We hear the uproar from these

windows," his mother said.

"Oh! let them fight it out," said Lord Maythorne, "let them fight it

out. They won't touch us."

"I am not so sure of that," said Gilbert, sharply. "I have a suspicion

that you, for one, would get rough handling if some of the malcontents

caught you."

Lord Maythorne laughed. "I should like to see them try. But tell us the

news, pray."

"The news is," said Gilbert, "that the plan of bringing in the Recorder

early in the day failed. We marched out about ten o'clock to Totterdown,

in the hope of cheating the mob, who did not expect the procession till

four o'clock. The yells and hisses of two thousand people were a

sufficient proof of this. The sheriff's carriage could scarcely make its

way through the masses of people, and several stones were hurled at it.

Sir Charles Wetherall reached the Guildhall about twelve o'clock, and

the commission was read. It might have passed off fairly, had not that

stupid though well meaning fellow, Ludlow, began to allude to Reform. It

was like a spark to tinder, and there was an instant uproar; amidst it

the court adjourned to eight o'clock on Monday morning. Every one means

well; but there is no leader for our body of special constables, and

some of the paid fellows are worse than useless. The Recorder is now at

the Mansion House in Queen's Square, and we were ordered to rest, but

not before several of our number were a good deal hurt, and in every

encounter the mob had the best of it. They have armed themselves with

sticks, and one poor fellow was chased into the Float, and many more

must have been hurt."

"Are you hurt, Gilbert?"

"A few bruises, nothing worse; but it is imperative that the children

and Susan should go up to Clifton Down. We are too near the city; if the

Mansion House is fired, as we hear is likely, the uproar and confusion

will reach this house. Charlotte and you, mother, the children and

Joyce, must prepare to start at once. Make haste and pack up a few

things, and I will see you to a place of safety."

And now swift steps were heard on the stairs, and Falcon came in.

"Father," he said, "I've been watching from the windows, and I can see

the crowd, and the shouts get louder."

"You are to go with Susan, Grannie, and cousin Charlotte, at once, to

Down Cottage. You will take care of mother, won't you, Falcon?"

"Of course I will," the boy said, "and of the baby, and Susan. Susan

does nothing but cry. I wish she would not."

"It is not the time to cry, Falcon. We must all be as brave as we can.

Now, Joyce," he said, "and Charlotte, make haste."

"You are in a desperate hurry," Lord Maythorne exclaimed. "I will look

after the ladies with pleasure, and I confess I see no great cause of

alarm. You forget, Gilbert, that people have nerves."

For Charlotte began to sob hysterically, and ask 'if they would all be

burned up, and if the dreadful people would rush up the hill.'

Lord Maythorne soothed her with honeyed words, and declared he would not

leave her till she was in a place of safety.

"Gilbert," Joyce said, beseechingly, as she followed him to the dining

room, where he partook hastily of refreshment, "do not force me to go

away from you; let me and Falcon stay here. We have the gardener to

protect us, and the cook is a sensible woman. Pray please, let your

mother take her maid and Susan, and, _do_ leave me here. Think how

dreadful it would be to me to be beyond reach if--if anything happened

to you, if you were hurt. Nay, Gilbert, do not refuse me."

"Well, I will yield for this one night, and to-morrow, being Sunday,

there may be peace; but I doubt it. Get the others under marching

orders; and, Joyce;" as she was leaving the room, "I am not very well

pleased to see my uncle hanging about here, and filling that poor girl's

head with nonsense. She is just as likely to fancy he is making love to

her as not. Warn her, can't you?"

Joyce shook her head. "It is not easy to persuade Charlotte that

everyone is not ready to fall at her feet, and I am afraid she will

resent any interference; but, oh!" she continued gaily, "I will do

anything now I am not to be sent away from _you_."

Then she hastened upstairs and found Susan and Mary bustling about for

departure.

Joyce told Falcon he was to stay to take care of her, and he shouted for

joy. He had again taken up his post at the open nursery windows, leaning

over the bars, and listening to the ever increasing tumult which reigned

in the city below.

"Oh! dear madam," Susan said; "I don't like to leave you."

"You like to please me, Susan, and there is no danger for me."

"The cellar window is made fast, I know," Susan said, "and he--he can

never come near you again; but suppose the mob should come up here, and

master not be able to reach you."

"That is not likely; by to-morrow all may be quiet, and I shall come to

Down Cottage to see how you have got on. You must give mother my love,

and tell her I know she will like to have Baby Joy to-night, and that

you can sleep with Lettice and Lota."

"Don't be afraid, my darlings," she said, as two little serious faces

were turned up to her, and two little plaintive voices said:

"We want to stay with mother. Falcon is going to stay."

"Falcon is a boy, and he likes to watch the crowds, and does not mind

the noise, and he is going to take care of me. Now then, darlings, run

down and tell father you are ready, while I go and see if grandmother

and Mary, and cousin Charlotte are ready also."

But Mrs. Arundel had determined to remain with Joyce, and said nothing

should tempt her to leave her; her maid Mary should go, and she would

stay behind.

Joyce thought of the rather small accommodation at Down Cottage, and did

not raise any further objection. There was only Charlotte now to hasten.

Joyce found her tying her bonnet and arranging her curls under it, and

turning her head first to one side, then to the other, to catch a

glimpse of her profile in the glass.

"Come, Charlotte, make haste," Joyce said; "they are all ready."

"Is Lord Maythorne coming with us?"

"Yes, as far as the Hotel. If I were you I should not desire his

company."

"Oh! Joyce, he is very nice, quite delightful, and he is--"

"He is given to flatter everybody," Joyce said, "as years ago poor

Melville found to his cost. So take care, Charlotte."

"Take care, indeed! I don't know what you mean," said Charlotte,

pouting. "You always think no one can possibly admire _me_."

"My dear Charlotte, this is not a time for such nonsense, it is time to

commend ourselves and all we love to God's care, and not to be filled

with thoughts of who admires us and who does not. Lord Maythorne is

Gilbert's uncle; but he has caused a great deal of sorrow in the family,

and we were all very sorry when he came to live in England again. Mrs.

Arundel cannot be uncivil to him, but she has not the slightest respect

for him; neither have I."

"Well, dear," said Charlotte, "now you have finished your lecture, I

will go downstairs. I suppose you think, as you are--are married, you

may----"

Charlotte's ready tears began to flow, and Joyce, losing her patience,

passed by her quickly, and ran down into the hall.

It was hard to bid them all "good-bye," her baby smiling at her from

under her warm hood, Lettice and Lota clinging to her, and Susan looking

back to the last moment, as she led the way down Great George Street

with Joy in her arms.

"You must give Uncle Piers my love, you know," Joyce said, "and say I am

coming to-morrow. Good-bye; good-bye."

She stood at the door watching her husband and children down the street,

which opens into Park Street, kissing her hand to them as the little

girls' figures disappeared round the corner.

Lord Maythorne and Charlotte were rather longer in setting out, and a

great deal of hesitation on Charlotte's part, and coaxing on Lord

Maythorne's, was necessary, before they too at last departed. Charlotte

leaning on Lord Maythorne's arm, and walking as if at every step she

expected to meet a rioter, or have a stone thrown at her!

But Great George Street was as quiet as any deserted city, and the

large, respectable houses looked as if they, at least, and their

inhabitants, stood aloof from all questions of dispute, and all stormy

expressions of opinion.

Joyce was an object of some interest to an old lady who lived opposite,

and she craned her neck over the blind in the dining-room to see if it

were actually true that only Joyce and Falcon were left in the house

with Mrs. Arundel.

Joyce, always sensible, and with "her wits about her," as her mother

often said, now closed and bolted the front door, and closed the

shutters in the hall and the dining-room.

Then she went to the door leading to the garden, called the gardener,

who, in spite of the tumult below, went on sweeping the fallen leaves

together in a heap, as if it were the one great business of life.

"Henry," Joyce called; and, shouldering his broom, the man came with

slow but sure steps up to the level gravel path under the windows. "Will

you come round with me and see that all the doors and windows on the

ground-floor are safely closed and barred, and the gate locked at the

bottom of the garden?"

She turned back a moment, and taking a shawl from the hall, threw it

over her head.

"Bars and doors won't keep 'em out if they've a mind to get in," said

Henry; "the din is getting louder and louder. When will the master be

back, ma'am?"

"I don't know quite. Yes," she said, "this door is safe; and I wonder

how anyone could have climbed that wall?"

Henry looked curiously at her.

"Somebody _did_ climb it," he said, "for I found great footmarks here a

week ago, and showed 'em to the master."

Joyce knew well enough whose footprints they were, but she said nothing.

"I should like you to come into the cellar with me, Henry," she said,

turning to retrace her steps; and Falcon shouted from his watch-tower:

"They are making a greater noise than ever, mother, and I see such lots

and lots of people on the quay. Come up, mother."

"I am coming very soon, dear," she said.

Then Joyce finished her inspection of the cellar, not without a thrill

of remembered fear as she heard the creaking of the door, as it closed

behind her.

"You had better stay in the kitchen with cook, Henry, and be on the

watch till your master's return. He may not be home till very late, for

the special constables are on duty; but what an increasing noise! What

can be going on now?"

"They'll tear the Recorder limb from limb if they catch him; they are

just like wild beasts in their rage against him. Lor! what a pity it is

to meddle; let 'em have reform if they like, or leave it alone, it's no

odds to me, nor thousands of other folk. It is a great ado about

nothing; what will be, will be, and there's an end of it."

These opinions of Gilbert Arundel's gardener were decidedly safe, and

had they been held by the mass of the Bristol people, the ensuing scenes

of strife, fire, and bloodshed, would have been spared. But all men are

not of the same easy, philosophical temperament!

And, doubtless, the stirring of the waters has a salutary effect, though

the storm that smote them may be fearful. We who have lived to see a

second Reform Bill carried, and religious tolerance everywhere a

recognised principle, are perhaps scarcely as thankful as we ought to be

for all the struggles, which have, by God's help and guidance, ended

well for this people and nation.

He maketh the storm to cease; "He sitteth above the water-floods; yea,

the Lord remaineth a King for ever."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

TUMULT.

When Gilbert Arundel had placed his little children in safety with their

grandmother, he hastened back to Bristol, and found the uproar

increasing.

Queen Square was filled with the rioters, who were now letting loose the

most furious rage against the Mayor and Recorder. They tore up the iron

railings in front of the Mansion House, and hooted and scoffed at the

Riot Act, which was read by the Mayor's order, and the force of special

constables was quite insufficient.

Gilbert saw this at once, and now, when the cry arose: "Fire the Mansion

House!" it was a relief to see some action taken, by a troop of the 14th

Light Dragoons, and Dragoon Guards trotting into the Square.

There was to all noble-hearted men, something terribly humiliating in

the aspect of affairs. Here was a seething, ignorant crowd of men,

women, and boys, intimidating the magistrates, frightening the Mayor

till he actually barricaded his windows in the Mansion House with his

bed; and Sir Charles Wetherall beating an undignified retreat from the

flat roof of the dining-room. There, helped by a woman's hand, who set

up a ladder for him, he dropped in pitiable terror into the stables

behind, and hid in a loft. Gilbert, standing on guard by the corner of

the Square with four friends bravely holding their ground, and warding

off with their staves the excited crowd, recognised in the dim light the

Recorder slipping by, in a post-boy's dress, which actually passed him

through the crowd, till he found himself safe at Kingsdown. And if the

cowardice of the Recorder, in escaping for dear life from the storm he

had himself roused was unprecedented, the wavering uncertainty of the

Colonel in command of the troops was scarcely less reprehensible!

How Gilbert longed to take a prominent part, and how his heart burned

with righteous indignation against the weakness and incapacity of those

in command.

Everything seemed to go from bad to worse, till Captain Gage received

orders to protect the Council-house. He then charged through High Street

and Wine Street, and drove the rioters, who assailed the soldiers with

stones, into the narrow lanes and alleys.

[Illustration: Wine Street, Bristol.]

Many were wounded with sabre cuts, and Gilbert, in his efforts to save a

woman and child from being trampled down, just by the old timber house

at the corner of Wine Street, was overpowered by the press behind him,

and, just as he had succeeded in placing the woman and her infant in

safety on the high stone sill of a window, he was stunned by a blow,

given at a venture from a stout stick, and would have fallen and been

trampled to death, had not a pair of strong arms seized him and borne

him to a comparatively quiet place on the quay.

Gilbert was stunned and hardly conscious, and when he found himself on

his feet, he staggered and fell against a wall. Some soldiers riding up,

chased a band of rioters out of Clare Street, and Gilbert saw the great

giant who had delivered him felled by a sabre cut. The crowd passed over

him, and when it had cleared, Gilbert, himself feeble and exhausted,

bent over the man, and tried to drag him nearer the houses.

He was bleeding profusely, and hailing a cart passing to the Infirmary

with two wounded men, Gilbert begged the driver in charge, to raise the

prostrate man, and take him also to the Infirmary. It was no easy

matter, but at last it was accomplished, and a pair of dark, blood-shot

eyes were turned on Gilbert. The man tried to articulate, but no sound

came. As the cart was moving off, Gilbert saw he made a desperate

effort.

He raised his hand, and cried out with all his remaining strength, "Tell

your good lady I kept my word, and I saved you from harm!"

"Stop!" Gilbert said to the driver, "stop; this man has saved my life. I

must come to the Infirmary to see he has proper care and attention."

"You look fit for a 'ospital bed yourself, sir," said the man. "Jump up,

and I'll take you for a consideration," he added, with a knowing twinkle

of his eye.

Faint and exhausted himself, Gilbert saw the wounded man placed in one

of the wards with the others, whose condition was less serious, and,

bending over the man, he said:

"I recognise you now. You are Bob Priday?"

The man nodded assent.

"I've been a bad 'un," he said. "I went in for these riots, 'cause I was

sick of my life; but I'd like to see your good lady once more, and poor

little Sue. Her mother used to reckon her next to a saint, as she sat

learning her hymns. I've scoffed and jeered at 'em, and sent the boys to

the bad, and threatened the squire. I did not kill him, though; and yet,

what do you think, she, the squire's daughter, your good lady, bid _God

bless me_, and let me touch her hand; why, ever since I've kinder felt

that if _she_ could pardon, God might."

"He _will_ pardon the chief of sinners, for Christ's sake," said

Gilbert.

The man's wound was bleeding profusely, and he soon became confused and

wandering; and his face assumed a livid hue as Gilbert bent over him.

"My wife will not forget that you saved my life," he said; "and I know

if it is possible she will come and see you, and bring your daughter

with her."

"He is nearly unconscious," said the surgeon. "Dear me! sir, what a time

this is for Bristol. This is the sixth case brought in since noon. God

knows where the riots will end! You were sworn in as a special

constable, I suppose?"

"Yes, but to little purpose. Resistance is useless, unless well

organised."

"That's true enough; but there is no head, that's the mischief of it; no

head anywhere. Do you live in Bristol, sir?"

"In Great George Street; I am returning there now. You will look after

this man?"

"Yes; but he won't get over it. A bad subject--a very bad subject. He is

very prostrate," the surgeon continued, laying a professional finger on

the great muscular wrist; "his hours are numbered. That's a bad blow on

your forehead, sir; let me put a bandage on; and how are you getting

home?"

"As I came, I suppose. There seems a lull in the uproar now, and I shall

be able to get back by Trinity Street and up by Brandon Hill."

Gilbert submitted to the bandage, and thankfully drank a reviving

draught, which the surgeon gave him, and then he turned his face

homewards.

He was dizzy and bewildered, and did not feel as if he could again face

the crowd, so he reached home by a circuitous road, entering Great

George Street from the upper end.

It was nearly one o'clock before he stood by his own door, and he found

two of his friends, who had served with him as special constables,

coming out. They had left Queen's Square empty, they said, and not a

rioter was to be seen there, and the troops had returned to their

quarters.

Joyce, hearing her husband's voice, came downstairs, and not a moment

too soon. Thoroughly exhausted, and suffering from the blow on his head,

he would have fallen, had not his two friends caught him and carried

him, at Joyce's request, to his own room.

Gilbert tried to make light of his condition, and said it was only the

noise and shouting which had bewildered him.

"We lost sight of you after the troops cleared Queen's Square, Arundel.

What became of you?"

"I got separated in the rush just by Wine Street, and there a woman and

a baby were in some danger; and as I made a plunge to get them to a

place of safety, someone gave me a chance thump on the head, and I

might have been trampled to death had not a man saved me, in his turn to

be cut down by the sabre of one of the soldiers; he now lies dying in

the Infirmary; and the man, Joyce, is Bob Priday."

"He kept his promise, then." Joyce said, clasping her hands; "he kept

his promise to me."

"Yes, darling, it was the touch of your little, white hand, he said,

which brought to his heart the hope that God would forgive him."

Joyce, kneeling by the sofa where her husband lay, hid her face in the

pillow, while Mr. Bengough and Mr. Cooper, his two friends, left the

room with Mrs. Arundel, and promised to send a surgeon who lived near

them in Berkley Square.

"He is as brave as a lion," Mr. Bengough said; "you may well be proud of

your son."

The doctor came, and advised entire rest and quiet, and told Joyce that

she might console herself with the certainty that her husband would be

unfit for any action, as special constable for many a day to come.

How thankful Joyce felt that she had not left the house with her

children, and that she was there to nurse and tend her husband with the

thousand sweet observances which are the consolation of every true wife

to render, in the hour of need.

The Sunday morning broke over an apparently quiet city, and as Joyce

looked from the window of her room, after two hours of refreshing sleep,

she could see no one moving in the distant streets, and heard no sound.

It seemed a true sabbath stillness, which was in itself a healing power.

As the mist of the October morning lifted, the Cathedral Tower, and that

of St. Mary Redclyffe, stood out in solemn majesty, steadfast and

unmoved for all the riot and confusion which had so lately reigned

beneath them.

St. Stephen's stately tower, further to the left, raised its head above

the street where Joyce knew her husband had been in such peril; and her

heart swelled with thankfulness to God, who had preserved his life. Then

her thoughts flew to the Infirmary ward, where Bob Priday lay dying, and

she felt determined that, if possible, Susan should see him, and she

laid her plans to effect this meeting.

As soon as Falcon woke, she lifted him from his bed and took him to the

nursery, washing him and dressing him, and kneeling with him to say his

morning prayers; then she said to the boy:

"Falcon, grandmamma is asleep, and so is dear father. Dear father has

been hurt by the rioters, and is to lie in bed very quiet all day. I

want to go up to Clifton to see the baby Joy, and Lettice and Lota. I

shall leave you to watch by father, and if he stirs or wakes, call

grandmamma. Will you do this?"

"Yes, mother," the boy said. Then with a sigh, "I hope the riots are

over now. At first I liked to hear the noise, and watch the crowd, but I

got tired of it. Are we to go to church, mother?"

"If I can get back in time, darling, you shall go to church with Mary,

but I don't think I shall go to-day."

Then she gave Falcon his basin of bread and milk, moving so gently that

no one heard her lighting the nursery fire, and performing with her

accustomed nicety all the little household duties which had been

familiar to her from early childhood. Then she shared Falcon's breakfast

with him, gave him a volume of the old "Children's Friend," with the

funny little woodcuts, which were the delight of the children of fifty

years ago; and, establishing him in the window-seat in his father's

room, left him on guard. It was beautiful to see how the noisy,

high-spirited child, responded to his mother's hand, and felt a proud

sense of serving her, as he was left in the room to take care of his

father.

The clocks were chiming a quarter to eight as Joyce reached Park Street,

where all was quiet, but she heard several passers by, say that Queen's

Square was again thronged, and that the "roughs" were forcing their way

back to the scene of the previous day's disturbances.

By the turn to Berkley Square, Joyce met Mr. Bengough, who was hurrying

down to the Guildhall, where, he said, Major Mackworth was attempting to

organise the special constables; but that Colonel Brereton's folly in

removing his troops to the Leigh stables, had given the mob every

encouragement.

"You may be glad, Mrs. Arundel, that your husband is out of the fray;

there will be more broken heads before midnight, I expect."

"I trust and pray, you may be kept safely. Come in, later in the day,

and let us hear," Joyce said, as she parted from Mr. Bengough and walked

quickly towards Clifton. All was quiet there, and when Joyce arrived at

Down Cottage, her two little girls came flying to meet her, looking like

two daisies, fresh from their morning bath.

Joyce was struck with her mother's admirable management. She was always

up with the lark in her old home at Fair Acres, and she kept up her

country habits.

The breakfast was ready in the little dining-room, and everyone was

there but Charlotte. Piers had the baby Joy, upon his knee, and Mrs.

Falcon declared she had been as "good as gold" all night.

It was hard to believe that Clifton Down Cottage could be so near to the

tumultuous city; everything seemed going on as it did every day, and no

one appeared excited or troubled. When Joyce had told her story of the

previous night, however, the real state of affairs seemed brought home

to the little party, and Lota said:

"I want to go home to kiss father, and make his head well."

Presently Joyce said she must see Susan, and she asked Piers to come

with her for a moment into his own room.

Piers delivered the baby to her grandmother, and, taking up his

crutches, followed Joyce. In the passage they met Charlotte.

"How early you have come," she said. "I was called so early, as Mrs.

Falconer wanted the rooms to be made tidy; but really I was not fit to

get up at all. I am so dreadfully upset by yesterday's events."

"Joyce has more reason to be upset, as you call it," Piers said, "than

you have, with Gilbert laid up with a blow on his head."

"Oh! how _dreadful_! how shocking! dearest Joyce; what _can_ I do?"

"Nothing; but go and have your breakfast; mother hates having the things

kept on the table."

"I have no patience with her," Piers said, wrathfully, as he closed the

door of his den behind him and his sister; "I do verily believe she

thinks she is going to be Lady Maythorne, I do indeed."

"Oh! Piers, impossible! she cannot be so foolish."

"My dear, it would be a long plumb-line to sound her folly, or his

either."

"But he is in difficulties as to money; he came here because he wanted

to get some out of his sister."

"Has Aunt Letitia any money?" Piers asked.

"Of course, she has her own income, and----"

"Will leave it all to Charlotte. Now do you see?"

"I see what you mean, but it must be prevented, it is too preposterous."

"But now, Piers, dear Piers, I want to ask your advice. I could not

trouble Gilbert, he is very much hurt," and Joyce's voice faltered. "The

man who saved Gilbert's life is Susan's father, Bob Priday."

Piers made a gesture of astonishment. "The man who took our father's

life," he murmured.

"Indirectly, not intentionally quite, as we always thought. Piers, I

should like to go to the Infirmary, and take Susan with me. Will you

help us, and come with us?"

"You may get into another scrimmage, Joyce; is it right?"

"I think it is right," Joyce said, gently; "I asked God about it, you

know."

Here was Joyce's sense of strength in weakness; she had always a refuge

and a Councillor at hand. Her religion was not one of many words; it was

emphatically the religion of Peace--and in quietness and confidence she

could rest.

"It seems to me, Piers, as if it would be cruel to deny a dying man this

last act of grace."

"He does not deserve it."

"Ah! Piers, what do we deserve of God?"

"Well," he said, "I will go with you if I can get a hackney-coach; a

lame fellow like me can't very well trudge down there on foot. But as

you do everything to please other people, it is only fair I should try

to please you."

"I don't wish to tell mother yet, but I will go and call Susan, dear,

good Susan, and tell her to get ready."

"I hope she won't make a scene," Piers said, "I hate scenes, and I don't

see what good you will do, but here goes;" and Piers took his hat and

went to do his sister's bidding.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

"FIRE SEVEN TIMES HEATED."

Taking a circuitous route by Granby Hill, where two little urchins were

waiting to scotch the wheels, the lumbering coach, of much larger

proportions than the modern fly, reached the gate of the Infirmary

before ten o'clock.

The coachman was very much excited by the events of the previous day,

and was rather glad to have the opportunity of taking back to Clifton

reliable information as to the state of the city.

He skirted the suburbs of Bedminster, and was somewhat proud of his

achievement.

Joyce left Piers in the coach, and, taking Susan's arm she went into the

large, gloomy entrance of the building.

Here people were standing in groups; some crying, some talking in angry

tones, and the surgeons and attendants all passing to and fro, as news

of those who had been wounded was hastily given to their friends.

As Joyce stood waiting to see the surgeon of the ward where Bob Priday

lay, a man came rushing in.

"The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the

furniture; it is worse than ever."

"Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll

of bandages in his hand.

"Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses.

They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people

in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's

name."

"And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!"

said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is

there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the

wards."

"What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."

"He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt;

Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables."

"All right--yes--this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short

work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way."

"Is the man conscious?"

"Yes, there is a flicker up before the end; but he is dying."

Poor Susan pressed her hand upon her side, and clung to her mistress's

arm.

"Oh, dear lady, pray for me," she said. "I have come because I knew

mother would have wished it."

"Take courage, Susan, and God will help you."

Many wistful eyes were turned upon the mistress and her maid, as they

entered the ward. Some of the wounded people were groaning, others

crying aloud for help; but Bob Priday, lying against pillows propped

behind him, was still and silent.

Joyce led Susan to the bed, and said:

"I have brought your daughter, and I come to thank you for keeping your

promise; for you saved my husband's life."

A strange, half-conscious smile flitted over the man's face.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bad husband to thee, Susan, for thou wert a

tidy lass when I married thee. What are thee come to fetch me for?

Susan, don't'ee cry."

"Father, father! my dear mistress has brought me to say 'Good-bye.'"

"Aye, I remember now; tell her 'twas the touch of her little, white

hand that did it. Says I to myself, if she can touch the likes of me,

perhaps God may forgive me, do you see, Sue? I thought 'twas your mother

at first; I see now; 'tis little Sue--a woman grown. Tell your mistress

'twas her little, white hand that did it. Lor! she is like an angel."

Then Joyce took the hand lying nearest once more in hers, and, kneeling

down, raised her clear, sweet voice and repeated:

"The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost.

"There is joy in the presence of the Angels of God over one sinner that

repenteth."

"I do repent," he said; and great tears--the first tears Bob Priday had

shed for many a long year--ran down his cheeks. "It's all along of

_you_," he said; "as _you_ forgive me, He may."

Then Joyce asked for pardon of Him in whose steps she was following, for

this poor, dying man, whose life had been so darkened by sin, and who

had brought so much sorrow upon others.

"O Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon

us;" and the last conscious words which Bob Priday spoke were, "Amen,"

and then, "Kiss me, little Sue."

Joyce left Susan kneeling by the bed, while she turned to others in the

ward, passing through the long line of beds like a messenger of peace.

A word here and a word there; a gentle touch of the same white hand

which had been stretched out to poor Bob Priday, and had brought home to

his soul the power of God's love, and Joyce, in all the first flush of

her young beauty, in all the bright gladness of the summer morning at

Fair Acres, had never looked so lovely as when she drew Susan gently

away, and, putting her arm in hers, left the ward, followed by the

wondering and wistful glances of the patients and the nurses.

There was no time to lose, for the sound of distant tumult grew louder.

The old surgeon urged the coachman to take as wide a sweep as possible,

to avoid the Bristol streets, and just as they were starting a man

rushed in with more news.

The mob were on their way to Bridewell to set the prisoners free who had

been committed on Saturday, and Colonel Brereton had declared his

intention of withdrawing the 14th Light Dragoons from the city.

This last act in the drama of irresolution and incompetence was

followed, before sun-down, with the flames of a burning city, and the

ever increasing fury of a mob, whose blood was inflamed with the wine

from the Mansion House cellars, which had been drunk with eager

recklessness, and had excited the brains of the poor, ignorant people

till they were literally madmen, ah! and mad women too, as well as

rioters.

When Joyce reached her own door, little Falcon met her.

"Mother," he said, "when the church bells were ringing, the soldiers

were coming down Park Street, and grandmother said we must not go to

church."

"It is better not to go, dear boy," his mother said.

"It's not a bit like Sunday," Falcon exclaimed, "for the people are

beginning to shout again, and roar louder than ever down below."

Mrs. Arundel was sitting with Gilbert, who was drowsy and heavy, and

asked but few questions as to where Joyce had been.

"It was a great risk," Mrs. Arundel said; "and did it effect any good?"

"I think so," said Joyce, simply. "I took hope to the death-bed of a

poor man, the hope which was not denied to the thief on the cross; and I

took a daughter to bear witness to her father that love could triumph

even over the memory of wrong-doing like his."

Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "We must leave the result with God," she

said; "a God of love; but He will by no means spare the guilty. Where

are Piers and Susan?"

"They are gone back to Down Cottage. I got out of the coach at the turn

to Brandon Hill. The children looked so well and happy, and my mother

has made them so cosy and comfortable."

Then Joyce took up her post by her husband's bed. The doctor, who came

in later, said that he was to be kept very quiet and free from

excitement; and, he added, "I wish, indeed, he were further from the

town, for I greatly fear worse things are at hand."

The story of that fearful Sunday is too well known to need any minute

description here.

Hour by hour the tumult increased; forked flames shot up into the gray,

autumnal sky, as the governor's house at the gaol and the chapel were

set on fire by the rioters; and, as the benches in the interior of the

chapel had been rubbed with pitch, the whole was soon devoured. The

county prison followed, and, at half-past eight on Sunday evening, the

lurid glare in the heavens was awful to witness.

Poor little Falcon, clasped in his mother's arms as she sat in the

window-seat, hid his face in her breast and at last, worn out with

terror and excitement, fell asleep. Then she carried him to a room at

the back of the house, where Mrs. Arundel and the maids had taken

refuge, and returned to watch by Gilbert's side. In her secret heart she

was thankful that the "blow at a venture" had prevented her husband from

being in the seething crowd below. How terrible would have been her

watch had she known that he was there, in the very thick of the fray.

Gilbert lay very still, and often slept, though, in spite of the thick

curtains drawn round the large four-post bed, the red glare from without

was distinctly visible.

"Joyce," he said, when this glare had become fiercer and more fierce

every moment; "Joyce, what are they burning?"

"I cannot tell," she said. "I think it must be the Palace; but it looks

like the whole city. It is very terrible."

"Draw back the curtain for a moment, and let me look."

She obeyed him, and lifted also the curtain which shaded the window

nearest the bed.

Gilbert raised himself for a moment, and then fell back.

"I ought to be there," he said, "not here. Those poor people! those poor

people! Is there none to help?"

"It seems as if God had forgotten to be gracious," Joyce said, faintly.

"We must not say that, darling, for we know that there is a cause. This

may arouse many to think, who have never thought before, of the great

needs of the ignorant and uncared-for masses in great cities like

Bristol. They know not what they do. Close the curtains again, I cannot

look any longer."

He lay back on his pillow, and Joyce, drawing the curtain, resumed her

post by the window.

About ten o'clock, the gardener, who kept guard in the hall, came

upstairs.

"Mistress," he said, "Mr. Bengough is here, and would like to know how

the master is."

Joyce raised her hand to enjoin silence, hoping that Gilbert slept, and

went down into the hall.

Mr. Bengough's face was blackened, and his clothes smelt of smoke and

fire.

"It is an awful scene," he said, supporting himself against the wall,

while Joyce went to fetch him a glass of wine; "the palace is burnt to

the ground, and the lead on the cathedral is positively melting with the

heat. The deanery escaped by the pluck of the old Dean. He came out and

harangued the rioters, saying, 'Wait a bit, let's have three cheers

first--one cheer for the king, one cheer for the people, and one for

the old Dean!' The mob cheered lustily, and turned off to find other

prey. They say Park Street is to follow, and those houses which are

doomed are to have a white mark for a sign; but there is no order

amongst them, and every one of the chief rioters is drunk with the

Bishop's wine, taken from the cellars, which they have sold for a penny

a bottle! Now they have set fire to Queen's Square, and the Mansion

House is one blazing pile. The Mayor has come up to Berkley Square,

where I must follow him. The special constables were separated from him

in the crowd, and, can you believe it, Brereton's troops, after parading

round Queen's Square, have retired to their quarters. Confusion

everywhere, and no one knows what may come next. I must not stay; but,

Mrs. Arundel, you may be thankful for the blow on your husband's head,

yesterday, which has, perhaps, saved his life. Upon my honour, I don't

believe any man outside his own doors to-night can depend upon living to

see the morning break."

When Mr. Bengough was gone, Joyce heard the frightened servants crying

out, that the fire was bigger than ever, and that they were sure the

house would catch fire, and they would all be burned alive.

Mrs. Arundel could not calm their fears, and scarcely control her own,

and Joyce alone preserved any self-possession.

"The panes of glass are hot in the nursery!" they said; "come up there,

ma'am, and see if it is not true."

"Do not wake Master Falcon or disturb your master. Remember you are--we

all are--in God's hands."

But, as Joyce looked out from the vantage ground of the nursery windows,

the terrified servants clinging to her, with cries and exclamations, the

sight was one too awful for any words to paint. The panes of glass were

actually heated, and the lurid, fierce glare seemed to be ever

increasing.

The scene upon which Joyce gazed, with that strange fascination, which,

acting like a spell, seemed to compel her to look at what yet she shrank

from as too awful, has been left on record by one who, then a boy at

school, has described it in a vivid word picture, which was the outcome

of the actual experience of an eye-witness. This boy, who was one day,

to be foremost in the ranks of those who carried the standard of truth,

and justice, and charity into the very thick of the conflict with the

powers of darkness, thus spoke--long, long after most of those who had

taken any part in those three awful days were dead--to an audience who

were inhabitants of the city of Bristol, and to whom, therefore, the

subject was of especial interest. He said:

"I was a schoolboy in Clifton, up above Bristol. I had been hearing of

political disturbances, even of riots, of which I understood nothing,

and for which I cared nothing.

"But on one memorable Sunday afternoon I saw an object which was

distinctly not political. It was an afternoon of sullen, autumn rain.

The fog hung thick over the docks and lowlands. Glaring through the fog

I saw a bright mass of flame, almost like a half-risen sun. That, I was

told, was the gate of the new gaol on fire; that the prisoners had been

set free. The fog rolled slowly upwards. Dark figures, even at that

great distance, were flitting to and fro across what seemed the mouth of

the fire.

"The flames increased, multiplied at one point after another, till by

ten o'clock that night one seemed to be looking down upon Dante's

Inferno, and to hear the multitudinous moan and wail of the lost

spirits, surging to and fro amid the sea of fire.

"Right behind Brandon Hill rose the central mass of fire, till the

little mound seemed converted into a volcano, from the peak of which the

flame streamed up, not red above, but delicately green and blue, pale

rose, and pearly white, while crimson sparks leapt and fell again in the

midst of that rainbow, not of hope, but of despair; and dull explosions

down below mingled with the roar of the mob, and the infernal hiss and

crackle of the flames.

"Higher and higher the fog was scorched upward by the fierce heat below,

glowing through and through with red, reflected glare, till it arched

itself into one vast dome of red-hot iron, fit roof for all the madness

below; and beneath it, miles away, I could see the lonely tower of

Dundry Church shining red--the symbol of the old Faith--looking down in

stately wonder and sorrow upon the fearful birth-throes of a new age."

* * * * *

When morning dawned on Monday, help really seemed at hand, and five

thousand men obeyed the call for the _posse comitatus_, and, furnished

with a short staff and a strip of white linen round their arm as a

badge, did good service for the restoration of order. Shops were all

closed, business suspended, and the soldiers, and the naval and military

pensioners, under Captain Cook, cleared the streets, and peace seemed in

a fair way of being restored.

Peace, and at what a price! Wreck and ruin everywhere; Queen's Square, a

mass of burning rubbish, strewn, too, with the charred bodies of those

who had fallen in the fray. At night, by order of the Mayor, the

churches and houses were lighted up, and the soldiers guarded the

streets.

Transcriber's note: The footnote was placed, without an anchor,

at this point in the original.

[Footnote: _Vide_ "Charles Kingsley's Life," vol. i., p. 21.]

But it was not till after the fifth of November, when an outburst of

Protestant and Anti-Reform zeal was expected, that the law-abiding

people of Bristol and its surrounding neighbourhood felt safe. During

the whole of that week watch and ward was kept, and all demonstrations

were repressed.

The Bristol Riots were over, but the day of reckoning came; and for many

weeks there was nothing thought of but the restoration of lost property,

the finding of dead bodies hid in the ruins of Queen's Square, and the

apprehension of the ringleaders in the rebellion.

Colonel Brereton was charged by the Mayor with not acting up to his

orders, and a military inquiry was appointed to try the truth of the

Mayor's statement, and held at the Hall of the Merchant Venturers, and

it ended in Colonel Brereton's being put under arrest, previous to his

trial by court martial.

It was some time before Gilbert was fit for any exertion, and the doctor

insisted on quiet and complete rest. His whole system had received a

shock, and the effects of the blow were seen by constant headache, and

an irritability and depression very unlike himself.

All Joyce's cheerfulness and patience were needed; and as Falcon's

boyish mirth was more than his father could bear, Joyce determined to

take him to Down Cottage, and bring back with her "Baby Joy," who was

one of those loving doves of babies who seem born to be happy themselves

and make other people happier! Joyce, therefore, packed up a few small

garments in a bag for Falcon, and set off with him one bright November

day to Down Cottage.

Her appearance was always the signal for a great outburst of joy, and

Lota and Lettice were delighted to find that Falcon was to stay with

them.

"You don't mind, mother, making the exchange," Joyce said; "I should

feel so desolate with no child, and Gilbert cannot yet bear any noise. I

suppose Charlotte Benson is gone home? The Wells coach is running

again."

In all the excitement of the past ten days, Joyce had really thought but

little of Charlotte, and when her mother did not reply to the question

at once, she said:

"What day did Charlotte go home?"

"She is not gone home at all; you had better ask Piers about her."

"Is anything wrong?" Joyce asked.

"Well," said Mrs. Falconer, in her old blunt fashion, "I believe

Charlotte thinks everything is right, not wrong, but Piers is of a

different opinion. As for myself, I am no judge of lords and grand

folks, nor their ways neither. But Charlotte thinks she is going to be

'my lady,' and that's about the truth."

"Mother!" Joyce exclaimed; "mother, it must be prevented; it is

impossible. How wrong we have all been to be so engrossed with our own

concerns and forget Charlotte's. I had really forgotten Lord Maythorne

was here. What will Mrs. Arundel say? Where is Piers?"

The tap of Piers' crutches was now heard on the flag-stones before Down

Cottage, and he came in.

"I am glad you are come Joyce; it is time some one interfered. I have

just been acting the spy on the Observatory Hill, and there are

Charlotte and her elderly beau disporting themselves."

"Oh! Piers, it is really dreadful. I must tell Gilbert at once, and Mrs.

Arundel. It will worry Gilbert dreadfully, and he is still so weak."

"You need not look so doleful, Joyce; after all, if people will make

their own bed of thorns, they must bear the prick when they lie down on

it. It all comes of Aunt Letitia's silly bringing up. Charlotte has

been made a foolish, sentimental woman, and this is the end of it."

"It must not be the end; I must do all I can to prevent it. Call Susan

to bring Joy, and we will go home at once. I must consult Mrs. Arundel,

and ask her what it is best to do."

"You won't have time, for here they come," Piers said.

Yes; there was Charlotte, with her head on one side, and evidently

simpering at some compliment, which her companion was administering.

When they came into the sitting-room, and stood face to face with Joyce,

one betrayed some annoyance, and the other some triumph.

"I thought you would have gone home yesterday, Charlotte," Joyce said,

after the first greeting. "Is not Aunt Letitia anxious to see you? This

house is very full," she added, "and Gilbert is not well enough for me

to ask you to return to Great George Street."

"I am going to Wells to-morrow, dear," Charlotte said, "and--and--"

"I am to have the honour of escorting Miss Benson to Wells," Lord

Maythorne said, in his honeyed accents.

"Indeed; I am sorry to hear it," Joyce said, sharply.

"I want to see my very old friend, now he is turned into a Benedict, at

Fair Acres, and who knows if I may not follow his example. I have known

Gratian, I may almost say, from childhood; I cannot profess to have that

honour with regard to you, fair niece."

Joyce felt too angry to trust herself to reply, but she turned to

Charlotte, and said:

"I want to speak to you, Charlotte, in Piers' room."

Joyce's tone was one of command rather than of entreaty, and Charlotte

followed meekly.

As soon as the door was shut, she said: "Surely Charlotte, you are not

going to travel to Wells alone with Lord Maythorne?"

Charlotte drew herself erect.

"Yes, I am. Why not? I am engaged to be married to him."

"Oh, Charlotte! it must not be thought of. Aunt Letitia will not allow

it."

"Auntie not only allows it, but is quite pleased," Charlotte said.

"Some one must interfere. I cannot see you wilfully ruin the happiness

of your whole life by such an act."

"That's just what he said," Charlotte exclaimed. "He said he knew you

would make objections, because Gilbert has often meddled in his

concerns before; but that will not change me. If you--if

you"--Charlotte broke down, and became tearful--"had been so hungry for

somebody to care for you as I have been, and had known what it was to be

slighted and looked down upon, you would not be so cruel. It is all very

well for _you_. But you never did care what became of poor me, and I--I

used to love you so much, Joyce."

Charlotte began to sob piteously, and Joyce felt she must appear

hard-hearted, and take the consequences.

Just as she had dispelled the vision of the raindrop which was to revive

the drooping rose many years ago, so now she must do her best to dispel

a far more dangerous illusion.

"Lord Maythorne is not a good man," she said; "he is continually in

debt; he often plays high, and he has been living abroad all these years

in what manner we hardly know. We believe that he came to Bristol now,

simply to get some money out of his sister, my mother-in-law. Surely,

Charlotte, you must see that if you marry him you will be miserable."

"Gratian married Melville, and you prophesied the same then; and they

are very happy."

"That is a very different case. Gratian is older, wiser, and stronger

than Melville, and keeps him right by the force of her own will.

Besides, Melville was weak, and easily yielded to temptation; but he was

not like Lord Maythorne, who did his best to ruin him in his Oxford

days."

"He says--he says that is all a lie of Gilbert's."

"How dare you speak like that of my husband! A lie! As if he ever

stooped to tell a lie." Joyce flushed angrily, and continued: "You are a

poor, weak, sentimental girl, not a girl, for you are nearly thirty, and

if you do not know what is good for you, you must be taken care of. If

my little Lettice wished to eat anything that was poisonous I should

take it from her, and by the same rule I shall treat you."

"You have no right over me. Aunt Letitia knows, and _she_ approves, and

expects us to-morrow."

But Joyce did not give in one whit.

"Aunt Letitia must be enlightened then," she said, "without loss of

time, and I shall take care that she knows the true character of the man

to whom she thinks of entrusting you."

Charlotte tried to rally herself, and began to laugh hysterically.

"You think so much of yourself, and that you are so wise, and that

Gilbert has made you just like himself, you both think yourselves so

good and perfect."

Joyce told herself it was foolish as well as wrong to be angry with

Charlotte, who was so unreasoning and feeble-minded.

She left her abruptly, called Susan and the baby, had many rapturous

hugs from her little girls and Falcon and then kissing her mother, she

bowed to Lord Maythorne, and departed.

Mrs. Arundel was greatly distressed when she heard Joyce's news, and

they consulted together what it was best to do.

"After all," Mrs. Arundel said, "neither you nor I have any right over

Charlotte. If she is warned, that is all we can do. If Miss Falconer

consents, she is her lawful guardian, and stands in the place of her

mother."

"Shall we tell Gilbert?"

"I think not, he cannot take any active part in the matter; Dr. Smith

has been here, and told me he did not think Gilbert would be able to

return to the office for some time, that he had sustained a slight

concussion of the brain, and that we were to be careful not to worry him

with anything. He advises our making a move to Abbot's Leigh, to that

house of Mr. Bayley's, as soon as we can arrange it, and Gilbert is able

to bear the drive. He is very kind, and offered his carriage."

"That will be delightful," Joyce said; "the trees are still beautiful in

colour, and oh! to be in the real country again with the children. If

only Charlotte were not so utterly foolish! I think I shall tell Gilbert

quietly, when we are alone together; for he ought to know. Come, baby

Joy, let us go and see dear father."

Gilbert turned his head towards the door as Joyce came in.

"Here is baby Joy come to kiss father," she said, dropping the baby down

gently into her father's arms.

"Little Joy; well, she looks as sweet as ever--like her mother,

well-named. You have been away an age," he said; "it's always like the

sun going behind a cloud when you are gone."

"The sun is very grateful for the compliment," Joyce said, seating

herself on a low stool by the sofa; "and so is the little sun, isn't

she, baby?"

The baby had possessed herself of her father's watch-chain, and was

sucking it vigorously.

"I took Falcon to Grannie, because he made your head ache, and I brought

back Joy, because she never could make anyone's head ache."

"Poor little Falcon! I am afraid I was very cantankerous this morning,

but that dreadful trumpet was rather too much. It is excessively stupid

of me to be so long getting well; but, do you know, I am haunted with

those terrible scenes of last week, and, with the best intentions of

amusing me, Bayley came here and described the condition of Queen's

Square, and the charred bodies they found, one, the corpse of an old

woman, with a bit of red petticoat clinging to it. Ah! it is awful to

think of; and the cure for all this seems so far off."

"It will come at last," Joyce said, with quiet decision.

"Yes, when the whole nation wakes up to see the needs of the poor. We

don't help them, nor try to raise them out of their ignorance of the

commonest laws of humanity. We have been wholly neglectful of their

souls and bodies, and then when they are heated by drink, and let loose

their fury against some grievance, like the entrance of the Anti-Reform

Recorder into Bristol, we hunt them down, trample them under foot, and

never look below the surface to find out what is the bitter root, from

which all this springs."

"_You_ look below the surface, dearest; but don't go over it all now; I

have a piece of news to tell you, which has made me very angry.

Charlotte Benson says she is engaged to marry your uncle. Can anything

be done?"

"Write at once to aunt Letitia to stop it."

"That is the most extraordinary part of the whole affair; she does not

disapprove it."

"She must be mad!" said Gilbert, shortly; "what does my mother say?"

"She is afraid of exciting you about it; but she is very much

disturbed."

"She may well be. He must be looking after your aunt's money."

"Shall I write to Aunt Letitia?"

"Yes; I only wish I were well, and not laid on the shelf like this, and

I would go to Wells to-morrow."

"I thought of writing to Gratian and Ralph, and Harry is still at Fair

Acres. Aunt Letitia thinks a great deal of what Gratian says."

"Better write to Aunt Letitia, and I will tell you what to say. Get my

mother to write also, and surely you have been honest with the girl?"

"Very honest indeed," Joyce said, laughing; "a little too honest!"

The letter was dictated and posted, with one from Mrs. Arundel. Postage

was an object in those days, so that the two letters went under one

cover, carefully sealed by Gilbert's hand.

For some days there was silence, and no one knew what turn events had

taken, and there was no answer to the letters.

A week passed, and then came a letter from Charlotte herself.

"MY DEAR JOYCE,--You will see by the date of this letter I am at

Bath. I was married to dear Lord Maythorne yesterday. He wished for

a very quiet wedding, and he had a special license, and the

ceremony was performed at St. Cuthbert's. Dear auntie was present,

and dear Gratian and Melville came in from Fair Acres. We went to

the 'Swan,' and had an elegant breakfast, and then we posted here.

It is very strange to me to feel I am Lady Maythorne; but with such

a _dear_, _kind_, delightful husband, I ought to be happy. Pray

accept kind love from us both.

"Your truly affectionate cousin,

"CHARLOTTE MAYTHORNE.

"Pulteney Street, Bath,

"_November 14th, 1831._"

This, then, was the end of Miss Falconer's training, this the reward for

all her care; and the strange part of it was that, though Lord

Maythorne's own relations were distressed and sad, at the thought of

Charlotte's folly in committing herself to the tender mercies of such a

man, Miss Falconer was _not_ distressed.

Gratian, who came in to spend a day or two in Clifton with her

husband soon after, gave a graphic description of the whole affair.

[Illustration: Wells Cathedral from Bishop's Fields]

Miss Falconer, she declared, was tearful, but in her secret heart

elated. Charlotte would grace any position, Lord Maythorne said. She was

strikingly like in manner and voice and bearing to a reigning beauty at

one of the German baths.

"We are none of us likely to go there, you know," Gratian said, "so we

can't vouch for the truth of this."

Then he told Miss Falconer that Charlotte should be placed in the "book

of Beauty" next season, and that a friend of his had promised to write a

little sketch of her.

Aunt Letitia said she was _glad_ to be able to assure Lord Maythorne

that the Falconers were an ancient race, and had been landed gentry for

generations.

"Poor dear old lady," Gratian continued, "the only note of lament was,

'What will Mrs. Hannah More say?' She took such a deep interest in dear

Charlotte and, perhaps, I may wish, as _she_ will, that Lord Maythorne

was more strictly a religious man. But we cannot hope for everything,

and dear Charlotte's training has been so careful, that I am not anxious

on that score."

"Poor dear old auntie!" Melville exclaimed, when, after listening to

his wife's rapid chatter, he succeeded in getting in a word.

"She'll soon find cause to be anxious when Maythorne comes to her for a

bit of thin paper with a good round sum in the corner."

Joyce could not speak so lightly of this as Gratian did. She almost

reproached herself for not being more honest with Charlotte in days long

past, rousing her from dreams of fancied bliss to the great "realities"

of life.

As she clasped her Baby Joy in her arms that night, she murmured over

her tender words, and prayed that she might lead her three little

daughters in the right way, and teach them that the woman who fears the

Lord is to be praised, and that anchored to those words, they might

escape the rocks and quicksands in which so many like poor Charlotte had

foundered.

For the present, indeed, Charlotte was satisfied. Lord Maythorne bought

her, or rather procured for her, many of the fine things she had often

longed for. He felt a certain pride in her graceful manners, and

perhaps, a little grateful affection for her intense admiration of

himself--that romantic admiration which had not yet had time to grow

faint!

He bought her the last complete edition of Lord Byron's poetry, and

Charlotte bathed in that not very wholesome stream, and produced some

imitative stanzas, which were printed in the _Bath Chronicle_, with a

little paragraph by the editor, that they were from the pen of "a

charming lady of title."

A copy of the paper, delivered in the Close at Wells, went the round of

the little community, and, fluttered with delight, Miss Falconer told

admiring friends that dear Charlotte's husband was a man of cultivated

taste and encouraged her muse.

The days of dearth and barrenness will come, _must_ come, to those who

sow their seed upon the stony ground. The bright sky must cloud over,

the winds and waves roar and swell, and the house that is builded on the

sand must fall, and great shall be the ruin of it. Secure in the present

calm, poor little frail barks skim the surface and are content. Thus we

leave Charlotte, and will not look at her again, lest we see that

saddest of all sad sights, the falling of the prop on which she leaned

in her blindness and foolishness, the breaking of the staff which shall

surely pierce her hand with a wound which no earthly power can avail to

heal.

PART III.

CONCLUSION.

"As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,

Leads, by the hand, her little child to bed,

Half willing, half reluctant, to be led,

And leave his broken playthings on the floor,

Still gazing at them through the open door;

Nor wholly reassured and comforted

By promises of others in their stead,

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;

So Nature deals with us, and takes away

Our playthings one by one, and, by the hand,

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go

Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay,

Being too full of sleep to understand

How far the _unknown transcends the 'what we know._'"

"For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now

I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."--1

Cor. xiii. 12.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THE LAST.

AT ABBOT'S LEIGH.

The old year, which had been so full of trouble and sorrow, was passing

gently away in calm and unusual brightness.

The air was soft and balmy, and the sunshine lay upon the picturesque

village of Abbot's Leigh, and threw out every yellow lichen on the red

roofs of the houses, and every leafless branch of the trees in full

brightness and defined outline.

The year was full of grace and beauty on this its last day; and Gilbert

Arundel, walking up and down the sunny terrace path before his house, on

the left of the road leading to the church, felt the pleasant sense of

returning strength and health, which is always so sweet.

The garden was at the back of the house, and before him lay a goodly

prospect. The lowlands, sloping down to the mouth of the Severn, were

bathed in the sunshine, and beyond, in clear outline, was the great

encircling range of blue mountains on the opposite coast of Wales. In

the clear atmosphere of the winter morning, everything was distinctly

seen. The wooded headland of Portishead shot out to the left, and was

rounded at full tide by many ships, outward bound for the rolling waters

of the Atlantic.

Snowy gulls dipped and whirled on airy flight near the shore, and small

crafts, with all sails set, danced and curtseyed beneath them as they

made for the harbour.

"It is a place to rest and get well in," Gilbert thought; and then he

turned at the sound of footsteps.

His wife was coming through the maze of deep-set, box-bordered

flower-beds to speak to him.

"Mother and Piers will be here early," she said, putting her hand

through her husband's arm; "and Gratian, and Melville, and Ralph will be

later."

"Where are you going to put them all? You forget your country seat is

not as accommodating as our Great George Street house."

"Oh! I will make room," she said; "it is so restful and lovely here. I

wish----"

"What do you wish?"

"That we lived here. I know it is impossible while you are in the office

every day. I only meant it is so delightful to be in the country; winter

or summer, it is the best place."

[Illustration: Abbot's Leigh]

"Few winter days are like this," Gilbert said; "but, darling, one day I

may be able to give you a country home."

"A dear old-fashioned one like _this_?" she said, "Oh! then we will call

it 'The Haven!'"

"It is not built yet," Gilbert said; "we must remember all that the

children will want, education--"

"And accomplishments," she added, laughing. "Lettice, Lota, and little

baby Joy must not grow up 'little rustics.'"

Joyce laughed, just her old, sweet, silvery laugh.

"It answered my purpose to be a little rustic, after all, as I took your

fancy in my lilac cotton gown and white apron."

He put his arm round her as they walked, and pressed her close.

"They might be lovers of yesterday," Susan Priday thought, as she

watched them from the nursery windows, "instead of having been married

seven years. Such love must make a poor man rich and a rich man happy,

and may God bless them both. The mistress grows prettier every day."

No one ever sounded Susan Priday's depth of gratitude; she was not a

demonstrative person, and the other servants, as might be expected, were

a little jealous of her, and sometimes she had dark hints to bear "of

the daughter of bad folks being lucky," and muttered words of

self-congratulation that _their_ fathers had not been rioters and died

in "'ospital beds."

But all these shafts were powerless to disturb Susan's peace, and baby

Joy heard many a soliloquy which reached no other ears than hers.

"Yes," she was saying, as she swayed Joy gently to and fro; "they look

like lovers of yesterday. The master is aged since his illness, and

stoops a bit, but the mistress is younger than ever."

The husband and wife had turned now, and faced the house. Joyce looked

up, and waved her hand and smiled, that "little pure, white hand," Susan

thought, "which poor father said had saved him from despair."

Then the two little girls, in scarlet cloaks and hoods, came with Falcon

to announce that they were ready for a walk with mother, and Gilbert

asked if he might be permitted to come also.

"Of course," Falcon said; "only we thought you might be tired. Mother

told us never to plague you to take us for a walk."

"I am getting quite well, my boy, and it will not be so easy, I hope, to

plague me now as it has been lately."

"I've put away the trumpet, father, where I can't possibly see it, for I

was afraid if I saw it I should be forced to give a big '_too-te-too_.'

So mother said, put it away till father is quite well, and then you can

blow it in the garden. She wanted to _keep_ it for me, but that was like

a baby; now I could get it any minute I wished, only I _won't_."

Gilbert was half amused, half touched, by this lesson of self-restraint

that Joyce had taught her little son, by means of the discordant

trumpet, and he patted his head fondly, saying:

"You'll always be right if you follow mother's advice, my boy."

"I know it," Falcon said; "Susan says mother can make every one

_better_."

Joyce and her little daughters were on in front, walking up the village

to the churchyard.

Presently they retraced their steps to the village, where an old tree,

with a gnarled trunk, stands at the junction of four roads, and was a

favourite post of observation to the children.

A smart post-chaise, seen from afar, coming swiftly onwards, contained

Melville and Gratian. They had slept at an hotel in Clifton on the

previous night, and came in the style which befitted them.

Joyce was a little alarmed at the large amount of boxes on the roof, and

wondered if they could by any means be carried upstairs.

Gratian, handsome and gay as ever, gave all the orders and settled with

the post-boy, while Melville looked on.

It was one of those cases when it is expedient, perhaps, that the wife

should take the lead, from the incapacity of the husband to manage

himself or his affairs, but it has never a pleasing effect on those who

look on, and Gilbert thought how well it was there were no children to

hear Gratian's ringing tones ordering Melville to 'wake up' and carry

two small packages into the hall.

"Where is Ralph?" Joyce asked.

"He took some qualm about leaving Fair Acres. Mr. Watson is ill--dying,

they say--so Ralph said he did not want to leave the place; there are

still many bad characters about."

"I am sorry to miss Ralph, and mother will be disappointed, especially

as Harry has joined his ship."

"What a nice room," Gratian said, as they went upstairs; "but I hope you

have a hanging-closet."

"I am afraid only pegs," Joyce said; "but there is a tiny

dressing-room."

"Is Mrs. Arundel coming to this family gathering?"

"No; mother is in Oxfordshire."

"Staying at Maythorne's; how like Aunt Annabella."

"She is not at Maythorne's you know, it is shut up, for the owners are

gone abroad."

"But I hear another carriage. Yes! that is mother and Piers."

Joyce flew downstairs to greet her mother, and to give Piers a rapturous

embrace.

Everything in the house was well arranged, and especial care had been

bestowed on "mother's room."

Mrs. Falconer had no fine dresses, so she did not enquire for a hanging

cupboard. She speedily found her way to the nursery, and baby Joy

delighted her by holding out her arms to her grannie, with a bewitching

smile.

"It's all beautifully neat, Joyce," she said, looking round her with a

critical air. "Well, you don't regret now I taught you useful things,

though you have no accomplishments like that poor, foolish Charlotte?"

They were a very happy party at an early dinner, and the good

arrangement of everything, and the excellence of the bill of fare,

brought many compliments to Joyce, especially from her mother.

"Except at Fair Acres," she said, "she had never tasted such light

pastry, or such good plum-puddings and mincemeat. The turkey, too----"

"Ah!" Joyce said, "the turkey came with a hamper of good things from

Fair Acres. Dear Ralph is continually despatching home produce."

The real master of Fair Acres did not seem at all discomforted at this

proof of his ignorance of his own estate.

Melville had resigned himself to an easy-going life, and, being well

kept in check by his wife as to unlimited wine and spirits, he managed

to pass muster, and was looked upon by his neighbours as a "good-natured

fellow, a little given to airs, and not worthy to tread in his father's

shoes; but it might have been worse."

Poor praise this; and of how many besides Melville do we say, sometimes

with an aching heart, "It might have been worse; but it might have been

oh! so much better."

Wasted lives, neglected opportunities, withered hopes, how thick they

lie strewn upon our paths as the autumn of life is sinking into the days

of winter barrenness and dearth.

But there is a bright "beyond" for faithful hearts, where the things we

know not now we shall know then, and this bewildering maze of doubts and

fears shall be made plain in the light of God's love.

A certain wistful look in Piers' eyes made Joyce think he would like to

talk to her alone.

So, when the evening shadows were closing over the waters of the Severn,

and the blue mountains fading into obscurity, and the white-winged

seagulls sought their nests, Joyce asked her brother to come out with

her, for it was more like midsummer than Christmas.

Joyce put her arm on her brother's shoulder as of old, and they went

together to the churchyard, where the old grey tower of the church stood

out solemnly against the after-glow in the west, where a planet

shimmered in the opal depths.

"The old year is dying with a smile upon its face," Piers said. "It is

hard to believe we are in midwinter."

"Very hard," Joyce replied; "and it is a time when, though my present is

so happy and so brimful of thanksgiving, the past comes back, and will

not be forgotten."

"I am glad you don't forget the dear old days," Piers said.

"Forget! oh! no; the sadness of the past does not shadow my happy

present, but it chastens it. I always think of dear father when I stand

here, and poor merry, happy Bunny, swept into that surging sea."

"Yes," Piers said, sighing; "the strong are taken and the weakly ones

left. Harry is, I suppose, half way round the world again in the

'Persis.' There is Ralph working hard and enduring a good deal at the

old home, while I----"

"You are not unhappy, dear?" Joyce asked, anxiously.

"No," he said; but the "No" was not heartily said. "After all, we think

too much of ourselves and all our little concerns. Why, Joyce, what are

we and this earth we live in, when compared to that great universe of

which these stars, as they come out one by one, seem to bring a nightly

message? What are we, to think so much of ourselves? and what are life,

and death, and troubles, and joys, and petty disappointments? They are

nothing--lighter than dust in the balance."

"They are something to God," Joyce said, reverently. "He has told us so.

Dearest Piers, you are not losing that Faith which we used to call our

staff in the dear old days."

Piers was silent for a moment.

"Joyce," he said, at last, "I like to talk to you sometimes. I sit and

read in my den, and go out and in of the sitting room and see how mother

is getting on, and my brain gets full of cobwebs and I am impatient, and

long to spring up into a better and nobler life, and yet I am tied down.

Don't you think I did not feel my miserable weakness when I heard of

Gilbert, in the thick of the rioters, saving a woman and child, and

bravely doing his best in the face of the weakness and incompetence of

those about him? I felt as if I would have given something to get a hard

thump on my head in such a cause, the cause of humanity."

"Piers, you are dull at home, I know, but you have the delightful young

doctor for a friend."

"Yes; but I can't sham illness to get him to come; he is a long way off.

But I am doing some more diagrams for his lecture on Fungi."

"I am so glad; and Piers, when Gilbert can really afford it, we are

going to have a house in the country, and call it 'The Haven,' and you

and mother shall come and live with us, and you shall help me to teach

Falcon, and we shall be so happy."

"Ah! that is looking a long way forward, Joyce. Perhaps my haven will be

here, under the shadow of this old church, before then. But I feel the

better already for being with you, old Joyce; you are just the same as

you ever were."

The brother and sister exchanged a kiss, and then, in the silence of

perfect sympathy and affection, walked back to the house.

* * * * *

The whole family assembled in the dining-room as the bells of the

church rang out the old year. In the pause--that solemn pause before the

clock strikes twelve, and the knell for the dying year is followed by a

great rejoicing peal for that which is new born--Gilbert Arundel read,

in slow, clear tones, that wonderful Psalm which ever seems to be so

fraught with wisdom, and to express so well the yearning of the human

soul for something, which as the generations roll by, and pass like a

tale that is told, remains steadfast and immoveable.

Lord, _thou_ hast been our Refuge; and, notwithstanding the storms and

the troubles of this short and mutable life, faithful hearts like

Joyce's can add, in trusting confidence, "and _wilt_ be to the end."

* * * * *

An hour later, when the last chimes had rung out from every belfry tower

from far and near, and the fair young year lay calm and beautiful

beneath the stars, husband and wife went together to the long, low

nursery, where the three elder children lay in profound slumber. The

kiss and blessing did not disturb Lettice or Lota, but the "Happy new

year, darling," brought Falcon to a state of half consciousness.

"Happy new year, mother--father," he murmured, with an added word which

sounded like "my trumpet."

"That beloved trumpet," said Joyce, laughing. "I let him take it out

into the garden after dinner, and give one great blow; but he was so

loyal, he came and hid it again, out of sight, saying, 'If father heard

that, it was only just _once_.'"

"Dear old boy!" Gilbert said. "I shall not forget his self-denial

learned from his mother."

"Nay," she said, playfully, "I do not quite wish to blow trumpets."

"Not your own, certainly," was the quiet rejoinder.

They did not forget baby Joy. Her cradle was in their own room; and

Joyce called her husband to look at her, and wish her the "happy new

year," as he had wished the others.

"A happy new year to my little Joy," he said.

The baby moved a little, and, throwing one fat arm behind her head, a

flickering smile played over her face, a light rather than a smile, such

as comes over the faces of the little ones sometimes when in sleep,

their angels draw near.

It was one of those supreme moments in life, which do not find

expression in many words:--

"A happy new year to you, my little Joy," Joyce repeated, and then there

was silence, while--

"Two faces o'er the cradle bent,

Two hands above the head were locked,

These pressed each other while they rocked,

Those watched a life that Love had sent.

O solemn hour!

O hidden power!"

THE END

WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS. BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE, LONDON.

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