THE MASS MEETING.
The better day, the better deed. Acting on the advice of this proverb,
those responsible for the pro-Boer meeting convened it on a Sunday,
that all those engaged on other days in earning their bread might
attend. And so far as numbers went, the crowded state of Trafalgar
Square seemed to justify this course. Nelson's Column soared from a
dense mass of people, which even overflowed into the streets
approaching the great open space. On all sides the windows were filled
with curious spectators, who, apprehensive all the while of trouble,
gazed forth expectantly over the sea of heads below. But they need
have had no fear. The mob was on its best behavior--good-natured and
roughly jocular as an English crowd ever is--amenable to law and
order, and ever ready to be controlled by the police.
Platforms for the convenience of the orators had been erected round
the grand column--the symbol of an Empire which these well-meaning
busybodies were so anxious to dismember and destroy. Below, crowded
laborers, artisans, shopkeepers, traders of all kinds; and on the
fringe of the mob, hard by the National Gallery, were lines of hansom
cabs, surmounted by clubmen from Pall Mall and St. James' Street who
had come to see the fun. There were plenty of women, bringing with
them their children, when they could not leave them at home, and a
sprinkling of redcoats and bluejackets. These, as the visible symbol
of England's fighting power, were idolized by the mob. For, alas for
Mr. Scarse and his supporters, the voice of the people was dead
against their philanthropic efforts. Instead of the Boer National
Anthem, "God Save the Queen" and "Rule Britannia" were being sung. The
Little Englanders were doing their best to laud Kruger and damn their
own Government; but the temper of the mob was all the other way. In a
word, the Imperialists were in the majority.
On the parapet, near the National Gallery, Brenda, very plainly
dressed, was holding on to Wilfred's arm. He had been lunching at Mrs.
St. Leger's, and afterward Brenda had persuaded him to escort her to
the meeting. She feared for the safety of her father, and dreaded lest
his speech should draw on him the anger of the mob. The colonel had
declined to come, swearing in true military style that he would attend
no meeting meant to belittle England.
"Is Mr. van Zwieten here?" asked Brenda, looking over the sea of
heads.
"I don't think so," replied Wilfred, whose pale face was flushed with
excitement. "He is too clever to sympathize openly with the cause he
advocates. No! his task is to condemn the Boers in public and to
support them in private."
"Have you found out anything about him, Wilfred?"
"Yes. He lives ostensibly in Duke Street, St. James; but he has other
rooms in Westminster, where he passes under another name. There he
receives all kinds of queer people--especially at night.
"Spies?" asked Brenda, so low as not to be heard by those near her.
"I believe so. He calls himself Jones, and a good many spies go up to
see Mr. Jones. The scoundrel! To plot treason almost in the shadow of
the Clock Tower! But I do not blame him so much as those who are
betraying their country. After all, Van Zwieten is a foreigner, and
naturally hates us; but there are Englishmen, Brenda--Englishmen born
and bred--who are selling secrets for Transvaal gold. I'd hang the lot
if I could!"
"Hush, Wilfred, don't speak so loud. Can you prove that Van Zwieten is
a spy?"
"Not yet; but I have a plan in my head to trap him."
"He will not be easily trapped."
"No; he is a cunning beast, but I'll get the better of him yet. When I
tear his mask off he'll be forced to leave London. Hullo! there's your
father!"
Brenda turned pale as that familiar lean figure appeared on the
platform. He was saluted with a groan. Several Union Jacks were waved
defiantly in his face, and a few bars of "God Save the Queen" were
sung with lusty strength. A small knot of people stood round him.
Taking off his hat, he advanced to the edge of the platform. A few
expressions, such as "God-fearing farmers," "greedy capitalists," "the
Jingoism of Chamberlain," "the treachery of Rhodes," caught Brenda's
ear, and then her father's voice was drowned in a roar of cheering and
singing. In vain did Mr. Scarse hold up his hand for silence; in reply
he was assailed with insults, and a lifeguardsman was shouldered and
passed along the heads of the crowd, a red spot of color amid the
neutral tints. Union Jacks were waved, "Rule Britannia" was sung. Many
a groan was there for Kruger; many a cheer for "Joe"; and the
close-locked crowd, maddened by the sound of its own voice, rolled and
swung like a stormy sea.
"Pore thing! pore thing!" said an old woman near Brenda, "I 'ope they
won't chuck him into the fountings."
"Oh, Wilfred!" gasped the girl, terrified for her father's safety.
But the suggestion met with the approval of the crowd, and passed from
mouth to mouth until it reached those immediately under the fountain.
A roar went up to the sky, and several enthusiasts endeavored to
clamber up the platform. The police beat them back, and order was
restored for the moment. Then, as an appeal to the chivalry of the
mob, a grim-looking female with a black bag came forward to speak. She
commenced a highly abusive harangue, but it was drowned in laughter
and a recommendation, in terms purely colloquial, that she should go
home and tend any young offspring she might chance to have. The
pro-Boers began to look disconsolate. Each effort they made to speak
was abortive. A sailor jumped on the parapet opposite Morley's Hotel
and waved a Union Jack. The mob saw and cheered, and roared out the
National Anthem. Some threw apples and oranges at the orators on the
platform, who promptly dodged behind the Column and endeavored to
obtain a hearing on the other side, but with even less success.
On losing sight of her father, Brenda wanted to try and follow him;
and Wilfred, the patriot, although he hated Scarse, and would gladly
have seen him ducked, could not but sympathize with the girl's
anxiety. So, extricating themselves from the crowd, they struggled
downward toward the lower part of the square. There a knot of talkers
attracted their attention.
"Wot I say is, Why does Rhodes want to fight a lot of 'ard-working
coves like them Boers?" said one begrimed ruffian. "They're the same
as us, ain't they?"
"No, they ain't," grunted his neighbor. "They won't give Englishmen
votes, an' we made their bloomin' country, we did."
"I 'old by Gladstone, I tell you----"
"Garn! you and your Gladstone; he'd ha' given away Windsor Castle if
he cud."
"Ho! Wot price Majuba!"
"Ah! we must wipe out that disgrace," said a clearer and apparently
more highly-educated speaker.
Then the fun began. Some abused Gladstone as the cause of all the
trouble, others made extensive demands upon their vocabulary for a due
definition of Mr. Chamberlain. It speedily became apparent that none
of them knew what they were talking about. Wilfred laughed, and the
begrimed one straightway resented his laughter.
"We don't want no tall 'ats 'ere," he yelped.
"No, you want sense," retorted Burton. But, unwilling to involve
Brenda in a row, he pushed on. As they passed away they heard a
scuffle, and looked back to see that the dirty man had at last his
heart's desire, so far as to have found an antagonist. But even thus
early in the game he was getting the worst of it. At length, having
apparently had enough, he gave forth a lusty yell for "police," and
was duly rescued in a battered condition, and still arguing. Brenda
felt anxious. The mob all round was showing signs of restiveness.
In another part of the square some pro-Boer orators spoke with more
chance of a hearing. They drew the usual picture of a small toiling
community, of unscrupulous capitalists, the worship of gold, the
rights of the Boers to arrange affairs in their own house, and the
iniquity of a mighty Empire crushing a diminutive State, wholly unable
to defend itself.
Furious at the falsehoods which he heard all around him, Wilfred lost
his head altogether, and, despite all Brenda's entreaty, got up on the
parapet and raised his voice.
"Lies, lies! all lies, I say. All that we demand are equal rights for
the white man and kindly treatment of the black. The Boer is a brutal
bully. He beats the black man, and treats him like a dog. Kruger and
his gang have accumulated millions through the industry of those to
whom they refuse the franchise. It is they who want war, not England;
and if we refuse their challenge, then will they try to drive us out
of Africa. It is not the Transvaal Republic which is in danger, but
the Empire. Continental Powers, who hate us, are urging these
misguided people to do what they dare not do themselves, hoping to
profit took place. At length the police, as in the former by their
folly and attack us when we are hampered in South Africa. Don't
believe these liars, men! They betray their own country, and a good
half of them are paid with Transvaal gold for doing so. Spies!
Traitors, all of them. Duck them here in the fountains."
Then, having thus relieved his feelings, Wilfred took the girl's hand
and pushed on hurriedly; and soon they were lost to view in the crowd.
But the effect of his words was immediate. The pro-Boer champions,
trying to make good their cause, were not allowed speech. As quickly
as they opened their mouths the mob shouted them down. Some ugly
rushes were made in their direction, and they were hustled roughly. A
couple of men and women, beginning to see they were in danger of being
chucked, shouted for the police of the very Government they had been
abusing. A body of constables forced itself through the crowd and
formed a cordon round these political martyrs. They were escorted to
the fringe of the mob, looking pale and nervous--anything, in fact,
but heroic. And the language with which they were saluted was not such
as need be set down here.
Meanwhile their friends at the Column were faring badly enough. The
police began to see that the temper of the mob was rising, and
insisted that the speaking--or rather the attempts to speak--should
stop. The orators refused, and stuck to their platform they were
driven off from one side and they climbed up the other. Missiles began
to fly, the crowd to growl, and some rough-and-tumble fights took
place. At length the police, as in the former case, marched them away
down Northumberland Avenue. The crowd which followed was so excited
that the martyrs, afraid of the storm which, by their own folly, they
had raised, tried to enter one of the hotels. But the porters here
were prepared, and drove them back, and the wretched creatures--Scarse
amongst them--were beaten to and fro like tennis balls. Finally, they
managed to gain the shelter of a clubhouse, where they held an
indignation meeting on their own account. But nothing on earth and
above it would have convinced them that they had got just what they
deserved.
Brenda was in a great state of alarm for her father. But Wilfred
consoled her as well as he could. "He will be all right," he said
cheerfully; "the police will look after him."
"He may be hurt."
"He should have thought of that before he played the fool. But he will
not be hurt; those sort of people never are. I beg your pardon,
Brenda. After all, he is your father."
"He honestly believes in the Boers, Wilfred."
"I know he does. He'd find out his mistake if he went to live amongst
them. I wish I could have had half an hour at them, Brenda," he said,
with sparkling eyes. "I would have done but for you."
"You said quite enough, Wilfred. I was afraid the police would arrest
you."
"Arrest me! Come, that's good, seeing I spoke for the Government. What
about your father and his wretched friends who are abusing their own
country?"
"There are two sides to every question."
"Not to this one," replied Wilfred, who was easily excited on the
subject.
Brenda decided that it was best not to contradict him. He was so
highly strung that in moments of this kind he was not altogether
accountable either for his speech or actions. He would flash into a
rage on the slightest provocation, and contradict every one around
him, like some hysterical woman. No doctor could call him insane,
since he knew well how to conduct himself, and was not the prey of any
hallucination. But his brain was delicately balanced, and worry or
persistent irritation brought him very near the borders of insanity.
For this reason he led a quiet life, and saw but few people. The
magnitude and whirl of London always overwrought him, and Brenda
regretted now that she had argued with him at all.
"Have it your own way, Wilfred," she said, taking his arm. "But I hope
my father is safe. I have seen enough, so you might take me home."
"All right. Don't be angry with me, Brenda. But the silly views your
father takes annoy me."
"I am not angry with you, Wilfred. Come along; let's get back now."
"About time too," said he. "The whole thing's a farce."
"Ah! I agree with you there, Mr. Burton," said a voice, and Brenda
turned with a start to find Van Zwieten at her elbow. "How are you,
Miss Scarse?" he asked quietly, as though nothing unusual had passed
between them at their last meeting. "And what do you think of this
silly business?"
"I think it just what you call it--silly," replied Brenda, coldly.
"But I did not expect to hear you say so."
"You ought to be pleased that your friends are fighting your battles,"
said Wilfred.
Van Zwieten flicked a grain of dust from off his frock coat and raised
his eyebrows. "My friends!" he repeated. "Oh, none of those who spoke
are my friends, unless you refer to Mr. Scarse. But of course I don't
agree with his views. I am an Imperialist," he said smoothly.
Remembering the disclosures he had made to her, Brenda was astounded
at the effrontery of the man; but Wilfred understood.
"Of course you are an Imperialist," he said; "it pays better!"
"Quite so," assented Van Zwieten "it pays better--much better. But you
talk in riddles."
"Do I? I think you can guess them then," retorted Wilfred, "and I
don't think you will find Oom Paul will benefit by this meeting. It
will show him how very much of one mind the English people are, and
how they are determined to teach him a lesson."
"Oh, a lesson, eh?" Van Zwieten laughed. "It is to be hoped Oom Paul
will prove an apt pupil; but I fear he is too old to learn."
"And Leyds--is he too old? He pulls the strings!"
"What strings?" asked the Dutchman, blankly.
"The strings to make you dance!"
In spite of Van Zwieten's command of his temper, Wilfred was making
him angry. This of itself Brenda did not mind in the least; but she
did mind a quarrel, and toward that she could see these two were fast
drifting. Moreover, owing to the raised tones of Wilfred's voice, a
crowd was collecting. Mr. van Zwieten did not look altogether
comfortable. He despised Wilfred as a mere boy; but even so, boy or
not, this young fellow, with his fearless nature and frantic
patriotism, might put highly undesirable notions into the heads of
those around. And most of them were more or less inflammable just
then. The fountains, too, were close at hand.
"Come along, Wilfred," said Brenda. "Do let us get home."
But before he could reply, a hubbub arose amid the crowd not far
distant, and they turned in that direction. From out the jeers and
laughter an angry voice could be heard holding forth in abuse of the
Government and in praise of the Boers.
Then the crowd parted, surged along, and Brenda saw advancing a tall,
thin man. He wore a snuff-colored coat, and a yard or so of crape
wrapped round his throat like a scarf. And his face--how like it was
to that of her father!
"Oh!" she cried, grasping Wilfred's arm, "that is the man who----"
"Hush!" Van Zwieten whispered fiercely. "Don't accuse him in public!"