"What, against the whole crowd?"
"They are climbing the gates, sir!" shouted one of the drawers.
Jordan took his cudgel, smiled, and went out.
"You can bar the door behind me, Mr. Bedstraw," he said, "if you feel nervous. I shall have my back to it."
"Good God, sir. I've more grit than that."
"All right. Be ready to bar it. If I find them too much for me, I'll bolt in."
Several men had climbed the gates and unfastened them and the mob poured into the yard, and seeing but one man standing by the door in the moonlight they came on pretty boldly, making a great noise.
"High Church and Ormond!"
"To hell with all Whigs!"
Jordan stood quite still, and when the leaders came within three yards of him they appeared to be a little discouraged by his stillness. They held back. Previous thrashings had made them cautious. The yard and the house with the closed shutters suggested a trap.
"Good evening, gentlemen," said Jordan; "is there any thing I can do for you?"
Those behind were pushing and shouting.
"Get on!"
"What's the damned Whig say?"
"Pitch him aside and smash in the door."
"Gentlemen," said Jordan quietly, "if you come any nearer to me I shall feel it my duty to hit you."
The foremost of them could not help themselves, for they were pushed on from behind, and Jordan began the game of cracking heads. He had half a dozen rogues sorry for themselves in almost as many seconds, and the vanguard showed a very strong inclination to get to the rear. Jordan made the most of the disorder. He knew that this fool crowd could rush him off his feet if it had had the pluck and the determination to put its head down and charge. He smote hard and fast, and as the crowd shrank and flinched and huddled away from him he followed it with fierce boldness, but he did not go too far.
He returned to the doorway. Two men lay on the stones, and another was crawling away along the wall. Across the yard Jordan saw a huddle of white faces and dim hands clutching sticks.
"Come on, rush the swine."
"It's big March!" shouted someone, "the fencing-master. Old Nando's brat."
Jordan laughed. The door was opened a crack behind him.
"All right—Mr. March?"
"I'm quite happy, sir. I'll call you when I have had a good enough game with these heroes."
The mob had begun to argue. Two or three of the bolder fellows advanced a second time, but when Jordan leapt out at them they scurried back like scared boys.
"It's a trap. There's a whole crowd of 'em waiting for us inside."
"Ain't anyone got any stones?"
"Look out! They is coming round to take us behind."
It was not a very big crowd, numbering perhaps about fifty men, and its mood tended towards a postponement of this particular piece of Whig-baiting. The less valorous began to filter back into the street, and when Jordan saw the significant bobbing of their heads in that direction, he called to those who were within the house.
"Come on, gentlemen, quick—or you'll lose them."
He pushed open the door, and when the rabble saw the passage full of figures it did not stop to consider how many more Whigs were inside the house or what their ages were. It saw Jordan leading a charge, and it turned and fled, but in the street it found itself suddenly attacked by Bliss and some twenty young men, who had rushed over from one of the other mug-houses. The rout was complete. The young Whigs chased the fugitives as far as the piazza, and returned laughing and cheering to Mr. Bedstraw's with Jordan in their midst.
A man holding his hand to a bleeding ear went sulkily past a knot of jeering chairmen.
"Got it badly, old son?"
"O, you be hanged," said the man; "we'll come back another night."
He of the blooded ear was as good as his word, for he was one of those shabby gentlemen employed by far less shabby gentlemen to agitate against their political enemies. Three nights later he called together a larger assortment of butchers. Bridewell boys and children of gin and grime; but, what was of more significance, the rabble was led by certain gay gentlemen, younger sons of Tory magnates, disguised as men of the people. They assembled about Leicester Gardens and marched to the attack.
The Whigs at Mr. Bedstraw's were not unready for them. The house was packed with members of the Loyal Society, who had come up from other mug-houses nearer the City. Moreover, a second body had assembled in a mug-house in Long Acre, and had scouts out to warn them of any attack. Jordan March was their Achilles. His feat of arms in beating the crowd single-handed was the talk of the town.
Jordan allowed the Jacks to break into Mr. Bedstraw's yard, and when it was half full of them the Whig men attacked. They poured out of the door and through the windows, and fell on the Jacks with their cudgels. And this was no mean battle, for the handful of young Tory gentlemen were men of honour and of courage and ready to give as good as they were given. None the less, Jordan and his Whigs drove the crowd out of the yard and down the street into Covent Garden, and here the Whigs from Long Acre joined in when the Tory gentlemen were trying to rally their followers. The Jacks had numbers on their side, and in the open square numbers should have counted.
But the Whigs had the best of it, and after some brisk stickplay the mob began to run for the arcades and the side streets and alleys. Jordan was following a little knot of them along the front of the church when they turned on him and made him take to the steps. It was a clear moonlight night, and Jordan was wearing his close-fitting white fencing coat so that he was easily seen and recognized and could be rallied to by his comrades. He was alone here, facing these half-dozen roughs who seemed ready to show more courage than Jordan had given them credit for.
The church had a pillared front, and this portico was in the shadow. A few casual spectators had taken refuge here, among them a tall young man with a couple of women who had hoods over their heads. The man was Maurice St. Croix. He had recognized Jordan, and was hoping to see him thrashed by those six Jacks.
One of the women felt otherwise. She was leaning forward into the moonlight; her hood fell back and showed her dark curls and pretty, audacious profile.
"O, Mr. Whitecoat, Mr. Whitecoat!"
"He'll get a thrashing," said St. Croix.
"Who is he? Do you know?"
"March—the fencing-master."
"What, Big Jordan! O—look!"
The men made a rush at Jordan. There was a whirling of sticks, but the white figure held its own. He was too quick for these heroes, too swift on his feet. He gave back to their first rush, springing up the steps, and using his long cudgel. One fellow dropped his stick and tottered off with his hands holding his head. Another fell and rolled down the steps, and he did not trouble to reclimb them.
She of the curls and the fallen hood could not conceal her excitement.
"O, big fellow; O, fine work! Go and help him, you cold slug!"
Maurice laughed.
"Don't be a fool, Nan."
"Fool, indeed! You haven't the spirit. O, look—that other man! Big Jordan, there is someone behind you."
A man had slipped out from behind one of the pillars and was creeping down the steps with a clubbed stick raised to strike. But he was balked by the most unexpected of enemies. The girl ran down the steps, and, throwing herself with impetuous fierceness against him, knocked him over at the moment when he was about to strike.
Jordan turned swiftly. He saw the sprawling man, the girl with her fierce yet laughing face, her head thrown back, the moonlight in her eyes.
"He was going to strike you from behind."
"Thanks," said Jordan—"thanks. Hallo—you!"
He used his left fist on a fellow who had tried to close with him, and then he fell upon the rest of them and drove them down the steps. The girl was beside him. She had picked up a dropped stick and was laying it over the head of the man whom she had upset in her rush to help Jordan. He was on his knees and trying to protect his head with h
is bent arms.
"La," she said, "you rat—you cur. Take that home with you—and that!"
The remnant had scattered and fled, and Jordan faced about to find the girl laying her stick over the man's head and shoulders.
"Rot you—you slut!" he squealed, trying to get up.
Jordan gave him a push with his foot, and the fellow went rolling to the bottom. Then he looked at the girl. They smiled at each other.
"You are as good as a man, madam," he said.
"No better than that?" she asked, with a charming lift of the chin.
"Much better," he said—"much better."
XIV
Jordan could see her quite clearly in the moonlight. She had the head of a gazelle, yet the dark eyes were mischievous and set somewhat slantingly under the well-marked eyebrows. Her face ended in that charmingly audacious and uplifted chin, and her hair fell in wicked curls about her forehead. She smiled. Her big and expressive mouth showed her white teeth. She gave him the impression of a strong and fierce young creature, graceful, impetuous, well able to look after herself.
"Well," she said, "here is our introduction! How do you do, Mr. Jordan March?"
Jordan made her a bow.
"All the better for seeing you. Miss Stranger."
"O, we will put that right," she said, "and yet I suppose you sometimes go to the theatre at Lincoln's Inn Fields?"
"Sometimes—yes."
A voice interrupted them from the portico above:
"Nan, we are waiting."
"More fool you," she said. "Take Molly home."
St. Croix remained in the shadow of the portico. He did not wish to be seen by Jordan, even though March looked like stealing his lady.
"I promised to see you home."
"I hope Mr. Jordan will do that," said she; "I would rather have a man with me when the mob is out."
There were no more appeals from the portico, and two shadowy figures passed away behind the pillars and descended the steps at the end farthest from Jordan and the girl. These two stood and looked at each other with a smile of mutual and amused pleasure.
"I am afraid I have angered the gentleman!"
"That! O, he is only a mock gentleman!"
"I am not even that."
"You are something better," said she; "but what are you staring at?"
"Miss Nancy Sweethaws, the actress who has turned half the heads in London."
"So! You know me—after all?"
"There is only one Nan at Lincoln's Inn Fields."
"Good for you. And there is only one Big Jordan."
Next moment he had her arm in his, and was looking down at her as they descended the steps.
"May I have the honour of seeing you home?"
"That's as you please, sir."
"I do please."
She shook her curls.
"I like a man who knows his own mind. But it cannot be ten o'clock yet, Mr. March."
"Yes, it is quite early," said he, holding her arm a little more firmly.
She laughed.
"I did think of going to Teg Toplady's."
"You go there?"
"I go everywhere. When you are playing life on the stage, my dear, you need to see it played everywhere."
"But you are not playing to-night."
"So? And what do you mean by that?"
"Just what I say."
She gave him a roguish look.
"You are very bright for such a big fellow. No, I am taking a month's rest. I'll go back when they begin to shout for me. But what of Toplady's? There will be a merry crowd there, and I'm Nan the actress and you are a hero."
"Then the hero had better take care of Nan."
"You have sense," she said, "and quite a lot of it."
They walked off together in the direction of Teg Toplady's, which was a house of music and wine in the purlieus of Drury Lane. Jordan felt the woman's soft arm lying in his, and from her hair rose a sweet perfume which made him think of a pot of mignonette. In the moonlight she was a mere figure in black and white, but when they passed close to some dimly burning lamp she took on a faint colour in eyes and face and clothes. Under her open cloak her petticoat was of amber brocade, her gown of a soft green, and her slim throat rose out of a smother of white lace. Her lips showed their redness, and then grew pale again. Jordan thought that her eyes were brown, but they were not too big, and he hated women with cow's eyes. They were very bright, especially when she looked at him.
"Left—right, left—right," she laughed, her swinging hoop brushing against him.
Jordan had his cudgel over his right shoulder, and her conceit that they were soldiers made him swagger like a sergeant of the "Guards."
"On the road to Ramillies!"
"Or how we defeated the French! My dear, how you whacked those poor rogues with your stick! And you loved it."
"I did," said Jordan.
"And so did I."
Teg Toplady's "Chamber of Commerce," as some wit had christened it, was reached by an outside staircase flanked by railings and panels of ironwork. It was approached by passing through a little garden where, in summer, tables were set out under the trees, and musicians made music while men and pretty ladies drank wine and made love. The staircase led to an ante-room where ladies might leave their cloaks and gentlemen their hats and swords, and it was here by the light of the candles that Jordan saw Nan Sweethaws as she was.
She put off her cloak and made him a curtsy.
"How do you do, Mr. March?"
"Better and better for seeing you," said he.
For indeed she was very desirable with her black curls and little mischievous pale face. She had a devil in her, a laughing, sly, sleek devil which made men mad and women wildly jealous. Her provoking chin and eyes said, "Kiss me—if you dare!" Her red mouth and white teeth laughed—"Be careful. I can bite."
She held out a hand to Jordan.
"Come, big one. Listen to the noise they are making. Oh, isn't life good—when——"
She shook her curls.
"When—what?" he asked.
"Ah—that's for you to guess!"
Toplady's was what such places will always be, full of old people trying to be young and young people making themselves old. It had a wicked air and was—perhaps—less wicked than it seemed. Gaiety was its note, and yet more gaiety. It called for wild fooling, but Toplady—shrewdest of scoundrels—insisted upon his patrons keeping their tempers. Brawls did such a place no good. He kept four strong fellows to deal with violent patrons.
Now—Miss Sweethaws was sure of a roaring welcome in any such house. The women might not be so glad to see her, but the men fell over their cups with delight, and it was said that Toplady had offered to pay her ten guineas a night to dazzle and amuse the old fools and the young fools whose money he took. Whenever she came he saw to it that she had a dramatic entry, and to-night old Toplady could boast of another luminary, Gentleman Jordan—the Terror of the Mob.
He sat in his leather chair at the head of the long table, a little, shrewd, snuff-coloured man who might have been a country attorney or a preacher of precise sermons. He was the colour of snuff, and he took it sedulously, holding the pinch below his long, sagacious nose. He had a demure look. He never laughed. Always before speaking he moistened a thin, dry lip with the tip of his tongue.
One of his "confidentials" came and bent over his chair.
"Sweethaws is here, sir."
Mr. Toplady nodded.
"She's brought big Nando with her."
"What—big March?" and the little man's eyes twinkled.
"Sure. They're in the ante-room together."
"Bob," said his master, "make a noise, make a great noise. Beat the drum, fling open the castle gate. That's the game."
"That it is sir."
So when Miss Nancy introduced herself and her hero into Toplady's big room she was given a dramatic entry. A man with a voice that set the glasses jingling bawled—"Nan Sweethaws, God bless her! Gentleman Jo
rdan—the Head-breaker, and good luck to him, say the surgeons." Mr. Toplady rose from his chair and bowed. The gentlemen got up with varying degrees of steadiness and shouted against each other—"Nan, Nan, sweet Nan of the Fields." The women all looked at Jordan standing there big and smiling, with his deep-set eyes and long, straight mouth. Here was a morsel for the ladies! The men were not to have it all their own way that night.
These flowers of Old Drury bunched themselves about Jordan—Nell Frail, Lucky Lavender, Mrs. Minnis, Betty Broster, Poll Purple, Long Jane, Chloe Chatterpole. They enveloped him; they took him by the coat, the arms, the collar; they laughed and squeaked and twittered; they pushed and pulled and persuaded him in triumph till they had old Toplady out of his chair and Jordan seated in it.
Toplady enjoyed the joke. He kept darting out his tongue like a serpent.
"Never mind me, sir. You are welcome to my chair, and to all the pretty ladies."
Jordan was laughing. He had a way of looking shy, and this air of boyish coyness was irresistible to these irresponsible wenches.
"Ladies—ladies—you are more dangerous than the mob!"
"I bet we are, my lad!"
"O—dear child!"
"Isn't he a fine infant!"
They overflowed him; they felt his muscles; they pinched his ears and patted his cheeks. Two of them tried to sit on his knees, and were pulled away joyously by the others.
"Ladies—I'm thirsty!"
They took up the cry.
"He's thirsty."
"Poor lad."
"The hero would drink."
"Drawers—drawers, wine for Big Jordan."
"Run, you rabbits."
"Bring a black-jack full."
"No, a hogshead!"
He was rescued at last from the merry mobbing of him by the lady who had brought him there.
"My dears, give room. Mr. Jordan and I have gone into partnership. He and I beat the mob to-night. I knocked a man down the steps of Paul's church. Did I not, Jordan?"
"You did," said he; "and, ladies and gentlemen—let me tell you that she saved me a broken head."
Mr. Toplady had another chair brought him, and he and Mr. March sat side by side at the head of the table, the very big and the very little, the "new god" and the "old devil," as some witty gentlemen put it. Jordan stood drinks to the ladies, who, in their turn, tried to force too much liquor upon him, but with no success. He just smiled a happy, obstinate smile, and they thought the better of him for being so little of a fool. Every woman, however frail she may be, has some picture hidden away of man as she would have him and better than he is. Lady Marigold's prophecy still held—"The lad will always be a gentleman—put him where you will."
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