Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “But I used to do it every day at Clapham,” Mary answered cheerfully. She had not spoken before, aware of the reproach which her words conveyed, she could have bitten her tongue.

  But Lady Sybil did not wince. “Then why did you do it?” she retorted, “Why did you do it? Why were you so foolish as to stoop to such things? I’m sure you didn’t get your poor spirit from me! And Vermuyden was as stiff as a poker! But there! I remember the prince saying once that ladies went out of fashion with hoops, and gentlemen with snuffboxes. You make me think he was right. Oh, clumsy!” she continued, raising her voice, “now you are turning the light on my face! Do you wish to see me hideous?”

  Mary moved it. “Is that better, mother?” she asked.

  Lady Sybil cast a resentful glance at her. “There, there, let it be!” she said. “You can’t help it. You’re like your father. He could never do anything right! I suppose I am doomed to have none but helpless people about me.”

  And so on, and so on. Like many invalids, she was most lively at night, and she continued to complain through long restless hours, with the candles burning lower and lower, and the snuffers coming into more frequent request. Until with the chill before the dawn she fell at last into a fitful sleep; and Mary, creeping to the close-curtained windows to cool her weary eyes, peeped out and saw the grey of the morning. Outside, the Square was beginning to discover its half-bare trees and long straight rows of houses. Through openings, here and there, the water glimmered mistily; and on the height facing her, the tall tower of St. Mary Redcliffe rose above the roofs and pointed skywards. Little did Mary think what the day would bring forth in that grey deserted place on which she looked; or in what changed conditions, under what stress of mind and heart, she would, before the sun set twice, view that Square.

  XXX

  THE MAYOR’S RECEPTION IN QUEEN’S SQUARE

  The day, of which Mary watched the cloudy opening from her mother’s window, was drawing to a close; and from a house in the same Square — but on the north side, whereas Miss Sibson’s was on the west — another pair of eyes looked out, while a heart, which a few hours before had been as sore as hers, rose a little at the prospect. Arthur Vaughan, ignorant of her proximity — to love’s shame be it said — sat in a window on the first floor of the Mansion House, and, undismayed by the occasional crash of glass, watched the movements of the swaying, shouting, mocking crowd; a crowd, numbering some thousands, which occupied the middle space of the Square, as well as the roadways, clustered upon the Immortal Memory, overflowed into the side streets, and now joined in one mighty roar of “Reform! Reform!” now groaned thunderously at the name of Wetherell. Behind Vaughan in the same room, the drawing-room of the official residence, some twenty or thirty persons argued and gesticulated; at one time approaching a window to settle a debated point, at another scattering with exclamations of anger as a stone fell or some other missile alighted among them.

  “Boo! Boo!” yelled the mob below. “Throw him out! Reform! Reform!”

  Vaughan looked down on the welter of moving faces. He saw that the stone-throwers were few, and the daredevils, who at times adventured to pull up the railings which guarded the forecourt, were fewer. But he saw also that the mass sympathised with them, egged them on, and applauded their exploits. And he wondered what would happen when night fell, and wondered again why the peaceable citizens who wrangled behind him made light of the position. The glass was flying, here and there an iron bar had vanished from the railings, night was approaching. For him it was very well. He had accompanied Brereton to Bristol to see what would happen, and for his part, if the adventure proved to be of the first class, so much the better. But the good pursy citizens behind him, who, when they were not deafening the little Mayor with their counsels, were making a jest of the turmoil, had wives and daughters, goods and houses within reach. And in their place he felt that he would have been far from easy.

  By and by it appeared that some of them shared his feelings. For presently, in a momentary lull of the babel outside, a voice he knew rose above those in the room.

  “Nothing? You call it nothing?” Mr. Cooke — for his was the voice — cried. “Nothing, that his Majesty’s Judge has been hooted and pelted from Totterdown to the Guildhall? Nothing, that the Recorder of Bristol has been hunted like a criminal from the Guildhall to this place! You call it nothing, sir, that his Majesty’s Commission has been flouted for six hours past by all the riffraff of the Docks? And with half of decent Bristol looking on and applauding!”

  “Oh, no, no!” the little Mayor remonstrated. “Not applauding, Mr. Cooke!”

  “Yes, sir, applauding!” Cooke retorted with vigour.

  “And teach Wetherell a lesson!” someone in the background muttered.

  The man spoke low, but Cooke heard the words and wheeled about. “There, sir, there!” he cried, stuttering in his indignation. “What do you say to that? Here, in your presence, the King’s Judge is insulted. But I warn you,” he continued, “I warn you all! You are playing with fire! You are laughing in your sleeves, but you’ll cry in your shirts! You, Mr. Mayor, I call upon you to do your duty! I call upon you to summon the military and give the order to clear the streets before worse comes of it.”

  “I don’t — I really don’t — think that it is necessary,” the Mayor answered pacifically. “I have seen as bad as this at half a dozen elections, Mr. Cooke.”

  The Town-clerk, a tall, thin man, who still wore his gown though he had laid aside his wig, struck in. “Quite true, Mr. Mayor!” he said. “The fact is, the crowd thinks itself hardly used on these occasions if it is not allowed to break the windows and do a little mischief on the lower floor.”

  “By G — d, I’d teach it a lesson then!” Cooke retorted. “It seems to me it is time someone did!”

  Two or three expressed the same opinion, though they did so with less decision. But the main part smiled at Cooke’s heat as at a foolish display of temper. “I’ve seen as much half a dozen times,” said one, shrugging his shoulders. “And no harm done!”

  “I’ve seen worse!” another answered. “And after all,” the speaker added with a wink, “it is good for the glaziers.”

  Fortunately, Cooke did not hear this last. But Vaughan heard it, and he judged that the rioters had their backers within as well as without; and that within, as without, the notion prevailed that the Government would not be best pleased if the movement were too roughly checked. An old proverb about the wisdom of dealing with the beginnings of mischief occurred to him. But he supposed that the authorities knew their business and Bristol, and, more correctly than he, could gauge the mob and the danger, of both of which they made so light.

  Still he wondered. And he wondered more three minutes later. Two servants brought in lights. Unfortunately the effect of these was to reveal the interior of the room to the mob, and the change was the signal for a fusillade of stones so much more serious and violent than anything which had gone before that a quick sauve qui peut took place. Vaughan was dislodged with the others — he could do no good by remaining; and in two minutes the room was empty, and the mob were celebrating their victory with peals of titanic laughter, accompanied by fierce cries of “Throw him out! Throw out the d —— d Recorder! Reform!”

  Meanwhile the company, with one broken head and one or two pale faces, had taken refuge on the landing behind the drawing-room, the stairs ascending to which were guarded by a reserve of constables. Vaughan saw that the Mayor and his satellites were beginning to look at one another, and leaning, quietly observant, against the wall, he noticed that more than one was shaken. Still the little Mayor retained his good-humour. “Oh, dear, dear!” he said indulgently. “This is too bad! Really too bad!”

  “We’d better go upstairs,” Sergeant Ludlow, the Town-clerk, suggested. “We can see what passes as well from that floor as from this, and with less risk!”

  “No, but really this is growing serious,” a third said timidly. “It’s too bad, this.”


  He had scarcely spoken, and the Mayor was still standing undecided, as if he did not quite like the idea of retreat, when two persons, one with his head bandaged, came quickly up the stairs. “Where’s the Mayor?” cried the first. And then, “Mr. Mayor, they are pushing us too hard,” said the second, an officer of special constables. “We must have help, or they will pull the house about our ears.”

  “Oh, nonsense!”

  “But it’s not nonsense, sir,” the man answered angrily.

  “But — —”

  “You must read the Riot Act, sir,” the other, who was the Under-Sheriff, chimed in. “And the sooner the better, Mr. Mayor,” he added with decision. “We’ve half a dozen men badly hurt. In my opinion you should send for the military.”

  The group on the landing looked aghast at one another. What, danger? Really — danger? Half a dozen men badly hurt? Then one made an effort to carry it off. “Send for the military?” he gasped. “Oh, but that is absurd! That would only make matters worse!”

  The others did not speak, and the Mayor in particular looked upset. Perhaps for the first time he appreciated the responsibility which lay on his shoulders. Meanwhile Vaughan saw all; and Cooke also, and the latter laughed maliciously. “Perhaps you will listen now,” he said with an ill-natured chuckle. “You would not listen to me!”

  “Dear, dear,” the Mayor quavered. “Is it really as serious as that, Mr. Hare?” He turned to the Town-clerk. “What do you advise?” he asked.

  “I think with Mr. Hare that you had better read the Riot Act, sir.”

  “Very well, I’ll come down! I’ll come down at once,” the Mayor assented with spirit. “Only,” he continued, looking round him, “I beg that some gentleman known to be on the side of Reform, will come with me. Who has the Riot Act?”

  “Mr. Burges. Where is he?”

  “I am here, sir,” replied the gentleman named. “I am quite ready, Mr. Mayor. If you will say a few words to the crowd; I am sure they will listen. Let us go down!”

  * * * * *

  Twenty minutes later the same group, but with disordered clothes and sickly faces — and as to Mr. Burges, with a broken head — were gathered again on the landing. In those twenty minutes, despite the magic of the Riot Act, the violence of the mob had grown rather than diminished. They were beginning to talk of burning the Mansion House, they were calling for straw, they were demanding lights. Darkness had fallen, too, and there could be no question now that the position was serious. The Mayor, who, below stairs, had shown no lack of courage, turned to the Town-clerk. “Ought I to call out the military?” he asked.

  “I think that we should take Sir Charles Wetherell’s opinion,” the tall, thin man answered, deftly shifting the burden from his own shoulders.

  “The sooner Sir Charles is gone the better, I should say!” Cooke said bluntly. “If we don’t want to have his blood on our heads.”

  “I am with Mr. Cooke there,” the Under-Sheriff struck in. He was responsible for the Judge’s safety, and he spoke strongly. “Sir Charles should be got away,” he continued. “That’s the first thing to be done. He cannot hold the Assizes, and I say frankly that I will not be responsible if he stays.”

  “Jonah!” someone muttered with a sneering laugh.

  The Mayor turned about. “That’s very improper!” he said.

  “It’s very improper to send a Judge who is a politician!” the voice answered.

  “And against the Bill!” a second jeered.

  “For shame! For shame!” the Mayor cried.

  “And I fancy, sir,” the Under-Sheriff struck in with heat, “that the gentlemen who have just spoken — I think I can guess their names — will be sorry before morning! They will find that it is easier to kindle a fire than to put it out! But — silence, gentlemen! Silence! Here is Sir Charles!”

  Wetherell had that moment opened the door of his private room, of which the window looked to the back. His face betrayed his surprise on finding twenty or thirty persons huddled in disorder at the head of the stairs. The two lights which had survived the flight from the drawing-room flared in the draught of the shattered windows, and the wavering illumination gave a sinister cast to the scene. The dull rattle of stones on the floor of the rooms exposed to the Square — varied at times by a roar of voices or a rush of feet in the hall below — suggested that the danger was near at hand, and that the assailants might at any moment break into the building.

  Nevertheless Sir Charles showed no signs of fear. After letting his eyes travel over the group, “How long is this going on, Mr. Under-Sheriff?” he asked, plunging his hands deep in his breeches pockets.

  “Well, Sir Charles — —”

  “They seem,” with a touch of sternness, “to be carrying the jest rather too far.”

  “Mr. Cooke,” the Mayor said, “wishes me to call out the military.”

  Wetherell shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “The occasion is not so serious as to justify that. You cannot say that life is in danger?”

  The Under-Sheriff put himself forward. “I can say, sir,” he answered firmly, “that yours is in danger. And in serious danger!”

  Wetherell planted his feet further apart, and thrust his hands lower into his pockets. “Oh, no, no,” he said.

  “It is yes, yes, sir,” the Under-Sheriff replied bluntly. “Unless you leave the house I cannot be responsible! I cannot, indeed, Sir Charles.”

  “But — —”

  “Listen, sir! If you don’t wish a very terrible catastrophe to happen, you must go! By G — d you must!” the Under-Sheriff repeated, forgetting his manners.

  The noise below had swollen suddenly. Cries, blows, and shrieks rose up the staircase, and announced that at any moment the party above might have to defend their lives. At the prospect suddenly presented, respect for dignities took flight; panic seized the majority. Constables, thrusting aldermen and magistrates aside, raced up the stairs, and bundled down again laden with beds with which to block the windows: while the picked men who had hitherto guarded the foot of the staircase left their posts in charge of two or three of the wounded, who groaned dismally. Apparently the mob had broken into part of the ground floor, and were with difficulty held at bay.

  One of the party struck his hand on the balusters — it was Mr. Cooke. “By Heavens!” he said, “this is what comes of your d —— d Reform! Your d —— d Reform! We shall all be murdered, every man of us! Murdered!”

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Mayor,” cried a quavering voice, “send for the military.”

  “Ay, ay! the soldiers. Send for the soldiers, sir!” echoed two or three.

  “Certainly I will,” said the Mayor, who was cooler than most. “Who will go?”

  A man volunteered. On which Vaughan, who had so far remained silent, stepped forward. “Sir Charles,” he said, “you must retire. Your duties are at an end, and your presence hampers the defence. Permit me to escort you. I am unknown here, and can pass through the streets.”

  Wetherell, as brave, stout and as solid a man as any in England, hesitated. But he saw that it would soon be everyone for himself; and in that event he was doomed. The din was waxing louder and more menacing; the group on the stairs was melting away. In terror on their own account, the officials were beginning to forget his presence. Several had already disappeared, seeking to save themselves, this way and that. Others were going. Every moment the confusion increased, and the panic. He gave way. “You think I ought to go, Vaughan?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I do, sir,” Vaughan answered. And, entering the Recorder’s room, he brought out Sir Charles’s hat and cloak and hastily thrust them on him, scarcely anyone else attending to them. As he did this his eye alighted on a constable’s staff which lay on the floor where its owner had dropped it. Thinking that, as he was without arms, he might as well possess himself of it, Vaughan left Wetherell’s side and went to pick it up. At that moment a roar of sound, as sudden as the explosion of a gun, burst up the staircase. Two or three cried i
n a frenzied way that the mob were coming; some fled this way, some that, a few to windows at the back, more to the upper story, while a handful obeyed Vaughan’s call to stand and hold the head of the stairs. For a brief space all was disorder and — save in his neighbourhood — panic. Then a voice below shouted that the soldiers were come, and a general “Thank God! Not a moment too soon!” was heard on all sides. Vaughan made sure that it was true, and then he turned to rejoin Sir Charles.

  But Wetherell had vanished, and no one could say in which direction. Vaughan hurried upstairs and along the passages in anxious search; but in vain. One told him that Sir Charles had left by a window at the back; another, that he had been seen going upstairs with the Under-Sheriff. He could learn nothing certain; and he was asking himself what he should do next, when the sound of cheering reached his ear.

  “What is that?” he asked a man who met him as he descended the stairs from the second floor.

  “They are cheering the soldiers,” the man replied.

  “I am glad to hear it!” Vaughan exclaimed.

  “I’d say so too,” the other rejoined glumly, “if I was certain on which side the soldiers were! But you’re wanted, sir, in the drawing-room. The Mayor asked me to find you.”

  “Very good,” Vaughan said, and without delay he followed the messenger to the room he had named. Here, with the relics of the fray about them, he found the Mayor and four or five officials who looked woefully shaken and flustered. With them were Brereton and the Honourable Bob, both in uniform. The stone-throwing had ceased, for the front of the house was now guarded by a double line of troopers in red cloaks. Lights, too, had been brought, and in the main the danger seemed to be over. But about this council there was none of that lightheartedness, none of that easy contempt which had characterised the one held in the same room an hour or two before. The lesson had been learnt in a measure.