Marshall Emma
Under the Mendips: A Tale

The great thoroughfare of Park Street was comparatively empty, and Gilbert reined in his horse and rode by the side of the carriage.

"We are nearly home now," he said; "and there you will be safe. Is anything the matter?" he asked, leaning forward to Joyce.

"I will tell you," she said, in a low voice, "but not now." And then the carriage turned into Great George Street, and the children and Joyce and the luggage were deposited there, while Mrs. Falconer and Piers were taken on to Clifton. Mrs. Arundel shared the large town house with her son, but she was away on a visit, and only two servants were in the wide old-fashioned hall to receive the travellers.

The children's spacious nursery was bright and cheerful, commanding a view of the cathedral just below, the tower of St. Mary Redclyffe Church, of the tall masts of the ships, and of the hills beyond. A blazing fire in the old grate, and the rocking chair by the high guard, looked inviting, and Joyce sat down there with little Joy in her arms, while Susan put Lota and Lettice to rest in their cots in the next room, to sleep after the excitement of the morning; and Falcon rushed to the garden to inquire into the condition of the white rabbit, which he had left in its hutch when they went to Fair Acres some three weeks before.

Gilbert, who had been looking after the luggage, and settling the postboy's fee, soon came up, and, kneeling down by the chair, took both mother and baby in a loving embrace.

"My two Joys," he said; "my two best Joys. I am afraid you have been a good deal frightened, my darling; but cheer up now; the danger, if there was any, is over, thank God!"

"Gilbert, it was not the crowd, it was not the fear about the poor people who stopped the carriage, it was that amongst those dreadful faces I saw Bob Priday's, the man who stopped us on Mendip years ago, and who, as we think, killed dear father. Oh, it was the sight of his face which was too much for me! And poor Susan saw him also. It brought it all back. Father! father!"

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

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

"Quite, quite sure. And, though I have not spoken to Susan yet, I know she is sure also."

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

"No, no; I would not have given mother the pain I felt, for anything. Dear mother! I let her drive off with scarcely a good-bye, and she has been so kind at Fair Acres, and has enjoyed the children in the old house. But, oh! Gilbert," she said, rallying, "it is so delightful to be at home with you again. While we have each other nothing can be very bad, can it?"

"Nothing," he said, fervently. "And now, while you are resting, I must go down to the office, for my partner is at the meeting at the "White Lion," helping to bolster up poor Hart-Davies to fight the Tories' battle. He is a good fellow, and everybody respects him; but the truth is, the tide is too strong in Bristol now for any but some very exceptional man to battle against it."

"You think the Whigs will carry the election?"

"Without a doubt."

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

"I think not. We cannot both leave the office at once, and I do not greatly care about it. I do increasingly feel that these men who clamour for their cause injure it. They are exciting the mob in Bristol – always inflammable material – and this fury of rage against old Wetherall is most dangerous. Everyone expects that if he attempts to open the next assize there will be a riot it will be difficult to quell. Happy little Joy," he said, kissing the baby's cheek; "to sleep on in peace while your fellow-citizens of Bristol are shouting themselves hoarse."

Susan now came in from the next room, and took the baby from Joyce, while Gilbert left the nursery, saying:

"We must dine at a fashionable hour to-day. I shall not be back till five;" – and Susan and her mistress were left alone.

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

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

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

"No, oh no!" said poor Susan, struggling to restrain her convulsive sobs; "and I don't know what is to be done. Oh, dear, dear, madam!"

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

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

"No," Joyce said; "he will hide away from us knowing that suspicion, at least, must have fastened on him."

"Dear madam, I wonder you have ever been able to bear to have me near you. His daughter! —his daughter!"

"I thought we had settled long ago, Susan, that your services to me and mine, and your love for the children, must always win my gratitude and – "

"Dear madam, I know how good you are. I know how you took me out of the lowest depths of misery, just as no one else would have done. But if I am to bring trouble on you by staying here, if he, my father, is to bring more trouble on you, I would rather run away and hide myself, and never look upon your face again."

"Do not say so, Susan; let us trust in God, and He will protect us. Your father, if he recognised me, which I doubt, is very unlikely to come forward when a serious charge might be brought against him. It was a great shock at first for me to see him; but let us dismiss it from our minds now, and do not let us speak of it to anyone but Mr. Arundel. Certainly not to Mrs. Falconer."

"Very well, dear madam, I will do all you desire me," Susan said, and clasping little Joy in her arms, she turned away.

CHAPTER XIII.
A LULL IN THE STORM

There was a lull in the storm as soon as the two Whig candidates were elected to represent the city of Bristol, and Mr. Hart-Davis withdrew quietly from the contest. The undercurrent, it is true, was still muttering and murmuring of evil times to come, and all thinking men who looked below the surface knew that it would but need a spark to kindle a great fire in Bristol, and that much wisdom, firmness, and decision, would be needed amongst the rulers.

Joyce Arundel, in her happy home life, soon lost the sense of insecurity, which after that memorable drive from Fair Acres, had at first haunted her.

Falcon's lessons, and the interest she felt in his rapid advancement, engrossed her every morning when her household duties were over; and then she would pace up and down the garden overlooking the city, with her baby in her arms, while Lota and Lettice played on the wide expanse of even, if rather smoke-dried, turf, which sloped down from the terrace walk at the back of the house, and tell herself a hundred times that no wife or mother in England was happier than she was.

The early married life of a mother whose chief interests centre in her own home, and who knows no craving for anything that lies beyond, is happy indeed. As years pass and her children vanish, and the sweetness of entire dependence on her ceases of necessity with infancy and childhood, the mother, weary with the battle of life, encompassed with difficulties, and overburdened with requirements which the failing strength of advancing years makes it hard to fulfil, can turn back to that fair oasis in her pilgrimage, when the children were with her day and night, when her hand had power to soothe a childish trouble, and her voice charm away a little pain or disappointment, or add, by her sympathy in joys as well as in sorrows, zest to all those simple pleasures in which children delight.

Sometimes, even to the best mothers, I know, there comes a sudden, sharp awakening. The son of much love and many prayers goes far astray; the daughter, her pride and joy in her early childhood, is apparently cold and heartless. But as a rule, I think, in the retrospect the cry is forced from many a mother's sad heart: "If only I had been more to him in early boyhood; cared for his games, and interested myself in all his play as well as work, it might have been different"; or, "If I had dealt more tenderly and patiently with her when she was standing on the threshold of womanhood, it might have been different!"

Vain regrets, vain laments for some of us; but the young mother, like Joyce Falconer, has the children and the father of the children still with her, and may, as Joyce did, sing to herself a sweet, low song of thanksgiving, which made Lettice stop in her play, and, running up to her side, say:

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

And now another voice was heard, rather a sad, querulous voice, which did not chime in well with the mother's song, or the baby's gentle coo of gladness, or the laughter of the two little sisters, as Falcon dashed out upon them from the open door of the hall with a big ball in his hand, which he threw down the grass with a merry "Halloo!"

Falcon's lessons, which his mother had left him to learn, were over, and he was free to run and jump to his heart's content.

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

"Oh! I beg your pardon, Charlotte; I had forgotten you and I were to spend the day with mother; I will be ready in a few minutes. I must just wait till Susan can take baby." Susan appeared at this moment, and Joyce went quickly into the hall.

Poor Charlotte's visions and dreams had never come to be anything but dreams. She was older than Joyce, and still had never found the language of the eyes come to a good honest declaration of love, still less to an offer of marriage. She was just now on a visit to her cousin, Miss Falconer being very ready to spare her, hoping that in Clifton or Bristol she might find a cure for her low spirits, and generally dejected air, which her aunt did not like to have remarked upon by the gossips of Wells, and which had certainly very much increased of late.

Joyce ran upstairs to prepare for her visit, and on the first floor found Mrs. Arundel.

"Mr. Bengough has been here, Joyce, with great news; the Bill was carried with a large majority in the Commons, and now there is only the Lords, and surely they will not turn it out."

Falcon, who had rushed up to the nursery to find his reins and whip, that he might make a pair of ponies of his little sisters, stopped as he heard his grandmother say:

"It is great news, and a great victory."

"What battle is it? Tell me, mother, who has been fighting?"

"It was not a battle with swords or guns, Falcon; but when you are a man you may remember that you heard, when you were a little boy, that on the nineteenth of September, eighteen hundred and thirty-one, the great Reform Bill was carried by a number of votes."

"Then will all those angry people we saw when we came home from Fair Acres be happy and good now. Susan says they shouted 'Reform, Reform,' because they wanted bread; but I don't know what it means," said Falcon, thoughtfully. "If it's a good thing, it ought to make people better, oughn't it, Grannie?"

It was profound philosophy for six years old! The necessary consequence of good must be something better.

Joyce, thinking of those angry faces crowding round her and her babies, and of the one terrible face which conjured up such a host of dreadful memories, sighed.

"Ah! Falcon," she said, "good things cannot come all at once – good results, I mean; but give me a kiss and run away, and mind you give Grannie no trouble while I am gone." Then Joyce turned for a moment into the pretty sitting room which Mrs. Arundel occupied. Since Gratian's marriage she had lived with her son and his wife. She had separate rooms on the upper floor of the large house, and her own maid. The arrangement was perfectly harmonious, and the little household was very happy.

"You will not mind letting the children dine with you, dear Grannie?" Joyce said.

"Mind! it will be a great treat; do not hasten back."

"I thought after dinner, if Piers liked, we would go and see Mrs. More; he does not get out enough."

"Take a carriage at my expense, dear, and drive to Windsor terrace, and then over the Downs. It will be a lovely afternoon, and your mother will enjoy it."

Joyce shook her head.

"I doubt if mother will come; but I will do my best, thank you. Gilbert will not come home till quite a late dinner – supper, as my mother calls all meals after six o'clock."

Joyce and Charlotte were soon walking quickly up Park Street, for their lungs were good and their limbs strong, and Charlotte forgot her complaints for the time, in the delight of looking in at several shop windows lately opened in Park Street.

There was no Triangle then. The Victoria Rooms were only a dream of some enterprising builder, and it was across a field that Joyce made her way, till she came to the sombre houses with dark, sunless frontage called Rodney Place, and, passing them and the stately mansion, Manilla Hall, she turned towards some low grey-coloured houses, which rejoiced in the name of "Down Cottages."

It was impossible for Mrs. Falconer to live in any house without leaving her mark upon it, and the little dining and drawing rooms were as bright and fresh as she could make them, while Piers had the third sitting room for his "rubbish."

Piers had now a collection of birds and beasts which had grown into large proportions since the little sparrow-hawk had been "set up" by Mr. Plume.

He had studied natural history in all its branches, and since he had lived in Clifton he had begun to be an earnest student of the great subject of geology, and his light figure, leaning on his crutches, and his pale, earnest face, were familiar to those who took their daily airing on the Observatory Hill. Piers had made friends with the stone cutters who spread out their stalls on Sion Hill and at the foot of the Observatory, and there was a continual interest in getting specimens from them.

Piers was helped in his studies by a young physician, who was then putting his foot on the first rung of the ladder which he soon scaled to the very top, and stood in later years pre-eminently as the first consulting physician of the West of England. His patients at this time, above the level of Park Street were not very numerous, and he would laughingly assure Piers that he was very proud to attend any one in so aristocratic a locality as Down Cottage!

He lent Piers books and instruments, and gave him a microscope, of which, as a physician, he had several, and, indeed, was the bright element in the lame boy's life.

He was coming out of the house now as Joyce opened the little iron gate, his horse waiting for him at the corner.

The greeting between the doctor and Joyce was unusually warm; he admired her beautiful, beaming face, and always liked to exchange a word with her.

"It is great news," he said; "though the crucial test is yet to come."

"Yes," Joyce said; "but surely the dear old Lords will not obstruct the bill."

"The dear old Bishops will do so," the doctor said, "your friend at Wells amongst them."

"Well," Joyce said, "he is sure to do what he does because he thinks it is right, not because other people do it."

The doctor laughed again; evidently he was not so sure of the Bishop. Then, with a pleasant smile to Charlotte, the doctor went away, just turning back for a moment to say, "I saw your old friend, Mrs. Hannah More's doctor, in consultation this morning, and he incidentally mentioned that she was failing rather visibly. Have you seen her of late?"

"I am going there this afternoon," Joyce said. "I want so much to see her."

"I would not delay," the doctor said, significantly, and then he was gone.

After the first greeting. Piers dragged Joyce off to his den, to show her a beautiful specimen of quartz, of which he had possessed himself the day before for a mere trifle.

And then he had diagrams to show her, which he had drawn, of several crystals, as seen through the microscope; and then he divulged the doctor's plan, that he should prepare a good many of such diagrams for him to use at a lecture he was to give in the Bristol Museum, some evening in the course of the coming winter.

I do not think there is any quality more attractive than that, which Joyce possessed in a remarkable degree, of throwing herself – not superficially, as Gratian did, but really and heartily – into the interests of other people.

Any one watching her face as she bent over Piers' treasures, and examined his drawings, would have scarcely believed that she was the mother of four children, to whom she was devoted.

Piers was seated at his table, and she was standing over him, with one hand upon his shoulder, while, with the other, she now and then stroked back his hair, as in old days.

It is strange to think how the quiet, happy life of home, and home interests may go on, while the storm of political strife, and religious controversy rages without. It was thus with Sir Thomas Browne, the philosopher and physician, of Norwich, who produced his great work, the "Religio Medici," when England stood on the eve of the greatest storm, which ever burst over her. It was thus with many less distinguished and simple souls, who went about their accustomed duties and pleasures, and took up their daily burden of cares and toil, and gave but little heed to the jarring elements without.

Presently Joyce said: "I must go to mother now and get ready for dinner. How has mother been lately?"

"Oh! very well," Piers said. "She does not care very much for anything, that is the worst of it. She always talks of her day being over, and that she has nothing now to live for; but she has, all the same," Piers continued, laughing. "She bustles about every morning, rubbing and dusting, and then she is knitting socks enough to last Falcon till he is twenty, and all kinds of things for your baby."

"Does she get on with the servants now?"

"Oh! pretty well. Of course, there is a good scold every day of one or the other of them, but both the maids know by this time, as we all do, that mother's bark may be sharp, but her bite is nothing."

"I hope you are not very dull, darling Piers?" Joyce asked.

"Dull! No, thank goodness! I don't know what dullness means. I see you have brought Charlotte with you; she is as languishing as ever."

"Poor Charlotte!" Joyce said; "she, at any rate, knows very well what dullness means. But I must not stay; remember you and mother are to spend Christmas with us in Great George Street."

The Clifton of fifty-five year's ago might not present such an appearance of gaiety on a fine afternoon as it does now; but, nevertheless, the Downs and Observatory were sprinkled with people, well dressed, in carriages, or Bath chairs, or on foot.

It was decided that the carriage should be ordered by Joyce from the stables at the back of Sion Hill, as she went to Windsor Terrace; that Mrs. Falconer, Piers, and Charlotte should drive to the turnpike on the Down, and then come to the top of Granby Hill, and wait there for Joyce. Charlotte was quite content with this arrangement, and watched Joyce's departure after dinner with some satisfaction. She rather liked to be alone with Mrs. Falconer, who, as she knitted, listened to her little complaints with patience, if not with expressed sympathy. Mrs. Arundel, on the contrary, thought Charlotte needed rousing, and was intolerant of perpetual headaches and low spirits.

There were many unoccupied young women like Charlotte, fifty years ago, without any particular aim in life, except a vague idea that they ought to be married. The years as they passed, often went by on leaden wings. Charlotte was amiable and gentle; and Miss Falconer, disappointed with the result of her training, would say: "Poor dear Charlotte has not strong health; so different from Joyce, who was a perfect rustic in that, as in other things." But Joyce was married, and Charlotte remained single, and had not even the satisfaction of recounting her many conquests, as her aunt so frequently did.

There is no more honourable and noble life than that of the single woman who bravely takes up her lot, and works her way to independence, by industry and the cultivation of the gifts God has given her, for which the opportunities in these days are so many. But there is – I had almost said was– no life more pitiable, than that of the woman whose youth is passing, and who, having to accept her position as unmarried, does so with a bad grace, and pines for what, by her very melancholy views of life, she puts more and more beyond her reach, and who is perpetually thinking of her own little pains and troubles, and forgets to be at leisure from herself, to sympathise with those of others.

"Joyce did not ask me to go and see Mrs. More; though we stayed at Barley Wood together," Charlotte was saying. "However, I dare say Mrs. More would not remember me."

"Her memory is getting short now," said Mrs. Falconer; "she reaped a pretty harvest for her over-indulgence of her servants; teaching them things that were above their station in life was the beginning of it. They cheated her through thick and thin, and some gentlemen had to interfere, and break up the household for her, poor old lady!"

"It must be a change for her to live in Windsor Terrace, after that lovely place," Charlotte said.

"Not greater than for me to change Fair Acres for Down Cottage; but my day is over, and it suits me very well, and Piers is happy, while Harry and Ralph like to come here sometimes, and I like to be near Joyce and the dear children."

"I think Falcon is rather tiresome and noisy," Charlotte said. "Joyce does not reprove him as she ought."

Mrs. Falconer was touchy about her grand-children; in her eyes Falcon was perfect, and the love that had been so unsparingly poured forth on Melville, was now given to Falcon.

"He's a noble boy," she said, in a tone that implied it was certainly not Charlotte's business to suggest that he had any imperfections. And now the knitting-needles were laid aside, for the carriage stopped at the little iron gate, and Mrs. Falconer went to call Piers, and to prepare for her drive.

Meantime Joyce had gone down the steep hill to Windsor Terrace, and, after some hesitation on the part of Miss Frowde, she was allowed to see Mrs. More.

She was seated in an easy chair, propped up with cushions, enjoying the view which lay before her.

For a moment she sought Joyce's face with an inquiring glance, as if not quite sure of her identity; but almost immediately the recognition came, and she greeted her, with one of her brightest smiles.

"Why, my dear Mrs. Arundel, you are quite a stranger. How are the dear babies, and poor Susan?"

"They are all well, dear madam, and Susan is an increasingly valuable servant."

"I am glad to hear it. I love to know that the seed sown is springing up. We are sadly impatient, my dear; we are like children pulling up the plant to see if the roots are grown. How are things going on at Fair Acres?"

"Very much as usual. My brother Ralph manages the estate."

"And the others look on! Well, well, patience is the great lesson for us all to learn, the patience that God has with us. Prayer and patient waiting will move mountains at last."

Then, after a few more inquiries, Mrs. More came to public matters.

"I thought," she said, "I was too old to take such a deep interest in the affairs of this kingdom and this city; but, my dear, we stand on the edge of a volcano, and, from all I hear, Bristol is ill-prepared. There is a growing feeling of hatred against the magistrates, and the zeal of Sir Charles Wetherall has carried him beyond the bounds of discretion. Would you like to borrow any books? They are at your service. In that book-case there are many volumes written by me. I often sit here, and think over the writing of those books, and how little I ever expected that they would have a large sale, and bring me in, as they did, thirty thousand pounds. It often fills me with self-abasement, not self-glorification."

"I will not take a book to-day, dear madam; and here is Miss Frowde come to warn me that I have stayed long enough."

"See!" Mrs. More said, "there is the little steam-packet puffing busily up the river. I am blessed in my old age, to see before my windows the two great discoveries of the age, steam-power made useful for locomotion, and coal-gas for light. I am very happy here, my dear, but remember an old woman's advice, and do not spoil Susan Priday, or any servant, by over indulgence. Very often, as in my own case, carelessness, and dislike of trouble is the real root of the evil. God bless you and keep you, my dear," she said, as Joyce bent to kiss her. "Is there much excitement abroad about the passing of the Reform Bill?"

"Not that I have seen," Joyce answered; "but I daresay there may be in the city."

"Well, the result is in God's hands; we must pray and labour for peace, that blessed gift of God's love – peace."

It was a sweet parting word, and one to which Joyce often recurred in later years, almost as Hannah More's legacy to her – Peace.