"You love me? You have already said the same thing to twenty others,—to Bella Vereker, for instance!"
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"I have never owned a second love! Neither she, nor any one else. You are my first love, and you shall be the only one!"
"I do not believe you. You are not telling me truth."
"Certainly I am," he exclaimed. "You shall be Lady Mowbray in the sight of God and man, with the reversion of the office which my mother holds at court."
This was no illusion! Esther began to weaken, vanity being in reality her vulnerable point.
At this moment a heavy knocking soundedupon the door, so resonant, so brutal that they both trembled.
"They are about to begin!" cried a voice in the passage. Perhaps it may seem singular to those who have not experienced similar situations, that such an incident can save a young girl; that the sentiment of secondary but immediate duty can brusquely awaken her at the moment that the notion of primal duty is losing its hold upon her. Esther recovered her presence of mind upon the instant.
"I am on in the first scene!" she cried. "Quick, my costume!"
She threw open the door. The callboy had disappeared, but one of the company who was to play the part of Hero, already dressed, was just descending to the greenroom.
"Are they beginning?" Esther demanded.
"Not yet."
"But I have just been called."
"Who could have done it? Some joke of course. You have a quarter of an hour yet."
"But I am alone!"
"Then I will help you."
During this dialogue Mowbray made good his escape. The blow had been struck! Who had struck it at the decisive moment? Who had dared to snatch his prey from him? Could it be Lebeau? He again! At the thought Mowbray's face grew dark with hatred.
Slowly the curtain rose. In the great hall of the palace the good Lord Leonato, sovereign of a fantastic country which only Shakespeare knew, having at his two sides his daughter Hero and his niece Beatrice, with all his court about him, receives the messenger who comes to announce the victory of his troops and their imminent return.
Such is the spectacle from the auditorium; but the spectacle of the auditorium, seen from the stage, is otherwise curious; to modern eyes it would seem like a glimpse of fairyland.
A myriad candles shed from on high upon four thousand spectators a flood of soft, white light. The snowy wainscoting relieved with gold, the toilets of the men and women, the naked shoulders, the diamonds, the orders,—all seemed to stand forth in relief against the pervading brilliance. Soft pink, pearl-gray, pigeon-breast, sea-green, pale blue, violet, faint gold, the clear white of silk, the dull white of satin, the cream white of old laces, every shade which could reflect the light, are mingled in one delicious harmony. Through the silence which falls upon the audience the softfrou-frouof silk and the flutter of fans are alone audible. Every face is turned towards the stage, attentive, smiling, already charmed. In that age of extreme sociability one did not go to the theatre to enjoy individual, egotistical comfort in a corner, but to share in common a pleasurewhich increased by the fact that it was shared. Those were looked for at Drury Lane whom one had met at Almack's, at the Pantheon, at Ranelagh, those whom one had seen thirty years earlier at Vauxhall and Marylebone Gardens.
From a box Prince Orloff displays his gigantic figure, his diamonds, and his handsome face, which had vanquished a Czarina. It was here that an adroit pickpocket, only two years before, had failed to relieve him of his famous snuff-box, valued at a million francs.
Not far from him Lord Sandwich, the Jemmy Twitcher of the popular song and thebête noirof all London, appears quite consoled for the tragic death of his lady-love, Miss Reay, who had been assassinated within the year by an amorous clergyman. The grim figure of Charles James Fox looms in the back of another box, the front of which is occupied by the Duchess of Rutland and the Duchess of Devonshire, the irresistible Georgiana, who will soon become his election broker and buy up votes for him (Honi soit qui mal y pense!) at the price of a kiss.
A little farther away, following the circular rank of columns, sit the inseparable trio, Lady Archer, Lady Buckinghamshire and Mrs. Hobart, the three wild faro-players whom the Lord Chief Justice menaced with the pillory, and whom the caricaturist Gillray nailed there for all time. Lady Vereker has also come to applaud her little friend. In the second tier of boxes is enthroned Mrs. Robinson, fresh from teaching the Prince of Wales his first lesson in love. That man, whose fund of small-talk seems inexhaustible and insolent, but whose intelligent face catches every eye, is Sheridan, who has become director of Drury Lane bybuying up Garrick's share. At his side lounges the exquisitely languid figure of a young woman, of late Miss Linley, the singer, now Mrs. Sheridan; for he has acquired her, thanks to his audacity, having run away with her in the face and eyes of her family and no end of suitors, while upon the adventure he has founded a comedy, the success of which is his wife's dowry.
In the gallery are seen morebeauxthan women, theélégantesand coxcombs, who are still termedmacaronis, although the word is beginning to pass out of vogue. Rings, frills, and ruffles, the cut of coat and waistcoat, the latest suggestion in breeches,—all is with them a matter of profound meditation, from the buckle upon their shoes to the tip of their curled heads. Their hair is a mass of snow, conical in shape, about which floats the odor of iris and bergamot. Sellwyn, forever dreaming of his little marchioness, sits beside Reynolds, who holds his silver ear-trumpet towards the stage. Near them is Burgoyne, who consoles himself for his great military disaster at Saratoga by writing comedies. He has chosen the better part of the vanquished, which is to cry louder than anybody else and accuse everybody. For the one hundredth time he is explaining to Capt. Vancouver that the true author of the capitulation in America was not he, Burgoyne, who signed it, but that infernal Lord North, who gave the commands to the Liberal officers at Westminster in order to be rid of them, and then laughed in his sleeve at their reverses.
Before the royal box stand two Guards, armed from head to foot, immovable as statues. The king in his Windsor uniform, red with blue facings, his hair bound by a simple black ribbon, toys witha lorgnette, and leans his great awkward body forward with a curious and amused air. "Farmer George," though frequently cross and disagreeable, appears in excellent humor this evening. Undoubtedly his cabbage plants are doing well, or perhaps he has succeeded in making a dozen buttons during the day, since the manufacture of buttons and the culture of vegetables, which he sells to the highest bidder, are his favorite pastimes. Stiff and straight in her low-cut corsage, a true German in matters of etiquette, which she imposes with pitiless rigor upon all about her, little Queen Charlotte amply compensates for the free and easy habits of her husband by the severity of her mien. With head erect, though slightly thrown backward, squinting eyes, and pointed chin, swaying her fan to and fro with a rapid, uncompromising movement, there is no doubt that the worthy dwarf, who has already given the king thirteen princes and princesses, is still a most energetic little person.
On either side sit the Prince of Wales and Prince Frederick. The former realizes to the eye the type of the genuine Prince Charming, exquisite to a degree, but unsatisfactory with all his beauty, freshness and grace. The delicious envelope lacks soul. Later history will write against his name, "deceiver, perjurer and bigamist." But he is only eighteen years of age now, every heart is his, and yonder his first sweetheart regards him with ardent eyes. He takes no heed of it, however; in fact, a slight pout of annoyance sullies his otherwise delightful features. Prince Frederick is heir to the throne of Hanover, and his father's favorite. The destiny of that blockhead is to be duped by women, despised by hiswife, and whipped by the French,—a fate which, nevertheless, has not denied him a triumphal statue perched upon the apex of a column, as though he had been a Trajan, a Nelson, or a Bonaparte.
In the shadow of the queen's chair is the tabouret of Lady Harcourt, her maid-of-honor and friend; while all in a row behind the princes stand the gentlemen-in-waiting.
Every one was in his place, including our friend, Mr. O'Flannigan. Installed in his hole, he held, spread out before him, a large portfolio containing the precious manuscript of the play, bearing erasures and corrections in Garrick's own hand.
A youthful voice, pure and vibrant, is heard, and the silence becomes still more profound. It is Beatrice who speaks by the mocking lips of Esther.
She requests news of Benedick from the messenger who has returned from the battle, but in the way that one would ask tidings of an enemy. Soon Benedick himself appears, whereupon begins a remarkable assault of sarcasm. Both provoke each other and defy love.
"I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow," she says, "than a man swear he loves me."
"God keep your ladyship still in that mind," retorts Benedick, "so some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face."
"Scratching could not make it worse, an' 'twere such a face as yours were."
"Well, niece," says the uncle Leonato by and by, "I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband."
"Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to beovermastered with a piece of valiant dust, to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none; Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly I hold it a sin to match in my kindred." And later when they press her she replies:—
"He that hath a beard is more than a youth; and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man I am not for him."
Don Pedro, the Prince of Arragon, sportively offers himself.
"Will you have me, lady?"
"No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days; your grace is too costly to wear every day."
But, fearing that she has been guilty of an impertinence, she gently though still pertly excuses herself:—
"But I beseech your grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth, and no matter."
"Out of question you were born in a merry hour!"
"No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but, then, there was a star danced, and under that was I born."
"By my troth!" exclaims the Prince, wholly charmed, "a pleasant-spirited lady!"
Which was the opinion of all, both on the stage and off. Esther seemed to have forgotten the danger she had run, the emotion she had experienced; or, rather, this danger and emotion lent to her eyes and voice a lively, incisive charm of gayety and extraordinary audacity. She was the very embodiment of that wit "quick as the greyhound's mouth," which forms the motive ofthe play. The quips and cranks of the poet seemed born upon her lips with the freedom and supreme grace of improvisation, and if here and there there occur certain rather weak or coarse sallies, she allowed the audience no time to perceive them. It was a rain, a very hail-storm which fell upon the heads of Benedick, Leonato, and Don Pedro, mixed with blinding lightning. With a glance of the eye she addressed her most trenchant words to Mowbray, whom she descried standing at the back of the Prince of Wales's chair. But it was surely no longer against him that she defended herself, since she felt herself assailed by every one in the theatre. She pitted herself against the game with elation. She no longer played a part, but was herself; she was no exceptional creature, but a young English girl of all times, who accosts love with a mocking air, though with a beating heart, with defiance upon her lips, backed by a pretty, mutinous insolence and a belligerent effervescence of words. Upon this battlefield of love, like her brothers in veritable combats, she had no wish to bite the dust. Though vanquished, she knows it not.
There was a genuine sigh, a shudder throughout the auditorium, when Beatrice, deceived by stratagem and thrown off her guard, bows her head and gives vent to those charming words:—
"'Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!'"
Fate is a strange manipulator of effects! At the moment that she raised her eyes her glance met that of a young man who stood at the back of theparterre, pallid with emotion; it was Francis Monday! Then they saw their Beatrice wholly transformed; moved, vibrant, saddened.How well she understood the grief of her cousin Hero, unjustly suspected by her bethrothed! Now that she loved, how swiftly her heart divined and sympathized with the pangs of love! With what a burst of pity, sympathy, and feminine heroism she cried:—
"'Oh, that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie, and swears it.—Icannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.'"
Then with a short sob she fell upon a chair. Suffering and joy,—she had traversed the whole domain o'er which woman reigns. Those tears consecrated the defeat of Beatrice, the triumph of Esther.
The audience burst into rapturous applause, and when the play was over the young actress was informed that his Majesty desired to see her.
Thereupon she was conducted to the royal box, or, rather, to the reception room which adjoined it. The gentlemen-in-waiting made way for her, and in the space left vacant, the cynosure of every eye, the young girl paused for a moment confused.
"Approach, Miss Woodville," said her Majesty with that German accent which has been the butt of so many pleasantries.
Esther advanced a step or two, and then sank in a profound courtesy.
"Ah! ah! Miss Woodville. Charmed to see you and to congratulate you!"
It was the king who spoke. He came to her with that inimitable gait, upon which the circus-clowns of the day wasted study and art in their attempts to reproduce it, but which in his Majesty was natural. He held his body bent like a half-moon, the back arched, the legs down to the knees pressed close together, and the feet wide apart. Being upon the point of leaving the theatre before the little piece which terminated the performance, he already held his gloves in one hand, his cane in the other, and his hat under his arm. Upon reaching the spot where Esther stood he let fall his gloves. She stooped to pick them up, while he, wishing to spare her the exertion,dropped his cane; quickly seizing it, he lost his hold upon his hat. Thereupon ensued a moment of confusion, which the queen, in an attempt to abridge, made use of by addressing a compliment to the young artist.
"You are Garrick's last pupil, I believe," she said, "and perhaps his best. He would have been happy indeed to have heard you this evening."
"Eh? what? Garrick?" gasped his Majesty. "Oh, certainly, certainly! She plays remarkably well. I'm a judge myself: I too have played in comedy—comedy and tragedy. I used to do Addison's 'Cato,' and not half badly, they said. But of course one always says that to a prince. Have you seen 'Cato,' Miss Woodville?"
"Never, sire."
"Ah, but it is a fine play! And the tirade, the famous tirade, you know!"
And he began to declaim, floundering for words. Again her Majesty interrupted him, although with every demonstration of respect.
"Does not your Majesty find that Miss Woodville speaks her Shakespeare marvellously well?"
"Eh? what? Shakespeare? Of course!—You love Shakespeare, do you not?"
"Oh, yes, sire, with all my heart!"
"That's right; so do I. Nevertheless he has his stupid absurdities. Sad rubbish, some of it. Persons generally would not venture to admit that they thought so, but I say it because I say whatever comes into my mind. I don't care particularly for the French, but I am forced to acknowledge that their plays are the noblest, most decorous and normal extant. We also have good authors, such as Coleman, for instance, or Mr.Home, who wrote 'Douglass.' The whole action of the play passes in twenty-four hours and in one and the same place. Certain scenes take place in the castle, others before the castle, and still others behind the castle; but, in a word, the castle is always there to preserve the unity. That makes you laugh, young woman!"
In fact, the king himself laughed too.
"All the same," he concluded in a paternal tone, "you play like an angel!"
"Au revoir, Miss Woodville," said the queen; "I take it your Majesty wishes to be going."
The audience was at an end, and after a second courtesy Esther backed herself out of the presence. Upon the threshold her glance met that of Lord Mowbray, and she thought that upon his arm she might penetrate this grand world, not as she had just done, for a few moments, but forever,—forever to hold her place and rank in the charmed circle!
There was ever the same contrast between the component parts of Esther's dual existence: after fairyland the humble, prosaic existence. A few days after that triumphal evening Esther found herself alone at the end of the garden, embroidery in hand. The little terrace upon which she had seated herself was enclosed by a breast-high wall. Above this wall a trellis covered with vines and climbing plants would have formed on that side an impenetrable screen, had not large oval apertures been managed whence a view of the surrounding country could be secured. Laying her work aside, Esther leaned upon her elbows and took a survey of Tothill Fields, where several groups of men ran hither and thither with cries, playing at bowls and football. In the distance a gray veil glimmered above the river, which, though invisible, could easily be traced. Behind the roofs of Chelsea Hospital undulated the verdant masses of Battersea Park. To the right, above the old clock tower of Kensington, the westering sun was sinking tranquilly to rest. A few yards away a band of gypsies had encamped for the night. The half-naked children played in the sun, while the women were hanging out their linen to dry. The old men, immovable as statues, crouched in the shade, smoked their pipes, keeping their eyes on their unharnessed horses, which browsed upon the sparse herbage.
One of the gypsy women wandered near the terrace, and with a smile slowly approached Esther. Tall, well-built, with a flat, sun-burned face, glossy black hair, and bold, piercing eyes of a strange fixity of glance, and conspicuous by the utter absence of soul in their depths, she regarded Esther with a curious scrutiny. She leaned her back against the dry trunk of an old willow and balanced herself, not without a certain savage grace, which displayed her muscular limbs to advantage beneath the rags which covered them.
"A fine day," said she, "for such as cherish love in their hearts."
"Love! Nonsense!" sneered Esther.
"She who speaks thus is generally caught in the toils."
"Can you tell fortunes?"
"Give me your hand and you shall see."
"Oh, yes, I know you; you gypsies are all alike. For sixpence you announce the love of a city clerk; for a shilling, it is a gentleman; for half a crown, a lord; were one to give you a goldpiece, it would be a prince!"
"What would you say," said the woman roughly, "were I to tell your fortune for nothing? Only beware: I shall tell it, good or bad!—Ah! you start. Youdobelieve!"
"Here is my hand," said Esther, moved despite herself.
But stretch and lengthen her arm as she would, her hand only reached the gypsy's eyes.
"Wait!" she cried, and, running lightly round to a little postern gate, she threw it open, and found herself face to face with the stranger, who for some moments held the white, tapering fingers in her great, strong, brown hand.
"Well?"
"Your life-line is well marked, but it is crossed here."
"Some danger?"
"A great crisis."
"At what epoch?"
"If I had drawn up your horoscope, I could have told you almost to an hour. So far as I can see, it will occur before your eighteenth year is accomplished."
"I shall be eighteen next Friday!"
"In that case the hour approaches. Be prepared. I see something else. Several men love you."
"How can you see that in my hand?"
"Child! I am reading your mind at this moment; it is like an open book to me."
Esther would have withdrawn her hand, but that she felt it imprisoned as in a vise. The woman stood erect and rigid before her, her eye vitreous, with difficulty expelling her breath between her half open lips. At last she spoke as one in a dream.
"There are three! One is dressed in black."
"Reuben!" murmured Esther.
"The other is a fine gentleman."
"And the third?"
"The third! I cannot distinguish his features.—Yes,—now I see him!—Why, how singular!"
"Why?"
"He resembles the second!"
"Ah!"
"And he holds in his hand—"
"What does he hold?"
"A pencil, I think; yes, he is an artist."
After a brief pause she resumed,—
"Two of these men will soon disappear, but the worthiest will marry you and you will be a great lady."
A flash of pride illumined Esther's eyes.
"Should your prophesy be realized," she said, "seek me out, and I will give you this ring which you see upon my hand."
"I do not want your ring; give me rather the handkerchief which you hold."
"Why do you wish this valueless thing? Is it that you are my well-wisher? Do you love me?"
"I hate you, as I hate all Christians; but I have need, for an incantation, of an object which has belonged to a virgin."
As Esther hesitated, the gypsy snatched the filmy tissue from her hand and fled, vanishing round an angle in the wall like an apparition.
Considerably disturbed in mind, Esther remained some time motionless upon the spot where the gypsy had left her. It seemed to her that the strange creature had exhaled a sort of torpor which she could not shake off. At last she closed the gate and stepped back. As she did so she noticed a bit of folded paper lying at her feet and picked it up. Unfolding it, she read these lines:—
"You love me. I feel it, know it. Have confidence in my love and honor. I long to tear you from the slavery in which you live to dwell with me in brightness and joy. Go to the Pantheon on Friday next wearing a brown domino with blue rosettes, and when you hear behind you these words, 'The moon is risen,' directly leave the person who will accompany you and follow the one who will take your hand. Ir order to assure me that you consent, send me some article which you have worn. I cannot be mistaken in the scent of vervain, which you love. While inhaling it, it will seem as though I inhaled your breath, as though I held my Esther in my arms."
No address, no signature. But the origin of the missive was no more doubtful than its destination.
"How stupid have I been!" exclaimed the girl. "Of what a farce have I been the dupe! Here I fancied that I was dealing with a sorceress, and she turns out to be a common go-between! It was she who dropped this letter at my feet. Out of doubt she knew its contents. That is why she snatched my handkerchief, for which she will be well paid;—and all the while I was wondering at her disinterestedness!"
With a twinge of vexation she thought that evenat that moment Lord Mowbray probably believed that he held the pledge of his victory.
"Bah!" she mentally ejaculated; "what matters it? His triumph will be short-lived, since I will not go to the masquerade on Friday; though I could go if I wished. Lady Vereker and my theatre companions have wished to take me there. Reuben has had only one word to say upon the abominations of the Pantheon, and my aunt, who is afraid of him, has been only too ready to refuse her permission. But there is nothing to fear!"
Just a shade of disappointment and annoyance dimmed this reassuring thought, but an unexpected incident altered the face of the matter. Reuben was absent at tea-time. He had scarcely been visible for several days; he appeared to be wholly absorbed in projects of import, of which he disclosed no hint to any one.
"My dear child," said Mrs. Marsham with a touch of embarrassment and some mystery, "I have undertaken a surprise for you which it is quite time to reveal. For a long time you have desired to see a masked ball at the Pantheon, but as I dare not entrust you to the care of so frivolous a person as your new friend, Lady Vereker, I have decided to take you there myself."
"You, aunt!"
"Why not? To the pure all things are pure, and if my eyes commit the sin of looking upon evil, I shall at least have the consolation of screening your innocence from the dangerous spectacle. Moreover, I shall pray without ceasing, and the Lord will go with us."
"But we really ought to have a different sort of cavalier."
"I have thought of that, and have asked Mr. O'Flannigan to serve as our escort. He is a brave man, as he has amply proved himself to be. We shall have, in case of an emergency, an intrepid defender. He has consented, and all that remains is for us to prepare our costumes."
Good Mrs. Marsham forgot to add that, like her niece, she was dying to see a masked ball, and that the curiosity which had been devouring her for years played its little part in the famous "surprise."
"Above all things," she added, "not a word to Reuben!"
When at last she found herself alone in her chamber Esther could not but reflect upon the odd situation which was hurrying on towards a dangerous result. After all, she was free to go to the Pantheon, and even to wear a brown domino with blue rosettes, without its leading to anything culpable. Her heart beat, and she experienced that delicious vertigo which conducts the great-granddaughters of Eve to the verge of the abyss.
What should she do? Of whom ask advice? She had neither mother nor friend, at least no friend who merited the name. Under similar circumstances gamblers toss up a goldpiece; bigots open the Scriptures and the first verse upon which their eyes fall resolves their doubt after the manner of an oracle. At the moment she was standing before a table upon which rested a bust of Shakespeare with a vase of flowers, a sort of offering renewed each day as though it were a domestic altar. A book-shelf upon the wall contained the works of the great dramatist. In those pages, so often conned, Esther had learned to think and to feel, to know mankind, the world,and love. It was her Bible, her book of books, august and authentic revelation before all others, the repository of her religion and philosophy. For this reason, struck with a sudden inspiration, she caught up the volume, which opened of itself to the first scene of the second act of "All's Well That Ends Well." In the middle of the page five words seemed to blaze before her stupefied eyes,—
"By Heaven, I'll steal away!"
There was no ambiguity in this response. Esther bowed her head as if overwhelmed by a fatality. At this moment the memory of Frank crossed her mind. Again she saw that sweetly sad face with eyes which reproached her for her treason. She felt an inward anguish; it seemed to her that, following the example of the pirates of the Thames, whose cruelty she had so lately condemned, she was casting the poor boy a second time into the dark abyss that yawned to engulf him.
But she rose with a sort of rage against the thought. Had Frank ever spoken a word of love to her? Did she even know that he loved her?
And her conscience promptly replied,—
"Yes, you do know; his eyes have told you!"
Well, so be it; he did love her; but could she consider a man who possessed nothing, whose profession earned him scarce a livelihood? Could she marry her poverty to Frank's misery? She saw herself as if depicted in two different pictures. Here, wretched, faded before her time, nursing a puny infant in a garret, bare of even the necessaries of life. In the companion picture, covered with diamonds and flowers, she was entering St James's, while the gentlemen-in-waiting bowed before her and a footman announced, "Lady Mowbray!"
When Mrs. Marsham inquired, "What will yourdomino be?" she answered, "Brown with blue ribbons."
That same evening aunt and niece set out for Drury Lane as usual, leaving Maud asleep in the kitchen. The shades of night had begun to gather about the little house in Tothill Fields,—a calm, balmy night towards the end of May. The strollers had gone their ways, and the gypsy camp had emigrated to another of the great tracts of waste land so numerous at that day in the suburbs of London. Save the distant rumbling from Westminster naught disturbed the peace of this countrified quarter, already dozing in the evening silence. Nevertheless, several shadows flitted along the old wall; men in groups of two and three made their way noiselessly towards the little postern gate where Esther had conversed with the gypsy. A lantern placed upon the threshold guided them towards the narrow entrance veiled in ivy. After a minute or two, which seemed carefully calculated, a new group followed the one that preceded it. Once within the garden the men seemed to hesitate, wandering here and there haphazard in the dense obscurity of the old trees. Presently Reuben's voice called to them:—
"This way, brothers!"
Thereupon they followed him, descended a stairway of seven or eight steps, and penetrated a vaulted hall, where they found all those who had preceded them united. The floor was of well-trodden earth, while the walls bore numerous traces of mould. There was nothing in the way of furniture except a few wooden benches, a table at the back, and a single lamp suspended from the ceiling, the ruddy flame of which flickered with every gust of air above their heads.
When the assembly was complete Reuben carefully closed the doors. At this moment the chamber contained some twenty men. Two among them were attired in clerical garb, but with that extreme simplicity which marked the members of dissenting churches. The remainder appeared to be either shop-keepers or laborers. Some even were in their working clothes, notably a tanner with his leathern apron, and a butcher with his knife hanging from his belt. One man only was attired with elegance, although the tints were sombre. His little narrow head and thin, pale face, feminine in outline, emerged from an aureole of powdered hair, and were illumined by a pair of eyes singularly close together, black, glittering, and hard, and animated by an expression of inquietude. His companions treated him with marked respect, and seemed to be of one mind in yielding him first place in everything. They addressed him as "Lord George"; in fact, he was Lord George Gordon, a Scotch nobleman, who had begun to attract attention in the House of Commons by his peculiarities. After a term of years spent in dissipation, folly, and travelling, he served in the navy, demanded a post of command from the ministry, failed to obtain it, and suddenly joined the opposition. Again, quite as brusquely changing his tactics, he put himself at the head of a party of intolerants who were opposing the repeal of the laws against the Catholics.
Lord George Gordon took his place behind the table, with one of the clergymen upon his right hand and Reuben on his left.
"Friends," he began in a very sweet and modulated tone, "our host, this worthy young man, who is animated by the spirit of God,—our friendReuben Marsham,—informs me that an indelible memory attaches to this chamber in which we are met. When the impious Charles Stuart remounted the throne of which his father had been deprived by the anger of the Lord, and which the weakness of men had restored to the son, two fugitives were concealed here, and lived for a considerable time in this subterranean hall, existed here until, through the information of a servant, their asylum was discovered. The tyrant's soldiery dragged them forth, and they lost their heads upon the scaffold, praising God, who held their rewards in store for them. Shades of the great dead, martyrs of the holy cause, here do I salute your invisible presence! Be with us! Inspire, protect us!"
A tremor passed through the very bones of each auditor. Thereupon the clergyman took up the word.
"Since we are assembled for the glory of God and of His Son, let us first invoke his most holy name, my brothers; let us pray!"
He fell upon his knees; every man imitated his example with such unanimous precision that the earth gave forth a dull sound, as when at the word of command a company of soldiers grounds arms.
The clergyman intoned in a low voice the psalm beginning, "By the rivers of Babylon."
To each verse all present murmured a response, toning their rough, harsh voices. When the lastamenhad been pronounced Lord George remarked, "Friends, none among us is ignorant of our purpose in coming hither to-night. For the sake of those of us who have not been present at our previous reunions, I will in brief rehearse the facts. Aided by a damnable philosophy, impietyhas made great progress in our midst, disguised at present under the new name of tolerance. Thanks to these circumstances, Rome has reared her head. The great courtesan seeks to queen it among us with unveiled face and lofty brow. Sons of the saints, will you permit it?"
"No!" responded twenty voices.
"You are aware that a bill has been presented to the House of Commons annulling the penal laws against the Catholics. I have raised my voice in protest, but my words have been choked in my throat and I have been treated as a fool. Both parties are united against us!"
Varied exclamations greeted these words.
"Burke is a Jesuit in disguise!"
"Fox is a scapegrace, a drunkard, a gambler!"
"Lord North's only thought is to fill his pockets and his stomach!"
"The Parliament is rotten to the core!"
"We must appeal to the king!" cried one.
"I have thought of that," said Lord George, "and I brought him one of the pamphlets which I have published on the subject. His Majesty listened to a part of it, and promised to read the rest. That was many months ago, and still I have no response from him."
"The king," observed the clergyman upon Gordon's right, "has no power to interfere in the resolutions of Parliament and in the legal vote."
"Is he prevented," burst out Reuben impetuously, "when some policy of his own is at stake, or when he wishes to depose some minister who has displeased him?"
Thereupon the tanner boldly advanced.
"The king is playing us false!" said he. "A while ago he went to dinner with Lord Petre.Now, do you know who this Lord Petre is? A determined papist! He is the grand-nephew of that same Father Petre who brought to the palace in a warming-pan that miller's son whom they presented as the Prince of Wales, and whom they have since called the knight of Saint George!"
"That's neither here nor there."
"Wait!" continued the tanner with unruffled obstinacy. "When one is the friend of a papist, one is nigh to becoming a papist. Who knows whether the king is not already baptized!"
"It is certain in any case," interrupted Reuben, "that we have only ourselves to depend upon. Unless we intimidate the House of Commons the law will be passed."
"Yes," assented Lord George, "that is the truth. I have given notice that on Friday I intend to lay our petition before Parliament, and that I shall have two hundred thousand men to back me. You don't propose to fail me, do you?"
"Certainly not!" cried the clergyman. "Each one of us is good for ten thousand; we will answer for our neighborhoods."
"Will the Methodists march?" inquired Reuben.
"Every mother's son of them," replied a voice. "John Wesley has declared against tolerance."
"In that case," said Gordon, "success is assured. We will meet at Saint George's Fields at ten o'clock; there the final arrangements will be made. Neglect no detail, brothers, which will tend to make our manifestation imposing, grand, and irresistible. Infiltrate every soul with the fire which animates you. Let the voice of the people, which is the voice of God, be heard. For a century pious England has slept, lulled by theindifference of mechanical practices, mercantile preoccupations, ambitious intrigues, and worldly pleasures. The sun of the morrow should shine upon her awakening, and this awakening should be so sudden, so powerful, as to terrify the enemies of God. Let our warcry be that of our ancestors, 'To your tents, O Israel!'"
"Brothers," said the clergyman in his turn, "let us intone the song of the Hebrews, when God delivered them out of the land of Egypt,—Cantemus Domino!"
They sang, alwayssotto voce, but the sustained accent of those deep voices lent to the terrible words their full energy.
"O God, thou hast crushed thine enemies. The sea has swallowed them up; they have fallen into the depths like a stone. Thou hast sent thine anger upon them; it has consumed them like straw. The enemy hath said, I will pursue them, I will fall upon them, I will share their spoils, I will slay them with my sword, and I will be master. But thou hast sent thy breath upon them, and they have been swallowed up as lead in a raging sea. O Lord, what God is like unto thee!"
They sang, and a very tempest of enthusiasm whistled among their bowed heads. A sort of heroic madness raised their commonplace souls quite out of themselves. They fancied that they felt the spirit of the Lord upon them; not the God of pity, who blesses and pardons, raises the fallen, makes the sinner a saint, wipes away tears, heals the wounded, promises peace to the weary, glory to the humble, love to the forsaken, heaven to all such as the earth has wounded and made desperate, but a powerful, jealous, revengeful God,a God who seeks bloody holocausts, and pursues in the children the sins of the father, in the infant at the breast the iniquities of vanished generations.
"The day of glory is at hand!" cried Reuben. "Happy are they who perish in the combat!"
"Amen!" was the universal response.
And with that word they dispersed.
A cloudless sun rose upon the 2d of June, 1780. Before six o'clock a large crowd filled Saint George's Fields and the neighborhood. A certain number of the men sought each other and stood in groups as if in obedience to a previous word of command. They talked together in low tones and wore a sombre air of resolution. A great number of humble folk and shop-keepers had come hither at the request of their clergymen, convinced that they were destined to do a pious work in repulsing the religious joke of which their fathers had rid themselves; though from their very bearing it was evident that these worthies were ready to do more barking than biting. A multitude of the curious surrounded them, resolved to see the show out, though it should cost them a cracked pate or two. Occasionally a face betrayed fierce expectation of disorder, a sort of presentiment of what might occur; but the great day still hung heavily on their hands, and the men felt that their hour had not yet come, and that they must leave it to the psalm-singers and idlers to lead the way. About eleven o'clock Lord George Gordon appeared, and was received with acclamation. Mounted upon a table, he delivered some words which were quite lost, but his desperately energetic gestures were seen and were responded to with cries of "Down with popery!" "Death to the papists!"
The leaders passed from place to place endeavoring to enforce order in this vast assemblage of men animated by such contrasting sentiments, but scarcely had they turned their backs ere the confusion was renewed. At last they succeeded in forming four main bodies, which, taking different ways, crossed the Thames upon three bridges,—Westminster, Blackfriars, and London Bridge.