At the head of this last column marched Reuben Marsham, whose fine, menacing face, flashing eyes, and floating yellow locks attracted universal attention, especially among the women. Men bore before him several banners upon which was emblazoned the legend, "No popery!" Behind came a silent phalanx of fanatical sectarians, who ordered their marching-step to the slow measures of a religious chant. The crowd followed in clamorous disorder, struggling with a thousand emotions, like a tempestuous flood-tide sweeping between the walls of the narrow streets. From the windows and the thresholds of the shops a curious, amused, but perfectly peaceful horde ofpeople watched the progress of the procession.
Here and there a philosopher or practical man would shrug his shoulders, murmuring, "Fanatics!" or, "Still another working day wasted!" But the majority sympathized with the object of the expedition, and saluted the passage of the manifesto with answering cries of "No popery!"
No effort was made to interfere with the proceedings; not a red-coat nor an officer of police appeared. What could all the watchmen in London—those timid, innocent watchmen—have availed against such a multitude, even though they had been united in one solid troop? As for the soldiers, they were only called out as a last resort.
Reuben crossed Ludgate Hill without obstacle, went up Fleet Street, and, having passed through old Temple Bar, entered the Strand. As a river receives its affluents, the column constantly grew larger through the human currents which joined it from the north and swept into it from the side-streets. In front of houses where well-known Catholics dwelt the procession would pause while, amidst groans and cries of execration from the crowd, men slashed the doors with a chalk-mark, which designated the places for approaching vengeance.
Having followed the Strand to its end, traversed Charing Cross, and passed through Whitehall, the procession spread over Westminster Place, which, despite its somewhat confined dimensions and the buildings which obstructed it, nevertheless offered a favorable stamping-ground for such popular displays. The other bodies had already arrived at the rendezvous, and being united formed an immense, compact mass which nothing couldresist. The crowd, proud of its power, gave voice to a long acclamation, above which isolated voices were heard, and which caused every window in Westminster to rattle.
The afternoon being far advanced, the hour of the meeting approached. The members of the two assemblies who had not taken time by the forelock and reached the House of Parliament were recognized as they courageously tried to penetrate the crowd, were marked out, abused, and beaten; but the popular hatred was particularly directed against the orators, ministers, and prelates, who were roundly accused, as they made their appearance, of betraying the cause of religion and of selling England to the Pope. With their carriage windows broken, their horses wildly snorting, their coachmen purple with rage or pallid with fear and deprived of their whips and reins, their terrified footmen clinging to the straps behind, the coaches swayed like ships in distress upon this furious human sea. They cracked and oscillated, until it was quite a wonder they were not overturned. The unfortunate occupants were torn from their seats and dragged over the pavements by the legs, arms, and even by their powdered cues. "Kill them! Drown them!" was the cry. Lord North, Lord Sandwich, the Archbishop of York, and several others thus saw imminent death staring them in the face, and escaped it only by their presence of mind or the energy of their friends. The crowd grew intoxicated with success, but more particularly with the gin and the beer which were dispensed in floods by the publicans of the neighborhood. Who could foretell to what point of excess the affair would be carried?
One after another the members of Parliament succeeded in joining their colleagues. With their frills and ruffles in streamers, soiled with mud and blood, they bore ample testimony of the violence to which they had been subjected. Each one regarded the event according to his particular humor; some laughed and swore, while others, grinding their teeth and pale with rage, silently wiped their faces where they had been wounded by the missiles, or their lacerated ears, which dripped blood upon their fine attire. All these men bore the sword; many had used it; the majority had risked their lives for a trifle in worldly duels, genuine tilting scrimmages with bare bodkins. They had no fear of a London rabble; the instinct of battle, the taste for combat, which is never quite dormant in the breast of an Englishman, awoke within them. One very aged member recounted how, sixty years before, the gentlemen of the Loyal Societies, whom a Jacobite mob of 1720 undertook to prevent from drinking King George's health, had charged upon the crowd in Cheapside and Fleet Street and had broken not a few worthless skulls. The recollection caused the old man's eyes to dance and excited the group of his more youthful hearers. "What say you if we make an onslaught?" proposed one of them.
With brandished canes a dozen of the younger members fell suddenly upon the multitude and disengaged a friend from his perilous situation. Several times was this manœuvre repeated, with visible pleasure on the part of those who executed it. What sport it was to warm the rascals' backs! Directly their canes did not suffice, they drew their swords and let a little blood for the good oftheir patients. Each time that this occurred the populace fell back with a howl to give them place out of respect for their quality, but instantly closed in again more furious than ever. Soon with that destructive power of crowds it had broken down the gates which had been closed against them, and had invaded the courtyard; even now it had surged to the foot of the staircase. Separated from the insurgents by only a few steps, the deputies, crowded together in a solid mass, stamped with rage the vestibule leading to the House. From time to time a member of the government would come to take a bird's-eye view of the state of affairs, as a sailor watches the weather, and would then return to the Treasurer's office and report to his colleagues.
Nathaniel Wraxall, who had travelled everywhere, conspired with a queen, risked his head in various countries, and had been mixed up in all the brawls of his time, stood leaning upon the balustrade, watching the spectacle with the calmly profound scrutiny of an entomologist at his microscope. He listened to the remarks, studied the faces, and took mental notes for the edification of posterity. From time to time he would draw forth his watch, a beautiful work of art purchased in Paris, which struck the hours and played the chimes of Dunkirk at noon and midnight, in order not to make any error in the chronology of the different phases of the day. If the precincts of Parliament, violated by Cromwell and his Round-heads, but unassailed unto the present time by vulgar invasion, were fated to be profaned by the mob, it was important that Wraxall should be able to state historically at what precise moment the fact was accomplished.
At this moment Lord George Gordon, borne in triumph upon the shoulders of the people, and accompanied by a deafening tumult, mounted the staircase. He was received with a burst of violent exclamations. His colleagues apostrophized him, seized him by the arms, and called upon him to order back the crowd. Without paying the slightest heed, Lord George, with his eternal smile upon his face and as calm as possible, very gently remarked:—
"By your leave, gentlemen."
Thereupon they followed him into the hall. With its vaulted ceiling, its sombre woodwork richly carved, its Gothic ornamentation and fine stained glass, which represented the story of Adam and Eve, together with that of the patriarchs and the principal events in the life of Christ, the ancient chapel of St. Stephen still preserved its religious character. Therein Parliament had sat for upwards of one hundred and twenty years. To be sure, it had not echoed the voices of Sir Thomas More and Bacon, but it had vibrated to the accents of Shaftesbury, of Bolingbroke, and the elder Pitt, and it still preserved the echoes of those noble harangues which Voltaire declared worthy of the Roman senate. Just then the silence which reigned within contrasted strangely with the infernal tumult outside. At the usual hour prayer had been said, the speaker had taken his seat, and the mace, that "plaything" of which Cromwell spoke so disdainfully, had been laid upon the table, which indicated the official opening of the meeting. The ministers upon their long, high-backed bench at the right hand of the speaker, the leaders of the opposition upon the opposite bench, the sergeant-at-armsstanding just beyond the bar, the clerk seated at the table,—every one was at his post, as tranquil as though nothing out of the common were taking place.
Lord George Gordon demanded and obtained permission to lay upon the table a petition from the inhabitants of London who protested against the favors accorded to the Catholics.
"Two hundred thousand citizens have accompanied me in order to bear respectful witness," he said.
A bitter burst of sneering interrupted him, but Lord George repeated his phrase,—
"In order to bear respectful but firm witness of their immutable, unreserved devotion to the liberty acquired by their fathers at the cost of almost superhuman efforts."
Having pronounced these words he retired, taking special care to salute the speaker at the exact spot where this formality is expected.
Again the hall was nearly deserted, the members crowding out into the vestibule. Gordon reappeared and the vociferations were renewed. The maledictions and menaces from above were answered by an enthusiastic clamor from below. The tumult assumed such proportions that a man speaking in his neighbor's ear and using the whole power of his lungs was unable to make himself understood. Believing that Gordon was about to join his friends, they barred his passage.
"You are a hostage," they said, "and you shall not go out!"
Lord George made a sign that he had no idea of going; he only desired to speak a few encouraging words to the crowd. He descended a few steps and attempted to speak, but all that washeard were such fragments as: "Cause of God ... generous martyrs ... detestable idolatry ... rights of the people ... even unto death."
Finding that his voice failed to prevail against the noise, he returned to his colleagues; whereupon the multitude prepared to follow him. Then Col. Gordon, who was a relative of the young lord, but of quite a different calibre, drew his sword.
"You see!" he exclaimed. "Now I swear to you, sir, that if one of these wretches enters here you are a dead man! Before he crosses the threshold of Parliament I shall have passed my sword through your body!"
The little sleek, colorless face preserved its slyly evil smile. He scarcely blinked his eyes before the tempest of furious insults which burst upon him.
"The villains!" cried Reuben. "They are going to murder him!"
Drawing a pistol from his mantle, he was about to rush forward, when the roll of drums was heard. It was Col. Woodford with a detachment of the Guards coming to the relief of Parliament.
The crowd recoiled step by step, without panic or disorder, but with a dull muttering of hate which presaged a lively resistance. As for the soldiers, they advanced with precaution, content to occupy the abandoned ground and to rescue the gates. From all sides a rain of invective poured upon them, and even stones thrown from a distance fell within the ranks.
"Are you going to fight for the Pope now?" cried one; while another added,—
"Is it with the blood of Englishmen that the cardinals' gowns are dyed?"
The soldiers appeared crestfallen, disgustedwith the part they were obliged to play. These fine fair-weather soldiers, who are rarely sent to war, relished still less the repression of a riot; and somehow the rumor passed from mouth to mouth that they were about to revolt, to refuse to obey their officers.
Within the Houses of Parliament a sudden change had taken place. If some of the members rejoiced at the deliverance, others murmured thereat. The presence of the soldiers in the precincts of the representatives of the nation seemed to them a violation of the rights of Parliament almost as grave as had been the vulgar invasion. One phrase, always magical under such circumstances, circulated among them,—"Breach of privilege." The danger being passed, or at least avoided, the sentiment of justice towards and respect for the person of every citizen took its place. After all, these men who protested against the resolutions of the legislators were but using their right, albeit in rather buoyant fashion. Were they going to massacre them? Fists, canes and the flat of swords did not count, but gunshots were quite another matter! No, no: it was wiser to save the powder for the Frenchmen.
Night was closing in upon the field of battle. Their spirits were beginning to flag, for spirits cannot continue keyed up to a high pitch forever, and the most critical situations in great popular movements frequently languish for the reason that they have been too long sustained. The supper hour was keenly appreciated by every stomach, especially by those who had given themselves no time for dinner. Judge Addington profited by these circumstances to make an attempt at conciliation.
"Friends," he cried, "give me your word of honor that you will retire and I will dismiss the soldiers!"
A burst of applause followed the words. The Guards made ready to beat a retreat. A louder burst of applause. Considering that they had manifested their power and given their betters a lesson, the mob slowly evacuated the neighborhood of Parliament. By degrees the cries grew more indistinct, and at last Westminster Place was deserted. Both parties fancied themselves conquerors, and order appeared to be re-established.
This illusion was of short duration. A few minutes later prolonged cries, and flames which suddenly burst forth, reddening the heavens, announced the fact that the true excesses had but just begun. It soon became known that the populace had attacked the chapel of the Sardinian ambassador in Duke Street, and still another of the Romish persuasion in Warwick Street. Benches, pictures, chairs, crucifixes, and confessionals,—all had been torn down and dragged out of doors, leaving merely the four walls standing, and a bonfire was made of these instruments of idolatry. Menaced upon every hand, the Catholics fled in hot haste, as if London in the midst of the eighteenth century was about to assist at a Protestant "Saint Bartholomew."
Thus alarm reigned in one quarter of the town, while joy presided in another. While the shrieks of death resounded in Duke Street, they were dancing at the Pantheon!
The two women had passed the entire day in arranging their dominos. Only an occasional echo of the popular disturbance had reached them; and when they learned that a great crowd had surrounded Parliament, Mrs. Marsham, who was not easily disquieted, remarked: "That's good! It is the petition against the papists." And she dismissed the subject from her mind once and for all.
As for Esther, a great calm had replaced her agitation of the preceding evening. The gypsy's prediction, the Shakespearean oracle, together with the conspiracy of things in general so far as her vanity was concerned, failed to prevail against the sentiment hidden away in the depths of her heart. She had arrived at a determination and proposed to abide by it. She would go to the ball, would have as pleasant a time as she could, but she would not permit herself to be led away. She would not notice any such preconcerted signal as "The moon is risen!" She was resolved to act thus—unless at the last minute, and actuated by some new caprice, she did exactly the contrary.
Esther was ready in good time, and Mrs. Marsham, although much slower, was not behind hand in joining her in the parlor.
About nine o'clock, shortly after nightfall (for these were the longest days of the year), the women were startled by a great hubbub at thedoor, which resembled the hooting of children. In her curiosity and impatience Esther hastened to open the door, and discovered to her amazement, in the midst of a dozen or more boys who were throwing mud at him, a strange creature dressed like a gentleman but wearing the enormous head of an ass. The monster, who seemed either blind or intoxicated, bolted into the garden, slamming the gate behind him.
"Shut the door, quick!" muttered an indistinct voice which issued from the snout of the animal. "Can't you see they're hunting me?"
Mechanically the young girl obeyed, and then the intruder quickly removed his artificial head and displayed to the women the pale, haggard, dripping features of their friend, the music teacher.
"Mr. O'Flannigan!"
"O'Flannigan himself, astonished that he is still alive to tell the tale! Did you see those madmen?"
"Madmen! Why, the eldest was not more than twelve years of age."
"Are you sure of it?"
"Of course. But why this ass's head?"
"Well, they are having a terrible time with the Catholics this evening, and I thought it wise to be in disguise; and it's all right, since we are going to a masquerade ball. I hired from the property room at Drury Lane the ass's head which Bottom wears in the 'Midsummer-Night's Dream.' It fits me, does it not?"
"As if it had been made for you!"
"Unfortunately, in passing Charing Cross my chair was stopped and turned upside down by the populace, and my bearers deserted me like cowards. I hastily put on my ass's head, but evidentlynot quickly enough to avoid being recognized. I took to my heels, and they gave chase, screaming, 'Drown the papist!' and they would have been as good as their threat."
Esther burst out laughing.
"Bah! a parcel of children amusing themselves at your expense!" she said.
"Yes, children! For that reason I refrained from drawing my sword. Ah, had I had men to deal with, they would have paid dearly for their insolence!"
"You have indeed been magnanimous, Mr. O'Flannigan, which was worthy of you.—Now let us set out without further loss of time."
"But are the streets safe?" queried Mrs. Marsham.
"I believe it is all over. At least I hear nothing."
In fact it was the moment of cessation of hostilities when the rioters evacuated the Palace Yard.
Without accident a hired carriage conveyed the two women and their escort to Oxford Road, where the Pantheon was situated.
The passion for masked balls which had been the delight of the contemporaries of the first two Georges had received a serious check about the middle of the century, at the time that Europe was terrified by the report of earthquakes. London believed herself upon the eve of experiencing the fate which had befallen Lisbon. Indeed, a prophet appeared in the streets who announced the destruction of the city upon a certain date. On the night preceding the fateful day a great part of the population emigrated and encamped in the open air; but, though the dreaded event passed without catastrophe, a vague terror prevailed, paralyzing all sorts of pleasure. From their pulpits the popular preachers thundered against the vices of the day, and especially against the abominable license of masked balls. God was about to chastise England; already was His arm upraised against her. No more masquerades, or a rain of fire and brimstone would devour the new Babylon; the earth would yawn and engulf in its entrails the sinners, with their infamous tinsel and their masks, which hid all their impurities. Thus attired they would appear before their pitiless Master, and would pass from the laughter and intoxication of the dance hall straight into the inexpressible anguish of the last Judgment!
Thus at one fell swoop the masked balls disappeared.
By degrees, however, the panic calmed, was forgotten, and in time became a historic memory. The strong-minded even risked a smile at the recollection.
The first time that a purveyor of amusement spoke of resuscitating masked balls a wag remarked, "He may be going to treat us to an earthquake!" The proposition met with success, and the whole town hastened to thefêteswhich Teresa Cornelys inaugurated at Carlisle House in Soho Square. In the first place, the good Cornelys asked no money; oh, no! If she accepted a little it was devoted to the purchase of charcoal for the poor of London, who were suffering extremely from the cold that winter. But the summer came, and still the dances continued at Carlisle House. The Cornelys explained that her aim was to encourage business, which was undergoing a crisis. (Business is always undergoing a crisis!) Nevertheless, the bishops complained loudly of the liberty which reigned at Madame Cornelys's house; according to them Carlisle House was a very bad place indeed.
It was then decided to create a masked ball, access to which should be refused to persons of questionable reputation, and to which only women of the fashionable world should be admitted. The Pantheon threw open its doors on the 27th of January, 1772. On the very first evening Miss Abington, who occupied a place in the foremost rank of the excluded, presented herself smilingly at the door, fluttering her fan with a victorious air.
"Mademoiselle," faltered the master of ceremonies respectfully, "it is with the profoundestregret that I am forced to refuse you admittance to this house. The rule is stringent and—"
Miss Abington turned and gave a signal, whereupon forty gentlemen in good order appeared, with drawn swords. The poor master of ceremonies yielded to number, and Miss Abington made her triumphalentréeto the ballroom. Through the breach thus opened passed the whole army of vice, from the princes' favorites to the rovers of Drury Lane.
The evening was well advanced ere Mrs. Marsham and her niece entered the great rotunda, both in domino and masked. Upon coming out of the fresh, sleepy streets through which their coach had jolted them they were dazed and overwhelmed at finding themselves in the midst of such a furnace and din. The confusion amounted almost to delirium. The atmosphere was hot, heavy, and charged with pungent perfumes. The heat was so excessive that the candles melted and ran down upon such maskers as were not upon the lookout. Fifteen hundred persons, some intoxicated, others excited by the stir, the fun, and the noise, talked, laughed, screamed, and fluttered about; while their feet raised a dust which rose in a cloud and spread like a fog, enveloping the entire scene. Such was the turmoil of the crowd that the strident scraping of the violins and the shrill blasts of the horns were only occasionally heard.
"This is Bedlam let loose!" remarked Esther.
"It is hell!" responded Mrs. Marsham, who trembled with emotion and already regretted having come to such a place.
Mr. O'Flannigan, who was stifling beneath his ass's head, scarcely seeing anything and hearingnothing, kept turning from one to the other of his companions, but he had not counted upon his prominent snout, which continually struck them in the face unless they dodged quickly.
Amidst the rout they soon began to distinguish certain details, certain characteristic figures. A sultana, half-naked beneath her diaphanous draperies, was borne in a velvet palanquin upon a cardboard elephant, the legs of which were formed by four stout men, conducted by a magnificent Mussulman with a long beard and a golden caftan, and with an enormous ruby in his turban. Two little negroes, one bearing a casket of perfumes, the other waving a fan of plumes, slipped into the hands of the gentlemen mysterious bits of paper carefully folded. Upon each of these was found the address of the merchant in Bond Street who sold East Indian stuffs at the lowest cash prices, and for whom the masquerades served as an advertisement. Thecortégeclosed with a group of odalisques, in the midst of whom a grinning eunuch carried a banner upon which was inscribed, "Slaves for sale." These odalisques were perpetually assailed by a band of man-monkeys, who left nothing to be desired in the way of audacity and effrontery. Next a Friesland nurse-girl, her head covered with metallic ornaments, gravely carried a little dog in her arms swaddled like an infant. Then came a personage half-miller, half-chimney-sweep, one side being white with flour, the other black with soot. A rigorously straight line divided his forehead, followed the line of his nose, crossed his mouth and chin, and apportioned his body into two equal parts. Among the promenaders were to be seen a dark-lantern, an artichoke, the shaft of a pillar, anegg-shell, a gigantic spider, and a corpse swathed in his winding-sheet, carrying his coffin under his arm, which he showed to the ladies with a gesture of jovial invitation that was received with roars of laughter. Adam and Eve in flesh-colored tights with a cincture of leaves in painted paper carried between them a little tree, about the trunk of which was entwined a remarkable imitation of the serpent. As she passed along Eve gathered crystallized fruits from the tree and offered them to the men with a sweetly innocent smile.
Caricatures of living personages were also seen, and easily recognized and understood. A mariner's compass which bore a vague resemblance to George III. held its needle turned towards the north, that is, towards Lord North, who advanced in the garb of Boreas, having a hideous cannibal upon his arm,—the symbol of the alliance between the Prime Minister and the Indians. Another group, formed by a Spaniard, a French coxcomb dressed in the latest Versailles fashion, and a Virginian planter (the three enemies united against England at this epoch), fled before Dame Britannia, who lashed them soundly to the immense delight of the patriots in the hall. A woman impersonating Intrigue whispered mysteriously, distributed bags of money and pension certificates, and wore the national coat-of-arms, on which the horse of Hanover was represented as kicking the British lion, while she stamped with rage upon a ragged piece of paper upon which was written in large letters, "Bill of Rights." Near her the Pope, with mitre on his head, turned somersaults and juggled with Saint Peter's keys.
"We had better go above in order to have a bird's-eye view," said Esther to her aunt.
So they dragged poor O'Flannigan up to the top of the staircase, stumbling as he went.
From the upper floor, leaning upon the velvet railing, they viewed the spectacle for some time. The great rotunda seemed like the crater of an active volcano, while the vapor that ascended scorched their cheeks. At this moment a string of men and women, uttering insane cries, whirled round and round the hall with ever-increasing velocity. Woe to him who met them in their mad career! Woe to the one who fell, for he would be trampled under foot! Carried away by the intoxication of their folly, they regarded neither decorum nor obstacles, and in their wild sport lost the very sentiment of their existence as they whirled like gnats dancing themselves to death in the sunlight.
The two curious women turned away. Close about them were different scenes, other phases of pleasure. In adjoining halls, which represented, according to the fancy of the time, the interiors of Chinese and Japanese houses, persons seated at tables ate and drank. There were hungry women among them who greedily devoured pork-pies with prunes; others who nibbled cakes and sipped whipped cream. Champagne and Rhine wine flowed in torrents. From obscure corners came the sound of whispered words, stifled laughter, and the smack of kisses. Elsewhere the merry-makers made greater exertions, and the supper was changed into an orgy. Mounted upon a table a young girl of sixteen danced with a man's cocked hat slipping down over her eyes. Another with dishevelled hair had thrown herself upon a man's knee, tossed her naked arm about a second, and was smiling at a third with a glancelanguid, half unconscious with wine. Still another, stretched at full length upon a sofa, slept as tranquilly as if she had been in bed.
"Come away, quick!" ejaculated Mrs. Marsham, uttering mental anathemas upon her curiosity.
At this moment, in an alcove between two pillars, Esther perceived two persons,—a man and a woman, partially concealed by the draperies. The remarkable thing about it was that the latter wore a domino exactly similar to her own,—brown with blue ribbons. The man, leaning towards her, spoke in low tones, seeming to beseech, to supplicate her; while she, with a wave of her fan and a shake of the head, said "No" with a coquettish gesture,—that sort of a "no" which is the preface to and synonym of "yes." Undoubtedly it was one of those momentary love affairs which are born and expire by the myriad upon such nights. However, the cavalier appeared to be more serious than the men about him. The way in which he pressed one of the little hands which had been entrusted to his clasp, and sought to plunge his gaze through the openings in the mask to find the eyes of the unknown, was at once anxious, impassioned, and sorrowful. For one moment he turned his head, but in that moment Esther recognized Francis Monday!
The impression that she experienced was one of more unexpected violence than she would ever have been able to imagine or foresee. Every drop of blood in her veins fled to her heart, and her limbs trembled. Being dragged away by her aunt, she took several steps without knowing whither she was going. That one moment sufficed to reveal to her the fact that she loved, and to teach her at one and the same blow that he didnot love her. She had permitted herself to believe his tender words, his sad glances, and the recital of his early hardships; it had seemed so sweet to console the lonely orphan. It was for him, without her daring to frankly confess it even to herself, that she would willingly sacrifice her dreams of fortune, grandeur, and pleasure! And Frank was a libertine, after all, like the rest of them; he had never even thought of her! At the thought her irritation against herself knew no bounds. The spirit of audacity and adventure, which had often tormented her, rose imperiously and urged her on, as the spur incites the high-bred horse.
"I have had a narrow escape," thought Esther; "a hut, a garret withhim, the joy of freezing to death, of starving for bread! That is what I have been nigh to plighting my troth to,—I, a daughter of Shakespeare,—I, who was born for a brilliant career, for greatrôlesand lofty emotions!—The die is cast: I shall be Lady Mowbray!"
The two women with their ass-headed cavalier had returned to the foot of the stairs. All at once a woman flung herself upon O'Flannigan, uttering so shrill a cry that even amidst the deafening uproar more than thirty persons turned and paused to witness the scene which was about to take place.
"Wretch!" screamed the woman, "is it thus that you desert me, and our poor children crying for bread?"
"I!" faltered O'Flannigan, paralyzed with surprise, and well-nigh strangled by the stranger, who had seized him by his ruffled shirt-front.
"Yes, you! While you are promenading here with hussies, whom I should blush to touch withthe tip of my finger, you leave your lawful wife to the care of the parish!"
"Madam, there is some mistake! Permit me to say to you, with all the respect due to your misfortune, that you hold me too tight! You will tear my ruffles, which belong to the property-room of Drury Lane. I repeat, there is some mistake!"
And taking off the ass's head, O'Flannigan revealed his honest face convulsed with perplexity. The spectators crowded anxiously about them.
"No, there is no mistake! You are, indeed, my husband, Pat O'Flannigan, music teacher and prompter to Drury Lane Theatre."
"Certainly, I am O'Flannigan, music teacher and prompter at Drury Lane, but as to being your husband, may Heaven confound me if I ever set eyes on you before!"
"You have never set eyes on me? You have never set eyes on Molly MacMurragh, to whom you were married by the priest at Bray, in Ireland? You have never set eyes on the mother of your six children?"
Mrs. Marsham loosened her hold upon the unhappy O'Flannigan's arm.
"Can this be true?" she cried. "Can this woman really be Mrs. O'Flannigan?"
"My dear madam, I protest! There is no Mrs. O'Flannigan! This woman is either a fool or a jade; she has been hired by my enemies!"
"A fool! a jade! If there is any jade here it is this bold hussy who has helped herself to other people's belongings, and seduced a married man from his duty!"
"Mercy!" gasped Mrs. Marsham in horror.
"I do not know," cried the woman, "what prevents me from tearing off her mask, and leavingthe marks of my nails upon her as the headsman brands forgers!"
She advanced menacingly, and shook her clinched fist in Mrs. Marsham's face, who feebly cried, "Help! help!"
A circle had been formed; those who could not see elbowed their neighbors, or mounted upon chairs, while such exclamations were heard as—
"Two women! They're going to fight! Bravo! Let 'em go!"
Some one cried out. "I'll wager five to one on the lawful dame!"
To which came the reply, "I'll take you!"
Others made sport of O'Flannigan's piteous face. Mrs. Marsham had let go of Esther's hand, who found herself in the background, and quite unnoticed. Presently a voice close behind her pronounced these words very distinctly,—
"The moon is risen!"
She trembled in every nerve; her heart beat violently. Her whole future life depended upon the step she was about to take. In that supreme moment the pantomime which she had just surprised above stairs shot with the rapidity of lightning through her mind; again she saw Francis Monday pressing the hand of the unknown domino and supplicating her with his eyes.
"Enough!" thought she.
She closed her eyes as does one who is about to leap into an abyss.
A hand seized hers and drew her away, and without a word she followed her guide.
The situation was becoming critical for poor O'Flannigan and his companion, when an unexpected ally appeared upon the field of battle, in the person of the majestic Oriental who had served as the elephant driver.
"Look here!" he cried. "This is a shameful farce. This gentleman is innocent; I'll go bond for him! And as for this brown-skinned Jezebel, do you not recognize her as the gypsy who told fortunes at Saint Bartholomew fair, and who has so often been hauled up before the magistrates in Bow Street?"
"It's a fact!" explained some one. "It is Rahab, the gypsy queen!"
"Call the watchmen and let the beggar be taken to prison!"
From all sides resounded groans of disapproval. "No, no! no police! This is a joke. Don't do her any harm!"
But at the words "watchmen" and "prison" the gypsy had folded her tent and silently stolen away.
Assisted by his generous auxiliary, O'Flannigan conducted Mrs. Marsham, suffocating with mortification and rage, to a retired seat in an almost deserted side-room. There a footman brought her a glass of water, of which she swallowed half and then proceeded to take a survey of her surroundings.
"I shall remember this evening!" she remarked. "The Lord has punished me for my curiosity as he chastised our mother Eve before me. However," added the good woman, relieving her mind with a fib, "I wished to give my niece the pleasure."
The words suggested the girl.
"But where is Esther?" she exclaimed.
"Sure enough!" said O'Flannigan. "What has become of Miss Woodville?"
Different suppositions were offered. She must have become frightened; she must have been separated from them by the crowd.
"But she must be sought! She must be found!" cried Mrs. Marsham.
"How was she dressed?" inquired the man in the turban.
Mrs. Marsham described her niece's costume.
"Useless to search for her. Miss Woodville has been carried off, or, rather, she has followed her abductor of her own free will. I divined that all this ridiculous rumpus had but one object,—to daze you and distract your attention. At the moment that I came to your relief I saw with my own eyes a brown domino with blue ribbons going towards one of the doors on the arm of a masked gentleman."
"Esther! It is impossible, sir!"
"I beg your pardon, madam. And I can go further: I can give you the name of her abductor."
"Who was it?"
"Lord Mowbray."
"As you seem to know so much," said O'Flannigan, "pray who are you yourself? A sorcerer or the devil himself?"
By way of answer the Oriental removed his false beard.
"Mr. Fisher!" exclaimed the Quakeress and her cavalier in the same breath.
"At your service. This is Prospero's beard in the 'Tempest.'"
"Well done!" said O'Flannigan. "The Shakespeare accessories have been largely plundered this evening! But tell us, Fisher, what leads you to suppose that Lord Mowbray has designs upon Miss Woodville?"
"I have had proofs enough," replied Fisher mysteriously; "all the proofs I want, you may believe me."
The hairdresser considered it unnecessary to say more, or to add that the proofs in question bore the effigy of his Majesty.
"Merciful Heaven! what shall I do?" cried Mrs. Marsham wringing her hands.
"You had better warn your son," suggested the Irishman.
The Quakeress quaked with terror.
"Reuben! He will overwhelm me with reproaches!"
"Never mind what he says. He is the betrothed of his cousin; he is energetic and courageous; if any one is capable of snatching the girl from impending doom, it is he. There is not a moment to be lost."
"But where shall we find him?"
"As to that," replied Fisher, "nothing is easier. All day long he has been at the head of the papal enemies. I must be greatly mistaken if he is not at this moment engaged in setting fire to the Sardinian chapel."
It was thereupon decided to place Mrs. Marshamin safety in Fisher's house, which was near Oxford Road, while the two men went in search of Reuben.
The hairdresser had friends everywhere. At the door he received fresh tidings which confirmed his suppositions. Capt. Hackman, Lord Mowbray's inseparable companion, had been seen in Oxford Road with a pistol under each arm. A carriage without armorial bearings, with neutral colored livery, had been stationed at a short distance. A masked gentleman with a brown and blue domino upon his arm had come out of the Pantheon. He had signalled the carriage, which had approached, and the man and woman had entered it. Thereupon Hackman sprang upon the box, saying to the coachman, "To Chelsea!" Then the horses set off at full speed towards the left, narrowly escaping running over people. There was still another version which a page had to tell. It was the same masked man and the domino in the same colors; only the affair had taken place at one of the little side-doors of the Pantheon. Instead of the coach a sedan-chair had carried off the fugitive towards the right, in the direction of the city. In affairs of the kind there are always points of difference among the witnesses. Who was to be believed? Evidently those who had recognized Hackman and heard the address given to the coachman. It was towards the "Folly" at Chelsea that Mowbray had undoubtedly taken his victim. Fisher was an alert and intelligent man. Some minutes later, divested of his turban, his Persian robe, and his beard, he joined Reuben in Duke Street. The vandals had achieved their work, and the crowd of by-standers, lit up by the flames, gloated overthe spectacle. The blazing pile, formed of the ornaments of the chapel, was beginning to flag for lack of combustibles.
A horde of children of fourteen or fifteen years of age, having taken the places of the men, danced about the charred remains, uttering cries and causing a flame to spring up here and there by administering a kick to the embers. A transient glow illumined the street, revealing the faces of terrified women at the windows, and in an obscure corner a group of the rioters with their hats drawn down over their eyes. Among them stood Reuben, coldly implacable, watching lest any one should approach the fire to save or steal anything.
It was at this moment that Fisher approached him and whispered a few words in his ear. Reuben started in surprise and rage.
"Esther carried off by Lord Mowbray! Taken to Chelsea!" he gasped.
However, he quickly regained his composure and reflected for a moment.
"Friends," he said in a loud but firm voice, in order to make himself heard by the thirty or forty men grouped about him, "there is nothing more to be done here. If we remain longer we shall be hunted down by the soldiers, of whose approach we have already been warned. Let us disperse, to meet again within the hour at Chelsea, near the Bun-house. Thence I will lead you to the assault of a house, the master of which secretly favors the papists."
For the time being Reuben was falsifying; but examples in Holy Scriptures which authorized a pious lie crowded his memory. He also added in an assured tone, casting an expressive glance upon the band of pillagers who had given some sign of discontent,—
"This house is full of riches. It also contains a young girl prisoner, one of our own set, whom this villain has seized to make her the toy of his pleasure. Let us hasten if we hope to arrive in time to save her!"
These words were received with murmurs of adhesion. The little legion of disorder divided into groups, set off through the streets that led westward, and gained the place of rendezvous by different ways. Reuben accompanied Fisher, who recounted the details of the adventure as they went along.
The Bun-house was celebrated at the period for the fabrication of those somewhat heavy and substantial cakes which still form the traditional family diet on Good Fridays. In fine weather a goodly company was wont to wend its way thither for the purpose of eating buns and washing them down with port. When George III. passed that way, on his way from Kew to Saint James's, he did not disdain to stop and chat familiarly with Mistress Hand, the pastry-cook. She must have slept like a log that night not to have heard the strange assemblage which formed under the walls of her garden. Reuben found but a few of the fanatical sectarians whom he had led to Parliament. Weary with the fatigues of the day, content with having intimidated the representatives of the nation, as they flattered themselves, and destroyed two of the lairs of idolatry, they had undoubtedly gone home and to bed. One phrase only in Reuben's brief harangue had carried the day,—"This house is full of riches!" Well might he be astonished, for the words had fallen unintentionally from his lips. But if Reuben remained unmoved, Fisher trembled at sight of the bandit faces which surrounded him.Seeing them thus, no one would have suspected that these shady cavaliers were marching to the defence of menaced innocence.
All told, they were some forty men armed with pistols, clubs, and knives. Truly formidable, resolute, ready for anything, accustomed, as it appeared, to such nocturnal escapades, they marched silently, and obeyed promptly with some show of discipline.
"Yonder is the house," said Reuben, "behind those trees. It is best to form a ring about it so that no one shall escape us."
"I have been hostler at the Folly," said a red-headed fellow with a hang-dog look, advancing as he spoke; "there is a breach on the north side of the wall through which I used to slip every night to join my sweetheart Peg, who was maid at the Nell Gwynne. If it be your will, I will conduct you."
"Lead on!" answered Reuben laconically.
A few minutes later the troop penetrated the little park and crept softly in the shadow of the great trees, avoiding the gravelled paths. The thick sward muffled their footfalls, while a high, warm wind, which had arisen, rustled the foliage, thus favoring them by masking still more such sounds as they did make. Occasionally a pebble crackled or a dead twig snapped beneath their feet, but that was all. For the space of fifty yards about the house extended an open space.
"Halt!" whispered Reuben in a prudent tone.
The house was in complete darkness; it seemed either uninhabited or wrapped in sleep; however, upon examination Reuben and Fisher discovered a ray of light which filtered between the closed blinds upon the second floor.
"They are there!" thought Reuben, quivering with rage; while aloud he cried,—
"Forward!"
They obeyed the command with a rush; but undoubtedly some one had been watching, some one whom they had not perceived. The alarm had been given, and the heavy oaken door, swinging upon its well-oiled hinges, closed in their faces. Then from within followed the sound of bolts being shot into place and of the adjusting of bars.
A pause ensued, a moment of amazement, and then an outcry of rage mingled with at least forty oaths. The man who had spoken before, the former hostler, again ventured to the rescue.
"Behind the laundry," said he, "there is a pile of lumber, placed there for the building of a summer house. With one of the rafters we could force the door."
Reuben approved the scheme. A few moments later an improvised battering-ram, borne upon twenty shoulders and skilfully balanced, at the word of command went crashing against the solid woodwork. At the third blow a splitting sound was heard.
"Listen!" cried Fisher. "Some one above is speaking."
The men, panting, and bathed in perspiration, paused.
In fact, a window upon the second floor had been suddenly thrown open, and a man—probably Lord Mowbray—had appeared upon the balcony. Every eye was raised to him and every tongue hurled some insult at him in the same breath. With a calm curiosity he regarded the crowd swarming and howling in the darkness beneath him.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we are at least a dozen strong here, well armed and determined to defend ourselves. The first man who sets foot within this house will pay dearly for his imprudence; but before we resort to bloodshed, suppose we hold a parley. What is your will with me? Do you fancy, perhaps, that I am a papist? According to my nurse I am a member of the Church of England, and I am ready to pronounce in your presence the test oath or any other oath, to swear by the body of Christ, the belly of Mahomet, by Belial or Beelzebub."
This harangue scandalized Reuben's virtuous friends, while it set their rowdy escort in a roar of laughter. Young Marsham was not slow to appreciate theprestigewhich such jocose coolness in the hour of his peril was giving Mowbray,—a supreme quality in the eyes of an English mob; therefore he hastened to interpose.
"You are detaining a young girl here whom you have abducted from her family," he declared.
"It is true," answered Lord Mowbray; "there is a young lady here. Do you wish to see her?"
"At once! I insist upon it!"
"I do not understand your last words, but I willingly yield to your request. Madam, be good enough to show yourself to these gentlemen, who are nervous about you."
He turned towards the interior of the chamber and bowing respectfully, with much grace extended his hand to a woman who stood there, and assisted her to step out upon the balcony. At the same time he added,—
"Hackman, my good fellow, give us some light."
Capt. Hackman, with a blazing torch in each hand, appeared upon the balcony in his turn.
"It is she!" cried Fisher. "I recognize the brown domino and the blue ribbons! I can swear that it was I who furnished that mask!"
"Madam," said Mowbray with renewed demonstrations of respect, "are you here of your own free will?"
The masked woman gave an affirmative sign.
"Has any one molested or offended you in any way?"
She answered by a negative gesture.
"Esther," cried Reuben, "can it be that you have forgotten—"
Mowbray quickly interrupted him.
"Come, come, sir! Is it in so numerous a company as this that one proceeds to indulge in a family explanation, or gives a curtain lecture to a young girl? Be good enough to come up here. You will find my house open to you, but to you alone. I give you my word that if, after some moments of conversation, you still persist in claiming this young lady, she shall follow you. On the other hand you must swear to me—"
"I never swear," said Reuben rudely.
"There you are wrong," retorted Mowbray courteously; "an oath frequently eases matters."
"It is written, 'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy God, in vain.'"
"Very well. But promise me at least that, during the time, your men shall not move or commit any folly."
"So be it."
And turning to his companions Reuben added, "If in the space of a quarter of an hour I do not come out of this house, enter and cut down with your swords whomsoever you may meet!"
"An admirable plan," concluded Mowbray, always ironical.
When Reuben, having been introduced into the enemy's camp under a flag of truce, had at last reached the apartment upon the second floor, Mowbray remarked:—
"Now, madam, you may unmask."
The young woman loosened the strings of her mask, and Reuben found himself in the presence of Bella, Lady Vereker, whose black eyes regarded him with a singular expression of mingled curiosity and amusement.
"You are surprised, sir," resumed Lord Mowbray, "as I was myself an hour ago. Heaven is my witness that it was not her ladyship whom I supposed I had carried off; but after all, as the French proverb has it,Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire, and an old sweetheart, like old wine, is best."
"Insolent fellow!" murmured Lady Vereker, toying with her fan.
Still Reuben remained sombre and defiant.
"What assurance have I," he demanded, "that this lady is not your accomplice?"
Then her ladyship with feigned anger mingled with raillery, exclaimed:—
"I! when I have wished my reputation to protect that of my young friend!"
Without pausing to consider this important sacrifice, Marsham continued:—
"And what assurance have I that my cousin is not concealed in some corner of this accursed house, for it is certain that she has disappeared?"
"If she has been carried off, it must have been by the devil," said Mowbray, "and unfortunately I cannot be held responsible. I freely consentto your searching the house. I can refuse nothing to so amiable a man."
Conducted by Hackman, and accompanied by Fisher and the former hostler, who knew all the ins and outs of the place, young Marsham visited every recess of the "Folly." Carrying to a grotesque degree the affected civility of his patron, the captain preceded them, opening all the cabinets, the wardrobes and the closets, and even inviting them to examine nooks scarcely large enough to stow away a hare in. Quite unmoved by his impertinence, Reuben and his companions sounded the walls with their sticks.
"Esther! Esther!" cried Reuben in a loud voice. But there was never a reply.
The officious Hackman, who stood aside at every door according to the rigid rules of French courtesy, showed them the kitchens, the offices, in fact everything, sparing no detail. He insisted that they should explore the entire length of the two subterranean passages, one of which led to the open country, the other to the river bank.
"Now," he remarked, "you know the house as well as its architect."
"Well?" inquired Mowbray of young Marsham when he returned from his fruitless exploration.
"I have found nothing, my lord," answered Reuben with a tinge of embarrassment.
"Then undoubtedly you divine what I expect of you."
"That I dismiss the men? I was about to do so." He stepped out upon the balcony and addressed his companions.
"The young girl whom I sought is not here; at least she is no longer here. Consequently your presence is no longer required and you may retire."
A muttering of evil augury arose from the ranks of the little group.
"These gentlemen will not go," suggested Mowbray, "until my butler has given each of them a half-guinea with which to drink my health. It would be a pity to give such brave fellows so much trouble for nothing."
A general cheer and cry of "Long live Lord Mowbray!" responded to this largesse.
"I knew," continued the young nobleman, "that we should understand each other. The manner in which you have split my door has given me a high opinion of your ability in case of an emergency, and it appears that we should accomplish great results, were I your leader.—Stay! There is, hard by, the residence of a papist, which ought to be sacked. I have a mind to lead you thither myself. It is not that I owe the papists any particular grudge, but I am ready to labor for honor's sake, and for the love of the art."
The enthusiastic cries burst forth anew. Reuben could not but feel that his day was over, and that henceforth Lord Mowbray was the true master of his men. With a haughty, sullen air he turned towards the door.
"I reserve my suspicions," he said. "We shall meet again, Lord Mowbray."
"One moment, if you please. I reproach myself with having concealed something from you. There is a chamber in this house which has escaped your examination."