Sir John Constantine by Prosper Paleologus Constantine

P >> Prosper Paleologus Constantine >> Sir John Constantine

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29

He paused again, glanced up at my father, and--on a nod of
encouragement--continued--

"The nuisance is, I was born in the Midlands--to be precise, at West
Bromicheham--the son of a well-to-do manufacturer of artificial
jewellery. The only whiff of the brine that ever penetrated my
father's office came wafted through an off-channel of his trade.
He did an intermittent business in the gilding of small idols, to be
shipped overseas and traded as objects of worship among the negroes
of the American plantations. Jewellery, however, was his stand-by.
In the manufacture of meretricious ware he had a plausibility
amounting to genius, in the disposing of it a talent for hard
bargains; and the two together had landed him in affluence.
Well, sir, being headed off my boyhood's dream by the geographical
inconvenience of Warwickshire--for a lad may run away to be a sailor,
sir, but the devil take me if ever I heard of one running off to be a
supercargo, and even this lay a bit beyond my ambition--I recoiled
upon a passion to enter my father's business and increase the already
tidy patrimonial pile.

"But here comes in the cross of my destiny. My father, sir, had
secretly cherished dreams of raising me above his own station.
To him a gentleman--and he ridiculously hoped to make me one--was a
fellow above working for his living. He scoffed at my enthusiasm for
trade, and at length he sent for me and in tones that brooked no
denial commanded me to learn the violin.

"Never shall I forget the chill of heart with which I received that
fatal mandate. I have no ear for music, sir. In tenderer years
indeed I had made essay upon the Jew's harp, but had relinquished it
without a sigh.

"'The violin!' I cried, though the words choked me. 'Father,
anything but that! If it were the violoncello, now--'

"But he cut me short in cold incisive accents. 'The violin, or you
are no son of mine.'

"I fled from the house, my home no longer. On the way to the front
door I had sufficient presence of mind, and no more, to make a
_detour_ to the larder and possess myself of the longest joint; which
my heated judgment, confusing temporal with linear measurement,
commended to me as the most lasting. It proved to be a shin of beef:
unnutritious except for soup (and I carried no tureen), useless as an
object of barter. With this and two half-crowns in my pocket I
slammed the front-door behind me and faced the future."

Mr. Fett paused impressively.

"And you call me an original, sir!" he went on in accents of
reproach; "me, who started in life with two half-crowns in my pocket,
the conventional outfit for a career of commercial success!"

"They have carried you all the way to Falmouth!"

"The one of them carried me so far as to Coventry, sir: where,
finding a fair in progress as I passed through the town, and falling
in with three bridesmaids who had missed their wedding-party in the
crowd, I spent the other in treating them to the hobby-horses at one
halfpenny a ride. Four halfpennies--there were four of us--make
twopence, and two's into thirty are fifteen rides; a bold investment
of capital, and undertaken (I will confess it) not only to solace the
fair ones but to ingratiate myself with the fellow who turned the
handle of the machine. To him I applied for a job. He had none to
offer, but introduced me to a company of strolling players who (as
fortune would have it) were on the point of presenting _Hamlet_ with
a _dramatis_ personae decimated by Coventry ale. They cast me for
'Polonius' and some other odds and ends. You may remember, sir, that
at one point the Prince of Denmark is instructed to 'enter reading.'
That stage direction I caught at, and by a happy 'improvisation'
spread it over the entire play. Not as 'Polonius' only, but as
`Bernardo' upon the midnight platform, as 'Osric,' as 'Fortinbras,'
as the 'Second Gravedigger,' as one of the odd Players--always I
entered reading. In my great scene with the Prince we entered
reading together. They killed me, still reading, behind the arras;
and at a late hour I supped with the company on Irish stew; for,
incensed by these novelties, the audience had raided a greengrocer's
shop between the third and fourth acts and thereafter rained their
criticism upon me in the form of cabbages and various esculent roots
which we collected each time the curtain fell.

"Every cloud, sir, has a silver lining. I continued long enough with
this company to learn that in our country an actor need never die of
scurvy. But I weary you with my adventures, of which indeed I am yet
in the first chapter."

"You shall rehearse them on another occasion. But will you at least
tell us how you came to Falmouth?"

"Why, in the simplest manner in the world. A fortnight since I
happened to be sitting in the stocks, in the absurd but accursed town
of Bovey Tracey in Devonshire. My companion--for the machine
discommodated two--was a fiddler, convicted (like myself) of
vagrancy; a bottle-nosed man, who took the situation with such phlegm
as only experience can breed, and munched a sausage under the
commonalty's gaze. 'Good Lord,' said I to myself, eyeing him,
'and to think that he with my chances, or I with his taste for music,
might be driving at this moment in a coach and pair!'

"'Sir,' said I, 'are you attached to that instrument of yours?'
'So deeply,' he answered, 'that, like Nero, I could fiddle if Bovey
Tracey were burning at this moment.' 'You can perform on it
creditably?' I asked. 'In a fashion to bring tears to your eyes,' he
answered me, and offered to prove his words. 'Not for worlds,' said
I; 'but it grieves me to think how Fortune distributes her favours.'
I told him of my father. 'I should like to make the acquaintance of
such a man,' said he. 'You shall,' said I; and fetching a pencil and
a scrap of paper out of my pocket, I wrote as follows:--

"_To Mr. Jonathan Fett, Manufacturer of Flams,
W. Bromicheham_."

"The Public Stocks, Bovey Tracey, Devon.
June 21st (longest day)."

"DEAR FATHER,
Adopt bearer, in lieu of
Your affectionate son,
PHINEAS."

"The fiddler at first suspected a jest: but on my repeated assurances
took the letter thankfully, and at parting, on our release, pressed
on me the end of his sausage wrapped in a piece of newspaper.
I ate the sausage moodily and was about to throw the paper away when
my eye caught sight of an advertisement in the torn left-hand corner.
I read it, and my mind was made up. I am here, and (thanks to you,
sir) with a rose in my hat."

By the time Mr. Fett concluded his narrative we had reached the
outskirts of the town, and found ourselves in a traffic which,
converging upon the Market Strand from every side-street and alley,
at once carried us along with it and constrained us to a walking
pace. My father, finding the throng on the Market Strand too dense
for our horses, turned aside to the Three Cups Inn across the street,
gave them over to the ostler, and led us upstairs to a window which
overlooked the gathering.

The Market Strand at Falmouth is an open oblong space, not very wide,
leading off the main street to the water's edge, and terminating in
steps where as a rule the watermen wait to take off passengers to the
Packets. A lamp-post stands in the middle of it, and by the base of
this the preachers--a grey-headed man and two women in ugly bonnets--
were already assembled, with but a foot or two dividing them from the
crowd. Close behind the lamp-post stood a knot of men conversing
together one of whom stepped forward for a word with the grey-headed
preacher. He wore a rose in his hat, and at sight of him my heart
gave a wild incredulous leap. It was Nat Fiennes!

I pushed past my father and flung the open window still wider.
The grey-haired preacher had opened the Bible in his hand and was
climbing the stone base of the lamp-post when a handful of filth
struck the back of the book and bespattered his face. I saw Nat whip
out his sword and swing about angrily in the direction of the shot,
while the two women laid hands on either arm to check him; and at the
same moment my father spoke up sharply in my ear.

"Tumble out, lad," he commanded. "We are in bare time."

I vaulted over the window-ledge and dropped into the street; my
father after me, and Mr. Fett and Billy close behind. Indeed, that
first shot had but given the signal for a general engagement; and as
we picked ourselves up and thrust our way into the crowd, a whole
volley of filth bespattered the group of Methodists. In particular I
noted the man with whom Nat Fiennes, a minute since, had been
conversing--a little bald-headed fellow of about fifty-five or sixty,
in a suit of black which, even at thirty paces distant, showed rusty
in the sunshine. An egg had broken against his forehead, and the
yellow of it trickled down over his eyes; yet he stood, hat in hand,
neither yielding pace nor offering to resist. Nat, less patient, had
made a rush upon the crowd, which had closed around and swallowed him
from sight. By its violent swaying he was giving it something to
digest. One of the two women shrank terrified by the base of the
lamp-post. The other--a virago to look at, with eyes that glared
from under the pent of her black bonnet--had pulled the grey-headed
preacher down by his coat-tails, and, mounting in his room, clung
with an arm around the lamp-post and defied the persecutors.

"Why am I here, friends?" she challenged them. "O generation of
vipers, why am I here? Answer me, you men of Belial--you, whose
fathers slew the prophets! Because I glory to suffer for the right;
because to turn the other cheek is a Christian's duty, and as a
Christian woman I'll turn it though you were twice the number, and
not be afraid what man can do unto me."

Now, my father was well known in Falmouth and pretty generally held
in awe. At sight of him advancing, the throng fell back and gave us
passage in a sudden lull which reached even to where Nat Fiennes
struggled in the grasp of a dozen longshoremen who were hailing him
to the quay's edge, to fling him over. He broke loose, and before
they could seize him again came staggering back, panting and
dishevelled.

"Prosper!" he cried, catching sight of me, and grinning delightedly
all over his muddied face. "I knew you would come! And your father,
too? Splendid, lad, splendid?"

"Ye men of Falmouth"--the woman by the lamp-post lifted her voice
more shrilly--"what shall I testify of the hardness of your hearts?
Shall I testify that your Mayor sending his crier round, has
threatened to whip us through Falmouth streets at the cart-tail?
Shall I testify--"

But here my father lifted a hand. "Gently, madam; gently, I am not
defending his Worship if he issued any such proclamation; but 'tis an
ancient punishment for scolds, and I advise you to lend him no colour
of excuse."

"And who may _you_ be, sir?" she demanded, looking down, angry, but
checked in spite of herself by my father's air of authority.

"One," he answered, "who has come to see fair play, and who has--as
you may see--for the moment some little influence with this rabble.
I will continue to exert it while I can, if you on your part will
forbear to provoke; for the tongue, madam, has its missiles as well
as the hands."

"I thank you, sir," said the grey-headed preacher, stepping forward
and thrusting a book into my father's hands. "We had best begin with
a hymn, I think. I have some experience of the softening power of
music on these occasions."

"We will sing," announced the woman, "that beautiful hymn beginning,
'Into a world of ruffians sent.' Common metre, my friends, and
Sister Tresize will give the pitch:

"Into a world of ruffians sent,
I walk on hostile ground--"

My father bared his head and opened the hymn-book; the rest of us,
bareheaded too, ranged ourselves beside him; and so we stood facing
the mob while the verses were sung in comparative quiet. The words
might be provocative, but few heard them. The tune commanded an
audience, as in Cornwall a tune usually will. The true secret of the
spell, however, lay in my father's presence and bearing. A British
crowd does not easily attack one whom it knows as a neighbour and
born superior; and it paid homage now to one who, having earned it
all his life, carelessly took it for granted.

"Begad, sir," said Mr. Fett in my ear, "and the books say that the
feudal system is dead in England! Why, here's the very flower of it!
Damme, though, the old gentleman is splendid; superlative, sir;
it's ten to one against Coriolanus, and no takers. Between
ourselves, Coriolanus was a pretty fellow, but talked too much.
Phocion, sir? Did I hear you mention Phocion?"

"You did not," I answered.

"And quite right," said he; "with your father running, I wouldn't
back Phocion for a place. All the same," Mr. Fett admitted, "this is
what Mr. Gray of Peterhouse, Cambridge, would call a fearful joy, and
I'd be thankful for a distant prospect of the way out of it."

"Indeed, sir"--my father, overhearing this, turned to him affably--
"you touch the weak spot. For the moment I see no way out of the
situation, nor any chance but to prolong it; and even this," he
added, "will not be easy unless the lady on the lamp-post sensibly
alters the tone of her discourse."

Indeed, at the conclusion of the singing she had started again to
address the crowd, albeit--acting on my father's hint--in more
moderate tones, and even, as I thought, somewhat tepidly. Her theme
was what she called convictions of sin, of which by her own account
she had wrestled with a surprising quantity; but in the rehearsal of
them, though fluent, she seemed to lose heart as her hearers relaxed
their attention.

"Confound the woman!" grumbled my father. "She had done better,
after all, to continue frantic. The crowd came to be amused, and is
growing restive again."

"Sir," interposed Mr. Fett, "give me leave to assure you that an
audience may be amused and yet throw things. Were this the time and
place for reminiscences, I could tell you a tale of Stony Stratford
(appropriately so-called, sir), where, as 'Juba' in Mr. Addison's
tragedy of _Cato_, for two hours I piled the Pelion of passion upon
the Ossa of elocutionary correctness, still without surmounting the
zone of plant life; which in the Arts, sir, must extend higher than
geographers concede. And yet I evoked laughter; from which I may
conclude that my efforts amused. The great Demosthenes, sir,
practised declamation with his mouth full of pebbles--for retaliatory
purposes, I have sometimes thought."

Here my father, who had been paying no attention to Mr. Fett's
discourse, interrupted it with a sharp but joyful exclamation; and
glancing towards him I saw his face clear of anxiety.

"We are safe," he announced quietly, nodding in the direction of the
Three Cups. "What we wanted was a fool, and we have found him."

CHAPTER VIII.

TRIBULATIONS OF A MAYOR

"Like the Mayor of Falmouth, who thanked God when the Town Jail
was enlarged."--_Old Byword_.

His nod was levelled at a horseman who had ridden down the street and
was pressing upon the outskirts of the crowd: and this was no less a
dignitary than the Mayor of Falmouth, preceded on foot by a beadle
and two mace-bearers, all three of them shouting "Way! Make way for
the Mayor!" with such effect that in less than half a minute the
crowd had divided itself to form a lane for them.

"Eh? eh? What is this? What is the meaning of all this?" demanded
his Worship, magisterially, as, having drawn rein, he fumbled in his
tail pocket, drew forth a pair of horn spectacles, adjusted them on
his nose, and glared round upon the throng.

"That, sir," answered my father, stepping forward, "is what we are
waiting to learn."

"Sir John Constantine?" The Mayor bowed from his saddle. "You will
pardon me, Sir John, that for the moment I missed to recognize you.
The fact is, I suffer, Sir John, from some--er--shortness of sight: a
grave inconvenience, at times, to one in my position."

"Indeed?" said my father, gravely. "And yet, as I have heard, 'tis a
malady most incident to borough magistrates."

"You don't say so?" The Mayor considered this for a moment.
"The visitations of Providence are indeed inscrutable, Sir John.
It would give me pleasure to discuss them with you, on some--er--more
suitable occasion, if I might have the honour. But as I was about to
say, I am delighted to see you, Sir John: your presence here will
strengthen my hands in dealing with this--er--unlawful assembly."

"_Is_ this an unlawful assembly?" my father asked.

"It is worse, Sir John; it is far worse. I have been studying the
law, and the law admits of no dubiety. It is unlawful assembly where
three or more persons meet together to carry out some private
enterprise in circumstances calculated to excite alarm. Mark those
words, Sir John--" some private enterprise. "When the enterprise is
not private but meant to redress a public grievance, or to reform
religion, the offence becomes high treason."

"Does the law indeed say so?"

"It does, Sir John. The law, let me tell you, is very fierce against
any reforming of religion. Nay more, Sir John, under the first of
King George the First, statute two--I forget what chapter--by the Act
commonly called the Riot Act, it is enacted that if a dozen or more
go about reforming of religion or otherwise upsetting the public
peace and refuse to go about their business within the space of one
hour after I tell 'em to, the same becomes felony without benefit of
clergy."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Billy Priske, pulling off his hat and eyeing
the rose in its band.

"And further," his Worship continued, "any man wearing the badge or
ensign of the rioters shall himself be considered a rioter without
benefit of clergy."

All this while the crowd had been pressing closer and closer upon us,
under compulsion (as it seemed) of reinforcements from the waterside,
the purlieus of the Market Strand being, by now, so crowded that men
and women were crying out for room. At this moment, glancing across
the square, I was puzzled to see a woman leaning forth from a
first-floor window and dropping handfuls of artificial flowers upon
the heads of the throng. While I watched, she retired--her hands
being empty--came back with a band-box, and scattered its contents
broadcast, pausing to blow a kiss towards the Mayor.

I plucked my father's sleeve to call his attention to this; but he
and the Mayor were engaged in argument, his Worship maintaining that
the Methodists--and my father that their assailants--were the prime
disturbers of the peace.

"And how, pray," asked my father, "are these poor women to disperse,
if your ruffians won't let 'em?"

"As to that, sir, you shall see," promised the Mayor, and turned to
the town crier. "John Sprott, call silence. Make as much noise
about it as you can, John Sprott. And you, Nandy Daddo, catch hold
of my horse's bridle here."

He rose in his stirrups and, searching again in his tail-pocket, drew
forth a roll of paper.

"Silence!" bawled the crier.

"Louder, if you please, John Sprott: louder, if you can manage it!
And say 'In the name of King George,' John Sprott; and wind up with
'God save the King.' For without 'God save the King' 'tis no riot,
and a man cannot be hanged for it. So be very particular to say
'God save the King,' John Sprott, and put 'em all in the wrong."

John Sprott bawled again, and this time achieved the whole formula.

"That's better, John Sprott. And you--" his Worship turned upon the
Methodists, "you just listen to this, now--"

"_Our sovereign Lord the King--_"

Here, as the Methodists stood before him with folded hands, a lump of
filth flew past the Mayor's ear and bespattered the lamp-post.

"Damme, who did that?" his Worship demanded. "John Sprott, who threw
that muck?"

"I don't know the man's name, your Worship: but he's yonder, there,
in a striped shirt open at the neck, with a little round hat on the
back of his head; and, what's more, I see'd him do it."

"Then take down his description, John Sprott, and write that at the
words 'Our sovereign Lord' he shied a lump of muck."

John Sprott pulled out a note-book and entered the offence.

"And after 'muck,' John Sprott, write 'God save the King.' I don't
know that 'tis necessary, but you'll be on the safe side."
His Worship unfolded the proclamation again, cleared his throat, and
resumed:

"_Our sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons,
being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves and peacefully to
depart to their habitations or to their lawful business, upon the
pains contained in the Act made in the first year of George the First
for preventing--_"

A handful of more or less liquid mud here took him on the nape of the
neck and splashed over the paper which he held in both hands.

"Arrest that man!" he shouted, bouncing about in a fury. At the same
moment my father gripped my elbow as a volley of missiles darkened
the air, and we fell back--all the Company of the Rose--shoulder to
shoulder, to protect the Methodists, as a small but solid phalanx of
men came driving through the crowd with mischief in their faces.

"But wait awhile! wait awhile!" called out Billy Priske, as my
father plucked out his sword. "These be no enemies, master, to us or
the Methodists, but honest sea-fardingers--packet-men all--and, look
you, with roses in their hats!"

"Roses? Faith, and so they have!" cried my father, lowering his
guard. "But what the devil, then, is the meaning of it?"

He was answered on the moment. The official whom his Worship called
Nandy Daddo had made a rush into the crowd, charging it with his mace
as with a battering-ram, and was in the act of clutching the man who
had thrown the filth, when the phalanx of packet-men broke through
and bore him down. A moment later I saw his gold-laced hat fly
skimming over the heads of the throng, and his mace wrenched from him
and held aloft in the hands of a red-faced man, who flourished it
twice and rushed upon the Mayor, shouting at the same time with all
his lungs: "Townshends! This way, Townshends!" whereat the
packet-men cheered and pressed after him, driving the crowd of
Falmouth to right and left.

Clearly what mischief they meant was intended for the Mayor: and the
Mayor, for a short-sighted man, detected this very promptly. Also he
showed surprising agility in tumbling out of his saddle; which he had
scarcely done before the crupper resounded with a whack, of which one
of the borough maces bears an eloquent dent to this day.

The Mayor, catching his toe in the stirrup as he slipped off,
staggered and fell at our feet. But the body of his horse,
interposed between him and the rioters, protected him for an instant,
and in that instant my father and Nat Fiennes dragged him up and
thrust him to the rear while we faced the assault. For now, and
without a word said, the Methodists were forgotten, and we of the
Rose were standing for law and order against this other company of
the Rose, of whose quarrel we knew nothing at all.

Our attitude indeed, and the sight of drawn swords (to oppose which
they had no weapons but short cudgels), appeared to take them aback
for the moment. The press, however, closing on us, as we backed to
cover the Mayor's retreat, offered less and less occasion for sword
play; and, the seamen still advancing and outnumbering us by about
three to one, the whole affair began to wear an ugly look.

At this juncture relief came to us in the strangest fashion. I had
clean forgotten the little Methodist man in black; whom, to be sure,
I had no occasion to remember but for the quiet resolution of his
carriage as he had stood with the burst egg trickling over his face.
But now, to the surprise of us all, he sprang forward upon the second
mace-bearer, snatched the mace from his hand and laid about him in a
sudden frenzy; at the first blow, delivered at unawares, catching the
ringleader on the crown and felling him like an ox. For a second,
perhaps, he stared, amazed at his own prowess, and with that the lust
of battle seized him.

He rained blows; yet with cunning, running forth and back into our
ranks as each was delivered; and between the blows he capered,
uttering shrill inarticulate cries. This diversion indeed saved us.
For the rabble, pressing up to see the fun, left a space more or less
clear on the far side of the Market Strand, and for this space we
stampeded, dragging the Mayor along with us.

The next thing I remember was fighting side by side with Nat before a
door beneath the window where I had seen the woman throwing down her
handfuls of artificial flowers. The lower windows were barred, but
the door stood open; and we fought to defend it whilst my father
lifted the Mayor of Falmouth by his coat-collar and the seat of his
breeches and flung him inside. Then we too backed and, ducking
indoors under the arms of the little man in black--who stood on the
step swinging the borough mace as though to scythe off the head of
any one who approached within five feet of it--seized him by the
coat-tails, dragged him inside and, slamming to the door (which shut
with two flaps), locked and bolted it and leant against it with all
our weight.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29