Gilbert Arundel had, with some other gentlemen, done what they could to cast oil on the troubled waters. Gilbert had spoken several times at some of the smaller meetings, and had advised temperance and patience.
He was one of the very few, in those days, who appealed to the working men to help to maintain order among themselves; who showed the ruin and distress the rioters had brought upon their families in other places, and who spoke to them as having common cause with himself to do all they could to protect their wives and children. Gilbert was, in his heart, what was called a whig, but he was far, indeed, from being a hot-headed radical.
That he was known to be the grandson of a peer, and that his mother had a title, did not win him favour with the extreme section of his own party, while the others, perhaps, were a little triumphant that the son of a noble house might yet question the wisdom of the Lords in rejecting a Bill which was so dear to the heart of the people.
Joyce gently closed the shutters and returned to her place by the fire. Then she went out into the hall, where an oil lamp was dimly burning, and looked out from a small window by the side of the door.
A sense of fear began to creep over her, not for herself, but for Gilbert. She listened for his step with that nervous tension which is so painful, and of which we all know something.
Presently the door of the cellar, which opened into the hall, creaked; Joyce watched it breathlessly; it opened wider and wider, and a man's head appeared. In the dim light she could scarcely discern the features, but something in that face was surely familiar.
She was not left long in doubt; once more Bob Friday stood before her.
At first Joyce was literally paralysed with terror, and she could neither speak, nor call for help.
She made a movement towards the door, but the man raised a hand to prevent her.