Eustace Marchmont: A friend of the people

by Evelyn Everett-Green

TWO hours later Bride looked up with an eager air, for she had heard the sound of a familiar footstep on the stair, and knew that she should have tidings at last.

She was comfortably established in a small parlour over a shop, and was making friends with a pair of solemn-looking little children, who were strangely fascinated by, though half afraid of, the pretty stranger lady. The house which had opened its door to the Duke’s party—and had had several windows broken in consequence—belonged to some humble tradespeople, and they had put everything in their house at the disposal of the Duke and his daughter, and had done all in their power to make them comfortable during the brief time which they had been forced to remain prisoners, owing to the presence of the howling mob without. Then when the crowd was diverted to some other spot, and had left this little street empty, Bride had still been left in the security of this humble abode, whilst the Duke and Eustace made their way back to the hotel, promising to return for her when the kidnapped carriage should have been recovered, and they could make another attempt to quit the town.

Bride had passed these two hours somewhat anxiously—her anxiety being for her father and Eustace, not for herself. The grocer’s two big lads, who acted the part of scouts, and ran in and out with items of news, reported that there was much excitement and rioting going on in the town now that all the mill hands were at liberty, and the supporters of the Radical candidate going to the poll. Sometimes sounds of distant yelling and hooting broke upon the ears of the listening girl, and sent a thrill through her frame. Sometimes there was a rush of growling operatives down the narrow street where she had found shelter, and for a moment her heart would stand still in expectation of an attack upon this very house; but the worthy people who had sheltered her took it all very quietly, and were not at all seriously disturbed. They said it was always so at election times, and smiled at the notion of there being any danger to dread.

So Bride had sipped the tea brought to her, and begged for the company of the two little children when their mother was obliged to go to her duties below. The time passed somewhat wearily and anxiously, but at last the sound of a familiar footstep without warned her that her time of waiting was at an end.

The door opened and Eustace entered, his face pale, his left arm in a sling, his clothes, though not exactly torn, and evidently carefully brushed, showing traces that their owner had been in some sort of skirmish or riot. The girl sprang up anxiously at sight of him, her face blanching a little.

“My father——?” she began, her lips forming the words, though her voice was barely a whisper. Eustace’s smile reassured her.

“He is quite safe. He will be here soon with a coach to take you safely home. He has not been in any of the troubles; he has been in the hotel ever since he left you. We got there by the back way without any difficulty; but the town was too disturbed for it to be advisable to attempt to drive out till some sort of order had been restored.”

“But you are hurt,” said Bride, with a look at the slung arm; “what have you been doing?”

“Oh, it is nothing,” answered Eustace, as he sat down to tell his tale, for he had been on his feet the best part of the day and was very fatigued; “only a little crushed and mangled—no bone broken. I could not keep within doors when so much that was exciting was going on without, and I was in the thick of the mêlée once. Poor Saul Tresithny fared worse than I. I am afraid he will never walk again. They are taking him to his grandfather’s house to be cared for: we thought it was the best thing to do. Poor fellow! poor fellow!—such a fine character run to waste! He might have done much for the cause of liberty and advancement; but he would not listen to aught save his own wild passions.”