It is in the staging of her comedies that fate shows herself superior to mere1 human invention. While we, with careful regard to scenery, place our conventional puppets on the stage and bid them play their old old parts in a manner as ancient, she rings up the curtain and starts a tragedy on a scene that has obviously been set by the carpenter for a farce2. She deals out the parts with a fine inconsistency, and the jolly-faced little man is cast to play Romeo, while the poetic3 youth with lantern jaw4 and an impaired5 digestion6 finds no Juliet to match his love.
Fate, with that playfulness which some take too seriously or quite amiss, set her queer stage as long ago as 1838 for the comedy of certain lives, and rang up the curtain one dark evening on no fitter scene than the high road from Gateshead to Durham. It was raining hard, and a fresh breeze from the south-east swept a salt rime7 from the North Sea across a tract8 of land as bare and bleak9 as the waters of that grim ocean. A hard, cold land this, where the iron that has filled men’s purses has also entered their souls.
There had been a great meeting at Chester-le-Street of those who were at this time beginning to be known as Chartists, and, the Act having been lately passed that torchlight meetings were illegal, this assembly had gathered by the light of a waning10 moon long since hidden by the clouds. Amid the storm of wind and rain, orators11 had expounded12 views as wild as the night itself, to which the hard-visaged sons of Northumbria had listened with grunts13 of approval or muttered words of discontent. A dangerous game to play—this stirring up of the people’s heart, and one that may at any moment turn to the deepest earnest.
Few thought at this time that the movement awakening14 in the working centres of the North and Midlands was destined15 to spread with the strange rapidity of popular passion—to spread and live for a decade. Few of the Chartists expected to see the fulfilment of half of their desires. Yet, to-day, a moiety16 of the People’s Charter has been granted. These voices crying in the night demanded an extended suffrage17, vote by ballot18, and freedom for rich and poor alike to sit in Parliament. Within the scope of one reign19 these demands have been granted.
The meeting at Chester-le-Street was no different from a hundred others held in England at the same time. It was illegal, and yet the authorities dared not to pronounce it so. It might prove dangerous to those taking part in it. Lawyers said that the leaders laid themselves open to the charge of high treason. In this assembly as in others there were wirepullers—men playing their own game, and from the safety of the rear pushing on those in front. With one of these we have to do. With his mistake Fate raised the curtain, and on the horizon of several lives arose a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand.
Geoffrey Horner lived before his time, insomuch as he was a gentleman-Radical20. He was clever, and the world heeded21 not. He was brilliant, well educated, capable of great achievements, and the world refused to be astonished. Here were the makings of a malcontent22. A well-born Radical is one whom the world has refused to accept at his own valuation. A wise man is ready to strike a bargain with Fate. The wisest are those who ask much and then take half. It is the coward who asks too little, and the fool who imagines that he will receive without demanding.
Horner had thrown in his lot with the Chartists in that spirit of pique23 which makes a man marry the wrong woman because the right one will have none of him. At the Chester-le-Street meeting he had declared himself an upholder of moral persuasion24, while in his heart he pandered25 to those who knew only of physical force and placed their reliance thereon. He had come from Durham with a contingent26 of malcontents, and was now returning thither27 on foot in company with the local leaders. These were intelligent mechanics seeking clumsily and blindly enough what they knew to be the good of their fellows. At their heels tramped the rank and file of the great movement. The assembly was a subtle foreshadowing of things to come—of Newport and the march of twenty thousand men, of violence and bloodshed, of strife28 between brethren, and of justice nonplussed29 and hesitating.
The toil-worn miners were mostly silent, their dimly enlightened intellects uneasily stirred by the words they had lately heard—their stubborn hearts full of a great hope with a minute misgiving30 at the back of it. With this dangerous material Geoffrey Horner proposed to play his game.
Suddenly a voice was raised.
‘Mates,’ it cried, at the cross-roads, ‘let’s go and smash Pleydell’s windows!’
And a muttered acquiescence31 to the proposal swept through the moving mass like a sullen32 breeze through reeds.
Horner hurriedly consulted his colleagues. Was it wise to attempt to exert an authority which was merely nominal35? The principles of Chartism were at this time to keep within the limits of the law, and yet to hint, when such a course was safe, that stronger measures lay behind mere words. Their fatal habit was to strike softly.
In peace and war, at home and abroad, there is but one humane36 and safe rule: Hesitate to strike—strike hard.
Sir John Pleydell was a member of that Parliament which had treated the Charter with contempt. He was one of those who had voted with the majority against the measures it embodied37.
In addition to these damnatory facts, he was a local Tory of some renown—an ambitious man, the neighbours said, who wished to leave his son a peerage.
To the minds of the rabble38 this magnate represented the tyranny against which their protest was raised. Geoffrey Horner looked on him as a political opponent and a dangerous member of the winning party. The blow was easy to strike. Horner hesitated—at the cross roads of other lives than his own—and held his tongue.
The suggestion of the unknown humorist in the crowd commended itself to the more energetic of the party, who immediately turned towards the by-road leading to Dene Hall. The others—the minority—followed as minorities do, because they distrusted themselves. Some one struck up a song with words lately published in the ‘Northern Liberator’ and set to a well-known local air.
The shooting party assembled at Dene Hall was still at the dinner table when the malcontents entered the park, and the talk of coverts39 and guns ceased suddenly at the sound of their rough voices. Sir John Pleydell, an alert man still, despite his grey hair and drawn40, careworn41 face, looked up sharply. He had been sitting silently fingering the stem of his wineglass—a habit of his when the ladies quitted the room—and, although he had shot as well as, perhaps better than, any present, had taken but little part in the conversation. He had, in fact, only half listened, and when a rare smile passed across his grey face it invariably owed its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay, light-hearted, débonnaire, at the far end of the table. When Sir John’s thoughtful eyes rested on his motherless son, a dull and suppressed light gleamed momentarily beneath his heavy lids. Superficial observers said that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; ‘not for himself,’ added the few who saw deeper.
When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke the outer silence of the night, Sir John’s glance sought his son’s face. In moments of alarm the glance flies to where the heart is.
‘The Chartists,’ said Sir John.
Alfred looked round. He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly dried upon the parchment that made him one—the only soldier in the room.
‘We are eleven here,’ he said, ‘and two men downstairs—some of you fellows have your valets too—say fifteen in all. We cannot stand this, you know.’
As he spoke43 the first volley of stones crashed through the windows, and the broken glass rattled44 to the floor behind the shutters45. The cries of the ladies in the drawing-room could be heard, and all the men sprang to their feet. With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell ran to the door, but his father was there before him.
‘Not you,’ said the elder man, quiet but a little paler than usual; ‘I will go and speak to them. They will not dare to touch me. They are probably running away by this time.’
‘Then we’ll run after ’em,’ answered Alfred with a fine spirit, and something in his attitude, in the ring of his voice, awoke that demon46 of combativeness47 which lies dormant48 in men of the Anglo-Saxon race.
‘Come on, you fellows!’ cried the boy with a queer glad laugh, and without knowing that he did it Sir John stood aside, his heart warm with a sudden pride, his blood stirred by something that had not moved it these thirty years. The guests crowded out of the room—old men who should have known better—laughing as they threw aside their dinner napkins. What a strange thing is man, peaceful through long years, and at a moment’s notice a mere fighting devil.
‘Come on, we’ll teach them to break windows!’ repeated Alfred Pleydell, running to the stick rack. The rain rattled on the skylight of the square hall, and the wind roared down the open chimney. Among the men hastily arming themselves with heavy sticks and cramming49 caps upon their heads were some who had tasted of rheumatism50, but they never thought of an overcoat.
‘We’ll know each other by our shirt fronts,’ said a quiet man who was standing on a chair in order to reach an Indian club suspended on the wall.
Alfred was at the door leading through to the servants’ quarters, and his summons brought several men from the pantry and kitchens.
‘Come on!’ he cried, ‘take anything you can find—stick or poker—yes, and those old guns, use ’em like a club, hit very hard and very often. We’ll charge the devils—there’s nothing like a charge—come on!’
And he was already out of the door with a dozen at his heels.
The change from the lighted rooms to the outer darkness made them pause a moment, during which time the defenders51 had leisure to group themselves around Alfred Pleydell. A hoarse52 shout, which indeed drowned Geoffrey Horner’s voice, showed where the assailants stood. Horner had found his tongue after the first volley of stones. It was the policy of the Chartist leaders and wirepullers to suggest rather than demonstrate physical force. Enough had been done to call attention to the Chester-le-Street meeting, and give it the desired prominence53 in the eyes of the nation.
‘Get back, go to your homes!’ he was shouting, with upraised arms, when the hoarse cry of his adherents54 and the flood of light from the opened door made him turn hastily. In a moment he saw the meaning of this development, but it was too late.
With a cheer, Alfred Pleydell, little more than a boy, led the charge, and seeing Horner in front, ran at him with upraised stick. Horner half warded55 the blow, which came whistling down his own stick and paralysed his thumb. He returned the stroke with a sudden fury, striking Pleydell full on the head. Then, because he had a young wife and child at home, he pushed his way through the struggling crowd, and ran away in the darkness. As he ran he could hear his late adherents dispersing56 in all directions, like sheep before a dog. He heard a voice calling:
‘Alfred! Alfred!’
And Horner, who an hour—nay, ten minutes—earlier had had no thought of violence, ran his fastest along the road by which he had lately come. His heart was as water within his breast, and his staring eyes played their part mechanically. He did not fall, but he noted57 nothing, and had no knowledge whither he was running.
Alfred Pleydell lay quite still on the lawn in front of his father’s house.
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1
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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5
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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10
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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11
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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14
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malcontent
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| n.不满者，不平者；adj.抱不平的，不满的 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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24
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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pandered
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| v.迎合（他人的低级趣味或淫欲）( pander的过去式和过去分词 )；纵容某人；迁就某事物 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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29
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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32
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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33
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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35
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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38
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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39
coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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41
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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42
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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45
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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46
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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47
combativeness
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| n.好战 | |
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48
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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49
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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50
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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51
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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52
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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53
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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54
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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55
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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56
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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