The first glory of the spring was reigning everywhere. The hedgerows were full of starry primroses, and the copses carpeted with bluebells.

Fair companies of wind flowers quivered in the gentle breeze, and the variety of foliage in the woods was almost as great as in autumn. Every shade of green shone in the sunlight, from silvery birch to emerald lime, sober elm, and russet oak, with the young ta.s.sels hanging on the birch, and the contrasting sombre dark hue of the pines, clothing the woods with surpa.s.sing beauty.

The baby, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the regular sound of the horses' hoofs, was soon in profound slumber. Little Lota and Lettice, who bore the names of the aunt and niece in the Vicar's Close, after taking some buns from their grandmother's well-filled basket, also subsided into sleep. Lota was taken by her grandmother, and Lettice, with the support of Piers' arm, had a comfortable nap. Only Falcon, in the "d.i.c.key" behind, was wide awake. He was a n.o.ble-looking boy of five years old, with fresh, blue eyes and a fair complexion. He was like his mother in features, and his grandfather in his stout, athletic build. He had a loud, childish voice, and, as he whipped the back of the carriage, he sang l.u.s.tily, in a sort of monotone, which kept time with the horses'

feet:

"Home--home--home to father."

His mother heard the words, and they found an echo in her heart of "Home--home to Gilbert."

Joyce's girlish loveliness had developed into the matured beauty of the mother, which is always so attractive. Her face shone with that soft light of motherhood and happy wifehood which we look for in vain on many faces which are beautiful, but _lack_ something. Her own mother acknowledged the charm, and often thought how much dearer and more beautiful Joyce had become in her eyes since her marriage, and how the father who had loved her so dearly would have rejoiced to see her now.

This thought was in her mind when Joyce said:

"Is not Lota too heavy for you, mother? Shall we change? Let me give you baby."

"No, dear, no; it would be a pity to wake the baby; how sweet she looks.

There will never be any children in the old home now, I am afraid." And Mrs. Falconer sighed.

"I don't think they are wanted," Joyce said; "but perhaps till people have babies they don't know how delightful they are. Piers is laughing at me."

"Not at you. I was only thinking how Gratian and Melville would hate the bother of children about the house."

"They were very kind to us," Joyce said. "It seems to me that we may be very thankful Melville married Gratian."

"Yes, she keeps him in good order."

Mrs. Falconer had still a weak, very weak, place in her heart for Melville, and she said, sharply:

"That's not a becoming way to speak of your eldest brother."

Piers shrugged his shoulders. He took in, more fully than his mother could, the trouble that Melville's conduct had brought upon them all, especially on Ralph--Ralph, who might have done so well in scholarship, now acting as steward to his brother, with less thanks and less pay than he deserved. It irritated Piers to see Melville's self-satisfaction, and to know that from sheer indolence, if Ralph had not come to the rescue, he would have brought the inheritance of his fathers to hopeless ruin.

Melville had his wish now. Gratian took care that their position should be recognised, and they visited at the houses of the neighbouring gentry, where Gratian's ready tact, and powers of fascination, were acknowledged. It became the fashion to enliven a dull, heavy dinner by inviting Mrs. Melville Falconer, who could tell amusing stories, seasoned with French phrases, and listen with apparently deep interest to the stories other people told, whether they related to the weather, the crops, or the fashions.

Joyce saw the cloud on Piers' face, and hastened to say that Ralph had written a very clever treatise on draining land, and that Gilbert thought it would draw people's attention to the subject, from the masterly way in which it was treated.

"So Ralph's brains are of great use, after all;" she said.

"He is thrown away at Fair Acres. Harry says so, and I don't think it is fair or just. I never could get over Melville's horrid selfishness, and I don't wish to get over it."

"Piers!" Joyce said, reproachfully; "remember he is your brother."

"We have all good cause to remember it," was the muttered rejoinder.

And now, as they pa.s.sed through the villages nearer Bristol, large knots of people were congregated here and there. Some stared at the carriage as they pa.s.sed, some hissed, and angry voices cried:

"No Popery!" and "Reform!"

When within some four miles of the city, Susan Priday leaned over and said:

"There is a great crowd coming on behind us, ma'am; they look a very rough lot."

The carriage was going up a steep hill, and just as it had slowly reached the top, some fifty or sixty men came out from a lane, which turned off towards Bath, and called out to the post-boy to stop.

They were fierce, wild-looking men, and, as the post-boy tried to take no notice and whip on his horses, the bridles were seized and the carriage was surrounded.

Then a number of voices shouted--

"Reform! Reform! Are ye for Reform? you grand folks; if ye are, speak out!"

"Let go the horses' heads!" said Piers. "Let go! How dare you obstruct the high road?"

"Aye! aye! you young fool; we'll teach you manners!" and one of the men clenched his fist and shook it at Piers. In another moment the crowd from behind, which Susan Priday had seen, came breathlessly up the hill, women with children in their arms, all screaming, at the top of their voices, "Reform! Reform!"

One woman held up a child with a pinched, wan face, and said--

"You rich folks, you'd trample on us if you could, and we are starving!

Look here!" and she bared the legs of the poor emaciated baby. "Look here! Look at your fat, stuffed-out childer, and look at _this_!"

"Look 'ee here, missus; we are a-going to Bristol to cry for Reform. If you say you will have nothing to do with the tyrant, Wetherall, and his cursed lot, you may go on. If not, we'll seize the carriage, we'll turn ye all out into the road, and we'll drive in state to the big meeting in Queen's Square! My! what a lark that will be!"

"Listen," Joyce said, standing up in the carriage with her child in her arms; "I am on my way home with these little children. Surely you will not stop me and endanger their lives?"

"We will! we will! if you don't give us your word you are for Reform and dead against Wetherall."

"Why," Joyce said fearlessly, "only a year ago, and near this very place, the men and women of Bristol shouted, 'Long live Wetherall!' And now!"

"Now we say, _curse_ him!" growled a big, brawny man.

The little girls, awakened by the uproar, began to cry with fear, and Falcon called out, "Let mother go on, you bad men! I say, let her go on!

Father will be so angry with you!"

"Hush! hush! dear Master Falcon," Susan said; "you will only make them worse. Hush!"

And now, as Joyce looked over the faces crowding round her, she beckoned to the woman, who had been thrust back by the pressure of others who wanted to see the inhabitants of the carriage.

"Come here," she said, holding out some of the buns; "I am so sorry for your hungry baby. Give her one of these buns, and do believe me when I say I am sorry for all your troubles."

The sweet, ringing voice began to have effect, and the clamour ceased.

"I am no enemy of the poor. My husband and I wish to do what we can for you, and I believe, nay, I know, he is an advocate of Reform, but not for rebellion against authority, and violence."

The execrations were changed now to cheers.

"Let 'em pa.s.s, she is a good 'un; let 'em pa.s.s, she has a kind heart; she has a pretty face, too. Here," said a man, "I am the father of that poor babby; shake hands, missus."

Joyce stretched out her hand at once, and it was taken in a strong grip.