In Kedars Tents | Page 3

rare smile passed across his grey face it invariably
owed its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay,
light-hearted, debonnaire, 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.
'What is that?' asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up.
'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 spoke the first volley of stones crashed through the windows, and
the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters. 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 demon of
combativeness which lies dormant 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 cramming caps upon
their heads were some who had tasted of rheumatism, 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 defenders had leisure to group
themselves around Alfred Pleydell. A hoarse 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 prominence in the
eyes of the nation.
'Get back, go to your homes!' he was shouting, with upraised arms,
when the hoarse cry of his adherents 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
warded 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 dispersing in
all directions, like sheep before a dog. He heard a voice calling:
'Alfred! Alfred!'
And Horner, who an hour--nay, ten