Men bearing messages from St. Peter’s Field came to Mr. Hunt, some calling for dispatch, some calling for delay, and then two messengers arrived, greatly alarmed, to announce that a double row of constables had forced their way through the crowd.
“All the magistrates are watching from an upstairs window,” cried one. “And that bastard Nadin is there, prowling back and forth,” exclaimed the other.
“It is nothing less than I would expect,” said Mr. Hunt. “They are entirely predictable. They have cleared a path for Mr. Nadin, so that if one word of sedition falls from my lips, he may come through the crowd and arrest me. They will, of course, be disappointed.”
“All the same, perhaps you should leave off, Mr. Hunt.”
The great orator shook his head. “I will proceed. Remember, I called upon the magistrates last week, and offered myself up, and told them to arrest me, if they thought I was guilty of calling an illegal assembly. But they didn’t lift a finger against me. They accused you all of being a drunken, disorderly rabble. You have shown them how you can collect together in good order. If they arrest me now, they will make a martyr of me.”
* * * * * * *
Fanny, still keeping her position in the shelter of the brick wall, stood on her tip toes, but there were now such numbers flocking into the field she could not see over the heads and shoulders of the men in front of her. In particular her view was blocked by a very tall man wearing a top hat, making notes with a pencil in a small notebook.
“Sir—sir,” she said timidly, reaching up to tap him on his shoulder. “I wonder, if you could kindly step up to the curb here beside me, we might both obtain a better view—”
The man turned, and looked down at her.
She gasped. He started.
“Fanny!”
“Mr. Gibson!”
Fanny recovered from her surprise perhaps a little sooner than her friend, for, where else should Mr. Gibson be, but at such a well-publicised political gathering? It was only a wonder that the possibility had not occurred to her before.
But Mr. Gibson doubted the evidence of his eyes. What was Fanny Price doing here, of all places, was the first question which occurred to him. The second was, how many years had it been? Five? Six? His gaze took her in—yes, she was older, a woman and not a girl, but his heart did a revolution in his chest at the sight of her sweet face.
Fanny was at the same time taking in Mr. Gibson’s appearance. The dark hair at his temples was now touched with grey, some faint creases lined his forehead, but the passage of the years had only lent him a greater air of distinction.
All of this mutual wonder consumed a few moments, and then Mr. Gibson said, “Fanny, what in the name of heaven are you doing here?”
“I am looking for my brother Charles. You remember him, I am sure. He ran away from his indentures.” Fanny wrung her hands. “But I cannot find him in this immense crowd.” The unreality of the situation, the moment, was almost overpowering to her. She was speaking to Mr. Gibson! Talking to him, as though they had last spoken a fortnight ago. They were two persons amidst a multitude, but could anyone, of all the people who there, possibly be more confounded, amazed and secretly elated, than Fanny?
“I see. I will collect him and fetch him to you,” Mr. Gibson said decisively, and he turned on his heel and went striding back into the crowd, before Fanny could even thank him or bid him goodbye. He was still in sight when he just as suddenly stopped, turned and came back to her. “Fanny—I was so taken aback, I forgot my manners. How are you?”
“I am well, Mr. Gibson,” said Fanny, a smile breaking out across her face. “And how are you?”
Her smile was returned. “Much better than I was a moment ago.”
His voice, his eyes, the kindness with which he addressed her—what a blessed relief it was to Fanny, for she had imagined, all these years, that should such a meeting as this occur, Mr. Gibson would have frowned and turned away, out of resentment or indifference. But now, he was gazing at her with a heart-felt look of satisfaction and pleasure.
“Well,” he said at last. “I had better go look for Charles. Stay here, Fanny. Pray, do not leave this spot. I do not expect any danger from this assembly, but I should rather you were exceedingly cautious.”
She nodded. “I won’t. I mean—I will. I mean, I will be careful.” The two stood, looking at each other, for what to Fanny was a heavenly moment.
At last, Mr. Gibson appeared to collect his thoughts, and turned again to leave.
This time, he managed to struggle only a few feet away before he returned.
“Perhaps,” he said, “Perhaps a better spot for us to rendezvous would be the Quaker meeting house.” He pointed to the north side of the square. “Over there, beyond those piles of lumber.”
Fanny nodded. “Yes—I see it. I shall go there, then.”
“Very well. I shall bring Charles there after I find him.”
“Oh!” said Fanny, recollecting. “I believe my brother Sam is here as well.”
“I have never met Sam. I do not know what he looks like.”
“Sam has but one arm and is three-and-twenty. He is a handsome fellow—rather like William, but with darker hair. Sam and Charles will probably be found together, but I am not certain. And Charles—will you recognise Charles? He is no longer a little boy.”
“I fancy I will, and I think he will remember me. I trust I am not so altered with
