John Halifax, Gentleman. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
"Let them?—and Phineas is here!"
My poor father! He rose at once.
We got him down-stairs—he was very lame—his ruddy face all drawn and white with pain; but he did not speak one word of opposition, or utter a groan of complaint.
The flour-mill was built on piles, in the centre of the narrow river. It was only a few steps of bridge-work to either bank. The little door was on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the opposite shore, where the rioters had now collected. In a minute we had crept forth, and dashed out of sight, in the narrow path which had been made from the mill to the tan-yard.
"Will you take my arm? we must get on fast."
"Home?" said my father, as John led him passively along.
"No, sir, not home: they are there before you. Your life's not safe an hour—unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it."
Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stern old Quaker held to his principles still.
"Then you must hide for a time—both of you. Come to my room. You will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas—for your sake and his own."
But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. Grasping more tightly both John's arm and mine, which, for the first time in his life, he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So, after this long interval of time, I once more stood in Sally Watkins' small attic; where, ever since I first brought him there, John Halifax had lived.
Sally knew not of our entrance; she was out, watching the rioters. No one saw us but Jem, and Jem's honour was safe as a rock. I knew that in the smile with which he pulled off his cap to "Mr. Halifax."
"Now," said John, hastily smoothing his bed, so that my father might lie down, and wrapping his cloak round me—"you must both be very still. You will likely have to spend the night here. Jem shall bring you a light and supper. You will make yourself easy, Abel Fletcher?"
"Ay." It was strange to see how decidedly, yet respectfully, John spoke, and how quietly my father answered.
"And, Phineas"—he put his arm round my shoulder in his old way—"you will take care of yourself. Are you any stronger than you used to be?"
I clasped his hand without reply. My heart melted to hear that tender accent, so familiar once. All was happening for the best, if it only gave me back David.
"Now good-bye—I must be off."
"Whither?" said my father, rousing himself.
"To try and save the house and the tan-yard—I fear we must give up the mill. No, don't hold me, Phineas. I run no risk: everybody knows me. Besides, I am young. There! see after your father. I shall come back in good time."
He grasped my hands warmly—then unloosed them; and I heard his step descending the staircase. The room seemed to darken when he went away.
The evening passed very slowly. My father, exhausted with pain, lay on the bed and dozed. I sat watching the sky over the housetops, which met in the old angles, with the same blue peeps between. I half forgot all the day's events—it seemed but two weeks, instead of two years ago, that John and I had sat in this attic-window, conning our Shakspeare for the first time.
Ere twilight I examined John's room. It was a good deal changed; the furniture was improved; a score of ingenious little contrivances made the tiny attic into a cosy bed-chamber. One corner was full of shelves, laden with books, chiefly of a scientific and practical nature. John's taste did not lead him into the current literature of the day: Cowper, Akenside, and Peter Pindar were alike indifferent to him. I found among his books no poet but Shakspeare.
He evidently still practised his old mechanical arts. There was lying in the window a telescope—the cylinder made of pasteboard—into which the lenses were ingeniously fitted. A rough telescope-stand, of common deal, stood on the ledge of the roof, from which the field of view must have been satisfactory enough to the young astronomer. Other fragments of skilful handiwork, chiefly meant for machinery on a Lilliputian scale, were strewn about the floor; and on a chair, just as he had left it that morning, stood a loom, very small in size, but perfect in its neat workmanship, with a few threads already woven, making some fabric not so very unlike cloth.
I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father was awake, and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise.
"The lad works hard," said he, half to himself. "He has useful hands and a clear head." I smiled, but took no notice whatever.
Evening began to close in—less peacefully than usual—over Norton Bury; for, whenever I ventured to open the window, we heard unusual and ominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwardly. But John was prudent, as well as brave: besides, "everybody knew him." Surely he was safe.
Faithfully, at supper-time, Jem entered. But he could tell us no news; he had kept watch all the time on the staircase by desire of "Mr. Halifax"—so he informed me. My father asked no questions—not even about his mill. From his look, sometimes, I fancied he yet beheld in fancy these starving men fighting over the precious food, destroyed so wilfully—nay, wickedly. Heaven forgive me, his son, if I too harshly use the word; for I think, till the day of his death, that cruel sight never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor father.
Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that "master was looking sprack agin; and warn't this a tidy room, like?"
I praised it; and supposed his mother was better off now?
"Ay, she be. Mr. Halifax pays her a good rent; and she sees 'un made comfortable. Not that he wants much, being out pretty much all day."
"What is he busy about of nights?"
"Larning," said Jem, with an awed look. "He's terrible wise. But for all that, sometimes he'll teach Charley and me a bit o' the Readamadeasy." (Reading-made-easy, I suppose, John's hopeful pupil meant.) "He's very kind to we, and to mother too. Her says, that her do, Mr. Halifax—"
"Send the fellow away, Phineas," muttered my father, turning his face to the wall.
I obeyed. But first I asked, in a whisper, if Jem had any idea when "Mr. Halifax" would be back?
"He said, maybe not till morning. Them's bad folk about. He was going to stop all night, either at your house or at the tan-yard, for fear of a BLAZE."
The word made my father start; for in these times well we knew what poor folk meant by "a blaze."
"My house—my tan-yard—I must get up this instant—help me. He ought to come back—that lad Halifax. There's a score of my men at hand—Wilkes, and Johnson, and Jacob Baines—I say, Phineas—but thee know'st nothing."
He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell back, sick with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed.
"Phineas, lad," said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting as helpless as thee."
So we kept watch together, all the night through; sometimes dozing, sometimes waking up at some slight noise below, or at the flicker of the long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some incendiary fire—doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard my father mutter something about "the lad being safe." I said nothing. I only prayed.
Thus the night wore away.
CHAPTER VIII
After Midnight—I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours by the Abbey chimes, and our light had gone out—after midnight I heard by my father's breathing that he was asleep. I was thankful to see it for his sake, and also for another reason.
I could not sleep—all my faculties were preternaturally alive; my weak body