John Halifax, Gentleman. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
For that one night, at least, I felt myself a man.
My father was a very sound sleeper. I knew nothing would disturb him till daylight; therefore my divided duty was at an end. I left him, and crept down-stairs into Sally Watkins' kitchen. It was silent, only the faithful warder, Jem, dozed over the dull fire. I touched him on the shoulder—at which he collared me and nearly knocked me down.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas—hope I didn't hurt 'ee, sir?" cried he, all but whimpering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, was the most tender-hearted fellow imaginable. "I thought it were some of them folk that Mr. Halifax ha' gone among."
"Where is Mr. Halifax?"
"Doan't know, sir—wish I did! wouldn't be long a finding out, though—on'y he says: 'Jem, you stop 'ere wi' they'" (pointing his thumb up the staircase). "So, Master Phineas, I stop."
And Jem settled himself with a doggedly obedient, but most dissatisfied air down by the fire-place. It was evident nothing would move him thence: so he was as safe a guard over my poor old father's slumber as the mastiff in the tan-yard, who was as brave as a lion and as docile as a child. My last lingering hesitation ended.
"Jem, lend me your coat and hat—I'm going out into the town."
Jem was so astonished, that he stood with open mouth while I took the said garments from him, and unbolted the door. At last it seemed to occur to him that he ought to intercept me.
"But, sir, Mr. Halifax said—"
"I am going to look for Mr. Halifax."
And I escaped outside. Anything beyond his literal duty did not strike the faithful Jem. He stood on the door-sill, and gazed after me with a hopeless expression.
"I s'pose you mun have your way, sir; but Mr. Halifax said, 'Jem, you stop y'ere,'—and y'ere I stop."
He went in, and I heard him bolting the door, with a sullen determination, as if he would have kept guard against it—waiting for John—until doomsday.
I stole along the dark alley into the street. It was very silent—I need not have borrowed Jem's exterior, in order to creep through a throng of maddened rioters. There was no sign of any such, except that under one of the three oil-lamps that lit the night-darkness at Norton Bury lay a few smouldering hanks of hemp, well resined. They, then, had thought of that dreadful engine of destruction—fire. Had my terrors been true? Our house—and perhaps John within it!
On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur, which I fancied I heard; but still there was no one in the street—no one except the Abbey-watchman lounging in his box. I roused him, and asked if all was safe?—where were the rioters?
"What rioters?"
"At Abel Fletcher's mill; they may be at his house now—"
"Ay, I think they be."
"And will not one man in the town help him; no constables—no law?"
"Oh! he's a Quaker; the law don't help Quakers."
That was the truth—the hard, grinding truth—in those days. Liberty, justice, were idle names to Nonconformists of every kind; and all they knew of the glorious constitution of English law was when its iron hand was turned against them.
I had forgotten this; bitterly I remembered it now. So wasting no more words, I flew along the church-yard, until I saw, shining against the boles of the chestnut-trees, a red light. It was one of the hempen torches. Now, at last, I had got in the midst of that small body of men, "the rioters."
They were a mere handful—not above two score—apparently the relics of the band which had attacked the mill, joined with a few plough-lads from the country around. But they were desperate; they had come up the Coltham road so quietly, that, except this faint murmur, neither I nor any one in the town could have told they were near. Wherever they had been ransacking, as yet they had not attacked my father's house; it stood up on the other side the road—barred, black, silent.
I heard a muttering—"Th' old man bean't there."—"Nobody knows where he be." No, thank God!
"Be us all y'ere?" said the man with the torch, holding it up so as to see round him. It was well then that I appeared as Jem Watkins. But no one noticed me, except one man, who skulked behind a tree, and of whom I was rather afraid, as he was apparently intent on watching.
"Ready, lads? Now for the rosin! Blaze 'un out."
But, in the eager scuffle, the torch, the only one alight, was knocked down and trodden out. A volley of oaths arose, though whose fault it was no one seemed to know; but I missed my man from behind the tree—nor found him till after the angry throng had rushed on to the nearest lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our own railings. He looked round to see if none were by, and then sprang over the gate. Dark as it was I thought I recognized him.
"John?"
"Phineas?" He was beside me in a bound. "How could you do—"
"I could do anything to-night. But you are safe; no one has harmed you. Oh, thank God, you are not hurt!"
And I clung to his arm—my friend, whom I had missed so long, so sorely.
He held me tight—his heart felt as mine, only more silently.
"Now, Phineas, we have a minute's time. I must have you safe—we must get into the house."
"Who is there?"
"Jael; she is as good as a host of constables; she has braved the fellows once to-night, but they're back again, or will be directly."
"And the mill?"
"Safe, as yet; I have had three of the tan-yard men there since yesterday morning, though your father did not know. I have been going to and fro all night, between there and here, waiting till the rioters should come back from the Severn mills. Hist!—here they are—I say, Jael?"
He tapped at the window. In a few seconds Jael had unbarred the door, let us in, and closed it again securely, mounting guard behind it with something that looked very like my father's pistols, though I would not discredit her among our peaceful society by positively stating the fact.
"Bravo!" said John, when we stood all together in the barricaded house, and heard the threatening murmur of voices and feet outside. "Bravo, Jael! The wife of Heber the Kenite was no braver woman than you."
She looked gratified, and followed John obediently from room to room.
"I have done all as thee bade me—thee art a sensible lad, John Halifax. We are secure, I think."
Secure? bolts and bars secure against fire? For that was threatening us now.
"They can't mean it—surely they can't mean it," repeated John, as the cry of "Burn 'un out!" rose louder and louder.
But they did mean it. From the attic window we watched them light torch after torch, sometimes throwing one at the house—but it fell harmless against the staunch oaken door, and blazed itself out on our stone steps. All it did was to show more plainly than even daylight had shown, the gaunt, ragged forms and pinched faces, furious with famine.
John, as well as I, recoiled at that miserable sight.
"I'll speak to them," he said. "Unbar the window, Jael;" and before I could hinder, he was leaning right out. "Holloa, there!"
At his loud and commanding voice a wave of up-turned faces surged forward, expectant.
"My men, do you know what you are about? To burn down a gentleman's house is—hanging."
There was a hush, and then a shout of derision.
"Not a Quaker's! nobody'll get hanged for burning out a Quaker!"
"That be true enough," muttered Jael between her teeth. "We must e'en fight, as Mordecai's people fought, hand to hand, until they slew their enemies."
"Fight!" repeated John, half