John Halifax, Gentleman. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
was trying to stop up a broken pane.
"No, my good Jael, not this;" and he carefully replaced the volume; that volume, in which he might have read, as day after day, and year after year, we Christians generally do read, such plain words as these—"Love your enemies;" "bless them that curse you;" "pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you."
A minute or two John stood with his hand on the Book, thinking. Then he touched me on the shoulder.
"Phineas, I'm going to try a new plan—at least, one so old, that it's almost new. Whether it succeeds or no, you'll bear me witness to your father that I did it for the best, and did it because I thought it right. Now for it."
To my horror, he threw up the window wide, and leant out.
"My men, I want to speak to you."
He might as well have spoken to the roaring sea. The only answer was a shower of missiles, which missed their aim. The rioters were too far off—our spiked iron railings, eight feet high or more, being a barrier which none had yet ventured to climb. But at length one random stone hit John on the chest.
I pulled him in, but he declared he was not hurt. Terrified, I implored him not to risk his life.
"Life is not always the first thing to be thought of," said he, gently. "Don't be afraid—I shall come to no harm. But I MUST do what I think right, if it is to be done."
While he spoke, I could hardly hear him for the bellowings outside. More savage still grew the cry—
"Burn 'em out! burn 'em out! They be only Quakers!"
"There's not a minute to lose—stop—let me think—Jael, is that a pistol?"
"Loaded," she said, handing it over to him with a kind of stern delight. Certainly, Jael was not meant to be a Friend.
John ran down-stairs, and before I guessed his purpose, had unbolted the hall-door, and stood on the flight of steps, in full view of the mob.
There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. A pillar sheltered me—I do not think he saw me, though I stood close behind him.
So sudden had been his act, that even the rioters did not seem to have noticed, or clearly understood it, till the next lighted torch showed them the young man standing there, with his back to the door—OUTSIDE the door.
The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for the moment he was safe. They were awed—nay, paralyzed, by his daring.
But the storm raged too fiercely to be lulled, except for one brief minute. A confusion of voices burst out afresh—
"Who be thee?"—"It's one o' the Quakers."—"No, he bean't."—"Burn 'un, anyhow."—"Touch 'un, if ye dare."
There was evidently a division arising. One big man, who had made himself very prominent all along, seemed trying to calm the tumult.
John stood his ground. Once a torch was flung at him—he stooped and picked it up. I thought he was going to hurl it back again, but he did not; he only threw it down, and stamped it out safely with his foot. This simple action had a wonderful effect on the crowd.
The big fellow advanced to the gate and called John by his name.
"Is that you, Jacob Baines? I am sorry to see you here."
"Be ye, sir."
"What do you want?"
"Nought wi' thee. We wants Abel Fletcher. Where is 'um?"
"I shall certainly not tell you."
As John said this again the noise arose, and again Jacob Baines seemed to have power to quiet the rest.
John Halifax never stirred. Evidently he was pretty well known. I caught many a stray sentence, such as "Don't hurt the lad."—"He were kind to my lad, he were."—"No, he be a real gentleman."—"No, he comed here as poor as us," and the like. At length one voice, sharp and shrill, was heard above the rest.
"I zay, young man, didst ever know what it was to be pretty nigh vamished?"
"Ay, many a time."
The answer, so brief, so unexpected, struck a great hush into the throng. Then the same voice cried—
"Speak up, man! we won't hurt 'ee! You be one o' we!"
"No, I am not one of you. I'd be ashamed to come in the night and burn my master's house down."
I expected an outbreak, but none came. They listened, as it were by compulsion, to the clear, manly voice that had not in it one shade of fear.
"What do you do it for?" John continued. "All because he would not sell you, or give you, his wheat. Even so—it was HIS wheat, not yours. May not a man do what he likes with his own?"
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