John Halifax [40]
river-side; by this we went, in silence. When we reached the spot it was deserted; but further down the river we heard a scuffling, and saw a number of men breaking down our garden wall.
"They think he is gone home," whispered John; "we'll get in here the safer. Quick, Phineas."
We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, and let us into the mill by a small door--the only entrance, and that was barred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such times.
The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. We stood there a good while--it was the safest place, having no windows. Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a large fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.
"Oh! how could my father--"
"Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know."
But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--we heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come.
Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us with stones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but my father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their force seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low howl that reached us at times.
"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!"
"Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!"
"Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father, leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, half cheers of triumph, answered him from below.
"That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you--thank you, Mr. Fletcher--I knew you would yield at last."
"Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short.
"Not because they forced you--not to save your life--but because it was right."
"Help me with this bag," was all the reply.
It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervous and strong. He hauled it up.
"Now, open the window--dash the panes through--it matters not. On to the window, I tell thee."
"But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot--oh, no!- -you cannot mean that!"
"Haul it up to the window, John Halifax."
But John remained immovable.
"I must do it myself, then;" and, in the desperate effort he made, somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. Tortured into frenzy with the pain--or else, I will still believe, my old father would not have done such a deed--his failing strength seemed doubled and trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag half through the window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the river below.
Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight of the famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Some plunged into the water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass had ceased--but it was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bed had cut the bag, and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirled down the Avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam, or waded after them, clutching a handful here or there--but by the mill-pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn on shore. Over even that they fought like demons.
We could not look at them--John and I. He put his hand over his eyes, muttering the Name that, young man as he was, I had never yet heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight that would move any one to cry for pity unto the Great Father of the human family.
Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion that I think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he, ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done. He seemed subdued, even to something like remorse.
John looked at him, and looked away.
"They think he is gone home," whispered John; "we'll get in here the safer. Quick, Phineas."
We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, and let us into the mill by a small door--the only entrance, and that was barred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such times.
The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. We stood there a good while--it was the safest place, having no windows. Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a large fortune by--a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.
"Oh! how could my father--"
"Hush!" whispered John, "it was for his son's sake, you know."
But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile Abel Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold--we heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come.
Miserable "rioters!"--A handful of weak, starved men--pelting us with stones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all--but my father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their force seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low howl that reached us at times.
"Bring out the bags!--Us mun have bread!"
"Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher!"
"Abel Fletcher WILL throw it down to ye, ye knaves," said my father, leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, half curses, half cheers of triumph, answered him from below.
"That is well," exclaimed John, eagerly. "Thank you--thank you, Mr. Fletcher--I knew you would yield at last."
"Didst thee, lad?" said my father, stopping short.
"Not because they forced you--not to save your life--but because it was right."
"Help me with this bag," was all the reply.
It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervous and strong. He hauled it up.
"Now, open the window--dash the panes through--it matters not. On to the window, I tell thee."
"But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot--oh, no!- -you cannot mean that!"
"Haul it up to the window, John Halifax."
But John remained immovable.
"I must do it myself, then;" and, in the desperate effort he made, somehow the bag of grain fell, and fell on his lame foot. Tortured into frenzy with the pain--or else, I will still believe, my old father would not have done such a deed--his failing strength seemed doubled and trebled. In an instant more he had got the bag half through the window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the river below.
Flung into the river, the precious wheat, and in the very sight of the famished rioters! A howl of fury and despair arose. Some plunged into the water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass had ceased--but it was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bed had cut the bag, and we saw thrown up to the surface, and whirled down the Avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam, or waded after them, clutching a handful here or there--but by the mill-pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn on shore. Over even that they fought like demons.
We could not look at them--John and I. He put his hand over his eyes, muttering the Name that, young man as he was, I had never yet heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight that would move any one to cry for pity unto the Great Father of the human family.
Abel Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion that I think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he, ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done. He seemed subdued, even to something like remorse.
John looked at him, and looked away.