John Halifax [41]
For a minute he listened in silence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father.
"Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose--they will fire the mill next."
"Let them."
"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,
"Sir, you must come now. Not a second to lose--they will fire the mill next."
"Let them."
"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,