John Halifax [43]
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!
"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!