It was the year 1800, long known in English households as "the dear
year." The present generation can have no conception of what a
terrible time that was--War, Famine, and Tumult stalking hand-in-hand,
and no one to stay them. For between the upper and lower classes there
was a great gulf fixed; the rich ground the faces of the poor, the poor
hated, yet meanly succumbed to, the rich. Neither had Christianity
enough boldly to cross the line of demarcation, and prove, the humbler,
that they were men,--the higher and wiser, that they were gentlemen.
These troubles, which were everywhere abroad, reached us even in our
quiet town of Norton Bury. For myself, personally, they touched me
not, or, at least, only kept fluttering like evil birds outside the
dear home-tabernacle, where I and Patience sat, keeping our solemn
counsel together--for these two years had with me been very hard.
Though I had to bear so much bodily suffering that I was seldom told of
any worldly cares, still I often fancied things were going ill both
within and without our doors. Jael complained in an under-key of
stinted housekeeping, or boasted aloud of her own ingenuity in making
ends meet: and my father's brow grew continually heavier, graver,
sterner; sometimes so stern that I dared not wage, what was, openly or
secretly, the quiet but incessant crusade of my existence--the bringing
back of John Halifax.
He still remained my father's clerk--nay, I sometimes thought he was
even advancing in duties and trusts, for I heard of his being sent long
journeys up and down England to buy grain--Abel Fletcher having added
to his tanning business the flour-mill hard by, whose lazy whirr was so
familiar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these journeys my
father never spoke; indeed, he rarely mentioned John at all. However
he might employ and even trust him in business relations, I knew that
in every other way he was inexorable.
And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No under-hand or clandestine
friendship would he admit--no, not even for my sake. I knew quite
well, that until he could walk in openly, honourably, proudly, he never
would re-enter my father's doors. Twice only he had written to me--on
my two birthdays--my father himself giving me in silence the unsealed
letters. They told me what I already was sure of--that I held, and
always should hold, my steadfast place in his friendship. Nothing more.
One other fact I noticed: that a little lad, afterward discovered to
be Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard-working lot of the lost
Bill, had somehow crept into our household as errand-boy, or gardener's
boy; and being "cute," and a "scholard," was greatly patronized by
Jael. I noticed, too, that the said Jem, whenever he came in my way,
in house or garden, was the most capital "little foot-page" that ever
invalid had; knowing intuitively all my needs, and serving me with an
unfailing devotion, which quite surprised and puzzled me at the time.
It did not afterwards.
Summer was passing. People began to watch with anxious looks the thin
harvest-fields--as Jael often told me, when she came home from her
afternoon walks. "It was piteous to see them," she said; "only July,
and the quartern loaf nearly three shillings, and meal four shillings a
peck."
And then she would glance at our flour-mill, where for several days a
week the water-wheel was as quiet as on Sundays; for my father kept his
grain locked up, waiting for what, he wisely judged, might be a worse
harvest than the last. But Jael, though she said nothing, often looked
at the flour-mill and shook her head. And after one market-day--when
she came in rather "flustered," saying there had been a mob outside the
mill, until "that young man Halifax" had gone out and spoken to
them--she never once allowed me to take my rare walk under the trees in
the Abbey-yard; nor, if she could help it, would she even let me sit
watching the lazy Avon from the garden-wall.
One Sunday--it was the 1st of August, for my father had just come back
from meeting, very much later than usual, and Jael said he had gone, as
was his annual custom on that his wedding-day, to the Friends' burial
ground in St. Mary's Lane, where, far away from her own kindred and
people, my poor young mother had been laid,--on this one Sunday I began
to see that things were going wrong. Abel Fletcher sat at dinner
wearing the heavy, hard look which had grown upon his face not
unmingled with the wrinkles planted by physical pain. For, with all
his temperance, he could not quite keep down his hereditary enemy,
gout; and this week it had clutched him pretty hard.
Dr. Jessop came in, and I stole away gladly enough, and sat for an hour
in my old place in the garden, idly watching the stretch of meadow,
pasture, and harvest land. Noticing, too, more as a pretty bit in the
landscape than as a fact of vital importance, in how many places the
half-ripe corn was already cut, and piled in thinly-scattered sheaves
over the fields.
After the doctor left, my father sent for me and all his household: in
the which, creeping humbly after the woman-kind, was now numbered the
lad Jem. That Abel Fletcher was not quite himself was proved by the
fact that his unlighted pipe lay on the table, and his afternoon
tankard of ale sank from foam to flatness untouched.
He first addressed Jael. "Woman, was it thee who cooked the dinner
to-day?"
She gave a dignified affirmative.
"Thee must give us no more such dinners. No cakes, no pastry
kickshaws, and only wheaten bread enough for absolute necessity. Our
neighbours shall not say that Abel Fletcher has flour in his mill, and
plenty in his house, while there is famine abroad in the land. So take
heed."
"I do take heed," answered Jael, staunchly. "Thee canst not say I
waste a penny of thine. And for myself, do I not pity the poor? On
First-day a woman cried after me about wasting good flour in
starch--to-day, behold."
And with a spasmodic bridling-up, she pointed to the bouffante which
used to stand up stiffly round her withered old throat, and stick out
in front like a pouter pigeon. Alas! its glory and starch were alike
departed; it now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and yellowish
muslin. Poor Jael! I knew this was the most heroic personal sacrifice
she could have made, yet I could not help smiling; even my father did
the same.
"Dost thee mock me, Abel Fletcher?" cried she angrily. "Preach not to
others while the sin lies on thy own head."
And I am sure poor Jael was innocent of any jocular intention, as
advancing sternly she pointed to her master's pate, where his long-worn
powder was scarcely distinguishable from the snows of age. He bore the
assault gravely and unshrinkingly, merely saying, "Woman, peace!"
"Nor while"--pursued Jael, driven apparently to the last and most
poisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath--"while the poor folk be starving
in scores about Norton Bury, and the rich folk there will not sell
their wheat under famine price. Take heed to thyself, Abel Fletcher."
My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or conscience; and then
Jael suddenly ceased the attack, sent the other servants out of the
room, and tended her master as carefully as if she had not insulted
him. In his fits of gout my father, unlike most men, became the
quieter and easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a long fit
of pain which left him considerably exhausted. When, being at last
relieved, he and I were sitting in the room alone, he said to me--
"Phineas, the tan-yard has thriven ill of late, and I thought the mill
would make up for it. But if it will not it will not. Wouldst thee
mind, my son, being left a little poor when I am gone?"
"Father!"
"Well, then, in a few days I will begin selling my wheat, as that lad
has advised and begged me to do these weeks past. He is a sharp lad,
and I am getting old. Perhaps he is right."
"Who, father?" I asked, rather hypocritically.
"Thee knowest well enough--John Halifax."
I thought it best to say no more; but I never let go one thread of hope
which could draw me nearer to my heart's desire.
On the Monday morning my father went to the tan-yard as usual. I spent
the day in my bed-room, which looked over the garden, where I saw
nothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping over the
smooth grass; heard nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour, of the
Abbey bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, or even in
the next street, was to me faint as dreams.
At dinner-time I rose, went down-stairs, and waited for my father;
waited one, two, three hours. It was very strange. He never by any
chance overstayed his time, without sending a message home. So after
some consideration as to whether I dared encroach upon his formal
habits so much, and after much advice from Jael, who betrayed more
anxiety than was at all warranted by the cause she assigned, viz. the
spoiled dinner, I despatched Jem Watkins to the tan-yard to see after
his master.
He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the tan-yard was
blocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid, starved patience of our
Norton Bury poor had come to an end at last--they had followed the
example of many others. There was a bread-riot in the town.
God only knows how terrible those "riots" were; when the people rose in
desperation, not from some delusion of crazy, blood-thirsty
"patriotism," but to get food for themselves, their wives, and
children. God only knows what madness was in each individual heart of
that concourse of poor wretches, styled "the mob," when every man took
up arms, certain that there were before him but two alternatives,
starving or--hanging.
The riot here was scarcely universal. Norton Bury was not a large
place, and had always abundance of small-pox and fevers to keep the
poor down numerically. Jem said it was chiefly about our mill and our
tan-yard that the disturbance lay.
"And where is my father?"
Jem "didn't know," and looked very much as if he didn't care.
"Jael, somebody must go at once, and find my father."
"I am going," said Jael, who had already put on her cloak and hood. Of
course, despite all her opposition, I went too.
The tan-yard was deserted; the mob had divided, and gone, one half to
our mill, the rest to another that was lower down the river. I asked
of a poor frightened bark-cutter if she knew where my father was? She
thought he was gone for the "millingtary;" but Mr. Halifax was at the
mill now--she hoped no harm would come to Mr. Halifax.
Even in that moment of alarm I felt a sense of pleasure. I had not
been in the tan-yard for nearly three years. I did not know John had
come already to be called "Mr. Halifax."
There was nothing for me but to wait here till my father returned. He
could not surely be so insane as to go to the mill--and John was there.
Terribly was my heart divided, but my duty lay with my father.
Jael sat down in the shed, or marched restlessly between the tan-pits.
I went to the end of the yard, and looked down towards the mill. What
a half-hour it was!
At last, exhausted, I sat down on the bark heap where John and I had
once sat as lads. He must now be more than twenty; I wondered if he
were altered.
"Oh, David! David!" I thought, as I listened eagerly for any sounds
abroad in the town; "what should I do if any harm came to thee?"
This minute I heard a footstep crossing the yard. No, it was not my
father's--it was firmer, quicker, younger. I sprang from the barkheap.
"Phineas!"
"John!"
What a grasp that was--both hands! and how fondly and proudly I looked
up in his face--the still boyish face. But the figure was quite that
of a man now.
For a minute we forgot ourselves in our joy, and then he let go my
hands, saying hurriedly--
"Where is your father?"
"I wish I knew!--Gone for the soldiers, they say."
"No, not that--he would never do that. I must go and look for him.
Good-bye."
"Nay, dear John!"
"Can't--can't," said he, firmly, "not while your father forbids. I
must go." And he was gone.
Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him; marvelling how it
was that he who had never known his father should uphold so sternly the
duty of filial obedience. I think it ought to act as a solemn warning
to those who exact so much from the mere fact and name of parenthood,
without having in any way fulfilled its duties, that orphans from birth
often revere the ideal of that bond far more than those who have known
it in reality. Always excepting those children to whose blessed lot it
has fallen to have the ideal realized.
In a few minutes I saw him and my father enter the tan-yard together.
He was talking earnestly, and my father was listening--ay,
listening--and to John Halifax! But whatever the argument was, it
failed to move him. Greatly troubled, but staunch as a rock, my old
father stood, resting his lame foot on a heap of hides. I went to meet
him.
"Phineas," said John, anxiously, "come and help me. No, Abel
Fletcher," he added, rather proudly, in reply to a sharp, suspicious
glance at us both; "your son and I only met ten minutes ago, and have
scarcely exchanged a word. But we cannot waste time over that matter
now. Phineas, help me to persuade your father to save his property. He
will not call for the aid of the law, because he is a Friend. Besides,
for the same reason, it might be useless asking."
"Verily!" said my father, with a bitter and meaning smile.
"But he might get his own men to defend his property, and need not do
what he is bent on doing--go to the mill himself."
"Surely," was all Abel Fletcher said, planting his oaken stick firmly,
as firmly as his will, and taking his way to the river-side, in the
direction of the mill.
I caught his arm--"Father, don't go."
"My son," said he, turning on me one of his "iron looks," as I used to
call them--tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, and had
settled into a hard, moulded mass, of which nothing could afterwards
alter one form, or erase one line--"My son, no opposition. Any who try
that with me fail. If those fellows had waited two days more I would
have sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings the quarter; now they
shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom another time. Get thee
safe home, Phineas, my son; Jael, go thou likewise."
But neither went. John held me back as I was following my father.
"He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please God, I'll take
care no harm touches him--but you go home."
That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time was too brief for
argument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my father and I
followed him. For Jael, she disappeared.
There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, along the
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. 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, from which the field of view must
have been satisfactory enough to the young astronomer. Other fragments
of skilful handiwork, chiefly meant for machinery on a Lilliputian
scale, were strewn about the floor; and on a chair, just as he had left
it that morning, stood a loom, very small in size, but perfect in its
neat workmanship, with a few threads already woven, making some fabric
not so very unlike cloth.
I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father was
awake, and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise.
"The lad works hard," said he, half to himself. "He has useful hands
and a clear head." I smiled, but took no notice whatever.
Evening began to close in--less peacefully than usual--over Norton
Bury; for, whenever I ventured to open the window, we heard unusual and
ominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwardly. But John was
prudent, as well as brave: besides, "everybody knew him." Surely he
was safe.
Faithfully, at supper-time, Jem entered. But he could tell us no news;
he had kept watch all the time on the staircase by desire of "Mr.
Halifax"--so he informed me. My father asked no questions--not even
about his mill. From his look, sometimes, I fancied he yet beheld in
fancy these starving men fighting over the precious food, destroyed so
wilfully--nay, wickedly. Heaven forgive me, his son, if I too harshly
use the word; for I think, till the day of his death, that cruel sight
never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor father.
Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that "master was looking
sprack agin; and warn't this a tidy room, like?"
I praised it; and supposed his mother was better off now?
"Ay, she be. Mr. Halifax pays her a good rent; and she sees 'un made
comfortable. Not that he wants much, being out pretty much all day."
"What is he busy about of nights?"
"Larning," said Jem, with an awed look. "He's terrible wise. But for
all that, sometimes he'll teach Charley and me a bit o' the
Readamadeasy." (Reading-made-easy, I suppose, John's hopeful pupil
meant.) "He's very kind to we, and to mother too. Her says, that her
do, Mr. Halifax--"
"Send the fellow away, Phineas," muttered my father, turning his face
to the wall.
I obeyed. But first I asked, in a whisper, if Jem had any idea when
"Mr. Halifax" would be back?
"He said, maybe not till morning. Them's bad folk about. He was going
to stop all night, either at your house or at the tan-yard, for fear of
a BLAZE."
The word made my father start; for in these times well we knew what
poor folk meant by "a blaze."
"My house--my tan-yard--I must get up this instant--help me. He ought
to come back--that lad Halifax. There's a score of my men at
hand--Wilkes, and Johnson, and Jacob Baines--I say, Phineas--but thee
know'st nothing."
He tried to dress, and to drag on his heavy shoes; but fell back, sick
with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed.
"Phineas, lad," said he, brokenly, "thy old father is getting as
helpless as thee."
So we kept watch together, all the night through; sometimes dozing,
sometimes waking up at some slight noise below, or at the flicker of
the long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some
incendiary fire--doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard my
father mutter something about "the lad being safe." I said nothing. I
only prayed.
Thus the night wore away.