"And he must post, without delay,
Along the bridge and through the dale.
And by the church and o'er the down."
_Wordsworth_.
John Hewlett had finished his day's work, and come home in the dusk of
an October evening. He found the house hung all over with the family
linen, taken in to shelter from a shower; but not before it had become
damp enough to need to be put by the fire before it could be ironed or
folded. His mother was moaning over it, and there was no place to sit
down. He did not wonder that Jem had taken his hunch of bread and gone
away with it, nor that his father was not at home; but he took off his
boots at the back door, as his aunt never liked his coming into her room
in them--though they were nothing to what he would have worn had he
worked in the fields--and then climbed up the stairs.
Judith was sitting up in bed, with her teapot, tea-cup, and a piece of
stale loaf, laid out on a tray before her; and little Judy beside her,
drinking out of a cracked mug. Judith's eyes had a strange look of
fright in them, but there was an air of relief when she saw Johnnie.
"Well, aunt, is that all you have got for tea?"
"Poor mother has been hindered; but never mind that," returned Judith,
in a quick, agitated tone. "Judy, my dear, drink up your tea and run
down to help mother, there's a dear."
"You haven't brought nothing, Johnnie," Judy lingered to ask.
"No, not I. I've worked too late to go to shop," said Johnnie.
"Go down, my dear, as I told you," said Judith, with a little unwonted
tone of impatience, which made the youth certain that she had something
important to tell him; and as soon as the little girl began clumping
down the stairs, she held out her hand and said in the lowest of voices,
"Come near, Johnnie, that you may hear." He came near; she put out her
hand to pull him on his knees, so that his ear might be close to her,
and whispered, "Jack Swing is coming to Greenhow to-morrow."
"The captain away! How do you know?"
"A man came and talked with your father in the back garden--just under
this window. Mother had run up to shop for a bit of soap; but they
thought she might come in any minute, and so went out at the back door,
so that I heard them all the better."
"They never thought of that! Well?"
"They mean to come on Greenhow, ask for money and arms, break up the
machine, and burn the ricks if they don't get what they want. Father
said they might be sure of the Downhill men, and most of 'em here, for
they all hate that there machine that is to starve poor folk in winter
time; and those that were not of that way would be afraid to hold back,
or they would show them the reason why."
"And the captain away. It is enough to be the death of madam and the
little ones."
"That's just what I thought. Oh, Johnnie dear, can't you help to save
them, and hinder it?"
"Master wouldn't go along with such doings," said John.
"I wouldn't answer for George! He's a steady man, and would do no harm
if he's let alone; but he's a mortal fearsome one! No, John, there's no
help for it, but that you should get over in time to fetch the captain,
and let him take away the ladies, or stand up for them. He'll know what
to be at!"
"But will it get father into trouble?" asked John.
"Not among so many. He's sharp enough. The captain, if he were only at
home, would see how to get them away. Anyway, think of the poor ladies
and the little children!"
John stood for a minute or two by the window thinking, while Judith sat
up in her bed gazing at him with eager, anxious eyes; and at last he
turned back, and would have spoken aloud but that she raised her hand to
caution him. He knelt down again beside her, and said, "No, aunt, I
couldn't rest to think of all those rough brutes of chaps from we don't
know where coming and playing their rigs, and bullying the ladies, with
no one to help. There was a lady frightened to death with them,--master
was reading it out in the paper. Yes, I'll go and fetch the captain
home to take care of them. Where is he?"
"Miss Sophy told me he was at the hotel at Minsterham with a lot of
them. Have you ever been there, Johnnie?"
"Yes. Once I went with master in the cart when he wanted a bit of
mahogany wood for Mrs Goodenough's chairs. It is a long way," said
Johnnie, looking wistfully at the darkening window; "but I'll do it,
please God."
"Yes. Please God, and He will help you. You've had your tea. No!
Well, drink up this,--it is cold enough--and take this hunch of bread.
I am afraid there's nothing better to be had. And here's sixpence, in
case you want a bit of food."
"I've got ninepence of my own," said John, feeling in his pocket; and
though most of his pay went to his mother for his washing and board, he
always kept a little back every week.
"There, then, you'd best be off, my dear lad. Keep out of sight, you
know, as long as you are in the village."
Johnnie bobbed his head; and his aunt threw her arms round his neck, and
kissed him, as she had not done since he was in petticoats; and then she
murmured, "God bless you, my darling lad, and take care of you."
Johnnie did not feel the prayer needless, for in spite of his eighteen
year, he had all a country lad's dislike of being out alone in the dark;
and to this was added the sense that it was a time when evil-minded
people might be about, who would certainly assault and stop him if they
guessed his errand. To meet his father would make it certain that he
would be seized, abused, beaten, and turned back, with the reproach of
being an unnatural son--turning against his father. Of this, however,
there was little chance, as Dan Hewlett was pretty certain to be either
in the "Fox and Hounds" or in the "Blue Lion" collecting partisans. And
Johnnie, getting out through the back door, then by the untidy garden,
and over the wall of the empty pig-stye, cut out into a stubble field.
He was not afraid of his mother missing him till bedtime, as it was the
wont of the youths--especially of those who had comfortless homes--to
wander about in parties in the evening, bat-fowling sometimes, but often
in an aimless sort of way, doing little bits of mischief, and seeking
diversion, which they seldom found, unless there was any solitary figure
to be shouted at and startled. His father was not likely to come in
till after he was turned out of the public-house; so John strode, all
unseen, across the field, and through the gateway into the next. He did
think of the possibilities of bringing arrest and prosecution upon his
father; but this did not greatly trouble him, for at this early period
no regular measures of defence had been taken against the rioters; and
as they went about disguised, and did not, as a rule, threaten life,
they generally escaped scot-free.
And the idea of a rude mob terrifying Mrs Carbonel to death was
terrible to him. Even since the day when she had stood before him in
the Sunday School at the wash-house at Greenhow, she had been his notion
of all that was lovely and angelic in womanhood. She had said many a
kind word to him over his work, and little Miss Mary had come and
watched him with intense interest, eager chatter, and many questions
when he was mending the gate.
He was obliged to go down to the bridge at Downhill so as to cross the
river, but there were lights in the houses, and a sound of singing in
the "Blue Lion," which made him get into the fields behind as soon as
possible, though by this time it was quite dark, so that he had to guide
himself as well as he could by the lights in the windows. This led to a
great many wanderings and stumbles, since he did not know every field
with its gates and gaps as well as he knew Uphill, so that he lost a
good deal of time by blundering about, looking for a lighter space in
the hedge which might or might not lead into the next field. He made
his way up to the opening. It proved to be a gap, but lately mended,
and he ran a couple of thorns deep into his hand before he tumbled over
into a ditch.
This was a grass field, and he heard the coughings of an old sheep, and
the suppressed baaings of the others, finding himself presently outside
their fold. He guided himself along by the hurdles and came to deep
ruts in stiff clay, but these led to a gate, and that into a narrow and
muddy lane. This he knew would bring him back to the high road, and
that was comparatively plain sailing.
Still there was Poppleby to go through, though not for several miles,
which he tramped along, quietly enough, not meeting any one, but
beginning to hear the sounds of the night-loving animals.
Owls flew about with their hootings and snappings, startling him a good
deal, as much from some notions of bad luck as from wonder at first if
it were a human shout. Then the lights of Poppleby were welcome to his
eyes, and as they were chiefly in the upper windows he thought the town
must be safe to walk through without fear of being met and stopped.
Gas-lamps hardly existed then and Poppleby was all dark except for the
big lamps over the public-house doors, and this was well for Johnnie,
for just as he was about to pass the "Blue Lion," the door was thrown
open, and a whole party came swaggering and staggering out, singing at
the tops of their voices. Johnnie had time to throw himself into a
garden behind a hedge, and heard them pass by, holloaing rather than
singing out--
"Down, down with they machines
That takes the poor folks' bread."
There was something too about "Friends to the people and foes beware";
but what startled Johnny the most was that he knew his father's voice in
the shout, and for one moment saw the light of a lantern fall across a
face that could belong to no one else but his father. It could hardly
be told whether, as he lay trembling there, the sight made him the more
dislike his expedition, or the sound of those cries the more anxious to
bring protection to his friends at Greenhow. Anyway, he had given his
word to his aunt, and he must go through with it, and he fancied that he
could get to Minsterham before the keepers of late hours were shut up
for the night, and might return again to see how things were going, and
get excused by his cousin.
Not till the shouts had died away in the distance did he venture out,
and plodded once more into the darkness, under overhanging trees,
meeting nothing, except one carriage, whose bright lamps came on like
two fiery eyes, glowing more and more as they came nearer, and the black
shadow of horses, driver, and close carriage rushed by, and left him
again, deciding that it must be the doctor's chariot. Then came another
long long spell, so long that he thought it must be near morning, and
was surprised to hear behind him in the frosty air the church clock at
Poppleby striking far too many strokes, and what he hoped had been one
turned into either eleven or twelve! He hoped it was twelve.
There were the branching roads, and it was far too dark to read the
sign-post, so that he could only take the one that seemed to him the
most likely; but when he had gone what might be any distance on the
road, it seemed to get narrower and rougher than he expected, and then
came an opening as if on to a common, such as he was sure did not exist
on the way to Minsterham. He must have got upon the Elchester road, and
there was nothing for it but to turn back. However, there was a pale
brightness showing in the sky, and the moon came up, an old moon without
very much light in her, but she was a great comfort to him, and told him
how the night was going.
On and on, and then there was a sound of trampling of horses and of
wheels coming nearer, great light eyes growing larger and larger, and
the mail-coach flashed and thundered by with the four horses, and
presently, far-away he could hear the guard's horn announcing the
approach to a wayside inn where the horses were changed; but by the time
Johnnie had made his weary way up to the place, it was far-away on the
road, indeed, he saw the lamps flash as it went up Wearyfoot Hill, but
all the inn was silent again by that time even at the stables, and the
hotel was a dark mass against the sky--the only light in it the moon
reflected from the windows. A dog barked as he went past, but he kept
far upon the other side of the road and was reassured by hearing the
rattling of a chain.
Wearyfoot Hill! Yes, it was Wearyfoot to him, as he dragged up it. He
could not remember whether it was four or five miles from Minsterham.
There was a milestone standing on the bank, and he tried to read it, but
the moon would not reveal more than the large initial letters of L for
London and M for Minsterham, and he sat down at last and leaned against
the stone, trying to trace out the figure above Minsterham with his
fingers.
Behold, though four and five were both ringing in his head, he must have
fallen asleep, for he felt quite cold and stiff, the moon was much
higher in the sky, the stars were paler, and there was a mist all round.
He rose up, ashamed, and shook himself, colder and more uncomfortable
than before, but feeling it was a new day, and that, were it four miles
or five, he was now near Minsterham. He said his morning prayers as he
tramped along, stamping to warm his feet, and recollected that Aunt
Judith would be lying awake praying for him. He found that when the
first discomfort of awakening had passed off, he really was the better
for his short sleep, and marched on more vigorously, presently hearing a
cock begin to crow, and birds to twitter. Dawn was beginning, presently
a lark sprang up and began to send down a wonderful cheerful song, that
quite raised Johnnie's spirits; then over the quiet misty fields came
the deep note of the great Minsterham clock pealing out, what was only a
half hour, but John knew that it would be much louder in his ears next
time it spoke.
A waggon lumbered by, and then a labourer or two going to their work,
but John kept out of their way, not wanting to be asked questions; there
began to be red in the eastern mist, the clock sounded again, and from
the slope of the hill, the spires of the churches in the town seemed to
be rising out of a great lake of woolly mist. The clock went through
all the four quarters, then solemnly told out five strokes--Johnnie's
weary night journey was over.