"That weary deserts we may tread,
A dreary labyrinth may thread,
Through dark ways underground be led."
_Archbishop Trench_.
Poor Johnnie was not very happy at that moment. He had descended from
the coach at Poppleby, and set out to walk to Downhill, wondering how he
should be received at his cousin's workshop. Everything seemed
strangely quiet as he crossed the fields, where he had wandered last
night, but there were now and then far-off echoes of voices and shouts.
He avoided the village of Downhill, and made his way towards the little
street and common of Uphill, but not a creature could he see except
Todd's donkey and a few geese.
The workshop was shut up, no one was about either there or at the house.
He considered a moment whether to try to see what was doing at
Greenhow, or to go and tell his aunt how he had fared, and that he knew
the captain must be at home by this time.
He was glad he had decided on the latter, for the cottage door stood
open, and Judith was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide open, and her
breath panting with anxiety and terror.
"Oh, Johnnie, my dear! There you are! Oh, they are all gone! The
ladies, the dear ladies, and the little babies," she gasped, and fell
back almost fainting.
"The captain is there by this time, and the soldiers, never you fear,"
said John. "Here, you'd better take this," trying to drop out some of
the cordial he knew she took in her attacks.
"The soldiers! Your father--your poor father!" she gasped again, and
she was so ill that John, dreadfully frightened, could only hold her up
on one arm, and press the cordial to her lips with the other hand. It
was an overdose, but that hardly mattered; and before very long, just as
she was beginning to quiet down, there approached a fresh sound of
screaming, and his mother burst into the house. "Oh, my poor man! My
poor Dan!" she cried. "They have got him! The soldiers have got him!"
and, as John was laying down his aunt to come and hear, she rushed up
the stairs with, "And it is all your doing, you unnatural,
good-for-nothing varmint! That was what you were after all night, you
and your aunt, the adder that I have warmed at my bosom! Turning
against your own poor father, to set them bloody-minded soldiers on him!
And now he'll be taken and hanged, and I shall be a poor miserable
widow woman all along of you!"
This was poured forth as fast as the words would come out of Molly's
mouth, but before they had all streamed forth, Judith was choking in a
hysterical fit, so like a convulsion that Johnnie could only cry, "Aunt!
aunt! Mother, look!" And Molly herself was frightened, and began to
say, "There! there!" while she helped him to hold her sister, and little
Judy flew off, half in terror and half in search of help, crying out
that aunt was in a fit.
Help of a certain sort came--a good deal more of it than was wanted--and
the room was crowded up, and there were a good many "Poor dears!"
"There, nows!" and proposals of burnt feathers and vinegar; but Mrs
Spurrell, who was reckoned the most skilled in illness, came at last,
put the others out, especially as they wanted to see about their
husbands' teas, and brought a sort of quiet, in which Judith lay
exhausted, but shuddering now and then, and Molly sobbed by the fire.
John gathered from the exclamations that the Carbonel family were safe
somewhere, that Miss Sophy had gone on like the woman preacher at
Downhill, that Greenhow had been on fire, but nobody was hurt, though
the soldiers had ridden in upon them, "so as was a shame to see," and
had got poor Dan and Ned Fell, and all sure locked up.
John was shocked at this, for he had not meant to do more than send
Captain Carbonel home to protect his family, and had not realised all
the consequences. In a few minutes more, however, his father himself
tramped in, and the first thing he did was to fall on the lad in a fury,
grasping him by the collar, with horrible abuse of him for an unnatural
informer, turning against his own father, and dealing a storm of heavy
blows on him with a great stick. Down clattered Mrs Spurrell, asking
if he wished to kill his sister-in-law?
"A good thing too--a traitor in one's house," he burst out, with more
raging words and fresh blows on poor John, who never cried out through
all; but his mother rushed down the next moment, crying out that she
would not have her son mauled and beaten, and laying fast hold of the
stick.
It was turning into a fight between husband and wife, and Mrs Spurrell,
who had more of her senses about her than any one else, called out, "Off
with you, John Hewlett! I'll tackle 'em!"
Poor Johnnie had no choice but to obey her. Bruised, worn out, hungry,
uncertain of everything, and miserable about his aunt, he could only
wander slowly away, feeling himself a traitor. He found his way to the
workshop, and had just thrown himself down in the wood-shed, when he
heard his master's voice calling out--
"Who's there?"
"Me! Johnny! Father's in a mortal rage with me for telling the
captain, but I never thought as how all the soldiers would come."
"And a very good thing they did, to put a stop to such doings as never
was," said Mrs Hewlett's voice. "Bless me, the dear children and the
ladies might have been burnt in their beds!"
"Come in, Johnnie, and have a bit of supper," said George Hewlett.
"And tell us all about it," said his wife. "We'll give you a shake-down
for the night if you can't go home."
John was thankful, and Mrs Hewlett set before him a good meal of bread,
cheese, cold bacon, and beer; but he was too dull and dejected, as well
as much too tired, to be able to talk, and scarcely could remember all
that had happened. He knew it was not manners to put his head down on
his arms on the table, but he really could not hold it up, and he had
dozed off almost with the food in his mouth.
"Poor chap! He's fair worn out," said the elder George. "Make his bed
ready, mother."
And when it was ready, the younger George absolutely kicked him into
being awake enough to tumble into it. Even then his sleep was for a
good while tossing, dreamy, and restless; but, by-and-by, it grew
sounder, and he lay so still in the morning that his kind hostess
hindered her boys from disturbing him. He had not long been awake, and
had only said his prayers, and washed at the pump, when horses' feet
were heard, and Cousin George called to him to come out and speak to the
captain. He came, with hair wringing wet, and shy, awkward looks.
"My lad," said the captain, "I cannot tell you how much I thank you for
your bravery and spirit the night before last. You did me and mine a
benefit that I shall always remember, though I feel it would just be
insulting you to offer you any present reward! Nor, indeed, could it be
sufficient for what you have done."
"Thank you, sir," mumbled John, hardly knowing what he or the captain
said.
"And," added Captain Carbonel, "your father got away. If he is taken,
what you have done for us may be remembered in his favour."
Again John managed to say, "Thank you, sir." And the captain rode off
to offer the like thanks to Tirzah Todd; but her cottage was shut up,
the donkey gone, and she, with her husband and Hoglah out on a
broom-selling expedition. He was not clear of the riot, and she did not
want him to hear her thanked. They must have gone away with their gipsy
kin, for they never came back while the Carbonels were in England, and
only a sovereign could be left for them with Mr Harford, who promised
to stand Tirzah's friend if any opening for assisting her offered.
Dan had been told that rioters generally got off without difficulty. It
was not easy to trace them, and their safety was in numbers and their
semi-disguise; and Jack Swing, or the man with the nose, had escaped on
various similar occasions, wearing a different disguise at each place.
It had not come into their calculations that they had gone so far as to
rouse the spirit of the landowners, who had at first dealt gently with
the disturbances, but who now felt that strong measures must be taken to
prevent the mischief from going further. He thought himself safe when
he had once got away from the strong-room at Greenhow, and he was
slouching about his garden when Cox the constable, backed by two stout
men, came with a warrant, from Sir Harry Hartman, for the apprehension
of Daniel Hewlett for peace-breaking and arson. He began to argue that
it was not he more than any one else, and he hadn't set fire to nothing,
but he was told that he must reserve his defence for his trial, and the
handcuffs were put on, and he was carried off in a cart, just as John
was hurrying up the lane, having got leave from his master to see how
his aunt was, before beginning work.
Molly had seen her husband taken to prison before, and she did not
realise that this was a much more serious affair than were his poaching
misdemeanours, so that she was not so much overpowered as might have
been expected; and, as he was taken by the well-known constable instead
of the soldiers, she did not treat it as John's fault. Besides, she was
really afraid of, as she said, "upsetting" Judith by another outcry, so
she only moaned in a low, miserable voice about what was to become of
her and her poor children, though after all, what with the parish,
Judith's help, and John's earnings, she would be no worse off than was
common with her. Jem was supposed to "keep himself," and only Judy was
really on her hands.
She would hardly let her son go up and see Judith. "Now, you'll be
terrifying of her, and she'll be upset again and holler, and go into a
fit."
However, he took off his boots and went up softly. Judith was all
alone, lying still, but he had never seen her look half so ill, though
she opened her eyes and smiled when the creaking stair announced him,
and when he bent over her she said, "Dear lad, you bain't hurt!"
"Oh no; not at all."
"And the dear ladies are safe?"
"Yes; Tirzah Todd came and took them away."
"Thank God!"
"But you are bad, auntie?"
"Oh, never mind. All's right! You've done your duty, and I can only
thank God for my good lad."
Her voice grew faint, her eyes closed, and John was obliged to go away--
but the look of peace stayed with him.