Essential Novelists - Dinah Craik. August Nemo
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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