even for friendship’s sake, to John Halifax.
My father came in late that evening; he looked tired and uneasy, and instead of going to bed, though it was after nine o’clock, sat down to his pipe in the chimney-corner.
“Is the river rising still, father? Will it do any harm to the tan-yard?”
“What dost thee know about the tan-yard!”
“Only John Halifax was saying —”
“John Halifax had better hold his tongue.”
I held mine.
My father puffed away in silence till I came to bid him good-night. I think the sound of my crutches on the floor stirred him out of a long meditation, in which his ill-humour had ebbed away.
“Where didst thee go out today, Phineas? — thee and the lad I sent.”
“To the Mythe:” and I told him the incident that had happened there. He listened without reply.
“Wasn’t it a brave thing to do, father?”
“Um!”— and a few meditative puffs. “Phineas, the lad thee hast such a hankering after is a good lad — a very decent lad — if thee doesn’t make too much of him. Remember; he is but my servant; thee’rt my son — my only son.”
Alas! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have such an “only son” as I.
In the middle of the night — or else to me, lying awake, it seemed so — there was a knocking at our hall door. I slept on the ground flat, in a little room opposite the parlour. Ere I could well collect my thoughts, I saw my father pass, fully dressed, with a light in his hand. And, man of peace though he was, I was very sure I saw in the other — something which always lay near his strong box, at his bed’s head at night. Because ten years ago a large sum had been stolen from him, and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law refused to receive Abel Fletcher’s testimony — he was “only a Quaker.”
The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate at making a noise. “Who’s there?” called out my father; and at the answer he opened the front door, first shutting mine.
A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. “Phineas, are you here? — don’t be frightened.”
I was not — as soon as his voice reached me, John’s own familiar voice. “It’s something about the tan-yard?”
“Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; he may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir”— in answer to a loud call. “Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night’s bitter cold. Don’t stir — you’ll promise? — I’ll see after your father.”
They went out of the house together, and did not return the whole night.
That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury. Bridges were destroyed — boats carried away — houses inundated, or sapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of property was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then the flood began to turn.
It was a long waiting until they came home — my father and John. At daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!
“O father! my dear father!” and I drew him in, holding fast his hands — faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did not repel me.
“Thee’rt up early, and it’s a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back to the fire.”
His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things in Abel Fletcher.
“Father, tell me what has befallen thee?”
“Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seen fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this town, am poorer by some thousands than I went to bed last night.”
He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had been hardly earned. I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly.
“Father, never mind; it might have been worse.”
“Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in the world — save for — Where is the lad? What art thee standing outside for? Come in, John, and shut the door.”
John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. I wanted him to sit down by the fireside.
“Ay! do, lad,” said my father, kindly.
John came.
I stood between the two — afraid to ask what they had undergone; but sure, from the old man’s grave face, and the lad’s bright one — flushed all over with that excitement of danger so delicious to the young — that the peril had not been small.
“Jael,” cried my father, rousing himself, “give us some breakfast; the lad and me — we have had a hard night’s work together.”
Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese; but either did not or could not notice that the meal had been ordered for more than one.
“Another plate,” said my father, sharply.
“The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher: his breakfast is waiting there.”
My father winced — even her master was sometimes rather afraid of Jael. But conscience or his will conquered.
“Woman, do as I desired. Bring another plate, and another mug of ale.”
And so, to Jael’s great wrath, and to my great joy, John Halifax was bidden, and sat down to the same board as his master. The fact made an ineffaceable impression on our household.
After breakfast, as we sat by the fire, in the pale haze of that February morning, my father, contrary to his wont, explained to me all his losses; and how, but for the timely warning he had received, the flood might have nearly ruined him.
“So it was well John came,” I said, half afraid to say more.
“Ay, and the lad has been useful, too: it is an old head on young shoulders.”
John looked very proud of this praise, though it was grimly given. But directly after it some ill or suspicious thought seemed to come into Abel Fletcher’s mind.
“Lad,” suddenly turning round on John Halifax, “thee told me thee saw the river rising by the light of the moon. What wast THEE doing then, out o’ thy honest bed and thy quiet sleep, at eleven o’clock at night?”
John coloured violently; the quick young blood was always ready enough to rise in his face. It spoke ill for him with my father.
“Answer. I will not be hard upon thee — to-night, at least.”
“As you like, Abel Fletcher,” answered the boy, sturdily. “I was doing no harm. I was in the tan-yard.”
“Thy business
