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
