could afterwards alter one form, or erase one line —“My son, no opposition. Any who try that with me fail. If those fellows had waited two days more I would have sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings the quarter; now they shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom another time. Get thee safe home, Phineas, my son; Jael, go thou likewise.”
But neither went. John held me back as I was following my father.
“He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please God, I’ll take care no harm touches him — but you go home.”
That was not to be thought of. Fortunately, the time was too brief for argument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my father and I followed him. For Jael, she disappeared.
There was a private path from the tan-yard to the mill, along the river-side; by this we went, in silence. When we reached the spot it was deserted; but further down the river we heard a scuffling, and saw a number of men breaking down our garden wall.
“They think he is gone home,” whispered John; “we’ll get in here the safer. Quick, Phineas.”
We crossed the little bridge; John took a key out of his pocket, and let us into the mill by a small door — the only entrance, and that was barred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such times.
The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery room, the sole flooring of which was the dark, dangerous stream. We stood there a good while — it was the safest place, having no windows. Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. There were very many; enough, in these times, to make a large fortune by — a cursed fortune wrung out of human lives.
“Oh! how could my father —”
“Hush!” whispered John, “it was for his son’s sake, you know.”
But while we stood, and with a meaning 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.”
