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 son," said he, turning on me one of his "iron looks," as I used to call them—tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, and had settled into a hard, moulded mass, of which nothing 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,
