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,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.
