John Halifax, Gentleman

ing hand-inhand, and no one to stay them. For between the upper and lower classes there was a great gulf fixed; the rich ground the faces of the poor, the poor hated, yet meanly succu

sonally, they touched me not, or, at least, only kept fluttering like evil birds outside the dear home-tabernac

. Jael complained in an under-key of stinted housekeeping, or boasted aloud of her own ingenuity in making ends meet: and my father’s brow grew continually heavier, gra

y grain—Abel Fletcher having added to his tanning business the flour-mill hard by, whose lazy whirr was so familiar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these journeys my fa

d walk in openly, honourably, proudly, he never would reenter my father’s doors. Twice only he had written to me—on my two birthdays—my father himself giving me

y, or gardener’s boy; and being “cute,” and a “scholard,” was greatly patronized by Jael. I noticed, too, that the said Jem, whenever he came in my way, in house or garden, was the most capita

ften told me, when she came home from her afternoon walks. “It was piteous to see them,” she s

n the last. But Jael, though she said nothing, often looked at the flour-mill and shook her head. And after one market-day—when she came in rather “flustered,” saying there had been a mob outside the mill, until “that young

St. Mary’s Lane, where, far away from her own kindred and people, my poor young mother had been laid,—on this one Sunday I began to see that things were going wrong. Abel Fletcher sat at dinner wearing the heavy, hard look

stretch of meadow, pasture, and harvest land. Noticing, too, more as a pretty bit in the landscape than as a fact of vita

woman-kind, was now numbered the lad Jem. That Abel Fletcher was not quite himself was proved by the fact th

“Woman, was it thee who

dignified a

ad enough for absolute necessity. Our neighbours shall not say that Abel Fletcher has flour

a penny of thine. And for myself, do I not pity the poor? On First-day a

front like a pouter pigeon. Alas! its glory and starch were alike departed; it now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and yellowish musli

ried she angrily. “Preach not to othe

nted to her master’s pate, where his long-worn powder was scarcely distinguishable from the

ver of wrath—“while the poor folk be starving in scores about Norton Bury, and the rich fo

er 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 su

e mill would make up for it. But if it will not it will not. Wou

the

that lad has advised and begged me to do these weeks past.

I asked, rather

well enough—

never let go one thread of hope which co

e I saw nothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping over the smooth grass; heard nothing but the soft chime, hour a

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 be

d mob. Even the stolid, starved patience of our Norton Bury poor had come to an end at

ism,” but to get food for themselves, their wives, and children. God only knows what madness was in each individual heart of that concourse

d always abundance of small-pox and fevers to keep the poor down numerically. J

re is my

nd looked very much

ust go at once, a

y put on her cloak and hood. Of course,

ower down the river. I asked of a poor frightened bark-cutter if she knew where my father was? She thought he

had not been in the tan-yard for nearly three years. I di

He could not surely be so insane as to go to the mill—and John was

een the tan-pits. I went to the end of the yard, and

ere John and I had once sat as lads. He must now b

eagerly for any sounds abroad in the town;

ard. No, it was not my father’s—it was firmer

ine

oh

nd proudly I looked up in his face—the still boyis

es in our joy, and then he let

is your

Gone for the sol

ver do that. I must go an

dear

, “not while your father forbi

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

s listening—ay, listening—and to John Halifax! But whatever the argument was, it failed to move him. Greatly tro

r 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 you

ather, with a bitte

his property, and need not do what he

ken stick firmly, as firmly as his will, and taking h

arm—“Father

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

n held me back as I w

e he must. Please God, I’ll take care

o brief for argument, so the discussion soon ended. He foll

s we went, in silence. When we reached the spot it was deserted; but further down th

whispered John; “we’ll get in

let us into the mill by a small door—the only entrance, and that was

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

could m

hn, “it was for his

l Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gol

t might have routed them all—but my father’s doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their forc

e bags!—Us mu

thy corn, Ab

y father, leaning out of the upper window; while a sound, h

rly. “Thank you—thank you, Mr. Fletc

?” said my fathe

you—not to save your life

this bag,” was

o great for John’s young arm, ner

panes through—it matters not.

ll into the river. You cannot

o the window,

remained

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 t

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, clutc

, young man as he was, I had never yet heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It

physical pain. The paroxysm of anger past, he, ever a just man, could not fail to

minute he listened in silence to the shou

Not a second to lose—they

t t

—and Phine

ther! He r

e all drawn and white with pain; but he did not speak

. The little door was on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the opposite shore, where the rioters had now collected. In

my arm? we mu

ther, as John led

e you. Your life’s not safe an hour—unle

negative. The stern old Quake

Come to my room. You will be secure there. U

t time in his life, he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So, after this long interval of time, I

No one saw us but Jem, and Jem’s honour was safe as a rock. I knew

g his cloak round me—“you must both be very still. You will likely have to spend the night

dedly, yet respectfully, John spoke,

r in his old way—“you will take care of yourse

hear that tender accent, so familiar once. All was

-bye—I mu

d my father, r

l. No, don’t hold me, Phineas. I run no risk: everybody knows me. Besides,

and I heard his step descending the staircase

ousetops, which met in the old angles, with the same blue peeps between. I half forgot all the day’s events—it seemed but t

c into a cosy bed-chamber. One corner was full of shelves, laden with books, chiefly of a scientific and practical nature. John’s taste did not lead him

od on the ledge of the roof, from which the field of view must have been satisfactory enough to the young astronomer. Other fragments of skilful handiwork, chiefly meant for machinery on a Lilliputian scale, were strewn

oticing that my father was awake, and that

self. “He has useful hands and a clear hea

d to open the window, we heard unusual and ominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwar

d no questions—not even about his mill. From his look, sometimes, I fancied he yet beheld in fancy these starving men fighting over the precious food, destroyed so wilfully—nay, w

erved that “master was looking sprack a

upposed his mother

; and she sees ’un made comfortable. Not that

busy about

teach Charley and me a bit o’ the Readamadeasy.” (Reading-made-easy, I suppose, John’s hopefu

eas,” muttered my father, t

a whisper, if Jem had any idea w

about. He was going to stop all night, either at y

or in these times well we knew w

come back—that lad Halifax. There’s a score of my men at hand—Wilkes,

shoes; but fell back, sick with exhaustion a

okenly, “thy old father is

r at the flicker of the long-wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some incendiary fire—doubtless our

t wore away.<