John Halifax, Gentleman

es, and our light had gone out—after midnight I heard by my father’s breathing that

y weak body and timid mind became strong and active, able to com

at an end. I left him, and crept down-stairs into Sally Watkins’ kitchen. It was silent, only the faithful warde

pering; for Jem, a big lad of fifteen, was the most tender-hearted fellow ima

is Mr.

, though—on’y he says: ‘Jem, you stop ’ere wi’ they’” (point

vident nothing would move him thence: so he was as safe a guard over my poor old father’s slumber as the mas

oat and hat—I’m goin

took the said garments from him, and unbolted the door. At

, Mr. Hal

to look for

y did not strike the faithful Jem. He stood on the doo

sir; but Mr. Halifax said, ‘Jem,

h a sullen determination, as if he would have kep

ioters. There was no sign of any such, except that under one of the three oil-lamps that lit the night-darkness at Norton Bury lay a few smouldering hanks

ere was no one in the street—no one except the Abbey-watchman lounging in

riot

s mill; they may b

think t

in the town help him;

er; the law don’

ere idle names to Nonconformists of every kind; and all they knew of the glori

rch-yard, until I saw, shining against the boles of the chestnut-trees, a red light. It was one of

und. But they were desperate; they had come up the Coltham road so quietly, that, except this faint murmur, neither I nor any one in the town could have told

an bean’t there.”—“Nobody know

s well then that I appeared as Jem Watkins. But no one noticed me, except one man, who skul

w for the rosin!

med to know; but I missed my man from behind the tree—nor found him till after the angry throng had rushed on to the nearest lamp. One of them was left be

oh

eside me in a bound

you are safe; no one has harmed you

my friend, whom I had m

heart felt as mine,

te’s time. I must have you sa

is th

s; she has braved the fellows once to-night,

the m

ur father did not know. I have been going to and fro all night, between there and here, wait

again securely, mounting guard behind it with something that looked very like my father’s pisto

se, and heard the threatening murmur of voices and feet outside. “Br

nd followed John obedie

—thee art a sensible lad, John H

cure against fire? For th

mean it,” repeated John, as the cry of

house,—but it fell harmless against the staunch oaken door, and blazed itself out on our stone steps. All it did wa

I, recoiled at th

window, Jael;” and before I could hinder,

oice a wave of up-turned fac

u are about? To burn down a

h, and then a s

dy’ll get hanged for

eeth. “We must e’en fight, as Mordecai’s people fo

ow-closed window, against which more than one blazing torch b

e house she would have taken under less critical circum

ad, as day after day, and year after year, we Christians generally do read, such plain words as these—“Lov

is hand on the Book, thinking. Th

t new. Whether it succeeds or no, you’ll bear me witness to your father tha

rew up the window w

want to spe

sed their aim. The rioters were too far off—our spiked iron railings, eight feet high or more, being

he was not hurt. Terrified, I i

aid he, gently. “Don’t be afraid—I shall come to no harm

ar him for the bellowings outside

rn ’em out! They

lose—stop—let me think—

him with a kind of stern delight. Certa

purpose, had unbolted the hall-door, and stood

I followed. A pillar sheltered me—I do not th

ticed, or clearly understood it, till the next lighted torch showed them

felt that for the moment he was safe. The

lulled, except for one brief minute.

akers.”—“No, he bean’t.”—“Burn ’un

big man, who had made himself very prominent

ught he was going to hurl it back again, but he did not; he only threw it down, and sta

ed to the gate and ca

b Baines? I am sor

ye,

do you

We wants Abel Flet

rtainly not

arose, and again Jacob Baines seem

as “Don’t hurt the lad.”—“He were kind to my lad, he were.”—“No, he be a real gentleman.”—“No, he com

ever know what it was to

any a

ed, struck a great hush into the

e won’t hurt ‘ee!

e ashamed to come in the night

tened, as it were by compulsion, to the clear,

d not sell you, or give you, his wheat. Even so—it was HIS wh

ere is always a lurking sense of rude

ats, too. Now you all know Mr. Fletcher; you are hi

grily; but John went on speaking,

o Mr. Fletcher’s house I should most certainly have shot. But I’d rather not shoot you, poor, star

compassionate accent, nor

ried Jacob Baines: “us be starved a’m

d shake his hair back, with that pleased gesture I rem

thing to eat, would you

re fighting for no principle, true or false, only for bare life.

could obtain a hearing. “You are Norton Bury folk, I know you. I could get every o

to eat; give us

to him out of the parlour-window. She obeyed—I marvel now to think of it—but she implicitly obeyed. Only I heard h

ome in!” and he

magined, in spite of the noise they had made. But two score of

at, cooked or raw, loaves, vegetables, meal; all came alike, and were clutched, gnawed, an

el; bring

shoute

but water. I’ll have no drunkar

stol. But it was hardly needed. They were all cowed by a mightier wea

turned sick and faint, and dropped down even with bread in their mouths, unable to swallow it. Others gorged themselves to the full, and then lay along the steps, supine as satisfied

ed, and for the fir

wrong of you; but th

l Fletcher’s son. I stood safe by J

oking round with a smile, “

” they a

added—“Tha

his summer morning”—and he pointed to the dawn just reddening in the sky—“this quiet, blessed summer

thankee for it; but what’ll become o’ the little ‘uns at home? I say, Mr. Ha

nce very sad. Another of the m

p on; I doan’t grudge ‘ee getting on; you was born for a

? If you had come to him and said, ‘Master, times are hard, we can’t live upon our wages,’ he

savage fellow, who had been the ringleader—the same, too, who had

hese days. Oh! Mr. Halifax, may ‘ee ne’er want a meal o’ good meat for the mi

n, I’l

letcher’s son, to a plan that had come into his mind. It was to write orders, w

your father

nk he

oes not give some, he may lose all. But he would not do it for fear of

on, concentrativeness, and quickness, with which he first seemed to arrange and then execute his ideas. He possessed to the full that “business” faculty, so frequ

ders, John suddenly stopp

y s

our father might th

on? after

e the pen. It is your pa

bey

hy, there isn’t another gentleman in Norton Bury, who, if you had come to burn HIS house down, would not have had the constables or the soldiers, have shot down one-half of you

” said Jacob B

e Abel Fletcher is a Q

waking up the echoes down Norton Bury streets; which, of a suret

d a chair for him—worthy soul! she was wiping her old eyes. He sat down, shiver

d, I’m glad; gla

than

eed; tha

nute or two, then rose up pa

and fetch you

woke. The daylight shone on his face—it looked ten years older

emember. Where is my s

nd almost as if it had been a child’s feeble h

ot hurt? No

or is either the house

azed. “How h

. Or, stay—better wait

ts on John’s behaviour; he would not have liked it; and, besides, the f

broad brim close down over his eyes. Not even when I told him of the flour we had promised in his name, the

asked him if he

satis

his knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the face except the ri

ntly, almost as a so

still? Could I help

up, and slowly

d lad, and a kind lad

all the words in the world coul

one, two years back, when we two had stood, exhausted and trembling, before that

down in the very seat, in the very room, w

ss rankled in the young man’s spirit

aid my fathe

lcome; not

art we

ers closed and unclosed nervously. My father, too, sat leaning his head on his two han

ess. “What I once did, was only justice—or I then believed so. What I have d

ent

thee wilt be able to set up for thyself, or I may take thee into partnership—we’ll see. But”—and he looked at me, then sternly, nay, fiercely, into Joh

s the sole

, not so far apart as some may deem—He knows whethe