"Why, he was the one as our Captain Gobbleall was agin," observed Cox, who had come in to hear the news.
"To be sure he was; Gobbleall is hand and glove with all the tyrums. Ha'n't he got a machine?" said Dan, in an oracular manner.
"No one will never tell me as how our captain ain't a friend o' the people," returned Seddon. "Don't he get coals reasonable for us, and didn't he head the petition for your pig, Jim, and draw it up, too?"
"Ay, but what right had he to say my missus shouldn't take it out of the parish?" said Jim Parsons. "We'd a made a couple of pounds more, if she'd been free to go her rounds, as Betty Blake did."
"Ay, that's the way of 'em. They grudges us everything what they don't give themselves," said Dan, "and little of that, too."
No one understood the spirit which desired to make people independent, and raise them above indiscriminate beggary, and Todd said, with a grim laugh, "They would not see us make a little purse for ourselves, not if they can help it."
Seddon feebly said the ladies was free enough with their gifts. "They had never had no one before to help the women folk and the children."
"Pig's wash! Much good may it do 'em," said Dan, so contemptuously that Seddon durst not utter another word in the general laugh, though he carried home a little can of milk every day, and he and others well knew the store that their wives set by the assistance of their little ones.
They knew it well enough, though they were afraid to maintain the cause of the Gobblealls before such an orator as Dan; and nothing worse than these grumblings took place all harvest time, where the whole families were fully employed, the men each taking a portion of the field, while their wives and children aided in the reaping and binding, and earned sums amongst them which would pay the quarter's rent, buy the pig, and provide huge boots for the father, if for no others of the family. The farmers provided substantial luncheons and suppers for the toilers in the field; and, when all was over, and the last load carried, amid joyful shouts, there was a great harvest supper at each farm, where songs were sung, dances were danced, and there was often a most unlimited quantity of beer swallowed.
No one had then thought of harvest thanksgivings; but at Greenhow there was as usual the farm supper, but with only ale enough for good and not for harm; the ladies came to hear the songs in the great farm kitchen, and the party had to break up at nine o'clock. The women, especially Mrs Mole, were glad; but the men, even the steady ones, did not like having only half an evening of it, and "such a mean sup of beer." It really was excellent strong beer-far better than the farmers' brew-but that did not matter to the discontented, who, instead of letting themselves be taken home by their wives, adjourned to the "Fox and Hounds," and there sat over their pint cups, replenished from time to time, while they discussed the captain's meanness, and listened to a dirty old newspaper, which told of the doings of Jack Swing, who was going about in Wiltshire, raising mobs, threatening farmers and squires, and destroying machines. There was much excitement among the gentry about Reform, but apparently the poor cared not about it.
To the Uphill mind, Wiltshire was as strange and distant a country as Australia, and this made little impression, so that, as the days went on, everybody went to their usual work, and there was no alarm.
"Oh no," said Mrs Carbonel, "the people here have far too much good sense to want to molest their best friends. They quite admire our threshing-machine; and see what a saving of labour it is!"
However, it was thought right to raise a body of yeomanry for the defence of the country, in case the disaffection should become more serious, and the assistance of Captain Carbonel at the county town was urgently requested to organise the members of it. He left home for a few days without the least anxiety. And Mr Harford, too, went on the Monday to attend a college meeting at Oxford, and would not return till he had visited his patient lady-love. The Selbys were away, spending the autumn at Cheltenham.
CHAPTER NINETEEN. A NIGHT JOURNEY.
"And he must post, without delay,
Along the bridge and through the dale.
And by the church and o'er the down."
Wordsworth.
John Hewlett had finished his day's work, and come home in the dusk of an October evening. He found the house hung all over with the family linen, taken in to shelter from a shower; but not before it had become damp enough to need to be put by the fire before it could be ironed or folded. His mother was moaning over it, and there was no place to sit down. He did not wonder that Jem had taken his hunch of bread and gone away with it, nor that his father was not at home; but he took off his boots at the back door, as his aunt never liked his coming into her room in them-though they were nothing to what he would have worn had he worked in the fields-and then climbed up the stairs.
Judith was sitting up in bed, with her teapot, tea-cup, and a piece of stale loaf, laid out on a tray before her; and little Judy beside her, drinking out of a cracked mug. Judith's eyes had a strange look of fright in them, but there was an air of relief when she saw Johnnie.
"Well, aunt, is that all you have got for tea?"
"Poor mother has been hindered; but never mind that," returned Judith, in a quick, agitated tone. "Judy, my dear, drink up your tea and run down to help mother, there's a dear."
"You haven't brought nothing, Johnnie," Judy lingered to ask.
"No, not I. I've worked too late to go to shop," said Johnnie.
"Go down, my dear, as I told you," said Judith, with a little unwonted tone of impatience, which made the youth certain that she had something important to tell him; and as soon as the little girl began clumping down the stairs, she held out her hand and said in the lowest of voices, "Come near, Johnnie, that you may hear." He came near; she put out her hand to pull him on his knees, so that his ear might be close to her, and whispered, "Jack Swing is coming to Greenhow to-morrow."
"The captain away! How do you know?"
"A man came and talked with your father in the back garden-just under this window. Mother had run up to shop for a bit of soap; but they thought she might come in any minute, and so went out at the back door, so that I heard them all the better."
"They never thought of that! Well?"
"They mean to come on Greenhow, ask for money and arms, break up the machine, and burn the ricks if they don't get what they want. Father said they might be sure of the Downhill men, and most of 'em here, for they all hate that there machine that is to starve poor folk in winter time; and those that were not of that way would be afraid to hold back, or they would show them the reason why."
"And the captain away. It is enough to be the death of madam and the little ones."
"That's just what I thought. Oh, Johnnie dear, can't you help to save them, and hinder it?"
"Master wouldn't go along with such doings," said John.
"I wouldn't answer for George! He's a steady man, and would do no harm if he's let alone; but he's a mortal fearsome one! No, John, there's no help for it, but that you should get over in time to fetch the captain, and let him take away the ladies, or stand up for them. He'll know what to be at!"
"But will it get father into trouble?" asked John.
"Not among so many. He's sharp enough. The captain, if he were only at home, would see how to get them away. Anyway, think of the poor ladies and the little children!"
John stood for a minute or two by the window thinking, while Judith sat up in her bed gazing at him with eager, anxious eyes; and at last he turned back, and would have spoken aloud but that she raised her hand to caution him. He knelt down again beside her, and said, "No, aunt, I couldn't rest to think of all those rough brutes of chaps from we don't know where coming and playing their rigs, and bullying the ladies, with no one to help. There was a lady frightened to death with them,-master was reading it out in the paper. Yes, I'll go and fetch the captain home to take care of them. Where is he?"
"Miss Sophy told me he was at the hotel at Minsterham with a lot of them. Have you ever been there, Johnni
e?"
"Yes. Once I went with master in the cart when he wanted a bit of mahogany wood for Mrs Goodenough's chairs. It is a long way," said Johnnie, looking wistfully at the darkening window; "but I'll do it, please God."
"Yes. Please God, and He will help you. You've had your tea. No! Well, drink up this,-it is cold enough-and take this hunch of bread. I am afraid there's nothing better to be had. And here's sixpence, in case you want a bit of food."
"I've got ninepence of my own," said John, feeling in his pocket; and though most of his pay went to his mother for his washing and board, he always kept a little back every week.
"There, then, you'd best be off, my dear lad. Keep out of sight, you know, as long as you are in the village."
Johnnie bobbed his head; and his aunt threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him, as she had not done since he was in petticoats; and then she murmured, "God bless you, my darling lad, and take care of you."
Johnnie did not feel the prayer needless, for in spite of his eighteen year, he had all a country lad's dislike of being out alone in the dark; and to this was added the sense that it was a time when evil-minded people might be about, who would certainly assault and stop him if they guessed his errand. To meet his father would make it certain that he would be seized, abused, beaten, and turned back, with the reproach of being an unnatural son-turning against his father. Of this, however, there was little chance, as Dan Hewlett was pretty certain to be either in the "Fox and Hounds" or in the "Blue Lion" collecting partisans. And Johnnie, getting out through the back door, then by the untidy garden, and over the wall of the empty pig-stye, cut out into a stubble field. He was not afraid of his mother missing him till bedtime, as it was the wont of the youths-especially of those who had comfortless homes-to wander about in parties in the evening, bat-fowling sometimes, but often in an aimless sort of way, doing little bits of mischief, and seeking diversion, which they seldom found, unless there was any solitary figure to be shouted at and startled. His father was not likely to come in till after he was turned out of the public-house; so John strode, all unseen, across the field, and through the gateway into the next. He did think of the possibilities of bringing arrest and prosecution upon his father; but this did not greatly trouble him, for at this early period no regular measures of defence had been taken against the rioters; and as they went about disguised, and did not, as a rule, threaten life, they generally escaped scot-free.
And the idea of a rude mob terrifying Mrs Carbonel to death was terrible to him. Even since the day when she had stood before him in the Sunday School at the wash-house at Greenhow, she had been his notion of all that was lovely and angelic in womanhood. She had said many a kind word to him over his work, and little Miss Mary had come and watched him with intense interest, eager chatter, and many questions when he was mending the gate.
He was obliged to go down to the bridge at Downhill so as to cross the river, but there were lights in the houses, and a sound of singing in the "Blue Lion," which made him get into the fields behind as soon as possible, though by this time it was quite dark, so that he had to guide himself as well as he could by the lights in the windows. This led to a great many wanderings and stumbles, since he did not know every field with its gates and gaps as well as he knew Uphill, so that he lost a good deal of time by blundering about, looking for a lighter space in the hedge which might or might not lead into the next field. He made his way up to the opening. It proved to be a gap, but lately mended, and he ran a couple of thorns deep into his hand before he tumbled over into a ditch.
This was a grass field, and he heard the coughings of an old sheep, and the suppressed baaings of the others, finding himself presently outside their fold. He guided himself along by the hurdles and came to deep ruts in stiff clay, but these led to a gate, and that into a narrow and muddy lane. This he knew would bring him back to the high road, and that was comparatively plain sailing.
Still there was Poppleby to go through, though not for several miles, which he tramped along, quietly enough, not meeting any one, but beginning to hear the sounds of the night-loving animals.
Owls flew about with their hootings and snappings, startling him a good deal, as much from some notions of bad luck as from wonder at first if it were a human shout. Then the lights of Poppleby were welcome to his eyes, and as they were chiefly in the upper windows he thought the town must be safe to walk through without fear of being met and stopped. Gas-lamps hardly existed then and Poppleby was all dark except for the big lamps over the public-house doors, and this was well for Johnnie, for just as he was about to pass the "Blue Lion," the door was thrown open, and a whole party came swaggering and staggering out, singing at the tops of their voices. Johnnie had time to throw himself into a garden behind a hedge, and heard them pass by, holloaing rather than singing out-
"Down, down with they machines
That takes the poor folks' bread."
There was something too about "Friends to the people and foes beware"; but what startled Johnny the most was that he knew his father's voice in the shout, and for one moment saw the light of a lantern fall across a face that could belong to no one else but his father. It could hardly be told whether, as he lay trembling there, the sight made him the more dislike his expedition, or the sound of those cries the more anxious to bring protection to his friends at Greenhow. Anyway, he had given his word to his aunt, and he must go through with it, and he fancied that he could get to Minsterham before the keepers of late hours were shut up for the night, and might return again to see how things were going, and get excused by his cousin.
Not till the shouts had died away in the distance did he venture out, and plodded once more into the darkness, under overhanging trees, meeting nothing, except one carriage, whose bright lamps came on like two fiery eyes, glowing more and more as they came nearer, and the black shadow of horses, driver, and close carriage rushed by, and left him again, deciding that it must be the doctor's chariot. Then came another long long spell, so long that he thought it must be near morning, and was surprised to hear behind him in the frosty air the church clock at Poppleby striking far too many strokes, and what he hoped had been one turned into either eleven or twelve! He hoped it was twelve.
There were the branching roads, and it was far too dark to read the sign-post, so that he could only take the one that seemed to him the most likely; but when he had gone what might be any distance on the road, it seemed to get narrower and rougher than he expected, and then came an opening as if on to a common, such as he was sure did not exist on the way to Minsterham. He must have got upon the Elchester road, and there was nothing for it but to turn back. However, there was a pale brightness showing in the sky, and the moon came up, an old moon without very much light in her, but she was a great comfort to him, and told him how the night was going.
On and on, and then there was a sound of trampling of horses and of wheels coming nearer, great light eyes growing larger and larger, and the mail-coach flashed and thundered by with the four horses, and presently, far-away he could hear the guard's horn announcing the approach to a wayside inn where the horses were changed; but by the time Johnnie had made his weary way up to the place, it was far-away on the road, indeed, he saw the lamps flash as it went up Wearyfoot Hill, but all the inn was silent again by that time even at the stables, and the hotel was a dark mass against the sky-the only light in it the moon reflected from the windows. A dog barked as he went past, but he kept far upon the other side of the road and was reassured by hearing the rattling of a chain.
Wearyfoot Hill! Yes, it was Wearyfoot to him, as he dragged up it. He could not remember whether it was four or five miles from Minsterham. There was a milestone standing on the bank, and he tried to read it, but the moon would not reveal more than the large initial letters of L for London and M for Minsterham, and he sat down at last and leaned against the stone, trying to trace out the figure above Minsterham with his fingers.
Behold, though four and five were both ringing in
his head, he must have fallen asleep, for he felt quite cold and stiff, the moon was much higher in the sky, the stars were paler, and there was a mist all round. He rose up, ashamed, and shook himself, colder and more uncomfortable than before, but feeling it was a new day, and that, were it four miles or five, he was now near Minsterham. He said his morning prayers as he tramped along, stamping to warm his feet, and recollected that Aunt Judith would be lying awake praying for him. He found that when the first discomfort of awakening had passed off, he really was the better for his short sleep, and marched on more vigorously, presently hearing a cock begin to crow, and birds to twitter. Dawn was beginning, presently a lark sprang up and began to send down a wonderful cheerful song, that quite raised Johnnie's spirits; then over the quiet misty fields came the deep note of the great Minsterham clock pealing out, what was only a half hour, but John knew that it would be much louder in his ears next time it spoke.
A waggon lumbered by, and then a labourer or two going to their work, but John kept out of their way, not wanting to be asked questions; there began to be red in the eastern mist, the clock sounded again, and from the slope of the hill, the spires of the churches in the town seemed to be rising out of a great lake of woolly mist. The clock went through all the four quarters, then solemnly told out five strokes-Johnnie's weary night journey was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY. THE ROYAL HOTEL.
"O haste to aid, ere aid be vain."
Scott.
Though Johnnie's journey was over, his troubles were not at an end. When he came to the first houses, the way seemed still to lengthen out before him, and everything appeared to be still asleep, though the daylight was coming in as brightly as a foggy morning allowed. Nor did he know his way; he had only driven to a timber-yard once with his cousin, and dined with him at a little public-house close by, and had no more than a dim recollection of shops, which looked quite different now, with all their shutters up. Only a milk-cart, coming in with full tins, seemed to give a sign that people would want their breakfast some time or other; and next appeared a very black sweep with his cart, and two miserable little bare-footed boys running beside it, as black as the silhouette over Mrs Thorpe's chimney.
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