The evening passed very slowly.My father,exhausted with pain,lay on the bed and dozed.I sat watching the sky over the housetops,which met in the old angles,with the same blue peeps between.Ihalf forgot all the day's events--it seemed but two weeks,instead of two years ago,that John and I had sat in this attic-window,conning our Shakspeare for the first time.
Ere twilight I examined John's room.It was a good deal changed;the furniture was improved;a score of ingenious little contrivances made the tiny attic 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 into the current literature of the day:Cowper,Akenside,and Peter Pindar were alike indifferent to him.I found among his books no poet but Shakspeare.
He evidently still practised his old mechanical arts.There was lying in the window a telescope--the cylinder made of pasteboard--into which the lenses were ingeniously fitted.A rough telescope-stand,of common deal,stood 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 about the floor;and on a chair,just as he had left it that morning,stood a loom,very small in size,but perfect in its neat workmanship,with a few threads already woven,making some fabric not so very unlike cloth.
I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father was awake,and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise.
"The lad works hard,"said he,half to himself."He has useful hands and a clear head."I smiled,but took no notice whatever.
Evening began to close in--less peacefully than usual--over Norton Bury;for,whenever I ventured to open the window,we heard unusual and ominous sounds abroad in the town.I trembled inwardly.But John was prudent,as well as brave:besides,"everybody knew him."Surely he was safe.
Faithfully,at supper-time,Jem entered.But he could tell us no news;he had kept watch all the time on the staircase by desire of "Mr.Halifax"--so he informed me.My father asked 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,wickedly.Heaven forgive me,his son,if I too harshly use the word;for I think,till the day of his death,that cruel sight never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor father.
Jem seemed talkatively inclined.He observed that "master was looking sprack agin;and warn't this a tidy room,like?"I praised it;and supposed his mother was better off now?
"Ay,she be.Mr.Halifax pays her a good rent;and she sees 'un made comfortable.Not that he wants much,being out pretty much all day.""What is he busy about of nights?"
"Larning,"said Jem,with an awed look."He's terrible wise.But for all that,sometimes he'll teach Charley and me a bit o'the Readamadeasy."(Reading-made-easy,I suppose,John's hopeful pupil meant.)"He's very kind to we,and to mother too.Her says,that her do,Mr.Halifax--""Send the fellow away,Phineas,"muttered my father,turning his face to the wall.
I obeyed.But first I asked,in a whisper,if Jem had any idea when "Mr.Halifax"would be back?
"He said,maybe not till morning.Them's bad folk about.He was going to stop all night,either at your house or at the tan-yard,for fear of a BLAZE."The word made my father start;for in these times well we knew what poor folk meant by "a blaze.""My house--my tan-yard--I must get up this instant--help me.He ought to come back--that lad Halifax.There's a score of my men at hand--Wilkes,and Johnson,and Jacob Baines--I say,Phineas--but thee know'st nothing."He tried to dress,and to drag on his heavy shoes;but fell back,sick with exhaustion and pain.I made him lie down again on the bed.
"Phineas,lad,"said he,brokenly,"thy old father is getting as helpless as thee."So we kept watch together,all the night through;sometimes dozing,sometimes waking up at some slight noise below,or at the flicker of the long-wicked candle,which fear converted into the glare of some incendiary fire--doubtless our own home.Now and then I heard my father mutter something about "the lad being safe."I said nothing.
I only prayed.
Thus the night wore away.