John Halifax, Gentleman Part 71

The lad, who looked miserable and scared, opened his mouth with a stupid "Eh?"

Ursula repeated the question.

"I wants Jacob Baines."

"You'll find him with the rest, in front of that hay-rick, over his pipe and ale."

The lad was off like a shot.

"He is from Kingswell, I think. Can anything be the matter, John?"

"I will go and see. No, boys, no more games--I will be back presently."

He went, apparently rather anxious--as was easy to find out by only a glance at the face of Ursula. Soon she rose and went after him. I followed her.

We saw, close by the hay-rick, a group of men, angrily talking. The gossiping mothers were just joining them. Far off, in the field, the younger folk were still dancing merrily down their long line of "Thread-the-needle."

As we approached, we heard sobbing from one or two women, and loud curses from the men.

"What's amiss?" said Mr. Halifax, as he came in the midst--and both curses and sobbings were silenced. All began a confused tale of wrongs. "Stop, Jacob--I can't make it out."

"This lad ha' seen it all. And he bean't a liar in big things--speak up, Billy."

Somehow or other, we extracted the news brought by ragged Billy, who on this day had been left in charge of the five dwellings rented of Lord Luxmore. During the owners' absence there had been a distraint for rent; every bit of the furniture was carried off; two or three aged and sick folk were left lying on the bare floor--and the poor families here would have to go home to nothing but their four walls.

Again, at repet.i.tion of the story, the women wept and the men swore.

"Be quiet," said Mr. Halifax again. But I saw that his honest English blood was boiling within him. "Jem"--and Jem Watkins started, so unusually sharp and commanding was his master's tone--"Saddle the mare--quick. I shall ride to Kingswell, and thence to the sheriff's."

"G.o.d bless 'ee, sir!" sobbed Jacob Baines' widowed daughter-in-law, who had left, as I overheard her telling Mrs. Halifax, a sick child to-day at home.

Jacob Baines took up a heavy k.n.o.bbed stick which happened to be leaning against the hay-rick, and eyed it with savage meaning.

"Who be they as has done this, master?"

"Put that bludgeon down, Jacob."

The man hesitated--met his master's determined eye--and obeyed him, meek as a lamb.

"But what is us to do, sir?"

"Nothing. Stay here till I return--you shall come to no harm. You will trust me, my men?"

They gathered round him--those big, fierce-looking fellows, in whom was brute force enough to attack or resist anything--yet he made them listen to reason. He explained as much as he could of the injustice which had apparently been done them--injustice which had overstepped the law, and could only be met by keeping absolutely within the law.

"It is partly my fault, that I did not pay the rent to-day--I will do so at once. I will get your goods back to-night, if I can. If not, you hale fellows can rough it, and we'll take the women and children in till morning--can we not, love?"

"Oh, readily!" said the mother. "Don't cry, my good women. Mary Baines, give me your baby. Cheer up, the master will set all right!"

John smiled at her in fond thanks--the wife who hindered him by no selfishness or weakness, but was his right hand and support in everything. As he mounted, she gave him his whip, whispering--

"Take care of yourself, mind. Come back as soon as you can."

And lingeringly she watched him gallop down the field.

It was a strange three hours we pa.s.sed in his absence. The misty night came down, and round about the house crept wailing the loud September wind. We brought the women into the kitchen--the men lit a fire in the farm-yard, and sat sullenly round it. It was as much as I could do to persuade Guy and Edwin to go to bed, instead of watching that "beautiful blaze." There, more than once, I saw the mother standing, with a shawl over her head, and her white gown blowing, trying to reason into patience those poor fellows, savage with their wrongs.

"How far have they been wronged, Phineas? What is the strict law of the case? Will any harm come to John for interfering?"

I told her, no, so far as I knew. That the cruelty and illegality lay in the haste of the distraint, and in the goods having been carried off at once, giving no opportunity of redeeming them. It was easy to grind the faces of the poor, who had no helper.

"Never mind; my husband will see them righted--at all risks."

"But Lord Luxmore is his landlord."

She looked troubled. "I see what you mean. It is easy to make an enemy. No matter--I fear not. I fear nothing while John does what he feels to be right--as I know he will; the issue is in higher hands than ours or Lord Luxmore's. But where's Muriel?"

For as we sat talking, the little girl--whom nothing could persuade to go to bed till her father came home--had slipped from my hand, and gone out into the bl.u.s.tering night. We found her standing all by herself under the walnut-tree.

"I wanted to listen for father. When will he come?"

"Soon, I hope," answered the mother, with a sigh. "You must not stay out in the cold and the dark, my child."

"I am not cold, and I know no dark," said Muriel, softly.

And thus so it was with her always. In her spirit, as in her outward life, so innocent and harmless, she knew no dark. No cold looks--no sorrowful sights--no winter--no age. The hand laid upon her clear eyes pressed eternal peace down on her soul. I believe she was, if ever human being was, purely and entirely happy. It was always sweet for us to know this--it is very sweet still, Muriel, our beloved!

We brought her within the house, but she persisted in sitting in her usual place, on the door-sill, "waiting" for her father. It was she who first heard the white gate swing, and told us he was coming.

Ursula ran down to the stream to meet him.

When they came up the path, it was not alone--John was helping a lame old woman, and his wife carried in her arms a sick child, on whom, when they entered the kitchen, Mary Baines threw herself in a pa.s.sion of crying.

"What have they been doing to 'ee, Tommy?--'ee warn't like this when I left 'ee. Oh, they've been killing my lad, they have!"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Halifax; "we'll get him well again, please G.o.d.

Listen to what the master's saying."

He was telling to the men who gathered round the kitchen-door the results of his journey.

It was--as I had expected from his countenance the first minute he appeared--fruitless. He had found all things at Kingswell as stated.

Then he rode to the sheriff's; but Sir Ralph was absent, sent for to Luxmore Hall on very painful business.

"My friends," said the master, stopping abruptly in his narrative, "for a few hours you must make up your minds to sit still and bear it.

Every man has to learn that lesson at times. Your landlord has--I would rather be the poorest among you than Lord Luxmore this night. Be patient; we'll lodge you all somehow. To-morrow I will pay your rent--get your goods back--and you shall begin the world again, as my tenants, not Lord Luxmore's."

"Hurrah!" shouted the men, easily satisfied; as working people are, who have been used all their days to live from hand to mouth, and to whom the present is all in all. They followed the master, who settled them in the barn; and then came back to consult with his wife as to where the women could be stowed away. So, in a short time, the five homeless families were cheerily disposed of--all but Mary Baines and her sick boy.