Kitabı oku: «The Carbonels», sayfa 11
Chapter Twenty Two.
Great Mary and Little Mary
“Who’ll plough their fields? Who’ll do their drudgery for them? And work like horses to give them the harvest?”
—Southey.
Mrs Carbonel, having seen her two little ones laid down for their midday nap, was sitting down to write a note to her husband, while Sophia was gone to give her lesson at the school, when there came a tap to the drawing-room window, and looking up she saw Tirzah Todd’s brown face and her finger making signs to her. She felt displeased, and rose up, saying, “Why, Tirzah, if you want me, you had better come to the back door!”
“Lady, you must come out this way. ’Tis Jack Swing a-coming, ma’am—yes, he is—with a whole lot of mischievous folks, to break the machine and burn the ricks, and what not. Hush, don’t ye hear ’em a hollering atop of the hill? They be gathering at the ‘Fox and Hounds,’ and I just couldn’t abear that you and the dear little children should be scared like, and the captain away. So,” as Mrs Carbonel’s lips moved in thanks and alarm, “if you would come with me, lady, and take the children, and come out this way, through the garden, where you wouldn’t meet none of ’em, I’ll take you down the short way to Farmer Pearson’s, or wherever you liked, where you wouldn’t hear nothing till ’tis over.”
“Oh, Tirzah! You are very good. A fright would be a most fearful shock, and might be quite fatal to my little Mary. But oh, my sister and the servants and the Pucklechurches, I can’t leave them.”
“My Hoggie was at home with the baby, and I sent her off to see Miss Sophy at the school, and tell her to come up to Pearson’s.”
“But the Pucklechurches?”
“Nobody will hurt them! Nobody means to hurt you,” said Tirzah, “I knows that! My man wouldn’t ha’ gone with them, but so as they promised faithful not to lay a finger on you, so you give ’em the money and the guns; but men don’t think of the dear little gal as is so nesh, so I thought I’d warn you to have her out of the way. Bless my heart, they’ll be coming. That was nigher.”
Mrs Carbonel’s mind went through many thoughts in those few moments. She could not bear to desert her husband’s property and people in this stress, and yet she knew that to expose her tender little girl to the terrors of a violent mob would be fatal. And she decided on accepting Tirzah’s offer of safety and shelter. She ran upstairs, put on her bonnet, took her husband’s most essential papers out of his desk and pocketed them, together with some sovereigns and bank-notes, then quietly went into the nursery, where she desired Rachel Mole to put on her bonnet, take up the baby, and follow her, and herself was putting on little Mary’s small straw hat and cape, telling her that she was coming with mamma for a walk to see Mrs Pearson’s old turkey cock, when Mrs Pucklechurch burst in with two or three maids behind her.
“Oh, ma’am, Jack Swing’s coming and all the rabble rout. What ever shall we do?” was the gasping, screaming cry.
“Only be quiet. There’s nothing for any one to fear. If they do harm, it is to things, not people. I only go away for the sake of this child! No, Mary dear, nobody will hurt you. You are going for a nice early walk with mamma and baby and Rachel. You,”—to the maids—“may follow if you will feel safer so, but I do not believe there is any real danger to you. Betty Pucklechurch, please tell your husband that I do beg him not to resist. It would be of no use, his master would not wish it, only if he will take care that the poor cattle and horses come to no harm.”
“He have gone to drive ’em off already to Longacre,” said Betty. “I tell’d he, he’d better stand by master’s goods, but he be a man for his cows, he be.”
“Quite right of him,” said Mrs Carbonel. “Have you baby’s bottle, Rachel? Now, Mary dear, here’s your piece of seed cake.”
The shouts and singing sounded alarmingly as if approaching by this time, and little Mary listened and said, “Funny mens singing.”
It was very loud as the fugitives gained the verandah, where Tirzah waited with an angry light in her black eyes. “Oh! won’t I give it to Joe Todd,” she cried, “for turning against the best friend Hoglah ever had—or me either.”
Mary, carrying her little Mary, and trying to keep a smile that might reassure her, followed Tirzah across the orchard on the opposite side of the house. They had to scramble through a gap in the hedge; Tirzah went over first, breaking it down further, then the baby was put into her arms, and Rachel came next, receiving Mary from her mother, who was telling her how funny it was to get over poor papa’s fence, all among the apple trees, and here was Don jumping after them. Don, the Clumber spaniel, wanted a bit of Mary’s cake, and this and her mother’s jump down from the hedge and over the ditch, happily distracted her attention, and made her laugh, while the three maids were screaming that here were the rascals, hundreds of them a-coming up the drive; they saw them over the apple trees when on the top of the hedge, and heard their horrid shouts. “Oh, the nasty villains, with black faces and all!”
Mrs Carbonel dreaded these cries almost as much as the mob itself for her delicate child, and went on talking to her and saying all the nursery rhymes that would come into her head, walking as fast as she could without making her pace felt, though the little maid—albeit small and thin for five years old—was a heavy weight to carry for some distance over a rough stubble field for unaccustomed arms. Tirzah had the baby, who happily was too young to be even disturbed in his noontide sleep, and Rachel Mole had tarried with the other maids, unable to resist her curiosity to see what was doing at the farm since they were out of reach.
The fugitives reached a stile which gave entrance to a rough pathway, through a copse, and it was only here, when her mother sat down on the trunk of a tree taking breath with a sense of safety, that little Mary began to cry and sob. “Oh, we are lost in the wood! Please, please, mamma, get out of it. Let us go home.”
“No indeed, Mary, we aren’t lost! See, here’s the path. We are going to see Mrs Pearson’s pussy cat and her turkey.”
“I don’t want to. Oh! the wolves will come and eat us up,” and she clung round her mother in real terror.
“Wolves! No, indeed! There are no wolves in England, darling, here or anywhere.”
“Rachel said the wolves would come if I went in here.”
“Then Rachel was very silly. No, there are no wolves. No, Mary, only—see! the little rabbit. Come along, take hold of my hand, we will soon get out. Never mind; God is taking care of us. Come, we will say our hymn as we go on.”
The mother said her verse, and Mary tried to follow, in a voice quivering with sobs. Those imaginary wolves were a far greater alarm and trouble to her than the real riot at her father’s farm. She clung round her mother’s gown, and there was no pacifying her but by taking her up in arms.
“Let me take her, ma’am,” said Tirzah Todd, making over the sleeping Edmund to his mother. “Come, little lady, I’ll carry you so nice.”
“No, no! Go away, ugly woman,” cried Mary ungratefully, flapping at her with her hands in terror at the brown face and big black eyes.
“Oh, naughty, naughty Mary,” sighed the mother, “when Tirzah is so good, and wants to help you! Don’t be a naughty child!”
But the word naughty provoked such a fit of crying that there was nothing for it but for Mrs Carbonel to pick the child up and struggle on as best she could, soothing her terror at the narrow paths and the unknown way, and the mysterious alarm of the woodlands, as well, perhaps, as the undefined sense of other people’s dread and agitation. However, the crying was quiet now, and the sounds of tumult at the farm were stifled by the trees, so that after a time—which seemed terribly long—the party emerged into an open meadow, whence they could see the gate leading to the high road, and beyond that the roof of Mrs Pearson’s house.
But something else was to be seen far up the road. There was the flash of the sun from helmets! The Yeomanry were coming!
“There’s papa!” cried Mrs Carbonel. “Papa in his pretty silver dress. Run on, run on, Mary, and see him.”
Mary was let down, still drawing long sobs as she half ran, half toddled on, allowing herself to be pulled by Tirzah Todd’s free hand, while her mother sped on to the gate, just in time for the astonished greeting of one of the little troop.
“Mrs Carbonel! What?”
And the next moment her husband was off his horse and by her side with anxious inquiries.
“Yes, yes, dear Edmund! We are all safe. Good Tirzah came to warn us. Make haste! They are at the farm. We shall be at Mrs Pearson’s. She,” (pointing to Tirzah) “sent to fetch Sophy from school. She’ll be there. Here are the children all safe.”
“Papa, papa,” cried little Mary, feeling his silver-laced collar, and stroking his face as he kissed her.
And from that time she was comforted though he had to leave her again at once. She had felt a father’s arm.
“Tirzah Todd!” exclaimed Captain Carbonel, “I shall never forget what you have done for us. Never!”
Tirzah curtsied, but said, “You’ll be good to my man, sir?”
It was but a moment’s halt ere Captain Carbonel rode on to overtake the rest of the troop, who, on hearing that the outrage was really taking place, were riding on rapidly.
Mrs Carbonel had not far to go before reaching the hospitable farm, where Mrs Pearson came out to receive her with many a “Dear, dear!” and “Dear heart!” and entreaty that she and the dear children would make themselves at home.
But Sophy was not there, and had not been heard of, and Mrs Carbonel, in her anxiety, could not rest on the sofa in the parlour, after she had persuaded little Mary into eating her long-delayed dinner of some mutton hastily minced for her, and had seen her safely asleep and cuddling a kitten. Mrs Pearson was only too happy to have the baby to occupy her long-disused wicker cradle, and Tirzah had rushed off to the scene of action as soon as she had seen the lady safely housed.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The Machine
“In bursts of outrage spread your judgment wide,
And to your wrath cry out, ‘Be thou our guide.’”
Wordsworth.
Sophy was endeavouring to make the children remember who Joseph was, and thinking them unusually stupid, idle, and talkative, when, without ceremony, the door was banged open, and in tramped Hoglah Todd, with the baby in her arms, her sun-bonnet on her neck, and her black hair sticking wildly out. “Please, ma’am,” she began, “Jack Swing is up a-breaking the machine, and mother says you are to go to Farmer Pearson’s to be safe out of the way!”
“Hoggie Todd,” began Mrs Thorpe, “that’s not the way to come into school,” but she could not finish, for voices broke out above the regulation school hush: “Yes, yes, father said,” and “Our Jem said,” and it ended in “Jack Swing’s a-coming to break up the machine.” Only one or two said, “Mother said as how it was a shame, and they’d get into trouble.”
“Your mother sent you?” said Sophy to Hoglah.
“Yes, ma’am. She’s gone up herself to tell madam, and take she to Pearson’s, and her said you’d better go there, back ways, or else stay here with governess till ’twas quieted down.”
“Hark! They are holloaing.”
Strange sounds were in fact to be heard, and the children, losing all sense of discipline, made a rush to snatch hats and bonnets, and poured out in a throng, tumbling over one another, Hoglah among the foremost. Mrs Thorpe, much terrified, began to clasp her hands and say, “Oh dear! oh dear, the wicked, ungrateful men, that they should do such things. Oh! Miss Sophy, you will stay here, won’t you?”
“No, I must go and see after my sister and the children,” said Sophy, already at the door.
“But they’ll be at Mr Pearson’s. The girl said so. Oh, stay, ma’am! Don’t venture. Pray, pray—”
But Sophy had the door open, and with “I can’t. Thank you, no, I can’t.”
There were the confused sounds of howling and singing on the top of the hill. Betsy Seddon, at her cottage door, called out, “Don’t go up there, miss; it’s no place for the likes of you!” but Sophy only answered, “My sister,” and dashed on.
She could get into a field of Edmund’s by scrambling over a difficult gate, and, impelled by the sight of some rough-looking men slouching along, she got over it—she hardly knew how—and, after crossing it, came upon all the cows, pigs, and horses, with Pucklechurch presiding over them. He, too, said, “Doan’t ye go up there, Miss Sophy. Them mischievous chaps will be after them pigs, fools as they be, so I brought the poor dumb things out of the way of them, and you’d better be shut of it too, miss.”
“But, my sister, Master Pucklechurch! I must see to her.”
“She’ll be safe enow, miss. They don’t lift a hand to folks, as I’ve heard, but I’ll do my duty by the beastises.”
He certainly seemed more bent on his duty to the “beastises” than that to his wife or his master’s wife; and yet, when Sophy proved deaf to all his persuasions, he muttered, “Wilful must to water, and Wilful must drink. But, ah! yon beastises be safe enow, poor dumb things, so I’ll e’en go after the maid, to see as her runs into no harm. She be a fine, spirity maid whatsome’er.”
So on he plodded, in the rear of Sophy, who, with eager foot, had crossed the sloping home-field, and gained the straw yard, all deserted now except by the fowls. The red game cock was scratching and crowing there, as if the rabble rout were not plainly to be seen straggling along the drive.
Still there was time for Sophy to fly to the house, where, at the door, she met Mrs Pucklechurch.
“Bless my soul and honour, Miss Sophy. You here! The mistress, she’s gone with the children to Mr Pearson’s, and you’ll be in time to catch her up if you look sharp enough.”
“I shall not run away. Some one ought to try to protect my brother’s property.”
“Now, don’t ’ee, don’t ’ee, Miss Sophy. You’ll do no good with that lot, and only get hurt yourself.”
But Sophy was not to be persuaded. She went manfully out to the gate, and shut it in the face of the disguised men, who came swaggering up towards it.
“What’s your business here?” she demanded, in her young, clear voice.
“Come, young woman,” said a man in a false nose and a green smock-frock, but whose voice had a town sound in it, and whose legs and feet were those of no rustic, “clear out of the way, or it will be the worse for you!”
“What have you to do here on my brother’s ground?” again asked Sophy, standing there in her straw bonnet and pink cotton frock.
“We don’t want to do nothing, miss,”—and that voice she knew for Dan Hewlett’s—“but to have down that new-fangled machine as takes away the work from the poor.”
“What work of yours did it ever take away, Dan Hewlett?” said she. “Look here! it makes bread cheaper—”
She had thought before of the chain of arguments, but they would not come in the face of the emergency; and besides, she felt that her voice would not carry her words beyond the three or four men who were close to the gate. She might as well have spoken to the raging sea when, as the gate was shaken, she went on with a fresh start, “I call it most cowardly and ungrateful—”
At that moment she was seized from behind by two great brawny arms, and borne backward, struggling helplessly like a lamb in a bear’s embrace. She saw that, not only was the gate burst in, but that the throng were pressing in from the garden side, and she was not released until she was set down in Mrs Pucklechurch’s kitchen, and a gruff voice said, rather as if to a little child, “Bide where you be, and no one will go for to hurt you.”
It was a huge figure, with a woman’s bonnet stuck upright over his chalked face, and a red cloak covering his smock-frock, and he was gone the next moment, while Mrs Pucklechurch, screaming and sobbing, clutched at Sophy, and held her tight, with, “Now, don’t, Miss Sophy, don’t ye! Bide still, I say!”
“But, Edmund’s machine! His things and all!” gasped Sophy, still struggling.
“Bless you, miss, you can’t do nothing with the likes of them, the born rascals; you would, may be, get a stone yourself and what would the master say to that?”
“Oh! what are they doing now?” as a wild hurrah arose, and all sorts of confused noises. Mrs Pucklechurch had locked the door on her prisoner, but she was equally curious, and anxious for her old man; so, with one accord, they hurried up the stairs together, and looked out at an upper window, whence they could only see a wild crowd of hats, smock-frocks, and women’s clothes gathering about a heap where the poor machine used to stand, and whence a cloud of smoke began to rise, followed by a jet of flame, fed no doubt by the quantity of straw and chaff lying about. Sophy and Betty both shrieked and exclaimed, but Betty’s mind was chiefly full of her old man, and she saw his straw hat at last. He was standing in front of the verandah, before the front door, and, as they threw the window open, they heard his gruff voice—
“Not I. Be off with you! I baint a-going to give my master’s property to a lot of rapscallion thieves and robbers like you, as should know better.”
Then came the answer, “We don’t want none of his property. Only his guns and his money for the cause of the people.” And big sticks were brandished, and the throng thickened.
“Oh, don’t ye hurt he!” screamed Betty. “He that never did you no harm! Don’t ye! Oh, Dan Hewlett! Oh-oh!”
“Then throw us out the guns, old woman,” called up the black-faced figure, “and we’ll let him be.”
“If you do,” shouted Pucklechurch—and then there was a rush in on him, and they could see no more, for he must have backed under the verandah. Betty made a dash for the front stairs, to come to his help, Sophy after her; but, before they could even tumble to the bottom, there was a change in the cries—
“The soldiers! the soldiers! Oh-hoo-hoo-hoo!” There was a scamper and a scurry, a trampling of horses. The two trembling hands, getting in each other’s way, unfastened the door, which was not even locked, and beheld Pucklechurch gathering himself up with a bleeding head, a cloud of smoke and flame, and helmets and silver lace glancing through it. There had been no need to read the Riot Act; the enemy were tearing along all ways over the fields, except a few whom the horsemen had intercepted. Dan Hewlett and the black-faced leader, without his long nose, were two; the other three were—among the loudest, poor Softy Sam, who had been yelling wildly—big lads, or young men, one from Downhill, the others nearer home, howling and sobbing and praying to be let go. Captain Carbonel’s first thought was whether Pucklechurch was hurt, but the old man was standing up scratching his head, and Betty hovering over him. Then his eyes fell on his sister-in-law, and he exclaimed—
“You here, Sophy! Your sister is very anxious!”
But the fire was by this time getting ahead, and no one could attend to anything else. The prisoners were put into the servants’ hall, and locked in; the horses were tied up at a safe distance, the poor things rearing with alarm at the flame; the men were, under Sir Harry Hartman and Captain Carbonel’s orders, made to form a line from the pond, and hand on the pails and buckets that were available; but these were not very many, though the numbers of helpers were increased by the maids, who had crept back from the orchard, and by the shepherd and some even of the mob, conscious that they had been only lookers on, and “hadn’t done no harm.”
It was a dry season, and the flames spread, catching the big barn, and then seeming to fly in great flakes like a devouring winged thing to the Pucklechurches’ thatch. Betty and her husband flew to fling out their more valued possessions, and were just in time to save them; but thence the fire, just as the water in the nearest pond was drying up, caught a hold on the dairy and the old thatched part of the farmhouse. Bellowings were heard from the captives that they would be burnt alive, and some one, it was never known who, let them out, for no sign of them appeared when all was over, though their prison was untouched by the fire. For even at that moment the Poppleby fire-engine galloped up the road, and was hailed with shouts of joy. It had a hose long enough to reach down to the brook in the meadow, and the hissing bursts of water poured down did at last check the flames before they had done much harm to the more modern portion of the house, though all the furniture was lying tumbled about in heaps on the lawn—Mary’s piano, with the baby’s cradle full of crockery on the top of it, and Edmund’s writing desk in the middle of a washing stand all upside down.
The first thing Edmund did when the smoke wreaths alone were lingering about, was to send his groom down to the cellar, with a jug in his hand, to bring up some beer, which he proceeded to hand in the best breakfast-cups to all and sundry of the helpers, including Sir Harry Hartman, Sophy helping in the distribution with all her might.
“Miss Carbonel, I think?” said Sir Harry, courteously, as she gave him the cup. “Were you the garrison?”
Sophy laughed. “Yes, sir, except old Pucklechurch and his wife.”
“Then I may congratulate you on being the bravest woman in Uphill,” said the old gentleman, raising his hat.
It was getting dark, and they had to consider what was next to be done. Captain Carbonel was anxious about his wife and children, and Sir Harry was urging him to bring them to his house, while Mr Grantley, from Poppleby, who had come up on the alarm, urged the same upon him. It ended in a guard being told off, consisting of Cox, the constable of Uphill, who had emerged from no one knew where, the Downhill constable, and the shepherd, with one of the yeomen, who were to be entertained by Pucklechurch and the cook, and prevent any mischief being done to the scattered furniture before morning. The Pucklechurches and Mrs Mole, with Barton, were doing their best to bring in and attend to the live stock, all of which had been saved by Pucklechurch’s care.
Then they rode off together, Sophy and the housemaid having already started across the fields, bearing whatever necessary baggage they could collect or carry for Mrs Carbonel and the little ones.
Mrs Carbonel was at the door when her husband rode up, having only just managed to hush off her little Mary to sleep, and left her and the baby with Rachel Mole to watch over them. Poor thing, she had been in a terrible state of anxiety and terror for all these hours, so much the worse because of the need of keeping her little girl from being agitated by seeing her alarm or hearing the cries, exclamations, and fragments of news that Mrs Pearson and her daughters were rushing about with.
When she saw him first, and Sophy a moment afterwards, she sprang up to him as he dismounted, and greeted him with a burst of sobs and thankful tears.
“Why, Mary, Mary, what’s this? One would think I had been in a general engagement. You, a soldier’s wife! No; nobody’s a hair the worse! Here is Sir Harry Hartman wondering at you.”
To hear of the presence of a stranger startled Mrs Carbonel into recovering herself, with “I beg your pardon,” and her pretty courtesy, with the tears still on her face; while the old gentleman kindly spoke of the grievous afternoon she had had, and all the time Mr and Mrs Pearson were entreating him to do them the honour to come in and drink a glass of wine—for cake and wine were then considered to be the thing to offer guests in a farmhouse.
Sir Harry, aware of what farmhouse port was apt to be, begged for a glass of home-brewed ale instead, but came in readily, hoping to persuade Mrs Carbonel to send for the Poppleby post-chaise, and let him take her and her children home. She was afraid, however, to disturb little Mary, and Mrs Pearson reckoned on housing them for the night, besides which his park was too far-off. So it was settled that Sophy, for whom there really was no room, should go to Poppleby Parsonage with Mr Grantley for the night, and she and Sir Harry only tarried to talk over the matter, and come to an understanding of the whole as far as might be.
“Who warned you?” asked the captain.
“The last person I should expect—Tirzah Todd, good woman,” said Mrs Carbonel. “She came and called me, and helped me over the hedges.”
“And Hoglah came after me,” said Sophy, “and told me to come here, only I could not.”
“You were the heroine of the whole, Miss Carbonel,” said Sir Harry.
“Oh, don’t say so; I didn’t do any good at all,” said Sophy, becoming much ashamed of her attempt at haranguing. “Old Pucklechurch was the one, for he saved all the dear cows and horses, and was nearly letting himself be killed in the defence. But, oh! all the rest of them. To think of them treating us so after everything!”
“Most likely they were compelled,” said gentle Mrs Carbonel.
“They will hear of it again,” said Sir Harry. “Could you identify them, Miss Carbonel?”
“A good many,” said Sophy, “though they had their faces chalked—that horrid Dan Hewlett for one.”
“There can be no doubt of him, for he was one of the prisoners that got away,” said Captain Carbonel, in a repressive manner. “He has always been a mischievous fellow; but the remarkable thing is that it was his son who came to summon us this morning—John Hewlett, a very good, steady lad. By-the-by, has any one seen him? I sent him home by the Elchester coach. I wonder what has become of him.”
