Kitabı oku: «The Carbonels», sayfa 12
Chapter Twenty Four.
Misjudged
“That weary deserts we may tread,
A dreary labyrinth may thread,
Through dark ways underground be led.”
Archbishop Trench.
Poor Johnnie was not very happy at that moment. He had descended from the coach at Poppleby, and set out to walk to Downhill, wondering how he should be received at his cousin’s workshop. Everything seemed strangely quiet as he crossed the fields, where he had wandered last night, but there were now and then far-off echoes of voices and shouts. He avoided the village of Downhill, and made his way towards the little street and common of Uphill, but not a creature could he see except Todd’s donkey and a few geese.
The workshop was shut up, no one was about either there or at the house. He considered a moment whether to try to see what was doing at Greenhow, or to go and tell his aunt how he had fared, and that he knew the captain must be at home by this time.
He was glad he had decided on the latter, for the cottage door stood open, and Judith was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide open, and her breath panting with anxiety and terror.
“Oh, Johnnie, my dear! There you are! Oh, they are all gone! The ladies, the dear ladies, and the little babies,” she gasped, and fell back almost fainting.
“The captain is there by this time, and the soldiers, never you fear,” said John. “Here, you’d better take this,” trying to drop out some of the cordial he knew she took in her attacks.
“The soldiers! Your father—your poor father!” she gasped again, and she was so ill that John, dreadfully frightened, could only hold her up on one arm, and press the cordial to her lips with the other hand. It was an overdose, but that hardly mattered; and before very long, just as she was beginning to quiet down, there approached a fresh sound of screaming, and his mother burst into the house. “Oh, my poor man! My poor Dan!” she cried. “They have got him! The soldiers have got him!” and, as John was laying down his aunt to come and hear, she rushed up the stairs with, “And it is all your doing, you unnatural, good-for-nothing varmint! That was what you were after all night, you and your aunt, the adder that I have warmed at my bosom! Turning against your own poor father, to set them bloody-minded soldiers on him! And now he’ll be taken and hanged, and I shall be a poor miserable widow woman all along of you!”
This was poured forth as fast as the words would come out of Molly’s mouth, but before they had all streamed forth, Judith was choking in a hysterical fit, so like a convulsion that Johnnie could only cry, “Aunt! aunt! Mother, look!” And Molly herself was frightened, and began to say, “There! there!” while she helped him to hold her sister, and little Judy flew off, half in terror and half in search of help, crying out that aunt was in a fit.
Help of a certain sort came—a good deal more of it than was wanted—and the room was crowded up, and there were a good many “Poor dears!” “There, nows!” and proposals of burnt feathers and vinegar; but Mrs Spurrell, who was reckoned the most skilled in illness, came at last, put the others out, especially as they wanted to see about their husbands’ teas, and brought a sort of quiet, in which Judith lay exhausted, but shuddering now and then, and Molly sobbed by the fire. John gathered from the exclamations that the Carbonel family were safe somewhere, that Miss Sophy had gone on like the woman preacher at Downhill, that Greenhow had been on fire, but nobody was hurt, though the soldiers had ridden in upon them, “so as was a shame to see,” and had got poor Dan and Ned Fell, and all sure locked up.
John was shocked at this, for he had not meant to do more than send Captain Carbonel home to protect his family, and had not realised all the consequences. In a few minutes more, however, his father himself tramped in, and the first thing he did was to fall on the lad in a fury, grasping him by the collar, with horrible abuse of him for an unnatural informer, turning against his own father, and dealing a storm of heavy blows on him with a great stick. Down clattered Mrs Spurrell, asking if he wished to kill his sister-in-law?
“A good thing too—a traitor in one’s house,” he burst out, with more raging words and fresh blows on poor John, who never cried out through all; but his mother rushed down the next moment, crying out that she would not have her son mauled and beaten, and laying fast hold of the stick.
It was turning into a fight between husband and wife, and Mrs Spurrell, who had more of her senses about her than any one else, called out, “Off with you, John Hewlett! I’ll tackle ’em!”
Poor Johnnie had no choice but to obey her. Bruised, worn out, hungry, uncertain of everything, and miserable about his aunt, he could only wander slowly away, feeling himself a traitor. He found his way to the workshop, and had just thrown himself down in the wood-shed, when he heard his master’s voice calling out—
“Who’s there?”
“Me! Johnny! Father’s in a mortal rage with me for telling the captain, but I never thought as how all the soldiers would come.”
“And a very good thing they did, to put a stop to such doings as never was,” said Mrs Hewlett’s voice. “Bless me, the dear children and the ladies might have been burnt in their beds!”
“Come in, Johnnie, and have a bit of supper,” said George Hewlett.
“And tell us all about it,” said his wife. “We’ll give you a shake-down for the night if you can’t go home.”
John was thankful, and Mrs Hewlett set before him a good meal of bread, cheese, cold bacon, and beer; but he was too dull and dejected, as well as much too tired, to be able to talk, and scarcely could remember all that had happened. He knew it was not manners to put his head down on his arms on the table, but he really could not hold it up, and he had dozed off almost with the food in his mouth.
“Poor chap! He’s fair worn out,” said the elder George. “Make his bed ready, mother.”
And when it was ready, the younger George absolutely kicked him into being awake enough to tumble into it. Even then his sleep was for a good while tossing, dreamy, and restless; but, by-and-by, it grew sounder, and he lay so still in the morning that his kind hostess hindered her boys from disturbing him. He had not long been awake, and had only said his prayers, and washed at the pump, when horses’ feet were heard, and Cousin George called to him to come out and speak to the captain. He came, with hair wringing wet, and shy, awkward looks.
“My lad,” said the captain, “I cannot tell you how much I thank you for your bravery and spirit the night before last. You did me and mine a benefit that I shall always remember, though I feel it would just be insulting you to offer you any present reward! Nor, indeed, could it be sufficient for what you have done.”
“Thank you, sir,” mumbled John, hardly knowing what he or the captain said.
“And,” added Captain Carbonel, “your father got away. If he is taken, what you have done for us may be remembered in his favour.”
Again John managed to say, “Thank you, sir.” And the captain rode off to offer the like thanks to Tirzah Todd; but her cottage was shut up, the donkey gone, and she, with her husband and Hoglah out on a broom-selling expedition. He was not clear of the riot, and she did not want him to hear her thanked. They must have gone away with their gipsy kin, for they never came back while the Carbonels were in England, and only a sovereign could be left for them with Mr Harford, who promised to stand Tirzah’s friend if any opening for assisting her offered.
Dan had been told that rioters generally got off without difficulty. It was not easy to trace them, and their safety was in numbers and their semi-disguise; and Jack Swing, or the man with the nose, had escaped on various similar occasions, wearing a different disguise at each place. It had not come into their calculations that they had gone so far as to rouse the spirit of the landowners, who had at first dealt gently with the disturbances, but who now felt that strong measures must be taken to prevent the mischief from going further. He thought himself safe when he had once got away from the strong-room at Greenhow, and he was slouching about his garden when Cox the constable, backed by two stout men, came with a warrant, from Sir Harry Hartman, for the apprehension of Daniel Hewlett for peace-breaking and arson. He began to argue that it was not he more than any one else, and he hadn’t set fire to nothing, but he was told that he must reserve his defence for his trial, and the handcuffs were put on, and he was carried off in a cart, just as John was hurrying up the lane, having got leave from his master to see how his aunt was, before beginning work.
Molly had seen her husband taken to prison before, and she did not realise that this was a much more serious affair than were his poaching misdemeanours, so that she was not so much overpowered as might have been expected; and, as he was taken by the well-known constable instead of the soldiers, she did not treat it as John’s fault. Besides, she was really afraid of, as she said, “upsetting” Judith by another outcry, so she only moaned in a low, miserable voice about what was to become of her and her poor children, though after all, what with the parish, Judith’s help, and John’s earnings, she would be no worse off than was common with her. Jem was supposed to “keep himself,” and only Judy was really on her hands.
She would hardly let her son go up and see Judith. “Now, you’ll be terrifying of her, and she’ll be upset again and holler, and go into a fit.”
However, he took off his boots and went up softly. Judith was all alone, lying still, but he had never seen her look half so ill, though she opened her eyes and smiled when the creaking stair announced him, and when he bent over her she said, “Dear lad, you bain’t hurt!”
“Oh no; not at all.”
“And the dear ladies are safe?”
“Yes; Tirzah Todd came and took them away.”
“Thank God!”
“But you are bad, auntie?”
“Oh, never mind. All’s right! You’ve done your duty, and I can only thank God for my good lad.”
Her voice grew faint, her eyes closed, and John was obliged to go away—but the look of peace stayed with him.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Judith
“And of our scholars let us learn
Our own forgotten lore.”
Keble.
Little Mary Carbonel was not the worse for all the agitations, from which, indeed, she had been so carefully shielded, but her mother was sadly broken down by all she had undergone, and likewise by mortification at the whole conduct of the Uphill people. After all the years that she and her husband and sisters had striven for them, it was very hard to find that so very few would exert themselves for their protection, and that so many would even turn against them. It was hard to make allowance for the bewilderment of slow minds, for sheer cowardice, and for the instinct of going along with one’s own class of people. She and Sophy prayed that they might forgive the people, but it was impossible just then not to feel that there was a good deal to forgive, and Captain Caiger was always telling them that all their trouble came in trying to help the good-for-nothing people.
They had moved into the George Hotel at Elchester. It was a good large inn, such as used to exist in coaching days, where travellers stopped for meals, and sometimes spent a night, and the rooms were so comfortable that they were glad to stay there, while Captain Carbonel could go backwards and forwards to make arrangements about the repair of Greenhow. Of course, when he came to look the place over with a builder from Elchester it turned out that a great deal more was needed than simply re-building what had been burnt; and he was in difficulties about the cost, when an offer came which he was glad to accept.
The Seven Ionian Islands had been put under the protection of England since they had been set free from the Turkish dominion, and the Governor, Sir Thomas Maitland, (King Tom as he was often called), was very active in building, making roads, and improving them in every way possible. He wanted an English officer to superintend his doings in the little isle of Santa Maura, and being acquainted with Major Sandford, Dora’s husband, the proposal was made that Captain Carbonel should undertake the work for two or three years, bringing out, of course, his family with a handsome salary. It was a most opportune offer, giving him the means of renewing Greenhow, of a visit to the sister, and of restoring his wife’s health, which had been much tried by her child’s death, little Mary’s delicate state, and the alarm of the riots. So it was gladly accepted, and the departure was to take place as soon as the trials were over, for a special commission had been appointed to try the rioters; and poor Sophy was much distressed at having so evidently recognised Dan Hewlett when she found that “rioting and arson,” that is, burning, made a capital offence, so that it was a matter of life and death.
But there was another to whom this same discovery made a great difference—namely, Dan Hewlett himself. When he found that his life was at stake, he declared himself willing to turn King’s evidence, if his pardon were secured to him, and this was really important, as he was able to identify Jack Swing, who really was the chief mischief-maker, being a young clerk whose head had been turned by foolish notions about liberty for the people, and who really acted more generously, and with less personal spite, than most of his unhappy followers. However, Dan was content to purchase his own life by denouncing the leader whom he had followed, and he was promised safety after the trial should be over, until which time he must remain in prison at Minsterham.
Captain Carbonel had consulted George Hewlett, when arranging the ruins at Greenhow, as to what had best be done for John, whose services he could not forget. George considered for a night, and the next day said—
“Well, sir, I beg your pardon, but the best thing as could be done with that there John would be to put him somewhere to learn the cabinet-making. He is a right sharp, clever hand, and knows pretty well all I can teach him; and he would get on famous if he had the chance. And it bain’t so comfortable for him here. Some of ’em owes him a grudge for bringing the soldiers down on ’em, and calls him an informer; and it will be all the worserer for him when his father comes home—the scamp that he is! I’m ready to wish my name wasn’t the same. Wuss shame by far than to be strung up to turn agin him as he was hand and glove with!”
“I am quite of your opinion, Hewlett; and I fully think John would be best out of the way, poor fellow. I will inquire for a good master for him.”
“Thank you, sir. I would have had the boy up to sleep at my place, but he won’t leave his poor aunt. He be the chief comfort she has, poor thing. But she won’t be here long anyway; and if ever there was a good woman, ’tis Judith Grey.”
It was quite true. Mr Harford, who had come home on Saturday, walked over to Poppleby, partly for the sake of saying that Judith was certainly near the close of her trials, and that it was her great wish to see one of the dear ladies again, though she durst not ask one of them to come into Dan’s house. Indeed Mr Harford had only drawn the expression of her desire out of her with difficulty.
Mrs Carbonel was not well enough for a trying interview, so it was Sophy who drove from Elchester with her brother-in-law, grave and thoughtful, and only wishing to avoid everybody; for she could not yet forget how no one had shown any gratitude, nor desire to shield those who had been so long their friends. The Poppleby doctor had been sent to see Judith, and had pronounced that the old disease had made fatal progress, accelerated by the hysterical convulsions caused by the night and day of suspense and anxiety, and the attack on her nephew, as well as the whole of Dan’s conduct. He did not think that she could last many more days.
So Sophy arrived at the well-known cottage, and was met at the door by Molly, with her apron to her eyes, and a great deal to say about her poor sister, and “it wasn’t her wish”; but Mr Harford, who was on the watch, began to answer her, so as to keep her from going upstairs with the visitors. Little Judy, now a nice, neat girl of fourteen, was sitting by her, but rose to go away when the lady came in.
Judith was leaning against pillows, and the pink flush in her cheeks and her smile of greeting prevented Sophy from seeing how ill and wasted she looked, thin and weak as were the fingers that lay on the coverlet.
“Why, Judith, you look much better than I expected. You will soon be as well as ever.”
Judith only smiled, and said, “Thank you, ma’am! I hope Mrs Carbonel is better.”
“Yes. She is getting better now, and she is very sorry not to come and see you; but perhaps she may be able before we go away.”
“And little Miss Mary, ma’am?”
“She has been quite another creature since we have been at Poppleby—not at all fretty, and almost rosy.”
“I am glad. And you are going away, ma’am?”
“Yes; off to a beautiful island in the Mediterranean Sea, close to all the places where Saint Paul preached. You know Dora is at Malta, where he was shipwrecked.”
“Yes, ma’am; I like to know it. You will give my duty to her, Miss Sophy, and thank her—oh! so much,”—and Judith clasped her hands—“for all she and you and Mrs Carbonel have been to me. You seemed to bring the light back to me, just as my faith was growing slack and dull.”
“Yes; I will tell her, Judith. I don’t like leaving you, but it won’t seem long till we come back; and we will send you those beautiful Maltese oranges.”
Judith smiled that beautiful smile again. “Ah, Miss Sophy, you have been very good, and helped me ever so much; but my time is nearly over, and I shall not want even you and madam where I am going. I shall see His face,” she murmured; and lifted up her hands.
Sophy was rather frightened, and felt as if she had done wrong in talking of oranges. She did not know what to say, and only got out something about Johnnie and a comfort.
“Yes, that he is, Miss Sophy, and little Judy too. The boy, he is that shy and quiet, no one would believe the blessed things he says and reads to me at night. He be a blessing, and so be Judy, all owing to the Sunday School.”
“Oh! to you, Judith. You made him good before we had him, though Mary and Dora did help,” said Sophy, with rising tears.
“And oh! I am so thankful,” she said, clasping her hands, “for what the captain is doing for the boy.”
“He deserves it, I am sure,” said Sophy.
“It will keep him easier to the right way, and it would be harder for him when I am gone, and his father come home! And Mr Harford, he says he will find a good place for Judy. She is a good girl, a right good girl.”
“That she is.”
“And, maybe, Mrs Carbonel and you, when you come home, would be good to my poor sister. She’ve been a good sister to me, she has, with it all, but it has all been against her, and she would be a different woman if she could. Please remember her.”
“We will, we will if we can.”
Then Judith went on to beg Sophy to write to her former mistress, Mrs Barnard, with all her thanks for past kindness. That seemed to exhaust her a good deal, and she lay back, just saying faintly, “If you would read me a little bit, miss.”
The Prayer-Book lay nearest, and Sophy read, “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,” as well as she could amid the choking tears. She felt as if she were lifted into some higher air, but Judith lay so white and still that she durst not do more than say, “Good-bye, dear Judith.” She was going to say, “I will come and see you again,” but something withheld her. She thought Judith’s lips said, “Up there.” She bent down, kissed the cheek, now quite white, and crept down, passing Molly at the turn.
Two days later Mr Harford came to say that Judith was gone. Her last communion with Johnnie, and with George Hewlett, had been given to her the day before, and she had not spoken afterwards, only her face had been strangely bright.
The Carbonels could only feel that her remnant of life had been shortened by all she had undergone for their sakes, and Edmund and Sophy both stood as mourners at her grave, Sophy feeling that her life had been more of a deepening, realising lesson than anything that had gone before, making her feel more than had ever come yet into her experience, what this life is compared with eternal life.
