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.'
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. MISJUDGED.
'That weary deserts we may tread,
A dreary labyrinth may thread,
Through dark ways underground be led.'
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
