And to your wrath3 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-bonnet4 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 hush5: “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 bonnets6, and poured out in a throng7, 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 scrambling8 over a difficult gate, and, impelled9 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 mischievous10 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 bent11 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 persuasions12, he muttered, “Wilful13 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 plodded14, in the rear of Sophy, who, with eager foot, had crossed the sloping home-field, and gained the straw yard, all deserted15 now except by the fowls16. The red game cock was scratching and crowing there, as if the rabble17 rout18 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 rustic19, “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, standing20 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 brawny22 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, “Bide23 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 sobbing24, 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!” gasped25 Sophy, still struggling.
“Bless you, miss, you can’t do nothing with the likes of them, the born rascals26; 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 hurrah27 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 gathering28 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 chaff29 lying about. Sophy and Betty both shrieked30 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 brandished31, 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 scamper32 and a scurry33, a trampling34 of horses. The two trembling hands, getting in each other’s way, unfastened the door, which was not even locked, and beheld35 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 intercepted36. 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 hovering37 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 Harry38 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 orchard39, 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, catching40 the big barn, and then seeming to fly in great flakes41 like a devouring42 winged thing to the Pucklechurches’ thatch43. 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 farmhouse44. 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 galloped45 up the road, and was hailed with shouts of joy. It had a hose long enough to reach down to the brook46 in the meadow, and the hissing47 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 groom48 down to the cellar, with a jug49 in his hand, to bring up some beer, which he proceeded to hand in the best breakfast-cups to all and sundry50 of the helpers, including Sir Harry Hartman, Sophy helping51 in the distribution with all her might.
“Miss Carbonel, I think?” said Sir Harry, courteously52, as she gave him the cup. “Were you the garrison53?”
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 constable54 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 mischief55 being done to the scattered56 furniture before morning. The Pucklechurches and Mrs Mole57, 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 agitated58 by seeing her alarm or hearing the cries, exclamations59, 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 sobs60 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 kindly61 spoke21 of the grievous afternoon she had had, and all the time Mr and Mrs Pearson were entreating62 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 haranguing63. “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 horrid64 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 remarkable65 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.”
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1
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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9
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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41
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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42
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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43
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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44
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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45
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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46
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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48
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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49
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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50
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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51
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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52
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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53
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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54
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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56
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
参考例句： |
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60
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
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61
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
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62
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
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63
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
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64
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
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65
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
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