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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "John Halifax, Gentleman," Dinah Maria Mulock Craik crafts a compelling narrative set in 19th-century England that explores themes of social morality, class, and the transformative power of kindness. Through the life of John Halifax, an orphan who rises to become a successful businessman, the novel thoughtfully examines the intersections of personal virtue and societal structures. Craik's prose is imbued with a sense of realism and sentimentality, reflecting the Victorian literature's focus on moral character while also engaging with the burgeoning social concerns of the era, particularly the lives of the working class. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, a notable figure in Victorian literature, was born into a modest family and faced the challenges of poverty early in life. Her personal experiences informed her writing, leading to a profound understanding of social issues. As an advocate for women's rights and a deeply empathetic observer of the human condition, Craik sought to illuminate the virtues of compassion and integrity, which resonate throughout "John Halifax, Gentleman." This novel is highly recommended for readers interested in social realism and character-driven narratives. It serves not only as a poignant reflection on human virtue but also as a rich historical text that provides insights into Victorian society. Craik's engaging style and the heartfelt challenges faced by her characters invite readers to examine their values in a rapidly changing world. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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John Halifax, Gentleman
Table of Contents
Introduction
This novel argues that true gentility rests in conduct and conscience rather than in birth or wealth. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik’s John Halifax, Gentleman presents an ideal of manhood shaped by integrity, industry, and kindness, observed steadily over time. Through an intimate narrative frame, it contends that moral character can anchor a life amid shifting social hierarchies. The story favors patient, practical virtues over display, drawing power from the quiet accumulation of choices. Its enduring appeal comes from the sense that a life begun in hardship may attain dignity through self-command, service to others, and fidelity to principle.
First published in 1856, this mid-Victorian novel belongs to the domestic and social tradition, attentive to family, work, and civic life. It is set in an English provincial milieu during the early decades of the nineteenth century, when manufacturing and trade were reshaping everyday existence. The book’s world is recognizably historical yet intimate, concerned less with public figures than with the habits and responsibilities of the rising middle class. Craik situates her characters within the moral climate of the period, where Nonconformist faith, commercial enterprise, and community reputation all carry weight, and where the concept of a gentleman is under active negotiation.
The premise is simple and compelling: an orphaned boy of humble station, John Halifax, determines to make his way by honorable labor and steadfast conduct, while a close friend narrates his progress. The narrator, Phineas Fletcher, physically frail and raised in a Quaker household, offers a tender, observant first-person account that balances admiration with restraint. Readers encounter workshops, counting-houses, and parlors rather than grand salons, and see character revealed in everyday choices. The tone is earnest without stridency, reflective without languor, creating a memoir-like experience that invites trust. It promises a steady, quietly dramatic chronicle rather than sudden sensational turns.
At its core, the book explores friendship as a moral partnership, the ethics of work, and the possibility of self-made respectability. It examines class boundaries, the value of education and discipline, and the responsibilities that accompany influence. The narrative consistently links private virtue to public consequence, suggesting that fairness in trade, reliability in speech, and compassion in crisis form the substance of citizenship. It also probes the domestic sphere—its comforts, compromises, and claims—without reducing the protagonist’s aspiration to mere material success. The result is a portrait of character tested by ordinary trials, asking what it means to be worthy of trust in a changing society.
Craik frames Halifax’s efforts against the pressures of an industrializing town: mills, apprenticeships, credit, and markets create both opportunity and strain. Religious nonconformity and civic duty shape attitudes toward justice, charity, and responsibility to workers and neighbors. The novel observes how reputation is earned, how authority is exercised, and how conscience operates under public scrutiny. Occasional disturbances and economic uncertainties flicker at the edges, but spectacle yields to moral inquiry. The setting anchors the story in practical realities—contracts, wages, goods—so that questions of honor remain measurable in daily transactions, not in abstract ideals. Social change becomes the backdrop for a study of steady principle.
Stylistically, the prose is clear and measured, favoring lucid description over ornament. Episodes unfold in a gently episodic structure, each scene contributing to the gradual revelation of character. Dialogue is plain and purposeful, characteristic of mid-Victorian realism, while the narrator’s reflective voice lends warmth and continuity. The friend’s vantage point produces a double portrait—of Halifax as exemplum, and of the observer who learns by watching. This mediation softens rhetoric into lived detail, turning moral axioms into habits of speech and work. Readers can expect tenderness, some quiet humor, and a consistent seriousness of purpose rather than irony or sensational effect.
For contemporary readers, the novel’s questions remain fresh: what counts as success, and by what standards should it be measured? John Halifax, Gentleman invites reflection on ethical ambition, on leadership grounded in fairness, and on the social value of reliability. It offers a counterpoint to inheritance-based prestige by presenting respectability as earned and maintained. In an age still negotiating class mobility and economic insecurity, its emphasis on steadiness, mutual loyalty, and civic-minded enterprise has resonance. The book encourages readers to imagine gentility as a daily practice—courtesy, courage, and responsibility—sustained not by status but by the consistent labor of the heart and hand.
Synopsis
John Halifax, Gentleman follows the rise of an industrious orphan in a provincial English town at the turn of the nineteenth century. The story is narrated by Phineas Fletcher, a physically frail but perceptive observer, and the son of Abel Fletcher, a principled Quaker tanner in Norton Bury. Phineas meets John Halifax as a destitute youth seeking honest work. John’s self-reliance, courtesy, and refusal to beg strike both father and son. Abel offers him employment, and the narrative begins to chart John’s progress from the tannery floor upward. Through Phineas’s calm, attentive voice, the book records how character, rather than birth, sets the path of a life.
As an apprentice, John proves careful, steady, and exact. He takes on difficult tasks without complaint, studies practical matters after hours, and keeps a tight rein on impulse. Phineas and John develop a friendship that balances contrasts: one delicate and reflective, the other vigorous and decisive. Abel Fletcher’s austere standards test John, who steadily earns trust by fairness in small dealings and firmness when challenged. The notion of “gentleman” emerges as a guiding idea, defined by conduct rather than ancestry. The town begins to notice the young worker’s reliability. His advancement is not sudden; it comes through patient consistency and a clear sense of personal duty.
Early trials make John’s principles visible. A season of scarcity stirs unrest, and a threatened outbreak places Abel Fletcher’s property and people in danger. John interposes calm courage between the crowd and the vulnerable, leaning on reason, restraint, and an unwillingness to profit from turmoil. The episode marks him as a leader in a community strained by change. Around the same time, Phineas introduces a young woman of fortune, Ursula March, whose poised kindness impresses John. Their paths cross under the watch of cautious guardians and amid local class expectations, setting in motion a relationship that will shape John’s private happiness and his standing in the county.
The courtship brings obstacles arising from rank, money, and the weight of reputation. John refuses to disguise his origins or seek advancement by favor, preferring open speech and patient work. Ursula’s protectors question the match, and misunderstandings sharpen the test. Yet mutual respect grows through trials that require steadiness rather than passion. Phineas, loyal to both, records the delicate negotiations of feeling and family. When consent at last clears a rightful way, the union becomes a turning point, anchoring John’s personal life and confirming his view that gentility is a moral choice. The narrative moves from youthful striving into the ordered responsibilities of a household.
With marriage established, the story enters its domestic center. John and Ursula create a home known for simplicity, cheerfulness, and thoughtful economy, where Phineas is a frequent and cherished guest. Their children arrive, and everyday scenes—lessons, walks, modest festivities—illustrate the values the parents practice: justice, cleanliness, and quiet faith. John widens his business from the tannery to manufacturing concerns in the nearby hills, taking care to manage fairly and to provide steady employment. The town comes to see him not merely as a thriving tradesman but as a dependable citizen. Prosperity is presented as hard-won, moderate, and always subject to the needs of others.
Contacts with the county gentry and a great noble house broaden the social canvas. John and Ursula enter drawing rooms where old privilege meets rising industry. A thoughtful young lord, Lord Ravenel, recognizes in John a standard of worth beyond lineage, and a respectful friendship begins. A lady of high rank, burdened by private distress, seeks discreet assistance; John offers help without compromising principle or inviting scandal. Political contests likewise test independence: the pressure of influence, the temptations of patronage, and the heat of elections all meet a cool refusal to be bought. Through these episodes, the book contrasts inherited status with the authority of character.
Business reverses arrive with sudden force. A partner’s failure, shifting markets, and the strain of expansion place John’s firm at risk. Choices narrow to those that will preserve honor at material cost. He elects to meet obligations fully, even if it means parting with comforts and beginning again on stricter terms. Ursula and the children accept retrenchment with good spirit, and Phineas records the quiet heroism of ordinary economies. The community, noting integrity under pressure, offers confidence rather than pity. Recovery follows steadily, built on exact accounts, prudent plans, and unbroken credit. The crisis becomes a measure of the man’s constancy rather than a limit to his hope.
Time advances, and the children’s differing talents and tempers unfold. Some favor enterprise and numbers; others lean toward art, sea, or study. John’s counsel balances freedom with responsibility, treating adulthood as the natural fruit of honest upbringing. The household faces illnesses and farewells with the same self-command shown in public matters. John assumes civic duties, arbitrating disputes and supporting schools and simple charities, while resisting display. Phineas’s narration remains close and affectionate, noting small gestures that reveal character: a word held back, a debt promptly met, a courtesy to the poor. The family’s story illustrates steadiness through change rather than exemption from it.
Across its span, the novel presents a life made “gentlemanly” by integrity, labor, and compassion. It traces John’s course from obscurity to recognized usefulness, not as an exception that disproves class, but as an argument that virtue can shape station. Domestic peace, fair dealing in trade, and service in the town form the core of his success. The narrative voice, modest and faithful, emphasizes quiet decisions over dramatic outcomes. Without dwelling on surprises, the book conveys that the true ascent is inward: keeping one’s word, honoring work, and loving well. In that sense, John Halifax becomes an emblem of a conscientious era’s best hopes.
Historical Context
Set principally in the late Georgian and Regency decades and running into the early 1830s, John Halifax, Gentleman locates its action in the West of England cloth country. The fictional town of Norton Bury closely resembles Trowbridge and Bradford-on-Avon in Wiltshire, with satellite places like Enderley Common and Longfield evoking upland villages and newly enclosed farms. The period is one of swift industrial and social transition: small workshops give way to mills; canals knit inland towns to Bristol and London; political debate intensifies from the Napoleonic Wars to the Reform crisis. Against this backdrop the rise of a self-made tanner and mill-owner is rendered both plausible and emblematic.
Between the 1780s and 1830s, the British Industrial Revolution restructured the West Country’s woollen trade and ancillary crafts like tanning. Edmund Cartwright’s power loom (patented 1785; widespread from the 1810s–1820s), James Watt’s condenser (patents 1769–1781) enabling factory steam power, and improved carding and fulling eroded the dominance of household weavers and artisanal shearmen. Wiltshire clothiers adapted unevenly; some introduced gig-mills and shearing frames, others clung to hand methods and faltered as northern centers in Leeds and Manchester scaled up. Halifax’s ascent from orphaned errand-boy to proprietor corresponds to this shift: he leverages credit, machinery, and disciplined labor to move from yard and dye-house into modern capitalist management.
War and bread defined the economy that frames key turns in the novel. Britain’s long war with Revolutionary and Napoleonic France (1793–1815) distorted markets, kept grain dear, and swelled taxation and debt. Peace in 1815 was followed immediately by the Corn Laws (1815–1846), which imposed tariffs to keep wheat prices high—protecting landowners but aggravating urban and industrial distress. The postwar slump, coupled with the “Year Without a Summer” after the 1815 eruption of Mount Tambora, produced harvest failures in 1816 and acute dearth in 1816–1817. The Speenhamland system of poor relief (from 1795) tried to stabilize subsistence by tying allowances to bread prices, but it entrenched low wages and fueled resentment. Food and wage riots erupted in cloth towns across Wiltshire and Somerset—periodic disturbances are recorded in 1795, 1801, and 1816–1817—while magistrates, constables, and mill-owners improvised relief or repression. The novel’s memorable episode of a mill and granary facing a threatening crowd speaks directly to this history: Halifax’s insistence on fair dealing, calm leadership, and controlled distribution to the poor mirrors practical strategies some Quaker and Dissenter employers adopted to defuse bread riots. By staging the crisis at the intersection of grain supply, wage uncertainty, and community trust, the book dramatizes the political economy of the Corn Law era—pitting protectionist landholding interests against the emergent industrial middle class that favored freer trade and steady provisioning. The scene also registers the ethical debate around paternalist employers and the limits of coercion in maintaining order, anticipations of later Anti–Corn Law League arguments (founded 1838) for cheap bread and national prosperity.
Machine-breaking and resistance to technological change shaped the West Country as much as the Midlands. While “Luddism” is associated with Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire (1811–1816), Wiltshire and Somerset saw earlier and parallel unrest by shearmen opposing gig-mills and shearing frames circa 1802–1803, with attacks recorded in towns like Trowbridge and Bradford-on-Avon and prosecutions at county assizes. These conflicts set skilled hand-workers against clothiers who invested in labor-saving devices. The novel’s tensions around shop-floor discipline, investment, and the ethics of mechanization echo this regional pattern, presenting Halifax as a manager who seeks productivity without gratuitous cruelty and who negotiates, rather than capitulates to, crowd pressure.
The drive for parliamentary and municipal reform culminated in the Reform Act of 1832, which redistributed seats and modestly widened the franchise for the middling classes. The crisis was punctuated by the Bristol Reform Riots (29–31 October 1831), when rejection of the second Reform Bill triggered crowds to sack civic buildings; several people were killed, Colonel Thomas Brereton was court-martialed and later took his life, and Mayor Charles Pinney faced trial. The 1835 Municipal Corporations Act then rationalized borough governance. Chartism (1838–1848) pressed further for universal male suffrage. The book’s emphasis on civic responsibility and the legitimacy of middle-class authority reflects these reform currents and the aspiration to moral stewardship in local government.
Nonconformity frames the novel’s moral universe and maps onto legal change for Dissenters. The repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts in 1828 opened civic office to Protestants outside the Church of England; Catholic Emancipation followed in 1829. Quaker affirmation in place of oaths was regularized in 1833, and the 1836 Marriage Act broadened legal recognition of nonconformist rites. Quakers and other Dissenters—families like the Barclays, Gurneys, and Frys—were prominent in banking and industry. The book’s portrayal of Abel Fletcher’s principled Quaker household and Halifax’s sober, philanthropic management reflects the period’s Dissenter ethos: conscientious capitalism, plain dealing, and cautious engagement with public office once the law allowed it.
Markets and landscapes were remade by infrastructure and enclosure. The Kennet and Avon Canal (authorized 1794; completed 1810) linked the Avon at Bath to the Thames at Reading, carrying Somerset coal and finished cloth, and integrating Wiltshire mills into national trade through Bristol and London. Early railways—Liverpool–Manchester opened 1830; the Great Western Railway (Act 1835) reached Bristol by 1841—intensified competition from northern factories. Meanwhile, parliamentary enclosure, under the General Enclosure Act 1801 and later the 1845 Act, privatized commons and reordered rural life, pushing cottagers into wage labor. The novel’s movement between town workshops, commons, and newly purchased farms mirrors these transitions and registers the economic calculus behind investment, mobility, and paternalist improvement.
As social and political critique, the book exposes the fragility of subsistence under protectionist grain policy, the precarity of artisanal labor amid mechanization, and the moral ambiguities of capitalist authority. It challenges hereditary privilege by valorizing merit, thrift, and civic service, yet it also indicts the cruelty of hunger and the volatility of crowd politics produced by ill-designed poor relief and the Corn Laws. By presenting a Dissenter-inflected model of fair wages, sober management, and accountable stewardship, it critiques both squirearchical indifference and reckless speculation. The narrative thus interrogates class divides while proposing an ethic of industrial citizenship suited to Britain’s reforming, post-Napoleonic society.
John Halifax, Gentleman
CHAPTER I
"Get out o' Mr. Fletcher's road, ye idle, lounging, little—"
"Vagabond[4]," I think the woman (Sally Watkins, once my nurse), was going to say, but she changed her mind.
My father and I both glanced round, surprised at her unusual reticence of epithets: but when the lad addressed turned, fixed his eyes on each of us for a moment, and made way for us, we ceased to wonder. Ragged, muddy, and miserable as he was, the poor boy looked anything but a "vagabond."
"Thee need not go into the wet, my lad. Keep close to the wall, and there will be shelter enough both for us and thee," said my father, as he pulled my little hand-carriage into the alley, under cover, from the pelting rain. The lad, with a grateful look, put out a hand likewise, and pushed me further in. A strong hand it was—roughened and browned with labour—though he was scarcely as old as I. What would I not have given to have been so stalwart and so tall!
Sally called from her house-door, "Wouldn't Master Phineas come in and sit by the fire a bit?"—But it was always a trouble to me to move or walk; and I liked staying at the mouth of the alley, watching the autumnal shower come sweeping down the street: besides, I wanted to look again at the stranger-lad.
He had scarcely stirred, but remained leaning against the wall—either through weariness, or in order to be out of our way. He took little or no notice of us, but kept his eyes fixed on the pavement—for we actually boasted pavement in the High Street of our town of Norton Bury[3]—watching the eddying rain-drops, which, each as it fell, threw up a little mist of spray. It was a serious, haggard face for a boy of only fourteen or so. Let me call it up before me—I can, easily, even after more than fifty years.
Brown eyes, deep-sunken, with strongly-marked brows, a nose like most other Saxon noses, nothing particular; lips well-shaped, lying one upon the other, firm and close; a square, sharply outlined, resolute chin, of that type which gives character and determination to the whole physiognomy, and without which in the fairest features, as in the best dispositions, one is always conscious of a certain want.
As I have stated, in person the lad was tall and strongly-built; and I, poor puny wretch! so reverenced physical strength. Everything in him seemed to indicate that which I had not: his muscular limbs, his square, broad shoulders, his healthy cheek, though it was sharp and thin—even to his crisp curls of bright thick hair.
Thus he stood, principal figure in a picture which is even yet as clear to me as yesterday—the narrow, dirty alley leading out of the High Street, yet showing a glimmer of green field at the further end; the open house-doors on either side, through which came the drowsy burr of many a stocking-loom, the prattle of children paddling in the gutter, and sailing thereon a fleet of potato parings. In front the High Street, with the mayor's house opposite, porticoed and grand: and beyond, just where the rain-clouds were breaking, rose up out of a nest of trees, the square tower of our ancient abbey—Norton Bury's boast and pride. On it, from a break in the clouds, came a sudden stream of light. The stranger-lad lifted up his head to look at it.
"The rain will be over soon," I said, but doubted if he heard me. What could he be thinking of so intently?—a poor working lad, whom few would have given credit for thinking at all.
I do not suppose my father cast a second glance or thought on the boy, whom, from a sense of common justice, he had made take shelter beside us. In truth, worthy man, he had no lack of matter to occupy his mind, being sole architect of a long up-hill but now thriving trade. I saw, by the hardening of his features, and the restless way in which he poked his stick into the little water-pools, that he was longing to be in his tan-yard close by.
He pulled out his great silver watch—the dread of our house, for it was a watch which seemed to imbibe something of its master's character; remorseless as justice or fate, it never erred a moment.
"Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, my son, how am I to get thee safe home? unless thee wilt go with me to the tan-yard—"
I shook my head. It was very hard for Abel Fletcher to have for his only child such a sickly creature as I, now, at sixteen, as helpless and useless to him as a baby.
"Well, well, I must find some one to go home with thee." For though my father had got me a sort of carriage in which, with a little external aid, I could propel myself, so as to be his companion occasionally in his walks between our house, the tanyard[5], and the Friends' meeting-house—still he never trusted me anywhere alone. "Here, Sally—Sally Watkins! do any o' thy lads want to earn an honest penny?"
Sally was out of earshot; but I noticed that as the lad near us heard my father's words, the colour rushed over his face, and he started forward involuntarily. I had not before perceived how wasted and hungry-looking he was.
"Father!" I whispered. But here the boy had mustered up his courage and voice.
"Sir, I want work; may I earn a penny?"
He spoke in tolerably good English—different from our coarse, broad, G——shire drawl; and taking off his tattered old cap, looked right up into my father's face, The old man scanned him closely.
"What is thy name, lad?"
"John Halifax."
"Where dost thee come from?"
"Cornwall."
"Hast thee any parents living?"
"No."
I wished my father would not question thus; but possibly he had his own motives, which were rarely harsh, though his actions often appeared so.
"How old might thee be, John Halifax?"
"Fourteen, sir."
"Thee art used to work?"
"Yes."
"What sort of work?"
"Anything that I can get to do."
I listened nervously to this catechism, which went on behind my back.
"Well," said my father, after a pause, "thee shall take my son home, and I'll give thee a groat[2]. Let me see; art thee a lad to be trusted?" And holding him at arm's length, regarding him meanwhile with eyes that were the terror of all the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel Fletcher jingled temptingly the silver money in the pockets of his long-flapped brown waistcoat. "I say, art thee a lad to be trusted?[1q]"
John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. He seemed to feel that this was a critical moment, and to have gathered all his mental forces into a serried square, to meet the attack. He met it, and conquered in silence.
"Lad, shall I give thee the groat now?"
"Not till I've earned it, sir."
So, drawing his hand back, my father slipped the money into mine, and left us.
I followed him with my eyes, as he went sturdily plashing down the street; his broad, comfortable back, which owned a coat of true Quaker[1] cut, but spotless, warm, and fine; his ribbed hose and leathern gaiters, and the wide-brimmed hat set over a fringe of grey hairs, that crowned the whole with respectable dignity. He looked precisely what he was—an honest, honourable, prosperous tradesman. I watched him down the street—my good father, whom I respected perhaps even more than I loved him. The Cornish lad watched him likewise.
It still rained slightly, so we remained under cover. John Halifax leaned in his old place, and did not attempt to talk. Once only, when the draught through the alley made me shiver, he pulled my cloak round me carefully.
"You are not very strong, I'm afraid?"
"No."
Then he stood idly looking up at the opposite—the mayor's—house, with its steps and portico, and its fourteen windows, one of which was open, and a cluster of little heads visible there.
The mayor's children—I knew them all by sight, though nothing more; for their father was a lawyer, and mine a tanner; they belonged to Abbey folk and orthodoxy, I to the Society of Friends—the mayor's rosy children seemed greatly amused by watching us shivering shelterers from the rain. Doubtless our position made their own appear all the pleasanter. For myself it mattered little; but for this poor, desolate, homeless, wayfaring lad to stand in sight of their merry nursery window, and hear the clatter of voices, and of not unwelcome dinner-sounds—I wondered how he felt it.
Just at this minute another head came to the window, a somewhat older child; I had met her with the rest; she was only a visitor. She looked at us, then disappeared. Soon after, we saw the front door half opened, and an evident struggle taking place behind it; we even heard loud words across the narrow street.
"I will—I say I will."
"You shan't, Miss Ursula."
"But I will!"
And there stood the little girl, with a loaf in one hand and a carving-knife in the other. She succeeded in cutting off a large slice, and holding it out.
"Take it, poor boy!—you look so hungry. Do take it." But the servant forced her in, and the door was shut upon a sharp cry.
It made John Halifax start, and look up at the nursery window, which was likewise closed. We heard nothing more. After a minute he crossed the street, and picked up the slice of bread. Now in those days bread was precious, exceedingly. The poor folk rarely got it; they lived on rye or meal. John Halifax had probably not tasted wheaten bread like this for months: it appeared not, he eyed it so ravenously;—then, glancing towards the shut door, his mind seemed to change. He was a long time before he ate a morsel; when he did so, it was quietly and slowly; looking very thoughtful all the while.
As soon as the rain ceased, we took our way home, down the High Street, towards the Abbey church—he guiding my carriage along in silence. I wished he would talk, and let me hear again his pleasant Cornish accent.
"How strong you are!" said I, sighing, when, with a sudden pull, he had saved me from being overturned by a horseman riding past—young Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, who never cared where he galloped or whom he hurt—"So tall and so strong."
"Am I? Well, I shall want my strength."
"How?"
"To earn my living."
He drew up his broad shoulders, and planted on the pavement a firmer foot, as if he knew he had the world before him—would meet it single-handed, and without fear.
"What have you worked at lately?"
"Anything I could get, for I have never learned a trade."
"Would you like to learn one?"
He hesitated a minute, as if weighing his speech. "Once I thought I should like to be what my father was."
"What was he?"
"A scholar and a gentleman."
This was news, though it did not much surprise me. My father, tanner as he was, and pertinaciously jealous of the dignity of trade, yet held strongly the common-sense doctrine of the advantages of good descent; at least, in degree. For since it is a law of nature, admitting only rare exceptions, that the qualities of the ancestors should be transmitted to the race—the fact seems patent enough, that even allowing equal advantages, a gentleman's son has more chances of growing up a gentleman than the son of a working man. And though he himself, and his father before him, had both been working men, still, I think, Abel Fletcher never forgot that we originally came of a good stock, and that it pleased him to call me, his only son, after one of our forefathers, not unknown—Phineas Fletcher, who wrote the "Purple Island."
Thus it seemed to me, and I doubted not it would to my father, much more reasonable and natural that a boy like John Halifax—in whom from every word he said I detected a mind and breeding above his outward condition—should come of gentle than of boorish blood.
"Then, perhaps," I said, resuming the conversation, "you would not like to follow a trade?"
"Yes, I should. What would it matter to me? My father was a gentleman."
"And your mother?"
And he turned suddenly round; his cheeks hot, his lips quivering: "She is dead. I do not like to hear strangers speak about my mother."
I asked his pardon. It was plain he had loved and mourned her; and that circumstances had smothered down his quick boyish feelings into a man's tenacity of betraying where he had loved and mourned. I, only a few minutes after, said something about wishing we were not "strangers."
"Do you?" The lad's half amazed, half-grateful smile went right to my heart.
"Have you been up and down the country much?"
"A great deal—these last three years; doing a hand's turn as best I could, in hop-picking, apple-gathering, harvesting; only this summer I had typhus fever, and could not work."
"What did you do then?"
"I lay in a barn till I got well—I'm quite well now; you need not be afraid."
"No, indeed; I had never thought of that."
We soon became quite sociable together. He guided me carefully out of the town into the Abbey walk, flecked with sunshine through overhanging trees. Once he stopped to pick up for me the large brown fan of a horse-chestnut leaf.
"It's pretty, isn't it?—only it shows that autumn is come."
"And how shall you live in the winter, when there is no out-of-door work to be had?"
"I don't know."
The lad's countenance fell, and that hungry, weary look, which had vanished while we talked, returned more painfully than ever. I reproached myself for having, under the influence of his merry talk, temporarily forgotten it.
"Ah!" I cried eagerly, when we left the shade of the Abbey trees, and crossed the street; "here we are, at home!"
"Are you?" The homeless lad just glanced at it—the flight of spotless stone-steps, guarded by ponderous railings, which led to my father's respectable and handsome door[6]. "Good day, then—which means good-bye."
I started. The word pained me. On my sad, lonely life—brief indeed, though ill health seemed to have doubled and trebled my sixteen years into a mournful maturity—this lad's face had come like a flash of sunshine; a reflection of the merry boyhood, the youth and strength that never were, never could be, mine. To let it go from me was like going back into the dark.
"Not good-bye just yet!" said I, trying painfully to disengage myself from my little carriage and mount the steps. John Halifax came to my aid.
"Suppose you let me carry you. I could—and—and it would be great fun, you know."
He tried to turn it into a jest, so as not to hurt me; but the tremble in his voice was as tender as any woman's—tenderer than any woman's I ever was used to hear. I put my arms round his neck; he lifted me safely and carefully, and set me at my own door. Then with another good-bye he again turned to go.
My heart cried after him with an irrepressible cry. What I said I do not remember, but it caused him to return.
"Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?"
"Don't call me 'sir'; I am only a boy like yourself. I want you; don't go yet. Ah! here comes my father!"
John Halifax stood aside, and touched his cap with a respectful deference, as the old man passed.
"So here thee be—hast thou taken care of my son? Did he give thee thy groat, my lad?"
We had neither of us once thought of the money.
When I acknowledged this my father laughed, called John an honest lad, and began searching in his pocket for some larger coin. I ventured to draw his ear down and whispered something—but I got no answer; meanwhile, John Halifax for the third time was going away.
"Stop, lad—I forget thy name—here is thy groat, and a shilling added, for being kind to my son."
"Thank you, but I don't want payment for kindness."
He kept the groat, and put back the shilling into my father's hand.
"Eh!" said the old man, much astonished, "thee'rt an odd lad; but I can't stay talking with thee. Come in to dinner, Phineas. I say," turning back to John Halifax with a sudden thought, "art thee hungry?"
"Very hungry." Nature gave way at last, and great tears came into the poor lad's eyes. "Nearly starving."
"Bless me! then get in, and have thy dinner. But first—" and my inexorable father held him by the shoulder; "thee art a decent lad, come of decent parents?"
"Yes," almost indignantly.
"Thee works for thy living?"
"I do, whenever I can get it."
"Thee hast never been in gaol?"
"No!" thundered out the lad, with a furious look. "I don't want your dinner, sir; I would have stayed, because your son asked me, and he was civil to me, and I liked him. Now I think I had better go. Good day, sir."
There is a verse in a very old Book—even in its human histories the most pathetic of all books—which runs thus:
"And it came to pass when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit unto the soul of David; and Jonathan loved him as his own soul."
And this day, I, a poorer and more helpless Jonathan, had found my David.
I caught him by the hand, and would not let him go.
"There, get in, lads—make no more ado," said Abel Fletcher, sharply, as he disappeared.
So, still holding my David fast, I brought him into my father's house.
CHAPTER II
Dinner was over; my father and I took ours in the large parlour, where the stiff, high-backed chairs eyed one another in opposite rows across the wide oaken floor, shiny and hard as marble, and slippery as glass. Except the table, the sideboard and the cuckoo clock, there was no other furniture.
I dared not bring the poor wandering lad into this, my father's especial domain; but as soon as he was away in the tan-yard I sent for John.
Jael brought him in; Jael, the only womankind we ever had about us, and who, save to me when I happened to be very ill, certainly gave no indication of her sex in its softness and tenderness. There had evidently been wrath in the kitchen.
"Phineas, the lad ha' got his dinner, and you mustn't keep 'un long. I bean't going to let you knock yourself up with looking after a beggar-boy."
A beggar-boy! The idea seemed so ludicrous, that I could not help smiling at it as I regarded him. He had washed his face and combed out his fair curls; though his clothes were threadbare, all but ragged, they were not unclean; and there was a rosy, healthy freshness in his tanned skin, which showed he loved and delighted in what poor folk generally abominate—water. And now the sickness of hunger had gone from his face, the lad, if not actually what our scriptural Saxon terms "well-favoured," was certainly "well-liking." A beggar-boy, indeed! I hoped he had not heard Jael's remark. But he had.
"Madam," said he, with a bow of perfect good-humour, and even some sly drollery, "you mistake: I never begged in my life: I'm a person of independent property, which consists of my head and my two hands, out of which I hope to realise a large capital some day."
I laughed. Jael retired, abundantly mystified, and rather cross. John Halifax came to my easy chair, and in an altered tone asked me how I felt, and if he could do anything for me before he went away.
"You'll not go away; not till my father comes home, at least?" For I had been revolving many plans, which had one sole aim and object, to keep near me this lad, whose companionship and help seemed to me, brotherless, sisterless, and friendless as I was, the very thing that would give me an interest in life, or, at least, make it drag on less wearily. To say that what I projected was done out of charity or pity would not be true; it was simple selfishness, if that be selfishness which makes one leap towards, and cling to, a possible strength and good, which I conclude to be the secret of all those sudden likings that spring more from instinct than reason. I do not attempt to account for mine: I know not why "the soul of Jonathan clave to the soul of David." I only know that it was so, and that the first day I beheld the lad John Halifax, I, Phineas Fletcher, "loved him as my own soul."
Thus, my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnest, that it apparently touched the friendless boy to the core.
"Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning against the fire-place he drew his hand backwards and forwards across his face: "you are very kind; I'll stay an hour or so, if you wish it."
"Then come and sit down here, and let us have a talk."
What this talk was, I cannot now recall, save that it ranged over many and wide themes, such as boys delight in—chiefly of life and adventure. He knew nothing of my only world—books.
"Can you read?" he asked me at last, suddenly.
"I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, being somewhat proud of my erudition.
"And write?"
"Oh, yes; certainly."
He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write, and I don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put down something in a book for me."
"That I will."
He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an under one of black silk; within this, again, was a book. He would not let it go out of his hands, but held it so that I could see the leaves. It was a Greek Testament.
"Look here."
He pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read:
"Guy Halifax, his Book.
"Guy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 17, in the year of our Lord 1779.
"John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780."
There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female hand: "Guy Halifax, died January 4, 1781."
"What shall I write, John?" said I, after a minute or so of silence.
"I'll tell you presently. Can I get you a pen?"
He leaned on my shoulder with his left hand, but his right never once let go of the precious book.
"Write—'Muriel Halifax, died January 1, 1791.'"
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
He looked at the writing for a minute or two, dried it carefully by the fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and put it into his pocket. He said no other word but "Thank you," and I asked him no questions.
This was all I ever heard of the boy's parentage: nor do I believe he knew more himself. He was indebted to no forefathers for a family history: the chronicle commenced with himself, and was altogether his own making. No romantic antecedents ever turned up: his lineage remained uninvestigated, and his pedigree began and ended with his own honest name—John Halifax.
Jael kept coming in and out of the parlour on divers excuses, eyeing very suspiciously John Halifax and me; especially when she heard me laughing—a rare and notable fact—for mirth was not the fashion in our house, nor the tendency of my own nature. Now this young lad, hardly as the world had knocked him about even already, had an overflowing spirit of quiet drollery and healthy humour, which was to me an inexpressible relief. It gave me something I did not possess—something entirely new. I could not look at the dancing brown eyes, at the quaint dimples of lurking fun that played hide-and-seek under the firm-set mouth, without feeling my heart cheered and delighted, like one brought out of a murky chamber into the open day.
But all this was highly objectionable to Jael.
"Phineas!"—and she planted herself before me at the end of the table—"it's a fine, sunshiny day: thee ought to be out."
"I have been out, thank you, Jael." And John and I went on talking.
"Phineas!"—a second and more determined attack—"too much laughing bean't good for thee; and it's time this lad were going about his own business."
"Hush!—nonsense, Jael."
"No—she's right," said John Halifax, rising, while that look of premature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard experience, chased all the boyish fun from his face. "I've had a merry day—thank you kindly for it! and now I'll be gone."
Gone! It was not to be thought of—at least, not till my father came home. For now, more determinedly than ever, the plan which I had just ventured to hint at to my father fixed itself on my mind. Surely he would not refuse me—me, his sickly boy, whose life had in it so little pleasure.
"Why do you want to go? You have no work?"
"No; I wish I had. But I'll get some."
"How?"
"Just by trying everything that comes to hand. That's the only way. I never wanted bread, nor begged it, yet—though I've often been rather hungry. And as for clothes"—he looked down on his own, light and threadbare, here and there almost burst into holes by the stout muscles of the big growing boy—looked rather disconsolately. "I'm afraid SHE would be sorry—that's all! She always kept me so tidy."
By the way he spoke, "SHE" must have meant his mother. There the orphan lad had an advantage over me; alas! I did not remember mine.
"Come," I said, for now I had quite made up my mind to take no denial, and fear no rebuff from my father; "cheer up. Who knows what may turn up?"
"Oh yes, something always does; I'm not afraid!" He tossed back his curls, and looked smiling out through the window at the blue sky; that steady, brave, honest smile, which will meet Fate in every turn, and fairly coax the jade into good humour.
"John, do you know you're uncommonly like a childish hero of mine—Dick Whittington? Did you ever hear of him?"
"No."
"Come into the garden then"—for I caught another ominous vision of Jael in the doorway, and I did not want to vex my good old nurse; besides, unlike John, I was anything but brave. "You'll hear the Abbey bells chime presently—not unlike Bow bells, I used to fancy sometimes; and we'll lie on the grass, and I'll tell you the whole true and particular story of Sir Richard Whittington."
I lifted myself, and began looking for my crutches. John found and put them into my hand, with a grave, pitiful look.
"You don't need those sort of things," I said, making pretence to laugh, for I had not grown used to them, and felt often ashamed.
"I hope you will not need them always."
"Perhaps not—Dr. Jessop isn't sure. But it doesn't matter much; most likely I shan't live long." For this was, God forgive me, always the last and greatest comfort I had.
John looked at me—surprised, troubled, compassionate—but he did not say a word. I hobbled past him; he following through the long passage to the garden door. There I paused—tired out. John Halifax took gentle hold of my shoulder.
"I think, if you did not mind, I'm sure I could carry you. I carried a meal-sack once, weighing eight stone."
I burst out laughing, which maybe was what he wanted, and forthwith consented to assume the place of the meal-sack. He took me on his back—what a strong fellow he was!—and fairly trotted with me down the garden walk. We were both very merry; and though I was his senior I seemed with him, out of my great weakness and infirmity, to feel almost like a child.
"Please to take me to that clematis arbour; it looks over the Avon. Now, how do you like our garden?"
"It's a nice place."
He did not go into ecstasies, as I had half expected; but gazed about him observantly, while a quiet, intense satisfaction grew and diffused itself over his whole countenance.
"It's a VERY nice place."
Certainly it was. A large square, chiefly grass, level as a bowling-green, with borders round. Beyond, divided by a low hedge, was the kitchen and fruit garden—my father's pride, as this old-fashioned pleasaunce was mine. When, years ago, I was too weak to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-patterned carpet, bounded by its broad gravel walk; and above that, apparently shut in as with an impassable barrier from the outer world, by a three-sided fence, the high wall, the yew-hedge, and the river.
John Halifax's comprehensive gaze seemed to take in all.
"Have you lived here long?" he asked me.
"Ever since I was born."
"Ah!—well, it's a nice place," he repeated, somewhat sadly. "This grass plot is very even—thirty yards square, I should guess. I'd get up and pace it; only I'm rather tired."
"Are you? Yet you would carry—"
"Oh—that's nothing. I've often walked farther than to-day. But still it's a good step across the country since morning."
"How far have you come?"
"From the foot of those hills—I forget what they call them—over there. I have seen bigger ones—but they're steep enough—bleak and cold, too, especially when one is lying out among the sheep. At a distance they look pleasant. This is a very pretty view."
Ay, so I had always thought it; more so than ever now, when I had some one to say to how "very pretty" it was. Let me describe it—this first landscape, the sole picture of my boyish days, and vivid as all such pictures are.
At the end of the arbour the wall which enclosed us on the riverward side was cut down—my father had done it at my asking—so as to make a seat, something after the fashion of Queen Mary's seat at Stirling, of which I had read. Thence, one could see a goodly sweep of country. First, close below, flowed the Avon—Shakspeare's Avon—here a narrow, sluggish stream, but capable, as we at Norton Bury sometimes knew to our cost, of being roused into fierceness and foam. Now it slipped on quietly enough, contenting itself with turning a flour-mill hard by, the lazy whirr of which made a sleepy, incessant monotone which I was fond of hearing.
From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, called the Ham—dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond it was a second river, forming an arch of a circle round the verdant flat. But the stream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; you could only trace the line of its course by the small white sails that glided in and out, oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees, and across meadow lands.
They attracted John's attention. "Those can't be boats, surely. Is there water there?"
"To be sure, or you would not see the sails. It is the Severn; though at this distance you can't perceive it; yet it is deep enough too, as you may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly believe so, to look at it here—but I believe it gets broader and broader, and turns out a noble river by the time it reaches the King's Roads, and forms the Bristol Channel."
"I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look. "Ah, I like the Severn."
He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in his eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought grow, and grow, till out of them was shining a beauty absolutely divine.
All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the lad start.
"What's that?"
"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," I sang to the bells; and then it seemed such a commonplace history, and such a very low degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten to tell John the story. I merely showed him where, beyond our garden wall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the grim old Abbey tower.
"Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient time—our orchard is so fine. The monks may have planted it; they liked fruit, those old fellows."
"Oh! did they!" He evidently did not quite comprehend, but was trying, without asking, to find out what I referred to. I was almost ashamed, lest he might think I wanted to show off my superior knowledge.
"The monks were parsons, John, you know. Very good men, I dare say, but rather idle."
"Oh, indeed. Do you think they planted that yew hedge?" And he went to examine it.
Now, far and near, our yew-hedge was noted. There was not its like in the whole country. It was about fifteen feet high, and as many thick. Century after century of growth, with careful clipping and training, had compacted it into a massive green barrier, as close and impervious as a wall.
John poked in and about it—peering through every interstice—leaning his breast against the solid depth of branches; but their close shield resisted all his strength.
At last he came back to me, his face glowing with the vain efforts he had made.
"What were you about? Did you want to get through?"
"I wanted just to see if it were possible."
I shook my head. "What would you do, John, if you were shut up here, and had to get over the yew-hedge? You could not climb it?"
"I know that, and, therefore, should not waste time in trying."
"Would you give up, then?"
He smiled—there was no "giving up" in that smile of his. "I'll tell you what I'd do—I'd begin and break it, twig by twig, till I forced my way through, and got out safe at the other side."
"Well done, lad!—but if it's all the same to thee, I would rather thee did not try that experiment upon MY hedge at present."
My father had come behind, and overheard us, unobserved. We were both somewhat confounded, though a grim kindliness of aspect showed that he was not displeased—nay, even amused.
"Is that thy usual fashion of getting over a difficulty, friend—what's thy name?"
I supplied the answer. The minute Abel Fletcher appeared, John seemed to lose all his boyish fun, and go back to that premature gravity and hardness of demeanour which I supposed his harsh experience of the world and of men had necessarily taught him; but which was very sad to see in a lad so young.
My father sat down beside me on the bench—pushed aside an intrusive branch of clematis—finally, because it would come back and tickle his bald pate, broke it off, and threw it into the river: then, leaning on his stick with both hands, eyed John Halifax sharply, all over, from top to toe.
"Didn't thee say thee wanted work? It looks rather like it."
His glance upon the shabby clothes made the boy colour violently.
"Oh, thee need'st not be ashamed; better men than thee have been in rags. Hast thee any money?"
"The groat you gave, that is, paid me; I never take what I don't earn," said the lad, sticking a hand in either poor empty pocket.
"Don't be afraid—I was not going to give thee anything—except, maybe—Would thee like some work?"
"O sir!"
"O father!"
I hardly know which was the most grateful cry.
Abel Fletcher looked surprised, but on the whole not ill-pleased. Putting on and pulling down his broad-brimmed hat, he sat meditatively for a minute or so; making circles in the gravel walk with the end of his stick. People said—nay, Jael herself, once, in a passion, had thrown the fact at me—that the wealthy Friend himself had come to Norton Bury without a shilling in his pocket.
"Well, what work canst thee do, lad?"
"Anything," was the eager answer.
"Anything generally means nothing," sharply said my father; "what hast thee been at all this year?—The truth, mind!"
John's eyes flashed, but a look from mine seemed to set him right again. He said quietly and respectfully, "Let me think a minute, and I'll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer's, riding the plough-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the hills with some sheep: in June I tried hay-making, and caught a fever—you needn't start, sir, I've been well these six weeks, or I wouldn't have come near your son—then—"
"That will do, lad—I'm satisfied."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thee need not say 'sir'—it is folly. I am Abel Fletcher." For my father retained scrupulously the Friend's mode of speech, though he was practically but a lax member of the Society, and had married out of its pale. In this announcement of his plain name appeared, I fancy, more pride than humility.
"Very well, I will remember," answered the boy fearlessly, though with an amused twist of his mouth, speedily restrained. "And now, Abel Fletcher, I shall be willing and thankful for any work you can give me."
"We'll see about it."
I looked gratefully and hopefully at my father—but his next words rather modified my pleasure.
"Phineas, one of my men at the tan-yard has gone and 'listed this day—left an honest livelihood to be a paid cut-throat. Now, if I could get a lad—one too young to be caught hold of at every pot-house by that man of blood, the recruiting sergeant—Dost thee think this lad is fit to take the place?"
"Whose place, father?"
"Bill Watkins'."
I was dumb-foundered! I had occasionally seen the said Bill Watkins, whose business it was to collect the skins which my father had bought from the farmers round about. A distinct vision presented itself to me of Bill and his cart, from which dangled the sanguinary exuviae of defunct animals, while in front the said Bill sat enthroned, dirty-clad, and dirty-handed, with his pipe in his mouth. The idea of John Halifax in such a position was not agreeable.
"But, father—"
He read deprecation in my looks—alas! he knew too well how I disliked the tan-yard and all belonging to it. "Thee'rt a fool, and the lad's another. He may go about his business for me."
"But, father, isn't there anything else?"
"I have nothing else, or if I had I wouldn't give it. He that will not work neither shall he eat."
"I will work," said John, sturdily—he had listened, scarcely comprehending, to my father and me. "I don't care what it is, if only it's honest work."
Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me—but that I little minded—and addressed himself solely to John Halifax.
"Canst thee drive?"
"That I can!" and his eyes brightened with boyish delight.
"Tut! it's only a cart—the cart with the skins. Dost thee know anything of tanning?"
"No, but I can learn."
"Hey, not so fast! still, better be fast than slow. In the meantime, thee can drive the cart."
"Thank you, sir—Abel Fletcher, I mean—I'll do it well. That is, as well as I can."
"And mind! no stopping on the road. No drinking, to find the king's cursed shilling at the bottom of the glass, like poor Bill, for thy mother to come crying and pestering. Thee hasn't got one, eh? So much the better, all women are born fools, especially mothers."
"Sir!" The lad's face was all crimson and quivering; his voice choked; it was with difficulty he smothered down a burst of tears. Perhaps this self-control was more moving than if he had wept—at least, it answered better with my father.
After a few minutes more, during which his stick had made a little grave in the middle of the walk, and buried something there—I think something besides the pebble—Abel Fletcher said, not unkindly:
"Well, I'll take thee; though it isn't often I take a lad without a character of some sort—I suppose thee hast none."
"None," was the answer, while the straightforward, steady gaze which accompanied it unconsciously contradicted the statement; his own honest face was the lad's best witness—at all events I thought so.
"'Tis done then," said my father, concluding the business more quickly than I had ever before known his cautious temper settle even such a seemingly trifling matter. I say SEEMINGLY. How blindly we talk when we talk of "trifles."
Carelessly rising, he, from some kindly impulse, or else to mark the closing of the bargain, shook the boy's hand, and left in it a shilling.
"What is this for?"
"To show I have hired thee as my servant."
"Servant!" John repeated hastily, and rather proudly. "Oh yes, I understand—well, I will try and serve you well."
My father did not notice that manly, self-dependent smile. He was too busy calculating how many more of those said shillings would be a fair equivalent for such labour as a lad, ever so much the junior of Bill Watkins, could supply. After some cogitation he hit upon the right sum. I forget how much—be sure it was not over much; for money was scarce enough in this war-time; and besides, there was a belief afloat, so widely that it tainted even my worthy father, that plenty was not good for the working-classes; they required to be kept low.
Having settled the question of wages, which John Halifax did not debate at all, my father left us, but turned back when half-way across the green-turfed square.
"Thee said thee had no money; there's a week in advance, my son being witness I pay it thee; and I can pay thee a shilling less every Saturday till we get straight."
"Very well, sir; good afternoon, and thank you."
John took off his cap as he spoke—Abel Fletcher, involuntarily almost, touched his hat in return of the salutation. Then he walked away, and we had the garden all to ourselves—we, Jonathan and his new-found David.
I did not "fall upon his neck," like the princely Hebrew, to whom I have likened myself, but whom, alas! I resembled in nothing save my loving. But I grasped his hand, for the first time, and looking up at him, as he stood thoughtfully by me, whispered, "that I was very glad."
"Thank you—so am I," said he, in a low tone. Then all his old manner returned; he threw his battered cap high up in the air, and shouted out, "Hurrah!"—a thorough boy.
And I, in my poor, quavering voice, shouted too.
CHAPTER III
When I was young, and long after then, at intervals, I had the very useless, sometimes harmful, and invariably foolish habit of keeping a diary. To me, at least, it has been less foolish and harmful than to most; and out of it, together with much drawn out of the stores of a memory, made preternaturally vivid by a long introverted life, which, colourless itself, had nothing to do but to reflect and retain clear images of the lives around it—out of these two sources I have compiled the present history.
Therein, necessarily, many blank epochs occur. These I shall not try to fill up, but merely resume the thread of narration as recollection serves.
Thus, after this first day, many days came and went before I again saw John Halifax—almost before I again thought of him. For it was one of my seasons of excessive pain; when I found it difficult to think of anything beyond those four grey-painted walls; where morning, noon, and night slipped wearily away, marked by no changes, save from daylight to candle-light, from candle-light to dawn.
Afterwards, as my pain abated, I began to be haunted by occasional memories of something pleasant that had crossed my dreary life; visions of a brave, bright young face, ready alike to battle with and enjoy the world. I could hear the voice that, speaking to me, was always tender with pity—yet not pity enough to wound: I could see the peculiar smile just creeping round his grave mouth—that irrepressible smile, indicating the atmosphere of thorough heart-cheerfulness, which ripens all the fruits of a noble nature, and without which the very noblest has about it something unwholesome, blank, and cold.
I wondered if John had ever asked for me. At length I put the question.
