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.