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James Stephens - "The Crock of Gold"

Bram Stoker - "Dracula"

Xenophon - "On Horsemanship"

Rainer Maria Rilke - "Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurid Brigge"

John Halifax, Gentleman

D >> Dinah Maria Mulock (Mrs. Craik) >> John Halifax, Gentleman




I smiled--for, in spite of his transformation, I, at least, had no
difficulty in recognising John Halifax.

He had on new clothes--let me give the credit due to that wonderful
civiliser, the tailor--clothes neat, decent, and plain, such as any
'prentice lad might wear. They fitted well his figure, which had
increased both in height, compactness, and grace. Round his neck was
a coarse but white shirt frill; and over it fell, carefully arranged,
the bright curls of his bonny hair. Easily might Jael or any one
else have "mistaken" him, as she cuttingly said, for a young
gentleman.

She looked very indignant, though, when she found out the aforesaid
"mistake."

"What may be thy business here?" she said, roughly.

"Abel Fletcher sent me on a message."

"Out with it then--don't be stopping with Phineas here. Thee bean't
company for him, and his father don't choose it."

"Jael!" I cried, indignantly. John never spoke, but his cheek burnt
furiously.

I took his hand, and told him how glad I was to see him--but, for a
minute, I doubt if he heard me.

"Abel Fletcher sent me here," he repeated, in a well-controlled
voice, "that I might go out with Phineas; if HE objects to my
company, it's easy to say so."

And he turned to me. I think he must have been satisfied then.

Jael retired discomfited, and in her wrath again dropped half of her
cabbages. John picked them up and restored them; but got for thanks
only a parting thrust.

"Thee art mighty civil in thy new clothes. Be off, and be back again
sharp; and, I say, don't thee be leaving the cart o' skins again
under the parlour windows."

"I don't drive the cart now," was all he replied.

"Not drive the cart?" I asked, eagerly, when Jael had disappeared,
for I was afraid some ill chance had happened.

"Only, that this winter I've managed to teach myself to read and add
up, out of your books, you know; and your father found it out, and he
says I shall go round collecting money instead of skins, and it's
much better wages, and--I like it better--that's all."

But, little as he said, his whole face beamed with pride and
pleasure. It was, in truth, a great step forward.

"He must trust you very much, John," said I, at last, knowing how
exceedingly particular my father was in his collectors.

"That's it--that's what pleases me so. He is very good to me,
Phineas, and he gave me a special holiday, that I might go out with
you. Isn't that grand?"

"Grand, indeed. What fun we'll have! I almost think I could take a
walk myself."

For the lad's company invariably gave me new life, and strength, and
hope. The very sight of him was as good as the coming of spring.

"Where shall we go?" said he, when we were fairly off, and he was
guiding my carriage down Norton Bury streets.

"I think to the Mythe." The Mythe was a little hill on the outskirts
of the town, breezy and fresh, where Squire Brithwood had built
himself a fine house ten years ago.

"Ay, that will do; and as we go, you will see the floods out--a
wonderful sight, isn't it? The river is rising still, I hear; at the
tan-yard they are busy making a dam against it. How high are the
floods here, generally, Phineas?"

"I'm sure I can't remember. But don't look so serious. Let us enjoy
ourselves."

And I did enjoy, intensely, that pleasant stroll. The mere sunshine
was delicious; delicious, too, to pause on the bridge at the other
end of the town, and feel the breeze brought in by the rising waters,
and hear the loud sound of them, as they poured in a cataract over
the flood-gates hard by.

"Your lazy, muddy Avon looks splendid now. What masses of white foam
it makes, and what wreaths of spray; and see! ever so much of the Ham
is under water. How it sparkles in the sun."

"John, you like looking at anything pretty."

"Ah! don't I!" cried he, with his whole heart. My heart leaped too,
to see him so happy.

"You can't think how fine this is from my window; I have watched it
for a week. Every morning the water seems to have made itself a
fresh channel. Look at that one, by the willow-tree--how savagely it
pours!"

"Oh, we at Norton Bury are used to floods."

"Are they ever very serious?"

"Have been--but not in my time. Now, John, tell me what you have
been doing all winter."

It was a brief and simple chronicle--of hard work, all day over, and
from the Monday to the Saturday--too hard work to do anything of
nights, save to drop into the sound, dreamless sleep of youth and
labour.

"But how did you teach yourself to read and add up, then?"

"Generally at odd minutes going along the road. It's astonishing
what a lot of odd minutes one can catch during the day, if one really
sets about it. And then I had Sunday afternoons besides. I did not
think it wrong--"

"No," said I; decisively. "What books have you got through?"

"All you sent--Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and the Arabian
Nights. That's fine, isn't it?" and his eyes sparkled.

"Any more?"

"Also the one you gave me at Christmas. I have read it a good deal."

I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke. I liked to
hear him own, nor be ashamed to own--that he read "a good deal" in
that rare book for a boy to read--the Bible.

But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions; indeed, it
seemed to me, and seems still, that no more were needed.

"And you can read quite easily now, John?"

"Pretty well, considering." Then, turning suddenly to me: "You read
a great deal, don't you? I overheard your father say you were very
clever. How much do you know?"

"Oh--nonsense!" But he pressed me, and I told him. The list was
short enough; I almost wished it were shorter when I saw John's face.

"For me--I can only just read, and I shall be fifteen directly!"

The accent of shame, despondency, even despair, went to my very
heart.

"Don't mind," I said, laying my feeble, useless hand upon that which
guided me on so steady and so strong; "how could you have had time,
working as hard as you do?"

"But I ought to learn; I must learn."

"You shall. It's little I can teach; but, if you like, I'll teach
you all I know."

"O Phineas!" One flash of those bright, moist eyes, and he walked
hastily across the road. Thence he came back, in a minute or two,
armed with the tallest, straightest of briar-rose shoots.

"You like a rose-switch, don't you? I do. Nay, stop till I've cut
off the thorns." And he walked on beside me, working at it with his
knife, in silence.

I was silent, too, but I stole a glance at his mouth, as seen in
profile. I could almost always guess at his thoughts by that mouth,
so flexible, sensitive, and, at times, so infinitely sweet. It wore
that expression now. I was satisfied, for I knew the lad was happy.

We reached the Mythe. "David," I said (I had got into a habit of
calling him "David;" and now he had read a certain history in that
Book I supposed he had guessed why, for he liked the name), "I don't
think I can go any further up the hill."

"Oh! but you shall! I'll push behind; and when we come to the stile
I'll carry you. It's lovely on the top of the Mythe--look at the
sunset. You cannot have seen a sunset for ever so long."

No--that was true. I let John do as he would with me--he who brought
into my pale life the only brightness it had ever known.

Ere long we stood on the top of the steep mound. I know not if it be
a natural hill, or one of those old Roman or British remains,
plentiful enough hereabouts, but it was always called the Mythe.
Close below it, at the foot of a precipitous slope, ran the Severn,
there broad and deep enough, gradually growing broader and deeper as
it flowed on, through a wide plain of level country, towards the line
of hills that bounded the horizon. Severn looked beautiful here;
neither grand nor striking, but certainly beautiful; a calm,
gracious, generous river, bearing strength in its tide and plenty in
its bosom, rolling on through the land slowly and surely, like a good
man's life, and fertilising wherever it flows.

"Do you like Severn still, John?"

"I love it."

I wondered if his thoughts had been anything like mine.

"What is that?" he cried, suddenly, pointing to a new sight, which
even I had not often seen on our river. It was a mass of water,
three or four feet high, which came surging along the midstream,
upright as a wall.

"It is the eger; I've often seen it on Severn, where the swift
seaward current meets the spring-tide. Look what a crest of foam it
has, like a wild boar's mane. We often call it the river-boar."

"But it is only a big wave."

"Big enough to swamp a boat, though."

And while I spoke I saw, to my horror, that there actually was a
boat, with two men in it, trying to get out of the way of the eger.

"They never can! they'll assuredly be drowned! O John!"

But he had already slipped from my side and swung himself by
furze-bushes and grass down the steep slope to the water's edge.

It was a breathless moment. The eger travelled slowly in its
passage, changing the smooth, sparkling river to a whirl of
conflicting currents, in which no boat could live--least of all that
light pleasure-boat, with its toppling sail. In it was a youth I
knew by sight, Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe House, and another
gentleman.

They both pulled hard--they got out of the mid-stream, but not close
enough to land; and already there was but two oars' length between
them and the "boar."

"Swim for it!" I heard one cry to the other: but swimming would not
have saved them.

"Hold there!" shouted John at the top of his voice; "throw that rope
out and I will pull you in!"

It was a hard tug: I shuddered to see him wade knee-deep in the
stream--but he succeeded. Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore. The
younger tried desperately to save his boat, but it was too late.
Already the "water-boar" had clutched it--the rope broke like a
gossamer-thread--the trim, white sail was dragged down--rose up once,
broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in a mill-stream--then
disappeared.

"So it's all over with her, poor thing!"

"Who cares?--We might have lost our lives," sharply said the other,
an older and sickly-looking gentleman, dressed in mourning, to whom
life did not seem a particularly pleasant thing, though he appeared
to value it so highly.

They both scrambled up the Mythe, without noticing John Halifax:
then the elder turned.

"But who pulled us ashore? Was it you, my young friend?"

John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, "I suppose so."

"Indeed, we owe you much."

"Not more than a crown will pay," said young Brithwood, gruffly; "I
know him, Cousin March. He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan-yard."

"Nonsense!" cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at the boy with a
kindly, even half-sad air. "Impossible! Young man, will you tell me
to whom I am so much obliged?"

"My name is John Halifax."

"Yes; but WHAT are you?"

"What he said. Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough: I work in the
tan-yard."

"Oh!" Mr. March turned away with a resumption of dignity, though
evidently both surprised and disappointed. Young Brithwood laughed.

"I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad!" eyeing John over, "you've been
out at grass, and changed your coat for the better: but you're
certainly the same lad that my curricle nearly ran over one day; you
were driving a cart of skins--pah! I remember."

"So do I," said John, fiercely; but when the youth's insolent
laughter broke out again he controlled himself. The laughter ceased.

"Well, you've done me a good turn for an ill one, young--
what's-your-name, so here's a guinea for you." He threw it towards
him; it fell on the ground, and lay there.

"Nay, nay, Richard," expostulated the sickly gentleman, who, after
all, WAS a gentleman. He stood apparently struggling with
conflicting intentions, and not very easy in his mind. "My good
fellow," he said at last, in a constrained voice, "I won't forget
your bravery. If I could do anything for you--and meanwhile if a
trifle like this"--and he slipped something into John's hand.

John returned it with a bow, merely saying "that he would rather not
take any money."

The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little more
of persistence on one side and resistance on the other; and then Mr.
March put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the
while lingeringly at the boy--at his tall figure, and flushed, proud
face.

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen, nearly."

"Ah!" it was almost a sigh. He turned away, and turned back again.
"My name is March--Henry March; if you should ever--"

"Thank you, sir. Good-day."

"Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands--but John
did not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following young
Brithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced at
John. Then they disappeared.

"I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable." He flung
himself down, wrung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being so
afraid he would take cold, and so angry at young Brithwood's insults.
I sat wrapped in my cloak, and watched him making idle circles in the
sandy path with the rose-switch he had cut.

A thought struck me. "John, hand me the stick and I'll give you your
first writing lesson."

So there, on the smooth gravel, and with the rose-stem for a pen, I
taught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and join them
together. He learned them very quickly--so quickly, that in a little
while the simple copy-book that Mother Earth obliged us with was
covered in all directions with "J O H N--John."

"Bravo!" he cried, as we turned homeward, he flourishing his gigantic
pen, which had done such good service; "bravo! I have gained
something to-day!"

Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to look at the
waters that were "out." They had risen considerably, even in that
short time, and were now pouring in several new channels, one of
which was alongside of the high road; we stopped a good while
watching it. The current was harmless enough, merely flooding a part
of the Ham; but it awed us to see the fierce power of waters let
loose. An old willow-tree, about whose roots I had often watched the
king-cups growing, was now in the centre of a stream as broad as the
Avon by our tan-yard, and thrice as rapid. The torrent rushed round
it--impatient of the divisions its great roots caused--eager to
undermine and tear it up. Inevitably, if the flood did not abate,
within a few hours more there would be nothing left of the fine old
tree.

"I don't quite like this," said John, meditatively, as his quick eye
swept down the course of the river, with the houses and wharves that
abutted on it, all along one bank. "Did you ever see the waters thus
high before?"

"Yes, I believe I have; nobody minds it at Norton Bury; it is only
the sudden thaw, my father says, and he ought to know, for he has had
plenty of experience, the tan-yard being so close to the river."

"I was thinking of that; but come, it's getting cold."

He took me safe home, and we parted cordially--nay, affectionately--
at my own door.

"When will you come again, David?"

"When your father sends me."

And I felt that HE felt that our intercourse was always to be limited
to this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive, was possible, even
for friendship's sake, to John Halifax.

My father came in late that evening; he looked tired and uneasy, and
instead of going to bed, though it was after nine o'clock, sat down
to his pipe in the chimney-corner.

"Is the river rising still, father? Will it do any harm to the
tan-yard?"

"What dost thee know about the tan-yard!"

"Only John Halifax was saying--"

"John Halifax had better hold his tongue."

I held mine.

My father puffed away in silence till I came to bid him good-night.
I think the sound of my crutches on the floor stirred him out of a
long meditation, in which his ill-humour had ebbed away.

"Where didst thee go out to-day, Phineas?--thee and the lad I sent."

"To the Mythe:" and I told him the incident that had happened there.
He listened without reply.

"Wasn't it a brave thing to do, father?"

"Um!"--and a few meditative puffs. "Phineas, the lad thee hast such
a hankering after is a good lad--a very decent lad--if thee doesn't
make too much of him. Remember; he is but my servant; thee'rt my
son--my only son."

Alas! my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have such an
"only son" as I.

In the middle of the night--or else to me, lying awake, it seemed so-
-there was a knocking at our hall door. I slept on the ground flat,
in a little room opposite the parlour. Ere I could well collect my
thoughts, I saw my father pass, fully dressed, with a light in his
hand. And, man of peace though he was, I was very sure I saw in the
other--something which always lay near his strong box, at his bed's
head at night. Because ten years ago a large sum had been stolen
from him, and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law
refused to receive Abel Fletcher's testimony--he was "only a Quaker."

The knocking grew louder, as if the person had no time to hesitate at
making a noise. "Who's there?" called out my father; and at the
answer he opened the front door, first shutting mine.

A minute afterwards I heard some one in my room. "Phineas, are you
here?--don't be frightened."

I was not--as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiar
voice. "It's something about the tan-yard?"

"Yes; the waters are rising, and I have come to fetch your father; he
may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir"--in answer to a loud
call. "Now, Phineas, lie you down again, the night's bitter cold.
Don't stir--you'll promise?--I'll see after your father."

They went out of the house together, and did not return the whole
night.

That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Norton Bury.
Bridges were destroyed--boats carried away--houses inundated, or
sapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small, but that of
property was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin, and then
the flood began to turn.

It was a long waiting until they came home--my father and John. At
daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep. A blessed sight!

"O father! my dear father!" and I drew him in, holding fast his
hands--faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did
not repel me.

"Thee'rt up early, and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back
to the fire."

His voice was gentle; his ruddy countenance pale; two strange things
in Abel Fletcher.

"Father, tell me what has befallen thee?"

"Nothing, my son, save that the Giver of all worldly goods has seen
fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this
town, am poorer by some thousands than I went to bed last night."

He sat down. I knew he loved his money, for it had been hardly
earned. I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly.

"Father, never mind; it might have been worse."

"Of a surety. I should have lost everything I had in the world--save
for--Where is the lad? What art thee standing outside for? Come in,
John, and shut the door."

John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. I
wanted him to sit down by the fireside.

"Ay! do, lad," said my father, kindly.

John came.

I stood between the two--afraid to ask what they had undergone; but
sure, from the old man's grave face, and the lad's bright one--
flushed all over with that excitement of danger so delicious to the
young--that the peril had not been small.

"Jael," cried my father, rousing himself, "give us some breakfast;
the lad and me--we have had a hard night's work together."

Jael brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese; but either did
not or could not notice that the meal had been ordered for more than
one.

"Another plate," said my father, sharply.

"The lad can go into the kitchen, Abel Fletcher: his breakfast is
waiting there."

My father winced--even her master was sometimes rather afraid of
Jael. But conscience or his will conquered.

"Woman, do as I desired. Bring another plate, and another mug of
ale."

And so, to Jael's great wrath, and to my great joy, John Halifax was
bidden, and sat down to the same board as his master. The fact made
an ineffaceable impression on our household.

After breakfast, as we sat by the fire, in the pale haze of that
February morning, my father, contrary to his wont, explained to me
all his losses; and how, but for the timely warning he had received,
the flood might have nearly ruined him.

"So it was well John came," I said, half afraid to say more.

"Ay, and the lad has been useful, too: it is an old head on young
shoulders."

John looked very proud of this praise, though it was grimly given.
But directly after it some ill or suspicious thought seemed to come
into Abel Fletcher's mind.

"Lad," suddenly turning round on John Halifax, "thee told me thee saw
the river rising by the light of the moon. What wast THEE doing
then, out o' thy honest bed and thy quiet sleep, at eleven o'clock at
night?"

John coloured violently; the quick young blood was always ready
enough to rise in his face. It spoke ill for him with my father.

"Answer. I will not be hard upon thee--to-night, at least."

"As you like, Abel Fletcher," answered the boy, sturdily. "I was
doing no harm. I was in the tan-yard."

"Thy business there?"

"None at all. I was with the men--they were watching, and had a
candle; and I wanted to sit up, and had no light."

"What didst thee want to sit up for?" pursued my father, keen and
sharp as a ferret at a field-rat's hole, or a barrister hunting a
witness in those courts of law that were never used by, though often
used against, us Quakers.

John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely-accusing blushes tried
him sore. "Sir, I'll tell you; it's no disgrace. Though I'm such a
big fellow I can't write; and your son was good enough to try and
teach me. I was afraid of forgetting the letters; so I tried to make
them all over again, with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. It
did nobody any harm that I know of."

The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry, won no
reproof. At last my father said gently enough--

"Is that all, lad?"

"Yes."

Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talked
softly to each other--afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a whole
pipe--his great and almost his only luxury, and then again called
out--

"John Halifax."

"I'm here."

"It's time thee went away to thy work."

"I'm going this minute. Good-bye, Phineas. Good day, sir. Is there
anything you want done?"

He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest manliness
pleasant to see. Any master might have been proud of such a servant-
-any father of such a son. My poor father--no, he did not once look
from John Halifax to me. He would not have owned for the world that
half-smothered sigh, or murmured because Heaven had kept back from
him--as, Heaven knows why, it often does from us all!--the one desire
of the heart.

"John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this night.
What reward shall I give thee?"

And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. John turned
away.

"Thank you--I'd rather not. It is quite enough reward that I have
been useful to my master, and that he acknowledges it."

My father thought a minute, and then offered his hand. "Thee'rt in
the right, lad. I am very much obliged to thee, and I will not
forget it."

And John--blushing brightly once more--went away, looking as proud as
an emperor, and as happy as a poor man with a bag of gold.

"Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would pleasure
the lad?" said my father, after we had been talking some time--though
not about John.

I had thought of something--something I had long desired, but which
seemed then all but an impossibility. Even now it was with some
doubt and hesitation that I made the suggestion that he should spend
every Sunday at our house.

"Nonsense!--thee know'st nought of Norton Bury lads. He would not
care. He had rather lounge about all First-day at street corners
with his acquaintance."

"John has none, father. He knows nobody--cares for nobody--but me.
Do let him come."

"We'll see about it."

My father never broke or retracted his word. So after that John
Halifax came to us every Sunday; and for one day of the week, at
least, was received in his master's household as our equal and my
friend.



CHAPTER V

Summers and winters slipped by lazily enough, as the years seemed
always to crawl round at Norton Bury. How things went in the outside
world I little knew or cared. My father lived his life, mechanical
and steady as clock-work, and we two, John Halifax and Phineas
Fletcher, lived our lives--the one so active and busy, the other so
useless and dull. Neither of us counted the days, nor looked
backwards or forwards.

One June morning I woke to the consciousness that I was twenty years
old, and that John Halifax was--a man: the difference between us
being precisely as I have expressed it.

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