John Halifax, Gentleman. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
that I wished he would send John Halifax up some day.
"What does thee want the lad for?"
"Only to see him."
"Pshaw! a lad out o' the tan-yard is not fit company for thee. Let him alone; he'll do well enough if thee doesn't try to lift him out of his place."
Lift John Halifax out of his "place"! I agreed with my father that that was impossible; but then we evidently differed widely in our definition of what the "place" might be. So, afraid of doing him harm, and feeling how much his future depended on his favour with his master, I did not discuss the matter. Only at every possible opportunity—and they were rare—I managed to send John a little note, written carefully in printed letters, for I knew he could read that; also a book or two, out of which he might teach himself a little more.
Then I waited, eagerly but patiently, until spring came, when, without making any more fruitless efforts, I should be sure to see him. I knew enough of himself, and was too jealous over his dignity, to wish either to force him by entreaties, or bring him by stratagem, into a house where he was not welcome, even though it were the house of my own father.
One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, and soft, plentiful rain had half melted the great snow-drifts, which, Jael told me, lay about the country everywhere, I thought I would just put my head out of doors, to see how long the blessed spring would be in coming. So I crawled down into the parlour, and out of the parlour into the garden; Jael scolding, my father roughly encouraging. My poor father! he always had the belief that people need not be ill unless they chose, and that I could do a great deal if I would.
I felt very strong to-day. It was delicious to see again the green grass, which had been hidden for weeks; delicious to walk up and down in the sunshine, under the shelter of the yew hedge. I amused myself by watching a pale line of snowdrops which had come up one by one, like prisoners of war to their execution.
But the next minute I felt ashamed of the heartless simile, for it reminded me of poor Bill Watkins, who, taken after the battle of Mentz, last December, had been shot by the French as a spy. Poor, rosy, burly Bill! better had he still been ingloriously driving our cart of skins.
"Have you been to see Sally lately?" said I, to Jael, who was cutting winter cabbages hard by; "is she getting over her trouble?"
"She bean't rich, to afford fretting. There's Jem and three little 'uns yet to feed, to say nought of another big lad as lives there, and eats a deal more than he pays, I'm sure."
I took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father had lately raised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. This, together with a few other facts which lay between Sally and me, made me quite easy in the mind as to his being no burthen, but rather a help to the widow—so I let Jael have her say; it did no harm to me nor anybody.
"What bold little things snowdrops are—stop, Jael, you are setting your foot on them."
But I was too late; she had crushed them under the high-heeled shoe. She was even near pulling me down, as she stepped back in great hurry and consternation.
"Look at that young gentleman coming down the garden; and here I be in my dirty gown, and my apron full o' cabbages."
And she dropped the vegetables all over the path as the "gentleman" came towards us.
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