John Halifax, Gentleman. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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,