John Halifax, Gentleman

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  “I’m glad you’re better,” he said, and said no more. But one look of his expressed as much as half-a-dozen sympathetic sentences of other people.

  “And how have you been, John? How do you like the tan-yard? Tell me frankly.”

  He pulled a wry face, though comical withal, and said, cheerily, “Everybody must like what brings them their daily bread. It’s a grand thing for me not to have been hungry for nearly thirty days.”

  “Poor John!” I put my hand on his wrist—his strong, brawny wrist. Perhaps the contrast involuntarily struck us both with the truth— good for both to learn—that Heaven’s ways are not so unequal as we sometimes fancy they seem.

  “I have so often wanted to see you, John. Couldn’t you come in now?”

  He shook his head, and pointed to the cart. That minute, through the open hall-door, I perceived Jael sauntering leisurely home from market.

  Now, if I was a coward, it was not for myself this time. The avalanche of ill-words I knew must fall—but it should not fall on him, if I could help it.

  30“Jump up on your cart, John. Let me see how well you can drive. There—good-bye, for the present. Are you going to the tan-yard?”

  “Yes—for the rest of the day.” And he made a face as if he did not quite revel in that delightful prospect. No wonder!

  “I’ll come and see you there this afternoon.”

  “No?”—with a look of delighted surprise. “But you must not—you ought not.”

  “But I WILL!” And I laughed to hear myself actually using that phrase. What would Jael have said?

  What—as she arrived just in time to receive a half-malicious, half-ceremonious bow from John, as he drove off—what that excellent woman did say I have not the slightest recollection. I only remember that it did not frighten and grieve me as such attacks used to do; that, in her own vernacular, it all “went in at one ear, and out at t’other;” that I persisted in looking out until the last glimmer of the bright curls had disappeared down the sunshiny road—then shut the front door, and crept in, content.

  Between that time and dinner I sat quiet enough even to please Jael. I was thinking over the beautiful old Bible story, which latterly had so vividly impressed itself on my mind; thinking of Jonathan, as he walked “by the stone Ezel,” with the shepherd-lad, who was to be king of Israel. I wondered whether he would have loved him, and seen the same future perfection in him, had Jonathan, the king’s son, met the poor David keeping his sheep among the folds of Bethlehem.

  When my father came home he found me waiting in my place at table. He only said, “Thee art better then, my son?” But I knew how glad he was to see me. He gave token of this by being remarkably conversible over our meal—though, as usual, his conversation had a sternly moral tone, adapted to the improvement of what he persisted in considering my “infant” mind. It had reference to an anecdote Dr. Jessop had just been telling him—about a little girl, one of our doctor’s patients, 31who in some passionate struggle had hurt herself very much with a knife.

  “Let this be a warning to thee, my son, not to give way to violent passions.” (My good father, thought I, there is little fear.) “For, this child—I remember her father well, for he lived at Kingswell here; he was violent too, and much given to evil ways before he went abroad—Phineas, this child, this miserable child, will bear the mark of the wound all her life.”

  “Poor thing!” said I, absently.

  “No need to pity her; her spirit is not half broken yet. Thomas Jessop said to me, ‘That little Ursula—’”

  “Is her name Ursula?” And I called to mind the little girl who had tried to give some bread to the hungry John Halifax, and whose cry of pain we heard as the door shut upon her. Poor little lady! how sorry I was. I knew John would be so infinitely sorry too—and all to no purpose—that I determined not to tell him anything about it. The next time I saw Dr. Jessop I asked him after the child, and learned she had been taken away somewhere, I forgot where; and then the whole affair slipped from my memory.

  “Father,” said I, when he ceased talking—and Jael, who always ate her dinner at the same time and table as ourselves, but “below the salt,” had ceased nodding a respectful running comment on all he said—“Father?”

  “Well, my son.”

  “I should like to go with thee to the tan-yard this afternoon.”

  Here Jael, who had been busy pulling back the table, replacing the long row of chairs, and re-sanding the broad centre Sahara of the room to its dreary, pristine aridness, stopped, fairly aghast with amazement.

  “Abel—Abel Fletcher! the lad’s just out of his bed; he is no more fit to—”

  32“Pshaw, woman!” was the sharp answer. “So, Phineas, thee art really strong enough to go out?”

  “If thou wilt take me, father.”

  He looked pleased, as he always did when I used the Friends’ mode of phraseology—for I had not been brought up in the Society; this having been the last request of my mother, rigidly observed by her husband. The more so, people said, as while she lived they had not been quite happy together. But whatever he was to her, in their brief union, he was a good father to me, and for his sake I have always loved and honoured the Society of Friends.

  “Phineas,” said he (after having stopped a volley of poor Jael’s indignations, beseechings, threats, and prognostications, by a resolute “Get the lad ready to go”)—“Phineas, my son, I rejoice to see thy mind turning towards business. I trust, should better health be vouchsafed thee, that some day soon—”

  “Not just yet, father,” said I, sadly—for I knew what he referred to, and that it would never be. Mentally and physically I alike revolted from my father’s trade. I held the tan-yard in abhorrence—to enter it made me ill for days; sometimes for months and months I never went near it. That I should ever be what was my poor father’s one desire, his assistant and successor in his business, was, I knew, a thing totally impossible.

  It hurt me a little that my project of going with him to-day should in any way have deceived him; and rather silently and drearily we set out together; progressing through Norton Bury streets in our old way, my father marching along in his grave fashion, I steering my little carriage, and keeping as close as I could beside him. Many a person looked at us as we passed; almost everybody knew us, but few, even of our own neighbours, saluted us; we were Nonconformists and Quakers.

  I had never been in the town since the day I came through it with John Halifax. The season was much later now, but it was quite warm still in the sunshine, and very pleasant looked 33the streets, even the close, narrow streets of Norton Bury. I beg its pardon; antiquaries hold it a most “interesting and remarkable” place: and I myself have sometimes admired its quaint, overhanging, ornamented house-fronts—blackened, and wonderfully old. But one rarely notices what has been familiar throughout life; and now I was less struck by the beauty of the picturesque old town than by the muddiness of its pathways, and the mingled noises of murmuring looms, scolding women, and squabbling children, that came up from the alleys which lay between the High Street and the Avon. In those alleys were hundreds of our poor folk living, huddled together in misery, rags, and dirt. Was John Halifax living there too?

  My father’s tan-yard was in an alley a little further on. Already I perceived the familiar odour; sometimes a not unpleasant barky smell; at other times borne in horrible wafts, as if from a lately forsaken battle-field. I wondered how anybody could endure it—yet some did; and among the workmen, as we entered, I looked round for the lad I knew.

  He was sitting in a corner in one of the sheds, helping two or three women to split bark, very busy at work; yet he found time to stop now and then, and administered a wisp of sweet hay to the old blind mare, as she went slowly round and round, turning the bark mill. Nobody seemed to notice him, and he did not speak to anybody.

  As we passed John did not even see us. I asked my father, in a whisper, how he liked the boy.

  “What boy?—eh, him?—Oh, well
enough—there’s no harm in him that I know of. Dost thee want him to wheel thee about the yard? Here, I say, lad—bless me! I’ve forgot thy name.”

  John Halifax started up at the sharp tone of command; but when he saw me he smiled. My father walked on to some pits where he told me he was trying an important experiment, how 34a hide might be tanned completely in five months instead of eight. I stayed behind.

  “John, I want you.”

  John shook himself free of the bark-heap, and came rather hesitatingly at first. “Anything I can do for you, sir?”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’; if I say ‘John,’ why don’t you say ‘Phineas’?”

  And I held out my hand—his was all grimed with bark-dust.

  “Are you not ashamed to shake hands with me?”

  “Nonsense, John.”

  So we settled that point entirely. And though he never failed to maintain externally a certain gentle respectfulness of demeanour towards me, yet it was more the natural deference of the younger to the elder, of the strong to the weak, than the duty paid by a serving-lad to his master’s son. And this was how I best liked it to be.

  He guided me carefully among the tan-pits—those deep fosses of abomination, with a slender network of pathways thrown between—until we reached the lower end of the yard. It was bounded by the Avon only, and by a great heap of refuse bark.

  “This is not a bad place to rest in; if you liked to get out of the carriage I’d make you comfortable here in no time.”

  I was quite willing; so he ran off and fetched an old horse-rug, which he laid upon the soft, dry mass. Then he helped me thither, and covered me with my cloak. Lying thus, with my hat over my eyes, just distinguishing the shiny glimmer of the Avon running below, and beyond that the green, level Ham, dotted with cows, my position was anything but unpleasant. In fact, positively agreeable—ay, even though the tan-yard was close behind; but here it would offend none of my senses.

  “Are you comfortable, Phineas?”

  “Very, if you would come and sit down too.”

  35“That I will.”

  And we then began to talk. I asked him if he often patronised the bark-heap, he seemed so very much at home there.

  “So I am,” he answered, smiling; “it is my castle—my house.”

  “And not unpleasant to live at, either.”

  “Except when it rains. Does it always rain at Norton Bury?”

  “For shame, John!” and I pointed to the bluest of autumn skies, though in the distance an afternoon mist was slowly creeping on.

  “All very fine now, but there’s a fog coming over Severn; and it is sure to rain at nightfall. I shall not get my nice little bit of October evening.”

  “You must spend it within doors then.” John shook his head. “You ought; it must be dreadfully cold on this bark-heap after sunset.”

  “Rather, sometimes. Are you cold now? Shall I fetch—but I haven’t anything fit to wrap you in, except this rug.”

  He muffled it closer round me; infinitely light and tender was his rough-looking boy’s hand.

  “I never saw anybody so thin as you; thinner much since I saw you. Have you been very, very ill, Phineas? What ailed you?”

  His anxiety was so earnest, that I explained to him what I may as well explain here, and dismiss, once for all; the useless topic, that from my birth I had been puny and diseased; that my life had been a succession of sicknesses, and that I could hope for little else until the end.

  “But don’t think I mind it, John;” for I was grieved to see his shocked and troubled look. “I am very content; I have a quiet home, a good father, and now I think and believe I have found the one thing I wanted—a good friend.”

  He smiled, but only because I did. I saw he did not understand me. In him, as in most strong and self-contained temperaments, was a certain slowness to receive impressions, which, 36however, being once received, are indelible. Though I, being in so many things his opposite, had none of this peculiarity, but felt at once quickly and keenly, yet I rather liked the contrary in him, as I think we almost always do like in another those peculiarities which are most different from our own. Therefore I was neither vexed nor hurt because the lad was slow to perceive all that he had so soon become, and all that I meant him to become, to me. I knew from every tone of his voice, every chance expression of his honest eyes, that he was one of those characters in which we may be sure that for each feeling they express lies a countless wealth of the same, unexpressed, below; a character the keystone of which was that whereon is built all liking and all love—DEPENDABLENESS. He was one whom you may be long in knowing, but whom the more you know the more you trust; and once trusting, you trust for ever.

  Perhaps I may be supposed imaginative, or, at least, premature in discovering all these characteristics in a boy of fourteen; and possibly in thus writing of him I may unwittingly be drawing a little from after-experience; however, being the truth, let it stand.

  “Come,” said I, changing the conversation, “we have had enough of me; how goes the world with you? Have you taken kindly to the tan-yard? Answer frankly.”

  He looked at me hard, put both his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle a tune.

  “Don’t shirk the question, please, John. I want to know the real truth.”

  “Well, then, I hate the tan-yard.”

  Having relieved his mind by this ebullition, and by kicking a small heap of tan right down into the river, he became composed.

  “But, Phineas, don’t imagine I intend to hate it always; I intend to get used to it, as many a better fellow than I has got used to many a worse thing. It’s wicked to hate what wins one’s 37bread, and is the only thing one is likely to get on in the world with, merely because it’s disagreeable.”

  “You are a wise lad of your age, John.”

  “Now don’t you be laughing at me.” (But I was not, I was in solemn earnest). “And don’t think I’m worse than I am; and especially that I’m not thankful to your good father for giving me a lift in the world—the first I ever really had. If I get one foot on the ladder, perhaps I may climb.”

  “I should rather believe so,” answered I, very confidently. “But you seem to have thought a good deal about these sort of things.”

  “Oh, yes! I have plenty of time for thinking, and one’s thoughts travel fast enough lying on this bark-heap—faster than indoors. I often wish I could read—that is, read easily. As it is, I have nothing to do but to think, and nothing to think of but myself, and what I should like to be.”

  “Suppose, after Dick Whittington’s fashion, you succeeded to your master’s business, should you like to be a tanner?”

  He paused—his truthful face betraying him. Then he said, resolutely, “I would like to be anything that was honest and honourable. It’s a notion of mine, that whatever a man may be, his trade does not make him—he makes his trade. That is—but I know I can’t put the subject clear, for I have not got it clear in my own head yet—I’m only a lad. However, it all comes to this—that whether I like it or not, I’ll stick to the tanning as long as I can.”

  “That’s right; I’m so glad. Nevertheless”—and I watched him as he stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling—“Nevertheless, John, it’s my opinion that you might be anything you liked.”

  He laughed. “Questionable that—at least at present. Whatever I may be, I am just now the lad that drives your father’s cart, and works in your father’s tan-yard—John Halifax, and very much at your service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher.”

  38Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily recalled the Greek Testament and “Guy Halifax, Gentleman.” However, that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence—Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.

  The afternoo
n had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?”

  “Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and drinking. Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road, where there’s lots of blackberries by way of pudding—which is grand! Supper, when I do get it, I like best on this bark-heap, after the men are away, and the tan-yard’s clear. Your father lets me stay.”

  “And where is your lodging, then? Where do you sleep?”

  He hesitated—coloured a little. “To tell the truth—anywhere I can. Generally, here.”

  “What, out-of-doors?”

  “Just so.”

  I was much shocked. To sleep out-of-doors seemed to me the very lowest ebb of human misery: so degrading, too—like a common tramp or vagabond, instead of a decent lad.

  “John, how can you—why do you—do such a thing?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said he, sitting down beside me in a dogged way, as if he had read my thoughts, guessed at my suspicions, and was determined to show that he feared neither—that he would use his own judgment, and follow his own will, in spite of anybody. “Look here. I get three shillings a week, which is about fivepence a day; out of that I eat threepence—I’m a 39big, growing lad, and it’s hard to be hungry. There’s twopence left to pay for lodging. I tried it once—twice—at the decentest place I could find, but—” here an expression of intolerable disgust came over the boy’s face—“I don’t intend to try that again. I was never used to it. Better keep my own company and the open air. Now you see.”

  “Oh, John!”