John Halifax, Gentleman

cher’s road, ye idle

y Watkins, once my nurse), was goin

lad addressed turned, fixed his eyes on each of us for a moment, and made way for us, we ceased

ttle hand-carriage into the alley, under cover, from the pelting rain. The lad, with a grateful look, put out a hand likewise, and pushed me further in. A

was always a trouble to me to move or walk; and I liked staying at the mouth of the alley, watching

s eyes fixed on the pavement—for we actually boasted pavement in the High Street of our town of Norton Bury—watching the eddying rain-drops, which, each as it fell, thre

e upon the other, firm and close; a square, sharply outlined, resolute chin, of that type which gives character and determination to th

ical strength. Everything in him seemed to indicate that which I had not: his muscular limbs, his square, br

which came the drowsy burr of many a stocking-loom, the prattle of children paddling in the gutter, and sailing thereon a fleet of potato parings. In front the High Street, with the mayor’s house opposite, porticoed and grand: and beyond, just where

d me. What could he be thinking of so intently?—a poor worki

truth, worthy man, he had no lack of matter to occupy his mind, being sole architect of a long up-hill but now thriving trade. I saw, by the hardeni

it was a watch which seemed to imbibe something of its master’s c

ineas, my son, how am I to get thee safe home

have for his only child such a sickly creature as I, no

ternal aid, I could propel myself, so as to be his companion occasionally in his walks between our house, the tanyard, and the Friends

ather’s words, the colour rushed over his face, and he started forward inv

here the boy had mustered

work; may I e

oad, G——shire drawl; and taking off his tattered old cap, looked

thy nam

Hali

st thee c

rnw

any paren

N

possibly he had his own motives, which were ra

ht thee be,

teen,

t used t

es

sort o

that I can

this catechism, which

ted?” And holding him at arm’s length, regarding him meanwhile with eyes that were the terror of all the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel F

this was a critical moment, and to have gathered all his mental forces int

give thee th

I’ve earne

my father slipped the mon

ribbed hose and leathern gaiters, and the wide-brimmed hat set over a fringe of grey hairs, that crowned the whole with respectable dignity. He looked precisely what he was—an h

in his old place, and did not attempt to talk. Once only, when the draug

very strong

N

e, with its steps and portico, and its fourteen windows, one o

mayor’s rosy children seemed greatly amused by watching us shivering shelterers from the rain. Doubtless our position made their own appear all the pleasanter. For myself it mattered little; bu

t; she was only a visitor. She looked at us, then disappeared. Soon after, we saw the front door half o

—I say

n’t, Mis

I w

hand and a carving-knife in the other. She succeed

o take it.” But the servant forced her in

ays bread was precious, exceedingly. The poor folk rarely got it; they lived on rye or meal. John Halifax had probably not tasted wheaten bread like this for months: it appeared not, he eyed it so ra

, towards the Abbey church—he guiding my carriage along in silence. I

from being overturned by a horseman riding past—young Mr. Brithwood of the Mythe

I shall want

ow

rn my

ement a firmer foot, as if he knew he had the world be

you worked

et, for I have neve

like to l

ng his speech. “Once I thought I sh

t wa

r and a g

only rare exceptions, that the qualities of the ancestors should be transmitted to the race—the fact seems patent enough, that even allowing equal advantages, a gentleman’s son has more chances of growing up a gentleman than the son of a working man. And though he himself, a

d natural that a boy like John Halifax—in whom from every word he said I detected a mi

ing the conversation, “you wou

uld it matter to me? My

our mo

his lips quivering: “She is dead. I do not l

thered down his quick boyish feelings into a man’s tenacity of betraying where he had loved a

amazed, half-grateful smi

up and down the

s best I could, in hop-picking, apple-gathering, harvesting

id you

ot well—I’m quite well no

had never tho

wn into the Abbey walk, flecked with sunshine through overhanging trees. Onc

it?—only it shows

he winter, when there is no

n’t k

d while we talked, returned more painfully than ever. I reproached myself

he shade of the Abbey trees, and cros

stone-steps, guarded by ponderous railings, which led to my father’s

y sixteen years into a mournful maturity—this lad’s face had come like a flash of sunshine; a reflection of the merry boyh

ly to disengage myself from my little carriage

you. I could—and—and it wo

any woman’s—tenderer than any woman’s I ever was used to hear. I put my arms round his neck; he lifte

pressible cry. What I said I do not r

ing more I can

oy like yourself. I want you; don’t

uched his cap with a respectful

aken care of my son? Did he

of us once thou

ing in his pocket for some larger coin. I ventured to draw his ear down and whispered s

e is thy groat, and a shilling a

don’t want payme

put back the shilling

can’t stay talking with thee. Come in to dinner, Phineas. I say,” tu

ast, and great tears came into the

st—” and my inexorable father held him by the should

lmost in

ks for th

never I ca

never bee

nner, sir; I would have stayed, because your son asked me, and he was c

ven in its human histories the most p

g unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit unto th

r and more helpless Jona

he hand, and woul

more ado,” said Abel Fletcher

ast, I brought him into my f