John Halifax, Gentleman

rs eyed one another in opposite rows across the wide oaken floor, shiny and hard as marble, and sl

this, my father’s especial domain; but as soon

ve to me when I happened to be very ill, certainly gave no indication of her se

stn’t keep ’un long. I bean’t going to let you k

ged, they were not unclean; and there was a rosy, healthy freshness in his tanned skin, which showed he loved and delighted in what poor folk generally abominate—water. And now the sickness of hunger

istake: I never begged in my life: I’m a person of independent property, which consists

ohn Halifax came to my easy chair, and in an altered tone asked me

in life, or, at least, make it drag on less wearily. To say that what I projected was done out of charity or pity would not be true; it was simple selfishness, if that be selfishness which makes one leap towards, and cling to, a possible strength and good, which I conclude to be the secret of all

?” was so earnest, that it apparently

e fire-place he drew his hand backwards and forwards across his f

down here, and le

over many and wide themes, such as boys delight in-chiefly

he asked me at

I could not help smiling, bein

wri

s; cert

n’t write, and I don’t know when I shall be able to lear

t I

ack silk; within this, again, was a book. He would not let it go out of his

k he

the fly-leaf

lifax,

d Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 1

their son, born

eble, illiterate female hand: “Gu

ohn?” said I, after a

presently. Can

s left hand, but his right never

Halifax, died J

ing m

ing m

e fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and put it into his pocket

for a family history: the chronicle commenced with himself, and was altogether his own making. No romantic antecedents ev

ure. Now this young lad, hardly as the world had knocked him about even already, had an overflowing spirit of quiet drollery and healthy humour, which was to me an inexpressible relief. It gave me something I did not possess—something entirely

s highly object

re me at the end of the table—“it’s a f

k you, Jael.” And John

too much laughing bean’t good for thee; and it’s

nonsens

ity, learned doubtless out of hard experience, chased all the boyish fun from

nedly than ever, the plan which I had just ventured to hint at to my father fixed itself on my

nt to go? You

I had. But I

ow

ather hungry. And as for clothes”—he looked down on his own, light and threadbare, here and there almost burst into holes by the stou

is mother. There the orphan lad had an advan

ind to take no denial, and fear no rebuff from m

ked smiling out through the window at the blue sky; that steady, brave, honest smi

like a childish hero of mine—Dick W

N

rse; besides, unlike John, I was anything but brave. “You’ll hear the Abbey bells chime presently—not unlike Bow bells, I used t

my crutches. John found and put them in

id, making pretence to laugh, for I had not

ill not need

r much; most likely I shan’t live long.” For this was, G

rd. I hobbled past him; he following through the long passage to the garden

ure I could carry you. I carried a m

took me on his back—what a strong fellow he was!—and fairly trotted with me down the garden walk. We were both very mer

is arbour; it looks over the Avon

a nice

gazed about him observantly, while a quiet, intense satisf

VERY nic

as this old-fashioned pleasaunce was mine. When, years ago, I was too weak to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-patterned carpet, bounded by

prehensive gaze se

ed here long?

nce I wa

. “This grass plot is very even—thirty yards square, I sho

Yet you wo

arther than today. But still it’s a goo

have yo

igger ones—but they’re steep enough—bleak and cold, too, especially when one is lyin

to say to how “very pretty” it was. Let me describe it—this first landsca

h I had read. Thence, one could see a goodly sweep of country. First, close below, flowed the Avon—Shakspeare’s Avon—here a narrow, sluggish stream, but capable, as we at Norton Bury sometimes knew to our cost, of

forming an arch of a circle round the verdant flat. But the stream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; you could only tra

ion. “Those can’t be boats,

ep enough too, as you may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly believe so, to look at it here—but I believe it ge

John, with a bright look

eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought gr

bey chimes burst out,

t’s

such a very low degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten to tell John the story. I merely sh

ient time—our orchard is so fine. The monks may ha

g, without asking, to find out what I referred to. I was almost asha

n, you know. Very good men,

hey planted that yew hedge?

about fifteen feet high, and as many thick. Century after century of growth, with careful clippi

tice—leaning his breast against the solid depth of bran

, his face glowing with th

out? Did you want

to see if it

if you were shut up here, and had to get

erefore, should not w

ou give

tell you what I’d do—I’d begin and break it, twig by twig, ti

to thee, I would rather thee did not try

were both somewhat confounded, though a grim kindliness of

of getting over a difficult

d go back to that premature gravity and hardness of demeanour which I supposed his harsh experience

because it would come back and tickle his bald pate, broke it off, and threw it into the river:

e wanted work? It lo

habby clothes made th

d; better men than thee have be

ver take what I don’t earn,” said the lad,

to give thee anything—except, m

s

fat

hich was the mo

tatively for a minute or so; making circles in the gravel walk with the end of his stick. People said—nay, Jael herself, once, i

work canst t

was the ea

arply said my father; “what hast thee

ll tell you. All spring I was at a farmer’s, riding the plough-horses, hoeing turnips; then I went up the hills with some sheep: in June

do, lad—I’m

k you

Friend’s mode of speech, though he was practically but a lax member of the Society, and had married

h an amused twist of his mouth, speedily restrained. “And now, Abel F

see abo

ly at my father—but his next wo

be a paid cut-throat. Now, if I could get a lad—one too young to be caught hold of at every pot-hou

place,

Watk

ers round about. A distinct vision presented itself to me of Bill and his cart, from which dangled the sanguinary exuviae of defunct animals, while in f

, fa

disliked the tan-yard and all belonging to it. “Thee’rt a foo

isn’t there

d I wouldn’t give it. He that wi

d, scarcely comprehending, to my father and me. “

s back on me—but that I little minded—and

thee

is eyes brightened

art with the skins. Dost the

t I can

r be fast than slow. In the mea

er, I mean—I’ll do it well.

he bottom of the glass, like poor Bill, for thy mother to come crying and pestering. The

with difficulty he smothered down a burst of tears. Perhaps this self-control

e grave in the middle of the walk, and buried something there—I t

often I take a lad without a character

ch accompanied it unconsciously contradicted the statement; his ow

I had ever before known his cautious temper settle even such a seemingly tri

, or else to mark the closing of the bargain, s

is thi

e hired thee a

rather proudly. “Oh yes, I understan

r so much the junior of Bill Watkins, could supply. After some cogitation he hit upon the right sum. I forget how much—be sure it was not over much; for money was scarce enough in t

fax did not debate at all, my father left us, but tur

, my son being witness I pay it thee; and I can pay the

good afternoon,

touched his hat in return of the salutation. Then he walked away, and w

whom, alas! I resembled in nothing save my loving. But I grasped his hand, for the first ti

is old manner returned; he threw his battered cap high

avering voice, shoute