 CHAPTER VIII. After midnight I know not how long, for I lost count of the hours by the abbey chimes, and our light had gone out. After midnight I heard by my father's breathing that he was asleep. I was thankful to see it for his sake, and also for another reason. I could not sleep, all my faculties were preternaturally alive. My weak body and timid mind became strong and active, able to compass anything. For that one night at least I felt myself a man. My father was a very sound sleeper. I knew nothing would disturb him till daylight. Therefore my divided duty was at an end. I left him and crept downstairs into Sally Watkins' kitchen. It was silent, only the faithful water, Jim, dozed over the dull fire. I touched him on the shoulder, at which he collared me and nearly knocked me down. Beg pardon, Mr. Phineas. I hope I didn't hurt thee, sir, cried he, all but whimpering. For Jim, a big lad of fifteen, was the most tender-hearted fellow imaginable. I thought it were some of the folk that Mr. Halifax had gone among. Where is Mr. Halifax? Don't know, sir, which I did. Wouldn't be long to find an out, though. Only, he says, Jim, you stop here with thee, pointing his thumb up the staircase. So, Master Phineas, I stop. And Jim settled himself with a doggedly obedient, but most dissatisfied air down by the fireplace. It was evident nothing would move him thence. So he was as safe a guard over my poor father's slumber as the mastiff in the tanyard, who was as brave as a lion and as docile as a child. My last lingering hesitation ended. Jim, lend me your coat and hat. I'm going out into the town. Jim was so astonished that he stood with open mouth while I took the said garments from him and unbolted the door. At last it seemed to occur to him that he ought to intercept me. But, sir, Mr. Halifax said, I am going to look for Mr. Halifax. And I escaped outside. Anything beyond his literal duty did not strike the faithful Jim. He stood on the door sill and gazed after me with a hopeless expression. I suppose you must have your way, sir. But Mr. Halifax said, Jim, you stop here. And here I stop. He went in and I heard him bolting the door with a sullen determination as if he would have kept guard against it waiting for John until doomsday. I stole along the dark alley into the street. It was very silent. I need not have borrowed Jim's exterior in order to creep through a throng of madden rioters. There was no sign of any such, except that under one of the three oil lamps that lit the night darkness at Norton Burry lay a few smoldering hanks of hemp, well-resigned. They then had thought of that dreadful engine of destruction, fire. Had my terrors been true, our house, and perhaps John within it? On I ran, speeded by a dull murmur which I fancied I heard. But still there was no one in the street, no one except the abbey watchman lounging in his box. I roused him and asked if all was safe. Where were the rioters? What rioters? At Abel Fletcher's mill. They may be at his house now. I, I think they be. And will not one man in the town help him? No constables, no law? Oh, he's a Quaker. The law don't help Quakers. That was the truth, the hard-grinding truth in those days. Liberty, justice were all idle names, to nonconformists of every kind, and all they knew of the glorious constitution of English law was when its iron hand was turned against them. I had forgotten this, bitterly I remembered it now, so wasting no more words I flew along the churchyard until I saw, shining against the bowls of the chestnut trees, a red light. It was one of the hemp and torches. Now at last I had got in the midst of that small body of men, the rioters. They were a mere handful, not above two score. Apparently the relics of the band which had attacked the mill joined with a few plow lads from the country around. But they were desperate. They had come up the gulf and rode so quietly that, except this faint murmur, neither I nor anyone in the town could have told they were near. Wherever they had been ransacking, as yet they had not attacked my father's house, it stood up on the other side of the road, hard, black, silent. I heard a muttering. The old man beaten there. Nobody knows where he be. No, thank God. Be us all here, said the man with the torch, holding up so as to see round him. It was well then that I appeared as Jem Watkins. But no one noticed me except one man who skulked behind a tree, and of whom I was rather afraid, as he was apparently intent on watching. Ready, lads? Now for the rosin. Blazen out. But in the eager scuffle the torch, the only one alight, was knocked down and trodden out. A volley of osse arose, those whose fault it was no one seemed to know, but I missed my man from behind the tree, nor found him till after the angry thong had rushed on to the nearest lamp. One of them was left behind, standing close to our own railings. He looked round to see if none were by, and then sprang over the gate. Dark as it was, I thought I recognized him. John? Phineas? He was beside me in a bound. How could you do? I could do anything to-night, but you are safe. No one has harmed you. Oh, thank God you are not hurt. And I clung to his arm, my friend, whom I had missed so long so sorely. He held me tight, his heart felt as mine, only more silently. Now, Phineas, we have a minute's time. I must have you safe. We must get into the house. Who is there? J.L. She is as good as a host of constables. She has braved the fellows once tonight, but they're back again, or will be directly. In the mill? Safe as yet. I have had three of the ten-yard men there since yesterday morning, though your father did not know. I have been going to and fro all night. Between there and here, waiting till the rioters should come back from the Severin mills. Hissed, here they are. I say, J.L. He tapped at the window. In a few seconds J.L. had unbarred the door, let us in, and closed it again securely. Mounting guard behind it was something that looked very like my father's pistols, though I would not discredit her among our peaceful society by positively stating the fact. Bravo said John when we stood altogether in the barricaded house and heard the threatening murmur of voices and feet outside. Bravo, J.L. The wife of Herbert the Kenite was no braver woman than you. She looked gratified and followed John obediently from room to room. I have done all as thee bade me, thee art a sensible lad, John Halifax. We are secure, I think. Secure? Bolts and bars secure against fire? For that was threatening us now. They can't mean it. Surely they can't mean it, repeated John, as the cry of burning out rose louder and louder. But they did mean it. From the attic window we watched them light torch after torch, sometimes throwing one at the house, but it fell harmless against the staunch oak and door, and blazed itself out on our stone steps. All it did was to show more plainly than even daylight had shown, the gaunt, ragged forms and pinched faces furious with famine. John, as well as I, recoiled at that miserable sight. I'll speak to them, he said, unbar the window, J.L., and before I could hinder he was leaning right out. Hello there! At his loud and commanding voice a wave of upturned faces surged forward, expectant. My men, do you know what you are about? To burn down a gentleman's house is hanging. There was a hush and then a shout of derision. Not a Quakers. Nobody'll get hanged for burning out a Quaker. That be true enough, muttered J.L., between her teeth. We must even fight, as Mordekas people fought, hand to hand until they slew their enemies. Fight, repeated John half to himself as he stood at the now closed window against which more than one blazing torch began to rattle. Fight with these? What are you doing, J.L.? For she had taken down a large book, the last book in the house she would have taken under less critical circumstances, and with it was trying to stop up a broken pain. No, my good J.L., not this, and he carefully replaced the volume, the volume in which he might have read, as day after day and year after year, we Christians generally do read such plain words as these, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you. A minute or two John stood with his hand on the book, thinking, then he touched me on the shoulder. Phineas, I'm going to try a new plan, at least one so old that it's almost new. Whether it succeeds or no, you'll bear me witness to your father that I did it for the best and did it because I thought it right, now for it. To my horror he threw up the window wide and lent out. My men, I want to speak to you. He might as well have spoken to the roaring sea. The only answer was a shower of missiles which missed their aim. The rioters were too far off. Our spiked iron railings, eight feet higher more, being a barrier which none had yet ventured to climb. But at length one random stone hit John on the chest. I pulled him in but he declared he was not hurt. Terrified, I implored him not to risk his life. Life is not always the first thing to be thought of, said he gently. Don't be afraid. I shall come to no harm. But I must do what I think right, if it is to be done. While he spoke I could hardly hear him for the bellowings outside. More savage still grew the cry. Burn him out. Burn him out. They be only Quakers. There's not a minute to lose. Stop. Let me think. J.L. Is that a pistol? Loaded, she said, handing it over to him with a kind of stern delight. Certainly J.L. was not meant to be a friend. John ran downstairs, and before I guessed his purpose, had unbolted the hall door and stood on the flight of steps in full view of the mob. There was no bringing him back, so of course I followed. A pillar sheltered me. I do not think he saw me though I stood close behind him. So sudden had been his act that even the rioters did not seem to have noticed or clearly understood it, till the next lighted torch showed them the young man standing there, with his back to the door, outside the door. The sight fairly confounded them. Even I felt that for the moment he was safe. They were odd, nay, paralyzed by his daring. But the storm raged too fiercely to be lulled, except for one brief minute. A confusion of voices burst out afresh. Who be thee? It's one of the Quakers. No, he beant. Burn him anyhow. Touch him, if ye dare. There was evidently a division arising. One big man, who had made himself very prominent all along, seemed trying to calm the tulment. John stood his ground. Once a torch was flung at him, he stooped and picked it up. I thought he was going to hurl it back again, but he did not. He only threw it down and stamped it out safely with his foot. This simple action had a wonderful effect on the crowd. The big fellow advanced to the gate and called John by his name. Is that you, Jacob Baines? I am sorry to see you here. Be ye, sir. What do you want? Not with thee. We want Abel Fletcher. Where is him? I shall certainly not tell you. As John said this, again the noise arose, and again Jacob Baines seemed to have power to quiet the rest. John Halifax never stirred. Evidently he was pretty well known. I caught many astray sentence, such as don't hurt the lad. He were kind to my lad, he were. No, he be a real gentleman. No, he come here as poor as us, and the like. At length one voice, sharp and shrill, was heard above the rest. I say, young man, does ever know what it was to be pretty nigh vammished? I, many a time. The answer, so brief, so unexpected, struck a great hush into the throng. Then the same voice cried, Speak up, man, we won't hurt thee. Be ye want a wee? No, I am not one of you. I'd be ashamed to come in the night and burn my master's house down. I expected an outbreak, but none came. They listened, as it were by compulsion, to the clear, manly voice that had not in it one shade of fear. What do you do it for? John continued. All because he would not sell you or give you his wheat? Even so, it was his wheat, not yours. May not a man do what he likes with his own? The argument seemed to strike home. There is always a lurking sense of rude justice in a mob, at least a British mob. Don't you see how foolish you were? You tried threats, too. Now you all know, Mr. Fletcher. You are his men, some of you. He is not a man to be threatened. This seemed to be taken rather angrily, but John went on speaking, as if he did not observe the fact. Nor am I one to be threatened, neither. Look here. The first one of you, who attempted to break into Mr. Fletcher's house, I should most certainly have shot. But I'd rather not shoot you, poor starving fellows. I know what it is to be hungry. I'm sorry for you, sorry, from the bottom of my heart. There was no mistaking that compassionate accent, nor the murmur which followed it. But what must us do, Mr. Halifax, cried Jacob Baines? Us be starved a most. What's the good of talking to we? John's continence relaxed. I saw him lift his head and shake his hair back. With that pleased gesture I remember so well of old. He went down to the locked gate. Suppose I gave you something to eat. Would you listen to me afterwards? There arose up a fronted shout of assent. Poor wretches. They were fighting for no principle, true or false, only for bare life. They would have bartered their very souls for a mouthful of bread. You must promise to be peaceable, said John again, very resolutely, as soon as he could obtain a hearing. You are Nortonbury folk. I know you. I could get every one of you hanged, even though Abel Fletcher is a Quaker. Mind, you'll be peaceable? I. I. Summit to eat. Give us Summit to eat. John Halifax called out to jail. Bade her bring all the food of every kind that there was in the house and give it to him out of the parlor window. She obeyed. I marveled now to think of it, but she implicitly obeyed. Only I heard her fix the bar to the closed front door and go back with a strange sharp sob to her station at the hall window. Now, my lads, come in, and he unlocked the gate. They came thronging up the steps, no more than two score I imagined in spite of the noise they had made. But two score of such famished, desperate men, God grant I may never again see. John divided the food as well as he could among them. They fell to it like wild beasts. Meat, cooked or raw, loaves, vegetables, meal, all came alike, and were clutch, gnawed and scrambled for, in the fierce selfishness of hunger. Afterwards there was a call for drink. Water, J.L., bring them water. Beer, shouted some. Water, repeated John, nothing but water. I'll have no drunkards riding at my master's door. And either by chance or design he let them hear the click of his pistol. It was hardly needed. They were all cowed by a mightier weapon still, the best weapon a man can use, his own firm indomitable will. At length all the food we had in the house was consumed. John told them so, and they believed him. Littlely enough indeed was sufficient for some of them. Wasted with long famine, they turned sick and faint, and dropped down, even with bread in their mouths, unable to swallow it. Others gorged themselves to the full, and then lay along the steps, supine as satisfied brutes. Only a few sat and ate like rational human beings. And there was but one, the little shrill voice man, who asked me if he might take a bit of bread to the old wench at home. John, hearing, turned and for the first time noticed me. Phineas, it was very wrong of you. But there is no danger now. No, there was none, not even for Abel Fletcher's son. I stood safe by John's side, very happy, very proud. Well, my man, he said, looking round with a smile. Have you had enough to eat? Oh, eh, they all cried. And one man added, Thank the Lord. That's right, Jacob Baines. And another time, trust the Lord. You wouldn't then have been abroad this summer morning, and he pointed to the dawn just reddening in the sky. This quiet, blessed summer morning, burning and rioting, bringing yourselves to the gallows and your children to starvation. They benied that already, said Jacob sullenly. Us men have gotten a meal. Thank you for it. But what have become of the little ones at home? I say, Mr. Halifax. And he seemed waxing desperate again. We must get some food somehow. John turned away, his countenance very sad. Another of the men plucked at him from behind. Sir, when thee was a poor lad I lent thee a rug to sleep on. I don't grudge thee getting on. You was born a gentleman surely. But Master Fletcher be a hard man. An adjust one persisted, John. You that worked for him, did he ever stint you of a half-penny? If you had come to him and said, Master, times are hard. We can't live upon our wages. He might. I don't say that he would, but he might even have given you the food you tried to steal. Do you think he'd give it to us now? And Jacob Baines, the big gaunt savage fellow who had been the ringleader, the same two who had spoken of his little ones, came and looked steadily in John's face. I knew thee as a lad. The art a young man now, as will be a father some of these days. Oh, Mr. Halifax, may never want a meal of good meat for the missus and the babies at home, if ye'll get a bit of bread for our in this day. My man, I'll try. He called me aside, explained to me, and asked my advice and consent, as Abel Fletcher's son, to a plan that had come into his mind. It was to write orders, which each man presenting at our mill should receive a certain amount of flour. Do you think your father would agree? I think he would. Yes, John added pondering. I am sure he would. And besides, if he does not give some, he may lose all. But he would not do it for fear of that. No, he is a just man. I am not afraid. Give me some paper jail. He sat down as composedly as if he had been alone in the counting-house and wrote, I looked over his shoulder, admiring his clear, firm handwriting, the precision, concentrativeness, and quickness with which he first seemed to arrange and then execute his ideas. He possessed to the full that business faculty, so frequently despised but which, out of very ordinary material, often makes a clever man, and without which the cleverest man alive can never be altogether a great man. When about to sign the orders, John suddenly stopped. No, I had better not. Why so? I have no right. Your father might think at presumption. Presumption? After tonight? Oh, that's nothing. Take the pen. It is your part to sign them, Phineas. I obeyed. Isn't this better than hanging, said John to the men, when he had distributed the little bits of paper, precious as pound notes, and made them all fully understand the same? Why, there isn't another gentleman in Norton Burry who, if you had come to burn his house down, would not have had the constables or the soldiers have shot down one half of you like mad dogs and sent the other half to the county jail. Now, for all your misdoings, we let you go quietly home, well fed and with food for your children, too. Why, thank you. I don't know, said Jacob Baines humbly. I'll tell you, because Abel Fletcher is a Quaker and a Christian. Hurrah for Abel Fletcher! Hurrah for the Quakers, shouted they, waking up the echoes down Norton Burry streets. Witch of Assurity had never echoed to that shout before, and so the riot was over. John Halifax closed the hall door and came in, unsteadily staggering. J.L. placed a chair for him, worthy soul. She was wiping her old eyes. He sat down shivering, speechless. I put my hand on his shoulder. He took it and pressed it hard. Oh Phineas lad, I'm glad, glad it's safe over. Yes, thank God. I indeed thank God. He covered his eyes for a minute or two, then rose up pale but quite himself again. Now, let us go and fetch your father home. We found him on John's bed still asleep. But as we entered, he woke. The daylight shone on his face. It looked ten years older since yesterday. He stared bewildered and angry at John Halifax. Hey, young man. Oh, I remember. Where is my son? Where is my Phineas? I fell on his neck as if I had been a child. And almost as if it had been a child's feeble head, mechanically he smoothed and patted mine. Thee are not hurt, nor any one? No, John answered. Nor is either the house or the tanyard injured. He looked amaze. How has that been? Phineas will tell you. Or stay. Better wait till you are at home. But my father insisted on hearing. I told the whole without any comments on John's behavior. He would not have liked it. And besides, the facts spoke for themselves. I told the simple plain story nothing more. Abel Fletcher listened at first in silence. As I proceeded, he felt about for his hat, put it on, and drew its broad brim close down over his eyes. Not even when I told him of the flower we had promised in his name, the giving of which would, as we had calculated, cost him considerable loss, did he utter a word or move a muscle? John at length asked him if he were satisfied. Quite satisfied. But having said this, he sat so long, his hands locked together on his knees, and his hat drawn down, hiding all the face except the rigid mouth and chin, sat so long, so motionless, that we became uneasy. John spoke to him gently almost as a son would have spoken. Are you very lame still? Could I help you to walk home? My father looked up and slowly held out his hand. Thee has been a good lad, and a kind lad to us. I thank Thee. There was no answer, none, but all the words in the world could not match that happy silence. By degrees we got my father home. It was just such another summer morning as the one two years back when we, too, had stood exhausted and trembling before that sternly bolted door. We both thought of that day. I knew not if my father did also. He entered, leaning heavily on John. He sat down in the very seat, in the very room, where he had so harshly judged us, judged him. Something perhaps of that bitterness rankled in the young man's spirit now, for he stopped on the threshold. Come in, said my father, looking up. If I am welcome, not otherwise. Thee art welcome. He came in, I drew him in, and sat down with us, but his manner was irresolute, his fingers closed and unclosed nervously. My father, too, sat leaning his head on his two hands, not unmoved. I stole up to him and thanked him softly for the welcome he had given. There is nothing to thank me for, said he, with something of his old hardness. What I once did was only justice, or I then believe so. What I have done and am about to do is still mere justice. John, how old are thee now? Twenty. Then for one year from this time I will take thee as my prentice, though thee knowest already nearly as much of the business as I do. At twenty-one thee will be able to set up for thyself, or I may take thee into partnership. We'll see. But, and he looked at me, then sternly, nay fiercely into John's steadfast eyes, remember, thee hast in some measure taken that lad's place. May God deal with thee as thou dealest with my son Phineas, my only son. Amen, was the solemn answer. And God, who seizes both now, ay, now, and perhaps not so far apart as some may deem, he knows whether or no John Halifax kept that vow. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of John Halifax Gentlemen. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Eads. John Halifax Gentlemen. By Dinah Craig Chapter 9 Well done, Phineas, to walk round the garden without once resting. Now I call that grand, after an individual has been ill a month. However, you must calm your superabundant energies and be quiet. I was not unwilling, for I still felt very weak, but sickness did not now take that heavy overpowering grip of me, mind and body, that it once used to do. It never did when John was by. He gave me strength, mentally and physically. He was life and health to me, and his brave cheerfulness, his way of turning all minor troubles into pleasantries, till they seemed to break and vanish away, sparkling like the foam on the top of the wave. Yet all the while one knew well that he could meet any great evil as gallantly as a good ship meets a heavy sea, breasting it, plunging through it, or riding over it, as only a good ship can. When I recovered just a month after the bread riot, and that month was a great triumph to John's kind care, I felt that if I always had him beside me, I should never be ill any more. I said as much in a laughing sort of way, very well, I shall keep you to that bargain. Now sit down, listen to the newspaper, and improve your mind as to what the world is doing. It ought to be doing something with the new century it began this year. Did it not seem very odd at first to have to write 1800? John, what a capital hand you write now. Do I? That's somebody's credit. Do you remember my first lesson on the top of the myth? I wonder what has become of those two gentlemen. Oh, did you never hear? Young Mr. Brithwood is the squire now. He married last month Lady Somebody Something, a fine lady from abroad. And Mr. March, what of him? I haven't the least idea. Come now, shall I read the paper? He read well, and I liked to listen to him. It was, I remember, something about the spacious new quadrangles to be called Russell and Tavistock Squares, with elegantly laid out nursery grounds adjoining. It must be a fine place, London. I should like to see it. Your father says, perhaps he shall have to send me this winter on business. Won't that be fine, if only you would go too. I shook my head. I had the strongest disinclination to stir from my quiet home, which now held within it, or about it, all I wished for and all I loved. It seemed as if any change must be to something worse. Nevertheless, you must have a change. Dr. Jessup insists upon it. Here have I been beating up and down the country for a week past, adventures in search of a country residence, and do you know I think I found one at last? Shouldn't you like to hear about it? I assented to please him. Such a nice, nice place on the slope of Enderley Hill. A cottage, Rose Cottage, for its all in a bush of cluster roses, up to the very rough. Where is Enderley? Did you never hear of Enderley Flat, the highest table land in England? Such a fresh, free breezy spot. How the wind sweeps over it. I can feel it in my face still. And even the description was refreshing, this heavy, sultry day, with not a breath of air moving across the level valley. Shouldn't you like to live on a hillside, to be at the top of everything, overlooking everything? Well, that's Enderley. The village lies just under the brow of the flat. Is there a village? A dozen cottages or so, at each door of which half a dozen white little heads and a dozen round eyes appeared staring at me. But, oh, the blessed quiet and solitude of the place. No fights infill the alleys, no tanyards, I mean, he added, correcting himself. It's a thorough country spot, and I like the country better than the town. Do you still, would you really like to take to the shepherd's life and state, upon which my name, say, here is so eloquent? Let us see what he says. And from the handful of books that usually lay strewn about wherever we too sat, I took up one he had lately got, with no small pains, I was sure, and had bound in its own proper color and presented it to me, the purple island and sycolides of Phineas Fletcher. People seldom read this wise, tender, and sweet-voiced old fellow now, so I will even copy the verses I found for John to read. Here is the place. Thursus is just ending his broken lay. Lest that the stealing night his later song might stay. Stop a minute, interrupted John. Apropos of stealing night, the sun is already down below the U-Hedge. Are you cold? Not a bit of it. Then we'll begin. Thrice, O Thrice happy shepherd's life and state, when courts are happiness unhappy pawns. That's not clear, said John, lying down the book. Now I do like poetry to be intelligible. A poet ought to see things more widely and express them more vividly than ordinary folk. Don't you perceive he means the pawns on the chessboard, the common people? Phineas, don't say the common people. I'm a common person myself, but to continue. His cottage low and safely humble gate shuts out proud fortune with her scorns and fawns. No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep, singing all day his flocks he learns to keep, himself as innocent as are his quiet sheep. Not many sheep at Enderley, I fancy, the flat chiefly abounds in donkeys. Well, no Syrian worms, he knows, that with their thread, drew out their silken lives, nor silken pride. Which reminds me that. David, how can you make me laugh at our revered ancestor in this way? I'm ashamed of you. Only let me tell you this one fact, very interesting, you'll allow, that I saw a silken gown hanging up in the kitchen at Rose Cottage. Now, though Mrs. Todd is a decent comely woman, I don't think it belonged to her. She may have lodgers. I think she said she had, an old gentleman, but he wouldn't wear a silken gown. His wife might, now, do go on reading. Certainly, I only wish to draw a parallel between Thursus and ourselves in our future summer life at Enderley. So the old gentleman's wife may appropriate the silken pride while we emulate the shepherd. His lamb's warm fleece well fits his little need. I wear a tolerably good coat, now, don't I, Phineas? You are incorrigible. Yet, through all his fun, I detected a certain undertone of seriousness. Observable in him ever since my father's declaration of his intentions concerning him had, so to speak, settled John's future career, he seemed aware of some crisis in his life, arrived or impending, which disturbed the generally even balance of his temperament. Nay, I'll be serious. And passing over the unfinished verse, with another or two following, he began a fresh, in a new place, and in an altogether changed tone. His certain life that never can deceive him is full of thousand sweets and rich content. The smooth-leaved beaches in the field receive him, with coolest shades till noontide's rage is spent. His life is neither tossed on boasterous seas, of troublesome worlds nor lost in slothful ease. Pleased and full-blessed he lives, when he, his God, can please. His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, while by his side his faithful spouse hath place. His little son into his bosom creeps, the lively image of his father's face. Never his humble house or state torment him, lest he could like if lest his God had sent him, and when he dies green turfs and grassy tomb content him. John ceased, he was a good reader, but I had never heard him read like this before. Ending, one missed it like the breaking of music, or like the inner voice of one's own heart, talking when nobody is by. David, I said after a pause, what are you thinking about? He started with his old quick blush. Oh, nothing. No, that's not quite true. I was thinking that, so far as happiness goes, this shepherds is my ideal of a happy life. I, down to the grassy tomb. Your fancy leaps at once to the grassy tomb, but the shepherd enjoyed a few intermediate stages of felicity before that. I was thinking of those likewise. Then you do intend some day to have a faithful spouse and a little son. I hope so, God willing. It may seem strange, but this was the first time our conversation had ever wandered in a similar direction. Though he was twenty and I twenty-two, to us both, and I thank heaven that we could both look up in the face of heaven and say so, to us both the follies and wickednesses of youth were, if not equally unknown, equally and alike hateful. Many may doubt or smile at the fact, but I state it now in my old age, with honor and pride, that we two young men that day trembled on the subject of love as shyly, as reverently, as delicately, as any two young maidens of innocent sixteen. After John's serious, God willing, there was a good long silence. Afterwards I said, Then you propose to marry? Certainly, as soon as I can. Have you ever, and while speaking I watched him narrowly, for a sudden possibility flashed across my mind, have you ever seen anyone whom you would like for your wife? No. I was satisfied. John's single no was as conclusive as a score of asservations. We said no more, but after one of those pauses of conversation which were habitual to us, John used to say that the true test of friendship was to be able to sit or walk together for a whole hour in perfect silence, without wearing of one another's company. We again began talking about enderly. I soon found that in this plan my part was simply acquiescence. My father and John had already arranged it all. I was to be in charge of the latter. Nothing could induce Abel Fletcher to leave, even for a day, his house, his garden, and his tanyard. We too young men were to set up for a month or two our bachelor establishment at Mrs. Todd's. John riding twice a week over to Nortonbury to bring news of me, and to fulfill his duties at the tanyard. One could see plain enough, and very grateful to me was the sight, that whether or no Abel Fletcher acknowledged it. His right hand in all his business affairs was the lad John Halifax. On a lovely August day we started for enderly. It was about eight miles off on a hilly cross-country road. We lumbered slowly along in our post-chase, eye leaning back enjoying the fresh air, the changing views, and chiefly to see how intensely John enjoyed them too. He looked extremely well today, handsome, I was about to write, but John was never, even in his youth, handsome. Nay, I have heard people call him plain, but that was not true. His face had that charm, perhaps the greatest, certainly the most lasting, either in women or men, of infinite variety. You were always finding out something, an expression strange as tender, or the track of a swift, brilliant thought, or an indication of feeling different from perhaps, deeper than anything which appeared before. When you believed you had learnt its line by line it would startle you by a face quite new and beautiful as new. For it was not one of your impassive faces, whose owners counted pride to harden into a mass of stone those liniments which nature made as the flesh and blood representation of the man's soul. True it had its reticences, its sacred disguises, its noble powers of silence and self-control. It was a fair written open book. Only, to read it clearly, you must come from its own country and understand the same language. For the rest John was decidedly like the David whose name I still give him now and then, a goodly person, tall, well-built, and strong, the glory of a young man in his strength, and so I often used to think when I looked at him. He always dressed with extreme simplicity, generally in gray, he was fond of gray, and in something of our Quaker fashion. On this day I remember I noticed an especial carefulness of attire at his age neither unnatural nor unbecoming. His well-fitting coat and long-flapped vest, garnished with the snowiest of lawn frills and ruffles, his knee-bridges, black silk hoes, and shoes adorned with the largest and brightest of steel buckles, made up a costume, which, quaint as it would now appear, still is, to my mind, the most suitable and graceful that a young man can wear. I never see any young men now who come at all near the picture which still remains in my mind's eye of John Halifax as he looked that day. Once, with the natural sensitiveness of youth, especially of youth that has struggled up through so many opposing circumstances as his had done, he noticed my glance. Anything amiss about me, Phineas? You see, I am not much used to holidays and holiday clothes. I have nothing to say against either you or your clothes, replied I, smiling. That's all right. I beg to state it is entirely in honor of you and of enderly that I have slipped off my tanyard husk and put on the gentleman. You couldn't do that, John. You couldn't put on what you were born with. He laughed, but I think he was pleased. We had now come into a hilly region. John leaped out and gained the top of the steep road long before the post-chase did. I watched him standing, balancing in his hands the riding whip which had replaced the everlasting rose switch or willow wand of his boyhood. His figure was outlined sharply against the sky, his head thrown backward a little as he gazed evidently with the keenest zest on the breezy flat before him. His hair a little darker than it used to be but of the true Saxon color still and curly as ever was blown about by the wind under his broad hat. His whole appearance was full of life, health, energy, and enjoyment. I thought any father might have been proud of such a son, any sister of such a brother, any young girl of such a lover. I, that last tie, the only one of the three that was possible to him, I wondered how long it would be before times changed, and I ceased to be the only one who was proud of him. We drove on a little further and came to the chief landmark of the High Morland, a quaint hostelry called the Bear. Bruin swung a loft, pole in hand, brown and fierce, on an old-fashioned sign, as he and his progenitors had probably swung for two centuries or more. Is this, underly, I asked? Not quite, but near it. You never saw the sea? Well, from this point I can show you something very like it. Do you see that gleaming bit in the landscape far away? That's water. That's our very own severance swelled to an estuary. But you must imagine the estuary. You can only get that tiny peep of water, glittering like a great diamond that some young tightness has flung out of her necklace down among the hills. David, you are actually growing poetical. Am I? Well, I do feel rather strange today, crazy like. A high wind always sends me half-crazy with delight. Did you ever feel such a breeze? And there's something so gloriously free in this high-level common, as flat as if my tightness had found a little Mount Blanc, and amused herself with padding it down like a dough cake. A very culinary goddess. Yes, but a goddess after all, and her dough cake, her mushroom, her flattened Mount Blanc is very fine. What a broad green sweep, nothing but sky and common, common and sky. This is enderly flat. We shall come to its edge soon, where it drops abruptly into such a pretty valley. There, look down. That's the church. We are on a level with the top of its tower. Take care, my lad, to the post-boy who was crossing with difficulty the literally pathless waste. Don't lurch us into the quarry pits, or topple us at once down the slope, where we shall roll over and over, Facilis de Sensus of Ernie, and Lodge in Mrs. Todd's Garden-Hedge. Mrs. Todd would feel flattered if she knew Latin. You don't look upon our future habitation as a sort of avarice. John laughed merrily. No, as I told you before, I like Enderly Hill. I can't tell why, but I like it. It seems as if I had known the place before. I feel as if we were going to have great happiness here. And as he spoke, his unwonted buoyancy softened into a quietness of manner, more befitting that word happiness. Strange word, hardly in my vocabulary. Yet when he uttered it, I seemed to understand it and to be content. We wound a little way down the slope and came in front of Rose Cottage. It was well named. I never in my life had seen such a bush of bloom. They hung in clusters, those roses, a dozen in a group, pressing their pinky cheeks together in a mass of family fragrance, pushing in at the parlor window, climbing up even to the very attic. There was a yellow jasmine over the porch at one front door and a wood-bind at the other. The Cottage had two entrances, each distinct. But the general impression it gave, both as to sight and scent, was of roses, nothing but roses. How are you, Mrs. Todd, as a comely middle-aged body appeared at the right-hand doorway, dressed brusely in one of those things J.L. called a coat and jacket, likewise a red Calamanco petticoat tucked up at the pocket holes? I be pretty fair, sir, be you the same? The children had not forgotten you, you see, Mr. Halifax? So much the better, and he padded two or three little white heads and tossed the youngest high up in the air. It looked very strange to see John with a child in his arms. Don't he make more noise than he can help, my lad, the good woman said to our post-boy, because, sir, the sick gentleman being not so well again today? I am sorry for it. We would not have driven up to the door had we known, which is his room. Mrs. Todd pointed to a window, not on our side of the house, but the other. A hand was just closing the casement and pulling down the blind. A hand which, in the momentary glimpse we had seen it, seemed less like a man's than a woman's. When we were settled in the parlor, John noticed this fact. It was the wife most likely, poor thing, how hard to be shut up indoors on such a summer evening as this. It did seem a sad sight, that closed window outside which was the fresh balmy air, the sunset, and the roses. And how do you like, underly asked John, when, tea being over, I lay and rested, while he sat leaning his elbow on the window cell, and his cheek against a bunch of those ever intruding inquisitive roses. It is very, very pretty and so comfortable, almost like home. I feel as if it were home, John said, half to himself. Do you know I can hardly believe that I have only seen this place once before? It is so familiar. I seem to know quite well that slope of common before the door, with its black dots furs bushes, and that wood below, what a clear line its top makes against the yellow sky. There, that high ground to the right, it's all dusky now, but it is such a view by daylight, and between it and underly is the prettiest valley, where the road slopes down just under those chestnut trees. How well you seem to know the place already. As I tell you, I like it. I hardly ever felt so content before. We will have a happy time, Phineas. Oh, yes. How, even if I had felt differently, could I say anything but yes to him then? I lay until it grew quite dark, and I could only see a dim shape sitting at the window, instead of John's known face. Then I bade him good night and retired. Directly afterwards I heard him, as I knew he would dash out of the house and away up the flat. In the deep quiet of this lovely spot I could distinguish, for several minutes, the diminishing sound of his footsteps along the loose stony road, and the notes clear and shrill of his whistling. I think it was sally in our alley or some such pleasant old tune. At last it faded far off, and I fell into sleep and dreams. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of John Halifax Gentlemen This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Eads. John Halifax, Gentlemen. By Dinah Craig. Chapter 10 That Mrs. Todd is an extraordinary woman. I repeat it, a most extraordinary woman. And leaning his elbows on the table, from which the said extraordinary woman had just removed breakfast, John looked over to me with his own merry-brown eyes. Wherefore, David, she has a house full of children, yet manages to keep it quiet and her own temper likewise, astonishing patience. However people attain it who have to do with brats, I can't imagine. John, that's mean hypocrisy. I saw you myself half an hour ago holding the eldest Todd boy on a refractory donkey and laughing till you could hardly stand. Did I, said he, half ashamed? Well, it was only to keep the little scamp from making a noise under the windows. And that reminds me of another remarkable virtue of Mrs. Todd. She can hold her tongue. How so? In two whole days she has not communicated to us a single fact concerning our neighbors on the other half of Rose Cottage. Did you want to know? John laughingly denied, then allowed that he always had a certain pleasure in eliciting information on men and things. The wife being indicated, I suppose, by that very complementary word thing. But what possible interest can you have in either the old gentleman or the old lady? Stop, Vinius. You have a bad habit of jumping at conclusions. And in our great dearth of occupation here, I think it might be all the better for you to take a little interest in your neighbors. So I have a great mind to indulge you with an important idea, suggestion, discovery, harky friend, and he put on an air of sentimental mystery, not a bad copy of our old acquaintance, Mr. Charles. What if the individual should not be an old lady at all? What? The old gentleman's wife? Wife? Uh-huh. More jumping at conclusions. No, let us keep on the safe side and call her the individual. In short, the owner of that gray silk gown I saw hanging up in the kitchen. I've seen it again. The gray gown? When and where? This morning, early. I walked after it across the flat, a good way behind, though. For I thought that it, well, let me say, she, might not like to be watched or followed. She was trotting along very fast, and she carried a little basket. I fancy a basket of eggs. Capital housekeeper, excellent wife. Once more, I have my doubts on that latter fact. She walked a great deal quicker and merrier than any wife ought to walk when her husband is ill. I could not help laughing at John's original notions of conjugal duty. Besides, Mrs. Todd always calls her invalid the old gentleman, and I don't believe this was an elderly lady. Nay, old men do sometimes marry young women. Yes, but it is always a pity, and sometimes not quite right. No, and I was amused to see how gravely and doggedly John kept to his point, though this lady did not look like a self or a wooden imp, being neither very small nor very slight, and having a comfortable woolen coat and hood over the gray silk gown. Still, I don't believe she's an old woman or married either. How can you possibly tell? Did you see her face? Of course not, he answered, rather indignantly. I should not think it manly to chase a lady as a schoolboy does a butterfly for the mere gratification of staring at her. I stayed on the top of the flat till she had gone indoors. Into Rose Cottage? Why, yes. She had doubtless gone to fetch new-laid eggs for her, I mean, for the sick gentleman's breakfast. Kind soul. You may just finish, but I think she is a kind soul. On her way home I saw her stop twice, once to speak to an old woman who was gathering sticks, and again to scold a lad for thrashing a donkey. Did you hear her? No, but I judged from the lad's pentenant face as I passed him. I am sure she had been scolding him. Then she's not young, depend upon it. Your beautiful young creatures never scold. I'm not so sure of that, said John meditatively. For my part I should rather not cheat myself or be cheated after that manner. Perfection is impossible. Better see the young woman as she really is, bad and good together. The young woman, the fair divinity, you mean. No, shutting his mouth over the negative in his firm way, I strongly object to divinities. How unpleasant it would be to woo an angel of perfection and find her out at last to be only, only Mrs. Halifax, suggested I, at which he laughed, slightly coloring. But how woeful must be our dearth of subjects when we talk such nonsense as this. What suggested it? Your friend in the gray gown, I suppose. Requiesce it in pace. She may enjoy her eggs. And now I must go saddle the brown mare and be off to Nortonbury. A lovely day for a ride. How I shall dash along. He rose up cheerily, it was like morning sunshine only to see his face. No morbid follies had ever tainted his healthy nature. Whatsoever romance was there, and never was there a thoroughly noble nature without some romance in it. But it lay deep down, calm and unwakened. His heart was as light and free as air. Stooping over my easy chair he wheeled it to the window, in sight of the pleasant view. Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You'll take a walk before dinner? You'll not be moping? No. Why should I? Who knew I had always, whether absent or present, the blessing, the infinite blessing, of being first in his thoughts and cares? Who, whether he expressed it or not, the best things never are expressed or expressable, knew by a thousand daily acts, like these, the depth and tenderness of his friendship, his brotherly love for me. As yet I had it all, and God, who knows how little else I had, will pardon if in my unspeakable thankfulness lurked a taint of selfish joy in my sole possession of such a priceless boon. He lingered about making me all right, as he called it, and planning out my solitary day. With much merriment, too, for we were the gayest couple of young bachelors when, as John said, the duties of our responsible position would allow. Responsible position, it's our good landlady who ought to talk about that. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and an indefinite number of children, there's one of them got into mischief at last, Hark! It's Jack, my namesake, bless my life. I knew he would come to grief with that donkey. Hey, lad, never mind, get up again. But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious, and disappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open window. The next minute I saw him carrying the unlucky Jack who was bleeding from a cut in the forehead, and screaming vociferously. Don't be frightened, Mrs. Todd. It is very slight. I saw it done. Jack, my lad, be a man, and never mind it. Don't scream so. You alarm your mother. But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was no real cause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath against Jack for his carelessness, and for giving so much trouble to the gentleman. But he be always getting into mischief, sir, that boy. Three months back, the very day Mr. March came, he got playing with the carriage horse, and it kicked him and broke his arm. A deal he cares. He be just as sprack as ever. As I say to Todd, it beant no use fretting over that boy. Have patience, answered John, who had again carried the unfortunate young scapegrace from our parlour into Mrs. Todd's kitchen, the center room of the cottage, and was trying to divert the torrent of maternal indignation while he helped her to plaster off the still ugly-looking wound. Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterwards than if you had punished him. Do he think so, said the woman, as struck either by the words, the manner, or the tone, she looked up straight at him. Do you really think so, Mr. Halifax? I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being forgiven when one has been naughty. Isn't that so, Jack, my namesake? Jack ought to be proud of that, sir, said the mother respectfully. And there's some sense in what you say, too. You talk like my man does on Sundays. Todd be a Scotchman, Mr. Halifax, and their good folks the Scotch, and read their Bibles hard. There's a deal about forgiving in the Bible, isn't there, sir? Exactly, John answered, smiling. And so, Jack, you're safe this time. Only you must not disobey your mother again, for the sake of donkeys or anything else. No, sir, thank you, sir, saw Jack humbly. You be a gentleman, Mr. Marchbient. He said it served me right for getting under his horses. Hold thy tongue, said Jack's mother sharply, for the latch of the opposite door was just then lifted and a lady stood there. Mrs. Todd, my father says, seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her voice, a pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided in tone, John and I both involuntarily turned. We felt awkward, doubtful whether to stay or retire abruptly. She saved us the choice. Mrs. Todd, my father will take his soup at eleven. You will remember? Yes, Miss March. Upon which Miss March shut the door at once and vanished. She wore a gray, silken gown. I glanced at John, but he did not see me. His eyes were fixed on the door, which had disclosed and concealed the momentary picture. Its momentariness impressed it the more vividly on my memory. I have it there still. A girl in early but not precocious maturity, rather tall, of a figure built more for activity and energy than the mere fragility of silt-like grace, dark complexioned, dark eyed, dark haired, the whole coloring being of that soft darkness of tone which gives a sense of something at once warm and tender, strong and womanly. Thorough woman, she seemed, not a bit of the angel about her. Scarcely beautiful and pretty would have been the very last word to have applied to her, but there was around her an atmosphere of freshness, health, and youth, pleasant as a breeze in spring. For her attire it was that notable gray silk gown, very simply made, with no fripperies or fandangles of any sort, reaching up to her throat and down to her wrists, where it had some kind of trimming of white fur which made the skin beneath show exquisitely delicate. That is Miss March, said our landlady when she had disappeared. Is it, said John, removing his eyes from the shut door? She is very sensible like, for a young body of seventeen, more sensible and pleasanter than her father, who is always ailing and always grumbling. Poor gentleman, most like he can't help it, but it'd be terrible hard for the daughter, being it, sir? Very, said John. His lacanism was extraordinary. Still he kept standing by the kitchen table, waiting till the last bandage had been sown on Jack's cut forehead, and even some minutes after his protégé had begun playing about as usual. It was I who had to suggest that we should not intrude in Mrs. Todd's kitchen any longer. No, certainly not. Come, Phineas. Mrs. Todd, I hope our presence did not inconvenience, the young lady. Bless your heart, sir. Nothing ever inconveniences she. They're being a pleasanter young body alive. She often come into this kitchen, just as you did, gentlemen, and very happy to see you always, added Mrs. Todd, curt-seeing. When Mr. March is asleep, she'll come and sit for a half an hour, talking to Todd and me, and playing with the baby. Here, probably at sound of its name, the individual alluded to set up, from its cradle in the corner, such a terrific squall that we young men beat a precipitate retreat. So, John, your gray gown is discovered at last. She's young, certainly, but not exactly a beauty. I never said she was. A pleasant person, though, hearty, cheerful-looking and strong, I can easily imagine her trotting over the common with her basket of eggs, chatting to the old woman and scolding the naughty boy. Don't make fun of her. She must have a hard life with her old father. Of course, seeing him take it up so seriously, I just did no more. By the by, did not the father's name strike you? March. Suppose it should turn out to be the very Mr. March you pulled out of Severn five years ago. What a romantic conjecture of circumstances. Nonsense, said John quickly, more quickly than he usually spoke to me, then came back to wish me a kind goodbye. Take care of yourself, old fellow. It will be nightfall before I am back from Nortonbury. I watched him mount and ride slowly down the bit of common, turning once to look back at Rose Cottage ere he finally disappeared between the chestnut trees. A goodly sight, for he was an admirable horseman. When he was gone, I, glancing lazily up at Mr. March's window, saw a hand, and I fancied a white furred wrist pulling down the blind. It amused me to think Miss March might possibly have been watching him likewise. I spent the whole long day alone in the Cottage parlor, chiefly meditating, though more than once friendly Mrs. Todd broke in upon my solitude. She treated me in a motherly, free and easy way, not half so deferentially as she treated John Halifax. The sun had gone down over Nunnally Hill. Behind the four tall Italian poplars, which stood on the border of our bit of wilderness, three together and one apart. They were our landmarks, and sky marks too, for the first sunbeam coming across the common struck their tops of a morning, and the broad western glimmer showed their forms distinctly until far in the night. They were just near enough for me to hear their faint wrestling in windy weather. On calm days they stood up straight against the sky like memorial columns. They were friends of mine, those four poplars. Sometimes they almost seemed alive. We made acquaintance on this first night when I sat watching for John, and we kept up the friendship ever afterwards. It was nine o'clock before I heard the old mare's hoofs clattering up the road. Joyfully I ran out. David was not quite his youthful gay self that night, not quite as he expressed it, the David of the Sheepfolds. He was very tired and had what he called the tanyard feeling, the oppression of business cares. Times are hard, said he, when we had finally shut out the starlight, and Mrs. Todd had lit candles, bet us good night in her free independent way, and hoped Mr. Halifax had everything he wanted. She always seemed to consider him the head of our little menage. The times are very hard, repeated John thoughtfully. I don't see how your father can rightly be left with so many anxieties on his shoulders. I must manage to get to Nortonbury at least five days a week. You will have enough of solitude, I fear. And you will have little enough of the pleasant country life you planned, in which you seem so to delight in. Never mind, perhaps it's good for me. I have a life of hard work before me, and can't afford to get used to too much pleasure. But we'll make the most of every bit of time we have. How have you felt today, strong? Very strong. Now what would you like us to do tomorrow? I want to show you the common in early morning. The view there is so lovely. Of nature or human nature. He half smiled, though only at my mischievousness. I could see it did not affect him in the least. Nay, I know not what you mean, but I had forgotten her, or, if not absolutely forgotten, she was not in my mind just then. We will go another way, as indeed I had intended. It might annoy the young lady, or meeting her again. His grave easy manner of treating and dismissing the subject was a tacit reproach to me. I let the matter drop. We had much more serious topics afloat than gossip about our neighbors. At seven next morning we were out on the flat. I'm not going to let you stand here in the dues, Phineas. Come a little farther on to my terrace, as I call it. There's a panorama. It was indeed, all around the high flat, a valley lay, like a moat, or as if some broad river had been dried up in its course, and, century after century, gradually converted into meadow, woodland, and town. For a little white town sat demurely at the bottom of the hollow, and the score or two of white cottages scattered themselves from this small nucleus of civilization over the opposite bank of this imaginary river, which was now a lovely hillside. Gorgeous, purple with shadow, yellow cornfields, and dark clumps of woodland dressed this broad hillside in many colors. Its highest point, none only hill, forming the horizon where last night I had seen the sun go down, and which now was tainted with the tenderest western morning gray. Do you like this, Phineas? I do very much. A dear, smiling English valley, holding many a little nest of an English home. Fancy being patriarch over such a region, having the whole valley in one's hand, to do good to, or ill. You can't think what primitive people they are hereabouts. Descendants from an old colony of Flemish cloth weavers, they keep to the trade. Down in the valley, if one could see through the beech wood, is the grand support of the neighborhood, a large cloth mill. That's quite in your line, John, and I saw his face brighten up as it had done when, as a boy, he had talked to me about his machinery. What has become of that wonderful little loom you made? Oh, I have it still. But this is such a fine cloth mill. I have been all over it, if the owner would put aside his old Flemish validity. I do believe he and his ancestors have gone on in the same way, and with almost the same machinery ever since Queen Elizabeth's time. Now, just one or two of our modern improvements, such as, but I forget, you never could understand mechanics. You can, though, explain clearly, and I'll try my best. He did so, and so did I. I think he even managed to knock something of the matter into my stupid head, where it remained for ten minutes. Much longer remained the impression of his energetic talk, his clear-headed way of putting before another what he understood so well himself. I marveled how he had gained all his information. Oh, it's easy enough when one has a natural propensity for catching hold of facts, and then, you know, I always had a weakness for machinery. I could stand for an hour watching a mill at work, especially if it's worked by a great waterwheel. How would you like to be a mill owner? Shouldn't I, with a sun-fishy flash which soon clouded over? However, tis idle talking, one cannot choose one's calling, at least very few can. After all, it isn't the trade that signifies it's the man. I'm a tanner and a capital tanner I intend to be. By the by, I wonder if Mrs. Todd, who talks so much about gentlefolk, knows that latter fact about you and me. I think not. I hope not. Oh, David, this one month at least let us get rid of the tanyard, for I hated it more than ever now in our quiet, free, Arcadian life. The very thought of it was insupportable, not only for myself but for John. He gently blamed me, yet I think he involuntarily felt much as I did if he would have allowed himself so to feel. Who would guess now that I, who stand here, delighting myself in this fresh air and pleasant view, this dewy common, all thick with flowers, what a pretty blue cluster that is at your foot, Venus? Who would guess that all day yesterday I had been stirring up tan pits, handling raw hides? Fah! I wonder the little hairballs didn't sicken in these, my hands, such ugly hands too. Nonsense, John, they're not so bad indeed, and if they were, what doesn't matter? You are right, lad, it does not matter. They have done me good service and will yet, though they were not made for carrying nosegaze. There is somebody beside yourself plucking posies on the flat. See how large the figure looks against the sky? It might be your tightness, John, like Prasapina gathering flowers herself the fairest. No, not fairest, for I declare she looks very like your friend Greygown. I beg her pardon, Miss March. It is she, said John, so indifferently, that I suspect that fact had presented itself to him for at least two minutes before I found it out. There's certainly a fatality about your meeting her. Not the least, she has this morning taken her walk in a different direction as I did, and we both chanced again to hit upon the same, answered John gravely and explanatorily. Come away down the slope, we must not intrude upon a lady's enjoyments. He carried me off, much against my will, for I had a great wish to see again that fresh young face, so earnest, cheerful, and good. Also, as I labored in vain to convince my companion, the said face indicated an independent dignity which would doubtless make its owner perfectly indifferent whether her solitary walk were crossed by two gentlemen or two hundred. John agreed to this. Nevertheless, he was inexorable, and since he was a man of the world, having in his journeys up and down the country from my father occasionally fallen into polite society, I yielded the point to him and submitted to his larger experience of good breeding. However, fate, kinder than he, took the knot of etiquette into her own hands and broke it. Close to the cottage door, our two paths converging, and probably our breakfast hours likewise, brought us suddenly face to face with Ms. March. She saw us, and we had a distinct sight of her. I was right. We and our contiguity were not the smallest importance to Ms. March. Her fresh morning roses did not deepen, nor her eyes droop as she looked for a moment at us both, a quiet, maidenly look of mere observation. Of course, no recognition passed, but there was a merry dimple beside her mouth, as if she quite well knew who we were and owned to a little harmless feminine curiosity in observing us. She had to pass our door where stood Mrs. Todd and the baby. It stretched out its little arms to come to her with that pretty baby's gesture which I suppose no woman can resist. Ms. March could not. She stopped and began tossing up the child. Truly they made a pleasant picture, the two. She, with her hooded cloak dropping off, showing her graceful shape and her dark brown hair, all gathered up in a mass of curls at the top of her head as the fashion then was. As she stood with her eyes sparkling and the young blood flushing through her clear brunette cheeks, I was not sure whether I had not judged too hastily in calling her no beauty. Probably by his look, John thought the same. She stood right before our wicket gate, but she had evidently quite forgotten us, so happy was she with Mrs. Todd's bonny boy, until the landlady made some remark about letting the gentleman by. Then with a slight start, drawing her hood back over her head, the young lady stepped aside. In passing her, John raised his eyes, as was natural enough. For me, I could hardly take mine from her. Such a pleasant creature was she to behold. She half smiled, he bowed, which she returned, courteously, and we both went indoors. I told him this was a good beginning of acquaintance with our neighbor. Not at all. No acquaintance. A mere civility between two people living under the same roof. It will never be more. Probably not. I am afraid John was disappointed at my probably. I am afraid that when he stood at our window contemplating the little group which filled up our wicket gate, he missed someone out of the three, which I suspect was neither Mrs. Todd nor yet the baby. I like her face very much better now, David. Do you? It was a very curious fact which I never noticed till afterwards, that though there had been some lapse of time before I hazarded this remark, we both intuitively supplied the noun to that indefinite personal pronoun. A good, nay, a noble face, though still with those irregular features I can't, really I can't, call her beautiful. Nor I. She bowed with remarkable grace, too. I think, John, for the first time in our lives, we may say we have seen a lady. Most certainly a lady. Nay, I only meant that girl as she is, she is evidently accustomed to what is called society, which makes it more likely that her father is the Mr. March who was cousin to the Breathwoods, an odd coincidence. A very odd coincidence. After which brief reply, John relapsed into taciturnity. More than once that morning we recurred to the subject of our neighbors, that is, I did, but John was rather Saturnan and uncommunicative. Nay, when, as Mrs. Todd was removing the breakfast, I ventured to ask her a harmless question or two, who Mr. March was, and where he came from, I was abruptly reproved the very minute our good landlady had shut the door for my tendency to gossip. At which I only laughed and reminded him that he had ingeniously scolded me after, not before, I had gained the desired information. Namely, that Mr. March was a gentleman of independent property, that he had no friends hereabouts and that he usually lived in Wales. He cannot be our Mr. March, then. No, said John, with an air of great relief. I was amused to see how seriously he took such a trifle. A, many a time that day I laughed at him for evincing such great sympathy over our neighbors, and especially, which was plain enough to see, though he doubtless believed he entirely disguised it, for that interest which a young man of twenty would naturally take in a very charming and personable young woman. A, naturally, as I said to myself, for I admired her too, extremely. It seems strange now to call to mind that morning and our light-hearted jests about Miss March. Strange that destiny should often come thus, creeping like a child to our very doors, we hardly notice it or send it away with a laugh. It comes so naturally, so simply, so accidentally as it were, that we recognize it not. We cannot believe that the baby intruder is in reality the king of our fortunes, the ruler of our lives. But so it is continually, and since it is, it must be right. We finished the morning by reading Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, at which the old folio seemed naturally to open. There is a time, a sweet time too, though it does not last, when to every young mind the play of plays, the poem of poems, is Romeo and Juliet. We were at that phase now. John read it all through to me, not for the first time either, and then, thinking I had fallen asleep, he sat with the book on his knee, gazing out of the open window. It was a warm summer day, breathless, soundless, a day for quietness and dreams. Sometimes a bee came buzzing among the roses, in and away again, like a happy thought. Nothing else was stirring, not a single bird was to be seen or heard, except that now and then came a coup of the wood pigeons among the beech trees, a low, tender voice, reminding one of a mother's crooning over a cradled child, or of two true lovers standing clasped heart to heart in the first embrace, which finds not and needs not a single word. John sat listening. What was he thinking about? Why that strange quiver about his mouth? Why that wonderful new glow, that infinite depth of softness in his eyes? I closed mine, he never knew I saw him. He thought I slept placidly through that half-hour, which seemed to him as brief as a minute. To me it was long, ah, so long, as I lay pondering with an intensity that was actual pain on what must come sometime, and for all I knew might even now be coming. CHAPTER 11 A week slipped by. We had grown familiar with Enderley Hill, at least I had. As for John, he had little enough enjoyment of the pretty spot he had taken such a fanceter, being absent five days out of the seven, riding away when the morning sun had slid down to the bowls of my four poplars, and never coming home till Venus peeped out over the heads at night. It was hard for him, but he bore the disappointment well. With me one day went by just like another. In the mornings I crept out, climbed the hill behind Rose Cottage Garden, and there lay a little under the verge of the flat in a sunny shelter, watching the ants running in and out of the numerous ant hills there. Or else I turned my observation to the short velvet herbage that grew everywhere hereabouts. For the common, so far from being barren, was a perfect sheet of greenest, softest turf sowed with minute and rare flowers. Often a square foot of ground presented me with enough of beauty and variety in colour and form to criticise and contemplate for a full hour. My human interests were not extensive. Sometimes the elderly villagers or the taught children, who were a grade above these, and decidedly, who, respectable, would appear and have a game of play at the foot of the slope, their laughter rising up to where I lay. Or some old woman would come with her pills to the spring below, a curious and very old stonewell, to which the cattle from the common often rushed down past me in beveys, and stood knee-deep, their mouths making glancing circles in the water as they drank. Being out of doors almost all day, I saw very little of the inhabitants of our cottage. Once or twice a lady and gentleman passed, creeping at the foot of the slope so slowly that I felt sure it must be Mr. March and his daughter. He was tall, with gray hair. I was not near enough to distinguish his features. She walked on the further side, supporting him with her arm. Her comfortable morning hood was put off, and she had on her head that ugly, stiff thing, which ladies had lately taken to wearing, and which, jail, said, was called a bonnet. Except on these two occasions I had no opportunity of making any observations on the manners and customs of our neighbours. Occasionally Mrs. Todd mentioned them in our social chatter, while laying the cloth. But it was always in the most cursory and trivial way, such as, Mrs. March having begged that the children might be kept quiet, Mrs. Todd hoped their noise didn't disturb me. But Mr. March was such a very fidgety gentleman, so particular in his dress too. Why? Mrs. March had to iron his cravats with her own hands. Besides, if there was a pin Ory in her dress, he did make such a fuss. And, really, such an active, busy young lady couldn't look always as if she came trim out of a band box. Mr. March wanted so much waiting on, he seemed to fancy he still had his big house in Wales, and his seven servants. Mrs. Todd conversed as if she took it for granted. I was fully acquainted with all the prior history of her inmates or any others that she mentioned, a habit peculiar to enderly folk with strangers. It was generally rather convenient and it saved much listening. But in this case, I would rather have had it broken through. Sometimes I felt strongly inclined to question her. But on consulting John, he gave his veto so decidedly against seeking out people's private affairs in such an illicit manner that I felt quite guilty and began to doubt whether my sickly, useless, dreaming life was not inclining me to curiosity, gossip, and other small vices which we are accustomed. I know not why to insult the other six by describing as womanish. As I have said, the two cottages were built distinct so that we could have neither sound nor sight of our neighbours save upon the neutral ground of Mrs. Todd's kitchen, where, however, I might have felt inclined to venture, John's prohibition stopped me entirely. Thus, save the two days when he was at home, when he put me on his mare's back and led me far away, over common, and valley, and hill, for miles, only coming back twilight, save those two blithe days, I spent the week in dignified solitude and was very thankful for Sunday. We determined to make it a long, lovely country Sunday, so we began it at six a.m. John took me a new walk across the common, where, he said, in answer to my question, we were quite certain not to meet Miss Marge. Do you experimentalize on the subject that you calculate her parts with such nicety? Pray, have you ever met her again, for I know you have been out most mornings. Morning is the only time I have for walking. You know, finnish? Ah, true, you have little pleasure at Enderly. I almost wish we could go home. Don't think of such a thing. It is doing you a world of good. Indeed, we must not, on any account, go home. I know, and knew then, that his anxiety was an earnest, that whatever other thoughts might lie underneath, the sincere thought of me was the one uppermost in his mind. Well, we'll stay, that is, if you are happy, John. Thoroughly happy. I like the dashing rides to Nortonbury. After all, I like coming back. The minute I begin to climb Enderly Hill, the tanyard and all belonging to it drops off like an incubus, and I wake into free, beautiful life. Now, finnish, confess, it's not this common a lovely place, especially of a morning. Hey, said I, smiling at his energy. But you did not tell me whether you had met Miss March again. She has never once seen me. But you have seen her? Answer honestly. Why should I not? Yes, I have seen her, once or twice or so, but never in any way that could annoy her. That explains why you have become so well acquainted with the direction of her walks? He collared deeply. I hope, finnish, you do not think that, that in any way I should intrude on or offend a lady? Nay, don't take it so seriously. Indeed, I meant nothing of the kind. It would be quite natural if a young man like you did use some paints to look at such a cunning piece of nature's handiwork as that apple-cheeked girl of 17. Russet, Apple. She is brown, you know. A real nut-brown maid. Said John, recovering is gay humor. Certainly, I like to look at her. I've seen many a face that was more good looking, never one that looked half so good. Sententious that, yet I could not smile, he spoke with such earnestness. Besides, it was a truth. I myself would have walked half way across the common any day for a glance at Miss March. Why not he? But John, you never told me that you had seen her again. Because you never asked me. We were silent, silent until we had walked along the whole length of a Roman encampment, the most perfect of the various forces that seemed the flat. Tokens of many a battle fought on such capital battle-ground, and which John had this morning especially brought me to look at. Yes, I said it last, putting the ending affirmative to a long train of thought, which was certainly not about Roman encampments. Yes, it is quite natural that you should admire her. It would even be quite natural and not unlikely either if she— Pshah! interrupted he. What nonsense you are talking! Impossible! And setting his foot sharply upon a loose stone, he kicked it down into the ditch, where probably many a dead Roman had fallen before it in ages gone by. The impetuous gesture, the energetic, impossible, struck me less than the quickness with which his mind had worked out my unexpressed thought. Carrying it to a greater length than I myself had ever contemplated. Truly, no possibilities or impossibilities of that sort ever entered my head. I only thought you might admire her and be unsettled thereby, as young men are when they take fancies. That would grieve me very much, John. Don't let it, then. Why, I have only seen her five times. I never spoke to her in my life, and most probably never shall do. Could anyone be in a safer position? Besides—and the stone changed to extreme gravity— I have too many worldly cares to think of. I can't afford the harmless little amusement of falling in love. So be easy, Phineas. I smiled, and we began a discussion on camps and forces, Valum and Praetorium. The Danes, Saxons and Normans—which, doubtless, we carried on to a most learned length, but at this distance of time, and indeed the very day after, I plead guilty to having forgotten all about it. The long, quiet Sunday, when, I remember, the sun never came out all day, but the whole earth and sky melted together in a soft gray haze. When we lay on the common and heard church bells ringing, some distant, some near, and, after all was quiet, talked our own old Sabbath talks of this world and the world to come. When, towards twilight, we went down into the beachwood below the house, and sat idly there among the pleasant smelling ferns. When, from the morning to the evening, he devoted himself altogether to my comfort and amusement, to perfect, which required of him no harder duty than to be near me always. That Sunday was the last I ever had David altogether for my own, my very own. It was natural. It was just. It was right. God forbid that in any way I should have murmured. About ten o'clock, just as he was luring me out to see how grand the common looked under the black night, and we were wondering whether or no the households were in bed, Mrs. Todd came mysteriously into the parlour and shut the door after her. Her round, fresh face looked somewhat troubled. Mr. Halifax, might I speak a word to thee, sir? With pleasure. Sit down, Mrs. Todd. There's nothing wrong with your children. No, I thank thee. You're very kind, sir. No, it be about that poor Miss March. I could see John's fingers twitch over the chair he was leaning on. I hope he began and stopped. Her father is dreadful bad tonight, and it's a good seven-mile walk to the doctors at S. Blank. And Miss March says, that is, she don't, for I've been going to tell her a word about it, but I think, Mr. Halifax, if I might make so bold, it would be a great kindness and a young gentleman like you to lend Todd your mare to ride over and fetch the doctor. I will, gladly, at once. Todd been coming yet. He shall have the mare with pleasure. Tell Miss March, sir. I mean, do not tell her, of course. It was very right of you to come to us in this way, Mrs. Todd. Really, it would be almost a treat to be ill in your house. You were so kind. Thank ye, Mr. Halifax, said the honest landlady, greatly delighted. But a body couldn't help doing anything for Miss March. You would think so yourself if you only knew her. No doubt, returned John more politely than warmly, I fancied, as he closed the door after the retreating figure of Mrs. Todd. But when he came and sat down again, I saw he was rather thoughtful. He turned the books restlessly, one after the other, and could not settle to anything. To all my speculations about our sick neighbour and our pearl of kind-hearted landlady, he only replied in mono syllables. At last he started up and said, Phineas, I think I'll go myself. Where? to fetch Dr. Brown. If Todd is not coming, it would be but a common charity. And I know the way. But the dark night? Oh, no matter. The mare will be safer under me than a stranger. And though I have taken good care that the three horses in the tanyard shall have the journey, turn and turn about, still it's a good pull from here to Nortonbury, and the mare's my favourite. I would rather take her myself. I smiled at his numerous good reasons for doing such a very simple thing, and agreed that it was right and best he should do it. Then shall I call Mrs. Todd an inquire? Or perhaps it might make less fuss just to go and speak to her in the kitchen. Will you, Phineas, or shall I? Scarcely waiting my answer, we walked from our parlour into what I called the debatable land. No one was there. We remained several minutes all alone, listening to the groaning overhead. That must be Mr. March, John. I hear, good heavens, how hard for her. And she, such a young thing, and alone, muttered he, as he stood gazing into the dull wood embers of the kitchen fire. I saw he was moved, but the expression on his face was one of pure and holy compassion. That at this moment no less unselfish feeling mingled with it, I'm sure. Mrs. Todd appeared at the door, leading to the other half of the cottage. She was apparently speaking to Miss March on the staircase. We heard again those clear, quick, decided tones, but subdued to a half whisper. No, Mrs. Todd, I'm not sorry you did it, on my father's account. It is best. Tell Mr. Young Gentleman I forgot his name, that I'm very much obliged to him. I will, Miss March. Stay, he's just here. Bless us. She has shut the door already. Won't you take a seat, Mr. Halifax? I'll stir up the fire in a minute, Mr. Fletcher. You're always welcome in my kitchen, young gentleman. And Mrs. Todd buzzled about, well aware what a cozy and cheerful old-fashioned kitchen it was, especially of evenings. But when John explained the reason of our intrusion, there was no end to her pleasure and gratitude. He was the kindest young gentleman that ever lived. She would tell Miss March, sir, as indeed she had done many a time. Miss, said I, to her the very first day I set eyes on you, when I had told her how you came hunting for lodgings. She often has a chat with me, quite freely, being so lonesome-like, and knowing I to be too proud to forget that she's a born lady. Miss, said I, who Mr. Halifax may be, I don't know, but depend upon it, he's a real gentleman. I was the sole amused auditor of this beach, for John had vanished. In a few minutes more, he had brought the mare round, and after a word or two with me, was clattering down the road. I wondered whether this time any white-furred wrist stirred the blind to watch him. John was away a wonderfully short time, and the doctor rode back with him. They parted at the gate, and he came into our parlour, his cheeks all glowing with the ride. He only remarked that the autumn nights were getting chill, and sat down. The kitchen clock struck one. You ought to have been in bed hours ago, Phineas. Will you not go? I shall sit up just a little while to hear how Mr. Marches. I should like to hear, too. It is curious the interest that one learns to take in people that are absolute strangers, when shut up together in a lonely place like this, especially when they are in trouble. A. That's it, said he quickly. It's a solitude, and their being in trouble. Did you hear anything more while I was away? Only that Mr. Marches was rather better, and everybody had gone to bed except his daughter and Mrs. Dodd. Hark! I think that's the doctor going away. I wonder if one might ask. No, they would think it intrusive. He must be better. But Dr. Brown told me that in one of these paroxysms, he might. Oh, that poor young thing. Has she no relatives, no brothers or sisters? Dr. Brown surely knows. I did not like to ask, but I fancy not. However, that's not my business. My business is to get you off to bed, Phineas Fletcher, as quickly as possible. Wait one minute, John. Let us go and see if we can do anything more. A. If we can do anything more, repeated he, as we again recrossed the boundary line and entered the taut country. All was quiet there. The kitchen fire burned brightly, and a cricket sang in merry solitude on the hearth. The groan's overhead were stilt, but we heard low talking, and presently stealthy footsteps crept downstairs. It was Mrs. Todd and Mrs. March. We ought to have left the kitchen. I think John muttered something to that effect, and even made a slight movement towards the door. But I don't know how it was. We stayed. She came and stood by the fire, scarcely noticing us. Her fresh cheeks were faded, and she had the weary look of one who has watched for many hours. Some sort of white dimity gown that she wore added to the spailness. I think he is better, Mrs. Todd. Decidedly better, said she, speaking quickly. You ought to go to bed now. Let all the house be quiet. I hope you told Mr. Oh! she saw us, stopped, and for the moment the faintest tinge of her roses returned. Presently she acknowledged us with a slight bend. John came forward. I had expected some awkwardness on his part, but no, he was thinking too little of himself for that. His demeanor, earnest, gentle, kind, was a sublimation of all manly courtesy. I hope, madam, young men use the differential word in those days always, I do hope that Mr. March is better. We were unwilling to retire until we had heard. Thank you. My father is much better. You are very kind, said Mrs. March, with a maidenly dropping of the eyes. Indeed, he is kind, broke in the warm hearted, Mrs. Todd. He rode all the way to S. Blank, his own self, to fetch the doctor. Did you, sir? I thought you only lent your horse. Oh! I like a night ride. And you are sure, madam, that your father is better? Is there nothing else I can do for you? His sweet, grave manner, so much graver and older than his ears, softened due with that quite deference which marked at once a man who reverenced all women, simply for their womanhood, seemed entirely to reassure the young lady. This and her own frankness of character made her forget, as she apparently did, the fact that she was a young lady and he a young gentleman, meeting on an acknowledged neutral ground, perfect strangers or knowing no more of one another than the mere surname. Nature, sincerity, and simplicity conquered all trammels of formal custom. She held out her hand to him. I thank you very much, Mr. Halifax. If I wanted help, I would ask you. Indeed, I would. Thank you. Good night. He pressed the hand with reverence and was gone. I saw Mrs. March look after him. Then she turned to speak and smiled with me. A light word, an easy smile, as to a poor invalid whom she had often pitied out of the fullness of her womanly heart. Soon I followed John into the parlour. He asked me no questions, made no remarks, only took a scandal and went upstairs. But years afterwards he confessed to me that the touch of that hand, it was a rather peculiar hand in the feel of it, as the children say, with a very soft palm and fingers that had a habit of perpetually fluttering, like a little bird's wing. The touch of that hand was to the young man, like the revelation of a new world. End of Chapter 11