 CHAPTER IV Winter came early and sudden that year. It was to me a long dreary season, worse even than my winters inevitably were. I never stirred from my room and never saw anybody but my father, Dr. Jessup and J.L. At last I took courage to say to the former that I wished he would send John Halifax up some day. What does thee want the lad for? Only to see him. Shaa! A lad out of the tanyard is not fit company for thee. Let him alone. He'll do well enough if thee doesn't try to lift him out of his place. It's John Halifax out of his place. I agreed with my father that that was impossible, but then we evidently differed widely in our definition of what that place might be. So afraid of doing him harm and feeling how much his future depended on his favor with his master, I did not discuss the matter. Only at every possible opportunity, and they were rare, I managed to send John a little note written carefully and printed letters, for I knew he could read that, also a book or two out of which he might teach himself a little more. Then I waited eagerly but patiently until spring came, when, without making any more fruitless efforts, I should be sure to see him. I knew enough of himself and was too jealous over his dignity to wish either to force him by entreaties or bring him by stratagem into a house where he was not welcome, even though it were the house of my own father. One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, and soft plentiful rain had half melted the great snowdrifts, which J.L. told me lay about the country everywhere, I thought I would just put my head out of doors to see how long the blessed spring would be in coming. Also I crawled down into the parlor and out of the parlor into the garden. J.L. scolding, my father roughly encouraging, my poor father, he always had the belief that people need not be ill unless they chose, and that I could do a great deal if I could. I felt very strung today. It was delicious to see again the green grass which had been hidden for weeks. It was delicious to walk up and down in the sunshine under the shelter of the U. Hedge. I amused myself by watching a pale line of snowdrops which had come up one by one like prisoners of war to their execution. But the next minute I felt ashamed of the heartless simile, for it reminded me of poor Bill Watkins, who, taken after the Battle of Mence last December, had been shot by the French as a spy. Poor Rosie Burley, Bill, better had he still been ingloriously driving our cart of skins. Have you been to see Sally lately? said I to J.L., who was cutting winter cabbages hard by. Is she getting over her trouble? She beent rich to afford fretting. There's gem and three little ones yet to feed, to say not of another big lad as lives there, and eats a great deal more than he pays, I'm sure. I took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father had lately raised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. This, together with a few other facts which lay between Sally and me, made me quite easy in the mind as to his being no burden, but rather a help to the widow. So I let J.L. have her say. It did no harm to me nor anybody. What bold little things snowdrops are! Stop J.L., you are setting your foot on them. But I was too late. She had crushed them under the high-heeled shoe. She was even near pulling me down, as she stepped back in a great hurry and consternation. Look at that gentleman coming down the garden, and here I be in my dirty gown and my apron full of cabbages. And she dropped the vegetables all over the path, as the gentleman came towards us. I smiled, for in spite of his transformation, I at least had no difficulty in recognizing John Halifax. He had on new clothes, let me give credit due to that wonderful civiliser the tailor. Clothes neat, decent, and plain, such as any apprentice lad might wear. They fitted well his figure, which had increased both in height, compactness, and grace. Throughout his neck was a coarse but white shirt-frill, and over it fell, carefully arranged, the bright curls of his bonny hair. Youthily might J.L. or anyone else have mistaken him, as she cuttingly said, for a young gentleman. She looked very indignant, though, when she found out the aforesaid mistake. What may be thy business here? She said roughly. Abel Fletcher sent me on a message. Out with it, then, don't be stopping with Phineas here, the beant company for him, and his father don't choose it. J.L., I cried indignantly. John never spoke, but his cheek burned furiously. I took his hand, and told him how glad I was to see him, but for a minute I doubt if he heard me. Abel Fletcher sent me here, he repeated, in a well-controlled voice, that I might go out with Phineas, if he objects to my company, it's easy to say so. And he turned to me. I think he must have been satisfied, then. J.L. retired, discomforted, and in her wrath again dropped half of her cabbages. John picked them up and restored them, but got for thanks only a parting thrust. Thee art mighty, civil in thy new clothes, be off and be back again sharp. And I say, don't thee be leaving the car to skins again under the parlor windows. I don't drive the cart now, was all he replied. Not drive the cart, I asked eagerly, when J.L. had disappeared, for I was afraid some ill chance had happened. Only that this winter I've managed to teach myself to read and add up out of your books, you know, and your father found it out, and he says I shall go round collecting money instead of skins, and it's much better wages, and I like it better, that's all. But little as he said, his whole face beamed with pride and pleasure. It was in truth a great step forward. He must trust you very much, John, said I at last, knowing how exceedingly particular my father was in his collectors. That's it, that's what pleases me so. He is very good to me, Phineas, and he gave me a special holiday that I might go out with you. Isn't that grand? Grand indeed! What fun we'll have! I almost think I could take a walk myself. For the lad's company invariably gave me new life and strength and hope. The very sight of him was as good as the coming of spring. Where shall we go? Said he, when we were fairly off, and he was guiding my carriage down Nortonbury streets. I think to the mithe. The mithe was a little hill on the outskirts of the town, breezy and fresh, where Squire Brithwood had built himself a fine house ten years ago. Aye, that will do, and as we go you will see the floods out, a wonderful sight, isn't it? The river is rising still, I hear. At the tanyard they are busy making a dam against it. How high are the floods here, generally, Phineas? I'm sure I can't remember, but don't look so serious. Let us enjoy ourselves. And I did enjoy intensely that pleasant stroll. The mere sunshine was delicious, delicious too, to pause on the bridge at the other end of the town, and feel the breeze brought in by the rising waters, and hear the loud sound of them as they poured in a cataract over the floodgates hard by. Your lazy, muddy Avon looks splendid now. What masses of white foam it makes, and what reeds of spray, and see ever so much of the ham is under water, how it sparkles in the sun. John, you like looking at anything pretty? Ah, don't I, cried he with his whole heart. My heart leaped, too, to see him so happy. You can't think how fine this is from my window. I have watched it for a week. Every morning the water seems to have made itself a fresh channel. Look at that one by the willow tree, how savagely it pours. Oh, we at Nortonbury are used to floods. Are they ever very serious? Have been, but not in my time. Now, John, tell me what you have been doing all winter. It was a brief and simple chronicle of hard work all day over, and from the Monday to the Saturday, too hard work to do anything of night, saved to drop into the sound, dreamless sleep of youth and labor. But how did you teach yourself to read and add up, then? Generally at odd minutes going along the road, it's astonishing what a lot of odd minutes one can catch during the day if one really sets about it. And then I had Sunday afternoons besides. I did not think it wrong. No, said I durisively. What books have you got through? All you sent, Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and the Arabian Knights. That's fine, isn't it? And his eyes sparkled. Anymore? Also the one you gave me at Christmas, I have read it a good deal. I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke. I liked to hear him own, nor be ashamed to own, that he read a good deal in that rare book for a boy to read, the Bible. But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions. Indeed it seemed to me and seemed still that no more were needed. And you can read quite easily now, John. Pretty well considering. Then, turning suddenly to me, you read a great deal, don't you? I overheard your father say you were very clever. How much do you know? Oh, nonsense! But he pressed me, and I told him. The list was short enough. I almost wished it were shorter when I saw John's face. For me I can only just read, and I shall be fifteen directly. The accent of shame, despondency, even despair went to my very heart. Don't mind, I said, laying my feeble, useless hand upon that which guided me on so steady and so strong. How could you have had time working as hard as you do? But I ought to learn. I must learn. You shall. It's little I can teach, but if you like I'll teach you all I know. Oh, Phineas! One flash of those bright, moist eyes, and he walked hastily across the road. Thence he came back, in a minute or two, armed with the tallest, straightest of briar rose shoots. You like a rose switch, don't you? I do. Nay, stop till I've cut off the thorns. And he walked on beside me, working at it with his knife in silence. I was silent, too, but I stole a glance at his mouth, as seen in profile. I could almost always guess at his thoughts by that mouth, so flexible, sensitive, and at times so infinitely sweet. It wore that expression now. I was satisfied, for I knew the lad was happy. We reached the mithe. David, I said, I had got into the habit of calling him David, and now he had read a certain history in that book, I supposed he had guessed why, for he liked the name. I don't think I can go any further up the hill. Oh, but you shall. I'll push behind, and when we come to the style I'll carry you. It's lovely on the top of the mithe. Look at the sunset. You cannot have seen a sunset for ever so long. No, that was true. I let John do as he would with me, he who brought into my pale life the only brightness it had ever known. Air long we stood at the top of the steep mound. I know not if it be a natural hill, or one of those old Roman or British remains, plentiful enough hereabouts, but it was always called the mithe. Schools below it, at the foot of a precipitous slope, ran the southern, there broad and deep enough, gradually growing broader and deeper as it flowed on through a wide plain of level country, towards the line of hills that bounded the horizon. Southern looked beautiful here, neither grand nor striking, but certainly beautiful, a calm, gracious, generous river bearing strength in its tide and plenty in its bosom, rolling through the land slowly and surely like a good man's life and fertilizing wherever it flows. Do you like the Severn still, John? I love it. I wondered if his thoughts had been anything like mine. What is that? He cried suddenly, pointing to a new site, which even I had not often seen on our river. It was a mass of water three or four feet high, which came surging along the midstream, upright as a wall. It is the Egger. I've often seen it on Severn where the swift seaward current meets the spring tide. Look what a crest of foam it has like a wild boar's mane. We often call it the river boar. But it is only a big wave. Big enough to swamp a boat, though. And while I spoke, I saw to my horror that there actually was a boat with two men in it trying to get out of the way of the Egger. They never can. They'll assuredly be drowned, oh, John. But he had already slipped from my side and swung himself by firs-bushes and grass down the steep slope to the water's edge. It was a breathless moment. The Egger traveled slowly in its passage, changing the smooth, sparkling river to a whirl of conflicting currents in which no boat could live. Least of all that light pleasure boat with its toppling sail. In it was a youth I knew by sight, Mr. Brithwood of the Mithouse and another gentleman. They both pulled hard. They got out of the midstream, but not close enough to land. And already there was but two oars length between them and the boar. Swim for it, I heard one cry to the other, but swimming would not have saved them. Hold there, shouted John at the top of his voice. Throw that rope out and I'll pull you in. It was a hard tug. I shuddered to see him wade knee deep in the stream, but he succeeded. Both gentlemen leaped safe on shore. The younger tried desperately to save his boat, but it was too late. Already the water-boar had clutched it. The rope broke like a gossamer thread. The trim white sail was dragged down, rose up once broken and torn, like a butterfly caught in the midstream, then disappeared. Oh, it's all over with her poor thing. Who cares? We might have lost our lives. Sharply said the other, an older and sickly-looking gentleman dressed in mourning, to whom life did not seem a particularly pleasant thing, though he appeared to value it so highly. They both scrambled up the mithe without noticing John Halifax. Then the elder turned. But who pulled us ashore? Was it you, my young friend? John Halifax, emptying his soaked boots, answered, I suppose so. Indeed, we owe you much. Not more than a crown will pay, said young Brithwood gruffly. I know him, cousin March. He works in Fletcher the Quaker's tan yard. Nonsense, cried Mr. March, who had stood looking at the boy with a kindly, even half-sad air. Impossible. Young man, will you tell me to whom I am so much obliged? My name is John Halifax. Yes, but what are you? What he said, Mr. Brithwood knows me well enough. I work in the tan yard. Oh, Mr. Birch turned away with a resumption of dignity, though evidently both surprised and disappointed. Young Brithwood laughed. I told you so, cousin. Hey, lad, eyeing John over. You've been out at grass and changed your coat for the better, but you're certainly the same lad that my curicle nearly ran over one day. You were driving a cart of skins. Ha, I remember. So do I, said John fiercely, but when the youth's insolent laughter broke out again, he controlled himself. The laughter ceased. Well, you've done me a good turn for an ill one, young, what's your name? So here's a guinea for you. He threw it towards him. It fell on the ground and lay there. Nay, nay, Richard, expostulated the sickly gentleman, who, after all, was a gentleman. He stood apparently struggling with conflicting intentions and not very easy in his mind. My good fellow, he said at last in a constrained voice. I won't forget your bravery if I could do anything for you. And meanwhile, if a trifle like this, and he slipped something into John's hand, John returned it with a bow merely saying that he would rather not take any money. The gentleman looked very much astonished. There was a little more of persistence on one side and resistance on the other. And then Mr. March put the guineas irresolutely back into his pocket, looking the while lingeringly at the boy, at his tall figure and flushed proud face. How old are you? 15, nearly. Ah, it was almost a sigh. He turned away and turned back again. My name is March, Henry March, if you should ever. Thank you, sir, good day. Good day. I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands, but John did not or would not see it. Mr. March walked on following young Brithwood, but at the style he turned round once more and glanced at John, then they disappeared. I'm glad they're gone, now we can be comfortable. He flung himself down, rung out his wet stockings, laughed at me for being so afraid he would take cold and so angry at young Brithwood's insults. I sat, wrapped in my cloak, and watched him making his idle circles in the sandy path with the rose switch he had caught. The thought struck me. John, hand me the stick and I'll give you your first writing lesson. So there, on the smooth gravel and with the rose stem for a pen, I taught him how to form the letters of the alphabet and join them together. He learned them very quickly, so quickly that in a little while, the simple copy book that Mother Earth obliged us with was covered in all directions with J-O-H-N, John. Bravo, he cried as we turned homeward, he flourishing his gigantic pen which had done such good service. Bravo, I have gained something today. Crossing the bridge over the Avon, we stood once more to look at the waters that were out. They had risen considerably even in that short time and were now pouring in several new channels, one of which was alongside of the high road. We stopped a good while watching it. The current was harmless enough, merely flooding a part of the ham, but it ought us to see the fierce power of waters let loose. An old willow tree about whose roots I had often watched the king cups growing was now in the center of a stream as brought as the Avon by our tanyard and thrices rapid. The torrent rushed around it, impatient of the divisions its great roots caused, eager to undermine and tear it up. Inevitably if the flood did not abate within a few hours more there would be nothing left of the fine old tree. I don't quite like this said John meditatively as his quick eye swept down the course of the river with the houses and words that abutted on it all along one bank. Did you ever see the waters thus high before? Yes, I believe I have. Nobody minds it at Nortonbury. It is only the sudden thaw my father says and he ought to know, for he has had plenty of experience, the tanyard being so close to the river. I was thinking of that, but come it's getting cold. He took me safe home and we parted cordially, nay affectionately at my own door. When will you come again David? When your father sends me and I felt that he felt that our intercourse was always to be limited to this. Nothing clandestine, nothing obtrusive was possible even for friendship's sake to John Halifax. My father came in late that evening. He looked tired and uneasy and instead of going to bed though it was after nine o'clock sat down to his pipe in the chimney corner. Is the river rising still father? Will it do any harm to the tanyard? What does the know about the tanyard? Only John Halifax was saying, John Halifax had better hold his tongue. I held mine. My father puffed away in silence till I came to bid him good night. I think the sound of my crutches on the floor stirred him out of a long meditation in which his ill humor had ebbed away. Where didst thee go out today, Phineas? Thee in the lad I sent. To the mithe. And I told him the incident that had happened there. He listened without reply. Wasn't it a brave thing to do, father? Um, and a few meditative puffs. Phineas, that lad thee has such a hankering after, is a good lad, a very decent lad, if thee doesn't make too much of him. Remember, he is but my servant, thee art my son, my only son. Alas, my poor father, it was hard enough for him to have such an only son as I. In the middle of the night, or else to me lying awake it seemed so, there was a knocking at our hall door. I slept on the ground flat in a little room opposite the parlor. Here I could well collect my thoughts. I saw my father pass fully dressed with a light in his hand. And, man of peace though he was, I was very sure I saw in the other something which always lay near his strong box at his bed's head at night. Because ten years ago a large sum had been stolen from him and the burglar had gone free of punishment. The law refused to receive Abel Fletcher's testimony. He was only a quaker. The knocking grew louder as if the person had no time to hesitate at making a noise. Who's there? Called out my father. And at the answer he opened the front door, first shutting mine. A minute afterwards I heard someone in my room. Phineas, are you here? Don't be frightened. I was not as soon as his voice reached me, John's own familiar voice. Get something about the tanyard? Yes, the waters are rising and I have come to fetch your father. He may save a good deal yet. I am ready, sir, in answer to a loud call. Now Phineas, lie you down again. The nights bitter cold. Don't stir, you'll promise. I'll see after your father. They went out of the house together and did not return the whole night. That night, February 5, 1795, was one long remembered at Nortonbury. Bridges were destroyed, boats carried away, houses inundated or sapped at their foundations. The loss of life was small but that of property was very great. Six hours did the work of ruin and then the flood began to turn. It was a long waiting until they came home, my father and John. At daybreak I saw them standing on the doorstep, a blessed sight. Oh, father, my dear father! And I drew him in, holding fast his hands, faster and closer than I had done since I was a child. He did not repel me. They are up early and it's a cold morning for thee, my son. Go back to the fire. His voice was gentle, his ruddy countenance pale. Two strange things enable Fletcher. Father, tell me what has befallen thee. Nothing, my son, save that the giver of all worldly goods has seen fit to take back a portion of mine. I, like many another in this town, am poorer by some thousands than when I went to bed last night. He sat down. I knew he loved his money for it had been hardly earned. I had not thought he would have borne its loss so quietly. Father, never mind, it might have been worse. Of a surety, I would have lost everything I had in the world, save for. Where is the lad? What are these standing outside for? Come in, John, and shut the door. John obeyed, though without advancing. He was cold and wet. I wanted him to sit down by the fireside. I, do lad, said my father kindly. John came. I stood between the two, afraid to ask what they had undergone. But sure, from the old man's grave face and the lad's bright one flushed all over with that excitement of danger so delicious to the young that the peril had not been small. J.L., cried my father, rousing himself, give us some breakfast. The lad and me, we have had a hard's night work together. J.L. brought the mug of ale and the bread and cheese, but either did not or could not notice that the meal had been ordered for more than one. Another plate, said my father sharply. The lad can go into the kitchen able-fletcher, his breakfast is waiting there. My father winced, even her master was sometimes rather afraid of J.L., but conscience or his will conquered. Woman, do as I desired, bring another plate and another mug of ale. And so, to J.L.'s great wrath and to my great joy, John Halifax was bitten and sat down to the same board as his master. The fact made an ineffacable impression on our household. After breakfast as we sat by the fire in the pale haze of that February morning, my father, contrary to his want, explained to me all his losses and how, but for the timely warning he had received, the flood might have nearly ruined him. So it was well, John came, I said, half afraid to say more. I and the lad has been useful, too. It is an old head on young shoulders. John looked very proud of this praise, though it was grimly given, but directly after it, some ill or suspicious thought seemed to come into able-fletcher's mind. The lad, suddenly turning round on John Halifax, he told me these saw the river rising by the light of the moon. What was thee doing, then, out of thy honest bed and thy quiet sleep at eleven o'clock at night? John colored violently. The quick young blood was always ready enough to rise to his face. It spoke ill for him with my father. Answer, I will not be hard upon thee tonight at least. As you like, able-fletcher, answered the boy sturdily, I was doing no harm, I was at the tanyard. Thy business there? None at all. I was with the men, they were watching, and had a candle, and I wanted to sit up and had no light. What didst thee want to sit up for? pursued my father, keen and sharp as a ferret at the field rat's hole, or a barrister hunting down a witness in those courts of law that were never used by, though often used against, us Quakers. John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely accusing blushes tried him sore. Sir, I'll tell you, it's no disgrace. Though I'm such a big fellow, I can't write, and your son was good enough to try and teach me. I was afraid of forgetting the letters, so I tried to make them all over again with a bit of chalk on the bark-shed wall. It did nobody any harm that I know of. The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry, won no reproof. At last my father said gently enough, is that all, lad? Yes. Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talked softly to each other, afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a whole pipe, his great and almost his only luxury, and then again called out. John Halifax, I'm here. It's time thee went away to thy work. I'm going this minute. Goodbye, Phineas. Good day, sir. Is there anything you want done? He stood before his master, cap in hand, with an honest manliness pleasant to see. Any master might have been proud of such a servant, any father of such a son. My poor father, no, he did not once look from John Halifax to me. He would not have owned for the world that half smothered sigh or murmured because heaven had kept back from him, as heaven knows why, it often does from us all, the one desire of the heart. John Halifax, thee hast been of great service to me this night. What reward shall I give thee? And instinctively his hand dived down into his pocket. John turned away. Thank you, I'd rather not. It is quite enough reward that I have been useful to my master and that he acknowledges it. My father thought a minute and then offered his hand. The art in the right, lad, I am very much obliged to thee, and I will not forget it. And John, blushing brightly once more, went away, looking as proud as an emperor and as happy as a poor man with a bag of gold. Is there nothing thou canst think of, Phineas, that would pleasure the lad? Said my father, after we had been talking some time, though not about John. I had thought of something, something I had long desired, but which seemed then all but an impossibility. Even now it was with some doubt and hesitation that I made the suggestion that he should spend every Sunday at our house. Nonsense, thee knowest not of Nortonberry lads. He would not care. He had rather lounge about all first day at street corners with his acquaintances. John has none, father. He knows nobody, cares for nobody but me. Do let him come. We'll see about it. My father never broke or retracted his word. So after that, John Halifax came to us every Sunday and for one day of the week at least was received in his master's household as our equal and my friend. End of chapter four. Chapter five of John Halifax Gentleman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. John Halifax Gentleman by Dinah Craig. Chapter five. Summers and winters slipped by lazily enough as the years seemed always to crawl round at Nortonberry. How things went in the outside world by little new or cared. My father lived his life mechanical and steady as clockwork and we too, John Halifax and Phineas Fletcher, lived our lives, the ones so active and busy, the others so useless and dull. Neither of us counted the days nor looked backwards or forwards. One June morning I woke to the consciousness that I was 20 years old and that John Halifax was a man. The difference between us being precisely as I have expressed it. Our birthdays fell within a week of each other and it was in remembering his, the one which advanced him to the dignity of 18, that I called to mind my own. I say advanced him to the dignity but in truth that is an idle speech. For any dignity which the maturity of 18 may be supposed to confer, he had already in possession. Manhood had come to him, both in character and demeanor, not as it comes to most young lads and eagerly desired and presumptuously asserted claim, but as a rightful inheritance to be received humbly and worn simply and naturally. So naturally that I never seemed to think of him as anything but a boy until this one June Sunday when as before stated I myself became 20 years old. I was talking over that last fact in a rather dreamy mood as he and I set in our long familiar summer seat, the Clematis Arbor by the garden wall. It seems very strange, John, but so it is. I am actually 20. Well, and what of that? I sat looking down into the river which flowed on as my years were flowing, monotonous, dark and slow as they must flow on forever. John asked me what I was thinking of. Of myself, what a fine specimen of the noble genus Homo I am. I spoke bitterly, but John knew how to meet that mood. Very patient he was with it and with every ill mood of mine. And I was grateful with that deep gratitude we feel to those who bear with us and forgive us and laugh at us and correct us all alike for love. Self-investigation is good on birthdays. Phineas, here goes for a catalog of your qualities internal and external. John, don't be foolish. I will if I like, though perhaps not quite so foolish as some other people. So listen, imprimise, essayeth Shakespeare, imprimise, height, full five feet four, a stature historically appertaining to great men, including Alexander of Macedon and the First Consul. Oh, oh, said I reproachfully, for this was our chief bone of contention. I, hating, he rather admiring the great ogre of the day, Napoleon Bonaparte. Imprimise of a slight delicate person, but not lame as once was. No, thank God. Thin rather, very a mere skeleton. Face elongated and pale. Salo, John, decidedly, salo. Be it so, salo. Big eyes much given to observation, which means hard staring. Take them off me, Phineas, or I'll not lie on the grass a minute longer. Thank you. To return, imprimise and Phineas. I'm grand at Latin now, you see. Long hair, which, since the powder tax, has resumed its natural blackness and is, any young damsel would say, only we count not a single one among our acquaintance, exceedingly bewitching. I smiled, feeling myself color a little too, weak, invalid as I was. I was, nevertheless, 20 years old, and although J.L. and Sally were the only specimens of the other sex, which had risen on my horizon, yet, once or twice, since I had read Shakespeare, I had had a boy's lovely dreams of the divinity of womanhood. They began and ended mere dreams. Soon dawned the bear hard truth that my character was too feeble and womanish to be likely to win any woman's reverence or love. Or, even had this been possible, one sickly as I was, stricken with hereditary disease, ought never to seek to perpetuate it by marriage. I therefore put from me, at once and forever, every feeling of that kind. And during my whole life, I thank God, have never faltered in my resolution. Friendship was given me for love, duty for happiness, so best, and I was satisfied. This conviction and the struggle succeeding it, for though brief, it was but natural that it should have been a hard struggle, was the only secret that I had kept from John. It had happened some months now, and was quite over and gone, so that I could smile at his fun and shake at him my bewitching black locks, calling him a foolish boy. And while I said it, the notion slowly dawning during the long gaze he had complained of forced itself upon me, clear as daylight, that he was not a boy any longer. Now let me turn the tables. How old are you, John? You know, 18 next week. And how tall? By feet 11 inches and a half. And rising, he exhibited to its full advantage that very creditable altitude, more tall perhaps than graceful at present. Since, like most youths, he did not as yet quite know what to do with his legs and arms. But he was, I cannot describe what he was. I could not then. I only remember that when I looked at him and began jocularly imprimise, my heart came up into my throat and choked me. It was almost with sadness that I said, ah, David, you are quite a young man now. He smiled, of course, only with pleasure, looking forward to the new world into which he was going forth, the world into which, as I knew well, I could never follow him. I am glad I look rather old for my years, said he, when after a pause, he had again flung himself down on the grass. It tells well in the tanyard. People would be slow to trust a clerk who looked a mere boy. Still, your father trusts me. He does indeed. You need never have any doubt of that. It was only yesterday he said to me that now he was no longer dissatisfied with your working at all sorts of studies in leisure hours, since it made you none the worst man of business. No, I hope not, or I should be much ashamed. It would not be doing my duty to myself any more than to my master if I shirked his work for my own. I am glad he does not complain now, Phineas. On the contrary, I think he intends to give you a rise this mid-summer. But oh, I cried, recurring to a thought which would often come when I looked at the lad, though he always combated it so strongly that I often owned my prejudices were unjust. How I wish you were something better than a clerk in a tanyard. I have a plan, John. But what that plan was was fated to remain unrevealed. J.L. came to us in the garden, looking very serious. She had been summoned, I knew, to a long conference with her master the day before, the subject of which she would not tell me, though she acknowledged it concerned myself. Ever since, she had followed me about very softly for her and called me more than once as when I was a child, my dear. She now came with half-dolarous, half-angry looks to summon me to an interview with my father and Dr. Jessup. I caught her parting mutterings as she marched behind me. Kill or cure indeed. No more fit than a baby. Abel Fletcher be clean mad. Hope Thomas Jessup will speak out plain and tell him so, and the like. From knees and from her strange fit of tenderness, I guessed what was looming in the distance. A future which my father constantly held in terror on over me, though successive illness had kept it in abeyance. Alas, I knew that my poor father's hopes and plans were vain. I went into his presence with a heavy heart. There is no need to detail that interview, enough that after it he set aside forever his last lingering hope of having a son able to assist and finally succeed him in his business, and that I set aside every dream of growing up to be a help and comfort to my father. It cost something on both our parts, but after that day's discussion, we tacitly covered over the pain and referred to it no more. I came back into the garden and told John Halifax all. He listened with his hand on my shoulder and his grave-sweet look, dearer sympathy than any words, though he added there too a few in his own wise way. Then he and I also drew the curtain over an inevitable grief and laid it in the peaceful chamber of silence. When my father, Dr. Jessup, John Halifax and I met at dinner, the subject had passed into seeming oblivion and was never afterwards revived. But dinner being over and the chatty little doctor gone, while Abel Fletcher sat mutely smoking his pipe and we too at the window maintained that respectful and decorous silence which in my young days was rigidly exacted by elders and superiors, I noticed my father's eyes frequently resting with keen observance upon John Halifax. Could it be that there had recurred to him a hint of mine given faintly that morning, as faintly as if it had only just entered my mind instead of having for months continually dwelt there until a fitting moment should arrive? Could it be that this hint which he had indignantly scouted at the time was germinating in his acute brain and might bear fruit in future days? I hoped so, I earnestly prayed so, and to that end I took no notice but let it silently grow. The June evening came and went, the service bell rang out and ceased. First deep shadows and then a bright star appeared over the Abbey Tower. We watched it from the garden, where Sunday after Sunday in fine weather we used to lounge and talk over all manner of things in heaven and in earth. Chiefly ending with the former as on Sunday nights with stars over our head was natural and fit we should do. Phineas said John sitting on the grass with his hands upon his knees and the one star, I think it was Jupiter, shining down into his eyes, deepening them into that peculiar look worth any so-called handsome eyes. Phineas, I wonder how soon we shall have to rise up from this quiet easy life and fight our battles in the world. Also, I wonder if we are ready for it. I think you are. I don't know. I'm not clear how far I could resist doing anything wrong if it were pleasant. So many wrong things are pleasant. Just now, instead of rising tomorrow and going into the little dark counting house and scratching paper from eight till six, shouldn't I like to break away, dash out into the world, take to all sorts of wild freaks, do all sorts of grand things and perhaps never come back to the tanning any more. Never any more? No, no, I spoke hastily. I did not mean I ever should do such a wrong thing, but merely that I sometimes feel the wish to do it. I can't help it. That's my apollyon that I have to fight with. Everybody keeps a private apollyon, I fancy. Now Phineas, be content. Apollyon is beaten down. He rose up, but I thought that in the red glow of the twilight, he looked rather pale. He stretched his hand to help me up from the grass. We went into the house together silently. After supper, when the chimes struck half past nine, John prepared to leave as usual. He went to bid goodnight to my father, who was sitting meditatively over the fireless hearth place, sometimes poking the great bow pod of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did the coals. An instance of obliviousness, which in my sensible and acute father argued very deep cogitation on some subject or other. Good night, said John twice over before his master heard him. Eh, oh, good night, good night, lad. Stay, Halifax, what hast thee got to do tomorrow? Not much unless the Russian hides should come in. I cleared off the week's accounts last night as usual. I, tomorrow I shall look over all thy books and see how thee standest and what further work thou art fit for. Therefore take a day's holiday if thee likes. We thanked him warmly. There, John, whispered I, you may have your wish and run wild tomorrow. He said the wish had gone out of him, so we planned a sweet lazy day under the midsummer sky in some fields about a mile off called the vineyards. The morning came and we took our way thither under the abbey walls and along a lane shaded on one side by the willows in the water courses. We came out in those quiet hay fields, which, tradition says, had once grown wine for the rosy monks close by, and history avers were afterwards watered by a darker stream than the blood of grapes. The vineyards had been a battlefield, and under the long wavy grass and the roots of the wild apple trees slept many a Yorkist in Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep furrow turned out a white bone, but more often the relics were undisturbed and the meadows used as pastures or hay fields. John and I laid down on some windrows and sunned ourselves in the warm and delicious air. How beautiful everything was, so very still, with the abbey tower, always the most picturesque point in our Nortonbury views, showing so near that it almost seemed to rise up out of the fields in hedge rows. Well, David, and I turned to the long lazy figure beside me, which had considerably flattened the hay. Are you satisfied? I. Thus we lounged out all the summer morning, recurring to a few of the infinitude of subjects we used to compare notes upon, though we were neither of us given to wordiness and never talked but when we had something to say. Often, as on this day, we sat for hours in a pleasant dreaminess, scarcely exchanging a word. Nevertheless, I could generally track John's thoughts as they went wandering on, I as clearly as one might track a stream through a wood. Sometimes, like today, I failed. In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and cheese, eaten slowly and with graceful dignity in order to make dinner a more important and lengthy affair, he said abruptly, Vanias, don't you think this field is rather dull? Shall we go somewhere else? Not if it tires you, though. I protested the contrary, my health being much above the average this summer. But just as we were quitting the field, we met two rather odd-looking persons entering it, young old persons they seemed, who might own to any age or any occupation. Their dress, especially that of the younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness and homeliness, such as gray-ribbed stockings and shining-paced shoebuckles, rusty velvet small clothes and a cotie of blue cloth. But the wearer carried off this anomalous costume with an easy condescending air full of pleasantness, humor, and grace. Sir, said he, approaching John Halifax with a bow, that I feel sure the first gentleman of his day, as loyal folk then entitled the Prince Regent, could not have surpassed. Sir, will you favor me by informing us how far it is to Coltham? 10 miles, and the stage will pass here in three hours. Thank you. At present, I have little to do with the, at least with that stage. Young gentlemen, excuse our continuing our dessert. In fact, I may say our dinner. Are you connoisseurs in turnips? He offered us, with a polite gesture, one of the Swedes he was munching. I declined, but John, out of a deeper delicacy than I could boast, accepted it. One might dine worse, he said, I have done sometimes. It was a whim of mine, sir, but I am not the first remarkable person who has eaten turnips in your Nortonbury fields. I, and turned field preacher afterwards, the celebrated John Philip, here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers, interposed with a nudge indicating silence. My companion is right, sir, he continued. I will not betray our illustrious friend by mentioning his surname. He is a great man now, and I might not wish it generally known that he had dined off turnips. May I give you instead my own humble name? He gave it me, but I, Phineas Fletcher, shall copy his reticence and not indulge the world therewith. It was a name wholly out of my sphere, both then and now. But I know it has since risen into note among the people of the world. I believe, too, its owner has carried up to the topmost height of celebrity always the gay, gentlemanly spirit and kindly heart which he showed when sitting with us and eating Swedes. Still, I will not mention his surname. I will only call him Mr. Charles. Now, having satisfactorily munched and munched and munched, like the sailor's wife who had chestnuts in her lap, are you acquainted with my friend, Mr. William Shakespeare, young gentleman? I must try to fulfill the other duties of existence. You said the Coltham male passed here in three hours. Very well, I have the honor of wishing you a very good day, Mr. Halifax. And yours, Fletcher. Any connection with him who went partnership with the worthy Beaumont? My father has no partner, sir, said I, but John, whose reading had lately surpassed mine and whom nothing ever puzzled, explained that I came from the same old stock as the brothers Phineas and Giles Fletcher, upon which Mr. Charles, who till now had somewhat overlooked me, took off his hat and congratulated me on my illustrious descent. That man has evidently seen a good deal of the world, said John, smiling. I wonder what the world is like. Did you not see something of it as a child? Only the worst and lowest side, not the one I want to see now. What business do you think that Mr. Charles is? A clever man, anyhow. I should like to see him again. So should I. Thus, talking at intervals and speculating upon our new acquaintance, we strolled along until we came to a spot called by the country people the bloody meadow. From being, like several other places in the neighborhood, the scene of one of those terrible slaughters chronicled in the wars of the roses. It was a sloping field through the middle of which ran a little stream down to the meadow's end, where, fringed and hidden by a plantation of trees, the avon flowed. Here, too, in all directions, the hay fields lay either in green swaths or tetted or in the luxuriously scented quiles. The lane was quite populace with wagons and haymakers, the men in their corduroy's and blue hose, the women in their trim jackets and bright Kalimenko petticoats. There were more women than men by far, for the flower of the peasant youth of England had been drafted off to fight against phony party. Still, haytime was a glorious season when half our little town turned out and made holiday in the sunshine. I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seems a crowd down in the meadow. And who is that man standing on the hay cart on the other side of the stream? Don't you remember the bright blue coat? It is Mr. Charles. How he's talking and gesticulating. What can he be at? Without more ado, John leaped the low hedge and ran down the slope of the bloody meadow. I followed less quickly. There of assurity stood our new friend on one of the simple-fashioned hay carts that we used about Norton Berry, a low framework on wheels, with a pole stuck at either of the four corners. He was bare-headed and his hair hung in graceful curls, well powdered. I only hope he had honestly paid the tax, which we were all then proclaiming against. So fondly does custom cling to deformity. Despite the powder, the blue coat, and the shabby velvet breeches, Mr. Charles was a very handsome and striking-looking man. No wonder the poor haymakers had collected from all parts to hear him harangue. What was he haranging upon? Could it be that like his friend, John Philip, whoever that personage might be, his vocation was that of a field preacher? It seemed like it, especially judging from the sanctified demeanor of the elder and inferior person who accompanied him, and who sat in the front of the cart and folded his hands and groaned after the most approved fashion of a methodistical revival. We listened, expecting every minute to be disgusted and shocked. But no, I must say this for Mr. Charles, that in no way did he trespass the bounds of reverence and decorum. His harangue, though given as a sermon, was strictly and simply a moral essay, such as might have emanated from any professor's chair. In fact, as I afterwards learned, he had given for his text one which the simple rustics received in all respect as coming from a higher and holier volume than Shakespeare. Mercy is twice blessed. It blessed him that gives and him that takes, to his mightiest in the mightiest. And on that text did he dilate, gradually warming with his subject till his gestures, which at first had seemed burdened with a queer constraint, that now and then resulted in an irrepressible twitch of the corners of his flexible mouth, became those of a man beguiled into real earnestness. We of Nortonbury had never heard such eloquence. Who can he be, John, isn't it wonderful? But John never heard me. His whole attention was riveted on the speaker. Such oratory, a compound of graceful action, polished language and brilliant imagination, came to him as a positive revelation, a revelation from the world of intellect, the world which he longed after with all the ardor of youth. What that herring would have seemed like, could we have heard it with mature ears? I know not. But at 18 and 20, it literally dazzled us. No wonder it affected the rest of the audience. The feeble men, leaning on forks and rakes, shook their old heads sagely as if they understood it all. And when the speaker alluded to the horrors of war, a subject which then came so bitterly home to every heart in Britain, many women melted into sobs and tears. At last, when the orator himself, moved by the pictures he had conjured up, paused suddenly, quite exhausted, and asked for a slight contribution to help a deed of charity. There was a general rush towards him. No, no, my good people, said Mr. Charles, recovering his natural manner, though a little clouded, I thought, by a faint shade of remorse. No, I will not take from anyone more than a penny. And then only if they are quite sure they can spare it. Thank you, my worthy man. Thanks, my Bonnie young lass. I hope your sweetheart will soon be back from the wars. Thank you all, my very worthy and approved good masters, and a fair harvest to you. He bowed them away in a dignified and graceful manner, still standing on the hay cart. The honest folk trooped off, having no more time to waste, and left the field in possession of Mr. Charles, his comate and ourselves, whom I do not think he had as yet noticed. He descended from the cart. His companion burst into roars of laughter, but Charles looked grave. Poor honest souls, said he, wiping his brows. I am not sure that it was only his brows. Hang me if I'll be at this trick again, Yeats. It was a trick then, sir, said John Advancing. I am sorry for it. So am I, young man, returned to the other, no way disconcerted. Indeed, he seemed a person whose frank temper nothing could disconcert. But starvation is, excuse me, unpleasant, and necessity has no law. It is a vital consequence that I should reach Coltham tonight. And after walking twenty miles, one cannot easily walk ten more, and afterwards appear as Macbeth to an admiring audience. You are an actor? I am, please, your worship, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is seen no more. There was inexpressible pathos in his tone, and his fine face looked thin and worn. It did not take much to soften both John's feelings and mine towards the poor player. Besides, we had lately been studying Shakespeare, who for the first time of reading generally sends all young people tragedy mad. You acted well today, said John. All the folk here took you for a Methodist creature. Yet I never meddled with theology, only common morality. You cannot say I did. John thought a moment and then answered, no, but what put the scheme into your head? The fact that, under alike necessity, the same amusing play was played out here years ago as I told you by John Philip, no, I will not conceal his name. The greatest actor and the truest gentleman our English stage has ever seen, John Philip Kemble. And he raised his hat with sincere reverence. We too had heard at least John had of this wonderful man. I saw the fascination of Mr. Charles's society was strongly upon him. It was no wonder, more brilliant, more versatile talent I never saw. He turned from grave to gay, from lively to severe, appearing in all phases like the gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world. And neither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, also irresistibly alluring at our age. I say our because though I followed where he led, I always did it of my own will likewise. The afternoon began to wane while we, with our two companions, yet sat talking by the Brookside. Mr. Charles had washed his face and his travel-sore blistered feet, and we had induced him and the man he called Yates to share our remnants of bread and cheese. Now, he said starting up, I am ready to do battle again even with the thane of feet, who tonight is one Johnson, a fellow of six feet and 12 stone. What is the hour, Mr. Halifax? Mr. Halifax, I felt pleased to hear him for the first time so entitled, had unfortunately no watch among his worldly possessions and candidly owned the fact. But he made a near guess by calculating the position of his unfailing timepiece, the sun. It was four o'clock. Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentleman? Surely you would not lose such a rare treat as Macbeth with, I will not say my humble self, but with that divine sit-ins, such a woman, Shakespeare himself might lean out of Elysium to watch her. You will join us? John made a silent, dolerous negative, as he had done once or twice before when the actor urged us to accompany him to Coltham for a few hours only. We might be back by midnight easily. What do you think, Phineas? Said John when we stood on the high road waiting for the coach. I have money and we have so little pleasure, we would send word to your father. Do you think it would be wrong? I could not say, and to this minute, viewing the question nakedly in a strict and moral sense, I cannot say whether or no it was an absolute crime. Therefore, being accustomed to read my rung or write in David's eyes, I remained perfectly passive. We waited by the hedge side for several minutes. Mr. Charles ceased his urging, half in dudgeon, save that he was too pleasant a man really to take offense at anything. His conversation was chiefly directed to me. John took no part therein, but strolled about plucking at the hedge. When the stage appeared down the winding of the road, I was utterly ignorant of what he meant us to do, or if he had any definite purpose at all. It came, the coachman was hailed. Mr. Charles shook hands with us and mounted, paying his own fare and that of Yeats with their handful of charity pennies which caused a few minutes delay in counting and a great deal of good humor joking as good humorably born. Meanwhile, John put his two hands on my shoulders and looked hard into my face. His was slightly flushed and excited, I thought. Phineas, are you tired? Not at all. Do you feel strong enough to go to Coltham? Would it do you no harm? Would you like to go? To all these hurried questions I answered with as hurried and affirmative. It was sufficient to me that he evidently liked to go. It is only for once, your father would not grudge us the pleasure and he is too busy to be out of the tanyard before midnight. We will be home soon after then if I carry you on my back all the 10 miles. Come, Mount, we'll go. Bravo! cried Mr. Charles and leaned over to help me up the coach's side. John followed and the crisis was passed. But I noticed that for several miles he hardly spoke one word. End of chapter five. Chapter six 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 six. Near as we lived to Coultham, I had only been there once in my life. But John Halifax knew the town pretty well. Having laterally, in addition to his clerkship, been employed by my father in going about the neighborhood by and bark. I was amused when the coach stopped at an inn, which bore the ominous sign of the fleece, to see how well accustomed he seemed to be in the ways of the place. He deported himself with perfect self-possession. The waiter served him respectfully. He had evidently taken his position in the world, at least our little world. He was no longer a boy, but a man. I was glad to see it. Leaving everything in his hands, I laid down where he placed me in the inn parlor and watched him giving his orders and walking about. Sometimes I thought his eyes were restless and unquiet, but his manner was as composed as usual. Mr. Charles had left us, appointing a meeting at Coffee House Yard, where the theater then was. A poor barn-like place, I believe, said John, stopping in his walk up and down the room to place my cushions more easy. They should build a new one. Now Coltham is growing up into such a fashionable town. I wish I could take you to see the well walk with all the fine people promenading, but you must rest, Phineas. I consented being indeed rather weary. You will like to see Mrs. Siddons, whom we have so often talked about? She is not young now, Mr. Charles says, but magnificent still. She first came out in this same theater more than twenty years ago. Yates saw her. I wonder, Phineas, if your father ever did. Oh, no, my father would not enter a playhouse for the world. What? Nay, John, you need not look so troubled. You know he did not bring me up in the society, and its restrictions are not binding upon me. True, true, and he resumed his walk, but not his cheerfulness. If it were myself alone now, of course, what I myself hold to be a lawful pleasure, I have a right to enjoy. Or, if not, being yet a lad and under a master, well, I will bear the consequences, added he rather proudly, but to share them, Phineas, turning suddenly to me, would you like to go home? I'll take you. I protested earnestly against any such thing, told him I was sure we were doing nothing wrong, which was indeed my belief, and treated him to be merry and enjoy himself, and succeeding so well that in a few minutes we had started in a flutter of gaiety and excitement for Coffee House Yard. It was a poor place, little better than a barn, as Mr. Charles had said, built in a lane leading out of the principal street. This lane was almost blocked up with play-goers of all ranks and in all sorts of equipages. From the coach and six to the sedan chair, mingled with a motley crowd on foot, all jostling, fighting, and screaming, till the place became a complete bear-garden. Oh, John, take care, and I clung to his arm. Never mind. I'm big enough and strong enough for any crowd. Hold on, Phineas. If I had been a woman and the woman that he loved, he could not have been more tender over my weakness. The physical weakness, which, however humiliating to myself, and doubtless contemptible in most men's eyes, was yet dealt by the hand of heaven, and as such regarded by John only with compassion. The crowd grew denser and more formidable. I looked beyond it, up toward the low hills that rose in various directions around the town, how green and quiet they were. And in the still June evening, I only wished we were safe back again at Norton Burry. But now there came a slight swaying in the crowd, as a sedan chair was borne through, or attempted to be, for the effort failed. There was a scuffle. One of the bears was knocked down and hurt. Some cried shame. Others seemed to think this incident only added to the frolic. At last, in the midst of the confusion, a lady put her head out of the sedan and gazed around her. It was a remarkable continence. Once seen, you could never forget it. Pale, rather large and hard and outline, and aquiline nose, full, passionate, yet sensitive lips, and very dark eyes. She spoke, and the voice belonged naturally to such a face. Good people, let me pass. I am Sarah Sidden's. The crowd divided instantaneously, and in moving set up a cheer that must have rang through all the town. There was a minute's pause while she bowed and smiled, such a smile. And then the sedan curtain closed. Now's the time. Only hold fast to me, whispered John, as he sprang forward dragging me after him. In another second he had caught up the pole dropped by the man who was hurt. And before I well knew what we were about, we both stood safe inside the entrance of the theater. Mrs. Sidden stepped out and turned to pay her bears, a most simple action, but so elevated in the doing that even it, I thought, could not bring her to the level of common humanity. The tall, cloaked, and hooded figure, and the tones it issued thence made her, even in that narrow passage under the one flaring tallow candle, a veritable queen of tragedy. At least so she seemed to us, too. The one man was paid, overpaid, apparently, from his thankfulness, and she turned to John Halifax. I regret, young man, that you should have had so much trouble. Here is some re-quittle. He took the money, selected from it once over coin, and returned the rest. I will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento that I once had the honor of being useful to Mrs. Sidden's. She looked at him keenly out of her wonderful dark eyes, then curtsied with grave dignity. I thank you, sir, she said, and passed on. A few minutes after, some underling of the theater found us out and brought us, by Mrs. Sidden's desire, to the best places the house could afford. It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when I look back upon it, my old blood leaps and burns. I repeat, it was a glorious night. Before the curtain rose, we had time to glance about us on that scene, to both entirely new, the inside of a theater. Shabby and small as the place was, it was filled with all the bull moaned of Coultham, which then, patronized by royalty, rivaled even Bath in its fashion and folly. Such a dazzle of diamonds and spangled turbans and prints of whale's plumes. Such an odd mingling of costume, which was then in a transition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously to the stately-silken petticoats and long bodices, surmounted by the prim and decent buffalants, while the younger bells had begun to flaunt in the French fashions of flimsy muslins, short-waisted, narrow-skirted. These we had already heard J.L. furiously in vain against. For J.L., Quakeress, as she was, could not quite smother her original propensity towards the decoration of the flesh and betrayed a suppressed but profound interest in the same. John and I quite agreed with her that it was painful to see gentle English girls clad or rather unclad after the fashion of our enemies across the channel. Now, unhappy nation, sunk to zero in politics, religion, and morals, where high-bred ladies went about dressed as heathen goddesses with bare arms and bare-sandaled feet, gaining none of the pure simplicity of the ancient world and losing all the decorous dignity of our modern times. We, too, who had all a boy's mysterious reverence for womanhood in its most ideal, most beautiful form, and who, I believe, were in our ignorance expecting to behold in every woman an imaging, a Juliet, or a Desmadana, felt no particular attraction towards the ungracefully-attired, flaunting, simpering bells of Culfam. But the play began. I am not going to follow it. All the world has heard of the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. Sidden's. This, the first and last play I ever witnessed, stands out in my memory, after more than half a century, as clear as on that night. Still I can see her in her first scene, reading a letter that wondrous woman who, in spite of her modern black velvet and point lace, did not act but was Lady Macbeth. Still I hear the awestruck questioning, weird-like tone, that sent an involuntary shudder through the house, as if supernatural things were abroad. They made themselves air. And still there quivers through the silence that piteous cry of a strong heart broken. All the perfumes of Arabia will never sweeten this little hand. Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung on her every breath, as if it could stay even the wheels of time. But they have whirled on, whirled her away with them into the infinite and into earthly oblivion. People tell me that a new generation only smiles at the traditional glory of Sarah Sidden's. They never saw her. For me, I shall go down to the grave, worshiping her still. Of him who I call Mr. Charles, I have little to say. John and I both smiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subdued into that poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet I believe he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his idea with that of turnip munching and hay cart oratory. And when, during the first colloquy of bangle with the witches, Macbeth took the opportunity of winking privately at us over the footlights, all the paraphernalia of the stage failed to make the murderous thing of Cawdor ought else than our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. I never saw him after that night. He is still living. May his old age have been as peaceful as his youth was kind and gay. The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come. But we would not stay for that. We staggered, half blind and dazzled, both in eyes and brain, out into the dark streets. John almost carrying me. Then we paused, and leaning against a post which was surmounted by one of the half-dozen oil lamps, which illuminated the town, tried to regain our mental equilibrium. John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow, he bared it to the fresh night air and drew a deep, hard breath. He was very pale, I saw. John, he turned and laid a hand on my shoulder. What did you say? Are you cold? No. He put his arm so as to shield the wind from me nevertheless. Well, said he, after a pause, we have had our pleasure, and it is over. Now we must go back to the old ways again. I wonder what a clock it is. He was answered by a church clock-striking, heard clearly over the silent town. I counted the strokes. Eleven. Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the lamp. Until this minute we had taken no note of the time. Eleven o'clock. How should we get home to Nortonbury that night? Four. Now the excitement was over. I turned sick and faint. My limbs almost sank under me. What must we do, John? Do. Oh. Just quite easy. You cannot walk. You shall not walk. We must hire a gig and drive home. I have enough money, all my month's wages, see? He felt in his pockets one after the other. His countenance grew blank. Why, where has my money gone to? Where indeed, but that it was gone, and irretrievably, most likely stolen, when we were so wedged in the crowd, there could be no manner of doubt. And I had not a grote. I had little use for money and rarely carried any. Would not somebody trust us, suggested I? I never asked anybody for credit in my life, and for a horse and gig they'd laugh at me. Still, yes, stay here a minute, and I'll try. He came back, though not immediately, and took my arm with a reckless laugh. It's of no use, Phineas. I'm not so respectable as I thought. What's to be done? I, what indeed, here we were, two friendless youths, with not a penny in our pockets and ten miles away from home. How to get there, and at midnight, too, was a very serious question. We consulted a minute, and then John said firmly, We must make the best of it and start. Every instant is precious. Your father will think we have fallen into some harm. Come, Phineas, I'll help you on. His strong, cheery voice added to the necessity of the circumstances, braced up my nerves. I took hold of his arm, and we marched on bravely through the shut-up town, and for a mile or two along the high road leading to Norton Burry. There was a cool, fresh breeze, and I often think one can walk so much further by night than by day. For some time, listening to John's talk about the stars, he had lately added astronomy to the many things he tried to learn, and recalling with him all that we had heard and seen this day, I hardly felt my weariness. But gradually it grew upon me, my pace lagged slower and slower, even the scented air in the mid-summer night imparted no freshness. John wound his young arm, strong and firm as iron, round my waist, and we got on a while in that way. Keep up, Phineas. There's a hay-rack near. I'll wrap you in my coat, and you shall rest there. An hour or two will not matter now. We shall get home by daybreak. I feebly assented, but it seemed to me that we never should get home. At least I never should. For a short way more I dragged myself, or rather was dragged along. Then the stars, the shadowy fields, and the winding white high road mingled and faded from me. I lost all consciousness. When I came to myself I was lying by a tiny brook at the roadside. My head rested on John's knees. He was bathing my forehead. I could not see him, but I heard his smothered moan. David, don't mind. I shall be well directly. Oh, Phineas! Phineas! I thought I had killed you. He said no more, but I fancied that under cover of the night he yielded to what his manhood might have been ashamed of. Yet need not. A few tears. I tried to rise. There was a faint streak in the east. Why, is it daybreak? How far are we from Nortonbury? Not very far. Don't stir a step. I shall carry you. Impossible! Nonsense! I have done it for half a mile already. Come, mount, I am not going to have Jonathan's death laid at David's door. And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. What strength supported him I cannot tell, but he certainly carried me, with many rest between and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mile or so, the whole way to Nortonbury. The light broadened and broadened. When we reached my father's door, haggard and miserable, it was in the pale sunshine of a summer morning. Thank God, murmured John, as he set me down at the foot of the steps. You are safe at home. And you, you will come in. You would not leave me now. He thought a moment, then said, No. We looked up doubtfully at the house. There were no watches there. All the windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishment were taking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Nortonbury households. Even John's loud knocking was some time before it was answered. I was too exhausted to feel much, but I know those five awful minutes seemed interminable. I could not have borne them save for John's voice in my ear. Courage! I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no absolute sin and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage! At the five minutes end my father opened the door. He was dressed as usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching or had suffered any anxiety I never found out. He said nothing, merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed it behind us. But we were certain from his face that he knew all. It was so, some neighbor driving home from Coultham had taken pains to tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son. At the very last place a friend's son ought to be seen, the playhouse. We knew that it was by no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my father, reaching the parlor and opening the shutters, that the hard daylight should shame us more and more, asked the stern question, Phineas, where has thee been? John answered for me. At the theatre at Coultham it was my fault. He went because I wished to go. And wherefore didst thee wish to go? Wherefore? The answer seemed hard to find. Oh! Mr. Fletcher, were you never young like me? My father made no reply. John gathered courage. It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong. I think now that it was, but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull. I long sometimes for a little amusement, a little change. The shall have it. That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb. And how long has thee planned this, John Halifax? Not a day, not an hour. It was a sudden freak of mine. My father shook his head with contemptuous incredulity. Sir, Abel Fletcher, did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me, believe your own son. Ask Phineas. No, no, ask him nothing. And he came in great distress to the sofa where I had fallen. O Phineas, how cruel I have been to you! I tried to smile at him, being past speaking, but my father put John aside. Young man, I can take care of my son. He shall not lead him into harm's way any more. Go, I have been mistaken in thee. If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, reproached us, and stormed at us, with all the ill language that men of the world use, but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, I have been mistaken in thee, was ten times worse. John lifted to him a mute look, from which all pride had ebbed away. I repeat, I have been mistaken in thee. These seemed a lad to my mind. I trusted thee. This day, by my son's wish, I meant to have bound thee prentice to me, and in good time to have taken thee into the business. Now there was silence. At last John muttered, in a low, broken-hearted voice, I deserve it all. I can go away. I might perhaps earn my living elsewhere, shall I? Bill Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him. Oh, David, how unliked to thee! Then said, No, I do not wish that, at least not at present. I cried out in the joy and relief of my heart. John came over to me, and we clasped hands. John, you will not go? No. I will stay to redeem my character with your father. Be content, Phineas. I won't part with you. Young man, thou must, said my father, turning round. But I have said it, Phineas. I accuse him of no dishonesty, no crime, but of weakly yielding, and selfishly causing another to yield, to the temptation of the world. Therefore as my clerk I retain him, as my son's companion, never. We felt that never was irrevocable. Yet I tried, blindly and despairingly, to wrestle with it. I might as well have flung myself against a stone wall. John stood perfectly silent. Don't, Phineas, he whispered at last. Never mind me. Your father is right, at least so far as he sees. Let me go. Perhaps I may come back to you some time. If not. I moaned out bitter words. I hardly knew what I was saying. My father took no notice of them, only went to the door, and called J.L. Even before the woman came I had strength enough to bid John go. Goodbye, don't forget me, don't. I will not, he said, and if I live we shall be friends again. Goodbye, Phineas, he was gone. After that day though he kept his word and remained in the tanyard, and though from time to time I heard of him, always accidentally, after that day for two long years I never once saw the face of John Halifax. It was the year 1800, long known in English households as the dear year. The present generation can have no conception of what a terrible time that was, war, famine and tumult, stalking hand in hand, and no one to stay them. For between the upper and lower classes there was a great gulf fixed, the rich ground the faces of the poor, the poor hated, yet meanly succumbed to, the rich. Other had Christianity enough boldly to cross the line of demarcation and prove, the humbler, that they were men, the higher and wiser, that they were gentlemen. These troubles which were everywhere abroad reached us even in our quiet town of Norton Burry. For myself personally they touched me not, or at least only kept fluttering like evil birds outside the dear home Tabernacle, where I and patients sat, keeping our solemn counsel together. For these two years had with me been very hard. Though I had to bear so much bodily suffering that I was seldom told of any worldly cares, still I often fancied things were going ill both within and without our doors. J.L. complained in an underkey of stinted housekeeping, or boasted aloud of her own ingenuity in making ends meet, and my father's brow grew continually heavier, graver, sterner. Sometimes so stern that I dared not wage what was, openly or secretly, the quiet but incessant crusade of my existence, the bringing back of John Halifax. He still remained my father's clerk. Nay, I sometimes thought he was even advancing in duties and trusts, for I heard of his being sent long journeys up and down England to buy grain, Abel Fletcher having added to his tanning business the flour mill hard buy, whose lazy whore was so familiar to John and me in our boyhood. But of these journeys my father never spoke. Indeed he rarely mentioned John at all. However, he might employ and even trust him in business relations. I knew that in every other way he was inexorable. And John Halifax was as inexorable as he. No underhand or clandestine friendship would he admit. No, not even for my sake. I knew quite well that until he could walk in openly, honorably, proudly, he never would re-enter my father's doors. Twice only he had written to me, on my two birthdays. My father himself gave me in silence the unsealed letters. They told me what I was already sure of, that I held, and always should hold, my steadfast place in his friendship, nothing more. One other fact I noticed that a little lad, afterward discovered to be Jem Watkins, to whom had fallen the hard-working lot of the lost bill, had somehow crept into our household as Aaron Boy, or Gardner's Boy, and being cute and a scholar was greatly patronized by J.L. I noticed, too, that the said Jem, whenever he came in my way, in house or garden, was the most capital little foot-page that ever invalid had. Being intuitively all my needs and serving me with an unfailing devotion, which quite surprised and puzzled me at the time, it did not afterwards. Summer was passing, people began to watch with anxious looks the thin harvest fields, as J.L. often told me when she came home from her afternoon walks. It was piteous to see them, she said. Only July, and the court in Lof, nearly three shillings, and meal four shillings a peck. And then she would glance at our flour mill, where, for several days a week, the water-wheel was as quiet as on Sundays. For my father kept his grain locked up, waiting for what, he wisely judge, might be a worse harvest than the last. But J.L., though she said nothing, often looked at the flour mill and shook her head. And after one market day, when she came in rather flustered, saying there had been a mob outside the mill, until that young man Halifax had gone out and spoken to them. She never once allowed me to take my rare walk under the trees in the abbey yard, nor if she could help it would she even let me sit watching the lazy Avon from the garden wall. One Sunday it was the first of August, for my father had just come back from meeting, very much later than usual, and J.L. said he had gone, as was his annual custom on that his wedding day, to the friends' burial ground in St. Mary's Lane, where, far away from her own kindred and people, my poor young mother had been laid. On this one Sunday I began to see that things were going wrong. Abel Fletcher sat at dinner, wearing the heavy hard look which had grown upon his face, not unmingled with the wrinkles planted by physical pain, for with all his temperance he could not quite keep down his hereditary enemy, Gout, and this week it had clutched him pretty hard. After Jessup came in, and I stole away gladly enough, and sat for an hour in my old place in the garden, idly watching the stretch of meadow, pasture, and harvest land, noticing too more as a pretty bit in the landscape than as a fact of vital importance, in how many places the half-ripe corn was already cut, and piled in thinly scattered sheaves over the fields. After the doctor left, my father sent for me and all his household, in the which, creeping humbly after the woman kind, was now numbered the lad, Jim. That Abel Fletcher was not quite himself was proved by the fact that his unlighted pipe lay on the table, and his afternoon tanker-to-veil sank from foam to flatness untouched. He first addressed J.L. Woman, was it thee who cooked the dinner to-day? She gave a dignified affirmative. He must give us no more such dinners, no cakes, no pastry kick-shaws, and only wheat and bread enough for absolute necessity. Our neighbor shall not say that Abel Fletcher has flour in his mill, and plenty in his house, while there is famine abroad in the land. So take heed. I do take heed, answered J.L. staunchly. Thee can'ts not say I waste a penny of thine, and for myself do I not pity the poor? On first day a woman cried after me about wasting good flour in staunch. To-day, behold! And with a spasmodic bridling up, she pointed to the bouffant, which used to stand up stiffly round her withered old throat, and stick out in front, like a powder pigeon. Alas! its glory and staunch were alike departed. It now appeared nothing but a heap of crumpled and yellowish muslin. Poor J.L., I knew this was the most heroic personal sacrifice she could have made. I could not help smiling, even my father did the same. Does thee mock me, Abel Fletcher? cried she angrily, preached not to others while the sin lies in thy own head. And I am sure poor J.L. was innocent of any jocular intention, as advancing sternly she pointed to her master's pate, where his long-worn powder was scarcely distinguishable from the snows of age. He bore the assault gravely and untrinkingly, merely sane, woman, peace. Nor while pursued J.L., driving apparently to the last and most poisoned arrow in her quiver of wrath, while the poor folk be starving in scores about Norton Burry, and the rich folk there will not sell their wheat under famine price. Take heed to thyself, Abel Fletcher. My father winced, either from a twinge of gout or conscience, and then J.L. suddenly ceased the attack, sent the other servants out of the room, and tended her master as carefully as if she had not insulted him. In his fits of gout my father, unlike most men, became the quieter and easier to manage the more he suffered. He had a long fit of pain which left him considerably exhausted. When, being at last relieved, he and I were sitting in the room alone, he said to me, Phineas, the tanyard has thrived an ill of late, and I thought the mill would make up for it. But if it will not, it will not. What's thee mind, my son, being left a little poor when I am gone? Father! Well, then in a few days I will begin selling my wheat, as that lad had advised and begged me to do these weeks past. He is a sharp lad, and I am getting old. Perhaps he is right. Who, father, I asked rather hypocritically? thee knowest well enough, John Halifax. I thought it best to say no more, but I never let go one thread of hope which could draw me near to my heart's desire. On the Monday morning my father went to the tanyard, as usual. I spent the day in my bedroom, which looked over the garden, where I saw nothing but the waving of the trees and the birds hopping over the smooth grass, heard nothing but the soft chime, hour after hour, of the abbey bells. What was passing in the world, in the town, or even in the next street, was to me faint as dreams. At dinner time I rose, went downstairs, and waited for my father. Waited one, two, three hours. It was very strange. He never by any chance overstayed his time, without sending a message home. Soon after some consideration as to whether I dared encroach upon his formal habit so much, and after much advice from J.L., who betrayed more anxiety than was at all warranted by the cause, she assigned, vis, the spoiled dinner, I dispatched Jim Watkins to the tanyard to see after his master. He came back with ill news. The lane leading to the tanyard was blocked up with a wild mob. Even the stolid, starved patients of our Nortonbury poor had come to an end at last. They had followed the example of many others. There was a bread riot in the town. God only knows how terrible those riots were, when the people rose in desperation, not from some delusion of crazy bloodthirsty patriotism, but to get food for themselves, their wives and children. God only knows what manness was in each individual heart of that concourse of poor wretches, styled the mob, when every man took up arms, certain that there were before him but two alternatives, starving or hanging. The riot here was scarcely universal. Nortonbury was not a large place, and had always abundance of smallpox and fevers to keep the poor down numerically. Jim said it was chiefly about our mill and our tanyard that the disturbance lay. And where is my father? Jim didn't know, and looked very much as if he didn't care. J.L., somebody must go at once and find my father. I am going, said J.L., who had already put on her cloak and hood. Of course, despite all her opposition, I went too. The tanyard was deserted, the mob had divided and gone, one half to our mill, the rest to another that was lower down the river. I asked of a poor frightened bark-cutter if she knew where my father was. She thought he was gone for the milling-tary, but John Halifax was at the mill now. She hoped no harm would come to Mr. Halifax. Even in that moment of alarm I felt a sense of pleasure. I had not been in a tanyard for nearly three years. I did not know John had come already to be called Mr. Halifax. There was nothing for me but to wait here till my father returned. He could not surely be so insane as to go to the mill, and John was there. Terribly was my heart divided, but my duty lay with my father. J.L. sat down in the shed, or marched restlessly between the tanned pits. I went to the end of the yard and looked down towards the mill. What a half-hour it was! At last exhausted I sat down on the barkeep where John and I had once sat as lads. He must now be more than twenty. I wondered if he were altered. Oh, David, David, I thought, as I listened eagerly for any sounds abroad in the town. What should I do if any harm came to thee? This minute I heard a footstep crossing the yard. No, it was not my father's. It was firmer, quicker, younger. I sprang from the barkeep. Genius! John! What a grasp that was, both hands, and how fondly and proudly I looked up in his face, the still-boyish face. But the figure was quite that of a man now. For a minute we forgot ourselves in our joy, and then he let go of my hand, saying hurriedly, Where is your father? I wish I knew. Gone for the soldiers, they say. No, not that. He would never do that. I must go and look for him. Goodbye. Nay, dear John. Can't, can't, said he, firmly. Not while your father forbids. I must go, and he was gone. Though my heart rebelled, my conscience defended him, marveling how it was that he who had never known his father should uphold so sternly the duty of filial obedience. I think it ought to act as a solemn warning to those who exact so much from the mere fact and name of parenthood, without having in any way fulfilled its duties, that orphans from birth often revere the ideal of that bond far more than those who have known it in reality, always accepting those children to whose blessed lot it has fallen to have the ideal realized. In a few minutes I saw him and my father enter the tanyard together. He was talking earnestly, and my father was listening. A. listening, and to John Halifax. But whatever the argument was, it failed to move him. He troubled, but staunch as a rock my old father stood, resting his lame foot on a heap of hides. I went to meet him. Phineas, said John anxiously, come and help me. No able fletcher he added rather proudly in reply to a sharp, suspicious glance at us both. Your son and I only met ten minutes ago, and have scarcely exchanged a word. But we cannot waste time over that matter now. Phineas, help me to persuade your father to save his property. He will not call for the aid of the law because he is a friend. Besides, for the same reason it might be useless asking. Verily, said my father, with a bitter and meaning smile. But he might get his own men to defend his property and need not do what he is bent on doing. Go to the mill himself. Surely, was all able fletcher said, planting his oaken stick firmly, as firmly as his will, and taking his way to the riverside in the direction of the mill. I caught his arm. Father, don't go! My son, said he, turning on me one of his iron looks, as I used to call them, tokens of a nature that might have ran molten once, and had settled into a hard-molded mass, of which nothing could afterwards alter one form or erase one line. My son, no opposition. Any who tried that with me fail. If those fellows had waited two days more I would have sold all my wheat at a hundred shillings a quarter. Now they shall have nothing. It will teach them wisdom another time. Get thee safe home, Phineas, my son. J.L., go thou likewise. But neither went. John held me back as I was following my father. He will do it, Phineas, and I suppose he must. Please, God, I'll take care no harm touches him, but you go home. That was not to be thought of. Finally the time was too brief for argument, so the discussion soon ended. He followed my father and I followed him. For J.L., she disappeared. There was a private path from the tanyard to the mill, along the riverside, by this we went in silence. When we reached the spot it was deserted, but further down the river we heard a scuffling, and saw a number of men breaking down our garden wall. They think he has gone home, whispered John. We'll get in here the safer, quick, Phineas. We crossed the little bridge. John took a key out of his pocket and led us into the mill by a small door, the only entrance, and that was barred and trebly barred within. It had good need to be in such times. The mill was a queer, musty, silent place, especially the machinery room, the sole flooring of which was the dark dangerous stream. We stood there a good while. It was the safest place, having no windows. Then we followed my father to the top story, where he kept his bags of grain. There were very many, enough in these times to make a large fortune by. A cursed fortune wrung out of human lives. Oh, how could my father—Hush, whispered John. It was for his son's sake, you know. But while we stood, and with a meaning but rather grim smile, Abel Fletcher counted his bags, worth almost as much as bags of gold. We heard a hammering at the door below. The rioters were come. Miserable rioters, a handful of weak-starved men, pelting us with stones and words. One pistol-shot might have routed them all. But my father's doctrine of non-resistance forbade. Small as their force seemed, there was something at once formidable and pitiful in the low hall that reached us at times. Bring out the bags. Us mum have bread. Throw down thy corn, Abel Fletcher. Abel Fletcher will throw it down to ye, ye knaves, said my father, leaning out of the upper window, while a sound, half curses, half cheers of triumph, answered him from below. That is well, exclaimed John eerily. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. I knew you would yield at last. Didst ye lad, said my father, stopping short? Not because they forced you, not to save your life, but because it was right. Help me with this bag, was all the reply. It was a great weight, but not too great for John's young arm, nervous and strong. He hauled it up. Now, open the window, dash the pains through, it matters not. Onto the window, I tell thee. But if I do, the bag will fall into the river. You cannot—oh, no, you cannot mean that. Hall it up to the window, John Halifax. But John remained immovable. I must do it myself, then. And in the desperate effort he made, somehow the bag of grain fell and fell on his lame foot. Tortured into frenzy with the pain, or else I will still believe, my old father would not have done such a deed, his failing strength seemed doubled and troubled. In an instant more he had got the bag half through the window, and the next sound we heard was its heavy splash in the river below. Flung into the river the precious wheat, and in the very sight of the famished rioters. A howl of fury and despair arose. Some plunged into the water, ere the eddies left by the falling mass had ceased, but it was too late. A sharp substance in the river's bed had cut the bag, and we saw thrown up on the surface, and whirled down the avon, thousands of dancing grains. A few of the men swam, or waited after them, clutching a handful here or there, but by the mill pool the river ran swift, and the wheat had all soon disappeared, except what remained in the bag when it was drawn on shore. Over even that they fought like demons. We could not look at them, John and I. He put his hand over his eyes, muttering the name that, young man as he was, I had never yet heard irreverently and thoughtlessly on his lips. It was a sight that would move any one to cry for pity unto the great father of the human family. Joe Fletcher sat on his remaining bags, in an exhaustion that I think was not all physical pain. The paroxysm of anger passed. He, ever a just man, could not fail to be struck with what he had done. He seemed subdued, even to something like remorse. John looked at him and looked away. For a minute he listened in silence to the shouting outside, and then turned to my father. Sir, you must come now, not a second to lose. They will fire the mill next. Let them. Let them, and Phineas is here. My forefather, he rose at once. We got him downstairs. He was very lame. His ruddy face all drawn and white with pain, but he did not speak one word of opposition or utter a groan of complaint. The flour mill was built on piles in the center of the Narrow River. It was only a few steps of bridge work to either bank. The little door was on the Nortonbury side and was hid from the opposite shore, where the rioters had now collected. In a minute we had crept forth and dashed out of sight, in the narrow path which had been made from the mill to the tanyard. Will you take my arm? We must get on fast. Home? said my father, as John led him passively along. No, sir, not home. They are there before you. Your life's not safe an hour, unless indeed you get soldiers to guard it. Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stern old Quaker held to his principle still. Then you must hide for a time, both of you. Come to my room. You will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas, for your sake and his own. But my poor broken-down father needed no urging, grasping more tightly both John's arm and mine, which, for the first time in his life, he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we choose. So after this long interval of time I once more stood in Sally Watkins' small attic, where ever since I first brought him there John Halifax had lived. Sally knew not of our entrance. She was out, watching the rioters. No one saw us but Jem, and Jem's honor was safe as a rock. I knew that in the smile with which he pulled off his cap to Mr. Halifax. Now, said John, hastily smoothing his bed so that my father might lie down, and wrapping his cloak round me, you must both be very still. You will likely have to spend the night here. Jem shall bring you a light and supper. You will make yourself easy, Abel Fletcher? Aye. It was strange to see how decidedly yet respectfully John spoke and how quietly my father answered. And Phineas he put his arm round my shoulder in the old way. You will take care of yourself. Are you stronger than you used to be? I clasped his hand without reply. My heart melted to hear that tender accent so familiar once. All was happening for the best, if it only gave me back David. Now, good-bye, I must be off. Wither, said my father, rousing himself. To try and save the house and the tanyard, I fear we must give up the mill. No, don't hold me, Phineas. I run no risk. Everybody knows me. Besides I am young. There, see after your father, I shall come back in good time. He grasped my hands warmly, then unloose them. And I heard his step descending the staircase. The room seemed to darken when he went away. The evening passed very slowly. My father, exhausted with pain, lay on the bed and dozed. I sat watching the sky over the housetops, which met in the old angles with the same blue peeps between. I have forgot all the day's events. It seemed but two weeks, instead of two years ago, that John and I had sat in this attic window, conning our Shakespeare for the first time. Air twilight I examined John's room. It was a good deal changed. The furniture was improved. A score of ingenious little contrivances made the tiny attic into a cozy bedchamber. One corner was full of shelves, laden with books, chiefly of scientific and practical nature. John's taste did not lead him into the current literature of the day. Pepper, Ackenside, and Peter Pender were alike indifferent to him. I found among his books no poet but Shakespeare. He evidently still practiced his old mechanical arts. There was line in the window a telescope, the cylinder made of pasteboard, into which the lenses were ingeniously fitted. A rough telescope stand of common deal stood on the ledge of the roof, from which the field of view must have been satisfactory enough to the young astronomer. Other fragments of skillful handiwork chiefly meant for machinery on a little potion scale were strewn about the floor, and on a chair just as he had left it that morning stood a loom, very small in size but perfect in its neat workmanship, with a few threads already woven, making some fabric not so very unlike cloth. I had gone over all these things without noticing that my father was awake and that his sharp eye had observed them likewise. The lad works hard, said he, have to himself. He has useful hands and a clear head. I smiled but took no notice whatever. Evening began to close in, less peacefully than usual over Nortonbury, for whenever I ventured to open the window we heard unusual and ominous sounds abroad in the town. I trembled inwardly, but John was prudent as well as brave. Besides, everybody knew him. Surely he was safe. Faithfully at supper time Jem entered, but he could tell us no news. He had kept watch all the time on the staircase by desire of Mr. Halifax, so he informed me. My father asked no questions, not even about his mill. From his look sometimes I fancied he yet beheld in fancy these starving men fighting over the precious food destroyed so willfully, nay wickedly. Heaven forgave me, his son, if I too harshly used the word, for I think till the day of his death that cruel sight never wholly vanished from the eyes of my poor father. Jem seemed talkatively inclined. He observed that Master were looking sprack again and weren't this a tidy room like. I praised it and supposed his mother was better off now. A. she be. Mr. Halifax pays her a good rent, and she season made comfortable. Not that he wants much, being out pretty much all day. What is he busy about of nights? Learning, said Jem, with an odd look. He's terrible wise, but for all that sometimes he'll teach Charlie and me a bit of the read-a-man-easy. Reading made easy, I suppose, John's hopeful pupil meant. He's very kind to we, and to mother, too. Her says that her do, Mr. Halifax. Send the fellow away, Phineas, muttered my father, turning his face to the wall. I obeyed, but first I asked in a whisper if Jem had any idea when Mr. Halifax would be back. He said maybe not till morning, them's bad folk about, he was going to stop all night, either at your house or at the tanyard, for fear of ablaze. The word made my father start, for in these times well we knew what poor folk meant by ablaze. My house, my tanyard, I must get up this instant, help me. He ought to come back, that lad Halifax. There's a score of my men at hand, Wilkes and Johnson and Jacob Baines. I say, Phineas, but thee knows nothing. He tried to dress and to drag on his heavy shoes, but fell back, sick with exhaustion and pain. I made him lie down again on the bed. Phineas, lad, said he, brokenly, thy old father is getting as helpless as thee. So we kept watch together all the night through, sometimes dosing, sometimes waking up at some slight noise below, or at the flicker of the long wicked candle, which fear converted into the glare of some incendiary fire, doubtless our own home. Now and then I heard my father mutter something about the lad being safe. I said nothing, I only prayed.