John Halifax, Gentleman | Page 4

saw, by the hardening of his features, and the restless way in which he
poked his stick into the little water-pools, that he was longing to be in
his tan-yard close by.
He pulled out his great silver watch--the dread of our house, for it was a
watch which seemed to imbibe something of its master's character;
remorseless as justice or fate, it never erred a moment.
"Twenty-three minutes lost by this shower. Phineas, my son, how am I
to get thee safe home? unless thee wilt go with me to the tan-yard--"
I shook my head. It was very hard for Abel Fletcher to have for his only
child such a sickly creature as I, now, at sixteen, as helpless and useless
to him as a baby.
"Well, well, I must find some one to go home with thee." For though
my father had got me a sort of carriage in which, with a little external
aid, I could propel myself, so as to be his companion occasionally in
his walks between our house, the tanyard, and the Friends'
meeting-house--still he never trusted me anywhere alone. "Here,
Sally--Sally Watkins! do any o' thy lads want to earn an honest penny?"

Sally was out of earshot; but I noticed that as the lad near us heard my
father's words, the colour rushed over his face, and he started forward
involuntarily. I had not before perceived how wasted and
hungry-looking he was.
"Father!" I whispered. But here the boy had mustered up his courage
and voice.
"Sir, I want work; may I earn a penny?"
He spoke in tolerably good English--different from our coarse, broad,
G---shire drawl; and taking off his tattered old cap, looked right up into
my father's face, The old man scanned him closely.
"What is thy name, lad?"
"John Halifax."
"Where dost thee come from?"
"Cornwall."
"Hast thee any parents living?"
"No."
I wished my father would not question thus; but possibly he had his
own motives, which were rarely harsh, though his actions often
appeared so.
"How old might thee be, John Halifax?"
"Fourteen, sir."
"Thee art used to work?"
"Yes."
"What sort of work?"

"Anything that I can get to do."
I listened nervously to this catechism, which went on behind my back.
"Well," said my father, after a pause, "thee shall take my son home, and
I'll give thee a groat. Let me see; art thee a lad to be trusted?" And
holding him at arm's length, regarding him meanwhile with eyes that
were the terror of all the rogues in Norton Bury, Abel Fletcher jingled
temptingly the silver money in the pockets of his long-flapped brown
waistcoat. "I say, art thee a lad to be trusted?"
John Halifax neither answered nor declined his eyes. He seemed to feel
that this was a critical moment, and to have gathered all his mental
forces into a serried square, to meet the attack. He met it, and
conquered in silence.
"Lad, shall I give thee the groat now?"
"Not till I've earned it, sir."
So, drawing his hand back, my father slipped the money into mine, and
left us.
I followed him with my eyes, as he went sturdily plashing down the
street; his broad, comfortable back, which owned a coat of true Quaker
cut, but spotless, warm, and fine; his ribbed hose and leathern gaiters,
and the wide-brimmed hat set over a fringe of grey hairs, that crowned
the whole with respectable dignity. He looked precisely what he
was--an honest, honourable, prosperous tradesman. I watched him
down the street--my good father, whom I respected perhaps even more
than I loved him. The Cornish lad watched him likewise.
It still rained slightly, so we remained under cover. John Halifax leaned
in his old place, and did not attempt to talk. Once only, when the
draught through the alley made me shiver, he pulled my cloak round
me carefully.
"You are not very strong, I'm afraid?"

"No."
Then he stood idly looking up at the opposite--the mayor's--house, with
its steps and portico, and its fourteen windows, one of which was open,
and a cluster of little heads visible there.
The mayor's children--I knew them all by sight, though nothing more;
for their father was a lawyer, and mine a tanner; they belonged to
Abbey folk and orthodoxy, I to the Society of Friends--the mayor's rosy
children seemed greatly amused by watching us shivering shelterers
from the rain. Doubtless our position made their own appear all the
pleasanter. For myself it mattered little; but for this poor, desolate,
homeless, wayfaring lad to stand in sight of their merry nursery
window, and hear the clatter of voices, and of not unwelcome
dinner-sounds--I wondered how he felt it.
Just at this minute another head came to the window, a somewhat older
child; I