John Halifax, Gentleman | Page 7

the poor wandering lad into this, my father's especial
domain; but as soon as he was away in the tan-yard I sent for John.
Jael brought him in; Jael, the only womankind we ever had about us,
and who, save to me when I happened to be very ill, certainly gave no
indication of her sex in its softness and tenderness. There had evidently
been wrath in the kitchen.
"Phineas, the lad ha' got his dinner, and you mustn't keep 'un long. I
bean't going to let you knock yourself up with looking after a
beggar-boy."
A beggar-boy! The idea seemed so ludicrous, that I could not help
smiling at it as I regarded him. He had washed his face and combed out
his fair curls; though his clothes were threadbare, all but ragged, they
were not unclean; and there was a rosy, healthy freshness in his tanned
skin, which showed he loved and delighted in what poor folk generally
abominate--water. And now the sickness of hunger had gone from his
face, the lad, if not actually what our scriptural Saxon terms
"well-favoured," was certainly "well-liking." A beggar-boy, indeed! I

hoped he had not heard Jael's remark. But he had.
"Madam," said he, with a bow of perfect good-humour, and even some
sly drollery, "you mistake: I never begged in my life: I'm a person of
independent property, which consists of my head and my two hands,
out of which I hope to realise a large capital some day."
I laughed. Jael retired, abundantly mystified, and rather cross. John
Halifax came to my easy chair, and in an altered tone asked me how I
felt, and if he could do anything for me before he went away.
"You'll not go away; not till my father comes home, at least?" For I had
been revolving many plans, which had one sole aim and object, to keep
near me this lad, whose companionship and help seemed to me,
brotherless, sisterless, and friendless as I was, the very thing that would
give me an interest in life, or, at least, make it drag on less wearily. To
say that what I projected was done out of charity or pity would not be
true; it was simple selfishness, if that be selfishness which makes one
leap towards, and cling to, a possible strength and good, which I
conclude to be the secret of all those sudden likings that spring more
from instinct than reason. I do not attempt to account for mine: I know
not why "the soul of Jonathan clave to the soul of David." I only know
that it was so, and that the first day I beheld the lad John Halifax, I,
Phineas Fletcher, "loved him as my own soul."
Thus, my entreaty, "You'll not go away?" was so earnest, that it
apparently touched the friendless boy to the core.
"Thank you," he said, in an unsteady voice, as leaning against the
fire-place he drew his hand backwards and forwards across his face:
"you are very kind; I'll stay an hour or so, if you wish it."
"Then come and sit down here, and let us have a talk."
What this talk was, I cannot now recall, save that it ranged over many
and wide themes, such as boys delight in--chiefly of life and adventure.
He knew nothing of my only world--books.

"Can you read?" he asked me at last, suddenly.
"I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, being
somewhat proud of my erudition.
"And write?"
"Oh, yes; certainly."
He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write, and I
don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put down
something in a book for me."
"That I will."
He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an under one of
black silk; within this, again, was a book. He would not let it go out of
his hands, but held it so that I could see the leaves. It was a Greek
Testament.
"Look here."
He pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read:
"Guy Halifax, his Book.
"Guy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 17, in
the year of our Lord 1779.
"John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780."
There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female hand: "Guy
Halifax, died Jannary 4, 1781."
"What shall I write, John?" said I, after a minute or so of silence.
"I'll tell you presently. Can I get you a pen?"
He leaned on my shoulder with his left hand, but his right never once

let go of the precious book.
"Write--'Muriel Halifax, died January 1, 1791.'"
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more."
He looked at the writing for a minute or two, dried it carefully