John Halifax, Gentleman | Page 8

by the
fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and put it into his pocket. He
said no other word but "Thank you," and I asked him no questions.
This was all I ever heard of the boy's parentage: nor do I believe he
knew more himself. He was indebted to no forefathers for a family
history: the chronicle commenced with himself, and was altogether his
own making. No romantic antecedents ever turned up: his lineage
remained uninvestigated, and his pedigree began and ended with his
own honest name--John Halifax.
Jael kept coming in and out of the parlour on divers excuses, eyeing
very suspiciously John Halifax and me; especially when she heard me
laughing--a rare and notable fact--for mirth was not the fashion in our
house, nor the tendency of my own nature. Now this young lad, hardly
as the world had knocked him about even already, had an overflowing
spirit of quiet drollery and healthy humour, which was to me an
inexpressible relief. It gave me something I did not possess-- something
entirely new. I could not look at the dancing brown eyes, at the quaint
dimples of lurking fun that played hide-and-seek under the firm-set
mouth, without feeling my heart cheered and delighted, like one
brought out of a murky chamber into the open day.
But all this was highly objectionable to Jael.
"Phineas!"--and she planted herself before me at the end of the
table--"it's a fine, sunshiny day: thee ought to be out."
"I have been out, thank you, Jael." And John and I went on talking.

"Phineas!"--a second and more determined attack--"too much laughing
bean't good for thee; and it's time this lad were going about his own
business."
"Hush!--nonsense, Jael."
"No--she's right," said John Halifax, rising, while that look of
premature gravity, learned doubtless out of hard experience, chased all
the boyish fun from his face. "I've had a merry day--thank you kindly
for it! and now I'll be gone."
Gone! It was not to be thought of--at least, not till my father came
home. For now, more determinedly than ever, the plan which I had just
ventured to hint at to my father fixed itself on my mind. Surely he
would not refuse me--me, his sickly boy, whose life had in it so little
pleasure.
"Why do you want to go? You have no work?"
"No; I wish I had. But I'll get some."
"How?"
"Just by trying everything that comes to hand. That's the only way. I
never wanted bread, nor begged it, yet--though I've often been rather
hungry. And as for clothes"--he looked down on his own, light and
threadbare, here and there almost burst into holes by the stout muscles
of the big growing boy--looked rather disconsolately. "I'm afraid SHE
would be sorry--that's all! She always kept me so tidy."
By the way he spoke, "SHE" must have meant his mother. There the
orphan lad had an advantage over me; alas! I did not remember mine.
"Come," I said, for now I had quite made up my mind to take no denial,
and fear no rebuff from my father; "cheer up. Who knows what may
turn up?"
"Oh yes, something always does; I'm not afraid!" He tossed back his

curls, and looked smiling out through the window at the blue sky; that
steady, brave, honest smile, which will meet Fate in every turn, and
fairly coax the jade into good humour.
"John, do you know you're uncommonly like a childish hero of mine--
Dick Whittington? Did you ever hear of him?"
"No."
"Come into the garden then"--for I caught another ominous vision of
Jael in the doorway, and I did not want to vex my good old nurse;
besides, unlike John, I was anything but brave. "You'll hear the Abbey
bells chime presently--not unlike Bow bells, I used to fancy sometimes;
and we'll lie on the grass, and I'll tell you the whole true and particular
story of Sir Richard Whittington."
I lifted myself, and began looking for my crutches. John found and put
them into my hand, with a grave, pitiful look.
"You don't need those sort of things," I said, making pretence to laugh,
for I had not grown used to them, and felt often ashamed.
"I hope you will not need them always."
"Perhaps not--Dr. Jessop isn't sure. But it doesn't matter much; most
likely I shan't live long." For this was, God forgive me, always the last
and greatest comfort I had.
John looked at me--surprised, troubled, compassionate--but he did not
say a word. I hobbled past him; he following through the long passage
to the garden door. There I paused--tired out. John Halifax took gentle
hold of my shoulder.
"I think, if you did not mind, I'm sure I could carry you. I carried a
meal-sack