John Halifax [35]
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 rests between, and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mile or so--the whole way to Norton Bury.
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 watchers there. All the windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishment were taking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Norton Bury 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 neighbour driving home from Coltham 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 play-house. We knew that it was by no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my father--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the hard daylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question--
"Phineas, where hast thee been?"
John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. 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."
"Thee shall have it."
That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb.
"And how long hast 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. "Oh, 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. Thee shalt 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! Thee 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?"
Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him (oh, David! how unlike to thee), then said, "No--I do not wish that. At least, not at present."
I cried out in
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 rests between, and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mile or so--the whole way to Norton Bury.
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 watchers there. All the windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishment were taking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Norton Bury 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 neighbour driving home from Coltham 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 play-house. We knew that it was by no means to learn the truth, but to confront us with it, that my father--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the hard daylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question--
"Phineas, where hast thee been?"
John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. 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."
"Thee shall have it."
That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb.
"And how long hast 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. "Oh, 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. Thee shalt 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! Thee 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?"
Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him (oh, David! how unlike to thee), then said, "No--I do not wish that. At least, not at present."
I cried out in