John Halifax [5]
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 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
"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 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