John Halifax [55]
it. But it lay deep down, calm and unawakened. His heart was as light and free as air.
Stooping over my easy chair, he wheeled it to the window, in sight of the pleasant view.
"Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You'll take a walk before dinner? You'll not be moping?"
No; why should I, who knew I had always, whether absent or present, the blessing, the infinite blessing, of being first in his thoughts and cares? Who, whether he expressed it or not--the best things never are expressed or expressible--knew by a thousand little daily acts like these, the depth and tenderness of his friendship, his brotherly love for me. As yet, I had it all. And God, who knows how little else I had, will pardon, if in my unspeakable thankfulness lurked a taint of selfish joy in my sole possession of such a priceless boon.
He lingered about, making me "all right," as he called it, and planning out my solitary day. With much merriment, too, for we were the gayest couple of young bachelors, when, as John said, "the duties of our responsible position" would allow.
"Responsible position! It's our good landlady who ought to talk about that. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and an indefinite number of children. There's one of them got into mischief at last. Hark!"
"It's Jack, my namesake. Bless my life! I knew he would come to grief with that donkey. Hey, lad! never mind. Get up again."
But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious; and disappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open window. The next minute I saw him carrying in the unlucky Jack, who was bleeding from a cut in the forehead, and screaming vociferously.
"Don't be frightened, Mrs. Tod; it is very slight--I saw it done. Jack, my lad!--be a man, and never mind it. Don't scream so; you alarm your mother."
But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was no real cause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath against Jack for his carelessness, and for giving so much trouble to the gentleman.
"But he be always getting into mischief, sir--that boy. Three months back, the very day Mr. March came, he got playing with the carriage-horse, and it kicked him and broke his arm. A deal he cares: he be just as sprack as ever. As I say to Tod--it bean't no use fretting over that boy."
"Have patience," answered John, who had again carried the unfortunate young scapegrace from our parlour into Mrs. Tod's kitchen--the centre room of the cottage; and was trying to divert the torrent of maternal indignation, while he helped her to plaster up the still ugly looking wound. "Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterwards than if you had punished him."
"Do'ee think so?" said the woman, as, struck either by the words, the manner, or the tone, she looked up straight at him. "Do'ee really think so, Mr. Halifax?"
"I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being forgiven when one has been naughty. Isn't it so, Jack, my namesake?"
"Jack ought to be proud o' that, sir," said the mother, respectfully; "and there's some sense in what you say, too. You talk like my man does, o' Sundays. Tod be a Scotchman, Mr. Halifax; and they're good folks, the Scotch, and read their Bibles hard. There's a deal about forgiving in the Bible; isn't there, sir?"
"Exactly," John answered, smiling. "And so, Jack, you're safe this time; only you must not disobey your mother again, for the sake of donkeys or anything else."
"No, sir--thank'ee, sir," sobbed Jack, humbly. "You be a gentleman-- Mr. March bean't--he said it served me right for getting under his horses."
"Hold thy tongue!" said Jack's mother, sharply; for the latch of the opposite door was just then lifted, and a lady stood there.
"Mrs. Tod; my father says--"
Seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her voice--a pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided in tone--John and I both involuntarily turned. We felt awkward! doubtful whether to stay or retire abruptly. She saved us the choice.
"Mrs. Tod, my father will take
Stooping over my easy chair, he wheeled it to the window, in sight of the pleasant view.
"Now, Phineas, what more books do you want? You'll take a walk before dinner? You'll not be moping?"
No; why should I, who knew I had always, whether absent or present, the blessing, the infinite blessing, of being first in his thoughts and cares? Who, whether he expressed it or not--the best things never are expressed or expressible--knew by a thousand little daily acts like these, the depth and tenderness of his friendship, his brotherly love for me. As yet, I had it all. And God, who knows how little else I had, will pardon, if in my unspeakable thankfulness lurked a taint of selfish joy in my sole possession of such a priceless boon.
He lingered about, making me "all right," as he called it, and planning out my solitary day. With much merriment, too, for we were the gayest couple of young bachelors, when, as John said, "the duties of our responsible position" would allow.
"Responsible position! It's our good landlady who ought to talk about that. With two sets of lodgers, a husband, and an indefinite number of children. There's one of them got into mischief at last. Hark!"
"It's Jack, my namesake. Bless my life! I knew he would come to grief with that donkey. Hey, lad! never mind. Get up again."
But soon he perceived that the accident was more serious; and disappeared like a shot, leaping out through the open window. The next minute I saw him carrying in the unlucky Jack, who was bleeding from a cut in the forehead, and screaming vociferously.
"Don't be frightened, Mrs. Tod; it is very slight--I saw it done. Jack, my lad!--be a man, and never mind it. Don't scream so; you alarm your mother."
But as soon as the good woman was satisfied that there was no real cause for terror, hers changed into hearty wrath against Jack for his carelessness, and for giving so much trouble to the gentleman.
"But he be always getting into mischief, sir--that boy. Three months back, the very day Mr. March came, he got playing with the carriage-horse, and it kicked him and broke his arm. A deal he cares: he be just as sprack as ever. As I say to Tod--it bean't no use fretting over that boy."
"Have patience," answered John, who had again carried the unfortunate young scapegrace from our parlour into Mrs. Tod's kitchen--the centre room of the cottage; and was trying to divert the torrent of maternal indignation, while he helped her to plaster up the still ugly looking wound. "Come, forgive the lad. He will be more sorry afterwards than if you had punished him."
"Do'ee think so?" said the woman, as, struck either by the words, the manner, or the tone, she looked up straight at him. "Do'ee really think so, Mr. Halifax?"
"I am sure of it. Nothing makes one so good as being forgiven when one has been naughty. Isn't it so, Jack, my namesake?"
"Jack ought to be proud o' that, sir," said the mother, respectfully; "and there's some sense in what you say, too. You talk like my man does, o' Sundays. Tod be a Scotchman, Mr. Halifax; and they're good folks, the Scotch, and read their Bibles hard. There's a deal about forgiving in the Bible; isn't there, sir?"
"Exactly," John answered, smiling. "And so, Jack, you're safe this time; only you must not disobey your mother again, for the sake of donkeys or anything else."
"No, sir--thank'ee, sir," sobbed Jack, humbly. "You be a gentleman-- Mr. March bean't--he said it served me right for getting under his horses."
"Hold thy tongue!" said Jack's mother, sharply; for the latch of the opposite door was just then lifted, and a lady stood there.
"Mrs. Tod; my father says--"
Seeing strangers, the lady paused. At the sound of her voice--a pleasant voice, though somewhat quick and decided in tone--John and I both involuntarily turned. We felt awkward! doubtful whether to stay or retire abruptly. She saved us the choice.
"Mrs. Tod, my father will take