John Halifax, Gentleman Part 43

"Or," pursued my father, waxing hotter and hotter, "or a 'lady' such as his wife is, the Jezebel daughter of an Ahab father!--brought up in the impious atrocities of France, and the debaucheries of Naples, where, though she keeps it close here, she abode with that vile woman whom they call Lady Hamilton."

John started. Well he might, for even to our quiet town had come, all this winter, foul newspaper tales about Nelson and Lady Hamilton.

"Take care," he said, in much agitation. "Any taint upon a woman's fame harms not her alone but all connected with her. For G.o.d's sake, sir, whether it be true or not, do not whisper in Norton Bury that Lady Caroline Brithwood is a friend of Lady Hamilton."

"Pshaw! What is either woman to us?"

And my father climbed the steps to his own door, John following.

"Nay, young gentleman, my poor house is hardly good enough for such as thee."

John turned, cruelly galled, but recovered himself.

"You are unjust to me, Abel Fletcher; and you yourself will think so soon. May I come in?"

My father made no answer, and I brought John in as usual. In truth, we had both more to think of than Abel Fletcher's temporary displeasure.

This strange chance--what might it imply?--to what might it not lead?

But no: if I judged Mrs. Jessop aright, it neither implied, nor would lead to, what I saw John's fancy had at once sprang toward, and revelled in, madly. A lover's fancy--a lover's hope. Even I could see what will-o'-the-wisps they were.

But the doctor's good wife, Ursula March's wise governess, would never lure a young man with such phantoms as these. I felt sure--certain--that if we met the Brithwoods we should meet no one else. Certain, even when, as we sat at our dish of tea, there came in two little dainty notes--the first invitations to worldly festivity that had ever tempted our Quaker household, and which Jael flung out of her fingers as if they had been coals from Gehenna. Notes, bidding us to a "little supper" at Dr. Jessop's, with Mr. and Lady Caroline Brithwood, of the Mythe House.

"Give them to your father, Phineas." And John vainly tried to hide the flash of his eye--the smiles that came and went like summer lightning--"To-morrow--you see, it is to-morrow."

Poor lad! he had forgotten every worldly thing in the hope of that to-morrow.

My father's sharp voice roused him. "Phineas, thee'lt stay at home.

Tell the woman I say so."

"And John, father?"

"John may go to ruin if he chooses. He is his own master."

"I have been always." And the answer came less in pride than sadness.

"I might have gone to ruin years ago, but for the mercy of Heaven and your kindness. Do not let us be at warfare now."

"All thy own fault, lad. Why cannot thee keep in thy own rank? Respect thyself. Be an honest tradesman, as I have been."

"And as I trust always to be. But that is only my calling, not me.

I--John Halifax--am just the same, whether in the tan-yard or Dr.

Jessop's drawing-room. The one position cannot degrade, nor the other elevate, me. I should not 'respect myself' if I believed otherwise."

"Eh?"--my father absolutely dropped his pipe in amazement. "Then, thee thinkest thyself already quite a gentleman?"

"As I told you before, sir--I hope I am."

"Fit to a.s.sociate with the finest folk in the land?"

"If they desire it, and I choose it, certainly."

Now, Abel Fletcher, like all honest men, liked honesty; and something in John's bold spirit, and free bright eye, seemed to-day to strike him more than ordinarily.

"Lad, lad, thee art young. But it won't last--no, it won't last."

He knocked the white ashes out of his pipe--it had been curling in brave wreaths to the very ceiling two minutes before--and sat musing.

"But about to-morrow?" persisted John, after watching him some little time. "I could go--I could have gone, without either your knowledge or permission; but I had rather deal openly with you. You know I always do. You have been the kindest master--the truest friend to me; I hope, as long as I live, rarely to oppose, and never to deceive you."

His manner--earnest, yet most respectful--his candid looks, under which lurked an evident anxiety and pain, might have mollified a harder man than Abel Fletcher.

"John, why dost thee want to go among those grand folk?"

"Not because they are grand folk. I have other reasons--strong reasons."

"Be honest. Tell me thy strong reasons."

Here was a strait.

"Why dost thee blush, young man? Is it aught thee art ashamed of?"

"Ashamed! No!"

"Is it a secret, then, the telling of which would be to thee, or to any else, dishonour?"

"Dishonour!" And the bright eye shot an indignant gleam.

"Then, tell the truth."

"I will. I wish first to find out, for myself, whether Lady Caroline Brithwood is fitted to have under her charge one who is young--innocent--good."

"Has she such an one? One thee knows?"

"Yes."

"Man or woman?"

"Woman."

My father turned, and looked John full in the eyes. Stern as that look was, I traced in it a strange compa.s.sion.

"Lad, I thought so. Thee hast found the curse of man's life--woman."

To my amazement, John replied not a syllable. He seemed even as if he had forgotten himself and his own secret--thus, for what end I knew not, voluntarily betrayed--so absorbed was he in contemplating the old man. And truly, in all my life I had never seen such a convulsion pa.s.s over my father's face. It was like as if some one had touched and revived the torment of a long-hidden, but never-to-be-healed wound.

Not till years after did I understand the full meaning of John's gaze, or why he was so patient with my father.

The torment pa.s.sed--ended in violent anger.

"Out with it. Who is deluding thee? Is it a matter of wedlock, or only--"

"Stop!" John cried; his face all on fire. "The lady--"