John Halifax, Gentleman Part 8

I was much shocked. To sleep out-of-doors seemed to me the very lowest ebb of human misery: so degrading, too--like a common tramp or vagabond, instead of a decent lad.

"John, how can you--why do you--do such a thing?"

"I'll tell you," said he, sitting down beside me in a dogged way, as if he had read my thoughts, guessed at my suspicions, and was determined to show that he feared neither--that he would use his own judgment, and follow his own will, in spite of anybody. "Look here. I get three s.h.i.+llings a week, which is about fivepence a day; out of that I eat threepence--I'm a big, growing lad, and it's hard to be hungry.

There's twopence left to pay for lodging. I tried it once--twice--at the decentest place I could find, but--" here an expression of intolerable disgust came over the boy's face--"I don't intend to try that again. I was never used to it. Better keep my own company and the open air. Now you see."

"Oh, John!"

"Nay--there's no need to be sorry. You don't know how comfortable it is to sleep out of doors; and so nice to wake in the middle of the night and see the stars s.h.i.+ning over your head."

"But isn't it very cold?"

"No--not often. I scoop out a snug little nest in the bark and curl up in it like a dormouse, wrapped in this rug, which one of the men gave me. Besides, every morning early I take a plunge and a swim in the stream, and that makes me warm all day."

I s.h.i.+vered--I who feared the touch of cold water. Yet there with all his hards.h.i.+ps, he stood before me, the model of healthy boyhood. Alas!

I envied him.

But this trying life, which he made so light of, could not go on. "What shall you do when winter comes?"

John looked grave. "I don't know: I suppose I shall manage somehow--like the sparrows," he answered, perceiving not how apposite his ill.u.s.tration was. For truly he seemed as dest.i.tute as the birds of the air, whom ONE feedeth, when they cry to Him.

My question had evidently made him thoughtful; he remained silent a good while.

At last I said: "John, do you remember the woman who spoke so sharply to you in the alley that day?"

"Yes. I shall never forget anything which happened that day," he answered, softly.

"She was my nurse once. She is not such a bad woman, though trouble has sharpened her temper. Her biggest boy Bill, who is gone off for a soldier, used to drive your cart, you know."

"Yes?" said John, interrogatively; for I was slow in putting forth my plans--that is, as much of them as it was needful he should know.

"Sally is poor--not so very poor, though. Your twopence a night would help her; and I dare say, if you'll let me speak to her, you might have Bill's attic all to yourself. She has but one other lad at home: it's worth trying for."

"It is indeed. You are very kind, Phineas." He said no more words than these--but their tone spoke volumes.

I got into my little carriage again, for I was most anxious not to lose a day in this matter. I persuaded John to go at once with me to Sally Watkins. My father was not to be seen; but I ventured to leave word for him that I was gone home, and had taken John Halifax with me: it was astonis.h.i.+ng how bold I felt myself growing, now that there was another beside myself to think and act for.

We reached Widow Watkins' door. It was a poor place--poorer than I had imagined; but I remembered what agonies of cleanliness had been inflicted on me in nursery days; and took hope for John.

Sally sat in her kitchen, tidy and subdued, mending an old jacket that had once been Bill's, until, being supplanted by the grand red coat, it descended upon Jem, the second lad. But Bill still engrossed the poor mother's heart--she could do nothing but weep over him, and curse "Bonyparty." Her mind was so full of this that she apparently failed to recognise in the decent young workman, John Halifax, the half-starved lad she had belaboured with her tongue in the alley. She consented at once to his lodging with her--though she looked up with an odd stare when I said he was "a friend" of mine.

So we settled our business, first all together, then Sally and I alone, while John went up to look at his room. I knew I could trust Sally, whom I was glad enough to help, poor woman! She promised to make him extra-comfortable, and keep my secret too. When John came down she was quite civil to him--even friendly.

She said it would really be a comfort to her, that another fine, strapping lad should sleep in Bill's bed, and be coming in and out of her house just like her poor dear boy.

I felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and indeed half-angry, but John only smiled.

"And if, maybe, he'd do a hand's turn now and then about the kitchen--I s'pose he bean't above it?"

"Not a bit!" said John Halifax, pleasantly.

Before we left I wanted to see his room; he carried me up, and we both sat down on the bed that had been poor Bill's. It was nothing to boast of, being a mere sacking stuffed with hay--a blanket below, and another at top; I had to beg from Jael the only pair of sheets John owned for a long time. The attic was very low and small, hardly big enough "to whip a cat round," or even a kitten--yet John gazed about it with an air of proud possession.

"I declare I shall be as happy as a king. Only look out of the window!"

Ay, the window was the grand advantage; out of it one could crawl on to the roof, and from the roof was the finest view in all Norton Bury. On one side, the town, the Abbey, and beyond it a wide stretch of meadow and woodland as far as you could see; on the other, the broad Ham, the glittering curve of Severn, and the distant country, sloping up into "the blue bills far away." A picture, which in its incessant variety, its quiet beauty, and its inexpressibly soothing charm, was likely to make the simple, everyday act of "looking out o' window," unconsciously influence the mind as much as a world of books.

"Do you like your 'castle,' John?" said I, when I had silently watched his beaming face; "will it suit you?"

"I rather think it will!" he cried in hearty delight. And my heart likewise was very glad.

Dear little attic room! close against the sky--so close, that many a time the rain came pattering in, or the sun beating down upon the roof made it like a furnace, or the snow on the leads drifted so high as to obscure the window--yet how merry, how happy, we have been there! How often have we both looked back upon it in after days!

CHAPTER IV

Winter came early and sudden that year.

It was to me a long, dreary season, worse even than my winters inevitably were. I never stirred from my room, and never saw anybody but my father, Dr. Jessop, and Jael. At last I took courage to say to the former that I wished he would send John Halifax up some day.

"What does thee want the lad for?"

"Only to see him."

"Pshaw! a lad out o' the tan-yard is not fit company for thee. Let him alone; he'll do well enough if thee doesn't try to lift him out of his place."

Lift John Halifax out of his "place"! I agreed with my father that that was impossible; but then we evidently differed widely in our definition of what the "place" might be. So, afraid of doing him harm, and feeling how much his future depended on his favour with his master, I did not discuss the matter. Only at every possible opportunity--and they were rare--I managed to send John a little note, written carefully in printed letters, for I knew he could read that; also a book or two, out of which he might teach himself a little more.

Then I waited, eagerly but patiently, until spring came, when, without making any more fruitless efforts, I should be sure to see him. I knew enough of himself, and was too jealous over his dignity, to wish either to force him by entreaties, or bring him by stratagem, into a house where he was not welcome, even though it were the house of my own father.

One February day, when the frost had at last broken up, and soft, plentiful rain had half melted the great snow-drifts, which, Jael told me, lay about the country everywhere, I thought I would just put my head out of doors, to see how long the blessed spring would be in coming. So I crawled down into the parlour, and out of the parlour into the garden; Jael scolding, my father roughly encouraging. My poor father! he always had the belief that people need not be ill unless they chose, and that I could do a great deal if I would.

I felt very strong to-day. It was delicious to see again the green gra.s.s, which had been hidden for weeks; delicious to walk up and down in the suns.h.i.+ne, under the shelter of the yew hedge. I amused myself by watching a pale line of snowdrops which had come up one by one, like prisoners of war to their execution.

But the next minute I felt ashamed of the heartless simile, for it reminded me of poor Bill Watkins, who, taken after the battle of Mentz, last December, had been shot by the French as a spy. Poor, rosy, burly Bill! better had he still been ingloriously driving our cart of skins.

"Have you been to see Sally lately?" said I, to Jael, who was cutting winter cabbages hard by; "is she getting over her trouble?"

"She bean't rich, to afford fretting. There's Jem and three little 'uns yet to feed, to say nought of another big lad as lives there, and eats a deal more than he pays, I'm sure."

I took the insinuation quietly, for I knew that my father had lately raised John's wages, and he his rent to Sally. This, together with a few other facts which lay between Sally and me, made me quite easy in the mind as to his being no burthen, but rather a help to the widow--so I let Jael have her say; it did no harm to me nor anybody.

"What bold little things snowdrops are--stop, Jael, you are setting your foot on them."

But I was too late; she had crushed them under the high-heeled shoe.

She was even near pulling me down, as she stepped back in great hurry and consternation.

"Look at that young gentleman coming down the garden; and here I be in my dirty gown, and my ap.r.o.n full o' cabbages."