John Halifax, Gentleman Part 42

And indeed he looked so. I was terrified. So quiet as I had always seen him when we met, so steadily as he had pursued his daily duties; and with all this underneath--this torment, conflict, despair, of a young man's love. It must come out--better it should.

"And you have gone on working all this while?"

"I was obliged. Nothing but work kept me in my senses. Besides"--and he laughed hoa.r.s.ely--"I was safest in the tan-yard. The thought of her could not come there. I was glad of it. I tried to be solely and altogether what I am--a 'prentice lad--a mere clown."

"Nay, that was wrong."

"Was it? Well, at last it struck me so. I thought I would be a gentleman again--just for a pretence, you know--a dream--a bit of the old dream back again. So I went to London."

"And met the Jessops there?"

"Yes; though I did not know she was Jane Cardigan. But I liked her--I liked my life with them. It was like breathing a higher air, the same air that--Oh, Phineas, it was horrible to come back to my life here--to that accursed tan-yard!"

I said nothing.

"You see, now"--and that hard laugh smote me to the heart again--"you see, Phineas, how wicked I am growing. You will have to cut my acquaintance presently."

"Tell me the rest--I mean, the rest of your life in London," I said, after a pause. "Did you ever hear of her?"

"Of course not; though I knew she was there. I saw it in the Court Circular. Fancy a lady, whose name was in the Court Circular, being inquired after by a tanner's lad! But I wanted to look at her--any beggar might do that, you know--so I watched in streets and parks, by theatre-doors at night, and by church-doors on Sunday mornings; yet I never saw her once. Only think, not once for five whole months."

"John, how could you tell me you were happy?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because of my pride; perhaps because--Ah, don't look so wretched! Why did you let me say all this? You are too good for such as I."

Of course I took no heed of idle words like these. I let him stand there, leaning against the stile, now and then grasping it with his nervous, muscular hands, as if he would tear it down; then I said quietly:

"What do you intend to do?"

"Do? Nothing! What can I do? Though sometimes a score of wild plans rush into my mind, such as to run away to the Indies, like that young Warren Hastings we were talking of, come back twenty years hence a nabob, and--marry her."

"Marry her," I repeated, mournfully.

"Ay, I could. That is what maddens me. If now she and I were to meet and stand together, equal man and woman, I could make her love me; I feel I could. Instead of crawling after her thus I would go boldly in at those very gates--do you think she is there?"

He trembled, actually trembled, at the mere thought of her being so near.

"Oh, it's hard, hard! I could despise myself. Why cannot I trust my manhood, my honest manhood that I was born with, go straight to her and tell her that I love her; that G.o.d meant her for me and me for her--true husband and true wife? Phineas, mark my words"--and, wild as his manner was, it had a certain force which sounded almost like prophecy--"if ever Ursula March marries she will be my wife--MY wife!"

I could only murmur--"Heaven grant it!"

"But we shall never marry, neither one nor the other of us; we shall go on apart and alone till the next world. Perhaps she will come to me then: I may have her in my heart there."

John looked upward: there was in the west a broad, red frosty cloud, and just beyond it, nay, all but resting on it, the new moon--a little, wintry, soft new moon. A sight that might well have hushed the maddest storm of pa.s.sion: it hushed his. He stood, still looking up, for many minutes, then his eyes closed, the lashes all wet.

"We'll never speak of this again, Phineas; I'll not grieve thee any more; I'll try and be a better brother to thee for the future. Come along!"

He drew my arm in his, and we went home.

Pa.s.sing the tan-yard John proposed that we should call for my father.

My poor father; now daily growing more sour and old, and daily leaning more and more upon John, who never ceased to respect, and make every one else respect, his master. Though still ostensibly a 'prentice, he had now the business almost entirely in his hands. It was pleasant to see how my father brightened up at his coming--how readily, when he turned homeward, he leaned upon John's strong arm, now the support of both him and me. Thus we walked through Norton Bury streets, where everybody knew us, and indeed, as it seemed to me this morning, nearly everybody greeted us--at least, one of us; but my father walked along soberly and sternly, frowning at almost every salutation John Halifax received.

"Thee art making far too many friends, John. I warn thee!"

"Not FRIENDS--only friendly acquaintance," was the gentle answer: he was well used to turn away, daily and hourly, Abel Fletcher's wrath.

But it was roused beyond control when Dr. Jessop's neat little carriage, and neatest of little wives, stopped at the curb-stone and summoned John.

"I want you and Mr. Fletcher to come to us to-morrow instead of this evening. Lady Caroline Brithwood wishes to see you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," smiled the old lady; "you, John Halifax, the hero of the people, who quelled the bread riots, and gave evidence thereupon to Mr.

Pitt, in London. Nay! why didn't you tell me the wonderful story? Her Ladyship is full of it. She will torment me till she sees you--I know her ways. For my sake, you MUST come."

Waiting no refusal, Mrs. Jessop drove on.

"What's that?" said my father, sharply. "John, where art thee going?"

I knew this was the first warning-gun of a battle which broke out afresh every time John appeared in any livelier garb than his favourite grey, or was suspected of any more worldly a.s.sociates than our quiet selves. He always took my father's attacks patiently--this time peculiarly so. He made no answer, but pa.s.sed his hand once or twice over his brow, as if he could not see clearly.

Abel Fletcher repeated the question.

"Yes; that was Mrs. Jessop, sir."

"I know," grumbled my father. "The doctor is a fool in his old age.

Who did she want thee to meet?"

"She!--Oh, Lady Caroline, you mean?"

"Lady Caroline wishes particularly to see John."

Abel Fletcher stopped, planted his stick in the ground, released his arm from John's, and eyed him from top to toe.

"Thee?--a woman of quality wanting to see THEE? Young man, thee art a hypocrite."

"Sir!"

"I knew it! I foresaw how thy fine ways would end! Going to London--crawling at the heels of grand folk--despising thy honest trade--trying to make thyself appear a gentleman!"

"I hope I am a gentleman."

Words could not describe my father's horrified astonishment. "Oh, lad!" he cried; "poor, misguided lad!--the Lord have mercy upon thee!"

John smiled--his mind evidently full of other things. Abel Fletcher's anger grew.

"And thee wants to hang on to the tail of other 'gentlemen,' such as Richard Brithwood, forsooth!--a fox-hunting, drinking, dicing fool!"

I was shocked; I had not believed him so bad as that--the young 'squire--Miss March's cousin.