John Halifax, Gentleman

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

  “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 associate 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 213him 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 compassion.

  “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 214was he in contemplating the old man. And truly, in all my life I had never seen such a convulsion pass 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 passed—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—”

  “It is a ‘lady’! Now I see why thee would fain be a gentleman.”

  “Oh, father—how can you?”

  “So thee knowest it too—I see it in thy face—Wouldst thee be led away by him a second time! But thee shall not. I’ll put thee under lock and key before thee shalt ruin thyself and disgrace thy father.”

  This was hard to bear; but I believe—it was John’s teaching—that one ought to bear anything, however hard, from a just and worthy parent. And it was John himself who now grasped my hand, and whispered patience. John—who knew, what I myself, as I have said, did not learn for years, concerning my father’s former history.

  “Sir, you mistake; Phineas has nothing whatever to do with this matter. He is altogether blameless. So am I too, if you heard all.”

  “Tell me all; honour is bold—shame only is silent.”

  “I feel no shame—an honest love is no disgrace to any man. And my confessing it harms no one. She neither knows of it nor returns it.”

  As he said this, slowly, gravely, John moved a step back and sat down. His face was in shadow; but the fire shone on his hands, tightly locked together, motionless as stone.

  My father was deeply moved. Heaven knows what ghosts of 215former days came and knocked at the old man’s heart. We all three sat silent for a long time, then my father said:

  “Who is she?”

  “I had rather not tell you. She is above me in worldly station.”

  “Ah!” a fierce exclamation. “But thee wouldst not humble thyself—ruin thy peace for life? Thee wouldst not marry her?”

  “I would—if she had loved me. Even yet, if by any honourable means I can rise to her level, so as to be able to win her love, marry her I will.”

  That brave “I will”—it seemed to carry its own fulfilment. Its indomitable resolution struck my father with wonder—nay, with a sort of awe.

  “Do as thee thinks best, and God help thee,” he said, kindly. “Mayst thee never find thy desire a curse. Fear not, lad—I will keep thy counsel.”

  “I knew you would.”

  The subject ceased: my father’s manner indicated that he wished it to cease. He re-lit his pipe, and puffed away, silently and sadly.

  Years afterwards, when all that remained of Abel Fletcher was a green mound beside that other mound, in the Friends’ burying-ground in St. Mary’s Lane, I learnt—what all Norton Bury, except myself, had long known—that my poor mother, the young, thoughtless creature, whose married life had been so unhappy and so brief, was by birth a “gentlewoman.”

  216CHAPTER XVII

  Mrs. Jessop’s drawing-room, ruddy with fire-light, glittering with delicate wax candle-light; a few women in pale-coloured gauzy dresses, a few men, sublime in blue coats, gold buttons, yellow waistcoats, and smiles—this was all I noticed of the scene, which was quite a novel scene to me.

  The doctor’s wife had introduced us formally to all her guests, as the custom then was, especially in these small cosy supper-parties. How they greeted us I do not now remember; no doubt, with a kind of well-bred formal surprise; but society was generally formal then. My chief recollection is of Mrs. Jessop’s saying pointedly and aloud, though with a smile playing under the corners of her good little mouth:

  “Mr. Halifax, it is kind of you to come; Lady Caroline Brithwood will be delighted. She longs to make your acquaintance.”

  After that everybody began to talk with extraordinary civility to Mr. Halifax.

  For John, he soon took his place among them, with that modest self-possession which best becomes youth. Society’s dangerous waters accordingly became smooth to him, as to a good swimmer who knows his own strength, trusts it, and struggles not.

  217“Mr. Brithwood and Lady Caroline will be late,” I overheard the hostess say. “I think I told you that Miss March—”

  But here the door was flung open, and the missing guests announced. John and I were in the alcove of the window; I heard his breathing behind me, but I dared not look at or speak to him. In truth, I was scarcely calmer than he. For though it must be clearly understood I never was “in love” with any woman, still the reflected glamour of those Enderley days had fallen on me. It often seems now as if I too had passed the golden gate, and looked far enough into youth’s Eden to be able ever after to weep with those t
hat wept without the doors.

  No—she was not there.

  We both sat down. I know not if I was thankful or sorry.

  I had seldom seen the ’squire or Lady Caroline. He was a portly young man, pinched in by tight light-coloured garments. She was a lady rather past her first youth, but very handsome still, who floated about, leaving a general impression of pseudo-Greek draperies, gleaming arms and shoulders, sparkling jewellery, and equally sparkling smiles. These smiles seemed to fall just as redundantly upon the family physician, whom by a rare favour—for so, I suppose, it must have been—she was honouring with a visit, as if worthy Dr. Jessop were the noblest in the land. He, poor man, was all bows and scrapes and pretty speeches, in the which came more than the usual amount of references to the time which had made his fortune, the day when Her Majesty Queen Charlotte had done him the honour to be graciously taken ill in passing through Norton Bury. Mrs. Jessop seemed to wear her honours as hostess to an earl’s daughter very calmly indeed. She performed the ordinary courtesies, and then went over to talk with Mr. Brithwood. In their conversation I sought in vain the name of Ursula.

  So it ended—the sickening expectation which I had read in the lad’s face all day. He would not see her—perhaps it was best. 218Yet my heart bled when I looked at him. But such thoughts could not be indulged in now, especially as Mrs. Jessop’s quick eyes seemed often upon him or me, with an expression that I could not make out at all, save that in such a good woman, whom Miss March so well loved, could lurk nothing evil or unkindly.

  So I tried to turn my attention to the Brithwoods. One could not choose but look at her, this handsome Lady Caroline, whom half Norton Bury adored, the other half pursed up their lips at the mention of— but these were of the number she declined to “know.” All that she did know—all that came within her influence, were irresistibly attracted, for to please seemed a part of her nature. To-night nearly every one present stole gradually into the circle round her; men and women alike charmed by the fascination of her ripe beauty, her lively manner, her exquisite smile and laugh.

  I wondered what John thought of Lady Caroline Brithwood. She could not easily see him, even though her acute glance seemed to take in everything and everybody in the room. But on her entrance John had drawn back a little, and our half-dozen of fellow-guests, who had been conversing with him, crept shyly out of his way; as if, now the visible reality appeared, they were aghast at the great gulf that lay between John Halifax the tanner and the Brithwoods of the Mythe. A few even looked askance at our hostess, as though some terrible judgment must fall upon poor ignorant Mrs. Jessop, who had dared to amalgamate such opposite ranks.

  So it came to pass, that while everybody gathered round the Brithwoods John and I stood alone, and half concealed by the window.

  Very soon I heard Lady Caroline’s loud whisper;

  “Mrs. Jessop, my good friend, one moment. Where is your ‘jeune heros,’ ‘l’homme du peuple?’ I do not see him. Does he wear clouted shoes and woollen stockings? Has he a broad face and turned-up nose, like your ‘paysans Anglais’?”

  219“Judge for yourself, my lady—he stands at your elbow. Mr. Halifax, let me present you to Lady Caroline Brithwood.”

  If Lord Luxmore’s fair daughter ever looked confounded in her life she certainly did at this minute.

  “Lui? Mon dieu! Lui!” And her shrug of amazement was stopped, her half-extended hand drawn back. No, it was quite impossible to patronise John Halifax.

  He bowed gravely, she made a gracious curtsey; they met on equal terms, a lady and gentleman.

  Soon her lively manner returned. She buckled on her spurs for a new conquest, and left the already vanquished gentilities of Norton Bury to amuse themselves as they best might.

  “I am enchanted to meet you, Mr. Halifax; I adore ‘le peuple.’ Especially”—with a sly glance at her husband, who, with Tory Dr. Jessop, was vehemently exalting Mr. Pitt and abusing the First Consul, Bonaparte—“especially le peuple Francais. Me comprenez vous?”

  “Madame, je vous comprends.”

  Her ladyship looked surprised. French was not very common among the honest trading class, or indeed any but the higher classes in England.

  “But,” John continued, “I must dissent from Lady Caroline Brithwood, if she mingles the English people with ‘le peuple Francais.’ They are a very different class of beings.”

  “Ah, ca ira, ca ira”—she laughed, humming beneath her breath a few notes out of that terrible song. “But you know French—let us talk in that language; we shall horrify no one then.”

  “I cannot speak it readily; I am chiefly self-taught.”

  “The best teaching. Mon dieu! Truly you are made to be ‘un hero’— just the last touch of grace that a woman’s hand gives—had you ever a woman for your friend?—and you would be complete. But I cannot flatter—plain, blunt honesty for me. You must—you shall be—‘l’homme du peuple.’ Were you born such?—Who were your parents?”

  220I saw John hesitate; I knew how rarely he ever uttered those names written in the old Bible—how infinitely sacred they were to him. Could he blazon them out now, to gratify this woman’s idle curiosity?

  “Madam,” he said, gravely, “I was introduced to you simply as John Halifax. It seems to me that, so long as I do no discredit to it, the name suffices to the world.”

  “Ah—I see! I see!” But he, with his downcast eyes, did not detect the meaning smile that just flashed in hers was changed into a tone of soft sympathy. “You are right; rank is nothing—a cold, glittering marble, with no soul under. Give me the rich flesh-and-blood life of the people. Liberte—fraternite—egalite. I would rather be a gamin in Paris streets than my brother William at Luxmore Hall.”

  Thus talked she, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, the young man answering little. She only threw her shining arts abroad the more; she seemed determined to please. And Nature fitted her for it. Even if not born an earl’s daughter, Lady Caroline would have been everywhere the magic centre of any society wherein she chose to move. Not that her conversation was brilliant or deep, but she said the most frivolous things in a way that made them appear witty; and the grand art, to charm by appearing charmed, was hers in perfection. She seemed to float altogether upon and among the pleasantnesses of life; pain, either endured or inflicted, was to her an impossibility.

  Thus her character struck me on this first meeting, and thus, after many years, it strikes me still. I look back upon what she appeared that evening—lovely, gay, attractive—in the zenith of her rich maturity. What her old age was the world knows, or thinks it knows. But Heaven may be more merciful—I cannot tell. Whatever is now said of her, I can only say, “Poor Lady Caroline!”

  It must have indicated a grain of pure gold at the bottom 221of the gold-seeming dross, that, from the first moment she saw him, she liked John Halifax.

  They talked a long time. She drew him out, as a well-bred woman always can draw out a young man of sense. He looked pleased; he conversed well. Had he forgotten? No; the restless wandering of his eyes at the slightest sound in the room told how impossible it was he should forget. Yet he comported himself bravely, and I was proud that Ursula’s kindred should see him as he was.

  “Lady Caroline” (her ladyship turned, with a slightly bored expression, to her intrusive hostess), “I fear we must give up all expectation of our young friend to-night.”

  “I told you so. Post-travelling is very uncertain, and the Bath roads are not good. Have you ever visited Bath, Mr. Halifax?”

  “But she is surely long on the road,” pursued Mrs. Jessop, rather anxiously. “What attendants had she?”

  “Her own maid, and our man Laplace. Nay, don’t be alarmed, excellent and faithful gouvernante! I assure you your fair ex-pupil is quite safe. The furore about her has considerably abated since the heiress-hunters at Bath discovered the melancholy fact that Miss March—”

  “Pardon me,” interrupted the other; “we are among strangers. I assure you I
am quite satisfied about my dear child.”

  “What a charming thing is affectionate fidelity,” observed her ladyship, turning once more to John, with a sweet, lazy dropping of the eyelids.

  The young man only bowed. They resumed their conversation—at least, she did, talking volubly; satisfied with monosyllabic answers.

  It was now almost supper-time—held a glorious hour at Norton Bury parties. People began to look anxiously to the door.

  “Before we adjourn,” said Lady Caroline, “I must do what it will be difficult to accomplish after supper;” and for the first 222time a sharp, sarcastic tone jarred in her smooth voice. “I must introduce you especially to my husband. Mr. Brithwood?”

  “Madam.” He lounged up to her. They were a diverse pair. She, in her well-preserved beauty, and Gallic artificial grace—he, in his coarse, bloated youth, coarser and worse than the sensualism of middle age.

  “Mr. Brithwood, let me introduce you to a new friend of mine.”

  The ’squire bowed, rather awkwardly; proving the truth of what Norton Bury often whispered, that Richard Brithwood was more at home with grooms than gentlemen.

  “He belongs to this your town—you must have heard of him, perhaps met him.”

  “I have more than had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Brithwood, but he has doubtless forgotten it.”

  “By Jove! I have. What might your name be, sir?”

  “John Halifax.”

  “What, Halifax the tanner?”

  “The same.”

  “Phew!”—He began a low whistle, and turned on his heel.

  John changed colour a little. Lady Caroline laughed—a thoughtless, amused laugh, with a pleasant murmur of “Bete!”—“Anglais!”—Nevertheless, she whispered to her husband—

  “Mon ami—you forget; I have introduced you to this gentleman.”

  “Gentleman indeed! Pooh! rubbish! Lady Caroline—I’m busy talking.”

  “And so are we, most pleasantly. I only called you as a matter of form, to ratify my invitation. Mr. Halifax will, I hope, dine with us next Sunday?”