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 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 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 Ialways 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 Iknew 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 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 former 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."
