Essential Novelists - Dinah Craik. August NemoЧитать онлайн книгу.
— dearer sympathy than any words! Though he added thereto a few, in his own wise way; then he and I, also, drew the curtain over an inevitable grief, and laid it in the peaceful chamber of silence.
When my father, Dr. Jessop, John Halifax, and I, met at dinner, the subject had passed into seeming oblivion, and was never afterwards revived.
But dinner being over, and the chatty little doctor gone, while Abel Fletcher sat mutely smoking his pipe, and we two at the window maintained that respectful and decorous silence which in my young days was rigidly exacted by elders and superiors, I noticed my father’s eyes frequently resting, with keen observance, upon John Halifax. Could it be that there had recurred to him a hint of mine, given faintly that morning, as faintly as if it had only just entered my mind, instead of having for months continually dwelt there, until a fitting moment should arrive? — Could it be that this hint, which he had indignantly scouted at the time, was germinating in his acute brain, and might bear fruit in future days? I hoped so — I earnestly prayed so. And to that end I took no notice, but let it silently grow.
The June evening came and went. The service-bell rang out and ceased. First, deep shadows, and then a bright star, appeared over the Abbey-tower. We watched it from the garden, where, Sunday after Sunday, in fine weather, we used to lounge, and talk over all manner of things in heaven and in earth, chiefly ending with the former, as on Sunday nights, with stars over our head, was natural and fit we should do.
“Phineas,” said John, sitting on the grass with his hands upon his knees, and the one star, I think it was Jupiter, shining down into his eyes, deepening them into that peculiar look, worth any so-called “handsome eyes;"—“Phineas, I wonder how soon we shall have to rise up from this quiet, easy life, and fight our battles in the world? Also, I wonder if we are ready for it?”
“I think you are.”
“I don’t know. I’m not clear how far I could resist doing anything wrong, if it were pleasant. So many wrong things are pleasant — just now, instead of rising tomorrow, and going into the little dark counting-house, and scratching paper from eight till six, shouldn’t I like to break away! — dash out into the world, take to all sorts of wild freaks, do all sorts of grand things, and perhaps never come back to the tanning any more.”
“Never any more?”
“No! no! I spoke hastily. I did not mean I ever should do such a wrong thing; but merely that I sometimes feel the wish to do it. I can’t help it; it’s my Apollyon that I have to fight with — everybody keeps a private Apollyon, I fancy. Now, Phineas, be content; Apollyon is beaten down.”
He rose up, but I thought that, in the red glow of the twilight, he looked rather pale. He stretched his hand to help me up from the grass. We went into the house together, silently.
After supper, when the chimes struck half-past nine, John prepared to leave as usual. He went to bid good-night to my father, who was sitting meditatively over the fireless hearth-place, sometimes poking the great bow-pot of fennel and asparagus, as in winter he did the coals: an instance of obliviousness, which, in my sensible and acute father, argued very deep cogitation on some subject or other.
“Good-night,” said John, twice over, before his master heard him.
“Eh? — Oh, good-night, good-night, lad! Stay! Halifax, what hast thee got to do tomorrow?”
“Not much, unless the Russian hides should come in; I cleared off the week’s accounts last night, as usual.”
“Ay, tomorrow I shall look over all thy books and see how thee stand’st, and what further work thou art fit for. Therefore, take a day’s holiday, if thee likes.”
We thanked him warmly. “There, John,” whispered I, “you may have your wish, and run wild tomorrow.”
He said, “the wish had gone out of him.” So we planned a sweet lazy day under the Midsummer sky, in some fields about a mile off, called the Vineyards.
The morning came, and we took our way thither, under the Abbey walls, and along a lane, shaded on one side by the “willows in the water-courses.” We came out in those quiet hay-fields, which, tradition says, had once grown wine for the rosy monks close by, and history avers, were afterwards watered by a darker stream than the blood of grapes. The Vineyards had been a battle-field; and under the long wavy grass, and the roots of the wild apple trees, slept many a Yorkist and Lancastrian. Sometimes an unusually deep furrow turned out a white bone — but more often the relics were undisturbed, and the meadows used as pastures or hay-fields.
John and I lay down on some wind-rows, and sunned ourselves in the warm and delicious air. How beautiful everything was! so very still! with the Abbey-tower — always the most picturesque point in our Norton Bury views — showing so near, that it almost seemed to rise up out of the fields and hedge-rows.
“Well, David,” and I turned to the long, lazy figure beside me, which had considerably flattened the hay, “are you satisfied?”
“Ay.”
Thus we lounged out all the summer morning, recurring to a few of the infinitude of subjects we used to compare notes upon; though we were neither of us given to wordiness, and never talked but when we had something to say. Often — as on this day — we sat for hours in a pleasant dreaminess, scarcely exchanging a word; nevertheless, I could generally track John’s thoughts, as they went wandering on, ay, as clearly as one might track a stream through a wood; sometimes — like today — I failed.
In the afternoon, when we had finished our bread and cheese — eaten slowly and with graceful dignity, in order to make dinner a more important and lengthy affair — he said abruptly —
“Phineas, don’t you think this field is rather dull? Shall we go somewhere else? not if it tires you, though.”
I protested the contrary, my health being much above the average this summer. But just as we were quitting the field we met two rather odd-looking persons entering it, young-old persons they seemed, who might own to any age or any occupation. Their dress, especially that of the younger, amused us by its queer mixture of fashionableness and homeliness, such as grey ribbed stockings and shining paste shoe-buckles, rusty velvet small-clothes and a coatee of blue cloth. But the wearer carried off this anomalous costume with an easy, condescending air, full of pleasantness, humour, and grace.
“Sir,” said he, approaching John Halifax with a bow that I feel sure the “first gentleman of his day,” as loyal folk then entitled the Prince Regent, could not have surpassed —“Sir, will you favour me by informing us how far it is to Coltham?”
“Ten miles, and the stage will pass here in three hours.”
“Thank you; at present I have little to do with the — at least with THAT stage. Young gentlemen, excuse our continuing our dessert, in fact, I may say our dinner. Are you connoisseurs in turnips?”
He offered us — with a polite gesture — one of the “swedes” he was munching. I declined; but John, out of a deeper delicacy than I could boast, accepted it.
“One might dine worse,” he said; “I have done, sometimes.”
“It was a whim of mine, sir. But I am not the first remarkable person who has eaten turnips in your Norton Bury fields — ay, and turned field-preacher afterwards — the celebrated John Philip —”
Here the elder and less agreeable of the two wayfarers interposed with a nudge, indicating silence.
“My companion is right, sir,” he continued. “I will not betray our illustrious friend by mentioning his surname; he is a great man now, and might not wish it generally known that he had dined off turnips. May I give you instead my own humble name?”
He gave it me; but I, Phineas Fletcher, shall copy his reticence, and not indulge the world therewith. It was a name wholly out of my sphere, both then and now; but I know it has since risen into note among the people of the world. I believe, too, its owner has carried up to the topmost height of celebrity