He said nothing;merely opened the door,admitted us,and closed it behind us.But we were certain,from his face,that he knew all.It was so;some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains to tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son--at the very last place a Friend's son ought to be seen--the play-house.We knew that it was by no means to learn the truth,but to confront us with it,that my father--reaching the parlour,and opening the shutters that the hard daylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question--"Phineas,where hast thee been?"
John answered for me."At the theatre at Coltham.It was my fault.
He went because I wished to go."
"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?"
"Wherefore?"the answer seemed hard to find."Oh!Mr Fletcher,were you never young like me?"My father made no reply;John gathered courage.
"It was,as I say,all my fault.It might have been wrong--I think now that it was--but the temptation was hard.My life here is dull;I long sometimes for a little amusement--a little change.""Thee shall have it."
That voice,slow and quiet as it was,struck us both dumb.
"And how long hast thee planned this,John Halifax?""Not a day--not an hour!it was a sudden freak of mine."(My father shook his head with contemptuous incredulity.)"Sir!--Abel Fletcher--did I ever tell you a lie?If you will not believe me,believe your own son.Ask Phineas--No,no,ask him nothing!"And he came in great distress to the sofa where I had fallen."Oh,Phineas!how cruel I have been to you!"I tried to smile at him,being past speaking--but my father put John aside.
"Young man,_I_can take care of my son.Thee shalt not lead him into harm's way any more.Go--I have been mistaken in thee!"If my father had gone into a passion,had accused us,reproached us,and stormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the world use!but that quiet,cold,irrevocable,"I have been mistaken in thee!"was ten times worse.
John lifted to him a mute look,from which all pride had ebbed away.
"I repeat,I have been mistaken in thee!Thee seemed a lad to my mind;I trusted thee.This day,by my son's wish,I meant to have bound thee 'prentice to me,and in good time to have taken thee into the business.Now--"There was silence.At last John muttered,in a low broken-hearted voice,"I deserve it all.I can go away.I might perhaps earn my living elsewhere;shall I?"Abel Fletcher hesitated,looked at the poor lad before him (oh,David!how unlike to thee),then said,"No--I do not wish that.At least,not at present."I cried out in the joy and relief of my heart.John came over to me,and we clasped hands.
"John,you will not go?"
"No,I will stay to redeem my character with your father.Be content,Phineas--I won't part with you.""Young man,thou must,"said my father,turning round.
"But--"
"I have said it,Phineas.I accuse him of no dishonesty,no crime,but of weakly yielding,and selfishly causing another to yield,to the temptation of the world.Therefore,as my clerk I retain him;as my son's companion--never!"We felt that "never"was irrevocable.
Yet I tried,blindly and despairingly,to wrestle with it;I might as well have flung myself against a stone wall.
John stood perfectly silent.
"Don't,Phineas,"he whispered at last;"never mind me.Your father is right--at least so far as he sees.Let me go--perhaps I may come back to you some time.If not--"I moaned out bitter words--I hardly knew what I was saying.My father took no notice of them,only went to the door and called Jael.
Then,before the woman came,I had strength enough to bid John go.
"Good-bye--don't forget me,don't!"
"I will not,"he said;"and if I live we shall be friends again.
Good-bye,Phineas."He was gone.
After that day,though he kept his word,and remained in the tan-yard,and though from time to time I heard of him--always accidentally,--after that day for two long years I never once saw the face of John Halifax.