Essential Novelists - Dinah Craik. August Nemo

yes, something always does; I’m not afraid!” He tossed back his curls, and looked smiling out through the window at the blue sky; that steady, brave, honest smile, which will meet Fate in every turn, and fairly coax the jade into good humour.

      “John, do you know you’re uncommonly like a childish hero of mine — Dick Whittington? Did you ever hear of him?”

      “No.”

      “Come into the garden then”— for I caught another ominous vision of Jael in the doorway, and I did not want to vex my good old nurse; besides, unlike John, I was anything but brave. “You’ll hear the Abbey bells chime presently — not unlike Bow bells, I used to fancy sometimes; and we’ll lie on the grass, and I’ll tell you the whole true and particular story of Sir Richard Whittington.”

      I lifted myself, and began looking for my crutches. John found and put them into my hand, with a grave, pitiful look.

      “You don’t need those sort of things,” I said, making pretence to laugh, for I had not grown used to them, and felt often ashamed.

      “I hope you will not need them always.”

      “Perhaps not — Dr. Jessop isn’t sure. But it doesn’t matter much; most likely I shan’t live long.” For this was, God forgive me, always the last and greatest comfort I had.

      John looked at me — surprised, troubled, compassionate — but he did not say a word. I hobbled past him; he following through the long passage to the garden door. There I paused — tired out. John Halifax took gentle hold of my shoulder.

      “I think, if you did not mind, I’m sure I could carry you. I carried a meal-sack once, weighing eight stone.”

      I burst out laughing, which maybe was what he wanted, and forthwith consented to assume the place of the meal-sack. He took me on his back — what a strong fellow he was! — and fairly trotted with me down the garden walk. We were both very merry; and though I was his senior I seemed with him, out of my great weakness and infirmity, to feel almost like a child.

      “Please to take me to that clematis arbour; it looks over the Avon. Now, how do you like our garden?”

      “It’s a nice place.”

      He did not go into ecstasies, as I had half expected; but gazed about him observantly, while a quiet, intense satisfaction grew and diffused itself over his whole countenance.

      “It’s a VERY nice place.”

      Certainly it was. A large square, chiefly grass, level as a bowling-green, with borders round. Beyond, divided by a low hedge, was the kitchen and fruit garden — my father’s pride, as this old-fashioned pleasaunce was mine. When, years ago, I was too weak to walk, I knew, by crawling, every inch of the soft, green, mossy, daisy-patterned carpet, bounded by its broad gravel walk; and above that, apparently shut in as with an impassable barrier from the outer world, by a three-sided fence, the high wall, the yew-hedge, and the river.

      John Halifax’s comprehensive gaze seemed to take in all.

      “Have you lived here long?” he asked me.

      “Ever since I was born.”

      “Ah! — well, it’s a nice place,” he repeated, somewhat sadly. “This grass plot is very even — thirty yards square, I should guess. I’d get up and pace it; only I’m rather tired.”

      “Are you? Yet you would carry —”

      “Oh — that’s nothing. I’ve often walked farther than today. But still it’s a good step across the country since morning.”

      “How far have you come?”

      “From the foot of those hills — I forget what they call them — over there. I have seen bigger ones — but they’re steep enough — bleak and cold, too, especially when one is lying out among the sheep. At a distance they look pleasant. This is a very pretty view.”

      Ay, so I had always thought it; more so than ever now, when I had some one to say to how “very pretty” it was. Let me describe it — this first landscape, the sole picture of my boyish days, and vivid as all such pictures are.

      At the end of the arbour the wall which enclosed us on the riverward side was cut down — my father had done it at my asking — so as to make a seat, something after the fashion of Queen Mary’s seat at Stirling, of which I had read. Thence, one could see a goodly sweep of country. First, close below, flowed the Avon — Shakspeare’s Avon — here a narrow, sluggish stream, but capable, as we at Norton Bury sometimes knew to our cost, of being roused into fierceness and foam. Now it slipped on quietly enough, contenting itself with turning a flour-mill hard by, the lazy whirr of which made a sleepy, incessant monotone which I was fond of hearing.

      From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, called the Ham — dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond it was a second river, forming an arch of a circle round the verdant flat. But the stream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; you could only trace the line of its course by the small white sails that glided in and out, oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees, and across meadow lands.

      They attracted John’s attention. “Those can’t be boats, surely. Is there water there?”

      “To be sure, or you would not see the sails. It is the Severn; though at this distance you can’t perceive it; yet it is deep enough too, as you may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly believe so, to look at it here — but I believe it gets broader and broader, and turns out a noble river by the time it reaches the King’s Roads, and forms the Bristol Channel.”

      “I’ve seen that!” cried John, with a bright look. “Ah, I like the Severn.”

      He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in his eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought grow, and grow, till out of them was shining a beauty absolutely divine.

      All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the lad start.

      “What’s that?”

      “Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London,” I sang to the bells; and then it seemed such a commonplace history, and such a very low degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten to tell John the story. I merely showed him where, beyond our garden wall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the grim old Abbey tower.

      “Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient time — our orchard is so fine. The monks may have planted it; they liked fruit, those old fellows.”

      “Oh! did they!” He evidently did not quite comprehend, but was trying, without asking, to find out what I referred to. I was almost ashamed, lest he might think I wanted to show off my superior knowledge.

      “The monks were parsons, John, you know. Very good men, I dare say, but rather idle.”

      “Oh, indeed. Do you think they planted that yew hedge?” And he went to examine it.

      Now, far and near, our yew-hedge was noted. There was not its like in the whole country. It was about fifteen feet high, and as many thick. Century after century of growth, with careful clipping and training, had compacted it into a massive green barrier, as close and impervious as a wall.

      John poked in and about it — peering through every interstice — leaning his breast against the solid depth of branches; but their close shield resisted all his strength.

      At last he came back to me, his face glowing with the vain efforts he had made.

      “What were you about? Did you want to get through?”

      “I wanted just to see if it were possible.”

      I shook my head. “What would you do, John, if you were shut up here, and had to get over the yew-hedge? You could not climb it?”

      “I