CHAPTER I.

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MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES

BY MRS. HENRY WOOD

AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC.

_TWO HUNDRED AND TENTH THOUSAND_

London

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1904

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,

DUKE STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E., AND GREAT WINDMILL STREET. W.

MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES.

CHAPTER I.

THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER.

In a very populous district of London, somewhat north of Temple Bar,

there stood, many years ago, a low, ancient church amidst other

churches--for you know that London abounds in them. The doors of this

church were partially open one dark evening in December, and a faint,

glimmering light might be observed inside by the passers-by.

It was known well enough what was going on within, and why the light was

there. The rector was giving away the weekly bread. Years ago a

benevolent person had left a certain sum to be spent in twenty weekly

loaves, to be given to twenty poor widows at the discretion of the

minister. Certain curious provisos were attached to the bequest. One was

that the bread should not be less than two days old, and should have

been deposited in the church at least twenty-four hours before

distribution. Another, that each recipient must attend in person.

Failing personal attendance, no matter how unavoidable her absence, she

lost the loaf: no friend might receive it for her, neither might it be

sent to her. In that case, the minister was enjoined to bestow it upon

"any stranger widow who might present herself, even as should seem

expedient to him:" the word "stranger" being, of course, used in

contra-distinction to the twenty poor widows who were on the books as

the charity's recipients. Four times a year, one shilling to each widow

was added to the loaf of bread.

A loaf of bread is not very much. To us, sheltered in our abundant

homes, it seems as nothing. But, to many a one, toiling and starving in

this same city of London, a loaf may be almost the turning-point between

death and life. The poor existed in those days as they exist in these:

as they always will exist: therefore it was no matter of surprise that a

crowd of widow women, most of them aged, all in poverty, should gather

round the church doors when the bread was being given out, each hoping

that, of the twenty poor widows, some one might fail to appear, and the

clerk would come to the door and call out her own particular name as the

fortunate substitute. On the days when the shilling was added to the

loaf, this waiting and hoping crowd would be increased four-fold.

Thursday was the afternoon for the distribution. And on the day we are

now writing about, the rector entered the church at the usual hour: four

o'clock. He had to make his way through an unusual number of outsiders;

for this was one of the shilling days. He knew them all personally; was

familiar with their names and homes; for the Rev. Francis Tait was a

hard-working clergyman. And hard-working clergymen were more rare in

those days than they are in these.

Of Scottish birth, but chiefly reared in England, he had taken orders at

the usual age, and become curate in a London parish, where the work was

heavy and the stipend small. Not that the duties attached to the church

itself were onerous; but it was a parish filled with poor. Those

familiar with such parishes know what this means, when the minister is

sympathising and conscientious. For twenty years he remained a curate,

toiling in patience, cheerfully hoping. Twenty years! It seems little to

write; but to live it is a great deal; and Francis Tait, in spite of his

hopefulness, sometimes found it so. Then promotion came. The living of

this little church that you now see open was bestowed upon him. A poor

living as compared with some others; and a poor parish, speaking of the

social condition of its inhabitants. But the living seemed wealth

compared with what he had earned as a curate; and as to his flock being

chiefly composed of the poor, he had not been accustomed to anything

else. Then the Rev. Francis Tait married; and another twenty years went

by.

He stood in the church this evening; the loaves resting on the shelf

overhead, against the door of the vestry, all near the entrance. A

flaring tallow candle stood on the small table between him and the

widows who clustered opposite. He was sixty-five years old now; a spare

man of middle height, with a clear, pale skin, an intelligent

countenance, and a thoughtful, fine grey eye. He had a pleasant word, a

kind inquiry for all, as he put the shilling into their hands; the lame

old clerk at the same time handing over the loaf of bread.

"Are you all here to-night?" he asked, as the distribution went on.

"No, sir," was the answer from several who spoke at once. "Betty King's

away."

"What is the matter with her?"

"The rheumaticks have laid hold on her, sir. She couldn't get here

nohow. She's in her bed."

"I must go and see her," said he. "What, are you here again, Martha?" he

continued, as a little deformed woman stepped from behind the rest,

where she had been hidden. "I am glad to see you."

"Six blessed weeks this day, and I've not been able to come!" exclaimed

the woman. "But I'm restored wonderful."

The distribution was approaching its close, when the rector spoke to his

clerk. "Call in Eliza Turner."

The clerk placed on the table the four or five remaining loaves, that

each woman might help herself during his absence, and went out to the

door.

"'Liza Turner, his reverence has called for you."

A sigh of delight from Eliza Turner, and a groan of disappointment from

those surrounding her, greeted the clerk in answer. He took no

notice--he often heard it--but turned and limped into the church again.

Eliza Turner followed; and another woman slipped in after Eliza Turner.

"Now, Widow Booth," cried the clerk, sharply, perceiving the intrusion,

"what business have you here? You know it's again the rules."

"I must see his reverence," murmured the woman, pressing on--a meek,

half-starved woman; and she pushed her way into the vestry, and told her

pitiful tale.

"I'm worse off than Widow Turner," she moaned piteously, not in tones of

complaint, but of entreaty. "She has a daughter in service as helps her;

but me, I've my poor unfortunate daughter lying in my place weak with

fever, sick with hunger! Oh, sir, couldn't you give the bounty this time

to me? I've not had a bit or drop in my mouth since morning; and then it

was but a taste o' bread and a drain o' tea, that a neighbour give me

out o' charity."

It was absolutely necessary to discountenance these personal

applications. The rector's rule was, never to give the spare bounty to

those who applied for it: otherwise the distribution might have become a

weekly scene of squabbling and confusion. He handed the shilling and

bread to Eliza Turner; and when she had followed the other women out, he

turned to the Widow Booth, who was sobbing against the wall; speaking

kindly to her.

"You should not have come in, Mrs. Booth. You know that I do not allow

it."

"But I'm starving, sir," was the answer. "I thought maybe as you'd

divide it between me and Widow Turner. Sixpence for her, sixpence for

me, and the loaf halved."

"I have no power to divide the gifts: to do so would be against the

terms of the bequest. How is it you are so badly off this week? Has your

work failed?"

"I couldn't do it, sir, with my sick one to attend to. And I've a

gathering come on my thimble finger, and that has hindered me. I took

ninepence the day before yesterday, sir, but last night it was every

farthing of it gone."

"I will come round and see you by-and-by," said the clergyman.

She lifted her eyes yearningly. "Oh, sir! if you could but give me

something for a morsel of bread now! I'd be grateful for a penny loaf."

"Mrs. Booth, you know that to give here would be altogether against my

rule," he replied with unmistakable firmness. "Neither am I pleased when

any of you attempt to ask it. Go home quietly: I have said that I will

come to you by-and-by."

The woman thanked him and went out. Had anything been needed to prove

the necessity of the rule, it would have been the eagerness with which

the crowd of women gathered round her. Not one of them had gone away.

"Had she got anything?" To reply that she _had_ something, would have

sent the whole crowd flocking in to beg in turn of the rector.

Widow Booth shook her head. "No, no. I knowed it before. He never will.

He says he'll come round."

They dispersed; some in one direction, some in another. The rector blew

out the candle, and he and the clerk came forth; and the church was

closed for the distribution of bread until that day week. Mr. Tait took

the keys himself to carry them home: they were kept at his house.

Formerly the clerk had carried them there; but since he had become old

and lame, Mr. Tait would not give him the trouble.

It was a fine night overhead, but the streets were sloppy; and the

clergyman put his foot unavoidably in many a puddle. The streets through

which his road lay were imperfectly lighted. The residence apportioned

to the rector of this parish was adjoining a well-known square,

fashionable in that day. It was a very good house, with a handsome

outward appearance. If you judged by it, you would have said the living

must be worth five hundred a year at least. It was not worth anything

like that; and the parish treated their pastor liberally in according

him so good a residence. A quarter of an hour's walk from the church

brought Mr. Tait to it.

Until recently, a gentleman had shared this house with Mr. Tait and his

family. The curate of a neighbouring parish, the Rev. John Acton, had

been glad to live with them as a friend, admitted to their society and

their table. It was a little help: and but for that, Mr. and Mrs. Tait

would scarcely have thought themselves justified in keeping two

servants, for the educational expenses of their children ran away with a

large portion of their income. But Mr. Acton had now been removed to a

distance, and they hoped to receive some one or other in his place.

On this evening, as Mr. Tait was picking his way through the puddles,

the usual sitting-room of his house presented a cheerful appearance,

ready to receive him. It was on the ground floor, looking upon the

street, large and lofty, and bright with firelight. Two candles, not yet

lighted, stood on the table behind the tea-tray, but the glow of the

fire was sufficient for all the work that was being done in the room.

It was no work at all: but play. A young lady was quietly whirling round

the room with a dancing step--quietly, because her feet and movements

were gentle; and the tune she was humming, and to which she kept time,

was carolled in an undertone. She was moving thus in the happy innocence

of heart and youth. A graceful girl of middle height; one whom it

gladdened the eye to look upon. Not for her beauty, for she had no very

great beauty to boast of; but it was one of those countenances that win

their own way to favour. A fair, gentle face, openly candid, with the

same earnest, honest grey eye that so pleased you in Francis Tait, and

brown hair. She was that gentleman's eldest child, and looked about

eighteen. In reality she was a year older, but her face and dress were

both youthful. She wore a violet silk frock, made with a low body and

short sleeves: girls did not keep their pretty necks and arms covered up

then. By daylight the dress would have appeared old, but it looked very

well by candle-light.

The sound of the latch-key in the front door brought her dancing to an

end. She knew who it was--no inmate of that house possessed a latch-key

except its master--and she turned to the fire to light the candles.

Mr. Tait came into the room, removing neither overcoat nor hat. "Have

you made tea, Jane?"

"No, papa; it has only just struck five."

"Then I think I'll go out again first. I have to call on one or two of

the women, and it will be all one wetting. My feet are soaked

already"--looking down at his buckled shoes and black gaiters. "You can

get my slippers warmed, Jane. But"--the thought apparently striking

him--"would your mamma care to wait?"

"Mamma had a cup of tea half an hour ago," replied Jane. "She said it

might do her good; if she could get some sleep after it, she might be

able to come down for a little before bedtime. The tea can be made

whenever you like, papa. There's only Francis at home, and he and I

could wait until ten, if you pleased."

"I'll go at once, then. Not until ten, Miss Jane, but until six, or

about that time. Betty King is ill, but does not live far off. And I

must step in to the Widow Booth's."

"Papa," cried Jane as he was turning away, "I forgot to tell you.

Francis says he thinks he knows of a gentleman who would like to come

here in Mr. Acton's place."

"Ah! who is it?" asked the rector.

"One of the masters at the school. Here's Francis coming down. He only

went up to wash his hands."

"It is our new mathematical master, sir," cried Francis Tait, a youth of

eighteen, who was being brought up to the Church. "I overheard him ask

Dr. Percy if he could recommend him to a comfortable house where he

might board, and make one of the family: so I told him perhaps you might

receive him here. He said he'd come down and see you."

Mr. Tait paused. "Would he be a desirable inmate, think you, Francis? Is

he a gentleman?"

"Quite a gentleman, I am sure," replied Francis. "And we all like what

little we have seen of him. His name's Halliburton."

"Is he in Orders?"

"No. He intends to be, I think."

"Well, of course I can say nothing about it, one way or the other,"

concluded Mr. Tait, as he went out.

Jane stood before the fire in thought, her fingers unconsciously

smoothing the parting of the glossy brown hair on her well-shaped head

as she looked at it in the pier-glass. To say that she never did such a

thing in vanity would be wrong; no pretty girl ever lived but was

conscious of her good looks. Jane, however, was neither thinking of

herself nor of vanity just then. She took a very practical part in home

duties: with her mother, a practical part amidst her father's poor: and

at this moment her thoughts were running on the additional work it might

bring her, should this gentleman come to reside with them.

"What did you say his name was, Francis?" she suddenly asked of her

brother.

"Whose?"

"That gentleman's. The new master at your school."

"Halliburton. I don't know his Christian name."

"I wonder," mused Jane aloud, "whether he will wear out his stockings as

Mr. Acton did? There was always a dreadful amount of darning to be done

to his. Is he an old guy, Francis?"

"Isn't he!" responded Francis Tait. "Don't faint when you see some one

come in old and fat, with green rims to his spectacles. I don't say he's

_quite_ old enough to be papa's father, but----"

"Why! he must be eighty then, at least!" uttered Jane, in dismay. "How

could you propose it to him? We should not care to have any one older

than Mr. Acton."

"Acton! that young chicken!" contemptuously rejoined Francis. "Put him

by the side of Mr. Halliburton! Acton was barely fifty."

"He was forty-eight, I think," said Jane. "Oh, dear! how I should like

to have gone with Margaret and Robert this evening!" she exclaimed,

forgetting the passing topic in another.

"They were not polite enough to invite me," said Francis. "I shall pay

the old lady out."

Jane laughed. "You are growing too old now, Francis, to be admitted to a

young ladies' breaking-up party. Mrs. Chilham said so to mamma----"

Jane's words were interrupted by a knock at the front door, apparently

that of a visitor. "Jane!" cried her brother, in some trepidation, "I

should not wonder if it's Mr. Halliburton! He did not say when he should

come!"

Another minute, and one of the servants ushered a gentleman into the

room. It was not an old guy, however, as Jane saw at a glance with a

distinct feeling of relief. A tall, gentlemanlike man of five or six and

twenty, with thin aquiline features, dark eyes, and a clear, fresh

complexion. A handsome man, very prepossessing.

"You see I have soon availed myself of your permission to call," said

he, in pleasant tones, as he took Francis Tait's hand, and glanced

towards Jane with a slight bow.

"My sister Jane, sir," said Francis. "Jane, this is Mr. Halliburton."

Jane for once lost her self-possession. So surprised was she--in fact

perplexed, for she did not know whether Francis was playing a trick upon

her now, or whether he had previously played it; in short, whether this

was, or was not, Mr. Halliburton--that she could only look from one to

the other. "Are you Mr. Halliburton?" she said, in her straightforward

simplicity.

"I am Mr. Halliburton," he answered, bending to her politely. "Can I

have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Tait?"

"Will you take a seat?" said Jane. "Papa is out, but I do not think he

will be very long."

"Where did he go to--do you know, Jane?" cried Francis, who was

smothering a laugh.

"To Betty King's; and to Widow Booth's. He may have been going elsewhere

also. I think he was."

"At any rate, I'll just run there and see. Jane, you can tell Mr.

Halliburton all about it whilst I am away. Explain to him exactly how he

will be here, and how we live. And then you can decide for yourself,

sir," concluded Francis.

To splash through the wet streets to Betty King's or elsewhere was an

expedition rather agreeable to Francis, in his eagerness; otherwise

there was no particular necessity for his going.

"I am sorry mamma is not up," said Jane. "She suffers from occasional

sick-headaches, and they generally keep her in bed for the day. I will

give you any information in my power."

"Your brother Francis thought--that it might not be disagreeable to Mr.

Tait to receive a stranger into his family," said Mr. Halliburton,

speaking with some hesitation. But the young lady before him looked so

lady-like, the house altogether seemed so well appointed, that he almost

doubted whether the proposal would not offend her.

"We wish to receive some one," said Jane. "The house is sufficiently

large to do so, and papa would like it for the sake of society: as well

as that it would help in our housekeeping," she added, in her candour.

"A friend of papa's was with us--I cannot remember precisely how many

years, but he came when I was a little girl. It was the Rev. Mr. Acton.

He left us last October."

"I feel sure that I should like it very much: and I should think myself

fortunate if Mr. Tait would admit me," spoke the visitor.

Jane remembered the suggestion of Francis, and deemed it her duty to

speak a little to Mr. Halliburton of "how he would be there," as it had

been expressed. She might have done so without the suggestion, for she

could not be otherwise than straightforward and open.

"We live very plainly," she observed. "A simple joint of meat one day;

cold, with a pudding, the next."

"I should consider myself fortunate to get the pudding," replied Mr.

Halliburton, smiling. "I have been tossed about a good deal of late

years, Miss Tait, and have not come in for too much comfort. Just now I

am in very uncomfortable lodgings."

"I dare say papa would like to have you," said Jane, frankly, with a

sort of relief. She had thought he looked one who might be fastidious.

"I have neither father nor mother, brother nor sister," he resumed. "In

fact, I may say that I am without relatives; for almost the only one I

have has discarded me. I often think how rich those people must be who

possess close connections and a happy home," he added, turning his

bright glance upon her.

Jane dropped her work, which she had taken up. "I don't know what I

should do without all my dear relatives," she exclaimed.

"Are you a large family?"

"We are six. Papa and mamma, and four children. I am the eldest, and

Margaret is the youngest; Francis and Robert are between us. It is

breaking-up night at Margaret's school, and she has gone to it with

Robert," continued Jane, never doubting but the stranger must take as

much interest in "breaking-up nights" as she did. "I was to have gone;

but mamma has been unusually ill to-day."

"Were you disappointed?"

Jane bent her head while she confessed the fact, as though feeling it a

confession to be ashamed of. "It would not have been kind to leave

mamma," she added, "and I dare say some other pleasure will arise soon.

Mamma is asleep now."

"What a charming girl!" thought Mr. Halliburton to himself. "How I wish

she was my sister!"

"Margaret is to be a governess," observed Jane, "and is being educated

for it. She has great talent for music, and also for drawing; it is not

often the two are united. Her tastes lie quite that way--anything

clever; and as papa has no money to give us, it was well to make her a

governess."

"And you?" said Mr. Halliburton. The question might have been thought an

impertinent one by many, but he spoke it only in his deep interest, and

Jane Tait was of too ingenuous a disposition not to answer it as openly.

"I am not to be a governess. I am to stay at home with mamma and help

her. There is plenty to do. Margaret cannot bear domestic duties, or

sewing either. Dancing excepted, I have not learnt a single

accomplishment--unless you call French an accomplishment."

"I am sure you have been well educated!" involuntarily spoke Mr.

Halliburton.

"Yes; in all things solid," replied Jane. "Papa has taken care of that.

He still directs my reading. I know a good bit--of--Latin"--she added,

bringing out the concluding words with hesitation, as one who repents

his sentence--"though I do not like to confess it to you."

"Why do you not?"

"Because I think girls who know Latin are laughed at. I did not

regularly learn it, but I used to be in the room when papa or Mr. Acton

was teaching Francis and Robert, and I picked it up unconsciously. Mr.

Acton often took Francis; he had more time on his hands than papa.

Francis is to be a clergyman."

"Miss Jane," said a servant, entering the room, "Mrs. Tait is awake, and

wishes to see you."

Jane left Mr. Halliburton with a word of apology, and almost immediately

after Mr. Tait came in. He was a little taken to when he saw the

stranger. His imagination had run, if not upon an "old guy" in

spectacles, certainly upon some steady, sober, middle-aged mathematical

master. Would it be well to admit this young, good-looking man to his

house.

If Jane Tait had been candid in her revelations to Mr. Halliburton, that

gentleman, in his turn, was not less candid to her father. He, Edgar

Halliburton, was the only child of a country clergyman, the Rev. William

Halliburton, who had died when Edgar was sixteen, leaving nothing behind

him. Edgar--he had previously lost his mother--found a home with his

late mother's brother, a gentleman named Cooper, who resided in

Birmingham. Mr. Cooper was a man in extensive wholesale business, and

wished Edgar to go into his counting-house. Edgar declined. His father

had lived long enough to form his tastes: his greatest wish had been to

see him enter the Church; and the wish had become Edgar's own. Mr.

Cooper thought there was nothing in the world like business: and looked

upon that most sacred of all callings, God's ministry, only in the light

of a profession. He had carved out his own career, step by step,

attaining wealth and importance, and wished his nephew to do the same.

"Which is best, lad?" he coarsely asked: "To rule as a merchant prince,

or starve and toil as a curate? I'm not quite a merchant prince yet, but

you may be." "It was my father's wish," pleaded Edgar in answer, "and it

is my own. I cannot give it up, sir." The dispute ran high--not in

words, but in obstinacy. Edgar would not yield, and at length Mr. Cooper

discarded him. He turned him out of doors: told him that, if he must

become a parson, he might get some one else to pay his expenses at

Oxford, for he never would. Edgar Halliburton proceeded to London, and

obtained employment as an usher in a school, teaching classics and

mathematics. From that he became a private teacher, and had so earned

his living up to the present time: but he had never succeeded in getting

to college. And Mr. Tait, before they had talked together five minutes,

was charmed with his visitor, and invited him to take tea with him,

which Jane came down to make.

"Has your uncle never softened towards you?" Mr. Tait inquired.

"Never. I have addressed several letters to him, but they have been

returned to me."

"He has no family, you say. You ought--in justice, you ought to inherit

some of his wealth. Has he other relatives?"

"He has one standing to him in the same relationship as I--my Cousin

Julia. It is not likely that I shall ever inherit a shilling of it, sir.

I do not expect it."

"Right," said Mr. Tait, nodding his head approvingly. "There's no work

so thriftless as that of waiting for legacies. Wearying, too. I was a

poor curate, Mr. Halliburton, for twenty years--indeed, so far as being

poor goes, I am not much else now--but let that pass. I had a relative

who possessed money, and who had neither kith nor kin nearer to her than

I was. For the best part of those twenty years I was giving covert

hopes to that money; and when she died, and NOTHING was left to me, I

found out how foolish and wasteful my hopes had been. I tell my children

to trust to their own honest exertions, but never to trust to other

people's money. Allow me to urge the same upon you."

Mr. Halliburton's lips and eyes alike smiled, as he looked gratefully at

the rector, a man so much older than himself. "I never think of it," he

earnestly said. "It appears, for me, to be as thoroughly lost as though

it did not exist. I should not have mentioned it, sir, but that I

consider it right you should know all particulars respecting me; if, as

I hope, you will admit me to your home."

"I think we should get on very well together," frankly acknowledged Mr.

Tait, forgetting the prudent ideas which had crossed his mind.

"I am sure we should, sir," warmly replied Edgar Halliburton. And the

bargain was made.

CHAPTER II.

THE SHADOW BECOMES SUBSTANCE.

And yet it had perhaps been well that those prudent ideas had been

allowed to obtain weight. Mr. Halliburton took up his abode with the

Taits; and, the more they saw of him, the more they liked him. In which

liking Jane must be included.

It was a possible shadow of the future, the effects the step would bring

forth, which had whispered determent to Mr. Tait: a very brief shadow,

which had crossed his mind imperfectly, and flitted away again. Where

two young and attractive beings are thrown into daily companionship, the

result too frequently is that a mutual regard arises, stronger than any

other regard can ever be in this world. This result arrived here.

A twelvemonth passed over from the time of Mr. Halliburton's

entrance--how swiftly for him and for Jane Tait they alone could tell.

Not a word had been spoken to her by Mr. Halliburton that he might not

have spoken to her mother or her sister Margaret; not a look on Jane's

part had been given by which he could infer that he was more to her than

the rest of the world. And yet both were inwardly conscious of the

feelings of the other; and when the twelvemonth had gone by it had

seemed to them but a span, for the love they bore each other.

One evening in December Jane stood in the dining-room waiting to make

tea just as she had so waited that former evening. For any outward

signs, you might have thought that not a single hour had elapsed since

their first introduction--that it was the same evening as of old. It was

sloppy outside, it was bright within. The candles stood on the table

unlighted, the fire blazed, the tea-tray was placed, and only Jane was

there. Mrs. Tait was upstairs with one of her frequent sick-headaches,

Margaret was with her, and the others had not come in.

Jane stood in a reverie--her elbow resting on the mantel-piece, and the

blaze from the fire flickering on her gentle face. She was fond of these

few minutes of idleness on a winter's evening, between the twilight hour

and lighting the candles.

The clock in the kitchen struck five. It did not arouse her: she heard

it in a mechanical sort of manner, without taking note of it. Scarcely

had the sound of the last stroke died away when there was a knock at the

front door.

That aroused her--for she knew it. She knew the footsteps that came in

when it was answered, and a rich damask arose to her cheeks, and the

pulses of her heart went on a little quicker than they had been going

before.

She took her elbow from the mantel-piece, and sat down quietly on a

chair. No need to look who entered. Some one, taller by far than any in

that house, came up to the fire, and bent to warm his hands over the

blaze.

"It is a cold night, Jane. We shall have a severe frost."

"Yes," she answered; "the water in the barrel is already freezing over."

"How is your mamma now?"

"Better, thank you. Margaret has gone up to help her to dress. She is

coming down to tea."

Mr. Halliburton remained silent a minute, and then turned to Jane, his

face glowing with satisfaction. "I have had a piece of preferment

offered me to-day."

"Have you?" she eagerly said. "What is it?"

"Dr. Percy proposes that, from January, I shall take the Greek classes

as well as the mathematics, and he doubles my salary. Of course I shall

have to give closer attendance, but I can readily do that. My time is

not fully employed."

"I am very glad," said Jane.

"So am I," he answered. "Taking all my sources of income together, I

shall now be earning two hundred and eighty-three pounds a year."

Jane laughed. "Have you been reckoning it up?"

"Ay; I had a motive in doing so."

His tone was peculiar, and it caused her to look at him, but her eyelids

drooped under his gaze. He drew nearer, and laid his hand gently on her

shoulder, bending down before her to speak.

"Jane, you have not mistaken me. I feel that you have read what has been

in my heart, what have been my intentions, as surely as though I had

spoken. It is not a great income, but it is sufficient, if you can

think it so. May I speak to Mr. Tait?"

What Jane would have contrived to answer she never knew, but at that

moment her mother's step was heard approaching. All she did was to

glance shyly up at Mr. Halliburton, and he bent his head lower and

kissed her. Then he walked rapidly to the door and opened it for Mrs.

Tait--a pale, refined, delicate-looking lady, wrapped in a shawl. These

violent headaches, from which she so frequently suffered, did not affect

her permanent health, but on the days she suffered she would be utterly

prostrated. Mr. Halliburton gave her his arm, and led her to a seat by

the fire, his voice low and tender, his manner sympathizing. "I am

already better," she said to him, "and shall be much better after tea.

Sometimes I am tempted to envy those who do not know what a

sick-headache is."

"They may know other maladies as painful, dear Mrs. Tait."

"Ay, indeed. None of us can expect to be free from pain of one sort or

another in this world."

"Shall I make the tea, mamma?" asked Jane.

"Yes, dear; I shall be glad of it, and your papa is sure to be in soon.

There he is!" she added, as the latch-key was heard in the door. "The

boys are late this evening."

The rector came in, and, ere the evening was over, the news was broken

to him by Mr. Halliburton. He wanted Jane.

It was the imperfect, uncertain shadow of twelve months ago become

substance. It had been a shadow of the future only, you understand--not

a shadow of evil. To Mr. Halliburton, personally, the rector had no

objection--he had learned to love, esteem, and respect him--but it is a

serious thing to give away a child.

"The income is very small to marry upon," he observed. "It is also

uncertain."

"Not uncertain, sir, so long as I am blessed with health and strength.

And I have no reason to fear that these will fail."

"I thought you were bent on taking Orders."

Mr. Halliburton's cheek slightly flushed. "It is a prospect I have

fondly cherished," he said; "but its difficulties alarm me. The cost of

the University is great; and were I to wait until I had saved sufficient

money to go to college, I should be obliged, in a great degree, to give

up my present means of living. Who would employ a tutor who must

frequently be away for weeks? I should lose my connection, and perhaps

never regain it. A good teaching connection is more easily lost than

won."

"True," observed Mr. Tait.

"Once in Orders, I might remain for years a poor curate. I should most

likely do so. I have neither interest nor influence. Sir, in that case

Jane and I might be obliged to wait for years: perhaps go down to our

graves waiting."

The Rev. Francis Tait threw back his thoughts. How _he_ had waited; how

he was not able to marry until years were advancing upon him; how in

four years now he should have attained threescore years and ten--the

term allotted to the life of man--whilst his children were still growing

up around him! No! never, never would he counsel another to wait as he

had been obliged to wait.

"I have not yet given up hope of eventually entering the Church,"

continued Mr. Halliburton; "though it must be accomplished, if at all,

slowly and patiently. I think I may be able to keep one term, or perhaps

two terms yearly, without damage to my teaching. I shall try to do so;

try to find the necessary means and time. My marriage will make no

difference to that, sir."

Many might have suggested to Edgar Halliburton that he might keep his

terms first and marry afterwards. Mr. Tait did not: possibly the idea

did not occur to him. If it occurred to Edgar Halliburton himself, he

drove it from him. It would have delayed his marriage to an indefinite

number of years; and he loved Jane too well to do that willingly. "I

shall still get much better preferment in teaching than that which I now

hold," he urged aloud to the rector. "It is not so very small to begin

upon, sir, and Jane is willing to risk it."

"I will not part you and Jane," said Mr. Tait, warmly. "If you have made

up your minds to share life and its cares together, you shall do so.

Still, I cannot say that I think your prospects golden."

"Prospects that appear to have no gold at all in them sometimes turn out

very brightly, sir."

"I can give Jane nothing, you know."

"I have never cast a thought to it, sir; have never imagined she would

have a shilling," replied Mr. Halliburton, his face flushing with

eagerness. "It is Jane herself I want; not money."

"Beyond a twenty-pound note which I may give her to put into her purse

on her wedding morning, that she may not leave my house absolutely

penniless, she will have nothing," cried the rector, in his

straightforward manner. "Far from saving, I and her mother have been

hardly able to make both ends meet at the end of the year. I might have

saved a few pounds yearly, had I chosen to do so; but you know what this

parish is; and the reflection has always been upon me: how would my

Master look upon my putting by small sums of money, when many of those

over whom I am placed were literally starving for bread? I have given

what I could; but I have not saved for my children."

"You have done well, sir."

Mr. Tait sought his daughter. "Jane," he began--"Nay, child, do not

tremble so! There is no need for trembling, or for tears, either: you

have done nothing to displease me. Jane, I like Edgar Halliburton; I

like him much. There is no one to whom I would rather give you. But I do

not like his prospects. Teaching is very precarious."

Jane raised her timid eyes. "Precarious for _him_, papa? For one learned

and clever as he!"

"It is badly paid. See how he toils--and he will have to toil more when

the new year comes in--and only to earn two or three hundred a year!--in

round numbers."

Tears gathered in Jane's eyes. Toil as he did, badly paid as he might

be, she would rather have him than any other in the world, though that

other might have revelled in thousands. The rector read somewhat of this

in her downcast face.

"My dear, the consideration lies with you. If you choose to venture upon

it, you shall have my consent, and I know you will have your mother's,

for she thinks Edgar Halliburton has not his equal in the world. But it

may bring you many troubles."

"Papa, I am not afraid. If troubles come, they--you--told us only last

night----"

"What, child?"

"That troubles, regarded rightly, only lead us nearer to God," whispered

Jane, simply and timidly.

"Right, child. And trouble must come before that great truth can be

realized. Consider the question well, Jane--whether it may not be better

to wait--and give your answer to-morrow. I shall tell Mr. Halliburton

not to ask for it to-night. As you decide, so shall it be."

Need you be told what Jane's decision was? Two hundred and eighty-three

pounds a year seems a large sum to an inexperienced girl; quite

sufficient to purchase everything that might be wanted for a fireside.

And so she became Jane Halliburton.

CHAPTER III.

THE REV. FRANCIS TAIT.

A hot afternoon in July. Jane Halliburton was in the drawing-room with

her mother, both sewing busily. It was a large room, with three windows,

more pleasant than the dining-room beneath, and they were fond of

sitting in it in summer. Jane had been married some three or four months

now, but looked the same young, simple, placid girl that she ever did;

and, but for the wedding-ring upon her finger, no stranger would have

supposed her to be a wife.

An excellent arrangement had been arrived at--that she and her husband

should remain inmates of Mr. Tait's house; at any rate, for the

present. When plans were being discussed, before making the necessary

arrangements for the marriage, and Mr. Halliburton was spending all his

superfluous minutes hunting for a suitable house near to the old home,

and not too dear, Francis Tait had given utterance to a remark--"I

wonder who we shall get here in Mr. Halliburton's place, if papa takes

any one else?" and Margaret, looking up from her drawing, had added,

"Why can't Mr. Halliburton and Jane stay on with us? It would be so much

pleasanter."

It was the first time the idea had been presented in any shape to the

rector, and it seemed to go straight to his wishes. He put down a book

he was reading, and spoke impulsively. "It would be the best thing; the

very best thing! Would you like it, Halliburton?"

"I should, sir; very much. But it is Jane who must be consulted, not

me."

Jane, her pretty cheeks covered with blushes, looked up and said she

should like it also; she _had_ thought of it, but had not liked to

mention it, either to her mother or to Mr. Halliburton. "I have been

quite troubled to think what mamma and the house will do without me,"

she added, ingenuously.

"Let Jane alone for thinking and planning, when difficulties are in the

way," laughed Margaret. "My opinion is that we shall never get another

pudding, or papa have his black silk Sunday hose darned, if Jane goes

from us."

Mrs. Tait burst into tears. Like Margaret she was a bad manager, and had

mourned over Jane's departure, secretly believing she should be half

worried to death. "Oh! Jane, dear, say you'll remain!" she cried. "It

will be such a relief to me! Margaret's of no earthly use, and

everything will fall on my shoulders. Edgar, I hope you will remain with

us! It will be pleasant for all. You know the house is sufficiently

large."

And remain they did. The wedding took place at Easter, and Mr.

Halliburton took Jane all the way to Dover to see the sea--a long way in

those days--and kept her there for a week. And then they came back

again, Jane to her old home duties, just as though she were Jane Tait

still, and Mr. Halliburton to his teaching.

It was July now and hot weather; and Mrs. Tait and Jane were sewing in

the drawing-room. They were working for Margaret. Mr. Halliburton,

through some of his teaching connections, had obtained an excellent

situation for Margaret in a first-rate school. Margaret was to enter as

resident pupil, and receive every advantage towards the completion of

her own education; in return for which she was to teach the younger

pupils music, and pay ten pounds a year. Such an arrangement was almost

unknown then, though it has been common enough since, and Mr. and Mrs.

Tait thought of it very highly. Margaret Tait was only sixteen; but, as

if in contrast to Jane, who looked younger than her actual years,

Margaret looked older. In appearance, in manners, and also in

advancement, Margaret might have been eighteen.

She was to enter the school, which was near Harrow, in another week, at

the termination of the holidays, and Mrs. Tait and Jane had their hands

full, getting her things ready.

"Was this slip measured, mamma?" Jane suddenly asked, after attentively

regarding the work she had on her knee.

"I think so," replied Mrs. Tait. "Why?"

"It looks too short for Margaret. At least it will be too short when I

have finished this fourth tuck. It must have been measured, though, for

here are the pins in it. Perhaps Margaret measured it herself."

"Then of course it must be measured again. There's no trusting to

anything Margaret does in the shape of work. And yet, how clever she is

at music and drawing--in fact at all her studies!" added Mrs. Tait. "It

is well, Jane, that we are not all gifted alike."

"I think it is," acquiesced Jane. "I will go up to Margaret's room for

one of her slips, and measure this."

"You need not do that," said Mrs. Tait. "There's an old slip of hers

amongst the work on the sofa."

Jane found the slip, and measured the one in her hand by it. "Yes,

mamma! It is just the length without the tuck. Then I must take out what

I have done of it. It is very little."

"Come hither, Jane. Your eyes are younger than mine. Is not that your

papa coming towards us from the far end of the square?"

Jane approached the window nearest to her, not the one at which Mrs.

Tait was sitting. "Oh, yes, that's papa. You might tell him by his

dress, if by nothing else, mamma."

"I could tell him by himself, if I could see," said Mrs. Tait, quaintly.

"I don't know how it is, Jane, but my sight grows very imperfect for a

distance."

"Never mind that, mamma, so that you can continue to see well to work

and read," said Jane cheerily. "How fast papa is walking!"

Very fast for the Rev. Francis Tait, who was not in general a quick

walker. He entered his house, and came up to the drawing-room. He had

not been well for the last few days, and threw himself into a chair,

wearily.

"Jane, is there any of that beef-tea left, that was made for me

yesterday?"

"Yes, papa," she said, springing up that she might get it for him. "I

will bring it to you immediately."

"Stay, stay, child, not so fast," he interrupted. "It is not for myself.

I can do without it. I have been pained by a sad sight," he added,

looking at his wife. "There's that daughter of the Widow Booth's come

home again. I called in upon them and there she was, lying on a

mattress, dying from famine, as I verily believe. She returned last

night in a dreadful state of exhaustion, the mother says, and has had

nothing within her lips since but cold water. They tried her with solid

food, but she could not swallow it. That beef-tea will just do for her.

Have it warmed, Jane."

"She is a sinful, ill-doing girl, Francis," remarked Mrs. Tait, "and

does not really deserve compassion."

"All the more reason, wife, that she should be rescued from death," said

the rector, almost sternly. "The good may dare to die: the evil may not.

Don't waste time, Jane. Put it into a bottle, warm, and I'll carry it

round."

"Is there nothing else we can send her, papa, that may do for her

equally well?" asked Jane. "A little wine, perhaps? There is very little

of the beef-tea left, and it ought to be kept for you."

"Never mind; I wish to take it to her," said the rector. "A little wine

afterwards may do her good."

Jane hastened to the kitchen, disturbing a servant who was doing

something over the fire. "Susan, papa wants the remainder of the

beef-tea warmed. Will you make haste and do it, whilst I search for a

bottle to put it into? It is to be taken round to Charity Booth."

"What! is _she_ back again?" exclaimed the servant, slightingly, which

betrayed that her estimation of Charity Booth was no higher than was

that of her mistress. "It's just like the master," she continued,

proceeding to do what was required of her. "It's not often that

anything's made for himself; but if it is, he never gets the benefit of

it; he's sure to drop across somebody that he fancies wants it worse

than he does. It's not right, Miss Jane."

Jane was searching a cupboard, and brought forth a clean green bottle,

which held about half-a-pint. "This will be quite large enough, I

think."

"I should think it would!" grumbled Susan, who could not be brought to

look upon the giving away of her master's own peculiar property as

anything but a personal grievance. "There's barely a gill of it left,

and he ought to have had it himself, Miss Jane."

"Susan," she said, turning her bright face laughingly towards the woman,

"it is a good thing that you went to church and saw me married, or I

might think you meant to reflect upon me. How can I be 'Miss Jane,'

with this ring on?"

"It's of no good my trying to remember it, ma'am. All the parish knows

you are Mrs. Halliburton, fast enough; but it don't come ready to me."

Jane laughed pleasantly. "Where is Mary?" she asked.

"In the back room, going on with some of Miss Margaret's things. It's

cooler, sitting there, than in this hot kitchen."

Jane carried the little bottle of beef-tea to her father, and gave it

into his hand. He looked very pale, and rose from his chair slowly.

"Oh, papa, you do not seem well!" she involuntarily exclaimed. "Let me

run and beat you up an egg. I will not be a minute."

"I can't wait, child. And I question if I could eat it, were it ready

before me. I do not feel well, as you say."

"You ought to have taken this beef-tea yourself, papa. It was made for

_you_."

Jane could not help laying a stress upon the word. Mr. Tait placed his

hand gently upon her smoothly parted hair. "Jane, child, had I thought

of myself before others throughout life, how should I have been

following my Master's precepts?"

She ran down the stairs before him, opening the front door for him to

pass through, that even that little exertion should be spared him. A

loving, dutiful daughter was Jane; and it is probable that the thought

of her worth especially crossed the mind of the rector at that moment.

"God bless you, my child!" he aspirated, as he passed her.

Jane watched him across the square. Their house, though not actually in

the square, commanded a view of it. Then she returned upstairs to her

mother. "Papa thinks he will not lose time," she observed. "He is

walking fast."

"I should call it running," responded Mrs. Tait, who had seen the speed

from the window. "But, my dear, he'll do no good with that badly

conducted Charity Booth."

About an hour passed away, and it was drawing towards dinner-time. Jane

and Mrs. Tait were busy as ever, when Mr. Halliburton's well-known knock

was heard.

"Edgar is home early this morning!" Jane exclaimed.

He came springing up the stairs, two at a time, in great haste, opened

the drawing-room door, and just put in his head. Mrs. Tait, sitting with

her back to the door and her face to the window, did not turn round, and

consequently did not see him. Jane did; and was startled. Every vestige

of colour had forsaken his face.

"Oh, Edgar! You are ill!"

"Ill! Not I," affecting to speak gaily. "I want you for a minute, Jane."

Mrs. Tait had looked round at Jane's exclamation, but Mr. Halliburton's

face was then withdrawn. He was standing outside the door when Jane

went out. He did not speak; but took her hand in silence and drew her

into the back room, which was their own bedroom, and closed the door.

Jane's face had grown as white as his.

"My darling, I did not mean to alarm you," he said, holding her to him.

"I thought you had a brave heart, Jane. I thought that if I had a little

unpleasant news to impart it would be best to tell _you_, that you may

help me break it to the rest."

Jane's heart was not feeling very brave. "What is it?" she asked,

scarcely able to speak the words from her ghastly lips.

"Jane," he said, tenderly and gravely, "before I say any more, you must

strive for calmness."

"It is not about yourself! You are not ill?"

The question seemed superfluous. Mr. Halliburton was evidently not ill;

but he was agitated. Jane was frightened and perplexed: not a glimpse of

the real truth crossed her. "Tell me what it is at once, Edgar," she

said, in a calmer tone. "I can bear certainty better than suspense."

"Why, yes, I think you are becoming brave already," he answered, looking

straight into her eyes and smiling--which was intended to reassure her.

"I must have my wife show herself a woman to-day; not a child. See what

a bungler I am! I thought to tell you all quietly and smoothly, without

alarming you; and see what I have done!--startled you to terror."

Jane smiled faintly. She knew all this was only the precursor of tidings

that must be very ill and grievous. By a great effort she schooled

herself to calmness. Mr. Halliburton continued:

"One, whom you and I love very much, has--has--met with an accident,

Jane."

Her fears went straight to the right quarter at once. With that one

exception by her side, there was no one she loved as she loved her

father.

"Papa?"

"Yes. We must break it to Mrs. Tait."

Her heart beat wildly against his hand, and the livid hue was once more

overspreading her face. But she strove urgently for calmness: he

whispered to her of its necessity for her own sake.

"Edgar! is it death?"

It was death; but he would not tell her so yet. He plunged into the

attendant details.

"He was hastening along with a small bottle in his hand, Jane. It

contained something good for one of the sick poor, I am sure, for he was

in their neighbourhood. Suddenly he was observed to fall; and the

spectators raised him and took him to a doctor's. That doctor,

unfortunately, was not at home, and they took him to another, so that

time was lost. He was quite unconscious."

"But you do not tell me!" she wailed. "Is he dead?"

Mr. Halliburton asked himself a question--What good would be done by

delaying the truth? He thought he had performed his task very badly.

"Jane, Jane!" he whispered, "I can only hope to help you to bear it

better than I have broken it to you."

She could not shed tears in that first awful moment: physically and

mentally she leaned on him for support. "_How_ can we tell my mother?"

It was necessary that Mrs. Tait should be told, and without delay. Even

then the body was being conveyed to the house. By a curious coincidence,

Mr. Halliburton had been passing the last doctor's surgery at the very

moment the crowd was round its doors. Unusual business had called him

there; or it was a street he did not enter once in a year. "The parson

has fallen down in a fit," said some of them, recognizing and arresting

him.

"The parson!" he repeated. "What! Mr. Tait?"

"Sure enough," said they. And Mr. Halliburton pressed into the surgeon's

house just as the examination was over.

"The heart, no doubt, sir," said the doctor to him.

"He surely is not dead?"

"Quite dead. He must have died instantaneously."

The news had been wafted to the mob outside, and they were already

taking a shutter from its hinges. "I will go on first and prepare the

family," said Mr. Halliburton to them. "Give me a quarter of an hour's

start, and then come on."

So that he had only a quarter of an hour for it all. His thoughts

naturally turned to his wife: not simply to spare her alarm and pain, so

far as he might, but he believed her, young as she was, to possess more

calmness and self-control than Mrs. Tait. As he sped to the house he

rehearsed his task; and might have accomplished it better but for his

tell-tale face. "Jane," he whispered, "let this be your consolation

ever: he was ready to go."

"Oh yes!" she answered, bursting into a storm of most distressing tears.

"If any one here was ever fit for heaven, it was my dear father."

"Hark!" exclaimed Mr. Halliburton.

Some noise had arisen downstairs--a sound of voices speaking in

undertones. There could be no doubt that people had come to the house

with the news, and were imparting it to the two trembling servants.

"There's not a moment to be lost, Jane."

How Jane dried her eyes and suppressed all temporary sign of grief and

emotion, she could not tell. A sense of duty was strong within her, and

she knew that the most imperative duty of the present moment was the

support and solace of her mother. She and her husband entered the

drawing-room together, and Mrs. Tait turned with a smile to Mr.

Halliburton.

"What secrets have you and Jane been talking together?" Then, catching

sight of Jane's white and quivering lips, she broke into a cry of agony.

"Jane! what has happened? What have you both come to tell me?"

The tears poured from Jane's fair young face as she clasped her mother

fondly to her, tenderly whispering: "Dearest mamma, you must lean upon

us now! We will all love you and take care of you as we have never yet

done."

CHAPTER IV.

NEW PLANS.

The post-mortem examination established beyond doubt the fact that the

Rev. Francis Tait's death was caused by heart disease. In the earlier

period of his life it had been suspected that he was subject to it, but

of late years unfavourable symptoms had not shown themselves.

With him died of course almost all his means; and his family, if not

left utterly destitute, had little to boast in the way of wealth. Mrs.

Tait enjoyed, and had for some time enjoyed, an annuity of fifty pounds

a year; but it would cease at her death, whenever that event should take

place. What was she to do with her children? Many a bereaved widow, far

worse off than Mrs. Tait, has to ask the same perplexing question every

day. Mrs. Tait's children were partially off her hands. Jane had her

husband; Francis was earning his own living as an under-master in a

school; with Margaret ten pounds a year must be paid; and there was

still Robert.

The death had occurred in July. By October they must be away from the

house. "You will be at no loss for a home, Mrs. Tait," Mr. Halliburton

took an opportunity of kindly saying to her. "You must allow me and Jane

to welcome you to ours."

"Yes, Edgar," was Mrs. Tait's unhesitating reply; "it will be the best

plan. The furniture in this house will do for yours, and you shall have

it, and you must take me and my small means into it--an incumbrance to

you. I have pondered it all over, and I do not see anything else that

can be done."

"I have no right whatever to your furniture," he replied, "and Jane has

no more right to it than have your other children. The furniture shall

be put into my house if you please; but you must either allow me to pay

you for it, or it shall remain your own, to be removed again at any time

you may please."

A house was looked for and taken. The furniture was valued, and Mr.

Halliburton bought it--a fourth part of the sum Mrs. Tait positively

refusing to take, for she declared that so much belonged to Jane. Then

they quitted the old house of many years, and moved into the new one:

Mr. and Mrs. Halliburton, Mrs. Tait, Robert, and the two servants.

"Will it be prudent for you, my dear, to retain both the servants?" Mrs.

Tait asked of her daughter.

Jane blushed vividly. "We could do with one at present, mamma; but the

time will be coming that I shall require two. And Susan and Mary are

both so good that I do not care to part with them. You are used to them,

too."

"Ah, child! I know that in all your plans and schemes you and Edgar

think first of my comfort. Do you know what I was thinking of last night

as I lay in bed?"

"What, mamma?"

"When Mr. Halliburton first spoke of wanting you, I and your poor papa

felt inclined to hesitate, thinking you might have made a better match.

But, my dear, I was wondering last night what we should have done in

this crisis but for him."

"Yes," said Jane, gently. "Things that appear untoward at the time

frequently turn out afterwards to have been the very best that could

have happened. God directs all things, you know, mamma."

A contention arose respecting Robert, some weeks after they had been in

their new house--or it may be better to call it a discussion. Robert had

never taken very kindly to what he called book-learning. Mr. Tait's wish

had been that both his sons should enter the Church. Robert had never

openly opposed this wish, and for the calling itself he had a liking;

but particularly disliked the study and application necessary to fit him

for it. Silent while his father lived, he was so no longer; but took

every opportunity of urging the point upon his mother. He was still

attending Dr. Percy's school daily.

"You know, mother," dropping down one day in a chair, close to his

mother and Jane, and catching up one leg to nurse--rather a favourite

action of his--"I shall never earn salt at it."

"Salt at what, Robert?" asked Mrs. Tait.

"Why, at these rubbishing classics. _I_ shall never make a tutor, as Mr.

Halliburton and Francis do; and what on earth's to become of me? As to

any chance of my being a parson, of course that's over: where's the

money to come from?"

"What _is_ to become of you, then?" cried Mrs. Tait. "I'm sure I don't

know."

"Besides," went on Robert, lowering his voice, and calling up the most

effectual argument he could think of, "I ought to be doing something

for myself. I am living here upon Mr. Halliburton."

"He is delighted to have you, Robert," interrupted Jane, quickly. "Mamma

pays----"

"Be quiet, Mrs. Jane! What sort of a wife do you call yourself, pray, to

go against your husband's interests in that manner? I heard you

preaching up to the charity children the other day about its being

sinful to waste time."

"Well?" said Jane.

"Well! what's waste of time for other people is not waste of time for

me, I suppose?" went on Robert.

"You are not wasting your time, Robert."

"I am. And if you had the sense people give you credit for, Madam Jane,

you'd see it. I shall never, I say, earn my salt at teaching; and--just

tell me yourself whether there seems any chance now that I shall enter

the Church."

"At present I do not see that there is," confessed Jane.

"There! Then is it waste of time, or not, my continuing to study for a

career which I can never enter upon?"

"But what else can you do, Robert?" interposed Mrs. Tait. "You cannot

idle your time away at home, or be running about the streets all day."

"No," said Robert, "better stop at school for ever than do that. I want

to see the world, mother."

"You--want--to--see--the--world!" echoed Mrs. Tait, bringing out the

words slowly in her astonishment, whilst Jane looked up from her work,

and fixed her eyes upon her brother.

"It's only natural that I should," said Robert, with equanimity. "I have

an invitation to go down into Yorkshire."

"What to do?" cried Mrs. Tait.

"Oh, lots of things. They keep hunters, and----"

"Why, you were never on horseback in your life, Robert," laughed Jane.

"You would come back with your neck broken."

"I do wish you'd be quiet, Jane!" returned Robert, reddening. "I am

talking to mamma, not to you. Winchcombe has invited me to spend the

Christmas holidays with him down at his father's place in Yorkshire.

And, mother, I want to go; and I want you to promise that I shall not

return to school when the holidays are over. I will do anything else

that you choose to put me to. I'll learn to be a man of business, or

I'll go into an office, or I'd be apprenticed to a doctor--anything you

like, rather than stop at these everlasting school-books. I am _sick_ of

them."

"Robert, you take my breath away!" uttered Mrs. Tait. "I have no

interest anywhere. I could not get you into any of these places."

"I dare say Mr. Halliburton could. He knows lots of people. Jane, you

talk to him: he'll do anything for you."

There ensued, I say, much discussion about

Robert. But it is not with Robert Tait that our story has to do; and

only a few words need be given to him here and there. It appeared to

them all that it would be inexpedient for him to continue at school;

both with regard to his own wishes and to his prospects. He was allowed

to pay the visit with his schoolfellow, and (as he came back with neck

unbroken) Mr. Halliburton succeeded in placing him in a large wholesale

warehouse. Robert appeared to like it very much at first, and always

came home to spend Sunday with them.

"He may rise in time to be one of the first mercantile men in London,"

observed Mr. Halliburton to his wife; "one of our merchant-princes, as

my uncle used to say by me, if only----"

"If what? Why do you hesitate?" she asked.

"If he will only persevere, I was going to say. But, Jane, I fear

perseverance is a quality that Robert does not possess."

Of course all that had to be proved. It lay in the future.

CHAPTER V.

MARGARET.

From two to three years passed away, and the Midsummer holidays were

approaching. Margaret was expected as usual for them, and Jane,

delighted to receive her, went about her glad preparations. Margaret

would not return to the school, in which she had been a paid teacher for

the last year; but was to enter a family as governess. For one

efficient, well-educated, accomplished governess to be met with in those

days, scores may be counted now--or who profess to be so; and Margaret

Tait, though barely nineteen, anticipated a salary of seventy or eighty

guineas a year.

A warm, bright day in June, that on which Mr. Halliburton went to

receive Margaret. The coach brought her to its resting-place, the "Bull

and Mouth," in St. Martin's-le-Grand, and Mr. Halliburton reached the

inn as St. Paul's clock was striking midday. One minute more, and the

coach drove in.

There she was, inside; a tall, fine girl, with a handsome face: a face

full of resolution and energy. Margaret Tait had her good qualities, and

she had also her faults: a great one, speaking of the latter, was

self-will. She opened the door herself and leaped out before any one

could help her, all joy and delight.

"And what about your boxes, Margaret?" questioned Mr. Halliburton, after

a few words of greeting. "Have they come this time or not?"

Margaret laughed. "Yes, they really have. I have not lost them on the

road, as I did at Christmas. You will never forget to tell me of that, I

am sure! But it was more the guard's fault than mine."

A few minutes, and Mr. Halliburton, Margaret, and the boxes were

lumbering along in one of the old glass coaches.

"And now tell me about every one," said Margaret. "How is dear mamma?"

"She is quite well. We are all well. Jane's famous."

"And my precious little Willy?"

"Oh," said Mr. Halliburton, quaintly, "he is a great deal too

troublesome for anything to be the matter with him. I tell Jane she will

have to begin the whipping system soon."

"And much Jane will attend to you! Is it a pretty baby?"

Mr. Halliburton raised his eyebrows. "Jane thinks so. I wonder she has

not had its likeness taken."

"Is it christened?" continued Margaret.

"It is baptized. Jane would not have the christening until you were at

home."

"And its name?"

"Jane."

"What a shame! Jane promised me it should be Margaret. Why did she

decide upon her own name?"

"I decided upon it," said Mr. Halliburton. "Yours can wait until the

next, Margaret."

Margaret laughed. "And how are you getting on?"

"Very well. I have every hour of the day occupied."

"I don't think you are looking well," rejoined Margaret. "You look thin

and fagged."

"I am always thin, and mine is a fagging profession. Sometimes I feel

terribly weary. But I am pretty well upon the whole, Margaret."

"Will Francis be at home these holidays?"

"No. He passes them at a gentleman's house in Norfolk--tutor to his

sons. Francis is thoroughly industrious and persevering."

"A contrast to poor Robert, I suppose?"

"Well--yes; in that sense."

"There has been some trouble about Robert, has there not?" asked

Margaret, her tone becoming grave. "Did he not get discharged?"

"He received notice of discharge. But I saw the principals and begged

him on again. I would not talk about it to him if I were you, Margaret.

He is sensitive upon the point. Robert's intentions are good, but his

disposition is fickle. He has grown tired of his work and idles his time

away; no house of business will put up with that."

The coach arrived at Mr. Halliburton's. Margaret rushed out of it,

giving no one time to assist her, as she had done out of the other coach

at the "Bull and Mouth." There was a great deal of impetuosity in

Margaret Tait's character. She was quite a contrast to Jane--as she had

just remarked there was a contrast between Francis and Robert upon

other points--to sensible, lady-like, self-possessed Jane, who came

forward so calmly to greet her, a glad depth of affection in her quiet

eyes.

A boisterous embrace to her mother, a boisterous embrace to Jane, all in

haste, and then Margaret caught up a little gentleman of some two years

old, or more, who was standing holding on to Jane's dress, his great

grey eyes, honest, loving, intelligent as were his mother's, cast up in

a broad stare at Margaret.

"You naughty Willy! Have you forgotten Aunt Margaret? Oh, you darling

child! Who's this?"

She carried the boy up to the end of the room, where stood their old

servant Mary, nursing an infant of two months old. The baby had great

grey eyes also, and they likewise were bent on noisy Margaret. "Oh,

Willy, she is prettier than you! I won't nurse you any more. Mary, I'll

shake hands with you presently. I must take that enchanting baby first."

Dropping discarded Willy upon the ground, snatching the baby from Mary's

arms, Margaret kissed its pretty face until she made it cry. Jane came

to the rescue.

"You don't understand babies, Margaret. Let Mary take her again. Come

upstairs to your room, and make yourself ready for dinner. I think you

must be hungry."

"So hungry that I shall frighten you. Of course, with the thought of

coming home, I could not touch breakfast. I hope you have something

especially nice!"

"Your favourite dinner," said Jane, smiling. "Loin of veal and

broccoli."

"How thoughtful you are, Jane!" Margaret could not help exclaiming.

"Margaret, my dear," called out her mother, as she was leaving the room

with Jane.

Margaret looked back. "What, mamma?"

"I hope you will not continue to go on with these children as you have

begun; otherwise we shall have a quiet house turned into a noisy one."

"Is it a quiet house?" said Margaret, laughing.

"As if any house would not be quiet, regulated by Jane!" replied Mrs.

Tait. And Margaret, laughing still, followed her sister.

It is curious to remark how differently things sometimes turn out from

what we intended. Had any one asked Mrs. Tait, the day that Margaret

came home, what Margaret's future career was to be, she had wondered at

the question. "A governess, certainly," would have been her answer; and

she would have thought that no power, humanly speaking, could prevent

it. And yet, Margaret Tait, as it proved, never did become a governess.

The holidays were drawing to an end, and a very desirable situation, as

was believed, had been found for Margaret by Mr. Halliburton, the

negotiations for which were nearly completed. Mr. Halliburton gave

private lessons in sundry well-connected families, and thus enabled to

hear where ladies were required as governesses, he had recommended

Margaret. The recommendation was favourably received, and a day was

appointed for Margaret to make a personal visit at the town house of the

people in question, when she would most probably be engaged.

On the previous evening at twilight Mr. Halliburton came home from one

of his numerous engagements. Jane was alone. Mrs. Tait, not very well,

had retired to rest early, and Margaret was out with Robert. In this, a

leisure season of the year, Robert had most of his evenings to himself,

after eight o'clock. He generally came home, and he and Margaret would

go out together. Mr. Halliburton sat down at one of the windows in

silence.

Jane went up to him, laying her hand affectionately on his shoulder.

"You are very tired, Edgar?"

He did not reply: only drew her hand between his, and kept it there.

"You shall have supper at once," said Jane, glancing at the tray which

stood ready on the table. "I am sure you must want it. And it is not

right to indulge Margaret every night by waiting for her."

"Scarcely, when she does not come in until ten or half-past," said Mr.

Halliburton. "Jane," he added confidentially, "do you think it well that

Margaret should be out so frequently in an evening?"

"She is with Robert."

"She may not always be with Robert alone."

Jane felt her face flush. She knew her husband; knew that he was not one

to speak unless he had some reason for doing so. "Edgar! why do you say

this? Do you know anything? Have you seen Margaret?"

"I saw her a quarter of an hour ago----"

"With Robert?" interrupted Jane, more impulsively than she was in the

habit of speaking.

"Robert was by her side. But she was walking arm in arm with Mr.

Murray."

Jane did not much like the information. This Mr. Murray was in the same

house as Robert, holding a better position. Robert had occasionally

brought him home, and he had taken tea with them. Mrs. Halliburton felt

surprised at Margaret: it appeared, to her well-regulated mind, very

like a clandestine proceeding. What would she have said, or thought, had

she known that Margaret and Mr. Murray were in the habit of thus walking

together constantly? Robert's being with them afforded no sufficient

excuse.

Later they saw Margaret coming home with Robert alone. He left her at

the door as usual, and then hastened away to his own home. Jane said

nothing then, but she went to Margaret's room that evening.

"Oh, Edgar has been bringing home tales, has he?" was Margaret's answer,

when the ice was broken; and her defiant tone brought Jane hardly knew

what of dismay to her ear. "I saw him staring at us."

"Margaret!" gasped Jane, "what can have come to you? You are completely

changed; you--you seem to speak no longer as a lady."

"Then why do you provoke me, Jane? Is it high treason to take a

gentleman's arm, my brother being with me?"

"It is not right to do it in secret, Margaret. If you go out ostensibly

to walk with Robert----"

"Jane, I will not listen," Margaret said, with flashing eyes. "Because

you are Mrs. Halliburton, you assume a right to lecture me. I have

committed no grievous wrong. When I do commit it, you may take your turn

then."

"Oh, Margaret! why will you misjudge me?" asked Jane, her voice full of

pain. "I speak to you in love, not in anger; I would not speak at all

but for your good. If the Chevasneys were to hear of this, they might

think you an unsuitable mistress for their children."

"Compose yourself," said Margaret, scoffingly. Never had she shown such

a temper, so undesirable a disposition, as on this night; and Jane might

well look at her in amazement, and hint that she was "changed." "I shall

be found sufficiently suitable by the Chevasney family--when I consent

to enter it."

Her tone was strangely significant, and Jane Halliburton's heart beat.

"What do you imply, Margaret?" she inquired. "You appear to have some

peculiar meaning."

Margaret, who had been standing before the glass all this time twisting

her hair round her fingers, turned and looked her sister full in the

face. "Jane, I'll tell you, if you will undertake to make things

straight for me with mamma. I am not going to the Chevasneys--or

anywhere else--as governess."

"Yes,"--said Jane faintly, for she had a presentiment of what was

coming.

"I am going to be married instead."

"Oh, Margaret!"

"There is nothing to groan about," retorted Margaret. "Mr. Murray is

coming to speak to mamma to-morrow, and if any of you have anything to

say against him, you can say it to his face. He is a very respectable

man, and has a good income; where's the objection to him?"

Jane could not say. Personally, she did not very much like Mr. Murray;

and certain fond visions had pictured a higher destiny for handsome,

accomplished Margaret. "I hope and trust you will be happy, if you do

marry him, Margaret!" was all she said.

"I hope I shall. I must take my chance of that, as others do. Jane, I

beg your pardon for my crossness, but you put me out of temper."

As others do. Ay! it was all a lottery. And Margaret Tait entered upon

her hastily-chosen married life, knowing that it was so.

CHAPTER VI.

IN SAVILE-ROW.

Several years went on; and years rarely go on without bringing changes

with them. Jane had now four children. William, the eldest, was close

upon thirteen; Edgar, the youngest, going on for nine; Jane and Frank

were between them. Mrs. Tait was dead: and Francis Tait was the Reverend

Francis Tait. By dint of hard work and perseverance, he had succeeded in

qualifying for Orders, and was half starving upon a London curacy, as

his father had done for so many years before him. In saying "half

starving," I don't mean that he had not bread and cheese to eat; but

when a clergyman's stipend is under a hundred a year, the expression

"half starving" is justifiable. He hungers after many things that he is

unable to obtain, and he cannot maintain his position as a gentleman.

Francis Tait hungered. Over one want, especially, he hungered with an

intensely ravenous hunger; and that was, the gratification of his taste

for literature. The books he coveted to read were expensive;

impossibilities to him; he could not purchase them, and libraries were

then scarce. Had Francis Tait not been gifted with very great

conscientiousness, he would have joined teaching with his ministry. But

the wants of his parish required all his time; and he had inherited that

large share of the monitor, conscience, from his father. "I suppose I

shall have a living some time," he would think to himself: "when I am

growing an old man, probably, as he was when he gained his."

So the Reverend Francis Tait plodded on at his curacy, and was content

to await that remote day when fortune should drop from the skies.

Where was Margaret? Margaret had bidden adieu to old England for ever.

Her husband, who had not been promoted in his house of business as

rapidly as he thought he ought to have been, had thrown up his

situation, home and home ties, and gone out to the woods of Canada to

become a settler. Did Margaret repent her hasty marriage then? Did she

find that her finished education, her peculiar tastes and habits, so

unfitted for domestic life, were all lost in those wild woods? Music,

drawing, languages, literature, of what use were _they_ to her now? She

might educate her own children, indeed, as they grew up: the only chance

of education it appeared likely they would have. That Margaret found

herself in a peculiarly uncongenial atmosphere, there could be no doubt;

but, like a brave woman as she proved herself, not a hint of it, in

writing home, ever escaped her, not a shadow of complaint could be

gathered there. It was not often that she wrote, and her letters grew

more rare as the years went on. Robert had accompanied them, and he

boasted that he liked the life much; a thousand times better than that

of the musty old warehouse.

Mr. Halliburton's teaching was excellent--his income good. He was now

one of the professors at King's College; but had not yet succeeded in

carrying out his dream--that of getting to Oxford or Cambridge. Edgar

Halliburton had begun at the wrong end of the ladder: he should have

gone to college first and married afterwards. He married first: and to

college he never went. A man of moderate means, with a home to keep, a

wife, children, servants, to provide for, has enough to do with his

money and time, without spending them at college. He had quite given up

the idea now; and perhaps had grown not to regret it very keenly: his

home was one of refinement, comfort, and thorough happiness.

But about this period, or indeed some time prior to it, Mr. Halliburton

had reason to believe that he was overtaxing his strength. For a long,

long while, almost ever since he had been in London, he was aware that

he had not felt thoroughly well. Hot weather affected him and rendered

him languid; the chills of winter gave him a cough; the keen winds of

spring attacked his chest. He would throw off his ailments bravely and

go on again, not heeding them or thinking that they might ever become

serious. Perhaps he never gave a thought to that until one evening when,

upon coming in after a hard day's toil, he sat down in his chair and

quietly fainted away.

Jane and one of the servants were standing over him when he

recovered--Jane's face very pale and anxious.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, smiling at her. "I suppose I dropped

asleep; or lost consciousness in some way."

"You fainted, Edgar."

"Fainted, did I? How silly I must have been! The room's warm, Jane: it

must have overpowered me."

Jane was not deceived. She saw that he was making light of it to quiet

her alarm, and brought him a glass of wine. He drank it, but could not

eat anything: frequently could not eat now.

"Edgar," she said, "you are doing too much. I have seen it for a long

time past."

"Seen what, Jane?"

"That your strength is not equal to your work. You must give up a

portion of your teaching."

"My dear, how can I do so? Does it not take all I earn to meet expenses?

When accounts are settled at the end of the year, have we a shilling to

spare?"

It was so, and Jane knew it; but her husband's health was above every

consideration in the world. "We must reduce our expenses," she said. "We

must cease to live as we are living now. We will move into a smaller

house, and keep one servant, and I will turn maid-of-all-work."

She laughed quite merrily; but Mr. Halliburton detected a serious

meaning in her tone. He shook his head.

"No, Jane; that time, I hope, will never come."

He lay awake all that night buried in reflection. Do you know what this

night-reflection is, when it comes to us in all its racking intensity?

Surging over his brain, like the wild waves that chase each other on the

ocean, came the thought, "What will become of my wife and children if I

die?" Thought after thought, they all resolved themselves into that one

focus:--"I have made no provision for my wife and children: what will

become of them if I am taken?"

Mr. Halliburton had one good habit--it was possible that he had learnt

it from his wife, for it was hers in no ordinary degree--the habit of

_looking steadfastly into the face of trouble_. Not to groan and grumble

at it--to sigh and lament that no one else's trouble ever was so great

before--but to see how it might best be met and contended with; how the

best could be made of it.

The only feasible way he could see, was that of insuring his life. He

possessed neither lands nor money. Did he attempt to put by a portion of

his income, it would take years and years to accumulate into a sum worth

mentioning. Why, how long would it take him to economise only a thousand

pounds? No. There was only one way--that of life insurance. It was an

idea that would have occurred to most of us. He did not know how much it

would take from his yearly income to effect it. A great deal, he was

afraid; for he was approaching what is called middle life.

He had no secrets from his wife. He consulted her upon every point; she

was his best friend, his confidante, his gentle counsellor, and he had

no intention of concealing the step he was about to take. Why should he?

"Jane," he began, when they were at breakfast the next morning, "do you

know what I have been thinking of all night?"

"Trouble, I am sure," she answered. "You have been very restless."

"Not exactly trouble"--for he did not choose to acknowledge, even to

himself, that a strange sense of trouble did seem to rest on his heart

and to weigh it down. "I have been thinking more of precaution than

trouble."

"Precaution?" echoed Jane, looking at him.

"Ay, love. And the astonishing part of the business, to myself, is that

I never thought of the necessity for this precaution before."

Jane divined now what he meant. Often and often had the idea occurred to

her--"Should my husband's health or life fail, we are destitute." Not

for herself did she so much care, but for her children.

"That sudden attack last night has brought me reflection," he resumed.

"Life is uncertain with the best of us. It may be no more uncertain with

me than with others; but I feel that I must act as though it were so.

Jane, were I taken, there would be no provision for you."

"No," she quietly said.

"And therefore I must set about making one without delay, as far as I

can. I shall insure my life."

Jane did not answer immediately. "It will take a great deal of money,

Edgar," she presently said.

"I fear it will: but it must be done. What's the matter, Jane? You don't

look hopeful over it."

"Because, were you to insure your life, to pay the yearly premium, and

our home expenses, would necessitate your working as hard as you do

now."

"Well?" said he. "Of course it would."

"In any case, our expenses shall be much reduced; of that I am

determined," she went on somewhat dreamily, more it seemed in soliloquy

than to her husband. "But, with this premium to pay in addition----"

"Jane," he interrupted, "there's not the least necessity for my relaxing

my labours. I shall not think of doing it. I may not be very strong, but

I am not ill. As to reducing our expenses, I see no help for that,

inasmuch as I must draw from them for the premium."

"If you only can keep your health, Edgar, it is certainly what ought to

be done--to insure your life. The thought has often crossed me."

"Why did you never suggest it?"

"I scarcely know. I believe I did not like to do so. And I really did

not see how the premium was to be paid. How much shall you insure it

for?"

"I thought of two thousand pounds. Could we afford more?"

"I think not. What would be the yearly premium for that sum?"

"I don't know. I will ascertain all particulars. What are you sighing

about, Jane?"

Jane was sighing heavily. A weight seemed to have fallen upon her. "To

talk of life-insurance puts me too much in mind of death," she murmured.

"Now, Jane, you are never going to turn goose!" he gaily said. "I have

heard of persons who will not make a will, because it brings them a

fancy they must be going to die. Insuring my life will not bring death

any the quicker to me: I hope I shall be here many a year yet. Why,

Jane, I may live to pay the insurance over and over again in annual

premiums! Better that I had put by the money in a bank, I shall think

then."

"The worst of putting by money in a bank, or in any other way, is, that

you are not _compelled_ to put it," observed Jane, looking up a little

from her depression. "What ought to be put by--what is intended to be

put by--too often goes in present wants, and putting by ends in name

only: whereas, in life-assurance, the premium _must_ be paid. Edgar,"

she added, passing to a different subject, "I wonder what we shall make

of our boys?"

Mr. Halliburton's cheek flushed. "_They_ shall go to college, please

God--though I have not been able to get there myself."

"Oh, I hope so! One or two of them, at any rate."

Little difficulty did there appear to be in the plan to Mr. Halliburton.

His boys should enter the University, although he had not done so: the

future of our children appears hopeful and easy to most of us. William

and Frank were in the school attached to King's College: of which you

hear Mr. Halliburton was now a professor. Edgar--never called anything

but "Gar"--went to a private school, but he would soon be entered at

King's College. Remarkably well-educated boys for their years, were the

young Halliburtons. Mr. Halliburton and Jane had taken care of that.

Home teaching was more efficient than school: both combined had rendered

them unusually intelligent and advanced. Naturally intellectual, gifted

with excellent qualities of mind and heart, Mrs. Halliburton had not

failed to do her duty by them. She spared no pains; she knew how

children ought to be brought up, and she did her duty well. Ah, my

friends! only lay a good foundation in their earlier years, and your

children will grow up to bless you.

"Jane, I wonder which office will be the best to insure in?"

Jane began to recall the names of some that were familiar to her.

"The Phoenix?" suggested she.

Mr. Halliburton laughed. "I think that's only for fire, Jane. I am not

sure, though." In truth, he knew little about insurance offices himself.

"There's the Sun; and the Atlas; and the Argus--oh, and ever so many

more," continued Jane.

"I'll inquire all about it to-day," said he.

"I wonder if the premium will take a hundred a year, Edgar?"

He could not tell. He feared it might. "I wish Jane," he observed, "that

I had insured my life when I first married. The premium would have been

small then, and we might have managed to spare it."

"Ay," she answered. "Sometimes I look back to things that I might have

done in the past years: and I did not do them. Now, the time has gone

by!"

"Well, it has not gone by for insuring," said Mr. Halliburton, rising

from the breakfast-table and speaking in gay tones. "Half-past eight!"

he cried, looking at his watch. "Good-bye, Jane," said he, bending to

kiss her. "Wish me luck."

"A weighty insurance and a small premium," she said, laughing. "But you

are not going about it now?"

"Of course not. The offices would not be open. I shall take an

opportunity of doing so in the course of the day."

Mr. Halliburton departed on his usual duties. It was a warm day in

April. His first attendance was King's College, and there he remained

for the morning. Then he proceeded to gain information about the various

offices and their respective merits: finally fixed upon the one he

should apply to, and bent his steps towards it.

It was situated in the heart of the City, in a very busy part of it. The

office also appeared to be busy, for several people were in it when Mr.

Halliburton entered. A young man came forward to know his business.

"I wish to insure my life," said Mr. Halliburton. "How must I proceed

about it?"

"Oh yes, sir. Mr. Procter, will you attend to this gentleman?"

Mr. Halliburton was marshalled to an inner room, where a gentlemanly man

received him. He explained his business in detail, stated his age, and

the sum he wished to insure for. Every information was politely afforded

him; and a paper, with certain printed questions, was given him to fill

up at his leisure, and then to be returned.

Mr. Halliburton glanced over it. "You require a certificate of my birth

from the parish register where I was baptized, I perceive," he remarked.

"Why so? In stating my age, I have stated it correctly."

The gentleman smiled. "Of that I make no doubt," he said, "for you look

younger than the age you have given me. Our office makes it a rule in

most cases to require the certificate from the register. All applicants

are not scrupulous about telling the truth, and we have been obliged to

adopt it in self-defence. We have had cases, we have indeed, sir, where

we have insured a life, and then found--though perhaps not until the

actual death has taken place--that the insurer was ten years older than

he asserted. Therefore we demand a certificate. It does occasionally

happen that applicants can bring well-known men to testify to their

age, and then we do not mind dispensing with it."

Mr. Halliburton sent his thoughts round in a circle. There was no one in

London who knew his age of their own positive knowledge; so it was

useless to think of that. "There will be no difficulty in the matter,"

he said aloud. "I can get the certificate up from Devonshire in the

course of two or three days by writing for it. My father was rector of

the church where I was christened. This will be all, then? To fill up

this paper and bring you the certificate."

"All; with the exception of being examined by our physician."

"What! is it necessary to be examined by a physician?" exclaimed Mr.

Halliburton. "The paper states that I must hand in a report from my

ordinary medical attendant. _He_ will not give you a bad report of me,"

he added, smiling, "for it is little enough I have troubled him. I

believe the worst thing he has attended me for has been a bad cold."

"So much the better," remarked the gentleman. "You do not look very

strong."

"Very strong I don't think I am. I am too hard worked; get too little

rest and recreation. It was suspecting that I am not so strong as I

might be that set me thinking it might be well to insure my life for the

sake of my wife and children," he ingenuously added, in his

straightforward manner. "If I could count upon living and working on

until I am an old man, I should not do so."

Again the gentleman smiled. "Looks are deceitful," he observed. "Nothing

more so. Sometimes those who look the most delicate live the longest."

"You cannot say I look delicate," returned Mr. Halliburton.

"I did not say it. I consider that you do not look robust; but that is

not saying that you look delicate. You may be a perfectly healthy man

for all I can say to the contrary."

He ran his eyes over Mr. Halliburton as he spoke; over his tall, fine

form, his dark hair, amidst which not a streak of grey mingled, his

clearly-cut features, and his complexion, bright as a woman's. Was there

suspicion in that complexion? "A handsome man, at any rate," thought the

gazer, "if not a robust one."

"It will be necessary, then, that I see your physician?" asked Mr.

Halliburton.

"Yes. It cannot be dispensed with. We would not insure without it. He

attends here twice a week. In the intervening days, he may be seen in

Savile-row, from three to five. It is Dr. Carrington. His days for

coming here are Mondays and Thursdays."

"And this is Friday," remarked Mr. Halliburton. "I shall probably go up

to him."

Mr. Halliburton said good morning, and came away with his paper. "It's

great nonsense, my seeing this doctor!" he said to himself as he

hastened home to dinner, which he knew he must have kept waiting. "But I

suppose it is necessary as a general rule; and of course they won't make

me an exception."

Hurrying over his dinner, in a manner that prevented its doing him any

good--as Jane assured him--he sat down to his desk when it was over and

wrote for the certificate of his birth. Folding and sealing the letter,

he put on his hat to go out again.

"Shall you go to Savile-row this afternoon?" Jane inquired.

"If I can by any possibility get my teaching over in time," he answered.

"Young Finchley's hour is four o'clock, but I can put him off until the

evening. I dare say I shall get up there."

By dint of hurrying, Mr. Halliburton contrived to reach Savile-row, and

arrived there in much heat at half-past four. There was no necessity for

hurrying there on this particular day, but he felt impatient to get the

business over; as if speed now could atone for past neglect. Dr.

Carrington was at home but engaged, and Mr. Halliburton was shown into a

room. Three or four others were waiting there; whether ordinary

patients, or whether mere applicants of form like himself, he could not

tell; and it was their turn to go in before it was his.

But his turn came at last, and he was ushered into the presence of the

doctor--a little man, fair and reserved, with powder on his head.

Reserved in ordinary intercourse, but certainly not reserved in asking

questions. Mr. Halliburton had never been so rigidly questioned before.

What disorders had he had, and what had he not had? What were his

habits, past and present? One question came at last: "Do you feel

thoroughly strong?--healthy, elastic?"

"I feel languid in hot weather," replied Mr. Halliburton.

"Um! Appetite sound and good?"

"Generally speaking. It has not been so good of late."

"Breathing all right?"

"Yes; it is a little tight sometimes."

"Um! Subject to a cough?"

"I have no settled cough. A sort of hacking cough comes on at night

occasionally. I attribute it to fatigue."

"Um! Will you open your shirt? Just unbutton it here"--touching the

front--"and your flannel waistcoat, if you wear one."

Mr. Halliburton bared his chest in obedience and the doctor sounded it,

and then put down his ear. Apparently his ear did not serve him

sufficiently, for he took a small instrument out of a drawer, placed it

on the chest, and then put his ear to that, changing the position of the

instrument three or four times.

"That will do," he said at length.

He turned to put up his stethoscope again, and Mr. Halliburton drew the

edges of his shirt together and buttoned them.

"Why don't you wear flannel waistcoats?" asked the doctor, with quite a

sharp accent, his head down in the drawer.

"I do wear them in winter; but in warm weather I leave them off. It was

only last week that I discarded them."

"Was ever such folly known!" ejaculated Dr. Carrington. "One would think

people were born without common sense. Half the patients who come to me

say they leave off their flannels in summer! Why, it is in summer they

are most needed! And this warm weather won't last either. Go home, sir,

and put one on at once."

"Certainly, if you think it right," said Mr. Halliburton with a smile.

"I thank you for telling me."

He took up his hat and waited. The doctor appeared to wait _for him to

go_. "I understood at the office that you would give me a paper

testifying that you had examined me," explained Mr. Halliburton.

"Ah--but I can't give it," said the doctor.

"Why not, sir?"

"Because I am not satisfied with you. I cannot recommend you as a

healthy life."

Mr. Halliburton's pulses quickened a little. "Sir!" he repeated. "Not a

healthy life?"

"Not sufficiently healthy for insurance."

"Why! what is the matter with me?" he rejoined.

Dr. Carrington looked him full in the face for the space of a minute

before replying. "I have had that question asked me before by parties

whom I have felt obliged to decline as I am now declining you," he said,

"and my answer has not always been palatable to them."

"It will be palatable to me, sir; in so far as that I desire to be made

acquainted with the truth. What do you find amiss with me?"

"The lungs are diseased."

A chill fell over Mr. Halliburton. "Not extensively, I trust? Not beyond

hope of recovery?"

"Were I to say not extensively, I should be deceiving you; and you tell

me that you wish for the truth. They are extensively diseased----"

A mortal pallor overspread Mr. Halliburton's face, and he sank into a

chair. "Not for myself," he gasped, as Dr. Carrington drew nearer to

him. "I have a wife and children. If I die, they will want bread to

eat."

"But you did not hear me out," returned the doctor, proceeding with

equanimity, as if he had not been interrupted. "They are extensively

diseased, but not beyond a hope of recovery. I do not say it is a strong

hope; but a hope there is, as I judge, provided you use the right means

and take care of yourself."

"What am I to do? What are the means?"

"You live, I presume, in this stifling, foggy, smoky London."

"Yes."

"Then got away from it. Go where you can have pure air and a clear

atmosphere. That's the first and chief thing; and that's most essential.

Not for a few weeks or months, you understand me--going out for a change

of air, as people call it--you must leave London entirely; go away

altogether."

"But it will be impossible," urged Mr. Halliburton. "My work lies in

London."

"Ah!" said the doctor; "too many have been with me with whom it was the

same case. But, I assure you that you must leave it; or it will be

London _versus_ life. You appear to me to be one who never ought to have

come to London----You were not born in it?" he abruptly added.

"I never saw it until I was eighteen. I was born and reared in

Devonshire."

"Just so. I knew it. Those born and reared in London become acclimatized

to it, generally speaking, and it does not hurt them. It does not hurt

numbers who are strangers: they find London as healthy a spot for them

as any on the face of the globe. But there are a few who cannot and

ought not to live in London; and I judge you to be one of them."

"Has this state of health been coming on long?"

"Yes, for some years. Had you remained in Devonshire, you might have

been a sound man all your life. My only advice to you is--get away from

London. You cannot live long if you remain in it."

Mr. Halliburton thanked Dr. Carrington and went out. How things had

changed for him! What had gone with the day's beauty?--with the blue

sky, the bright sun? The sky was blue still, and the sun shining; but

darkness seemed to intervene between his eyes and outward things. Dying?

A shiver went through him as he thought of Jane and the children, and a

sick feeling of despair settled on his spirit.

CHAPTER VII.

LATER IN THE DAY.

The man was utterly prostrated. He felt that the fiat of death had gone

forth, and there settled an undercurrent of conviction in his mind that

for him there would be no recovery, take what precaution he would. He

could not shake it off. There lay the fact and the fear, as a leaden

weight.

He bent his steps towards home, walking the whole way; he moved along

the streets mechanically. The crowds passed and repassed him, but _he_

seemed far away. Once or twice he lifted his head to them with a

yearning gesture. "Oh! that I were like you! bent on business, on

pleasure, on social intercourse!" passed through his mind. "I am not as

you; and for me you can do nothing. You cannot give me health; you

cannot give me life."

He entered his home, and was conscious of merry voices and flitting

footsteps. A little scene of gaiety was going on: he knew of this, but

had forgotten it until that instant. It was the birthday of his little

girl, and a few young friends had been invited to make merry. Jane,

looking almost as young, quite as pretty, as when she married him, sat

at the far end of their largest room before a well-spread tea-table. She

wore festival attire. A dress of pearl-grey silk, and a thin gold chain

round her neck. The little girls were chiefly in white, and the boys

were on their best behaviour. Jane was telling them that tea was ready,

and her two servants were helping to place the little people, and to

wait upon them.

"Oh, and here's papa, too! just in time," she cried, lifting her eyes

gladly at her husband. "That is delightful!"

Mr. Halliburton welcomed the children. He kissed some, he talked to

others, just as if he had not that terrible vulture, care, within him.

_They_ saw nothing amiss; neither did Jane. He took his seat, and drank

his tea; all, as it were, mechanically. It did not seem to be himself;

he thought it must be some one else. In the last hour, his whole

identity appeared to have changed. Bread and butter was handed to him.

He took a slice and left it. Jane put some cake on to his plate: he left

that also. Eat! with that awful fiat racking his senses! No, it was not

possible.

Ho looked round on his children. _His._ William, a gentle boy, with his

mother's calm, good face and her earnest eyes; Jane, a lovely child,

with fair curls flowing and a bright colour, consciously vain this

evening in her white birthday robes and her white ribbons; Frank, a

slim, dark-eyed boy, always in mischief, his features handsome and

clearly cut as were his father's; Gar, a delicate little chap, with fair

curls like his sister Jane's. Must he _leave_ those children?--abandon

them to the mercies of a cold and cruel world?--bequeath them no place

in it; no means of support? "Oh, God! Oh, God!" broke from his bitter

heart, "if it be Thy will to take me, mayst Thou shelter them!"

"Edgar!"

He started palpably; so far in thought was he away. Yet it was only his

wife who spoke to him.

"Edgar, have you been up to Dr. Carrington's?" she whispered, bending

towards him.

In his confusion he muttered some unintelligible words, which she

interpreted into a denial; there was a great deal of buzzing just then

from the young voices around. Two of the gentlemen, Frank being one,

were in hot contention touching a third gentleman's rabbits. Mrs.

Halliburton called Frank to order, and said no more to her husband for

the present.

"We are to dance after tea," said Jane. "I have been learning one

quadrille to play. It is very easy, and mamma says I play it very well."

"Oh, we don't want dancing," grumbled one of the boys. "We'd rather have

blindman's-buff."

Opinions were divided again. The girls wanted dancing, the boys

blindman's-buff. Mrs. Halliburton was appealed to.

"I think it must be dancing first and blindman's-buff afterwards," said

she.

Tea over, the furniture was pushed aside to clear a space for the

dancers. Mr. Halliburton, his back against the wall, stood looking at

them. Looking at them as was supposed; but had they been keen observers,

they would have known that his eyes in reality saw not: they, like his

thoughts, were far away.

His wife did presently notice that he seemed particularly abstracted.

She came up to him; he was standing with his arms folded, his head bent.

"Edgar, are you well?"

"Well? Oh yes, dear," he replied, making an effort to rouse himself.

"I hope you have no more teaching to-night?"

"I ought to go to young Finchley. I put him off until seven o'clock."

"Then"--was her quick rejoinder--"if you put off young Finchley, how was

it you could not get to Savile-row?"

"I have been occupied all the afternoon, Jane," he said. Wanting the

courage to say how the matter really stood, he evaded the question.

But, to go to young Finchley or to any other pupil that night, Mr.

Halliburton felt himself physically unequal. Teach! Explain abstruse

Greek and Latin rules, with his mind in its present state! It seemed to

him that it mattered little--if he was to be taken from them so

soon--whether he ever taught again. He was in the very depths of

depression.

Suddenly, as he stood looking on, a thought came flashing over him as a

ray of light. As a _ray_ of light? Nay, as a whole flood of it. What if

Dr. Carrington were wrong?--if it should prove that, in reality, nothing

was the matter with him? Doctors--and very clever ones--were, he knew,

sometimes mistaken. Perhaps Dr. Carrington had been so!

It was _scarcely_ likely, he went on to reason, that a mortal disease

should be upon him, and he have lived in ignorance of it! Why, he seemed

to have had very little the matter with him; nothing to talk of,

nothing to lie up for; comparatively speaking, he had been a healthy

man--was in health then. Yes, the belief did present itself that Dr.

Carrington was deceived. He, in the interests of the insurance office,

might be unnecessarily cautious.

Mr. Halliburton left the wall, and grew cheerful and gay, and talked

freely to the children. One little lady asked if he would dance with

her. He laughed, and felt half inclined to do so.

Which was the true mood--that sombre one, or this? Was there nothing

_false_ about this one--was there no secret consciousness that it did

not accord with his mind's actual belief; that he was only forcing it?

Be it as it would, it did not last; in the very middle of a laughing

sentence to his own little Janey, the old agony, the fear,

returned--returned with terrific violence, as a torrent that has burst

its bounds.

"I _cannot_ bear this uncertainty!" he murmured to himself. And he went

out of the room and took up his hat. Mrs. Halliburton, who at that

moment happened to be crossing from another room, saw him open the

hall-door.

"Are you going to young Finchley, Edgar?"

"No. I shall give him holiday for to-night. I shall be in soon, Jane."

He went straight to their own family doctor; a Mr. Allen, who lived

close by. They were personal friends.

To the inquiry as to whether Mr. Allen was at home, the servant was

about to usher him into the family sitting-room, but Mr. Halliburton

stepped into the dusky surgery. He was in no mood for ladies' company.

"I will wait here," he said. "Tell your master I wish to say a word to

him."

The surgeon came immediately, a lighted candle in his hand. He was a

dark man with a thin face. "Why won't you come in?" he asked. "There's

only Mrs. Allen and the girls there. Is anything the matter?"

"Yes, Allen, something is the matter," was

Mr. Halliburton's reply. "I want a friend to-night: one who will deal

with me candidly and openly: and I have come to you. Sit down."

They both sat down; and Mr. Halliburton gave him the history of the past

four and twenty hours: commencing with the fainting-fit, and ending with

his racking doubts as to whether Dr. Carrington's opinion was borne out

by facts, or whether he might have been deceived. "Allen," he concluded,

"you must see what you can make out of my state: and you must report to

me without disguise, as you would report to your own soul."

The surgeon looked grave. "Carrington is a clever man," he said. "One

whom it would be difficult to deceive."

"I know his reputation. But these clever men are not infallible. Put his

opinion out of your mind: examine me yourself, and tell me what you

think."

Mr. Allen proceeded to do so. He first of all asked Mr. Halliburton a

few general questions as to his present state of health, as he would

have done by any other patient, and then he sounded his lungs.

"Now then--the truth," said Mr. Halliburton.

"The truth is--so far as I can judge--that you are in no present danger

whatever."

"Neither did Dr. Carrington say I was--in present danger," hastily

replied Mr. Halliburton. "Are my lungs sound?"

"They are not sound: but neither do I think they are extensively

diseased. You may live for many years, with care."

"Would any insurance office take me?"

"No. I do not think it would."

"It is just my death-knell, Allen."

"If you look at it in that light I shall be very sorry to have given you

my opinion," observed the surgeon. "I repeat that, by taking care of

yourself, you may stave off disease and live many years. I would not say

this unless I thought it."

"And would your opinion be the same as the doctor's--that I must leave

London for the country?"

"I think you would have a far better chance of getting well in the

country than you have here. You have told me over and over again, you

know, that you were sure London air was bad for you."

"Ay, I have," replied Mr. Halliburton. "I never have felt quite well in

it, and that's the truth. Well, I must see what can be done. Good

evening."

If the edict did not appear to be so irrevocably dark as that of Dr.

Carrington, it was yet dark enough; and Mr. Halliburton, striving to

look it full in the face, as he was in the habit of doing by troubles

less grave, endeavoured to set himself to think "what could be done."

There was no possible chance of keeping it from his wife. If it was

really necessary that their place of residence should be changed, she

must be taken into counsel; and the sooner she was told the better. He

went home, resolved to tell her before he slept.

The little troop departed, the children in bed, they sat together over

the fire; though the weather had become warm, an evening fire was

pleasant still. He sat nervous and fidgety. Now the moment had arrived,

he shrunk from his task.

"Edgar, I am sure you are not well!" she exclaimed. "I have observed it

all the evening."

"Yes, Jane, I am well. Pretty well, that is. The truth is, my darling, I

have some bad news for you, and I don't like to tell it."

Her own family were safe and well under her roof, and her fears flew to

Francis, to Margaret, to Robert. Mr. Halliburton stopped her.

"It does not concern any of them, Jane. It is about myself."

"But what can it be, about yourself?"

"They--will--not----Will you listen to the news with a brave heart?" he

broke off, with a smile, and the most cheering look he could call up to

his face.

"Oh yes." She smiled too. She thought it could be nothing very bad.

"They will not insure my life, Jane."

Her heart stood still. "But why not?"

"They consider it too great a risk. They fancy I am not strong."

A sudden flush to her face; a moment's stillness; and then Jane

Halliburton clasped her hands with a faint cry of despair. She saw that

more remained behind.

CHAPTER VIII.

SUSPENSE.

Mrs. Halliburton sat in her chair, still enough except for the wailing

cry which had just escaped her lips. Her husband would not look at her

in that moment. His gaze was bent on the fire, and his cheek lay in his

hand. As she cried out, he stretched forth his other hand and let it

fall lightly upon hers.

"Jane, had I thought you would look at the dark side of the picture, I

should have hesitated to tell you. Why, my dear child, the very fact of

my telling you at all, should convince you that there's nothing very

serious the matter," he added, in cheering tones of reasoning. Now that

he had spoken, he deemed it well to make the very best he could of it.

"You say they will _not_ insure your life?"

"Well, Jane, perhaps that expression was not a correct one. They have

not declined as yet to do so; but Dr. Carrington says he cannot give the

necessary certificate as to my being a thoroughly sound and healthy

man."

"Then you did go up to Dr. Carrington?"

"I did. Forgive me, Jane: I could not enter upon it before all the

children."

She leaned over and laid her head upon his shoulder. "Tell me all about

it, Edgar," she whispered; "as much as you know yourself."

"I have told you nearly all, Jane. I saw Dr. Carrington, and he asked me

a great many questions, and examined me here"--touching his chest. "He

fancies the organs are not sound, and declined giving the certificate."

"That your chest is not sound?" asked Jane.

"He said the lungs."

"Ah!" she uttered. "What else did he say?"

"Well, he said nothing about heart, or liver, or any other vital part,

so I conclude they are all right, and that there was nothing to say,"

replied Mr. Halliburton, attempting to be cheerful. "I could have told

him my brain was strong enough had he asked about that, for I'm sure it

gets its full share of work. I need not have mentioned this to you at

all, Jane, but for a perplexing bit of advice the doctor gave me."

Jane sat straight in her chair again, and looked at Mr. Halliburton. The

colour was beginning to return to her face. He continued:

"Dr. Carrington earnestly recommends me to remove from London.

Indeed--he said--that it was necessary--if I would get well. No wonder

that you found my manner absent," he continued very rapidly after his

hesitation, "with that unpalatable counsel to digest."

"Did he think you very ill?" she breathed.

"He did not say I was 'very ill,' Jane. I am not very ill, as you may

see for yourself. My dear, what he said was that my lungs

were--were----"

"Diseased?" she put in.

"Diseased. Yes, that was it," he truthfully replied. "It is the term

that medical men apply when they wish to indicate delicacy. And he

strenuously recommended me to leave London."

"For how long? Did he say?"

"He said for good."

Jane felt startled. "How could it be done, Edgar?"

"In truth I do not know. If I leave London I leave my living behind me.

Now you see why I was so absorbed at tea-time. When you saw me go out, I

was going round to Allen's."

"And what does _he_ say?" she eagerly interrupted.

"Oh, he seems to think it a mere nothing, compared with Dr. Carrington.

He agreed with him on one point--that I ought to live out of London."

"Edgar, I will tell you what I think must be done," said Jane, after a

pause. "I have not had time to reflect much upon it: but it strikes me

that it would be advisable for you to see another doctor, and take his

opinion: some man who is clever in affections of the lungs. Go to him

to-morrow, without any delay. Should he say that you must leave London,

of course we must leave it, no matter what the sacrifice."

The advice corresponded with Mr. Halliburton's own opinion, and he

resolved to follow it. A conviction amounting to a certainty was upon

him, that, go to what doctor he might, the fiat would be the same as Dr.

Carrington's. He did not say so to Jane. On the contrary, he spoke of

these insurance-office doctors as being over-fastidious in the interests

of the office; and he tried to deceive his own heart with the sophistry.

"Shall you apply to another office to insure your life?" Jane asked.

"I would, if I thought it would not be useless."

"You think it would be useless?"

"The offices all keep their own doctors, and those doctors, it is my

belief, are unnecessarily particular. I should call them crotchety,

Jane."

"I think it must amount to this," said Jane; "that if there is anything

seriously the matter with you, no office will be found to do it; but if

the affection is only trifling or temporary you may be accepted."

"That is about it. Oh, Jane!" he added, with an irrepressible burst of

anguish, "what would I not give to have insured my life before this came

upon me! All those past years! They seem to have been allowed to run to

waste, when I might have been using them to lay up in store for the

children!"

How many are there of us who, looking back, can feel that our past

years, in some way or other, have _not_ been allowed to run to waste?

What a sleepless night that was for him! What a sleepless night for his

wife! Both rose in the morning equally unrefreshed.

"To what doctor will you go?" Jane inquired as she was dressing.

"I have been thinking of Dr. Arnold of Finsbury," he replied.

"Yes, you could not go to a better. Edgar, you will let me accompany

you?"

"No, no, Jane. Your accompanying me would do no good. You could not go

into the room with me."

She saw the force of the objection. "I shall be so very anxious," she

said, in a low tone.

He laughed at her; he was willing to make light of it if it might ease

her fears. "My dear, I will come home at once and report to you: I will

borrow Jack's seven-leagued boots, that I may come to you the quicker."

"You know that I _shall_ be anxious," she repeated, feeling vexed.

"Jane," he said, his tone changing: "I see that you are more anxious

already than is good for you. It is not well that you should be so."

"I wish I could be with you! I wish I could hear, as you will, Dr.

Arnold's opinion from his own lips!" was all she answered.

"I will faithfully repeat it to you," said Mr. Halliburton.

"Faithfully--word for word? On your honour?"

"Yes, Jane, I will. You have my promise. Good news I shall be only too

glad to tell you; and, should it be the worst, it will be necessary that

you should know it."

"You must be there before ten o'clock," she observed; "otherwise there

will be little chance of seeing him."

"I shall be there by nine, Jane. To spare time later would interfere too

much with my day's work."

A thought crossed Jane's mind--if the fiat were unfavourable what would

become of his day's work then--all his days? But she did not utter it.

"Oh, papa," cried Janey at breakfast, "was it not a beautiful party! Did

you _ever_ enjoy yourself so much before?"

"I don't suppose you ever did, Janey," he replied, in kindly tones.

"No, that I never did. Alice Harvey's birthday comes in summer, and she

says she knows her mamma will let her give just such another!

Mamma!"--turning to Mrs. Halliburton.

"Well, Jane?"

"Shall you let me have a new frock for it? You know I tore mine last

night."

"All in good time, Janey. We don't know where we may all be then."

No, they did not. A foreshadowing of it was already upon the spirit of

Mrs. Halliburton. Not upon the children: they were spared it as yet.

"Do not be surprised if you see me waiting for you when you come out of

Dr. Arnold's," said Jane to her husband, in low tones, as he was going

out.

"But, Jane, why? Indeed, I think it would be foolish of you to come. My

dear, I never knew you like this before."

Perhaps not. But when, before, had there been cause for this

apprehension?

Jane watched him depart. Calm as she contrived to remain outwardly, she

was in a terribly restless, nervous state; little accustomed as she was

so to give way. A sick feeling was within her, a miserable sensation of

suspense; and she could scarcely battle with it. You may have felt the

same, in the dread approach of some great calamity. The reading over,

Janey got her books about, as usual. Mrs. Halliburton took charge of her

education in every branch, excepting music: for that she had a master.

She would not send Jane to school. The child sat down to her books, and

was surprised at seeing her mother come into the room with her things

on.

"Mamma! Are you going out?"

"For a little time, Jane."

"Oh, let me go! Let me go too!"

"Not this morning, dear. You will have plenty of work--preparing the

lessons that you could not prepare last night."

"So I shall," said Janey. "I thought perhaps you meant to excuse them,

mamma."

It was almost _impossible_ for Jane to remain in the house, in her

present state of agitation. She knew that it did appear absurdly foolish

to go after her husband; but, walk somewhere she must: how could she

turn a different way from that which he had taken? It was some distance

to Finsbury; half an hour's walk at least. Should she go, or should she

not, she asked herself as she went out of the house. She began to think

that she might have remained at home had she exercised self-control. She

had a great mind to turn back, and was slackening her pace, when she

caught sight of Mr. Allen at his surgery window.

An impulse came over her that she would go in and ask his opinion of her

husband. She opened the door and entered. The surgeon was making up some

pills.

"You are out early, Mrs. Halliburton!"

"Yes," she replied. "Mr. Halliburton has gone to Finsbury Square to see

Dr. Arnold, and I----Do you think him very ill?" she abruptly broke off.

"I do not, myself. Carrington----Did you know he had been to Dr.

Carrington?" asked Mr. Allen, almost fearing he might be betraying

secrets.

"I know all about it. I know what the doctor said. Do you think Dr.

Carrington was mistaken?"

"In a measure. There's no doubt the lungs are affected, but I believe

not to the grave extent assumed by Dr. Carrington."

"He assumed, then, that they were affected to a grave extent?" she

hastily repeated, her heart beating faster.

"I thought you said you knew all about it, Mrs. Halliburton?"

"So I do. He may possibly not have told me the very worst said by Dr.

Carrington; but he told me quite sufficient. Mr. Allen, _you_ tell

me--do you think that there is a chance of his recovery?"

"Most certainly I do," warmly replied the surgeon. "Every chance, Mrs.

Halliburton. I see no reason whatever why he should not keep as well as

he is now, and live for years, provided he takes care of himself. It

appears that Dr. Carrington very strongly urged his removing into the

country; he went so far as to say that it was his only chance for

life--and in that I think he went too far again. But the country would

undoubtedly do for him what London will not."

"You think that he ought to remove to the country?" she inquired,

showing no sign of the terror those incautious words brought her--"his

only chance for life."

"I do. If it be possible for him to manage his affairs so as to get

away, I should say let him do so by all means."

"It _must_ be done, you know, Mr. Allen, if it is essential."

"In my judgment it should be done. Many and many a time I have said to

him myself, 'It's a pity but that you could be out of this heavy

London!' Fogs affect him, and smoke affects him--the air altogether

affects him: and I only wonder it has not told upon him before. As Dr.

Carrington observed to him, there are some constitutions which somehow

will not thrive here."

Mrs. Halliburton rose with a sigh. "I am glad you do not think so very

seriously of him," she breathed.

"I do not think _seriously_ of him at all," was the surgeon's answer. "I

confess that he is not strong, and that he must have care. The pure air

of the country, and relaxation from some of his most pressing work, may

do wonders for him. If I might advise, I should say, Let no pecuniary

considerations keep him here. And that is very disinterested advice,

Mrs. Halliburton," concluded the doctor, laughing, "for, in losing you,

I should lose both friends and patients."

Jane went out. Those ominous words were still ringing in her ears--"his

only chance for life."

Forcing herself to self-control, she did _not_ go to meet Mr.

Halliburton. She returned home and took off her things, and gave what

attention she could to Jane's lessons. But none can tell the suspense

that was agitating her: the ever-restless glances she cast to the

window, to see him pass. By-and-by she went and stood there.

At last she saw him coming along in the distance. She would have liked

to fly to meet him--to say, What is the news? but she did not. More

patience, and then, when he came in at the front door, she left the room

she was in, and went with him into the drawing-room, her face white as

death.

He saw how agitated she was, strive as she would for calmness. He stood

looking at her with a smile.

"Well, Jane, it is not so very formidable, after all."

Her face grew hot, and her heart bounded on. "What does Dr. Arnold say?

You know, Edgar, you promised me the truth without disguise."

"You shall have it, Jane. Dr. Arnold's opinion of me is not

unfavourable. That the lungs are to a certain extent affected, is

indisputable, and he thinks they have been so for some time. But he sees

nothing to indicate present danger to life. He believes that I may grow

into an old man yet."

Jane breathed freely. A word of earnest thanks went up from her heart.

"With proper diet--he has given me certain rules for living--and pure

air and sunshine, he considers that I have really little to fear. I told

you, Jane, those insurance doctors make the worst of things."

"Dr. Arnold, then, recommends the country?" observed Jane, paying no

attention to the last remark.

"Very strongly. Almost as strongly as Dr. Carrington."

Jane lifted her eyes to her husband's face. "Dr. Carrington said, you

know, that it was your only chance of life."

"Not quite as bad as that, Jane," he returned, never supposing but he

must himself have let the remark slip, and wondering how he came to do

so. "What Dr. Carrington said was, that it was London _versus_ life."

"It is the same thing, Edgar. And now, what is to be done? Of course we

have no alternative; into the country we must go. The question is,

where?"

"Ay, that is the question," he answered. "Not only where, but what to

do? I cannot drop down into a fresh place, and expect teaching to

surround me at once, as if it had been waiting for me. But I have not

time to talk now. Only fancy! it is half-past ten."

Mr. Halliburton went out and Jane remained, fastened as it were to her

chair. A hundred perplexing plans and schemes were already working in

her brain.

CHAPTER IX.

SEEKING A HOME.

Plans and schemes continued to work in Mrs. Halliburton's brain for days

and days to come. Many and many an anxious consultation did she and her

husband hold together--where should they go? What should they do? That

it was necessary to do something, and speedily, events proved,

independently of what had been said by the doctors. Before another month

had passed over his head, Mr. Halliburton had become so much worse that

he had to resign his post at King's College. But, to the hopeful minds

of himself and Jane, the country change was to bring its remedy for all

ills. They had grown to anticipate it with enthusiasm.

His thoughts naturally ran upon teaching, as his continued occupation.

He knew nothing of any other. All England was before him; and he

supposed he might obtain a living at it, wherever he might go. Such

testimonials as his were not met with every day. His cousin Julia had

married a man of some local influence (as Mr. Halliburton had

understood) in the city in which they resided, the chief town of one of

the midland counties: and a thought crossed his mind more than once,

whether it might not be well to choose that same town to settle in.

"They might be able to recommend me, you see, Jane," he observed to his

wife, one evening as they were sitting together, after the children were

in bed. "Not that I should much like to ask any favour of Julia."

"Why not?" said Jane.

"Because she is not a pleasant person to ask a favour of: it is many

years since I saw her, but I well remember that. Another reason why I

feel inclined to that place is that it is a cathedral town. Cathedral

towns have many of the higher order of the clergy in them; learning is

sure to be considered there, should it not be anywhere else.

Consequently there would be an opening for classical teaching."

Jane thought the argument had weight.

"And there's yet another thing," continued Mr. Halliburton. "You

remember Peach?"

"Peach?--Peach?" repeated Jane, as if unable to recall the name.

"The young fellow I had so much trouble with, a few years ago--drilling

him between his terms at Oxford. But for me, he never would have passed

either his great or his little go. He did get plucked the first time he

went up. You must remember him, Jane: he has often taken tea with us

here."

"Oh, yes--yes! I remember him now. Charley Peach."

"Well, he has recently been appointed to a minor canonry in that same

cathedral," resumed Mr. Halliburton. "Dr. Jacobs told me of it the other

day. Now I am quite sure that Peach would be delighted to say a word for

me, or to put anything in my way. That is another reason why I am

inclined to go there."

"I suppose the town is a healthy one?"

"Ay, that it is; and it is seated in one of the most charming of our

counties. There'll be no London fogs or smoke there."

"Then, Edgar, let us decide upon it."

"Yes, I think so--unless we should hear of an opening elsewhere that may

promise better. We must be away by Midsummer, if we can, or soon after.

It will be sharp work, though."

"What trouble it will be to pack the furniture!" she exclaimed.

"Pack what furniture, Jane? We must sell the furniture."

"Sell the furniture!" she uttered, aghast.

"My dear, it would never do to take the furniture down. It would cost

almost as much as it is worth. There's no knowing, either, how long it

might be upon the road, or what damage it might receive. I expect it

would have to go principally by water."

"By water!" cried Mrs. Halliburton.

"I fancy so--by barge, I mean. Waggons would not take it, except by

paying heavily. A great deal of the country traffic is done by water.

This furniture is old, Jane, most of it, and will not bear rough

travelling. Consider how many years your father and mother had it in

use."

"Then what should we do for furniture when we get there?" asked Jane.

"Buy new with the money we receive from the sale of this. I have been

reflecting upon it a good deal, Jane, and fancy it will be the better

plan. However, if you care for this old furniture, we must take it."

Jane looked round upon it. She did care for the time-used furniture; but

she knew how old it was, and was willing to do whatever might be best. A

vision came into her mind of fresh, bright furniture, and it looked

pleasant in imagination. "It would certainly be a great deal to pack and

carry," she acknowledged. "And some of it is not worth it."

"And it would be more than we should want," resumed Mr. Halliburton.

"Wherever we go we must be content with a small house; at any rate at

first. But it will be time enough to go into these details, Jane, when

we have finally decided upon our destination."

"Oh, Edgar! I shall be so sorry to take the boys from King's College."

"Jane," he said, a flash of pain crossing his face as he spoke, "there

are so many things connected with it altogether that cause me sorrow,

that my only resource is not to think upon them. I might be tempted to

repine to ask in a spirit of rebellion why this affliction should have

come upon us. It is God's decree, and it is my duty to submit as

patiently as I can."

It was her duty also: and she knew it as she laid her hand upon her

weary brow. A weary, weary brow from henceforth, that of Jane

Halliburton!

CHAPTER X.

A DYING BED.

In a handsome chamber of a handsome house in Birmingham, an old man lay

dying. For most of his life he had been engaged in a large wholesale

business--had achieved local position, had accumulated moderate wealth.

But neither wealth nor position can ensure peace to a death-bed; and the

old man lay on his, groaning over the past.

The season was that of mid-winter. Not the winter following the intended

removal of Mr. Halliburton from London, as spoken of in the last

chapter, but the winter preceding it--for it is necessary to go back a

little. A hard, sharp, white day in January: and the fire was piled high

in the sick room, and the large flakes of snow piled themselves outside

on the window frames and beat against the glass. The room was fitted up

with every comfort the most fastidious invalid could desire; and yet, I

say, nothing seemed to bring comfort to the invalid lying there. His

hands were clenched as in mortal agony; his eyes were apparently

watching the falling snow. The eyes saw it not: in reality they were

cast back to where his mind was--the past.

What could be troubling him? Was it that loss, only two years ago, by

which one-half of his savings had been engulfed? Scarcely. A man

dying--as he knew he was--would be unlikely to care about that now.

Ample competence had remained to him, and he had neither son nor

daughter to inherit. Hark! what is it that he is murmuring between his

parched lips, to the accompaniment of his clenched hands?

"I see it all now; I see it all! While we are buoyed up with health and

strength, we continue hard, selfish, obstinate in our wickedness. But

when death comes, we awake to our error; and death has come to me, and I

have awakened to mine. Why did I turn him out like a dog? He had neither

kith nor kin, and I sent him adrift on the world, to fight with it or to

starve! He was the only child of my sister, and she was gone. She and I

were of the same father and mother; we shared the same meals in

childhood, the same home, the same play, the same hopes. She wrote to me

when she was dying, as I am dying now: 'Richard, should my poor boy be

left fatherless--for my husband's health seems to be failing--be his

friend and protector for Helen's sake, and may Heaven bless you for it!'

And I scoffed at the injunction when the boy offended me, and turned him

out. _Shall I have to answer for it?_"

The last anxious doubt was uttered more audibly than the rest; it

escaped from his lips with a groan. A woman who was dozing over the fire

started up.

"Did you call, sir?"

"No. Go out and leave me."

"But----"

"Go out and leave me," he repeated, with anger little fitted to his

position. And the woman was speeding from the room, when he caught at

the curtain and recalled her.

"Are they not come?"

"Not yet, sir. But, with this heavy fall, it's not to be wondered at.

The highways must be almost impassable. With good roads they might have

been here hours ago."

She went out. He lay back on his pillow: his eyes wide open, but wearing

the same dreamy look. You may be wondering who he is; though you

probably guess, for you have heard of him once before as Mr. Cooper, the

uncle who discarded Edgar Halliburton.

I must give you a few words of retrospect. Richard Cooper was the eldest

of three children; the others were a brother and a sister: Richard,

Alfred, and Helen. Alfred and Helen both married; Richard never did

marry. It was somewhat singular that the brother and sister should both

die, each leaving an orphan; and that the orphans should find a home in

the house of their Uncle Richard. Julia Cooper, the brother's orphan,

was the first to come to it, a long time before Edgar Halliburton came.

Helen had married the Rev. William Halliburton, and she died at his

rectory in Devonshire--sending that earnest prayer to her brother

Richard which you have just heard him utter. A little while, and her

husband, the rector, also died; and then it was that Edgar went up to

his Uncle Richard's. Fortunate for these two orphan children, it

appeared to be, that their uncle had not married and could give them a

good home.

A good home he did give them. Julia left it first to become the wife of

Anthony Dare, a solicitor in large practice in a distant city. She

married him very soon after her cousin Edgar came to his uncle's. And it

was after the marriage of Julia that Edgar was discarded and turned

adrift. Years, many years, had gone by since then; and here lay Richard

Cooper, stricken for death and repenting of the harshness, which he had

not repented of or sought to atone for all through those long years. Ah,

my friends! whatsoever may lie upon our consciences, however we may have

contrived to ignore it during our busy lives, be assured that it will

find us out on our death-bed!

Richard Cooper lay back on his pillow, his eyes wide open with their

inward tribulation. "Who knows but there would be time yet?" he suddenly

murmured. And the thought appeared to rouse his mind and flush his

cheek, and he lifted his hand and grasped the bell-rope, ringing it so

loudly as to bring two servants to the room.

"Go up, one of you, to Lawyer Weston's," he uttered. "Bring him back

with you. Tell him I want to alter my will, and that there may yet be

time. Don't send--one of _you_ go," he repeated in tones of agonising

entreaty. "Bring him; bring him back with you!"

As the echo of his voice died away there came a loud summons at the

street door, as of a hasty arrival. "Sir," cried one of the maids,

"they're come at last! I thought I heard a carriage drawing up in the

snow."

"Who's come?" he asked in some confusion of mind. "Weston?"

"Not him, sir; Mr. and Mrs. Dare," replied the servant as she hurried

out.

A lady and gentleman were getting out of a coach at the door. A tall,

very tall man, with handsome features, but an unpleasantly free

expression. The lady was tall also, stout and fair, with an imperious

look in her little turned-up nose. "Are we in time?" the latter asked of

the servants.

"It's nearly as much as can be said, ma'am," was the answer. "But he has

roused up in the last hour, and is growing excited. The doctors thought

it might be so: that he'd not continue in the lethargy to the last."

They went on at once to the sick chamber. Every sense of the dying man

appeared to be on the alert. His hands were holding back the curtain,

his eyes were strained on the door. "Why have you been so long?" he

cried in a voice of strength they were surprised to hear.

"Dear uncle," said Mrs. Dare, bending over the bed and clasping the

feeble hands, "we started the very moment the letter came. But we could

not get along--the roads are dreadfully heavy."

"Sir," whispered a servant in the invalid's ear, "are we to go now for

Lawyer Weston?"

"No, there's no need," was the prompt answer. "Anthony Dare, you are a

lawyer," continued Mr. Cooper; "you'll do what I want done as well as

another. Will you do it?"

"Anything you please, sir," was Mr. Dare's reply.

"Sit down, then; Julia, sit down. You may be hungry and thirsty after

your journey; but you must wait. Life's not ebbing out of you, as it is

out of me. We'll get this matter over, that my mind may be so far at

rest; and then you can eat and drink of the best that my house affords.

I am in mortal pain, Anthony Dare."

Mrs. Dare was silently removing some of her outer wrappings, and

whispering with the servant at the extremity of the roomy chamber; but

Mr. Dare, who had taken off his great-coat and hat in the hall,

continued to stand by the sick bed.

"I am sorry to hear it, sir," he said, in reply to Mr. Cooper's

concluding sentence. "Can the medical men afford you no relief?"

"It is pain of mind, Anthony Dare, not pain of body. _That_ pain has

passed from me. I would have sent for you and Julia before, but I did

not think until yesterday that the end was so near. Never let a man be

guilty of injustice!" broke forth Mr. Cooper, vehemently. "Or let him

know that it will come home to him to trouble his dying bed."

"What can I do for you, sir?" questioned Mr. Dare.

"If you will open that bureau, you'll find pen, ink, and paper. Julia,

come here: and see that we are alone."

The servant left the room, and Mrs. Dare came forward, divested of her

cloaks. She wore a handsome dark-blue satin dress (much the fashion at

that time) with a good deal of rich white lace about it, a heavy gold

chain, and some very showy amethysts set in gold. The jewellery was

real, however, not sham; but altogether her attire looked somewhat out

of place for a death-chamber.

The afternoon was drawing to a close. What with that and the dense

atmosphere outside, the chamber had grown dim. Mr. Dare disposed the

writing materials on a small round table at the invalid's elbow, and

then looked towards the distant window.

"I fear I cannot see, sir, without a light."

"Call for it, Julia," said the invalid.

A lamp was brought in and placed on the table, so that its rays should

not affect those eyes so soon to close to all earthly light. And Mr.

Dare waited, pen in hand.

"I have been hard and wilful," began Mr. Cooper, putting up his

trembling hands. "I have been obdurate, and selfish, and unjust; and now

it is keeping peace from me----"

"But in what way, dear uncle?" softly put in Mrs. Dare; and it may as

well be remarked that whenever Mrs. Dare attempted to speak softly and

kindly it seemed to bear an unnatural sound to others' ears.

"In what way?--why, with regard to Edgar Halliburton," said Mr. Cooper,

the dew breaking out upon his brow. "In seeking to follow the calling

marked out for him by his father, he only did his duty; and I should

have seen it in that light but for my own obstinate pride and self-will.

I did wrong to discard him: I have done wrong ever since in keeping him

from me, in refusing to be reconciled. Are you listening, Anthony Dare?"

"Certainly, sir. I hear."

"Julia, I say that there was no reason for my turning him away. There

has been no reason for my keeping him away. I have refused to be

reconciled: I have sent back his letters unopened; I have held him at

contemptuous defiance. When I heard that he had married, I cast harsh

words to him because he had not asked my consent, though I was aware all

the time, that I had given him no opportunity to ask it--I had harshly

refused all overtures, all intercourse. I cast harsh words to his wife,

knowing her not. But I see my error now. Do you see it, Julia? Do you

see it, Anthony Dare?"

"Would you like to have him sent for, sir?" suggested Mr. Dare.

"It is too late. He could not be here in time. I don't know, either,

where he lives in London, or what his address may be. Do you?"--looking

at his niece.

"Oh dear, no," she replied, with a slightly contemptuous gesture of the

shoulders. As much as to imply that to know the address of her cousin

Edgar was quite beneath her.

"No, he could not get here," repeated the dying man, whilst Mrs. Dare

wiped the dews that had gathered on his pallid and wrinkled brow.

"Julia! Anthony! Anthony Dare!"

"Sir, what is it?"

"I wish you both to listen to me. I cannot die with this injustice

unrepaired. I have made my will in Julia's favour. It is all left to

her, except a few trifles to my servants. When the property comes to be

realised, there will be at least sixteen thousand pounds, and but for

that late mad speculation I entered into there would have been nearly

forty thousand."

He paused. But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dare answered.

"You are a lawyer, Anthony, and could draw up a fresh will. But there's

no time, I say. What is darkening the room?" he abruptly broke off to

ask.

Mr. Dare looked hastily up. Nothing was darkening the room, except the

gradually increasing gloom of evening.

"My sight is growing dim, then," said the invalid. "Listen to me, both

of you. I charge you, Anthony and Julia Dare, that you divide this money

with Edgar Halliburton. Give him his full share; the half, even to a

farthing. Will you do so, Anthony Dare?"

"Yes, I will, sir."

"Be it so. I charge you both solemnly--do not fail. If you would lay up

peace for the time when you shall come to be where I am--do not fail.

There's no time legally to do what is right; I feel that there is not.

Ere the deed could be drawn up I should be gone, and could not sign it.

But I leave the charge upon you; the solemn charge. The half of my money

belongs of right to Edgar Halliburton: Julia has claim only to the other

half. Be careful how you divide it: you are sole executor, Anthony Dare.

Have you your paper ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then dot down a few words, as I dictate, and I will sign them. 'I,

Richard Cooper, do repent of my injustice to my dear nephew, Edgar

Halliburton. And I desire, by this my last act on my death-bed, to

bequeath to him the half of the money and property I shall die possessed

of; and I charge Anthony Dare, the executor of my will, to carry out

this act and wish as strictly as though it were a formal and legal one.

I desire that whatever I shall die possessed of, save the bequests to my

servants, may be equally divided between my nephew Edgar and my niece

Julia.'"

The dying man paused. "I think that's all that need be said," he

observed. "Have you finished writing it, Anthony Dare?"

Mr. Dare wrote fast and quickly, and was concluding the last words. "It

is written, sir."

"Read it."

Mr. Dare proceeded to do so. Short as the time was which it took to

accomplish this, the old man had fallen into a doze ere it was

concluded; a doze or a partial stupor. They could not tell which; but,

in leaning over him, he woke up with a start.

"I can't die with this injustice unrepaired!" he cried, his memory

evidently ignoring what had just been done. "Anthony Dare, your wife has

no right to all my money. I shall leave half of it to Edgar. I want you

to write it down."

"It is done, sir. This is the paper."

"Where? where? Why don't you get light into the room? It's dark--dark.

This? Is this it?"--as Mr. Dare put it into his hand. "Now, mind!" he

added, his tone changing to one of solemn enjoinder; "mind you act upon

it. Julia has no right to more than her half share; she must not take

more: money kept by wrong, acquired by injustice, never prospers. It

would not bring you good, it would not bring a blessing. Give Edgar his

legal half; and give him his old uncle's love and contrition. Tell him,

if the past could come over again there should be no estrangement

between us."

He lay panting for a few minutes, and then spoke again, the paper having

fallen unnoticed from his hand.

"Julia, when you see Edgar's wife--Did I sign that paper?" he broke off.

"No, sir," said Mr. Dare. "Will you sign it now?"

"Ay. But, signed or not signed, you'll equally act upon it. I don't put

it forth as a legal document; I suppose it would not, in this informal

state, stand good in law. It is only a reminder to you, Anthony Dare,

that you may not forget my wishes. Hold me up in bed, and have lights

brought in."

Anthony Dare drew the curtain back, and the rays of the lamp flashed

upon the dying man. Mr. Dare looked round for a book on which to place

the paper while it was signed.

"I want a light," came again from the bed, in a pleading tone. "Julia,

why don't you tell them to bring in the lamp?"

"The lamp is here, uncle. It is close to you."

"Then there's no oil in it," he cried. "Julia, I _will_ have lights

here. Tell them to bring up the dining-room lamps. Don't ring; go and

see that they are brought."

Unwilling to oppose him, and doubting lest his sight should really have

gone, Mrs. Dare went out, and returned with one of the servants and more

light. Mr. Cooper was then lying back on his pillow, dozing and

unconscious.

"Has he signed the paper?" Mrs. Dare whispered to her husband.

He shook his head negatively, and pointed to it. It was lying on the

bed, just as Mrs. Dare had left it. Mrs. Dare caught it up from any

prying eyes that might be about, folded it, and held it securely in her

hand.

"He will wake up again presently, and can sign it then," observed Mr.

Dare, just as a gentle ring was heard at the house door.

"It's the doctor," said the servant; "I know his ring."

But the old man never did sign the paper, and never woke up again. He

lay in a state of lethargy throughout the night. Mr. and Mrs. Dare

watched by his bedside; the servants watched; and the doctors came in at

intervals. But there was no change in his state; until the last great

change. It occurred at daybreak; and when the neighbours opened their

windows to the cold and the snow, the house of Richard Cooper remained

closed. Death was within it.

CHAPTER XI.

HELSTONLEIGH.

I believe that most of the readers of "The Channings" will not like this

story less because its scene is laid in the same place, Helstonleigh.

I narrate to you, as you may have already discovered, a great deal of

truth: of events that have actually happened, combined with fiction. I

can only do this from my own personal experience, by taking you to the

scenes and places where I have lived. Of this same town, Helstonleigh, I

could relate to you volumes. No place in the world holds so green a spot

in my memory. Do you remember Longfellow's poem--"My Lost Youth"?

"Often I think of the beautiful town,

That is seated by the sea;

Often in thought go up and down

The pleasant streets of that dear old town,

And my youth comes back to me.

And a verse of a Lapland song

Is haunting my memory still:

'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

"I remember the gleams and glooms that dart

Across the schoolboy's brain;

The song and the silence in the heart,

That in part are prophecies, and in part

Are longings wild and vain.

And the voice of that fitful song

Sings on, and is never still:

'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

"There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:

'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

"Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:

'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'

"And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,

And with joy that is almost pain

My heart goes back to wander there,

And among the dreams of the days that were

I find my lost youth again.

And the music of that old song

Throbs in my memory still:

'A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"

Those are some of its verses, and what "Deering" is to Longfellow,

"Helstonleigh" is to me.

The Birmingham stage-coach came into Helstonleigh one summer's night,

and stopped at its destination, the Star-and-Garter Hotel, bringing with

it some London passengers. The direct line of rail to Helstonleigh from

London was not then opened; and this may serve to tell you how long it

is ago. A lady and a little girl stepped from the inside of the coach,

and a gentleman and three boys got down from the outside. The latter

were soaking. Almost immediately after leaving Birmingham, to which

place the rail had conveyed them, the rain had commenced to pour in

torrents, and those outside received its full benefit. The coach was

crammed, inside and out, but with the other passengers we have nothing

to do. We have with these; they were the Halliburtons.

For the town which Mr. Halliburton had been desirous to remove to, the

one in which his cousin, Mrs. Dare, resided, was no other than

Helstonleigh.

Mrs. Halliburton drew a long face when she set eyes on her husband's

condition. "Edgar! you must be wet through and through!"

"Yes, I am. There was no help for it."

"You should have come inside when I wanted you to do so," she cried, in

a voice of distress. "You should indeed."

"And have suffered you to take my place outside? Nonsense, Jane!"

Jane looked at the hotel. "We had better remain here for the night. What

do you think?"

"Yes, I think so," he replied. "It is too wet to go about looking after

anything that might be less expensive. Inquire if we can have rooms,

Jane, whilst I see after the luggage."

Mrs. Halliburton went in, leading Janey, and was confronted by the

barmaid, a smart young woman in a smart cap. "Can we sleep here

to-night?" she inquired.

"Yes, certainly. How many beds?"

"I will go up with you and see," said Mrs. Halliburton. "Be so kind as

not to put us in your more expensive rooms," she added, in a lower tone.

The barmaid looked at her from top to toe, as it is much in the habit of

barmaids to do when such a request is preferred. She saw a lady in a

black silk dress, a cashmere shawl, and a plain straw bonnet, trimmed

with white. Simple as the attire was, quiet as was the demeanour, there

was that about Mrs. Halliburton, in her voice, her accent, her bearing

altogether, which proclaimed her the gentlewoman; and the barmaid

condescended to be civil.

"I have nothing to do with the rooms," she said; "I'll call the

chambermaid. My goodness! You had better get those wet things off, sir,

unless you want to be laid up with cold."

The words were uttered in surprise, as her eyes encountered Mr.

Halliburton. He looked taller, and thinner, and handsomer than ever; but

he had a hollow cough now, and his cheek was hectic, and he was

certainly wet through.

The chambermaid allotted them rooms. Mr. Halliburton, after rubbing

himself dry with towels, got into a warmed bed, and had warm drink

supplied to him. Jane, after unpacking what would be wanted for the

night, returned to the sitting-room, to which her children had been

shown. A good-natured maid, seeing the boys' clothes were damp, had

lighted a fire, and they were kneeling round it, having been provided

with bread and butter and milk. Intelligent, truthful, good-looking boys

they were, with clear skins and bright, honest eyes, and open

countenances. Janey had fallen asleep on a chair, her flaxen curls

making her a pillow on its elbow. The boys crowded to one side of the

fireplace when their mother came in, leaving the larger space for her;

and William rose and gave her a chair. Mrs. Halliburton sat down, having

laid on the table a Book of Common Prayer, which she had brought in her

hand.

"Mamma, I hope papa will not be ill!"

"Oh, William, I fear it. Such a terrible wetting! And to be so long in

it! How is it that he was so much worse than you are?"

"Because he sat at the end, and the gentleman next him did not hold the

umbrella over him at all. When it came on to rain, some of the

passengers had umbrellas and some had not, so they were divided for the

best. We three had one between us, and we were wedged in between two fat

old men, who helped to keep us dry. What a pity there was not a place

for papa inside!"

"Yes; or if he would only have taken mine!" cried Mrs. Halliburton. "A

wetting would not have hurt me, as it may hurt him. What place did they

call that, William, where I got out to ask him to change?"

"Bromsgrove Lickey. Mamma, you have had no tea!"

"I do not care for any," she sighed. Hers was a hopeful nature; but

something within her, this evening, seemed to whisper of trial for the

future. She turned to the table, where stood the remains of the

children's meal, cut a piece of bread from the loaf, and slowly spread

it with butter. Then she poured out a little milk.

"Dear mamma, do have some tea!" cried William; "that's nothing but our

milk and water."

She shook her head and took the milk. Tea would only be an additional

expense, and she was too completely dispirited to care what she drank.

"I will read now," she said, taking up the Prayer-book. "And afterwards,

I think, you had better say your prayers here, near the fire, as you

have been so wet."

She chose a short psalm, and read it aloud. Then the children knelt

down, each at a separate chair, to say their prayers in silence. Not as

children's prayers are sometimes hurried over, knelt they; but with

lowly reverence, their heads bowed, their young hearts lifted, never

doubting but they were heard by God. They had been trained in a good

school.

Did you ever have a sale of old things? Goods and chattels which may

have served your purpose and looked well in their places, seem so old

when they come to be exhibited that you feel half-ashamed of them? And

as to the sum they realise--you will not have much trouble in hoarding

it. Had Mr. Halliburton known the small sum that would be the result of

his sale; had Jane dreamt that they would go for an "old song," they had

never consented to part with them. Better have been at the cost of

carrying them to Helstonleigh. Their bedding, blankets, etc., they did

take: and it was well they did so.

I feel almost afraid to tell you how very little money they had in hand

when they arrived. All their worldly wealth was little more than a

hundred and twenty pounds. Debts had to be paid before leaving London;

and it cost money to give up their house without notice, for their

landlord was severe.

One hundred and twenty pounds! And with this they had to buy fresh

furniture, and to live until teaching came in. A forlorn prospect on

which to recommence the world! No wonder that Jane shunned even tea at

the inn, or any other expense that might lessen their funds! But hope is

buoyant in the human heart: and unless it were so, half the world might

lay themselves down to die.

Morning came: a bright, sunny, beautiful morning after the rain. Not,

apparently, had Mr. Halliburton suffered. His limbs felt a little stiff,

but that would go off before the day closed. Their plans were to take a

small house, as cheap a one as they could find, in accordance with--you

really must for once excuse the word--gentility. That--a tolerably fair

appearance--was necessary to Mr. Halliburton's success as a teacher.

"A dry, healthy spot, a little way out of the town," mused the landlord

of the "Star," to whom they communicated their desire. "The London Road

would be the place then. And you probably will find there such a house

as you require."

They found their way to the London Road--a healthy suburb of the town;

and there discovered a house they thought might suit them: a

semi-detached house of good appearance, inclosed by iron railings, and

standing a little back from the road. A sitting-room was on either side

the entrance, a kitchen at the back. Three bedrooms were above; and

above these again was a garret. A small garden was behind the house; and

beyond that was a field, which did not belong to them. The adjoining

house was similar to this one; but that possessed a large and productive

garden. An inmate of that house showed them over this one, dressed as a

Quakeress. Her features were plain, but her complexion was fair and

delicate, and she had calm blue eyes.

"The rent of the house is thirty-two pounds per annum," she said, in

reply to Mrs. Halliburton's question. "It belongs to Thomas Ashley; but

thee must not apply to him. I will furnish thee with the address of the

agent, who has the letting of Friend Ashley's houses. It is Anthony

Dare. You will find the house pleasant and healthy, if you decide upon

it," she added, speaking to both of them.

The latter name had struck upon Mr. Halliburton's ear. "Jane!" he

whispered to his wife, "that must be the Mr. Dare who married my cousin,

Julia Cooper. His name was Anthony Dare."

Mr. Halliburton proceeded alone to the office of Mr. Dare, the gentleman

you met at Mr. Cooper's; Mrs. Halliburton returning to her children at

the hotel. They had decided to take the house. Mr. Dare was not at home.

"In London, with his wife," the head clerk said. But the clerk had power

to let the house. Mr. Halliburton gave him some particulars with regard

to himself, and they were considered satisfactory; but he did not

mention that he was related to Mrs. Dare.

The next thing was about furniture. The clerk directed Mr. Halliburton

to a warehouse where both new and second-hand things might be obtained,

and he proceeded to it, calling in at the "Star" for his wife. She knew

a great deal more about furniture than he. They did the best they could,

spending about fifty pounds. A Kidderminster carpet was bought for the

best sitting-room. The other room, which was to be Mr. Halliburton's

study, and the bedrooms, went for the present without any. "We will buy

all those things when we have succeeded a bit," said Mr. Halliburton.

CHAPTER XII.

ANNA LYNN.

They slept that night again at the "Star," and the following morning

early, they and their furniture took possession together of the house. A

busy day they found it, arranging things. Jane--who had determined, as

the saying runs, "to put her shoulder to the wheel," not only on this

day, but on future days--did not intend to engage a regular servant.

That, like the carpets, might be indulged in as they succeeded; but in

the mean time she thought a young girl might be found who would come in

for a few hours daily, and do what they wanted done.

In the course of the morning, the fair, pleasant face of the Quakeress

was seen approaching the back door from the garden. She wore a lilac

print gown, a net kerchief crossed under it on her neck, and the

peculiar net cap, with its high caul and neat little border.

"I have stepped in to ask if I can help thee with thy work," she began.

"Thee hast plenty to do, setting things straight, and thy husband does

not look strong. I will aid if thee pleasest."

"You are very kind to be so thoughtful for a stranger," replied Jane,

charmed with the straightforward frankness of the Quakeress. "I hope you

will first tell me to whom I am indebted."

"Thee can call me Patience," was the ready reply. "I live next door,

with Samuel Lynn and his daughter Anna. His wife died soon after the

child was born. I was related to Anna Lynn; and when she was departing

she sent for me, and begged me not to leave her child, unless Samuel

should take unto himself another wife. But that appears to be far from

his thoughts. He loves the child much; she is as the apple of his eye."

"Is Mr. Lynn in business?" asked Jane.

"Not on his own account now. He was a glove manufacturer, as a young

man, but he had not a large capital; and when the British ports were

opened for the admission of gloves from the French, it ruined him--as it

did many others in the city. Only the rich masters could stand that.

Numbers went then."

"Went!" echoed Jane. "Went where?"

"To ruin. Ah! I remember it: though it is a long time ago now. It was, I

think, in the year 1825. I cannot describe to thee the distress and

destruction it brought upon this city, until then so flourishing. The

manufacturers had to close their works, and the men went about the

streets starving."

"Did the distress continue long?"

"For weeks, and months, and years. The town will never be again, in that

respect, what it has been. Samuel Lynn was a man of integrity, and he

gave up business while he could pay everyone, and accepted the post of

manager in the manufactory of Thomas Ashley. Thomas Ashley is one of the

first manufacturers in the city, as his father was before him. When thee

shall know the place and the people better, thee will find that there is

not a name more respected throughout Helstonleigh than that of Thomas

Ashley."

"I suppose he is a rich man?"

"Yes, he is rich," replied Patience, who was as busy with her hands as

she was in talking. "His household is expensive, and he keeps his open

and his close carriages; but for all that he must be putting by money.

It is not for his riches that Thomas Ashley is respected, but for his

high character. There is not a more just man living than Thomas Ashley;

there is not a manufacturer in the town who is so considerate and kind

to his workmen. His rate of wages is on the highest scale, and he is

incapable of oppression. He has a son and daughter. He, the boy, causes

him much uneasiness and cost."

"Is he--not steady?" hastily asked Jane.

"Bless thee, it is not that!" was the laughing answer of Patience. "He

is but a young boy yet. When he was fourteen months old, the nurse let

him fall from her arms, from the first landing to the hall below. At

first they thought he was not hurt: Margaret Ashley herself thought it;

the doctors thought it. But in a little time injury grew apparent. It

lay in one of the hips; he is often in great pain, and will be lame for

life. Abscess after abscess forms in the hip. They take him to the

sea-side; to doctors in London; but nothing cures him. A beautiful boy

as you ever saw; but his hurt renders him peevish. He is fond of books;

and David Byrne, who is a Latin and Greek scholar, goes daily to

instruct him; but the boy is thrown back by his fits of illness. It is a

great grief to Thomas and Margaret Ashley. They----Why, Anna, is it

thee? What dost thou do here?"

Mrs. Halliburton turned from the kitchen cupboard, where she and

Patience were arranging crockery, to behold a little girl who was no

doubt Anna Lynn. Dark blue eyes were deeply set beneath their long

lashes, which lay on a damask and dimpled cheek; her pretty teeth shone

like pearls between her smiling lips, and her chestnut hair fell in a

mass of careless curls upon her neck. Never, Mrs. Halliburton thought,

had she seen a face so lovely. Jane was a pretty child; but Jane faded

into nothing in comparison with the vision standing there.

"Thee has thy cap off again, Anna!" cried the Quakeress, with some

asperity of tone. "Art thee not ashamed to be so bold?--going about with

thy head uncovered!"

"The cap came off, Patience," gently responded Anna. She had a sweetly

timid manner; a modest expression.

"Thee need not tell me what is untrue. When the cap is tied on, it will

not come off, unless purposely removed. Go home and put it on. Thee may

come back again. Perhaps Friend Halliburton will permit thee to stay

awhile with her children, who are arranging their books in the study. Is

thy French lesson learnt?"

"Not quite," replied Anna, running away.

She returned with a pretty little white net cap on, the model of that

worn by Patience. Her luxuriant curls were pushed under it, and the

crimped border rested on the fair forehead.

"Nay, there is no call to put all thy hair out of sight, child," said

Patience. "Where are thy combs."

"In my hair, Patience."

Patience took off the cap, formed two flat curls, by means of the combs,

on either side the temples, put the cap on again, and tucked the rest of

the hair smoothly under it. Mrs. Halliburton then took Anna's hand, and

led her to her own children.

"What a pity it is to hide her hair!" she said afterwards to Patience.

"Dost thee think so? It is the custom with our people. Anna's hair is

fine, and of a curly nature. Brush it as I will, it curls; and she has

acquired a habit of taking her cap off when I am not watching. Her

father, I grieve to say, will let her sit by the hour together, her hair

down, as thee saw it now, and her cap anywhere. I believe he thinks

nothing she does is wrong. I talk to him much."

"I never saw a more beautiful child!" said Jane, warmly.

"I grant thee that she is fair; but she is eleven years old now, and her

vanity should be checked. She is sometimes invited to the Ashleys',

where she sees the mode in which Mary Ashley is dressed, according to

the fashion of the world, and it sets her longing. Samuel Lynn will not

listen to me. He is pleased that his child should be received there as

Mary Ashley's equal; he cannot forget the time when he was in a good

position himself."

"Who teaches Anna?"

"She attends a small school for Friends, kept by Ruth Darby. It is the

holidays now. Her father educates her well. She learns French and

drawing, and other branches of study suitable for girls. Take care! let

me help thee with that heavy table."

Presently they went to see how things were getting on in the study. Jane

could not keep her eyes from the face of that lovely child. It partly

hindered her work, which there was little need of on that busy day; a

day so busy that they were all glad when it was over, and they were at

liberty to retire to rest.

Rarely had Jane witnessed so beautiful a view as that which met her

sight the following morning, when she drew up her blind. The previous

day had been hazy--nothing was to be seen; now the atmosphere had

cleared. The great extent of scenery spread around, the green fields,

the growing corn, the sparkling rivulets, the woods with their darker

and their brighter trees, the undulating slopes--all were charming. But

beyond all, and far more charming, bounding the landscape in the distant

horizon, stretched the long chain of the far-famed Malvern Hills. As

the sun cast upon them its light and shade, their outline so clearly

depicted against the sky, and their white villas peeping out from the

trees at their base--Jane felt that she could have gazed for ever. A

wondrous picture is that of Malvern, as seen from Helstonleigh in the

freshness of the early morning.

"Edgar!" she impulsively exclaimed, turning to the bed--for Mr.

Halliburton had not risen--"you never saw anything more beautiful than

the view from this window. I am sure half the Londoners never dreamt of

anything like it."

There was no reply. "Perhaps he may be still asleep," she thought. But

upon approaching the bed, she saw that his eyes were open.

"Jane," he gasped, "I am ill."

"Ill!" she repeated, a spasm darting through her heart.

"Every limb is paining me. My head aches, and I am burning with fever. I

have felt it coming on all night."

She bent down; she felt his hands and his hot face--all burning, as he

said, with fever.

"We must call in a doctor," she quietly said, suppressing every sign of

dismay, that it might not agitate him. "I will ask Patience to recommend

one."

"Yes; better have a doctor at once. What will become of us? If I should

be going to have an illness----"

"Stay, Edgar; do not give way to sad anticipations," she gently said. "A

brave mind, you know, goes half way towards a cure. It is the effect of

that wetting; the cold must have been smouldering within you."

Smouldering only to burst out the fiercer for delay. Patience spoke in

favour of their own medical man, a Mr. Parry, who lived near them and

had a large practice. He came; and pronounced the malady to be rheumatic

fever.

CHAPTER XIII.

ILLNESS.

For nine weeks Mr. Halliburton never left his bed. His wife was worn to

a shadow; what with waiting upon him, and battling with her anxiety. Her

body was weary, her heart was sick. Do _you_ know the cost of illness?

Jane knew it then.

In two weeks more he could leave his easy-chair and crawl about the

room; and by that time he was all eagerness to commence his operations

for the future.

"I must have some cards printed, Jane," he cried, one morning. "'Mr.

Halliburton, Professor of Classics and Mathematics, late of King's

Col--'--or should it be simply 'Edgar Halliburton?'" he broke off, to

deliberate. "I wonder what the custom may be, down here?"

"I think you should wait until you are stronger, before you order your

cards," was Jane's reply.

"But I can be getting things in train, Jane. I have been--how many weeks

is it now?"

"Eleven."

"To be sure. It was June when we came; it is now September. I have been

obliged to neglect the boys' lessons, too!"

"They have been very good and quiet; have gone on with their lessons

themselves. If we have trouble in other ways, we have a blessing in our

children, Edgar. They are thoroughly loving and dutiful."

"I don't know the ordinary terms of the neighbourhood," he resumed,

after an interval of silence. "And--I wonder if people will want

references? Jane"--after another silence--"you must put your things on,

and go to Mrs. Dare's."

"To Mrs. Dare's!" she echoed. "Now? I don't know her."

"Never mind about not knowing her," he eagerly continued. "She is my

cousin. You must ask whether they will allow themselves to be referred

to. Peach will allow it also, I am quite certain. Do go, Jane."

Invalids in the weak state of Mr. Halliburton are apt to be restlessly

impatient when the mind is set upon any plan or project. Jane found that

it would vex him much if she declined to go to Mrs. Dare, and she

prepared for the visit. Patience directed her to their residence.

It was situated at the opposite end of Helstonleigh. A handsome house,

inclosed in a high wall, and bearing the imposing title of "Pomeranian

Knoll." Jane entered the iron gates, walked round the carriage drive

that inclosed the lawn, and rang the house bell. A showy footman in

light blue livery, with a bunch of cords on his shoulder, answered it.

"Can I see Mrs. Dare?"

"What name, ma'am?"

Jane gave in one of her visiting cards, wondering whether that was not

too grand a proceeding, considering the errand upon which she had come.

She was shown into an elegant room, to the presence of Mrs. Dare. That

lady was in a costly morning dress, with chains, rings, bracelets, and

other glittering jewellery about her: as she had worn the evening you

saw her beside Mr. Cooper's death-bed.

"Mrs. Halliburton?" she was repeating in doubt, when Jane entered, her

eyes strained on the card. "What Mrs. Halliburton?" she added, not very

civilly, turning her eyes upon Jane.

Jane explained. The wife of Edgar Halliburton, Mrs. Dare's cousin.

Mrs. Dare's presence of mind wholly forsook her. She grew deathly

white; she caught at a chair for support; she was utterly unable to

speak or to conceal her agitation. Jane could only look at her in

amazement, wondering whether she was seized with sudden illness.

A few moments and she recovered herself. She took a seat, motioned Jane

to another, and asked, as she might have asked of any stranger, what her

business might be. Jane explained it, somewhat at length.

Mrs. Dare's surprise was great. She could not or would not understand;

and her face flushed a deep red, and again grew deadly pale. "Edgar

Halliburton come to live in Helstonleigh!" she repeated. "And you say

you are his wife?"

"I am his wife," was the reply of Jane, spoken with quiet dignity.

"_What_ is it that you say he has in view, in coming here?"

"I beg your pardon; I thought I had explained." And Jane went over the

ground again--why he had been obliged to leave London, and his reasons

for settling in Helstonleigh.

"You could not have come to a worse place," said Mrs. Dare, who appeared

to be annoyed almost beyond repression. "Masters of all sorts are so

plentiful here that they tread on each other's heels."

Discouraging news! And Jane's heart beat fast on hearing it. "My husband

thought you and Mr. Dare would kindly interest yourselves for him. He

knows that Mr. Peach will----"

"No," interrupted Mrs. Dare, in decisive tones. "For Edgar Halliburton's

own sake I must decline to recommend him; or, indeed, to interfere at

all. It would only encourage fallacious hopes. Masters are here in

abundance--I speak of private masters; they don't find half enough to

do. Schools are also plentiful. The best thing will be to go to some

place where there is a better opening, and not to settle himself here at

all!"

"But we have already settled here," replied Jane.

A thought suddenly struck Mrs. Dare. "It can never be Edgar who has

taken Mr. Ashley's cottage in the London Road? I remember the name was

said to be Halliburton."

"The same. It was let to us by Mr. Dare's clerk."

Mrs. Dare sat biting her lips. That she was grievously annoyed was

evident, but in deference to good manners, which were partially

returning to her, she strove to repress its signs. "I presume your

husband is poor, Mrs. Halliburton?"

"We are very poor."

"It is generally the case with teachers, as I have observed. Well, I

can only give one answer to your application--that we must decline all

interference. I hope Edgar will not think of applying again to us upon

the subject."

Jane rose. Mrs. Dare remained seated. And yet she prided herself upon

her good breeding!

"I had forgotten a question which my husband particularly desired me to

ask," Jane said, turning back, as she was moving to the door. "Edgar saw

by the papers that his uncle, Mr. Cooper, died the beginning of the

year. Did he remember him on his death-bed, so far as to send a message

of reconciliation?"

Strange to say, the countenance of Mrs. Dare again changed; now to a

burning heat, now to a livid pallor. She hesitated in her answer.

"Yes," she said at length. "Mr. Cooper so far relented as to send him

his forgiveness. 'Tell my nephew Edgar, if you ever see him, that I am

sorry for my harshness; that I would treat him differently were the time

to come over again.' I do not remember the precise words; but they were

to that effect. There is no doubt that he would have wished to be

reconciled; but time did not allow it. I should have written to Edgar of

this, had I been acquainted with his address."

"A letter addressed to King's College would always have found him. But

he will be glad to hear this. He also bade me ask how Mr. Cooper's money

was left--if you would kindly give him the information."

Mrs. Dare bent her head. She was busy playing with her bracelet. "The

will was proved in Doctors' Commons. Edgar Halliburton may see it by

paying a shilling there."

It was not a gracious answer, and Jane paused. "He cannot go to Doctors'

Commons; he is not in London," she gently said.

Mrs. Dare raised her head. A look, speaking plainly of defiance, had

settled itself on her features. "It was left to me; the whole of it,

except a few trifling legacies to his servants. What could Edgar

Halliburton expect?"

"I am sure that he did not expect anything," observed Jane. "Though I

believe a hope has sometimes crossed his mind that Mr. Cooper might at

the last relent, and remember him."

"Nay," said Mrs. Dare, "he had behaved too disobediently for that.

First, in opposing his uncle's wishes that he should enter into

business; secondly, in his marriage."

"In his marriage!" echoed Jane, a flush rising to her own face.

"It was so. Mr. Cooper was exceedingly exasperated when he heard that

Edgar had married. He looked upon the marriage, I believe, as

undesirable for him in a pecuniary point of view. You must pardon my

speaking of this to you personally. You appear to wish for the truth."

The flush on Jane's face deepened to crimson.

"It is true that I had no money," she said. "But I am the daughter of a

clergyman, and was reared a gentlewoman!"

"I suppose my uncle thought Edgar Halliburton should have married a

fortune. However all that is past and gone, and it will do no good to

recall it. I am sorry that you should have been so ill-advised for your

own interests as to fix on this place to come to."

Mrs. Dare rose. She had sat all this time; Jane had stood. "Tell Edgar,

from me, that I am sorry to hear of his illness. Tell him there is no

possible chance of success for him in Helstonleigh; no opening whatever!

When I say that I hope he will speedily remove to some place less

overdone with masters, I speak only in his own interest!"

She rang the bell as she spoke, and gave Jane the tips of two of her

fingers. The footman held open the hall door, and bowed her out. Jane

went down the gravel sweep, determined never again to trouble Mrs. Dare.

"Joseph!" cried Mrs. Dare, sharply.

"Ma'am?"

"Should that lady ever call again, I am not at home, remember!"

"Very well, ma'am," was the man's reply.

Mrs. Dare did not stay to hear it. She had flown upstairs to her room in

trepidation. There she attired herself hastily and went out, bending her

steps towards Mr. Dare's office. It was situated at the end of the town;

and the door displayed a brass plate: "Mr. Dare, Solicitor."

Mrs. Dare entered the outer room. "Is Mr. Dare alone?" she asked of the

clerks.

"No, ma'am. Mr. Ashley is with him."

Chafing at the answer, for she was in a mood of great impatience, of

inward tremor, Mrs. Dare waited for a few minutes. Mr. Ashley came out.

A man of nearly forty years, rather above the middle height, with a

fresh complexion, dark eyes, and well-formed features. A

benevolent-looking, good man. His wife was a cousin of Mr. Dare's.

Mr. Dare was seated at his table in his own room when his wife came in.

She had turned again of an ashy paleness, and she dropped into a chair

near to him.

"What is the matter?" he asked in astonishment. "Are you ill?"

"I think I shall die," she gasped. "I have had a mortal fright,

Anthony."

Mr. Dare rose. He was about to get her some water, or to call for it,

but she caught his arm. "Stay, and hear me! Stay! Anthony, those

Halliburtons have come to Helstonleigh. Come to live here!"

Mr. Dare's mouth opened. "What Halliburtons?" he presently asked.

"_They._ He has come here to settle. He wants to teach; and his wife has

been with me, asking us to be referees. Of course I put the stopper upon

that. The idea of _our_ having poor relations in the town who get their

living by teaching!"

A very disagreeable idea indeed; for those who were playing first

fiddle in the place, and expected to play it still. But not for that did

the man and wife stand gazing at each other; and the naturally bold look

on Mr. Dare's face had faded considerably just then.

"She asked about the will," said Mrs. Dare, dropping her voice to a

whisper, and looking round with a shiver. "I thought I should have died

with fear."

Mr. Dare rallied his courage. Any little reminiscence that may have

momentarily disturbed his equanimity he shook off, and was his own bold

self again.

"Nonsense, Julia! What is there to fear? The will is proved and acted

upon. Whatever the old man may have uttered to us in his death ramblings

was heard by ourselves alone. If any one _had_ heard it, I should not

much care. A will's a will all the world over; and to act against it

would be illegal."

Mrs. Dare sat wiping her brow and gathering up _her_ courage. It came

back by slow degrees.

"Anthony, we must get them out of Helstonleigh. For more reasons than

one we must get them out. They are in that house of Mr. Ashley's."

He looked surprised. "They! Ay, to be sure: the name in the books is

Halliburton. It never occurred to me that it could be they. I wonder if

they are poor?"

"Very poor, the wife said."

"Just so," said Mr. Dare, with a pleasant smile. "I'll not ask for the

rent this quarter, but let it go on a bit. We may get them out, Mrs.

Dare."

You need not be told that Anthony Dare and his wife had omitted to act

upon Mr. Cooper's dying injunction. At the time they did really intend

to fulfil it; they were not thieves or forgers. But Edgar Halliburton

was not present to remind them of his claims: and, when the money came

to be realised, to be in their own hands, there it was suffered to

remain. Waiting for him, of course; they did not know precisely where to

find him, and did not take any trouble to inquire. Very tempting and

useful they found the money. A large portion of their own share went in

paying back debts, for they lived at an extravagant rate; and--and in

short they had intrenched upon that other share, and could not now have

paid it over had they been ever so willing to do so. No wonder that Mrs.

Dare had felt as one in mortal fear when she met Jane Halliburton face

to face!

CHAPTER XIV.

A CHRISTMAS DREAM.

Winter had come to Helstonleigh: frost hovered in the air and rested on

the ground. How was Mr. Halliburton? He had never once been out since

his illness, and he sat by the fire when he did not lie in bed, and his

cough was racking him. He might, and probably would, have recovered

health under more favourable auspices, but anxiety of mind was killing

him. Their money was dwindling to a close, and delicacies they dared not

get for him. Mr. Halliburton would say he did not require them; could

not eat them if they were procured. Poor man! he craved for them in his

inmost heart. Strange to say, he did not see his own danger. Or, rather,

it would have been strange but that similar cases are met with every

day. "When this cold weather has passed, and spring is in, then I shall

get up my strength," was his constant cry. "Then I shall set about my

work in earnest, and make my arrival and my plans known to Peach. It has

been of no use troubling him beforehand." False, false hopes! fond,

delusive hopes!

Dr. Carrington had said that if he _took care_ of himself, he might live

and be well. The other doctors had said the same. And there was no

reason to doubt their judgment. But they had not bargained for an attack

of rheumatic fever, or for the increased injury to the lungs which the

same cause, that past soaking, had induced.

On Christmas Eve, he and Jane were sitting over the fire in the

twilight. He could come downstairs now; indeed, he did not appear to be

so ill as he really was. The surgeon who attended him in the fever had

been discharged long ago. "There's nothing the matter with me now but

debility; and, only time will bring me out of that," Mr. Halliburton

said, when he dismissed him. Jane was hopeful; more hopeful by fits and

starts than continuously so; but she did really believe he might get

well when winter had passed. They were sitting beside the fire, when a

great bustle interrupted them. All the children trooped in at once, with

the noise it is the delight of children not to stir without. Frank, who

had been out, had entered the house with his arms full of holly and ivy,

his bright face glowing with excitement. The others were attending him

to show off the prize.

"Look at all this Christmas, mamma!" cried he. "I have bought it."

"Bought it?" repeated Jane. "My dear Frank, did I not tell you we must

do without Christmas this year?"

"But it cost nothing, mamma. Only a penny!"

Jane sighed. She did not say to the children that even a penny was no

longer "nothing."

"You know that penny I have kept in my pocket a long while," went on

Frank in excitement, addressing the assemblage. "Well, I thought if

mamma would not buy some Christmas, I would."

"But you did not buy all that for a penny, Frank? We should pay sixpence

for it in London."

"I did, though, mamma. I had it of that old man who lives in the cottage

higher up the road, with the big garden to it. He was going to cut me

more, but I told him this was plenty. You should have seen the heaps he

gave a woman for twopence: she wanted a wheelbarrow to carry it away."

Janey clapped her hands, and began to dance. "I shall help you to dress

the rooms! We must have a merry Christmas!"

Mr. Halliburton drew her to him. "Yes, we must have a merry Christmas,

must we not, Janey? Jane"--turning to his wife--"can you manage to have

a nice dinner for us? Christmas only comes once a year."

He looked up with his haggard face: very much as though he were longing

for a nice dinner then.

"I will see what I can do," said Jane in reply, smothering down another

sigh. "I am going out presently to the butcher's. A joint of beef will

be best; and though the pudding's a plain one, I hope it will be good.

Yes, we must keep Christmas."

Christmas-day dawned, and in due time they assembled as usual. Jane

intended to go to church that day. During her husband's illness she had

been obliged to send the children alone. They had been trained to know

what church meant, and did not require some one with them to keep them

in order there. A good thing if the same could be said of all children!

It was a clear, bright morning, cold and frosty. Mr. Halliburton came

down just as they were starting.

"I feel so much better to-day!" he exclaimed. "I could almost go with

you myself. Jane"--smiling at her look of consternation--"you need not

be startled: I do not intend to attempt it. William, you are not ready."

"Mamma said I was to stay with you, papa."

"Stay with me! There's not the least necessity for that. I tell you all

I am feeling better to-day--quite well. You can go with the rest,

William."

William looked at his mother, and for a moment Jane hesitated. Only for

a moment. "I would rather he remained, Edgar," she said. "Betsy will be

gone by twelve o'clock. Indeed, I should not feel comfortable at the

thought of your being alone."

"Oh, very well," replied Mr. Halliburton, quite gaily. "I suppose you

must remain, William, or we shall have mamma leaving when the service is

only half over to see whether I have not fallen into the fire."

Jane had all the household care upon her shoulders now, and a great

portion of the household work. Though an active domestic manager, she

had known nothing practically of the more menial work of a house; she

knew it only too well now. The old saying is a very true one: "Necessity

makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows." This young girl, Betsy,

who came in part of each day to assist, was almost as much trouble as

profit. She had said to Jane on Christmas Eve: "If you please, mother

says I am to be at home to-morrow, if it's convenient." I am! However,

Jane and the young lady came to a compromise. She was to go home at

twelve and come back later to wash up the dishes. Of course it entailed

upon Jane all the trouble of preparing dinner.

Have you ever known one of these cases yourself? Where a lady--a lady,

mind you, as Jane was--has had to put aside her habits of refinement,

pin up her gown, and turn to and cook; roast the meat and boil potatoes,

and all the ether essential items? Many a one is doing it now in real

life. Jane Halliburton was not a solitary example. The pudding had been

made the day before and partly boiled: it was now on the fire, boiling

again, and the rest of the dinner she would do on her return from

church.

It was something wonderful, the improvement in Mr. Halliburton's health

that day. He took his part with William in reading the psalms and

lessons while the rest were at church: it was what he had been unable to

do for a long time in consequence of his cough and laboured breathing.

The duty over, he lay back in his chair; in thought apparently, not

exhaustion.

"Peace on earth, and good will towards men!" he repeated presently, in a

fervent, but somewhat absent tone. "William, my boy, I think peace must

be coming to me at last. I do feel so well."

"What peace, papa?" asked William, puzzled.

"The peace of renewed health, of hope; freedom from worry. The Christmas

season and the bright day have taken away all my despondency. Let me go

on like this, and in another month I shall be out and at work."

William's eyes sparkled. He fully believed it all. Boys are sanguine.

They were to dine at three o'clock, and Jane did her best to prepare it.

During the process, Patience appeared at the back door with a plate of

oranges. "Will thee accept of these for thy children?" asked she.

"How kind you are!" exclaimed Jane, in a grateful impulse, as she

thought of her children. Of such little treats they had latterly enjoyed

a scanty share. "Patience, I hope you did not buy them purposely?"

"Had I had to buy them, thee would not have seen them," returned the

candid Quakeress. "A friend of Samuel Lynn's, who lives at Bristol,

sends us a small case every winter. When I was unpacking it this morning

I said to him, 'The young ones at the next door would be pleased with a

few of these'; but he did not answer. Thee must not think him selfish;

he is not a selfish man; but he cannot bear to see anything go beside

the child. Anna looked at him eagerly; she would have been pleased to

send half the box: and he saw it. 'Take in a few, Patience,' he cried."

"I am much obliged to him, and to you also," repeated Jane. "Patience,

Mr. Halliburton is so much better to-day! Go in, and see him."

Patience went into the parlour, carrying the oranges with her. When she

came out again there was a grave expression on her serene face.

"Thee will do well not to count upon this apparent improvement in thy

husband."

Jane's heart went down considerably. "I do not exactly count upon it,

Patience," she confessed; "but he does seem to have changed so much for

the better that I feel in greater spirits than I have felt this many a

day. His cough seems almost well."

"I do not wish to throw a damp upon thee; still, were I thee, I would

not reckon upon it. These sudden improvements sometimes turn out to have

been deceitful. Fare thee well!"

Jane went into the parlour. The children were gathered round the plate

of oranges. "Mamma, do look!" cried Janey. "Are they not good? There

are six: one apiece for us all. I wonder if papa could eat one? Gar, you

are not to touch. Papa, could you eat an orange?"

Unseen by the children, Mr. Halliburton had been straining his eager

gaze upon the oranges. His mouth parched with inward fever, his throat

dry, they appeared, coming thus unexpectedly before him, what the

long-wished-for spring of water is to the fainting traveller in the

desert. Jane caught the look, and handed the plate to him. "You would

like one, Edgar?"

"I am thirsty," he said, in tones savouring of apology, for the oranges

seemed to belong to the children rather than to him. "I think I must eat

mine before dinner. Cut it into four, will you?"

He took up one of the quarters. "It is delicious!" he exclaimed. "It is

so refreshing!"

The children stood around and watched him. They enjoyed oranges, but

scarcely with a zest so intense as that.

When Jane returned to the kitchen, she found a helpmate. The maid from

next door, Grace, a young Quakeress, fair and demure, was standing

there. She had been sent by Patience to do what she could for half an

hour. "How considerate she is!" thought grateful Jane.

They dined in comfort, Grace waiting on them. Afterwards the oranges

were placed upon the table. Master Gar caught up the plate, and

presented it to his mother. "Papa has had his," quoth he.

"Not for me, Gar," said Jane. "I do not eat oranges. I will give mine to

papa."

The three younger children speedily attacked theirs. William did not. He

left his by the side of the one rejected by his mother, and set the

plate by Mr. Halliburton.

"Do you intend these for me, William?"

"Yes, papa."

Frank looked surprised. "William, you don't mean to say you are not

going to eat your orange? Why, you were as glad as any of us when they

came."

"I eat oranges when I want them," observed William, with an affectation

of carelessness, which betrayed a delicacy of feeling that might have

done honour to one older than he. "I have had too good a dinner to care

about oranges."

Mr. Halliburton drew William towards him, and looked steadfastly into

his face with a meaning smile. "Thank you, my darling," he whispered:

and William coloured excessively as he sat down.

Mr. Halliburton ate the oranges, and appeared as if he could have eaten

as many more. Then he leaned his head back on the pillow which was

placed over his chair, and presently fell asleep.

"Be very still, dear children," whispered Jane.

They looked round, saw why they were to be still, and hushed their busy

voices. William pulled a stool to his mother's feet, and took his seat

on it, holding her hand between his.

"Papa will soon be well again now," he softly said. "Don't you think so,

mamma?"

"Indeed I hope he will," she answered.

"But don't you _think_ it?" he persisted; and Jane detected an anxiety

in his tone. Could there have been a shadow of fear upon the boy's own

heart? "He said mamma, whilst you were at church, that in another month

he should be strong again."

"Not quite so soon as that, I fear, William. He has been so much

reduced, you know. Later: if he goes on as well as he appears to be

going on now."

Jane set the children to that renowned game. "Cross questions and

crooked answers." You may have had the pleasure of playing it: if so,

you will remember that it consists chiefly of whispering. It is

difficult to keep children quiet long together.

"Where am I?" cried a sudden voice, startling the children in the midst

of their silent whispers.

It came from Mr. Halliburton. He had slept about half an hour, and was

now looking round in bewilderment, his head starting away from the

pillow. "Where am I?" he repeated.

"You have been asleep, papa," cried Frank.

"Asleep! Oh, yes! I remember. You are all here, and it is Christmas

Day. I have been dreaming."

"What about, papa?"

Mr. Halliburton let his head fall back on the pillow again. He fixed his

eyes on vacancy, and there ensued a silence. The children looked at him.

"Singular things are dreams," he presently exclaimed. "I thought I was

on a broad, wide road--an immense road, and it was crowded with people.

We were all going one way, stumbling and tripping along----"

"What made you stumble, papa?" interrupted Janey, whose busy tongue was

ever ready to talk.

"The road was full of impediments," continued Mr. Halliburton, in a

dreamy tone, as if his mental vision were buried in the scene and he was

relating what had actually occurred. "Stones, and hillocks, and

brambles, and pools of shallow water, and long grass that got entangled

round our feet: nothing but difficulties and hindrances. At the end, in

the horizon, as far as the eye could reach--very, very far away

indeed--a hundred times as far away as the Malvern Hills appear to be

from us--there shone a brilliant light. So brilliant! You have never

seen anything like it in life, for the naked eye could not bear such

light. And yet we seemed to look at it, and our sight was not dazzled!"

"Perhaps it was fireworks?" interrupted Gar. Mr. Halliburton went on

without heeding him.

"We were all pressing on to get to the light, though the distant journey

seemed as if it could never end. So long as we kept our eyes fixed on

the light, we could see how we walked, and we passed over the rough

places without fear. Not without difficulty. But still we did pass them,

and advanced. But the moment we took our eyes from the light, then we

were stopped; some fell; some wandered aside, and would not try to go

forward; some were torn by the brambles; some fell into the water; some

stuck in the mud; in short, they could not get on any way. And yet they

knew--at least, it seemed that they knew--that if they would only lift

their eyes to the light, and keep them steadfastly on it, they were

certain to be helped, and to make progress. The few who did keep their

eyes on it--very few they were!--steadily bore onwards. The same

hindrances, the same difficulties were in their path, so that at times

they also felt tempted to despair--to fear they could not get on. But

their fears were groundless. So long as they did not take their eyes

from the light, it guided them in certainty and safety over the rough

places. It was a helper that could not fail; and it was ready to guide

every one--all those millions and millions of travellers. To guide them

throughout the whole of the way until they had gained it."

The children had become interested and were listening with hushed lips.

"Why did they not all let it guide them?" breathlessly asked William.

"Nothing can be more easy than to keep our eyes on a light that does

not dazzle. What did you do, papa?"

"It seemed that the light would only shine on one step at a time,"

continued Mr. Halliburton, not in answer to William, but evidently

absorbed in his own thoughts. "We could not see further than the one

step, but that was sufficient; for the moment we had taken it, then the

light shone upon another. And so we passed on, progressing to the end,

the light seeming brighter and brighter as we drew near to it."

"Did you get to it, papa?"

"I am trying to recollect, William. I seemed to be quite close to it. I

suppose I awoke then."

Mr. Halliburton paused, still in thought: but he said no more. Presently

he turned to his wife. "Is it nearly tea-time, Jane? I cannot think what

makes me so thirsty."

"We can have tea now, if you like," she replied. "I will go and see

about it."

She left the room, and Janey ran after her. In the kitchen, making a

great show and parade of being at work amidst plates and dishes, was a

damsel of fifteen, her hair curiously twisted about her head, and her

round, green eyes wide open. It was Betsy.

"That was good pudding," cried she, turning her face to Mrs.

Halliburton. "Better than mother's."

She alluded to a slice which had been given her. Jane smiled. "We want

tea, Betsy."

"Have it in directly, mum," was Miss Betsy's acquiescent response.

Scarcely were the words spoken, when a commotion was heard in the

sitting-room. The door was flung open, and the boys called out, the tone

of their voices one of utter alarm. Jane, the child, and the maid, made

but one step to the room. All Jane's fears had flown to "fire."

Fire had been almost less startling. Mr. Halliburton was lying back on

the pillow with a ghastly face, his mouth, and shirt-front stained with

blood. He could not speak, but he asked assistance with his imploring

eyes. In coughing he had broken a blood-vessel.

Jane did not faint; did not scream. Her whole heart turned sick, and she

felt that the end had come. Janey sank down on the floor with a faint

cry, and hid her face on the sofa. One glimpse was sufficient for Betsy.

The moment she had taken it, she subsided into a succession of shrieks;

flew out of the house and burst into that of Mr. Lynn. There she

terrified the sober family by announcing that Mr. Halliburton was lying

with his throat cut.

Mr. Lynn and Patience hurried in, ordering Anna to remain where she was.

They saw what was the matter, and placed him in a better position:

Patience helping Mrs. Halliburton to sponge his face.

"Shall I get the doctor for thee, friend?" asked the Quaker of Jane. "I

shall bring him quicker, maybe, than one of thy lads would."

"Oh! yes, yes!"

"I warned thee not to be sanguine," whispered Patience, when Mr. Lynn

had gone. "I feared it might be only the deceitfulness of the ending."

The ending! what a confirmation of Jane's own fears! She turned her eyes

despairingly on Patience.

Mr. Halliburton opened his trembling lips, as though he would have

spoken. Patience stopped him.

"Thee must not talk, friend. If thee hast need of anything, can thee not

make a sign?"

He gave them to understand that he wanted water. This was given to him,

and he appeared to be more composed.

"There is nothing else that I can do just now," observed Patience. "I

will go back and take thy little girl with me. See her, hiding there!"

Patience did so. Betsy cowered over the fire in the kitchen, and the

three boys and their mother stood round the dying man.

"Children!" he gasped.

"Oh, Edgar! do not speak!" interrupted Jane.

He smiled as he looked at her, very much as though he knew that it did

not matter whether he spoke or remained silent. "I am at the journey's

end, Jane; close to the light. Children," he panted at slow intervals,

"when I told you my dream, I little thought it was only a type of the

present reality. I think it was sent to me that I might tell it you, for

I now see its meaning. You are travelling on to that light, as I thought

I was--as I have been. You will have the same stumbling-blocks to walk

over; none are exempt from them; trials, and temptations, and sorrows,

and drawbacks. But the light is there, ever shining to guide you, for it

is Heaven. Will you always look up to it?"

He gathered their hands together, and held them between his. The boys,

awe-struck, bewildered with terror and grief, could only gaze in silence

and listen.

"The light is God, my children. He is above you, and below you, and

round about you everywhere. He is ready to help you at every step and

turn. Make Him your guide; put your whole dependence upon Him,

implicitly trust to Him to lighten your path, so that you may see to

walk in it. He cannot fail. Look up to Him, and you will be unerringly

guided, though it may be--though it probably will be--only step by step.

Never lose your trust in God, and then rest assured He will conduct you

to His own bright ending. Jane, let them take it to their hearts! May

God bless you, my dear ones! and bring you to me hereafter!"

He ceased, and lay exhausted; his eyes fondly seeking Jane's, her hand

clasped in his. Jane's own eyes were dry and burning, and she appeared

to be unnaturally calm. Gradually the fading eyes closed. In a very

short time the knock of Samuel Lynn was heard at the door. He had

brought the doctor. William, passing his handkerchief over his wet face,

went to open it.

Mr. Parry stepped into the room, and Jane moved from beside her husband

to give place to him. "He sighed heavily a minute or two ago," she

whispered.

The surgeon looked at him. He bent his ear to the open mouth, and then

gently unbuttoned the waistcoat, and listened for the beating of the

heart. "His life passed away in that sigh," murmured the doctor to Jane.

It was even so. Edgar Halliburton had gone into the light.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FUNERAL.

Jane looked around her--looked at all the terrors of her situation. The

first burst of grief over, and a day or two gone on, she could only look

at it. She did not know which way to turn or what to do. It is true she

placed implicit trust in God--in the LIGHT spoken of by her husband when

he was passing away. Throughout her life she had borne an ever-present,

lively trust in God's unchanging care; and she had incessantly striven

to implant the same trust in the minds of her children. But in this

season of dread anxiety, of hopeless bereavement, you will not think

less well of her for hearing that she did give way to despondency,

almost to despair.

From tears for him who had been the dear partner of her life, to anxiety

for the future of his children--from anxiety for them, to pecuniary

distress and embarrassment--so passed on her hours from Christmas night.

Calm she had contrived to be in the presence of others; but it was the

calm of an aching heart. She dreaded her own reflections. When she rose

in the morning she said, "How shall I bear up through the day?" and when

she went to her bed, it would be, "How shall I drag through the right?"

Tossing, turning, moaning; walking the room in the darkness when no eye

was upon her; kneeling, almost without hope, to pour forth her

tribulations to God--who would believe that, in the daytime, before

others, she could be so apparently serene? Only once did she give way,

and that was the day before the funeral.

Patience sympathised with her in a reasoning sort of way. It had been

next to impossible for Jane to keep her pecuniary anxiety from Patience,

who advised and assisted her in making the various arrangements. It was

necessary to go to work in the most sparing manner possible; and it

ended in Jane's taking Patience into her full confidence.

"If thee can but keep a house over thy head, so as to retain thy

children with thee, thee wilt get along. Do not be cast down."

"Oh, Patience, that is what I have been thinking about--how am I to keep

the house together. I do not see that I can do it."

"The furniture is thine," observed Patience. "Thee might let two or

three of thy rooms, so as to cover the rent."

"I have thought all that over and over again to myself," sighed Jane.

"But, Patience--allowing that the rent were made in that way--how are we

to live?"

"Thee must occupy thy time in some way. Thee can sew! Dost thee know

dress-making?"

"No--only sufficient of it to make my own plain gowns and Jane's frocks.

As to plain sewing, I could never earn food at it--it is so badly paid.

And there will be the education of my boys, and their clothing."

"Thee hast anxiety before thee--I see it," said Patience, in a grave

tone. "Still, I would not have thee be cast down. Thee will make thyself

ill, and that will not be the way to mend thy condition."

Jane sat down, her hands clasped on her knees, her mind viewing her dark

troubles. "If I were but clear, I should have better hope," she said,

lifting her face in its sad sorrow. "Patience, we owe half a year's

rent; and there will be the funeral expenses besides."

"Hast thee no kindred that would aid thee in thy strait?"

Jane shook her head. The only "kindred" she possessed in the whole world

was one who had barely enough for his own poor wants--her brother

Francis.

"Hast thee no little property to dispose of?" continued Patience.

"Watches, or things of that kind?"

There was her husband's watch. But Jane's pale face crimsoned at the

idea of parting with it in that manner. It was a good watch, and had

long ago been promised to William.

"I can understand thy flush of aversion," said Patience, kindly. "I

would not be the one to suggest aught to hurt thy feelings; but thy

necessities may leave no alternative."

A conviction that they would leave none was already stealing over Jane.

She possessed a few trinkets herself, not of much value, and a little

silver. All might have to go, not excepting the watch. "Would there be a

difficulty in disposing of them, Patience?" she asked aloud.

"None at all: there is the pawn-shop," said the plain-speaking

Quakeress. "I do not know what many would do without it. I can tell thee

that some of the great ones of this city send their plate to it on

occasion. Thee would not like to go to such a place thyself, but thy

servant's mother, Elizabeth Carter, is a discreet woman: she would

render thee this little service. As I tell thee, if thee can only

surmount present difficulties, so as to secure a start, thee may get

on."

Surmount present difficulties! It seemed to Jane next door to an

impossibility. She had the merest trifle of money left, was in debt, and

without means, so far as she saw, of earning even food. She paid her

last night visit to the room which contained the coffin, and went thence

up to her bed, to toss the night through on her wet pillow, with a

burning brow and an aching heart.

It was a sad funeral to see, and one of the plainest of the plain. The

clerk of the church, who had condescended to come up to escort it--a

condescension he did not often vouchsafe to poor funerals, for they

afforded nothing good to eat and drink--walked first, without a hatband.

Then came the coffin, covered with a pall, and William and Frank behind

it. Jane had not sent Gar, poor little fellow! She thought he might be

better away. That was all; there were no attendants: the clerk, the two

boys, the coffin, and the men who bore it.

It was sad to see. The people stopped to look as it went along the

streets, following with their eyes the poor fatherless children. One

young man stood aside, raised his hat, and held it in his hand until the

coffin had passed. But the young man had lived in foreign countries,

where it is the custom to remain uncovered whilst a funeral goes by.

He was buried at St. Martin's Church; and, singular to say, the

officiating minister was the Rev. Mr. Peach. Mr. Peach did not know who

he was interring: he had taken the service for St. Martin's rector.

William heard his name: how many times had he heard his poor father

mention the name in connection with his hopeful prospects! He burst into

wailing sobs at the thought. Mr. Peach glanced off his book to look

compassionately at the sobbing boy.

The funeral was over, the last word of the service spoken, the first

shovel of earth flung rattling on to the coffin. The clerk did not pay

the compliment of his escort back again; indeed, there was nothing to

escort but the two boys. They walked alone, with no company but their

hatbands.

In the evening, at dusk, they were gathered together--Jane and all the

children. Tears seemed to have a respite: they had been shed of late all

too plentifully.

"I must speak to you, children," said Jane, lifting her head, and

breaking the silence. "I may as well speak now, as let the days go on

first. You are young, but you are old enough to understand me. Do you

know, my darlings, how very sad our position is?"

"In losing papa?" said Janey, catching her breath.

"Yes, yes, in losing him," wailed Jane. "For that includes more than you

suspect. But I wish to allude more particularly to the future. My dears,

I do not see what is to become of us. We have no money; and we have no

one to give us any or to lend us any; no one in the wide world."

The children did not interrupt; only William moved his chair nearer to

hers. She looked so young in her widow's cap: nearly as young as when,

years ago, she had married him who had that day been put out of her

sight for ever.

"If we can only keep a roof over our heads," continued Jane, speaking

very softly from the effort to subdue her threatening emotion, "we may

perhaps struggle on. Perhaps. But it will be _struggling_; and you do

not know half that the word implies. We may not have enough to eat. We

may be cold and hungry--not once, but constantly; and we shall certainly

have to encounter and endure the slights and humiliations attendant on

extreme poverty. I do not know that we can retain a home; for we may, in

a week or two, be turned from this."

"But why be turned from this, mamma?"

"Because there is rent owing, and I have not the means to pay it," she

answered. "I have written to your uncle Francis, but I do not believe he

will be able to help me. He----"

"Why can't we go back to London to live?" eagerly interrupted little

Gar. "It was so nice there! It was a better home than this."

"You forget, Gar, that--that----" here she almost broke down, and had to

pause a minute--"that our income there was earned by papa. He would not

be there to earn it now. No, my dear ones; I have thought the future

over in every way--thought until my brain has become confused--and the

only possible chance that I can see, of our surmounting difficulties, so

as to enable us to exist, is by endeavouring to keep this home. Patience

suggests that I should let part of it. I had already thought of that;

and I shall endeavour to do so. It may cover the rent and taxes. And I

must try and do something else that will find us food."

The children looked perfectly thunderstruck, especially the two elder

ones, William and Jane. "Do something to find food!" they uttered,

aghast. "Mamma, what do you mean?"

It is so difficult to make children understand these unhappy

things--those who have been brought up in comfort. Jane sighed, and

explained further. Little desolate hearts they were who listened to her.

"William," she resumed, "your poor papa's watch was to have been yours;

but--I scarcely like to tell you--I fear I shall be obliged to dispose

of it to help our necessities."

A spasm shot across William's face. But, brave-hearted boy that he was,

he would not let his mother see his disappointment, and looked

cheerfully at her.

"There is one thought that weighs more heavily on my mind than all--your

education. How I shall manage to continue it I do not know. My darlings,

I look upon this only in a degree less essential to you than food: you

know that learning is better than house and land. I do not yet see my

way clear in any way: it is very dark--almost as dark as it can be; and

but for one Friend, I should despair."

"What friend is that, mamma? Do you mean Patience?"

"I mean God," replied Jane. "I know that He is a sure refuge to those

who trust in Him. In my saddest moments, when I think how certain that

refuge is, a ray of light flashes over me, bright as that glorious light

in your papa's dream. Oh, my dear children! Perhaps we shall be helped

to struggle on!"

"Who will buy us new clothes?" cried Frank, dropping upon another phase

of the difficulty. Jane sighed: it was all terribly indistinct.

"In all the tribulation that will probably come upon us, the

humiliations, the necessities, we must strive for patience to bear them.

You do not yet understand the meaning of the term, _to bear_; but you

will learn it all too soon. You must bear not only for your own sakes,

because it is your lot, and you cannot go from it; not only for mine,

but chiefly because it is the will of God. This affliction could not

have come upon us unless God had permitted it, and I am quite sure,

therefore, that it is in some way sent for our good. We shall not be

utterly miserable if we can keep together in our house. You will aid me

in it, will you not?"

"In what way, mamma?" they eagerly asked, as if wishing to begin

something then. "What can we do?"

"You can aid me by being dutiful and obedient; by giving me no

unnecessary anxiety or trouble; by cheerfully making the best of our

privations; and you can strive to retain what you have already learnt by

going diligently over your lessons together. All this will aid and

comfort me."

William's tears burst forth, and he laid his head on his mother's lap.

"Oh, mamma dear, I will try and do for you all I can," he sobbed. "I

will indeed."

"Take comfort, my boy," she whispered, leaning tenderly over him.

"Remember that your last act to your father was a loving sacrifice, in

giving to him the orange that you would have enjoyed. I marked it,

William. My darling children, let us all strive to bear on steadfastly

to that far-off light, ever looking unto God."

CHAPTER XVI.

TROUBLE.

A week elapsed, after the burial of Mr. Halliburton. By that time Jane

had looked fully into the best and worst of her condition, and had, so

to say, organised her plans. By the disposal of the watch, with what

little silver they possessed, and ornaments of her own, she had been

enabled to discharge the expenses of the funeral and other small debts,

and to retain a trifle in hand for present wants.

On the last day of the week, Saturday, she received an application for

the rent. A stylish-looking stripling of some nineteen years, with light

eyes and fair hair, called from Mr. Dare to demand it. Jane told him she

could not pay him then, but would write and explain to Mr. Dare. Upon

which the gentleman, whose manners were haughtily condescending, turned

on his heel and left the house, not deigning to say good morning. As he

was swinging out at the gate, Patience, coming home from market with a

basket in her hand, met him. "How dost thee?" said she in salutation.

But there was no response from the other, except that his head went a

shade higher.

"Do you know who that is?" inquired Jane, afterwards.

"Of a surety. It is young Anthony Dare."

"He has not pleasing manners."

"Not to us. There is not a more arrogant youth in the town. But his

private character is not well spoken of."

Jane sat down to write to Mr. Dare. Her brother Francis, to whom she had

explained her situation, had promised her the rent for the half-year

due, sixteen pounds, by the middle of February. He could not let her

have it before that period, he said, but she might positively count upon

it then. She begged Mr. Dare to accord her the favour of waiting until

then. Sealing her note, she sent it to him.

On the Monday following, all was in readiness to _let_; and Jane was

full of hope, looking for the advent of lodgers. The best parlour and

the two best bedrooms had been vacated, and were in order. Jane slept

now with her little girl, and the boys had mattresses laid down for them

on the floor at the top of the house. They were to make the study their

sitting-room from henceforth; and a card in the window displayed the

announcement "Lodgings." The more modern word "apartments" had not then

come into fashion at Helstonleigh.

Patience came in after breakfast with a piece of grey merino in her

hand.

"Would thee like to make a frock for Anna?" asked she of Mrs.

Halliburton. "Sarah Locke does them for her mostly, for it is work that

I am not clever at; but Sarah sends me word she is too full of work this

week to undertake it. I heard thee say thee made Janey's frocks. If thee

can do this, and earn half-a-crown, thee art welcome. It is what I

should pay Sarah."

Jane took the merino in thankfulness. It was as a ray of hope, come to

light up her heart. Only the instant before Patience entered she was

wishing that something could arrive for her to do, never supposing that

it would arrive. And now it had come!--and would bring her in

two-and-sixpence! "Two-and-sixpence!" we may feel inclined to echo, in

undisguised contempt for the trifle. Ay! but we may never have known the

yearning want of two-and-sixpence, or of ten-and-sixpence either!

Jane cut out the skirt by a pattern frock, and sat down to make it, her

mind ruminating on the future. The children were at their lessons, round

the table. "I have just two pounds seventeen and sixpence left,"

deliberated Jane. "This half-crown will make it three pounds. I wonder

how long we can live upon that? We have good clothes, and for the

present the boys' boots are good. If I can let the rooms we shall have

the rent, so that food is the chief thing to look to. We must spin the

money out; must live upon bread and potatoes and a little milk, until

something comes in. I wonder if five shillings a week would pay for bare

food, and for coals? I fear----"

Jane's dreams were interrupted. The front gate was swung open, and two

people, men or gentlemen, approached the house door and knocked. Their

movements were so quick that Jane caught only a glimpse of them. "See

who it is, will you, William?"

She heard them walk in and ask if she was at home. Putting down her

work, she shook the threads from her black dress and went out to them,

William returning to his lessons.

The visitors were standing in the passage--one well-dressed man and one

shabby one. The former made a civil demand for the half-year's rent due.

Jane replied that she had written to Mr. Dare on the previous Saturday,

explaining things to him, and asking him to wait a short time.

"Mr. Dare cannot wait," was the rejoinder of the applicant, still

speaking civilly. "You must allow me to remark, ma'am, that you are

strangers to the town, that you have paid no rent since you entered the

house----"

"We believed it was the custom to pay half-yearly, as Mr. Dare did not

apply for it at the Michaelmas quarter," interrupted Jane. "We should

have paid then, had he asked for it."

"At any rate, it is not paid," was the reply. "And--I am sorry, ma'am,

to be under the necessity of leaving this man in possession until you do

pay!"

They walked deliberately into the best parlour; and Jane, amidst a

rushing feeling of despair that turned her heart to sickness, knew that

a seizure had been put into the house.

As she stood in her bewilderment, Patience entered by the back door, the

way she always did enter, and caught a glimpse of the shabby man. She

drew Jane into the kitchen.

"What does that man do here?" she inquired.

For answer Jane sank into a chair and burst into sobs so violent as to

surprise the calm Quakeress. She turned and shut the door.

"Hush thee! Now hush thee! Thy children will hear and be terrified. Art

thee behind with thy taxes?"

For some minutes Jane could not reply. "Not for taxes," she said; "they

are paid. Mr. Dare has put him in for the rent."

Patience revolved the news in considerable astonishment. "Nay, but I

think thee must be in error. Thomas Ashley would not do such a thing."

"He has done it," sobbed Jane.

"It is not in accordance with his character. He is a humane and

considerate man. Verily I grieve for thee! That man is not an agreeable

inmate of a house. We had him in ours last year!"

"You!" uttered Jane, surprise penetrating even to her own grief. "You!"

"They force us to pay church-rates," explained Patience. "We have a

scruple to do so, believing the call unjust. For years Samuel Lynn had

paid the claim to avert consequences; but last year he and many more

Friends stood out against it. The result was, that that man, now in thy

parlour, was put into our house. The amount claimed was one pound nine

shillings; and they took out of our house, and sold, goods which had

cost us eleven pounds, and which were equal to new."

"Oh, Patience, tell me what I had better do!" implored Jane, reverting

to her own trouble. "If we are turned out and our things sold, we must

go to the workhouse. We cannot be in the streets."

"Indeed, I feel incompetent to advise thee. Had thee not better see

Anthony Dare, and try thy persuasion that he would remove the seizure

and wait?"

"I will go to him at once," feverishly returned Jane. "You will allow

Janey to remain with you, Patience, while I do so?"

"Of a surety I will. She----"

At that moment the children burst into the kitchen, one after the other.

"Mamma, who is that shabby-looking man come into the study? He has

seated himself right in front of the fire, and is knocking it about. And

the other is looking at the tables and chairs."

It was Frank who spoke; impetuous

Frank. Mrs. Halliburton cast a despairing look around her, and Patience

drew their attention.

"That man is here on business," she said to them. "You must not be rude

to him, or he will be ten times more rude to you. The other will soon be

gone. Your mother is going abroad for an hour; perhaps when she returns

she will rid the house of him. Jane, child, thee can come with me and

take thy dinner with Anna."

Mrs. Halliburton waited until the better-looking of the two men was

gone, and then started. It was a raw, cold day--what some people call a

black frost. Black and gloomy it all looked to her, outwardly and

inwardly, as she traversed the streets to the office of Mr. Dare.

Patience had directed her, and the plate on the door, "Mr. Dare,

Solicitor," showed her the right house. She stepped inside that door,

which stood open, and knocked at one to the right of the passage.

"Clerks' Room" was inscribed upon it.

"Come in."

Three or four clerks were in it. In one of them she recognized him who

had just left her house. The other clerks appeared to defer to him, and

called him "Mr. Stubbs." Jane, giving her name, said she wished to see

Mr. Dare, and the request was conveyed to an inner room. It brought

forth young Anthony.

"My father is busy and cannot see you," was his salutation. "I can hear

anything you may have to say. It will be the same thing."

"Thank you," replied Jane, in courteous tones, very different from his.

"But I would prefer to see Mr. Dare."

"He is engaged, I say," sharply repeated Anthony.

"I will wait, then. I must see him."

Anthony Dare stalked back again. Jane, seeing a bench against the wall,

sat down. It was about half-past twelve when she arrived there, and when

the clock struck two, there she was still. Several clients, during that

time, had come and gone; _they_ were admitted to Mr. Dare, but she sat

on, neglected. At two o'clock Anthony came through the room with his hat

on. He appeared to be going out.

"What! are you here still?" he exclaimed, in genuine or affected

surprise; never, in his ill-manners, removing his hat--he of whom it was

his delight to hear it said that he was the most complete gentleman in

Helstonleigh. "I assure you it is not of the least use your waiting. Mr.

Dare will not be able to see you."

"Mr. Dare can surely spare me a minute when he has done with others."

"He cannot to-day. Can you not say to me what you want to say?"

"Indeed I must see Mr. Dare himself. I will wait on, if you will allow

me, hoping to do so."

Anthony Dare vouchsafed no reply, and went out. One or two of the clerks

looked round. They appeared not to understand why she sat on so

persistently, or why Mr. Dare refused to see her.

In about an hour's time the inner door opened. A tall man, with a bold,

free countenance, looked into the room. Supposing it to be Mr. Dare,

Jane rose and approached him. "Will you allow me a few minutes'

conversation?" she asked. "I presume you are Mr. Dare?"

He put up his hands as if to fence her off. "I have no time, I have no

time," he reiterated, and shut the door in her face. Jane sat down again

on the bench. "Stubbs, I want you," came forth from Mr. Dare's voice, as

he opened the door an inch to speak it.

Stubbs went in, remained a few minutes, and then returned, put on his

hat, and walked out. His departure was the signal for considerable

relaxation in the office duties. "When the cat's away--" you know the

rest. Yawning, stretching, whispering, and laughing supervened. One of

the clerks took from his pocket a paper of the biscuits called "Union"

in Helstonleigh, and began eating them. Another pulled out a bottle, and

solaced himself with some of its contents--whatever they might be.

Suddenly the man with the biscuits got off his stool, and offered them

to Mrs. Halliburton. Her pale, sad face may have prompted his good

nature to the act.

"You have waited a good while, ma'am, and perhaps have lost your dinner

through it," he said.

Jane took one of them. "You are very kind. Thank you," she faintly said.

But not a crumb of it could she swallow. She had taken a slice of dry

toast for her breakfast that morning, with half a cup of milk; and it

was long since she had had a sufficiency of food at any meal. She felt

weak, sick, faint; but anxiety and suspense were at work within,

parching her throat, destroying her appetite. She held the biscuit in

her fingers, resting on her lap, and, in spite of her efforts, the

rebellious tears forced themselves to her eyes. Raising her hand, she

quietly let fall her widow's veil.

A poor-looking man came in, and counted out eight shillings, laying them

upon the desk. "I couldn't make up the other two this week; I couldn't,

indeed," he said, with trembling eagerness. "I'll bring twelve next

week, please to say."

"Mind you do," responded one of the clerks; "or you know what will be in

store for you."

The man shook his head. He probably did know; and, in going out, was

nearly knocked over by a handsome lad of seventeen, who was running in.

Very handsome were his features; but they were marred by the free

expression which characterized Mr. Dare's.

"I say, is the governor in?" cried he, out of breath.

"Yes, sir. Lord Hawkesley's with him."

"The deuce take Lord Hawkesley, then!" returned the young gentleman.

"Where's Stubbs? I want my week's money, and I can't wait. Walker, I

say, where's Stubbs?"

"Stubbs is gone out, sir."

"What a bother! Halloa! Here's some money! What is this?" continued the

speaker, catching up the eight shillings.

"It is some that has just been paid in, Master Herbert."

"That's all right then," said he, slipping five of them into his jacket

pocket. "Tell Stubbs to put it down as my week's money."

He tore off. Jane sat on, wondering what she was to do. There appeared

to be little probability that she would be admitted to Mr. Dare; and

yet, how could she go home as she came--hopeless--to the presence of

that man? No; she must wait still; wait until the last. She might catch

a word with Mr. Dare as he was leaving. Jane could not help thinking his

behaviour very bad in refusing to see her.

The office was being lighted when Mr. Stubbs returned. One of the clerks

pointed to the three shillings with his pen. "Kinnersley has brought

eight shillings. He will make it twelve next week. Couldn't manage the

ten this, he says."

"Where are the eight shillings?" asked Stubbs. "I see only three."

"Oh, Master Herbert came in, and took off five. He said you were to put

it down as his week's money."

"He'll take a little too much some day, if he's not checked," was the

cynical reply of the senior clerk. "However, it's no business of mine."

He put the three shillings into his own desk, and made an entry in a

book. After that he went in to Mr. Dare, who was now alone. A large

room, handsomely fitted up. Mr. Dare's table was near one of the

windows: a desk, at which Anthony sometimes sat, was at the other. Mr.

Dare looked up.

"I could not do anything, sir," said Stubbs. "The other party will

listen to no proposal at all. They say they'll throw it into Chancery

first. An awful rage they are in."

"Tush!" said Mr. Dare. "Chancery, indeed! They'll tell another tale in a

day or two. Has Kinnersley been in?"

"Kinnersley has brought eight shillings, and promises to bring twelve

next Monday. Master Herbert carried off five of them, and left word it

was for his week's money."

"A smart blade!" cried Mr. Dare, apostrophizing his son with personal

pride. "'Take it when I can,' is his motto. He'll make a good lawyer,

Stubbs."

"Very good," acquiesced Stubbs.

"Is that woman gone yet?"

"No, sir. My opinion is, she means to wait until she sees you."

"Then send her in at once, and let's get it over," thundered Mr. Dare.

In what lay his objection to seeing her? A dread lest she should put

forth their relationship as a plea for his clemency? If so, he was

destined to be agreeably disappointed. Jane did not allude to it; would

not allude to it. After that interview held with Mrs. Dare, some three

or four months before, she had dropped all remembrance of the

connection: even the children did not know of it. She only solicited Mr.

Dare's leniency now, as any other stranger might have solicited it.

Little chance was there of Mr. Dare's acceding to her prayer: he and his

wife both wanted Helstonleigh to be free of the Halliburtons.

"It will be utter ruin," she urged. "It will turn us, beggars, into the

streets. Mr. Dare, I _promise_ you the rent by the middle of February.

Unless it were certain, my brother would not have promised it to me.

Surely you may accord me this short time."

"Ma'am, I cannot--that is, Mr. Ashley cannot. It was a reprehensible

piece of carelessness on my part to suffer the rent to go on for half a

year, considering that you were strangers. Mr. Ashley will look to me to

see him well out of it."

"There is sufficient furniture in my house, new furniture, to pay what

is owing three times over."

"May be, as it stands in it. Things worth forty pounds in a house, won't

fetch ten at a sale."

"That is an additional reason why I----"

"Now, my good lady," interrupted Mr. Dare, with imperative civility,

"one word is as good as a thousand; and that word I have said. I cannot

withdraw the seizure, except on receipt of the rent and costs. Pay them,

and I shall be most happy to do it. If you stop here all night I can

give you no other answer; and my time is valuable."

He glanced at the door as he spoke. Jane took the hint, and passed out

of it. As much by the tone, as by the words, she gathered that there was

no hope whatever.

The streets were bright with gas as she hurried along, her head bent,

her veil over her face, her tears falling silently. But when she left

the town behind her, and approached a lonely part of the road where no

eye was on her, no ear near her, then the sobs burst forth uncontrolled.

"No eye on her? no ear near her?" Ay, but there was! There was one Eye,

one Ear, which never closes. And as Jane's dreadful trouble resolved

itself into a cry for help to Him who ever listens, there seemed to

come a feeling of peace, of _trust_, into her soul.

CHAPTER XVII.

THOMAS ASHLEY.

Frank met her as she went in. It was dark; but she kept her veil down.

"Oh, mamma, that's the most horrible man!" he began, in a whisper. "You

know the cheese you brought in on Saturday, that we might not eat our

bread quite dry; well, he has eaten it up, every morsel, and half a loaf

of bread! And he has burnt the whole scuttleful of coal! And he swore

because there was no meat; and he swore at us because we would not go to

the public-house and buy him some beer. He said we were to buy it and

pay for it."

"I said you would not allow us to go, mamma," interrupted William, who

now came up. "I told him that if he wanted beer he must go and get it

for himself. I spoke civilly, you know, not rudely. He went into such a

passion, and said such things! It is a good thing Jane was out."

"Where is Gar?" she asked.

"Gar was frightened at the man, and the tobacco-smoke made him sick, and

he cried; and then he lay down on the floor, and went to sleep."

_She_ felt sick. She drew her two boys into the parlour--dark there,

except for the lamp in the road, which shone in. Pressing them in her

arms, completely subdued by the miseries of her situation, she leaned

her forehead upon William's shoulder, and burst once more into a most

distressing flood of tears.

They were alarmed. They cried with her. "Oh, mamma! what is it? Why

don't you order the man to go away?"

"My boys, I must tell you; I cannot keep it from you," she sobbed. "That

man is put here to remain, until I can pay the rent. If I cannot pay it,

our things will be taken and sold."

William's pulses and heart alike beat, but he was silent, Frank spoke.

"Whatever shall we do, mamma?"

"I do not know," she wailed. "Perhaps God will help us. There is no one

else to do it."

Patience came in, for about the sixth time, to see whether Jane had

returned, and how the mission had sped. They called her into the cold,

dark room. Jane gave her the history of the whole day, and Patience

listened in astonishment.

"I cannot but believe that Thomas Ashley must have been mis-informed,"

said she, presently. "But that you are strangers in the place, I should

say you had an enemy who may have gone to him with a tale that thee can

pay, but will not. Still, even in that case, it would be unlike Thomas

Ashley. He is a kind and a good man; not a harsh one."

"Mr. Dare told me he was expressly acting for Mr. Ashley."

"Well, I say that I cannot understand it," repeated Patience. "It is not

like Thomas Ashley. I will give thee an instance of his disposition and

general character. There was a baker rented under him, living in a house

of Thomas Ashley's. The baker got behind with his rent; other bakers

were more favoured than he; but he kept on at his trade, hoping times

would mend. Year by year he failed in his rent--Thomas Ashley, mark

thee, still paying him regularly for the bread supplied to his family.

'Why do you not stop his bread-money?' asked one, who knew of this, of

Thomas Ashley. 'Because he is poor, and looks to my weekly money, with

that of others, to buy his flour,' was Thomas Ashley's answer. Well,

when he owed several years' rent, the baker died, and the widow was

going to move. Anthony Dare hastened to Thomas Ashley. 'Which day shall

I levy a distress upon the goods?' asked he. 'Not at all,' replied

Thomas Ashley. And he went to the widow, and told her the rent was

forgiven, and the goods were her own, to take with her when she left.

That is Thomas Ashley."

Jane bent her head in thought. "Is Mr. Lynn at home?" she asked. "I

should like to speak to him."

"He has had his tea and gone back to the manufactory, but he will be

home soon after eight. I will keep Jane till bedtime. She and Anna are

happy over their puzzles."

"Patience, am I obliged to find that man in food?"

"That thee art. It is the law."

The noise made by Patience in going away, brought the man forth from the

study, a candle in his hand. "When is that mother of yours coming back?"

he roared out to the boys. Jane advanced. "Oh, you are here!" he

uttered, wrathfully. "What are you going to give me to eat and drink? A

pretty thing this is, to have an officer in, and starve him!"

"You shall have tea directly. You shall have what we have," she

answered, in a low tone.

The kettle was boiling on the study fire. Jane lighted a fire in the

parlour, and sent Frank out for butter. The man smoked over the study

fire, as he had done all the afternoon, and Gar slept beside him on the

floor, but William went now and brought the child away. Jane sent the

man his tea in, and the loaf and butter.

The fare did not please him. He came to the parlour and said he must

have meat; he had had none for his dinner.

"I cannot give it you," replied Jane. "We are eating dry toast and

bread, as you may see. I sent butter to you."

He stood there for some minutes, giving vent to his feelings in rather

strong language; and then he went back to revenge himself upon the

butter for the want of meat. Jane laid her hand upon her beating throat:

beating with its tribulation.

Between eight and nine Jane went to the next door. Samuel Lynn had come

home for the evening, and was sitting at the table in his parlour,

helping the two little girls with a geographical puzzle, which had

baffled their skill. He was a little man, quiet in movement, pale and

sedate in feature, dry and unsympathising in manner.

"Thee art in trouble, friend, I hear," he said, placing a chair for

Jane, whilst Patience came and called the children away. "It is sad for

thee."

"In great trouble," answered Jane. "I came in to ask if you would serve

me in my trouble. I fancy perhaps you can do so if you will."

"In what way, friend?"

"Would you interest yourself for me with Mr. Ashley? He might listen to

you. Were he assured that the money would be forthcoming in February, I

think he might agree to give me time."

"Friend, I cannot do this," was the reply of the Quaker. "My relations

with Thomas Ashley are confined to business matters, and I cannot

overstep them. To interfere with his private affairs would not be

seemly; neither might he deem it so. I am but his servant, remember."

The words fell upon her heart as ice. She believed it her only

chance--some one interceding for her with Mr. Ashley. She said so.

"Why not go to him thyself, friend?"

"Would he hear me?" hastily asked Jane. "I am a stranger to him."

"Thee art his tenant. As to hearing thee, that he certainly would.

Thomas Ashley is of a courteous nature. The poorest workman in our

manufactory, going to the master with a grievance, is sure of a patient

hearing. But if thee ask me would he grant thy petition, there I cannot

inform thee. Patience opines that thee, or thy intentions, may have been

falsely represented to him. I never knew him resort to harsh measures

before."

"When would be the best time to see him? Is it too late to-night?"

"To-night would not be a likely time, friend, to trouble him. He has not

long returned from a day's journey, and is, no doubt, cold and tired. I

met James Meeking driving down as I came home; he had left the master at

his house. They have been out on business connected with the

manufactory. Thee might see him in the morning, at his breakfast hour."

Jane rose and thanked the Quaker. "I will certainly go," she said.

"There is no need to say to him that I suggested it to thee, friend. Go

as of thy own accord."

Jane went home with her little girl. Their undesirable visitor looked

out at the study door, and began a battle about supper. It ought to

comprise, in his opinion, meat and beer. He _insisted_ that one of the

boys should go out for beer. Jane steadily refused. She was tempted to

tell him that the children of a gentleman were not despatched to

public-houses on such errands. She offered him the money to go and get

some for himself.

It aroused his anger. He accused her of wanting to get him out of the

house by stratagem, that she might lock him out; and he flung the pence

back amongst them. Janey screamed, and Gar burst out crying. As Patience

had said, he was not a pleasant inmate. Jane ran upstairs, and the

children followed her.

"Where is he to sleep?" inquired William.

It is a positive fact that, until that moment, Jane had forgotten all

about the sleeping. Of course he must sleep there, though she had not

thought of it. Amidst the poor in her father's parish in London, Jane

had seen many phases of distress; but with this particular annoyance she

had never been brought into contact. However, it had to be done.

What a night that was for her! She paced her room nearly throughout it,

with quiet movement, Janey sleeping placidly--now giving way to all the

dark appearances of her position, to uncontrollable despondency; now

kneeling and crying for help in her heartfelt anguish.

Morning came; the black frost had gone, and the sun shone. After

breakfast Jane put on her shawl and bonnet.

Mr. Ashley's residence was very near to them--only a little higher up

the road. It was a large house, almost a mansion, surrounded by a

beautiful garden. Jane had passed it two or three times, and thought

what a nice place it was. She repeatedly saw Mr. Ashley walk past her

house as he went to or came from the manufactory: she was not a bad

reader of countenances, and she judged him to be a thorough gentleman.

His face was a refined one, his manner pleasant.

She found that she had gone at an untoward time. Standing before the

hall door was Mr. Ashley's open carriage, the groom standing at the

horse's head. Even as Jane ascended the steps the door opened, and Mr.

and Mrs. Ashley were coming forth. Feeling terribly distressed and

disappointed, she scarcely defined why, Jane accosted the former, and

requested a few minutes' interview.

Mr. Ashley looked at her. A fair young widow, evidently a lady. He did

not recognise her. He had seen her before, but she was in a different

style of dress now.

Mr. Ashley raised his hat as he replied to her. "Is your business with

me pressing? I was just going out."

"Indeed it is pressing," she said; "or I would not think of asking to

detain you."

"Then walk in," he returned. "A little delay will not make much

difference."

Opening the door of a small sitting-room, apparently his own, he invited

her to a seat near the fire. As she took it, Jane untied the crape

strings of her bonnet and threw back her heavy veil. She was as white as

a sheet, and felt choking.

"I fear you are ill," Mr. Ashley remarked. "Can I get you anything?"

"I shall be better in a minute, thank you," she panted. "Perhaps you do

not know me, sir. I live in your house, a little lower down. I am Mrs.

Halliburton."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, madam; I did not remember you at first. I have

seen you in passing."

His manner was perfectly kind and open. Not in the least like that of a

landlord who had just put a distress into his tenant's house.

"I have come here to beseech your mercy," she began in agitation. "I

have not the rent now, but if you will consent to wait until the middle

of February, it will be ready. Oh, Mr. Ashley, do not oppress me for it!

Think of my situation."

"I never oppressed any one in my life," was the quiet rejoinder of Mr.

Ashley, spoken, however, in a somewhat surprised tone.

"Sir, it is oppression. I beg your pardon for saying so. I promise that

the rent shall be paid to you in a few weeks: to force my furniture from

me now, is oppression."

"I do not understand you," returned Mr. Ashley.

"To sell my furniture under the distress will be utter ruin to me and my

children," she continued. "We have no resource, no home; we shall have

to lie in the streets, or die. Oh, sir, do not take it!"

"But you are agitating yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Halliburton. I have

no intention of taking your furniture."

"No intention, sir!" she echoed. "You have put in a distress."

"Put in a what?" cried he, in unbounded surprise.

"A distress. The man has been in since yesterday morning."

Mr. Ashley looked at her a few moments in silence. "Did the man tell you

where he came from?"

"It was Mr. Dare who put him in--acting for you. I went to Mr. Dare, and

he kept me waiting nearly five hours in his outer office before he would

see me. When he did see me, he declined to hear me. All he would say

was, that I must pay the rent or he should take the furniture: acting

for Mr. Ashley."

A strangely severe expression darkened Mr. Ashley's face. "First of all,

my dear lady, let me assure you that I knew nothing of this, or it

should never have been done. I am surprised at Mr. Dare."

Could she fail to trust that open countenance--that benevolent eye? Her

hopes rose high within her. "Sir, will you withdraw the man, and give me

time?"

"I will."

The revulsion of feeling, from despair and grief, was too great. She

burst into tears, having struggled against them in vain. Mr. Ashley rose

and looked from the window; and presently she grew calmer. When he sat

down again she gave him the outline of her situation; of her present

dilemma; of her hopes--poor hopes that they were!--of getting a scanty

living through letting her rooms and doing some sewing, or by other

employment. "Were I to lose my furniture, it would take from me this

only chance," she concluded.

"You shall not lose it through me," warmly spoke Mr. Ashley. "The man

shall be dismissed from your house in half an hour's time."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she breathed, rising to leave. "I have not

been able to supply him with great things in the shape of food, and he

uses very bad language in the hearing of my children. Thank you, Mr.

Ashley."

He shook hands with her cordially, and attended her to the hall door.

Mrs. Ashley, a pretty, lady-like woman, somewhat stately in general,

stood there still. Well wrapped in velvet and furs, she did not care to

return to the warm rooms. Jane said a few words of apology for detaining

her, and passed on.

Mr. Ashley turned back to his room, drew his desk towards him, and began

to write. His wife followed him. "Who was that, Thomas?"

"Mrs. Halliburton: our widowed tenant, next door to Samuel Lynn's. You

remember I told you of meeting the funeral. Two little boys were

following alone."

"Oh, poor little things! yes. What did she want?"

Mr. Ashley made no reply: he was writing rapidly. The note, when

finished, was sealed and directed to Mr. Dare. He then helped his wife

into the carriage, took the reins, and sat down beside her. The groom

took his place in the seat behind, and Mr. Ashley drove round the gravel

drive, out at the gate, and turned towards Helstonleigh.

"Thomas, you are going the wrong way!" said Mrs. Ashley, in

consternation. "What are you thinking of?"

"I shall turn directly," he answered. There was a severe look upon his

face, and he drove very fast, by which signs Mrs. Ashley knew something

had put him out. She inquired, and he gave her the outline of what he

had just heard.

"How could Anthony Dare act so?" involuntarily exclaimed Mrs. Ashley.

"I don't know. I shall give him a piece of my mind to-morrow more

plainly than he will like. This is not the first time he has attempted a

rascally action under cover of my name."

"Shall you lose the rent?"

"I think not, Margaret. She said not, and she carries sincerity in her

face. I am sure I shall not lose it if she can help it. If I do, I must,

that's all. I never yet added to the trouble of those in distress, and I

never will."

He pulled up at Mrs. Halliburton's house, which she had just reached

also. The groom came to the horse, and Mr. Ashley entered. The "man" was

comfortably stretched before the study fire, smoking his short pipe. Up

he jumped when he saw Mr. Ashley, and smuggled his pipe into his pocket.

His offensive manner had changed to humble servility.

"Do you know me?" shortly inquired Mr. Ashley.

The man pulled his hair in token of respect. "Certainly, sir. Mr.

Ashley."

"Very well. Carry this note to Mr. Dare."

The man received the note in his hand, and held it there, apparently, in

some perplexity. "May I leave, sir, without the authority of Mr. Dare?"

"I thought you said you knew me," was Mr. Ashley's reply, haughty

displeasure in his tone.

"I beg pardon, sir," replied the man, pulling his hair again, and making

a movement of departure. "I suppose I bain't a-coming back, sir?"

"You are not."

He took up a small bundle tied in a blue handkerchief, which he had

brought with him and appeared excessively careful of, caught at his

battered hat, ducked his head to Mr. Ashley, and left the house, the

note held between his fingers. Would you like to see what it contained?

"Dear Sir,--I find that you have levied a distress on Mrs.

Halliburton's goods for rent due to me. That you should have

done so without my authority astonishes me much; that you

should have done so at all, knowing what you do of my

principles, astonishes me more. I send the man back to you. The

costs of this procedure you will either set down to me, or pay

out of your own pocket, whichever you may deem the more just;

but you will _not_ charge them to Mrs. Halliburton. Have the

goodness to call upon me to-morrow morning in East Street.

"THOMAS ASHLEY."

"He will not trouble you again, Mrs. Halliburton," observed Mr. Ashley,

with a pleasant smile, as he went out to his carriage.

Jane stood at her window. She watched the man go towards Helstonleigh

with the note; she watched Mr. Ashley step into his seat, turn his

horse, and drive up the road. But all things were looking misty to her,

for her eyes were dim.

"God did hear me," was her earnest thought.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HONEY FAIR.

Helstonleigh abounded with glove manufactories. It was a trade that

might be said to be a blessing to the localities where it was carried

on, since it was one of the very few employments that furnished to the

poor female population easy, clean, and profitable work _at their own

homes_. The evils arising to women who go out to work in factories have

been rehearsed over and over again; and the chief evil--we will put

others out of sight--is, that it takes the married woman from her home

and her family. Her young children drag themselves up in her absence,

for worse or for better; alone they must do it, for she has to be away,

toiling for daily bread. There is no home privacy, no home comfort, no

home happiness; the factory is their life, and other interests give way

to it. But with glove-making the case was different. Whilst the husbands

were at the manufactories pursuing their day's work, the wives and elder

daughters were earning money easily and pleasantly at home. The work was

clean and profitable; all that was necessary for its accomplishment

being common skill as a seamstress.

Not five minutes' walk from Mrs. Halliburton's house, and nearer to

Helstonleigh, a turning out of the main road led you to quite a colony

of workwomen--gloveresses, as they were termed in the local phraseology.

It was a long, wide lane; the houses, some larger, some smaller, built

on either side of it. A road quite wide enough for health if the

inhabitants had only kept it as it ought to have been kept: but they did

not do so. The highway was made a common receptacle for refuse. It was

so much easier to open the kitchen door (most of the houses were entered

at once by the kitchen), and to "chuck" things out, _pele-mele_, rather

than be at the trouble of conveying them to the proper receptacle, the

dust-bin at the back. Occasionally a solitary policeman would come,

picking his way through the dirt and dust, and order it to be removed;

upon which some slight improvement would be visible for a day or two.

The name of this charming place was Honey Fair; though, in truth, it was

redolent of nothing so pleasant as honey.

Of the occupants of these houses, the husbands and elder sons were all

glove operatives; several of them in the manufactory of Mr. Ashley. The

wives sewed the gloves at home. Many a similar colony to Honey Fair was

there in Helstonleigh, but in hearing of one you hear of all. The trade

was extensively pursued. A very few of the manufactories were of the

extent that was Mr. Ashley's; and they gradually descended in size,

until some comprised not half a score workmen, all told; but whose

masters alike dignified themselves by the title of "manufacturer."

There flourished a shop in the general line in Honey Fair kept by a Mrs.

Buffle, a great gossip. Her husband, a well-meaning, steady little man,

mincing in his speech and gait, scrupulously neat and clean in his

attire, and thence called "the dandy," was chief workman at one of the

smallest of the establishments. He had three men and two boys under him;

and so he styled himself the "foreman." No one knew half so much of the

affairs of their neighbours as did Mrs. Buffle; no one could tell of the

ill-doings and shortcomings of Honey Fair as she could. Many a gloveress

girl, running in at dusk for a halfpenny candle, did not receive it

until she had first submitted to a lecture from Mrs. Buffle. Not that

her custom was all of this ignoble description: some of the gentlemen's

houses in the neighbourhood would deal with her in a chance way, when

out of articles at home. Her wares were good; her home-cured bacon was

particularly good. Amidst other olfactory treats indigenous to Honey

Fair was that of pigs and pig-sties, kept by Mrs. Buffle.

Occasionally Mrs. Halliburton would go to this shop; it was nearer to

her house than any other; and, in her small way, had been extensively

patronised by her. Of all her customers, Mrs. Halliburton was the one

who most puzzled Mrs. Buffle. In the first place, she never gossiped; in

the second, though evidently a lady, she would carry her purchases home

herself. The very servants from the very large houses, coming flaunting

in their smart caps, would loftily order their pound of bacon or

shillingsworth of eggs sent home for them. Mrs. Halliburton took hers

away in her own hand; and this puzzled Mrs. Buffle. "But her pays ready

money," observed that lady, when relating this to another customer, "so

'tain't my place to grumble."

During the summer weather, whenever Jane had occasion to walk through

Honey Fair, on her way to this shop, she would linger to admire the

women at their open doors and windows, busy over their nice clean work.

Rocking the cradle with one foot, or jogging the baby on their knees, to

a tune of their own composing, their hands would be ever active at their

employment. Some made the gloves; that is, seamed the fingers together

and put in the thumbs, and these were called "makers." Some welted, or

hemmed the gloves round at the edge of the wrist; these were called

"welters." Some worked the three ornamental lines on the back; and these

were called "pointers." Some of the work was done in what was called a

patent machine, whereby the stitches were rendered perfectly equal. And

some of the stouter gloves were stitched together, instead of being

sewn: stitching so beautifully regular and neat, that a stranger would

look at it in admiration. In short, there were different branches in the

making and sewing of gloves, as there are in most trades.

It now struck Jane that she might find employment at this work until

better times should come round. True, she had never worked at it; but

she was expert with her needle, and it was easily acquired. She

possessed a dry, cool hand, too; a great thing where sewing-silk,

sometimes floss silk, has to be used. What cared she for lowering

herself to the employment only dealt out to the poor? Was she not poor

herself? And who knew her in Helstonleigh?

The day that Mr. Ashley removed the dreaded visitor from her house, Jane

had occasion to speak to Elizabeth Carter, her young servant's mother.

At dusk, putting aside the frock she was making for Anna, Jane proceeded

to Honey Fair, in which perfumed locality Mrs. Carter lived. An

agreement had been entered into that Betsy should still go to Mrs.

Halliburton's to do the washing (after her own fashion, but Jane could

not afford to be fastidious now), and also what was wanted in the way of

scouring--Betsy being paid a trifle in return, and instructed in the

mysteries of reading and writing.

"'Taint no profit," observed Mrs. Carter to a crony, "but 'taint no

loss. Her won't do nothing at home, let me cry after her as I will. Out

her goes, gampusing to this house, gampusing to that; but not a bit of

work'll her stick to at home. If these new folks can keep her to work a

bit, so much the better; it'll be getting her hand in; and better still,

if they teaches her to read and write. Her wouldn't learn nothing from

the school-missis."

Not a very favourable description of Miss Betsy. But, what the girl

chiefly wanted was a firm hand over her. Her temper and disposition were

good; but she was an only child, and her mother, though possessing a

firm hand, and a firm tongue, too, in general--none more so in Honey

Fair--had spoilt and indulged Miss Betsy until her authority was gone.

After her business was over this evening with Mrs. Carter, Jane, who

wanted some darning cotton, turned into Mrs. Buffle's shop. That

priestess was in her accustomed place behind the counter. She curtseyed

twice, and spoke in a low, subdued tone, in deference to the widow's cap

and bonnet--to the deep mourning altogether, which Mrs. Buffle's

curiosity had not had the gratification of beholding before.

"Would you like it fine or coarse, mum? Here's both. 'Taint a great

assortment, but it's the best quality. I don't have much call for

darning cotton, mum; the folks round about is always at their gloving

work."

"But they must mend their stockings," observed Jane.

"Not they," returned Mrs. Buffle. "They'd go in naked heels, mum, afore

they'd take a needle and darn 'em up. They have took to wear them untidy

boots to cover the holes, and away they go with 'em unlaced; tongue

hanging, and tag trailing half a mile behind 'em. Great big slatterns,

they be!"

"They seem always at work," remarked Jane.

"Always at work!" repeated Mrs. Buffle. "You don't know much of 'em,

mum, or you'd not say it. They'll play one day, and work the next;

that's their work. It's only a few of the steady ones that'll work

regular, all the week through."

"What could a good, steady workwoman earn a week at the glove-making?"

"That depends, mum, upon how close she stuck to it," responded Mrs.

Buffle.

"I mean, sitting closely."

"Oh, well," debated Mrs. Buffle carelessly, "she might earn ten

shillings a week, and do it comfortable."

Ten shillings a week! Jane's heart beat hopefully. Upon ten shillings a

week she might manage to exist, to keep her children from starvation,

until better days arose. _She_, impelled by necessity, could sit longer

and closer, too, than perhaps those women did. Mrs. Buffle continued,

full of inward gratulation that her silent customer had come round to

gossip at last.

"They be the improvidentest things in the world, mum, these gloveress

girls. Sundays they be dressed up as grand as queens, flowers inside

their bonnets, and ribbuns out, a-setting the churches and chapels

alight with their finery; and then off for walks with their sweethearts,

all the afternoon and evening. Mondays is mostly spent in waste,

gathering of themselves at each other's houses, talking and laughing,

or, may be, off to the fields again--anything for idleness. Tuesdays is

often the same, and then the rest of the week they has to scout over

their work, to get it in on the Saturday. Ah! you don't know 'em, mum."

Jane paid for her darning cotton and came away, much to Mrs. Buffle's

regret. "Ten shillings a week," kept ringing in her ears.

CHAPTER XIX.

MRS. REECE AND DOBBS.

Jane was busy that evening; but the following morning she went into

Samuel Lynn's. Patience was in the kitchen, washing currants for a

pudding; the maid upstairs at her work. Jane held the body of Anna's

frock in her hand. She wished to try it on.

"Anna is not at home," was the reply of Patience. "She is gone to spend

the day with Mary Ashley."

Jane felt sorry; she had been in hopes of finishing it that day.

"Patience," said she, "I want to ask your advice. I have been thinking

that I might get employment at sewing gloves. It seems easy work to

learn."

"Would thee like the work?" asked Patience. "Ladies have a prejudice

against it, because it is the work supplied to the poor. Not but that

some ladies in this town, willing to eke out their means, do work at it

in private. They get the work brought out to them and taken in."

"That would be the worst for me," observed Jane: "taking in the work. I

do fear I should not like it."

"Of course not. Thee could not go to the manufactory and stand amid the

crowd of women for thy turn to be served as one of them. Wait thee an

instant."

Patience dried her hands upon the roller-towel, and took Jane into the

best parlour, the one less frequently used. Opening a closet, she

reached from it a small, peculiar-looking machine, and some unmade

gloves: the latter were in a basket, covered over with a white cloth.

"This is different work from what the women do," said she. "It is what

is called the French point, and is confined to a few of the chief

manufacturers. It is not allowed to be done publicly, lest all should

get hold of the stitch. Those who employ the point have it done in

private."

"Who does it here?" exclaimed Jane.

"I do," said Patience, laughing. "Did thee think I should be like the

fine ladies, ashamed to put my hand to it? I and James Meeking's wife do

all that is at present being done for the Ashley manufactory. But now,

look thee. Samuel Lynn was saying only last night, that they must search

out for some other hand who would be trustworthy, for they want more of

the work done. It is easy to learn, and I know they would give it thee.

It is a little better paid than the other work, too. Sit thee down and

try it."

Patience fixed the back of the glove in the pretty little square

machine, took the needle--a peculiar one--and showed how it was to be

done. Jane, in a glow of delight, accomplished some stitches readily.

"I see thee would be handy at it," said Patience. "Thee can take the

machine indoors to-day and practise. I will give thee a piece of old

leather to exercise upon. In two or three days thee may be quite

perfect. I do not work very much at it myself, at which Samuel Lynn

grumbles. It is all my own profit, what I earn, so that he has no

selfish motive in urging me to work, except that they want more of it

done. But I have my household matters to attend to, and Anna takes up my

time. I get enough for my clothes, and that is all I care for."

"I know I could do it! I could do it well, Patience."

"Then I am sure thee may have it to do. They will supply thee with a

machine, and Samuel Lynn will bring thy work home and take it back

again, as he does mine. He----"

William was bursting in upon them with a beaming face. "Mamma, make

haste home. Two ladies are asking to see the rooms."

Jane hurried in. In the parlour sat a pleasant-looking old lady in a

large black silk bonnet. The other, smarter, younger (but _she_ must

have been forty at least), and very cross-looking, wore a Leghorn bonnet

with green and scarlet bows. She was the old lady's companion,

housekeeper, servant, all combined in one, as Jane found afterwards.

"You have lodgings to let, ma'am," said the old lady. "Can we see them?"

"This is the sitting-room," Jane was beginning; but she was interrupted

by the smart one in a snappish tone.

"_This_ the sitting-room! Do you call this furnished?"

"Don't be hasty, Dobbs," rebuked her mistress. "Hear what the lady has

to say."

"The furniture is homely, certainly," acknowledged Jane. "But it is new

and clean. That is a most comfortable sofa. The bedrooms are above."

The old lady said she would see them, and they proceeded upstairs. Dobbs

put her head into one room, and withdrew it with a shriek. "This room

has no bedside carpets."

"I am sorry to say that I have no bedside carpets at present," said

Jane, feeling all the discouragement of the avowal. "I will get some as

soon as I possibly can, if any one taking the rooms will kindly do

without them for a little while."

"Perhaps we might, Dobbs," suggested the old lady, who appeared to be of

an accommodating, easy nature; readily satisfied.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am, you'll do nothing of the sort," returned

Dobbs. "We should have you doubled up with cramp, if you clapped your

feet on to a cold floor. _I_ am not going to do it."

"I never do have cramp, Dobbs."

"Which is no reason, ma'am, why you never should," authoritatively

returned Dobbs.

"What a lovely view from these back windows!" exclaimed the old lady.

"Dobbs, do you see the Malvern Hills?"

"We don't eat and drink views," testily responded Dobbs.

"They are pleasant to look at though," said her mistress. "I like these

rooms. Is there a closet, ma'am, or small apartment that we could have

for our trunks, if we came?"

"We are not coming," interrupted Dobbs, before Jane could answer.

"Carpetless floors won't suit us, ma'am."

"There is a closet here, over the entrance," said Jane to the old lady,

as she opened the door. "Our own boxes are in it now, but I can have

them moved upstairs."

"So there's a cock-loft, is there?" put in Dobbs.

"A what?" cried Jane, who had never heard the word. "There is nothing

upstairs but an attic. A garret, as it is called here."

"Yes," burst forth Dobbs, "it is called a garret by them that want to be

fine. Cock-loft is good enough for us decent folk: we've never called it

anything else. Who sleeps up there?" she summarily demanded.

"My little boys. This was their room, but I have put them upstairs that

I may let this one."

"There ma'am!" said Dobbs, triumphantly, as she turned to her mistress.

"You'll believe me another time, I hope! I told you I knew there was a

pack of children. One of 'em opened the door to us."

"Perhaps they are quiet children," said the old lady, who had been so

long used to the grumbling and domineering of Dobbs, that she took it as

a matter of course.

"They are, indeed," said Jane, "quiet, good children. I will answer for

it that they will not disturb you in any way."

"I should like to see the kitchen, ma'am," said the old lady.

"We only want the use of it," snapped Dobbs. "Our kitchen fire goes out

after dinner, and I boil the kettle for tea in the parlour."

"Would attendance be required?" asked Jane of the old lady.

"No, it wouldn't," answered Dobbs, in the same tart tone. "I wait upon

my missis, and I wait upon myself, and we have a woman in to do the

cleaning, and the washing goes out."

The answer gave Jane great relief. _Attending_ upon lodgers had been a

dubious prospect in more respects than one.

"It's a very good kitchen," said the old lady, as they went in, and she

turned round in it.

"I'll be bound it smokes," said Dobbs.

"No, it does not," replied Jane.

"Where's the coalhouse?" asked Dobbs. "Is there two?"

"Only one," said Jane. "It is at the back of the kitchen."

"Then--if we did come--where could our coal be put?" fiercely demanded

Dobbs. "I must have my coalhouse to myself, with a lock and key. I don't

want the house's fires supplied from my missis's coal."

Jane's cheeks flushed as she turned to the old lady. "Allow me to assure

you that your property--of whatever nature it may be--will be perfectly

sacred in this house. Whether locked up or not, it will be left

untouched by me and mine."

"To be sure, ma'am," pleasantly returned the old lady. "I'm not afraid.

You must not mind what Dobbs says: she means nothing."

"And our safe for meat and butter," proceeded that undaunted

functionary. "Is there a key to it?"

"And now about the rent?" said the old lady, giving Jane no time to

answer that there was a key.

Jane hesitated. And then, with a flush, asked twenty shillings a week.

"My conscience!" uttered Dobbs. "Twenty shillings a week. And us finding

spoons and linen!"

"Dobbs," said the old lady. "I don't see that it is so very out of the

way. A parlour, two bedrooms, a closet, and the kitchen, all

furnished----"

"The closet's an empty, dark hole, and the kitchen's only the use of it,

and the bedrooms are carpetless," reiterated Dobbs, drowning her

mistress's voice. "But, if anybody asked you for your head, ma'am, you'd

just cut it off and give it, if I wasn't at hand to stop you."

"Well, Dobbs, we have seen nothing else to suit us up here. And you know

I want to settle myself at this end of the town, on account of it being

high and dry. Parry says I must."

"We have not half looked yet," said Dobbs.

"A pound a-week is a good price, ma'am; and we have not paid quite so

much where we are: but I don't know that it's unreasonable," continued

the old lady to Jane. "What shall we do, Dobbs?"

"Do, ma'am! Why, of course you'll come out, and try higher up. To take

these rooms without looking out for others, would be as bad as buying a

pig in a poke. Come along, ma'am. Bedrooms without carpets won't do for

us at any price," she added to Jane by way of a party salutation.

They left the house, the lady with a cordial good morning, Dobbs with

none at all; and went quarrelling up the road. That is, the old lady

reasoning, and Dobbs disputing. The former proposed, if they saw nothing

to suit them better, to purchase bedside carpeting: upon which Dobbs

accused her of wanting to bring herself to the workhouse.

Patience, who had watched them away, from her parlour window, came in to

learn the success. She brought in with her the machine, a plain piece of

leather, the size of the back of a glove, neatly fixed in it. Jane's

tears were falling.

"I think they would have taken them had there been bedside carpets,"

sighed she. "Oh, Patience, what a help it would been! I asked a pound a

week."

"Did thee? That was a good price, considering thee would not have to

give attendance."

"How do you know I should not?" asked Jane.

"Because I know Hannah Dobbs waits upon her mistress," replied Patience.

"She is the widow of Joseph Reece, and he left her well off. I heard

they were coming to live up this way. Did they quite decline them?

Because, I can tell thee what. We have some strips of bedside carpet not

being used, and I would not mind lending them till thee can buy others.

It is a pity thee should lose the letting for the sake of a bit of

carpet."

Jane looked up gratefully. "What should I have done without you,

Patience?"

"Nay, it is not much: thee art welcome. I would not risk the carpet with

unknown people, but Hannah Dobbs is cleanly and careful."

"She has a very repelling manner," observed Jane.

"It is not agreeable," assented Patience, with a smile; "but she is

attached to her mistress, and serves her faithfully."

Jane sat down to practise upon the leather, watching the road at the

same time. In about an hour she saw Mrs. Reece and Dobbs returning.

William went out, and asked if they would step in.

They were already coming. They had seen nothing they liked so well. Jane

said she believed she could promise them bedside carpets.

"Then, I think we will decide, ma'am," said the old lady. "We saw one

set of rooms, very nice ones; and they asked only seventeen shillings

a-week: but they have a young man lodger, a pupil at the infirmary, and

he comes home at all hours of the night. Dobbs questioned them till they

confessed that it was so."

"I know what them infirmary pupils is," indignantly put in Dobbs. "I am

not going to suffer my missis to come in contact with their habits.

There ain't one of 'em as thinks anything of stopping out till morning

light. And before the sun's up they'll have a pipe in their mouths,

filling the house with smoke! It's said, too, that there's mysterious

big boxes brought to 'em, for what they call the 'furtherance of

science': perhaps some of the churchyard sextons could tell what's in

'em!"

"Well, Dobbs. I think we may take this good lady's rooms. I'm sure we

shan't get better suited elsewhere."

Dobbs only grunted. She was tired with her walk, and had really no

objection to the rooms; except as to price: that, she persisted in

disputing as outrageous.

"I suppose you would not take less?" said the old lady to Jane.

Jane hesitated; but it was impossible for her to be otherwise than

candid and truthful. "I would take a trifle less, sooner than not let

you the rooms; but I am very poor, and every shilling is a consideration

to me."

"Well, I will take them at the price," concluded the good-natured old

lady. "And Dobbs, if you grumble, I can't help it. Can we come in--let

me see?--this is Wednesday----"

"I won't come in on a Friday for anybody," interrupted Dobbs fiercely.

"We will come in on Tuesday next, ma'am," decided the old lady. "Before

that, I'll send in a trolley of coal, if you'll be so kind as to receive

it."

"And to lock it up," snapped Dobbs.

CHAPTER XX.

THE GLOVE OPERATIVES.

At the hours of going to and leaving work, the Helstonleigh streets were

alive with glove operatives, some being in one branch of the trade, some

in another. There were parers, grounders, leather-sorters, dyers,

cutters, makers-up, and so on: all being necessary, besides the sewing,

to turn out one pair of gloves; though, I dare say, you did not think

it. The wages varied according to the particular work, or the men's

ability and industry, from fifteen shillings a week to twenty-five: but

all could earn a good living. If a man gained more than twenty-five, he

had a stated salary; as was the case with the foremen. These wages,

joined to what was earned by the women, were sufficient to maintain a

comfortable home, and to bring up children decently. Unfortunately the

same drawbacks prevailed in Helstonleigh that are but too common

elsewhere; and they may be classed under one general head--improvidence.

The men were given to idling away at the public-houses more time than

was good for them: the women to scold and to quarrel. Some were

slatterns; and a great many gave their husbands the welcome of a home of

discomfort, ill-management, and dirt: which, of course, had the effect

of sending them out all the more surely.

Just about this period, the men had their especial grievance--or thought

they had: and that was, a low rate of wages and not full employment. Had

they paid a visit to other places and compared their wages with some

earned by operatives of a different class, they had found less cause to

complain. The men were rather given to comparing present wages with

those they had earned before the dark crisis (dark as far as

Helstonleigh's trade was concerned) when the British ports were opened

to foreign gloves. But few, comparatively speaking, of the manufacturers

had weathered that storm. Years have elapsed since then: but the

employment remained scarce, and the wages (I have quoted them to you)

low. Altogether, the men were, many of them, dissatisfied. They even

went so far as to talk of a "strike"; strikes being less common in those

days than they are in these.

It was Saturday night, and the streets were crowded. The hands were

pouring out of the different manufactories; clean-looking, respectable

workmen, as a whole: for the branches of glove-making are for the most

part of a cleanly nature. Some wore their white aprons; some had rolled

them up round their waists. A few--very few, it must be owned--were

going to their homes, but the greater portion were bound for the

public-house.

One of the most extensively patronised of the public-houses was The

Cutters' Arms. On a Saturday night, when the men's pockets were lined,

this would be crowded. The men flocked into it now and filled it,

although its room for entertainment was very large. The order from most

of them was a pint of mild ale and some tobacco.

"Any news, Joe Fisher?" asked a man, when the pipes were set going.

Joe Fisher tossed his head and growled. He was a tall, dark man; clothes

and condition both dilapidated. The questioner took a few whiffs, and

repeated his question. Joe growled again, but did not speak.

"Well, you might give a chap a civil answer, Fisher."

"What's the matter, you two?" cried a third.

"Ben Wilks asks me is there any news!" called out Fisher, indignantly.

"I thought he might ha' heered on't without asking. Our pay was docked

again to-night; that's the news."

"No!" uttered Wilks.

"It were," said Fisher savagely. "A shilling a week less, good. Who's

a-going to stand it?"

"There ain't no help for standing it," interposed a quiet-looking man

named Wheeler. "I suppose the masters is forced to lower. They say so."

"Have your master forced hisself to it?" angrily retorted Fisher.

"Well, Fisher, you know I'm fortunate. As all is that gets in to work at

Ashley's."

"And precious good care they take to stop in!" cried Fisher, much

aggravated. "No danger that Ashley's hands'll give way and afford

outsiders a chance."

"Why should they give way?" sensibly asked Wheeler. "_You_ need never

think to get in at Ashley's, Fisher, so there's no cause for you to

grumble."

A titter went round at Fisher's expense. He did not like it. "I might

stand my chance with others, if there was room. Who says I couldn't?

Come, now!"

A man laughed. "You had better ask Samuel Lynn that question, Fisher.

Why, he wouldn't look at you! You are not steady enough for him."

"Samuel Lynn may go along for a ill-natured broadbrim!" was Fisher's

retort. "There'd not be half the difficulty in getting in with Mr.

Ashley hisself."

"Yes, there would," said Wheeler, quietly. "Mr. Ashley pays first wages,

and he'll have first hands. Quaker Lynn knows what he's about."

"Don't dispute about nothing, Fisher," interrupted a voice, borne

through the clouds of smoke from the far end of the room. "To lose a

shilling a week is bad, but not so bad as losing all. I have heard ill

news this evening."

Fisher stretched up his long neck. "Who's that a-talking? Is it Mr.

Crouch?"

It was Stephen Crouch; the foreman in a large firm, and a respectable,

intelligent man. "Do you remember, any of you, that a report arose some

time ago about Wilson and King? A report that died away again?"

"That they were on their last legs," replied several voices. "Well?"

"Well, they are off them now," continued Stephen Crouch.

Up rose a man, his voice shaking with emotion. "It's not true, Mr.

Crouch, sure--ly!"

"It is, Vincent. Wilson and King are going to wind up. It will be

announced next week."

"Mercy help us! There'll be forty more hands throwed out! What's to

become of us all?"

A dead silence fell on the room. Vincent broke it. Hope is strong in the

human heart. "Mr. Crouch, I don't think it can be true. Our wages was

all paid up to-night. And we have not heard a breath on't."

"I know all that," said Stephen Crouch. "I know where the money came

from to pay them. It came from Mr. Ashley."

The assertion astonished the room. "From Mr. Ashley! Did he tell it

abroad?"

"_He_ tell it!" indignantly returned Stephen Crouch. "Mr. Ashley is an

honourable man. No. Wilson and King have a tattler too near to them;

that's how it came out. Not but what it would have been known all over

Helstonleigh on Monday, all particulars. Every sixpence, pretty near,

that Wilson and King have, is locked up in their stock. They expected

remittances by the London mail this morning, and they did not come. They

went to the bank. The bank was shy, and would not make advances; and

they had nothing in hand for wages. They went to Mr. Ashley and told him

their perplexity, and he drew a cheque. The bank cashed that, with a

bow. And if it had not been for Mr. Ashley, Ned Vincent, you and the

rest of their hands would have gone home to-night with empty pockets."

"Will Mr. Ashley lose the money?"

"Not he. He knew there was no danger of that, when he lent it. Nobody

will lose by Wilson and King. They have more than enough to pay

everybody in full; only their money's locked up."

"Why are they giving up?"

"Because they can't keep on. They have been losing a long while. What do

you ask--what will they do? They must do as others have done before

them, who have been unable to keep on. If Wilson and King had given up

ten years ago, they had then each a nice little bit of property to

retire upon. But it has been sunk since. There are too many others in

this city in the same ease."

"And what's to become of us hands that's throwed out?" asked Vincent,

returning to his own personal grievance.

"You must try and get taken on somewhere else, Vincent," observed

Stephen Crouch.

"There ain't a better cutter than Ned Vincent going," cried another

voice. "He won't wait long."

"I don't know about that," returned Vincent gloomily. "The masters is

overdone with hands."

"Of all the bad luck as ever fell upon a town, the opening of the ports

to them foreign French was the worst for Helstonleigh," broke in the

intemperate voice of Fisher.

"Hold th' tongue, Fisher!" exclaimed a sensible voice. "We won't get

into them discussions again. Didn't we go over 'em, night after night,

and year after year, till we were heart-sick?--and what did they ever

bring us but ill-feeling? It's done, and it can't be undone. The ports

be open, and they'll never be closed again."

"Did the opening of 'em ruin the trade of Helstonleigh, or didn't it?

Answer me that," said Fisher.

"It did. We know it to our cost," was the sad answer. "But there's no

help for it."

"Oh," returned Fisher ironically. "I thought you were going to hold out

that the opening of 'em was a boon to the place, and the keeping 'em

open a blessing. That 'ud be a new dodge. _Why_ do they keep 'em open?"

"Just hark at Fisher!" said Mr. Buffle in a mincing tone. "He wants to

know why Government keeps open the British ports. Don't every dozen of

gloves that comes into the country pay a heavy duty? Is it likely

Government would give up that, Fisher?"

"What did they do afore they had it?" roared Fisher. "If they did

without the duty then, they could do without it now."

"I have heered of some gents as never tasted sugar," returned Mr.

Buffle; "but I never heered of one, who had the liking for it, as was

willing to forego the use of it. It's a case in pint; the Government

have tasted the sweets of the glove-duty, and they stick to it."

"Avaricious wolves!" growled Fisher. "But you are a fool, dandy, for all

that. What's a bit of paltry duty, alongside of our wants? If a few of

them great Government lords had to go on empty stomachs for a month,

they'd know what the opening of ports means."

"In all political changes, such as this, certain localities must

suffer," broke in the quiet voice of Stephen Crouch. "It will be the

means of increasing commerce wonderfully; and we, that the measure

crushed, must be content to suffer for the general good. The effects to

us can never be undone. I know what you say, Fisher," he continued,

silencing Fisher by a gesture. "I know that the ports might be re-closed

to-morrow, if Government so willed it. But it could not undo for us what

has been done. It could not repair the ruin that was wrought on

Helstonleigh. It could not reinstate firms in business; or refund to the

masters their wasted capital; or collect the hands it scattered over the

country, to find a bit of work, to beg, or to starve; or bring the dead

back to life. It could not do any of this. Neither would it restore a

flourishing trade to those of us who are left."

"What's that last, Crouch?"

"It never would," emphatically repeated Stephen Crouch. "A shattered

trade cannot be brought together again. It is like a shattered glass:

you may mourn over the pieces, but you cannot put them together. Believe

me, or not, as you please, my friends, but the only thing remaining is,

to make the best of what is left to us. There are other trades a deal

worse off than we are."

"I have talked to ye about that there move--a strike," resumed Fisher,

after a pause. "We shall get no good till we try it----"

"Fisher, don't you be a fool and show it," was the imperative

interruption of Stephen Crouch. "I have explained to you till I am

tired, what would be the effects of a strike. It would just finish you

bad workmen up, and send you and your children into the nearest dry

ditch for a floor, with the open skies above you for a roof."

"We have never tried a strike in Helstonleigh," answered Fisher, holding

to his own opinion.

"And I trust we never shall," returned the intelligent foreman. "Other

trades may have their strikes if they choose, and it's not our business

to find fault with them for it; but the glove trade has hitherto kept

itself aloof from strikes, and it's to be hoped it always will. You

cannot understand how a strike works, Joe Fisher, or you'd not let your

head be running on it."

"Others' heads be running on it as well as mine, Master Crouch," said

Fisher, nodding significantly.

"It is not improbable," was the equable rejoinder of Stephen Crouch. "Go

and strike next week, half a dozen of you. I mean the operatives of half

a dozen firms."

"Every firm in the place must strike," interrupted Fisher hastily. "A

few on us doing it would only make bad worse."

Stephen Crouch smiled. "Exactly. But the difficulty, Fisher, will be,

that all the firms _won't_ strike. Ask the men in our firm to strike;

ask those in Ashley's; ask others that we could name--and what would

their answer be? Why, that they know when they are well off. Suppose,

for argument's sake, that we did all strike; suppose all the hands in

Helstonleigh struck next Monday morning, and the manufactories had to be

closed? Who would have the worst of it?--we or the masters?"

"The masters," returned Fisher in an obstinate tone.

"No. The masters have good houses over their heads, and their bankers'

books to supply their wants while they are waiting--and their orders are

not so great that they need fear much pressure on that score. The London

houses would dispatch a few extra orders to Paris and Grenoble, and the

masters here might enjoy a nice little trip to the sea-side while our

senses were coming back to us. But where should we be? Out at elbows,

out at pocket, out at heart; some starving, some in the workhouse. If

you want to avoid those contingencies, Joe Fisher, you'll keep from

strikes."

Fisher answered by an ironical cheer. "Here, missis," said he to the

landlady, who was then passing him, "let's have another pint, after

that."

"That'll make nine pints you owe for since Monday night, Joe Fisher,"

responded the landlady.

"What if I do?" grunted Fisher irascibly. "I am able to pay. _I_ ain't

out of work."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE LADIES OF HONEY FAIR.

It was Saturday night in Honey Fair. A night when the ladies were at

leisure to abandon themselves to their private pursuits. The work of the

past week had gone into the warehouses; and the fresh work brought out

would not be begun until Monday morning. Some of them, as Mrs. Buffle

has informed us, did not begin it then. The women chiefly cleaned their

houses and mended their clothes; some washed and ironed--Honey Fair was

not famous for its management--not going to bed till Sunday morning;

some did their marketing; and a few, careless and lazy, spent it in

running from house to house, or congregated in the road to gossip.

About half-past eight, one of the latter suddenly lifted the latch of a

house door and thrust in her head. It was Joe Fisher's wife. Her face

was red, and her cap in tatters.

"Is our Becky in here, Mrs. Carter?"

Mrs. Carter was busy. She was the maternal parent of Miss Betsy. Her

kitchen fire was out, her furniture was heaped one thing upon another; a

pail of water stood ready to wash the brick floor, when she should have

finished rubbing up the grate, and her hands and face were as grimy as

the black-lead.

"There's no Becky here," snapped she.

"I can't find her," returned Mrs. Fisher. "I thought her might be along

of your Betsy. I say, here's your husband coming round the corner.

There's Mark Mason and Robert East and Dale along of him. And--my! what

has that young 'un of East's been doing to hisself? He's black from head

to foot. Come and look."

Mrs. Carter disdained the invitation. She was a hard-working, thrifty

woman, but a cross one. Priding herself upon her cleanliness, she

perpetually returned loud thanks that she was not as the dirty ones

around her. She was the Pharisee amidst many publicans.

"If I passed my time staring and gossiping as some does, where 'ud my

work be?" was her rebuke. "Shut the door, Suke Fisher."

Suke Fisher did as she was bid. She turned her wrists back upon her

hips, and walked to meet the advancing party, having discerned their

approach by the light of the gas-lamps. "Be you going to be sold for a

blackamoor?" demanded she of the boy.

The boy laughed. His head, face, shoulders, hands, were ornamented with

a thick, black liquid, not unlike blacking. He appeared to enjoy the

treat, as if he had been anointed with some fragrant oil.

"He is not a bad spectacle, is he, Dame Fisher?" remarked the young man,

whom she had called Robert East.

"What's a-done it?" questioned she.

"Him and Jacky Brumm got larking, and upset the dye-pot upon themselves.

We rubbed 'em down with the leather shreds, but it keeps on dripping

from their hair."

"Won't Charlotte warm his back for him!" apostrophised Mrs. Fisher.

The boy threw a disdainful look at her, in return for the remark.

"Charlotte's not so fond of warming backs. She never even scolds for an

accident."

The boy and Robert East were half-brothers. They entered one of the

cottages. Robert East and his sister were between twenty and thirty, and

the boy was ten. Their mother had died early, and the young boy's

mother, their father's second wife, died when the child was born. The

father also died. How Robert and his sister, the one then seventeen, the

other fourteen, had struggled to make a living for themselves, and to

bring up the baby, they alone knew. The manner in which they had

succeeded was a marvel to many; none were more respectable now than they

were in all Honey Fair.

Charlotte, neat and nice, sat by her bright kitchen fire, a savoury stew

cooking on the hob beside it. It was her custom to have something good

for supper on a Saturday night. Did she make home attractive on that

night to draw her brother from the seductions of the public-house? Most

likely. And she had her reward: for Robert never failed to come. The

cloth was laid, the red bricks of the floor were clean, and Charlotte's

face, as she looked up from her stocking-mending, was bright. It

darkened to consternation, however, when she cast her eyes on the boy.

"Tom, what _have_ you been doing?"

"Jacky Brumm threw a pot of dye over me, Charlotte."

"There's not much real damage, Charlotte," interposed her brother. "It

looks worse than it is. I'll get it out of his hair presently, and put

his clothes into a pail of water. What have you got to-night? It smells

good."

He alluded to supper, and took off the lid of the saucepan to peep in.

She had some stewed beef, with carrots, and the savoury steam ascended

to Robert's pleased face.

Very few in Honey Fair managed as did Charlotte East. How she did her

housework no one knew. Not a woman, married or single, got through more

glove-sewing than Charlotte. Not one kept her house in better order: and

her clothes and her brother's were neat and respectable, week-days as

well as Sundays. Her work was taken into the warehouse on Saturday

mornings, and her marketing was done. In the afternoon she cleaned her

house, and by four o'clock was ready to sit down to her mending. No one

ever saw her in a bustle, and yet all her work was done; and well done.

Perhaps one great secret of it was that she rose very early in the

morning, winter and summer.

"Look, Robert, here is a nice book I have bought," said she, putting a

periodical into his hands. "It comes out weekly. I shall take it in."

Robert turned over the leaves. "It seems very interesting," he said

presently. "Here's a paper that tells all about the Holy Land. And

another that tells us how glass is made; I have often wondered."

"You can read it to us of an evening while I work," said she. "It will

be quite a help to our getting on Tom: almost as good as sending him to

school. I gave----"

The words were interrupted. The door was violently burst open, and a

woman entered the kitchen; knocking at doors before entering was not the

fashion in Honey Fair. The intruder was Mrs. Brumm.

"I say, Robert East, did you see anything of my husband?"

"I saw him go into the Horned Ram."

"Then I wish the Horned Ram was into him!" wrathfully retorted Mrs.

Brumm. "He vowed faithfully he'd come home with his wages the first

thing after leaving work. He knows I have not a thing in the place for

to-morrow--and Dame Buffle looking out for her money. I have a good mind

to go down to the Horned Ram, and be on to him!"

Robert East offered no opinion upon this delicate point. He remembered

the last time Mrs. Brumm had gone to the Horned Ram to be "on" to her

husband, and what it had produced. A midnight quarrel that disturbed the

slumbers of Honey Fair.

"Who was along of him?" pursued she.

"Three or four of them. Hubbard and Jones, I saw go in: and Adam

Thorneycroft."

A quick rising of the head, as if startled, and a faint accession of

colour, told that one of those names had struck, perhaps unpleasantly,

on the ear of Charlotte East. "Where are your own earnings?" she asked

of Mrs. Brumm.

"I have had to take them to Bankes's," was the rueful reply. "It's a

good deal now, and they're in a regular tantrum this week, and wouldn't

even wait till Monday. They threatened to tell Brumm, and it frightened

me out of my seventeen senses. And now, for him to go into that dratted

Horned Ram with his wages! and me without a pennypiece! It's not more

for the necessaries I want to get in, than for the things that is in

pawn. I can't iron nothing: the irons is there."

Charlotte, busy still, turned round. "I would not put in irons, and such

things, that I wanted to use."

"I dare say you wouldn't!" tartly responded Mrs. Brumm. "One has to put

in what one's got, and the things our husbands won't miss the sight of.

It's fine to be you, Charlotte East, setting yourself up for a lady, and

never putting your foot inside the pawn-shop, with your clean hands and

your clean kitchen on a Saturday night, sitting down to a hot supper,

while the rest of us is a-scrubbing!"

Charlotte laughed good-humouredly. "If I tried to set myself up for a

lady, I could not be one. I work as hard as anybody; only I get it done

betimes."

Mrs. Brumm sniffed--having no ready answer at hand. And at that moment

Tom East, encased in black, peeped out of the brewhouse, where he had

been sent by Charlotte to wash the dye off his hands. "Sakes alive!"

uttered Mrs. Brumm, aghast at the sight.

"Jacky's worse than me," responded Tom, rather proud of having to say

so much. Robert explained to her how it had happened.

"And our Jacky's as bad as that!" she cried. "Won't I wring it out of

him!"

"Nonsense," said Robert; "it was an accident. Boys will be boys."

"Yes, they will: and it's not the men that have to wash for 'em and keep

'em clean!" retorted Mrs. Brumm, terribly wrathful. "And me at a

standstill for my irons! And that beast of a Brumm stopping out."

"I will lend you my irons," said Charlotte.

"I won't take 'em," was the ungracious reply. "If I don't get my own, I

won't borrow none. Brumm, he'll be looking out for his Sunday clean

shirt to-morrow, and he won't get it; and that'll punish him more than

anything else. There's not a man in Honey Fair as likes to go sprucer on

a Sunday than Brumm."

"So much the better," said Charlotte. "When men lose pride in their

appearance, they are apt to lose it in their conduct."

"You must always put in your word for folks, Charlotte East, let 'em be

ever so bad," was Mrs. Brumm's parting salutation, as she went off and

shut the door with a bang.

Meanwhile Timothy Carter, Mrs. Carter's husband, had turned into his own

dwelling, after leaving Robert East. The first thing to greet him was

the pail of water. Mrs. Carter had completed her grate, and was dashing

her water on to the floor. Timothy received it on his legs.

"What's that for?" demanded Timothy, who was a meek and timid little

man.

"Why do you brush in so sharp, then?" cried she. "Who was to know you

was a-coming?"

Timothy had not "brushed in sharp;" he had gone in quietly. He stood

ruefully shaking the wet from his legs, first one, then the other, and

afterwards began to pick his way on tiptoe towards the fireplace.

"Now, it's of no use your attempting to sit down yet," rebuked his wife,

in her usual cross accents. "There ain't no room for you at the fire,

and there ain't no warmth in it; it's but this blessed minute lighted.

Sit yourself on that table, again the wall, and then your legs'll be in

the dry."

"And there I may sit for an hour, for you'll be all that time before you

have finished, by the looks on't," he ventured to remonstrate.

"And half another hour to the end of it," answered she. "There's Betsy,

as ought to be helping, gadding out somewhere ever since she came home

at seven o'clock."

"You says to me, says you, 'You come home to-night, Tim, as soon as

work's over, and don't go drinking!' You know you did," repeated Timothy

in an injured tone.

"And it's a good thing as you have come, or you'd have heard my tongue

in a way you wouldn't like!" was Mrs. Carter's reply.

Timothy sighed. That tongue was the two-edged sword of his life: how

dreaded, none but himself could tell. He had mounted the table in

obedience to orders, but he now got off again.

"What are you after now?" shrilly demanded Mrs. Carter, who was on her

knees, scouring the bricks.

"I want my pipe and 'baccy."

"You stop where you are," was the imperative answer, "and wait till I

have time to get it;" and Timothy humbly sat down again.

"You might get this done afore night, 'Lizabeth, as I've said over and

over again," cried he, plucking up a little spirit. "When a man comes

home tired, even if there ain't a bit o' supper for him, he expects a

morsel o' fire to sit down to, so as he can smoke his pipe in quiet. It

cows him, you see, to find his place in this ruck, where there ain't a

dry spot to put the sole of his foot on, and nothing but a table with

unekal legs to sit upon, and----"

"I might get it done afore?" shrieked Mrs. Carter. "Afore! When, through

that Betsy's laziness, leaving everything on my shoulders, I couldn't

get in my gloving till four o'clock this afternoon! Every earthly thing

have I had to do since then. I raked out my fire----"

"What's the good of raking out the fire?" interposed Timothy.

"Goodness help the simpleton! Wanting to know the good of raking out the

fire--as if he was born yesterday! Can a grate be black-leaded while

it's hot, pray?"

"It might be black-leaded at some other time," debated he. "In a

morning, perhaps."

"I dare say it might, if I had not my gloving to do," she answered,

trembling with wrath. "When folks takes out shop work, they has to get

on with that--and is glad to do it. Where would you be if I earned

nothing? It isn't much of a roof we should have over our heads, with

your paltry fifteen or sixteen shillings a-week. You be nothing but a

parer, remember."

"There's no need to disparage of me, 'Lizabeth," he rejoined, with a

meek little cough. "You knowed I was a parer before you ventured on me."

"Just take your legs up higher, or you'll be knocking my cap with your

dirty boots," said Mrs. Carter, who was nearing the table in her

scrubbing.

"I'll stand outside the door a bit, I think," he answered. "I am in your

way everywhere."

"Sit where you are, and lift up your legs," was the reiterated command.

And Timothy obeyed.

Cold and dreary, on he sat, watching the cleaning of the kitchen. The

fire gave out no heat, and the squares of bricks did not dry. He took

some silver from his pocket, and laid it in a stack on the table beside

him, for his wife to take up at her leisure. She allowed him no chance

of squandering _his_ wages.

A few minutes, and Mrs. Carter rose from her knees and went into the

yard for a fresh supply of water. Timothy did not wait for a second

ducking. He slipped off the table, took a shilling from the heap, and

stole from the house.

Back came Mrs. Carter, her pail brimming. "You go over to Dame Buffle's,

Tim, and----Why, where's he gone?"

He was not in the kitchen, that was certain; and she opened the

staircase door, and elevated her voice shrilly. "Are you gone tramping

up my stairs, with your dirty boots? Tim Carter, I say, are you

upstairs?"

Of course Tim Carter was not upstairs: or he had never dared to leave

that voice unanswered.

"Now, if he has gone off to any of them sotting publics, he shan't hear

the last of it," she exclaimed, opening the door and gazing as far as

the nearest gas-light would permit. But Timothy was beyond her eye and

reach, and she caught up the money and counted it. Fourteen shillings.

One shilling of it gone.

She knew what it meant, and dashed the silver into a wide-necked

canister on the high mantelshelf, which contained also her own earnings

for the week. It would have been as much as meek Tim Carter's life was

worth to touch that canister, and she kept it openly on the

mantel-piece. Many unfortunate wives in Honey Fair could not keep their

money from their husbands even under lock and key. As she was putting

the canister in its place again, Betsy came in. Mrs. Carter turned

sharply upon her.

"Now, miss! where have you been?"

"Law, mother, how you fly out! I have only been to Cross's."

"You ungrateful piece of brass, when you know there's so much to be done

on a Satur-night that I can't turn myself round! You shan't go gadding

about half your time. I'll put you from home entire, to a good tight

service."

Betsy had heard the same threat so often that its effect was gone. Had

her mother only kept her in one-tenth of the subjection that she did her

husband, it might have been better for the young lady. "I was only in at

Cross's," she repeated.

"What's the good of telling me that falsehood? I went to Cross's after

you, but you wasn't there, and hadn't been there. You want a good sound

shaking, miss."

"If I wasn't at Cross's, I was at Mason's," was the imperturbable reply

of Miss Betsy. "I was at Mason's first. Mark Mason came home and turned

as sour as a wasp, because the place was in a mess. She was washing her

children, and she's got the kitchen to do, and he began blowing up. I

left 'em then, and went in to Cross's. Mason went back down the hill;

so he'll come home tipsy."

"Why can't she get her children washed afore he comes home?" retorted

Mrs. Carter, who could see plenty of motes in her neighbours' eyes,

though utterly blind to the beam in her own. "Such wretched management!

Children ought to be packed out of the way by seven o'clock."

"You don't get your cleaning over, any more than she does," remarked

Miss Betsy boldly.

Mrs. Carter turned an angry gaze upon her; a torrent of words breaking

from her lips. "I get my cleaning over! I, who am at work every moment

of my day, from early morning till late at night! You'd liken me to that

good-for-nothing Het Mason, who hardly makes a dozen o' gloves in a

week, and keeps her house like a pigsty! Where would you and your father

be, if I didn't work to keep you, and slave to make the place sweet and

comfortable? Be off to Dame Buffle's and buy me a besom, you ungrateful

monkey: and then you turn to and dust these chairs."

Betsy did not wait for a second bidding. She preferred going for besoms,

or for anything else, to her mother's kitchen and her mother's scolding.

Her coming back was another affair; she would be just as likely to

propel the besom into the kitchen and make off herself, as to enter.

She suddenly stopped now, door in hand, to relate some news.

"I say, mother, there's going to be a party at the Alhambra

tea-gardens."

"A party at the Alhambra tea-gardens, with frost and snow on the

ground!" ironically repeated Mrs. Carter. "Be off, and don't be an oaf."

"It's true," said Betsy. "All Honey Fair's going to it. I shall go too.

'Melia and Mary Ann Cross is going to have new things for it, and----"

"Will you go along and get that besom?" cried angry Mrs. Carter. "No

child of mine shall go off to their Alhambras, catching their death on

the wet grass."

"Wet grass!" echoed Betsy. "Why, you're never such a gaby as to think

they'd have a party on the grass! It is to be in the big room, and

there's to be a fiddle and a tam----"

"----bourine" never came. Mrs. Carter sent the wet mop flying after Miss

Betsy, and the young lady, dexterously evading it, flung-to the door and

departed.

A couple of hours later, Timothy Carter was escorted home, his own

walking none of the steadiest. The men with him had taken more than

Timothy; but it was that weak man's misfortune to be overcome by a

little. You will allow, however, that he had taken enough, having spent

his shilling and gone into debt besides. Mrs. Carter received

him----Well, I am rather at a loss to describe it. She did not actually

beat him, but her shrill voice might be heard all over Honey Fair,

lavishing hard names upon helpless Tim. First of all, she turned out

his pockets. The shilling was all gone. "And how much more tacked on to

it?" asked she, wise by experience. And Timothy was just able to

understand and answer. He felt himself as a lamb in the fangs of a wolf.

"Eightpence halfpenny."

"A shilling and eightpence halfpenny chucked away in drink in one

night!" repeated Mrs. Carter. She gave him a short, emphatic shake, and

propelled him up the stairs; leaving him without a light, to get to bed

as he could. She had still some hours' work downstairs, in the shape of

mending clothes.

But it never once occurred to Mrs. Carter that she had herself to thank

for his misdoings. With a tidy room and a cheerful fire to receive him,

on returning from his day's work, Timothy Carter would no more have

thought of the public-houses than you or I should. And if, as did

Charlotte East, she had welcomed him with a good supper and a pleasant

tongue, poor Tim in his gratitude had forsworn public-houses for ever.

Neither, when Mark Mason staggered home, and _his_ wife raved at and

quarrelled with him, to the further edification of Honey Fair, did it

strike that lady that she could be in fault. As Mrs. Carter had said,

Henrietta Mason did not overburden herself with work of any sort; but

she did make a pretence of washing her four children in a bucket on a

Saturday night, and her kitchen afterwards. The ceremony was delayed

through idleness and bad management to the least propitious part of the

evening. So sure as she had the bucket before the fire, and the children

collected round it; one in, one just out roaring to be dried, and the

two others waiting their turn for the water, all of them stark

naked--for Mrs. Mason made a point of undressing them at once to save

trouble--so sure, I say, as these ablutions were in progress, the

children frantically crying, Mrs. Mason boxing, storming, and rubbing,

and the kitchen swimming, in would walk the father. Words invariably

ensued: a short, sharp quarrel; and he would turn out again for the

nearest public-house, where he was welcomed by a sociable room and a

glowing fire. Can any one be surprised that it should be so?

You must not think these cases overdrawn; you must not think them

exceptional cases. They are neither the one nor the other. They are

truthful pictures, taken from what Honey Fair was then. I very much fear

the same pictures might be taken from some places still.

CHAPTER XXII.

MR. BRUMM'S SUNDAY SHIRT.

But there's something to say yet of Mrs. Brumm. You saw her turning away

from Robert East's door, saying that her husband, Andrew, had promised

to come home that night and to bring his wages. Mrs. Brumm, a bad

manager, as were many of the rest, would probably have received him with

a sloppy kitchen, buckets, and besoms. Andrew had had experience of

this, and, disloyal knight that he was, allowed himself to be seduced

into the Horned Ram. He'd just take one pint and a pipe, he said to his

conscience, and be home in time for his wife to get what she wanted. A

little private matter of his own would call him away early. Pressed for

a sum of money in the week which was owing to his club, and not

possessing it, he had put his Sunday coat in pledge: and this he wanted

to get out. However, a comrade sitting in the next chair to him at the

Horned Ram had to get _his_ coat out of the same accommodating

receptacle. Nothing more easy than for him to bring out Andrew's at the

same time; which was done. The coat on the back of his chair, his pipe

in his mouth, and a pint of good ale before him, the outer world was as

nothing to Andrew Brumm.

At ten o'clock, the landlord came in. "Andrew Brumm, here's your wife

wanting to see you."

Now Andrew was not a bad sort of man by any means, but he had a great

antipathy to being looked after. A joke went round at Andrew's expense;

for if there was one thing the men in general hated more than another,

it was that their wives should come in quest of them to the

public-houses. Mrs. Brumm received a sharp reprimand; but she saw that

he was, as she expressed it, "getting on," so she got some money from

him and kept her scolding for another opportunity.

She did not go near the pawnbroker's to get her irons out. She bought a

bit of meat and what else she wanted, and returned to Honey Fair. Robert

East was closing his door for the night as she passed it. "Has Brumm

come home?" he asked.

"Not he, the toper! He is stuck fast at the Horned Ram, getting in for

it nicely. I have been after him for some money."

"Have you got your irons out?" inquired Charlotte, coming to the door.

"No, nor nothing else; and there's pretty near half the kitchen in. It's

him that'll suffer. He has been getting out his own coat, but he can't

put it on. Leastways, he won't without a clean collar and shirt; and let

him fish for _them_. Wait till to-morrow comes, Mr. 'Drew Brumm!"

"Was _his_ coat in?" returned Charlotte, surprised.

"That it was. Him as goes on so when I puts a thing or two in! He owed

some money at his club, and he went and put his coat in for four

shillings, and Adam Thorneycroft has been and fetched it out for him."

"Adam Thorneycroft!" involuntarily returned Charlotte.

"Thorneycroft's coat was in too, and he went for it just now, and Brumm

gave him the ticket to get out his. Smith's daughter told me that. She

was serving with her mother in the bar."

"Is Adam Thorneycroft at the Horned Ram still?"

"That he is: side by side with Brumm. A nice pair of 'em! Charlotte

East, take my advice; don't you have anything to say to Thorneycroft. A

woman had better climb up to the top of her topmost chimbley and pitch

herself off, head foremost, than marry a man given to drink."

Charlotte East felt vexed at the allusion--vexed that her name should be

coupled openly with that of Adam Thorneycroft by the busy tongues of

Honey Fair. That an attachment existed between herself and Adam

Thorneycroft was true; but she did not wish the fact to become too

apparent to others. Latterly she had been schooling her heart to forget

him, for he was taking to frequent public-houses.

Mrs. Brumm went home, and was soon followed by her husband. He was not

much the worse for what he had taken: he was a little. Mrs. Brumm

reproached him with it, and a wordy war ensued.

They arose peaceably in the morning. Andrew was a civil, well-conducted

man, and but for Horned Rams would have been a pattern to three parts of

Honey Fair. He liked to be dressed well on Sunday and to attend the

cathedral with his two children: he was very fond of listening to the

chanting Mrs. Brumm--as was the custom generally with the wives of Honey

Fair--stayed at home to cook the dinner. Andrew was accustomed to do

many odd jobs on the Sunday morning, to save his wife trouble. He

cleaned the boots and shoes, brushed his clothes, filled the coal-box,

and made himself useful in sundry other ways. All this done, they sat

down to breakfast with the two children, the unfortunate Jacky less

black than he had been the previous night.

"Now, Jacky," said Brumm, when the meal was over, "get yourself ready;

it has gone ten. Polly too."

"It's a'most too cold for Polly this morning," said Mrs. Brumm.

"Not a bit on't. The walk'll do her good, and give her an appetite for

dinner. What is for dinner, Bell? I asked you before, but you didn't

answer."

"It ain't much thanks to you as there's anything," retorted Mrs. Brumm,

who rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arabella. "You plant yourself

again at the Horned Ram, and see if I worries myself to come after you

for money. I'll starve on the Sunday first."

"I can't think what goes of your money," returned Andrew. "There had not

used to be this fuss if I stopped out for half an hour on the Saturday

night, with my wages in my pocket. Where does yours go to?"

"It goes in necessaries," shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. But not caring

for reasons of her own to pursue this particular topic, she turned to

that of the dinner. "I have half a shoulder of mutton, and I'm going to

take it to the bake'us with a batter pudden under it, and to boil the

taters at home."

"That's capital!" returned Andrew, gently rubbing his hands. "There's

nothing nicer than baked mutton and a batter pudden. Jacky, brush your

hair well: it's as rough as bristles."

"I had to use a handful of soda to get the dye out," said Mrs. Brumm.

"Soda's awful stuff for making the hair rough."

Andrew slipped out to the Honey Fair barber, who did an extensive

business on Sunday morning, to be shaved. When he returned he went up to

wash and dress, and finally uncovered a deal box where he was accustomed

to find his clean shirt. With all Mrs. Brumm's faults she had neat ways.

The shirt was not there.

"Bell, where's my clean shirt?" he called out from the top of the

stairs.

Mrs. Bell Brumm had been listening for the words and received them with

satisfaction. She nodded, winked, and went through a little pantomime of

ecstasy, to the intense delight of the children, who were in the secret,

and nodded and winked with her. "Clean shirt?" she called back again, as

if not understanding.

"My Sunday shirt ain't here."

"You haven't got no Sunday shirt to-day."

Andrew Brumm descended the stairs in consternation. "No Sunday shirt!"

he repeated.

"No shirt, nor no collar, nor no handkercher," coolly affirmed Mrs.

Brumm. "There ain't none ironed. They be all in the wet and the rough,

wrapped up in an old towel. Jacky and Polly haven't nothing either."

Brumm stared considerably. "Why, what's the meaning of that?"

"The irons are in pawn," shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. "You know you

never came home with the money, so I couldn't get 'em out."

Another wordy war. Andrew protested she had no "call" to put the irons

in any such place. She impudently retorted that she should put the house

in if she liked.

A hundred such little episodes could be related of the domestic life of

Honey Fair.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE MESSRS. BANKES.

On the Monday morning, a troop of the gloveress girls flocked into

Charlotte East's. They were taking holiday, as was usual with them on

Mondays. Charlotte was a favourite. It is true, she "bothered" them, as

they called it, with good advice, but they liked her in spite of it.

Charlotte's kitchen was always tidy and peaceful, with a bright fire

burning in it: other kitchens would be full of bustle and dirt.

Charlotte never let them hinder her; she worked away at her gloves all

the time. Charlotte was a glove-maker; that is, she sewed the fingers

together, and put in the thumbs, forgits, and quirks. Look at your own

gloves, English made. The long strips running up inside the fingers are

the forgits; and the little pieces between, where the fingers open, are

the quirks. The gloves Charlotte was occupied with now were of a very

dark green colour, almost black, called corbeau in the trade, and they

were sewn with white silk. Charlotte's stitches were as beautifully

regular as though she had used a patent machine. The white silk and the

fellow glove to the one she was making, lay inside a clean white

handkerchief doubled upon her lap; other gloves, equally well covered,

were in a basket at her side.

The girls had come in noisily, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes.

Charlotte saw that something was exciting them. They liked to tell her

of their little difficulties and pleasures. Betsy Carter had informed

her mother that there was going to be a "party at the Alhambra

tea-gardens," if you remember; and this was the point of interest

to-day. These "Alhambra tea-gardens," however formidable and perhaps

suggestive the name, were very innocent in reality. They belonged to a

quiet roadside inn, half a mile from the town, and comprised a large

garden and extensive lawn. The view from them was beautiful; and many a

party from Helstonleigh, far higher in the scale of society than these

girls, would go there in summer to take tea and enjoy the view. A young,

tall, handsome girl of eighteen had drawn her chair close to

Charlotte's. She was the half-sister of Mark Mason, and had her home

with him and his wife; supporting herself after a fashion by her work.

But she was always in debt to them, and she and Mrs. Mark did not get

along well together. She wore a new shawl, and straw bonnet trimmed with

blue ribbons: and her dark hair fell in glossy ringlets--as was the

fashion then. Two other girls perched themselves on a table. They were

sisters--Amelia and Mary Ann Cross; others placed themselves where they

could. Somewhat light were they in manner, these girls; free in speech.

Nothing farther. If an unhappy girl did, by mischance, turn out badly,

or, as the expressive phrase had it, "went wrong," she was forthwith

shunned, and shunned for ever. Whatever may have been the faults and

failings prevailing in Honey Fair, this sort of wrong-doing was not

common amongst them.

"Why, Caroline, that is new!" exclaimed Charlotte East, alluding to the

shawl.

Caroline Mason laughed. "Is it not a beauty?" cried she. And it may be

remarked that in speech and accent she was superior to some of the

girls.

Charlotte took a corner of it in her hand. "It must have cost a pound at

least," she said. "Is it paid for?"

Again Caroline laughed. "Never you mind whether it's paid for or not,

Charlotte. You won't be called upon for the money for it. As I told my

sister-in-law yesterday."

"You did not want it, Caroline; and I am quite sure you could not afford

it. Your winter cloak was good yet. It is so bad a plan, getting goods

on credit. I wish those Bankeses had never come near the place!"

"Don't you run down Bankes's, Charlotte East," interposed Eliza Tyrrett,

a very plain girl, with an ill-natured expression of face. "We should

never get along at all if it wasn't for Bankes's."

"You would get along all the better," returned Charlotte. "How much are

they going to charge you for this shawl, Caroline?"

Caroline and Eliza Tyrrett exchanged peculiar glances. There appeared to

be some secret between them, connected with the shawl. "Oh, a pound or

so," replied Caroline. "What was it, Eliza?"

Eliza Tyrrett burst into a loud laugh, and Caroline echoed it. Charlotte

East did not press for the answer. But she did press the matter against

dealing with Bankes's; as she had pressed it many a time before.

A twelvemonth ago, some strangers had opened a linen-draper's shop in a

back street of Helstonleigh; brothers of the name of Bankes. They

professed to do business upon credit, and to wait upon people at their

own homes, after the fashion of hawkers. Every Monday would one of them

appear in Honey Fair, a great pack of goods on his back, which would be

opened for inspection at each house. Caps, shawls, gown-pieces, calico,

flannel, and finery, would be displayed in all their fascinations. Now,

you who are reading this, only reflect on the temptation! The women of

Honey Fair went into debt; and it was three parts the work of their

lives to keep the finery, and the system, from the knowledge of their

husbands.

"Pay us so much weekly," Bankes's would say. And the women did so: it

seemed like getting a gown for nothing. But Bankes's were found to be

strict in collecting the instalments; and how these weekly payments told

upon the wages, I will leave you to judge. Some would have many

shillings to pay weekly. Charlotte East and a few more prudent ones

spoke against this system; but they made no impression. The temptation

was too great. Charlotte assumed that this was how Caroline Mason's

shawl had been obtained. In that, however, she was mistaken.

"Charlotte, we are going down to Bankes's. There'll be a better choice

in his shop than in his pack. You have heard of the party at the

Alhambra. Well, it is to be next Monday, and we want to ask you what we

shall wear. What would you advise us to get for it?"

"Get nothing," replied Charlotte. "Don't go to Bankes's, and don't go to

the Alhambra."

The whole assembly sat in wonder, with open eyes. "Not go to the party!"

echoed pert Amelia Cross. "What next, Charlotte East?"

"I told you what it would be, if you came into Charlotte East's," said

Eliza Tyrrett, a sneer on her countenance.

"I am not against proper amusement, though I don't much care for it

myself," said Charlotte. "But when you speak of going to a party at the

Alhambra, somehow it does not sound respectable."

The girls opened their eyes wider. "Why, Charlotte, what harm do you

suppose will come to us? We can take care of ourselves, I hope?"

"It is not that," said Charlotte. "Of course you can. Still it does not

sound nice. It is like going to a public-house--you can't call the

Alhambra anything else. It is quite different, this, from going there to

have tea in the summer. But that's not it, I say. If you go to it, you

would be running into debt for all sorts of things at Bankes's, and get

into trouble."

"My sister-in-law says you are a croaker, Charlotte; and she's right,"

cried Caroline Mason, with good-humour.

"Charlotte, it is not a bit of use your talking," broke in Mary Ann

Cross vehemently. "We shall go to the party, and we shall buy new things

for it. Bankes's have some lovely sarcenets, cross-barred; green, and

pink, and lilac; and me and 'Melia mean to have a dress apiece off 'em.

With a pink bow in front, and a white collar--my! wouldn't folks stare

at us!--Twelve yards each it would take, and they are one-and-eightpence

a yard."

"Mary Ann, it would be just madness! There'd be the making, the lining,

and the ribbon: five or six-and-twenty shillings each, they would cost

you. Pray don't!"

"How you do reckon things up, Charlotte! We should pay off weekly: we

have time afore us."

"What would your father say?"

"Charlotte, just hold your noise about father," quickly returned Amelia

Cross, in a hushed and altered tone. "You know we don't tell him about

Bankes's."

Charlotte found she might as well have talked to the winds. The girls

were bent upon the evening's pleasure, and also upon the smart things

they deemed necessary for it. A few minutes more and they left her; and

trooped down to the shop of the Messrs. Bankes.

Charlotte was coming home that evening from an errand to the town, when

she met Adam Thorneycroft. He was somewhat above the common run of

workmen.

"Oh, is it you, Charlotte?" he exclaimed, stopping her. "I say, how is

it that you'll never have anything to say to me now?"

"I have told you why, Adam," she replied.

"You have told me a pack of nonsense. I wouldn't lose you, Charlotte, to

be made king of England. When once we are married, you shall see how

steady I'll be. I will not enter a public-house."

"You have been saying that you will not for these twelve months past,

Adam," she sadly rejoined; and, had her face been visible in the dark

night, he would have seen that it was working with agitation.

"What does it hurt a man, to go out and take a quiet pipe and a glass

after his work's over? Everybody does it."

"Everybody does not. But I do not wish to contend. It seems to bring you

no conviction. Half the miseries around us in Honey Fair arise from so

much of the wages being wasted at the public-houses. I know what you

would say--that the wives are in fault as well. So they are. I do not

believe people were sent into the world to live as so many of us live:

nothing but scuffle and discomfort, and--I may almost say

it--sinfulness. One of these wretched households shall never be mine."

"My goodness, Charlotte! How seriously you speak!"

"It is a serious subject. I want to try to live so as to do my duty by

myself and by those around me; to pass my days in peace with the world

and with my conscience. A woman beaten down, cowed by all sorts of ills,

could not do so; and, where the husband is unsteady, she must be beaten

down. Adam, you know it is not with a willing heart I give you up, but I

am forced to it."

"How can you bring yourself to say this to me?" he rejoined.

"I don't deny that it is hard," she faintly said, suppressing with

difficulty her emotion. "This many a week I and duty have been having a

conflict with each other: but duty has gained the mastery. I knew it

would from the first----"

"Duty be smothered!" interrupted Adam Thorneycroft. "I shall think you a

born natural presently, Charlotte."

"Yes, I know. I can't help it. Adam, we should never pull together, you

see. Good-bye! We can be friends in future, if you like; nothing more."

She held out her hand to him for a parting salutation. Adam, hurt and

angry, flung it from him, and turned towards Helstonleigh: and Charlotte

continued her way home, her tears dropping in the dusky night.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HARD TO BEAR.

Mrs. Halliburton struggled on. A struggle, my reader, that it is to be

hoped, for your comfort's sake, you have never experienced, and never

will. She had learnt the stitch for the back of the gloves, and Mr. Lynn

supplied her with a machine and with work. But she could not do it

quickly as yet; though it was a hopeful day for her when she found that

her weekly earnings amounted to six shillings.

Mrs. Reece paid her twenty shillings a week. Or rather, Dobbs: for Dobbs

was paymaster-general. Of that, Jane could use (she had made a close

calculation) six shillings, putting by fourteen for rent and taxes. Her

taxes were very light, part of them being paid by the landlord, as was

the custom with some houses in Helstonleigh. But for this, the rent

would have been less. Sorely tempted as she was, by hunger, by cold,

almost by starvation, Jane was resolute in leaving the fourteen

shillings intact. She had suffered too much from non-payment of the last

rent, not to be prepared with the next. But--the endurance and

deprivation!--how great they were! And she suffered far more for her

children than for herself.

One night, towards the middle of February, she felt very downhearted:

almost as if she could not struggle on much longer. With her own

earnings and the six shillings taken from Mrs. Reece's money she could

count little more than twelve shillings weekly, and everything had to be

found out of it. Coals, candles, washing--that is, the soap, firing,

etc., necessary for Miss Betsy Carter to do it with; the boys'

shoe-mending and other trifles, besides food. You will not, therefore,

be surprised to hear that on this night they had literally nothing in

the house but part of a loaf of bread. Jane was resolute in one

thing--not to go into debt. Mrs. Buffle would have given credit,

probably other shops also; but Jane believed that her sole chance of

surmounting the struggle eventually was by keeping debt, even trifling

debt, away. They had this morning eaten bread for breakfast; they had

eaten potatoes and salt for dinner; and now, tea-time, there was bread

again. All Jane had in her pocket was twopence, which must be kept for

milk for the following morning; so they were drinking water now.

They were round the fire; two of the boys kneeling on the ground to get

the better blaze, thankful they had a fire at all. Their lessons were

over for the day. William had been thoroughly well brought on by his

father, in Greek, Latin, Euclid, and in English generally--in short, in

the branches necessary to a good education. Frank and Gar were forward

also; indeed, Frank, for his age, was a very good Latin scholar. But how

could they do much good or make much progress by themselves? William

helped his brothers as well as he could, but it was somewhat profitless

work; and Jane was all too conscious that they needed to be at school.

Altogether, her heart was sore within her.

Another thing was beginning to worry her--a fear lest her brother should

not be able to send the rent. She had fully counted upon it; but, now

that the time of its promised receipt was at hand, fears and doubts

arose. She was dwelling on it now--now, as she sat there at her work, in

the twilight of the early spring evening. If the money did not come, all

she could do would be to go to Mr. Ashley, tell him of her ill luck, and

that he must take the things at last. They must turn out, wanderers on

the wide earth; no----

A plaintive cry interrupted her dream and recalled her to reality. It

came from Jane, who was seated on a stool, her head leaning against the

side of the mantel-piece.

"She is crying, mamma," cried quick Frank; and Janey whispered something

into Frank's ear, the cry deepening into sobs.

"Mamma, she's crying because she's hungry."

"Janey, dear, I have nothing but bread. You know it. Could you eat a

bit?"

"I want something else," sobbed Janey. "Some meat, or some pudding. It

is such a long time since we had any. I am tired of bread; I am very

hungry."

There came an echoing cry from the other side of the fireplace. Gar had

laid his head down on the floor, and he now broke out, sobbing also.

"I am hungry too. I don't like bread any more than Janey does. When

shall we have something nice?"

Jane gathered them to her, one in each arm, soothing them with soft

caresses, her heart aching, her own sobs choked down, one single comfort

present to her--that God knew what she had to bear.

Almost she began to fear for her own health. Would the intense anxiety,

combined with the want of sufficient food, tell upon her? Would her

sleepless nights tell upon her? Would her grief for the loss of her

husband--a grief not the less keenly felt because she did not parade

it--tell upon her? All _that_ lay in the future.

She rose the next morning early to her work; she always had to rise

early--the boys and Jane setting the breakfast. Breakfast! Putting the

bread upon the table and taking in the milk. For twopence they had a

quart of skimmed milk, and were glad to get it. Her head was heavy, her

frame hot, the result of inward fever, her limbs were tired before the

day began; worse than all, there was that utter weariness of mind which

predisposes a sufferer from it to lie down and die. "This will never

do," thought Jane; "I _must_ bear up."

A dispute between Frank and Gar! They were good, affectionate boys; but

little tempers must break out now and then. In trying to settle it, Jane

burst into tears. It put an end to the fray more effectually than

anything else could have done. The boys looked blank with consternation,

and Janey burst into hysterical sobs.

"Don't, Jane, don't," said the poor mother; "I am not well; but do not

_you_ cry."

"I am not well, either," sobbed Janey. "It hurts me here, and here." She

put her hand to her head and chest, and Jane knew that she was weak from

long-continued insufficiency of food. There was no remedy for it. Jane

only wished she could bear for them all.

Some time after breakfast there came the postman's knock at the door. A

thickish letter--twopence to pay. The penny postal system had come in,

but letters were not so universally prepaid then as they are now.

Jane glanced over it with a beating heart. Yes, it was her brother's

handwriting. Could the promised rent have really arrived? She felt sick

with agitation.

"I have no money at all, Frank. Ask Dobbs if she will lend you

twopence."

Away went Frank, in his quick and not very ceremonious manner,

penetrating to the kitchen, where Dobbs happened to be. "Dobbs, will you

please to lend mamma twopence? It is for a letter."

"Dobbs, indeed! Who's 'Dobbs'?" retorted that functionary in wrath. "I

am Mrs. Dobbs, if you please. Take yourself out of my sight till you can

learn manners."

"Won't you lend it? The postman's waiting."

"No, I won't," returned Dobbs.

Back ran Frank. "She won't lend it, mamma. She says I was rude to her,

and called her Dobbs."

"Oh, Frank!" But the postman was impatient, demanding whether he was to

be kept there all day. Jane was fain to apply to Dobbs herself, and

procured the loan. Then she ran upstairs with the letter, and her

trembling fingers broke the seal. Two banknotes, for 10L. each, fell out

of it. The promised loan had been sixteen pounds. The Rev. Francis Tait

had contrived to spare four pounds more.

Before Jane had recovered from her excitement--almost before a breath of

thanks had gone up from her heart--she saw Mr. Ashley on the opposite

side of the road, going towards Helstonleigh. Being in no state to weigh

her actions, only conscious that the two notes lay in her hand--actual

realities--she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and went across the road

to Mr. Ashley. In her agitation, she scarcely knew what she did or said.

"Oh, sir--I beg your pardon--but I have at this moment received the

money for the back rent. May I give it to you now?"

Mr. Ashley looked at her in surprise. A scarlet spot shone on her thin

cheeks--a happy excitement was spread over her face of care. He read the

indications plainly--that she was an eager payer, but no willing debtor.

The open letter in her hand, and the postman opposite, told the tale.

"There is no such hurry, Mrs. Halliburton," he said, smiling. "I cannot

give you a receipt here."

"You can send it to me," she said. "I would rather pay you than Mr.

Dare."

She held out the notes to him. He felt in his pocket whether he had

sufficient change, found he had, and handed it to her. "That is it,

madam--four sovereigns. Thank you."

She took them hesitatingly, but did not close her hand. "Was there not

some expense incurred when--when that man was put in?"

"Not for you to pay, Mrs. Halliburton," he pointedly returned. "I hope

you are getting pretty well through your troubles?"

The tears came into her eyes, and she turned them away. Getting pretty

well through her troubles! "Thank you for inquiring," she meekly said.

"I shall, I believe, have the quarter's rent ready in March, when it

falls due."

"Do not put yourself out of the way to pay it," he replied. "If it would

be more convenient to you to let it go on to the half-year, it would be

the same to me."

Her heart rose to the kindness. "Thank you, Mr. Ashley, thank you very

much for your consideration; but I must pay as I go on, if I possibly

can."

Patience stood at her gate, smiling as she recrossed the road. She had

seen what had passed.

"Thee hast good news, I see. But thee wert in a hurry, to pay thy rent

in the road."

"My brother has sent me the rent and four pounds over. Patience, I can

buy bedside carpets now."

Patience looked pleased. "With all thy riches thee will scarcely thank

me for this poor three and sixpence," holding out the silver to her.

"Samuel Lynn left it; it is owing thee for thy work."

Jane smiled sadly as she took it. Her riches! "How is Anna?" she asked.

"She is nicely, thank thee, and is gone to school. But she was wilful

over her lessons this morning. Farewell. I am glad thee art so far out

of thy perplexities."

Very far, indeed; and a great relief it was. Can you realize these

troubles of Mrs. Halliburton's? Not, I think, as she realized them. We

pity the trials and endurance of the poor; but, believe me, they are as

nothing compared with the bitter lot of reduced gentlepeople. Jane had

not been brought up to poverty, to scanty and hard fare, to labour, to

humiliations, to the pain of debt. But for hope--and some of us know how

strong that is in the human heart--and for that better hope, _trust_,

Jane never could have gone through her trials. Her physical privations

alone were almost too hard to bear. Can you wonder that an unexpected

present of four pounds seemed as a mine of wealth?

CHAPTER XXV.

INCIPIENT VANITY.

But four pounds, however large a sum to look at, dwindles down sadly in

the spending; especially when bedside carpets, and boys' boots--new ones

and the mending of old ones--have to be deducted from it at the

commencement. An idea had for some time been looming in Jane's mind;

looming ominously, for she did not like to speak of it. It was, that

William must go out and enter upon some employment, by which a little

weekly money might be added to their stock. He was eager enough;

indulging, no doubt, boy-like, peculiar visions of his own, great and

grand. But these Jane had to dispel; to explain that for young boys,

such as he, earning money implied hard work.

His face flushed scarlet. Jane drew him to her and pressed her cheek

upon his.

"There would be no real disgrace in it, my darling. No work in itself

brings disgrace; be it carrying out parcels or sweeping out a shop. So

long as we retain our refinement of tone, of manner, our courteous

conduct one to the other, we shall still be gentlepeople, let us work at

what we may. William, I think it is your _duty_ to help in our need."

"Yes, I see, mamma," he answered. "I will try and do it; anything that

may turn up."

Jane had not much faith in things "turning up." She believed that they

must be sought for. That same evening she went into Mr. Lynn's, with the

view to asking his counsel. There she found Anna in trouble. The cause

was as follows.

Patience, leaving Anna alone at her lessons, had gone into the kitchen

to give some directions to Grace. Anna seized the opportunity to take a

little recreation: not that it was greatly needed, for--spoilt child

that she was!--she had merely looked at her books with vacant eyes, not

having in reality learned a single word. First of all, off went her cap.

Next, she drew from her pocket a small mirror, about the size of a

five-shilling piece. Propping this against her books on the table before

her, so that the rays of the lamp might fall upon it, she proceeded to

admire herself, and twist her flowing hair round her pretty fingers to

make a shower of ringlets. Sad vanity for a little born Quakeress! But

it must be owned that never did mirror, small or large, give back a more

lovely image than that child's. She had just arranged her curls, and was

contemplating their effect to her entire satisfaction, when back came

Patience sooner than she was expected, and caught the young lady at her

impromptu toilette. What with the curls and what with the mirror, Anna

did not know which to hurry away first.

"Thee naughty child! Thee naughty, naughty child! What is to become of

thee? Where did thee get this?"

Anna burst into tears. In her perplexity she said she had "found" the

mirror.

"That thee did not," said Patience calmly. "I ask thee where thee got it

from?"

Of a remarkably pliant nature, wavering and timid, Anna never withstood

long the persistent questioning of Patience. Amid many tears the truth

came out. Lucy Dixon had brought it to school in her workbox. It was a

doll's mirror, and she, Anna, had given her sixpence for it.

"The sixpence that thy father bestowed upon thee yesterday for being a

good girl," retorted Patience. "I told him thee would likely not make a

profitable use of it. Come up to bed with thee! I will talk to thee

after thee are in it."

Of all things, Anna disliked to be sent to bed before her time. She

sobbed, expostulated, and promised all sorts of amendment for the

future. Patience, firm and quiet, would have carried her point, but for

the entrance of Samuel Lynn. The fault was related to him by Patience,

and the mirror exhibited. Anna clung around him in a storm of sobs.

"Dear father! Dear, dear father, don't thee let me go to bed! Let me sit

by thee while thee hast thy supper. Patience may keep the glass, but

don't thee let me go."

It was quite a picture--the child clinging there with her crimsoned

cheeks, her wet eyelashes, and her soft flowing hair. Samuel Lynn,

albeit a man not given to demonstration, strained her to him with a

loving movement. Perhaps the crime of looking into a doll's glass and

toying with her hair appeared to him more venial than it did to

Patience; but then, she was his beloved child.

"Will thee transgress again, Anna?"

"No, I never will," sobbed Anna.

"Then Patience will suffer thee to sit up this once. But thee must be

careful."

He placed her in a chair close to him. Patience, disapproving very much

but saying nothing, left the room. Grace appeared with the supper-tray,

and a message that Patience would take her supper in the kitchen. It was

at this juncture that Mrs. Halliburton came in. She told the Quaker that

she had come to consult him about William; and mentioned her intentions.

"To tell thee the truth, friend, I have marvelled much that thee did

not, under thy circumstances, seek to place out thy eldest son," was the

answer. "He might be helping thee."

"He is young to earn anything, Mr. Lynn. Do you see a chance of my

getting him a place?"

"That depends, friend, upon the sort of place he may wish for. I could

help him to a place to-morrow. But it is one that may not accord with

thy notions."

"What is it?" eagerly asked Jane.

"It is in Thomas Ashley's manufactory. We are in want of another boy,

and the master told me to-day I had better inquire for one."

"What would he have to do?" asked Jane. "And what would he earn?"

"He would have to do anything he may be directed to do. Thy son is older

than are our boys who come to us ordinarily, and he has been differently

brought up; therefore I might put him to somewhat better employment. He

might also be paid a trifle more. They sweep and dust, go on outdoor

errands, carry messages indoors, black the gloves, get in coal; and they

earn, if they are sharp, half-a-crown a week."

Jane's heart sank within her.

"But thy son, I say, might be treated somewhat differently. Not that he

must be above doing any of these duties, should he be put to them. I can

assure thee, friend, that some of the first manufacturers of this town

have thus begun their career. A thoroughly practical knowledge of the

business is only to be acquired by beginning at the first step of the

ladder, and working upwards."

"Did Mr. Ashley so begin?" She could scarcely tell why she asked the

question. Unless it was that a feeling came over her that if Mr. Ashley

had done these things, she would not mind William's doing them.

"No, friend. Thomas Ashley's father was a man of means, and Thomas was

bred up a classical scholar and a gentleman. He has never taken a

practical part in the working of the business: I do that for him. His

labours are chiefly confined to the correspondence and the keeping of

the books. His father wished him to embrace a profession rather than be

a glove manufacturer: but Thomas preferred to succeed his father. If

thee would like thy son to enter our manufactory, I will try him."

Jane was dubious. She felt quite sure that William would not like it.

"He has been thinking of a counting-house, or a lawyer's or

conveyancer's office," she said aloud. "He would like to employ his time

in writing. Would there be difficulty in getting him into one?"

"I do not opine a lawyer would take a boy of his size. They require

their writing to be well and correctly done. About that, I cannot tell

thee much, for I have nothing to do with lawyers. He can inquire."

Jane rose. She stood by the table, unconsciously stroking Anna's flowing

curls--for the cap had never been replaced, and Samuel Lynn found no

fault with the omission. "I will speak candidly," said Jane. "I fear

that the place you have kindly offered me would not be liked by William.

Other employments, writing for example, would be more palatable.

Nevertheless, were he unable to obtain anything else I should be glad to

accept this. Will you give me three or four days for consideration?"

"To oblige thee, I will, friend. When Thomas Ashley gives orders, he is

prompt in having them attended to; and he spoke, as I have informed

thee, about a fresh boy to-day. Would it not be a help to thee, friend,

if thee got thy other two boys into the school attached to the

cathedral?"

"But I have no interest," said Jane. "I hear that education there is

free; but I do not possess the slightest chance."

"Thee may get a chance, friend. There's nothing like trying. I must tell

thee that the school is not thought highly of, in consequence of the

instruction being confined exclusively to Latin and Greek. In the old

days this was thought enough; but people are now getting more

enlightened. Thomas Ashley was educated there; but he had a private

tutor at home for the branches not taught at the college; he had also

masters for what are called accomplishments. He is one of the most

accomplished men of the day. Few are so thoroughly and comprehensively

educated as Thomas Ashley. I have heard say thy sons have begun Latin.

It might be a help to them if they could get in."

"I should desire nothing better," Jane breathlessly rejoined, a new hope

penetrating her heart. "I have heard of the collegiate school here; but,

until very recently I supposed it to be an expensive institution."

"No, friend; it is free. The best way to get a boy in is by making

interest with the head-master of the school, or with some of the

cathedral clergy."

A recollection of Mr. Peach flashed into Jane's mind as a ray of light.

She bade good-night to Samuel Lynn and Anna, and to Patience as she

passed the kitchen. Patience had been crying.

"I am grieved about Anna," she explained. "I love the child dearly, but

Samuel Lynn is blind to her faults; and it argues badly for the future.

Thee cannot imagine half her vanity; I fear me, too, she is deceitful. I

wish her father could see it! I wish he would indulge her less and

correct her more! Good night to thee."

Before concluding the chapter, it may as well be mentioned that a piece

of good fortune about this time befell Janey. She found favour with

Dobbs! How it came about perhaps Dobbs could not herself have told.

Certainly no one else could.

Mrs. Reece had got into the habit of asking Jane into her parlour to

tea. She was a kind-hearted old lady and liked the child. Dobbs would

afterwards be at work, generally some patching and mending to her own

clothes; and Dobbs, though she would not acknowledge it to herself or to

any one else, could not see to thread her needle. Needle in one hand and

thread in the other, she would poke the two together for five minutes,

no result supervening. Janey hit upon the plan of threading her a needle

in silence, whilst Dobbs used the one; and from that time Jane kept her

in threaded needles. Whether this conciliated Dobbs must remain a

mystery, but she took a liking for Jane; and the liking grew into love.

Henceforth Janey wanted for nothing. While the others starved, she lived

on the fat of the land. Meat and pudding, fowls and pastry, whatever

dinner in the parlour might consist of, Janey had her share of it, and a

full share too. At first Mrs. Halliburton, from motives of delicacy,

would not allow Jane to go in; upon which Dobbs would enter, boiling

over with indignation, red with the exertion of cooking, and

triumphantly bear her off. Jane spoke seriously to Mrs. Reece about it,

but the old lady declared she was as glad to have the child as Dobbs

was.

Once, Janey came to a standstill over some apple pudding, which had

followed upon veal cutlets and bacon. "I am quite full," said she, more

plainly than politely: "I can't eat a bit more. May I give this piece

upon my plate to Gar?"

"No, you may not," snapped Dobbs, drowning Mrs. Reece's words, that she

might give it and welcome. "How dare you, Janey? You know that boys is

the loadstones of my life."

Dobbs probably used the word loadstones to indicate a heavy weight. She

seized the plate of pudding and finished it herself, lest it should find

its way to the suggested quarter--a self-sacrifice which served to show

her earnestness in the cause. Nothing gave Dobbs indigestion like apple

pudding, and she knew she should be a martyr for four-and-twenty hours

afterwards.

Thus Jane, at least, suffered from henceforth no privations, and for

this Mrs. Halliburton was very thankful. The time was to come, however,

when she would have reason to be more so.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. ASHLEY'S MANUFACTORY.

The happy thought, suggested by Samuel Lynn, Jane carried out. She

applied in person to Mr. Peach, and he obtained an immediate entrance

for Frank to the college school, with a promise for Gar to enter at

quarter-day, the 25th of March. He was perfectly thunderstruck when he

found that his old friend and tutor, Mr. Halliburton, was dead; had died

in Helstonleigh; and that he--_he!_--had buried him. There was no need

to ask him twice, after that, to exert his interest for the fatherless

children. The school (I have told you what it was many years ago) was

not held in the highest repute, from the reason spoken of by Samuel

Lynn; vacancies often occurred, and admission was easy. It was one great

weight off Jane's mind.

William was not so fortunate. He was at that period very short for his

age, timid in manner, and no office could be persuaded to take him.

Nothing in the least congenial to him presented itself or could be

found; and the result was that he resigned himself to Samuel Lynn, who

introduced him to Mr. Ashley's extensive manufactory--to be initiated by

degrees into all the mysteries necessary to convert a skin into a glove.

And although his interest and curiosity were excited by what he saw, he

pronounced it a "hateful" business.

When the skins came in from the leather-dressers they were washed in a

tub of cold water. The next day warm water, mixed with yolks of eggs,

was poured on them, and a couple of men, bare-legged to the knee, got

into the tub, and danced upon them, skins, eggs, and water, for two

hours. Then they were spread in a field to dry, till they were as hard

as lantern horn; then they were "staked," as it was called--a long

process, to smooth and soften them. To the stainers next, to be stained

black or coloured; next to the parers, to have the loose flesh pared

from the inside, and to be smoothed again with pumice-stone--all this

being done on the outside premises. Then they came inside, to the hands

of one of the foremen, who sorted and marked them for the cutters. The

cutters cut the skins into tranks (the shape of the hand in outline)

with the separate thumbs and forgits, and sent them in to the slitters.

The slitters slit the four fingers, and _shaped_ the thumbs and forgits:

after that, they were ready for the women--three different women, you

may remember, being necessary to turn out each glove, so far as the

sewing went; for one woman rarely worked at more than her own peculiar

branch, or was capable of working at it. This done, and back in the

manufactory again, they had to be pulled straight, and "padded," or

rubbed, a process by which they were brightened. If black gloves, the

seams were washed over with a black dye, or else glazed; then they were

hung up to dry. This done, they went into Samuel Lynn's room, a large

room next to Mr. Ashley's private room, and here they were sorted into

firsts, seconds, or thirds; the sorting being always done by Samuel

Lynn, or by James Meeking the head foreman. It was called "making-up."

Next they were banded round with a paper in dozens, labelled, and placed

in small boxes, ready for the warehouses in London. A great deal, you

see, before one pair of gloves could be turned out.

The first morning that William went at six o'clock with Samuel Lynn, he

was ordered to light the fire in Mr. Ashley's room, sweep it out, and

dust it, first of all sprinkling the floor with water from a

watering-pot. And this was to be part of his work every morning at

present; Samuel Lynn giving him strict charge never to disturb anything

on Mr. Ashley's desk. If he moved things to dust the desk, he was to lay

them down again in the same places and in the same position. The duster

consisted of some leather shreds tied up into a knot, the ends loose. He

found he should have to wait on Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn, bring things

they wanted, carry messages to the men, and go out when sent. A pair of

shears, which he could not manage, was put into his hand, and he had to

cut a damaged skin, useless for gloves, into narrow strips, standing at

one of the counters in Samuel Lynn's room. William wondered whether they

were to make another duster, but he found they were used in the

manufactory in place of string. That done, a round, polished stick was

handed to him, tapered at either end, which he had to pass over and over

some small gloves to make them smooth, after the manner of a cook

rolling out paste for a pie. He looked with dismay at the two young

errand boys of the establishment, who were black with dye. But Samuel

Lynn had distinctly told him that he would not be expected to place

himself on their level. The rooms were for the most part very light, one

or two sides being entirely of glass.

On the evening of this first day, William, after he got home, sat there

in sad heaviness. His mother asked how he liked his employment, and he

returned an evasive answer. Presently he rose to go to bed, saying he

had a headache. Up he went to the garret, and flung himself down on the

mattress, sobbing as if his heart would break. Jane, suspecting

something of this, followed him up. She caught him in her arms.

"Oh, my darling, don't give way! Things may grow brighter after a time."

"It is such a dreadful change!--from my books, my Latin and Greek, to go

there and sweep out places like those two black boys!" he said

hysterically, all his reticence gone.

"My dear boy! my darling boy! I know not how to reconcile you, how to

lessen your cares. Your experience of the sorrow of life is beginning

early. You are hungry, too."

"I am always hungry," answered William, quite unable to affect

concealment in that hour of grief. "I heard one of those black boys say

he had boiled pork and greens for dinner. I did so envy him."

Jane checked her tears; they were rising rebelliously. "William, darling

your lot seems just now very dark and painful, but it might be worse."

"Worse!" he echoed in surprise. "How could it be worse? Mamma, I am no

better than an errand-boy there."

"It would be worse, William, if you were one of those poor black boys.

Unenlightened; no wish for higher things; content to remain as they are

for ever."

"But that could never be," he urged. "To be content with such a life is

impossible."

"They are content, William."

He saw the drift of the argument. "Yes, mamma," he acknowledged; "I did

not reflect. It would be worse if I were quite as they are."

"William, we can only bear our difficulties, and make the best of them,

trusting to surmount them in the end. You and I must both do this. Trust

is different from hope. If we only hope, we may lose courage; but if we

fully and freely _trust_, we cannot. Patience and perseverance,

endurance and trust, they will in the end triumph; never fear. If I

feared, William, I should go into the grave with despair. I never lose

my trust. I never lose my conviction, firm and certain, that God is

watching over me, that He is permitting these trials for some wise

purpose, and that in His own good time we shall be brought through

them."

William's sobs were growing lighter.

"The time may come when we shall be at ease again," continued Jane;

"when we shall look back on this time of trial, and be thankful that we

did bear up and surmount it, instead of fainting under the burden. God

will take care that the battle is not too hot for us, if we only resign

ourselves, in all trust, to do the best. The future is grievously dim

and indistinct. As the guiding light in your father's dream shone only

on one step at a time, so can I see only one step before me."

"What step is that?" he asked somewhat eagerly.

"The one obvious step before me is to persevere, as I am now doing, to

try and retain this home for you, my children; to work as I can, so as

to keep you around me. I must strive to keep you together, and you must

help me. Bear up bravely, William. Make the best of this unpleasant

employment and its mortifications, and strive to overcome your

repugnance to it. Be resolute, my boy, in doing your duty in it, because

it is your duty, and because, William--because it is helping your

mother."

A shadow of the trust, so firm in his mother's heart, began to dawn in

his. "Yes, it is my duty," he resolutely said. "I will try to do it--to

hope and trust."

Jane strained him to her. "Were you and I to give way now, darling, our

past troubles would have been borne for nothing. Let us, I repeat, look

forward to the time when we may say, 'We did not faint; we battled on,

and overcame.' It _will_ come, William. Only trust to God."

She quitted him, leaving him to reflection and resolve scarcely

befitting his young years.

The week wore on to its close. On the Saturday night, William, his face

flushed, held out four shillings to his mother. "My week's wages,

mamma."

Jane's face flushed also. "It is more than I expected, William," she

said. "I fancied you would have three."

"I think the master fixed the sum," said William.

"The master? Do you mean Mr. Ashley?"

"We never say 'Mr. Ashley' in the manufactory; we say 'the master.' Mr.

Lynn was paying the wages to-night. I heard them say that sometimes Mr.

Lynn paid them, and sometimes James Meeking. Those two black boys have

half-a-crown apiece. He left me to the last, and when the rest were

gone, he looked at me and took up three shillings. Then he seemed to

hesitate, and suddenly he locked the desk, went into the master's room,

and spoke with him. He came back in a minute, unlocked the desk, and

gave me four shillings. 'Thee hast not earned it,' he said, 'but I think

thee has done thy best. Thee will have the same each week, so long as

thee does so.'"

Jane held the four shillings, and felt that she was growing quite rich.

The rest crowded round to look. "Can't we have a nice dinner to-morrow

with it?" said one.

"I think we must," said Jane cheerily. "A nice dinner for once in a way.

What shall it be?"

"Roast beef," called out Frank.

"Pork with crackling," suggested Janey. "That of Mrs. Reece's yesterday

was so good."

"Couldn't we have fowls and a jam pudding?" asked Gar.

Jane smiled and kissed him. All the suggestions were beyond her purse.

"We will have a meat pudding," she said; "that's best." And the children

cheerfully acquiesced. They had implicit faith in their mother; they

knew that what she said was best, would be best.

On this same Saturday night Charlotte East was returning home from

Helstonleigh, an errand having taken her thither after dark. Almost

opposite to the turning to Honey Fair, a lane branched off, leading to

some farm-houses; a lane, green and pleasant in summer, but bare and

uninviting now. Two people turned into it as Charlotte looked across.

She caught only a glance; but something in the aspect of both struck

upon her as familiar. A gas-lamp at the corner shed a light upon the

spot, and Charlotte suddenly halted, and stood endeavouring to peer

further. But they were soon out of view. A feeling of dismay had stolen

over Charlotte. She hoped she was mistaken; that the parties were not

those she had fancied; and she slowly continued her way. A few paces

more, she turned up the road leading to Honey Fair and found herself

nearly knocked over by one who came running against her, apparently in

some excitement and in a great hurry.

"Who's this?" cried the voice of Eliza Tyrrett. "Charlotte East, I

declare! I say, have you seen anything of Caroline Mason?"

Charlotte hesitated. She hoped she had not seen her; though the

misgiving was upon her that she had. "Did you think I might have seen

her?" she returned. "Has she come this way?"

"Yes, I expect she has come this way, and I want to find her," returned

Eliza Tyrrett vehemently. "I saw her making off out of Honey Fair, and I

saw who was waiting for her round the corner. I knew my company wasn't

wanted then, and turned into Dame Buffle's for a talk; and there I found

that Madam Carry has been telling falsehoods about me. Let me set on to

her, that's all! I shall say what she won't like."

"Who do you mean was waiting for her?" inquired Charlotte East.

Eliza Tyrrett laughed. She was beginning to recover her temper. "You'd

like to know, wouldn't you?" said she pertly. "But I'm not going to tell

tales out of school."

"I think I do know," returned Charlotte quietly. "I fear I do."

"Do you? I thought nobody knew nothing about it but me. It has been

going on this ten weeks. Did you see her, though, Charlotte?"

"I thought I saw her, but I could not believe my eyes. She was

with--with--some one she has no business to be with."

"Oh, as to business, I don't know about that," carelessly answered Eliza

Tyrrett. "We have a right to walk with anybody we like."

"Whether it is good or bad for you?" returned Charlotte.

"There's no 'bad' in it," cried Eliza Tyrrett indignantly. "I never saw

such an old maid as you are, Charlotte East, never! Carry Mason's not a

child, to be led into mischief."

"Carry's very foolish," was Charlotte's comment.

"Oh, of course _you_ think so, or it wouldn't be you. You'll go and tell

upon her at home, I suppose, now."

"I shall tell _her_," said Charlotte. "Folks should choose their

acquaintances in their own class of life, if they want things to turn

out pleasantly."

"Were you not all took in about that shawl!" uttered Eliza Tyrrett, with

a laugh. "You thought she went in debt for it at Bankes's, and her

people at home thought so. Het Mason shrieked on at her like anything,

for spending money on her back while she owed it for her board. _He_

gave her that."

"Eliza!"

"He did. Law, where's the harm? He is rich enough to give all us girls

in Honey Fair one apiece, and who'd be the worse for it? Only his

pocket; and that can afford it. I wish he would!"

"I wish you would not talk so, Eliza. She is not a fit companion for

him, even though it is but to take a walk; and she ought to remember

that she is not."

"He wants her for a longer companion than that," observed Eliza Tyrrett;

"that is, if he tells true. He wants her to marry him."

"He--wants her to marry him!" repeated Charlotte, speaking the words in

sheer amazement. "Who says so?"

"He does. I should hardly think he can be in earnest, though."

"Eliza Tyrrett, we cannot be speaking of the same person," cried

Charlotte, feeling bewildered. "To whom have you been alluding?"

"To the same that you have, I expect. Young Anthony Dare."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE FORGOTTEN LETTER.

It was the last day of March, and five o'clock in the afternoon. The

great bell had rung in Mr. Ashley's manufactory, the signal for the men

to go to their tea. Scuffling feet echoed to it from all parts, and

clattered down the stairs on their way out. The ground floor was not

used for the indoor purposes of the manufactory, the business being

carried on in the first and second floors. The first flight of stairs

opened into what was called the serving-room, a very large apartment;

through this, on the right, branched off Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel

Lynn's. On the left, various passages led to other rooms, and the upper

flight of stairs was opposite to the entrance-stairs. The

serving-counter, running completely across the room, formed a barrier

between the serving-room and the entrance staircase.

The men flocked into the serving-room, passed it, and rattled down the

stairs. Samuel Lynn was changing his coat to follow, and William

Halliburton was waiting for him, his cap on, for he walked to and fro

with the Quaker, when Mr. Ashley's voice was heard from his room: the

counting-house, as it was frequently called.

"William!" It was usual to distinguish the boys by their Christian name

only; the men by both their Christian and surnames. Samuel Lynn was "Mr.

Lynn."

"Did thee not hear the master calling to thee?"

William had certainly heard Mr. Ashley's voice; but it was so unusual to

be called by it, that he had paid no attention. He had very little

communication with Mr. Ashley; in the three or four weeks he had now

been at the manufactory Mr. Ashley had not spoken to him a dozen words.

He hastened into the counting-house, taking off his cap in the presence

of Mr. Ashley.

"Have the men gone to tea?" inquired Mr. Ashley, who was sealing a

letter.

"Yes, sir," replied William.

"Is George Dance gone?" George Dance was an apprentice, and it was his

business to take the letters to the post.

"They are all gone, sir, except Mr. Lynn; and James Meeking, who is

waiting to lock up."

"Do you know the post-office?"

"Oh, yes, sir. It is in West Street, at the other end of the town."

"Take this letter, and put it carefully in."

William received the letter from Mr. Ashley, and dropped it into his

jacket pocket. It was addressed to Bristol; the London mail-bags were

already made up. Mr. Ashley put on his hat and departed, followed by

Samuel Lynn and William. James Meeking locked up, as it was his

invariable business to do, and carried the keys into his own house. He

inhabited part of the ground floor of the premises.

"Are thee not coming home with me this evening?" inquired Samuel Lynn of

William, who was turning off the opposite way.

"No; the master has given me a letter to post. I have also an errand to

do for my mother."

It happened (things do happen in a curious sort of way in this world)

that Mrs. Halliburton had desired William to bring her in some candles

and soap at tea-time, and to purchase them at Lockett's shop. Lockett's

shop was rather far off; there were others nearer; but Lockett's goods

were of the best quality, and his extensive trade enabled him to sell a

halfpenny a pound cheaper. A halfpenny was a halfpenny with Jane then.

William went on his way, walking fast.

As he was passing the cathedral, he came into contact with the college

boys, then just let out of school. It was the first day that Gar had

joined; he had received his appointment, according to promise. Very

thankful was Jane; in spite of the drawback of having to provide them

with linen surplices. William halted to see if he could discern Gar

amidst the throng: it was not unnatural that he should look for him.

One of the boys caught sight of William standing there. It was Cyril

Dare, the third son of Mr. Dare, a boy older and considerably bigger

than William.

"If there's not another of that Halliburton lot posted there!" cried he,

to a knot of those around. "Perhaps he will be coming amongst us

next--because we have not enough with the two! Look at the fellow,

staring at us! He is a common errand-boy at Ashley's."

Frank Halliburton, who, little as he was, wanted neither for spirit nor

pluck, heard the words and confronted Cyril Dare. "That is my brother,"

said he. "What have you to say against him?"

Cyril Dare cast a glance of scorn on Frank, regarding him from top to

toe. "You audacious young puppy! I say he is a snob. There!"

"Then I say he is not," retorted Frank. "You are one yourself, for

saying it."

Cyril Dare, big enough to have crushed Frank to death, speedily had him

on the ground, and treated him not very mercifully when there. William,

a witness to this, but not understanding it, pushed his way through the

crowd to protect Frank. All he saw was that Frank was down, and two big

boys were kicking him.

"Let him alone!" cried he. "How can you be so cowardly as to attack a

little fellow? And two of you! Shame!"

Now, if there was one earthly thing that the college boys would not

brook, it was being interfered with by a stranger. William suffered.

Frank's treatment had been nothing to what he had to submit to. He was

knocked down, trampled on, kicked, buffeted, abused; Cyril Dare being

the chief and primary aggressor. At that moment the under-master came in

view, and the boys made off--all except Cyril Dare.

Reined in against the wall, at a few yards' distance, was a lad on a

pony. He had delicately expressive features, large soft brown eyes, a

complexion too bright for health, and wavy dark hair. The face was

beautiful; but two upright lines were indented in the white forehead, as

if worn there by pain, and the one ungloved hand was white and thin. He

was as old as William within a year; but, slight and fragile, would be

taken to be much younger. Seeing and hearing--though not very

clearly--what had passed, he touched his pony, and rode up to Cyril

Dare. The latter was beginning to walk away leisurely, in the wake of

his companions; the upper boys were rather fond of ignoring the presence

of the under-master. Cyril turned at hearing himself called.

"What! Is it you, Henry Ashley? Where did you spring from?"

"Cyril Dare," was the answer, "you are a wretched coward."

Cyril Dare was feeling anger yet, and the words did not lessen it. "Of

course _you_ can say so!" he cried. "You know that you can say what you

like with impunity. One can't chastise a cripple like you."

The brilliant, painful colour flushed into the face of Henry Ashley. To

allude openly to infirmity such as this is as iron entering into the

soul. Upon a sensitive, timid, refined nature (and those suffering from

this sort of affliction are nearly sure to possess that nature), it

falls with a bitterness that can neither be conceived by others nor

spoken of by themselves. Henry Ashley braved it out.

"A coward, and a double coward!" he repeated, looking Cyril Dare full in

the face, whilst the transparent flush grew hotter on his own. "You

struck a young boy down, and then kicked him; and for nothing but that

he stood up like a trump at your abuse of his brother."

"You couldn't hear," returned Cyril Dare roughly.

"I heard enough. I say that you are a coward."

"Chut! They are snobs out-and-out."

"I don't care if they are chimney-sweeps. It does not make you less a

coward. And you'll be one as long as you live. If I had my strength, I'd

serve you out as you served them out."

"Ah, but you have not your strength, you know!" mocked Cyril. "And as

you seem to be going into one of your heroic fits, I shall make a start,

for I have no time to waste on them."

He tore away. Henry Ashley turned his pony and addressed William. Both

boys had spoken rapidly, so that scarcely a minute had passed, and

William had only just risen from the ground. He leaned against the wall,

giddy, as he wiped the blood from his face. "Are you much hurt?" asked

Henry, kindly, his large dark eyes full of sympathy.

"No, thank you; it is nothing," replied William. "He is a great coward,

though, whoever he is."

"It is Cyril Dare," called out Frank.

"Yes, it is Cyril Dare," continued Henry Ashley. "I have been telling

him what a coward he is. I am ashamed of him: he is my cousin, in a

remote degree. I am glad you are not hurt."

Henry Ashley rode away towards his home. Frank followed in the same

direction; as did Gar, who now came in view. William proceeded up the

town. He was a little hurt, although he had disowned it to Henry Ashley.

His head felt light, his arms ached; perhaps the sensation of giddiness

was as much from the want of food as anything. He purchased what was

required for his mother; and then made the best of his way home again.

Mr. Ashley's letter had gone clean out of his head.

Frank, in the manner usual with boys, carried home so exaggerated a

story of William's damages, that Jane expected to see him arrive

half-killed. Samuel Lynn heard of it, and said William might stop at

home that evening. It has never been mentioned that his hours were from

six till eight in the morning, from nine till one, from two till five,

and from six till eight. These were Mr. Lynn's hours, and William was

allowed to keep the same; the men had half-an-hour less allowed for

breakfast and tea.

William was glad of the rest, after his battle, and the evening passed

on. It was growing late, almost bedtime, when suddenly there flashed

into his memory Mr. Ashley's letter. He put his hand into his

jacket-pocket. There it lay, snug and safe. With a few words of

explanation to his mother, so hasty and incoherent that she did not

understand a syllable, he snatched his cap, and flew away in the

direction of the town.

Boys have good legs and lungs; and William scarcely slackened speed

until he gained the post-office, not far short of a mile. Dropping the

letter into the box, he stood against the wall to recover breath. A

clerk was standing at the door whistling; and at that moment a

gentleman, apparently a stranger, came out of a neighbouring hotel, a

letter in hand.

"This is the head post-office, I believe?" said he to the clerk.

"Yes."

"Am I in time to post a letter for Bristol?"

"No, sir. The bags for the Bristol mail are made up. It will be through

the town directly."

William heard this with consternation. If it was too late for this

gentleman's letter, it was too late for Mr. Ashley's.

He said nothing to any one that night; but he lay awake thinking over

what might be the consequences of his forgetfulness. The letter might be

one of importance; Mr. Ashley might discharge him for his neglect--and

the weekly four shillings had grown into an absolute necessity. William

possessed a large share of conscientiousness, and the fault disturbed

him much.

When he came down at six, he found his mother up and at work. He gave

her the history of what had happened. "What can be done?" he asked.

"Nay, William, put that question to yourself. What ought you to do?

Reflect a moment."

"I suppose I ought to tell Mr. Ashley."

"Do not say 'I suppose,' my dear. You must tell him."

"Yes, I know I must," he acknowledged. "I have been thinking about it

all night. But I don't like to."

"Ah, child! we have many things to do that we 'don't like.' But the

first trouble is always the worst. Look it fully in the face, and it

will melt away. There is no help for it in this matter, William; your

duty is plain. There's Mr. Lynn looking out for you."

William went out, heavy with the thought of the task he should have to

accomplish after breakfast. He knew that he must do it. It was a duty,

as his mother had said; and she had fully impressed upon them all, from

their infancy, the necessity of looking out for their duty and doing it,

whether in great things or in small.

Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory that morning at his usual hour,

half-past nine. He opened and read his letters, and then was engaged for

some time with Samuel Lynn. By ten o'clock the counting-house was clear.

Mr. Ashley was alone in it, and William knew that his time was come. He

went in, and approached Mr. Ashley's desk.

Mr. Ashley, who was writing, looked up. "What is it?"

William's face grew red and white by turns. He was of a remarkably

sensitive nature; and these sensitive natures cannot help betraying

their inward emotion. Try as he would, he could not get a word out. Mr.

Ashley was surprised. "What is the matter?" he wonderingly asked.

"If you please, sir--I am very sorry--it is about the letter," he

stammered, and was unable to get any further.

"The letter!" repeated Mr. Ashley. "What letter? Not the letter I gave

you to post?"

"I forgot it, sir,"--and William's own voice sounded to his ear

painfully clear.

"Forgot to post it! That was unpardonably careless. Where is the

letter?"

"I forgot it, sir, until night, and then I ran to the post-office and

put it in. Afterwards I heard the clerk say that the Bristol bags were

made up, so of course it would not go. I am very sorry, sir," he

repeated, after a pause.

"How came you to forget it? You ought to have gone direct from here, and

posted it."

"So I did go, sir. That is I was going, but----"

"But what?" returned Mr. Ashley, for William had made a dead standstill.

"The college boys set on me, sir. They were ill-using my brother, and I

interfered; and then they turned upon me. It made me forget the letter."

"It was you who got into an affray with the college boys, was it?" cried

Mr. Ashley. He had heard his son's version of the affair, without

suspecting that it related to William.

William waited by the desk. "If you please, sir, was it of great

consequence?"

"It might have been. Do not be guilty of such carelessness again."

"I will try not, sir."

Mr. Ashley looked down at his writing. William waited. He did not

suppose it was over, and he wanted to know the worst. "Why do you stay?"

asked Mr. Ashley.

"I hope you will not turn me away for it, sir," he said, his colour

changing again.

"Well--not this time," replied Mr. Ashley, smiling to himself. "But I'll

tell you what I should have felt inclined to turn you away for," he

added--"concealing the fact from me. Whatever fault, omission, or

accident you may commit, always acknowledge it at once; it is the best

plan, and the easiest. You may go back to your work now."

William left the room with a lighter step. Mr. Ashley looked after him.

"That's an honest lad," thought he. "He might just as well have kept it

from me; calculating on the chances of its not coming out: many boys

would have done so. He has been brought up in a good school."

Before the day was over, William came again into contact with Mr.

Ashley. That gentleman sometimes made his appearance in the manufactory

in an evening--not always. He did not on this one. When Samuel Lynn and

William entered it on their return from tea, a gentleman was waiting in

the counting-house on business. Samuel Lynn, who was, on such occasions,

Mr. Ashley's _alter ego_, came out of the counting-house presently, with

a note in his hand.

"Thee put on thy cap, and take this to the master's house. Ask to see

him, and say that I wait for an answer."

William ran off with the note: no fear of his forgetting this time. It

was addressed in the plain form used by the Quakers, "Thomas Ashley;"

and could William have looked inside, he would have seen, instead of the

complimentary "Sir," that the commencement was, "Respected Friend." He

observed his mother sitting close at her window, to catch what remained

of the declining light, and nodded to her as he passed.

"Can I see Mr. Ashley?" he inquired, when he reached the house.

The servant replied that he could. He left William in the hall, and

opened the door of the dining-room; a handsome room, of lofty

proportions. Mr. Ashley was slowly pacing it to and fro, whilst Henry

sat at a table, preparing his Latin exercise for his tutor. It was Mr.

Ashley's custom to help Henry with his Latin, easing difficulties to him

by explanation. Henry was very backward with his classics; he had not

yet begun Greek: his own private hope was, that he never should begin

it. His sufferings rendered learning always irksome, sometimes

unbearable. The same cause frequently made him irritable--an irritation

that could not be checked, as it would have been in a more healthy boy.

The servant told his master he was wanted, and Mr. Ashley looked into

the hall.

"Oh, is it you, William?" he said. "Come in."

William advanced. "Mr. Lynn said I was to see yourself, sir, and to say

that he waited for an answer."

Mr. Ashley opened the note, and read it by the lamp on Henry's table. It

was not dark outside, and the chandelier was not lighted, but Henry's

lamp was. "Sit down," said Mr. Ashley to William, and left the room,

note in hand.

William felt it was something, Mr. Ashley's recognizing a difference

between him and those black boys in the manufactory: they would scarcely

have been told to sit in the hall. William sat down on the first chair

at hand. Henry Ashley looked at him, and he recognized him as the boy

who had been maltreated by the college boys on the previous day; but

Henry was in no mood to be sociable, or even condescending--he never

was, when over his lessons. His hip was giving him pain, and his

exercise was making him fractious.

"There! it's always the case! Another five minutes, and I should have

finished this horrid exercise. Papa is sure to go away, or be called

away, when he's helping me! It's a shame."

Mrs. Ashley opened the door at this juncture, and looked into the room.

"I thought your papa was here, Henry."

"No, he is not here. He has gone to his study, and I am stuck fast. Some

blessed note has come, which he has to attend to: and I don't know

whether this word should be put in the ablative or the dative! I'll run

the pen through it!"

"Oh, Henry, Henry! Do not be so impatient."

Mrs. Ashley shut the door again; and Henry continued to worry himself,

making no progress, except in fretfulness. At length William approached

him. "Will you let me help you?"

Surprise brought Henry's grumbling to a standstill. "You!" he exclaimed.

"Do you know anything of Latin?"

"I am very much farther in it than what you are doing. My brother Gar is

as far as that. Shall I help you? You have put that wrong; it ought to

be in the accusative."

"Well, if you can help me, you may, for I want to get it over," said

Henry, with a doubting stress upon the "can." "You can sit down, if you

wish to," he patronizingly added.

"Thank you, I don't care about sitting down," replied William, beginning

at once upon his task.

The two boys were soon deep in the exercise, William not doing it, but

rendering it easy to Henry; in the same manner that Mr. Halliburton,

when he was at that stage, used to make it clear to him.

"I say," cried Henry, "who taught you?"

"Papa. He gave a great deal of time to me, and that got me on. I can see

a wrong word there," added William, casting his eyes to the top of the

page. "It ought to be in the vocative, and you have put it in the

dative."

"You are mistaken, then. Papa told me that: and he is not likely to be

wrong. Papa is one of the best classical scholars of the day--although

he is a manufacturer," added Henry, who, through his relatives, the

Dares, had been infected with a contempt for business.

"It should be in the vocative," repeated William.

"I shan't alter it. The idea of your finding fault with Mr. Ashley's

Latin! Let us get on. What case is this?"

The last word of the exercise was being written, when Mr. Ashley opened

the door and called to William. He gave him a note for Mr. Lynn, and

William departed. Mr. Ashley returned to complete the interrupted

exercise.

"I say, papa, that fellow knows Latin," began Henry.

"What fellow?" returned Mr. Ashley.

"Why, that chap of yours who has been here. He has helped me through my

exercise. Not doing it for me: you need not be afraid; but explaining to

me how to do it. He made it easier to me than you do, papa."

Mr. Ashley took the book in his hand, and saw that it was correct. He

knew Henry could not, or would not, have made it so himself. Henry

continued:

"He said his papa used to explain it to him. Fancy one of your

manufactory errand-boys saying 'papa.'"

"You must not class him with the ordinary errand-boys, Henry. The boy

has been as well brought up as you have."

"I thought so; for he has impudence about him," was Master Henry's

retort.

"Was he impudent to you?"

"To me? Oh no. He is as civil a fellow as ever I spoke to. Indeed, but

for remembering who he was, I should call him a gentlemanly fellow.

Whilst he was telling me, I forgot who he was, and talked to him as an

equal, and _he_ talked to me as one. I call him impudent, because he

found fault with your Latin."

"Indeed!" returned Mr. Ashley, an amused smile parting his lips.

"He says this word's wrong. That it ought to be in the vocative case."

"So it ought to be," assented Mr. Ashley, casting his eyes on the word

to which Henry pointed.

"You told me the dative, papa."

"That I certainly did not, Henry. The mistake must have been your own."

"He persisted that it was wrong, although I told him it was your Latin.

Papa, it is the same boy who had the row yesterday with Cyril Dare. What

a pity it is, though, that a fellow so well up in his Latin should be

shut up in a manufactory!"

"The only 'pity' is, that he is in it too early," was the response of

Mr. Ashley. "His Latin would not be any detriment to his being in a

manufactory, or the manufactory to his Latin. I am a manufacturer

myself, Henry. You appear to ignore that sometimes."

"The Dares go on so. They din it into my ears that a manufacturer cannot

be a gentleman."

"I shall cause you to drop the acquaintance of the Dares, if you allow

yourself to listen to all the false and foolish notions they may give

utterance to. Cyril Dare will probably go into a manufactory himself."

Henry looked up curiously. "I don't think so, papa."

"I do," returned Mr. Ashley, in a significant tone. Henry was surprised

at the news. He knew his father never advanced a decided opinion unless

he had good grounds for it. He burst into a laugh. The notion of Cyril

Dare's going into a manufactory tickled his fancy amazingly.

PART THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

A SUGGESTED FEAR.

One morning, towards the middle of April, Mrs. Halliburton went up to

Mr. Ashley's. She had brought him the quarter's rent.

"Will you allow me to pay it to yourself, sir--now, and in future?" she

asked. "I feel an unconquerable aversion to having further dealings with

Mr. Dare."

"I can understand that you should have," said Mr. Ashley. "Yes, you can

pay it to me, Mrs. Halliburton. Always remembering you know, that I am

in no hurry for it," he added with a smile.

"Thank you. You are very kind. But I must pay as I go on."

He wrote the receipt, and handed it to her. "I hope you are satisfied

with William?" she said, as she folded it up.

"Quite so. I believe he gives satisfaction to Mr. Lynn. I have little to

do with him myself. Mr. Lynn tells me that he finds him a remarkably

truthful, open-natured boy."

"You will always find him that," said Jane. "He is getting more

reconciled to the manufactory than he was at first."

"Did he not like it at first?"

"No, he did not. He was disappointed altogether. He had hoped to find

some employment more suited to the way in which he had been brought up.

He cannot divest himself of the idea that he is looked upon as on a

level with the poor errand-boys of your establishment, and therefore has

lost caste. He had wished also to be in some office--a lawyer's, for

instance--where the hours for leaving are early, so that he might have

had the evening for his studies. But he is growing more reconciled to

the inevitable."

"I suppose he wished to continue his studies?"

"He did so naturally. The foundation of an advanced education has been

laid, and he expected it was to go on to completion. His brothers are

now in the college school, occupied all day long with their studies, and

of course William feels the difference. He gets to his books for an hour

when he returns home in an evening; but he is weary, and does not do

much good."

"He appears to be a more persevering, thoughtful boy than are some,"

remarked Mr. Ashley.

"Very thoughtful--very persevering. It has been the labour of my life,

Mr. Ashley, to foster good seed in my children; to reason with them, to

make them my companions. They have been endowed, I am thankful to say,

with admirable qualities of head and heart, and I have striven

unweariedly to nourish the good in them. It is not often that boys are

brought into contact with sorrow so early as they. Their father's death

and my adverse circumstances have been real trials."

"They must have been," rejoined Mr. Ashley.

"While others of their age think only of play," she continued, "my boys

have been obliged to learn the sad experiences of life; and it has given

them a thought, a care, beyond their years. There is no necessity to

_make_ Frank and Edgar apply to their lessons unremittingly; they do it

of their own accord, with their whole abilities, knowing that education

is the only advantage they can possess--the one chance of their getting

on in the world. Had William been a boy of a different disposition, less

tractable, less reflective, less conscientious, I might have found some

difficulty in inducing him to work as he is doing."

"Does he complain?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"Oh no, sir! He feels that it is his duty to work, to assist as far as

he can, and he does it without complaining. I see that he cannot help

feeling it. He would like to be in the college with his brothers; but I

cheer him up, and tell him it may all turn out for the best. Perhaps it

will."

She rose as she spoke. Mr. Ashley shook hands with her, and attended her

through the hall. "Your sons deserve to get on, Mrs. Halliburton, and I

hope they will do so. It is an admirable promise for the future man when

a boy displays thought and self-reliance."

"Mamma!" suddenly exclaimed Janey, as they sat at breakfast the morning

after this, "do you remember what to-day is? It is my birthday."

Jane had remembered it. She had been almost in hopes that the child

would not remember it. One year ago that day the first glimpse of the

shadow so soon to fall upon them had shown itself. What a change! The

contrast between last year and this was almost incredible. Then they had

been in possession of a good home, were living in prosperity, in

apparent security. Now--Jane's heart turned sick at the thought. Only

one short year!

"Yes, Janey dear," she replied in sadly subdued tones. "I did not forget

it. I----"

A double knock at the door interrupted what she would have further said.

They heard Dobbs answer it: visitors were chiefly for Mrs. Reece.

Who should be standing there but Samuel Lynn! He did not choose the

familiar back way, as Patience did, had he occasion to call, but knocked

at the front.

"Is Jane Halliburton within?"

"You can go and see," said crusty, disappointed Dobbs, flourishing her

hand towards the study door. "It's not often that she's out."

Jane rose at his entrance; but he declined to sit, standing while he

delivered the message with which he had been charged.

"Friend, thee need not send thy son to the manufactory again in an

evening, except on Saturdays. On the other evenings he may remain at

home from tea-time and pursue his studies. His wages will not be

lessened."

And Jane knew that the considerate kindness emanated from Thomas Ashley.

She managed better with her work as the months went on. By summer she

could do it quickly; the days were long then, and, by dint of sitting

closely to it, she could earn twelve shillings a week. With William's

earnings, and the six shillings taken from Mrs. Reece's payments, that

made twenty-two. It was quite a fortune compared with what had been. But

like most good fortunes it had its drawbacks. In the first place, she

could not always earn it; she was compelled to steal unwilling time to

mend her own and the children's clothes. In the second place, a large

portion of it had to be devoted to buying their clothes, besides other

incidental expenses; so that in the matter of housekeeping they were not

much better off than before. Still, Jane did begin to think that she

should see her way clearer. But there was sorrow of a different nature

looming in the distance.

One afternoon, which Jane was obliged to devote to plain sewing, she was

sitting alone in the study when there came a hard short thump at it,

which was Dobbs's way of making known her presence there.

"Come in!"

Dobbs came in and sat herself down opposite Jane. It was summer weather,

and the August dust blew in at the open window. "I want to know what's

the matter with Janey," began she, without circumlocution.

"With Janey?" repeated Mrs. Halliburton. "What should be the matter with

her? I know of nothing."

"Of course not," sarcastically answered Dobbs. "Eyes appear to be given

to some folks only to blind 'em--more's the pity! You can't see it; my

missis can't see it; but I say that the child is ill."

"Oh, Dobbs! I think you must be mistaken."

"Now I'd thank you to be civil, if you please, Mrs. Halliburton,"

retorted Dobbs. "You don't take me for a common servant, I hope. Who's

'Dobbs'?"

"I had no wish to be uncivil," said Jane. "I am so accustomed to hearing

Mrs. Reece call you Dobbs, that----"

"My missis is one case, and other folks is another," burst forth Dobbs,

by way of interruption. "I have a handle to my name, I hope, which is

Mrs. Dobbs, and I'd be obleeged to you not to forget it again. What's

the reason that Janey's always tired now, I ask--don't want to

stir--gets a bright pink in the cheeks and inside the hands?"

"It is only the effect of the hot weather."

The opinion did not please Dobbs. "There's not a earthly thing happens

but it's laid to the weather," she angrily cried. "The weather, indeed!

If Janey is not going off after her pa, it's an odd thing to me."

Jane's heart-pulse stood still.

"Does she have night-perspirations, or does she not?" demanded Dobbs.

"She tells me she's hot and damp; so I conclude it is so."

"Only from the heat--only from the heat," panted Jane eagerly. She dared

not admit the fear.

"Well, the first time I go down to the town, I shall take her to Parry.

It won't be at your cost," she hastened to add in ungracious tones, for

Jane was about to interrupt. "If she wants to know what she is took to

the doctor for, I shall tell her it is to have her teeth looked at. She

has a nasty cough upon her: perhaps you haven't noticed that! Some can't

see a child decaying under their very nose, while strangers can see it

palpable."

"She has coughed since last week, the day of the rain, when she went

with Anna Lynn into the field at the back, and they got their feet wet.

Oh, I am sure there is nothing seriously the matter with her," added

Jane, resolutely endeavouring to put the suggested fear from her. "I

want her in: she must help me with my sewing."

"Then she's not a-going to help," resolutely returned Dobbs. "She has

had a good dinner of roast lamb, sparrow-grass and kidney potatoes, and

she's sitting back in my easy chair, opposite to my missis in hers. Her

wanting always to rest might have told some folks that she was ailing.

When children are in health, their legs and wings and tongue are on the

go from morning till night. You never need pervide 'em with a seat but

for their meals; and, give 'em their way, they'd eat _them_ standing.

Jane's always wanting to rest now, and she shall rest."

"But, indeed she must help me to-day," urged Jane. "She can sew straight

seams, and hem. Look at this heap of mending! and it must be finished

to-night. I cannot afford to be about it to-morrow."

"What sewing is it you want done?" questioned Dobbs, lifting up the work

with a jerk. "I'll do it myself sooner than the child shall be

bothered."

"Oh no, thank you. I should not like to trouble you with it."

"Now, I make the offer to do the work," crossly responded Dobbs; "and if

I didn't mean to do it, I shouldn't make it. You'd do well to give it

me, if you want it done. Janey shan't work this afternoon."

Taking her at her word, and indeed glad to do so, Jane showed Dobbs a

task, and Dobbs swung off with it. Jane called after her that she had

not taken a needle and cotton. Dobbs retorted that she had needles and

cotton of her own, she hoped, and needn't be beholden to anybody else

for 'em.

Jane sat on, anxious, all the afternoon. Janey remained in Mrs. Reece's

parlour, and revelled in an early tea and pikelets. Jane was disturbed

from her thoughts by the boisterous entrance of Frank and Gar; more

boisterous than usual. Frank was a most excitable boy, and had been told

that evening by the head master of the college school, the Reverend Mr.

Keating, that he might be one of the candidates for the vacant place in

the choir. This was enough to set Frank off for a week. "You know what a

nice voice you say I have, mamma; what a good ear for music!" he

reiterated. "As good, you tell us, as Aunt Margaret's used to be. I

shall be sure to gain the post if you will let me try. We have to be at

college for an hour morning and afternoon daily, but we can easily get

that up if we are industrious. Some of the best Helstonleigh scholars

who have shone at Oxford and Cambridge were choristers. And I should

have about ten pounds a-year paid to me."

Ten pounds a-year! Jane listened with a beating heart. It would more

than keep him in clothes. She inquired more fully into particulars.

The result was that Frank had permission to try for the vacant

choristership, and gained it. His voice was the best of those tried. He

went home in a glow. "Now, mamma, the sooner you set about a new

surplice for me the better."

"A new surplice, Frank!" Ah, it was not all profit.

"A chorister must have two surplices, mamma. King's scholars can do with

one, having them washed between the Sundays: choristers can't. We must

have them always in wear, you know, except in Lent, and on the day of

King Charles the Martyr."

Jane smiled; he talked so fast. "What is that you are running on about?"

"Goodness, mamma, don't you understand? All the six weeks of Lent, and

on the 30th of January, the cathedral is hung with black, and the

choristers have to wear black cloth surplices. They don't find the black

ones: the college does that."

Frank's success in gaining the place did not give universal pleasure to

the college school. Since the day of the disturbance in the spring, in

which William was mixed up, the two young Halliburtons had been at a

discount with the desk at which Cyril Dare sat; and this desk pretty

well ruled the school.

"It's coming to a fine pass!" exclaimed Cyril Dare, when the result of

the trial was carried into the school. "Here's the town clerk's own son

passed over as nobody, and that snob of a Halliburton put in! Somebody

ought to have told the dean what snobs they are."

"What would the dean have cared?" grumbled another, whose young brother

had been amongst the rejected ones. "To get good voices in the choir is

all he cares for in the matter."

"I say, where do they live--that set?"

"In a house of Ashley's, in the London Road," answered Cyril Dare. "They

couldn't pay the rent, and my father put a bum in."

"Bosh, Dare!"

"It's true," said Cyril Dare. "My father manages Ashley's rents, you

know. They'd have had every stick and stone sold, only Ashley--he is a

regular soft over some things--took and gave them time. Oh, they are a

horrid lot! They don't keep a servant!"

The blank astonishment this last item of intelligence caused at the

desk, can't be described. Again Cyril's word was disputed.

"They don't, I tell you," he repeated. "I taxed Halliburton senior with

it one day, and he told me to my face they could not afford one. He

possesses brass enough to set up a foundry, does that fellow. The eldest

one is at Ashley's manufactory, errand-boy. Errand-boy! And here's this

one promoted to the choir, over gentlemen's heads! He ought to be

pitched into, ought Halliburton senior."

In the school, Frank was Halliburton senior; Gar, Halliburton junior.

"How is it that he says he was at King's College before he came here? I

heard him tell Keating so," asked a boy.

At this moment Mr. Keating's voice was heard. "Silence!" Cyril Dare let

a minute elapse, and then began again.

"Such a low thing, you know, not to keep servants! We couldn't do at all

without five or six. I'll tell you what: the school may do as it likes,

but our desk shall cut the two fellows here."

And the desk did so; and Frank and Gar had to put up with many

mortifications. There was no help for it. Frank was brave as a young

lion; but against some sorts of oppression there is no standing up. More

than once was the boy in tears, telling his griefs to his mother. It

fell more on Frank than it did on Gar.

Jane could only strive to console him, as she did William. "Patience and

forbearance, my darling Frank! You will outlive it in time."