WILLIAM HALLIBURTON'S GHOST.
This chapter may be said to commence the second part of this history,
for some years have elapsed since the events last recorded.
Do you doubt that the self-denying patience displayed by Jane
Halliburton, her persevering struggles, her never-fainting industry,
joined to her all-perfect trust in the goodness and guidance of the Most
High God, could fail to bring their reward? It is not possible. But do
not fancy that it came suddenly in the shape of a coach-and-six. Rewards
worth having are not acquired so easily. Have you met with the following
lines? They are somewhat applicable.
"How rarely, friend, a good, great man inherits
Honour and wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It seems a fable from the land of spirits
When any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merits that which he obtains.
For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain:
What would'st thou have the good, great man obtain--
Wealth? title? dignity? a golden chain?
Or heaps of corpses which his sword hath slain?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good, great man? Three treasures--
Love; and life; and calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath.
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night,
Himself; his Maker; and the angel, Death."
Jane's reward was in progress: it had not fully come. At present it was
little more than that of an approving conscience for having fought her
way through difficulties in the patient continuance of well-doing, and
in the fulfilment, in a remarkable manner, of the subject she had had
most at heart--that of giving her sons an education that would fit them
to fulfil any part they might be called upon to play in the destinies of
life--in watching them grow up full of promise to make good and great
men.
In circumstances, Jane was tolerably at ease now. Time had wrought its
changes. Mrs. Reece had gone--not into other lodgings, but to join Janey
Halliburton on the long journey. And Dobbs--Dobbs!--was servant to Mrs.
Halliburton! Dobbs had experienced misfortune. Dobbs had put by a good
round sum in a bank, for Dobbs had been provident all her life; and the
bank broke and swallowed up Dobbs's savings; and nearly all Dobbs's
surly independence went with it. Misfortunes do not come alone; and Mrs.
Reece died almost immediately after Dobbs's treacherous bank went. The
old lady's will had been good to leave Dobbs something, but she had not
the power to do so: the income she had enjoyed went at her death to her
late husband's relatives. She had made Dobbs handsome presents from time
to time, and these Dobbs had placed with the rest of her money. It had
all gone.
Poor Dobbs, good for nothing in the first shock of the loss, paid Mrs.
Halliburton for a bedroom weekly, and sat down to fret. Next, she tried
to earn a living at making gloves--an employment Dobbs had followed in
her early days. But, what with not being so young as she was, neither
eyes nor fingers, Dobbs found she could make nothing of the work. She
went about the house doing odd tasks for Mrs. Halliburton, until that
lady ventured on a proposal (with as much deference as though she had
been making it to an Indian Begum), that Dobbs should remain with her as
her servant. An experienced, thoroughly good servant she required now;
and that she knew Dobbs to be. Dobbs acquiesced; and forthwith went
upstairs, moved her things into the dark closet, and obstinately adopted
it as her own bedroom.
The death of Mrs. Reece had enabled Jane to put into practice a plan she
had long thought of--that of receiving boarders into her house, after
the manner of the dames at Eton. Some of the foundation boys in the
college school lived at a distance, and it was a great matter with the
parents to place them in families where they would find a good home. The
wife of the head master, Mrs. Keating, took in half-a-dozen; Jane
thought she might do the same. She had been asked to do so; but had not
room while Mrs. Reece was with her. She still held her class in the
evening. As one set of boys finished with her, others were only too glad
to take their places: there was no teaching like Mrs. Halliburton's.
Upon making it known that she could receive boarders, applications
poured in; and six, all she had accommodation for, came. They, of
course, attended the college school during the day. Thus she could
afford to relinquish working at the gloves; and did so, to Samuel Lynn's
chagrin: a steady, regular worker, as Jane had been, was valuable to the
manufactory. Altogether, what with her evening class, and the sum paid
by the boarders, her income was between two and three hundred a year,
not including what was earned by William.
William had made progress at Mr. Ashley's, and now earned thirty
shillings a week. Frank and Gar had not left the college school. Frank's
time was out, and more than out: but when a scholar advanced in the
manner that Frank Halliburton had done, Mr. Keating was not in a hurry
to intimate to him that his time had expired. So Frank remained on,
studying hard, one of the most finished scholars Helstonleigh Collegiate
School had ever turned out.
There sat one great desire in Frank's heart; it had almost grown into a
passion; it coloured his dreams by night and his thoughts by day--that
of matriculating at one of the two Universities. The random and somewhat
dim idea of Frank's early days--studying for the Bar--had become the
fixed purpose of his life. That he was especially gifted with the
tastes and qualifications necessary to make a good pleader, there could
be no doubt about; therefore, Frank had probably not mistaken his
vocation. Persevering in study, keen in perceptive intellect, equable in
temper, fluent and persuasive in speech, a true type was he of an embryo
barrister. He did not quite see his way yet to getting to college.
Neither did Gar; and Gar had set _his_ mind upon the Church.
One cold January evening, bright, clear, and frosty, Samuel Lynn stopped
away from the manufactory. He had received a letter by the evening post
saying that a friend, on his way from Birmingham to Bristol, would halt
for a few hours at his house and go on by the Bristol mail, which passed
through the city at eleven o'clock. The friend arrived punctually, was
regaled with tea and other good things in the state parlour, and he and
Samuel Lynn settled themselves to enjoy a pleasant evening together,
Patience and Anna forming part of the company. Anna's luxuriant curls
and her wondrous beauty--for, in growing up, that beauty had not belied
the promise of her childhood--were shaded under the demure Quaker's cap.
Something else had not belied the promise of her childhood, and that was
her vanity.
Apparently, she did not find the evening or the visitor to her taste. He
was old, as were her father and Patience: every one above thirty Anna
was apt to class as "old." She fidgeted, was restless, and, just as the
clock struck seven--as if the sound rendered any further inaction
unbearable--she rose and was quietly stealing from the room.
"Where are thee going, Anna?" asked her father.
Anna coloured, as if taken by surprise. "Friend Jane Halliburton
promised to lend me a book, father: I should like to fetch it."
"Sit thee still, child; thee dost not want to read to-night when friend
Stanley is with us. Show him thy drawings. Meanwhile, I will get the
chessmen. Thee'd like a game?" turning to his visitor.
"Ay, I should," was the ready answer. "Remember, friend Lynn, I beat
thee last time."
"Maybe my skill will redeem itself to-night," nodded the Quaker, as he
rose for the chessboard. "It shall try its best."
"Would thee like a candle?" asked Patience, who was busy sewing.
"Not at all. My chamber is light as day, with the moon so near the
full."
Mr. Lynn went up to his room. The chessboard and men were kept on a
table near the window. As he took them from it he glanced out at the
pleasant scene. His window, at the back, faced the charming landscape,
and the Malvern Hills in the horizon shone out almost as distinctly as
by day. Not, however, on the landscape were Samuel Lynn's eyes fixed;
they had caught something nearer, which drew his attention.
Pacing the field-path which ran behind his low garden hedge was a male
figure in a cloak. To see a man, whether with a cloak or without it,
abroad on a moonlight night, would not have been extraordinary; but
Samuel Lynn's notice was drawn by this one's movements. Beyond the
immediate space occupied by the house, the field-path was hidden: on one
side, by the high hedge intervening between his garden and Mrs.
Halliburton's; on the other, by a wall. The figure--whoever it might
be--would come to one of these corners, stealthily peep at Samuel Lynn's
house and windows, and then continue his way past it, until he reached
the other corner, where he would halt and peep again, partially hiding
himself behind the hedge. That he was waiting for something or some one
was apparent, for he stamped his feet occasionally in an impatient
manner.
"What can it be that he does there?" cried the Quaker, half aloud: "this
is the second time I have seen him. He cannot be taking a sketch of my
house by moonlight! Were it any other than thee, William Halliburton, I
should say it wore a clandestine look."
He returned to the parlour, and took his revenge on his friend by
checkmating him three times in succession. At nine o'clock supper came
in, and at ten Mr. Stanley, accompanied by Samuel Lynn, left, to walk
leisurely into Helstonleigh and await the Bristol mail. As they turned
out of the house they saw William Halliburton going in at his own door.
"It is a cold night," William remarked to Mr. Lynn.
"Very. Good night to thee."
You cannot see what he is like by this light, especially in that
disguising cloak, and the cap with its protecting ears. But you can see
him the following morning, as he stands in Mr. Ashley's counting-house.
A well-grown, upright, noble form, a head taller than Samuel Lynn, by
whose side he is standing, with a peculiarly attractive face. Not for
its beauty--the face cannot boast of very much--but for its broad brow
of intellect, its firm, sweet mouth, and its truthful dark-grey eyes.
None could mistake William Halliburton for anything but a gentleman,
although they had seen him, as now, with a white apron tied round his
waist. William was making up gloves: a term, as you may remember, which
means sorting them according to their qualities--work that was sometimes
done in Mr. Ashley's room, on account of its steady light, for it bore a
north aspect. A table, or counter, was fixed down one side, under its
windows. Mr. Lynn stood by his side, looking on.
"Thee can do it tolerably well, William," he observed, after some
minutes' close inspection.
William smiled. The Quaker never bestowed decided praise, and never
thought any one could be trusted in the making-up department, himself
and James Meeking excepted. William had been exercised in the making-up
for the past eighteen months, and he thought he ought to do it pretty
well by this time. Mr. Lynn was turning away, when his keen sight fell
on several dozens at a little distance. He took up one of the top pairs
with a hasty movement, knitted his brow, and then took up others.
"Thee has not exercised thy judgment or thy caution here, friend
William."
"I did not make up those," replied William.
"Who did, then?"
"Cyril Dare."
"I have told Cyril Dare he is not to attempt the making-up," returned
Samuel Lynn, in severe tones. "When did he do these?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"There, again! He knows the gloves are not made up in a winter's
afternoon. I myself would not do it by so obscure a light. Thee go over
these thyself when thee has finished the stack before thee."
Samuel Lynn was not one who spared work. He mixed the offending dozens
together indiscriminately, and pushed them towards William. Then he
turned to his own place, and went on with his work: he was also making
up. Presently he spoke again.
"What does thee do at the back of my house of a night? Thee must find
the walk cold."
William turned his head with a movement of surprise. "I don't do
anything at the back of your house. What do you mean?"
"Not walk about there, watching it, as thee did last night?"
"Certainly not! I do not understand you."
Samuel Lynn's brows knit heavily. "William, I deemed thee truthful. Why
deny what is a palpable fact?"
William Halliburton put down the pair of gloves he had in his hand, and
turned to the Quaker. "In saying that I do not walk at the back of your
house at night, or at the back of any house, I state the truth."
"Last night at seven o'clock, I _saw_ thee parading there in thy cloak.
I saw thee, I say, William. The night was unusually light."
"Last night, from tea-time until half-past nine, I never stirred out of
my mother's parlour," rejoined William. "I was at my books as usual. At
half-past nine I ran up to say a word to Henry Ashley. You saw me
returning."
"But I saw thee at the back with my own eyes," persisted the Quaker. "I
saw thy cloak. Thee had on that blue cap of thine: it was tied down over
thy ears; and the collar of the cloak was turned up, to protect thee, as
I surmised, from the cold."
"It must have been my ghost," responded William. "_Should_ I be likely
to pace up and down a cold field, for pastime, on a January night?"
"Will thee oblige me by putting on thy cloak?" was all the answer
returned by Samuel Lynn.
"What--now?"
"Please."
William, laughing, went out of the room, and came back in his cloak. It
was an old-fashioned cloak--a remarkable cloak--a dark plaid, its collar
lined with red. Formerly worn by gentlemen, they had now become nearly
obsolete; but William had picked this up for much less than half its
value. He did not care much for fashion, and it was warm and comfortable
in winter weather.
"Perhaps you wish me to put on my cap?" said William, in a serio-comic
tone.
"Yes; and turn down the ears."
He obeyed, very much amused. "Anything more?" asked he.
"Walk thyself about an instant."
His lips smiling, his eyes dancing, William marched from one side of the
room to the other. While this was in process Cyril Dare bustled in, and
stood in amazement, staring at William. The Quaker paid no attention to
his arrival, except that he took out his watch and glanced at it. He
continued to address William.
"And thee can assure me to my face, that thee was not pacing the field
last night in the moonlight, dressed as now?"
"I can, and do," replied William.
"Then, William, it is one of two things. My eyes or thy word must be
false."
"Did you see my face?" asked William.
"Not much of that. With the ears down and the collar up, thy face was
pretty effectually concealed. There's not another cloak like thine in
all Helstonleigh."
"You are right there," laughed William; "there's not one half so
handsome. Admire the contrast of the purple and green plaid and the
scarlet collar."
"No, not another like it," emphatically repeated the Quaker. "I tell
thee, William Halliburton, in the teeth of thy denial, that I saw thee,
or a figure precisely similar to thee, parading the field-path last
night, and stealthily watching my windows."
"It's a clear case of ghost," returned William, with an amused look at
Cyril Dare. "How much longer am I to make a walking Guy of myself, for
your pleasure and Cyril's astonishment?"
"Thee can take it off," replied the Quaker, his curt tone betraying
dissatisfaction. Until that moment he had believed William Halliburton
to be the very quintessence of truth. His belief was now shaken.
In the small passage between Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel Lynn's,
William hung up the cloak and cap. The Quaker turned to Cyril Dare, who
was taking off his great-coat, stern displeasure in his tone.
"Dost thee know the time?"
"Just gone half-past nine," replied Cyril.
Mr. Lynn held out his watch to Cyril. It wanted seventeen minutes to
ten. "Nine o'clock is thy hour. I am tired of telling thee to be more
punctual. And thee did not come before breakfast."
"I overslept myself," said Cyril.
"As thee dost pretty often, it seems. If thee can do no better than thee
did yesterday, as well oversleep thyself for good. Look at these
gloves."
"Well!" cried Cyril, who was a good-looking young man, in stature not
far short of William. At least he would have been good-looking, but for
his eyes; there was a look in them, almost amounting to a squint; and
they did not gaze openly and honestly into another's eyes. His face was
thin, and his features were well-formed. "Well!" cried he.
"It is well," repeated the Quaker; "well that I looked at them, for they
must be done again. Firsts are mixed with seconds, thirds with firsts; I
do not know that I ever saw gloves so ill made up. What have I told
thee?"
"Lots of things," responded Cyril, who liked to set the manager at
defiance, as far as he dared.
"I have desired thee never to attempt to make up the gloves. I now
forbid thee again; and thee will do well not to forget it. Begin and
band these gloves that William Halliburton is making ready."
Cyril jerked open the drawer where the paper bands were kept, took some
out of it, and carried them to the counter, where William stood. Mr.
Lynn interposed with another order.
"Thee will please put thy apron on."
Now, having to wear this apron was the very bugbear of Cyril Dare's
life. "There's no need of an apron to paper gloves," he responded.
"Thee will put on thy apron, friend," calmly repeated Samuel Lynn.
"I hate the apron," fumed Cyril, jerking open another drawer, and
jerking out his apron; for he might not openly disobey the authority of
Samuel Lynn. "I should think I am the first gentleman that ever was made
to wear one."
"If thee are practically engaged in a glove manufactory, thee must wear
an apron, gentleman or no gentleman," equably returned the Quaker. "As
we all do."
"All don't!" retorted Cyril. "The master does not."
"Thee are not in the master's position yet, Cyril Dare. And I would
advise thee to exercise thy discretion more and thy tongue less."
The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Ashley, and the
room dropped into silence. There might be no presuming in the presence
of the master. He sat down to his desk, and opened his morning letters.
Presently a young man put his head in and addressed Samuel Lynn.
"Noaks, the stainer, has come in, sir. He says the skins given out to
him yesterday would be better for coloured than blacks."
"Desire James Meeking to attend to him," said Mr. Lynn.
"James Meeking isn't here, sir. He's up in the cutters' room, or
somewhere."
Samuel Lynn, upon this, went out himself. Cyril Dare followed him. Cyril
was rather fond of taking short trips about the manufactory, as
interludes to his work. Soon after, the master lifted his head.
"Step here, William."
William put down the gloves he was examining and approached the desk.
"What sort of a French scholar are you?" inquired Mr. Ashley.
"A very good one, sir," he replied, after a pause given to surprise. "I
know it thoroughly. I can read and write it as readily as I can
English."
"But I mean as to speaking. Could you make yourself understood, for
instance, if you were suddenly dropped down into a French town, where
the natives spoke nothing but their own language?"
William smiled. "I don't think I should have much difficulty over it. I
have been so much with Monsieur Colin that I talk as fast as he does. He
stops me occasionally to grumble at what he calls _l'accent anglais_."
"I am not sure that I shall not send you on a mission to France,"
resumed Mr. Ashley. "You can be better spared than Samuel Lynn; and it
must be one of you. Will you undertake it?"
"I will undertake anything that you wish me to do, sir, that I could
accomplish," replied William, lifting his clear earnest eyes to those of
his master.
"You are an exceedingly good judge of skins: even Samuel Lynn admits
that. I want some intelligent, trustworthy person to go over to France,
look about the markets there, and pick up what will suit us. The demand
for skins is great at the present time, and the markets must be watched
to select suitable bales before other bidders step in and pounce upon
them. By these means we may secure some good bargains and good skins: we
have succeeded lately in doing neither."
"At Annonay, I presume you mean, sir."
"Annonay and its neighbourhood; that's the chief market for dressed
skins. The undressed pelts are to be met with best, as you are aware, in
the neighbourhood of Lyons. You would have to look after both. I have
talked the matter over with Mr. Lynn, and he thinks you may be trusted
both as to ability and conduct."
"I will do my best if I am sent," replied William.
"Your stay might extend over two or three months. We can do with a great
deal; both of pelts and dressed skins. The dressers at Annonay----Cyril,
what are you doing there?"
Cyril could scarcely have told. He had come into the counting-house
unnoticed, and his ears had picked up somewhat of the conversation. In
his anger and annoyance, Cyril had remained, his face turned towards the
speakers, listening for more.
For it had oozed out at Pomeranian Knoll, through a word dropped by
Henry Ashley, that Mr. Ashley had it in contemplation to despatch some
one from the manufactory on this mission to France, and that the some
one would not be Samuel Lynn. Cyril received the information with
avidity, never doubting that _he_ would be the one fixed upon. To give
him his due, he was really a good judge of skins--not better than
William; but somehow Cyril had never given a thought to William in the
matter. Greatly had he anticipated the journey to the land of pleasure,
where he would be under no one's control but his own. In that moment,
when he heard Mr. Ashley speaking to William upon the subject, not to
him, Cyril felt at war with every one and everything; with the master,
with William, and especially with the business, which he hated as much
as he had ever done.
But Mr. Ashley was not one to do things in a hurry, and he had only
broached the subject.