"I have not said so," curtly responded Mr. Dare.

"You told me the other day that it was my presence in the office which

scared clients from it."

Mr. Dare could not deny the fact. He _had_ said it. What's more, he had

thought it; and did so still. "I cannot tell what else it is that is

keeping clients away," he rejoined. "We have not had a dozen in since

the trial."

"It is a slack season of the year."

"Maybe," shortly answered Mr. Dare. "Slack as it is, there's some

business astir, but people are going elsewhere to get it done; those,

too, who have never for years been near anyone but us. The truth is,

Herbert, you fell into bad odour with the town on the day of the trial;

and that you must know. Though acquitted of the murder, all sorts of

other things were laid to your charge. Quaker Lynn's stroke amongst the

rest."

"Carping sinners!" ejaculated Herbert.

"And I suppose it turned people against the office," continued Mr.

Dare. "My belief is, they won't come back again as long as you are in

it."

"That's precisely what I meant you had hinted to me" said Herbert.

"Therefore, I thought I had better leave it. Pattison says he can get me

this berth, and I should like to try it."

"_You_'ll not like to turn merchant's clerk," repeated Mr. Dare with

emphasis.

"I shall like it better than being nailed for debt here," somewhat

coarsely answered Herbert. "It is not so agreeable at home now,

especially in this office, that I should cry to stay in it. You have

changed, sir, amongst the rest: many a day through, you don't give me a

civil word."

Again Mr. Dare felt that he _had_ changed to Herbert. When he found that

he--Herbert--might have cleared himself at first from the terrible

accusation of fratricide, had he so chosen, instead of allowing the

obloquy to rest upon himself and his family for so long a period, he had

become bitterly angry. Mrs. Dare and the whole family joined in the

feeling, and Herbert suffered.

"As to civility, Herbert, I must first get over the soreness left by

your conduct. You acted very badly in allowing the case to go on to

trial. If you had no objection to sit down quietly under the crime

yourself, you had no right to throw the disgrace and expense upon your

family."

"If it were to come over again, I would not do so," acknowledged

Herbert. "I thought then I was acting for the best."

"Pshaw!" was the peevish ejaculation of Mr. Dare.

"Altogether," resumed Herbert, "I think I had better go away. After a

time, something or other may turn up to make things smoother here, and

then I can come home again; unless I find a better opening abroad. I may

do so; and I believe I shall like living there."

"Very well," said Mr. Dare, after some minutes' silence. "It may be for

the best. At all events, it will give time for things here to blow over.

If you don't find it what you like, you can only return."

"I shall be sure not to return, unless I can square up some of my

liabilities here," returned Herbert. "You must help me to get there,

sir."

"What do you want?" asked Mr. Dare.

"Fifty pounds."

"I can't do it, Herbert," was the prompt answer.

"I must have it if I am to go," was Herbert's firm reply. "There are two

or three trifles here which I will not leave unsettled, and I cannot go

over there with pockets absolutely empty. Fifty pounds is not so great a

sum, sir, to pay to get rid of me."

Old Anthony Dare knit his brow in perplexity. He supposed he must

furnish the money, though he did not in the least see how it was to be

done.

The matter settled, Herbert took his hat and went out. The first object

his eyes alighted on outside was Sergeant Delves. That worthy, pacing

through the town, had brought himself to an anchor opposite the office

of Mr. Dare, and was regarding it, lost in a brown study. The sergeant

was in a state of discomfiture, touching the affair of the late Anthony

Dare. He had lost no time in "looking after" Miss Caroline Mason, as he

had promised himself; and the sequence had been--defeat. Without any

open stir on the part of the police--without allowing Caroline herself

to know that she was doubted--the sergeant contrived to put himself in

full possession of her movements on that night. The result proved that

she must be exempt from the suspicion; or, as the sergeant expressed it,

"was out of the hole;" and that gentleman remained at fault again.

Herbert crossed over to him. "What are you looking at, Delves?"

"I wasn't looking at anything in particular," was the answer. "Coming in

sight of your office naturally brought my thoughts back to that

unsatisfactory business. I never was so baffled before."

"It is very strange who it could have been," observed Herbert. "I often

think of it."

"Never so baffled before," continued the sergeant, as if there had been

no interruption to his own words. "I could almost have been upon oath at

the time, that the murderer was in the house; hadn't left it. And

yet----"

"You could have been upon oath that it was I," interrupted Herbert.

"That's true. I could. But you had yourself chiefly to thank for it, Mr.

Herbert Dare, through making a mystery of your movements that night.

After you were cleared, my mind turned to that girl; and that, I found,

was no go."

"What girl?" interrupted Herbert.

"The one in Honey Fair: your brother Anthony's old sweetheart. It wasn't

her, though; I have proofs. Charlotte East had her at her house that

evening, and kept her till twelve o'clock, when she went home to bed in

her garret. Charlotte's going to try to make something of her again. And

now I am baffled, and I don't deny it."

"To suspect any girl is ridiculous," observed Herbert Dare. "No girl, it

is to be hoped, would possess the courage or the strength to accomplish

such a deed as that."

"You don't know 'em as we police do," nodded the sergeant. "I was asking

your father only a day or two ago, whether he could make sure of his

servants, that they had not been in it----"

"Of our servants?" interrupted Herbert, in surprise. "What an idea!"

"Well, I have gone round to my old opinion--that it _was_ some one in

the house," returned the sergeant. "But it seems the servants are all on

the square. I can't make it out."

"Why on earth should you suppose it to be any one in the house?"

questioned Herbert, in considerable wonderment.

"Because I do," was the answer. "We police see and note down what others

pass over. There was odds and ends of things at the time that made us

infer it; and I can't get it out of my mind."

"It is an impossibility that it could have been a resident of the

house," dissented Herbert. "Every one in it is above suspicion."

"Who do _you_ fancy it might have been?" asked the sergeant, abruptly,

almost as if he wished to surprise Herbert out of an incautious answer.

But Herbert had nothing to tell him; no suspicion was on his mind to be

surprised out of. "If I could fancy it was, or might be, any particular

individual, I should come to you and say so, without asking," he

replied. "I am as much at fault as you can be. Anthony may have made

slight enemies in the town, what with his debts and his temper, and one

thing or another; but no enemies of that terrible nature--capable of

killing him. I wish I could see cause for a reasonable suspicion," he

added with emotion. "I would give my right arm"--stretching it out--"to

solve the mystery. As well for my sake as for my dead brother's."

"Well, all I can say is, that I am down on my beam ends," concluded the

sergeant.

Meanwhile Henry Ashley was getting little better. He had fallen into a

state of utter prostration. Mental anguish had told upon him physically,

and his bodily weakness was no doubt great: but he made no effort to

rouse himself. He would lie for hours, his eyes half-closed, noticing no

one. The medical men said they had seen nothing like it, and Mr. and

Mrs. Ashley grew alarmed. The only one to remonstrate with him--he alone

held the key to its cause--was William Halliburton.

William's influence over him was very great: he yielded to no one, not

even to his father, as he would yield to William. Henry gave the reins

to his tongue, and said all sorts of irritating things to William, as he

did to every one else. It only masked the deep affection, the lasting

friendship, which had taken possession of his heart for William.

"Let me be; let me be," he said to William one day, in answer to a

remonstrance that he should rouse himself. "I told you that my life had

passed out with _her_."

"But your life has not passed out with her," argued William; "your life

is in you, just as much as it ever was. And it is your duty to make some

use of your life; not to let it run to waste--as you are doing."

"It does not affect you," was the tart reply.

"It does very much affect me. I am grieved to see you hug your pain,

instead of shaking it off; vexed to think that a man should so bury his

days. It is an unfortunate thing that no one is cognizant of this matter

but myself."

"Is it though!" retorted Henry. "You are a fine Job's comforter!"

"Yes, it is. Were it known to those about you, you would not for shame

lie here, and indulge regrets after an imprudent and silly girl."

Henry flashed an angry glance at him from his soft dark eyes. "Take

care, my good fellow! I can stand some things; but I don't stand all."

"An imprudent, silly girl, who does not care a rush for you,"

emphatically repeated William: "whose wild and ill-judged affection is

given to another. Was ever infatuation like unto yours!"

"Have a care, I tell you!" burst forth Henry. "By what right do you say

these things to me?"

"I say them for your good--and I intend that you should feel them. When

a surgeon's knife probes a wound, the patient groans and winces; but it

is done to cure him."

"You are a man of eloquence!" sarcastically rejoined Henry. "Pity but

you could flourish at the Bar, and take the anticipated shine out of

Frank!"

"Answer me one plain question, Henry. Do you still indulge a hope

towards Anna Lynn?--to her becoming your wife?"

With a shriek of anger, Henry caught up his slipper, and sent it flying

through the air at William's head.

"What's that for?" equably demanded William, dodging his head out of the

way.

"How dare you hint at such a thing? I told you there were some things I

wouldn't stand. Is it fitting that one who has figured in such an

escapade should be made the wife of an Ashley? If we were left by our

two selves upon the earth, all else gone dead and out of it, I wouldn't

marry her."

"Precisely so. I have judged you rightly. Then, under this state of

things, what in the name of fortune is the use of your lying here and

thinking about her?"

"I don't think about her," fractiously returned Henry. "You are always

fancying things."

"You do think about her. I can see that you do. I should be above it,"

quaintly continued William.

"Go and pick up my slipper."

"Will you come down to tea this evening?"

"No, I won't. You come here and preach up this morality, or divinity, or

whatever you may please to term it, to me; but, wait and see how you'd

act, if you should ever get struck on the keen edge as I have been."

"Come! let me help you up."

"Don't bother. I am not going to get up. I----"

At that moment, Mr. Ashley opened the door. His errand likewise was to

induce Henry to leave his sofa and his room, and join them below. Henry

could not be brought to comply.

"No. I have just told William. I cannot think why he did not go back and

say so. He only stops here to worry me. There! get along, William; and

come back when you have swallowed enough tea."

Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's arm, as they walked together along

the corridor, and brought him to a halt. "What _is_ this illness of

Henry's? There is some secret connected with it, I am sure, and you are

cognizant of it. I must know what it is."

Mr. Ashley's tone was a decided one; his manner firm. William made no

reply.

"Tell me what it is, William."

"I cannot," said William. "Certainly not without Henry's permission; and

I do not think he will give it. If it were my secret, sir, instead of

his, I would tell it at your bidding."

"Is it of the mind or the body?"

"The mind. I think the worst is over. Do not speak to him about it, I

pray you, sir."

"William, is it anything that can be remedied? By money?--by any means

at command?"

"It can never be remedied," replied William earnestly, "Were the whole

world brought to bear upon it, it could do nothing. Time and his own

good sense must effect the cure."

"Then I may as well not ask about it if I cannot aid. You are fully in

his confidence."

"Yes. And all that another can do, I am doing. We have a daily battle. I

want to rouse him out of his apathy."

"Oh, that you could!" aspirated Mr. Ashley.

CHAPTER XV.

A LOSS FOR POMERANIAN KNOLL.

Pomeranian Knoll had scarcely recovered its equanimity after the shock

of the departure of Herbert Dare for foreign parts, when it found itself

about to be shorn of another inmate. The word "shock" is used to express

the suddenness of the affair, rather than in its enlarged and more

ordinary sense. Herbert, what with one thing and another, had brought a

good deal of vexation upon the paternal home; Helstonleigh also had not

been holding him in extensive favour since the trial; and that home was

not sorry that he should absent himself from it for a time. But it

certainly did not bargain for his announcing his departure one night,

and being off the next morning. Yet such was the course he pursued: and

in that light his departure may be said to have been a shock to the

town. Mr. Dare had known of it longer; but he had not proclaimed it any

more than Herbert had: it may be that Herbert feared being stopped, if

the intended journey got wind.

A week or two after this, Signora Varsini received a letter with a

foreign post-mark on it. The fact was nothing extraordinary in itself:

the signora did occasionally receive letters bearing foreign post-marks;

but this one threw her into a state of commotion, the like of which had

never been witnessed. Thrusting the letter into the deepest pocket of

her dress when it was delivered to her, she finished giving the music

lesson to Minny, which she was occupied upon, and then retired to her

room to peruse it. From this she emerged a short time after, with a long

face of consternation, uttering frantic ejaculations. Mrs. Dare was

quite alarmed. What was the matter with mademoiselle?

"Ah, what misere! what desolation! what tristes nouvelles!" The letter

was from her aunt in Paris, who was thrown upon her death-bed; and she,

mademoiselle, must hasten thither without delay. If she could not start

by a train that day, she must go by the first one the next. She was

desolee to leave madame at a coup; her heart would break in bidding

adieu to the young ladies; but necessity was stern. She must make her

baggage forthwith, and would be obliged to madame for her salary.

Mrs. Dare was taken--as the saying runs--all of a heap. She had not

cared to part with mademoiselle so soon, although the retaining her

entailed an additional expense, which they could ill afford in their

gradually increasing embarrassments and straitening means: but the chief

point that puzzled her was the paying up of the salary. Between thirty

and forty pounds were due. There appeared, however, to be no help for

it, and she applied to Mr. Dare.

"You may as well ask me for my head as for that sum to-day," was that

gentleman's reply, thinking he was destined never to find peace on

earth. "Tell her you will send it after her, if she must go."

Mrs. Dare shook her head. It would not be of the least use, she was

sure. Mademoiselle was not one to be put off in that way, or to depart

without her money.

How Mr. Dare managed it he perhaps hardly knew himself; but he brought

home the money at night, and the governess was paid in full. On the

following morning there was a ceremonious leave-taking, loud and

suggestive on the part of mademoiselle. She saluted them all on both

cheeks, and promised to write every week, at least. A fly came to the

door for her and her luggage, and George Dare mounted the box to escort

her to the station. Mademoiselle politely invited him inside; but he had

just lighted a cigar, and preferred to stop where he was.

"I say, mademoiselle," cried he, after she was seated in the railway

carriage, "if you should happen to come across Herbert, I wish you'd

tell him----"

Mademoiselle interrupted with a burst of indignation. _She_ come across

Monsieur Herbert! What should bring her coming across _him_? Monsieur

George must be _fou_ to think it. Monsieur Herbert was not in Paris, was

he? She had understood he was in Holland.

"Oh, well, it's all on the other side of the Channel," answered George,

whose geographical notions of the Continent were not very definite.

"Perhaps you won't see him, though, mademoiselle; so never mind."

Mademoiselle replied by telling him to take care of himself; for the

whistle was sounding. George drew back, and watched the train off;

mademoiselle nodding her farewell to him from the window.

And that was the last that Helstonleigh saw of Mrs. Dare's Italian

governess, the Signora Varsini. Helstonleigh might not have been any the

worse had it never seen the first of her. Mrs. Dare, after her

departure, suddenly remembered that mademoiselle had once told her she

had not a single relative in the world. Who could this aunt be, to whom

she was hastening?

And Henry Ashley? As the weeks and the months went on, Henry began to

rouse himself from his prostration; his apathy. William Halliburton made

no secret of it to Henry that it was suspected he was suffering from

some inward grief which he was concealing, and that he had been

questioned on the point by Mr. Ashley. "You know," said William, "I

shall have no resource but to _tell_, unless you show yourself a

sensible man, and come out of this nonsense."

It alarmed Henry; rather than have his secret feelings betrayed for the

family benefit, he could have died. In a grumbling and discontented sort

of mood, he went about again, and resumed his idle occupations (such as

they were) as usual. One evening William enticed him out for a walk,

took possession of his arm, and pounced into Robert East's, before Henry

well knew where he was. He sat down, apathetic and indifferent, after

nodding carelessly to the respectful salutation of the men. "I must give

just ten minutes to them, as I am here," observed William. "You can go

to sleep the while."

The ten minutes lengthened into twenty, and Henry's attention was so far

roused that he came to the table in his impulsive way, and began talking

on his own account. When William was ready to go, he was not; and he

actually told the men that he would come round again. It was a great

point gained.

Small beginnings, it has been remarked, lead to great endings. The

humble, confined way in which the class had begun at Robert East's; the

vague ideas of William upon the subject; the doubtings of East and

Crouch, were looked back upon with a smile. For the little venture had

swollen itself into a great undertaking--an undertaking that was

destined to effect a revolution throughout the whole of Honey Fair, and

might probably even extend to Helstonleigh itself. The drawback now was

want of room; numbers were being kept away by it. Henry Ashley did go

again; and finding that books of the right kind ran short, he, the day

after his second visit, wrote off an order for a whole cargo.

Mr. Ashley was in a state of inward delight. Anything to rouse him! "You

think it will succeed, that movement, do you, Henry?" he carelessly

observed.

"It's safe to succeed," was the answer. "William, with his palavering,

has gained the ear of the fellows. I don't believe there's William

Halliburton's equal in the whole world!" he added, with enthusiasm.

"Fancy his sacrificing his time to such a thing, and for no benefit to

himself! It will bear a rich crop of fruit too. If I have the gift--I'll

give you a long word for once--of ratiocination, this reform of

William's will be more extensive than we now foresee."

The chief thing in these evenings was to keep alive the interest of the

men. Not to lead them to abstruse things, which they had a difficulty in

understanding, and remained strange to at best; but rather to plunge

them into familiar home topics--the philosophy, if you will, of everyday

life. There is a right and a wrong way of doing most things, and it

often happens that people, from ignorance, pursue the wrong. Of the

plain sanitary laws, relating to physical health, Honey Fair was

intensely ignorant: of the ventilation of rooms, of cleanliness, of the

most simple rules by which the body can be kept in order, they knew no

more than they did of the moon. When a man was, to use Honey Fair

phraseology, "took bad," he generally neglected the symptoms altogether,

thereby laying the foundation of worse illness: or else he went to a

doctor, and ran himself into expense. A little familiarity with ordinary

complaints and ordinary antidotes would have remedied this. An

acquaintance with sanitary laws would have prevented it. When children

were down with measles or scarlatina, the careless of the land allowed

the maladies to take their own course, and the sufferers to air

themselves in the gutters, as usual. The cautious ones smothered the

patients in a hot room, keeping up a fire as large as the stock of coals

would allow, and borrowing all the blankets from the houses on either

side, to heap upon them. No wonder the supply of little coffins was

great to Honey Fair.

All these things would be talked of and discussed, and a little

enlightenment imparted to the men, as a guidance for the future. No one

who did not witness it can imagine the delighted satisfaction with which

these and similar practical topics were welcomed; for they bore for them

a personal interest--they concerned themselves, their families, and

their homes.

One evening the way in which Honey Fair rather liked to spend its

Sundays was under discussion; namely, the men in smoking; the women

slatternly and dirty; the children fighting and quarrelling in the dirt

outside.

William Halliburton was asking them in a half-earnest, half-joking

manner, what particular benefit they found in it, that it should not be

remedied? Could they impart its pleasures to him? If so----

His voice suddenly faltered and stopped. Standing just inside the door

of the room, a quiet spectator and listener of the proceedings, was

Thomas Ashley. The men followed William's gaze, saw who was amongst

them, and rose in respectful silence.

Mr. Ashley came forward, signing to William to continue. But William's

eloquence had died out, leaving only a heightened colour in its place.

In the presence of Mr. Ashley, whom he so loved and respected, he had

grown timid as a child.

"Do you know," said Mr. Ashley, addressing the men, "it gives me greater

pleasure to see you here than it would do were I to hear that you had

come into a fortune."

They smiled and shook their heads. "Fortunes didn't come to the like o'

them."

"Never mind," replied Mr. Ashley: "fortunes are not the best gifts in

life."

He stayed talking with them some little time, quiet words of

encouragement, and then withdrew, wishing them good luck. William left

with him: and as they passed through Honey Fair, the women ran to their

doors to gaze after them. Mr. Ashley, slightly bent with his advancing

years, leaned upon William's arm, but his face was fresh as ever, and

his dark hair showed no signs of age. William erect, noble; his height

greater than Mr. Ashley's, his forehead broader, his deep grey eyes

strangely earnest and sincere; and a flitting smile playing on his lips.

He was listening to Mr. Ashley's satisfaction at what he had witnessed.

"How long do you intend to sacrifice your evenings to them?"

"It is no sacrifice, Mr. Ashley. I am glad to do it. I consider it one

of the best uses to which my evenings could be given. I intend to enlist

Henry for good in the cause, if I can do so."

"You will be an ingenious persuader if you do," returned Mr. Ashley. "I

would give half I am worth," he abruptly added, "to see the boy take an

interest in life."

"It will be sure to come, sir. One of these days I shall surprise him

into reading a good play to the men. Something to laugh at. It will be a

beginning."

"He is very much better," observed Mr. Ashley. "All that listless apathy

is going."

"Oh yes. He is all but cured."

"What was it, William?"

William was taken by surprise. He did not answer, and Mr. Ashley

repeated the question.

"It is his secret, sir, not mine."

"You must confide it to me," said Mr. Ashley, in his tone of quiet

firmness. "You know me, William. When I promise that neither it nor the

fact of its having been disclosed to me, shall ever escape me, directly

or indirectly, to any living person, you know that you may depend upon

me."

He paused. William did not speak: he was debating with himself what he

_ought_ to do.

"William, it is a relief that I must have. Since my suspicions, that

there was a secret, were confirmed, I cannot tell you what improbable

fancies and fears have not run riot in my brain. For prostration so

excessive to have overtaken him, one would almost think he had been

guilty of murder, or some other unaccountable crime. _You must relieve

my mind_: which, in spite of my uncontrollable fancies, I do not doubt

the truth will do. It will make no difference to any one; it will only

be an additional bond between myself and you; and you, my almost son."

William's duty rose before him, clear and distinct. But when he spoke,

it was in a whisper.

"He loved Anna Lynn."

Mr. Ashley walked on without comment. William resumed.

"Had that unhappy affair not taken place, Henry's intention was to make

her his wife, provided you could have been brought to consent to it. His

whole days used to be spent, I believe, in planning how he could best

invent a chance of obtaining it."

"And now?" very sharply asked Mr. Ashley.

"Now the thing is at an end for ever. Henry's good sense has come to his

aid; I suppose I may say his pride; his self-esteem. Innocent of actual

ill as Anna was in the affair, there was sufficient reflection cast upon

her to prove to Henry that his hopeful visions could never be carried

out. That was Henry's secret, sir: and I almost feared the blow would

have killed him. But he is getting over it."

Mr. Ashley drew a deep breath. "William, I thank you. You have relieved

me from a nightmare: and you may forget having given me the confidence

if you like, for it will never be abused. What are you going to do about

space?" he continued, in a different tone.

"About space, sir?"

"For those proteges of yours, at East's. They seem to me to be tolerably

confined for it, there?"

"Yes, and that is not the worst," said William. "Men are asking to join

every day, and they cannot be taken in."

"_I_ can't think how you manage to get so many--and to keep them."

"I suppose the chief secret is, that their interest enters into it. We

contrive to keep that up. Most of them would not go back to the Horned

Ram for the world."

"Well, where shall you stow them?"

"It is more than I can say, sir. We must manage it somehow."

"Henry told me you were ambitious enough to aspire to the Mormon

failure."

"I was foolish enough to do so," replied William, with a laugh. "Seeing

it was very much in the condition of the famed picture taken of the good

Dr. Primrose and his family--useless--I went and offered a rent for

it--only a trifling sum, it is true; but if our fires only kept it from

damp, one would think the builder might have been glad to let it, thrown

as it is upon his hands. I told him so."

"What did he say?"

"He stood out for thirty pounds. But that's more than I--than we can

afford."

"And who was going to find the money? You?"

William hesitated; but did not see any way out of the dilemma.

"Well, sir, you know it is a sad pity for the good work to be stopped,

through so insignificant a trifle as want of room."

"I think it is," replied Mr. Ashley. "You can hire it to-morrow, and

move your forms and tables and books into it as soon as you like. I will

find the rent."

The words took William by surprise. "Oh, Mr. Ashley, do you really mean

it?"

"Really mean it? It is little enough, compared with what you are doing.

A few years, William, and your name may be great in Helstonleigh. You

are working on for it."

William walked with Mr. Ashley as far as his house, and then turned back

to his own. He found sorrow there. Not having been home since

dinner-time, for he had taken tea at Mr. Ashley's, he was unconscious of

some tidings which had been brought by the afternoon's post. Jane sat

and grieved while she told him. Her brother Robert was dead. Very rarely

indeed did she hear from the New World; Margaret appeared to be too full

of cares and domestic bustle to write often. She might not have written

now, but to tell of the death of Robert.

"I have lost myself sometimes in a vision of seeing Robert home again,"

said Jane, with a sigh. "And now he is gone!"

"He was not married, was he?" asked William.

"No. I fear he never got on very well. Never to be at his ease."

Gar came in noisily, and interrupted them. The death of an uncle whom he

had never seen, and who had lived thousands of miles away, did not

appear to Gar to be a matter calling for any especial amount of grief.

Gar was in high spirits on his own account; for Gar was going to

Cambridge. Not in all the pomp and pride of an unlimited purse, however,

but as a humble sizar.

Gar, not seeing his way very clearly, had been wise enough to pluck up

courage and apply for counsel to the head master of the college school.

He had told him that he meant to go to college, and how he meant to go,

and he asked Mr. Keating if he could help him to a situation, where he

might be useful between terms. "A school where I might become a junior

assistant," suggested Gar. "Or any family who would take me to read with

their sons? If I only earned my food, it would be so much the less

weight upon my mother," added he, in the candid spirit peculiar to the

family.

"Have you forgotten that you ought to work, yourself, out of terms,

nearly as hard as in them?" asked Mr. Keating.

"Oh, no, sir, I have not forgotten it. I will take care to accomplish my

own work as well. That should not suffer."

Mr. Keating looked at the cheerful, hopeful face, a sure index of the

brave hopeful spirit. He had taken unusual interest in the two

Halliburtons, so clever and persevering. It had been impossible for him

not to do so; for, if Mr. Keating had a weakness, it was for a good

classical scholar.

"I'll see about it, Gar," said he. "But you are rather young to read

with students. And I do not suppose any school would be willing to

engage you on account of the interruption that keeping your terms would

cause. If nothing better turns up, you can remain in the college

school-room here, and undertake one of the junior desks. I should give

you nothing for it," added the master, "except your meals. Those you

would be welcome to take at my house with my private pupils, sleeping at

your own home. And I think that, for you, it would be a better

arrangement than any other, for it would leave you plenty of time for

your own studies, and I could still superintend them."

Gar thought the arrangement would be first-rate. It would be the very

thing. "Not that I ever thought of it," he ingenuously said. "I did not

know the college school admitted assistants."

"Neither does it," replied the master. "You would be ostensibly my

private pupil. And if I choose to set a private pupil to keep the desks

to their work, that is my affair."

Gar could only reiterate his thanks.

"I am pleased to give you this little encouragement," remarked Mr.

Keating. "When I see boys hopefully plodding on in the teeth of

difficulties, of brave heart, of sterling conduct, they deserve all the

encouragement that can be given to them. If you and your brothers only

go on as you have hitherto gone on, you will stand in after-years as

bright examples of what industry and perseverance can achieve."

So that, altogether, Gar was in spirits, and did not by any means put on

superfluous mourning for a gentleman who had died in the backwoods of

Canada, although he was his mother's brother.

CHAPTER XVI.

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.

"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, "I have received an offer of marriage for you."

A somewhat abrupt announcement to make to a young lady, and Mr. Ashley

spoke in the gravest tone. They were seated round the breakfast table,

Mary by her mother's side, who was pouring out the coffee. Mary looked

surprised, rather amused; but that was the only emotion discernible in

her countenance.

"It is fine to be you, Miss Mary!" struck in Henry, before anyone could

speak. "Pray, sir, who is the venturer?"

"He assures me that his happiness is bound up in his offer being

accepted," resumed Mr. Ashley. "I fancy he felt inclined to assure me

that Mary's was also. Of course, all I can do, is, to lay the proposal

before her."

"What _is_ it that you are talking about, Thomas?" interposed Mrs.

Ashley, unable until then to say a word, and speaking with some

irritability. "I do not consider Mary old enough to be married. How can

you think of saying such things to her?"

"Neither do I, mamma," said Mary, with a laugh. "I like my home too well

to leave it."

"And while you are talking sentiment, my curiosity is on the rack,"

cried Henry. "I have inquired the name of the bridegroom, and I should

like to be answered."

"The would-be bridegroom," put in Mary.

"Mary, I am ashamed of you!" went on Henry. "I blush for your manners.

Nice credit she does to your bringing up, mamma! When young ladies of

condition receive a celestial offer, they behave with due propriety,

hang their heads with a blush, and subdue their voice to a whisper. And

here's Mary--look at her!--talking quite loudly and making merry over

it. Once more, sir, who is the adventurous gentleman? Is it good old

General Wells, our gouty neighbour opposite, who is lifted in and out of

his chariot for his daily airing? I have told Mary repeatedly that she

was setting her cap at him."

"It is not so advantageous a proposal in a financial point of view,"

observed Mr. Ashley, maintaining his impassibility. "It proceeds from

one of my dependents at the manufactory."

Mary had the sugar-basin in her hand at the moment, and a sudden tremor

seemed to seize her. She set it down; but so clumsily, that half the

lumps fell out. Her face had turned to a glowing crimson. Mr. Ashley

noticed it.

Mrs. Ashley only noticed the sugar. "Mary, how came you to do that? Very

careless, my dear."

Mary began meekly to pick up the sugar, the flush giving way to pallor.

She lifted her handkerchief to her face and held it there, as if she had

a cold.

"The honour comes from Cyril Dare," said Mr. Ashley.

"Cyril Dare!"

"Cyril Dare!"

In different tones of scorn, but each expressing it most fully, the

repetition broke from Mrs. Ashley and Henry. Mary, on the contrary,

recovered her equanimity and her countenance. She laughed out, as if she

were glad.

"What did you say to him, papa?"

"I gave him my opinion only. That I thought he had mistaken my daughter,

if he entertained hopes that she would listen to his suit. The question

rests with you, Mary."

"Oh papa, what nonsense! rests with me! Why you know I would never have

Cyril Dare."

A smile crossed Mr. Ashley's face. He probably _had_ known it.

"Cyril Dare!" repeated Mary, as if unable to overcome her astonishment.

"He must have turned silly. I would not have Cyril Dare if he were worth

his weight in gold."

"And he must be worth a great deal more than his weight in gold, Mary,

before I would consent to your having him," quietly rejoined Mr. Ashley.

"Have _him_!" echoed Henry. "If I feared there was a danger of the

daughter of all the Ashleys so degrading herself, I should bribe cook to

make an arsenic cake, cut the young lady a portion myself, and stand by

while she ate it."

"Don't talk foolishly, Henry," rebuked Mrs. Ashley.

"Mamma, I must say I do not think it would be half so foolish as Cyril

Dare was," cried Mary, with spirit.

Mrs. Ashley, relieved from any temporary fear of losing Mary, was

comfortably going on with her breakfast. "Did Cyril say how he meant to

provide for Mary, if he obtained her?" asked she, with an amused look.

"He did not touch upon ways and means. I conclude that he intended I

should have the honour of keeping them both."

Henry Ashley leaned back in his chair, and laughed. "If this is not the

richest joke I have heard for a long while! Cyril Dare! the kinsman of

Herbert the beautiful! Confound his im-pu-dence!"

"Then you decline the honour of the alliance, Mary?" said Mr. Ashley.

"What am I to tell him?"

"What you please, papa. Tell him, if you like, that I would rather marry

a chimney-sweep. I _would_, if it came to a choice between the two. How

very senseless of Cyril to think of such a thing!"

"How very shrewd, I think, Mary--if he could only have got you," was the

reply of Mr. Ashley.

"If!" saucily put in Mary.

Henry bent over the table to his sister. "I tell you what, Mary. You go

this morning and offer yourself to our gouty friend, the general. He

will jump at it, and we'll have the banns put up. We cannot, you know,

be subjected to such shocks as these, on your account; it is

unreasonable to expect it. I assure you it will be the most effectual

plan to set Cyril Dare, and those of his tribe, at rest. No, thank you,

ma'am," turning to Mrs. Ashley--"no more coffee. This has been enough

breakfast for me."

"Who is this?" asked Mr. Ashley, as footsteps were heard on the

gravel-walk.

Mrs. Ashley lifted her eyes. "It is William Halliburton."

"William Halliburton!" echoed Henry. "Ah! if you could have put his

heart and intellect into Cyril's form, now, it might have done."

He spoke with that freedom of speech which characterized him, and in

which, from his infirmity, he had not been checked. No one made any

remark in answer, and William entered. He had come to ask some business

question of Mr. Ashley.

"I will walk down with you," said Mr. Ashley, "and see to it. Take a

seat, William."

"It is getting late, sir."

"Well, I suppose you can afford to be late for once," replied Mr.

Ashley. And William smiled as he sat down.

"We have had a letter from Cambridge, this morning. From Gar."

"And how does Mr. Gar get on?" asked Henry.

"First rate. He takes a leaf out of Frank's book; determined to see no

difficulties in his way. Frank's letters are always cheering. I really

believe he cares no more for being a servitor than he would for wearing

a hat at Christchurch. All his wish is to get on: he looks to the

future."

"But he does his duty in the present," quietly remarked Mr. Ashley.

William smiled. "It is the only way to insure the future, sir. Frank and

Gar have been learning that all their lives."

Mr. Ashley, telling William not to get the fidgets, for he was not ready

yet, withdrew to the next room with his wife. They had some weighty

domestic matter to settle, touching a dinner party. Henry linked his arm

within William's and drew him to the window, throwing it open to the

early spring sunshine. Mary remained at the breakfast table.

"What do you think Cyril Dare, the presuming, has had the conscience to

ask?" began he.

"I know," replied William. "I heard him say he should ask it yesterday."

"The deuce you did?" uttered Henry. "And you did not knock him down?"

"Knock him down! Was it any business of mine?"

"You might have done it as my friend, I think. A slight correction of

his impudence."

"I do not see that it is your business either," returned William. "It is

Mr. Ashley's."

"Oh, indeed! Perhaps you would like it carried out?"

"I have no right to say it shall not be."

"Thank you!" chafed Henry. "Mary," he called out to his sister, "here's

Halliburton recommending that that business we know of shall be carried

out."

William only laughed. He was accustomed to Henry's exaggerations. "It is

what Cyril has been expecting for years," said he.

Henry gazed at him. "What is? What are you talking of?"

"Being taken into partnership by Mr. Ashley."

"Is it _that_ you are blundering over? Does he expect it?" continued

Henry, after a pause.

"Cyril said, yesterday, the firm would soon be Ashley and Dare."

"Did he indeed! He had better not count upon it so as to disturb his

digestion. That's presumption enough, goodness knows; but it is a mere

flea-bite compared with the other. He has asked for Mary. It is true as

that we are standing here."

William turned his questioning gaze on Henry. He did not understand.

"Asked for her for what? What to do?"

"To be his wife."

"Oh!" The strange sound was not a burst of indignation, or a groan of

pain: it was a mixture of both. William thrust his head out of the

window.

"He actually asked the master for her yesterday!" went on Henry. "He

said his heart, or liver, or some such part of him was bound up in her:

as she was bound up in him. Fancy the honour of her becoming Mrs.

Cyril!"

William did not turn his head: not a glimpse of his face could be

caught. "Will she have him?" he asked, at length.

The question exasperated Henry. "Yes, she will. There! Go and

congratulate her. You are a fool, William."

The sound of his angry voice, not his words, reached Mary's ears. She

came forward. "What is the matter, Henry?"

"So he is a fool," was Henry's answer. "He wants to know if you are

going to marry Cyril Dare. I tell him yes. No one but an idiot would

have asked it."

William turned, his face full of an emotion that Henry had never seen

there: a streak of scarlet on his cheeks, his earnest eyes strangely

troubled. And Mary?--her face seemed to have borrowed the same flush, as

she stood there, her head and eyelashes bent.

Henry Ashley gazed, first at one, next at the other, and then turned and

leaned from the window himself. In contrition for having spoken so

openly of his sister's affairs? Not at all. Whistling the bars of a

renowned comic song of the day called "The Steam Arm."

Mr. Ashley put in his head. "I am ready, William."

William touched Mary's hand in silence by way of adieu, and halted as he

passed Henry. "Shall you come round to the men to-night?"

"No, I shan't," retorted Henry. "I am upset for the day."

He was halfway down the path when he heard himself called by Henry,

still leaning from the window. He went back to him.

"She said she'd rather have a chimney-sweep than Cyril Dare. Don't go

and make a muff of yourself again."

William turned away without any answer. Mr. Ashley, who had waited, put

his arm within his, and they proceeded to the manufactory.

"Have you heard this rumour, respecting Herbert Dare, that has been

wafted over from Germany within the last day or two?" inquired Mr.

Ashley, as they walked along.

"Yes, sir," replied William.

"I wonder if it is true?"

William did not answer. William's private opinion was, that it was true.

It had been tolerably well authenticated. A rumour that need not be very

specifically enlarged upon here. Helstonleigh never came to the bottom

of it: never knew for certain how much of it was true, and how much

false, and we cannot expect to be better favoured than Helstonleigh, in

the point of enlightenment. It was not a pleasant rumour, and the late

governess's name was unaccountably mixed up in it. For one thing, it

said that Herbert Dare, finding commercial pursuits not congenial to his

taste, had given them up, and was roaming about Germany. Mademoiselle

also. It was a report that did not do credit to Herbert, or tend to

reflect respectability on his family; yet Mr. Ashley fully believed that

to that report he owed the application of Cyril with regard to Mary,

strange as it may appear at a first glance, to say it. The application

had astonished Mr. Ashley beyond expression. He could only come to the

conclusion that Cyril must have entertained the hope for some time, but

had been induced to disclose it prematurely. So prematurely--even

allowing that other circumstances favoured it--that Mr. Ashley was

tempted to laugh. A man without means, without a home, without any

definite prospects, merely a workman, as might be said, in his

manufactory, upon a very small salary; it was ridiculous in the extreme

for _him_ to offer marriage to Miss Ashley. Mr. Ashley, of upright

conduct in the sight of day, was not one to wink at folly; any escapade

such as that, now flying about Helstonleigh as attributed to Herbert,

would not be an additional recommendation in Cyril's favour. Had he

hastened to speak _before_ it should reach Mr. Ashley's ears? Mr. Ashley

thought so. An hour after Cyril had spoken, he heard the scandal; and it

flashed over his mind that to that he was indebted for the premature

honour. Cyril would have liked to secure his consent before anything

unpleasant transpired.

As Mr. Ashley came in view of the manufactory, Cyril Dare observed him.

Cyril was lounging in an indolent manner at the entrance doors,

exchanging greetings with the various passers-by. He ought to have been

inside at his business; but oughts went for little with Cyril. Since

Samuel Lynn's departure, Cyril had been living in clover; enjoying as

much idleness as he liked. William assumed no authority over him, though

full authority had been given to William over the manufactory in

general; and Cyril, except when he just happened to be under Mr.

Ashley's eye, passed his time agreeably. Cyril stared as he caught sight

of the master, and then went in, his spirits going down a little. To see

the master thus walking confidentially with William, seemed to argue

unfavourably for his suit; though why it should seem so, Cyril did not

know. Cyril's staring was occasioned by that fact. He had never been

promoted to the honour of thus walking familiarly with Mr. Ashley. In

fact, for the master, a reserved and proud man with all his good

qualities, to link his arm within a dependant's, astonished Cyril

considerably.

When they entered, Cyril was at work in his apron, standing at the

counter in the master's room, steady and assiduous, as though he had

been there for the last half-hour. The master came in, but William

remained in Mr. Lynn's room.

"Good morning, sir," said Cyril.

"Good morning," replied the master.

He sat down to his desk, and opened a letter that was lying on it.

Presently he looked up.

"Cyril!"

"Yes, sir."

"Step here."

Cyril approached the desk, feeling what a lady might call nervous. The

decisive moment had come: should he be provided for, for life; enjoy a

good position and the means of living as a gentleman? Or would his

unlucky star prevail, and consign him to--he did not quite foresee to

what?

"I have spoken to Miss Ashley. She was excessively surprised at your

application, and begs to decline it in the most unequivocal manner.

Allow me to add a recommendation from myself, that you bury in oblivion

the fact of your having made it."

Cyril hesitated for a moment, and looked foolish. "Why?" he asked.

"_Why?_" repeated Mr. Ashley. "I think you could answer that query for

yourself, and save me the trouble. I do not wish to go too closely into

facts and causes, past and present, unless you desire it. One thing you

must be aware of, Cyril, that such a proposition from you to my daughter

was utterly out of place. I should have rejected it point-blank

yesterday; in fact, in the surprise of the moment, I almost spoke out

more plainly than you would have liked, but that I thought it as well

for you to have Miss Ashley's opinion as well as my own."

"Why am I rejected, sir?" continued Cyril.

Mr. Ashley waved his hand with dignity. "Return to your employment,

Cyril. It is quite sufficient for you to know that you are rejected,

without my going into motives and reasons. They might not, I say, be

palatable to you."

Cyril did not venture to press it further. He returned to the counter,

and stood there, ostensibly going on with his work, and boiling over

with rage. The master sat some little time longer and then left the

room. Soon after, William came in. His eye caught Cyril's employment.

"Cyril," cried he, hastily advancing to him, "you must not make up those

gloves. I told you yesterday not to touch them."

A dangerous speech. Cyril was not unlike touchwood at that moment,

liable to go off at the slightest contact. "You told me!" he burst

forth. "Do you think I am going to do what you choose to tell me? Try it

on for the future, that's all. _You_ tell _me_!"

"They are the very best gloves, and must be sorted with nicety,"

returned William. "Don't you know that the sorting of the last parcel

was found fault with in London? It vexed the master; and he desired me

to do all the sorting myself, until Mr. Lynn should be at home."

"I choose to sort," returned Cyril.

"But you must not sort in the face of the master's orders; or, if you

do, I must go over them again."

"That's right; praise up yourself!" foamed Cyril. "Of course you are an

efficient sorter, and I am a bad one."

"You might be as good a sorter as any one, if you chose to give it

proper time and attention. What a temper you are in this morning! What's

the matter?"

"The matter is, that I have submitted to your rule long enough, but I'll

do it no longer," was the reply of Cyril, whose anger was gathering

strength, and whose ill feeling towards William, deep down in his heart

from long ago, had had envy added to it of late.

William made no reply. He carefully swept the dozens that Cyril had made

up, farther down the counter, that they might be in a stronger light.

"What's that for?" cried Cyril. "How dare you meddle with my work? They

are done as well as you can do them, any day."

"Now, where's the use of flying into this passion, Cyril? What's it for?

Do you suppose I go over your work again for pleasure, or to find fault

with it? I do it because the master has ordered me to make up every

dozen that goes out; and if you do it first of all, it is sheer waste of

time. See here," added William, holding two or three pairs towards him,

"_these_ will not do for firsts."

Angry Cyril! He was quite beside himself with anger. It was not this

trifling matter in the daily business that would have excited him; but

Mr. Ashley's rejection, his words altogether, had turned Cyril's blood

into gall; and this was made the outlet. He dashed the gloves out of

William's hand to the farthest corner of the room, and struck him a

powerful blow on the chest. It caused William to stagger: he was

unprepared for it; but whether he would have returned it must remain

uncertain. Before there was time or opportunity, Cyril found himself

whirled backwards by a hand as powerful as his own; and a voice of stern

authority was demanding the meaning of the scene.

The hand, the voice, were those of the master.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE EXPLOSION.

"What is the meaning of this, Cyril Dare?"

Had Cyril supposed that the master was so close at hand, he had subdued

his passion to something short of striking a blow. He stood against the

counter, his brow lowering, his eye furious; William looked angry too.

Mr. Ashley, calm and dignified, waited for an answer.

None came. Cyril was too excited to speak.

"Will you explain it?" said the master, turning to William. "Fighting in

my counting-house!"

"I cannot, sir," replied William, recovering his equanimity. "I do not

understand it. I did nothing to provoke him, that I am aware of. It is

true I said I must go over the gloves again that he had made up."

"What are those gloves flung there?"

"I was showing them to him--that they were not fit for firsts."

"They are fit for firsts!" retorted Cyril, breaking his silence. "I know

I did put a pair in that was not up to the mark."

The master went and picked up the gloves himself. Taking them to the

light, he turned them about in his hands.

"I should put two of these pairs as seconds, and one as thirds,"

remarked he. "You must have been asleep when you put this one among the

firsts," he continued, indicating the latter pair, and speaking to Cyril

Dare. "It has a flaw in it."

"Of course you will uphold Halliburton, sir, whatever he may say. That

has been the case for a long time past."

He spoke in an insolent tone; such as none within the walls of that

manufactory had ever dared to use to the master. The master turned upon

him, speaking quietly and significantly.

"You forget yourself, Cyril Dare."

"All he does is right, and all I do is wrong," persisted Cyril. "You

treat him, sir, just as though you considered him the gentleman, instead

of me."

A half-smile, which had too much mockery in it to please Cyril, crossed

the lips of Mr. Ashley. "What's that you say about being a gentleman,

Cyril? Repeat it, will you? I should like to hear it again."

Mockery and double mockery! Cyril's suggestive ears detected it in the

tone, if no other ears could do so. It did not improve his temper. "The

thing is this, sir: I won't submit to this state of affairs any longer.

I was not placed here to be ruled over by him; and if things can't be

put upon a better footing, one of us must leave."

"Then, as it has come to this explosion, I say the same," struck in

William. "It is high time that things were put upon a better footing.

Cyril, you have forced me to speak, and you must take the consequences.

Sir," turning to the master, "my authority over the men is ridiculed in

their hearing. It ought not to be so."

"By whom?" demanded the master.

"You can ask that question of Cyril, sir."

The master did ask it of Cyril. "Have you done this?"

"Possibly I have," innocently returned Cyril.

"You know you have," rejoined William.

"Only yesterday, when I was giving directions to the stainers, he

derided all I said, and one of them inquired whether I had received

orders for what I was telling them. If the authority vested in me is to

be undermined, the men will soon set it at naught."

Mr. Ashley looked provoked; more so than William ever remembered to have

seen him. He paused a moment, his lips quivering angrily, and then flung

open the counting-house door.

"Dick!"

Dick, a young tinker of ten, black in clothes and in skin, came flying

at the summons and its unusually stern tone. "Please, sir?"

"Ring the large bell."

Dick stared with all his eyes at hearing the words. To ring the large

bell between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning was a marvel that had

never happened in Dick's experience. But the master's orders were to be

obeyed, not questioned; and Dick, rang out a prolonged peal. The master

looked into the serving-room.

"James Meeking, I have ordered the bell rung for the men. Pass the word

for them to come into my room; and do you and East come with them."

The men appeared, flocking from all parts of the premises, their

astonishment certainly not inferior to Dick's. What could be the meaning

of the wholesale summoning to the presence of the master? They stood

there crowding, a sea of curious faces. Dick, consigned to the

background, climbed up the door-post, and held on by it in a mysterious

manner.

Mr. Ashley drew William to his side, and laid his hand upon him.

"It has been told to me that the authority vested in Mr. Halliburton has

not been implicitly obeyed by every one in the manufactory. I have

called you before me to give you my instructions personally upon the

point, that there may be no misunderstanding in the future. Whatever

directions he may see well to give, you will receive them from him, as

you would from myself. I invest him with full and complete power. And in

all my absences from the manufactory, whether they may be of an hour's,

a day's, or any longer duration, Mr. Halliburton is its master."

They touched their hair, turned and went out as far as the serving-room,

collecting there to talk. In a short time, one of them was seen coming

back again; a grey-haired man, a sorter of leather. He addressed himself

to Mr. Ashley.

"We have not disputed his orders, please, sir, that we can call to mind;

and if we have done it unintentional, we'd ask pardon for it, for it's

what we never thought to do. Next to yourself, sir, we couldn't wish for

a better master than young Mr. Halliburton. We think as much of him,

sir, as we should if he was your own son."

"All right, my men," cheerfully responded Thomas Ashley.

But was not Cyril put in the background by this? As badly as Dick had

been; and Cyril had no door-post to climb, and so obtain vantage ground.

He had stood with his back to the crowd and his face to the counter.

When the men were out of hearing, he turned and walked up to the

master.

"It is the place I thought to fill," said he. "It is the place that was

promised me."

"Not promised," replied Mr. Ashley. "Not thought to be promised. A very

long time ago, you may have been spoken of conditionally, as likely to

fill it. Conditionally, I say."

"Conditionally on what, sir?"

"On your fitness for it. By conduct and by capability."

"What is the matter with my conduct, sir?" returned Cyril, his tone a

sharp one.

"It is bad," curtly replied Mr. Ashley. "Deceitful in public; bad in

private. I have told you once before this morning, that I do not care to

go into details; you must know that there is no necessity for my doing

so."

Cyril paused. "I have been led to expect, sir, that you would take me

into partnership."

"Not by me," said the master.

"My father and mother had given me the hope ever since I came here."

"I cannot help that. They had no authority for it from me."

"They have always said I should be made your partner and son-in-law,"

persisted Cyril.

"They have! It is very obliging of them, I am sure, to settle my affairs

for me, even to the disposal of my daughter! Pray what nice little

destiny may they have carved out for Mrs. Ashley or for my son?"

Cyril chafed at the words. He would have liked, just then, to strike Mr.

Ashley, as he had struck William. "Would I ever have demeaned myself to

enter a glove manufactory, disgracing my family, had I known I was to be

only a workman in it?" he cried. "No, sir, that I never would. I am

rightly served, for putting myself out of my position as a gentleman."

Mr. Ashley, but for the pity he felt, could have laughed outright. He

really did feel pity for Cyril. He believed that the unhappy way in

which the young Dares were turning out might be laid to the fault of

their rearing, and this had rendered him considerate to Cyril. _How_

considerate he had for a long while been, he himself alone knew: Cyril

perhaps suspected.

"It is a shame!" cried Cyril. "To be dealt with in this way is nothing

less than a fraud upon me. I was led to expect that I should be made

your partner."

"Wait a bit, Cyril. I am willing to put you right upon the point. The

proposal, that you should be placed here, emanated in the first instance

from your father. He came to me one day, here, in this very room,

saying that he concluded I should not put Henry to business, and thought

it would be a fine opening for his son Cyril. He hinted that I should

want some one to succeed me; and that you might come to it with that

view. But I most distinctly disclaimed endorsing that hint in the

remotest degree. I would not subscribe to it so much as by a vague

'Perhaps it may be so.' All that I conceded upon the point was this. I

told Mr. Dare that when the time came for me to be looking out for some

one to succeed me--if it ever did come--and I found his son--you--had

served me faithfully, was upright in conduct and in heart--one, in

short, whom I could thoroughly confide in--why, then he should have the

preference over any other. So much I did say, Cyril, but no more."

"And why won't you give me the preference, sir?"

Mr. Ashley looked at him, apparently in surprise that he could ask the

question. He bent his head forward, and spoke in a low tone, but one

full of meaning.

"Upright in conduct and in heart, I said, Cyril. It was an absolute

condition."

Cyril's gaze fell before Mr. Ashley's. His conscience may have pricked

him, and he had the grace to look ashamed of himself. There ensued a

pause.

Presently Cyril looked up. "Then I am to understand, sir, that all hope

of being your partner and successor is over?"

"It is. It has been over this many a year, Cyril. I should do wrong to

deal otherwise than perfectly plainly with you. Were you to reform

anything there may have been amiss in your conduct, to become a model of

excellence in the sight of Helstonleigh, I could never admit your name

to be associated with mine. The very notion is offensive to me."

Cyril--it was a great wonder--restrained his passion. "Perhaps I had

better leave, then?" he said.

"You are welcome to stay until you can find a situation more agreeable

to you," replied Mr. Ashley. "Provided you undertake to behave

yourself."

"Stay! and for nothing in the end!" echoed Cyril. "No, that I never

will! If I must remain a dependant, I'll try it on at something else. I

am sick of this."

He untied his apron, dashed it on to the floor, and went out without

another word. So furiously did he stamp through the serving-room, that

James Meeking turned round to look at him, and Dick, taking a recreative

balance at that moment on the edge of an upright coal-scuttle, thought

he must be running for the fire-engines. Dick's speculations were

disturbed by the sound of the master's voice, calling to him.

He hastened to the counting-house, and was ordered to "take that apron

away." Dick picked it up and withdrew with it, folding it carefully

against Mr. Cyril should come in. Dick little thought the manufactory

had seen the last of him.

Mr. Ashley was indulging in a quiet laugh. "Demeaning himself by

entering my manufactory! Disgracing his family--the high blood of the

Dares! Poor Cyril! William, do you look at it in the same light?"

William had remained in the room, taking no part whatever in the final

contest. He had stood with his back to them, following his occupation.

He turned round now.

"Sir, you know I do not."

"You once told me it presented no field for getting on. What was the

word you used?--was it ambition? Truly, there's not much ambition

attached to it. Nevertheless, I am satisfied with my career, William,

although I am only the glove manufacturer, Thomas Ashley."

_He_ satisfied! How many a one would be proud to be in the position of

Thomas Ashley! William did not say so. He began to speak of Cyril Dare.

"Do you think he will come back again, sir?"

"I do not think he will. Should he do so, the doors are closed to him.

He has left of his own accord, and I shall not allow him to return."

"I am very sorry," remarked William. "It has been partly my fault."

"Do not make yourself uneasy. I have _tolerated_ Cyril Dare here; have

allowed him to remain on sufferance: and that is the best that can be

said of it."

"He may feel it as a blow."

"As a jubilee, you mean. It will be nothing less to him. He has hated

the manufactory with all his heart from the moment he first entered it,

and is now, if we could see him, kicking up his heels with delight at

the emancipation. Cyril Dare my partner!"

William continued his work, saying nothing. Mr. Ashley resumed:

"I must be casting my thoughts around for a fitting substitute to

succeed to the post of ambition Cyril coveted. Can you direct me to any

quarter, William?"

Mr. Ashley was now standing at William's side, looking at him as he went

over the gloves left by Cyril. He saw the red flush mount to his face.

Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's shoulder, and spoke in low tones,

full of emotion.

"It may come, my boy; my almost son! And when Thomas Ashley's head shall

be low in the grave, the leading manufacturer of this city may be

William Halliburton."

A loud rapping at the door with a thick stick interrupted the master's

words. He turned to behold Mr. Dare. It appeared that Cyril had by

chance met his father in the street almost immediately after going out;

he had volunteered to him a most exaggerated account, and Mr. Dare had

come, as he said, to learn the rights of it.

William left the room. He could not avoid remarking the bowed, broken

appearance of the man. Mr. Ashley related the particulars, and the

listener was obliged to acknowledge that Cyril had been to blame--had

been too hasty.

"I confess it appears so," he said. "He must have been led away by

temper. But, Mr. Ashley, you ought to stretch a point, and make a

concession. We are kinsmen."

"What concession?"

"Discharge William Halliburton. Things can never go on smoothly between

him and Cyril. Stretch a point to oblige us, and send him away."

"Discharge William Halliburton!" echoed Mr. Ashley in surprise. "I could

as soon discharge myself. William is the right hand of the business. It

could go on without me, but I am not sure that it could do so without

him."

"Cyril can take his place."

"Cyril is not qualified for it. And----"

"Cyril declares he will never enter the place again, so long as

Halliburton is in it."

"Cyril never will enter it again," quietly rejoined Mr. Ashley. "Cyril

and I have parted. I will give you his wages for this week, now that you

are here; legally, though, he could not claim them."

Mr. Dare looked sad--gloomy. It was only what he had expected for some

time past. "You promised to do well by him, Mr. Ashley; to take him into

partnership."

"You must surely remember that I promised nothing of the sort," said Mr.

Ashley. "I have been telling the same thing to Cyril. All I said--and a

shrewd, business man, as you are, could not fail thoroughly to

understand me," he pointedly added--"was, that I would choose Cyril in

preference to others, provided he proved himself worthy of the

preference. Circumstances appear to have worked entirely against

carrying out that idea, Mr. Dare."

"What circumstances?"

Mr. Ashley did not immediately reply, and the question was repeated in a

hasty, almost an imperative tone. Then Mr. Ashley answered it.

"I do not wish to say a word that should unnecessarily hurt your

feelings; but in a matter of business I believe there is no resource but

to speak plainly. The unfortunate notoriety acquired, in one way or

other, by your sons, has rendered the name of Dare so conspicuous, that,

were there no other reason, it could never be associated with mine."

"Conspicuous? How?" interposed Mr. Dare.

Mr. Ashley would not have believed the words were uttered as a question,

but that the answer was evidently waited for. "You ask _how_," he said.

"Surely I need not remind you. The scandal which, in more ways than one,

attached to Anthony--though I am sorry to allude to him, poor fellow,

in any such way; the circumstances attending the trial of Herbert;

the----"

"Herbert was innocent," interrupted Mr. Dare.

"Innocent of the murder, no doubt; as innocent as you or I. But people

made free with his name in other ways; had often made free with it. And

look at this last report, wafted over to us from Germany, that is just

now astonishing the city!"

"Hang him for a simpleton!" burst forth Mr. Dare.

"It is all so much discredit to the name--to the family altogether,"

concluded Mr. Ashley, as if his sentence had not been interrupted.

"The faults of his brothers ought to be no good reason for your

rejecting Cyril."

"They are not my reason for rejecting him," quietly returned Mr. Ashley.

"No? You have just said they were."

"I said the notoriety given by your sons to the name of Dare would bar

its association with mine. In saying 'your sons,' I included Cyril

himself. _He_ interposes the greatest barrier of all. Were the rest of

them of good report in the sight of day, Cyril is not so."

"What's the matter with him?" asked Mr. Dare.

"I do not care to tell you. A great deal of it you must know."

"Go on," cried Anthony Dare, who was leaning forward in his chair, his

chin resting on his stick, as one who sets himself calmly to hear the

whole.

"Cyril's private conduct is bad. He----"

"Follies of youth only," cried old Anthony. "He will outlive them."

"Youth's follies sometimes end in manhood's crimes," was the reply. "I

am thankful that my son is free from them."

"Your son!" returned Anthony Dare, coughing down his slighting tone.

"Your son is one apart. He has not the health to be knocking about. If

young men are worth anything, they are sure to be a bit wild."

A frown passed over the master's brow. "You are mistaken, Mr. Dare.

Young men who are worth anything keep themselves from such folly.

Opinions have taken a turn. Society is becoming more sensible of the

world's increased enlightenment; and ill conduct, although its pursuer

may be a fashionable young man, is beginning to be called by its right

name. Would you believe that Cyril has, more than once, come here--I

hesitate to say the word, it is so ugly a one--drunk? Drunk, Mr. Dare!"

"No!"

"He has."

"Then he must have been a fool for his pains," was the angry retort of

old Anthony.

"He is untruthful; he is idle; he is deceitful--but I do not, I say,

care to go into this. Were you cognizant of the application Cyril made

to me yesterday, respecting my daughter?"

"I don't know of any application."

"He did me the honour to make her an offer of marriage."

Old Anthony lifted his head sharply, not speaking. The master continued:

"He said yesterday that he was acting by your advice. He repeated

to-day, that you and Mrs. Dare had led him to look to Mary."

"Well?" returned Mr. Dare. "But I did not know he had spoken."

"How could you--excuse me, I again say, if I am to speak plainly--how

could you ever have entertained so wild an idea?"

"Perhaps you would like to call it a presumptuous one?" chafed Mr. Dare.

"I do call it so," returned Mr. Ashley. "It can be regarded as nothing

less; any impartial person would tell you so. I put out of the

discussion altogether the want of means on the part of Cyril; I speak of

its suitability. That Cyril should have aspired to an alliance with Mary

Ashley was presumption in the highest degree. It has displeased me very

much, and Henry looks upon it in the light of an insult."

"Who's Henry?" scornfully returned Mr. Dare. "A dreamy hypochondriac!

Pray is Cyril not as well born as Mary Ashley?"

"Has he been as well reared? Is he proving that he has been? A man's

conduct is of far more importance than his birth."

"It would seem that you care little about birth, or rearing either, or

you would not exalt Halliburton to a level with yourself."

The master fixed his expressive eyes on Anthony Dare. "Halliburton's

birth is, at any rate, as good as your family's and mine. His father's

mother and your wife's father were brother and sister."

Old Anthony looked taken by surprise. "I don't know anything about it,"

said he, somewhat roughly. "I know a little of how he has been bred, he

and his brothers."

"So do I," said Mr. Ashley. "I wish a few more in the world had been

bred in the same way."

"Why! they have been bred to work!" exclaimed old Anthony, in

astonishment. "They have not been bred as gentlemen. They have not had

enough to eat."

The concluding sentence elicited an involuntary laugh from the master.

"At any rate, the want does not appear to have stinted their growth, or

injured them in a physical point of view," he rejoined, a touch of

sarcasm in his tone. "They are fine-grown men; and, Mr. Dare, they are

_gentlemen_, whether they have been bred as such or not. Gentlemen in

looks, in manners, and in mind and heart."

"I don't care what they are," again repeated old Anthony. "I did not

come here to talk about them, but about Cyril. Your exalting Halliburton

into the general favour that ought legitimately to have been Cyril's is

a piece of injustice. Cyril says you have this morning announced

publicly that Halliburton is master, under you. It is flagrant

injustice."

"No man living has ever had cause to tax me with injustice,"

impressively answered Thomas Ashley. "I have been far more just to Cyril

than he deserves. Stay: 'just' is a wrong word. I have been far more

_lenient_ to him. Shall I tell you that I have kept him on here out of

compassion, in the hope that the considerate way in which I treated him

might be an inducement to him to turn over a new leaf, and discard his

faults? I would not turn him away to be a town's talk. Deep down within

the archives of my memory, my own sole knowledge, I buried the great

fault of which he was guilty here. He was young; and I would not take

from him his fair fame on the very threshold of his commercial life."

"Great fault?" hesitated Mr. Dare, looking half frightened.

Thomas Ashley inclined his head, and lowered his voice to a deeper

whisper.

"When he robbed my desk of the cheque, I fancy your own suspicions of

him were to the full as much awakened as mine."

There was no reply, unless a groan from Anthony Dare could be called

one. His hands, supporting his chin, rested on his stick still. Mr.

Ashley resumed:

"I became convinced, though not in the first blush of the affair that

the transgressor was no other than Cyril; and I deliberated what my

course should be. Natural impulse would have led me to turn him away, if

not to prosecute. The latter would scarcely have been palatable towards

one of my wife's kindred. What was I to do with him? Turn him adrift

without a character? and a character that would get him any other

situation of confidence, I could not give him. I resolved to keep him

on. For his own sake I would give him a chance of redeeming what he may

have done in a moment's thoughtless temptation. I spoke to him

privately. I did not tell him in so many words that I knew him to be

guilty; but he could not well misunderstand that my suspicions were

awakened. I told him his conduct had not been good--not such that I

could approve; but that I was willing, for his own sake, to bury the

past in silence, and retain him, as a last chance. I very distinctly

warned him what would be the consequences of the smallest repetition of

his fault: that no consideration for myself or for him would induce me

to look over it a second time. Thus he stayed on: I, continually giving

an eye to his conduct, and taking due precautions for the protection of

my property, and keeping fast my keys. James Meeking received my orders

that Mr. Cyril should never be called upon to help pay the men, or to

count the packets of halfpence; and when the man looked wonderingly at

me in return, I casually added that there was no necessity to put Mr.

Cyril to an employment he particularly disliked, while he could call

upon East to help him, or in case of need, upon Mr. Halliburton. Never

think again, Mr. Dare, that I have been unjust to your son. If I have

erred at all, it has been on the side of kindness."

There was a long pause. Anthony Dare probably was feeling the kindness,

in spite of himself.

"What have you had to complain of in him since?" he asked.

"Not of any more robbery: but of his general conduct a great deal. He is

deceitful: he has appeared here in the state I have hinted to you; he is

incorrigibly idle. He probably fancies, because I do not take a very

active part in the management of my business and my workpeople, that I

sit here with my eyes shut, seeing little and knowing less of what goes

on around me. He is essentially mistaken: I am cognizant of all; as much

so, or nearly as much so, as Samuel Lynn would be, were he at his post

again. Look at his sorting of gloves, for instance--the very thing about

which the disturbance occurred just now. Cyril _can_ sort if he pleases;

he is as capable of sorting them properly as I should be; perhaps more

so: but he does not do it; and every dozen he attempts to make up has to

be done over again. In point of fact, he has been of no real use here;

for nothing that he attempts to do will he do well. A fitting hand to

fill the post of manager! Taking all these facts into consideration,"

added the master, "you will not be surprised that an offer of marriage

from Cyril Dare to my daughter bears an appearance little removed from

insult."

So it was all known to Mr. Ashley, and there was an end of Cyril and his

hopes! It may be said of his prospects.

"What is he to do now?" broke from the lips of Anthony Dare.

"Indeed I do not know. Unless he changes his habits, he will do no good

at anything."

"Won't you take him back again?"

"No," unequivocally pronounced Mr. Ashley. "He has left of his own

accord, and he must abide by it. Stay--hear me out. Were I to allow him

to return, he would not remain here a week; I am certain of it. That

Cyril has been acting a part, to beguile me of my favour with regard to

those foolish hopes of his, there is no doubt. The hopes gone, he would

not keep up even the semblance of good conduct; neither would he submit

to the rule of William Halliburton. It is best as it is; he is gone, and

he cannot return. My opinion is, that were the offer of return made to

him, he would reject it."

Mr. Dare's opinion was not far different, although he had pleaded for

the concession.

"Then you will not make him your partner?" he resumed.

"Mr. Dare!"

"I suppose you will take in Halliburton?"

"It is very probable. Whoever I take must be a man of probity and

honour: and a gentleman," he added, with a stress upon the word.

"William Halliburton is all that."

Anthony Dare rose with a groan. He could contend no longer.

"My sons have been my bane," he uttered from between his bloodless lips.

"I wonder, sometimes, whether they were born bad."

"No," said Thomas Ashley. "The badness has come with their training."

CHAPTER XVIII.

"CALLED."

And now there occurs another gap in the story--a gap of years, and we

have entered on the third and last part.

The patient well-doing of the Halliburtons was approaching fruition,

their struggles were well-nigh over, and they were ready to play their

part, for success or for failure, in the great drama of life. Jane's

troubles were at an end.

Did you ever remark how some things, when they draw towards a close,

seem to advance with rapid strides, unlike the slow, crawling pace that

characterized their beginning? Life: in its childhood, its youth, nay,

in its middle age, how slowly it seems to pass! how protracted its

distinctive periods appear to be! But when old age approaches then time

moves with giant strides. Undertake a work, whether of the hands or the

head, very, very slow does the progress appear to be, until it is far

advanced; and then the conclusion is attained fast and imperceptibly.

Thus does it seem to be in the history of the young Halliburtons. To

them the race may have been tedious, the labour as hard at the close of

their preparatory career as at its commencement; but not so to those who

were watching them.

There has not been space to trace the life of Frank and Gar at the

Universities, to record word by word how they bore onward with

unflinching perseverance, looking towards the goal in view. Great praise

was due to them; and they won it from those who knew what hard work

meant. Patiently and steadily had they laboured on, making of themselves

sound and brilliant scholars, resisting temptations that lead so many

astray, and _bearing_ the slights and mortifications incidental to their

subordinate position. "I'll take it all out, when I am Lord Chancellor

of England," Frank would say, in his cheery way. Of course Frank had

always intended to go up for honours; and of course Frank gained them.

He went to Oxford as a humble servitor, and he left it a man of note.

Francis Halliburton had obtained a double-first, and gained his

fellowship.

He had entered himself a student of the Middle Temple long before his

college career was over. The expenses of qualifying for the Bar are

considerable, and Frank's fellowship did not suffice for all. He

procured literary employment: writing a leading article for one of the

daily papers, and contributing to sundry reviews.

Gar, too, had quitted Cambridge with unusual credit, though he was _not_

senior wrangler. No one but Gar, perhaps, knew that he had aspired to

that proud distinction, so it did not signify. A more solid scholar, or

one with a higher character in the best sense of the term, never left

the University to be ordained by the Bishop of Helstonleigh--or by any

other prelate on the bench. He had a choice of a title to orders. His

uncle, the Reverend Francis Tait--who, like his father before him, had,

after many years' service, obtained a living--had offered Gar his title.

But a clergyman in the county of Helstonleigh had also offered him one,

and Gar, thanking his uncle, chose Helstonleigh.

William's dream of ambition was fulfilled; the dream which he had _not_

indulged; for it had seemed all too high and vague for possibility. He

was Mr. Ashley's partner. The great firm in Helstonleigh was Ashley and

Halliburton.

Ashley and Halliburton! And the event had been so gradually, so

naturally led up to, that Helstonleigh was not surprised when it was

announced. Of course William received as yet only a small share of the

profits: how small or how large was not known. Helstonleigh racked its

curiosity to learn particulars, and racked it in vain. One fact was

assumed beyond doubt: that a portion of the profits was secured to Henry

in the event of Mr. Ashley's death.

William was now virtually sole master of the business. Mr. Ashley had

partially retired from the manufactory: at least, his visits to it were

of occurrence so rare as almost to amount to retirement. Samuel Lynn was

manager, as of old; William had assumed Mr. Ashley's place and desk in

the counting-house--as master. Mr. Ashley had purchased an estate,

Deoffam Hall, some two to three miles distant from the city, close to

the little village of Deoffam: and there he and his family had gone to

reside. He retained his old house in the London Road, and they would

visit it occasionally, and pass a week there. The change of abode did

not appear to give unqualified gratification to Henry Ashley. He had

become so attached to William that he could not bear to be far away from

him. In the old home William's visits had been daily; or rather,

nightly: in this he did see him so often. William contrived to go over

twice or thrice a week; but that did not appear to be often enough for

Henry. Mary Ashley was not married; to the surprise of Helstonleigh: but

Mary somewhat obstinately refused to leave the paternal home. William

and his mother lived on together in the old house. But they were alone

now: for he could afford to keep up its expenses, and he had insisted

upon doing so; insisted that she who had worked so hard for them, should

have rest, now they could work for her.

Yes, they had all worked; worked on for the end, and gained it. Looking

back, Jane wondered how she had struggled on. It seemed now next to an

impossibility that she could have done it. Verily and truly she believed

that God alone had borne her up. Had it been a foreshadowing of what was

to come, when her father, years back, had warned her, on the very day of

her marriage with Mr. Halliburton had been decided, that it might bring

many troubles upon her? Perhaps so. One thing was certain: that it had

brought them, and in no common degree. But the troubles were surmounted

now: and Jane's boys were turned out just as well as though she had had

thousands a year to bring them up upon. Perhaps better.

Perhaps better! How full of force is the suggestion! I wonder if no one

will let this history of the young Halliburtons read a lesson to them?

Many a student, used worse by fortune and the world than he thinks he

deserves, might take it to himself with profit. Do not let it be flung

away as a fancy picture; endeavour to make it your reality. A career,

worked out as theirs was, insures success as a necessity. "Ah!" you may

think, "I am poor; I can't hope to achieve such things." Poor! What were

they? What's that you say? "There are so many difficulties in the way!"

Quite true; there are difficulties in the way of attaining most things

worth having; but they are only placed there to be overcome. Like the

hillocks and stumbling-blocks in that dream that came to Mr. Halliburton

when he was dying, they are placed there to be subdued, not to be

shunned in fear, or turned from in idleness. Whatever may be your object

in life, work on for it. Be you heir to a dukedom, or be your heritage

that of daily toil, an object you must have: a man who has none is the

most miserable being on the face of the earth. Bear manfully onward and

attain the prize. Toil may be hard, but it will grow lighter as you

advance; impediments may be disheartening, but they are not

insurmountable; privations may be painful, but you are working on to

plenty; temptations to indolence, to flagging, to that many-headed

monster, sin, may be pulling at you; but they will not stir you from

your path an inch, unless you choose to let them do so. Only be

resolute; only regard trustingly the end, and labour for it; and it will

surely come. It may look in the distance so far off that the very hope

of attaining it seems but a chimera. Never mind; bear hopefully on, and

the distance will lessen palpably with every step. No real good was ever

attained to in this world without working for it. No real good, as I

honestly believe, was ever gained, unless God's blessing went with the

endeavours to attain it. _Make a friend of God._ Do that, and fight your

way on, doing your duty, and you will find the goal: as the sons of Mrs.

Halliburton did.

Jane was sitting alone one afternoon in her parlour. She was little

changed. None, looking at her, could believe her old enough to be the

mother of those three great men, her sons. Not that Gar was

particularly great; he was only of middle height. Jane wore a shaded

silk dress; and her hair looked as smooth and abundant as in the old

days of her girlhood. It was remarkable how little her past troubles had

told upon her good looks; how little she was aging.

She saw the postman come to the door, and Dobbs brought in a letter.

"It's Mr. Frank's writing," growled Dobbs.

Jane opened it, and found that Frank had been "called." Half his care

was over.

"MY DARLING MOTHER,--I am made a barrister at last. I really

am; and I beg you will all receive the announcement with

appropriate awe and deference. I was called to-day: and I

intend to have a photograph taken of myself in my wig and gown,

and send it down to you as a confirmation of the fact. When you

see the guy the wig makes of me, you will say you never saw an

ugly man before. Tell Dobbs so; it will gladden her heart:

don't you remember how she used to assure us, when boys, that

we ought to be put under a glass case, as three ultra specimens

of ugliness?

"I shall get on now, dearest mother. It may be a little up-hill

work at first: but there's no fear. A first-rate law firm has

promised me some briefs: and one of these speedy days I shall

inevitably take the ears of some court by storm--the jury

struck into themselves with the learned counsel's astounding

eloquence, and the bar dumb--and then my fortune's made. I need

not tell you what circuit I shall patronize, or in how short a

time afterwards I intend to be leading it: but I will tell you

that my first object in life, when I am up in the world, shall

be the ease and comfort of my dear mother. William is not going

to do everything, and have you all to himself.

"Talking about William, ask him if he cannot get up some chance

litigation, that I may have the honour of appearing for him

next assizes. I'll do it all free, _gratis_, for nothing. Ever

your own son,

"FRANK."

Jane started up from her chair at the news, almost as a glad child. Who

could she find to share it with her? She ran into the next house to

Patience. Patience limped a little in her walk still; she would limp

always. Anna, in her sober Quaker's cap, the border resting on her fair

forehead, looked up from her drawing, and Jane told them the news, and

read the letter.

"That is nice," said Patience. "It must be a weight off thy mind."

"I don't know that it is that," replied Jane. "I have never doubted his

success. I don't doubt it still. But I am very glad."

"I wish I had a cause to try," cried Anna, who had recovered all her old

spirits and her love of chatter. "I would let Frank plead it for me."

"Will you come back with me, Anna, and take tea?" said Jane. "I shall be

alone this evening. William is going over to Deoffam Hall."

"I'll come," replied Anna, beginning to put up her pencils with

alacrity. Truth to say, she was just as fond of going out and of taking

off her cap, that her curls might fall, as she used to be. She had quite

recovered caste in the opinion of Helstonleigh. In fact, when the

reaction set in, Helstonleigh had been rather demonstrative in its

expression of repentance for having taken so harsh a view of the case.

Nevertheless, it had been a real lesson to Anna, and had rendered her

more sober and cautious in conduct.

Dobbs was standing at the kitchen door as they went in. "Dobbs," said

Jane, in the gladness of her heart, "Mr. Frank is called."

"Called?" responded Dobbs, staring with all her might.

"Yes. He was called yesterday."

"Him called!" repeated Dobbs, evidently doubting the fact. "Then, ma'am

you'll excuse me, but I'm not a-going to believe it. It's a deal more

likely he's gone off t'other way, than that he's called to grace."

Anna nearly choked with laughter. Jane laughed so that she could not at

once speak. "Oh, Dobbs, I don't mean that sort of calling. He is called

to the Bar. He has become a barrister."

"Oh--that," said Dobbs ungraciously. "Much good may it do him, ma'am!"

"He wears a wig and gown now, Dobbs," put in Anna. "He says his mother

is to tell thee that it makes a guy of him, and so gladden thy heart."

"Ugh!" grunted Dobbs.

"We will make him put them on when he comes down, won't we! Dobbs, if

thee'd like his picture in them, he'll send it thee."

"He'd better keep it," retorted Dobbs. "I never yet saw no good in young

chaps having their picturs took, Miss Anna. They're vain enough without

that. Called! That would have been a new flight for _him_."

CHAPTER XIX.

A GLIMPSE OF A BLISSFUL DREAM.

A prettier place than Deoffam Hall could not well be conceived. "For its

size," carping people would add. Well, it was not so large as Windsor

Castle; but it was no smaller than the bishop's palace at

Helstonleigh--if it has been your good fortune to see that renowned

edifice. Deoffam Hall was a white, moderate-sized, modern villa, rising

in the midst of charming grounds; grassy lawns smooth as velvet, winding

rivulets, groves of trees affording shelter on a summer's day. On the

terrace before the windows a stately peacock was fond of spreading its

plumes, and in the small park--it was only a small one--the deer rubbed

their antlers on the fine old trees. The deer and the peacock were the

especial pets of Henry Ashley. Deoffam itself was an insignificant

village; a few gentlemen's houses and a good many cottages comprised it.

It was pleasantly and conveniently situated; within a walk of

Helstonleigh for those who liked walking, or within a short drive. But,

desirable as it was as a residence, Henry Ashley was rather addicted to

grumbling at it. He would often wish himself back in his old home.

One lovely morning in early summer, when they were assembled together

discussing plans for the day, he suddenly broke into one of his

grumbling humours. "You bought Deoffam for me, sir," he was beginning,

"but----"

"I bought it for myself and your mother," interposed Mr. Ashley.

"Of course. But to descend to me afterwards--you know what I mean. I

have made up my mind, when that time shall come, to send gratitude to

the winds, and sell it. Stuck out here, alone with the peacock, you and

the mother gone, I should----I don't like to outrage your feelings by

saying what I might do."

"There's Mary," said Mrs. Ashley.

"Mary! I expect she'll have gone into fresh quarters by that time. She

has only stopped here so long out of politeness to me."

Mary lifted her eyes, a smile and a glow on her bright face. A lovely

picture, she, in her delicate summer muslin dress.

"I tell every one she is devoted to me," went on Henry, in his quaint

fashion. "'Very strange that handsome girl, Mary Ashley, does not get

married!' cries Helstonleigh. Mary, my dear, I know your vanity is

already as great as it can be, so I don't fear to increase it. 'My

sister get married!' I say to them. 'Not she; she has resolved to make a

noble sacrifice of herself for my sake, and live at home with me, a

vestal virgin, and see to the puddings.'"

The smile left Mary's face--the glow remained. "I do wish you would not

talk nonsense, Henry! As if Helstonleigh troubled itself to make

remarks upon me. It is not so rude as you are."

"Just hark at her!" returned Henry. "Helstonleigh not trouble itself to

make remarks! When you know the town was up in arms when you refused Sir

Harry Marr, and sent him packing. Such an honour had never fallen to its

luck before--that one of its fair citizens, born and bred, should have

the chance of becoming a real live My Lady."

Mary was cutting a pencil at the moment, and broke the point off.

"Papa," cried she, turning her hot face to his, "can't you make Henry

talk sense?--if he must talk at all."

Mrs. Ashley interposed. It was quite true that Mary had had, as Henry

phrased it, a chance of becoming a "real live My Lady"; and there lurked

in Mrs. Ashley's heart a shadow of grievance, of disappointment, that

she should have refused the honour. She spoke rather sharply, taking

Henry's part, not Mary's.

"Henry is talking nothing but sense. My opinion is that you behaved

quite rudely to Sir Harry. It is an offer you will not have again, Mary.

Still," added Mrs. Ashley, subduing her tone a little, "it is no

business of Helstonleigh's; neither do I see whence the town could have

derived its knowledge."

"As if any news could be stirring, good or bad, that Helstonleigh does

not ferret its way to!" returned Henry.

"My belief is that Henry went and told," retorted Mary.

"I! what next?" cried Henry. "As if I should tell of the graceless

doings of my sister; it is bad enough to lie under the weighty knowledge

one's self."

"And as if I should ever consent to marry Sir Harry Marr!" returned

Mary, with a touch of her brother's spirit.

"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, quietly, "you seemed to slip out of that

business, and of all questioning over it, as smoothly as an eel. I never

came to the bottom of it. What was your objection to Sir Harry?"

"Objection, papa?" she faltered, with a crimsoned face. "I--I did not

care for him."

"Oh, that was it, was it?" returned Mr. Ashley.

"Is it always to go on so, my dear?" asked her mother.

Poor Mary was in sad confusion, scarcely knowing whether to burst into

anger or into tears. "What do you mean, mamma? How 'go on'?"

"This rejection of every one. You have had three good offers----"

"Not counting the venture of Cyril Dare," put in Henry.

"And you say 'No' to all," concluded Mrs. Ashley. "I fear you must be

very fastidious."

"And she's growing into an old maid, and----"

"Be quiet, Henry. Can't you leave me in peace?"

"My dear, it is true," cried Henry, who was in one of his teasing moods.

"Of course I have not kept count of your age since you were eighteen--it

wouldn't be polite to do so; but my private conviction is that you are

four-and-twenty this blessed summer."

"If I were four-and-thirty," answered Mary, "I wouldn't marry Sir Harry

Marr. I am not _obliged_ to marry, I suppose, am I?"

"My dear, no one said you were," said Henry, flinging a rose at her,

which he took from his button-hole. "But don't you see that this brings

round my argument, that you have resolved to make yourself a noble

sisterly sacrifice, and stop at home with me? Don't you take to cats

yet, though!"

Mary thought she was getting the worst of it, and left the room. Soon

afterwards Mrs. Ashley was called out by a servant.

"Did you receive a note from William this morning, sir?" asked Henry.

"Yes," replied Mr. Ashley, taking it from his pocket. "He mentions in it

that there is a report in the town that Herbert Dare is dead."

"Herbert Dare! I wonder if it's true?"

"It is to be hoped not. I fear he was not very fit to die. I am going

into Helstonleigh, and shall probably hear more."

"Oh! are you going in to-day, sir? Despatch William back, will you?"

"I don't know, Henry. They may be busy at the manufactory. If so, I am

sure he will not leave it."

"What a blessing if that manufactory were up in the clouds!" was Henry's

rejoinder. "When I want William particularly, it is sure to be--that

manufactory!"

"It is well William does not think as you do," remarked Mr. Ashley.

"Well, sir, he must certainly think Samuel Lynn a nonentity, or he would

not stick himself so closely to business. You never applied yourself in

such a way."

"Yes, I did. But you must please to remember, Master Henry, that the

cases are not on a parallel. I was head and chief of all, accountable to

none. Had I chosen to take a twelvemonth's holiday, and let the business

go, it would have been my own affair exclusively. Whether the business

went right, or whether it went wrong, I was accountable to none. William

is not in that position."

"I know he is often in the position of not being to be had when he is

wanted," was Henry's reply, as he listlessly turned over some books

that lay on the table.

"Will you go into town with me?"

"I could not stand it to-day. My hip is giving me twinges."

"Is it? I had better bring back Parry."

"No. I won't have him, unless I find there's actual need. The mother

knows what to do with me. I don't suppose it will come to anything; and

I have been so much better of late."

"Yes, you have. Although you quarrel with Deoffam, it is the change to

it--the air of the place--that has renewed your health, you ungrateful

boy!"

Mr. Ashley's eyes were bent lovingly on Henry's as he said it. Henry

seized his father's hands, his half-mocking tone exchanged for one of

earnestness.

"Not ungrateful, sir--far from it. I know the value of my dear father:

that a kinder or a better one son could not possess. I shall grumble on

to my life's end. It is my amusement. But the grumbling is from my lips

only: not from my fractious spirit, as it was in days gone by."

"I have remarked that: remarked it with deep thankfulness. You have

acquired a victory over that fractious spirit."

"For which the chief thanks are due to William Halliburton. Sir, it is

so. But for him, most probably I should have gone, a discontented

wretch, to the--let me be poetical for once--silent tomb: never seeking

out either the light or the love that may be found in this world."

Mr. Ashley glanced at his son. He saw that he was contending with

emotion, although he had reassumed his bantering tone.

"Henry, what light--what love?"

"The light and the love that a man may take into his own spirit.

He--William--told me, years ago, that I might make even my life a

pleasant and a useful one; and measureless was the ridicule I gave him

for it. But I have found that he was right. When William came to the

house one night, a humble errand-boy, sent by Samuel Lynn with a

note--do you remember it, sir?--and offered to help me, dunce that I

was, with my Latin exercise--a help I graciously condescended to

accept--we little thought what a blessing had entered the dwelling."

"We little thought what a brave, honest, indomitable spirit was

enshrined in the humble errand-boy," continued Mr. Ashley.

"He has got on as he deserved. He will be a worthy successor to you,

sir: a second Thomas Ashley; a far better one than I should ever have

been, had I possessed the rudest health. There's only one thing more for

William to gain, and then I expect he will be at rest."

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's no concern of mine, sir. If folks can't manage for themselves,

they need not come to me to help them."

Mr. Ashley looked keenly at his son. Henry passed to another topic.

"Do send him here, sir, when you get in; or else drive him back with

you."

"I shall see," said Mr. Ashley. "Do you know where your mother went to?"

"After some domestic catastrophe, I expect. Martha came to the door,

with a face as green as the peacock's tail, and beckoned her out. The

best dinner-service come to grief, perhaps."

Mr. Ashley rang, and ordered the pony-carriage to be got ready: one

bought chiefly for Henry, that he might drive into town. Before he

started, he came across Mary, who stood at one of the corridor windows

upstairs, and had evidently been crying.

"What is your grief, Mary?"

She turned to the sheltering arm open to her, and tried to choke the

tears down, which were again rising. "I wish you and mamma would not

keep so angry at my refusing Sir Harry Marr."

"Who told you I was angry, Mary?"

"Oh, papa, I fancied so this morning. Mamma is angry about it, and it

pains me. It is as though you wanted me gone."

"My dear child! Gone! For our comfort I should wish you might never go,

Mary. But for your own, it may be different."

"I do not wish to go," she sobbed. "I want to stay at home always. It

was not my fault, papa, if I could not like Sir Harry."

"You should never, with my consent, marry any one you did not like,

Mary; not if it were the greatest match in the three kingdoms. Why this

distress, my dear? Mamma's vexation will blow over. She hoped--as Henry

tells us--to see you converted into a 'real live My Lady.' 'My daughter,

Lady Marr!' It will blow over, child."

Mary cried in silence. "And you will not let me be driven away, papa?

You will keep me at home always?"

Mr. Ashley shook his head. "Always is a long day, Mary. Some one may be

coming, less distasteful than Sir Harry Marr, who will induce you to

leave it."

"No, never!" cried she, somewhat more vehemently than the case seemed to

warrant. "Should any one be asking you for me, you can tell them 'No,'

at once; do not trouble to bring the news to me."

"_Any one_, Mary?"

"Yes, papa, no matter who. Do not drive me away from you."

He stooped and kissed her. She stood at the window still, in a dreamy

attitude, and watched the carriage drive off with Mr. Ashley. Presently

Henry passed.

"Has the master gone, do you know, Mary?"

"Five minutes ago."

"I hope and trust he'll send back William."

It was striking half-past two when Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory.

Samuel Lynn was in his own room, sorting gloves; William was in the

counting house, seated at his desk. His, now; formerly Mr. Ashley's; the

very desk from which the cheque had disappeared; but William took a more

active part in the general management than Mr. Ashley had ever done. He

rose, shook hands with the master, and placed a chair for him. The

"master" still he was called; indeed, he actually was so; William, "Mr.

Halliburton."

A short time given to business details, and then Mr. Ashley referred to

the report of Herbert Dare's death. Poor Herbert Dare had never returned

from abroad, and it was to be feared he had been getting lower and lower

in the scale of society. Under happier auspices, and with different

training, Herbert might have made a happier and a better man.

Helstonleigh did not know how he lived abroad, or why he stayed there.

Possibly the free and easy continental life had become necessary to him.

Homburg, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, wherever there were gaming-tables,

there might be found Herbert Dare. That he must find a living at them in

some way seemed pretty evident. It was a great pity.

"How did you hear that he was dead?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"From Richard Winthorne," replied William. "I met him yesterday evening

in Guild Street, and he told me a report had come over that Herbert Dare

had died of fever."

As William spoke, a gentleman entered the room, and interrupted them; a

Captain Chambers. "Have you heard that Herbert Dare's dead?" was his

first greeting.

"Is it certain?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"I don't know. Report says it is certain; but report is not always to be

believed. How that family has gone down!" continued Captain Chambers.

"Anthony first; now Herbert; and Cyril will be next. He will go out of

the world in some discreditable way. A wretched scamp! Shocking habits!

Old Dare, too, unless I am mistaken, is on his last legs."

"Is he ill?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"No; no worse than usual; but I never saw a man so broken. I alluded to

the legs of prosperity. Talk about reports, though," and Captain

Chambers suddenly wheeled round on William, "there's one going the round

of the town to-day about you."

"What's that?" asked William. "Not that I am dead, I suppose, or on my

last legs?"

"Something better. That you are going to marry Sophy Glenn."

William looked all amazement, an amused smile stealing over his lips.

"Well, I never!" uttered he, using a phrase just then in vogue in

Helstonleigh. "What has put that into the town's head?"

"You should best know that," said Captain Chambers. "Did you not, for

one thing, beau Miss Sophy to a concert last night? Come, Master

William! guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty of the beauing," answered William. "I called on the Glenns

yesterday evening, and found them starting for the concert; so I

accompanied them. I did give my arm to Sophy."

"And whispered the sweet words, 'Will you be my charming wife?'"

"No, that I did not," said William, laughing. "And I dare say I shall

never whisper them to any woman yet born: if it will give Helstonleigh

satisfaction to know so much."

"You might go farther and fare worse, than in taking Sophy Glenn, I can

tell you that, Master William," returned Captain Chambers. "Remember,

she is the lucky one of three sisters, and had the benignant godmother.

Sophy Glenn counts five thousand pounds to her fortune."

When Captain Chambers took his departure, Mr. Ashley looked at William.

"I have heard Henry joke you about the Glenn girls--nice little girls

they are too! Is there anything in it, William?"

"Sir! How can you ask such a thing?"

"I think, with Chambers, that a man might do worse than marry Sophy

Glenn."

"So do I, sir. But I shall not be the man."

"Well, I think it is time you contemplated something of the sort. You

will soon be thirty years of age."

"Yes, sir, but I do not intend to marry."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"Because--I fear my wishes would lead me to soar too high. That is,

I--I--mean----" He stopped; and seemed to be falling into inextricable

confusion. A notable thing for the self-possessed William Halliburton.

"Do you mean that you have an attachment in some quarter?" resumed Mr.

Ashley.

William's face turned fiery red. "I cannot deny it, sir," he answered,

after considerable hesitation.

"And that she is above your reach?"

"Yes."

"In what manner? In position?--or by any insurmountable obstacle? I

suppose she is not some one else's wife?"

William smiled. "Oh, no. In position."

"Shall I give you my opinion, William, without knowing the case in

detail?"

William was standing at one corner of the mantel-piece, his arm leaning

on its narrow shelf. He did not lift his eyes. "Yes, sir, if you

please."

"Then I think there is scarcely any marriageable girl in the county, to

whom you might not aspire, and in time win."

"Oh, Mr. Ashley!"

"Is it the daughter of the lord-lieutenant?"

William laughed.

"Is it the bishop's daughter?"

William shook his head. "She seems to be quite as far removed from me."

"Come, I must know. Who is it?"

"It is impossible that I can tell you, sir."