"I must know. I don't think I have ever asked you in vain, since the

time when, a boy, you confessed your thoughts about the found shilling.

Secrets from me! I will know, William!"

William did not answer. The upper part of his face was concealed by his

hand; but Mr. Ashley marked the sweet smile that played around his

mouth.

"Come, I will help you. Is it the charming Dobbs?"

Amused, he took his hand from his face. "Well, sir--no."

"It cannot be Charlotte East; because she is married."

William seemed as impervious as ever. The master suddenly laid his hand

upon his shoulder, and confronted him face to face.

"Is it Mary Ashley?"

The burning flush of scarlet that dyed his face, even to the very roots

of his hair, told Mr. Ashley the truth, far more effectually than words

could have done. There ensued a pause. Mr. Ashley was the first to break

it.

"How long have you loved her?"

"For years. _That_ has been the wild dream of my aspirations: one that I

knew would never be realized," he answered, suffering his eyes to meet

for a moment Mr. Ashley's.

"Have you spoken to her of it?"

"Never."

"Or led her to believe you loved her?"

"No, sir. Unless my looks and tones may have betrayed me. I fear they

have; but it was not intentionally done."

"Honest in this, as in all else," thought Mr. Ashley. "What am I to say

to you?" he asked aloud.

"I do not know," sighed William. "I expect, of course, sir, that you

will forbid me Deoffam Hall: but I can still meet Henry at the house in

town. I hope you will forgive me!" he added in an impassioned tone. "I

could not help loving her. Before I knew what my new feelings meant,

love had come. Such love! Had I been in a position to marry her, I would

have made her life one dream of happiness! When I awoke to it all----"

"What awoke you?" was the interruption.

"I think it was Cyril Dare's asking for her. I debated with myself

then, whether I ought to give up going to your house; but I came to the

conclusion that, so long as I was able to hide my feelings from her, I

need not banish myself. My judgment was wrong, I know; but the

temptation to see her occasionally was great, and I did not resist it."

"And so you continued to go, feeding the flame?"

"Yes. Feeding it passionately and hopelessly; never forgetting that the

pain of separation must come!"

"Did you hear of Sir Harry Marr's offer?"

"Yes, I heard of it."

William swept his hand across his face as he spoke. It wore a _wrung_

expression. Mr. Ashley changed his tone.

"William, I cannot decide this matter, one way or the other. You must

ask Mary to do that!"

"_Sir!_"

"If Mary chooses to favour you more than she does other suitors, I will

not forbid her doing it. Only this very day she begged me, with tears,

to keep all such troublesome customers away from her; to refuse them of

my own accord. But it strikes me that you may as well have an answer

from herself!"

William, his whole soul in his eyes, was gazing at Mr. Ashley. He could

not tell whether he might believe what he heard; whether he was awake or

dreaming.

"Did I deliver you a message from Henry?"

"No, sir," was the abstracted response.

"He wants you to go over to him. I said I would send you if you were not

busy. He is not very well to-day."

"But--Mr. Ashley--did you mean what you said?"

"Should I have said it had I not meant it?" was the quiet answer. "Have

you a difficulty in believing it?"

The ingenuous light rose to William's eyes, as he raised them to his

master's. "I have no money," he whispered. "I cannot settle a farthing

upon her."

"You have something better than money, William--worth. And I can make

settlements. Go and hear what Mary says. You will catch the half-past

three o'clock coach, if you make haste."

William went out, believing still that he must be in a trance. His

deeply buried dream of the long past years: was it about, indeed, to

become reality?

But in the midst of it he could not help casting a thought to a less

pleasing subject--the Dares. Herbert was young to die; he was, no doubt,

unprepared to die; and William sincerely hoped that the report would

prove untrue. The Dares were going down sadly in the social scale; Cyril

especially. He was just what Captain Chambers had called him--a scamp.

After leaving Mr. Ashley's, he had entered his father's office; as a

temporary thing, it was said; but he had never left it for anything

else. A great deal of his time was passed in public-houses. George,

whose commission never came, had gone out, some two or three years ago,

to Sydney. His sister Julia and her husband had settled there, and they

had found an opening for George. William walked on, thinking of the

Dares' position and of his own.

CHAPTER XX.

WAYS AND MEANS.

When William reached Deoffam Hall, he found Henry Ashley alone, lying in

the drawing-room, the sofa near the open window.

"That's good!" cried he. "Good of the master for sending you, and of you

for coming."

"You don't look well to-day," observed William. "Your brow has the old

lines of pain in it."

"Thanks to my hip, which is giving me threatening twinges. What's this

report about Dare? Is it confirmed?"

"Not absolutely. It was Winthorne told me. Captain Chambers came into

the manufactory, and spoke of it this afternoon."

"I dare say it's true," said Henry. "I wonder if Anna Lynn will put on

weeds for him?" he sarcastically added.

"Quakers don't wear weeds."

"Teach your grandmother," returned Henry, lapsing into one of those

free, popular phrases he indulged in, and _was_ indulged in. "How you

stare at me! Do you think I am not _cured_? Ay; years ago."

"You'd have no objection to see Anna marry, I suppose?"

"She's welcome to marry, for me. You may go and propose to her yourself,

if you like. I'll be groomsman at the wedding."

"Would the alliance give you pleasure?"

Henry laughed. "You'd deserve hanging in chains, if you did enter upon

it; that's all."

"I have had one wife assigned to me to-day," remarked William.

"Whom may she be?"

"Sophy Glenn."

"Sophy Glenn?"

"Sophy Glenn. Chambers gravely assured me that Helstonleigh had settled

the match. He, Chambers, considers that I may go farther and fare worse.

Mr. Ashley said the same."

"But what do _you_ say?" cried Henry, rising up on his sofa, and

speaking quite sharply.

"I? Oh, I shall consider of it."

At that moment Mary Ashley appeared on the terrace outside; a small

basket and a pair of scissors in her hand. Henry called to her. "Are you

going to cut more flowers?"

"Yes. Mamma has sent the others away. She said they were fading." Seeing

William there, she nodded to him, her colour rising.

"I say, Mary--he has come here to bring some news," went on Henry. "What

do you suppose it is?"

"Mamma has told me. About Herbert Dare."

"Not that. He is going to make himself into a respectable man, and marry

Sophy Glenn. He came here to announce it. Don't cut too much of that

syringa; its sweetness is overpowering in a room."

Mary walked away. William felt excessively annoyed. "You are more

dangerous than a child," he exclaimed. "What made you say that?"

And Henry, like a true child, fell back, laughing aloud. "I say, though,

comrade, where are you off to?" he called after William, who was leaving

the room.

"To cut the flowers for your sister, of course."

But when William reached Mary Ashley, she had apparently forgotten her

errand. Standing in a dark spot against the trunk of the acacia tree,

her face was white and still, and the basket lay on the ground. She

picked it up, and would have hastened away, but William caught her hand

and placed it within his arm, little less agitated than she was.

"Not to tell him that news," he whispered. "I did indeed come here,

hoping to solicit one to be my wife; but it was not Sophy Glenn. Mary,

you cannot mistake what my feelings have long been."

"But--papa?" she gasped, unable to control her emotion.

He looked at her; he made her look at him. What strange, happy light was

that in his earnest eyes, causing her heart to bound? "Mr. Ashley sent

me to you," he softly whispered.

Henry lay and waited till he was tired. No William; no Mary; no flowers;

no anything. Had they both gone to sleep? He arose; and, taking his

stick, limped away to see after them. But he searched the flower-garden

in vain.

In the sheltered shrubbery, pacing it leisurely, as closely together as

they could well be linked, were they; a great deal too much occupied

with each other to pay attention to anything else. The basket lay on the

ground, empty of all, except the scissors.

"Well, you two are a nice lot for a summer's day!" began Henry, after

his old fashion, and using his own astonished eyes. "What of the

flowers?"

Mary would have flown, but William held her tightly, and led her up to

her brother. He strove to speak jestingly; but his voice betrayed his

emotion.

"Henry, shall it be your sister, or Sophy Glenn?"

"So! you have been settling it for yourselves, have you! I would not be

in your shoes, Miss Ashley, when the parental thunderbolts shall

descend. Was this what you flung Sir Harry over for? There never was any

accounting for taste in this world, and there never will be. I ask you

where the flowers are, and I should like an answer."

"I will cut them now," said William. "Will you come?" he asked, holding

out his arm to Henry.

"No," replied Henry, sitting down on the shrubbery bench, "I must

digest this shock first. You two will be enough to cut them, I dare

say."

They walked away towards the flower-garden. But ere they had gone many

steps he called out; and they turned.

"Mary! before you tie yourself up irrevocably, I hope you will reflect

upon the ignominy of his being nothing on earth but a manufacturer. A

pretty come down, that, for the Lady Marr who might have been!"

He was in one of his most ironical moods; a sure sign that his inward

state was that of glowing satisfaction. This had been his hope for

years--his plan, it may be said; but he had kept himself silent and

neutral. As he sat there ruminating, he heard the distant sound of the

pony carriage; and, taking a short cut, met it in the park. Mr. Ashley

handed the reins to his groom, got out, and gave his arm to Henry.

"How are you by this time?"

"Better, sir. Nothing much to brag of."

"I thought William would have been with you. Is he not come?"

"Yes, he is come. But I am second with him to-day. Miss Mary's first."

"Oh indeed!" returned Mr. Ashley.

"They are gone off somewhere, under the pretext of cutting flowers. I

don't think the flowers were quite the object, though."

He stole a glance at his father as he spoke. But he gathered nothing.

And he dashed at once into the subject he had at heart.

"Father, you will not stand in their light! It will be a crushing blow

to both, if you do. Let him have her! There's not a man in the world

half as worthy."

But still Mr. Ashley made no rejoinder. Henry scarcely gave him time to

make one.

"I have seen it a long time. I have seen how Halliburton kept down his

feelings, not being sure of the ground with you. I fear that to-day they

must have overmastered him; for he has certainly spoken out. Dear

father, don't make two of the best spirits in the world miserable, by

withholding your consent!"

"Henry," said Mr. Ashley, turning to him with a smile, "do you fancy

William Halliburton is one to have spoken out without my consent?"

Henry's thin cheek flushed. "Did you give it him? Have you already given

it him?"

"I gave it him to-day. I drew from him the fact of his attachment to

Mary: not telling him in so many words that he should have her, but

leaving it for her to decide."

"Then it will be: for I have seen where Miss Mary's love has been. How

immeasurably you have relieved me!" continued Henry. "The last half-hour

I have been seeing nothing but perplexity and cross-grained guardians."

"Have you?" returned Mr. Ashley. "You should have brought a little

common sense to bear upon the subject, Henry."

"But my fear was, sir, that you would not bring the common sense to

bear," freely spoke Henry.

"You do not quite understand me. Had I entertained an insuperable

objection to Mary's becoming his wife, do you suppose I should have been

so wanting in prudence and forethought as to have allowed opportunity

for an attachment to ripen? I have long believed that there was no man

within the circle of my acquaintance, or without it, so deserving of

Mary, except in fortune: therefore I suffered him to come here, with my

eyes open as to what might be the result. A very probable result, it has

appeared to me. I would forgive any girl who fell in love with William

Halliburton."

"And what about ways and means?"

"William's share shall be increased, and Mary will not go to him

dowerless. They must live in our house in Helstonleigh; and when we want

to go there we must be their guests."

"It will be the working-out of my visions," said Henry in low deep

tones. "I have seen them in it in fancy; in that very house; and myself

with them, my home when I please. I think you have been planning for me,

as much as for them."

"Not exactly, Henry. I have not planned. I have only let things take

their course. It will be happier for you, my boy, than if she had gone

from us to be Lady Marr."

"Oh! if ever I felt inclined to smother a man, it was that Marr. I

never, you know, brought myself to be decently civil to him. There's no

answering for the vanity of maidens, and I thought it just possible he

might put William's nose out of joint. What will the mother say?"

"The mother will be divided," said Mr. Ashley, a smile crossing his

face. "She likes William; but she likes a title. We must allow her a day

or two to get over it. I will go and give her the tidings now, if Mary

has not done so."

"Mary is with her lovier," returned Henry. "She can't have dragged

herself away from him yet."

Mary, however, was not with her "lovier." As Mr. Ashley crossed the

hall, he met her. She stopped in hesitation, and coloured vividly.

"Well, Mary, I soon sent you a candidate; though it was in defiance of

your express orders. Did I do right?"

Mary burst into tears, and Mr. Ashley drew her face to him. "May God

bless your future and his, my child!"

"I am afraid to tell mamma," she sobbed. "I think she will be angry. I

could not help liking him."

"Why, that is the very excuse he made to me! Neither can I help liking

him, Mary. I will tell mamma."

Mrs. Ashley received the tidings not altogether with equanimity. As Mr.

Ashley had surmised, she was divided between conflicting opinions. She

liked and admired William; but she equally liked and admired a title and

fortune.

"Such a position to relinquish--the union with Sir Harry!"

"Had she married Sir Harry we should have lost her," said Mr. Ashley.

"Lost her!"

"To be sure we should. She would have gone to her new home, twelve miles

on the other side of Helstonleigh, amidst her new connections, and have

been lost to us, excepting for a formal visit now and then. As it is, we

shall keep her; at her old home."

"Yes, there's a great deal to be said on both sides," acknowledged Mrs.

Ashley. "What does Henry say?"

"That he thinks I have been planning to secure his happiness. Had Mary

married away, we--when we quit this scene--must have left him to his

lonely self: now, we shall leave him to them. Things are wisely

ordered," impressively added Mr. Ashley: "in this, as in all else.

Margaret, let us accept them, and be grateful."

Mrs. Ashley went to seek William. "You will be a loving husband to her,"

she said with agitation. "You will take care of her and cherish her?"

"With the best endeavours of my whole life," he fervently answered, as

he took Mrs. Ashley's hands in his.

It was a happy group that evening. Henry lay on his sofa in complacent

ease, Mary drawn down beside him, and William leaning over the back of

it, while Mr. and Mrs. Ashley sat at a distance, partially out of

hearing.

"Have you heard what the master says?" asked Henry. "He thinks you have

been getting up your bargain out of complaisance to me. You are aware, I

hope, Mr. William, that whoever takes Mary must take me?"

"I am perfectly willing."

"It is well you are! And--do you know where you are to live?"

William shook his head. "You can understand how all these future

considerations have weighed me down," he said, glancing at Mary.

"You are to live at the house in Helstonleigh. It's to be converted into

yours by some patent process. The master had an eye to this, I know,

when he declined to take out any of the furniture, upon our removal

here. The house is to be yours, and the run of it is to be mine; and I

shall grumble away to my heart's content at you both. What do you answer

to that, Mr. William? I don't ask her; she's nobody."

"I can only answer that the more you run into it, the better pleased we

shall be. And we can stand any extent of grumbling."

"I am glad you can. You ought to by this time, for you have been pretty

well seasoned to it. So, in the Helstonleigh house, remember, my old

rooms are mine; and I intend to be the plague of your lives. After a

time--may it be a long time!--I suppose it will be 'Mr. Halliburton of

Deoffam Hall.'"

"What nonsense you talk, Henry!"

"Nonsense? I shall make it over to you. Catch me sticking myself out

here in solitary state to the admiration of the peacock! What's the

matter with you now, you two! Oh, well, if you turn up your noses at

Deoffam, it shall never be yours. I'll leave it to the eldest

chickabiddy. And mark you, please! I shall have him named 'Ashley,' and

stand godfather to him; and, he'll be mine, and not yours. I shall do

just as I like with the whole lot, if they count a score, and spoil them

as much as I choose."

"What _is_ the matter there?" exclaimed Mrs. Ashley, perceiving a

commotion on the sofa.

Mary succeeded in freeing herself, and went away with a crimsoned face.

"Mamma, I think Henry must be going out of his mind! He is talking so

absurdly."

"Absurdly! Was what I said absurd, William?"

William laughed. "It was premature, at any rate."

Henry stretched up his hands and laid hold of William's. "It is true

what Mary says--that I must be going out of my mind. So I am: with joy."

* * * * *

But the report of Herbert Dare's death proved to be a false one.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DREAM REALIZED.

The approaching marriage of William Halliburton gave rise to a dispute.

A dispute of love, though, not bitterness. Frank and Gar contended which

should have their mother. William no longer wanted her; he was going to

a home of his own. Frank wished to take larger chambers where she would

find sufficient accommodation; he urged a hundred reasons; his

grievances with his laundress, and his buttonless shirts. Gar, who was

in priest's orders now, had remained in that same first curacy, at a

hundred a year and the parsonage house to live in. He said he had been

wanting his mother all along, and could not do without her.

Jane inclined to Gar. She said she had an idea that old ladies--how they

would have rebelled at hearing her call herself old!--were out of place

in a young barrister's chambers; and she had a further idea that

chambers were comfortless quarters to live in. The question was to be

decided when they met at William's wedding. Frank was getting on well;

better than the ordinary run of aspirants; he had come through

Helstonleigh two or three times on circuit, and had picked up odds and

ends of briefs there.

Meanwhile William took possession of Mr. Ashley's old house, and the

wedding day approached. Besides her boys, Jane had another visitor for

the time; her brother Francis, who came down to marry them. Perhaps

because the Vicar of Deoffam had recently died. He might have come all

the same, had that gouty old gentleman been still alive.

All clear and cloudless rose the September sun on Deoffam; never a

brighter sun shone on a wedding. It was a quiet wedding: only a few

guests were invited to it. Mary, in her white lace robes and floating

veil--flushed, timid, lovely--stood with her bridesmaids; not more

lovely than one of those bridesmaids, for one was Anna Lynn.

Anna Lynn! Yes; Anna Lynn. To the lasting scandal of Patience, Anna

stood in the open church, dressed in bridesmaid's attire. Mary, who had

not been permitted the same intimacy with Anna since that marked and

unhappy time, but who had loved her all along, had been allowed by Mrs.

Ashley to choose her for one of her bridesmaids. The invitation was

proffered, and Samuel Lynn did not see reason to decline it. Patience

was indignantly rebellious; Anna, wild with delight. Look at her, as she

stands there! flowing robes of white around her, not made after the

primitive fashion of _her_ robes, but in the fashion of the day. Her

falling hair shades her carmine cheeks, and her blue eyes seek modestly

the ground. A fair picture; and a dangerous one to Henry Ashley, had

those old feelings of his remained in the ascendant. But he was cured;

as he told William: and he told it in truth.

A short time, and Anna would want bridesmaids on her own account; though

that may be speaking metaphorically of a Quakeress. Anna's pretty face

had pierced the heart of one of their male body; and he had asked for

Anna in marriage. A very desirable male was he, in a social point of

view; and female Helstonleigh turned up its nose in envy at Anna's

fortune. He was considerably older than Anna; a fine-looking man and a

wealthy one, engaged in wholesale business. His name was Gurney; his

residence, outside the city, was a handsome one, replete with every

comfort; and he drove a carriage-and-pair. He had been for some time a

visitor at Samuel Lynn's, and Anna had learned to like him. That his

object in visiting there could only be Anna, every one had been sure of,

his position being so superior to Samuel Lynn's. Every one but Anna.

Somehow, since that past escapade, Anna had not cast a thought to

marrying, or to the probability of anyone asking her; and she did not

suspect his intentions. If she had suspected them, she might have set

herself against him; for there was a little spice of opposition in her,

which she loved to indulge. However, before that suspicion came to her

she had grown to care for him too much to play the coquette. Strange to

say, there was something in his figure and in the outline of his face,

which reminded people of Herbert Dare; but his features and their

expression were quite different.

It was a most excellent match for Anna; there was no doubt of that; but

it did not afford complete satisfaction to Patience. Patience felt a

foreboding that he would be a good deal more indulgent to Anna than she

considered was wholesomely good for her: Patience had a misgiving that

Anna would be putting off her caps as she chose, then, and would not be

reprimanded for it. Not unlikely; could that future bridegroom, Charles

Gurney, catch sight of Anna as she stands now! for a more charming

picture never was seen.

William, quiet and self-possessed, received Mary from the hands of her

father, who gave her away. The Reverend Francis Tait read the service,

and Gar, in his white canonicals, stood with him, after the new fashion

of the day. Jane's tears dropped on her pearl-grey damask dress; Frank

made himself very busy amongst the bridesmaids; and Henry Ashley was in

his most mocking mood. Thus they were made man and wife; and Mr. Tait's

voice rose high and echoed down the aisles of the little old church at

Deoffam, as he spoke the solemn injunction--"THOSE WHOM GOD HATH JOINED

TOGETHER, LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER."

Helstonleigh's streets were lined that day, and Helstonleigh's windows

were alive with heads. It was known that the bride and bridegroom would

pass through the town, on the first stage of their bridal tour, whose

ultimate destination was to be the Continent. The whole crowd of the

Ashley workpeople had gathered outside the manufactory, neglecting their

afternoon's work; a neglect which Samuel Lynn not only winked at, but

participated in, for he stood with them. As the carriage, which was Mr.

Ashley's, came in sight, its four horses urged by the postillions to a

sharp trot, one deafening cheer arose from the men. William laughed and

nodded to them; but they did not get half a good view of the master's

daughter beside him: nothing but a glimpse of a flushed cheek, and a

piece of a white veil.

Slouching at the corner of a street, in a seedy coat, his eyes

bloodshot, was Cyril Dare. Never did one look more of a _mauvais sujet_

than he, as he watched the chariot pass. The place now occupied by

William might have been his, had he so willed it and worked for it. Not,

perhaps, that of Mary's husband; he could not be sure of that, but as

Mr. Ashley's partner. A bitter cloud of disappointment, of repentance,

crossed his face as he looked at them. They both saw him standing there.

Did Mary think what a promising husband he would have made her? Cyril

flung a word after them; and it was not a blessing.

Dobbs had also flung something after them, and in point of time and

precedence this ought to have been mentioned first. Patience, watching

from her window, curious as every one else, had seen Dobbs come out with

something under her apron, and take up her station at the gate, where

she waited patiently for just an hour and a quarter. As the carriage had

come into view, Dobbs sheltered herself behind the shrubs, nothing to be

seen of her above them, but her cap and eyes. The moment the carriage

was past, out flew Dobbs to the middle of the road. Bringing forth from

their hiding-place a pair of shoes considerably the worse for wear, the

one possessing no sole, and the other no upper leather, Dobbs dashed

them with force after the chariot, very much discomposing the manservant

in the rear, whose head they struck.

"Nothing like old shoes to bring 'em luck," grunted Dobbs to Patience,

as she retired indoors. "I never knew good come of a wedding that didn't

get 'em."

"_I_ wish them luck; the luck of a safe arrival home from those

unpleasant foreign parts," emphatically remarked Patience, who had found

her residence amongst the French nothing less than a species of

terrestrial purgatory.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE BISHOP'S LETTER.

A day or two after the wedding, a letter was delivered at Mrs.

Halliburton's residence, addressed to Gar. Its seal, a mitre, prepared

Gar to find that it came from the Bishop of Helstonleigh. Its contents

proved to be a mandate, commanding his attendance the following morning

at the palace at nine o'clock. Gar turned nervous. Had he fallen under

his bishop's displeasure, and was about to be reprimanded? Mr. Tait had

gone back to London; Gar was to leave on the following day, Saturday;

Frank meant to stay on for a week or two. It was his vacation.

"That's Gar all over!" cried Frank, who had perched himself on a side

table. "Gar is sure to look to the dark side of things, instead of the

bright. If the Lord Chancellor sent for me, I should set it down that my

fortune was about to be made. His lordship's going to present you with a

living, Gar."

"That's good!" retorted Gar. "What interest have I with the bishop?"

"He has known you long enough."

"As he has many others. If the bishop interested himself for all the

clergymen who have been educated at Helstonleigh college school, he

would have enough upon his hands. I expect it is to find fault with me

for some unconscious offence."

"Go it, Gar! You'll get no sleep to-night."

"Frank, I must say the note appears a peremptory one," remarked Jane.

"Middling for that. It's short, if not sweet."

Whether Gar had any sleep or not that night, he did not say; but he

started to keep the appointment punctually. His mother and Frank

remained together, and Jane fell into a bit of quiet talk over the

breakfast table.

"Frank," said she, "I am often uneasy about you."

"About me!" cried Frank in considerable wonderment.

"If you were to go wrong! I know what the temptations of a London life

must be. Especially to a young man who has, so to say, no home."

"I steer clear of them. Mother darling, I am telling you the truth," he

added earnestly. "Do you think we could ever fall away from such

training as yours? No. Look at what William is; look at Gar; and for

myself, though I don't like to boast, I assure you, the Anti-evil-doing

Society--if you have ever heard of that respected body--might hoist me

on a pedestal at Exeter Hall as their choicest model. You don't like my

joking! Believe me, then, in all seriousness, that your sons will never

fail you. We did not battle on in our duty as boys, to forget it as men.

You taught us the bravest lesson that a mother can teach, or a child

learn, when you contrived to impress upon us the truth that God is our

witness always, ever present."

Jane's eyes filled with tears: not of grief. She knew that Frank was

speaking from his heart.

"And you are getting on well?"

"What with stray briefs that come to me, and my literary work, and the

fellowship, I make six or seven hundred a year already."

"I hope you are not spending it all?"

"That I am not. I put by all I can. It is true that I don't live upon

bread and potatoes six days in the week, as you know we have done; but I

take care that my expenses are moderate. It is keeping hare-brained

follies at arm's-length that enables me to save."

"And now, Frank, for another question. What made you send me that

hundred-pound note?"

"I shall send you another soon," was all Frank's answer. "The idea of my

gaining a superfluity of money, and sending none to my darling mother!"

"But indeed I don't know what to do with it, Frank. I do not require

it."

"Then put it by to look at. As long as I have brains to work with, I

shall think of my mother. Have you forgotten how she worked for us? I

wish you would come and live with me?"

Jane entered into all her arguments for deeming that she should be

better with Gar. Not the least of them was, that she should still be

near Helstonleigh. Of all her sons, Jane, perhaps unconsciously to

herself, most loved her eldest: and to go far away from him would have

been another trouble.

By-and-by, they saw Gar coming back. And he did not look as if he had

been receiving a reprimand: quite the contrary. He came in almost as

impulsively as he used to do in his schoolboy days.

"Frank, you were right! The bishop is going to give me a living. Mother,

it is true."

"Of course," said Frank. "I always am right."

"The bishop did not keep me waiting a minute, although I was there

before my time. He was very kind, and----"

"But about the living?" cried impatient Frank.

"I am telling you, Frank. The bishop said he had watched us grow

up--meaning you, as well--and he felt pleased to tell me that he had

never seen anything but good in either of us. But I need not repeat all

that. He went on to ask me whether I should be prepared to do my duty

zealously in a living, were one given to me. I answered that I hoped I

should--and the long and the short of it is, that I am going to be

appointed to one."

"Long live the bishop!" cried Frank. "Where's the living situated! In

the moon?"

"Ah, where indeed? Guess what living it is, mother."

"Gar, dear, how can I?" asked Jane. "Is it a minor canonry?"

They both laughed. It recalled Jane to her absence of mind. The bishop

had nothing to do with bestowing the minor canonries. Neither could a

minor canonry be called a "living."

"Mother, it is Deoffam."

"Deoffam! Oh, Gar!"

"Yes, it is Deoffam. You will not have to go far away from Helstonleigh,

now."

"I'll lay my court wig that Mr. Ashley has had his finger in the pie!"

cried quick Frank.

But, in point of fact, the gift had emanated from the prelate himself.

And a very good gift it was: four hundred a year, and the prettiest

parsonage house within ten miles. The brilliant scholarship of the

Halliburtons, attained by their own unflagging industry, the high

character they had always borne, had not been lost upon the Bishop of

Helstonleigh. Gar's conduct as a clergyman had been exemplary; Gar's

preaching was of no mean order, and the bishop deemed that such a one as

Gar ought not to be overlooked. The day has gone by for a bishop to know

nothing of the younger clergy of his diocese, and he of Helstonleigh had

Gar Halliburton down in his preferment book. It is just possible that

the announcement of his name in the local papers, as having helped to

marry his brother at Deoffam, may have put that particular living into

the bishop's head. Certain it was, that, a few hours after the bishop

read it, he ordered his carriage, and went to pay a visit at Deoffam

Hall. During his stay, he took Mr. Ashley's arm, and drew him out on to

the terrace, very much as though he wished to take a nearer view of the

peacock.

"I have been thinking, Mr. Ashley, of bestowing the living of Deoffam

upon Edgar Halliburton. What should you say to it?"

"That I should almost feel it as a personal favour paid to myself," was

the reply of Mr. Ashley.

"Then it is done," said the bishop. "He is young, but I know a great

many older men who are less deserving than he."

"Your lordship may rely upon it that there are few men, young or old,

who are so intrinsically deserving as the Halliburtons."

"I know it," said the bishop. "They interested me as lads, and I have

watched them ever since."

And that is how Gar became Vicar of Deoffam.

"You will be trying for a minor canonry now, Gar, I suppose, living so

near to it?" observed Jane.

"Mrs. Halliburton, will you be so kind as not to put unsuitable notions

into his head?" interrupted Frank. "The Reverend Gar must look out for a

canonry, not a minor. And he won't stop there. When I am on the

woolsack, in my place in the Lords, Gar may be opposite to me, a

spiritual peer."

Jane laughed, as did Frank. Who knew, though? It all lay in the future.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A DYING CONFESSION.

Meanwhile William Halliburton and his wife had crossed the Channel.

Amongst other letters, written home to convey news of them, was the

following. It was written by Mary to Mrs. Ashley, after they had been

abroad a week or two.

"_Hotel du Chapeau Rouge_, _Dunkerque_,

"_September 24th._

"MY EVER DEAR MAMMA,

"You have heard from William how it was that we altered our

intended route. I thought the sea-side so delightful that I was

unwilling to leave it, even for Paris, and we determined to

remain on the coast, especially as I shall have other

opportunities of seeing Paris with William. Boulogne was

crowded and noisy, so we left it for less frequented towns,

staying a day or two in each place. We went to Calais and to

Gravelines; also to Bourbourg, and to Cassel--the two latter

_not_ on the coast. The view from Cassel--which you must not

confound with Cassel in Germany--is magnificent. We met some

English people on the summit of the hill, and they told us the

English called it the Malvern of France. I am not sure which

affords the finer view, Cassel or Malvern. They say that eighty

towns or villages may be counted from it; but I cannot say that

we made out anything like so many. We can see the sea in the

far distance--as we can, on a clear day, catch a glimpse from

Malvern of the Bristol Channel. The view from some of the

windows of the Hotel de Sauvage was so beautiful that I was

never tired of looking at it. William says he shall show me

better views when he takes me to Lyons and Annonay, but I

scarcely think it possible. At a short distance rises a

monastery of the order of La Trappe, where the monks never

speak, except the 'Memento mori' when they meet each other.

Some of the customs of the hotel were primitive; they gave us

tablespoons in our coffee-cups for breakfast.

"From Cassel we came to Dunkerque, and are staying at the

Chapeau Rouge, the only large hotel in the place. The other

large hotel was made into a convent some time back; both are in

the Rue des Capucins. It is a fine and very clean old fortified

town, with a statue of Jean Bart in the middle of the Place.

Place Jean Bart, it is called; and the market is held in it on

Wednesdays and Saturdays, as it is at Helstonleigh. Such a

crowded scene on the Saturday! and the women's snow-white caps

quite shine in the sun. I cannot tell you how much I like to

look at these old Flemish towns! By moonlight, they look

exactly like the towns you are familiar with in old pictures.

There is a large basin here, and a long harbour and pier. One

English lady, whom we met at the table d'hote, said she had

never been to the end of the pier yet, and she had lived in

Dunkerque four years. It was too far for a walk, she said. The

country round is flat and poor, and the lower classes mostly

speak Flemish.

"On Monday we went by barge to a place called Bergues, four

miles off. It was market day there, and the barge was crowded

with passengers from Dunkerque. A nice old town, with a fine

church. They charged us only five sous for our passage. But I

must leave all these descriptions until I return home, and come

to what I have chiefly to tell you.

"There is a piece of enclosed ground here, called the Pare. On

the previous Saturday, which was the day we first arrived here,

I and William were walking through it, and sat down on one of

the benches facing the old tower. I was rather tired, having

been to the end of the pier--for its length did not alarm us.

Some one was seated at the other end of the bench, but we did

not take particular notice of her. Suddenly she turned to me,

and spoke: 'Have I not the honour of seeing Miss Ashley?'

Mamma, you may imagine my surprise. It was that Italian

governess of the Dares, Mademoiselle Varsini, as they used to

call her. William interposed: I don't think he liked her

speaking to me. I suppose he thought of that story about her,

which came over from Germany. He rose and took me on his arm to

move away. 'Formerly Miss Ashley,' he said to her: 'now Mrs.

Halliburton.' But William's anger died away--if he had felt

any--when he saw her face. I cannot describe to you how

fearfully ill she looked. Her cheeks were white, and drawn, and

hollow; her eyes were sunk within a dark circle, and her lips

were open and looked black. 'Are you ill?' I asked her. 'I am

so ill that a few days will be the finish of me,' she answered.

'The doctor gave me to the falling of the leaves, and many are

already strewing the grass; in less than a week's time from

this, I shall be lower than they are.' 'Is Herbert Dare with

you?' inquired William--but he has said since that he spoke in

the moment's impulse. Had he taken thought, he would not have

put the question. 'No, he is not with me,' she answered, in an

angry tone. 'I know nothing of him. He is just a vagabond on

the face of the earth.' 'What is it that is the matter with

you?' William asked her. 'They call it decay,' she answered. 'I

was in Brussels, getting my living by daily teaching. I had to

go out in all weathers, and I did not take heed to the colds I

caught. I suppose they settled on my lungs.' 'Have you been in

this town long?' we inquired of her. 'I came in August,' she

answered. 'The Belgian doctor said if I had a change, it might

do something for me, and I came here; it was the same to me

where I went. But it did me harm instead of good. I grew worse

directly I came; and the doctor here said I must not move away

again; the travelling would injure me. What mattered it? As

good die here as elsewhere.' That she had death written plainly

in her face, was evident. Nevertheless, William tried to say a

word of hope to her: but she interrupted him. 'There's no

recovery for me; I am sure to die; and the time, it's to be

hoped, will not be long in coming, or my money will not hold

out.' She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone shocking to hear: and

before I could call up any answer, she turned to William. 'You

are the William Halli--I never could say the name--who was at

Mr. Ashley's with Cyril Dare. May I ask where you have

descended in Dunkerque?' 'At the Chapeau Rouge,' replied

William. 'Then, if I should send there to ask you to come and

speak with me, will you come?' she continued. 'I have something

that I should like to tell you before I die.' William informed

her that we should remain a week; and we wished her good

morning and moved away into another walk. Soon afterwards, we

saw a Sister of Charity, one of those who go about nursing the

sick, come up to her and lead her away. She could scarcely

crawl, and halted to take breath between every few steps.

"This, I have told you, was last Saturday. This evening,

Wednesday, just as we were rising from table, a waiter came to

William and called him out, saying he was wanted. It proved to

be the Sister of Charity that we had seen in the park; she told

William that Madame Varsini was near death, and had sent her

for him. So William went with her, and I have been writing this

to you since his departure. It is now ten o'clock, and he has

not yet returned. I shall keep this open to tell you what she

wanted with him. I cannot imagine.

"Past eleven. William has come in. He thinks she will not live

over to-morrow. And I have kept my letter open for nothing, for

William will not tell me. He says she has been talking to him

about herself and the Dares; but that the tale is more fit for

papa's ears than for yours or mine.

"My sincerest love to papa and Henry. We are so glad Gar is to

be at Deoffam!--And believe me, your ever-loving child,

"MARY HALLIBURTON."

"Excuse the smear. I had nearly put 'Mary Ashley.'"

* * * * *

This meeting, described in Mary's letter, must have been one of those

remarkable coincidences that sometimes occur during a lifetime. Chance

encounters they are sometimes called. Chance! Had William and his wife

not gone to Dunkerque--and they went there by accident, as may be said,

for the original plan had been to spend their absence in Paris--they

would not have met. Had the Italian lady not gone to Dunkerque when

ordered change--and she chose it by accident, she said--they would not

have met. But somehow both parties _were_ brought there, and they did

meet. It was not chance that led them there.

When William went out with the sister, she conducted him to a small

lodging in the Rue Nationale, a street not far from the hotel. The

accommodation appeared to consist of a small ante-room and a

bed-chamber. Signora Varsini was in the latter, dressed in a _peignoir_,

and sitting in an arm-chair, supported by cushions. A washed-out, faded

_peignoir_, possibly the very one she had worn years ago, the night of

the death of Anthony Dare. William was surprised; by the sister's

account he had expected to find her in bed, almost in the last

extremity. But hers was a restless spirit. She was evidently weaker, and

her breath seemed to come irregularly. William sat down in a chair

opposite to her: he could not see very much of her face, for the small

lamp on the table had a green shade over it, which cast its gloom on the

room.

The sister retired to the ante-room and closed the door between with a

caution. "Madame was not to talk much." For a few moments after the

first greeting, she, "Madame," kept silence; then she spoke in English.

"I should not have known you. I never saw much of you. But I knew Miss

Ashley in a moment. You must have prospered well."

"Yes, I am Mr. Ashley's partner."

"So! That is what Cyril Dare coveted for himself. Miss Ashley also.

'Bah, Monsieur Cyril!' said I sometimes to my mind; 'neither the one nor

the other for thee.' Where is he?"

"Cyril? He is at home. Doing no good."

"He never do good," she said with bitterness. "He Herbert's own brother.

And the other one--George?"

"George is in Australia. He has a chance, I believe, of doing pretty

well."

"Are the girls married?"

"No."

"Not Adelaide?"

"No."

Something like a smile curled her dark and fevered lips. "Mademoiselle

Adelaide was trying after that vicomte. 'Bah!' I would say to myself as

I did by Cyril, 'there's no vicomte for her; he is only playing his

game.' Does he go there now?"

"Lord Hawkesley? Oh, no. All intimacy has ceased."

"They have gone down, have they not? They are very poor?"

"I fear they are poor now. Yes, they have very much gone down. May I

inquire what it is you want with me?"

"You inquire soon," she answered in resentful tones. "Do you fear I

should contaminate you?--as you feared for your wife on Saturday?"

"If I can aid you in any way I shall be happy and ready to do so," was

William's answer, spoken soothingly. "I think you are very ill."

"The doctor was here this afternoon. 'Ma chere,' said he, 'to-morrow

will about end it. You are too weak to last longer; the inside is

gone.'"

"Did he speak to you in that way?--a medical man!"

"He is aware that I know as much about my own state as he does. He might

not be so plain with all his patients. Then I said to the sister, 'Get

me up and make the bed, for I must see a friend.'--And I sent her for

you. I told you I wanted you to do me a little service. Will you do it?"

"If it is in my power."

"It is not much. It is this," she added, drawing from beneath the

_peignoir_ a small packet, sealed and stamped, looking like a thick

letter. "Will you undertake to put this surely in the post after I am

dead? I do not want it posted before."

"Certainly I will," he answered, taking it from her hand, and glancing

at the superscription. It was addressed to Herbert Dare at Dusseldorf.

"Is he there?" asked William.

"That was his address the last I heard of him. He is now here, now

there, now elsewhere; a vagabond, as I told you, on the face of the

earth. He is like Cain," she vehemently continued. "Cain wandered abroad

over the earth, never finding rest. So does Herbert Dare. Who wonders?

Cain killed his brother: what did _he_ do?"

William lifted his eyes to her face; as much of it as might be

distinguished under the dark shade cast by the lamp. That she appeared

to be in a very demonstrative state of resentment against Herbert Dare

was indisputable.

"He did not kill his brother, at any rate," observed William. "I fear he

is not a good man; and you may have cause to know that more conclusively

than I; but he did not kill his brother. You were in Helstonleigh at the

time, mademoiselle, and must remember that he was cleared," added

William, falling into the style of address used by the Dares.

"Then I say he did kill him."

She spoke with slow distinctness. William could only look at her in

amazement. Was her mind wandering? She sat glaring at him with her light

blue eyes, so glazed, yet glistening; just the same eyes that used to

puzzle old Anthony Dare.

"What did you say?" asked William.

"I say that Herbert Dare is a second Cain," she answered.

"He did not kill Anthony," repeated William. "He could not have killed

him. He was in another place at the time."

"Yes. With that Puritan child in the dainty dress--fit attire only for

your folles in--what you call the place?--Bedlam! I know he was in

another place," she continued: and she appeared to be growing terribly

excited, between passion and natural emotion.

"Then what are you speaking of?" asked William. "It is an impossibility

that Herbert could have killed his brother."

"He caused him to be killed."

William felt a nameless dread creeping over him. "What do you mean?" he

breathed.

"I send that letter, which you have taken charge of, to Herbert the bad;

but he moves about from place to place, and it may never reach him. So I

want to tell you in substance what is written in the letter, that you

may repeat it to him when you come across him. He may be going back to

Helstonleigh some day; if he not die off first, with his vagabond life.

Was it not said there, once, that he was dead?"

"Only for a day or two. It was a false report."

"And when you see him--in case he has not had that packet--you will tell

him this that I am now about to tell you."

"What is its nature?" asked William.

"Will you promise to tell him?"

"Not until I first hear what it may be," fearlessly replied William.

"Intrust it to me, if you will, and I will keep it sacred; but I must

use my own judgment as to imparting it to Herbert Dare. It may be

something that would be better left unsaid."

"I do not ask you to keep it sacred," she rejoined. "You may tell it to

the world if you please; you may tell it to your wife; you may tell it

to all Helstonleigh. But not until I am dead. Will you give that

promise?"

"That I will readily give you."

"On your honour?"

William's truthful eyes smiled into hers. "On my honour--if that shall

better satisfy you. It was not necessary."

She remained silent a few moments, and then burst forth vehemently.

"When you see him, that cochon, that vaurien----"

"I beg you to be calm," interrupted William. "This excitement must be

most injurious to one in your weak state; I cannot sit and listen to

it."

"Tell him," said she, leaning forward, and speaking in a somewhat calmer

tone, "tell him that it was he who caused the death of his brother

Anthony."

William could only look at her. Was she wandering? "_I_ killed him," she

went on. "Killed him in mistake for Monsieur Herbert."

Barely had the words left her lips, when all that had been strange in

that past tragedy seamed to roll away as a cloud from William's mind.

The utter mystery there had been as to the perpetrator: the almost

impossibility of pointing accusation to any, seemed now accounted for:

and a conviction that she was speaking the dreadful truth fell upon him.

Involuntarily he recoiled from her.

"He used me ill; yes, he used me ill, that wicked Herbert!" she

continued in agitation. "He told me stories; he was false to me; he

mocked at me! He had made me care for him; I cared for him--ah, I not

tell you how. And then he turned round to laugh at me. He had but amused

himself--pour faire passer la temps!"

Her voice had risen to a shriek; her face and lips grew ghastly, and she

began to twitch as one falling into convulsion. William grew alarmed,

and hastened to her support. He could not help it, much as his spirit

revolted from her.

"Y a-t-il quelque chose qu'on peut donner a madame pour la soulager?" he

called out hastily to the sister in his fear.

The woman glided in. "Mais oui, monsieur. Madame s'agite, n'est-ce pas?"

"Elle s'agite beaucoup."

The sister poured some drops from a phial into a wine-glass of water,

and held it to those quivering lips. "Si vous vous agitez comme cela,

madame, c'est pour vous tuer, savez-vous?" cried she.

"I fear so too," added William in English to the invalid. "It would be

better for me not to hear this, than for you to put yourself into this

state."

She grew calmer, and the sister quitted them. William resumed his seat

as before; there appeared to be no help for it, and she continued her

tale.

"I not agitate myself again," she said. "I not tell you all the details,

or what I suffered: a quoi bon? Pain at morning, pain at midday, pain at

night; I think my heart turned dark, and it has never been right

again----"

"Hush, mademoiselle! The sister will hear you."

"What matter? She not speak English."

"I really cannot, for your sake, remain here, if you put yourself into

this state," he rejoined.

"You must remain; you must listen! You have promised to do it," she

answered.

"I will, if you will be calm."

"I'll be calm," she rejoined, the check having driven back the rising

passion. "The worst is told. Or rather, I do not tell you the

worst--that mauvais Herbert! Do you wonder that my spirit was turned to

revenge?"

Perceiving somewhat of her fierce and fiery nature, William did not

wonder at it. "I do not know what I am to understand yet?" he whispered.

"Did _you_--_kill_--Anthony?"

She leaned back on her pillow, clasping her hands before her. "Ah me! I

did! Tell him so," she continued again passionately; "tell him that I

killed Anthony--thinking it was _him_."

"It is a dreadful story!" shuddered William.

"I did not mean it to be so dreadful," she answered, speaking quite

equably. "No, I did not; and I am telling you as true as though it were

my confession before receiving the _bon dieu_. I only meant to wound

him----"

"Herbert?"

"Herbert! Of course; who else but Herbert?" she retorted, giving signs

of another relapse. "Had I cause of anger against that pauvre Anthony?

No; no. Anthony was sharp with the rest sometimes, but he was always

civil to me; I never had a mis-word with him. I not like Cyril; but I

not dislike George and Anthony. Why, why," she continued, wringing her

hands, "did Anthony come forth from his chamber that night and go out,

when he said he had retired to it for good? That is where all the evil

arose."

"Not all," dissented William in low tones.

"Yes, all," she sharply repeated. "I had only meant to give Mr. Herbert

a little prick in the dark, just to repay him, to stop his pleasant

visits to that field for a term. I never thought to kill him. I liked

him better than that, ill as he was behaving to me. I never thought to

kill him; I never thought much to hurt him. And it would not have hurt

Anthony; but that he was what you call tipsy, and fell on the point of

the----"

"Scissors?" suggested William, for she had stopped. How could he, even

with this confession before him, speak to a lady--or one who ought to

have been a lady--of any uglier weapon?

"I had something by me sharper than scissors. But never you mind what.

That, so far, does not matter. The little hurt I had intended for

Herbert he escaped; and poor Anthony was killed."

There was a long pause. William broke it, speaking out his thoughts

impulsively.

"And yet you went to Rotterdam afterwards to make friends with Herbert!"

"When he write and tell me there good teaching in the place, could I

know it was untrue? Could I know that he would borrow all my money from

me? Could I know that he turn out a worse----"

"Mademoiselle, I pray you, be calm."

"There, then. I will say no more. I have outlived it. But I wish him to

know that that fine night's work was _his_. It was the right man who lay

in prison for it. The letter I have given you may never reach him; and I

ask you tell him, for his pill, should it not."

"Then you have never hinted this to him?" asked William.

"Never. I was afraid. Will you tell him?"

"I cannot make the promise. I must use my own discretion. I think it is

very unlikely that I shall ever see him."

"You meet people that you do not look for. Until last Saturday, you

might have said it was unlikely that you would meet me."

"That is true."

Now that the excitement of the disclosure was over, she lay back in a

grievous state of exhaustion. William rose to leave, and she held out

her hand to him. Could he shun it--guilty as she had confessed herself

to him? No. Who was he, that he should set himself up to judge her? And

she was dying!

"Can nothing be done to alleviate your sufferings?" he inquired in a

kindly tone.

"Nothing. The sooner death comes to release me from them, the better."

He lingered yet, hesitating. Then he bent closer to her, and spoke in a

whisper.

"Have you thought much of that other life? Of the necessity of

repentance--of seeking earnestly the pardon of God?"

"That is your Protestant fashion," she answered with equanimity. "I have

made my confession to a priest and he has given me absolution. A good

fat old man; he was very kind to me; he saw how I had been tossed and

turned about in life. He will bring the _bon dieu_ to me the last thing,

and cause a mass to be said for my soul."

"I thought I had heard that you were a Protestant."

"I was either. I said I was a Protestant to Madame Dare. But the Roman

Catholic religion is the most convenient to take up when you are

passing. _Your_ priests say they cannot pardon sins."

The interview took longer in acting than it has in telling, and William

returned to the hotel to find Mary tired, wondering at his absence, and

a letter to Mrs. Ashley--with which you have been favoured--lying on the

table, awaiting its conclusion.

"You are weary, my darling. You should not have remained up."

"I thought you were never coming, William. I thought you must have gone

off by the London steamer, and left me here! The hotel omnibus took some

passengers to it at ten o'clock."

William sat down on the sofa, and drew her to him; the full tide of

thankfulness going up from his heart that all women were not as the one

he had just left.

"And what did Mademoiselle Varsini want with you, William? Is she really

dying?"

"I think she is dying. You must not ask me what she wanted, Mary. It was

to tell me something--to speak of things connected with herself and the

Dares. They would not be pleasant to your ears."

"But I have been writing an account of all this to mamma, and have left

my letter open, to send word what the governess could have to say to

you. What can I tell her?"

"Tell her as I tell you, my dearest: that what I have been listening to

is more fit for Mr. Ashley's ears than for yours or hers."

Mary rose and wrote rapidly the concluding lines. William stood and

watched her. He laughed at the "smear."

"I am not familiar with my new name yet: I was signing myself 'Mary

Ashley.'"

"Would you go back to the old name, if you could?" cried he, somewhat

saucily.

"Oh, William!"

Saturday came round again: the day they were to leave--just a week since

they had come, since the encounter in the park. They were taking an

early walk in the market, when certain low sounds, as of chanting,

struck upon their ears. A funeral was coming along; it had just turned

out of the great church of St. Eloi, at the other corner of the Place.

Not a wealthy funeral--quite the other thing. On the previous day they

had seen a grand interment, attended by its distinguishing marks; seven

or eight banners, as many priests. Some sudden feeling prompted William

to ask whose funeral this was, and he made inquiry of a shopkeeper, who

was standing at her door.

"Monsieur, c'est l'enterrement d'une etrangere. Une Italienne, l'on dit:

Madame Varsini."

"Oh, William! do they bury her already?" was Mary's shocked

remonstrance. "It was only yesterday at midday the sister came to you to

say she had died. What a shame!"

"Hush, love! Many of the people here understand English. They bury

quickly in these countries."

They stood on the pavement, and the funeral came quickly on. One black

banner borne aloft in a man's hand, two boys in surplices with lighted

candles, and the priest chanting with his open book. Eight men, in white

corded hats and black cloaks, bore the coffin on a bier, and there was a

sprinkling of impromptu followers--as there always is at these foreign

funerals. As the dead was borne past him on its way to the cemetery,

William, following the usage of the country, lifted his hat, and

remained uncovered until it had gone by.

And that was the last of Bianca Varsini.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE DARES.

It was a winter's morning, and the family party round the breakfast

table at William Halliburton's looked a cheery one, with its adjuncts of

a good fire and good fare. Mr. and Mrs. Ashley and Henry were guests.

And I can tell you that in Mr. Ashley they were entertaining no less a

personage than the high sheriff of the county.

The gentlemen nominated for sheriffs, that year, for the county of

Helstonleigh, whose names had gone up to the Queen, were as follows:--

Humphrey Coldicott, Esquire, of Coldicott Grange;

Sir Harry Marr, Bart., of The Lynch;

Thomas Ashley, Esquire, of Deoffam Hall. And her Majesty had been

pleased to pick the latter name.

The gate of the garden swung open, and some one came hastily round the

gravel-path to the house. Mary, who was seated at the head of the table,

facing the window, caught a view of the visitor.

"It is Mrs. Dare!" she exclaimed.

"Mrs. Dare!" repeated Mr. Ashley, as a peal at the hall-bell was heard.

"Nonsense, child!"

"Papa, indeed it is."

"I think you must be mistaken, Mary," said her husband. "Mrs. Dare would

scarcely be out at this early hour."

"Oh, you disbelievers all!" laughed Mary. "As if I did not know Mrs.

Dare! She looked scared and flurried."

Mrs. Dare, looking indeed scared and flurried, came into the

breakfast-room. The servant had been showing her into another room, but

she put him aside, and appeared amidst them.

What brought her there? What had she come to tell them? Alas! of their

unhappy downfall. How the Dares had contrived to go on so long, without

the crash coming, they alone knew. They had promised to pay here, they

had promised to pay there; and people, tradespeople especially, did not

much like to begin compulsory measures with old Anthony Dare, who had so

long held sway in Helstonleigh. His professional business had almost

left him--perhaps because there was no efficient head to carry it on.

Cyril was just what mademoiselle had called Herbert, a vagabond; and

Cyril was an irretrievable one. No good to the business was he--not half

as much good as he was to the public-houses. Mr. Dare, with white hair,

bent form, and dim eyes, would go creeping to his office most days; but

his memory was leaving him, and it was evident to all that he was

relapsing into his second childhood. Latterly they had lived entirely by

privately disposing of their portable effects--as Honey Fair used to do

when it fell out of work. They owed money everywhere; rent, taxes,

servants' wages, large debts, small debts--it was universal. And now the

landlord had put in his claim after the manner of landlords, and it had

brought on the climax. They were literally without resource; they knew

not where to turn; they had not a penny, or the worth of it, in the wide

world. Mrs. Dare, in the alarm occasioned by the unwelcome visitor--for

the landlord's man had made good his entrance that morning--came flying

off to Mr. Ashley, some extravagant hope floating in her mind that help

might be obtained from him.

"Here's trouble! Here's trouble!" she exclaimed by way of salutation,

wringing her hands frantically.

They rose in consternation, believing she must have gone wild. William

handed her a chair.

"There, don't come round me," she cried, as she flung herself into it.

"Go on with your breakfast. I have concealed our troubles until I am

heart-sick, and now they can be concealed no longer, and I have come for

help to you. Don't press anything upon me, Mrs. William Halliburton; to

attempt to eat would choke me!"

She sat there and entered on her grievances. How they had long been

without money, had lived by credit, and by pledging things out of their

house; how they owed more than she could tell; how a "horrible man" had

come into their house that morning, as an emissary of the landlord.

"What are we to do?" she wailed. "Will you help us? Mr. Ashley, will

you?--your wife is my husband's cousin, you know. Mr. Halliburton, will

_you_ help us? Don't you know that I have a right to claim kindred with

you? Your father and I were first cousins, and lived for some time under

the same roof."

William remembered the former years when she had not been so ready to

own the relationship. He remembered the day when Mr. Dare had put a

seizure into their house, and his mother had gone, craving grace of him.

Mr. Ashley remembered it, and his eye met William's. How marvellously

had the change been brought round! the right come to light!

"What is it that you wish me to do?" inquired Mr. Ashley. "I do not

understand."

"Not understand!" she sharply echoed, in her grief. "I want the landlord

paid out. You have ample means at command, Mr. Ashley, and might do this

much for us."

A modest request, certainly! The rent due was for three years:

considerably more than two hundred pounds. Mr. Ashley replied to it

quietly.

"A moment's reflection might convince you, Mrs. Dare, that to pay this

money would be fruitless waste. The instant this procedure gets

wind--and in all probability it has already done so--other claims, as

pressing, will be enforced."

"Tradespeople must wait," she answered, with irritation.

"Wait for what?" asked Mr. Ashley. "Do you expect to drop into a

fortune?"

Wait for what, indeed? For complete ruin? There was nothing else to wait

for. Mrs. Dare sat beating her foot against the carpet.

"Mr. Dare has grown useless," she said. "What he says one minute, he

forgets the next; he is almost in a state of imbecility. I have no one

to consult with, and therefore I come to you. Indeed, you must help me."

"But I do not see what I can do for you," rejoined Mr. Ashley. "As to

paying your debts, it is--it is--in fact, it is not to be thought of. I

have my own payments to make, my expenses to keep up. I could not do it,

Mrs. Dare."

She paused again, playing nervously with her bonnet strings. "Will you

go back with me, and see what you can make of Mr. Dare? Perhaps between

you something may be arranged. I don't understand things."

"I cannot go back with you," replied Mr. Ashley. "I must attend the

meeting which takes place this morning at the Guildhall."

"In your official capacity," remarked Mrs. Dare in not at all a pleasant

tone of voice. "I forgot that you preside at it. How very grand you have

become!"

"Very grand indeed, I think, considering the lowly estimation in which

you held the glove manufacturer, Thomas Ashley," he answered, with a

good-humoured laugh. "I will call upon your husband in the course of the

day, Mrs. Dare."

She turned to William. "Will you return with me? I have a claim on you,"

she reiterated eagerly.

He shook his head. "I accompany Mr. Ashley to the meeting."

She was obliged to be satisfied, turned abruptly, and left the room,

William attending her to the door.

"What d'you call that?" asked Henry, lifting his voice for the first

time.

"Call it?" repeated his sister.

"Yes, Mrs. Mary; call it. Cheek, I should say."

"Hush, Henry," said Mr. Ashley.

"Very well, sir. It's cheek all the same, though."

As Mr. Ashley surmised, the misfortune had already got wind, and the

unhappy Dares were besieged that day by clamorous creditors. When Mr.

Ashley and William arrived there, for they walked up at the conclusion

of the public meeting, they found Mr. Dare seated alone in the

dining-room; that sad dining-room which had witnessed the tragical end

of Anthony. He cowered over the fire, his thin hands stretched out to

the blaze. He was not altogether childish; but his memory failed, and he

was apt to fall into fits of wandering. Mr. Ashley drew forward a chair

and sat down by him.

"I fear things do not look very bright," he observed. "We called in at

your office as we came by, and found a seizure was also put in there."

"There's nothing much for 'em to take but the desks," returned old

Anthony.

"Mrs. Dare wished me to come and talk matters over with you, to see

whether anything could be done. She does not understand them, she said."

"What _can_ be done, when things come to such a pass as this?" returned

Anthony Dare, lifting his head sharply. "That's just like women--'seeing

what's to be done!' I am beset on all sides. If the bank sent me a

present of three or four thousand pounds, we might go on again. But it

won't, you know. The things must go, and we must go. I suppose they'll

not put me in prison; they'd get nothing by doing it."

He leaned forward and rested his chin on his stick, which was stretched

out before him as usual. Presently he resumed, his eyes and words alike

wandering:

"He said the money would not bring us good if we kept it. And it has

not: it has brought a curse. I have told Julia so twenty times since

Anthony went. Only the half of it was ours, you know, and we took the

whole."

"What money?" asked Mr. Ashley, wondering what he was saying.

"Old Cooper's. We were at Birmingham when he died, I and Julia. The will

left it all to her, but he charged us----"

Mr. Dare suddenly stopped. His eye had fallen on William. In these fits

of wandering he partially lost his memory, and mixed things and people

together in the most inextricable confusion.

"Are you Edgar Halliburton?" he went on.

"I am his son. Do you not remember me, Mr. Dare?"

"Ay, ay. Your son-in-law," nodding to Mr. Ashley. "But Cyril was to have

had that place, you know. He was to have been your partner."

Mr. Ashley made no reply. It might not have been understood. And Mr.

Dare resumed, confounding William with his father.

"It was hers in the will, you know, Edgar, and that's some excuse, for

we had to prove it. There was not time to alter the will, but he said it

was an unjust one, and charged us to divide the money; half for us, half

for you; to divide it to the last halfpenny. And we took it all. We did

not mean to take it, or to cheat you, but somehow the money went; our

expenses were great, and we had heavy debts, and when you came

afterwards to Helstonleigh and died, your share was already broken

into, and it was too late. Ill-gotten money brings nothing but a curse,

and that money brought it to us. Will you shake hands and forgive?"

"Heartily," replied William, taking his wasted hand.

"But you had to struggle, and the money would have kept struggle from

you. It was many thousands."

"Who knows whether it would or not?" cheerily answered William. "Had we

possessed money to fall back upon, we might not have struggled with a

will; we might not have put out all the exertion that was in us, and

then we should never have got on as we have done."

"Ay; got on. You are looked up to now; you have become gentlemen. And

what are my boys? The money was yours."

"Dismiss it entirely from your memory, Mr. Dare," was William's answer,

given in true compassion. "I believe that our not having had it may have

been good for us in the long-run, rather than a drawback. The utter want

of money may have been the secret of our success."

"Ay," nodded old Dare. "My boys should have been taught to work, and

they were only taught to spend. We must have our luxuries indoors,

forsooth, and our show without; our servants, and our carriages, and our

confounded pride. What has it ended in?"

What had it! They made no answer. Mr. Dare remained still for a while,

and then lifted his haggard face, and spoke in a whisper, a shrinking

dread in his face and tone.

"They have been nothing but my curses. It was through Herbert that she,

that wicked foreign woman, murdered Anthony."

Did he know of _that_? How had the knowledge come to him! William had

not betrayed it, except to Mr. Ashley and Henry. And they had buried the

dreadful secret down deep in the archives of their breasts. Mr. Dare's

next words disclosed the puzzle.

"She died, that woman. And she wrote to Herbert on her death-bed and

made a confession. He sent a part of it on here, lest, I suppose, we

might doubt him still. But his conduct led to it. It is dreadful to have

such sons as mine!"

His stick fell to the ground. Mr. Ashley held him, while William picked

it up. He was gasping for breath.

"You are not well," cried Mr. Ashley.

"No; I think I am going. One can't stand these repeated shocks. Did I

see Edgar Halliburton here? I thought he was dead. Is he come for his

money?" he continued in a shivering whisper. "We acted according to the

will, sir: according to the will, tell him. He can see it in Doctors'

Commons. He can't proceed against us; he has no proof. Let him go and

look at the will."

"We had better leave him, William," murmured Mr. Ashley. "Our presence

only excites him."

In the opposite room sat Mrs. Dare. Adelaide passed out of it as they

entered. Never before had they remarked how sadly worn and faded she

looked. Her later life had been spent in pining after the chance of

greatness she had lost, in missing Viscount Hawkesley. Irrevocably lost

to her; for the daughter of a neighbouring earl now called him husband.

They sat down by Mrs. Dare, but could only condole with her: nothing but

the most irretrievable ruin was around.

"We shall be turned from here," she wailed. "How are we to find a

home--to earn a living?"

"Your daughters must do something to assist you," replied Mr. Ashley.

"Teaching, or----"

"Teaching! in this overdone place!" she interrupted.

"It has been somewhat overdone in that way, certainly of late years," he

answered. "If they cannot get teaching, they may find some other

employment. Work of some sort."

"Work!" shrieked Mrs. Dare. "My daughters _work_!"

"Indeed, I don't know what else is to be done," he answered. "Their

education has been good, and I should think they may obtain daily

teaching: perhaps sufficient to enable you to live quietly. I will pay

for a lodging for you, and give you a trifle towards housekeeping, until

you can turn yourselves round."

"I wish we were all dead!" was the response of Mrs. Dare.

Mr. Ashley went a little nearer to her. "What is this story that your

husband has been telling about the misappropriation of the money that

Mr. Cooper desired should be handed to Edgar Halliburton?"

She threw her hands before her face with a low cry. "Has he been

betraying _that_? What will become of us?--what shall we do with him? If

ever a family was beaten down by fate, it is ours."

Not gratuitously by fate, thought Mr. Ashley. Its own misdoings have

brought the evil upon it. "Where is Cyril?" he asked aloud. "He ought to

bestir himself to help you, now."

"Cyril!" echoed Mrs. Dare, a bitter scowl rising to her face. "_He_ help

us! You know what Cyril is."

As they went out, they met Cyril. What a contrast the two cousins

presented, side by side!--he and William might be called such. The

one--fine, noble, intellectual; his countenance setting forth its own

truth, candour, honour; making the best in his walk of life, of the

talents entrusted to him by God. The other--slouching, untidy, all but

ragged; his offensive doings too plainly shown in his bloated face, his

inflamed eyes: letting his talents and his days run to worse than waste;

a burden to himself and to those around him. And yet, in their boyhood

days, how great had been Cyril's advantages over William Halliburton's!

They walked away arm-in-arm, William and Mr. Ashley. A short visit to

the manufactory in passing, and then they continued their way home,

taking it purposely through Honey Fair.

Honey Fair! Could _that_ be Honey Fair? Honey Fair used to be an

unsightly, inodorous place, where mud, garbage, and children ran riot

together: a species, in short, of capacious pigsty. But look at it now.

The paths are well kept, the road is clean and cared for. Her Majesty's

state coach-and-eight might drive down it, and the horses would not have

to tread gingerly. The houses are the same; small and large bear

evidence of care, of thrift, of a respectable class of inmates. The

windows are no longer stuffed with rags, or the palings broken. And that

little essay--the assembling at Robert East's, and William

Halliburton--had led to the change.

Men and women had been awakened to self-respect; to the duty of striving

to live well and to do well; to the solemn thought that there is another

world after this, where their works, good or bad, would follow them.

They had learned to reflect that it _might_ be possible that one phase

of a lost soul's punishment after death, will lie in remembering the

duties it ought to have performed in life. They knew, without any effort

of reflection, that it is a remembrance which makes the sting of many a

death-bed. Formerly, Honey Fair had believed (those who had thought

about it) that their duties in this world and any duties which lay in

preparing for the next, were as wide apart as the two poles. Of that

they had now learned the fallacy. Honey Fair had grown serene. Children

were taken out of the streets to be sent to school; the Messrs. Bankes

had been discarded, for the women had grown wiser; and, for all the

custom the "Horned Ram" obtained from Honey Fair, it might have shut

itself up. In short, Honey Fair had been awakened, speaking from a

moderate point of view, to enlightenment; to the social improvements of

an advancing and a thinking age.

This was a grand day with Honey Fair, as Mr. Ashley and William knew,

when they turned to walk through it. Mr. Ashley had purchased that

building you have heard of, for a comparative trifle, and made Honey

Fair a present of it. It was very useful. It did for their schools,

their night meetings, their provident clubs; and to-night a treat was to

be held in it. The men expected that Mr. Ashley would look in, and Henry

Ashley had sent round his chemical apparatus to give them some

experiments, and had bought a great magic-lantern. The place was now

called the "Ashley Institute." Some thought--Mr. Ashley for one--that

the "Halliburton Institute" would have been more consonant with fact;

but William had resolutely withstood it. The piece of waste land behind

it had been converted into a sort of playground and garden. The children

were not watched in it incessantly, and screamed at:--"You'll destroy

those flowers!" "You'll break that window!" "You are tearing up the

shrubs!" No: they were made to understand that they were _trusted_ not

to do these things; and they took the trust to themselves, and were

proud of it. You may train a child to this, if you will.

As they passed the house of Charlotte East, she was turning in at her

garden gate; and, standing at the window, dandling a baby, was Caroline

Mason. Caroline was servant to Charlotte now, and that was Charlotte's

baby; for Charlotte was no longer Charlotte East, but Mrs. Thorneycroft.

She curtsied as they came up.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I have been round to the rooms to show them

how to arrange the evergreens. I hope they will have a pleasant

evening!"

"They!" echoed Mr. Ashley. "Are you not coming yourself?"

"I think not, sir. Adam and Robert will be there, of course; but I can't

well leave baby!"

"Nonsense, Charlotte!" exclaimed William. "What harm will happen to the

baby? Are you afraid of its running away?"

"Ah, sir, you don't understand babies yet."

"That has to come," laughed Mr. Ashley.

"I understand enough about babies to pronounce that one a most exacting

infant, if you can't leave it for an hour or two," persisted William.

"You must come, Charlotte. My wife intends to be there."

"Well, sir,--I know I should like it. Perhaps I can manage to run round

for an hour, leaving Caroline to listen."

"How does Caroline go on?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"Sir, never a better young woman went into a house. That was a dreadful

lesson to her, and it has taught her what nothing else could. I believe

that Honey Fair will respect her in time."

"My opinion is, that Honey Fair would not be going far out of its way to

respect her now," remarked William. "Once a false step is taken, it is

very much the fashion to go tripping over others. Caroline, on the

contrary, has been using all her poor endeavours ever since to retrieve

that first mistake."

"I could not wish for a better servant," said Charlotte. "Of course, I

could not keep a servant for housework alone, and Caroline nearly earns

her food helping me at the gloves. I am pleased, and she is grateful.

Yes, sir, it is as you say--Honey Fair ought to respect her. It will

come in time."

"As most good things come, that are striven for in the right way,"

remarked Mr. Ashley.

CHAPTER XXV.

ASSIZE TIME.

Once more, in this, the almost concluding chapter of the history, are we

obliged to take notice of Assize Saturday. Once more had the high

sheriff's procession gone out to receive the judges; and never had the

cathedral bells rung out more clearly, or the streets and windows been

so thronged.

A blast, shrill and loud, from the advancing heralds, was borne on the

air of the bright March afternoon, as the cavalcade advanced up East

Street. The javelin-men rode next, two abreast, in the plain dark Ashley

livery, the points of their javelins glittering in the sunshine,

scarcely able to advance for the crowd. A feverish crowd. Little cared

they to-day for the proud trumpets, the javelin-bearers, the various

attractions that made their delight on other of those days; they cared

only for that stately equipage in the rear. Not for its four prancing

horses, its silver ornaments, its portly coachman on the hammer-cloth;

not even for the very judges themselves; but for the master of that

carriage, the high sheriff, Thomas Ashley.

He sat in it, its only plainly attired inmate. The scarlet robes, the

flowing wigs of the judges, were opposite to him; beside him were the

rich black silk robes of his chaplain, the vicar of Deoffam. A crowd of

gentlemen on horseback followed--a crowd Helstonleigh had rarely seen.

William was one of them. The popularity of a high sheriff may be judged

by the number of his attendants, when he goes out to meet the judges.

Half Helstonleigh had placed itself on horseback that day, to do honour

to Thomas Ashley.

Occupying a conspicuous position in the street were the Ashley workmen.

Clean and shaved, they had surreptitiously conveyed their best coats to

the manufactory; and, with the first peal of the college bells, had

rushed out, dressed--every soul--leaving the manufactory alone in its

glory, and Samuel Lynn to take care of it. The shout they raised, as the

sheriff's carriage drew near, deafened the street. It was out of all

manner of etiquette or precedence to cheer the sheriff when in

attendance on the judges; but who could be angry with them? Not Mr.

Ashley. Their lordships looked out astonished. One of the judges you

have met before--Sir William Leader; the other was Mr. Justice Keene.

The judges gazed from the carriage, wondering what the shouts could

mean. They saw a respectable-looking body of men--not respectable in

dress only, but in face--gathered there, bareheaded, and cheering the

carriage with all their might and main.

"What can that be for?" cried Mr. Justice Keene.

"I believe it must be meant for me," observed Mr. Ashley, taken by

surprise as much as the judges were. "Foolish fellows! Your lordships

must understand that they are the workmen belonging to my manufactory."

But his eyes were dim, as he leaned forward and acknowledged the

greeting. Such a shout followed upon it! The judges, used to shouting as

they were, had rarely heard the like, so deep and heartfelt was it.

"There's genuine good-feeling in that cheer," said Sir William Leader.

"I like to hear it. It is more than lip deep."

The dinner party for the judges that night was given at the deanery. Not

a more honoured guest had it than the high sheriff. His chaplain was

with him, and William and Frank were also guests. What did the Dares

think of the Halliburtons now?

The Dares, just then, were too much occupied with their own concerns to

think of them at all. They were planning how to get out to Australia.

Their daughter Julia, more dutiful than some daughters might prove

themselves, had offered an asylum to her father and mother, if they

would go out to Sydney. Her sisters, she wrote word, would find good

situations there as governesses--probably in time find husbands.

They were wild to go. They wanted to get away from mortifying

Helstonleigh, and to try their fortunes in a new world. The passage

money was the difficulty. Julia had not sent it, possibly not supposing

they were so very badly off; she did not know yet of the last touch to

their misfortunes. How could they scrape together even enough for a

steerage passage? Mr. Ashley's private opinion was that he should have

to furnish it. Ah! he was a good man. Never a better, never a more

considerate to others than Thomas Ashley.

Sunday morning rose to the ringing again of the cathedral bells--bells

that do not condescend to ring except on rare occasions--telling that it

was some day of note in Helstonleigh. It was a fine day, sunny, and very

warm for March, and the glittering east window reflected its colours

upon a crowd such as the cathedral had rarely seen assembled within its

walls for divine service, even on those thronging days, Assize Sundays.

The procession extended nearly the whole way from the grand entrance

gates to the choir, passing through the body and the nave. The high

sheriff's men, standing so still, their formidable javelins in rest, had

enough to do to retain their places, from the pressure of the crowd, as

they kept the line of way. The bishop in his robes, the clergy in their

white garments and scarlet or black hoods, the long line of college boys

in their surplices, the lay-clerks, yet in white. Not (as you were told

of yesterday) on them; not on the mayor and corporation, with their

chains and gowns; not on the grey-wigged judges, their fiery trains held

up behind, glaring cynosure of eyes on other days, was the attention of

that crowd fixed; but on him who walked, calm, dignified, quiet, in

immediate attendance on the judges--their revered fellow-citizen, Thomas

Ashley. In attendance on _him_ was his chaplain, his black gown, so

contrasting with the glare and glitter, marking him out conspicuously.

The organ had burst forth as they entered the great gates,

simultaneously with the ceasing of the bells which had been sending

their melody over the city. With some difficulty, places were found for

those of note; but many a score stood that day. The bishop had gone on

to his throne; and opposite to him, in the archdeacon's stall, the

appointed place for the preacher on Assize Sundays, sat the sheriff's

chaplain. Sir William Leader was shown to the dean's stall; Mr. Justice

Keene to the sub-dean's; the dean sitting next the one, the high sheriff

next the other. William Halliburton was in a canon's stall;

Frank--handsome Frank!--found a place amidst many other barristers. And

in the ladies' pew, underneath the dean, seated with the dean's wife,

were Mrs. Ashley, her daughter, and Mrs. Halliburton.

The Reverend Mr. Keating chanted the service, putting his best voice

into it. They gave that fine anthem, "Behold, God is my salvation." Very

good were the services and the singing that day. The dean, the

prebendary in residence, and Mr. Keating went to the communion-table for

the commandments, and thus the service drew to an end. As they were

conducted back to their stall, a verger with his silver mace cleared a

space for the sheriff's chaplain to ascend the pulpit stairs, the

preacher of the day.

How the college boys gazed at him! Only a short time before

(comparatively speaking) he had been one of them, a college boy himself;

some of the seniors (juniors then) had been school-fellows with him. Now

he was the Reverend Edgar Halliburton, chief personage for the moment in

that cathedral. To the boys' eyes he seemed to look dark; except on

Assize Sundays, they were accustomed to see only white robes in that

pulpit.

"Too young to give us a good sermon," thought half the congregation, as

they scanned him. Nevertheless, they liked his countenance; its grave

earnest look. He gave out his text, a verse from Ecclesiastes:

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is

no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither

thou goest."

Then he leaned a little forward on the cushion; and, after a pause,

began his sermon, which lay before him, and worked out the text.

It was an admirable discourse, clear and practical; but you will not

care to have it recapitulated for you, as it was recapitulated in the

local newspapers. Remembering what the bringing up of the Halliburtons

had been, it was impossible that Gar's sermons should not be practical;

and the congregation began to think they had been mistaken in their

estimate of what a young man could do. He told the judges where their

duty lay, as fearlessly as he told it to the college boys, as he told it

to all. He told them that the golden secret of success and happiness in

this life, lay in the faithful and earnest performance of the duties

that crowded on their path, striving on unweariedly, whatsoever those

duties might be, whether pleasant or painful; _joined to implicit

reliance on, and trust in God_. A plainer sermon was never preached. In

manner he was remarkably calm and impressive, and the tone of his voice

was quiet and persuasive, just as if he were speaking to them. He was

listened to with breathless interest throughout; even those gentry, the

college boys, were for once beguiled into attending to a sermon. Jane's

tears fell incessantly, and she had to let down her white veil to hide

them; as on that day, years ago, when she had let down her black crape

veil to conceal them, in the office of Anthony Dare. Different tears

this time.

The sermon lasted just half an hour, and it had seemed only a quarter of

one. The bishop then rose and gave the blessing, and the crowds began to

file out. As the preacher was being marshalled by a verger through the

choir to take his place in the procession next the high sheriff, Mr.

Keating met him and grasped his hand.

"You are all right, Gar," he whispered, "and I am proud of having

educated you. That sermon will tell home to some of the drones."

"I knew he'd astonish 'em!" ejaculated Dobbs, who had walked all the way

from Deoffam to see the sight, to hear her master preach to the

cathedral, and had fought out a standing-place for herself right in

front of the pulpit. "_His_ sermons aren't filled up with bottomless

pits as are never full enough, like those of some preachers be."

That sermon and the Rev. Edgar Halliburton were talked of much in

Helstonleigh that day.

But ere the close of another day the town was ringing with the name of

Frank. He had led; he, Frank Halliburton! A cause of some importance was

tried in the _Nisi Prius_ Court, in which the defendant was Mr. Glenn

the surgeon. Mr. Glenn, who had liked Frank from the hour he first

conversed with him that evening at his house, now so long ago--a

conversation at which you had the pleasure of assisting--who had also

the highest opinion of Frank's abilities in his profession, had made it

a point that his case should be intrusted to Frank. Mr. Glenn was not

deceived. Frank led admirably, and his eloquence quite took the

spectators by storm. What was of more importance, it told upon Mr.

Justice Keene and the jury, and Frank sat down in triumph and won his

verdict.

"I told you I should do it, mother," said he, quietly, when he reached

Deoffam that night, after being nearly smothered with congratulations.

"You will live to see me on the woolsack yet."

Jane laughed. She often had laughed at the same boast. She was alone

that evening; Gar was attending the high sheriff at an official dinner

at Helstonleigh. "Will no lesser prize content you, Frank?" asked she,

jestingly. "Say, for example, the Solicitor-Generalship?"

"Only as a stepping-stone."

"And you still get on well? Seriously speaking now. Frank."

"First-rate," answered Frank. "This day's work will be the best lift for

me, though, unless I am mistaken. I had two fresh briefs put into my

hands as I sat down," he added, going off in a laugh. "See if I make

this year less than a thousand!"

"And the next thing, I suppose, you will be thinking of getting

married?"

The bold barrister actually blushed. "What nonsense, mother! Marry, and

lose my fellowship!"

"Frank, it is so! I see it in your face. You must tell me who it is."

"Well, as yet it is no one. I must wait until my eloquence, as they

called it to-day in court, is a more assured fact with the public, and

then I may speak out to the judge. She means waiting for me, though, so

it is all right."

"Tell me, Frank," repeated Jane; "who is 'she'?"

"Maria Leader."

Jane looked at him doubtingly. "Not Sir William's daughter?"

"His second daughter."

"Is not that rather too aspiring for Frank Halliburton?"

"Maria does not think so. I have been aspiring all my life, mother; and

so long as I work on for it honourably and uprightly, I see no harm in

being so."

"No, Frank; good instead of harm. How did you become acquainted with

her?"

"Her brother and I are chums: have been ever since we were at Oxford.

Bob is at the Chancery bar, but he has not much nous for it--not half

the clever man that his father was. His chambers are next to mine, and I

often go home with him. The girls make a great deal of us, too. That is

how I first knew Maria."

"Then I suppose you see something of the judge?"

"Oh dear," laughed Frank, "the judge and I are upon intimate terms in

private life; quite cronies. You would not think it, though, if you saw

me bowing before my lord when he sits in his big wig. Sometimes I fancy

he suspects."

"Suspects what?"

"That I and Maria would like to join cause together. But I don't mind if

he does. I am a favourite of his. The very Sunday before we came on

circuit he asked me to dine there. We went to church in the evening, and

I had Maria under my wing; Sir William and Lady Leader trudging on

before us."

"Well, Frank, I wish you success. I don't think you would choose any but

a nice girl, a good girl----"

"Stop a moment, mother; you will meet the judge to-morrow night, and you

may then draw a picture of Maria. She is as like him as two peas."

"How old is she, Frank?"

"Two-and-twenty. _I_ shall have her. He was not always the great Judge

Leader, you know, mother; and he knows it. And he knows that every one

must have a beginning, as he and my lady had it. For years after they

were married he did not make five hundred a year, and they had to live

upon it. He does not fear to revert to it, either; often talks of it to

me and Bob--a sort of hint, I suppose, that folk do get on in time, by

dint of patience. You will like Sir William Leader."

Yes: Jane would meet Sir William on the following night, for that would

be the evening of the entertainment given by the high sheriff to the

judges at Deoffam Hall.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE HIGH SHERIFF'S DINNER PARTY.

William Halliburton drove his wife over in the pony carriage in the

afternoon; they would dress and sleep at Deoffam. They went early, and

in driving past Deoffam Vicarage, who should be at the gate looking out

for them, but Anna! Not Anna Lynn now, but Anna Gurney.

"William, William, there's Anna!" Mary exclaimed. "I will get out here."

He assisted her down, and they remained talking with Anna. Then William

asked what he was to do. Wait with the carriage for Mary, or drive on to

the hall, and walk back for her?

"Drive to the hall," said Mary, who wished to stay a little while with

Anna. "But, William," she added, as he got in, "don't let my box go

round to the stables."

"With all its finery!" laughed William.

"It contains my dinner dress," Mary explained to Anna. "Have you been

here long?"

"This hour, I think," replied Anna. "My husband had business a mile or

two further on, and drove me here. What a nice garden this is! See, I

have been picking Gar's flowers."

"Where is Mrs. Halliburton?" asked Mary.

"Dobbs called her in to settle some dispute in the kitchen. I know Dobbs

is a great tyrant over that new housemaid."

"But now tell me about yourself, Anna," said Mary, leading her to a

bench. "I have scarcely seen you since you were married. How do you like

being your own mistress?"

"Oh, it's charming!" replied Anna, with all her old childish, natural

manner. "Mary, what dost thee think? Charles lets me sit without my

caps."

Mary laughed. "To the great scandal of Patience!"

"Indeed, yes. One day, Patience called when we were at dinner. I had not

so much as a bit of net on, and Patience looked so cross; but she said

nothing, for the servants were in waiting. When they had left the room

she told Charles that she was surprised at his allowing it; that I was

giddy enough and vain enough, and it would only make me worse. Charles

smiled; he was eating walnuts: and what dost thee think he answered?

He--but I don't like to tell thee," broke off Anna, covering her face

with her pretty hands.

"Yes, yes, Anna, you must tell me."

"He told Patience that he liked to see me without the caps, and there

was no need for my wearing them until I should have children old enough

to set an example to."

Anna took off her straw bonnet as she spoke, and her curls fell to

shade her blushing cheeks. Mary wondered whether the "children" would

have faces as lovely as their mother's. She had never seen Anna look so

well. For one thing, she had rarely seen her so well dressed. She wore a

stone-coloured corded silk, glistening with richness, and an exquisite

white shawl that must have cost no end of money.

"I should always let my curls be seen, Anna," said Mary; "there _can_ be

no harm in it."

"No, that there can't, as Charles does not think so," emphatically

answered Anna. "Mary," dropping her voice to a whisper, "I want Charles

not to wear those straight coats any more. He shakes his head at me and

laughs; but I think he will listen to me."

Seeing what she did of the change in Anna's dress, Mary thought so too.

Not but that Anna's things were still cut sufficiently in the old form

to bespeak her sect: as they, no doubt, always would be.

"When art thee coming to spend the day with me, as thee promised?" asked

Anna.

"Very soon: when this assize bustle shall be over."

"How gay you will be to-night!"

"How formal you mean," said Mary. "To entertain judges when on circuit,

and bishops, and deans, is more formidable than pleasant. It is a state

dinner to-night. When I saw papa this morning, I inquired if we were to

have the javelin-men on guard in the dining-room."

Anna laughed. "Do Frank and Gar dine there?"

"Of course. The high sheriff could not give a dinner party without his

chaplain at hand to say grace," returned Mary, laughing.

William came back: and they all remained for almost the rest of the

afternoon, Jane regaling them with tea. It was scarcely over when Mr.

Gurney drove up in his carriage: a large, open carriage, the groom's

seat behind, the horses very fine ones. He came in for a few minutes; a

very pleasant man of nearly forty years; a handsome man also. Then he

took possession of Anna, carefully assisted her up, took the seat beside

her, and the reins, and drove off.

William started for the Hall with Mary, walking at a brisk pace. It was

not ten minutes' distance, but the evening was getting on. Henry Ashley

met them as they entered, and began upon them in his crossest tones.

"Now what have you two got to say for yourselves? Here, I expect you,

Mr. William, to pass the afternoon with me: the mother expects Mary: and

nothing arrives but a milliner's box! And you make your appearance when

it's pretty nearly time to go up to embellish!"

"We stayed at the Vicarage, Henry; and I don't think mamma could want

me. Anna Gurney was there."

"Rubbish! Who's Anna Gurney that she should upset things? I wanted

William, and that's enough. Do you think you are to monopolize him, Mrs.

Mary, just because you happen to have married him?"

Mary went behind her brother, and playfully put her arms round his

neck. "I will lend him to you now and then, if you are good," she

whispered.

"You idle, inattentive girl! The mother wanted you to cut some hot-house

flowers for the dinner-table."

"Did she? I will do it now."

"Listen to her! Do it now! when it has been done this hour past.

William, I don't intend to show up to-night."

"Why not?" asked William.

"It is a nuisance to change one's things: and my side's not over clever

to-day: and the ungrateful delinquency of you two has put me

out-of-sorts altogether," answered Henry, making up his catalogue.

"Condemning one to vain expectation, and to fretting and fuming over it!

I shan't show up. William must represent me."

"Yes, you will show up," replied William. "For you know that your not

doing so would vex Mr. Ashley."

"A nice lot _you_ are to talk about vexing! You don't care how you vex

me."

William gently took him by the arm. "Come along to your room now, and I

will help you with your things. Once ready, you can do as you like about

appearing."

"You treat me just as a child," grumbled Henry. "I say, do the judges

come in their wigs?"

Mary broke into a laugh.

"Because that case of stuffed owls had better be ordered out of the

hall. The animals may be looked upon as personal."

"I hope there's a good fire in your room, Henry."

"There had better be, unless the genius that presides over the fires in

this household would like to feel the weight of my displeasure."

Mary went to find her mother; she was in her chamber, dressing.

"My dear child, how late you are!"

"There's plenty of time, mamma. We stayed at the parsonage. Anna Gurney

was there. Henry says he is not very well."

"He says that always when William disappoints him. He will be all right

now you have come. Go to your room, my dear, and I will send Sarah to

you."

Mary was ready, and the maid gone, before William left Henry to come

and dress on his own account. Mary wore white silk, with emerald

ornaments.

"Shall I do, William?" asked she, when William came in.

"Do!" he answered, running his eyes over her. "No!"

"Why, what's the matter with me?" she cried, turning hurriedly to the

great glass.

"This." He took her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. "My

darling wife! You will never 'do' without that."

It was not a formidable party at all, in defiance of Mary's

anticipations. The judges, divested of their flowing wigs and flaming

robes, looked just like other men. Jane liked Sir William Leader, as

Frank had told her she would; and Mr. Justice Keene was an easy,

talkative man, fond of a good joke and a good dinner. Mr. Justice Keene

seemed excessively to admire Mary Halliburton; and--there could be no

doubt about it, and I hope the legal bench won't look grave at the

reflection--seemed very much inclined to get up a flirtation with her

over the coffee. Being a judge, I think the bishop ought to have read

him a reprimand.

Standing at one end of the room, coffee-cups in hand, were Sir William

Leader, the Dean of Helstonleigh, Mr. Ashley, and his son. They were

talking of the Halliburtons. Sir William knew a good deal of their

history from Frank.

"It is most wonderful!" Sir William was remarking. "Self-educated,

self-supporting, and to be what they are!"

"Not altogether self-educated," dissented the dean; "for the two

younger, the barrister and clergyman, were in the school attached to my

cathedral; but self-educated in a great degree. The eldest, my friend's

son-in-law, never had a lesson in the classics after his father's death,

and there's not a more finished scholar in the county."

"The father died and left them badly provided for," remarked Sir

William.

"He did not leave them provided for at all, Sir William," corrected Mr.

Ashley. "He left nothing, literally nothing, but the furniture of the

small house they rented; and he left some trifling debts. Poor Mrs.

Halliburton turned to work with a will, and not only contrived to

support them, but brought them up to be what you see them--high-minded,

honourable, educated men."

The judge turned his eyes on Jane. She was sitting on a distant sofa,

talking with the bishop. So quiet, so lady-like, nay--so attractive--she

looked still, in the rich pearl-grey dress warn at William's wedding;

not in the least like one who had had to toil hard for bread.

"I have heard of her--heard of her worth from Frank," he said, with

emphasis. "She must be one in a thousand."

"One in a million, Sir William," burst forth Henry Ashley. "When they

were boys, you could not have bribed them to do a wrong thing: neither

temptation nor anything else turned them from the right. And they would

not be turned from the right now, if I know anything of them."

The judge walked up to Jane, and took the seat beside her just vacated

by the bishop.

"Mrs. Halliburton," said he, "you must be proud of your sons."

Jane smiled. "I have latterly been obliged to take myself to task for

being so, Sir William," she answered.

"To task! I wish I had three such sons to take myself to task for being

proud of," was his answer. "Not that mine are to be found fault with;

but they are not like these."

"Do you think Frank will get on?" she asked him.

"It is no longer a question of getting on. He has begun to rise in an

unusually rapid manner. I should not be surprised if, in after-years, he

may find the very highest honours opening to him."

Again Jane smiled. "He has been in the habit of telling us that he looks

forward to ruling England as Lord Chancellor."

The judge laughed. "I never knew a newly-fledged barrister who did not

indulge that vision," said he. "I know I did. But there are really not

many Frank Halliburtons. So, sir," he continued, for Frank at that

moment passed, and the judge pinned him, "I hear you cherish dreams of

the woolsack."

"To look at it from a distance is not high treason, Sir William," was

Frank's ready answer.

"Why, what do you suppose _you_ would do on the woolsack, if you got

there?" cried Sir William.

"My duty, I hope, Sir William. I would try hard for it."

Sir William loosed him with an amused expression, and Frank passed on.

Jane began to think Frank's dream--not of the woolsack, but of Maria

Leader--not so very improbable a one.

"I have heard of your early struggles," said the judge to her in low

tones. "Frank has talked to me. How you could have borne up, and done

long-continued battle with them, I cannot imagine!"

"I never could have done it but for one thing," she answered: "my trust

in God. Times upon times, Sir William, when the storm was beating about

my head, I had no help or comfort in the wide world: I had nothing to

turn to but that. I never lost my trust in God."

"And therefore God stood by you," remarked the judge.

"And _therefore_ God stood by me, and helped me on. I wish," she added

earnestly, "the whole world could learn the same great lesson that I

have learnt. I have--I humbly hope I have--been enabled to teach it to

my boys. I have tried to do it from their very earliest years."

"Frank shall have Maria," thought the judge to himself. "They are an

admirable family. The young chaplain should have another of the girls if

he liked her."

What was William thinking of, as he stood a little apart, with his

serene brow and his thoughtful smile? His mind was in the past. That

long past night, following the day of his entrance to Mr. Ashley's

manufactory, was present to him, when he had lain down in despair, and

sobbed out his bitter grief. "Bear up, my child," were the words his

mother had comforted him with: "only do your duty, and trust implicitly

in God." And when she had gone down, and he could get the sobs away from

his heart and throat, he made the resolve to do as she had told him--at

any rate, to try and do it. And he kneeled down there and then, and

asked to be helped to do it. And, from that hour to this, William had

never known the trust to fail. Success? Yes, they had reaped

success--success in no measured degree. Be very sure that it was born of

that great trust. Oh!--as Jane had just said to Sir William Leader--if

the world could only learn this wonderful truth!

"BECAUSE HE HATH SET HIS LOVE UPON ME, THEREFORE WILL I DELIVER HIM: I

WILL SET HIM UP, BECAUSE HE HATH KNOWN MY NAME."

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles, by Mrs. Henry Wood