I believe that most of the readers of "The Channings" will not like this story less because its scene is laid in the same place, Helstonleigh.
I narrate to you, as you may have already discovered, a great deal of truth: of events that have actually happened, combined with fiction. I can only do this from my own personal experience, by taking you to the scenes and places where I have lived. Of this same town, Helstonleigh, I could relate to you volumes. No place in the world holds so green a spot in my memory. Do you remember Longfellow's poem—"My Lost Youth"?
"
Often I think of the beautiful town, That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
"Across the schoolboy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' Strange to me now are the forms I meet
"When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"And Deering's woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: 'A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"Those are some of its verses, and what "Deering" is to Longfellow, "Helstonleigh" is to me.
The Birmingham stage-coach came into Helstonleigh one summer's night, and stopped at its destination, the Star-and-Garter Hotel, bringing with it some London passengers. The direct line of rail to Helstonleigh from London was not then opened; and this may serve to tell you how long it is ago. A lady and a little girl stepped from the inside of the coach, and a gentleman and three boys got down from the outside. The latter were soaking. Almost immediately after leaving Birmingham, to which place the rail had conveyed them, the rain had commenced to pour in torrents, and those outside received its full benefit. The coach was crammed, inside and out, but with the other passengers we have nothing to do. We have with these; they were the Halliburtons.
For the town which Mr. Halliburton had been desirous to remove to, the one in which his cousin, Mrs. Dare, resided, was no other than Helstonleigh.
Mrs. Halliburton drew a long face when she set eyes on her husband's condition. "Edgar! you must be wet through and through!"
Yes, I am. There was no help for it.
You should have come inside when I wanted you to do so, she cried, in a voice of distress. "You should indeed."
And have suffered you to take my place outside? Nonsense, Jane!
Jane looked at the hotel. "We had better remain here for the night. What do you think?"
Yes, I think so, he replied. "It is too wet to go about looking after anything that might be less expensive. Inquire if we can have rooms, Jane, whilst I see after the luggage."
Mrs. Halliburton went in, leading Janey, and was confronted by the barmaid, a smart young woman in a smart cap. "Can we sleep here to-night?" she inquired.
Yes, certainly. How many beds?
I will go up with you and see, said Mrs. Halliburton. "Be so kind as not to put us in your more expensive rooms," she added, in a lower tone.
The barmaid looked at her from top to toe, as it is much in the habit of barmaids to do when such a request is preferred. She saw a lady in a black silk dress, a cashmere shawl, and a plain straw bonnet, trimmed with white. Simple as the attire was, quiet as was the demeanour, there was that about Mrs. Halliburton, in her voice, her accent, her bearing altogether, which proclaimed her the gentlewoman; and the barmaid condescended to be civil.
I have nothing to do with the rooms, she said; "I'll call the chambermaid. My goodness! You had better get those wet things off, sir, unless you want to be laid up with cold."
The words were uttered in surprise, as her eyes encountered Mr. Halliburton. He looked taller, and thinner, and handsomer than ever; but he had a hollow cough now, and his cheek was hectic, and he was certainly wet through.
The chambermaid allotted them rooms. Mr. Halliburton, after rubbing himself dry with towels, got into a warmed bed, and had warm drink supplied to him. Jane, after unpacking what would be wanted for the night, returned to the sitting-room, to which her children had been shown. A good-natured maid, seeing the boys' clothes were damp, had lighted a fire, and they were kneeling round it, having been provided with bread and butter and milk. Intelligent, truthful, good-looking boys they were, with clear skins and bright, honest eyes, and open countenances. Janey had fallen asleep on a chair, her flaxen curls making her a pillow on its elbow. The boys crowded to one side of the fireplace when their mother came in, leaving the larger space for her; and William rose and gave her a chair. Mrs. Halliburton sat down, having laid on the table a Book of Common Prayer, which she had brought in her hand.
Mamma, I hope papa will not be ill!
Oh, William, I fear it. Such a terrible wetting! And to be so long in it! How is it that he was so much worse than you are?
Because he sat at the end, and the gentleman next him did not hold the umbrella over him at all. When it came on to rain, some of the passengers had umbrellas and some had not, so they were divided for the best. We three had one between us, and we were wedged in between two fat old men, who helped to keep us dry. What a pity there was not a place for papa inside!
Yes; or if he would only have taken mine! cried Mrs. Halliburton. "A wetting would not have hurt me, as it may hurt him. What place did they call that, William, where I got out to ask him to change?"
Bromsgrove Lickey. Mamma, you have had no tea!
I do not care for any, she sighed. Hers was a hopeful nature; but something within her, this evening, seemed to whisper of trial for the future. She turned to the table, where stood the remains of the children's meal, cut a piece of bread from the loaf, and slowly spread it with butter. Then she poured out a little milk.
Dear mamma, do have some tea! cried William; "that's nothing but our milk and water."
She shook her head and took the milk. Tea would only be an additional expense, and she was too completely dispirited to care what she drank.
I will read now, she said, taking up the Prayer-book. "And afterwards, I think, you had better say your prayers here, near the fire, as you have been so wet."
She chose a short psalm, and read it aloud. Then the children knelt down, each at a separate chair, to say their prayers in silence. Not as children's prayers are sometimes hurried over, knelt they; but with lowly reverence, their heads bowed, their young hearts lifted, never doubting but they were heard by God. They had been trained in a good school.
Did you ever have a sale of old things? Goods and chattels which may have served your purpose and looked well in their places, seem so old when they come to be exhibited that you feel half-ashamed of them? And as to the sum they realise—you will not have much trouble in hoarding it. Had Mr. Halliburton known the small sum that would be the result of his sale; had Jane dreamt that they would go for an "old song," they had never consented to part with them. Better have been at the cost of carrying them to Helstonleigh. Their bedding, blankets, etc., they did take: and it was well they did so.
I feel almost afraid to tell you how very little money they had in hand when they arrived. All their worldly wealth was little more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Debts had to be paid before leaving London; and it cost money to give up their house without notice, for their landlord was severe.
One hundred and twenty pounds! And with this they had to buy fresh furniture, and to live until teaching came in. A forlorn prospect on which to recommence the world! No wonder that Jane shunned even tea at the inn, or any other expense that might lessen their funds! But hope is buoyant in the human heart: and unless it were so, half the world might lay themselves down to die.
Morning came: a bright, sunny, beautiful morning after the rain. Not, apparently, had Mr. Halliburton suffered. His limbs felt a little stiff, but that would go off before the day closed. Their plans were to take a small house, as cheap a one as they could find, in accordance with—you really must for once excuse the word—gentility. That—a tolerably fair appearance—was necessary to Mr. Halliburton's success as a teacher.
A dry, healthy spot, a little way out of the town, mused the landlord of the "Star," to whom they communicated their desire. "The London Road would be the place then. And you probably will find there such a house as you require."
They found their way to the London Road—a healthy suburb of the town; and there discovered a house they thought might suit them: a semi-detached house of good appearance, inclosed by iron railings, and standing a little back from the road. A sitting-room was on either side the entrance, a kitchen at the back. Three bedrooms were above; and above these again was a garret. A small garden was behind the house; and beyond that was a field, which did not belong to them. The adjoining house was similar to this one; but that possessed a large and productive garden. An inmate of that house showed them over this one, dressed as a Quakeress. Her features were plain, but her complexion was fair and delicate, and she had calm blue eyes.
The rent of the house is thirty-two pounds per annum, she said, in reply to Mrs. Halliburton's question. "It belongs to Thomas Ashley; but thee must not apply to him. I will furnish thee with the address of the agent, who has the letting of Friend Ashley's houses. It is Anthony Dare. You will find the house pleasant and healthy, if you decide upon it," she added, speaking to both of them.
The latter name had struck upon Mr. Halliburton's ear. "Jane!" he whispered to his wife, "that must be the Mr. Dare who married my cousin, Julia Cooper. His name was Anthony Dare."
Mr. Halliburton proceeded alone to the office of Mr. Dare, the gentleman you met at Mr. Cooper's; Mrs. Halliburton returning to her children at the hotel. They had decided to take the house. Mr. Dare was not at home. "In London, with his wife," the head clerk said. But the clerk had power to let the house. Mr. Halliburton gave him some particulars with regard to himself, and they were considered satisfactory; but he did not mention that he was related to Mrs. Dare.
The next thing was about furniture. The clerk directed Mr. Halliburton to a warehouse where both new and second-hand things might be obtained, and he proceeded to it, calling in at the "Star" for his wife. She knew a great deal more about furniture than he. They did the best they could, spending about fifty pounds. A Kidderminster carpet was bought for the best sitting-room. The other room, which was to be Mr. Halliburton's study, and the bedrooms, went for the present without any. "We will buy all those things when we have succeeded a bit," said Mr. Halliburton.
They slept that night again at the "Star," and the following morning early, they and their furniture took possession together of the house. A busy day they found it, arranging things. Jane—who had determined, as the saying runs, "to put her shoulder to the wheel," not only on this day, but on future days—did not intend to engage a regular servant. That, like the carpets, might be indulged in as they succeeded; but in the mean time she thought a young girl might be found who would come in for a few hours daily, and do what they wanted done.
In the course of the morning, the fair, pleasant face of the Quakeress was seen approaching the back door from the garden. She wore a lilac print gown, a net kerchief crossed under it on her neck, and the peculiar net cap, with its high caul and neat little border.
I have stepped in to ask if I can help thee with thy work, she began. "Thee hast plenty to do, setting things straight, and thy husband does not look strong. I will aid if thee pleasest."
You are very kind to be so thoughtful for a stranger, replied Jane, charmed with the straightforward frankness of the Quakeress. "I hope you will first tell me to whom I am indebted."
Thee can call me Patience, was the ready reply. "I live next door, with Samuel Lynn and his daughter Anna. His wife died soon after the child was born. I was related to Anna Lynn; and when she was departing she sent for me, and begged me not to leave her child, unless Samuel should take unto himself another wife. But that appears to be far from his thoughts. He loves the child much; she is as the apple of his eye."
Is Mr. Lynn in business? asked Jane.
Not on his own account now. He was a glove manufacturer, as a young man, but he had not a large capital; and when the British ports were opened for the admission of gloves from the French, it ruined him—as it did many others in the city. Only the rich masters could stand that. Numbers went then.
Went! echoed Jane. "Went where?"
To ruin. Ah! I remember it: though it is a long time ago now. It was, I think, in the year 1825. I cannot describe to thee the distress and destruction it brought upon this city, until then so flourishing. The manufacturers had to close their works, and the men went about the streets starving.
Did the distress continue long?
For weeks, and months, and years. The town will never be again, in that respect, what it has been. Samuel Lynn was a man of integrity, and he gave up business while he could pay everyone, and accepted the post of manager in the manufactory of Thomas Ashley. Thomas Ashley is one of the first manufacturers in the city, as his father was before him. When thee shall know the place and the people better, thee will find that there is not a name more respected throughout Helstonleigh than that of Thomas Ashley.
I suppose he is a rich man?
Yes, he is rich, replied Patience, who was as busy with her hands as she was in talking. "His household is expensive, and he keeps his open and his close carriages; but for all that he must be putting by money. It is not for his riches that Thomas Ashley is respected, but for his high character. There is not a more just man living than Thomas Ashley; there is not a manufacturer in the town who is so considerate and kind to his workmen. His rate of wages is on the highest scale, and he is incapable of oppression. He has a son and daughter. He, the boy, causes him much uneasiness and cost."
Is he—not steady? hastily asked Jane.
Bless thee, it is not that! was the laughing answer of Patience. "He is but a young boy yet. When he was fourteen months old, the nurse let him fall from her arms, from the first landing to the hall below. At first they thought he was not hurt: Margaret Ashley herself thought it; the doctors thought it. But in a little time injury grew apparent. It lay in one of the hips; he is often in great pain, and will be lame for life. Abscess after abscess forms in the hip. They take him to the sea-side; to doctors in London; but nothing cures him. A beautiful boy as you ever saw; but his hurt renders him peevish. He is fond of books; and David Byrne, who is a Latin and Greek scholar, goes daily to instruct him; but the boy is thrown back by his fits of illness. It is a great grief to Thomas and Margaret Ashley. They——Why, Anna, is it thee? What dost thou do here?"
Mrs. Halliburton turned from the kitchen cupboard, where she and Patience were arranging crockery, to behold a little girl who was no doubt Anna Lynn. Dark blue eyes were deeply set beneath their long lashes, which lay on a damask and dimpled cheek; her pretty teeth shone like pearls between her smiling lips, and her chestnut hair fell in a mass of careless curls upon her neck. Never, Mrs. Halliburton thought, had she seen a face so lovely. Jane was a pretty child; but Jane faded into nothing in comparison with the vision standing there.
Thee has thy cap off again, Anna! cried the Quakeress, with some asperity of tone. "Art thee not ashamed to be so bold?—going about with thy head uncovered!"
The cap came off, Patience, gently responded Anna. She had a sweetly timid manner; a modest expression.
Thee need not tell me what is untrue. When the cap is tied on, it will not come off, unless purposely removed. Go home and put it on. Thee may come back again. Perhaps Friend Halliburton will permit thee to stay awhile with her children, who are arranging their books in the study. Is thy French lesson learnt?
Not quite, replied Anna, running away.
She returned with a pretty little white net cap on, the model of that worn by Patience. Her luxuriant curls were pushed under it, and the crimped border rested on the fair forehead.
Nay, there is no call to put all thy hair out of sight, child, said Patience. "Where are thy combs."
In my hair, Patience.
Patience took off the cap, formed two flat curls, by means of the combs, on either side the temples, put the cap on again, and tucked the rest of the hair smoothly under it. Mrs. Halliburton then took Anna's hand, and led her to her own children.
What a pity it is to hide her hair! she said afterwards to Patience.
Dost thee think so? It is the custom with our people. Anna's hair is fine, and of a curly nature. Brush it as I will, it curls; and she has acquired a habit of taking her cap off when I am not watching. Her father, I grieve to say, will let her sit by the hour together, her hair down, as thee saw it now, and her cap anywhere. I believe he thinks nothing she does is wrong. I talk to him much.
I never saw a more beautiful child! said Jane, warmly.
I grant thee that she is fair; but she is eleven years old now, and her vanity should be checked. She is sometimes invited to the Ashleys', where she sees the mode in which Mary Ashley is dressed, according to the fashion of the world, and it sets her longing. Samuel Lynn will not listen to me. He is pleased that his child should be received there as Mary Ashley's equal; he cannot forget the time when he was in a good position himself.
Who teaches Anna?
She attends a small school for Friends, kept by Ruth Darby. It is the holidays now. Her father educates her well. She learns French and drawing, and other branches of study suitable for girls. Take care! let me help thee with that heavy table.
Presently they went to see how things were getting on in the study. Jane could not keep her eyes from the face of that lovely child. It partly hindered her work, which there was little need of on that busy day; a day so busy that they were all glad when it was over, and they were at liberty to retire to rest.
Rarely had Jane witnessed so beautiful a view as that which met her sight the following morning, when she drew up her blind. The previous day had been hazy—nothing was to be seen; now the atmosphere had cleared. The great extent of scenery spread around, the green fields, the growing corn, the sparkling rivulets, the woods with their darker and their brighter trees, the undulating slopes—all were charming. But beyond all, and far more charming, bounding the landscape in the distant horizon, stretched the long chain of the far-famed Malvern Hills. As the sun cast upon them its light and shade, their outline so clearly depicted against the sky, and their white villas peeping out from the trees at their base—Jane felt that she could have gazed for ever. A wondrous picture is that of Malvern, as seen from Helstonleigh in the freshness of the early morning.
Edgar! she impulsively exclaimed, turning to the bed—for Mr. Halliburton had not risen—"you never saw anything more beautiful than the view from this window. I am sure half the Londoners never dreamt of anything like it."
There was no reply. "Perhaps he may be still asleep," she thought. But upon approaching the bed, she saw that his eyes were open.
Jane, he gasped, "I am ill."
Ill! she repeated, a spasm darting through her heart.
Every limb is paining me. My head aches, and I am burning with fever. I have felt it coming on all night.
She bent down; she felt his hands and his hot face—all burning, as he said, with fever.
We must call in a doctor, she quietly said, suppressing every sign of dismay, that it might not agitate him. "I will ask Patience to recommend one."
Yes; better have a doctor at once. What will become of us? If I should be going to have an illness——
Stay, Edgar; do not give way to sad anticipations, she gently said. "A brave mind, you know, goes half way towards a cure. It is the effect of that wetting; the cold must have been smouldering within you."
Smouldering only to burst out the fiercer for delay. Patience spoke in favour of their own medical man, a Mr. Parry, who lived near them and had a large practice. He came; and pronounced the malady to be rheumatic fever.
For nine weeks Mr. Halliburton never left his bed. His wife was worn to a shadow; what with waiting upon him, and battling with her anxiety. Her body was weary, her heart was sick. Do you know the cost of illness? Jane knew it then.
In two weeks more he could leave his easy-chair and crawl about the room; and by that time he was all eagerness to commence his operations for the future.
I must have some cards printed, Jane, he cried, one morning. "'Mr. Halliburton, Professor of Classics and Mathematics, late of King's Col—'—or should it be simply 'Edgar Halliburton?'" he broke off, to deliberate. "I wonder what the custom may be, down here?"
I think you should wait until you are stronger, before you order your cards, was Jane's reply.
But I can be getting things in train, Jane. I have been—how many weeks is it now?
Eleven.
To be sure. It was June when we came; it is now September. I have been obliged to neglect the boys' lessons, too!
They have been very good and quiet; have gone on with their lessons themselves. If we have trouble in other ways, we have a blessing in our children, Edgar. They are thoroughly loving and dutiful.
I don't know the ordinary terms of the neighbourhood, he resumed, after an interval of silence. "And—I wonder if people will want references? Jane"—after another silence—"you must put your things on, and go to Mrs. Dare's."
To Mrs. Dare's! she echoed. "Now? I don't know her."
Never mind about not knowing her, he eagerly continued. "She is my cousin. You must ask whether they will allow themselves to be referred to. Peach will allow it also, I am quite certain. Do go, Jane."
Invalids in the weak state of Mr. Halliburton are apt to be restlessly impatient when the mind is set upon any plan or project. Jane found that it would vex him much if she declined to go to Mrs. Dare, and she prepared for the visit. Patience directed her to their residence.
It was situated at the opposite end of Helstonleigh. A handsome house, inclosed in a high wall, and bearing the imposing title of "Pomeranian Knoll." Jane entered the iron gates, walked round the carriage drive that inclosed the lawn, and rang the house bell. A showy footman in light blue livery, with a bunch of cords on his shoulder, answered it.
Can I see Mrs. Dare?
What name, ma'am?
Jane gave in one of her visiting cards, wondering whether that was not too grand a proceeding, considering the errand upon which she had come. She was shown into an elegant room, to the presence of Mrs. Dare. That lady was in a costly morning dress, with chains, rings, bracelets, and other glittering jewellery about her: as she had worn the evening you saw her beside Mr. Cooper's death-bed.
Mrs. Halliburton? she was repeating in doubt, when Jane entered, her eyes strained on the card. "What Mrs. Halliburton?" she added, not very civilly, turning her eyes upon Jane.
Jane explained. The wife of Edgar Halliburton, Mrs. Dare's cousin.
Mrs. Dare's presence of mind wholly forsook her. She grew deathly white; she caught at a chair for support; she was utterly unable to speak or to conceal her agitation. Jane could only look at her in amazement, wondering whether she was seized with sudden illness.
A few moments and she recovered herself. She took a seat, motioned Jane to another, and asked, as she might have asked of any stranger, what her business might be. Jane explained it, somewhat at length.
Mrs. Dare's surprise was great. She could not or would not understand; and her face flushed a deep red, and again grew deadly pale. "Edgar Halliburton come to live in Helstonleigh!" she repeated. "And you say you are his wife?"
I am his wife, was the reply of Jane, spoken with quiet dignity.
What is it that you say he has in view, in coming here?
I beg your pardon; I thought I had explained. And Jane went over the ground again—why he had been obliged to leave London, and his reasons for settling in Helstonleigh.
You could not have come to a worse place, said Mrs. Dare, who appeared to be annoyed almost beyond repression. "Masters of all sorts are so plentiful here that they tread on each other's heels."
Discouraging news! And Jane's heart beat fast on hearing it. "My husband thought you and Mr. Dare would kindly interest yourselves for him. He knows that Mr. Peach will——"
No, interrupted Mrs. Dare, in decisive tones. "For Edgar Halliburton's own sake I must decline to recommend him; or, indeed, to interfere at all. It would only encourage fallacious hopes. Masters are here in abundance—I speak of private masters; they don't find half enough to do. Schools are also plentiful. The best thing will be to go to some place where there is a better opening, and not to settle himself here at all!"
But we have already settled here, replied Jane.
A thought suddenly struck Mrs. Dare. "It can never be Edgar who has taken Mr. Ashley's cottage in the London Road? I remember the name was said to be Halliburton."
The same. It was let to us by Mr. Dare's clerk.
Mrs. Dare sat biting her lips. That she was grievously annoyed was evident, but in deference to good manners, which were partially returning to her, she strove to repress its signs. "I presume your husband is poor, Mrs. Halliburton?"
We are very poor.
It is generally the case with teachers, as I have observed. Well, I can only give one answer to your application—that we must decline all interference. I hope Edgar will not think of applying again to us upon the subject.
Jane rose. Mrs. Dare remained seated. And yet she prided herself upon her good breeding!
I had forgotten a question which my husband particularly desired me to ask, Jane said, turning back, as she was moving to the door. "Edgar saw by the papers that his uncle, Mr. Cooper, died the beginning of the year. Did he remember him on his death-bed, so far as to send a message of reconciliation?"
Strange to say, the countenance of Mrs. Dare again changed; now to a burning heat, now to a livid pallor. She hesitated in her answer.
Yes, she said at length. "Mr. Cooper so far relented as to send him his forgiveness. 'Tell my nephew Edgar, if you ever see him, that I am sorry for my harshness; that I would treat him differently were the time to come over again.' I do not remember the precise words; but they were to that effect. There is no doubt that he would have wished to be reconciled; but time did not allow it. I should have written to Edgar of this, had I been acquainted with his address."
A letter addressed to King's College would always have found him. But he will be glad to hear this. He also bade me ask how Mr. Cooper's money was left—if you would kindly give him the information.
Mrs. Dare bent her head. She was busy playing with her bracelet. "The will was proved in Doctors' Commons. Edgar Halliburton may see it by paying a shilling there."
It was not a gracious answer, and Jane paused. "He cannot go to Doctors' Commons; he is not in London," she gently said.
Mrs. Dare raised her head. A look, speaking plainly of defiance, had settled itself on her features. "It was left to me; the whole of it, except a few trifling legacies to his servants. What could Edgar Halliburton expect?"
I am sure that he did not expect anything, observed Jane. "Though I believe a hope has sometimes crossed his mind that Mr. Cooper might at the last relent, and remember him."
Nay, said Mrs. Dare, "he had behaved too disobediently for that. First, in opposing his uncle's wishes that he should enter into business; secondly, in his marriage."
In his marriage! echoed Jane, a flush rising to her own face.
It was so. Mr. Cooper was exceedingly exasperated when he heard that Edgar had married. He looked upon the marriage, I believe, as undesirable for him in a pecuniary point of view. You must pardon my speaking of this to you personally. You appear to wish for the truth.
The flush on Jane's face deepened to crimson.
It is true that I had no money, she said. "But I am the daughter of a clergyman, and was reared a gentlewoman!"
I suppose my uncle thought Edgar Halliburton should have married a fortune. However all that is past and gone, and it will do no good to recall it. I am sorry that you should have been so ill-advised for your own interests as to fix on this place to come to.
Mrs. Dare rose. She had sat all this time; Jane had stood. "Tell Edgar, from me, that I am sorry to hear of his illness. Tell him there is no possible chance of success for him in Helstonleigh; no opening whatever! When I say that I hope he will speedily remove to some place less overdone with masters, I speak only in his own interest!"
She rang the bell as she spoke, and gave Jane the tips of two of her fingers. The footman held open the hall door, and bowed her out. Jane went down the gravel sweep, determined never again to trouble Mrs. Dare.
Joseph! cried Mrs. Dare, sharply.
Ma'am?
Should that lady ever call again, I am not at home, remember!
Very well, ma'am, was the man's reply.
Mrs. Dare did not stay to hear it. She had flown upstairs to her room in trepidation. There she attired herself hastily and went out, bending her steps towards Mr. Dare's office. It was situated at the end of the town; and the door displayed a brass plate: "Mr. Dare, Solicitor."
Mrs. Dare entered the outer room. "Is Mr. Dare alone?" she asked of the clerks.
No, ma'am. Mr. Ashley is with him.
Chafing at the answer, for she was in a mood of great impatience, of inward tremor, Mrs. Dare waited for a few minutes. Mr. Ashley came out. A man of nearly forty years, rather above the middle height, with a fresh complexion, dark eyes, and well-formed features. A benevolent-looking, good man. His wife was a cousin of Mr. Dare's.
Mr. Dare was seated at his table in his own room when his wife came in. She had turned again of an ashy paleness, and she dropped into a chair near to him.
What is the matter? he asked in astonishment. "Are you ill?"
I think I shall die, she gasped. "I have had a mortal fright, Anthony."
Mr. Dare rose. He was about to get her some water, or to call for it, but she caught his arm. "Stay, and hear me! Stay! Anthony, those Halliburtons have come to Helstonleigh. Come to live here!"
Mr. Dare's mouth opened. "What Halliburtons?" he presently asked.
They. He has come here to settle. He wants to teach; and his wife has been with me, asking us to be referees. Of course I put the stopper upon that. The idea of our having poor relations in the town who get their living by teaching!
A very disagreeable idea indeed; for those who were playing first fiddle in the place, and expected to play it still. But not for that did the man and wife stand gazing at each other; and the naturally bold look on Mr. Dare's face had faded considerably just then.
She asked about the will, said Mrs. Dare, dropping her voice to a whisper, and looking round with a shiver. "I thought I should have died with fear."
Mr. Dare rallied his courage. Any little reminiscence that may have momentarily disturbed his equanimity he shook off, and was his own bold self again.
Nonsense, Julia! What is there to fear? The will is proved and acted upon. Whatever the old man may have uttered to us in his death ramblings was heard by ourselves alone. If any one had heard it, I should not much care. A will's a will all the world over; and to act against it would be illegal.
Mrs. Dare sat wiping her brow and gathering up her courage. It came back by slow degrees.
Anthony, we must get them out of Helstonleigh. For more reasons than one we must get them out. They are in that house of Mr. Ashley's.
He looked surprised. "They! Ay, to be sure: the name in the books is Halliburton. It never occurred to me that it could be they. I wonder if they are poor?"
Very poor, the wife said.
Just so, said Mr. Dare, with a pleasant smile. "I'll not ask for the rent this quarter, but let it go on a bit. We may get them out, Mrs. Dare."
You need not be told that Anthony Dare and his wife had omitted to act upon Mr. Cooper's dying injunction. At the time they did really intend to fulfil it; they were not thieves or forgers. But Edgar Halliburton was not present to remind them of his claims: and, when the money came to be realised, to be in their own hands, there it was suffered to remain. Waiting for him, of course; they did not know precisely where to find him, and did not take any trouble to inquire. Very tempting and useful they found the money. A large portion of their own share went in paying back debts, for they lived at an extravagant rate; and—and in short they had intrenched upon that other share, and could not now have paid it over had they been ever so willing to do so. No wonder that Mrs. Dare had felt as one in mortal fear when she met Jane Halliburton face to face!
Winter had come to Helstonleigh: frost hovered in the air and rested on the ground. How was Mr. Halliburton? He had never once been out since his illness, and he sat by the fire when he did not lie in bed, and his cough was racking him. He might, and probably would, have recovered health under more favourable auspices, but anxiety of mind was killing him. Their money was dwindling to a close, and delicacies they dared not get for him. Mr. Halliburton would say he did not require them; could not eat them if they were procured. Poor man! he craved for them in his inmost heart. Strange to say, he did not see his own danger. Or, rather, it would have been strange but that similar cases are met with every day. "When this cold weather has passed, and spring is in, then I shall get up my strength," was his constant cry. "Then I shall set about my work in earnest, and make my arrival and my plans known to Peach. It has been of no use troubling him beforehand." False, false hopes! fond, delusive hopes!
Dr. Carrington had said that if he took care of himself, he might live and be well. The other doctors had said the same. And there was no reason to doubt their judgment. But they had not bargained for an attack of rheumatic fever, or for the increased injury to the lungs which the same cause, that past soaking, had induced.
On Christmas Eve, he and Jane were sitting over the fire in the twilight. He could come downstairs now; indeed, he did not appear to be so ill as he really was. The surgeon who attended him in the fever had been discharged long ago. "There's nothing the matter with me now but debility; and, only time will bring me out of that," Mr. Halliburton said, when he dismissed him. Jane was hopeful; more hopeful by fits and starts than continuously so; but she did really believe he might get well when winter had passed. They were sitting beside the fire, when a great bustle interrupted them. All the children trooped in at once, with the noise it is the delight of children not to stir without. Frank, who had been out, had entered the house with his arms full of holly and ivy, his bright face glowing with excitement. The others were attending him to show off the prize.
Look at all this Christmas, mamma! cried he. "I have bought it."
Bought it? repeated Jane. "My dear Frank, did I not tell you we must do without Christmas this year?"
But it cost nothing, mamma. Only a penny!
Jane sighed. She did not say to the children that even a penny was no longer "nothing."
You know that penny I have kept in my pocket a long while, went on Frank in excitement, addressing the assemblage. "Well, I thought if mamma would not buy some Christmas, I would."
But you did not buy all that for a penny, Frank? We should pay sixpence for it in London.
I did, though, mamma. I had it of that old man who lives in the cottage higher up the road, with the big garden to it. He was going to cut me more, but I told him this was plenty. You should have seen the heaps he gave a woman for twopence: she wanted a wheelbarrow to carry it away.
Janey clapped her hands, and began to dance. "I shall help you to dress the rooms! We must have a merry Christmas!"
Mr. Halliburton drew her to him. "Yes, we must have a merry Christmas, must we not, Janey? Jane"—turning to his wife—"can you manage to have a nice dinner for us? Christmas only comes once a year."
He looked up with his haggard face: very much as though he were longing for a nice dinner then.
I will see what I can do, said Jane in reply, smothering down another sigh. "I am going out presently to the butcher's. A joint of beef will be best; and though the pudding's a plain one, I hope it will be good. Yes, we must keep Christmas."
Christmas-day dawned, and in due time they assembled as usual. Jane intended to go to church that day. During her husband's illness she had been obliged to send the children alone. They had been trained to know what church meant, and did not require some one with them to keep them in order there. A good thing if the same could be said of all children!
It was a clear, bright morning, cold and frosty. Mr. Halliburton came down just as they were starting.
I feel so much better to-day! he exclaimed. "I could almost go with you myself. Jane"—smiling at her look of consternation—"you need not be startled: I do not intend to attempt it. William, you are not ready."
Mamma said I was to stay with you, papa.
Stay with me! There's not the least necessity for that. I tell you all I am feeling better to-day—quite well. You can go with the rest, William.
William looked at his mother, and for a moment Jane hesitated. Only for a moment. "I would rather he remained, Edgar," she said. "Betsy will be gone by twelve o'clock. Indeed, I should not feel comfortable at the thought of your being alone."
Oh, very well, replied Mr. Halliburton, quite gaily. "I suppose you must remain, William, or we shall have mamma leaving when the service is only half over to see whether I have not fallen into the fire."
Jane had all the household care upon her shoulders now, and a great portion of the household work. Though an active domestic manager, she had known nothing practically of the more menial work of a house; she knew it only too well now. The old saying is a very true one: "Necessity makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows." This young girl, Betsy, who came in part of each day to assist, was almost as much trouble as profit. She had said to Jane on Christmas Eve: "If you please, mother says I am to be at home to-morrow, if it's convenient." I am! However, Jane and the young lady came to a compromise. She was to go home at twelve and come back later to wash up the dishes. Of course it entailed upon Jane all the trouble of preparing dinner.
Have you ever known one of these cases yourself? Where a lady—a lady, mind you, as Jane was—has had to put aside her habits of refinement, pin up her gown, and turn to and cook; roast the meat and boil potatoes, and all the ether essential items? Many a one is doing it now in real life. Jane Halliburton was not a solitary example. The pudding had been made the day before and partly boiled: it was now on the fire, boiling again, and the rest of the dinner she would do on her return from church.
It was something wonderful, the improvement in Mr. Halliburton's health that day. He took his part with William in reading the psalms and lessons while the rest were at church: it was what he had been unable to do for a long time in consequence of his cough and laboured breathing. The duty over, he lay back in his chair; in thought apparently, not exhaustion.
Peace on earth, and good will towards men! he repeated presently, in a fervent, but somewhat absent tone. "William, my boy, I think peace must be coming to me at last. I do feel so well."
What peace, papa? asked William, puzzled.
The peace of renewed health, of hope; freedom from worry. The Christmas season and the bright day have taken away all my despondency. Let me go on like this, and in another month I shall be out and at work.
William's eyes sparkled. He fully believed it all. Boys are sanguine.
They were to dine at three o'clock, and Jane did her best to prepare it. During the process, Patience appeared at the back door with a plate of oranges. "Will thee accept of these for thy children?" asked she.
How kind you are! exclaimed Jane, in a grateful impulse, as she thought of her children. Of such little treats they had latterly enjoyed a scanty share. "Patience, I hope you did not buy them purposely?"
Had I had to buy them, thee would not have seen them, returned the candid Quakeress. "A friend of Samuel Lynn's, who lives at Bristol, sends us a small case every winter. When I was unpacking it this morning I said to him, 'The young ones at the next door would be pleased with a few of these'; but he did not answer. Thee must not think him selfish; he is not a selfish man; but he cannot bear to see anything go beside the child. Anna looked at him eagerly; she would have been pleased to send half the box: and he saw it. 'Take in a few, Patience,' he cried."
I am much obliged to him, and to you also, repeated Jane. "Patience, Mr. Halliburton is so much better to-day! Go in, and see him."
Patience went into the parlour, carrying the oranges with her. When she came out again there was a grave expression on her serene face.
Thee will do well not to count upon this apparent improvement in thy husband.
Jane's heart went down considerably. "I do not exactly count upon it, Patience," she confessed; "but he does seem to have changed so much for the better that I feel in greater spirits than I have felt this many a day. His cough seems almost well."
I do not wish to throw a damp upon thee; still, were I thee, I would not reckon upon it. These sudden improvements sometimes turn out to have been deceitful. Fare thee well!
Jane went into the parlour. The children were gathered round the plate of oranges. "Mamma, do look!" cried Janey. "Are they not good? There are six: one apiece for us all. I wonder if papa could eat one? Gar, you are not to touch. Papa, could you eat an orange?"
Unseen by the children, Mr. Halliburton had been straining his eager gaze upon the oranges. His mouth parched with inward fever, his throat dry, they appeared, coming thus unexpectedly before him, what the long-wished-for spring of water is to the fainting traveller in the desert. Jane caught the look, and handed the plate to him. "You would like one, Edgar?"
I am thirsty, he said, in tones savouring of apology, for the oranges seemed to belong to the children rather than to him. "I think I must eat mine before dinner. Cut it into four, will you?"
He took up one of the quarters. "It is delicious!" he exclaimed. "It is so refreshing!"
The children stood around and watched him. They enjoyed oranges, but scarcely with a zest so intense as that.
When Jane returned to the kitchen, she found a helpmate. The maid from next door, Grace, a young Quakeress, fair and demure, was standing there. She had been sent by Patience to do what she could for half an hour. "How considerate she is!" thought grateful Jane.
They dined in comfort, Grace waiting on them. Afterwards the oranges were placed upon the table. Master Gar caught up the plate, and presented it to his mother. "Papa has had his," quoth he.
Not for me, Gar, said Jane. "I do not eat oranges. I will give mine to papa."
The three younger children speedily attacked theirs. William did not. He left his by the side of the one rejected by his mother, and set the plate by Mr. Halliburton.
Do you intend these for me, William?
Yes, papa.
Frank looked surprised. "William, you don't mean to say you are not going to eat your orange? Why, you were as glad as any of us when they came."
I eat oranges when I want them, observed William, with an affectation of carelessness, which betrayed a delicacy of feeling that might have done honour to one older than he. "I have had too good a dinner to care about oranges."
Mr. Halliburton drew William towards him, and looked steadfastly into his face with a meaning smile. "Thank you, my darling," he whispered: and William coloured excessively as he sat down.
Mr. Halliburton ate the oranges, and appeared as if he could have eaten as many more. Then he leaned his head back on the pillow which was placed over his chair, and presently fell asleep.
Be very still, dear children, whispered Jane.
They looked round, saw why they were to be still, and hushed their busy voices. William pulled a stool to his mother's feet, and took his seat on it, holding her hand between his.
Papa will soon be well again now, he softly said. "Don't you think so, mamma?"
Indeed I hope he will, she answered.
But don't you think it? he persisted; and Jane detected an anxiety in his tone. Could there have been a shadow of fear upon the boy's own heart? "He said mamma, whilst you were at church, that in another month he should be strong again."
Not quite so soon as that, I fear, William. He has been so much reduced, you know. Later: if he goes on as well as he appears to be going on now.
Jane set the children to that renowned game. "Cross questions and crooked answers." You may have had the pleasure of playing it: if so, you will remember that it consists chiefly of whispering. It is difficult to keep children quiet long together.
Where am I? cried a sudden voice, startling the children in the midst of their silent whispers.
It came from Mr. Halliburton. He had slept about half an hour, and was now looking round in bewilderment, his head starting away from the pillow. "Where am I?" he repeated.
You have been asleep, papa, cried Frank.
Asleep! Oh, yes! I remember. You are all here, and it is Christmas Day. I have been dreaming.
What about, papa?
Mr. Halliburton let his head fall back on the pillow again. He fixed his eyes on vacancy, and there ensued a silence. The children looked at him.
Singular things are dreams, he presently exclaimed. "I thought I was on a broad, wide road—an immense road, and it was crowded with people. We were all going one way, stumbling and tripping along——"
What made you stumble, papa? interrupted Janey, whose busy tongue was ever ready to talk.
The road was full of impediments, continued Mr. Halliburton, in a dreamy tone, as if his mental vision were buried in the scene and he was relating what had actually occurred. "Stones, and hillocks, and brambles, and pools of shallow water, and long grass that got entangled round our feet: nothing but difficulties and hindrances. At the end, in the horizon, as far as the eye could reach—very, very far away indeed—a hundred times as far away as the Malvern Hills appear to be from us—there shone a brilliant light. So brilliant! You have never seen anything like it in life, for the naked eye could not bear such light. And yet we seemed to look at it, and our sight was not dazzled!"
Perhaps it was fireworks? interrupted Gar. Mr. Halliburton went on without heeding him.
We were all pressing on to get to the light, though the distant journey seemed as if it could never end. So long as we kept our eyes fixed on the light, we could see how we walked, and we passed over the rough places without fear. Not without difficulty. But still we did pass them, and advanced. But the moment we took our eyes from the light, then we were stopped; some fell; some wandered aside, and would not try to go forward; some were torn by the brambles; some fell into the water; some stuck in the mud; in short, they could not get on any way. And yet they knew—at least, it seemed that they knew—that if they would only lift their eyes to the light, and keep them steadfastly on it, they were certain to be helped, and to make progress. The few who did keep their eyes on it—very few they were!—steadily bore onwards. The same hindrances, the same difficulties were in their path, so that at times they also felt tempted to despair—to fear they could not get on. But their fears were groundless. So long as they did not take their eyes from the light, it guided them in certainty and safety over the rough places. It was a helper that could not fail; and it was ready to guide every one—all those millions and millions of travellers. To guide them throughout the whole of the way until they had gained it.
The children had become interested and were listening with hushed lips. "Why did they not all let it guide them?" breathlessly asked William. "Nothing can be more easy than to keep our eyes on a light that does not dazzle. What did you do, papa?"
It seemed that the light would only shine on one step at a time, continued Mr. Halliburton, not in answer to William, but evidently absorbed in his own thoughts. "We could not see further than the one step, but that was sufficient; for the moment we had taken it, then the light shone upon another. And so we passed on, progressing to the end, the light seeming brighter and brighter as we drew near to it."
Did you get to it, papa?
I am trying to recollect, William. I seemed to be quite close to it. I suppose I awoke then.
Mr. Halliburton paused, still in thought: but he said no more. Presently he turned to his wife. "Is it nearly tea-time, Jane? I cannot think what makes me so thirsty."
We can have tea now, if you like, she replied. "I will go and see about it."
She left the room, and Janey ran after her. In the kitchen, making a great show and parade of being at work amidst plates and dishes, was a damsel of fifteen, her hair curiously twisted about her head, and her round, green eyes wide open. It was Betsy.
That was good pudding, cried she, turning her face to Mrs. Halliburton. "Better than mother's."
She alluded to a slice which had been given her. Jane smiled. "We want tea, Betsy."
Have it in directly, mum, was Miss Betsy's acquiescent response.
Scarcely were the words spoken, when a commotion was heard in the sitting-room. The door was flung open, and the boys called out, the tone of their voices one of utter alarm. Jane, the child, and the maid, made but one step to the room. All Jane's fears had flown to "fire."
Fire had been almost less startling. Mr. Halliburton was lying back on the pillow with a ghastly face, his mouth, and shirt-front stained with blood. He could not speak, but he asked assistance with his imploring eyes. In coughing he had broken a blood-vessel.
Jane did not faint; did not scream. Her whole heart turned sick, and she felt that the end had come. Janey sank down on the floor with a faint cry, and hid her face on the sofa. One glimpse was sufficient for Betsy. The moment she had taken it, she subsided into a succession of shrieks; flew out of the house and burst into that of Mr. Lynn. There she terrified the sober family by announcing that Mr. Halliburton was lying with his throat cut.
Mr. Lynn and Patience hurried in, ordering Anna to remain where she was. They saw what was the matter, and placed him in a better position: Patience helping Mrs. Halliburton to sponge his face.
Shall I get the doctor for thee, friend? asked the Quaker of Jane. "I shall bring him quicker, maybe, than one of thy lads would."
Oh! yes, yes!
I warned thee not to be sanguine, whispered Patience, when Mr. Lynn had gone. "I feared it might be only the deceitfulness of the ending."
The ending! what a confirmation of Jane's own fears! She turned her eyes despairingly on Patience.
Mr. Halliburton opened his trembling lips, as though he would have spoken. Patience stopped him.
Thee must not talk, friend. If thee hast need of anything, can thee not make a sign?
He gave them to understand that he wanted water. This was given to him, and he appeared to be more composed.
There is nothing else that I can do just now, observed Patience. "I will go back and take thy little girl with me. See her, hiding there!"
Patience did so. Betsy cowered over the fire in the kitchen, and the three boys and their mother stood round the dying man.
Children! he gasped.
Oh, Edgar! do not speak! interrupted Jane.
He smiled as he looked at her, very much as though he knew that it did not matter whether he spoke or remained silent. "I am at the journey's end, Jane; close to the light. Children," he panted at slow intervals, "when I told you my dream, I little thought it was only a type of the present reality. I think it was sent to me that I might tell it you, for I now see its meaning. You are travelling on to that light, as I thought I was—as I have been. You will have the same stumbling-blocks to walk over; none are exempt from them; trials, and temptations, and sorrows, and drawbacks. But the light is there, ever shining to guide you, for it is Heaven. Will you always look up to it?"
He gathered their hands together, and held them between his. The boys, awe-struck, bewildered with terror and grief, could only gaze in silence and listen.
The light is God, my children. He is above you, and below you, and round about you everywhere. He is ready to help you at every step and turn. Make Him your guide; put your whole dependence upon Him, implicitly trust to Him to lighten your path, so that you may see to walk in it. He cannot fail. Look up to Him, and you will be unerringly guided, though it may be—though it probably will be—only step by step. Never lose your trust in God, and then rest assured He will conduct you to His own bright ending. Jane, let them take it to their hearts! May God bless you, my dear ones! and bring you to me hereafter!
He ceased, and lay exhausted; his eyes fondly seeking Jane's, her hand clasped in his. Jane's own eyes were dry and burning, and she appeared to be unnaturally calm. Gradually the fading eyes closed. In a very short time the knock of Samuel Lynn was heard at the door. He had brought the doctor. William, passing his handkerchief over his wet face, went to open it.
Mr. Parry stepped into the room, and Jane moved from beside her husband to give place to him. "He sighed heavily a minute or two ago," she whispered.
The surgeon looked at him. He bent his ear to the open mouth, and then gently unbuttoned the waistcoat, and listened for the beating of the heart. "His life passed away in that sigh," murmured the doctor to Jane.
It was even so. Edgar Halliburton had gone into the light.
Jane looked around her—looked at all the terrors of her situation. The first burst of grief over, and a day or two gone on, she could only look at it. She did not know which way to turn or what to do. It is true she placed implicit trust in God—in the LIGHT spoken of by her husband when he was passing away. Throughout her life she had borne an ever-present, lively trust in God's unchanging care; and she had incessantly striven to implant the same trust in the minds of her children. But in this season of dread anxiety, of hopeless bereavement, you will not think less well of her for hearing that she did give way to despondency, almost to despair.
From tears for him who had been the dear partner of her life, to anxiety for the future of his children—from anxiety for them, to pecuniary distress and embarrassment—so passed on her hours from Christmas night. Calm she had contrived to be in the presence of others; but it was the calm of an aching heart. She dreaded her own reflections. When she rose in the morning she said, "How shall I bear up through the day?" and when she went to her bed, it would be, "How shall I drag through the right?" Tossing, turning, moaning; walking the room in the darkness when no eye was upon her; kneeling, almost without hope, to pour forth her tribulations to God—who would believe that, in the daytime, before others, she could be so apparently serene? Only once did she give way, and that was the day before the funeral.
Patience sympathised with her in a reasoning sort of way. It had been next to impossible for Jane to keep her pecuniary anxiety from Patience, who advised and assisted her in making the various arrangements. It was necessary to go to work in the most sparing manner possible; and it ended in Jane's taking Patience into her full confidence.
If thee can but keep a house over thy head, so as to retain thy children with thee, thee wilt get along. Do not be cast down.
Oh, Patience, that is what I have been thinking about—how am I to keep the house together. I do not see that I can do it.
The furniture is thine, observed Patience. "Thee might let two or three of thy rooms, so as to cover the rent."
I have thought all that over and over again to myself, sighed Jane. "But, Patience—allowing that the rent were made in that way—how are we to live?"
Thee must occupy thy time in some way. Thee can sew! Dost thee know dress-making?
No—only sufficient of it to make my own plain gowns and Jane's frocks. As to plain sewing, I could never earn food at it—it is so badly paid. And there will be the education of my boys, and their clothing.
Thee hast anxiety before thee—I see it, said Patience, in a grave tone. "Still, I would not have thee be cast down. Thee will make thyself ill, and that will not be the way to mend thy condition."
Jane sat down, her hands clasped on her knees, her mind viewing her dark troubles. "If I were but clear, I should have better hope," she said, lifting her face in its sad sorrow. "Patience, we owe half a year's rent; and there will be the funeral expenses besides."
Hast thee no kindred that would aid thee in thy strait?
Jane shook her head. The only "kindred" she possessed in the whole world was one who had barely enough for his own poor wants—her brother Francis.
Hast thee no little property to dispose of? continued Patience. "Watches, or things of that kind?"
There was her husband's watch. But Jane's pale face crimsoned at the idea of parting with it in that manner. It was a good watch, and had long ago been promised to William.
I can understand thy flush of aversion, said Patience, kindly. "I would not be the one to suggest aught to hurt thy feelings; but thy necessities may leave no alternative."
A conviction that they would leave none was already stealing over Jane. She possessed a few trinkets herself, not of much value, and a little silver. All might have to go, not excepting the watch. "Would there be a difficulty in disposing of them, Patience?" she asked aloud.
None at all: there is the pawn-shop, said the plain-speaking Quakeress. "I do not know what many would do without it. I can tell thee that some of the great ones of this city send their plate to it on occasion. Thee would not like to go to such a place thyself, but thy servant's mother, Elizabeth Carter, is a discreet woman: she would render thee this little service. As I tell thee, if thee can only surmount present difficulties, so as to secure a start, thee may get on."
Surmount present difficulties! It seemed to Jane next door to an impossibility. She had the merest trifle of money left, was in debt, and without means, so far as she saw, of earning even food. She paid her last night visit to the room which contained the coffin, and went thence up to her bed, to toss the night through on her wet pillow, with a burning brow and an aching heart.
It was a sad funeral to see, and one of the plainest of the plain. The clerk of the church, who had condescended to come up to escort it—a condescension he did not often vouchsafe to poor funerals, for they afforded nothing good to eat and drink—walked first, without a hatband. Then came the coffin, covered with a pall, and William and Frank behind it. Jane had not sent Gar, poor little fellow! She thought he might be better away. That was all; there were no attendants: the clerk, the two boys, the coffin, and the men who bore it.
It was sad to see. The people stopped to look as it went along the streets, following with their eyes the poor fatherless children. One young man stood aside, raised his hat, and held it in his hand until the coffin had passed. But the young man had lived in foreign countries, where it is the custom to remain uncovered whilst a funeral goes by.
He was buried at St. Martin's Church; and, singular to say, the officiating minister was the Rev. Mr. Peach. Mr. Peach did not know who he was interring: he had taken the service for St. Martin's rector. William heard his name: how many times had he heard his poor father mention the name in connection with his hopeful prospects! He burst into wailing sobs at the thought. Mr. Peach glanced off his book to look compassionately at the sobbing boy.
The funeral was over, the last word of the service spoken, the first shovel of earth flung rattling on to the coffin. The clerk did not pay the compliment of his escort back again; indeed, there was nothing to escort but the two boys. They walked alone, with no company but their hatbands.
In the evening, at dusk, they were gathered together—Jane and all the children. Tears seemed to have a respite: they had been shed of late all too plentifully.
I must speak to you, children, said Jane, lifting her head, and breaking the silence. "I may as well speak now, as let the days go on first. You are young, but you are old enough to understand me. Do you know, my darlings, how very sad our position is?"
In losing papa? said Janey, catching her breath.
Yes, yes, in losing him, wailed Jane. "For that includes more than you suspect. But I wish to allude more particularly to the future. My dears, I do not see what is to become of us. We have no money; and we have no one to give us any or to lend us any; no one in the wide world."
The children did not interrupt; only William moved his chair nearer to hers. She looked so young in her widow's cap: nearly as young as when, years ago, she had married him who had that day been put out of her sight for ever.
If we can only keep a roof over our heads, continued Jane, speaking very softly from the effort to subdue her threatening emotion, "we may perhaps struggle on. Perhaps. But it will be struggling; and you do not know half that the word implies. We may not have enough to eat. We may be cold and hungry—not once, but constantly; and we shall certainly have to encounter and endure the slights and humiliations attendant on extreme poverty. I do not know that we can retain a home; for we may, in a week or two, be turned from this."
But why be turned from this, mamma?
Because there is rent owing, and I have not the means to pay it, she answered. "I have written to your uncle Francis, but I do not believe he will be able to help me. He——"
Why can't we go back to London to live? eagerly interrupted little Gar. "It was so nice there! It was a better home than this."
You forget, Gar, that—that—— here she almost broke down, and had to pause a minute—"that our income there was earned by papa. He would not be there to earn it now. No, my dear ones; I have thought the future over in every way—thought until my brain has become confused—and the only possible chance that I can see, of our surmounting difficulties, so as to enable us to exist, is by endeavouring to keep this home. Patience suggests that I should let part of it. I had already thought of that; and I shall endeavour to do so. It may cover the rent and taxes. And I must try and do something else that will find us food."
The children looked perfectly thunderstruck, especially the two elder ones, William and Jane. "Do something to find food!" they uttered, aghast. "Mamma, what do you mean?"
It is so difficult to make children understand these unhappy things—those who have been brought up in comfort. Jane sighed, and explained further. Little desolate hearts they were who listened to her.
William, she resumed, "your poor papa's watch was to have been yours; but—I scarcely like to tell you—I fear I shall be obliged to dispose of it to help our necessities."
A spasm shot across William's face. But, brave-hearted boy that he was, he would not let his mother see his disappointment, and looked cheerfully at her.
There is one thought that weighs more heavily on my mind than all—your education. How I shall manage to continue it I do not know. My darlings, I look upon this only in a degree less essential to you than food: you know that learning is better than house and land. I do not yet see my way clear in any way: it is very dark—almost as dark as it can be; and but for one Friend, I should despair.
What friend is that, mamma? Do you mean Patience?
I mean God, replied Jane. "I know that He is a sure refuge to those who trust in Him. In my saddest moments, when I think how certain that refuge is, a ray of light flashes over me, bright as that glorious light in your papa's dream. Oh, my dear children! Perhaps we shall be helped to struggle on!"
Who will buy us new clothes? cried Frank, dropping upon another phase of the difficulty. Jane sighed: it was all terribly indistinct.
In all the tribulation that will probably come upon us, the humiliations, the necessities, we must strive for patience to bear them. You do not yet understand the meaning of the term, to bear; but you will learn it all too soon. You must bear not only for your own sakes, because it is your lot, and you cannot go from it; not only for mine, but chiefly because it is the will of God. This affliction could not have come upon us unless God had permitted it, and I am quite sure, therefore, that it is in some way sent for our good. We shall not be utterly miserable if we can keep together in our house. You will aid me in it, will you not?
In what way, mamma? they eagerly asked, as if wishing to begin something then. "What can we do?"
You can aid me by being dutiful and obedient; by giving me no unnecessary anxiety or trouble; by cheerfully making the best of our privations; and you can strive to retain what you have already learnt by going diligently over your lessons together. All this will aid and comfort me.
William's tears burst forth, and he laid his head on his mother's lap. "Oh, mamma dear, I will try and do for you all I can," he sobbed. "I will indeed."
Take comfort, my boy, she whispered, leaning tenderly over him. "Remember that your last act to your father was a loving sacrifice, in giving to him the orange that you would have enjoyed. I marked it, William. My darling children, let us all strive to bear on steadfastly to that far-off light, ever looking unto God."
A week elapsed, after the burial of Mr. Halliburton. By that time Jane had looked fully into the best and worst of her condition, and had, so to say, organised her plans. By the disposal of the watch, with what little silver they possessed, and ornaments of her own, she had been enabled to discharge the expenses of the funeral and other small debts, and to retain a trifle in hand for present wants.
On the last day of the week, Saturday, she received an application for the rent. A stylish-looking stripling of some nineteen years, with light eyes and fair hair, called from Mr. Dare to demand it. Jane told him she could not pay him then, but would write and explain to Mr. Dare. Upon which the gentleman, whose manners were haughtily condescending, turned on his heel and left the house, not deigning to say good morning. As he was swinging out at the gate, Patience, coming home from market with a basket in her hand, met him. "How dost thee?" said she in salutation. But there was no response from the other, except that his head went a shade higher.
Do you know who that is? inquired Jane, afterwards.
Of a surety. It is young Anthony Dare.
He has not pleasing manners.
Not to us. There is not a more arrogant youth in the town. But his private character is not well spoken of.
Jane sat down to write to Mr. Dare. Her brother Francis, to whom she had explained her situation, had promised her the rent for the half-year due, sixteen pounds, by the middle of February. He could not let her have it before that period, he said, but she might positively count upon it then. She begged Mr. Dare to accord her the favour of waiting until then. Sealing her note, she sent it to him.
On the Monday following, all was in readiness to let; and Jane was full of hope, looking for the advent of lodgers. The best parlour and the two best bedrooms had been vacated, and were in order. Jane slept now with her little girl, and the boys had mattresses laid down for them on the floor at the top of the house. They were to make the study their sitting-room from henceforth; and a card in the window displayed the announcement "Lodgings." The more modern word "apartments" had not then come into fashion at Helstonleigh.
Patience came in after breakfast with a piece of grey merino in her hand.
Would thee like to make a frock for Anna? asked she of Mrs. Halliburton. "Sarah Locke does them for her mostly, for it is work that I am not clever at; but Sarah sends me word she is too full of work this week to undertake it. I heard thee say thee made Janey's frocks. If thee can do this, and earn half-a-crown, thee art welcome. It is what I should pay Sarah."
Jane took the merino in thankfulness. It was as a ray of hope, come to light up her heart. Only the instant before Patience entered she was wishing that something could arrive for her to do, never supposing that it would arrive. And now it had come!—and would bring her in two-and-sixpence! "Two-and-sixpence!" we may feel inclined to echo, in undisguised contempt for the trifle. Ay! but we may never have known the yearning want of two-and-sixpence, or of ten-and-sixpence either!
Jane cut out the skirt by a pattern frock, and sat down to make it, her mind ruminating on the future. The children were at their lessons, round the table. "I have just two pounds seventeen and sixpence left," deliberated Jane. "This half-crown will make it three pounds. I wonder how long we can live upon that? We have good clothes, and for the present the boys' boots are good. If I can let the rooms we shall have the rent, so that food is the chief thing to look to. We must spin the money out; must live upon bread and potatoes and a little milk, until something comes in. I wonder if five shillings a week would pay for bare food, and for coals? I fear——"
Jane's dreams were interrupted. The front gate was swung open, and two people, men or gentlemen, approached the house door and knocked. Their movements were so quick that Jane caught only a glimpse of them. "See who it is, will you, William?"
She heard them walk in and ask if she was at home. Putting down her work, she shook the threads from her black dress and went out to them, William returning to his lessons.
The visitors were standing in the passage—one well-dressed man and one shabby one. The former made a civil demand for the half-year's rent due. Jane replied that she had written to Mr. Dare on the previous Saturday, explaining things to him, and asking him to wait a short time.
Mr. Dare cannot wait, was the rejoinder of the applicant, still speaking civilly. "You must allow me to remark, ma'am, that you are strangers to the town, that you have paid no rent since you entered the house——"
We believed it was the custom to pay half-yearly, as Mr. Dare did not apply for it at the Michaelmas quarter, interrupted Jane. "We should have paid then, had he asked for it."
At any rate, it is not paid, was the reply. "And—I am sorry, ma'am, to be under the necessity of leaving this man in possession until you do pay!"
They walked deliberately into the best parlour; and Jane, amidst a rushing feeling of despair that turned her heart to sickness, knew that a seizure had been put into the house.
As she stood in her bewilderment, Patience entered by the back door, the way she always did enter, and caught a glimpse of the shabby man. She drew Jane into the kitchen.
What does that man do here? she inquired.
For answer Jane sank into a chair and burst into sobs so violent as to surprise the calm Quakeress. She turned and shut the door.
Hush thee! Now hush thee! Thy children will hear and be terrified. Art thee behind with thy taxes?
For some minutes Jane could not reply. "Not for taxes," she said; "they are paid. Mr. Dare has put him in for the rent."
Patience revolved the news in considerable astonishment. "Nay, but I think thee must be in error. Thomas Ashley would not do such a thing."
He has done it, sobbed Jane.
It is not in accordance with his character. He is a humane and considerate man. Verily I grieve for thee! That man is not an agreeable inmate of a house. We had him in ours last year!
You! uttered Jane, surprise penetrating even to her own grief. "You!"
They force us to pay church-rates, explained Patience. "We have a scruple to do so, believing the call unjust. For years Samuel Lynn had paid the claim to avert consequences; but last year he and many more Friends stood out against it. The result was, that that man, now in thy parlour, was put into our house. The amount claimed was one pound nine shillings; and they took out of our house, and sold, goods which had cost us eleven pounds, and which were equal to new."
Oh, Patience, tell me what I had better do! implored Jane, reverting to her own trouble. "If we are turned out and our things sold, we must go to the workhouse. We cannot be in the streets."
Indeed, I feel incompetent to advise thee. Had thee not better see Anthony Dare, and try thy persuasion that he would remove the seizure and wait?
I will go to him at once, feverishly returned Jane. "You will allow Janey to remain with you, Patience, while I do so?"
Of a surety I will. She——
At that moment the children burst into the kitchen, one after the other. "Mamma, who is that shabby-looking man come into the study? He has seated himself right in front of the fire, and is knocking it about. And the other is looking at the tables and chairs."
It was Frank who spoke; impetuous
Frank. Mrs. Halliburton cast a despairing look around her, and Patience drew their attention.
That man is here on business, she said to them. "You must not be rude to him, or he will be ten times more rude to you. The other will soon be gone. Your mother is going abroad for an hour; perhaps when she returns she will rid the house of him. Jane, child, thee can come with me and take thy dinner with Anna."
Mrs. Halliburton waited until the better-looking of the two men was gone, and then started. It was a raw, cold day—what some people call a black frost. Black and gloomy it all looked to her, outwardly and inwardly, as she traversed the streets to the office of Mr. Dare. Patience had directed her, and the plate on the door, "Mr. Dare, Solicitor," showed her the right house. She stepped inside that door, which stood open, and knocked at one to the right of the passage. "Clerks' Room" was inscribed upon it.
Come in.
Three or four clerks were in it. In one of them she recognized him who had just left her house. The other clerks appeared to defer to him, and called him "Mr. Stubbs." Jane, giving her name, said she wished to see Mr. Dare, and the request was conveyed to an inner room. It brought forth young Anthony.
My father is busy and cannot see you, was his salutation. "I can hear anything you may have to say. It will be the same thing."
Thank you, replied Jane, in courteous tones, very different from his. "But I would prefer to see Mr. Dare."
He is engaged, I say, sharply repeated Anthony.
I will wait, then. I must see him.
Anthony Dare stalked back again. Jane, seeing a bench against the wall, sat down. It was about half-past twelve when she arrived there, and when the clock struck two, there she was still. Several clients, during that time, had come and gone; they were admitted to Mr. Dare, but she sat on, neglected. At two o'clock Anthony came through the room with his hat on. He appeared to be going out.
What! are you here still? he exclaimed, in genuine or affected surprise; never, in his ill-manners, removing his hat—he of whom it was his delight to hear it said that he was the most complete gentleman in Helstonleigh. "I assure you it is not of the least use your waiting. Mr. Dare will not be able to see you."
Mr. Dare can surely spare me a minute when he has done with others.
He cannot to-day. Can you not say to me what you want to say?
Indeed I must see Mr. Dare himself. I will wait on, if you will allow me, hoping to do so.
Anthony Dare vouchsafed no reply, and went out. One or two of the clerks looked round. They appeared not to understand why she sat on so persistently, or why Mr. Dare refused to see her.
In about an hour's time the inner door opened. A tall man, with a bold, free countenance, looked into the room. Supposing it to be Mr. Dare, Jane rose and approached him. "Will you allow me a few minutes' conversation?" she asked. "I presume you are Mr. Dare?"
He put up his hands as if to fence her off. "I have no time, I have no time," he reiterated, and shut the door in her face. Jane sat down again on the bench. "Stubbs, I want you," came forth from Mr. Dare's voice, as he opened the door an inch to speak it.
Stubbs went in, remained a few minutes, and then returned, put on his hat, and walked out. His departure was the signal for considerable relaxation in the office duties. "When the cat's away—" you know the rest. Yawning, stretching, whispering, and laughing supervened. One of the clerks took from his pocket a paper of the biscuits called "union" in Helstonleigh, and began eating them. Another pulled out a bottle, and solaced himself with some of its contents—whatever they might be. Suddenly the man with the biscuits got off his stool, and offered them to Mrs. Halliburton. Her pale, sad face may have prompted his good nature to the act.
You have waited a good while, ma'am, and perhaps have lost your dinner through it, he said.
Jane took one of them. "You are very kind. Thank you," she faintly said.
But not a crumb of it could she swallow. She had taken a slice of dry toast for her breakfast that morning, with half a cup of milk; and it was long since she had had a sufficiency of food at any meal. She felt weak, sick, faint; but anxiety and suspense were at work within, parching her throat, destroying her appetite. She held the biscuit in her fingers, resting on her lap, and, in spite of her efforts, the rebellious tears forced themselves to her eyes. Raising her hand, she quietly let fall her widow's veil.
A poor-looking man came in, and counted out eight shillings, laying them upon the desk. "I couldn't make up the other two this week; I couldn't, indeed," he said, with trembling eagerness. "I'll bring twelve next week, please to say."
Mind you do, responded one of the clerks; "or you know what will be in store for you."
The man shook his head. He probably did know; and, in going out, was nearly knocked over by a handsome lad of seventeen, who was running in. Very handsome were his features; but they were marred by the free expression which characterized Mr. Dare's.
I say, is the governor in? cried he, out of breath.
Yes, sir. Lord Hawkesley's with him.
The deuce take Lord Hawkesley, then! returned the young gentleman. "Where's Stubbs? I want my week's money, and I can't wait. Walker, I say, where's Stubbs?"
Stubbs is gone out, sir.
What a bother! Halloa! Here's some money! What is this? continued the speaker, catching up the eight shillings.
It is some that has just been paid in, Master Herbert.
That's all right then, said he, slipping five of them into his jacket pocket. "Tell Stubbs to put it down as my week's money."
He tore off. Jane sat on, wondering what she was to do. There appeared to be little probability that she would be admitted to Mr. Dare; and yet, how could she go home as she came—hopeless—to the presence of that man? No; she must wait still; wait until the last. She might catch a word with Mr. Dare as he was leaving. Jane could not help thinking his behaviour very bad in refusing to see her.
The office was being lighted when Mr. Stubbs returned. One of the clerks pointed to the three shillings with his pen. "Kinnersley has brought eight shillings. He will make it twelve next week. Couldn't manage the ten this, he says."
Where are the eight shillings? asked Stubbs. "I see only three."
Oh, Master Herbert came in, and took off five. He said you were to put it down as his week's money.
He'll take a little too much some day, if he's not checked, was the cynical reply of the senior clerk. "However, it's no business of mine."
He put the three shillings into his own desk, and made an entry in a book. After that he went in to Mr. Dare, who was now alone. A large room, handsomely fitted up. Mr. Dare's table was near one of the windows: a desk, at which Anthony sometimes sat, was at the other. Mr. Dare looked up.
I could not do anything, sir, said Stubbs. "The other party will listen to no proposal at all. They say they'll throw it into Chancery first. An awful rage they are in."
Tush! said Mr. Dare. "Chancery, indeed! They'll tell another tale in a day or two. Has Kinnersley been in?"
Kinnersley has brought eight shillings, and promises to bring twelve next Monday. Master Herbert carried off five of them, and left word it was for his week's money.
A smart blade! cried Mr. Dare, apostrophizing his son with personal pride. "'Take it when I can,' is his motto. He'll make a good lawyer, Stubbs."
Very good, acquiesced Stubbs.
Is that woman gone yet?
No, sir. My opinion is, she means to wait until she sees you.
Then send her in at once, and let's get it over, thundered Mr. Dare.
In what lay his objection to seeing her? A dread lest she should put forth their relationship as a plea for his clemency? If so, he was destined to be agreeably disappointed. Jane did not allude to it; would not allude to it. After that interview held with Mrs. Dare, some three or four months before, she had dropped all remembrance of the connection: even the children did not know of it. She only solicited Mr. Dare's leniency now, as any other stranger might have solicited it. Little chance was there of Mr. Dare's acceding to her prayer: he and his wife both wanted Helstonleigh to be free of the Halliburtons.
It will be utter ruin, she urged. "It will turn us, beggars, into the streets. Mr. Dare, I promise you the rent by the middle of February. Unless it were certain, my brother would not have promised it to me. Surely you may accord me this short time."
Ma'am, I cannot—that is, Mr. Ashley cannot. It was a reprehensible piece of carelessness on my part to suffer the rent to go on for half a year, considering that you were strangers. Mr. Ashley will look to me to see him well out of it.
There is sufficient furniture in my house, new furniture, to pay what is owing three times over.
May be, as it stands in it. Things worth forty pounds in a house, won't fetch ten at a sale.
That is an additional reason why I——
Now, my good lady, interrupted Mr. Dare, with imperative civility, "one word is as good as a thousand; and that word I have said. I cannot withdraw the seizure, except on receipt of the rent and costs. Pay them, and I shall be most happy to do it. If you stop here all night I can give you no other answer; and my time is valuable."
He glanced at the door as he spoke. Jane took the hint, and passed out of it. As much by the tone, as by the words, she gathered that there was no hope whatever.
The streets were bright with gas as she hurried along, her head bent, her veil over her face, her tears falling silently. But when she left the town behind her, and approached a lonely part of the road where no eye was on her, no ear near her, then the sobs burst forth uncontrolled.
No eye on her? no ear near her? Ay, but there was! There was one Eye, one Ear, which never closes. And as Jane's dreadful trouble resolved itself into a cry for help to Him who ever listens, there seemed to come a feeling of peace, of trust, into her soul.
Frank met her as she went in. It was dark; but she kept her veil down.
Oh, mamma, that's the most horrible man! he began, in a whisper. "You know the cheese you brought in on Saturday, that we might not eat our bread quite dry; well, he has eaten it up, every morsel, and half a loaf of bread! And he has burnt the whole scuttleful of coal! And he swore because there was no meat; and he swore at us because we would not go to the public-house and buy him some beer. He said we were to buy it and pay for it."
I said you would not allow us to go, mamma, interrupted William, who now came up. "I told him that if he wanted beer he must go and get it for himself. I spoke civilly, you know, not rudely. He went into such a passion, and said such things! It is a good thing Jane was out."
Where is Gar? she asked.
Gar was frightened at the man, and the tobacco-smoke made him sick, and he cried; and then he lay down on the floor, and went to sleep.
She felt sick. She drew her two boys into the parlour—dark there, except for the lamp in the road, which shone in. Pressing them in her arms, completely subdued by the miseries of her situation, she leaned her forehead upon William's shoulder, and burst once more into a most distressing flood of tears.
They were alarmed. They cried with her. "Oh, mamma! what is it? Why don't you order the man to go away?"
My boys, I must tell you; I cannot keep it from you, she sobbed. "That man is put here to remain, until I can pay the rent. If I cannot pay it, our things will be taken and sold."
William's pulses and heart alike beat, but he was silent, Frank spoke. "Whatever shall we do, mamma?"
I do not know, she wailed. "Perhaps God will help us. There is no one else to do it."
Patience came in, for about the sixth time, to see whether Jane had returned, and how the mission had sped. They called her into the cold, dark room. Jane gave her the history of the whole day, and Patience listened in astonishment.
I cannot but believe that Thomas Ashley must have been mis-informed, said she, presently. "But that you are strangers in the place, I should say you had an enemy who may have gone to him with a tale that thee can pay, but will not. Still, even in that case, it would be unlike Thomas Ashley. He is a kind and a good man; not a harsh one."
Mr. Dare told me he was expressly acting for Mr. Ashley.
Well, I say that I cannot understand it, repeated Patience. "It is not like Thomas Ashley. I will give thee an instance of his disposition and general character. There was a baker rented under him, living in a house of Thomas Ashley's. The baker got behind with his rent; other bakers were more favoured than he; but he kept on at his trade, hoping times would mend. Year by year he failed in his rent—Thomas Ashley, mark thee, still paying him regularly for the bread supplied to his family. 'Why do you not stop his bread-money?' asked one, who knew of this, of Thomas Ashley. 'Because he is poor, and looks to my weekly money, with that of others, to buy his flour,' was Thomas Ashley's answer. Well, when he owed several years' rent, the baker died, and the widow was going to move. Anthony Dare hastened to Thomas Ashley. 'Which day shall I levy a distress upon the goods?' asked he. 'Not at all,' replied Thomas Ashley. And he went to the widow, and told her the rent was forgiven, and the goods were her own, to take with her when she left. That is Thomas Ashley."
Jane bent her head in thought. "Is Mr. Lynn at home?" she asked. "I should like to speak to him."
He has had his tea and gone back to the manufactory, but he will be home soon after eight. I will keep Jane till bedtime. She and Anna are happy over their puzzles.
Patience, am I obliged to find that man in food?
That thee art. It is the law.
The noise made by Patience in going away, brought the man forth from the study, a candle in his hand. "When is that mother of yours coming back?" he roared out to the boys. Jane advanced. "Oh, you are here!" he uttered, wrathfully. "What are you going to give me to eat and drink? A pretty thing this is, to have an officer in, and starve him!"
You shall have tea directly. You shall have what we have, she answered, in a low tone.
The kettle was boiling on the study fire. Jane lighted a fire in the parlour, and sent Frank out for butter. The man smoked over the study fire, as he had done all the afternoon, and Gar slept beside him on the floor, but William went now and brought the child away. Jane sent the man his tea in, and the loaf and butter.
The fare did not please him. He came to the parlour and said he must have meat; he had had none for his dinner.
I cannot give it you, replied Jane. "We are eating dry toast and bread, as you may see. I sent butter to you."
He stood there for some minutes, giving vent to his feelings in rather strong language; and then he went back to revenge himself upon the butter for the want of meat. Jane laid her hand upon her beating throat: beating with its tribulation.
Between eight and nine Jane went to the next door. Samuel Lynn had come home for the evening, and was sitting at the table in his parlour, helping the two little girls with a geographical puzzle, which had baffled their skill. He was a little man, quiet in movement, pale and sedate in feature, dry and unsympathising in manner.
Thee art in trouble, friend, I hear, he said, placing a chair for Jane, whilst Patience came and called the children away. "It is sad for thee."
In great trouble, answered Jane. "I came in to ask if you would serve me in my trouble. I fancy perhaps you can do so if you will."
In what way, friend?
Would you interest yourself for me with Mr. Ashley? He might listen to you. Were he assured that the money would be forthcoming in February, I think he might agree to give me time.
Friend, I cannot do this, was the reply of the Quaker. "My relations with Thomas Ashley are confined to business matters, and I cannot overstep them. To interfere with his private affairs would not be seemly; neither might he deem it so. I am but his servant, remember."
The words fell upon her heart as ice. She believed it her only chance—some one interceding for her with Mr. Ashley. She said so.
Why not go to him thyself, friend?
Would he hear me? hastily asked Jane. "I am a stranger to him."
Thee art his tenant. As to hearing thee, that he certainly would. Thomas Ashley is of a courteous nature. The poorest workman in our manufactory, going to the master with a grievance, is sure of a patient hearing. But if thee ask me would he grant thy petition, there I cannot inform thee. Patience opines that thee, or thy intentions, may have been falsely represented to him. I never knew him resort to harsh measures before.
When would be the best time to see him? Is it too late to-night?
To-night would not be a likely time, friend, to trouble him. He has not long returned from a day's journey, and is, no doubt, cold and tired. I met James Meeking driving down as I came home; he had left the master at his house. They have been out on business connected with the manufactory. Thee might see him in the morning, at his breakfast hour.
Jane rose and thanked the Quaker. "I will certainly go," she said.
There is no need to say to him that I suggested it to thee, friend. Go as of thy own accord.
Jane went home with her little girl. Their undesirable visitor looked out at the study door, and began a battle about supper. It ought to comprise, in his opinion, meat and beer. He insisted that one of the boys should go out for beer. Jane steadily refused. She was tempted to tell him that the children of a gentleman were not despatched to public-houses on such errands. She offered him the money to go and get some for himself.
It aroused his anger. He accused her of wanting to get him out of the house by stratagem, that she might lock him out; and he flung the pence back amongst them. Janey screamed, and Gar burst out crying. As Patience had said, he was not a pleasant inmate. Jane ran upstairs, and the children followed her.
Where is he to sleep? inquired William.
It is a positive fact that, until that moment, Jane had forgotten all about the sleeping. Of course he must sleep there, though she had not thought of it. Amidst the poor in her father's parish in London, Jane had seen many phases of distress; but with this particular annoyance she had never been brought into contact. However, it had to be done.
What a night that was for her! She paced her room nearly throughout it, with quiet movement, Janey sleeping placidly—now giving way to all the dark appearances of her position, to uncontrollable despondency; now kneeling and crying for help in her heartfelt anguish.
Morning came; the black frost had gone, and the sun shone. After breakfast Jane put on her shawl and bonnet.
Mr. Ashley's residence was very near to them—only a little higher up the road. It was a large house, almost a mansion, surrounded by a beautiful garden. Jane had passed it two or three times, and thought what a nice place it was. She repeatedly saw Mr. Ashley walk past her house as he went to or came from the manufactory: she was not a bad reader of countenances, and she judged him to be a thorough gentleman. His face was a refined one, his manner pleasant.
She found that she had gone at an untoward time. Standing before the hall door was Mr. Ashley's open carriage, the groom standing at the horse's head. Even as Jane ascended the steps the door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Ashley were coming forth. Feeling terribly distressed and disappointed, she scarcely defined why, Jane accosted the former, and requested a few minutes' interview.
Mr. Ashley looked at her. A fair young widow, evidently a lady. He did not recognise her. He had seen her before, but she was in a different style of dress now.
Mr. Ashley raised his hat as he replied to her. "Is your business with me pressing? I was just going out."
Indeed it is pressing, she said; "or I would not think of asking to detain you."
Then walk in, he returned. "A little delay will not make much difference."
Opening the door of a small sitting-room, apparently his own, he invited her to a seat near the fire. As she took it, Jane untied the crape strings of her bonnet and threw back her heavy veil. She was as white as a sheet, and felt choking.
I fear you are ill, Mr. Ashley remarked. "Can I get you anything?"
I shall be better in a minute, thank you, she panted. "Perhaps you do not know me, sir. I live in your house, a little lower down. I am Mrs. Halliburton."
Oh, I beg your pardon, madam; I did not remember you at first. I have seen you in passing.
His manner was perfectly kind and open. Not in the least like that of a landlord who had just put a distress into his tenant's house.
I have come here to beseech your mercy, she began in agitation. "I have not the rent now, but if you will consent to wait until the middle of February, it will be ready. Oh, Mr. Ashley, do not oppress me for it! Think of my situation."
I never oppressed any one in my life, was the quiet rejoinder of Mr. Ashley, spoken, however, in a somewhat surprised tone.
Sir, it is oppression. I beg your pardon for saying so. I promise that the rent shall be paid to you in a few weeks: to force my furniture from me now, is oppression.
I do not understand you, returned Mr. Ashley.
To sell my furniture under the distress will be utter ruin to me and my children, she continued. "We have no resource, no home; we shall have to lie in the streets, or die. Oh, sir, do not take it!"
But you are agitating yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Halliburton. I have no intention of taking your furniture.
No intention, sir! she echoed. "You have put in a distress."
Put in a what? cried he, in unbounded surprise.
A distress. The man has been in since yesterday morning.
Mr. Ashley looked at her a few moments in silence. "Did the man tell you where he came from?"
It was Mr. Dare who put him in—acting for you. I went to Mr. Dare, and he kept me waiting nearly five hours in his outer office before he would see me. When he did see me, he declined to hear me. All he would say was, that I must pay the rent or he should take the furniture: acting for Mr. Ashley.
A strangely severe expression darkened Mr. Ashley's face. "First of all, my dear lady, let me assure you that I knew nothing of this, or it should never have been done. I am surprised at Mr. Dare."
Could she fail to trust that open countenance—that benevolent eye? Her hopes rose high within her. "Sir, will you withdraw the man, and give me time?"
I will.
The revulsion of feeling, from despair and grief, was too great. She burst into tears, having struggled against them in vain. Mr. Ashley rose and looked from the window; and presently she grew calmer. When he sat down again she gave him the outline of her situation; of her present dilemma; of her hopes—poor hopes that they were!—of getting a scanty living through letting her rooms and doing some sewing, or by other employment. "Were I to lose my furniture, it would take from me this only chance," she concluded.
You shall not lose it through me, warmly spoke Mr. Ashley. "The man shall be dismissed from your house in half an hour's time."
Oh, thank you, thank you! she breathed, rising to leave. "I have not been able to supply him with great things in the shape of food, and he uses very bad language in the hearing of my children. Thank you, Mr. Ashley."
He shook hands with her cordially, and attended her to the hall door. Mrs. Ashley, a pretty, lady-like woman, somewhat stately in general, stood there still. Well wrapped in velvet and furs, she did not care to return to the warm rooms. Jane said a few words of apology for detaining her, and passed on.
Mr. Ashley turned back to his room, drew his desk towards him, and began to write. His wife followed him. "Who was that, Thomas?"
Mrs. Halliburton: our widowed tenant, next door to Samuel Lynn's. You remember I told you of meeting the funeral. Two little boys were following alone.
Oh, poor little things! yes. What did she want?
Mr. Ashley made no reply: he was writing rapidly. The note, when finished, was sealed and directed to Mr. Dare. He then helped his wife into the carriage, took the reins, and sat down beside her. The groom took his place in the seat behind, and Mr. Ashley drove round the gravel drive, out at the gate, and turned towards Helstonleigh.
Thomas, you are going the wrong way! said Mrs. Ashley, in consternation. "What are you thinking of?"
I shall turn directly, he answered. There was a severe look upon his face, and he drove very fast, by which signs Mrs. Ashley knew something had put him out. She inquired, and he gave her the outline of what he had just heard.
How could Anthony Dare act so? involuntarily exclaimed Mrs. Ashley.
I don't know. I shall give him a piece of my mind to-morrow more plainly than he will like. This is not the first time he has attempted a rascally action under cover of my name.
Shall you lose the rent?
I think not, Margaret. She said not, and she carries sincerity in her face. I am sure I shall not lose it if she can help it. If I do, I must, that's all. I never yet added to the trouble of those in distress, and I never will.
He pulled up at Mrs. Halliburton's house, which she had just reached also. The groom came to the horse, and Mr. Ashley entered. The "man" was comfortably stretched before the study fire, smoking his short pipe. Up he jumped when he saw Mr. Ashley, and smuggled his pipe into his pocket. His offensive manner had changed to humble servility.
Do you know me? shortly inquired Mr. Ashley.
The man pulled his hair in token of respect. "Certainly, sir. Mr. Ashley."
Very well. Carry this note to Mr. Dare.
The man received the note in his hand, and held it there, apparently, in some perplexity. "May I leave, sir, without the authority of Mr. Dare?"
I thought you said you knew me, was Mr. Ashley's reply, haughty displeasure in his tone.
I beg pardon, sir, replied the man, pulling his hair again, and making a movement of departure. "I suppose I bain't a-coming back, sir?"
You are not.
He took up a small bundle tied in a blue handkerchief, which he had brought with him and appeared excessively careful of, caught at his battered hat, ducked his head to Mr. Ashley, and left the house, the note held between his fingers. Would you like to see what it contained?
"
Dear Sir,—I find that you have levied a distress on Mrs. Halliburton's goods for rent due to me. That you should have done so without my authority astonishes me much; that you should have done so at all, knowing what you do of my principles, astonishes me more. I send the man back to you. The costs of this procedure you will either set down to me, or pay out of your own pocket, whichever you may deem the more just; but you will not charge them to Mrs. Halliburton. Have the goodness to call upon me to-morrow morning in East Street. Thomas Ashley.""
"
He will not trouble you again, Mrs. Halliburton, observed Mr. Ashley, with a pleasant smile, as he went out to his carriage.
Jane stood at her window. She watched the man go towards Helstonleigh with the note; she watched Mr. Ashley step into his seat, turn his horse, and drive up the road. But all things were looking misty to her, for her eyes were dim.
God did hear me, was her earnest thought.
Helstonleigh abounded with glove manufactories. It was a trade that might be said to be a blessing to the localities where it was carried on, since it was one of the very few employments that furnished to the poor female population easy, clean, and profitable work at their own homes. The evils arising to women who go out to work in factories have been rehearsed over and over again; and the chief evil—we will put others out of sight—is, that it takes the married woman from her home and her family. Her young children drag themselves up in her absence, for worse or for better; alone they must do it, for she has to be away, toiling for daily bread. There is no home privacy, no home comfort, no home happiness; the factory is their life, and other interests give way to it. But with glove-making the case was different. Whilst the husbands were at the manufactories pursuing their day's work, the wives and elder daughters were earning money easily and pleasantly at home. The work was clean and profitable; all that was necessary for its accomplishment being common skill as a seamstress.
Not five minutes' walk from Mrs. Halliburton's house, and nearer to Helstonleigh, a turning out of the main road led you to quite a colony of workwomen—gloveresses, as they were termed in the local phraseology. It was a long, wide lane; the houses, some larger, some smaller, built on either side of it. A road quite wide enough for health if the inhabitants had only kept it as it ought to have been kept: but they did not do so. The highway was made a common receptacle for refuse. It was so much easier to open the kitchen door (most of the houses were entered at once by the kitchen), and to "chuck" things out, pêle-mêle, rather than be at the trouble of conveying them to the proper receptacle, the dust-bin at the back. Occasionally a solitary policeman would come, picking his way through the dirt and dust, and order it to be removed; upon which some slight improvement would be visible for a day or two. The name of this charming place was Honey Fair; though, in truth, it was redolent of nothing so pleasant as honey.
Of the occupants of these houses, the husbands and elder sons were all glove operatives; several of them in the manufactory of Mr. Ashley. The wives sewed the gloves at home. Many a similar colony to Honey Fair was there in Helstonleigh, but in hearing of one you hear of all. The trade was extensively pursued. A very few of the manufactories were of the extent that was Mr. Ashley's; and they gradually descended in size, until some comprised not half a score workmen, all told; but whose masters alike dignified themselves by the title of "manufacturer."
There flourished a shop in the general line in Honey Fair kept by a Mrs. Buffle, a great gossip. Her husband, a well-meaning, steady little man, mincing in his speech and gait, scrupulously neat and clean in his attire, and thence called "the dandy," was chief workman at one of the smallest of the establishments. He had three men and two boys under him; and so he styled himself the "foreman." No one knew half so much of the affairs of their neighbours as did Mrs. Buffle; no one could tell of the ill-doings and shortcomings of Honey Fair as she could. Many a gloveress girl, running in at dusk for a halfpenny candle, did not receive it until she had first submitted to a lecture from Mrs. Buffle. Not that her custom was all of this ignoble description: some of the gentlemen's houses in the neighbourhood would deal with her in a chance way, when out of articles at home. Her wares were good; her home-cured bacon was particularly good. Amidst other olfactory treats indigenous to Honey Fair was that of pigs and pig-sties, kept by Mrs. Buffle.
Occasionally Mrs. Halliburton would go to this shop; it was nearer to her house than any other; and, in her small way, had been extensively patronised by her. Of all her customers, Mrs. Halliburton was the one who most puzzled Mrs. Buffle. In the first place, she never gossiped; in the second, though evidently a lady, she would carry her purchases home herself. The very servants from the very large houses, coming flaunting in their smart caps, would loftily order their pound of bacon or shillingsworth of eggs sent home for them. Mrs. Halliburton took hers away in her own hand; and this puzzled Mrs. Buffle. "But her pays ready money," observed that lady, when relating this to another customer, "so 'tain't my place to grumble."
During the summer weather, whenever Jane had occasion to walk through Honey Fair, on her way to this shop, she would linger to admire the women at their open doors and windows, busy over their nice clean work. Rocking the cradle with one foot, or jogging the baby on their knees, to a tune of their own composing, their hands would be ever active at their employment. Some made the gloves; that is, seamed the fingers together and put in the thumbs, and these were called "makers." Some welted, or hemmed the gloves round at the edge of the wrist; these were called "welters." Some worked the three ornamental lines on the back; and these were called "pointers." Some of the work was done in what was called a patent machine, whereby the stitches were rendered perfectly equal. And some of the stouter gloves were stitched together, instead of being sewn: stitching so beautifully regular and neat, that a stranger would look at it in admiration. In short, there were different branches in the making and sewing of gloves, as there are in most trades.
It now struck Jane that she might find employment at this work until better times should come round. True, she had never worked at it; but she was expert with her needle, and it was easily acquired. She possessed a dry, cool hand, too; a great thing where sewing-silk, sometimes floss silk, has to be used. What cared she for lowering herself to the employment only dealt out to the poor? Was she not poor herself? And who knew her in Helstonleigh?
The day that Mr. Ashley removed the dreaded visitor from her house, Jane had occasion to speak to Elizabeth Carter, her young servant's mother. At dusk, putting aside the frock she was making for Anna, Jane proceeded to Honey Fair, in which perfumed locality Mrs. Carter lived. An agreement had been entered into that Betsy should still go to Mrs. Halliburton's to do the washing (after her own fashion, but Jane could not afford to be fastidious now), and also what was wanted in the way of scouring—Betsy being paid a trifle in return, and instructed in the mysteries of reading and writing.
'Taint no profit, observed Mrs. Carter to a crony, "but 'taint no loss. Her won't do nothing at home, let me cry after her as I will. Out her goes, gampusing to this house, gampusing to that; but not a bit of work'll her stick to at home. If these new folks can keep her to work a bit, so much the better; it'll be getting her hand in; and better still, if they teaches her to read and write. Her wouldn't learn nothing from the school-missis."
Not a very favourable description of Miss Betsy. But, what the girl chiefly wanted was a firm hand over her. Her temper and disposition were good; but she was an only child, and her mother, though possessing a firm hand, and a firm tongue, too, in general—none more so in Honey Fair—had spoilt and indulged Miss Betsy until her authority was gone.
After her business was over this evening with Mrs. Carter, Jane, who wanted some darning cotton, turned into Mrs. Buffle's shop. That priestess was in her accustomed place behind the counter. She curtseyed twice, and spoke in a low, subdued tone, in deference to the widow's cap and bonnet—to the deep mourning altogether, which Mrs. Buffle's curiosity had not had the gratification of beholding before.
Would you like it fine or coarse, mum? Here's both. 'Taint a great assortment, but it's the best quality. I don't have much call for darning cotton, mum; the folks round about is always at their gloving work.
But they must mend their stockings, observed Jane.
Not they, returned Mrs. Buffle. "They'd go in naked heels, mum, afore they'd take a needle and darn 'em up. They have took to wear them untidy boots to cover the holes, and away they go with 'em unlaced; tongue hanging, and tag trailing half a mile behind 'em. Great big slatterns, they be!"
They seem always at work, remarked Jane.
Always at work! repeated Mrs. Buffle. "You don't know much of 'em, mum, or you'd not say it. They'll play one day, and work the next; that's their work. It's only a few of the steady ones that'll work regular, all the week through."
What could a good, steady workwoman earn a week at the glove-making?
That depends, mum, upon how close she stuck to it, responded Mrs. Buffle.
I mean, sitting closely.
Oh, well, debated Mrs. Buffle carelessly, "she might earn ten shillings a week, and do it comfortable."
Ten shillings a week! Jane's heart beat hopefully. Upon ten shillings a week she might manage to exist, to keep her children from starvation, until better days arose. She, impelled by necessity, could sit longer and closer, too, than perhaps those women did. Mrs. Buffle continued, full of inward gratulation that her silent customer had come round to gossip at last.
They be the improvidentest things in the world, mum, these gloveress girls. Sundays they be dressed up as grand as queens, flowers inside their bonnets, and ribbuns out, a-setting the churches and chapels alight with their finery; and then off for walks with their sweethearts, all the afternoon and evening. Mondays is mostly spent in waste, gathering of themselves at each other's houses, talking and laughing, or, may be, off to the fields again—anything for idleness. Tuesdays is often the same, and then the rest of the week they has to scout over their work, to get it in on the Saturday. Ah! you don't know 'em, mum.
Jane paid for her darning cotton and came away, much to Mrs. Buffle's regret. "Ten shillings a week," kept ringing in her ears.
Jane was busy that evening; but the following morning she went into Samuel Lynn's. Patience was in the kitchen, washing currants for a pudding; the maid upstairs at her work. Jane held the body of Anna's frock in her hand. She wished to try it on.
Anna is not at home, was the reply of Patience. "She is gone to spend the day with Mary Ashley."
Jane felt sorry; she had been in hopes of finishing it that day. "Patience," said she, "I want to ask your advice. I have been thinking that I might get employment at sewing gloves. It seems easy work to learn."
Would thee like the work? asked Patience. "Ladies have a prejudice against it, because it is the work supplied to the poor. Not but that some ladies in this town, willing to eke out their means, do work at it in private. They get the work brought out to them and taken in."
That would be the worst for me, observed Jane: "taking in the work. I do fear I should not like it."
Of course not. Thee could not go to the manufactory and stand amid the crowd of women for thy turn to be served as one of them. Wait thee an instant.
Patience dried her hands upon the roller-towel, and took Jane into the best parlour, the one less frequently used. Opening a closet, she reached from it a small, peculiar-looking machine, and some unmade gloves: the latter were in a basket, covered over with a white cloth.
This is different work from what the women do, said she. "It is what is called the French point, and is confined to a few of the chief manufacturers. It is not allowed to be done publicly, lest all should get hold of the stitch. Those who employ the point have it done in private."
Who does it here? exclaimed Jane.
I do, said Patience, laughing. "Did thee think I should be like the fine ladies, ashamed to put my hand to it? I and James Meeking's wife do all that is at present being done for the Ashley manufactory. But now, look thee. Samuel Lynn was saying only last night, that they must search out for some other hand who would be trustworthy, for they want more of the work done. It is easy to learn, and I know they would give it thee. It is a little better paid than the other work, too. Sit thee down and try it."
Patience fixed the back of the glove in the pretty little square machine, took the needle—a peculiar one—and showed how it was to be done. Jane, in a glow of delight, accomplished some stitches readily.
I see thee would be handy at it, said Patience. "Thee can take the machine indoors to-day and practise. I will give thee a piece of old leather to exercise upon. In two or three days thee may be quite perfect. I do not work very much at it myself, at which Samuel Lynn grumbles. It is all my own profit, what I earn, so that he has no selfish motive in urging me to work, except that they want more of it done. But I have my household matters to attend to, and Anna takes up my time. I get enough for my clothes, and that is all I care for."
I know I could do it! I could do it well, Patience.
Then I am sure thee may have it to do. They will supply thee with a machine, and Samuel Lynn will bring thy work home and take it back again, as he does mine. He——
William was bursting in upon them with a beaming face. "Mamma, make haste home. Two ladies are asking to see the rooms."
Jane hurried in. In the parlour sat a pleasant-looking old lady in a large black silk bonnet. The other, smarter, younger (but she must have been forty at least), and very cross-looking, wore a Leghorn bonnet with green and scarlet bows. She was the old lady's companion, housekeeper, servant, all combined in one, as Jane found afterwards.
You have lodgings to let, ma'am, said the old lady. "Can we see them?"
This is the sitting-room, Jane was beginning; but she was interrupted by the smart one in a snappish tone.
This the sitting-room! Do you call this furnished?
Don't be hasty, Dobbs, rebuked her mistress. "Hear what the lady has to say."
The furniture is homely, certainly, acknowledged Jane. "But it is new and clean. That is a most comfortable sofa. The bedrooms are above."
The old lady said she would see them, and they proceeded upstairs. Dobbs put her head into one room, and withdrew it with a shriek. "This room has no bedside carpets."
I am sorry to say that I have no bedside carpets at present, said Jane, feeling all the discouragement of the avowal. "I will get some as soon as I possibly can, if any one taking the rooms will kindly do without them for a little while."
Perhaps we might, Dobbs, suggested the old lady, who appeared to be of an accommodating, easy nature; readily satisfied.
Begging your pardon, ma'am, you'll do nothing of the sort, returned Dobbs. "We should have you doubled up with cramp, if you clapped your feet on to a cold floor. I am not going to do it."
I never do have cramp, Dobbs.
Which is no reason, ma'am, why you never should, authoritatively returned Dobbs.
What a lovely view from these back windows! exclaimed the old lady. "Dobbs, do you see the Malvern Hills?"
We don't eat and drink views, testily responded Dobbs.
They are pleasant to look at though, said her mistress. "I like these rooms. Is there a closet, ma'am, or small apartment that we could have for our trunks, if we came?"
We are not coming, interrupted Dobbs, before Jane could answer. "Carpetless floors won't suit us, ma'am."
There is a closet here, over the entrance, said Jane to the old lady, as she opened the door. "Our own boxes are in it now, but I can have them moved upstairs."
So there's a cock-loft, is there? put in Dobbs.
A what? cried Jane, who had never heard the word. "There is nothing upstairs but an attic. A garret, as it is called here."
Yes, burst forth Dobbs, "it is called a garret by them that want to be fine. Cock-loft is good enough for us decent folk: we've never called it anything else. Who sleeps up there?" she summarily demanded.
My little boys. This was their room, but I have put them upstairs that I may let this one.
There ma'am! said Dobbs, triumphantly, as she turned to her mistress. "You'll believe me another time, I hope! I told you I knew there was a pack of children. One of 'em opened the door to us."
Perhaps they are quiet children, said the old lady, who had been so long used to the grumbling and domineering of Dobbs, that she took it as a matter of course.
They are, indeed, said Jane, "quiet, good children. I will answer for it that they will not disturb you in any way."
I should like to see the kitchen, ma'am, said the old lady.
We only want the use of it, snapped Dobbs. "Our kitchen fire goes out after dinner, and I boil the kettle for tea in the parlour."
Would attendance be required? asked Jane of the old lady.
No, it wouldn't, answered Dobbs, in the same tart tone. "I wait upon my missis, and I wait upon myself, and we have a woman in to do the cleaning, and the washing goes out."
The answer gave Jane great relief. Attending upon lodgers had been a dubious prospect in more respects than one.
It's a very good kitchen, said the old lady, as they went in, and she turned round in it.
I'll be bound it smokes, said Dobbs.
No, it does not, replied Jane.
Where's the coalhouse? asked Dobbs. "Is there two?"
Only one, said Jane. "It is at the back of the kitchen."
Then—if we did come—where could our coal be put? fiercely demanded Dobbs. "I must have my coalhouse to myself, with a lock and key. I don't want the house's fires supplied from my missis's coal."
Jane's cheeks flushed as she turned to the old lady. "Allow me to assure you that your property—of whatever nature it may be—will be perfectly sacred in this house. Whether locked up or not, it will be left untouched by me and mine."
To be sure, ma'am, pleasantly returned the old lady. "I'm not afraid. You must not mind what Dobbs says: she means nothing."
And our safe for meat and butter, proceeded that undaunted functionary. "Is there a key to it?"
And now about the rent? said the old lady, giving Jane no time to answer that there was a key.
Jane hesitated. And then, with a flush, asked twenty shillings a week.
My conscience! uttered Dobbs. "Twenty shillings a week. And us finding spoons and linen!"
Dobbs, said the old lady. "I don't see that it is so very out of the way. A parlour, two bedrooms, a closet, and the kitchen, all furnished——"
The closet's an empty, dark hole, and the kitchen's only the use of it, and the bedrooms are carpetless, reiterated Dobbs, drowning her mistress's voice. "But, if anybody asked you for your head, ma'am, you'd just cut it off and give it, if I wasn't at hand to stop you."
Well, Dobbs, we have seen nothing else to suit us up here. And you know I want to settle myself at this end of the town, on account of it being high and dry. Parry says I must.
We have not half looked yet, said Dobbs.
A pound a-week is a good price, ma'am; and we have not paid quite so much where we are: but I don't know that it's unreasonable, continued the old lady to Jane. "What shall we do, Dobbs?"
Do, ma'am! Why, of course you'll come out, and try higher up. To take these rooms without looking out for others, would be as bad as buying a pig in a poke. Come along, ma'am. Bedrooms without carpets won't do for us at any price, she added to Jane by way of a party salutation.
They left the house, the lady with a cordial good morning, Dobbs with none at all; and went quarrelling up the road. That is, the old lady reasoning, and Dobbs disputing. The former proposed, if they saw nothing to suit them better, to purchase bedside carpeting: upon which Dobbs accused her of wanting to bring herself to the workhouse.
Patience, who had watched them away, from her parlour window, came in to learn the success. She brought in with her the machine, a plain piece of leather, the size of the back of a glove, neatly fixed in it. Jane's tears were falling.
I think they would have taken them had there been bedside carpets, sighed she. "Oh, Patience, what a help it would been! I asked a pound a week."
Did thee? That was a good price, considering thee would not have to give attendance.
How do you know I should not? asked Jane.
Because I know Hannah Dobbs waits upon her mistress, replied Patience. "She is the widow of Joseph Reece, and he left her well off. I heard they were coming to live up this way. Did they quite decline them? Because, I can tell thee what. We have some strips of bedside carpet not being used, and I would not mind lending them till thee can buy others. It is a pity thee should lose the letting for the sake of a bit of carpet."
Jane looked up gratefully. "What should I have done without you, Patience?"
Nay, it is not much: thee art welcome. I would not risk the carpet with unknown people, but Hannah Dobbs is cleanly and careful.
She has a very repelling manner, observed Jane.
It is not agreeable, assented Patience, with a smile; "but she is attached to her mistress, and serves her faithfully."
Jane sat down to practise upon the leather, watching the road at the same time. In about an hour she saw Mrs. Reece and Dobbs returning. William went out, and asked if they would step in.
They were already coming. They had seen nothing they liked so well. Jane said she believed she could promise them bedside carpets.
Then, I think we will decide, ma'am, said the old lady. "We saw one set of rooms, very nice ones; and they asked only seventeen shillings a-week: but they have a young man lodger, a pupil at the infirmary, and he comes home at all hours of the night. Dobbs questioned them till they confessed that it was so."
I know what them infirmary pupils is, indignantly put in Dobbs. "I am not going to suffer my missis to come in contact with their habits. There ain't one of 'em as thinks anything of stopping out till morning light. And before the sun's up they'll have a pipe in their mouths, filling the house with smoke! It's said, too, that there's mysterious big boxes brought to 'em, for what they call the 'furtherance of science': perhaps some of the churchyard sextons could tell what's in 'em!"
Well, Dobbs. I think we may take this good lady's rooms. I'm sure we shan't get better suited elsewhere.
Dobbs only grunted. She was tired with her walk, and had really no objection to the rooms; except as to price: that, she persisted in disputing as outrageous.
I suppose you would not take less? said the old lady to Jane.
Jane hesitated; but it was impossible for her to be otherwise than candid and truthful. "I would take a trifle less, sooner than not let you the rooms; but I am very poor, and every shilling is a consideration to me."
Well, I will take them at the price, concluded the good-natured old lady. "And Dobbs, if you grumble, I can't help it. Can we come in—let me see?—this is Wednesday——"
I won't come in on a Friday for anybody, interrupted Dobbs fiercely.
We will come in on Tuesday next, ma'am, decided the old lady. "Before that, I'll send in a trolley of coal, if you'll be so kind as to receive it."
And to lock it up, snapped Dobbs.
At the hours of going to and leaving work, the Helstonleigh streets were alive with glove operatives, some being in one branch of the trade, some in another. There were parers, grounders, leather-sorters, dyers, cutters, makers-up, and so on: all being necessary, besides the sewing, to turn out one pair of gloves; though, I dare say, you did not think it. The wages varied according to the particular work, or the men's ability and industry, from fifteen shillings a week to twenty-five: but all could earn a good living. If a man gained more than twenty-five, he had a stated salary; as was the case with the foremen. These wages, joined to what was earned by the women, were sufficient to maintain a comfortable home, and to bring up children decently. Unfortunately the same drawbacks prevailed in Helstonleigh that are but too common elsewhere; and they may be classed under one general head—improvidence. The men were given to idling away at the public-houses more time than was good for them: the women to scold and to quarrel. Some were slatterns; and a great many gave their husbands the welcome of a home of discomfort, ill-management, and dirt: which, of course, had the effect of sending them out all the more surely.
Just about this period, the men had their especial grievance—or thought they had: and that was, a low rate of wages and not full employment. Had they paid a visit to other places and compared their wages with some earned by operatives of a different class, they had found less cause to complain. The men were rather given to comparing present wages with those they had earned before the dark crisis (dark as far as Helstonleigh's trade was concerned) when the British ports were opened to foreign gloves. But few, comparatively speaking, of the manufacturers had weathered that storm. Years have elapsed since then: but the employment remained scarce, and the wages (I have quoted them to you) low. Altogether, the men were, many of them, dissatisfied. They even went so far as to talk of a "strike"; strikes being less common in those days than they are in these.
It was Saturday night, and the streets were crowded. The hands were pouring out of the different manufactories; clean-looking, respectable workmen, as a whole: for the branches of glove-making are for the most part of a cleanly nature. Some wore their white aprons; some had rolled them up round their waists. A few—very few, it must be owned—were going to their homes, but the greater portion were bound for the public-house.
One of the most extensively patronised of the public-houses was The Cutters' Arms. On a Saturday night, when the men's pockets were lined, this would be crowded. The men flocked into it now and filled it, although its room for entertainment was very large. The order from most of them was a pint of mild ale and some tobacco.
Any news, Joe Fisher? asked a man, when the pipes were set going.
Joe Fisher tossed his head and growled. He was a tall, dark man; clothes and condition both dilapidated. The questioner took a few whiffs, and repeated his question. Joe growled again, but did not speak.
Well, you might give a chap a civil answer, Fisher.
What's the matter, you two? cried a third.
Ben Wilks asks me is there any news! called out Fisher, indignantly. "I thought he might ha' heered on't without asking. Our pay was docked again to-night; that's the news."
No! uttered Wilks.
It were, said Fisher savagely. "A shilling a week less, good. Who's a-going to stand it?"
There ain't no help for standing it, interposed a quiet-looking man named Wheeler. "I suppose the masters is forced to lower. They say so."
Have your master forced hisself to it? angrily retorted Fisher.
Well, Fisher, you know I'm fortunate. As all is that gets in to work at Ashley's.
And precious good care they take to stop in! cried Fisher, much aggravated. "No danger that Ashley's hands'll give way and afford outsiders a chance."
Why should they give way? sensibly asked Wheeler. "You need never think to get in at Ashley's, Fisher, so there's no cause for you to grumble."
A titter went round at Fisher's expense. He did not like it. "I might stand my chance with others, if there was room. Who says I couldn't? Come, now!"
A man laughed. "You had better ask Samuel Lynn that question, Fisher. Why, he wouldn't look at you! You are not steady enough for him."
Samuel Lynn may go along for a ill-natured broadbrim! was Fisher's retort. "There'd not be half the difficulty in getting in with Mr. Ashley hisself."
Yes, there would, said Wheeler, quietly. "Mr. Ashley pays first wages, and he'll have first hands. Quaker Lynn knows what he's about."
Don't dispute about nothing, Fisher, interrupted a voice, borne through the clouds of smoke from the far end of the room. "To lose a shilling a week is bad, but not so bad as losing all. I have heard ill news this evening."
Fisher stretched up his long neck. "Who's that a-talking? Is it Mr. Crouch?"
It was Stephen Crouch; the foreman in a large firm, and a respectable, intelligent man. "Do you remember, any of you, that a report arose some time ago about Wilson and King? A report that died away again?"
That they were on their last legs, replied several voices. "Well?"
Well, they are off them now, continued Stephen Crouch.
Up rose a man, his voice shaking with emotion. "It's not true, Mr. Crouch, sure—ly!"
It is, Vincent. Wilson and King are going to wind up. It will be announced next week.
Mercy help us! There'll be forty more hands throwed out! What's to become of us all?
A dead silence fell on the room. Vincent broke it. Hope is strong in the human heart. "Mr. Crouch, I don't think it can be true. Our wages was all paid up to-night. And we have not heard a breath on't."
I know all that, said Stephen Crouch. "I know where the money came from to pay them. It came from Mr. Ashley."
The assertion astonished the room. "From Mr. Ashley! Did he tell it abroad?"
He tell it! indignantly returned Stephen Crouch. "Mr. Ashley is an honourable man. No. Wilson and King have a tattler too near to them; that's how it came out. Not but what it would have been known all over Helstonleigh on Monday, all particulars. Every sixpence, pretty near, that Wilson and King have, is locked up in their stock. They expected remittances by the London mail this morning, and they did not come. They went to the bank. The bank was shy, and would not make advances; and they had nothing in hand for wages. They went to Mr. Ashley and told him their perplexity, and he drew a cheque. The bank cashed that, with a bow. And if it had not been for Mr. Ashley, Ned Vincent, you and the rest of their hands would have gone home to-night with empty pockets."
Will Mr. Ashley lose the money?
Not he. He knew there was no danger of that, when he lent it. Nobody will lose by Wilson and King. They have more than enough to pay everybody in full; only their money's locked up.
Why are they giving up?
Because they can't keep on. They have been losing a long while. What do you ask—what will they do? They must do as others have done before them, who have been unable to keep on. If Wilson and King had given up ten years ago, they had then each a nice little bit of property to retire upon. But it has been sunk since. There are too many others in this city in the same ease.
And what's to become of us hands that's throwed out? asked Vincent, returning to his own personal grievance.
You must try and get taken on somewhere else, Vincent, observed Stephen Crouch.
There ain't a better cutter than Ned Vincent going, cried another voice. "He won't wait long."
I don't know about that, returned Vincent gloomily. "The masters is overdone with hands."
Of all the bad luck as ever fell upon a town, the opening of the ports to them foreign French was the worst for Helstonleigh, broke in the intemperate voice of Fisher.
Hold th' tongue, Fisher! exclaimed a sensible voice. "We won't get into them discussions again. Didn't we go over 'em, night after night, and year after year, till we were heart-sick?—and what did they ever bring us but ill-feeling? It's done, and it can't be undone. The ports be open, and they'll never be closed again."
Did the opening of 'em ruin the trade of Helstonleigh, or didn't it? Answer me that, said Fisher.
It did. We know it to our cost, was the sad answer. "But there's no help for it."
Oh, returned Fisher ironically. "I thought you were going to hold out that the opening of 'em was a boon to the place, and the keeping 'em open a blessing. That 'ud be a new dodge. Why do they keep 'em open?"
Just hark at Fisher! said Mr. Buffle in a mincing tone. "He wants to know why Government keeps open the British ports. Don't every dozen of gloves that comes into the country pay a heavy duty? Is it likely Government would give up that, Fisher?"
What did they do afore they had it? roared Fisher. "If they did without the duty then, they could do without it now."
I have heered of some gents as never tasted sugar, returned Mr. Buffle; "but I never heered of one, who had the liking for it, as was willing to forego the use of it. It's a case in pint; the Government have tasted the sweets of the glove-duty, and they stick to it."
Avaricious wolves! growled Fisher. "But you are a fool, dandy, for all that. What's a bit of paltry duty, alongside of our wants? If a few of them great Government lords had to go on empty stomachs for a month, they'd know what the opening of ports means."
In all political changes, such as this, certain localities must suffer, broke in the quiet voice of Stephen Crouch. "It will be the means of increasing commerce wonderfully; and we, that the measure crushed, must be content to suffer for the general good. The effects to us can never be undone. I know what you say, Fisher," he continued, silencing Fisher by a gesture. "I know that the ports might be re-closed to-morrow, if Government so willed it. But it could not undo for us what has been done. It could not repair the ruin that was wrought on Helstonleigh. It could not reinstate firms in business; or refund to the masters their wasted capital; or collect the hands it scattered over the country, to find a bit of work, to beg, or to starve; or bring the dead back to life. It could not do any of this. Neither would it restore a flourishing trade to those of us who are left."
What's that last, Crouch?
It never would, emphatically repeated Stephen Crouch. "A shattered trade cannot be brought together again. It is like a shattered glass: you may mourn over the pieces, but you cannot put them together. Believe me, or not, as you please, my friends, but the only thing remaining is, to make the best of what is left to us. There are other trades a deal worse off than we are."
I have talked to ye about that there move—a strike, resumed Fisher, after a pause. "We shall get no good till we try it——"
Fisher, don't you be a fool and show it, was the imperative interruption of Stephen Crouch. "I have explained to you till I am tired, what would be the effects of a strike. It would just finish you bad workmen up, and send you and your children into the nearest dry ditch for a floor, with the open skies above you for a roof."
We have never tried a strike in Helstonleigh, answered Fisher, holding to his own opinion.
And I trust we never shall, returned the intelligent foreman. "Other trades may have their strikes if they choose, and it's not our business to find fault with them for it; but the glove trade has hitherto kept itself aloof from strikes, and it's to be hoped it always will. You cannot understand how a strike works, Joe Fisher, or you'd not let your head be running on it."
Others' heads be running on it as well as mine, Master Crouch, said Fisher, nodding significantly.
It is not improbable, was the equable rejoinder of Stephen Crouch. "Go and strike next week, half a dozen of you. I mean the operatives of half a dozen firms."
Every firm in the place must strike, interrupted Fisher hastily. "A few on us doing it would only make bad worse."
Stephen Crouch smiled. "Exactly. But the difficulty, Fisher, will be, that all the firms won't strike. Ask the men in our firm to strike; ask those in Ashley's; ask others that we could name—and what would their answer be? Why, that they know when they are well off. Suppose, for argument's sake, that we did all strike; suppose all the hands in Helstonleigh struck next Monday morning, and the manufactories had to be closed? Who would have the worst of it?—we or the masters?"
The masters, returned Fisher in an obstinate tone.
No. The masters have good houses over their heads, and their bankers' books to supply their wants while they are waiting—and their orders are not so great that they need fear much pressure on that score. The London houses would dispatch a few extra orders to Paris and Grenoble, and the masters here might enjoy a nice little trip to the sea-side while our senses were coming back to us. But where should we be? Out at elbows, out at pocket, out at heart; some starving, some in the workhouse. If you want to avoid those contingencies, Joe Fisher, you'll keep from strikes.
Fisher answered by an ironical cheer. "Here, missis," said he to the landlady, who was then passing him, "let's have another pint, after that."
That'll make nine pints you owe for since Monday night, Joe Fisher, responded the landlady.
What if I do? grunted Fisher irascibly. "I am able to pay. I ain't out of work."