It was Saturday night in Honey Fair. A night when the ladies were at leisure to abandon themselves to their private pursuits. The work of the past week had gone into the warehouses; and the fresh work brought out would not be begun until Monday morning. Some of them, as Mrs. Buffle has informed us, did not begin it then. The women chiefly cleaned their houses and mended their clothes; some washed and ironed—Honey Fair was not famous for its management—not going to bed till Sunday morning; some did their marketing; and a few, careless and lazy, spent it in running from house to house, or congregated in the road to gossip.
About half-past eight, one of the latter suddenly lifted the latch of a house door and thrust in her head. It was Joe Fisher's wife. Her face was red, and her cap in tatters.
Is our Becky in here, Mrs. Carter?
Mrs. Carter was busy. She was the maternal parent of Miss Betsy. Her kitchen fire was out, her furniture was heaped one thing upon another; a pail of water stood ready to wash the brick floor, when she should have finished rubbing up the grate, and her hands and face were as grimy as the black-lead.
There's no Becky here, snapped she.
I can't find her, returned Mrs. Fisher. "I thought her might be along of your Betsy. I say, here's your husband coming round the corner. There's Mark Mason and Robert East and Dale along of him. And—my! what has that young 'un of East's been doing to hisself? He's black from head to foot. Come and look."
Mrs. Carter disdained the invitation. She was a hard-working, thrifty woman, but a cross one. Priding herself upon her cleanliness, she perpetually returned loud thanks that she was not as the dirty ones around her. She was the Pharisee amidst many publicans.
If I passed my time staring and gossiping as some does, where 'ud my work be? was her rebuke. "Shut the door, Suke Fisher."
Suke Fisher did as she was bid. She turned her wrists back upon her hips, and walked to meet the advancing party, having discerned their approach by the light of the gas-lamps. "Be you going to be sold for a blackamoor?" demanded she of the boy.
The boy laughed. His head, face, shoulders, hands, were ornamented with a thick, black liquid, not unlike blacking. He appeared to enjoy the treat, as if he had been anointed with some fragrant oil.
He is not a bad spectacle, is he, Dame Fisher? remarked the young man, whom she had called Robert East.
What's a-done it? questioned she.
Him and Jacky Brumm got larking, and upset the dye-pot upon themselves. We rubbed 'em down with the leather shreds, but it keeps on dripping from their hair.
Won't Charlotte warm his back for him! apostrophised Mrs. Fisher.
The boy threw a disdainful look at her, in return for the remark. "Charlotte's not so fond of warming backs. She never even scolds for an accident."
The boy and Robert East were half-brothers. They entered one of the cottages. Robert East and his sister were between twenty and thirty, and the boy was ten. Their mother had died early, and the young boy's mother, their father's second wife, died when the child was born. The father also died. How Robert and his sister, the one then seventeen, the other fourteen, had struggled to make a living for themselves, and to bring up the baby, they alone knew. The manner in which they had succeeded was a marvel to many; none were more respectable now than they were in all Honey Fair.
Charlotte, neat and nice, sat by her bright kitchen fire, a savoury stew cooking on the hob beside it. It was her custom to have something good for supper on a Saturday night. Did she make home attractive on that night to draw her brother from the seductions of the public-house? Most likely. And she had her reward: for Robert never failed to come. The cloth was laid, the red bricks of the floor were clean, and Charlotte's face, as she looked up from her stocking-mending, was bright. It darkened to consternation, however, when she cast her eyes on the boy.
Tom, what have you been doing?
Jacky Brumm threw a pot of dye over me, Charlotte.
There's not much real damage, Charlotte, interposed her brother. "It looks worse than it is. I'll get it out of his hair presently, and put his clothes into a pail of water. What have you got to-night? It smells good."
He alluded to supper, and took off the lid of the saucepan to peep in. She had some stewed beef, with carrots, and the savoury steam ascended to Robert's pleased face.
Very few in Honey Fair managed as did Charlotte East. How she did her housework no one knew. Not a woman, married or single, got through more glove-sewing than Charlotte. Not one kept her house in better order: and her clothes and her brother's were neat and respectable, week-days as well as Sundays. Her work was taken into the warehouse on Saturday mornings, and her marketing was done. In the afternoon she cleaned her house, and by four o'clock was ready to sit down to her mending. No one ever saw her in a bustle, and yet all her work was done; and well done. Perhaps one great secret of it was that she rose very early in the morning, winter and summer.
Look, Robert, here is a nice book I have bought, said she, putting a periodical into his hands. "It comes out weekly. I shall take it in."
Robert turned over the leaves. "It seems very interesting," he said presently. "Here's a paper that tells all about the Holy Land. And another that tells us how glass is made; I have often wondered."
You can read it to us of an evening while I work, said she. "It will be quite a help to our getting on Tom: almost as good as sending him to school. I gave——"
The words were interrupted. The door was violently burst open, and a woman entered the kitchen; knocking at doors before entering was not the fashion in Honey Fair. The intruder was Mrs. Brumm.
I say, Robert East, did you see anything of my husband?
I saw him go into the Horned Ram.
Then I wish the Horned Ram was into him! wrathfully retorted Mrs. Brumm. "He vowed faithfully he'd come home with his wages the first thing after leaving work. He knows I have not a thing in the place for to-morrow—and Dame Buffle looking out for her money. I have a good mind to go down to the Horned Ram, and be on to him!"
Robert East offered no opinion upon this delicate point. He remembered the last time Mrs. Brumm had gone to the Horned Ram to be "on" to her husband, and what it had produced. A midnight quarrel that disturbed the slumbers of Honey Fair.
Who was along of him? pursued she.
Three or four of them. Hubbard and Jones, I saw go in: and Adam Thorneycroft.
A quick rising of the head, as if startled, and a faint accession of colour, told that one of those names had struck, perhaps unpleasantly, on the ear of Charlotte East. "Where are your own earnings?" she asked of Mrs. Brumm.
I have had to take them to Bankes's, was the rueful reply. "It's a good deal now, and they're in a regular tantrum this week, and wouldn't even wait till Monday. They threatened to tell Brumm, and it frightened me out of my seventeen senses. And now, for him to go into that dratted Horned Ram with his wages! and me without a pennypiece! It's not more for the necessaries I want to get in, than for the things that is in pawn. I can't iron nothing: the irons is there."
Charlotte, busy still, turned round. "I would not put in irons, and such things, that I wanted to use."
I dare say you wouldn't! tartly responded Mrs. Brumm. "One has to put in what one's got, and the things our husbands won't miss the sight of. It's fine to be you, Charlotte East, setting yourself up for a lady, and never putting your foot inside the pawn-shop, with your clean hands and your clean kitchen on a Saturday night, sitting down to a hot supper, while the rest of us is a-scrubbing!"
Charlotte laughed good-humouredly. "If I tried to set myself up for a lady, I could not be one. I work as hard as anybody; only I get it done betimes."
Mrs. Brumm sniffed—having no ready answer at hand. And at that moment Tom East, encased in black, peeped out of the brewhouse, where he had been sent by Charlotte to wash the dye off his hands. "Sakes alive!" uttered Mrs. Brumm, aghast at the sight.
Jacky's worse than me, responded Tom, rather proud of having to say so much. Robert explained to her how it had happened.
And our Jacky's as bad as that! she cried. "Won't I wring it out of him!"
Nonsense, said Robert; "it was an accident. Boys will be boys."
Yes, they will: and it's not the men that have to wash for 'em and keep 'em clean! retorted Mrs. Brumm, terribly wrathful. "And me at a standstill for my irons! And that beast of a Brumm stopping out."
I will lend you my irons, said Charlotte.
I won't take 'em, was the ungracious reply. "If I don't get my own, I won't borrow none. Brumm, he'll be looking out for his Sunday clean shirt to-morrow, and he won't get it; and that'll punish him more than anything else. There's not a man in Honey Fair as likes to go sprucer on a Sunday than Brumm."
So much the better, said Charlotte. "When men lose pride in their appearance, they are apt to lose it in their conduct."
You must always put in your word for folks, Charlotte East, let 'em be ever so bad, was Mrs. Brumm's parting salutation, as she went off and shut the door with a bang.
Meanwhile Timothy Carter, Mrs. Carter's husband, had turned into his own dwelling, after leaving Robert East. The first thing to greet him was the pail of water. Mrs. Carter had completed her grate, and was dashing her water on to the floor. Timothy received it on his legs.
What's that for? demanded Timothy, who was a meek and timid little man.
Why do you brush in so sharp, then? cried she. "Who was to know you was a-coming?"
Timothy had not "brushed in sharp;" he had gone in quietly. He stood ruefully shaking the wet from his legs, first one, then the other, and afterwards began to pick his way on tiptoe towards the fireplace.
Now, it's of no use your attempting to sit down yet, rebuked his wife, in her usual cross accents. "There ain't no room for you at the fire, and there ain't no warmth in it; it's but this blessed minute lighted. Sit yourself on that table, again the wall, and then your legs'll be in the dry."
And there I may sit for an hour, for you'll be all that time before you have finished, by the looks on't, he ventured to remonstrate.
And half another hour to the end of it, answered she. "There's Betsy, as ought to be helping, gadding out somewhere ever since she came home at seven o'clock."
You says to me, says you, 'You come home to-night, Tim, as soon as work's over, and don't go drinking!' You know you did, repeated Timothy in an injured tone.
And it's a good thing as you have come, or you'd have heard my tongue in a way you wouldn't like! was Mrs. Carter's reply.
Timothy sighed. That tongue was the two-edged sword of his life: how dreaded, none but himself could tell. He had mounted the table in obedience to orders, but he now got off again.
What are you after now? shrilly demanded Mrs. Carter, who was on her knees, scouring the bricks.
I want my pipe and 'baccy.
You stop where you are, was the imperative answer, "and wait till I have time to get it;" and Timothy humbly sat down again.
You might get this done afore night, 'Lizabeth, as I've said over and over again, cried he, plucking up a little spirit. "When a man comes home tired, even if there ain't a bit o' supper for him, he expects a morsel o' fire to sit down to, so as he can smoke his pipe in quiet. It cows him, you see, to find his place in this ruck, where there ain't a dry spot to put the sole of his foot on, and nothing but a table with unekal legs to sit upon, and——"
I might get it done afore? shrieked Mrs. Carter. "Afore! When, through that Betsy's laziness, leaving everything on my shoulders, I couldn't get in my gloving till four o'clock this afternoon! Every earthly thing have I had to do since then. I raked out my fire——"
What's the good of raking out the fire? interposed Timothy.
Goodness help the simpleton! Wanting to know the good of raking out the fire—as if he was born yesterday! Can a grate be black-leaded while it's hot, pray?
It might be black-leaded at some other time, debated he. "In a morning, perhaps."
I dare say it might, if I had not my gloving to do, she answered, trembling with wrath. "When folks takes out shop work, they has to get on with that—and is glad to do it. Where would you be if I earned nothing? It isn't much of a roof we should have over our heads, with your paltry fifteen or sixteen shillings a-week. You be nothing but a parer, remember."
There's no need to disparage of me, 'Lizabeth, he rejoined, with a meek little cough. "You knowed I was a parer before you ventured on me."
Just take your legs up higher, or you'll be knocking my cap with your dirty boots, said Mrs. Carter, who was nearing the table in her scrubbing.
I'll stand outside the door a bit, I think, he answered. "I am in your way everywhere."
Sit where you are, and lift up your legs, was the reiterated command. And Timothy obeyed.
Cold and dreary, on he sat, watching the cleaning of the kitchen. The fire gave out no heat, and the squares of bricks did not dry. He took some silver from his pocket, and laid it in a stack on the table beside him, for his wife to take up at her leisure. She allowed him no chance of squandering his wages.
A few minutes, and Mrs. Carter rose from her knees and went into the yard for a fresh supply of water. Timothy did not wait for a second ducking. He slipped off the table, took a shilling from the heap, and stole from the house.
Back came Mrs. Carter, her pail brimming. "You go over to Dame Buffle's, Tim, and——Why, where's he gone?"
He was not in the kitchen, that was certain; and she opened the staircase door, and elevated her voice shrilly. "Are you gone tramping up my stairs, with your dirty boots? Tim Carter, I say, are you upstairs?"
Of course Tim Carter was not upstairs: or he had never dared to leave that voice unanswered.
Now, if he has gone off to any of them sotting publics, he shan't hear the last of it, she exclaimed, opening the door and gazing as far as the nearest gas-light would permit. But Timothy was beyond her eye and reach, and she caught up the money and counted it. Fourteen shillings. One shilling of it gone.
She knew what it meant, and dashed the silver into a wide-necked canister on the high mantelshelf, which contained also her own earnings for the week. It would have been as much as meek Tim Carter's life was worth to touch that canister, and she kept it openly on the mantel-piece. Many unfortunate wives in Honey Fair could not keep their money from their husbands even under lock and key. As she was putting the canister in its place again, Betsy came in. Mrs. Carter turned sharply upon her.
Now, miss! where have you been?
Law, mother, how you fly out! I have only been to Cross's.
You ungrateful piece of brass, when you know there's so much to be done on a Satur-night that I can't turn myself round! You shan't go gadding about half your time. I'll put you from home entire, to a good tight service.
Betsy had heard the same threat so often that its effect was gone. Had her mother only kept her in one-tenth of the subjection that she did her husband, it might have been better for the young lady. "I was only in at Cross's," she repeated.
What's the good of telling me that falsehood? I went to Cross's after you, but you wasn't there, and hadn't been there. You want a good sound shaking, miss.
If I wasn't at Cross's, I was at Mason's, was the imperturbable reply of Miss Betsy. "I was at Mason's first. Mark Mason came home and turned as sour as a wasp, because the place was in a mess. She was washing her children, and she's got the kitchen to do, and he began blowing up. I left 'em then, and went in to Cross's. Mason went back down the hill; so he'll come home tipsy."
Why can't she get her children washed afore he comes home? retorted Mrs. Carter, who could see plenty of motes in her neighbours' eyes, though utterly blind to the beam in her own. "Such wretched management! Children ought to be packed out of the way by seven o'clock."
You don't get your cleaning over, any more than she does, remarked Miss Betsy boldly.
Mrs. Carter turned an angry gaze upon her; a torrent of words breaking from her lips. "I get my cleaning over! I, who am at work every moment of my day, from early morning till late at night! You'd liken me to that good-for-nothing Het Mason, who hardly makes a dozen o' gloves in a week, and keeps her house like a pigsty! Where would you and your father be, if I didn't work to keep you, and slave to make the place sweet and comfortable? Be off to Dame Buffle's and buy me a besom, you ungrateful monkey: and then you turn to and dust these chairs."
Betsy did not wait for a second bidding. She preferred going for besoms, or for anything else, to her mother's kitchen and her mother's scolding. Her coming back was another affair; she would be just as likely to propel the besom into the kitchen and make off herself, as to enter.
She suddenly stopped now, door in hand, to relate some news.
I say, mother, there's going to be a party at the Alhambra tea-gardens.
A party at the Alhambra tea-gardens, with frost and snow on the ground! ironically repeated Mrs. Carter. "Be off, and don't be an oaf."
It's true, said Betsy. "All Honey Fair's going to it. I shall go too. 'Melia and Mary Ann Cross is going to have new things for it, and——"
Will you go along and get that besom? cried angry Mrs. Carter. "No child of mine shall go off to their Alhambras, catching their death on the wet grass."
Wet grass! echoed Betsy. "Why, you're never such a gaby as to think they'd have a party on the grass! It is to be in the big room, and there's to be a fiddle and a tam——"
——bourine never came. Mrs. Carter sent the wet mop flying after Miss Betsy, and the young lady, dexterously evading it, flung-to the door and departed.
A couple of hours later, Timothy Carter was escorted home, his own walking none of the steadiest. The men with him had taken more than Timothy; but it was that weak man's misfortune to be overcome by a little. You will allow, however, that he had taken enough, having spent his shilling and gone into debt besides. Mrs. Carter received him——Well, I am rather at a loss to describe it. She did not actually beat him, but her shrill voice might be heard all over Honey Fair, lavishing hard names upon helpless Tim. First of all, she turned out his pockets. The shilling was all gone. "And how much more tacked on to it?" asked she, wise by experience. And Timothy was just able to understand and answer. He felt himself as a lamb in the fangs of a wolf. "Eightpence halfpenny."
A shilling and eightpence halfpenny chucked away in drink in one night! repeated Mrs. Carter. She gave him a short, emphatic shake, and propelled him up the stairs; leaving him without a light, to get to bed as he could. She had still some hours' work downstairs, in the shape of mending clothes.
But it never once occurred to Mrs. Carter that she had herself to thank for his misdoings. With a tidy room and a cheerful fire to receive him, on returning from his day's work, Timothy Carter would no more have thought of the public-houses than you or I should. And if, as did Charlotte East, she had welcomed him with a good supper and a pleasant tongue, poor Tim in his gratitude had forsworn public-houses for ever.
Neither, when Mark Mason staggered home, and his wife raved at and quarrelled with him, to the further edification of Honey Fair, did it strike that lady that she could be in fault. As Mrs. Carter had said, Henrietta Mason did not overburden herself with work of any sort; but she did make a pretence of washing her four children in a bucket on a Saturday night, and her kitchen afterwards. The ceremony was delayed through idleness and bad management to the least propitious part of the evening. So sure as she had the bucket before the fire, and the children collected round it; one in, one just out roaring to be dried, and the two others waiting their turn for the water, all of them stark naked—for Mrs. Mason made a point of undressing them at once to save trouble—so sure, I say, as these ablutions were in progress, the children frantically crying, Mrs. Mason boxing, storming, and rubbing, and the kitchen swimming, in would walk the father. Words invariably ensued: a short, sharp quarrel; and he would turn out again for the nearest public-house, where he was welcomed by a sociable room and a glowing fire. Can any one be surprised that it should be so?
You must not think these cases overdrawn; you must not think them exceptional cases. They are neither the one nor the other. They are truthful pictures, taken from what Honey Fair was then. I very much fear the same pictures might be taken from some places still.
But there's something to say yet of Mrs. Brumm. You saw her turning away from Robert East's door, saying that her husband, Andrew, had promised to come home that night and to bring his wages. Mrs. Brumm, a bad manager, as were many of the rest, would probably have received him with a sloppy kitchen, buckets, and besoms. Andrew had had experience of this, and, disloyal knight that he was, allowed himself to be seduced into the Horned Ram. He'd just take one pint and a pipe, he said to his conscience, and be home in time for his wife to get what she wanted. A little private matter of his own would call him away early. Pressed for a sum of money in the week which was owing to his club, and not possessing it, he had put his Sunday coat in pledge: and this he wanted to get out. However, a comrade sitting in the next chair to him at the Horned Ram had to get his coat out of the same accommodating receptacle. Nothing more easy than for him to bring out Andrew's at the same time; which was done. The coat on the back of his chair, his pipe in his mouth, and a pint of good ale before him, the outer world was as nothing to Andrew Brumm.
At ten o'clock, the landlord came in. "Andrew Brumm, here's your wife wanting to see you."
Now Andrew was not a bad sort of man by any means, but he had a great antipathy to being looked after. A joke went round at Andrew's expense; for if there was one thing the men in general hated more than another, it was that their wives should come in quest of them to the public-houses. Mrs. Brumm received a sharp reprimand; but she saw that he was, as she expressed it, "getting on," so she got some money from him and kept her scolding for another opportunity.
She did not go near the pawnbroker's to get her irons out. She bought a bit of meat and what else she wanted, and returned to Honey Fair. Robert East was closing his door for the night as she passed it. "Has Brumm come home?" he asked.
Not he, the toper! He is stuck fast at the Horned Ram, getting in for it nicely. I have been after him for some money.
Have you got your irons out? inquired Charlotte, coming to the door.
No, nor nothing else; and there's pretty near half the kitchen in. It's him that'll suffer. He has been getting out his own coat, but he can't put it on. Leastways, he won't without a clean collar and shirt; and let him fish for them. Wait till to-morrow comes, Mr. 'Drew Brumm!
Was his coat in? returned Charlotte, surprised.
That it was. Him as goes on so when I puts a thing or two in! He owed some money at his club, and he went and put his coat in for four shillings, and Adam Thorneycroft has been and fetched it out for him.
Adam Thorneycroft! involuntarily returned Charlotte.
Thorneycroft's coat was in too, and he went for it just now, and Brumm gave him the ticket to get out his. Smith's daughter told me that. She was serving with her mother in the bar.
Is Adam Thorneycroft at the Horned Ram still?
That he is: side by side with Brumm. A nice pair of 'em! Charlotte East, take my advice; don't you have anything to say to Thorneycroft. A woman had better climb up to the top of her topmost chimbley and pitch herself off, head foremost, than marry a man given to drink.
Charlotte East felt vexed at the allusion—vexed that her name should be coupled openly with that of Adam Thorneycroft by the busy tongues of Honey Fair. That an attachment existed between herself and Adam Thorneycroft was true; but she did not wish the fact to become too apparent to others. Latterly she had been schooling her heart to forget him, for he was taking to frequent public-houses.
Mrs. Brumm went home, and was soon followed by her husband. He was not much the worse for what he had taken: he was a little. Mrs. Brumm reproached him with it, and a wordy war ensued.
They arose peaceably in the morning. Andrew was a civil, well-conducted man, and but for Horned Rams would have been a pattern to three parts of Honey Fair. He liked to be dressed well on Sunday and to attend the cathedral with his two children: he was very fond of listening to the chanting Mrs. Brumm—as was the custom generally with the wives of Honey Fair—stayed at home to cook the dinner. Andrew was accustomed to do many odd jobs on the Sunday morning, to save his wife trouble. He cleaned the boots and shoes, brushed his clothes, filled the coal-box, and made himself useful in sundry other ways. All this done, they sat down to breakfast with the two children, the unfortunate Jacky less black than he had been the previous night.
Now, Jacky, said Brumm, when the meal was over, "get yourself ready; it has gone ten. Polly too."
It's a'most too cold for Polly this morning, said Mrs. Brumm.
Not a bit on't. The walk'll do her good, and give her an appetite for dinner. What is for dinner, Bell? I asked you before, but you didn't answer.
It ain't much thanks to you as there's anything, retorted Mrs. Brumm, who rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arabella. "You plant yourself again at the Horned Ram, and see if I worries myself to come after you for money. I'll starve on the Sunday first."
I can't think what goes of your money, returned Andrew. "There had not used to be this fuss if I stopped out for half an hour on the Saturday night, with my wages in my pocket. Where does yours go to?"
It goes in necessaries, shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. But not caring for reasons of her own to pursue this particular topic, she turned to that of the dinner. "I have half a shoulder of mutton, and I'm going to take it to the bake'us with a batter pudden under it, and to boil the taters at home."
That's capital! returned Andrew, gently rubbing his hands. "There's nothing nicer than baked mutton and a batter pudden. Jacky, brush your hair well: it's as rough as bristles."
I had to use a handful of soda to get the dye out, said Mrs. Brumm. "Soda's awful stuff for making the hair rough."
Andrew slipped out to the Honey Fair barber, who did an extensive business on Sunday morning, to be shaved. When he returned he went up to wash and dress, and finally uncovered a deal box where he was accustomed to find his clean shirt. With all Mrs. Brumm's faults she had neat ways. The shirt was not there.
Bell, where's my clean shirt? he called out from the top of the stairs.
Mrs. Bell Brumm had been listening for the words and received them with satisfaction. She nodded, winked, and went through a little pantomime of ecstasy, to the intense delight of the children, who were in the secret, and nodded and winked with her. "Clean shirt?" she called back again, as if not understanding.
My Sunday shirt ain't here.
You haven't got no Sunday shirt to-day.
Andrew Brumm descended the stairs in consternation. "No Sunday shirt!" he repeated.
No shirt, nor no collar, nor no handkercher, coolly affirmed Mrs. Brumm. "There ain't none ironed. They be all in the wet and the rough, wrapped up in an old towel. Jacky and Polly haven't nothing either."
Brumm stared considerably. "Why, what's the meaning of that?"
The irons are in pawn, shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. "You know you never came home with the money, so I couldn't get 'em out."
Another wordy war. Andrew protested she had no "call" to put the irons in any such place. She impudently retorted that she should put the house in if she liked.
A hundred such little episodes could be related of the domestic life of Honey Fair.
On the Monday morning, a troop of the gloveress girls flocked into Charlotte East's. They were taking holiday, as was usual with them on Mondays. Charlotte was a favourite. It is true, she "bothered" them, as they called it, with good advice, but they liked her in spite of it. Charlotte's kitchen was always tidy and peaceful, with a bright fire burning in it: other kitchens would be full of bustle and dirt. Charlotte never let them hinder her; she worked away at her gloves all the time. Charlotte was a glove-maker; that is, she sewed the fingers together, and put in the thumbs, forgits, and quirks. Look at your own gloves, English made. The long strips running up inside the fingers are the forgits; and the little pieces between, where the fingers open, are the quirks. The gloves Charlotte was occupied with now were of a very dark green colour, almost black, called corbeau in the trade, and they were sewn with white silk. Charlotte's stitches were as beautifully regular as though she had used a patent machine. The white silk and the fellow glove to the one she was making, lay inside a clean white handkerchief doubled upon her lap; other gloves, equally well covered, were in a basket at her side.
The girls had come in noisily, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes. Charlotte saw that something was exciting them. They liked to tell her of their little difficulties and pleasures. Betsy Carter had informed her mother that there was going to be a "party at the Alhambra tea-gardens," if you remember; and this was the point of interest to-day. These "Alhambra tea-gardens," however formidable and perhaps suggestive the name, were very innocent in reality. They belonged to a quiet roadside inn, half a mile from the town, and comprised a large garden and extensive lawn. The view from them was beautiful; and many a party from Helstonleigh, far higher in the scale of society than these girls, would go there in summer to take tea and enjoy the view. A young, tall, handsome girl of eighteen had drawn her chair close to Charlotte's. She was the half-sister of Mark Mason, and had her home with him and his wife; supporting herself after a fashion by her work. But she was always in debt to them, and she and Mrs. Mark did not get along well together. She wore a new shawl, and straw bonnet trimmed with blue ribbons: and her dark hair fell in glossy ringlets—as was the fashion then. Two other girls perched themselves on a table. They were sisters—Amelia and Mary Ann Cross; others placed themselves where they could. Somewhat light were they in manner, these girls; free in speech. Nothing farther. If an unhappy girl did, by mischance, turn out badly, or, as the expressive phrase had it, "went wrong," she was forthwith shunned, and shunned for ever. Whatever may have been the faults and failings prevailing in Honey Fair, this sort of wrong-doing was not common amongst them.
Why, Caroline, that is new! exclaimed Charlotte East, alluding to the shawl.
Caroline Mason laughed. "Is it not a beauty?" cried she. And it may be remarked that in speech and accent she was superior to some of the girls.
Charlotte took a corner of it in her hand. "It must have cost a pound at least," she said. "Is it paid for?"
Again Caroline laughed. "Never you mind whether it's paid for or not, Charlotte. You won't be called upon for the money for it. As I told my sister-in-law yesterday."
You did not want it, Caroline; and I am quite sure you could not afford it. Your winter cloak was good yet. It is so bad a plan, getting goods on credit. I wish those Bankeses had never come near the place!
Don't you run down Bankes's, Charlotte East, interposed Eliza Tyrrett, a very plain girl, with an ill-natured expression of face. "We should never get along at all if it wasn't for Bankes's."
You would get along all the better, returned Charlotte. "How much are they going to charge you for this shawl, Caroline?"
Caroline and Eliza Tyrrett exchanged peculiar glances. There appeared to be some secret between them, connected with the shawl. "Oh, a pound or so," replied Caroline. "What was it, Eliza?"
Eliza Tyrrett burst into a loud laugh, and Caroline echoed it. Charlotte East did not press for the answer. But she did press the matter against dealing with Bankes's; as she had pressed it many a time before.
A twelvemonth ago, some strangers had opened a linen-draper's shop in a back street of Helstonleigh; brothers of the name of Bankes. They professed to do business upon credit, and to wait upon people at their own homes, after the fashion of hawkers. Every Monday would one of them appear in Honey Fair, a great pack of goods on his back, which would be opened for inspection at each house. Caps, shawls, gown-pieces, calico, flannel, and finery, would be displayed in all their fascinations. Now, you who are reading this, only reflect on the temptation! The women of Honey Fair went into debt; and it was three parts the work of their lives to keep the finery, and the system, from the knowledge of their husbands.
Pay us so much weekly, Bankes's would say. And the women did so: it seemed like getting a gown for nothing. But Bankes's were found to be strict in collecting the instalments; and how these weekly payments told upon the wages, I will leave you to judge. Some would have many shillings to pay weekly. Charlotte East and a few more prudent ones spoke against this system; but they made no impression. The temptation was too great. Charlotte assumed that this was how Caroline Mason's shawl had been obtained. In that, however, she was mistaken.
Charlotte, we are going down to Bankes's. There'll be a better choice in his shop than in his pack. You have heard of the party at the Alhambra. Well, it is to be next Monday, and we want to ask you what we shall wear. What would you advise us to get for it?
Get nothing, replied Charlotte. "Don't go to Bankes's, and don't go to the Alhambra."
The whole assembly sat in wonder, with open eyes. "Not go to the party!" echoed pert Amelia Cross. "What next, Charlotte East?"
I told you what it would be, if you came into Charlotte East's, said Eliza Tyrrett, a sneer on her countenance.
I am not against proper amusement, though I don't much care for it myself, said Charlotte. "But when you speak of going to a party at the Alhambra, somehow it does not sound respectable."
The girls opened their eyes wider. "Why, Charlotte, what harm do you suppose will come to us? We can take care of ourselves, I hope?"
It is not that, said Charlotte. "Of course you can. Still it does not sound nice. It is like going to a public-house—you can't call the Alhambra anything else. It is quite different, this, from going there to have tea in the summer. But that's not it, I say. If you go to it, you would be running into debt for all sorts of things at Bankes's, and get into trouble."
My sister-in-law says you are a croaker, Charlotte; and she's right, cried Caroline Mason, with good-humour.
Charlotte, it is not a bit of use your talking, broke in Mary Ann Cross vehemently. "We shall go to the party, and we shall buy new things for it. Bankes's have some lovely sarcenets, cross-barred; green, and pink, and lilac; and me and 'Melia mean to have a dress apiece off 'em. With a pink bow in front, and a white collar—my! wouldn't folks stare at us!—Twelve yards each it would take, and they are one-and-eightpence a yard."
Mary Ann, it would be just madness! There'd be the making, the lining, and the ribbon: five or six-and-twenty shillings each, they would cost you. Pray don't!
How you do reckon things up, Charlotte! We should pay off weekly: we have time afore us.
What would your father say?
Charlotte, just hold your noise about father, quickly returned Amelia Cross, in a hushed and altered tone. "You know we don't tell him about Bankes's."
Charlotte found she might as well have talked to the winds. The girls were bent upon the evening's pleasure, and also upon the smart things they deemed necessary for it. A few minutes more and they left her; and trooped down to the shop of the Messrs. Bankes.
Charlotte was coming home that evening from an errand to the town, when she met Adam Thorneycroft. He was somewhat above the common run of workmen.
Oh, is it you, Charlotte? he exclaimed, stopping her. "I say, how is it that you'll never have anything to say to me now?"
I have told you why, Adam, she replied.
You have told me a pack of nonsense. I wouldn't lose you, Charlotte, to be made king of England. When once we are married, you shall see how steady I'll be. I will not enter a public-house.
You have been saying that you will not for these twelve months past, Adam, she sadly rejoined; and, had her face been visible in the dark night, he would have seen that it was working with agitation.
What does it hurt a man, to go out and take a quiet pipe and a glass after his work's over? Everybody does it.
Everybody does not. But I do not wish to contend. It seems to bring you no conviction. Half the miseries around us in Honey Fair arise from so much of the wages being wasted at the public-houses. I know what you would say—that the wives are in fault as well. So they are. I do not believe people were sent into the world to live as so many of us live: nothing but scuffle and discomfort, and—I may almost say it—sinfulness. One of these wretched households shall never be mine.
My goodness, Charlotte! How seriously you speak!
It is a serious subject. I want to try to live so as to do my duty by myself and by those around me; to pass my days in peace with the world and with my conscience. A woman beaten down, cowed by all sorts of ills, could not do so; and, where the husband is unsteady, she must be beaten down. Adam, you know it is not with a willing heart I give you up, but I am forced to it.
How can you bring yourself to say this to me? he rejoined.
I don't deny that it is hard, she faintly said, suppressing with difficulty her emotion. "This many a week I and duty have been having a conflict with each other: but duty has gained the mastery. I knew it would from the first——"
Duty be smothered! interrupted Adam Thorneycroft. "I shall think you a born natural presently, Charlotte."
Yes, I know. I can't help it. Adam, we should never pull together, you see. Good-bye! We can be friends in future, if you like; nothing more.
She held out her hand to him for a parting salutation. Adam, hurt and angry, flung it from him, and turned towards Helstonleigh: and Charlotte continued her way home, her tears dropping in the dusky night.
Mrs. Halliburton struggled on. A struggle, my reader, that it is to be hoped, for your comfort's sake, you have never experienced, and never will. She had learnt the stitch for the back of the gloves, and Mr. Lynn supplied her with a machine and with work. But she could not do it quickly as yet; though it was a hopeful day for her when she found that her weekly earnings amounted to six shillings.
Mrs. Reece paid her twenty shillings a week. Or rather, Dobbs: for Dobbs was paymaster-general. Of that, Jane could use (she had made a close calculation) six shillings, putting by fourteen for rent and taxes. Her taxes were very light, part of them being paid by the landlord, as was the custom with some houses in Helstonleigh. But for this, the rent would have been less. Sorely tempted as she was, by hunger, by cold, almost by starvation, Jane was resolute in leaving the fourteen shillings intact. She had suffered too much from non-payment of the last rent, not to be prepared with the next. But—the endurance and deprivation!—how great they were! And she suffered far more for her children than for herself.
One night, towards the middle of February, she felt very downhearted: almost as if she could not struggle on much longer. With her own earnings and the six shillings taken from Mrs. Reece's money she could count little more than twelve shillings weekly, and everything had to be found out of it. Coals, candles, washing—that is, the soap, firing, etc., necessary for Miss Betsy Carter to do it with; the boys' shoe-mending and other trifles, besides food. You will not, therefore, be surprised to hear that on this night they had literally nothing in the house but part of a loaf of bread. Jane was resolute in one thing—not to go into debt. Mrs. Buffle would have given credit, probably other shops also; but Jane believed that her sole chance of surmounting the struggle eventually was by keeping debt, even trifling debt, away. They had this morning eaten bread for breakfast; they had eaten potatoes and salt for dinner; and now, tea-time, there was bread again. All Jane had in her pocket was twopence, which must be kept for milk for the following morning; so they were drinking water now.
They were round the fire; two of the boys kneeling on the ground to get the better blaze, thankful they had a fire at all. Their lessons were over for the day. William had been thoroughly well brought on by his father, in Greek, Latin, Euclid, and in English generally—in short, in the branches necessary to a good education. Frank and Gar were forward also; indeed, Frank, for his age, was a very good Latin scholar. But how could they do much good or make much progress by themselves? William helped his brothers as well as he could, but it was somewhat profitless work; and Jane was all too conscious that they needed to be at school. Altogether, her heart was sore within her.
Another thing was beginning to worry her—a fear lest her brother should not be able to send the rent. She had fully counted upon it; but, now that the time of its promised receipt was at hand, fears and doubts arose. She was dwelling on it now—now, as she sat there at her work, in the twilight of the early spring evening. If the money did not come, all she could do would be to go to Mr. Ashley, tell him of her ill luck, and that he must take the things at last. They must turn out, wanderers on the wide earth; no——
A plaintive cry interrupted her dream and recalled her to reality. It came from Jane, who was seated on a stool, her head leaning against the side of the mantel-piece.
She is crying, mamma, cried quick Frank; and Janey whispered something into Frank's ear, the cry deepening into sobs.
Mamma, she's crying because she's hungry.
Janey, dear, I have nothing but bread. You know it. Could you eat a bit?
I want something else, sobbed Janey. "Some meat, or some pudding. It is such a long time since we had any. I am tired of bread; I am very hungry."
There came an echoing cry from the other side of the fireplace. Gar had laid his head down on the floor, and he now broke out, sobbing also.
I am hungry too. I don't like bread any more than Janey does. When shall we have something nice?
Jane gathered them to her, one in each arm, soothing them with soft caresses, her heart aching, her own sobs choked down, one single comfort present to her—that God knew what she had to bear.
Almost she began to fear for her own health. Would the intense anxiety, combined with the want of sufficient food, tell upon her? Would her sleepless nights tell upon her? Would her grief for the loss of her husband—a grief not the less keenly felt because she did not parade it—tell upon her? All that lay in the future.
She rose the next morning early to her work; she always had to rise early—the boys and Jane setting the breakfast. Breakfast! Putting the bread upon the table and taking in the milk. For twopence they had a quart of skimmed milk, and were glad to get it. Her head was heavy, her frame hot, the result of inward fever, her limbs were tired before the day began; worse than all, there was that utter weariness of mind which predisposes a sufferer from it to lie down and die. "This will never do," thought Jane; "I must bear up."
A dispute between Frank and Gar! They were good, affectionate boys; but little tempers must break out now and then. In trying to settle it, Jane burst into tears. It put an end to the fray more effectually than anything else could have done. The boys looked blank with consternation, and Janey burst into hysterical sobs.
Don't, Jane, don't, said the poor mother; "I am not well; but do not you cry."
I am not well, either, sobbed Janey. "It hurts me here, and here." She put her hand to her head and chest, and Jane knew that she was weak from long-continued insufficiency of food. There was no remedy for it. Jane only wished she could bear for them all.
Some time after breakfast there came the postman's knock at the door. A thickish letter—twopence to pay. The penny postal system had come in, but letters were not so universally prepaid then as they are now.
Jane glanced over it with a beating heart. Yes, it was her brother's handwriting. Could the promised rent have really arrived? She felt sick with agitation.
I have no money at all, Frank. Ask Dobbs if she will lend you twopence.
Away went Frank, in his quick and not very ceremonious manner, penetrating to the kitchen, where Dobbs happened to be. "Dobbs, will you please to lend mamma twopence? It is for a letter."
Dobbs, indeed! Who's 'Dobbs'? retorted that functionary in wrath. "I am Mrs. Dobbs, if you please. Take yourself out of my sight till you can learn manners."
Won't you lend it? The postman's waiting.
No, I won't, returned Dobbs.
Back ran Frank. "She won't lend it, mamma. She says I was rude to her, and called her Dobbs."
Oh, Frank! But the postman was impatient, demanding whether he was to be kept there all day. Jane was fain to apply to Dobbs herself, and procured the loan. Then she ran upstairs with the letter, and her trembling fingers broke the seal. Two banknotes, for 10£. each, fell out of it. The promised loan had been sixteen pounds. The Rev. Francis Tait had contrived to spare four pounds more.
Before Jane had recovered from her excitement—almost before a breath of thanks had gone up from her heart—she saw Mr. Ashley on the opposite side of the road, going towards Helstonleigh. Being in no state to weigh her actions, only conscious that the two notes lay in her hand—actual realities—she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and went across the road to Mr. Ashley. In her agitation, she scarcely knew what she did or said.
Oh, sir—I beg your pardon—but I have at this moment received the money for the back rent. May I give it to you now?
Mr. Ashley looked at her in surprise. A scarlet spot shone on her thin cheeks—a happy excitement was spread over her face of care. He read the indications plainly—that she was an eager payer, but no willing debtor. The open letter in her hand, and the postman opposite, told the tale.
There is no such hurry, Mrs. Halliburton, he said, smiling. "I cannot give you a receipt here."
You can send it to me, she said. "I would rather pay you than Mr. Dare."
She held out the notes to him. He felt in his pocket whether he had sufficient change, found he had, and handed it to her. "That is it, madam—four sovereigns. Thank you."
She took them hesitatingly, but did not close her hand. "Was there not some expense incurred when—when that man was put in?"
Not for you to pay, Mrs. Halliburton, he pointedly returned. "I hope you are getting pretty well through your troubles?"
The tears came into her eyes, and she turned them away. Getting pretty well through her troubles! "Thank you for inquiring," she meekly said. "I shall, I believe, have the quarter's rent ready in March, when it falls due."
Do not put yourself out of the way to pay it, he replied. "If it would be more convenient to you to let it go on to the half-year, it would be the same to me."
Her heart rose to the kindness. "Thank you, Mr. Ashley, thank you very much for your consideration; but I must pay as I go on, if I possibly can."
Patience stood at her gate, smiling as she recrossed the road. She had seen what had passed.
Thee hast good news, I see. But thee wert in a hurry, to pay thy rent in the road.
My brother has sent me the rent and four pounds over. Patience, I can buy bedside carpets now.
Patience looked pleased. "With all thy riches thee will scarcely thank me for this poor three and sixpence," holding out the silver to her. "Samuel Lynn left it; it is owing thee for thy work."
Jane smiled sadly as she took it. Her riches! "How is Anna?" she asked.
She is nicely, thank thee, and is gone to school. But she was wilful over her lessons this morning. Farewell. I am glad thee art so far out of thy perplexities.
Very far, indeed; and a great relief it was. Can you realize these troubles of Mrs. Halliburton's? Not, I think, as she realized them. We pity the trials and endurance of the poor; but, believe me, they are as nothing compared with the bitter lot of reduced gentlepeople. Jane had not been brought up to poverty, to scanty and hard fare, to labour, to humiliations, to the pain of debt. But for hope—and some of us know how strong that is in the human heart—and for that better hope, trust, Jane never could have gone through her trials. Her physical privations alone were almost too hard to bear. Can you wonder that an unexpected present of four pounds seemed as a mine of wealth?
But four pounds, however large a sum to look at, dwindles down sadly in the spending; especially when bedside carpets, and boys' boots—new ones and the mending of old ones—have to be deducted from it at the commencement. An idea had for some time been looming in Jane's mind; looming ominously, for she did not like to speak of it. It was, that William must go out and enter upon some employment, by which a little weekly money might be added to their stock. He was eager enough; indulging, no doubt, boy-like, peculiar visions of his own, great and grand. But these Jane had to dispel; to explain that for young boys, such as he, earning money implied hard work.
His face flushed scarlet. Jane drew him to her and pressed her cheek upon his.
There would be no real disgrace in it, my darling. No work in itself brings disgrace; be it carrying out parcels or sweeping out a shop. So long as we retain our refinement of tone, of manner, our courteous conduct one to the other, we shall still be gentlepeople, let us work at what we may. William, I think it is your duty to help in our need.
Yes, I see, mamma, he answered. "I will try and do it; anything that may turn up."
Jane had not much faith in things "turning up." She believed that they must be sought for. That same evening she went into Mr. Lynn's, with the view to asking his counsel. There she found Anna in trouble. The cause was as follows.
Patience, leaving Anna alone at her lessons, had gone into the kitchen to give some directions to Grace. Anna seized the opportunity to take a little recreation: not that it was greatly needed, for—spoilt child that she was!—she had merely looked at her books with vacant eyes, not having in reality learned a single word. First of all, off went her cap. Next, she drew from her pocket a small mirror, about the size of a five-shilling piece. Propping this against her books on the table before her, so that the rays of the lamp might fall upon it, she proceeded to admire herself, and twist her flowing hair round her pretty fingers to make a shower of ringlets. Sad vanity for a little born Quakeress! But it must be owned that never did mirror, small or large, give back a more lovely image than that child's. She had just arranged her curls, and was contemplating their effect to her entire satisfaction, when back came Patience sooner than she was expected, and caught the young lady at her impromptu toilette. What with the curls and what with the mirror, Anna did not know which to hurry away first.
Thee naughty child! Thee naughty, naughty child! What is to become of thee? Where did thee get this?
Anna burst into tears. In her perplexity she said she had "found" the mirror.
That thee did not, said Patience calmly. "I ask thee where thee got it from?"
Of a remarkably pliant nature, wavering and timid, Anna never withstood long the persistent questioning of Patience. Amid many tears the truth came out. Lucy Dixon had brought it to school in her workbox. It was a doll's mirror, and she, Anna, had given her sixpence for it.
The sixpence that thy father bestowed upon thee yesterday for being a good girl, retorted Patience. "I told him thee would likely not make a profitable use of it. Come up to bed with thee! I will talk to thee after thee are in it."
Of all things, Anna disliked to be sent to bed before her time. She sobbed, expostulated, and promised all sorts of amendment for the future. Patience, firm and quiet, would have carried her point, but for the entrance of Samuel Lynn. The fault was related to him by Patience, and the mirror exhibited. Anna clung around him in a storm of sobs.
Dear father! Dear, dear father, don't thee let me go to bed! Let me sit by thee while thee hast thy supper. Patience may keep the glass, but don't thee let me go.
It was quite a picture—the child clinging there with her crimsoned cheeks, her wet eyelashes, and her soft flowing hair. Samuel Lynn, albeit a man not given to demonstration, strained her to him with a loving movement. Perhaps the crime of looking into a doll's glass and toying with her hair appeared to him more venial than it did to Patience; but then, she was his beloved child.
Will thee transgress again, Anna?
No, I never will, sobbed Anna.
Then Patience will suffer thee to sit up this once. But thee must be careful.
He placed her in a chair close to him. Patience, disapproving very much but saying nothing, left the room. Grace appeared with the supper-tray, and a message that Patience would take her supper in the kitchen. It was at this juncture that Mrs. Halliburton came in. She told the Quaker that she had come to consult him about William; and mentioned her intentions.
To tell thee the truth, friend, I have marvelled much that thee did not, under thy circumstances, seek to place out thy eldest son, was the answer. "He might be helping thee."
He is young to earn anything, Mr. Lynn. Do you see a chance of my getting him a place?
That depends, friend, upon the sort of place he may wish for. I could help him to a place to-morrow. But it is one that may not accord with thy notions.
What is it? eagerly asked Jane.
It is in Thomas Ashley's manufactory. We are in want of another boy, and the master told me to-day I had better inquire for one.
What would he have to do? asked Jane. "And what would he earn?"
He would have to do anything he may be directed to do. Thy son is older than are our boys who come to us ordinarily, and he has been differently brought up; therefore I might put him to somewhat better employment. He might also be paid a trifle more. They sweep and dust, go on outdoor errands, carry messages indoors, black the gloves, get in coal; and they earn, if they are sharp, half-a-crown a week.
Jane's heart sank within her.
But thy son, I say, might be treated somewhat differently. Not that he must be above doing any of these duties, should he be put to them. I can assure thee, friend, that some of the first manufacturers of this town have thus begun their career. A thoroughly practical knowledge of the business is only to be acquired by beginning at the first step of the ladder, and working upwards.
Did Mr. Ashley so begin? She could scarcely tell why she asked the question. Unless it was that a feeling came over her that if Mr. Ashley had done these things, she would not mind William's doing them.
No, friend. Thomas Ashley's father was a man of means, and Thomas was bred up a classical scholar and a gentleman. He has never taken a practical part in the working of the business: I do that for him. His labours are chiefly confined to the correspondence and the keeping of the books. His father wished him to embrace a profession rather than be a glove manufacturer: but Thomas preferred to succeed his father. If thee would like thy son to enter our manufactory, I will try him.
Jane was dubious. She felt quite sure that William would not like it. "He has been thinking of a counting-house, or a lawyer's or conveyancer's office," she said aloud. "He would like to employ his time in writing. Would there be difficulty in getting him into one?"
I do not opine a lawyer would take a boy of his size. They require their writing to be well and correctly done. About that, I cannot tell thee much, for I have nothing to do with lawyers. He can inquire.
Jane rose. She stood by the table, unconsciously stroking Anna's flowing curls—for the cap had never been replaced, and Samuel Lynn found no fault with the omission. "I will speak candidly," said Jane. "I fear that the place you have kindly offered me would not be liked by William. Other employments, writing for example, would be more palatable. Nevertheless, were he unable to obtain anything else I should be glad to accept this. Will you give me three or four days for consideration?"
To oblige thee, I will, friend. When Thomas Ashley gives orders, he is prompt in having them attended to; and he spoke, as I have informed thee, about a fresh boy to-day. Would it not be a help to thee, friend, if thee got thy other two boys into the school attached to the cathedral?
But I have no interest, said Jane. "I hear that education there is free; but I do not possess the slightest chance."
Thee may get a chance, friend. There's nothing like trying. I must tell thee that the school is not thought highly of, in consequence of the instruction being confined exclusively to Latin and Greek. In the old days this was thought enough; but people are now getting more enlightened. Thomas Ashley was educated there; but he had a private tutor at home for the branches not taught at the college; he had also masters for what are called accomplishments. He is one of the most accomplished men of the day. Few are so thoroughly and comprehensively educated as Thomas Ashley. I have heard say thy sons have begun Latin. It might be a help to them if they could get in.
I should desire nothing better, Jane breathlessly rejoined, a new hope penetrating her heart. "I have heard of the collegiate school here; but, until very recently I supposed it to be an expensive institution."
No, friend; it is free. The best way to get a boy in is by making interest with the head-master of the school, or with some of the cathedral clergy.
A recollection of Mr. Peach flashed into Jane's mind as a ray of light. She bade good-night to Samuel Lynn and Anna, and to Patience as she passed the kitchen. Patience had been crying.
I am grieved about Anna, she explained. "I love the child dearly, but Samuel Lynn is blind to her faults; and it argues badly for the future. Thee cannot imagine half her vanity; I fear me, too, she is deceitful. I wish her father could see it! I wish he would indulge her less and correct her more! Good night to thee."
Before concluding the chapter, it may as well be mentioned that a piece of good fortune about this time befell Janey. She found favour with Dobbs! How it came about perhaps Dobbs could not herself have told. Certainly no one else could.
Mrs. Reece had got into the habit of asking Jane into her parlour to tea. She was a kind-hearted old lady and liked the child. Dobbs would afterwards be at work, generally some patching and mending to her own clothes; and Dobbs, though she would not acknowledge it to herself or to any one else, could not see to thread her needle. Needle in one hand and thread in the other, she would poke the two together for five minutes, no result supervening. Janey hit upon the plan of threading her a needle in silence, whilst Dobbs used the one; and from that time Jane kept her in threaded needles. Whether this conciliated Dobbs must remain a mystery, but she took a liking for Jane; and the liking grew into love. Henceforth Janey wanted for nothing. While the others starved, she lived on the fat of the land. Meat and pudding, fowls and pastry, whatever dinner in the parlour might consist of, Janey had her share of it, and a full share too. At first Mrs. Halliburton, from motives of delicacy, would not allow Jane to go in; upon which Dobbs would enter, boiling over with indignation, red with the exertion of cooking, and triumphantly bear her off. Jane spoke seriously to Mrs. Reece about it, but the old lady declared she was as glad to have the child as Dobbs was.
Once, Janey came to a standstill over some apple pudding, which had followed upon veal cutlets and bacon. "I am quite full," said she, more plainly than politely: "I can't eat a bit more. May I give this piece upon my plate to Gar?"
No, you may not, snapped Dobbs, drowning Mrs. Reece's words, that she might give it and welcome. "How dare you, Janey? You know that boys is the loadstones of my life."
Dobbs probably used the word loadstones to indicate a heavy weight. She seized the plate of pudding and finished it herself, lest it should find its way to the suggested quarter—a self-sacrifice which served to show her earnestness in the cause. Nothing gave Dobbs indigestion like apple pudding, and she knew she should be a martyr for four-and-twenty hours afterwards.
Thus Jane, at least, suffered from henceforth no privations, and for this Mrs. Halliburton was very thankful. The time was to come, however, when she would have reason to be more so.
The happy thought, suggested by Samuel Lynn, Jane carried out. She applied in person to Mr. Peach, and he obtained an immediate entrance for Frank to the college school, with a promise for Gar to enter at quarter-day, the 25th of March. He was perfectly thunderstruck when he found that his old friend and tutor, Mr. Halliburton, was dead; had died in Helstonleigh; and that he—he!—had buried him. There was no need to ask him twice, after that, to exert his interest for the fatherless children. The school (I have told you what it was many years ago) was not held in the highest repute, from the reason spoken of by Samuel Lynn; vacancies often occurred, and admission was easy. It was one great weight off Jane's mind.
William was not so fortunate. He was at that period very short for his age, timid in manner, and no office could be persuaded to take him. Nothing in the least congenial to him presented itself or could be found; and the result was that he resigned himself to Samuel Lynn, who introduced him to Mr. Ashley's extensive manufactory—to be initiated by degrees into all the mysteries necessary to convert a skin into a glove. And although his interest and curiosity were excited by what he saw, he pronounced it a "hateful" business.
When the skins came in from the leather-dressers they were washed in a tub of cold water. The next day warm water, mixed with yolks of eggs, was poured on them, and a couple of men, bare-legged to the knee, got into the tub, and danced upon them, skins, eggs, and water, for two hours. Then they were spread in a field to dry, till they were as hard as lantern horn; then they were "staked," as it was called—a long process, to smooth and soften them. To the stainers next, to be stained black or coloured; next to the parers, to have the loose flesh pared from the inside, and to be smoothed again with pumice-stone—all this being done on the outside premises. Then they came inside, to the hands of one of the foremen, who sorted and marked them for the cutters. The cutters cut the skins into tranks (the shape of the hand in outline) with the separate thumbs and forgits, and sent them in to the slitters. The slitters slit the four fingers, and shaped the thumbs and forgits: after that, they were ready for the women—three different women, you may remember, being necessary to turn out each glove, so far as the sewing went; for one woman rarely worked at more than her own peculiar branch, or was capable of working at it. This done, and back in the manufactory again, they had to be pulled straight, and "padded," or rubbed, a process by which they were brightened. If black gloves, the seams were washed over with a black dye, or else glazed; then they were hung up to dry. This done, they went into Samuel Lynn's room, a large room next to Mr. Ashley's private room, and here they were sorted into firsts, seconds, or thirds; the sorting being always done by Samuel Lynn, or by James Meeking the head foreman. It was called "making-up." Next they were banded round with a paper in dozens, labelled, and placed in small boxes, ready for the warehouses in London. A great deal, you see, before one pair of gloves could be turned out.
The first morning that William went at six o'clock with Samuel Lynn, he was ordered to light the fire in Mr. Ashley's room, sweep it out, and dust it, first of all sprinkling the floor with water from a watering-pot. And this was to be part of his work every morning at present; Samuel Lynn giving him strict charge never to disturb anything on Mr. Ashley's desk. If he moved things to dust the desk, he was to lay them down again in the same places and in the same position. The duster consisted of some leather shreds tied up into a knot, the ends loose. He found he should have to wait on Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn, bring things they wanted, carry messages to the men, and go out when sent. A pair of shears, which he could not manage, was put into his hand, and he had to cut a damaged skin, useless for gloves, into narrow strips, standing at one of the counters in Samuel Lynn's room. William wondered whether they were to make another duster, but he found they were used in the manufactory in place of string. That done, a round, polished stick was handed to him, tapered at either end, which he had to pass over and over some small gloves to make them smooth, after the manner of a cook rolling out paste for a pie. He looked with dismay at the two young errand boys of the establishment, who were black with dye. But Samuel Lynn had distinctly told him that he would not be expected to place himself on their level. The rooms were for the most part very light, one or two sides being entirely of glass.
On the evening of this first day, William, after he got home, sat there in sad heaviness. His mother asked how he liked his employment, and he returned an evasive answer. Presently he rose to go to bed, saying he had a headache. Up he went to the garret, and flung himself down on the mattress, sobbing as if his heart would break. Jane, suspecting something of this, followed him up. She caught him in her arms.
Oh, my darling, don't give way! Things may grow brighter after a time.
It is such a dreadful change!—from my books, my Latin and Greek, to go there and sweep out places like those two black boys! he said hysterically, all his reticence gone.
My dear boy! my darling boy! I know not how to reconcile you, how to lessen your cares. Your experience of the sorrow of life is beginning early. You are hungry, too.
I am always hungry, answered William, quite unable to affect concealment in that hour of grief. "I heard one of those black boys say he had boiled pork and greens for dinner. I did so envy him."
Jane checked her tears; they were rising rebelliously. "William, darling your lot seems just now very dark and painful, but it might be worse."
Worse! he echoed in surprise. "How could it be worse? Mamma, I am no better than an errand-boy there."
It would be worse, William, if you were one of those poor black boys. Unenlightened; no wish for higher things; content to remain as they are for ever.
But that could never be, he urged. "To be content with such a life is impossible."
They are content, William.
He saw the drift of the argument. "Yes, mamma," he acknowledged; "I did not reflect. It would be worse if I were quite as they are."
William, we can only bear our difficulties, and make the best of them, trusting to surmount them in the end. You and I must both do this. Trust is different from hope. If we only hope, we may lose courage; but if we fully and freely trust, we cannot. Patience and perseverance, endurance and trust, they will in the end triumph; never fear. If I feared, William, I should go into the grave with despair. I never lose my trust. I never lose my conviction, firm and certain, that God is watching over me, that He is permitting these trials for some wise purpose, and that in His own good time we shall be brought through them.
William's sobs were growing lighter.
The time may come when we shall be at ease again, continued Jane; "when we shall look back on this time of trial, and be thankful that we did bear up and surmount it, instead of fainting under the burden. God will take care that the battle is not too hot for us, if we only resign ourselves, in all trust, to do the best. The future is grievously dim and indistinct. As the guiding light in your father's dream shone only on one step at a time, so can I see only one step before me."
What step is that? he asked somewhat eagerly.
The one obvious step before me is to persevere, as I am now doing, to try and retain this home for you, my children; to work as I can, so as to keep you around me. I must strive to keep you together, and you must help me. Bear up bravely, William. Make the best of this unpleasant employment and its mortifications, and strive to overcome your repugnance to it. Be resolute, my boy, in doing your duty in it, because it is your duty, and because, William—because it is helping your mother.
A shadow of the trust, so firm in his mother's heart, began to dawn in his. "Yes, it is my duty," he resolutely said. "I will try to do it—to hope and trust."
Jane strained him to her. "Were you and I to give way now, darling, our past troubles would have been borne for nothing. Let us, I repeat, look forward to the time when we may say, 'We did not faint; we battled on, and overcame.' It will come, William. Only trust to God."
She quitted him, leaving him to reflection and resolve scarcely befitting his young years.
The week wore on to its close. On the Saturday night, William, his face flushed, held out four shillings to his mother. "My week's wages, mamma."
Jane's face flushed also. "It is more than I expected, William," she said. "I fancied you would have three."
I think the master fixed the sum, said William.
The master? Do you mean Mr. Ashley?
We never say 'Mr. Ashley' in the manufactory; we say 'the master.' Mr. Lynn was paying the wages to-night. I heard them say that sometimes Mr. Lynn paid them, and sometimes James Meeking. Those two black boys have half-a-crown apiece. He left me to the last, and when the rest were gone, he looked at me and took up three shillings. Then he seemed to hesitate, and suddenly he locked the desk, went into the master's room, and spoke with him. He came back in a minute, unlocked the desk, and gave me four shillings. 'Thee hast not earned it,' he said, 'but I think thee has done thy best. Thee will have the same each week, so long as thee does so.'
Jane held the four shillings, and felt that she was growing quite rich. The rest crowded round to look. "Can't we have a nice dinner to-morrow with it?" said one.
I think we must, said Jane cheerily. "A nice dinner for once in a way. What shall it be?"
Roast beef, called out Frank.
Pork with crackling, suggested Janey. "That of Mrs. Reece's yesterday was so good."
Couldn't we have fowls and a jam pudding? asked Gar.
Jane smiled and kissed him. All the suggestions were beyond her purse. "We will have a meat pudding," she said; "that's best." And the children cheerfully acquiesced. They had implicit faith in their mother; they knew that what she said was best, would be best.
On this same Saturday night Charlotte East was returning home from Helstonleigh, an errand having taken her thither after dark. Almost opposite to the turning to Honey Fair, a lane branched off, leading to some farm-houses; a lane, green and pleasant in summer, but bare and uninviting now. Two people turned into it as Charlotte looked across. She caught only a glance; but something in the aspect of both struck upon her as familiar. A gas-lamp at the corner shed a light upon the spot, and Charlotte suddenly halted, and stood endeavouring to peer further. But they were soon out of view. A feeling of dismay had stolen over Charlotte. She hoped she was mistaken; that the parties were not those she had fancied; and she slowly continued her way. A few paces more, she turned up the road leading to Honey Fair and found herself nearly knocked over by one who came running against her, apparently in some excitement and in a great hurry.
Who's this? cried the voice of Eliza Tyrrett. "Charlotte East, I declare! I say, have you seen anything of Caroline Mason?"
Charlotte hesitated. She hoped she had not seen her; though the misgiving was upon her that she had. "Did you think I might have seen her?" she returned. "Has she come this way?"
Yes, I expect she has come this way, and I want to find her, returned Eliza Tyrrett vehemently. "I saw her making off out of Honey Fair, and I saw who was waiting for her round the corner. I knew my company wasn't wanted then, and turned into Dame Buffle's for a talk; and there I found that Madam Carry has been telling falsehoods about me. Let me set on to her, that's all! I shall say what she won't like."
Who do you mean was waiting for her? inquired Charlotte East.
Eliza Tyrrett laughed. She was beginning to recover her temper. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" said she pertly. "But I'm not going to tell tales out of school."
I think I do know, returned Charlotte quietly. "I fear I do."
Do you? I thought nobody knew nothing about it but me. It has been going on this ten weeks. Did you see her, though, Charlotte?
I thought I saw her, but I could not believe my eyes. She was with—with—some one she has no business to be with.
Oh, as to business, I don't know about that, carelessly answered Eliza Tyrrett. "We have a right to walk with anybody we like."
Whether it is good or bad for you? returned Charlotte.
There's no 'bad' in it, cried Eliza Tyrrett indignantly. "I never saw such an old maid as you are, Charlotte East, never! Carry Mason's not a child, to be led into mischief."
Carry's very foolish, was Charlotte's comment.
Oh, of course you think so, or it wouldn't be you. You'll go and tell upon her at home, I suppose, now.
I shall tell her, said Charlotte. "Folks should choose their acquaintances in their own class of life, if they want things to turn out pleasantly."
Were you not all took in about that shawl! uttered Eliza Tyrrett, with a laugh. "You thought she went in debt for it at Bankes's, and her people at home thought so. Het Mason shrieked on at her like anything, for spending money on her back while she owed it for her board. He gave her that."
Eliza!
He did. Law, where's the harm? He is rich enough to give all us girls in Honey Fair one apiece, and who'd be the worse for it? Only his pocket; and that can afford it. I wish he would!
I wish you would not talk so, Eliza. She is not a fit companion for him, even though it is but to take a walk; and she ought to remember that she is not.
He wants her for a longer companion than that, observed Eliza Tyrrett; "that is, if he tells true. He wants her to marry him."
He—wants her to marry him! repeated Charlotte, speaking the words in sheer amazement. "Who says so?"
He does. I should hardly think he can be in earnest, though.
Eliza Tyrrett, we cannot be speaking of the same person, cried Charlotte, feeling bewildered. "To whom have you been alluding?"
To the same that you have, I expect. Young Anthony Dare.
It was the last day of March, and five o'clock in the afternoon. The great bell had rung in Mr. Ashley's manufactory, the signal for the men to go to their tea. Scuffling feet echoed to it from all parts, and clattered down the stairs on their way out. The ground floor was not used for the indoor purposes of the manufactory, the business being carried on in the first and second floors. The first flight of stairs opened into what was called the serving-room, a very large apartment; through this, on the right, branched off Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel Lynn's. On the left, various passages led to other rooms, and the upper flight of stairs was opposite to the entrance-stairs. The serving-counter, running completely across the room, formed a barrier between the serving-room and the entrance staircase.
The men flocked into the serving-room, passed it, and rattled down the stairs. Samuel Lynn was changing his coat to follow, and William Halliburton was waiting for him, his cap on, for he walked to and fro with the Quaker, when Mr. Ashley's voice was heard from his room: the counting-house, as it was frequently called.
William! It was usual to distinguish the boys by their Christian name only; the men by both their Christian and surnames. Samuel Lynn was "Mr. Lynn."
Did thee not hear the master calling to thee?
William had certainly heard Mr. Ashley's voice; but it was so unusual to be called by it, that he had paid no attention. He had very little communication with Mr. Ashley; in the three or four weeks he had now been at the manufactory Mr. Ashley had not spoken to him a dozen words. He hastened into the counting-house, taking off his cap in the presence of Mr. Ashley.
Have the men gone to tea? inquired Mr. Ashley, who was sealing a letter.
Yes, sir, replied William.
Is George Dance gone? George Dance was an apprentice, and it was his business to take the letters to the post.
They are all gone, sir, except Mr. Lynn; and James Meeking, who is waiting to lock up.
Do you know the post-office?
Oh, yes, sir. It is in West Street, at the other end of the town.
Take this letter, and put it carefully in.
William received the letter from Mr. Ashley, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. It was addressed to Bristol; the London mail-bags were already made up. Mr. Ashley put on his hat and departed, followed by Samuel Lynn and William. James Meeking locked up, as it was his invariable business to do, and carried the keys into his own house. He inhabited part of the ground floor of the premises.
Are thee not coming home with me this evening? inquired Samuel Lynn of William, who was turning off the opposite way.
No; the master has given me a letter to post. I have also an errand to do for my mother.
It happened (things do happen in a curious sort of way in this world) that Mrs. Halliburton had desired William to bring her in some candles and soap at tea-time, and to purchase them at Lockett's shop. Lockett's shop was rather far off; there were others nearer; but Lockett's goods were of the best quality, and his extensive trade enabled him to sell a halfpenny a pound cheaper. A halfpenny was a halfpenny with Jane then. William went on his way, walking fast.
As he was passing the cathedral, he came into contact with the college boys, then just let out of school. It was the first day that Gar had joined; he had received his appointment, according to promise. Very thankful was Jane; in spite of the drawback of having to provide them with linen surplices. William halted to see if he could discern Gar amidst the throng: it was not unnatural that he should look for him.
One of the boys caught sight of William standing there. It was Cyril Dare, the third son of Mr. Dare, a boy older and considerably bigger than William.
If there's not another of that Halliburton lot posted there! cried he, to a knot of those around. "Perhaps he will be coming amongst us next—because we have not enough with the two! Look at the fellow, staring at us! He is a common errand-boy at Ashley's."
Frank Halliburton, who, little as he was, wanted neither for spirit nor pluck, heard the words and confronted Cyril Dare. "That is my brother," said he. "What have you to say against him?"
Cyril Dare cast a glance of scorn on Frank, regarding him from top to toe. "You audacious young puppy! I say he is a snob. There!"
Then I say he is not, retorted Frank. "You are one yourself, for saying it."
Cyril Dare, big enough to have crushed Frank to death, speedily had him on the ground, and treated him not very mercifully when there. William, a witness to this, but not understanding it, pushed his way through the crowd to protect Frank. All he saw was that Frank was down, and two big boys were kicking him.
Let him alone! cried he. "How can you be so cowardly as to attack a little fellow? And two of you! Shame!"
Now, if there was one earthly thing that the college boys would not brook, it was being interfered with by a stranger. William suffered. Frank's treatment had been nothing to what he had to submit to. He was knocked down, trampled on, kicked, buffeted, abused; Cyril Dare being the chief and primary aggressor. At that moment the under-master came in view, and the boys made off—all except Cyril Dare.
Reined in against the wall, at a few yards' distance, was a lad on a pony. He had delicately expressive features, large soft brown eyes, a complexion too bright for health, and wavy dark hair. The face was beautiful; but two upright lines were indented in the white forehead, as if worn there by pain, and the one ungloved hand was white and thin. He was as old as William within a year; but, slight and fragile, would be taken to be much younger. Seeing and hearing—though not very clearly—what had passed, he touched his pony, and rode up to Cyril Dare. The latter was beginning to walk away leisurely, in the wake of his companions; the upper boys were rather fond of ignoring the presence of the under-master. Cyril turned at hearing himself called.
What! Is it you, Henry Ashley? Where did you spring from?
Cyril Dare, was the answer, "you are a wretched coward."
Cyril Dare was feeling anger yet, and the words did not lessen it. "Of course you can say so!" he cried. "You know that you can say what you like with impunity. One can't chastise a cripple like you."
The brilliant, painful colour flushed into the face of Henry Ashley. To allude openly to infirmity such as this is as iron entering into the soul. Upon a sensitive, timid, refined nature (and those suffering from this sort of affliction are nearly sure to possess that nature), it falls with a bitterness that can neither be conceived by others nor spoken of by themselves. Henry Ashley braved it out.
A coward, and a double coward! he repeated, looking Cyril Dare full in the face, whilst the transparent flush grew hotter on his own. "You struck a young boy down, and then kicked him; and for nothing but that he stood up like a trump at your abuse of his brother."
You couldn't hear, returned Cyril Dare roughly.
I heard enough. I say that you are a coward.
Chut! They are snobs out-and-out.
I don't care if they are chimney-sweeps. It does not make you less a coward. And you'll be one as long as you live. If I had my strength, I'd serve you out as you served them out.
Ah, but you have not your strength, you know! mocked Cyril. "And as you seem to be going into one of your heroic fits, I shall make a start, for I have no time to waste on them."
He tore away. Henry Ashley turned his pony and addressed William. Both boys had spoken rapidly, so that scarcely a minute had passed, and William had only just risen from the ground. He leaned against the wall, giddy, as he wiped the blood from his face. "Are you much hurt?" asked Henry, kindly, his large dark eyes full of sympathy.
No, thank you; it is nothing, replied William. "He is a great coward, though, whoever he is."
It is Cyril Dare, called out Frank.
Yes, it is Cyril Dare, continued Henry Ashley. "I have been telling him what a coward he is. I am ashamed of him: he is my cousin, in a remote degree. I am glad you are not hurt."
Henry Ashley rode away towards his home. Frank followed in the same direction; as did Gar, who now came in view. William proceeded up the town. He was a little hurt, although he had disowned it to Henry Ashley. His head felt light, his arms ached; perhaps the sensation of giddiness was as much from the want of food as anything. He purchased what was required for his mother; and then made the best of his way home again. Mr. Ashley's letter had gone clean out of his head.
Frank, in the manner usual with boys, carried home so exaggerated a story of William's damages, that Jane expected to see him arrive half-killed. Samuel Lynn heard of it, and said William might stop at home that evening. It has never been mentioned that his hours were from six till eight in the morning, from nine till one, from two till five, and from six till eight. These were Mr. Lynn's hours, and William was allowed to keep the same; the men had half-an-hour less allowed for breakfast and tea.
William was glad of the rest, after his battle, and the evening passed on. It was growing late, almost bedtime, when suddenly there flashed into his memory Mr. Ashley's letter. He put his hand into his jacket-pocket. There it lay, snug and safe. With a few words of explanation to his mother, so hasty and incoherent that she did not understand a syllable, he snatched his cap, and flew away in the direction of the town.
Boys have good legs and lungs; and William scarcely slackened speed until he gained the post-office, not far short of a mile. Dropping the letter into the box, he stood against the wall to recover breath. A clerk was standing at the door whistling; and at that moment a gentleman, apparently a stranger, came out of a neighbouring hotel, a letter in hand.
This is the head post-office, I believe? said he to the clerk.
Yes.
Am I in time to post a letter for Bristol?
No, sir. The bags for the Bristol mail are made up. It will be through the town directly.
William heard this with consternation. If it was too late for this gentleman's letter, it was too late for Mr. Ashley's.
He said nothing to any one that night; but he lay awake thinking over what might be the consequences of his forgetfulness. The letter might be one of importance; Mr. Ashley might discharge him for his neglect—and the weekly four shillings had grown into an absolute necessity. William possessed a large share of conscientiousness, and the fault disturbed him much.
When he came down at six, he found his mother up and at work. He gave her the history of what had happened. "What can be done?" he asked.
Nay, William, put that question to yourself. What ought you to do? Reflect a moment.
I suppose I ought to tell Mr. Ashley.
Do not say 'I suppose,' my dear. You must tell him.
Yes, I know I must, he acknowledged. "I have been thinking about it all night. But I don't like to."
Ah, child! we have many things to do that we 'don't like.' But the first trouble is always the worst. Look it fully in the face, and it will melt away. There is no help for it in this matter, William; your duty is plain. There's Mr. Lynn looking out for you.
William went out, heavy with the thought of the task he should have to accomplish after breakfast. He knew that he must do it. It was a duty, as his mother had said; and she had fully impressed upon them all, from their infancy, the necessity of looking out for their duty and doing it, whether in great things or in small.
Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory that morning at his usual hour, half-past nine. He opened and read his letters, and then was engaged for some time with Samuel Lynn. By ten o'clock the counting-house was clear. Mr. Ashley was alone in it, and William knew that his time was come. He went in, and approached Mr. Ashley's desk.
Mr. Ashley, who was writing, looked up. "What is it?"
William's face grew red and white by turns. He was of a remarkably sensitive nature; and these sensitive natures cannot help betraying their inward emotion. Try as he would, he could not get a word out. Mr. Ashley was surprised. "What is the matter?" he wonderingly asked.
If you please, sir—I am very sorry—it is about the letter, he stammered, and was unable to get any further.
The letter! repeated Mr. Ashley. "What letter? Not the letter I gave you to post?"
I forgot it, sir,—and William's own voice sounded to his ear painfully clear.
Forgot to post it! That was unpardonably careless. Where is the letter?
I forgot it, sir, until night, and then I ran to the post-office and put it in. Afterwards I heard the clerk say that the Bristol bags were made up, so of course it would not go. I am very sorry, sir, he repeated, after a pause.
How came you to forget it? You ought to have gone direct from here, and posted it.
So I did go, sir. That is I was going, but——
But what? returned Mr. Ashley, for William had made a dead standstill.
The college boys set on me, sir. They were ill-using my brother, and I interfered; and then they turned upon me. It made me forget the letter.
It was you who got into an affray with the college boys, was it? cried Mr. Ashley. He had heard his son's version of the affair, without suspecting that it related to William.
William waited by the desk. "If you please, sir, was it of great consequence?"
It might have been. Do not be guilty of such carelessness again.
I will try not, sir.
Mr. Ashley looked down at his writing. William waited. He did not suppose it was over, and he wanted to know the worst. "Why do you stay?" asked Mr. Ashley.
I hope you will not turn me away for it, sir, he said, his colour changing again.
Well—not this time, replied Mr. Ashley, smiling to himself. "But I'll tell you what I should have felt inclined to turn you away for," he added—"concealing the fact from me. Whatever fault, omission, or accident you may commit, always acknowledge it at once; it is the best plan, and the easiest. You may go back to your work now."
William left the room with a lighter step. Mr. Ashley looked after him. "That's an honest lad," thought he. "He might just as well have kept it from me; calculating on the chances of its not coming out: many boys would have done so. He has been brought up in a good school."
Before the day was over, William came again into contact with Mr. Ashley. That gentleman sometimes made his appearance in the manufactory in an evening—not always. He did not on this one. When Samuel Lynn and William entered it on their return from tea, a gentleman was waiting in the counting-house on business. Samuel Lynn, who was, on such occasions, Mr. Ashley's alter ego, came out of the counting-house presently, with a note in his hand.
Thee put on thy cap, and take this to the master's house. Ask to see him, and say that I wait for an answer.
William ran off with the note: no fear of his forgetting this time. It was addressed in the plain form used by the Quakers, "Thomas Ashley;" and could William have looked inside, he would have seen, instead of the complimentary "Sir," that the commencement was, "Respected Friend." He observed his mother sitting close at her window, to catch what remained of the declining light, and nodded to her as he passed.
Can I see Mr. Ashley? he inquired, when he reached the house.
The servant replied that he could. He left William in the hall, and opened the door of the dining-room; a handsome room, of lofty proportions. Mr. Ashley was slowly pacing it to and fro, whilst Henry sat at a table, preparing his Latin exercise for his tutor. It was Mr. Ashley's custom to help Henry with his Latin, easing difficulties to him by explanation. Henry was very backward with his classics; he had not yet begun Greek: his own private hope was, that he never should begin it. His sufferings rendered learning always irksome, sometimes unbearable. The same cause frequently made him irritable—an irritation that could not be checked, as it would have been in a more healthy boy. The servant told his master he was wanted, and Mr. Ashley looked into the hall.
Oh, is it you, William? he said. "Come in."
William advanced. "Mr. Lynn said I was to see yourself, sir, and to say that he waited for an answer."
Mr. Ashley opened the note, and read it by the lamp on Henry's table. It was not dark outside, and the chandelier was not lighted, but Henry's lamp was. "Sit down," said Mr. Ashley to William, and left the room, note in hand.
William felt it was something, Mr. Ashley's recognizing a difference between him and those black boys in the manufactory: they would scarcely have been told to sit in the hall. William sat down on the first chair at hand. Henry Ashley looked at him, and he recognized him as the boy who had been maltreated by the college boys on the previous day; but Henry was in no mood to be sociable, or even condescending—he never was, when over his lessons. His hip was giving him pain, and his exercise was making him fractious.
There! it's always the case! Another five minutes, and I should have finished this horrid exercise. Papa is sure to go away, or be called away, when he's helping me! It's a shame.
Mrs. Ashley opened the door at this juncture, and looked into the room. "I thought your papa was here, Henry."
No, he is not here. He has gone to his study, and I am stuck fast. Some blessed note has come, which he has to attend to: and I don't know whether this word should be put in the ablative or the dative! I'll run the pen through it!
Oh, Henry, Henry! Do not be so impatient.
Mrs. Ashley shut the door again; and Henry continued to worry himself, making no progress, except in fretfulness. At length William approached him. "Will you let me help you?"
Surprise brought Henry's grumbling to a standstill. "You!" he exclaimed. "Do you know anything of Latin?"
I am very much farther in it than what you are doing. My brother Gar is as far as that. Shall I help you? You have put that wrong; it ought to be in the accusative.
Well, if you can help me, you may, for I want to get it over, said Henry, with a doubting stress upon the "can." "You can sit down, if you wish to," he patronizingly added.
Thank you, I don't care about sitting down, replied William, beginning at once upon his task.
The two boys were soon deep in the exercise, William not doing it, but rendering it easy to Henry; in the same manner that Mr. Halliburton, when he was at that stage, used to make it clear to him.
I say, cried Henry, "who taught you?"
Papa. He gave a great deal of time to me, and that got me on. I can see a wrong word there, added William, casting his eyes to the top of the page. "It ought to be in the vocative, and you have put it in the dative."
You are mistaken, then. Papa told me that: and he is not likely to be wrong. Papa is one of the best classical scholars of the day—although he is a manufacturer, added Henry, who, through his relatives, the Dares, had been infected with a contempt for business.
It should be in the vocative, repeated William.
I shan't alter it. The idea of your finding fault with Mr. Ashley's Latin! Let us get on. What case is this?
The last word of the exercise was being written, when Mr. Ashley opened the door and called to William. He gave him a note for Mr. Lynn, and William departed. Mr. Ashley returned to complete the interrupted exercise.
I say, papa, that fellow knows Latin, began Henry.
What fellow? returned Mr. Ashley.
Why, that chap of yours who has been here. He has helped me through my exercise. Not doing it for me: you need not be afraid; but explaining to me how to do it. He made it easier to me than you do, papa.
Mr. Ashley took the book in his hand, and saw that it was correct. He knew Henry could not, or would not, have made it so himself. Henry continued:
He said his papa used to explain it to him. Fancy one of your manufactory errand-boys saying 'papa.'
You must not class him with the ordinary errand-boys, Henry. The boy has been as well brought up as you have.
I thought so; for he has impudence about him, was Master Henry's retort.
Was he impudent to you?
To me? Oh no. He is as civil a fellow as ever I spoke to. Indeed, but for remembering who he was, I should call him a gentlemanly fellow. Whilst he was telling me, I forgot who he was, and talked to him as an equal, and he talked to me as one. I call him impudent, because he found fault with your Latin.
Indeed! returned Mr. Ashley, an amused smile parting his lips.
He says this word's wrong. That it ought to be in the vocative case.
So it ought to be, assented Mr. Ashley, casting his eyes on the word to which Henry pointed.
You told me the dative, papa.
That I certainly did not, Henry. The mistake must have been your own.
He persisted that it was wrong, although I told him it was your Latin. Papa, it is the same boy who had the row yesterday with Cyril Dare. What a pity it is, though, that a fellow so well up in his Latin should be shut up in a manufactory!
The only 'pity' is, that he is in it too early, was the response of Mr. Ashley. "His Latin would not be any detriment to his being in a manufactory, or the manufactory to his Latin. I am a manufacturer myself, Henry. You appear to ignore that sometimes."
The Dares go on so. They din it into my ears that a manufacturer cannot be a gentleman.
I shall cause you to drop the acquaintance of the Dares, if you allow yourself to listen to all the false and foolish notions they may give utterance to. Cyril Dare will probably go into a manufactory himself.
Henry looked up curiously. "I don't think so, papa."
I do, returned Mr. Ashley, in a significant tone. Henry was surprised at the news. He knew his father never advanced a decided opinion unless he had good grounds for it. He burst into a laugh. The notion of Cyril Dare's going into a manufactory tickled his fancy amazingly.
One morning, towards the middle of April, Mrs. Halliburton went up to Mr. Ashley's. She had brought him the quarter's rent.
Will you allow me to pay it to yourself, sir—now, and in future? she asked. "I feel an unconquerable aversion to having further dealings with Mr. Dare."
I can understand that you should have, said Mr. Ashley. "Yes, you can pay it to me, Mrs. Halliburton. Always remembering you know, that I am in no hurry for it," he added with a smile.
Thank you. You are very kind. But I must pay as I go on.
He wrote the receipt, and handed it to her. "I hope you are satisfied with William?" she said, as she folded it up.
Quite so. I believe he gives satisfaction to Mr. Lynn. I have little to do with him myself. Mr. Lynn tells me that he finds him a remarkably truthful, open-natured boy.
You will always find him that, said Jane. "He is getting more reconciled to the manufactory than he was at first."
Did he not like it at first?
No, he did not. He was disappointed altogether. He had hoped to find some employment more suited to the way in which he had been brought up. He cannot divest himself of the idea that he is looked upon as on a level with the poor errand-boys of your establishment, and therefore has lost caste. He had wished also to be in some office—a lawyer's, for instance—where the hours for leaving are early, so that he might have had the evening for his studies. But he is growing more reconciled to the inevitable.
I suppose he wished to continue his studies?
He did so naturally. The foundation of an advanced education has been laid, and he expected it was to go on to completion. His brothers are now in the college school, occupied all day long with their studies, and of course William feels the difference. He gets to his books for an hour when he returns home in an evening; but he is weary, and does not do much good.
He appears to be a more persevering, thoughtful boy than are some, remarked Mr. Ashley.
Very thoughtful—very persevering. It has been the labour of my life, Mr. Ashley, to foster good seed in my children; to reason with them, to make them my companions. They have been endowed, I am thankful to say, with admirable qualities of head and heart, and I have striven unweariedly to nourish the good in them. It is not often that boys are brought into contact with sorrow so early as they. Their father's death and my adverse circumstances have been real trials.
They must have been, rejoined Mr. Ashley.
While others of their age think only of play, she continued, "my boys have been obliged to learn the sad experiences of life; and it has given them a thought, a care, beyond their years. There is no necessity to make Frank and Edgar apply to their lessons unremittingly; they do it of their own accord, with their whole abilities, knowing that education is the only advantage they can possess—the one chance of their getting on in the world. Had William been a boy of a different disposition, less tractable, less reflective, less conscientious, I might have found some difficulty in inducing him to work as he is doing."
Does he complain? inquired Mr. Ashley.
Oh no, sir! He feels that it is his duty to work, to assist as far as he can, and he does it without complaining. I see that he cannot help feeling it. He would like to be in the college with his brothers; but I cheer him up, and tell him it may all turn out for the best. Perhaps it will.
She rose as she spoke. Mr. Ashley shook hands with her, and attended her through the hall. "Your sons deserve to get on, Mrs. Halliburton, and I hope they will do so. It is an admirable promise for the future man when a boy displays thought and self-reliance."
Mamma! suddenly exclaimed Janey, as they sat at breakfast the morning after this, "do you remember what to-day is? It is my birthday."
Jane had remembered it. She had been almost in hopes that the child would not remember it. One year ago that day the first glimpse of the shadow so soon to fall upon them had shown itself. What a change! The contrast between last year and this was almost incredible. Then they had been in possession of a good home, were living in prosperity, in apparent security. Now—Jane's heart turned sick at the thought. Only one short year!
Yes, Janey dear, she replied in sadly subdued tones. "I did not forget it. I——"
A double knock at the door interrupted what she would have further said. They heard Dobbs answer it: visitors were chiefly for Mrs. Reece.
Who should be standing there but Samuel Lynn! He did not choose the familiar back way, as Patience did, had he occasion to call, but knocked at the front.
Is Jane Halliburton within?
You can go and see, said crusty, disappointed Dobbs, flourishing her hand towards the study door. "It's not often that she's out."
Jane rose at his entrance; but he declined to sit, standing while he delivered the message with which he had been charged.
Friend, thee need not send thy son to the manufactory again in an evening, except on Saturdays. On the other evenings he may remain at home from tea-time and pursue his studies. His wages will not be lessened.
And Jane knew that the considerate kindness emanated from Thomas Ashley.
She managed better with her work as the months went on. By summer she could do it quickly; the days were long then, and, by dint of sitting closely to it, she could earn twelve shillings a week. With William's earnings, and the six shillings taken from Mrs. Reece's payments, that made twenty-two. It was quite a fortune compared with what had been. But like most good fortunes it had its drawbacks. In the first place, she could not always earn it; she was compelled to steal unwilling time to mend her own and the children's clothes. In the second place, a large portion of it had to be devoted to buying their clothes, besides other incidental expenses; so that in the matter of housekeeping they were not much better off than before. Still, Jane did begin to think that she should see her way clearer. But there was sorrow of a different nature looming in the distance.
One afternoon, which Jane was obliged to devote to plain sewing, she was sitting alone in the study when there came a hard short thump at it, which was Dobbs's way of making known her presence there.
Come in!
Dobbs came in and sat herself down opposite Jane. It was summer weather, and the August dust blew in at the open window. "I want to know what's the matter with Janey," began she, without circumlocution.
With Janey? repeated Mrs. Halliburton. "What should be the matter with her? I know of nothing."
Of course not, sarcastically answered Dobbs. "Eyes appear to be given to some folks only to blind 'em—more's the pity! You can't see it; my missis can't see it; but I say that the child is ill."
Oh, Dobbs! I think you must be mistaken.
Now I'd thank you to be civil, if you please, Mrs. Halliburton, retorted Dobbs. "You don't take me for a common servant, I hope. Who's 'Dobbs'?"
I had no wish to be uncivil, said Jane. "I am so accustomed to hearing Mrs. Reece call you Dobbs, that——"
My missis is one case, and other folks is another, burst forth Dobbs, by way of interruption. "I have a handle to my name, I hope, which is Mrs. Dobbs, and I'd be obleeged to you not to forget it again. What's the reason that Janey's always tired now, I ask—don't want to stir—gets a bright pink in the cheeks and inside the hands?"
It is only the effect of the hot weather.
The opinion did not please Dobbs. "There's not a earthly thing happens but it's laid to the weather," she angrily cried. "The weather, indeed! If Janey is not going off after her pa, it's an odd thing to me."
Jane's heart-pulse stood still.
Does she have night-perspirations, or does she not? demanded Dobbs. "She tells me she's hot and damp; so I conclude it is so."
Only from the heat—only from the heat, panted Jane eagerly. She dared not admit the fear.
Well, the first time I go down to the town, I shall take her to Parry. It won't be at your cost, she hastened to add in ungracious tones, for Jane was about to interrupt. "If she wants to know what she is took to the doctor for, I shall tell her it is to have her teeth looked at. She has a nasty cough upon her: perhaps you haven't noticed that! Some can't see a child decaying under their very nose, while strangers can see it palpable."
She has coughed since last week, the day of the rain, when she went with Anna Lynn into the field at the back, and they got their feet wet. Oh, I am sure there is nothing seriously the matter with her, added Jane, resolutely endeavouring to put the suggested fear from her. "I want her in: she must help me with my sewing."
Then she's not a-going to help, resolutely returned Dobbs. "She has had a good dinner of roast lamb, sparrow-grass and kidney potatoes, and she's sitting back in my easy chair, opposite to my missis in hers. Her wanting always to rest might have told some folks that she was ailing. When children are in health, their legs and wings and tongue are on the go from morning till night. You never need pervide 'em with a seat but for their meals; and, give 'em their way, they'd eat them standing. Jane's always wanting to rest now, and she shall rest."
But, indeed she must help me to-day, urged Jane. "She can sew straight seams, and hem. Look at this heap of mending! and it must be finished to-night. I cannot afford to be about it to-morrow."
What sewing is it you want done? questioned Dobbs, lifting up the work with a jerk. "I'll do it myself sooner than the child shall be bothered."
Oh no, thank you. I should not like to trouble you with it.
Now, I make the offer to do the work, crossly responded Dobbs; "and if I didn't mean to do it, I shouldn't make it. You'd do well to give it me, if you want it done. Janey shan't work this afternoon."
Taking her at her word, and indeed glad to do so, Jane showed Dobbs a task, and Dobbs swung off with it. Jane called after her that she had not taken a needle and cotton. Dobbs retorted that she had needles and cotton of her own, she hoped, and needn't be beholden to anybody else for 'em.
Jane sat on, anxious, all the afternoon. Janey remained in Mrs. Reece's parlour, and revelled in an early tea and pikelets. Jane was disturbed from her thoughts by the boisterous entrance of Frank and Gar; more boisterous than usual. Frank was a most excitable boy, and had been told that evening by the head master of the college school, the Reverend Mr. Keating, that he might be one of the candidates for the vacant place in the choir. This was enough to set Frank off for a week. "You know what a nice voice you say I have, mamma; what a good ear for music!" he reiterated. "As good, you tell us, as Aunt Margaret's used to be. I shall be sure to gain the post if you will let me try. We have to be at college for an hour morning and afternoon daily, but we can easily get that up if we are industrious. Some of the best Helstonleigh scholars who have shone at Oxford and Cambridge were choristers. And I should have about ten pounds a-year paid to me."
Ten pounds a-year! Jane listened with a beating heart. It would more than keep him in clothes. She inquired more fully into particulars.
The result was that Frank had permission to try for the vacant choristership, and gained it. His voice was the best of those tried. He went home in a glow. "Now, mamma, the sooner you set about a new surplice for me the better."
A new surplice, Frank! Ah, it was not all profit.
A chorister must have two surplices, mamma. King's scholars can do with one, having them washed between the Sundays: choristers can't. We must have them always in wear, you know, except in Lent, and on the day of King Charles the Martyr.
Jane smiled; he talked so fast. "What is that you are running on about?"
Goodness, mamma, don't you understand? All the six weeks of Lent, and on the 30th of January, the cathedral is hung with black, and the choristers have to wear black cloth surplices. They don't find the black ones: the college does that.
Frank's success in gaining the place did not give universal pleasure to the college school. Since the day of the disturbance in the spring, in which William was mixed up, the two young Halliburtons had been at a discount with the desk at which Cyril Dare sat; and this desk pretty well ruled the school.
It's coming to a fine pass! exclaimed Cyril Dare, when the result of the trial was carried into the school. "Here's the town clerk's own son passed over as nobody, and that snob of a Halliburton put in! Somebody ought to have told the dean what snobs they are."
What would the dean have cared? grumbled another, whose young brother had been amongst the rejected ones. "To get good voices in the choir is all he cares for in the matter."
I say, where do they live—that set?
In a house of Ashley's, in the London Road, answered Cyril Dare. "They couldn't pay the rent, and my father put a bum in."
Bosh, Dare!
It's true, said Cyril Dare. "My father manages Ashley's rents, you know. They'd have had every stick and stone sold, only Ashley—he is a regular soft over some things—took and gave them time. Oh, they are a horrid lot! They don't keep a servant!"
The blank astonishment this last item of intelligence caused at the desk, can't be described. Again Cyril's word was disputed.
They don't, I tell you, he repeated. "I taxed Halliburton senior with it one day, and he told me to my face they could not afford one. He possesses brass enough to set up a foundry, does that fellow. The eldest one is at Ashley's manufactory, errand-boy. Errand-boy! And here's this one promoted to the choir, over gentlemen's heads! He ought to be pitched into, ought Halliburton senior."
In the school, Frank was Halliburton senior; Gar, Halliburton junior. "How is it that he says he was at King's College before he came here? I heard him tell Keating so," asked a boy.
At this moment Mr. Keating's voice was heard. "Silence!" Cyril Dare let a minute elapse, and then began again.
Such a low thing, you know, not to keep servants! We couldn't do at all without five or six. I'll tell you what: the school may do as it likes, but our desk shall cut the two fellows here.
And the desk did so; and Frank and Gar had to put up with many mortifications. There was no help for it. Frank was brave as a young lion; but against some sorts of oppression there is no standing up. More than once was the boy in tears, telling his griefs to his mother. It fell more on Frank than it did on Gar.
Jane could only strive to console him, as she did William. "Patience and forbearance, my darling Frank! You will outlive it in time."
August was hot in Honey Fair. The women sat at their open doors, or even outside them; the children tumbled in the gutters; the refuse in the road was none the better for the month's heat.
Charlotte East sat in her kitchen one Tuesday afternoon, busy as usual. Her door was shut, but her window was open. Suddenly the latch was lifted and Mrs. Cross came in: not with the bold, boisterous movements that were common to Honey Fair, but with creeping steps that seemed afraid of their own echoes, and a scared face.
Mrs. Cross was in trouble. Her two daughters, Amelia and Mary Ann, to whom you have had the honour of an introduction, had purchased those lovely cross-barred sarcenets, green, pink, and lilac, and worn them at the party at the Alhambra: which party went off satisfactorily, leaving nothing behind it but some headaches for the next day, and a trifle of pecuniary embarrassment to Honey Fair in general. What with the finery for the party, and other finery, and what with articles really useful, but which perhaps might have been done without, Honey Fair was pretty deeply in with the Messrs. Bankes. In Mrs. Cross's family alone, herself and her daughters owed, conjointly, so much to these accommodating tradesmen that it took eight shillings a week to keep them quiet. You can readily understand how this impoverished the weekly housekeeping; and the falsehoods that had to be concocted, by way of keeping the husband, Jacob Cross, in the dark, were something alarming. This was the state of things in many of the homes of Honey Fair.
Mrs. Cross came in with timid steps and a scared face. "Charlotte, lend me five shillings for the love of goodness!" cried she, speaking as if afraid of the sound of her own voice. "I don't know another soul to ask but you. There ain't another that would have it to lend, barring Dame Buffle, and she never lends."
You owe me twelve shillings already, answered Charlotte, pausing for a moment in her sewing.
I know that. I'll pay you off by degrees, if it's only a shilling a week. I am a'most drove mad. Bankes's folks was here yesterday, and me and the girls had only four shillings to give 'em. I'm getting in arrears frightful, and Bankes's is as cranky over it as can be. It's all smooth and fair so long as you're buying of Bankes's and paying 'em; but just get behind, and see what short answers and sour looks you'll have!
But Amelia and Mary Ann took in their work on Saturday and had their money?
My patience! I don't know what us should do if they hadn't! We have to pay up everywhere. We're in debt at Buffle's, in debt to the baker, in debt for shoes; we're in debt on all sides. And there's Cross spending three shilling good of his wages at the public-house! It takes what me and the girls earn to pay a bit up here and there, and stop things from coming to Cross's ears. Half the house is in the pawn-shop, and what'll become of us I don't know. I can't sleep o' nights, hardly, for thinking on't.
Charlotte felt sure that, were it her case, she should not sleep at all.
The worst is, I have to keep the little 'uns away from school. Pay for 'em I can't. And a fine muck they get into, playing in the road all day. 'What does these children do to theirselves at school, to get into this dirty mess?' asks Cross, when he comes in. 'Oh, they plays a bit in the gutter coming home,' says I. 'We plays a bit, father,' cries they, when they hears me, a-winking at each other to think how we does their father.
Charlotte shook her head. "I should end it all."
End it! I wish we could end it! The girls is going to slave theirselves night and day this week and next. But it's not for my good: it's for their'n. They want to get their grand silks out o' pawn! Nothing but outside finery goes down with them, though they've not an inside rag to their backs. They leave care to me. Fools to be sure, they was, to buy them silks! They have been in the pawn-shop ever since, and Bankes's a-tearing 'em to pieces for the money!
I should end it by confessing to Jacob, said Charlotte, when she could get in a word. "He is not a bad husband——"
And look at his passionate temper! broke in Mrs. Cross. "Let it get to his ears that we have gone on tick to Bankes's and elsewhere, and he'd rave the house out of winders."
He would be angry at first, no doubt; but when he cooled down he would see the necessity of something being done, and help in it. If you all set on and put your shoulders to the wheel you might soon get clear. Live upon the very least that will satisfy hunger—the plainest food—dry bread and potatoes. No beer, no meat, no finery, no luxuries; and with the rest of the week's money begin to pay up. You'd be clear in no time.
Mrs. Cross stared in consternation. "You be a Job's comforter, Charlotte! Dry bread and taters! who could put up with that?"
When poor people like us fall into trouble, it is the only way that I know of to get out of it. I'd rather mortify my appetite for a year than have my rest broken by care.
Your advice is good enough for talking, Charlotte, but it don't answer for acting. Cross must have his bit o' meat and his beer, his butter and his cheese, his tea and his sugar—and so must the rest on us. But about this five shillings?—do lend it me, Charlotte! It is for the landlord: we're almost in a fix with him.
For the landlord! repeated Charlotte involuntarily. "You must keep him paid, or it would be the worst of all."
I know we must. He was took bad yesterday—more's the blessing!—and couldn't get round; but he's here to-day as burly as beef. We haven't paid him for this three weeks, she added, dropping her voice to an ominous whisper; "and I declare to you, Charlotte East, that the sight of him at our door is as good to me as a dose of physic. Just now, round he comes, a-lifting the latch, and me turning sick the minute I sees him. 'Ready, Mrs. Cross?' asks he, in his short, surly way, putting his brown wig up. 'I'm sorry I ain't, Mr. Abbott, sir,' says I; 'but I'll have some next week for certain.' 'That won't do for me,' says he: 'I must have it this. If you can't give me some money, I shall apply to your husband.' The fright this put me into I've not got over yet, Charlotte; for Cross don't know but what the rent's paid up regular. 'I know what's going on,' old Abbott begins again, 'and I have knowed it for some time. You women in this Honey Fair, you pay your money to them Bankeses, which is the blight o' the place, and then you can't pay me.' Only fancy his calling Bankeses a blight!"
That's just what they are, remarked Charlotte.
For shame, Charlotte East! When one's way is a bit eased by being able to get a few things on trust, you must put in your word again it! Some of us would never get a new gown to our backs if it wasn't for Bankeses. Abbott's gone off to other houses, collecting; warning me as he'd call again in half an hour, and if some money wasn't ready for him then he'd go straight off to Jacob, to his shop o' work. If you can let me have one week for him, Charlotte—five shillings—I'll be ever grateful.
Charlotte rose, unlocked a drawer, and gave five shillings to Mrs. Cross, thinking in her own mind that the kindest course would be for the landlord to go to Cross, as he had threatened.
Mrs. Cross took the money. Her mind so far relieved, she could indulge in a little gossip; for Mr. Abbott's half-hour had not yet expired.
I say, Charlotte, what d'ye think? I'm afraid Ben Tyrrett and our Mary Ann is a-going to take up together.
Indeed! exclaimed Charlotte. "That's new."
Not over-new. They have been talking together on and off, but I never thought it was serious till last Sunday. I have set my face dead against it. He has a nasty temper of his own; and he's nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a week, and his profits of the egg-whites. Our Mary Ann might do better than that.
I think she might, assented Charlotte. "And she is over-young to think of marrying."
Young! wrathfully repeated Mrs. Cross. "I should think she is young! Girls are as soft as apes. The minute a chap says a word to 'em about marrying, they're all agog to do it, whether it's fit, or whether it's unfit. Our Mary Ann might look inches over Ben Tyrrett's head, if she had any sense in her. Hark ye, Charlotte! When you see her, just put in a word against it; maybe it'll turn her. Tell her you'd not have Tyrrett at a gift."
And that's true, replied Charlotte, with a laugh, as her guest departed.
A few minutes, and Charlotte received another visitor. This was the wife of Mark Mason—a tall, bony woman, with rough black hair and a loud voice. That voice and Mark did not get on very well together. She put her hands back upon her hips, and used it now, standing before Charlotte in a threatening attitude.
What do you do, keeping our Carry out at night?
Charlotte looked up in surprise. She was thinking of something else, or her answer might have been more cautious, for she was one of those who never willingly make mischief.
I do not keep Caroline out. She is here of an evening now and then—not often.
Mrs. Mason laughed—a low derisive laugh of mockery. "I knew it was a falsehood when she told it me! There she goes out, night after night, night after night; so I set Mark on to her, for I couldn't keep her in, neither find out where she went to. Mark was in a passion—something had put him out, and Carry was frightened, for he had hold of her arm savage-like. 'I am at Charlotte East's of a night, Mark,' she said. 'I shall take no harm there.'"
Charlotte did not lift her eyes from her work. Mrs. Mason stood defiantly.
Now, then! Where is it she gets to?
Why do you apply to me? returned Charlotte. "I am not Caroline Mason's keeper."
If you bain't her keeper, you be her adviser, retorted Mrs. Mason. "And that's worse."
When I advise Caroline at all, I advise her for her good.
My eyes are opened now, if they was blind before, continued Mrs. Mason, apostrophizing in no gentle terms the offending Caroline. "Who gave Carry that there shawl?—who gave, her that there fine gown?—who gave her that gold brooch, with a stone in it 'twixt red and yaller, and a naked Cupid in white aflying on it? 'A nice brooch you've got there, miss,' says I to her. 'Yes,' says she, 'they call 'em cameons.' 'And where did you get it, pray?' says I. 'And that's my business,' answers she. Next there was a neck-scarf, green and lavender, with yaller fringe at its ends, as deep as my forefinger. 'You're running up a tidy score at Bankes's, my lady,' says I. 'I shan't come to you to pay for it,' says she. 'No,' thinks I to myself, 'but you be living in our house, and you may bring Mark into trouble over it,' for he's a soft-hearted gander at times. So down I goes to Bankes's place last night. 'Just turn to the debt-book, young man,' says I to the gentleman behind the counter—it were the one with the dark hair—'and tell me how much is owed by Caroline Mason.' 'Come to settle it?' asks he. 'Maybe, and maybe not,' says I. 'I wants my question answered, whether or no.' Are you listening, Charlotte East?"
Charlotte lifted her eyes from her work. "Yes."
He lays hold of a big book, continues Mrs. Mason, who was talking her face crimson, "and draws his finger down its pages. 'Caroline Mason—Caroline Mason,' says he. 'I don't think we have anything against her. No: it's crossed off. There was a trifle against her, but she paid it last week.' Well, I stood staring at the man, thinking he was deceiving me, saying she had paid. 'When did she pay for that shawl she had in the winter, and how much did it cost?' asks I. 'Shawl?' says he. 'Caroline Mason hasn't had no shawl of us.' 'Nor a gown at Easter—a fancy sort of thing, with stripes?' I goes on: 'nor a cameon brooch last week? nor a scarf with yaller fringe?' 'Nothing o' the sort,' says he, decisive. 'Caroline Mason hasn't bought any of those things from us. She had some bonnet ribbon, and that she paid for.' Now, what was I to think?" concluded Mrs. Mason.
Charlotte did not know.
I comes home a-pondering, and at the corner of the lane I catches sight of a certain gentleman loitering about in the shade. The truth flashed into my mind. 'He's after our Caroline,' says I to myself; 'and it's him that has given her the things, and we shall just have her a world's spectacle!' I accused Eliza Tyrrett of being the confidant. 'It isn't me,' says she; 'it's Charlotte East.' So I bottled up my temper till now, and now I've come to learn the rights on't.
I cannot tell you the rights, replied Charlotte. "I do not know them. I have striven to give Caroline some good advice lately, and that is all I have had to do with it. Mrs. Mason, you know that I should never advise Caroline, or any one else, but for her good."
Mrs. Mason would have acknowledged this in a cooler moment. "Why did that Tyrrett girl laugh at me, then? And why did Carry say she spent her evenings here?" cried she. "The gentleman I see was young Anthony Dare: and Carry had better bury herself alive than be drawn aside by his nonsense."
Much better, acquiesced Charlotte. "Where is Caroline?"
Under lock and key, said Mrs. Mason.
Under lock and key! echoed Charlotte.
Yes; under lock and key; and there she shall stop. She was out all this blessed morning with Eliza Tyrrett, and never walked herself in till after Mark had had his dinner and was gone. So then I began upon her. My temper was up, and I didn't spare her. I vowed I'd tell Mark what I had seen and heard, and what sort of a wolf she allowed to make her presents of fine clothes. With that she turned wild and flung up to her room in the cock-loft, and I followed and locked her in.
You have done very wrong, said Charlotte. "It is not by harshness that any good will be done with Caroline. You know her disposition: a child might lead her by kindness, but she rises up against harshness. My opinion is that she never would have given the least trouble at all had you made her a better home."
This bold avowal took away Mrs. Mason's breath. "A better home!" cried she, when she could speak. "A better home! Fed upon French rolls and lobster salad and apricot tarts, and give her a lady's maid to hook-and-eye her gown for her! My heart! that beats all."
I don't speak of food, and that sort of thing, rejoined Charlotte. "If you had treated her with kind words instead of cross ones she would have been as good a girl as ever lived. Instead of that you have made your home unbearable; and so driven her out, with her dangerous good looks, to be told of them by the first idler who came across her: and that seems to have been Anthony Dare. Go home and let her out of where you have locked her in; do, Hetty Mason! Let her out, and speak kindly to her, and treat her as a sister; and you'll undo all the bad yet."
I shan't then! was the passionate reply. "I'll see you and her hung first, before I speak kind to her to encourage her in her loose ways!"
Mrs. Mason flung out of the house as she concluded, giving the door a bang which only had the effect of sending it open again. Charlotte sighed as she rose to close it: not only for any peril that Caroline Mason might be in, but for the general blindness, the distorted views of right and wrong, which seemed to obtain amidst the women of Honey Fair.
A profusion of glass and plate glittered on the dining-table of Mr. Dare. It was six o'clock, and they had just sat down. Mrs. Dare, in a light gauze dress and blonde head-dress, sat at the head of the table. There was a large family of them; four sons and four daughters; and all were present; also Miss Benyon, the governess. Anthony and Herbert sat on either side Mrs. Dare; Adelaide and Julia, the eldest daughters, near their father; the four other children, Cyril and George, Rosa and Minny, were between them.
Mr. Dare was helping the salmon. In due course, a plate, followed by the sauce, was carried to Anthony.
What's this! Melted butter! Where's the lobster sauce?
There is no lobster sauce to-day, said Mrs. Dare. "We sent late, and the lobsters were all gone. There was a small supply. Joseph, take the anchovy to Mr. Anthony."
Mr. Anthony jerked the anchovy sauce off the salver, dashed some on to his plate, and jerked the bottle back again. Not with a very good grace: his palate was a dainty one. Indeed, it was a family complaint.
I wouldn't give a fig for salmon without lobster sauce, he cried. "I hope you won't send late again."
It was the cook's fault, said Mrs. Dare. "She did not fully understand my orders."
Deaf old creature! exclaimed Anthony.
Anthony, there's cucumber, said Julia, looking down the table at her brother. "Ann, take the cucumber to Mr. Anthony."
You know I never eat cucumber with salmon, grumbled Anthony, in reply. And it was not graciously spoken, for the offer had been dictated by good-nature.
A pause ensued. It was at length broken by Mrs. Dare.
Herbert, are you growing more reconciled to office-work?
No; and never shall, returned Herbert. "From ten till five is an awful clog upon one's time; it's as bad as school."
Mr. Dare looked up from his plate. "You might have been put to a profession that would occupy a great deal more time than that, Herbert. What calls have you upon your time, pray, that it is so valuable? Will you take some more fish?"
Well, I don't know. I think I will. It is good to-day; very good with the cucumber, that Anthony despises.
Ann took his plate up to Mr. Dare.
Anthony, said that gentleman, as he helped the salmon, "where were you this afternoon? You were away from the office altogether, after two o'clock."
Out with Hawkesley, shortly replied Anthony.
Yes; it is all very well to say, 'Out with Hawkesley,' but the office suffers. I wish you young men were not quite so fond of taking your pleasure.
A little more fish, sir? asked Joseph of Anthony.
Not if I know it.
The second course came in. A quarter of lamb, asparagus and other vegetables. Herbert looked cross. He had recently taken a dislike to lamb, or fancied he had done so.
Of course there's something coming for me! he said.
Oh, of course, said Mrs. Dare. "Cook knows you don't like lamb."
Nothing, however, came in. Ann was sent to inquire the reason of the neglect. The cook had been unable to procure veal cutlet, and Master Herbert had said if she ever sent him up a mutton-chop again he should throw it at her head. Such was the message brought back.
What an old story-teller she must be to say she could not get veal cutlet! exclaimed Herbert. "I hate mutton and lamb, and I am not going to eat either one or the other."
I heard the butcher say this morning that he had no veal, Master Herbert, interposed Ann. "This hot weather they don't kill much meat."
Why have you taken this dislike to lamb, Herbert? asked Mr. Dare. "You have eaten it all the season."
That's just it, answered Herbert. "I have eaten so much of it that I am sick of it."
Never mind, Herbert, said his mother. "There's a cherry tart coming and a delicious lemon pudding. I don't think you can be so very hungry; you went twice to salmon."
Herbert was not in a good humour. All the Dares had been culpably pampered, and of course it bore its fruits. He sat drumming with his silver fork upon the table, condescending to try a little asparagus, and a great deal of both pie and pudding. Cheese, salad, and dessert followed, of which Herbert partook plentifully. Still he thought he was terribly used in not having had different meat specially provided for him; and he could not recover his good humour. I tell you the Dares had been most culpably indulged. The house was one of luxury and profusion, and every little whim and fancy had been studied. It is one of the worst schools a child can be reared in.
The three younger daughters and the governess withdrew, after taking each a glass of wine. Cyril and George went off likewise, to their lessons or to play. It was their own affair, and Mr. Dare made it no concern of his. Presently Mrs. Dare and Adelaide rose.
Hawkesley's coming in this evening, called out Anthony, as they were going through the door.
Adelaide turned. "What did you say, Anthony?"
Lord Hawkesley's coming. At least he said he would look in for an hour. But there's no dependence to be placed on him.
We must be in the large drawing-room, mamma, this evening, said Adelaide, as they crossed the hall. "Miss Benyon and the children can take tea in the school-room."
Yes, assented Mrs. Dare. "It is bad form to have one's drawing-room cucumbered with children, and Lord Hawkesley understands all that. Let them be in the school-room."
Julia also?
Mrs. Dare shrugged her shoulders. "If you can persuade her into it. I don't think Julia will consent to take tea in the school-room. Why should she?"
Adelaide vouchsafed no reply. Dutiful children they were not—affectionate children they were not—they had not been brought up to be so. Mrs. Dare was of the world, worldly: very much so: and that leaves very little time upon the hands for earnest duties. She had taken no pains to train her children: she had given them very little love. This conversation had taken place in the hall. Mrs. Dare went upstairs to the large drawing-room, a really handsome room. She rang the bell and gave sundry orders, the moving motive for all being the doubtful visit of Viscount Hawkesley—ices from the pastrycook's, a tray of refreshments, the best china, the best silver. Then Mrs. Dare reclined in her chair for her after-dinner nap—an indulgence she much favoured.
Adelaide Dare entered the smaller drawing-room, an apartment more commonly used, and opening from the hall. Julia was reading a book just brought in from the library. Miss Benyon was softly playing, and the two little ones were quarrelling. Miss Benyon turned round from the piano when Adelaide entered.
You must make tea in the school-room this evening, Miss Benyon, for the children. Julia, you are to take yours there.
Julia looked up from her book. "Who says so?"
Mamma. Lord Hawkesley's coming, and we cannot have the drawing-room crowded.
I am not going to keep out of the drawing-room for Lord Hawkesley, returned Julia, a quiet girl in appearance and manner. "Who is Lord Hawkesley, that he should disarrange the economy of the house? There's so much ceremony and parade observed when he comes that it upsets all comfort. Your lordship this, and your lordship that; and papa my-lording him to the skies. I don't like it. He looks down upon us—I know he does—although he condescends to make a sort of friend of Anthony."
Adelaide Dare's dark eyes flashed and her face crimsoned. She was a handsome girl. "Julia! I do think you are an idiot!"
Perhaps I am, composedly returned Julia, who was of a careless, easy temper; "but I am not going to be kept out of the drawing-room for my Lord Hawkesley. Let me go on with my book in peace, Adelaide: it is a charming one."
Meanwhile Herbert Dare, seeing no prospect of more wine in store—for Mr. Dare, with wonderful prudence, told Herbert that two glasses of port were sufficient for him—left his seat, and bolted out at the dining-room window, which opened on to the ground. He ran into the hall for his hat, and then, speeding across the lawn, passed into the high-road. Anthony remained alone with his father; and Anthony was plucking up courage to speak upon a subject that was causing him some perplexity. He plunged into it at once.
Father, I am in a mess. I have managed to outrun the constable.
Mr. Dare was at that moment holding his glass of wine between his eye and the light. The words quite scared him. He set his glass down and looked at Anthony.
How's that? How have you managed that?
I don't know how it has come about, was Anthony's answer. "It is so, sir; and you must be so good as to help me out of it."
Your allowance is sufficient—amply so. Do you forget that I set you clear of debt at the beginning of the year? What money do you want?
Anthony Dare began pulling the fringe out of the dessert napkin, to the great detriment of the damask. "Two hundred pounds, sir."
Two hundred pounds! echoed Mr. Dare, a dark expression clouding his handsome face. "Do you want to ruin me, Anthony? Look at my expenses! Look at the claims upon me! I say that your allowance is a liberal one, and you ought to keep within it."
Anthony sat biting his lip. "I would not have applied to you, sir, if I could have helped it; but I am driven into a corner and must find money. I and Hawkesley drew some bills together. He has taken up two, and I——"
Then you and Hawkesley were a couple of fools for your pains, intemperately interrupted Mr. Dare. "There's no game so dangerous, so delusive, as that of drawing bills. Have I not told you so, over and over again? Simple debt may be put off from month to month, and from year to year; but bills are nasty things. When I was a young man I lived for years upon promises to pay, but I took care not to put my name to a bill."
Hawkesley——
Hawkesley may do what you must not, interrupted Mr. Dare, drowning his son's voice. "He has his father's long rent-roll to turn to. Recollect, Anthony, this must not occur again. It is impossible that I can be called upon periodically for these sums. Herbert is almost a man, and Cyril and George are growing up. A pretty thing, if you were all to come upon me in this manner. I have to exert my wits as it is, I can tell you. I'll give you a cheque to-morrow; and I should serve you right if I were to put you upon half allowance until I am repaid."
Mr. Dare finished his wine, rang for the table to be cleared, and left the room. Anthony remained standing against the side of the window, half in, half out, buried in a brown study, when Herbert came up, leaping over the grass. Herbert was nearly as tall as Anthony. He had been for some time articled to his father, but had only joined the office the previous Midsummer. He looked into the room and saw it was empty.
Where's the governor?
Gone somewhere. Into the drawing-room, perhaps, replied Anthony.
What a nuisance! ejaculated Herbert. "One can't talk to him before the girls. I want twenty-five shillings from him. Markham has the primest fishing-rod to sell, and I must have it."
Twenty-five shillings for a fishing-rod! cried Anthony.
And cheap at the price, answered Herbert. "You don't often see so complete a thing as this. Markham would not part with it—it's a relic of his better days, he says—only his old mother wants some comfort or other which he can't otherwise afford. The case——"
You have half-a-dozen fishing-rods already.
Half a dozen rubbish! That's what they are, compared with this one. It's no business of yours, Anthony.
Not at all. But you'll oblige me, Herbert, by not bothering the governor for money to-night. I have been asking him for some, and it has put him out.
Did you get it?
Anthony nodded.
Then you'll let me have the one-pound-five, Anthony?
I can't, returned Anthony. "I shall have a cheque to-morrow, and I must pay it away whole. That won't clear me. But I didn't dare to tell of more."
If I don't get that fishing-rod to-night, Markham may sell it to some one else, grumbled Herbert.
Go and get it, replied Anthony. "Promise him the money for to-morrow. You are not obliged to give it, you know. The governor has just said that he lived for years upon promises to pay."
Markham wants the money down.
He'll think that as good as down if you tell him he shall have it to-morrow. Bring the fishing-rod away; possession's nine points of the law, you know.
He'll make such an awful row afterwards, if he finds he does not get the money.
Let him. You can row again. It's the easiest thing on earth to fence off little paltry debts like that. People get tired of asking for them.
Away vaulted Herbert for the fishing-rod. Anthony yawned, stretched himself, and walked out just as twilight was fading. He was going out to keep an appointment.
Herbert Dare went back to Markham's. The man—though, indeed, so far as birth went he might be called a gentleman—lived a little way beyond Mr. Dare's. The cottage was situated in the midst of a large garden, in which Markham worked late and early. He had a very, very small patrimony upon which he lived and kept his mother. He was bending over one of the beds when Herbert returned. "He would take the fishing-rod then, and bring the money over at nine in the morning, before going to the office. Mr. Dare was gone out, or he would have brought it at once," was the substance of the words in which Herbert concluded the negotiation.
Could they have looked behind the hedge at that moment, Herbert Dare and Markham, they would have seen two young gentlemen suddenly duck down under its shelter, creep silently along, heedless of the ditch, which, however, was tolerably dry at that season, make a sudden bolt across the road, when they got opposite Mr. Dare's entrance, and whisk within its gates. They were Cyril and George. That they had been at some mischief and were trying to escape detection, was unmistakable. Under cover of the garden-wall, as they had previously done under cover of the hedge, crept they; sprang into the house by the dining-room window, tore up the stairs, and took refuge in the drawing-room, startlingly arousing Mrs. Dare from her after-dinner slumbers.
In point of fact, they had reckoned upon finding the room unoccupied.