This chapter may be said to commence the second part of this history, for some years have elapsed since the events last recorded.
Do you doubt that the self-denying patience displayed by Jane Halliburton, her persevering struggles, her never-fainting industry, joined to her all-perfect trust in the goodness and guidance of the Most High God, could fail to bring their reward? It is not possible. But do not fancy that it came suddenly in the shape of a coach-and-six. Rewards worth having are not acquired so easily. Have you met with the following lines? They are somewhat applicable.
"
How rarely, friend, a good, great man inherits Honour and wealth, with all his worth and pains! It seems a fable from the land of spirits When any man obtains that which he merits, Or any merits that which he obtains. For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain: What would'st thou have the good, great man obtain— Wealth? title? dignity? a golden chain? Or heaps of corpses which his sword hath slain? Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good, great man? Three treasures— Love; and life; and calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath. And three fast friends, more sure than day or night, Himself; his Maker; and the angel, Death.
"Jane's reward was in progress: it had not fully come. At present it was little more than that of an approving conscience for having fought her way through difficulties in the patient continuance of well-doing, and in the fulfilment, in a remarkable manner, of the subject she had had most at heart—that of giving her sons an education that would fit them to fulfil any part they might be called upon to play in the destinies of life—in watching them grow up full of promise to make good and great men.
In circumstances, Jane was tolerably at ease now. Time had wrought its changes. Mrs. Reece had gone—not into other lodgings, but to join Janey Halliburton on the long journey. And Dobbs—Dobbs!—was servant to Mrs. Halliburton! Dobbs had experienced misfortune. Dobbs had put by a good round sum in a bank, for Dobbs had been provident all her life; and the bank broke and swallowed up Dobbs's savings; and nearly all Dobbs's surly independence went with it. Misfortunes do not come alone; and Mrs. Reece died almost immediately after Dobbs's treacherous bank went. The old lady's will had been good to leave Dobbs something, but she had not the power to do so: the income she had enjoyed went at her death to her late husband's relatives. She had made Dobbs handsome presents from time to time, and these Dobbs had placed with the rest of her money. It had all gone.
Poor Dobbs, good for nothing in the first shock of the loss, paid Mrs. Halliburton for a bedroom weekly, and sat down to fret. Next, she tried to earn a living at making gloves—an employment Dobbs had followed in her early days. But, what with not being so young as she was, neither eyes nor fingers, Dobbs found she could make nothing of the work. She went about the house doing odd tasks for Mrs. Halliburton, until that lady ventured on a proposal (with as much deference as though she had been making it to an Indian Begum), that Dobbs should remain with her as her servant. An experienced, thoroughly good servant she required now; and that she knew Dobbs to be. Dobbs acquiesced; and forthwith went upstairs, moved her things into the dark closet, and obstinately adopted it as her own bedroom.
The death of Mrs. Reece had enabled Jane to put into practice a plan she had long thought of—that of receiving boarders into her house, after the manner of the dames at Eton. Some of the foundation boys in the college school lived at a distance, and it was a great matter with the parents to place them in families where they would find a good home. The wife of the head master, Mrs. Keating, took in half-a-dozen; Jane thought she might do the same. She had been asked to do so; but had not room while Mrs. Reece was with her. She still held her class in the evening. As one set of boys finished with her, others were only too glad to take their places: there was no teaching like Mrs. Halliburton's. Upon making it known that she could receive boarders, applications poured in; and six, all she had accommodation for, came. They, of course, attended the college school during the day. Thus she could afford to relinquish working at the gloves; and did so, to Samuel Lynn's chagrin: a steady, regular worker, as Jane had been, was valuable to the manufactory. Altogether, what with her evening class, and the sum paid by the boarders, her income was between two and three hundred a year, not including what was earned by William.
William had made progress at Mr. Ashley's, and now earned thirty shillings a week. Frank and Gar had not left the college school. Frank's time was out, and more than out: but when a scholar advanced in the manner that Frank Halliburton had done, Mr. Keating was not in a hurry to intimate to him that his time had expired. So Frank remained on, studying hard, one of the most finished scholars Helstonleigh Collegiate School had ever turned out.
There sat one great desire in Frank's heart; it had almost grown into a passion; it coloured his dreams by night and his thoughts by day—that of matriculating at one of the two Universities. The random and somewhat dim idea of Frank's early days—studying for the Bar—had become the fixed purpose of his life. That he was especially gifted with the tastes and qualifications necessary to make a good pleader, there could be no doubt about; therefore, Frank had probably not mistaken his vocation. Persevering in study, keen in perceptive intellect, equable in temper, fluent and persuasive in speech, a true type was he of an embryo barrister. He did not quite see his way yet to getting to college. Neither did Gar; and Gar had set his mind upon the Church.
One cold January evening, bright, clear, and frosty, Samuel Lynn stopped away from the manufactory. He had received a letter by the evening post saying that a friend, on his way from Birmingham to Bristol, would halt for a few hours at his house and go on by the Bristol mail, which passed through the city at eleven o'clock. The friend arrived punctually, was regaled with tea and other good things in the state parlour, and he and Samuel Lynn settled themselves to enjoy a pleasant evening together, Patience and Anna forming part of the company. Anna's luxuriant curls and her wondrous beauty—for, in growing up, that beauty had not belied the promise of her childhood—were shaded under the demure Quaker's cap. Something else had not belied the promise of her childhood, and that was her vanity.
Apparently, she did not find the evening or the visitor to her taste. He was old, as were her father and Patience: every one above thirty Anna was apt to class as "old." She fidgeted, was restless, and, just as the clock struck seven—as if the sound rendered any further inaction unbearable—she rose and was quietly stealing from the room.
Where are thee going, Anna? asked her father.
Anna coloured, as if taken by surprise. "Friend Jane Halliburton promised to lend me a book, father: I should like to fetch it."
Sit thee still, child; thee dost not want to read to-night when friend Stanley is with us. Show him thy drawings. Meanwhile, I will get the chessmen. Thee'd like a game? turning to his visitor.
Ay, I should, was the ready answer. "Remember, friend Lynn, I beat thee last time."
Maybe my skill will redeem itself to-night, nodded the Quaker, as he rose for the chessboard. "It shall try its best."
Would thee like a candle? asked Patience, who was busy sewing.
Not at all. My chamber is light as day, with the moon so near the full.
Mr. Lynn went up to his room. The chessboard and men were kept on a table near the window. As he took them from it he glanced out at the pleasant scene. His window, at the back, faced the charming landscape, and the Malvern Hills in the horizon shone out almost as distinctly as by day. Not, however, on the landscape were Samuel Lynn's eyes fixed; they had caught something nearer, which drew his attention.
Pacing the field-path which ran behind his low garden hedge was a male figure in a cloak. To see a man, whether with a cloak or without it, abroad on a moonlight night, would not have been extraordinary; but Samuel Lynn's notice was drawn by this one's movements. Beyond the immediate space occupied by the house, the field-path was hidden: on one side, by the high hedge intervening between his garden and Mrs. Halliburton's; on the other, by a wall. The figure—whoever it might be—would come to one of these corners, stealthily peep at Samuel Lynn's house and windows, and then continue his way past it, until he reached the other corner, where he would halt and peep again, partially hiding himself behind the hedge. That he was waiting for something or some one was apparent, for he stamped his feet occasionally in an impatient manner.
What can it be that he does there? cried the Quaker, half aloud: "this is the second time I have seen him. He cannot be taking a sketch of my house by moonlight! Were it any other than thee, William Halliburton, I should say it wore a clandestine look."
He returned to the parlour, and took his revenge on his friend by checkmating him three times in succession. At nine o'clock supper came in, and at ten Mr. Stanley, accompanied by Samuel Lynn, left, to walk leisurely into Helstonleigh and await the Bristol mail. As they turned out of the house they saw William Halliburton going in at his own door.
It is a cold night, William remarked to Mr. Lynn.
Very. Good night to thee.
You cannot see what he is like by this light, especially in that disguising cloak, and the cap with its protecting ears. But you can see him the following morning, as he stands in Mr. Ashley's counting-house.
A well-grown, upright, noble form, a head taller than Samuel Lynn, by whose side he is standing, with a peculiarly attractive face. Not for its beauty—the face cannot boast of very much—but for its broad brow of intellect, its firm, sweet mouth, and its truthful dark-grey eyes. None could mistake William Halliburton for anything but a gentleman, although they had seen him, as now, with a white apron tied round his waist. William was making up gloves: a term, as you may remember, which means sorting them according to their qualities—work that was sometimes done in Mr. Ashley's room, on account of its steady light, for it bore a north aspect. A table, or counter, was fixed down one side, under its windows. Mr. Lynn stood by his side, looking on.
Thee can do it tolerably well, William, he observed, after some minutes' close inspection.
William smiled. The Quaker never bestowed decided praise, and never thought any one could be trusted in the making-up department, himself and James Meeking excepted. William had been exercised in the making-up for the past eighteen months, and he thought he ought to do it pretty well by this time. Mr. Lynn was turning away, when his keen sight fell on several dozens at a little distance. He took up one of the top pairs with a hasty movement, knitted his brow, and then took up others.
Thee has not exercised thy judgment or thy caution here, friend William.
I did not make up those, replied William.
Who did, then?
Cyril Dare.
I have told Cyril Dare he is not to attempt the making-up, returned Samuel Lynn, in severe tones. "When did he do these?"
Yesterday afternoon.
There, again! He knows the gloves are not made up in a winter's afternoon. I myself would not do it by so obscure a light. Thee go over these thyself when thee has finished the stack before thee.
Samuel Lynn was not one who spared work. He mixed the offending dozens together indiscriminately, and pushed them towards William. Then he turned to his own place, and went on with his work: he was also making up. Presently he spoke again.
What does thee do at the back of my house of a night? Thee must find the walk cold.
William turned his head with a movement of surprise. "I don't do anything at the back of your house. What do you mean?"
Not walk about there, watching it, as thee did last night?
Certainly not! I do not understand you.
Samuel Lynn's brows knit heavily. "William, I deemed thee truthful. Why deny what is a palpable fact?"
William Halliburton put down the pair of gloves he had in his hand, and turned to the Quaker. "In saying that I do not walk at the back of your house at night, or at the back of any house, I state the truth."
Last night at seven o'clock, I saw thee parading there in thy cloak. I saw thee, I say, William. The night was unusually light.
Last night, from tea-time until half-past nine, I never stirred out of my mother's parlour, rejoined William. "I was at my books as usual. At half-past nine I ran up to say a word to Henry Ashley. You saw me returning."
But I saw thee at the back with my own eyes, persisted the Quaker. "I saw thy cloak. Thee had on that blue cap of thine: it was tied down over thy ears; and the collar of the cloak was turned up, to protect thee, as I surmised, from the cold."
It must have been my ghost, responded William. "Should I be likely to pace up and down a cold field, for pastime, on a January night?"
Will thee oblige me by putting on thy cloak? was all the answer returned by Samuel Lynn.
What—now?
Please.
William, laughing, went out of the room, and came back in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned cloak—a remarkable cloak—a dark plaid, its collar lined with red. Formerly worn by gentlemen, they had now become nearly obsolete; but William had picked this up for much less than half its value. He did not care much for fashion, and it was warm and comfortable in winter weather.
Perhaps you wish me to put on my cap? said William, in a serio-comic tone.
Yes; and turn down the ears.
He obeyed, very much amused. "Anything more?" asked he.
Walk thyself about an instant.
His lips smiling, his eyes dancing, William marched from one side of the room to the other. While this was in process Cyril Dare bustled in, and stood in amazement, staring at William. The Quaker paid no attention to his arrival, except that he took out his watch and glanced at it. He continued to address William.
And thee can assure me to my face, that thee was not pacing the field last night in the moonlight, dressed as now?
I can, and do, replied William.
Then, William, it is one of two things. My eyes or thy word must be false.
Did you see my face? asked William.
Not much of that. With the ears down and the collar up, thy face was pretty effectually concealed. There's not another cloak like thine in all Helstonleigh.
You are right there, laughed William; "there's not one half so handsome. Admire the contrast of the purple and green plaid and the scarlet collar."
No, not another like it, emphatically repeated the Quaker. "I tell thee, William Halliburton, in the teeth of thy denial, that I saw thee, or a figure precisely similar to thee, parading the field-path last night, and stealthily watching my windows."
It's a clear case of ghost, returned William, with an amused look at Cyril Dare. "How much longer am I to make a walking Guy of myself, for your pleasure and Cyril's astonishment?"
Thee can take it off, replied the Quaker, his curt tone betraying dissatisfaction. Until that moment he had believed William Halliburton to be the very quintessence of truth. His belief was now shaken.
In the small passage between Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel Lynn's, William hung up the cloak and cap. The Quaker turned to Cyril Dare, who was taking off his great-coat, stern displeasure in his tone.
Dost thee know the time?
Just gone half-past nine, replied Cyril.
Mr. Lynn held out his watch to Cyril. It wanted seventeen minutes to ten. "Nine o'clock is thy hour. I am tired of telling thee to be more punctual. And thee did not come before breakfast."
I overslept myself, said Cyril.
As thee dost pretty often, it seems. If thee can do no better than thee did yesterday, as well oversleep thyself for good. Look at these gloves.
Well! cried Cyril, who was a good-looking young man, in stature not far short of William. At least he would have been good-looking, but for his eyes; there was a look in them, almost amounting to a squint; and they did not gaze openly and honestly into another's eyes. His face was thin, and his features were well-formed. "Well!" cried he.
It is well, repeated the Quaker; "well that I looked at them, for they must be done again. Firsts are mixed with seconds, thirds with firsts; I do not know that I ever saw gloves so ill made up. What have I told thee?"
Lots of things, responded Cyril, who liked to set the manager at defiance, as far as he dared.
I have desired thee never to attempt to make up the gloves. I now forbid thee again; and thee will do well not to forget it. Begin and band these gloves that William Halliburton is making ready.
Cyril jerked open the drawer where the paper bands were kept, took some out of it, and carried them to the counter, where William stood. Mr. Lynn interposed with another order.
Thee will please put thy apron on.
Now, having to wear this apron was the very bugbear of Cyril Dare's life. "There's no need of an apron to paper gloves," he responded.
Thee will put on thy apron, friend, calmly repeated Samuel Lynn.
I hate the apron, fumed Cyril, jerking open another drawer, and jerking out his apron; for he might not openly disobey the authority of Samuel Lynn. "I should think I am the first gentleman that ever was made to wear one."
If thee are practically engaged in a glove manufactory, thee must wear an apron, gentleman or no gentleman, equably returned the Quaker. "As we all do."
All don't! retorted Cyril. "The master does not."
Thee are not in the master's position yet, Cyril Dare. And I would advise thee to exercise thy discretion more and thy tongue less.
The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Ashley, and the room dropped into silence. There might be no presuming in the presence of the master. He sat down to his desk, and opened his morning letters. Presently a young man put his head in and addressed Samuel Lynn.
Noaks, the stainer, has come in, sir. He says the skins given out to him yesterday would be better for coloured than blacks.
Desire James Meeking to attend to him, said Mr. Lynn.
James Meeking isn't here, sir. He's up in the cutters' room, or somewhere.
Samuel Lynn, upon this, went out himself. Cyril Dare followed him. Cyril was rather fond of taking short trips about the manufactory, as interludes to his work. Soon after, the master lifted his head.
Step here, William.
William put down the gloves he was examining and approached the desk. "What sort of a French scholar are you?" inquired Mr. Ashley.
A very good one, sir, he replied, after a pause given to surprise. "I know it thoroughly. I can read and write it as readily as I can English."
But I mean as to speaking. Could you make yourself understood, for instance, if you were suddenly dropped down into a French town, where the natives spoke nothing but their own language?
William smiled. "I don't think I should have much difficulty over it. I have been so much with Monsieur Colin that I talk as fast as he does. He stops me occasionally to grumble at what he calls l'accent anglais."
I am not sure that I shall not send you on a mission to France, resumed Mr. Ashley. "You can be better spared than Samuel Lynn; and it must be one of you. Will you undertake it?"
I will undertake anything that you wish me to do, sir, that I could accomplish, replied William, lifting his clear earnest eyes to those of his master.
You are an exceedingly good judge of skins: even Samuel Lynn admits that. I want some intelligent, trustworthy person to go over to France, look about the markets there, and pick up what will suit us. The demand for skins is great at the present time, and the markets must be watched to select suitable bales before other bidders step in and pounce upon them. By these means we may secure some good bargains and good skins: we have succeeded lately in doing neither.
At Annonay, I presume you mean, sir.
Annonay and its neighbourhood; that's the chief market for dressed skins. The undressed pelts are to be met with best, as you are aware, in the neighbourhood of Lyons. You would have to look after both. I have talked the matter over with Mr. Lynn, and he thinks you may be trusted both as to ability and conduct.
I will do my best if I am sent, replied William.
Your stay might extend over two or three months. We can do with a great deal; both of pelts and dressed skins. The dressers at Annonay——Cyril, what are you doing there?
Cyril could scarcely have told. He had come into the counting-house unnoticed, and his ears had picked up somewhat of the conversation. In his anger and annoyance, Cyril had remained, his face turned towards the speakers, listening for more.
For it had oozed out at Pomeranian Knoll, through a word dropped by Henry Ashley, that Mr. Ashley had it in contemplation to despatch some one from the manufactory on this mission to France, and that the some one would not be Samuel Lynn. Cyril received the information with avidity, never doubting that he would be the one fixed upon. To give him his due, he was really a good judge of skins—not better than William; but somehow Cyril had never given a thought to William in the matter. Greatly had he anticipated the journey to the land of pleasure, where he would be under no one's control but his own. In that moment, when he heard Mr. Ashley speaking to William upon the subject, not to him, Cyril felt at war with every one and everything; with the master, with William, and especially with the business, which he hated as much as he had ever done.
But Mr. Ashley was not one to do things in a hurry, and he had only broached the subject.
It was Saturday night, the Saturday after the above conversation, and Mr. Lynn was making ready to pay the men. James Meeking was payer in a general way; but James Meeking was also packer; that is, he packed, with assistance, the goods destined for London. A parcel was being sent off this evening, so that it fell to Mr. Lynn's lot to pay the workmen. He stood before the desk in the serving-room, counting out the money in readiness. There was a quantity of silver in a bag, and a great many brown paper packets of halfpence; each packet containing five shillings. But they all had to be counted, for sometimes a packet would run a penny or twopence short.
The door at the foot of the stairs was heard to open, and a man's step came up. It proved to be a workman from a neighbouring manufactory.
If you please, Mr. Lynn, could you oblige our people with twelve or fourteen pounds' worth of change? he asked. "We couldn't get in enough to-day, try as we would. The halfpence seem as scarce as the silver."
Now it happened that the Ashley manufactory was that evening abundantly supplied. Samuel Lynn went into the counting-house to the master, who was seated at the desk. "The Dunns have sent in to know if we can oblige them with twelve or fourteen pounds' worth of change," said he. "We have plenty to-night; but to send away so much may run us very short. Dost thee happen to have any gold that thee can spare?"
Mr. Ashley looked at his own cash drawer. "Here are six, seven sovereigns."
That will be sufficient, replied Samuel Lynn, taking them from his hand, and going back to the applicant in the serving-room. "How much has thee need of?" asked he.
Fourteen pounds, please, sir. I have the cheque here, made out for it. Silver or copper, it doesn't matter which; or a little gold. I have brought a basket along with me.
Mr. Lynn gave the money, and took the cheque. The man departed, and the Quaker carried the cheque to Mr. Ashley.
Mr. Ashley put the cheque into one of the pigeon-holes of his desk. He had the account in duplicate before him, of the goods going off, and was casting it up. William and Cyril were both in the counting-house, but not engaged with Mr. Ashley. William was marking small figures on certain banded gloves; Cyril was looking on, an employment that suited Cyril amazingly. His want of occupation caught the Quaker's eye.
If thee has nothing to do, thee can come and help me count the papers of coppers.
Cyril dared not say "No," before Mr. Ashley. He might have hesitated to say it to Samuel Lynn; nevertheless, it was a work he especially disliked. It is not pleasant to soil the fingers counting innumerable five-shilling brown-paper packets of copper money; to part them into stacks of twelve pence, or twenty-four halfpence. In point of fact, it was James Meeking's work; but there were times when Samuel Lynn, William, and Cyril had each to take his turn at it. Perhaps the two former liked it no better than did Cyril Dare.
Cyril ungraciously followed to the serving-room. In a few minutes James Meeking looked in at the counting-house. "Is the master ready?"
Mr. Ashley rose and went into the next room, carrying one of the duplicate lists. The men were waiting to pack—James Meeking and the other packer, a young man named Dance. The several papers of boxes were ready on a side counter; and Mr. Ashley stood with the list in his hand, ready to verify them. Had Samuel Lynn not been occupied with serving, he would have done this.
Three dozen best men's outsizes, coloured, called out James Meeking, reading the marks on the first parcel he took up.
Right, responded Mr. Ashley.
James Meeking laid it upon the packing-table—clear, except for an enormous sheet of brown paper as thick as card-board—turned to the side counter and took up another of the parcels.
Three dozen best men's outsizes, coloured, repeated he.
Right, replied Mr. Ashley.
And so on, till all the parcels were told through and were found to tally with the invoice. Then began the packing. It made a large parcel, about four feet square. Mr. Ashley remained, looking on.
You will not have enough string there, he observed, as the men were placing the string round it in squares.
I told you we shouldn't, Meeking, said George Dance.
There's no more downstairs, was Meeking's answer, "I thought it might be enough."
Neither of the men could leave the parcel. They were mounted on steps on either side of it. Mr. Ashley called to William. "Light the lantern, and go upstairs to the string-closet. Bring down a ball."
Candles were not allowed to be carried about the premises. William came forth, lighted the lantern, and went upstairs. At the same moment, Cyril Dare, who had finished his disagreeable copper counting, strolled into the counting-house. Finding it empty, he thought he could not do better than take a survey of Mr. Ashley's desk, the lid of which was propped open. He had no particular motive in doing this, except that that receptacle might present some food or other to gratify his curiosity, which the glove-laden counters could not be supposed to do. Amidst other things his eyes fell on the Messrs. Dunns' cheque, which lay in one of the pigeon-holes.
It would set me up for a fortnight, that fourteen pounds! ejaculated he. "No one would find it out, either. Ashley would suspect any one in the manufactory before he'd suspect me!"
He stood for a moment in indecision, his hand stretched out. Should it be drawn back, and the temptation resisted; or, should he yield to it? "Here goes!" cried Cyril. "Nothing risk, nothing win!"
He transferred the cheque to his own pocket, and stole out of the counting-house into the small narrow passage which intervened between it and Mr. Lynn's room, where the parcel was being made up. Passing stealthily through the room, at the back of the huge parcel, which hid him from the eyes of the men and of Mr. Ashley, he emerged in safety into the serving-room, took up his position close to Samuel Lynn, and began assiduously to count over some shilling stacks which he had already verified. Samuel Lynn, his face turned to the crowd of men who were on the other side the counter receiving their wages, had not noticed the absence of Cyril Dare. Upon this probable fact Cyril had reckoned.
Any more to count? asked Cyril.
Samuel Lynn turned his head round. "Not if thee has finished all the packets." Had he seen what had just taken place, he might have entrusted packets of coppers to Mr. Cyril less confidently.
Cyril jumped upon the edge of the desk, and remained perched there. William Halliburton came back with the twine, which he handed to George Dance. Blowing out the lantern, he returned to the counting-house.
The parcel was completed, and James Meeking directed it in his plain, clerk-like hand—"Messrs. James Morrison, Dillon, and Co., Fore Street, London." It was then conveyed to a truck in waiting, to be wheeled to the parcels office. Mr. Ashley returned to his desk and sat down. Presently Cyril Dare came in.
Halliburton, don't you want to be paid to-night? Every one's paid but you. Mr. Lynn's waiting to close the desk.
Here is a letter for the post, William, called out Mr. Ashley.
I am coming back, sir. I have not set the counter straight yet.
He received his money—thirty shillings a week now. He then put things straight in the counting-house, to do which was as much Cyril's work as his, and took a letter from the hands of Mr. Ashley. It contained one of the duplicate lists, and was addressed as the parcel had been. William generally had charge of the outward-bound letters now; he did not forget them as he had done in his first unlucky essay. He threw on the elegant cloak of which you have heard, took his hat, and went through the town, as far as the post-office, Cyril Dare walking with him. There they parted; Cyril continuing his way homewards, William retracing his steps.
All had left the manufactory except Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn. James Meeking had gone down. On a late night, as the present, when all had done except the master and Samuel Lynn, the latter would sometimes say to the foreman, "Thee can go on to thy supper; I will lock up, and bring thee the keys." Mr. Ashley was setting his desk straight—putting sundry papers in their places; tearing up others. He unlocked his cash drawer, and put his hand into the pigeon-hole for the cheque. It was not there. Neither there nor anywhere, that he could see.
Why, where's that cheque? he exclaimed.
It caused Samuel Lynn to turn. "Cheque?" he repeated.
Dunns' cheque, that you brought me an hour ago.
I saw thee put it in the second pigeon-hole, said the Quaker, advancing to the desk, and standing by Mr. Ashley.
I know I did. But it is gone.
Thee must have moved it. Perhaps it is in thy private drawer?
Mr. Ashley shook his head: he was deep in consideration. "I have not touched it since I placed it there," he presently said. "Unless—surely I cannot have torn it up by mistake?"
He and Samuel Lynn both stooped over the waste-paper basket. They could detect nothing of the sort amidst its contents. Mr. Ashley was nonplussed. "This is a curious thing, Samuel," said he. "No one was in the room during my absence except William Halliburton."
He would not meddle with thy desk, observed the Quaker.
No: nor suffer any one else to meddle with it. I should like to see William. He may possibly throw some light upon the subject. The cheque could not vanish into thin air.
Samuel Lynn went down to James Meeking's, whom he disturbed at supper. He bade him watch at the entrance-gate for the return of William from the post-office, and request him to walk into the manufactory. William was not very long in making his appearance. He received the message—that the master and Mr. Lynn wanted him—and in he went with alacrity, having jumped to the conclusion that some conference was about to be held touching the French journey.
Considerably surprised was he to learn what the matter really was. He quite laughed at the idea of the cheque's being gone, and believed that Mr. Ashley must have torn it up. Very minutely went he over the contents of the paper-basket. Its relics were not there.
It's like magic! exclaimed William. "No one entered the counting-house; not even Mr. Lynn or Cyril Dare."
Cyril Dare was with me, said the Quaker. "Verily it seems to savour of the marvellous."
It certainly did; and no conclusion could be come to. Neither could anything be done that night.
It was late when William reached home—a quarter past ten. Frank was sitting over the fire, waiting for him. Gar had gone to bed tired; Mrs. Halliburton with headache; Dobbs, because there was nothing more to do.
How late you are! was Frank's salutation; "just because I want to have a talk with you."
Upon the old theme, said William, with a smile. "Oxford or Cambridge?"
I say, William, if you are going to throw cold water upon it——But it won't put a damper upon me, broke off Frank, gaily.
I would rather throw hot water on it than cold, Frank.
Look here, William. I am growing up to be a man, and I can't bear the idea of living longer upon my mother. At my age I ought to be helping her. I am no nearer the University than I was years ago; and if I cannot get there, all my labour and my learning will be thrown away.
Not thrown away, said William.
Thrown away as far as my views are concerned. I must go to the Bar, or go to nothing—aut Cæsar, aut nullus. To the University I will go; and I see nothing for it but to do so as a servitor. I shan't care a fig for the ridicule of those who get there by a golden road. There's Lacon going to Christchurch at Easter, a gentleman commoner; Parr goes to Cambridge, to old Trinity.
They are the sons of rich men.
I am not envying them. We have not faced the difficulties of our position so long, and made the best of them, for me to begin envying others now. Wall's nephew goes up at Easter——
Oh, does he? interrupted William. "I thought he could not manage it."
Nor can he manage it in that sense. His father has too large a family to help him, and there's no chance of the exhibition. It is promised, Keating has announced. The exhibitions in Helstonleigh College don't go by right.
Right or merit, do you mean, Frank?
I suppose I mean merit; but the one implies the other. They go by neither.
Or you think that Frank Halliburton would have had it?
At any rate, he has not got it. Neither has Wall. Therefore, we have made up our minds, he and I, to go to Oxford as servitors.
All right! Success to you both!
Frank fell into a reverie. The friend of whom he spoke, Wall, was nephew of the under-master of the college school. "Of course I never expected to get to college in any other way," continued Frank, taking up the tongs and balancing them on his fingers. "If an exhibition did at odd moments cross my hopes, I would not dwell upon it. There are fellows in the school richer and greater than I. However, the exhibition is gone, and there's an end of it. The question now is—if I do go as a servitor, can my mother find the little additional expense necessary to keep me there?"
Yes, I am sure she can: and will, replied William.
There'll be the expenses of travelling, and sundry other little things, went on Frank. "Wall says it will cost each of us about fifteen pounds a year. We have dinner and supper free. Of course, I should never think of tea, and for breakfast I would take milk and plain bread. There'd be living at home between terms—unless I found something to do—and my clothes."
It can be managed. Frank, you'll drop those tongs.
What we shall have to do as servitors neither I nor Wall can precisely tell, continued Frank, paying no attention to the warning. "Wall says, brushing clothes, and setting tables for meals, and waiting on the other students at dinner, will be amongst the refreshing exercises. However it may be, my mind is made up to do. If they put me to black shoes, I shall only sing over it, and sit down to my studies with a better will when the shoes have come to an end."
William smiled. "Blacking shoes will be no new employment to you, Frank."
No. And if ever I catch myself coveting the ease and dignity of the lordly hats, I shall just cast my thoughts back again to our early privations; to what my mother struggled through for us; and that will bring me down again. We owe all to her; and I hope she will owe something to us in the shape of comforts before she dies, warmly added Frank, the tears rising to his eyes.
It is what I have hoped for years, replied William, in a low tone. "It is coming, Frank."
Well, I think I do now see one step before me. You remember papa's dream, William?
William simply bowed his head.
Lately I have not even seen that step. Between ourselves, I was losing some of my hopefulness; and you know that is what I never lost, whatever the rest of you may have done.
We none of us lost hope, Frank. It was hope that enabled us to bear on. You were over-sanguine.
It comes to the same thing. The step I see before me now is to go to Oxford as a servitor. To St. John's if I can, for I should like to be with Wall. He is a good, plodding fellow, though I don't know that he is over-burthened with brains.
Not with the quick brains of Frank Halliburton.
Frank laughed. "You know Perry, the minor canon? He also went to St. John's as a servitor. I shall get him to tell me——"
Frank stopped. The tongs had gone down with a clatter.
"There's such a row at our place!" suddenly announced Cyril Dare, at the Pomeranian Knoll dinner-table, one Monday evening.
What about? asked Mr. Dare.
Some money's missing. At least, a cheque; which amounts to the same thing.
Not quite the same, dissented Mr. Dare. "Unless it has been cashed."
I mean the same as regards noise, continued Cyril. "There's as much fuss being made over it as if it had been fourteen pounds' weight of solid gold. It was a cheque of Dunns'; and the master put it into his desk, or says he did so. When he came to look for it, it was gone."
Who took it? inquired Mr. Dare.
Who's to know? That's what we want to find out.
What was the amount?
Fourteen pounds, I say. A paltry sum. Ashley makes a boast, and says it's not the amount that bothers him, but the feeling that we must have some one false near us.
Don't speak so slightingly of money, rebuked Mr. Dare. "Fourteen pounds are not so easily picked up that it should be pleasant to lose them."
I'm sure I don't want to speak slightingly of money, returned Cyril, rebelliously. "You keep me too short, sir, for me not to know the full value of it. But fourteen pounds cannot be much of a loss to Mr. Ashley."
If I keep you short, you have forced me to it by your extravagances—you and the rest of you, responded Mr. Dare, in short, emphatic tones.
An unpleasant pause ensued. When the father of a family intimates that his income is diminishing, it is not a welcome announcement. The young Dares had been obliged to hear it often lately. Adelaide broke the silence.
How was the cheque taken?
It was a cheque brought by Dunns' people on Saturday night, in exchange for money, and the master placed it in his open desk in the counting-house, explained Cyril. "He went into Lynn's room to watch the packing, and was away an hour. When he returned, the cheque was gone."
Who was in the counting-house?
Not a soul except Halliburton. He was there all the time.
And no one else went in? cried Mr. Dare.
No one, replied Cyril, sending up his plate for more meat.
Why, then, it would look as if Halliburton took it? exclaimed Mr. Dare.
Cyril raised his eyebrows. "No one would venture to suggest as much in the hearing of the manufactory. It appears to be impressed with the opinion that Halliburton, like kings, can do no wrong."
Mr. Ashley is so?
Mr. Ashley, and downwards.
But, Cyril, if the facts are as you state, Halliburton must have been the one to take it, objected Mr. Dare. "Possibly the cheque may have been only mislaid?"
The counting-house underwent a thorough search this morning, and every corner of the master's desk was turned out, but nothing came of it. Halliburton appears to be in a world of surprise as to where it can have gone; but he does not seem to glance at the fact that suspicion may attach to him.
Of course Mr. Ashley intends to investigate it officially? said Mr. Dare.
He does not say, replied Cyril. "He had the two packers before him this morning separately, inquiring if they saw any one pass through the room to the counting-house on Saturday night. He also questioned me. We had none of us seen anything of the sort."
Where were you at the time, Cyril? eagerly questioned Mr. Dare.
Knowing what we know, it may seem a pointed question. It was not, however, so spoken. Mr. Dare would probably have suspected the whole manufactory before casting suspicion upon his son. The thought that really crossed his mind was, that if his son had happened to be in the way and had seen the thief, whoever he might be, steal into the counting-house, so that through him he might be discovered, it would have been a feather in Cyril's cap in the sight of Mr. Ashley. And to find favour with Mr. Ashley Mr. Dare considered ought to be the ruling aim of Cyril's life.
I was away from it all, as it happened, said Cyril, in reply to the question. "Old Lynn nailed me on Saturday to help to pay the men. While the cheque was disappearing, I was at the delightful employment of counting coppers."
Did one of the packers get in?
Impossible. They were under Mr. Ashley's eye the whole time.
Look here, Cyril, interrupted Mrs. Dare, the first word she had spoken: "is it sure that that yea-and-nay Simon of a Quaker has not helped himself to it?"
Cyril burst into a laugh. "He is not a Simon in the manufactory, I can tell you, ma'am. He is too much of a martinet."
Will Mr. Ashley be at the manufactory this evening, Cyril? questioned Mr. Dare.
You may as well ask me whether the moon will shine, was the response of Cyril. "Mr. Ashley comes sometimes in an evening; but we never know whether he will or not, beforehand."
Because he may be glad of legal assistance, remarked Mr. Dare, who rarely failed to turn an eye to business.
You may remember the party that formerly sat round Mr. Dare's dinner-table on that day, some years ago, when Herbert was pleased to fancy that he fared badly, not appreciating the excellences of lamb. Two of that party were now absent from it—Julia Dare and Miss Benyon. Julia had married, and had left England with her husband; and Miss Benyon had been discarded for a more fashionable governess.
This fashionable governess now sat at the table. She was called Mademoiselle Varsini. You must not mistake her for a French woman; she was an Italian. She had been a great deal in France, and spoke the language as a native—indeed, it was more easy to her now than her childhood's tongue; and French was the language she was required to converse in with her pupils, Rosa and Minny Dare. English also she spoke fluently, but with a foreign accent.
She was peculiar looking. Her complexion was of pale olive, and her eyes were light blue. It is not often that light blue eyes are seen in conjunction with so dark a skin. Strange eyes they were—eyes that glistened as if they were made of glass; they had at times a hard, glazed appearance. Her black hair was drawn from her face and twisted into innumerable rolls at the back of her head. It was smooth and beautiful, as if a silken rope had been coiled there. Her lips were thin and compressed in a remarkable degree, which may have been supposed to indicate firmness of character. Tall, and full across the bust for her years, her figure would have been called a fine one. She wore a closely-fitting dress of some soft, dark material, with small embroidered cuffs and collar.
What were her years? She said twenty-five: but she might be taken for either older or younger. It is difficult to guess with certainty the age of an Italian woman. As a rule they look much older than English women; and, when they do begin to show age, they show it rapidly. Mr. Dare had never approved of the engagement of this foreign governess. Mrs. Dare had picked her up from an advertisement, and had persisted in engaging her, in spite of the written references being in French and that she could only read one word in ten of them. Mr. Dare's scruples were solely pecuniary. The salary was to be fifty pounds a year; exactly double the amount paid to Miss Benyon; and he had great expenses on him now. "What did the girls want with a fashionable foreign governess?" he asked. But he made no impression upon Mrs. Dare. The lady was engaged, and arrived in Helstonleigh: and Mr. Dare had declared, from that hour to this, that he could not make her out. He professed to be a great reader of the human face, and of human character.
Has there been any attempt made to cash the cheque? resumed Mr. Dare to Cyril.
Ashley said nothing about that, replied Cyril. "It was lost after banking hours on Saturday night; therefore he would be sure to stop it at the bank before Monday morning. It is Ashley's loss; Dunns, of course, have nothing to do with it."
It would be no difficult matter to change it in the town, remarked Anthony Dare. "Anyone would cash a cheque of Dunns': it is as good as a banknote."
Cyril lifted his shoulders. "The fellow had better not be caught at it, though."
What would be the punishment in Angleterre for such a crime? spoke up the governess.
Transportation for a longer or a shorter period, replied Mr. Dare.
What you would phrase aux galères mademoiselle, struck in Herbert.
Ah, ça! responded mademoiselle.
As they called her "mademoiselle" we must do the same. There had been a discussion as to what she was to be called when she first came. Miss Varsini was not grand enough. Signora Varsini was not deemed familiar enough for daily use. Therefore "mademoiselle" was decided upon. It appeared to be all one to mademoiselle herself. She had been accustomed, she said, to be called mademoiselle in France.
Mr. Dare hurried over his dinner and his wine, and rose. He was going to find out Mr. Ashley. He was in hopes some professional business might arise to him in the investigation of the loss spoken of by Cyril. He was not a particularly covetous man, and had never been considered grasping, especially in business; but circumstances were rendering him so now. His general expenses were enormous—his sons contrived that their own expenses should be enormous; and Mr. Dare sometimes did not know which way to turn to meet them. Anthony drained him—it was Mr. Dare's own expression; Herbert drained him; Cyril wanted to drain him; George was working on for it. Small odds and ends arising in a lawyer's practice, that years ago Mr. Dare would scarcely have cared to trouble himself to undertake, were eagerly sought for by him now. He must work to live. It was not that his practice was a bad one; it was an excellent practice; but, do as Mr. Dare would, his expenses outran it.
He bent his steps to the manufactory. Had Mr. Ashley not been there, Mr. Dare would have gone on to his house. But Mr. Ashley was there. They were shut into the private room, and Mr. Ashley gave the particulars of the loss, more in detail than Cyril had given them.
There is only one opinion to be formed, observed Mr. Dare. "Young Halliburton was the thief. The cheque could not go of itself; and no one else appears to have been near it."
In urging the case against William, Mr. Dare was influenced by no covert motive. He drew his inferences from the circumstances related to him, and spoke in accordance with them. The resentment he had once felt against the Halliburtons for coming to Helstonleigh (though the resentment was on Mrs. Dare's part rather than on his) had long since died away. They did not cross his path or he theirs; they did not presume upon the relationship; had not, so far as Mr. Dare knew, made it known abroad; therefore they were quite welcome to be in Helstonleigh for Mr. Dare. To do Mr. Dare justice, he was rather kindly disposed towards his fellow-creatures, unless self-interest carried him the other way. Cyril often amused himself at home by abusing William Halliburton: they were tolerable friends and companions when together, but Cyril could not overcome his feeling of dislike; a feeling to which jealousy was now added, for William found more favour with Mr. Ashley than he did. Cyril gave vent to his anger in explosions at home, and William was not spared in them: but Mr. Dare had learnt what his son's prejudices were worth.
It must have been Halliburton, repeated Mr. Dare.
No, replied Mr. Ashley. "There are four persons, of all those who were in my manufactory on Saturday night, for whom I will answer as confidently as I would for myself. James Meeking and George Dance are two. I believe them both to be honest as the day; and if additional confirmation that it was not they were necessary, neither of them stirred from beneath my own eye during the possible time of the loss. The other two are Samuel Lynn and William Halliburton. Samuel Lynn is above suspicion; and I have watched William grow up from boyhood—always upright, truthful and honourable; but more truthful, more honourable, year by year, as the years have passed."
I dare say he is, acquiesced Mr. Dare. "Indeed, I like his look myself. There's something unusually frank about it. Of course you will have it officially investigated? I came down to offer you my services in the matter."
You are very good, was the reply of Mr. Ashley. "Before entering farther into the affair, I must be fully convinced that the cheque's disappearance was not caused by myself. I——"
By yourself? interrupted Mr. Dare, in surprise.
I do not think it was, mind; but there is a chance of it. I remember tearing up a paper or two after I received the cheque, and putting the pieces, as I believe, into the waste-paper basket. But I won't answer for it that I did not put them into the fire instead, as I passed it on my way to Mr. Lynn's room to call over the parcels bill.
But you would not tear up the cheque? cried Mr. Dare.
Certainly not, intentionally. If I did it through carelessness, all I can say is, I have been very careless. No; I shall not stir in this matter for a day or two.
But why wait? asked Mr. Dare.
If the cheque was stolen, it was probably changed somewhere in the town that same night; and this will soon be known. I shall wait.
Mr. Dare could not bring Mr. Ashley to a more business-like frame of mind. He left the manufactory, and went straight to the police-station, there to hold an interview with Mr. Sergeant Delves, a popular officer, with whom Mr. Dare had had dealings before. He stated the case to him, and desired Mr. Delves to ferret out what he could.
Privately, you know, Delves, said he, winking at the sergeant, whom he held by the shoulder. "There's no doubt, in my opinion, that the cheque was changed that same night—probably at a public-house. Go to work sub rosâ—you understand; and any information you may obtain bring quietly to me. Don't take it to Mr. Ashley."
I understand, replied Sergeant Delves, a portly man with a padded breast and a red face, who, in his official costume, always looked as if he were choking. "I'll see to it."
And he did so; and very effectively.
But the evening is not yet over at Pomeranian Knoll.
The dinner-table had broken up. Anthony Dare left the house soon after his father. Mrs. Dare turned to the fire for her after-dinner nap: the young ladies, Adelaide excepted, proceeded to the drawing-room. Adelaide Dare was thinner than formerly; and there was a worn, restless look upon her face, that told of care or of disappointment. She remained in her seat at the dessert-table, and, fencing herself round with a newspaper, lest Mrs. Dare's eyes should open, took a letter from her pocket and spread it on the table.
Viscount Hawkesley had never come forward to make her the Viscountess; but he had not given up his visits to Pomeranian Knoll, and Adelaide had never ceased hoping. It was one of his letters that she was poring over now. Two or three years ago she might have married well. A clergyman had desired to make her his wife. Adelaide declined. She had possibly her own private reasons for believing in the good faith of Lord Hawkesley. Adelaide Dare was not the first who has thrown away the substance to grasp the shadow.
Mademoiselle Varsini, on leaving the dinner-table, had gone up to the school-room. There she stirred the fire into a blaze, sat down in a chair, and bent her head in what seemed to be an attitude of listening.
She did not listen in vain. Soon, stealthy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, and a streak of vermilion flashed into her olive cheek, and she pressed her hand upon her bosom, as if to still its beating. "Que je suis bête!" she murmured. French was far more familiar to her than her native tongue.
The footsteps proved to be those of Herbert Dare. A tall, handsome man now, better-looking than Anthony. He, Herbert, would have been very handsome indeed, but that his features were spoiled by the free expression they had worn in his youth—free as that which characterised the face of Mr. Dare. He was coming in to pay a visit to the governess. He paid her a good many visits: possibly thought it polite to do so. Some gentlemen are polite, and some are the contrary; some take every opportunity of improving their minds; some don't care whether they improve them or not. Herbert Dare we should place amidst the former: a thirst for foreign languages must, undoubtedly, be reckoned one of the desires for improvement. Minny Dare had one evening broken in upon a visit her brother was paying to mademoiselle, and she (very impertinently, it must be owned) inquired what he was doing there. "Taking an Italian lesson," Herbert answered, and he did not want Minny to bother him over it. Minny made a wry face at the books spread out between Herbert and mademoiselle, seated opposite each other at either end of the table, and withdrew with all speed lest the governess should press her to share in it. Minny did not like Italian lessons as much as Herbert appeared to do.
He came in with quiet footsteps, and the first thing he did was to—lock the door. The action may have been intended as a quiet reproof to Miss Minny: if so, it is a pity she was not there to profit by it.
Have they asked for me in the salon? began the governess.
Not they, replied Herbert. "They are too much occupied with their own concerns."
Herbert, why were you not here on Saturday night? she asked.
On Saturday night? Oh—I remember. I had to go out to keep an engagement.
You might have spoken to me first, then, she answered resentfully. "Just one little word. I did come up here, and I waited—I waited! After the tea I came up, and I waited again. Ah! quelle patience!"
Waited to give me my Italian lesson?
Herbert Dare spoke in a voice of laughing raillery. The Italian girl did not seem inclined to laugh. She stood on one side the fire, and its blaze—it was the only light in the room—flickered on her compressed lips. More compressed than ever were they to-night.
Now, what's the use of turning cross, Bianca? continued Herbert, still laughing. "You are as exacting as if I paid you a guinea a lesson, and went upon a system of 'no lesson, no pay.' If——"
Bah! interrupted mademoiselle angrily: and it certainly was not respectful of Herbert, as pupil, to call her by her Christian name—if it was that which angered her. "I am getting nearly tired of it all."
Tired of me! You might have a worse pupil——
Will you be quiet, then! cried she, stamping her foot. "I am not inclined for folly to-night. You shall not say again you are coming here, if you don't come, mind, as you did on Saturday night."
Well, I had an engagement, and I went straight off from the dinner-table to keep it, answered Herbert, becoming serious. "Upon my word of honour it was not my fault, Bianca; it was a business engagement. I had not time to come here before I went."
Then you might have come when you returned, she said.
Scarcely, replied he. "I was not home till two in the morning."
Bianca Varsini lifted her strange eyes to his. "Why tell me that?" she asked, her voice changing to one of mournful complaint. "I know you went out from dinner—I watched you out; and I saw you when you went out again. It was past ten. I saw you with my own eyes."
You must have good eyes, Bianca. I went out from the dinner-table——
Not then—not then; I speak not of then, she vehemently interrupted. "You might have come here before you went out the second time."
I declare I don't know what you mean, he said, staring at her. "I did not come in until two in the morning. It was past two."
But I saw you, she persisted. "It was moonlight, and I saw you cross the lawn from the dining-room window, and go out. I was at this window, and I watched you go in the direction of the gate. It was long past ten."
Bianca, you were dreaming! I was not near the house.
Again she stamped her foot. "Why you deceive me? Would I say I saw you if I did not?"
Herbert had once seen Bianca Varsini in a passion. He did not care to see her in one again. When he said that he had not come near the house, from the time of his leaving it on rising from dinner, until two in the morning, he had spoken the strict truth. What the Italian girl was driving at, he could not imagine: but he deemed it as well to drop the subject.
You are a folle, Bianca, as you often call yourself, said he jestingly, taking her hands. "You go into a temper for nothing. I'd get rid of that haste, if I were you."
It was my mother's temper, she answered, drawing her hands away and letting them fall by her side. "Do you know what she once did! She spit in the face of the Archevêque of Paris!"
She was a lady! cried Herbert ironically. "How was that?"
He offended her. He was passing her in procession at the Fête Dieu, and he said something reproachful to her, and it put her in a temper, and she spit at him! She could do worse than that if she liked! She could have died for those who were kind to her; but let them offend her—je les en fais mes compliments!
I say, mademoiselle, who was your mother?
Never you mind! She was on the stage; not what you English call good. But she was good to me; and she wished me to be what she was not. When I was twelve she put me into a convent. La maudite place!
Herbert laughed. He knew enough of French to understand the expression.
It was maudite to me. I must not dance; I must not sing; I must not have my liberty to do the simplest thing on earth. I must be up in the morning to prayers; and then at my lessons all day; and then at prayers again. I did pray. I did pray to the Virgin to take me from it. I nearly prayed my heart out—and she never heard me! I had been there a year—figure to yourself, a year!—when my mother came to see me. She had been back in Italy. 'Take me away,' I said to her, 'before I die!' 'No, Bianca mia,' she answered, 'I leave you here that you may not die; that your life may be happier than mine is, for mine is the vraie misère.' I not tell you in Italian, as she spoke, for you not understand it, rapidly interrupted mademoiselle. "My mother, she continued to me: 'When you are instructed, you shall become a gouvernante in a family of the noblesse; you shall consort with the princes without shame; and perhaps you will make a good parti in marriage. Though you have no fortune, you will be accomplished; you will have the manière and the tournure; you will be belle.' Do you think me belle?" she abruptly broke off again.
Enchanting! answered Herbert. "Have I not told you so five hundred times?"
She stole a glance at the little old-fashioned oval glass which hung over the mantel-piece, and then went on.
My mother would not take me out. Though I lay on the flagstones of the visitors' parlour, though I wept for it, she would not take me out. 'It is for your good, Bianca mia,' she said. And I remained there seven years. Seven years! Do you figure it?
But I suppose you grew reconciled?
We grow reconciled to the worst in time, she answered, dreamily gazing into the fire with her strange eyes. "I pressed down my despair into myself at first, and I looked out for the opportunity to run away. We were as closely kept as the nuns in their cells, in their barred rooms, in their grated chapel; but, sooner than not have had my will and get away, I would have set the place on fire!"
I say, mademoiselle, don't you talk treason! cried Herbert, laughing.
Do you think I would not? she answered, turning to him, a gleaming look in her eyes. "But I had to wait for the opportunity to escape; and, while I waited, news came that my mother had died. She caught cold one night when she was in her evening robe, and it settled in her throat, and formed a dépôt, and she died. And so it was all over with my escape! My mother gone, I had nowhere to fly to. And I stopped in that enfer seven years."
You are complimentary to convents, Bianca. Maudite in one breath, enfer in another!
They are all that, and worse! intemperately responded the Italian girl. "They are—mais n'importe; c'est fini pour moi. I had to beat down my heart then, and stop in one. Ah! I know not how I did it. I look back and wonder. Seven years!"
But who paid for you all that time?
My mother was not poor. She had enough for that. She made the arrangements with a priest when she was dying, and paid the money to him. The convent educated me, and dressed me, and made me hard. Their cold rules beat down my rebellious heart; beat it down to hardness. I should not have been so hard but for that convent!
Oh, you are hard, then? was the remark of Herbert Dare.
I can be! nodded Mademoiselle Varsini. "Better not cross me!"
And how did you get out of the convent?
When I was nineteen, they sent me out into a situation, to teach music and my own language, and French and English. They taught well in the convent: I could speak English then as readily as I speak it now: and they gave me a box of clothes and four five-franc pieces, saying that was the last of my mother's effects. What cared I? Had they turned me out penniless, I should have jumped to go. I served in that first situation two years. It was easy, and it was good pay.
French people?
But certainly: Parisians. It was not more than one mile from the convent. There was but one little pupil.
Why did you leave?
I was put into a passion one day, and madame said after that she was frightened to keep me. Ah! I have had adventures, I can tell you. In the next place I did not stay three months; the ennui came to me, and I left it for another that I found; and the other one I liked—I had my liberty. I should have stayed in that, but one came and turned me out of it.
A fresh governess?
No; a man. A hideous. He was madame's brother, and he was wrinkled and yellow, and his long skinny fingers were like claws. He wanted me to marry him; he said he was rich. Sell myself to that monster? No!—continue a governess, rather. One evening madame and my two pupils had gone to the Odéon, and he came to the little étude where I sat. He locked the door, and said he would not unlock it till I gave him a promise to be his wife. I stormed, and I stormed: he tried to take my hand, the imbécile! He laughed at me, and said I was caged——
Why did you not ring the bell? interrupted Herbert.
Bon! Do we have bells in every room in the old Parisian houses? I would have pulled open the window, but he stood against the fastening, laughing still; so I dashed my hand through a pane, and the glass clattered down to the court below, and the servants came out to look up. 'I cannot undo the étude door,' I called to them; 'come and break it open!' So that hideous undid it then, and the servants got some water and bathed my hand. 'But why need the signora have put her hand through the glass? Why not have opened the window?' said one. 'What is that to you?' I said. 'You will not have to pay for it. Bind my hand up.' They wrapped it in a handkerchief, and I put on my bonnet and cloak, and went out. Madeleine—she was the cook, and a good old soul—saw me. 'But where is the signorina going so late as this?' she asked. 'Where should I be going, but to the pharmacien's?' I answered; and I went my way.
We say chemist's in England, observed Herbert. "Did he find your hand much damaged?"
I did not go there. Think you I made attention to my hand? I went to the—what you call it?—cutler's shops, through the Rue Montmartre, and I bought a two-edged stiletto. It was that long—pointing from her wrist to the end of her finger—"besides the handle. I showed it to that hideous the next day. 'You come to the room where I sit again,' I said to him, 'and you will see.' He told madame his sister, and she said I must leave."
Herbert Dare looked at her—at her pale face, which had gone white in the telling, her glistening, stony eyes, her drawn lips. "You would not have dared to use the stiletto, though!" he cried, in some wonder.
I not dare! You do not know me. When I am roused, there's not a thing I would not dare to do. I am not ruffled at trifles: things that excite others do not trouble me. 'Bah! What matter trifles?' I say. My mother always told me to let the evil spirit lie torpid within me, or I should not die in my bed.
I say, cried Herbert, half mockingly, "what religion do you call yourself?"
She took the question literally. "I am a Catholic or Protestant as is agreeable to my places," was the very candid answer. "I am not a dévote—a saint. Where's the use of it?"
That is why you generally have those violent headaches on Sunday, said Herbert Dare, laughing. "You ought——"
There was an interruption. Rosa Dare's footsteps were heard on the stairs, and they halted at the door.
Mademoiselle! she called out.
Mademoiselle did not answer. Herbert Dare flung his handkerchief over the handle of the door in a manner that hid the key-hole. Rosa Dare tried the door, found it fastened, and went off grumbling.
It's my belief mademoiselle locks herself in there to get a nap after dinner, as mamma does in the dining-room!
She was heard to enter the drawing-room and slam the door. Herbert softly opened that of the school-room, and went down after his sister.
I say, Herbert, cried Rosa, when he entered, "have you seen anything of mademoiselle?"
I! responded Herbert. "Do you think I keep mademoiselle in my pocket?"
She goes and locks herself up in the school-room after dinner, and I can't think what she does there, or what she can be at, retorted Rosa.
At her devotions, perhaps, suggested Herbert.
The words did not please Mrs. Dare, who had then joined the circle. "Herbert, I will not have Mademoiselle Varsini ridiculed," she said quite sternly. "She is a most efficient instructress for Rosa and Minny, and we must be careful not to give her offence, or she might leave."
I'm sure I have heard of foreign women telling their beads till cock-crowing, persisted Herbert.
Those are Roman Catholics. A Protestant, as is Mademoiselle Varsini——
Mrs. Dare's angry words were cut short by the appearance of Mademoiselle Varsini herself. She, the governess, turned to Rosa. "What did you want just now when you came to the school-room door?"
I wanted you here to show me that filet stitch, answered Rosa, slight impertinence peeping out in her tone. "And I don't see why you should not answer when I knock, mademoiselle."
It may not always suit me to answer, was the calm reply of the governess. "My time is my own after dinner; and Madame Dare will agree with me that a governess should hold full control over her school-room."
You are perfectly right, mademoiselle, acquiesced Mrs. Dare.
Mademoiselle went to the piano and dashed off a symphony. She was a brilliant player. Herbert, looking at his watch, and finding it later than he thought, hurried from the house.
The surmise that the missing cheque had been changed into good money on the Saturday night, proved to be correct. White, the butcher at the corner of the shambles, had given change for it, and locked up the cheque in the cash-box. Had he paid it into the bank on Monday, he would have found what it was worth. But he did not do so. Mr. White was a fat man with a good-humoured countenance and black hair. Sergeant Delves proceeded to his house some time on the Tuesday.
I hear you cashed a cheque of the Messrs. Dunn on Saturday night, began he. "Who brought it to you?"
Ah, what about that cheque? returned the butcher. "One of your men has been in here, asking a lot of questions."
A good deal about it, said the sergeant. "It was stolen from Mr. Ashley."
Stolen from Mr. Ashley! echoed the butcher, staring at Sergeant Delves.
Stolen out of his desk. And you stand a nice chance, White, of losing the money. You should be more cautious. Who was it brought it here?
A gentleman. A respectable man, at any rate. Who says it's stolen?
I do, replied the sergeant, sitting himself down on the meat-block—rather a damp seat from its just having been washed with hot water. Delves liked to make himself familiar with his old friends in Helstonleigh in a patronising manner; it was only lately he had been promoted to sergeant. "Now! let's have the particulars, White."
I had just shut up my shop, all but the door, when in come a gentleman in a cloak and cap. 'Could you oblige the Messrs. Dunn with change for a cheque, Mr. White?' says he, handing a cheque to me. 'Yes, sir,' said I, 'I can; very happy to oblige 'em. Would you like it in gold?' Well, he said he would like it in gold, and I gave it to him. 'Thank ye,' said he; 'I'd have got it nearer if I could, for I'm troubled to death with tooth-ache; but people are shut up:' and I noticed that he had kept his white handkerchief up to his mouth and nose. He went out with the gold, and I put up the cheque. And that's all I know about it, Delves.
Don't you know who it was?
No, I don't. He had a cap on, with the ears coming down his cheeks; and, what with that, and the peak over his eyes, and the white handkerchief held up to his nose, I didn't so much as get a sight of his face. The shop was pretty near dark, too, for the gas was out. There was only a candle at the pay window.
If a man came in disguised like that, asking to have a cheque changed into gold, it might have occurred to some tradesmen there'd be something wrong about it, cried the sergeant.
I didn't know he was disguised, objected the butcher. "I saw it was a good cheque of the Messrs. Dunn, and I never gave a thought to anything else. I've had their cheques before to-day. Mr. William Dunn has dealt here this twenty year. But now that it's put into my head, I begin to think he was disguised," continued the butcher. "His voice was odd, thick and low, and he spoke as if he had plums in his mouth."
Should you know him again?
Ay. That is if he came in dressed as he was then. I'd know the cloak out of a hundred. It was one of them old-fashioned plaid rockelows.
Roquelaures, corrected the sergeant.
Something of that. The collar was lined with red, with a little edge of fur on it. There's a few such shaped cloaks in the town now, made of blue serge or cloth.
What time was it? asked the sergeant.
Just eleven. I was shutting up.
Sergeant Delves took possession of the cheque and proceeded to the office of Mr. Dare. A long conference ensued, and then they went out together towards Mr. Ashley's manufactory. On the road they happened to meet Cyril, and Mr. Dare drew him aside.
Do you happen to know any one who wears an old-fashioned plaid cloak? he asked.
Halliburton wears one, replied Cyril: "the greatest object of a thing you ever saw. I say," continued Cyril, "what's old Delves doing with you?"
Not much, carelessly said Mr. Dare. "He has been looking after a little private business for me."
Oh, is that all? and Cyril, feeling reassured, tore off on the errand he was bound for. For reasons best known to himself, it would not have pleased him that Sergeant Delves should be pressed into the affair of the cheque. At least, Cyril would have preferred that the matter should be allowed to rest.
He executed his commission, one that he had been charged with by Samuel Lynn, turned back, passed the manufactory, and took his way to Honey Fair on a little matter of his own. It was only the purchase of a dog—not to make a mystery of it. A dog that had taken Cyril's fancy, and for which he and the owner had not yet been able to come to terms. So he was going up again to try his powers of persuasion.
As he walked rapidly through Honey Fair, he saw a little bit of by-play on the opposite side. A young woman in a tattered gown, and a dirty bonnet drawn over her face, was walking along as rapidly as he. Her bent head, her humble attitude, her shrinking air, her haste to get out of sight of others, all betrayed that she, from some cause or other, was not in good odour with the world around. That she felt herself under a cloud, was only too apparent: it was a cloud of humiliation, for which she had only herself to thank. The women who met her hurried past with a toss of the head and then stood to peep after her as she disappeared in the distance.
She hurried—hurried past them—glad, it seemed, to be away from their stern looks and condemning eyes. Had you seen her, you would never have recognised her. In the dim eye, darker than of yore, the white cheek, the wasted form, no likeness remained of the once-blooming Caroline Mason.
Just as she passed opposite to Cyril, Eliza Tyrrett came out of a house and met her; and Eliza, picking up her skirts, lest they should become contaminated, swept past with a sidelong glance of reproach and a scornful gesture. Caroline's head only bent the lower as she glided away from her old companion.
It had been just as well that Charlotte East had not sent back that bundle, years ago, to surprise Anthony Dare. It was years now since Charlotte herself had come to the same conclusion.
Leaning back against the corner of the mantel-piece by the side of the blazing fire in his private room, calmly surveying those ranged before him, and listening to their tale with an impassive face, was Thomas Ashley. Sergeant Delves and Mr. Dare were giving him the account of the changing of the cheque, obtained from White the butcher. Samuel Lynn stood near the master's desk, his brow knit in perplexity, his countenance keen and anxious. The description of the cloak, tallying so exactly with the one worn by William Halliburton, led Mr. Dare to the conclusion, nay, to the positive conviction that the butcher's visitor could have been no other than William. The sergeant held the same view; but the sergeant adopted it with difficulty.
It's an odd thing for him to turn thief, said he, reflectively. "I'd have trusted that young fellow, sir, with untold gold," he added, to Mr. Ashley. "Here's another proof how we may be deceived."
I told you, said Mr. Dare, turning to Mr. Ashley, "that it could be no other than Halliburton."
Thee will permit me to say, friend Dare, that I do not agree with thy deductions, interposed the Quaker, before Mr. Ashley could answer.
Why, what would you have? returned Mr. Dare. "Nothing can be plainer. Ask Sergeant Delves if he thinks further proof can be needed."
Many a man has been hanged upon less, was the oracular answer of Sergeant Delves.
What part of my deductions do you object to? inquired Mr. Dare of the Quaker.
Thee art assuming—if I understand thee correctly—that there is no other cloak in the city so similar to William's as to be mistaken for it.
Just so.
Then, friend, I tell thee that there is.
Mr. Dare opened his eyes. "Who wears it?" he asked.
That is another question, said Samuel Lynn. "I should be glad to find out myself, for curiosity's sake."
Then Mr. Lynn told the story of his having observed a man, whom he had taken for William, walking at the back of his house, apparently waiting for something. "I saw him on two evenings," he observed, "at some considerable interval of time. The figure bore a perfect resemblance to William Halliburton; the height, the cloak, the cap—all appeared to be his. I taxed him with it. He denied it in toto, said he had not been walking there at all, and I believed he was attempting, for the first time since I have known him, to deceive me. I——"
Are you sure he was not? put in Mr. Dare.
Thee should allow me to finish, friend. Last night I was home somewhat earlier than usual—thee can recollect why, the Quaker added, looking at Mr. Ashley. "I was up in my room, and I saw the same figure pacing about in precisely the same manner. William's denial had staggered me, otherwise I could have been ready to affirm that it was himself and no other. The moon was not up; but it was a very light night, and I marked every point in the cloak—it was as like William's as two peas are like each other. What he could want, pacing at the back of my house and of his, puzzled me much. I——"
What time was this, Mr. Lynn? interrupted the sergeant.
Past eight o'clock. Later than the hour at which I had seen him on the two previous occasions. 'It is William Halliburton, of a surety,' I said to myself; and I thought I would pounce upon him, and so convict him of the falsehood he had told. I left my house by the front door, went down the road, past the houses, and entered the gate admitting into the field. I walked up quietly, keeping under the hedge as much as possible, and approached William—as I deemed him to be. He was then standing still, and gazing at the upper windows of my house. In spite of my caution, he heard me, and turned round. Whether he knew me or not, I cannot say; but he clipped the cloak around him with a hasty movement, and made off right across the field. I would not be balked if I could help it. I opened friend Jane Halliburton's back gate, and proceeded through the garden and house to the parlour, which I entered without ceremony. There sat William at his books.
Then it was not he, after all! cried Mr. Dare, interested in the tale.
Of a surety it was not he. I tell thee, friend, he was seated quietly at his studies. 'Hast thee lent thy cloak to a friend to-night?' I asked him. He looked surprised, and said he had not. But, to be convinced, I requested to see his cloak, and he took me outside the door, and there was the cloak hanging up in the passage, his cap beside it. That is why I did not approve of thy deductions, friend Anthony Dare, in assuming that the cloak, which the man had on who changed the cheque, must be William Halliburton's, concluded Mr. Lynn.
You say the man looked like William when you were close to him? inquired Mr. Ashley, who thought the whole affair very curious, and now broke silence for the first time.
Very much like him, answered Samuel Lynn. "But the resemblance may have been only in the cloak and cap. The face was not discernible; by accident or design, it was concealed. I think there need not be better negative proof that it was not William who changed the cheque."
Mr. Ashley smiled. "Without this evidence of Mr. Lynn's I could have told you it was waste of time to cast suspicion on William Halliburton to me," said he, addressing the sergeant and Mr. Dare. "Were you to come here and accuse myself, it would make just as much impression upon me. Wait an instant, gentlemen."
He went to the door, opened it, and called William. The latter came in, erect, courteous, noble—never suspecting the sergeant's business there could have anything to do with him.
William, began his master, "who is it that wears a similar cloak to yours, in the town?"
I am unable to say, sir, was William's ready reply. "Until last night," and he turned to Samuel Lynn with a smile, "I should have said there was not another like it. I suppose now there must be one."
If there is one, there may be more, remarked Mr. Ashley. "The fact is, William, the cheque has been traced. It was changed at White's, the butcher; and the person changing it wore a cloak, it seems, very much like yours."
Indeed! cried William, with animation. "Well, sir, of course there may be many such cloaks in the town. All I can say is, I have not seen them."
There can't be many, spoke up the sergeant, "if it be the old-fashioned sort of thing described to me."
William looked the sergeant full in the face with his open countenance, his honest eyes. No guilt there. "Would you like to see my cloak?" he asked. "It may be a guide, if you think the one worn resembled it."
The sergeant nodded. "I was going to ask you to bring it in, if it was here."
William brought it in. "It is one of the bygones," said he laughing. "I have some thoughts of forwarding it to the British Museum, as a specimen of antiquity. Stay! I will put it on, that you may see its beauties the better."
He threw the cloak over his shoulders, and exhibited himself off, as he had done once before in that counting-house for the benefit of Samuel Lynn. "I think the British Museum will get it," he continued, in the same joking spirit. "Not until winter's over, though. It is a good friend on a cold night."
Sergeant Delves' eyes were riveted on the cloak. "Where have I seen that cloak?" he mused, in a dreamy tone. "Lately, too!"
You may have seen me in it, said William.
The sergeant shook his head. He lifted one hand to his temples, and proceeded to rub them gently, as if the process would assist his memory, never once relaxing his gaze.
Did White say the changer of the cheque was a tall man? asked Mr. Ashley.
Yes, said Mr. Dare. "Whether he meant as tall as William Halliburton, I cannot say. There are not—why, I should think there are not a hundred men in the town who come up to that height," he added, looking at William.
Yourself one of them, said William, turning to him with a smile.
Mr. Dare shook his head, a regret for his past youth crossing his heart. "Ay, once. I am beginning to grow downward now."
Mr. Ashley was buried in reflection. There was a curious sound of mystery about the tale altogether, to his ears. That there were many thieves in Helstonleigh, he did not doubt—people who would appropriate a cheque, or anything else that came in their way; but why the same person—if it was the same—should pace the cold field at night, watching Samuel Lynn's house, was inexplicable. "It may not be the same," he observed aloud. "Shall you watch for the man again?" he asked of Mr. Lynn.
I shall not give myself much trouble over it now, was the reply. "While I was concerned to ascertain William's truthfulness——"
I scarcely think you need have doubted it, Mr. Lynn, interrupted William.
True. I have never doubted thee yet. But it appeared to be thy word against the sight of my own eyes. The master will understand——
A most extraordinary interruption came from Sergeant Delves. He threw up his head with a start, and gave vent to a shrill, prolonged whistle. "It looks dark!" cried he.
What didst thee say, friend Delves?
I beg pardon, gentlemen, answered the sergeant. "I was not speaking to any of you; I was following up the bent of mine own thoughts. It suddenly flashed into my mind who it is that I have seen in one of these cloaks."
And who is it? asked Mr. Dare.
You must excuse me, sir, if I keep that to myself, was the answer.
As tall a man as William Halliburton?
The sergeant ran his eyes up and down William's figure. "A shade taller, I should say, if anything."
And it struck me that the man who made off across the field was a shade taller, observed Samuel Lynn.
Well, I can't make sense of it, resumed Mr. Dare, breaking a pause. "Let us allow, if you like, that there are fifty such cloaks in the town. Unless one, wearing such, had access to Mr. Ashley's counting-house, to this very room that we are now in, how does the fact of there being others remove the suspicion from William Halliburton?"
Mr. Dare had not intended wilfully to cause him pain. He had forgotten for the moment that William was a stranger to the doubt raised touching himself. Amidst the deep silence that ensued, William looked from one to the other.
Who suspects me? he asked, surprise the only emotion in his tone.
Sergeant Delves tapped him significantly on the shoulder. "Never you trouble yourself, young sir. If what has come into my mind be right, it isn't you who are guilty."
When he and Mr. Dare went out, Mr. Ashley followed them to the outer gate. As they stood there talking, Frank Halliburton passed. "Look here," thought the sergeant to himself, "there's not much doubt as to the black sheep—I see that: but it's as well, to be on the sure side. Young man," cried he aloud to Frank, in the authoritative, patronizing manner which Sergeant Delves was fond of assuming when he could, "what time did your brother William get home last Saturday night? I suppose you know, if you were at home yourself."
Frank looked at him rather haughtily. "I know," he replied. "I have yet to learn why you need know."
Tell him, Frank, said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.
It was a little after ten, said Frank.
Did he go out again? asked the sergeant.
Out again at that time! cried Frank. "No: he did not go out again. We sat talking together ever so long, and then went up to bed."
Ah! rejoined the sergeant. It was all he answered. And he wished Mr. Ashley good day, and departed with Mr. Dare.
I am going to Oxford at Easter, Mr. Ashley, cried Frank with animation.
I am pleased to hear it.
But only as a servitor. I don't mind, he added, throwing back his head with pardonable pride. "Let me once get a start, and I hope to rise above some who go there as gentlemen-commoners. I intend to make this my circuit," he went on, half jokingly, half seriously.
You are ambitious, Frank. I heartily wish you success. There's nothing like keeping a good heart.
Oh yes, success is not doubtful. I'll do battle with all the obstructions in my course. Good afternoon, sir.
William, curious and anxious, could make nothing of his books that night at home. At length he threw up, put on the notable cloak, and went down to the manufactory. He found Mr. Ashley there; and the counting-house soon received an addition to its company in the person of Sergeant Delves. He had come in search of William. Not being aware that William was allowed the privilege of spending his evenings at home, he had supposed the manufactory was the place to find him in.
I want you down at White's, said the sergeant. "Put on your cloak, will you be so good, Mr. Halliburton, and come with me?"
Do you suspect me? was William's answer.
No, I don't, returned the sergeant. "I told you before, to-day, that I did not. The fact is"—dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper—"I want to do a little bit of private inquiry on my own account. I have a clue to the party: and I should like to work it out."
If you have a sufficient clue, the party had better be arrested at once, observed Mr. Ashley.
Ah, but it's not sufficient for that, nodded the sergeant. "No, Mr. Ashley, sir; my strong advice to you is, keep quiet a bit."
They started for the butcher's, William wearing his cloak and cap, and Mr. Ashley accompanying them. Mr. Ashley possessed his own curiosity upon various points; perhaps his own doubts.
It is strange who this man can be who walks at the back of your house, observed Mr. Ashley to William, as they went along. "What can be his motive for walking there, dressed like you?"
It is curious, sir.
I should suppose it can only arise from a desire that he should be taken for you, continued Mr. Ashley. "But to what end? Why should he walk there at all?"
Why, indeed! responded William.
What coloured gloves are you wearing? abruptly interrupted Sergeant Delves.
William took his hands from beneath his cloak, and held them out. They were of the darkest possible colour, next to black; the shade called in the glove trade "corbeau." "These are all I have in use at present," he said. "They are nearly new."
Have you worn any light gloves lately? Tan or fawn?
I scarcely ever wear tan gloves. I have not put on a pair for months.
They arrived at the butcher's and entered. White was standing at his block, chopping a bone in two. He lifted his head, and touched his hair to Mr. Ashley.
Is this the gentleman who had the money of you for the cheque? began Sergeant Delves, without circumlocution.
Mr. White put down his chopper, and took a survey of William. "It's like the cloak and cap that the other wore," said he.
Sergeants take up words quickly. "That the 'other' wore? Then you do not think it was this one?"
No, I don't, decided the butcher. "The one who brought the cheque was a shorter man."
Shorter! repeated Mr. Ashley, remembering it had been said in his counting-house that the man who appeared to be personating William was thought to have the advantage the other way. "You mean taller, White."
No, sir, I mean shorter. I am sure he was shorter. Not much, though.
There was a pause. "You observed that his gloves were tan, I think," said the sergeant.
Something of that sort. Clean light gloves they were, such as gentlemen wear.
Finally, then, White, you decide that this was not the gentleman?
Not he, said the butcher. "It's not the same voice."
The voice goes for nothing, said Sergeant Delves. "The other one had plums in his mouth."
Well, said the butcher, "I think I should have known Mr. Halliburton, in spite of any disguise, had he come in."
Don't make too sure, White, said the sergeant, with one of his wise nods. "He who came might have turned out to be just as familiar to you as Mr. Halliburton, if he had let you see his face. The fact is, White, there's some one going about with a cloak like this, and we want to find out who it is. Mr. Halliburton would give a pound out of his pocket, I'm sure, to know."
I'd give two, said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.
Sir, asked the butcher of Mr. Ashley, "what about the money? Shall I lose it?"
Now, White, just wait a bit, put in the sergeant. "If it was a gentleman that changed it, perhaps we shall get it out of him. Any way, you keep quiet."
They left the shop—standing a moment together before parting. The sergeant's road lay one way; Mr. Ashley's and William's another. "This only makes the matter more obscure," observed Mr. Ashley, alluding to what had passed.
Not at all. It makes it all the more clear, was the cool reply of the sergeant.
White says the man was shorter than Mr. Halliburton.
It's just what I expected him to say, nodded the sergeant. "If I am on the right scent—and I'd lay a thousand pound on it!—the man who changed the cheque is shorter. I just wanted White's evidence on the point," he added, looking at William; "and that is why I asked you to come down, dressed in your cloak. Good night, gentlemen."
He turned up the Shambles. And Mr. Ashley and William walked away side by side.
The conversation at Mr. Dare's dinner-table again turned upon the loss of the cheque, and the proceedings thereon. It was natural that it should turn upon it. Mr. Dare's mind was full of it; and he gave utterance to various conjectures and speculations, as they occurred to him.
In spite of what they say, I cannot help thinking that it must have been William Halliburton, he remarked with emphasis. "He alone was in the counting-house when the cheque disappeared; and the person changing it at White's, is proved to have borne the strongest possible resemblance to him; at all events, to his dress. The face was hidden—as of course it would be. People who attempt to pass off stolen cheques, take pretty good care that their features are not seen.
But who hesitates to bring it home to Halliburton? inquired Mrs. Dare.
They all do—as it seems to me. Ashley won't hear a word: laughs at the idea of Halliburton's being capable of it, and says we may as well accuse himself. That's nothing: as Cyril says, Mr. Ashley appears to be imbued with the idea that Halliburton can do no wrong: but now Delves has veered round. He shifts the blame entirely off Halliburton.
Upon whom does he shift it? asked Anthony Dare.
He won't say, replied Mr. Dare. "He has grown mysterious over it since the afternoon; nodding and winking, and giving no explanation. He says he knows who it is who possesses the second cloak."
The second cloak! The words were a puzzle to most at table, and Mr. Dare had to explain that another cloak, similar to that worn by William Halliburton, was supposed to be in existence.
Cyril looked up, with wonder marked on his face. "Does Delves say there are two such cloaks?" asked he.
That there are two such cloaks appears to be an indisputable fact, replied Mr. Dare. "The one cloak was parading behind the Halliburtons' house last night. Samuel Lynn went up to it——"
The cloak parading tout seul—alone? interrupted Signora Varsini, with a perplexed air.
A laugh went round the table. "Accompanied by the wearer, mademoiselle," said Mr. Dare, continuing the account of Samuel Lynn's adventure. "Thus the fact of there being two cloaks is established," he proceeded. "Still, that tells nothing; unless the owner of the other has access to Mr. Ashley's counting-house. I pointed this fact out to them. But Delves—which is most unaccountable—differed from me; and when we parted he expressed an opinion, with that confident nod of his, that it was not Halliburton's cloak which had been in the mischief at the butcher's, but the other."
What a thundering falsehood! burst forth Herbert Dare.
Sir! cried Mr. Dare, while all around the table stared at Herbert's excited manner.
Herbert had the grace to feel ashamed of his abrupt and intemperate rudeness. "I beg your pardon, sir; I spoke in my surprise. I mean that Delves must be telling a falsehood, if he seeks to throw the guilt off Halliburton. The very fact of the fellow's wearing a strange cloak such as that, when he went to get rid of the cheque, must be proof positive of Halliburton's guilt."
So I think, acquiesced Mr. Dare.
What sort of a cloak is this that you laugh at, and call scarce? inquired the governess.
The greatest scarecrow of a thing you can conceive, mademoiselle, responded Mr. Dare. "I had the pleasure of seeing it to-day on Halliburton. It is a dark green-and-blue Scotch plaid, made very full, with a turned up collar lined with red, and a bit of fur edging it."
Plaid? Plaid? repeated mademoiselle. "Why it must be——"
What? asked Mr. Dare, for she had stopped.
It must be very ugly, concluded she. But somehow Mr. Dare gathered an impression that it was not what she had been about to say.
What is it that Delves says about the cloaks? eagerly questioned Cyril. "I cannot make it out."
Delves says he knows who it is that owns the other; and that it was the other which went to change the cheque at White's.
What mysterious words, papa! cried Adelaide. "The cloak went to change the cheque!"
They were Delves' own words, replied Mr. Dare. "He did seem remarkably mysterious over it."
Is he going to hunt up the other cloak? resumed Cyril.
I conclude so. He was pondering over it for some time before he could remember who it was that he had seen wear a similar cloak. When the recollection came to him, he started up with surprise. Sharp men, these police-officers! added Mr. Dare. "They forget nothing."
And they ferret out everything, said Herbert with some testiness. "Instead of wasting time over vain speculations touching cloaks, why does not he secure Halliburton? It is impossible that the other cloak—if there is another—could have had anything to do with the affair."
I dropped a note to Delves after he left me, recommending him to follow up the suspicion on Halliburton, whether Mr. Ashley is agreeable or not, said Mr. Dare. "I have rarely in my life met with a stronger case of presumptive evidence."
So, many, besides Mr. Dare, would have felt inclined to say. Herbert, like his father, was firm in the belief that William Halliburton must have taken the money; that it must have been he who paid the visit to the butcher. What Cyril thought may be best inferred from his actions. A sudden fear had come over him that Sergeant Delves was really going to search out the other cloak. A most inconvenient procedure for Cyril, lest, in the process, the sergeant should search out him. He laid down his knife and fork. He had had quite enough dinner for one day.
Are you not hungry, Cyril? asked his mother.
I had a tremendous lunch, answered Cyril. "I can't eat more now."
He sat at the table until they had finished, feeling that he was being choked with dread. But that a guilty conscience deprives us of free action, he would have left the table and gone about some work he was now eager to do.
He rose when the rest did, looked about for a pair of large scissors, and glided with them up the staircase, his eyes and ears on the alert, lest there should be any watching him. No human being in that house had the slightest knowledge of what Cyril was about to do, or that he was going to do anything; but to Cyril's guilty conscience it seemed that all must be on the look-out.
A candle and scissors in hand he stole up to Herbert's room and locked himself in. Inside a closet within the room hung a dark blue camlet cloak, and Cyril took it from the hook. It had a plaid lining: a lining of the precise pattern and colours that the material of William Halliburton's cloak was composed of. The cloak was of the same full, old-fashioned make; its collar was lined with red, tipped with fur: in short, the one cloak worn on the right side and the other worn on the wrong side, could not have been told apart. This cloak belonged to Herbert Dare; occasionally, though not often, he went out at dusk, wearing it wrong side outermost. It was he, no doubt, whom Sergeant Delves had seen wearing one. He was a little taller than William Halliburton, towering above six feet. What his motive had been in causing a cloak to be lined so that, turned, it should resemble William Halliburton's, or whether the similarity in the lining had been accidental, was only known to Herbert himself.
With trembling fingers, and sharp scissors that were not particular where they cut, Cyril began his task of taking out this plaid lining. That he had worn it to the butcher's, and that he feared it might tell tales of him, were facts only too apparent. Better put it out of the way for ever! Unpicking, cutting, snipping, Cyril tore away at the lining, and at length got it out, the cloak suffering considerable damage in the shape of cuts and rents, and loose threads. Hanging the cloak up again, he twisted the lining together.
He was thus engaged when the handle of the door was briskly turned, as if some one essayed to enter who had not expected to find it fastened. Cyril dashed the lining under the bed, and made a spring to the window. To leap out? surely not: for the fall would have killed him. But he had nearly lost all presence of mind in his perplexity and fear.
Another turn at the handle, and the steps went on their way. Cyril thought he recognized them for the housemaid's, Betsy. He supposed she was going her evening round of the chambers. Gathering the lining under his arm, he halted to think. His hands shook, and his face was white.
What should he do with this tell-tale thing? He could not eat it; he dared not burn it. There was no room, of those which had fires, where he might make sure of being alone: and the smell would alarm the house. What was he to do with it?
Dig a hole and bury it, came a prompting voice within him; and Cyril waited for no better suggestion, but crept with it down the stairs, and out to the garden.
Seizing a spade, he dug a hole rapidly in an unfrequented place; and when it was large enough thrust the stuff in. Then he covered it over again, to leave the spot apparently as he found it.
I wish those stars would give a stronger light, grumbled Cyril, looking up at the dark blue canopy. "I must come again in the morning, I suppose, and see that it's all safe. It wouldn't do to bring a lantern."
Now it happened that Mr. Herbert Dare was bound on a private errand that evening. His intention was to go abroad in his cloak while he executed it. Just about the time that Cyril was putting the finishing touch to the hole, Herbert went up to his room to get the cloak.
To get the cloak, indeed! When Herbert opened the closet-door, nothing except the mutilated object just described met his eye. A torn, cut thing, the threads hanging from it loosely. Nothing could exceed Herbert's consternation as he stared at it. He thought he must be in a dream. Was it his cloak? Just before dinner, when he came up to wash his hands, he had seen his cloak hanging there, perfect. He shook it, he pulled it, he peered at it. His cloak it certainly was; but who had destroyed it? A suspicion flashed into his mind that it might be the governess. He made but a few steps to the school-room, carrying the cloak with him.
The governess was sitting there, listlessly enough. Perhaps she was waiting for him. "I say, mademoiselle," he began, "what on earth have you been doing to my cloak?"
To your cloak! responded she. "What should I have been doing to it?"
Look here, he said, spreading it out before her. "Who or what has done this? It was all right when I went down to dinner."
She stared at it in astonishment great as Herbert's, and threw off a volley of surprise in her foreign tongue. But she was a shrewd woman. Ay, never was there a shrewder than Bianca Varsini. Mr. Sergeant Delves was not a bad hand at ferreting out conclusions; but she would have beaten the sergeant hollow.
Tenez, cried she, putting up her forefinger in thought, as she gazed at the cloak. "Cyril did this."
Cyril!
She nodded her head. "You stood it out to me that you did not come in on Saturday evening and go out again between ten and eleven——"
I did not, interrupted Herbert. "I told you truth, but you would not believe me."
But this cloak went out. And it was turned the plaid side outwards, and your cap was on, tied down at the ears. Naturally I thought it was you. It must have been Cyril! Do you comprehend?
No, I don't, said Herbert. "How mysteriously you are speaking!"
It must have been Cyril who robbed Mr. Ashley.
Mademoiselle! interrupted Herbert indignantly.
Ecoutez, mon ami. He was blanched as white as a mouchoir, while your father spoke of it at dinner—did you see that he could not eat? 'You look guilty, Monsieur Cyril,' I said to myself, not really thinking him to be so. But be persuaded it was no other. He must have taken the paper-money—or what you call it—and come home here for your cloak and cap to wear, while he changed it for gold, thinking it would fall on that other one who wears the cloak; that William Hall——I cannot say the name; c'est trop dur pour les lèvres. It is Cyril, and no other. He has turned afraid now, and has torn the lining out.
Herbert could make no rejoinder at first, partly in dismay, partly in astonishment. "It cannot have been Cyril!" he reiterated.
I say it is Cyril, persisted the young lady. "I saw him creep up the stairs after dinner, with a candle and your mother's great scissors in his hand. He did not see me. I was in the dark, looking out of my room. Depend he was going to do it then."
Then, of all blind idiots, Cyril's the worst!—if he did take the cheque, uttered Herbert. "Should it become known, he is done for; and that for life. And my father helping to fan the flame!"
The governess shrugged her shoulders. "I not like Cyril," she said. "I have never liked him since I came."
But you will not tell against him! cried Herbert, in fear.
No, no, no. Tell against your brother! Why should I? It is no concern of mine. Unless people meddle with me, I not meddle with them. Cyril is safe, for me.
What on earth am I to do for my cloak to-night? debated Herbert. "I was going—going where I want it."
Why you want it so to-night? asked mademoiselle sharply.
Because it's cold, responded Herbert. "The cloak was warmer than my overcoat is."
Last night you go out, to-night you go out, to-morrow you go out. It is always so now!
I have a lot of perplexing business upon me, answered Herbert. "I have no time to see about it in the day."
Some little time longer he remained talking with her, partially disputing. The Italian, from some cause or other, went into ill-humour and said some provoking things. Herbert, it must be confessed, received them with good temper, and she grew more affable. When he left her, she offered to pick the loose threads out of the cloak, and hem up the bottom.
You'll lock the door while you do it? he urged.
I will take it to my chamber, she said. "No one will molest me there."
Herbert left it with her and went out. Cyril went out. Anthony had already gone out. Mr. Dare remained at home. He and his wife were conversing over the dining-room fire, in the course of the evening, when Joseph came in.
You are wanted, please, sir, he said to his master.
Who wants me? asked Mr. Dare.
It's Policeman Delves, sir.
Oh, show him in here, said Mr. Dare. "I hope something will be done in this," he added to his wife. "It may turn out a good slice of luck for me."
Sergeant Delves came in. In point of fact, he had just returned from that interview with the butcher, where he had been accompanied by Mr. Ashley and William.
Well, Delves, did you get my note? asked Mr. Dare.
Yes, sir, I did, said the sergeant, taking the seat offered him. "It's what I have come up about."
Do you intend to act upon my advice?
Why—no, I think not, replied the sergeant. "Not, at any rate, until I have had a talk with you."
What will you take?
Well, sir, the night's cold. I don't mind a drop of brandy-and-water.
It was brought, and Mr. Dare joined his visitor in partaking of it. He agreed with him that the night was cold. But nothing could Mr. Dare make of him. As often as he turned the conversation on the subject in hand, so often did the sergeant turn it off again. Mrs. Dare grew tired of listening to nothing; and she departed, leaving them together.
Then the manner of Sergeant Delves changed. He drew his chair forward; and bent towards Mr. Dare.
You have been urging me to go against young Halliburton, he began. "It won't do. Halliburton no more fingered that cheque, or had anything to do with it, than you or I had. Mr. Dare, don't you stir in this matter any further."
My present intention is to stir it to the bottom, returned Mr. Dare.
Look here, said the sergeant in an undertone; "I am not obliged to take notice of offences that don't come legally in my way. Many a thing has been done in this town—ay, and is being done now—that I am obliged to wink at; it don't lay right in my duty to take notice of it, so I keep my eyes shut. Now that's just it in this case. So long as the parties concerned, Mr. Ashley, or White, don't put it into my hands officially, I am not obliged to take so-and-so into custody, or to act upon my own suspicions. And I won't do it upon suspicions of my own: I promise it. If I am forced, that's another matter."
Are you alluding to Halliburton?
No. You are on the wrong scent, I say.
And you think you are on the right one?
I could put my finger out this night and lay it on the fox. But I tell you, sir, I don't want to, unless I am compelled. Don't you compel me, Mr. Dare, of all people in the world.
Mr. Dare leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. No suspicion of the truth had crossed him, and he could not understand either the sergeant or his manner. The latter rose to depart.
The other cloak, similar to young Halliburton's, belongs to your son Herbert, he whispered, as he passed Mr. Dare. "It was his brother, Cyril, who wore it on Saturday night, and who changed the cheque: therefore we may give a guess as to who took the cheque out of Mr. Ashley's desk. Now you be still over it, sir, for his sake, as I shall be. If I can, I'll call at your office to-morrow, Mr. Dare, and talk further. White must have the money refunded to him, or he won't be still."
Anthony Dare fell into a confusion of horror and consternation, leaving the sergeant to bow himself out. Mrs. Dare heard the departure, and returned to the room.
Well, cried she briskly, "is he going to accuse Halliburton?"
Mr. Dare did not answer. He looked up in a beseeching, helpless sort of manner, as one who is stunned by a blow.
What is the matter? she questioned, gazing at him closely. "Are you ill?"
He rose up shaking, as if ague were upon him. "No—no."
Perhaps you are cold, said Mrs. Dare. "I asked you what Delves was going to do. Will he accuse Halliburton?"
Be still! sharply cried Mr. Dare in a tone of pain. "The matter is to be hushed up. It was not Halliburton."
How went on Honey Fair? Better and worse, better and worse, according to custom; the worse prevailing over the better.
Of all its inhabitants, none had advanced so well as Robert East. Honestly to confess it, that is not saying much; since the greater portion, instead of advancing in the world's social scale, had retrograded. Robert had left the manufactory he had worked for and was now second foreman at Mr. Ashley's. He was also becoming through perseverance an excellent scholar in a plain way. He had had one friend to help him; and that was William Halliburton.
The Easts had removed to a better house; one of those which had a garden in front of it. No garden was more fragrant than theirs; and it was kept in order by Robert and Thomas East. The house was larger than they required, and part of it was occupied by Stephen Crouch and his daughter. It was known that the Easts were putting by money: and Honey Fair wondered: for none lived more comfortably, more respectably. Honey Fair—taking it as a whole—lived neither comfortably nor respectably. The Fishers had never come out of the workhouse, and Joe was dead. The Crosses, turned from their home, their furniture sold, had found lodgings; two rooms. Improvident as ever, were they. They did not attempt to rise even to their former condition; but grovelled on, living from hand to mouth. The Masons, man and wife, passed their time agreeably in quarrels. At least, that it was agreeable may be assumed, for the quarrels never ceased. Now and then they were diversified by a fight. The children were growing up without training; and Caroline—ah! I don't know that it will do much good to ask after her. Caroline, years ago, had taken a false step; and, try as she would, she could not regain her footing. She lived in a garret alone. She had so lived a long while; and she worked her fingers to the bone to keep body and soul together, and went about with her head down. Honey Fair looked askance at her, and gathered up its petticoats when they saw her coming, as you saw Eliza Tyrrett gather up hers, lest they should come into contact with those contaminations. The Carters thrived; the Brumms, also, were better off than they used to be; and the Buffles did so excellently that a joke went about that they would be retiring on their fortune: but the greater portion of Honey Fair was full of trouble and improvidence.
William Halliburton frequently found himself in Honey Fair. It was the most direct road from his house to that of Monsieur Colin, the French master. William, sociably inclined by nature, had sometimes dropped in at one or other of the houses. He would find Robert East labouring at his books much more than he need have laboured had some little assistance been given him in his progress. William good-naturedly undertook to supply it. It became quite a common thing for him to go round and pass an hour with the Easts and Stephen Crouch.
The unpleasant social features of Honey Fair thus obtruded themselves on William Halliburton's notice; it was impossible that any one passing much through Honey Fair should not be struck with them. Could nothing be done to rescue the people from this degraded condition?—and a degraded one it was, compared with what it might have been. Young and inexperienced as he was, it was a question that sometimes arose to William's mind. Dirty homes, scolding mothers, ragged and pining children, rough and swearing husbands! Waste, discomfort, evil. The women laid the blame on the men: reproached them with wasting their evenings and their money at the public-house. The men retorted upon the women, and said they had not a home "fit for a pig to come into." Meanwhile the money, whether earned by husband or wife, went. It went somehow, bringing apparently nothing to show for it, and the least possible return of good. Thus they struggled and squabbled on, their lives little better than one continued scene of scramble, discomfort, and toil. At a year's end they were not in the least bettered, not in the least raised, socially, morally, or physically, from their condition at the year's commencement. Nothing had been achieved; except that they were one year nearer to the great barrier which separates time from eternity.
Ask them what they were toiling and struggling for. They did not know. What was their end, their aim? They had none. If they could only rub on, and keep body and soul together (as poor Caroline Mason was trying to do in her garret), it appeared to be all they cared for. They did not endeavour to lift up their hopes or their aspirations above that; they were willing so to go on until death should come. What a life! what an end!
A feeling would now and then come over William that he might in some way help them to attempt better things. To do so was a duty which seemed to be lying across his path, that he might take it up and make it his. How to set about it, he knew no more than the Man in the Moon. Now and then disheartening moments would come upon him. To attempt to sweep away the evils of Honey Fair appeared a far more formidable task than to cleanse the Augean Stables could ever have appeared to Hercules. He knew that any endeavour, whether on his part or on that of others, who might be far more experienced and capable than he, would be utterly fruitless unless the incentive to exertion, to strive to do better, should be first born within themselves. Ah, my friends! the aid of others may be looked upon as a great thing; but without self-struggle and self-help little good will be effected.
One evening in passing the house partially occupied by the Crosses the door was flung violently open, a girl of fifteen flew shrieking out and a saucer of wet tea-leaves came flying after her. The tea-leaves alighted on the girl's neck, just escaping William's arm. It was the youngest girl of the family, Patty. The tea-leaves had come from Mrs. Cross. Her face was red with passion, her voice loud; the girl, on her part, was insulting and abusive. Mrs. Cross had her hands stretched out, to scratch, or tear, or pull hair, and a personal skirmish would inevitably have ensued but for the chance of William's being there. He received the hands upon his arm and contrived to detain them.
What's the matter, Mrs. Cross?
Matter! raved Mrs. Cross. "She's a idle, impedent wicked huzzy—that's what's the matter. She knows I've my gloving to get in for Saturday, and not a stroke'll she help. There's the dishes lying dirty from dinner, the tea-cups lying from tea, and touch 'em she won't. She expects me to do it, and me with my gloving to find 'em in food! I took hold of her arm to make her do it, and she turned and struck at me, the good-for-nothing faggot! I hope none on it didn't go on you, sir," added Mrs. Cross, somewhat modifying her voice, and pausing to recover breath.
Better that it had gone on my coat than on Patty's neck, replied he, in a good-natured, half-joking tone; though, indeed, the girl, with her evil look at her mother, her insolent air, stood there scarcely worth his defence. "If my mother asked me to wash tea-things or do anything else, Patty, I should do it, and think it a pleasure to help her," he added, to the girl.
Patty pushed her tangled hair behind her ears, and turned a defiant look upon her mother. Hidden as she had thought it from William, he saw it.
You just wait, nodded Mrs. Cross, in answer as defiant. "I'll make your back smart by-and-by."
Which of the two was the more in fault? It was hard to say. The girl had never been brought up to know her duty, or to do it. The mother from her earliest childhood had given abuse and blows; no kindly, persuasive words; no training. Little wonder, now Patty was growing up, that she turned again. It was the usual sort of maternal government throughout Honey Fair. In these, and similar cases, where could interference or counsel avail, unless the spirit of the mothers and daughters could be changed?
William walked on, after the little episode of the tea-leaves. He could not help contrasting these homes with his home; their life with his life. He was given to reflection beyond his years, and he wished these people could be aroused to improvement both of mind and body. They were living for no end; toiling only to satisfy the wants of the day—nay, to arrest the wants, rather than to satisfy them. How many of them were so much as thinking of another world? Their toil and turmoil in this was too great to enable them to cast a thought to the next.
I wonder, mused William, as he stepped towards M. Colin's, "whether some of the better-conducted of the men might not be induced to come round to East's in an evening? It might be a beginning, at any rate. Once wean the men from the public-houses, and there's no knowing what reform might be effected. I would willingly give up an hour or two of my evenings to them!"
His visit to M. Colin over, he retraced his steps to Honey Fair and turned into Robert East's. It was past eight o'clock then. Robert and Stephen Crouch were home from work, and were getting out their books. Charlotte sat by, at work as usual, and Tom East was drawing Charlotte's head towards him, to whisper something to her.
Robert, said William, speaking impulsively, the moment he entered, "I wonder whether you could induce a few of your neighbours to come here of an evening?"
What for, sir? asked Robert turning round from the book-shelves where he stood, searching for some volume.
It might be so much better for them. It might end in being so. I wish, he added with sudden warmth, "we could get all Honey Fair here!"
All Honey Fair! echoed Stephen Crouch in astonishment.
I mean what I say, Crouch.
Why, sir, the room wouldn't hold a quarter or a tenth part, or a hundredth part of them.
William laughed. "No, that it would not, practically. There is so much discomfort around us, and—and ill-doing—I must call it so, for want of a better name—that I sometimes wish we could mend it a little."
Who mend it, sir?
Any one who would try. You two might help towards it. If you could seduce a few round here, and get them to be interested in your own evening occupation—books and rational conversation—and so wean them from the public-houses, it would be a great thing.
There'd never be any good done with the men, take them as a whole, sir. They are an ignorant, easy-going lot, and don't care to be better.
That's just it, Crouch. They don't care to be better. But they might be taught to care. It would be a very great thing if Honey Fair could be brought to spend its evenings as you spend yours. If the men gave up spending their money, and reeling home after it; and the women kept tidy hearths and civil tongues. As Charlotte does, he added looking round at her.
There's no denying that, sir.
I think something might be done. By degrees, you understand; not in a hurry. Were you to take the men by storm—to say, 'We want you to lead changed lives, and are going to show you how to do it,' your movement would fail, and you would get laughed at into the bargain. Say to the men, 'You shan't go to the public-house, because you waste your time, your money, and your temper,' and, rely upon it, it would have as much effect as if you spoke to the wind. But get them to come here as a sort of change, and you may secure them for good if you make the evenings pleasant to them. In short, give them some employment or attraction that will outweigh the attractions of the public-house.
It would certainly be a good thing, said Stephen Crouch, musingly. "They might be for trying to raise themselves then."
Ay, spoke William, with enthusiasm. "Once let them find the day-spring within themselves, the wish to do right, to be raised above what they are now, and the rest will be easy. When once that day-spring can be found, a man is made. God never sent a man here, but he implanted that within him. The difficulty is, to awaken it."
And it is not always done, sir, said Charlotte, lifting her face from her work with a kindling eye, a heightened colour. She had found it.
Charlotte, I fear it is rarely done, instead of not always. It lies pretty dormant, to judge by appearances, in Honey Fair.
William was right. It is an epoch in a man's life, that finding what he had not inaptly called the day-spring. Self-esteem, self-reliance, the courage of long-continued patience, the striving to make the best of the mind's good gifts—all are born of it. He who possesses it may soar to a bright and, happy lot, bearing in mind—may he always bear it!—the rest and reward promised hereafter.
At any rate, it would be giving them a chance, as it seems to me, observed William. "I think I know one who would come. Andrew Brumm."
Ah, he would, and be glad to come, replied Robert East. "He is different from many of them. I know another who would, sir; and that's Adam Thornycroft."
Charlotte bent her head over her work.
Since that cousin of his died of delirium tremens, Thornycroft has said good-bye to the public-houses. He spends his evenings at home with his mother: but I know he would like to spend them here. Tim Carter would come, sir.
If Mrs. Tim will let him, put in Tom East saucily. And a laugh went round.
Ever so few to begin with, will set the example to others, remarked William. "There's no knowing what it may grow to. Small beginnings make great endings. I have talked with my mother about Honey Fair. She has always said: 'Before Honey Fair's conduct can be improved, its minds must be improved.'"
There will be the women yet, sir, spoke Charlotte. "If they are to remain as they are, it will be of little use the men doing anything for themselves."
Charlotte, once begun, I say there's no knowing where the work may end, he gravely answered.
The rain, which had been threatening all the evening, was coming down pretty smartly as William walked through Honey Fair on his return. Standing against a shutter near his own door was Jacob Cross. "Good night, Jacob," said William.
Goodnight, sir, answered Jacob sullenly.
Are you standing in the rain that it may make you grow, as the children say? asked William in his ever-pleasant tone.
I'm standing here 'cause I've nowhere else to stand, said the man, his voice full of resentment. "I'm turned out of our room, and I have no money for the Horned Ram."
A good thing you have not, thought William. "What has turned you out of your room?" he asked.
I'm turned out, sir, by the row there is in it. Our Mary Ann's come home.
Mary Ann? repeated William, not quite understanding.
Our Mary Ann, what took and married Ben Tyrrett. A fine market she have brought her pigs to!
What has she done? questioned William.
She's done enough, wrathfully answered Cross. "We told her when she married Tyrrett that he was nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a-week—and it's all he was, sir, as you know. 'Wait,' I says to her; 'somebody better than him'll turn up.' Her mother says 'Wait.' Others says 'Wait.' No, not she; the girls are all marrying mad. Well, she took her own way; she would take it; and they got married, and set up upon nothing. Neither of 'em had saved a two-penny-piece; and Ben fond of the public; and our Mary Ann fond of laziness and finery; and not knowing how to keep house any more than her young sister Patty did."
William remembered the little interlude of that evening in which Miss Patty had played her part. Jacob continued.
It was all fine and sunshiny with 'em for a few days or a few weeks, till the novelty wears off, and then they finds things going cranky. The money, that begins to run short; and Mary Ann, she finds that Ben likes his glass; and Ben, he finds that she's just a doll, with no gumption or management inside her. They quarrels—naterally, and they comes to us to settle it. 'You was both red-hot for the bargain,' says I, 'and you must just make the best of it and of one another.' And so they went back: and it has gone on till this, quarrelling continual. And now he's took to beat her, and home she came to-night, not half an hour ago, with her three children and a black eye, vowing she'll stop at home and won't go back to him again. And she and her mother's having words over it, and the babies a-squalling—enough noise to raise the ceiling off, and I come out of it. I wish I was dead, I do!
Jacob's account of the noise was scarcely exaggerated. It penetrated to where they stood, two or three houses off. William had moved closer, that the umbrella might give Cross part of its shelter. "Not a very sensible wish, that of yours, is it, Cross?" remarked he.
I have wished it long, sir, sensible or not sensible. I slaves away my days and have nothing but a pigsty to step into at home, and angry words in it. A nice place for a tired man! I can't afford the public more than three or four nights a-week; not that, always. They're getting corky at the beer-shops, nowadays, and won't give trust. Wednesday this is; Thursday, to-morrow; Friday, next night: three nights, and me without a shelter to put my head in!
I should like to take you to one to-morrow night, said William. "Will you go with me?"
Where to? ungraciously asked Cross.
To Robert East's. You know how he and Crouch spend their evenings. There's always something going on there interesting and pleasant.
Crouch and East don't want me.
Yes, they do. They will be only too glad if you, and a few more intelligent men, will join them. Try it, Cross. There's a warm room to sit in, at all events, and nothing to pay.
Ah, it's all very fine for them Easts! We haven't their luck. Look at me! Down in the world.
William put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Why should you be down in the world?"
Why should I? repeated Cross, in surprise. "Because I am," he logically answered.
That is not the reason. The reason is because you do not try to rise in the world.
It's no use trying.
Have you ever tried?
Why, no! How can I try?
You wished just now that you were dead. Would it not be better to wish to live?
Not such a life as mine.
But to wish to live would seem to imply that it must be a better life. And why need your life be so miserable? You gain fair wages; your wife earns money. Altogether I suppose you must have twenty-six or twenty-eight shillings a week——
But there's no thrift with it, exclaimed Cross. "It melts away somehow. Before the middle of the week comes, it's all gone."
You spend some at the Horned Ram, you know, said William, not in a reproving tone.
She squanders away in rubbish more than that, was Jacob's answer, pointing towards his house, and not giving at all a complimentary stress upon the "she."
And with nothing to show for it in return, either of you. Try another plan, Jacob.
I'd not be backward—if I could see one to try, said he, after a pause.
Be here at half-past eight to-morrow evening, and I will go in with you to East's. If you cannot see any better way, you can spend a pleasant evening. But now, Jacob, let me say a word to you, and do you note it. If you find the evening pass agreeably, go the next evening, and the next; go always. You can't tell all that may arise from it in time. I know of one thing that will.
What's that, sir?
Why, that instead of wishing yourself dead, you will grow to think life too short, for the good you find in it.
He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.
He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has a cordial way with him, and don't look at folks as if they was dirt.
And that had been the origin of the soirées held at Robert East's. By degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and—what was more—to like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement upon the Horned Ram.
On one of the warm, bright days that we sometimes have in the month of February, all the brighter from their contrast to the passing winter, William Halliburton was walking home to tea from the manufactory, and overtook Henry Ashley limping along.
Henry was below the middle height, and slight in form, with the same beautiful face that had marked his boyhood, delicately refined in feature, brilliant in colour; the same upright lines of pain knit in the smooth white brow.
Just the man I wanted, said he, linking his arm within William's. "You are a good help up a hill, and I am hot and tired."
Wrapped up in that coat, with its fur lining, I should think you are! I have doffed my elegant cloak, you see, to-day.
Is it off to the British Museum?
William laughed. "I have not had time to pack it up."
I am glad I met you. You must come home to tea with me. Well? Why are you hesitating? You have no engagement?
Nothing more than usual. My studies——
You are study mad! interrupted Henry Ashley. "What do you want to be? A Socrates? An Admirable Crichton?"
Nothing so formidable. I want to be useful.
And you make yourself accomplished, as a preliminary step to it. Mary took up the fencing-sticks for you yesterday. Herbert Dare was at our house—some freak is taking him to be a pretty constant visitor just now—and the talk turned upon Frank. You know, broke off Henry in his quaint way, "I never use long words when short ones will do: you learned ones would say 'conversation.' Mr. Keating had said to my father that Frank Halliburton was a brilliant scholar, and I retailed it to Herbert. I knew it would put him up, and there's nothing I like half so much as to rile the Dares. Herbert sneered. 'And he owes it partly to William,' I went on, 'for if Frank's a brilliant scholar, William's a brillianter!' 'William Halliburton a brilliant scholar!' stormed scornful Herbert. 'Has he learnt to be one at the manufactory? So long as he knows how gloves are made, that's enough for him. What does he want with the requirements of gentlemen?' Up looked Miss Mary; her colour rising, her eyes flashing. She was at her drawing: at which, by the way, she makes no progress; nothing to be compared with Anna Lynn. 'William Halliburton has forgotten more than you ever learnt, Herbert Dare,' cried she; 'and there's more of the true gentleman in his little finger than there is in your whole body.' 'There's for you, Herbert Dare,' whistled I; 'but it's true, lad, like it or not as you may!' Herbert was riled."
Henry turned his head as he concluded, and looked up at William. A gleam like a sunbeam had flashed into William's eyes; a colour to his cheeks.
Well? cried Henry sharply, for William did not speak. "Have you nothing to say?"
It was generous of Miss Ashley.
I don't mean that. Oh dear! sighed Henry, who appeared to be in one of his fitful moods; "who is to know whether things will turn out crooked or straight in this world of ours? What objection have you to coming home with me for the evening? That's what I mean."
None. I can give up my books for a night, bookworm as you think me. But they will expect me at East's.
Happy the man that expecteth nothing! responded Henry. "Disappoint them."
As for disappointing them, I shouldn't so much mind, but I can't abide to disappoint myself, returned William, quoting from Goldsmith's good old play, of which both he and Henry were fond.
You don't mean to say it would be a disappointment to you, not giving the lesson, or whatever it is, to those working chaps! uttered Henry Ashley.
Not as you would count disappointment. When I do not get round for an hour, it seems as a night lost. I know the men like to see me; and I am always fearing that we are not sure of them.
You speak as though your whole soul were in the business, returned Henry Ashley.
I think my heart is in it.
Henry looked at him wistfully, and his tone grew serious. "William, I would give all I am worth, present, and to come, to change places with you."
To change places with me! echoed William, in surprise.
Yes: for you have an object in life. You may have many. To be useful in your generation is one of them.
And so may you have objects in life.
With this encumbrance! He stamped his lame leg, and a look of keen vexation settled itself in his face. "You can go forth into the world with your strong limbs, your unbroken health; you can work, or you can play; you can be active, or you can be still, at will. But what am I? A poor, weak creature; infirm of temper, tortured by pain, condemned half my days to the monotony of a sick-room. Compare my lot with yours!"
There are those who would choose your lot in preference to mine, were the option given them, returned William. "I must work. It is a duty laid upon me. You can play."
Thank you! How?
I am not speaking literally. Every good and pleasing thing that money can purchase is at your command. You have only to enjoy them, so far as you may. One, suffering as you do, bears not upon him the responsibility to use his time, that a healthy man does. Lots, in this world, Henry, are, as I believe, pretty equally balanced. Many would envy you your life of calm repose.
It is not calm, was the abrupt rejoinder. "It is disturbed by pain, and aggravated by temper; and—and—tormented by uncertainty."
At any rate, you can subdue the one.
Which, pray?
The temper. Henry—dropping his voice—"a victory over your own temper may be one of the few obligations laid upon you."
I wish I could live for an object, grumbled Henry.
Come round with me to East's, sometimes.
I—daresay! retorted Henry, when he could recover from his amazement. "Thank you again, Mr. Halliburton."
William laughed. But he soon resumed his seriousness. "I can understand that for you, the favoured son of Mr. Ashley, reared in refinement and exclusiveness——"
Enshrined in pride—the failing that Helstonleigh is pleased to call my besetting sin; sheltered under care and coddling so great that the very winds of heaven are not suffered to visit my face too roughly! was the impetuous interruption of Henry Ashley. "Come! bring it all out. Don't, from motives of delicacy, keep in any of my faults, virtues, or advantages!"
I can understand, I say, why you are unwilling to break through the reserve of your home habits, William calmly continued. "But, if you did so, you might no longer have to complain of the want of an object in life."
At this moment they came in view of William's house. Mrs. Halliburton happened to be at one of the windows. William nodded his greeting, and Henry raised his hat. Presently Henry began again.
Pray, do you join the town in its gratuitous opinion that Henry Ashley, of all in it, is the proudest amid the proud?
I do not find you proud, said William.
You! As far as you and I are concerned, I think the boot might be on the other leg. You might set up for being proud over me.
William could not help laughing. "Putting joking aside, my opinion is, Henry, that your shyness and sensitiveness are in fault; not your pride. It is your reserved manner alone which has caused Helstonleigh to take up the impression that you are unduly proud."
Right, old fellow! returned Henry in emphatic tones. "If you knew how far I and pride stand apart—but let it pass."
Arrived at the entrance to Mr. Ashley's, William threw open the gate for Henry, retreating himself. "I must go home first, Henry. I won't be a quarter of an hour."
Henry looked cross. "Why on earth, then, did you not go in as we passed? What was the use of your coming up here to go back again?"
I thought my arm was helping you.
So it was. But—there! don't be an hour.
As William walked rapidly back, he met Mrs. Ashley's carriage. She and Mary were in it. Mrs. Ashley nodded as he raised his hat, and Mary glanced at him with a smile and a heightened colour. She had grown up to excessive beauty.
A few moments, and William met beauty of another style—Anna Lynn. Her cheeks were the flushed, dimpled cheeks of her childhood; the same sky-blue eyes gleaming from between their long dark lashes; the same profusion of silky, brown hair; the same gentle, sweetly modest manners. William stopped to shake hands with her.
Out alone, Anna?
I am on my way to take tea with Mary Ashley.
Are you? We shall meet there, then.
That will be pleasant. Fare thee well for the present, William.
She continued her way. William ran in home, and to his chamber. Dressing himself hastily, he went to the room where his mother sat, and stood before her.
Does my coat fit me, mother?
Why, where are you going? she asked.
To Mrs. Ashley's. I have put on my new coat. Does it do? It seems all right—throwing up his arms.
Yes, it fits you exactly. I think you are growing a dandy. Go along. I must not look at you too long.
Why not? he asked in surprise.
In case I grow proud of my eldest son. And I would rather be proud of his goodness than of his looks.
William laughingly gave his mother a farewell kiss. "Tell Gar I am sorry he will not have me at his elbow this evening, to find fault with his Greek. Good-bye, mother dear."
In truth, there was something remarkably noble in William Halliburton's appearance. As he entered Mrs. Ashley's drawing-room, the fact seemed to strike upon Henry with unusual force, who greeted him from his distant sofa.
So that's what you went back for!—to turn yourself into a buck! he called out as William approached him. "As if you were not well enough before! Did you dress for me, pray?"
For you! laughed William. "That's good!"
In saying 'me,' I include the family, returned Henry quaintly. "There's no one else to dress for."
Yes, there is. There's Anna Lynn.
Now, in good truth, William had no covert meaning in giving this answer. The words rose to his lips, and he spoke them lightly. Perhaps he could have given a very different one, had he been compelled to speak out the inmost feeling of his heart. Strange, however, was the effect on Henry Ashley. He grasped William's arm with emotion, and pulled his face down to him as he lay.
What do you say? What do you mean?
I mean nothing in particular. Anna is here.
You shall not evade me, gasped Henry. "I must have it out, now or later. What is it that you mean?"
William stood, almost confounded. Henry was evidently in painful excitement; every vestige of colour had forsaken his sensitive countenance, and his white hands shook as they held William.
What do you mean? William whispered. "I said nothing to agitate you thus, that I am aware of. Are we at cross-purposes?"
A spot, bright as carmine, began to flush into the invalid's pale cheeks, and he moved his face so that the light did not fall upon it.
I'll have it out, I say. What is Anna Lynn to you?
Nothing, answered William, a smile parting his lips.
What is she to you? reiterated Henry, his tone painfully earnest.
William edged himself on to the sofa, so as to cover Henry from the gaze of any eyes that might be directed to him from the other parts of the room. "I like Anna very much," he said in a clear, low tone; "almost as I might like a sister; but I have no love for her, in the sense you would imply—if I am not mistaking your meaning. And I never shall have."
Henry looked at him wistfully. "On your honour?"
Henry! was there need to ask it? On my honour, if you will.
No, no; there was no need: you are always truthful. Bear with me, William! bear with my infirmities.
My sister Anna Lynn might be, and welcome. My wife never.
Henry did not answer. His face was growing damp with physical pain.
You have one of your fits of suffering coming on! breathed William. "Shall I get you anything?"
Hush! only sit there, to hide me from them: and be still.
William did as he was requested, sitting so as to screen him from Mrs. Ashley and the rest. He held his hands, and the paroxysm, sharp while it lasted, passed away. Henry's very lips had grown white with pain.
You see what a poor wretch I am!
I see that you suffer, was William's compassionate answer.
From henceforth there is a fresh bond of union between us, for you possess my secret. It is what no one else in the world does. William, that's my object in life.
William did not reply. Perplexity was crowding on his mind, shading his countenance.
Well! cried Henry, beginning to recover his equanimity, and with it his sharp retorts. "Why are you looking so blue?"
Will it be smooth sailing for you, Henry, with Mr. Ashley?
Yes, I think it will, was the hasty rejoinder: its very haste, its fractious tone, proving that Henry was by no means so sure of it as he would imply. "I am not as others are: therefore he will let minor considerations yield to my happiness."
William looked uncommonly grave. "Mr. Ashley is not all," he said, arousing from a reverie. "There may be difficulties elsewhere. She must not marry out of their own society. Samuel Lynn is one of its strictest members."
Rubbish! Samuel Lynn is my father's servant, and I am my father's son. If Samuel should take a strait-laced fit, and hold out, why, I'll turn broadbrim.
Samuel Lynn is my father's servant! In that very fact, William saw cause to fear that it might not be such plain sailing with Mr. Ashley as Henry wished to anticipate. He could not help looking the doubts he felt. Henry observed it.
What's the matter now? he peevishly asked. "I do think you were born to be the plague of my life! My belief is, you want her for yourself."
I am only anxious for you, Henry. I wish you could have assured yourself that it would go well, before—before allowing your feelings to be irrevocably bound up in it. A blow, for you, might be hard to bear.
How could I help my feelings? retorted Henry. "I did not fix them purposely on Anna Lynn. Before I knew anything about it, they had fixed themselves. Almost before I knew that I cared for her, she was more to me than the sun in the heavens. There has been no help for it at all, I tell you. So don't preach."
Have you spoken to her?
Henry shook his head. "The time has not come for it. I must make it right with the master before I can stir a step: and I fear it is not quite ripe for that. Mind you don't talk."
William smiled. "I will mind."
You'd better. If that Quaker society got a hint of it, there's no knowing what a hullabaloo they might make. They might be for reading Anna a public lecture at Meeting: or get Samuel Lynn to vow he'd not give his consent.
I should argue in this way, were I you, Henry. With my love so firmly fixed on Anna Lynn——I beg your pardon, Miss Ashley.
William started up. Mary Ashley was standing close to the sofa. Had she caught the sense of the last words?
Mamma spoke twice, but you were too busily engaged to hear, said Mary. "Henry, James is waiting to wheel your sofa to the tea-table."
Henry rose. Passing his arm through William's, he approached the group. The servant pushed the sofa after them. Standing together were Mary Ashley and Anna Lynn. They presented a great contrast to each other. Mary wore an evening dress of shimmering silk, its low body trimmed with rich white lace; white lace hung from its drooping sleeves: and she had on ornaments of gold. Anna was in grey merino, high in the neck, close at the wrists; not a bit of lace about her, not an ornament; nothing but a plain white linen collar. "Catch me letting her wear those Methodistical things when she shall be mine!" thought Henry. "I'll make a bonfire of the lot."
But the Quaker cap? Ah! it was not there. Anna had continued her habit at home of throwing it off, as formerly. Patience reprimanded in vain. She was not seconded by Samuel Lynn. "We are by ourselves, Patience; it does not much matter," he would say; "the child says she is cooler without it." But had Samuel Lynn known that Anna was in the habit of discarding it on every possible occasion when she was from home, he had been as severe as Patience. At Mr. Ashley's, especially, she would sit, as now, without it, her lovely face made more lovely by its falling curls. Anna did wrong, and she knew it; but she was a wilful girl, and a vain one. That pretty, timid, retiring manner concealed much self-will, much vanity; though in some things she was as easily swayed as a child.
She disobeyed Patience in another matter. Patience would say to her, "Should Mary Ashley be opening her instrument of music, thee will mind not to listen to her songs: thee can go into another room."
Oh, yes, Patience, she would answer; "I will mind."
But, instead of not listening, Miss Anna would place herself near the piano, and drink in the songs as if her whole heart were in the music. Music had a great effect upon her; and there she would sit entranced, as though she were in some earthly Elysium. She said nothing of this at home; but the deceit was wrong.
They were sitting down to tea, when Herbert Dare came in. The hours for meals were early at Mr. Ashley's: the medical men considered it best for Henry. Herbert could be a gentleman when he chose; good-looking also; quite an addition to a drawing-room. He took his seat between Mary and Anna.
I say, how is it you are not dining at home this evening? asked Henry, who somehow did not regard the Dares with any great favour.
I dined in the middle of the day, was Herbert's reply.
The condescension! I thought only plebeians did that. James, is there a piece of chalk in the house? I must chalk that up.
Henry! Henry! reproved Mrs. Ashley.
Oh, let him talk, Mrs. Ashley, said Herbert, with supreme good humour. "There's nothing he likes so well as a wordy war."
Nothing in the world, acquiesced Henry. "Especially with Herbert Dare."
Laughing, talking, playing at proverbs, earning and paying forfeits, it was a merry group in Mrs. Ashley's drawing-room. That lady herself was not joining in the merriment. She sat apart at a small table, some work in her hand, speaking a word now and then, and smiling to herself in echo to some unusual burst of laughter. It was so surprising that only five voices could make so much noise. They were sitting in a circle; Mary Ashley between William Halliburton and Herbert Dare, Anna Lynn between Herbert Dare and Henry Ashley, Henry and William side by side.
Time, in these happy moments, passes rapidly. In due course, the hands of the French clock on the mantel-piece pointed to half-past eight, and its silver tones rang out the chimes. They were at the end of the game, and just settling themselves to commence another. The half-hour aroused William, and he glanced towards the clock.
Half-past eight! who would have thought it? I had no idea it was so late. I must leave you just for half an hour, he added, rising.
Leave for what? cried Henry Ashley.
To go as far as East's. I will not remain there.
Henry broke into a "wordy war," as Herbert Dare had called it earlier in the evening. William smiled, and overruled him in his quiet way.
They have my promise to go round this evening, he said. "I gave it them unconditionally, and must just go round to tell them I cannot come—if that's not a contradiction. Don't look so cross, Henry."
Of course, you don't mean to come back, resentfully spoke Henry. "When you get there, you'll stop there."
No; I have told you I will not. But if I let them expect me all the evening, they will be looking and waiting, and do no good.
He went out as he spoke, and left the house. As he reached the gate Mr. Ashley was coming in. Mr. Ashley had been in the manufactory; he did not often go there after tea. "Going already, William?" Mr. Ashley exclaimed in accents of surprise.
Not for long, sir. I must just look in at East's.
Is that scheme likely to prosper? Can you keep the men?
Yes, indeed, I think so. My hopes are strong.
Well, there's nothing like hope, answered Mr. Ashley, with a laugh. "But I shall wonder if you do keep them. William," he added, after a slight pause, his tone changing to a business one, "I have a few words to say to you. I was about to speak to you in the counting-house this afternoon, but something put it aside. I have changed my plans with respect to this Lyons journey. Instead of despatching you, as I had thought of doing, I believe I shall send Samuel Lynn."
Mr. Ashley paused. William did not immediately reply.
Samuel Lynn's experience is greater than yours. It is a new thing, and he will see, better than you could do, what can and what cannot be done.
Very well, sir, at length answered William.
You speak as though you were disappointed, remarked Mr. Ashley.
William was disappointed. But his motive for the feeling lay far deeper than Mr. Ashley supposed. "I should like to have gone, sir, very much. But—of course, my liking, or not liking, has nothing to do with it. Perhaps it is as well that I should not go," he resumed, more in soliloquy, as if he were trying to reconcile himself to the disappointment by argument, than in observation to Mr. Ashley. "I do not see how the men would have done without me at East's."
Ay, that's a grave consideration, replied Mr. Ashley jokingly, as he turned to walk to his own door.
William stood still, nailed as it were to the spot, looking after his master. A most unwelcome thought had flashed over him; and in the impulse of the moment he followed Mr. Ashley, to speak it out. Even in the night's obscurity, his emotion was perceptible.
Mr. Ashley, the suspicion cast on me, at the time that cheque was lost, has not been the reason—the reason for your declining to intrust me with this commission?
Mr. Ashley looked at him in surprise. But that William's agitation was all too real, he would have laughed at him.
William, I think you are turning silly. No suspicion was cast on you.
You have never stirred in the matter, sir; you have never spoken to me to tell me you were satisfied that I was not in any way guilty, was William's impulsive answer.
Spoken to you! where was the need? Why, William, my whole life, my daily intercourse with you, is only so much proof that you have my full confidence. Should I admit you to my home, to the companionship of my children, if I had no more faith in you than that?
True, said William, beginning to recover himself. "It was a thought that flashed over me, sir, when you said I was not to be sent on this journey. I should not like you to doubt me; I could not live under it."
William, you reproached me with not having stirred in——
I beg your pardon, sir. I never thought of such a thing as reproach. I would not presume to do it.
I have not stirred in the matter, resumed Mr. Ashley. "A very disagreeable suspicion arises in my mind at times, as to how the cheque went; and I do not choose to stir in it. Have you no suspicion on the point?"
The question took William by surprise. He stammered in his answer; an unusual thing for him to do. "N—o."
I ask if you have a suspicion? quietly repeated Mr. Ashley, meaningly, as if he took William's answer for nothing, or had not heard it.
Then William spoke out readily. "A suspicion has crossed my mind, sir. But it is one I should not like to breathe to you."
That's enough. I see. White voluntarily took the loss of the money on himself. He came to me to say so; therefore, I infer that it has in some private way been refunded to him. Mr. Dare veered round, and advised me not to investigate the affair, as I was no loser by it; Delves hinted the same thing. Altogether, I can see through the thing pretty clearly, and I am content to let it rest. Are you satisfied? If not——
Mr. Ashley broke off abruptly. William waited.
So, don't turn foolish again. You and I now understand each other. William! he emphatically added, "I am growing to like you almost as I like my own children. I am proud of you; and I shall be prouder yet. God bless you, my boy!"
It was so very rare that the calm, dignified Thomas Ashley was betrayed into anything like demonstrativeness, that William could only stand and look. And while he looked, the door closed on his master.
He went way with all speed, calling at his home. Were the truth to be told, perhaps William was quite as anxious to be back again at Mr. Ashley's as Henry was that he should be there. Scarcely stopping for a word of greeting, he opened a drawer, took from it a small case of fossils, and then searched for something else; something which apparently he could not find.
Have any of you seen my microscope? he asked, turning to the group at the table bending over their books.
Jane looked round. "My dear, I lent it to Patience to-day. I suppose she forgot to return it. Gar, will you go and ask her for it?"
Don't disturb yourself, Gar, said William. "I am going out, and will ask Patience myself."
Patience was alone in her parlour. She returned him the microscope, saying that the reason she had not sent it in was, that she had not had time to use it. "Thee art in evening dress!" she remarked to William.
I am at Mrs. Ashley's. I have only come out for a few minutes. Thank you. Good night, Patience.
Wait thee a moment, William. Is Anna ready to come home?
No, that she is not. Why?
I want to send for her. Samuel Lynn is spending the evening in the town, so I must send Grace. And I don't care to send her late. She will only get talking to John Pembridge, if she goes out after he is home from work.
William smiled. "It is natural that she should, I suppose. When are they going to be married?"
Shortly, answered Patience, in a tone not quite so equable as usual. Patience saw no good in people getting married in general; and she was vexed at the prospect of losing Grace in particular. "She leaves us in a fortnight from this," she continued, alluding to Grace, "and all her thoughts seem to be bent now upon meeting John Pembridge. Could thee bring Anna home for me?"
With pleasure, replied William.
That is well, then. Grace does not deserve to go out to-night, for she wilfully crossed me to-day. Good evening, William.
Fossil-case in hand, and the microscope in his pocket, William made the best of his way to Honey Fair. Robert East, Stephen Crouch, Brumm, Thornycroft, Carter, Cross, and some half-dozen others, were crowded round Robert's table. William handed them the fossils and the microscope; told the men to amuse themselves with them for that night, and he would explain more about them on the morrow. He was ever anxious that the men should have some object of amusement as a rallying point on these evenings; anything to keep their interest awakened.
Before the half-hour had expired, he was back at Mr. Ashley's. Proverbs had been given up, and Mary was at the piano. Mr. Ashley had been accompanying her on the flute, on which instrument he was a brilliant player, and when William entered she was singing a duet with Herbert Dare. Anna—disobedient Anna—was seated, listening with all her ears and heart to the music, her up-turned countenance quite wonderful to look upon in its rapt delight.
I think you could sing, spoke Henry Ashley to her, in an undertone, after watching her while the song lasted.
Anna shook her head. "I may not try," she said, raising her blue eyes to him for one moment, and then dropping them.
The time may come when you may, returned Henry, in a deeper whisper.
She did not answer, she did not lift her eyes; but the faintest possible smile parted her rosy lips—a smile which seemed to express a consciousness that perhaps that time might come. And Henry, shy and sensitive, stood apart and gazed upon her, his heart beating.
Young lady, said William, advancing, "do you know that a special honour has been assigned me to-night? One that concerns you."
Anna raised her eyes now. She felt as much at ease with William as she did with her father or Patience. "What dost thee say, William? An honour?"
That of seeing you safely home. I——
What's that for? interrupted Anna. "Where's my father?"
He is not at home this evening. And Patience did not care to send out Grace. I'll take care of you.
William could not but observe the sudden flush, the glow of pleasure, or what looked like pleasure, that overspread Anna's countenance at the information. "What's that for?" he thought, echoing her recent words. But Mary began to sing again, and his attention was diverted.
Ten o'clock was the signal for departure. As they were going out—William, Anna, and Herbert Dare, who took the opportunity to leave with them—Henry Ashley limped after them, and drew William aside in the hall.
Honour bright, mind, my friend!
William did not understand. "Honour bright, always," said he. "But what do you mean?"
You'll not get making love to her on your way home!
William could not help laughing. He turned his amused face full on Henry. "Be at rest. I would not care to make love to her, had I full leave and license from the Quaker society, granted me in public meeting."
Do you think I did not see her brightened countenance when you told her she was to go home with you? retorted Henry.
I saw it too. I conclude she was pleased that her father was not coming for her, little undutiful thing! However it may have been, rely upon it that brightening was not for me.
Pressing his hand warmly, with a pressure that no false friend ever gave, William hastened away. It was time. Herbert Dare and Anna had not waited for him, but were ever so far ahead.
Very polite of you! cried William, when he caught them up. "Anna, had you gone pitching into that part of the path they are mending, I should have been responsible, you know. You might have waited for me."
He spoke good-humouredly, making a joke of it. Herbert Dare did not appear to receive it as one. He retorted haughtily.
Do you suppose I am not capable of taking care of Miss Lynn? As much so as you, at any rate.
Possibly, coolly returned William, not losing his good-humoured tone. Herbert Dare had given Anna his arm. William walked near her on the other side. Thus they reached Mr. Lynn's.
Good night, said Herbert, shaking hands with her. "Good night to you, Halliburton."
Good night, replied William.
Herbert Dare set off running. William knocked at the door and waited until it was opened. Then he also shook hands with Anna, and saw her in.
Frank and Gar were putting up their books for the night when William entered. The boarders had gone to bed. Jane, a very unusual thing for her, was sitting by the fire, doing nothing.
Am I not idle, William? she said.
William bent to kiss her. "There's no need for you to be anything but idle now, mother."
No need! William, you know better. There's great need that none should be idle: none in the world. But I have a bad headache to-night.
William, called out Gar, "they brought this round for you from East's. Young Tom came with it."
It was the case of fossils and the microscope. William observed that they need not have sent them, as he should want them there the next evening. "Patience said she had not had time to use the microscope," he continued. "I think I will take it in to her. I suppose she has been buying linen, and wants to see if the threads are even."
The Lynns will have gone to bed by this time, said Jane.
Not to-night. I have only just seen Anna home from Mrs. Ashley's; and Mr. Lynn has gone out to supper.
He turned to leave the room with the microscope, but Gar was looking at the fossils and asked the loan of it. A few minutes, and William finally went out.
Patience came to the door, in answer to his knock. She thanked him for the microscope and stood a minute or two chatting. Patience was fond of a gossip; there was no denying it.
Will thee not walk in?
Not now, he said, turning away. "Good night, Patience."
Good night to thee. Thee send in Anna, please. She is having a pretty long talk with thy mother.
William was at a loss. "I saw Anna in from Mr. Ashley's."
She did but ask whether her father was home, and then ran through the house, replied Patience. "She had a message for thy mother, she said, from Margaret Ashley."
Mrs. Ashley does not send messages to my mother, returned William, in some wonder. "They have no acquaintance with each other—beyond a bow, in passing."
She must have sent her one to-night—why else should the child go in to deliver it? persisted Patience. "Not but that Anna is always running into thy house at nights. I fear she must trouble thy mother at her class."
She never stays long enough for that, replied William. "When she does come in—and it is not often—she just opens the door; 'How dost thee, friend Jane Halliburton?' and out again."
Then thee can know nothing about it, William. I tell thee she never stays less than an hour, and she is always there. I say to her that one of these evenings thy mother may likely be hinting to her that her room will be more acceptable than her company. Thee send her home now, please.
William turned away. Curious thoughts were passing through his mind. That Anna did not go in, in the frequent manner Patience intimated; that she rarely stayed above a minute or two, he knew. He knew—at least, he felt perfectly sure—that Anna was not at his house now; had not been there. And yet Patience said "Send her home."
Has Anna been here? he asked when he went in.
Anna? No.
Not just that moment, to draw observation, but presently, William left the room, and went into the garden at the back. A very unpleasant suspicion had arisen in his mind. It might not have occurred to him, but for certain glances which he had observed pass that evening between Herbert Dare and Anna—glances of confidence—as if they had a private mutual understanding on some point or other. He had not understood them then: he very much feared he was about to understand them now.
Opening the gate leading to the field at the back, commonly called Atterly's Field, he looked cautiously around. For a moment or two he could see nothing. The hedge was thick on either side, and no living being appeared to be beneath its shade. But he saw farther when his eyes became accustomed to the obscurity.
Pacing slowly together, were Herbert Dare and Anna. Now moving on, a few steps; now pausing to converse more at ease. William drew a deep breath. He saw quite enough to be sure this was not the first time they had so paced together: and thought after thought crowded on his mind; one idea, one remembrance chasing another.
Was this the explanation of the plaid cloak, which had paraded stealthily on that very field-path during the past winter? There could not be a doubt of it. And was it in this manner that Anna's flying absences from home were spent—absences which she, in her unpardonable deceit, had accounted for to Patience by saying that she was with Mrs. Halliburton? Alas for Anna! Alas for all who deviate by an untruth from the path of rectitude! If the misguided child—she was little better than a child—could only have seen the future that was before her! It may have been very pleasant, very romantic to steal a march on Patience, and pace out there in the cold, chattering to Herbert Dare; listening to his protestations that he cared for no one in the world but herself; never had cared, never should care: but it was laying up for Anna a day of reckoning, the like of which had rarely fallen on a young head. William seemed to take it all in at a glance; and, rising tumultuously over other unpleasant thoughts, came the remembrance of Henry Ashley's misplaced and ill-starred love.
With another deep breath, that was more like a groan than anything else—for Herbert Dare never brought good to any one in his life, and William knew it—William set off towards them. Whether they heard footsteps, or whether they thought the time for parting had come, certain it was that Herbert was gone before William could reach them, and Anna was speeding towards her home with a fleet step. William placed himself in her way, and she started aside with a scream that went echoing through the field. Then they had not heard him.
William, is it thee? Thee hast frightened me nearly out of my senses.
Anna, he gravely said, "Patience is waiting for you."
Anna Lynn's imagination led her to all sorts of fantastic fears. "Oh, William, thee hast not been in to Patience!" she exclaimed, in sudden trembling. "Thee hast not been to our house to seek me!"
They had reached his gate now. He halted, and took her hand in his, his manner impressive, his voice firm. "Anna, I must speak to you as I would to my own sister; as I might to Janey, had she lived, and been drawn into this terrible imprudence. Though, indeed, I should not then speak, but act. What tales are they that Herbert Dare is deceiving you with?"
Hast thee been in to Patience? Hast thee been in to Patience? reiterated Anna.
Patience knows nothing of this. She thinks you are at our house. I ask you, Anna, what foolish tales Herbert Dare is deceiving you with?
Anna—relieved on the score of her fright—shook her head petulantly. "He is not deceiving me with any. He would not deceive."
Anna, hear me. His very nature, as I believe, is deceit. I fear he has little truth, little honour within him. Is Herbert professing to—to love you?
I will not answer thee aught. I will not hear thee speak against Herbert Dare.
Anna, he continued in a lower tone, "you ought to be afraid of Herbert Dare. He is not a good man."
How wilful she was! "It is of no use thy talking," she reiterated, putting her fingers to her ears. "Herbert Dare is good. I will not hear thee speak against him."
Then, Anna, as you meet it in this way, I must inform your father or Patience of what I have seen. If you will not keep yourself out of harm's way, they must do it for you.
It terrified her to the last degree. Anna could have died rather than suffer her escapade to reach the ears of home. "How can thee talk of harm, William? What harm is likely to come to me? I did no more harm talking to Herbert Dare here, than I did, talking to him in Margaret Ashley's drawing-room."
My dear child, you do not understand things, he answered. "The very fact of your stealing from your home to walk about in this manner, however innocent it may be in itself, would do you incalculable harm in the eyes of the world. And I am quite sure that in no shape or form can Herbert Dare bring you good, or contribute to your good. Tell me one thing, Anna: Have you learnt to care much for him?"
I don't care for him at all, responded Anna.
No! Then why walk about with him?
Because it's fun to cheat Patience.
Oh, Anna, this is very wrong, very foolish. Do you mean what you say—that you do not care for him?
Of course I mean it, she answered. "I think he is very kind and pleasant, and he gave me a pretty locket. But that's all. William, thee wilt not tell upon me?" she continued, clinging to his arm, her tone changing to one of entreaty, as the terror, which she had been endeavouring to conceal with light words, returned upon her. "William! thee art kind and obliging—thee wilt not tell upon me! I will promise thee never to meet Herbert Dare again, if thee wilt not."
It would be for your own sake, Anna, that I should speak. How do I know that you would keep your word?
I give thee my promise that I will! I will not meet Herbert Dare in this way again. I tell thee I do not care to meet him. Canst thee not believe me?
He did believe her, implicitly. Her eyes were streaming; her pretty hands clung about him. He did like Anna very much, and he would not draw vexation upon her, if it could be avoided with expediency.
I will rely upon you then, Anna. Believe me, you could not choose a worse friend in all Helstonleigh, than Herbert Dare. I have your word?
Yes. And I have thine.
He placed her arm within his own, and led her to the back door of her house. Patience was standing at it. "I have brought you the little truant," he said.
It is well thee hast, replied Patience. "I had just opened the door to come after her. Anna, thee art worse than a wild thing. Running off in this manner!"
It had not been in William's way to see much of Anna's inner qualities. He had not detected her deceit; he did not know that she could be untruthful when it suited her to be so. He had firm faith in her word, never questioning that it might be depended upon. Nevertheless, when he came afterwards to reflect upon the matter, he thought it might be his duty to give Patience a little word of caution. And this he could do without compromising Anna.
He contrived to see Patience alone the very next day. She began talking of their previous evening at the Ashleys'.
Yes, observed William, "it was a pleasant evening. It would have been all the pleasanter, though, but for one who was there—Herbert Dare."
I do not admire the Dares, said Patience frigidly.
Nor I. But I observed one thing, Patience—that he admires Anna. Were Anna my sister, I should not like her to be too much admired by Herbert Dare. So take care of her.
Patience looked steadily at him. William continued, his tone confidential.
You know what Herbert Dare is said to be, Patience—fonder of leading people to ill than to good. Anna is giddy—as you yourself tell her twenty times a day. I would keep her carefully under my own eyes. I would not even allow her to run into our house at night, as she is fond of doing, he added with marked emphasis. "She is as safe there as she is here; but it is giving her a taste of liberty that she may not be the better for in the end. When she comes in, send Grace with her, or bring her yourself: I will see her home again. Tell her she is a grown-up young lady now, and it is not proper that she should go out unattended," he concluded, laughing.
William, I do not quite understand thee. Hast thee cause to say this?
All I say, Patience, is—keep her out of the way of possible harm, of undesirable friendships. Were Anna to be drawn into a liking for Herbert Dare, I am sure it would not be agreeable to Mr. Lynn. He would never consider the Dares a desirable family for her to marry into——
Marry into the family of the Dares! interrupted Patience hotly. "Art thee losing thy senses, William?"
These likings sometimes lead to marriage, quietly continued William. "Therefore, I say, keep her away from all chance of forming them. Believe me, my advice is good."
I think I understand, concluded Patience. "I thank thee kindly, William."