"I do not, myself. Carrington——Did you know he had been to Dr. Carrington?" asked Mr. Allen, almost fearing he might be betraying secrets.
"I know all about it. I know what the doctor said. Do you think Dr. Carrington was mistaken?"
"In a measure. There's no doubt the lungs are affected, but I believe not to the grave extent assumed by Dr. Carrington."
"He assumed, then, that they were affected to a grave extent?" she hastily repeated, her heart beating faster.
"I thought you said you knew all about it, Mrs. Halliburton?"
"So I do. He may possibly not have told me the very worst said by Dr. Carrington; but he told me quite sufficient. Mr. Allen,youtell me—do you think that there is a chance of his recovery?"
"Most certainly I do," warmly replied the surgeon. "Every chance, Mrs. Halliburton. I see no reason whatever why he should not keep as well as he is now, and live for years, provided he takes care of himself. It appears that Dr. Carrington very strongly urged his removing into the country; he went so far as to say that it was his only chance for life—and in that I think he went too far again. But the country would undoubtedly do for him what London will not."
"You think that he ought to remove to the country?" she inquired, showing no sign of the terror those incautious words brought her—"his only chance for life."
"I do. If it be possible for him to manage his affairs so as to get away, I should say let him do so by all means."
"Itmustbe done, you know, Mr. Allen, if it is essential."
"In my judgment it should be done. Many and many a time I have said to him myself, 'It's a pity but that you could be out of this heavy London!' Fogs affect him, and smoke affects him—the air altogether affects him: and I only wonder it has not told upon him before. As Dr. Carrington observed to him, there are some constitutions which somehow will not thrive here."
Mrs. Halliburton rose with a sigh. "I am glad you do not think so very seriously of him," she breathed.
"I do not thinkseriouslyof him at all," was the surgeon's answer. "I confess that he is not strong, and that he must have care. The pure air of the country, and relaxation from some of his most pressing work, may do wonders for him. If I might advise, I should say, Let no pecuniary considerations keep him here. And that is very disinterested advice, Mrs. Halliburton," concluded the doctor, laughing, "for, in losing you, I should lose both friends and patients."
Jane went out. Those ominous words were still ringing in her ears—"his only chance for life."
Forcing herself to self-control, she didnotgo to meet Mr. Halliburton. She returned home and took off her things, and gave what attention she could to Jane's lessons. But none can tell the suspense that was agitating her: the ever-restless glances she cast to the window, to see him pass. By-and-by she went and stood there.
At last she saw him coming along in the distance. She would have liked to fly to meet him—to say, What is the news? but she did not. More patience, and then, when he came in at the front door, she left the room she was in, and went with him into the drawing-room, her face white as death.
He saw how agitated she was, strive as she would for calmness. He stood looking at her with a smile.
"Well, Jane, it is not so very formidable, after all."
Her face grew hot, and her heart bounded on. "What does Dr. Arnold say? You know, Edgar, you promised me the truth without disguise."
"You shall have it, Jane. Dr. Arnold's opinion of me is not unfavourable. That the lungs are to a certain extent affected, is indisputable, and he thinks they have been so for some time. But he sees nothing to indicate present danger to life. He believes that I may grow into an old man yet."
Jane breathed freely. A word of earnest thanks went up from her heart.
"With proper diet—he has given me certain rules for living—and pure air and sunshine, he considers that I have really little to fear. I told you, Jane, those insurance doctors make the worst of things."
"Dr. Arnold, then, recommends the country?" observed Jane, paying no attention to the last remark.
"Very strongly. Almost as strongly as Dr. Carrington."
Jane lifted her eyes to her husband's face. "Dr. Carrington said, you know, that it was your only chance of life."
"Not quite as bad as that, Jane," he returned, never supposing but he must himself have let the remark slip, and wondering how he came to do so. "What Dr. Carrington said was, that it was Londonversuslife."
"It is the same thing, Edgar. And now, what is to be done? Of course we have no alternative; into the country we must go. The question is, where?"
"Ay, that is the question," he answered. "Not only where, but what to do? I cannot drop down into a fresh place, and expect teaching to surround me at once, as if it had been waiting for me. But I have not time to talk now. Only fancy! it is half-past ten."
Mr. Halliburton went out and Jane remained, fastened as it were to her chair. A hundred perplexing plans and schemes were already working in her brain.
Plans and schemes continued to work in Mrs. Halliburton's brain for days and days to come. Many and many an anxious consultation did she and her husband hold together—where should they go? What should they do? That it was necessary to do something, and speedily, events proved, independently of what had been said by the doctors. Before another month had passed over his head, Mr. Halliburton had become so much worse that he had to resign his post at King's College. But, to the hopeful minds of himself and Jane, the country change was to bring its remedy for all ills. They had grown to anticipate it with enthusiasm.
His thoughts naturally ran upon teaching, as his continued occupation. He knew nothing of any other. All England was before him; and he supposed he might obtain a living at it, wherever he might go. Such testimonials as his were not met with every day. His cousin Julia had married a man of some local influence (as Mr. Halliburton had understood) in the city in which they resided, the chief town of one of the midland counties: and a thought crossed his mind more than once, whether it might not be well to choose that same town to settle in.
"They might be able to recommend me, you see, Jane," he observed to his wife, one evening as they were sitting together, after the children were in bed. "Not that I should much like to ask any favour of Julia."
"Why not?" said Jane.
"Because she is not a pleasant person to ask a favour of: it is many years since I saw her, but I well remember that. Another reason why I feel inclined to that place is that it is a cathedral town. Cathedral towns have many of the higher order of the clergy in them; learning is sure to be considered there, should it not be anywhere else. Consequently there would be an opening for classical teaching."
Jane thought the argument had weight.
"And there's yet another thing," continued Mr. Halliburton. "You remember Peach?"
"Peach?—Peach?" repeated Jane, as if unable to recall the name.
"The young fellow I had so much trouble with, a few years ago—drilling him between his terms at Oxford. But for me, he never would have passed either his great or his little go. He did get plucked the first time he went up. You must remember him, Jane: he has often taken tea with us here."
"Oh, yes—yes! I remember him now. Charley Peach."
"Well, he has recently been appointed to a minor canonry in that same cathedral," resumed Mr. Halliburton. "Dr. Jacobs told me of it the other day. Now I am quite sure that Peach would be delighted to say a word for me, or to put anything in my way. That is another reason why I am inclined to go there."
"I suppose the town is a healthy one?"
"Ay, that it is; and it is seated in one of the most charming of our counties. There'll be no London fogs or smoke there."
"Then, Edgar, let us decide upon it."
"Yes, I think so—unless we should hear of an opening elsewhere that may promise better. We must be away by Midsummer, if we can, or soon after. It will be sharp work, though."
"What trouble it will be to pack the furniture!" she exclaimed.
"Pack what furniture, Jane? We must sell the furniture."
"Sell the furniture!" she uttered, aghast.
"My dear, it would never do to take the furniture down. It would cost almost as much as it is worth. There's no knowing, either, how long it might be upon the road, or what damage it might receive. I expect it would have to go principally by water."
"By water!" cried Mrs. Halliburton.
"I fancy so—by barge, I mean. Waggons would not take it, except by paying heavily. A great deal of the country traffic is done by water. This furniture is old, Jane, most of it, and will not bear rough travelling. Consider how many years your father and mother had it in use."
"Then what should we do for furniture when we get there?" asked Jane.
"Buy new with the money we receive from the sale of this. I have been reflecting upon it a good deal, Jane, and fancy it will be the better plan. However, if you care for this old furniture, we must take it."
Jane looked round upon it. She did care for the time-used furniture; but she knew how old it was, and was willing to do whatever might be best. A vision came into her mind of fresh, bright furniture, and it looked pleasant in imagination. "It would certainly be a great deal to pack and carry," she acknowledged. "And some of it is not worth it."
"And it would be more than we should want," resumed Mr. Halliburton. "Wherever we go we must be content with a small house; at any rate at first. But it will be time enough to go into these details, Jane, when we have finally decided upon our destination."
"Oh, Edgar! I shall be so sorry to take the boys from King's College."
"Jane," he said, a flash of pain crossing his face as he spoke, "there are so many things connected with it altogether that cause me sorrow, that my only resource is not to think upon them. I might be tempted to repine to ask in a spirit of rebellion why this affliction should have come upon us. It is God's decree, and it is my duty to submit as patiently as I can."
It was her duty also: and she knew it as she laid her hand upon her weary brow. A weary, weary brow from henceforth, that of Jane Halliburton!
In a handsome chamber of a handsome house in Birmingham, an old man lay dying. For most of his life he had been engaged in a large wholesale business—had achieved local position, had accumulated moderate wealth. But neither wealth nor position can ensure peace to a death-bed; and the old man lay on his, groaning over the past.
The season was that of mid-winter. Not the winter following the intended removal of Mr. Halliburton from London, as spoken of in the last chapter, but the winter preceding it—for it is necessary to go back a little. A hard, sharp, white day in January: and the fire was piled high in the sick room, and the large flakes of snow piled themselves outside on the window frames and beat against the glass. The room was fitted up with every comfort the most fastidious invalid could desire; and yet, I say, nothing seemed to bring comfort to the invalid lying there. His hands were clenched as in mortal agony; his eyes were apparently watching the falling snow. The eyes saw it not: in reality they were cast back to where his mind was—the past.
What could be troubling him? Was it that loss, only two years ago, by which one-half of his savings had been engulfed? Scarcely. A man dying—as he knew he was—would be unlikely to care about that now. Ample competence had remained to him, and he had neither son nor daughter to inherit. Hark! what is it that he is murmuring between his parched lips, to the accompaniment of his clenched hands?
"I see it all now; I see it all! While we are buoyed up with health and strength, we continue hard, selfish, obstinate in our wickedness. But when death comes, we awake to our error; and death has come to me, and I have awakened to mine. Why did I turn him out like a dog? He had neither kith nor kin, and I sent him adrift on the world, to fight with it or to starve! He was the only child of my sister, and she was gone. She and I were of the same father and mother; we shared the same meals in childhood, the same home, the same play, the same hopes. She wrote to me when she was dying, as I am dying now: 'Richard, should my poor boy be left fatherless—for my husband's health seems to be failing—be his friend and protector for Helen's sake, and may Heaven bless you for it!' And I scoffed at the injunction when the boy offended me, and turned him out.Shall I have to answer for it?"
The last anxious doubt was uttered more audibly than the rest; it escaped from his lips with a groan. A woman who was dozing over the fire started up.
"Did you call, sir?"
"No. Go out and leave me."
"But——"
"Go out and leave me," he repeated, with anger little fitted to his position. And the woman was speeding from the room, when he caught at the curtain and recalled her.
"Are they not come?"
"Not yet, sir. But, with this heavy fall, it's not to be wondered at. The highways must be almost impassable. With good roads they might have been here hours ago."
She went out. He lay back on his pillow: his eyes wide open, but wearing the same dreamy look. You may be wondering who he is; though you probably guess, for you have heard of him once before as Mr. Cooper, the uncle who discarded Edgar Halliburton.
I must give you a few words of retrospect. Richard Cooper was the eldest of three children; the others were a brother and a sister: Richard, Alfred, and Helen. Alfred and Helen both married; Richard never did marry. It was somewhat singular that the brother and sister should both die, each leaving an orphan; and that the orphans should find a home in the house of their Uncle Richard. Julia Cooper, the brother's orphan, was the first to come to it, a long time before Edgar Halliburton came. Helen had married the Rev. William Halliburton, and she died at his rectory in Devonshire—sending that earnest prayer to her brother Richard which you have just heard him utter. A little while, and her husband, the rector, also died; and then it was that Edgar went up to his Uncle Richard's. Fortunate for these two orphan children, it appeared to be, that their uncle had not married and could give them a good home.
A good home he did give them. Julia left it first to become the wife of Anthony Dare, a solicitor in large practice in a distant city. She married him very soon after her cousin Edgar came to his uncle's. And it was after the marriage of Julia that Edgar was discarded and turned adrift. Years, many years, had gone by since then; and here lay Richard Cooper, stricken for death and repenting of the harshness, which he had not repented of or sought to atone for all through those long years. Ah, my friends! whatsoever may lie upon our consciences, however we may have contrived to ignore it during our busy lives, be assured that it will find us out on our death-bed!
Richard Cooper lay back on his pillow, his eyes wide open with their inward tribulation. "Who knows but there would be time yet?" he suddenly murmured. And the thought appeared to rouse his mind and flush his cheek, and he lifted his hand and grasped the bell-rope, ringing it so loudly as to bring two servants to the room.
"Go up, one of you, to Lawyer Weston's," he uttered. "Bring him back with you. Tell him I want to alter my will, and that there may yet be time. Don't send—one ofyougo," he repeated in tones of agonising entreaty. "Bring him; bring him back with you!"
As the echo of his voice died away there came a loud summons at the street door, as of a hasty arrival. "Sir," cried one of the maids, "they're come at last! I thought I heard a carriage drawing up in the snow."
"Who's come?" he asked in some confusion of mind. "Weston?"
"Not him, sir; Mr. and Mrs. Dare," replied the servant as she hurried out.
A lady and gentleman were getting out of a coach at the door. A tall, very tall man, with handsome features, but an unpleasantly free expression. The lady was tall also, stout and fair, with an imperious look in her little turned-up nose. "Are we in time?" the latter asked of the servants.
"It's nearly as much as can be said, ma'am," was the answer. "But he has roused up in the last hour, and is growing excited. The doctors thought it might be so: that he'd not continue in the lethargy to the last."
They went on at once to the sick chamber. Every sense of the dying man appeared to be on the alert. His hands were holding back the curtain, his eyes were strained on the door. "Why have you been so long?" he cried in a voice of strength they were surprised to hear.
"Dear uncle," said Mrs. Dare, bending over the bed and clasping the feeble hands, "we started the very moment the letter came. But we could not get along—the roads are dreadfully heavy."
"Sir," whispered a servant in the invalid's ear, "are we to go now for Lawyer Weston?"
"No, there's no need," was the prompt answer. "Anthony Dare, you are a lawyer," continued Mr. Cooper; "you'll do what I want done as well as another. Will you do it?"
"Anything you please, sir," was Mr. Dare's reply.
"Sit down, then; Julia, sit down. You may be hungry and thirsty after your journey; but you must wait. Life's not ebbing out of you, as it is out of me. We'll get this matter over, that my mind may be so far at rest; and then you can eat and drink of the best that my house affords. I am in mortal pain, Anthony Dare."
Mrs. Dare was silently removing some of her outer wrappings, and whispering with the servant at the extremity of the roomy chamber; but Mr. Dare, who had taken off his great-coat and hat in the hall, continued to stand by the sick bed.
"I am sorry to hear it, sir," he said, in reply to Mr. Cooper's concluding sentence. "Can the medical men afford you no relief?"
"It is pain of mind, Anthony Dare, not pain of body.Thatpain has passed from me. I would have sent for you and Julia before, but I did not think until yesterday that the end was so near. Never let a man be guilty of injustice!" broke forth Mr. Cooper, vehemently. "Or let him know that it will come home to him to trouble his dying bed."
"What can I do for you, sir?" questioned Mr. Dare.
"If you will open that bureau, you'll find pen, ink, and paper. Julia, come here: and see that we are alone."
The servant left the room, and Mrs. Dare came forward, divested of her cloaks. She wore a handsome dark-blue satin dress (much the fashion at that time) with a good deal of rich white lace about it, a heavy gold chain, and some very showy amethysts set in gold. The jewellery was real, however, not sham; but altogether her attire looked somewhat out of place for a death-chamber.
The afternoon was drawing to a close. What with that and the dense atmosphere outside, the chamber had grown dim. Mr. Dare disposed the writing materials on a small round table at the invalid's elbow, and then looked towards the distant window.
"I fear I cannot see, sir, without a light."
"Call for it, Julia," said the invalid.
A lamp was brought in and placed on the table, so that its rays should not affect those eyes so soon to close to all earthly light. And Mr. Dare waited, pen in hand.
"I have been hard and wilful," began Mr. Cooper, putting up his trembling hands. "I have been obdurate, and selfish, and unjust; and now it is keeping peace from me——"
"But in what way, dear uncle?" softly put in Mrs. Dare; and it may as well be remarked that whenever Mrs. Dare attempted to speak softly and kindly it seemed to bear an unnatural sound to others' ears.
"In what way?—why, with regard to Edgar Halliburton," said Mr. Cooper, the dew breaking out upon his brow. "In seeking to follow the calling marked out for him by his father, he only did his duty; and I should have seen it in that light but for my own obstinate pride and self-will. I did wrong to discard him: I have done wrong ever since in keeping him from me, in refusing to be reconciled. Are you listening, Anthony Dare?"
"Certainly, sir. I hear."
"Julia, I say that there was no reason for my turning him away. There has been no reason for my keeping him away. I have refused to be reconciled: I have sent back his letters unopened; I have held him at contemptuous defiance. When I heard that he had married, I cast harsh words to him because he had not asked my consent, though I was aware all the time, that I had given him no opportunity to ask it—I had harshly refused all overtures, all intercourse. I cast harsh words to his wife, knowing her not. But I see my error now. Do you see it, Julia? Do you see it, Anthony Dare?"
"Would you like to have him sent for, sir?" suggested Mr. Dare.
"It is too late. He could not be here in time. I don't know, either, where he lives in London, or what his address may be. Do you?"—looking at his niece.
"Oh dear, no," she replied, with a slightly contemptuous gesture of the shoulders. As much as to imply that to know the address of her cousin Edgar was quite beneath her.
"No, he could not get here," repeated the dying man, whilst Mrs. Dare wiped the dews that had gathered on his pallid and wrinkled brow. "Julia! Anthony! Anthony Dare!"
"Sir, what is it?"
"I wish you both to listen to me. I cannot die with this injustice unrepaired. I have made my will in Julia's favour. It is all left to her, except a few trifles to my servants. When the property comes to be realised, there will be at least sixteen thousand pounds, and but for that late mad speculation I entered into there would have been nearly forty thousand."
He paused. But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dare answered.
"You are a lawyer, Anthony, and could draw up a fresh will. But there's no time, I say. What is darkening the room?" he abruptly broke off to ask.
Mr. Dare looked hastily up. Nothing was darkening the room, except the gradually increasing gloom of evening.
"My sight is growing dim, then," said the invalid. "Listen to me, both of you. I charge you, Anthony and Julia Dare, that you divide this money with Edgar Halliburton. Give him his full share; the half, even to a farthing. Will you do so, Anthony Dare?"
"Yes, I will, sir."
"Be it so. I charge you both solemnly—do not fail. If you would lay up peace for the time when you shall come to be where I am—do not fail. There's no time legally to do what is right; I feel that there is not. Ere the deed could be drawn up I should be gone, and could not sign it. But I leave the charge upon you; the solemn charge. The half of my money belongs of right to Edgar Halliburton: Julia has claim only to the other half. Be careful how you divide it: you are sole executor, Anthony Dare. Have you your paper ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then dot down a few words, as I dictate, and I will sign them. 'I, Richard Cooper, do repent of my injustice to my dear nephew, Edgar Halliburton. And I desire, by this my last act on my death-bed, to bequeath to him the half of the money and property I shall die possessed of; and I charge Anthony Dare, the executor of my will, to carry out this act and wish as strictly as though it were a formal and legal one. I desire that whatever I shall die possessed of, save the bequests to my servants, may be equally divided between my nephew Edgar and my niece Julia.'"
The dying man paused. "I think that's all that need be said," he observed. "Have you finished writing it, Anthony Dare?"
Mr. Dare wrote fast and quickly, and was concluding the last words. "It is written, sir."
"Read it."
Mr. Dare proceeded to do so. Short as the time was which it took to accomplish this, the old man had fallen into a doze ere it was concluded; a doze or a partial stupor. They could not tell which; but, in leaning over him, he woke up with a start.
"I can't die with this injustice unrepaired!" he cried, his memory evidently ignoring what had just been done. "Anthony Dare, your wife has no right to all my money. I shall leave half of it to Edgar. I want you to write it down."
"It is done, sir. This is the paper."
"Where? where? Why don't you get light into the room? It's dark—dark. This? Is this it?"—as Mr. Dare put it into his hand. "Now, mind!" he added, his tone changing to one of solemn enjoinder; "mind you act upon it. Julia has no right to more than her half share; she must not take more: money kept by wrong, acquired by injustice, never prospers. It would not bring you good, it would not bring a blessing. Give Edgar his legal half; and give him his old uncle's love and contrition. Tell him, if the past could come over again there should be no estrangement between us."
He lay panting for a few minutes, and then spoke again, the paper having fallen unnoticed from his hand.
"Julia, when you see Edgar's wife—Did I sign that paper?" he broke off.
"No, sir," said Mr. Dare. "Will you sign it now?"
"Ay. But, signed or not signed, you'll equally act upon it. I don't put it forth as a legal document; I suppose it would not, in this informal state, stand good in law. It is only a reminder to you, Anthony Dare, that you may not forget my wishes. Hold me up in bed, and have lights brought in."
Anthony Dare drew the curtain back, and the rays of the lamp flashed upon the dying man. Mr. Dare looked round for a book on which to place the paper while it was signed.
"I want a light," came again from the bed, in a pleading tone. "Julia, why don't you tell them to bring in the lamp?"
"The lamp is here, uncle. It is close to you."
"Then there's no oil in it," he cried. "Julia, Iwillhave lights here. Tell them to bring up the dining-room lamps. Don't ring; go and see that they are brought."
Unwilling to oppose him, and doubting lest his sight should really have gone, Mrs. Dare went out, and returned with one of the servants and more light. Mr. Cooper was then lying back on his pillow, dozing and unconscious.
"Has he signed the paper?" Mrs. Dare whispered to her husband.
He shook his head negatively, and pointed to it. It was lying on the bed, just as Mrs. Dare had left it. Mrs. Dare caught it up from any prying eyes that might be about, folded it, and held it securely in her hand.
"He will wake up again presently, and can sign it then," observed Mr. Dare, just as a gentle ring was heard at the house door.
"It's the doctor," said the servant; "I know his ring."
But the old man never did sign the paper, and never woke up again. He lay in a state of lethargy throughout the night. Mr. and Mrs. Dare watched by his bedside; the servants watched; and the doctors came in at intervals. But there was no change in his state; until the last great change. It occurred at daybreak; and when the neighbours opened their windows to the cold and the snow, the house of Richard Cooper remained closed. Death was within it.
I believe that most of the readers of "The Channings" will not like this story less because its scene is laid in the same place, Helstonleigh.
I narrate to you, as you may have already discovered, a great deal of truth: of events that have actually happened, combined with fiction. I can only do this from my own personal experience, by taking you to the scenes and places where I have lived. Of this same town, Helstonleigh, I could relate to you volumes. No place in the world holds so green a spot in my memory. Do you remember Longfellow's poem—"My Lost Youth"?
"Often I think of the beautiful town,That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me.And a verse of a Lapland songIs haunting my memory still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the schoolboy's brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain.And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"Strange to me now are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,As they balance up and down,Are singing the beautiful song,Are sighing and whispering still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that wereI find my lost youth again.And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
"Often I think of the beautiful town,That is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me.And a verse of a Lapland songIs haunting my memory still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the schoolboy's brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain.And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"Strange to me now are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,As they balance up and down,Are singing the beautiful song,Are sighing and whispering still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that wereI find my lost youth again.And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:'A boy's will is the wind's will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
Those are some of its verses, and what "Deering" is to Longfellow, "Helstonleigh" is to me.
The Birmingham stage-coach came into Helstonleigh one summer's night, and stopped at its destination, the Star-and-Garter Hotel, bringing with it some London passengers. The direct line of rail to Helstonleigh from London was not then opened; and this may serve to tell you how long it is ago. A lady and a little girl stepped from the inside of the coach, and a gentleman and three boys got down from the outside. The latter were soaking. Almost immediately after leaving Birmingham, to which place the rail had conveyed them, the rain had commenced to pour in torrents, and those outside received its full benefit. The coach was crammed, inside and out, but with the other passengers we have nothing to do. We have with these; they were the Halliburtons.
For the town which Mr. Halliburton had been desirous to remove to, the one in which his cousin, Mrs. Dare, resided, was no other than Helstonleigh.
Mrs. Halliburton drew a long face when she set eyes on her husband's condition. "Edgar! you must be wet through and through!"
"Yes, I am. There was no help for it."
"You should have come inside when I wanted you to do so," she cried, in a voice of distress. "You should indeed."
"And have suffered you to take my place outside? Nonsense, Jane!"
Jane looked at the hotel. "We had better remain here for the night. What do you think?"
"Yes, I think so," he replied. "It is too wet to go about looking after anything that might be less expensive. Inquire if we can have rooms, Jane, whilst I see after the luggage."
Mrs. Halliburton went in, leading Janey, and was confronted by the barmaid, a smart young woman in a smart cap. "Can we sleep here to-night?" she inquired.
"Yes, certainly. How many beds?"
"I will go up with you and see," said Mrs. Halliburton. "Be so kind as not to put us in your more expensive rooms," she added, in a lower tone.
The barmaid looked at her from top to toe, as it is much in the habit of barmaids to do when such a request is preferred. She saw a lady in a black silk dress, a cashmere shawl, and a plain straw bonnet, trimmed with white. Simple as the attire was, quiet as was the demeanour, there was that about Mrs. Halliburton, in her voice, her accent, her bearing altogether, which proclaimed her the gentlewoman; and the barmaid condescended to be civil.
"I have nothing to do with the rooms," she said; "I'll call the chambermaid. My goodness! You had better get those wet things off, sir, unless you want to be laid up with cold."
The words were uttered in surprise, as her eyes encountered Mr. Halliburton. He looked taller, and thinner, and handsomer than ever; but he had a hollow cough now, and his cheek was hectic, and he was certainly wet through.
The chambermaid allotted them rooms. Mr. Halliburton, after rubbing himself dry with towels, got into a warmed bed, and had warm drink supplied to him. Jane, after unpacking what would be wanted for the night, returned to the sitting-room, to which her children had been shown. A good-natured maid, seeing the boys' clothes were damp, had lighted a fire, and they were kneeling round it, having been provided with bread and butter and milk. Intelligent, truthful, good-looking boys they were, with clear skins and bright, honest eyes, and open countenances. Janey had fallen asleep on a chair, her flaxen curls making her a pillow on its elbow. The boys crowded to one side of the fireplace when their mother came in, leaving the larger space for her; and William rose and gave her a chair. Mrs. Halliburton sat down, having laid on the table a Book of Common Prayer, which she had brought in her hand.
"Mamma, I hope papa will not be ill!"
"Oh, William, I fear it. Such a terrible wetting! And to be so long in it! How is it that he was so much worse than you are?"
"Because he sat at the end, and the gentleman next him did not hold the umbrella over him at all. When it came on to rain, some of the passengers had umbrellas and some had not, so they were divided for the best. We three had one between us, and we were wedged in between two fat old men, who helped to keep us dry. What a pity there was not a place for papa inside!"
"Yes; or if he would only have taken mine!" cried Mrs. Halliburton. "A wetting would not have hurt me, as it may hurt him. What place did they call that, William, where I got out to ask him to change?"
"Bromsgrove Lickey. Mamma, you have had no tea!"
"I do not care for any," she sighed. Hers was a hopeful nature; but something within her, this evening, seemed to whisper of trial for the future. She turned to the table, where stood the remains of the children's meal, cut a piece of bread from the loaf, and slowly spread it with butter. Then she poured out a little milk.
"Dear mamma, do have some tea!" cried William; "that's nothing but our milk and water."
She shook her head and took the milk. Tea would only be an additional expense, and she was too completely dispirited to care what she drank.
"I will read now," she said, taking up the Prayer-book. "And afterwards, I think, you had better say your prayers here, near the fire, as you have been so wet."
She chose a short psalm, and read it aloud. Then the children knelt down, each at a separate chair, to say their prayers in silence. Not as children's prayers are sometimes hurried over, knelt they; but with lowly reverence, their heads bowed, their young hearts lifted, never doubting but they were heard by God. They had been trained in a good school.
Did you ever have a sale of old things? Goods and chattels which may have served your purpose and looked well in their places, seem so old when they come to be exhibited that you feel half-ashamed of them? And as to the sum they realise—you will not have much trouble in hoarding it. Had Mr. Halliburton known the small sum that would be the result of his sale; had Jane dreamt that they would go for an "old song," they had never consented to part with them. Better have been at the cost of carrying them to Helstonleigh. Their bedding, blankets, etc., they did take: and it was well they did so.
I feel almost afraid to tell you how very little money they had in hand when they arrived. All their worldly wealth was little more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Debts had to be paid before leaving London; and it cost money to give up their house without notice, for their landlord was severe.
One hundred and twenty pounds! And with this they had to buy fresh furniture, and to live until teaching came in. A forlorn prospect on which to recommence the world! No wonder that Jane shunned even tea at the inn, or any other expense that might lessen their funds! But hope is buoyant in the human heart: and unless it were so, half the world might lay themselves down to die.
Morning came: a bright, sunny, beautiful morning after the rain. Not, apparently, had Mr. Halliburton suffered. His limbs felt a little stiff, but that would go off before the day closed. Their plans were to take a small house, as cheap a one as they could find, in accordance with—you really must for once excuse the word—gentility. That—a tolerably fair appearance—was necessary to Mr. Halliburton's success as a teacher.
"A dry, healthy spot, a little way out of the town," mused the landlord of the "Star," to whom they communicated their desire. "The London Road would be the place then. And you probably will find there such a house as you require."
They found their way to the London Road—a healthy suburb of the town; and there discovered a house they thought might suit them: a semi-detached house of good appearance, inclosed by iron railings, and standing a little back from the road. A sitting-room was on either side the entrance, a kitchen at the back. Three bedrooms were above; and above these again was a garret. A small garden was behind the house; and beyond that was a field, which did not belong to them. The adjoining house was similar to this one; but that possessed a large and productive garden. An inmate of that house showed them over this one, dressed as a Quakeress. Her features were plain, but her complexion was fair and delicate, and she had calm blue eyes.
"The rent of the house is thirty-two pounds per annum," she said, in reply to Mrs. Halliburton's question. "It belongs to Thomas Ashley; but thee must not apply to him. I will furnish thee with the address of the agent, who has the letting of Friend Ashley's houses. It is Anthony Dare. You will find the house pleasant and healthy, if you decide upon it," she added, speaking to both of them.
The latter name had struck upon Mr. Halliburton's ear. "Jane!" he whispered to his wife, "that must be the Mr. Dare who married my cousin, Julia Cooper. His name was Anthony Dare."
Mr. Halliburton proceeded alone to the office of Mr. Dare, the gentleman you met at Mr. Cooper's; Mrs. Halliburton returning to her children at the hotel. They had decided to take the house. Mr. Dare was not at home. "In London, with his wife," the head clerk said. But the clerk had power to let the house. Mr. Halliburton gave him some particulars with regard to himself, and they were considered satisfactory; but he did not mention that he was related to Mrs. Dare.
The next thing was about furniture. The clerk directed Mr. Halliburton to a warehouse where both new and second-hand things might be obtained, and he proceeded to it, calling in at the "Star" for his wife. She knew a great deal more about furniture than he. They did the best they could, spending about fifty pounds. A Kidderminster carpet was bought for the best sitting-room. The other room, which was to be Mr. Halliburton's study, and the bedrooms, went for the present without any. "We will buy all those things when we have succeeded a bit," said Mr. Halliburton.
They slept that night again at the "Star," and the following morning early, they and their furniture took possession together of the house. A busy day they found it, arranging things. Jane—who had determined, as the saying runs, "to put her shoulder to the wheel," not only on this day, but on future days—did not intend to engage a regular servant. That, like the carpets, might be indulged in as they succeeded; but in the mean time she thought a young girl might be found who would come in for a few hours daily, and do what they wanted done.
In the course of the morning, the fair, pleasant face of the Quakeress was seen approaching the back door from the garden. She wore a lilac print gown, a net kerchief crossed under it on her neck, and the peculiar net cap, with its high caul and neat little border.
"I have stepped in to ask if I can help thee with thy work," she began. "Thee hast plenty to do, setting things straight, and thy husband does not look strong. I will aid if thee pleasest."
"You are very kind to be so thoughtful for a stranger," replied Jane, charmed with the straightforward frankness of the Quakeress. "I hope you will first tell me to whom I am indebted."
"Thee can call me Patience," was the ready reply. "I live next door, with Samuel Lynn and his daughter Anna. His wife died soon after the child was born. I was related to Anna Lynn; and when she was departing she sent for me, and begged me not to leave her child, unless Samuel should take unto himself another wife. But that appears to be far from his thoughts. He loves the child much; she is as the apple of his eye."
"Is Mr. Lynn in business?" asked Jane.
"Not on his own account now. He was a glove manufacturer, as a young man, but he had not a large capital; and when the British ports were opened for the admission of gloves from the French, it ruined him—as it did many others in the city. Only the rich masters could stand that. Numbers went then."
"Went!" echoed Jane. "Went where?"
"To ruin. Ah! I remember it: though it is a long time ago now. It was, I think, in the year 1825. I cannot describe to thee the distress and destruction it brought upon this city, until then so flourishing. The manufacturers had to close their works, and the men went about the streets starving."
"Did the distress continue long?"
"For weeks, and months, and years. The town will never be again, in that respect, what it has been. Samuel Lynn was a man of integrity, and he gave up business while he could pay everyone, and accepted the post of manager in the manufactory of Thomas Ashley. Thomas Ashley is one of the first manufacturers in the city, as his father was before him. When thee shall know the place and the people better, thee will find that there is not a name more respected throughout Helstonleigh than that of Thomas Ashley."
"I suppose he is a rich man?"
"Yes, he is rich," replied Patience, who was as busy with her hands as she was in talking. "His household is expensive, and he keeps his open and his close carriages; but for all that he must be putting by money. It is not for his riches that Thomas Ashley is respected, but for his high character. There is not a more just man living than Thomas Ashley; there is not a manufacturer in the town who is so considerate and kind to his workmen. His rate of wages is on the highest scale, and he is incapable of oppression. He has a son and daughter. He, the boy, causes him much uneasiness and cost."
"Is he—not steady?" hastily asked Jane.
"Bless thee, it is not that!" was the laughing answer of Patience. "He is but a young boy yet. When he was fourteen months old, the nurse let him fall from her arms, from the first landing to the hall below. At first they thought he was not hurt: Margaret Ashley herself thought it; the doctors thought it. But in a little time injury grew apparent. It lay in one of the hips; he is often in great pain, and will be lame for life. Abscess after abscess forms in the hip. They take him to the sea-side; to doctors in London; but nothing cures him. A beautiful boy as you ever saw; but his hurt renders him peevish. He is fond of books; and David Byrne, who is a Latin and Greek scholar, goes daily to instruct him; but the boy is thrown back by his fits of illness. It is a great grief to Thomas and Margaret Ashley. They——Why, Anna, is it thee? What dost thou do here?"
Mrs. Halliburton turned from the kitchen cupboard, where she and Patience were arranging crockery, to behold a little girl who was no doubt Anna Lynn. Dark blue eyes were deeply set beneath their long lashes, which lay on a damask and dimpled cheek; her pretty teeth shone like pearls between her smiling lips, and her chestnut hair fell in a mass of careless curls upon her neck. Never, Mrs. Halliburton thought, had she seen a face so lovely. Jane was a pretty child; but Jane faded into nothing in comparison with the vision standing there.
"Thee has thy cap off again, Anna!" cried the Quakeress, with some asperity of tone. "Art thee not ashamed to be so bold?—going about with thy head uncovered!"
"The cap came off, Patience," gently responded Anna. She had a sweetly timid manner; a modest expression.
"Thee need not tell me what is untrue. When the cap is tied on, it will not come off, unless purposely removed. Go home and put it on. Thee may come back again. Perhaps Friend Halliburton will permit thee to stay awhile with her children, who are arranging their books in the study. Is thy French lesson learnt?"
"Not quite," replied Anna, running away.
She returned with a pretty little white net cap on, the model of that worn by Patience. Her luxuriant curls were pushed under it, and the crimped border rested on the fair forehead.
"Nay, there is no call to put all thy hair out of sight, child," said Patience. "Where are thy combs."
"In my hair, Patience."
Patience took off the cap, formed two flat curls, by means of the combs, on either side the temples, put the cap on again, and tucked the rest of the hair smoothly under it. Mrs. Halliburton then took Anna's hand, and led her to her own children.
"What a pity it is to hide her hair!" she said afterwards to Patience.
"Dost thee think so? It is the custom with our people. Anna's hair is fine, and of a curly nature. Brush it as I will, it curls; and she has acquired a habit of taking her cap off when I am not watching. Her father, I grieve to say, will let her sit by the hour together, her hair down, as thee saw it now, and her cap anywhere. I believe he thinks nothing she does is wrong. I talk to him much."
"I never saw a more beautiful child!" said Jane, warmly.
"I grant thee that she is fair; but she is eleven years old now, and her vanity should be checked. She is sometimes invited to the Ashleys', where she sees the mode in which Mary Ashley is dressed, according to the fashion of the world, and it sets her longing. Samuel Lynn will not listen to me. He is pleased that his child should be received there as Mary Ashley's equal; he cannot forget the time when he was in a good position himself."
"Who teaches Anna?"
"She attends a small school for Friends, kept by Ruth Darby. It is the holidays now. Her father educates her well. She learns French and drawing, and other branches of study suitable for girls. Take care! let me help thee with that heavy table."
Presently they went to see how things were getting on in the study. Jane could not keep her eyes from the face of that lovely child. It partly hindered her work, which there was little need of on that busy day; a day so busy that they were all glad when it was over, and they were at liberty to retire to rest.
Rarely had Jane witnessed so beautiful a view as that which met her sight the following morning, when she drew up her blind. The previous day had been hazy—nothing was to be seen; now the atmosphere had cleared. The great extent of scenery spread around, the green fields, the growing corn, the sparkling rivulets, the woods with their darker and their brighter trees, the undulating slopes—all were charming. But beyond all, and far more charming, bounding the landscape in the distant horizon, stretched the long chain of the far-famed Malvern Hills. As the sun cast upon them its light and shade, their outline so clearly depicted against the sky, and their white villas peeping out from the trees at their base—Jane felt that she could have gazed for ever. A wondrous picture is that of Malvern, as seen from Helstonleigh in the freshness of the early morning.
"Edgar!" she impulsively exclaimed, turning to the bed—for Mr. Halliburton had not risen—"you never saw anything more beautiful than the view from this window. I am sure half the Londoners never dreamt of anything like it."
There was no reply. "Perhaps he may be still asleep," she thought. But upon approaching the bed, she saw that his eyes were open.
"Jane," he gasped, "I am ill."
"Ill!" she repeated, a spasm darting through her heart.
"Every limb is paining me. My head aches, and I am burning with fever. I have felt it coming on all night."
She bent down; she felt his hands and his hot face—all burning, as he said, with fever.
"We must call in a doctor," she quietly said, suppressing every sign of dismay, that it might not agitate him. "I will ask Patience to recommend one."
"Yes; better have a doctor at once. What will become of us? If I should be going to have an illness——"
"Stay, Edgar; do not give way to sad anticipations," she gently said. "A brave mind, you know, goes half way towards a cure. It is the effect of that wetting; the cold must have been smouldering within you."
Smouldering only to burst out the fiercer for delay. Patience spoke in favour of their own medical man, a Mr. Parry, who lived near them and had a large practice. He came; and pronounced the malady to be rheumatic fever.
For nine weeks Mr. Halliburton never left his bed. His wife was worn to a shadow; what with waiting upon him, and battling with her anxiety. Her body was weary, her heart was sick. Doyouknow the cost of illness? Jane knew it then.
In two weeks more he could leave his easy-chair and crawl about the room; and by that time he was all eagerness to commence his operations for the future.
"I must have some cards printed, Jane," he cried, one morning. "'Mr. Halliburton, Professor of Classics and Mathematics, late of King's Col—'—or should it be simply 'Edgar Halliburton?'" he broke off, to deliberate. "I wonder what the custom may be, down here?"
"I think you should wait until you are stronger, before you order your cards," was Jane's reply.
"But I can be getting things in train, Jane. I have been—how many weeks is it now?"
"Eleven."
"To be sure. It was June when we came; it is now September. I have been obliged to neglect the boys' lessons, too!"
"They have been very good and quiet; have gone on with their lessons themselves. If we have trouble in other ways, we have a blessing in our children, Edgar. They are thoroughly loving and dutiful."
"I don't know the ordinary terms of the neighbourhood," he resumed, after an interval of silence. "And—I wonder if people will want references? Jane"—after another silence—"you must put your things on, and go to Mrs. Dare's."
"To Mrs. Dare's!" she echoed. "Now? I don't know her."
"Never mind about not knowing her," he eagerly continued. "She is my cousin. You must ask whether they will allow themselves to be referred to. Peach will allow it also, I am quite certain. Do go, Jane."
Invalids in the weak state of Mr. Halliburton are apt to be restlessly impatient when the mind is set upon any plan or project. Jane found that it would vex him much if she declined to go to Mrs. Dare, and she prepared for the visit. Patience directed her to their residence.
It was situated at the opposite end of Helstonleigh. A handsome house, inclosed in a high wall, and bearing the imposing title of "Pomeranian Knoll." Jane entered the iron gates, walked round the carriage drive that inclosed the lawn, and rang the house bell. A showy footman in light blue livery, with a bunch of cords on his shoulder, answered it.
"Can I see Mrs. Dare?"
"What name, ma'am?"
Jane gave in one of her visiting cards, wondering whether that was not too grand a proceeding, considering the errand upon which she had come. She was shown into an elegant room, to the presence of Mrs. Dare. That lady was in a costly morning dress, with chains, rings, bracelets, and other glittering jewellery about her: as she had worn the evening you saw her beside Mr. Cooper's death-bed.
"Mrs. Halliburton?" she was repeating in doubt, when Jane entered, her eyes strained on the card. "What Mrs. Halliburton?" she added, not very civilly, turning her eyes upon Jane.
Jane explained. The wife of Edgar Halliburton, Mrs. Dare's cousin.
Mrs. Dare's presence of mind wholly forsook her. She grew deathly white; she caught at a chair for support; she was utterly unable to speak or to conceal her agitation. Jane could only look at her in amazement, wondering whether she was seized with sudden illness.
A few moments and she recovered herself. She took a seat, motioned Jane to another, and asked, as she might have asked of any stranger, what her business might be. Jane explained it, somewhat at length.
Mrs. Dare's surprise was great. She could not or would not understand; and her face flushed a deep red, and again grew deadly pale. "Edgar Halliburton come to live in Helstonleigh!" she repeated. "And you say you are his wife?"
"I am his wife," was the reply of Jane, spoken with quiet dignity.
"Whatis it that you say he has in view, in coming here?"
"I beg your pardon; I thought I had explained." And Jane went over the ground again—why he had been obliged to leave London, and his reasons for settling in Helstonleigh.
"You could not have come to a worse place," said Mrs. Dare, who appeared to be annoyed almost beyond repression. "Masters of all sorts are so plentiful here that they tread on each other's heels."
Discouraging news! And Jane's heart beat fast on hearing it. "My husband thought you and Mr. Dare would kindly interest yourselves for him. He knows that Mr. Peach will——"
"No," interrupted Mrs. Dare, in decisive tones. "For Edgar Halliburton's own sake I must decline to recommend him; or, indeed, to interfere at all. It would only encourage fallacious hopes. Masters are here in abundance—I speak of private masters; they don't find half enough to do. Schools are also plentiful. The best thing will be to go to some place where there is a better opening, and not to settle himself here at all!"
"But we have already settled here," replied Jane.
A thought suddenly struck Mrs. Dare. "It can never be Edgar who has taken Mr. Ashley's cottage in the London Road? I remember the name was said to be Halliburton."
"The same. It was let to us by Mr. Dare's clerk."
Mrs. Dare sat biting her lips. That she was grievously annoyed was evident, but in deference to good manners, which were partially returning to her, she strove to repress its signs. "I presume your husband is poor, Mrs. Halliburton?"
"We are very poor."
"It is generally the case with teachers, as I have observed. Well, I can only give one answer to your application—that we must decline all interference. I hope Edgar will not think of applying again to us upon the subject."
Jane rose. Mrs. Dare remained seated. And yet she prided herself upon her good breeding!
"I had forgotten a question which my husband particularly desired me to ask," Jane said, turning back, as she was moving to the door. "Edgar saw by the papers that his uncle, Mr. Cooper, died the beginning of the year. Did he remember him on his death-bed, so far as to send a message of reconciliation?"
Strange to say, the countenance of Mrs. Dare again changed; now to a burning heat, now to a livid pallor. She hesitated in her answer.
"Yes," she said at length. "Mr. Cooper so far relented as to send him his forgiveness. 'Tell my nephew Edgar, if you ever see him, that I am sorry for my harshness; that I would treat him differently were the time to come over again.' I do not remember the precise words; but they were to that effect. There is no doubt that he would have wished to be reconciled; but time did not allow it. I should have written to Edgar of this, had I been acquainted with his address."
"A letter addressed to King's College would always have found him. But he will be glad to hear this. He also bade me ask how Mr. Cooper's money was left—if you would kindly give him the information."
Mrs. Dare bent her head. She was busy playing with her bracelet. "The will was proved in Doctors' Commons. Edgar Halliburton may see it by paying a shilling there."
It was not a gracious answer, and Jane paused. "He cannot go to Doctors' Commons; he is not in London," she gently said.
Mrs. Dare raised her head. A look, speaking plainly of defiance, had settled itself on her features. "It was left to me; the whole of it, except a few trifling legacies to his servants. What could Edgar Halliburton expect?"
"I am sure that he did not expect anything," observed Jane. "Though I believe a hope has sometimes crossed his mind that Mr. Cooper might at the last relent, and remember him."
"Nay," said Mrs. Dare, "he had behaved too disobediently for that. First, in opposing his uncle's wishes that he should enter into business; secondly, in his marriage."
"In his marriage!" echoed Jane, a flush rising to her own face.
"It was so. Mr. Cooper was exceedingly exasperated when he heard that Edgar had married. He looked upon the marriage, I believe, as undesirable for him in a pecuniary point of view. You must pardon my speaking of this to you personally. You appear to wish for the truth."
The flush on Jane's face deepened to crimson.
"It is true that I had no money," she said. "But I am the daughter of a clergyman, and was reared a gentlewoman!"
"I suppose my uncle thought Edgar Halliburton should have married a fortune. However all that is past and gone, and it will do no good to recall it. I am sorry that you should have been so ill-advised for your own interests as to fix on this place to come to."
Mrs. Dare rose. She had sat all this time; Jane had stood. "Tell Edgar, from me, that I am sorry to hear of his illness. Tell him there is no possible chance of success for him in Helstonleigh; no opening whatever! When I say that I hope he will speedily remove to some place less overdone with masters, I speak only in his own interest!"
She rang the bell as she spoke, and gave Jane the tips of two of her fingers. The footman held open the hall door, and bowed her out. Jane went down the gravel sweep, determined never again to trouble Mrs. Dare.
"Joseph!" cried Mrs. Dare, sharply.
"Ma'am?"
"Should that lady ever call again, I am not at home, remember!"
"Very well, ma'am," was the man's reply.
Mrs. Dare did not stay to hear it. She had flown upstairs to her room in trepidation. There she attired herself hastily and went out, bending her steps towards Mr. Dare's office. It was situated at the end of the town; and the door displayed a brass plate: "Mr. Dare, Solicitor."
Mrs. Dare entered the outer room. "Is Mr. Dare alone?" she asked of the clerks.
"No, ma'am. Mr. Ashley is with him."
Chafing at the answer, for she was in a mood of great impatience, of inward tremor, Mrs. Dare waited for a few minutes. Mr. Ashley came out. A man of nearly forty years, rather above the middle height, with a fresh complexion, dark eyes, and well-formed features. A benevolent-looking, good man. His wife was a cousin of Mr. Dare's.
Mr. Dare was seated at his table in his own room when his wife came in. She had turned again of an ashy paleness, and she dropped into a chair near to him.
"What is the matter?" he asked in astonishment. "Are you ill?"
"I think I shall die," she gasped. "I have had a mortal fright, Anthony."
Mr. Dare rose. He was about to get her some water, or to call for it, but she caught his arm. "Stay, and hear me! Stay! Anthony, those Halliburtons have come to Helstonleigh. Come to live here!"
Mr. Dare's mouth opened. "What Halliburtons?" he presently asked.
"They.He has come here to settle. He wants to teach; and his wife has been with me, asking us to be referees. Of course I put the stopper upon that. The idea ofourhaving poor relations in the town who get their living by teaching!"
A very disagreeable idea indeed; for those who were playing first fiddle in the place, and expected to play it still. But not for that did the man and wife stand gazing at each other; and the naturally bold look on Mr. Dare's face had faded considerably just then.
"She asked about the will," said Mrs. Dare, dropping her voice to a whisper, and looking round with a shiver. "I thought I should have died with fear."
Mr. Dare rallied his courage. Any little reminiscence that may have momentarily disturbed his equanimity he shook off, and was his own bold self again.
"Nonsense, Julia! What is there to fear? The will is proved and acted upon. Whatever the old man may have uttered to us in his death ramblings was heard by ourselves alone. If any onehadheard it, I should not much care. A will's a will all the world over; and to act against it would be illegal."
Mrs. Dare sat wiping her brow and gathering uphercourage. It came back by slow degrees.
"Anthony, we must get them out of Helstonleigh. For more reasons than one we must get them out. They are in that house of Mr. Ashley's."
He looked surprised. "They! Ay, to be sure: the name in the books is Halliburton. It never occurred to me that it could be they. I wonder if they are poor?"
"Very poor, the wife said."
"Just so," said Mr. Dare, with a pleasant smile. "I'll not ask for the rent this quarter, but let it go on a bit. We may get them out, Mrs. Dare."
You need not be told that Anthony Dare and his wife had omitted to act upon Mr. Cooper's dying injunction. At the time they did really intend to fulfil it; they were not thieves or forgers. But Edgar Halliburton was not present to remind them of his claims: and, when the money came to be realised, to be in their own hands, there it was suffered to remain. Waiting for him, of course; they did not know precisely where to find him, and did not take any trouble to inquire. Very tempting and useful they found the money. A large portion of their own share went in paying back debts, for they lived at an extravagant rate; and—and in short they had intrenched upon that other share, and could not now have paid it over had they been ever so willing to do so. No wonder that Mrs. Dare had felt as one in mortal fear when she met Jane Halliburton face to face!