Winter had come to Helstonleigh: frost hovered in the air and rested on the ground. How was Mr. Halliburton? He had never once been out since his illness, and he sat by the fire when he did not lie in bed, and his cough was racking him. He might, and probably would, have recovered health under more favourable auspices, but anxiety of mind was killing him. Their money was dwindling to a close, and delicacies they dared not get for him. Mr. Halliburton would say he did not require them; could not eat them if they were procured. Poor man! he craved for them in his inmost heart. Strange to say, he did not see his own danger. Or, rather, it would have been strange but that similar cases are met with every day. "When this cold weather has passed, and spring is in, then I shall get up my strength," was his constant cry. "Then I shall set about my work in earnest, and make my arrival and my plans known to Peach. It has been of no use troubling him beforehand." False, false hopes! fond, delusive hopes!
Dr. Carrington had said that if hetook careof himself, he might live and be well. The other doctors had said the same. And there was no reason to doubt their judgment. But they had not bargained for an attack of rheumatic fever, or for the increased injury to the lungs which the same cause, that past soaking, had induced.
On Christmas Eve, he and Jane were sitting over the fire in the twilight. He could come downstairs now; indeed, he did not appear to be so ill as he really was. The surgeon who attended him in the fever had been discharged long ago. "There's nothing the matter with me now but debility; and, only time will bring me out of that," Mr. Halliburton said, when he dismissed him. Jane was hopeful; more hopeful by fits and starts than continuously so; but she did really believe he might get well when winter had passed. They were sitting beside the fire, when a great bustle interrupted them. All the children trooped in at once, with the noise it is the delight of children not to stir without. Frank, who had been out, had entered the house with his arms full of holly and ivy, his bright face glowing with excitement. The others were attending him to show off the prize.
"Look at all this Christmas, mamma!" cried he. "I have bought it."
"Bought it?" repeated Jane. "My dear Frank, did I not tell you we must do without Christmas this year?"
"But it cost nothing, mamma. Only a penny!"
Jane sighed. She did not say to the children that even a penny was no longer "nothing."
"You know that penny I have kept in my pocket a long while," went on Frank in excitement, addressing the assemblage. "Well, I thought if mamma would not buy some Christmas, I would."
"But you did not buy all that for a penny, Frank? We should pay sixpence for it in London."
"I did, though, mamma. I had it of that old man who lives in the cottage higher up the road, with the big garden to it. He was going to cut me more, but I told him this was plenty. You should have seen the heaps he gave a woman for twopence: she wanted a wheelbarrow to carry it away."
Janey clapped her hands, and began to dance. "I shall help you to dress the rooms! We must have a merry Christmas!"
Mr. Halliburton drew her to him. "Yes, we must have a merry Christmas, must we not, Janey? Jane"—turning to his wife—"can you manage to have a nice dinner for us? Christmas only comes once a year."
He looked up with his haggard face: very much as though he were longing for a nice dinner then.
"I will see what I can do," said Jane in reply, smothering down another sigh. "I am going out presently to the butcher's. A joint of beef will be best; and though the pudding's a plain one, I hope it will be good. Yes, we must keep Christmas."
Christmas-day dawned, and in due time they assembled as usual. Jane intended to go to church that day. During her husband's illness she had been obliged to send the children alone. They had been trained to know what church meant, and did not require some one with them to keep them in order there. A good thing if the same could be said of all children!
It was a clear, bright morning, cold and frosty. Mr. Halliburton came down just as they were starting.
"I feel so much better to-day!" he exclaimed. "I could almost go with you myself. Jane"—smiling at her look of consternation—"you need not be startled: I do not intend to attempt it. William, you are not ready."
"Mamma said I was to stay with you, papa."
"Stay with me! There's not the least necessity for that. I tell you all I am feeling better to-day—quite well. You can go with the rest, William."
William looked at his mother, and for a moment Jane hesitated. Only for a moment. "I would rather he remained, Edgar," she said. "Betsy will be gone by twelve o'clock. Indeed, I should not feel comfortable at the thought of your being alone."
"Oh, very well," replied Mr. Halliburton, quite gaily. "I suppose you must remain, William, or we shall have mamma leaving when the service is only half over to see whether I have not fallen into the fire."
Jane had all the household care upon her shoulders now, and a great portion of the household work. Though an active domestic manager, she had known nothing practically of the more menial work of a house; she knew it only too well now. The old saying is a very true one: "Necessity makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows." This young girl, Betsy, who came in part of each day to assist, was almost as much trouble as profit. She had said to Jane on Christmas Eve: "If you please, mother says I am to be at home to-morrow, if it's convenient." I am! However, Jane and the young lady came to a compromise. She was to go home at twelve and come back later to wash up the dishes. Of course it entailed upon Jane all the trouble of preparing dinner.
Have you ever known one of these cases yourself? Where a lady—a lady, mind you, as Jane was—has had to put aside her habits of refinement, pin up her gown, and turn to and cook; roast the meat and boil potatoes, and all the ether essential items? Many a one is doing it now in real life. Jane Halliburton was not a solitary example. The pudding had been made the day before and partly boiled: it was now on the fire, boiling again, and the rest of the dinner she would do on her return from church.
It was something wonderful, the improvement in Mr. Halliburton's health that day. He took his part with William in reading the psalms and lessons while the rest were at church: it was what he had been unable to do for a long time in consequence of his cough and laboured breathing. The duty over, he lay back in his chair; in thought apparently, not exhaustion.
"Peace on earth, and good will towards men!" he repeated presently, in a fervent, but somewhat absent tone. "William, my boy, I think peace must be coming to me at last. I do feel so well."
"What peace, papa?" asked William, puzzled.
"The peace of renewed health, of hope; freedom from worry. The Christmas season and the bright day have taken away all my despondency. Let me go on like this, and in another month I shall be out and at work."
William's eyes sparkled. He fully believed it all. Boys are sanguine.
They were to dine at three o'clock, and Jane did her best to prepare it. During the process, Patience appeared at the back door with a plate of oranges. "Will thee accept of these for thy children?" asked she.
"How kind you are!" exclaimed Jane, in a grateful impulse, as she thought of her children. Of such little treats they had latterly enjoyed a scanty share. "Patience, I hope you did not buy them purposely?"
"Had I had to buy them, thee would not have seen them," returned the candid Quakeress. "A friend of Samuel Lynn's, who lives at Bristol, sends us a small case every winter. When I was unpacking it this morning I said to him, 'The young ones at the next door would be pleased with a few of these'; but he did not answer. Thee must not think him selfish; he is not a selfish man; but he cannot bear to see anything go beside the child. Anna looked at him eagerly; she would have been pleased to send half the box: and he saw it. 'Take in a few, Patience,' he cried."
"I am much obliged to him, and to you also," repeated Jane. "Patience, Mr. Halliburton is so much better to-day! Go in, and see him."
Patience went into the parlour, carrying the oranges with her. When she came out again there was a grave expression on her serene face.
"Thee will do well not to count upon this apparent improvement in thy husband."
Jane's heart went down considerably. "I do not exactly count upon it, Patience," she confessed; "but he does seem to have changed so much for the better that I feel in greater spirits than I have felt this many a day. His cough seems almost well."
"I do not wish to throw a damp upon thee; still, were I thee, I would not reckon upon it. These sudden improvements sometimes turn out to have been deceitful. Fare thee well!"
Jane went into the parlour. The children were gathered round the plate of oranges. "Mamma, do look!" cried Janey. "Are they not good? There are six: one apiece for us all. I wonder if papa could eat one? Gar, you are not to touch. Papa, could you eat an orange?"
Unseen by the children, Mr. Halliburton had been straining his eager gaze upon the oranges. His mouth parched with inward fever, his throat dry, they appeared, coming thus unexpectedly before him, what the long-wished-for spring of water is to the fainting traveller in the desert. Jane caught the look, and handed the plate to him. "You would like one, Edgar?"
"I am thirsty," he said, in tones savouring of apology, for the oranges seemed to belong to the children rather than to him. "I think I must eat mine before dinner. Cut it into four, will you?"
He took up one of the quarters. "It is delicious!" he exclaimed. "It is so refreshing!"
The children stood around and watched him. They enjoyed oranges, but scarcely with a zest so intense as that.
When Jane returned to the kitchen, she found a helpmate. The maid from next door, Grace, a young Quakeress, fair and demure, was standing there. She had been sent by Patience to do what she could for half an hour. "How considerate she is!" thought grateful Jane.
They dined in comfort, Grace waiting on them. Afterwards the oranges were placed upon the table. Master Gar caught up the plate, and presented it to his mother. "Papa has had his," quoth he.
"Not for me, Gar," said Jane. "I do not eat oranges. I will give mine to papa."
The three younger children speedily attacked theirs. William did not. He left his by the side of the one rejected by his mother, and set the plate by Mr. Halliburton.
"Do you intend these for me, William?"
"Yes, papa."
Frank looked surprised. "William, you don't mean to say you are not going to eat your orange? Why, you were as glad as any of us when they came."
"I eat oranges when I want them," observed William, with an affectation of carelessness, which betrayed a delicacy of feeling that might have done honour to one older than he. "I have had too good a dinner to care about oranges."
Mr. Halliburton drew William towards him, and looked steadfastly into his face with a meaning smile. "Thank you, my darling," he whispered: and William coloured excessively as he sat down.
Mr. Halliburton ate the oranges, and appeared as if he could have eaten as many more. Then he leaned his head back on the pillow which was placed over his chair, and presently fell asleep.
"Be very still, dear children," whispered Jane.
They looked round, saw why they were to be still, and hushed their busy voices. William pulled a stool to his mother's feet, and took his seat on it, holding her hand between his.
"Papa will soon be well again now," he softly said. "Don't you think so, mamma?"
"Indeed I hope he will," she answered.
"But don't youthinkit?" he persisted; and Jane detected an anxiety in his tone. Could there have been a shadow of fear upon the boy's own heart? "He said mamma, whilst you were at church, that in another month he should be strong again."
"Not quite so soon as that, I fear, William. He has been so much reduced, you know. Later: if he goes on as well as he appears to be going on now."
Jane set the children to that renowned game. "Cross questions and crooked answers." You may have had the pleasure of playing it: if so, you will remember that it consists chiefly of whispering. It is difficult to keep children quiet long together.
"Where am I?" cried a sudden voice, startling the children in the midst of their silent whispers.
It came from Mr. Halliburton. He had slept about half an hour, and was now looking round in bewilderment, his head starting away from the pillow. "Where am I?" he repeated.
"You have been asleep, papa," cried Frank.
"Asleep! Oh, yes! I remember. You are all here, and it is Christmas Day. I have been dreaming."
"What about, papa?"
Mr. Halliburton let his head fall back on the pillow again. He fixed his eyes on vacancy, and there ensued a silence. The children looked at him.
"Singular things are dreams," he presently exclaimed. "I thought I was on a broad, wide road—an immense road, and it was crowded with people. We were all going one way, stumbling and tripping along——"
"What made you stumble, papa?" interrupted Janey, whose busy tongue was ever ready to talk.
"The road was full of impediments," continued Mr. Halliburton, in a dreamy tone, as if his mental vision were buried in the scene and he was relating what had actually occurred. "Stones, and hillocks, and brambles, and pools of shallow water, and long grass that got entangled round our feet: nothing but difficulties and hindrances. At the end, in the horizon, as far as the eye could reach—very, very far away indeed—a hundred times as far away as the Malvern Hills appear to be from us—there shone a brilliant light. So brilliant! You have never seen anything like it in life, for the naked eye could not bear such light. And yet we seemed to look at it, and our sight was not dazzled!"
"Perhaps it was fireworks?" interrupted Gar. Mr. Halliburton went on without heeding him.
"We were all pressing on to get to the light, though the distant journey seemed as if it could never end. So long as we kept our eyes fixed on the light, we could see how we walked, and we passed over the rough places without fear. Not without difficulty. But still we did pass them, and advanced. But the moment we took our eyes from the light, then we were stopped; some fell; some wandered aside, and would not try to go forward; some were torn by the brambles; some fell into the water; some stuck in the mud; in short, they could not get on any way. And yet they knew—at least, it seemed that they knew—that if they would only lift their eyes to the light, and keep them steadfastly on it, they were certain to be helped, and to make progress. The few who did keep their eyes on it—very few they were!—steadily bore onwards. The same hindrances, the same difficulties were in their path, so that at times they also felt tempted to despair—to fear they could not get on. But their fears were groundless. So long as they did not take their eyes from the light, it guided them in certainty and safety over the rough places. It was a helper that could not fail; and it was ready to guide every one—all those millions and millions of travellers. To guide them throughout the whole of the way until they had gained it."
The children had become interested and were listening with hushed lips. "Why did they not all let it guide them?" breathlessly asked William. "Nothing can be more easy than to keep our eyes on a light that does not dazzle. What did you do, papa?"
"It seemed that the light would only shine on one step at a time," continued Mr. Halliburton, not in answer to William, but evidently absorbed in his own thoughts. "We could not see further than the one step, but that was sufficient; for the moment we had taken it, then the light shone upon another. And so we passed on, progressing to the end, the light seeming brighter and brighter as we drew near to it."
"Did you get to it, papa?"
"I am trying to recollect, William. I seemed to be quite close to it. I suppose I awoke then."
Mr. Halliburton paused, still in thought: but he said no more. Presently he turned to his wife. "Is it nearly tea-time, Jane? I cannot think what makes me so thirsty."
"We can have tea now, if you like," she replied. "I will go and see about it."
She left the room, and Janey ran after her. In the kitchen, making a great show and parade of being at work amidst plates and dishes, was a damsel of fifteen, her hair curiously twisted about her head, and her round, green eyes wide open. It was Betsy.
"That was good pudding," cried she, turning her face to Mrs. Halliburton. "Better than mother's."
She alluded to a slice which had been given her. Jane smiled. "We want tea, Betsy."
"Have it in directly, mum," was Miss Betsy's acquiescent response.
Scarcely were the words spoken, when a commotion was heard in the sitting-room. The door was flung open, and the boys called out, the tone of their voices one of utter alarm. Jane, the child, and the maid, made but one step to the room. All Jane's fears had flown to "fire."
Fire had been almost less startling. Mr. Halliburton was lying back on the pillow with a ghastly face, his mouth, and shirt-front stained with blood. He could not speak, but he asked assistance with his imploring eyes. In coughing he had broken a blood-vessel.
Jane did not faint; did not scream. Her whole heart turned sick, and she felt that the end had come. Janey sank down on the floor with a faint cry, and hid her face on the sofa. One glimpse was sufficient for Betsy. The moment she had taken it, she subsided into a succession of shrieks; flew out of the house and burst into that of Mr. Lynn. There she terrified the sober family by announcing that Mr. Halliburton was lying with his throat cut.
Mr. Lynn and Patience hurried in, ordering Anna to remain where she was. They saw what was the matter, and placed him in a better position: Patience helping Mrs. Halliburton to sponge his face.
"Shall I get the doctor for thee, friend?" asked the Quaker of Jane. "I shall bring him quicker, maybe, than one of thy lads would."
"Oh! yes, yes!"
"I warned thee not to be sanguine," whispered Patience, when Mr. Lynn had gone. "I feared it might be only the deceitfulness of the ending."
The ending! what a confirmation of Jane's own fears! She turned her eyes despairingly on Patience.
Mr. Halliburton opened his trembling lips, as though he would have spoken. Patience stopped him.
"Thee must not talk, friend. If thee hast need of anything, can thee not make a sign?"
He gave them to understand that he wanted water. This was given to him, and he appeared to be more composed.
"There is nothing else that I can do just now," observed Patience. "I will go back and take thy little girl with me. See her, hiding there!"
Patience did so. Betsy cowered over the fire in the kitchen, and the three boys and their mother stood round the dying man.
"Children!" he gasped.
"Oh, Edgar! do not speak!" interrupted Jane.
He smiled as he looked at her, very much as though he knew that it did not matter whether he spoke or remained silent. "I am at the journey's end, Jane; close to the light. Children," he panted at slow intervals, "when I told you my dream, I little thought it was only a type of the present reality. I think it was sent to me that I might tell it you, for I now see its meaning. You are travelling on to that light, as I thought I was—as I have been. You will have the same stumbling-blocks to walk over; none are exempt from them; trials, and temptations, and sorrows, and drawbacks. But the light is there, ever shining to guide you, for it is Heaven. Will you always look up to it?"
He gathered their hands together, and held them between his. The boys, awe-struck, bewildered with terror and grief, could only gaze in silence and listen.
"The light is God, my children. He is above you, and below you, and round about you everywhere. He is ready to help you at every step and turn. Make Him your guide; put your whole dependence upon Him, implicitly trust to Him to lighten your path, so that you may see to walk in it. He cannot fail. Look up to Him, and you will be unerringly guided, though it may be—though it probably will be—only step by step. Never lose your trust in God, and then rest assured He will conduct you to His own bright ending. Jane, let them take it to their hearts! May God bless you, my dear ones! and bring you to me hereafter!"
He ceased, and lay exhausted; his eyes fondly seeking Jane's, her hand clasped in his. Jane's own eyes were dry and burning, and she appeared to be unnaturally calm. Gradually the fading eyes closed. In a very short time the knock of Samuel Lynn was heard at the door. He had brought the doctor. William, passing his handkerchief over his wet face, went to open it.
Mr. Parry stepped into the room, and Jane moved from beside her husband to give place to him. "He sighed heavily a minute or two ago," she whispered.
The surgeon looked at him. He bent his ear to the open mouth, and then gently unbuttoned the waistcoat, and listened for the beating of the heart. "His life passed away in that sigh," murmured the doctor to Jane.
It was even so. Edgar Halliburton had gone into the light.
Jane looked around her—looked at all the terrors of her situation. The first burst of grief over, and a day or two gone on, she could only look at it. She did not know which way to turn or what to do. It is true she placed implicit trust in God—in the LIGHT spoken of by her husband when he was passing away. Throughout her life she had borne an ever-present, lively trust in God's unchanging care; and she had incessantly striven to implant the same trust in the minds of her children. But in this season of dread anxiety, of hopeless bereavement, you will not think less well of her for hearing that she did give way to despondency, almost to despair.
From tears for him who had been the dear partner of her life, to anxiety for the future of his children—from anxiety for them, to pecuniary distress and embarrassment—so passed on her hours from Christmas night. Calm she had contrived to be in the presence of others; but it was the calm of an aching heart. She dreaded her own reflections. When she rose in the morning she said, "How shall I bear up through the day?" and when she went to her bed, it would be, "How shall I drag through the right?" Tossing, turning, moaning; walking the room in the darkness when no eye was upon her; kneeling, almost without hope, to pour forth her tribulations to God—who would believe that, in the daytime, before others, she could be so apparently serene? Only once did she give way, and that was the day before the funeral.
Patience sympathised with her in a reasoning sort of way. It had been next to impossible for Jane to keep her pecuniary anxiety from Patience, who advised and assisted her in making the various arrangements. It was necessary to go to work in the most sparing manner possible; and it ended in Jane's taking Patience into her full confidence.
"If thee can but keep a house over thy head, so as to retain thy children with thee, thee wilt get along. Do not be cast down."
"Oh, Patience, that is what I have been thinking about—how am I to keep the house together. I do not see that I can do it."
"The furniture is thine," observed Patience. "Thee might let two or three of thy rooms, so as to cover the rent."
"I have thought all that over and over again to myself," sighed Jane. "But, Patience—allowing that the rent were made in that way—how are we to live?"
"Thee must occupy thy time in some way. Thee can sew! Dost thee know dress-making?"
"No—only sufficient of it to make my own plain gowns and Jane's frocks. As to plain sewing, I could never earn food at it—it is so badly paid. And there will be the education of my boys, and their clothing."
"Thee hast anxiety before thee—I see it," said Patience, in a grave tone. "Still, I would not have thee be cast down. Thee will make thyself ill, and that will not be the way to mend thy condition."
Jane sat down, her hands clasped on her knees, her mind viewing her dark troubles. "If I were but clear, I should have better hope," she said, lifting her face in its sad sorrow. "Patience, we owe half a year's rent; and there will be the funeral expenses besides."
"Hast thee no kindred that would aid thee in thy strait?"
Jane shook her head. The only "kindred" she possessed in the whole world was one who had barely enough for his own poor wants—her brother Francis.
"Hast thee no little property to dispose of?" continued Patience. "Watches, or things of that kind?"
There was her husband's watch. But Jane's pale face crimsoned at the idea of parting with it in that manner. It was a good watch, and had long ago been promised to William.
"I can understand thy flush of aversion," said Patience, kindly. "I would not be the one to suggest aught to hurt thy feelings; but thy necessities may leave no alternative."
A conviction that they would leave none was already stealing over Jane. She possessed a few trinkets herself, not of much value, and a little silver. All might have to go, not excepting the watch. "Would there be a difficulty in disposing of them, Patience?" she asked aloud.
"None at all: there is the pawn-shop," said the plain-speaking Quakeress. "I do not know what many would do without it. I can tell thee that some of the great ones of this city send their plate to it on occasion. Thee would not like to go to such a place thyself, but thy servant's mother, Elizabeth Carter, is a discreet woman: she would render thee this little service. As I tell thee, if thee can only surmount present difficulties, so as to secure a start, thee may get on."
Surmount present difficulties! It seemed to Jane next door to an impossibility. She had the merest trifle of money left, was in debt, and without means, so far as she saw, of earning even food. She paid her last night visit to the room which contained the coffin, and went thence up to her bed, to toss the night through on her wet pillow, with a burning brow and an aching heart.
It was a sad funeral to see, and one of the plainest of the plain. The clerk of the church, who had condescended to come up to escort it—a condescension he did not often vouchsafe to poor funerals, for they afforded nothing good to eat and drink—walked first, without a hatband. Then came the coffin, covered with a pall, and William and Frank behind it. Jane had not sent Gar, poor little fellow! She thought he might be better away. That was all; there were no attendants: the clerk, the two boys, the coffin, and the men who bore it.
It was sad to see. The people stopped to look as it went along the streets, following with their eyes the poor fatherless children. One young man stood aside, raised his hat, and held it in his hand until the coffin had passed. But the young man had lived in foreign countries, where it is the custom to remain uncovered whilst a funeral goes by.
He was buried at St. Martin's Church; and, singular to say, the officiating minister was the Rev. Mr. Peach. Mr. Peach did not know who he was interring: he had taken the service for St. Martin's rector. William heard his name: how many times had he heard his poor father mention the name in connection with his hopeful prospects! He burst into wailing sobs at the thought. Mr. Peach glanced off his book to look compassionately at the sobbing boy.
The funeral was over, the last word of the service spoken, the first shovel of earth flung rattling on to the coffin. The clerk did not pay the compliment of his escort back again; indeed, there was nothing to escort but the two boys. They walked alone, with no company but their hatbands.
In the evening, at dusk, they were gathered together—Jane and all the children. Tears seemed to have a respite: they had been shed of late all too plentifully.
"I must speak to you, children," said Jane, lifting her head, and breaking the silence. "I may as well speak now, as let the days go on first. You are young, but you are old enough to understand me. Do you know, my darlings, how very sad our position is?"
"In losing papa?" said Janey, catching her breath.
"Yes, yes, in losing him," wailed Jane. "For that includes more than you suspect. But I wish to allude more particularly to the future. My dears, I do not see what is to become of us. We have no money; and we have no one to give us any or to lend us any; no one in the wide world."
The children did not interrupt; only William moved his chair nearer to hers. She looked so young in her widow's cap: nearly as young as when, years ago, she had married him who had that day been put out of her sight for ever.
"If we can only keep a roof over our heads," continued Jane, speaking very softly from the effort to subdue her threatening emotion, "we may perhaps struggle on. Perhaps. But it will bestruggling; and you do not know half that the word implies. We may not have enough to eat. We may be cold and hungry—not once, but constantly; and we shall certainly have to encounter and endure the slights and humiliations attendant on extreme poverty. I do not know that we can retain a home; for we may, in a week or two, be turned from this."
"But why be turned from this, mamma?"
"Because there is rent owing, and I have not the means to pay it," she answered. "I have written to your uncle Francis, but I do not believe he will be able to help me. He——"
"Why can't we go back to London to live?" eagerly interrupted little Gar. "It was so nice there! It was a better home than this."
"You forget, Gar, that—that——" here she almost broke down, and had to pause a minute—"that our income there was earned by papa. He would not be there to earn it now. No, my dear ones; I have thought the future over in every way—thought until my brain has become confused—and the only possible chance that I can see, of our surmounting difficulties, so as to enable us to exist, is by endeavouring to keep this home. Patience suggests that I should let part of it. I had already thought of that; and I shall endeavour to do so. It may cover the rent and taxes. And I must try and do something else that will find us food."
The children looked perfectly thunderstruck, especially the two elder ones, William and Jane. "Do something to find food!" they uttered, aghast. "Mamma, what do you mean?"
It is so difficult to make children understand these unhappy things—those who have been brought up in comfort. Jane sighed, and explained further. Little desolate hearts they were who listened to her.
"William," she resumed, "your poor papa's watch was to have been yours; but—I scarcely like to tell you—I fear I shall be obliged to dispose of it to help our necessities."
A spasm shot across William's face. But, brave-hearted boy that he was, he would not let his mother see his disappointment, and looked cheerfully at her.
"There is one thought that weighs more heavily on my mind than all—your education. How I shall manage to continue it I do not know. My darlings, I look upon this only in a degree less essential to you than food: you know that learning is better than house and land. I do not yet see my way clear in any way: it is very dark—almost as dark as it can be; and but for one Friend, I should despair."
"What friend is that, mamma? Do you mean Patience?"
"I mean God," replied Jane. "I know that He is a sure refuge to those who trust in Him. In my saddest moments, when I think how certain that refuge is, a ray of light flashes over me, bright as that glorious light in your papa's dream. Oh, my dear children! Perhaps we shall be helped to struggle on!"
"Who will buy us new clothes?" cried Frank, dropping upon another phase of the difficulty. Jane sighed: it was all terribly indistinct.
"In all the tribulation that will probably come upon us, the humiliations, the necessities, we must strive for patience to bear them. You do not yet understand the meaning of the term,to bear; but you will learn it all too soon. You must bear not only for your own sakes, because it is your lot, and you cannot go from it; not only for mine, but chiefly because it is the will of God. This affliction could not have come upon us unless God had permitted it, and I am quite sure, therefore, that it is in some way sent for our good. We shall not be utterly miserable if we can keep together in our house. You will aid me in it, will you not?"
"In what way, mamma?" they eagerly asked, as if wishing to begin something then. "What can we do?"
"You can aid me by being dutiful and obedient; by giving me no unnecessary anxiety or trouble; by cheerfully making the best of our privations; and you can strive to retain what you have already learnt by going diligently over your lessons together. All this will aid and comfort me."
William's tears burst forth, and he laid his head on his mother's lap. "Oh, mamma dear, I will try and do for you all I can," he sobbed. "I will indeed."
"Take comfort, my boy," she whispered, leaning tenderly over him. "Remember that your last act to your father was a loving sacrifice, in giving to him the orange that you would have enjoyed. I marked it, William. My darling children, let us all strive to bear on steadfastly to that far-off light, ever looking unto God."
A week elapsed, after the burial of Mr. Halliburton. By that time Jane had looked fully into the best and worst of her condition, and had, so to say, organised her plans. By the disposal of the watch, with what little silver they possessed, and ornaments of her own, she had been enabled to discharge the expenses of the funeral and other small debts, and to retain a trifle in hand for present wants.
On the last day of the week, Saturday, she received an application for the rent. A stylish-looking stripling of some nineteen years, with light eyes and fair hair, called from Mr. Dare to demand it. Jane told him she could not pay him then, but would write and explain to Mr. Dare. Upon which the gentleman, whose manners were haughtily condescending, turned on his heel and left the house, not deigning to say good morning. As he was swinging out at the gate, Patience, coming home from market with a basket in her hand, met him. "How dost thee?" said she in salutation. But there was no response from the other, except that his head went a shade higher.
"Do you know who that is?" inquired Jane, afterwards.
"Of a surety. It is young Anthony Dare."
"He has not pleasing manners."
"Not to us. There is not a more arrogant youth in the town. But his private character is not well spoken of."
Jane sat down to write to Mr. Dare. Her brother Francis, to whom she had explained her situation, had promised her the rent for the half-year due, sixteen pounds, by the middle of February. He could not let her have it before that period, he said, but she might positively count upon it then. She begged Mr. Dare to accord her the favour of waiting until then. Sealing her note, she sent it to him.
On the Monday following, all was in readiness tolet; and Jane was full of hope, looking for the advent of lodgers. The best parlour and the two best bedrooms had been vacated, and were in order. Jane slept now with her little girl, and the boys had mattresses laid down for them on the floor at the top of the house. They were to make the study their sitting-room from henceforth; and a card in the window displayed the announcement "Lodgings." The more modern word "apartments" had not then come into fashion at Helstonleigh.
Patience came in after breakfast with a piece of grey merino in her hand.
"Would thee like to make a frock for Anna?" asked she of Mrs. Halliburton. "Sarah Locke does them for her mostly, for it is work that I am not clever at; but Sarah sends me word she is too full of work this week to undertake it. I heard thee say thee made Janey's frocks. If thee can do this, and earn half-a-crown, thee art welcome. It is what I should pay Sarah."
Jane took the merino in thankfulness. It was as a ray of hope, come to light up her heart. Only the instant before Patience entered she was wishing that something could arrive for her to do, never supposing that it would arrive. And now it had come!—and would bring her in two-and-sixpence! "Two-and-sixpence!" we may feel inclined to echo, in undisguised contempt for the trifle. Ay! but we may never have known the yearning want of two-and-sixpence, or of ten-and-sixpence either!
Jane cut out the skirt by a pattern frock, and sat down to make it, her mind ruminating on the future. The children were at their lessons, round the table. "I have just two pounds seventeen and sixpence left," deliberated Jane. "This half-crown will make it three pounds. I wonder how long we can live upon that? We have good clothes, and for the present the boys' boots are good. If I can let the rooms we shall have the rent, so that food is the chief thing to look to. We must spin the money out; must live upon bread and potatoes and a little milk, until something comes in. I wonder if five shillings a week would pay for bare food, and for coals? I fear——"
Jane's dreams were interrupted. The front gate was swung open, and two people, men or gentlemen, approached the house door and knocked. Their movements were so quick that Jane caught only a glimpse of them. "See who it is, will you, William?"
She heard them walk in and ask if she was at home. Putting down her work, she shook the threads from her black dress and went out to them, William returning to his lessons.
The visitors were standing in the passage—one well-dressed man and one shabby one. The former made a civil demand for the half-year's rent due. Jane replied that she had written to Mr. Dare on the previous Saturday, explaining things to him, and asking him to wait a short time.
"Mr. Dare cannot wait," was the rejoinder of the applicant, still speaking civilly. "You must allow me to remark, ma'am, that you are strangers to the town, that you have paid no rent since you entered the house——"
"We believed it was the custom to pay half-yearly, as Mr. Dare did not apply for it at the Michaelmas quarter," interrupted Jane. "We should have paid then, had he asked for it."
"At any rate, it is not paid," was the reply. "And—I am sorry, ma'am, to be under the necessity of leaving this man in possession until you do pay!"
They walked deliberately into the best parlour; and Jane, amidst a rushing feeling of despair that turned her heart to sickness, knew that a seizure had been put into the house.
As she stood in her bewilderment, Patience entered by the back door, the way she always did enter, and caught a glimpse of the shabby man. She drew Jane into the kitchen.
"What does that man do here?" she inquired.
For answer Jane sank into a chair and burst into sobs so violent as to surprise the calm Quakeress. She turned and shut the door.
"Hush thee! Now hush thee! Thy children will hear and be terrified. Art thee behind with thy taxes?"
For some minutes Jane could not reply. "Not for taxes," she said; "they are paid. Mr. Dare has put him in for the rent."
Patience revolved the news in considerable astonishment. "Nay, but I think thee must be in error. Thomas Ashley would not do such a thing."
"He has done it," sobbed Jane.
"It is not in accordance with his character. He is a humane and considerate man. Verily I grieve for thee! That man is not an agreeable inmate of a house. We had him in ours last year!"
"You!" uttered Jane, surprise penetrating even to her own grief. "You!"
"They force us to pay church-rates," explained Patience. "We have a scruple to do so, believing the call unjust. For years Samuel Lynn had paid the claim to avert consequences; but last year he and many more Friends stood out against it. The result was, that that man, now in thy parlour, was put into our house. The amount claimed was one pound nine shillings; and they took out of our house, and sold, goods which had cost us eleven pounds, and which were equal to new."
"Oh, Patience, tell me what I had better do!" implored Jane, reverting to her own trouble. "If we are turned out and our things sold, we must go to the workhouse. We cannot be in the streets."
"Indeed, I feel incompetent to advise thee. Had thee not better see Anthony Dare, and try thy persuasion that he would remove the seizure and wait?"
"I will go to him at once," feverishly returned Jane. "You will allow Janey to remain with you, Patience, while I do so?"
"Of a surety I will. She——"
At that moment the children burst into the kitchen, one after the other. "Mamma, who is that shabby-looking man come into the study? He has seated himself right in front of the fire, and is knocking it about. And the other is looking at the tables and chairs."
It was Frank who spoke; impetuous
Frank. Mrs. Halliburton cast a despairing look around her, and Patience drew their attention.
"That man is here on business," she said to them. "You must not be rude to him, or he will be ten times more rude to you. The other will soon be gone. Your mother is going abroad for an hour; perhaps when she returns she will rid the house of him. Jane, child, thee can come with me and take thy dinner with Anna."
Mrs. Halliburton waited until the better-looking of the two men was gone, and then started. It was a raw, cold day—what some people call a black frost. Black and gloomy it all looked to her, outwardly and inwardly, as she traversed the streets to the office of Mr. Dare. Patience had directed her, and the plate on the door, "Mr. Dare, Solicitor," showed her the right house. She stepped inside that door, which stood open, and knocked at one to the right of the passage. "Clerks' Room" was inscribed upon it.
"Come in."
Three or four clerks were in it. In one of them she recognized him who had just left her house. The other clerks appeared to defer to him, and called him "Mr. Stubbs." Jane, giving her name, said she wished to see Mr. Dare, and the request was conveyed to an inner room. It brought forth young Anthony.
"My father is busy and cannot see you," was his salutation. "I can hear anything you may have to say. It will be the same thing."
"Thank you," replied Jane, in courteous tones, very different from his. "But I would prefer to see Mr. Dare."
"He is engaged, I say," sharply repeated Anthony.
"I will wait, then. I must see him."
Anthony Dare stalked back again. Jane, seeing a bench against the wall, sat down. It was about half-past twelve when she arrived there, and when the clock struck two, there she was still. Several clients, during that time, had come and gone;theywere admitted to Mr. Dare, but she sat on, neglected. At two o'clock Anthony came through the room with his hat on. He appeared to be going out.
"What! are you here still?" he exclaimed, in genuine or affected surprise; never, in his ill-manners, removing his hat—he of whom it was his delight to hear it said that he was the most complete gentleman in Helstonleigh. "I assure you it is not of the least use your waiting. Mr. Dare will not be able to see you."
"Mr. Dare can surely spare me a minute when he has done with others."
"He cannot to-day. Can you not say to me what you want to say?"
"Indeed I must see Mr. Dare himself. I will wait on, if you will allow me, hoping to do so."
Anthony Dare vouchsafed no reply, and went out. One or two of the clerks looked round. They appeared not to understand why she sat on so persistently, or why Mr. Dare refused to see her.
In about an hour's time the inner door opened. A tall man, with a bold, free countenance, looked into the room. Supposing it to be Mr. Dare, Jane rose and approached him. "Will you allow me a few minutes' conversation?" she asked. "I presume you are Mr. Dare?"
He put up his hands as if to fence her off. "I have no time, I have no time," he reiterated, and shut the door in her face. Jane sat down again on the bench. "Stubbs, I want you," came forth from Mr. Dare's voice, as he opened the door an inch to speak it.
Stubbs went in, remained a few minutes, and then returned, put on his hat, and walked out. His departure was the signal for considerable relaxation in the office duties. "When the cat's away—" you know the rest. Yawning, stretching, whispering, and laughing supervened. One of the clerks took from his pocket a paper of the biscuits called "Union" in Helstonleigh, and began eating them. Another pulled out a bottle, and solaced himself with some of its contents—whatever they might be. Suddenly the man with the biscuits got off his stool, and offered them to Mrs. Halliburton. Her pale, sad face may have prompted his good nature to the act.
"You have waited a good while, ma'am, and perhaps have lost your dinner through it," he said.
Jane took one of them. "You are very kind. Thank you," she faintly said.
But not a crumb of it could she swallow. She had taken a slice of dry toast for her breakfast that morning, with half a cup of milk; and it was long since she had had a sufficiency of food at any meal. She felt weak, sick, faint; but anxiety and suspense were at work within, parching her throat, destroying her appetite. She held the biscuit in her fingers, resting on her lap, and, in spite of her efforts, the rebellious tears forced themselves to her eyes. Raising her hand, she quietly let fall her widow's veil.
A poor-looking man came in, and counted out eight shillings, laying them upon the desk. "I couldn't make up the other two this week; I couldn't, indeed," he said, with trembling eagerness. "I'll bring twelve next week, please to say."
"Mind you do," responded one of the clerks; "or you know what will be in store for you."
The man shook his head. He probably did know; and, in going out, was nearly knocked over by a handsome lad of seventeen, who was running in. Very handsome were his features; but they were marred by the free expression which characterized Mr. Dare's.
"I say, is the governor in?" cried he, out of breath.
"Yes, sir. Lord Hawkesley's with him."
"The deuce take Lord Hawkesley, then!" returned the young gentleman. "Where's Stubbs? I want my week's money, and I can't wait. Walker, I say, where's Stubbs?"
"Stubbs is gone out, sir."
"What a bother! Halloa! Here's some money! What is this?" continued the speaker, catching up the eight shillings.
"It is some that has just been paid in, Master Herbert."
"That's all right then," said he, slipping five of them into his jacket pocket. "Tell Stubbs to put it down as my week's money."
He tore off. Jane sat on, wondering what she was to do. There appeared to be little probability that she would be admitted to Mr. Dare; and yet, how could she go home as she came—hopeless—to the presence of that man? No; she must wait still; wait until the last. She might catch a word with Mr. Dare as he was leaving. Jane could not help thinking his behaviour very bad in refusing to see her.
The office was being lighted when Mr. Stubbs returned. One of the clerks pointed to the three shillings with his pen. "Kinnersley has brought eight shillings. He will make it twelve next week. Couldn't manage the ten this, he says."
"Where are the eight shillings?" asked Stubbs. "I see only three."
"Oh, Master Herbert came in, and took off five. He said you were to put it down as his week's money."
"He'll take a little too much some day, if he's not checked," was the cynical reply of the senior clerk. "However, it's no business of mine."
He put the three shillings into his own desk, and made an entry in a book. After that he went in to Mr. Dare, who was now alone. A large room, handsomely fitted up. Mr. Dare's table was near one of the windows: a desk, at which Anthony sometimes sat, was at the other. Mr. Dare looked up.
"I could not do anything, sir," said Stubbs. "The other party will listen to no proposal at all. They say they'll throw it into Chancery first. An awful rage they are in."
"Tush!" said Mr. Dare. "Chancery, indeed! They'll tell another tale in a day or two. Has Kinnersley been in?"
"Kinnersley has brought eight shillings, and promises to bring twelve next Monday. Master Herbert carried off five of them, and left word it was for his week's money."
"A smart blade!" cried Mr. Dare, apostrophizing his son with personal pride. "'Take it when I can,' is his motto. He'll make a good lawyer, Stubbs."
"Very good," acquiesced Stubbs.
"Is that woman gone yet?"
"No, sir. My opinion is, she means to wait until she sees you."
"Then send her in at once, and let's get it over," thundered Mr. Dare.
In what lay his objection to seeing her? A dread lest she should put forth their relationship as a plea for his clemency? If so, he was destined to be agreeably disappointed. Jane did not allude to it; would not allude to it. After that interview held with Mrs. Dare, some three or four months before, she had dropped all remembrance of the connection: even the children did not know of it. She only solicited Mr. Dare's leniency now, as any other stranger might have solicited it. Little chance was there of Mr. Dare's acceding to her prayer: he and his wife both wanted Helstonleigh to be free of the Halliburtons.
"It will be utter ruin," she urged. "It will turn us, beggars, into the streets. Mr. Dare, Ipromiseyou the rent by the middle of February. Unless it were certain, my brother would not have promised it to me. Surely you may accord me this short time."
"Ma'am, I cannot—that is, Mr. Ashley cannot. It was a reprehensible piece of carelessness on my part to suffer the rent to go on for half a year, considering that you were strangers. Mr. Ashley will look to me to see him well out of it."
"There is sufficient furniture in my house, new furniture, to pay what is owing three times over."
"May be, as it stands in it. Things worth forty pounds in a house, won't fetch ten at a sale."
"That is an additional reason why I——"
"Now, my good lady," interrupted Mr. Dare, with imperative civility, "one word is as good as a thousand; and that word I have said. I cannot withdraw the seizure, except on receipt of the rent and costs. Pay them, and I shall be most happy to do it. If you stop here all night I can give you no other answer; and my time is valuable."
He glanced at the door as he spoke. Jane took the hint, and passed out of it. As much by the tone, as by the words, she gathered that there was no hope whatever.
The streets were bright with gas as she hurried along, her head bent, her veil over her face, her tears falling silently. But when she left the town behind her, and approached a lonely part of the road where no eye was on her, no ear near her, then the sobs burst forth uncontrolled.
"No eye on her? no ear near her?" Ay, but there was! There was one Eye, one Ear, which never closes. And as Jane's dreadful trouble resolved itself into a cry for help to Him who ever listens, there seemed to come a feeling of peace, oftrust, into her soul.
Frank met her as she went in. It was dark; but she kept her veil down.
"Oh, mamma, that's the most horrible man!" he began, in a whisper. "You know the cheese you brought in on Saturday, that we might not eat our bread quite dry; well, he has eaten it up, every morsel, and half a loaf of bread! And he has burnt the whole scuttleful of coal! And he swore because there was no meat; and he swore at us because we would not go to the public-house and buy him some beer. He said we were to buy it and pay for it."
"I said you would not allow us to go, mamma," interrupted William, who now came up. "I told him that if he wanted beer he must go and get it for himself. I spoke civilly, you know, not rudely. He went into such a passion, and said such things! It is a good thing Jane was out."
"Where is Gar?" she asked.
"Gar was frightened at the man, and the tobacco-smoke made him sick, and he cried; and then he lay down on the floor, and went to sleep."
Shefelt sick. She drew her two boys into the parlour—dark there, except for the lamp in the road, which shone in. Pressing them in her arms, completely subdued by the miseries of her situation, she leaned her forehead upon William's shoulder, and burst once more into a most distressing flood of tears.
They were alarmed. They cried with her. "Oh, mamma! what is it? Why don't you order the man to go away?"
"My boys, I must tell you; I cannot keep it from you," she sobbed. "That man is put here to remain, until I can pay the rent. If I cannot pay it, our things will be taken and sold."
William's pulses and heart alike beat, but he was silent, Frank spoke. "Whatever shall we do, mamma?"
"I do not know," she wailed. "Perhaps God will help us. There is no one else to do it."
Patience came in, for about the sixth time, to see whether Jane had returned, and how the mission had sped. They called her into the cold, dark room. Jane gave her the history of the whole day, and Patience listened in astonishment.
"I cannot but believe that Thomas Ashley must have been mis-informed," said she, presently. "But that you are strangers in the place, I should say you had an enemy who may have gone to him with a tale that thee can pay, but will not. Still, even in that case, it would be unlike Thomas Ashley. He is a kind and a good man; not a harsh one."
"Mr. Dare told me he was expressly acting for Mr. Ashley."
"Well, I say that I cannot understand it," repeated Patience. "It is not like Thomas Ashley. I will give thee an instance of his disposition and general character. There was a baker rented under him, living in a house of Thomas Ashley's. The baker got behind with his rent; other bakers were more favoured than he; but he kept on at his trade, hoping times would mend. Year by year he failed in his rent—Thomas Ashley, mark thee, still paying him regularly for the bread supplied to his family. 'Why do you not stop his bread-money?' asked one, who knew of this, of Thomas Ashley. 'Because he is poor, and looks to my weekly money, with that of others, to buy his flour,' was Thomas Ashley's answer. Well, when he owed several years' rent, the baker died, and the widow was going to move. Anthony Dare hastened to Thomas Ashley. 'Which day shall I levy a distress upon the goods?' asked he. 'Not at all,' replied Thomas Ashley. And he went to the widow, and told her the rent was forgiven, and the goods were her own, to take with her when she left. That is Thomas Ashley."
Jane bent her head in thought. "Is Mr. Lynn at home?" she asked. "I should like to speak to him."
"He has had his tea and gone back to the manufactory, but he will be home soon after eight. I will keep Jane till bedtime. She and Anna are happy over their puzzles."
"Patience, am I obliged to find that man in food?"
"That thee art. It is the law."
The noise made by Patience in going away, brought the man forth from the study, a candle in his hand. "When is that mother of yours coming back?" he roared out to the boys. Jane advanced. "Oh, you are here!" he uttered, wrathfully. "What are you going to give me to eat and drink? A pretty thing this is, to have an officer in, and starve him!"
"You shall have tea directly. You shall have what we have," she answered, in a low tone.
The kettle was boiling on the study fire. Jane lighted a fire in the parlour, and sent Frank out for butter. The man smoked over the study fire, as he had done all the afternoon, and Gar slept beside him on the floor, but William went now and brought the child away. Jane sent the man his tea in, and the loaf and butter.
The fare did not please him. He came to the parlour and said he must have meat; he had had none for his dinner.
"I cannot give it you," replied Jane. "We are eating dry toast and bread, as you may see. I sent butter to you."
He stood there for some minutes, giving vent to his feelings in rather strong language; and then he went back to revenge himself upon the butter for the want of meat. Jane laid her hand upon her beating throat: beating with its tribulation.
Between eight and nine Jane went to the next door. Samuel Lynn had come home for the evening, and was sitting at the table in his parlour, helping the two little girls with a geographical puzzle, which had baffled their skill. He was a little man, quiet in movement, pale and sedate in feature, dry and unsympathising in manner.
"Thee art in trouble, friend, I hear," he said, placing a chair for Jane, whilst Patience came and called the children away. "It is sad for thee."
"In great trouble," answered Jane. "I came in to ask if you would serve me in my trouble. I fancy perhaps you can do so if you will."
"In what way, friend?"
"Would you interest yourself for me with Mr. Ashley? He might listen to you. Were he assured that the money would be forthcoming in February, I think he might agree to give me time."
"Friend, I cannot do this," was the reply of the Quaker. "My relations with Thomas Ashley are confined to business matters, and I cannot overstep them. To interfere with his private affairs would not be seemly; neither might he deem it so. I am but his servant, remember."
The words fell upon her heart as ice. She believed it her only chance—some one interceding for her with Mr. Ashley. She said so.
"Why not go to him thyself, friend?"
"Would he hear me?" hastily asked Jane. "I am a stranger to him."
"Thee art his tenant. As to hearing thee, that he certainly would. Thomas Ashley is of a courteous nature. The poorest workman in our manufactory, going to the master with a grievance, is sure of a patient hearing. But if thee ask me would he grant thy petition, there I cannot inform thee. Patience opines that thee, or thy intentions, may have been falsely represented to him. I never knew him resort to harsh measures before."
"When would be the best time to see him? Is it too late to-night?"
"To-night would not be a likely time, friend, to trouble him. He has not long returned from a day's journey, and is, no doubt, cold and tired. I met James Meeking driving down as I came home; he had left the master at his house. They have been out on business connected with the manufactory. Thee might see him in the morning, at his breakfast hour."
Jane rose and thanked the Quaker. "I will certainly go," she said.
"There is no need to say to him that I suggested it to thee, friend. Go as of thy own accord."
Jane went home with her little girl. Their undesirable visitor looked out at the study door, and began a battle about supper. It ought to comprise, in his opinion, meat and beer. Heinsistedthat one of the boys should go out for beer. Jane steadily refused. She was tempted to tell him that the children of a gentleman were not despatched to public-houses on such errands. She offered him the money to go and get some for himself.
It aroused his anger. He accused her of wanting to get him out of the house by stratagem, that she might lock him out; and he flung the pence back amongst them. Janey screamed, and Gar burst out crying. As Patience had said, he was not a pleasant inmate. Jane ran upstairs, and the children followed her.
"Where is he to sleep?" inquired William.
It is a positive fact that, until that moment, Jane had forgotten all about the sleeping. Of course he must sleep there, though she had not thought of it. Amidst the poor in her father's parish in London, Jane had seen many phases of distress; but with this particular annoyance she had never been brought into contact. However, it had to be done.
What a night that was for her! She paced her room nearly throughout it, with quiet movement, Janey sleeping placidly—now giving way to all the dark appearances of her position, to uncontrollable despondency; now kneeling and crying for help in her heartfelt anguish.
Morning came; the black frost had gone, and the sun shone. After breakfast Jane put on her shawl and bonnet.
Mr. Ashley's residence was very near to them—only a little higher up the road. It was a large house, almost a mansion, surrounded by a beautiful garden. Jane had passed it two or three times, and thought what a nice place it was. She repeatedly saw Mr. Ashley walk past her house as he went to or came from the manufactory: she was not a bad reader of countenances, and she judged him to be a thorough gentleman. His face was a refined one, his manner pleasant.
She found that she had gone at an untoward time. Standing before the hall door was Mr. Ashley's open carriage, the groom standing at the horse's head. Even as Jane ascended the steps the door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Ashley were coming forth. Feeling terribly distressed and disappointed, she scarcely defined why, Jane accosted the former, and requested a few minutes' interview.
Mr. Ashley looked at her. A fair young widow, evidently a lady. He did not recognise her. He had seen her before, but she was in a different style of dress now.
Mr. Ashley raised his hat as he replied to her. "Is your business with me pressing? I was just going out."
"Indeed it is pressing," she said; "or I would not think of asking to detain you."
"Then walk in," he returned. "A little delay will not make much difference."
Opening the door of a small sitting-room, apparently his own, he invited her to a seat near the fire. As she took it, Jane untied the crape strings of her bonnet and threw back her heavy veil. She was as white as a sheet, and felt choking.
"I fear you are ill," Mr. Ashley remarked. "Can I get you anything?"
"I shall be better in a minute, thank you," she panted. "Perhaps you do not know me, sir. I live in your house, a little lower down. I am Mrs. Halliburton."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, madam; I did not remember you at first. I have seen you in passing."
His manner was perfectly kind and open. Not in the least like that of a landlord who had just put a distress into his tenant's house.
"I have come here to beseech your mercy," she began in agitation. "I have not the rent now, but if you will consent to wait until the middle of February, it will be ready. Oh, Mr. Ashley, do not oppress me for it! Think of my situation."
"I never oppressed any one in my life," was the quiet rejoinder of Mr. Ashley, spoken, however, in a somewhat surprised tone.
"Sir, it is oppression. I beg your pardon for saying so. I promise that the rent shall be paid to you in a few weeks: to force my furniture from me now, is oppression."
"I do not understand you," returned Mr. Ashley.
"To sell my furniture under the distress will be utter ruin to me and my children," she continued. "We have no resource, no home; we shall have to lie in the streets, or die. Oh, sir, do not take it!"
"But you are agitating yourself unnecessarily, Mrs. Halliburton. I have no intention of taking your furniture."
"No intention, sir!" she echoed. "You have put in a distress."
"Put in a what?" cried he, in unbounded surprise.
"A distress. The man has been in since yesterday morning."
Mr. Ashley looked at her a few moments in silence. "Did the man tell you where he came from?"
"It was Mr. Dare who put him in—acting for you. I went to Mr. Dare, and he kept me waiting nearly five hours in his outer office before he would see me. When he did see me, he declined to hear me. All he would say was, that I must pay the rent or he should take the furniture: acting for Mr. Ashley."
A strangely severe expression darkened Mr. Ashley's face. "First of all, my dear lady, let me assure you that I knew nothing of this, or it should never have been done. I am surprised at Mr. Dare."
Could she fail to trust that open countenance—that benevolent eye? Her hopes rose high within her. "Sir, will you withdraw the man, and give me time?"
"I will."
The revulsion of feeling, from despair and grief, was too great. She burst into tears, having struggled against them in vain. Mr. Ashley rose and looked from the window; and presently she grew calmer. When he sat down again she gave him the outline of her situation; of her present dilemma; of her hopes—poor hopes that they were!—of getting a scanty living through letting her rooms and doing some sewing, or by other employment. "Were I to lose my furniture, it would take from me this only chance," she concluded.
"You shall not lose it through me," warmly spoke Mr. Ashley. "The man shall be dismissed from your house in half an hour's time."
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" she breathed, rising to leave. "I have not been able to supply him with great things in the shape of food, and he uses very bad language in the hearing of my children. Thank you, Mr. Ashley."
He shook hands with her cordially, and attended her to the hall door. Mrs. Ashley, a pretty, lady-like woman, somewhat stately in general, stood there still. Well wrapped in velvet and furs, she did not care to return to the warm rooms. Jane said a few words of apology for detaining her, and passed on.
Mr. Ashley turned back to his room, drew his desk towards him, and began to write. His wife followed him. "Who was that, Thomas?"
"Mrs. Halliburton: our widowed tenant, next door to Samuel Lynn's. You remember I told you of meeting the funeral. Two little boys were following alone."
"Oh, poor little things! yes. What did she want?"
Mr. Ashley made no reply: he was writing rapidly. The note, when finished, was sealed and directed to Mr. Dare. He then helped his wife into the carriage, took the reins, and sat down beside her. The groom took his place in the seat behind, and Mr. Ashley drove round the gravel drive, out at the gate, and turned towards Helstonleigh.
"Thomas, you are going the wrong way!" said Mrs. Ashley, in consternation. "What are you thinking of?"
"I shall turn directly," he answered. There was a severe look upon his face, and he drove very fast, by which signs Mrs. Ashley knew something had put him out. She inquired, and he gave her the outline of what he had just heard.
"How could Anthony Dare act so?" involuntarily exclaimed Mrs. Ashley.
"I don't know. I shall give him a piece of my mind to-morrow more plainly than he will like. This is not the first time he has attempted a rascally action under cover of my name."
"Shall you lose the rent?"
"I think not, Margaret. She said not, and she carries sincerity in her face. I am sure I shall not lose it if she can help it. If I do, I must, that's all. I never yet added to the trouble of those in distress, and I never will."
He pulled up at Mrs. Halliburton's house, which she had just reached also. The groom came to the horse, and Mr. Ashley entered. The "man" was comfortably stretched before the study fire, smoking his short pipe. Up he jumped when he saw Mr. Ashley, and smuggled his pipe into his pocket. His offensive manner had changed to humble servility.
"Do you know me?" shortly inquired Mr. Ashley.