"I!" responded Herbert. "Do you think I keep mademoiselle in my pocket?"
"She goes and locks herself up in the school-room after dinner, and I can't think what she does there, or what she can be at," retorted Rosa.
"At her devotions, perhaps," suggested Herbert.
The words did not please Mrs. Dare, who had then joined the circle. "Herbert, I will not have Mademoiselle Varsini ridiculed," she said quite sternly. "She is a most efficient instructress for Rosa and Minny, and we must be careful not to give her offence, or she might leave."
"I'm sure I have heard of foreign women telling their beads till cock-crowing," persisted Herbert.
"Those are Roman Catholics. A Protestant, as is Mademoiselle Varsini——"
Mrs. Dare's angry words were cut short by the appearance of Mademoiselle Varsini herself. She, the governess, turned to Rosa. "What did you want just now when you came to the school-room door?"
"I wanted you here to show me that filet stitch," answered Rosa, slight impertinence peeping out in her tone. "And I don't see why you should not answer when I knock, mademoiselle."
"It may not always suit me to answer," was the calm reply of the governess. "My time is my own after dinner; and Madame Dare will agree with me that a governess should hold full control over her school-room."
"You are perfectly right, mademoiselle," acquiesced Mrs. Dare.
Mademoiselle went to the piano and dashed off a symphony. She was a brilliant player. Herbert, looking at his watch, and finding it later than he thought, hurried from the house.
The surmise that the missing cheque had been changed into good money on the Saturday night, proved to be correct. White, the butcher at the corner of the shambles, had given change for it, and locked up the cheque in the cash-box. Had he paid it into the bank on Monday, he would have found what it was worth. But he did not do so. Mr. White was a fat man with a good-humoured countenance and black hair. Sergeant Delves proceeded to his house some time on the Tuesday.
"I hear you cashed a cheque of the Messrs. Dunn on Saturday night," began he. "Who brought it to you?"
"Ah, what about that cheque?" returned the butcher. "One of your men has been in here, asking a lot of questions."
"A good deal about it," said the sergeant. "It was stolen from Mr. Ashley."
"Stolen from Mr. Ashley!" echoed the butcher, staring at Sergeant Delves.
"Stolen out of his desk. And you stand a nice chance, White, of losing the money. You should be more cautious. Who was it brought it here?"
"A gentleman. A respectable man, at any rate. Who says it's stolen?"
"I do," replied the sergeant, sitting himself down on the meat-block—rather a damp seat from its just having been washed with hot water. Delves liked to make himself familiar with his old friends in Helstonleigh in a patronising manner; it was only lately he had been promoted to sergeant. "Now! let's have the particulars, White."
"I had just shut up my shop, all but the door, when in come a gentleman in a cloak and cap. 'Could you oblige the Messrs. Dunn with change for a cheque, Mr. White?' says he, handing a cheque to me. 'Yes, sir,' said I, 'I can; very happy to oblige 'em. Would you like it in gold?' Well, he said he would like it in gold, and I gave it to him. 'Thank ye,' said he; 'I'd have got it nearer if I could, for I'm troubled to death with tooth-ache; but people are shut up:' and I noticed that he had kept his white handkerchief up to his mouth and nose. He went out with the gold, and I put up the cheque. And that's all I know about it, Delves."
"Don't you know who it was?"
"No, I don't. He had a cap on, with the ears coming down his cheeks; and, what with that, and the peak over his eyes, and the white handkerchief held up to his nose, I didn't so much as get a sight of his face. The shop was pretty near dark, too, for the gas was out. There was only a candle at the pay window."
"If a man came in disguised like that, asking to have a cheque changed into gold, it might have occurred to some tradesmen there'd be something wrong about it," cried the sergeant.
"I didn't know he was disguised," objected the butcher. "I saw it was a good cheque of the Messrs. Dunn, and I never gave a thought to anything else. I've had their cheques before to-day. Mr. William Dunn has dealt here this twenty year. But now that it's put into my head, I begin to think hewasdisguised," continued the butcher. "His voice was odd, thick and low, and he spoke as if he had plums in his mouth."
"Should you know him again?"
"Ay. That is if he came in dressed as he was then. I'd know the cloak out of a hundred. It was one of them old-fashioned plaid rockelows."
"Roquelaures," corrected the sergeant.
"Something of that. The collar was lined with red, with a little edge of fur on it. There's a few such shaped cloaks in the town now, made of blue serge or cloth."
"What time was it?" asked the sergeant.
"Just eleven. I was shutting up."
Sergeant Delves took possession of the cheque and proceeded to the office of Mr. Dare. A long conference ensued, and then they went out together towards Mr. Ashley's manufactory. On the road they happened to meet Cyril, and Mr. Dare drew him aside.
"Do you happen to know any one who wears an old-fashioned plaid cloak?" he asked.
"Halliburton wears one," replied Cyril: "the greatest object of a thing you ever saw. I say," continued Cyril, "what's old Delves doing with you?"
"Not much," carelessly said Mr. Dare. "He has been looking after a little private business for me."
"Oh, is that all?" and Cyril, feeling reassured, tore off on the errand he was bound for. For reasons best known to himself, it would not have pleased him that Sergeant Delves should be pressed into the affair of the cheque. At least, Cyril would have preferred that the matter should be allowed to rest.
He executed his commission, one that he had been charged with by Samuel Lynn, turned back, passed the manufactory, and took his way to Honey Fair on a little matter of his own. It was only the purchase of a dog—not to make a mystery of it. A dog that had taken Cyril's fancy, and for which he and the owner had not yet been able to come to terms. So he was going up again to try his powers of persuasion.
As he walked rapidly through Honey Fair, he saw a little bit of by-play on the opposite side. A young woman in a tattered gown, and a dirty bonnet drawn over her face, was walking along as rapidly as he. Her bent head, her humble attitude, her shrinking air, her haste to get out of sight of others, all betrayed that she, from some cause or other, was not in good odour with the world around. That she felt herself under a cloud, was only too apparent: it was a cloud of humiliation, for which she had only herself to thank. The women who met her hurried past with a toss of the head and then stood to peep after her as she disappeared in the distance.
Shehurried—hurried past them—glad, it seemed, to be away from their stern looks and condemning eyes. Had you seen her, you would never have recognised her. In the dim eye, darker than of yore, the white cheek, the wasted form, no likeness remained of the once-blooming Caroline Mason.
Just as she passed opposite to Cyril, Eliza Tyrrett came out of a house and met her; and Eliza, picking up her skirts, lest they should become contaminated, swept past with a sidelong glance of reproach and a scornful gesture. Caroline's head only bent the lower as she glided away from her old companion.
It had been just as well that Charlotte East had not sent back that bundle, years ago, to surprise Anthony Dare. It was years now since Charlotte herself had come to the same conclusion.
Leaning back against the corner of the mantel-piece by the side of the blazing fire in his private room, calmly surveying those ranged before him, and listening to their tale with an impassive face, was Thomas Ashley. Sergeant Delves and Mr. Dare were giving him the account of the changing of the cheque, obtained from White the butcher. Samuel Lynn stood near the master's desk, his brow knit in perplexity, his countenance keen and anxious. The description of the cloak, tallying so exactly with the one worn by William Halliburton, led Mr. Dare to the conclusion, nay, to the positive conviction that the butcher's visitor could have been no other than William. The sergeant held the same view; but the sergeant adopted it with difficulty.
"It's an odd thing forhimto turn thief," said he, reflectively. "I'd have trusted that young fellow, sir, with untold gold," he added, to Mr. Ashley. "Here's another proof how we may be deceived."
"I told you," said Mr. Dare, turning to Mr. Ashley, "that it could be no other than Halliburton."
"Thee will permit me to say, friend Dare, that I do not agree with thy deductions," interposed the Quaker, before Mr. Ashley could answer.
"Why, what would you have?" returned Mr. Dare. "Nothing can be plainer. Ask Sergeant Delves if he thinks further proof can be needed."
"Many a man has been hanged upon less," was the oracular answer of Sergeant Delves.
"What part of my deductions do you object to?" inquired Mr. Dare of the Quaker.
"Thee art assuming—if I understand thee correctly—that there is no other cloak in the city so similar to William's as to be mistaken for it."
"Just so."
"Then, friend, I tell thee that there is."
Mr. Dare opened his eyes. "Who wears it?" he asked.
"That is another question," said Samuel Lynn. "I should be glad to find out myself, for curiosity's sake."
Then Mr. Lynn told the story of his having observed a man, whom he had taken for William, walking at the back of his house, apparently waiting for something. "I saw him on two evenings," he observed, "at some considerable interval of time. The figure bore a perfect resemblance to William Halliburton; the height, the cloak, the cap—all appeared to be his. I taxed him with it. He denied itin toto, said he had not been walking there at all, and I believed he was attempting, for the first time since I have known him, to deceive me. I——"
"Are you sure he was not?" put in Mr. Dare.
"Thee should allow me to finish, friend. Last night I was home somewhat earlier than usual—thee can recollect why," the Quaker added, looking at Mr. Ashley. "I was up in my room, and I saw the same figure pacing about in precisely the same manner. William's denial had staggered me, otherwise I could have been ready to affirm that it was himself and no other. The moon was not up; but it was a very light night, and I marked every point in the cloak—it was as like William's as two peas are like each other. What he could want, pacing at the back of my house and of his, puzzled me much. I——"
"What time was this, Mr. Lynn?" interrupted the sergeant.
"Past eight o'clock. Later than the hour at which I had seen him on the two previous occasions. 'It is William Halliburton, of a surety,' I said to myself; and I thought I would pounce upon him, and so convict him of the falsehood he had told. I left my house by the front door, went down the road, past the houses, and entered the gate admitting into the field. I walked up quietly, keeping under the hedge as much as possible, and approached William—as I deemed him to be. He was then standing still, and gazing at the upper windows of my house. In spite of my caution, he heard me, and turned round. Whether he knew me or not, I cannot say; but he clipped the cloak around him with a hasty movement, and made off right across the field. I would not be balked if I could help it. I opened friend Jane Halliburton's back gate, and proceeded through the garden and house to the parlour, which I entered without ceremony. There sat William at his books."
"Then it was not he, after all!" cried Mr. Dare, interested in the tale.
"Of a surety it was not he. I tell thee, friend, he was seated quietly at his studies. 'Hast thee lent thy cloak to a friend to-night?' I asked him. He looked surprised, and said he had not. But, to be convinced, I requested to see his cloak, and he took me outside the door, and there was the cloak hanging up in the passage, his cap beside it. That is why I did not approve of thy deductions, friend Anthony Dare, in assuming that the cloak, which the man had on who changed the cheque, must be William Halliburton's," concluded Mr. Lynn.
"You say the man looked like William when you were close to him?" inquired Mr. Ashley, who thought the whole affair very curious, and now broke silence for the first time.
"Very much like him," answered Samuel Lynn. "But the resemblance may have been only in the cloak and cap. The face was not discernible; by accident or design, it was concealed. I think there need not be better negative proof that it was not William who changed the cheque."
Mr. Ashley smiled. "Without this evidence of Mr. Lynn's I could have told you it was waste of time to cast suspicion on William Halliburton to me," said he, addressing the sergeant and Mr. Dare. "Were you to come here and accuse myself, it would make just as much impression upon me. Wait an instant, gentlemen."
He went to the door, opened it, and called William. The latter came in, erect, courteous, noble—never suspecting the sergeant's business there could have anything to do with him.
"William," began his master, "who is it that wears a similar cloak to yours, in the town?"
"I am unable to say, sir," was William's ready reply. "Until last night," and he turned to Samuel Lynn with a smile, "I should have said there was not another like it. I suppose now there must be one."
"If there is one, there may be more," remarked Mr. Ashley. "The fact is, William, the cheque has been traced. It was changed at White's, the butcher; and the person changing it wore a cloak, it seems, very much like yours."
"Indeed!" cried William, with animation. "Well, sir, of course there may be many such cloaks in the town. All I can say is, I have not seen them."
"There can't be many," spoke up the sergeant, "if it be the old-fashioned sort of thing described to me."
William looked the sergeant full in the face with his open countenance, his honest eyes. No guilt there. "Would you like to see my cloak?" he asked. "It may be a guide, if you think the one worn resembled it."
The sergeant nodded. "I was going to ask you to bring it in, if it was here."
William brought it in. "It is one of the bygones," said he laughing. "I have some thoughts of forwarding it to the British Museum, as a specimen of antiquity. Stay! I will put it on, that you may see its beauties the better."
He threw the cloak over his shoulders, and exhibited himself off, as he had done once before in that counting-house for the benefit of Samuel Lynn. "I think the British Museum will get it," he continued, in the same joking spirit. "Not until winter's over, though. It is a good friend on a cold night."
Sergeant Delves' eyes were riveted on the cloak. "Where have I seen that cloak?" he mused, in a dreamy tone. "Lately, too!"
"You may have seen me in it," said William.
The sergeant shook his head. He lifted one hand to his temples, and proceeded to rub them gently, as if the process would assist his memory, never once relaxing his gaze.
"Did White say the changer of the cheque was a tall man?" asked Mr. Ashley.
"Yes," said Mr. Dare. "Whether he meant as tall as William Halliburton, I cannot say. There are not—why, I should think there are not a hundred men in the town who come up to that height," he added, looking at William.
"Yourself one of them," said William, turning to him with a smile.
Mr. Dare shook his head, a regret for his past youth crossing his heart. "Ay, once. I am beginning to grow downward now."
Mr. Ashley was buried in reflection. There was a curious sound of mystery about the tale altogether, to his ears. That there were many thieves in Helstonleigh, he did not doubt—people who would appropriate a cheque, or anything else that came in their way; but why the same person—if it was the same—should pace the cold field at night, watching Samuel Lynn's house, was inexplicable. "It may not be the same," he observed aloud. "Shall you watch for the man again?" he asked of Mr. Lynn.
"I shall not give myself much trouble over it now," was the reply. "While I was concerned to ascertain William's truthfulness——"
"I scarcely think you need have doubted it, Mr. Lynn," interrupted William.
"True. I have never doubted thee yet. But it appeared to be thy word against the sight of my own eyes. The master will understand——"
A most extraordinary interruption came from Sergeant Delves. He threw up his head with a start, and gave vent to a shrill, prolonged whistle. "It looks dark!" cried he.
"What didst thee say, friend Delves?"
"I beg pardon, gentlemen," answered the sergeant. "I was not speaking to any of you; I was following up the bent of mine own thoughts. It suddenly flashed into my mind who it is that I have seen in one of these cloaks."
"And who is it?" asked Mr. Dare.
"You must excuse me, sir, if I keep that to myself," was the answer.
"As tall a man as William Halliburton?"
The sergeant ran his eyes up and down William's figure. "A shade taller, I should say, if anything."
"And it struck me that the man who made off across the field was a shade taller," observed Samuel Lynn.
"Well, I can't make sense of it," resumed Mr. Dare, breaking a pause. "Let us allow, if you like, that there are fifty such cloaks in the town. Unless one, wearing such, had access to Mr. Ashley's counting-house, to this very room that we are now in, how does the fact of there being others remove the suspicion from William Halliburton?"
Mr. Dare had not intended wilfully to cause him pain. He had forgotten for the moment that William was a stranger to the doubt raised touching himself. Amidst the deep silence that ensued, William looked from one to the other.
"Who suspects me?" he asked, surprise the only emotion in his tone.
Sergeant Delves tapped him significantly on the shoulder. "Never you trouble yourself, young sir. If what has come into my mind be right, it isn'tyouwho are guilty."
When he and Mr. Dare went out, Mr. Ashley followed them to the outer gate. As they stood there talking, Frank Halliburton passed. "Look here," thought the sergeant to himself, "there's not much doubt as to the black sheep—I see that: but it's as well, to be on the sure side. Young man," cried he aloud to Frank, in the authoritative, patronizing manner which Sergeant Delves was fond of assuming when he could, "what time did your brother William get home last Saturday night? I suppose you know, if you were at home yourself."
Frank looked at him rather haughtily. "Iknow," he replied. "I have yet to learn why you need know."
"Tell him, Frank," said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.
"It was a little after ten," said Frank.
"Did he go out again?" asked the sergeant.
"Out again at that time!" cried Frank. "No: he did not go out again. We sat talking together ever so long, and then went up to bed."
"Ah!" rejoined the sergeant. It was all he answered. And he wished Mr. Ashley good day, and departed with Mr. Dare.
"I am going to Oxford at Easter, Mr. Ashley," cried Frank with animation.
"I am pleased to hear it."
"But only as a servitor. I don't mind," he added, throwing back his head with pardonable pride. "Let me once get a start, and I hope to rise above some who go there as gentlemen-commoners. I intend to make this my circuit," he went on, half jokingly, half seriously.
"You are ambitious, Frank. I heartily wish you success. There's nothing like keeping a good heart."
"Oh yes, success is not doubtful. I'll do battle with all the obstructions in my course. Good afternoon, sir."
William, curious and anxious, could make nothing of his books that night at home. At length he threw up, put on the notable cloak, and went down to the manufactory. He found Mr. Ashley there; and the counting-house soon received an addition to its company in the person of Sergeant Delves. He had come in search of William. Not being aware that William was allowed the privilege of spending his evenings at home, he had supposed the manufactory was the place to find him in.
"I want you down at White's," said the sergeant. "Put on your cloak, will you be so good, Mr. Halliburton, and come with me?"
"Do you suspect me?" was William's answer.
"No, I don't," returned the sergeant. "I told you before, to-day, that I did not. The fact is"—dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper—"I want to do a little bit of private inquiry on my own account. I have a clue to the party: and I should like to work it out."
"If you have a sufficient clue, the party had better be arrested at once," observed Mr. Ashley.
"Ah, but it's not sufficient for that," nodded the sergeant. "No, Mr. Ashley, sir; my strong advice to you is, keep quiet a bit."
They started for the butcher's, William wearing his cloak and cap, and Mr. Ashley accompanying them. Mr. Ashley possessed his own curiosity upon various points; perhaps his own doubts.
"It is strange who this man can be who walks at the back of your house," observed Mr. Ashley to William, as they went along. "What can be his motive for walking there, dressed like you?"
"It is curious, sir."
"I should suppose it can only arise from a desire that he should be taken for you," continued Mr. Ashley. "But to what end? Why should he walk there at all?"
"Why, indeed!" responded William.
"What coloured gloves are you wearing?" abruptly interrupted Sergeant Delves.
William took his hands from beneath his cloak, and held them out. They were of the darkest possible colour, next to black; the shade called in the glove trade "corbeau." "These are all I have in use at present," he said. "They are nearly new."
"Have you worn any light gloves lately? Tan or fawn?"
"I scarcely ever wear tan gloves. I have not put on a pair for months."
They arrived at the butcher's and entered. White was standing at his block, chopping a bone in two. He lifted his head, and touched his hair to Mr. Ashley.
"Is this the gentleman who had the money of you for the cheque?" began Sergeant Delves, without circumlocution.
Mr. White put down his chopper, and took a survey of William. "It's like the cloak and cap that the other wore," said he.
Sergeants take up words quickly. "That the 'other' wore? Then you do not think it was this one?"
"No, I don't," decided the butcher. "The one who brought the cheque was a shorter man."
"Shorter!" repeated Mr. Ashley, remembering it had been said in his counting-house that the man who appeared to be personating William was thought to have the advantage the other way. "You mean taller, White."
"No, sir, I mean shorter. I am sure he was shorter. Not much, though."
There was a pause. "You observed that his gloves were tan, I think," said the sergeant.
"Something of that sort. Clean light gloves they were, such as gentlemen wear."
"Finally, then, White, you decide that this was not the gentleman?"
"Not he," said the butcher. "It's not the same voice."
"The voice goes for nothing," said Sergeant Delves. "The other one had plums in his mouth."
"Well," said the butcher, "I think I should have known Mr. Halliburton, in spite of any disguise, had he come in."
"Don't make too sure, White," said the sergeant, with one of his wise nods. "He who came might have turned out to be just as familiar to you as Mr. Halliburton, if he had let you see his face. The fact is, White, there's some one going about with a cloak like this, and we want to find out who it is. Mr. Halliburton would give a pound out of his pocket, I'm sure, to know."
"I'd give two," said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.
"Sir," asked the butcher of Mr. Ashley, "what about the money? Shall I lose it?"
"Now, White, just wait a bit," put in the sergeant. "If it was a gentleman that changed it, perhaps we shall get it out ofhim. Any way, you keep quiet."
They left the shop—standing a moment together before parting. The sergeant's road lay one way; Mr. Ashley's and William's another. "This only makes the matter more obscure," observed Mr. Ashley, alluding to what had passed.
"Not at all. It makes it all the more clear," was the cool reply of the sergeant.
"White says the man was shorter than Mr. Halliburton."
"It's just what I expected him to say," nodded the sergeant. "If I am on the right scent—and I'd lay a thousand pound on it!—the man who changed the chequeisshorter. I just wanted White's evidence on the point," he added, looking at William; "and that is why I asked you to come down, dressed in your cloak. Good night, gentlemen."
He turned up the Shambles. And Mr. Ashley and William walked away side by side.
The conversation at Mr. Dare's dinner-table again turned upon the loss of the cheque, and the proceedings thereon. It was natural that it should turn upon it. Mr. Dare's mind was full of it; and he gave utterance to various conjectures and speculations, as they occurred to him.
"In spite of what they say, I cannot help thinking that it must have been William Halliburton," he remarked with emphasis. "He alone was in the counting-house when the cheque disappeared; and the person changing it at White's, is proved to have borne the strongest possible resemblance to him; at all events, to his dress. The face was hidden—as of course it would be. People who attempt to pass off stolen cheques, take pretty good care that their features are not seen.
"But who hesitates to bring it home to Halliburton?" inquired Mrs. Dare.
"They all do—as it seems to me. Ashley won't hear a word: laughs at the idea of Halliburton's being capable of it, and says we may as well accuse himself. That's nothing: as Cyril says, Mr. Ashley appears to be imbued with the idea that Halliburton can do no wrong: but now Delves has veered round. He shifts the blame entirely off Halliburton."
"Upon whom does he shift it?" asked Anthony Dare.
"He won't say," replied Mr. Dare. "He has grown mysterious over it since the afternoon; nodding and winking, and giving no explanation. He says he knows who it is who possesses the second cloak."
"The second cloak!" The words were a puzzle to most at table, and Mr. Dare had to explain that another cloak, similar to that worn by William Halliburton, was supposed to be in existence.
Cyril looked up, with wonder marked on his face. "Does Delves say there are two such cloaks?" asked he.
"That there are two such cloaks appears to be an indisputable fact," replied Mr. Dare. "The one cloak was parading behind the Halliburtons' house last night. Samuel Lynn went up to it——"
"The cloak parading tout seul—alone?" interrupted Signora Varsini, with a perplexed air.
A laugh went round the table. "Accompanied by the wearer, mademoiselle," said Mr. Dare, continuing the account of Samuel Lynn's adventure. "Thus the fact of there being two cloaks is established," he proceeded. "Still, that tells nothing; unless the owner of the other has access to Mr. Ashley's counting-house. I pointed this fact out to them. But Delves—which is most unaccountable—differed from me; and when we parted he expressed an opinion, with that confident nod of his, that it was not Halliburton's cloak which had been in the mischief at the butcher's, but the other."
"What a thundering falsehood!" burst forth Herbert Dare.
"Sir!" cried Mr. Dare, while all around the table stared at Herbert's excited manner.
Herbert had the grace to feel ashamed of his abrupt and intemperate rudeness. "I beg your pardon, sir; I spoke in my surprise. I mean that Delves must be telling a falsehood, if he seeks to throw the guilt off Halliburton. The very fact of the fellow's wearing a strange cloak such as that, when he went to get rid of the cheque, must be proof positive of Halliburton's guilt."
"So I think," acquiesced Mr. Dare.
"What sort of a cloak is this that you laugh at, and call scarce?" inquired the governess.
"The greatest scarecrow of a thing you can conceive, mademoiselle," responded Mr. Dare. "I had the pleasure of seeing it to-day on Halliburton. It is a dark green-and-blue Scotch plaid, made very full, with a turned up collar lined with red, and a bit of fur edging it."
"Plaid? Plaid?" repeated mademoiselle. "Why it must be——"
"What?" asked Mr. Dare, for she had stopped.
"It must be very ugly," concluded she. But somehow Mr. Dare gathered an impression that it was not what she had been about to say.
"What is it that Delves says about the cloaks?" eagerly questioned Cyril. "I cannot make it out."
"Delves says he knows who it is that owns the other; and that it was the other which went to change the cheque at White's."
"What mysterious words, papa!" cried Adelaide. "The cloak went to change the cheque!"
"They were Delves' own words," replied Mr. Dare. "He did seem remarkably mysterious over it."
"Is he going to hunt up the other cloak?" resumed Cyril.
"I conclude so. He was pondering over it for some time before he could remember who it was that he had seen wear a similar cloak. When the recollection came to him, he started up with surprise. Sharp men, these police-officers!" added Mr. Dare. "They forget nothing."
"And they ferret out everything," said Herbert with some testiness. "Instead of wasting time over vain speculations touching cloaks, why does not he secure Halliburton? It is impossible that the other cloak—if there is another—could have had anything to do with the affair."
"I dropped a note to Delves after he left me, recommending him to follow up the suspicion on Halliburton, whether Mr. Ashley is agreeable or not," said Mr. Dare. "I have rarely in my life met with a stronger case of presumptive evidence."
So, many, besides Mr. Dare, would have felt inclined to say. Herbert, like his father, was firm in the belief that William Halliburton must have taken the money; that it must have been he who paid the visit to the butcher. What Cyril thought may be best inferred from his actions. A sudden fear had come over him that Sergeant Delves was really going to search out the other cloak. A most inconvenient procedure for Cyril, lest, in the process, the sergeant should search outhim. He laid down his knife and fork. He had had quite enough dinner for one day.
"Are you not hungry, Cyril?" asked his mother.
"I had a tremendous lunch," answered Cyril. "I can't eat more now."
He sat at the table until they had finished, feeling that he was being choked with dread. But that a guilty conscience deprives us of free action, he would have left the table and gone about some work he was now eager to do.
He rose when the rest did, looked about for a pair of large scissors, and glided with them up the staircase, his eyes and ears on the alert, lest there should be any watching him. No human being in that house had the slightest knowledge of what Cyril was about to do, or that he was going to do anything; but to Cyril's guilty conscience it seemed that all must be on the look-out.
A candle and scissors in hand he stole up to Herbert's room and locked himself in. Inside a closet within the room hung a dark blue camlet cloak, and Cyril took it from the hook. It had a plaid lining: a lining of the precise pattern and colours that the material of William Halliburton's cloak was composed of. The cloak was of the same full, old-fashioned make; its collar was lined with red, tipped with fur: in short, the one cloak worn on the right side and the other worn on the wrong side, could not have been told apart. This cloak belonged to Herbert Dare; occasionally, though not often, he went out at dusk, wearing it wrong side outermost. It was he, no doubt, whom Sergeant Delves had seen wearing one. He was a little taller than William Halliburton, towering above six feet. What his motive had been in causing a cloak to be lined so that, turned, it should resemble William Halliburton's, or whether the similarity in the lining had been accidental, was only known to Herbert himself.
With trembling fingers, and sharp scissors that were not particular where they cut, Cyril began his task of taking out this plaid lining. That he had worn it to the butcher's, and that he feared it might tell tales of him, were facts only too apparent. Better put it out of the way for ever! Unpicking, cutting, snipping, Cyril tore away at the lining, and at length got it out, the cloak suffering considerable damage in the shape of cuts and rents, and loose threads. Hanging the cloak up again, he twisted the lining together.
He was thus engaged when the handle of the door was briskly turned, as if some one essayed to enter who had not expected to find it fastened. Cyril dashed the lining under the bed, and made a spring to the window. To leap out? surely not: for the fall would have killed him. But he had nearly lost all presence of mind in his perplexity and fear.
Another turn at the handle, and the steps went on their way. Cyril thought he recognized them for the housemaid's, Betsy. He supposed she was going her evening round of the chambers. Gathering the lining under his arm, he halted to think. His hands shook, and his face was white.
What should he do with this tell-tale thing? He could not eat it; he dared not burn it. There was no room, of those which had fires, where he might make sure of being alone: and the smell would alarm the house. Whatwashe to do with it?
Dig a hole and bury it, came a prompting voice within him; and Cyril waited for no better suggestion, but crept with it down the stairs, and out to the garden.
Seizing a spade, he dug a hole rapidly in an unfrequented place; and when it was large enough thrust the stuff in. Then he covered it over again, to leave the spot apparently as he found it.
"I wish those stars would give a stronger light," grumbled Cyril, looking up at the dark blue canopy. "I must come again in the morning, I suppose, and see that it's all safe. It wouldn't do to bring a lantern."
Now it happened that Mr. Herbert Dare was bound on a private errand that evening. His intention was to go abroad in his cloak while he executed it. Just about the time that Cyril was putting the finishing touch to the hole, Herbert went up to his room to get the cloak.
To get the cloak, indeed! When Herbert opened the closet-door, nothing except the mutilated object just described met his eye. A torn, cut thing, the threads hanging from it loosely. Nothing could exceed Herbert's consternation as he stared at it. He thought he must be in a dream.Wasit his cloak? Just before dinner, when he came up to wash his hands, he had seen his cloak hanging there, perfect. He shook it, he pulled it, he peered at it. His cloak it certainly was; but who had destroyed it? A suspicion flashed into his mind that it might be the governess. He made but a few steps to the school-room, carrying the cloak with him.
The governess was sitting there, listlessly enough. Perhaps she was waiting for him. "I say, mademoiselle," he began, "what on earth have you been doing to my cloak?"
"To your cloak!" responded she. "What should I have been doing to it?"
"Look here," he said, spreading it out before her. "Who or what has done this? It was all right when I went down to dinner."
She stared at it in astonishment great as Herbert's, and threw off a volley of surprise in her foreign tongue. But she was a shrewd woman. Ay, never was there a shrewder than Bianca Varsini. Mr. Sergeant Delves was not a bad hand at ferreting out conclusions; but she would have beaten the sergeant hollow.
"Tenez," cried she, putting up her forefinger in thought, as she gazed at the cloak. "Cyril did this."
"Cyril!"
She nodded her head. "You stood it out to me that you did not come in on Saturday evening and go out again between ten and eleven——"
"I did not," interrupted Herbert. "I told you truth, but you would not believe me."
"But this cloak went out. And it was turned the plaid side outwards, and your cap was on, tied down at the ears. Naturally I thought it was you. It must have been Cyril! Do you comprehend?"
"No, I don't," said Herbert. "How mysteriously you are speaking!"
"It must have been Cyril who robbed Mr. Ashley."
"Mademoiselle!" interrupted Herbert indignantly.
"Ecoutez, mon ami. He was blanched as white as a mouchoir, while your father spoke of it at dinner—did you see that he could not eat? 'You look guilty, Monsieur Cyril,' I said to myself, not really thinking him to be so. But be persuaded it was no other. He must have taken the paper-money—or what you call it—and come home here for your cloak and cap to wear, while he changed it for gold, thinking it would fall on that other one who wears the cloak; that William Hall——I cannot say the name; c'est trop dur pour les lèvres. It is Cyril, and no other. He has turned afraid now, and has torn the lining out."
Herbert could make no rejoinder at first, partly in dismay, partly in astonishment. "It cannot have been Cyril!" he reiterated.
"I say it is Cyril," persisted the young lady. "I saw him creep up the stairs after dinner, with a candle and your mother's great scissors in his hand. He did not see me. I was in the dark, looking out of my room. Depend he was going to do it then."
"Then, of all blind idiots, Cyril's the worst!—if he did take the cheque," uttered Herbert. "Should it become known, he is done for; and that for life. And my father helping to fan the flame!"
The governess shrugged her shoulders. "I not like Cyril," she said. "I have never liked him since I came."
"But you will not tell against him!" cried Herbert, in fear.
"No, no, no. Tell against your brother! Why should I? It is no concern of mine. Unless people meddle with me, I not meddle with them. Cyril is safe, for me."
"What on earth am I to do for my cloak to-night?" debated Herbert. "I was going—going where I want it."
"Why you want it so to-night?" asked mademoiselle sharply.
"Because it's cold," responded Herbert. "The cloak was warmer than my overcoat is."
"Last night you go out, to-night you go out, to-morrow you go out. It is always so now!"
"I have a lot of perplexing business upon me," answered Herbert. "I have no time to see about it in the day."
Some little time longer he remained talking with her, partially disputing. The Italian, from some cause or other, went into ill-humour and said some provoking things. Herbert, it must be confessed, received them with good temper, and she grew more affable. When he left her, she offered to pick the loose threads out of the cloak, and hem up the bottom.
"You'll lock the door while you do it?" he urged.
"I will take it to my chamber," she said. "No one will molest me there."
Herbert left it with her and went out. Cyril went out. Anthony had already gone out. Mr. Dare remained at home. He and his wife were conversing over the dining-room fire, in the course of the evening, when Joseph came in.
"You are wanted, please, sir," he said to his master.
"Who wants me?" asked Mr. Dare.
"It's Policeman Delves, sir."
"Oh, show him in here," said Mr. Dare. "I hope something will be done in this," he added to his wife. "It may turn out a good slice of luck for me."
Sergeant Delves came in. In point of fact, he had just returned from that interview with the butcher, where he had been accompanied by Mr. Ashley and William.
"Well, Delves, did you get my note?" asked Mr. Dare.
"Yes, sir, I did," said the sergeant, taking the seat offered him. "It's what I have come up about."
"Do you intend to act upon my advice?"
"Why—no, I think not," replied the sergeant. "Not, at any rate, until I have had a talk with you."
"What will you take?"
"Well, sir, the night's cold. I don't mind a drop of brandy-and-water."
It was brought, and Mr. Dare joined his visitor in partaking of it. He agreed with him that the night was cold. But nothing could Mr. Dare make of him. As often as he turned the conversation on the subject in hand, so often did the sergeant turn it off again. Mrs. Dare grew tired of listening to nothing; and she departed, leaving them together.
Then the manner of Sergeant Delves changed. He drew his chair forward; and bent towards Mr. Dare.
"You have been urging me to go against young Halliburton," he began. "It won't do. Halliburton no more fingered that cheque, or had anything to do with it, than you or I had. Mr. Dare, don't you stir in this matter any further."
"My present intention is to stir it to the bottom," returned Mr. Dare.
"Look here," said the sergeant in an undertone; "I am not obliged to take notice of offences that don't come legally in my way. Many a thing has been done in this town—ay, and is being done now—that I am obliged to wink at; it don't lay right in my duty to take notice of it, so I keep my eyes shut. Now that's just it in this case. So long as the parties concerned, Mr. Ashley, or White, don't put it into my hands officially, I am not obliged to take so-and-so into custody, or to act upon my own suspicions. And I won't do it upon suspicions of my own: I promise it. If I am forced, that's another matter."
"Are you alluding to Halliburton?"
"No. You are on the wrong scent, I say."
"And you think you are on the right one?"
"I could put my finger out this night and lay it on the fox. But I tell you, sir, I don't want to, unless I am compelled. Don'tyoucompel me, Mr. Dare, of all people in the world."
Mr. Dare leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. No suspicion of the truth had crossed him, and he could not understand either the sergeant or his manner. The latter rose to depart.
"The other cloak, similar to young Halliburton's, belongs to your son Herbert," he whispered, as he passed Mr. Dare. "It was his brother, Cyril, who wore it on Saturday night, and who changed the cheque: therefore we may give a guess as to who took the cheque out of Mr. Ashley's desk. Now you be still over it, sir, for his sake, as I shall be. If I can, I'll call at your office to-morrow, Mr. Dare, and talk further. White must have the money refunded to him, orhewon't be still."
Anthony Dare fell into a confusion of horror and consternation, leaving the sergeant to bow himself out. Mrs. Dare heard the departure, and returned to the room.
"Well," cried she briskly, "is he going to accuse Halliburton?"
Mr. Dare did not answer. He looked up in a beseeching, helpless sort of manner, as one who is stunned by a blow.
"What is the matter?" she questioned, gazing at him closely. "Are you ill?"
He rose up shaking, as if ague were upon him. "No—no."
"Perhaps you are cold," said Mrs. Dare. "I asked you what Delves was going to do. Will he accuse Halliburton?"
"Be still!" sharply cried Mr. Dare in a tone of pain. "The matter is to be hushed up. It was not Halliburton."
How went on Honey Fair? Better and worse, better and worse, according to custom; the worse prevailing over the better.
Of all its inhabitants, none had advanced so well as Robert East. Honestly to confess it, that is not saying much; since the greater portion, instead of advancing in the world's social scale, had retrograded. Robert had left the manufactory he had worked for and was now second foreman at Mr. Ashley's. He was also becoming through perseverance an excellent scholar in a plain way. He had had one friend to help him; and that was William Halliburton.
The Easts had removed to a better house; one of those which had a garden in front of it. No garden was more fragrant than theirs; and it was kept in order by Robert and Thomas East. The house was larger than they required, and part of it was occupied by Stephen Crouch and his daughter. It was known that the Easts were putting by money: and Honey Fair wondered: for none lived more comfortably, more respectably. Honey Fair—taking it as a whole—lived neither comfortably nor respectably. The Fishers had never come out of the workhouse, and Joe was dead. The Crosses, turned from their home, their furniture sold, had found lodgings; two rooms. Improvident as ever, were they. They did not attempt to rise even to their former condition; but grovelled on, living from hand to mouth. The Masons, man and wife, passed their time agreeably in quarrels. At least, that it was agreeable may be assumed, for the quarrels never ceased. Now and then they were diversified by a fight. The children were growing up without training; and Caroline—ah! I don't know that it will do much good to ask after her. Caroline, years ago, had taken a false step; and, try as she would, she could not regain her footing. She lived in a garret alone. She had so lived a long while; and she worked her fingers to the bone to keep body and soul together, and went about with her head down. Honey Fair looked askance at her, and gathered up its petticoats when they saw her coming, as you saw Eliza Tyrrett gather up hers, lest they should come into contact with those contaminations. The Carters thrived; the Brumms, also, were better off than they used to be; and the Buffles did so excellently that a joke went about that they would be retiring on their fortune: but the greater portion of Honey Fair was full of trouble and improvidence.
William Halliburton frequently found himself in Honey Fair. It was the most direct road from his house to that of Monsieur Colin, the French master. William, sociably inclined by nature, had sometimes dropped in at one or other of the houses. He would find Robert East labouring at his books much more than he need have laboured had some little assistance been given him in his progress. William good-naturedly undertook to supply it. It became quite a common thing for him to go round and pass an hour with the Easts and Stephen Crouch.
The unpleasant social features of Honey Fair thus obtruded themselves on William Halliburton's notice; it was impossible that any one passing much through Honey Fair should not be struck with them. Could nothing be done to rescue the people from this degraded condition?—and a degraded one it was, compared with what it might have been. Young and inexperienced as he was, it was a question that sometimes arose to William's mind. Dirty homes, scolding mothers, ragged and pining children, rough and swearing husbands! Waste, discomfort, evil. The women laid the blame on the men: reproached them with wasting their evenings and their money at the public-house. The men retorted upon the women, and said they had not a home "fit for a pig to come into." Meanwhile the money, whether earned by husband or wife,went. It went somehow, bringing apparently nothing to show for it, and the least possible return of good. Thus they struggled and squabbled on, their lives little better than one continued scene of scramble, discomfort, and toil. At a year's end they were not in the least bettered, not in the least raised, socially, morally, or physically, from their condition at the year's commencement. Nothing had been achieved; except that they were one year nearer to the great barrier which separates time from eternity.
Ask them what they were toiling and struggling for. They did not know. What was their end, their aim? They had none. If they could only rub on, and keep body and soul together (as poor Caroline Mason was trying to do in her garret), it appeared to be all they cared for. They did not endeavour to lift up their hopes or their aspirations above that; they were willing so to go on until death should come. What a life! what an end!
A feeling would now and then come over William that he might in some way help them to attempt better things. To do so was a duty which seemed to be lying across his path, that he might take it up and make it his. How to set about it, he knew no more than the Man in the Moon. Now and then disheartening moments would come upon him. To attempt to sweep away the evils of Honey Fair appeared a far more formidable task than to cleanse the Augean Stables could ever have appeared to Hercules. He knew that any endeavour, whether on his part or on that of others, who might be far more experienced and capable than he, would be utterly fruitless unless the incentive to exertion, to strive to do better, should be first born within themselves. Ah, my friends! the aid of others may be looked upon as a great thing; but without self-struggle and self-help little good will be effected.
One evening in passing the house partially occupied by the Crosses the door was flung violently open, a girl of fifteen flew shrieking out and a saucer of wet tea-leaves came flying after her. The tea-leaves alighted on the girl's neck, just escaping William's arm. It was the youngest girl of the family, Patty. The tea-leaves had come from Mrs. Cross. Her face was red with passion, her voice loud; the girl, on her part, was insulting and abusive. Mrs. Cross had her hands stretched out, to scratch, or tear, or pull hair, and a personal skirmish would inevitably have ensued but for the chance of William's being there. He received the hands upon his arm and contrived to detain them.
"What's the matter, Mrs. Cross?"
"Matter!" raved Mrs. Cross. "She's a idle, impedent wicked huzzy—that's what's the matter. She knows I've my gloving to get in for Saturday, and not a stroke'll she help. There's the dishes lying dirty from dinner, the tea-cups lying from tea, and touch 'em she won't. She expects me to do it, and me with my gloving to find 'em in food! I took hold of her arm to make her do it, and she turned and struck at me, the good-for-nothing faggot! I hope none on it didn't go on you, sir," added Mrs. Cross, somewhat modifying her voice, and pausing to recover breath.
"Better that it had gone on my coat than on Patty's neck," replied he, in a good-natured, half-joking tone; though, indeed, the girl, with her evil look at her mother, her insolent air, stood there scarcely worth his defence. "If my mother asked me to wash tea-things or do anything else, Patty, I should do it, and think it a pleasure to help her," he added, to the girl.
Patty pushed her tangled hair behind her ears, and turned a defiant look upon her mother. Hidden as she had thought it from William, he saw it.
"You just wait," nodded Mrs. Cross, in answer as defiant. "I'll make your back smart by-and-by."
Which of the two was the more in fault? It was hard to say. The girl had never been brought up to know her duty, or to do it. The mother from her earliest childhood had given abuse and blows; no kindly, persuasive words; no training. Little wonder, now Patty was growing up, that she turned again. It was the usual sort of maternal government throughout Honey Fair. In these, and similar cases, where could interference or counsel avail, unless the spirit of the mothers and daughters could be changed?
William walked on, after the little episode of the tea-leaves. He could not help contrasting these homes with his home; their life with his life. He was given to reflection beyond his years, and he wished these people could be aroused to improvement both of mind and body. They were living for no end; toiling only to satisfy the wants of the day—nay, to arrest the wants, rather than to satisfy them. How many of them were so much as thinking of another world? Their toil and turmoil in this was too great to enable them to cast a thought to the next.
"I wonder," mused William, as he stepped towards M. Colin's, "whether some of the better-conducted of the men might not be induced to come round to East's in an evening? It might be a beginning, at any rate. Once wean the men from the public-houses, and there's no knowing what reform might be effected. I would willingly give up an hour or two of my evenings to them!"
His visit to M. Colin over, he retraced his steps to Honey Fair and turned into Robert East's. It was past eight o'clock then. Robert and Stephen Crouch were home from work, and were getting out their books. Charlotte sat by, at work as usual, and Tom East was drawing Charlotte's head towards him, to whisper something to her.
"Robert," said William, speaking impulsively, the moment he entered, "I wonder whether you could induce a few of your neighbours to come here of an evening?"
"What for, sir?" asked Robert turning round from the book-shelves where he stood, searching for some volume.
"It might be so much better for them. It might end in being so. I wish," he added with sudden warmth, "we could get all Honey Fair here!"
"All Honey Fair!" echoed Stephen Crouch in astonishment.
"I mean what I say, Crouch."
"Why, sir, the room wouldn't hold a quarter or a tenth part, or a hundredth part of them."
William laughed. "No, that it would not, practically. There is so much discomfort around us, and—and ill-doing—I must call it so, for want of a better name—that I sometimes wish we could mend it a little."
"Who mend it, sir?"
"Any one who would try. You two might help towards it. If you could seduce a few round here, and get them to be interested in your own evening occupation—books and rational conversation—and so wean them from the public-houses, it would be a great thing."
"There'd never be any good done with the men, take them as a whole, sir. They are an ignorant, easy-going lot, and don't care to be better."
"That's just it, Crouch. They don't care to be better. But they might be taught to care. It would be a very great thing if Honey Fair could be brought to spend its evenings as you spend yours. If the men gave up spending their money, and reeling home after it; and the women kept tidy hearths and civil tongues. As Charlotte does," he added looking round at her.
"There's no denying that, sir."
"I think something might be done. By degrees, you understand; not in a hurry. Were you to take the men by storm—to say, 'We want you to lead changed lives, and are going to show you how to do it,' your movement would fail, and you would get laughed at into the bargain. Say to the men, 'You shan't go to the public-house, because you waste your time, your money, and your temper,' and, rely upon it, it would have as much effect as if you spoke to the wind. But get them to come here as a sort of change, and you may secure them for good if you make the evenings pleasant to them. In short, give them some employment or attraction that will outweigh the attractions of the public-house."
"It would certainly be a good thing," said Stephen Crouch, musingly. "They might be for trying to raise themselves then."
"Ay," spoke William, with enthusiasm. "Once let them find the day-spring within themselves, the wish to do right, to be raised above what they are now, and the rest will be easy. When once that day-spring can be found, a man is made. God never sent a man here, but he implanted that within him. The difficulty is, to awaken it."
"And it is not always done, sir," said Charlotte, lifting her face from her work with a kindling eye, a heightened colour.Shehad found it.
"Charlotte, I fear it is rarely done, instead of not always. It lies pretty dormant, to judge by appearances, in Honey Fair."
William was right. It is an epoch in a man's life, that finding what he had not inaptly called the day-spring. Self-esteem, self-reliance, the courage of long-continued patience, the striving to make the best of the mind's good gifts—all are born of it. He who possesses it may soar to a bright and, happy lot, bearing in mind—may he always bear it!—the rest and reward promised hereafter.
"At any rate, it would be giving them a chance, as it seems to me," observed William. "I think I know one who would come. Andrew Brumm."
"Ah,hewould, and be glad to come," replied Robert East. "He is different from many of them. I know another who would, sir; and that's Adam Thornycroft."
Charlotte bent her head over her work.
"Since that cousin of his died ofdelirium tremens, Thornycroft has said good-bye to the public-houses. He spends his evenings at home with his mother: but I know he would like to spend them here. Tim Carter would come, sir."
"If Mrs. Tim will let him," put in Tom East saucily. And a laugh went round.
"Ever so few to begin with, will set the example to others," remarked William. "There's no knowing what it may grow to. Small beginnings make great endings. I have talked with my mother about Honey Fair. She has always said: 'Before Honey Fair's conduct can be improved, its minds must be improved.'"
"There will be the women yet, sir," spoke Charlotte. "If they are to remain as they are, it will be of little use the men doing anything for themselves."
"Charlotte, once begun, I say there's no knowing where the work may end," he gravely answered.
The rain, which had been threatening all the evening, was coming down pretty smartly as William walked through Honey Fair on his return. Standing against a shutter near his own door was Jacob Cross. "Good night, Jacob," said William.
"Goodnight, sir," answered Jacob sullenly.
"Are you standing in the rain that it may make you grow, as the children say?" asked William in his ever-pleasant tone.
"I'm standing here 'cause I've nowhere else to stand," said the man, his voice full of resentment. "I'm turned out of our room, and I have no money for the Horned Ram."
"A good thing you have not," thought William. "What has turned you out of your room?" he asked.
"I'm turned out, sir, by the row there is in it. Our Mary Ann's come home."
"Mary Ann?" repeated William, not quite understanding.
"Our Mary Ann, what took and married Ben Tyrrett. A fine market she have brought her pigs to!"
"What has she done?" questioned William.
"She's done enough," wrathfully answered Cross. "We told her when she married Tyrrett that he was nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a-week—and it's all he was, sir, as you know. 'Wait,' I says to her; 'somebody better than him'll turn up.' Her mother says 'Wait.' Others says 'Wait.' No, not she; the girls are all marrying mad. Well, she took her own way; she would take it; and they got married, and set up upon nothing. Neither of 'em had saved a two-penny-piece; and Ben fond of the public; and our Mary Ann fond of laziness and finery; and not knowing how to keep house any more than her young sister Patty did."
William remembered the little interlude of that evening in which Miss Patty had played her part. Jacob continued.
"It was all fine and sunshiny with 'em for a few days or a few weeks, till the novelty wears off, and then they finds things going cranky. The money,thatbegins to run short; and Mary Ann, she finds that Ben likes his glass; and Ben, he finds that she's just a doll, with no gumption or management inside her. They quarrels—naterally, and they comes to us to settle it. 'You was both red-hot for the bargain,' says I, 'and you must just make the best of it and of one another.' And so they went back: and it has gone on till this, quarrelling continual. And now he's took to beat her, and home she came to-night, not half an hour ago, with her three children and a black eye, vowing she'll stop at home and won't go back to him again. And she and her mother's having words over it, and the babies a-squalling—enough noise to raise the ceiling off, and I come out of it. I wish I was dead, I do!"
Jacob's account of the noise was scarcely exaggerated. It penetrated to where they stood, two or three houses off. William had moved closer, that the umbrella might give Cross part of its shelter. "Not a very sensible wish, that of yours, is it, Cross?" remarked he.
"I have wished it long, sir, sensible or not sensible. I slaves away my days and have nothing but a pigsty to step into at home, and angry words in it. A nice place for a tired man! I can't afford the public more than three or four nights a-week; not that, always. They're getting corky at the beer-shops, nowadays, and won't give trust. Wednesday this is; Thursday, to-morrow; Friday, next night: three nights, and me without a shelter to put my head in!"
"I should like to take you to one to-morrow night," said William. "Will you go with me?"
"Where to?" ungraciously asked Cross.
"To Robert East's. You know how he and Crouch spend their evenings. There's always something going on there interesting and pleasant."
"Crouch and East don't want me."
"Yes, they do. They will be only too glad if you, and a few more intelligent men, will join them. Try it, Cross. There's a warm room to sit in, at all events, and nothing to pay."
"Ah, it's all very fine for them Easts! We haven't their luck. Look at me! Down in the world."
William put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Why should you be down in the world?"
"Why should I?" repeated Cross, in surprise. "Because I am," he logically answered.
"That is not the reason. The reason is because you do not try to rise in the world."
"It's no use trying."
"Have you ever tried?"
"Why, no! How can I try?"
"You wished just now that you were dead. Would it not be better to wish to live?"
"Not such a life as mine."
"But to wish to live would seem to imply that it must be a better life. And why need your life be so miserable? You gain fair wages; your wife earns money. Altogether I suppose you must have twenty-six or twenty-eight shillings a week——"
"But there's no thrift with it," exclaimed Cross. "It melts away somehow. Before the middle of the week comes, it's all gone."
"You spend some at the Horned Ram, you know," said William, not in a reproving tone.
"She squanders away in rubbish more than that," was Jacob's answer, pointing towards his house, and not giving at all a complimentary stress upon the "she."
"And with nothing to show for it in return, either of you. Try another plan, Jacob."
"I'd not be backward—if I could see one to try," said he, after a pause.
"Be here at half-past eight to-morrow evening, and I will go in with you to East's. If you cannot see any better way, you can spend a pleasant evening. But now, Jacob, let me say a word to you, and do you note it. If you find the evening pass agreeably, go the next evening, and the next; go always. You can't tell all that may arise from it in time. I know of one thing that will."
"What's that, sir?"
"Why, that instead of wishing yourself dead, you will grow to think life too short, for the good you find in it."
He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.
"He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has a cordial way with him, and don't look at folks as if they was dirt."
And that had been the origin of thesoiréesheld at Robert East's. By degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and—what was more—to like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement upon the Horned Ram.