So it was all known to Mr. Ashley, and there was an end of Cyril and his hopes! It may be said of his prospects.
"What is he to do now?" broke from the lips of Anthony Dare.
"Indeed I do not know. Unless he changes his habits, he will do no good at anything."
"Won't you take him back again?"
"No," unequivocally pronounced Mr. Ashley. "He has left of his own accord, and he must abide by it. Stay—hear me out. Were I to allow him to return, he would not remain here a week; I am certain of it. That Cyril has been acting a part, to beguile me of my favour with regard to those foolish hopes of his, there is no doubt. The hopes gone, he would not keep up even the semblance of good conduct; neither would he submit to the rule of William Halliburton. It is best as it is; he is gone, and he cannot return. My opinion is, that were the offer of return made to him, he would reject it."
Mr. Dare's opinion was not far different, although he had pleaded for the concession.
"Then you will not make him your partner?" he resumed.
"Mr. Dare!"
"I suppose you will take in Halliburton?"
"It is very probable. Whoever I take must be a man of probity and honour: and a gentleman," he added, with a stress upon the word. "William Halliburton is all that."
Anthony Dare rose with a groan. He could contend no longer.
"My sons have been my bane," he uttered from between his bloodless lips. "I wonder, sometimes, whether they were born bad."
"No," said Thomas Ashley. "The badness has come with their training."
And now there occurs another gap in the story—a gap of years, and we have entered on the third and last part.
The patient well-doing of the Halliburtons was approaching fruition, their struggles were well-nigh over, and they were ready to play their part, for success or for failure, in the great drama of life. Jane's troubles were at an end.
Did you ever remark how some things, when they draw towards a close, seem to advance with rapid strides, unlike the slow, crawling pace that characterized their beginning? Life: in its childhood, its youth, nay, in its middle age, how slowly it seems to pass! how protracted its distinctive periods appear to be! But when old age approaches then time moves with giant strides. Undertake a work, whether of the hands or the head, very, very slow does the progress appear to be, until it is far advanced; and then the conclusion is attained fast and imperceptibly. Thus does it seem to be in the history of the young Halliburtons. To them the race may have been tedious, the labour as hard at the close of their preparatory career as at its commencement; but not so to those who were watching them.
There has not been space to trace the life of Frank and Gar at the Universities, to record word by word how they bore onward with unflinching perseverance, looking towards the goal in view. Great praise was due to them; and they won it from those who knew what hard work meant. Patiently and steadily had they laboured on, making of themselves sound and brilliant scholars, resisting temptations that lead so many astray, andbearingthe slights and mortifications incidental to their subordinate position. "I'll take it all out, when I am Lord Chancellor of England," Frank would say, in his cheery way. Of course Frank had always intended to go up for honours; and of course Frank gained them. He went to Oxford as a humble servitor, and he left it a man of note. Francis Halliburton had obtained a double-first, and gained his fellowship.
He had entered himself a student of the Middle Temple long before his college career was over. The expenses of qualifying for the Bar are considerable, and Frank's fellowship did not suffice for all. He procured literary employment: writing a leading article for one of the daily papers, and contributing to sundry reviews.
Gar, too, had quitted Cambridge with unusual credit, though he wasnotsenior wrangler. No one but Gar, perhaps, knew that he had aspired to that proud distinction, so it did not signify. A more solid scholar, or one with a higher character in the best sense of the term, never left the University to be ordained by the Bishop of Helstonleigh—or by any other prelate on the bench. He had a choice of a title to orders. His uncle, the Reverend Francis Tait—who, like his father before him, had, after many years' service, obtained a living—had offered Gar his title. But a clergyman in the county of Helstonleigh had also offered him one, and Gar, thanking his uncle, chose Helstonleigh.
William's dream of ambition was fulfilled; the dream which he hadnotindulged; for it had seemed all too high and vague for possibility. He was Mr. Ashley's partner. The great firm in Helstonleigh was Ashley and Halliburton.
Ashley and Halliburton! And the event had been so gradually, so naturally led up to, that Helstonleigh was not surprised when it was announced. Of course William received as yet only a small share of the profits: how small or how large was not known. Helstonleigh racked its curiosity to learn particulars, and racked it in vain. One fact was assumed beyond doubt: that a portion of the profits was secured to Henry in the event of Mr. Ashley's death.
William was now virtually sole master of the business. Mr. Ashley had partially retired from the manufactory: at least, his visits to it were of occurrence so rare as almost to amount to retirement. Samuel Lynn was manager, as of old; William had assumed Mr. Ashley's place and desk in the counting-house—as master. Mr. Ashley had purchased an estate, Deoffam Hall, some two to three miles distant from the city, close to the little village of Deoffam: and there he and his family had gone to reside. He retained his old house in the London Road, and they would visit it occasionally, and pass a week there. The change of abode did not appear to give unqualified gratification to Henry Ashley. He had become so attached to William that he could not bear to be far away from him. In the old home William's visits had been daily; or rather, nightly: in this he did see him so often. William contrived to go over twice or thrice a week; but that did not appear to be often enough for Henry. Mary Ashley was not married; to the surprise of Helstonleigh: but Mary somewhat obstinately refused to leave the paternal home. William and his mother lived on together in the old house. But they were alone now: for he could afford to keep up its expenses, and he had insisted upon doing so; insisted that she who had worked so hard for them, should have rest, now they could work for her.
Yes, they had all worked; worked on for the end, and gained it. Looking back, Jane wondered how she had struggled on. It seemed now next to an impossibility that she could have done it. Verily and truly she believed that God alone had borne her up. Had it been a foreshadowing of what was to come, when her father, years back, had warned her, on the very day of her marriage with Mr. Halliburton had been decided, that it might bring many troubles upon her? Perhaps so. One thing was certain: that it had brought them, and in no common degree. But the troubles were surmounted now: and Jane's boys were turned out just as well as though she had had thousands a year to bring them up upon. Perhaps better.
Perhaps better! How full of force is the suggestion! I wonder if no one will let this history of the young Halliburtons read a lesson to them? Many a student, used worse by fortune and the world than he thinks he deserves, might take it to himself with profit. Do not let it be flung away as a fancy picture; endeavour to make it your reality. A career, worked out as theirs was, insures success as a necessity. "Ah!" you may think, "I am poor; I can't hope to achieve such things." Poor! What were they? What's that you say? "There are so many difficulties in the way!" Quite true; there are difficulties in the way of attaining most things worth having; but they are only placed there to be overcome. Like the hillocks and stumbling-blocks in that dream that came to Mr. Halliburton when he was dying, they are placed there to be subdued, not to be shunned in fear, or turned from in idleness. Whatever may be your object in life, work on for it. Be you heir to a dukedom, or be your heritage that of daily toil, an object you must have: a man who has none is the most miserable being on the face of the earth. Bear manfully onward and attain the prize. Toil may be hard, but it will grow lighter as you advance; impediments may be disheartening, but they are not insurmountable; privations may be painful, but you are working on to plenty; temptations to indolence, to flagging, to that many-headed monster, sin, may be pulling at you; but they will not stir you from your path an inch, unless you choose to let them do so. Only be resolute; only regard trustingly the end, and labour for it; and it will surely come. It may look in the distance so far off that the very hope of attaining it seems but a chimera. Never mind; bear hopefully on, and the distance will lessen palpably with every step. No real good was ever attained to in this world without working for it. No real good, as I honestly believe, was ever gained, unless God's blessing went with the endeavours to attain it.Make a friend of God.Do that, and fight your way on, doing your duty, and you will find the goal: as the sons of Mrs. Halliburton did.
Jane was sitting alone one afternoon in her parlour. She was little changed. None, looking at her, could believe her old enough to be the mother of those three great men, her sons. Not that Gar was particularly great; he was only of middle height. Jane wore a shaded silk dress; and her hair looked as smooth and abundant as in the old days of her girlhood. It was remarkable how little her past troubles had told upon her good looks; how little she was aging.
She saw the postman come to the door, and Dobbs brought in a letter. "It's Mr. Frank's writing," growled Dobbs.
Jane opened it, and found that Frank had been "called." Half his care was over.
"My darling Mother,—I am made a barrister at last. I really am; and I beg you will all receive the announcement with appropriate awe and deference. I was called to-day: and I intend to have a photograph taken of myself in my wig and gown, and send it down to you as a confirmation of the fact. When you see the guy the wig makes of me, you will say you never saw an ugly man before. Tell Dobbs so; it will gladden her heart: don't you remember how she used to assure us, when boys, that we ought to be put under a glass case, as three ultra specimens of ugliness?"I shall get on now, dearest mother. It may be a little up-hill work at first: but there's no fear. A first-rate law firm has promised me some briefs: and one of these speedy days I shall inevitably take the ears of some court by storm—the jury struck into themselves with the learned counsel's astounding eloquence, and the bar dumb—and then my fortune's made. I need not tell you what circuit I shall patronize, or in how short a time afterwards I intend to be leading it: but I will tell you that my first object in life, when I am up in the world, shall be the ease and comfort of my dear mother. William is not going to do everything, and have you all to himself."Talking about William, ask him if he cannot get up some chance litigation, that I may have the honour of appearing for him next assizes. I'll do it all free,gratis, for nothing. Ever your own son,"Frank."
"My darling Mother,—I am made a barrister at last. I really am; and I beg you will all receive the announcement with appropriate awe and deference. I was called to-day: and I intend to have a photograph taken of myself in my wig and gown, and send it down to you as a confirmation of the fact. When you see the guy the wig makes of me, you will say you never saw an ugly man before. Tell Dobbs so; it will gladden her heart: don't you remember how she used to assure us, when boys, that we ought to be put under a glass case, as three ultra specimens of ugliness?
"I shall get on now, dearest mother. It may be a little up-hill work at first: but there's no fear. A first-rate law firm has promised me some briefs: and one of these speedy days I shall inevitably take the ears of some court by storm—the jury struck into themselves with the learned counsel's astounding eloquence, and the bar dumb—and then my fortune's made. I need not tell you what circuit I shall patronize, or in how short a time afterwards I intend to be leading it: but I will tell you that my first object in life, when I am up in the world, shall be the ease and comfort of my dear mother. William is not going to do everything, and have you all to himself.
"Talking about William, ask him if he cannot get up some chance litigation, that I may have the honour of appearing for him next assizes. I'll do it all free,gratis, for nothing. Ever your own son,
"Frank."
Jane started up from her chair at the news, almost as a glad child. Who could she find to share it with her? She ran into the next house to Patience. Patience limped a little in her walk still; she would limp always. Anna, in her sober Quaker's cap, the border resting on her fair forehead, looked up from her drawing, and Jane told them the news, and read the letter.
"That is nice," said Patience. "It must be a weight off thy mind."
"I don't know that it is that," replied Jane. "I have never doubted his success. I don't doubt it still. But I am very glad."
"I wish I had a cause to try," cried Anna, who had recovered all her old spirits and her love of chatter. "I would let Frank plead it for me."
"Will you come back with me, Anna, and take tea?" said Jane. "I shall be alone this evening. William is going over to Deoffam Hall."
"I'll come," replied Anna, beginning to put up her pencils with alacrity. Truth to say, she was just as fond of going out and of taking off her cap, that her curls might fall, as she used to be. She had quite recovered caste in the opinion of Helstonleigh. In fact, when the reaction set in, Helstonleigh had been rather demonstrative in its expression of repentance for having taken so harsh a view of the case. Nevertheless, it had been a real lesson to Anna, and had rendered her more sober and cautious in conduct.
Dobbs was standing at the kitchen door as they went in. "Dobbs," said Jane, in the gladness of her heart, "Mr. Frank is called."
"Called?" responded Dobbs, staring with all her might.
"Yes. He was called yesterday."
"Him called!" repeated Dobbs, evidently doubting the fact. "Then, ma'am you'll excuse me, but I'm not a-going to believe it. It's a deal more likely he's gone off t'other way, than that he's called to grace."
Anna nearly choked with laughter. Jane laughed so that she could not at once speak. "Oh, Dobbs, I don't mean that sort of calling. He is called to the Bar. He has become a barrister."
"Oh—that," said Dobbs ungraciously. "Much good may it do him, ma'am!"
"He wears a wig and gown now, Dobbs," put in Anna. "He says his mother is to tell thee that it makes a guy of him, and so gladden thy heart."
"Ugh!" grunted Dobbs.
"We will make him put them on when he comes down, won't we! Dobbs, if thee'd like his picture in them, he'll send it thee."
"He'd better keep it," retorted Dobbs. "I never yet saw no good in young chaps having their picturs took, Miss Anna. They're vain enough without that. Called! That would have been a new flight forhim."
A prettier place than Deoffam Hall could not well be conceived. "For its size," carping people would add. Well, it was not so large as Windsor Castle; but it was no smaller than the bishop's palace at Helstonleigh—if it has been your good fortune to see that renowned edifice. Deoffam Hall was a white, moderate-sized, modern villa, rising in the midst of charming grounds; grassy lawns smooth as velvet, winding rivulets, groves of trees affording shelter on a summer's day. On the terrace before the windows a stately peacock was fond of spreading its plumes, and in the small park—it was only a small one—the deer rubbed their antlers on the fine old trees. The deer and the peacock were the especial pets of Henry Ashley. Deoffam itself was an insignificant village; a few gentlemen's houses and a good many cottages comprised it. It was pleasantly and conveniently situated; within a walk of Helstonleigh for those who liked walking, or within a short drive. But, desirable as it was as a residence, Henry Ashley was rather addicted to grumbling at it. He would often wish himself back in his old home.
One lovely morning in early summer, when they were assembled together discussing plans for the day, he suddenly broke into one of his grumbling humours. "You bought Deoffam for me, sir," he was beginning, "but——"
"I bought it for myself and your mother," interposed Mr. Ashley.
"Of course. But to descend to me afterwards—you know what I mean. I have made up my mind, when that time shall come, to send gratitude to the winds, and sell it. Stuck out here, alone with the peacock, you and the mother gone, I should——I don't like to outrage your feelings by saying what I might do."
"There's Mary," said Mrs. Ashley.
"Mary! I expect she'll have gone into fresh quarters by that time. She has only stopped here so long out of politeness to me."
Mary lifted her eyes, a smile and a glow on her bright face. A lovely picture, she, in her delicate summer muslin dress.
"I tell every one she is devoted to me," went on Henry, in his quaint fashion. "'Very strange that handsome girl, Mary Ashley, does not get married!' cries Helstonleigh. Mary, my dear, I know your vanity is already as great as it can be, so I don't fear to increase it. 'My sister get married!' I say to them. 'Not she; she has resolved to make a noble sacrifice of herself for my sake, and live at home with me, a vestal virgin, and see to the puddings.'"
The smile left Mary's face—the glow remained. "I do wish you would not talk nonsense, Henry! As if Helstonleigh troubled itself to make remarks upon me. It is not so rude as you are."
"Just hark at her!" returned Henry. "Helstonleigh not trouble itself to make remarks! When you know the town was up in arms when you refused Sir Harry Marr, and sent him packing. Such an honour had never fallen to its luck before—that one of its fair citizens, born and bred, should have the chance of becoming a real live My Lady."
Mary was cutting a pencil at the moment, and broke the point off. "Papa," cried she, turning her hot face to his, "can't you make Henry talk sense?—if he must talk at all."
Mrs. Ashley interposed. It was quite true that Mary had had, as Henry phrased it, a chance of becoming a "real live My Lady"; and there lurked in Mrs. Ashley's heart a shadow of grievance, of disappointment, that she should have refused the honour. She spoke rather sharply, taking Henry's part, not Mary's.
"Henry is talking nothing but sense. My opinion is that you behaved quite rudely to Sir Harry. It is an offer you will not have again, Mary. Still," added Mrs. Ashley, subduing her tone a little, "it is no business of Helstonleigh's; neither do I see whence the town could have derived its knowledge."
"As if any news could be stirring, good or bad, that Helstonleigh does not ferret its way to!" returned Henry.
"My belief is that Henry went and told," retorted Mary.
"I! what next?" cried Henry. "As if I should tell of the graceless doings of my sister; it is bad enough to lie under the weighty knowledge one's self."
"And as if I should ever consent to marry Sir Harry Marr!" returned Mary, with a touch of her brother's spirit.
"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, quietly, "you seemed to slip out of that business, and of all questioning over it, as smoothly as an eel. I never came to the bottom of it. What was your objection to Sir Harry?"
"Objection, papa?" she faltered, with a crimsoned face. "I—I did not care for him."
"Oh, that was it, was it?" returned Mr. Ashley.
"Is it always to go on so, my dear?" asked her mother.
Poor Mary was in sad confusion, scarcely knowing whether to burst into anger or into tears. "What do you mean, mamma? How 'go on'?"
"This rejection of every one. You have had three good offers——"
"Not counting the venture of Cyril Dare," put in Henry.
"And you say 'No' to all," concluded Mrs. Ashley. "I fear you must be very fastidious."
"And she's growing into an old maid, and——"
"Be quiet, Henry. Can't you leave me in peace?"
"My dear, it is true," cried Henry, who was in one of his teasing moods. "Of course I have not kept count of your age since you were eighteen—it wouldn't be polite to do so; but my private conviction is that you are four-and-twenty this blessed summer."
"If I were four-and-thirty," answered Mary, "I wouldn't marry Sir Harry Marr. I am notobligedto marry, I suppose, am I?"
"My dear, no one said you were," said Henry, flinging a rose at her, which he took from his button-hole. "But don't you see that this brings round my argument, that you have resolved to make yourself a noble sisterly sacrifice, and stop at home with me? Don't you take to cats yet, though!"
Mary thought she was getting the worst of it, and left the room. Soon afterwards Mrs. Ashley was called out by a servant.
"Did you receive a note from William this morning, sir?" asked Henry.
"Yes," replied Mr. Ashley, taking it from his pocket. "He mentions in it that there is a report in the town that Herbert Dare is dead."
"Herbert Dare! I wonder if it's true?"
"It is to be hoped not. I fear he was not very fit to die. I am going into Helstonleigh, and shall probably hear more."
"Oh! are you going in to-day, sir? Despatch William back, will you?"
"I don't know, Henry. They may be busy at the manufactory. If so, I am sure he will not leave it."
"What a blessing if that manufactory were up in the clouds!" was Henry's rejoinder. "When I want William particularly, it is sure to be—that manufactory!"
"It is well William does not think as you do," remarked Mr. Ashley.
"Well, sir, he must certainly think Samuel Lynn a nonentity, or he would not stick himself so closely to business. You never applied yourself in such a way."
"Yes, I did. But you must please to remember, Master Henry, that the cases are not on a parallel. I was head and chief of all, accountable to none. Had I chosen to take a twelvemonth's holiday, and let the business go, it would have been my own affair exclusively. Whether the business went right, or whether it went wrong, I was accountable to none. William is not in that position."
"I know he is often in the position of not being to be had when he is wanted," was Henry's reply, as he listlessly turned over some books that lay on the table.
"Will you go into town with me?"
"I could not stand it to-day. My hip is giving me twinges."
"Is it? I had better bring back Parry."
"No. I won't have him, unless I find there's actual need. The mother knows what to do with me. I don't suppose it will come to anything; and I have been so much better of late."
"Yes, you have. Although you quarrel with Deoffam, it is the change to it—the air of the place—that has renewed your health, you ungrateful boy!"
Mr. Ashley's eyes were bent lovingly on Henry's as he said it. Henry seized his father's hands, his half-mocking tone exchanged for one of earnestness.
"Not ungrateful, sir—far from it. I know the value of my dear father: that a kinder or a better one son could not possess. I shall grumble on to my life's end. It is my amusement. But the grumbling is from my lips only: not from my fractious spirit, as it was in days gone by."
"I have remarked that: remarked it with deep thankfulness. You have acquired a victory over that fractious spirit."
"For which the chief thanks are due to William Halliburton. Sir, it is so. But for him, most probably I should have gone, a discontented wretch, to the—let me be poetical for once—silent tomb: never seeking out either the light or the love that may be found in this world."
Mr. Ashley glanced at his son. He saw that he was contending with emotion, although he had reassumed his bantering tone.
"Henry, what light—what love?"
"The light and the love that a man may take into his own spirit. He—William—told me, years ago, that I might make even my life a pleasant and a useful one; and measureless was the ridicule I gave him for it. But I have found that he was right. When William came to the house one night, a humble errand-boy, sent by Samuel Lynn with a note—do you remember it, sir?—and offered to help me, dunce that I was, with my Latin exercise—a help I graciously condescended to accept—we little thought what a blessing had entered the dwelling."
"We little thought what a brave, honest, indomitable spirit was enshrined in the humble errand-boy," continued Mr. Ashley.
"He has got on as he deserved. He will be a worthy successor to you, sir: a second Thomas Ashley; a far better one than I should ever have been, had I possessed the rudest health. There's only one thing more for William to gain, and then I expect he will be at rest."
"What's that?"
"Oh, it's no concern of mine, sir. If folks can't manage for themselves, they need not come to me to help them."
Mr. Ashley looked keenly at his son. Henry passed to another topic.
"Do send him here, sir, when you get in; or else drive him back with you."
"I shall see," said Mr. Ashley. "Do you know where your mother went to?"
"After some domestic catastrophe, I expect. Martha came to the door, with a face as green as the peacock's tail, and beckoned her out. The best dinner-service come to grief, perhaps."
Mr. Ashley rang, and ordered the pony-carriage to be got ready: one bought chiefly for Henry, that he might drive into town. Before he started, he came across Mary, who stood at one of the corridor windows upstairs, and had evidently been crying.
"What is your grief, Mary?"
She turned to the sheltering arm open to her, and tried to choke the tears down, which were again rising. "I wish you and mamma would not keep so angry at my refusing Sir Harry Marr."
"Who told you I was angry, Mary?"
"Oh, papa, I fancied so this morning. Mamma is angry about it, and it pains me. It is as though you wanted me gone."
"My dear child! Gone! For our comfort I should wish you might never go, Mary. But for your own, it may be different."
"I do not wish to go," she sobbed. "I want to stay at home always. It was not my fault, papa, if I could not like Sir Harry."
"You should never, with my consent, marry any one you did not like, Mary; not if it were the greatest match in the three kingdoms. Why this distress, my dear? Mamma's vexation will blow over. She hoped—as Henry tells us—to see you converted into a 'real live My Lady.' 'My daughter, Lady Marr!' It will blow over, child."
Mary cried in silence. "And you will not let me be driven away, papa? You will keep me at home always?"
Mr. Ashley shook his head. "Always is a long day, Mary. Some one may be coming, less distasteful than Sir Harry Marr, who will induce you to leave it."
"No, never!" cried she, somewhat more vehemently than the case seemed to warrant. "Should any one be asking you for me, you can tell them 'No,' at once; do not trouble to bring the news to me."
"Any one, Mary?"
"Yes, papa, no matter who. Do not drive me away from you."
He stooped and kissed her. She stood at the window still, in a dreamy attitude, and watched the carriage drive off with Mr. Ashley. Presently Henry passed.
"Has the master gone, do you know, Mary?"
"Five minutes ago."
"I hope and trust he'll send back William."
It was striking half-past two when Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory. Samuel Lynn was in his own room, sorting gloves; William was in the counting house, seated at his desk. His, now; formerly Mr. Ashley's; the very desk from which the cheque had disappeared; but William took a more active part in the general management than Mr. Ashley had ever done. He rose, shook hands with the master, and placed a chair for him. The "master" still he was called; indeed, he actually was so; William, "Mr. Halliburton."
A short time given to business details, and then Mr. Ashley referred to the report of Herbert Dare's death. Poor Herbert Dare had never returned from abroad, and it was to be feared he had been getting lower and lower in the scale of society. Under happier auspices, and with different training, Herbert might have made a happier and a better man. Helstonleigh did not know how he lived abroad, or why he stayed there. Possibly the free and easy continental life had become necessary to him. Homburg, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, wherever there were gaming-tables, there might be found Herbert Dare. That he must find a living at them in some way seemed pretty evident. It was a great pity.
"How did you hear that he was dead?" inquired Mr. Ashley.
"From Richard Winthorne," replied William. "I met him yesterday evening in Guild Street, and he told me a report had come over that Herbert Dare had died of fever."
As William spoke, a gentleman entered the room, and interrupted them; a Captain Chambers. "Have you heard that Herbert Dare's dead?" was his first greeting.
"Is it certain?" asked Mr. Ashley.
"I don't know. Report says it is certain; but report is not always to be believed. How that family has gone down!" continued Captain Chambers. "Anthony first; now Herbert; and Cyril will be next. He will go out of the world in some discreditable way. A wretched scamp! Shocking habits! Old Dare, too, unless I am mistaken, is on his last legs."
"Is he ill?" inquired Mr. Ashley.
"No; no worse than usual; but I never saw a man so broken. I alluded to the legs of prosperity. Talk about reports, though," and Captain Chambers suddenly wheeled round on William, "there's one going the round of the town to-day about you."
"What's that?" asked William. "Not that I am dead, I suppose, or on my last legs?"
"Something better. That you are going to marry Sophy Glenn."
William looked all amazement, an amused smile stealing over his lips. "Well, I never!" uttered he, using a phrase just then in vogue in Helstonleigh. "What has put that into the town's head?"
"You should best know that," said Captain Chambers. "Did you not, for one thing, beau Miss Sophy to a concert last night? Come, Master William! guilty or not guilty?"
"Guilty of the beauing," answered William. "I called on the Glenns yesterday evening, and found them starting for the concert; so I accompanied them. I did give my arm to Sophy."
"And whispered the sweet words, 'Will you be my charming wife?'"
"No, that I did not," said William, laughing. "And I dare say I shall never whisper them to any woman yet born: if it will give Helstonleigh satisfaction to know so much."
"You might go farther and fare worse, than in taking Sophy Glenn, I can tell you that, Master William," returned Captain Chambers. "Remember, she is the lucky one of three sisters, and had the benignant godmother. Sophy Glenn counts five thousand pounds to her fortune."
When Captain Chambers took his departure, Mr. Ashley looked at William. "I have heard Henry joke you about the Glenn girls—nice little girls they are too! Is there anything in it, William?"
"Sir! How can you ask such a thing?"
"I think, with Chambers, that a man might do worse than marry Sophy Glenn."
"So do I, sir. But I shall not be the man."
"Well, I think it is time you contemplated something of the sort. You will soon be thirty years of age."
"Yes, sir, but I do not intend to marry."
"Why not?" asked Mr. Ashley.
"Because—I fear my wishes would lead me to soar too high. That is, I—I—mean——" He stopped; and seemed to be falling into inextricable confusion. A notable thing for the self-possessed William Halliburton.
"Do you mean that you have an attachment in some quarter?" resumed Mr. Ashley.
William's face turned fiery red. "I cannot deny it, sir," he answered, after considerable hesitation.
"And that she is above your reach?"
"Yes."
"In what manner? In position?—or by any insurmountable obstacle? I suppose she is not some one else's wife?"
William smiled. "Oh, no. In position."
"Shall I give you my opinion, William, without knowing the case in detail?"
William was standing at one corner of the mantel-piece, his arm leaning on its narrow shelf. He did not lift his eyes. "Yes, sir, if you please."
"Then I think there is scarcely any marriageable girl in the county, to whom you might not aspire, and in time win."
"Oh, Mr. Ashley!"
"Is it the daughter of the lord-lieutenant?"
William laughed.
"Is it the bishop's daughter?"
William shook his head. "She seems to be quite as far removed from me."
"Come, I must know. Who is it?"
"It is impossible that I can tell you, sir."
"I must know. I don't think I have ever asked you in vain, since the time when, a boy, you confessed your thoughts about the found shilling. Secrets from me! I will know, William!"
William did not answer. The upper part of his face was concealed by his hand; but Mr. Ashley marked the sweet smile that played around his mouth.
"Come, I will help you. Is it the charming Dobbs?"
Amused, he took his hand from his face. "Well, sir—no."
"It cannot be Charlotte East; because she is married."
William seemed as impervious as ever. The master suddenly laid his hand upon his shoulder, and confronted him face to face.
"Is it Mary Ashley?"
The burning flush of scarlet that dyed his face, even to the very roots of his hair, told Mr. Ashley the truth, far more effectually than words could have done. There ensued a pause. Mr. Ashley was the first to break it.
"How long have you loved her?"
"For years.Thathas been the wild dream of my aspirations: one that I knew would never be realized," he answered, suffering his eyes to meet for a moment Mr. Ashley's.
"Have you spoken to her of it?"
"Never."
"Or led her to believe you loved her?"
"No, sir. Unless my looks and tones may have betrayed me. I fear they have; but it was not intentionally done."
"Honest in this, as in all else," thought Mr. Ashley. "What am I to say to you?" he asked aloud.
"I do not know," sighed William. "I expect, of course, sir, that you will forbid me Deoffam Hall: but I can still meet Henry at the house in town. I hope you will forgive me!" he added in an impassioned tone. "I could not help loving her. Before I knew what my new feelings meant, love had come. Such love! Had I been in a position to marry her, I would have made her life one dream of happiness! When I awoke to it all——"
"What awoke you?" was the interruption.
"I think it was Cyril Dare's asking for her. I debated with myself then, whether I ought to give up going to your house; but I came to the conclusion that, so long as I was able to hide my feelings from her, I need not banish myself. My judgment was wrong, I know; but the temptation to see her occasionally was great, and I did not resist it."
"And so you continued to go, feeding the flame?"
"Yes. Feeding it passionately and hopelessly; never forgetting that the pain of separation must come!"
"Did you hear of Sir Harry Marr's offer?"
"Yes, I heard of it."
William swept his hand across his face as he spoke. It wore awrungexpression. Mr. Ashley changed his tone.
"William, I cannot decide this matter, one way or the other. You must ask Mary to do that!"
"Sir!"
"If Mary chooses to favour you more than she does other suitors, I will not forbid her doing it. Only this very day she begged me, with tears, to keep all such troublesome customers away from her; to refuse them of my own accord. But it strikes me that you may as well have an answer from herself!"
William, his whole soul in his eyes, was gazing at Mr. Ashley. He could not tell whether he might believe what he heard; whether he was awake or dreaming.
"Did I deliver you a message from Henry?"
"No, sir," was the abstracted response.
"He wants you to go over to him. I said I would send you if you were not busy. He is not very well to-day."
"But—Mr. Ashley—did you mean what you said?"
"Should I have said it had I not meant it?" was the quiet answer. "Have you a difficulty in believing it?"
The ingenuous light rose to William's eyes, as he raised them to his master's. "I have no money," he whispered. "I cannot settle a farthing upon her."
"You have something better than money, William—worth. And I can make settlements. Go and hear what Mary says. You will catch the half-past three o'clock coach, if you make haste."
William went out, believing still that he must be in a trance. His deeply buried dream of the long past years: was it about, indeed, to become reality?
But in the midst of it he could not help casting a thought to a less pleasing subject—the Dares. Herbert was young to die; he was, no doubt, unprepared to die; and William sincerely hoped that the report would prove untrue. The Dares were going down sadly in the social scale; Cyril especially. He was just what Captain Chambers had called him—a scamp. After leaving Mr. Ashley's, he had entered his father's office; as a temporary thing, it was said; but he had never left it for anything else. A great deal of his time was passed in public-houses. George, whose commission never came, had gone out, some two or three years ago, to Sydney. His sister Julia and her husband had settled there, and they had found an opening for George. William walked on, thinking of the Dares' position and of his own.
When William reached Deoffam Hall, he found Henry Ashley alone, lying in the drawing-room, the sofa near the open window.
"That's good!" cried he. "Good of the master for sending you, and of you for coming."
"You don't look well to-day," observed William. "Your brow has the old lines of pain in it."
"Thanks to my hip, which is giving me threatening twinges. What's this report about Dare? Is it confirmed?"
"Not absolutely. It was Winthorne told me. Captain Chambers came into the manufactory, and spoke of it this afternoon."
"I dare say it's true," said Henry. "I wonder if Anna Lynn will put on weeds for him?" he sarcastically added.
"Quakers don't wear weeds."
"Teach your grandmother," returned Henry, lapsing into one of those free, popular phrases he indulged in, andwasindulged in. "How you stare at me! Do you think I am notcured? Ay; years ago."
"You'd have no objection to see Anna marry, I suppose?"
"She's welcome to marry, for me. You may go and propose to her yourself, if you like. I'll be groomsman at the wedding."
"Would the alliance give you pleasure?"
Henry laughed. "You'd deserve hanging in chains, if you did enter upon it; that's all."
"I have had one wife assigned to me to-day," remarked William.
"Whom may she be?"
"Sophy Glenn."
"Sophy Glenn?"
"Sophy Glenn. Chambers gravely assured me that Helstonleigh had settled the match. He, Chambers, considers that I may go farther and fare worse. Mr. Ashley said the same."
"But what doyousay?" cried Henry, rising up on his sofa, and speaking quite sharply.
"I? Oh, I shall consider of it."
At that moment Mary Ashley appeared on the terrace outside; a small basket and a pair of scissors in her hand. Henry called to her. "Are you going to cut more flowers?"
"Yes. Mamma has sent the others away. She said they were fading." Seeing William there, she nodded to him, her colour rising.
"I say, Mary—he has come here to bring some news," went on Henry. "What do you suppose it is?"
"Mamma has told me. About Herbert Dare."
"Not that. He is going to make himself into a respectable man, and marry Sophy Glenn. He came here to announce it. Don't cut too much of that syringa; its sweetness is overpowering in a room."
Mary walked away. William felt excessively annoyed. "You are more dangerous than a child," he exclaimed. "What made you say that?"
And Henry, like a true child, fell back, laughing aloud. "I say, though, comrade, where are you off to?" he called after William, who was leaving the room.
"To cut the flowers for your sister, of course."
But when William reached Mary Ashley, she had apparently forgotten her errand. Standing in a dark spot against the trunk of the acacia tree, her face was white and still, and the basket lay on the ground. She picked it up, and would have hastened away, but William caught her hand and placed it within his arm, little less agitated than she was.
"Not to tell him that news," he whispered. "I did indeed come here, hoping to solicit one to be my wife; but it was not Sophy Glenn. Mary, you cannot mistake what my feelings have long been."
"But—papa?" she gasped, unable to control her emotion.
He looked at her; he made her look at him. What strange, happy light was that in his earnest eyes, causing her heart to bound? "Mr. Ashley sent me to you," he softly whispered.
Henry lay and waited till he was tired. No William; no Mary; no flowers; no anything. Had they both gone to sleep? He arose; and, taking his stick, limped away to see after them. But he searched the flower-garden in vain.
In the sheltered shrubbery, pacing it leisurely, as closely together as they could well be linked, were they; a great deal too much occupied with each other to pay attention to anything else. The basket lay on the ground, empty of all, except the scissors.
"Well, you two are a nice lot for a summer's day!" began Henry, after his old fashion, and using his own astonished eyes. "What of the flowers?"
Mary would have flown, but William held her tightly, and led her up to her brother. He strove to speak jestingly; but his voice betrayed his emotion.
"Henry, shall it be your sister, or Sophy Glenn?"
"So! you have been settling it for yourselves, have you! I would not be in your shoes, Miss Ashley, when the parental thunderbolts shall descend. Was this what you flung Sir Harry over for? There never was any accounting for taste in this world, and there never will be. I ask you where the flowers are, and I should like an answer."
"I will cut them now," said William. "Will you come?" he asked, holding out his arm to Henry.
"No," replied Henry, sitting down on the shrubbery bench, "I must digest this shock first. You two will be enough to cut them, I dare say."
They walked away towards the flower-garden. But ere they had gone many steps he called out; and they turned.
"Mary! before you tie yourself up irrevocably, I hope you will reflect upon the ignominy of his being nothing on earth but a manufacturer. A pretty come down, that, for the Lady Marr who might have been!"
He was in one of his most ironical moods; a sure sign that his inward state was that of glowing satisfaction. This had been his hope for years—his plan, it may be said; but he had kept himself silent and neutral. As he sat there ruminating, he heard the distant sound of the pony carriage; and, taking a short cut, met it in the park. Mr. Ashley handed the reins to his groom, got out, and gave his arm to Henry.
"How are you by this time?"
"Better, sir. Nothing much to brag of."
"I thought William would have been with you. Is he not come?"
"Yes, he is come. But I am second with him to-day. Miss Mary's first."
"Oh indeed!" returned Mr. Ashley.
"They are gone off somewhere, under the pretext of cutting flowers. I don't think the flowers were quite the object, though."
He stole a glance at his father as he spoke. But he gathered nothing. And he dashed at once into the subject he had at heart.
"Father, you will not stand in their light! It will be a crushing blow to both, if you do. Let him have her! There's not a man in the world half as worthy."
But still Mr. Ashley made no rejoinder. Henry scarcely gave him time to make one.
"I have seen it a long time. I have seen how Halliburton kept down his feelings, not being sure of the ground with you. I fear that to-day they must have overmastered him; for he has certainly spoken out. Dear father, don't make two of the best spirits in the world miserable, by withholding your consent!"
"Henry," said Mr. Ashley, turning to him with a smile, "do you fancy William Halliburton is one to have spoken out without my consent?"
Henry's thin cheek flushed. "Did you give it him? Have you already given it him?"
"I gave it him to-day. I drew from him the fact of his attachment to Mary: not telling him in so many words that he should have her, but leaving it for her to decide."
"Then it will be: for I have seen where Miss Mary's love has been. How immeasurably you have relieved me!" continued Henry. "The last half-hour I have been seeing nothing but perplexity and cross-grained guardians."
"Have you?" returned Mr. Ashley. "You should have brought a little common sense to bear upon the subject, Henry."
"But my fear was, sir, that you would not bring the common sense to bear," freely spoke Henry.
"You do not quite understand me. Had I entertained an insuperable objection to Mary's becoming his wife, do you suppose I should have been so wanting in prudence and forethought as to have allowed opportunity for an attachment to ripen? I have long believed that there was no man within the circle of my acquaintance, or without it, so deserving of Mary, except in fortune: therefore I suffered him to come here, with my eyes open as to what might be the result. A very probable result, it has appeared to me. I would forgive any girl who fell in love with William Halliburton."
"And what about ways and means?"
"William's share shall be increased, and Mary will not go to him dowerless. They must live in our house in Helstonleigh; and when we want to go there we must be their guests."
"It will be the working-out of my visions," said Henry in low deep tones. "I have seen them in it in fancy; in that very house; and myself with them, my home when I please. I think you have been planning for me, as much as for them."
"Not exactly, Henry. I have not planned. I have only let things take their course. It will be happier for you, my boy, than if she had gone from us to be Lady Marr."
"Oh! if ever I felt inclined to smother a man, it was that Marr. I never, you know, brought myself to be decently civil to him. There's no answering for the vanity of maidens, and I thought it just possible he might put William's nose out of joint. What will the mother say?"
"The mother will be divided," said Mr. Ashley, a smile crossing his face. "She likes William; but she likes a title. We must allow her a day or two to get over it. I will go and give her the tidings now, if Mary has not done so."
"Mary is with her lovier," returned Henry. "She can't have dragged herself away from him yet."
Mary, however, was not with her "lovier." As Mr. Ashley crossed the hall, he met her. She stopped in hesitation, and coloured vividly.
"Well, Mary, I soon sent you a candidate; though it was in defiance of your express orders. Did I do right?"
Mary burst into tears, and Mr. Ashley drew her face to him. "May God bless your future and his, my child!"
"I am afraid to tell mamma," she sobbed. "I think she will be angry. I could not help liking him."
"Why, that is the very excuse he made to me! Neither can I help liking him, Mary. I will tell mamma."
Mrs. Ashley received the tidings not altogether with equanimity. As Mr. Ashley had surmised, she was divided between conflicting opinions. She liked and admired William; but she equally liked and admired a title and fortune.
"Such a position to relinquish—the union with Sir Harry!"
"Had she married Sir Harry we should have lost her," said Mr. Ashley.
"Lost her!"
"To be sure we should. She would have gone to her new home, twelve miles on the other side of Helstonleigh, amidst her new connections, and have been lost to us, excepting for a formal visit now and then. As it is, we shall keep her; at her old home."
"Yes, there's a great deal to be said on both sides," acknowledged Mrs. Ashley. "What does Henry say?"
"That he thinks I have been planning to secure his happiness. Had Mary married away, we—when we quit this scene—must have left him to his lonely self: now, we shall leave him to them. Things are wisely ordered," impressively added Mr. Ashley: "in this, as in all else. Margaret, let us accept them, and be grateful."
Mrs. Ashley went to seek William. "You will be a loving husband to her," she said with agitation. "You will take care of her and cherish her?"
"With the best endeavours of my whole life," he fervently answered, as he took Mrs. Ashley's hands in his.
It was a happy group that evening. Henry lay on his sofa in complacent ease, Mary drawn down beside him, and William leaning over the back of it, while Mr. and Mrs. Ashley sat at a distance, partially out of hearing.
"Have you heard what the master says?" asked Henry. "He thinks you have been getting up your bargain out of complaisance to me. You are aware, I hope, Mr. William, that whoever takes Mary must take me?"
"I am perfectly willing."
"It is well you are! And—do you know where you are to live?"
William shook his head. "You can understand how all these future considerations have weighed me down," he said, glancing at Mary.
"You are to live at the house in Helstonleigh. It's to be converted into yours by some patent process. The master had an eye to this, I know, when he declined to take out any of the furniture, upon our removal here. The house is to be yours, and the run of it is to be mine; and I shall grumble away to my heart's content at you both. What do you answer to that, Mr. William? I don't ask her; she's nobody."
"I can only answer that the more you run into it, the better pleased we shall be. And we can stand any extent of grumbling."
"I am glad you can. You ought to by this time, for you have been pretty well seasoned to it. So, in the Helstonleigh house, remember, my old rooms are mine; and I intend to be the plague of your lives. After a time—may it be a long time!—I suppose it will be 'Mr. Halliburton of Deoffam Hall.'"
"What nonsense you talk, Henry!"
"Nonsense? I shall make it over to you. Catch me sticking myself out here in solitary state to the admiration of the peacock! What's the matter with you now, you two! Oh, well, if you turn up your noses at Deoffam, it shall never be yours. I'll leave it to the eldest chickabiddy. And mark you, please! I shall have him named 'Ashley,' and stand godfather to him; and, he'll be mine, and not yours. I shall do just as I like with the whole lot, if they count a score, and spoil them as much as I choose."
"Whatisthe matter there?" exclaimed Mrs. Ashley, perceiving a commotion on the sofa.
Mary succeeded in freeing herself, and went away with a crimsoned face. "Mamma, I think Henry must be going out of his mind! He is talking so absurdly."
"Absurdly! Was what I said absurd, William?"
William laughed. "It was premature, at any rate."
Henry stretched up his hands and laid hold of William's. "It is true what Mary says—that I must be going out of my mind. So I am: with joy."
But the report of Herbert Dare's death proved to be a false one.
The approaching marriage of William Halliburton gave rise to a dispute. A dispute of love, though, not bitterness. Frank and Gar contended which should have their mother. William no longer wanted her; he was going to a home of his own. Frank wished to take larger chambers where she would find sufficient accommodation; he urged a hundred reasons; his grievances with his laundress, and his buttonless shirts. Gar, who was in priest's orders now, had remained in that same first curacy, at a hundred a year and the parsonage house to live in. He said he had been wanting his mother all along, and could not do without her.
Jane inclined to Gar. She said she had an idea that old ladies—how they would have rebelled at hearing her call herself old!—were out of place in a young barrister's chambers; and she had a further idea that chambers were comfortless quarters to live in. The question was to be decided when they met at William's wedding. Frank was getting on well; better than the ordinary run of aspirants; he had come through Helstonleigh two or three times on circuit, and had picked up odds and ends of briefs there.
Meanwhile William took possession of Mr. Ashley's old house, and the wedding day approached. Besides her boys, Jane had another visitor for the time; her brother Francis, who came down to marry them. Perhaps because the Vicar of Deoffam had recently died. He might have come all the same, had that gouty old gentleman been still alive.
All clear and cloudless rose the September sun on Deoffam; never a brighter sun shone on a wedding. It was a quiet wedding: only a few guests were invited to it. Mary, in her white lace robes and floating veil—flushed, timid, lovely—stood with her bridesmaids; not more lovely than one of those bridesmaids, for one was Anna Lynn.
Anna Lynn! Yes; Anna Lynn. To the lasting scandal of Patience, Anna stood in the open church, dressed in bridesmaid's attire. Mary, who had not been permitted the same intimacy with Anna since that marked and unhappy time, but who had loved her all along, had been allowed by Mrs. Ashley to choose her for one of her bridesmaids. The invitation was proffered, and Samuel Lynn did not see reason to decline it. Patience was indignantly rebellious; Anna, wild with delight. Look at her, as she stands there! flowing robes of white around her, not made after the primitive fashion ofherrobes, but in the fashion of the day. Her falling hair shades her carmine cheeks, and her blue eyes seek modestly the ground. A fair picture; and a dangerous one to Henry Ashley, had those old feelings of his remained in the ascendant. But he was cured; as he told William: and he told it in truth.
A short time, and Anna would want bridesmaids on her own account; though that may be speaking metaphorically of a Quakeress. Anna's pretty face had pierced the heart of one of their male body; and he had asked for Anna in marriage. A very desirable male was he, in a social point of view; and female Helstonleigh turned up its nose in envy at Anna's fortune. He was considerably older than Anna; a fine-looking man and a wealthy one, engaged in wholesale business. His name was Gurney; his residence, outside the city, was a handsome one, replete with every comfort; and he drove a carriage-and-pair. He had been for some time a visitor at Samuel Lynn's, and Anna had learned to like him. That his object in visiting there could only be Anna, every one had been sure of, his position being so superior to Samuel Lynn's. Every one but Anna. Somehow, since that past escapade, Anna had not cast a thought to marrying, or to the probability of anyone asking her; and she did not suspect his intentions. If she had suspected them, she might have set herself against him; for there was a little spice of opposition in her, which she loved to indulge. However, before that suspicion came to her she had grown to care for him too much to play the coquette. Strange to say, there was something in his figure and in the outline of his face, which reminded people of Herbert Dare; but his features and their expression were quite different.
It was a most excellent match for Anna; there was no doubt of that; but it did not afford complete satisfaction to Patience. Patience felt a foreboding that he would be a good deal more indulgent to Anna than she considered was wholesomely good for her: Patience had a misgiving that Anna would be putting off her caps as she chose, then, and would not be reprimanded for it. Not unlikely; could that future bridegroom, Charles Gurney, catch sight of Anna as she stands now! for a more charming picture never was seen.
William, quiet and self-possessed, received Mary from the hands of her father, who gave her away. The Reverend Francis Tait read the service, and Gar, in his white canonicals, stood with him, after the new fashion of the day. Jane's tears dropped on her pearl-grey damask dress; Frank made himself very busy amongst the bridesmaids; and Henry Ashley was in his most mocking mood. Thus they were made man and wife; and Mr. Tait's voice rose high and echoed down the aisles of the little old church at Deoffam, as he spoke the solemn injunction—"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."
Helstonleigh's streets were lined that day, and Helstonleigh's windows were alive with heads. It was known that the bride and bridegroom would pass through the town, on the first stage of their bridal tour, whose ultimate destination was to be the Continent. The whole crowd of the Ashley workpeople had gathered outside the manufactory, neglecting their afternoon's work; a neglect which Samuel Lynn not only winked at, but participated in, for he stood with them. As the carriage, which was Mr. Ashley's, came in sight, its four horses urged by the postillions to a sharp trot, one deafening cheer arose from the men. William laughed and nodded to them; but they did not get half a good view of the master's daughter beside him: nothing but a glimpse of a flushed cheek, and a piece of a white veil.
Slouching at the corner of a street, in a seedy coat, his eyes bloodshot, was Cyril Dare. Never did one look more of amauvais sujetthan he, as he watched the chariot pass. The place now occupied by William might have been his, had he so willed it and worked for it. Not, perhaps, that of Mary's husband; he could not be sure of that, but as Mr. Ashley's partner. A bitter cloud of disappointment, of repentance, crossed his face as he looked at them. They both saw him standing there. Did Mary think what a promising husband he would have made her? Cyril flung a word after them; and it was not a blessing.
Dobbs had also flung something after them, and in point of time and precedence this ought to have been mentioned first. Patience, watching from her window, curious as every one else, had seen Dobbs come out with something under her apron, and take up her station at the gate, where she waited patiently for just an hour and a quarter. As the carriage had come into view, Dobbs sheltered herself behind the shrubs, nothing to be seen of her above them, but her cap and eyes. The moment the carriage was past, out flew Dobbs to the middle of the road. Bringing forth from their hiding-place a pair of shoes considerably the worse for wear, the one possessing no sole, and the other no upper leather, Dobbs dashed them with force after the chariot, very much discomposing the manservant in the rear, whose head they struck.
"Nothing like old shoes to bring 'em luck," grunted Dobbs to Patience, as she retired indoors. "I never knew good come of a wedding that didn't get 'em."
"Iwish them luck; the luck of a safe arrival home from those unpleasant foreign parts," emphatically remarked Patience, who had found her residence amongst the French nothing less than a species of terrestrial purgatory.