But there's something to say yet of Mrs. Brumm. You saw her turning away from Robert East's door, saying that her husband, Andrew, had promised to come home that night and to bring his wages. Mrs. Brumm, a bad manager, as were many of the rest, would probably have received him with a sloppy kitchen, buckets, and besoms. Andrew had had experience of this, and, disloyal knight that he was, allowed himself to be seduced into the Horned Ram. He'd just take one pint and a pipe, he said to his conscience, and be home in time for his wife to get what she wanted. A little private matter of his own would call him away early. Pressed for a sum of money in the week which was owing to his club, and not possessing it, he had put his Sunday coat in pledge: and this he wanted to get out. However, a comrade sitting in the next chair to him at the Horned Ram had to gethiscoat out of the same accommodating receptacle. Nothing more easy than for him to bring out Andrew's at the same time; which was done. The coat on the back of his chair, his pipe in his mouth, and a pint of good ale before him, the outer world was as nothing to Andrew Brumm.
At ten o'clock, the landlord came in. "Andrew Brumm, here's your wife wanting to see you."
Now Andrew was not a bad sort of man by any means, but he had a great antipathy to being looked after. A joke went round at Andrew's expense; for if there was one thing the men in general hated more than another, it was that their wives should come in quest of them to the public-houses. Mrs. Brumm received a sharp reprimand; but she saw that he was, as she expressed it, "getting on," so she got some money from him and kept her scolding for another opportunity.
She did not go near the pawnbroker's to get her irons out. She bought a bit of meat and what else she wanted, and returned to Honey Fair. Robert East was closing his door for the night as she passed it. "Has Brumm come home?" he asked.
"Not he, the toper! He is stuck fast at the Horned Ram, getting in for it nicely. I have been after him for some money."
"Have you got your irons out?" inquired Charlotte, coming to the door.
"No, nor nothing else; and there's pretty near half the kitchen in. It's him that'll suffer. He has been getting out his own coat, but he can't put it on. Leastways, he won't without a clean collar and shirt; and let him fish forthem. Wait till to-morrow comes, Mr. 'Drew Brumm!"
"Washiscoat in?" returned Charlotte, surprised.
"That it was. Him as goes on so when I puts a thing or two in! He owed some money at his club, and he went and put his coat in for four shillings, and Adam Thorneycroft has been and fetched it out for him."
"Adam Thorneycroft!" involuntarily returned Charlotte.
"Thorneycroft's coat was in too, and he went for it just now, and Brumm gave him the ticket to get out his. Smith's daughter told me that. She was serving with her mother in the bar."
"Is Adam Thorneycroft at the Horned Ram still?"
"That he is: side by side with Brumm. A nice pair of 'em! Charlotte East, take my advice; don't you have anything to say to Thorneycroft. A woman had better climb up to the top of her topmost chimbley and pitch herself off, head foremost, than marry a man given to drink."
Charlotte East felt vexed at the allusion—vexed that her name should be coupled openly with that of Adam Thorneycroft by the busy tongues of Honey Fair. That an attachment existed between herself and Adam Thorneycroft was true; but she did not wish the fact to become too apparent to others. Latterly she had been schooling her heart to forget him, for he was taking to frequent public-houses.
Mrs. Brumm went home, and was soon followed by her husband. He was not much the worse for what he had taken: he was a little. Mrs. Brumm reproached him with it, and a wordy war ensued.
They arose peaceably in the morning. Andrew was a civil, well-conducted man, and but for Horned Rams would have been a pattern to three parts of Honey Fair. He liked to be dressed well on Sunday and to attend the cathedral with his two children: he was very fond of listening to the chanting Mrs. Brumm—as was the custom generally with the wives of Honey Fair—stayed at home to cook the dinner. Andrew was accustomed to do many odd jobs on the Sunday morning, to save his wife trouble. He cleaned the boots and shoes, brushed his clothes, filled the coal-box, and made himself useful in sundry other ways. All this done, they sat down to breakfast with the two children, the unfortunate Jacky less black than he had been the previous night.
"Now, Jacky," said Brumm, when the meal was over, "get yourself ready; it has gone ten. Polly too."
"It's a'most too cold for Polly this morning," said Mrs. Brumm.
"Not a bit on't. The walk'll do her good, and give her an appetite for dinner. What is for dinner, Bell? I asked you before, but you didn't answer."
"It ain't much thanks to you as there's anything," retorted Mrs. Brumm, who rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arabella. "You plant yourself again at the Horned Ram, and see if I worries myself to come after you for money. I'll starve on the Sunday first."
"I can't think what goes of your money," returned Andrew. "There had not used to be this fuss if I stopped out for half an hour on the Saturday night, with my wages in my pocket. Where does yours go to?"
"It goes in necessaries," shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. But not caring for reasons of her own to pursue this particular topic, she turned to that of the dinner. "I have half a shoulder of mutton, and I'm going to take it to the bake'us with a batter pudden under it, and to boil the taters at home."
"That's capital!" returned Andrew, gently rubbing his hands. "There's nothing nicer than baked mutton and a batter pudden. Jacky, brush your hair well: it's as rough as bristles."
"I had to use a handful of soda to get the dye out," said Mrs. Brumm. "Soda's awful stuff for making the hair rough."
Andrew slipped out to the Honey Fair barber, who did an extensive business on Sunday morning, to be shaved. When he returned he went up to wash and dress, and finally uncovered a deal box where he was accustomed to find his clean shirt. With all Mrs. Brumm's faults she had neat ways. The shirt was not there.
"Bell, where's my clean shirt?" he called out from the top of the stairs.
Mrs. Bell Brumm had been listening for the words and received them with satisfaction. She nodded, winked, and went through a little pantomime of ecstasy, to the intense delight of the children, who were in the secret, and nodded and winked with her. "Clean shirt?" she called back again, as if not understanding.
"My Sunday shirt ain't here."
"You haven't got no Sunday shirt to-day."
Andrew Brumm descended the stairs in consternation. "No Sunday shirt!" he repeated.
"No shirt, nor no collar, nor no handkercher," coolly affirmed Mrs. Brumm. "There ain't none ironed. They be all in the wet and the rough, wrapped up in an old towel. Jacky and Polly haven't nothing either."
Brumm stared considerably. "Why, what's the meaning of that?"
"The irons are in pawn," shortly answered Mrs. Brumm. "You know you never came home with the money, so I couldn't get 'em out."
Another wordy war. Andrew protested she had no "call" to put the irons in any such place. She impudently retorted that she should put the house in if she liked.
A hundred such little episodes could be related of the domestic life of Honey Fair.
On the Monday morning, a troop of the gloveress girls flocked into Charlotte East's. They were taking holiday, as was usual with them on Mondays. Charlotte was a favourite. It is true, she "bothered" them, as they called it, with good advice, but they liked her in spite of it. Charlotte's kitchen was always tidy and peaceful, with a bright fire burning in it: other kitchens would be full of bustle and dirt. Charlotte never let them hinder her; she worked away at her gloves all the time. Charlotte was a glove-maker; that is, she sewed the fingers together, and put in the thumbs, forgits, and quirks. Look at your own gloves, English made. The long strips running up inside the fingers are the forgits; and the little pieces between, where the fingers open, are the quirks. The gloves Charlotte was occupied with now were of a very dark green colour, almost black, called corbeau in the trade, and they were sewn with white silk. Charlotte's stitches were as beautifully regular as though she had used a patent machine. The white silk and the fellow glove to the one she was making, lay inside a clean white handkerchief doubled upon her lap; other gloves, equally well covered, were in a basket at her side.
The girls had come in noisily, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes. Charlotte saw that something was exciting them. They liked to tell her of their little difficulties and pleasures. Betsy Carter had informed her mother that there was going to be a "party at the Alhambra tea-gardens," if you remember; and this was the point of interest to-day. These "Alhambra tea-gardens," however formidable and perhaps suggestive the name, were very innocent in reality. They belonged to a quiet roadside inn, half a mile from the town, and comprised a large garden and extensive lawn. The view from them was beautiful; and many a party from Helstonleigh, far higher in the scale of society than these girls, would go there in summer to take tea and enjoy the view. A young, tall, handsome girl of eighteen had drawn her chair close to Charlotte's. She was the half-sister of Mark Mason, and had her home with him and his wife; supporting herself after a fashion by her work. But she was always in debt to them, and she and Mrs. Mark did not get along well together. She wore a new shawl, and straw bonnet trimmed with blue ribbons: and her dark hair fell in glossy ringlets—as was the fashion then. Two other girls perched themselves on a table. They were sisters—Amelia and Mary Ann Cross; others placed themselves where they could. Somewhat light were they in manner, these girls; free in speech. Nothing farther. If an unhappy girl did, by mischance, turn out badly, or, as the expressive phrase had it, "went wrong," she was forthwith shunned, and shunned for ever. Whatever may have been the faults and failings prevailing in Honey Fair, this sort of wrong-doing was not common amongst them.
"Why, Caroline, that is new!" exclaimed Charlotte East, alluding to the shawl.
Caroline Mason laughed. "Is it not a beauty?" cried she. And it may be remarked that in speech and accent she was superior to some of the girls.
Charlotte took a corner of it in her hand. "It must have cost a pound at least," she said. "Is it paid for?"
Again Caroline laughed. "Never you mind whether it's paid for or not, Charlotte. You won't be called upon for the money for it. As I told my sister-in-law yesterday."
"You did not want it, Caroline; and I am quite sure you could not afford it. Your winter cloak was good yet. It is so bad a plan, getting goods on credit. I wish those Bankeses had never come near the place!"
"Don't you run down Bankes's, Charlotte East," interposed Eliza Tyrrett, a very plain girl, with an ill-natured expression of face. "We should never get along at all if it wasn't for Bankes's."
"You would get along all the better," returned Charlotte. "How much are they going to charge you for this shawl, Caroline?"
Caroline and Eliza Tyrrett exchanged peculiar glances. There appeared to be some secret between them, connected with the shawl. "Oh, a pound or so," replied Caroline. "What was it, Eliza?"
Eliza Tyrrett burst into a loud laugh, and Caroline echoed it. Charlotte East did not press for the answer. But she did press the matter against dealing with Bankes's; as she had pressed it many a time before.
A twelvemonth ago, some strangers had opened a linen-draper's shop in a back street of Helstonleigh; brothers of the name of Bankes. They professed to do business upon credit, and to wait upon people at their own homes, after the fashion of hawkers. Every Monday would one of them appear in Honey Fair, a great pack of goods on his back, which would be opened for inspection at each house. Caps, shawls, gown-pieces, calico, flannel, and finery, would be displayed in all their fascinations. Now, you who are reading this, only reflect on the temptation! The women of Honey Fair went into debt; and it was three parts the work of their lives to keep the finery, and the system, from the knowledge of their husbands.
"Pay us so much weekly," Bankes's would say. And the women did so: it seemed like getting a gown for nothing. But Bankes's were found to be strict in collecting the instalments; and how these weekly payments told upon the wages, I will leave you to judge. Some would have many shillings to pay weekly. Charlotte East and a few more prudent ones spoke against this system; but they made no impression. The temptation was too great. Charlotte assumed that this was how Caroline Mason's shawl had been obtained. In that, however, she was mistaken.
"Charlotte, we are going down to Bankes's. There'll be a better choice in his shop than in his pack. You have heard of the party at the Alhambra. Well, it is to be next Monday, and we want to ask you what we shall wear. What would you advise us to get for it?"
"Get nothing," replied Charlotte. "Don't go to Bankes's, and don't go to the Alhambra."
The whole assembly sat in wonder, with open eyes. "Not go to the party!" echoed pert Amelia Cross. "What next, Charlotte East?"
"I told you what it would be, if you came into Charlotte East's," said Eliza Tyrrett, a sneer on her countenance.
"I am not against proper amusement, though I don't much care for it myself," said Charlotte. "But when you speak of going to a party at the Alhambra, somehow it does not sound respectable."
The girls opened their eyes wider. "Why, Charlotte, what harm do you suppose will come to us? We can take care of ourselves, I hope?"
"It is not that," said Charlotte. "Of course you can. Still it does not sound nice. It is like going to a public-house—you can't call the Alhambra anything else. It is quite different, this, from going there to have tea in the summer. But that's not it, I say. If you go to it, you would be running into debt for all sorts of things at Bankes's, and get into trouble."
"My sister-in-law says you are a croaker, Charlotte; and she's right," cried Caroline Mason, with good-humour.
"Charlotte, it is not a bit of use your talking," broke in Mary Ann Cross vehemently. "We shall go to the party, and we shall buy new things for it. Bankes's have some lovely sarcenets, cross-barred; green, and pink, and lilac; and me and 'Melia mean to have a dress apiece off 'em. With a pink bow in front, and a white collar—my! wouldn't folks stare at us!—Twelve yards each it would take, and they are one-and-eightpence a yard."
"Mary Ann, it would be just madness! There'd be the making, the lining, and the ribbon: five or six-and-twenty shillings each, they would cost you. Pray don't!"
"How you do reckon things up, Charlotte! We should pay off weekly: we have time afore us."
"What would your father say?"
"Charlotte, just hold your noise about father," quickly returned Amelia Cross, in a hushed and altered tone. "You know we don't tell him about Bankes's."
Charlotte found she might as well have talked to the winds. The girls were bent upon the evening's pleasure, and also upon the smart things they deemed necessary for it. A few minutes more and they left her; and trooped down to the shop of the Messrs. Bankes.
Charlotte was coming home that evening from an errand to the town, when she met Adam Thorneycroft. He was somewhat above the common run of workmen.
"Oh, is it you, Charlotte?" he exclaimed, stopping her. "I say, how is it that you'll never have anything to say to me now?"
"I have told you why, Adam," she replied.
"You have told me a pack of nonsense. I wouldn't lose you, Charlotte, to be made king of England. When once we are married, you shall see how steady I'll be. I will not enter a public-house."
"You have been saying that you will not for these twelve months past, Adam," she sadly rejoined; and, had her face been visible in the dark night, he would have seen that it was working with agitation.
"What does it hurt a man, to go out and take a quiet pipe and a glass after his work's over? Everybody does it."
"Everybody does not. But I do not wish to contend. It seems to bring you no conviction. Half the miseries around us in Honey Fair arise from so much of the wages being wasted at the public-houses. I know what you would say—that the wives are in fault as well. So they are. I do not believe people were sent into the world to live as so many of us live: nothing but scuffle and discomfort, and—I may almost say it—sinfulness. One of these wretched households shall never be mine."
"My goodness, Charlotte! How seriously you speak!"
"It is a serious subject. I want to try to live so as to do my duty by myself and by those around me; to pass my days in peace with the world and with my conscience. A woman beaten down, cowed by all sorts of ills, could not do so; and, where the husband is unsteady, she must be beaten down. Adam, you know it is not with a willing heart I give you up, but I am forced to it."
"How can you bring yourself to say this to me?" he rejoined.
"I don't deny that it is hard," she faintly said, suppressing with difficulty her emotion. "This many a week I and duty have been having a conflict with each other: but duty has gained the mastery. I knew it would from the first——"
"Duty be smothered!" interrupted Adam Thorneycroft. "I shall think you a born natural presently, Charlotte."
"Yes, I know. I can't help it. Adam, we should never pull together, you see. Good-bye! We can be friends in future, if you like; nothing more."
She held out her hand to him for a parting salutation. Adam, hurt and angry, flung it from him, and turned towards Helstonleigh: and Charlotte continued her way home, her tears dropping in the dusky night.
Mrs. Halliburton struggled on. A struggle, my reader, that it is to be hoped, for your comfort's sake, you have never experienced, and never will. She had learnt the stitch for the back of the gloves, and Mr. Lynn supplied her with a machine and with work. But she could not do it quickly as yet; though it was a hopeful day for her when she found that her weekly earnings amounted to six shillings.
Mrs. Reece paid her twenty shillings a week. Or rather, Dobbs: for Dobbs was paymaster-general. Of that, Jane could use (she had made a close calculation) six shillings, putting by fourteen for rent and taxes. Her taxes were very light, part of them being paid by the landlord, as was the custom with some houses in Helstonleigh. But for this, the rent would have been less. Sorely tempted as she was, by hunger, by cold, almost by starvation, Jane was resolute in leaving the fourteen shillings intact. She had suffered too much from non-payment of the last rent, not to be prepared with the next. But—the endurance and deprivation!—how great they were! And she suffered far more for her children than for herself.
One night, towards the middle of February, she felt very downhearted: almost as if she could not struggle on much longer. With her own earnings and the six shillings taken from Mrs. Reece's money she could count little more than twelve shillings weekly, and everything had to be found out of it. Coals, candles, washing—that is, the soap, firing, etc., necessary for Miss Betsy Carter to do it with; the boys' shoe-mending and other trifles, besides food. You will not, therefore, be surprised to hear that on this night they had literally nothing in the house but part of a loaf of bread. Jane was resolute in one thing—not to go into debt. Mrs. Buffle would have given credit, probably other shops also; but Jane believed that her sole chance of surmounting the struggle eventually was by keeping debt, even trifling debt, away. They had this morning eaten bread for breakfast; they had eaten potatoes and salt for dinner; and now, tea-time, there was bread again. All Jane had in her pocket was twopence, which must be kept for milk for the following morning; so they were drinking water now.
They were round the fire; two of the boys kneeling on the ground to get the better blaze, thankful they had a fire at all. Their lessons were over for the day. William had been thoroughly well brought on by his father, in Greek, Latin, Euclid, and in English generally—in short, in the branches necessary to a good education. Frank and Gar were forward also; indeed, Frank, for his age, was a very good Latin scholar. But how could they do much good or make much progress by themselves? William helped his brothers as well as he could, but it was somewhat profitless work; and Jane was all too conscious that they needed to be at school. Altogether, her heart was sore within her.
Another thing was beginning to worry her—a fear lest her brother should not be able to send the rent. She had fully counted upon it; but, now that the time of its promised receipt was at hand, fears and doubts arose. She was dwelling on it now—now, as she sat there at her work, in the twilight of the early spring evening. If the money did not come, all she could do would be to go to Mr. Ashley, tell him of her ill luck, and that he must take the things at last. They must turn out, wanderers on the wide earth; no——
A plaintive cry interrupted her dream and recalled her to reality. It came from Jane, who was seated on a stool, her head leaning against the side of the mantel-piece.
"She is crying, mamma," cried quick Frank; and Janey whispered something into Frank's ear, the cry deepening into sobs.
"Mamma, she's crying because she's hungry."
"Janey, dear, I have nothing but bread. You know it. Could you eat a bit?"
"I want something else," sobbed Janey. "Some meat, or some pudding. It is such a long time since we had any. I am tired of bread; I am very hungry."
There came an echoing cry from the other side of the fireplace. Gar had laid his head down on the floor, and he now broke out, sobbing also.
"I am hungry too. I don't like bread any more than Janey does. When shall we have something nice?"
Jane gathered them to her, one in each arm, soothing them with soft caresses, her heart aching, her own sobs choked down, one single comfort present to her—that God knew what she had to bear.
Almost she began to fear for her own health. Would the intense anxiety, combined with the want of sufficient food, tell upon her? Would her sleepless nights tell upon her? Would her grief for the loss of her husband—a grief not the less keenly felt because she did not parade it—tell upon her? Allthatlay in the future.
She rose the next morning early to her work; she always had to rise early—the boys and Jane setting the breakfast. Breakfast! Putting the bread upon the table and taking in the milk. For twopence they had a quart of skimmed milk, and were glad to get it. Her head was heavy, her frame hot, the result of inward fever, her limbs were tired before the day began; worse than all, there was that utter weariness of mind which predisposes a sufferer from it to lie down and die. "This will never do," thought Jane; "Imustbear up."
A dispute between Frank and Gar! They were good, affectionate boys; but little tempers must break out now and then. In trying to settle it, Jane burst into tears. It put an end to the fray more effectually than anything else could have done. The boys looked blank with consternation, and Janey burst into hysterical sobs.
"Don't, Jane, don't," said the poor mother; "I am not well; but do notyoucry."
"I am not well, either," sobbed Janey. "It hurts me here, and here." She put her hand to her head and chest, and Jane knew that she was weak from long-continued insufficiency of food. There was no remedy for it. Jane only wished she could bear for them all.
Some time after breakfast there came the postman's knock at the door. A thickish letter—twopence to pay. The penny postal system had come in, but letters were not so universally prepaid then as they are now.
Jane glanced over it with a beating heart. Yes, it was her brother's handwriting. Could the promised rent have really arrived? She felt sick with agitation.
"I have no money at all, Frank. Ask Dobbs if she will lend you twopence."
Away went Frank, in his quick and not very ceremonious manner, penetrating to the kitchen, where Dobbs happened to be. "Dobbs, will you please to lend mamma twopence? It is for a letter."
"Dobbs, indeed! Who's 'Dobbs'?" retorted that functionary in wrath. "I am Mrs. Dobbs, if you please. Take yourself out of my sight till you can learn manners."
"Won't you lend it? The postman's waiting."
"No, I won't," returned Dobbs.
Back ran Frank. "She won't lend it, mamma. She says I was rude to her, and called her Dobbs."
"Oh, Frank!" But the postman was impatient, demanding whether he was to be kept there all day. Jane was fain to apply to Dobbs herself, and procured the loan. Then she ran upstairs with the letter, and her trembling fingers broke the seal. Two banknotes, for 10£. each, fell out of it. The promised loan had been sixteen pounds. The Rev. Francis Tait had contrived to spare four pounds more.
Before Jane had recovered from her excitement—almost before a breath of thanks had gone up from her heart—she saw Mr. Ashley on the opposite side of the road, going towards Helstonleigh. Being in no state to weigh her actions, only conscious that the two notes lay in her hand—actual realities—she threw on her bonnet and shawl, and went across the road to Mr. Ashley. In her agitation, she scarcely knew what she did or said.
"Oh, sir—I beg your pardon—but I have at this moment received the money for the back rent. May I give it to you now?"
Mr. Ashley looked at her in surprise. A scarlet spot shone on her thin cheeks—a happy excitement was spread over her face of care. He read the indications plainly—that she was an eager payer, but no willing debtor. The open letter in her hand, and the postman opposite, told the tale.
"There is no such hurry, Mrs. Halliburton," he said, smiling. "I cannot give you a receipt here."
"You can send it to me," she said. "I would rather pay you than Mr. Dare."
She held out the notes to him. He felt in his pocket whether he had sufficient change, found he had, and handed it to her. "That is it, madam—four sovereigns. Thank you."
She took them hesitatingly, but did not close her hand. "Was there not some expense incurred when—when that man was put in?"
"Not for you to pay, Mrs. Halliburton," he pointedly returned. "I hope you are getting pretty well through your troubles?"
The tears came into her eyes, and she turned them away. Getting pretty well through her troubles! "Thank you for inquiring," she meekly said. "I shall, I believe, have the quarter's rent ready in March, when it falls due."
"Do not put yourself out of the way to pay it," he replied. "If it would be more convenient to you to let it go on to the half-year, it would be the same to me."
Her heart rose to the kindness. "Thank you, Mr. Ashley, thank you very much for your consideration; but I must pay as I go on, if I possibly can."
Patience stood at her gate, smiling as she recrossed the road. She had seen what had passed.
"Thee hast good news, I see. But thee wert in a hurry, to pay thy rent in the road."
"My brother has sent me the rent and four pounds over. Patience, I can buy bedside carpets now."
Patience looked pleased. "With all thy riches thee will scarcely thank me for this poor three and sixpence," holding out the silver to her. "Samuel Lynn left it; it is owing thee for thy work."
Jane smiled sadly as she took it. Her riches! "How is Anna?" she asked.
"She is nicely, thank thee, and is gone to school. But she was wilful over her lessons this morning. Farewell. I am glad thee art so far out of thy perplexities."
Very far, indeed; and a great relief it was. Can you realize these troubles of Mrs. Halliburton's? Not, I think, as she realized them. We pity the trials and endurance of the poor; but, believe me, they are as nothing compared with the bitter lot of reduced gentlepeople. Jane had not been brought up to poverty, to scanty and hard fare, to labour, to humiliations, to the pain of debt. But for hope—and some of us know how strong that is in the human heart—and for that better hope,trust, Jane never could have gone through her trials. Her physical privations alone were almost too hard to bear. Can you wonder that an unexpected present of four pounds seemed as a mine of wealth?
But four pounds, however large a sum to look at, dwindles down sadly in the spending; especially when bedside carpets, and boys' boots—new ones and the mending of old ones—have to be deducted from it at the commencement. An idea had for some time been looming in Jane's mind; looming ominously, for she did not like to speak of it. It was, that William must go out and enter upon some employment, by which a little weekly money might be added to their stock. He was eager enough; indulging, no doubt, boy-like, peculiar visions of his own, great and grand. But these Jane had to dispel; to explain that for young boys, such as he, earning money implied hard work.
His face flushed scarlet. Jane drew him to her and pressed her cheek upon his.
"There would be no real disgrace in it, my darling. No work in itself brings disgrace; be it carrying out parcels or sweeping out a shop. So long as we retain our refinement of tone, of manner, our courteous conduct one to the other, we shall still be gentlepeople, let us work at what we may. William, I think it is yourdutyto help in our need."
"Yes, I see, mamma," he answered. "I will try and do it; anything that may turn up."
Jane had not much faith in things "turning up." She believed that they must be sought for. That same evening she went into Mr. Lynn's, with the view to asking his counsel. There she found Anna in trouble. The cause was as follows.
Patience, leaving Anna alone at her lessons, had gone into the kitchen to give some directions to Grace. Anna seized the opportunity to take a little recreation: not that it was greatly needed, for—spoilt child that she was!—she had merely looked at her books with vacant eyes, not having in reality learned a single word. First of all, off went her cap. Next, she drew from her pocket a small mirror, about the size of a five-shilling piece. Propping this against her books on the table before her, so that the rays of the lamp might fall upon it, she proceeded to admire herself, and twist her flowing hair round her pretty fingers to make a shower of ringlets. Sad vanity for a little born Quakeress! But it must be owned that never did mirror, small or large, give back a more lovely image than that child's. She had just arranged her curls, and was contemplating their effect to her entire satisfaction, when back came Patience sooner than she was expected, and caught the young lady at her impromptu toilette. What with the curls and what with the mirror, Anna did not know which to hurry away first.
"Thee naughty child! Thee naughty, naughty child! What is to become of thee? Where did thee get this?"
Anna burst into tears. In her perplexity she said she had "found" the mirror.
"That thee did not," said Patience calmly. "I ask thee where thee got it from?"
Of a remarkably pliant nature, wavering and timid, Anna never withstood long the persistent questioning of Patience. Amid many tears the truth came out. Lucy Dixon had brought it to school in her workbox. It was a doll's mirror, and she, Anna, had given her sixpence for it.
"The sixpence that thy father bestowed upon thee yesterday for being a good girl," retorted Patience. "I told him thee would likely not make a profitable use of it. Come up to bed with thee! I will talk to thee after thee are in it."
Of all things, Anna disliked to be sent to bed before her time. She sobbed, expostulated, and promised all sorts of amendment for the future. Patience, firm and quiet, would have carried her point, but for the entrance of Samuel Lynn. The fault was related to him by Patience, and the mirror exhibited. Anna clung around him in a storm of sobs.
"Dear father! Dear, dear father, don't thee let me go to bed! Let me sit by thee while thee hast thy supper. Patience may keep the glass, but don't thee let me go."
It was quite a picture—the child clinging there with her crimsoned cheeks, her wet eyelashes, and her soft flowing hair. Samuel Lynn, albeit a man not given to demonstration, strained her to him with a loving movement. Perhaps the crime of looking into a doll's glass and toying with her hair appeared to him more venial than it did to Patience; but then, she was his beloved child.
"Will thee transgress again, Anna?"
"No, I never will," sobbed Anna.
"Then Patience will suffer thee to sit up this once. But thee must be careful."
He placed her in a chair close to him. Patience, disapproving very much but saying nothing, left the room. Grace appeared with the supper-tray, and a message that Patience would take her supper in the kitchen. It was at this juncture that Mrs. Halliburton came in. She told the Quaker that she had come to consult him about William; and mentioned her intentions.
"To tell thee the truth, friend, I have marvelled much that thee did not, under thy circumstances, seek to place out thy eldest son," was the answer. "He might be helping thee."
"He is young to earn anything, Mr. Lynn. Do you see a chance of my getting him a place?"
"That depends, friend, upon the sort of place he may wish for. I could help him to a place to-morrow. But it is one that may not accord with thy notions."
"What is it?" eagerly asked Jane.
"It is in Thomas Ashley's manufactory. We are in want of another boy, and the master told me to-day I had better inquire for one."
"What would he have to do?" asked Jane. "And what would he earn?"
"He would have to do anything he may be directed to do. Thy son is older than are our boys who come to us ordinarily, and he has been differently brought up; therefore I might put him to somewhat better employment. He might also be paid a trifle more. They sweep and dust, go on outdoor errands, carry messages indoors, black the gloves, get in coal; and they earn, if they are sharp, half-a-crown a week."
Jane's heart sank within her.
"But thy son, I say, might be treated somewhat differently. Not that he must be above doing any of these duties, should he be put to them. I can assure thee, friend, that some of the first manufacturers of this town have thus begun their career. A thoroughly practical knowledge of the business is only to be acquired by beginning at the first step of the ladder, and working upwards."
"Did Mr. Ashley so begin?" She could scarcely tell why she asked the question. Unless it was that a feeling came over her that if Mr. Ashley had done these things, she would not mind William's doing them.
"No, friend. Thomas Ashley's father was a man of means, and Thomas was bred up a classical scholar and a gentleman. He has never taken a practical part in the working of the business: I do that for him. His labours are chiefly confined to the correspondence and the keeping of the books. His father wished him to embrace a profession rather than be a glove manufacturer: but Thomas preferred to succeed his father. If thee would like thy son to enter our manufactory, I will try him."
Jane was dubious. She felt quite sure that William would not like it. "He has been thinking of a counting-house, or a lawyer's or conveyancer's office," she said aloud. "He would like to employ his time in writing. Would there be difficulty in getting him into one?"
"I do not opine a lawyer would take a boy of his size. They require their writing to be well and correctly done. About that, I cannot tell thee much, for I have nothing to do with lawyers. He can inquire."
Jane rose. She stood by the table, unconsciously stroking Anna's flowing curls—for the cap had never been replaced, and Samuel Lynn found no fault with the omission. "I will speak candidly," said Jane. "I fear that the place you have kindly offered me would not be liked by William. Other employments, writing for example, would be more palatable. Nevertheless, were he unable to obtain anything else I should be glad to accept this. Will you give me three or four days for consideration?"
"To oblige thee, I will, friend. When Thomas Ashley gives orders, he is prompt in having them attended to; and he spoke, as I have informed thee, about a fresh boy to-day. Would it not be a help to thee, friend, if thee got thy other two boys into the school attached to the cathedral?"
"But I have no interest," said Jane. "I hear that education there is free; but I do not possess the slightest chance."
"Thee may get a chance, friend. There's nothing like trying. I must tell thee that the school is not thought highly of, in consequence of the instruction being confined exclusively to Latin and Greek. In the old days this was thought enough; but people are now getting more enlightened. Thomas Ashley was educated there; but he had a private tutor at home for the branches not taught at the college; he had also masters for what are called accomplishments. He is one of the most accomplished men of the day. Few are so thoroughly and comprehensively educated as Thomas Ashley. I have heard say thy sons have begun Latin. It might be a help to them if they could get in."
"I should desire nothing better," Jane breathlessly rejoined, a new hope penetrating her heart. "I have heard of the collegiate school here; but, until very recently I supposed it to be an expensive institution."
"No, friend; it is free. The best way to get a boy in is by making interest with the head-master of the school, or with some of the cathedral clergy."
A recollection of Mr. Peach flashed into Jane's mind as a ray of light. She bade good-night to Samuel Lynn and Anna, and to Patience as she passed the kitchen. Patience had been crying.
"I am grieved about Anna," she explained. "I love the child dearly, but Samuel Lynn is blind to her faults; and it argues badly for the future. Thee cannot imagine half her vanity; I fear me, too, she is deceitful. I wish her father could see it! I wish he would indulge her less and correct her more! Good night to thee."
Before concluding the chapter, it may as well be mentioned that a piece of good fortune about this time befell Janey. She found favour with Dobbs! How it came about perhaps Dobbs could not herself have told. Certainly no one else could.
Mrs. Reece had got into the habit of asking Jane into her parlour to tea. She was a kind-hearted old lady and liked the child. Dobbs would afterwards be at work, generally some patching and mending to her own clothes; and Dobbs, though she would not acknowledge it to herself or to any one else, could not see to thread her needle. Needle in one hand and thread in the other, she would poke the two together for five minutes, no result supervening. Janey hit upon the plan of threading her a needle in silence, whilst Dobbs used the one; and from that time Jane kept her in threaded needles. Whether this conciliated Dobbs must remain a mystery, but she took a liking for Jane; and the liking grew into love. Henceforth Janey wanted for nothing. While the others starved, she lived on the fat of the land. Meat and pudding, fowls and pastry, whatever dinner in the parlour might consist of, Janey had her share of it, and a full share too. At first Mrs. Halliburton, from motives of delicacy, would not allow Jane to go in; upon which Dobbs would enter, boiling over with indignation, red with the exertion of cooking, and triumphantly bear her off. Jane spoke seriously to Mrs. Reece about it, but the old lady declared she was as glad to have the child as Dobbs was.
Once, Janey came to a standstill over some apple pudding, which had followed upon veal cutlets and bacon. "I am quite full," said she, more plainly than politely: "I can't eat a bit more. May I give this piece upon my plate to Gar?"
"No, you may not," snapped Dobbs, drowning Mrs. Reece's words, that she might give it and welcome. "How dare you, Janey? You know that boys is the loadstones of my life."
Dobbs probably used the word loadstones to indicate a heavy weight. She seized the plate of pudding and finished it herself, lest it should find its way to the suggested quarter—a self-sacrifice which served to show her earnestness in the cause. Nothing gave Dobbs indigestion like apple pudding, and she knew she should be a martyr for four-and-twenty hours afterwards.
Thus Jane, at least, suffered from henceforth no privations, and for this Mrs. Halliburton was very thankful. The time was to come, however, when she would have reason to be more so.
The happy thought, suggested by Samuel Lynn, Jane carried out. She applied in person to Mr. Peach, and he obtained an immediate entrance for Frank to the college school, with a promise for Gar to enter at quarter-day, the 25th of March. He was perfectly thunderstruck when he found that his old friend and tutor, Mr. Halliburton, was dead; had died in Helstonleigh; and that he—he!—had buried him. There was no need to ask him twice, after that, to exert his interest for the fatherless children. The school (I have told you what it was many years ago) was not held in the highest repute, from the reason spoken of by Samuel Lynn; vacancies often occurred, and admission was easy. It was one great weight off Jane's mind.
William was not so fortunate. He was at that period very short for his age, timid in manner, and no office could be persuaded to take him. Nothing in the least congenial to him presented itself or could be found; and the result was that he resigned himself to Samuel Lynn, who introduced him to Mr. Ashley's extensive manufactory—to be initiated by degrees into all the mysteries necessary to convert a skin into a glove. And although his interest and curiosity were excited by what he saw, he pronounced it a "hateful" business.
When the skins came in from the leather-dressers they were washed in a tub of cold water. The next day warm water, mixed with yolks of eggs, was poured on them, and a couple of men, bare-legged to the knee, got into the tub, and danced upon them, skins, eggs, and water, for two hours. Then they were spread in a field to dry, till they were as hard as lantern horn; then they were "staked," as it was called—a long process, to smooth and soften them. To the stainers next, to be stained black or coloured; next to the parers, to have the loose flesh pared from the inside, and to be smoothed again with pumice-stone—all this being done on the outside premises. Then they came inside, to the hands of one of the foremen, who sorted and marked them for the cutters. The cutters cut the skins into tranks (the shape of the hand in outline) with the separate thumbs and forgits, and sent them in to the slitters. The slitters slit the four fingers, andshapedthe thumbs and forgits: after that, they were ready for the women—three different women, you may remember, being necessary to turn out each glove, so far as the sewing went; for one woman rarely worked at more than her own peculiar branch, or was capable of working at it. This done, and back in the manufactory again, they had to be pulled straight, and "padded," or rubbed, a process by which they were brightened. If black gloves, the seams were washed over with a black dye, or else glazed; then they were hung up to dry. This done, they went into Samuel Lynn's room, a large room next to Mr. Ashley's private room, and here they were sorted into firsts, seconds, or thirds; the sorting being always done by Samuel Lynn, or by James Meeking the head foreman. It was called "making-up." Next they were banded round with a paper in dozens, labelled, and placed in small boxes, ready for the warehouses in London. A great deal, you see, before one pair of gloves could be turned out.
The first morning that William went at six o'clock with Samuel Lynn, he was ordered to light the fire in Mr. Ashley's room, sweep it out, and dust it, first of all sprinkling the floor with water from a watering-pot. And this was to be part of his work every morning at present; Samuel Lynn giving him strict charge never to disturb anything on Mr. Ashley's desk. If he moved things to dust the desk, he was to lay them down again in the same places and in the same position. The duster consisted of some leather shreds tied up into a knot, the ends loose. He found he should have to wait on Mr. Ashley and Samuel Lynn, bring things they wanted, carry messages to the men, and go out when sent. A pair of shears, which he could not manage, was put into his hand, and he had to cut a damaged skin, useless for gloves, into narrow strips, standing at one of the counters in Samuel Lynn's room. William wondered whether they were to make another duster, but he found they were used in the manufactory in place of string. That done, a round, polished stick was handed to him, tapered at either end, which he had to pass over and over some small gloves to make them smooth, after the manner of a cook rolling out paste for a pie. He looked with dismay at the two young errand boys of the establishment, who were black with dye. But Samuel Lynn had distinctly told him that he would not be expected to place himself on their level. The rooms were for the most part very light, one or two sides being entirely of glass.
On the evening of this first day, William, after he got home, sat there in sad heaviness. His mother asked how he liked his employment, and he returned an evasive answer. Presently he rose to go to bed, saying he had a headache. Up he went to the garret, and flung himself down on the mattress, sobbing as if his heart would break. Jane, suspecting something of this, followed him up. She caught him in her arms.
"Oh, my darling, don't give way! Things may grow brighter after a time."
"It is such a dreadful change!—from my books, my Latin and Greek, to go there and sweep out places like those two black boys!" he said hysterically, all his reticence gone.
"My dear boy! my darling boy! I know not how to reconcile you, how to lessen your cares. Your experience of the sorrow of life is beginning early. You are hungry, too."
"I am always hungry," answered William, quite unable to affect concealment in that hour of grief. "I heard one of those black boys say he had boiled pork and greens for dinner. I did so envy him."
Jane checked her tears; they were rising rebelliously. "William, darling your lot seems just now very dark and painful, but it might be worse."
"Worse!" he echoed in surprise. "How could it be worse? Mamma, I am no better than an errand-boy there."
"It would be worse, William, if you were one of those poor black boys. Unenlightened; no wish for higher things; content to remain as they are for ever."
"But that could never be," he urged. "To be content with such a life is impossible."
"They are content, William."
He saw the drift of the argument. "Yes, mamma," he acknowledged; "I did not reflect. It would be worse if I were quite as they are."
"William, we can only bear our difficulties, and make the best of them, trusting to surmount them in the end. You and I must both do this. Trust is different from hope. If we only hope, we may lose courage; but if we fully and freelytrust, we cannot. Patience and perseverance, endurance and trust, they will in the end triumph; never fear. If I feared, William, I should go into the grave with despair. I never lose my trust. I never lose my conviction, firm and certain, that God is watching over me, that He is permitting these trials for some wise purpose, and that in His own good time we shall be brought through them."
William's sobs were growing lighter.
"The time may come when we shall be at ease again," continued Jane; "when we shall look back on this time of trial, and be thankful that we did bear up and surmount it, instead of fainting under the burden. God will take care that the battle is not too hot for us, if we only resign ourselves, in all trust, to do the best. The future is grievously dim and indistinct. As the guiding light in your father's dream shone only on one step at a time, so can I see only one step before me."
"What step is that?" he asked somewhat eagerly.
"The one obvious step before me is to persevere, as I am now doing, to try and retain this home for you, my children; to work as I can, so as to keep you around me. I must strive to keep you together, and you must help me. Bear up bravely, William. Make the best of this unpleasant employment and its mortifications, and strive to overcome your repugnance to it. Be resolute, my boy, in doing your duty in it, because it is your duty, and because, William—because it is helping your mother."
A shadow of the trust, so firm in his mother's heart, began to dawn in his. "Yes, it is my duty," he resolutely said. "I will try to do it—to hope and trust."
Jane strained him to her. "Were you and I to give way now, darling, our past troubles would have been borne for nothing. Let us, I repeat, look forward to the time when we may say, 'We did not faint; we battled on, and overcame.' Itwillcome, William. Only trust to God."
She quitted him, leaving him to reflection and resolve scarcely befitting his young years.
The week wore on to its close. On the Saturday night, William, his face flushed, held out four shillings to his mother. "My week's wages, mamma."
Jane's face flushed also. "It is more than I expected, William," she said. "I fancied you would have three."
"I think the master fixed the sum," said William.
"The master? Do you mean Mr. Ashley?"
"We never say 'Mr. Ashley' in the manufactory; we say 'the master.' Mr. Lynn was paying the wages to-night. I heard them say that sometimes Mr. Lynn paid them, and sometimes James Meeking. Those two black boys have half-a-crown apiece. He left me to the last, and when the rest were gone, he looked at me and took up three shillings. Then he seemed to hesitate, and suddenly he locked the desk, went into the master's room, and spoke with him. He came back in a minute, unlocked the desk, and gave me four shillings. 'Thee hast not earned it,' he said, 'but I think thee has done thy best. Thee will have the same each week, so long as thee does so.'"
Jane held the four shillings, and felt that she was growing quite rich. The rest crowded round to look. "Can't we have a nice dinner to-morrow with it?" said one.
"I think we must," said Jane cheerily. "A nice dinner for once in a way. What shall it be?"
"Roast beef," called out Frank.
"Pork with crackling," suggested Janey. "That of Mrs. Reece's yesterday was so good."
"Couldn't we have fowls and a jam pudding?" asked Gar.
Jane smiled and kissed him. All the suggestions were beyond her purse. "We will have a meat pudding," she said; "that's best." And the children cheerfully acquiesced. They had implicit faith in their mother; they knew that what she said was best, would be best.
On this same Saturday night Charlotte East was returning home from Helstonleigh, an errand having taken her thither after dark. Almost opposite to the turning to Honey Fair, a lane branched off, leading to some farm-houses; a lane, green and pleasant in summer, but bare and uninviting now. Two people turned into it as Charlotte looked across. She caught only a glance; but something in the aspect of both struck upon her as familiar. A gas-lamp at the corner shed a light upon the spot, and Charlotte suddenly halted, and stood endeavouring to peer further. But they were soon out of view. A feeling of dismay had stolen over Charlotte. She hoped she was mistaken; that the parties were not those she had fancied; and she slowly continued her way. A few paces more, she turned up the road leading to Honey Fair and found herself nearly knocked over by one who came running against her, apparently in some excitement and in a great hurry.
"Who's this?" cried the voice of Eliza Tyrrett. "Charlotte East, I declare! I say, have you seen anything of Caroline Mason?"
Charlotte hesitated. She hoped she had not seen her; though the misgiving was upon her that she had. "Did you think I might have seen her?" she returned. "Has she come this way?"
"Yes, I expect she has come this way, and I want to find her," returned Eliza Tyrrett vehemently. "I saw her making off out of Honey Fair, and I saw who was waiting for her round the corner. I knew my company wasn't wanted then, and turned into Dame Buffle's for a talk; and there I found that Madam Carry has been telling falsehoods about me. Let me set on to her, that's all! I shall say what she won't like."
"Who do you mean was waiting for her?" inquired Charlotte East.
Eliza Tyrrett laughed. She was beginning to recover her temper. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?" said she pertly. "But I'm not going to tell tales out of school."
"I think I do know," returned Charlotte quietly. "I fear I do."
"Do you? I thought nobody knew nothing about it but me. It has been going on this ten weeks. Did you see her, though, Charlotte?"
"I thought I saw her, but I could not believe my eyes. She was with—with—some one she has no business to be with."
"Oh, as to business, I don't know about that," carelessly answered Eliza Tyrrett. "We have a right to walk with anybody we like."
"Whether it is good or bad for you?" returned Charlotte.
"There's no 'bad' in it," cried Eliza Tyrrett indignantly. "I never saw such an old maid as you are, Charlotte East, never! Carry Mason's not a child, to be led into mischief."
"Carry's very foolish," was Charlotte's comment.
"Oh, of courseyouthink so, or it wouldn't be you. You'll go and tell upon her at home, I suppose, now."
"I shall tellher," said Charlotte. "Folks should choose their acquaintances in their own class of life, if they want things to turn out pleasantly."
"Were you not all took in about that shawl!" uttered Eliza Tyrrett, with a laugh. "You thought she went in debt for it at Bankes's, and her people at home thought so. Het Mason shrieked on at her like anything, for spending money on her back while she owed it for her board.Hegave her that."
"Eliza!"
"He did. Law, where's the harm? He is rich enough to give all us girls in Honey Fair one apiece, and who'd be the worse for it? Only his pocket; and that can afford it. I wish he would!"
"I wish you would not talk so, Eliza. She is not a fit companion for him, even though it is but to take a walk; and she ought to remember that she is not."
"He wants her for a longer companion than that," observed Eliza Tyrrett; "that is, if he tells true. He wants her to marry him."
"He—wants her to marry him!" repeated Charlotte, speaking the words in sheer amazement. "Who says so?"
"He does. I should hardly think he can be in earnest, though."
"Eliza Tyrrett, we cannot be speaking of the same person," cried Charlotte, feeling bewildered. "To whom have you been alluding?"
"To the same that you have, I expect. Young Anthony Dare."
It was the last day of March, and five o'clock in the afternoon. The great bell had rung in Mr. Ashley's manufactory, the signal for the men to go to their tea. Scuffling feet echoed to it from all parts, and clattered down the stairs on their way out. The ground floor was not used for the indoor purposes of the manufactory, the business being carried on in the first and second floors. The first flight of stairs opened into what was called the serving-room, a very large apartment; through this, on the right, branched off Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel Lynn's. On the left, various passages led to other rooms, and the upper flight of stairs was opposite to the entrance-stairs. The serving-counter, running completely across the room, formed a barrier between the serving-room and the entrance staircase.
The men flocked into the serving-room, passed it, and rattled down the stairs. Samuel Lynn was changing his coat to follow, and William Halliburton was waiting for him, his cap on, for he walked to and fro with the Quaker, when Mr. Ashley's voice was heard from his room: the counting-house, as it was frequently called.
"William!" It was usual to distinguish the boys by their Christian name only; the men by both their Christian and surnames. Samuel Lynn was "Mr. Lynn."
"Did thee not hear the master calling to thee?"
William had certainly heard Mr. Ashley's voice; but it was so unusual to be called by it, that he had paid no attention. He had very little communication with Mr. Ashley; in the three or four weeks he had now been at the manufactory Mr. Ashley had not spoken to him a dozen words. He hastened into the counting-house, taking off his cap in the presence of Mr. Ashley.
"Have the men gone to tea?" inquired Mr. Ashley, who was sealing a letter.
"Yes, sir," replied William.
"Is George Dance gone?" George Dance was an apprentice, and it was his business to take the letters to the post.
"They are all gone, sir, except Mr. Lynn; and James Meeking, who is waiting to lock up."
"Do you know the post-office?"
"Oh, yes, sir. It is in West Street, at the other end of the town."
"Take this letter, and put it carefully in."
William received the letter from Mr. Ashley, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. It was addressed to Bristol; the London mail-bags were already made up. Mr. Ashley put on his hat and departed, followed by Samuel Lynn and William. James Meeking locked up, as it was his invariable business to do, and carried the keys into his own house. He inhabited part of the ground floor of the premises.
"Are thee not coming home with me this evening?" inquired Samuel Lynn of William, who was turning off the opposite way.
"No; the master has given me a letter to post. I have also an errand to do for my mother."
It happened (things do happen in a curious sort of way in this world) that Mrs. Halliburton had desired William to bring her in some candles and soap at tea-time, and to purchase them at Lockett's shop. Lockett's shop was rather far off; there were others nearer; but Lockett's goods were of the best quality, and his extensive trade enabled him to sell a halfpenny a pound cheaper. A halfpenny was a halfpenny with Jane then. William went on his way, walking fast.
As he was passing the cathedral, he came into contact with the college boys, then just let out of school. It was the first day that Gar had joined; he had received his appointment, according to promise. Very thankful was Jane; in spite of the drawback of having to provide them with linen surplices. William halted to see if he could discern Gar amidst the throng: it was not unnatural that he should look for him.
One of the boys caught sight of William standing there. It was Cyril Dare, the third son of Mr. Dare, a boy older and considerably bigger than William.
"If there's not another of that Halliburton lot posted there!" cried he, to a knot of those around. "Perhaps he will be coming amongst us next—because we have not enough with the two! Look at the fellow, staring at us! He is a common errand-boy at Ashley's."
Frank Halliburton, who, little as he was, wanted neither for spirit nor pluck, heard the words and confronted Cyril Dare. "That is my brother," said he. "What have you to say against him?"
Cyril Dare cast a glance of scorn on Frank, regarding him from top to toe. "You audacious young puppy! I say he is a snob. There!"
"Then I say he is not," retorted Frank. "You are one yourself, for saying it."
Cyril Dare, big enough to have crushed Frank to death, speedily had him on the ground, and treated him not very mercifully when there. William, a witness to this, but not understanding it, pushed his way through the crowd to protect Frank. All he saw was that Frank was down, and two big boys were kicking him.
"Let him alone!" cried he. "How can you be so cowardly as to attack a little fellow? And two of you! Shame!"
Now, if there was one earthly thing that the college boys would not brook, it was being interfered with by a stranger. William suffered. Frank's treatment had been nothing to what he had to submit to. He was knocked down, trampled on, kicked, buffeted, abused; Cyril Dare being the chief and primary aggressor. At that moment the under-master came in view, and the boys made off—all except Cyril Dare.
Reined in against the wall, at a few yards' distance, was a lad on a pony. He had delicately expressive features, large soft brown eyes, a complexion too bright for health, and wavy dark hair. The face was beautiful; but two upright lines were indented in the white forehead, as if worn there by pain, and the one ungloved hand was white and thin. He was as old as William within a year; but, slight and fragile, would be taken to be much younger. Seeing and hearing—though not very clearly—what had passed, he touched his pony, and rode up to Cyril Dare. The latter was beginning to walk away leisurely, in the wake of his companions; the upper boys were rather fond of ignoring the presence of the under-master. Cyril turned at hearing himself called.
"What! Is it you, Henry Ashley? Where did you spring from?"
"Cyril Dare," was the answer, "you are a wretched coward."
Cyril Dare was feeling anger yet, and the words did not lessen it. "Of courseyoucan say so!" he cried. "You know that you can say what you like with impunity. One can't chastise a cripple like you."
The brilliant, painful colour flushed into the face of Henry Ashley. To allude openly to infirmity such as this is as iron entering into the soul. Upon a sensitive, timid, refined nature (and those suffering from this sort of affliction are nearly sure to possess that nature), it falls with a bitterness that can neither be conceived by others nor spoken of by themselves. Henry Ashley braved it out.
"A coward, and a double coward!" he repeated, looking Cyril Dare full in the face, whilst the transparent flush grew hotter on his own. "You struck a young boy down, and then kicked him; and for nothing but that he stood up like a trump at your abuse of his brother."
"You couldn't hear," returned Cyril Dare roughly.
"I heard enough. I say that you are a coward."
"Chut! They are snobs out-and-out."
"I don't care if they are chimney-sweeps. It does not make you less a coward. And you'll be one as long as you live. If I had my strength, I'd serve you out as you served them out."
"Ah, but you have not your strength, you know!" mocked Cyril. "And as you seem to be going into one of your heroic fits, I shall make a start, for I have no time to waste on them."
He tore away. Henry Ashley turned his pony and addressed William. Both boys had spoken rapidly, so that scarcely a minute had passed, and William had only just risen from the ground. He leaned against the wall, giddy, as he wiped the blood from his face. "Are you much hurt?" asked Henry, kindly, his large dark eyes full of sympathy.
"No, thank you; it is nothing," replied William. "He is a great coward, though, whoever he is."
"It is Cyril Dare," called out Frank.
"Yes, it is Cyril Dare," continued Henry Ashley. "I have been telling him what a coward he is. I am ashamed of him: he is my cousin, in a remote degree. I am glad you are not hurt."
Henry Ashley rode away towards his home. Frank followed in the same direction; as did Gar, who now came in view. William proceeded up the town. He was a little hurt, although he had disowned it to Henry Ashley. His head felt light, his arms ached; perhaps the sensation of giddiness was as much from the want of food as anything. He purchased what was required for his mother; and then made the best of his way home again. Mr. Ashley's letter had gone clean out of his head.
Frank, in the manner usual with boys, carried home so exaggerated a story of William's damages, that Jane expected to see him arrive half-killed. Samuel Lynn heard of it, and said William might stop at home that evening. It has never been mentioned that his hours were from six till eight in the morning, from nine till one, from two till five, and from six till eight. These were Mr. Lynn's hours, and William was allowed to keep the same; the men had half-an-hour less allowed for breakfast and tea.
William was glad of the rest, after his battle, and the evening passed on. It was growing late, almost bedtime, when suddenly there flashed into his memory Mr. Ashley's letter. He put his hand into his jacket-pocket. There it lay, snug and safe. With a few words of explanation to his mother, so hasty and incoherent that she did not understand a syllable, he snatched his cap, and flew away in the direction of the town.
Boys have good legs and lungs; and William scarcely slackened speed until he gained the post-office, not far short of a mile. Dropping the letter into the box, he stood against the wall to recover breath. A clerk was standing at the door whistling; and at that moment a gentleman, apparently a stranger, came out of a neighbouring hotel, a letter in hand.
"This is the head post-office, I believe?" said he to the clerk.
"Yes."
"Am I in time to post a letter for Bristol?"
"No, sir. The bags for the Bristol mail are made up. It will be through the town directly."
William heard this with consternation. If it was too late for this gentleman's letter, it was too late for Mr. Ashley's.
He said nothing to any one that night; but he lay awake thinking over what might be the consequences of his forgetfulness. The letter might be one of importance; Mr. Ashley might discharge him for his neglect—and the weekly four shillings had grown into an absolute necessity. William possessed a large share of conscientiousness, and the fault disturbed him much.
When he came down at six, he found his mother up and at work. He gave her the history of what had happened. "What can be done?" he asked.
"Nay, William, put that question to yourself. What ought you to do? Reflect a moment."
"I suppose I ought to tell Mr. Ashley."
"Do not say 'I suppose,' my dear. You must tell him."
"Yes, I know I must," he acknowledged. "I have been thinking about it all night. But I don't like to."
"Ah, child! we have many things to do that we 'don't like.' But the first trouble is always the worst. Look it fully in the face, and it will melt away. There is no help for it in this matter, William; your duty is plain. There's Mr. Lynn looking out for you."
William went out, heavy with the thought of the task he should have to accomplish after breakfast. He knew that he must do it. It was a duty, as his mother had said; and she had fully impressed upon them all, from their infancy, the necessity of looking out for their duty and doing it, whether in great things or in small.
Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory that morning at his usual hour, half-past nine. He opened and read his letters, and then was engaged for some time with Samuel Lynn. By ten o'clock the counting-house was clear. Mr. Ashley was alone in it, and William knew that his time was come. He went in, and approached Mr. Ashley's desk.
Mr. Ashley, who was writing, looked up. "What is it?"
William's face grew red and white by turns. He was of a remarkably sensitive nature; and these sensitive natures cannot help betraying their inward emotion. Try as he would, he could not get a word out. Mr. Ashley was surprised. "What is the matter?" he wonderingly asked.
"If you please, sir—I am very sorry—it is about the letter," he stammered, and was unable to get any further.
"The letter!" repeated Mr. Ashley. "What letter? Not the letter I gave you to post?"
"I forgot it, sir,"—and William's own voice sounded to his ear painfully clear.