A day or two after the wedding, a letter was delivered at Mrs. Halliburton's residence, addressed to Gar. Its seal, a mitre, prepared Gar to find that it came from the Bishop of Helstonleigh. Its contents proved to be a mandate, commanding his attendance the following morning at the palace at nine o'clock. Gar turned nervous. Had he fallen under his bishop's displeasure, and was about to be reprimanded? Mr. Tait had gone back to London; Gar was to leave on the following day, Saturday; Frank meant to stay on for a week or two. It was his vacation.
"That's Gar all over!" cried Frank, who had perched himself on a side table. "Gar is sure to look to the dark side of things, instead of the bright. If the Lord Chancellor sent for me, I should set it down that my fortune was about to be made. His lordship's going to present you with a living, Gar."
"That's good!" retorted Gar. "What interest have I with the bishop?"
"He has known you long enough."
"As he has many others. If the bishop interested himself for all the clergymen who have been educated at Helstonleigh college school, he would have enough upon his hands. I expect it is to find fault with me for some unconscious offence."
"Go it, Gar! You'll get no sleep to-night."
"Frank, I must say the note appears a peremptory one," remarked Jane.
"Middling for that. It's short, if not sweet."
Whether Gar had any sleep or not that night, he did not say; but he started to keep the appointment punctually. His mother and Frank remained together, and Jane fell into a bit of quiet talk over the breakfast table.
"Frank," said she, "I am often uneasy about you."
"About me!" cried Frank in considerable wonderment.
"If you were to go wrong! I know what the temptations of a London life must be. Especially to a young man who has, so to say, no home."
"I steer clear of them. Mother darling, I am telling you the truth," he added earnestly. "Do you think we could ever fall away from such training as yours? No. Look at what William is; look at Gar; and for myself, though I don't like to boast, I assure you, the Anti-evil-doing Society—if you have ever heard of that respected body—might hoist me on a pedestal at Exeter Hall as their choicest model. You don't like my joking! Believe me, then, in all seriousness, that your sons will never fail you. We did not battle on in our duty as boys, to forget it as men. You taught us the bravest lesson that a mother can teach, or a child learn, when you contrived to impress upon us the truth that God is our witness always, ever present."
Jane's eyes filled with tears: not of grief. She knew that Frank was speaking from his heart.
"And you are getting on well?"
"What with stray briefs that come to me, and my literary work, and the fellowship, I make six or seven hundred a year already."
"I hope you are not spending it all?"
"That I am not. I put by all I can. It is true that I don't live upon bread and potatoes six days in the week, as you know we have done; but I take care that my expenses are moderate. It is keeping hare-brained follies at arm's-length that enables me to save."
"And now, Frank, for another question. What made you send me that hundred-pound note?"
"I shall send you another soon," was all Frank's answer. "The idea of my gaining a superfluity of money, and sending none to my darling mother!"
"But indeed I don't know what to do with it, Frank. I do not require it."
"Then put it by to look at. As long as I have brains to work with, I shall think of my mother. Have you forgotten how she worked for us? I wish you would come and live with me?"
Jane entered into all her arguments for deeming that she should be better with Gar. Not the least of them was, that she should still be near Helstonleigh. Of all her sons, Jane, perhaps unconsciously to herself, most loved her eldest: and to go far away from him would have been another trouble.
By-and-by, they saw Gar coming back. And he did not look as if he had been receiving a reprimand: quite the contrary. He came in almost as impulsively as he used to do in his schoolboy days.
"Frank, you were right! The bishop is going to give me a living. Mother, it is true."
"Of course," said Frank. "I always am right."
"The bishop did not keep me waiting a minute, although I was there before my time. He was very kind, and——"
"But about the living?" cried impatient Frank.
"I am telling you, Frank. The bishop said he had watched us grow up—meaning you, as well—and he felt pleased to tell me that he had never seen anything but good in either of us. But I need not repeat all that. He went on to ask me whether I should be prepared to do my duty zealously in a living, were one given to me. I answered that I hoped I should—and the long and the short of it is, that I am going to be appointed to one."
"Long live the bishop!" cried Frank. "Where's the living situated! In the moon?"
"Ah, where indeed? Guess what living it is, mother."
"Gar, dear, how can I?" asked Jane. "Is it a minor canonry?"
They both laughed. It recalled Jane to her absence of mind. The bishop had nothing to do with bestowing the minor canonries. Neither could a minor canonry be called a "living."
"Mother, it is Deoffam."
"Deoffam! Oh, Gar!"
"Yes, it is Deoffam. You will not have to go far away from Helstonleigh, now."
"I'll lay my court wig that Mr. Ashley has had his finger in the pie!" cried quick Frank.
But, in point of fact, the gift had emanated from the prelate himself. And a very good gift it was: four hundred a year, and the prettiest parsonage house within ten miles. The brilliant scholarship of the Halliburtons, attained by their own unflagging industry, the high character they had always borne, had not been lost upon the Bishop of Helstonleigh. Gar's conduct as a clergyman had been exemplary; Gar's preaching was of no mean order, and the bishop deemed that such a one as Gar ought not to be overlooked. The day has gone by for a bishop to know nothing of the younger clergy of his diocese, and he of Helstonleigh had Gar Halliburton down in his preferment book. It is just possible that the announcement of his name in the local papers, as having helped to marry his brother at Deoffam, may have put that particular living into the bishop's head. Certain it was, that, a few hours after the bishop read it, he ordered his carriage, and went to pay a visit at Deoffam Hall. During his stay, he took Mr. Ashley's arm, and drew him out on to the terrace, very much as though he wished to take a nearer view of the peacock.
"I have been thinking, Mr. Ashley, of bestowing the living of Deoffam upon Edgar Halliburton. What should you say to it?"
"That I should almost feel it as a personal favour paid to myself," was the reply of Mr. Ashley.
"Then it is done," said the bishop. "He is young, but I know a great many older men who are less deserving than he."
"Your lordship may rely upon it that there are few men, young or old, who are so intrinsically deserving as the Halliburtons."
"I know it," said the bishop. "They interested me as lads, and I have watched them ever since."
And that is how Gar became Vicar of Deoffam.
"You will be trying for a minor canonry now, Gar, I suppose, living so near to it?" observed Jane.
"Mrs. Halliburton, will you be so kind as not to put unsuitable notions into his head?" interrupted Frank. "The Reverend Gar must look out for a canonry, not a minor. And he won't stop there. When I am on the woolsack, in my place in the Lords, Gar may be opposite to me, a spiritual peer."
Jane laughed, as did Frank. Who knew, though? It all lay in the future.
Meanwhile William Halliburton and his wife had crossed the Channel. Amongst other letters, written home to convey news of them, was the following. It was written by Mary to Mrs. Ashley, after they had been abroad a week or two.
"Hôtel du Chapeau Rouge, Dunkerque,"September 24th."My ever dear Mamma,"You have heard from William how it was that we altered our intended route. I thought the sea-side so delightful that I was unwilling to leave it, even for Paris, and we determined to remain on the coast, especially as I shall have other opportunities of seeing Paris with William. Boulogne was crowded and noisy, so we left it for less frequented towns, staying a day or two in each place. We went to Calais and to Gravelines; also to Bourbourg, and to Cassel—the two latternoton the coast. The view from Cassel—which you must not confound with Cassel in Germany—is magnificent. We met some English people on the summit of the hill, and they told us the English called it the Malvern of France. I am not sure which affords the finer view, Cassel or Malvern. They say that eighty towns or villages may be counted from it; but I cannot say that we made out anything like so many. We can see the sea in the far distance—as we can, on a clear day, catch a glimpse from Malvern of the Bristol Channel. The view from some of the windows of the Hôtel de Sauvage was so beautiful that I was never tired of looking at it. William says he shall show me better views when he takes me to Lyons and Annonay, but I scarcely think it possible. At a short distance rises a monastery of the order of La Trappe, where the monks never speak, except the 'Memento mori' when they meet each other. Some of the customs of the hotel were primitive; they gave us tablespoons in our coffee-cups for breakfast."From Cassel we came to Dunkerque, and are staying at the Chapeau Rouge, the only large hotel in the place. The other large hotel was made into a convent some time back; both are in the Rue des Capucins. It is a fine and very clean old fortified town, with a statue of Jean Bart in the middle of the Place. Place Jean Bart, it is called; and the market is held in it on Wednesdays and Saturdays, as it is at Helstonleigh. Such a crowded scene on the Saturday! and the women's snow-white caps quite shine in the sun. I cannot tell you how much I like to look at these old Flemish towns! By moonlight, they look exactly like the towns you are familiar with in old pictures. There is a large basin here, and a long harbour and pier. One English lady, whom we met at the table d'hôte, said she had never been to the end of the pier yet, and she had lived in Dunkerque four years. It was too far for a walk, she said. The country round is flat and poor, and the lower classes mostly speak Flemish."On Monday we went by barge to a place called Bergues, four miles off. It was market day there, and the barge was crowded with passengers from Dunkerque. A nice old town, with a fine church. They charged us only five sous for our passage. But I must leave all these descriptions until I return home, and come to what I have chiefly to tell you."There is a piece of enclosed ground here, called the Pare. On the previous Saturday, which was the day we first arrived here, I and William were walking through it, and sat down on one of the benches facing the old tower. I was rather tired, having been to the end of the pier—for its length did not alarm us. Some one was seated at the other end of the bench, but we did not take particular notice of her. Suddenly she turned to me, and spoke: 'Have I not the honour of seeing Miss Ashley?' Mamma, you may imagine my surprise. It was that Italian governess of the Dares, Mademoiselle Varsini, as they used to call her. William interposed: I don't think he liked her speaking to me. I suppose he thought of that story about her, which came over from Germany. He rose and took me on his arm to move away. 'Formerly Miss Ashley,' he said to her: 'now Mrs. Halliburton.' But William's anger died away—if he had felt any—when he saw her face. I cannot describe to you how fearfully ill she looked. Her cheeks were white, and drawn, and hollow; her eyes were sunk within a dark circle, and her lips were open and looked black. 'Are you ill?' I asked her. 'I am so ill that a few days will be the finish of me,' she answered. 'The doctor gave me to the falling of the leaves, and many are already strewing the grass; in less than a week's time from this, I shall be lower than they are.' 'Is Herbert Dare with you?' inquired William—but he has said since that he spoke in the moment's impulse. Had he taken thought, he would not have put the question. 'No, he is not with me,' she answered, in an angry tone. 'I know nothing of him. He is just a vagabond on the face of the earth.' 'What is it that is the matter with you?' William asked her. 'They call it decay,' she answered. 'I was in Brussels, getting my living by daily teaching. I had to go out in all weathers, and I did not take heed to the colds I caught. I suppose they settled on my lungs.' 'Have you been in this town long?' we inquired of her. 'I came in August,' she answered. 'The Belgian doctor said if I had a change, it might do something for me, and I came here; it was the same to me where I went. But it did me harm instead of good. I grew worse directly I came; and the doctor here said I must not move away again; the travelling would injure me. What mattered it? As good die here as elsewhere.' That she had death written plainly in her face, was evident. Nevertheless, William tried to say a word of hope to her: but she interrupted him. 'There's no recovery for me; I am sure to die; and the time, it's to be hoped, will not be long in coming, or my money will not hold out.' She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone shocking to hear: and before I could call up any answer, she turned to William. 'You are the William Halli—I never could say the name—who was at Mr. Ashley's with Cyril Dare. May I ask where you have descended in Dunkerque?' 'At the Chapeau Rouge,' replied William. 'Then, if I should send there to ask you to come and speak with me, will you come?' she continued. 'I have something that I should like to tell you before I die.' William informed her that we should remain a week; and we wished her good morning and moved away into another walk. Soon afterwards, we saw a Sister of Charity, one of those who go about nursing the sick, come up to her and lead her away. She could scarcely crawl, and halted to take breath between every few steps."This, I have told you, was last Saturday. This evening, Wednesday, just as we were rising from table, a waiter came to William and called him out, saying he was wanted. It proved to be the Sister of Charity that we had seen in the park; she told William that Madame Varsini was near death, and had sent her for him. So William went with her, and I have been writing this to you since his departure. It is now ten o'clock, and he has not yet returned. I shall keep this open to tell you what she wanted with him. I cannot imagine."Past eleven. William has come in. He thinks she will not live over to-morrow. And I have kept my letter open for nothing, for William will not tell me. He says she has been talking to him about herself and the Dares; but that the tale is more fit for papa's ears than for yours or mine."My sincerest love to papa and Henry. We are so glad Gar is to be at Deoffam!—And believe me, your ever-loving child,"Mary Halliburton.""Excuse the smear. I had nearly put 'Mary Ashley.'"
"Hôtel du Chapeau Rouge, Dunkerque,
"September 24th.
"My ever dear Mamma,
"You have heard from William how it was that we altered our intended route. I thought the sea-side so delightful that I was unwilling to leave it, even for Paris, and we determined to remain on the coast, especially as I shall have other opportunities of seeing Paris with William. Boulogne was crowded and noisy, so we left it for less frequented towns, staying a day or two in each place. We went to Calais and to Gravelines; also to Bourbourg, and to Cassel—the two latternoton the coast. The view from Cassel—which you must not confound with Cassel in Germany—is magnificent. We met some English people on the summit of the hill, and they told us the English called it the Malvern of France. I am not sure which affords the finer view, Cassel or Malvern. They say that eighty towns or villages may be counted from it; but I cannot say that we made out anything like so many. We can see the sea in the far distance—as we can, on a clear day, catch a glimpse from Malvern of the Bristol Channel. The view from some of the windows of the Hôtel de Sauvage was so beautiful that I was never tired of looking at it. William says he shall show me better views when he takes me to Lyons and Annonay, but I scarcely think it possible. At a short distance rises a monastery of the order of La Trappe, where the monks never speak, except the 'Memento mori' when they meet each other. Some of the customs of the hotel were primitive; they gave us tablespoons in our coffee-cups for breakfast.
"From Cassel we came to Dunkerque, and are staying at the Chapeau Rouge, the only large hotel in the place. The other large hotel was made into a convent some time back; both are in the Rue des Capucins. It is a fine and very clean old fortified town, with a statue of Jean Bart in the middle of the Place. Place Jean Bart, it is called; and the market is held in it on Wednesdays and Saturdays, as it is at Helstonleigh. Such a crowded scene on the Saturday! and the women's snow-white caps quite shine in the sun. I cannot tell you how much I like to look at these old Flemish towns! By moonlight, they look exactly like the towns you are familiar with in old pictures. There is a large basin here, and a long harbour and pier. One English lady, whom we met at the table d'hôte, said she had never been to the end of the pier yet, and she had lived in Dunkerque four years. It was too far for a walk, she said. The country round is flat and poor, and the lower classes mostly speak Flemish.
"On Monday we went by barge to a place called Bergues, four miles off. It was market day there, and the barge was crowded with passengers from Dunkerque. A nice old town, with a fine church. They charged us only five sous for our passage. But I must leave all these descriptions until I return home, and come to what I have chiefly to tell you.
"There is a piece of enclosed ground here, called the Pare. On the previous Saturday, which was the day we first arrived here, I and William were walking through it, and sat down on one of the benches facing the old tower. I was rather tired, having been to the end of the pier—for its length did not alarm us. Some one was seated at the other end of the bench, but we did not take particular notice of her. Suddenly she turned to me, and spoke: 'Have I not the honour of seeing Miss Ashley?' Mamma, you may imagine my surprise. It was that Italian governess of the Dares, Mademoiselle Varsini, as they used to call her. William interposed: I don't think he liked her speaking to me. I suppose he thought of that story about her, which came over from Germany. He rose and took me on his arm to move away. 'Formerly Miss Ashley,' he said to her: 'now Mrs. Halliburton.' But William's anger died away—if he had felt any—when he saw her face. I cannot describe to you how fearfully ill she looked. Her cheeks were white, and drawn, and hollow; her eyes were sunk within a dark circle, and her lips were open and looked black. 'Are you ill?' I asked her. 'I am so ill that a few days will be the finish of me,' she answered. 'The doctor gave me to the falling of the leaves, and many are already strewing the grass; in less than a week's time from this, I shall be lower than they are.' 'Is Herbert Dare with you?' inquired William—but he has said since that he spoke in the moment's impulse. Had he taken thought, he would not have put the question. 'No, he is not with me,' she answered, in an angry tone. 'I know nothing of him. He is just a vagabond on the face of the earth.' 'What is it that is the matter with you?' William asked her. 'They call it decay,' she answered. 'I was in Brussels, getting my living by daily teaching. I had to go out in all weathers, and I did not take heed to the colds I caught. I suppose they settled on my lungs.' 'Have you been in this town long?' we inquired of her. 'I came in August,' she answered. 'The Belgian doctor said if I had a change, it might do something for me, and I came here; it was the same to me where I went. But it did me harm instead of good. I grew worse directly I came; and the doctor here said I must not move away again; the travelling would injure me. What mattered it? As good die here as elsewhere.' That she had death written plainly in her face, was evident. Nevertheless, William tried to say a word of hope to her: but she interrupted him. 'There's no recovery for me; I am sure to die; and the time, it's to be hoped, will not be long in coming, or my money will not hold out.' She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone shocking to hear: and before I could call up any answer, she turned to William. 'You are the William Halli—I never could say the name—who was at Mr. Ashley's with Cyril Dare. May I ask where you have descended in Dunkerque?' 'At the Chapeau Rouge,' replied William. 'Then, if I should send there to ask you to come and speak with me, will you come?' she continued. 'I have something that I should like to tell you before I die.' William informed her that we should remain a week; and we wished her good morning and moved away into another walk. Soon afterwards, we saw a Sister of Charity, one of those who go about nursing the sick, come up to her and lead her away. She could scarcely crawl, and halted to take breath between every few steps.
"This, I have told you, was last Saturday. This evening, Wednesday, just as we were rising from table, a waiter came to William and called him out, saying he was wanted. It proved to be the Sister of Charity that we had seen in the park; she told William that Madame Varsini was near death, and had sent her for him. So William went with her, and I have been writing this to you since his departure. It is now ten o'clock, and he has not yet returned. I shall keep this open to tell you what she wanted with him. I cannot imagine.
"Past eleven. William has come in. He thinks she will not live over to-morrow. And I have kept my letter open for nothing, for William will not tell me. He says she has been talking to him about herself and the Dares; but that the tale is more fit for papa's ears than for yours or mine.
"My sincerest love to papa and Henry. We are so glad Gar is to be at Deoffam!—And believe me, your ever-loving child,
"Mary Halliburton."
"Excuse the smear. I had nearly put 'Mary Ashley.'"
This meeting, described in Mary's letter, must have been one of those remarkable coincidences that sometimes occur during a lifetime. Chance encounters they are sometimes called. Chance! Had William and his wife not gone to Dunkerque—and they went there by accident, as may be said, for the original plan had been to spend their absence in Paris—they would not have met. Had the Italian lady not gone to Dunkerque when ordered change—and she chose it by accident, she said—they would not have met. But somehow both partieswerebrought there, and they did meet. It was not chance that led them there.
When William went out with the sister, she conducted him to a small lodging in the Rue Nationale, a street not far from the hotel. The accommodation appeared to consist of a small ante-room and a bed-chamber. Signora Varsini was in the latter, dressed in apeignoir, and sitting in an arm-chair, supported by cushions. A washed-out, fadedpeignoir, possibly the very one she had worn years ago, the night of the death of Anthony Dare. William was surprised; by the sister's account he had expected to find her in bed, almost in the last extremity. But hers was a restless spirit. She was evidently weaker, and her breath seemed to come irregularly. William sat down in a chair opposite to her: he could not see very much of her face, for the small lamp on the table had a green shade over it, which cast its gloom on the room.
The sister retired to the ante-room and closed the door between with a caution. "Madame was not to talk much." For a few moments after the first greeting, she, "Madame," kept silence; then she spoke in English.
"I should not have known you. I never saw much of you. But I knew Miss Ashley in a moment. You must have prospered well."
"Yes, I am Mr. Ashley's partner."
"So! That is what Cyril Dare coveted for himself. Miss Ashley also. 'Bah, Monsieur Cyril!' said I sometimes to my mind; 'neither the one nor the other for thee.' Where is he?"
"Cyril? He is at home. Doing no good."
"He never do good," she said with bitterness. "He Herbert's own brother. And the other one—George?"
"George is in Australia. He has a chance, I believe, of doing pretty well."
"Are the girls married?"
"No."
"Not Adelaide?"
"No."
Something like a smile curled her dark and fevered lips. "Mademoiselle Adelaide was trying after that vicomte. 'Bah!' I would say to myself as I did by Cyril, 'there's no vicomte for her; he is only playing his game.' Does he go there now?"
"Lord Hawkesley? Oh, no. All intimacy has ceased."
"They have gone down, have they not? They are very poor?"
"I fear they are poor now. Yes, they have very much gone down. May I inquire what it is you want with me?"
"You inquire soon," she answered in resentful tones. "Do you fear I should contaminate you?—as you feared for your wife on Saturday?"
"If I can aid you in any way I shall be happy and ready to do so," was William's answer, spoken soothingly. "I think you are very ill."
"The doctor was here this afternoon. 'Ma chère,' said he, 'to-morrow will about end it. You are too weak to last longer; the inside is gone.'"
"Did he speak to you in that way?—a medical man!"
"He is aware that I know as much about my own state as he does. He might not be so plain with all his patients. Then I said to the sister, 'Get me up and make the bed, for I must see a friend.'—And I sent her for you. I told you I wanted you to do me a little service. Will you do it?"
"If it is in my power."
"It is not much. It is this," she added, drawing from beneath thepeignoira small packet, sealed and stamped, looking like a thick letter. "Will you undertake to put this surely in the post after I am dead? I do not want it posted before."
"Certainly I will," he answered, taking it from her hand, and glancing at the superscription. It was addressed to Herbert Dare at Dusseldorf. "Is he there?" asked William.
"That was his address the last I heard of him. He is now here, now there, now elsewhere; a vagabond, as I told you, on the face of the earth. He is like Cain," she vehemently continued. "Cain wandered abroad over the earth, never finding rest. So does Herbert Dare. Who wonders? Cain killed his brother: what didhedo?"
William lifted his eyes to her face; as much of it as might be distinguished under the dark shade cast by the lamp. That she appeared to be in a very demonstrative state of resentment against Herbert Dare was indisputable.
"He did not kill his brother, at any rate," observed William. "I fear he is not a good man; and you may have cause to know that more conclusively than I; but he did not kill his brother. You were in Helstonleigh at the time, mademoiselle, and must remember that he was cleared," added William, falling into the style of address used by the Dares.
"Then I say he did kill him."
She spoke with slow distinctness. William could only look at her in amazement. Was her mind wandering? She sat glaring at him with her light blue eyes, so glazed, yet glistening; just the same eyes that used to puzzle old Anthony Dare.
"What did you say?" asked William.
"I say that Herbert Dare is a second Cain," she answered.
"He did not kill Anthony," repeated William. "He could not have killed him. He was in another place at the time."
"Yes. With that Puritan child in the dainty dress—fit attire only for your folles in—what you call the place?—Bedlam! I know he was in another place," she continued: and she appeared to be growing terribly excited, between passion and natural emotion.
"Then what are you speaking of?" asked William. "It is an impossibility that Herbert could have killed his brother."
"He caused him to be killed."
William felt a nameless dread creeping over him. "What do you mean?" he breathed.
"I send that letter, which you have taken charge of, to Herbert the bad; but he moves about from place to place, and it may never reach him. So I want to tell you in substance what is written in the letter, that you may repeat it to him when you come across him. He may be going back to Helstonleigh some day; if he not die off first, with his vagabond life. Was it not said there, once, that he was dead?"
"Only for a day or two. It was a false report."
"And when you see him—in case he has not had that packet—you will tell him this that I am now about to tell you."
"What is its nature?" asked William.
"Will you promise to tell him?"
"Not until I first hear what it may be," fearlessly replied William. "Intrust it to me, if you will, and I will keep it sacred; but I must use my own judgment as to imparting it to Herbert Dare. It may be something that would be better left unsaid."
"I do not ask you to keep it sacred," she rejoined. "You may tell it to the world if you please; you may tell it to your wife; you may tell it to all Helstonleigh. But not until I am dead. Will you give that promise?"
"That I will readily give you."
"On your honour?"
William's truthful eyes smiled into hers. "On my honour—if that shall better satisfy you. It was not necessary."
She remained silent a few moments, and then burst forth vehemently. "When you see him, that cochon, that vaurien——"
"I beg you to be calm," interrupted William. "This excitement must be most injurious to one in your weak state; I cannot sit and listen to it."
"Tell him," said she, leaning forward, and speaking in a somewhat calmer tone, "tell him that it was he who caused the death of his brother Anthony."
William could only look at her. Was she wandering? "Ikilled him," she went on. "Killed him in mistake for Monsieur Herbert."
Barely had the words left her lips, when all that had been strange in that past tragedy seamed to roll away as a cloud from William's mind. The utter mystery there had been as to the perpetrator: the almost impossibility of pointing accusation to any, seemed now accounted for: and a conviction that she was speaking the dreadful truth fell upon him. Involuntarily he recoiled from her.
"He used me ill; yes, he used me ill, that wicked Herbert!" she continued in agitation. "He told me stories; he was false to me; he mocked at me! He had made me care for him; I cared for him—ah, I not tell you how. And then he turned round to laugh at me. He had but amused himself—pour faire passer la temps!"
Her voice had risen to a shriek; her face and lips grew ghastly, and she began to twitch as one falling into convulsion. William grew alarmed, and hastened to her support. He could not help it, much as his spirit revolted from her.
"Y a-t-il quelque chose qu'on peut donner à madame pour la soulager?" he called out hastily to the sister in his fear.
The woman glided in. "Mais oui, monsieur. Madame s'agite, n'est-ce pas?"
"Elle s'agite beaucoup."
The sister poured some drops from a phial into a wine-glass of water, and held it to those quivering lips. "Si vous vous agitez comme cela, madame, c'est pour vous tuer, savez-vous?" cried she.
"I fear so too," added William in English to the invalid. "It would be better for me not to hear this, than for you to put yourself into this state."
She grew calmer, and the sister quitted them. William resumed his seat as before; there appeared to be no help for it, and she continued her tale.
"I not agitate myself again," she said. "I not tell you all the details, or what I suffered: à quoi bon? Pain at morning, pain at midday, pain at night; I think my heart turned dark, and it has never been right again——"
"Hush, mademoiselle! The sister will hear you."
"What matter? She not speak English."
"I really cannot, for your sake, remain here, if you put yourself into this state," he rejoined.
"You must remain; you must listen! You have promised to do it," she answered.
"I will, if you will be calm."
"I'll be calm," she rejoined, the check having driven back the rising passion. "The worst is told. Or rather, I do not tell you the worst—that mauvais Herbert! Do you wonder that my spirit was turned to revenge?"
Perceiving somewhat of her fierce and fiery nature, William did not wonder at it. "I do not know what I am to understand yet?" he whispered. "Didyou—kill—Anthony?"
She leaned back on her pillow, clasping her hands before her. "Ah me! I did! Tell him so," she continued again passionately; "tell him that I killed Anthony—thinking it washim."
"It is a dreadful story!" shuddered William.
"I did not mean it to be so dreadful," she answered, speaking quite equably. "No, I did not; and I am telling you as true as though it were my confession before receiving thebon dieu. I only meant to wound him——"
"Herbert?"
"Herbert! Of course; who else but Herbert?" she retorted, giving signs of another relapse. "Had I cause of anger against that pauvre Anthony? No; no. Anthony was sharp with the rest sometimes, but he was always civil to me; I never had a mis-word with him. I not like Cyril; but I not dislike George and Anthony. Why, why," she continued, wringing her hands, "did Anthony come forth from his chamber that night and go out, when he said he had retired to it for good? That is where all the evil arose."
"Not all," dissented William in low tones.
"Yes, all," she sharply repeated. "I had only meant to give Mr. Herbert a little prick in the dark, just to repay him, to stop his pleasant visits to that field for a term. I never thought to kill him. I liked him better than that, ill as he was behaving to me. I never thought to kill him; I never thought much to hurt him. And it would not have hurt Anthony; but that he was what you call tipsy, and fell on the point of the——"
"Scissors?" suggested William, for she had stopped. How could he, even with this confession before him, speak to a lady—or one who ought to have been a lady—of any uglier weapon?
"I had something by me sharper than scissors. But never you mind what. That, so far, does not matter. The little hurt I had intended for Herbert he escaped; and poor Anthony was killed."
There was a long pause. William broke it, speaking out his thoughts impulsively.
"And yet you went to Rotterdam afterwards to make friends with Herbert!"
"When he write and tell me there good teaching in the place, could I know it was untrue? Could I know that he would borrow all my money from me? Could I know that he turn out a worse——"
"Mademoiselle, I pray you, be calm."
"There, then. I will say no more. I have outlived it. But I wish him to know that that fine night's work washis. It was the right man who lay in prison for it. The letter I have given you may never reach him; and I ask you tell him, for his pill, should it not."
"Then you have never hinted this to him?" asked William.
"Never. I was afraid. Will you tell him?"
"I cannot make the promise. I must use my own discretion. I think it is very unlikely that I shall ever see him."
"You meet people that you do not look for. Until last Saturday, you might have said it was unlikely that you would meet me."
"That is true."
Now that the excitement of the disclosure was over, she lay back in a grievous state of exhaustion. William rose to leave, and she held out her hand to him. Could he shun it—guilty as she had confessed herself to him? No. Who was he, that he should set himself up to judge her? And she was dying!
"Can nothing be done to alleviate your sufferings?" he inquired in a kindly tone.
"Nothing. The sooner death comes to release me from them, the better."
He lingered yet, hesitating. Then he bent closer to her, and spoke in a whisper.
"Have you thought much of that other life? Of the necessity of repentance—of seeking earnestly the pardon of God?"
"That is your Protestant fashion," she answered with equanimity. "I have made my confession to a priest and he has given me absolution. A good fat old man; he was very kind to me; he saw how I had been tossed and turned about in life. He will bring thebon dieuto me the last thing, and cause a mass to be said for my soul."
"I thought I had heard that you were a Protestant."
"I was either. I said I was a Protestant to Madame Dare. But the Roman Catholic religion is the most convenient to take up when you are passing.Yourpriests say they cannot pardon sins."
The interview took longer in acting than it has in telling, and William returned to the hotel to find Mary tired, wondering at his absence, and a letter to Mrs. Ashley—with which you have been favoured—lying on the table, awaiting its conclusion.
"You are weary, my darling. You should not have remained up."
"I thought you were never coming, William. I thought you must have gone off by the London steamer, and left me here! The hotel omnibus took some passengers to it at ten o'clock."
William sat down on the sofa, and drew her to him; the full tide of thankfulness going up from his heart that all women were not as the one he had just left.
"And what did Mademoiselle Varsini want with you, William? Is she really dying?"
"I think she is dying. You must not ask me what she wanted, Mary. It was to tell me something—to speak of things connected with herself and the Dares. They would not be pleasant to your ears."
"But I have been writing an account of all this to mamma, and have left my letter open, to send word what the governess could have to say to you. What can I tell her?"
"Tell her as I tell you, my dearest: that what I have been listening to is more fit for Mr. Ashley's ears than for yours or hers."
Mary rose and wrote rapidly the concluding lines. William stood and watched her. He laughed at the "smear."
"I am not familiar with my new name yet: I was signing myself 'Mary Ashley.'"
"Would you go back to the old name, if you could?" cried he, somewhat saucily.
"Oh, William!"
Saturday came round again: the day they were to leave—just a week since they had come, since the encounter in the park. They were taking an early walk in the market, when certain low sounds, as of chanting, struck upon their ears. A funeral was coming along; it had just turned out of the great church of St. Eloi, at the other corner of the Place. Not a wealthy funeral—quite the other thing. On the previous day they had seen a grand interment, attended by its distinguishing marks; seven or eight banners, as many priests. Some sudden feeling prompted William to ask whose funeral this was, and he made inquiry of a shopkeeper, who was standing at her door.
"Monsieur, c'est l'enterrement d'une étrangère. Une Italienne, l'on dit: Madame Varsini."
"Oh, William! do they bury her already?" was Mary's shocked remonstrance. "It was only yesterday at midday the sister came to you to say she had died. What a shame!"
"Hush, love! Many of the people here understand English. They bury quickly in these countries."
They stood on the pavement, and the funeral came quickly on. One black banner borne aloft in a man's hand, two boys in surplices with lighted candles, and the priest chanting with his open book. Eight men, in white corded hats and black cloaks, bore the coffin on a bier, and there was a sprinkling of impromptu followers—as there always is at these foreign funerals. As the dead was borne past him on its way to the cemetery, William, following the usage of the country, lifted his hat, and remained uncovered until it had gone by.
And that was the last of Bianca Varsini.
It was a winter's morning, and the family party round the breakfast table at William Halliburton's looked a cheery one, with its adjuncts of a good fire and good fare. Mr. and Mrs. Ashley and Henry were guests. And I can tell you that in Mr. Ashley they were entertaining no less a personage than the high sheriff of the county.
The gentlemen nominated for sheriffs, that year, for the county of Helstonleigh, whose names had gone up to the Queen, were as follows:—
Humphrey Coldicott, Esquire, of Coldicott Grange;
Sir Harry Marr, Bart., of The Lynch;
Thomas Ashley, Esquire, of Deoffam Hall. And her Majesty had been pleased to pick the latter name.
The gate of the garden swung open, and some one came hastily round the gravel-path to the house. Mary, who was seated at the head of the table, facing the window, caught a view of the visitor.
"It is Mrs. Dare!" she exclaimed.
"Mrs. Dare!" repeated Mr. Ashley, as a peal at the hall-bell was heard. "Nonsense, child!"
"Papa, indeed it is."
"I think you must be mistaken, Mary," said her husband. "Mrs. Dare would scarcely be out at this early hour."
"Oh, you disbelievers all!" laughed Mary. "As if I did not know Mrs. Dare! She looked scared and flurried."
Mrs. Dare, looking indeed scared and flurried, came into the breakfast-room. The servant had been showing her into another room, but she put him aside, and appeared amidst them.
What brought her there? What had she come to tell them? Alas! of their unhappy downfall. How the Dares had contrived to go on so long, without the crash coming, they alone knew. They had promised to pay here, they had promised to pay there; and people, tradespeople especially, did not much like to begin compulsory measures with old Anthony Dare, who had so long held sway in Helstonleigh. His professional business had almost left him—perhaps because there was no efficient head to carry it on. Cyril was just what mademoiselle had called Herbert, a vagabond; and Cyril was an irretrievable one. No good to the business was he—not half as much good as he was to the public-houses. Mr. Dare, with white hair, bent form, and dim eyes, would go creeping to his office most days; but his memory was leaving him, and it was evident to all that he was relapsing into his second childhood. Latterly they had lived entirely by privately disposing of their portable effects—as Honey Fair used to do when it fell out of work. They owed money everywhere; rent, taxes, servants' wages, large debts, small debts—it was universal. And now the landlord had put in his claim after the manner of landlords, and it had brought on the climax. They were literally without resource; they knew not where to turn; they had not a penny, or the worth of it, in the wide world. Mrs. Dare, in the alarm occasioned by the unwelcome visitor—for the landlord's man had made good his entrance that morning—came flying off to Mr. Ashley, some extravagant hope floating in her mind that help might be obtained from him.
"Here's trouble! Here's trouble!" she exclaimed by way of salutation, wringing her hands frantically.
They rose in consternation, believing she must have gone wild. William handed her a chair.
"There, don't come round me," she cried, as she flung herself into it. "Go on with your breakfast. I have concealed our troubles until I am heart-sick, and now they can be concealed no longer, and I have come for help to you. Don't press anything upon me, Mrs. William Halliburton; to attempt to eat would choke me!"
She sat there and entered on her grievances. How they had long been without money, had lived by credit, and by pledging things out of their house; how they owed more than she could tell; how a "horrible man" had come into their house that morning, as an emissary of the landlord.
"What are we to do?" she wailed. "Will you help us? Mr. Ashley, will you?—your wife is my husband's cousin, you know. Mr. Halliburton, willyouhelp us? Don't you know that I have a right to claim kindred with you? Your father and I were first cousins, and lived for some time under the same roof."
William remembered the former years when she had not been so ready to own the relationship. He remembered the day when Mr. Dare had put a seizure into their house, and his mother had gone, craving grace of him. Mr. Ashley remembered it, and his eye met William's. How marvellously had the change been brought round! the right come to light!
"What is it that you wish me to do?" inquired Mr. Ashley. "I do not understand."
"Not understand!" she sharply echoed, in her grief. "I want the landlord paid out. You have ample means at command, Mr. Ashley, and might do this much for us."
A modest request, certainly! The rent due was for three years: considerably more than two hundred pounds. Mr. Ashley replied to it quietly.
"A moment's reflection might convince you, Mrs. Dare, that to pay this money would be fruitless waste. The instant this procedure gets wind—and in all probability it has already done so—other claims, as pressing, will be enforced."
"Tradespeople must wait," she answered, with irritation.
"Wait for what?" asked Mr. Ashley. "Do you expect to drop into a fortune?"
Wait for what, indeed? For complete ruin? There was nothing else to wait for. Mrs. Dare sat beating her foot against the carpet.
"Mr. Dare has grown useless," she said. "What he says one minute, he forgets the next; he is almost in a state of imbecility. I have no one to consult with, and therefore I come to you. Indeed, you must help me."
"But I do not see what I can do for you," rejoined Mr. Ashley. "As to paying your debts, it is—it is—in fact, it is not to be thought of. I have my own payments to make, my expenses to keep up. I could not do it, Mrs. Dare."
She paused again, playing nervously with her bonnet strings. "Will you go back with me, and see what you can make of Mr. Dare? Perhaps between you something may be arranged. I don't understand things."
"I cannot go back with you," replied Mr. Ashley. "I must attend the meeting which takes place this morning at the Guildhall."
"In your official capacity," remarked Mrs. Dare in not at all a pleasant tone of voice. "I forgot that you preside at it. How very grand you have become!"
"Very grand indeed, I think, considering the lowly estimation in which you held the glove manufacturer, Thomas Ashley," he answered, with a good-humoured laugh. "I will call upon your husband in the course of the day, Mrs. Dare."
She turned to William. "Will you return with me? I have a claim on you," she reiterated eagerly.
He shook his head. "I accompany Mr. Ashley to the meeting."
She was obliged to be satisfied, turned abruptly, and left the room, William attending her to the door.
"What d'you call that?" asked Henry, lifting his voice for the first time.
"Call it?" repeated his sister.
"Yes, Mrs. Mary; call it. Cheek, I should say."
"Hush, Henry," said Mr. Ashley.
"Very well, sir. It's cheek all the same, though."
As Mr. Ashley surmised, the misfortune had already got wind, and the unhappy Dares were besieged that day by clamorous creditors. When Mr. Ashley and William arrived there, for they walked up at the conclusion of the public meeting, they found Mr. Dare seated alone in the dining-room; that sad dining-room which had witnessed the tragical end of Anthony. He cowered over the fire, his thin hands stretched out to the blaze. He was not altogether childish; but his memory failed, and he was apt to fall into fits of wandering. Mr. Ashley drew forward a chair and sat down by him.
"I fear things do not look very bright," he observed. "We called in at your office as we came by, and found a seizure was also put in there."
"There's nothing much for 'em to take but the desks," returned old Anthony.
"Mrs. Dare wished me to come and talk matters over with you, to see whether anything could be done. She does not understand them, she said."
"Whatcanbe done, when things come to such a pass as this?" returned Anthony Dare, lifting his head sharply. "That's just like women—'seeing what's to be done!' I am beset on all sides. If the bank sent me a present of three or four thousand pounds, we might go on again. But it won't, you know. The things must go, and we must go. I suppose they'll not put me in prison; they'd get nothing by doing it."
He leaned forward and rested his chin on his stick, which was stretched out before him as usual. Presently he resumed, his eyes and words alike wandering:
"He said the money would not bring us good if we kept it. And it has not: it has brought a curse. I have told Julia so twenty times since Anthony went. Only the half of it was ours, you know, and we took the whole."
"What money?" asked Mr. Ashley, wondering what he was saying.
"Old Cooper's. We were at Birmingham when he died, I and Julia. The will left it all to her, but he charged us——"
Mr. Dare suddenly stopped. His eye had fallen on William. In these fits of wandering he partially lost his memory, and mixed things and people together in the most inextricable confusion.
"Are you Edgar Halliburton?" he went on.
"I am his son. Do you not remember me, Mr. Dare?"
"Ay, ay. Your son-in-law," nodding to Mr. Ashley. "But Cyril was to have had that place, you know. He was to have been your partner."
Mr. Ashley made no reply. It might not have been understood. And Mr. Dare resumed, confounding William with his father.
"It was hers in the will, you know, Edgar, and that's some excuse, for we had to prove it. There was not time to alter the will, but he said it was an unjust one, and charged us to divide the money; half for us, half for you; to divide it to the last halfpenny. And we took it all. We did not mean to take it, or to cheat you, but somehow the money went; our expenses were great, and we had heavy debts, and when you came afterwards to Helstonleigh and died, your share was already broken into, and it was too late. Ill-gotten money brings nothing but a curse, and that money brought it to us. Will you shake hands and forgive?"
"Heartily," replied William, taking his wasted hand.
"But you had to struggle, and the money would have kept struggle from you. It was many thousands."
"Who knows whether it would or not?" cheerily answered William. "Had we possessed money to fall back upon, we might not have struggled with a will; we might not have put out all the exertion that was in us, and then we should never have got on as we have done."
"Ay; got on. You are looked up to now; you have become gentlemen. And what are my boys? The money was yours."
"Dismiss it entirely from your memory, Mr. Dare," was William's answer, given in true compassion. "I believe that our not having had it may have been good for us in the long-run, rather than a drawback. The utter want of money may have been the secret of our success."
"Ay," nodded old Dare. "My boys should have been taught to work, and they were only taught to spend. We must have our luxuries indoors, forsooth, and our show without; our servants, and our carriages, and our confounded pride. What has it ended in?"
What had it! They made no answer. Mr. Dare remained still for a while, and then lifted his haggard face, and spoke in a whisper, a shrinking dread in his face and tone.
"They have been nothing but my curses. It was through Herbert that she, that wicked foreign woman, murdered Anthony."
Did he know ofthat? How had the knowledge come to him! William had not betrayed it, except to Mr. Ashley and Henry. And they had buried the dreadful secret down deep in the archives of their breasts. Mr. Dare's next words disclosed the puzzle.
"She died, that woman. And she wrote to Herbert on her death-bed and made a confession. He sent a part of it on here, lest, I suppose, we might doubt him still. But his conduct led to it. It is dreadful to have such sons as mine!"
His stick fell to the ground. Mr. Ashley held him, while William picked it up. He was gasping for breath.
"You are not well," cried Mr. Ashley.
"No; I think I am going. One can't stand these repeated shocks. Did I see Edgar Halliburton here? I thought he was dead. Is he come for his money?" he continued in a shivering whisper. "We acted according to the will, sir: according to the will, tell him. He can see it in Doctors' Commons. He can't proceed against us; he has no proof. Let him go and look at the will."
"We had better leave him, William," murmured Mr. Ashley. "Our presence only excites him."
In the opposite room sat Mrs. Dare. Adelaide passed out of it as they entered. Never before had they remarked how sadly worn and faded she looked. Her later life had been spent in pining after the chance of greatness she had lost, in missing Viscount Hawkesley. Irrevocably lost to her; for the daughter of a neighbouring earl now called him husband. They sat down by Mrs. Dare, but could only condole with her: nothing but the most irretrievable ruin was around.
"We shall be turned from here," she wailed. "How are we to find a home—to earn a living?"
"Your daughters must do something to assist you," replied Mr. Ashley. "Teaching, or——"
"Teaching! in this overdone place!" she interrupted.
"It has been somewhat overdone in that way, certainly of late years," he answered. "If they cannot get teaching, they may find some other employment. Work of some sort."
"Work!" shrieked Mrs. Dare. "My daughterswork!"
"Indeed, I don't know what else is to be done," he answered. "Their education has been good, and I should think they may obtain daily teaching: perhaps sufficient to enable you to live quietly. I will pay for a lodging for you, and give you a trifle towards housekeeping, until you can turn yourselves round."
"I wish we were all dead!" was the response of Mrs. Dare.
Mr. Ashley went a little nearer to her. "What is this story that your husband has been telling about the misappropriation of the money that Mr. Cooper desired should be handed to Edgar Halliburton?"
She threw her hands before her face with a low cry. "Has he been betrayingthat? What will become of us?—what shall we do with him? If ever a family was beaten down by fate, it is ours."
Not gratuitously by fate, thought Mr. Ashley. Its own misdoings have brought the evil upon it. "Where is Cyril?" he asked aloud. "He ought to bestir himself to help you, now."
"Cyril!" echoed Mrs. Dare, a bitter scowl rising to her face. "Hehelp us! You know what Cyril is."
As they went out, they met Cyril. What a contrast the two cousins presented, side by side!—he and William might be called such. The one—fine, noble, intellectual; his countenance setting forth its own truth, candour, honour; making the best in his walk of life, of the talents entrusted to him by God. The other—slouching, untidy, all but ragged; his offensive doings too plainly shown in his bloated face, his inflamed eyes: letting his talents and his days run to worse than waste; a burden to himself and to those around him. And yet, in their boyhood days, how great had been Cyril's advantages over William Halliburton's!
They walked away arm-in-arm, William and Mr. Ashley. A short visit to the manufactory in passing, and then they continued their way home, taking it purposely through Honey Fair.
Honey Fair! Couldthatbe Honey Fair? Honey Fair used to be an unsightly, inodorous place, where mud, garbage, and children ran riot together: a species, in short, of capacious pigsty. But look at it now. The paths are well kept, the road is clean and cared for. Her Majesty's state coach-and-eight might drive down it, and the horses would not have to tread gingerly. The houses are the same; small and large bear evidence of care, of thrift, of a respectable class of inmates. The windows are no longer stuffed with rags, or the palings broken. And that little essay—the assembling at Robert East's, and William Halliburton—had led to the change.
Men and women had been awakened to self-respect; to the duty of striving to live well and to do well; to the solemn thought that there is another world after this, where their works, good or bad, would follow them. They had learned to reflect that itmightbe possible that one phase of a lost soul's punishment after death, will lie in remembering the duties it ought to have performed in life. They knew, without any effort of reflection, that it is a remembrance which makes the sting of many a death-bed. Formerly, Honey Fair had believed (those who had thought about it) that their duties in this world and any duties which lay in preparing for the next, were as wide apart as the two poles. Of that they had now learned the fallacy. Honey Fair had grown serene. Children were taken out of the streets to be sent to school; the Messrs. Bankes had been discarded, for the women had grown wiser; and, for all the custom the "Horned Ram" obtained from Honey Fair, it might have shut itself up. In short, Honey Fair had been awakened, speaking from a moderate point of view, to enlightenment; to the social improvements of an advancing and a thinking age.
This was a grand day with Honey Fair, as Mr. Ashley and William knew, when they turned to walk through it. Mr. Ashley had purchased that building you have heard of, for a comparative trifle, and made Honey Fair a present of it. It was very useful. It did for their schools, their night meetings, their provident clubs; and to-night a treat was to be held in it. The men expected that Mr. Ashley would look in, and Henry Ashley had sent round his chemical apparatus to give them some experiments, and had bought a great magic-lantern. The place was now called the "Ashley Institute." Some thought—Mr. Ashley for one—that the "Halliburton Institute" would have been more consonant with fact; but William had resolutely withstood it. The piece of waste land behind it had been converted into a sort of playground and garden. The children were not watched in it incessantly, and screamed at:—"You'll destroy those flowers!" "You'll break that window!" "You are tearing up the shrubs!" No: they were made to understand that they weretrustednot to do these things; and they took the trust to themselves, and were proud of it. You may train a child to this, if you will.
As they passed the house of Charlotte East, she was turning in at her garden gate; and, standing at the window, dandling a baby, was Caroline Mason. Caroline was servant to Charlotte now, and that was Charlotte's baby; for Charlotte was no longer Charlotte East, but Mrs. Thorneycroft. She curtsied as they came up.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I have been round to the rooms to show them how to arrange the evergreens. I hope they will have a pleasant evening!"
"They!" echoed Mr. Ashley. "Are you not coming yourself?"
"I think not, sir. Adam and Robert will be there, of course; but I can't well leave baby!"
"Nonsense, Charlotte!" exclaimed William. "What harm will happen to the baby? Are you afraid of its running away?"
"Ah, sir, you don't understand babies yet."
"That has to come," laughed Mr. Ashley.
"I understand enough about babies to pronounce that one a most exacting infant, if you can't leave it for an hour or two," persisted William. "You must come, Charlotte. My wife intends to be there."
"Well, sir,—I know I should like it. Perhaps I can manage to run round for an hour, leaving Caroline to listen."
"How does Caroline go on?" inquired Mr. Ashley.
"Sir, never a better young woman went into a house. That was a dreadful lesson to her, and it has taught her what nothing else could. I believe that Honey Fair will respect her in time."
"My opinion is, that Honey Fair would not be going far out of its way to respect her now," remarked William. "Once a false step is taken, it is very much the fashion to go tripping over others. Caroline, on the contrary, has been using all her poor endeavours ever since to retrieve that first mistake."
"I could not wish for a better servant," said Charlotte. "Of course, I could not keep a servant for housework alone, and Caroline nearly earns her food helping me at the gloves. I am pleased, and she is grateful. Yes, sir, it is as you say—Honey Fair ought to respect her. It will come in time."
"As most good things come, that are striven for in the right way," remarked Mr. Ashley.
Once more, in this, the almost concluding chapter of the history, are we obliged to take notice of Assize Saturday. Once more had the high sheriff's procession gone out to receive the judges; and never had the cathedral bells rung out more clearly, or the streets and windows been so thronged.
A blast, shrill and loud, from the advancing heralds, was borne on the air of the bright March afternoon, as the cavalcade advanced up East Street. The javelin-men rode next, two abreast, in the plain dark Ashley livery, the points of their javelins glittering in the sunshine, scarcely able to advance for the crowd. A feverish crowd. Little cared they to-day for the proud trumpets, the javelin-bearers, the various attractions that made their delight on other of those days; they cared only for that stately equipage in the rear. Not for its four prancing horses, its silver ornaments, its portly coachman on the hammer-cloth; not even for the very judges themselves; but for the master of that carriage, the high sheriff, Thomas Ashley.
He sat in it, its only plainly attired inmate. The scarlet robes, the flowing wigs of the judges, were opposite to him; beside him were the rich black silk robes of his chaplain, the vicar of Deoffam. A crowd of gentlemen on horseback followed—a crowd Helstonleigh had rarely seen. William was one of them. The popularity of a high sheriff may be judged by the number of his attendants, when he goes out to meet the judges. Half Helstonleigh had placed itself on horseback that day, to do honour to Thomas Ashley.
Occupying a conspicuous position in the street were the Ashley workmen. Clean and shaved, they had surreptitiously conveyed their best coats to the manufactory; and, with the first peal of the college bells, had rushed out, dressed—every soul—leaving the manufactory alone in its glory, and Samuel Lynn to take care of it. The shout they raised, as the sheriff's carriage drew near, deafened the street. It was out of all manner of etiquette or precedence to cheer the sheriff when in attendance on the judges; but who could be angry with them? Not Mr. Ashley. Their lordships looked out astonished. One of the judges you have met before—Sir William Leader; the other was Mr. Justice Keene.
The judges gazed from the carriage, wondering what the shouts could mean. They saw a respectable-looking body of men—not respectable in dress only, but in face—gathered there, bareheaded, and cheering the carriage with all their might and main.
"What can that be for?" cried Mr. Justice Keene.
"I believe it must be meant for me," observed Mr. Ashley, taken by surprise as much as the judges were. "Foolish fellows! Your lordships must understand that they are the workmen belonging to my manufactory."
But his eyes were dim, as he leaned forward and acknowledged the greeting. Such a shout followed upon it! The judges, used to shouting as they were, had rarely heard the like, so deep and heartfelt was it.
"There's genuine good-feeling in that cheer," said Sir William Leader. "I like to hear it. It is more than lip deep."
The dinner party for the judges that night was given at the deanery. Not a more honoured guest had it than the high sheriff. His chaplain was with him, and William and Frank were also guests. What did the Dares think of the Halliburtons now?
The Dares, just then, were too much occupied with their own concerns to think of them at all. They were planning how to get out to Australia. Their daughter Julia, more dutiful than some daughters might prove themselves, had offered an asylum to her father and mother, if they would go out to Sydney. Her sisters, she wrote word, would find good situations there as governesses—probably in time find husbands.
They were wild to go. They wanted to get away from mortifying Helstonleigh, and to try their fortunes in a new world. The passage money was the difficulty. Julia had not sent it, possibly not supposing they were so very badly off; she did not know yet of the last touch to their misfortunes. How could they scrape together even enough for a steerage passage? Mr. Ashley's private opinion was that he should have to furnish it. Ah! he was a good man. Never a better, never a more considerate to others than Thomas Ashley.
Sunday morning rose to the ringing again of the cathedral bells—bells that do not condescend to ring except on rare occasions—telling that it was some day of note in Helstonleigh. It was a fine day, sunny, and very warm for March, and the glittering east window reflected its colours upon a crowd such as the cathedral had rarely seen assembled within its walls for divine service, even on those thronging days, Assize Sundays.
The procession extended nearly the whole way from the grand entrance gates to the choir, passing through the body and the nave. The high sheriff's men, standing so still, their formidable javelins in rest, had enough to do to retain their places, from the pressure of the crowd, as they kept the line of way. The bishop in his robes, the clergy in their white garments and scarlet or black hoods, the long line of college boys in their surplices, the lay-clerks, yet in white. Not (as you were told of yesterday) on them; not on the mayor and corporation, with their chains and gowns; not on the grey-wigged judges, their fiery trains held up behind, glaring cynosure of eyes on other days, was the attention of that crowd fixed; but on him who walked, calm, dignified, quiet, in immediate attendance on the judges—their revered fellow-citizen, Thomas Ashley. In attendance onhimwas his chaplain, his black gown, so contrasting with the glare and glitter, marking him out conspicuously.
The organ had burst forth as they entered the great gates, simultaneously with the ceasing of the bells which had been sending their melody over the city. With some difficulty, places were found for those of note; but many a score stood that day. The bishop had gone on to his throne; and opposite to him, in the archdeacon's stall, the appointed place for the preacher on Assize Sundays, sat the sheriff's chaplain. Sir William Leader was shown to the dean's stall; Mr. Justice Keene to the sub-dean's; the dean sitting next the one, the high sheriff next the other. William Halliburton was in a canon's stall; Frank—handsome Frank!—found a place amidst many other barristers. And in the ladies' pew, underneath the dean, seated with the dean's wife, were Mrs. Ashley, her daughter, and Mrs. Halliburton.
The Reverend Mr. Keating chanted the service, putting his best voice into it. They gave that fine anthem, "Behold, God is my salvation." Very good were the services and the singing that day. The dean, the prebendary in residence, and Mr. Keating went to the communion-table for the commandments, and thus the service drew to an end. As they were conducted back to their stall, a verger with his silver mace cleared a space for the sheriff's chaplain to ascend the pulpit stairs, the preacher of the day.
How the college boys gazed at him! Only a short time before (comparatively speaking) he had been one of them, a college boy himself; some of the seniors (juniors then) had been school-fellows with him. Now he was the Reverend Edgar Halliburton, chief personage for the moment in that cathedral. To the boys' eyes he seemed to look dark; except on Assize Sundays, they were accustomed to see only white robes in that pulpit.
"Too young to give us a good sermon," thought half the congregation, as they scanned him. Nevertheless, they liked his countenance; its grave earnest look. He gave out his text, a verse from Ecclesiastes:
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest."
Then he leaned a little forward on the cushion; and, after a pause, began his sermon, which lay before him, and worked out the text.
It was an admirable discourse, clear and practical; but you will not care to have it recapitulated for you, as it was recapitulated in the local newspapers. Remembering what the bringing up of the Halliburtons had been, it was impossible that Gar's sermons should not be practical; and the congregation began to think they had been mistaken in their estimate of what a young man could do. He told the judges where their duty lay, as fearlessly as he told it to the college boys, as he told it to all. He told them that the golden secret of success and happiness in this life, lay in the faithful and earnest performance of the duties that crowded on their path, striving on unweariedly, whatsoever those duties might be, whether pleasant or painful;joined to implicit reliance on, and trust in God. A plainer sermon was never preached. In manner he was remarkably calm and impressive, and the tone of his voice was quiet and persuasive, just as if he were speaking to them. He was listened to with breathless interest throughout; even those gentry, the college boys, were for once beguiled into attending to a sermon. Jane's tears fell incessantly, and she had to let down her white veil to hide them; as on that day, years ago, when she had let down her black crape veil to conceal them, in the office of Anthony Dare. Different tears this time.
The sermon lasted just half an hour, and it had seemed only a quarter of one. The bishop then rose and gave the blessing, and the crowds began to file out. As the preacher was being marshalled by a verger through the choir to take his place in the procession next the high sheriff, Mr. Keating met him and grasped his hand.
"You are all right, Gar," he whispered, "and I am proud of having educated you. That sermon will tell home to some of the drones."
"I knew he'd astonish 'em!" ejaculated Dobbs, who had walked all the way from Deoffam to see the sight, to hear her master preach to the cathedral, and had fought out a standing-place for herself right in front of the pulpit. "Hissermons aren't filled up with bottomless pits as are never full enough, like those of some preachers be."
That sermon and the Rev. Edgar Halliburton were talked of much in Helstonleigh that day.
But ere the close of another day the town was ringing with the name of Frank. He had led; he, Frank Halliburton! A cause of some importance was tried in theNisi PriusCourt, in which the defendant was Mr. Glenn the surgeon. Mr. Glenn, who had liked Frank from the hour he first conversed with him that evening at his house, now so long ago—a conversation at which you had the pleasure of assisting—who had also the highest opinion of Frank's abilities in his profession, had made it a point that his case should be intrusted to Frank. Mr. Glenn was not deceived. Frank led admirably, and his eloquence quite took the spectators by storm. What was of more importance, it told upon Mr. Justice Keene and the jury, and Frank sat down in triumph and won his verdict.
"I told you I should do it, mother," said he, quietly, when he reached Deoffam that night, after being nearly smothered with congratulations. "You will live to see me on the woolsack yet."
Jane laughed. She often had laughed at the same boast. She was alone that evening; Gar was attending the high sheriff at an official dinner at Helstonleigh. "Will no lesser prize content you, Frank?" asked she, jestingly. "Say, for example, the Solicitor-Generalship?"
"Only as a stepping-stone."
"And you still get on well? Seriously speaking now. Frank."
"First-rate," answered Frank. "This day's work will be the best lift for me, though, unless I am mistaken. I had two fresh briefs put into my hands as I sat down," he added, going off in a laugh. "See if I make this year less than a thousand!"
"And the next thing, I suppose, you will be thinking of getting married?"
The bold barrister actually blushed. "What nonsense, mother! Marry, and lose my fellowship!"
"Frank, it is so! I see it in your face. You must tell me who it is."
"Well, as yet it is no one. I must wait until my eloquence, as they called it to-day in court, is a more assured fact with the public, and then I may speak out to the judge. She means waiting for me, though, so it is all right."
"Tell me, Frank," repeated Jane; "who is 'she'?"
"Maria Leader."
Jane looked at him doubtingly. "Not Sir William's daughter?"
"His second daughter."
"Is not that rather too aspiring for Frank Halliburton?"
"Maria does not think so. I have been aspiring all my life, mother; and so long as I work on for it honourably and uprightly, I see no harm in being so."
"No, Frank; good instead of harm. How did you become acquainted with her?"
"Her brother and I are chums: have been ever since we were at Oxford. Bob is at the Chancery bar, but he has not much nous for it—not half the clever man that his father was. His chambers are next to mine, and I often go home with him. The girls make a great deal of us, too. That is how I first knew Maria."
"Then I suppose you see something of the judge?"
"Oh dear," laughed Frank, "the judge and I are upon intimate terms in private life; quite cronies. You would not think it, though, if you saw me bowing before my lord when he sits in his big wig. Sometimes I fancy he suspects."
"Suspects what?"
"That I and Maria would like to join cause together. But I don't mind if he does. I am a favourite of his. The very Sunday before we came on circuit he asked me to dine there. We went to church in the evening, and I had Maria under my wing; Sir William and Lady Leader trudging on before us."
"Well, Frank, I wish you success. I don't think you would choose any but a nice girl, a good girl——"
"Stop a moment, mother; you will meet the judge to-morrow night, and you may then draw a picture of Maria. She is as like him as two peas."
"How old is she, Frank?"
"Two-and-twenty.Ishall have her. He was not always the great Judge Leader, you know, mother; and he knows it. And he knows that every one must have a beginning, as he and my lady had it. For years after they were married he did not make five hundred a year, and they had to live upon it. He does not fear to revert to it, either; often talks of it to me and Bob—a sort of hint, I suppose, that folk do get on in time, by dint of patience. You will like Sir William Leader."