"Forgot to post it! That was unpardonably careless. Where is the letter?"
"I forgot it, sir, until night, and then I ran to the post-office and put it in. Afterwards I heard the clerk say that the Bristol bags were made up, so of course it would not go. I am very sorry, sir," he repeated, after a pause.
"How came you to forget it? You ought to have gone direct from here, and posted it."
"So I did go, sir. That is I was going, but——"
"But what?" returned Mr. Ashley, for William had made a dead standstill.
"The college boys set on me, sir. They were ill-using my brother, and I interfered; and then they turned upon me. It made me forget the letter."
"It was you who got into an affray with the college boys, was it?" cried Mr. Ashley. He had heard his son's version of the affair, without suspecting that it related to William.
William waited by the desk. "If you please, sir, was it of great consequence?"
"It might have been. Do not be guilty of such carelessness again."
"I will try not, sir."
Mr. Ashley looked down at his writing. William waited. He did not suppose it was over, and he wanted to know the worst. "Why do you stay?" asked Mr. Ashley.
"I hope you will not turn me away for it, sir," he said, his colour changing again.
"Well—not this time," replied Mr. Ashley, smiling to himself. "But I'll tell you what I should have felt inclined to turn you away for," he added—"concealing the fact from me. Whatever fault, omission, or accident you may commit, always acknowledge it at once; it is the best plan, and the easiest. You may go back to your work now."
William left the room with a lighter step. Mr. Ashley looked after him. "That's an honest lad," thought he. "He might just as well have kept it from me; calculating on the chances of its not coming out: many boys would have done so. He has been brought up in a good school."
Before the day was over, William came again into contact with Mr. Ashley. That gentleman sometimes made his appearance in the manufactory in an evening—not always. He did not on this one. When Samuel Lynn and William entered it on their return from tea, a gentleman was waiting in the counting-house on business. Samuel Lynn, who was, on such occasions, Mr. Ashley'salter ego, came out of the counting-house presently, with a note in his hand.
"Thee put on thy cap, and take this to the master's house. Ask to see him, and say that I wait for an answer."
William ran off with the note: no fear of his forgetting this time. It was addressed in the plain form used by the Quakers, "Thomas Ashley;" and could William have looked inside, he would have seen, instead of the complimentary "Sir," that the commencement was, "Respected Friend." He observed his mother sitting close at her window, to catch what remained of the declining light, and nodded to her as he passed.
"Can I see Mr. Ashley?" he inquired, when he reached the house.
The servant replied that he could. He left William in the hall, and opened the door of the dining-room; a handsome room, of lofty proportions. Mr. Ashley was slowly pacing it to and fro, whilst Henry sat at a table, preparing his Latin exercise for his tutor. It was Mr. Ashley's custom to help Henry with his Latin, easing difficulties to him by explanation. Henry was very backward with his classics; he had not yet begun Greek: his own private hope was, that he never should begin it. His sufferings rendered learning always irksome, sometimes unbearable. The same cause frequently made him irritable—an irritation that could not be checked, as it would have been in a more healthy boy. The servant told his master he was wanted, and Mr. Ashley looked into the hall.
"Oh, is it you, William?" he said. "Come in."
William advanced. "Mr. Lynn said I was to see yourself, sir, and to say that he waited for an answer."
Mr. Ashley opened the note, and read it by the lamp on Henry's table. It was not dark outside, and the chandelier was not lighted, but Henry's lamp was. "Sit down," said Mr. Ashley to William, and left the room, note in hand.
William felt it was something, Mr. Ashley's recognizing a difference between him and those black boys in the manufactory: they would scarcely have been told to sit in the hall. William sat down on the first chair at hand. Henry Ashley looked at him, and he recognized him as the boy who had been maltreated by the college boys on the previous day; but Henry was in no mood to be sociable, or even condescending—he never was, when over his lessons. His hip was giving him pain, and his exercise was making him fractious.
"There! it's always the case! Another five minutes, and I should have finished this horrid exercise. Papa is sure to go away, or be called away, when he's helping me! It's a shame."
Mrs. Ashley opened the door at this juncture, and looked into the room. "I thought your papa was here, Henry."
"No, he is not here. He has gone to his study, and I am stuck fast. Some blessed note has come, which he has to attend to: and I don't know whether this word should be put in the ablative or the dative! I'll run the pen through it!"
"Oh, Henry, Henry! Do not be so impatient."
Mrs. Ashley shut the door again; and Henry continued to worry himself, making no progress, except in fretfulness. At length William approached him. "Will you let me help you?"
Surprise brought Henry's grumbling to a standstill. "You!" he exclaimed. "Do you know anything of Latin?"
"I am very much farther in it than what you are doing. My brother Gar is as far as that. Shall I help you? You have put that wrong; it ought to be in the accusative."
"Well, if you can help me, you may, for I want to get it over," said Henry, with a doubting stress upon the "can." "You can sit down, if you wish to," he patronizingly added.
"Thank you, I don't care about sitting down," replied William, beginning at once upon his task.
The two boys were soon deep in the exercise, William not doing it, but rendering it easy to Henry; in the same manner that Mr. Halliburton, when he was at that stage, used to make it clear to him.
"I say," cried Henry, "who taught you?"
"Papa. He gave a great deal of time to me, and that got me on. I can see a wrong word there," added William, casting his eyes to the top of the page. "It ought to be in the vocative, and you have put it in the dative."
"You are mistaken, then. Papa told me that: and he is not likely to be wrong. Papa is one of the best classical scholars of the day—although he is a manufacturer," added Henry, who, through his relatives, the Dares, had been infected with a contempt for business.
"It should be in the vocative," repeated William.
"I shan't alter it. The idea of your finding fault with Mr. Ashley's Latin! Let us get on. What case is this?"
The last word of the exercise was being written, when Mr. Ashley opened the door and called to William. He gave him a note for Mr. Lynn, and William departed. Mr. Ashley returned to complete the interrupted exercise.
"I say, papa, that fellow knows Latin," began Henry.
"What fellow?" returned Mr. Ashley.
"Why, that chap of yours who has been here. He has helped me through my exercise. Not doing it for me: you need not be afraid; but explaining to me how to do it. He made it easier to me than you do, papa."
Mr. Ashley took the book in his hand, and saw that it was correct. He knew Henry could not, or would not, have made it so himself. Henry continued:
"He said his papa used to explain it to him. Fancy one of your manufactory errand-boys saying 'papa.'"
"You must not class him with the ordinary errand-boys, Henry. The boy has been as well brought up as you have."
"I thought so; for he has impudence about him," was Master Henry's retort.
"Was he impudent to you?"
"To me? Oh no. He is as civil a fellow as ever I spoke to. Indeed, but for remembering who he was, I should call him a gentlemanly fellow. Whilst he was telling me, I forgot who he was, and talked to him as an equal, andhetalked to me as one. I call him impudent, because he found fault with your Latin."
"Indeed!" returned Mr. Ashley, an amused smile parting his lips.
"He says this word's wrong. That it ought to be in the vocative case."
"So it ought to be," assented Mr. Ashley, casting his eyes on the word to which Henry pointed.
"You told me the dative, papa."
"That I certainly did not, Henry. The mistake must have been your own."
"He persisted that it was wrong, although I told him it was your Latin. Papa, it is the same boy who had the row yesterday with Cyril Dare. What a pity it is, though, that a fellow so well up in his Latin should be shut up in a manufactory!"
"The only 'pity' is, that he is in it too early," was the response of Mr. Ashley. "His Latin would not be any detriment to his being in a manufactory, or the manufactory to his Latin. I am a manufacturer myself, Henry. You appear to ignore that sometimes."
"The Dares go on so. They din it into my ears that a manufacturer cannot be a gentleman."
"I shall cause you to drop the acquaintance of the Dares, if you allow yourself to listen to all the false and foolish notions they may give utterance to. Cyril Dare will probably go into a manufactory himself."
Henry looked up curiously. "I don't think so, papa."
"I do," returned Mr. Ashley, in a significant tone. Henry was surprised at the news. He knew his father never advanced a decided opinion unless he had good grounds for it. He burst into a laugh. The notion of Cyril Dare's going into a manufactory tickled his fancy amazingly.
One morning, towards the middle of April, Mrs. Halliburton went up to Mr. Ashley's. She had brought him the quarter's rent.
"Will you allow me to pay it to yourself, sir—now, and in future?" she asked. "I feel an unconquerable aversion to having further dealings with Mr. Dare."
"I can understand that you should have," said Mr. Ashley. "Yes, you can pay it to me, Mrs. Halliburton. Always remembering you know, that I am in no hurry for it," he added with a smile.
"Thank you. You are very kind. But I must pay as I go on."
He wrote the receipt, and handed it to her. "I hope you are satisfied with William?" she said, as she folded it up.
"Quite so. I believe he gives satisfaction to Mr. Lynn. I have little to do with him myself. Mr. Lynn tells me that he finds him a remarkably truthful, open-natured boy."
"You will always find him that," said Jane. "He is getting more reconciled to the manufactory than he was at first."
"Did he not like it at first?"
"No, he did not. He was disappointed altogether. He had hoped to find some employment more suited to the way in which he had been brought up. He cannot divest himself of the idea that he is looked upon as on a level with the poor errand-boys of your establishment, and therefore has lost caste. He had wished also to be in some office—a lawyer's, for instance—where the hours for leaving are early, so that he might have had the evening for his studies. But he is growing more reconciled to the inevitable."
"I suppose he wished to continue his studies?"
"He did so naturally. The foundation of an advanced education has been laid, and he expected it was to go on to completion. His brothers are now in the college school, occupied all day long with their studies, and of course William feels the difference. He gets to his books for an hour when he returns home in an evening; but he is weary, and does not do much good."
"He appears to be a more persevering, thoughtful boy than are some," remarked Mr. Ashley.
"Very thoughtful—very persevering. It has been the labour of my life, Mr. Ashley, to foster good seed in my children; to reason with them, to make them my companions. They have been endowed, I am thankful to say, with admirable qualities of head and heart, and I have striven unweariedly to nourish the good in them. It is not often that boys are brought into contact with sorrow so early as they. Their father's death and my adverse circumstances have been real trials."
"They must have been," rejoined Mr. Ashley.
"While others of their age think only of play," she continued, "my boys have been obliged to learn the sad experiences of life; and it has given them a thought, a care, beyond their years. There is no necessity tomakeFrank and Edgar apply to their lessons unremittingly; they do it of their own accord, with their whole abilities, knowing that education is the only advantage they can possess—the one chance of their getting on in the world. Had William been a boy of a different disposition, less tractable, less reflective, less conscientious, I might have found some difficulty in inducing him to work as he is doing."
"Does he complain?" inquired Mr. Ashley.
"Oh no, sir! He feels that it is his duty to work, to assist as far as he can, and he does it without complaining. I see that he cannot help feeling it. He would like to be in the college with his brothers; but I cheer him up, and tell him it may all turn out for the best. Perhaps it will."
She rose as she spoke. Mr. Ashley shook hands with her, and attended her through the hall. "Your sons deserve to get on, Mrs. Halliburton, and I hope they will do so. It is an admirable promise for the future man when a boy displays thought and self-reliance."
"Mamma!" suddenly exclaimed Janey, as they sat at breakfast the morning after this, "do you remember what to-day is? It is my birthday."
Jane had remembered it. She had been almost in hopes that the child would not remember it. One year ago that day the first glimpse of the shadow so soon to fall upon them had shown itself. What a change! The contrast between last year and this was almost incredible. Then they had been in possession of a good home, were living in prosperity, in apparent security. Now—Jane's heart turned sick at the thought. Only one short year!
"Yes, Janey dear," she replied in sadly subdued tones. "I did not forget it. I——"
A double knock at the door interrupted what she would have further said. They heard Dobbs answer it: visitors were chiefly for Mrs. Reece.
Who should be standing there but Samuel Lynn! He did not choose the familiar back way, as Patience did, had he occasion to call, but knocked at the front.
"Is Jane Halliburton within?"
"You can go and see," said crusty, disappointed Dobbs, flourishing her hand towards the study door. "It's not often that she's out."
Jane rose at his entrance; but he declined to sit, standing while he delivered the message with which he had been charged.
"Friend, thee need not send thy son to the manufactory again in an evening, except on Saturdays. On the other evenings he may remain at home from tea-time and pursue his studies. His wages will not be lessened."
And Jane knew that the considerate kindness emanated from Thomas Ashley.
She managed better with her work as the months went on. By summer she could do it quickly; the days were long then, and, by dint of sitting closely to it, she could earn twelve shillings a week. With William's earnings, and the six shillings taken from Mrs. Reece's payments, that made twenty-two. It was quite a fortune compared with what had been. But like most good fortunes it had its drawbacks. In the first place, she could not always earn it; she was compelled to steal unwilling time to mend her own and the children's clothes. In the second place, a large portion of it had to be devoted to buying their clothes, besides other incidental expenses; so that in the matter of housekeeping they were not much better off than before. Still, Jane did begin to think that she should see her way clearer. But there was sorrow of a different nature looming in the distance.
One afternoon, which Jane was obliged to devote to plain sewing, she was sitting alone in the study when there came a hard short thump at it, which was Dobbs's way of making known her presence there.
"Come in!"
Dobbs came in and sat herself down opposite Jane. It was summer weather, and the August dust blew in at the open window. "I want to know what's the matter with Janey," began she, without circumlocution.
"With Janey?" repeated Mrs. Halliburton. "What should be the matter with her? I know of nothing."
"Of course not," sarcastically answered Dobbs. "Eyes appear to be given to some folks only to blind 'em—more's the pity! You can't see it; my missis can't see it; but I say that the child is ill."
"Oh, Dobbs! I think you must be mistaken."
"Now I'd thank you to be civil, if you please, Mrs. Halliburton," retorted Dobbs. "You don't take me for a common servant, I hope. Who's 'Dobbs'?"
"I had no wish to be uncivil," said Jane. "I am so accustomed to hearing Mrs. Reece call you Dobbs, that——"
"My missis is one case, and other folks is another," burst forth Dobbs, by way of interruption. "I have a handle to my name, I hope, which is Mrs. Dobbs, and I'd be obleeged to you not to forget it again. What's the reason that Janey's always tired now, I ask—don't want to stir—gets a bright pink in the cheeks and inside the hands?"
"It is only the effect of the hot weather."
The opinion did not please Dobbs. "There's not a earthly thing happens but it's laid to the weather," she angrily cried. "The weather, indeed! If Janey is not going off after her pa, it's an odd thing to me."
Jane's heart-pulse stood still.
"Does she have night-perspirations, or does she not?" demanded Dobbs. "She tells me she's hot and damp; so I conclude it is so."
"Only from the heat—only from the heat," panted Jane eagerly. She dared not admit the fear.
"Well, the first time I go down to the town, I shall take her to Parry. It won't be at your cost," she hastened to add in ungracious tones, for Jane was about to interrupt. "If she wants to know what she is took to the doctor for, I shall tell her it is to have her teeth looked at. She has a nasty cough upon her: perhaps you haven't noticed that! Some can't see a child decaying under their very nose, while strangers can see it palpable."
"She has coughed since last week, the day of the rain, when she went with Anna Lynn into the field at the back, and they got their feet wet. Oh, I am sure there is nothing seriously the matter with her," added Jane, resolutely endeavouring to put the suggested fear from her. "I want her in: she must help me with my sewing."
"Then she's not a-going to help," resolutely returned Dobbs. "She has had a good dinner of roast lamb, sparrow-grass and kidney potatoes, and she's sitting back in my easy chair, opposite to my missis in hers. Her wanting always to rest might have told some folks that she was ailing. When children are in health, their legs and wings and tongue are on the go from morning till night. You never need pervide 'em with a seat but for their meals; and, give 'em their way, they'd eatthemstanding. Jane's always wanting to rest now, and she shall rest."
"But, indeed she must help me to-day," urged Jane. "She can sew straight seams, and hem. Look at this heap of mending! and it must be finished to-night. I cannot afford to be about it to-morrow."
"What sewing is it you want done?" questioned Dobbs, lifting up the work with a jerk. "I'll do it myself sooner than the child shall be bothered."
"Oh no, thank you. I should not like to trouble you with it."
"Now, I make the offer to do the work," crossly responded Dobbs; "and if I didn't mean to do it, I shouldn't make it. You'd do well to give it me, if you want it done. Janey shan't work this afternoon."
Taking her at her word, and indeed glad to do so, Jane showed Dobbs a task, and Dobbs swung off with it. Jane called after her that she had not taken a needle and cotton. Dobbs retorted that she had needles and cotton of her own, she hoped, and needn't be beholden to anybody else for 'em.
Jane sat on, anxious, all the afternoon. Janey remained in Mrs. Reece's parlour, and revelled in an early tea and pikelets. Jane was disturbed from her thoughts by the boisterous entrance of Frank and Gar; more boisterous than usual. Frank was a most excitable boy, and had been told that evening by the head master of the college school, the Reverend Mr. Keating, that he might be one of the candidates for the vacant place in the choir. This was enough to set Frank off for a week. "You know what a nice voice you say I have, mamma; what a good ear for music!" he reiterated. "As good, you tell us, as Aunt Margaret's used to be. I shall be sure to gain the post if you will let me try. We have to be at college for an hour morning and afternoon daily, but we can easily get that up if we are industrious. Some of the best Helstonleigh scholars who have shone at Oxford and Cambridge were choristers. And I should have about ten pounds a-year paid to me."
Ten pounds a-year! Jane listened with a beating heart. It would more than keep him in clothes. She inquired more fully into particulars.
The result was that Frank had permission to try for the vacant choristership, and gained it. His voice was the best of those tried. He went home in a glow. "Now, mamma, the sooner you set about a new surplice for me the better."
"A new surplice, Frank!" Ah, it was not all profit.
"A chorister must have two surplices, mamma. King's scholars can do with one, having them washed between the Sundays: choristers can't. We must have them always in wear, you know, except in Lent, and on the day of King Charles the Martyr."
Jane smiled; he talked so fast. "What is that you are running on about?"
"Goodness, mamma, don't you understand? All the six weeks of Lent, and on the 30th of January, the cathedral is hung with black, and the choristers have to wear black cloth surplices. They don't find the black ones: the college does that."
Frank's success in gaining the place did not give universal pleasure to the college school. Since the day of the disturbance in the spring, in which William was mixed up, the two young Halliburtons had been at a discount with the desk at which Cyril Dare sat; and this desk pretty well ruled the school.
"It's coming to a fine pass!" exclaimed Cyril Dare, when the result of the trial was carried into the school. "Here's the town clerk's own son passed over as nobody, and that snob of a Halliburton put in! Somebody ought to have told the dean what snobs they are."
"What would the dean have cared?" grumbled another, whose young brother had been amongst the rejected ones. "To get good voices in the choir is all he cares for in the matter."
"I say, where do they live—that set?"
"In a house of Ashley's, in the London Road," answered Cyril Dare. "They couldn't pay the rent, and my father put a bum in."
"Bosh, Dare!"
"It's true," said Cyril Dare. "My father manages Ashley's rents, you know. They'd have had every stick and stone sold, only Ashley—he is a regular soft over some things—took and gave them time. Oh, they are a horrid lot! They don't keep a servant!"
The blank astonishment this last item of intelligence caused at the desk, can't be described. Again Cyril's word was disputed.
"They don't, I tell you," he repeated. "I taxed Halliburton senior with it one day, and he told me to my face they could not afford one. He possesses brass enough to set up a foundry, does that fellow. The eldest one is at Ashley's manufactory, errand-boy. Errand-boy! And here's this one promoted to the choir, over gentlemen's heads! He ought to be pitched into, ought Halliburton senior."
In the school, Frank was Halliburton senior; Gar, Halliburton junior. "How is it that he says he was at King's College before he came here? I heard him tell Keating so," asked a boy.
At this moment Mr. Keating's voice was heard. "Silence!" Cyril Dare let a minute elapse, and then began again.
"Such a low thing, you know, not to keep servants! We couldn't do at all without five or six. I'll tell you what: the school may do as it likes, but our desk shall cut the two fellows here."
And the desk did so; and Frank and Gar had to put up with many mortifications. There was no help for it. Frank was brave as a young lion; but against some sorts of oppression there is no standing up. More than once was the boy in tears, telling his griefs to his mother. It fell more on Frank than it did on Gar.
Jane could only strive to console him, as she did William. "Patience and forbearance, my darling Frank! You will outlive it in time."
August was hot in Honey Fair. The women sat at their open doors, or even outside them; the children tumbled in the gutters; the refuse in the road was none the better for the month's heat.
Charlotte East sat in her kitchen one Tuesday afternoon, busy as usual. Her door was shut, but her window was open. Suddenly the latch was lifted and Mrs. Cross came in: not with the bold, boisterous movements that were common to Honey Fair, but with creeping steps that seemed afraid of their own echoes, and a scared face.
Mrs. Cross was in trouble. Her two daughters, Amelia and Mary Ann, to whom you have had the honour of an introduction, had purchased those lovely cross-barred sarcenets, green, pink, and lilac, and worn them at the party at the Alhambra: which party went off satisfactorily, leaving nothing behind it but some headaches for the next day, and a trifle of pecuniary embarrassment to Honey Fair in general. What with the finery for the party, and other finery, and what with articles really useful, but which perhapsmighthave been done without, Honey Fair was pretty deeply in with the Messrs. Bankes. In Mrs. Cross's family alone, herself and her daughters owed, conjointly, so much to these accommodating tradesmen that it took eight shillings a week to keep them quiet. You can readily understand how this impoverished the weekly housekeeping; and the falsehoods that had to be concocted, by way of keeping the husband, Jacob Cross, in the dark, were something alarming. This was the state of things in many of the homes of Honey Fair.
Mrs. Cross came in with timid steps and a scared face. "Charlotte, lend me five shillings for the love of goodness!" cried she, speaking as if afraid of the sound of her own voice. "I don't know another soul to ask but you. There ain't another that would have it to lend, barring Dame Buffle, and she never lends."
"You owe me twelve shillings already," answered Charlotte, pausing for a moment in her sewing.
"I know that. I'll pay you off by degrees, if it's only a shilling a week. I am a'most drove mad. Bankes's folks was here yesterday, and me and the girls had only four shillings to give 'em. I'm getting in arrears frightful, and Bankes's is as cranky over it as can be. It's all smooth and fair so long as you're buying of Bankes's and paying 'em; but just get behind, and see what short answers and sour looks you'll have!"
"But Amelia and Mary Ann took in their work on Saturday and had their money?"
"My patience! I don't know what us should do if they hadn't! We have to pay up everywhere. We're in debt at Buffle's, in debt to the baker, in debt for shoes; we're in debt on all sides. And there's Cross spending three shilling good of his wages at the public-house! It takes what me and the girls earn to pay a bit up here and there, and stop things from coming to Cross's ears. Half the house is in the pawn-shop, and what'll become of us I don't know. I can't sleep o' nights, hardly, for thinking on't."
Charlotte felt sure that, were it her case, she should not sleep at all.
"The worst is, I have to keep the little 'uns away from school. Pay for 'em I can't. And a fine muck they get into, playing in the road all day. 'What does these children do to theirselves at school, to get into this dirty mess?' asks Cross, when he comes in. 'Oh, they plays a bit in the gutter coming home,' says I. 'We plays a bit, father,' cries they, when they hears me, a-winking at each other to think how we does their father."
Charlotte shook her head. "I should end it all."
"End it! I wish we could end it! The girls is going to slave theirselves night and day this week and next. But it's not for my good: it's for their'n. They want to get their grand silks out o' pawn! Nothing but outside finery goes down with them, though they've not an inside rag to their backs. They leave care to me. Fools to be sure, they was, to buy them silks! They have been in the pawn-shop ever since, and Bankes's a-tearing 'em to pieces for the money!"
"I should end it by confessing to Jacob," said Charlotte, when she could get in a word. "He is not a bad husband——"
"And look at his passionate temper!" broke in Mrs. Cross. "Let it get to his ears that we have gone on tick to Bankes's and elsewhere, and he'd rave the house out of winders."
"He would be angry at first, no doubt; but when he cooled down he would see the necessity of something being done, and help in it. If you all set on and put your shoulders to the wheel you might soon get clear. Live upon the very least that will satisfy hunger—the plainest food—dry bread and potatoes. No beer, no meat, no finery, no luxuries; and with the rest of the week's money begin to pay up. You'd be clear in no time."
Mrs. Cross stared in consternation. "You be a Job's comforter, Charlotte! Dry bread and taters! who could put up with that?"
"When poor people like us fall into trouble, it is the only way that I know of to get out of it. I'd rather mortify my appetite for a year than have my rest broken by care."
"Your advice is good enough for talking, Charlotte, but it don't answer for acting. Cross must have his bit o' meat and his beer, his butter and his cheese, his tea and his sugar—and so must the rest on us. But about this five shillings?—do lend it me, Charlotte! It is for the landlord: we're almost in a fix with him."
"For the landlord!" repeated Charlotte involuntarily. "You must keephimpaid, or it would be the worst of all."
"I know we must. He was took bad yesterday—more's the blessing!—and couldn't get round; but he's here to-day as burly as beef. We haven't paid him for this three weeks," she added, dropping her voice to an ominous whisper; "and I declare to you, Charlotte East, that the sight of him at our door is as good to me as a dose of physic. Just now, round he comes, a-lifting the latch, and me turning sick the minute I sees him. 'Ready, Mrs. Cross?' asks he, in his short, surly way, putting his brown wig up. 'I'm sorry I ain't, Mr. Abbott, sir,' says I; 'but I'll have some next week for certain.' 'That won't do for me,' says he: 'I must have it this. If you can't give me some money, I shall apply to your husband.' The fright this put me into I've not got over yet, Charlotte; for Cross don't know but what the rent's paid up regular. 'I know what's going on,' old Abbott begins again, 'and I have knowed it for some time. You women in this Honey Fair, you pay your money to them Bankeses, which is the blight o' the place, and then you can't pay me.' Only fancy his calling Bankeses a blight!"
"That's just what they are," remarked Charlotte.
"For shame, Charlotte East! When one's way is a bit eased by being able to get a few things on trust, you must put in your word again it! Some of us would never get a new gown to our backs if it wasn't for Bankeses. Abbott's gone off to other houses, collecting; warning me as he'd call again in half an hour, and if some money wasn't ready for him then he'd go straight off to Jacob, to his shop o' work. If you can let me have one week for him, Charlotte—five shillings—I'll be ever grateful."
Charlotte rose, unlocked a drawer, and gave five shillings to Mrs. Cross, thinking in her own mind that the kindest course would be for the landlord to go to Cross, as he had threatened.
Mrs. Cross took the money. Her mind so far relieved, she could indulge in a little gossip; for Mr. Abbott's half-hour had not yet expired.
"I say, Charlotte, what d'ye think? I'm afraid Ben Tyrrett and our Mary Ann is a-going to take up together."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Charlotte. "That's new."
"Not over-new. They have been talking together on and off, but I never thought it was serious till last Sunday. I have set my face dead against it. He has a nasty temper of his own; and he's nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a week, and his profits of the egg-whites. Our Mary Ann might do better than that."
"I think she might," assented Charlotte. "And she is over-young to think of marrying."
"Young!" wrathfully repeated Mrs. Cross. "I should think she is young! Girls are as soft as apes. The minute a chap says a word to 'em about marrying, they're all agog to do it, whether it's fit, or whether it's unfit. Our Mary Ann might look inches over Ben Tyrrett's head, if she had any sense in her. Hark ye, Charlotte! When you see her, just put in a word against it; maybe it'll turn her. Tell her you'd not have Tyrrett at a gift."
"And that's true," replied Charlotte, with a laugh, as her guest departed.
A few minutes, and Charlotte received another visitor. This was the wife of Mark Mason—a tall, bony woman, with rough black hair and a loud voice. That voice and Mark did not get on very well together. She put her hands back upon her hips, and used it now, standing before Charlotte in a threatening attitude.
"What do you do, keeping our Carry out at night?"
Charlotte looked up in surprise. She was thinking of something else, or her answer might have been more cautious, for she was one of those who never willingly make mischief.
"I do not keep Caroline out. She is here of an evening now and then—not often."
Mrs. Mason laughed—a low derisive laugh of mockery. "I knew it was a falsehood when she told it me! There she goes out, night after night, night after night; so I set Mark on to her, for I couldn't keep her in, neither find out where she went to. Mark was in a passion—something had put him out, and Carry was frightened, for he had hold of her arm savage-like. 'I am at Charlotte East's of a night, Mark,' she said. 'I shall take no harm there.'"
Charlotte did not lift her eyes from her work. Mrs. Mason stood defiantly.
"Now, then! Where is it she gets to?"
"Why do you apply to me?" returned Charlotte. "I am not Caroline Mason's keeper."
"If you bain't her keeper, you be her adviser," retorted Mrs. Mason. "And that's worse."
"When I advise Caroline at all, I advise her for her good."
"My eyes are opened now, if they was blind before," continued Mrs. Mason, apostrophizing in no gentle terms the offending Caroline. "Who gave Carry that there shawl?—who gave, her that there fine gown?—who gave her that gold brooch, with a stone in it 'twixt red and yaller, and a naked Cupid in white aflying on it? 'A nice brooch you've got there, miss,' says I to her. 'Yes,' says she, 'they call 'em cameons.' 'And where did you get it, pray?' says I. 'And that's my business,' answers she. Next there was a neck-scarf, green and lavender, with yaller fringe at its ends, as deep as my forefinger. 'You're running up a tidy score at Bankes's, my lady,' says I. 'I shan't come to you to pay for it,' says she. 'No,' thinks I to myself, 'but you be living in our house, and you may bring Mark into trouble over it,' for he's a soft-hearted gander at times. So down I goes to Bankes's place last night. 'Just turn to the debt-book, young man,' says I to the gentleman behind the counter—it were the one with the dark hair—'and tell me how much is owed by Caroline Mason.' 'Come to settle it?' asks he. 'Maybe, and maybe not,' says I. 'I wants my question answered, whether or no.' Are you listening, Charlotte East?"
Charlotte lifted her eyes from her work. "Yes."
"He lays hold of a big book," continues Mrs. Mason, who was talking her face crimson, "and draws his finger down its pages. 'Caroline Mason—Caroline Mason,' says he. 'I don't think we have anything against her. No: it's crossed off. There was a trifle against her, but she paid it last week.' Well, I stood staring at the man, thinking he was deceiving me, saying she hadpaid. 'When did she pay for that shawl she had in the winter, and how much did it cost?' asks I. 'Shawl?' says he. 'Caroline Mason hasn't had no shawl of us.' 'Nor a gown at Easter—a fancy sort of thing, with stripes?' I goes on: 'nor a cameon brooch last week? nor a scarf with yaller fringe?' 'Nothing o' the sort,' says he, decisive. 'Caroline Mason hasn't bought any of those things from us. She had some bonnet ribbon, and that she paid for.' Now, what was I to think?" concluded Mrs. Mason.
Charlotte did not know.
"I comes home a-pondering, and at the corner of the lane I catches sight of a certain gentleman loitering about in the shade. The truth flashed into my mind. 'He's after our Caroline,' says I to myself; 'and it's him that has given her the things, and we shall just have her a world's spectacle!' I accused Eliza Tyrrett of being the confidant. 'It isn't me,' says she; 'it's Charlotte East.' So I bottled up my temper till now, and now I've come to learn the rights on't."
"I cannot tell you the rights," replied Charlotte. "I do not know them. I have striven to give Caroline some good advice lately, and that is all I have had to do with it. Mrs. Mason, you know that I should never advise Caroline, or any one else, but for her good."
Mrs. Mason would have acknowledged this in a cooler moment. "Why did that Tyrrett girl laugh at me, then? And why did Carry say she spent her evenings here?" cried she. "The gentleman I see was young Anthony Dare: and Carry had better bury herself alive than be drawn aside by his nonsense."
"Much better," acquiesced Charlotte. "Where is Caroline?"
"Under lock and key," said Mrs. Mason.
"Under lock and key!" echoed Charlotte.
"Yes; under lock and key; and there she shall stop. She was out all this blessed morning with Eliza Tyrrett, and never walked herself in till after Mark had had his dinner and was gone. So then I began upon her. My temper was up, and I didn't spare her. I vowed I'd tell Mark what I had seen and heard, and what sort of a wolf she allowed to make her presents of fine clothes. With that she turned wild and flung up to her room in the cock-loft, and I followed and locked her in."
"You have done very wrong," said Charlotte. "It is not by harshness that any good will be done with Caroline. You know her disposition: a child might lead her by kindness, but she rises up against harshness. My opinion is that she never would have given the least trouble at all had you made her a better home."
This bold avowal took away Mrs. Mason's breath. "A better home!" cried she, when she could speak. "A better home! Fed upon French rolls and lobster salad and apricot tarts, and give her a lady's maid to hook-and-eye her gown for her! My heart! that beats all."
"I don't speak of food, and that sort of thing," rejoined Charlotte. "If you had treated her with kind words instead of cross ones she would have been as good a girl as ever lived. Instead of that you have made your home unbearable; and so driven her out, with her dangerous good looks, to be told of them by the first idler who came across her: and that seems to have been Anthony Dare. Go home and let her out of where you have locked her in; do, Hetty Mason! Let her out, and speak kindly to her, and treat her as a sister; and you'll undo all the bad yet."
"I shan't then!" was the passionate reply. "I'll see you and her hung first, before I speak kind to her to encourage her in her loose ways!"
Mrs. Mason flung out of the house as she concluded, giving the door a bang which only had the effect of sending it open again. Charlotte sighed as she rose to close it: not only for any peril that Caroline Mason might be in, but for the general blindness, the distorted views of right and wrong, which seemed to obtain amidst the women of Honey Fair.
A profusion of glass and plate glittered on the dining-table of Mr. Dare. It was six o'clock, and they had just sat down. Mrs. Dare, in a light gauze dress and blonde head-dress, sat at the head of the table. There was a large family of them; four sons and four daughters; and all were present; also Miss Benyon, the governess. Anthony and Herbert sat on either side Mrs. Dare; Adelaide and Julia, the eldest daughters, near their father; the four other children, Cyril and George, Rosa and Minny, were between them.
Mr. Dare was helping the salmon. In due course, a plate, followed by the sauce, was carried to Anthony.
"What's this! Melted butter! Where's the lobster sauce?"
"There is no lobster sauce to-day," said Mrs. Dare. "We sent late, and the lobsters were all gone. There was a small supply. Joseph, take the anchovy to Mr. Anthony."
Mr. Anthony jerked the anchovy sauce off the salver, dashed some on to his plate, and jerked the bottle back again. Not with a very good grace: his palate was a dainty one. Indeed, it was a family complaint.
"I wouldn't give a fig for salmon without lobster sauce," he cried. "I hope you won't send late again."
"It was the cook's fault," said Mrs. Dare. "She did not fully understand my orders."
"Deaf old creature!" exclaimed Anthony.
"Anthony, there's cucumber," said Julia, looking down the table at her brother. "Ann, take the cucumber to Mr. Anthony."
"You know I never eat cucumber with salmon," grumbled Anthony, in reply. And it was not graciously spoken, for the offer had been dictated by good-nature.
A pause ensued. It was at length broken by Mrs. Dare.
"Herbert, are you growing more reconciled to office-work?"
"No; and never shall," returned Herbert. "From ten till five is an awful clog upon one's time; it's as bad as school."
Mr. Dare looked up from his plate. "You might have been put to a profession that would occupy a great deal more time than that, Herbert. What calls have you upon your time, pray, that it is so valuable? Will you take some more fish?"
"Well, I don't know. I think I will. It is good to-day; very good with the cucumber, that Anthony despises."
Ann took his plate up to Mr. Dare.
"Anthony," said that gentleman, as he helped the salmon, "where were you this afternoon? You were away from the office altogether, after two o'clock."
"Out with Hawkesley," shortly replied Anthony.
"Yes; it is all very well to say, 'Out with Hawkesley,' but the office suffers. I wish you young men were not quite so fond of taking your pleasure."
"A little more fish, sir?" asked Joseph of Anthony.
"Not if I know it."
The second course came in. A quarter of lamb, asparagus and other vegetables. Herbert looked cross. He had recently taken a dislike to lamb, or fancied he had done so.
"Of course there's something coming for me!" he said.
"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Dare. "Cook knows you don't like lamb."
Nothing, however, came in. Ann was sent to inquire the reason of the neglect. The cook had been unable to procure veal cutlet, and Master Herbert had said if she ever sent him up a mutton-chop again he should throw it at her head. Such was the message brought back.
"What an old story-teller she must be to say she could not get veal cutlet!" exclaimed Herbert. "I hate mutton and lamb, and I am not going to eat either one or the other."
"I heard the butcher say this morning that he had no veal, Master Herbert," interposed Ann. "This hot weather they don't kill much meat."
"Why have you taken this dislike to lamb, Herbert?" asked Mr. Dare. "You have eaten it all the season."
"That's just it," answered Herbert. "I have eaten so much of it that I am sick of it."
"Never mind, Herbert," said his mother. "There's a cherry tart coming and a delicious lemon pudding. I don't think you can be so very hungry; you went twice to salmon."
Herbert was not in a good humour. All the Dares had been culpably pampered, and of course it bore its fruits. He sat drumming with his silver fork upon the table, condescending to try a little asparagus, and a great deal of both pie and pudding. Cheese, salad, and dessert followed, of which Herbert partook plentifully. Still he thought he was terribly used in not having had different meat specially provided for him; and he could not recover his good humour. I tell you the Dares had been most culpably indulged. The house was one of luxury and profusion, and every little whim and fancy had been studied. It is one of the worst schools a child can be reared in.
The three younger daughters and the governess withdrew, after taking each a glass of wine. Cyril and George went off likewise, to their lessons or to play. It was their own affair, and Mr. Dare made it no concern of his. Presently Mrs. Dare and Adelaide rose.
"Hawkesley's coming in this evening," called out Anthony, as they were going through the door.
Adelaide turned. "What did you say, Anthony?"
"Lord Hawkesley's coming. At least he said he would look in for an hour. But there's no dependence to be placed on him."
"We must be in the large drawing-room, mamma, this evening," said Adelaide, as they crossed the hall. "Miss Benyon and the children can take tea in the school-room."
"Yes," assented Mrs. Dare. "It is bad form to have one's drawing-room cucumbered with children, and Lord Hawkesley understands all that. Let them be in the school-room."
"Julia also?"
Mrs. Dare shrugged her shoulders. "If you can persuade her into it. I don't think Julia will consent to take tea in the school-room. Why should she?"
Adelaide vouchsafed no reply. Dutiful children they were not—affectionate children they were not—they had not been brought up to be so. Mrs. Dare was of the world, worldly: very much so: and that leaves very little time upon the hands for earnest duties. She had taken no pains to train her children: she had given them very little love. This conversation had taken place in the hall. Mrs. Dare went upstairs to the large drawing-room, a really handsome room. She rang the bell and gave sundry orders, the moving motive for all being the doubtful visit of Viscount Hawkesley—ices from the pastrycook's, a tray of refreshments, the best china, the best silver. Then Mrs. Dare reclined in her chair for her after-dinner nap—an indulgence she much favoured.
Adelaide Dare entered the smaller drawing-room, an apartment more commonly used, and opening from the hall. Julia was reading a book just brought in from the library. Miss Benyon was softly playing, and the two little ones were quarrelling. Miss Benyon turned round from the piano when Adelaide entered.
"You must make tea in the school-room this evening, Miss Benyon, for the children. Julia, you are to take yours there."
Julia looked up from her book. "Who says so?"
"Mamma. Lord Hawkesley's coming, and we cannot have the drawing-room crowded."
"I am not going to keep out of the drawing-room for Lord Hawkesley," returned Julia, a quiet girl in appearance and manner. "Who is Lord Hawkesley, that he should disarrange the economy of the house? There's so much ceremony and parade observed when he comes that it upsets all comfort. Your lordship this, and your lordship that; and papa my-lording him to the skies. I don't like it. He looks down upon us—I know he does—although he condescends to make a sort of friend of Anthony."
Adelaide Dare's dark eyes flashed and her face crimsoned. She was a handsome girl. "Julia! I do think you are an idiot!"
"Perhaps I am," composedly returned Julia, who was of a careless, easy temper; "but I am not going to be kept out of the drawing-room for my Lord Hawkesley. Let me go on with my book in peace, Adelaide: it is a charming one."
Meanwhile Herbert Dare, seeing no prospect of more wine in store—for Mr. Dare, with wonderful prudence, told Herbert that two glasses of port were sufficient for him—left his seat, and bolted out at the dining-room window, which opened on to the ground. He ran into the hall for his hat, and then, speeding across the lawn, passed into the high-road. Anthony remained alone with his father; and Anthony was plucking up courage to speak upon a subject that was causing him some perplexity. He plunged into it at once.
"Father, I am in a mess. I have managed to outrun the constable."
Mr. Dare was at that moment holding his glass of wine between his eye and the light. The words quite scared him. He set his glass down and looked at Anthony.
"How's that? How have you managed that?"
"I don't know how it has come about," was Anthony's answer. "It is so, sir; and you must be so good as to help me out of it."
"Your allowance is sufficient—amply so. Do you forget that I set you clear of debt at the beginning of the year? What money do you want?"
Anthony Dare began pulling the fringe out of the dessert napkin, to the great detriment of the damask. "Two hundred pounds, sir."
"Two hundred pounds!" echoed Mr. Dare, a dark expression clouding his handsome face. "Do you want to ruin me, Anthony? Look at my expenses! Look at the claims upon me! I say that your allowance is a liberal one, and you ought to keep within it."
Anthony sat biting his lip. "I would not have applied to you, sir, if I could have helped it; but I am driven into a corner andmustfind money. I and Hawkesley drew some bills together. He has taken up two, and I——"
"Then you and Hawkesley were a couple of fools for your pains," intemperately interrupted Mr. Dare. "There's no game so dangerous, so delusive, as that of drawing bills. Have I not told you so, over and over again? Simple debt may be put off from month to month, and from year to year; but bills are nasty things. When I was a young man I lived for years upon promises to pay, but I took care not to put my name to a bill."
"Hawkesley——"
"Hawkesley may do what you must not," interrupted Mr. Dare, drowning his son's voice. "He has his father's long rent-roll to turn to. Recollect, Anthony, this must not occur again. It is impossible that I can be called upon periodically for these sums. Herbert is almost a man, and Cyril and George are growing up. A pretty thing, if you were all to come upon me in this manner. I have to exert my wits as it is, I can tell you. I'll give you a cheque to-morrow; and I should serve you right if I were to put you upon half allowance until I am repaid."
Mr. Dare finished his wine, rang for the table to be cleared, and left the room. Anthony remained standing against the side of the window, half in, half out, buried in a brown study, when Herbert came up, leaping over the grass. Herbert was nearly as tall as Anthony. He had been for some time articled to his father, but had only joined the office the previous Midsummer. He looked into the room and saw it was empty.
"Where's the governor?"
"Gone somewhere. Into the drawing-room, perhaps," replied Anthony.
"What a nuisance!" ejaculated Herbert. "One can't talk to him before the girls. I want twenty-five shillings from him. Markham has the primest fishing-rod to sell, and I must have it."
"Twenty-five shillings for a fishing-rod!" cried Anthony.
"And cheap at the price," answered Herbert. "You don't often see so complete a thing as this. Markham would not part with it—it's a relic of his better days, he says—only his old mother wants some comfort or other which he can't otherwise afford. The case——"
"You have half-a-dozen fishing-rods already."
"Half a dozen rubbish! That's what they are, compared with this one. It's no business of yours, Anthony."
"Not at all. But you'll oblige me, Herbert, by not bothering the governor for money to-night. I have been asking him for some, and it has put him out."
"Did you get it?"
Anthony nodded.
"Then you'll let me have the one-pound-five, Anthony?"
"I can't," returned Anthony. "I shall have a cheque to-morrow, and I must pay it away whole.Thatwon't clear me. But I didn't dare to tell of more."
"If I don't get that fishing-rod to-night, Markham may sell it to some one else," grumbled Herbert.
"Go and get it," replied Anthony. "Promise him the money for to-morrow. You are not obliged to give it, you know. The governor has just said that he lived for years upon promises to pay."
"Markham wants the money down."
"He'll think that as good as down if you tell him he shall have it to-morrow. Bring the fishing-rod away; possession's nine points of the law, you know."
"He'll make such an awful row afterwards, if he finds he does not get the money."
"Let him. You can row again. It's the easiest thing on earth to fence off little paltry debts like that. People get tired of asking for them."
Away vaulted Herbert for the fishing-rod. Anthony yawned, stretched himself, and walked out just as twilight was fading. He was going out to keep an appointment.
Herbert Dare went back to Markham's. The man—though, indeed, so far as birth went he might be called a gentleman—lived a little way beyond Mr. Dare's. The cottage was situated in the midst of a large garden, in which Markham worked late and early. He had a very, very small patrimony upon which he lived and kept his mother. He was bending over one of the beds when Herbert returned. "He would take the fishing-rod then, and bring the money over at nine in the morning, before going to the office. Mr. Dare was gone out, or he would have brought it at once," was the substance of the words in which Herbert concluded the negotiation.
Could they have looked behind the hedge at that moment, Herbert Dare and Markham, they would have seen two young gentlemen suddenly duck down under its shelter, creep silently along, heedless of the ditch, which, however, was tolerably dry at that season, make a sudden bolt across the road, when they got opposite Mr. Dare's entrance, and whisk within its gates. They were Cyril and George. That they had been at some mischief and were trying to escape detection, was unmistakable. Under cover of the garden-wall, as they had previously done under cover of the hedge, crept they; sprang into the house by the dining-room window, tore up the stairs, and took refuge in the drawing-room, startlingly arousing Mrs. Dare from her after-dinner slumbers.
In point of fact, they had reckoned upon finding the room unoccupied.
Aroused thus abruptly out of sleep, cross and startled, Mrs. Dare attacked the two boys with angry words. "I will know what you have been doing," she exclaimed, rising and shaking out the flounces of her dress. "You have been at some mischief! Why do you come violently in, in this manner, looking as frightened as hares?"
"Not frightened," replied Cyril. "We are only hot. We had a run for it."
"A run for what?" she repeated. "When I say I will know a thing, I mean to know it. I ask you what you have been doing?"
"It's nothing very dreadful, that you need put yourself out," replied George. "One of old Markham's windows has come to grief."
"Then that's through throwing stones again!" exclaimed Mrs. Dare. "Now I am certain of it, and you need not attempt to deny it. You shall pay for it out of your own pocket-money if he comes here, as he did the last time."
"Ah, but he won't come here," returned Cyril. "He didn't see us. Is tea not ready?"
"You can go to the school-room and see. You are to take it there this evening."
The boys tore away to the school-room. Unlike Julia, they did not care where they took it, provided they had it. Miss Benyon was pouring out the tea as they entered. They threw themselves on a sofa, and burst into a fit of laughter so immoderate and long that their two young sisters crowded round eagerly, asking to hear the joke.
"It was the primest fun!" cried Cyril, when he could speak. "We have just smashed one of Markham's windows. The old woman was at it in a nightcap, and I think the stone must have touched her head. Markham and Herbert were holding a confab together and they never saw us!"
"We were chucking at the leathering bats," put in George, jealous that his brother should have all the telling to himself, "and the stone——"
"It is leather-winged bat, George," interrupted the governess. "I corrected you the other night."
"What does it matter?" roughly answered George. "I wish you wouldn't put me out. A leathering-bat dipped down nearly right upon our heads, and we both heaved at him, and one of the stones went through the window, nearly taking, as Cyril says, old Mother Markham's head. Won't they be in a temper at having to pay for it! They are as poor as charity."
"They'll make you pay," said Rosa.
"Will they?" retorted Cyril. "No catch, no have! I'll give them leave to make us pay when they find us out. Do you suppose we are donkeys, you girls? We dipped down under the hedge, and not a soul saw us. What's for tea?"
"Bread and butter," replied the governess.
"Then those may eat it that like! I shall have jam."
Cyril rang the bell as he spoke. Nancy, the maid who waited on the school-room, came in answer to it. "Some jam," said Cyril. "And be quick over it."
"What sort, sir?" inquired Nancy.
"Sort? oh—let's see: damson."
"The damson jam was finished last week, sir. It is nearly the season to make more."
Cyril replied by a rude and ugly word. After some cogitation, he decided upon black currant.
"And bring me up some apricot," put in George.
"And we'll have some gooseberry," called out Rosa. "If you boys have jam, we'll have some too."
Nancy disappeared. Cyril suddenly threw himself back on the sofa, and burst into another ringing laugh. "I can't help it," he exclaimed. "I am thinking of the old woman's fright, and their dismay at having to pay the damage."
"Do you know what I should do in your place, Cyril?" said Miss Benyon. "I should go back to Markham, and tell him honourably that I caused the accident. You know how poor they are; they cannot afford to pay for it."
Cyril stared at Miss Benyon. "Where'd be the pull of that?" asked he.
"The 'pull,' Cyril, would be, that you would repair a wrong done to an unoffending neighbour, and might go to sleep with a clear conscience."
The last suggestion amused Cyril amazingly he and conscience had not a great deal to do with each other. He was politely telling Miss Benyon that those notions were good enough for old maids, when Nancy appeared with the several sorts of jam demanded. Cyril drew his chair to the table, and Nancy went down.
"Ring the bell, Rosa," said Cyril, before the girl could well have reached the kitchen. "I can't see one sort from another; we must have candles."
"Ring it yourself," retorted Rosa.
"George, ring the bell," commanded Cyril.
George obeyed. He was under Cyril in the college school, and accustomed to obey him.
"You might have told Nancy when she was here," remarked Miss Benyon to Cyril. "It would have saved her a journey."
"And if it would?" asked Cyril. "What were servants' legs made for, but to be used?"
Nancy received the order for the candles, and brought them up. It was to be hoped her legsweremade to be used, for scarcely had Cyril begun to enjoy his black currant jam when they were heard coming up the stairs again.
"Master Cyril, Mr. Markham wants to see you."
Cyril and the rest exchanged looks. "Did you say I was at home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you were an idiot for your pains! I can't come down, tell him. I am at tea."
Down went Nancy accordingly. And back she came again. "He says he must see you, Master Cyril."
"Be a man, Cyril, and face it," whispered Miss Benyon in his ear.
Cyril jerked his head rudely away from her. "I won't go down. There! Nancy, you may tell Markham so."
"He has sat down on the garden bench, sir, outside the window to wait," explained Nancy. "He says, if you won't see him he shall ask for Mr. Dare."
Cyril appeared to be in for it. He dashed his bread and jam on the table, and clattered down. "Who's wanting me?" called out he, when he got outside. "Oh!—is it you, Markham?"
"How came you to throw a stone just now, and break my window, Cyril Dare?"
The words threw Cyril into the greatest apparent surprise. "Ithrow a stone and break your window!" repeated he. "I don't know what you mean."
"Either you or your brother threw it; you were both together. It entered my mother's bedroom window, and went within an inch of her head. I'll trouble you to send a glazier round to put the pane in."
"Well, of all strange accusations, this is about the strangest!" uttered Cyril. "We have not been near your window; we are upstairs at our tea."
At this juncture, Mr. Dare came out. He had heard the altercation in the house. "What's this?" asked he. "Good evening, Markham."
Markham explained. "They crouched down under the hedge when they had done the mischief," he continued, "thinking, no doubt, to get away undetected. But, as it happened, Brooks the nurseryman was in his ground behind the opposite hedge, and he saw the whole. He says they were throwing at the bats. Now I should be sorry to get them punished, Mr. Dare; we have been boys ourselves; but if young gentlemen will throw stones, they must pay for any damage they do. I have requested your son to send a glazier round in the morning. I am sorry he should have denied the fact."
Mr. Dare turned to Cyril. "If you did it, why do you deny it?"
Cyril hesitated for the tenth part of a second. Which would be the best policy? To give in, or to hold out? He chose the latter. His word was as good as that confounded Brooks's, and he'd brave it out! "We didn't do it," he angrily said; "we have not been near the place this evening. Brooks must have mistaken others for us in the dusk."
"They did do it, Mr. Dare. There's no mistake about it. Brooks had been watching them, and he thinks it was the bigger one who threw that particular stone. If I had set a house on fire," Markham added to Cyril, "I'd rather confess the accident, than deny it by a lie. What sort of a man do you expect to make?"
"A better one than you!" insolently retorted Cyril.
"Wait an instant," said Mr. Dare. He proceeded to the school-room to inquire of George. That young gentleman had been an admiring hearer of the colloquy from a staircase-window. He tore back to the school-room on the approach of his father; hastily deciding that he must bear out Cyril in the denial. "Now, George," said Mr. Dare, sternly, "did you and Cyril do this, or did you not?"
"Of course we did not, papa," was the ready reply. "We have not been near Markham's. Brooks must be a fool."
Mr. Dare believed him. He was leaving the room when Miss Benyon interposed.
"Sir, I should be doing wrong to allow you to be deceived. They did break the window."
The address caused Mr. Dare to pause. "How do you know it, Miss Benyon?"
Miss Benyon related what had passed. Mr. Dare cast his eyes sternly upon his youngest son. "It is you who are the fool, George, not Brooks. A lie is sure to get found out in the end; don't attempt to tell another."
Mr. Dare went down. "I cannot come quite to the bottom of this business, Markham," said he, feeling unwilling to expose his sons more than they had exposed themselves. "At all events you shall have the window put in. A pane of glass is not much on either side."
"It is a good deal to my pocket, Mr. Dare. But that's all I ask. And you know my character too well to fear I would make a doubtful claim. Brooks is open to inquiry."
He departed; and Mr. Dare touched Cyril on the arm. "Come with me."
He took him into the room, and there ensued an angry lecture. Cyril thought George had confessed, and stood silent before his father. "What a sneak he must have been!" thought Cyril. "Won't I serve him out!"
"If you have acquired the habit of speaking falsely, you had better relinquish it," resumed Mr. Dare. "It will not be a recommendation in the eyes of Mr. Ashley."
"I am not going to Ashley's," burst forth Cyril; for the mention of the subject was sure to anger him. "Turn manufacturer, indeed! I'd rather——"
"You'd rather be a gentleman at large," interrupted Mr. Dare. "But," he sarcastically added, "gentlemen require something to live upon. Listen, Cyril. One of the finest openings that I know of in this city, for a young man, is in Ashley's manufactory.Youmay despise Mr. Ashley as a manufacturer; but others respect him. He was reared a gentleman—he is regarded as one; he is wealthy, and his business is large and flourishing. Suppose you could drop into this, after him?—succeed to this fine business, its sole proprietor? I can tell you that you would occupy a better position, and be in receipt of a far larger income than either Anthony or Herbert will be."
"But there's no such chance as that, for me," debated Cyril.
"There is the chance: and that's why you are to be placed there. Henry, from his infirmity, is not to be brought up to business, and there is no other son. You will be apprenticed to Mr. Ashley, with a view to succeeding, as a son would, first of all to a partnership with him, eventually to the whole. Now, this is the prospect before you, Cyril; and prejudiced though you are, you must see that it is a fine one."
"Well," acknowledged Cyril, "I wouldn't object to drop into a good thing like that. Has Mr. Ashley proposed it?"
"No, he has not distinctly proposed it. But he did admit, when your apprenticeship was being spoken of, that he might be wanting somebody to succeed him. He more than hinted that whoever might be chosen to succeed him, or to be associated with him, must be rendered fit for the connection by being an estimable and a good man; one held in honour by his fellow citizens. No other could be linked with the name of Ashley. And now, sir, what do you think he, Mr. Ashley, would say to your behaviour to-night?"
Cyril looked rather shame-faced.
"You will go to Mr. Ashley's, Cyril. But I wish you to remember, to remember always, that the ultimate advantages will depend upon yourself and your conduct. Become a good man, and there's little doubt they will be yours; turn out indifferently, and there's not the slightest chance for you."
"I shan't succeed to any of Ashley's money, I suppose?" complacently questioned Cyril, who somewhat ignored the conditions, and saw himself in prospective Mr. Ashley's successor.