XIX. THE DUPLICATE CLOAKS…

XIX. THE DUPLICATE CLOAKS

Leaning back against the corner of the mantel-piece by the side of the blazing fire in his private room, calmly surveying those ranged before him, and listening to their tale with an impassive face, was Thomas Ashley. Sergeant Delves and Mr. Dare were giving him the account of the changing of the cheque, obtained from White the butcher. Samuel Lynn stood near the master's desk, his brow knit in perplexity, his countenance keen and anxious. The description of the cloak, tallying so exactly with the one worn by William Halliburton, led Mr. Dare to the conclusion, nay, to the positive conviction that the butcher's visitor could have been no other than William. The sergeant held the same view; but the sergeant adopted it with difficulty.

"It's an odd thing for him to turn thief," said he, reflectively. "I'd have trusted that young fellow, sir, with untold gold," he added, to Mr. Ashley. "Here's another proof how we may be deceived."

"I told you," said Mr. Dare, turning to Mr. Ashley, "that it could be no other than Halliburton."

"Thee will permit me to say, friend Dare, that I do not agree with thy deductions," interposed the Quaker, before Mr. Ashley could answer.

"Why, what would you have?" returned Mr. Dare. "Nothing can be plainer. Ask Sergeant Delves if he thinks further proof can be needed."

"Many a man has been hanged upon less," was the oracular answer of Sergeant Delves.

"What part of my deductions do you object to?" inquired Mr. Dare of the Quaker.

"Thee art assuming--if I understand thee correctly--that there is no other cloak in the city so similar to William's as to be mistaken for it."

"Just so."

"Then, friend, I tell thee that there is."

Mr. Dare opened his eyes. "Who wears it?" he asked.

"That is another question," said Samuel Lynn. "I should be glad to find out myself, for curiosity's sake."

Then Mr. Lynn told the story of his having observed a man, whom he had taken for William, walking at the back of his house, apparently waiting for something. "I saw him on two evenings," he observed, "at some considerable interval of time. The figure bore a perfect resemblance to William Halliburton; the height, the cloak, the cap--all appeared to be his. I taxed him with it. He denied it in toto, said he had not been walking there at all, and I believed he was attempting, for the first time since I have known him, to deceive me. I----"

"Are you sure he was not?" put in Mr. Dare.

"Thee should allow me to finish, friend. Last night I was home somewhat earlier than usual--thee can recollect why," the Quaker added, looking at Mr. Ashley. "I was up in my room, and I saw the same figure pacing about in precisely the same manner. William's denial had staggered me, otherwise I could have been ready to affirm that it was himself and no other. The moon was not up; but it was a very light night, and I marked every point in the cloak--it was as like William's as two peas are like each other. What he could want, pacing at the back of my house and of his, puzzled me much. I----"

"What time was this, Mr. Lynn?" interrupted the sergeant.

"Past eight o'clock. Later than the hour at which I had seen him on the two previous occasions. 'It is William Halliburton, of a surety,' I said to myself; and I thought I would pounce upon him, and so convict him of the falsehood he had told. I left my house by the front door, went down the road, past the houses, and entered the gate admitting into the field. I walked up quietly, keeping under the hedge as much as possible, and approached William--as I deemed him to be. He was then standing still, and gazing at the upper windows of my house. In spite of my caution, he heard me, and turned round. Whether he knew me or not, I cannot say; but he clipped the cloak around him with a hasty movement, and made off right across the field. I would not be balked if I could help it. I opened friend Jane Halliburton's back gate, and proceeded through the garden and house to the parlour, which I entered without ceremony. There sat William at his books."

"Then it was not he, after all!" cried Mr. Dare, interested in the tale.

"Of a surety it was not he. I tell thee, friend, he was seated quietly at his studies. 'Hast thee lent thy cloak to a friend to-night?' I asked him. He looked surprised, and said he had not. But, to be convinced, I requested to see his cloak, and he took me outside the door, and there was the cloak hanging up in the passage, his cap beside it. That is why I did not approve of thy deductions, friend Anthony Dare, in assuming that the cloak, which the man had on who changed the cheque, must be William Halliburton's," concluded Mr. Lynn.

"You say the man looked like William when you were close to him?" inquired Mr. Ashley, who thought the whole affair very curious, and now broke silence for the first time.

"Very much like him," answered Samuel Lynn. "But the resemblance may have been only in the cloak and cap. The face was not discernible; by accident or design, it was concealed. I think there need not be better negative proof that it was not William who changed the cheque."

Mr. Ashley smiled. "Without this evidence of Mr. Lynn's I could have told you it was waste of time to cast suspicion on William Halliburton to me," said he, addressing the sergeant and Mr. Dare. "Were you to come here and accuse myself, it would make just as much impression upon me. Wait an instant, gentlemen."

He went to the door, opened it, and called William. The latter came in, erect, courteous, noble--never suspecting the sergeant's business there could have anything to do with him.

"William," began his master, "who is it that wears a similar cloak to yours, in the town?"

"I am unable to say, sir," was William's ready reply. "Until last night," and he turned to Samuel Lynn with a smile, "I should have said there was not another like it. I suppose now there must be one."

"If there is one, there may be more," remarked Mr. Ashley. "The fact is, William, the cheque has been traced. It was changed at White's, the butcher; and the person changing it wore a cloak, it seems, very much like yours."

"Indeed!" cried William, with animation. "Well, sir, of course there may be many such cloaks in the town. All I can say is, I have not seen them."

"There can't be many," spoke up the sergeant, "if it be the old-fashioned sort of thing described to me."

William looked the sergeant full in the face with his open countenance, his honest eyes. No guilt there. "Would you like to see my cloak?" he asked. "It may be a guide, if you think the one worn resembled it."

The sergeant nodded. "I was going to ask you to bring it in, if it was here."

William brought it in. "It is one of the bygones," said he laughing. "I have some thoughts of forwarding it to the British Museum, as a specimen of antiquity. Stay! I will put it on, that you may see its beauties the better."

He threw the cloak over his shoulders, and exhibited himself off, as he had done once before in that counting-house for the benefit of Samuel Lynn. "I think the British Museum will get it," he continued, in the same joking spirit. "Not until winter's over, though. It is a good friend on a cold night."

Sergeant Delves' eyes were riveted on the cloak. "Where have I seen that cloak?" he mused, in a dreamy tone. "Lately, too!"

"You may have seen me in it," said William.

The sergeant shook his head. He lifted one hand to his temples, and proceeded to rub them gently, as if the process would assist his memory, never once relaxing his gaze.

"Did White say the changer of the cheque was a tall man?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"Yes," said Mr. Dare. "Whether he meant as tall as William Halliburton, I cannot say. There are not--why, I should think there are not a hundred men in the town who come up to that height," he added, looking at William.

"Yourself one of them," said William, turning to him with a smile.

Mr. Dare shook his head, a regret for his past youth crossing his heart. "Ay, once. I am beginning to grow downward now."

Mr. Ashley was buried in reflection. There was a curious sound of mystery about the tale altogether, to his ears. That there were many thieves in Helstonleigh, he did not doubt--people who would appropriate a cheque, or anything else that came in their way; but why the same person--if it was the same--should pace the cold field at night, watching Samuel Lynn's house, was inexplicable. "It may not be the same," he observed aloud. "Shall you watch for the man again?" he asked of Mr. Lynn.

"I shall not give myself much trouble over it now," was the reply. "While I was concerned to ascertain William's truthfulness----"

"I scarcely think you need have doubted it, Mr. Lynn," interrupted William.

"True. I have never doubted thee yet. But it appeared to be thy word against the sight of my own eyes. The master will understand----"

A most extraordinary interruption came from Sergeant Delves. He threw up his head with a start, and gave vent to a shrill, prolonged whistle. "It looks dark!" cried he.

"What didst thee say, friend Delves?"

"I beg pardon, gentlemen," answered the sergeant. "I was not speaking to any of you; I was following up the bent of mine own thoughts. It suddenly flashed into my mind who it is that I have seen in one of these cloaks."

"And who is it?" asked Mr. Dare.

"You must excuse me, sir, if I keep that to myself," was the answer.

"As tall a man as William Halliburton?"

The sergeant ran his eyes up and down William's figure. "A shade taller, I should say, if anything."

"And it struck me that the man who made off across the field was a shade taller," observed Samuel Lynn.

"Well, I can't make sense of it," resumed Mr. Dare, breaking a pause. "Let us allow, if you like, that there are fifty such cloaks in the town. Unless one, wearing such, had access to Mr. Ashley's counting-house, to this very room that we are now in, how does the fact of there being others remove the suspicion from William Halliburton?"

Mr. Dare had not intended wilfully to cause him pain. He had forgotten for the moment that William was a stranger to the doubt raised touching himself. Amidst the deep silence that ensued, William looked from one to the other.

"Who suspects me?" he asked, surprise the only emotion in his tone.

Sergeant Delves tapped him significantly on the shoulder. "Never you trouble yourself, young sir. If what has come into my mind be right, it isn't you who are guilty."

When he and Mr. Dare went out, Mr. Ashley followed them to the outer gate. As they stood there talking, Frank Halliburton passed. "Look here," thought the sergeant to himself, "there's not much doubt as to the black sheep--I see that: but it's as well, to be on the sure side. Young man," cried he aloud to Frank, in the authoritative, patronizing manner which Sergeant Delves was fond of assuming when he could, "what time did your brother William get home last Saturday night? I suppose you know, if you were at home yourself."

Frank looked at him rather haughtily. "I know," he replied. "I have yet to learn why you need know."

"Tell him, Frank," said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.

"It was a little after ten," said Frank.

"Did he go out again?" asked the sergeant.

"Out again at that time!" cried Frank. "No: he did not go out again. We sat talking together ever so long, and then went up to bed."

"Ah!" rejoined the sergeant. It was all he answered. And he wished Mr. Ashley good day, and departed with Mr. Dare.

"I am going to Oxford at Easter, Mr. Ashley," cried Frank with animation.

"I am pleased to hear it."

"But only as a servitor. I don't mind," he added, throwing back his head with pardonable pride. "Let me once get a start, and I hope to rise above some who go there as gentlemen-commoners. I intend to make this my circuit," he went on, half jokingly, half seriously.

"You are ambitious, Frank. I heartily wish you success. There's nothing like keeping a good heart."

"Oh yes, success is not doubtful. I'll do battle with all the obstructions in my course. Good afternoon, sir."

William, curious and anxious, could make nothing of his books that night at home. At length he threw up, put on the notable cloak, and went down to the manufactory. He found Mr. Ashley there; and the counting-house soon received an addition to its company in the person of Sergeant Delves. He had come in search of William. Not being aware that William was allowed the privilege of spending his evenings at home, he had supposed the manufactory was the place to find him in.

"I want you down at White's," said the sergeant. "Put on your cloak, will you be so good, Mr. Halliburton, and come with me?"

"Do you suspect me?" was William's answer.

"No, I don't," returned the sergeant. "I told you before, to-day, that I did not. The fact is"--dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper--"I want to do a little bit of private inquiry on my own account. I have a clue to the party: and I should like to work it out."

"If you have a sufficient clue, the party had better be arrested at once," observed Mr. Ashley.

"Ah, but it's not sufficient for that," nodded the sergeant. "No, Mr. Ashley, sir; my strong advice to you is, keep quiet a bit."

They started for the butcher's, William wearing his cloak and cap, and Mr. Ashley accompanying them. Mr. Ashley possessed his own curiosity upon various points; perhaps his own doubts.

"It is strange who this man can be who walks at the back of your house," observed Mr. Ashley to William, as they went along. "What can be his motive for walking there, dressed like you?"

"It is curious, sir."

"I should suppose it can only arise from a desire that he should be taken for you," continued Mr. Ashley. "But to what end? Why should he walk there at all?"

"Why, indeed!" responded William.

"What coloured gloves are you wearing?" abruptly interrupted Sergeant Delves.

William took his hands from beneath his cloak, and held them out. They were of the darkest possible colour, next to black; the shade called in the glove trade "corbeau." "These are all I have in use at present," he said. "They are nearly new."

"Have you worn any light gloves lately? Tan or fawn?"

"I scarcely ever wear tan gloves. I have not put on a pair for months."

They arrived at the butcher's and entered. White was standing at his block, chopping a bone in two. He lifted his head, and touched his hair to Mr. Ashley.

"Is this the gentleman who had the money of you for the cheque?" began Sergeant Delves, without circumlocution.

Mr. White put down his chopper, and took a survey of William. "It's like the cloak and cap that the other wore," said he.

Sergeants take up words quickly. "That the 'other' wore? Then you do not think it was this one?"

"No, I don't," decided the butcher. "The one who brought the cheque was a shorter man."

"Shorter!" repeated Mr. Ashley, remembering it had been said in his counting-house that the man who appeared to be personating William was thought to have the advantage the other way. "You mean taller, White."

"No, sir, I mean shorter. I am sure he was shorter. Not much, though."

There was a pause. "You observed that his gloves were tan, I think," said the sergeant.

"Something of that sort. Clean light gloves they were, such as gentlemen wear."

"Finally, then, White, you decide that this was not the gentleman?"

"Not he," said the butcher. "It's not the same voice."

"The voice goes for nothing," said Sergeant Delves. "The other one had plums in his mouth."

"Well," said the butcher, "I think I should have known Mr. Halliburton, in spite of any disguise, had he come in."

"Don't make too sure, White," said the sergeant, with one of his wise nods. "He who came might have turned out to be just as familiar to you as Mr. Halliburton, if he had let you see his face. The fact is, White, there's some one going about with a cloak like this, and we want to find out who it is. Mr. Halliburton would give a pound out of his pocket, I'm sure, to know."

"I'd give two," said Mr. Ashley, with a smile.

"Sir," asked the butcher of Mr. Ashley, "what about the money? Shall I lose it?"

"Now, White, just wait a bit," put in the sergeant. "If it was a gentleman that changed it, perhaps we shall get it out of him. Any way, you keep quiet."

They left the shop--standing a moment together before parting. The sergeant's road lay one way; Mr. Ashley's and William's another. "This only makes the matter more obscure," observed Mr. Ashley, alluding to what had passed.

"Not at all. It makes it all the more clear," was the cool reply of the sergeant.

"White says the man was shorter than Mr. Halliburton."

"It's just what I expected him to say," nodded the sergeant. "If I am on the right scent--and I'd lay a thousand pound on it!--the man who changed the cheque is shorter. I just wanted White's evidence on the point," he added, looking at William; "and that is why I asked you to come down, dressed in your cloak. Good night, gentlemen."

He turned up the Shambles. And Mr. Ashley and William walked away side by side.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XX. IN THE STARLIGHT

The conversation at Mr. Dare's dinner-table again turned upon the loss of the cheque, and the proceedings thereon. It was natural that it should turn upon it. Mr. Dare's mind was full of it; and he gave utterance to various conjectures and speculations, as they occurred to him.

"In spite of what they say, I cannot help thinking that it must have been William Halliburton," he remarked with emphasis. "He alone was in the counting-house when the cheque disappeared; and the person changing it at White's, is proved to have borne the strongest possible resemblance to him; at all events, to his dress. The face was hidden--as of course it would be. People who attempt to pass off stolen cheques, take pretty good care that their features are not seen.

"But who hesitates to bring it home to Halliburton?" inquired Mrs. Dare.

"They all do--as it seems to me. Ashley won't hear a word: laughs at the idea of Halliburton's being capable of it, and says we may as well accuse himself. That's nothing: as Cyril says, Mr. Ashley appears to be imbued with the idea that Halliburton can do no wrong: but now Delves has veered round. He shifts the blame entirely off Halliburton."

"Upon whom does he shift it?" asked Anthony Dare.

"He won't say," replied Mr. Dare. "He has grown mysterious over it since the afternoon; nodding and winking, and giving no explanation. He says he knows who it is who possesses the second cloak."

"The second cloak!" The words were a puzzle to most at table, and Mr. Dare had to explain that another cloak, similar to that worn by William Halliburton, was supposed to be in existence.

Cyril looked up, with wonder marked on his face. "Does Delves say there are two such cloaks?" asked he.

"That there are two such cloaks appears to be an indisputable fact," replied Mr. Dare. "The one cloak was parading behind the Halliburtons' house last night. Samuel Lynn went up to it----"

"The cloak parading tout seul--alone?" interrupted Signora Varsini, with a perplexed air.

A laugh went round the table. "Accompanied by the wearer, mademoiselle," said Mr. Dare, continuing the account of Samuel Lynn's adventure. "Thus the fact of there being two cloaks is established," he proceeded. "Still, that tells nothing; unless the owner of the other has access to Mr. Ashley's counting-house. I pointed this fact out to them. But Delves--which is most unaccountable--differed from me; and when we parted he expressed an opinion, with that confident nod of his, that it was not Halliburton's cloak which had been in the mischief at the butcher's, but the other."

"What a thundering falsehood!" burst forth Herbert Dare.

"Sir!" cried Mr. Dare, while all around the table stared at Herbert's excited manner.

Herbert had the grace to feel ashamed of his abrupt and intemperate rudeness. "I beg your pardon, sir; I spoke in my surprise. I mean that Delves must be telling a falsehood, if he seeks to throw the guilt off Halliburton. The very fact of the fellow's wearing a strange cloak such as that, when he went to get rid of the cheque, must be proof positive of Halliburton's guilt."

"So I think," acquiesced Mr. Dare.

"What sort of a cloak is this that you laugh at, and call scarce?" inquired the governess.

"The greatest scarecrow of a thing you can conceive, mademoiselle," responded Mr. Dare. "I had the pleasure of seeing it to-day on Halliburton. It is a dark green-and-blue Scotch plaid, made very full, with a turned up collar lined with red, and a bit of fur edging it."

"Plaid? Plaid?" repeated mademoiselle. "Why it must be----"

"What?" asked Mr. Dare, for she had stopped.

"It must be very ugly," concluded she. But somehow Mr. Dare gathered an impression that it was not what she had been about to say.

"What is it that Delves says about the cloaks?" eagerly questioned Cyril. "I cannot make it out."

"Delves says he knows who it is that owns the other; and that it was the other which went to change the cheque at White's."

"What mysterious words, papa!" cried Adelaide. "The cloak went to change the cheque!"

"They were Delves' own words," replied Mr. Dare. "He did seem remarkably mysterious over it."

"Is he going to hunt up the other cloak?" resumed Cyril.

"I conclude so. He was pondering over it for some time before he could remember who it was that he had seen wear a similar cloak. When the recollection came to him, he started up with surprise. Sharp men, these police-officers!" added Mr. Dare. "They forget nothing."

"And they ferret out everything," said Herbert with some testiness. "Instead of wasting time over vain speculations touching cloaks, why does not he secure Halliburton? It is impossible that the other cloak--if there is another--could have had anything to do with the affair."

"I dropped a note to Delves after he left me, recommending him to follow up the suspicion on Halliburton, whether Mr. Ashley is agreeable or not," said Mr. Dare. "I have rarely in my life met with a stronger case of presumptive evidence."

So, many, besides Mr. Dare, would have felt inclined to say. Herbert, like his father, was firm in the belief that William Halliburton must have taken the money; that it must have been he who paid the visit to the butcher. What Cyril thought may be best inferred from his actions. A sudden fear had come over him that Sergeant Delves was really going to search out the other cloak. A most inconvenient procedure for Cyril, lest, in the process, the sergeant should search out him. He laid down his knife and fork. He had had quite enough dinner for one day.

"Are you not hungry, Cyril?" asked his mother.

"I had a tremendous lunch," answered Cyril. "I can't eat more now."

He sat at the table until they had finished, feeling that he was being choked with dread. But that a guilty conscience deprives us of free action, he would have left the table and gone about some work he was now eager to do.

He rose when the rest did, looked about for a pair of large scissors, and glided with them up the staircase, his eyes and ears on the alert, lest there should be any watching him. No human being in that house had the slightest knowledge of what Cyril was about to do, or that he was going to do anything; but to Cyril's guilty conscience it seemed that all must be on the look-out.

A candle and scissors in hand he stole up to Herbert's room and locked himself in. Inside a closet within the room hung a dark blue camlet cloak, and Cyril took it from the hook. It had a plaid lining: a lining of the precise pattern and colours that the material of William Halliburton's cloak was composed of. The cloak was of the same full, old-fashioned make; its collar was lined with red, tipped with fur: in short, the one cloak worn on the right side and the other worn on the wrong side, could not have been told apart. This cloak belonged to Herbert Dare; occasionally, though not often, he went out at dusk, wearing it wrong side outermost. It was he, no doubt, whom Sergeant Delves had seen wearing one. He was a little taller than William Halliburton, towering above six feet. What his motive had been in causing a cloak to be lined so that, turned, it should resemble William Halliburton's, or whether the similarity in the lining had been accidental, was only known to Herbert himself.

With trembling fingers, and sharp scissors that were not particular where they cut, Cyril began his task of taking out this plaid lining. That he had worn it to the butcher's, and that he feared it might tell tales of him, were facts only too apparent. Better put it out of the way for ever! Unpicking, cutting, snipping, Cyril tore away at the lining, and at length got it out, the cloak suffering considerable damage in the shape of cuts and rents, and loose threads. Hanging the cloak up again, he twisted the lining together.

He was thus engaged when the handle of the door was briskly turned, as if some one essayed to enter who had not expected to find it fastened. Cyril dashed the lining under the bed, and made a spring to the window. To leap out? surely not: for the fall would have killed him. But he had nearly lost all presence of mind in his perplexity and fear.

Another turn at the handle, and the steps went on their way. Cyril thought he recognized them for the housemaid's, Betsy. He supposed she was going her evening round of the chambers. Gathering the lining under his arm, he halted to think. His hands shook, and his face was white.

What should he do with this tell-tale thing? He could not eat it; he dared not burn it. There was no room, of those which had fires, where he might make sure of being alone: and the smell would alarm the house. What was he to do with it?

Dig a hole and bury it, came a prompting voice within him; and Cyril waited for no better suggestion, but crept with it down the stairs, and out to the garden.

Seizing a spade, he dug a hole rapidly in an unfrequented place; and when it was large enough thrust the stuff in. Then he covered it over again, to leave the spot apparently as he found it.

"I wish those stars would give a stronger light," grumbled Cyril, looking up at the dark blue canopy. "I must come again in the morning, I suppose, and see that it's all safe. It wouldn't do to bring a lantern."

Now it happened that Mr. Herbert Dare was bound on a private errand that evening. His intention was to go abroad in his cloak while he executed it. Just about the time that Cyril was putting the finishing touch to the hole, Herbert went up to his room to get the cloak.

To get the cloak, indeed! When Herbert opened the closet-door, nothing except the mutilated object just described met his eye. A torn, cut thing, the threads hanging from it loosely. Nothing could exceed Herbert's consternation as he stared at it. He thought he must be in a dream. Was it his cloak? Just before dinner, when he came up to wash his hands, he had seen his cloak hanging there, perfect. He shook it, he pulled it, he peered at it. His cloak it certainly was; but who had destroyed it? A suspicion flashed into his mind that it might be the governess. He made but a few steps to the school-room, carrying the cloak with him.

The governess was sitting there, listlessly enough. Perhaps she was waiting for him. "I say, mademoiselle," he began, "what on earth have you been doing to my cloak?"

"To your cloak!" responded she. "What should I have been doing to it?"

"Look here," he said, spreading it out before her. "Who or what has done this? It was all right when I went down to dinner."

She stared at it in astonishment great as Herbert's, and threw off a volley of surprise in her foreign tongue. But she was a shrewd woman. Ay, never was there a shrewder than Bianca Varsini. Mr. Sergeant Delves was not a bad hand at ferreting out conclusions; but she would have beaten the sergeant hollow.

"Tenez," cried she, putting up her forefinger in thought, as she gazed at the cloak. "Cyril did this."

"Cyril!"

She nodded her head. "You stood it out to me that you did not come in on Saturday evening and go out again between ten and eleven----"

"I did not," interrupted Herbert. "I told you truth, but you would not believe me."

"But this cloak went out. And it was turned the plaid side outwards, and your cap was on, tied down at the ears. Naturally I thought it was you. It must have been Cyril! Do you comprehend?"

"No, I don't," said Herbert. "How mysteriously you are speaking!"

"It must have been Cyril who robbed Mr. Ashley."

"Mademoiselle!" interrupted Herbert indignantly.

"Ecoutez, mon ami. He was blanched as white as a mouchoir, while your father spoke of it at dinner--did you see that he could not eat? 'You look guilty, Monsieur Cyril,' I said to myself, not really thinking him to be so. But be persuaded it was no other. He must have taken the paper-money--or what you call it--and come home here for your cloak and cap to wear, while he changed it for gold, thinking it would fall on that other one who wears the cloak; that William Hall----I cannot say the name; c'est trop dur pour les levres. It is Cyril, and no other. He has turned afraid now, and has torn the lining out."

Herbert could make no rejoinder at first, partly in dismay, partly in astonishment. "It cannot have been Cyril!" he reiterated.

"I say it is Cyril," persisted the young lady. "I saw him creep up the stairs after dinner, with a candle and your mother's great scissors in his hand. He did not see me. I was in the dark, looking out of my room. Depend he was going to do it then."

"Then, of all blind idiots, Cyril's the worst!--if he did take the cheque," uttered Herbert. "Should it become known, he is done for; and that for life. And my father helping to fan the flame!"

The governess shrugged her shoulders. "I not like Cyril," she said. "I have never liked him since I came."

"But you will not tell against him!" cried Herbert, in fear.

"No, no, no. Tell against your brother! Why should I? It is no concern of mine. Unless people meddle with me, I not meddle with them. Cyril is safe, for me."

"What on earth am I to do for my cloak to-night?" debated Herbert. "I was going--going where I want it."

"Why you want it so to-night?" asked mademoiselle sharply.

"Because it's cold," responded Herbert. "The cloak was warmer than my overcoat is."

"Last night you go out, to-night you go out, to-morrow you go out. It is always so now!"

"I have a lot of perplexing business upon me," answered Herbert. "I have no time to see about it in the day."

Some little time longer he remained talking with her, partially disputing. The Italian, from some cause or other, went into ill-humour and said some provoking things. Herbert, it must be confessed, received them with good temper, and she grew more affable. When he left her, she offered to pick the loose threads out of the cloak, and hem up the bottom.

"You'll lock the door while you do it?" he urged.

"I will take it to my chamber," she said. "No one will molest me there."

Herbert left it with her and went out. Cyril went out. Anthony had already gone out. Mr. Dare remained at home. He and his wife were conversing over the dining-room fire, in the course of the evening, when Joseph came in.

"You are wanted, please, sir," he said to his master.

"Who wants me?" asked Mr. Dare.

"It's Policeman Delves, sir."

"Oh, show him in here," said Mr. Dare. "I hope something will be done in this," he added to his wife. "It may turn out a good slice of luck for me."

Sergeant Delves came in. In point of fact, he had just returned from that interview with the butcher, where he had been accompanied by Mr. Ashley and William.

"Well, Delves, did you get my note?" asked Mr. Dare.

"Yes, sir, I did," said the sergeant, taking the seat offered him. "It's what I have come up about."

"Do you intend to act upon my advice?"

"Why--no, I think not," replied the sergeant. "Not, at any rate, until I have had a talk with you."

"What will you take?"

"Well, sir, the night's cold. I don't mind a drop of brandy-and-water."

It was brought, and Mr. Dare joined his visitor in partaking of it. He agreed with him that the night was cold. But nothing could Mr. Dare make of him. As often as he turned the conversation on the subject in hand, so often did the sergeant turn it off again. Mrs. Dare grew tired of listening to nothing; and she departed, leaving them together.

Then the manner of Sergeant Delves changed. He drew his chair forward; and bent towards Mr. Dare.

"You have been urging me to go against young Halliburton," he began. "It won't do. Halliburton no more fingered that cheque, or had anything to do with it, than you or I had. Mr. Dare, don't you stir in this matter any further."

"My present intention is to stir it to the bottom," returned Mr. Dare.

"Look here," said the sergeant in an undertone; "I am not obliged to take notice of offences that don't come legally in my way. Many a thing has been done in this town--ay, and is being done now--that I am obliged to wink at; it don't lay right in my duty to take notice of it, so I keep my eyes shut. Now that's just it in this case. So long as the parties concerned, Mr. Ashley, or White, don't put it into my hands officially, I am not obliged to take so-and-so into custody, or to act upon my own suspicions. And I won't do it upon suspicions of my own: I promise it. If I am forced, that's another matter."

"Are you alluding to Halliburton?"

"No. You are on the wrong scent, I say."

"And you think you are on the right one?"

"I could put my finger out this night and lay it on the fox. But I tell you, sir, I don't want to, unless I am compelled. Don't you compel me, Mr. Dare, of all people in the world."

Mr. Dare leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. No suspicion of the truth had crossed him, and he could not understand either the sergeant or his manner. The latter rose to depart.

"The other cloak, similar to young Halliburton's, belongs to your son Herbert," he whispered, as he passed Mr. Dare. "It was his brother, Cyril, who wore it on Saturday night, and who changed the cheque: therefore we may give a guess as to who took the cheque out of Mr. Ashley's desk. Now you be still over it, sir, for his sake, as I shall be. If I can, I'll call at your office to-morrow, Mr. Dare, and talk further. White must have the money refunded to him, or he won't be still."

Anthony Dare fell into a confusion of horror and consternation, leaving the sergeant to bow himself out. Mrs. Dare heard the departure, and returned to the room.

"Well," cried she briskly, "is he going to accuse Halliburton?"

Mr. Dare did not answer. He looked up in a beseeching, helpless sort of manner, as one who is stunned by a blow.

"What is the matter?" she questioned, gazing at him closely. "Are you ill?"

He rose up shaking, as if ague were upon him. "No--no."

"Perhaps you are cold," said Mrs. Dare. "I asked you what Delves was going to do. Will he accuse Halliburton?"

"Be still!" sharply cried Mr. Dare in a tone of pain. "The matter is to be hushed up. It was not Halliburton."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXI. A PRESENT OF TEA-LEAVES

How went on Honey Fair? Better and worse, better and worse, according to custom; the worse prevailing over the better.

Of all its inhabitants, none had advanced so well as Robert East. Honestly to confess it, that is not saying much; since the greater portion, instead of advancing in the world's social scale, had retrograded. Robert had left the manufactory he had worked for and was now second foreman at Mr. Ashley's. He was also becoming through perseverance an excellent scholar in a plain way. He had had one friend to help him; and that was William Halliburton.

The Easts had removed to a better house; one of those which had a garden in front of it. No garden was more fragrant than theirs; and it was kept in order by Robert and Thomas East. The house was larger than they required, and part of it was occupied by Stephen Crouch and his daughter. It was known that the Easts were putting by money: and Honey Fair wondered: for none lived more comfortably, more respectably. Honey Fair--taking it as a whole--lived neither comfortably nor respectably. The Fishers had never come out of the workhouse, and Joe was dead. The Crosses, turned from their home, their furniture sold, had found lodgings; two rooms. Improvident as ever, were they. They did not attempt to rise even to their former condition; but grovelled on, living from hand to mouth. The Masons, man and wife, passed their time agreeably in quarrels. At least, that it was agreeable may be assumed, for the quarrels never ceased. Now and then they were diversified by a fight. The children were growing up without training; and Caroline--ah! I don't know that it will do much good to ask after her. Caroline, years ago, had taken a false step; and, try as she would, she could not regain her footing. She lived in a garret alone. She had so lived a long while; and she worked her fingers to the bone to keep body and soul together, and went about with her head down. Honey Fair looked askance at her, and gathered up its petticoats when they saw her coming, as you saw Eliza Tyrrett gather up hers, lest they should come into contact with those contaminations. The Carters thrived; the Brumms, also, were better off than they used to be; and the Buffles did so excellently that a joke went about that they would be retiring on their fortune: but the greater portion of Honey Fair was full of trouble and improvidence.

William Halliburton frequently found himself in Honey Fair. It was the most direct road from his house to that of Monsieur Colin, the French master. William, sociably inclined by nature, had sometimes dropped in at one or other of the houses. He would find Robert East labouring at his books much more than he need have laboured had some little assistance been given him in his progress. William good-naturedly undertook to supply it. It became quite a common thing for him to go round and pass an hour with the Easts and Stephen Crouch.

The unpleasant social features of Honey Fair thus obtruded themselves on William Halliburton's notice; it was impossible that any one passing much through Honey Fair should not be struck with them. Could nothing be done to rescue the people from this degraded condition?--and a degraded one it was, compared with what it might have been. Young and inexperienced as he was, it was a question that sometimes arose to William's mind. Dirty homes, scolding mothers, ragged and pining children, rough and swearing husbands! Waste, discomfort, evil. The women laid the blame on the men: reproached them with wasting their evenings and their money at the public-house. The men retorted upon the women, and said they had not a home "fit for a pig to come into." Meanwhile the money, whether earned by husband or wife, went. It went somehow, bringing apparently nothing to show for it, and the least possible return of good. Thus they struggled and squabbled on, their lives little better than one continued scene of scramble, discomfort, and toil. At a year's end they were not in the least bettered, not in the least raised, socially, morally, or physically, from their condition at the year's commencement. Nothing had been achieved; except that they were one year nearer to the great barrier which separates time from eternity.

Ask them what they were toiling and struggling for. They did not know. What was their end, their aim? They had none. If they could only rub on, and keep body and soul together (as poor Caroline Mason was trying to do in her garret), it appeared to be all they cared for. They did not endeavour to lift up their hopes or their aspirations above that; they were willing so to go on until death should come. What a life! what an end!

A feeling would now and then come over William that he might in some way help them to attempt better things. To do so was a duty which seemed to be lying across his path, that he might take it up and make it his. How to set about it, he knew no more than the Man in the Moon. Now and then disheartening moments would come upon him. To attempt to sweep away the evils of Honey Fair appeared a far more formidable task than to cleanse the Augean Stables could ever have appeared to Hercules. He knew that any endeavour, whether on his part or on that of others, who might be far more experienced and capable than he, would be utterly fruitless unless the incentive to exertion, to strive to do better, should be first born within themselves. Ah, my friends! the aid of others may be looked upon as a great thing; but without self-struggle and self-help little good will be effected.

One evening in passing the house partially occupied by the Crosses the door was flung violently open, a girl of fifteen flew shrieking out and a saucer of wet tea-leaves came flying after her. The tea-leaves alighted on the girl's neck, just escaping William's arm. It was the youngest girl of the family, Patty. The tea-leaves had come from Mrs. Cross. Her face was red with passion, her voice loud; the girl, on her part, was insulting and abusive. Mrs. Cross had her hands stretched out, to scratch, or tear, or pull hair, and a personal skirmish would inevitably have ensued but for the chance of William's being there. He received the hands upon his arm and contrived to detain them.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Cross?"

"Matter!" raved Mrs. Cross. "She's a idle, impedent wicked huzzy--that's what's the matter. She knows I've my gloving to get in for Saturday, and not a stroke'll she help. There's the dishes lying dirty from dinner, the tea-cups lying from tea, and touch 'em she won't. She expects me to do it, and me with my gloving to find 'em in food! I took hold of her arm to make her do it, and she turned and struck at me, the good-for-nothing faggot! I hope none on it didn't go on you, sir," added Mrs. Cross, somewhat modifying her voice, and pausing to recover breath.

"Better that it had gone on my coat than on Patty's neck," replied he, in a good-natured, half-joking tone; though, indeed, the girl, with her evil look at her mother, her insolent air, stood there scarcely worth his defence. "If my mother asked me to wash tea-things or do anything else, Patty, I should do it, and think it a pleasure to help her," he added, to the girl.

Patty pushed her tangled hair behind her ears, and turned a defiant look upon her mother. Hidden as she had thought it from William, he saw it.

"You just wait," nodded Mrs. Cross, in answer as defiant. "I'll make your back smart by-and-by."

Which of the two was the more in fault? It was hard to say. The girl had never been brought up to know her duty, or to do it. The mother from her earliest childhood had given abuse and blows; no kindly, persuasive words; no training. Little wonder, now Patty was growing up, that she turned again. It was the usual sort of maternal government throughout Honey Fair. In these, and similar cases, where could interference or counsel avail, unless the spirit of the mothers and daughters could be changed?

William walked on, after the little episode of the tea-leaves. He could not help contrasting these homes with his home; their life with his life. He was given to reflection beyond his years, and he wished these people could be aroused to improvement both of mind and body. They were living for no end; toiling only to satisfy the wants of the day--nay, to arrest the wants, rather than to satisfy them. How many of them were so much as thinking of another world? Their toil and turmoil in this was too great to enable them to cast a thought to the next.

"I wonder," mused William, as he stepped towards M. Colin's, "whether some of the better-conducted of the men might not be induced to come round to East's in an evening? It might be a beginning, at any rate. Once wean the men from the public-houses, and there's no knowing what reform might be effected. I would willingly give up an hour or two of my evenings to them!"

His visit to M. Colin over, he retraced his steps to Honey Fair and turned into Robert East's. It was past eight o'clock then. Robert and Stephen Crouch were home from work, and were getting out their books. Charlotte sat by, at work as usual, and Tom East was drawing Charlotte's head towards him, to whisper something to her.

"Robert," said William, speaking impulsively, the moment he entered, "I wonder whether you could induce a few of your neighbours to come here of an evening?"

"What for, sir?" asked Robert turning round from the book-shelves where he stood, searching for some volume.

"It might be so much better for them. It might end in being so. I wish," he added with sudden warmth, "we could get all Honey Fair here!"

"All Honey Fair!" echoed Stephen Crouch in astonishment.

"I mean what I say, Crouch."

"Why, sir, the room wouldn't hold a quarter or a tenth part, or a hundredth part of them."

William laughed. "No, that it would not, practically. There is so much discomfort around us, and--and ill-doing--I must call it so, for want of a better name--that I sometimes wish we could mend it a little."

"Who mend it, sir?"

"Any one who would try. You two might help towards it. If you could seduce a few round here, and get them to be interested in your own evening occupation--books and rational conversation--and so wean them from the public-houses, it would be a great thing."

"There'd never be any good done with the men, take them as a whole, sir. They are an ignorant, easy-going lot, and don't care to be better."

"That's just it, Crouch. They don't care to be better. But they might be taught to care. It would be a very great thing if Honey Fair could be brought to spend its evenings as you spend yours. If the men gave up spending their money, and reeling home after it; and the women kept tidy hearths and civil tongues. As Charlotte does," he added looking round at her.

"There's no denying that, sir."

"I think something might be done. By degrees, you understand; not in a hurry. Were you to take the men by storm--to say, 'We want you to lead changed lives, and are going to show you how to do it,' your movement would fail, and you would get laughed at into the bargain. Say to the men, 'You shan't go to the public-house, because you waste your time, your money, and your temper,' and, rely upon it, it would have as much effect as if you spoke to the wind. But get them to come here as a sort of change, and you may secure them for good if you make the evenings pleasant to them. In short, give them some employment or attraction that will outweigh the attractions of the public-house."

"It would certainly be a good thing," said Stephen Crouch, musingly. "They might be for trying to raise themselves then."

"Ay," spoke William, with enthusiasm. "Once let them find the day-spring within themselves, the wish to do right, to be raised above what they are now, and the rest will be easy. When once that day-spring can be found, a man is made. God never sent a man here, but he implanted that within him. The difficulty is, to awaken it."

"And it is not always done, sir," said Charlotte, lifting her face from her work with a kindling eye, a heightened colour. She had found it.

"Charlotte, I fear it is rarely done, instead of not always. It lies pretty dormant, to judge by appearances, in Honey Fair."

William was right. It is an epoch in a man's life, that finding what he had not inaptly called the day-spring. Self-esteem, self-reliance, the courage of long-continued patience, the striving to make the best of the mind's good gifts--all are born of it. He who possesses it may soar to a bright and, happy lot, bearing in mind--may he always bear it!--the rest and reward promised hereafter.

"At any rate, it would be giving them a chance, as it seems to me," observed William. "I think I know one who would come. Andrew Brumm."

"Ah, he would, and be glad to come," replied Robert East. "He is different from many of them. I know another who would, sir; and that's Adam Thornycroft."

Charlotte bent her head over her work.

"Since that cousin of his died of delirium tremens, Thornycroft has said good-bye to the public-houses. He spends his evenings at home with his mother: but I know he would like to spend them here. Tim Carter would come, sir."

"If Mrs. Tim will let him," put in Tom East saucily. And a laugh went round.

"Ever so few to begin with, will set the example to others," remarked William. "There's no knowing what it may grow to. Small beginnings make great endings. I have talked with my mother about Honey Fair. She has always said: 'Before Honey Fair's conduct can be improved, its minds must be improved.'"

"There will be the women yet, sir," spoke Charlotte. "If they are to remain as they are, it will be of little use the men doing anything for themselves."

"Charlotte, once begun, I say there's no knowing where the work may end," he gravely answered.

The rain, which had been threatening all the evening, was coming down pretty smartly as William walked through Honey Fair on his return. Standing against a shutter near his own door was Jacob Cross. "Good night, Jacob," said William.

"Goodnight, sir," answered Jacob sullenly.

"Are you standing in the rain that it may make you grow, as the children say?" asked William in his ever-pleasant tone.

"I'm standing here 'cause I've nowhere else to stand," said the man, his voice full of resentment. "I'm turned out of our room, and I have no money for the Horned Ram."

"A good thing you have not," thought William. "What has turned you out of your room?" he asked.

"I'm turned out, sir, by the row there is in it. Our Mary Ann's come home."

"Mary Ann?" repeated William, not quite understanding.

"Our Mary Ann, what took and married Ben Tyrrett. A fine market she have brought her pigs to!"

"What has she done?" questioned William.

"She's done enough," wrathfully answered Cross. "We told her when she married Tyrrett that he was nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a-week--and it's all he was, sir, as you know. 'Wait,' I says to her; 'somebody better than him'll turn up.' Her mother says 'Wait.' Others says 'Wait.' No, not she; the girls are all marrying mad. Well, she took her own way; she would take it; and they got married, and set up upon nothing. Neither of 'em had saved a two-penny-piece; and Ben fond of the public; and our Mary Ann fond of laziness and finery; and not knowing how to keep house any more than her young sister Patty did."

William remembered the little interlude of that evening in which Miss Patty had played her part. Jacob continued.

"It was all fine and sunshiny with 'em for a few days or a few weeks, till the novelty wears off, and then they finds things going cranky. The money, that begins to run short; and Mary Ann, she finds that Ben likes his glass; and Ben, he finds that she's just a doll, with no gumption or management inside her. They quarrels--naterally, and they comes to us to settle it. 'You was both red-hot for the bargain,' says I, 'and you must just make the best of it and of one another.' And so they went back: and it has gone on till this, quarrelling continual. And now he's took to beat her, and home she came to-night, not half an hour ago, with her three children and a black eye, vowing she'll stop at home and won't go back to him again. And she and her mother's having words over it, and the babies a-squalling--enough noise to raise the ceiling off, and I come out of it. I wish I was dead, I do!"

Jacob's account of the noise was scarcely exaggerated. It penetrated to where they stood, two or three houses off. William had moved closer, that the umbrella might give Cross part of its shelter. "Not a very sensible wish, that of yours, is it, Cross?" remarked he.

"I have wished it long, sir, sensible or not sensible. I slaves away my days and have nothing but a pigsty to step into at home, and angry words in it. A nice place for a tired man! I can't afford the public more than three or four nights a-week; not that, always. They're getting corky at the beer-shops, nowadays, and won't give trust. Wednesday this is; Thursday, to-morrow; Friday, next night: three nights, and me without a shelter to put my head in!"

"I should like to take you to one to-morrow night," said William. "Will you go with me?"

"Where to?" ungraciously asked Cross.

"To Robert East's. You know how he and Crouch spend their evenings. There's always something going on there interesting and pleasant."

"Crouch and East don't want me."

"Yes, they do. They will be only too glad if you, and a few more intelligent men, will join them. Try it, Cross. There's a warm room to sit in, at all events, and nothing to pay."

"Ah, it's all very fine for them Easts! We haven't their luck. Look at me! Down in the world."

William put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Why should you be down in the world?"

"Why should I?" repeated Cross, in surprise. "Because I am," he logically answered.

"That is not the reason. The reason is because you do not try to rise in the world."

"It's no use trying."

"Have you ever tried?"

"Why, no! How can I try?"

"You wished just now that you were dead. Would it not be better to wish to live?"

"Not such a life as mine."

"But to wish to live would seem to imply that it must be a better life. And why need your life be so miserable? You gain fair wages; your wife earns money. Altogether I suppose you must have twenty-six or twenty-eight shillings a week----"

"But there's no thrift with it," exclaimed Cross. "It melts away somehow. Before the middle of the week comes, it's all gone."

"You spend some at the Horned Ram, you know," said William, not in a reproving tone.

"She squanders away in rubbish more than that," was Jacob's answer, pointing towards his house, and not giving at all a complimentary stress upon the "she."

"And with nothing to show for it in return, either of you. Try another plan, Jacob."

"I'd not be backward--if I could see one to try," said he, after a pause.

"Be here at half-past eight to-morrow evening, and I will go in with you to East's. If you cannot see any better way, you can spend a pleasant evening. But now, Jacob, let me say a word to you, and do you note it. If you find the evening pass agreeably, go the next evening, and the next; go always. You can't tell all that may arise from it in time. I know of one thing that will."

"What's that, sir?"

"Why, that instead of wishing yourself dead, you will grow to think life too short, for the good you find in it."

He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.

"He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has a cordial way with him, and don't look at folks as if they was dirt."

And that had been the origin of the soirees held at Robert East's. By degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and--what was more--to like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement upon the Horned Ram.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXII. HENRY ASHLEY'S OBJECT IN LIFE

On one of the warm, bright days that we sometimes have in the month of February, all the brighter from their contrast to the passing winter, William Halliburton was walking home to tea from the manufactory, and overtook Henry Ashley limping along.

Henry was below the middle height, and slight in form, with the same beautiful face that had marked his boyhood, delicately refined in feature, brilliant in colour; the same upright lines of pain knit in the smooth white brow.

"Just the man I wanted," said he, linking his arm within William's. "You are a good help up a hill, and I am hot and tired."

"Wrapped up in that coat, with its fur lining, I should think you are! I have doffed my elegant cloak, you see, to-day."

"Is it off to the British Museum?"

William laughed. "I have not had time to pack it up."

"I am glad I met you. You must come home to tea with me. Well? Why are you hesitating? You have no engagement?"

"Nothing more than usual. My studies----"

"You are study mad!" interrupted Henry Ashley. "What do you want to be? A Socrates? An Admirable Crichton?"

"Nothing so formidable. I want to be useful."

"And you make yourself accomplished, as a preliminary step to it. Mary took up the fencing-sticks for you yesterday. Herbert Dare was at our house--some freak is taking him to be a pretty constant visitor just now--and the talk turned upon Frank. You know," broke off Henry in his quaint way, "I never use long words when short ones will do: you learned ones would say 'conversation.' Mr. Keating had said to my father that Frank Halliburton was a brilliant scholar, and I retailed it to Herbert. I knew it would put him up, and there's nothing I like half so much as to rile the Dares. Herbert sneered. 'And he owes it partly to William,' I went on, 'for if Frank's a brilliant scholar, William's a brilliant_er_!' 'William Halliburton a brilliant scholar!' stormed scornful Herbert. 'Has he learnt to be one at the manufactory? So long as he knows how gloves are made, that's enough for him. What does he want with the requirements of gentlemen?' Up looked Miss Mary; her colour rising, her eyes flashing. She was at her drawing: at which, by the way, she makes no progress; nothing to be compared with Anna Lynn. 'William Halliburton has forgotten more than you ever learnt, Herbert Dare,' cried she; 'and there's more of the true gentleman in his little finger than there is in your whole body.' 'There's for you, Herbert Dare,' whistled I; 'but it's true, lad, like it or not as you may!' Herbert was riled."

Henry turned his head as he concluded, and looked up at William. A gleam like a sunbeam had flashed into William's eyes; a colour to his cheeks.

"Well?" cried Henry sharply, for William did not speak. "Have you nothing to say?"

"It was generous of Miss Ashley."

"I don't mean that. Oh dear!" sighed Henry, who appeared to be in one of his fitful moods; "who is to know whether things will turn out crooked or straight in this world of ours? What objection have you to coming home with me for the evening? That's what I mean."

"None. I can give up my books for a night, bookworm as you think me. But they will expect me at East's."

"Happy the man that expecteth nothing!" responded Henry. "Disappoint them."

"As for disappointing them, I shouldn't so much mind, but I can't abide to disappoint myself," returned William, quoting from Goldsmith's good old play, of which both he and Henry were fond.

"You don't mean to say it would be a disappointment to you, not giving the lesson, or whatever it is, to those working chaps!" uttered Henry Ashley.

"Not as you would count disappointment. When I do not get round for an hour, it seems as a night lost. I know the men like to see me; and I am always fearing that we are not sure of them."

"You speak as though your whole soul were in the business," returned Henry Ashley.

"I think my heart is in it."

Henry looked at him wistfully, and his tone grew serious. "William, I would give all I am worth, present, and to come, to change places with you."

"To change places with me!" echoed William, in surprise.

"Yes: for you have an object in life. You may have many. To be useful in your generation is one of them."

"And so may you have objects in life."

"With this encumbrance!" He stamped his lame leg, and a look of keen vexation settled itself in his face. "You can go forth into the world with your strong limbs, your unbroken health; you can work, or you can play; you can be active, or you can be still, at will. But what am I? A poor, weak creature; infirm of temper, tortured by pain, condemned half my days to the monotony of a sick-room. Compare my lot with yours!"

"There are those who would choose your lot in preference to mine, were the option given them," returned William. "I must work. It is a duty laid upon me. You can play."

"Thank you! How?"

"I am not speaking literally. Every good and pleasing thing that money can purchase is at your command. You have only to enjoy them, so far as you may. One, suffering as you do, bears not upon him the responsibility to use his time, that a healthy man does. Lots, in this world, Henry, are, as I believe, pretty equally balanced. Many would envy you your life of calm repose."

"It is not calm," was the abrupt rejoinder. "It is disturbed by pain, and aggravated by temper; and--and--tormented by uncertainty."

"At any rate, you can subdue the one."

"Which, pray?"

"The temper. Henry"--dropping his voice--"a victory over your own temper may be one of the few obligations laid upon you."

"I wish I could live for an object," grumbled Henry.

"Come round with me to East's, sometimes."

"I--daresay!" retorted Henry, when he could recover from his amazement. "Thank you again, Mr. Halliburton."

William laughed. But he soon resumed his seriousness. "I can understand that for you, the favoured son of Mr. Ashley, reared in refinement and exclusiveness----"

"Enshrined in pride--the failing that Helstonleigh is pleased to call my besetting sin; sheltered under care and coddling so great that the very winds of heaven are not suffered to visit my face too roughly!" was the impetuous interruption of Henry Ashley. "Come! bring it all out. Don't, from motives of delicacy, keep in any of my faults, virtues, or advantages!"

"I can understand, I say, why you are unwilling to break through the reserve of your home habits," William calmly continued. "But, if you did so, you might no longer have to complain of the want of an object in life."

At this moment they came in view of William's house. Mrs. Halliburton happened to be at one of the windows. William nodded his greeting, and Henry raised his hat. Presently Henry began again.

"Pray, do you join the town in its gratuitous opinion that Henry Ashley, of all in it, is the proudest amid the proud?"

"I do not find you proud," said William.

"You! As far as you and I are concerned, I think the boot might be on the other leg. You might set up for being proud over me."

William could not help laughing. "Putting joking aside, my opinion is, Henry, that your shyness and sensitiveness are in fault; not your pride. It is your reserved manner alone which has caused Helstonleigh to take up the impression that you are unduly proud."

"Right, old fellow!" returned Henry in emphatic tones. "If you knew how far I and pride stand apart--but let it pass."

Arrived at the entrance to Mr. Ashley's, William threw open the gate for Henry, retreating himself. "I must go home first, Henry. I won't be a quarter of an hour."

Henry looked cross. "Why on earth, then, did you not go in as we passed? What was the use of your coming up here to go back again?"

"I thought my arm was helping you."

"So it was. But--there! don't be an hour."

As William walked rapidly back, he met Mrs. Ashley's carriage. She and Mary were in it. Mrs. Ashley nodded as he raised his hat, and Mary glanced at him with a smile and a heightened colour. She had grown up to excessive beauty.

A few moments, and William met beauty of another style--Anna Lynn. Her cheeks were the flushed, dimpled cheeks of her childhood; the same sky-blue eyes gleaming from between their long dark lashes; the same profusion of silky, brown hair; the same gentle, sweetly modest manners. William stopped to shake hands with her.

"Out alone, Anna?"

"I am on my way to take tea with Mary Ashley."

"Are you? We shall meet there, then."

"That will be pleasant. Fare thee well for the present, William."

She continued her way. William ran in home, and to his chamber. Dressing himself hastily, he went to the room where his mother sat, and stood before her.

"Does my coat fit me, mother?"

"Why, where are you going?" she asked.

"To Mrs. Ashley's. I have put on my new coat. Does it do? It seems all right"--throwing up his arms.

"Yes, it fits you exactly. I think you are growing a dandy. Go along. I must not look at you too long."

"Why not?" he asked in surprise.

"In case I grow proud of my eldest son. And I would rather be proud of his goodness than of his looks."

William laughingly gave his mother a farewell kiss. "Tell Gar I am sorry he will not have me at his elbow this evening, to find fault with his Greek. Good-bye, mother dear."

In truth, there was something remarkably noble in William Halliburton's appearance. As he entered Mrs. Ashley's drawing-room, the fact seemed to strike upon Henry with unusual force, who greeted him from his distant sofa.

"So that's what you went back for!--to turn yourself into a buck!" he called out as William approached him. "As if you were not well enough before! Did you dress for me, pray?"

"For you!" laughed William. "That's good!"

"In saying 'me,' I include the family," returned Henry quaintly. "There's no one else to dress for."

"Yes, there is. There's Anna Lynn."

Now, in good truth, William had no covert meaning in giving this answer. The words rose to his lips, and he spoke them lightly. Perhaps he could have given a very different one, had he been compelled to speak out the inmost feeling of his heart. Strange, however, was the effect on Henry Ashley. He grasped William's arm with emotion, and pulled his face down to him as he lay.

"What do you say? What do you mean?"

"I mean nothing in particular. Anna is here."

"You shall not evade me," gasped Henry. "I must have it out, now or later. WHAT is it that you mean?"

William stood, almost confounded. Henry was evidently in painful excitement; every vestige of colour had forsaken his sensitive countenance, and his white hands shook as they held William.

"What do you mean?" William whispered. "I said nothing to agitate you thus, that I am aware of. Are we at cross-purposes?"

A spot, bright as carmine, began to flush into the invalid's pale cheeks, and he moved his face so that the light did not fall upon it.

"I'll have it out, I say. What is Anna Lynn to you?"

"Nothing," answered William, a smile parting his lips.

"What is she to you?" reiterated Henry, his tone painfully earnest.

William edged himself on to the sofa, so as to cover Henry from the gaze of any eyes that might be directed to him from the other parts of the room. "I like Anna very much," he said in a clear, low tone; "almost as I might like a sister; but I have no love for her, in the sense you would imply--if I am not mistaking your meaning. And I never shall have."

Henry looked at him wistfully. "On your honour?"

"Henry! was there need to ask it? On my honour, if you will."

"No, no; there was no need: you are always truthful. Bear with me, William! bear with my infirmities."

"My sister Anna Lynn might be, and welcome. My wife never."

Henry did not answer. His face was growing damp with physical pain.

"You have one of your fits of suffering coming on!" breathed William. "Shall I get you anything?"

"Hush! only sit there, to hide me from them: and be still."

William did as he was requested, sitting so as to screen him from Mrs. Ashley and the rest. He held his hands, and the paroxysm, sharp while it lasted, passed away. Henry's very lips had grown white with pain.

"You see what a poor wretch I am!"

"I see that you suffer," was William's compassionate answer.

"From henceforth there is a fresh bond of union between us, for you possess my secret. It is what no one else in the world does. William, that's my object in life."

William did not reply. Perplexity was crowding on his mind, shading his countenance.

"Well!" cried Henry, beginning to recover his equanimity, and with it his sharp retorts. "Why are you looking so blue?"

"Will it be smooth sailing for you, Henry, with Mr. Ashley?"

"Yes, I think it will," was the hasty rejoinder: its very haste, its fractious tone, proving that Henry was by no means so sure of it as he would imply. "I am not as others are: therefore he will let minor considerations yield to my happiness."

William looked uncommonly grave. "Mr. Ashley is not all," he said, arousing from a reverie. "There may be difficulties elsewhere. She must not marry out of their own society. Samuel Lynn is one of its strictest members."

"Rubbish! Samuel Lynn is my father's servant, and I am my father's son. If Samuel should take a strait-laced fit, and hold out, why, I'll turn broadbrim."

"Samuel Lynn is my father's servant!" In that very fact, William saw cause to fear that it might not be such plain sailing with Mr. Ashley as Henry wished to anticipate. He could not help looking the doubts he felt. Henry observed it.

"What's the matter now?" he peevishly asked. "I do think you were born to be the plague of my life! My belief is, you want her for yourself."

"I am only anxious for you, Henry. I wish you could have assured yourself that it would go well, before--before allowing your feelings to be irrevocably bound up in it. A blow, for you, might be hard to bear."

"How could I help my feelings?" retorted Henry. "I did not fix them purposely on Anna Lynn. Before I knew anything about it, they had fixed themselves. Almost before I knew that I cared for her, she was more to me than the sun in the heavens. There has been no help for it at all, I tell you. So don't preach."

"Have you spoken to her?"

Henry shook his head. "The time has not come for it. I must make it right with the master before I can stir a step: and I fear it is not quite ripe for that. Mind you don't talk."

William smiled. "I will mind."

"You'd better. If that Quaker society got a hint of it, there's no knowing what a hullabaloo they might make. They might be for reading Anna a public lecture at Meeting: or get Samuel Lynn to vow he'd not give his consent."

"I should argue in this way, were I you, Henry. With my love so firmly fixed on Anna Lynn----I beg your pardon, Miss Ashley."

William started up. Mary Ashley was standing close to the sofa. Had she caught the sense of the last words?

"Mamma spoke twice, but you were too busily engaged to hear," said Mary. "Henry, James is waiting to wheel your sofa to the tea-table."

Henry rose. Passing his arm through William's, he approached the group. The servant pushed the sofa after them. Standing together were Mary Ashley and Anna Lynn. They presented a great contrast to each other. Mary wore an evening dress of shimmering silk, its low body trimmed with rich white lace; white lace hung from its drooping sleeves: and she had on ornaments of gold. Anna was in grey merino, high in the neck, close at the wrists; not a bit of lace about her, not an ornament; nothing but a plain white linen collar. "Catch me letting her wear those Methodistical things when she shall be mine!" thought Henry. "I'll make a bonfire of the lot."

But the Quaker cap? Ah! it was not there. Anna had continued her habit at home of throwing it off, as formerly. Patience reprimanded in vain. She was not seconded by Samuel Lynn. "We are by ourselves, Patience; it does not much matter," he would say; "the child says she is cooler without it." But had Samuel Lynn known that Anna was in the habit of discarding it on every possible occasion when she was from home, he had been as severe as Patience. At Mr. Ashley's, especially, she would sit, as now, without it, her lovely face made more lovely by its falling curls. Anna did wrong, and she knew it; but she was a wilful girl, and a vain one. That pretty, timid, retiring manner concealed much self-will, much vanity; though in some things she was as easily swayed as a child.

She disobeyed Patience in another matter. Patience would say to her, "Should Mary Ashley be opening her instrument of music, thee will mind not to listen to her songs: thee can go into another room."

"Oh, yes, Patience," she would answer; "I will mind."

But, instead of not listening, Miss Anna would place herself near the piano, and drink in the songs as if her whole heart were in the music. Music had a great effect upon her; and there she would sit entranced, as though she were in some earthly Elysium. She said nothing of this at home; but the deceit was wrong.

They were sitting down to tea, when Herbert Dare came in. The hours for meals were early at Mr. Ashley's: the medical men considered it best for Henry. Herbert could be a gentleman when he chose; good-looking also; quite an addition to a drawing-room. He took his seat between Mary and Anna.

"I say, how is it you are not dining at home this evening?" asked Henry, who somehow did not regard the Dares with any great favour.

"I dined in the middle of the day," was Herbert's reply.

"The condescension! I thought only plebeians did that. James, is there a piece of chalk in the house? I must chalk that up."

"Henry! Henry!" reproved Mrs. Ashley.

"Oh, let him talk, Mrs. Ashley," said Herbert, with supreme good humour. "There's nothing he likes so well as a wordy war."

"Nothing in the world," acquiesced Henry. "Especially with Herbert Dare."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXIII. ATTERLY'S FIELD

Laughing, talking, playing at proverbs, earning and paying forfeits, it was a merry group in Mrs. Ashley's drawing-room. That lady herself was not joining in the merriment. She sat apart at a small table, some work in her hand, speaking a word now and then, and smiling to herself in echo to some unusual burst of laughter. It was so surprising that only five voices could make so much noise. They were sitting in a circle; Mary Ashley between William Halliburton and Herbert Dare, Anna Lynn between Herbert Dare and Henry Ashley, Henry and William side by side.

Time, in these happy moments, passes rapidly. In due course, the hands of the French clock on the mantel-piece pointed to half-past eight, and its silver tones rang out the chimes. They were at the end of the game, and just settling themselves to commence another. The half-hour aroused William, and he glanced towards the clock.

"Half-past eight! who would have thought it? I had no idea it was so late. I must leave you just for half an hour," he added, rising.

"Leave for what?" cried Henry Ashley.

"To go as far as East's. I will not remain there."

Henry broke into a "wordy war," as Herbert Dare had called it earlier in the evening. William smiled, and overruled him in his quiet way.

"They have my promise to go round this evening," he said. "I gave it them unconditionally, and must just go round to tell them I cannot come--if that's not a contradiction. Don't look so cross, Henry."

"Of course, you don't mean to come back," resentfully spoke Henry. "When you get there, you'll stop there."

"No; I have told you I will not. But if I let them expect me all the evening, they will be looking and waiting, and do no good."

He went out as he spoke, and left the house. As he reached the gate Mr. Ashley was coming in. Mr. Ashley had been in the manufactory; he did not often go there after tea. "Going already, William?" Mr. Ashley exclaimed in accents of surprise.

"Not for long, sir. I must just look in at East's."

"Is that scheme likely to prosper? Can you keep the men?"

"Yes, indeed, I think so. My hopes are strong."

"Well, there's nothing like hope," answered Mr. Ashley, with a laugh. "But I shall wonder if you do keep them. William," he added, after a slight pause, his tone changing to a business one, "I have a few words to say to you. I was about to speak to you in the counting-house this afternoon, but something put it aside. I have changed my plans with respect to this Lyons journey. Instead of despatching you, as I had thought of doing, I believe I shall send Samuel Lynn."

Mr. Ashley paused. William did not immediately reply.

"Samuel Lynn's experience is greater than yours. It is a new thing, and he will see, better than you could do, what can and what cannot be done."

"Very well, sir," at length answered William.

"You speak as though you were disappointed," remarked Mr. Ashley.

William was disappointed. But his motive for the feeling lay far deeper than Mr. Ashley supposed. "I should like to have gone, sir, very much. But--of course, my liking, or not liking, has nothing to do with it. Perhaps it is as well that I should not go," he resumed, more in soliloquy, as if he were trying to reconcile himself to the disappointment by argument, than in observation to Mr. Ashley. "I do not see how the men would have done without me at East's."

"Ay, that's a grave consideration," replied Mr. Ashley jokingly, as he turned to walk to his own door.

William stood still, nailed as it were to the spot, looking after his master. A most unwelcome thought had flashed over him; and in the impulse of the moment he followed Mr. Ashley, to speak it out. Even in the night's obscurity, his emotion was perceptible.

"Mr. Ashley, the suspicion cast on me, at the time that cheque was lost, has not been the reason--the reason for your declining to intrust me with this commission?"

Mr. Ashley looked at him in surprise. But that William's agitation was all too real, he would have laughed at him.

"William, I think you are turning silly. No suspicion was cast on you."

"You have never stirred in the matter, sir; you have never spoken to me to tell me you were satisfied that I was not in any way guilty," was William's impulsive answer.

"Spoken to you! where was the need? Why, William, my whole life, my daily intercourse with you, is only so much proof that you have my full confidence. Should I admit you to my home, to the companionship of my children, if I had no more faith in you than that?"

"True," said William, beginning to recover himself. "It was a thought that flashed over me, sir, when you said I was not to be sent on this journey. I should not like you to doubt me; I could not live under it."

"William, you reproached me with not having stirred in----"

"I beg your pardon, sir. I never thought of such a thing as reproach. I would not presume to do it."

"I have not stirred in the matter," resumed Mr. Ashley. "A very disagreeable suspicion arises in my mind at times, as to how the cheque went; and I do not choose to stir in it. Have you no suspicion on the point?"

The question took William by surprise. He stammered in his answer; an unusual thing for him to do. "N--o."

"I ask if you have a suspicion?" quietly repeated Mr. Ashley, meaningly, as if he took William's answer for nothing, or had not heard it.

Then William spoke out readily. "A suspicion has crossed my mind, sir. But it is one I should not like to breathe to you."

"That's enough. I see. White voluntarily took the loss of the money on himself. He came to me to say so; therefore, I infer that it has in some private way been refunded to him. Mr. Dare veered round, and advised me not to investigate the affair, as I was no loser by it; Delves hinted the same thing. Altogether, I can see through the thing pretty clearly, and I am content to let it rest. Are you satisfied? If not----"

Mr. Ashley broke off abruptly. William waited.

"So, don't turn foolish again. You and I now understand each other. William!" he emphatically added, "I am growing to like you almost as I like my own children. I am proud of you; and I shall be prouder yet. God bless you, my boy!"

It was so very rare that the calm, dignified Thomas Ashley was betrayed into anything like demonstrativeness, that William could only stand and look. And while he looked, the door closed on his master.

He went way with all speed, calling at his home. Were the truth to be told, perhaps William was quite as anxious to be back again at Mr. Ashley's as Henry was that he should be there. Scarcely stopping for a word of greeting, he opened a drawer, took from it a small case of fossils, and then searched for something else; something which apparently he could not find.

"Have any of you seen my microscope?" he asked, turning to the group at the table bending over their books.

Jane looked round. "My dear, I lent it to Patience to-day. I suppose she forgot to return it. Gar, will you go and ask her for it?"

"Don't disturb yourself, Gar," said William. "I am going out, and will ask Patience myself."

Patience was alone in her parlour. She returned him the microscope, saying that the reason she had not sent it in was, that she had not had time to use it. "Thee art in evening dress!" she remarked to William.

"I am at Mrs. Ashley's. I have only come out for a few minutes. Thank you. Good night, Patience."

"Wait thee a moment, William. Is Anna ready to come home?"

"No, that she is not. Why?"

"I want to send for her. Samuel Lynn is spending the evening in the town, so I must send Grace. And I don't care to send her late. She will only get talking to John Pembridge, if she goes out after he is home from work."

William smiled. "It is natural that she should, I suppose. When are they going to be married?"

"Shortly," answered Patience, in a tone not quite so equable as usual. Patience saw no good in people getting married in general; and she was vexed at the prospect of losing Grace in particular. "She leaves us in a fortnight from this," she continued, alluding to Grace, "and all her thoughts seem to be bent now upon meeting John Pembridge. Could thee bring Anna home for me?"

"With pleasure," replied William.

"That is well, then. Grace does not deserve to go out to-night, for she wilfully crossed me to-day. Good evening, William."

Fossil-case in hand, and the microscope in his pocket, William made the best of his way to Honey Fair. Robert East, Stephen Crouch, Brumm, Thornycroft, Carter, Cross, and some half-dozen others, were crowded round Robert's table. William handed them the fossils and the microscope; told the men to amuse themselves with them for that night, and he would explain more about them on the morrow. He was ever anxious that the men should have some object of amusement as a rallying point on these evenings; anything to keep their interest awakened.

Before the half-hour had expired, he was back at Mr. Ashley's. Proverbs had been given up, and Mary was at the piano. Mr. Ashley had been accompanying her on the flute, on which instrument he was a brilliant player, and when William entered she was singing a duet with Herbert Dare. Anna--disobedient Anna--was seated, listening with all her ears and heart to the music, her up-turned countenance quite wonderful to look upon in its rapt delight.

"I think you could sing," spoke Henry Ashley to her, in an undertone, after watching her while the song lasted.

Anna shook her head. "I may not try," she said, raising her blue eyes to him for one moment, and then dropping them.

"The time may come when you may," returned Henry, in a deeper whisper.

She did not answer, she did not lift her eyes; but the faintest possible smile parted her rosy lips--a smile which seemed to express a consciousness that perhaps that time might come. And Henry, shy and sensitive, stood apart and gazed upon her, his heart beating.

"Young lady," said William, advancing, "do you know that a special honour has been assigned me to-night? One that concerns you."

Anna raised her eyes now. She felt as much at ease with William as she did with her father or Patience. "What dost thee say, William? An honour?"

"That of seeing you safely home. I----"

"What's that for?" interrupted Anna. "Where's my father?"

"He is not at home this evening. And Patience did not care to send out Grace. I'll take care of you."

William could not but observe the sudden flush, the glow of pleasure, or what looked like pleasure, that overspread Anna's countenance at the information. "What's that for?" he thought, echoing her recent words. But Mary began to sing again, and his attention was diverted.

Ten o'clock was the signal for departure. As they were going out--William, Anna, and Herbert Dare, who took the opportunity to leave with them--Henry Ashley limped after them, and drew William aside in the hall.

"Honour bright, mind, my friend!"

William did not understand. "Honour bright, always," said he. "But what do you mean?"

"You'll not get making love to her on your way home!"

William could not help laughing. He turned his amused face full on Henry. "Be at rest. I would not care to make love to her, had I full leave and license from the Quaker society, granted me in public meeting."

"Do you think I did not see her brightened countenance when you told her she was to go home with you?" retorted Henry.

"I saw it too. I conclude she was pleased that her father was not coming for her, little undutiful thing! However it may have been, rely upon it that brightening was not for me."

Pressing his hand warmly, with a pressure that no false friend ever gave, William hastened away. It was time. Herbert Dare and Anna had not waited for him, but were ever so far ahead.

"Very polite of you!" cried William, when he caught them up. "Anna, had you gone pitching into that part of the path they are mending, I should have been responsible, you know. You might have waited for me."

He spoke good-humouredly, making a joke of it. Herbert Dare did not appear to receive it as one. He retorted haughtily.

"Do you suppose I am not capable of taking care of Miss Lynn? As much so as you, at any rate."

"Possibly," coolly returned William, not losing his good-humoured tone. Herbert Dare had given Anna his arm. William walked near her on the other side. Thus they reached Mr. Lynn's.

"Good night," said Herbert, shaking hands with her. "Good night to you, Halliburton."

"Good night," replied William.

Herbert Dare set off running. William knocked at the door and waited until it was opened. Then he also shook hands with Anna, and saw her in.

Frank and Gar were putting up their books for the night when William entered. The boarders had gone to bed. Jane, a very unusual thing for her, was sitting by the fire, doing nothing.

"Am I not idle, William?" she said.

William bent to kiss her. "There's no need for you to be anything but idle now, mother."

"No need! William, you know better. There's great need that none should be idle: none in the world. But I have a bad headache to-night."

"William," called out Gar, "they brought this round for you from East's. Young Tom came with it."

It was the case of fossils and the microscope. William observed that they need not have sent them, as he should want them there the next evening. "Patience said she had not had time to use the microscope," he continued. "I think I will take it in to her. I suppose she has been buying linen, and wants to see if the threads are even."

"The Lynns will have gone to bed by this time," said Jane.

"Not to-night. I have only just seen Anna home from Mrs. Ashley's; and Mr. Lynn has gone out to supper."

He turned to leave the room with the microscope, but Gar was looking at the fossils and asked the loan of it. A few minutes, and William finally went out.

Patience came to the door, in answer to his knock. She thanked him for the microscope and stood a minute or two chatting. Patience was fond of a gossip; there was no denying it.

"Will thee not walk in?"

"Not now," he said, turning away. "Good night, Patience."

"Good night to thee. Thee send in Anna, please. She is having a pretty long talk with thy mother."

William was at a loss. "I saw Anna in from Mr. Ashley's."

"She did but ask whether her father was home, and then ran through the house," replied Patience. "She had a message for thy mother, she said, from Margaret Ashley."

"Mrs. Ashley does not send messages to my mother," returned William, in some wonder. "They have no acquaintance with each other--beyond a bow, in passing."

"She must have sent her one to-night--why else should the child go in to deliver it?" persisted Patience. "Not but that Anna is always running into thy house at nights. I fear she must trouble thy mother at her class."

"She never stays long enough for that," replied William. "When she does come in--and it is not often--she just opens the door; 'How dost thee, friend Jane Halliburton?' and out again."

"Then thee can know nothing about it, William. I tell thee she never stays less than an hour, and she is always there. I say to her that one of these evenings thy mother may likely be hinting to her that her room will be more acceptable than her company. Thee send her home now, please."

William turned away. Curious thoughts were passing through his mind. That Anna did not go in, in the frequent manner Patience intimated; that she rarely stayed above a minute or two, he knew. He knew--at least, he felt perfectly sure--that Anna was not at his house now; had not been there. And yet Patience said "Send her home."

"Has Anna been here?" he asked when he went in.

"Anna? No."

Not just that moment, to draw observation, but presently, William left the room, and went into the garden at the back. A very unpleasant suspicion had arisen in his mind. It might not have occurred to him, but for certain glances which he had observed pass that evening between Herbert Dare and Anna--glances of confidence--as if they had a private mutual understanding on some point or other. He had not understood them then: he very much feared he was about to understand them now.

Opening the gate leading to the field at the back, commonly called Atterly's Field, he looked cautiously around. For a moment or two he could see nothing. The hedge was thick on either side, and no living being appeared to be beneath its shade. But he saw farther when his eyes became accustomed to the obscurity.

Pacing slowly together, were Herbert Dare and Anna. Now moving on, a few steps; now pausing to converse more at ease. William drew a deep breath. He saw quite enough to be sure this was not the first time they had so paced together: and thought after thought crowded on his mind; one idea, one remembrance chasing another.

Was this the explanation of the plaid cloak, which had paraded stealthily on that very field-path during the past winter? There could not be a doubt of it. And was it in this manner that Anna's flying absences from home were spent--absences which she, in her unpardonable deceit, had accounted for to Patience by saying that she was with Mrs. Halliburton? Alas for Anna! Alas for all who deviate by an untruth from the path of rectitude! If the misguided child--she was little better than a child--could only have seen the future that was before her! It may have been very pleasant, very romantic to steal a march on Patience, and pace out there in the cold, chattering to Herbert Dare; listening to his protestations that he cared for no one in the world but herself; never had cared, never should care: but it was laying up for Anna a day of reckoning, the like of which had rarely fallen on a young head. William seemed to take it all in at a glance; and, rising tumultuously over other unpleasant thoughts, came the remembrance of Henry Ashley's misplaced and ill-starred love.

With another deep breath, that was more like a groan than anything else--for Herbert Dare never brought good to any one in his life, and William knew it--William set off towards them. Whether they heard footsteps, or whether they thought the time for parting had come, certain it was that Herbert was gone before William could reach them, and Anna was speeding towards her home with a fleet step. William placed himself in her way, and she started aside with a scream that went echoing through the field. Then they had not heard him.

"William, is it thee? Thee hast frightened me nearly out of my senses."

"Anna," he gravely said, "Patience is waiting for you."

Anna Lynn's imagination led her to all sorts of fantastic fears. "Oh, William, thee hast not been in to Patience!" she exclaimed, in sudden trembling. "Thee hast not been to our house to seek me!"

They had reached his gate now. He halted, and took her hand in his, his manner impressive, his voice firm. "Anna, I must speak to you as I would to my own sister; as I might to Janey, had she lived, and been drawn into this terrible imprudence. Though, indeed, I should not then speak, but act. What tales are they that Herbert Dare is deceiving you with?"

"Hast thee been in to Patience? Hast thee been in to Patience?" reiterated Anna.

"Patience knows nothing of this. She thinks you are at our house. I ask you, Anna, what foolish tales Herbert Dare is deceiving you with?"

Anna--relieved on the score of her fright--shook her head petulantly. "He is not deceiving me with any. He would not deceive."

"Anna, hear me. His very nature, as I believe, is deceit. I fear he has little truth, little honour within him. Is Herbert professing to--to love you?"

"I will not answer thee aught. I will not hear thee speak against Herbert Dare."

"Anna," he continued in a lower tone, "you ought to be afraid of Herbert Dare. He is not a good man."

How wilful she was! "It is of no use thy talking," she reiterated, putting her fingers to her ears. "Herbert Dare is good. I will not hear thee speak against him."

"Then, Anna, as you meet it in this way, I must inform your father or Patience of what I have seen. If you will not keep yourself out of harm's way, they must do it for you."

It terrified her to the last degree. Anna could have died rather than suffer her escapade to reach the ears of home. "How can thee talk of harm, William? What harm is likely to come to me? I did no more harm talking to Herbert Dare here, than I did, talking to him in Margaret Ashley's drawing-room."

"My dear child, you do not understand things," he answered. "The very fact of your stealing from your home to walk about in this manner, however innocent it may be in itself, would do you incalculable harm in the eyes of the world. And I am quite sure that in no shape or form can Herbert Dare bring you good, or contribute to your good. Tell me one thing, Anna: Have you learnt to care much for him?"

"I don't care for him at all," responded Anna.

"No! Then why walk about with him?"

"Because it's fun to cheat Patience."

"Oh, Anna, this is very wrong, very foolish. Do you mean what you say--that you do not care for him?"

"Of course I mean it," she answered. "I think he is very kind and pleasant, and he gave me a pretty locket. But that's all. William, thee wilt not tell upon me?" she continued, clinging to his arm, her tone changing to one of entreaty, as the terror, which she had been endeavouring to conceal with light words, returned upon her. "William! thee art kind and obliging--thee wilt not tell upon me! I will promise thee never to meet Herbert Dare again, if thee wilt not."

"It would be for your own sake, Anna, that I should speak. How do I know that you would keep your word?"

"I give thee my promise that I will! I will not meet Herbert Dare in this way again. I tell thee I do not care to meet him. Canst thee not believe me?"

He did believe her, implicitly. Her eyes were streaming; her pretty hands clung about him. He did like Anna very much, and he would not draw vexation upon her, if it could be avoided with expediency.

"I will rely upon you then, Anna. Believe me, you could not choose a worse friend in all Helstonleigh, than Herbert Dare. I have your word?"

"Yes. And I have thine."

He placed her arm within his own, and led her to the back door of her house. Patience was standing at it. "I have brought you the little truant," he said.

"It is well thee hast," replied Patience. "I had just opened the door to come after her. Anna, thee art worse than a wild thing. Running off in this manner!"

It had not been in William's way to see much of Anna's inner qualities. He had not detected her deceit; he did not know that she could be untruthful when it suited her to be so. He had firm faith in her word, never questioning that it might be depended upon. Nevertheless, when he came afterwards to reflect upon the matter, he thought it might be his duty to give Patience a little word of caution. And this he could do without compromising Anna.

He contrived to see Patience alone the very next day. She began talking of their previous evening at the Ashleys'.

"Yes," observed William, "it was a pleasant evening. It would have been all the pleasanter, though, but for one who was there--Herbert Dare."

"I do not admire the Dares," said Patience frigidly.

"Nor I. But I observed one thing, Patience--that he admires Anna. Were Anna my sister, I should not like her to be too much admired by Herbert Dare. So take care of her."

Patience looked steadily at him. William continued, his tone confidential.

"You know what Herbert Dare is said to be, Patience--fonder of leading people to ill than to good. Anna is giddy--as you yourself tell her twenty times a day. I would keep her carefully under my own eyes. I would not even allow her to run into our house at night, as she is fond of doing," he added with marked emphasis. "She is as safe there as she is here; but it is giving her a taste of liberty that she may not be the better for in the end. When she comes in, send Grace with her, or bring her yourself: I will see her home again. Tell her she is a grown-up young lady now, and it is not proper that she should go out unattended," he concluded, laughing.

"William, I do not quite understand thee. Hast thee cause to say this?"

"All I say, Patience, is--keep her out of the way of possible harm, of undesirable friendships. Were Anna to be drawn into a liking for Herbert Dare, I am sure it would not be agreeable to Mr. Lynn. He would never consider the Dares a desirable family for her to marry into----"

"Marry into the family of the Dares!" interrupted Patience hotly. "Art thee losing thy senses, William?"

"These likings sometimes lead to marriage," quietly continued William. "Therefore, I say, keep her away from all chance of forming them. Believe me, my advice is good."

"I think I understand," concluded Patience. "I thank thee kindly, William."

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXIV. ANNA'S EXCUSE

A very unpleasant part of the story has now to be touched upon. Unpleasant things occur in real life, and if true pictures have to be given of the world as it exists, as it goes on its round, day by day, allusion to them cannot be wholly avoided.

Certain words of William Halliburton to Patience had run in this fashion: "Were Anna to be drawn into a liking for Herbert Dare, I am sure it would not be agreeable to Mr. Lynn. He would never consider the Dares a desirable family for her to marry into." In thus speaking, William had striven to put the case in a polite sort of form to the ears of Patience. As to any probability of marriage between one of the Dares and Anna Lynn, he would scarcely have believed it within the range of possibility. The Dares, one and all, would have considered Anna far beneath them in position, whilst the difference of religion would on Anna's side be an almost insurmountable objection. The worst that William had contemplated was the "liking" he had hinted at. He cared for Anna's welfare as he would have cared for a sister's, and he believed it would not contribute to her happiness that she should become attached to Herbert Dare. But for compromising Anna--and he had given his word not to do it--he would have spoken out openly and said there was a danger of this liking coming to pass, if she met him as he feared she had been in the habit of doing. Certainly he would not have alluded to the remote possibility of marriage, the mention of which had so scared Patience.

What had William thought, what had Patience said, could they have known that this liking was already implanted in Anna's heart beyond recall? Alas! that it should have been so! Quiet, childish, timid as Anna outwardly appeared, the strongest affection had been aroused in her heart for Herbert Dare--was filling its every crevice. These apparently shy, sensitive natures are sometimes only the more passionate and wayward within. One evening a few months previously, Anna was walking in Atterly's Field, behind their house. Anna had been in the habit of walking there--nay, of playing there--since she was a child, and she would as soon have associated harm with their garden as with that field. Farmer Atterly kept his sheep in it, and Anna had run about with the lambs as long as she could remember. Herbert Dare came up accidentally--the path through it, leading along at the back of the houses, was public, though not much frequented--and he spoke to Anna. Anna knew him to say "Good day" when she passed him in the street; and she now and then saw him at Mrs. Ashley's. Herbert stayed talking with her a few minutes, and then went on his way.

Somehow, from that time, he and Anna encountered each other there pretty frequently; and that was how the liking had grown. If a qualm of conscience crossed Miss Anna at times that it was not quite the thing for a young lady to do, thus to meet a gentleman in secret, she conveniently put the qualm away. That harm should arise from it in any way never so much as crossed her mind for a moment; and to do Herbert Dare justice, real harm was probably as far from his mind as from hers.

He grew to like her, almost as she liked him. Herbert Dare did not, in the sight of Helstonleigh, stand out as a model of all the cardinal virtues; but he was not all bad. Anna believed him all good--all honour, truth, excellence; and her heart had flashed out a rebuke to William when he hinted that Herbert was not exactly a paragon. She only knew that the very sound of his footstep made her heart leap with happiness; she only knew that to her he appeared everything that was bright and fascinating. Her great dread was, lest their intimacy should become known and separation ensue. That separation would be inevitable, were her father or Patience to become cognizant of it, Anna rightly believed.

Cunning little sophist that she was! She would fain persuade herself that an innocent meeting out of doors was justifiable, where a meeting indoors was out of the question. They had no acquaintance with the Dares; consequently Herbert could plead no excuse for calling in upon them--none at least that would be likely to carry weight with Patience. And so the young lady reconciled her conscience in the best way she could, stole out as often as she was able to meet him, and left discovery to take care of itself.

Discovery came in the shape of William Halliburton. It was bad enough; but far less alarming to Anna than it might have been. Had her father dropped upon her, she would have run away and fallen into the nearest pond, in her terror and consternation.

Though guilty of certain trifling inaccuracies--such as protesting that she "did not care" for Herbert Dare--Anna, in that interview with William, fully meant to keep the promise she made, not to meet him again. Promises, however, given under the influence of terror or other sudden emotion, are not always kept. It would probably prove so with Anna's. One thing was indisputable--that where a mind could so far forget its moral rectitude as to practise deceit in one particular, as Anna was doing, it would not be very scrupulous to keep its better promises.

Anna's thoughts for many a morning latterly, when she arose, had been "This evening I shall see him," and the prospect seemed to quicken her fingers, as it quickened her heart. But on the morning after the discovery, her first thought was, "I must never see him again as I have done. How shall I warn him not to come?" That he would be in the field again that evening, unless warned, she knew: if William Halliburton saw him there a quarrel might ensue between them; at any rate, an unpleasant scene. Anna came down, feeling cross and petulant, and inclined to wish William had been at the bottom of the sea before he had found them out the previous evening.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," it is said. Anna Lynn contrived that day to exemplify it. Her will was set upon seeing Herbert Dare, and she did see him: it can scarcely be said by accident. Anna contrived to be sent into the town by Patience on an errand, and she managed to linger so long in the neighbourhood of Mr. Dare's office, gazing in at the shops in West Street (if Patience had only seen her!), that Herbert Dare passed.

"Anna!"

"Herbert, I have been waiting in the hope of seeing thee," she whispered, her manner timid as a fawn, her pretty cheeks blushing. "Thee must not come again in the evening, for I cannot meet thee."

"Why so?" asked Herbert.

"William Halliburton saw me with thee last night, and he says it is not right. I had to give him my promise not to meet thee again, or he would have told my father."

Herbert cast a word to William; not a complimentary one. "What business is it of his?" he asked.

"I dare not stay talking to thee, Herbert. Patience will likely be sending Grace after me, finding me so long away. But I was obliged to tell thee this, lest thee should be coming again. Fare thee well!"

Passing swiftly from him, Anna went on her way. Herbert did not choose to follow her in the open street. She went along, poor child, with her head down and her eyelashes glistening. It was little else than bitter sorrow thus to part with Herbert Dare.

Patience was standing at the door, looking out for her when she came in sight of home. Patience had given little heed to what William Halliburton had said the previous night, or she might not have sent Anna into Helstonleigh alone. In point of fact, Patience had thought William a little fanciful. But when, instead of being home at four o'clock, as she ought to have been, the clock struck five, and she had not made her appearance, Patience began to think she did let her have too much liberty.

"Now, where hast thee been?" was Patience's salutation, delivered in icy tones.

"I met so many people, Patience. They stayed to talk with me."

Brushing past Patience, deaf to her subsequent reproofs, Anna flew up to her own room. When she came down, her father had entered, and Patience was pouring out the tea.

"Wilt thee tell thy father where thee hast been?"

The command was delivered in Patience's driest tone. Anna, inwardly tormented, outwardly vexed, burst into tears. The Quaker looked up in surprise.

Patience explained. Anna had left home at three o'clock to execute a little commission: she might well have been home in three-quarters of an hour and she had only made her appearance now.

"What kept thee, child?" asked her father.

"I only looked in at a shop or two," pleaded Anna, through her tears. "There were the prettiest new engravings in at Thomas Woakam's! If Patience had wanted me to run both ways, she should have said so."

Notwithstanding the little spice of impertinence peeping out in the last sentence, Samuel Lynn saw no reason to correct Anna. That she could ever be wrong, he scarcely admitted to his own heart. "Dry thy tears, child, and take thy tea," said he. "Patience wanted thee, maybe, for some household matter; it can wait another opportunity. Patience," he added, as if to drown the sound of his words and their remembrance, "are my shirts in order?"

"Thy shirts in order?" repeated Patience. "Why dost thee ask that?"

"I should not have asked it without reason," returned he. "Wilt thee please give me an answer?"

"The old shirts are as much in order as things, beginning to wear, can be," replied Patience. "Thy new shirts I cannot say much about. They will not be finished this side Midsummer, unless Anna sits to them a little closer than she is doing now."

"Thy shirts will be ready quite in time, father; before the old ones are gone beyond wearing," spoke up Anna.

"I don't know that," said Mr. Lynn. "Had they been ready, child, I might have wanted them now. I am going a journey."

"Is it the French journey thee hast talked of once or twice lately?" interposed Patience.

"Yes," said Samuel Lynn. "The master was speaking to me about it this afternoon. We were interrupted, and I did not altogether gather when he wishes me to start; but I fancy it will be immediately----"

"Oh, father! couldst thee not take me?"

The interruption came from Anna. Her blue eyes were glistening, her cheeks were crimson; a journey to the interior of France wore charms for her as great as it did for Cyril Dare. All the way home from West Street she had been thinking how she should spend her miserable home days, debarred of the evening snatches of Mr. Herbert's charming society. Going to France would be something.

"I wish I could take thee, child! But thee art aware thee might as well ask me to take the Malvern Hills."

In her inward conviction, Anna believed she might. Before she could oppose any answering but most useless argument, Samuel Lynn's attention was directed to the road. Parting opposite to his house, as if they had just walked together from the manufactory, were Mr. Ashley and William Halliburton. The master walked on. William, catching Samuel Lynn's eye, came across and entered.

Mr. Ashley had been telling William some news. Though no vacillating man in a general way, it appeared that he had again reconsidered his determination with regard to despatching William to France. He had come to the resolve to send him, as well as Samuel Lynn. William could not help surmising that his betrayed emotion the previous night, his fears touching Mr. Ashley's reason for not sending him, may have had something to do with that gentleman's change of mind.

"Will you be troubled with me?" asked he of Mr. Lynn, when he had imparted this to him.

"If such be the master's fiat, I cannot help being troubled with thee," was the answer of Samuel Lynn; but the tone of his voice spoke of anything rather than dissatisfaction. "Why is he sending thee as well as myself?"

"He told me he thought it might be best that you should show me the markets, and introduce me to the skin merchants, as I should probably have to make the journey alone in future," replied William. "I had no idea, until the master mentioned it now, that you had ever made the journey yourself, Mr. Lynn; you never told me."

"There was nothing, that I am aware of, to call for the information," observed the Quaker, in his usual dry manner. "I went there two or three times on my own account when I was in business for myself. Did the master tell thee when he should expect us to start?"

"Not precisely. The beginning of the week, I think."

"I have been asking my father if he cannot take me," put in Anna, in plaintive tones, looking at William.

"And I have answered her, that she may as well ask me to take the Malvern Hills," was the rejoinder of Samuel Lynn. "I could as likely take the one as the other."

Likely or unlikely, Samuel Lynn would have taken her beyond all doubt--taken her with a greedy, sheltering grasp--had he foreseen the result of leaving her at home, the grievous trouble that was to fall upon her head.

"Thee wilt drink a dish of tea with us this evening, William?"

It was Patience who spoke. William hesitated, but he saw they would be pleased at his doing so, and he sat down. The conversation turned upon France--upon Samuel Lynn's experiences, and William's anticipations. Anna lapsed into silence and abstraction.

In the bustle of moving, when Samuel Lynn was departing for the manufactory, William, before going home to his books, contrived to obtain a word alone with Anna.

"Have you thought of our compact?"

"Yes," she said, freely meeting his eyes in honest truth. "I saw him this afternoon in the street; I went on purpose to try and meet him. He will not come again."

"That is well. Mind and take care of yourself, Anna," he added, with a smile. "I shall be away, and not able to give an eye to you, as I freely confess it had been my resolve to do."

Anna shook her head. "He does not come again," she repeated. "Thee may go away believing me, William."

And William did go away believing her--went away to France putting faith in her; thinking that the undesirable intimacy was at an end for ever.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXV. PATIENCE COME TO GRIEF

In the early part of March, Samuel Lynn and William departed on their journey to France. And the first thought that occurred to Patience afterwards was one that is apt to occur to many thrifty housekeepers on the absence of the master--that of instituting a thorough cleansing of the house, from garret to cellar; or, as Anna mischievously expressed it, "turning the house inside out." She knew Patience did not like her wild phrases, and therefore she used them.

Patience was parting with Grace--the servant who had been with them so many years. Grace had resolved to get married. In vain Patience assured her that marriage, generally speaking, was found to be nothing better than a bed of thorns. Grace would not listen. Others had risked the thorns before her, and she thought she must try her chance with the rest. Patience had no resource but to fall in with the decision, and to look out for another servant. It appeared that she could not readily find one; at least, one whom she would venture to engage. She was unusually particular; and while she waited and looked out, she engaged Hester Dell, a humble member of her own persuasion, to come in temporarily. Hester lived with her aged mother, not far off, chiefly supporting herself by doing fine needlework at her own, or at the Friends' houses. She readily consented to take up her abode with Patience for a month or so, to help with the housework, and looked upon it as a sort of holiday.

"It's of no use to begin the house until Grace shall be gone," observed Patience to Anna. "She'd likely be scrubbing the paper on the walls, instead of the paint, for her head is turned just now."

"What fun, if she should!" ejaculated Anna.

"Fun for thee, perhaps, who art ignorant of cost and labour," rebuked Patience. "I shall wait until Grace has departed. The day that she goes, Hester comes in; and I shall have the house begun the day following."

"Couldn't thee have it begun the same day?" saucily asked Anna.

"Will thee attend to thy stitching?" returned Patience sharply. "Thy father's wristbands will not be done the better for thy nonsense."

"Shall I be turned out of my bedroom?" resumed Anna.

"For a night, perchance. Thee canst go into thy father's. But the top of the house will be done first."

"Is the roof to be scrubbed?" went on Anna. "I don't know how Hester will hold on while she does it."

"Thee art in one of thy wilful humours this morning," responded Patience. "Art thee going to set me at defiance now thy father's back is turned?"

"Who said anything about setting thee at defiance?" asked Anna. "I should like to see Hester scrubbing the roof!"

"Thee hadst better behave thyself, Anna," was the retort of Patience. And Anna, in her lighthearted wilfulness, burst into a merry laugh.

Grace departed, and Hester came in: a quiet little body, of forty years, with dark hair and defective teeth. Patience, as good as her word, was up betimes the following morning, and had the house up betimes, to institute the ceremony. Their house contained the same accommodation as Mrs. Halliburton's, with this addition--that the garret in the Quaker's had been partitioned off into two chambers. Patience slept in one; Grace had occupied the other. The three bedrooms on the floor beneath were used, one by Mr. Lynn, one by Anna; the other was kept as a spare room, for any chance visitor; the "best room" it was usually called. The house belonged to Mr. Lynn. Formerly, both houses had belonged to him; but at the time of his loss he had sold the other to Mr. Ashley.

The ablutions were in full play. Hester, with a pail, mop, scrubbing-brush, and other essentials, was ensconced in the top chambers; Anna, ostensibly at her wristband stitching (but the work did not get on very fast), was singing to herself in an undertone in one of the parlours, the door safely shut; while Patience was exercising a general superintendence, giving an eye everywhere. Suddenly there echoed a loud noise, as of a fall, and a scream resounded throughout the house. It appeared to come from what they usually called the bedroom floor. Anna flew up the stairs, and Hester Dell flew down the upper ones. At the foot of the garret stairs, her head against the door of Anna's chamber, lay Patience and a heavy bed-pole. In attempting to carry the pole down from her room, she had somehow overbalanced herself, and fallen heavily.

"Is the house coming down?" Anna was beginning to say. But she stopped in consternation when she saw Patience. Hester attempted to pick her up.

"Thee cannot raise me, Hester. Anna, child, thee must not attempt to touch me. I fear my leg is br----"

Her voice died away, her eyes closed, and a hue, as of death, overspread her countenance. Anna, more terrified than she had ever been in her life, flew round to Mrs. Halliburton's.

Dobbs, from her kitchen, saw her coming--saw the young face streaming with tears, heard the short cries of alarm--and Dobbs stepped out.

"Why, what on earth's the matter now?" asked she.

Anna seized Dobbs, and clung to her; partly that to do so seemed some protection in her great terror. "Oh, Dobbs, come in to Patience!" she cried. "I think she's dying."

The voice reached the ears of Jane. She came forth from the parlour. Dobbs was then running in to Samuel Lynn's, and Jane ran also, understanding nothing.

Patience was reviving when they entered. All her cry was, that they must not move her. One of her legs was in some manner doubled under her, and doubled over the pole. Jane felt a conviction that it was broken.

"Who can run fastest?" she asked. "We must have Mr. Parry here."

Hester waited for no further instruction. She caught up her fawn-coloured Quaker shawl and grey bonnet, and was off, putting them on as she ran. Anna, sobbing wildly, turned and hid her face on Jane, as one who wants to be comforted. Then, her mood changing, she threw herself down beside Patience, the tears from her own eyes falling on Patience's face.

"Patience, dear Patience, canst thee forgive me? I have been wilful and naughty, but I never meant to cross thee really. I did it only to tease thee; but I loved thee all the while."

Patience, suffering as she was, drew down the repentant face to kiss it fervently. "I know it, dear child; I know thee. Don't thee distress thyself for me."

Mr. Parry came, and Patience was carried into the spare room. Her leg was broken, and badly broken; the surgeon called it a compound fracture.

So there was an end to the grand cleansing scheme for a long time to come! Patience lay in sickness and pain, and Hester had to make her her first care. Anna's spirits revived in a day or two. Mr. Parry said a cure would be effected in time; that the worst of the business was the long confinement for Patience; and Anna forgot her dutiful fit of repentance. Patience would be well again, would be about as before; and, as to the present confinement, Anna rather grew to look upon it as the interposition of some good fairy, who must have taken her own liberty under its special protection.

Whether Anna would have succeeded in eluding the vigilance of Patience up cannot be told; she certainly did that of Patience down. Anna had told Herbert Dare that he was not to pay a visit to Atterly's field again, or expect her to pay one; but Herbert Dare was about the last person to obey such advice. Had William Halliburton remained to be--as Herbert termed it--a treacherous spy, there's no doubt that Herbert would have striven to set his vigilance at defiance: with William's absence, the field, both literally and figuratively, was open to him. In the absence of Samuel Lynn, it was doubly open. Herbert Dare knew perfectly well that if the Quaker once gained the slightest inkling of his secret acquaintance with Anna, it would effectually be put a stop to. To wear a cloak resembling William Halliburton's, on his visits to the field, had been the result of a bright idea. It had suddenly occurred to Mr. Herbert that if the Quaker's lynx eyes did by mischance catch sight of the cloak, promenading some fine night at the back of his residence, they would accord it no particular notice, concluding the wearer to be William Halliburton taking a moonlight stroll at the back of his residence. Nevertheless, Herbert had timed his visits so as to make pretty sure that Samuel Lynn was out of view, safely ensconced in Mr. Ashley's manufactory; and he had generally succeeded. Not quite always, as the reader knows.

Anna was of a most persuadable nature. In defiance of her promise to William, she suffered Herbert Dare to persuade her again into the old system of meeting him. Guileless as a child, never giving thought to wrong or to harm--beyond the wrong and harm of thus clandestinely stealing out, and that wrong she conveniently ignored--she saw nothing very grave in doing it. Herbert could not come indoors; Patience would be sure not to welcome him; and therefore, she logically argued to her own mind, she must go out to him.

She had learnt to like Herbert Dare a great deal too well not to wish to meet him, to talk with him. Herbert, on his part, had learnt to like her. An hour passed in whispering to Anna, in mischievously untying her sober cap, and letting the curls fall, in laying his own hand fondly on the young head, and telling her he cared for her beyond every earthly thing. It had grown to be one of his most favourite recreations; and Herbert was not one to deny himself any recreation that he took a fancy to. He intended no harm to the pretty child. It is possible that, had any one seriously pointed out to him the harm that might arise to Anna, in the estimation of Helstonleigh, should these stolen meetings be found out, Herbert might for once have done violence to his inclinations, and not have persisted in them. Unfortunately--very unfortunately, as it was to turn out--there was no one to give this word of caution. Patience was ill, William was away: and no one else knew anything about it. In point of fact, Patience could not be said to know anything, for William's warning had not made the impression upon her that it ought to have done. Patience's confiding nature was in fault. For Anna deliberately to meet Herbert Dare or any other "Herbert" in secret, she would have deemed a simple impossibility. In the judgment of Patience, it had been nothing less than irredeemable sin.

What did Herbert Dare promise himself, in thus leading Anna into this imprudence? Herbert promised himself nothing--beyond the passing gratification of the hour. Herbert had never been one to give any care to the future, for himself or for any one else; and he was not likely to begin to do it at present. As to seeking Anna for his wife, such a thought had never crossed his mind. In the first place, at the rate the Dares--Herbert and his brothers--were going on, a wife for any of them seemed amongst the impossibilities. Unless, indeed, she made the bargain beforehand to live upon air; there was no chance of their having anything else to live upon. But, had Herbert been in a position, pecuniarily considered, to marry ten wives, Anna Lynn would not have been one of them. Agreeable as it might be to him to linger with Anna, he considered her far beneath himself; and pride, with Herbert, was always in the ascendant. Herbert had been introduced to Anna Lynn at Mrs. Ashley's, and that threw a sort of prestige around her. She was also enshrined in the respectable Quaker body of the town. But for these facts, for being who she was, Herbert might have been less scrupulous in his behaviour towards her. He would not--it may be as well to say he dared not--be otherwise than considerate towards Anna Lynn; but, on the other hand, he would not have considered her worthy to become his wife. On the part of Samuel Lynn, he would far rather have seen his child in her coffin, than the wife of Herbert Dare. The young Dares did not bear a good name in Helstonleigh.

In this most uncertain and unsatisfactory state of things, what on earth--as Dobbs had said to Anna--did Herbert want with her at all? Far, far better that he had allowed Anna to fall in with the sensible advice of William Halliburton--"Do not meet him again." It was a sad pity; and it is very probable that Herbert Dare regretted it afterwards, in the grievous misery it entailed. Misery to both; and without positive ill conduct on the part of either.

But that time has not yet come, and we are only at the stage of Samuel Lynn's absence and Patience's broken leg. Anna had taken to stealing out again; and her wits were at work to concoct a plausible excuse for her absences to Hester Dell, that no tales might be carried to Patience.

"Hester, Patience is a fidget. Thee must see that. She would like me to keep at my work all day, all day, evening too, and never have a breath of fresh air! She'd like me to shut myself up in this parlour, as she has now to be shut up in her room; never to be in the garden in the lovely twilight; never to run and look at the pretty lambs in the field; never to go next door, and say 'How dost thee?' to Jane Halliburton! It's a shame, Hester!"

"Well, I think it would be, if it were true," responded Hester, a simple woman in mind and language, who loved Anna almost as well as did Patience. "But dost thee not think thee art mistaken, child? Patience seems anxious that thee should go out. She says I am to take thee."

"I dare say!" responded Anna; "and leave her all alone! How would she come downstairs with her broken leg, if any one knocked at the door? She's a dreadful fidget, Hester. She'd like to watch me as a cat watches a mouse. Look at last night! It's all on account of these shirts. She thinks I shan't get them done. I shall."

"Why, dear, I think thee wilt," returned Hester, casting her eyes on the work. "Thee art getting on with them."

"I am getting on nicely. I have done all the stitching, and nearly the plain part of the bodies; I shall soon be at the gathers. What did she say to thee last night?"

"She said, 'Go to the parlour, Hester, and See whether Anna does not want a light.' And I came and could not find thee. And then she said thee wast always running into the next door, troubling them, and she would not have it done. Thee came in just at the time, and she scolded thee."

"Yes, she did," resentfully spoke Anna. "I tell thee, Hester, she's the worst fidget breathing. I give thee my word, Hester, that I had not been inside the Halliburtons' door. I had been in this garden and in the field. I had been close at work all day----"

"Not quite all day, dear," interrupted Hester, willing to smooth matters to the child as far as she was able. "Thee hadst thy friend Mary Ashley here to call in the morning, and thee hadst Sarah Dixon in the afternoon."

"Well, I had been at work a good part of the day," corrected Anna, "and I wanted some fresh air after it. Where's the crime?"

"Crime, dear! It's only natural. If I had not my errands to go upon, and so take the air that way, I should like myself to run to the field, when my work was done."

"So would any one else, except Patience," retorted Anna. "Hester, look thee. When she asks after me again, thee hast no need to tell her, should I have run out. It only fidgets her, and she is not well enough to be fidgeted. Thee tell her I am at my sewing. But I can't be sewing for ever, Hester; I must have a few minutes' holiday from it now and then. Patience might have cause to grumble if I ran away and left it in the day."

"Well, dear, I think it is only reasonable," slowly answered Hester, considering the matter over. "I'll not tell her thee art in the garden again; for she must be kept tranquil, friend Parry says."

"She was just as bad when I was a little girl, Hester," concluded Anna. "She wouldn't let me run in the garden alone then, for fear I should eat the gooseberries. But it is not the gooseberry season now."

"All quite true and reasonable," thought Hester Dell.

And so the young lady contrived to enjoy a fair share of evening liberty. Not but that she would have done with more, had she known how to get it. And as the weeks went on, and the cold weather of early spring merged into summer days, more genial nights, she and Herbert Dare grew bold in their immunity from discovery, and scarcely an evening passed but they might have been seen, had any one been on the watch, in Farmer Atterly's field. Anna had reached the point of taking his arm now; and there they would pace under cover of the hedge, Herbert talking, and Anna dreaming that she was in Eden.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXVI. THE GOVERNESS'S EXPEDITION

Herbert Dare sat enjoying the beauty of the April evening in the garden of Pomeranian Knoll. He was hoisted on the back of a garden bench, and balanced himself astride it, the tip of one toe resting on the seat, the other foot dangling. The month was drawing to its close, and the beams of the setting sun streamed athwart Herbert's face. It might be supposed that he had seated himself there to bask in the soft, still air and lovely sunset. In point of fact, he hardly knew whether the sun was rising or setting--whether the evening was fair or foul--so buried was he in deep thought and perplexing care.

The particular care which was troubling Herbert Dare, was one which has, at some time or other, troubled the peace of a great many of us. It was pecuniary embarrassment. Herbert had been in it for a long time; had, in fact, been sinking into it deeper and deeper. He had managed to ward it off hitherto in some way or other; but the time to do that much longer was going by. He was not given to forethought, it has been previously mentioned; but he could not conceal from himself that unpleasantness would ensue, and that speedily, unless something could be done. What was that something to be? He did not know; he could not imagine. His father protested that he had not the means to help him; and Herbert believed that Mr. Dare spoke the truth. Not that Mr. Dare knew of the extent of the embarrassment. Had he done so, it would have come to the same thing, so far as his help went. His sons, as he said, had drained him to the utmost.

Anthony passed the end of the walk. Whether he saw Herbert or not, certain it was, that he turned away from his direction. Herbert lifted his eyes, an angry light in them. He lifted his voice also, angry too.

"Here, you! Don't go skulking off because you see me sitting here. I want you."

Anthony was taken to. It is more than probable that he was skulking off, and that he had seen Herbert, for he did not particularly care then to come into contact with his brother. Anthony was in embarrassment on his own score; was ill at ease from more reasons than one; and when the mind is troubled, sharp words do not tend to soothe it. Little else than sharp words had been exchanged latterly between Anthony and Herbert Dare.

It was no temporary ill-feeling, vexed to-day, pleased to-morrow, which had grown up between them; the ill-will had existed a long time. Herbert believed that his brother had injured him, had wilfully played him false, and his heart bitterly resented it. That Anthony was in fault at the beginning was undoubted. He had drawn Herbert unsuspiciously--unsuspiciously on Herbert's part, you understand--into some mess with regard to bills. Anthony was fond of "bills;" Herbert, more wise in that respect, had never meddled with them: his opinion coincided with his father's: they were edged tools, which cut both ways. "Eschew bills if you want to die upon your own bed," was a saying of Mr. Dare's, frequently uttered for the benefit of his sons. Good advice, no doubt. Mr. Dare, as a lawyer, ought to know. Herbert had held by the advice; Anthony never had; and the time came when Anthony took care that his brother should not.

In a period of deep embarrassment for Anthony, he had persuaded Herbert to sign two bills for him, their aggregate amount being large; assuring him, in the most earnest and apparently truthful manner, that the money to meet them, when due, was already provided. Herbert, in his good nature, fell into the snare. It turned out not only that the bills were not met at all, but Anthony had so contrived it that Herbert should be responsible, not he himself. Herbert regarded it as a shameful piece of treachery, and never ceased to reproach his brother. Anthony, who was of a sullen, morose temper, resented the reproach; and they did not lead together the happiest of lives. The bills were not settled yet; indeed, they formed part of Herbert's most pressing embarrassments. This was one cause of the ill-feeling between them, and there were others, of a different nature. Anthony and Herbert Dare had never been cordial with each other, even in childhood.

Anthony, called by Herbert, advanced. "Who wants to skulk away?" asked he. "Are you judging me by yourself?"

"I hope not," returned Herbert, in tones of the most withering contempt and scorn. "Listen to me. I've told you five hundred times that I'll have some settlement, and if you don't come to it amicably, I'll force you to it. Do you hear, you? I'll force you to it."

"Try it," retorted Anthony, with a mocking laugh; and he coolly walked away.

Walked away, leaving Herbert in a towering rage. He felt inclined to follow him; to knock him down. Had Anthony only met the affair in a proper spirit, it had been different. Had he said, "Herbert, I am uncommonly vexed--I'll see what can be done," or words to that effect, half the sting in his brother's mind would have been removed; but, to taunt Herbert with having to pay--as he sometimes did--was almost unbearable. Had Herbert been of Anthony's temper, he would have proved that it was quite unbearable.

But Herbert's temper was roused now. It was the toss of a die whether he followed Anthony and struck him down, or whether he did not. The die was cast by the appearance of Signora Varsini; and Anthony, for that evening, escaped.

It was not very gallant of Herbert to remain where he was, in the presence of the governess, astride upon the garden bench. Herbert was feeling angry in no ordinary degree, and this may have been his excuse. She came up, apparently in anger also. Her brow was frowning, her compressed mouth drawn in until its lips were hidden.

There is good advice in the old song or saying: "It is well to be off with the old love, before you are on with the new." As good advice as that of Mr. Dare's, relative to the bills. Herbert might have sung it in character. He should have made things square with the Signora Varsini, before entering too extensively on his friendship with Anna Lynn.

Not that the governess could be supposed to occupy any position in the mind or heart of Herbert Dare, except as governess; governess to his sisters. Herbert would probably have said so, had you asked him. What she might have said, is a different matter. She looks angry enough to say anything just now. The fact appeared to be--so far as any one not personally interested in the matter could be supposed to gather it--that Herbert had latterly given offence to the governess, by not going to the school-room for what he called his Italian lessons. Of course he could not be in two places at once; and if his leisure hour after dinner was spent in Atterly's field, it was impossible that he could be in the school-room, learning Italian with the governess. But she resented it as a slight. She was of an exacting nature; probably of a jealous nature; and she regarded it as a personal slight, and resented it bitterly. She had been rather abrupt in speech and manner to Herbert, in consequence; and that, he resented. But, being naturally of an easy temper, Herbert was no friend to unnecessary disputes. He tried what he could towards soothing the young lady; and, finding he effected no good in that way, he adopted the other alternative--he shunned her. The governess perceived this, and worked herself up into a state of semi-fury.

She came down upon him in full sail. The moment Herbert saw her, he remembered having given her a half-promise the previous day to pay her a visit that evening. "Now for it," thought he to himself.

"Why you keep me waiting like this?" began she, when she was close to him.

"Have I kept you waiting?" civilly returned Herbert. "I am very sorry. The fact is, mademoiselle, I have a good deal of worry upon me, and I'm fit for nobody's company but my own to-night. You might not have thanked me for my visit, had I come."

"That is my own look-out," replied the governess. "When a gentleman makes a promise to me, I expect him to keep it. I go up to the school-room, and I wait, I wait, I wait! Ah, my poor patience, how I wait! I have that copy of Tasso, that you said you would like to see. Will you come?"

Herbert thought he was in for it. He glanced at the setting sun--at least, at the spot where the sun had gone down, for it had sunk below the horizon, leaving only crimson streaks in the grey sky to tell of what had been. Twilight was rapidly coming on, when he would depart to pay his usual evening visit: there was no time, he decided, for Tasso and the governess.

"I'll come another evening," said he. "I have an engagement, and I must go out to keep it."

A stony hardness settled on mademoiselle's face. "What engagement?" she imperatively demanded.

It might be thought that Herbert would have been justified in civilly declining to satisfy her curiosity. What was it to her? Apparently he thought otherwise. Possibly he was afraid of an outbreak.

"What engagement! Oh--I am going to play a pool at billiards with Lord Hawkesley. He is in Helstonleigh again."

"And that is what you go for, every evening--to play billiards with Lord Hawkesley?" she resumed, her eyes glistening ominously.

"Of course it is, mademoiselle. With Hawkesley or other fellows."

"A lie!" curtly responded mademoiselle.

"I say," cried Herbert, laughing good-humouredly: "do you call that orthodox language?"

"It nothing to you what I call it," she cried, clipping her words in her vehemence, as she would do when excited. "It not with Milord Hawkesley, not to billiards that you go! I know it is not."

"Then I tell you that I often play billiards," cried Herbert. "On my honour I do."

"May-be, may-be," answered she, very rapidly. "But it not to billiards that you go every evening. Every evening!--every evening! Not an evening now, but you go out, you go out! I bought Tasso--do you know that I bought Tasso?--that I have bought it with my money, that you may have the pleasure of hearing me read it, as you said--as you call it? Should I spend the money, had I thought you would not come when I had it--would not care to hear it read?"

Had she been in a more amiable mood, Herbert would have told her that she was a simpleton for spending her money; he would have told her that Tasso, read in the original, would have been to him unintelligible as Sanscrit. He had a faint remembrance of saying to mademoiselle that he should like to read Tasso, in answer to a remark that Tasso was her favourite of the Italian poets: but he had only made the observation carelessly, without seriously meaning anything. And she had been so foolish as to go and buy it!

"Will you come this evening and hear it begun?" she continued, breaking the pause, and speaking rather more graciously.

"Upon my word of honour, Bianca, I can't to-night," he answered, feeling himself, between the two--the engagement made, and the engagement sought to be made--somewhat embarrassed. "I will come another evening; you may depend upon me."

"You say to me yesterday that you would come this evening; that I might depend upon you. Much you care!"

"But I could not help myself. An engagement arose, and I was obliged to fall in with it. I was, indeed. I'll hear Tasso another evening."

"You will not break your paltry engagement at billiards to keep your word to a lady! C'est bien!"

"It--it is not altogether that," replied Herbert, getting out of the reproach in the best way he could. "I have some business as well."

She fastened her glistening eyes upon him. There was an expression in them which Herbert neither understood nor liked. "C'est tres bien!" she slowly repeated. "I know where you are going, and for what!"

A smile--at her assumed knowledge, and what it was worth--flitted over Herbert Dare's face. "You are very wise," said he.

"Take care of yourself, mon ami! C'est tout ce que je vous dis."

"Now, mademoiselle, what is the matter, that you should look and speak in that manner?" he asked, still in the same good-humoured tone, as if he would fain pass the affair away in a joke. "I'm sure I have enough bother upon me, without your adding to it."

"What is your bother?"

"Never mind: it would give you no pleasure to know it. It is caused by Anthony--and be hanged to him!"

"Anthony is worth ten of you!" fiercely responded mademoiselle.

"Every one to his own liking," carelessly remarked Herbert. "It's well for me that all the world does not think as you do, mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle looked as though she would like to beat him. "So!" she foamed, drawing back her bloodless lips; "now that your turn is served, Bianca Varsini may just be sent to the enfer! Garde-toi, mon camarade!"

"Garde your voice," replied Herbert. "The cows yonder will think it's a tempest. I wish my turn was served, in more ways than one. What particular turn do you mean? If it's buying Tasso, I'll purchase it from you at double price."

He could not help giving her a little chaff. It was what he would have called it: chaff. Exacting people fretted his generally easy temper, and he was beginning to fear that she would detain him until it was too late to see Anna.

But, on the latter score, he was set at rest. With a few words, spoken in Italian, she nodded her head angrily at him, and turned away. Fierce words, in spite of their low tone, Herbert was sure they were, but he could not catch one of them. Had he caught them all, it would have come to the same, so far as his understanding went. Excellent as Signora Varsini's method of teaching Italian may have been, her lessons had not as yet been very efficient for Herbert Dare.

She crossed her hands before her, and went down the walk, taking the path to the house. Proceeding straight up to the school-room, she met Cyril on the stairs. He had apparently been dressing himself for the evening, and was going out to spend it. The governess caught him abruptly, pulled him inside the school-room, and closed the door.

"I say, mademoiselle, what's that for?" asked Cyril, believing, by the fierce look of the young lady, that she was about to take some summary vengeance upon him.

"Cyril! you tell me. Where is it that Herbert goes to of an evening? Every evening--every evening?"

Cyril stared excessively. "What does it concern you to know where he goes, mademoiselle?" returned he.

"I want to know for my own reasons, and that's enough for you, Monsieur Cyril. Where does he go?"

"He goes out," responded Cyril.

The governess stamped her foot petulantly. "I could tell you that he goes out. I ask you where it is that he goes?"

"How should I know?" was Cyril's answer. "It's not my business."

"Don't you know?" demanded mademoiselle.

"No, that I don't," heartily spoke Cyril. "Do you suppose I watch him, mademoiselle? He'd pretty soon pitch into me, if he caught me at that game. I dare say he goes to billiards."

The suggestion excited the ire of the governess. "He has been telling you to say so!" she said, menace in every tone of her voice, every gesture of her lifted hand.

Cyril opened his eyes to their utmost width. He could not understand why the governess should be asking him this, or why Herbert's movements should concern her. "I know nothing at all about it," he answered; and, so far, he spoke the truth. "I don't know that Herbert goes anywhere in particular of an evening. If he does, he would not tell me."

She laid her hand heavily on his shoulder; she brought her face--terrible in its livid earnestness--almost into contact with his. "Ecoutez, mon ami," she whispered to the amazed Cyril. "If you are going to play this game with me, I will play one with you. Who wore the cloak to that boucherie, and got the money?--who ripped out the ecossais side afterwards, leaving it all mangled and open? Think you, I don't know? Ah, ha! Monsieur Cyril, you cannot play the farce with me!"

Cyril's face turned ghastly, drops of sweat broke out over his forehead. "Hush!" he cried, looking round in the instinct of terror, lest listeners should be at hand.

"Yes; you say, 'Hush!'" she resumed. "I will hush if you don't make me speak. I have hushed ever since. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll hush always."

"Mademoiselle Varsini!" he cried, his manner too painfully earnest for her to doubt now that he spoke the truth: "I declare that I know nothing of Herbert's movements. I don't know where he goes or what he does. When I told you I supposed he went to billiards, I said what I thought might be the case. He may go to fifty places of an evening, for all I can tell. Tell me what it is you want found out, and I will try and do it."

Cyril was not one to play the spy on his brother; in fact, as he had just classically observed to the young lady, Herbert would have "pitched into" him, had he found him attempting it. And serve him right! But Cyril saw that he was in her power; and that made all the difference. He would now have tracked Herbert to the ends of the earth at her bidding.

But she did not bid him. Quite the contrary. She took her hand from Cyril's shoulder, opened the door, and said she did not want him any longer. "It is no matter," cried she; "I wanted to learn something about Monsieur Herbert, for a reason; but if you do not know it, let it pass. It is no matter."

Cyril departed; first of all lifting his cowardly face. It looked a coward's then. "You'll keep counsel, mademoiselle?"

"Yes. When people don't offend me, I don't offend them."

She stood at the door after he had gone down, half in, half out of the room, apparently in deep thought. Presently footsteps were heard coming up, and she retreated and closed the door.

They were those of Herbert. He went on to his room, remained there a few minutes, and then came out again. Mademoiselle had the door ajar as he descended. Her quick eye detected that he had been giving a few finishing touches to his toilette--brushing his hair, pulling down his wristbands, and various other little odds and ends of dandyism.

"And you do that to play billiards!" nodded she, inwardly, as she looked after him. "I'll see, monsieur."

Upstairs with a soft step, went she, to her own chamber. She reached from her box a long and loose dark-green cloak, similar to those worn by the women of France and Flanders, and a black silk quilted bonnet. It was her travelling attire, and she put it on now. Then she locked her chamber door behind her, and slipped down into the dining-room, with as soft a step as she had gone up.

Passing out at the open window, she kept tolerably under cover of the trees, and gained the road. It was quite dusk then, but she recognized Herbert before her, walking with a quick step. She put on a quick step also, keeping a safe distance between herself and him. He went through the town, to the London road, and turned into Atterly's field. The governess turned into it after him.

There she stopped under the hedge, to reconnoitre. A few minutes, and she could distinguish that he was joined by some young girl, whom he met with every token of respect and confidence. A strange cry went forth on the evening air.

Herbert Dare was startled. "What noise was that?" he exclaimed.

Anna had heard nothing. "It must have been one of the lambs in the field, Herbert."

"It was more like a human voice in pain," observed Herbert. But they heard no more.

They began their usual walk--a few paces backward and forward, beneath the most sheltered part of the hedge, Anna taking his arm. Mademoiselle could see, as well as the darkness allowed her; but she could not hear. Her face, peeping out of the shadowy bonnet, was not unlike the face of a tiger.

She crawled away. She had noticed as she turned into the field an iron gate that led into the garden, which the hedge skirted. She crept round to it, found it locked, and mounted it. It had spikes on the top, but the signora would not have cared just then had she found herself impaled. She got safe over it, and then considered how to reach the spot where they stood without their hearing her.

Would she be baffled? She be baffled! No. She stooped down, unlaced her boots, and stole softly on in her stockings. And there she was! almost as close to them as they were to each other.

Where had the signora heard those gentle, timid tones before? A lovely girl, looking little more than a child, in her modest Quaker dress, rose to her mind's eye. She had seen her with Miss Ashley. She--the signora--knelt down upon the earth, the better to catch what was said.

"Listeners never hear any good of themselves." It is a proverb too often exemplified, as the signora could have told that night. Herbert Dare was accounting for his late appearance, which he laid to the charge of the governess. He gave a description of the interview she had volunteered him in the garden at home--more ludicrous, perhaps, than true, but certainly not complimentary to the signora. Anna laughed; and the lady on the other side gathered that this was not the first time she had formed a topic of merriment between them. You should have seen her face. Pour plaisir, as she herself might have said.

She stayed out the interview. When it was over, and Herbert Dare had departed, she put on her boots and mounted the gate again; but she was not so agile this time, and a spike entered her wrist. Binding her handkerchief round it, to arrest the blood, she returned to Pomeranian Knoll.

Five hundred questions were showered upon her when she entered the drawing-room, looking calm and impassible as ever. Not a tress of her elaborate braids of hair was out of place; not a fold awry in her dress. Much wonder had been excited by her failing to appear at tea; Minny had drummed a waltz on her chamber door, but mademoiselle would not open it, and would not speak.

"I cannot speak when I am lying down with those vilaine headaches," remarked mademoiselle.

"Have you a headache, mademoiselle?" asked Mrs. Dare. "Will you have a cup of tea brought up?"

Mademoiselle declined the tea. She was not thirsty.

"What have you done to your wrist, mademoiselle?" called out Herbert, who was stretched on a sofa, at the far end of the room.

"My wrist? Oh, I scratched it."

"How did you manage that?"

"Ah, bah! it's nothing," responded mademoiselle.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXVII. THE QUARREL

It is grievous, when ill-feeling arises between brothers, that that ill-feeling should be cherished instead of being subdued. But such was the case with Anthony and Herbert Dare. By the time the sunny month of May came in, matters had grown to such a height between them, that Mr. Dare found himself compelled to interfere. It was beginning to make things in the house uncomfortable. They would meet at meals, and not only abstain from speaking to each other, but take every possible opportunity of showing mutual and marked discourtesy. No positive outbreak between them had as yet taken place in the presence of the family: but it was only smouldering, and might be daily looked for.

Mr. Dare, so far as the original cause went, blamed his eldest son. Undoubtedly Anthony had been solely in fault. It was a dishonourable, ungenerous, unmanly act, to draw his brother into trouble, and to do it plausibly and deceitfully. At the present stage of the affair, Mr. Dare saw occasion to blame Herbert more than Anthony. "It is you who keep up the ball, Herbert," he said to him. "If you would suffer the matter to die away, Anthony would do so." "Of course he would," Herbert replied. "He has served his turn, and would be glad that it should end there."

It was in vain that Mr. Dare talked to them. A dozen times did he recommend them to "shake hands and make it up." Neither appeared inclined to take the advice. Anthony was sullen. He would have been content to let the affair drop quietly into oblivion: perhaps, as Herbert said, had been glad that it should so drop; but, make the slightest move towards it, he would not. Herbert openly said that he'd not shake hands. If Anthony wanted ever to shake hands with him again, let him pay up.

There lay the grievance; "paying up." The bills, not paid, were a terrible thorn in the side of Herbert Dare. He was responsible, and he knew not one hour from another but he might be arrested on them. To soothe matters between his sons, Mr. Dare would willingly have taken the charge of payment upon himself, but he had positively not the money to do it with. In point of fact, Mr. Dare was growing seriously embarrassed on his own score. He had had a great deal of trouble with his sons, with Anthony in particular, and he had grown sick and tired of helping them out of pecuniary difficulties. Still, he would have relieved Herbert of this one nightmare, had it been in his power. Herbert had been deluded into it, without any advantage to himself; therefore Mr. Dare had the will, could he have managed it, to help him out. He told Herbert that he would see what he could do after a while. The promise did not relieve Herbert of present fears; neither did it restore peace between the malcontents. Had Herbert been relieved of that particular embarrassment, others would have remained to him; but that fact did not in the least lessen his soreness, as to the point in question.

It was an intensely hot day; far hotter than is usual at the season; and the afternoon sun streamed full on the windows of Pomeranian Knoll, suggesting thoughts of July, instead of May. A gay party--at any rate, a party dressed in gay attire--were crossing the hall to enter a carriage that waited at the door. Mr. Dare, Mrs. Dare, and Adelaide. Mrs. Dare had always been given to gay attire, and her daughters had inherited her taste. They were going to dine at a friend's house, a few miles' distance from Helstonleigh. The invitation was for seven o'clock. It was now striking six, the dinner-hour at Mr. Dare's.

Minny, looking half melted, had perched herself upon the end of the balustrades to watch the departure.

"You'll fall, child," said Mr. Dare.

Minny laughed, and said there was no danger of her falling. She wondered what her father would think if he saw her sometimes at her gymnastics on the balustrades, taking a sweeping slide from the top to the bottom. She generally contrived that he should not see her; or mademoiselle either. Mademoiselle had caught sight of the performance once, and had given her a whole French fable to learn by way of punishment.

"Are we to have strawberries for dinner, mamma?" asked Minny.

"You will have what I have thought proper to order," replied Mrs. Dare rather sharply. She was feeling hot and cross. Something had put her out while dressing.

"I think you might wait for strawberries until they are ripe in our own garden; not buy them regardless of cost," interposed Mr. Dare, speaking for the general benefit, but not to any one in particular.

Minny dropped the subject. "Your dress is turned up, Adelaide," said she.

Adelaide looked languidly behind her, and a maid, who had followed them down, advanced and put right the refractory dress: a handsome dress of pink silk, glistening with its own richness. At that moment Anthony entered the hall. He had just come home to dinner, and looked in a very bad humour.

"How late you'll be!" he cried.

"Not at all. We shall drive there in an hour."

They swept out at the door, Mrs. Dare and Adelaide. Mr. Dare was about to follow them when a sudden thought appeared to strike him, and he turned back and addressed Anthony.

"You young men take care that you don't get quarrelling with each other. Do you hear, Anthony?"

"I hear," ungraciously replied Anthony, not turning to speak, but continuing his way up to his dressing-room. He probably regarded the injunction with contempt, for it was too much in Anthony Dare's nature so to regard all advice, of whatever kind. Nevertheless it had been well that he had given heed to it. It had been well that that last word to his father had been one of affection!

Dinner was served. Anthony, in the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Dare, took the head. Rosa, with a show of great parade and ceremony, assumed the seat opposite to him and said she should be mistress. Minny responded that Rosa was not going to be mistress over her, and the governess desired Miss Rosa not to talk so loudly. Rather derogatory checks, these, to the dignity of a "mistress."

Herbert was not at table. Irregular as the young Dares were in many of their habits, they were generally home to dinner. Minny wondered aloud where Herbert was. Anthony replied that he was "skulking."

"Skulking!" echoed Minny.

"Yes, skulking," angrily repeated Anthony. "He left the office at three o'clock, and has never been near it since. And the governor left at four!" he added, in a tone that seemed to say he considered that also a grievance.

"Where did Herbert go to?" asked Rosa.

"I don't know," responded Anthony. "I only know that I had a double share of work to do."

Anthony Dare was no friend to work. And having had to do a little more than he would have done had Herbert remained at his post, had considerably aggravated his temper.

"Why should Monsieur Herbert go away and leave you his work to do?" inquired the governess, lifting her eyes from her plate to Anthony.

"I shall take care to ask him why," returned Anthony.

"It is not fair that he should," continued mademoiselle. "I would not have done it for him, Monsieur Anthony."

"Neither should I, had I not been obliged," said Anthony, not in the least relaxing from his ill-humour, either in looks or tone. "It was work that had to be done before post-time, and one of our clerks is away on business to-day."

Dinner proceeded to its close. Joseph hesitated, unwilling to remove the cloth. "Is it to be left for Mr. Herbert?" he asked.

"No!" imperiously answered Anthony. "If he cannot come in for dinner, dinner shall not be kept for him."

"Cook is keeping the things by the fire, sir."

"Then tell her to save herself the trouble."

So the cloth was removed, and dessert put on. To Minny's inexpressible disappointment it turned out that there were no strawberries. This put her into an ill-humour, and she left the table and the room, declaring she would not touch anything else. Mademoiselle Varsini called her back, and ordered her to her seat; she would not permit so great a breach of discipline. Cyril and George, who were not under mademoiselle's control, gulped down a glass of wine, and hastened out to keep an engagement. It was a very innocent one; a cricket match had been organized for the evening, by some of the old college boys; and Cyril and George were amongst the players. It has never been mentioned that Mr. Ashley, in his strict sense of justice, had allowed Cyril the privilege of spending his evenings at home five nights in the week, as he did to William Halliburton.

The rest remained at table. Minny, per force; Rosa, to take an unlimited quantity of oranges; Mademoiselle Varsini, because it was the custom to remain. But mademoiselle soon rose and withdrew with her pupils; Anthony was not showing himself a particularly sociable companion. He had not touched any dessert; but seemed to be drinking a good deal of wine.

As they were going out of the room, Herbert bustled in. "Now then, take care!" cried he, for Minny, paying little attention to her movements, had gone full tilt at him.

"Oh! Herbert, can't you see?" cried she, dolefully rubbing her head. "What made you so late? Dinner's gone away."

"It can be brought in again," replied Herbert carelessly. "Comme il est chaud! n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?"

This last was addressed to the governess. Rosa screamed with laughter at his bad French, and mademoiselle smiled. "You get on in French as you do in Italian, Monsieur Herbert," cried she. "And that is what you call--backward."

Herbert laughed good-humouredly. He did not know what particular mistake he had made; truth to say, he did not care. They withdrew, and he rang the bell for his dinner.

"Mind, Herbert," cried Minny, putting in her head again at the door, "papa said you were not to quarrel."

Better, perhaps, that she had not said it! Who can tell?

The brothers remained alone. Anthony sullen, and, as yet, silent. He appeared to have emptied the port wine decanter, and to be beginning upon the sherry! Herbert strolled past him; supreme indifference in his manner--some might have said contempt--and stood just outside the window, whistling.

You have not forgotten that this dining-room window opened to the ground. The apartment was long and somewhat narrow, the window large and high, and opening in the centre, after the manner of a French one. The door was at one end of the room; the window at the other.

Anthony was in too quarrelsome a mood to remain silent long. He began the skirmish by demanding what Herbert meant by absenting himself from the office for the afternoon, and where he had been to. His resentful tones, his authoritative words, were not calculated to win a very civil answer.

They did not win one from Herbert. His tones were resentful, too; his words were coolly aggravating. Anthony was not his master; when he was, he might, perhaps, answer him. Such was their purport.

A hot interchange of words ensued. Nothing more. Anthony remained at the table; Herbert, half in, half out of the window, leaned against its frame. When Joseph returned to put things in readiness for Herbert's dinner, they had subsided into quietness. It was only a lull in the storm.

Joseph placed the dessert nearer Anthony's end of the table, and laid the cloth across the other end. Herbert came into the room. "What a time you are with dinner, Joseph!" cried he. "One would think it was being cooked over again."

"Cook's warming it, sir."

"Warming it!" echoed Herbert. "Why couldn't she keep it warm? She might be sure I should be home to dinner."

"She was keeping it warm, sir; but Mr. Anthony ordered it to be put away."

Now, the man had really no intention of making mischief when he said this: that it might cause ill-feeling between the brothers never crossed his mind. He was only anxious that he and the cook should stand free from blame; for the young Dares, when displeased with the servants, were not in the habit of sparing them. Herbert turned to Anthony.

"What business have you to interfere with my dinner? Or with anything else that concerns me?"

"I choose to make it my business," insolently retorted Anthony.

At this juncture Joseph left the room. He had laid the cloth, and had nothing more to stay for. Better perhaps that he had remained! Surely they would not have proceeded to extremities, the brothers, before their servant! In a short time, sounds, as if both were in a terrible state of fury, resounded through the house from the dining-room. The sounds did not reach the kitchen, which was partially detached from the house; but the young ladies heard them, and came running out of the drawing-room.

The governess was in the school-room. The noise penetrated even there. She also came forth, and saw her two pupils extended over the balustrades, listening. At any other time mademoiselle would have reproved them: now she crept down and leaned over in company.

"What can be the matter?" whispered she.

"Papa told them not to quarrel!" was all the answer, uttered by Minny.

It was a terrible quarrel--there was little doubt of that; no child's play. Passionate bursts of fury rose incessantly, now from one, now from the other, now from both. Hot recrimination; words that were not suited to unaccustomed ears--or to any ears, for the matter of that--rose high and loud. The governess turned pale, and Minny burst into tears.

"Some one ought to go into the room," said Rosa. "Minny, you go! Tell them to be quiet."

"I am afraid," replied Minny.

"So am I."

A fearful sound: an explosion louder than all the rest. A noise as if some heavy weight had been thrown down. Had it come to blows? Minny shrieked, and at the same moment Joseph was seen coming along with a tray, Herbert's dinner upon it.

His presence seemed to bring with it a sense of courage, and Rosa and Minny flew down followed by the governess. Herbert had been knocked down by Anthony. He was gathering himself up when Joseph opened the door. Gathering himself up in a tempest of passion, his white face a livid fury, as he caught hold of a knife from the table and rushed upon Anthony.

But Joseph was too quick for him. The man dashed his tray on the table, seized Herbert, and turned the uplifted knife downwards. "For Heaven's sake, sir, recollect yourself!" said he.

Recollect himself then? No. Persons, who put themselves into that mad state of passion, cannot "recollect" themselves. Joseph kept his hold, and the dining-room resounded with shrieks and sobs. They proceeded from Rosa and Minny. They pulled their brothers by the coats, they implored, they entreated. The women servants came flying from the kitchen, and the Italian governess asked the two gentlemen in French whether they were not ashamed of themselves.

Perhaps they were. At any rate the quarrel was, for the time, ended. Herbert flung the knife upon the table and turned his white face upon his brother.

"Take care of yourself, though!" cried he, in marked tones: "I swear you shall have it yet."

They pulled Anthony out of the room, Rosa and Minny; or it is difficult to say what rejoinder he might have made, or how violently the quarrel might have been renewed. It was certain that he had taken more wine than was good for him; and that, generally speaking, did not improve the temper of Anthony Dare. Mademoiselle Varsini walked by his side, talking volubly in French. Whether she was sympathizing or scolding, Anthony did not know. Not particularly bright at understanding French at the best of times, even when spoken slowly, he could not, in his present excitement, catch the meaning of a single word. Entering the drawing-room, he threw himself upon the sofa, intending to smooth down his ruffled plumage by taking a nap.

Herbert meanwhile had remained in the dining-room, smoothing down his ruffled plumage. Joseph and the cook were bending over the debris on the carpet. When Joseph dashed down his tray on the table, a dish of potatoes had bounded off; both dish and potatoes thereby coming to grief. Herbert sat down and made an excellent dinner. He was not of a sullen temper; and, unlike Anthony, the affair once over he was soon himself again. Should they come into contact again directly, there was no saying how it would end or what might ensue. His dinner over, he went by-and-by to the drawing-room. Joseph had just entered, and was arousing Anthony from the sleep he had dropped into. "One of the waiters from the Star-and-Garter has come, sir. He says Lord Hawkesley has sent him to say that the gentlemen are waiting for you."

"I can't go, tell him," responded Anthony, speaking as he looked, thoroughly out of sorts. "I am not going out to-night. Here! Joseph!" for the man was turning away with the message.

"Sir?"

"Take these, and bring me my slippers."

"These" were his boots, which he, not very politely, kicked off in the ladies' presence, and sent flying after Joseph. The man stooped to pick them up and was carrying them away.

"Here!--what a hurry you are in!" began Anthony again. "Take lights up to my chamber, and the brandy, and some cold water. I shall make myself comfortable there for the night. This room's unbearable, with its present company."

The last was a shaft levelled at Herbert. He did not retort, for a wonder. In fact, Anthony afforded little time for it. Before the words had well left his lips, he had left the room. Herbert began to whistle; its very tone insolent.

It appeared almost certain that the unpleasantness was not yet over; and Rosa audibly wished her papa was at home. Joseph carried to Anthony's room what he required, and then brought the tea to the drawing-room. Herbert said he should take tea with them. It was rather unusual for him to do so; it was very unusual for Anthony not to go out. Their sisters felt sure that they were only staying in to renew hostilities; and again Rosa almost passionately wished for the presence of her father.

It was dusk by the time tea was over. Herbert rose to leave the room. "Where are you going?" cried mademoiselle sharply after him.

"That's my business," he replied, not in too conciliatory a tone. Perhaps he thought the question proceeded from one of his sisters, for he was outside the door when it reached him.

"He is going into Anthony's room!" cried Rosa, turning pale, as they heard him run upstairs. "Oh, mademoiselle! what can be done? I think I'll call Joseph."

"Hush!" cried mademoiselle. "Wait you here. I will go and see."

She stole out of the room and up the stairs, intending to reconnoitre. But she had no time to do so. Herbert was coming down again, and she could only slip inside the school-room door, and peep out. He had evidently been upstairs for his cloak, for he was putting it on as he descended.

"The cloak on a hot night like this!" said mademoiselle mentally. "He must want to disguise himself!"

She stopped to listen. Joseph had come up the stairs, bringing something to Anthony, and Herbert arrested him, speaking in low tones.

"Don't make any mistake to-night about the dining-room window, Joseph. I can't think how you could have been so stupid last night!"

"Sir, I assure you I left it undone, as usual," replied Joseph. "It must have been master who fastened it."

"Well, take care that it does not occur again," said Herbert. "I expect to be in between ten and eleven; but I may be later, and I don't want to ring you up again."

Herbert went swiftly downstairs and out, choosing to depart by the way, as it appeared, that he intended to enter--the dining-room window. Joseph proceeded to Anthony's chamber: and the governess returned to her frightened pupils in the drawing-room.

"A la bonne heure!" she said to them. "Monsieur Herbert has gone out, and I heard him say to Joseph that he had gone for the evening."

"Then it's all safe!" cried Minny. And she began dancing round the room. "Mademoiselle, how pale you look!"

Mademoiselle had sat down in her place before the tea-tray, and was leaning her cheek upon her hand. She was certainly looking unusually pale. "Enough to make me!" she said, in answer to Minny. "If there were to be this disturbance often in the house, I would not stop in it for double my appointements. It has given me one of those vilaine headaches, and I think I shall go to bed. You will not be afraid to stay up alone, mesdemoiselles?"

"There is nothing to be afraid of now," promptly answered Rosa, who had far rather be without her governess's company than with it. "Don't sit up for us, mademoiselle."

"Then I will go at once," said mademoiselle. And she wished them good night, and retired to her chamber.

PART THE THIRD.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

I. ANNA LYNN'S DILEMMA

It was a lovely evening. One of those warm, still evenings that May sometimes brings us, when gnats hum in the air, and the trees are at rest. The day had been intensely hot: the evening was little less so, and Anna Lynn leaned over the gate of their garden, striving to catch what of freshness there might be in the coming night. The garish day was fading into moonlight; the distant Malvern hills grew fainter and fainter on the view; the little lambs in the field--growing into great lambs now, some of them--had long lain down to rest; and the Thursday evening bells came chiming pleasantly on the ear from Helstonleigh.

"How late he is to-night!" murmured Anna. "If he does not come soon, I shall not be able to stay out."

Even as the words passed her lips, a faint movement might be distinguished in the obscurity of the night, telling of the advent of Herbert Dare. Anna looked round to see that the windows were clear from prying eyes, and went forth to meet him.

He had halted at the usual place, under cover of the hedge. The hedge of sweetbriar, skirting that side garden into which Signora Varsini had made good her entree, in the gratification of her curiosity. A shaded walk and a quiet one: very little fear there, of overlookers.

"Herbert, thee art late!" cried Anna.

"A good thing I was able to come at all," responded Herbert, taking Anna's arm within his own. "I thought at one time I must have remained at home, to chastise my brother Anthony."

"Chastise thy brother Anthony!" repeated Anna in astonishment.

Herbert, for the first time, told her of the unpleasantness that existed between his brother and himself. He did not mention the precise cause; but simply said Anthony had behaved ill to him, and drawn down upon him trouble and vexation. Anna was all sympathy. Had Herbert told her the offence had lain on his side, not on Anthony's, her entire sympathy had still been his. She deemed Herbert everything that was good and great and worthy. Anthony--what little she knew of him--she did not like.

"Herbert, maybe he will be striking thee in secret, when thee art unprepared."

"Let him!" carelessly replied Herbert. "I can strike again. I am stronger than he is. I know one thing: either he or I must leave my father's house and take lodgings; we can't remain in it together."

"It would be he to leave, would it not, Herbert? Thy father would not be so unjust as to turn thee out for thy brother's fault."

"I don't know about that," said Herbert. "I expect it is I who would have to go. Anthony is the eldest, and my mother's favourite."

Anna lifted her hand, in her innocent surprise. Anthony the favourite by the side of Herbert? She could not understand how so great an anomaly could exist.

Interested in the topic, the time slipped on. During a moment of silence, when they had halted in their walk, they heard what was called the ten o'clock bell strike out from Helstonleigh: a bell that boomed out over the city every night for ten minutes before ten o'clock. The sound startled Anna. She had indeed overstayed her time.

"One moment, Anna!" cried Herbert, as she was preparing to fly off. "There can't be any such hurry. Hester will not be going to bed yet, on a hot night like this. I wanted you to return me that book, if you have done with it. It is not mine, and I have been asked for it."

Truth to say, Anna would be glad to return it. The book was Moore's "Lalla Rookh," and Anna had been upon thorns all the time she had been reading it, lest by some unlucky mishap it might reach the eyes of Patience. She thought it everything that was beautiful; she had read pages of it over and over again; they wore for her a strange enchantment; but she had a shrewd suspicion that neither book nor reading would be approved by Patience.

"I'll bring it out to thee at once, Herbert, if I can," she hastily said. "If not, I will give it thee to-morrow evening."

"Not so fast, young lady," said Herbert, laughing, and detaining her. "You may not come back again. I'll wish you good night now."

"Nay, please thee let me go! What will Hester say to me?"

Scarcely giving a moment to the adieu, Anna sped with swift feet to the garden gate. But the moment she was within the barrier, and had turned the key, she began--little dissembler that she was!--to step on slowly, in a careless, nonchalant manner, looking up at the sky, turning her head to the trees, in no more hurry apparently than if bedtime were three hours off. She had seen Hester Dell standing at the house door.

"Child," said Hester gravely, "thee shouldst not stay out so late as this."

"It is so warm a night, Hester!"

"But thee shouldst not be beyond the premises. Patience would not like it. It is past thy bedtime, too. Patience's sleeping-draught has not come," she added, turning to another subject.

"Her sleeping-draught not come!" repeated Anna in surprise.

"It has not. I have been expecting the boy to knock every minute, or I should have come to see after thee. Friend Parry may have forgotten it."

"Why, of course he must have forgotten it," said Anna, inwardly promising the boy a sixpence for his forgetfulness. "The medicine always comes in the morning. Will Patience sleep without it?"

"I fear me not. What dost thee think? Suppose I were to run for it?"

"Yes, do, Hester."

They went in, Hester closing the back door and locking it. She put on her shawl and bonnet, and was going out at the front door when the clock struck ten.

"It is ten o'clock, child," she said to Anna. "Thee go to bed. Thee needst not sit up. I'll take the latch-key with me and let myself in."

"Oh, Hester! I don't want to go to bed yet," returned Anna fretfully. "It is like a summer's evening."

"But thee hadst better, child," urged Hester. "Patience has been angry with me once or twice, saying I suffer thee to sit up late. A pretty budget she will be telling thy father on his return! Thee go to bed. Thy candle is ready here on the slab. Good night."

Hester departed, shutting fast the door, and carrying with her the latch-key. Anna, fully convinced that friend Parry's forgetfulness, or the boy's, must have been designed as a special favour to herself, went softly into the best parlour to take the book out of her pretty work-table.

But the room was dark, and Anna could not find her keys. She believed she had left her keys on the top of this very work-table; but feel as she would she could not place her hands upon them. With a word of impatience, lest, with all her hurry, Herbert Dare should be gone before she could return to him with the book, she went to the kitchen, lighted the chamber candle spoken of by Hester as placed ready for her use, and carried it into the parlour.

Her keys were found on the mantel-piece. She unlocked the drawer, took from it the book, blew out the candle, and ran through the garden to the field.

Another minute, and Herbert would have left. He was turning away. In truth, he had not in the least expected to see Anna back again. "Then you have been able to come!" he exclaimed, in his surprise.

"Hester is gone out," explained Anna. "Friend Parry has forgotten to send Patience's medicine, and Hester has gone for it. Herbert, thee only think! But for Hester's expecting Parry's boy to knock at the door, she would have come out here searching for me! She said she would. I must never forget the time again. There's the book, and thank thee. I am sorry and yet glad to give it thee back."

"Is that not a paradox?" asked Herbert, with a smile. "I do not know why you should be either sorry or glad: to be both seems inexplicable."

"I am sorry to lose it: it is the most charming book I have read, and but for Patience I should like to have kept it for ever," returned Anna with enthusiasm. "But I always felt afraid of Hester's finding it and carrying it up to Patience. Patience would be angry; and she might tell my father. That is why I am glad to give it back to thee."

"Why did you not lock it up?" asked Herbert.

"I did lock it up. I locked it in my work-table drawer. But I forget to put my keys in my pocket; I leave them about anywhere. I should have been out with it sooner, but that I could not find the keys."

Anna was in no momentary hurry to run in now. Hester was safe for full twenty minutes to come, therefore her haste need not be so great. She knew that it was past her bedtime, and that Patience would be wondering (unless by great good-fortune Patience should have dropped asleep) why she did not go in to wish her good night. But these reflections Anna conveniently ignored, in the charm of remaining longer to talk about the book. She told Herbert that she had been copying the engravings, but she must put the drawings in some safe place before Patience was about again. "Tell me the time, please," she suddenly said, bringing her chatter to a standstill.

Herbert took out his watch, and held its face towards the moon. "It is twelve minutes past ten."

"Then I must be going in," said Anna. "She could be back in twenty minutes, and she must not find me out again."

Herbert turned with her, and walked to the gate; pacing slowly, both of them, and talking still. He turned in at the gate with her, and Anna made no demur. No fear of his being seen. Patience was as safe in bed as if she had been chained there, and Hester could not be back quite yet. Arrived at the door, closed as Anna had left it, Herbert put out his hand. "I suppose I must bid you a final good night now, Anna," he said in low tones.

"That thee must. I have to come down the garden again to lock the gate after thee. And Hester may not be more than three or four minutes longer. Good night to thee, Herbert."

"Let me see that it is all safe for you, against you do go in," said Herbert, laying his hand on the handle of the door to open it.

To open it? Nay: he could not open it. The handle resisted his efforts. "Did you lock it, Anna?"

Anna smiled at what she thought his awkwardness. "Thee art turning it the wrong way, Herbert. See!"

He withdrew his hand to give place to hers, and she turned the handle softly and gently the contrary way; that is, she essayed to turn it. But it would not turn for her, any more than it had turned for Herbert Dare. A sick feeling of terror rushed over Anna, as a conviction of the truth grew upon her. Hester Dell had returned, and she was locked out!

In good truth, it was no less a calamity. Hester Dell had not gone far from the door on her errand, when she met the doctor's boy with his basket, hastening up with the medicine. "I was just coming after it," said Hester to him. "Whatever brings thee so late?"

"Mr. Parry was called out this morning before he had time to make it up, and he has only just come home," was the boy's reply.

"Better late than never," he somewhat saucily added.

"Well, so it is," acquiesced Hester, who rarely gave anything but a meek retort. And she turned back home, letting herself in with the latch-key. The house appeared precisely as she had left it, except that Anna's candle had disappeared from the mahogany slab in the passage. "That's right! the child's gone to bed," soliloquised she.

She proceeded to go to bed herself. The Quaker's was an early household. All Hester had to do now, was to give Patience her sleeping-draught. "Let me see," continued Hester, still in soliloquy, "I think I did lock the back door."

To make sure, she tried the key and found it was not locked. Rather wondering, for she certainly thought she had locked it, but dismissing the subject the next minute from her thoughts, she locked it now and took the key out. Then she continued her way up to Patience. Patience, lying there lonely and dull with her night-light, turned her eyes on Hester.

"Did thee think we had forgotten thee, Patience? Parry has been out all day, the boy says, and the physic is but this minute come."

"Where's Anna?" inquired Patience.

"She is gone to bed."

"Why did she not come to me as usual?"

"Did she not come?" asked Hester.

"I have seen nothing of her all the evening."

"Maybe she thought thee'd be dozing," observed Hester, bringing forward the sleeping-draught which she had been pouring into a wine-glass. She said no more. Her private opinion was that Anna had purposely abstained from the visit lest she should receive a scolding for going to bed late, her usual hour being half-past nine. Neither did Patience say any more. She was feeling that Anna might be a little less ungrateful. She took the draught, and Hester went to bed.

And poor Anna? To describe her dismay, her consternation, would be a useless attempt. The doors were fast--the windows were fast also. Herbert Dare essayed to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She sat down on the step of the back door and cried bitterly: all her apprehension being for the terrible scolding she should have from Patience, were it found out; the worse than scolding if Patience told her father.

To give Herbert Dare his due, he felt truly vexed at the dilemma for Anna's sake. Could he have let her in by getting down a chimney himself, or in any other impromptu way, and so opened the door for her, he would have done it. "Don't cry, Anna," he entreated, "don't cry! I'll take care of you. Nothing shall harm you. I'll not go away."

The more he talked, the more she cried. Very like a little child. Had Herbert Dare known how to break the glass without noise he would have taken out a pane in the kitchen window, and so reached the fastening and opened it. Anna, in worse terror than ever, begged him not to attempt it. It would be sure to arouse Hester.

"But you'll be so cold, child, staying here all night!" he urged. "You are shivering now."

Anna was shivering: shivering with vexation and fear. Herbert thought it would be better that he should boldly knock up Hester; and he suggested it: nay, he pressed it. But the proposal sounded more alarming to Anna than any that had gone before it. It seemed that there was nothing to be done.

How long she sat there, crying and shivering and refusing to be comforted or to hear reason, she could not tell. Half the night, it seemed. But Anna, you must remember, was counting time by her own state of mind, not by the clock. Suddenly a bright thought, as a ray of light, flashed into her brain.

"There's the pantry window," she cried, arresting her tears. "How could I ever have forgotten it? There is no glass, and thee art strong enough to push in the wire."

This pantry window Herbert Dare had known nothing about. It was at the side of the house, thickly surrounded by shrubs; a square window frame, protected by wire. He fought his way to it amidst the shrubs; but to get in proved a work of time and difficulty. The window was at some height from the ground, the wire was strong. Anna sat on the door-step, never stirring, leaving him to get in if he could, her tears falling, and terrific visions of Patience's anger chasing each other through her mind. And the night went on.

"Anna!"

She could have shouted forth a cry of delight as she leaped up. He had entered, had found his way to the kitchen window, had gently raised it, and was softly calling to her. Some little difficulty still, but with Herbert's assistance she was safely landed, a great tear in her dress the only damage. He had managed to obtain a light by means of some fusees in his pocket, and had lighted a candle. Anna sat down on a chair, her face radiant through her tears. "How shall I ever thank thee?"

He was looking at his fingers with a half-serious, half-mocking expression of dismay. The wire had torn them in many places, and they were bleeding. "I could have got in quicker had I forced the wire out in the middle," he observed, "but that would have told tales. I pushed it away from the side, and have pushed it back again into its place as well as I could. Perhaps it may escape notice."

"How shall I ever thank thee?" was all Anna could repeat in her gratitude.

"Now you know what you must do, Anna," said he. "I am going to jump out through the window, and be off home. You must shut it and fasten it after me: I'd shut it myself, after I'm out, but that these stains on my fingers would be transferred to the frame. And when you leave the kitchen, remember to turn the key of the door outside. I found it turned. Do you understand? And now farewell, my little locked-out princess. Don't say I have not worked wonders for you, as the good spirits do in the fairy tales."

She caught his hand in her glad delight. She looked at him with a face full of gratitude. Herbert Dare bent down and took a kiss from the up-turned face. Perhaps he thought he had fairly earned the reward. Then he proceeded to swing himself through the window, feeling delighted that he had been able to free Anna from her dilemma.

Before Helstonleigh arose next morning, a startling report was circulating through the city, the very air teeming with it. A report that Anthony Dare had been killed in the night by his brother Herbert.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

II. COMMOTION

The streets of Helstonleigh, lying so still and quiet in the moonlight, were broken in upon by the noisy sound of a carriage, bowling through them. A carriage that was abroad late. It wanted very little of the time when the church clocks would boom out the two hours after midnight. Time, surely, for all sober people to be in bed!

The carriage contained Mr. Dare, his wife and daughter. They went, as you may remember, to a dinner party in the country. The dinner was succeeded by an evening gathering, and it was nearly one o'clock when they left the house to return. It wanted only five minutes to two when the carriage stopped at their own home, and sleepy Joseph opened the door to them.

"All in bed?" asked Mr. Dare, as he bustled into the hall.

"I believe so, sir," answered Joseph, as carelessly as he could speak. Mr. Dare, he was aware, alluded to his sons; and not being by any means sure upon the point, Joseph was willing to escape further questioning.

Two of the maids came forward--the lady's maid, as she was called in the family, and Betsy. Betsy was no other than our old friend Betsy Carter: once the little maid-of-all-work at Mrs. Halliburton's; risen now to be a very fine housemaid at Mrs. Dare's. They had sat up to attend upon Mrs. Dare and Adelaide.

Mr. Dare had been for a long while in the habit of smoking a pipe before he went to bed. He would have told you that he could not do without it. If business or pleasure took him out, he must have his pipe when he returned, however late it might be.

"How hot it is!" he exclaimed, throwing back his coat. "Leave the hall door open, Joseph: I'll sit outside. Bring me my pipe."

Joseph looked for the pipe in its appointed resting-place, and could not see it. It was a small, handsome pipe, silver-mounted, with an amber mouth-piece. The tobacco-jar was there, but Joseph could see nothing of the pipe.

"Law! I remember!" exclaimed Betsy. "Master left it in the dining-room last night, and I put it under the sideboard when I was doing the room this morning, intending to bring it away. I'll go and get it."

Taking the candle from Joseph's hand, she turned hastily into the dining-room. Not, however, as hastily as she came out of it. She rushed out, uttering a succession of piercing shrieks, and seized upon Joseph. The shrieks echoed through the house, upstairs and down, and Mr. Dare came in.

"Why, what on earth's the matter, girl?" cried he. "Have you seen a ghost?"

"Oh, sir! Oh, Joseph, don't let go of me; Mr. Anthony's lying in there, dead!"

"Don't be a simpleton," responded Mr. Dare, staring at Betsy.

Joseph gave a rather less complimentary reprimand, and shook the girl off. But suddenly, even as the words left his lips, there rose up before his mind's eye the vision of the past evening: the quarrel, the threats, the violence between Anthony and Herbert. A strange apprehension seated itself in the man's mind.

"Be still, you donkey!" he whispered to Betsy, his voice scarcely audible, his manner subdued. "I'll go in and see."

Taking the candle, he went into the dining-room. Mr. Dare followed. The worst thought that occurred to Mr. Dare was, that Anthony might have taken more wine than was good for him, and had fallen down, helpless, in the dining-room. Unhappily, Anthony had been known so to transgress. Only a week or two before----but let that pass: it has nothing to do with us now.

Mr. Dare followed Joseph in. At the upper end of the room, near the window, lay some one on the ground. It was surely Anthony. He was lying on his side, his head thrown back, his face up-turned. A ghastly face, which sent poor Joseph's pulses bounding on with a terrible fear as he looked down at it. The same face which had scared Betsy when she looked down.

"He is stark dead!" whispered Joseph, with a shiver, to Mr. Dare.

Mr. Dare, his own life-blood seeming to have stopped, bent over his son by the light of the candle. Anthony appeared to be not only dead, but cold. In his terrible shock, his agitation, he still remembered that it was well, if possible, to spare the sight to his wife and daughter. Mrs. Dare and Adelaide, alarmed by Betsy's screams, had run downstairs, and were now hastening into the room.

"Go back! go back!" cried Mr. Dare, fencing them away with his hands. "Adelaide, you must not come in! Julia," he added to his wife, in tones of imploring entreaty, "go upstairs, and keep back Adelaide."

He half led, half pushed them across the hall. Mrs. Dare had never in all her life seen his face as she saw it now--a face of terror. She caught the fear; vaguely enough, it must be confessed, for she had not heard Anthony's name, as yet, mentioned in connection with it.

"What is it?" she asked, holding on by the balustrades. "What is there in the dining-room?"

"I don't know what it is," replied Mr. Dare, from between his white lips. "Go upstairs! Adelaide, go up with your mother."

Mr. Dare was stopped by more screams. Whilst he was preventing immediate terror to his wife and daughter, the lady's maid, her curiosity excited beyond repression, had slipped into the dining-room, and peeped over Joseph's shoulder. What she had expected to see she perhaps could not have stated; what she did see was so far worse than her wildest fears, that she lost sense of everything, except the moment's fear; and shriek after shriek echoed from her.

A scene of confusion ensued. Mrs. Dare tried to force her way to the room; Adelaide followed her; Betsy began bewailing Mr. Anthony, by name, in wild words. And the sleepers, above, came flocking out of their chambers, with trembling limbs and white faces.

Mr. Dare put his back against the dining-room door. "Girls, go back! Julia, go back, for the love of Heaven! Mademoiselle, is that you? Be so good as to stay where you are, and keep Rosa and Minny with you."

"Mais, qu'est-ce que c'est, donc?" exclaimed mademoiselle, speaking, in her wonder, in her most familiar tongue, and, truth to say, paying little heed to Mr. Dare's injunction. "Y a-t-il du malheur arrive?"

Betsy went up to her. Betsy recognised her as one not of the family, to whom she could ease her overflowing mind. The same thought had occurred to Betsy as to Joseph. "Poor Mr. Anthony's lying in there dead, mamzel," she whispered. "Mr. Herbert must have killed him."

Unheeding the request of Mr. Dare, unmindful of the deficiences or want of elegance in her costume, which consisted of what she called a peignoir, and a borderless calico nightcap, mademoiselle flew down to the hall and slipped into the dining-room. Some of the others slipped in also, and a sad scene ensued. What with wife, governess, servants, and children, Mr. Dare was powerless to end it. Mademoiselle went straight up, gave one look, and staggered back against the wall.

"C'est vrai!" she muttered. "C'est Monsieur Anthony."

"It is Anthony," shivered Mr. Dare, "I fear--I fear violence has been done him."

The governess was breathing heavily. She looked quite as ghastly as did that up-turned face. "But why should it be?" she asked, in English. "Who has done it?"

Ah, who had done it! Joseph's frightened face seemed to say that he could tell if he dared, Cyril bounded into the room, and clasped one of the arms. But he let it fall again. "It is rigid!" he gasped. "Is he dead? Father! he can't be dead!"

Mr. Dare hurried Joseph from the room--hurried him across the hall to the door. He, Mr. Dare, seemed so agitated as scarcely to know what he was about. "Make all haste," he said; "the nearest surgeon."

"Sir," whispered Joseph, turning when he was outside the door, his agitation as great as his master's: "I'm afraid it's Mr. Herbert who has done this."

"Why?" sharply asked Mr. Dare.

"They had a dreadful quarrel this evening, sir, after you left. Mr. Herbert drew a knife upon his brother. I got in just in time to stop bloodshed, or it might have happened then."

Mr. Dare suppressed a groan. "Go off, Joseph, and bring a doctor here. He may not be past reviving, Milbank is the nearest. If he is at home, bring him; if not, get anybody."

Joseph, without his hat, sped across the lawn, and gained the entrance gate at the very moment that a gig was passing. By the light of a lamp, Joseph saw that it contained Mr. Glenn, the surgeon, driven by his servant. He had been on a late professional visit into the country. Joseph shouted running before the horse in his excitement, and the man pulled up.

"What's the matter, Joseph?" asked Mr. Glenn. "Any one ill?"

Somewhat curious to say, Mr. Glenn was the usual medical attendant of the Dares. Joseph explained as well as he could. Mr. Anthony had been found lying on the dining-room carpet, to all appearance dead. Mr. Glenn descended.

"Anything up at your place?" asked a policeman, who had just come by, on his beat.

"I should think there is," returned Joseph. "One of the gentlemen's been found dead."

"Dead!" echoed the policeman. "Which of them is it?" he asked, after a pause.

"Mr. Anthony."

"Why, I saw him turn in here about half-past eleven!" observed the officer, "He is in a fit, perhaps."

"Why do you say that?" asked Joseph.

"Because he had been taking a drop too much. He could hardly walk. Somebody brought him as far as the gate."

Mr. Glenn had hastened on. The policeman followed with Joseph. Followed, possibly, to gratify his curiosity; possibly, because he thought his services might be in some way required. When the two entered the dining-room, Mr. Glenn was kneeling down to examine Anthony, and sounds of distress came on their ears from a distance. They were caused by the hysterics of Mrs. Dare.

"Is he dead, sir?" asked the policeman, in a low tone.

"He has been dead these two or three hours," was Mr. Glenn's reply.

But it was not a fit. It was not anything so innocent. Mr. Glenn found that the cause of death was a stab in the side. Death, he believed, must have been instantaneous: and the hemorrhage was chiefly internal. There were very few stains on the clothes.

"What's this!" cried Mr. Glenn.

He was pulling at some large substance on which Anthony had fallen. It proved to be a cloak. Cyril--and some others present--recognised it as Herbert's cloak. Where was Herbert? In bed? Was it possible that he could sleep through the noise and confusion that the house was in?

"Can nothing be done?" asked Mr. Dare of the surgeon.

Mr. Glenn shook his head. "He is stone dead, you see; dead, and nearly cold. He must have been dead more than two hours. I should say nearer three."

From two to three hours! Then that would bring the time of his death to about half-past eleven o'clock; close upon the time that the policeman saw him returning home. Some one turned to ask the policeman a question, but he had disappeared. Mr. Glenn went to see what he could do for Mrs. Dare, whose cries had been painful to hear, and Mr. Dare drew Joseph aside. Somehow he felt that he dared not question him in the presence of witnesses, lest any condemnatory fact should transpire to bring the guilt home to his second son. In spite of the sight of Anthony lying dead before him, in spite of what he had heard of the quarrel, he could not bring his mind to believe that Herbert had been guilty of this most dastardly deed.

"What time did you let him in?" asked Mr. Dare, pointing to his ill-fated son.

Joseph answered evasively. "The policeman said it was about half after eleven, sir."

"And what time did Mr. Herbert come home?"

In point of fact, but for seeing the cloak where he did see it, Joseph would not have known whether Mr. Herbert was at home yet. He felt there was nothing for it but to tell the simple truth to Mr. Dare--that the gentlemen had been in the habit of letting themselves in at any hour they pleased, the dining-room window being left unfastened for them. Joseph made the admission, and Mr. Dare received it with anger.

"I did it by their orders, sir," the man said, with deprecation. "If you think it was wrong, perhaps you'll put things on a better footing for the future. But, to wait up every night till its pretty near time to rise again, is what I can't do, or anybody else. Flesh and blood is but mortal, sir, and couldn't stand it."

"But you were not kept up like that?" cried Mr. Dare.

"Yes, sir, I was. If one of the gentlemen wasn't out, the other would be. I told them it was impossible I could be up nearly all night and every night, and rise in the morning just the same, and do my work in the day. So they took to have the dining-room window left open, and came in that way, and I went to rest at my proper hour. Mr. Cyril and Mr. George, too, they are taking to stay out."

"The house might have been robbed over and over again!" exclaimed Mr. Dare.

"I told them so, sir. But they laughed at me. They said who'd be likely to come through the grounds and up to the windows and try them? At any rate, sir," added Joseph, as a last excuse, "they ordered it done. And that's how it is, sir, that I don't know what time either Mr. Anthony or Mr. Herbert came in last night."

Mr. Dare said no more. The fruits of the way in which his sons had been reared were coming heavily home to him. He turned to go upstairs to Herbert's chamber. On the bottom stairs, swaying herself to and fro in her peignoir, a staring print, all the colours of the rainbow, sat the governess. She lifted her white face as Mr. Dare approached.

"Is he dead?"

Mr. Dare shook his head. "The surgeon says he has been dead ever since the beginning of the night."

"And Monsieur Herbert? Is he dead?"

"He dead!" repeated Mr. Dare in an accent of alarm, fearing possibly she might have a motive for the question. "What should bring him also dead? Mademoiselle, why do you ask it?"

"Eh, me, I don't know," she answered. "I am bewildered with it all. Why should he be dead, and not the other? Why should either be dead?"

Mr. Dare saw that she did look bewildered; scarcely in her senses. She had a white handkerchief in her hand, and was wiping the moisture from her scarcely less white face. "Did you witness the quarrel between them?" he inquired, supposing that she had done so by her words.

"If I did, I not tell," she vehemently answered, her English less clear than usual. "If Joseph say--I hear him say it to you just now--that Monsieur Herbert took a knife to his brother, I not give testimony to it. What affair is it of mine, that I should tell against one or the other? Who did it?--who killed him?"--she rapidly continued. "It was not Monsieur Herbert. No, I will say always that it was not Monsieur Herbert. He would not kill his brother."

"I do not think he would," earnestly spoke Mr. Dare.

"No, no, no!" said mademoiselle, her voice rising with her emphasis. "He never kill his brother; he not enough mechant for that."

"Perhaps he has not come in?" cried Mr. Dare, catching at the thought.

Betsy Garter answered the words. She had stolen up in the general restlessness, and halted there. "He must be come in, sir," she said; "else how could his cloak be in the dining-room? They are saying that it's Mr. Herbert's cloak which was under Mr. Anthony."

"What has Mr. Herbert's cloak to do with his coming in or not coming in?" sharply asked Mr. Dare. "He would not be wearing his cloak this weather."

"But he does wear it, sir," returned Betsy. "He went out in it to-night."

"Did you see him?" sternly asked Mr. Dare.

"If I hadn't seen him, I couldn't have told that he went out in it," independently replied Betsy, who, like her mother, was fond of maintaining her own opinion. "I was looking out of the window in Miss Adelaide's room, and I saw Mr. Herbert go out by way of the dining-room window towards the entrance-gate."

"Wearing his cloak?"

"Wearing his cloak," assented Betsy, "I hoped he was hot enough in it."

The words seemed to carry terrible conviction to Mr. Dare's mind. Unwilling to believe the girl, he sought Joseph and asked him.

"Yes, for certain," Joseph answered. "Mr. Herbert, as he was coming downstairs to go out, stopped to speak to me, sir, and he was fastening his cloak on then."

Minny ran up, bursting with grief and terror as she seized upon Mr. Dare. "Papa! papa! is it true?" she sobbed.

"Is what true, child?"

"That it was Herbert? They are saying so."

"Hush!" said Mr. Dare. Carrying a candle, he went up to Herbert's room, his heart aching. That Herbert could sleep through the noise was surprising; and yet, not much so. His room was more remote from the house than were the other rooms, and looked towards the back. But, had he slept through it? When Mr. Dare went in, he was sitting up in bed, awaking, or pretending to awake, from sleep. The window, thrown wide open, may have contributed to deaden any sound in the house. "Can you sleep through this, Herbert?" cried Mr. Dare.

Herbert stared, and rubbed his eyes, and stared again, as one bewildered. "Is that you, father?" he presently cried. "What is it?"

"Herbert," said his father, in low tones of pain, of dread; "what have you been doing to your brother?"

Herbert, as if not understanding the drift of the question, stared more than ever. "I have done nothing to him," he presently said. "Do you mean Anthony?"

"Anthony is lying on the dining-room floor killed--murdered. Herbert, who did it?"

Herbert Dare sat motionless in bed, looking utterly lost. That he could not understand, or was affecting not to understand, was evident. "Anthony is--what do you say, sir?"

"He is dead; he is murdered," replied Mr. Dare. "Oh, my son, my son, say you did not do it! for the love of heaven, say you did not do it!" And the unhappy father burst into tears and sank down on the bed, utterly unmanned.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us