XVI. AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE…

XVI. AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, "I have received an offer of marriage for you."

A somewhat abrupt announcement to make to a young lady, and Mr. Ashley spoke in the gravest tone. They were seated round the breakfast table, Mary by her mother's side, who was pouring out the coffee. Mary looked surprised, rather amused; but that was the only emotion discernible in her countenance.

"It is fine to be you, Miss Mary!" struck in Henry, before anyone could speak. "Pray, sir, who is the venturer?"

"He assures me that his happiness is bound up in his offer being accepted," resumed Mr. Ashley. "I fancy he felt inclined to assure me that Mary's was also. Of course, all I can do, is, to lay the proposal before her."

"What is it that you are talking about, Thomas?" interposed Mrs. Ashley, unable until then to say a word, and speaking with some irritability. "I do not consider Mary old enough to be married. How can you think of saying such things to her?"

"Neither do I, mamma," said Mary, with a laugh. "I like my home too well to leave it."

"And while you are talking sentiment, my curiosity is on the rack," cried Henry. "I have inquired the name of the bridegroom, and I should like to be answered."

"The would-be bridegroom," put in Mary.

"Mary, I am ashamed of you!" went on Henry. "I blush for your manners. Nice credit she does to your bringing up, mamma! When young ladies of condition receive a celestial offer, they behave with due propriety, hang their heads with a blush, and subdue their voice to a whisper. And here's Mary--look at her!--talking quite loudly and making merry over it. Once more, sir, who is the adventurous gentleman? Is it good old General Wells, our gouty neighbour opposite, who is lifted in and out of his chariot for his daily airing? I have told Mary repeatedly that she was setting her cap at him."

"It is not so advantageous a proposal in a financial point of view," observed Mr. Ashley, maintaining his impassibility. "It proceeds from one of my dependents at the manufactory."

Mary had the sugar-basin in her hand at the moment, and a sudden tremor seemed to seize her. She set it down; but so clumsily, that half the lumps fell out. Her face had turned to a glowing crimson. Mr. Ashley noticed it.

Mrs. Ashley only noticed the sugar. "Mary, how came you to do that? Very careless, my dear."

Mary began meekly to pick up the sugar, the flush giving way to pallor. She lifted her handkerchief to her face and held it there, as if she had a cold.

"The honour comes from Cyril Dare," said Mr. Ashley.

"Cyril Dare!"

"Cyril Dare!"

In different tones of scorn, but each expressing it most fully, the repetition broke from Mrs. Ashley and Henry. Mary, on the contrary, recovered her equanimity and her countenance. She laughed out, as if she were glad.

"What did you say to him, papa?"

"I gave him my opinion only. That I thought he had mistaken my daughter, if he entertained hopes that she would listen to his suit. The question rests with you, Mary."

"Oh papa, what nonsense! rests with me! Why you know I would never have Cyril Dare."

A smile crossed Mr. Ashley's face. He probably had known it.

"Cyril Dare!" repeated Mary, as if unable to overcome her astonishment. "He must have turned silly. I would not have Cyril Dare if he were worth his weight in gold."

"And he must be worth a great deal more than his weight in gold, Mary, before I would consent to your having him," quietly rejoined Mr. Ashley.

"Have him!" echoed Henry. "If I feared there was a danger of the daughter of all the Ashleys so degrading herself, I should bribe cook to make an arsenic cake, cut the young lady a portion myself, and stand by while she ate it."

"Don't talk foolishly, Henry," rebuked Mrs. Ashley.

"Mamma, I must say I do not think it would be half so foolish as Cyril Dare was," cried Mary, with spirit.

Mrs. Ashley, relieved from any temporary fear of losing Mary, was comfortably going on with her breakfast. "Did Cyril say how he meant to provide for Mary, if he obtained her?" asked she, with an amused look.

"He did not touch upon ways and means. I conclude that he intended I should have the honour of keeping them both."

Henry Ashley leaned back in his chair, and laughed. "If this is not the richest joke I have heard for a long while! Cyril Dare! the kinsman of Herbert the beautiful! Confound his im-pu-dence!"

"Then you decline the honour of the alliance, Mary?" said Mr. Ashley. "What am I to tell him?"

"What you please, papa. Tell him, if you like, that I would rather marry a chimney-sweep. I would, if it came to a choice between the two. How very senseless of Cyril to think of such a thing!"

"How very shrewd, I think, Mary--if he could only have got you," was the reply of Mr. Ashley.

"If!" saucily put in Mary.

Henry bent over the table to his sister. "I tell you what, Mary. You go this morning and offer yourself to our gouty friend, the general. He will jump at it, and we'll have the banns put up. We cannot, you know, be subjected to such shocks as these, on your account; it is unreasonable to expect it. I assure you it will be the most effectual plan to set Cyril Dare, and those of his tribe, at rest. No, thank you, ma'am," turning to Mrs. Ashley--"no more coffee. This has been enough breakfast for me."

"Who is this?" asked Mr. Ashley, as footsteps were heard on the gravel-walk.

Mrs. Ashley lifted her eyes. "It is William Halliburton."

"William Halliburton!" echoed Henry. "Ah! if you could have put his heart and intellect into Cyril's form, now, it might have done."

He spoke with that freedom of speech which characterized him, and in which, from his infirmity, he had not been checked. No one made any remark in answer, and William entered. He had come to ask some business question of Mr. Ashley.

"I will walk down with you," said Mr. Ashley, "and see to it. Take a seat, William."

"It is getting late, sir."

"Well, I suppose you can afford to be late for once," replied Mr. Ashley. And William smiled as he sat down.

"We have had a letter from Cambridge, this morning. From Gar."

"And how does Mr. Gar get on?" asked Henry.

"First rate. He takes a leaf out of Frank's book; determined to see no difficulties in his way. Frank's letters are always cheering. I really believe he cares no more for being a servitor than he would for wearing a hat at Christchurch. All his wish is to get on: he looks to the future."

"But he does his duty in the present," quietly remarked Mr. Ashley.

William smiled. "It is the only way to insure the future, sir. Frank and Gar have been learning that all their lives."

Mr. Ashley, telling William not to get the fidgets, for he was not ready yet, withdrew to the next room with his wife. They had some weighty domestic matter to settle, touching a dinner party. Henry linked his arm within William's and drew him to the window, throwing it open to the early spring sunshine. Mary remained at the breakfast table.

"What do you think Cyril Dare, the presuming, has had the conscience to ask?" began he.

"I know," replied William. "I heard him say he should ask it yesterday."

"The deuce you did?" uttered Henry. "And you did not knock him down?"

"Knock him down! Was it any business of mine?"

"You might have done it as my friend, I think. A slight correction of his impudence."

"I do not see that it is your business either," returned William. "It is Mr. Ashley's."

"Oh, indeed! Perhaps you would like it carried out?"

"I have no right to say it shall not be."

"Thank you!" chafed Henry. "Mary," he called out to his sister, "here's Halliburton recommending that that business we know of shall be carried out."

William only laughed. He was accustomed to Henry's exaggerations. "It is what Cyril has been expecting for years," said he.

Henry gazed at him. "What is? What are you talking of?"

"Being taken into partnership by Mr. Ashley."

"Is it that you are blundering over? Does he expect it?" continued Henry, after a pause.

"Cyril said, yesterday, the firm would soon be Ashley and Dare."

"Did he indeed! He had better not count upon it so as to disturb his digestion. That's presumption enough, goodness knows; but it is a mere flea-bite compared with the other. He has asked for Mary. It is true as that we are standing here."

William turned his questioning gaze on Henry. He did not understand. "Asked for her for what? What to do?"

"To be his wife."

"Oh!" The strange sound was not a burst of indignation, or a groan of pain: it was a mixture of both. William thrust his head out of the window.

"He actually asked the master for her yesterday!" went on Henry. "He said his heart, or liver, or some such part of him was bound up in her: as she was bound up in him. Fancy the honour of her becoming Mrs. Cyril!"

William did not turn his head: not a glimpse of his face could be caught. "Will she have him?" he asked, at length.

The question exasperated Henry. "Yes, she will. There! Go and congratulate her. You are a fool, William."

The sound of his angry voice, not his words, reached Mary's ears. She came forward. "What is the matter, Henry?"

"So he is a fool," was Henry's answer. "He wants to know if you are going to marry Cyril Dare. I tell him yes. No one but an idiot would have asked it."

William turned, his face full of an emotion that Henry had never seen there: a streak of scarlet on his cheeks, his earnest eyes strangely troubled. And Mary?--her face seemed to have borrowed the same flush, as she stood there, her head and eyelashes bent.

Henry Ashley gazed, first at one, next at the other, and then turned and leaned from the window himself. In contrition for having spoken so openly of his sister's affairs? Not at all. Whistling the bars of a renowned comic song of the day called "The Steam Arm."

Mr. Ashley put in his head. "I am ready, William."

William touched Mary's hand in silence by way of adieu, and halted as he passed Henry. "Shall you come round to the men to-night?"

"No, I shan't," retorted Henry. "I am upset for the day."

He was halfway down the path when he heard himself called by Henry, still leaning from the window. He went back to him.

"She said she'd rather have a chimney-sweep than Cyril Dare. Don't go and make a muff of yourself again."

William turned away without any answer. Mr. Ashley, who had waited, put his arm within his, and they proceeded to the manufactory.

"Have you heard this rumour, respecting Herbert Dare, that has been wafted over from Germany within the last day or two?" inquired Mr. Ashley, as they walked along.

"Yes, sir," replied William.

"I wonder if it is true?"

William did not answer. William's private opinion was, that it was true. It had been tolerably well authenticated. A rumour that need not be very specifically enlarged upon here. Helstonleigh never came to the bottom of it: never knew for certain how much of it was true, and how much false, and we cannot expect to be better favoured than Helstonleigh, in the point of enlightenment. It was not a pleasant rumour, and the late governess's name was unaccountably mixed up in it. For one thing, it said that Herbert Dare, finding commercial pursuits not congenial to his taste, had given them up, and was roaming about Germany. Mademoiselle also. It was a report that did not do credit to Herbert, or tend to reflect respectability on his family; yet Mr. Ashley fully believed that to that report he owed the application of Cyril with regard to Mary, strange as it may appear at a first glance, to say it. The application had astonished Mr. Ashley beyond expression. He could only come to the conclusion that Cyril must have entertained the hope for some time, but had been induced to disclose it prematurely. So prematurely--even allowing that other circumstances favoured it--that Mr. Ashley was tempted to laugh. A man without means, without a home, without any definite prospects, merely a workman, as might be said, in his manufactory, upon a very small salary; it was ridiculous in the extreme for him to offer marriage to Miss Ashley. Mr. Ashley, of upright conduct in the sight of day, was not one to wink at folly; any escapade such as that, now flying about Helstonleigh as attributed to Herbert, would not be an additional recommendation in Cyril's favour. Had he hastened to speak before it should reach Mr. Ashley's ears? Mr. Ashley thought so. An hour after Cyril had spoken, he heard the scandal; and it flashed over his mind that to that he was indebted for the premature honour. Cyril would have liked to secure his consent before anything unpleasant transpired.

As Mr. Ashley came in view of the manufactory, Cyril Dare observed him. Cyril was lounging in an indolent manner at the entrance doors, exchanging greetings with the various passers-by. He ought to have been inside at his business; but oughts went for little with Cyril. Since Samuel Lynn's departure, Cyril had been living in clover; enjoying as much idleness as he liked. William assumed no authority over him, though full authority had been given to William over the manufactory in general; and Cyril, except when he just happened to be under Mr. Ashley's eye, passed his time agreeably. Cyril stared as he caught sight of the master, and then went in, his spirits going down a little. To see the master thus walking confidentially with William, seemed to argue unfavourably for his suit; though why it should seem so, Cyril did not know. Cyril's staring was occasioned by that fact. He had never been promoted to the honour of thus walking familiarly with Mr. Ashley. In fact, for the master, a reserved and proud man with all his good qualities, to link his arm within a dependant's, astonished Cyril considerably.

When they entered, Cyril was at work in his apron, standing at the counter in the master's room, steady and assiduous, as though he had been there for the last half-hour. The master came in, but William remained in Mr. Lynn's room.

"Good morning, sir," said Cyril.

"Good morning," replied the master.

He sat down to his desk, and opened a letter that was lying on it. Presently he looked up.

"Cyril!"

"Yes, sir."

"Step here."

Cyril approached the desk, feeling what a lady might call nervous. The decisive moment had come: should he be provided for, for life; enjoy a good position and the means of living as a gentleman? Or would his unlucky star prevail, and consign him to--he did not quite foresee to what?

"I have spoken to Miss Ashley. She was excessively surprised at your application, and begs to decline it in the most unequivocal manner. Allow me to add a recommendation from myself, that you bury in oblivion the fact of your having made it."

Cyril hesitated for a moment, and looked foolish. "Why?" he asked.

"Why?" repeated Mr. Ashley. "I think you could answer that query for yourself, and save me the trouble. I do not wish to go too closely into facts and causes, past and present, unless you desire it. One thing you must be aware of, Cyril, that such a proposition from you to my daughter was utterly out of place. I should have rejected it point-blank yesterday; in fact, in the surprise of the moment, I almost spoke out more plainly than you would have liked, but that I thought it as well for you to have Miss Ashley's opinion as well as my own."

"Why am I rejected, sir?" continued Cyril.

Mr. Ashley waved his hand with dignity. "Return to your employment, Cyril. It is quite sufficient for you to know that you are rejected, without my going into motives and reasons. They might not, I say, be palatable to you."

Cyril did not venture to press it further. He returned to the counter, and stood there, ostensibly going on with his work, and boiling over with rage. The master sat some little time longer and then left the room. Soon after, William came in. His eye caught Cyril's employment.

"Cyril," cried he, hastily advancing to him, "you must not make up those gloves. I told you yesterday not to touch them."

A dangerous speech. Cyril was not unlike touchwood at that moment, liable to go off at the slightest contact. "You told me!" he burst forth. "Do you think I am going to do what you choose to tell me? Try it on for the future, that's all. You tell me!"

"They are the very best gloves, and must be sorted with nicety," returned William. "Don't you know that the sorting of the last parcel was found fault with in London? It vexed the master; and he desired me to do all the sorting myself, until Mr. Lynn should be at home."

"I choose to sort," returned Cyril.

"But you must not sort in the face of the master's orders; or, if you do, I must go over them again."

"That's right; praise up yourself!" foamed Cyril. "Of course you are an efficient sorter, and I am a bad one."

"You might be as good a sorter as any one, if you chose to give it proper time and attention. What a temper you are in this morning! What's the matter?"

"The matter is, that I have submitted to your rule long enough, but I'll do it no longer," was the reply of Cyril, whose anger was gathering strength, and whose ill feeling towards William, deep down in his heart from long ago, had had envy added to it of late.

William made no reply. He carefully swept the dozens that Cyril had made up, farther down the counter, that they might be in a stronger light.

"What's that for?" cried Cyril. "How dare you meddle with my work? They are done as well as you can do them, any day."

"Now, where's the use of flying into this passion, Cyril? What's it for? Do you suppose I go over your work again for pleasure, or to find fault with it? I do it because the master has ordered me to make up every dozen that goes out; and if you do it first of all, it is sheer waste of time. See here," added William, holding two or three pairs towards him, "these will not do for firsts."

Angry Cyril! He was quite beside himself with anger. It was not this trifling matter in the daily business that would have excited him; but Mr. Ashley's rejection, his words altogether, had turned Cyril's blood into gall; and this was made the outlet. He dashed the gloves out of William's hand to the farthest corner of the room, and struck him a powerful blow on the chest. It caused William to stagger: he was unprepared for it; but whether he would have returned it must remain uncertain. Before there was time or opportunity, Cyril found himself whirled backwards by a hand as powerful as his own; and a voice of stern authority was demanding the meaning of the scene.

The hand, the voice, were those of the master.

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XVII. THE EXPLOSION

"What is the meaning of this, Cyril Dare?"

Had Cyril supposed that the master was so close at hand, he had subdued his passion to something short of striking a blow. He stood against the counter, his brow lowering, his eye furious; William looked angry too. Mr. Ashley, calm and dignified, waited for an answer.

None came. Cyril was too excited to speak.

"Will you explain it?" said the master, turning to William. "Fighting in my counting-house!"

"I cannot, sir," replied William, recovering his equanimity. "I do not understand it. I did nothing to provoke him, that I am aware of. It is true I said I must go over the gloves again that he had made up."

"What are those gloves flung there?"

"I was showing them to him--that they were not fit for firsts."

"They are fit for firsts!" retorted Cyril, breaking his silence. "I know I did put a pair in that was not up to the mark."

The master went and picked up the gloves himself. Taking them to the light, he turned them about in his hands.

"I should put two of these pairs as seconds, and one as thirds," remarked he. "You must have been asleep when you put this one among the firsts," he continued, indicating the latter pair, and speaking to Cyril Dare. "It has a flaw in it."

"Of course you will uphold Halliburton, sir, whatever he may say. That has been the case for a long time past."

He spoke in an insolent tone; such as none within the walls of that manufactory had ever dared to use to the master. The master turned upon him, speaking quietly and significantly.

"You forget yourself, Cyril Dare."

"All he does is right, and all I do is wrong," persisted Cyril. "You treat him, sir, just as though you considered him the gentleman, instead of me."

A half-smile, which had too much mockery in it to please Cyril, crossed the lips of Mr. Ashley. "What's that you say about being a gentleman, Cyril? Repeat it, will you? I should like to hear it again."

Mockery and double mockery! Cyril's suggestive ears detected it in the tone, if no other ears could do so. It did not improve his temper. "The thing is this, sir: I won't submit to this state of affairs any longer. I was not placed here to be ruled over by him; and if things can't be put upon a better footing, one of us must leave."

"Then, as it has come to this explosion, I say the same," struck in William. "It is high time that things were put upon a better footing. Cyril, you have forced me to speak, and you must take the consequences. Sir," turning to the master, "my authority over the men is ridiculed in their hearing. It ought not to be so."

"By whom?" demanded the master.

"You can ask that question of Cyril, sir."

The master did ask it of Cyril. "Have you done this?"

"Possibly I have," innocently returned Cyril.

"You know you have," rejoined William.

"Only yesterday, when I was giving directions to the stainers, he derided all I said, and one of them inquired whether I had received orders for what I was telling them. If the authority vested in me is to be undermined, the men will soon set it at naught."

Mr. Ashley looked provoked; more so than William ever remembered to have seen him. He paused a moment, his lips quivering angrily, and then flung open the counting-house door.

"Dick!"

Dick, a young tinker of ten, black in clothes and in skin, came flying at the summons and its unusually stern tone. "Please, sir?"

"Ring the large bell."

Dick stared with all his eyes at hearing the words. To ring the large bell between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning was a marvel that had never happened in Dick's experience. But the master's orders were to be obeyed, not questioned; and Dick, rang out a prolonged peal. The master looked into the serving-room.

"James Meeking, I have ordered the bell rung for the men. Pass the word for them to come into my room; and do you and East come with them."

The men appeared, flocking from all parts of the premises, their astonishment certainly not inferior to Dick's. What could be the meaning of the wholesale summoning to the presence of the master? They stood there crowding, a sea of curious faces. Dick, consigned to the background, climbed up the door-post, and held on by it in a mysterious manner.

Mr. Ashley drew William to his side, and laid his hand upon him.

"It has been told to me that the authority vested in Mr. Halliburton has not been implicitly obeyed by every one in the manufactory. I have called you before me to give you my instructions personally upon the point, that there may be no misunderstanding in the future. Whatever directions he may see well to give, you will receive them from him, as you would from myself. I invest him with full and complete power. And in all my absences from the manufactory, whether they may be of an hour's, a day's, or any longer duration, Mr. Halliburton is its master."

They touched their hair, turned and went out as far as the serving-room, collecting there to talk. In a short time, one of them was seen coming back again; a grey-haired man, a sorter of leather. He addressed himself to Mr. Ashley.

"We have not disputed his orders, please, sir, that we can call to mind; and if we have done it unintentional, we'd ask pardon for it, for it's what we never thought to do. Next to yourself, sir, we couldn't wish for a better master than young Mr. Halliburton. We think as much of him, sir, as we should if he was your own son."

"All right, my men," cheerfully responded Thomas Ashley.

But was not Cyril put in the background by this? As badly as Dick had been; and Cyril had no door-post to climb, and so obtain vantage ground. He had stood with his back to the crowd and his face to the counter. When the men were out of hearing, he turned and walked up to the master.

"It is the place I thought to fill," said he. "It is the place that was promised me."

"Not promised," replied Mr. Ashley. "Not thought to be promised. A very long time ago, you may have been spoken of conditionally, as likely to fill it. Conditionally, I say."

"Conditionally on what, sir?"

"On your fitness for it. By conduct and by capability."

"What is the matter with my conduct, sir?" returned Cyril, his tone a sharp one.

"It is bad," curtly replied Mr. Ashley. "Deceitful in public; bad in private. I have told you once before this morning, that I do not care to go into details; you must know that there is no necessity for my doing so."

Cyril paused. "I have been led to expect, sir, that you would take me into partnership."

"Not by me," said the master.

"My father and mother had given me the hope ever since I came here."

"I cannot help that. They had no authority for it from me."

"They have always said I should be made your partner and son-in-law," persisted Cyril.

"They have! It is very obliging of them, I am sure, to settle my affairs for me, even to the disposal of my daughter! Pray what nice little destiny may they have carved out for Mrs. Ashley or for my son?"

Cyril chafed at the words. He would have liked, just then, to strike Mr. Ashley, as he had struck William. "Would I ever have demeaned myself to enter a glove manufactory, disgracing my family, had I known I was to be only a workman in it?" he cried. "No, sir, that I never would. I am rightly served, for putting myself out of my position as a gentleman."

Mr. Ashley, but for the pity he felt, could have laughed outright. He really did feel pity for Cyril. He believed that the unhappy way in which the young Dares were turning out might be laid to the fault of their rearing, and this had rendered him considerate to Cyril. How considerate he had for a long while been, he himself alone knew: Cyril perhaps suspected.

"It is a shame!" cried Cyril. "To be dealt with in this way is nothing less than a fraud upon me. I was led to expect that I should be made your partner."

"Wait a bit, Cyril. I am willing to put you right upon the point. The proposal, that you should be placed here, emanated in the first instance from your father. He came to me one day, here, in this very room, saying that he concluded I should not put Henry to business, and thought it would be a fine opening for his son Cyril. He hinted that I should want some one to succeed me; and that you might come to it with that view. But I most distinctly disclaimed endorsing that hint in the remotest degree. I would not subscribe to it so much as by a vague 'Perhaps it may be so.' All that I conceded upon the point was this. I told Mr. Dare that when the time came for me to be looking out for some one to succeed me--if it ever did come--and I found his son--you--had served me faithfully, was upright in conduct and in heart--one, in short, whom I could thoroughly confide in--why, then he should have the preference over any other. So much I did say, Cyril, but no more."

"And why won't you give me the preference, sir?"

Mr. Ashley looked at him, apparently in surprise that he could ask the question. He bent his head forward, and spoke in a low tone, but one full of meaning.

"Upright in conduct and in heart, I said, Cyril. It was an absolute condition."

Cyril's gaze fell before Mr. Ashley's. His conscience may have pricked him, and he had the grace to look ashamed of himself. There ensued a pause.

Presently Cyril looked up. "Then I am to understand, sir, that all hope of being your partner and successor is over?"

"It is. It has been over this many a year, Cyril. I should do wrong to deal otherwise than perfectly plainly with you. Were you to reform anything there may have been amiss in your conduct, to become a model of excellence in the sight of Helstonleigh, I could never admit your name to be associated with mine. The very notion is offensive to me."

Cyril--it was a great wonder--restrained his passion. "Perhaps I had better leave, then?" he said.

"You are welcome to stay until you can find a situation more agreeable to you," replied Mr. Ashley. "Provided you undertake to behave yourself."

"Stay! and for nothing in the end!" echoed Cyril. "No, that I never will! If I must remain a dependant, I'll try it on at something else. I am sick of this."

He untied his apron, dashed it on to the floor, and went out without another word. So furiously did he stamp through the serving-room, that James Meeking turned round to look at him, and Dick, taking a recreative balance at that moment on the edge of an upright coal-scuttle, thought he must be running for the fire-engines. Dick's speculations were disturbed by the sound of the master's voice, calling to him.

He hastened to the counting-house, and was ordered to "take that apron away." Dick picked it up and withdrew with it, folding it carefully against Mr. Cyril should come in. Dick little thought the manufactory had seen the last of him.

Mr. Ashley was indulging in a quiet laugh. "Demeaning himself by entering my manufactory! Disgracing his family--the high blood of the Dares! Poor Cyril! William, do you look at it in the same light?"

William had remained in the room, taking no part whatever in the final contest. He had stood with his back to them, following his occupation. He turned round now.

"Sir, you know I do not."

"You once told me it presented no field for getting on. What was the word you used?--was it ambition? Truly, there's not much ambition attached to it. Nevertheless, I am satisfied with my career, William, although I am only the glove manufacturer, Thomas Ashley."

He satisfied! How many a one would be proud to be in the position of Thomas Ashley! William did not say so. He began to speak of Cyril Dare.

"Do you think he will come back again, sir?"

"I do not think he will. Should he do so, the doors are closed to him. He has left of his own accord, and I shall not allow him to return."

"I am very sorry," remarked William. "It has been partly my fault."

"Do not make yourself uneasy. I have tolerated Cyril Dare here; have allowed him to remain on sufferance: and that is the best that can be said of it."

"He may feel it as a blow."

"As a jubilee, you mean. It will be nothing less to him. He has hated the manufactory with all his heart from the moment he first entered it, and is now, if we could see him, kicking up his heels with delight at the emancipation. Cyril Dare my partner!"

William continued his work, saying nothing. Mr. Ashley resumed:

"I must be casting my thoughts around for a fitting substitute to succeed to the post of ambition Cyril coveted. Can you direct me to any quarter, William?"

Mr. Ashley was now standing at William's side, looking at him as he went over the gloves left by Cyril. He saw the red flush mount to his face. Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's shoulder, and spoke in low tones, full of emotion.

"It may come, my boy; my almost son! And when Thomas Ashley's head shall be low in the grave, the leading manufacturer of this city may be William Halliburton."

A loud rapping at the door with a thick stick interrupted the master's words. He turned to behold Mr. Dare. It appeared that Cyril had by chance met his father in the street almost immediately after going out; he had volunteered to him a most exaggerated account, and Mr. Dare had come, as he said, to learn the rights of it.

William left the room. He could not avoid remarking the bowed, broken appearance of the man. Mr. Ashley related the particulars, and the listener was obliged to acknowledge that Cyril had been to blame--had been too hasty.

"I confess it appears so," he said. "He must have been led away by temper. But, Mr. Ashley, you ought to stretch a point, and make a concession. We are kinsmen."

"What concession?"

"Discharge William Halliburton. Things can never go on smoothly between him and Cyril. Stretch a point to oblige us, and send him away."

"Discharge William Halliburton!" echoed Mr. Ashley in surprise. "I could as soon discharge myself. William is the right hand of the business. It could go on without me, but I am not sure that it could do so without him."

"Cyril can take his place."

"Cyril is not qualified for it. And----"

"Cyril declares he will never enter the place again, so long as Halliburton is in it."

"Cyril never will enter it again," quietly rejoined Mr. Ashley. "Cyril and I have parted. I will give you his wages for this week, now that you are here; legally, though, he could not claim them."

Mr. Dare looked sad--gloomy. It was only what he had expected for some time past. "You promised to do well by him, Mr. Ashley; to take him into partnership."

"You must surely remember that I promised nothing of the sort," said Mr. Ashley. "I have been telling the same thing to Cyril. All I said--and a shrewd, business man, as you are, could not fail thoroughly to understand me," he pointedly added--"was, that I would choose Cyril in preference to others, provided he proved himself worthy of the preference. Circumstances appear to have worked entirely against carrying out that idea, Mr. Dare."

"What circumstances?"

Mr. Ashley did not immediately reply, and the question was repeated in a hasty, almost an imperative tone. Then Mr. Ashley answered it.

"I do not wish to say a word that should unnecessarily hurt your feelings; but in a matter of business I believe there is no resource but to speak plainly. The unfortunate notoriety acquired, in one way or other, by your sons, has rendered the name of Dare so conspicuous, that, were there no other reason, it could never be associated with mine."

"Conspicuous? How?" interposed Mr. Dare.

Mr. Ashley would not have believed the words were uttered as a question, but that the answer was evidently waited for. "You ask how," he said. "Surely I need not remind you. The scandal which, in more ways than one, attached to Anthony--though I am sorry to allude to him, poor fellow, in any such way; the circumstances attending the trial of Herbert; the----"

"Herbert was innocent," interrupted Mr. Dare.

"Innocent of the murder, no doubt; as innocent as you or I. But people made free with his name in other ways; had often made free with it. And look at this last report, wafted over to us from Germany, that is just now astonishing the city!"

"Hang him for a simpleton!" burst forth Mr. Dare.

"It is all so much discredit to the name--to the family altogether," concluded Mr. Ashley, as if his sentence had not been interrupted.

"The faults of his brothers ought to be no good reason for your rejecting Cyril."

"They are not my reason for rejecting him," quietly returned Mr. Ashley.

"No? You have just said they were."

"I said the notoriety given by your sons to the name of Dare would bar its association with mine. In saying 'your sons,' I included Cyril himself. He interposes the greatest barrier of all. Were the rest of them of good report in the sight of day, Cyril is not so."

"What's the matter with him?" asked Mr. Dare.

"I do not care to tell you. A great deal of it you must know."

"Go on," cried Anthony Dare, who was leaning forward in his chair, his chin resting on his stick, as one who sets himself calmly to hear the whole.

"Cyril's private conduct is bad. He----"

"Follies of youth only," cried old Anthony. "He will outlive them."

"Youth's follies sometimes end in manhood's crimes," was the reply. "I am thankful that my son is free from them."

"Your son!" returned Anthony Dare, coughing down his slighting tone. "Your son is one apart. He has not the health to be knocking about. If young men are worth anything, they are sure to be a bit wild."

A frown passed over the master's brow. "You are mistaken, Mr. Dare. Young men who are worth anything keep themselves from such folly. Opinions have taken a turn. Society is becoming more sensible of the world's increased enlightenment; and ill conduct, although its pursuer may be a fashionable young man, is beginning to be called by its right name. Would you believe that Cyril has, more than once, come here--I hesitate to say the word, it is so ugly a one--drunk? Drunk, Mr. Dare!"

"No!"

"He has."

"Then he must have been a fool for his pains," was the angry retort of old Anthony.

"He is untruthful; he is idle; he is deceitful--but I do not, I say, care to go into this. Were you cognizant of the application Cyril made to me yesterday, respecting my daughter?"

"I don't know of any application."

"He did me the honour to make her an offer of marriage."

Old Anthony lifted his head sharply, not speaking. The master continued:

"He said yesterday that he was acting by your advice. He repeated to-day, that you and Mrs. Dare had led him to look to Mary."

"Well?" returned Mr. Dare. "But I did not know he had spoken."

"How could you--excuse me, I again say, if I am to speak plainly--how could you ever have entertained so wild an idea?"

"Perhaps you would like to call it a presumptuous one?" chafed Mr. Dare.

"I do call it so," returned Mr. Ashley. "It can be regarded as nothing less; any impartial person would tell you so. I put out of the discussion altogether the want of means on the part of Cyril; I speak of its suitability. That Cyril should have aspired to an alliance with Mary Ashley was presumption in the highest degree. It has displeased me very much, and Henry looks upon it in the light of an insult."

"Who's Henry?" scornfully returned Mr. Dare. "A dreamy hypochondriac! Pray is Cyril not as well born as Mary Ashley?"

"Has he been as well reared? Is he proving that he has been? A man's conduct is of far more importance than his birth."

"It would seem that you care little about birth, or rearing either, or you would not exalt Halliburton to a level with yourself."

The master fixed his expressive eyes on Anthony Dare. "Halliburton's birth is, at any rate, as good as your family's and mine. His father's mother and your wife's father were brother and sister."

Old Anthony looked taken by surprise. "I don't know anything about it," said he, somewhat roughly. "I know a little of how he has been bred, he and his brothers."

"So do I," said Mr. Ashley. "I wish a few more in the world had been bred in the same way."

"Why! they have been bred to work!" exclaimed old Anthony, in astonishment. "They have not been bred as gentlemen. They have not had enough to eat."

The concluding sentence elicited an involuntary laugh from the master. "At any rate, the want does not appear to have stinted their growth, or injured them in a physical point of view," he rejoined, a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "They are fine-grown men; and, Mr. Dare, they are gentlemen, whether they have been bred as such or not. Gentlemen in looks, in manners, and in mind and heart."

"I don't care what they are," again repeated old Anthony. "I did not come here to talk about them, but about Cyril. Your exalting Halliburton into the general favour that ought legitimately to have been Cyril's is a piece of injustice. Cyril says you have this morning announced publicly that Halliburton is master, under you. It is flagrant injustice."

"No man living has ever had cause to tax me with injustice," impressively answered Thomas Ashley. "I have been far more just to Cyril than he deserves. Stay: 'just' is a wrong word. I have been far more lenient to him. Shall I tell you that I have kept him on here out of compassion, in the hope that the considerate way in which I treated him might be an inducement to him to turn over a new leaf, and discard his faults? I would not turn him away to be a town's talk. Deep down within the archives of my memory, my own sole knowledge, I buried the great fault of which he was guilty here. He was young; and I would not take from him his fair fame on the very threshold of his commercial life."

"Great fault?" hesitated Mr. Dare, looking half frightened.

Thomas Ashley inclined his head, and lowered his voice to a deeper whisper.

"When he robbed my desk of the cheque, I fancy your own suspicions of him were to the full as much awakened as mine."

There was no reply, unless a groan from Anthony Dare could be called one. His hands, supporting his chin, rested on his stick still. Mr. Ashley resumed:

"I became convinced, though not in the first blush of the affair that the transgressor was no other than Cyril; and I deliberated what my course should be. Natural impulse would have led me to turn him away, if not to prosecute. The latter would scarcely have been palatable towards one of my wife's kindred. What was I to do with him? Turn him adrift without a character? and a character that would get him any other situation of confidence, I could not give him. I resolved to keep him on. For his own sake I would give him a chance of redeeming what he may have done in a moment's thoughtless temptation. I spoke to him privately. I did not tell him in so many words that I knew him to be guilty; but he could not well misunderstand that my suspicions were awakened. I told him his conduct had not been good--not such that I could approve; but that I was willing, for his own sake, to bury the past in silence, and retain him, as a last chance. I very distinctly warned him what would be the consequences of the smallest repetition of his fault: that no consideration for myself or for him would induce me to look over it a second time. Thus he stayed on: I, continually giving an eye to his conduct, and taking due precautions for the protection of my property, and keeping fast my keys. James Meeking received my orders that Mr. Cyril should never be called upon to help pay the men, or to count the packets of halfpence; and when the man looked wonderingly at me in return, I casually added that there was no necessity to put Mr. Cyril to an employment he particularly disliked, while he could call upon East to help him, or in case of need, upon Mr. Halliburton. Never think again, Mr. Dare, that I have been unjust to your son. If I have erred at all, it has been on the side of kindness."

There was a long pause. Anthony Dare probably was feeling the kindness, in spite of himself.

"What have you had to complain of in him since?" he asked.

"Not of any more robbery: but of his general conduct a great deal. He is deceitful: he has appeared here in the state I have hinted to you; he is incorrigibly idle. He probably fancies, because I do not take a very active part in the management of my business and my workpeople, that I sit here with my eyes shut, seeing little and knowing less of what goes on around me. He is essentially mistaken: I am cognizant of all; as much so, or nearly as much so, as Samuel Lynn would be, were he at his post again. Look at his sorting of gloves, for instance--the very thing about which the disturbance occurred just now. Cyril can sort if he pleases; he is as capable of sorting them properly as I should be; perhaps more so: but he does not do it; and every dozen he attempts to make up has to be done over again. In point of fact, he has been of no real use here; for nothing that he attempts to do will he do well. A fitting hand to fill the post of manager! Taking all these facts into consideration," added the master, "you will not be surprised that an offer of marriage from Cyril Dare to my daughter bears an appearance little removed from insult."

So it was all known to Mr. Ashley, and there was an end of Cyril and his hopes! It may be said of his prospects.

"What is he to do now?" broke from the lips of Anthony Dare.

"Indeed I do not know. Unless he changes his habits, he will do no good at anything."

"Won't you take him back again?"

"No," unequivocally pronounced Mr. Ashley. "He has left of his own accord, and he must abide by it. Stay--hear me out. Were I to allow him to return, he would not remain here a week; I am certain of it. That Cyril has been acting a part, to beguile me of my favour with regard to those foolish hopes of his, there is no doubt. The hopes gone, he would not keep up even the semblance of good conduct; neither would he submit to the rule of William Halliburton. It is best as it is; he is gone, and he cannot return. My opinion is, that were the offer of return made to him, he would reject it."

Mr. Dare's opinion was not far different, although he had pleaded for the concession.

"Then you will not make him your partner?" he resumed.

"Mr. Dare!"

"I suppose you will take in Halliburton?"

"It is very probable. Whoever I take must be a man of probity and honour: and a gentleman," he added, with a stress upon the word. "William Halliburton is all that."

Anthony Dare rose with a groan. He could contend no longer.

"My sons have been my bane," he uttered from between his bloodless lips. "I wonder, sometimes, whether they were born bad."

"No," said Thomas Ashley. "The badness has come with their training."

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Chapter XVIII

"CALLED."

And now there occurs another gap in the story--a gap of years, and we have entered on the third and last part.

The patient well-doing of the Halliburtons was approaching fruition, their struggles were well-nigh over, and they were ready to play their part, for success or for failure, in the great drama of life. Jane's troubles were at an end.

Did you ever remark how some things, when they draw towards a close, seem to advance with rapid strides, unlike the slow, crawling pace that characterized their beginning? Life: in its childhood, its youth, nay, in its middle age, how slowly it seems to pass! how protracted its distinctive periods appear to be! But when old age approaches then time moves with giant strides. Undertake a work, whether of the hands or the head, very, very slow does the progress appear to be, until it is far advanced; and then the conclusion is attained fast and imperceptibly. Thus does it seem to be in the history of the young Halliburtons. To them the race may have been tedious, the labour as hard at the close of their preparatory career as at its commencement; but not so to those who were watching them.

There has not been space to trace the life of Frank and Gar at the Universities, to record word by word how they bore onward with unflinching perseverance, looking towards the goal in view. Great praise was due to them; and they won it from those who knew what hard work meant. Patiently and steadily had they laboured on, making of themselves sound and brilliant scholars, resisting temptations that lead so many astray, and bearing the slights and mortifications incidental to their subordinate position. "I'll take it all out, when I am Lord Chancellor of England," Frank would say, in his cheery way. Of course Frank had always intended to go up for honours; and of course Frank gained them. He went to Oxford as a humble servitor, and he left it a man of note. Francis Halliburton had obtained a double-first, and gained his fellowship.

He had entered himself a student of the Middle Temple long before his college career was over. The expenses of qualifying for the Bar are considerable, and Frank's fellowship did not suffice for all. He procured literary employment: writing a leading article for one of the daily papers, and contributing to sundry reviews.

Gar, too, had quitted Cambridge with unusual credit, though he was not senior wrangler. No one but Gar, perhaps, knew that he had aspired to that proud distinction, so it did not signify. A more solid scholar, or one with a higher character in the best sense of the term, never left the University to be ordained by the Bishop of Helstonleigh--or by any other prelate on the bench. He had a choice of a title to orders. His uncle, the Reverend Francis Tait--who, like his father before him, had, after many years' service, obtained a living--had offered Gar his title. But a clergyman in the county of Helstonleigh had also offered him one, and Gar, thanking his uncle, chose Helstonleigh.

William's dream of ambition was fulfilled; the dream which he had not indulged; for it had seemed all too high and vague for possibility. He was Mr. Ashley's partner. The great firm in Helstonleigh was Ashley and Halliburton.

Ashley and Halliburton! And the event had been so gradually, so naturally led up to, that Helstonleigh was not surprised when it was announced. Of course William received as yet only a small share of the profits: how small or how large was not known. Helstonleigh racked its curiosity to learn particulars, and racked it in vain. One fact was assumed beyond doubt: that a portion of the profits was secured to Henry in the event of Mr. Ashley's death.

William was now virtually sole master of the business. Mr. Ashley had partially retired from the manufactory: at least, his visits to it were of occurrence so rare as almost to amount to retirement. Samuel Lynn was manager, as of old; William had assumed Mr. Ashley's place and desk in the counting-house--as master. Mr. Ashley had purchased an estate, Deoffam Hall, some two to three miles distant from the city, close to the little village of Deoffam: and there he and his family had gone to reside. He retained his old house in the London Road, and they would visit it occasionally, and pass a week there. The change of abode did not appear to give unqualified gratification to Henry Ashley. He had become so attached to William that he could not bear to be far away from him. In the old home William's visits had been daily; or rather, nightly: in this he did see him so often. William contrived to go over twice or thrice a week; but that did not appear to be often enough for Henry. Mary Ashley was not married; to the surprise of Helstonleigh: but Mary somewhat obstinately refused to leave the paternal home. William and his mother lived on together in the old house. But they were alone now: for he could afford to keep up its expenses, and he had insisted upon doing so; insisted that she who had worked so hard for them, should have rest, now they could work for her.

Yes, they had all worked; worked on for the end, and gained it. Looking back, Jane wondered how she had struggled on. It seemed now next to an impossibility that she could have done it. Verily and truly she believed that God alone had borne her up. Had it been a foreshadowing of what was to come, when her father, years back, had warned her, on the very day of her marriage with Mr. Halliburton had been decided, that it might bring many troubles upon her? Perhaps so. One thing was certain: that it had brought them, and in no common degree. But the troubles were surmounted now: and Jane's boys were turned out just as well as though she had had thousands a year to bring them up upon. Perhaps better.

Perhaps better! How full of force is the suggestion! I wonder if no one will let this history of the young Halliburtons read a lesson to them? Many a student, used worse by fortune and the world than he thinks he deserves, might take it to himself with profit. Do not let it be flung away as a fancy picture; endeavour to make it your reality. A career, worked out as theirs was, insures success as a necessity. "Ah!" you may think, "I am poor; I can't hope to achieve such things." Poor! What were they? What's that you say? "There are so many difficulties in the way!" Quite true; there are difficulties in the way of attaining most things worth having; but they are only placed there to be overcome. Like the hillocks and stumbling-blocks in that dream that came to Mr. Halliburton when he was dying, they are placed there to be subdued, not to be shunned in fear, or turned from in idleness. Whatever may be your object in life, work on for it. Be you heir to a dukedom, or be your heritage that of daily toil, an object you must have: a man who has none is the most miserable being on the face of the earth. Bear manfully onward and attain the prize. Toil may be hard, but it will grow lighter as you advance; impediments may be disheartening, but they are not insurmountable; privations may be painful, but you are working on to plenty; temptations to indolence, to flagging, to that many-headed monster, sin, may be pulling at you; but they will not stir you from your path an inch, unless you choose to let them do so. Only be resolute; only regard trustingly the end, and labour for it; and it will surely come. It may look in the distance so far off that the very hope of attaining it seems but a chimera. Never mind; bear hopefully on, and the distance will lessen palpably with every step. No real good was ever attained to in this world without working for it. No real good, as I honestly believe, was ever gained, unless God's blessing went with the endeavours to attain it. Make a friend of God. Do that, and fight your way on, doing your duty, and you will find the goal: as the sons of Mrs. Halliburton did.

Jane was sitting alone one afternoon in her parlour. She was little changed. None, looking at her, could believe her old enough to be the mother of those three great men, her sons. Not that Gar was particularly great; he was only of middle height. Jane wore a shaded silk dress; and her hair looked as smooth and abundant as in the old days of her girlhood. It was remarkable how little her past troubles had told upon her good looks; how little she was aging.

She saw the postman come to the door, and Dobbs brought in a letter. "It's Mr. Frank's writing," growled Dobbs.

Jane opened it, and found that Frank had been "called." Half his care was over.

"MY DARLING MOTHER,--I am made a barrister at last. I really am; and I beg you will all receive the announcement with appropriate awe and deference. I was called to-day: and I intend to have a photograph taken of myself in my wig and gown, and send it down to you as a confirmation of the fact. When you see the guy the wig makes of me, you will say you never saw an ugly man before. Tell Dobbs so; it will gladden her heart: don't you remember how she used to assure us, when boys, that we ought to be put under a glass case, as three ultra specimens of ugliness?

"I shall get on now, dearest mother. It may be a little up-hill work at first: but there's no fear. A first-rate law firm has promised me some briefs: and one of these speedy days I shall inevitably take the ears of some court by storm--the jury struck into themselves with the learned counsel's astounding eloquence, and the bar dumb--and then my fortune's made. I need not tell you what circuit I shall patronize, or in how short a time afterwards I intend to be leading it: but I will tell you that my first object in life, when I am up in the world, shall be the ease and comfort of my dear mother. William is not going to do everything, and have you all to himself.

"Talking about William, ask him if he cannot get up some chance litigation, that I may have the honour of appearing for him next assizes. I'll do it all free, gratis, for nothing. Ever your own son,

"FRANK."

Jane started up from her chair at the news, almost as a glad child. Who could she find to share it with her? She ran into the next house to Patience. Patience limped a little in her walk still; she would limp always. Anna, in her sober Quaker's cap, the border resting on her fair forehead, looked up from her drawing, and Jane told them the news, and read the letter.

"That is nice," said Patience. "It must be a weight off thy mind."

"I don't know that it is that," replied Jane. "I have never doubted his success. I don't doubt it still. But I am very glad."

"I wish I had a cause to try," cried Anna, who had recovered all her old spirits and her love of chatter. "I would let Frank plead it for me."

"Will you come back with me, Anna, and take tea?" said Jane. "I shall be alone this evening. William is going over to Deoffam Hall."

"I'll come," replied Anna, beginning to put up her pencils with alacrity. Truth to say, she was just as fond of going out and of taking off her cap, that her curls might fall, as she used to be. She had quite recovered caste in the opinion of Helstonleigh. In fact, when the reaction set in, Helstonleigh had been rather demonstrative in its expression of repentance for having taken so harsh a view of the case. Nevertheless, it had been a real lesson to Anna, and had rendered her more sober and cautious in conduct.

Dobbs was standing at the kitchen door as they went in. "Dobbs," said Jane, in the gladness of her heart, "Mr. Frank is called."

"Called?" responded Dobbs, staring with all her might.

"Yes. He was called yesterday."

"Him called!" repeated Dobbs, evidently doubting the fact. "Then, ma'am you'll excuse me, but I'm not a-going to believe it. It's a deal more likely he's gone off t'other way, than that he's called to grace."

Anna nearly choked with laughter. Jane laughed so that she could not at once speak. "Oh, Dobbs, I don't mean that sort of calling. He is called to the Bar. He has become a barrister."

"Oh--that," said Dobbs ungraciously. "Much good may it do him, ma'am!"

"He wears a wig and gown now, Dobbs," put in Anna. "He says his mother is to tell thee that it makes a guy of him, and so gladden thy heart."

"Ugh!" grunted Dobbs.

"We will make him put them on when he comes down, won't we! Dobbs, if thee'd like his picture in them, he'll send it thee."

"He'd better keep it," retorted Dobbs. "I never yet saw no good in young chaps having their picturs took, Miss Anna. They're vain enough without that. Called! That would have been a new flight for him."

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XIX. A GLIMPSE OF A BLISSFUL DREAM

A prettier place than Deoffam Hall could not well be conceived. "For its size," carping people would add. Well, it was not so large as Windsor Castle; but it was no smaller than the bishop's palace at Helstonleigh--if it has been your good fortune to see that renowned edifice. Deoffam Hall was a white, moderate-sized, modern villa, rising in the midst of charming grounds; grassy lawns smooth as velvet, winding rivulets, groves of trees affording shelter on a summer's day. On the terrace before the windows a stately peacock was fond of spreading its plumes, and in the small park--it was only a small one--the deer rubbed their antlers on the fine old trees. The deer and the peacock were the especial pets of Henry Ashley. Deoffam itself was an insignificant village; a few gentlemen's houses and a good many cottages comprised it. It was pleasantly and conveniently situated; within a walk of Helstonleigh for those who liked walking, or within a short drive. But, desirable as it was as a residence, Henry Ashley was rather addicted to grumbling at it. He would often wish himself back in his old home.

One lovely morning in early summer, when they were assembled together discussing plans for the day, he suddenly broke into one of his grumbling humours. "You bought Deoffam for me, sir," he was beginning, "but----"

"I bought it for myself and your mother," interposed Mr. Ashley.

"Of course. But to descend to me afterwards--you know what I mean. I have made up my mind, when that time shall come, to send gratitude to the winds, and sell it. Stuck out here, alone with the peacock, you and the mother gone, I should----I don't like to outrage your feelings by saying what I might do."

"There's Mary," said Mrs. Ashley.

"Mary! I expect she'll have gone into fresh quarters by that time. She has only stopped here so long out of politeness to me."

Mary lifted her eyes, a smile and a glow on her bright face. A lovely picture, she, in her delicate summer muslin dress.

"I tell every one she is devoted to me," went on Henry, in his quaint fashion. "'Very strange that handsome girl, Mary Ashley, does not get married!' cries Helstonleigh. Mary, my dear, I know your vanity is already as great as it can be, so I don't fear to increase it. 'My sister get married!' I say to them. 'Not she; she has resolved to make a noble sacrifice of herself for my sake, and live at home with me, a vestal virgin, and see to the puddings.'"

The smile left Mary's face--the glow remained. "I do wish you would not talk nonsense, Henry! As if Helstonleigh troubled itself to make remarks upon me. It is not so rude as you are."

"Just hark at her!" returned Henry. "Helstonleigh not trouble itself to make remarks! When you know the town was up in arms when you refused Sir Harry Marr, and sent him packing. Such an honour had never fallen to its luck before--that one of its fair citizens, born and bred, should have the chance of becoming a real live My Lady."

Mary was cutting a pencil at the moment, and broke the point off. "Papa," cried she, turning her hot face to his, "can't you make Henry talk sense?--if he must talk at all."

Mrs. Ashley interposed. It was quite true that Mary had had, as Henry phrased it, a chance of becoming a "real live My Lady"; and there lurked in Mrs. Ashley's heart a shadow of grievance, of disappointment, that she should have refused the honour. She spoke rather sharply, taking Henry's part, not Mary's.

"Henry is talking nothing but sense. My opinion is that you behaved quite rudely to Sir Harry. It is an offer you will not have again, Mary. Still," added Mrs. Ashley, subduing her tone a little, "it is no business of Helstonleigh's; neither do I see whence the town could have derived its knowledge."

"As if any news could be stirring, good or bad, that Helstonleigh does not ferret its way to!" returned Henry.

"My belief is that Henry went and told," retorted Mary.

"I! what next?" cried Henry. "As if I should tell of the graceless doings of my sister; it is bad enough to lie under the weighty knowledge one's self."

"And as if I should ever consent to marry Sir Harry Marr!" returned Mary, with a touch of her brother's spirit.

"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, quietly, "you seemed to slip out of that business, and of all questioning over it, as smoothly as an eel. I never came to the bottom of it. What was your objection to Sir Harry?"

"Objection, papa?" she faltered, with a crimsoned face. "I--I did not care for him."

"Oh, that was it, was it?" returned Mr. Ashley.

"Is it always to go on so, my dear?" asked her mother.

Poor Mary was in sad confusion, scarcely knowing whether to burst into anger or into tears. "What do you mean, mamma? How 'go on'?"

"This rejection of every one. You have had three good offers----"

"Not counting the venture of Cyril Dare," put in Henry.

"And you say 'No' to all," concluded Mrs. Ashley. "I fear you must be very fastidious."

"And she's growing into an old maid, and----"

"Be quiet, Henry. Can't you leave me in peace?"

"My dear, it is true," cried Henry, who was in one of his teasing moods. "Of course I have not kept count of your age since you were eighteen--it wouldn't be polite to do so; but my private conviction is that you are four-and-twenty this blessed summer."

"If I were four-and-thirty," answered Mary, "I wouldn't marry Sir Harry Marr. I am not obliged to marry, I suppose, am I?"

"My dear, no one said you were," said Henry, flinging a rose at her, which he took from his button-hole. "But don't you see that this brings round my argument, that you have resolved to make yourself a noble sisterly sacrifice, and stop at home with me? Don't you take to cats yet, though!"

Mary thought she was getting the worst of it, and left the room. Soon afterwards Mrs. Ashley was called out by a servant.

"Did you receive a note from William this morning, sir?" asked Henry.

"Yes," replied Mr. Ashley, taking it from his pocket. "He mentions in it that there is a report in the town that Herbert Dare is dead."

"Herbert Dare! I wonder if it's true?"

"It is to be hoped not. I fear he was not very fit to die. I am going into Helstonleigh, and shall probably hear more."

"Oh! are you going in to-day, sir? Despatch William back, will you?"

"I don't know, Henry. They may be busy at the manufactory. If so, I am sure he will not leave it."

"What a blessing if that manufactory were up in the clouds!" was Henry's rejoinder. "When I want William particularly, it is sure to be--that manufactory!"

"It is well William does not think as you do," remarked Mr. Ashley.

"Well, sir, he must certainly think Samuel Lynn a nonentity, or he would not stick himself so closely to business. You never applied yourself in such a way."

"Yes, I did. But you must please to remember, Master Henry, that the cases are not on a parallel. I was head and chief of all, accountable to none. Had I chosen to take a twelvemonth's holiday, and let the business go, it would have been my own affair exclusively. Whether the business went right, or whether it went wrong, I was accountable to none. William is not in that position."

"I know he is often in the position of not being to be had when he is wanted," was Henry's reply, as he listlessly turned over some books that lay on the table.

"Will you go into town with me?"

"I could not stand it to-day. My hip is giving me twinges."

"Is it? I had better bring back Parry."

"No. I won't have him, unless I find there's actual need. The mother knows what to do with me. I don't suppose it will come to anything; and I have been so much better of late."

"Yes, you have. Although you quarrel with Deoffam, it is the change to it--the air of the place--that has renewed your health, you ungrateful boy!"

Mr. Ashley's eyes were bent lovingly on Henry's as he said it. Henry seized his father's hands, his half-mocking tone exchanged for one of earnestness.

"Not ungrateful, sir--far from it. I know the value of my dear father: that a kinder or a better one son could not possess. I shall grumble on to my life's end. It is my amusement. But the grumbling is from my lips only: not from my fractious spirit, as it was in days gone by."

"I have remarked that: remarked it with deep thankfulness. You have acquired a victory over that fractious spirit."

"For which the chief thanks are due to William Halliburton. Sir, it is so. But for him, most probably I should have gone, a discontented wretch, to the--let me be poetical for once--silent tomb: never seeking out either the light or the love that may be found in this world."

Mr. Ashley glanced at his son. He saw that he was contending with emotion, although he had reassumed his bantering tone.

"Henry, what light--what love?"

"The light and the love that a man may take into his own spirit. He--William--told me, years ago, that I might make even my life a pleasant and a useful one; and measureless was the ridicule I gave him for it. But I have found that he was right. When William came to the house one night, a humble errand-boy, sent by Samuel Lynn with a note--do you remember it, sir?--and offered to help me, dunce that I was, with my Latin exercise--a help I graciously condescended to accept--we little thought what a blessing had entered the dwelling."

"We little thought what a brave, honest, indomitable spirit was enshrined in the humble errand-boy," continued Mr. Ashley.

"He has got on as he deserved. He will be a worthy successor to you, sir: a second Thomas Ashley; a far better one than I should ever have been, had I possessed the rudest health. There's only one thing more for William to gain, and then I expect he will be at rest."

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's no concern of mine, sir. If folks can't manage for themselves, they need not come to me to help them."

Mr. Ashley looked keenly at his son. Henry passed to another topic.

"Do send him here, sir, when you get in; or else drive him back with you."

"I shall see," said Mr. Ashley. "Do you know where your mother went to?"

"After some domestic catastrophe, I expect. Martha came to the door, with a face as green as the peacock's tail, and beckoned her out. The best dinner-service come to grief, perhaps."

Mr. Ashley rang, and ordered the pony-carriage to be got ready: one bought chiefly for Henry, that he might drive into town. Before he started, he came across Mary, who stood at one of the corridor windows upstairs, and had evidently been crying.

"What is your grief, Mary?"

She turned to the sheltering arm open to her, and tried to choke the tears down, which were again rising. "I wish you and mamma would not keep so angry at my refusing Sir Harry Marr."

"Who told you I was angry, Mary?"

"Oh, papa, I fancied so this morning. Mamma is angry about it, and it pains me. It is as though you wanted me gone."

"My dear child! Gone! For our comfort I should wish you might never go, Mary. But for your own, it may be different."

"I do not wish to go," she sobbed. "I want to stay at home always. It was not my fault, papa, if I could not like Sir Harry."

"You should never, with my consent, marry any one you did not like, Mary; not if it were the greatest match in the three kingdoms. Why this distress, my dear? Mamma's vexation will blow over. She hoped--as Henry tells us--to see you converted into a 'real live My Lady.' 'My daughter, Lady Marr!' It will blow over, child."

Mary cried in silence. "And you will not let me be driven away, papa? You will keep me at home always?"

Mr. Ashley shook his head. "Always is a long day, Mary. Some one may be coming, less distasteful than Sir Harry Marr, who will induce you to leave it."

"No, never!" cried she, somewhat more vehemently than the case seemed to warrant. "Should any one be asking you for me, you can tell them 'No,' at once; do not trouble to bring the news to me."

"Any one, Mary?"

"Yes, papa, no matter who. Do not drive me away from you."

He stooped and kissed her. She stood at the window still, in a dreamy attitude, and watched the carriage drive off with Mr. Ashley. Presently Henry passed.

"Has the master gone, do you know, Mary?"

"Five minutes ago."

"I hope and trust he'll send back William."

It was striking half-past two when Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory. Samuel Lynn was in his own room, sorting gloves; William was in the counting house, seated at his desk. His, now; formerly Mr. Ashley's; the very desk from which the cheque had disappeared; but William took a more active part in the general management than Mr. Ashley had ever done. He rose, shook hands with the master, and placed a chair for him. The "master" still he was called; indeed, he actually was so; William, "Mr. Halliburton."

A short time given to business details, and then Mr. Ashley referred to the report of Herbert Dare's death. Poor Herbert Dare had never returned from abroad, and it was to be feared he had been getting lower and lower in the scale of society. Under happier auspices, and with different training, Herbert might have made a happier and a better man. Helstonleigh did not know how he lived abroad, or why he stayed there. Possibly the free and easy continental life had become necessary to him. Homburg, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, wherever there were gaming-tables, there might be found Herbert Dare. That he must find a living at them in some way seemed pretty evident. It was a great pity.

"How did you hear that he was dead?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"From Richard Winthorne," replied William. "I met him yesterday evening in Guild Street, and he told me a report had come over that Herbert Dare had died of fever."

As William spoke, a gentleman entered the room, and interrupted them; a Captain Chambers. "Have you heard that Herbert Dare's dead?" was his first greeting.

"Is it certain?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"I don't know. Report says it is certain; but report is not always to be believed. How that family has gone down!" continued Captain Chambers. "Anthony first; now Herbert; and Cyril will be next. He will go out of the world in some discreditable way. A wretched scamp! Shocking habits! Old Dare, too, unless I am mistaken, is on his last legs."

"Is he ill?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"No; no worse than usual; but I never saw a man so broken. I alluded to the legs of prosperity. Talk about reports, though," and Captain Chambers suddenly wheeled round on William, "there's one going the round of the town to-day about you."

"What's that?" asked William. "Not that I am dead, I suppose, or on my last legs?"

"Something better. That you are going to marry Sophy Glenn."

William looked all amazement, an amused smile stealing over his lips. "Well, I never!" uttered he, using a phrase just then in vogue in Helstonleigh. "What has put that into the town's head?"

"You should best know that," said Captain Chambers. "Did you not, for one thing, beau Miss Sophy to a concert last night? Come, Master William! guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty of the beauing," answered William. "I called on the Glenns yesterday evening, and found them starting for the concert; so I accompanied them. I did give my arm to Sophy."

"And whispered the sweet words, 'Will you be my charming wife?'"

"No, that I did not," said William, laughing. "And I dare say I shall never whisper them to any woman yet born: if it will give Helstonleigh satisfaction to know so much."

"You might go farther and fare worse, than in taking Sophy Glenn, I can tell you that, Master William," returned Captain Chambers. "Remember, she is the lucky one of three sisters, and had the benignant godmother. Sophy Glenn counts five thousand pounds to her fortune."

When Captain Chambers took his departure, Mr. Ashley looked at William. "I have heard Henry joke you about the Glenn girls--nice little girls they are too! Is there anything in it, William?"

"Sir! How can you ask such a thing?"

"I think, with Chambers, that a man might do worse than marry Sophy Glenn."

"So do I, sir. But I shall not be the man."

"Well, I think it is time you contemplated something of the sort. You will soon be thirty years of age."

"Yes, sir, but I do not intend to marry."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"Because--I fear my wishes would lead me to soar too high. That is, I--I--mean----" He stopped; and seemed to be falling into inextricable confusion. A notable thing for the self-possessed William Halliburton.

"Do you mean that you have an attachment in some quarter?" resumed Mr. Ashley.

William's face turned fiery red. "I cannot deny it, sir," he answered, after considerable hesitation.

"And that she is above your reach?"

"Yes."

"In what manner? In position?--or by any insurmountable obstacle? I suppose she is not some one else's wife?"

William smiled. "Oh, no. In position."

"Shall I give you my opinion, William, without knowing the case in detail?"

William was standing at one corner of the mantel-piece, his arm leaning on its narrow shelf. He did not lift his eyes. "Yes, sir, if you please."

"Then I think there is scarcely any marriageable girl in the county, to whom you might not aspire, and in time win."

"Oh, Mr. Ashley!"

"Is it the daughter of the lord-lieutenant?"

William laughed.

"Is it the bishop's daughter?"

William shook his head. "She seems to be quite as far removed from me."

"Come, I must know. Who is it?"

"It is impossible that I can tell you, sir."

"I must know. I don't think I have ever asked you in vain, since the time when, a boy, you confessed your thoughts about the found shilling. Secrets from me! I will know, William!"

William did not answer. The upper part of his face was concealed by his hand; but Mr. Ashley marked the sweet smile that played around his mouth.

"Come, I will help you. Is it the charming Dobbs?"

Amused, he took his hand from his face. "Well, sir--no."

"It cannot be Charlotte East; because she is married."

William seemed as impervious as ever. The master suddenly laid his hand upon his shoulder, and confronted him face to face.

"Is it Mary Ashley?"

The burning flush of scarlet that dyed his face, even to the very roots of his hair, told Mr. Ashley the truth, far more effectually than words could have done. There ensued a pause. Mr. Ashley was the first to break it.

"How long have you loved her?"

"For years. That has been the wild dream of my aspirations: one that I knew would never be realized," he answered, suffering his eyes to meet for a moment Mr. Ashley's.

"Have you spoken to her of it?"

"Never."

"Or led her to believe you loved her?"

"No, sir. Unless my looks and tones may have betrayed me. I fear they have; but it was not intentionally done."

"Honest in this, as in all else," thought Mr. Ashley. "What am I to say to you?" he asked aloud.

"I do not know," sighed William. "I expect, of course, sir, that you will forbid me Deoffam Hall: but I can still meet Henry at the house in town. I hope you will forgive me!" he added in an impassioned tone. "I could not help loving her. Before I knew what my new feelings meant, love had come. Such love! Had I been in a position to marry her, I would have made her life one dream of happiness! When I awoke to it all----"

"What awoke you?" was the interruption.

"I think it was Cyril Dare's asking for her. I debated with myself then, whether I ought to give up going to your house; but I came to the conclusion that, so long as I was able to hide my feelings from her, I need not banish myself. My judgment was wrong, I know; but the temptation to see her occasionally was great, and I did not resist it."

"And so you continued to go, feeding the flame?"

"Yes. Feeding it passionately and hopelessly; never forgetting that the pain of separation must come!"

"Did you hear of Sir Harry Marr's offer?"

"Yes, I heard of it."

William swept his hand across his face as he spoke. It wore a wrung expression. Mr. Ashley changed his tone.

"William, I cannot decide this matter, one way or the other. You must ask Mary to do that!"

"Sir!"

"If Mary chooses to favour you more than she does other suitors, I will not forbid her doing it. Only this very day she begged me, with tears, to keep all such troublesome customers away from her; to refuse them of my own accord. But it strikes me that you may as well have an answer from herself!"

William, his whole soul in his eyes, was gazing at Mr. Ashley. He could not tell whether he might believe what he heard; whether he was awake or dreaming.

"Did I deliver you a message from Henry?"

"No, sir," was the abstracted response.

"He wants you to go over to him. I said I would send you if you were not busy. He is not very well to-day."

"But--Mr. Ashley--did you mean what you said?"

"Should I have said it had I not meant it?" was the quiet answer. "Have you a difficulty in believing it?"

The ingenuous light rose to William's eyes, as he raised them to his master's. "I have no money," he whispered. "I cannot settle a farthing upon her."

"You have something better than money, William--worth. And I can make settlements. Go and hear what Mary says. You will catch the half-past three o'clock coach, if you make haste."

William went out, believing still that he must be in a trance. His deeply buried dream of the long past years: was it about, indeed, to become reality?

But in the midst of it he could not help casting a thought to a less pleasing subject--the Dares. Herbert was young to die; he was, no doubt, unprepared to die; and William sincerely hoped that the report would prove untrue. The Dares were going down sadly in the social scale; Cyril especially. He was just what Captain Chambers had called him--a scamp. After leaving Mr. Ashley's, he had entered his father's office; as a temporary thing, it was said; but he had never left it for anything else. A great deal of his time was passed in public-houses. George, whose commission never came, had gone out, some two or three years ago, to Sydney. His sister Julia and her husband had settled there, and they had found an opening for George. William walked on, thinking of the Dares' position and of his own.

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XX. WAYS AND MEANS

When William reached Deoffam Hall, he found Henry Ashley alone, lying in the drawing-room, the sofa near the open window.

"That's good!" cried he. "Good of the master for sending you, and of you for coming."

"You don't look well to-day," observed William. "Your brow has the old lines of pain in it."

"Thanks to my hip, which is giving me threatening twinges. What's this report about Dare? Is it confirmed?"

"Not absolutely. It was Winthorne told me. Captain Chambers came into the manufactory, and spoke of it this afternoon."

"I dare say it's true," said Henry. "I wonder if Anna Lynn will put on weeds for him?" he sarcastically added.

"Quakers don't wear weeds."

"Teach your grandmother," returned Henry, lapsing into one of those free, popular phrases he indulged in, and was indulged in. "How you stare at me! Do you think I am not cured? Ay; years ago."

"You'd have no objection to see Anna marry, I suppose?"

"She's welcome to marry, for me. You may go and propose to her yourself, if you like. I'll be groomsman at the wedding."

"Would the alliance give you pleasure?"

Henry laughed. "You'd deserve hanging in chains, if you did enter upon it; that's all."

"I have had one wife assigned to me to-day," remarked William.

"Whom may she be?"

"Sophy Glenn."

"Sophy Glenn?"

"Sophy Glenn. Chambers gravely assured me that Helstonleigh had settled the match. He, Chambers, considers that I may go farther and fare worse. Mr. Ashley said the same."

"But what do you say?" cried Henry, rising up on his sofa, and speaking quite sharply.

"I? Oh, I shall consider of it."

At that moment Mary Ashley appeared on the terrace outside; a small basket and a pair of scissors in her hand. Henry called to her. "Are you going to cut more flowers?"

"Yes. Mamma has sent the others away. She said they were fading." Seeing William there, she nodded to him, her colour rising.

"I say, Mary--he has come here to bring some news," went on Henry. "What do you suppose it is?"

"Mamma has told me. About Herbert Dare."

"Not that. He is going to make himself into a respectable man, and marry Sophy Glenn. He came here to announce it. Don't cut too much of that syringa; its sweetness is overpowering in a room."

Mary walked away. William felt excessively annoyed. "You are more dangerous than a child," he exclaimed. "What made you say that?"

And Henry, like a true child, fell back, laughing aloud. "I say, though, comrade, where are you off to?" he called after William, who was leaving the room.

"To cut the flowers for your sister, of course."

But when William reached Mary Ashley, she had apparently forgotten her errand. Standing in a dark spot against the trunk of the acacia tree, her face was white and still, and the basket lay on the ground. She picked it up, and would have hastened away, but William caught her hand and placed it within his arm, little less agitated than she was.

"Not to tell him that news," he whispered. "I did indeed come here, hoping to solicit one to be my wife; but it was not Sophy Glenn. Mary, you cannot mistake what my feelings have long been."

"But--papa?" she gasped, unable to control her emotion.

He looked at her; he made her look at him. What strange, happy light was that in his earnest eyes, causing her heart to bound? "Mr. Ashley sent me to you," he softly whispered.

Henry lay and waited till he was tired. No William; no Mary; no flowers; no anything. Had they both gone to sleep? He arose; and, taking his stick, limped away to see after them. But he searched the flower-garden in vain.

In the sheltered shrubbery, pacing it leisurely, as closely together as they could well be linked, were they; a great deal too much occupied with each other to pay attention to anything else. The basket lay on the ground, empty of all, except the scissors.

"Well, you two are a nice lot for a summer's day!" began Henry, after his old fashion, and using his own astonished eyes. "What of the flowers?"

Mary would have flown, but William held her tightly, and led her up to her brother. He strove to speak jestingly; but his voice betrayed his emotion.

"Henry, shall it be your sister, or Sophy Glenn?"

"So! you have been settling it for yourselves, have you! I would not be in your shoes, Miss Ashley, when the parental thunderbolts shall descend. Was this what you flung Sir Harry over for? There never was any accounting for taste in this world, and there never will be. I ask you where the flowers are, and I should like an answer."

"I will cut them now," said William. "Will you come?" he asked, holding out his arm to Henry.

"No," replied Henry, sitting down on the shrubbery bench, "I must digest this shock first. You two will be enough to cut them, I dare say."

They walked away towards the flower-garden. But ere they had gone many steps he called out; and they turned.

"Mary! before you tie yourself up irrevocably, I hope you will reflect upon the ignominy of his being nothing on earth but a manufacturer. A pretty come down, that, for the Lady Marr who might have been!"

He was in one of his most ironical moods; a sure sign that his inward state was that of glowing satisfaction. This had been his hope for years--his plan, it may be said; but he had kept himself silent and neutral. As he sat there ruminating, he heard the distant sound of the pony carriage; and, taking a short cut, met it in the park. Mr. Ashley handed the reins to his groom, got out, and gave his arm to Henry.

"How are you by this time?"

"Better, sir. Nothing much to brag of."

"I thought William would have been with you. Is he not come?"

"Yes, he is come. But I am second with him to-day. Miss Mary's first."

"Oh indeed!" returned Mr. Ashley.

"They are gone off somewhere, under the pretext of cutting flowers. I don't think the flowers were quite the object, though."

He stole a glance at his father as he spoke. But he gathered nothing. And he dashed at once into the subject he had at heart.

"Father, you will not stand in their light! It will be a crushing blow to both, if you do. Let him have her! There's not a man in the world half as worthy."

But still Mr. Ashley made no rejoinder. Henry scarcely gave him time to make one.

"I have seen it a long time. I have seen how Halliburton kept down his feelings, not being sure of the ground with you. I fear that to-day they must have overmastered him; for he has certainly spoken out. Dear father, don't make two of the best spirits in the world miserable, by withholding your consent!"

"Henry," said Mr. Ashley, turning to him with a smile, "do you fancy William Halliburton is one to have spoken out without my consent?"

Henry's thin cheek flushed. "Did you give it him? Have you already given it him?"

"I gave it him to-day. I drew from him the fact of his attachment to Mary: not telling him in so many words that he should have her, but leaving it for her to decide."

"Then it will be: for I have seen where Miss Mary's love has been. How immeasurably you have relieved me!" continued Henry. "The last half-hour I have been seeing nothing but perplexity and cross-grained guardians."

"Have you?" returned Mr. Ashley. "You should have brought a little common sense to bear upon the subject, Henry."

"But my fear was, sir, that you would not bring the common sense to bear," freely spoke Henry.

"You do not quite understand me. Had I entertained an insuperable objection to Mary's becoming his wife, do you suppose I should have been so wanting in prudence and forethought as to have allowed opportunity for an attachment to ripen? I have long believed that there was no man within the circle of my acquaintance, or without it, so deserving of Mary, except in fortune: therefore I suffered him to come here, with my eyes open as to what might be the result. A very probable result, it has appeared to me. I would forgive any girl who fell in love with William Halliburton."

"And what about ways and means?"

"William's share shall be increased, and Mary will not go to him dowerless. They must live in our house in Helstonleigh; and when we want to go there we must be their guests."

"It will be the working-out of my visions," said Henry in low deep tones. "I have seen them in it in fancy; in that very house; and myself with them, my home when I please. I think you have been planning for me, as much as for them."

"Not exactly, Henry. I have not planned. I have only let things take their course. It will be happier for you, my boy, than if she had gone from us to be Lady Marr."

"Oh! if ever I felt inclined to smother a man, it was that Marr. I never, you know, brought myself to be decently civil to him. There's no answering for the vanity of maidens, and I thought it just possible he might put William's nose out of joint. What will the mother say?"

"The mother will be divided," said Mr. Ashley, a smile crossing his face. "She likes William; but she likes a title. We must allow her a day or two to get over it. I will go and give her the tidings now, if Mary has not done so."

"Mary is with her lovier," returned Henry. "She can't have dragged herself away from him yet."

Mary, however, was not with her "lovier." As Mr. Ashley crossed the hall, he met her. She stopped in hesitation, and coloured vividly.

"Well, Mary, I soon sent you a candidate; though it was in defiance of your express orders. Did I do right?"

Mary burst into tears, and Mr. Ashley drew her face to him. "May God bless your future and his, my child!"

"I am afraid to tell mamma," she sobbed. "I think she will be angry. I could not help liking him."

"Why, that is the very excuse he made to me! Neither can I help liking him, Mary. I will tell mamma."

Mrs. Ashley received the tidings not altogether with equanimity. As Mr. Ashley had surmised, she was divided between conflicting opinions. She liked and admired William; but she equally liked and admired a title and fortune.

"Such a position to relinquish--the union with Sir Harry!"

"Had she married Sir Harry we should have lost her," said Mr. Ashley.

"Lost her!"

"To be sure we should. She would have gone to her new home, twelve miles on the other side of Helstonleigh, amidst her new connections, and have been lost to us, excepting for a formal visit now and then. As it is, we shall keep her; at her old home."

"Yes, there's a great deal to be said on both sides," acknowledged Mrs. Ashley. "What does Henry say?"

"That he thinks I have been planning to secure his happiness. Had Mary married away, we--when we quit this scene--must have left him to his lonely self: now, we shall leave him to them. Things are wisely ordered," impressively added Mr. Ashley: "in this, as in all else. Margaret, let us accept them, and be grateful."

Mrs. Ashley went to seek William. "You will be a loving husband to her," she said with agitation. "You will take care of her and cherish her?"

"With the best endeavours of my whole life," he fervently answered, as he took Mrs. Ashley's hands in his.

It was a happy group that evening. Henry lay on his sofa in complacent ease, Mary drawn down beside him, and William leaning over the back of it, while Mr. and Mrs. Ashley sat at a distance, partially out of hearing.

"Have you heard what the master says?" asked Henry. "He thinks you have been getting up your bargain out of complaisance to me. You are aware, I hope, Mr. William, that whoever takes Mary must take me?"

"I am perfectly willing."

"It is well you are! And--do you know where you are to live?"

William shook his head. "You can understand how all these future considerations have weighed me down," he said, glancing at Mary.

"You are to live at the house in Helstonleigh. It's to be converted into yours by some patent process. The master had an eye to this, I know, when he declined to take out any of the furniture, upon our removal here. The house is to be yours, and the run of it is to be mine; and I shall grumble away to my heart's content at you both. What do you answer to that, Mr. William? I don't ask her; she's nobody."

"I can only answer that the more you run into it, the better pleased we shall be. And we can stand any extent of grumbling."

"I am glad you can. You ought to by this time, for you have been pretty well seasoned to it. So, in the Helstonleigh house, remember, my old rooms are mine; and I intend to be the plague of your lives. After a time--may it be a long time!--I suppose it will be 'Mr. Halliburton of Deoffam Hall.'"

"What nonsense you talk, Henry!"

"Nonsense? I shall make it over to you. Catch me sticking myself out here in solitary state to the admiration of the peacock! What's the matter with you now, you two! Oh, well, if you turn up your noses at Deoffam, it shall never be yours. I'll leave it to the eldest chickabiddy. And mark you, please! I shall have him named 'Ashley,' and stand godfather to him; and, he'll be mine, and not yours. I shall do just as I like with the whole lot, if they count a score, and spoil them as much as I choose."

"What is the matter there?" exclaimed Mrs. Ashley, perceiving a commotion on the sofa.

Mary succeeded in freeing herself, and went away with a crimsoned face. "Mamma, I think Henry must be going out of his mind! He is talking so absurdly."

"Absurdly! Was what I said absurd, William?"

William laughed. "It was premature, at any rate."

Henry stretched up his hands and laid hold of William's. "It is true what Mary says--that I must be going out of my mind. So I am: with joy."

* * * * *

But the report of Herbert Dare's death proved to be a false one.

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XXI. THE DREAM REALIZED

The approaching marriage of William Halliburton gave rise to a dispute. A dispute of love, though, not bitterness. Frank and Gar contended which should have their mother. William no longer wanted her; he was going to a home of his own. Frank wished to take larger chambers where she would find sufficient accommodation; he urged a hundred reasons; his grievances with his laundress, and his buttonless shirts. Gar, who was in priest's orders now, had remained in that same first curacy, at a hundred a year and the parsonage house to live in. He said he had been wanting his mother all along, and could not do without her.

Jane inclined to Gar. She said she had an idea that old ladies--how they would have rebelled at hearing her call herself old!--were out of place in a young barrister's chambers; and she had a further idea that chambers were comfortless quarters to live in. The question was to be decided when they met at William's wedding. Frank was getting on well; better than the ordinary run of aspirants; he had come through Helstonleigh two or three times on circuit, and had picked up odds and ends of briefs there.

Meanwhile William took possession of Mr. Ashley's old house, and the wedding day approached. Besides her boys, Jane had another visitor for the time; her brother Francis, who came down to marry them. Perhaps because the Vicar of Deoffam had recently died. He might have come all the same, had that gouty old gentleman been still alive.

All clear and cloudless rose the September sun on Deoffam; never a brighter sun shone on a wedding. It was a quiet wedding: only a few guests were invited to it. Mary, in her white lace robes and floating veil--flushed, timid, lovely--stood with her bridesmaids; not more lovely than one of those bridesmaids, for one was Anna Lynn.

Anna Lynn! Yes; Anna Lynn. To the lasting scandal of Patience, Anna stood in the open church, dressed in bridesmaid's attire. Mary, who had not been permitted the same intimacy with Anna since that marked and unhappy time, but who had loved her all along, had been allowed by Mrs. Ashley to choose her for one of her bridesmaids. The invitation was proffered, and Samuel Lynn did not see reason to decline it. Patience was indignantly rebellious; Anna, wild with delight. Look at her, as she stands there! flowing robes of white around her, not made after the primitive fashion of her robes, but in the fashion of the day. Her falling hair shades her carmine cheeks, and her blue eyes seek modestly the ground. A fair picture; and a dangerous one to Henry Ashley, had those old feelings of his remained in the ascendant. But he was cured; as he told William: and he told it in truth.

A short time, and Anna would want bridesmaids on her own account; though that may be speaking metaphorically of a Quakeress. Anna's pretty face had pierced the heart of one of their male body; and he had asked for Anna in marriage. A very desirable male was he, in a social point of view; and female Helstonleigh turned up its nose in envy at Anna's fortune. He was considerably older than Anna; a fine-looking man and a wealthy one, engaged in wholesale business. His name was Gurney; his residence, outside the city, was a handsome one, replete with every comfort; and he drove a carriage-and-pair. He had been for some time a visitor at Samuel Lynn's, and Anna had learned to like him. That his object in visiting there could only be Anna, every one had been sure of, his position being so superior to Samuel Lynn's. Every one but Anna. Somehow, since that past escapade, Anna had not cast a thought to marrying, or to the probability of anyone asking her; and she did not suspect his intentions. If she had suspected them, she might have set herself against him; for there was a little spice of opposition in her, which she loved to indulge. However, before that suspicion came to her she had grown to care for him too much to play the coquette. Strange to say, there was something in his figure and in the outline of his face, which reminded people of Herbert Dare; but his features and their expression were quite different.

It was a most excellent match for Anna; there was no doubt of that; but it did not afford complete satisfaction to Patience. Patience felt a foreboding that he would be a good deal more indulgent to Anna than she considered was wholesomely good for her: Patience had a misgiving that Anna would be putting off her caps as she chose, then, and would not be reprimanded for it. Not unlikely; could that future bridegroom, Charles Gurney, catch sight of Anna as she stands now! for a more charming picture never was seen.

William, quiet and self-possessed, received Mary from the hands of her father, who gave her away. The Reverend Francis Tait read the service, and Gar, in his white canonicals, stood with him, after the new fashion of the day. Jane's tears dropped on her pearl-grey damask dress; Frank made himself very busy amongst the bridesmaids; and Henry Ashley was in his most mocking mood. Thus they were made man and wife; and Mr. Tait's voice rose high and echoed down the aisles of the little old church at Deoffam, as he spoke the solemn injunction--"THOSE WHOM GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER, LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER."

Helstonleigh's streets were lined that day, and Helstonleigh's windows were alive with heads. It was known that the bride and bridegroom would pass through the town, on the first stage of their bridal tour, whose ultimate destination was to be the Continent. The whole crowd of the Ashley workpeople had gathered outside the manufactory, neglecting their afternoon's work; a neglect which Samuel Lynn not only winked at, but participated in, for he stood with them. As the carriage, which was Mr. Ashley's, came in sight, its four horses urged by the postillions to a sharp trot, one deafening cheer arose from the men. William laughed and nodded to them; but they did not get half a good view of the master's daughter beside him: nothing but a glimpse of a flushed cheek, and a piece of a white veil.

Slouching at the corner of a street, in a seedy coat, his eyes bloodshot, was Cyril Dare. Never did one look more of a mauvais sujet than he, as he watched the chariot pass. The place now occupied by William might have been his, had he so willed it and worked for it. Not, perhaps, that of Mary's husband; he could not be sure of that, but as Mr. Ashley's partner. A bitter cloud of disappointment, of repentance, crossed his face as he looked at them. They both saw him standing there. Did Mary think what a promising husband he would have made her? Cyril flung a word after them; and it was not a blessing.

Dobbs had also flung something after them, and in point of time and precedence this ought to have been mentioned first. Patience, watching from her window, curious as every one else, had seen Dobbs come out with something under her apron, and take up her station at the gate, where she waited patiently for just an hour and a quarter. As the carriage had come into view, Dobbs sheltered herself behind the shrubs, nothing to be seen of her above them, but her cap and eyes. The moment the carriage was past, out flew Dobbs to the middle of the road. Bringing forth from their hiding-place a pair of shoes considerably the worse for wear, the one possessing no sole, and the other no upper leather, Dobbs dashed them with force after the chariot, very much discomposing the manservant in the rear, whose head they struck.

"Nothing like old shoes to bring 'em luck," grunted Dobbs to Patience, as she retired indoors. "I never knew good come of a wedding that didn't get 'em."

"I wish them luck; the luck of a safe arrival home from those unpleasant foreign parts," emphatically remarked Patience, who had found her residence amongst the French nothing less than a species of terrestrial purgatory.

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XXII. THE BISHOP'S LETTER

A day or two after the wedding, a letter was delivered at Mrs. Halliburton's residence, addressed to Gar. Its seal, a mitre, prepared Gar to find that it came from the Bishop of Helstonleigh. Its contents proved to be a mandate, commanding his attendance the following morning at the palace at nine o'clock. Gar turned nervous. Had he fallen under his bishop's displeasure, and was about to be reprimanded? Mr. Tait had gone back to London; Gar was to leave on the following day, Saturday; Frank meant to stay on for a week or two. It was his vacation.

"That's Gar all over!" cried Frank, who had perched himself on a side table. "Gar is sure to look to the dark side of things, instead of the bright. If the Lord Chancellor sent for me, I should set it down that my fortune was about to be made. His lordship's going to present you with a living, Gar."

"That's good!" retorted Gar. "What interest have I with the bishop?"

"He has known you long enough."

"As he has many others. If the bishop interested himself for all the clergymen who have been educated at Helstonleigh college school, he would have enough upon his hands. I expect it is to find fault with me for some unconscious offence."

"Go it, Gar! You'll get no sleep to-night."

"Frank, I must say the note appears a peremptory one," remarked Jane.

"Middling for that. It's short, if not sweet."

Whether Gar had any sleep or not that night, he did not say; but he started to keep the appointment punctually. His mother and Frank remained together, and Jane fell into a bit of quiet talk over the breakfast table.

"Frank," said she, "I am often uneasy about you."

"About me!" cried Frank in considerable wonderment.

"If you were to go wrong! I know what the temptations of a London life must be. Especially to a young man who has, so to say, no home."

"I steer clear of them. Mother darling, I am telling you the truth," he added earnestly. "Do you think we could ever fall away from such training as yours? No. Look at what William is; look at Gar; and for myself, though I don't like to boast, I assure you, the Anti-evil-doing Society--if you have ever heard of that respected body--might hoist me on a pedestal at Exeter Hall as their choicest model. You don't like my joking! Believe me, then, in all seriousness, that your sons will never fail you. We did not battle on in our duty as boys, to forget it as men. You taught us the bravest lesson that a mother can teach, or a child learn, when you contrived to impress upon us the truth that God is our witness always, ever present."

Jane's eyes filled with tears: not of grief. She knew that Frank was speaking from his heart.

"And you are getting on well?"

"What with stray briefs that come to me, and my literary work, and the fellowship, I make six or seven hundred a year already."

"I hope you are not spending it all?"

"That I am not. I put by all I can. It is true that I don't live upon bread and potatoes six days in the week, as you know we have done; but I take care that my expenses are moderate. It is keeping hare-brained follies at arm's-length that enables me to save."

"And now, Frank, for another question. What made you send me that hundred-pound note?"

"I shall send you another soon," was all Frank's answer. "The idea of my gaining a superfluity of money, and sending none to my darling mother!"

"But indeed I don't know what to do with it, Frank. I do not require it."

"Then put it by to look at. As long as I have brains to work with, I shall think of my mother. Have you forgotten how she worked for us? I wish you would come and live with me?"

Jane entered into all her arguments for deeming that she should be better with Gar. Not the least of them was, that she should still be near Helstonleigh. Of all her sons, Jane, perhaps unconsciously to herself, most loved her eldest: and to go far away from him would have been another trouble.

By-and-by, they saw Gar coming back. And he did not look as if he had been receiving a reprimand: quite the contrary. He came in almost as impulsively as he used to do in his schoolboy days.

"Frank, you were right! The bishop is going to give me a living. Mother, it is true."

"Of course," said Frank. "I always am right."

"The bishop did not keep me waiting a minute, although I was there before my time. He was very kind, and----"

"But about the living?" cried impatient Frank.

"I am telling you, Frank. The bishop said he had watched us grow up--meaning you, as well--and he felt pleased to tell me that he had never seen anything but good in either of us. But I need not repeat all that. He went on to ask me whether I should be prepared to do my duty zealously in a living, were one given to me. I answered that I hoped I should--and the long and the short of it is, that I am going to be appointed to one."

"Long live the bishop!" cried Frank. "Where's the living situated! In the moon?"

"Ah, where indeed? Guess what living it is, mother."

"Gar, dear, how can I?" asked Jane. "Is it a minor canonry?"

They both laughed. It recalled Jane to her absence of mind. The bishop had nothing to do with bestowing the minor canonries. Neither could a minor canonry be called a "living."

"Mother, it is Deoffam."

"Deoffam! Oh, Gar!"

"Yes, it is Deoffam. You will not have to go far away from Helstonleigh, now."

"I'll lay my court wig that Mr. Ashley has had his finger in the pie!" cried quick Frank.

But, in point of fact, the gift had emanated from the prelate himself. And a very good gift it was: four hundred a year, and the prettiest parsonage house within ten miles. The brilliant scholarship of the Halliburtons, attained by their own unflagging industry, the high character they had always borne, had not been lost upon the Bishop of Helstonleigh. Gar's conduct as a clergyman had been exemplary; Gar's preaching was of no mean order, and the bishop deemed that such a one as Gar ought not to be overlooked. The day has gone by for a bishop to know nothing of the younger clergy of his diocese, and he of Helstonleigh had Gar Halliburton down in his preferment book. It is just possible that the announcement of his name in the local papers, as having helped to marry his brother at Deoffam, may have put that particular living into the bishop's head. Certain it was, that, a few hours after the bishop read it, he ordered his carriage, and went to pay a visit at Deoffam Hall. During his stay, he took Mr. Ashley's arm, and drew him out on to the terrace, very much as though he wished to take a nearer view of the peacock.

"I have been thinking, Mr. Ashley, of bestowing the living of Deoffam upon Edgar Halliburton. What should you say to it?"

"That I should almost feel it as a personal favour paid to myself," was the reply of Mr. Ashley.

"Then it is done," said the bishop. "He is young, but I know a great many older men who are less deserving than he."

"Your lordship may rely upon it that there are few men, young or old, who are so intrinsically deserving as the Halliburtons."

"I know it," said the bishop. "They interested me as lads, and I have watched them ever since."

And that is how Gar became Vicar of Deoffam.

"You will be trying for a minor canonry now, Gar, I suppose, living so near to it?" observed Jane.

"Mrs. Halliburton, will you be so kind as not to put unsuitable notions into his head?" interrupted Frank. "The Reverend Gar must look out for a canonry, not a minor. And he won't stop there. When I am on the woolsack, in my place in the Lords, Gar may be opposite to me, a spiritual peer."

Jane laughed, as did Frank. Who knew, though? It all lay in the future.

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XXIII. A DYING CONFESSION

Meanwhile William Halliburton and his wife had crossed the Channel. Amongst other letters, written home to convey news of them, was the following. It was written by Mary to Mrs. Ashley, after they had been abroad a week or two.

"Hotel du Chapeau Rouge, Dunkerque,

"September 24th.

"MY EVER DEAR MAMMA,

"You have heard from William how it was that we altered our intended route. I thought the sea-side so delightful that I was unwilling to leave it, even for Paris, and we determined to remain on the coast, especially as I shall have other opportunities of seeing Paris with William. Boulogne was crowded and noisy, so we left it for less frequented towns, staying a day or two in each place. We went to Calais and to Gravelines; also to Bourbourg, and to Cassel--the two latter not on the coast. The view from Cassel--which you must not confound with Cassel in Germany--is magnificent. We met some English people on the summit of the hill, and they told us the English called it the Malvern of France. I am not sure which affords the finer view, Cassel or Malvern. They say that eighty towns or villages may be counted from it; but I cannot say that we made out anything like so many. We can see the sea in the far distance--as we can, on a clear day, catch a glimpse from Malvern of the Bristol Channel. The view from some of the windows of the Hotel de Sauvage was so beautiful that I was never tired of looking at it. William says he shall show me better views when he takes me to Lyons and Annonay, but I scarcely think it possible. At a short distance rises a monastery of the order of La Trappe, where the monks never speak, except the 'Memento mori' when they meet each other. Some of the customs of the hotel were primitive; they gave us tablespoons in our coffee-cups for breakfast.

"From Cassel we came to Dunkerque, and are staying at the Chapeau Rouge, the only large hotel in the place. The other large hotel was made into a convent some time back; both are in the Rue des Capucins. It is a fine and very clean old fortified town, with a statue of Jean Bart in the middle of the Place. Place Jean Bart, it is called; and the market is held in it on Wednesdays and Saturdays, as it is at Helstonleigh. Such a crowded scene on the Saturday! and the women's snow-white caps quite shine in the sun. I cannot tell you how much I like to look at these old Flemish towns! By moonlight, they look exactly like the towns you are familiar with in old pictures. There is a large basin here, and a long harbour and pier. One English lady, whom we met at the table d'hote, said she had never been to the end of the pier yet, and she had lived in Dunkerque four years. It was too far for a walk, she said. The country round is flat and poor, and the lower classes mostly speak Flemish.

"On Monday we went by barge to a place called Bergues, four miles off. It was market day there, and the barge was crowded with passengers from Dunkerque. A nice old town, with a fine church. They charged us only five sous for our passage. But I must leave all these descriptions until I return home, and come to what I have chiefly to tell you.

"There is a piece of enclosed ground here, called the Pare. On the previous Saturday, which was the day we first arrived here, I and William were walking through it, and sat down on one of the benches facing the old tower. I was rather tired, having been to the end of the pier--for its length did not alarm us. Some one was seated at the other end of the bench, but we did not take particular notice of her. Suddenly she turned to me, and spoke: 'Have I not the honour of seeing Miss Ashley?' Mamma, you may imagine my surprise. It was that Italian governess of the Dares, Mademoiselle Varsini, as they used to call her. William interposed: I don't think he liked her speaking to me. I suppose he thought of that story about her, which came over from Germany. He rose and took me on his arm to move away. 'Formerly Miss Ashley,' he said to her: 'now Mrs. Halliburton.' But William's anger died away--if he had felt any--when he saw her face. I cannot describe to you how fearfully ill she looked. Her cheeks were white, and drawn, and hollow; her eyes were sunk within a dark circle, and her lips were open and looked black. 'Are you ill?' I asked her. 'I am so ill that a few days will be the finish of me,' she answered. 'The doctor gave me to the falling of the leaves, and many are already strewing the grass; in less than a week's time from this, I shall be lower than they are.' 'Is Herbert Dare with you?' inquired William--but he has said since that he spoke in the moment's impulse. Had he taken thought, he would not have put the question. 'No, he is not with me,' she answered, in an angry tone. 'I know nothing of him. He is just a vagabond on the face of the earth.' 'What is it that is the matter with you?' William asked her. 'They call it decay,' she answered. 'I was in Brussels, getting my living by daily teaching. I had to go out in all weathers, and I did not take heed to the colds I caught. I suppose they settled on my lungs.' 'Have you been in this town long?' we inquired of her. 'I came in August,' she answered. 'The Belgian doctor said if I had a change, it might do something for me, and I came here; it was the same to me where I went. But it did me harm instead of good. I grew worse directly I came; and the doctor here said I must not move away again; the travelling would injure me. What mattered it? As good die here as elsewhere.' That she had death written plainly in her face, was evident. Nevertheless, William tried to say a word of hope to her: but she interrupted him. 'There's no recovery for me; I am sure to die; and the time, it's to be hoped, will not be long in coming, or my money will not hold out.' She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone shocking to hear: and before I could call up any answer, she turned to William. 'You are the William Halli--I never could say the name--who was at Mr. Ashley's with Cyril Dare. May I ask where you have descended in Dunkerque?' 'At the Chapeau Rouge,' replied William. 'Then, if I should send there to ask you to come and speak with me, will you come?' she continued. 'I have something that I should like to tell you before I die.' William informed her that we should remain a week; and we wished her good morning and moved away into another walk. Soon afterwards, we saw a Sister of Charity, one of those who go about nursing the sick, come up to her and lead her away. She could scarcely crawl, and halted to take breath between every few steps.

"This, I have told you, was last Saturday. This evening, Wednesday, just as we were rising from table, a waiter came to William and called him out, saying he was wanted. It proved to be the Sister of Charity that we had seen in the park; she told William that Madame Varsini was near death, and had sent her for him. So William went with her, and I have been writing this to you since his departure. It is now ten o'clock, and he has not yet returned. I shall keep this open to tell you what she wanted with him. I cannot imagine.

"Past eleven. William has come in. He thinks she will not live over to-morrow. And I have kept my letter open for nothing, for William will not tell me. He says she has been talking to him about herself and the Dares; but that the tale is more fit for papa's ears than for yours or mine.

"My sincerest love to papa and Henry. We are so glad Gar is to be at Deoffam!--And believe me, your ever-loving child,

"MARY HALLIBURTON."

"Excuse the smear. I had nearly put 'Mary Ashley.'"

* * * * *

This meeting, described in Mary's letter, must have been one of those remarkable coincidences that sometimes occur during a lifetime. Chance encounters they are sometimes called. Chance! Had William and his wife not gone to Dunkerque--and they went there by accident, as may be said, for the original plan had been to spend their absence in Paris--they would not have met. Had the Italian lady not gone to Dunkerque when ordered change--and she chose it by accident, she said--they would not have met. But somehow both parties were brought there, and they did meet. It was not chance that led them there.

When William went out with the sister, she conducted him to a small lodging in the Rue Nationale, a street not far from the hotel. The accommodation appeared to consist of a small ante-room and a bed-chamber. Signora Varsini was in the latter, dressed in a peignoir, and sitting in an arm-chair, supported by cushions. A washed-out, faded peignoir, possibly the very one she had worn years ago, the night of the death of Anthony Dare. William was surprised; by the sister's account he had expected to find her in bed, almost in the last extremity. But hers was a restless spirit. She was evidently weaker, and her breath seemed to come irregularly. William sat down in a chair opposite to her: he could not see very much of her face, for the small lamp on the table had a green shade over it, which cast its gloom on the room.

The sister retired to the ante-room and closed the door between with a caution. "Madame was not to talk much." For a few moments after the first greeting, she, "Madame," kept silence; then she spoke in English.

"I should not have known you. I never saw much of you. But I knew Miss Ashley in a moment. You must have prospered well."

"Yes, I am Mr. Ashley's partner."

"So! That is what Cyril Dare coveted for himself. Miss Ashley also. 'Bah, Monsieur Cyril!' said I sometimes to my mind; 'neither the one nor the other for thee.' Where is he?"

"Cyril? He is at home. Doing no good."

"He never do good," she said with bitterness. "He Herbert's own brother. And the other one--George?"

"George is in Australia. He has a chance, I believe, of doing pretty well."

"Are the girls married?"

"No."

"Not Adelaide?"

"No."

Something like a smile curled her dark and fevered lips. "Mademoiselle Adelaide was trying after that vicomte. 'Bah!' I would say to myself as I did by Cyril, 'there's no vicomte for her; he is only playing his game.' Does he go there now?"

"Lord Hawkesley? Oh, no. All intimacy has ceased."

"They have gone down, have they not? They are very poor?"

"I fear they are poor now. Yes, they have very much gone down. May I inquire what it is you want with me?"

"You inquire soon," she answered in resentful tones. "Do you fear I should contaminate you?--as you feared for your wife on Saturday?"

"If I can aid you in any way I shall be happy and ready to do so," was William's answer, spoken soothingly. "I think you are very ill."

"The doctor was here this afternoon. 'Ma chere,' said he, 'to-morrow will about end it. You are too weak to last longer; the inside is gone.'"

"Did he speak to you in that way?--a medical man!"

"He is aware that I know as much about my own state as he does. He might not be so plain with all his patients. Then I said to the sister, 'Get me up and make the bed, for I must see a friend.'--And I sent her for you. I told you I wanted you to do me a little service. Will you do it?"

"If it is in my power."

"It is not much. It is this," she added, drawing from beneath the peignoir a small packet, sealed and stamped, looking like a thick letter. "Will you undertake to put this surely in the post after I am dead? I do not want it posted before."

"Certainly I will," he answered, taking it from her hand, and glancing at the superscription. It was addressed to Herbert Dare at Dusseldorf. "Is he there?" asked William.

"That was his address the last I heard of him. He is now here, now there, now elsewhere; a vagabond, as I told you, on the face of the earth. He is like Cain," she vehemently continued. "Cain wandered abroad over the earth, never finding rest. So does Herbert Dare. Who wonders? Cain killed his brother: what did he do?"

William lifted his eyes to her face; as much of it as might be distinguished under the dark shade cast by the lamp. That she appeared to be in a very demonstrative state of resentment against Herbert Dare was indisputable.

"He did not kill his brother, at any rate," observed William. "I fear he is not a good man; and you may have cause to know that more conclusively than I; but he did not kill his brother. You were in Helstonleigh at the time, mademoiselle, and must remember that he was cleared," added William, falling into the style of address used by the Dares.

"Then I say he did kill him."

She spoke with slow distinctness. William could only look at her in amazement. Was her mind wandering? She sat glaring at him with her light blue eyes, so glazed, yet glistening; just the same eyes that used to puzzle old Anthony Dare.

"What did you say?" asked William.

"I say that Herbert Dare is a second Cain," she answered.

"He did not kill Anthony," repeated William. "He could not have killed him. He was in another place at the time."

"Yes. With that Puritan child in the dainty dress--fit attire only for your folles in--what you call the place?--Bedlam! I know he was in another place," she continued: and she appeared to be growing terribly excited, between passion and natural emotion.

"Then what are you speaking of?" asked William. "It is an impossibility that Herbert could have killed his brother."

"He caused him to be killed."

William felt a nameless dread creeping over him. "What do you mean?" he breathed.

"I send that letter, which you have taken charge of, to Herbert the bad; but he moves about from place to place, and it may never reach him. So I want to tell you in substance what is written in the letter, that you may repeat it to him when you come across him. He may be going back to Helstonleigh some day; if he not die off first, with his vagabond life. Was it not said there, once, that he was dead?"

"Only for a day or two. It was a false report."

"And when you see him--in case he has not had that packet--you will tell him this that I am now about to tell you."

"What is its nature?" asked William.

"Will you promise to tell him?"

"Not until I first hear what it may be," fearlessly replied William. "Intrust it to me, if you will, and I will keep it sacred; but I must use my own judgment as to imparting it to Herbert Dare. It may be something that would be better left unsaid."

"I do not ask you to keep it sacred," she rejoined. "You may tell it to the world if you please; you may tell it to your wife; you may tell it to all Helstonleigh. But not until I am dead. Will you give that promise?"

"That I will readily give you."

"On your honour?"

William's truthful eyes smiled into hers. "On my honour--if that shall better satisfy you. It was not necessary."

She remained silent a few moments, and then burst forth vehemently. "When you see him, that cochon, that vaurien----"

"I beg you to be calm," interrupted William. "This excitement must be most injurious to one in your weak state; I cannot sit and listen to it."

"Tell him," said she, leaning forward, and speaking in a somewhat calmer tone, "tell him that it was he who caused the death of his brother Anthony."

William could only look at her. Was she wandering? "I killed him," she went on. "Killed him in mistake for Monsieur Herbert."

Barely had the words left her lips, when all that had been strange in that past tragedy seamed to roll away as a cloud from William's mind. The utter mystery there had been as to the perpetrator: the almost impossibility of pointing accusation to any, seemed now accounted for: and a conviction that she was speaking the dreadful truth fell upon him. Involuntarily he recoiled from her.

"He used me ill; yes, he used me ill, that wicked Herbert!" she continued in agitation. "He told me stories; he was false to me; he mocked at me! He had made me care for him; I cared for him--ah, I not tell you how. And then he turned round to laugh at me. He had but amused himself--pour faire passer la temps!"

Her voice had risen to a shriek; her face and lips grew ghastly, and she began to twitch as one falling into convulsion. William grew alarmed, and hastened to her support. He could not help it, much as his spirit revolted from her.

"Y a-t-il quelque chose qu'on peut donner a madame pour la soulager?" he called out hastily to the sister in his fear.

The woman glided in. "Mais oui, monsieur. Madame s'agite, n'est-ce pas?"

"Elle s'agite beaucoup."

The sister poured some drops from a phial into a wine-glass of water, and held it to those quivering lips. "Si vous vous agitez comme cela, madame, c'est pour vous tuer, savez-vous?" cried she.

"I fear so too," added William in English to the invalid. "It would be better for me not to hear this, than for you to put yourself into this state."

She grew calmer, and the sister quitted them. William resumed his seat as before; there appeared to be no help for it, and she continued her tale.

"I not agitate myself again," she said. "I not tell you all the details, or what I suffered: a quoi bon? Pain at morning, pain at midday, pain at night; I think my heart turned dark, and it has never been right again----"

"Hush, mademoiselle! The sister will hear you."

"What matter? She not speak English."

"I really cannot, for your sake, remain here, if you put yourself into this state," he rejoined.

"You must remain; you must listen! You have promised to do it," she answered.

"I will, if you will be calm."

"I'll be calm," she rejoined, the check having driven back the rising passion. "The worst is told. Or rather, I do not tell you the worst--that mauvais Herbert! Do you wonder that my spirit was turned to revenge?"

Perceiving somewhat of her fierce and fiery nature, William did not wonder at it. "I do not know what I am to understand yet?" he whispered. "Did you--kill--Anthony?"

She leaned back on her pillow, clasping her hands before her. "Ah me! I did! Tell him so," she continued again passionately; "tell him that I killed Anthony--thinking it was him."

"It is a dreadful story!" shuddered William.

"I did not mean it to be so dreadful," she answered, speaking quite equably. "No, I did not; and I am telling you as true as though it were my confession before receiving the bon dieu. I only meant to wound him----"

"Herbert?"

"Herbert! Of course; who else but Herbert?" she retorted, giving signs of another relapse. "Had I cause of anger against that pauvre Anthony? No; no. Anthony was sharp with the rest sometimes, but he was always civil to me; I never had a mis-word with him. I not like Cyril; but I not dislike George and Anthony. Why, why," she continued, wringing her hands, "did Anthony come forth from his chamber that night and go out, when he said he had retired to it for good? That is where all the evil arose."

"Not all," dissented William in low tones.

"Yes, all," she sharply repeated. "I had only meant to give Mr. Herbert a little prick in the dark, just to repay him, to stop his pleasant visits to that field for a term. I never thought to kill him. I liked him better than that, ill as he was behaving to me. I never thought to kill him; I never thought much to hurt him. And it would not have hurt Anthony; but that he was what you call tipsy, and fell on the point of the----"

"Scissors?" suggested William, for she had stopped. How could he, even with this confession before him, speak to a lady--or one who ought to have been a lady--of any uglier weapon?

"I had something by me sharper than scissors. But never you mind what. That, so far, does not matter. The little hurt I had intended for Herbert he escaped; and poor Anthony was killed."

There was a long pause. William broke it, speaking out his thoughts impulsively.

"And yet you went to Rotterdam afterwards to make friends with Herbert!"

"When he write and tell me there good teaching in the place, could I know it was untrue? Could I know that he would borrow all my money from me? Could I know that he turn out a worse----"

"Mademoiselle, I pray you, be calm."

"There, then. I will say no more. I have outlived it. But I wish him to know that that fine night's work was his. It was the right man who lay in prison for it. The letter I have given you may never reach him; and I ask you tell him, for his pill, should it not."

"Then you have never hinted this to him?" asked William.

"Never. I was afraid. Will you tell him?"

"I cannot make the promise. I must use my own discretion. I think it is very unlikely that I shall ever see him."

"You meet people that you do not look for. Until last Saturday, you might have said it was unlikely that you would meet me."

"That is true."

Now that the excitement of the disclosure was over, she lay back in a grievous state of exhaustion. William rose to leave, and she held out her hand to him. Could he shun it--guilty as she had confessed herself to him? No. Who was he, that he should set himself up to judge her? And she was dying!

"Can nothing be done to alleviate your sufferings?" he inquired in a kindly tone.

"Nothing. The sooner death comes to release me from them, the better."

He lingered yet, hesitating. Then he bent closer to her, and spoke in a whisper.

"Have you thought much of that other life? Of the necessity of repentance--of seeking earnestly the pardon of God?"

"That is your Protestant fashion," she answered with equanimity. "I have made my confession to a priest and he has given me absolution. A good fat old man; he was very kind to me; he saw how I had been tossed and turned about in life. He will bring the bon dieu to me the last thing, and cause a mass to be said for my soul."

"I thought I had heard that you were a Protestant."

"I was either. I said I was a Protestant to Madame Dare. But the Roman Catholic religion is the most convenient to take up when you are passing. Your priests say they cannot pardon sins."

The interview took longer in acting than it has in telling, and William returned to the hotel to find Mary tired, wondering at his absence, and a letter to Mrs. Ashley--with which you have been favoured--lying on the table, awaiting its conclusion.

"You are weary, my darling. You should not have remained up."

"I thought you were never coming, William. I thought you must have gone off by the London steamer, and left me here! The hotel omnibus took some passengers to it at ten o'clock."

William sat down on the sofa, and drew her to him; the full tide of thankfulness going up from his heart that all women were not as the one he had just left.

"And what did Mademoiselle Varsini want with you, William? Is she really dying?"

"I think she is dying. You must not ask me what she wanted, Mary. It was to tell me something--to speak of things connected with herself and the Dares. They would not be pleasant to your ears."

"But I have been writing an account of all this to mamma, and have left my letter open, to send word what the governess could have to say to you. What can I tell her?"

"Tell her as I tell you, my dearest: that what I have been listening to is more fit for Mr. Ashley's ears than for yours or hers."

Mary rose and wrote rapidly the concluding lines. William stood and watched her. He laughed at the "smear."

"I am not familiar with my new name yet: I was signing myself 'Mary Ashley.'"

"Would you go back to the old name, if you could?" cried he, somewhat saucily.

"Oh, William!"

Saturday came round again: the day they were to leave--just a week since they had come, since the encounter in the park. They were taking an early walk in the market, when certain low sounds, as of chanting, struck upon their ears. A funeral was coming along; it had just turned out of the great church of St. Eloi, at the other corner of the Place. Not a wealthy funeral--quite the other thing. On the previous day they had seen a grand interment, attended by its distinguishing marks; seven or eight banners, as many priests. Some sudden feeling prompted William to ask whose funeral this was, and he made inquiry of a shopkeeper, who was standing at her door.

"Monsieur, c'est l'enterrement d'une etrangere. Une Italienne, l'on dit: Madame Varsini."

"Oh, William! do they bury her already?" was Mary's shocked remonstrance. "It was only yesterday at midday the sister came to you to say she had died. What a shame!"

"Hush, love! Many of the people here understand English. They bury quickly in these countries."

They stood on the pavement, and the funeral came quickly on. One black banner borne aloft in a man's hand, two boys in surplices with lighted candles, and the priest chanting with his open book. Eight men, in white corded hats and black cloaks, bore the coffin on a bier, and there was a sprinkling of impromptu followers--as there always is at these foreign funerals. As the dead was borne past him on its way to the cemetery, William, following the usage of the country, lifted his hat, and remained uncovered until it had gone by.

And that was the last of Bianca Varsini.

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XXIV. THE DOWNFALL OF THE DARES

It was a winter's morning, and the family party round the breakfast table at William Halliburton's looked a cheery one, with its adjuncts of a good fire and good fare. Mr. and Mrs. Ashley and Henry were guests. And I can tell you that in Mr. Ashley they were entertaining no less a personage than the high sheriff of the county.

The gentlemen nominated for sheriffs, that year, for the county of Helstonleigh, whose names had gone up to the Queen, were as follows:--

Humphrey Coldicott, Esquire, of Coldicott Grange;

Sir Harry Marr, Bart., of The Lynch;

Thomas Ashley, Esquire, of Deoffam Hall. And her Majesty had been pleased to pick the latter name.

The gate of the garden swung open, and some one came hastily round the gravel-path to the house. Mary, who was seated at the head of the table, facing the window, caught a view of the visitor.

"It is Mrs. Dare!" she exclaimed.

"Mrs. Dare!" repeated Mr. Ashley, as a peal at the hall-bell was heard. "Nonsense, child!"

"Papa, indeed it is."

"I think you must be mistaken, Mary," said her husband. "Mrs. Dare would scarcely be out at this early hour."

"Oh, you disbelievers all!" laughed Mary. "As if I did not know Mrs. Dare! She looked scared and flurried."

Mrs. Dare, looking indeed scared and flurried, came into the breakfast-room. The servant had been showing her into another room, but she put him aside, and appeared amidst them.

What brought her there? What had she come to tell them? Alas! of their unhappy downfall. How the Dares had contrived to go on so long, without the crash coming, they alone knew. They had promised to pay here, they had promised to pay there; and people, tradespeople especially, did not much like to begin compulsory measures with old Anthony Dare, who had so long held sway in Helstonleigh. His professional business had almost left him--perhaps because there was no efficient head to carry it on. Cyril was just what mademoiselle had called Herbert, a vagabond; and Cyril was an irretrievable one. No good to the business was he--not half as much good as he was to the public-houses. Mr. Dare, with white hair, bent form, and dim eyes, would go creeping to his office most days; but his memory was leaving him, and it was evident to all that he was relapsing into his second childhood. Latterly they had lived entirely by privately disposing of their portable effects--as Honey Fair used to do when it fell out of work. They owed money everywhere; rent, taxes, servants' wages, large debts, small debts--it was universal. And now the landlord had put in his claim after the manner of landlords, and it had brought on the climax. They were literally without resource; they knew not where to turn; they had not a penny, or the worth of it, in the wide world. Mrs. Dare, in the alarm occasioned by the unwelcome visitor--for the landlord's man had made good his entrance that morning--came flying off to Mr. Ashley, some extravagant hope floating in her mind that help might be obtained from him.

"Here's trouble! Here's trouble!" she exclaimed by way of salutation, wringing her hands frantically.

They rose in consternation, believing she must have gone wild. William handed her a chair.

"There, don't come round me," she cried, as she flung herself into it. "Go on with your breakfast. I have concealed our troubles until I am heart-sick, and now they can be concealed no longer, and I have come for help to you. Don't press anything upon me, Mrs. William Halliburton; to attempt to eat would choke me!"

She sat there and entered on her grievances. How they had long been without money, had lived by credit, and by pledging things out of their house; how they owed more than she could tell; how a "horrible man" had come into their house that morning, as an emissary of the landlord.

"What are we to do?" she wailed. "Will you help us? Mr. Ashley, will you?--your wife is my husband's cousin, you know. Mr. Halliburton, will you help us? Don't you know that I have a right to claim kindred with you? Your father and I were first cousins, and lived for some time under the same roof."

William remembered the former years when she had not been so ready to own the relationship. He remembered the day when Mr. Dare had put a seizure into their house, and his mother had gone, craving grace of him. Mr. Ashley remembered it, and his eye met William's. How marvellously had the change been brought round! the right come to light!

"What is it that you wish me to do?" inquired Mr. Ashley. "I do not understand."

"Not understand!" she sharply echoed, in her grief. "I want the landlord paid out. You have ample means at command, Mr. Ashley, and might do this much for us."

A modest request, certainly! The rent due was for three years: considerably more than two hundred pounds. Mr. Ashley replied to it quietly.

"A moment's reflection might convince you, Mrs. Dare, that to pay this money would be fruitless waste. The instant this procedure gets wind--and in all probability it has already done so--other claims, as pressing, will be enforced."

"Tradespeople must wait," she answered, with irritation.

"Wait for what?" asked Mr. Ashley. "Do you expect to drop into a fortune?"

Wait for what, indeed? For complete ruin? There was nothing else to wait for. Mrs. Dare sat beating her foot against the carpet.

"Mr. Dare has grown useless," she said. "What he says one minute, he forgets the next; he is almost in a state of imbecility. I have no one to consult with, and therefore I come to you. Indeed, you must help me."

"But I do not see what I can do for you," rejoined Mr. Ashley. "As to paying your debts, it is--it is--in fact, it is not to be thought of. I have my own payments to make, my expenses to keep up. I could not do it, Mrs. Dare."

She paused again, playing nervously with her bonnet strings. "Will you go back with me, and see what you can make of Mr. Dare? Perhaps between you something may be arranged. I don't understand things."

"I cannot go back with you," replied Mr. Ashley. "I must attend the meeting which takes place this morning at the Guildhall."

"In your official capacity," remarked Mrs. Dare in not at all a pleasant tone of voice. "I forgot that you preside at it. How very grand you have become!"

"Very grand indeed, I think, considering the lowly estimation in which you held the glove manufacturer, Thomas Ashley," he answered, with a good-humoured laugh. "I will call upon your husband in the course of the day, Mrs. Dare."

She turned to William. "Will you return with me? I have a claim on you," she reiterated eagerly.

He shook his head. "I accompany Mr. Ashley to the meeting."

She was obliged to be satisfied, turned abruptly, and left the room, William attending her to the door.

"What d'you call that?" asked Henry, lifting his voice for the first time.

"Call it?" repeated his sister.

"Yes, Mrs. Mary; call it. Cheek, I should say."

"Hush, Henry," said Mr. Ashley.

"Very well, sir. It's cheek all the same, though."

As Mr. Ashley surmised, the misfortune had already got wind, and the unhappy Dares were besieged that day by clamorous creditors. When Mr. Ashley and William arrived there, for they walked up at the conclusion of the public meeting, they found Mr. Dare seated alone in the dining-room; that sad dining-room which had witnessed the tragical end of Anthony. He cowered over the fire, his thin hands stretched out to the blaze. He was not altogether childish; but his memory failed, and he was apt to fall into fits of wandering. Mr. Ashley drew forward a chair and sat down by him.

"I fear things do not look very bright," he observed. "We called in at your office as we came by, and found a seizure was also put in there."

"There's nothing much for 'em to take but the desks," returned old Anthony.

"Mrs. Dare wished me to come and talk matters over with you, to see whether anything could be done. She does not understand them, she said."

"What can be done, when things come to such a pass as this?" returned Anthony Dare, lifting his head sharply. "That's just like women--'seeing what's to be done!' I am beset on all sides. If the bank sent me a present of three or four thousand pounds, we might go on again. But it won't, you know. The things must go, and we must go. I suppose they'll not put me in prison; they'd get nothing by doing it."

He leaned forward and rested his chin on his stick, which was stretched out before him as usual. Presently he resumed, his eyes and words alike wandering:

"He said the money would not bring us good if we kept it. And it has not: it has brought a curse. I have told Julia so twenty times since Anthony went. Only the half of it was ours, you know, and we took the whole."

"What money?" asked Mr. Ashley, wondering what he was saying.

"Old Cooper's. We were at Birmingham when he died, I and Julia. The will left it all to her, but he charged us----"

Mr. Dare suddenly stopped. His eye had fallen on William. In these fits of wandering he partially lost his memory, and mixed things and people together in the most inextricable confusion.

"Are you Edgar Halliburton?" he went on.

"I am his son. Do you not remember me, Mr. Dare?"

"Ay, ay. Your son-in-law," nodding to Mr. Ashley. "But Cyril was to have had that place, you know. He was to have been your partner."

Mr. Ashley made no reply. It might not have been understood. And Mr. Dare resumed, confounding William with his father.

"It was hers in the will, you know, Edgar, and that's some excuse, for we had to prove it. There was not time to alter the will, but he said it was an unjust one, and charged us to divide the money; half for us, half for you; to divide it to the last halfpenny. And we took it all. We did not mean to take it, or to cheat you, but somehow the money went; our expenses were great, and we had heavy debts, and when you came afterwards to Helstonleigh and died, your share was already broken into, and it was too late. Ill-gotten money brings nothing but a curse, and that money brought it to us. Will you shake hands and forgive?"

"Heartily," replied William, taking his wasted hand.

"But you had to struggle, and the money would have kept struggle from you. It was many thousands."

"Who knows whether it would or not?" cheerily answered William. "Had we possessed money to fall back upon, we might not have struggled with a will; we might not have put out all the exertion that was in us, and then we should never have got on as we have done."

"Ay; got on. You are looked up to now; you have become gentlemen. And what are my boys? The money was yours."

"Dismiss it entirely from your memory, Mr. Dare," was William's answer, given in true compassion. "I believe that our not having had it may have been good for us in the long-run, rather than a drawback. The utter want of money may have been the secret of our success."

"Ay," nodded old Dare. "My boys should have been taught to work, and they were only taught to spend. We must have our luxuries indoors, forsooth, and our show without; our servants, and our carriages, and our confounded pride. What has it ended in?"

What had it! They made no answer. Mr. Dare remained still for a while, and then lifted his haggard face, and spoke in a whisper, a shrinking dread in his face and tone.

"They have been nothing but my curses. It was through Herbert that she, that wicked foreign woman, murdered Anthony."

Did he know of that? How had the knowledge come to him! William had not betrayed it, except to Mr. Ashley and Henry. And they had buried the dreadful secret down deep in the archives of their breasts. Mr. Dare's next words disclosed the puzzle.

"She died, that woman. And she wrote to Herbert on her death-bed and made a confession. He sent a part of it on here, lest, I suppose, we might doubt him still. But his conduct led to it. It is dreadful to have such sons as mine!"

His stick fell to the ground. Mr. Ashley held him, while William picked it up. He was gasping for breath.

"You are not well," cried Mr. Ashley.

"No; I think I am going. One can't stand these repeated shocks. Did I see Edgar Halliburton here? I thought he was dead. Is he come for his money?" he continued in a shivering whisper. "We acted according to the will, sir: according to the will, tell him. He can see it in Doctors' Commons. He can't proceed against us; he has no proof. Let him go and look at the will."

"We had better leave him, William," murmured Mr. Ashley. "Our presence only excites him."

In the opposite room sat Mrs. Dare. Adelaide passed out of it as they entered. Never before had they remarked how sadly worn and faded she looked. Her later life had been spent in pining after the chance of greatness she had lost, in missing Viscount Hawkesley. Irrevocably lost to her; for the daughter of a neighbouring earl now called him husband. They sat down by Mrs. Dare, but could only condole with her: nothing but the most irretrievable ruin was around.

"We shall be turned from here," she wailed. "How are we to find a home--to earn a living?"

"Your daughters must do something to assist you," replied Mr. Ashley. "Teaching, or----"

"Teaching! in this overdone place!" she interrupted.

"It has been somewhat overdone in that way, certainly of late years," he answered. "If they cannot get teaching, they may find some other employment. Work of some sort."

"Work!" shrieked Mrs. Dare. "My daughters work!"

"Indeed, I don't know what else is to be done," he answered. "Their education has been good, and I should think they may obtain daily teaching: perhaps sufficient to enable you to live quietly. I will pay for a lodging for you, and give you a trifle towards housekeeping, until you can turn yourselves round."

"I wish we were all dead!" was the response of Mrs. Dare.

Mr. Ashley went a little nearer to her. "What is this story that your husband has been telling about the misappropriation of the money that Mr. Cooper desired should be handed to Edgar Halliburton?"

She threw her hands before her face with a low cry. "Has he been betraying that? What will become of us?--what shall we do with him? If ever a family was beaten down by fate, it is ours."

Not gratuitously by fate, thought Mr. Ashley. Its own misdoings have brought the evil upon it. "Where is Cyril?" he asked aloud. "He ought to bestir himself to help you, now."

"Cyril!" echoed Mrs. Dare, a bitter scowl rising to her face. "He help us! You know what Cyril is."

As they went out, they met Cyril. What a contrast the two cousins presented, side by side!--he and William might be called such. The one--fine, noble, intellectual; his countenance setting forth its own truth, candour, honour; making the best in his walk of life, of the talents entrusted to him by God. The other--slouching, untidy, all but ragged; his offensive doings too plainly shown in his bloated face, his inflamed eyes: letting his talents and his days run to worse than waste; a burden to himself and to those around him. And yet, in their boyhood days, how great had been Cyril's advantages over William Halliburton's!

They walked away arm-in-arm, William and Mr. Ashley. A short visit to the manufactory in passing, and then they continued their way home, taking it purposely through Honey Fair.

Honey Fair! Could that be Honey Fair? Honey Fair used to be an unsightly, inodorous place, where mud, garbage, and children ran riot together: a species, in short, of capacious pigsty. But look at it now. The paths are well kept, the road is clean and cared for. Her Majesty's state coach-and-eight might drive down it, and the horses would not have to tread gingerly. The houses are the same; small and large bear evidence of care, of thrift, of a respectable class of inmates. The windows are no longer stuffed with rags, or the palings broken. And that little essay--the assembling at Robert East's, and William Halliburton--had led to the change.

Men and women had been awakened to self-respect; to the duty of striving to live well and to do well; to the solemn thought that there is another world after this, where their works, good or bad, would follow them. They had learned to reflect that it might be possible that one phase of a lost soul's punishment after death, will lie in remembering the duties it ought to have performed in life. They knew, without any effort of reflection, that it is a remembrance which makes the sting of many a death-bed. Formerly, Honey Fair had believed (those who had thought about it) that their duties in this world and any duties which lay in preparing for the next, were as wide apart as the two poles. Of that they had now learned the fallacy. Honey Fair had grown serene. Children were taken out of the streets to be sent to school; the Messrs. Bankes had been discarded, for the women had grown wiser; and, for all the custom the "Horned Ram" obtained from Honey Fair, it might have shut itself up. In short, Honey Fair had been awakened, speaking from a moderate point of view, to enlightenment; to the social improvements of an advancing and a thinking age.

This was a grand day with Honey Fair, as Mr. Ashley and William knew, when they turned to walk through it. Mr. Ashley had purchased that building you have heard of, for a comparative trifle, and made Honey Fair a present of it. It was very useful. It did for their schools, their night meetings, their provident clubs; and to-night a treat was to be held in it. The men expected that Mr. Ashley would look in, and Henry Ashley had sent round his chemical apparatus to give them some experiments, and had bought a great magic-lantern. The place was now called the "Ashley Institute." Some thought--Mr. Ashley for one--that the "Halliburton Institute" would have been more consonant with fact; but William had resolutely withstood it. The piece of waste land behind it had been converted into a sort of playground and garden. The children were not watched in it incessantly, and screamed at:--"You'll destroy those flowers!" "You'll break that window!" "You are tearing up the shrubs!" No: they were made to understand that they were trusted not to do these things; and they took the trust to themselves, and were proud of it. You may train a child to this, if you will.

As they passed the house of Charlotte East, she was turning in at her garden gate; and, standing at the window, dandling a baby, was Caroline Mason. Caroline was servant to Charlotte now, and that was Charlotte's baby; for Charlotte was no longer Charlotte East, but Mrs. Thorneycroft. She curtsied as they came up.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I have been round to the rooms to show them how to arrange the evergreens. I hope they will have a pleasant evening!"

"They!" echoed Mr. Ashley. "Are you not coming yourself?"

"I think not, sir. Adam and Robert will be there, of course; but I can't well leave baby!"

"Nonsense, Charlotte!" exclaimed William. "What harm will happen to the baby? Are you afraid of its running away?"

"Ah, sir, you don't understand babies yet."

"That has to come," laughed Mr. Ashley.

"I understand enough about babies to pronounce that one a most exacting infant, if you can't leave it for an hour or two," persisted William. "You must come, Charlotte. My wife intends to be there."

"Well, sir,--I know I should like it. Perhaps I can manage to run round for an hour, leaving Caroline to listen."

"How does Caroline go on?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"Sir, never a better young woman went into a house. That was a dreadful lesson to her, and it has taught her what nothing else could. I believe that Honey Fair will respect her in time."

"My opinion is, that Honey Fair would not be going far out of its way to respect her now," remarked William. "Once a false step is taken, it is very much the fashion to go tripping over others. Caroline, on the contrary, has been using all her poor endeavours ever since to retrieve that first mistake."

"I could not wish for a better servant," said Charlotte. "Of course, I could not keep a servant for housework alone, and Caroline nearly earns her food helping me at the gloves. I am pleased, and she is grateful. Yes, sir, it is as you say--Honey Fair ought to respect her. It will come in time."

"As most good things come, that are striven for in the right way," remarked Mr. Ashley.

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XXV. ASSIZE TIME

Once more, in this, the almost concluding chapter of the history, are we obliged to take notice of Assize Saturday. Once more had the high sheriff's procession gone out to receive the judges; and never had the cathedral bells rung out more clearly, or the streets and windows been so thronged.

A blast, shrill and loud, from the advancing heralds, was borne on the air of the bright March afternoon, as the cavalcade advanced up East Street. The javelin-men rode next, two abreast, in the plain dark Ashley livery, the points of their javelins glittering in the sunshine, scarcely able to advance for the crowd. A feverish crowd. Little cared they to-day for the proud trumpets, the javelin-bearers, the various attractions that made their delight on other of those days; they cared only for that stately equipage in the rear. Not for its four prancing horses, its silver ornaments, its portly coachman on the hammer-cloth; not even for the very judges themselves; but for the master of that carriage, the high sheriff, Thomas Ashley.

He sat in it, its only plainly attired inmate. The scarlet robes, the flowing wigs of the judges, were opposite to him; beside him were the rich black silk robes of his chaplain, the vicar of Deoffam. A crowd of gentlemen on horseback followed--a crowd Helstonleigh had rarely seen. William was one of them. The popularity of a high sheriff may be judged by the number of his attendants, when he goes out to meet the judges. Half Helstonleigh had placed itself on horseback that day, to do honour to Thomas Ashley.

Occupying a conspicuous position in the street were the Ashley workmen. Clean and shaved, they had surreptitiously conveyed their best coats to the manufactory; and, with the first peal of the college bells, had rushed out, dressed--every soul--leaving the manufactory alone in its glory, and Samuel Lynn to take care of it. The shout they raised, as the sheriff's carriage drew near, deafened the street. It was out of all manner of etiquette or precedence to cheer the sheriff when in attendance on the judges; but who could be angry with them? Not Mr. Ashley. Their lordships looked out astonished. One of the judges you have met before--Sir William Leader; the other was Mr. Justice Keene.

The judges gazed from the carriage, wondering what the shouts could mean. They saw a respectable-looking body of men--not respectable in dress only, but in face--gathered there, bareheaded, and cheering the carriage with all their might and main.

"What can that be for?" cried Mr. Justice Keene.

"I believe it must be meant for me," observed Mr. Ashley, taken by surprise as much as the judges were. "Foolish fellows! Your lordships must understand that they are the workmen belonging to my manufactory."

But his eyes were dim, as he leaned forward and acknowledged the greeting. Such a shout followed upon it! The judges, used to shouting as they were, had rarely heard the like, so deep and heartfelt was it.

"There's genuine good-feeling in that cheer," said Sir William Leader. "I like to hear it. It is more than lip deep."

The dinner party for the judges that night was given at the deanery. Not a more honoured guest had it than the high sheriff. His chaplain was with him, and William and Frank were also guests. What did the Dares think of the Halliburtons now?

The Dares, just then, were too much occupied with their own concerns to think of them at all. They were planning how to get out to Australia. Their daughter Julia, more dutiful than some daughters might prove themselves, had offered an asylum to her father and mother, if they would go out to Sydney. Her sisters, she wrote word, would find good situations there as governesses--probably in time find husbands.

They were wild to go. They wanted to get away from mortifying Helstonleigh, and to try their fortunes in a new world. The passage money was the difficulty. Julia had not sent it, possibly not supposing they were so very badly off; she did not know yet of the last touch to their misfortunes. How could they scrape together even enough for a steerage passage? Mr. Ashley's private opinion was that he should have to furnish it. Ah! he was a good man. Never a better, never a more considerate to others than Thomas Ashley.

Sunday morning rose to the ringing again of the cathedral bells--bells that do not condescend to ring except on rare occasions--telling that it was some day of note in Helstonleigh. It was a fine day, sunny, and very warm for March, and the glittering east window reflected its colours upon a crowd such as the cathedral had rarely seen assembled within its walls for divine service, even on those thronging days, Assize Sundays.

The procession extended nearly the whole way from the grand entrance gates to the choir, passing through the body and the nave. The high sheriff's men, standing so still, their formidable javelins in rest, had enough to do to retain their places, from the pressure of the crowd, as they kept the line of way. The bishop in his robes, the clergy in their white garments and scarlet or black hoods, the long line of college boys in their surplices, the lay-clerks, yet in white. Not (as you were told of yesterday) on them; not on the mayor and corporation, with their chains and gowns; not on the grey-wigged judges, their fiery trains held up behind, glaring cynosure of eyes on other days, was the attention of that crowd fixed; but on him who walked, calm, dignified, quiet, in immediate attendance on the judges--their revered fellow-citizen, Thomas Ashley. In attendance on him was his chaplain, his black gown, so contrasting with the glare and glitter, marking him out conspicuously.

The organ had burst forth as they entered the great gates, simultaneously with the ceasing of the bells which had been sending their melody over the city. With some difficulty, places were found for those of note; but many a score stood that day. The bishop had gone on to his throne; and opposite to him, in the archdeacon's stall, the appointed place for the preacher on Assize Sundays, sat the sheriff's chaplain. Sir William Leader was shown to the dean's stall; Mr. Justice Keene to the sub-dean's; the dean sitting next the one, the high sheriff next the other. William Halliburton was in a canon's stall; Frank--handsome Frank!--found a place amidst many other barristers. And in the ladies' pew, underneath the dean, seated with the dean's wife, were Mrs. Ashley, her daughter, and Mrs. Halliburton.

The Reverend Mr. Keating chanted the service, putting his best voice into it. They gave that fine anthem, "Behold, God is my salvation." Very good were the services and the singing that day. The dean, the prebendary in residence, and Mr. Keating went to the communion-table for the commandments, and thus the service drew to an end. As they were conducted back to their stall, a verger with his silver mace cleared a space for the sheriff's chaplain to ascend the pulpit stairs, the preacher of the day.

How the college boys gazed at him! Only a short time before (comparatively speaking) he had been one of them, a college boy himself; some of the seniors (juniors then) had been school-fellows with him. Now he was the Reverend Edgar Halliburton, chief personage for the moment in that cathedral. To the boys' eyes he seemed to look dark; except on Assize Sundays, they were accustomed to see only white robes in that pulpit.

"Too young to give us a good sermon," thought half the congregation, as they scanned him. Nevertheless, they liked his countenance; its grave earnest look. He gave out his text, a verse from Ecclesiastes:

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest."

Then he leaned a little forward on the cushion; and, after a pause, began his sermon, which lay before him, and worked out the text.

It was an admirable discourse, clear and practical; but you will not care to have it recapitulated for you, as it was recapitulated in the local newspapers. Remembering what the bringing up of the Halliburtons had been, it was impossible that Gar's sermons should not be practical; and the congregation began to think they had been mistaken in their estimate of what a young man could do. He told the judges where their duty lay, as fearlessly as he told it to the college boys, as he told it to all. He told them that the golden secret of success and happiness in this life, lay in the faithful and earnest performance of the duties that crowded on their path, striving on unweariedly, whatsoever those duties might be, whether pleasant or painful; joined to implicit reliance on, and trust in God. A plainer sermon was never preached. In manner he was remarkably calm and impressive, and the tone of his voice was quiet and persuasive, just as if he were speaking to them. He was listened to with breathless interest throughout; even those gentry, the college boys, were for once beguiled into attending to a sermon. Jane's tears fell incessantly, and she had to let down her white veil to hide them; as on that day, years ago, when she had let down her black crape veil to conceal them, in the office of Anthony Dare. Different tears this time.

The sermon lasted just half an hour, and it had seemed only a quarter of one. The bishop then rose and gave the blessing, and the crowds began to file out. As the preacher was being marshalled by a verger through the choir to take his place in the procession next the high sheriff, Mr. Keating met him and grasped his hand.

"You are all right, Gar," he whispered, "and I am proud of having educated you. That sermon will tell home to some of the drones."

"I knew he'd astonish 'em!" ejaculated Dobbs, who had walked all the way from Deoffam to see the sight, to hear her master preach to the cathedral, and had fought out a standing-place for herself right in front of the pulpit. "His sermons aren't filled up with bottomless pits as are never full enough, like those of some preachers be."

That sermon and the Rev. Edgar Halliburton were talked of much in Helstonleigh that day.

But ere the close of another day the town was ringing with the name of Frank. He had led; he, Frank Halliburton! A cause of some importance was tried in the Nisi Prius Court, in which the defendant was Mr. Glenn the surgeon. Mr. Glenn, who had liked Frank from the hour he first conversed with him that evening at his house, now so long ago--a conversation at which you had the pleasure of assisting--who had also the highest opinion of Frank's abilities in his profession, had made it a point that his case should be intrusted to Frank. Mr. Glenn was not deceived. Frank led admirably, and his eloquence quite took the spectators by storm. What was of more importance, it told upon Mr. Justice Keene and the jury, and Frank sat down in triumph and won his verdict.

"I told you I should do it, mother," said he, quietly, when he reached Deoffam that night, after being nearly smothered with congratulations. "You will live to see me on the woolsack yet."

Jane laughed. She often had laughed at the same boast. She was alone that evening; Gar was attending the high sheriff at an official dinner at Helstonleigh. "Will no lesser prize content you, Frank?" asked she, jestingly. "Say, for example, the Solicitor-Generalship?"

"Only as a stepping-stone."

"And you still get on well? Seriously speaking now. Frank."

"First-rate," answered Frank. "This day's work will be the best lift for me, though, unless I am mistaken. I had two fresh briefs put into my hands as I sat down," he added, going off in a laugh. "See if I make this year less than a thousand!"

"And the next thing, I suppose, you will be thinking of getting married?"

The bold barrister actually blushed. "What nonsense, mother! Marry, and lose my fellowship!"

"Frank, it is so! I see it in your face. You must tell me who it is."

"Well, as yet it is no one. I must wait until my eloquence, as they called it to-day in court, is a more assured fact with the public, and then I may speak out to the judge. She means waiting for me, though, so it is all right."

"Tell me, Frank," repeated Jane; "who is 'she'?"

"Maria Leader."

Jane looked at him doubtingly. "Not Sir William's daughter?"

"His second daughter."

"Is not that rather too aspiring for Frank Halliburton?"

"Maria does not think so. I have been aspiring all my life, mother; and so long as I work on for it honourably and uprightly, I see no harm in being so."

"No, Frank; good instead of harm. How did you become acquainted with her?"

"Her brother and I are chums: have been ever since we were at Oxford. Bob is at the Chancery bar, but he has not much nous for it--not half the clever man that his father was. His chambers are next to mine, and I often go home with him. The girls make a great deal of us, too. That is how I first knew Maria."

"Then I suppose you see something of the judge?"

"Oh dear," laughed Frank, "the judge and I are upon intimate terms in private life; quite cronies. You would not think it, though, if you saw me bowing before my lord when he sits in his big wig. Sometimes I fancy he suspects."

"Suspects what?"

"That I and Maria would like to join cause together. But I don't mind if he does. I am a favourite of his. The very Sunday before we came on circuit he asked me to dine there. We went to church in the evening, and I had Maria under my wing; Sir William and Lady Leader trudging on before us."

"Well, Frank, I wish you success. I don't think you would choose any but a nice girl, a good girl----"

"Stop a moment, mother; you will meet the judge to-morrow night, and you may then draw a picture of Maria. She is as like him as two peas."

"How old is she, Frank?"

"Two-and-twenty. I shall have her. He was not always the great Judge Leader, you know, mother; and he knows it. And he knows that every one must have a beginning, as he and my lady had it. For years after they were married he did not make five hundred a year, and they had to live upon it. He does not fear to revert to it, either; often talks of it to me and Bob--a sort of hint, I suppose, that folk do get on in time, by dint of patience. You will like Sir William Leader."

Yes: Jane would meet Sir William on the following night, for that would be the evening of the entertainment given by the high sheriff to the judges at Deoffam Hall.

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XXVI. THE HIGH SHERIFF'S DINNER PARTY

William Halliburton drove his wife over in the pony carriage in the afternoon; they would dress and sleep at Deoffam. They went early, and in driving past Deoffam Vicarage, who should be at the gate looking out for them, but Anna! Not Anna Lynn now, but Anna Gurney.

"William, William, there's Anna!" Mary exclaimed. "I will get out here."

He assisted her down, and they remained talking with Anna. Then William asked what he was to do. Wait with the carriage for Mary, or drive on to the hall, and walk back for her?

"Drive to the hall," said Mary, who wished to stay a little while with Anna. "But, William," she added, as he got in, "don't let my box go round to the stables."

"With all its finery!" laughed William.

"It contains my dinner dress," Mary explained to Anna. "Have you been here long?"

"This hour, I think," replied Anna. "My husband had business a mile or two further on, and drove me here. What a nice garden this is! See, I have been picking Gar's flowers."

"Where is Mrs. Halliburton?" asked Mary.

"Dobbs called her in to settle some dispute in the kitchen. I know Dobbs is a great tyrant over that new housemaid."

"But now tell me about yourself, Anna," said Mary, leading her to a bench. "I have scarcely seen you since you were married. How do you like being your own mistress?"

"Oh, it's charming!" replied Anna, with all her old childish, natural manner. "Mary, what dost thee think? Charles lets me sit without my caps."

Mary laughed. "To the great scandal of Patience!"

"Indeed, yes. One day, Patience called when we were at dinner. I had not so much as a bit of net on, and Patience looked so cross; but she said nothing, for the servants were in waiting. When they had left the room she told Charles that she was surprised at his allowing it; that I was giddy enough and vain enough, and it would only make me worse. Charles smiled; he was eating walnuts: and what dost thee think he answered? He--but I don't like to tell thee," broke off Anna, covering her face with her pretty hands.

"Yes, yes, Anna, you must tell me."

"He told Patience that he liked to see me without the caps, and there was no need for my wearing them until I should have children old enough to set an example to."

Anna took off her straw bonnet as she spoke, and her curls fell to shade her blushing cheeks. Mary wondered whether the "children" would have faces as lovely as their mother's. She had never seen Anna look so well. For one thing, she had rarely seen her so well dressed. She wore a stone-coloured corded silk, glistening with richness, and an exquisite white shawl that must have cost no end of money.

"I should always let my curls be seen, Anna," said Mary; "there can be no harm in it."

"No, that there can't, as Charles does not think so," emphatically answered Anna. "Mary," dropping her voice to a whisper, "I want Charles not to wear those straight coats any more. He shakes his head at me and laughs; but I think he will listen to me."

Seeing what she did of the change in Anna's dress, Mary thought so too. Not but that Anna's things were still cut sufficiently in the old form to bespeak her sect: as they, no doubt, always would be.

"When art thee coming to spend the day with me, as thee promised?" asked Anna.

"Very soon: when this assize bustle shall be over."

"How gay you will be to-night!"

"How formal you mean," said Mary. "To entertain judges when on circuit, and bishops, and deans, is more formidable than pleasant. It is a state dinner to-night. When I saw papa this morning, I inquired if we were to have the javelin-men on guard in the dining-room."

Anna laughed. "Do Frank and Gar dine there?"

"Of course. The high sheriff could not give a dinner party without his chaplain at hand to say grace," returned Mary, laughing.

William came back: and they all remained for almost the rest of the afternoon, Jane regaling them with tea. It was scarcely over when Mr. Gurney drove up in his carriage: a large, open carriage, the groom's seat behind, the horses very fine ones. He came in for a few minutes; a very pleasant man of nearly forty years; a handsome man also. Then he took possession of Anna, carefully assisted her up, took the seat beside her, and the reins, and drove off.

William started for the Hall with Mary, walking at a brisk pace. It was not ten minutes' distance, but the evening was getting on. Henry Ashley met them as they entered, and began upon them in his crossest tones.

"Now what have you two got to say for yourselves? Here, I expect you, Mr. William, to pass the afternoon with me: the mother expects Mary: and nothing arrives but a milliner's box! And you make your appearance when it's pretty nearly time to go up to embellish!"

"We stayed at the Vicarage, Henry; and I don't think mamma could want me. Anna Gurney was there."

"Rubbish! Who's Anna Gurney that she should upset things? I wanted William, and that's enough. Do you think you are to monopolize him, Mrs. Mary, just because you happen to have married him?"

Mary went behind her brother, and playfully put her arms round his neck. "I will lend him to you now and then, if you are good," she whispered.

"You idle, inattentive girl! The mother wanted you to cut some hot-house flowers for the dinner-table."

"Did she? I will do it now."

"Listen to her! Do it now! when it has been done this hour past. William, I don't intend to show up to-night."

"Why not?" asked William.

"It is a nuisance to change one's things: and my side's not over clever to-day: and the ungrateful delinquency of you two has put me out-of-sorts altogether," answered Henry, making up his catalogue. "Condemning one to vain expectation, and to fretting and fuming over it! I shan't show up. William must represent me."

"Yes, you will show up," replied William. "For you know that your not doing so would vex Mr. Ashley."

"A nice lot you are to talk about vexing! You don't care how you vex me."

William gently took him by the arm. "Come along to your room now, and I will help you with your things. Once ready, you can do as you like about appearing."

"You treat me just as a child," grumbled Henry. "I say, do the judges come in their wigs?"

Mary broke into a laugh.

"Because that case of stuffed owls had better be ordered out of the hall. The animals may be looked upon as personal."

"I hope there's a good fire in your room, Henry."

"There had better be, unless the genius that presides over the fires in this household would like to feel the weight of my displeasure."

Mary went to find her mother; she was in her chamber, dressing.

"My dear child, how late you are!"

"There's plenty of time, mamma. We stayed at the parsonage. Anna Gurney was there. Henry says he is not very well."

"He says that always when William disappoints him. He will be all right now you have come. Go to your room, my dear, and I will send Sarah to you."

Mary was ready, and the maid gone, before William left Henry to come and dress on his own account. Mary wore white silk, with emerald ornaments.

"Shall I do, William?" asked she, when William came in.

"Do!" he answered, running his eyes over her. "No!"

"Why, what's the matter with me?" she cried, turning hurriedly to the great glass.

"This." He took her in his arms, and kissed her passionately. "My darling wife! You will never 'do' without that."

It was not a formidable party at all, in defiance of Mary's anticipations. The judges, divested of their flowing wigs and flaming robes, looked just like other men. Jane liked Sir William Leader, as Frank had told her she would; and Mr. Justice Keene was an easy, talkative man, fond of a good joke and a good dinner. Mr. Justice Keene seemed excessively to admire Mary Halliburton; and--there could be no doubt about it, and I hope the legal bench won't look grave at the reflection--seemed very much inclined to get up a flirtation with her over the coffee. Being a judge, I think the bishop ought to have read him a reprimand.

Standing at one end of the room, coffee-cups in hand, were Sir William Leader, the Dean of Helstonleigh, Mr. Ashley, and his son. They were talking of the Halliburtons. Sir William knew a good deal of their history from Frank.

"It is most wonderful!" Sir William was remarking. "Self-educated, self-supporting, and to be what they are!"

"Not altogether self-educated," dissented the dean; "for the two younger, the barrister and clergyman, were in the school attached to my cathedral; but self-educated in a great degree. The eldest, my friend's son-in-law, never had a lesson in the classics after his father's death, and there's not a more finished scholar in the county."

"The father died and left them badly provided for," remarked Sir William.

"He did not leave them provided for at all, Sir William," corrected Mr. Ashley. "He left nothing, literally nothing, but the furniture of the small house they rented; and he left some trifling debts. Poor Mrs. Halliburton turned to work with a will, and not only contrived to support them, but brought them up to be what you see them--high-minded, honourable, educated men."

The judge turned his eyes on Jane. She was sitting on a distant sofa, talking with the bishop. So quiet, so lady-like, nay--so attractive--she looked still, in the rich pearl-grey dress warn at William's wedding; not in the least like one who had had to toil hard for bread.

"I have heard of her--heard of her worth from Frank," he said, with emphasis. "She must be one in a thousand."

"One in a million, Sir William," burst forth Henry Ashley. "When they were boys, you could not have bribed them to do a wrong thing: neither temptation nor anything else turned them from the right. And they would not be turned from the right now, if I know anything of them."

The judge walked up to Jane, and took the seat beside her just vacated by the bishop.

"Mrs. Halliburton," said he, "you must be proud of your sons."

Jane smiled. "I have latterly been obliged to take myself to task for being so, Sir William," she answered.

"To task! I wish I had three such sons to take myself to task for being proud of," was his answer. "Not that mine are to be found fault with; but they are not like these."

"Do you think Frank will get on?" she asked him.

"It is no longer a question of getting on. He has begun to rise in an unusually rapid manner. I should not be surprised if, in after-years, he may find the very highest honours opening to him."

Again Jane smiled. "He has been in the habit of telling us that he looks forward to ruling England as Lord Chancellor."

The judge laughed. "I never knew a newly-fledged barrister who did not indulge that vision," said he. "I know I did. But there are really not many Frank Halliburtons. So, sir," he continued, for Frank at that moment passed, and the judge pinned him, "I hear you cherish dreams of the woolsack."

"To look at it from a distance is not high treason, Sir William," was Frank's ready answer.

"Why, what do you suppose you would do on the woolsack, if you got there?" cried Sir William.

"My duty, I hope, Sir William. I would try hard for it."

Sir William loosed him with an amused expression, and Frank passed on. Jane began to think Frank's dream--not of the woolsack, but of Maria Leader--not so very improbable a one.

"I have heard of your early struggles," said the judge to her in low tones. "Frank has talked to me. How you could have borne up, and done long-continued battle with them, I cannot imagine!"

"I never could have done it but for one thing," she answered: "my trust in God. Times upon times, Sir William, when the storm was beating about my head, I had no help or comfort in the wide world: I had nothing to turn to but that. I never lost my trust in God."

"And therefore God stood by you," remarked the judge.

"And therefore God stood by me, and helped me on. I wish," she added earnestly, "the whole world could learn the same great lesson that I have learnt. I have--I humbly hope I have--been enabled to teach it to my boys. I have tried to do it from their very earliest years."

"Frank shall have Maria," thought the judge to himself. "They are an admirable family. The young chaplain should have another of the girls if he liked her."

What was William thinking of, as he stood a little apart, with his serene brow and his thoughtful smile? His mind was in the past. That long past night, following the day of his entrance to Mr. Ashley's manufactory, was present to him, when he had lain down in despair, and sobbed out his bitter grief. "Bear up, my child," were the words his mother had comforted him with: "only do your duty, and trust implicitly in God." And when she had gone down, and he could get the sobs away from his heart and throat, he made the resolve to do as she had told him--at any rate, to try and do it. And he kneeled down there and then, and asked to be helped to do it. And, from that hour to this, William had never known the trust to fail. Success? Yes, they had reaped success--success in no measured degree. Be very sure that it was born of that great trust. Oh!--as Jane had just said to Sir William Leader--if the world could only learn this wonderful truth!

"BECAUSE HE HATH SET HIS LOVE UPON ME, THEREFORE WILL I DELIVER HIM: I WILL SET HIM UP, BECAUSE HE HATH KNOWN MY NAME."

THE END.

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