Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will thee not walk in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Anna? No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No! Then why walk about with him?"

"Because it's fun to cheat Patience."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes. And I have thine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXIV.

ANNA'S EXCUSE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Anna!"

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

"Why so?" asked Herbert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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