Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cook's warming it, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What can be the matter?" whispered she.

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

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

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

"I am afraid," replied Minny.

"So am I."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir?"

"Take these, and bring me my slippers."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART THE THIRD

CHAPTER I.

ANNA LYNN'S DILEMMA

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

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

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

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

"Herbert, thee art late!" cried Anna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is so warm a night, Hester!"

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

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

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

"Why, of course he must have forgotten it," said Anna, inwardly promising the boy a sixpence for his forgetfulness. "The medicine always comes in the morning. Will Patience sleep without it?"

"I fear me not. What dost thee think? Suppose I were to run for it?"

"Yes, do, Hester."

They went in, Hester closing the back door and locking it. She put on her shawl and bonnet, and was going out at the front door when the clock struck ten.

"It is ten o'clock, child," she said to Anna. "Thee go to bed. Thee needst not sit up. I'll take the latch-key with me and let myself in."

"Oh, Hester! I don't want to go to bed yet," returned Anna fretfully. "It is like a summer's evening."

"But thee hadst better, child," urged Hester. "Patience has been angry with me once or twice, saying I suffer thee to sit up late. A pretty budget she will be telling thy father on his return! Thee go to bed. Thy candle is ready here on the slab. Good night."

Hester departed, shutting fast the door, and carrying with her the latch-key. Anna, fully convinced that friend Parry's forgetfulness, or the boy's, must have been designed as a special favour to herself, went softly into the best parlour to take the book out of her pretty work-table.

But the room was dark, and Anna could not find her keys. She believed she had left her keys on the top of this very work-table; but feel as she would she could not place her hands upon them. With a word of impatience, lest, with all her hurry, Herbert Dare should be gone before she could return to him with the book, she went to the kitchen, lighted the chamber candle spoken of by Hester as placed ready for her use, and carried it into the parlour.

Her keys were found on the mantel-piece. She unlocked the drawer, took from it the book, blew out the candle, and ran through the garden to the field.

Another minute, and Herbert would have left. He was turning away. In truth, he had not in the least expected to see Anna back again. "Then you have been able to come!" he exclaimed, in his surprise.

"Hester is gone out," explained Anna. "Friend Parry has forgotten to send Patience's medicine, and Hester has gone for it. Herbert, thee only think! But for Hester's expecting Parry's boy to knock at the door, she would have come out here searching for me! She said she would. I must never forget the time again. There's the book, and thank thee. I am sorry and yet glad to give it thee back."

"Is that not a paradox?" asked Herbert, with a smile. "I do not know why you should be either sorry or glad: to be both seems inexplicable."

"I am sorry to lose it: it is the most charming book I have read, and but for Patience I should like to have kept it for ever," returned Anna with enthusiasm. "But I always felt afraid of Hester's finding it and carrying it up to Patience. Patience would be angry; and she might tell my father. That is why I am glad to give it back to thee."

"Why did you not lock it up?" asked Herbert.

"I did lock it up. I locked it in my work-table drawer. But I forget to put my keys in my pocket; I leave them about anywhere. I should have been out with it sooner, but that I could not find the keys."

Anna was in no momentary hurry to run in now. Hester was safe for full twenty minutes to come, therefore her haste need not be so great. She knew that it was past her bedtime, and that Patience would be wondering (unless by great good-fortune Patience should have dropped asleep) why she did not go in to wish her good night. But these reflections Anna conveniently ignored, in the charm of remaining longer to talk about the book. She told Herbert that she had been copying the engravings, but she must put the drawings in some safe place before Patience was about again. "Tell me the time, please," she suddenly said, bringing her chatter to a standstill.

Herbert took out his watch, and held its face towards the moon. "It is twelve minutes past ten."

"Then I must be going in," said Anna. "She could be back in twenty minutes, and she must not find me out again."

Herbert turned with her, and walked to the gate; pacing slowly, both of them, and talking still. He turned in at the gate with her, and Anna made no demur. No fear of his being seen. Patience was as safe in bed as if she had been chained there, and Hester could not be back quite yet. Arrived at the door, closed as Anna had left it, Herbert put out his hand. "I suppose I must bid you a final good night now, Anna," he said in low tones.

"That thee must. I have to come down the garden again to lock the gate after thee. And Hester may not be more than three or four minutes longer. Good night to thee, Herbert."

"Let me see that it is all safe for you, against you do go in," said Herbert, laying his hand on the handle of the door to open it.

To open it? Nay: he could not open it. The handle resisted his efforts. "Did you lock it, Anna?"

Anna smiled at what she thought his awkwardness. "Thee art turning it the wrong way, Herbert. See!"

He withdrew his hand to give place to hers, and she turned the handle softly and gently the contrary way; that is, she essayed to turn it. But it would not turn for her, any more than it had turned for Herbert Dare. A sick feeling of terror rushed over Anna, as a conviction of the truth grew upon her. Hester Dell had returned, and she was locked out!

In good truth, it was no less a calamity. Hester Dell had not gone far from the door on her errand, when she met the doctor's boy with his basket, hastening up with the medicine. "I was just coming after it," said Hester to him. "Whatever brings thee so late?"

"Mr. Parry was called out this morning before he had time to make it up, and he has only just come home," was the boy's reply.

"Better late than never," he somewhat saucily added.

"Well, so it is," acquiesced Hester, who rarely gave anything but a meek retort. And she turned back home, letting herself in with the latch-key. The house appeared precisely as she had left it, except that Anna's candle had disappeared from the mahogany slab in the passage. "That's right! the child's gone to bed," soliloquised she.

She proceeded to go to bed herself. The Quaker's was an early household. All Hester had to do now, was to give Patience her sleeping-draught. "Let me see," continued Hester, still in soliloquy, "I think I did lock the back door."

To make sure, she tried the key and found it was not locked. Rather wondering, for she certainly thought she had locked it, but dismissing the subject the next minute from her thoughts, she locked it now and took the key out. Then she continued her way up to Patience. Patience, lying there lonely and dull with her night-light, turned her eyes on Hester.

"Did thee think we had forgotten thee, Patience? Parry has been out all day, the boy says, and the physic is but this minute come."

"Where's Anna?" inquired Patience.

"She is gone to bed."

"Why did she not come to me as usual?"

"Did she not come?" asked Hester.

"I have seen nothing of her all the evening."

"Maybe she thought thee'd be dozing," observed Hester, bringing forward the sleeping-draught which she had been pouring into a wine-glass. She said no more. Her private opinion was that Anna had purposely abstained from the visit lest she should receive a scolding for going to bed late, her usual hour being half-past nine. Neither did Patience say any more. She was feeling that Anna might be a little less ungrateful. She took the draught, and Hester went to bed.

And poor Anna? To describe her dismay, her consternation, would be a useless attempt. The doors were fast—the windows were fast also. Herbert Dare essayed to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She sat down on the step of the back door and cried bitterly: all her apprehension being for the terrible scolding she should have from Patience, were it found out; the worse than scolding if Patience told her father.

To give Herbert Dare his due, he felt truly vexed at the dilemma for Anna's sake. Could he have let her in by getting down a chimney himself, or in any other impromptu way, and so opened the door for her, he would have done it. "Don't cry, Anna," he entreated, "don't cry! I'll take care of you. Nothing shall harm you. I'll not go away."