Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles

Tuesday morning—the morning fixed for the funeral of Anthony Dare. The curious portion of Helstonleigh wended its way up to the churchyard; as it is the delight of the curious portion of a town to do. What a sad sight it was! That dark object, covered by its pall, carried by its attendants, followed by the mourners; Mr. Dare, and his sons Cyril and George. He, the father, bent his face in his handkerchief, as he walked behind the coffin to the grave. Many a man in Helstonleigh enjoyed a higher share of esteem and respect than did Lawyer Dare; but not one present in that crowded churchyard that did not feel for him in his bitter grief. Not one, let us hope, that did not feel to his heart's core the fate of the unhappy Anthony, now, for weal or for woe, to answer before his Maker for his life on earth.

That same day, Tuesday, witnessed the return of Samuel Lynn and William Halliburton. They arrived in the evening, and of course the first news they were greeted with was the prevailing topic. Few things caused the ever-composed Quaker to betray surprise; but William was half-stunned with the news. Anthony Dare dead—murdered—buried that very day; and Herbert in prison, awaiting his trial for the offence! To William the whole affair seemed more incredible than real.

"Sir," he said to his master, when, the following morning, they were alone together in the counting-house at the manufactory, "do you believe Herbert Dare can be guilty?"

Mr. Ashley had been gazing at William, lost in thought. The change we often see, or fancy we see, in a near friend, after a few weeks' absence, was apparent in William. He had improved in looks; and yet those looks, with their true nobility, both of form and intellect, had been scarcely capable of improvement. Nevertheless, it was there, and Mr. Ashley had been struck with it.

"I cannot say," he replied, aroused by the question. "Facts appear conclusively against him; but it seems incredible that he should so have lost himself. To be suspected and committed on such a charge is grief enough, without the reality of guilt."

"So it is," acquiesced William.

"We feel the disgrace very keenly—as all must who are connected with the Dares in ever so remote a degree. I feel it, William; feel it as a blow; Mrs. Ashley is the cousin of Anthony Dare."

"They are relatives of ours also," said William in a low tone. "My father was first cousin to Mrs. Dare."

Mr. Ashley looked at him with surprise. "Your father first cousin to Mrs. Dare!" he repeated. "What are you saying?"

"Her first cousin, sir. You have heard of old Mr. Cooper, of Birmingham?"

"From whom the Dares inherited their money. Well?"

"Mr. Cooper had a brother and a sister. Mrs. Dare was the daughter of the brother; the sister married the Reverend William Halliburton, and my father was their son. Mrs. Dare, as Julia Cooper, and my father, Edgar Halliburton, both lived together for some time under their uncle's roof at Birmingham."

A moment's pause, and then Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's shoulder. "Then that brings a sort of relationship between us, William. I shall have a right to feel pride in you now."

William laughed. But his cheek flushed with the pleasure of a more earnest feeling. His greatest earthly wish was to be appreciated by Mr. Ashley.

"How is it I never heard of this relationship before?" cried Mr. Ashley. "Was it purposely concealed?"

"It is only within a year or two that I have known of it," replied William. "Frank and Gar are not aware of it yet. When we first came to Helstonleigh, the Dares were much annoyed at it; and they made it known to my mother in so unmistakable a manner, that she resolved to drop all mention of the relationship; she would have dropped the relationship itself if she could have done so. It was natural, perhaps, that they should feel annoyed," continued William, seeking to apologize for them. "They were rich and great in the eyes of the town; we were poor and obscure."

Mr. Ashley was casting his recollections backwards. A certain event, which had always somewhat puzzled him, was becoming clear now. "William, when Anthony Dare—acting, as he said, for me—put that seizure into your house for rent, it must have been done with the view of driving you from the town?"

"My mother says she has always thought so, sir."

"I see; I see. Why, William, half the inheritance, enjoyed by the Dares, ought justly to have been your father's!"

"We shall do as well without it, in the long-run, sir," replied William, a bright smile illumining his face. "Hard though the struggle was at the beginning!"

"Ay, that you will!" warmly returned Mr. Ashley. "The ways of Providence are wonderful! Yes, William—and I know you have been taught to think so—what men call the chances of the world, are all God's dealings. Reflect on the circumstances favouring the Dares; reflect on your own drawbacks and disadvantages! They had wealth, position, a lucrative profession; everything, in fact, to help them on, that can be desired by a family in middle-class life; whilst you had poverty, obscurity, and toil to contend with. But now, look at what they are! Mr. Dare's money is dissipated; he is overwhelmed with embarrassment—I know it to be a fact, William; but this is for your ear alone. Folly, recklessness, irreligion, reign in his house; his daughters lost in pretentious vanity; his sons in something worse. In a few years they will have gone down—down. Yes," added Mr. Ashley, pointing with his finger to the floor of his counting-house, "down to the dogs. I can see it coming, as surely as that the sun is in the heavens. You and they will have exchanged positions, William; nay, you and yours, unless I am greatly mistaken, will be in a far higher position than they have ever occupied; for you will have secured the favour of God, and the approbation of all good men."

"That Frank and Gar will attain to a position in time, I should be worse than a heathen to doubt, looking back on the wonderful manner in which we have been helped on," thoughtfully observed William. "For myself I am not sanguine."

"Do you never cherish dreams on your own account?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"If I do, sir, they are vague dreams. My position affords no scope for ambition."

"I don't know that," said Mr. Ashley. "Would you not be satisfied to become one of the great manufacturers of this great city?" he continued, laughing.

"Not unless I could be one of the greatest. Such as–" William stopped.

"Myself, for instance?" quietly put in Mr. Ashley.

"Yes, indeed," answered William, lifting his earnest eyes to his master. "Were it possible that I could ever attain to be as you are, sir, in all things—in character, in position, in the estimation of my fellow-citizens—it would be sufficient ambition for me, and I should sit down content."

"Not you," cried Mr. Ashley. "You would then be casting your thoughts to serving your said fellow-citizens in Parliament, or some such exalted vision. Man's nature is to soar, you know; it cannot rest. As soon as one object of ambition is attained, others are sought after."

"So far as I go, we need not discuss it," was William's answer. "There's no chance of my ever becoming even a second-rate manufacturer; let alone what you are, sir."

"The next best thing to being myself, would perhaps be that of being my partner, William."

The voice in which his master spoke was so significant, that William's face flushed to crimson. Mr. Ashley noticed it.

"Did that ambition ever occur to you?"

"No, sir, never. That honour is looked upon as being destined for Cyril Dare."

"Indeed!" calmly repeated Mr. Ashley. "If you could transform your nature into Cyril, I do not say but that it might be so in time."

"He expects it himself, sir."

"Would he be a worthy associate for me, think you?" inquired Mr. Ashley, bending his gaze full on William.

William made no reply. Perhaps none was expected, for his master resumed:

"I do not recommend you to indulge that particular dream of ambition; I cannot see sufficiently into the future. It is my intention to push you somewhat on in the world. I have no son to advance," he added, an expression of sadness crossing his face. "All I can do for my boy is to leave him at ease after me. Therefore I may, if I live, advance you in his stead. Provided, William, you continue to deserve it."

A smile parted William's lips. That, he would ever strive for, heaven helping him.

Mr. Ashley again laid his hand on William, and gazed into his face. "I have had a wonderful account of you from Samuel Lynn. And it is not often the Friend launches into decided praise."

"Oh, have you, sir?" returned William with animation. "I am glad he was pleased with me."

"He was more than pleased. But I must not forget that I was charged with a message from Henry. He is outrageous at your not having gone to him last night. I shall be sending him to France one of these days, under your escort, William. It may do him good, in more ways than one."

"I will come to Henry this evening, sir. I must leave him, though, for half an hour, to go round to East's."

"Your conscience is engaged, I see. You know what Henry accused you of, the last time you left him to go to East's?"

"Of being enamoured of Charlotte," said William, laughing in answer to Mr. Ashley's smile. "I will come, at any rate, sir, and battle the other matter out with Henry."

CHAPTER V.

A BRUISED HEART

If it were a hopeless task to attempt to describe the consternation of Helstonleigh at the death of Anthony Dare, far more difficult would it be to picture that of Anna Lynn. Believe Herbert guilty, Anna did not; she could scarcely have believed that, had an angel come down from heaven to affirm it. Her state of mind was not to be envied; suspense, sorrow, anxiety filled it, causing her to be in a grievous state of restlessness. She had to conceal this from the eyes of Patience; from the eyes of the world. For one thing, she could not get at the correct particulars; newspapers did not come in her way, and she shrank, in her self-consciousness, from asking. Her whole being—if we may dare to say it here—was wrapt in Herbert Dare; father, friends, home, country; she could have sacrificed them all to save him. She would have laid down her life for his. Her good sense was distorted, her judgment warped; she saw passing events, not with the eye of dispassionate fact, or with any fact at all, but through the unhealthy tinge of fond, blind prejudice. The blow had almost crushed her; the dread suspense was wearing out her heart. She seemed no longer the same careless child as before; in a few hours she had overstepped the barrier of girlish timidity, and had gained the experience which is bought with sorrow.

On the evening mentioned in the last chapter, just before William went out to keep his appointment with Henry Ashley, he saw from the window Anna in his mother's garden, bending over the flowers, and glancing up at him. Glancing, as it struck William, with a strangely wistful expression. He went out to her.

"Tending the flowers, Anna?"

She turned to him, her fair young face utterly colourless. "I have been so wanting to see thee, William! I came here, hoping thee wouldst come out. At dinner time I was here, and thee only nodded to me from the window. I did not like to beckon to thee."

"I am sorry to have been so stupid, Anna. What is it?"

"Thee hast heard what has happened—that dreadful thing! Hast thee heard it all?"

"I believe so. All that is known."

"I want thee to tell it me. Patience won't talk of it; Hester only shakes her head; and I am afraid to ask Gar. Thee tell it to me."

"It would not do you good to know, Anna," he gravely said. "Better try and not think–"

"William, hush thee!" she feverishly exclaimed. "Thee knew there was a—a friendship between me and him. If I cannot learn all there is to be learnt, I shall die."

William looked down at the changing cheek, the eyes full of pain, the trembling hands, clasped in their eagerness. It might be better to tell her than to leave her in this state of suspense.

"William, there is no one in the wide world that knows he cared for me, but thee," she imploringly resumed. "Thee must tell me; thee must tell me!"

"You mean that you want to hear the particulars of—of what took place on Thursday night?"

"Yes. All. Then, and since. I have but heard snatches of the wicked tale."

He obeyed her: telling her all the broad facts, but suppressing a few of the details. She leaned against the garden-gate, listening in silence; her face turned from him, looking through the bars into the field.

"Why do they not believe him?" was her first comment, spoken sharply and abruptly. "He says he was not near the house at the time the act must have been done: why do they not believe him?"

"It is easy to assert a thing, Anna. But the law requires proof."

"Proof? That he must declare to them where he has been?"

"Undoubtedly. And corroborative proof must also be given."

"But what sort of proof? I do not understand their laws."

"Suppose Herbert Dare asserted that he had spent those hours with me, for instance; then I must go forward at the trial and confirm his assertion. Also any other witnesses who may have seen him with me, if there were any. It would be establishing what is called an alibi."

"And would they acquit him then? Suppose there were only one witness to speak for him? Would one be sufficient?"

"Certainly. Provided the witness were trustworthy."

"If a witness went forward and declared it now, would they release him?"

"Impossible. He is committed to take his trial at the assizes, and he cannot be released beforehand. It is exceedingly unwise of him not to declare where he was that evening—if he can do so."

"Where do the public think he was? What do they say?"

"I am afraid the public, Anna, think that he was not out anywhere. At any rate, after eleven or half-past."

"Then they are very cruel!" she passionately exclaimed. "Do they all think that?"

"There may be a few who judge that it was as he says; that he was really away, and is, consequently, innocent."

"And where do they think he was?" eagerly responded Anna again. "Do they suspect any place where he might have been?"

William made no reply. It was not at all expedient to impart to her all the gossip or surmises of the town. But his silence seemed to agitate her more than any reply could have done. She turned to him, trembling with emotion, the tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, William! tell me what is thought! Tell me, I implore thee! Thee cannot leave me in this trouble. Where is it thought he was?"

He took her hands; he bent over her as tenderly as any brother could have done; he read all too surely how opposite to the truth had been her former assertion to him—that she did not care for Herbert Dare.

"Anna, child, you must not agitate yourself in this way: there is no just cause for doing so. I assure you I do not know where it is thought Herbert Dare may have been that night; neither, so far as can be learnt, does any one else know. It is the chief point—where he was—that is puzzling the town."

She laid her head down on the gate again, closing her eyes, as in very weariness. William's heart ached for her.

"He may not be guilty, Anna," was all the consolation he could find to offer.

"May not be guilty!" she echoed in a tone of pain. "He is not guilty. William, I tell thee he is not. Dost thee think I would defend him if he could do so wicked a thing?"

He did not dispute the point with her; he did not tell her that her assumption of his innocence was inconsistent with the facts of the case. Presently Anna resumed.

"Why must he remain in gaol till the trial? There was that man who stole the skins from Thomas Ashley—they let him out, when he was taken, until the sessions came on, and then he went up for trial."

"That man was out on bail. But they do not take bail in cases so grave as this."

"I may not stay longer. There's Hester coming to call me in. I rely upon thee to tell me anything fresh that may arise," she said, lifting her beseeching eyes to his.

"One word, Anna, before you go. And yet, I see how worse than useless it is to say it to you now. You must forget Herbert Dare."

"I shall forget him, William, when I cease to have memory," she whispered. "Never before. Thee wilt keep my counsel?"

"Truly and faithfully."

"Fare thee well, William; I have no friend but thee."

She ran swiftly into their own premises. William turned to pursue his way to Mr. Ashley's, the thought of Henry Ashley's misplaced attachment lying on his mind as an incubus.

CHAPTER VI.

ONE DYING IN HONEY FAIR

Mrs. Buffle stood in what she called her "back'us," practically superintending a periodical wash. The day was hot, and the steam was hot, and, as Mrs. Buffle rubbed away, she began to think she should never be cool again.

"Missis," shrieked out a young voice from the precincts of the shop, "Ben Tyrrett's wife says will you let her have a gill o' vinegar? Be I to serve it?"

The words came from the small damsel who was had in to help on cleaning and washing days. Mrs. Buffle kept her hands still in the soapsuds, and projected her hot face over the tub to answer.

"Matty, tell Mary Ann Tyrrett as she promised faithful to bring me something off her score this week, but I've not seen the colour of it yet."

"She says as it's to put to his head," called back Matty, alluding to the present demand. "He's bad a-bed, and have fainted right off."

"Serve him right," responded Mrs. Buffle. "You may give her the vinegar, Matty. Tell her as it's a penny farthing. I heered he had been drinking again," she added to herself and the washing tub, "and laid hisself down in the wet road the night afore last, and was found there in the morning."

Later in the day, it happened that William Halliburton was passing through Honey Fair, and met Charlotte East. She stopped him. "Have you heard, sir, that Tyrrett is dying?" she asked.

"Tyrrett dying!" repeated William in amazement. "Who says he is?"

"The doctor says it, I believe, sir. I must say he looks like it. Mary Ann sent for me, and I have been down to see him."

"Why, what can be the matter with him?" asked William. "He was at work the day before yesterday!"

"He was at work, sir, but he could not speak, they tell me, for that illness that has been hanging about him so long, and had settled on his chest. That night, after leaving work, instead of going home and getting a basin of gruel, or something of that sort, he went to the Horned Ram, and drank there till he couldn't keep upright."

"With his chest in that state!"

"And that was not the worst," resumed Charlotte. "It had been a wet day, if you remember, sir, and he somehow strayed into Oxlip Lane, and fell down, and lay there till morning. What with drink, and what with exposure to the wet, his chest grew dangerously inflamed, and now the doctor says he has not many hours to live."

"I am sorry to hear it," cried William. "Is he sensible?"

"Too sensible, sir, in one sense," replied Charlotte. "His remorse is dreadful. He is saying that if he had not misspent his life, he might have died a good man, instead of a bad one."

William passed on, much concerned at the news. His way led him past Ben Tyrrett's lodgings, and he turned in. Mary Ann was sobbing and wailing, in the midst of as many curious and condoling neighbours as the kitchen would contain. All were in full gossip—as might be expected. Mrs. Cross had taken home the three little children, by way of keeping the place quiet; and the sick man was lying in the room above, surrounded by several of his fellow-workmen, who had heard of his critical state.

Some of the women sidled off when William entered, rather ashamed of being caught chattering vehemently. It was remarkable the deference that was paid him, and from no assumption of his own—indeed, the absence of assumption may have partially accounted for it. But, though ever courteous and pleasant with them all, he was a thorough gentleman: and the working classes are keen to distinguish this.

"Why, Mrs. Tyrrett, this is sad news!" he said. "Is your husband so ill?"

"Oh, he must die, he must die, sir!" she answered in a frantic tone. Uncomfortably as they had lived together, the man was still her husband, and there is no doubt she was feeling the present crisis; was shrinking with dread from the future. A widow with three young children, and the workhouse for an asylum! It was the only prospect before her. "He must die, anyways; but he might have lasted a few hours longer, if I could have got what the doctor ordered."

William did not understand.

"It was a blister and some physic, sir," explained one of the women. "The doctor wrote it on a paper, and said it was to be took to the nearest druggist's. But when they got it there, Darwin said he couldn't trust the Tyrretts, and they must send the money if they wanted the things."

"It was not Mr. Parry, then, who was called in?"

"It were a strange doctor, sir, as was fetched. There was Tyrrett's last bout of illness owing for to Parry, and so they didn't like to send for him. As to them druggists, they be some of 'em a cross-grained set, unless you goes with the money in your hand."

William asked to see the prescription. It was produced, and he read its contents—he was as capable of doing so and of understanding it as the best doctor in Helstonleigh. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few words in pencil, folded it with the prescription, and desired one of the women to take it to the chemist's again. He then went up to the sick room.

Tyrrett was lying on a flock mattress, on an ugly brown bedstead, the four posts upright and undraped. A blanket and a checked blue cotton quilt covered him. His breathing was terribly laboured, his face painfully anxious. William approached him, bending his head, to avoid contact with the ceiling.

"I'm a-going, sir," cried the man, in tones as anxious as his face. "I'm a-going at last."

"I hope not," said William. "I hope you will get better. You are to have a blister on your chest, and–"

"No he ain't, sir," interrupted one of the men. "Darwin won't send it."

"Oh yes, he will, if he is properly asked. They have gone again to him. Are you in much pain, Tyrrett?"

"I'm in an agony of pain here, sir," pointing to his chest. "But that ain't nothing to my pain of mind. Oh, Mr. Halliburton, you're good, sir; you haven't nothing to reproach yourself with; can't you do nothing for me? I'm going into the sight of my Maker, and He's angry with me!"

In truth, William knew not what to answer. Tyrrett's voice was as a wail of anguish; his hands were stretched out beseechingly.

"Charlotte East were here just now, and she told me to go to Christ—that He was merciful and forgiving. But how am I to go to Him? If I try, sir, I can't, for there's my past life rising up before me. I have been a bad man: I have never once in all my life tried to please God."

The words echoed through the stillness of the room; echoed with a sound that was terribly awful. Never once to have tried to please God! Throughout a whole life, and throughout all its blessings!

"I have never thought of God," he continued to reiterate. "I have never cared for Him, or tried to please Him, or done the least thing for Him. And now I'm going to face His wrath, and I can't help myself!"

"You may be spared yet," said William; "you may indeed. And your future life must atone for the past."

"I shan't be spared, sir; I feel that the world's all up with me," was the rejoinder. "I'm going fast, and there's nobody to give me a word of comfort! Can't you, sir? I'm going away, and God's angry with me!"

William leaned over him. "I can only say as Charlotte East did," he whispered. "Try and find your Saviour. There is mercy with Him at the eleventh hour."

"I have not the time to find Him," breathed forth Tyrrett, in agony. "I might find Him if I had time given me; but I have not got it."

William, shrinking in his youth and inexperience from arguing upon topics so momentous, was not equal to the emergency. Who was? He did what he could; and that was to despatch a message for a clergyman, who answered the summons with speed.