by Ellen Wood
The governess shrugged her shoulders. “I not like Cyril,” she said. “I have never liked him since I came.”
“But you will not tell against him!” cried Herbert, in fear.
“No, no, no. Tell against your brother! Why should I? It is no concern of mine. Unless people meddle with me, I not meddle with them. Cyril is safe, for me.”
“What on earth am I to do for my cloak to-night?” debated Herbert. “I was going — going where I want it.”
“Why you want it so to-night?” asked mademoiselle sharply.
“Because it’s cold,” responded Herbert. “The cloak was warmer than my overcoat is.”
“Last night you go out, to-night you go out, to-morrow you go out. It is always so now!”
“I have a lot of perplexing business upon me,” answered Herbert. “I have no time to see about it in the day.”
Some little time longer he remained talking with her, partially disputing. The Italian, from some cause or other, went into ill-humour and said some provoking things. Herbert, it must be confessed, received them with good temper, and she grew more affable. When he left her, she offered to pick the loose threads out of the cloak, and hem up the bottom.
“You’ll lock the door while you do it?” he urged.
“I will take it to my chamber,” she said. “No one will molest me there.”
Herbert left it with her and went out. Cyril went out. Anthony had already gone out. Mr. Dare remained at home. He and his wife were conversing over the dining-room fire, in the course of the evening, when Joseph came in.
“You are wanted, please, sir,” he said to his master.
“Who wants me?” asked Mr. Dare.
“It’s Policeman Delves, sir.”
“Oh, show him in here,” said Mr. Dare. “I hope something will be done in this,” he added to his wife. “It may turn out a good slice of luck for me.”
Sergeant Delves came in. In point of fact, he had just returned from that interview with the butcher, where he had been accompanied by Mr. Ashley and William.
“Well, Delves, did you get my note?” asked Mr. Dare.
“Yes, sir, I did,” said the sergeant, taking the seat offered him. “It’s what I have come up about.”
“Do you intend to act upon my advice?”
“Why — no, I think not,” replied the sergeant. “Not, at any rate, until I have had a talk with you.”
“What will you take?”
“Well, sir, the night’s cold. I don’t mind a drop of brandy-and-water.”
It was brought, and Mr. Dare joined his visitor in partaking of it. He agreed with him that the night was cold. But nothing could Mr. Dare make of him. As often as he turned the conversation on the subject in hand, so often did the sergeant turn it off again. Mrs. Dare grew tired of listening to nothing; and she departed, leaving them together.
Then the manner of Sergeant Delves changed. He drew his chair forward; and bent towards Mr. Dare.
“You have been urging me to go against young Halliburton,” he began. “It won’t do. Halliburton no more fingered that cheque, or had anything to do with it, than you or I had. Mr. Dare, don’t you stir in this matter any further.”
“My present intention is to stir it to the bottom,” returned Mr. Dare.
“Look here,” said the sergeant in an undertone; “I am not obliged to take notice of offences that don’t come legally in my way. Many a thing has been done in this town — ay, and is being done now — that I am obliged to wink at; it don’t lay right in my duty to take notice of it, so I keep my eyes shut. Now that’s just it in this case. So long as the parties concerned, Mr. Ashley, or White, don’t put it into my hands officially, I am not obliged to take so-and-so into custody, or to act upon my own suspicions. And I won’t do it upon suspicions of my own: I promise it. If I am forced, that’s another matter.”
“Are you alluding to Halliburton?”
“No. You are on the wrong scent, I say.”
“And you think you are on the right one?”
“I could put my finger out this night and lay it on the fox. But I tell you, sir, I don’t want to, unless I am compelled. Don’t you compel me, Mr. Dare, of all people in the world.”
Mr. Dare leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in his waistcoat armholes. No suspicion of the truth had crossed him, and he could not understand either the sergeant or his manner. The latter rose to depart.
“The other cloak, similar to young Halliburton’s, belongs to your son Herbert,” he whispered, as he passed Mr. Dare. “It was his brother, Cyril, who wore it on Saturday night, and who changed the cheque: therefore we may give a guess as to who took the cheque out of Mr. Ashley’s desk. Now you be still over it, sir, for his sake, as I shall be. If I can, I’ll call at your office to-morrow, Mr. Dare, and talk further. White must have the money refunded to him, or he won’t be still.”
Anthony Dare fell into a confusion of horror and consternation, leaving the sergeant to bow himself out. Mrs. Dare heard the departure, and returned to the room.
“Well,” cried she briskly, “is he going to accuse Halliburton?”
Mr. Dare did not answer. He looked up in a beseeching, helpless sort of manner, as one who is stunned by a blow.
“What is the matter?” she questioned, gazing at him closely. “Are you ill?”
He rose up shaking, as if ague were upon him. “No — no.”
“Perhaps you are cold,” said Mrs. Dare. “I asked you what Delves was going to do. Will he accuse Halliburton?”
“Be still!” sharply cried Mr. Dare in a tone of pain. “The matter is to be hushed up. It was not Halliburton.”
CHAPTER XXI.
A PRESENT OF TEA-LEAVES.
How went on Honey Fair? Better and worse, better and worse, according to custom; the worse prevailing over the better.
Of all its inhabitants, none had advanced so well as Robert East. Honestly to confess it, that is not saying much; since the greater portion, instead of advancing in the world’s social scale, had retrograded. Robert had left the manufactory he had worked for and was now second foreman at Mr. Ashley’s. He was also becoming through perseverance an excellent scholar in a plain way. He had had one friend to help him; and that was William Halliburton.
The Easts had removed to a better house; one of those which had a garden in front of it. No garden was more fragrant than theirs; and it was kept in order by Robert and Thomas East. The house was larger than they required, and part of it was occupied by Stephen Crouch and his daughter. It was known that the Easts were putting by money: and Honey Fair wondered: for none lived more comfortably, more respectably. Honey Fair — taking it as a whole — lived neither comfortably nor respectably. The Fishers had never come out of the workhouse, and Joe was dead. The Crosses, turned from their home, their furniture sold, had found lodgings; two rooms. Improvident as ever, were they. They did not attempt to rise even to their former condition; but grovelled on, living from hand to mouth. The Masons, man and wife, passed their time agreeably in quarrels. At least, that it was agreeable may be assumed, for the quarrels never ceased. Now and then they were diversified by a fight. The children were growing up without training; and Caroline — ah! I don’t know that it will do much good to ask after her. Caroline, years ago, had taken a false step; and, try as she would, she could not regain her footing. She lived in a garret alone. She had so lived a long while; and she worked her fingers to the bone to keep body and soul together, and went about with her head down. Honey Fair looked askance at her, and gathered up its petticoats when they saw her coming, as you saw Eliza Tyrrett gather up hers, lest they should come into contact with those contaminations. The Carters thrived; the Brumms, also, were better off than they used to be; and the Buffles did so excellently that a joke went about that they would be retiring on their fortune: but the greater portion of Honey Fair was full of trouble and improvidence.
William Halliburton frequently found himself in Honey Fair. It was the most direct road
from his house to that of Monsieur Colin, the French master. William, sociably inclined by nature, had sometimes dropped in at one or other of the houses. He would find Robert East labouring at his books much more than he need have laboured had some little assistance been given him in his progress. William good-naturedly undertook to supply it. It became quite a common thing for him to go round and pass an hour with the Easts and Stephen Crouch.
The unpleasant social features of Honey Fair thus obtruded themselves on William Halliburton’s notice; it was impossible that any one passing much through Honey Fair should not be struck with them. Could nothing be done to rescue the people from this degraded condition? — and a degraded one it was, compared with what it might have been. Young and inexperienced as he was, it was a question that sometimes arose to William’s mind. Dirty homes, scolding mothers, ragged and pining children, rough and swearing husbands! Waste, discomfort, evil. The women laid the blame on the men: reproached them with wasting their evenings and their money at the public-house. The men retorted upon the women, and said they had not a home “fit for a pig to come into.” Meanwhile the money, whether earned by husband or wife, went. It went somehow, bringing apparently nothing to show for it, and the least possible return of good. Thus they struggled and squabbled on, their lives little better than one continued scene of scramble, discomfort, and toil. At a year’s end they were not in the least bettered, not in the least raised, socially, morally, or physically, from their condition at the year’s commencement. Nothing had been achieved; except that they were one year nearer to the great barrier which separates time from eternity.
Ask them what they were toiling and struggling for. They did not know. What was their end, their aim? They had none. If they could only rub on, and keep body and soul together (as poor Caroline Mason was trying to do in her garret), it appeared to be all they cared for. They did not endeavour to lift up their hopes or their aspirations above that; they were willing so to go on until death should come. What a life! what an end!
A feeling would now and then come over William that he might in some way help them to attempt better things. To do so was a duty which seemed to be lying across his path, that he might take it up and make it his. How to set about it, he knew no more than the Man in the Moon. Now and then disheartening moments would come upon him. To attempt to sweep away the evils of Honey Fair appeared a far more formidable task than to cleanse the Augean Stables could ever have appeared to Hercules. He knew that any endeavour, whether on his part or on that of others, who might be far more experienced and capable than he, would be utterly fruitless unless the incentive to exertion, to strive to do better, should be first born within themselves. Ah, my friends! the aid of others may be looked upon as a great thing; but without self-struggle and self-help little good will be effected.
One evening in passing the house partially occupied by the Crosses the door was flung violently open, a girl of fifteen flew shrieking out and a saucer of wet tea-leaves came flying after her. The tea-leaves alighted on the girl’s neck, just escaping William’s arm. It was the youngest girl of the family, Patty. The tea-leaves had come from Mrs. Cross. Her face was red with passion, her voice loud; the girl, on her part, was insulting and abusive. Mrs. Cross had her hands stretched out, to scratch, or tear, or pull hair, and a personal skirmish would inevitably have ensued but for the chance of William’s being there. He received the hands upon his arm and contrived to detain them.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Cross?”
“Matter!” raved Mrs. Cross. “She’s a idle, impedent wicked huzzy — that’s what’s the matter. She knows I’ve my gloving to get in for Saturday, and not a stroke’ll she help. There’s the dishes lying dirty from dinner, the tea-cups lying from tea, and touch ’em she won’t. She expects me to do it, and me with my gloving to find ’em in food! I took hold of her arm to make her do it, and she turned and struck at me, the good-for-nothing faggot! I hope none on it didn’t go on you, sir,” added Mrs. Cross, somewhat modifying her voice, and pausing to recover breath.
“Better that it had gone on my coat than on Patty’s neck,” replied he, in a good-natured, half-joking tone; though, indeed, the girl, with her evil look at her mother, her insolent air, stood there scarcely worth his defence. “If my mother asked me to wash tea-things or do anything else, Patty, I should do it, and think it a pleasure to help her,” he added, to the girl.
Patty pushed her tangled hair behind her ears, and turned a defiant look upon her mother. Hidden as she had thought it from William, he saw it.
“You just wait,” nodded Mrs. Cross, in answer as defiant. “I’ll make your back smart by-and-by.”
Which of the two was the more in fault? It was hard to say. The girl had never been brought up to know her duty, or to do it. The mother from her earliest childhood had given abuse and blows; no kindly, persuasive words; no training. Little wonder, now Patty was growing up, that she turned again. It was the usual sort of maternal government throughout Honey Fair. In these, and similar cases, where could interference or counsel avail, unless the spirit of the mothers and daughters could be changed?
William walked on, after the little episode of the tea-leaves. He could not help contrasting these homes with his home; their life with his life. He was given to reflection beyond his years, and he wished these people could be aroused to improvement both of mind and body. They were living for no end; toiling only to satisfy the wants of the day — nay, to arrest the wants, rather than to satisfy them. How many of them were so much as thinking of another world? Their toil and turmoil in this was too great to enable them to cast a thought to the next.
“I wonder,” mused William, as he stepped towards M. Colin’s, “whether some of the better-conducted of the men might not be induced to come round to East’s in an evening? It might be a beginning, at any rate. Once wean the men from the public-houses, and there’s no knowing what reform might be effected. I would willingly give up an hour or two of my evenings to them!”
His visit to M. Colin over, he retraced his steps to Honey Fair and turned into Robert East’s. It was past eight o’clock then. Robert and Stephen Crouch were home from work, and were getting out their books. Charlotte sat by, at work as usual, and Tom East was drawing Charlotte’s head towards him, to whisper something to her.
“Robert,” said William, speaking impulsively, the moment he entered, “I wonder whether you could induce a few of your neighbours to come here of an evening?”
“What for, sir?” asked Robert turning round from the book-shelves where he stood, searching for some volume.
“It might be so much better for them. It might end in being so. I wish,” he added with sudden warmth, “we could get all Honey Fair here!”
“All Honey Fair!” echoed Stephen Crouch in astonishment.
“I mean what I say, Crouch.”
“Why, sir, the room wouldn’t hold a quarter or a tenth part, or a hundredth part of them.”
William laughed. “No, that it would not, practically. There is so much discomfort around us, and — and ill-doing — I must call it so, for want of a better name — that I sometimes wish we could mend it a little.”
“Who mend it, sir?”
“Any one who would try. You two might help towards it. If you could seduce a few round here, and get them to be interested in your own evening occupation — books and rational conversation — and so wean them from the public-houses, it would be a great thing.”
“There’d never be any good done with the men, take them as a whole, sir. They are an ignorant, easy-going lot, and don’t care to be better.”
“That’s just it, Crouch. They don’t care to be better. But they might be taught to care. It would be a very great thing if Honey Fair could be brought to spend its evenings as you spend yours. If the men gave up spending their money, and reeling home after it; and the women kept tidy hearths and civil tongues. As Charlotte does,” he added looking round at her.
“There’s no denying that, sir.
”
“I think something might be done. By degrees, you understand; not in a hurry. Were you to take the men by storm — to say, ‘We want you to lead changed lives, and are going to show you how to do it,’ your movement would fail, and you would get laughed at into the bargain. Say to the men, ‘You shan’t go to the public-house, because you waste your time, your money, and your temper,’ and, rely upon it, it would have as much effect as if you spoke to the wind. But get them to come here as a sort of change, and you may secure them for good if you make the evenings pleasant to them. In short, give them some employment or attraction that will outweigh the attractions of the public-house.”
“It would certainly be a good thing,” said Stephen Crouch, musingly. “They might be for trying to raise themselves then.”
“Ay,” spoke William, with enthusiasm. “Once let them find the day-spring within themselves, the wish to do right, to be raised above what they are now, and the rest will be easy. When once that day-spring can be found, a man is made. God never sent a man here, but he implanted that within him. The difficulty is, to awaken it.”
“And it is not always done, sir,” said Charlotte, lifting her face from her work with a kindling eye, a heightened colour. She had found it.
“Charlotte, I fear it is rarely done, instead of not always. It lies pretty dormant, to judge by appearances, in Honey Fair.”
William was right. It is an epoch in a man’s life, that finding what he had not inaptly called the day-spring. Self-esteem, self-reliance, the courage of long-continued patience, the striving to make the best of the mind’s good gifts — all are born of it. He who possesses it may soar to a bright and, happy lot, bearing in mind — may he always bear it! — the rest and reward promised hereafter.
“At any rate, it would be giving them a chance, as it seems to me,” observed William. “I think I know one who would come. Andrew Brumm.”
