Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Ah, he would, and be glad to come,” replied Robert East. “He is different from many of them. I know another who would, sir; and that’s Adam Thornycroft.”

  Charlotte bent her head over her work.

  “Since that cousin of his died of delirium tremens, Thornycroft has said good-bye to the public-houses. He spends his evenings at home with his mother: but I know he would like to spend them here. Tim Carter would come, sir.”

  “If Mrs. Tim will let him,” put in Tom East saucily. And a laugh went round.

  “Ever so few to begin with, will set the example to others,” remarked William. “There’s no knowing what it may grow to. Small beginnings make great endings. I have talked with my mother about Honey Fair. She has always said: ‘Before Honey Fair’s conduct can be improved, its minds must be improved.’”

  “There will be the women yet, sir,” spoke Charlotte. “If they are to remain as they are, it will be of little use the men doing anything for themselves.”

  “Charlotte, once begun, I say there’s no knowing where the work may end,” he gravely answered.

  The rain, which had been threatening all the evening, was coming down pretty smartly as William walked through Honey Fair on his return. Standing against a shutter near his own door was Jacob Cross. “Good night, Jacob,” said William.

  “Goodnight, sir,” answered Jacob sullenly.

  “Are you standing in the rain that it may make you grow, as the children say?” asked William in his ever-pleasant tone.

  “I’m standing here ‘cause I’ve nowhere else to stand,” said the man, his voice full of resentment. “I’m turned out of our room, and I have no money for the Horned Ram.”

  “A good thing you have not,” thought William. “What has turned you out of your room?” he asked.

  “I’m turned out, sir, by the row there is in it. Our Mary Ann’s come home.”

  “Mary Ann?” repeated William, not quite understanding.

  “Our Mary Ann, what took and married Ben Tyrrett. A fine market she have brought her pigs to!”

  “What has she done?” questioned William.

  “She’s done enough,” wrathfully answered Cross. “We told her when she married Tyrrett that he was nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a-week — and it’s all he was, sir, as you know. ‘Wait,’ I says to her; ‘somebody better than him’ll turn up.’ Her mother says ‘Wait.’ Others says ‘Wait.’ No, not she; the girls are all marrying mad. Well, she took her own way; she would take it; and they got married, and set up upon nothing. Neither of ’em had saved a two-penny-piece; and Ben fond of the public; and our Mary Ann fond of laziness and finery; and not knowing how to keep house any more than her young sister Patty did.”

  William remembered the little interlude of that evening in which Miss Patty had played her part. Jacob continued.

  “It was all fine and sunshiny with ’em for a few days or a few weeks, till the novelty wears off, and then they finds things going cranky. The money, that begins to run short; and Mary Ann, she finds that Ben likes his glass; and Ben, he finds that she’s just a doll, with no gumption or management inside her. They quarrels — naterally, and they comes to us to settle it. ‘You was both red-hot for the bargain,’ says I, ‘and you must just make the best of it and of one another.’ And so they went back: and it has gone on till this, quarrelling continual. And now he’s took to beat her, and home she came to-night, not half an hour ago, with her three children and a black eye, vowing she’ll stop at home and won’t go back to him again. And she and her mother’s having words over it, and the babies a-squalling — enough noise to raise the ceiling off, and I come out of it. I wish I was dead, I do!”

  Jacob’s account of the noise was scarcely exaggerated. It penetrated to where they stood, two or three houses off. William had moved closer, that the umbrella might give Cross part of its shelter. “Not a very sensible wish, that of yours, is it, Cross?” remarked he.

  “I have wished it long, sir, sensible or not sensible. I slaves away my days and have nothing but a pigsty to step into at home, and angry words in it. A nice place for a tired man! I can’t afford the public more than three or four nights a-week; not that, always. They’re getting corky at the beer-shops, nowadays, and won’t give trust. Wednesday this is; Thursday, to-morrow; Friday, next night: three nights, and me without a shelter to put my head in!”

  “I should like to take you to one to-morrow night,” said William. “Will you go with me?”

  “Where to?” ungraciously asked Cross.

  “To Robert East’s. You know how he and Crouch spend their evenings. There’s always something going on there interesting and pleasant.”

  “Crouch and East don’t want me.”

  “Yes, they do. They will be only too glad if you, and a few more intelligent men, will join them. Try it, Cross. There’s a warm room to sit in, at all events, and nothing to pay.”

  “Ah, it’s all very fine for them Easts! We haven’t their luck. Look at me! Down in the world.”

  William put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Why should you be down in the world?”

  “Why should I?” repeated Cross, in surprise. “Because I am,” he logically answered.

  “That is not the reason. The reason is because you do not try to rise in the world.”

  “It’s no use trying.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Why, no! How can I try?”

  “You wished just now that you were dead. Would it not be better to wish to live?”

  “Not such a life as mine.”

  “But to wish to live would seem to imply that it must be a better life. And why need your life be so miserable? You gain fair wages; your wife earns money. Altogether I suppose you must have twenty-six or twenty-eight shillings a week — —”

  “But there’s no thrift with it,” exclaimed Cross. “It melts away somehow. Before the middle of the week comes, it’s all gone.”

  “You spend some at the Horned Ram, you know,” said William, not in a reproving tone.

  “She squanders away in rubbish more than that,” was Jacob’s answer, pointing towards his house, and not giving at all a complimentary stress upon the “she.”

  “And with nothing to show for it in return, either of you. Try another plan, Jacob.”

  “I’d not be backward — if I could see one to try,” said he, after a pause.

  “Be here at half-past eight to-morrow evening, and I will go in with you to East’s. If you cannot see any better way, you can spend a pleasant evening. But now, Jacob, let me say a word to you, and do you note it. If you find the evening pass agreeably, go the next evening, and the next; go always. You can’t tell all that may arise from it in time. I know of one thing that will.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Why, that instead of wishing yourself dead, you will grow to think life too short, for the good you find in it.”

  He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.

  “He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has a cordial way with him, and don’t look at folks as if they was dirt.”

  And that had been the origin of the soirées held at Robert East’s. By degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and — what was more — to like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement upon the Horned Ram.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  HENRY ASHLEY’S OBJECT IN LIFE.

  On one of the warm, bright days that we sometimes have in the month of February, all the brighter from their contrast to the passing winter, William Halliburton was walking home to tea from the manufactory, and overtook Henry Ashley limping along.

  Henry was below the middle height, and slight in form, with the same beautiful face that had marked his boyhood, delicately refined in feature, brilliant in colour; the same upright lines of pain knit in the smooth white brow.

  “Jus
t the man I wanted,” said he, linking his arm within William’s. “You are a good help up a hill, and I am hot and tired.”

  “Wrapped up in that coat, with its fur lining, I should think you are! I have doffed my elegant cloak, you see, to-day.”

  “Is it off to the British Museum?”

  William laughed. “I have not had time to pack it up.”

  “I am glad I met you. You must come home to tea with me. Well? Why are you hesitating? You have no engagement?”

  “Nothing more than usual. My studies — —”

  “You are study mad!” interrupted Henry Ashley. “What do you want to be? A Socrates? An Admirable Crichton?”

  “Nothing so formidable. I want to be useful.”

  “And you make yourself accomplished, as a preliminary step to it. Mary took up the fencing-sticks for you yesterday. Herbert Dare was at our house — some freak is taking him to be a pretty constant visitor just now — and the talk turned upon Frank. You know,” broke off Henry in his quaint way, “I never use long words when short ones will do: you learned ones would say ‘conversation.’ Mr. Keating had said to my father that Frank Halliburton was a brilliant scholar, and I retailed it to Herbert. I knew it would put him up, and there’s nothing I like half so much as to rile the Dares. Herbert sneered. ‘And he owes it partly to William,’ I went on, ‘for if Frank’s a brilliant scholar, William’s a brillianter!’ ‘William Halliburton a brilliant scholar!’ stormed scornful Herbert. ‘Has he learnt to be one at the manufactory? So long as he knows how gloves are made, that’s enough for him. What does he want with the requirements of gentlemen?’ Up looked Miss Mary; her colour rising, her eyes flashing. She was at her drawing: at which, by the way, she makes no progress; nothing to be compared with Anna Lynn. ‘William Halliburton has forgotten more than you ever learnt, Herbert Dare,’ cried she; ‘and there’s more of the true gentleman in his little finger than there is in your whole body.’ ‘There’s for you, Herbert Dare,’ whistled I; ‘but it’s true, lad, like it or not as you may!’ Herbert was riled.”

  Henry turned his head as he concluded, and looked up at William. A gleam like a sunbeam had flashed into William’s eyes; a colour to his cheeks.

  “Well?” cried Henry sharply, for William did not speak. “Have you nothing to say?”

  “It was generous of Miss Ashley.”

  “I don’t mean that. Oh dear!” sighed Henry, who appeared to be in one of his fitful moods; “who is to know whether things will turn out crooked or straight in this world of ours? What objection have you to coming home with me for the evening? That’s what I mean.”

  “None. I can give up my books for a night, bookworm as you think me. But they will expect me at East’s.”

  “Happy the man that expecteth nothing!” responded Henry. “Disappoint them.”

  “As for disappointing them, I shouldn’t so much mind, but I can’t abide to disappoint myself,” returned William, quoting from Goldsmith’s good old play, of which both he and Henry were fond.

  “You don’t mean to say it would be a disappointment to you, not giving the lesson, or whatever it is, to those working chaps!” uttered Henry Ashley.

  “Not as you would count disappointment. When I do not get round for an hour, it seems as a night lost. I know the men like to see me; and I am always fearing that we are not sure of them.”

  “You speak as though your whole soul were in the business,” returned Henry Ashley.

  “I think my heart is in it.”

  Henry looked at him wistfully, and his tone grew serious. “William, I would give all I am worth, present, and to come, to change places with you.”

  “To change places with me!” echoed William, in surprise.

  “Yes: for you have an object in life. You may have many. To be useful in your generation is one of them.”

  “And so may you have objects in life.”

  “With this encumbrance!” He stamped his lame leg, and a look of keen vexation settled itself in his face. “You can go forth into the world with your strong limbs, your unbroken health; you can work, or you can play; you can be active, or you can be still, at will. But what am I? A poor, weak creature; infirm of temper, tortured by pain, condemned half my days to the monotony of a sick-room. Compare my lot with yours!”

  “There are those who would choose your lot in preference to mine, were the option given them,” returned William. “I must work. It is a duty laid upon me. You can play.”

  “Thank you! How?”

  “I am not speaking literally. Every good and pleasing thing that money can purchase is at your command. You have only to enjoy them, so far as you may. One, suffering as you do, bears not upon him the responsibility to use his time, that a healthy man does. Lots, in this world, Henry, are, as I believe, pretty equally balanced. Many would envy you your life of calm repose.”

  “It is not calm,” was the abrupt rejoinder. “It is disturbed by pain, and aggravated by temper; and — and — tormented by uncertainty.”

  “At any rate, you can subdue the one.”

  “Which, pray?”

  “The temper. Henry” — dropping his voice— “a victory over your own temper may be one of the few obligations laid upon you.”

  “I wish I could live for an object,” grumbled Henry.

  “Come round with me to East’s, sometimes.”

  “I — daresay!” retorted Henry, when he could recover from his amazement. “Thank you again, Mr. Halliburton.”

  William laughed. But he soon resumed his seriousness. “I can understand that for you, the favoured son of Mr. Ashley, reared in refinement and exclusiveness — —”

  “Enshrined in pride — the failing that Helstonleigh is pleased to call my besetting sin; sheltered under care and coddling so great that the very winds of heaven are not suffered to visit my face too roughly!” was the impetuous interruption of Henry Ashley. “Come! bring it all out. Don’t, from motives of delicacy, keep in any of my faults, virtues, or advantages!”

  “I can understand, I say, why you are unwilling to break through the reserve of your home habits,” William calmly continued. “But, if you did so, you might no longer have to complain of the want of an object in life.”

  At this moment they came in view of William’s house. Mrs. Halliburton happened to be at one of the windows. William nodded his greeting, and Henry raised his hat. Presently Henry began again.

  “Pray, do you join the town in its gratuitous opinion that Henry Ashley, of all in it, is the proudest amid the proud?”

  “I do not find you proud,” said William.

  “You! As far as you and I are concerned, I think the boot might be on the other leg. You might set up for being proud over me.”

  William could not help laughing. “Putting joking aside, my opinion is, Henry, that your shyness and sensitiveness are in fault; not your pride. It is your reserved manner alone which has caused Helstonleigh to take up the impression that you are unduly proud.”

  “Right, old fellow!” returned Henry in emphatic tones. “If you knew how far I and pride stand apart — but let it pass.”

  Arrived at the entrance to Mr. Ashley’s, William threw open the gate for Henry, retreating himself. “I must go home first, Henry. I won’t be a quarter of an hour.”

  Henry looked cross. “Why on earth, then, did you not go in as we passed? What was the use of your coming up here to go back again?”

  “I thought my arm was helping you.”

  “So it was. But — there! don’t be an hour.”

  As William walked rapidly back, he met Mrs. Ashley’s carriage. She and Mary were in it. Mrs. Ashley nodded as he raised his hat, and Mary glanced at him with a smile and a heightened colour. She had grown up to excessive beauty.

  A few moments, and William met beauty of another style — Anna Lynn. Her cheeks were the flushed, dimpled cheeks of her childhood; the same sky-blue eyes gleaming from between their long dark lashes; the same profusion of silky, brown hair; the same ge
ntle, sweetly modest manners. William stopped to shake hands with her.

  “Out alone, Anna?”

  “I am on my way to take tea with Mary Ashley.”

  “Are you? We shall meet there, then.”

  “That will be pleasant. Fare thee well for the present, William.”

  She continued her way. William ran in home, and to his chamber. Dressing himself hastily, he went to the room where his mother sat, and stood before her.

  “Does my coat fit me, mother?”

  “Why, where are you going?” she asked.

  “To Mrs. Ashley’s. I have put on my new coat. Does it do? It seems all right” — throwing up his arms.

  “Yes, it fits you exactly. I think you are growing a dandy. Go along. I must not look at you too long.”

  “Why not?” he asked in surprise.

  “In case I grow proud of my eldest son. And I would rather be proud of his goodness than of his looks.”

  William laughingly gave his mother a farewell kiss. “Tell Gar I am sorry he will not have me at his elbow this evening, to find fault with his Greek. Good-bye, mother dear.”

  In truth, there was something remarkably noble in William Halliburton’s appearance. As he entered Mrs. Ashley’s drawing-room, the fact seemed to strike upon Henry with unusual force, who greeted him from his distant sofa.

  “So that’s what you went back for! — to turn yourself into a buck!” he called out as William approached him. “As if you were not well enough before! Did you dress for me, pray?”

  “For you!” laughed William. “That’s good!”

  “In saying ‘me,’ I include the family,” returned Henry quaintly. “There’s no one else to dress for.”

  “Yes, there is. There’s Anna Lynn.”

  Now, in good truth, William had no covert meaning in giving this answer. The words rose to his lips, and he spoke them lightly. Perhaps he could have given a very different one, had he been compelled to speak out the inmost feeling of his heart. Strange, however, was the effect on Henry Ashley. He grasped William’s arm with emotion, and pulled his face down to him as he lay.

  “What do you say? What do you mean?”