by Ellen Wood
“If Henry can bear you with him, he might bear me.”
“You know what his whims and fancies are, when he is suffering.”
“Is there not a particularly good understanding between you and Henry?” she pointedly asked.
“Yes; we understand each other perfectly.”
“Well, then, tell me — what is it that is the matter with him this time? I do not like to say so to mamma, because she might call me fanciful, but it appears to me that Henry’s illness is more on the mind than on the body.”
William made no reply.
“And yet, I cannot imagine it possible for Henry to have picked up any annoyance or grief,” resumed Mary. “How can he have done so? He is not like one who goes out into the world — who has to meet with cares and cheeks. You do not speak,” she added, looking at William. “Is it that you will not tell me? or do you know nothing?”
William lowered his voice. “I can only say that, should there be anything of the sort you mention, the kinder course for Henry — indeed the only course — will be, not to allow him to perceive that you suspect it. Conceal the suspicion both from him and from others. Remember his excessive sensitiveness. When he sees cause to hide his feelings, it would be almost death to him to have them scrutinized.”
“I think you must be in his full confidence,” observed Mary, looking at William.
“Pretty well so,” he answered, with a passing smile.
“Then, if he has any secret grief, will you try and soothe it to him?”
“With all my best endeavours,” earnestly spoke William. But there was not the least apparent necessity for his taking Mary Ashley’s hand between his own, and pressing it there while he said it, any more than there was necessity for that vivid blush of hers, as she turned into the drawing-room.
But you must be anxious to hear of Anna Lynn. Poor Anna! who had fallen so terribly into the black books of the town, without really very much deserving it. It was a most unlucky contretemps, having been locked out; it was a still more unfortunate sequel, having to confess to it at the trial. She was not a pattern of goodness, it must be confessed: had not yet attained to that perfect model, which expects, as of a right, a niche in the saintly calendar. She was reprehensibly vain; she delighted in plaguing Patience; and she took to running out into the field, when it had been far better that she had remained at home. That running out entailed deceit and some stories: but it entailed nothing worse, and Helstonleigh need not have been so very severe in its judgment.
Never had there been a more forcible illustration of the old saying, “Give a dog a bad name, and hang him,” than in this instance. When William Halliburton had told Anna that Herbert Dare was not a good man, and did not bear a good name, he had told her the strict truth. For that very reason a secret intimacy with him was undesirable, however innocent it might be, however innocent it was, in itself: and for that very reason did Helstonleigh look at it through clouded spectacles. Had she been locked out all night, instead of half a one, with some one in better odour, Helstonleigh had not set up its scornful crest. It is quite impossible to tell you what Herbert Dare had done, to have such a burden on his back as people seemed inclined to lay there. Perhaps they did not know themselves. Some accused him of one thing, some of another; ill reports never lose by carrying: the two cats on the tiles, you know, were magnified into a hundred. No one is as black as he is painted — there’s a saying to that effect — neither, I dare say, was Herbert Dare. At any rate — and that is what we have to do with — he was not so in this particular instance. He was as vexed at the locking out as any one else could have been; and he did the best (save one thing) that he could for Anna, under the circumstances, and got her in again. The only proper thing to have done, was to knock up Hester. He had wished to do it, but had yielded to Anna’s entreaties, that were born of fear.
Not a soul seemed to cast so much as a good word or a charitable thought to him in the matter. Did he deserve none? However thoughtless or reprehensible his conduct was, in drawing Anna into those field excursions, when the explosion came, he met it as a gentleman. Many a one, more renowned for the cardinal graces than was Herbert Dare, might have spoken out at once, and cleared himself at the expense of making known Anna’s unlucky escapade. Not so he. A doubt may have been upon him that were it betrayed Helstonleigh might cast a taint on her fair name: and he strove to save it. He suffered the brand of a murderer to be attached to him — he languished for many weeks in prison as a criminal — all to save it. He all but went to the scaffold to save it. He might have called Anna and Hester Dell forward at the inquest, at the preliminary examination before the magistrates, and thus have cleared himself; but he would not do so. Whilst there was a chance of his innocence being brought to light in any other manner, he would not call on Anna. He allowed the odium to settle upon his own head. He went to prison, hoping that he should be cleared in some other way. There was a generous, chivalric feeling in this, which Helstonleigh could not understand when emanating from Herbert Dare, and they declined to give him credit for it. They preferred to look at the affair altogether in a different light, and to lavish hard names upon it. Every soul was alike: there was no exception: Samuel Lynn, and all else in Helstonleigh. They caught the epidemic, I say, one from another.
CHAPTER XIII.
A RAY OF LIGHT.
The first sharpness of the edge worn off, Anna grew cross. She did not see why every one should be blaming her. What had so sadly prostrated herself was the shame of having to appear before the court; to stand in it and give her evidence. The excitement, the shame, combined with the terrifying illness of her father, brought on, as Hester told her, through her, had sent her into a wild state of contrition and alarm. Little wonder that she wished herself dead! The mood passed away as the days went on, and Anna became tolerably herself again. When Friends called at the house to inquire after or to see her father, she ran and hid herself in her room, fearful lest a lecture on those field recreations might be delivered to her gratuitously. She shunned Patience, too, as much as she could. Patience had grown cold and silent; and Anna rather liked the change.
She sat for the most part in her father’s room, never moving from his bedside, unless disturbed from it; never speaking; eating only when food was placed before her. Anna was in grievous fear lest a public reprimand should be in store for her, delivered at meeting on First Day: but she saw no reason why every one should continue to be cross with her at home.
She happened to be alone with her father when he first recovered consciousness. Some fifteen days had elapsed since the trial. But for the fact of her being with him, a difficulty might have been experienced to get her there. She dreaded his anger, his reproach, more than anything. So long as he lay without his senses, knowing her not, so long was she content to sit, watching. She was seated by the bedside in her usual listless attitude, head and eyes cast down, when her father’s hand, not the one affected, was suddenly lifted and laid upon hers, which rested on the counterpane. Startled, Anna turned her gaze upon him, and she saw that his intellects were restored. With a suppressed cry of dismay she would have flown away, but he clasped his fingers round hers.
“Anna!”
She sank down on her knees, shaking as if with ague, and buried her face in the clothes. Samuel Lynn stretched forth his hand and put it on her head.
“Thou art my own child, Anna; thy mother left thee to me for good and for ill; and I will stand by thee in thy sorrow.”
She burst into a storm of hysterical tears. He let it have its course; he drew her wet face to his and kissed it; he talked to her soothingly, never speaking a single word of reproach; and Anna overcame her fear and her sobs. She knelt down by the bed still, and let her cheek rest on the counterpane.
“It has nearly killed me,” he murmured, after a while. “But I pray for life: I will struggle hard to live, that thee mayst have one protector. Friends and foes may cast reproach to thee, but I will not.”
“Why should they c
ast reproach to me, father?” returned Anna, with a little spice of resentment. “I have not harmed them.”
“No, child; thee hast not; only thyself. I will help thee to bear the reproach. Thou art my own child.”
“But there’s nothing for them to reproach me with,” she reiterated, her face buried deeper in the counterpane. “It was not pleasant to stand there; but it is over. And they need not reflect upon me for it.”
“What is over? To stand where?” he asked.
“At the Guildhall, on the trial.”
“It is not that that people will reproach thee with, Anna. It was not a nice thing for thee; but that, in itself, brings no reproach.”
Anna lifted her head wonderingly. “What does, then?” she uttered.
He did not answer. He only closed his eyes, a deep groan bursting from the very depths of his heart. It came into Anna’s mind that he must be thinking of her previous acquaintance with Herbert Dare; of her stolen meetings in the field by twilight.
“Oh, father, don’t thee be angry with me!” she implored, the tears streaming from her eyes. “It was no harm; it was not indeed. Thee mightst have been present always, for all the harm there was, and I wish thee hadst been. Why should thee think anger of it? There was no more harm in my talking with him now and then in the field, than there was in my talking with him in Margaret Ashley’s drawing-room.”
Something in the simple words, in the tone, in the manner altogether, caused the Quaker’s heart to leap within him. Had he been making a molehill into a mountain? Surely, yes! But what else he would have said or done, what questions asked, cannot be known, for they were interrupted by a visit from William Halliburton. Anna stole away.
William was full of hearty congratulation on the visible improvement — the, so far, restoration to health. The Quaker murmured some half-inarticulate words, indicating something to the effect that he might not have been ill, but for taking up a worse view of the case than, as he believed now, it really merited.
William leaned over him; a glad look in his eye; a glad sound in his low voice.
“My mother has been telling Patience so to-day. She, my mother, is convinced now that very exaggerated blame was cast upon Anna. It was foolish of her, of course, to fall into the habit of running to the field; but the locking out might have happened to anyone. My mother told me this not half an hour ago. She has seen and talked to Anna frequently this last day or two, and has drawn her own positive deductions. My mother is vexed with herself for having fallen into the popular condemnation.”
“Ay!” uttered Samuel Lynn. “There is condemnation abroad, then? I thought there was.”
“People will come to their senses in good time,” was William’s answer. “Never doubt it.”
The Quaker raised his feeble hand, and laid it upon William’s. “The Ashleys — have they blamed her?”
“I fear they have,” was the only reply he could make, in his strict truth.
“Then, William, thee go to them. Go to them now, and set them right.”
He was already going, for he was engaged to the Ashleys that evening. Between Henry Ashley, the men at East’s, and his own studies, which he would not wholly neglect, William’s evenings had a tolerably busy time of it. He had assumed Samuel Lynn’s place in the manufactory by Mr. Ashley’s orders, head of all things, under the master. Cyril ground his teeth at this; he looked upon it as a slight to himself; but Cyril had no power to alter it.
William found Mr. and Mrs. Ashley alone. Mary was out. He sat with them for a few minutes, talking of Anna, and then rose to go to Henry. “How is he this evening?” he inquired.
“Ill and very fractious,” was Mr. Ashley’s reply. “William, you have great influence over him. I wish you could persuade him to give way less. He is not ill enough, so far as we can see, to keep his room; but we cannot get him out of it.”
Henry was in one of his depressed moods, excessively dispirited and irritable. “Oh! so you have come!” he burst forth as William entered. “I should be ashamed to neglect a sick fellow as you neglect me. If I were well and strong, and you ill, you would find it different.”
“I know I am late,” acknowledged William. “Samuel Lynn took up a little of my time; and I have been sitting some minutes in the drawing-room.”
“Of course!” was the fractious answer. “Any one before me.”
“Samuel Lynn is a great deal better,” continued William. “His mind is restored.”
Henry received the news ungraciously, making no rejoinder; but his side was twitching with pain. “How is she?” he asked. “Is the shame fretting out her life?”
“Not at all. She is very well. As to shame — as you call it — I believe she has not taken much to herself.”
“It will kill her: you’ll see. The sooner the better for her I should say.”
William sat down on the edge of the sofa, on which the invalid was lying. “Henry, I would set you right upon a point, if I thought it would be expedient to do so. You do go into fits of excitement so great, that it is dangerous to speak.”
“Tell out anything you have to tell. Tell me, if you choose, that the house is on fire, and I must be pitched out of window to escape it. It would make no impression upon me. My fits of excitement have passed away with Anna Lynn.”
“My news relates to Anna.”
“What if it does? She has passed away for me.”
“Helstonleigh, in its usual hasty fashion of jumping to conclusions, has jumped to a false one,” continued William. “There have been no grounds for the great blame cast to Anna; except in the minds of a charitable public.”
“A fact?” asked Henry, after a pause.
“There’s not a shade of doubt about it.”
He received the answer with equanimity; it may be said, with apathy. And turning on his couch, he drew the cover over him, repeating the words previously spoken: “She has passed away for me.”
CHAPTER XIV.
MR. DELVES ON HIS BEAM ENDS.
Samuel Lynn grew better, and Mr. Ashley, in his considerate kindness, proposed that he should reside abroad for a few months in the neighbourhood of Annonay, to watch the skin market, and pick up skins that would be suitable for their use. Anna and Patience were to accompany him. Anna had somewhat regained her footing in the good graces of the gossipers. That she did so, was partly owing to the indignant defence of her, entered upon by Herbert Dare. Herbert did behave well in this case, and he must have his due. Upon his return from London, whither he had gone soon after the termination of the trial, remaining away a week or two, he found what a very charitable ovation Helstonleigh was bestowing upon Anna Lynn. He met it with a storm of indignation; he bade them think as badly of him as they chose; believe him a second Burke if they liked; but to keep their mistaken tongues off Anna. What with one thing and another, some of the scandal-mongers did begin to think they had been too hasty, and withdrew their censure. Some (as a matter of course) preferred to doubt still; and opinions remained divided.
Helstonleigh took up the gossip on another score — that of Mr. Ashley’s sending Samuel Lynn abroad, as his skin-buyer, for an indefinite period. “A famous trade Ashley must be doing, to go to that expense!” grumbled some of the envious manufacturers. True; he had a famous trade. And if he had not had one, he might have sent him all the same. Helstonleigh never knew the benevolence of Thomas Ashley’s heart. The journey was fully decided upon; and Samuel Lynn had an application from a member of his own persuasion, to rent his house, furnished, for the term of his absence. He was glad to accept the accommodation.
But, before Mr. Lynn and his family started, Helstonleigh was fated to sustain another loss, in the person of Herbert Dare. Herbert contrived to get some sort of mission entrusted to him abroad, and made rather a summary exit from Helstonleigh to enter upon it. A friend of Herbert’s, who had gone over to live in Holland, and with whom he was in frequent correspondence, wrote and offered him a situation in a merchant’s house in Rotterdam, as “Eng
lish clerk.” The offer came in answer to a hint, or perhaps more than a hint, from Herbert, that a year or two’s sojourn abroad would be acceptable to him. He would receive a good salary, if he proved himself equal to the duties, the information stated, and might rise in it, if he chose to remain. Herbert wrote off-hand to secure it, and then told his father what he had done.
“Enter a house at Rotterdam, as English clerk!” repeated Mr. Dare, unable to credit his own ears. “You a clerk!”
“What am I to do?” asked Herbert. “Since I came out of there,” pointing in the direction of the county prison, “claims have thickened upon me. I do owe a good deal, and that’s a fact — what with my own scores, and that for which I am liable for — for poor Anthony. People won’t wait much longer; and I have no fancy to try the debtor’s side of the prison.”
They were standing in the front room of the office. Mr. Dare’s business appeared to be considerably falling off, and the office had often leisure on its hands now. Of the two clerks kept, one had holiday, the other was out. Somehow, what with one untoward thing and another, people were growing shy of the Dares. Mr. Dare leaned against the corner of the window-frame, watching the passers-by, his hands in his pockets, and a blank look on his face.
“You say you can’t help me, sir?” Herbert continued.
“You know I can’t; sufficiently to do any good,” returned Mr. Dare. “I am too much pressed for money myself. Look at the expenses attending the trial: and I was embarrassed enough before. I cannot help you.”
“It seems to me, too, that you want me gone from here.”
“I have not said so,” curtly responded Mr. Dare.
“You told me the other day that it was my presence in the office which scared clients from it.”
Mr. Dare could not deny the fact. He had said it. What’s more, he had thought it; and did so still. “I cannot tell what else it is that is keeping clients away,” he rejoined. “We have not had a dozen in since the trial.”
