Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles», sayfa 38

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 cast 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 "English 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."

"It is a slack season of the year."

"Maybe," shortly answered Mr. Dare. "Slack as it is, there's some business astir, but people are going elsewhere to get it done; those, too, who have never for years been near anyone but us. The truth is, Herbert, you fell into bad odour with the town on the day of the trial; and that you must know. Though acquitted of the murder, all sorts of other things were laid to your charge. Quaker Lynn's stroke amongst the rest."

"Carping sinners!" ejaculated Herbert.

"And I suppose it turned people against the office," continued Mr. Dare. "My belief is, they won't come back again as long as you are in it."

"That's precisely what I meant you had hinted to me" said Herbert. "Therefore, I thought I had better leave it. Pattison says he can get me this berth, and I should like to try it."

"You'll not like to turn merchant's clerk," repeated Mr. Dare with emphasis.

"I shall like it better than being nailed for debt here," somewhat coarsely answered Herbert. "It is not so agreeable at home now, especially in this office, that I should cry to stay in it. You have changed, sir, amongst the rest: many a day through, you don't give me a civil word."

Again Mr. Dare felt that he had changed to Herbert. When he found that he—Herbert—might have cleared himself at first from the terrible accusation of fratricide, had he so chosen, instead of allowing the obloquy to rest upon himself and his family for so long a period, he had become bitterly angry. Mrs. Dare and the whole family joined in the feeling, and Herbert suffered.

"As to civility, Herbert, I must first get over the soreness left by your conduct. You acted very badly in allowing the case to go on to trial. If you had no objection to sit down quietly under the crime yourself, you had no right to throw the disgrace and expense upon your family."

"If it were to come over again, I would not do so," acknowledged Herbert. "I thought then I was acting for the best."

"Pshaw!" was the peevish ejaculation of Mr. Dare.

"Altogether," resumed Herbert, "I think I had better go away. After a time, something or other may turn up to make things smoother here, and then I can come home again; unless I find a better opening abroad. I may do so; and I believe I shall like living there."

"Very well," said Mr. Dare, after some minutes' silence. "It may be for the best. At all events, it will give time for things here to blow over. If you don't find it what you like, you can only return."

"I shall be sure not to return, unless I can square up some of my liabilities here," returned Herbert. "You must help me to get there, sir."

"What do you want?" asked Mr. Dare.

"Fifty pounds."

"I can't do it, Herbert," was the prompt answer.

"I must have it if I am to go," was Herbert's firm reply. "There are two or three trifles here which I will not leave unsettled, and I cannot go over there with pockets absolutely empty. Fifty pounds is not so great a sum, sir, to pay to get rid of me."

Old Anthony Dare knit his brow in perplexity. He supposed he must furnish the money, though he did not in the least see how it was to be done.

The matter settled, Herbert took his hat and went out. The first object his eyes alighted on outside was Sergeant Delves. That worthy, pacing through the town, had brought himself to an anchor opposite the office of Mr. Dare, and was regarding it, lost in a brown study. The sergeant was in a state of discomfiture, touching the affair of the late Anthony Dare. He had lost no time in "looking after" Miss Caroline Mason, as he had promised himself; and the sequence had been—defeat. Without any open stir on the part of the police—without allowing Caroline herself to know that she was doubted—the sergeant contrived to put himself in full possession of her movements on that night. The result proved that she must be exempt from the suspicion; or, as the sergeant expressed it, "was out of the hole;" and that gentleman remained at fault again.

Herbert crossed over to him. "What are you looking at, Delves?"

"I wasn't looking at anything in particular," was the answer. "Coming in sight of your office naturally brought my thoughts back to that unsatisfactory business. I never was so baffled before."

"It is very strange who it could have been," observed Herbert. "I often think of it."

"Never so baffled before," continued the sergeant, as if there had been no interruption to his own words. "I could almost have been upon oath at the time, that the murderer was in the house; hadn't left it. And yet–"

"You could have been upon oath that it was I," interrupted Herbert.

"That's true. I could. But you had yourself chiefly to thank for it, Mr. Herbert Dare, through making a mystery of your movements that night. After you were cleared, my mind turned to that girl; and that, I found, was no go."

"What girl?" interrupted Herbert.

"The one in Honey Fair: your brother Anthony's old sweetheart. It wasn't her, though; I have proofs. Charlotte East had her at her house that evening, and kept her till twelve o'clock, when she went home to bed in her garret. Charlotte's going to try to make something of her again. And now I am baffled, and I don't deny it."

"To suspect any girl is ridiculous," observed Herbert Dare. "No girl, it is to be hoped, would possess the courage or the strength to accomplish such a deed as that."

"You don't know 'em as we police do," nodded the sergeant. "I was asking your father only a day or two ago, whether he could make sure of his servants, that they had not been in it–"

"Of our servants?" interrupted Herbert, in surprise. "What an idea!"

"Well, I have gone round to my old opinion—that it was some one in the house," returned the sergeant. "But it seems the servants are all on the square. I can't make it out."

"Why on earth should you suppose it to be any one in the house?" questioned Herbert, in considerable wonderment.

"Because I do," was the answer. "We police see and note down what others pass over. There was odds and ends of things at the time that made us infer it; and I can't get it out of my mind."

"It is an impossibility that it could have been a resident of the house," dissented Herbert. "Every one in it is above suspicion."

"Who do you fancy it might have been?" asked the sergeant, abruptly, almost as if he wished to surprise Herbert out of an incautious answer.

But Herbert had nothing to tell him; no suspicion was on his mind to be surprised out of. "If I could fancy it was, or might be, any particular individual, I should come to you and say so, without asking," he replied. "I am as much at fault as you can be. Anthony may have made slight enemies in the town, what with his debts and his temper, and one thing or another; but no enemies of that terrible nature—capable of killing him. I wish I could see cause for a reasonable suspicion," he added with emotion. "I would give my right arm"—stretching it out—"to solve the mystery. As well for my sake as for my dead brother's."

"Well, all I can say is, that I am down on my beam ends," concluded the sergeant.

Meanwhile Henry Ashley was getting little better. He had fallen into a state of utter prostration. Mental anguish had told upon him physically, and his bodily weakness was no doubt great: but he made no effort to rouse himself. He would lie for hours, his eyes half-closed, noticing no one. The medical men said they had seen nothing like it, and Mr. and Mrs. Ashley grew alarmed. The only one to remonstrate with him—he alone held the key to its cause—was William Halliburton.

William's influence over him was very great: he yielded to no one, not even to his father, as he would yield to William. Henry gave the reins to his tongue, and said all sorts of irritating things to William, as he did to every one else. It only masked the deep affection, the lasting friendship, which had taken possession of his heart for William.

"Let me be; let me be," he said to William one day, in answer to a remonstrance that he should rouse himself. "I told you that my life had passed out with her."

"But your life has not passed out with her," argued William; "your life is in you, just as much as it ever was. And it is your duty to make some use of your life; not to let it run to waste—as you are doing."

"It does not affect you," was the tart reply.

"It does very much affect me. I am grieved to see you hug your pain, instead of shaking it off; vexed to think that a man should so bury his days. It is an unfortunate thing that no one is cognizant of this matter but myself."

"Is it though!" retorted Henry. "You are a fine Job's comforter!"

"Yes, it is. Were it known to those about you, you would not for shame lie here, and indulge regrets after an imprudent and silly girl."

Henry flashed an angry glance at him from his soft dark eyes. "Take care, my good fellow! I can stand some things; but I don't stand all."

"An imprudent, silly girl, who does not care a rush for you," emphatically repeated William: "whose wild and ill-judged affection is given to another. Was ever infatuation like unto yours!"

"Have a care, I tell you!" burst forth Henry. "By what right do you say these things to me?"

"I say them for your good—and I intend that you should feel them. When a surgeon's knife probes a wound, the patient groans and winces; but it is done to cure him."

"You are a man of eloquence!" sarcastically rejoined Henry. "Pity but you could flourish at the Bar, and take the anticipated shine out of Frank!"

"Answer me one plain question, Henry. Do you still indulge a hope towards Anna Lynn?—to her becoming your wife?"

With a shriek of anger, Henry caught up his slipper, and sent it flying through the air at William's head.

"What's that for?" equably demanded William, dodging his head out of the way.

"How dare you hint at such a thing? I told you there were some things I wouldn't stand. Is it fitting that one who has figured in such an escapade should be made the wife of an Ashley? If we were left by our two selves upon the earth, all else gone dead and out of it, I wouldn't marry her."

"Precisely so. I have judged you rightly. Then, under this state of things, what in the name of fortune is the use of your lying here and thinking about her?"

"I don't think about her," fractiously returned Henry. "You are always fancying things."

"You do think about her. I can see that you do. I should be above it," quaintly continued William.

"Go and pick up my slipper."

"Will you come down to tea this evening?"

"No, I won't. You come here and preach up this morality, or divinity, or whatever you may please to term it, to me; but, wait and see how you'd act, if you should ever get struck on the keen edge as I have been."

"Come! let me help you up."

"Don't bother. I am not going to get up. I–"

At that moment, Mr. Ashley opened the door. His errand likewise was to induce Henry to leave his sofa and his room, and join them below. Henry could not be brought to comply.

"No. I have just told William. I cannot think why he did not go back and say so. He only stops here to worry me. There! get along, William; and come back when you have swallowed enough tea."

Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's arm, as they walked together along the corridor, and brought him to a halt. "What is this illness of Henry's? There is some secret connected with it, I am sure, and you are cognizant of it. I must know what it is."

Mr. Ashley's tone was a decided one; his manner firm. William made no reply.

"Tell me what it is, William."

"I cannot," said William. "Certainly not without Henry's permission; and I do not think he will give it. If it were my secret, sir, instead of his, I would tell it at your bidding."

"Is it of the mind or the body?"

"The mind. I think the worst is over. Do not speak to him about it, I pray you, sir."

"William, is it anything that can be remedied? By money?—by any means at command?"

"It can never be remedied," replied William earnestly, "Were the whole world brought to bear upon it, it could do nothing. Time and his own good sense must effect the cure."

"Then I may as well not ask about it if I cannot aid. You are fully in his confidence."

"Yes. And all that another can do, I am doing. We have a daily battle. I want to rouse him out of his apathy."

"Oh, that you could!" aspirated Mr. Ashley.