Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles», sayfa 41

There was a long pause. Anthony Dare probably was feeling the kindness, in spite of himself.

"What have you had to complain of in him since?" he asked.

"Not of any more robbery: but of his general conduct a great deal. He is deceitful: he has appeared here in the state I have hinted to you; he is incorrigibly idle. He probably fancies, because I do not take a very active part in the management of my business and my workpeople, that I sit here with my eyes shut, seeing little and knowing less of what goes on around me. He is essentially mistaken: I am cognizant of all; as much so, or nearly as much so, as Samuel Lynn would be, were he at his post again. Look at his sorting of gloves, for instance—the very thing about which the disturbance occurred just now. Cyril can sort if he pleases; he is as capable of sorting them properly as I should be; perhaps more so: but he does not do it; and every dozen he attempts to make up has to be done over again. In point of fact, he has been of no real use here; for nothing that he attempts to do will he do well. A fitting hand to fill the post of manager! Taking all these facts into consideration," added the master, "you will not be surprised that an offer of marriage from Cyril Dare to my daughter bears an appearance little removed from insult."

So it was all known to Mr. Ashley, and there was an end of Cyril and his hopes! It may be said of his prospects.

"What is he to do now?" broke from the lips of Anthony Dare.

"Indeed I do not know. Unless he changes his habits, he will do no good at anything."

"Won't you take him back again?"

"No," unequivocally pronounced Mr. Ashley. "He has left of his own accord, and he must abide by it. Stay—hear me out. Were I to allow him to return, he would not remain here a week; I am certain of it. That Cyril has been acting a part, to beguile me of my favour with regard to those foolish hopes of his, there is no doubt. The hopes gone, he would not keep up even the semblance of good conduct; neither would he submit to the rule of William Halliburton. It is best as it is; he is gone, and he cannot return. My opinion is, that were the offer of return made to him, he would reject it."

Mr. Dare's opinion was not far different, although he had pleaded for the concession.

"Then you will not make him your partner?" he resumed.

"Mr. Dare!"

"I suppose you will take in Halliburton?"

"It is very probable. Whoever I take must be a man of probity and honour: and a gentleman," he added, with a stress upon the word. "William Halliburton is all that."

Anthony Dare rose with a groan. He could contend no longer.

"My sons have been my bane," he uttered from between his bloodless lips. "I wonder, sometimes, whether they were born bad."

"No," said Thomas Ashley. "The badness has come with their training."

CHAPTER XVIII.
"CALLED."

And now there occurs another gap in the story—a gap of years, and we have entered on the third and last part.

The patient well-doing of the Halliburtons was approaching fruition, their struggles were well-nigh over, and they were ready to play their part, for success or for failure, in the great drama of life. Jane's troubles were at an end.

Did you ever remark how some things, when they draw towards a close, seem to advance with rapid strides, unlike the slow, crawling pace that characterized their beginning? Life: in its childhood, its youth, nay, in its middle age, how slowly it seems to pass! how protracted its distinctive periods appear to be! But when old age approaches then time moves with giant strides. Undertake a work, whether of the hands or the head, very, very slow does the progress appear to be, until it is far advanced; and then the conclusion is attained fast and imperceptibly. Thus does it seem to be in the history of the young Halliburtons. To them the race may have been tedious, the labour as hard at the close of their preparatory career as at its commencement; but not so to those who were watching them.

There has not been space to trace the life of Frank and Gar at the Universities, to record word by word how they bore onward with unflinching perseverance, looking towards the goal in view. Great praise was due to them; and they won it from those who knew what hard work meant. Patiently and steadily had they laboured on, making of themselves sound and brilliant scholars, resisting temptations that lead so many astray, and bearing the slights and mortifications incidental to their subordinate position. "I'll take it all out, when I am Lord Chancellor of England," Frank would say, in his cheery way. Of course Frank had always intended to go up for honours; and of course Frank gained them. He went to Oxford as a humble servitor, and he left it a man of note. Francis Halliburton had obtained a double-first, and gained his fellowship.

He had entered himself a student of the Middle Temple long before his college career was over. The expenses of qualifying for the Bar are considerable, and Frank's fellowship did not suffice for all. He procured literary employment: writing a leading article for one of the daily papers, and contributing to sundry reviews.

Gar, too, had quitted Cambridge with unusual credit, though he was not senior wrangler. No one but Gar, perhaps, knew that he had aspired to that proud distinction, so it did not signify. A more solid scholar, or one with a higher character in the best sense of the term, never left the University to be ordained by the Bishop of Helstonleigh—or by any other prelate on the bench. He had a choice of a title to orders. His uncle, the Reverend Francis Tait—who, like his father before him, had, after many years' service, obtained a living—had offered Gar his title. But a clergyman in the county of Helstonleigh had also offered him one, and Gar, thanking his uncle, chose Helstonleigh.

William's dream of ambition was fulfilled; the dream which he had not indulged; for it had seemed all too high and vague for possibility. He was Mr. Ashley's partner. The great firm in Helstonleigh was Ashley and Halliburton.

Ashley and Halliburton! And the event had been so gradually, so naturally led up to, that Helstonleigh was not surprised when it was announced. Of course William received as yet only a small share of the profits: how small or how large was not known. Helstonleigh racked its curiosity to learn particulars, and racked it in vain. One fact was assumed beyond doubt: that a portion of the profits was secured to Henry in the event of Mr. Ashley's death.

William was now virtually sole master of the business. Mr. Ashley had partially retired from the manufactory: at least, his visits to it were of occurrence so rare as almost to amount to retirement. Samuel Lynn was manager, as of old; William had assumed Mr. Ashley's place and desk in the counting-house—as master. Mr. Ashley had purchased an estate, Deoffam Hall, some two to three miles distant from the city, close to the little village of Deoffam: and there he and his family had gone to reside. He retained his old house in the London Road, and they would visit it occasionally, and pass a week there. The change of abode did not appear to give unqualified gratification to Henry Ashley. He had become so attached to William that he could not bear to be far away from him. In the old home William's visits had been daily; or rather, nightly: in this he did see him so often. William contrived to go over twice or thrice a week; but that did not appear to be often enough for Henry. Mary Ashley was not married; to the surprise of Helstonleigh: but Mary somewhat obstinately refused to leave the paternal home. William and his mother lived on together in the old house. But they were alone now: for he could afford to keep up its expenses, and he had insisted upon doing so; insisted that she who had worked so hard for them, should have rest, now they could work for her.

Yes, they had all worked; worked on for the end, and gained it. Looking back, Jane wondered how she had struggled on. It seemed now next to an impossibility that she could have done it. Verily and truly she believed that God alone had borne her up. Had it been a foreshadowing of what was to come, when her father, years back, had warned her, on the very day of her marriage with Mr. Halliburton had been decided, that it might bring many troubles upon her? Perhaps so. One thing was certain: that it had brought them, and in no common degree. But the troubles were surmounted now: and Jane's boys were turned out just as well as though she had had thousands a year to bring them up upon. Perhaps better.

Perhaps better! How full of force is the suggestion! I wonder if no one will let this history of the young Halliburtons read a lesson to them? Many a student, used worse by fortune and the world than he thinks he deserves, might take it to himself with profit. Do not let it be flung away as a fancy picture; endeavour to make it your reality. A career, worked out as theirs was, insures success as a necessity. "Ah!" you may think, "I am poor; I can't hope to achieve such things." Poor! What were they? What's that you say? "There are so many difficulties in the way!" Quite true; there are difficulties in the way of attaining most things worth having; but they are only placed there to be overcome. Like the hillocks and stumbling-blocks in that dream that came to Mr. Halliburton when he was dying, they are placed there to be subdued, not to be shunned in fear, or turned from in idleness. Whatever may be your object in life, work on for it. Be you heir to a dukedom, or be your heritage that of daily toil, an object you must have: a man who has none is the most miserable being on the face of the earth. Bear manfully onward and attain the prize. Toil may be hard, but it will grow lighter as you advance; impediments may be disheartening, but they are not insurmountable; privations may be painful, but you are working on to plenty; temptations to indolence, to flagging, to that many-headed monster, sin, may be pulling at you; but they will not stir you from your path an inch, unless you choose to let them do so. Only be resolute; only regard trustingly the end, and labour for it; and it will surely come. It may look in the distance so far off that the very hope of attaining it seems but a chimera. Never mind; bear hopefully on, and the distance will lessen palpably with every step. No real good was ever attained to in this world without working for it. No real good, as I honestly believe, was ever gained, unless God's blessing went with the endeavours to attain it. Make a friend of God. Do that, and fight your way on, doing your duty, and you will find the goal: as the sons of Mrs. Halliburton did.

Jane was sitting alone one afternoon in her parlour. She was little changed. None, looking at her, could believe her old enough to be the mother of those three great men, her sons. Not that Gar was particularly great; he was only of middle height. Jane wore a shaded silk dress; and her hair looked as smooth and abundant as in the old days of her girlhood. It was remarkable how little her past troubles had told upon her good looks; how little she was aging.

She saw the postman come to the door, and Dobbs brought in a letter. "It's Mr. Frank's writing," growled Dobbs.

Jane opened it, and found that Frank had been "called." Half his care was over.

"My darling Mother,—I am made a barrister at last. I really am; and I beg you will all receive the announcement with appropriate awe and deference. I was called to-day: and I intend to have a photograph taken of myself in my wig and gown, and send it down to you as a confirmation of the fact. When you see the guy the wig makes of me, you will say you never saw an ugly man before. Tell Dobbs so; it will gladden her heart: don't you remember how she used to assure us, when boys, that we ought to be put under a glass case, as three ultra specimens of ugliness?

"I shall get on now, dearest mother. It may be a little up-hill work at first: but there's no fear. A first-rate law firm has promised me some briefs: and one of these speedy days I shall inevitably take the ears of some court by storm—the jury struck into themselves with the learned counsel's astounding eloquence, and the bar dumb—and then my fortune's made. I need not tell you what circuit I shall patronize, or in how short a time afterwards I intend to be leading it: but I will tell you that my first object in life, when I am up in the world, shall be the ease and comfort of my dear mother. William is not going to do everything, and have you all to himself.

"Talking about William, ask him if he cannot get up some chance litigation, that I may have the honour of appearing for him next assizes. I'll do it all free, gratis, for nothing. Ever your own son,

"Frank."

Jane started up from her chair at the news, almost as a glad child. Who could she find to share it with her? She ran into the next house to Patience. Patience limped a little in her walk still; she would limp always. Anna, in her sober Quaker's cap, the border resting on her fair forehead, looked up from her drawing, and Jane told them the news, and read the letter.

"That is nice," said Patience. "It must be a weight off thy mind."

"I don't know that it is that," replied Jane. "I have never doubted his success. I don't doubt it still. But I am very glad."

"I wish I had a cause to try," cried Anna, who had recovered all her old spirits and her love of chatter. "I would let Frank plead it for me."

"Will you come back with me, Anna, and take tea?" said Jane. "I shall be alone this evening. William is going over to Deoffam Hall."

"I'll come," replied Anna, beginning to put up her pencils with alacrity. Truth to say, she was just as fond of going out and of taking off her cap, that her curls might fall, as she used to be. She had quite recovered caste in the opinion of Helstonleigh. In fact, when the reaction set in, Helstonleigh had been rather demonstrative in its expression of repentance for having taken so harsh a view of the case. Nevertheless, it had been a real lesson to Anna, and had rendered her more sober and cautious in conduct.

Dobbs was standing at the kitchen door as they went in. "Dobbs," said Jane, in the gladness of her heart, "Mr. Frank is called."

"Called?" responded Dobbs, staring with all her might.

"Yes. He was called yesterday."

"Him called!" repeated Dobbs, evidently doubting the fact. "Then, ma'am you'll excuse me, but I'm not a-going to believe it. It's a deal more likely he's gone off t'other way, than that he's called to grace."

Anna nearly choked with laughter. Jane laughed so that she could not at once speak. "Oh, Dobbs, I don't mean that sort of calling. He is called to the Bar. He has become a barrister."

"Oh—that," said Dobbs ungraciously. "Much good may it do him, ma'am!"

"He wears a wig and gown now, Dobbs," put in Anna. "He says his mother is to tell thee that it makes a guy of him, and so gladden thy heart."

"Ugh!" grunted Dobbs.

"We will make him put them on when he comes down, won't we! Dobbs, if thee'd like his picture in them, he'll send it thee."

"He'd better keep it," retorted Dobbs. "I never yet saw no good in young chaps having their picturs took, Miss Anna. They're vain enough without that. Called! That would have been a new flight for him."

CHAPTER XIX.
A GLIMPSE OF A BLISSFUL DREAM

A prettier place than Deoffam Hall could not well be conceived. "For its size," carping people would add. Well, it was not so large as Windsor Castle; but it was no smaller than the bishop's palace at Helstonleigh—if it has been your good fortune to see that renowned edifice. Deoffam Hall was a white, moderate-sized, modern villa, rising in the midst of charming grounds; grassy lawns smooth as velvet, winding rivulets, groves of trees affording shelter on a summer's day. On the terrace before the windows a stately peacock was fond of spreading its plumes, and in the small park—it was only a small one—the deer rubbed their antlers on the fine old trees. The deer and the peacock were the especial pets of Henry Ashley. Deoffam itself was an insignificant village; a few gentlemen's houses and a good many cottages comprised it. It was pleasantly and conveniently situated; within a walk of Helstonleigh for those who liked walking, or within a short drive. But, desirable as it was as a residence, Henry Ashley was rather addicted to grumbling at it. He would often wish himself back in his old home.

One lovely morning in early summer, when they were assembled together discussing plans for the day, he suddenly broke into one of his grumbling humours. "You bought Deoffam for me, sir," he was beginning, "but–"

"I bought it for myself and your mother," interposed Mr. Ashley.

"Of course. But to descend to me afterwards—you know what I mean. I have made up my mind, when that time shall come, to send gratitude to the winds, and sell it. Stuck out here, alone with the peacock, you and the mother gone, I should–I don't like to outrage your feelings by saying what I might do."

"There's Mary," said Mrs. Ashley.

"Mary! I expect she'll have gone into fresh quarters by that time. She has only stopped here so long out of politeness to me."

Mary lifted her eyes, a smile and a glow on her bright face. A lovely picture, she, in her delicate summer muslin dress.

"I tell every one she is devoted to me," went on Henry, in his quaint fashion. "'Very strange that handsome girl, Mary Ashley, does not get married!' cries Helstonleigh. Mary, my dear, I know your vanity is already as great as it can be, so I don't fear to increase it. 'My sister get married!' I say to them. 'Not she; she has resolved to make a noble sacrifice of herself for my sake, and live at home with me, a vestal virgin, and see to the puddings.'"

The smile left Mary's face—the glow remained. "I do wish you would not talk nonsense, Henry! As if Helstonleigh troubled itself to make remarks upon me. It is not so rude as you are."

"Just hark at her!" returned Henry. "Helstonleigh not trouble itself to make remarks! When you know the town was up in arms when you refused Sir Harry Marr, and sent him packing. Such an honour had never fallen to its luck before—that one of its fair citizens, born and bred, should have the chance of becoming a real live My Lady."

Mary was cutting a pencil at the moment, and broke the point off. "Papa," cried she, turning her hot face to his, "can't you make Henry talk sense?—if he must talk at all."

Mrs. Ashley interposed. It was quite true that Mary had had, as Henry phrased it, a chance of becoming a "real live My Lady"; and there lurked in Mrs. Ashley's heart a shadow of grievance, of disappointment, that she should have refused the honour. She spoke rather sharply, taking Henry's part, not Mary's.

"Henry is talking nothing but sense. My opinion is that you behaved quite rudely to Sir Harry. It is an offer you will not have again, Mary. Still," added Mrs. Ashley, subduing her tone a little, "it is no business of Helstonleigh's; neither do I see whence the town could have derived its knowledge."

"As if any news could be stirring, good or bad, that Helstonleigh does not ferret its way to!" returned Henry.

"My belief is that Henry went and told," retorted Mary.

"I! what next?" cried Henry. "As if I should tell of the graceless doings of my sister; it is bad enough to lie under the weighty knowledge one's self."

"And as if I should ever consent to marry Sir Harry Marr!" returned Mary, with a touch of her brother's spirit.

"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, quietly, "you seemed to slip out of that business, and of all questioning over it, as smoothly as an eel. I never came to the bottom of it. What was your objection to Sir Harry?"

"Objection, papa?" she faltered, with a crimsoned face. "I—I did not care for him."

"Oh, that was it, was it?" returned Mr. Ashley.

"Is it always to go on so, my dear?" asked her mother.

Poor Mary was in sad confusion, scarcely knowing whether to burst into anger or into tears. "What do you mean, mamma? How 'go on'?"

"This rejection of every one. You have had three good offers–"

"Not counting the venture of Cyril Dare," put in Henry.

"And you say 'No' to all," concluded Mrs. Ashley. "I fear you must be very fastidious."

"And she's growing into an old maid, and–"

"Be quiet, Henry. Can't you leave me in peace?"

"My dear, it is true," cried Henry, who was in one of his teasing moods. "Of course I have not kept count of your age since you were eighteen—it wouldn't be polite to do so; but my private conviction is that you are four-and-twenty this blessed summer."

"If I were four-and-thirty," answered Mary, "I wouldn't marry Sir Harry Marr. I am not obliged to marry, I suppose, am I?"

"My dear, no one said you were," said Henry, flinging a rose at her, which he took from his button-hole. "But don't you see that this brings round my argument, that you have resolved to make yourself a noble sisterly sacrifice, and stop at home with me? Don't you take to cats yet, though!"

Mary thought she was getting the worst of it, and left the room. Soon afterwards Mrs. Ashley was called out by a servant.

"Did you receive a note from William this morning, sir?" asked Henry.

"Yes," replied Mr. Ashley, taking it from his pocket. "He mentions in it that there is a report in the town that Herbert Dare is dead."

"Herbert Dare! I wonder if it's true?"

"It is to be hoped not. I fear he was not very fit to die. I am going into Helstonleigh, and shall probably hear more."

"Oh! are you going in to-day, sir? Despatch William back, will you?"

"I don't know, Henry. They may be busy at the manufactory. If so, I am sure he will not leave it."

"What a blessing if that manufactory were up in the clouds!" was Henry's rejoinder. "When I want William particularly, it is sure to be—that manufactory!"

"It is well William does not think as you do," remarked Mr. Ashley.

"Well, sir, he must certainly think Samuel Lynn a nonentity, or he would not stick himself so closely to business. You never applied yourself in such a way."

"Yes, I did. But you must please to remember, Master Henry, that the cases are not on a parallel. I was head and chief of all, accountable to none. Had I chosen to take a twelvemonth's holiday, and let the business go, it would have been my own affair exclusively. Whether the business went right, or whether it went wrong, I was accountable to none. William is not in that position."

"I know he is often in the position of not being to be had when he is wanted," was Henry's reply, as he listlessly turned over some books that lay on the table.

"Will you go into town with me?"

"I could not stand it to-day. My hip is giving me twinges."

"Is it? I had better bring back Parry."

"No. I won't have him, unless I find there's actual need. The mother knows what to do with me. I don't suppose it will come to anything; and I have been so much better of late."

"Yes, you have. Although you quarrel with Deoffam, it is the change to it—the air of the place—that has renewed your health, you ungrateful boy!"

Mr. Ashley's eyes were bent lovingly on Henry's as he said it. Henry seized his father's hands, his half-mocking tone exchanged for one of earnestness.

"Not ungrateful, sir—far from it. I know the value of my dear father: that a kinder or a better one son could not possess. I shall grumble on to my life's end. It is my amusement. But the grumbling is from my lips only: not from my fractious spirit, as it was in days gone by."

"I have remarked that: remarked it with deep thankfulness. You have acquired a victory over that fractious spirit."

"For which the chief thanks are due to William Halliburton. Sir, it is so. But for him, most probably I should have gone, a discontented wretch, to the—let me be poetical for once—silent tomb: never seeking out either the light or the love that may be found in this world."

Mr. Ashley glanced at his son. He saw that he was contending with emotion, although he had reassumed his bantering tone.

"Henry, what light—what love?"

"The light and the love that a man may take into his own spirit. He—William—told me, years ago, that I might make even my life a pleasant and a useful one; and measureless was the ridicule I gave him for it. But I have found that he was right. When William came to the house one night, a humble errand-boy, sent by Samuel Lynn with a note—do you remember it, sir?—and offered to help me, dunce that I was, with my Latin exercise—a help I graciously condescended to accept—we little thought what a blessing had entered the dwelling."

"We little thought what a brave, honest, indomitable spirit was enshrined in the humble errand-boy," continued Mr. Ashley.

"He has got on as he deserved. He will be a worthy successor to you, sir: a second Thomas Ashley; a far better one than I should ever have been, had I possessed the rudest health. There's only one thing more for William to gain, and then I expect he will be at rest."

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's no concern of mine, sir. If folks can't manage for themselves, they need not come to me to help them."

Mr. Ashley looked keenly at his son. Henry passed to another topic.

"Do send him here, sir, when you get in; or else drive him back with you."

"I shall see," said Mr. Ashley. "Do you know where your mother went to?"

"After some domestic catastrophe, I expect. Martha came to the door, with a face as green as the peacock's tail, and beckoned her out. The best dinner-service come to grief, perhaps."

Mr. Ashley rang, and ordered the pony-carriage to be got ready: one bought chiefly for Henry, that he might drive into town. Before he started, he came across Mary, who stood at one of the corridor windows upstairs, and had evidently been crying.

"What is your grief, Mary?"

She turned to the sheltering arm open to her, and tried to choke the tears down, which were again rising. "I wish you and mamma would not keep so angry at my refusing Sir Harry Marr."

"Who told you I was angry, Mary?"

"Oh, papa, I fancied so this morning. Mamma is angry about it, and it pains me. It is as though you wanted me gone."

"My dear child! Gone! For our comfort I should wish you might never go, Mary. But for your own, it may be different."

"I do not wish to go," she sobbed. "I want to stay at home always. It was not my fault, papa, if I could not like Sir Harry."

"You should never, with my consent, marry any one you did not like, Mary; not if it were the greatest match in the three kingdoms. Why this distress, my dear? Mamma's vexation will blow over. She hoped—as Henry tells us—to see you converted into a 'real live My Lady.' 'My daughter, Lady Marr!' It will blow over, child."

Mary cried in silence. "And you will not let me be driven away, papa? You will keep me at home always?"

Mr. Ashley shook his head. "Always is a long day, Mary. Some one may be coming, less distasteful than Sir Harry Marr, who will induce you to leave it."

"No, never!" cried she, somewhat more vehemently than the case seemed to warrant. "Should any one be asking you for me, you can tell them 'No,' at once; do not trouble to bring the news to me."

"Any one, Mary?"

"Yes, papa, no matter who. Do not drive me away from you."

He stooped and kissed her. She stood at the window still, in a dreamy attitude, and watched the carriage drive off with Mr. Ashley. Presently Henry passed.

"Has the master gone, do you know, Mary?"

"Five minutes ago."

"I hope and trust he'll send back William."

It was striking half-past two when Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory. Samuel Lynn was in his own room, sorting gloves; William was in the counting house, seated at his desk. His, now; formerly Mr. Ashley's; the very desk from which the cheque had disappeared; but William took a more active part in the general management than Mr. Ashley had ever done. He rose, shook hands with the master, and placed a chair for him. The "master" still he was called; indeed, he actually was so; William, "Mr. Halliburton."

A short time given to business details, and then Mr. Ashley referred to the report of Herbert Dare's death. Poor Herbert Dare had never returned from abroad, and it was to be feared he had been getting lower and lower in the scale of society. Under happier auspices, and with different training, Herbert might have made a happier and a better man. Helstonleigh did not know how he lived abroad, or why he stayed there. Possibly the free and easy continental life had become necessary to him. Homburg, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, wherever there were gaming-tables, there might be found Herbert Dare. That he must find a living at them in some way seemed pretty evident. It was a great pity.

"How did you hear that he was dead?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"From Richard Winthorne," replied William. "I met him yesterday evening in Guild Street, and he told me a report had come over that Herbert Dare had died of fever."

As William spoke, a gentleman entered the room, and interrupted them; a Captain Chambers. "Have you heard that Herbert Dare's dead?" was his first greeting.

"Is it certain?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"I don't know. Report says it is certain; but report is not always to be believed. How that family has gone down!" continued Captain Chambers. "Anthony first; now Herbert; and Cyril will be next. He will go out of the world in some discreditable way. A wretched scamp! Shocking habits! Old Dare, too, unless I am mistaken, is on his last legs."

"Is he ill?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"No; no worse than usual; but I never saw a man so broken. I alluded to the legs of prosperity. Talk about reports, though," and Captain Chambers suddenly wheeled round on William, "there's one going the round of the town to-day about you."

"What's that?" asked William. "Not that I am dead, I suppose, or on my last legs?"

"Something better. That you are going to marry Sophy Glenn."

William looked all amazement, an amused smile stealing over his lips. "Well, I never!" uttered he, using a phrase just then in vogue in Helstonleigh. "What has put that into the town's head?"