Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles Part 1

Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles.

by Mrs. Henry Wood.

CHAPTER I.

THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER.

In a very populous district of London, somewhat north of Temple Bar, there stood, many years ago, a low, ancient church amidst other churches--for you know that London abounds in them. The doors of this church were partially open one dark evening in December, and a faint, glimmering light might be observed inside by the pa.s.sers-by.

It was known well enough what was going on within, and why the light was there. The rector was giving away the weekly bread. Years ago a benevolent person had left a certain sum to be spent in twenty weekly loaves, to be given to twenty poor widows at the discretion of the minister. Certain curious provisos were attached to the bequest. One was that the bread should not be less than two days old, and should have been deposited in the church at least twenty-four hours before distribution. Another, that each recipient must attend in person.

Failing personal attendance, no matter how unavoidable her absence, she lost the loaf: no friend might receive it for her, neither might it be sent to her. In that case, the minister was enjoined to bestow it upon "any stranger widow who might present herself, even as should seem expedient to him:" the word "stranger" being, of course, used in contra-distinction to the twenty poor widows who were on the books as the charity's recipients. Four times a year, one s.h.i.+lling to each widow was added to the loaf of bread.

A loaf of bread is not very much. To us, sheltered in our abundant homes, it seems as nothing. But, to many a one, toiling and starving in this same city of London, a loaf may be almost the turning-point between death and life. The poor existed in those days as they exist in these: as they always will exist: therefore it was no matter of surprise that a crowd of widow women, most of them aged, all in poverty, should gather round the church doors when the bread was being given out, each hoping that, of the twenty poor widows, some one might fail to appear, and the clerk would come to the door and call out her own particular name as the fortunate subst.i.tute. On the days when the s.h.i.+lling was added to the loaf, this waiting and hoping crowd would be increased four-fold.

Thursday was the afternoon for the distribution. And on the day we are now writing about, the rector entered the church at the usual hour: four o'clock. He had to make his way through an unusual number of outsiders; for this was one of the s.h.i.+lling days. He knew them all personally; was familiar with their names and homes; for the Rev. Francis Tait was a hard-working clergyman. And hard-working clergymen were more rare in those days than they are in these.

Of Scottish birth, but chiefly reared in England, he had taken orders at the usual age, and become curate in a London parish, where the work was heavy and the stipend small. Not that the duties attached to the church itself were onerous; but it was a parish filled with poor. Those familiar with such parishes know what this means, when the minister is sympathising and conscientious. For twenty years he remained a curate, toiling in patience, cheerfully hoping. Twenty years! It seems little to write; but to live it is a great deal; and Francis Tait, in spite of his hopefulness, sometimes found it so. Then promotion came. The living of this little church that you now see open was bestowed upon him. A poor living as compared with some others; and a poor parish, speaking of the social condition of its inhabitants. But the living seemed wealth compared with what he had earned as a curate; and as to his flock being chiefly composed of the poor, he had not been accustomed to anything else. Then the Rev. Francis Tait married; and another twenty years went by.

He stood in the church this evening; the loaves resting on the shelf overhead, against the door of the vestry, all near the entrance. A flaring tallow candle stood on the small table between him and the widows who cl.u.s.tered opposite. He was sixty-five years old now; a spare man of middle height, with a clear, pale skin, an intelligent countenance, and a thoughtful, fine grey eye. He had a pleasant word, a kind inquiry for all, as he put the s.h.i.+lling into their hands; the lame old clerk at the same time handing over the loaf of bread.

"Are you all here to-night?" he asked, as the distribution went on.

"No, sir," was the answer from several who spoke at once. "Betty King's away."

"What is the matter with her?"

"The rheumaticks have laid hold on her, sir. She couldn't get here nohow. She's in her bed."

"I must go and see her," said he. "What, are you here again, Martha?" he continued, as a little deformed woman stepped from behind the rest, where she had been hidden. "I am glad to see you."

"Six blessed weeks this day, and I've not been able to come!" exclaimed the woman. "But I'm restored wonderful."

The distribution was approaching its close, when the rector spoke to his clerk. "Call in Eliza Turner."

The clerk placed on the table the four or five remaining loaves, that each woman might help herself during his absence, and went out to the door.

"'Liza Turner, his reverence has called for you."

A sigh of delight from Eliza Turner, and a groan of disappointment from those surrounding her, greeted the clerk in answer. He took no notice--he often heard it--but turned and limped into the church again.

Eliza Turner followed; and another woman slipped in after Eliza Turner.

"Now, Widow Booth," cried the clerk, sharply, perceiving the intrusion, "what business have you here? You know it's again the rules."

"I must see his reverence," murmured the woman, pressing on--a meek, half-starved woman; and she pushed her way into the vestry, and told her pitiful tale.

"I'm worse off than Widow Turner," she moaned piteously, not in tones of complaint, but of entreaty. "She has a daughter in service as helps her; but me, I've my poor unfortunate daughter lying in my place weak with fever, sick with hunger! Oh, sir, couldn't you give the bounty this time to me? I've not had a bit or drop in my mouth since morning; and then it was but a taste o' bread and a drain o' tea, that a neighbour give me out o' charity."

It was absolutely necessary to discountenance these personal applications. The rector's rule was, never to give the spare bounty to those who applied for it: otherwise the distribution might have become a weekly scene of squabbling and confusion. He handed the s.h.i.+lling and bread to Eliza Turner; and when she had followed the other women out, he turned to the Widow Booth, who was sobbing against the wall; speaking kindly to her.

"You should not have come in, Mrs. Booth. You know that I do not allow it."

"But I'm starving, sir," was the answer. "I thought maybe as you'd divide it between me and Widow Turner. Sixpence for her, sixpence for me, and the loaf halved."

"I have no power to divide the gifts: to do so would be against the terms of the bequest. How is it you are so badly off this week? Has your work failed?"

"I couldn't do it, sir, with my sick one to attend to. And I've a gathering come on my thimble finger, and that has hindered me. I took ninepence the day before yesterday, sir, but last night it was every farthing of it gone."

"I will come round and see you by-and-by," said the clergyman.

She lifted her eyes yearningly. "Oh, sir! if you could but give me something for a morsel of bread now! I'd be grateful for a penny loaf."

"Mrs. Booth, you know that to give here would be altogether against my rule," he replied with unmistakable firmness. "Neither am I pleased when any of you attempt to ask it. Go home quietly: I have said that I will come to you by-and-by."

The woman thanked him and went out. Had anything been needed to prove the necessity of the rule, it would have been the eagerness with which the crowd of women gathered round her. Not one of them had gone away.

"Had she got anything?" To reply that she _had_ something, would have sent the whole crowd flocking in to beg in turn of the rector.

Widow Booth shook her head. "No, no. I knowed it before. He never will.

He says he'll come round."

They dispersed; some in one direction, some in another. The rector blew out the candle, and he and the clerk came forth; and the church was closed for the distribution of bread until that day week. Mr. Tait took the keys himself to carry them home: they were kept at his house.

Formerly the clerk had carried them there; but since he had become old and lame, Mr. Tait would not give him the trouble.

It was a fine night overhead, but the streets were sloppy; and the clergyman put his foot unavoidably in many a puddle. The streets through which his road lay were imperfectly lighted. The residence apportioned to the rector of this parish was adjoining a well-known square, fas.h.i.+onable in that day. It was a very good house, with a handsome outward appearance. If you judged by it, you would have said the living must be worth five hundred a year at least. It was not worth anything like that; and the parish treated their pastor liberally in according him so good a residence. A quarter of an hour's walk from the church brought Mr. Tait to it.

Until recently, a gentleman had shared this house with Mr. Tait and his family. The curate of a neighbouring parish, the Rev. John Acton, had been glad to live with them as a friend, admitted to their society and their table. It was a little help: and but for that, Mr. and Mrs. Tait would scarcely have thought themselves justified in keeping two servants, for the educational expenses of their children ran away with a large portion of their income. But Mr. Acton had now been removed to a distance, and they hoped to receive some one or other in his place.

On this evening, as Mr. Tait was picking his way through the puddles, the usual sitting-room of his house presented a cheerful appearance, ready to receive him. It was on the ground floor, looking upon the street, large and lofty, and bright with firelight. Two candles, not yet lighted, stood on the table behind the tea-tray, but the glow of the fire was sufficient for all the work that was being done in the room.

It was no work at all: but play. A young lady was quietly whirling round the room with a dancing step--quietly, because her feet and movements were gentle; and the tune she was humming, and to which she kept time, was carolled in an undertone. She was moving thus in the happy innocence of heart and youth. A graceful girl of middle height; one whom it gladdened the eye to look upon. Not for her beauty, for she had no very great beauty to boast of; but it was one of those countenances that win their own way to favour. A fair, gentle face, openly candid, with the same earnest, honest grey eye that so pleased you in Francis Tait, and brown hair. She was that gentleman's eldest child, and looked about eighteen. In reality she was a year older, but her face and dress were both youthful. She wore a violet silk frock, made with a low body and short sleeves: girls did not keep their pretty necks and arms covered up then. By daylight the dress would have appeared old, but it looked very well by candle-light.

The sound of the latch-key in the front door brought her dancing to an end. She knew who it was--no inmate of that house possessed a latch-key except its master--and she turned to the fire to light the candles.

Mr. Tait came into the room, removing neither overcoat nor hat. "Have you made tea, Jane?"

"No, papa; it has only just struck five."

"Then I think I'll go out again first. I have to call on one or two of the women, and it will be all one wetting. My feet are soaked already"--looking down at his buckled shoes and black gaiters. "You can get my slippers warmed, Jane. But"--the thought apparently striking him--"would your mamma care to wait?"

"Mamma had a cup of tea half an hour ago," replied Jane. "She said it might do her good; if she could get some sleep after it, she might be able to come down for a little before bedtime. The tea can be made whenever you like, papa. There's only Francis at home, and he and I could wait until ten, if you pleased."

"I'll go at once, then. Not until ten, Miss Jane, but until six, or about that time. Betty King is ill, but does not live far off. And I must step in to the Widow Booth's."

"Papa," cried Jane as he was turning away, "I forgot to tell you.

Francis says he thinks he knows of a gentleman who would like to come here in Mr. Acton's place."

"Ah! who is it?" asked the rector.