Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles Part 15

"Well, he has recently been appointed to a minor canonry in that same cathedral," resumed Mr. Halliburton. "Dr. Jacobs told me of it the other day. Now I am quite sure that Peach would be delighted to say a word for me, or to put anything in my way. That is another reason why I am inclined to go there."

"I suppose the town is a healthy one?"

"Ay, that it is; and it is seated in one of the most charming of our counties. There'll be no London fogs or smoke there."

"Then, Edgar, let us decide upon it."

"Yes, I think so--unless we should hear of an opening elsewhere that may promise better. We must be away by Midsummer, if we can, or soon after.

It will be sharp work, though."

"What trouble it will be to pack the furniture!" she exclaimed.

"Pack what furniture, Jane? We must sell the furniture."

"Sell the furniture!" she uttered, aghast.

"My dear, it would never do to take the furniture down. It would cost almost as much as it is worth. There's no knowing, either, how long it might be upon the road, or what damage it might receive. I expect it would have to go princ.i.p.ally by water."

"By water!" cried Mrs. Halliburton.

"I fancy so--by barge, I mean. Waggons would not take it, except by paying heavily. A great deal of the country traffic is done by water.

This furniture is old, Jane, most of it, and will not bear rough travelling. Consider how many years your father and mother had it in use."

"Then what should we do for furniture when we get there?" asked Jane.

"Buy new with the money we receive from the sale of this. I have been reflecting upon it a good deal, Jane, and fancy it will be the better plan. However, if you care for this old furniture, we must take it."

Jane looked round upon it. She did care for the time-used furniture; but she knew how old it was, and was willing to do whatever might be best. A vision came into her mind of fresh, bright furniture, and it looked pleasant in imagination. "It would certainly be a great deal to pack and carry," she acknowledged. "And some of it is not worth it."

"And it would be more than we should want," resumed Mr. Halliburton.

"Wherever we go we must be content with a small house; at any rate at first. But it will be time enough to go into these details, Jane, when we have finally decided upon our destination."

"Oh, Edgar! I shall be so sorry to take the boys from King's College."

"Jane," he said, a flash of pain crossing his face as he spoke, "there are so many things connected with it altogether that cause me sorrow, that my only resource is not to think upon them. I might be tempted to repine to ask in a spirit of rebellion why this affliction should have come upon us. It is G.o.d's decree, and it is my duty to submit as patiently as I can."

It was her duty also: and she knew it as she laid her hand upon her weary brow. A weary, weary brow from henceforth, that of Jane Halliburton!

CHAPTER X.

A DYING BED.

In a handsome chamber of a handsome house in Birmingham, an old man lay dying. For most of his life he had been engaged in a large wholesale business--had achieved local position, had acc.u.mulated moderate wealth.

But neither wealth nor position can ensure peace to a death-bed; and the old man lay on his, groaning over the past.

The season was that of mid-winter. Not the winter following the intended removal of Mr. Halliburton from London, as spoken of in the last chapter, but the winter preceding it--for it is necessary to go back a little. A hard, sharp, white day in January: and the fire was piled high in the sick room, and the large flakes of snow piled themselves outside on the window frames and beat against the gla.s.s. The room was fitted up with every comfort the most fastidious invalid could desire; and yet, I say, nothing seemed to bring comfort to the invalid lying there. His hands were clenched as in mortal agony; his eyes were apparently watching the falling snow. The eyes saw it not: in reality they were cast back to where his mind was--the past.

What could be troubling him? Was it that loss, only two years ago, by which one-half of his savings had been engulfed? Scarcely. A man dying--as he knew he was--would be unlikely to care about that now.

Ample competence had remained to him, and he had neither son nor daughter to inherit. Hark! what is it that he is murmuring between his parched lips, to the accompaniment of his clenched hands?

"I see it all now; I see it all! While we are buoyed up with health and strength, we continue hard, selfish, obstinate in our wickedness. But when death comes, we awake to our error; and death has come to me, and I have awakened to mine. Why did I turn him out like a dog? He had neither kith nor kin, and I sent him adrift on the world, to fight with it or to starve! He was the only child of my sister, and she was gone. She and I were of the same father and mother; we shared the same meals in childhood, the same home, the same play, the same hopes. She wrote to me when she was dying, as I am dying now: 'Richard, should my poor boy be left fatherless--for my husband's health seems to be failing--be his friend and protector for Helen's sake, and may Heaven bless you for it!'

And I scoffed at the injunction when the boy offended me, and turned him out. _Shall I have to answer for it?_"

The last anxious doubt was uttered more audibly than the rest; it escaped from his lips with a groan. A woman who was dozing over the fire started up.

"Did you call, sir?"

"No. Go out and leave me."

"But----"

"Go out and leave me," he repeated, with anger little fitted to his position. And the woman was speeding from the room, when he caught at the curtain and recalled her.

"Are they not come?"

"Not yet, sir. But, with this heavy fall, it's not to be wondered at.

The highways must be almost impa.s.sable. With good roads they might have been here hours ago."

She went out. He lay back on his pillow: his eyes wide open, but wearing the same dreamy look. You may be wondering who he is; though you probably guess, for you have heard of him once before as Mr. Cooper, the uncle who discarded Edgar Halliburton.

I must give you a few words of retrospect. Richard Cooper was the eldest of three children; the others were a brother and a sister: Richard, Alfred, and Helen. Alfred and Helen both married; Richard never did marry. It was somewhat singular that the brother and sister should both die, each leaving an orphan; and that the orphans should find a home in the house of their Uncle Richard. Julia Cooper, the brother's orphan, was the first to come to it, a long time before Edgar Halliburton came.

Helen had married the Rev. William Halliburton, and she died at his rectory in Devons.h.i.+re--sending that earnest prayer to her brother Richard which you have just heard him utter. A little while, and her husband, the rector, also died; and then it was that Edgar went up to his Uncle Richard's. Fortunate for these two orphan children, it appeared to be, that their uncle had not married and could give them a good home.

A good home he did give them. Julia left it first to become the wife of Anthony Dare, a solicitor in large practice in a distant city. She married him very soon after her cousin Edgar came to his uncle's. And it was after the marriage of Julia that Edgar was discarded and turned adrift. Years, many years, had gone by since then; and here lay Richard Cooper, stricken for death and repenting of the harshness, which he had not repented of or sought to atone for all through those long years. Ah, my friends! whatsoever may lie upon our consciences, however we may have contrived to ignore it during our busy lives, be a.s.sured that it will find us out on our death-bed!

Richard Cooper lay back on his pillow, his eyes wide open with their inward tribulation. "Who knows but there would be time yet?" he suddenly murmured. And the thought appeared to rouse his mind and flush his cheek, and he lifted his hand and grasped the bell-rope, ringing it so loudly as to bring two servants to the room.

"Go up, one of you, to Lawyer Weston's," he uttered. "Bring him back with you. Tell him I want to alter my will, and that there may yet be time. Don't send--one of _you_ go," he repeated in tones of agonising entreaty. "Bring him; bring him back with you!"

As the echo of his voice died away there came a loud summons at the street door, as of a hasty arrival. "Sir," cried one of the maids, "they're come at last! I thought I heard a carriage drawing up in the snow."

"Who's come?" he asked in some confusion of mind. "Weston?"

"Not him, sir; Mr. and Mrs. Dare," replied the servant as she hurried out.

A lady and gentleman were getting out of a coach at the door. A tall, very tall man, with handsome features, but an unpleasantly free expression. The lady was tall also, stout and fair, with an imperious look in her little turned-up nose. "Are we in time?" the latter asked of the servants.

"It's nearly as much as can be said, ma'am," was the answer. "But he has roused up in the last hour, and is growing excited. The doctors thought it might be so: that he'd not continue in the lethargy to the last."

They went on at once to the sick chamber. Every sense of the dying man appeared to be on the alert. His hands were holding back the curtain, his eyes were strained on the door. "Why have you been so long?" he cried in a voice of strength they were surprised to hear.

"Dear uncle," said Mrs. Dare, bending over the bed and clasping the feeble hands, "we started the very moment the letter came. But we could not get along--the roads are dreadfully heavy."