Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles Part 76

He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.

"He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has a cordial way with him, and don't look at folks as if they was dirt."

And that had been the origin of the _soirees_ held at Robert East's. By degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and--what was more--to like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement upon the Horned Ram.

CHAPTER XXII.

HENRY ASHLEY'S OBJECT IN LIFE.

On one of the warm, bright days that we sometimes have in the month of February, all the brighter from their contrast to the pa.s.sing winter, William Halliburton was walking home to tea from the manufactory, and overtook Henry Ashley limping along.

Henry was below the middle height, and slight in form, with the same beautiful face that had marked his boyhood, delicately refined in feature, brilliant in colour; the same upright lines of pain knit in the smooth white brow.

"Just the man I wanted," said he, linking his arm within William's. "You are a good help up a hill, and I am hot and tired."

"Wrapped up in that coat, with its fur lining, I should think you are! I have doffed my elegant cloak, you see, to-day."

"Is it off to the British Museum?"

William laughed. "I have not had time to pack it up."

"I am glad I met you. You must come home to tea with me. Well? Why are you hesitating? You have no engagement?"

"Nothing more than usual. My studies----"

"You are study mad!" interrupted Henry Ashley. "What do you want to be?

A Socrates? An Admirable Crichton?"

"Nothing so formidable. I want to be useful."

"And you make yourself accomplished, as a preliminary step to it. Mary took up the fencing-sticks for you yesterday. Herbert Dare was at our house--some freak is taking him to be a pretty constant visitor just now--and the talk turned upon Frank. You know," broke off Henry in his quaint way, "I never use long words when short ones will do: you learned ones would say 'conversation.' Mr. Keating had said to my father that Frank Halliburton was a brilliant scholar, and I retailed it to Herbert.

I knew it would put him up, and there's nothing I like half so much as to _rile_ the Dares. Herbert sneered. 'And he owes it partly to William,' I went on, 'for if Frank's a brilliant scholar, William's a brilliant_er_!' 'William Halliburton a brilliant scholar!' stormed scornful Herbert. 'Has he learnt to be one at the manufactory? So long as he knows how gloves are made, that's enough for him. What does _he_ want with the requirements of gentlemen?' Up looked Miss Mary; her colour rising, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng. She was at her drawing: at which, by the way, she makes no progress; nothing to be compared with Anna Lynn.

'William Halliburton has forgotten more than you ever learnt, Herbert Dare,' cried she; 'and there's more of the true gentleman in his little finger than there is in your whole body.' 'There's for you, Herbert Dare,' whistled I; 'but it's true, lad, like it or not as you may!'

Herbert _was_ riled."

Henry turned his head as he concluded, and looked up at William. A gleam like a sunbeam had flashed into William's eyes; a colour to his cheeks.

"Well?" cried Henry sharply, for William did not speak. "Have you nothing to say?"

"It was generous of Miss Ashley."

"I don't mean that. Oh dear!" sighed Henry, who appeared to be in one of his fitful moods; "who is to know whether things will turn out crooked or straight in this world of ours? What objection have you to coming home with me for the evening? That's what I mean."

"None. I can give up my books for a night, bookworm as you think me. But they will expect me at East's."

"Happy the man that expecteth nothing!" responded Henry. "Disappoint them."

"As for disappointing them, I shouldn't so much mind, but I can't abide to disappoint myself," returned William, quoting from Goldsmith's good old play, of which both he and Henry were fond.

"You don't mean to say it would be a disappointment to _you_, not giving the lesson, or whatever it is, to those working chaps!" uttered Henry Ashley.

"Not as you would count disappointment. When I do not get round for an hour, it seems as a night lost. I know the men like to see me; and I am always fearing that we are not sure of them."

"You speak as though your whole soul were in the business," returned Henry Ashley.

"I think my heart is in it."

Henry looked at him wistfully, and his tone grew serious. "William, I would give all I am worth, present, and to come, to change places with you."

"To change places with me!" echoed William, in surprise.

"Yes: for you have an object in life. You may have many. To be useful in your generation is one of them."

"And so may you have objects in life."

"With this enc.u.mbrance!" He stamped his lame leg, and a look of keen vexation settled itself in his face. "You can go forth into the world with your strong limbs, your unbroken health; you can work, or you can play; you can be active, or you can be still, at will. But what am I? A poor, weak creature; infirm of temper, tortured by pain, condemned half my days to the monotony of a sick-room. Compare my lot with yours!"

"There are those who would choose your lot in preference to mine, were the option given them," returned William. "I must work. It is a duty laid upon me. You can play."

"Thank you! How?"

"I am not speaking literally. Every good and pleasing thing that money can purchase is at your command. You have only to enjoy them, so far as you may. One, suffering as you do, bears not upon him the responsibility to _use_ his time, that a healthy man does. Lots, in this world, Henry, are, as I believe, pretty equally balanced. Many would envy you your life of calm repose."

"It is not calm," was the abrupt rejoinder. "It is disturbed by pain, and aggravated by temper; and--and--tormented by uncertainty."

"At any rate, you can subdue the one."

"Which, pray?"

"The temper. Henry"--dropping his voice--"a victory over your own temper may be one of the few obligations laid upon you."

"I wish I could live for an object," grumbled Henry.

"Come round with me to East's, sometimes."

"I--daresay!" retorted Henry, when he could recover from his amazement.

"Thank you again, Mr. Halliburton."

William laughed. But he soon resumed his seriousness. "I can understand that for you, the favoured son of Mr. Ashley, reared in refinement and exclusiveness----"

"Enshrined in pride--the failing that Helstonleigh is pleased to call my besetting sin; sheltered under care and coddling so great that the very winds of heaven are not suffered to visit my face too roughly!" was the impetuous interruption of Henry Ashley. "Come! bring it all out. Don't, from motives of delicacy, keep in any of my faults, virtues, or advantages!"

"I can understand, I say, why you are unwilling to break through the reserve of your home habits," William calmly continued. "But, if you did so, you might no longer have to complain of the want of an object in life."

At this moment they came in view of William's house. Mrs. Halliburton happened to be at one of the windows. William nodded his greeting, and Henry raised his hat. Presently Henry began again.