by Ellen Wood
“Well! what’s waste of time for other people is not waste of time for me, I suppose?” went on Robert.
“You are not wasting your time, Robert.”
“I am. And if you had the sense people give you credit for, Madam Jane, you’d see it. I shall never, I say, earn my salt at teaching; and — just tell me yourself whether there seems any chance now that I shall enter the Church.”
“At present I do not see that there is,” confessed Jane.
“There! Then is it waste of time, or not, my continuing to study for a career which I can never enter upon?”
“But what else can you do, Robert?” interposed Mrs. Tait. “You cannot idle your time away at home, or be running about the streets all day.”
“No,” said Robert, “better stop at school for ever than do that. I want to see the world, mother.”
“You — want — to — see — the — world!” echoed Mrs. Tait, bringing out the words slowly in her astonishment, whilst Jane looked up from her work, and fixed her eyes upon her brother.
“It’s only natural that I should,” said Robert, with equanimity. “I have an invitation to go down into Yorkshire.”
“What to do?” cried Mrs. Tait.
“Oh, lots of things. They keep hunters, and — —”
“Why, you were never on horseback in your life, Robert,” laughed Jane. “You would come back with your neck broken.”
“I do wish you’d be quiet, Jane!” returned Robert, reddening. “I am talking to mamma, not to you. Winchcombe has invited me to spend the Christmas holidays with him down at his father’s place in Yorkshire. And, mother, I want to go; and I want you to promise that I shall not return to school when the holidays are over. I will do anything else that you choose to put me to. I’ll learn to be a man of business, or I’ll go into an office, or I’d be apprenticed to a doctor — anything you like, rather than stop at these everlasting school-books. I am sick of them.”
“Robert, you take my breath away!” uttered Mrs. Tait. “I have no interest anywhere. I could not get you into any of these places.”
“I dare say Mr. Halliburton could. He knows lots of people. Jane, you talk to him: he’ll do anything for you.”
There ensued, I say, much discussion about
Robert. But it is not with Robert Tait that our story has to do; and only a few words need be given to him here and there. It appeared to them all that it would be inexpedient for him to continue at school; both with regard to his own wishes and to his prospects. He was allowed to pay the visit with his schoolfellow, and (as he came back with neck unbroken) Mr. Halliburton succeeded in placing him in a large wholesale warehouse. Robert appeared to like it very much at first, and always came home to spend Sunday with them.
“He may rise in time to be one of the first mercantile men in London,” observed Mr. Halliburton to his wife; “one of our merchant-princes, as my uncle used to say by me, if only — —”
“If what? Why do you hesitate?” she asked.
“If he will only persevere, I was going to say. But, Jane, I fear perseverance is a quality that Robert does not possess.”
Of course all that had to be proved. It lay in the future.
CHAPTER V.
MARGARET.
From two to three years passed away, and the Midsummer holidays were approaching. Margaret was expected as usual for them, and Jane, delighted to receive her, went about her glad preparations. Margaret would not return to the school, in which she had been a paid teacher for the last year; but was to enter a family as governess. For one efficient, well-educated, accomplished governess to be met with in those days, scores may be counted now — or who profess to be so; and Margaret Tait, though barely nineteen, anticipated a salary of seventy or eighty guineas a year.
A warm, bright day in June, that on which Mr. Halliburton went to receive Margaret. The coach brought her to its resting-place, the “Bull and Mouth,” in St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and Mr. Halliburton reached the inn as St. Paul’s clock was striking midday. One minute more, and the coach drove in.
There she was, inside; a tall, fine girl, with a handsome face: a face full of resolution and energy. Margaret Tait had her good qualities, and she had also her faults: a great one, speaking of the latter, was self-will. She opened the door herself and leaped out before any one could help her, all joy and delight.
“And what about your boxes, Margaret?” questioned Mr. Halliburton, after a few words of greeting. “Have they come this time or not?”
Margaret laughed. “Yes, they really have. I have not lost them on the road, as I did at Christmas. You will never forget to tell me of that, I am sure! But it was more the guard’s fault than mine.”
A few minutes, and Mr. Halliburton, Margaret, and the boxes were lumbering along in one of the old glass coaches.
“And now tell me about every one,” said Margaret. “How is dear mamma?”
“She is quite well. We are all well. Jane’s famous.”
“And my precious little Willy?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Halliburton, quaintly, “he is a great deal too troublesome for anything to be the matter with him. I tell Jane she will have to begin the whipping system soon.”
“And much Jane will attend to you! Is it a pretty baby?”
Mr. Halliburton raised his eyebrows. “Jane thinks so. I wonder she has not had its likeness taken.”
“Is it christened?” continued Margaret.
“It is baptized. Jane would not have the christening until you were at home.”
“And its name?”
“Jane.”
“What a shame! Jane promised me it should be Margaret. Why did she decide upon her own name?”
“I decided upon it,” said Mr. Halliburton. “Yours can wait until the next, Margaret.”
Margaret laughed. “And how are you getting on?”
“Very well. I have every hour of the day occupied.”
“I don’t think you are looking well,” rejoined Margaret. “You look thin and fagged.”
“I am always thin, and mine is a fagging profession. Sometimes I feel terribly weary. But I am pretty well upon the whole, Margaret.”
“Will Francis be at home these holidays?”
“No. He passes them at a gentleman’s house in Norfolk — tutor to his sons. Francis is thoroughly industrious and persevering.”
“A contrast to poor Robert, I suppose?”
“Well — yes; in that sense.”
“There has been some trouble about Robert, has there not?” asked Margaret, her tone becoming grave. “Did he not get discharged?”
“He received notice of discharge. But I saw the principals and begged him on again. I would not talk about it to him if I were you, Margaret. He is sensitive upon the point. Robert’s intentions are good, but his disposition is fickle. He has grown tired of his work and idles his time away; no house of business will put up with that.”
The coach arrived at Mr. Halliburton’s. Margaret rushed out of it, giving no one time to assist her, as she had done out of the other coach at the “Bull and Mouth.” There was a great deal of impetuosity in Margaret Tait’s character. She was quite a contrast to Jane — as she had just remarked there was a contrast between Francis and Robert upon other points — to sensible, lady-like, self-possessed Jane, who came forward so calmly to greet her, a glad depth of affection in her quiet eyes.
A boisterous embrace to her mother, a boisterous embrace to Jane, all in haste, and then Margaret caught up a little gentleman of some two years old, or more, who was standing holding on to Jane’s dress, his great grey eyes, honest, loving, intelligent as were his mother’s, cast up in a broad stare at Margaret.
“You naughty Willy! Have you forgotten Aunt Margaret? Oh, you darling child! Who’s this?”
She carried the boy up to the end of the room, where stood their old servant Mary, nursing an infant of two months old. The baby had great grey eyes also, and they likewise were bent on noisy Margaret. “Oh, Willy, she is prettier than
you! I won’t nurse you any more. Mary, I’ll shake hands with you presently. I must take that enchanting baby first.”
Dropping discarded Willy upon the ground, snatching the baby from Mary’s arms, Margaret kissed its pretty face until she made it cry. Jane came to the rescue.
“You don’t understand babies, Margaret. Let Mary take her again. Come upstairs to your room, and make yourself ready for dinner. I think you must be hungry.”
“So hungry that I shall frighten you. Of course, with the thought of coming home, I could not touch breakfast. I hope you have something especially nice!”
“Your favourite dinner,” said Jane, smiling. “Loin of veal and broccoli.”
“How thoughtful you are, Jane!” Margaret could not help exclaiming.
“Margaret, my dear,” called out her mother, as she was leaving the room with Jane.
Margaret looked back. “What, mamma?”
“I hope you will not continue to go on with these children as you have begun; otherwise we shall have a quiet house turned into a noisy one.”
“Is it a quiet house?” said Margaret, laughing.
“As if any house would not be quiet, regulated by Jane!” replied Mrs. Tait. And Margaret, laughing still, followed her sister.
It is curious to remark how differently things sometimes turn out from what we intended. Had any one asked Mrs. Tait, the day that Margaret came home, what Margaret’s future career was to be, she had wondered at the question. “A governess, certainly,” would have been her answer; and she would have thought that no power, humanly speaking, could prevent it. And yet, Margaret Tait, as it proved, never did become a governess.
The holidays were drawing to an end, and a very desirable situation, as was believed, had been found for Margaret by Mr. Halliburton, the negotiations for which were nearly completed. Mr. Halliburton gave private lessons in sundry well-connected families, and thus enabled to hear where ladies were required as governesses, he had recommended Margaret. The recommendation was favourably received, and a day was appointed for Margaret to make a personal visit at the town house of the people in question, when she would most probably be engaged.
On the previous evening at twilight Mr. Halliburton came home from one of his numerous engagements. Jane was alone. Mrs. Tait, not very well, had retired to rest early, and Margaret was out with Robert. In this, a leisure season of the year, Robert had most of his evenings to himself, after eight o’clock. He generally came home, and he and Margaret would go out together. Mr. Halliburton sat down at one of the windows in silence.
Jane went up to him, laying her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “You are very tired, Edgar?”
He did not reply: only drew her hand between his, and kept it there.
“You shall have supper at once,” said Jane, glancing at the tray which stood ready on the table. “I am sure you must want it. And it is not right to indulge Margaret every night by waiting for her.”
“Scarcely, when she does not come in until ten or half-past,” said Mr. Halliburton. “Jane,” he added confidentially, “do you think it well that Margaret should be out so frequently in an evening?”
“She is with Robert.”
“She may not always be with Robert alone.”
Jane felt her face flush. She knew her husband; knew that he was not one to speak unless he had some reason for doing so. “Edgar! why do you say this? Do you know anything? Have you seen Margaret?”
“I saw her a quarter of an hour ago — —”
“With Robert?” interrupted Jane, more impulsively than she was in the habit of speaking.
“Robert was by her side. But she was walking arm in arm with Mr. Murray.”
Jane did not much like the information. This Mr. Murray was in the same house as Robert, holding a better position. Robert had occasionally brought him home, and he had taken tea with them. Mrs. Halliburton felt surprised at Margaret: it appeared, to her well-regulated mind, very like a clandestine proceeding. What would she have said, or thought, had she known that Margaret and Mr. Murray were in the habit of thus walking together constantly? Robert’s being with them afforded no sufficient excuse.
Later they saw Margaret coming home with Robert alone. He left her at the door as usual, and then hastened away to his own home. Jane said nothing then, but she went to Margaret’s room that evening.
“Oh, Edgar has been bringing home tales, has he?” was Margaret’s answer, when the ice was broken; and her defiant tone brought Jane hardly knew what of dismay to her ear. “I saw him staring at us.”
“Margaret!” gasped Jane, “what can have come to you? You are completely changed; you — you seem to speak no longer as a lady.”
“Then why do you provoke me, Jane? Is it high treason to take a gentleman’s arm, my brother being with me?”
“It is not right to do it in secret, Margaret. If you go out ostensibly to walk with Robert — —”
“Jane, I will not listen,” Margaret said, with flashing eyes. “Because you are Mrs. Halliburton, you assume a right to lecture me. I have committed no grievous wrong. When I do commit it, you may take your turn then.”
“Oh, Margaret! why will you misjudge me?” asked Jane, her voice full of pain. “I speak to you in love, not in anger; I would not speak at all but for your good. If the Chevasneys were to hear of this, they might think you an unsuitable mistress for their children.”
“Compose yourself,” said Margaret, scoffingly. Never had she shown such a temper, so undesirable a disposition, as on this night; and Jane might well look at her in amazement, and hint that she was “changed.” “I shall be found sufficiently suitable by the Chevasney family — when I consent to enter it.”
Her tone was strangely significant, and Jane Halliburton’s heart beat. “What do you imply, Margaret?” she inquired. “You appear to have some peculiar meaning.”
Margaret, who had been standing before the glass all this time twisting her hair round her fingers, turned and looked her sister full in the face. “Jane, I’ll tell you, if you will undertake to make things straight for me with mamma. I am not going to the Chevasneys — or anywhere else — as governess.”
“Yes,” — said Jane faintly, for she had a presentiment of what was coming.
“I am going to be married instead.”
“Oh, Margaret!”
“There is nothing to groan about,” retorted Margaret. “Mr. Murray is coming to speak to mamma to-morrow, and if any of you have anything to say against him, you can say it to his face. He is a very respectable man, and has a good income; where’s the objection to him?”
Jane could not say. Personally, she did not very much like Mr. Murray; and certain fond visions had pictured a higher destiny for handsome, accomplished Margaret. “I hope and trust you will be happy, if you do marry him, Margaret!” was all she said.
“I hope I shall. I must take my chance of that, as others do. Jane, I beg your pardon for my crossness, but you put me out of temper.”
As others do. Ay! it was all a lottery. And Margaret Tait entered upon her hastily-chosen married life, knowing that it was so.
CHAPTER VI.
IN SAVILE-ROW.
Several years went on; and years rarely go on without bringing changes with them. Jane had now four children. William, the eldest, was close upon thirteen; Edgar, the youngest, going on for nine; Jane and Frank were between them. Mrs. Tait was dead: and Francis Tait was the Reverend Francis Tait. By dint of hard work and perseverance, he had succeeded in qualifying for Orders, and was half starving upon a London curacy, as his father had done for so many years before him. In saying “half starving,” I don’t mean that he had not bread and cheese to eat; but when a clergyman’s stipend is under a hundred a year, the expression “half starving” is justifiable. He hungers after many things that he is unable to obtain, and he cannot maintain his position as a gentleman. Francis Tait hungered. Over one want, especially, he hungered with an intensely ravenous hunger; and that was, the gratificati
on of his taste for literature. The books he coveted to read were expensive; impossibilities to him; he could not purchase them, and libraries were then scarce. Had Francis Tait not been gifted with very great conscientiousness, he would have joined teaching with his ministry. But the wants of his parish required all his time; and he had inherited that large share of the monitor, conscience, from his father. “I suppose I shall have a living some time,” he would think to himself: “when I am growing an old man, probably, as he was when he gained his.”
So the Reverend Francis Tait plodded on at his curacy, and was content to await that remote day when fortune should drop from the skies.
Where was Margaret? Margaret had bidden adieu to old England for ever. Her husband, who had not been promoted in his house of business as rapidly as he thought he ought to have been, had thrown up his situation, home and home ties, and gone out to the woods of Canada to become a settler. Did Margaret repent her hasty marriage then? Did she find that her finished education, her peculiar tastes and habits, so unfitted for domestic life, were all lost in those wild woods? Music, drawing, languages, literature, of what use were they to her now? She might educate her own children, indeed, as they grew up: the only chance of education it appeared likely they would have. That Margaret found herself in a peculiarly uncongenial atmosphere, there could be no doubt; but, like a brave woman as she proved herself, not a hint of it, in writing home, ever escaped her, not a shadow of complaint could be gathered there. It was not often that she wrote, and her letters grew more rare as the years went on. Robert had accompanied them, and he boasted that he liked the life much; a thousand times better than that of the musty old warehouse.
Mr. Halliburton’s teaching was excellent — his income good. He was now one of the professors at King’s College; but had not yet succeeded in carrying out his dream — that of getting to Oxford or Cambridge. Edgar Halliburton had begun at the wrong end of the ladder: he should have gone to college first and married afterwards. He married first: and to college he never went. A man of moderate means, with a home to keep, a wife, children, servants, to provide for, has enough to do with his money and time, without spending them at college. He had quite given up the idea now; and perhaps had grown not to regret it very keenly: his home was one of refinement, comfort, and thorough happiness.