Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles

"I will not part you and Jane," said Mr. Tait, warmly. "If you have made up your minds to share life and its cares together, you shall do so. Still, I cannot say that I think your prospects golden."

"Prospects that appear to have no gold at all in them sometimes turn out very brightly, sir."

"I can give Jane nothing, you know."

"I have never cast a thought to it, sir; have never imagined she would have a shilling," replied Mr. Halliburton, his face flushing with eagerness. "It is Jane herself I want; not money."

"Beyond a twenty-pound note which I may give her to put into her purse on her wedding morning, that she may not leave my house absolutely penniless, she will have nothing," cried the rector, in his straightforward manner. "Far from saving, I and her mother have been hardly able to make both ends meet at the end of the year. I might have saved a few pounds yearly, had I chosen to do so; but you know what this parish is; and the reflection has always been upon me: how would my Master look upon my putting by small sums of money, when many of those over whom I am placed were literally starving for bread? I have given what I could; but I have not saved for my children."

"You have done well, sir."

Mr. Tait sought his daughter. "Jane," he began—"Nay, child, do not tremble so! There is no need for trembling, or for tears, either: you have done nothing to displease me. Jane, I like Edgar Halliburton; I like him much. There is no one to whom I would rather give you. But I do not like his prospects. Teaching is very precarious."

Jane raised her timid eyes. "Precarious for him, papa? For one learned and clever as he!"

"It is badly paid. See how he toils—and he will have to toil more when the new year comes in—and only to earn two or three hundred a year!—in round numbers."

Tears gathered in Jane's eyes. Toil as he did, badly paid as he might be, she would rather have him than any other in the world, though that other might have revelled in thousands. The rector read somewhat of this in her downcast face.

"My dear, the consideration lies with you. If you choose to venture upon it, you shall have my consent, and I know you will have your mother's, for she thinks Edgar Halliburton has not his equal in the world. But it may bring you many troubles."

"Papa, I am not afraid. If troubles come, they—you—told us only last night–"

"What, child?"

"That troubles, regarded rightly, only lead us nearer to God," whispered Jane, simply and timidly.

"Right, child. And trouble must come before that great truth can be realized. Consider the question well, Jane—whether it may not be better to wait—and give your answer to-morrow. I shall tell Mr. Halliburton not to ask for it to-night. As you decide, so shall it be."

Need you be told what Jane's decision was? Two hundred and eighty-three pounds a year seems a large sum to an inexperienced girl; quite sufficient to purchase everything that might be wanted for a fireside.

And so she became Jane Halliburton.

CHAPTER III.

THE REV. FRANCIS TAIT

A hot afternoon in July. Jane Halliburton was in the drawing-room with her mother, both sewing busily. It was a large room, with three windows, more pleasant than the dining-room beneath, and they were fond of sitting in it in summer. Jane had been married some three or four months now, but looked the same young, simple, placid girl that she ever did; and, but for the wedding-ring upon her finger, no stranger would have supposed her to be a wife.

An excellent arrangement had been arrived at—that she and her husband should remain inmates of Mr. Tait's house; at any rate, for the present. When plans were being discussed, before making the necessary arrangements for the marriage, and Mr. Halliburton was spending all his superfluous minutes hunting for a suitable house near to the old home, and not too dear, Francis Tait had given utterance to a remark—"I wonder who we shall get here in Mr. Halliburton's place, if papa takes any one else?" and Margaret, looking up from her drawing, had added, "Why can't Mr. Halliburton and Jane stay on with us? It would be so much pleasanter."

It was the first time the idea had been presented in any shape to the rector, and it seemed to go straight to his wishes. He put down a book he was reading, and spoke impulsively. "It would be the best thing; the very best thing! Would you like it, Halliburton?"

"I should, sir; very much. But it is Jane who must be consulted, not me."

Jane, her pretty cheeks covered with blushes, looked up and said she should like it also; she had thought of it, but had not liked to mention it, either to her mother or to Mr. Halliburton. "I have been quite troubled to think what mamma and the house will do without me," she added, ingenuously.

"Let Jane alone for thinking and planning, when difficulties are in the way," laughed Margaret. "My opinion is that we shall never get another pudding, or papa have his black silk Sunday hose darned, if Jane goes from us."

Mrs. Tait burst into tears. Like Margaret she was a bad manager, and had mourned over Jane's departure, secretly believing she should be half worried to death. "Oh! Jane, dear, say you'll remain!" she cried. "It will be such a relief to me! Margaret's of no earthly use, and everything will fall on my shoulders. Edgar, I hope you will remain with us! It will be pleasant for all. You know the house is sufficiently large."

And remain they did. The wedding took place at Easter, and Mr. Halliburton took Jane all the way to Dover to see the sea—a long way in those days—and kept her there for a week. And then they came back again, Jane to her old home duties, just as though she were Jane Tait still, and Mr. Halliburton to his teaching.

It was July now and hot weather; and Mrs. Tait and Jane were sewing in the drawing-room. They were working for Margaret. Mr. Halliburton, through some of his teaching connections, had obtained an excellent situation for Margaret in a first-rate school. Margaret was to enter as resident pupil, and receive every advantage towards the completion of her own education; in return for which she was to teach the younger pupils music, and pay ten pounds a year. Such an arrangement was almost unknown then, though it has been common enough since, and Mr. and Mrs. Tait thought of it very highly. Margaret Tait was only sixteen; but, as if in contrast to Jane, who looked younger than her actual years, Margaret looked older. In appearance, in manners, and also in advancement, Margaret might have been eighteen.

She was to enter the school, which was near Harrow, in another week, at the termination of the holidays, and Mrs. Tait and Jane had their hands full, getting her things ready.

"Was this slip measured, mamma?" Jane suddenly asked, after attentively regarding the work she had on her knee.

"I think so," replied Mrs. Tait. "Why?"

"It looks too short for Margaret. At least it will be too short when I have finished this fourth tuck. It must have been measured, though, for here are the pins in it. Perhaps Margaret measured it herself."

"Then of course it must be measured again. There's no trusting to anything Margaret does in the shape of work. And yet, how clever she is at music and drawing—in fact at all her studies!" added Mrs. Tait. "It is well, Jane, that we are not all gifted alike."

"I think it is," acquiesced Jane. "I will go up to Margaret's room for one of her slips, and measure this."

"You need not do that," said Mrs. Tait. "There's an old slip of hers amongst the work on the sofa."

Jane found the slip, and measured the one in her hand by it. "Yes, mamma! It is just the length without the tuck. Then I must take out what I have done of it. It is very little."

"Come hither, Jane. Your eyes are younger than mine. Is not that your papa coming towards us from the far end of the square?"

Jane approached the window nearest to her, not the one at which Mrs. Tait was sitting. "Oh, yes, that's papa. You might tell him by his dress, if by nothing else, mamma."

"I could tell him by himself, if I could see," said Mrs. Tait, quaintly. "I don't know how it is, Jane, but my sight grows very imperfect for a distance."

"Never mind that, mamma, so that you can continue to see well to work and read," said Jane cheerily. "How fast papa is walking!"

Very fast for the Rev. Francis Tait, who was not in general a quick walker. He entered his house, and came up to the drawing-room. He had not been well for the last few days, and threw himself into a chair, wearily.

"Jane, is there any of that beef-tea left, that was made for me yesterday?"

"Yes, papa," she said, springing up that she might get it for him. "I will bring it to you immediately."

"Stay, stay, child, not so fast," he interrupted. "It is not for myself. I can do without it. I have been pained by a sad sight," he added, looking at his wife. "There's that daughter of the Widow Booth's come home again. I called in upon them and there she was, lying on a mattress, dying from famine, as I verily believe. She returned last night in a dreadful state of exhaustion, the mother says, and has had nothing within her lips since but cold water. They tried her with solid food, but she could not swallow it. That beef-tea will just do for her. Have it warmed, Jane."

"She is a sinful, ill-doing girl, Francis," remarked Mrs. Tait, "and does not really deserve compassion."

"All the more reason, wife, that she should be rescued from death," said the rector, almost sternly. "The good may dare to die: the evil may not. Don't waste time, Jane. Put it into a bottle, warm, and I'll carry it round."

"Is there nothing else we can send her, papa, that may do for her equally well?" asked Jane. "A little wine, perhaps? There is very little of the beef-tea left, and it ought to be kept for you."

"Never mind; I wish to take it to her," said the rector. "A little wine afterwards may do her good."

Jane hastened to the kitchen, disturbing a servant who was doing something over the fire. "Susan, papa wants the remainder of the beef-tea warmed. Will you make haste and do it, whilst I search for a bottle to put it into? It is to be taken round to Charity Booth."

"What! is she back again?" exclaimed the servant, slightingly, which betrayed that her estimation of Charity Booth was no higher than was that of her mistress. "It's just like the master," she continued, proceeding to do what was required of her. "It's not often that anything's made for himself; but if it is, he never gets the benefit of it; he's sure to drop across somebody that he fancies wants it worse than he does. It's not right, Miss Jane."