Chapter 127
"Long live the bishop!" cried Frank. "Where's the living situated! In the moon?"
"Ah, where indeed? Guess what living it is, mother."
"Gar, dear, how can I?" asked Jane. "Is it a minor canonry?"
They both laughed. It recalled Jane to her absence of mind. The bishop had nothing to do with bestowing the minor canonries. Neither could a minor canonry be called a "living."
"Mother, it is Deoffam."
"Deoffam! Oh, Gar!"
"Yes, it is Deoffam. You will not have to go far away from Helstonleigh, now."
"I'll lay my court wig that Mr. Ashley has had his finger in the pie!"
cried quick Frank.
But, in point of fact, the gift had emanated from the prelate himself.
And a very good gift it was: four hundred a year, and the prettiest parsonage house within ten miles. The brilliant scholars.h.i.+p of the Halliburtons, attained by their own unflagging industry, the high character they had always borne, had not been lost upon the Bishop of Helstonleigh. Gar's conduct as a clergyman had been exemplary; Gar's preaching was of no mean order, and the bishop deemed that such a one as Gar ought not to be overlooked. The day has gone by for a bishop to know nothing of the younger clergy of his diocese, and he of Helstonleigh had Gar Halliburton down in his preferment book. It is just possible that the announcement of his name in the local papers, as having helped to marry his brother at Deoffam, may have put that particular living into the bishop's head. Certain it was, that, a few hours after the bishop read it, he ordered his carriage, and went to pay a visit at Deoffam Hall. During his stay, he took Mr. Ashley's arm, and drew him out on to the terrace, very much as though he wished to take a nearer view of the peac.o.c.k.
"I have been thinking, Mr. Ashley, of bestowing the living of Deoffam upon Edgar Halliburton. What should you say to it?"
"That I should almost feel it as a personal favour paid to myself," was the reply of Mr. Ashley.
"Then it is done," said the bishop. "He is young, but I know a great many older men who are less deserving than he."
"Your lords.h.i.+p may rely upon it that there are few men, young or old, who are so intrinsically deserving as the Halliburtons."
"I know it," said the bishop. "They interested me as lads, and I have watched them ever since."
And that is how Gar became Vicar of Deoffam.
"You will be trying for a minor canonry now, Gar, I suppose, living so near to it?" observed Jane.
"Mrs. Halliburton, will you be so kind as not to put unsuitable notions into his head?" interrupted Frank. "The Reverend Gar must look out for a canonry, not a minor. And he won't stop there. When I am on the woolsack, in my place in the Lords, Gar may be opposite to me, a spiritual peer."
Jane laughed, as did Frank. Who knew, though? It all lay in the future.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A DYING CONFESSION.
Meanwhile William Halliburton and his wife had crossed the Channel.
Amongst other letters, written home to convey news of them, was the following. It was written by Mary to Mrs. Ashley, after they had been abroad a week or two.
"_Hotel du Chapeau Rouge_, _Dunkerque_,
"_September 24th._
"MY EVER DEAR MAMMA,
"You have heard from William how it was that we altered our intended route. I thought the sea-side so delightful that I was unwilling to leave it, even for Paris, and we determined to remain on the coast, especially as I shall have other opportunities of seeing Paris with William. Boulogne was crowded and noisy, so we left it for less frequented towns, staying a day or two in each place. We went to Calais and to Gravelines; also to Bourbourg, and to Ca.s.sel--the two latter _not_ on the coast. The view from Ca.s.sel--which you must not confound with Ca.s.sel in Germany--is magnificent. We met some English people on the summit of the hill, and they told us the English called it the Malvern of France. I am not sure which affords the finer view, Ca.s.sel or Malvern. They say that eighty towns or villages may be counted from it; but I cannot say that we made out anything like so many. We can see the sea in the far distance--as we can, on a clear day, catch a glimpse from Malvern of the Bristol Channel. The view from some of the windows of the Hotel de Sauvage was so beautiful that I was never tired of looking at it. William says he shall show me better views when he takes me to Lyons and Annonay, but I scarcely think it possible. At a short distance rises a monastery of the order of La Trappe, where the monks never speak, except the 'Memento mori' when they meet each other.
Some of the customs of the hotel were primitive; they gave us tablespoons in our coffee-cups for breakfast.
"From Ca.s.sel we came to Dunkerque, and are staying at the Chapeau Rouge, the only large hotel
Place Jean Bart, it is called; and the market is held in it on Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days, as it is at Helstonleigh. Such a crowded scene on the Sat.u.r.day! and the women's snow-white caps quite s.h.i.+ne in the sun. I cannot tell you how much I like to look at these old Flemish towns! By moonlight, they look exactly like the towns you are familiar with in old pictures.
There is a large basin here, and a long harbour and pier. One English lady, whom we met at the table d'hote, said she had never been to the end of the pier yet, and she had lived in Dunkerque four years. It was too far for a walk, she said. The country round is flat and poor, and the lower cla.s.ses mostly speak Flemish.
"On Monday we went by barge to a place called Bergues, four miles off. It was market day there, and the barge was crowded with pa.s.sengers from Dunkerque. A nice old town, with a fine church. They charged us only five sous for our pa.s.sage. But I must leave all these descriptions until I return home, and come to what I have chiefly to tell you.
"There is a piece of enclosed ground here, called the Pare. On the previous Sat.u.r.day, which was the day we first arrived here, I and William were walking through it, and sat down on one of the benches facing the old tower. I was rather tired, having been to the end of the pier--for its length did not alarm us.
Some one was seated at the other end of the bench, but we did not take particular notice of her. Suddenly she turned to me, and spoke: 'Have I not the honour of seeing Miss Ashley?'
Mamma, you may imagine my surprise. It was that Italian governess of the Dares, Mademoiselle Varsini, as they used to call her. William interposed: I don't think he liked her speaking to me. I suppose he thought of that story about her, which came over from Germany. He rose and took me on his arm to move away. 'Formerly Miss Ashley,' he said to her: 'now Mrs.
Halliburton.' But William's anger died away--if he had felt any--when he saw her face. I cannot describe to you how fearfully ill she looked. Her cheeks were white, and drawn, and hollow; her eyes were sunk within a dark circle, and her lips were open and looked black. 'Are you ill?' I asked her. 'I am so ill that a few days will be the finish of me,' she answered.
'The doctor gave me to the falling of the leaves, and many are already strewing the gra.s.s; in less than a week's time from this, I shall be lower than they are.' 'Is Herbert Dare with you?' inquired William--but he has said since that he spoke in the moment's impulse. Had he taken thought, he would not have put the question. 'No, he is not with me,' she answered, in an angry tone. 'I know nothing of him. He is just a vagabond on the face of the earth.' 'What is it that is the matter with you?' William asked her. 'They call it decay,' she answered. 'I was in Brussels, getting my living by daily teaching. I had to go out in all weathers, and I did not take heed to the colds I caught. I suppose they settled on my lungs.' 'Have you been in this town long?' we inquired of her. 'I came in August,' she answered. 'The Belgian doctor said if I had a change, it might do something for me, and I came here; it was the same to me where I went. But it did me harm instead of good. I grew worse directly I came; and the doctor here said I must not move away again; the travelling would injure me. What mattered it? As good die here as elsewhere.' That she had death written plainly in her face, was evident. Nevertheless, William tried to say a word of hope to her: but she interrupted him. 'There's no recovery for me; I am sure to die; and the time, it's to be hoped, will not be long in coming, or my money will not hold out.' She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone shocking to hear: and before I could call up any answer, she turned to William. 'You are the William Halli--I never could say the name--who was at Mr. Ashley's with Cyril Dare. May I ask where you have descended in Dunkerque?' 'At the Chapeau Rouge,' replied William. 'Then, if I should send there to ask you to come and speak with me, will you come?' she continued. 'I have something that I should like to tell you before I die.' William informed her that we should remain a week; and we wished her good morning and moved away into another walk. Soon afterwards, we saw a Sister of Charity, one of those who go about nursing the sick, come up to her and lead her away. She could scarcely crawl, and halted to take breath between every few steps.
"This, I have told you, was last Sat.u.r.day. This evening, Wednesday, just as we were rising from table, a waiter came to William and called him out, saying he was wanted. It proved to be the Sister of Charity that we had seen in the park; she told William that Madame Varsini was near death, and had sent her for him. So William went with her, and I have been writing this to you since his departure. It is now ten o'clock, and he has not yet returned. I shall keep this open to tell you what she wanted with him. I cannot imagine.
"Past eleven. William has come in. He thinks she will not live over to-morrow. And I have kept my letter open for nothing, for William will not tell me. He says she has been talking to him about herself and the Dares; but that the tale is more fit for papa's ears than for yours or mine.
"My sincerest love to papa and Henry. We are so glad Gar is to be at Deoffam!--And believe me, your ever-loving child,
"MARY HALLIBURTON."
"Excuse the smear. I had nearly put 'Mary Ashley.'"
This meeting, described in Mary's letter, must have been one of those remarkable coincidences that sometimes occur during a lifetime. Chance encounters they are sometimes called. Chance! Had William and his wife not gone to Dunkerque--and they went there by accident, as may be said, for the original plan had been to spend their absence in Paris--they would not have met. Had the Italian lady not gone to Dunkerque when ordered change--and she chose it by accident, she said--they would not have met. But somehow both parties _were_ brought there, and they did meet. It was not chance that led them there.
When William went out with the sister, she conducted him to a small lodging in the Rue Nationale, a street not far from the hotel. The accommodation appeared to consist of a small ante-room and a bed-chamber. Signora Varsini was in the latter, dressed in a _peignoir_, and sitting in an arm-chair, supported by cus.h.i.+ons. A washed-out, faded _peignoir_, possibly the very one she had worn years ago, the night of the death of Anthony Dare. William was surprised; by the sister's account he had expected to find her in bed, almost in the last extremity. But hers was a restless spirit. She was evidently weaker, and her breath seemed to come irregularly. William sat down in a chair opposite to her: he could not see very much of her face, for the small lamp on the table had a green shade over it, which cast its gloom on the room.
The sister retired to the ante-room and closed the door between with a caution. "Madame was not to talk much." For a few moments after the first greeting, she, "Madame," kept silence; then she spoke in English.
"I should not have known you. I never saw much of you. But I knew Miss Ashley in a moment. You must have prospered well."
"Yes, I am Mr. Ashley's partner."
"So! That is what Cyril Dare coveted for himself. Miss Ashley also.
'Bah, Monsieur Cyril!' said I sometimes to my mind; 'neither the one nor the other for thee.' Where is he?"
"Cyril? He is at home. Doing no good."
"He never do good," she said with bitterness. "He Herbert's own brother.
And the other one--George?"