Chapter 8
"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 gla.s.s 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 gratification 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,
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.
But about this period, or indeed some time prior to it, Mr. Halliburton had reason to believe that he was overtaxing his strength. For a long, long while, almost ever since he had been in London, he was aware that he had not felt thoroughly well. Hot weather affected him and rendered him languid; the chills of winter gave him a cough; the keen winds of spring attacked his chest. He would throw off his ailments bravely and go on again, not heeding them or thinking that they might ever become serious. Perhaps he never gave a thought to that until one evening when, upon coming in after a hard day's toil, he sat down in his chair and quietly fainted away.
Jane and one of the servants were standing over him when he recovered--Jane's face very pale and anxious.
"Do not be alarmed," he said, smiling at her. "I suppose I dropped asleep; or lost consciousness in some way."
"You fainted, Edgar."
"Fainted, did I? How silly I must have been! The room's warm, Jane: it must have overpowered me."
Jane was not deceived. She saw that he was making light of it to quiet her alarm, and brought him a gla.s.s of wine. He drank it, but could not eat anything: frequently could not eat now.
"Edgar," she said, "you are doing too much. I have seen it for a long time past."
"Seen what, Jane?"
"That your strength is not equal to your work. You must give up a portion of your teaching."
"My dear, how can I do so? Does it not take all I earn to meet expenses?
When accounts are settled at the end of the year, have we a s.h.i.+lling to spare?"
It was so, and Jane knew it; but her husband's health was above every consideration in the world. "We must reduce our expenses," she said. "We must cease to live as we are living now. We will move into a smaller house, and keep one servant, and I will turn maid-of-all-work."
She laughed quite merrily; but Mr. Halliburton detected a serious meaning in her tone. He shook his head.
"No, Jane; that time, I hope, will never come."
He lay awake all that night buried in reflection. Do you know what this night-reflection is, when it comes to us in all its racking intensity?
Surging over his brain, like the wild waves that chase each other on the ocean, came the thought, "What will become of my wife and children if I die?" Thought after thought, they all resolved themselves into that one focus:--"I have made no provision for my wife and children: what will become of them if I am taken?"
Mr. Halliburton had one good habit--it was possible that he had learnt it from his wife, for it was hers in no ordinary degree--the habit of _looking steadfastly into the face of trouble_. Not to groan and grumble at it--to sigh and lament that no one else's trouble ever was so great before--but to see how it might best be met and contended with; how the best could be made of it.
The only feasible way he could see, was that of insuring his life. He possessed neither lands nor money. Did he attempt to put by a portion of his income, it would take years and years to acc.u.mulate into a sum worth mentioning. Why, how long would it take him to economise only a thousand pounds? No. There was only one way--that of life insurance. It was an idea that would have occurred to most of us. He did not know how much it would take from his yearly income to effect it. A great deal, he was afraid; for he was approaching what is called middle life.
He had no secrets from his wife. He consulted her upon every point; she was his best friend, his confidante, his gentle counsellor, and he had no intention of concealing the step he was about to take. Why should he?
"Jane," he began, when they were at breakfast the next morning, "do you know what I have been thinking of all night?"
"Trouble, I am sure," she answered. "You have been very restless."
"Not exactly trouble"--for he did not choose to acknowledge, even to himself, that a strange sense of trouble did seem to rest on his heart and to weigh it down. "I have been thinking more of precaution than trouble."
"Precaution?" echoed Jane, looking at him.
"Ay, love. And the astonis.h.i.+ng part of the business, to myself, is that I never thought of the necessity for this precaution before."
Jane divined now what he meant. Often and often had the idea occurred to her--"Should my husband's health or life fail, we are dest.i.tute." Not for herself did she so much care, but for her children.
"That sudden attack last night has brought me reflection," he resumed.
"Life is uncertain with the best of us. It may be no more uncertain with me than with others; but I feel that I must act as though it were so.
Jane, were I taken, there would be no provision for you."
"No," she quietly said.
"And therefore I must set about making one without delay, as far as I can. I shall insure my life."
Jane did not answer immediately. "It will take a great deal of money, Edgar," she presently said.
"I fear it will: but it must be done. What's the matter, Jane? You don't look hopeful over it."