Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles

by Mrs. Henry Wood

The dinner party for the judges that night was given at the deanery. Not a more honoured guest had it than the high sheriff. His chaplain was with him, and William and Frank were also guests. What did the Dares think of the Halliburtons now?

The Dares, just then, were too much occupied with their own concerns to think of them at all. They were planning how to get out to Australia. Their daughter Julia, more dutiful than some daughters might prove themselves, had offered an asylum to her father and mother, if they would go out to Sydney. Her sisters, she wrote word, would find good situations there as governesses—probably in time find husbands.

They were wild to go. They wanted to get away from mortifying Helstonleigh, and to try their fortunes in a new world. The passage money was the difficulty. Julia had not sent it, possibly not supposing they were so very badly off; she did not know yet of the last touch to their misfortunes. How could they scrape together even enough for a steerage passage? Mr. Ashley's private opinion was that he should have to furnish it. Ah! he was a good man. Never a better, never a more considerate to others than Thomas Ashley.

Sunday morning rose to the ringing again of the cathedral bells—bells that do not condescend to ring except on rare occasions—telling that it was some day of note in Helstonleigh. It was a fine day, sunny, and very warm for March, and the glittering east window reflected its colours upon a crowd such as the cathedral had rarely seen assembled within its walls for divine service, even on those thronging days, Assize Sundays.

The procession extended nearly the whole way from the grand entrance gates to the choir, passing through the body and the nave. The high sheriff's men, standing so still, their formidable javelins in rest, had enough to do to retain their places, from the pressure of the crowd, as they kept the line of way. The bishop in his robes, the clergy in their white garments and scarlet or black hoods, the long line of college boys in their surplices, the lay-clerks, yet in white. Not (as you were told of yesterday) on them; not on the mayor and corporation, with their chains and gowns; not on the grey-wigged judges, their fiery trains held up behind, glaring cynosure of eyes on other days, was the attention of that crowd fixed; but on him who walked, calm, dignified, quiet, in immediate attendance on the judges—their revered fellow-citizen, Thomas Ashley. In attendance on him was his chaplain, his black gown, so contrasting with the glare and glitter, marking him out conspicuously.

The organ had burst forth as they entered the great gates, simultaneously with the ceasing of the bells which had been sending their melody over the city. With some difficulty, places were found for those of note; but many a score stood that day. The bishop had gone on to his throne; and opposite to him, in the archdeacon's stall, the appointed place for the preacher on Assize Sundays, sat the sheriff's chaplain. Sir William Leader was shown to the dean's stall; Mr. Justice Keene to the sub-dean's; the dean sitting next the one, the high sheriff next the other. William Halliburton was in a canon's stall; Frank—handsome Frank!—found a place amidst many other barristers. And in the ladies' pew, underneath the dean, seated with the dean's wife, were Mrs. Ashley, her daughter, and Mrs. Halliburton.

The Reverend Mr. Keating chanted the service, putting his best voice into it. They gave that fine anthem, "Behold, God is my salvation." Very good were the services and the singing that day. The dean, the prebendary in residence, and Mr. Keating went to the communion-table for the commandments, and thus the service drew to an end. As they were conducted back to their stall, a verger with his silver mace cleared a space for the sheriff's chaplain to ascend the pulpit stairs, the preacher of the day.

How the college boys gazed at him! Only a short time before (comparatively speaking) he had been one of them, a college boy himself; some of the seniors (juniors then) had been school-fellows with him. Now he was the Reverend Edgar Halliburton, chief personage for the moment in that cathedral. To the boys' eyes he seemed to look dark; except on Assize Sundays, they were accustomed to see only white robes in that pulpit.

"Too young to give us a good sermon," thought half the congregation, as they scanned him. Nevertheless, they liked his countenance; its grave earnest look. He gave out his text, a verse from Ecclesiastes:

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest."