This chapter may be said to commence the second part of this history, for some years have elapsed since the events last recorded.

Do you doubt that the self-denying patience displayed by Jane Halliburton, her persevering struggles, her never-fainting industry, joined to her all-perfect trust in the goodness and guidance of the Most High God, could fail to bring their reward? It is not possible. But do not fancy that it came suddenly in the shape of a coach-and-six. Rewards worth having are not acquired so easily. Have you met with the following lines? They are somewhat applicable.

Jane's reward was in progress: it had not fully come. At present it was little more than that of an approving conscience for having fought her way through difficulties in the patient continuance of well-doing, and in the fulfilment, in a remarkable manner, of the subject she had had most at heart—that of giving her sons an education that would fit them to fulfil any part they might be called upon to play in the destinies of life—in watching them grow up full of promise to make good and great men.

In circumstances, Jane was tolerably at ease now. Time had wrought its changes. Mrs. Reece had gone—not into other lodgings, but to join Janey Halliburton on the long journey. And Dobbs—Dobbs!—was servant to Mrs. Halliburton! Dobbs had experienced misfortune. Dobbs had put by a good round sum in a bank, for Dobbs had been provident all her life; and the bank broke and swallowed up Dobbs's savings; and nearly all Dobbs's surly independence went with it. Misfortunes do not come alone; and Mrs. Reece died almost immediately after Dobbs's treacherous bank went. The old lady's will had been good to leave Dobbs something, but she had not the power to do so: the income she had enjoyed went at her death to her late husband's relatives. She had made Dobbs handsome presents from time to time, and these Dobbs had placed with the rest of her money. It had all gone.

Poor Dobbs, good for nothing in the first shock of the loss, paid Mrs. Halliburton for a bedroom weekly, and sat down to fret. Next, she tried to earn a living at making gloves—an employment Dobbs had followed in her early days. But, what with not being so young as she was, neither eyes nor fingers, Dobbs found she could make nothing of the work. She went about the house doing odd tasks for Mrs. Halliburton, until that lady ventured on a proposal (with as much deference as though she had been making it to an Indian Begum), that Dobbs should remain with her as her servant. An experienced, thoroughly good servant she required now; and that she knew Dobbs to be. Dobbs acquiesced; and forthwith went upstairs, moved her things into the dark closet, and obstinately adopted it as her own bedroom.

The death of Mrs. Reece had enabled Jane to put into practice a plan she had long thought of—that of receiving boarders into her house, after the manner of the dames at Eton. Some of the foundation boys in the college school lived at a distance, and it was a great matter with the parents to place them in families where they would find a good home. The wife of the head master, Mrs. Keating, took in half-a-dozen; Jane thought she might do the same. She had been asked to do so; but had not room while Mrs. Reece was with her. She still held her class in the evening. As one set of boys finished with her, others were only too glad to take their places: there was no teaching like Mrs. Halliburton's. Upon making it known that she could receive boarders, applications poured in; and six, all she had accommodation for, came. They, of course, attended the college school during the day. Thus she could afford to relinquish working at the gloves; and did so, to Samuel Lynn's chagrin: a steady, regular worker, as Jane had been, was valuable to the manufactory. Altogether, what with her evening class, and the sum paid by the boarders, her income was between two and three hundred a year, not including what was earned by William.

William had made progress at Mr. Ashley's, and now earned thirty shillings a week. Frank and Gar had not left the college school. Frank's time was out, and more than out: but when a scholar advanced in the manner that Frank Halliburton had done, Mr. Keating was not in a hurry to intimate to him that his time had expired. So Frank remained on, studying hard, one of the most finished scholars Helstonleigh Collegiate School had ever turned out.

There sat one great desire in Frank's heart; it had almost grown into a passion; it coloured his dreams by night and his thoughts by day—that of matriculating at one of the two Universities. The random and somewhat dim idea of Frank's early days—studying for the Bar—had become the fixed purpose of his life. That he was especially gifted with the tastes and qualifications necessary to make a good pleader, there could be no doubt about; therefore, Frank had probably not mistaken his vocation. Persevering in study, keen in perceptive intellect, equable in temper, fluent and persuasive in speech, a true type was he of an embryo barrister. He did not quite see his way yet to getting to college. Neither did Gar; and Gar had set his mind upon the Church.

One cold January evening, bright, clear, and frosty, Samuel Lynn stopped away from the manufactory. He had received a letter by the evening post saying that a friend, on his way from Birmingham to Bristol, would halt for a few hours at his house and go on by the Bristol mail, which passed through the city at eleven o'clock. The friend arrived punctually, was regaled with tea and other good things in the state parlour, and he and Samuel Lynn settled themselves to enjoy a pleasant evening together, Patience and Anna forming part of the company. Anna's luxuriant curls and her wondrous beauty—for, in growing up, that beauty had not belied the promise of her childhood—were shaded under the demure Quaker's cap. Something else had not belied the promise of her childhood, and that was her vanity.

Apparently, she did not find the evening or the visitor to her taste. He was old, as were her father and Patience: every one above thirty Anna was apt to class as "old." She fidgeted, was restless, and, just as the clock struck seven—as if the sound rendered any further inaction unbearable—she rose and was quietly stealing from the room.

"Where are thee going, Anna?" asked her father.

Anna coloured, as if taken by surprise. "Friend Jane Halliburton promised to lend me a book, father: I should like to fetch it."

"Sit thee still, child; thee dost not want to read to-night when friend Stanley is with us. Show him thy drawings. Meanwhile, I will get the chessmen. Thee'd like a game?" turning to his visitor.

"Ay, I should," was the ready answer. "Remember, friend Lynn, I beat thee last time."

"Maybe my skill will redeem itself to-night," nodded the Quaker, as he rose for the chessboard. "It shall try its best."

"Would thee like a candle?" asked Patience, who was busy sewing.

"Not at all. My chamber is light as day, with the moon so near the full."

Mr. Lynn went up to his room. The chessboard and men were kept on a table near the window. As he took them from it he glanced out at the pleasant scene. His window, at the back, faced the charming landscape, and the Malvern Hills in the horizon shone out almost as distinctly as by day. Not, however, on the landscape were Samuel Lynn's eyes fixed; they had caught something nearer, which drew his attention.

Pacing the field-path which ran behind his low garden hedge was a male figure in a cloak. To see a man, whether with a cloak or without it, abroad on a moonlight night, would not have been extraordinary; but Samuel Lynn's notice was drawn by this one's movements. Beyond the immediate space occupied by the house, the field-path was hidden: on one side, by the high hedge intervening between his garden and Mrs. Halliburton's; on the other, by a wall. The figure—whoever it might be—would come to one of these corners, stealthily peep at Samuel Lynn's house and windows, and then continue his way past it, until he reached the other corner, where he would halt and peep again, partially hiding himself behind the hedge. That he was waiting for something or some one was apparent, for he stamped his feet occasionally in an impatient manner.

"What can it be that he does there?" cried the Quaker, half aloud: "this is the second time I have seen him. He cannot be taking a sketch of my house by moonlight! Were it any other than thee, William Halliburton, I should say it wore a clandestine look."

He returned to the parlour, and took his revenge on his friend by checkmating him three times in succession. At nine o'clock supper came in, and at ten Mr. Stanley, accompanied by Samuel Lynn, left, to walk leisurely into Helstonleigh and await the Bristol mail. As they turned out of the house they saw William Halliburton going in at his own door.

"It is a cold night," William remarked to Mr. Lynn.

"Very. Good night to thee."

You cannot see what he is like by this light, especially in that disguising cloak, and the cap with its protecting ears. But you can see him the following morning, as he stands in Mr. Ashley's counting-house.

A well-grown, upright, noble form, a head taller than Samuel Lynn, by whose side he is standing, with a peculiarly attractive face. Not for its beauty—the face cannot boast of very much—but for its broad brow of intellect, its firm, sweet mouth, and its truthful dark-grey eyes. None could mistake William Halliburton for anything but a gentleman, although they had seen him, as now, with a white apron tied round his waist. William was making up gloves: a term, as you may remember, which means sorting them according to their qualities—work that was sometimes done in Mr. Ashley's room, on account of its steady light, for it bore a north aspect. A table, or counter, was fixed down one side, under its windows. Mr. Lynn stood by his side, looking on.

"Thee can do it tolerably well, William," he observed, after some minutes' close inspection.

William smiled. The Quaker never bestowed decided praise, and never thought any one could be trusted in the making-up department, himself and James Meeking excepted. William had been exercised in the making-up for the past eighteen months, and he thought he ought to do it pretty well by this time. Mr. Lynn was turning away, when his keen sight fell on several dozens at a little distance. He took up one of the top pairs with a hasty movement, knitted his brow, and then took up others.

"Thee has not exercised thy judgment or thy caution here, friend William."

"I did not make up those," replied William.

"Who did, then?"

"Cyril Dare."

"I have told Cyril Dare he is not to attempt the making-up," returned Samuel Lynn, in severe tones. "When did he do these?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"There, again! He knows the gloves are not made up in a winter's afternoon. I myself would not do it by so obscure a light. Thee go over these thyself when thee has finished the stack before thee."

Samuel Lynn was not one who spared work. He mixed the offending dozens together indiscriminately, and pushed them towards William. Then he turned to his own place, and went on with his work: he was also making up. Presently he spoke again.

"What does thee do at the back of my house of a night? Thee must find the walk cold."

William turned his head with a movement of surprise. "I don't do anything at the back of your house. What do you mean?"

"Not walk about there, watching it, as thee did last night?"

"Certainly not! I do not understand you."

Samuel Lynn's brows knit heavily. "William, I deemed thee truthful. Why deny what is a palpable fact?"

William Halliburton put down the pair of gloves he had in his hand, and turned to the Quaker. "In saying that I do not walk at the back of your house at night, or at the back of any house, I state the truth."

"Last night at seven o'clock, I saw thee parading there in thy cloak. I saw thee, I say, William. The night was unusually light."

"Last night, from tea-time until half-past nine, I never stirred out of my mother's parlour," rejoined William. "I was at my books as usual. At half-past nine I ran up to say a word to Henry Ashley. You saw me returning."

"But I saw thee at the back with my own eyes," persisted the Quaker. "I saw thy cloak. Thee had on that blue cap of thine: it was tied down over thy ears; and the collar of the cloak was turned up, to protect thee, as I surmised, from the cold."

"It must have been my ghost," responded William. "Should I be likely to pace up and down a cold field, for pastime, on a January night?"

"Will thee oblige me by putting on thy cloak?" was all the answer returned by Samuel Lynn.

"What—now?"

"Please."

William, laughing, went out of the room, and came back in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned cloak—a remarkable cloak—a dark plaid, its collar lined with red. Formerly worn by gentlemen, they had now become nearly obsolete; but William had picked this up for much less than half its value. He did not care much for fashion, and it was warm and comfortable in winter weather.

"Perhaps you wish me to put on my cap?" said William, in a serio-comic tone.

"Yes; and turn down the ears."

He obeyed, very much amused. "Anything more?" asked he.

"Walk thyself about an instant."

His lips smiling, his eyes dancing, William marched from one side of the room to the other. While this was in process Cyril Dare bustled in, and stood in amazement, staring at William. The Quaker paid no attention to his arrival, except that he took out his watch and glanced at it. He continued to address William.

"And thee can assure me to my face, that thee was not pacing the field last night in the moonlight, dressed as now?"

"I can, and do," replied William.

"Then, William, it is one of two things. My eyes or thy word must be false."

"Did you see my face?" asked William.

"Not much of that. With the ears down and the collar up, thy face was pretty effectually concealed. There's not another cloak like thine in all Helstonleigh."

"You are right there," laughed William; "there's not one half so handsome. Admire the contrast of the purple and green plaid and the scarlet collar."

"No, not another like it," emphatically repeated the Quaker. "I tell thee, William Halliburton, in the teeth of thy denial, that I saw thee, or a figure precisely similar to thee, parading the field-path last night, and stealthily watching my windows."

"It's a clear case of ghost," returned William, with an amused look at Cyril Dare. "How much longer am I to make a walking Guy of myself, for your pleasure and Cyril's astonishment?"

"Thee can take it off," replied the Quaker, his curt tone betraying dissatisfaction. Until that moment he had believed William Halliburton to be the very quintessence of truth. His belief was now shaken.

In the small passage between Mr. Ashley's room and Samuel Lynn's, William hung up the cloak and cap. The Quaker turned to Cyril Dare, who was taking off his great-coat, stern displeasure in his tone.

"Dost thee know the time?"

"Just gone half-past nine," replied Cyril.

Mr. Lynn held out his watch to Cyril. It wanted seventeen minutes to ten. "Nine o'clock is thy hour. I am tired of telling thee to be more punctual. And thee did not come before breakfast."

"I overslept myself," said Cyril.

"As thee dost pretty often, it seems. If thee can do no better than thee did yesterday, as well oversleep thyself for good. Look at these gloves."

"Well!" cried Cyril, who was a good-looking young man, in stature not far short of William. At least he would have been good-looking, but for his eyes; there was a look in them, almost amounting to a squint; and they did not gaze openly and honestly into another's eyes. His face was thin, and his features were well-formed. "Well!" cried he.

"It is well," repeated the Quaker; "well that I looked at them, for they must be done again. Firsts are mixed with seconds, thirds with firsts; I do not know that I ever saw gloves so ill made up. What have I told thee?"

"Lots of things," responded Cyril, who liked to set the manager at defiance, as far as he dared.

"I have desired thee never to attempt to make up the gloves. I now forbid thee again; and thee will do well not to forget it. Begin and band these gloves that William Halliburton is making ready."

Cyril jerked open the drawer where the paper bands were kept, took some out of it, and carried them to the counter, where William stood. Mr. Lynn interposed with another order.

"Thee will please put thy apron on."

Now, having to wear this apron was the very bugbear of Cyril Dare's life. "There's no need of an apron to paper gloves," he responded.

"Thee will put on thy apron, friend," calmly repeated Samuel Lynn.

"I hate the apron," fumed Cyril, jerking open another drawer, and jerking out his apron; for he might not openly disobey the authority of Samuel Lynn. "I should think I am the first gentleman that ever was made to wear one."

"If thee are practically engaged in a glove manufactory, thee must wear an apron, gentleman or no gentleman," equably returned the Quaker. "As we all do."

"All don't!" retorted Cyril. "The master does not."

"Thee are not in the master's position yet, Cyril Dare. And I would advise thee to exercise thy discretion more and thy tongue less."

The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Ashley, and the room dropped into silence. There might be no presuming in the presence of the master. He sat down to his desk, and opened his morning letters. Presently a young man put his head in and addressed Samuel Lynn.

"Noaks, the stainer, has come in, sir. He says the skins given out to him yesterday would be better for coloured than blacks."

"Desire James Meeking to attend to him," said Mr. Lynn.

"James Meeking isn't here, sir. He's up in the cutters' room, or somewhere."

Samuel Lynn, upon this, went out himself. Cyril Dare followed him. Cyril was rather fond of taking short trips about the manufactory, as interludes to his work. Soon after, the master lifted his head.

"Step here, William."

William put down the gloves he was examining and approached the desk. "What sort of a French scholar are you?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"A very good one, sir," he replied, after a pause given to surprise. "I know it thoroughly. I can read and write it as readily as I can English."

"But I mean as to speaking. Could you make yourself understood, for instance, if you were suddenly dropped down into a French town, where the natives spoke nothing but their own language?"

William smiled. "I don't think I should have much difficulty over it. I have been so much with Monsieur Colin that I talk as fast as he does. He stops me occasionally to grumble at what he calls l'accent anglais."

"I am not sure that I shall not send you on a mission to France," resumed Mr. Ashley. "You can be better spared than Samuel Lynn; and it must be one of you. Will you undertake it?"

"I will undertake anything that you wish me to do, sir, that I could accomplish," replied William, lifting his clear earnest eyes to those of his master.

"You are an exceedingly good judge of skins: even Samuel Lynn admits that. I want some intelligent, trustworthy person to go over to France, look about the markets there, and pick up what will suit us. The demand for skins is great at the present time, and the markets must be watched to select suitable bales before other bidders step in and pounce upon them. By these means we may secure some good bargains and good skins: we have succeeded lately in doing neither."

"At Annonay, I presume you mean, sir."

"Annonay and its neighbourhood; that's the chief market for dressed skins. The undressed pelts are to be met with best, as you are aware, in the neighbourhood of Lyons. You would have to look after both. I have talked the matter over with Mr. Lynn, and he thinks you may be trusted both as to ability and conduct."

"I will do my best if I am sent," replied William.

"Your stay might extend over two or three months. We can do with a great deal; both of pelts and dressed skins. The dressers at Annonay——Cyril, what are you doing there?"

Cyril could scarcely have told. He had come into the counting-house unnoticed, and his ears had picked up somewhat of the conversation. In his anger and annoyance, Cyril had remained, his face turned towards the speakers, listening for more.

For it had oozed out at Pomeranian Knoll, through a word dropped by Henry Ashley, that Mr. Ashley had it in contemplation to despatch some one from the manufactory on this mission to France, and that the some one would not be Samuel Lynn. Cyril received the information with avidity, never doubting that he would be the one fixed upon. To give him his due, he was really a good judge of skins—not better than William; but somehow Cyril had never given a thought to William in the matter. Greatly had he anticipated the journey to the land of pleasure, where he would be under no one's control but his own. In that moment, when he heard Mr. Ashley speaking to William upon the subject, not to him, Cyril felt at war with every one and everything; with the master, with William, and especially with the business, which he hated as much as he had ever done.

But Mr. Ashley was not one to do things in a hurry, and he had only broached the subject.