The Hallam Succession by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (ereader for textbooks txt) 📕

quietly performed.

Unfortunately, during all these changes the rector had been away. About a week before Antony's flight he was compelled to go to the south of France. His health had failed in an alarming manner, and his recovery had been slow and uncertain. Many a time, in her various trials, Elizabeth had longed for his support. She had even thought that it might be possible to tell him the full measure of her sorrow. At Evelyn's funeral she missed him very much. She remembered how tender and full of grace all his ministrations had been at her father's death. But the poor little lady's obsequies were as lonely and sad as her life. She was only the wife of an absconding debtor. She had died under the roof of a woman who had seriously offended society by not taking it into her confidence.

It was a cold, rainy day; there was nothing to be gained in any respect by a wretched stand in the wet sodden grave-yard. Even the curate in charge hurried over the service. The ceremony was so pitiably desolate that Elizabeth wept at its remembrance for many a year; and between her and Martha it was always a subject of sorrowful congratulation, that little Harry had been too ill with a sore throat to go to the funeral; and had, therefore, not witnessed it.

The wronged have always a hope that as time passes it will put the wrong right. But it was getting toward the close of the third year, and Elizabeth's trial was no lighter. There had been variations in it. Sometime during the first year an opinion had gained ground, that she was saving in order to pay her brother's debts. As there were many in the neighborhood interested in such a project, this report met with great favor; and while the hope survived Elizabeth was graciously helped in her task of self-denial by a lifted hat, or a civil good-morning. But when two years had passed, and no meeting of the creditors had been called, hope in this direction turned to unreasonable anger.

"She must hev saved nigh unto L10,000. Why, then, doesn't she do t' right thing wi' it?"

"She sticks to t' brass like glue; and it's none hers. I'm fair cap't wi' t' old squire. I did think he were an honest man; but I've given up that notion long sin'. He knew well enough what were coming, and so he left Hallam to t' lass. It's a black shame a' through, thet it is!"--and thus does the shadow of sin stretch backward and forward; and not only wrong the living, but the dead also.

In the summer after Lady Evelyn's death the rector returned. Elizabeth did not hear of his arrival for a few days, and in those days the rector heard many things about Elizabeth. He was pained and astonished; and, doubtless, his manner was influenced by his feelings, although he had no intention of allowing simple gossip to prejudice him against so old a friend as Elizabeth Hallam. But she felt an alien atmosphere, and it checked and chilled her. If she had had any disposition to make a confidant of the rector, after that visit it was gone. "His sickness and the influx of new lives and new elements into his life has changed him," she thought; "I will not tell him any thing."

On the contrary, he expected her confidence. He called upon her several times in this expectation; but each time there was more perceptible an indefinable something which prevented it. In fact, he felt mortified by Elizabeth's reticence. People had confidently expected that Miss Hallam would explain her conduct to him; some had even said, they were ready to resume friendly relations with her if the rector's attitude in the matter appeared to warrant it. It will easily be seen, then, that the return of her old friend, instead of dissipating the prejudice against her, deepened it.

The third year was a very hard and gloomy one. It is true, she had paid more than half of Page and Thorley's claim, and that the estate was fully as prosperous as it had ever been in her father's time. But socially she felt herself to be almost a pariah. The rich and prosperous ignored her existence; and the poor? Well, there was a change there that pained her equally. If she visited their cottages, and was pleasant and generous, they thought little of the grace.

"There must be summat wrong wi' her, or all t' gentlefolks wouldn't treat her like t' dirt under their feet," said one old crone, after pocketing a shilling with a courtsey.

"Ay, and she wouldn't come smilin' and talkin' here, if she'd any body else to speak to. I'm a poor woman, Betty Tibbs, but I'm decent, and I'm none set up wi' Miss' fair words--not I, indeed!" said another; and though people may not actually hear the syllables which mouth such sentiments, it seems really as if a bird of the air, or something still more subtle, did carry the matter, for the slandered person instinctively knows the slanderer.

And no word of regret or of love came from Antony to lighten the burden she was carrying. If she had only known that he was doing well, was endeavoring to redeem the past, it would have been some consolation. Phyllis, also, wrote more seldom. She had now two children and a large number of servants to care for, and her time was filled with many sweet and engrossing interests. Besides, though she fully believed in Elizabeth, she did also feel for her brother. She thought Richard, at any rate, ought to have been treated with full confidence, and half-feared that pride of her family and position was at the bottom of Elizabeth's severance of the engagement. Human nature is full of complexities, and no one probably ever acts from one pure and simple motive, however much they may believe they do.

Martha Craven, however, was always true and gentle, and if any thing more respectful than in Elizabeth's brightest days; and for this blessing she was very grateful. And the boy grew rapidly, and was very handsome and interesting; and no malignity could darken the sweet, handsome rooms or the shady flower-garden. However unpleasant her day among the tenants might have been, she could close her doors, and shut out the world, and feel sure of love and comfort within her own gates.

Things were in this condition in the spring of 1843. But more than L16,000 had been paid, and Elizabeth looked with clear eyes toward this end of her task. Socially, she was as far aloof as ever; perhaps more so, for during the winter she had found her courage often fail her regarding the church services. The walk was long on wet or cold days; the boy was subject to croupy sore throat; and her heart sank at the prospect of the social ordeal through which she must pass. It may be doubted whether people are really ever made better by petty slights and undeserved scorn. Elizabeth had tried the discipline for three years, and every Sabbath evening her face burned with the same anger, and her heart was full of the same resentment. So, it had often come to pass during the winter that she had staid at home upon inclement days, and read the service to her nephew and herself, and talked with the child about the boys of the Old and New Testaments.

And it was noticeable, as indicating the thoughtful loving character of little Harry, that of all the band he envied most the lad who had given his barley loaves to the Saviour. He would listen to Elizabeth's description of the green, desert place, and the weary multitudes, and the calm evening, and then begin to wonder, in his childish words, "How the Saviour looked" at the boy--what he said to him--to fancy the smile of Jesus and the touch of the Divine hand, and following out his thought would say, softly, "How that little boy's heart must have ached when they crucified him! What would he do, aunt? Does the Bible say any more about him?"

But sweet as such Sabbaths were to both woman and child, Elizabeth knew that they deepened the unfavorable opinion about her, and she was sure that they always grieved her old friend. So, one Monday morning after an absence from church, she took the path through the park, determined to call upon him, and explain, as far as she was able, her reasons. It was a lovely day, and the child walked by her side, or ran hither and thither after a blue-bell, or a primrose; stopping sometimes behind, to watch a pair of building robins, or running on in advance after a rabbit. There was in Elizabeth's heart a certain calm happiness, which she did not analyze, but was content to feel and enjoy. At a turn in the avenue she saw the rector approaching her, and there was something in his appearance, even in the distance, which annoyed and irritated her. "He is coming to reprove me, of course," she thought; and she mentally resolved for once, to defend herself against all assertions.

"Good-morning, Miss Hallam; I was coming to see you."

"And I was going to the rectory. As the park is so pleasant, will you return with me?"

"Yes, I will. Have you any idea why I was coming to see you?"

"I have. It was to say something unjust or cruel, I suppose. No one ever comes to see me for any other purpose."

"Whose fault is that?"

"Not mine. I have done no wrong to any one."

"What has your life been during the last three years?"

"Free from all evil. My worst enemy cannot accuse me."

"Why have you closed the hall? Given up all the kind and hospitable ways of your ancestors? Shut yourself up with one old woman?"

"Because my conscience and my heart approves what I have done, and do. Can I not live as I choose? Am I obliged to give an account of myself, and of my motives, to every man and woman in the parish? O! I have been cruelly, shamefully used!" she said, standing suddenly still and lifting her face, "God alone knows how cruelly and how unjustly!"

"My dear child, people know nothing of your motives."

"Then they are wicked to judge without knowledge."

"Do you not owe society something?"

"It has no right to insist that I wear my heart upon my sleeve."

"I was your father's friend; I have known you from your birth, Elizabeth Hallam--"

"Yet you listened to what every one said against me, and allowed it so far to influence you that I was conscious of it, and though I called on you purposely to seek your help and advice, your manner closed my lips. You have known me from my birth. You knew and loved my father. O, sir, could you not have trusted me? If I had been your friend's son, instead of his daughter, you would have done so! You would have said to all evil speakers, 'Mr. Hallam has doubtless just reasons for the economy he is practicing.' But because I was a woman, I was suspected; and every thing I could not explain was necessarily wicked. O, how your doubt has wounded me! What wrong it has done me! How sorry you would be if you knew the injustice you have done the child of your old friend--the woman you baptized and confirmed, and never knew ill of!" Standing still with her hand upon his arm she poured out her complaints with passionate earnestness; her face