The Hallam Succession by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (simple e reader .txt) 📖

saved a bit o' brass, and miss may be as highty-tighty as she likes. This is what comes o' lettin' women out o' t' place God put 'em in."

"She's gettin' that near and close," said cook, "I wouldn't stop wi' her for nowt. It's been, 'Ann, be careful here,' and, 'Ann, don't waste there,' till I'se fair sick o' it. She'll not get me to mak' mysen as mean as that. Such like goings on, I nivver!"

"And she's worst to please as iver was!" said Sarah Lister, Miss Hallam's maid. "I'm sure I don't know what's come over her lately. She used to give me many a dress and bit o' lace or ribbon. She gives nowt now. It isn't fair, you know!"

"She's savin' for that foreign chap, that's what it is," said Jasper. "I'll nivver believe but what t' land goes back to t' male heirs some way or t' other. It stands to reason that it should; and she's gettin' a' she can, while she holds t' keys. She'll mak' a mess o' it, see if she doesn't!"

And with this feeling flavoring the household, Elizabeth found the last month of the year a dismal and resentful one. In pursuance of the plans she had laid down for herself, the strictest economy was imperative; for what little she could, now save from the plenty of the old housekeeping, might have to see her through many days. At Christmas she bid "good-bye" to every one of her old servants, and even this simple duty had its trial. She stood a hard ten minutes with the few sovereigns in her hand which would be requisite if she gave them their usual Christmas gratuity. Pride urged her to give it; prudence told her, "You will need it." She was not forgetful of the unkind things that would be said of her, but she replaced the money in her desk with this reflection, "I have paid them fully for their service; I must be just before I am generous."

They left early in the day, and for a few hours Elizabeth was the only soul in the old hall. But at night-fall Ben Craven's tax-cart brought his mother, and a few of her personal belongings, and then the village gossips understood "what Miss Hallam was going to do with hersen." Martha took entire charge of the hall, and of all its treasures; and the lonely mistress went to her room that night with the happy consciousness that all she had was in loving and prudent keeping.

It was also a great comfort to feel that she was not under the constant prying of unsympathetic eyes. Elizabeth had suffered keenly from that bitterest of all oppressions, heart-constraint. She often wished to weep, but did not dare. The first servant that entered the room was her master. She owed him a calm expression of face and pleasant words, and if she failed to give them he rent her secret from her. O be certain that every sorrowful soul sighs for the night, as the watchman of Judaea did for the morning. It longs for the shadows that conceal its tears; it invokes the darkness which gave it back to itself!

With a sense of infinite relief Elizabeth sat in the still house. It was pleasant to hear only Martha's feet going to and fro; to feel that, at last, she was at liberty to speak or to be silent, to smile or to weep, to eat or to let food alone. When Martha brought in her bedroom candle, and said, "Good-night, Miss Hallam; you needn't hev a care about t' house, I'll see to ivery thing," Elizabeth knew all was right, and went with an easy mind to her own room.

Christmas-eve! She had looked forward all the year to it. Richard was to have been at Hallam for Christmas. She had thought of asking Antony and his wife and child, of filling the old rooms with young, bright faces, and of heralding in her new life in the midst of Christmas joys. She had pleased herself with the hope of telling Antony all her plans about "the succession." She had dreamed many a bright dream of her bridal in the old church, and of the lovely home to which she was going soon after the New Year. It was hard to give all up! Still harder to suffer, in addition, misconstruction and visible dislike and contempt.

"Why had it been permitted?" She fell asleep with the question in her heart, and was awakened by the singing of the waits. It was a chill, windy night, with a young moon plunging wildly in and out a sea of black driving clouds. She sat by the fire listening to the dying melody, and thinking of the Christmas-eve when Phyllis stood by her side, and the world seemed so full of happiness and hope. She had had a letter from Phyllis a few days before, a very loving, comforting, trustful letter, and she thought she would read it again. It had been laid within a book which Phyllis had given her, and she brought it to the fireside. It was a volume of poetry, and Elizabeth was not poetical. She could not remember having read a page in this volume, but as she lifted the letter her eyes fell upon these words:

"The priests must serve
Each in his course, and we must stand in turn
Awake with sorrow, in the temple dim
To bless the Lord by night."

The words affected her strangely; she turned the page backward, and read,

"It is the night,
And in the temple of the Lord, not made
By mortal hands, the lights are burning low
Before the altar. Clouds of darkness fill
The vastness of the sacred aisles....
... A few short years ago
And all the temple courts were thronged with those
Who worshiped and gave thanks before they went
To take their rest. Who shall bless
His name at midnight?

"Lo! a band of pale
Yet joyful priests do minister around
The altar, where the lights are burning low
In the breathless night. Each grave brow wears the crown
Of sorrow, and each heart is kept awake
By its own restless pain: for these are they
To whom the night-watch is appointed. See!
They lift their hands and bless God in the night
Whilst we are sleeping: Those to whom the King
Has measured out a cup of sorrow, sweet
With his dear love; yet very hard to drink,
Are waking in his temple; and the eyes
That cannot sleep for sorrow or for pain
Are lifted up to heaven, and sweet low songs
Broken by patient tears, arise to God.

"The priests must serve
Each in his course, and we must stand in turn
Awake with sorrow in the temple dim,
To bless the Lord by night. We will not fear
When we are called at midnight by some stroke
Of sudden pain, to rise and minister
Before the Lord. We too will bless his name
In the solemn night, and stretch out our hands to him."

And she paused, and lifted a face full of joy and confidence. A new light came into her soul; and, standing up before the Lord, she answered the message in the words of Bunyan, "I am willing with all my heart, Lord!"


CHAPTER IX.

"Walk boldly and wisely in that light thou hast,
There is a hand above will help thee on.

"I deemed thy garments, O my hope, were gray,
So far I viewed thee. Now the space between
Is passed at length; and garmented in green
Even as in days of yore thou stand'st to-day."

"Bless love and hope. Full many a withered year
Whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday;
And clasped together where the brown leaves lay,
We long have knelt and wept full many a tear,
Yet lo! one hour at last, the spring's compeer,
Flutes softly to us from some green by-way,
Those years, those tears are dead; but only they
Bless love and hope, true souls, for we are here."

The strength that had come to Elizabeth with a complete resignation to the will of God was sorely needed and tested during the following week. It had been arranged between herself and Page and Thorley that they should have the whole income of the Hallam estate, deducting only from it the regular cost of collection. Whaley Brothers had hitherto had the collection, and had been accustomed to deposit all proceeds in the banking-house of their brother-in-law, Josiah Broadbent. Elizabeth had determined to be her own collector. The fees for the duty would be of the greatest service to her in her impoverished condition; and she did not wish the Broadbents and Whaleys to know what disposition was made of the revenue of Hallam.

But the Whaleys were much offended at the change. They had so long managed the business of Hallam, that they said the supposition was unavoidable, that Elizabeth suspected them of wronging her, as soon as there was no man to overlook matters. They declared that they had done their duty as faithfully as if she had been able to check them at every turn, and even said they would prefer to do that duty gratis, rather than relinquish a charge with which the Whaleys had been identified for three generations.

But Elizabeth had reasons for her conduct which she could not explain; and the transfer was finally made in a spirit of anger at a supposed wrong. It grieved her very much, for she was unused to disputes, and she could not look at the affair in a merely business light. With some of the older tenants her interviews were scarcely more pleasant. They had been accustomed to meeting one of the Whaleys at "The Rose and Crown Inn," and having a good dinner and a few pints of strong ale over their own accounts. There was no prospect of "makkin' a day o' it" with Miss Hallam; and they had, besides, a dim idea that they rather lowered their dignity in doing business with a woman.

However, Elizabeth succeeded in thoroughly winning Peter Crag, the tenant of the home farm, and a man of considerable influence with men of his own class. He would not listen to any complaints on the subject. "She's a varry sensible lass," he said, striking his fist heavily on the table; "she's done right, to get out o' t' Whaleys' hands. I've been under their thumbs mysen; and I know what it is. I'm bound to do right by Squire Henry's daughter, and I'd like to see them as is thinking o' doing wrong, or o' giving her any trouble--" and as his eyes traveled slowly round the company, every man gravely shook