Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles. Ellen Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ Scottish birth, but chiefly reared in England, he had taken orders at the usual age, and become curate in a London parish, where the work was heavy and the stipend small. Not that the duties attached to the church itself were onerous; but it was a parish filled with poor. Those familiar with such parishes know what this means, when the minister is sympathising and conscientious. For twenty years he remained a curate, toiling in patience, cheerfully hoping. Twenty years! It seems little to write; but to live it is a great deal; and Francis Tait, in spite of his hopefulness, sometimes found it so. Then promotion came. The living of this little church that you now see open was bestowed upon him. A poor living as compared with some others; and a poor parish, speaking of the social condition of its inhabitants. But the living seemed wealth compared with what he had earned as a curate; and as to his flock being chiefly composed of the poor, he had not been accustomed to anything else. Then the Rev. Francis Tait married; and another twenty years went by.

      He stood in the church this evening; the loaves resting on the shelf overhead, against the door of the vestry, all near the entrance. A flaring tallow candle stood on the small table between him and the widows who clustered opposite. He was sixty-five years old now; a spare man of middle height, with a clear, pale skin, an intelligent countenance, and a thoughtful, fine grey eye. He had a pleasant word, a kind inquiry for all, as he put the shilling into their hands; the lame old clerk at the same time handing over the loaf of bread.

      "Are you all here to-night?" he asked, as the distribution went on.

      "No, sir," was the answer from several who spoke at once. "Betty King's away."

      "What is the matter with her?"

      "The rheumaticks have laid hold on her, sir. She couldn't get here nohow. She's in her bed."

      "I must go and see her," said he. "What, are you here again, Martha?" he continued, as a little deformed woman stepped from behind the rest, where she had been hidden. "I am glad to see you."

      "Six blessed weeks this day, and I've not been able to come!" exclaimed the woman. "But I'm restored wonderful."

      The distribution was approaching its close, when the rector spoke to his clerk. "Call in Eliza Turner."

      The clerk placed on the table the four or five remaining loaves, that each woman might help herself during his absence, and went out to the door.

      "'Liza Turner, his reverence has called for you."

      A sigh of delight from Eliza Turner, and a groan of disappointment from those surrounding her, greeted the clerk in answer. He took no notice—he often heard it—but turned and limped into the church again. Eliza Turner followed; and another woman slipped in after Eliza Turner.

      "Now, Widow Booth," cried the clerk, sharply, perceiving the intrusion, "what business have you here? You know it's again the rules."

      "I must see his reverence," murmured the woman, pressing on—a meek, half-starved woman; and she pushed her way into the vestry, and told her pitiful tale.

      "I'm worse off than Widow Turner," she moaned piteously, not in tones of complaint, but of entreaty. "She has a daughter in service as helps her; but me, I've my poor unfortunate daughter lying in my place weak with fever, sick with hunger! Oh, sir, couldn't you give the bounty this time to me? I've not had a bit or drop in my mouth since morning; and then it was but a taste o' bread and a drain o' tea, that a neighbour give me out o' charity."

      It was absolutely necessary to discountenance these personal applications. The rector's rule was, never to give the spare bounty to those who applied for it: otherwise the distribution might have become a weekly scene of squabbling and confusion. He handed the shilling and bread to Eliza Turner; and when she had followed the other women out, he turned to the Widow Booth, who was sobbing against the wall; speaking kindly to her.

      "You should not have come in, Mrs. Booth. You know that I do not allow it."

      "But I'm starving, sir," was the answer. "I thought maybe as you'd divide it between me and Widow Turner. Sixpence for her, sixpence for me, and the loaf halved."

      "I have no power to divide the gifts: to do so would be against the terms of the bequest. How is it you are so badly off this week? Has your work failed?"

      "I couldn't do it, sir, with my sick one to attend to. And I've a gathering come on my thimble finger, and that has hindered me. I took ninepence the day before yesterday, sir, but last night it was every farthing of it gone."

      "I will come round and see you by-and-by," said the clergyman.

      She lifted her eyes yearningly. "Oh, sir! if you could but give me something for a morsel of bread now! I'd be grateful for a penny loaf."

      "Mrs. Booth, you know that to give here would be altogether against my rule," he replied with unmistakable firmness. "Neither am I pleased when any of you attempt to ask it. Go home quietly: I have said that I will come to you by-and-by."

      The woman thanked him and went out. Had anything been needed to prove the necessity of the rule, it would have been the eagerness with which the crowd of women gathered round her. Not one of them had gone away. "Had she got anything?" To reply that she had something, would have sent the whole crowd flocking in to beg in turn of the rector.

      Widow Booth shook her head. "No, no. I knowed it before. He never will. He says he'll come round."

      They dispersed; some in one direction, some in another. The rector blew out the candle, and he and the clerk came forth; and the church was closed for the distribution of bread until that day week. Mr. Tait took the keys himself to carry them home: they were kept at his house. Formerly the clerk had carried them there; but since he had become old and lame, Mr. Tait would not give him the trouble.

      It was a fine night overhead, but the streets were sloppy; and the clergyman put his foot unavoidably in many a puddle. The streets through which his road lay were imperfectly lighted. The residence apportioned to the rector of this parish was adjoining a well-known square, fashionable in that day. It was a very good house, with a handsome outward appearance. If you judged by it, you would have said the living must be worth five hundred a year at least. It was not worth anything like that; and the parish treated their pastor liberally in according him so good a residence. A quarter of an hour's walk from the church brought Mr. Tait to it.

      Until recently, a gentleman had shared this house with Mr. Tait and his family. The curate of a neighbouring parish, the Rev. John Acton, had been glad to live with them as a friend, admitted to their society and their table. It was a little help: and but for that, Mr. and Mrs. Tait would scarcely have thought themselves justified in keeping two servants, for the educational expenses of their children ran away with a large portion of their income. But Mr. Acton had now been removed to a distance, and they hoped to receive some one or other in his place.

      On this evening, as Mr. Tait was picking his way through the puddles, the usual sitting-room of his house presented a cheerful appearance, ready to receive him. It was on the ground floor, looking upon the street, large and lofty, and bright with firelight. Two candles, not yet lighted, stood on the table behind the tea-tray, but the glow of the fire was sufficient for all the work that was being done in the room.

      It was no work at all: but play. A young lady was quietly whirling round the room with a dancing step—quietly, because her feet and movements were gentle; and the tune she was humming, and to which she kept time, was carolled in an undertone. She was moving thus in the happy innocence of heart and youth. A graceful girl of middle height; one whom it gladdened the СКАЧАТЬ