as he was when he gained his."
So the Reverend Francis Tait plodded on at his curacy, and was content to await that remote day when fortune should drop from the skies.
Where was Margaret? Margaret had bidden adieu to old England for ever. Her husband, who had not been promoted in his house of business as rapidly as he thought he ought to have been, had thrown up his situation, home and home ties, and gone out to the woods of Canada to become a settler. Did Margaret repent her hasty marriage then? Did she find that her finished education, her peculiar tastes and habits, so unfitted for domestic life, were all lost in those wild woods? Music, drawing, languages, literature, of what use were they to her now? She might educate her own children, indeed, as they grew up: the only chance of education it appeared likely they would have. That Margaret found herself in a peculiarly uncongenial atmosphere, there could be no doubt; but, like a brave woman as she proved herself, not a hint of it, in writing home, ever escaped her, not a shadow of complaint could be gathered there. It was not often that she wrote, and her letters grew more rare as the years went on. Robert had accompanied them, and he boasted that he liked the life much; a thousand times better than that of the musty old warehouse.
Mr. Halliburton's teaching was excellent—his income good. He was now one of the professors at King's College; but had not yet succeeded in carrying out his dream—that of getting to Oxford or Cambridge. Edgar Halliburton had begun at the wrong end of the ladder: he should have gone to college first and married afterwards. He married first: and to college he never went. A man of moderate means, with a home to keep, a wife, children, servants, to provide for, has enough to do with his money and time, without spending them at college. He had quite given up the idea now; and perhaps had grown not to regret it very keenly: his home was one of refinement, comfort, and thorough happiness.
But about this period, or indeed some time prior to it, Mr. Halliburton had reason to believe that he was overtaxing his strength. For a long, long while, almost ever since he had been in London, he was aware that he had not felt thoroughly well. Hot weather affected him and rendered him languid; the chills of winter gave him a cough; the keen winds of spring attacked his chest. He would throw off his ailments bravely and go on again, not heeding them or thinking that they might ever become serious. Perhaps he never gave a thought to that until one evening when, upon coming in after a hard day's toil, he sat down in his chair and quietly fainted away.
Jane and one of the servants were standing over him when he recovered—Jane's face very pale and anxious.
"Do not be alarmed," he said, smiling at her. "I suppose I dropped asleep; or lost consciousness in some way."
"You fainted, Edgar."
"Fainted, did I? How silly I must have been! The room's warm, Jane: it must have overpowered me."
Jane was not deceived. She saw that he was making light of it to quiet her alarm, and brought him a glass of wine. He drank it, but could not eat anything: frequently could not eat now.
"Edgar," she said, "you are doing too much. I have seen it for a long time past."
"Seen what, Jane?"
"That your strength is not equal to your work. You must give up a portion of your teaching."
"My dear, how can I do so? Does it not take all I earn to meet expenses? When accounts are settled at the end of the year, have we a shilling to spare?"
It was so, and Jane knew it; but her husband's health was above every consideration in the world. "We must reduce our expenses," she said. "We must cease to live as we are living now. We will move into a smaller house, and keep one servant, and I will turn maid-of-all-work."
She laughed quite merrily; but Mr. Halliburton detected a serious meaning in her tone. He shook his head.
"No, Jane; that time, I hope, will never come."
He lay awake all that night buried in reflection. Do you know what this night-reflection is, when it comes to us in all its racking intensity? Surging over his brain, like the wild waves that chase each other on the ocean, came the thought, "What will become of my wife and children if I die?" Thought after thought, they all resolved themselves into that one focus:—"I have made no provision for my wife and children: what will become of them if I am taken?"
Mr. Halliburton had one good habit—it was possible that he had learnt it from his wife, for it was hers in no ordinary degree—the habit of looking steadfastly into the face of trouble. Not to groan and grumble at it—to sigh and lament that no one else's trouble ever was so great before—but to see how it might best be met and contended with; how the best could be made of it.
The only feasible way he could see, was that of insuring his life. He possessed neither lands nor money. Did he attempt to put by a portion of his income, it would take years and years to accumulate into a sum worth mentioning. Why, how long would it take him to economise only a thousand pounds? No. There was only one way—that of life insurance. It was an idea that would have occurred to most of us. He did not know how much it would take from his yearly income to effect it. A great deal, he was afraid; for he was approaching what is called middle life.
He had no secrets from his wife. He consulted her upon every point; she was his best friend, his confidante, his gentle counsellor, and he had no intention of concealing the step he was about to take. Why should he?
"Jane," he began, when they were at breakfast the next morning, "do you know what I have been thinking of all night?"
"Trouble, I am sure," she answered. "You have been very restless."
"Not exactly trouble"—for he did not choose to acknowledge, even to himself, that a strange sense of trouble did seem to rest on his heart and to weigh it down. "I have been thinking more of precaution than trouble."
"Precaution?" echoed Jane, looking at him.
"Ay, love. And the astonishing part of the business, to myself, is that I never thought of the necessity for this precaution before."
Jane divined now what he meant. Often and often had the idea occurred to her—"Should my husband's health or life fail, we are destitute." Not for herself did she so much care, but for her children.
"That sudden attack last night has brought me reflection," he resumed. "Life is uncertain with the best of us. It may be no more uncertain with me than with others; but I feel that I must act as though it were so. Jane, were I taken, there would be no provision for you."
"No," she quietly said.
"And therefore I must set about making one without delay, as far as I can. I shall insure my life."
Jane did not answer immediately. "It will take a great deal of money, Edgar," she presently said.
"I fear it will: but it must be done. What's the matter, Jane? You don't look hopeful over it."
"Because, were you to insure your life, to pay the yearly premium, and our home expenses, would necessitate your working as hard as you do now."
"Well?" said he. "Of course it would."
"In any case, our expenses shall be much reduced; of that I am determined," she went on somewhat dreamily, more it seemed in soliloquy than to her husband. "But, with this premium to pay in addition–"
"Jane," he interrupted, "there's not the least necessity for my relaxing my labours. I shall not think of doing it. I may not be very strong, but I am not ill. As to reducing our expenses, I see no help for that, inasmuch as I must draw from them for the premium."
"If you only can keep your health, Edgar, it is certainly what ought to be done—to insure your life. The thought has often crossed me."
"Why did you never suggest it?"
"I scarcely know. I believe I did not like to do so. And I really did not see how the premium was to be paid. How much shall you insure it for?"
"I thought of two thousand pounds. Could we afford more?"
"I think not. What would be the yearly premium for that sum?"
"I don't know. I will ascertain all particulars. What are you sighing about, Jane?"
Jane was sighing heavily.