by Ellen Wood
The soliloquy was brought to a stand-still. Some -commotion outside, as if a visitor had sought to enter and was stopped, caught Gerald’s startled ear; but he knew his servant was trustworthy. The next moment the door opened, and the man spoke.
“Mr. Yorke, sir.”
Who should walk in, with his usual disregard to the exigencies of ceremonious life, but Roland! Gerald stared in utter astonishment; and, when satisfied that it was in truth his brother, frowned awfully. Gerald in his high sphere might find it difficult to get along; but to have an elder brother who was so down in the world as to accept any common employment that offered, and put up with one room and a turn-up bedstead, and not scruple to own it, was a very different matter. And Gerald’s intention was to wash his hands of Roland and his low surroundings, as entirely as Sir Richard Yorke could do.
Roland took a survey of things in general, and saluted his brother with off-hand cordiality. He knew his presence there was unacceptable, but in his goodnature would not appear to remember it. The handsome rooms, lacking no signs of wealth and comfort, the preparations for the entertainment that peeped out here and there, Gerald himself (as Roland would have expressed it) in full fig; all seemed to denote that life was sunny in this quarter, and Roland thought it was fine to be Gerald.
Gerald slowly extended one unwilling finger in response to Roland’s offered grasp, and waited for him to explain his business, not inviting him to sit. It was not he that would allow Roland to think he might be a visitor there at will. Roland, however, put himself into a comfortable velvet lounging-chair of his own accord, as easily as he might have put himself into the old horse-hair thing at Mrs. Jones’s: and then proceeded to tell his errand.
It was this. Upon going home that night at seven — for he had to stay late in the office to make up for the time lost at Mrs. Bede’s kettle-drum — Roland found a letter from Lord Carrick, who was in the shade still. Amidst some personal matters, it contained a confidential message for Gerald, which Roland was charged to deliver in person. This was no other than a reminder to Gerald that a certain pecuniary obligation for which he and Lord Carrick were equally responsible (the latter having made himself so, to accommodate Gerald, but receiving no benefit) was becoming due, and that Gerald would have to meet it. “Tell him, my boy, that I’d willingly find the means for him if I could, and as much more at the back of it,” wrote the good-natured peer; “but I’m regularly out of everything for the time being, and can’t.”
It may be easily conceived that the errand, when explained, did not tend to increase Roland’s welcome. Gerald bit his full lips with suppressed passion, and could willingly have struck his brother. Vincent Yorke, perhaps as an ostensible plea for not responding in kind to Gerald’s application for the loan of twenty pounds that day, said they might have to lose forty-four, and had disclosed to him the particulars of the appropriated cheque, adding that he should think suspicion must lie on some one of the four clerks in Bede Greatorex’s office. That was quite enough for Gerald.
In anything but a temperate way he now attacked his brother, not saying, Did you steal the cheque? but accusing him of doing it, and bringing up the old transaction at Mr, Galloway’s. There ensued a sharp, short quarrel: which might have been far sharper on Roland’s side but for the aspersion already cast on him by Hurst: that seemed to have paved the way for this, and deadened its sting.
“Look here, Gerald,” said Roland, calming down from anger, but speaking with an emotion at which Gerald stared. “My taking that twenty pound note from Galloway was an awful mistake; the one great mistake of my life, for I shall never—”
“Call it a theft,” roared Gerald.
“For I shall never make such another,” went on Roland, just as though he had not heard the interruption. “It will stick to me always more or less, be cropping up everlastingly; but, for all that, it was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
Gerald answered by a sneer.
“It sent me out to Port Natal. I should never have gone but for that, however much I might have talked of it. I wanted to put Arthur Channing straight with the world, and I couldn’t stay and face the world while I did it. Well, I went out to Port Natal: and I stayed there, trying to get into funds, and come home with some redeeming money in my hand. I stayed long enough to knock out of me a great deal that wanted to come out; idleness, and folly, and senseless pride. I’m not one of the good and brave ones yet, such as Arthur Channing is; but I’ve learnt at any rate to do a little for myself and be tolerant to others; I’ve learned not to be ashamed to work honestly for my bread before eating it. There.”
“The sooner you take yourself out of my rooms, the better,” said Gerald. “I am expecting friends.”
“Don’t fancy I’m going to wait till they come; I’d not intrude on either you or them,” retorted Roland, turning to depart. “I came up on your business, Gerald, to-night, to oblige Carrick; but I shall tell him to choose somebody else for a messenger if he wants to send again. Good night.”
Gerald gave no answer. Unless the banging-to the door after Roland with his foot could be called one.
He stood ruminating for a short while alone. The message certainly tended to a further complication of Gerald’s perplexities. Although he had originally assured Lord Carrick that he should not look to him to meet the bill, he really had done so: for nobody looked in vain to that imprudent and good-hearted man, when he had it in his power to help.
“There’s nothing for it but the novel,” decided Gerald presently. “What’s the time?”
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that it was not yet half-past nine. As his guests would not arrive until twelve, there was time, and to spare, for a visit to Hamish Channing. So, packing up his manuscript, he went forth.
Hamish sat in his writing-room as usual this evening, working closely. His face wore a weary look as the light from the candle, the shade temporarily removed, fell upon it. Ever good-humoured, ever full of sweet hope, of loving-kindness to the whole world, he cared not for his weariness; nay, was not conscious of it.
An arrival at the street-door, and a bustle in the next room following close upon it; a child’s joyous laughter and light chatter. Hamish knew the cause. Little Miss Nelly had returned home from child’s party, her hands laden with fairy gifts. In she came; papa could not keep the door quite closed from her; in her white muslin frock with the broad blue sash and sleeve ribbons, and the bit of narrow blue on her neck, suspending the locket with Grandpapa Channing’s likeness in it. Hamish caught up the lovely little vision and began fondling it; kissing the bright cheeks, the chattering lips, the pretty neck.
“And now Nelly must go,” he said, “for I have my work to do.”
“A great great deal of work?”
“Oceans of it, Nelly.”
“Mamma says you work too much,” returned Nelly, looking full at him with her brilliant, sweet blue eyes, so like his own.
“Tell mamma I say she knows nothing about it.”
“Jane Greatorex was there, papa, and Aunt Annabel. She told me to tell you, too, not to work so much.”
“Jane Greatorex did?”
“Now, papa, you know! Annabel.”
“We’ll have mamma and Annabel taken up for conspiracy. Good night, my little treasure: I’d keep you here always if I could.”
“Let me say my prayers to you to-night, papa,” whispered the child.
He was about to say no, but seemed to change his mind, and quitted the chair at the writing-table for another. Then Nelly, throwing all her gifts on the table in a heap, knelt down and put up her hands to say her prayers. When she had concluded them, he did not let her rise, but laid his hand upon her head and kept it there in silence, as if praying himself. And Nelly went out with some awe, for papa’s eyes looked as if they had tears in them.
Hamish had settled to work again, and Nelly would be a myth until the next morning, when Gerald Yorke arrived, dashing up in a hansom. He came in to Hamish at once, carr
ying his manuscript.
“You’ll do me a favour, won’t you, old friend?”
“What is it?” asked Hamish, the sunny smile on his face already an earnest of compliance. And Gerald undid his manuscript.
“I want you to read this; to go over it carefully and attentively; and then give me your opinion of it. I thought once of asking Caustic, but your judgment is worth more than his, because I know you’ll give a true report.”
Gerald had either been in too great haste to make a fair copy for the press, or else had deemed that point superfluous. As Hamish caught sight of the blurred and blotted lines in Gerald’s notably illegible hand, he hesitated. He was so full of work, and this would be indeed a task. Only for the tenth part of a moment, however; he could sit up at night and get through it.
“At once,” said Gerald. “If you could put away your own work for it, I should be obliged; I have a reason for wishing to get it back directly. And Hamish, you’ll mind and give me your real opinion in strict candour.”
“Do you say that seriously?” asked Hamish, his tone one of grave meaning.
“Of course I do. Or why should I ask you to read it at all?”
“Not very long ago, a friend brought me a work he had written, begging me to look over it, and tell him what I thought of it, without disguise or flattery, just as you do now,” spoke Hamish. “Well, I thought he meant it, and did as he requested. Above all, he had said, point out to me the faults. I did point out the faults. I told him my opinion candidly and kindly, and it was not a favourable one. Gerald, I lost my friend from that hour.”
Gerald laughed. The cases, he thought, were totally dissimilar. Had an angel from Heaven come down and said an unfavourable opinion could be pronounced upon this work of his, he had not believed it.
“Don’t be afraid, Channing. I shall thank you to give me your true opinion just as though the manuscript belonged to some stranger, who would never know what you said.”
“I don’t like the title,” observed Hamish, accepting the conditions.
“Not like the title?”
“No.”
Gerald had called it by a title more wonderful than attractive. The good sense of Hamish Channing discovered the mistake at once.
“We made it up between us one night over our drink; one put in one word and one another,” said Gerald, alluding to sundry confrères of his. “After all, Hamish, it’s the book that makes the success, not the title.”
“But a good book should possess a good title.”
“Well, the title can go for now; time enough to alter that later,” concluded Gerald, rather testily. “You’ll lose no time, Channing?”
“No more than I can help. To put all my work away you must know to be impracticable, Gerald. But I’ll make what haste I can.” Hamish went with him to the other room where Mrs. Channing was sitting, and Gerald unbosomed himself to them of his great care; the dilemma which the evening’s post had put him in, as to the speedy arrival of his wife.
“What on earth to do, I can’t tell,” he said with a groan. “Lodgings for a family are not found in an hour; and that’s the best thing I can do with them yet awhile. If Winny were not an utter simpleton, she’d at least have given me a clear day’s warning. And only look at the impossibility of my getting dinner and tea for them to-morrow, and all the rest of the necessaries. I shan’t know how to set about it.”
Hamish glanced at his wife and she at him, and they spoke almost simultaneously.
“If you would like to bring them here first, Gerald, do so. You know we shall be happy to see Winny. It may give you a few hours more to fix on lodgings, and they need not move into them until night.”
Gerald twirled his watch-chain as he stood, and did not at once accept. He was looking very cross.
“Thank you,” he said at length, but not very graciously, “then they shall come here. I suppose you could not make it convenient to meet them for me at Paddington, Hamish?”
“That I certainly could not,” replied Hamish. “You know my hours in the city, Gerald. If you are unable to go yourself, why don’t you ask Roland? I don’t suppose” — and Hamish broke into a smile— “his services are so valuable to Greatorex and Greatorex that they’d make an objection.”
The mention of his brother was enough for Gerald. He called him a few contemptuous names, and went out to the cab, which had waited to drive him back to his chambers, and to the entertaining of his friends. Who arrived in due course, and did not separate too soon.
Hamish finished his own work, and then he commenced for Gerald. He sighed a little wearily, as he adjusted his light. Ellen thought him long, and came in.
“Not ready yet, Hamish!”
“My darling, I must sit late to-night. I thought you had gone to bed.”
“I have been waiting. You said at tea-time you had not so very much to do. It is twelve o’clock. Whatever’s that?”
“Gerald Yorke’s manuscript. He wants me to read it.”
“Hamish! As if you had not too much work of your own!”
“One must do a little kindness now and then,” he said cheerfully. “You go on, love. I’ll come by-and-by.”
It was of no use saying more, as Ellen knew by experience. This was not the first friend’s manuscript he had toiled through: and she went up-stairs. Hamish glanced at the light, saw that he had another candle in readiness, coughed a little, as he often did now, applied himself closely to his task until three o’clock, and then left off. In heart and mind ever genial, he thought nothing of the extra toil: it was to do a good turn for Gerald. Surely these unselfish, loving natures shall find their deeds recorded on high, and meet with their reward!
He was up with the lark. Six o’clock saw him in his room again, that he might give a few more hours to the manuscript before proceeding to his daily work in the city.
Hamish Charming’s was no eye-service, either to heaven or to man.
CHAPTER XV.
Visitors for Mrs. Jones.
WHEN the exigencies of a story require that two parts of it should be related at once, the difficulty is, which to take first; or rather which may be delayed with the least inconvenience: and very often, as is the case with other things in life, we choose the wrong.
Mrs. Jones sat in her parlour at the twilight hour; and a very dark twilight, too, but light enough for the employment she was so busy over — knitting. Not woollen socks this time, but some complicated affair of silk, more profitable than the stockings. Roland Yorke had just started on that visit, already told of, to Gerald’s chambers, after enjoying a sumptuous tea and toasted muffins in Mrs. Jones’s parlour, where, for the sake of company, his meals were sometimes taken. Miss Rye was out at work; Mr. Ollivera had an evening service; and so the house was quiet, and Mrs. Jones at leisure to pursue her occupation.
Not for very long. A double knock at the street-door gave forth its echoes, and the servant-maid came in, after answering it.
“A gentleman wants to know if there’s not a room to let here, ma’am.”
Mrs. Jones looked up as if she meant to snap the girl’s nose off. “How should he know any room’s to let? There’s no bill up.”
“I’ve asked him into Mr. Yorke’s parlour,” said the girl, aware that it was worse than profitless to contend with her mistress. “He has got spectacles on, and he says his name’s Mr. Brown.”
Mrs. Jones shook out her gown and went to the visitor: a tall gentleman with those slightly-stained glasses on that are called smoke-coloured. He generally took them off in-doors, wearing them in the street to protect his eyes from the sun, but on this occasion he kept them on. It was the Mr. Brown who belonged to the house of Greatorex and Greatorex; Mrs. Jones had heard his name, but did not know him personally: and he had to introduce himself as well as his business.
Mr. Roland Yorke, in his confidential communications to Josiah Hurst and the office generally, touching other people’s concerns as well as his own — for gossiping, as an agreeable interlude to his
hard work, still held its sway over Roland — had told of the departure of the scripture reader for another district, and the vacancy, in consequence, in Mrs. Jones’s household. Mr. Brown, listening to all this, but saying nothing, had come to the conclusion that the room might suit himself; hence his visit to-night. He related these particulars quite candidly, and asked to see the room if it were not already let. He should give very little trouble, he said, took nothing at home but his breakfast and tea, and had his boots cleaned out of doors.
Mrs. Jones marshalled him to the room: the back-parlour, as the reader may remember: and the bargain was concluded at once, without a dissentient voice on the stranger’s part. Mrs. Jones remembered afterwards that when she held the candle aloft for him to see its proportions and furniture, he scarcely gave a single glance before saying it would do, and laid the first week’s rent down in lieu of references.
“Who asked for references?” tartly demanded Mrs. Jones, not a whit more courteous to him, her lodger in prospective, than she was to others. “Time enough to speak of references when you’re told they’re wanted. Little Jenner has often talked of you. Take up the money, if you please.”
“But I prefer to pay my rent in advance,” said Mr. Brown. “It has been my custom to do so where I am.”
He spoke decisively, in a tone that admitted of no appeal, and Mrs. Jones caught up the money with a jerk and put it loose in her pocket. Saying he would let her know the time of his entrance, which might probably be on the following evening, he wished her good-night, and departed: leaving an impression on his future landlady that his voice was in some way not altogether unfamiliar to her.
“I’m not as ‘cute in remembering faces as Alletha is,” acknowledged Mrs. Jones to herself, while she watched him down the street from the front door, “but I’ll back my ear against hers for voices any day. Not lately; I hardly think that; it’s more like a remembrance of the far past. Still I don’t remember his face.
