by Ellen Wood
“I don’t quite understand yet, Roland. Do you mean that Gerald does not live with his wife and children?”
“He lives with them after a fashion: gives them one third of his days and nights, and gives his chambers the other two. You’d hardly recognise him now, Arthur, he is so grand and stilted up. He’d not nod to me in the street.”
“Roland!”
“It’s true. He’s as heartless as an owl; Ger always was, you know.”
“But you are his brother.”
“Brothers and sisters don’t count for much with Gerald. Besides, I’m down in the world, and he’d not take a pitch-fork to lift me up in it again. Would you believe it, Arthur, he likes nothing better than to fling in my teeth that miserable old affair at Galloway’s — the bank-note. The very last time we ever met — I had run into Winny’s lodgings to take some dolls’- clothes for Kitty from little Nelly Channing — Ger taunted me with that back affair, and more than hinted,; not for the first time, that I’d helped myself to some. money lost last summer by Bede Greatorex. If I’d known Ger was at home, I’d never have gone: Miss Nelly might have done her errand herself. Have you read his book?”
“Ye-es, I have,” answered Arthur, in a rather dubious tone. “Have you?”
“No; for I couldn’t,” candidly avowed Roland. “I got nearly through one volume, and it was a task. It was impossible to make head or tail of it. I know I’m different from other folks, have not half the gumption in me I ought to have, and don’t judge of things as they do, which is all through having gone to Port Natal; but I thought the book a rubbishing book, Arthur, and a bad one into the bargain. Where’s the use of writing a book if people can’t read it?”
“Did you read the reviews on it?”
“Oh law! I’ve heard enough about them. Had they been peacock’s feathers, Ger would have stuck them in his cap. And he pretty nigh did. I’ll tell you what book I read — and cried over it too — and got up from it feeling better and happier — and that’s Hamish’s.”
A light, like a glow of gladness, shone in Arthur Channing’s honest grey eyes. “When I read that book, I felt thankful that a man should have been found to write such,” he said in a hushed tone. “I should have felt just the same if he had been a stranger.”
“Ay, indeed: it was something of that I meant to say. And I wish all the world could read it!” added impulsive Roland.
“And did you read the reviews on it?”
“Oh my goodness,” cried Roland, a blank look taking the place of his enthusiasm. “Arthur, do you know, if those horrible reviews come across my mind when I am up at Hamish’s, my face goes hot with shame. I’ve never said a syllable to him about them on my own score; I shouldn’t like to. When I get rich, I mean to go against the papers for injustice.”
“We cannot understand it down with us,” said Arthur. “On the Saturday night that William Yorke got back to Helstonleigh after attending your uncle’s funeral, I met him at the station. He had the ‘Snarler’ with him — and told me before he’d let me open it, that it contained a most disgraceful attack on Hamish’s book: in fact, on Hamish himself. Putting aside all other feeling when I read it, my astonishment was excessive.”
Roland relieved his feelings by a few stamps, and it was well that the cab bottom was pretty strong. “If I could find out who the writer was, Arthur, I’d get him ducked.”
“That review was followed by others, all in the same strain, just as bad as it is possible for reviews to be made.”
“The wicked old reptiles!” interjected Roland.
“What struck me as being rather singular in the matter, was this,” observed Arthur: “That the selfsame journals which so very extravagantly and wrongly praised Gerald’s work, just as extravagantly and wrongly abused Hamish’s. It would seem to me that there must have been some plot afoot, to write up Gerald and write down Hamish. But how the public can submit to be misled by reviewers in this manner, and not rise against it, I cannot understand.”
“If those were not the exact words of old Greatorex!” exclaimed Roland. “He read both the books and all the reviews. It was a sin and a shame, and a puzzle, he said; a humbug altogether, and he should just like, for the satisfaction of his curiosity, to be behind the scenes in the performance. But what else do you think he said, Arthur?”
“I don’t know.”
“That the reviews and the books would find their level in the end. It was impossible, he declared, that Gerald’s book could live; all the fulsome praises in Christendom could not make it: just as it was impossible for such a work as the other to be written out; it would be sure to find its way with the public eventually. Annabel told me that; and I went off the same evening to Hamish’s and told him. He and old Greatorex are first-rate friends.”
“What did Hamish say?”
“Oh, nothing. He just smiled in his sad way, and said ‘Yes, perhaps it might be,’ as if the words made no impression upon him.”
“Why do you say ‘his sad way?” Hamish always had the sweetest and gayest smile in the world. We used, if you remember, to call him Sunny Hamish.”
“I know. But somehow he has altered, Arthur. He was changing a little before, seemed thoughtful and considerate instead of gay and mocking; but that was nothing to the way he has changed lately. I’d not say it to any soul but you, old Arthur, not even to Annabel, but my belief is just this — that the reviews have done it.”
“The reviews!”
Roland nodded. “Taken the shine out of him for a time. Oh, he’ll come-to again soon; never fear. All the sooner if I could find out who the snake was, and kick him.”
“We cannot judge for others; we cannot put ourselves in their places,” observed Arthur. “Or else it seems to me that, after producing such a book as Hamish’s, I should rest on its obvious merits, and be little moved by what adverse friends could say.”
“I’m sure they’d not move me,” avowed candid Roland. “The newspaper writers might lay hold of all my flounderings at Port Natal, and print them for the public benefit in big text-type to-morrow, and direct a packet to Annabel. What should I care? I say, how about poor Charley? He has been ill.”
“Very ill. They have kindly given him six months’ leave, and pay his over and passage out and home.”
“And how much leave have you got for London, Arthur?”
“That depends on Charley. If he comes straight on from Marseilles, he may be here in a day or two: but should his health have improved on the voyage, he will probably make a stay in Paris. I am to wait for him here until he comes, Galloway says.”
“Very condescending of Galloway! I dare say he has given you plenty of business to do as well, Arthur.”
“That’s true,” laughed Arthur. “I shall be engaged for him all day to-morrow; I have some small accounts to settle for him amidst other things.”
“Where’s the money?” asked Roland, in a resentful tone.
Arthur touched the breast-pocket of his under-coat. “I have brought it up with me.”
“Then I devoutly hope you’ll get robbed of it tonight, Arthur, to serve him out! It is a shame! Taking up the poor bit of time you’ve got in London with his work! That’s Galloway all over! I meant to get holiday myself, that we might go about together.”
“Plenty of time for that, Roland.”
“I hope so. I’ve got something to tell you. It’s about Annabel. But we are close at Mrs. Yorke’s, so I’ll not go into the thing now. Oh! and, Arthur, old chum, I’m so vexed, so ashamed, I shan’t know how to look you in the face.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve no money about me to pay the cab. ‘Twill be a shilling. It’s awfully lowering, having to meet friends upon empty pockets. I’d like to have met you with a carriage and four, and outriders; I’d like to have a good house to bring you into, Arthur, and I’ve got nothing.”
Arthur’s good, earnest eyes fixed themselves on him with all their steady affection. “You have yourself, Roland, dear old friend.
You know that’s all I care for. As to funds, I am rich enough to pay for you and myself, though I stayed here for a month.”
“It’s uncommonly mortifying, nevertheless, Arthur. It makes a fellow wish to be back at Port Natal. Mother Jenkins has got two sovereigns of mine, but I never thought of it before I came out.”
The cab stopped at Mrs. Gerald Yorke’s door, and Roland dashed up with the prize. Mrs. Yorke sat with the youngest child on her lap, the other two little ones being on the carpet. Roland could hardly see them in the dusk of the room.
“It’s grapes,” said he, “from Lady Augusta. Arthur Channing says she sent them for Gerald. If I were you, Mrs. Yorke, I should feed the three chickens on them, and just tell Gerald I had done it Halloa! what’s the matter now?”
For Mrs. Yorke broke out into sobs. “It was so lonely,” she said, by way of excuse. “Gerald was away nearly always. To-night he had a dinner and wine party in his chambers.”
“Then I’m downright glad I didn’t deposit the grapes there,” was Roland’s comment. “As to Gerald’s leaving you always alone, Mrs. Yorke, I should just ask him whether he called that manners. I don’t. Good gracious me! If I were rich enough to have a wife, and played the truant from her, I should deserve hanging. Cheer up; it will all come right; and you’d say so if you had tried the ups and downs at Port Natal. Fredy, Kitty, Rosy, you little pussy cats, tell mamma to give you some grapes.”
“I’m sure I’d not dare to touch the basket, though the grapes stayed tied up in it till they were rotten,” was the last sobbing sound that caught Roland’s ears from Mrs. Yorke as he leaped down stairs.
Their appearance at Hamish’s was unexpected — for Arthur had advertised himself to Roland only — but not the less welcome. Of course Hamish and his wife thought Arthur had come to be their guest, and were half inclined to resent it when he said no. It had been arranged that he should take up his sojourn at a private hotel in Norfolk Street, where he had stayed before; his room had been engaged in it some days past, and Charles would drive to it on his arrival in London. All this was explained at once. And in the pleasure his presence brought, Hamish Channing seemed quite like his own gay self again; his cheeks bright, his voice glad, his whole manner charming.
But later, when the excitement had worn itself away, and he calmed down to sobriety and ordinary looks, Arthur sat with hushed breath, half petrified at the change he saw. Even Roland, never famous for observation, could but mark it. As if the recent emotion were taking its revenge, the change in Hamish Channing seemed very, very marked to-night. The hollow face, the subdued voice with its ring of hopelessness, the feverish cheek and hand — all were sad to hear, to feel, to look upon.
It was but a brief visit; Arthur did not stay. He wanted to see about his room, and had one or two purchases to make; and he also expected to find at the hotel letters to answer. He promised to dine with them on the morrow, and to give them as much time as he could during his stay, which might possibly last a fortnight, he laughingly acknowledged, if Mr. Charley prolonged his stay in Paris; as he was not unlikely, if well enough, to do. “So you’ll probably have enough of me, Hamish,” he concluded, as they shook hands.
“Roland, he is strangely altered,” were the first words spoken by Arthur, when they went out together.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” replied Roland. “It is just what strikes me.”
Arthur walked on in silence, saying no more of what he thought. It was just as if the heart’s life had gone out of Hamish; as if some perpetual weight of pain, that would never be lifted, lay on the spirit.
They walked to the Strand, and there Arthur made his small purchases, rendered necessary by the nonarrival of his portmanteau. It was striking eight by St. Mary’s Church, as Roland stood with him at the door of the hotel in Norfolk Street.
“These letters that you expect are waiting for you and that you have to answer,” said he, resentfully, for he thought Arthur’s whole time ought to be given to himself on this, the first evening, “what are they? who are they from?”
“Only from Galloway’s agents, and one or two more business people. I expect they will make appointments with me for to-morrow, or ask me to make them. There may be a letter from Galloway himself. I quitted Helstonleigh an hour before the day-mail left, and I may have to write to him.”
Roland growled; he thought himself very ill-used.
“It is only eight o’clock, Arthur, and I’ve said as good as nothing. All you’ve got to do won’t take you more than an hour. Can’t you come at nine to lodgings? You’d have the felicity of seeing Mrs. J.”
“I fear not to-night, Roland.”
They talked a little while longer, shook hands, and Arthur went into the hotel. Roland, turning away, decided to air himself in the Strand for an hour, and then return to the hotel and get Arthur to come home with him. He had not the smallest objection, taking it in the abstract, to spend the time before the shop windows. The pawnbrokers and eating-houses would be sure to be open, if no others were. Roland liked the pastime of looking in. Debarred from being a purchaser of desirable things, on account of the state of his exchequer, the next best thing was to take out his fill of gazing at them.
Wandering up and down, he had got on the other side of Temple Bar, and had his face glued to the glass of an oyster shop, his mouth watering at the delicacies displayed within, when the clock of St. Clement Danes struck out nine. Springing back impulsively with its first stroke, Roland came in awkward contact with some one, bearing on towards the Strand. But the gentleman, who was as tall as himself, seemed scarcely to notice the touch, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts. Save that he put out one of his hands, cased in a lavender glove of delicate hue, and slightly pushed the awkward intruder aside, he took no further heed. The face was never turned, the eyes were never removed from the straight-out look before them. Onward he passed, seeing and hearing nothing.
“What on earth has he been up to? — He looked as scared as though he had met a ghost!” mentally commented Roland with his accustomed freedom, as he stared after the wayfarer. For in him he had recognised Mr. Bede Greatorex.
He did not suffer the speculation to detain him. Taking to his heels with the last stroke of the clock, Roland gained the small hotel in Norfolk Street; into which he bolted head foremost, with his usual clatter, haste, and want of ceremony, and nearly into the arms of a tall waiter.
“I want Mr. Arthur Channing. Which room is he in?”
“Mr. Arthur Channing is gone out, sir.”
“Gone out!”
“Yes, sir. Some time ago.”
“He found he had no letters to write, and so went on to me,” thought Roland, as he shot out again. “And I have been cooling my heels in this precious street, like a booby!”
Full speed went he home now, through all the cross-cuts and nearest ways he knew, never slackening it for a moment; arriving there with bated breath and damp hair. Seizing the knocker in one hand and the bell in the other, he worked at both frantically until the door was opened. Mr. Ollivera, flinging up his window above, put out his alarmed head; Mrs. Jones, Miss Rye, two visitors, and the maid Betsey, came rushing along the passage with pale faces, Mrs. J. herself opening the door, Betsey absolutely refusing the office, Roland, without the least explanation or apology, dashed through the group into the parlour. It was dark and empty.
“Where’s Arthur Channing?” he demanded, darting out again. “Mrs. J., where have you put him?”
And when Mrs. J. could gather the sense of the question sufficiently to answer it, Roland had the satisfaction — or, rather, non-satisfaction — of finding that Arthur Channing had not been there.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A private Interview.
“PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
— — “Cuff Court, Off Fleet Street. No. I, —— — “October the twenty second.
“MR. BEDE GREATOREX.
“SIR, — A small leaf has been turned over in the matter of your cheque, lost myster
ious in June last. Leastways in something that might turn out to be connected with it. Remembering back orders, and wishing to act in accordance with the same, I’d be glad to hold a short interview with you, and would wait upon you at any hour or place you may appoint. Or if it suited your convenience to come to me, I am to be found as above, either this evening or to-morrow evening after seven o’clock.
“Your obedient servant, “JONAS BUTTERBY.”
The above note, amidst two or three other letters, reached Mr. Bede Greatorex about four o’clock in the afternoon. He happened to be at his desk in the front room, and was giving some directions to Mr. Brown, who stood by him. As Bede ran his eyes over the lines, a deep flush, a frown, followed by a sickly paleness, overspread his face. Mr. Brown, looking at him quite by accident, remarked the signs of displeasurable emotion, and felt curious to know what the news could be that had caused it. He had, however, no opportunity for prolonged observation, for Bede, carrying the letter in his hand, went into his room and shut the door.
The note angered Bede Greatorex as well as troubled him. Who was this Butterby, that he should be continually crossing his peace? What brought the man to London? — he had gone back to Helstonleigh in the summer, and had never, so far as Bede knew, come up from it since. Was he, Bede, ere he had been a couple of weeks home from his Continental holiday, to be followed up by this troublesome detective, and his life made a worry again? In the moment’s angry impulse, Bede sat down to his desk-table, and began dashing off an answer, to the effect that he could not accord an interview to Mr. Butterby.
But the pen was arrested ere it had completed the first line. Self-preservation from danger is a feeling implanted more or less strongly within us all. What if this persistent officer, denied to him, betook himself and his news to Mr. Greatorex?” Bede was as innocent in regard to the purloining of the cheque and certainly as ignorant of the really guilty party as Butterby could be; he had refunded the forty-four pounds with anything but a hand of gratification; but nevertheless there were grave reasons why the matter should not be re-opened to his father.