by Ellen Wood
“That’s it, sir,” and the verger, indicating a flat stone, which was nearly buried in the grass. “You can’t miss it: his name’s there.”
Roland went into the burial-ground, treading down the grass. Yes, there it was. “Joseph Jenkins. Aged thirty-nine.” He stood looking at it for some minutes.
“If ever I get rich, Joe, poor meek old fellow, you shall have a better monument,” spoke Roland aloud. “This common stone, Mrs. J.’s no doubt, shall be replaced by one of white marble, and we’ll have your virtues inscribed on it.”
The quarter-past ten chimed out; the bell ceased, and the swell of the organ was heard. Service had begun in the cathedral. Roland went about, reading, or trying to read, other inscriptions; he surveyed the well-remembered houses around; he shaded his hand from the sun, and looked up to take leisurely notice of the outer renovations of the cathedral. Tired of this, it suddenly occurred to him that he would go in to service; “just for old memories’ sake.”
In, he went; never heeding the fact that the service had commenced, and that it used not to be the custom for an intruder to enter the choir afterwards. Straight on, went he, to the choir gates, not making for either of the aisles, as a modest man would, pushed aside the purple curtain, and let himself into a stall on the decani side; to the intense indignation of the sexton, who marvelled that any living man should possess sufficient impudence for it. When Roland looked up, and had opened the large prayer-book lying before him, the chanter had come to that portion of the service, “O Lord, open Thou our lips.” It was a melodious, full, pleasant voice. A thorough good chanter, decided Roland, reared to be critical in such matters; and he took a survey of him. The chanter was on the cantori side, nearly opposite to Roland; a good-looking, open-countenanced young clergyman, with brown hair, whose face seemed to strike another familiar chord on Roland’s memory.
“If I don’t believe it’s Tom!” thought Roland.
Tom it was. But it slightly discomposed the equanimity of the Reverend Thomas Channing to find the stalwart, bold disturber, at whom everybody had stared, and the Dean himself glanced at, telegraphing him a couple of nods, in what seemed the exuberance of gratified delight. The young chanter’s face turned red; he certainly did not telegraph back again.
Thus tacitly repulsed, Roland had leisure to look about him, and did so to his heart’s content, while the Venite and the Psalms for the day were being sung. Nearly side by side with himself, at the chanting desk, but not being used for chanting to-day, he discovered his kinsman, William Yorke. And the Reverend William kept his haughty shoulder turned away; and had felt fit to faint when Roland had come bursting through the closed curtains. He, and Tom Channing, and the head-master of the school, were the three minor canons present.
Oh, how like the old days it was! The Dean in his stall; the sub-dean on the other side, and the new prebendary, whom Roland did not know. There stood the choristers at their desks; here, on the flags, extended the two facing lines of king’s scholars, all in their white surplices. There was a fresh head-master in Mr. Pye’s place, and Roland did not know him. The last time Roland had attended service in the cathedral — and he well remembered it — Arthur Channing took the organ. He had ceased for several years to take it now, except on some chance occasion for pleasure. Where was Arthur now? Could it be that he “was not?” What with the chilliness of the thought and the chilliness of the edifice, Roland gave a shiver.
But they are beginning the First Lesson — part of a chapter in Wisdom, William Yorke reading it. With the first sentences Arthur was brought more forcibly into Roland’s mind.
“But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die: and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us to be utter destruction: but they are in peace.”
And so on to the end of the verses. Sitting back in his stall, subdued and quiet now, all his curiosity suppressed, Roland could but think how applicable the Lesson was to Arthur. Whether living or dead, he must be at peace, for God had surely proved him and found him worthy for Himself. Roland Yorke had not learnt yet to be what Arthur was; but a feeling, it might be called a hope, stole over him then for the first time in his life that the change would come. “Annabel will help me,” he thought.
When service was over, Roland greeted all he cared to greet of those who remembered him. Passing back up the aisle to join Tom Channing in the vestry (where the first thing he did was try on the young parson’s surplice and hood), he met his kinsman coming from it. Roland turned his shoulder now, and his cold sweeping bow, when the minor canon stopped to speak, would have done honour to a monarch. William Yorke walked on, biting his lips between amusement and vexation. As Roland and Thomas Channing were passing through the Boundaries, a rather short, redfaced, pleasant looking young man met them, and stayed to shake hands with the minor canon. It was Stephen By water. Roland knew him at once: his saucy face had not altered a whit. Bywater had come into no end of property in the West Indies (as Roland heard explained to him by Tom afterwards), and was now in Europe for a short sojourn.
“How’s Ger?” asked Bywater, when they had spoken of Arthur and general news.
“A great man,” answered Roland. “Looks over my head if he meets me in the street. I might have knocked him down before now, Bywater, but for having left my manners at Port Natal.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it!” cried Bywater. “Ger is Ger still, I see. Does he remember the ink-bottle?”
“What ink-bottle?”
“And the tanning of birch Pye gave him?”
Roland did not understand. The termination of that little episode of school-boy life had taken place after he quitted Helstonleigh, and it was never imparted to him. Stephen Bywater recited it with full flavour now.
“Ger’s not so white himself, then,” remarked Roland. “He’s always throwing that bank-note of Galloway’s in my teeth.”
“Is he? I once told him he was a cur,” added Bywater, quietly. “Good-bye, old fellow; we shall meet again, I hope.”
Mrs. Channing was delighted to see Roland. But when he spoke to her of Annabel she burst out laughing, just as her son Hamish had done; which slightly disconcerted the would-be bridegroom. Considering that in three or four months, as he now openly confessed, he had saved up two pounds towards commencing housekeeping (and those were spent), Mrs. Channing thought the prospect for him and Annabel about as hopeless a one as she had ever heard of. Roland came to the private conclusion that he must be making the two hundred a year before speaking again. He remembered the warning Mr. Galloway had given him in regard to Arthur, and got away in safety.
Home again then to Lady Augusta’s, where he stayed till past mid-day, and then started for the station to take the train for London. Fearing there might be a procession to escort him off, the old family barouche ordered out, or something of that, for Roland remembered his mother of old, he stole a march on them and got out alone, his brown paper parcel in his hand and three or four smaller ones, containing toys and cakes that Fanny was sending to Gerald’s children.
His intention had been to dash through the streets at speed, remembering Mr. Butterby’s friendly caution. But the once well-known spots had charms for Roland, and he halted to gaze at nearly every step. The Guildhall, the market-house, the churches: all the old familiar places that had grown to his memory when far away from them. Before Mrs. Jenkins’s house he came to a full stop: not the one in which Mr. Ollivera had met his death, but the smaller dwelling beside it. From the opposite side of the way stood Roland, while he gazed. The shop sold a different kind of wares now; but Roland had no difficulty in recognising it. In the parlour behind he had revelled in the luxurious tea and toasted muffins; in that top room, whose windows faced him, poor humble Jenkins had died. Away on at last up the street, he and his parcels, looking to the right and the left. Once upon a time, the Lady Augusta Yorke, seduced by certain golden visions imparted to her by
Roland, had gone to bed and dreamt of driving about a charming city whose streets were paved with malachite marble, all brilliant to glance upon; many a time and oft had poor Roland dreamt of the charms of these Helstonleigh streets when he was fighting a fight with starvation at Port Natal. Looking upon them now, he rubbed his eyes in doubt and wonder. Could these be the fine wide streets of the former days? They seemed to have contracted to a narrow width, to be mean and shabby. The houses appeared poor, the very Guildhall itself small. Ah me! The brightness had worn off the gold.
Roland walked on with the slow step of disappointment, scanning the faces he met. He knew none. Eight years had passed since his absence, and the place and the people were changed to him. Involuntarily the words of that ever-beautiful song, that most of us know by heart, came surging up his memory, as he gazed wistfully from side to side.
“Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town.”
Strange enough. Was it for this, he had come back? Often and often during his wanderings in the far-away African land, had other lines of the same sweet song beaten their refrain in his brain when yearning for Helstonleigh. There was a certain amount of sentiment in Roland Yorke, for all his straight-forward practicability.
“Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
“I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch in sudden gleams —
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
There were no seas around Helstonleigh, but the resemblance was near enough for Roland, as it has been for others. Other verses of the song seemed to be strangely realized to him now, as he walked along.
“There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
“I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s woods;
And the friendship’s old and the early loves
Come back with the Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighbourhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still;
A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
“And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there;
And among the dreams of the days that were
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Believe it or not as you will, of practical, matter-of-fact Roland, these oft-quoted lines (but never too often) told their refrain in his brain as he paced the streets of Helstonleigh, just as they had done in exile.
He went round by Hazledon; and William Yorke came forward in the hall to meet him, with out-stretched hand.
“I knew you would not leave without coming in.”
“It’s to see Constance, not you,” answered Roland.
Constance was ready for him; the same sweet woman Roland in his earlier days had thought the perfection of all that was fair and excellent. He thought her so still. She had her children brought down, and took the baby in her arms. Roland made them brilliant offerings in prospective, in the shape of dolls and rocking-horses: and whispered to their mother his romance about Annabel. She wished him luck, laughing all the while.
“When William was in London this summer he thought Hamish was looking a little thin,” said Constance. “Is he well?”
“Oh, he’s well enough,” answered Roland. But his face flushed a dusky red as he spoke, for the question recalled the strange idea that had flashed into his mind, unbidden, the past night; and Mr. Roland thought himself guilty for it, and resented it accordingly. “You never saw such a lovely little fairy as Nelly is.”
But he had no time to stay. Roland went out on the run; and just fell into the arms of a certain Mr. Simms: one of the few individuals he had particularly hoped to avoid.
Mr. Simms knew him. That it was a Yorke there could be no doubt; and a minute’s pause sufficed to show him that it was no other than the truant Roland. Civilly, but firmly, Mr. Simms arrested progress.
“Is it you, Mr. Roland Yorke?”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Roland. “I’m only at Helstonleigh for a few hours and was in hopes of getting off again without meeting any of you,” he candidly added. “You’re fit to swear at me, I suppose, Simms, for never having sent you the money?”
“I certainly expected to be paid long before this, Mr. Yorke.”
“So did I,” said Roland. “I’d have sent it you had I been able. I would, Simms; honour bright. How much is it? Five pounds?”
“And seven shillings added on to it.”
“Ay. I’ve got the list somewhere. It’s over forty pounds that I owe in the place altogether, getting on for fifty: and every soul of you shall be paid with interest as soon as I can scrape the money together. I’ve had nothing but ill-luck since I left here, Simms, and it has not turned yet.”
“It was said you went to foreign parts to make your fortune, sir. My lady herself told me you were safe to come home with one.”
“And I thought I was,” gloomily answered Roland. “Instead of that, Simms, I got home without a shirt to my back. I’ve gone in for work this many a year now, but somehow fortune’s not with me. I work daily, every bit as hard and long as you do, Simms; perhaps harder; and I can hardly keep myself. I’ve not been able to do a stroke since this dreadful business about Arthur Channing — which brought me down here.”
“Is he found, sir? We shouldn’t like to lose such a one as him.” —
“He’s neither found nor likely to be,” said Roland, shaking his head. “Old Galloway declares it will be his death: I’m not sure but it’ll be mine. And now I must be off, Simms, and I leave you my honest word that I’ll send you the money as soon as ever it is in my power. I’d like to pay you all with interest. You shall be the first of them to get it.”
“I suppose you couldn’t pay me a trifle off it now, Mr. Yorke? A pound or so.”
“Bless your heart!” cried Roland, in wide astonishment. “A pound or so! I don’t possess it. I pawned my black dress-suit for thirty shillings to come down upon, and travelled third class. Good-bye, old Simms; I shall lose the train.”
He went off like a shot. Mr. Simms, looking after the well-dressed gentleman, did not known what to make of the plea of poverty.
Roland went whirling back to London again, third class, and arrived at the Paddington terminus in a fever. That the worst had happened to Arthur, whatever that worst might be, he no longer entertained a shadow of doubt. His thirty shillings (we might never have known he had been so rich but for the candid avowal to Mr. Simms) were not quite exhausted, and Roland put his parcels into a hansom
and drove down to Mrs. Gerald Yorke’s.
To find that lady in tears was nothing unusual; the rule, in fact, rather than the exception; she was seated on the floor by the firelight in the evening’s approaching dusk, and the three little girls with her. The grief was not much more than usual. Gerald had been at home, and in a fit of bitter anger had absolutely forbidden her to take the children to drink tea with little Nelly Channing at four o’clock, as invited. Four o’clock had struck; five too; and the disappointed mother and children had cried through the hour.
“It is too bad of Gerald,” cried sympathising Roland, putting his parcels on the table.
“Yes it is; not to let us go there,” sobbed Mrs. Yorke. “All Gerald’s money is gone, too, and he went off without answering me when I said I must have some. I don’t possess as much as a fourpenny-piece in the world; and we’ve not got an atom of tea or butter in the house and can have no tea at home, and we’ve only one scuttle of coals left, for I’ve just rung for some and the girl says so, and — oh, I wish I was dead!”
Roland felt in his pockets, and found three shillings and twopence. It was all he possessed. This he put on the table, wishing it was fifty times as much. His heart was good to help all the world.
“I’m ashamed of its being such a trifle,” said he, pulling at his whiskers in mortification. “If I were rich I’d be glad to help everybody. Perhaps it’ll buy a quarter of butter and a bit of tea, and half a hundred of coals.”
“And for him to deny our going there!” repeated Winny, getting up to take the money, and then rocking herself violently. “You know the state we were in all the summer: Gerald next door to penniless and going about in fear of the bum-bailies,” she continued, adhering in moments of agitation to her provincial expressions. “We wanted everything; rent, and clothes, and food; and if it had not been for a friend who continually helped us we might just have starved.”