by Ellen Wood
Lord Carrick drew Roland aside.
“I’m not ill-natured, me boy, as ye knew long ago, and I’d do a good turn for anybody; but I’d like to give ye a caution. Don’t begin by paying Gerald’s debts. If ye do, as sure as ye’re a living man, ye’ll never have a minute’s peace for him to the last day of ye’re life. Set him free now, and all his thanks would be to run up more for ye to pay. In a year’s time he’d be in the same plight again; and he or his creditors would be bothering ye always. Don’t begin it. Let him fight out his debts as he best can.”
“It’s just what I’d like to do,” said Roland. “I’d not mind allowing a couple of hundred a year, or so, for Winny and the children. I meant to offer it. It might be paid to her weekly, you know, uncle, and I could slip something more into her hand whenever we met. She might get a bit of peace then. But I don’t think it would be doing Gerald any real kindness in the long run to release him from his debts.”
Lord Carrick nodded most emphatically.
“I need not tell Winny this, Uncle Carrick — only that she and the kittens shall be taken care of from henceforth. She can carry a sealed note back to Gerald.”
“I’ll see to him,” said Lord Carrick. “If he is to get any help at all, it must be from me. Ye can write the note to him. It would be the worst day’s work ye ever entered on if ye attempted to help him. It is nothing else but helping people, Roland, me boy, that has kept me down, and I’d not like to see you begin it. If Gerald can’t get clear without assistance, I may come to the rescue later. But he’ll have to try.”
“Perhaps I might be got to allow him a hundred a year, or so, for himself later,” added relenting Roland. “But I’ll never have anything to do with his debts, or suffer him to look to me to pay them.”
Could Gerald, in his distant and gloomy abode, but have heard this, he had surely been ready to shoot the pair of speakers; and with more intentional malignity, too, than he had shot Sir Vincent.
But we began the chapter at Helstonleigh. For once in its monotonous life that faithful city had found something to arouse it from its jog-trot course; and people flew to their doors and windows to gaze after Sir Roland Yorke. It did not seem much less improbable that the time-honoured cathedral might some night disappear altogether, than that the once improvident school-boy of not too good repute, the careless run-a-gate who had made a moonlight flitting, and left some fifty pounds’ worth of debts behind him, should come back Sir Roland, like a hero of romance.
Fruition never answers to anticipation — as Roland found, now that his golden visions came to be realised. The romantic charm of the oft-pictured dream was wanting; the green freshness of sanguine boyhood no longer threw its halo on his heart; the vivid glow of imaginative hope had mellowed down to a sober tint. In manner, in gleeful frankness, Roland was nearly as impulsive and boyish as ever; but his mind had gained a good deal of experience, and reflection had come to him. The chances and changes of the world had worked their effect; and the deaths, caused directly or indirectly by Gerald, sat heavily on his generous heart. Adam’s curse lies on all things, and there can be no pleasure without pain.
Roland did not miss it. Enough of charm was left to him. Annabel was staying with her mother, and things seemed to have gone back again to the dear old days before Roland had known the world, or tasted of its cares. Roland went calling upon his acquaintance continually, distant and near, making himself at home everywhere. Ellen Channing, worn to a thread-paper with grief, was visiting her father in her maiden home. Nelly made its charm now. The young widow would probably take up her abode at Helstonleigh, in spite of Roland’s strong advice it should be near Sunny Mead.
“I told you I should be sure to get on and make my fortune sometime, Mr. Galloway.”
The old proctor, whose health was failing hopelessly, returned a slighting answer. Roland, without ceremony as usual, had dashed into the office, and was sitting on a high desk with his legs dangling. The remark was given in return for some disparaging observation as to Roland’s former doings.
“You made it! Ugh! A great deal of that.”
“Oh — well — I’ve come into one, at any rate.”
“The only way you were ever likely to attain to one. Left to your own exertions, you’d have got back here with holes in your breeches.”
“Now don’t you be personal, sir,” was the laughing rejoinder. “I’m Sir Roland Yorke, you know.”
“And a fine Sir Roland you’ll be!”
“I’ll try and be a good one,” said Roland emphatically, as he caught Arthur’s eye — who was seated in the place of state as the head of the office, for the proctor had virtually resigned it. “Arthur knows he can trust me now: ask him, else, sir. Hamish knew it also before he died.”
“I should like to hear what business he had to die, and who killed him?” cried old Galloway explosively. “It was done amongst you, I know. A nice thing for my old friend Mr. Huntley to get back to England and find his son-in-law dead: the bright, true young fellow that he loved as the apple of his eye.”
“Yes, I think he was killed among us, up there,” sadly avowed Roland, his honest face kindling with shame. “But I did not help in it, Mr. Galloway; I’d have given my life to save his. I wish I could!”
“Wishes won’t bring him back. I saw his wife yesterday — his widow, that is. I’m sure I couldn’t bear to look at her.”
“Did you see sweet little Nelly?” cried Roland eagerly, his thoughts taking a turn. “If ever I have a girl of my own, I hope she’ll be like that child.”
“Now just you please to take yourself off, Sir Roland, and come in when we’re a little less busy,” returned the proctor, who was very much out of sorts that morning. “You are hindering business, just as you used to.”
But perhaps the greatest of all small delights was that of encountering Mr. Butterby. Roland had just emerged from the market house one Saturday, where he had been in the thick of the throng, making himself at home, and enquiring affably the price of butter of all the faces he remembered, and been seduced into buying a tough old gander, on the grave assurance that it was a young and tender goose, when he and the detective met face to face.
“Well?” said Roland, dangling the goose in his hand, as unblushingly as though it had been a bouquet of choice flowers.
“Well?” returned Mr. Butterby. “How are you, sir? I heard you were down here.”
“Ay. I’ve come to set things straight that I left crooked. And glad to be able to do it at last. You’ve heard about me, I suppose, Butterby?”
“I’ve heard,” assented Butterby. “You are Sir Roland Yorke, and have come into the family estates and honours, through the untimely death of Sir Vincent. A lucky shot for you, sir.”
“Lucky?” groaned Roland. “Well, in one sense I suppose it was: but don’t go and think me a heartless camel, Butterby. I declare to you that if I could bring Sir Vincent back, though I had to return to my work again, and the turn-up bedstead at Mrs. J.’s, I’d do it this minute cheerfully. When I sat by, watching him die, knowing he was going to make room for me, I felt downright wicked: almost as bad as my nice brother must have felt, who shot him. Did you read about it in the newspapers? — they had got it all as pat as might be. I can’t think, for my part, how they lay hold of things.”
Butterby nodded assent. There was little he did not read, if it could in the remotest degree concern him.
“I’m paying up, Butterby. Paying everybody, and something over. If ever I get into debt again call me an owl. Galloway groans and grunts, and says I shall; but I fancy he knows better. What do you think? He took his hat off to me in the street yesterday! formerly he’d hardly nod to me over his shoulder sideways.”
“How were the folks up yonder, Sir Roland, when you left?” asked Butterby, jerking his head in the direction of London. “Is Miss Rye all right?”
“Oh, she’s uncommon jolly. The last day I called there, Mrs. J. said she supposed she and Winter — they call him Winter n
ow — would be making a match of it. Upon that, I told Miss Rye I’d buy her the wedding dress. Instead of being properly grateful, she advised me not to talk so fast. I say, Butterby, that was a mistake of yours, that was — the taking her into custody for the one that killed John Ollivera.”
“Ay,” carelessly returned Mr. Butterby, with a kind sniff. “The best of us go in for mistakes, you know.”
“I suppose you can’t help it, just as some people can’t help dreaming,” observed Roland with native politeness. “I went up and saw his grave yesterday. I say, shall you ever pitch upon the right one?”
But that Mr. Butterby turned his eyes away towards the Guildhall opposite before he answered, Roland might have observed a peculiar shade cross their steady light. Whatever curious outlets his speculations had drifted to in the course of years, as to the slayer of Mr. Ollivera, he knew the truth now.
“Shan’t try at it, sir. Take it from first to last, it has been about the queerest case that ever fell under mortal skill; and we are content for the future to let it be.”
“I won’t forget you, Butterby. You’ve not been a bad one on the whole. A snuffbox would be of no use, you said; but you shall have something else. And look here, if ever you should come withing range of my place in Surrey, I’d be glad to see you there for half an hour’s chat. Good-day, old Butterby. Isn’t this a prime goose? I’ve just been giving seven shillings for it.”
He and his ancient goose went vaulting off. Roland frequently took articles home to help garnish Lady Augusta’s dinner-table; very much to the wrath of the cook, who found she had double work.
But it must not be thought Roland led entirely an idle life at Helstonleigh. Apart from personal calls on his friendship, in the shape of dropping in upon people, he had work on his hands. By Mrs. J.’s permission he was replacing the plain stone on poor Jenkins’s grave with one of costly marble. Roland himself undertook the inscription. Not being accustomed to composition, he found it a puzzling task.
“Here’s to the memory of JOSEPH JENKINS. He was too good for this world, inoffensive as a young sparrow, and did everybody’s work as well as his own. Put upon by the office and people in general, he bore it all meekly, according to his nature, never turning again. A cough took him off to Heaven, leaving Mrs. J. behind, and one or two to regret him, who knew his virtues. This tribute is erected by his attached friend, (who was one of the worst to put upon him in life,) and sorrowful, ROLAND YORKE.”
Such was the inscription for the marble tomb-stone, as it went in to the sculptor. That functionary suggested some slight alterations, which Sir Roland was reluctant to accede to. There ensued writing and counter writing, and the epitaph, finally inscribed, contained but little (like some bills that pass through Parliament) of the original.
And so the sweet days of spring glided on, and the time came for Roland to depart. To depart until June, when he would return to claim his bride. Tom Channing should marry them, and nobody else, avowed Roland; and if the Reverend Bill put up his back at not having the first finger in the pie, why he must put it up. Annabel was his confident in all things; and Annabel thought she should rather be married by her brother, than by William Yorke.
The once happy home of the Channings bore the marks of time’s chances and changes. The house was the same, as were its elements for peace, but some of its inmates had quitted it for ever. Mrs. Channing, Arthur, Tom, Charles, and Annabel: they moved about in their mourning garments, with their regretful faces, thinking ever of him who had whilom made its sunshine, Hamish the bright. He had gone to a better world, where there was neither pain nor tears, neither cruel injustice nor heart-breaking sorrow; but this consolation is always hard to realize, and their grief was lasting. Mrs. Channing looked aged and worn; the boys and girls had grown into men and women; in old Judith and her snow-white mob-cap, there alone appeared to be no change.
It was at length the day of Roland’s departure, and he was holding a final interview with Annabel. They stood at the glass doors of the study window, open to the garden, and the warm May sun shone in gaily, making the crape on Annabel’s silk dress look hot and rusty. The once untidy study, when they were all boys and girls together, had been renovated with a green carpet and delicately-papered walls; the young parson now called it his.
Considering Roland’s deficiencies on the score of forethought, he had really organized the plans for his future life with a great deal of wisdom. Sunny Mead was to be their sole home, and Annabel chief cash-keeper in regard to ready money. On that he was resolved, honestly avowing that he was not to be trusted with money in his pocket: it was sure to go. The residence in Portland Place, which Sir Richard had only held on a lease, had been given up: there was to be no town house, no fashion, no gaiety. Annabel seconded him in all, urging moderation strenuously. He was going up now to make his bow to the Prince of Wales at a levée: and it was to be hoped he would accomplish it with passable decorum: and Annabel would be presented to the Queen on the first favourable opportunity, after she should be Lady Yorke. So far, that was due from their position; but there the exigencies of fashionable society would for them end. Sunny Mead would be their home; and, it could not be doubted, a very happy one. They are talking of the prospect, now as they stand together: and to both it is one of rose colour.
“But for going to Port Natal, Annabel, there’s no knowing how I might have turned out — a regular drawling idler about town, as some of the Yorkes have been before me. I might have gone in for all kinds of folly, and come to no end of grief. We shall be safe down at Sunny Mead, and live like — like—” Roland stops for a simile.
“Rational people,” puts in Annabel with a smile.
“Fighting-cocks,” says Roland. “I shall make a good farmer.”
“But, Roland,” she rejoins, dubiously, “I hope you’ll not discharge the bailiff until you feel that you are fully competent to the management. You don’t know much of farming yet.”
“Not know much of farming!” exclaims Roland, his eyes opening with surprise. “After all my experience at Port Natal! Look at the pigs I had to manage — obstinate, grunting animals — and the waggons and carts I was put to drive — filled with calves sometimes! I’m not obliged to take the threshing and mowing myself, you know. As to the bailiff, he shall stay on until you send him away, if its two years to come.”
She bends her blushing face a little forward, plucking an early rose-bud. Roland takes it from her and puts it in his coat. On her finger flashes a valuable diamond ring, the pledge of their engagement.
“We won’t have a frying-pan in the house, Annabel. I can’t bear to see one since that failure at Port Natal.”
She turns her laughing eyes on him. Roland honestly thinks they are the truest, sweetest, best the world ever contained, and feels he can never be thankful enough that he is to call them his.
CHAPTER XLIV.
Conclusion.
THE summer and the day were alike on the wane. It was the end of July, and a dull evening. Mr. Greatorex was sitting alone in the coming twilight, in the large and handsome dining-room, where we first saw him at the beginning of this history. Haggard he had looked then, waiting to hear the particulars of his favourite nephew’s death; far more haggard he looked now, for the truth in regard to it was at length disclosed to him.
He wore deep mourning. The son, whose appearance of ill health had of late given him so much concern, was dead: Bede. Alas! it was not illness of body that had ailed Bede Greatorex, and turned his days to one ever-moving, never-ceasing tumultuous sea of misery, but that far worse affliction, illness of mind. In bodily sickness there may arise intervals of light, when the suffering is not felt so keenly, or the heavenly help is nearer for support; in mental sickness, grave as Bede’s was, such intervals never come.
After quitting home at the turn of Christmas, and travelling for a month or two hither and thither, Bede settled down in a remote French town. There was a very small colony of English in it, and an English chaplain, who d
id the duty for nothing. Bede had not intended to make it a permanent halting place, but his weakness increased greatly, and he seemed never willing to attempt another move onwards. Mrs. Bede grumbled woefully: she called the town a desert and their lodgings a barn: truth to say, the rooms were spacious and had as good as nothing in them. She amused herself — such amusement as it was — by taking drives in the early spring freshness, and talking French, for improvement, with a fashionable Parisian femme de chambre, whom she had found herself lucky enough to engage. In June Bede died: and the date of his death happened, by a rather singular coincidence, to be that of Roland Yorke’s wedding day. But that can pass.
With Bede’s death, a month ago now, things in the office had undergone some fresh arrangements. Frank Greatorex was his father’s sole partner in the practice. Frank was soon to bring home his wife: and it was to be hoped she would make a happier home of the dwelling than its late mistress had done. There could be little doubt of it: and Mr. Greatorex stood a fair chance of regaining some of his domestic comfort. The prospects of Bede’s widow were not flourishing. Bede had not left a shilling behind him; a little debt, in fact, instead; that is, she was in debt: and the bills for his funeral and other incidental expences, had come over to Mr. Greatorex. There had been no marriage settlement on Louisa Joliffe: she was now left to the mercy of her father-in-law: and though a generous man by nature and habit, Mr. Greatorex was not showing himself generous in this. In a cool, business-like letter, conveyed to her personally by a trust-worthy clerk, Mr.