ROLAND YORKE 
 
 Mrs. Henry Wood
 
 LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE I

 
 ROLAND YORKE
 
 •"And Deering's woods are fresh and fair, 
 And with joy thai ii ahiiost pain 
 My heart goes back to wander there, 
 And aiiiong 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.' " 
 
 Longfellow,
 
 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 a Sequel to 
 
 ^'TIIE CHANNINGS." 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "east LYNNE," "JOHNNY LUDLOW," ETC. 
 
 ©nc l^unUrftitfj ^IjousnntJ. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON 
 
 Publisfjcrs in ©rlimarg to l]rr fflajfstg tf)c ©urnt. 
 
 1895. 
 
 (^// 7-2^-/iis reserved.)
 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, Limited 
 
 STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Jprcloguc. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. In the Moonlight ... ... ... ... i 
 
 II. Up to the Monday Evening ... ... ii 
 
 III. Before THE Coroner ... ... ... ... 21 
 
 IV. Going Home with the News ... ... 35 
 
 V. Mr. Butterby in Private Life ... ... ... 44 
 
 VI. Godfrey Pitman ... ... ... ... 55 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 ^\u ftcrrg. 
 
 I. In the Office ... ... ... .. ... 67 
 
 II. Arriving from Port Natal ... ... 78 
 
 III. Unexpected Meetings ... ... ... ... 88 
 
 IV. Going into Society ... ... ... ... 104 
 
 V. Day-dreams ... ... ... ... ... 119 
 
 VI. Commotion ... ... ... ... ... 132 
 
 VII. Taking the Place of Jelf ... ... ... 143 
 
 VIII. Gerald Yorke in a Dilemma ... ... 156
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 IX. Visitors FOR Mrs. Jones ... ... ... 167 
 
 X. WiNNY ... ... ... ... ... 174 
 
 XI. At Fault ... ... ... .. ... 184 
 
 XII. Mr. Brown at Home ... ... ... 197 
 
 XIII. A Fountain Shivered ... ... •.203 
 
 XIV. Grand Reviews ... ... ... ... 217 
 
 XV, Roland Yorke's Shoulder to the Wheel .. 225 
 
 XVI. A Little more Light ... .. ... 240 
 
 XVII. Laid with his Forefathers ... .. ... 250 
 
 XVIIL As Iron into the Soul ... ... 260 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 I. During the Autumn ... ... ... ... 269 
 
 II. Arriving at Euston Square ... ... 280 
 
 III. A Private Interview .. ... ... 291 
 
 IV. Disappeared ... ... ... ... 304 
 
 V. Restless Wanderings ... ... ... 312 
 
 VI. A New Idea ... ... ... ... 323 
 
 VII. Mr. Galloway Invaded ... ... ... 336 
 
 VIII, Past and Present ... ... ... 346 
 
 IX. A Startling Avowal ... ... ... ... 359 
 
 X. A Telegram to Helstonleigh ... ... 365 
 
 XI. Life's Sands running on ... ... ... 373 
 
 XII. Gerald Yorke at a Shooting Party ... 384 
 
 XIII. In Custody ... ... ... ... ... 392 
 
 XIV. Between Bede and his Clerk ... ,.. 400 
 XV. Nearer and Nearer ,,, .., ... ,,. 409
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVI. Godfrey Pitman's Tale ... ... ... 419 
 
 XVII. A Telegram for Roland Yorke ... ... 427 
 
 XVIII. Roland in Mourning ... ... ... ... 439 
 
 XIX. Dreams Realized ... ... ... ... 446 
 
 XX. Conclusion ... ... ... ... ... 455
 
 lOLAND YORKE 
 
 prologue. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 The scene of this Prologue to the story about to be written 
 was a certain cathedral town, of which most of you have heard 
 before, and the time close upon midnight. 
 
 It was a warm night at the beginning of March. The air 
 was calm and still ; the moon was shedding her pure light with 
 unusual brilliancy on the city, lying directly beneath her beams. 
 On the pinnacles of the time-honoured cathedral; the church- 
 spire, whose tapering height has made itself a name ; the 
 clustering roofs of houses; the trees of what people are pleased 
 to call the Park; the river, silently winding its course along 
 beneath the city walls ; and on the white pavement of its 
 streets : all were steeped in the soft and beautiful light of the 
 Queen of Night. 
 
 Surely at that late hour people ought to have been asleep in 
 their beds, and the town hushed to silence ! Not so. A vast 
 number of men — and women too, for the matter of that — were 
 awake and abroad. At least, it looked a goodly number, steal- 
 ing quietly in one direction along the principal street. A few 
 persons, comparatively speaking, assembled together by day- 
 light, will look a crowd at night. They went along for the 
 most part in silence, one group glancing round at another, and 
 being glanced at, in return : whether drawn out by curiosity, 
 by sympathy, by example, all seemed very much as if they 
 were half ashamed to be seen there. 
 
 Straight through the town, past the new law-courts, past 
 
 Roland Vorke. X
 
 2 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the squares and the flourishing houses built in more recent 
 yeart, past the pavements and the worn highway, telling of a 
 city's bustle, into the open country, to where a churchyard 
 flanks a by-road. A rural, not much frequented churchyard, 
 dotted with old graves, its small, grey church standing in the 
 middle. People were not buried there now. On one side of 
 the churchyard, open to the road, the boundary hedge had 
 disappeared, partly through neglect. The entrance was on the 
 other side, facing the city ; and of what use restoring the hedge, 
 destroyed gradually and in process of time by boys and girls at 
 play ? So, at least, argued the authorities — when they argued 
 about it at all. 
 
 People were not buried in it now : and yet a grave was 
 being dug there. In the remotest corner of this open side of 
 the churchyard, so close to the consecrated ground that you 
 could scarcely tell whether they were on it or off it, two men with 
 torches were working at the almost completed, shallow, hastily- 
 made grave. A pathway, made perhaps more by custom than 
 of purpose, led right over it into the churchyard — if any careless 
 person chose to enter it in so unorthodox a manner — and the 
 ordinary by-road, wide enough to admit carts and other vehicles, 
 crossed it at the exact spot where the grave was being dug. A 
 spectator might have said that the grave's destined occupant 
 was to lie in a cross-road. 
 
 Up to this spot came the groups, winding round the front 
 hedge silently, save from the inevitable hum which attends upon 
 numbers, the sound of their footsteps grating and tramping rising 
 on the still air. That there was some kind of reveroice attached 
 to the feeling in general, was proved by the absence of all joking 
 and light conversation ; it may almost be said by the absence of 
 conversation altogether, for what little they said was spoken 
 in whispers. The open space beyond the grave was a sort 
 of common, stretching out into the country, so that there was 
 room and to spare for these people to congregate around, with- 
 out pressing inconveniently on the sides of the shallow grave. 
 Not but that every soul went close to give a look into it, taking 
 a longer or shorter time to gaze as curiosity was slowly or 
 quickly satisfied. 
 
 The men threw out the last spadeful, patted the sides well, 
 and ascended to the level of the earth. Not a minute too soon. 
 As they stamped their feet, as men who have been for some 
 time in a cramped position, and put their tools away, the clock
 
 IN THE MOONLIGHT. 3 
 
 of the old grey church struck twelve. It was a loud striker at 
 all times ; it sounded strangely so in the stillness of the night, 
 and a movement ran through the startled spectators. 
 
 With the first stroke of the clock there came up a wayfarer. 
 Some traveller who had missed his train at Bromsgrove, and 
 had to walk the distance. He advanced with a jaunty though 
 somewhat tired step along the highway, and did not discern the 
 crowd until close upon them, for the road wound just there. 
 To say that he was astonished would be saying little. He stood 
 still, and stared, and rubbed his eyes, almost questioning whether 
 the unusual scene could be reality. 
 
 "What on earth's the matter?" demanded he of some one 
 near him, " What does it all mean ? " 
 
 The man addressed turned at the question, and recognized 
 the speaker for Mr. Richard Jones, an inhabitant of the town. 
 At least he was almost sure it was he, but he knew him by 
 sight and only slightly. If it was Mr. Jones, why this same 
 crowd and commotion had to do with him, in one sense of the 
 word. Its cause had a great deal to do with his home. 
 
 " Can't you answer a body ? " continued Mr. Jones, finding 
 he received no reply. 
 
 " Hush ! " breathed the other man. " Look there." 
 
 Along the middle of the turnpike-road, on their way from 
 the city, came eight men with measured and even tread, bear- 
 ing a coffin on their shoulders. It was covered with what 
 looked like a black cloth shawl, whose woollen fringe was 
 clearly discernible in the moonlight. Mr. Jones had halted at 
 the turning up to the churchyard, where he first saw the 
 assembled people; consequently the men bearing the coffin, 
 whose heavy tread and otherwise silent presence seemed to 
 produce a sort of unpleasant thrill, passed round by Mr. Jones, 
 almost touching him. 
 
 " What is it ? " he repeated in a few seconds, eager to be 
 enlightened. 
 
 " Don't you see what it is ? — a coffin. It's going to be buried 
 in that cross grave up yonder." 
 
 " But who is in the coffin ? " 
 
 " A gentleman who died by his own hand. The jury brought 
 it in self-murder, and so he's to be put away without burial 
 service." 
 
 " Lawk a mercy ! " exclaimed Mr. Jones, who, though a light, 
 shallow, unstable man, given to impromptu excursions from his 

 
 4 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 home and wife, and to spend too much money on them, was 
 not on the whole bad-hearted. " Poor gentleman ! Who 
 was it ? " 
 
 " One of them law men in wigs that come in to the 'sizes." 
 Mr. Jones might have asked more, but for two reasons. The 
 first was, that his neighbour moved away in the wake of those 
 who were beginning to press forward to see as much as could 
 be seen of the closing ceremony; the next was, that in a 
 young woman who just then walked past him, he recognized 
 his wife's sister. Again Mr. Jones rubbed his eyes, mentally 
 questioning whether this second vision could be real. For 
 she. Miss Rye, was a steady, good, superior young woman, not 
 at all likely to come out of her home at midnight after a sight 
 of any sort, whether it might be a burying or a wedding. Mr. 
 Jones really doubted whether his sight and the moonlight had 
 not played him false. The shortest way to solve this doubt 
 would have been to accost the young woman, but while he had 
 been wondering and hesitating, she disappeared. In truth it 
 was Miss Rye, and she had followed the coffin from whence 
 it was brought, as a great many more had followed it. Not 
 mixing with them ; walking apart and alone, close to the houses, 
 in the deep shade cast by their walls. She was a comely young 
 woman of about seven-and-twenty, tall and fair, with steady 
 blue eyes, good features, and a sensible countenance. In deep 
 mourning for her mother, she wore on this night a black 
 merino dress, soft and fine, and a black shawl trimmed with 
 crape, held closely round her. But she had disappeared ; and 
 amidst so many Mr. Jones thought it would be useless to look 
 for her. 
 
 A certain official personage or two, perhaps deputies from 
 the coroner, or from the parish, or from the undertaker furnish- 
 ing the coftin and the bearers — who can tell ? — whose mission 
 it was to see the appointed proceedings carried out, cleared by 
 their hands and gestures a space round the grave. The people 
 fell back obediently. They pressed and elbowed each other 
 no doubt, and grumbled at others crushing them ; but they 
 kept themselves back in their places. A small knot, gentlemen 
 evidently, and probably friends of the deceased, were allowed 
 to approach the grave. The grave-diggers stood near, holding 
 the torches. But for those Daring torches, the crowd would 
 have seen better : they saw well enough, however, in the bright 
 moonlight.
 
 IN THE MOONLIGHT. § 
 
 In the churchyard, having taken up his station behind an 
 upright tombstone, where tombstones were numerous, stood an 
 officer connected with the poUce. He was in plain clothes— 
 in fact, no one remembered to have seen him in other ones — 
 and had come out to-night not officially but to gratify himself 
 personally. Ensconced behind the stone, away from every one, 
 he could look on at leisure and take his own observations, not 
 only of the ceremony about to be performed, but of those who 
 were attending it. He was a spare, middle-sized man, with a 
 pale face, deeply sunk green eyes, that had a habit of looking 
 steadily at people, and a small, sharp, turned-up nose. Silent 
 by nature and by habit, he imparted the idea of possessing a 
 great amount of keenness as a detector of crime : in his own 
 opinion he had not in that respect an equal. No one could 
 discern him, and he did not intend that they should. 
 
 Amidst a dead silence, disturbed only by the creaking of 
 the cords, amidst a shiver of sympathy, of pity, of awful 
 thoughts from a great many of the spectators, the black cover- 
 ing was throw aside and the coffin was lowered. There was 
 a general lifting of hats ; a pause ; and then a rush. One in 
 the front rank — a fat woman, who had fought for her place — 
 stepped forward in her curiosity to take a last look into the 
 grave ; another followed her ; the movement was contagious, 
 and a commotion ensued. Upon which the men holding the 
 torches swept them round ; it threw out the flame rather 
 dangerously, and the rushers drew back again with an excla- 
 mation. Not quite all. A few, more adventurous than the 
 rest, slipped round to the safer side, and were in time to read 
 the inscription on the lid : 
 
 ^'JOHN OLLIVERA. 
 
 Aged 28," 
 
 Short enough, and simple enough, for the sad death. Only 
 a moment after the cords were drawn away did it remain 
 visible ; for the grave-diggers, flinging their torches aside, 
 threw in the earth, spadeful upon spadeful, and covered it up 
 out of sight. 
 
 The shallow grave w^as soon filled in ; the grave-diggers 
 flattened it down with spades and feet : no ceremony accorded, 
 you see, to such an end as this poor man had made. Before 
 it was quite accomplished, those officially connected with the 
 burial, or with the buried, left the ground and departed. Not
 
 6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 so the mob : they stayed to see the last ; and would have 
 stayed had it been until the next morning. And they talked 
 freely now, one with another, but were orderly and subdued 
 still. 
 
 Mr. Jones remained. He had not mixed with the people, 
 but stood apart in the churchyard, under the shadow of the 
 great yew-tree. Soon he began to move away, and came 
 unexpectedly upon the detective standing yet behind the 
 gravestone. Mr. Jones halted in surprise. 
 
 " Halloa ! " cried he. " Mr. Butterby ! " 
 
 " Just look at the idiots ! " rejoined Mr. Butterby, with 
 marked composure, as if he had seen Richard Jones from the 
 first, and expected the salutation. " So you are back ! " he 
 added, turning his head sharply on the traveller. 
 
 " I come in from Bromsgrove on my legs , missed the last 
 train there," said Mr. Jones, rather addicted to a free-and-easy 
 sort of grammar in private life : as indeed was the renowned 
 gentleman he spoke to. " When I got past the last turning and 
 saw these here folks, I thought the world must be gone mad." 
 
 " Did you come back on account of it ? " asked Mr. But- 
 terby. " Did they write for you ? " 
 
 " On account of what ? As to writing for me, they'd be 
 clever to do that, seeing I left 'em no address to write to. 
 I have been going about from place to place ; to-day there, 
 to-morrow yonder." 
 
 " On account of that" answered the detective, nodding his 
 head in the direction of the grave, to which the men were 
 then giving the finishing strokes and treads. 
 
 To Mr. Jones's ear there was something so obscure in the 
 words that he only stared at the speaker, almost wondering 
 whether the grave officer had condescended to a joke. 
 
 " I don't understand you, sir." 
 
 Mr. Butterby saw at once how the matter stood : Dicky 
 Jones— the familiar title mostly accorded him in the city — 
 was ignorant of recent events. 
 
 "The poor unfortunate man just put in there, Jones," — 
 with another nod to the grave— "was Mr. Ollivera, the counsel." 
 
 " Mr. Ollivera ! " exclaimed the startled Jones. 
 
 " And he took his life away at your house." 
 
 " Lawk a mercy ! " cried Mr. Jones, repeating his favourite 
 expression, one he was given to when overwhelmed with 
 surprise. " What ever did he do it for ? "
 
 IN THE MOONLIGHT. 7 
 
 " Ah, that's just what we can't tell. Perhaps he didn't 
 know himself." 
 
 " How was it, sir ? Poison ? " 
 
 " Shot himself with his own pistol," briefly responded the 
 officer. 
 
 " And did it intentionally ? " 
 
 " Intentionally, of course, or he wouldn't have been put 
 here to-night. They couldn't have buried a dog with much 
 less ceremony." 
 
 " Well, I never knew anything like this," cried Mr. Jones, 
 scarcely taking in the news yet. " When I went away Mr. 
 
 Ollivera hadn't arrived ; he was expected ; and my wife • 
 
 Halloa ! " 
 
 The exclamation was caused by a fresh surprise, great as 
 any the speaker had met with yet. Mr. Butterby, his keen 
 eyes strained forward from their depths, touched him on the 
 arm with authority to enjoin silence. 
 
 The young woman — it would be no offence against taste to 
 call her a lady, with her good looks, her quiet manners, her 
 usually calm demeanour — whom Mr. Jones had recognized as 
 his wife's sister, had come forward to the grave. Kneeling 
 down, she bent her face in her hands, perhaps praying ; then 
 lifted it, rose, and seemed about to address the crowd. Her 
 hands were clasped and raised before her ; her bonnet had 
 fallen back from her face and her bright flaxen hair. 
 
 " It is AUetha Rye, isn't it, sir ? " he cried dubiously. 
 
 " Hold your noise ! " said Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " I think it would be wicked to let you disperse this night 
 with a false belief on your minds," began Miss Rye, her clear 
 voice sounding loud and distinct in the hushed silence. 
 " Wicked in the sight of God ; unkind and unjust to the 
 dead. Listen to my words, please, all you who hear me. I 
 believe that a terrible injury and wrong has been cast upon 
 Mr. Ollivera's memory ; I solemnly believe that he d/d not die 
 by his owfi hand. Heaven hears me assert it." 
 
 The solemn tone, the strange words, the fair appearance of 
 the young woman, with her good and refined face, deathly 
 pale now, and the moonliglit playing on her light hair, awed 
 the listeners into something like statues. The silence con- 
 tinued unbroken until Miss Rye moved away, which she did 
 at once and with a rather quick step towards the road, settling 
 her bonnet as she went, drawing her shawl round her. Even
 
 S ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Mr. Jones made neither sound nor movement until she had 
 disappeared, so absolute was his astonishment. 
 
 " Was there ever heard the like of that?" he exclaimed, when 
 he at length drew breath. " Do you think she's off her head, 
 sir ? " 
 
 He received no answer, and turned to look at Mr. Butterby. 
 That gentleman had his note-book out, and was pencilling 
 something in it by moonlight. 
 
 " I never saw such a start as this — take it for all in all," con- 
 tinued Mr. Jones to himself and the air, thus thrown upon his 
 own companionship. 
 
 " And I wouldn't swear that you've seen the last of it," 
 remarked Mr. Butterby, closing his note-case with a click. ^ 
 
 " Well, sir, good night to you," concluded Mr. Jones. " I 
 must make my way home before the house is locked up, or I 
 shall get a wigging from my wife. Sure to get that in any 
 case, now this has happened," he continued ruefully. " She'll 
 say I'm always away when I'm wanted at home in par- 
 ticular." 
 
 He went lightly enough over the graves to the opposite and 
 more frequented side of the churchyard, thus avoiding the 
 assemblage ; and took his departure. There being nothing 
 more to see, the people began to take theirs. Having gazed 
 their fill at the grave — just as if the silent, undemonstrative 
 earth could give them back a response — they slowly made 
 their way down the path to the high-road, and turned towards 
 the city, one group after another. 
 
 By one o'clock the last straggler had gone, and Mr. Butterby 
 came forth from his post behind the gravestone. He had his 
 reasons, perhaps, for remaining behind the rest, and for wishing 
 to walk home alone. 
 
 However that might be, he gave them a good margin of 
 distance, for it was ten-minutes past one when he turned out 
 of the churchyard. He had just reached the houses, when he 
 saw before him a small knot of people emerging from a side- 
 turning, as if they had not taken the direct route in coming 
 from the heart of the city. Mr. Butterby recognized one or 
 two of them, and turned into a friendly doorway until they had 
 passed. 
 
 Allowing them to get well on ahead, he turned and followed 
 in their wake. That they were on their way to the grave, 
 appeared evident : and the acute officer wondered why. A
 
 IN THE MOONLIGHT. 9 
 
 thought crossed him that possibly they might be about to take 
 up what had been laid there. 
 
 He went into the churchyard by the front gate, and made 
 his way cautiously across it, keeping under the shadow of the 
 grey church walls. Thence, stooping as he crossed the open 
 ground, and dodging behmd first one grave then another, he 
 took up his former position against the stone. They were at 
 the grave now, and" he began to deliberate whether, if his 
 thought should prove correct, he should 'or should not olTficially 
 interrupt proceedings. Peering cautiously over the stone, Mr. 
 Jkitterby looked out. And what he saw struck him with a 
 surprise equal to any recently exhibited by Mr. Jones : he, the 
 experienced official, who knew the world so thoroughly as to 
 be surprised at little or nothing. 
 
 Standing at the head of the grave was a clergyman in his 
 surplice and hood. Four men were grouped around him, one 
 of whom held a lantern so that its light fell upon the clergy- 
 man's book. He was beginning to read the burial service. 
 They stood with bowed heads, their hats off. The night had 
 grown cold, but Mr. Butterby removed his. 
 
 " I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord : he that 
 believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live : and 
 whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." 
 
 The solemn words, doubly solemn at that time and place, 
 came distinctly to the official ears. Perhaps in all the times 
 he had heard them during his life — many and many that it 
 had been — they had never so impressed him. But habit is 
 strong ; and Mr. Butterby found himself taking observations 
 ere the psalm had well commenced, even while he was 
 noticing how heartily the alternate verses were given by the 
 spectators. 
 
 Three of them around the grave he recognized ; the other 
 and the clergyman he did not. Of those three, one was a 
 tall, fine man of forty years, Kene, the barrister ; the next 
 was a cousin of the deceased, Frank Greatorex, whom Mr. 
 Butterby only knew by seeing him in the inquest-room, where 
 he had tendered some slight evidence ; the third was a gentle- 
 man of the city. Neither the clergyman nor the one who 
 held the light did Mr. Butterby remember to have seen before. 
 The elder cousin of the deceased was not present, though Mr.
 
 to ;roland yorke. 
 
 Butterby looked for him ; he had been the principal witness 
 at the inquest — Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 The officer could but notice also how singularly solemn, 
 slow, and impressive was the clergyman's voice as he read 
 those portions of the service that relate more particularly to 
 the deceased and the faith in which he has died. " In sure 
 and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life." He 
 almost paused between each word, as if he would impress on 
 his hearers that it was his own belief the deceased had so died. 
 And again, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord." 
 And towards the end, in the collect, in the beseeching prayer 
 that when we depart this life we may rest in Christ, " as our 
 hope is this our brother doth." It was not to be mistaken 
 that the clergyman, at least, held firm faith in the absence 
 of guilt in the deceased as regarded his own death. As indeed 
 the reading of the service over him proved. 
 
 With the Amen of the concluding benediction, there ensued 
 a silence ; every head was bowed in prayer. The clergyman 
 was the first to look up. He waited until the rest did so. 
 
 " Allow me to say a word ere we depart," he began then, 
 in low tones ; which nevertheless quick-eared Mr. Butterby 
 distinctly caught. " From the bottom of my heart, I believe 
 a foul murder to have been committed on my good and dear 
 brother. It shall be the business of my life to endeavour to 
 bring k to light, to clear his name from the cruel stain resting 
 upon it ; and my whole time, apart from what must be spent 
 in my appointed duties, shall be devoted to this end. So help 
 me. Heaven ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " responded the young man who stood by Mr. 
 Kene. 
 
 " So ! he's the deceased man's brother," was Mr. Butterby's 
 comment on the clergyman, as he saw him take off his surplice 
 and roll it up. 
 
 Extinguishing the light in the lantern, they silently took 
 their departure. Mr. Butterby watched them away, and then 
 finally took his, his mind in full work. 
 
 " Just the same thing that the girl, Alletha Rye, said ! 
 It's odd. I didn't .see any doubt about the business ; in spite 
 of what Kene said at the inquest; neither did the coroner; 
 and I'm sure the jury didn't. Dicky Jones was right, though. 
 Take it for all in all, it's the queerest start we've had in this 
 town for many a day."
 
 ( " ) 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 UP TO THE MONDAY EVENING. 
 
 On the Saturday before the events recorded in the last chapter, 
 the cathedral city had been the scene of unusual bustle. The 
 judges came in from Oxford to hold the Spring Assize, bringing 
 in their wake the customary multitude of followers : attendants, 
 officers, barristers, and others. Some of the witnesses in the 
 different cases to be tried, civil and criminal, also came in that 
 day, to remain until they should be wanted the following 
 week : so that the town was full. 
 
 Amidst the barristers who arrived was Mr. Ollivera. He 
 was a young man ; and it was only the second time he had 
 come on circuit. After leaving college he had travelled a good 
 deal, and also sojourned in different foreign countries, acquiring 
 legal experience, and did not take up his profession at home 
 as early as some do. A fresh-coloured, pleasing, bright-look- 
 ing man was he, his curly hair of a light auburn, his eyes blue, 
 his figure elastic and of middle height. All the world liked 
 John Ollivera. He was essentially practical, of sound sense, 
 of pure mind and habits, holding a reverence for all things 
 holy; and in every respect just the last man who could have 
 been suspected of a tendency to lay violent hands on himself. 
 
 He had written to secure his former lodgings at Mr. Jones's 
 in High Street, and proceeded to them at once on arriving at 
 the station. It was the third time he had lodged there. At 
 the previous assizes in July he had gone there first ; and the 
 whole of the month of October, during the long vacation, 
 he had been there again, having, as people supposed, taken a 
 liking to the town. So that this was the third time. 
 
 He arrived between six and seven on the Saturday evening. 
 Ordered tea and mutton chops, which were sent for at once, 
 and then went out to call upon a lady who lived within the 
 precincts of the cathedral. She was a widow ; her husband. 
 Colonel Joliffe, having died about a year before, leaving her 
 with a slender income and three expensive daughters. During 
 the colonel's lifetime they had lived in good style, about two 
 miles from the town ; but a great part of his means died with
 
 12 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 him, and Mrs. Joliffe then took a small house in the city and 
 had to retrench in all her ways. Which was a terrible mortifica- 
 tion to the young ladies. 
 
 To this lady's house Mr. Ollivera made his way when his 
 frugal dinner was over. He spent a couple of hours with 
 them, and then returned to his rooms and got out his law 
 papers, over which he remained until twelve o'clock, when he 
 went to bed. He occupied the drawing-room, which was on 
 the first-floor over the shop, and looked on to the street ; and 
 the bedroom behind it. On the following day, Sunday, he 
 attended early prayers in the cathedral at eight o'clock, staying 
 to partake of the Sacrament, and also the later service at eleven, 
 when the judges and corporation were present. In the after- 
 noon he attended the cathedral again, going to it with the 
 Miss Joliffes; dined at home at five, which was also Mrs. 
 Joliffe's dinner hour, and spent the rest of the evening at her 
 house. Mrs. Jones, his landlady, who had a great amount of 
 shrewd observation — and a shrewd tongue too on occasions, 
 as well as a sharp one — gave it as her opinion that he must be 
 courting one of the Miss Joliffes. He had been with them a 
 little in his few days' sojourn at the July assizes, and a great 
 deal with them during his stay in October. 
 
 On Monday morning the trials commenced, and Mr. Ollivera, 
 though he had no cause on, was in court a great part of the 
 day. He left in the afternoon, telling Mr. Kene that le had 
 an appointment for half-past three. A disagreeable commission 
 had been entrusted to him, he added, and he must keep it. 
 About half-past four he appeared at his rooms ; Mrs. Jones 
 met him in the hall, and spoke to him as he went upstairs. 
 When his dinner was sent up at five, the maid found him 
 buried in a heap of law papers. Hastily clearing a space at 
 one end of the table, he told her to put the tray there. In 
 less than half-an-hour the bell was rung for the things to be 
 taken away, and Mr. Ollivera was then bending over his papers 
 
 agam. 
 
 The papers no doubt related to a cause in which he was to 
 appear the following day. It was a civil action, touching 
 some property in which Mrs. Joliffe was remotely though not 
 actively interested. The London solicitors were the good old 
 firm of Greatorex and Greatorex ; Mr. Ollivera was a relative 
 of the house ; nephew of old Mr. Greatorex, in fact ; and to 
 him had been confided the advocacy of the cause. The name
 
 UP TO THE MONDAY EVENING. 13 
 
 of the local solicitor need not be mentioned. It was not a 
 very important cause : but a young barrister thinks all his 
 causes important, and Mr. Ollivera was earnest and painstaking, 
 sparing himself no trouble that could conduce to success. 
 He had declined a proffered dinner engagement for that 
 evening, but accepted an invitation for the next. So much 
 was known of his movements up to the Monday night. 
 
 On that same evening, Mr. Bede Greatorex arrived at the 
 station by the six-o'clock train from London ; took a fly, and 
 was driven to the Star and Garter Hotel. He was the son of 
 old Mr. Greatorex, and second partner in the firm. His journey 
 down had reference to the next day's action : something new 
 had unexpectedly arisen ; some slight information been gained 
 of a favourable nature, and Mr, Greatorex, senior, had 
 despatched his son to confer with Mr. Ollivera in preference 
 to writing or telegraphing. Bede Greatorex, nothing loth, 
 entered on his flying journey with high good-humour, intend- 
 ing to be back in London by the following midday. He was 
 a tall, fine-looking man, in face not unlike Mr. Ollivera, except 
 that his hair and eyes were dark, and his complexion a clear, 
 pale olive ; his age about thirty-four. The cousins were cordial 
 friends. 
 
 On arriving at the Star and Garter he declined refreshment 
 then, having taken an early dinner before leaving town, and 
 asked to be directed to Mr. OUivera's lodgings in High Street : 
 which M'as readily done, High Street being in a direct line 
 with the hotel. Mr. Bede Greatorex gained the house, and 
 found it to be one of goodly proportions, the lower part 
 occupied as a hosier's shop, with plate-glass windows. Over 
 the door in the middle was inscribed " Richard Jones, hosier 
 and patent shirt-front maker." There was a side entrance, 
 wide and rather handsome; the house altogether being a 
 superior one. Ringing the side bell, he inquired of the 
 servant for Mr. Ollivera, and was at once shown up to him. 
 
 Mr, Ollivera was seated at the table, his back to the door. 
 The papers he had been engaged upon were neatly stacked 
 now, as if done with ; he appeared to be writing a note ; and 
 a pistol lay at his elbow. All this was shown both to Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex and the maid, by the bright moderator lamp, 
 then lighted. 
 
 " Well, John ! " cried the visitor, in gay, laughing tones, be- 
 fore the girl could speak. " Don't be surprised at seeing me."
 
 14 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Mr, Ollivera turned at the voice and evidently was surprised : 
 surprised and pleased. 
 
 "Why, Bedel" he cried, starting up. "I should as soon 
 have expected to see a ghost." 
 
 They shook hands heartily, and Mr. Bede Greatorex sat 
 down. The maid, to save herself the trouble of a second 
 journey, inquired when Mr. Ollivera would like tea ; and was 
 answered that he might not want any , if he did, he'd ring : he 
 might be going out. As the servant shut the door she heard 
 the visitor begin to explain his errand, and that his father had 
 sent him in preference to writing. Her ears were always full 
 of curiosity. 
 
 In about an hour's time, Mr. Bede Greatorex departed. A 
 young man belonging to the house, Alfred Jones, who 
 happened to be passing upstairs when Mr. Greatorex was 
 leaving the drawing-room, heard that gentleman make an 
 appointment with Mr. OUivera for the morning. 
 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex walked back to the hotel, ordered a 
 fire in his bedroom, took a glass of brandy-and-water, for he 
 felt cold, washed the dust of the journey off his face and 
 hands, which he had not done before, had his coat and boots 
 brushed, and went out again. It was nine o'clock then, and 
 he bent his steps quickly towards the cathedral to call on 
 Mrs. JoHffe, having to inquire the way. It took him through 
 High Street again, and as he passed his cousin's lodgings, the 
 servant who had shown him in was standing at the front door, 
 recognized him and dropped a curtsey 
 
 In the drawing-room with Mrs. Joliffe were her three 
 daughters, Louisa, Clare, and Mary; some three or four 
 friends were also assembled. They were astonished to see 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex : none of them knew him well, except 
 Louisa, who had paid a long visit to his father's house the 
 previous year. She changed colour when he was announced : 
 and it may have been that his voice took a more tender tone 
 as it addressed her ; his hand lingered longer in clasping hers 
 than it need have done. She was an excessively fashionable 
 young lady : not very young, perhaps six or seven-and-twenty : 
 and if Bede Greatorex coveted her for a wife it was to be 
 hoped his pockets were well lined. He spoke just a word to 
 Mrs. Joliffe of having come down on a mission to Mr. 
 Ollivera ; not stating explicitly what it was ; and said he was 
 going back home in the morning.
 
 UP TO THE MONDAY EVENING. 15 
 
 "We are expecting Mr. Ollivera here to-night," observed 
 Mrs. Johffe. " He is late." 
 
 "Are you?" was the reply of Mr. Greatorex. "John said 
 he might be going out, I remember, but I did not know it was 
 to your house. Don't make too sure of him, Mrs. Joliffe, he 
 seemed idle, and complained of headache." 
 
 "I suppose he is busy," remarked Mrs. Joliffe. "All you 
 law people are busy at assize time." 
 
 " Louisa, is it as it should be between us ? " whispered Bede 
 Greatorex, in an opportunity that occurred when they were 
 alone near the piano. 
 
 " Don't be silly, Mr. Greatorex," was the answer. 
 
 "Silly!" 
 
 She bent her head, not speaking. 
 
 " What do you mean, Louisa ? Our engagement was 
 entered upon deliberately : you gave me every hope. You 
 cannot play with me now. Speak, Louisa." 
 
 He had taken possession of her hand, and was keeping her 
 before him ; his dark eyes, gleaming with doubt and love, . 
 looked straight into hers. 
 
 " What ? " she faintly asked. " Why do you question it ? " 
 
 "Because your manner is strange: you have avoided me 
 ever since I came in." 
 
 "The surprise was so great." 
 
 "Surely a pleasant surprise. I intended it to be so. Do 
 you suppose I should have cared to come down on tliis 
 business to Mr. Ollivera, when writing would have answered 
 every purpose ? No : I came to see you. And to learn 
 why " 
 
 " Not now. Don't you see mamma is looking at me?" 
 
 " And what though she is? I should have liked to speak to 
 your mother to-night, but for " 
 
 " Not to-night. I pray you not to-night. Take anotlier 
 opportunity." 
 
 The words reassured him. 
 
 " Then, Louisa, it is all right between us ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course it is. You offended me, Bede, last 
 January, and I — I have been vexed with you. Til write to you 
 as soon as you get back home, and explain everything." 
 
 He pressed her hand with a lingering touch, and then 
 released it. There was nothing in the wide world so coveted 
 by Bede Greatorex as that false hand of hers : as many things.
 
 i6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 fair outside, false within, are coveted by us poor mortals, blind 
 at the best. But Miss Joliffe looked half scared as she left 
 him for a safer part of the room ; her eyes and manner were 
 alike restless. Bede followed her, and they were talking 
 together at intervals in an undertone during the rest of the 
 evening. Louisa was evidently ill at ease, but strove to 
 conceal it. 
 
 At a quarter to eleven Mr. Bede Greatorex took his depar- 
 ture. In passing up High Street, his cousin's lodgings w^ere 
 on the opposite side of the way. He momentarily halted 
 and stepped off the pavement as if he would have crossed 
 to go in, and then hesitated, for the sitting-room was in 
 darkness. 
 
 "The light's out: he's gone to bed, I dare say," said Mr. 
 Greatorex, speaking aloud. " No good disturbing him." And 
 a tradesman, who happened to be fastening his side-door and 
 had it open about an inch, overheard the words; Mr. 
 Greatorex having doubtless been unaware that he spoke to an 
 auditor. 
 
 Towards the top of High Street he met Kene, the barrister. 
 The latter, after expressing some surprise at seeing him, and 
 assuming he had come direct from Mr. OUivera's, asked whether 
 the latter was in. 
 
 " In and in bed," replied Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " Indeed ! Why, it's not eleven o'clock." 
 
 " At any rate, there's no light in his room, or I should have 
 gone up. He complained of headache : perhaps he has gone 
 to bed early to sleep it off." 
 
 " I want to see him particularly," said the barrister. "Are 
 you sure he is in bed ? " 
 
 " You can go and ascertain, Kene. Ring the people of the 
 house up, should they have gone to bed too. I could see no 
 light anywhere." 
 
 Mr. Kene did not care to ring people up, and decided to leave 
 his business with Mr. Ollivera until the morning. He had been 
 dining with some fellows, he said, and had no idea how the time 
 was running on. Linking his arm within that of Bede Greatorex, 
 they walked together to the Star, and there parted. Mr. 
 Greatorex went up at once to his chamber, stirred the fire into 
 a blaze, rang for the waiter, and ordered another glass of hot 
 brandy-and-water. 
 
 " I think I must have taken cold," he observed when the
 
 UP TO THE MONDAY EVENING. 17 
 
 man brought it to him. " There has been a chill upon me ever 
 since I came here." 
 
 "Nothing more likely, sir," returned the waiter. "Those 
 trains are such draughty things." 
 
 However, Mr. Greatorex hoped he should be all right in the 
 morning. He gave directions to be called at a quarter to eight, 
 and the night wore on. 
 
 Some time before that hour chimed out from the cathedral 
 clock, when the morning had come, he found himself aroused 
 by a knocking at his door. A waiter, speaking outside, said 
 that something had happened to Mr. Ollivera. Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex, thinking the words singular, and not very pleased at 
 being thus summarily disturbed, possibly from dreams of Louisa 
 Joliffe, called out from his downy pillow (rather crossly, it must 
 be confessed) to know what had happened to Mr. Ollivera : 
 and was answered that he was dead. 
 
 Springing out of bed, and dressing himself quickly, Bede 
 Greatorex went down, and found that Kene, who had brought 
 the news, had gone again, leaving word that he had returned to 
 High Street. Mr. Greatorex hastened to follow. 
 
 The tale to be told was very singular, very sad, and Bede 
 Greatorex could not help shivering as he heard it. His cold 
 was upon him still. It appeared that nothing more had been 
 seen or heard of Mr. Ollivera after Mr. Greatorex left him the 
 previous evening. Mrs. Jones, the mistress of the house, had 
 gone out at seven, when the shop closed, to sit by the bedside 
 of a dying relative ; her sister. Miss Rye, was also out : the 
 maid left in charge, the only servant the house kept, had 
 taken the opportunity to spend her time in the street ; standing 
 now at her own door, now at other doors, as she could get 
 neighbours' servants to gossip with her. About half-past ten 
 it occurred to the maid that she might as well go up and inquire 
 if Mr. Ollivera wanted anything : perhaps the fact of his not 
 having rung at all struck her as singular. She knew he had not 
 gone out, or she must have seen him, for she had contrived to 
 keep a tolerably steady look-out on the street-door, however far 
 she had wandered from it. Up she went, knocked at the door, 
 got no answer, opened it, saw that the room was in darkness, 
 and regarded it as a sure proof that Mr. Ollivera had left the 
 room for the night, for he never put the lamp out in any other 
 case. 
 
 " He's gone to bed early to-night," thought the girl, shutting 
 
 Roland Yorke. 2
 
 i8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the door again. " I hope to goodness he didn't ring, and me 
 not hear it. Wouldn't Missis fly out at me ! " 
 
 And when Mrs. Jones came in, as she did soon after the girl 
 got downstairs again, and inquired after Mr. Ollivera, she was 
 told that he had gone to bed. 
 
 Now it appeared that Miss Rye sat over the sitting-room fire 
 (a parlour behind the shop, underneath Mr. Ollivera's bedroom) 
 for some time after the rest of the house had retired to rest. 
 When at length she went to bed, she was unable to sleep. 
 Towards morning she dropped into a doze, and was awakened 
 (according to her own account) by a dream. A very vivid dream, 
 that startled and unnerved her. She dreamt she saw Mr. 
 Ollivera in his sitting-room— dead. And, as she seemed to look 
 at him, a terrible amount of self-reproach, far greater than any 
 she could ever experience in life, rushed over her mind, for not 
 having gone in earlier to discover him. It was this feeling that 
 awoke her. It had seemed that he cast it on her, that it came 
 direct to her from his presence, cold and lifeless though he was. 
 So real did it all appear, that for some minutes after Miss Rye 
 awoke, she could not believe it to be only a dream. Turning 
 to look at her watch, she saw it was half-past six, and the sun 
 had risen. An early riser always, for she had to get her living 
 by dressmaking. Miss Rye rose and dressed herself : but she 
 could not throw off the impression upon her ; and a little before 
 seven she went down and opened the door of Mr. Ollivera's 
 sitting-room. Not so much to see whether it might be true or 
 not, as to prove by ocular demonstration that it was not true : 
 she might get over the impression then. 
 
 But it was true. What was Miss Rye's horror and astonish- 
 ment at seeing him, Mr. Ollivera, there ! At the first moment, 
 she observed nothing unusual. The white blinds were down 
 before the windows ; the tables, chairs, and other furniture were 
 in place ; but as she stood looking in, she saw in an easy-chair 
 near the table, whose back was towards her, the head of Mr. 
 Ollivera. With a strange leaping of all her pulses, with a dread 
 at her heart, that caused it to cease beating. Miss Rye went in 
 and looked at him, and then flew out of the room, uttering 
 startled cries. 
 
 The cries aroused the house. Mrs. Jones, the young man 
 Alfred Jones, and the servant-maid came hurrying forth : the 
 two former nearly dressed ; the maid had been about her work 
 downstairs. Mr. Ollivera lay back in the easy-chair, cold and
 
 UP TO THE MONDAY EVENING. 19 
 
 dead. The right arm hung down over the side, and immediately 
 beneath it on the carpet, looking as if it had dropped from his 
 hand, lay the discharged pistol. 
 
 The servant and Alfred Jones ran different ways : the one for 
 a doctor, the other to Mr. Kene the barrister, who had been 
 intimate with Mr. Ollivera ; Mrs. Jones, a shrewd, clever woman, 
 locking the room up exactly as it was, until they should arrive. 
 
 But now, by a singular coincidence, it happened that Mr. 
 Butterby, abroad betimes, was the first to meet the servant- 
 maid, and consequently, he was first on the scene. The 
 doctor and Mr. Kene came next, and then Bede Greatorex. 
 Such was the story as it greeted Bede's ears. 
 
 On the table, just as both he and the servant had seen them 
 the night before, were the neatly-stacked law papers. Also a 
 folded legal document that had been brought from town by 
 himself, Bede Greatorex. There were also pens, ink, and a 
 sheet of note-paper, on which some lines were written. They 
 were as follows : — 
 
 " My dear Friend, 
 
 " It is of no use. Nothing more can be done. 
 Should I never see you again, I beg you once for all to believe 
 me when I say that I have made efforts, though they have been 
 ineffectual. And when 
 
 "The pistol is ready to my hand. Good-bye." 
 
 The first part of this letter, up to the point of the abrupt 
 breaking off, was written in Mr. OUivera's usual steady hand. 
 The latter part was scrawling, trembling, and blotted ; the 
 writing bearing only a faint resemblance to the rest. Acute 
 Mr. Butterby remarked that it was just the kind of writing 
 an agitated man might pen, who was about to commit an evil 
 deed. There was no clue as to whom the note had been in- 
 tended for, but it appeared to 'point too evidently to the inten- 
 tion of self-destruction. Nevertheless, there was one at least 
 who doubted. 
 
 " Is it so, think you ? " asked Mr. Kene, in low tones, as he 
 stood by the side of Bede Greatorex, who was mechanically 
 turning over the papers on the table one by one. 
 
 "Is it what?" asked Bede, looking up, his tone sharp with 
 pain. 
 
 " Self-destruction. There never lived a man less likely to 
 commit it than your cousin, John Ollivera."
 
 20 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " As I should have thought," returned Mr. Greatorex. 
 " But if it is not that, what else can it'be ? " 
 
 "There is one other possible solution, at least : putting any 
 idea of accident aside." 
 
 The supposition of accident had not occurred to Bede 
 Greatorex. A gleam of glad surprise crossed his face. 
 
 " Do you indeed think it could have been an accident, 
 Kene ? Then " 
 
 "No; I think it could not have been," interrupted the 
 barrister. " I said, putting that idea aside : it is the most 
 improbable of any. I alluded to the other alternative." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex understood his meaning, and shrank from its 
 unpleasantness. " Who would harm OUivera, Kene ? He 
 had not an enemy in the world." 
 
 " So far as we know. But I declare to you, Greatorex, I 
 think it the more likely of the two." 
 
 Bede Greatorex shook his head. The facts, so far as they 
 were yet disclosed, seemed decisive and unmistakable. 
 
 They passed into the bedroom. It was all just as the 
 servant had left it the previous evening, ready for the 
 occupation of Mr. Ollivera. On a small table lay his Prayer- 
 book, and the pocket Bible he was wont to carry with him in 
 travelling. Bede Greatorex felt a sudden faintness stealing 
 over him as he looked, and leaned for a few moments against 
 the wall. 
 
 But he had no time for indulging grief He went out, in- 
 quiring for the telegraph office, and sent a message to his father 
 in town with the news, softening it as well as circumstances 
 permitted : as we all like to do at first when ill news has to 
 be told. He simply stated that John (the familiar name Mr. 
 Ollivera was known by at home) had died suddenly. The 
 message brought down his brother, Frank Greatorex, some 
 hours later. 
 
 To say that the town was thrown into commotion almost 
 equal to that reigning in Mrs. Jones's house, would be super- 
 fluous. A young barrister, known to many of the inhabitants, 
 who had come in with the judges only on Saturday ; who was 
 to have led in a cause in the Nisi Prius Court on that very 
 morning, Tuesday, and to be junior in another cause set down 
 for Wednesday, in which Mn Kene, the experienced and 
 renowned Queen's Counsel, led, had been found dead ! And 
 by such a death ! It took the public by storm. Mrs. Jones's
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. iJl 
 
 shop was so besieged that she had to put up her shutters ; High 
 Street was impassable : and all those in the remotest degree 
 connected with the deceased or with the circumstances, were 
 followed about and stared at as though they were wild animals. 
 Five hundred conjectures were hazarded and spoken : five 
 hundred tales circulated that had no foundation. Perhaps the 
 better way to collect the various items together for the reader, 
 will be to transcribe some of the evidence given before the 
 coroner. The inquest took place on the Wednesday morning, 
 in the club-room of an inn near at hand. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 
 
 The coroner and jury assembled at an unusually early hour, for 
 the convenience of Mr, Kene, who wished to be present. It 
 had been thought that the only brother of the deceased, a 
 clergyman, would come down 3 but he had not arrived. After 
 viewing the body, which lay still at Mrs. Jones's, the pro- 
 ceedings commenced. Medical testimony was given as to the 
 cause of death — a pistol-shot had penetrated the heart. The 
 surgeon, Mr. Hurst, who had been called in at the first disco- 
 very on Tuesday morning, stated that to the best of his belief, 
 death (which must have been instantaneous) had taken place 
 early the previous evening, he should say about seven or eight 
 o'clock. And this view was confirmed in rather a singular 
 manner. Upon examining the oil in the lamp, which Mrs. 
 Jones had herself filled, it was seen that it could not have 
 burnt very much more than an hour : thus leaving it to be 
 inferred that the deceased had put it out before committing the 
 rash deed, and that it must have been done shortly after Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex left him. 
 
 AUetha Rye was called. She spoke to the fact of finding 
 Mr. OUivera, dead ; and electrified the court, when questioned 
 as to why she had gone to the sitting-room, seeing that it was 
 so unusual a thing for her to do, by saying that she went in to 
 see whether Mr. Ollivera was there, dead, or not dead. In the 
 quietest, most composed manner possible, she related her 
 singular dream, saying it had sent her to the room.
 
 22 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Surely," said the coroner, " you did not expect to see Mr. 
 Ollivera dead ? " 
 
 " I cannot say that I did. I went rather to convince myself 
 that he was nof dead," was the witness's answer. " But the 
 dream had been so vivid that I could not shake it from my 
 mind. It made me uneasy, although my reason did not put 
 any faith in it whatever as to its truth. That is why I went to 
 the room. And Mr. Ollivera lay dead in his chair, exactly as 
 I had seen him in my dream." 
 
 The coroner, a practical man, did not know what to make 
 of this statement : such evidence had never been tendered him 
 before, and he eyed the witness keenly. To see her standing 
 there in her black robes, tall, upright, of really dignified de- 
 meanour, with her fair features and good looks — but there were 
 dark circles round her eyes to-day, and the soft colour had left 
 her cheeks— to hear her declare this in sensible, calm accents, 
 was something marvellous. 
 
 " Were you at home on Monday night ? " asked the coroner. 
 And it may as well be remarked that some of the questions 
 put by him during the inquest, queries that did not appear to 
 be quite in order, or have much to do with the point in ques- 
 tion, had very probably their origin in the diflerent rumours 
 that had reached him, and in the doubt breathed into his ears 
 by Mr. Kene. The coroner did not in the least agree with 
 Mr. Kene ; rather pitied the barrister as a visionary, for allow- 
 ing himself to glance at such a doubt ; but he was fond of 
 diving to the bottom of things. Living in the same town, 
 knowing all the jury personally, in the habit of exchanging a 
 word with Mrs. Jones whenever he met her, the coroner may 
 have been excused if the proceedings were slightly irregular, 
 involving some gossip as well as law. 
 
 " No," replied the witness. " Except that I ran in for a 
 few minutes. I had been at work that afternoon at a neigh- 
 bour's, helping her to make a gown. I went home to get a 
 pattern." 
 
 " What time was that ? " 
 
 " I cannot be particular as to the exact time. It must have 
 been nearly eight o'clock." 
 
 " Did you see the deceased then ? " 
 
 " No. I did not see any one except the servant. She was 
 standing at the street door. When I had been upstairs to get 
 what I wanted I went out again."
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 23 
 
 " Did you hear any noise as you passed Mr. Ollivera's 
 rooms ? " 
 
 " Not any I do not know anything more of the details, sir, 
 than I have told you." 
 
 The next witness called was Mr. Bede Greatorex. He gave 
 his evidence clearly, but at portions of it v/as evidently under 
 the influence of some natural emotion, which he contrived to 
 suppress. A man does not like to betray this. 
 
 " My name is Bede Greatorex. I am the son of Mr. Greatorex, 
 of London, and second partner in the firm of Greatorex and 
 Greatorex. The deceased, John Ollivera, was my cousin, his 
 father and my mother having been brother and sister. A 
 matter of business arose connected with a cause to be tried 
 in the Nisi Prius Court, in which Mr. Ollivera was to 
 be leading counsel, and my father despatched me down on 
 Monday to communicate with him. I arrived by the six- 
 o'clock train, and was with him before half-past six. We had 
 a conference together; I stayed about an hour with him, and 
 then went back to my hotel. I never afterwards saw him 
 alive." 
 
 " I must put a few questions to you, with your permission, 
 Mr. Greatorex, for the satisfaction of the jury," observed the 
 coroner. 
 
 " Put as many as you like, sir ; I will answer them to the 
 best of my ability," was the reply. 
 
 " First of all — what was the exact hour at which you reached 
 Mr. Ollivera's rooms ? " 
 
 " I think it must have been about twenty-minutes past six. 
 The train got in to time, six o'clock ; I took a fly to the Star 
 and Garter, and then walked at once to Mr. Ollivera's lodgings, 
 the hotel people directing me. The whole proceeding could 
 not have taken above twenty minutes." 
 
 "And how long did you remain with him?" 
 
 " An hour : perhaps rather more. I should think I left him 
 about half-past seven. I was back at the hotel by a quarter 
 to eight, having walked slowly, looking at the different features 
 of the streets as I passed. I had never been in the town 
 before." 
 
 " Well, now, Mr. Greatorex, what was the manner of the 
 deceased while you were with him ? Did you perceive anything 
 unusual ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all. He was just as he always was, and very
 
 54 kOLAND VORKE. 
 
 glad to see me. We" — the witness paused to swallow his 
 emotion — "we had ever been the best of friends and com- 
 panions. I thought him a little quiet, dull. As he sat, he 
 bent his forehead on his hand and complained of headache, 
 saying it had been close in court that day." 
 
 ("True enough," murmured Mr. Kene.) 
 
 " The news you brought down to him was not bad news ? " 
 questioned the coroner. 
 
 " Quite the contrary. It was good news : favourable to our 
 cause." 
 
 " Did you see him write the note found on his table, or any 
 portion of it?" 
 
 " When the servant showed me into the room, he appeared 
 to be \yriting a note. As he sat down after shaking hands with 
 me, he put the blotting-paper over what he had written. He 
 did not take it off again, or write at all whilst I remained." 
 
 "Was it the same note, think you, that was afterwards 
 found?" 
 
 " I should think it probable. I noticed that some few lines 
 only were written. About " — the witness paused a moment — 
 "about the same amount as the first portion of the note." 
 
 " Did he put the blotting-paper over it to prevent your 
 seeing it, do you suppose, Mr. Greatorex ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I thought he was only afraid it might get 
 blotted. The ink was wet." 
 
 " Did any one come in while you were with him?" 
 
 " No. I wished him good night, intending to see him in the 
 morning, and was shown out by some young man." 
 
 " Do you know to whom that note was written ? " 
 
 " I have not the slightest idea. Neither do I know to what 
 it alludes." 
 
 "Then — your theory, I presume, is — that he added that 
 concluding line after your departure? In fact, just when he 
 was on the point of committing the rash act ? " 
 
 " I do not see what else can be supposed. The pen lay 
 across the words when found, as if thrown there after writing 
 them, and appeared to have caused the blots." 
 
 " Did he say anything to you about any appointment he had 
 kept that afternoon ? " 
 
 " Not anything." 
 
 "And now about the pistol, Mr. Greatorex. Did you see 
 one on the table ? "
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 25 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Did it not strike you as singular that it should be there ?" 
 
 " Not at all. Mr. Ollivera never travelled anywhere without 
 a pistol ; it was a fancy of his. Some years ago, when in a 
 remote part of Spain, he was attacked in his chamber at 
 night, robbed, and rather seriously hurt ; since then he has 
 when travelUng taken a pistol with him. I asked him what 
 brought it on the table, and he said he had been oiling the 
 lock. 
 
 " Did you know that it was loaded ? " 
 
 " I did not. I really did not think much about it one way 
 or the other. We were busy over the business on which I 
 came down : and I knew as I have said, that he used to carry 
 a pistol with him when travelling." 
 
 " Then, in point of fact, Mr. Greatorex, you can throw no 
 positive light on this affair for us ? " 
 
 The witness shook his head. " I wish I could. I have told 
 you all I know." 
 
 " Do you think there can be any reasonable doubt — any 
 doubt whatever — that he committed suicide ? " 
 
 " I fear there can be none," replied Mr. Greatorex, in low- 
 tones, and he shivered perceptibly as he gave it. It was a 
 crime Bede Greatorex had always held in shrinking, pitying 
 abhorrence. 
 
 " One question more, and then we will release you and 
 thank you for the manner in which you have given your 
 evidence," said the coroner. " Did you see cause to suspect 
 in that last interview that his mind was otherwise than in a 
 sane state ? " 
 
 " Oh no ; certainly not." 
 
 " It was calm and clear as usual, for all you perceived?" 
 
 " Quite so." 
 
 "Stay. There is one other point. Was the deceased in 
 any kind of embarrassment, so far as your cognizance goes, 
 pecuniary, or other?" 
 
 " I feel quite sure that he was in no pecuniary embarrassment 
 whatever," returned the witness warmly, anxious to do justice 
 to his cousin's memory. "As to any other kind of embarrass- 
 ment, I cannot speak. I am aware of none ; and I think he 
 was one of the least likely men to get into any." 
 
 That was all. Mr. Greatorex bowed to the coroner and 
 gave place to another witness. A little dark woman in black. ^
 
 26 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 with an old-fashioned black chip bonnet, and silver threads 
 beginning to mix with her black hair ; but her eyebrows were 
 very black still. Certainly no two women could present a 
 greater contrast in appearance than she and Miss Rye, although 
 they were sisters. 
 
 *' Your name is Julia Jones," began the coroner's man, who 
 knew Mrs. Jones intimately in private life. 
 
 "Yes, it is Julia Jones," emphatically replied the lady, tartly, 
 and with an accent on the "Jones," as if the name grated upon 
 her. And Mrs. Jones was sworn. 
 
 After some preliminary evidence, touching Mr. Ollivera's 
 previous visits to her, and the length of time he had stayed, 
 which she entered upon of her own accord, Mrs. Jones was 
 asked what she knew of the calamity. How it was first brought 
 to her knowledge. 
 
 '• The first I heard of it was through my sister, AUetha Rye, 
 shrieking out from the first-floor landing below, a little before 
 seven o'clock on Tuesday morning," responded Mrs. Jones, in 
 the same tart tone ; which was, in fact, habitual to her. " I 
 was in my bedroom, the front room on the second floor, nearly 
 dressed, and out I flew, thinking she must be on fire. She said 
 something about Mr. Ollivera, and I ran down, and saw him 
 lying in the chair. Jones's nephew, in his waistcoat and shirt- 
 sleeves, got into the room just as I did." 
 
 " When did you last see the deceased alive, Mrs. Jones ? " was 
 the next question, after the witness had described the appear- 
 ance of the room, the pistol on the carpet, the blotted note on 
 the table, the quantity of oil in the lamp, and so forth, 
 
 " When did I see him last ? Why, on the Monday afternoon, 
 when he came in from court," responded Mrs. Jones. " I was 
 crossing the hall at the foot of the stairs, between the parlour 
 and the shop, as he came in. He looked tired, and I said so ; 
 and he answered that he had been about all day, in court and 
 elsewhere, and 7vas tired. That's when I saw him last : never 
 after, till I saw him in his chair, dead." 
 
 "You heard nothing of his movements, that evening?" 
 
 " I wasn't likely to hear them, seeing I went out as soon as 
 the shop was shut. Before it, in fact, for I left Jones's nephew 
 to put up the shutters. Old Jenkins is dying, as all the parish 
 knows, and I went to sit with him and take him some beef- 
 tea. Jones's nephew went out too, to his debating club, as 
 he calls it. And precious debating it must be," continued
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 27 
 
 Mrs. Jones, with more tartness, "if the debaters are all as 
 green and soft as he ! Alletha Rye was at work at Mrs. 
 Wilson's : and so, as ill-luck had it, all the house was out." 
 
 " Except your servant, Susan INIarks," observed one of the 
 jury. " She was left at home to keep house, we hear." 
 
 " And in a very pretty manner she kept it ! " retorted Mrs, 
 Jones ; upon which Susan Marks, at the back, gave a groan, 
 and burst into fresh tears. "Up the street here, down the 
 street there, over the way at the doors yonder, staring, and 
 gossiping — that's how she kept it. And on an assize night, of 
 all nights in the year, to be airing her cap in the street, when 
 barristers and other loose characters are about ! " 
 
 The compliment paid to the barristers raised a laugh, in 
 spite of the sad inquiry the court had met upon. Mrs. Jones's 
 epithet sounded, however, worse to others than it did to 
 herself. 
 
 "And she could tell me, when I got in just before eleven, 
 that Mr. Ollivera had gone to bed!" resumed that lady with 
 intense aggravation : " which, of course, I believed, and we 
 all went up to our rooms, suspecting nothing. Let me ever 
 catch her out at the street door again ! Home she'll go to 
 Upton Snodsbury." 
 
 Groans from the back, in the vicinity of Susan Marks, 
 
 " Had you known previously, Mrs, Jones, that Mr. Ollivera 
 was in the habit of bringing with him a loaded pistol ? " 
 
 "Yes : for he told me. One day last October, when I was 
 dusting his drawing-room, he had it out of its case. I said 
 I should not like such a weapon near me, and he laughed. 
 He used to keep it on the chest of drawers in his bedroom : 
 that is, the case ; and I suppose the thing itself was inside." 
 
 "Your husband was not at home when this unfortunate 
 event happened, Mrs. Jones ? " 
 
 " No, he was w/," assented Mrs, Jones ; and her resentful 
 tones appeared to reach their cliniax. " He has been off to 
 Wales last week and this, and is as likely as not to be there 
 next." 
 
 Another question or two, not of much importance, and Mrs. 
 Jones gave place to her husband's nephew. He was known 
 in the town as a steady, well-conducted, quite trustworthy 
 young man. He had not very much to tell. 
 
 "My name is Alfred Jones," he said, "and I live with my 
 uncle, Richard Jones, as assistant in the shop "
 
 28 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Which wouldn't want any assistant at all, if JoneS 
 
 stayed at home and stuck to his duties," put in Mrs. Jones's 
 sharp voice from the back. Upon which she was admonished 
 to hold her tongue : and the witness continued. 
 
 " On Monday night, I put up the shutters at seven, as usual 
 in the winter season ; I changed my coat, washed my hands, 
 and went to the debating club in Goose Lane. Soon after I 
 got there I found I had forgotten a book that I ought to have 
 taken back to the club library. The time for keeping it was 
 up, and as we are fined twopence if we keep a book over time, 
 I went back for it. It was then half-past seven. The door 
 was open, and Susan, the servant, was standing outside. As 
 I ran up the stairs, the book being m my bedroom at the top 
 of the house, I heard the drawing-room door open just after 
 I passed it. I turned my head, and saw a gentleman come 
 out. He " 
 
 *' Did you know him, witness ? " 
 
 "No, sir, he was a stranger to me. I kno>v him now for 
 Mr. Greatorex. He was talking to Mr. Ollivera. They were 
 making an appointment for the next morning." 
 
 " Did you hear what was said ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. As I looked round at the gentleman he was 
 turning towards the room, and said, ' Yes, you may rely upon 
 my coming early; I'll be here before nine o'clock. Good- 
 night, John.' Those were, I think, the exact words, sir." 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Ollivera ? " 
 
 " No, sir, he did not come out, and the gentleman only 
 pushed the door back a little whilst he spoke. Had it been 
 wide open I couldn't have seen in ; I was some two or three 
 steps up the stairs. I turned then to attend Mr, Greatorex to 
 the front door. After that I ran up for my book, and left the 
 house again. I was not two minutes in it altogether." 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Ollivera as you came down? " 
 
 " No, sir. The drawing-room door was closed, as Mr. 
 Greatorex had left it. I never saw or heard anything of Mr. 
 Ollivera again until Miss Rye's screams brought me down the 
 next morning. That is all I know." 
 
 " At what hour did you go home on Monday evening ? " 
 
 " It was close upon eleven, sir. We generally disperse at 
 half-past ten, but we stayed late that night. Mrs. Jones and 
 Miss Rye had not long come in, and were in the sitting-room." 
 
 The next witness called was Susan Marks. The young
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 29 
 
 woman, what with her own heinous offences on the eventful 
 night, the dreadful calamity itself, and the reproaches of her 
 mistress, had been in a state of tears ever since, and they kept 
 breaking forth at most unseasonable times. 
 
 Susan Marks, aged nineteen, native of Upton Snodsbury, 
 cook and servant-of-all-work to Mrs. Jones. Such was the 
 young woman's report of herself, as well as could be heard for 
 her sobs and tears. She was neatly attired. 
 
 "Now, young woman," said the coroner, briskly, as if he 
 thought time was being lost, " what have you to tell us of the 
 events of Monday night?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir," replied the young woman, with a fresh burst 
 of grief. "I never saw Mr. Ollivera at all after I showed the 
 gentleman up to him." 
 
 " Well, let us hear about that. What time was it ? " 
 
 " It was past six, sir ; I don't know how much. I had 
 washed up Mr. Ollivera's dinner things, and was putting the 
 plates and dishes on the dresser, when Mr. Ollivera's bell rang. 
 It was for his lamp, which I lighted and took in : he always 
 wanted it before daylight was well over when he was busy. 
 He seemed in a hurry, and drew down the window-blinds 
 himself. I lighted the gas outside the drawing-room door, and 
 went back to the kitchen. No sooner was I there — leastways 
 it couldn't have been five minutes — when there came a ring at 
 the front-door bell. I went to answer it, and saw a tall 
 gentleman, who asked for Mr. Ollivera, and I showed him 
 upstairs to the drawing-room." 
 
 " Who was that gentleman ? " 
 
 " It was Mr. Greatorex. But I didn't know him then, sir. 
 I thought it was a barrister ; he didn't give no name." 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Ollivera when you took this gentleman 
 up?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. He was sitting writing at the table, and I saw 
 the things on it. I hadn't noticed them much when I took 
 the lamp in. I saw the papers put tidy, which had been all 
 about when he was at his dinner. I think he was very busy 
 that evening," urged the witness, as if the fact might plead an 
 excuse for what afterwards took place : " when I removed the 
 dinner things he told me to put the sherry on the sideboard ; 
 sometimes, if he wanted to take any, he'd have it left on the 
 table." 
 
 " Did he seem glad to see Mr. Greatorex ? "
 
 30 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Yes, sir, very. They shook hands, and Mr. Greatorex 
 began telUng him what he had come down about, and said his 
 father had sent him in place of telegrumming. I asked Mr. 
 OlUvera what time he'd like to have tea, but he said he didn't 
 know whether he should take any, he might be going out ; if 
 he wanted it, he'd ring. How was I to think, after that, that 
 I ought to have went up to him, to see how he might be getting 
 on, which Missis has been a-going on at me ever since for not 
 doing ? " demanded the witness, with a shower of tears. 
 
 " Come, come ! there, wipe your face," said one of the jury, 
 with rough kindness. And the questions went on, and the 
 witness's replies. 
 
 It was about an hour that Mr. Greatorex stayed, she thought. 
 She saw him come out at the street door, and go away. Well, 
 yes, she was a yard or two off, at a neighbour's door, next 
 house but one. After Missis went out and the shop was shut, 
 and Alfred Jones went out, and there wasn't nobody indoors 
 to want her, she thought it no harm to stand at the street 
 door a bit : and if she did go a step or two away from it, she 
 never took her eyes off the door, and no person could go in or 
 out without her seeing them, and that she'd swear. She sav/ 
 Mr. Greatorex come out and walk away up High Street ; and 
 she never heard no sound in the house whatsoever. 
 
 *' Did any one go in ? " the coroner asked. 
 
 " No, sir, not a soul — barring Alfred Jones and Miss Rye. 
 Alfred Jones came back after he first went out, saying that he 
 had forgot something, and he went upstairs to fetch it. He 
 wasn't there no time ; and it was while he was up there that 
 Mr. Greatorex came down and left. Soon after that. Miss 
 Rye come in, and went upstairs, and was there ever so long." 
 
 " What do you call ' ever so long ' ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, I'm sure she was there a quarter-of-an-hour," 
 returned the witness, in quick, positive tones, as if the fact of 
 Miss Rye's being there so long displeased her. " I ought to 
 know; and me standing inside the door-sill, afraid to move 
 off it for fear she should come out." 
 
 " Were you alone ? " 
 
 "Well, yes, sir, I was. Mary, the housemaid at the big 
 linendraper's, next door but one, can bear me out that I was, 
 for she was there all the time, talking to me." 
 
 Perhaps the coroner thought the answer savoured of Hiber- 
 nianism^ for something like a smile crossed his face.
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 31 
 
 " And you heard no sound whatever upstairs all the evening, 
 Susan Marks ? You saw no one go in or come out, except the 
 persons mentioned ; no stranger ? " 
 
 " I never heard no sound, and never saw no stranger at all," 
 said the witness, earnestly. "I never even saw Godfrey 
 Pitman leave. But I believe he was away earlier." 
 
 The concluding announcement fell with surprise on the 
 room. A pause ensued, and the coroner lifted his head 
 sharpl}'. Godfrey Pitman ? Who was Godfrey Pitman ? 
 
 " Who is Godfrey Pitman, witness ? " 
 
 "The lodger at the top of the house, sir. He had the front 
 bedroom there — and a fine dance it was to carry his meals up. 
 Missis gave him the offer of taking them in the little room off 
 the kitchen, but I suppose he was too proud to come down. 
 Any way, he didn't come." 
 
 " Is he lodging there now ? " 
 
 " Oh no, sir, he was only there a week and a day, and left 
 on the Monday. He was a traveller in the spectacles line, he 
 told me, passing through the town ; which he likewise wore 
 himself sometimes. Well, sir, I never saw him go at all, and 
 he didn't never give me as much as a shilling for having waited 
 on him and carried his trays up all them stairs." 
 
 The girl had told apparently what she knew, and the coroner 
 requested Mrs. Jones to come in again. He questioned her 
 about the lodger. 
 
 " It was a person named Pitman," she answered, readily. 
 " He was only passing through the town, and occupied the 
 room for a week." 
 
 " Who was he ? " asked the coroner. " Did you know him ? " 
 
 "I didn't know him from Adam," answered ISIrs. Jones, 
 tartly. " I knew nothing about him. I called him Alletha 
 Rye's ledger, not mine, for it was she picked him up. He 
 may have told her all about himself, for aught I can say. She 
 seemed to take a desperate fancy to him, and mended his 
 travelling bag. He didn't tell me. Not but what he seemed 
 a civil, respectable man enough." 
 
 "When did he leave you, Mrs. Jones ?" 
 
 " On Monday, about half-past four, when he took the five- 
 o'clock train for Birmingham. He came to the inner shop 
 door as he was going out, and thanked me for my kindness, as 
 he called it, in taking him in at a pinch ; he said it was not 
 every one would do so for a stranger. Neither is it. '
 
 32 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "You are sure he left you at that hour?" 
 "Have I the use of my eyes and senses?'' demanded Mrs. 
 Jones. " Sure ! I walked to the side-door after him, and 
 saw him go up the street towards the railway with his blue bag. 
 Of course I am sure. It was as I crossed the hall, on my way 
 back, that Mr. OUivera came in, and I spoke to him as I have 
 told you." 
 
 It was therefore placed beyond doubt that Mr. Pitman, the 
 lodger, could have no act or part in what took place in the 
 house later in the day. The coroner would have dismissed 
 the subject summarily, but one of the jury, a man who liked to 
 hear himself talk, expressed an opinion that it might be satis- 
 factory if they questioned Miss Rye. With a gesture of 
 impatience the coroner called for her. 
 
 She came in, was asked what she knew of Mr. Pitman, and 
 stood before them in silence, her face a little bent, her fore- 
 finger, encased in its well-fitting black kid glove, pressed 
 lightly on her lip, her clear blue eye looking out straight before 
 her. It was as if she were trying to recall something to her 
 memory. 
 
 " I recollect now," she said, after a minute : " I could not 
 remember what took me up by the railway station, where I 
 met him. It was last Sunday week, in the afternoon. Mrs. 
 Hillman, who lives up there, was ill, and I had been to see 
 her. As I was leaving her house, towards dusk, a few passen- 
 gers were coming down from the station. I stood on the door- 
 step until they should have passed ; and one of them, with a 
 blue bag in his hand, like those that lawyers' clerks carry, 
 stopped and asked me if I had a room in my house that I 
 could let him occupy for a week. I supposed he took the 
 house where I stood for mine. He went on to say he was a 
 traveller and a stranger, had never before been to the town, 
 felt very poorly, and would very much like to be spared the 
 bustle of an hotel. I knew that my sister, Mrs. Jones, had a 
 bedroom ready for letting," continued Miss Rye, "and I 
 thought she might not object to oblige him ; he spoke quite as 
 a gentleman, and I felt rather sorry for him, for he looked 
 haggard and ill. That is. how it happened." 
 
 "y\nd your sister admitted him, and he stayed the week?" 
 cried the juror. 
 
 " Strictly speaking, I admitted him ; for when we reached 
 home I found that Mrs. Jones had gone to sit with old
 
 BEFORE THE CORONER. 33 
 
 Jenkins for the rest of the day. So I took it upon myself to 
 do so. On Saturday last Mr. Pitman said he would, with 
 our permission, remain a day over the week, and leave on 
 Monday." 
 
 "And did he pay the rent, Miss Rye?" asked the juror, 
 who perhaps had a doubt on the point. 
 
 " He paid the first week's rent as soon as he was admitted 
 to the house, and gave a sovereign towards purchasing his 
 provisions," was the answer. " What remained he settled for 
 on the Monday, previous to his departure by the five-o'clock 
 train for Birmingham." 
 
 " Who was he, witness ? Where did he come from ? " 
 
 " I really cannot tell you much about him," was Miss Rye's 
 reply. " I understood him to say he was a traveller ; his name, 
 as he wrote it down for us, was Godfrey Pitman. He was laid 
 up with a bad cold and relaxed throat all the time he stayed, 
 and borrowed some books from me to read." 
 
 There appeared to be no further scope for the exercise of 
 the juror's powers ; no possible loophole for bringing this 
 departed Mr. Godfrey Pitman into connection with the death 
 of Mr. Ollivera ; and Miss Rye was allowed to depart. 
 
 Little more evidence was to be gleaned. Mr. Kene, tender- 
 ing evidence, spoke of his long intimacy with the deceased, 
 and of their last interview, when he was just the same as he 
 ever had been : calm, cheerful, earnest. He could not under- 
 stand, he added, how it was possible for Mr. Ollivera to have 
 laid violent hands on himself — unless, indeed, the headache, 
 of which he had complained, proceeded from some derange- 
 ment of the functions of the brain, which induced temporary 
 insanity. 
 
 But this theory was wholly incompatible with the letter that 
 had been found, and with Mr. Bede Greatorex's testimony of 
 the sanity of the deceased when he quitted him. The jury 
 shook their heads : keen-eyed Mr. Butterby, looking on unob- 
 trusively from a remote nook of the room, shook his. 
 
 The inquest drew to a close ; the one fatal element in the 
 evidence being the letter found on the table. The coroner and 
 jury debated upon their verdict with closed doors, and only 
 readmitted the public when they had come to a decision. It 
 did not take them very long. 
 
 " Felo-de-se." 
 
 In accordance with the customary usage, a mandate was 
 
 Roland Vorke. <^
 
 34 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 issued for a night interment, without Christian rites ; and the 
 undertaker promised to be ready for that same night. 
 
 The crowd filed out of the room, talking eagerly. That it 
 was undoubtedly a case of suicide, and that in the most 
 unhappy sense of the word, none doubted. No, not one ; even 
 Mr. Kene began to waver. 
 
 As they were dispersing hither and thither along the street, 
 there came up hastily a young man in the garb of a clergyman. 
 It was the Reverend Henry William Ollivera, brother of the 
 deceased gentleman. He had just arrived by train. In as 
 few words as possible, his cousin, Frank Greatorex, and Mr. 
 Kene gave him some hasty particulars of the unhappy event. 
 
 "He never did it," said the clergyman, solemnly. " Bede" 
 — for at that moment Bede Greatorex joined the speakers — 
 " how could you suffer them to bring in a verdict so horrible ? " 
 
 But Mr. Ollivera had not heard the full details yet. By 
 common consent, as it were, they had not at first told him of 
 the letter. Bede would not tell it now. Let the worst come 
 out to him by degrees, thought he. 
 
 "I am going up to town," said Bede Greatorex. "If " 
 
 " And not remain for to-night? " interrupted one of them, in 
 accents savouring of reproach. 
 
 " Nay, I must consider my father," was the grave reply of 
 Bede. " He is in suspense all this time, waiting for news." 
 
 So they parted. Bede Greatorex hastened to catch the train 
 departing for London. And the others remained to see the 
 last of the ill-fated John Ollivera. 
 
 He was carried out of Mr. Jones's in the bright moonlight, 
 soon after eleven o'clock had struck. Whether intentionally, 
 as best befitting the ceremony to be performed, or whether in 
 forgetfulness, the undertaker had failed to provide a covering 
 for the coffin. And Mrs. Jones, with sundry stinging words of 
 reprimand to the man, such as it was in Mrs. Jones's nature to 
 give, brought down a long black woollen shawl, and helped to 
 spread it over the coffin with her own hands. 
 
 Thus the procession started, preceded by curious gazers, 
 followed by many more, AUetha Rye stealing on amidst the 
 latter ; and so went on to the place of interment. 
 
 You have seen what took place there.
 
 ( 35 ) 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GOING HOME WITH THE NEWS. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of Bedford Square, so near to it that we 
 may as well designate the locality by that name throughout the 
 story, stood the imposing professional residence of Greatorex 
 and Greatorex. It was imposing in every sense of the word ; 
 both as to the size of the house, and to the extent of the 
 business transacted in it. A safe, good, respectable firm was 
 that of Greatorex and Greatorex, standing as well in public 
 estimation as any solicitors could stand ; and deservedly so. 
 Mr. Greatorex was a man of honour; upright, just, trust- 
 worthy. He would never have soiled his hands with what is 
 technically called dirty work. If any client wanted under- 
 hand business done, swindling, work (although it might be 
 legal) that would not bear the light of day, he need not take 
 it to Greatorex and Greatorex 
 
 The head of the firm, John Greatorex, was still in what 
 many call the prime of life. He was fifty-eight, active and 
 energetic. Marrying when he was very young, he really did 
 not look a great deal older than his son Bede. And Bede 
 was not his first-born. The eldest son had entered the arm)', 
 and he was now in India; Captain Greatorex. He also had 
 married young, and his litde daughter and only child had been 
 sent home to her grandparent in accordance with the preva- 
 lent custom. 
 
 The wife of Mr. Greatorex had been Miss Ollivera, sister to 
 the father of John Ollivera, the barrister, whose sad end has 
 been lately recorded. Mrs. Greatorex had fallen into ill-health 
 for some time past now ; in fact, she was slowly dying of an 
 incurable complaint. But for not liking to leave her, Mr. 
 Greatorex might have hastened down as soon as the sad news 
 reached him of his nephew's premature end. I say he might 
 have done so ; but Mr. Greatorex was, himself, only recovering 
 from an attack of illness, and was scarcely strong enough to 
 travel. And so he waited at home with all the patience he 
 could command, understanding nothing but that his nephew 
 John, who had been as dear to him as his own children, was
 
 36 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 dead. His children had been many — eight : James (Captain 
 Greatorex), the eldest ; Bede, the second, one year younger ; 
 next came two daughters, who were married and away ; then a 
 son, Matthew, who was working his way to competency in 
 Spain ; the two next had died, and Francis was the youngest. 
 The latter, called Frank always, w-as in the house in Bedford 
 Square, but not yet made a partner. 
 
 The young barrister, just dead, John Ollivera, left no rela- 
 tions to mourn for him, except his brother Henry William, 
 and the Greatorex family. The two brothers had to make 
 their own way in the world, their uncle Mr. Greatorex helping 
 them to do it ; the elder one choosing the Bar (as you have 
 seen) ; Henry William, the Church. John had his chambers 
 in Lincoln's Inn, and would certainly have risen into note had 
 he lived : Henry William was a curate. 
 
 Three o'clock was striking in London on Wednesday after- 
 noon, as a train slackened its speed and drew into the Pad- 
 dington terminus. One of the first of its passengers to alight 
 was Mr. Bede Greatorex. He had a small black bag in his 
 hand, and jumped with it into a hansom cab. 
 
 " Bedford Square ! " 
 
 The cabman answered with a nod as he touched his hat. 
 He had driven Mr. Bede Greatorex before, who was sufficiently 
 well known in London. Instead, however, of being permitted 
 to dash up to the well-known door, the man found himself 
 stopped a few yards short of it. 
 
 "I'll get out here," said Bede Greatorex. 
 
 Paying the fare, he went on with his bag, and glanced up at 
 the windows as he crossed to the house. All the blinds were 
 down. It was a very large house, and had been two originally. 
 In the old, old days, some thirty years ago or more, Mr. 
 Greatorex had rented only one of the houses. As his family 
 and business increased, he bought the one he occupied and 
 the one adjoining, and made the two into one. There were 
 two entrances still ; the one belonged to the house and 
 Mrs. Greatorex ; the other was the professional entrance. The 
 rooms on the ground floor — and there were several — were 
 given up to business ; one of them, looking out on the garden, 
 was the sitting-room of Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 Bede went to the private entrance, and let himself in with 
 his latch-key. Leaving his small bag at the foot of the hand- 
 some staircase, he walked through some passages to his
 
 GOING HOME WITH THE NEWS. /SJ 
 
 father's sitting-room, which was empty. Retracing his steps, 
 he went upstairs; a maid-servant happened to meet him on 
 the first landing ; he handed her the bag and opened the door 
 of the dining-room. A spacious, well-furnished apartment, the 
 walls white and gold, with touches of crimson slightly inter- 
 mingled to give them colouring. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex was there. He sat over the fire and had 
 fallen asleep. It surprised Bede ; for Mr. Greatorex was a 
 man not given to idleness or indulgence of any kind. Indeed, 
 to see him sitting upstairs in the daytime was an event almost 
 unknown. Bede closed the door again softly. There was a 
 haggard look in the elder man's face, partly the effect of his 
 recent illness ; and Bede would not disturb him. 
 
 Outside the door, he stood a moment in hesitation. It was 
 a spacious landing-place, something like an upper hall. The 
 floor was carpeted with dark green ; stained windows threw a 
 bright tone over everything ; there was a small conservatory at 
 one end, filled with ferns and rare flowers ; and a chaste 
 statue or two imparted still life to the whole. 
 
 Bede hesitated. None but himself knew how horribly he 
 hated and dreaded the tale he had to tell about poor John 
 Ollivera. All the way up he had been rehearsing to himself 
 the manner in which he should break it to them, and now he 
 had forgotten every word he intended to say. 
 
 " I will go up and wash my hands first, at any rate," decided 
 Bede. " The dust was worse than we had it on Monday." 
 
 Ascending to the second landing, he was quietly crossing it 
 tt) his own room, when a door was flung open, and a pretty 
 little girl in blue, her curls bound back with ribbons, came 
 flying out. It was the daughter of Captain Greatorex. The 
 young lady had naturally a will of her own ; and since her 
 arrival from India, the indulgence lavished on her had not 
 tended to lessen it. But she was a charming child, and 
 wonderfully keen. 
 
 " Oh, Bede, have you come back ! Grandmamma has been 
 asking for you all day long." 
 
 " Hush, Jane ! I'll go in to grandmamma presently." 
 
 Miss Jane did not choose to "hush." She avoided Bede's 
 hand, flew across the soft carpet of the landing, and threw 
 open a bedroom door, calling out that Bede had come. As to 
 styling him Uncle Bede, she had never done anything of the 
 kind.
 
 38 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 He heard his mother's voice, and could almost have boxed 
 the child's ears. Back she came again, laying hold of him 
 this time, her saucy dark brown eyes, grave now, lifted up to 
 his face. 
 
 " Bede, how came John Ollivera to die ? " 
 
 " Hush, Jane," he said again. This was precisely the pomt 
 on which he did not care to hold present communication with 
 his mother. He wished, if possible, to spare her ; but the 
 little girl was persistent. 
 
 "/^ he dead, Bede?" 
 
 " Yes, child, he is dead." 
 
 " Oh dear ! And he can never kiss me again, or bring me 
 new dolls ! I broke the last one in two, and threw it at him." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. Bede, deep in thought, put 
 away the little hands that had fastened on his arms. 
 
 " I liked him better than you, Bede, What made him die ? " 
 
 " Bede ! Bede ! is that you ? " called out his mother. 
 
 Bede had to go in. Mrs. Greatorex was on the sofa, dressed, 
 supported by pillows. Her complexion was of dark olive, 
 showing her Spanish extraction ; a capable, kindly woman she 
 had ever been in life ; and was endeavouring now to meet the 
 death that she knew could not be far off, as a Christian should. 
 He stooped and kissed her. In features he resembled her 
 more than any of her children. 
 
 '• Do you feel better, mother?" 
 
 "My dear, you know that there can be no 'better' for me 
 here. The pain is not great to-day. Have you just come up 
 to town ? " 
 
 " Just got in now." 
 
 " And what have you to tell me ? I cannot believe that 
 John is dead. When the telegram came yesterday morning, 
 your Hither happened to be with me, and they brought it up. 
 But for that, I dare say he would not have told me yet. He 
 si)ares me all the trouble that he can, you know, dear. I 
 fainted, Bede, I did indeed. His death must have been very 
 sudden." 
 
 " Yes," replied Bede. 
 
 " Was it a fit ? Jane, run to the schoolroom. Your 
 governess will be angry at your staying away so long." 
 
 Jane's answer to this mandate was to perch herself on the 
 arm of the sofa, side by side with the speaker, and to fix her 
 eyes and her attention on Bede's face.
 
 GOING HOME WITH THE NEWS. 39 
 
 " None of the OUiveras have been subject to fits ; remember 
 that, Bede," continued Mrs. Greatorex. " Neither did John 
 himself look at all likely to have one. To think that he should 
 go before me ! Jane, my little dear one, you must indeed go 
 to Miss Ford.'' 
 
 " I am going to stay here, grand'ma, and to hear about John." 
 
 "There's nothing much to hear, or to tell," spoke Bede, as 
 much perhaps for his mother's ear as for the child's. " If you 
 do not obey your grandmamma, Jane, I shall take you myself 
 to the schoolroom." 
 
 " No, you won't, Bede. Why don't you answer grand'ma 
 about John ? " 
 
 J.Irs. Greatorex had nearly left off contending with Miss 
 Jane; weary, sick, in pain, it was too much effort, and she 
 generally yielded to the dominant little will. As she appeared 
 to do now, for it was to Bede she spoke. 
 
 "Bede, dear, you are keeping me in suspense. Was it a 
 fit?" 
 
 " No ; it could not be called a fit." 
 
 "The heart, perhaps? " 
 
 " His death must have been quite sudden," said Bede, with 
 pardonable evasion. " Instantaneous, the doctors thought : 
 and therefore without pain." 
 
 " Poor John ! poor John ! The veil is lifted for him. Bede ! " 
 
 Bede had begun to turn his attention to the young lady, and 
 was putting her down from the sofa. He wheeled round at the 
 word, and Miss Jane mounted again. 
 
 "What, mother?" 
 
 Mrs. Greatorex dropped her voice reverently : and her dark 
 eyes, looking large from illness, had a bright, hopeful, yearning 
 light in them as she spoke. 
 
 " I think he was fit to go." 
 
 " Yes," answered Bede, swallowing a lump of emotion. 
 " It is the one drop of comfort amidst much darkness. At 
 
 least But I must keep my word," he added, breaking off 
 
 suddenly, and seizing the child again, as if glad of an excuse ; 
 "you go now to Miss Ford, young lady." 
 
 She set up a succession of cries. Bede only carried her 
 away the faster. 
 
 "You'll come back and tell me more, Bede," said Mrs. 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " I will come by-and-by," he turned to say. " I have press-
 
 40 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 ing things to do; and I have not yet spoken with my father. 
 Try and get your afternoon's sleep, mother, dear." 
 
 Miss Ford, a nursery governess, stood at the schoolroom 
 door, and began to scold her pupil as she received her from 
 the hands of Mr. Bede Greatorex. He shut himself into his 
 room for a few minutes, and then descended the stairs in deep 
 thought. He had begun to ask himself whether the worst 
 could not be kept from his mother ; not for very long could 
 she be spared to them now. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex was then coming out of the dining-room. He 
 shook hands with his son, and they went back and sat down 
 together. Bede grew quite agitated at the task before him. 
 He hated to inflict pain ; he knew that John Olhvera had been 
 dear to his father, and that the blow would be keenly felt. All 
 the news as yet sent up by him to Bedford Square was, that 
 John was dead. 
 
 Whence, then, that grey look on his father's face? — the 
 haggard mouth, the troubled, shrinking eyes going searchingly 
 out to Bede's? Mr. Greatorex was a fresh-looking man in 
 general, with a healthy colour and smooth brown hair, tall 
 and upright as his son. He looked short and shrinking and 
 pale now. 
 
 " Bede, how came he to do it ? " 
 
 Something like a relief came into Bede's heart as he heard 
 the words. It was so much better for the way to have been 
 paved for him ! — the shock Avould not be so great. 
 
 " Then you know the particulars, sir." 
 
 " I fear I know the truth, Bede ; not the particulars. The 
 Times had a short paragraph this morning, saying that John 
 OUivera had died by his own hand. Was it so ? " 
 
 Bede gravely nodded. His breath was coming and going 
 faster than is consistent with inward calmness. 
 
 " My God ! " cried Mr. Greatorex, from between his quiver- 
 ing lips, as he sank into a chair, and covered his face with his 
 hands. But the sacred word was not spoken in irreverence ; 
 no, nor in surprise ; rather, as it seemed, in the light of prayer. 
 
 " And what could have induced it .? " came the question 
 presently, as he let his hands fall. 
 
 " I had better tell you all from the beginning," said Bede ; 
 " you will then " 
 
 " Tell it, of course," interrupted Mr. Greatorex. " Begin at 
 the beginning,"
 
 GOING HOME WITH THE NEWS. 41 
 
 Bede stood up, facing the fire ; his elbow on the mantel- 
 piece, his back partially turned to his father, while he told it : 
 he did not care to watch the anguish and horror of the usually 
 placid face. He concealed nothing : relating how he had 
 reached the city and held an interview with his cousin ; how 
 he had left him after the lapse of an hour, promising to be 
 with him in the morning before starting for town ; and how he 
 had been aroused from his bed by the tidings that John was 
 dead. He described the state of the room when found ; the 
 pistol lying underneath the hand ; the note on the table. As 
 well as Bede Greatorex could repeat the details, as testified to 
 before the coroner — and we may be very sure they were im- 
 planted with painful exactitude on his memory — he gave them 
 all faithfully. 
 
 " It might have been an accident," urged Mr. Greatorex, in 
 an imploring tone, as if he wanted to be assured that it was so. 
 
 Bede did not answer. 
 
 " I forgot the writing, Bede ; I forgot the writing," said Mr. 
 Greatorex, with a groan. 
 
 " Whatever it might be, whether by accident or of intention, 
 it is an awful shame to bury him as they are going to do," burst 
 forth Bede, in a sudden access of anger. 
 
 And the words served to tell Mr. Greatorex what the verdict 
 had been. 
 
 " It is a sin, sir ; yes, it is. I could not stay to see it." 
 
 " So it may be, Bede ; but that's the least of it — that's the 
 least of it. I would as soon have believed myself capable of 
 such a thing as that John Ollivera was. Oh, John ! John ! " 
 
 A painful silence. Bede felt glad that his task was so far 
 over. 
 
 " His motive, Bede ? What could have been his motive ? " 
 
 " There was no motive, father; as far as I can see." 
 
 " You were young men together, Bede ; of the same pursuits 
 — frequent companions ; did you ever suspect that he had any 
 care, or embarrassment, or trouble ? " 
 
 " No. He had none, I feel sure." 
 ■ "Those first words in the note, as you have related them, 
 sound curiously," resumed Mr. Greatorex. " What was it that 
 he was trying to accomplish ? " 
 
 " We cannot discover ; no clue whatever has come to light. 
 It would almost seem as though he had written them to the 
 air, without foundation."
 
 42 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " That would be to say his senses had deserted him." 
 
 " Kene thinks that the headache of which he had complained 
 may have proceeded from some disordered function of the 
 brain, and induced insanity." 
 
 "Do yotc think it?" asked INIr. Greatorex, looking at his 
 son. " You were the last person who saw him alive." 
 
 " I should be glad to think it if I could. He was quite calm 
 and collected when I was with him ; just as usual." 
 
 " The extraordinary tiling to me is, that no one should have 
 heard the discharge of the pistol." 
 
 " The people of the house were all out. Even the servant- 
 girl had gone about the neighbourhood gossiping." 
 
 " It might have been heard in the street." 
 
 " If the street were quiet, perhaps yes. But on assize nights, 
 they tell me, there is an unusual amount of outdoor bustle." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex sat looking at the fire, revolving the different 
 points of the dreadful history. Bade resumed. 
 
 " I was wondering whether the worst could be kept from my 
 mother. It would try her terribly. She only thinks as yet, I 
 fmd, that he died suddenly." 
 
 "Because she only knows as much as your telegram said. 
 It will be impossible to keep it from her ; the newspapers will 
 be full of it. Three times to-day has your mother sent down 
 for the Times, and I have returned an excuse. There's no 
 help for it, Bede." 
 
 " Then you shall tell her, sir. I can't. It must be broken 
 to her by degrees. How was it that William OUivera was so 
 late in coming down ? " he suddenly resumed. " He only 
 arrived to-day as I was departing." 
 
 " William OUivera was out of town, and did not return until 
 last night. You have said nothing about our cause, Bede." 
 
 " That's all right. It was taken yesterday afternoon. Kene 
 led in the place of John, and we gained the verdict." 
 
 *' Where are John's papers and things ? " 
 
 " His brother and Frank will take charge of them. I have 
 his private letters. I thought it best to come up to you at 
 once, knowing you were in suspense." 
 
 "A suspense that has been grievous since I read that para- 
 graph this morning, Bede. I have been fit for nothing ever 
 since." 
 
 Neither was Bede that day. Mr. Greatorex rose to go to his 
 wife's room, there to enter upon his task — just as his son had
 
 GOING HOME WITH THE NEWS. 43 
 
 entered upon it with him. Bede paced the carpet for a few 
 minutes alone. It was a long room ; the furniture not dark 
 and heavy, but light-looking and pleasant to the eye, thougli 
 comprising all the requisites for a well-appointed dining-room. 
 Bede took a look at himself in the pier-glass, and pushed his 
 hair from his forehead — his sisters used to accuse him of in- 
 ordinate vanity. And then he left the room and the house. 
 
 He was bending his steps to Lincoln's Inn, to the chambers 
 occupied by his cousin. Not many yards had he gone, before 
 some one darted across the street and pounced upon him. 
 
 "Halloa, Greatorex ! What's this, that's up about OUivera?" 
 
 It was a Chancery barrister, who had known John Ollivera 
 well. Bede Greatorex explained in a few short words, and 
 hurried off. 
 
 "I can't stay to tell you more now," he said in apology. 
 "There's a great deal to do and to be thought of, and I hardly 
 know whether our heads are on our shoulders or off them. I'aa 
 on my way to his chambers to search if there may be any paper, 
 or anything else, tliat can throw light on the mystery." 
 
 A hansom passed at the moment, and Bede jumped into it. 
 Otherwise he might have met fifty questioners, and reached his 
 destination after dark. The chambers were on the third floor, 
 and he Avent up to them. Mr. Ollivera's clerk, a small youth 
 of nineteen, was at his post ; and the laundress, who waited on 
 Mr. Ollivera, was there also. The news had brought her up in 
 tears. 
 
 Perhaps it was excusable that they should both begin upon 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex in their anxiety for information. Respect- 
 fully, of course, but eagerly. He responded in a few quiet 
 words, and passed into the rooms. 
 
 Here was the sitting-room where John saw people ; next to 
 it his bedroom ; all in order. Near the bed was a small 
 mahogany stand, and a cushioned chair. On the stand lay his 
 Bible — just as the other one was seen but yesterday resting on 
 its stand elsewhere. Bede knew that his cousin never failed 
 to read that Bible, and to fall on his knees before the chair 
 morning and evening. He turned away with a groan, and 
 proceeded to his search. 
 
 Only a casual search to-day; there was no time for any 
 minute examination. Just a look here and there, lest haply he 
 might come upon some paper or letter of elucidation, But he 
 could not find any.
 
 44 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " I am going to lock the rooms up, Jenner," he said to the 
 clerk. "Things must be left as they are until the Reverend 
 Mr. Ollivera comes to town. He will have the arranging of 
 matters. I don't suppose there's any will." 
 
 "Am I to leave at once, sir? — now?" asked Mr. Jenner, 
 in surprise. 
 
 " You must leave the rooms now — unless you would like to 
 be locked up in them," returned Bede Greatorex. "■ Call in at 
 Bedford Square to-morrow morning ; we may be able to recom- 
 mend you to something : and perhaps you will be wanted here 
 again for a few days." 
 
 They left the chambers together ; and Mr. Bede Greatorex 
 took possession of the key. " I suppose," he said to the clerk, 
 as they went down, " that you never observed any peculiarity 
 in Mr. Ollivera that might have induced you to suspect aberra- 
 tion of mind ? " 
 
 The young man turned and stared, scarcely taking in the 
 sense of the question. Certainly there had not been anything 
 of the kind observable in Mr. Ollivera. 
 
 " He was cheerful and sensible always, sir ; he didn't seem 
 to have a care in the world." 
 
 Bede sighed, and proceeded homewards. A recollection 
 came over him, as he went along in the dusk, of the last even- 
 ing he had walked home from his cousin's chambers ; it was 
 only the night before John had gone on circuit. Oh, the con- 
 trast between that time and this ! And Bede thought, in the 
 bitter grief and sorrow of the moment, that he would willingly 
 forfeit his own life could he recall that of John OlUvera. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MR. BUTTERBY IN PRIVATE LIFE. 
 
 The bustle of the assizes was over ; the tramp and tread and 
 hum had gone out of the streets; the judges, the barristers, and 
 the rest of the visitors had departed, to hold their assize at the 
 next county town. 
 
 A great deal of the bustle and hum of another event had 
 also subsided. It docs not linger long when outward proceed- 
 ings are over, and sensational adjuncts have ceased ; and Mr.
 
 Kir. butterby in private life. 45 
 
 Ollivera, at best, had been only a stranger. His grave had its 
 visitors still ; but his brother and other friends had left for 
 London, carrying his (cw effects with them. Nothing remained 
 to tell of the fatal act of the past Monday evening ; but for 
 that grave, it might have seemed to have had no place in 
 reality. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Ollivera had been firm in refusing to 
 admit belief in his brother's guilt. He did not pretend to 
 judge how it might have happened, whether by accident or by 
 some enemy's hand ; but he felt convinced the death could not 
 have been self-inflicted. It was an impossibility, he avowed to 
 Mr. Butterby — and he was looked upon, by that renowned 
 officer, as next door to a lunatic for his pains. There w^as no 
 more shadow of a doubt on Mr. Butterby's mind that the 
 verdict had been in accordance with facts, than there was on 
 other people's. 
 
 Always excepting Alletha Rye's. She had been silent to the 
 public since the avowal at the grave ; but, in a dispute with 
 Mrs. Jones, had repeated her assertion and belief. Upon a 
 report of the display coming to Mrs. Jones's ears, that discreet 
 matron — who certainly erred on the side ot hard, correct, 
 matter-of-fact propriety, if on any — attacked her sister in no 
 measured terms. There were several years between them, and 
 Mrs. Jones considered she had a right to do it. Much as Mrs. 
 Jones had respected Mr. Ollivera in life, she entertained no 
 doubt whatever on the subject of his death. 
 
 " My opinion is, you must have been crazy," came the sharp 
 reprimand. " Go off after that tramping tail to the grave ! I 
 wish I'd seen you start. A good name is easier lost tlian 
 regained, Alletha Rye." 
 
 " I am not afraid of losing mine," was the calm rejoinder. 
 
 "Folks seldom are till they find it gone," said Mrs. Jones, 
 tartly. " My goodness ! not content with trapesing off there in 
 the middle of the night, you must go and make an exhibition 
 of yourself besides ! — kneeling down on the damp earth in the 
 face and eyes of all the people ; and then rising to make a pro- 
 clamation, just as if you had been the town bellman ! Jones 
 says it struck him dumb." 
 
 Alletha Rye was silent. Perhaps she had felt vexed since, 
 that the moment's excitement had led her to the act 
 
 " Who are jou, that you should put yourself up against the 
 verdict?" resumed Mrs. Jones. "Are you cleverer and sharper
 
 46 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 than the jury, and the coroner, and me, and Mr. Ollivera's 
 friends, and the rest of the world, all of us put together ? There 
 can't be a doubt upon the point, girl." 
 
 " Let it drop," said Alletha, shivering. 
 
 " Drop ! I should like to see it drop. I should like the 
 remembrance to drop out of men's minds, but you've took care 
 that shan't be. What on earth induced you to go and do it?" 
 
 " It v/as a dreadful thing that Mr. Ollivera should lie under 
 the imputation of having killed himself," came the answer, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " Now, just explain yourself, Alletha Rye. You keep harp- 
 ing on that same string about Mr. Ollivera; what grounds 
 have you for it ? " 
 
 The girl's pale face flushed. "None," she presendy an- 
 swered. " I never said I had grounds. ]3ut there's that vivid 
 dream upon me always. He seemed to reproach me for not 
 having sooner gone into the room to find him ; and I'm sure 
 no self-murderer would do that. They would rather lie un- 
 discovered for ever. Had I kept silence," she passionately 
 added, " I might have become haunted." 
 
 Mrs. Jones stared at the speaker with all the fervour of her 
 dark eyes. 
 
 " Haunted ! Haunted by what ? " 
 
 "By Mr. Ollivera's spirit; by remorse. Remorse for not 
 doing as I am sure he is wishing me to do — clear his memory." • 
 
 Mrs. Jones lifted her hands, in wonder, and for once made 
 no retort. She began to question in real earnest whether the 
 past matters had not turned her sister's brain. 
 
 Dicky Jones was present during this passage-at-arms, which 
 took place on the Thursday, after breakfast. He had just been 
 endtuing a battery of reproach on his own score ; various sins, 
 great and small, being placed before him in glaring colours by 
 his wife; not the least heinous of which was his having arrived 
 home from his pleasure-trip at the unseasonable hour of half 
 after one o'clock in the morning. In retort he had intimated 
 that others of the family could come in at that hour as well as 
 himself; not to harm Alletha Rye, for he was a good-natured 
 man, as people given to peccadilloes are apt to be ; but to 
 make his own crime appear the less. And then it ah came 
 out ; and Mrs. Jones's ears were regaled with Alletha Rye's 
 share in the doings at the interment. 
 
 On this same Thursday, but very much later in the day,
 
 MR. BUTTERBY IN PRIVATE LIFE. 47 
 
 Frank Greatorex and the Reverend I\Ir. Ollivera departed from 
 the city, having remained to collect together the papers and 
 other effects belonging to the deceased. And this brings us 
 (the night having passed, and a great portion of the ensuing 
 day) to the opening of the chapter. 
 
 Mr. Butterby sat in his parlour : one of two rooms he occu- 
 pied on the ground-floor of a private house very near to a 
 populous part of the city. He was not a sergeant of police ; 
 lie was not an inspector ; people did not know what he was. 
 That he held sway at the police-station, and was a very frequent 
 visitor to it, every one saw. But Mr. Butterby had been so 
 long in the town that speculation, though rife enough at first 
 upon the point, had ceased as to \vhat special relations he 
 might hold with the law. When any one wanted important 
 assistance, he could, if he chose, apply to Mr. Butterby, instead 
 of to the regular inspector ; and, to the mind of the sanguine 
 inquirer, that application appeared to constitute a promise of 
 success. 
 
 Mr. Butterby's parlour faced the street. Its one window, 
 protected by shutters thrown back in the day, and by green 
 dwarf blinds and a white roller-blind inside, was not a very 
 large one. Nevertheless, Mr. Butterby contrived to keep a 
 tolerable look-out from it on those of his fellow citizens who 
 might chance to pass. He generally had the white blinds 
 drawn down to meet, within an inch, the top of the dwarf 
 blind ; and from that inch of outlet, Mr. Butterby, standing 
 before the window, was fond of taking observations. It was 
 an unpretending room, with a faded carpet ; a square table in 
 the middle, a large bureau filled with papers in a corner ; some 
 books in a case opposite, a pile of newspapers above it ; and 
 a picture over the mantel-piece representing Eve offering the 
 apple to Adam. 
 
 Mr. Butterby sat by the fire at his tea, taking it thought- 
 fully : dressed in an old green coat with short tails, of a fashion 
 long gone by. It was Friday evening and nearly dark. He 
 had been out on some business all the afternoon ; but his 
 thoughts were not fixed on that, though it was of sufficient 
 importance ; they rested on the circumstances attending the 
 death of Mr. Ollivera. 
 
 Before the brother of the deceased had quitted the town, he 
 had made an appointment with Mr. Butterby, and came to it 
 accompanied by Frank Greatorex ; the fly, conveying them to
 
 4§ ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the station, waiting at the door. The purport of his visit was 
 to impress upon that officer his full conviction that the death 
 was not suicide, and to request thart, if anything should arise 
 to confirm his opinion, it might be followed up. 
 
 " He was a good, pure-minded man ; he was calm, clear, 
 practical in mind, of sound sense ; he was fond of his profes- 
 sion, anxious to excel in it ; hopeful, earnest, and without a 
 care in the world," urged the Reverend Mr. Ollivera, with 
 emotion. " How, sir, I ask you, could such a man take away 
 his own life ? " 
 
 Mr. Butterby shook his head. It might be unlikely, he 
 acknowledged ; but it was not impossible. 
 
 " I tell you it is impossible," said Mr. Ollivera. " I hold a 
 firm, positive conviction that my brother never died, or could 
 have died, by his own hand : the certainty of it in my mind 
 is so clear as to be like a revelation from heaven. Do you 
 know what I did, sir ? I went to the grave at night after he 
 was put into it, and read the burial service over him." 
 
 " I saw you doing it," came the unexpected answer. " The 
 surplice you wore was too long for you and covered your boots." 
 
 " It belonged to a taller man than I am — the Reverend Mr. 
 Yorke," the clergyman explained. " But now, sir, do you 
 suppose I should have dared to hold that sacred service over 
 a man who had wilfully destroyed himself ? " 
 
 " But instead of there being proof that he did not wilfully 
 destroy himself, there's every proof that he did so," argued 
 Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " Every apparent proof; I admit that ; but I know — I know 
 that the proofs are in some way false ; not real." 
 
 " The death was real ; the pistol was real ; the writing on 
 the note-paper was real." 
 
 *' I know. I cannot pretend to tell you where the truth 
 may be hidden ; I cannot see how or whence elucidation 
 shall come. One suggestion I will make to you, Mr. Butterby : 
 it is not clear to me that no person obtained access to the 
 drawing-room after the departure of Mr. Bede Greatorex. I 
 only mention this thought," concluded Mr. Ollivera, rising to 
 close the interview ; for he had no time to prolong it. " Should 
 you succeed in learning anything, address a communication 
 to me, to the care of Greatorex and Greatorex." 
 
 "Stop a moment," cried Mr. Butterby, as they were going 
 out. " Who holds the paper that was found on the table ? "
 
 Mr. BUTtERBY IN PRIVATE LIFE. 49 
 
 " I do," said Frank Greatorex. " Some of them would have 
 had it destroyed ; Kene and my brother amongst others ; they 
 could not bear to look at it. But I thought my father might 
 like to see it first, and took possession of it." 
 
 A smile crossed the lip of the agent. " Considering that the 
 two gentlemen you mention are in the law, it doesn't say much 
 for their forethought, to wish to destroy the only proof there 
 may remain to us of any one else's being guilty." 
 
 "But then, you know, they do not admit that any one else 
 could have been guilty," replied Frank Greatorex. " At least 
 my brother does not ; and Kene only looks upon it as a pos- 
 sible case of insanity. Do you want to see the paper ? I have 
 it in my pocket." 
 
 " Perhaps you wouldn't mind leaving it with me for a day or 
 two," said Mr. Butterby. " I'll forward it up safe to you when 
 I've done with it." 
 
 Frank Greatorex took the paper from his pocket-book and 
 handed it to the speaker. It was folded inside an envelope 
 now. Mr. Butterby received it and attended his guests to the 
 door, where the fly was waiting. 
 
 "You'll have to drive fast, Thompson," he said to the man. 
 And Thompson, touching his hat to the officer, who was held 
 in some awe by the city natives, whipped his horse into a 
 canter. 
 
 It was upon this interview that Mr. Butterby ruminated as 
 he took his tea on the Friday evening. In his own opinion it 
 was the most unreasonable thing in the world, that any one 
 should throw doubt upon the verdict. Nothing but perversity. 
 He judged it — and he was a keen-sighted man — to be in strict 
 accordance with the facts, as given in evidence. Excepting 
 perliaps in one particular. Had he been on the jury he should 
 have held out for a verdict of insanity. 
 
 " They are a set of bumble-heads at the best," soliloquized 
 Mr. Butterby, respectfully alluding to the twelve men who had 
 returned the verdict, as he took up his last piece of well- 
 buttered pikelet. " Juries for the most part always are : if 
 they have any brains they send them wool-gathering then. 
 Hemming, the butterman, told me he did say something 
 about insanity ; and he was foreman, too ; but the rest of them 
 and the coroner wouldn't listen to it. It don't much matter, 
 for he had burial-rites after all, poor fellow : but if I'd been 
 them, I should have given him the benefit of the doubt." 
 
 Roland Yorke. 4
 
 50 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Arresting his observations to finish the pikelet, Mr. Butterby 
 presently went on again. 
 
 " It might have been insanity ; but as to the other suspicion, 
 there's no grounds wliatever for it on the face of things at 
 present. If such are to be raised I shall have to set to work 
 and hunt 'em up. Create 'em as it were. ' Don't spare 
 money,' says that young clergyman last night when he sat here ; 
 * your expenses shall be reimbursed to you with interest.' As 
 if I could make a case out of nothing ! I'm not a French 
 Procureur-Imperial." 
 
 Drinking his tea at a draught, Mr. Butterby tried the tea- 
 pot, lest a drop might be left in it still, turning it nearly upside 
 down in the process. The result was, that the lid opened and 
 a shower of tea-leaves descended on the tray. 
 
 " Bother ! " said Mr. Butterby, as he hastily put down the 
 teapot, and went on with his argument. 
 
 " There's something odd about the case, though, straight- 
 forward as it seems ; and I've thought so from the first. That 
 girl's dream, for example, which she says she had ; and her 
 conduct at the grave. It was curious that Dicky Jones should 
 just be looking on at her," added Mr. Butterby, slightly diverg- 
 ing from the direct line of thought : " curious that Dicky 
 should have come up then at all. First, Alletha Rye vows he 
 didn't do it ; and, next, the parson vows it. Reverend Ollivera. 
 Kene, too — but he points to insanity ; and now the young 
 fellow, Francis Greatorex. Suppose I go over the case 
 again ? " 
 
 Stretching out his hand, Mr. Butterby pulled, the bell-rope, 
 and a young servant came in. 
 
 " Shut the shutters," said he. 
 
 While this was in process, he took two candles from the 
 mantel-piece, and lighted them. The girl went away with the 
 tea-tray. He then unlocked his bureau, and from one* of its 
 pigeon-holes brought forth a few memoranda, which he studied 
 in silence, one after the other. 
 
 " The parson's right," he began presently. " If there is a 
 loophole it's where he said — that somebody got into the room 
 after the departure of Mr, Greatorex." 
 
 DraNving his chair closer to the table on which the papers 
 lay, Mr. Butterby began to sum up the case, striking his fore- 
 fingers alternately on the table as each point came flowing 
 from liis tongue. Not that "flowing" is precisely the word
 
 MR. BUTTERBY IN PRIVATE UFK. jt 
 
 to employ, for his spcccli was slow and thoughtful, and the 
 words fell with hesitation. 
 
 " John Ollivera, counsel-at-law. He comes in on Saturday 
 with the other barristers, ready for the 'sizes. Has a cause or 
 two coming on, in which he expects to shine. Goes to former 
 lodgings at Jones's, and shows himself as full of sense as usual; 
 and he'd his full share of brains. Spends Saturday evening at 
 Mrs. Joliffe's, the colonel's widow; is sweet, Mrs. Jones thinks, 
 on one of the young ladies; thought so when he was down 
 last October. Gets home at ten like a decent man, works at 
 his papers till twelve, and goes to bed." 
 
 Mr. Butterby paused here, his fingers resting on the table. 
 Giving a nod, as if his reflections were satisfactory to himself, 
 he lifted his hands and began again. 
 
 " Sunday. Attends public worship and takes the Sacrament. 
 T/iafs not like the act of one who knows he is on the eve of 
 a bad deed. Attends again after breakfast, with the judges, 
 and hears the sheriff's chaplain preach. (Not a bad sermon, 
 as sermons go," critically pronounced Mr. Butterby in a 
 parenthesis.) " Attends again in the afternoon to hear the 
 anthem, the Miss Joliffes with him. Dines at Jones's at five, 
 spends evening at Jolliffes'. Home early, and to bed." 
 
 Once more the hands were lifted. Once more their owner 
 paused in thought. Again he nodded and resumed. 
 
 "Monday. Up before eight. Has his breakfast, and goes 
 to the Nisi Prius Court. Stays there till past three in the 
 afternoon, tells Kene he must go out of court to keep an 
 appointment that wasn't a i)articularly pleasant one, and goes 
 out. Arrives at Jones's at half-past four ; passes Mrs. Jones in 
 that small back-hall of theirs ; she tells him he looks tired ; 
 answers that he is tired and has a headache ; court was close. 
 Goes up to his sitting-room and gets his papers about (papers 
 found afterwards, on examination, to relate to cause coming on 
 on Tuesday morning). Girl takes up his dinner ; eats it, gets 
 to his papers again, and she fetches things away. Rings for 
 his lamp early, quarter-past six may be, nearly daylight still ; 
 while girl puts it on table, draws down blinds himself, as if 
 in a hurry to be at work again. Close upon this Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex calls (good firm that, Greatorex and Greatorex," 
 interspersed Mr. Butterby, with professional candour). " Bede 
 Greatorex has come down from London (sent by old Greatorex) 
 to confer with Ollivera on Tuesday's cause. Stays more than
 
 52 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 an hour. Makes an appointment for Tuesday morning. 
 Jones's nephew, going upstairs at the time, hears them make 
 it, and shows Mr. Bede Greatorex out. Might be half-past 
 seven then, or two or three minutes over it ; call it half-past. 
 OUivera never seen again alive. Found dead next morning in 
 arm-chair ; pistol fallen from right hand, shot penetrated heart. 
 Same chair he had been sitting in when at his papers, but 
 drawn now to corner of table. AUetha Rye finds him. Tells 
 a cock-and-bull story of having been frightened by a dream. 
 Dreamt he was in the sitting-room dead, and goes to see {she 
 says) that he was ?iot dead. Finds him dead, however, just as 
 {she says) she saw him in her dream. Servant rushes out for 
 doctor, meets me, and I am first in the room. Doctor comes, 
 Hurst ; Kene comes, Jones's nephew fetching him ; then Kene 
 fetches Bede Greatorex. Doctor says death must have taken 
 place previous evening not later than eight o'clock. Mrs. 
 Jones says lamp couldn't have burnt much more than an hour : 
 is positive it didn't exceed an hour and a half; but she's one 
 of the positive ones at all times, and women's judgment is 
 fallible. Now, let's stop a moment." 
 
 Mr. Butterby put his hands one over the other, and looked 
 down upon them, pausing before he spoke again. 
 
 "It draws the matter into an uncommon small nutshell. 
 When Bede Greatorex leaves at half-past seven, Ollivera is 
 alive and well — as he and Jones's nephew both testify to — and, 
 according to the evidence of the surgeon, and the indirect testi- 
 mony of the oil in the lamp, he is dead by eight. If he did not 
 draw the pistol on himself, somebody came in and shot him. 
 
 "Did he draw it on himself? I say Yes. Coroner and 
 jury say Yes. The public say Yes. Alletha Rye and the 
 Reverend Ollivera say No. If we are all wrong — and I don't 
 say but there's just a loophole of possibility — and those two 
 are right, why then it was murder. And done with uncommon 
 craftiness. Let's look at the writing. 
 
 "Those high-class lawyers are not good for much in criminal 
 cases, can't see an inch beyond their noses ; they don't practise 
 at the Old Bailey," remarked Mr. Butterby, as he took from the 
 ]japers before him the unfinished note found on Mr. Ollivera's 
 table, the loan of which he had begged from I'rank Greatorex, 
 "The idea of their proposing to destroy this, because 'they 
 couldn't bear to look at it ! ' Kene, too ; and Bede Cireatorex ! 
 they might have known better. /'// take care of it now."
 
 MR. BUTTERBY IN PRIVATE LIFE. 53 
 
 Holding it close to one of the candles, the detective scanned 
 it long and intentl}', comparing the concluding words, uneven, 
 blotted, as if written with an agitated hand, with the plain, 
 straightforward characters of the lines that were undoubtedly 
 Mr. OUivera's. When he did arrive at a conclusion it was a 
 summary one, and he put down the paper with an emphatic 
 thump. 
 
 " May I be shot myself if I believe the two writings is by the 
 same hand ! " 
 
 ]\Ir. Butterby's surprise may plead excuse for his grammar. 
 He had never, until this moment, doubted that the writing was 
 all the act of one person. 
 
 " I'll show this to an expert. People don't write the same 
 at all times ; they'll make their capitals quite differently in the 
 same day, as any one with any experience knows. But they 
 don't often make their small letters different — neither do men 
 trouble to alter the usual formation of their letters when about 
 to shoot themselves ; the pen does its work then, sponta- 
 neously; naturally. These small letters are different, several 
 of them, the r, the/, the e, the 0, the d; all are as opposite as 
 light and dark, and I don'^ think the last was written by Mr. 
 dllivera." 
 
 It was a grave conclusion to come to ; somewhat startling 
 even him, who was too much at home with crime and criminals 
 to be startled easily. 
 
 " Let's assume that it is so for a bit, and see how it works 
 that way," resumed the officer. " We've all been mistaken, let's 
 say; Ollivera did not shoot himself; some one goes in and 
 shoots him. ^Vas it man or woman ; was it an inmate of the 
 house, or not an inmate? How came it to be done? what 
 was the inciting cause? Was the pistol (lying on the table) 
 taken up incidentally in the course of talking and fired by mis- 
 adventure ? — Or did they get to quarrelling and the other shot 
 him by malice ? — Or was it a planned, deliberate murder, one 
 stealing in to do it in cold blood ? Halt here, Jonas Buttcrby. 
 The first — done by misadventure ? No ; if any honest man 
 had so shot another, he'd be the first to run out and get a 
 doctor to him. No. Disposed of. The second — done in 
 malice during a quarrel ? Yes; might have been. The third — 
 done of deliberate intention ? That would be the most likely 
 of all, but for the fact of the pistol's having been Mr. OUivera's, 
 and ready to hand. Looking at it in either of these two
 
 54 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 views, there's mystery. The last in regard to the point now 
 mentioned ; the othe-r in regard to the secrecy with which the 
 intruder must have got in. If that girl had been at her post 
 indoors, as she ought to have been, with the chain up, it might 
 never have happened," concluded Mr. Butterby, with acrimony. 
 "Between half-past seven and eight? Needn't look much 
 before or much beyond that hour. Girl says no one went 
 into the house at all, except Jones's nephew and Jones's sister- 
 in-law. Jones's nephew did not stay ; got his book and went 
 off again at half-past seven, close on the heels of Bede 
 Greatorex, Mr. Ollivera being then alive. Presently, nearer 
 eight, AUetha Rye goes in, for a pattern, she says, and she stays 
 upstairs, according to the girl's statement, a quarter-of-an- 
 hour." 
 
 Mr. Butterby came to a sudden pause. He faced the fire 
 now, and sat staring into it as if he were searching for what he 
 could not see. 
 
 " It does not take a quarter-of-an-hour to get a pattern. / 
 should say not. And 'there was her queer dream, too: or 
 rather the queer assertion that she had a dream. Dreams, 
 indeed ! — ^moonshine. Did she invent that dream as an excuse 
 for having gone into the room to find him? And then look 
 at her persisting from the first that it was not suicide ! And her 
 queer state of mind and manners since ! Dicky Jones told me 
 last night when I met him by the hop-market, that she says 
 she's haunted by Mr. Ollivera's spirit. Why should she be 
 haunted, I wonder? I mean, why should she fancy it? It's 
 odd ; very odd. The young woman, up to now, has always 
 shown out sensible, in the short time this city has known her. 
 
 "That Godfrey Pitman," resumed the speaker, "The way 
 that man's name was brought up by the servant-girl was sudden. 
 I should like to know who he is, and what his business might 
 have been. He was in hiding ; that's what he was. Stopping 
 indoors for a cold and relaxed throat ! No doubt ! But it 
 does not follow that because he might have been in some 
 trouble of his own, he had anything to do with the other 
 business ; and, in fact, he couldn't have had, leaving by the 
 five-o'clock train for Birmingham. So we'll dismiss ////;/. 
 
 "And now for the result?" concluded Mr. Butterby, with 
 great deliberation. " The result is that I feel inchned to think 
 the young parson may be right in saying it was not suicide. 
 What it was, 1 can't yet make my mind up to give an opinion
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 55 
 
 upon. Suppose I inquire into things a little in a quiet way? 
 And, to begin with, I'll make a friendly call on Dicky Jones 
 and madam. She won't answer anything that it does not 
 please her to answer, and it never pleases her to be questioned. 
 On the other hand, what she does choose to say is to be relied 
 on, for she wouldn't tell a lie to save herself from hanging. As 
 to Dicky — with that long tongue of his, he can be pumped 
 dry at any time." 
 
 Mr. Butterby locked up his papers, changed his green coat 
 for a black one, flattened down the coal on his fire, blew out 
 the candles, took his hat, and departed. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 
 
 Mrs. Jones was in her parlour, doing nothing : with the excep- 
 tion of dropping a tart observation from her lips occasionally. 
 As the intelligent reader cannot have failed to observe, tartness 
 was essentially an element of INIrs. Jones's nature ; when any- 
 thing occurred to annoy her, its signs increased fourfold ; and 
 something had just happened to annoy her exceedingly. 
 
 The parlour was not large, but it was convenient, and well 
 fitted up. A good fire burnt in the grate, throwing its ruddy 
 light on the bright colours of the carpet and hearthrug ; on the 
 small sidelDoard, with its array of glass, the horse-hair chairs, 
 and the crimson cloth covering the table, and finally on Mrs. 
 Jones herself and on her sister. 
 
 Mrs. Jones sat at the table, some work before her, in the 
 shape of sundry packages of hosiery, brought in from the shop 
 to be examined, sorted, and put to rights. But she was not 
 doing it. Miss Rye sat on the other side the table, stitching 
 the seams of a gown by the light of the lamp. The shop was 
 just closed. 
 
 It had happened that Dicky Jones, about tea-time that 
 evening, had strayed into his next-door neighbour's for a 
 chat : a light interlude of this kind Dicky Jones was uncom- 
 monly fond of. Conversation fell, naturally enough, on the 
 recent calamity in Mr. Jones's house : in fact, Mr. Jones found 
 his neighbour devouring the full account of it in the Friday
 
 56 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 evening weekly newspaper, just damp from the press. A few 
 minutes, and back went Dicky to his own parlour, full of news : 
 the purport of which was that the lodger, Godfrey Pitman, who 
 had been supposed to leave the house at half-past four, to take 
 the Birmingham train, did not really leave it until some two or 
 three hours later. 
 
 It had not been Mrs. Jones if she had refrained from telling 
 her husband to hold his tongue for a fool ; and of asking 
 furthermore whether he had been drinking or dreaming. 
 Upon which Dicky gave his authority. Their neighbour, 
 Thomas Cause, had watched the lodger away later, with his 
 own eyes. 
 
 Mr. Cause, a quiet tradesman getting in years, was brought 
 in, and a skirmish ensued. He asserted that he had seen the 
 lodger leave the house and go up the street by lamplight, 
 carrying his blue bag ; and he persisted in the assertion, in 
 spite of Mrs. Jones's opposition. She declared he had not seen 
 anything of the sort; that either his spectacles or the street 
 lights had deceived him. And neither would give in to the 
 other. 
 
 Leaving matters in this unsatisfactory state, the neighbour 
 went out again. Mrs. Jones exploded a Httle, and then had 
 leisure to look at her sister, who had sat still and silent during 
 the discussion. Still and silent she remained ; but her face had 
 turned white, and her eyes wore a wild, frightened expression. 
 
 " What on earth's the matter with you ? " demanded Mrs. 
 Jones. 
 
 " Nothing," said Miss Rye, taking up her work with nervous, 
 trembling fingers. " Only I can't bear to hear it spoken of" 
 
 " If Pitman didn't go away till later, that accounts for the 
 tallow in his room," suddenly interposed Susan Marks, who, 
 passing into the parlour, caught the thread of the matter in 
 dispute. 
 
 Mrs. Jones turned upon her. " Tallow ! " 
 
 " I didn't see it till this afternoon," explained the girl. 
 " With all the commotion there has been in the house, I never 
 as much as opened the room-door till to-day since since Mr. 
 Pitman went out of it. The first thing I see was the carpet 
 covered with drops of tallow : and I know they were not there 
 on the Monday afternoon. They're there still." 
 
 Mrs. Jones went up at once, the maid following her. Sure 
 enough the grease was there. The candlestick from which it
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 57 
 
 had no doubt dropped, stood on the wash-hand-stand at Mrs. 
 Jones's elbow, as she wrathfully gazed at it. 
 
 " He must have been Ughting his candle sideways," remarked 
 the girl to her mistress ; " or else have held it askew while 
 hunting for something on the floor. If he stopped as late as 
 old Cause says, why of course he'd need a candle." 
 
 Mrs. Jones went down again, her temper by no means im- 
 proved. She did not like to be deceived or treated as though 
 she were nobody; neither did she choose that her house should 
 be played with. If the lodger missed his train (as she now sup- 
 posed he might have done) and came back to wait for a later, 
 his duty was to have announced himself, and asked leave to 
 stay. In spite, however, of the tallow and of Mr. Cause, she 
 put little faith in the matter. Shortly after this there came a 
 ring at the door, and Mr. Butterby's voice was heard in the 
 passage. 
 
 " Don't say anything to him about it," said Miss Rye, hastily, 
 in a low tone. 
 
 "About what?" demanded Mrs. Jones, aloud. 
 
 " About that young man's not going away as soon as we 
 thought he did. It's nothing to Butterby." 
 
 There was no time for more. Mr. Butterby was shown in 
 and came forward with a small present for Mrs. Jones. It was 
 only a bunch of violets ; but Mrs. Jones, in spite of her tart- 
 ness, was fond of flowers, and received them graciously : calling 
 to Susan to bring a wine-glass of water. 
 
 " I passed a chap at the top of High Street with a basketful ; 
 he said he'd sold only two bunches all the evening, so I took 
 a bunch," explained Mr. Butterby. "It was that gardener's 
 man. Reed, who met with the accident and has been unfit for 
 work since. Knowing you liked violets, Mrs. Jones, I thought 
 I'd just call in with them." 
 
 He sat down in the chair offered him, by the fire, putting 
 his hat in the corner behind him. Miss Rye, after saluting 
 him, had resumed work, and sat with her face turned to the 
 table, partly away from him; Mrs. Jones, on the other side of 
 the table, faced him. 
 
 "Where's Jones?" asked Mr. Butterby. 
 
 "Jones is off, as usual," replied Jones's wife. "No good to 
 ask where he is after the shop's shut ; often not before it." 
 
 It was an unlucky question, bringing back all the acrimony 
 which the violets had partially dispelled. Mr. Butterby coughed,
 
 58 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 and began talking of recent events in a sociable, friendly 
 manner, just as if he had been Mrs. Jones's brother, and never 
 in his life heard of so rare an animal as a detective. 
 
 " It's an uncommon annoying thing to have had happen in 
 your house, Mrs. Jones ! As if it couldn't as well have taken 
 place in anybody else's ! There's enough barristers lodging 
 in the town at assize time, I hope. But there ! luck's every- 
 thing. I'd have given five shillings out of my pocket to have 
 stopped it." 
 
 "So would I; for his sake as well as for mine," was Mrs. 
 Jones's answer. And she seized one of the parcels of stockings 
 and jerked off the string. 
 
 " Have you had any more dreams, Miss Rye ? " 
 
 " No," replied Miss Rye, holding her stitching closer to the 
 light for a moment. " That one was enough." 
 
 " Dreams are curious things ; not to be despised," observed 
 crafty Mr. Butterby; than whom not a man living despised 
 dreams, as well as those who professed to have them, more 
 than he. " But I've known so-called dreams to be nothing in 
 the world but waking thoughts. Are you sure that one of 
 yours was a dream. Miss Rye ? " 
 
 "I would rather not talk of it, if you please," she said. 
 " Talking cannot bring Mr. Ollivera back to life again." 
 
 "What makes you persist in thinking he did not commit 
 suicide ? " 
 
 Mr. Butterby had gradually edged his chair forward on the 
 hearthrug, so as to obtain a side view of Miss Rye's face. 
 Perhaps he was surprised, perhaps not, to see it suddenly flush, 
 and then become deadly pale. 
 
 " Just look here. Miss Rye. If he did not do it, somebody 
 else did. And I should like to glean a little insight as to 
 whether or not there are grounds for that new light, if there's 
 any to be gleaned." 
 
 "Why, what on earth! are you taking up that crotchet, 
 Butterby?" 
 
 The interruption came from Mrs. Jones. That goes without 
 saying, as the French say. Mr. Butterby turned to warm his 
 hands at the blaze, speaking mildly enough to disarm an 
 enemy. 
 
 " Not I. I should like to show your sister that her suspicions 
 are wrong : or she'll worry herself into a skeleton. See here : 
 whatever happened, and however it happened, it must have
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 59 
 
 been between half-past seven and eight. You were in the 
 place part of that half-hour, Miss Rye, and heard nobody." 
 
 "I have already said so." 
 
 " Shut up in your room at the top of the house ; looking for 
 — what was it ? — a parcel ? " 
 
 "A pattern — the pattern of a sleeve. But I had to open 
 parcels, for I could not find it, and stayed searching. It had 
 slipped between one drawer and another at the back." 
 
 " It must have taken you some time," remarked Mr. Butterby, 
 keeping his face on the genial fire and his eyes on Miss 
 Rye. 
 
 " I suppose it did. Susan says I was upstairs a quarter-of-an- 
 hour, but I don't think it was so long as that. Eight o'clock 
 struck after I got back to Mrs. Wilson's." 
 
 Mr. Butterby paused. Miss Rye resumed after a minute. 
 
 " I don't think any one could have come in legitimately 
 without my hearing them on the stairs. My room is not at 
 the top of the house, it is on the same floor as Mrs. Jones's ; 
 the back-room, immediately over the bedroom that was 
 occupied by Mr. Ollivera, My door was open, and the 
 drawers in which I was searching stood close to it. If 
 any " 
 
 " What d'ye mean by legitimately ? " interrupted Mr. Butterby, 
 turning to take a full look at the speaker. 
 
 " Openly ; with the noise one usually makes in coming up- 
 stairs. But if any one crept up secretly, of course I should 
 not have heard it. Susan persists in declaring she never lost 
 sight of the front door at all ; I don't believe her." 
 
 " Nobody does believe her," snapped Mrs. Jones, with a fling 
 at the socks. " She confesses now that she ran in twice or 
 thrice to look at the fires." 
 
 " Oh ! she does, does she," cried Mr. Butterby. " Leaving 
 the door open, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Leaving it to take care of itself. She says she shut it ; I say 
 I know she didn't. Put it at the best, it was not fastened ; and 
 anybody might have opened it and walked in that had a mind 
 to, and robbed the house." 
 
 The visitor, sitting so unobtrusively by the fire, thought he 
 discerned a little glimmer of light breaking in upon the utter 
 darkness. 
 
 " But, as the house was not robbed, we must conclude nobody 
 did come in," he observed. " As to the verdict — I don't yet
 
 6o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 see any reason for Miss Rye's disputing it, Mr, Ollivera was 
 a favourite, I suppose." 
 
 The remark did not please Miss Rye. Her cheek flushed, 
 her work fell, and she rose from her seat to turn on Mr, 
 Butterby. 
 
 " The verdict was a wrong verdict. Mr. Ollivera was a 
 good and brave and just man. Never a better went out of the 
 world." 
 
 " If I don't believe you were in love with him ! " cried Mr. 
 Butterby. 
 
 " Perhaps I was," came the unexpected answer ; but the 
 speaker seemed to be in too much agitation greatly to heed 
 ^diat sl:ie said. " It would not have hurt either him or me." 
 
 Gathering her work, cotton, and scissors in her hand, she went 
 out of the room. At the same moment there arrived an influx 
 of female visitors, come, without ceremony, for an hour's chat 
 with Mrs. Jones. Catching up his hat, Mr, Butterby dexterously 
 slipped out and disappeared. 
 
 The street was tolerably empty. He took up his position 
 upon the pavement, and critically surveyed the house. As if 
 he did not know all its aspects by heart ! Some few yards 
 higher up, the dwellings of Mr. Cause and the linendraper 
 alone intervening, there was a side opening, bearing the title of 
 Bear Entry, which led into an obscure part of the town. By 
 taking this, and executing a few turnings and windings, the 
 railway station might be approached without touching on the 
 more public thoroughfares. 
 
 "Yes," said the police-agent to himself, calculating possi- 
 bilities, " that's how it might have been done. Not that it was, 
 though : I'm only putting it. A fellow might have slipped 
 out of the door while that girl was in at her fires, cut down 
 Bear Entry, doubled back again along Goose Lane, and so 
 gained the rail," 
 
 Turning briskly up the street, Mr. Butterby found himself 
 face to face with Thomas Cause, who was standing within his 
 own side-door. Exceedingly affable when it suited him to be 
 so, he stopped to say good evening. 
 
 " How d'ye do. Cause ? A fine night, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Lovely weather ; shall pay for it later. Has she recovered 
 her temper yet?" continued Mr, Cause. "I saw you come 
 out." 
 
 Which was decidedly a rather mysterious addition to the
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 6i 
 
 answer. Mr. Butterby naturally inquired what it might mean, 
 and had his ears gratified with the story of Godfrey Pitman's 
 later departure, and of Mrs. Jones's angry disbelief in it. Never 
 had those ears listened more keenly. 
 
 " Are you sure it was the man ? " he asked cautiously. 
 
 " If it wasn't him it was his ghost," said Mr. Cause. " I was 
 standing here on the Monday night, just a step or two forwarder 
 on the pavement, little thinking that a poor gentleman was 
 shooting himself within a few yards of me, and saw a man come 
 out of Jones's side-door. When he was close up, I knew him 
 in a moment for the traveller, with the same blue bag in his 
 hand, that I saw go in with Miss Rye on the previous Sunday 
 week. He came out of the house cautiously, looked up the 
 street and down the street, and then whisked past me as hard 
 as he could walk, and went down Bear Entry. It seemed to 
 me that he didn't care to be seen." 
 
 But that detectives' hearts are too hard for emotion, this 
 one's might have beaten a little faster as he listened. It was 
 so exactly what he had been fancifully tracing to himself as the 
 imaginary course of a guilty man. Stealing out of the house 
 down Bear Entry, and so up to the railway station ! 
 
 " ^Vhat time was it ? " 
 
 " What time is it now ? " returned Mr. Cause : and the other 
 took out his watch. 
 
 " Five-and-thirty minutes past seven." 
 
 " Then it was as nigh the same time on Monday night, as nigh 
 can be. I shut up my shop at the usual hour, and I'd stood 
 here afterwards just about as long as I've stood here now. I like 
 to take a breath of fresh air, Mr. Butterby, when the labours of 
 the day are over." 
 
 " Fresh air's good for all of us — when we can get it," said 
 Mr. Butterby. " What sort of a looking man was this Godfrey 
 Pitman ? " 
 
 " A tall, well-grown man, with a lot of black hair about his 
 face ; whiskers, and beard, and moustachios." 
 
 " Young ? " 
 
 " Thirty. Perhaps not so much. In reading the account in 
 the Herald this evening, I saw Jones's folks gave evidence that 
 he had left at half-past four to catch the I'irmingham train. I told 
 Jones it was a mistake, and he told his wife; and didn't she fly 
 out ! As if she need have put herself into a tantrum over that ! 
 'twas a matter of no consequence."
 
 62 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 In common with the rest of the town, not the sHghtest 
 suspicion that the death was otherwise than that pronounced 
 by the verdict, had been admitted by Mr. Cause. He went 
 on enlarging on the grievance of Mrs. Jones's attack upon 
 him. 
 
 " She wouldn't hear a word : Jones fetched me in. She told 
 me to my face that, between spectacles and the rays of street 
 lamps, one, come to my age, was unable to distinguish black 
 from white, round from square. She said I must have mistaken 
 the gentleman, Mr. Greatorex, for Godfrey Pitman, or else 
 Jones's nephew, both of them having gone out about the same 
 time. I couldn't get a word in edgeways, I assure you, Mr. 
 Butterby, and Dicky Jones can bear me out that I couldn't. 
 Let it go ; 'tis of no moment ; I don't care to quarrel with my 
 neighbours' wives." 
 
 Mr. Butterby thought it was of great moment. He changed 
 the conversation to something else with apparent carelessness, 
 and then took a leisurely departure. Turning off at the top of 
 High Street, he increased his pace, and went straight to the 
 railway station. 
 
 The most intelligent porter employed there was a man named 
 Hall. It was his duty to be on the platform when trains were 
 starting ; and as the detective had already cause to know, few 
 who departed by them escaped his observation. The eight- 
 o'clock train for London was on the point of departure. Mr. 
 Butterby waited under some sheds until it had gone. 
 
 Now for Hal!, thought he. As if to echo the words, the first 
 person to approach the sheds was Hall himself. In a diplomatic 
 way, Mr. Butterby, when he had made known his presence, 
 began putting inquiries about a matter totally foreign to the one 
 he had come upon. 
 
 " By the way. Hall," he suddenly said, when the man thought 
 he was done with, " there was a friend of mine went away last 
 Monday evening, but I'm not sure by which train. I wonder 
 if you happened to see him here ? A tall, well-grown man, with 
 black beard and whiskers — about thirty." 
 
 Hall considered, and shook his head. " I've no recollection 
 of any one of that description, sir." 
 
 " Had a blue bag in his hand. He might have gone by the 
 five-o'clock train, or later. At eight, most likely ; this hour, you 
 know." 
 
 " Was he going to London, or the other way, sir.? "
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 63 
 
 " Can't tell you. Try and recoUecL" 
 
 "Monday? — Monday?" cried Hall, endeavouring to recall 
 what he could. " I ought to remember that night, sir, the one 
 of the calamity in High Street; but the fact is, one day is so 
 much like another here, it's hard to single out any in 
 particular." 
 
 " Were you on duty last Sunday week, in the afternoon ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; it was my Sunday on." 
 
 " The man I speak of arrived by train that afternoon, then.. 
 You must have seen him." 
 
 "So I did," said the porter, suddenly. "Just the man you 
 describe, sir ; and I remember that it struck me I had seen his 
 face somewhere before. It might have been only fancy; I had 
 not much of a look at him ; he mixed with the other passengers, 
 and went away quickly. I recollect the blue bag." 
 
 " Just so ; all right. Now then. Hall : did you see him leave 
 last Monday evening ? " 
 
 " I never saw him, to my recollection, after the time of his 
 arrival. Stop a bit. A blue bag ? Why, it was a blue bag 
 that— And that was Monday evening. Wait an instant, sir. 
 I'll fetch Bill." 
 
 Leaving the detective to make the most of these detached 
 sentences. Hall hurried off before he could be stopped. Mr. 
 Butterby turned his face to the wall, and read the placards 
 there. 
 
 When Hall came back he had a lad with him. And possibly 
 it might have been well for the lad's equanimity, that he was 
 unconscious the spare man, studying the advertisements, was 
 the renowned detective, Jonas Butterby. 
 
 " Now then," said Hall, "you tell this gentleman about your 
 getting that there ticket. Bill." 
 
 " 'Twas last Monday evening," began the boy, thus enjoined, 
 " and we was waiting to start the eight-o'clock train. In that 
 there dark corner, I comes upon a gentleman set down upon 
 the bench; which he called to me, and says, 'This bag's 
 heavy,' says he, ' and I don't care to carry it further than I can 
 help, nor yet to leave it, for it's got val'able papers in it,' says 
 he. ' If you'll go and get my ticket for me, third-class to 
 Oxford, I'll give you sixpence,' says he : which I did, and took 
 it to him," concluded the speaker; "and he gave me the 
 sixpence." 
 
 " Did he leave by the train ? "
 
 64 ROLA^fD YORKI^.. 
 
 " Why, of course he did," was the reply. " He got into the 
 last third-class on the train, him and his bag ; which was 
 blue." 
 
 " An old gentleman, with white hair, was it ? " asked Mr. 
 Butterby, carelessly. 
 
 The boy's round eyes opened. " White hair ! Why, 'twas 
 as black as ink. And his beard, too. He warn't old ; he was 
 young." 
 
 Mr. Butterby walked home, ruminating ; stirred up his fire 
 when he arrived, lighted his candles, for he had a habit of 
 waiting on himself, and sat down. Sundry notes and bits of 
 folded paper had been delivered for him from his confreres at 
 the police-station, but he pushed them from him, never opening 
 one of them. He did not even change his coat for the elegant 
 green-tailed habit, economically adopted for home attire, and 
 he was rather particular in doing so in general. No : Mr. 
 Butterby's mind was ill at ease : not in the sense, be it under- 
 stood, as applied to ordinary mortals ; but things were puzzling 
 him. 
 
 To give Mr. Butterby his due, he was sufficiently keen in 
 judgment ; though he had occasionally made mistakes. Taking 
 the surface of things only, he might have jumped to the con- 
 clusion that a certain evil deed had been committed by Godfrey 
 Pitman ; diving into them, and turning them about in his 
 practised mind, he saw sufficient cause to make him doubt and 
 hesitate. 
 
 " The man's name's as much Pitman as mine is," quoth he, 
 as he sat looking into the fire, a hand on each knee. "He 
 arrives here on a Sunday, accosts a stranger he meets acciden- 
 tally in turning out of the station, which happened to be 
 Alletha Rye, and gets her to accommodate him with a week's 
 private lodgings. Thought, she says, the house she was 
 standing at was hers : and it's likely he did. The man was 
 afraid of being seen, was flying from pursuit, and dare not risk 
 the publicity of an inn. Stays in the house nine days, and never 
 stirs out all that mortal time. Makes an excuse of a cold and 
 relaxed throat for stopping in ; which was an excuse," emphati- 
 cally repeated the speaker. " Takes leave on the Monday at 
 half-past four, and goes out to catch the Birmingham train. Is 
 seen to go out. What brought him back again ? " 
 
 The question was not, apparently, easy to solve, for Mr 
 Butterby was a long while pondering it.
 
 GODFREY PITMAN. 65 
 
 " He couldn't get back into the house through the windows 
 or down the chimneys ; not in any way but through the door. 
 And the chances were that he might have been seen going in 
 and coming out. No : don't think he went back to harm Mr. 
 OlHvera. Rather inclined to say his announced intention of 
 starting by the five-o'clock train to Birmingham was a blind : 
 he meant to go by the one at eight the other way, and went 
 back to wait for it, afraid of hanging about the station itself or 
 loitering in the streets. It don't quite wash, either, that; 
 chances were he might have been seen coming back," debated 
 Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " Wonder if he has anything to do with that little affair that 
 has just turned up in Birmingham?" resumed the speaker, 
 glancing off to another thought. " Young man's wanted for 
 that, George ^^'inter : might have been this very self-same 
 Godfrey Pitman; and of course might not. Let's get on. 
 
 " It don't stand to reason that he would come in any such 
 way into a town and stop a whole week at the top of a house 
 for the purpose of harming Mr. Ollivera Why, 'twas not till 
 the Tuesday after Pitman was in, that the Joneses got the bar- 
 rister's letter saymg he was coming and would occupy his old 
 rooms if they were vacant. No," decided Mr, Butterby ; 
 " Pitman was in trouble on his own score, and his mysterious 
 movements had reference to that : as I'm inclined to think." 
 
 _ One prominent quality in Mr. Butterby was pertinacity. Let 
 him take up an idea of his own accord, however faint it might 
 be, and it needed a great deal to get it out of him. An obstinate 
 man was he in his self-conceit. Any one who knew Mr, 
 Butterby well, and could have seen his thoughts as in a glass, 
 might have known he would be slow to take up doubts against 
 Godfrey Pitman, because he had already taken them up against 
 another, 
 
 " I don't like it," he presently resumed. " Look at it in the 
 most favourable light, she knows something of the matter , more 
 than she likes to be questioned about. Put the case, Jonas 
 Butterby. Here's a sober, sensible, steady young woman, 
 superior to half the women going, thinking only of her duties, 
 nothing to conceal, open and cheerful as the day. That's 
 what she was till this happened. And now? Goes home on 
 the Monday night nigh on eleven o'clock, sits over the parlour- 
 fire after other folks had gone to bed, * thinking,' as she puts 
 it. Goes up later ; can't sleep ; drops asleep towards morning, 
 
 Roland Yorkc.
 
 66 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 and dreams that Mr. Ollivera's dead. Gets flurried at in- 
 quest (/ saw it, though others mightn't) ; tramps to see him 
 buried, stands on the new-made grave, and tells the public he 
 did not commit suicide. How does she know he didn't ? Mrs. 
 Jones is ten times sharper-sighted, and she has no doubt about 
 it. Says, next, to her sister in confidence (and Dicky repeats 
 it to me as a bit of choice gossip) that she's haunted by 
 Ollivera's spirit. 
 
 " I don't like that," pursued Mr. Butterby, after a pause. 
 "When folks are haunted by dead men's spirits — or fancy they 
 are — it bodes a conscience not at rest in regard to the dead. 
 To-night her face was pale and red by turns ; her fingers shook 
 so that they had to clutch her work ; she won't talk of it ; she 
 left the room to avoid me. And," continued Mr. Butterby, 
 " she was the only one, so far as can be seen, that was for any 
 length of time in the house between half-past seven and eight 
 on Monday evening. A quarter-of-an-hour finding a sleeve- 
 pattern ! 
 
 " I don't say it was her ; I've not got as far as that yet, by a 
 long way. I don't yet say it was not as the jury brought it in. 
 But she was in the house for that quarter-of-an-hour, not 
 accounting for her stay with any semblance of probability ; and 
 I'm inclined to think that Godfrey Pitman musi have been out 
 of it before the har/n ivas done. Nevertheless, appearances are 
 deceitful, deductions sometimes wrong, and while I keep a 
 sharp eye on the lady, I shall look you up, Mr. Godfrey 
 Pitman." 
 
 One drawback against the " looking up " was — and Mr. 
 Butterby felt conscious of it as he rose from his seat before the 
 fire — that he had never seen Godfrey Pitman in his life ; and 
 knew not whence he came nor whither he might have gone. 
 
 END OF PROLOGUE.
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 ^hc §torii. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN THE OFFICE. 
 
 The morning sun was shining on the house of Greatorex and 
 Greatorex. It was a busy day in April. London was filling ; 
 people were flocking to town; the season was fairly inaugu- 
 rated ; the law courts were full of life. 
 
 The front door stood open ; the inner door, closed, could be 
 pushed back at will. It bore a brass plate with the inscription, 
 " Greatorex and Greatorex, Solicitors," and it had a habit, this 
 inner door, of swinging-to upon clients' heels as they went out, 
 for the spring was a sharp one. In the passage Avhich the door 
 closed in, was a room on either hand. The one on the left 
 was inscribed outside, " Clerks' Office ; " that on the right, 
 " Mr, Bede Greatorex." 
 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex was in his room to-day : not his private 
 room ; that lay beyond it. It was a moderately-sized apart- 
 ment, the door in the middle, the fireplace opposite to it. On 
 the right, was the desk of Mr. Brown ; opposite to it, stood Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex's desk ; two longer desks ran along the walls 
 towards the lower part of the room. At the one sat Mr. Hurst, 
 a' gentleman who had entered the house for improvement ; at 
 the one on the other side the door, in a line with Mr. Brown's, 
 sat little Jenner, a paid clerk. A door at the end, marked 
 " Private," opened into the private room of Mr. Bede Greatorex, 
 where he held consultations with clients. 
 
 And he generally sat there also. It was not very often that 
 he came to his desk in the front office : but he chose to be 
 there on occasions, and this was one of them. This side of 
 the house was understood to comprise the department of Mr.
 
 68 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bede Greatorex; some of the clients of the firm wefe his 
 exclusively; that is, when they came they saw him, not his 
 father; and Mr. Brown was head-clerk and manager under 
 
 him. 
 
 Bede Greatorex (generally called, " Mr. Bede," in contradis- 
 tinction to his father, Mr. Greatorex) sat looking over some 
 papers taken out of his desk. Four years have gone by since 
 you saw him last, reader ; for that prologue to the story with 
 its sad event, was not recently enacted. And the four years 
 have aged him. His father was wont to tell him that he had 
 not recovered from the grief of John Ollivera's death ; Bede's 
 private opinion was that he should never recover from it. They 
 had been as close friends as brothers ; and Bede had been a 
 changed man ever since. Apart from this grief and regret and 
 the effect they might have left upon him, suspicion had also arisen 
 lately that Bede Greatorex's health was failing : in short, there 
 were indications, fancied or real, that the inward complaint of 
 which his mother had died, might, unless great care were used, 
 creep upon him. Bede had seen a physician, who would 
 pronounce no very positive opinion, but believed on the 
 whole that the fears were without foundation ; certainly were 
 premature. 
 
 Another matter that tended to worry Mr. Bede Greatorex, 
 
 arose in his domestic life. More than three years ago, he 
 
 had married Miss Joliffe ; and the world, given, you knov/, to 
 
 interfere with every one's business and whisper scandal of the 
 
 best of us, said that in marrying her, Bede Greatorex had 
 
 married to sorrow. She was wilful as the wind; spent his 
 
 money right and left ; ran him into debt ; plunged into gaiety, 
 
 show, whirl, all of which her husband hated : she was, in fact, a 
 
 perfect exemplification of that undesirable but expressive term 
 
 that threatens to become a household word in our once sober 
 
 land— "fast." Three parts of Bede's life— the life that lay 
 
 outside his profession, was spent in striving to keep from his 
 
 father the extravagance of his wife, and the sums of money he 
 
 had to draw for personal expenditure. Bede had chivalric 
 
 ideas upon the point ; he had made her his wife, and would 
 
 jealously have guarded her failings from all: he would have 
 
 denied, had he been questioned, that she had any. So far as 
 
 he was able he would indulge her whims and wishes ; but there 
 
 was one of them that he could not and did not indulge : and 
 
 that related to their dwelling-place. Bede had brought his wife
 
 IN THE OFFICE. 69 
 
 to the home that had been his mother's, to be its sole mistress 
 in his late mother's place. It was a large, handsome residence, 
 replete with every comfort ; but after a time Mrs. Bede Greatorex 
 grew discontented. She wanted to be in a more fashionable 
 quarter; Hyde Park, Eelgrave Square; anywhere amidst the 
 great world. After their marriage Bede had taken her abroad ; 
 and they remained so long there that Mr. Greatorex began to 
 indulge a private opinion that Bede was never coming back 
 again. They sojourned in Paris, in Switzerland, in Germany ; 
 and though, when they did at length return, Bede laughingly 
 said he could not get Louisa home again, he had in point of 
 fact been as ready to linger as she was. The Bedford-Square 
 house had been done up beautifully, and for two years Mrs. 
 Bede found no fault with it ; she had taken to do that lately, 
 and it seemed to grow upon her like a mania. 
 
 Upstairs now, now at this very moment, when her husband 
 is poring over his work with bent brow, she is studying the 
 advertisements of houses in the Times, almost inclined to go ' 
 out and take one on her own account. A charming one, if the 
 description might be trusted, was to be had in Park Lane, rent 
 only six hundred a year, unfurnished. Money was as plentiful 
 as sand upon the shore in the idea of Mrs. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 You may go in and see her. Through the passages and the 
 intervening door to the other house ; or you may make a more 
 stately call at the private entrance. Up the wide staircase to 
 the handsome landing, with its rich green carpet, its painted 
 windows, its miniature conservatory, and its statues ; upon all 
 of which the sun is shining as brightly as it was shining that 
 other day four years ago, when Bede Greatorex came home, 
 fresh from the unhappy scenes connected with the death of 
 Mr. Ollivera. Enter, first of all, a small apartment at the side 
 called the study. 
 
 At the table sat Jane Greatorex, grown into a damsel of 
 twelve, but very small and childlike m appearance. She was 
 writing French dictation. By her side, speaking in slow, dis- 
 tinct tones, with a pure accent, sat a young lady, her face one 
 of the sweetest it was ever man's lot to look upon. The hazel 
 eyes were deep, honest, steady; the auburn hair lay lightly 
 away from delicate and well-carved features ; the complexion 
 was brilliant. A slender girl of middle height, and gentle, 
 winning manners, whose simple morning dress of light cashmere 
 sat well upon her.
 
 70 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Surely that modest, thoughtful young woman could not be 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex ! No : you must wait yet an instant for 
 an introduction to her. That is only Miss Jane's governess, a 
 young lady who has recently entered on her duties, and is 
 striving to perform them conscientiously. She is very patient, 
 although the little girl is excessively tiresome, with a strong 
 will of her own, and a decided objection to lessons of all kinds. 
 She is the more patient because she remembers what a tiresome 
 child she was herself, at that age, and the great amount of trouble 
 she wilfully gave to her sister. 
 
 "No, Jane; it is not fad ure ; it hfackur. We are speaking 
 of a postman, you know. The two words are essentially dif- 
 ferent ; different in meaning, spelling, and sound. I explained 
 this to you yesterday." 
 
 " I don't like doing dictation, Miss Channing," came the 
 response. 
 
 " Go on, please. Le facteur, qui " 
 
 " I'm tired to death. I know I've done a whole page." 
 
 " You have done three lines. One of these days I will give 
 you a whole page to do, and then you will know what a whole 
 page is. Le facteur, qui arrive " 
 
 Miss Jane Greatorex suddenly took a large penful of ink, 
 and shook it deliberately on the copy-book. Leaving them to 
 the contest, in which, be very sure, the governess would con- 
 quer, for she was calm, kind, and firm, we will go to an 
 opposite room, one that Mrs. Bede called her boudoir. A 
 charming room, papered and panelled in white and gold, its 
 silken curtains of a soft rose-colour. But neither Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex, who sat there, nor her attire was in accordance with 
 the room. 
 
 And, to say the truth, she had only come down from her 
 chamber to find something left in it the night before. It was 
 her favourite morning room, but Mrs. Bede was not wont to 
 take up her position in it until made up for the day. And that 
 was not yet accomplished. Her dark hair was untidy, her face 
 pale and pasty, her dressing-gown sat loosely upon her. Seeing 
 the Ti/iies on the table, she had caught it up, and thrown herself 
 back in a reclining chair, whilst she looked over the advertise- 
 ments. Mrs. Bede Greatorex was tall and showy, and there 
 her beauty ended. As Louisa Joliffe, she had exercised a 
 charm of manner that fascmated many, but she kept it for rare 
 occasions now; and, those, always public ones. She had no
 
 IN THE OFFICE. 71 
 
 children, and her whole being was wrapt in fashion, frivolity, 
 and heartlessness. The graver duties of existence were wholly 
 neglected by Louisa Greatorex • she seemed to live in ignorance 
 that such things were. She never so much as glanced at the 
 solemn thought that there must come a life after this life ; she 
 never for a moment strove to work on for it, or to help another 
 on the pilgrimage. Had she chosen to search her memory, it 
 could not have returned to her the satisfaction of having ever 
 performed a kind action. 
 
 One litde specimen of her selfishness, her utter disregard to 
 the claims and feelings of others, shall be given, for it occurred 
 opportunely. As she sat, newspaper in hand, a young woman 
 opened the door, and asked leave to speak to her. She was 
 the lady's-maid, and, as Mrs. Bede looked at her, knitting 
 her brow at the request, she saw tears stealing from the 
 petitioning eyes. 
 
 " Could you please allow me to go out, madam ? A messen- 
 ger has come to say that my mother is taken suddenly worse : 
 they think she is dying." 
 
 "You can go when I am dressed," replied Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " Oh, madam, if you could allow me to go at once ! I may 
 not be in time to see her. Eliza says she will take my place 
 this morning, if you will permit her." 
 
 " You can go when I am dressed," was the reiterated, cold, 
 and decisive answer. " You hear me, Tallet. Shut the 
 door." And the maid withdrew, her face sad with its vain 
 yearning. 
 
 " She's always wanting to go out to her mother," harshly 
 spoke Mrs. Bede Greatorex, as she settled herself to the news- 
 paper again. 
 
 " One ; two ; three ; four ; five. Five houses that seem 
 admirable. Bede may say what he chooses : in this miserable 
 old house, with its professional varnish, we don't stay. I'll 
 write at once for particulars," she added, going to her writing- 
 table, a costly piece of furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. 
 
 Writing for particulars took her about three-quarters of an 
 hour, and then she went up to dress ; a ceremony that occupied 
 nearly an hour longer. The maid might then depart. And 
 thus you have a specimen of the goodness of heart of Louisa 
 Greatorex. 
 
 But this has been a digression from the morning's business,
 
 72 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 and we must return to the husband, whose wish and will she 
 would have liked to defy, and to the office where he sat. The 
 room was very quiet ; nothing to be heard but the scratching 
 of three pens; Mr, Brown's, Mr, Hurst's, and Mr. Jenner's. 
 This room was not entered indiscriminately by callers ; but the 
 opposite door, inscribed " Clerks' Office," was perpetually on 
 the swing. This room was a very sedate one : as a matter of 
 course so in the presence of Mr. Bede Greatorex; and its 
 head in his absence, Mr. Brown, allowed no opportunity for 
 gossip. He was as efficient a clerk as Greatorex and Greatorex 
 had ever possessed ; young yet : a tall, slender, silent man, 
 devoted to his work. He had been about three years with 
 them now. He wore a reddish-brown wig, and his whiskers 
 were sandy. 
 
 Bede Greatorex replaced some papers in his desk, and 
 began opening another parchment. " Did you receive an 
 answer yesterday, from Garnett's people, Mr. Hurst ? " he 
 suddenly asked, 
 
 "No, sir. I could not see them." 
 
 "Their clerk came in last evening to say we should hear 
 from them to-day," interposed Mr. Brown, looking up from 
 his writing. 
 
 It was in these moments — when the clerk's eyes' unexpec- 
 tedly met those of Mr. Bede Greatorex — that the latter would 
 feel a disagreeable sensation shoot through him. Over and 
 over again had it occurred . the first time when Mr. Brown had 
 been in the office only a day- They were standing talking 
 together on that occasion, when a sudden fancy took Bede that 
 he had seen the man somewhere before. It w^as not to be 
 called a recognition ; but a vague, uncertain, disagreeable feel- 
 ing, which had its rise perhaps in its very uncertainty 
 
 "Have we ever met before?" Mr Bede Greatorex had 
 questioned ; but Mr. Brown shook his head, and could not say. 
 A hundred times since then, when he met the steady gaze of 
 those remarkably light grey eyes (almost always bent on their 
 work), had Bede stealthily continued to study the man; but 
 the puzzle was always there. 
 
 Mr, Brown's eyes and face were bent on his desk again to- 
 day. His master, holding a sheet of parchment before him, 
 as if to study it the better, suffered his gaze to wander and fix 
 itself on Mr, Brown. Tlic clerk, happening to glance up, 
 caught it.
 
 IN THE OFFICE^^^-^ 73 
 
 He was one of the most observant men living, quiet though 
 he seemed, and could not fail to be aware that he was thus 
 occasionally subjected to the scrutiny of his master — but he 
 never appeared to see it, 
 
 " Did you speak, sir ? " he asked, as if he had looked up to 
 ask the question. 
 
 " I was about to speak," said Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 " There's a new clerk coming in to-day to replace Parkinson. 
 The hour fixed was nine o'clock, and now it is half-past ten. 
 If this is a specimen of his habits of punctuality, I fear he will 
 not do much good. You will place him at Mr. Hurst's 
 desk." 
 
 " Very good, sir," replied Mr, Brown. The out-going clerk, 
 Parkinson, had been at Jenner's desk. 
 
 " I am going over to Westminster," continued j\Ir. Bede 
 Greatorex, gathering up some papers. " If Garnett's people 
 come in, they must wait for me. By the way, what about that 
 deed " 
 
 The words were cut short by a commotion. Some one was 
 dashing in from the street in a desperate hurry, with a great 
 deal of unnecessary noise. First the swing-door was violently 
 pushed open, then the clerks' door was opened and banged ; 
 now this one was sent back with a breeze ; and a tall, line- 
 looking young man came bustling in. — Mr. Roland Yorke. 
 
 Not so very young, either. For more than seven years 
 have elapsed since he was of age, and went careering off on a 
 certain hopeful voyage to Port Natal, told of in history. He 
 has changed since then. The overgrown young fellow of 
 twenty-one, angular and awkward, has become quite a noble- 
 looking man in his great strength and height. The face is a 
 fine one, good-nature the predominating expression of the some- 
 what rough features, which are pale and clear and healthy. 
 The indecision that might once have been detected in his 
 countenance has given place to earnestness now. Of absolute 
 beauty of face, as many people count beauty, there is none ; 
 but you would scarcely pass him in the street without turning 
 to look at him. In manner he is nearly as much of a boy as 
 a man can be, just as he ever was, hasty, thoughtless, and 
 impulsive. 
 
 " I know I'm late," he began. " How d'ye do, Mr. 
 Greatorex?" 
 
 "Yes, you are late, Mr. Yorke," was the response of Mr,
 
 74 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bede Greatorex, submitting to the hearty hand-shake offered. 
 " Nine was the stated hour." 
 
 "It was the boat's fault," returned Roland, speaking with 
 noisy independence, just as he might have done had he been 
 a ten thousand a-year client of the house. " I went down to 
 see Carrick off at eight o'clock, and if you'll believe me, the 
 vessel never got away before ten. They were putting horses 
 on board. Carrick says they'll lose their tide over yonder; 
 but he didn't complain ; he's as easy as an old shoe. Since 
 then I've had a pitch out of a hansom." 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 "I told the fellow to drive like mad; which he did; and 
 down went the horse, and I out upon him, and the man on 
 me. There was no damage, only it all helped to hinder me. 
 But I'm ready for work now, Mr. Greatorex. Which is to be 
 my place ? " 
 
 To witness a new clerk announcing himself in this loud, 
 familiar sort of way, to see him grasp and shake the hand of 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex : above all to hear him speak uncere- 
 moniously of the Earl of Carrick, one of the house's noble 
 clients, as if the two were hail-fellow-well-met, caused the 
 whole office to look up, even work-absorbed Mr. Brow^n. 
 Bede Greatorex indicated the appointed desk. 
 
 "This is where you will be, by the side of Mr. Hurst, a 
 gentleman who is with us for improvement. Mr. Brown, the 
 manager in this room " — pointing to the clerk wdth the end of 
 his pen — "will assign you your work. Mr. Hurst, Mr. Roland 
 Yorke." 
 
 Roland took his seat at once, as a preliminary step to 
 industry. Mr. Bede Greatorex, saying no more, passed through 
 to his private room, and after a minute was heard to go out. 
 " What's to do ? " asked Roland. 
 
 Mr. Brown was already giving him something ; a deed to be 
 copied. He spoke a few instructions in concise, quiet tones, 
 and Roland Yorke set to work. 
 
 " What ink d'you call this ? " began Roland. 
 " It is very good ink," said Mr. Brown. 
 " It's uncommonly bad." 
 
 " Have you ever been used to this kind of work, Mr. Yorke ? " 
 int[uired the manager, wondering whether the new-comer 
 might be a qualified solicitor, brought to grief, or a gentleman- 
 embryo just entering on his novitiate.
 
 IN THE OFFICE. 75 
 
 " Oh, haven't I ! " returned Mr. Yorke. " I was in a 
 proctor's office once, where I was worked to death." 
 
 " Then you'll soon find that to be good ink." 
 
 " I had all the care of the office on my shoulders," resumed 
 Roland, holding the pen in the air, and sitting back on his 
 stool while he addressed Mr. Brown. "There were three of 
 us in the place altogether, not counting the old proctor himself, 
 and we had enough work for six. Well, circumstances occurred 
 to take the other two out of the office, and I, who was left, had 
 to do it all. What do you think of that ? " 
 
 Mr. Brown did not say what he thought. He was writing 
 steadily, giving no encouragement for conversation. Mr. 
 Hurst, his elbow on the desk', had his face turned to the 
 speaker, surveying him at leisure. 
 
 " I couldn't stand it ; I should have been in my grave in 
 no time; and so I thought I'd try a part of the world that 
 might prove more desirable — Port Natal. I say, what are you 
 staring at ? " 
 
 This was to Mr. Hurst. The latter dropped his elbow as 
 he answered. 
 
 " I was looking whether you were much altered. You are : 
 and yet I think I should have known you, after a bit, for 
 Roland Yorke. When the name was mentioned I might have 
 been at fault, had you not spoken of Lord Carrick." 
 
 " He's my uncle," said Roland. " Who are you ? " 
 
 " Joe Hurst, from Helstonleigh. Have you forgotten me ? 
 I was at the college school with your brothers, Gerald and 
 Todd." 
 
 Roland stared. He had not forgotten Josiah Hurst; but 
 the rather short and very broad young man by his side, bore 
 no resemblance to the once slim college boy. Roland never 
 doubted : he got off his stool, upsetting it in the process, 
 heartily to shake the meeting hand. Mr. Brown began to think 
 the quiet of the office would not be greatly enhanced by its 
 new inmate. 
 
 " My goodness ! you are the first of the old fellows I've 
 seen. And what are you, Hurst, — a lawyer?" 
 
 "Yes; I've passed. But the old doctor (at home, you 
 know) won't buy me a practice, or let me set up for myself, 
 or anything, until I've had some experience : and so I've come 
 to Greatorex and Greatorex to get it," concluded Mr. Hurst, 
 ruefully.
 
 76 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "And who's he?" continued Roland, pointing to Jenner. 
 " Greatorex said nothing about him." 
 
 " He " was one of the smallest men ever seen, but he had a 
 great amount of work in him. Mr. Hurst explained that 
 Jenner was only a clerk, but a very efficient one. 
 
 " He'd do twice the amount of work that I could, Yorke : 
 I'm slow and sure ; Jenner is sure and quick. How long have 
 you been home from Port Natal ? " 
 
 " Don't bother about that now," said Roland. 
 " Did you make your fortune out there ? " 
 ' What a senseless question ! If I'd made a fortune there, 
 it stands to reason I should not have come into an office 
 here." 
 
 " How was I to know? You might have made a fortune 
 and dissipated it ? " 
 
 " Dissipated it in what ? " cried Roland, with wide-open eyes. 
 And to Mr. Hurst, who had gained some knowledge of what is 
 called life, the look and the question bore earnest that Roland 
 Yorke, in spite of his travelling experiences, was not very much 
 tainted by the world and its ways. 
 
 " Oh, in many things. Horse-racing, for instance." 
 Roland threw back his head in the old emphatic manner. 
 " If ever I do make a fortune, Jos,— which appears about as 
 likely as that Port Natal and Ireland should join hands and 
 have a waltz together— I'll take care of it." 
 
 Possibly the notion occurred to him that idleness was cer- 
 tainly not the best way to acquire a fortune, for Roland tilted 
 his stool straight, and began to work in earnest. When he had 
 accomplished two lines, he took it to the manager, 
 
 " Will this do, Mr. Brown ? I'm rather out of practice." 
 Mr. Brown signified that it would do. He knew his busi- 
 ness better than to give anything of much consequence to an 
 untried clerk. 
 
 "Are you related to Sir Richard Yorke?" he asked of 
 Roland. 
 
 " Yes, I am ; and I'm ashamed of him. Old Dick's my 
 uncle, my late fiither's brotlier ; and his son and heir, young 
 I3ick, is my cousin. Old Dick is the greatest screw alive; 
 he wouldn't help a fellow to save him from hanging. He's as 
 poor as Carrick ; but I don't consider that any excuse for him ; 
 his estate is mortgaged up to the neck." 
 
 Mr. Brown needed not the additional information, which
 
 In the office. 77 
 
 Roland proffered so candidly. His nature had not in the least 
 changed. Nay, perhaps the free-and-easy life at Port Natal, about 
 which we may hear somewhat later, had only tended to render 
 him less reticent than before, if that were possible. Greatorex 
 and Greatorex were the confidential solicitors of Sir Richard 
 Yorke, and Mr. Brown was better acquainted than Roland 
 with the baronet's finances. 
 
 " I thought it must be so," remarked Mr. Brown. " I knew 
 there was some connection between Sir Richard and Lord 
 Garrick. Are you likely to remain long in our office ? " he 
 questioned, inwardly wondering that Roland with two such 
 puissant uncles should be there at all. 
 
 " I am likely to remain here for ever, for all I know. They 
 are going to give me twenty shillings a week. I say, Mr. 
 Brown, why do you Avear a wig?" 
 
 Doubtless Mr. Brown thought the question a tolerably 
 pointed one upon so brief an acquaintance. He settled to his 
 work again without answering it. A hint that the clerk, just 
 come under his wing, might return and settle to his. It was 
 not taken. 
 
 " My hair is as thick as ever it was," said Roland, giving his 
 dark hair a push backwards. " I don't want a wig ; and you 
 can't be so very much my senior ; six or seven years, perhaps. 
 I am eight-and-twenty." 
 
 " And I am three-and-thirty, sir. My hair came off in a 
 fever a few years ago, and it has never grown again. Be so 
 good as to get on with what you have to do, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 Thus admonished, Roland obediently sought his place. And 
 with renewed questions to Mr. Brown, that came ringing out 
 at the most unexpected moments ; with a few anecdotes of life 
 at Port Natal with which he confidentially regaled Mr. Hurst ; 
 with making the acquaintance of little J enner, which Roland 
 accomplished with great affability ; and with slight interludes 
 of writing, a line here and a line there, the morning wore 
 agreeably away.
 
 78 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ARRIVING FROM PORT NATAL. 
 
 Mr. Roland Yorke's emigration to Port Natal cannot be 
 said to have turned out a success. He had gone off in high 
 spirits, a chief cabin passenger, Lord Carrick having paid the 
 forty pounds passage-money. He had carried fifty pounds 
 with him, from the same good-natured source, to begin hfe 
 with when he should land, a small but sufficient outfit, and a 
 case of merchandise consisting of frying-pans. Seven years 
 before, when Roland resolved to emigrate and run away from 
 work at home, he became imbued with the conviction (whence 
 derived, he scarcely knew, but it lay on his mind as a cer- 
 tainty) that frying-pans formed the best and most staple article 
 on which to commence trading at Port Natal, invariably laying 
 the foundation of a fortune. Some friend of his, a Mr. 
 Bagshaw, who had previously emigrated, had imparted this 
 secret to him ; at least, Roland was impressed with the idea 
 that he had done so ; an idea which nothing could shake. 
 Frying-pans and fortune were associated together in his 
 dreams. He stood out strongly for taking out forty dozen, but 
 Lord Carrick declined to allow more than the miserable num- 
 ber of four-and-twenty. " When ye see for ye'reself that there's 
 a market out there for them, send me word, and I'll despatch 
 loads to ye by the first steamer, me boy," said his lordship 
 sensibly enough ; and Roland was fain to put up with the 
 advice and the two dozen. He arrived at Port Natal, all 
 youth and joy and buoyancy. Seen from the deck of the 
 vessel, when she anchored in the beautiful harbour. Natal 
 looked a very paradise. Chains of hills to the west of the fair 
 town were dotted with charming houses and pleasure grounds ; 
 and Roland landed fresh as a summer's morning and full of 
 hope ; just as too many an emigrant from the dear old mother- 
 country does land, at other places besides Natal. And he 
 bought experience as they buy it. 
 
 In the first place, Roland began life there as he had been 
 accustomed to it in England ; that is, as a gentleman. In the 
 second place there proved to be no special market for frying-
 
 ARRIVING FROM PORT NATAL. 79 
 
 pans. That useful article might be bought in abundance, he 
 found, when wanted, without bringing the newly-arrived supply 
 into requisition. The frying-pans being thus left upon his 
 hands, a dead weight, brought the first check to his hopes ; 
 for he had relied upon them to inaugurate the great enter- 
 l^rizes that had floated in rose-coloured visions through 
 Roland's brain. He quitted the port town, Durban, and went 
 to Maritzburg, fifty miles off, and then came back to Durban. 
 Thrown upon his own resources (through failure of the 
 frying-pans), Roland had leisure to look about him, for 
 other fertile sources in which to embark his genius and energy, 
 and lead him on to fortune. Such sources did not appear to 
 be going begging ; or at least they did not come in Roland's 
 way ; and meanwhile his money melted. Partly in foolish 
 expenses on his own account, partly in helping sundry poor 
 wights, distressed steerage passengers with whom he had made 
 acquaintance on board (for Roland had brought out his good- 
 nature with him), the money came to an end. One fine 
 morning, Roland woke up from an idle dream, to find himself 
 changing his last sovereign. It did not dismay him : all he 
 said was : " I must set about money-making in earnest now." 
 
 Of course the great problem was— how to do it. Roland 
 Yorke made only one more of a very common experience ; 
 and he had to encounter the usual rubs incidental to the pro- 
 cess. He came to great grief and was reduced to a crust ; 
 nay, to not knowing where the crust would come from. The 
 frying-pans went first, disposed of literally for an old song. 
 Some man who owned a shed had, for a consideration, housed 
 the case that contained them, and they were eating their 
 handles off. Roland's wardrobe went next ; and things came 
 to the pass that Roland was not sure that he himself would 
 not have to go after it It came to one of two things — work 
 or starvation. To do Roland justice, he was ready and 
 willing to work ; but he knew no trade ; he had never done an 
 hour's labour in his life, and there lay the difficulty of obtain- 
 ing it. He would rush about from office to store, hunger 
 giving him earnestness, from store to workshop, from workshop 
 to bench, and say. Employ me. For the most part, the 
 answer would be that he was not wanted ; the labour market 
 was overstocked ; but if the application apppeared, by rare 
 chance, likely to be entertained, and Roland was questioned 
 as to his experience and capacity, rejection was sure to follow.
 
 So ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 He was too honest, too deficient in tact, to say he had beert 
 accustomed to work when he had not : and the experience in 
 copying to which he acknowledged somehow was never re- 
 quired to be put to the proof. To hear Roland relate what he 
 had accomplished in this line at home, must have astonished 
 the natives of Port Natal. 
 
 Well, time went on ; and Roland went on with it, down and 
 down and down. Years went on ; and one rainy day, when 
 about four winters had waxed and waned from the date of his 
 departure, Roland returned to England. He landed in St. 
 Katherine's Docks, out at elbows and ninepence in his pocket : 
 as an old friend of his, Mr. Galloway, had once prophesied he 
 would land, if he lived to return at all. 
 
 Mr. Roland Yorke had sailed for Port Natal as a first-class 
 passenger ; he came home in the steerage, paying twelve 
 pounds for the passage, and working that out in part. From 
 thence he made his way to Lord Carrick in Ireland, very much 
 like a bale of returned goods. 
 
 The best account he gave of his travels to Lord Carrick, 
 perhaps the only account he could give, was that he had been 
 " knocking about." Luck had not been with him, he said ; 
 and there really seemed to have been a good deal in that. 
 To hear him narrate his adventures was something rich ; not 
 consecutively ; he never did that ; but his chance recollections 
 were so frequent and diffuse, that a history of his career at 
 Natal might have been compiled from them. The Earl would 
 hold his sides, laughing at Roland's lamentations at the failure 
 and sacrifice of his frying-pans, at his reminiscences in general. 
 A life of adventure one week, a life of starvation the next. 
 Roland said he had tried all kinds of things. He had served 
 in stores ; at bars where liquor was dispensed ; he had hired 
 himself as a waiter at half the hotels in Natal ; he had worked 
 on the shore with the Zulu Kaffirs at lading and unlading 
 vessels ; once, for a whole week, when he was very hard up, 
 or perhaps very low doicn, he had cried hot potatoes in the 
 streets. He had been a farm labourer and driven a waggon, 
 pigs, and cattle. He had been sub-editor in a newspaper 
 office, the Natal Mercury, and one unlucky day sent the 
 journal out with half its letters printed upside down. He had 
 hired himself out as chemist's assistant, and half ruined his 
 master by his hopeless inability to distinguish between senna 
 and tincture of laudanum. Occasionally he met with friends
 
 ARRIVING FROM PORT NATAL. 8i 
 
 who assisted him, and then Roland was at ease — for his pro- 
 pensity to Hve as a gentleman was for ever cropping up. Up 
 and down ; up and down ; fortune now smiling a little, but for 
 the most part showing herself very grim, and frowning terribly. 
 Roland had gone (as he called it) up country, and amidst other 
 agreeable incidents came to a fight with the Kaffirs. He took 
 out a licence, at a cost of thirty shillings, and opened a store 
 for pickled pork, candles, and native leeches, the only articles 
 he could get supplied him on trust. His fine personal appear- 
 ance, ready address, evident education, and frank manners, 
 obtained him a clerkship in the Commercial and Agricultural 
 Bank, recently opened, and he was in so hopeless a maze with 
 the books and the cash at the end of a week, that he was turned 
 off without pay. Architecture was tried next. Roland sent 
 in a plan as competitor for the erection of a public building ; 
 and the drawing — which he had copied from a model, just as 
 he used to crib in the college school at Helstonleigh — looked 
 so well upon paper that the arbitrators were struck with admira- 
 tion at the constructive talent displayed, until one of them 
 made the discovery that there were no staircases and no room 
 left to build them. So, that hope was abandoned for a less 
 exalted one ; and Roland was glad to become young man 
 at a general store, where the work alternated between dis- 
 pensing herrings and treacle (there called golden syrup) to 
 customers over the counter, and taking out parcels in a wheel- 
 barrow. 
 
 But there was good in Roland. And a great deal of it too, 
 in spite of his ill luck and his improvidence. The very fact of 
 his remaining away four years, striving manfully with this un- 
 satisfactory life of toil and starvation, proved it. The brown 
 bread and pea-soup IVIr. Galloway had foreseen he would be 
 reduced to, was often longed for by Roland in vain. He put 
 up with it all ; and not until every chance seemed to have 
 failed, would he return home to tax his uncle, and to disappoint 
 his mother. A sense of shame, of keen mortification, no 
 doubt lay at the bottom of this feeling. He had been so 
 sangume, as some of my readers may remember ; and as he, 
 sitting one day on a roadside stone, towards the close of his stay 
 in Natal, recalled ; so full of glowing visions in the old liome, 
 that his mother, the Lady Augusta Yorke, had caught their 
 reflection. He had represented to his mother, aye, and 
 believed it ; that Port Natal was a sort of El Dorado, where 
 
 Roland Yorke. 6
 
 82 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 energetic young men might quickly line their pockets, and 
 return home millionaires. He had indulged visions and made 
 magnificent promises on the strength of these, beginning with a 
 case of diamonds to his mother, and ending — no one but 
 Roland could have any conception where. Old debts were 
 to be paid, friends regaled, enemies made to eat humble-pie. 
 Mr. Galloway was to be passed in the street by Mr. Roland 
 Yorke, the millionaire ; the Reverend William Yorke was to 
 have the cold shoulder turned upon him. Arthur Channing 
 was to be honoured ; Jenkins, the hard-working clerk, who had 
 thought nothing of doing Roland's work as well as his own, 
 was to be largely patronized. Within three months of his 
 arrival in Port Natal, funds were to be despatched home to 
 settle claims that might be standing against Roland in Helston- 
 leigh. That there could be the slightest doubt of his coming 
 back " worth millions," Roland never supposed ; he had talked 
 of it everywhere — and talked faithfully. Poor Jenkins had 
 long gone where worldly patronage could not follow him, but 
 others had not. Roland remembered how his anticipations 
 had so won upon his mother, that she went to bed and dreamt 
 of driving about in a charming city, whose streets were paved 
 with Malachite. i 
 
 And so, recalling these visions and promises, Roland, for 
 very shame and disappointment, was not in a hurry to return, 
 but rather lingered on in Port Natal, struggling manfully with 
 his ill luck, as he called it. Pride and good feeling alike kept 
 him there. To appear before Lady Augusta, poorer than 
 he went out, would undoubtedly be a worse blow to her than 
 the alternative which he (forgetting his height and weiglit) had 
 laid before her : the one, he said, might happen if he did not 
 get to Port Natal — riding as a jockey on Helstonleigh race- 
 course, in a pink silk jacket and yellow breeches. 
 
 No. He tried heartily with all his might and main ; tried 
 it for four mortal years. Beyond a few lines he now and then 
 sent home, in which he always said he was "well, happy, 
 keeping straight, and getting on," but which never contained 
 a request for home news, or an address to which it might be 
 sent, Lady Augusta heard nothing. No one else heard. One 
 letter, indeed, reached his bosom friend, Arthur Channing, 
 which was burnt when read, as requested, and Arthur looked 
 grieved for a month after. He had told Arthur the truth ; 
 that he was not getting on ; but under an injunction oC
 
 ARRIVING FROM PORT NATAL. 83 
 
 secrecy, and without giving any details. Beyond that, no news 
 reached home of Roland. 
 
 His fourth year at Port Natal was drawing to a close when 
 illness seized him, and for the first time Roland felt as if he 
 were losing heart. It was not serious illness ; only such as 
 often attacks visitors to the country, and from which Roland's 
 strength of frame, sound constitution, and good habits — for he 
 had no bad ones, unless a great appetite might be called so — 
 had hitherto preserved him. But, what with the wear and 
 tear of his chequered life, — its uncertain fare, a good dinner to- 
 day, dry bread to-morrow, and its harassing and continued 
 disappointments, — Roland felt the illness as a calamity ; and he 
 began to say to himself he could not make head against the 
 tide any longer, and must get away from it. He might have 
 to eat humble-pie on landing in England ; but humble-pie is 
 never utterly repulsive to one of Roland Yorke's elastic tempera- 
 ment. In a moment's impulse he went down to the ships and 
 made the best bargain he could for returning home. He had 
 been away more than four years, and never once, during that 
 time, had he written home for money. 
 
 And so, behold him, out at elbows, with ninepence in his 
 pocket, but wonderfully improved in tone and physique, 
 arriving in London early one rainy morning from Port Natal, 
 and landing at the docks. 
 
 The first thing he did was to divide the ninepence with one 
 who was poorer than he ; the second was to get a cup of coffee 
 and a slice of bread at a street coffee-stall ; the third was to 
 hasten to Lord Carrick's tailor — and a tremendous walk it was, 
 but that was nothing to Roland — and get rigged out in any 
 second-hand suit of clothes returned on hand that might be 
 decent. There ill news awaited him ; it was the time of year 
 when Lord Carrick might, as a rule, be found in London ; but 
 he had not come ; he was, the tailor believed, in Ireland. 
 Roland at once knew, as sure as though it had been told him, 
 that his uncle was in some kind of pecuniary hot water. 
 Borrowing the very smallest amount of money that would carry 
 him to Ireland, he went off down tlie Thames in a return 
 cattleboat that very day. 
 
 Since that period, nearly three years, he had been almost 
 equally '^ knocking about," and experienced almost as majiy 
 ups and downs in Ireland as at Port Natal. Sometimes living 
 in clover with Lord Carrick, at others thrown on i^-s own
 
 84 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 resources and getting on somehow. Lord Carrick had the will 
 to help him, but not always the ability. Now and then it had 
 happened that his lordship (who was really more improvident 
 than his nephew, and had to take occasional flights to the 
 Continent without a day's warning) was lost to society for a 
 time ; even to Roland. Roland hired himself out as a sort of 
 overlooker to some absentee's estate, but he could get no pay 
 for it. This part of his career need not be traced. On the 
 whole, he still strove to do something for himself as strenuously 
 as he' had striven at Port Natal ; did his best not to be a 
 burthen to any one, even to Lord Carrick. 
 
 To this end he came over to London, and presented himself 
 one day before his late father's brother. Sir Richard Yorke, 
 and boldly asked him if he could not " put him into some- 
 thing." The request caused Sir Richard (an old gentleman 
 with a fat, round face) to stare immensely ; he was very poor 
 and very selfish, and had systematically held himself aloof from 
 his brother's needy family, keeping them always at arm's-length. 
 His son and heir had been content to do the same : in truth, 
 the cousins did not know each other by sight. Sir Richard's 
 estate was worth four-thousand a year ; and as he was in the 
 habit of living at the rate of six, it will be understood that he 
 never had any money to spare. Neither had he patronage 
 or influence of any sort. To be thus summarily applied to by 
 a stalwart young man, who announced himself as his nephew, 
 took the baronet unpleasantly by surprise ; and if he did not 
 exactly turn Roland out of the house, his behaviour was 
 equivalent to it. " I'll be shot if I ever go near him again," 
 cried Roland. " I'd rather cry hot pies in Poplar." 
 
 A day or two before this, in sauntering about parts of 
 London least frequented by men of the higher class — for when 
 we are very much down in the world we don't exactly saunter 
 about the region of SL James's, or the sunny side of Regent 
 Street — Roland had accidentally met one of the steerage pas- 
 sengers with whom he had voyaged home from Port Natal. 
 Ever open-hearted, he had frank\v avowed the reason of his 
 inability to treat his friend; namely, his empty pockets. He 
 was not sure, he added, that he should not have to take to 
 crossing-sweeping for a living ; he had heard that people made 
 fortunes at it. Upon this the steerage gentleman confided to 
 him the intelligence that there was a first-rate opening in the 
 hot-pie trade, down in Poplar, for an energetic young man with
 
 ARRIVING FROM PORT NATAL, 85 
 
 a sonorous voice. Roland, being great in the latter gift, 
 thought he might entertain it. 
 
 Things were at a low ebb just then with Roland. Lord 
 Carrick, as usual, was destitute of ready-money ; and Roland, 
 desperately anxious though he was to get on of his own accord, 
 was fain to write to his mother for a little help. One cannot 
 live upon air in London, however much that may be accom- 
 plished at Port Natal. But the application was made at an 
 inopportune moment. Every individual boy Lady Augusta 
 possessed was then tugging at her purse-strings ; and she 
 returned Roland a sharp answer, telling him he ought to be 
 ashamed of himself for not helping her, now that he was the 
 eldest, instead of wanting her to keep him. George, her first- 
 born son, had died in India. 
 
 " It's quite true," said Roland, reflectively, " I ought to be 
 helping her. I wonder if Carrick could put me into anything, 
 as old Dick won't do it. Once let me get a start, I'm bound 
 to go on, and the mother should be the first to benefit by it." 
 
 A short time after this, and when Roland was far more at 
 his wits'-end for a shilling than he had ever been at Port Natal 
 — for there he had no appearance to keep up, and could 
 encamp out on the sand, here he couldn't — Lord Carrick 
 arrived suddenly in London, in a little trouble as usual. Some 
 warm-hearted friend had induced his good-natured lordship to 
 accept a short bill, and afterwards treacherously left him to 
 meet it. So Lord Carrick was again en rojtte for the Continent, 
 until his men of business, Greatorex and Greatorex, could 
 arrange the affair for him by finding the money. Halting in 
 London for a couple of days, to confer with them on that and 
 other matters— for Lord Carrick's affairs were altogether com- 
 plicated and could not be gone into in an hour — Roland seized 
 the opportunity to prefer his application. And this brings us 
 down to the present time. 
 
 When under a cloud, and not quite certain that the streets 
 were safe, the Earl was wont to eschew his hotel at the AV^est- 
 end, and put up at a private one in a more obscure part of 
 London. Roland, having had notice of his arrival, clattered in 
 to breakfast with him on the morning of the second day, and 
 forthwith entered on his petition to be put into something. 
 
 " Anything for a start, Uncle Carrick," he urged. " No 
 matter how low I begin : I'll soon go along swimmingly, once 
 I get the start. I can't go about here, you know, with my
 
 86 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 elbows out, as I have over yonder. It's awful work getting 
 a dinner only once a week. I've had thoughts of crying hot 
 pies in Poplar." 
 
 To judge by the breakfast Roland was eating, he had been 
 a week without that meal as well as dinner. Lord Carrick, 
 looking at the appetite with admiration, sat pulling his white 
 whiskers in perplexity ; for the grey hair of seven years ago 
 had become white now. His heart was ready to give Roland 
 the post of Prime Minister, or any other trifling otifice, but he 
 did not see his way to accomplishing it. 
 
 "Me boy, there's only one thing I can do for ye just now," 
 he said, after silently turning the matter about in all its bear- 
 ings, and hearing the explanation of the Poplar project. " Ye. 
 know I must be off to-morrow by the early French steamer, 
 and I can't go about looking after places to-day, even if I 
 knew where they could be picked up, which I don't. I must 
 leave ye to Greatorex and Greatorex." 
 
 " What will they do ? " asked Roland. 
 
 " You can come along with me there, and see." 
 
 Accordingly, when the Earl of Carrick w^ent forth to his 
 interview that day with Mr. Greatorex, he presented Roland to 
 him ; and simply told the old lawyer that he must put him in 
 a way of doing something, until he. Lord Carrick, was in funds 
 again. Candid as ever Roland could be, the Earl made no 
 secret whatever of that gentleman's penniless condition, enlarg- 
 ing on the fact that to go dinnerless, as a rule, could not be 
 good for him, and that he should not exactly like to see him 
 set up in the hot-pie line in Poplar. Mr. Greatorex, perhaps 
 nearly as much taken aback as Sir. Richard Yorke had been on a 
 similar occasion, glanced at his son Bede, who was present, 
 and hesitated. He did not refuse point-blank — as he might 
 have done by almost any one else. Lord Carrick was a valu- 
 able client, his business bringing in every year a good portion 
 of feathers to the Greatorex nest, and old Mr. Greatorex was 
 sensible of the fact. Still, he did not see what he could do 
 for one who, like Roland, was in the somewhat anomalous 
 position of being nephew to an earl and a baronet, but reduced 
 to contemplate embarking in the hot-pie trade. 
 
 " We might give him a stool in our office, Lord Carrick, for 
 it happens that we are short of a clerk : and pay him — pay him 
 — twenty shillings a week. As a temporary thing, of course." 
 
 To one who has not had a dinner for days, twenty shillings
 
 ARRIVING FROM PORT NATAL. 87 
 
 a week seems a fortune ; and Roland started up and grasped 
 the elder lawyer's hand. 
 
 " I'll earn it," he said, his voice and eyes beaming with 
 gratitude. " I'll work for you till I drop." 
 
 JMr. Greatorex smiled. " The work will not be very hard, 
 Mr. Yorke ; writing, and going on errands occasionally. If 
 you do come," he pointedly added, " you must be ready to 
 perform anything you may be directed to do, just as an ordinary 
 clerk would." 
 
 " Ready and willing too," responded Roland. 
 
 " We have room for a certain number of clerks oaly," pro- 
 ceeded Mr. Greatorex, who was desirous that there should be 
 no misunderstanding in the bargain ; " each one has his 
 appointed work and must get through it. Can you copy 
 deeds ? " 
 
 " Can'^ I," unceremoniously replied Roland. " I was nearly 
 worked to death with old Galloway, of Helstonleigh." 
 
 " Were you ever with him ? " cried Mr. Greatorex, in sur- 
 prise, for Mr. Galloway was known to him." 
 
 " Yes, for years ; and part of the time had all the care of 
 the office on my shoulders," was Roland's ready answer. 
 " There was only Galloway then, beside myself, and //e was 
 not good for much. Why ! the amount of copying I had to 
 do was so great, I thought I should have dropped into my 
 grave. Lord Carrick knows it." 
 
 Lord Carrick did, in so far as that he had heard Roland 
 repeatedly assert it, and nodded assent. Mr. Greatorex 
 thought the services of so experienced a clerk must be invalu- 
 able to any house, and felt charmed to have secured them. 
 
 And thus it arose that Roland Yorke was entering the office 
 of Greatorex and Greatorex. He was to be a clerk there to all 
 intents and purposes, just as he had been in the old days at 
 Mr. Galloway's. And yet, when he entered that morning, after 
 his summersault out of the hansom cab, with a five-pound note 
 in his pocket that Lord Carrick had contrived to spare him, 
 and unlimited credit at his lordship's tailor's, hatter's, and boot- 
 maker's, Roland's buoyant heart and hopes were as radiant as 
 if he had suddenly come into a fortune.
 
 88 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 
 
 "You can go to your dinner, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 The clocks were striking one, as Brown, the manager, gave 
 tlie permission. Roland, to whom dinner was an agreeable 
 interlude, especially under the circumstances of possessing 
 money to pay for it, leaped off his stool, and caught up his hat. 
 
 "Are you not coming. Hurst ?" 
 
 Mr. Hurst shook his head. " Little Jenner goes now. I 
 stay until he comes back." 
 
 Little Jenner had been making his own preparations to go ; 
 brushing his hat, drawing down his waistcoat, gingerly arrang- 
 ing his mass of soft fair hair. He was remarkably small ; and 
 these very small men are often very great dandies. Roland, 
 who had shaken off the old pride in his rubs with the world, 
 waited outside for him. 
 
 "Jenner, d'you know of a good dining-place about here?" 
 he asked, as they stood together, looking like a giant and 
 dwarf. 
 
 The clerk hesitated. The place that he considered good 
 enough for himself might not appear good to the nephew of Sir 
 Richard Yorke. 
 
 " I generally go to a house in Tottenham-Court Road, sir. 
 It's a clean place, and the meat's excellent ; but one sees all 
 kinds of people there, and you may not think it up to you." 
 
 " Law, bless you ! " cried Roland. " When a fellow has 
 knocked about for four years in the streets of Port Natal, he 
 doesn't retain much ceremony about him. Let's go to it. Do 
 you know of any lodgings to be let in these parts, Jenner.?" he 
 continued. " I shall get some as near to Greatorex's as I can. 
 One does not want a three or four miles' dance night and 
 morning." 
 
 Jenner said he did not know of any, but would help Mr. 
 Yorke to look for some that evening if he liked. And they 
 had turned into Tottenham-Court Road, when Jenner stopped 
 to speak to some one he had met : a very dark litt^e woman, 
 who was bustling by with a black and white basket in her hand.
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 89 
 
 ''How d'ye do, Mrs. Jones? How's Mr. Ollivera?" 
 
 "Now, I've not the lime to stand bothering with you, 
 Jenner," was the tart retort. " Call in any evening you like, 
 as I've told you before ; but I'm up to my eyes in errands now." 
 
 Roland Yorke, whose attention had' been attracted to some- 
 thing in a shop-window, wheeled round at the voice, and stared 
 at the speaker. Jenner had called her Mrs. Jones ; but Roland 
 fully believed no person in the world except one could own 
 that voice. A voice that struck on every chord of his memory, 
 as connected with Helstonleigh. 
 
 " It is Mrs. Jenkins ! " cried Roland, seizing the stranger's 
 hands. "What on earth does he mean by calling you Mrs. 
 Jones?" 
 
 "Ah," she groaned, "I am Mrs. Jones, more's the pity. 
 Let it pass now, Mr. Yorke. I should have known you any- 
 where." 
 
 " You don't mean to say you are living in London ? " re- 
 turned Roland. 
 
 "Yes, I am. In Gower Street. Come and see me, Mr. 
 Yorke ; Jenner will show you the house. Did you make your 
 fortune at Port Natal ? You were always telling Jenkins, you 
 know, that you should." 
 
 "And I thought it," said Roland, with emphasis; "but I 
 had no luck, and it turned out a failure. IVon't I come and 
 see you ! I say, Mrs. Jenkins, do you remember the toasted 
 muffins that Jenkins wouldn't eat?" 
 
 Mrs. Jones nodded at the reminiscence. She went bustling 
 on her way, and they went theirs. Roland for once was rather 
 silent. Mingling with the satisfaction he experienced in meet- 
 ing any one from Helstonleigh, especially one so associated 
 with the old life as Mrs. Jenkins had been, came the thoughts 
 of the past years ; his defeats and failures ; the mortification 
 that invariably lay on his heart when he had to tell of what the 
 years had brought him. He had now met two of the old 
 people in one day ; Hurst and Mrs. Jones ; or, as Roland still 
 called her, Mrs. Jenkins. Cords would not have dragged 
 Roland to Helstonleigh : his mother, with the rest of them at 
 home, had come over to Ireland to spend part of the summer 
 at Lord Carrick's, soon after Roland's return from Port Natal ; 
 but he would not go to see them in the old home city. With 
 the exception of scraps of news learnt from Hurst that day, 
 Roland knew nothing about Helstonleigh's later years.
 
 90 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Look here, Jenner ! What brings her name Jones ? It 
 used to be Jenkins." 
 
 "I think I have heard that it was Jenkins once," replied 
 Jenner, reflectively. " She must have married Jones after 
 Jenkins died. Did you know him ? " 
 
 "Did I know him?" echoed Roland, to whom the question 
 sounded very superfluous. " I should just think I did know 
 him. Why, for years he was chief clerk to Galloway, that can- 
 tankerous old proctor I was with. Jenkins was as good a 
 fellow as ever lived, meek and patient, and of course Mrs. J. 
 put upon him. She wouldn't allow him to have the least will : 
 he couldn't dress himself in a morning unless she chose to let 
 him. Which she didn't always." 
 
 " Not let him dress himself?" 
 
 " It's true," affirmed Roland, diving into the old grievances. 
 " Our office was in an awful state of work at that time ; and 
 because Jenkins had a cough she'd lock up his boots to keep 
 him at home. It wasn't his fault ; he'd have come in his coffin. 
 Jones, whoever he may be, must have had the courage of a wolf 
 to venture on her. Does he look like one ? " 
 
 " I never saw him," said Jenner. " I think he's dead, 
 too." 
 
 " Couldn't stand it, I suppose ? My opinion is, it was her 
 tongue took off poor Jenkins. He was as mild as milk. Not 
 that she's a bad lot at bottom, mind you, Jenner. I wonder 
 what brought her to London ? " 
 
 " I don't know anything about her affairs," said Jenner. 
 " The Reverend Henry William Ollivera has rooms in her 
 house. And I go to see him now and then. That's all." 
 
 " Who is the Reverend William Ollivera ? " 
 
 " Curate of a parish close by. His brother, a barrister, had 
 chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and I was his clerk. Four years 
 ago he went the Oxford circuit, and met his death at Helston- 
 leigh. It was a shocking affair, and happened in the Joneses' 
 house. They lived at Helstonleigh then. Mrs. Jones's sister 
 went in one morning and found him dead in his chair." 
 
 " My goodness ! " cried Roland. " Was it a fit ? " 
 
 " Worse than that. He took away his own life. And I have 
 never been able to understand it from that hour to this, for, as 
 every one said, he was the most unlikely man living to do such 
 a thing. The Grcatorexes interested themselves to get me a 
 fresh place, giving me some temporary work in their office. It
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 91 
 
 ended in my remaining with them. They find me useful, and 
 pay me well. It's four years now, since it happened." 
 
 "Just one year before I got home from Natal," casually re- 
 marked Roland. 
 
 " He sends for me sometimes," continued Mr. Jenner, pur- 
 suing his own thoughts, which were running on the clergyman, 
 " When any fresh idea occurs to him, he writes off for me, 
 post haste ; and when I get there he puts all sorts of questions 
 to me, about the old times in Lincoln's Inn. You see, he has 
 always held that Mr. Ollivera did not commit suicide, and lias 
 ever since been trying to get evidence to prove it. The hope 
 never seems to die out in him, or to be at rest ; it is as fresh 
 as it was the day he first took it up," 
 
 Roland felt a little puzzled. " Did Mr. Oliivera commit 
 suicide, or didn't he ? Which do you mean ? " 
 
 Jenner shook his head. " I think he did, unlikely though it 
 seemed. All the circumstances proved it, and no one doubted 
 it except the Reverend Mr. Ollivera. Bede Greatorex, who 
 was the last person to see him alive, thinks there can be no 
 doubt whatever about it. I heard him say it was just one of 
 William Ollivera's crotchets, and not the first by a good many 
 that he had taken up. The clergyman used to be for ever 
 coming into the office talking about it, saying should he do 
 this, that, or the other, until Bede told him he couldn't have 
 it; it was too great an interruption to the business," 
 
 " What has Bede Greatorex to do with it ? Why should 
 Ollivera come to him ? " 
 
 " Bede Greatorex has nearly as much to do with it as the 
 clergyman. He and the two Olliveras were cousins. Bede 
 Greatorex was awfully cut up at the death : he'd be glad to think 
 there was doubt attending it ; but, as a sensible man, he can't 
 think it. They buried Mr, Ollivera like a dog." 
 
 " ^Vhat did they do that for ? " 
 
 " The verdict was felo-de-se. Mr. Hurst can tell you all 
 about it ; he was at Helstonleigh at the time : says he never 
 in his life saw such a scene as the funeral. It was a moonlight 
 night, and half the town was there." 
 
 " I'll get it all out of him," quoth Roland, who had lost none 
 of his propensity for indulging in gossip. 
 
 "Don't ask him in the office," advised Jenner, "Brown 
 would stop you at the first word. He never allows a syllable 
 to be dropped on the subject. I asked him one day what it
 
 92 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 was to him, and he answered that it was not seemly to allude 
 to the affair in the house, as Mr. Ollivera had been a connec- 
 tion of the Greatorexes. My own idea is that Brown must 
 have known something of it at the time, and does not Ulce it 
 mentioned on his own score," confidentially added little Jenner, 
 who was of a shrewd turn of mind. " I once saw him change 
 colour over it." 
 
 " Who is Brown ? " questioned Roland. 
 
 " That's more than I can say," was the reply. " He's an 
 uncommonly efficient clerk ; but, once out of the office, he 
 keeps himself to himself, and makes friends with none of us. 
 Here we are, sir." 
 
 The eating-house, however unsuited it might be to one hold- 
 ing his own as the nephew of an English baronet, to say 
 nothing of an Irish peer, was welcome as sun in harvest to 
 hungry Roland. He ordered a magnificent dinner, off-hand : 
 changed his five-pound note to pay for it, and gave a shilling 
 to the man who waited on them. Little Jenner went out with 
 his face beaming. 
 
 "We must make the best of our way back, Mr. Yorke. 
 Time's up." 
 
 " Oh, is it, though," cried Roland. " I'm not going back yet. 
 I shall take a turn round to see Mrs. Jenkins ; there are five 
 hundred things I want to ask her." 
 
 One can only be civil to a man who has just treated one to 
 a good dinner, and Jenner did not like to tell Roland point- 
 blank that he had better not go anywhere except to the office. 
 
 " They are awfully strict about time in our place," cried he ; 
 "and we are busy just now. I must make haste back, sir." 
 
 "All right," said easy Roland. " Say I am coming." 
 
 His long legs went flying off in the direction of Gower Street, 
 Jenner having given him instructions how to find it ; and he 
 burst in upon Mrs. Jones in her sitting-room without the least 
 ceremony, very much as he would do in the old days when she 
 was Mrs. Jenkins. Mrs. Jones had been for some time now 
 given to wishing that she had not changed her name. Doing 
 very well as the widow Jenkins, years ago, in her little hosier's 
 shop in High Street, Helstonleigh, what was her mortification to 
 find one day that the handsome house next door, with its plate- 
 glass windows, had been opened as another hosier's by a Mr. 
 Richard Jones. Would customers continue to patronize her, 
 wlien that imposing shop next door was staring them in the
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 93 
 
 face ? The widow Jenkins feared not ; and fretted herself to 
 fiddle-strings. 
 
 The fear might have had no foundation : the show kept up 
 at the adjoining house was perhaps artificial rather than real. 
 Richard Jones (whom the city had already begun to designate 
 as Dicky) turned out to be of a sociable nature. He made 
 her acquaintance whether she would or no, and suddenly pro- 
 posed that she should unite the two businesses by making her- 
 self, and her connection, over to him. Mrs. Jenkins's first 
 impulse was to throw at his head the nearest parcel that came 
 to hand. Familiarity with an idea, however, sometimes recon- 
 ciles its worst opponent to it ; as at length it reconciled Mrs. 
 Jenkins to this one. To give her her due, she took no account 
 whatever of Mr. Jones in the matter ; he went for nothing ; a 
 waste bale flung in to make weight ; she should rule him just 
 as she had ruled Jenkins ; her sole temptation was the flourish- 
 ing shop, and the well-furnished house. So Mrs. Jenkins ex- 
 changed her name for that of Jones, and removed, bag and 
 baggage; resigning the inferior home that had so long sheltered 
 her. It was close upon this, that one of the barristers, coming 
 in to the summer assizes at Helstonleigh, took apartments at 
 Mrs. Jones's. That was Mr. OUivera : and in the following 
 March, when he came again, occurred his tragical ending. 
 
 Before this, long before it, Mrs. Jones had come to realize 
 the truth of the homely proverb. All is not gold that glitters. 
 Mr. Jones's connection did not prove to be extensive ; far from 
 it ; the imposing stock turned out to be three parts dummies ; 
 and she grew to believe — to see — that his motive in marrying 
 her had been to uphold his newly-established business with the 
 aid of her old customers. The knowledge did not tend to 
 improve her naturally tart disposition ; neither did the fact 
 that her husband took a great deal of pleasure abroad, spent 
 money recklessly, and left her to do all the work. Mr. Jones's 
 debts came out, one after the other ; more than could be paid ; 
 and one morning some men of the law quietly took possession 
 of the effects. Things had come to a crisis. Mr. Jones, after 
 battling out affairs with the bankruptcy commissioner, started 
 for America. His wife went off to London. Certain money, 
 her own past savings, she had been wise enough to secure for 
 her separate use, and that could not be touched. With a 
 portion of it she bought-in some of the furniture, and set up as 
 
 a lodginghouse-keeper in Gower Street.
 
 94 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Had Roland Yorke ever seen the parlour at Helstonle'igli 
 (which tlie reader had the satisfaction of once entering with 
 Mr. Butterby), he might almost have thought this the same 
 room. The red carpet on the floor, the small book-shelves, 
 the mahogany sideboard with its array of glasses, the horse- 
 hair chairs, the red cloth on the centre table, all had been 
 transplanted to London. When Roland bustled in, he found 
 Mrs. Jones knitting away at lambs'-wool socks, as if for her 
 life. In her leisure intervals, she did this for sale, and realized 
 a very fair profit by it. 
 
 " Now then," said Roland, unceremoniously stirring up 
 the fire, and making himself at home, as he liked to do 
 wherever he might be : "I want to know all about every- 
 body." 
 
 Mrs. Jones turned her chair towards him with a jerk ; and 
 Roland put question after question about the old city, which 
 he had so abruptly quitted more than seven years ago. It 
 may be that Mrs. Jones recognized in him a sort of fellow- 
 sufferer. Neither of them cared to see Helstonleigh again, 
 unless under more propitious auspices than the present. Any 
 way, she was gracious to Roland, and gave him information as 
 fast as he asked for it, repeating some things he had heard 
 before. He persisted in calling her Mrs. Jenkins, saying it 
 came more natural than the other name. 
 
 Mr. Channing was dead. His eldest son Hamish lived in 
 London. Arthur was Mr. Galloway's right hand ; Tom was a 
 clergyman, and just made a minor canon of the old cathedral; 
 Charley Mrs. Jones knew nothing about, except that he was in 
 India. The college school had a new master. Mr. Ketch 
 was reposing in a damp green nook, side by side with old 
 Jenkins the bedesman. Hamish Channing's bank had come 
 to grief, Mrs. Jenkins did not know how. In the panic, she 
 believed. 
 
 "And that beautiful kinsman of mine, William Yorke, reigns 
 at Hazeldon, and old Galloway is flourishing in his oflice, witli 
 his flaxen curls ! " cried Roland, suddenly struck with a weighty 
 sense of injustice. "The bad people get the luck of it in this 
 world, Mrs. Jenkins ; the deserving ones go begging. Hamish 
 Channing's bank come to grief; — bright Hamish! And look 
 at me ! — and you ! I never saw such a world as this, with its 
 miserable ups and downs." 
 
 "Ah," said Mrs. Jones, with a touch of her native tartness,
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 95 
 
 " it's good that there's another world to come after. We may 
 find that a better one." 
 
 The remote prospect did not appear to afford Roland any 
 present satisfaction. He sat pulling his whiskers, moodily re- 
 senting Fortune's blindness in regard to merit, and then sud- 
 denly began upon his own affairs. 
 
 " I say, Mrs. J." — a compromise between the two names, and 
 serving for either — " I want a lodging. Couldn't you let me 
 come here ? ''' 
 
 She looked up briskly. " What sort of a lodging ? I mean 
 as to position and price." 
 
 " Oh, something comfortable," said Roland. 
 
 Perhaps for old acquaintance' sake, perhaps because she had 
 some apartments vacant, Mrs. Jones appeared to regard the 
 proposition with no disfavour; and began to talk of her house's 
 accommodation. 
 
 " The rooms on the first floor are good and well furnished," 
 she said. " When I was about it, Mr. Yorke, I thought I 
 might as well have things nice as not ; one finds the return ; 
 and the drawing-room floor naturally gets served the best. 
 There's a piano in the front room, and the bedroom behind it 
 is very comfortable." 
 
 "Just the very thing for me," cried Roland, rising in excite- 
 ment. " What's the rent ? " 
 
 "They are let for a pound a week. Mr. " 
 
 "That will do; I'll pay it," said he, eagerly. "I don't play 
 the piano myself, but it may be useful if I give a party. You'll 
 cook for me ? " 
 
 "Of course we'll cook," said Mrs. Jones. "But I was 
 about to tell you that those rooms are let to a clergyman. If 
 you 
 
 Roland had come to an anchor at the table, and the look of 
 dismay on his face arrested Mrs. Jones's speech. " \Vhat's the 
 matter ? " she asked. 
 
 "Mrs. J., I couldn't give it; I was forgetting. They are 
 to pay me a pound a week at Greatorex's ; but I can't si)end 
 it all in lodgings, I'm afraid. There'll be other things 
 wanted." 
 
 " Other things ! " ejaculated Mrs. Jones. " I should think 
 there would be other things. Food, and firing, and light, and 
 wear and tear of clothes, and washing ; and a hundred extras 
 beside."
 
 96 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Roland sat in perplexity. Ways and means seem to have 
 contracted together. 
 
 "Couldn't you let me one room? A room with a turn-up 
 bedstead in it, Mrs. Jenkins, or something of that sort? 
 Couldn't you take the pound a week, and do for me ? '' 
 
 " I don't know but I might make some such arrangement, 
 and let you have the front parlour," she slowly said. " We've 
 a Scripture reader in the back one." 
 
 Roland started up impulsively to look at the front parlour, 
 intending to take it, offhand. As they left the room, Roland 
 saw a tall, fair, good-looking young woman, who stopped and 
 asked some question of Mrs. Jones, which that lady answered 
 sharply. 
 
 *' I have no time to talk about trifles now, Alletha." 
 
 " Who's that ? " cried Roland, as they entered the parlour : 
 a small room with a dark paper and faded red curtains. 
 
 " It's my sister, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 " I say, Mrs. J., this is a stunning room," exclaimed Roland, 
 who was in that eager mood of his, when all things looked 
 couleur-de-rose. " Can I come in to-day ? " 
 
 " You can come to-morrow, if we agree. That sofa lets down 
 into a bedstead at night. You must not get into my debt, 
 though, Mr. Yorke," she added, in the straightforward way 
 that was habitual to her. " I couldn't afford it, and I tell you 
 so beforehand." 
 
 "I'll never do that," said Roland, earnestly. "I'll bring 
 you home the pound every week, and then I shan't be tempted 
 to change it. Look here"— taking two sovereigns from his 
 pocket — " that's to steer on ahead with. Does she live here?" 
 he added, going back to the subject of Miss Rye. " Alletha, 
 do you call her ? what an odd name ! " 
 
 "The name was a mistake of the parson's when she was 
 christened. It was to have been Allcthea. I've had her with 
 me four or five years now. She is a dressmaker, Mr. Yorke, 
 and works sometimes at home, and sometimes out." 
 
 " She'd be uncommonly good-looking if she were not such 
 a shadow," commented Roland, with candour. 
 
 Mrs. Jones gave her head a toss, as if the topic displeased 
 her " Shadow, indeed ! Yes, and she's likely to be one. 
 Never was any pig more obstinate than she." 
 
 "Pigs!" cried Roland, with energy. "You should see the 
 obstinacy of Natal pigs, Mrs. J. /have. , Drove 'em too."
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 97 
 
 "It couldn't equal hers," disputed Mrs. J., with intense 
 resentment. "She is wedded to the memory of a runaway 
 villain, Mr. Yorke, that's what she is ! A good opportunity 
 presented itself to her lately of settling, but she wouldn't take 
 it. She'd sooner fret out her life after hint, than look upon an 
 honest man. And a runaway too ; a man who disgraced him- 
 self!" 
 
 " What did he do?" asked curious Roland. 
 
 "It's not very good to repeat," said Mrs. Jones, tartly. 
 "She lived in Birmingham, our native place, till the mother 
 died, and then she came to me at Helstonleigh. First thing 
 she tells me was, that she was engaged to be married to some 
 young man in an office there, George Winter : and over she 
 goes to Birmingham the next Christmas on a visit to her aunt, 
 on purpose to meet him : stays there a week, and comes home 
 again. Well, Mr. Yorke, this grand young man, this George 
 AVinter, about whom I had my doubts, though I'd never seen 
 him, got into trouble before three months had gone by. He 
 and a fellow-clerk did something wrong with the money, and 
 Winter decamped." 
 
 " I wonder if he went to Port Natal ? " mused Roland. " We 
 had some queer people over there." 
 
 " It doesn't much matter where he went," returned Mrs. 
 Jones, hotly. " He did go, and he never came back, and he 
 took Alletha's common sense away with him. What with him 
 and what with the dreadful aftair at our house of that poor Mr. 
 Ollivera, she has never since been herself. Both events hap- 
 pened about the same time." 
 
 Roland recalled what he had recently heard from Jenncr 
 regarding the death of the barrister, and felt a little at sea. 
 
 "What was Ollivera to her.?" he asked. 
 
 " What ! why, nothing," said Mrs. Jones. " And she's no 
 better than a lunatic to have taken it as she did. AVhether it's 
 that, or whether it's pining after the other precious runaway, 
 / don't know, but one of the two's preying upon her. There's 
 Mr. Ollivera ! " 
 
 Roland went to the window. In the street, talking, stood 
 a dark, small man, dressed as a clergyman, with a grave, but 
 not unpleasant face, and sad, dark eyes. 
 
 " Oh, that's Mr. Ollivera, is it ? " (luolh Roland. " He looks 
 another shadow." 
 
 "And it is another case of obstinacy," rejoined Mrs. Jones. 
 
 Roland Yorke. i
 
 ^8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " He has refused all along to believe that his brother com- 
 mitted suicide; you could as soon make him think the sun 
 never shone in. the sky. He comes to my parlour and talks 
 to me about it by the hour together, note-case in hand, till 
 Alletha can't sit any longer, and goes rushing off with her work 
 like any mad woman." 
 
 "Why should she rush off? What harm does it do to 
 
 her?" 
 
 " I don't know : it's one of those puzzles I can't make out. 
 His coming here was a curious thing, Mr. Yorke. One day I 
 was standing at the front door, and saw a young clergyman 
 passing. He looked at me, and stopped ; and I knew him for 
 Henry Ollivera, though we had only met at the time of the 
 death. When I told him I had rooms to let, for it struck me 
 that perhaps he might be able to recommend them, he looked 
 out in that thoughtful, dreamy way he has (look at his eyes 
 now, Mr. Yorke !), seeing nothing, I'm certain ; and then said 
 he'd go up and look at them ; and up we went. Would you 
 believe that he took them on the spot ? " 
 
 " What a brick ! " cried Roland, who was following Mrs. 
 Jones very imperfectly. " I'll take this one." 
 
 " Alletha gave a cry when she heard he was coming, and said 
 it was Fate. I asked what she meant by that, but she wouldn't 
 open her lips further. He took possession of the rooms within 
 the week ; and I say, Mr. Yorke, that. Fate or not Fate, he had 
 but one object in coming — to get to the bottom of that past 
 calamity. His poor mistaken mind is ever on the rack for 
 light. It's like that search one reads of, after the philosopher's 
 
 stone." 
 
 Roland laughed. He was not very profound himself, but 
 the philosopher's stone and Mrs. Jones seemed utterly at 
 variance with each other. 
 
 " It does," she said. " For there's no stone to be found in 
 the one case, and no discovery to be made in the other, beyond 
 what has been made already. I don't say this to the parson, 
 Mr. Yorke ; I listen to him and humour him for the sake of 
 his dead brother." 
 
 "Well, I shan't bother you about dead people, Mrs. J., so 
 you may let me the room." 
 
 The bargain was not a difficult one to make. Roland agreed 
 to every suggestion. He had fallen into good hands. What- 
 ever might be Mrs. Jones's faults of manner and temper, she
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 99 
 
 was strictly ju-st, regarding Roland's interests at least in an 
 equal degree with her own. 
 
 " Do you know," said Roland, nursing his knee when the 
 bargain was concluded, " I have never felt so much at home 
 since I left Helstonleigh, as I did just now by your fire, Mrs. 
 J. ? I'm uncommonly glad I came here." 
 
 He Avas genuine in what he said : indeed Roland could only 
 be genuine always, too much so sometimes. Mrs. J. — as he 
 called her — brought back so vividly the old home-life of his 
 boyhood, now gone by for ever, that it was like being in 
 Helstonleigh again. 
 
 " My eldest brother, George, is dead," said Roland. "Gerald 
 is grand with his chambers and his club, and is married 
 besides, but I've not seen him. Tod is in the army : do you 
 remember him ? An awful young scamp he was, his face all 
 colours from fighting, and his clothes so torn that Lady Augusta 
 used to threaten to send him to school without them. Where's 
 your husband number two, Mrs. J. ? " 
 
 " It's to be hoped he is where he will never come back from ; 
 he w^ent sailing off three years ago from Liverpool," she answered 
 sharply ; for, of all sore subjects, her second marriage was the 
 worst. " Any way, I have made myself and my goods secure 
 from him." 
 
 "Perhaps /le's at Port Natal, driving pigs. He'll find out 
 what they are, if he is." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera was turning towards the house. Roland 
 opened the parlour door when he had passed it, to look after 
 him. 
 
 Some one else was there. Peering from a dark nook in the 
 passage, her lips slightly parted, her eyes strained after the 
 clergyman with a strange fear in their depths, stood Alletha 
 Rye. Mr. Ollivera suddenly turned back, as though he had 
 forgotten something, and she shrank out of sight. Mrs. Jones 
 introduced Roland. " Mr. Roland Yorke." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera's face was thin ; his dark brown eyes shone with 
 a flashing, restless, feverish light. Be very sure that when that 
 peculiar light is seen, it betokens a mind ill at rest. The eyes 
 fixed themselves on Roland : and perhaps there was something 
 in the tall, fine form, the good-natured countenance, that touched 
 a chord in Mr. Ollivera's memory. 
 
 " Any relative of the Yorkes of Helstonleigh ? " 
 
 " I should think so," said Roland, " I am a Yorke of Helston-
 
 loo ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 leigh. But I've not been there since I went to Port Natal, 
 seven years ago. Do you know them, Mr. Ollivera ? " 
 
 " I know a Httle of the minor-canon, William Yorke ; 
 and " 
 
 " Oh ! he ! " curtly interrupted Roland, with a great amount 
 of scorn. " He is a beauty to know." 
 
 The remark, so like a flash of boyish resentment, excited a 
 slight smile in Mr. Ollivera. 
 
 " Bill Yorke showed himself a cur once in his life, and it's 
 not I who's going to forget it. He would have cared for my 
 telling him of it, too, had I come back with a few millions from 
 Port Natal, and gone about Helstonleigh in my carriage and 
 four." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera said a few courteous words about hoping to 
 improve Roland's acquaintance, and departed, Roland 
 suddenly remembered his office, and tore away at full speed. 
 
 Never slackening until he reached the house of Greatorex 
 and Greatorex. There he very nearly knocked down a little 
 girl who had just come out from the private entrance. Roland 
 turned to apologize ; but the words died on his lips, and he 
 stood as one suddenly struck dumb. 
 
 In the pretty young lady, one of two who were talking in the 
 passage, and looked round at the commotion, Roland thought 
 he recognized an old friend, now the wife of his cousin William 
 Yorke. He bounded in and seized her hands. 
 
 " You are Constance Channing ? " 
 
 " No, " replied the young lady, with wondering eyes ; " I am 
 Annabel." 
 
 ]\Ir. Roland Yorke's first movement was to take possession 
 of the sweet face, and kiss it. Blushing, almost weeping, the 
 young lady drew back against the wall. 
 
 " How dare you? "she demanded, in astonished resentment. 
 "Are you out of your mind, sir?" 
 
 " Good gracious, Annabel, don't you know me ? I am your 
 old playfellow, Roland Yorke." 
 
 "Does that give you any right to insult me? I might have 
 known it was no one else," she added, in the moment's anger. 
 
 " Why, Annabel, it was only done in great joy. I used to 
 kiss you, you remember : you were a little mite then, and I 
 was a big tease. Oh, I am glad to see you ! I would rather 
 have met you than all the rest of the world. You can't be 
 angry with me. Shake hands and be friends."
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. loi 
 
 To remain long at variance with Roland was one of the 
 impossibilities of life. He possessed himself of Annabel 
 Channing's hand and nearly shook it off. With his hearty 
 words, and (may it be confessed, even of Annabel) the flattery 
 of his praises and general admiration, Annabel's smiles 
 broke forth. Roland's eyes seemed as if they would devour 
 her. 
 
 " I say, I never saw any one so pretty in all my life. Just 
 what Constance used to be. I thought it was Constance, you 
 know. Was she not mad, though, to go and forgive that 
 miserable William Yorke ? " 
 
 Standing near, having looked on with a smile of pity mingled 
 with amusement, was a lady in fashionable attire, and a 
 marvellous amount of hair on her head. 
 
 "I should have known Roland Yorke anywhere," she said, 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 " Why, if I don't believe it's one of the Joliffes !" 
 
 " Hush, Roland," said Annabel, hastening to rebuke his 
 freedom ; and her tone proved that she had nearly forgiven him 
 on her own score. " This is Mrs. Bede Greatorex." 
 
 " Formerly Louisa Joliffe," put in that lady. " Now do you 
 know me ? " 
 
 "I never met with so strange a thing," cried Roland. 
 " That makes three — four — of the old Helstonleigh people I 
 have met to-day. Hurst, Mrs. J., and now you two. I think 
 there must be magic in it." 
 
 "You must come and see me soon, Roland," said IMrs, 
 Greatorex, as she went out. Miss Channing waited for the 
 child, Jane Greatorex, who had run off in her wilful manner 
 to her uncle Eede's office. Roland offered to fetch her. 
 
 "Thank you," said Miss Channing. "Do you know his 
 room ? " 
 
 "Know it ! law bless you !" cried Roland. "What do you 
 suppose I am, Annabel ? Clerk to Greatorex and Greatorex." 
 
 Her cheeks flushed with surprise. " Clerk to Greatorex and 
 Greatorex ! I thought you went to Port Natal to make your 
 fortune." 
 
 " But I did not make it. It has been nothing but knocking 
 about. Carrick is a trump, as he always was, but he's floored 
 himself sometimes ; and that's his case now. If they had not 
 given me a stool here, through his influence, I'm not sure but 
 I should have gone into the hot-pie line."
 
 102 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "The— what?" 
 
 " The hot-pie line ; crying them in the streets, you know, 
 with a basket and a white apron, and a paper cap on. There's 
 a fine opening for it down in Poplar." 
 
 Miss Channing burst into laughter. 
 
 " It would be nothing to a fellow who has been over there," 
 avowed Roland, alluding to Port Natal. And then leaping to 
 a widely different subject in his lightness, he said something 
 that brought tears to her eyes, a tremor to her lips. 
 
 " It was so good in the old days ; all us children together ; 
 we were no better than children. And Mr. Channing is gone, 
 I hear ! I am so sorry, Annabel ! " 
 
 "Two years ago last February," she said in hushed tones. 
 "We have just gone out of mourning for him. Mamma is in 
 the dear old house, and Arthur and Tom live with her. Will 
 you please look for Jane, Mr. Yorke ? " 
 
 " Now I vow ! " — burst forth Roland in a heat. " I won't 
 stand that, you know. If ever you call me ' Mr. Yorke ' again, 
 I'll go back to Port Natal." 
 
 She laughed a little pleasant laugh of embarrassment. 
 " Please, I want my pupil. I cannot go myself into the offices 
 to look for her." 
 
 At that moment Jane Greatorex came dancing up, and was 
 captured. Roland stood at the door to watch them away, 
 exchanged a few light words with a clerk then entering, and 
 finally busded into the office. 
 
 "Am I late ?" began Roland, with characteristic indifference. 
 " I'm very sorry, Mr. Brown. I was looking at some lodgings ; 
 and I met an old friend or two. It all hindered me, but I'll 
 soon make up for it." 
 
 " You have been away two hours and a half, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 "It's more, I think," said Roland. "I assure you I did my 
 best to get back. You'll soon find what I can get through, 
 Mr. Brown." 
 
 Mr. Brown made no reply whatever. Jenner was absent, 
 but Hurst was at his post, writing, and the faint hum of voices 
 in the adjoining room, betrayed that some client was holding 
 conference with Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 Roland resumed his copying where he had left off, and 
 wrote for a quarter-of-an-hour without speaking. Unheard of 
 diligence ! At the end of that time he looked up for a little 
 relaxation.
 
 UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 103 
 
 " Hurst, where do you think I am going to lodge ? " 
 
 "How should I know?" responded Mr. Hurst. And 
 Koland told him. 
 
 "Jcnner and I were going along Tottenham-Court Road, 
 and met her," he resumed, after a short interlude of writing. 
 "She looks twentj' years older." 
 
 "That's the effect of her tongue," suggested Mr. Hurst. 
 
 " In the old days down there, I'd as soon have gone to live 
 in a Tartar's house as in hers. But weren't her teas and toasted 
 muffins good 1 Here, in this desert of a place — and it's more 
 of a desert to me than Port Natal — to get into her house will 
 seem like going home again." 
 
 Mr. Brown, looking off his work to refer to a deed, took the 
 opportunity to direct a glance at the opposite desk. Whether 
 Roland took it to himself or not, for a couple of minutes he 
 applied sedulously to writing, 
 
 "I say. Hurst, what a row there is about that dead-and-gone 
 Mr. Ollivera ! " 
 
 " Where's the row ? " 
 
 " Well, it seems to crop up everywhere. Jenner talked 
 about it ; she talked about it ; I hear that other Mr. Ollivera 
 talks about it. You were in the thick of it, they say." 
 
 Hurst nodded. "My father was the surgeon fetched to him 
 when he was found dead, and had to give evidence at the 
 inquest. I went to see him buried ; it was a scene. They 
 stole a march on us, though." 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 " They let us all disperse, and then went and read the burial 
 service over the grave ; Ollivera the clergyman, and three or 
 four others. Arthur Channing was one of ihem." 
 
 " Arthur Channing ! " 
 
 Had any close observer been in the office, he might have 
 noticed that while Mr. Brown's eyes still sought his desk, his 
 pen had ceased to work. His lips were slightly parted ; the 
 tale evidently bore for him as great an interest as it did for the 
 speakers — an interest he did not choose to betray. Had they 
 been speaking loudly, he would have checked the conversation 
 at once with an intimation that it could not concern any one : 
 as they spoke in undertones, he listened at leisure. Mr. Hurst 
 resumed. 
 
 " Yes, Arthur Channing. The rumour ran that W^illiam 
 Yorke had promised to be present, but declined at the last
 
 104 KOLAND YORKE. 
 
 moment, and Arthur Channing voluntarily took his place out 
 of sympathy Avith the dead man's brother." 
 
 " I'ravo, old Arthur! he's the trump he always was. That's 
 the Reverend Bill all over." 
 
 " The Reverend 15111 lent them his surplice. And there they 
 stood, and secretly read the burial service over the poor fellow, 
 just as the old Scotch covenanters held their secret services 
 in caves. Altogether a great deal of romance encircled the 
 affair, and some mystery. One Godfrey Pitman was mixed up 
 in it." 
 
 " Who was Godfrey Pitman ? " 
 
 Hurst dipped his pen slowly into the ink. " No one ever 
 knew. He was lodging in the house, and went away myste- 
 riously the same evening. Plelstonleigh said in joke that there 
 must have been two Godfrey Pitmans. The people of the house 
 swore through thick and thin that the real Godfrey Pitman left 
 at half-past four and went away by rail at five ; others saw him 
 leave the house at dark, and take the eight-o'clock train. It 
 grew into a regular dispute." 
 
 " But had Godfrey Pitman anything to do with Mr. 
 Ollivera ? " 
 
 " Not he." 
 
 " Then where was the good of bringing him up ? " cried 
 Roland. 
 
 "I am only telling you of the different interests that were 
 brought to bear upon it. It was an affair, that death ! " 
 
 The entrance of Mr. Frank Greatorex broke up the colloquy, 
 recalling the clerks to their work. But the attention of one of 
 them had become so absorbed that it was with difficulty he 
 could return to passing matters. 
 
 And that one was Mr. Brown. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 
 
 The year was growing a litde later ; the evenings were lengthen- 
 ing, and the light of the setting sun, illumining the west, threw 
 some of its brightness even on the streets and houses of close, 
 smoky London.
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 105 
 
 It shone on the person of the Reverend Henry William Olli- 
 vcra, as he sat at home, taking his frugal meal, a tea-dinner. 
 The room was a good one, and well furnished in a plain way. 
 The table had been drawn towards one of the windows, oi)en 
 to the huni of the street. INIr. 011i\'cra was of very simple 
 habits, partly because he really cared little how he lived, partly 
 because the scenes of distress and privation he met with daily 
 'in his ministrations read him a lesson that he was not slow to 
 take to heart. How could he pamper himself with rich food, 
 when so many within a stone's-throw were starving for want of 
 bread? His landlady, J\Irs. Jones, gave him sound lectures on 
 occasion, telling him to his face that he was trying his best to 
 break down. Sometimes she prepared tempting dinners in spite 
 of him : a fowl, or some other luxury, and Mr. Ollivera smiled 
 and did not say it was not enjoyed. His district was full of 
 poor ; poverty, vice, misery reigned, and ivould reign, in spite 
 of what he could do. Some of the worst phases of London life 
 were ever before him. The great problem, " What shall be 
 done with these ? " arose to his mind day by day. He had 
 his Scripture readers ; he had other help ; but destitution both 
 of body and mind reared itself like a many-headed monster, 
 defying all solution, all endeavour. Sometimes Mr. Ollivera 
 did not come in to dinner at all, but later on would take a 
 mutton-chop with his tea ; as he was doing now. 
 
 Four years had elapsed since his brother's mysterious death 
 (surely it may be called so !) and the conviction on the clergy- 
 man's mind, that the verdict was wholly at variance with the 
 facts, had not in the least abated. Nay, time had only served 
 to strengthen it. Nothing else had strengthened it. No dis- 
 covery had been made, no circumstance, however minute, had 
 arisen to throw light upon it one way or the other. 71ie hoped- 
 for, looked-for communication from the police-agent, Butterby, 
 had never come. In point of fact, Mr. Butterby, as regarded 
 this case, had found himself altogether at sea. Godfrey Pitman 
 did not turn up in response to the threatened " looking after ; " 
 Miss Rye departed for London with her sister when affairs at 
 the Joneses came to a crash ; and, if truth must be told, Mr. 
 Butterby veered round to his original opinion, that the verdict 
 had been a correct one. Once, and once only, that renowned 
 officer had presented himself at the house of Greatorex and 
 Greatorex. Happening to be in London, he thought he would 
 give them a call. But he brought no news. It was a few
 
 lo6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 weeks after the occurrence, and there might not have been time 
 for any to arise. One thing he had requested — to retain posses- 
 sion of the scrap of writing found on the table at the death. It 
 might be useful to him, he said, for of course he should still 
 keep his eyes open : and Mr. Greatorex readily acquiesced. 
 Since then nothing whatever had been heard from Mr. Butterby, 
 or from any other quarter ; but the sad facts were rarely out of 
 the clergyman's mind ; and the positive conviction, the expecta- 
 tion that light would arise sooner or later, burnt within him 
 with a ray sure and true as hope of heaven. 
 
 Not of this, however, was Mr. Ollivera's mind filled this 
 evening. His thoughts were running on the dislieartening 
 scenes of the day ; the difficult men and women he had tried 
 to deal with — some of them meek and resigned, many hard and 
 bad ; all wanting help for their sick bodies or neglected souls. 
 One case in particular had interested him sadly. A man named 
 Gisby, discovered shortly before, lay in a room, slowly dying. 
 He did not want help in kind, as so many did ; but of spiritual 
 help none could be in greater need. Little by little, Mr. 
 OUivera learned his history. It appeared that the man had 
 once been servant in the house of Kene, the Queen's counsel — 
 Judge Kene now : he had been raised to the bench in the past 
 year. During his service there, a silver mug disappeared; 
 circumstances seemed to point to Gisby as guilty, and he was 
 discharged, getting, subsequently, other employment. 
 
 But now, the man was not guiity — as he convinced Mr. 
 Ollivera, and the suspicion appeared to have worked him a 
 great deal of ill, and hardened him. On this day, when the 
 clergyman sat by his bedside, reading and praying, he had 
 turned a deaf ear. " Where's the use ? '' he cried roughly. 
 " Sir Thomas has always thought me guilty." It struck Mr. 
 Ollivera that the man had greatly respected his master, had 
 valued his good opinion, and craved for it still ; and the next 
 morning this was confirmed. " You'll go to him when I'm 
 dead, sir, and tell him, then, that I was not guilty? I never 
 touched the mug, or knew how or where it went." 
 
 Returning home with these words ringing in his ears, Mr. 
 Ollivera could not get the man out of his mind. So long as the 
 se7ise of being wronged lay upon Gisby, so long would he encase 
 himself in his indifference, and refuse to hear. " I must get 
 Kene to go and see the man," decided Mr. Ollivera. " He 
 must hear with his own ears, and sec with his own eyes that he
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY, 107 
 
 was not guilty, and tell him so ; and then Gisby will come 
 round. I wonder if Kene is back from circuit." 
 
 Excessively tired with his day's work, for his frame was not 
 of the strongest, Mr. Ollivera did not care to go out that 
 evening to Sir Thomas Kene's distant residence on the chance 
 of not finding him at home. And yet, if the judge had 
 returned, there ought to be no time lost in communicating with 
 him, for Gisby was daily getting nearer to death. " Bede 
 Greatorex will be able to tell me," suddenly thought Mr. 
 Ollivera, when his tea had long been over and twilight was 
 setting in. " I'll send and ask him." 
 
 Moving to his writing-table, he wrote a short note, reading it 
 over before enclosing it in an envelope, 
 
 "Dear Bede, 
 
 " Can you tell me whether Sir Thomas Kene is in 
 London ? I want particularly to see hini as soon as possible. 
 It is on a little matter connected with my parish work. 
 
 " Truly yours, 
 
 "William Ollivera." 
 
 It was a latent thought that induced Mr. Ollivera to ada tne 
 concluding sentence ; and the motive shall be told. He and 
 Bede Greatorex had come to an issue twice upon the subject 
 of his so persistently cherishing the notion that the now long- 
 past death was anything but a suicide ; or rather, that he should 
 pursue it. Bede heard so much of it from him that he grew 
 vexed, and at length vowed he would listen to him no more. 
 And Mr. Ollivera thought that if Bede fancied he wanted to 
 see Sir Thomas Kene on that subject, he might refuse to 
 answer hiin. 
 
 Ringing the bell, he gave the note to the servant with a re- 
 quest (preferred with an apology and an allusion to his own 
 tired state, for he was one of those who are sensitively chary of 
 giving any extra trouble) that it should be taken to Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex, and an answer waited fon 
 
 But when the girl got downstairs, there arose some slight 
 difficulty ; she was engaged in a necessary household occupa- 
 tion — ironing — and her mistress did not care that she should 
 leave it. Miss Rye stood by with her things on, about to go 
 out on some errand of her own. Ah me ! these apparently 
 trifling chances do not happen accidentally.
 
 io8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "Can't you just step round to Bedford Square, with it, 
 AUetha?" asked Mrs. Jones. " It won't take you far out of 
 your way." 
 
 Miss Rye's silent answer — she seemed always silent now — 
 was to take up the note and go out with it. She knew the 
 house, for she worked occasionally for Mrs. Bede (ireatorex, 
 and was passing to the private entrance when she met Frank 
 Greatorex, coming out at the other door. He wished her 
 good evening, and she told him her errand, showing the note 
 directed to Bede. 
 
 " He is in his office still," said Frank, throwing open the 
 door for her. "Walk in. Mr. Brown, attend here, please." 
 
 Miss Rye stepped into the room, which was lighted only by 
 a shaded lamp on Mr. Brown's desk ; and Frank (Ireatorex, 
 closing the door, was gone again. Mr. Brown, at work as late 
 as his master, came forward. 
 
 " For Mr. Bede Greatorex," said Miss Rye, handing him the 
 note. " I will wait " 
 
 The words were broken off with a faint, sharp cry. A cry, 
 low though it was, of surprise, of terror, of dismay. Both 
 their faces blanched, they stood gazing at each other, she with 
 strained eyes and drawn lips, he with a forced stillness on his 
 features, that nevertheless told of inward emotion. 
 
 " Oh ! " she breathed in her agitation. " Is it you ? 
 
 Miss Rye had heard of Mr. Brown, the managing clerk in 
 the department of Mr. Bede Greatorex. Jenner had mentioned 
 him : Roland Yorke had commented on him and his wig. 
 But that " Mr. Brown " should be the man now standing 
 before her, she had never suspected; no, not in her wildest 
 dreams. 
 
 "Sit down. Miss Rye. You are faint." 
 
 She put his arm from her, as he would have supported her 
 to a seat, and staggered to one by herself. He followed, and 
 stood by her in silence. 
 
 "What are you called /icrc?'' she began— and, it may be, 
 that in the moment's agitation she forgot his assumed name, 
 and really put it as a question, not in condemnation : — 
 " (iodfrey Pitman ? " 
 
 Every instinct of terror the man possessed seemed to rise 
 up within him at sound of the name. He glanced round the 
 room ; at the desks ; at the walls ; as if to assure himself that 
 no ear was there.
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 109 
 
 '^ Hush — sh — sh ! " with a prolonged note of caution. 
 " Never breathe that name, here or elsewhere." 
 
 " What if I were to ? To speak it aloud to all who ought to 
 hear it ? " 
 
 "Why then you would bring a hornets' nest about heads 
 that you little wot of. Their sting might end in worse than 
 death." 
 
 " Death for you ? " 
 
 " No : I should be the hangman." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " Listen, Miss Rye. I cannot tell you what I mean : and 
 your better plan will be never to ask me. If " 
 
 " Better for whom ? " she interrupted. 
 
 " For — well, for me, for one. I'he fact is, that certain in- 
 terests relating to myself and others — certain roiilniscences of 
 the past" he continued with very strong emphasis, "have 
 become so complicated, so interwoven as it were one with the 
 other, that we must in all probability stand or fall together." 
 
 "I do not understand you." 
 
 "I can scarcely expect that you should. But — were any 
 proceeding on your part, any word, whether spoken by design 
 or accident, to lead to that fall, you would rue it to the last 
 hour of your life. That you can at least understand." 
 
 The faintness was passing off, and Miss Rye rose, steadying 
 herself against the railings of Mr. Hurst's desk. At that 
 moment the inner door was unlatched, and the clerk, recalled 
 to present duties, took the note from her unresisting hand. 
 
 " For Mr. Bede Greatorex," he said aloud, glancing at the 
 superscription. " I will give it to him." 
 
 It was Mr. Bede Greatorex who came forth. He took the 
 note, and glanced at Alletha. 
 
 " Ah, INIiss Rye ! Is it you ? " 
 
 " Our maid was busy, so I brought it down," she explained. 
 " Mr. Ollivera is waiting for an answer," 
 
 Bede Greatorex went back to his room, leaving the inter- 
 vening door open. She sat and waited. I\Ir. Brown, whose 
 work was in a hurry, wrote on steadily at his desk by the 
 light of the shaded lamp. A minute or two, and Bede Greato- 
 rex brought her a bit of paper twisted up, and showed her 
 out himself. 
 
 With the errand she had come out to execute for herself 
 gone clean out of her head, Alletha Rye returned home, her
 
 no ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 brain in a whirl. Tlie streets she passed through were crowded 
 with all the bustle and jostle of London life ; but, had she been 
 traversing an African desert, she could not have felt more 
 entirely alone. Her life that night lay within her : and it was 
 one of tumult. 
 
 The note found Mr. Ollivera asleep : as twilight deepened, 
 he had dropped, in sheer weariness, into an unconscious 
 slumber. Untwisting the scrap of paper, he held it near a 
 lighted candle and read the contents : — 
 
 " Dear Henry, 
 
 "Kene is back again, and is coming to us this 
 evening ; we expect two or three friends. Louisa will be 
 pleased if you can join us. Faithfully yours, 
 
 " B. G." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera eschewed gaiety of all kinds, parties included. 
 Over and over again had he been fruitlessly invited to the 
 grand dinners and soire'es given by Mrs. Bede Greatorex, until 
 they left off asking him. " Two or three friends," he repeated 
 as he put down the note. "I don't mind that, for I must see 
 Kene." 
 
 Dressing himself, he was on the point of setting out, when 
 a messenger arrived to fetch him to a sick person ; so that it 
 was half-past ten when he reached the house of Mr. Greatorex. 
 And then, but for his mission to the judge, he would have left 
 it again without entering the reception-rooms. 
 
 Two or three friends ! Lining the wide staircase, crowding 
 the handsome landing, the numerous reception-rooms, there 
 they were ; a crowd of them. Women in the costly and fantastic 
 toilettes of the present day ; men bowing and bending with 
 their evening manners on. Mr. Ollivera resented the crowd as 
 a personal wrong. 
 
 " ' Two or three friends,' you wrote me word, Bede," he said 
 reproachfully, seeing his cousin in a corner near the first door. 
 "You know I do not like these things and never go to them." 
 
 " On my word, Henry, I did not know it was going to be 
 this cram," returned Bede Greatorex. " I thought we might 
 be twenty, perhaps, all told." 
 
 "How can you put up with this? Is it seemly, Bede — in 
 this once staid house ? " 
 
 " Seemly ? " repeated Bede Greatorex.
 
 GOING IxNTO SOCIETY. in 
 
 " Forgive me, Bede. I was thinking of the dear old times 
 under your mother's rule. The happy evenings, all hospitality 
 and cheerfulness ; the chapter read at bedtime, when the few 
 guests had departed. Friends were entertained then; but I 
 don't know what you call these." 
 
 Perhaps Bede Greatorex had never, amid all his provoca- 
 tions, felt so tempted to avow the truth as now — that he 
 abhorred it with his whole heart and soul. Henry WilHam 
 Ollivera could not hate and despise it more than he. As to 
 the good old days of peace and sunshine thus recalled, a groan 
 well-nigh burst from him, at their recollection. It was indeed 
 a contrast between then and now : in more things tlian this. 
 The world bore a new aspect for Bede Greatorex, and not a 
 happier one. 
 
 "Is Kene here, Bede?" 
 
 " Not yet. What is it that you want with him ? 
 
 Mr. Ollivera gave a brief outline of the case ; Bede left him 
 in the middle of it to welcome fresh arrivals. Somethinc: 
 fearfully fine loomed up, m pink silk and lace, and flashing 
 emeralds. It was Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Her chignon was 
 very high, and her gown was below her shoulder-blades. 
 The modest young clergyman turned away at the sight, his 
 cheeks flushing a dusky red. Not in this kind of society 
 of late years, the curiosities of fashionable attire were new 
 to him. 
 
 "Is Bede mad?" he inwardly said, "or has he lost all 
 control over his wife's actions ? " 
 
 Some one else, not used to society, was^ staring with all the 
 eyes of wonder he possessed. And this was Roland Yorke. 
 Leaning against the wall in a new suit of dress-clothes, with a 
 huge pair of white gloves on that would have been quite the 
 proper thing at Port Natal, stood Roland. ]\Ir. Ollivera, trying 
 to get away from every one, ran against him. The two were 
 great friends now, and Roland was in the habit of running up 
 to INIr. OUivera's drawing-room at will. 
 
 "I say," began Roland, "this is rather strong, is it not?" 
 
 " Do you mean the crowd ? " 
 
 " I mean everything. Some of the girls and women look as 
 if they had forgotten to put their gowns on. Why do they dress 
 in this way ? " 
 
 "Because it's the fashion, I suppose," replied Mr. Ollivera, 
 drawing down the comers of his thin lips.
 
 112 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " They must have taken the fashion from the Zulu Kaffirs," 
 returned Roland. " When one has been knocked about amidst 
 that savage lot — fought with 'em, too, men and women — one 
 loses fastidiousness, Mr. OUivera; but I don'^ think this is 
 right." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera intimated that there could not be a doubt it 
 was all wrong. 
 
 " Down in Helstonleigh, where I come from, they dress 
 themselves decently," observed Roland, forgetting that his 
 reminiscences of the place dated more than seven years back, 
 and that fashion penetrates to all the strongholds of society, 
 whether near or distant. "The girls there are lovely, too. 
 Just look if they are not." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera, in some slight surprise, followed the direction 
 of the speaker's eyes, and saw a young lady sitting back in a 
 corner ; her white evening dress, her banded hair, the soft flush 
 on her delicate face, all as simple, and genuine, and modest as 
 herself 
 
 " That's what the girls are in my native place, Mr. 
 Ollivera." 
 
 " Mrs. Bede Greatorex is a native of Helstonleigh, also," ob- 
 served the clergyman, dryly. And for a moment Roland was 
 silent. The pink robe, the tower of hair, and the shoulder- 
 blades were in full view just then. 
 
 "No, she is not," cried he, triumphantly. "The Joliffe girls 
 were born in barracks ; they only came amongst us when the 
 old colonel settled down." 
 
 " Who is the young lady ? " 
 
 " Miss Channing. Her brother and I are old chums. He 
 is the grandest fellow living ; the most noble gentleman the 
 world can show. He — why, if I don't believe you know him ! " 
 broke off Roland, as a recollection of something he had been 
 told flashed across his mind. 
 
 " I ! " returned Mr. Ollivera. 
 
 " Was Arthur Channing not at a — a certain night funeral ? " 
 asked Roland, dropping his voice out of delicacy. " You know. 
 When that precious cousin of mine. Bill Yorke, lent you his 
 surplice." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Mr. Ollivera, hastily ; " I had forgotten the 
 name. And so that is Arthur Channing's sister ! " 
 
 "She is governess to that provoking little wretch, Jane 
 Grcatorc.x," said polite Roland, forgetting in his turn that he
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 113 
 
 vvas speaking of his listener's cousin, "and she ought to be a 
 queen. Slie ought, Mr. Ollivera, and you would say so if 
 you knew her. She looks one, does she not ? She's as like 
 Arthur as two pins, and he's fit to be the noblest king in the 
 world." 
 
 The clergyman slightly smiled. He had become accustomed 
 to his new friend's impulsive way of speaking. 
 
 " Yes, we are both of us down just now, dependents of the 
 Greatorex house — she teacher in it, I ofifice-clerk," went on 
 Roland, "Never mind: luck may turn some day. I told 
 Annabel so just now, but she sent me away. I was talking to 
 her too much, she said, and made people stare. Perhaps it 
 was so : I know her cheeks turned red every other minute." 
 
 " And to make them paler, you take up your position here 
 to gaze at her," observed Mr. Ollivera, with another smile — and 
 smiles were rare from him. 
 
 " Oh, law ! " cried Roland. " I'm always doing something 
 wrong. The fact is, there's nobody else worth looking at. 
 See there ! a yellow gown and no petticoats under it. If this 
 is fashion, I hope my mother and sisters are not going in for 
 it ! I shall go back to her," he added, after a moment's pause. 
 "It's a shame she should sit there alone, with nothing to 
 look at but those Models, passing and repassing right before 
 her eyes. If Arthur were here, I believe he'd take her 
 away." 
 
 Roland, vegetating in that unfashionable region. Port Natal, 
 had not yet become accustomed to modern exigencies ; and he 
 spoke freely. Just then the throng was great in front of him, 
 and he remained where he was. Taller than almost any one 
 in the room, he could look at Annabel at will ; Mr. Ollivera, 
 about up to Roland's shoulder, could get only occasional 
 glimpses of her. Many a one glanced at Roland with interest, 
 wondering Avho the fine, strong young man was, leaning against 
 the wall there, with the big white gloves on, and the good-natured 
 face, unsophisticated as a boy's. 
 
 Elbowing his way presently across the room something after 
 the manner in which he might have elbowed through, a crowd on 
 the quay at Durban, Roland once more took up his position near 
 Miss Channing. The old playfellows had become new friends, 
 and Roland contrived that they should often meet. When 
 Miss Channing was walking in the Square with her pupil, he 
 was safe to run up, and stay talking; quite oblivious to the 
 
 Roland Vorke. 8
 
 114 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 wants of the office waiting his services. Jane Greatorex had 
 learned to look for him, and would walk where she was likely 
 to see him, in defiance of Miss Channing. In spite of Roland's 
 early fever to quit his native place, in spite of his prolonged 
 rovings, he was essentially a home-bird, and could have been 
 content to talk of the old days and the old people with Annabel 
 for ever. 
 
 " Where's Jane to-night ? " he began, as he joined her. 
 
 " In bed. She was very naughty this evening, and for once 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex interfered and sent her to bed." 
 
 " Poor child ! She is awfully troublesome, though, and one 
 gets tired of that in the long-run. If you — Halloa ! " 
 
 Roland stopped. He was gazing in surprise at some one 
 standing near : a man nearly his own age, tall and strong, 
 and bearing altogether a general resemblance to himself. But 
 the other's face had a cynical cast, expressive of ill nature, 
 and the lips were disagreeably full. Roland recognized him 
 for his brother, although they had not met for more than 
 seven years. 
 
 " That's Gerald, if ever I saw him in life." 
 
 "Yes,* it is Gerald," said Miss Channing, quietly. "He 
 generally comes to Mrs. Bede's soirees." 
 
 "Isn't he got up !" 
 
 Roland's expression was an apt one. Gerald Yorke was in 
 the very pink of fashion. His manners were easy ; those of a 
 man at home in society. 
 
 "He does it grand, does he not?" cried Roland, who had 
 made one advance towards making friends with his brother 
 since coming to London, and was not responded to in kind. 
 
 Miss Channing laughed. Gerald Yorke had entered on some 
 kind of public career and was very prosperous, she believed, 
 moving amidst the great ones of the land. Roland, quite for- 
 getting where he was, or perhaps not caring, set up a whistle by 
 way of attracting the attention of Gerald, who turned amidst 
 others at the strange sound. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Gerald, old boy ? Come and shake hands." 
 
 The voice was loud, glad, hearty ; the great hand, with its 
 great white glove drawn up over it, minus a button, was 
 stretched above intervening heads. Gerald Yorke's face grew 
 dark with annoyance, and he hesitated before making the best 
 of the situation, and getting near enough to shake the offered 
 hand.
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 115 
 
 He would far rather have become conveniently deaf, and 
 walked off in an opposite direction. Alike though the brothers 
 were in general resemblance, no contrast could be greater than 
 they presented in other respects. Gerald, fine and fashionable, 
 with his aristocratic air and his slow, affected drawl, was the 
 very type of all that is false, of that insincerity and heartless- 
 ness obtaining in what is called society. Roland, hot, thought- 
 less, never weighing a word before he spoke it, impulsive, 
 genuine, utterly unsophisticated as to the usages and manners 
 of fashionable life, was just as single-hearted and true. 
 
 Gerald, as Roland put it, " went in " for grandeur, and he 
 was already prejudiced against his brother. In a communica- 
 tion from Lord Carrick, apologizing for not being able to 
 answer satisfactorily Gerald's appeal for a loan, that nobleman 
 had confidentially avowed that he could not at present assist 
 even Roland effectually, and had got him a temporary place as 
 clerk, to save his embarking in the hot-pie line. It may there- 
 fore be readily understood that Gerald did not consider an 
 intimacy with Roland likely to conduce to his own advance- 
 ment (to say nothing of respectability) and his annoyance 
 and surprise at seeing him now where he did were about 
 equal. 
 
 The hands were shaken, and a few words passed ; warm and 
 open on Roland's part, cool and cautious on Gerald's. A 
 friend of Gerald's, the Honourable Mr. Somebody, who was 
 by his side and begged for an introduction, was more cordial 
 than he. 
 
 " I have not seen him since we parted seven years ago, 
 when I went off to Port Natal," explained Roland, with his 
 accustomed candour. "Haven't I had ups and downs since 
 then, Gerald ! " he continued, turning his beaming face upon 
 his brother. "You have heard of them I dare say, through 
 Carrick." 
 
 " You did not make a fortune," drawled Gerald, wishing he 
 could get away. 
 
 " A fortune ! Law bless you, Gcr ! I was glad to work on 
 the port with the Kaffirs, unloading boats ; and to serve in 
 stores, and to drive cattle and pigs ; anything for bread. You 
 can't think how strange all this seems to me " — pointing to the 
 crowd in the room, several of whom had gathered round, 
 attracted by this fraternal meeting. 
 
 "Aw! Surprised to see you amidst them," minced Gerald,
 
 ii6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 who could not resist the little ill-natured hint, in his growing 
 
 rage. 
 
 Mrs. Greatorex invited me," said Roland, his simplicity 
 not detecting the undercurrent of sarcasm. " I am in 
 Greatorex's office ; I don't suppose you knew it, Gerald. 
 They give me twenty shillings a week ; and Carrick goes 
 bail for my rigging out. I got this coat from his tailor's 
 to-night." 
 
 The crowd laughed, the Honourable roared, and Gerald 
 Yorke went half mad. 
 
 " I'd not acknotidcdgc it, at any rate, if I were you," he said, 
 imprudently, his affectation lost in a burst of temper. "After 
 all you were born a Yorke." 
 
 " Acknowledge what, Ger ? " returned Roland. 
 
 "The — the — the shame of taking a common clerkship at 
 twenty shillings a week ; and all the rest of the degradation," 
 cried Gerald, setting conventionality at defiance. " My uncle. 
 Lord Carrick, warned me of this ; my mother, Lady Augusta, 
 spoke of it in a recent letter to me," he added for the benefit 
 of the ears around. 
 
 "Why, Ger, where's the use of being put out?" retorted 
 Roland, but with no symptom of ill humour in his good-natured 
 tone. " 1 was down, and had nobody to help me. Carrick 
 couldn't ; old Dick Yorke wouldn't ; Lady Augusta said she 
 had all of you pulling at her : and so Carrick talked to Greato- 
 rex and Greatorex, and they put me into the place. The 
 pound a week keeps me ; in clover too ; you should hear 
 what I sometimes was reduced to live on at Port Natal. There 
 was an opening for a hot-pie man down at Poplar, and the place 
 was offered me ; if I had gone into that line you might have 
 grumbled." 
 
 The ladies and gentlemen shrieked with merriment : they 
 began to think the fine young fellow, who looked every whit as 
 independent a man as his fastidious brother, was chafling them 
 all. Gerald ground his teeth, and tried to get away. 
 
 " You'll come and see me, old fellow ? " said Roland. " I've 
 a stunning room, bedroom and sitting-room in one ; the bed- 
 stead's let down at night. It is at Mother Jones's ; poor soft 
 Jenkins's widow, you know, that we used to wot of in the days 
 gone by." 
 
 Gerald made good his escape : and when they were quiet 
 again, Roland had leisure to look at Miss Channing. Her
 
 GOING INTO SOCIETY. 117 
 
 bent face shone like a peony, the effect of vexation and sup' 
 pressed laughter. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter ? " he asked. 
 
 " You should not say such things, Roland. It was quite out 
 of i:)lace in a room like this," 
 
 " What things ? " 
 
 " About yourself. It is so different, you know, from any- 
 thing young men experience here." 
 
 " But it is all true," returned Roland, unable to see the force 
 of the argument. 
 
 " Still it need not be proclaimed to an indiscriminate crowd. 
 You might show more tact. Gerald was ready to die with 
 mortification. And you who used to have so much pride ! " 
 
 Roland Yorke, honestly willing to please everybody and vex 
 no one, stood looking rueful. " As to pride, Annabel, if a 
 fellow wants that knocked out of him, he had better go over 
 to Port Natal, and get buftetcd as I did," he concluded. " I 
 left it all behind me there, I'm afraid. And, of lact, I don't 
 think I ever possessed any." 
 
 Which was perfectly true. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Ollivera, waiting in vain to see Sir Thomas 
 Kene enter, grew sick ot the ever-changing, ever-moving 
 panorama, and went down to his uncle's small and comfortable 
 room, leaving word with the servants where he might be found 
 if the judge came in. Mr. Greatorex very rarely joined these 
 large parties. He was sitting in quiet now, a bright fire in the 
 grate, for the evenings were still chilly, a reading-lamp, news- 
 papers, and books on the table before him. Slender, active, 
 upright still, he scarcely looked his age, sixty-two : his face 
 was fresh yet, and not a thread of grey mingled with the 
 smooth brown hair. 
 
 " Henry, is it you ? " he exclaimed ; for he was surprised to 
 see his nephew enter at that hour. And Mr. Ollivera, as he 
 took a chair, apologized for interrupting him, but said he had 
 grown weary of the turmoil above. 
 
 " You don't mean to say yoic have been making one of 
 them ! " 
 
 " I have for once, uncle. It will serve mc for ten years to 
 come. People say to me sometimes, ' Why don't you go into 
 society ? ' Good Heavens ! to think that rational beings, God's 
 people who have souls to be saved, can waste their precious 
 hours in this way, evening after evening ! The women for the
 
 ii8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 most part are unseemly to look at ; half dressed, their faces 
 powdered and painted, their heads monstrosities, their attire 
 sinfully lavish. The men affect to be heartless, drawling cox- 
 combs. It is a bad phase of life, this that we have drifted 
 into, rotten at the core ; men and women alike artificial. Do 
 you like this in your house, Uncle Greatorex } " 
 
 " When Bede married, I resigned to him the mastership of 
 the house, so far as these things were concerned," replied Mr. 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " I know. Does Bede like it ? " 
 
 " He countenances it. For myself, I trouble them very 
 little now. Even my dinner I often cause to be served here. 
 Bede's wife was civil enough to come down this evening and 
 press me to join them." 
 
 " Bede looks more worried that usual — and that need not 
 be," observed William OUivera. "What is it, I wonder? 
 To me he has the air of a man silently fretting himself into his 
 grave." 
 
 "You know what it is, William," said Mr. Greatorex, in 
 low tones, and calling his nephew, as he often did, by his 
 second name. "Bede's wife is a great worry. But there's 
 another." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Illness," breathed Mr. Greatorex. " Symptoms that we 
 don't like have shown themselves in him lately. However — 
 they may pass away. The doctors think they will." 
 
 " I came here to meet Kene, whom I very particularly wish 
 to see," resumed the clergyman, after a pause. " Bede said 
 he expected him." 
 
 " Ay ; some magnet must have drawn you, apart from //za/," 
 pointing to the rooms above. And Mr. Ollivera explained 
 why he was seeking the judge. 
 
 " I thought something fresh might have arisen in the old 
 case ; or at least that you fancied so," observed Mr. Greatorex, 
 " You must be coming round to our way of thinking, Willliam. 
 Time goes on, but that stands still." 
 
 " I shall never come round to it." 
 
 " John has been dead four years and two months, now," pur- 
 sued Mr. Greatorex. " And it has stood still all that time." 
 
 William Ollivera leaned forward in his chair, and the fire and 
 the lamp played on his Avasted face and the bright flush of 
 emotion that rose to his thin checks.
 
 DAY-DREAMS. I19 
 
 " Uncle Greatorex ! it is as fresh to my mind now as it was 
 the day I went down to Helstonleigh, and saw him lying white 
 and cold and dead, with the ban of the coroner's verdict u[)on 
 him. I cannot shake it off: and of late I am not sure but I 
 have tried to do so, in sheer weariness of disappointment. 
 ' Tarry yet awhile, and wait,' a voice seems ever saying to me : 
 and I am content to wait. I cannot rest ; I find no peace. 
 When I wake in the morning, I say, 'This day may bring forth 
 fruit ; ' when I go to rest at night, the thought that it has not 
 is the last upon me. There will be neither rest nor peace for 
 me until I have solved the enigma of my brother's death; and 
 I am always working on for it." 
 
 " Sir Thomas Kene has come, sir," interrupted a servant at 
 this juncture, opening the door. 
 
 Henry Ollivera rose ; and, wishing Mr. Greatorex good night, 
 went forth to his interview with the judge. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 
 
 The house was almost within a stone's-throw of Bedford Square. 
 Its drawing-room windows were thrown open to the evening 
 twilight, and a lady sat at one of them in a musing attitude. 
 She was very nice looking, with a clear healthy colour, and 
 soft bright dark eyes that had a thought in them beyond her 
 years, which may have been six or seven-and-twenty. The 
 features were well-formed ; the shapely mouth, its rather thin 
 and decisive lips, and the pretty pointed chin, spoke of innate 
 firmness. Her hand, displaying its wedding-ring and keeper, 
 was raised to support lightly her head, the slender fingers 
 touching the smooth dark brown hair. She was perfectly still ; 
 not a movement betrayed that she heard or saw anything outside 
 her own thoughts ; not a rustle stirred the folds of her soft silk 
 dress, lying around her. 
 
 " Shall I tell him, or not ? " she murmured at length. " I 
 have never had any concealment from him yet, nor he from 
 me ; but then I know it will pain and worry him. He has 
 certainly changed a little ; in the old days it seemed that
 
 I20 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 anxiety could never touch him ; that he would always throw it 
 from him with a light word. Heigho ! I suppose it comes with 
 the cares of life." 
 
 A moment's pause, during which she was again still as before, 
 and then the soliloquy was resumed. 
 
 " I could keep it from him, if necessary : the postman gave 
 me the letter as I was going out, and no one knows of its 
 arrival. But still — I don't like to begin it ; and he might feel 
 vexed afterwards : for, of course, he must come to know of it 
 sometime. Oh dear ! I never felt so irresolute before. They 
 used to say at home I was so very downright. I wonder which 
 would be right to do ? If I were sure he " 
 
 The door was pushed open with a sudden whirl, and a little 
 child came flying in with outstretched arms and a joyous 
 laugh. 
 
 " Mamma, mamma ! " 
 
 " Nelly ! " 
 
 The arms were entwined together, the golden head with its 
 shower of silken curls, nestled on the mother's bosom. She 
 was of rare loveliness, this child; with the delicately fair 
 features, the great blue eyes, the sunny hair, and ever-sunny 
 temperament. 
 
 " Now, Nelly ! You know you have been told over and over 
 again not to be so boisterous. Fancy a little lady, just five 
 years old, coming in like that ! It might have been a great 
 rude dog." 
 
 Another laugh in answer, a host of kisses pressed by way of 
 peace-offering on the gentle face, bent down in reproof more 
 assumed than real. 
 
 "Nurse was running to catch me. She says it's bedtime." 
 And, to confirm the assertion, the French clock on the mantel- 
 piece at that moment struck eight. 
 
 " So it is. Come and say good night to papa, Nelly. 
 
 Taking the cliild's hand, she went out into what seemed a 
 flood of light, after the darkening room. The hall-lamp threw 
 its rays on the gleaming silk of her pale blue dress, the white 
 fairy robes of the child, the well-carpeted stairs. In the front 
 room below, tlie tea stood ready by the evening fire : they went 
 through to another room ; and the mother spoke. 
 
 " Nelly has come to wish papa good night." 
 
 Seated at tlie table of this inner room was a gentleman writing 
 fast by a shaded candle. He looked up with a sunny smile of
 
 DAY-DREAMS. I2l 
 
 welcome, and you saw the likeness then between the child and 
 the father. The winning, beautiful features ; the fair, bright 
 complexion ; the laughing blue eyes ; the gay, happy tempera- 
 ment : all were the same. 
 
 It was James Channing. Sunny Hamish, as he used to be 
 called. He was only thirty; a tall, well-proportioned, but as 
 yet very slender man ; rising over six feet, altogether attractive, 
 handsome to look upon. Nelly, forgetting her lecture, flew 
 into his arms with a shout and a laugh, as she had into those 
 of her mother. 
 
 "And what may this young lady have been about that she 
 has not come to see me before, this evening?" he asked. 
 
 " Nurse kept her out rather late, Hamish, for one thing, and 
 I knew you were busy," came the answer; not from the child, 
 but from Mrs. Channing. 
 
 " Yes, I am very busy. I have not a minute to give even to 
 my darling Nelly to-night," he said fondly, kissing the rosy lips. 
 " Nelly must go to bed and dream of papa instead." 
 
 " You'll have time when the ship comes home, papa,'' said 
 the child. 
 
 " Lots of time then." 
 
 " The ship is to be a book." 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 " And it will bring great luck ? " 
 
 " Yes. Please God." 
 
 The last words were murmured in a tone suddenly hushed 
 to reverence ; low and happy ; hopeful with a great, glad, 
 assured hope, cheering to listen to ; a trusted hope that lighted 
 up the whole countenance of the man, and shone forth from 
 his blue eyes. But he said no more ; not even to his wife and 
 his child could he speak of the joy that anticipation wrought 
 within him. 
 
 With too many kisses to be counted, with good nights spoken 
 again and yet again, Nelly was released and disappeared with 
 her mother. The child had been trained well. There was 
 some indulgence on the parents' side — perhaps that is indis- 
 pensable in the case of an only child — but there was neither 
 trouble nor rebellion on hers. Little Nellie Channing had been 
 taught to obey ; and, to do so, came to her naturally. 
 
 Mrs. Channing took her upstairs and turned into her own 
 dressing-room, as usual. She deemed it well that the child 
 should say her prayers in solitude, and, always when ])racticable5
 
 122 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 in the same place. Nelly sat down of her own accord by her 
 mother, and was quite still and quiet while a very few verses 
 from the Bible were read to her ; and then she knelt down to 
 say her simple prayers at her mother's knee. 
 
 '•' God bless my darling little Nelly, and make her a good 
 girl ! " said Mrs. Channing, as she took her out and resigned 
 her to the nurse. 
 
 "Are you ready for tea, Hamish?" she asked, when she went 
 down again. 
 
 " Quite. But, Ellen, I think I shall have to trouble you to 
 bring it to me to-night." 
 "Are you so very busy?" 
 "Ay. Look here." 
 
 He pointed to some papers on the table. " Those are proof 
 sheets : and I must get this manuscript in to-morrow, or they 
 will not insert it in next month's number." 
 
 " Hamish, I hope you are not doing too much," she gravely 
 said. " I don't like this night-work." 
 
 He laughed gleefully. " Too much ! I only wish I had too 
 much to do, Ellen. Never fear, dear." 
 
 " I wish you would teach me to correct the proofs." 
 "What an idea!" 
 "I shall teach myself, sir." 
 
 " It would be waste of time, young lady. I could not let 
 any one go over my proofs but myself." 
 
 "You vain fellow! I wonder if self-conceit is inherent in 
 literary men ? Are they all as vain as Hamish Channing ? " 
 
 He took up the pen-wiper and threw it at her. But some- 
 how Ellen was not in a mood for much jesting to-night. She 
 put the pen-wiper on the table again, and went and stood 
 in silence with her hand on his shoulder. He turned his 
 head. 
 
 "What is it, love?" 
 
 " Hamish, I would bring in your tea willingly ; you know 
 it; but I think it would do you more good to leave this 
 work, if only for five minutes. And I have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 "Very well. I can't come for a quarter-of-an-hour. You 
 are a regular martinet." 
 
 Ellen Channing left him and sat down in the other room to 
 wait; and this will afford an opportunity for a word of ex- 
 planation. Amidst the very very many people in all classes of
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 123 
 
 life, high and low, on whom a certain recent panic had wrought 
 its disastrous effects, was Hamish Channing. The Bank, of 
 which he had been manager in Helstonleigh, was drawn into 
 the vortex by the faihn-e of another bank, and went in its turn. 
 Honourable men had to do with it ; they sacrificed their own 
 property in the emergency, and not a creditor suffered ; every 
 one was paid in full. It could not be reorganized, and it left 
 Hamish without employment. His wife's father, Mr. Huntley, 
 had been one of the principal shareholders, and on him had 
 fallen the greater weight of the loss. It fell, too, at a time 
 when Mr. Huntley could not afford to sustain it. He pos- 
 sessed a large property in Canada, but it had latterly begun 
 to yield him little or no return. Whether in consequence of 
 local depreciation, or of mismanagement (or perhaps something 
 worse) on the part of his agents there, he knew not, and he 
 sent his son out to see. The young man (he was three or 
 four years younger than Mrs. Channing, and quite inexperi- 
 enced) seemed unable to grapple with the business ; he wrote 
 home confused and perplexing accounts, of which Mr. Huntley 
 could make nothing. At length that gentleman resolved to 
 go out himself ; and the letter we have heard Mrs. Channing 
 alluding to to-day was from him. It was the second letter 
 they had received, the first having merely announced his 
 safe arrival : and the accounts this last contained were so 
 gloomy that Ellen Channing would fain have kept them from 
 her husband. 
 
 It must be distinctly understood that the failure of the Bank 
 in Helstonleigh was in no way connected with mismanagement. 
 Had a quorum of the wisest business-men in the world been 
 at its head, they could neither have foreseen its downfall nor 
 have averted it. Therefore Hamish Channing came out of 
 that, as he had out of every untoward thing all his life, un- 
 tarnished in honour and in character. A small secretaryship 
 was offered him in London, which he accepted ; and he re- 
 moved to the great city, with his wife and little daughter, his 
 goods and chattels, there to set up his tent. A very small 
 income had been settled on Ellen when she married; the 
 larger portion of her fortune was to come to her at her father's 
 death. Whether it would be much, or little, or any, under the 
 altered state of affairs, it was impossible now to say. 
 
 But it was not on the secretaryship that Hamish Channing 
 depended for fame and fortune. A higher and dearer hope
 
 124 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 was his. That Hamish possessed in a great degree that rarest 
 of all God's gifts, true genius, he had long known. Writers 
 of talent the world has had, and had in abundance, men and 
 women ; of real genius but few. Perhaps, after all, the differ- 
 ence is not very distinguishable by the general mass of readers. 
 But, to those who possess it, its characteristics are unmistak- 
 able. The divine light (is it too much to call it so ?) that lies 
 within them shines as a beacon, pointing on to fame ; to 
 honour ; above all, to appreciation : the knowledge that they 
 are different from their fellow-mortals, of a higher and nobler 
 and rarer order, and that the world will sometime recognize 
 the fact and bow down in worship, is never absent from the 
 consciousness of the inner heart. 
 
 But, with the gift, James Channing also possessed its almost 
 invariably accompanying attribute : refined sensitiveness of 
 feeling. And that is a quality not too well calculated to 
 battle with rude every-day life. Should the great hope within 
 him ever meet with a stern, crushing disappointment, his 
 inability to bear the shock would in all probability show itself 
 in some very marked degree. No one but himself knew or 
 suspected the extreme sensitiveness of his every feeling ; it had 
 been hidden hitherto under the nonchalant ease of manner, the 
 sunny temper which made Hamish Channing's great charm. 
 When the Bank was broken up, and with it his home and his 
 chief means of living, it was not felt by him as many another 
 man would have felt it : for it seemed only to render more 
 feasible the great aim of his life — that of devoting himself to 
 literature. Years ago he had begun to write : and the efforts 
 were somewhat crude, as all first efforts, whether given to the 
 world or not, must of necessity be, but they bore unmistakably 
 the stamp of genius. His appointment to the Bank and his 
 marriage interrupted his writing ; and his genius and pen had 
 alike lain dormant for some six years. His wife's father, Mr. 
 Huntley, had procured his later appointment, and Hamish did 
 not venture to decline it and devote himself wholly to literature, 
 as he would have liked to do. The pay, though small, was 
 certain ; Ellen's income was smaller still, and they must live ; 
 so he accepted it. His duties there occupied him from nine 
 till four : and all his time beyond that, early and late, was 
 devoted to writing. The day's employment was regarded as a 
 temporary clog, to be given up as soon as he found his income 
 from literature would justify it. 'I'o accomplish this end, he
 
 t)AY-DREAMS. 125 
 
 was doing a great deal more than was good for him and taking 
 too Uttlc rest. In point of fact, he had, you see, two occupa- 
 tions, each of which would have been sufficient for an in- 
 dustrious man. What of that ? Hamish never so much as 
 cast a thought to it. 
 
 With what a zest had he recommenced the writing, laid 
 aside for so long! It was like returning to some haven of rest. 
 Joy filled his whole being. The past six years had been heavy 
 with suppressed yearning; the yearning to be about the work 
 for which he knew God had pre-eminently fitted him : but his 
 duties had been onerous, his time almost fully occupied ; and 
 when he would have snatched moments from the night for the 
 dearer work, his wife and his anxious friends had risen up in 
 arms against it, for he was not over-strong, and some delicacy 
 of constitution was preached about. Besides, as Mr. Huntley 
 said, a manager who turned author might alarm the Bank's 
 supporters. But he had it all his own way now, and made 
 good profit of his writings. Papers on social questions of the 
 day, essays, stories, were in turn written, and taken by different 
 periodicals. They had to be written, apart from other hopes 
 and views, for the style in which they lived required means to 
 support it, beyond his salary and his wife's income. It was 
 not much style, after all, no extravagance; three maid-servants, 
 and little company ; but every one knows how money seems to 
 melt in London. 
 
 He had been at this work now for a year. And his wife 
 was beginning to grow anxious, for she knew he was doing too 
 much, and told him he was wearing himself out. If he could 
 only resign the secretaryship ! was ever her secret hope and 
 thought just as much as his ; and she wished her father could 
 get his Canadian affairs well settled, so as to allow the neces- 
 sary addition to her income. Hamish laughed at this. He 
 was living in a dream of future fame and fortune : that it would 
 inevitably come, he felt as sure of as though it now lay ready 
 to be picked up. He was writing a long work ; a work in three 
 volumes ; and this was the precious gem on which all his hopes 
 and love and visions were centred. The writing for periodicals 
 had to be done, for its returns were needed ; but every spare 
 moment, apart from that, was devoted to the book. A glad 
 light beamed from his eyes; a joy, sweet as some divine 
 melody, lay ever on his spirit. Oh, what is there of bliss and 
 love in the world that can compare with this ! And it is known
 
 126 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 to so few ; so very few : by all others it can never be so much 
 as imagined. Do not mistake it, you who read, for the 
 pleasurable anticipation of a man or woman who may from 
 chance causes have "taken up" the profession of literature, 
 looking for the good, substantial and otherwise, that it is to bring 
 them. The two are wholly different; the one is born of 
 heaven, the other of earth. But that man must live, the 
 thought that money shall be one of the returns, would be 
 unendurable; never accepted, I honestly believe, without a 
 blush : the dross of earth mingling with the spiritualized, 
 exalted joy of Eden. It is well that this same gift of genius 
 with its unspeakable pleasures and its attendant after-pains — • 
 for they are certain to come — should be vouchsafed to a unit 
 amidst tens of thousands ! 
 
 Mrs. Channing sat waiting for him ; the tea standing before 
 her, herself thoughtful. The room was large and handsomely 
 furnished, for their furniture had been a present from Mr. 
 Huntley when they had married. The inner room, used 
 exclusively by Hamish for writing, was almost lined with book- 
 shelves. 
 
 The door opened, and Hamish came in. He had a small 
 packet in his hand; proof-sheets done up for the post; and 
 sent them out at once by the maid, as he sat down to tea. 
 This he seemed inclined to swallow at a draught, scarcely 
 giving himself time for a solitary piece of bread-and-butter, 
 ever anxious to get back to his labour and the glowing visions 
 connected with it. 
 
 " Hamish, I do believe you like your writing better than you 
 like me ! " Ellen said to him one day almost passionately. 
 And for answer, Mr. Hamish in his sauciness had said he was 
 not sure but he did. 
 
 He sat there at tea, now, talking gaily as usual. His wife 
 interrupted him, telling of the letter she had received, and its 
 unfavourable news. He listened with his sunny smile. 
 
 " I had a great mind not to tell you at all, Hamish," she con- 
 fessed. " Papa's temperament is nearly as sanguine as yours ; 
 and if he writes in low spirits, saying he fears it may turn out 
 that he is ruined, I know things must be very bad indeed." 
 
 " But why have hesitated to tell me, Ellen ? " 
 
 "To save you anxiety. Don't you see what it implies? If 
 papa loses his property, the fortune that would have been mine 
 sometime will also be lost."
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 127 
 
 Had she been speaking of the loss of some trifle, he could 
 scarcely have heard it with more equanimity. It seemed to 
 Hamish that the future was, humanly speaking, in his own 
 hands. 
 
 " Never mind, Ellen, we possess a resource that cannot be 
 lost. I will take care of you. Heaven aiding me. You shall 
 have every good in abundance." 
 
 " Yes, that is just it. You work too much already : you 
 would work more then." 
 
 Hamish laughed. " Do you know what I wish, Ellen ? I 
 wish the day were four-and-twenty hours long instead of twelve, 
 and that I had two sets of brains and hands instead of one." 
 
 " How are you getting on ? " 
 
 " Oh, so well. It is all right, my darling. And will be." 
 
 They were interrupted by a visitor — Mr. Roland Yorke. 
 There had been a casual meeting once or twice, but this was 
 the first time he had been there. They had invited him to 
 come ; but Roland had the grace to be ashamed of a certain 
 escapade of his in the days gone by, which brought disgrace for 
 the time being on Arthur Channing, and he had rather held 
 back from them. This he now partially confessed. 
 
 " It would have been so different, you know, Hamish, had I 
 returned with a few millions from Port Natal, and gone home 
 to atone to Arthur in the face of the whole town, and done 
 honour to him for what he is, the best man living, and heaped 
 a fortune upon him. But I have not been able to do that. I 
 would rather rush off again to Port Natal and its troubles, than 
 gv. within miles of Helstonleigh." 
 
 "And so, to mend matters, you thought you would keep 
 miles away from me," said Hamish, with his smile of welcome. 
 " I think there's only one person in the world would be more 
 pleased to see you than I, and that's Arthur himself" 
 
 " I know. I know what a good fellow you always were. 
 But I hadn't the face to come, you see. It was Annabel made 
 me do so now." 
 
 Suddenly shaking their hands in the heartiest manner, with 
 a grip that brought pain to Mrs. Channing, who wore rings, 
 Roland turned his attention upon the tea. Hamish, re- 
 membering his appetite of old, rang the bell for a supply of 
 good things to be brought in ; and Roland was speedily in the 
 midst of the most comfortable enjoyment, mentally and bodily. 
 He gave them his own confidence without the least reserve,
 
 128 ROLAND YORRE. 
 
 both as to present and past ; gravely telling everything, in- 
 eluding the proposed hot-pie scheme, which made Hamish 
 hold his sides, and the having met Gerald at Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex's party. 
 
 " I rather expect Gerald here this evening," remarked 
 Hamish. 
 
 " Do you ? " said Roland. " He won't be too pleased to 
 see me ; he means to cut me, I'm nearly sure. Do you see 
 much of him, Hamish ? " 
 
 Hamish explained that he did. They were both in the 
 literary line ; and Gerald had some good engagements as a 
 reviewer. 
 
 "Where's his wife?" asked Roland. "Yes, please, Mrs. 
 Channing, another cup ; plenty of milk and sugar." 
 
 " In the country ; somewhere in Gloucestershire. Gerald is 
 not too communicative on that score." 
 
 " Don't you think, Hamish, he must have been a great duffer 
 to go and marry before he knew how he could keep a wife ? " 
 
 Hamish raised his eyebrows with the good-natured, in- 
 different manner that Roland so well remembered in the days 
 gone by ; but he made no other answer. Where Hamish 
 Channing could not praise, he would not blame. Even by his 
 immediate relatives Gerald's imprudent marriage was tacitly 
 ignored, and the Lady Augusta Yorke had threatened to box 
 Roland's ears in Ireland, when he persisted in asking about it. 
 
 " I always knew Gerald would not go into the Church," 
 remarked Roland. " / wouldn't ; they say Tod threatened to 
 run off to sea if they talked to him about it : somehow we boys 
 have a prejudice against following my father's calling. I'll tell 
 you a secret, Hamish : if a fellow want's to be made^ to have 
 his nonsense knocked out of him, he must go to Port Natal. 
 Do you remember the morning you saw me decamping for 
 London on my way to it ? '' 
 
 " Don't I," said Hamish, his lips parting with merriment at 
 the remembrance. " There was commotion that day in 
 Helstonleigh, Roland ; in Galloway's office especially." 
 
 " And dear old Arthur buried his wrongs and went to tlie 
 rescue; and poor dying Jenkins got out of his bed to help. 
 He was nothing but a calf, poor fellow, a reed in Mrs. J.'s 
 hands, but he was good as gold. I say, she's altered. 
 
 " Is she ? " 
 
 Roland nodded. " That going to Port Natal made me,
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 129 
 
 Hamish," he resumed ; and Hamish was slightly surprised at 
 the serious tone. " I should have been one of the idlest of 
 the family batch but for the lesson I got read to me there. I 
 went out to make my fortune ; instead of making it, I had to 
 battle with fate, and fate won the day. They call it names 
 of course ; a mistaken enterprise, a miserable failure ; but it 
 was just the best thing that could have happened to me. I 
 was a proud, stuck-up ignoramus ; I should have depended on 
 Carrick, or any one else, to get my living for me; but I mean 
 now to earn it for myself." 
 
 When Hamish went to his work later, leaving Ellen to 
 entertain their guest, Roland followed him with his eyes. 
 
 There was a change in Hamish Channing, apparent to one 
 even as unobservant as Roland. The face was thinner than 
 of yore ; its refined features were paler ; they looked ethe- 
 realized, as it seemed to Roland. The sweet nature was there 
 still, but some of its old gaiety had given place to thought. 
 The light and mocking tone then so often heard, had given 
 place to one of earnest consideration to all. 
 
 " What are you looking at ? " questioned Ellen, struck with 
 Roland's intent gaze and unusual seriousness. 
 
 "At Hamish. He is so changed." 
 
 " Older, do you mean ? " 
 
 " Law bless you, no. Of course he is older by more than 
 seven years ; but he is very young-looking still ; he does not 
 look so old as I do, and I am two years his junior. I used 
 to think Hamish Channing the handsomest fellow living, but 
 lie was notliing then to what he is now. I hope you won't 
 consider it's wrong of me to say it, Mrs. Channing, but there's 
 something in his face now that makes one think of heaven." 
 
 " Mr. Yorke ! " 
 
 "There! I knew what it would be. Mr. OUivera flies out 
 at me just in the same way when I say wrong things. Other 
 people don't say them. It must have been that Port Natal. 
 I thought I was dead once, over there," added Roland, passing 
 on to another topic with his usual abruptness. 
 
 Ellen smiled ; she had spoken in surprise only. Roland 
 Yorke, who had brought his chair round to the fire, sat 
 opposite to her, his elbow on his knee, his head bent forward. 
 
 " I don't mean that it makes one think he is going to 
 heaven — going to die before his time ; you need not be afraid, 
 Mrs. Channing. It was not that kind of thought at all ; only 
 
 Roland Yorke.
 
 I30 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 that the angels and people about, up there, must have just 
 such faces as Hamish's ; good, and pure, and beautiful ; and 
 just the same sweet expression, and the same loving-kindness 
 in their tones." 
 
 Roland stopped and pulled his dark whiskers. Mrs. Chan- 
 ning began to think he had also changed for the better. 
 
 " Many a one, remembering the past, would have just turned 
 their backs upon me, Mrs. Channing. Instead of that, he is 
 as glad to see me, and makes me as welcome as if I were a 
 lord, or a prize pig sent him at Christmas. What did I nearly 
 die of? you ask. Well, of fever; but I fell in for all sorts of 
 horrid torments. I had the eye-epidemic, which is caused by 
 the dust, and thought I was going blind. I'hen I had what 
 they call Natal sores, a kind of boil ; then I nearly had a sun- 
 stroke ; the heat's something awful, you know. And I was 
 seized upon by the ticks everlastingly." 
 " Do you mean the tic-douloureux ? " _ 
 " Law bless you ! A Port Natal tick is an insect. It sits 
 on the top of the grass waiting for you to pass by, and darts 
 into your legs ; and no earthly thing will get it off_ again, 
 except tugging at it with tweezers. They have no wings or 
 mouth, nothing but a pair of lancets and a sort of pipe for a 
 body, covered with spikes. When I set up that store for 
 leeches and pickled pork, I used to go and get the leeches 
 myself, to save buying \ lots of them grow in the rivulets round 
 about ; but I would bring home a great many more ticks than 
 leeches, and that didn't pay, you know. Where's the child ? " 
 " Nelly ? She has gone to bed." 
 " She is the prettiest child I ever saw." 
 "She is just like her papa," said Mrs. Channing, whose 
 cheeks were flushing softly with pardonable love and pride at 
 the praise of her child. 
 
 " So she is. When will his book be out ? " 
 " Ah, I don't know. He is getting on quickly, he tells me. 
 I think he is a ready writer." 
 
 " 1 suppose most men of genius are that," remarked Roland. 
 " He docs not talk much about it, does he ? " 
 
 " Not at all. A very litde to me. These wonderful hopes 
 and dreams that lie deep down within us, cannot be spoken of 
 to the world. I have none," she added, slightly laughing ; " I 
 am more practical," 
 
 " Hamish is so hopeful ! It is his temperament to be so."
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 131 
 
 *■'■ Hopeful !'^ repeated Mrs, Channing; "indeed he is. I 
 never saw any one so much so. You have heard of day- 
 dreams, Mr. Yorke ; well, this book is his day-dream. He 
 works at it late and early, almost night and day. I tell him 
 sometimes he must be wearing himself out." 
 
 " One never does really wear out from work, Mrs. Chan- 
 ning. I used to think I was wearing out at old Galloway's ; 
 but I didn't know what work was until I got to Natal. I 
 learnt it then." 
 
 " Did you sit up to work at night at Port Natal ? " 
 
 " Only when I had not a bed to go to," answered candid 
 Roland. " Mine was not that kind of work, sitting up to burn 
 the midnight oil; it lay in knocking about." 
 
 "That's quite different." 
 
 " What puzzles me more than anything is, that Gerald 
 should have turned author," resumed Roland. " Henry 
 Ollivera was talking about genius at our place the other day. 
 Why, according to what he says, Gerald Yorke must have 
 about as much genius as a gander." 
 
 Ellen laughed. " Hamish says Gerald has no real genius," 
 she returned. " But he has a good deal of talent. He is what 
 may be called a dashing writer." 
 
 " Well, I don't know," disputed Roland, who could not be 
 convinced as to his brother's good qualities. " I remember 
 in the old days at home, when Gerald was at the college- 
 school, he couldn't be made to write a letter. If Lady Augusta 
 wanted him to write a letter to Carrick, or to George out in 
 India, she had to din at him for six months. He hated it Hke 
 poison." 
 
 " That may have been idleness." 
 
 " Oh, we all went in for that," acknowledged Roland. " I 
 should have been a very lazy beggar to the end of time but for 
 emigrating to Port Natal."
 
 132 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 COMMOTION IN THE OFFICE OF GREATQREX AND GREATOREX. 
 
 The summer sun, scorching the pavement with its heat and 
 its glare, threw itself with great might into the offices of 
 Greatorex and Greatorex. Josiah Hurst and Roland Yorke 
 were at their desk, writing side by side. Jenner was similarly 
 occupied. Mr. Brown was holding a conversation in an under- 
 tone with some stranger, who had entered with him as he 
 came in from an errand : a man of staid, respectable appear- 
 ance. Something in the cut of his clothes spoke of the 
 provinces ; and Roland Yorke, who never failed to look 
 after other people's affairs, however pressing his own might be, 
 decided that the stranger was a countryman, come up to see 
 the sights of London. 
 
 " Which I can't see, except from the outside," grumbled 
 Roland to himself. " It's an awful sell to have to go about 
 with empty pockets. I wonder who the fellow is ? — he has 
 been whispering tliere twenty minutes if he's been one. He 
 looks as if he had plenty in /lis." 
 
 Mr. Bade Greatorex came in and took his place at his desk. 
 The head-clerk drew his head away from his friend's, and 
 commenced work ; a hint to the stranger that their gossip must 
 be at an end. 
 
 The latter asked for a pen and ink, wrote a few words on 
 a leaf he tore from his pocket-book, folded it, and gave it to 
 Mr. iirown. 
 
 " That is my address in town," he said. " Let me see you 
 to-night. I leave to-morrow at midday." 
 
 "Good," replied Mr. Brown, glancing at the address on the 
 paper. 
 
 The stranger went out, lifting his hat to the room generally, 
 and Mr. Brown put the paper away in his pocket. 
 
 " Who was tliat ? " asked Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 " A gentleman I used to know, sir, a farmer," was the reply. 
 "I met him outside just now, and he came in with me. We 
 got talking of old times." 
 
 *' Oh, 1 thought it was some one on business for the office," 
 said Mr. Bede Greatorex, in half apology for inquiring. His
 
 COMMOTION IN THE OFFICE. 133 
 
 face looked worn as usual, his eyes bright and restless. Some 
 of the fomily could remember that when the late Mrs. Greatorex 
 had first shown symptoms of the malady of which slie died, her 
 eyes had been unnaturally bright. 
 
 The work went on. The clocks drew near to twelve, and 
 the sun grew fiercer. Roland began to look white and flurried. 
 What with the work and the heat, he thought he might as well 
 be roughing it at Port Natal. He was doing pretty well on 
 the whole — for him — and did not get lectured above four times 
 a week. To help liking Roland was impossible ; with his frank 
 manners, his good-nature, his unsophisticated mind, and his 
 candid revelations in regard to himself, that would now and 
 again plunge the office into convulsions. It was also within 
 the range of possibility that his connections, and the fact of his 
 being free of the house, running up at will to pay unexpected 
 visits to Mrs. Greatorex, had their weight with Mr. Brown ; 
 for things were tolerated in Roland that certainly would not 
 have been tolerated in any other clerk, whether he might be a 
 gentleman or not. Roland had chosen to constitute himself a 
 sort of enfant-tk-la-)naison ; he and his brothers and sisters 
 had been intimate with the Jolifte girls ; he could remember 
 once having nearly got up a fight with Lousia, now Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex ; and, to make Roland understand that in running 
 upstairs when he chose, darting in upon Mrs. Greatorex as she 
 sat in her boudoir or drawing-room, upon Miss Channing as 
 she gave lessons to Jane Greatorex, he was intruding, would 
 have been a hopeless task. Once or twice Mr. Bede Greatorex 
 had invited him up to luncheon or dinner; and so Roland 
 made himself free of the house, and in a degree swayed the 
 office. 
 
 They were very busy to-day. The work which he and Hurst 
 and Jenner had in hand was being waited for, so that Roland 
 had to stick to it, in spite of the intense heat, and quite 
 decided he could not have been worse off at Port Natal. The 
 scratching of pens was going on pretty equally, when Frank 
 Greatorex came in. 
 
 " I want a cheque from you, Bede." 
 
 •' Where's Mr. Greatorex ? " returned Bede in answer ; for 
 it wvas to him such applications were made in general. 
 
 " Gone out." 
 
 Bede put aside the deed he had been examining, went into 
 his private room, and came back with his cheque-book.
 
 134 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " How much ? " he asked of his brother, as he sat down. 
 
 " Forty-four pounds. Make it out to Sir Richard Yorke." 
 
 Simultaneous, as it seemed, two of those present raised their 
 heads to look at Frank Greatorex : Roland Yorke and Mr. 
 Brown. The former was no doubt attracted by the sound of 
 his kinsman's name ; what aroused Mr. Brown's attention did 
 not appear, but he stared for a moment apparently in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Upon consideration, I don't think I'll take the cheque with 
 me now ; I will call for it later in the day, when Fve been into 
 the City," spoke a voice at the door ; and Sir Richard Yorke 
 appeared. Bede, who had just signed the cheque, came forward 
 to shake hands. 
 
 " How d'ye do, sir," spoke up Roland. 
 
 Sir Richard's little eyes peered out of his fat face, and he 
 condescended to recognize his nephew by a nod. Bede 
 Greatorex spoke a few words to the baronet, touching the 
 matter in hand, and turned back to his desk, leaving Frank to 
 escort the old gentleman out. Bede, about to cross the cheque, 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Did Mr, Frank say a crossed cheque ? " he asked, looking 
 
 "P- . . . 
 
 " No, sir ; he simply said a cheque," said Jcnner, finding 
 
 that no one else answered. 
 
 " Yes," broke out Roland, " it's fine to be that branch of the 
 family. Getting their cheques for forty-four pounds ! I wish I 
 could get one for forty-four shillings." 
 
 " Have the goodness to attend to your own business, Mr. 
 Yorke." 
 
 Bede Greatorex left the cheque uncrossed. In a few 
 minutes, after putting things straight on his desk, he gathered up 
 his papers, including the cheque and cheque-book, and went into 
 his room. Putting everything into his desk, — for he had an 
 engagement at twelve, and it was within a minute or two of 
 that hour, — he locked it and went out by the other door, with- 
 out coming into the front room again. 
 
 Now it happened that Bede Greatorex, who had expected to 
 be absent half-an-hour at the longest, was unavoidably detained, 
 so that when Sir Richard Yorke returned for his cheque it 
 could not be given him. Mr. (jreatorex, however, was at home, 
 and drew out another. And the day went on. 
 
 " You must cancel that cheque, Bede," Mr. Greatorex
 
 COMMOTION IN THE OFFICE. 135 
 
 observed to his son that same evening, after office-hours. 
 " It was very unbusiness-Hke to lock it up, when you were not 
 certain of coming back in time to give it to Sir Richard." 
 
 " But I thought it was certain. It does not matter." 
 
 " If you will bring me those title-deeds of Cardwell's, I'll go 
 over them myself quietly, and see what I can make of the 
 matter," said Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 Bede crossed the passage to his private room, and unlocked 
 his desk. The deeds Mr. Greatorex asked for were those that 
 he had been examining in the front office in the morning. 
 Some flaw had been discovered, or was suspected in them, and 
 it was likely to give the office some trouble, which would fall 
 on Bede's head. They lay inside the desk, just as Bede had 
 placed them in the morning, the paper-weight upon them. 
 Detained at Westminster until a late hour, he had not been 
 to his desk since then. Reminded by his father to destroy 
 the now useless cheque, Bede thought he would do it at once. 
 
 But he could not find it. Other papers, besides the title- 
 deeds, cheque, and cheque-book, he had placed within, and he 
 went carefully over them all, one by one. Nothing was miss- 
 ing, nothing had apparently been touched, but the cheque 
 certainly was not there. He searched his desk in the front 
 office, quite for form's sake, for he knew that he had carried 
 the cheque with him to his private room. 
 
 " One would think you had been drawing out the deeds, 
 instead of fetching them,'' remarked Mr. Greatorex, when he 
 returned. 
 
 " I can't find that cheque," answered Bede. 
 
 "Not find it!" repeated Mn Greatorex. "What do you 
 mean, Bede? " 
 
 Bede gave a short history of the affair. He had been in a 
 hurry : and, instead of waiting to put the cheque and cheque- 
 book into his cash-box, had left them loose in his desk with 
 the title-deeds and sundry other papers. 
 
 " But you locked your desk ? " cried Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " Assuredly. I have only unlocked it now. The cheque 
 would be as safe there as in the cash-box." 
 
 " You could not have put it in, Bede ; it must be somewhere 
 about." 
 
 "I am just as certain that I put it in, as I am that it is not 
 there now." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex did not believe it. Bede for some time had
 
 136 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 been showing himself less the keen, precise man of business he 
 used to be. Trifling mistakes, inaccuracies, negligences, 
 would come to light now and again ; vexing Mr. Greatorex 
 beyond measure. 
 
 " I don't know what to make of you of late, Bede," he said, 
 after a p.tuse. " You know the complaints we have been 
 obliged to hear. These very title-deeds " — placing his hand 
 on those just brought in — " it was you who examined and 
 passed them. One negligence or another continually comes 
 cropping up, and they may all be traced to you. Is your state 
 of health the cause of this ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," replied Bede, who felt conscious that the 
 reproach was merited. 
 
 "You had better take rest for a time. If " 
 
 " No," came the interruption, as though the proposal were 
 unpalatable to him. " Work is better for me than idleness. 
 Out of harness, I should knock up altogether." 
 
 " Bede," said Mr. Greatorex, in a kmdly tone, but with 
 some hesitation, " it appears to me that you get more of a 
 changed man day by day. You have not been the same since 
 your marriage. I fear the cause, or a great portion of it, lies in 
 her ; 1 fear she gives you trouble. As you know, I have 
 never spoken to you before of this ; I have abstained from 
 doing so." 
 
 A Hush, that had shown itself in the clear olive face when 
 Mr. Greatorex began to speak, faded to whiteness ; the hand, 
 that accidentally touched his father's, felt fevered in all its 
 veins. 
 
 " At least, my wife is not the cause of my illness," he 
 answered in low tones. 
 
 "I don't know that, Bede. That a great worry lies for ever 
 on your heart, that a restless, nervous anxiety never leaves you 
 night or day, is sufficiently jilain to me \ I know that it can 
 only arise from matters connected with your wife ; and I also 
 know that this, and this alone, tells upon your bodily- health. 
 Your wife's extravagance is bringing you care : ruin will surely 
 follow, if you do not check it." 
 
 Bede Greatorex opened his lips to speak, but seemed to 
 think better of it, and closed them again. His brow was 
 knitted in two upright lines. 
 
 " Unless you can do so, Bede, I shall be compelled to make 
 an alteration in our arrangements. In justice to myself and to
 
 COMMOTION IN THE OFFICE. 137 
 
 my other children, your name must be withdrawn from the 
 firm. Not yourself and your income : only the name, as a 
 matter of safety." 
 
 Bede Greatorex bit his lips. His father's heart ached for 
 him. For a long time Mr. Greatorex had seen that his son's 
 unhappy state of mind (and that it was unhappy no keen 
 observer, much with him, could mistake) arose through his 
 wife. And he thought Bede a fool for putting up with her. 
 
 " You need not be afraid," said Bede. " I will take care the 
 firm's interests are not affected." 
 
 . " How can you take care ? " retorted Mr. Greatorex, rather 
 sternly. " When debts are being contracted daily in the most 
 reckless manner : debts that you know nothing of, until the 
 bills come trooping in and you are called upon to pay them ; 
 can you answer for what it will go on to ? Can I ? Many a 
 richer man than either of us, Bede, has been brought to the 
 Bankruptcy Court through less than this. Ay, and I will tell 
 you what else, Bede — it has brought husbands to the grave. 
 When people remark to me, ' Your son Bede looks ill,' I quietly 
 answer, 'Do you think so?' when all the while I am secretly 
 wondering that you can look even as well as you do." 
 
 " Who remarks on it ? " asked Bede. 
 
 " Who ! Many people. Only the other night, when Henry 
 OUivera was here, he spoke of it." 
 
 " Let Henry OUivera concern himself with his own affairs," 
 was the vexed answer. " Does he want to be a " 
 
 Bedc's voice dropped to an inaudible whisper. But the 
 concluding Avords had sounded like — " curse amongst us." 
 
 " Bede ! Did you say curse ? " 
 
 " I said kiiig,'^ answered Bede. His lips were quivering, his 
 chest was heaving ; all with a passion he was trying to sup- 
 press. Mr. Greatorex looked at him, and waited. He had 
 seen Bede in these intemperate fits of anger before : sometimes 
 for no apparent cause. 
 
 " We will go back to the starting-point — this cheque, Bede," 
 he quietly said. " You must have overlooked it. Go and 
 search your desk again." 
 
 Bede was leaving the room when he met a servant coming 
 to it with a message. Mr. Yorke had called, and wished to 
 see Mr. Greatorex for a couple of minutes : his business was 
 important. 
 
 The notion of Roland Yorke in connection with important
 
 t38 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 business brought a smile to the face of Mr. Greatorex. He 
 told the servant to send him in. 
 
 But instead ot Roland, it was the son of Sir Richard Yorke 
 who advanced. A very fashionable gentleman in evening 
 dress, small and slight, with white hands, a lisp, and a silky 
 moustache. He had come about the cheque. 
 
 Sir Richard, fatigued with his visit to the City, had gone 
 straight home to Portland Place, after receiving the cheque 
 from Mr. Greatorex, and sent his son to the bankers' to get it 
 cashed : a branch office of the London and Westminster. The 
 clerk, before he cashed it, looked at it rather attentively, and 
 then went away for a minute. 
 
 "We have cashed one cheque before to-day, sir, precisely 
 similar to this," he said on his return. " Would Sir Richard 
 be likely to receive two cheques from Greatorex and Greatorex 
 in one day, each drawn for the same amount — forty-four 
 pounds ? " 
 
 " Greatorex and Greatorex are my father's men of business : 
 he went to get some money from them to-day, I know ; I sup- 
 pose he chose to receive it in two cheques instead of one," 
 replied Mr. Yorke haughtily, for he deemed the question an 
 impertinence. " Sir Richard may have wished to pay the 
 half of it away." 
 
 The clerk counted out the money and said no more. The 
 cheques were undoubtedly genuine, the first made out in the 
 well-known hand of Bede Greatorex, the last in that of his 
 father, and the clerk supposed it was all right. Mr. Yorke 
 sent the money up to Sir Richard when he reached home, and 
 went out again. At dinner-time, he mentioned what the clerk 
 had said — "Insolent fellah !" and the old baronet, who knew 
 of the fact of two cheques having been drawn, took alarm. 
 
 " He wouldn't let me wait an instant ; sent me off here 
 before I'd well finished dinner," grumbled Mr. Yorke. " One 
 of you had better come and see him if the cheque has been 
 lost and cashed ; or he'll ask me five hundred questions which 
 I can't answer, and worry himself into a fit over it. He has 
 had one fit, you know. As to the cheque, it must have got 
 into the hands of some clever thief, who hastened to reap the 
 benefit of it." 
 
 " And your desk must have been picked, Bede, it you are 
 sure you put it in," observed Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " I'm sure of that," answered Bede. " ]5ut I don't see how
 
 COMMOTION IN THE OFFICE. 139 
 
 the desk can have been picked. Not a thing in it was dis- 
 placed, and the lock is uninjured." 
 
 Bede had a frightful headache — which was the cause of his 
 looking somewhat worse than usual that evening ; so Mr. 
 Greatorex went to Sir Richard Yorke's. And in coming home 
 he passed round by Scotland Yard. 
 
 On the following morning, sitting in his room, he held a 
 conference with his two sons, whom he had not seen on his 
 return the previous night. 
 
 " They think at Scotland Yard it must inevitably have been 
 one of the clerks in your room, Bede," said Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " One would think so, but that it seems so very unlikely," 
 answered Bede. " Brown and Jenner have been with us quite 
 long enough to prove their honesty; and the other two are 
 gentlemen." 
 
 " Their theory is this ; that some one, possessing easy 
 access to your private room, opened the desk with a false 
 key." 
 
 " For the matter of that, the clerks on our side the house 
 could obtain nearly if not quite as easy access to Bede's room 
 through the other door," observed Frank Greatorex. 
 
 " Yes. But you forget, Frank, that none of them on our 
 side the house knew the cheque had been drawn out and left 
 there. Jelf will be in by-and-by." 
 
 The morning letters, recently delivered, lay before Mr. 
 Greatorex, and he began to look at them one by one before 
 opening them ; his usual custom. He came to one addressed 
 to Bede, marked " Private " on both sides, and tossed it to 
 his son ! 
 
 Bede opened it. There was an inner envelope, sealed, and 
 addressed and marked just like the outer one, which Bede 
 opened in turn. Frank Greatorex, standing near his brother, 
 was enabled to see that a very few lines formed its contents. 
 Almost in a moment, before Bede could have read the whole, 
 he crushed the letter together and thrust it into his pocket, 
 Frank laughed. 
 
 " Your correspondent takes his precautions, Bede. Was he 
 afraid that Mrs. Bede " 
 
 The words were meant as a jest, but Frank did not fmisli 
 them. Bede turned from the room with a half-staggering 
 movement, his countenance livid with some awful terror. 
 Frank simply stared after him, unable to say another word.
 
 I4b koLAND YORKfi. 
 
 " What was that ? " cried Mr. Greatorex, looking up at th6 
 abrupt silence. 
 
 " I don't know," said Frank. " Bede seems moonstruck 
 with that letter he has had. It must contain tidings of some 
 bother or other." 
 
 " Then rely upon it, it is connected with his wife," severely 
 spoke Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 The news relating to the cheque fell upon the office like a 
 thunderbolt. Every clerk in it felt uncomfortable, especially 
 those attached to Mr. Bede's department. The clerk at the 
 Bank, who had cashed the cheque, was questioned. It had 
 been presented at the Bank early in the afternoon, about half- 
 past one o'clock he said, or between that and two. He had 
 not taken notice of the person who presented it, but seemed to 
 remember that he was a tall dark man, with black whiskers. 
 Had taken it and cashed it quite as a matter of course ; it was 
 a common thing for strangers to the Bank to present the 
 cheques of Greatorex and Greatorex. No ; he had not taken 
 the number of the notes, for the best of all possible reasons — 
 that he had paid it in gold, as requested. This clerk happened 
 also to be the one to whom Sir Richard Yorke's son had pre- 
 sented the second cheque ; he spoke to that gentleman of the 
 fact of having cashed an exactly similar cheque an hour or two 
 before ; but Mr. Yorke seemed to intimate that it was all 
 right ; in short, appeared offended at the subject being named 
 to him. 
 
 At present that comprised all the information they possessed. 
 
 It was Mr. Bede Greatorex who made the communication to 
 the clerks in his room. He was sitting at his desk in the front 
 office when they arrived, — an unusual circumstance ; and 
 when all were assembled and had settled to their several occu- 
 pations, then he entered upon it. The cheque he had drawn 
 out, as they might remember, on the previous morning for Sir 
 Richard Yorke. He had locked it up subsequently in his 
 desk in the other room. From this it had been abstracted, 
 and cashed at the Bank. He spoke in a quiet, friendly manner, 
 just in the tone he might have related it to a friend; not 
 appearing to cast the least thought of suspicion upon any one 
 of them. Nevertheless, no detective living could have watched 
 their several demeanours, as they heard it, more keenly than 
 did Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 The clerks seemed thunderstruck. Three of them gazed at
 
 COMMOTION IN THE OFFICE. 141 
 
 him, unable for the moment to shape any reply : the other 
 burst out at once. 
 
 " The cheque gone ! Stolen out of the desk, and cashed at 
 the r.ank ! My goodness ! AVho took it, sir ? " 
 
 The words came from no one but Roland, you may be sure. 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex went on to give a few details ; and 
 Roland's next movement was to rush into the adjoining room 
 without permission, and give a k\v tugs at the desk. Back he 
 clattered in commotion. 
 
 And h.ere let it be remarked, en fassayit^ that it is some- 
 what annoying to have to apply so frequently the word 
 "clatter" to Roland's progress, imparting no doubt a certain 
 monotony to the narrative. But there is really no other 
 expression that can be found to describe it. His steps were 
 qinck, and the soles of his boots made noise enough for ten. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Bede Greatorex," he exclaimed, " it is no light 
 hand that could open that desk without a key. I've had ex- 
 ])erience in lifting weights over at Port Natal when helping to 
 load the ships with coal " 
 
 " Kindly oblige me by making less noise, Mr. Yorke," came 
 the reproof. 
 
 Which Roland seemed not to heed in the slightest. He 
 tilted himself on to a high stool in the middle of the room, his 
 legs dangling, just as though he had been at a free-and-easy 
 meeting ; and there he sat, staring in consternation. 
 
 " Will the Bank know the fellow again that cashed it ? " 
 
 *' My opinion is that the desk was opened with a key in the 
 ordinary way," observed Mr. Bede Greatorex, referring to a 
 previous remark of Roland's, but passing over his present 
 question. 
 
 " Periiaps you left your keys about? " suggested Roland. 
 
 " I did not leave them about, Mr. Yorke. I had them with 
 me." 
 
 " Well, this is a go ! / say ! " he resumed, with quite a 
 burst of excitement, his face glowing : " who'll be at the loss 
 of the money ? Old 1 )ick Yorke ? " 
 
 " Ah, that is a nice question," said Bede Greatorex. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," interposed Mr. Brown, who had 
 been silent and thoughtful until now. " Don't you think you 
 must be mistaken in supposing you put the cheque in the 
 desk ? I could understand it all so easily, if • " 
 
 *' I know I put it in my desk, and left it there locked up,"
 
 142 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 said Mr. Bede Greatorex, arresting the words. " What were 
 you about to say ? " 
 
 " If you had carried the cheque out, and dropped it inad- 
 vertently in the street," conchided Mr. Brown, " it would have 
 been quite easy to understand the matter. Some unprincipled 
 man might have picked it up, and made off at once to the 
 Bank with it, hazarding the risk he ran." 
 
 " But I did nothing of the sort," said Bede : and Mr. Brown 
 shook his head, as if he were hard of conviction. 
 
 " Of course, there's not much difference in the degree of 
 guilt, but many a man who would not for the world rifle a 
 desk might appropriate a checiue he had picked uj), sir." 
 
 " I tell you, the cheque was taken from my desk," reiterated 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex, slighty irritated at the persistency of Mr. 
 Brown. 
 
 " Well, sir, then all I can say is, that it is an exceedingly 
 disagreeable thing for every one of us," said the head-clerk. 
 
 "I do not wish to imply that it is so," said Bede Greatorex. 
 " j\Ir. Yorke, allow me to suggest that sitting on that stool will 
 not help you with your work." 
 
 " I hope old Dick will be the one to lose it ! " cried Roland, 
 with fervour, as he left the stool for his place by Mr. Hurst. 
 " Forty-four pounds ! it's stunning. He's the meanest old 
 chap alive, Mr. Greatorex. I'd almost have taken it myself 
 from him." 
 
 " Did you take it ? " questioned Hurst, in a whisper. 
 
 " What's that ? " retorted Roland. 
 
 He faced Hurst as he spoke, waiting for a reply. Then 
 suddenly the proud countenance and bearing changed. The 
 face fell, the clear eyes looked away, the brow became suffused. 
 Hurst saw the signs, and felt sorry for what he had said ; had 
 said in thoughtlessness rather than with any real meaning. For 
 he knew that it had recalled to Roland Yorke a terrible 
 escapade in his earlier life.
 
 ( 143 ) 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF. 
 
 " It will stick in my gizzard for ever. I can see that. An 
 awful clog, it is, when a fellow has dropped into mischief once 
 in his life, and repented and atoned for it, that it must be cast 
 in his teeth always ; cropping up at any hour, like a dead dog 
 in the Thames. I might as well have stayed at Port Natal ! " 
 
 Such was the mental soliloquy of Mr. Roland Yorke as he 
 bent over his writing after that overwhelming question of 
 Hurst's, "Did you take it?" Hurst, really grieved at having 
 hurt his feelings, strove to soothe away what he had said. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, old fellow," he whispered. " On my 
 honour I spoke without thought." 
 
 " I dare say you did ! " retorted Roland. 
 
 " I meant no harm, Roland ; I did not indeed. Nothing 
 connected with the past occurred to me." 
 
 " You know it d/d," was the answer, and Roland turned his 
 grieved face full on Hurst. " You know you wanted to bring 
 up that miserable time when I stole the twenty-pound note 
 from old Galloway, and let the blame of it fall on Arthur 
 Channing. Because I took that, you think I have taken this ! " 
 
 " Hush ! You'll have them hear you, Yorke." 
 
 " And that's just what you want. Why don't you go and 
 tell them ? " demanded Roland, who was working himself into 
 a passion. " Proclaim it aloud. Ring the bell, as the town- 
 crier does at home on a market-day. Call Greatorex and 
 Brown and Jenncr up from their desks. Where's the good of 
 taunting me in private ? " 
 
 Hurst kept his head down and wrote on in silence, hoping 
 to allay the storm he had inadvertently provoked. In spite of 
 his protestations, he /lad spoken in reference to that past 
 transaction, and his tone had proclaimed the truth to Roland ; 
 but still he had spoken thoughtlessly. Roland, as he believed, 
 was no more guilty of this present loss than he himself was ; 
 and he felt inclined to cut his tongue out for its haste. 
 
 Pushing his hair from his hot face, biting his lips, drawing 
 deep breaths in his anger and emotion, stood Roland. Pre-
 
 144 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 sently the pen was dashed down on the parchment before him, 
 blotting it and defacing it, though of course that went for 
 nothing, and Roland stalked up to the desk of Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " I wish to say, sir, that I did not steal the cheque." 
 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex was taken by surprise. But he had by 
 this time become pretty well acquainted with Roland and his 
 impulsive ways ; he liked him in spite of his faults as a clerk ; 
 otherwise he would never have put up with them. A pleasant 
 smile crossed his lips as he answered ; answered in jest. 
 
 " You know the old French proverb, I dare say, Mr. Yorke : 
 ' Qui s'excuse s'accuse ' ? " 
 
 Roland made nothing of French at the best of times. At 
 such moments as these, every pulse within him agitated to 
 pain, it was about as intelligible as Hebrew. But, had he 
 understood every word of the old saying, he could not have 
 responded with more passionate earnestness. 
 
 " I did not touch the cheque, sir ; I swear it. I never saw 
 it after you took it from this room, or knew where you put it, 
 or anything about it. It never once came into my thoughts." 
 
 " But why do you trouble yourself to say this ?" asked Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex, speaking seriously when he noticed the 
 anxious tone, the emotion accompanying the denial. " No one 
 thought of supposing you had taken it." 
 
 " Hurst did, sir. He accused me." 
 
 Hurst, in his vexation, pushed his work from him. Of all 
 living mortals, surely Roland was the simplest ; he had no 
 more tact than a child ! Mr. Bede Greatorex looked from one 
 to the other. 
 
 " I did nothing of the kind," said Hurst, speaking quietly. 
 " The fact is, Roland Yorke can't take a joke. When he made 
 that remark about his uncle, Sir Richard, I said to him, ' Did 
 you take the cheque ? ' speaking in jest of course ; and he took 
 the question seriously." 
 
 "There, go to your place, Mr. Yorke," said Bede. 
 
 "I wouldn't do such a thing as touch a checjue for the 
 world ; or any other money that was not mine : no, not though 
 it did belong to old Dick Yorke," earnestly reiterated Roland, 
 keeping his ground. 
 
 " Of course you would not. Don't be foolish, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 " You believe mc, I hope, sir." 
 
 " Certainly. Do go to your desk. I am busy."
 
 takinC the place of JELF. 145 
 
 Roland went back to it now, with a brighter face. And 
 Bede Greatorex thought with a smile how like a boy he was, 
 in spite of his cight-and-twenty years, and his travels to Port 
 Natal. These single-minded natures never grow old, or wise 
 in the world's ways. 
 
 Another minute, and a stranger had entered the office. And 
 yet, not quite a stranger; for Bede Greatorex had seen him 
 some few years before, and Hurst and Roland Yorke knew 
 him at once. It was Mr. Butterby ; more wiry than he used 
 to be, more observant about the eyes. He had come in refer- 
 ence to the loss of the cheque, and saluted Mr. Bede Greatorex : 
 who looked surprised and not best pleased to see him. Jelf, 
 the officer expected, was a man in whom Bede had confidence ; 
 of this one's skill he knew nothing. 
 
 " It was Sergeant Jelf whom we desired to see," said Bede, 
 speaking curtly. 
 
 " It was," amicably replied Mr. Butterby. " Jelf received a 
 telegram this morning, and had to go off unexpectedly. I'm 
 taking his place for a bit." 
 
 " Have you changed your abode from Helstonleigh to 
 London ? " 
 
 " Only tempory. My head-quarters are always at Helston- 
 leigh. And now about this matter, Mr. Bede Greatorex ?" 
 
 " I think we need not trouble you. It can wait until 
 Sergeant Jelf returns." 
 
 " It might have to wait some time then," was Mr. Butterby's 
 answer. " Jelf is off to Rooshia ; St. Petersburg first ; and it's 
 hard to say how long he'll stay there or where he may have to 
 go to next. It's all right, sir. I've been this ten minutes 
 with Mr. Greatorex, have learnt the particulars of the case, and 
 got his instructions." 
 
 Bede Greatorex bit his lip. This man, associated in his 
 mind with that past trouble— the death of John Ollivera, who 
 had been so dear to him, and was still so bitterly regretted^ 
 was distasteful to Bede rather than otherwise, and for certain 
 other reasons he would have preferred Jelf There seemed 
 however no help for it, as his father had given the man his 
 instructions. 
 
 Mr. Butterby turned his attention to the clerks. As a pre- 
 liminary step to proceedings, he peered at them one by one 
 under his eyebrows, while apparently studying the maps on 
 the walls. Hurst favoured him with a civil nod. 
 
 Roland Vorke. 10
 
 146 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Butterby?" said Roland Yorke. "You 
 don't get much fatter, Butterby." 
 
 Mr. Butterby's answer to this was to stare at Roland for a 
 full minute ; as if he could not believe his own eyes at seeing 
 him there. 
 
 " That looks like Mr. Roland Yorke !" 
 
 " And it is him,"' said Roland. " He is a clerk here. Now 
 then, Butterby ! " 
 
 " I beg to state that I have full confidence in all my clerks," 
 interposed Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 " Just so," acquiesced the detective. " Mr. Greatorex senior 
 thinks the same. But it is requisite that I should put a few 
 questions to them, for all that. I can't see my way clear until 
 I have ascertained the movements of every clerk this house 
 employs, from the time the cheque was put into your desk yester- 
 day, sir. And I mean to do it," he concluded with composure. 
 
 He was proceeding to examine the clerks, holding a worn 
 note-book in his hand to pencil down any answer that might 
 strike him, when Bede Greatorex again interposed, conscious 
 that this might be looked upon by some of them as an 
 unpardonable indignity. 
 
 " I cannot think this necessary, Mr. Butterby. We place 
 every confidence in our clerks ; I repeat it emphatically. Mr. 
 Brown and Mr. Jenner have been with me for some years 
 now ; Mr. Hurst and Mr. Yorke are gentlemen." 
 
 " / know who they two are ; knew them long before you did, 
 sir ; and their fathers too. Dr. Yorke, the late prebendary, 
 put some business into my hands once. But now, just leave 
 this matter with me, Mr. Bede Greatorex. Your father has 
 done me the honour to leave it in my hands ; and, excuse me 
 for saying it, so must you. All these four, now present to hear 
 you mention their names with respect, understand that what I 
 do is an ordinary matter of form the law officers require to be 
 gone through, just as well as if I paid 'em the compliment of 
 saying so." 
 
 " Oh, very well," said Bede, acquiescing more cheerfully. 
 " Step in to my private room with me for a moment first, Mr. 
 Butterby." 
 
 He held the door open as he spoke ; but, before the officer 
 could turn to it, Mr. Greatorex came in, Bede shut the door 
 again, and nodded to Mr. Butterby, as much as to say : '* Never 
 mind now."
 
 TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF. 147 
 
 And so the questioning of the clerks began. Mr. Greatorex 
 Stayed for a short while to listen to it, and talked to them all 
 in a friendly manner, as if to show that the proceeding was not 
 instituted in consequence of any particular suspicion, but rather 
 as an investigation in which the house, masters and clerks, 
 were alike interested. The head-clerk went on with his work 
 during the investigation as calmly as if Mr. Butterby had been 
 a simple client ; the questions put to him, as to his own move- 
 ments on the previous day, he answered quietly, calmly, and 
 satisfactorily, Roland never wrote a line during the w-hole 
 time ; he did nothing but stare , and made comments with 
 his usual freedom. When his turn came to receive the 
 officer's polite attention, he exploded a little and gave very 
 insolent retorts, out of what Mr. Butterby saw was sheer 
 contrariness. 
 
 The inquiry narrowed itseh to this side of the house ; the 
 rest of the clerks being able to prove, individually, that they 
 had not been near Mr. Bede's room during the suspected 
 hours of the previous day. Whereas it appeared, after some 
 considerable sifting, that each one of these four could have 
 entered it at will, and unseen. What with the intervening 
 dinner-hour, and sundry outdoor commissions, every one of 
 them had been left alone in the office separately for a longer 
 or shorter time. It also came out that, with the exception 
 of Jenner, each had been away from the office quite long 
 enough to go to the Bank with the cheque, or to send it and 
 secure the money. Roland Yorke, taking French leave, had 
 stayed a good hour and a quarter at his dinner, having 
 departed for it at a quarter -past one. Mr. Brown had 
 been out on business for the house from one till half-past 
 two ; and Mr. Hurst, who went to the stamp-office, was 
 away nearly as long. In point of fact, the chief office-keeper 
 had been little Jenner, who came back from dinner at half- 
 past one. 
 
 " And now," said the detective, after putting up the pocket- 
 book, in which he had pencilled some of the above items of 
 intelligence, " I should like to have a look at this desk of yours, 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex." 
 
 Bede led the way to his room, and shut himself in with the 
 detective. While apparently taking no notice whatever of the 
 questions put to his clerks, keeping his head bent over some 
 papers as if his very life depended on their perusal, he had in
 
 148 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 reality listened keenly to the answers of all. Handing over 
 the key of his desk, he allowed the officer to examine it at will, 
 and waited. He then sat down in his own chair and motioned 
 the other to a seat opposite. 
 
 " Mr. Butterby, I do not wish any further stir made in this 
 business." 
 
 Had Mr. Butterby received a cannon-ball on his head he 
 could scarcely have experienced a greater shock of surprise, 
 and for once he made no reply. Bede Greatorex calmly re- 
 peated his injunction, in answer to the perplexed gaze cast on 
 him. He wished nothing more done in the matter. 
 
 "What on earth for?" cried Mr, Butterby. 
 
 " I shall have to repose some confidence in you," pursued 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex. " It will be safe, I presume ? " 
 
 Butterby quite laughed at the question. Safe ! With him ! 
 It certainly would be. If the world only knew the secrets he 
 held in his bosom ! 
 
 "And yet I can trust you only partially," resumed Bede 
 Greatorex. " Not for my own sake ; I have nothing to con- 
 ceal, and should like things fully investigated ; but for the sake 
 of my father and family generally. Up to early post-time this 
 morning I was more anxious for Jelf, that he might take the 
 loss in hand, than ever my father was." 
 
 Bede Greatorex paused. But there came no answering 
 remark from his attentive listener, and he went on again. 
 
 " I received a private note by this morning's post which 
 altered the aspect of things, and gave me a clue to the real 
 taker of the cheque. Only a very faint clue : a suspicion 
 rather : and, that, vague and uncertain : but enough to cause 
 me, in the doubt, to let the matter drop. In fact there is 
 no choice left to me. We must put up with the loss of the 
 money." 
 
 Mr. Butterby sat with his hands on his knees, a favourite 
 attitude of his : his head bent a little forward, his eyes fixed 
 on the speaker. 
 
 "I don't quite take you, Mr, Greatorex," said he, "You 
 must speak out more plainly." 
 
 Bede Greatorex paused in hesitation, 'i'his communication 
 was distasteful, however necessary he might deem it, and he 
 felt afraid of slipping a dangerous word inadvertently. 
 
 " The letter was obscurely worded," he slowly said, " but, if 
 I understand it rightly, the proceeds of the cheque have found
 
 TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF. 149 
 
 their way into the hands of one whom neitlier my father nor I 
 would prosecute. To do so would bring great pain upon us 
 both, perhaps injury. The pain to my father would be such 
 that I dare not show him the letter, or tell him I have received 
 it. For his sake, Mr. Butterby, you and I must both hush the 
 matter up." 
 
 ]\Ir. Butterby felt very much at sea. A silent man by nature 
 and habit, he sat still yet, and listened for more. 
 
 "There will be no difficulty, I presume?" 
 
 " Let us understand each other, sir. If I take your meaning 
 correctly, it is this. Somebody is mixed up in the affair whose 
 name it won't do to bring to light. One of the family, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 Mr. Butterby had to wait for an answer. Bede Greatorex 
 paused ere he gave it. 
 
 " If not an actual member of the family, it is one so nearly 
 connected with it, that he may almost be called such." 
 
 " It's a man, then ? " 
 
 "It is a man. Will you work with me in this, so as to 
 keep suspicion from my father? Tacitly let him think you 
 are doing what you can to investigate the affair. When no 
 result is brought forth, he will suppose that you have been 
 unsuccessful." 
 
 ^'Of course, sir, if you tell me I am not to go on with it, 
 why I won't, and it is at an end. Law bless me ! Lots of 
 things are put into our hands one day; and, the next, the 
 family comes and says, ' Hush 'em up.' " 
 
 " So far good, Mr. Butterby. But now, I wish you, for my 
 own satisfaction, to make some private investigation into it. 
 Quite secretly, you understand : and if you ran learn anything 
 as to the thief, bring the news quietly to me." 
 
 Mr. Butterby thought this was about as complete a contra- 
 diction to what had gone before as it had been ever his lot to 
 listen to. He took refuge in his silent gaze and waited. Bede 
 Greatorex put his elbow on the table and his hand to his head 
 as he spoke. , 
 
 "If I were able to confide the whole case to you, Mr. 
 Butterby, you would see how encompassed it is with doubts 
 and difficulties. I have reason to fancy that the purloiner of 
 the cheque out of this desk must have been one of the cleiks 
 in my room. I think this for two reasons ; one is, that I don't 
 see how any one else could have had access to it,"
 
 I50 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " But, sir, you stood it out to their faces just now that you 
 did not suspect them." 
 
 " Because it will not do for them to know that I do. I assure 
 you, Mr. Butterby, this is a most dehcate and dangerous affair. 
 I wish to my heart it had never happened." 
 
 " Uo you mean that the clerk, in taking it — if he did take it 
 — was acting as the agent of some other party ? " 
 
 Bede Greacorex nodded. " Yes, only that." 
 
 " But that's enough to transport him, you know," cried 
 Butterby, slightly drifting from the argument. 
 
 " If we could bring him to book, yes. But that must not be 
 done. I dont see who else it could have been," added Bede, 
 communing with himself rather than addressing Mr. Butterby ; 
 and his face wore a strangely perplexed look. 
 
 " Could any of the household— the maidservants, for instance 
 — get into this room ? " asked Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " There's not one of them would dare to risk it in the day- 
 time. They are in the other house. No, no -, I fear we must 
 look to one of the young men in the next room." 
 
 Mr. Butterby nodded with satisfaction : matters seemed to 
 be taking a more reasonable turn. 
 
 " Let's see ; there's four of them," he began, beginning to 
 tell the clerks off on his fingers. " I'he manager, Brown — 
 confidential, I think, you said " 
 
 "I did not say confidential," interrupted Bede Greatorex. 
 " I said we placed great confidence in him. There's a dis- 
 tinction, Mr. Butterby." 
 
 " Of course. Then there's the little man, Jenner ; and the 
 others. Hurst and Yorke. Have you any doubt yourself as to 
 anyone of them?" quickly asked Mr. Butterby, looking full 
 at the lawyer. 
 
 Bede Greatorex hesitated. " I cannot say that I have. It 
 would be so wrong, you know, to cast a doubt on either, 
 without sufficient cause ; nothing but what may be a passing 
 fancy, without foundation." 
 
 " Speak out, Mr. Bede Greatorex. It's all in the day's 
 work. If there is really nothing, it won't hurt him; if there 
 is, I may be able to follow it up. Perhaps it's one of the two 
 gentlemen ? " 
 
 " If it be any one of the four, Mr. Hurst." 
 
 Tlic detective so i^x forgot his manners as to break into 
 a low whistle.
 
 TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF. 151 
 
 " Mr. Hurst ! — or Mr. Yorke, do you mean ? " he cried, in 
 his surprise. 
 
 "Not Mr. Yorke, certainly. Why should you think of 
 him?'" 
 
 "Oh, nothing," carelessly answered Butterby. " Ilurst 
 seems an upright young man, sir." 
 
 " It is so trifling a doubt I have of him, the lifting of a straw, 
 as may be said, that I should be sorry to think he is not 
 upright. Still, I have reason for deciding that he is the most 
 likely, of the four, to be suspected." 
 
 At that moment, Josiah Hurst, the gentleman in question, 
 interrupted them ; bringing a message to Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 An important client was waiting to see him. Mr. Butterby 
 took a more curious look at the young man's countenance than 
 he had ever done in the old days at Helstonleigh. 
 
 "The lawyer's wrong," thought he to himself. "He is no 
 taker of cheques, he isn't." 
 
 " I shall be at liberty in one minute, Mr. Hurst. Shut the 
 door. You understand ? " he added in a low tone to the 
 detective, as they stood up together in parting. " All that I 
 have said to you must be kept secret ; doubly secret from my 
 father. He must suppose you to be at work, investigating; 
 whereas, in point of fact, the thing must drop. Only, if you can 
 gain any private information, bring it to me." 
 
 Mr. Butterby answered by one of his emphatic nods. " You 
 see there's nothing come up yet about that other thing," he said. 
 
 "What other thing?" 
 
 " The death of Mr. Ollivera." 
 
 " And not likely to," returned Bede Greatorex. " That was 
 over and done with at the time." 
 
 "Just my opinion," said the detective. "Jenner \Yas his 
 clerk in chambers." 
 
 " Yes. A faithful little fellow." 
 
 " Looks it. Who's the other one — Mr. Brown ? " 
 
 " I can only tell you that he is Mr. Brown ; I know nothing 
 of his family. We have had him three or four years." 
 
 " Had a good character with him, I suppose ? Knew where 
 he'd been, and all that ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly. My father is particular. Why do you 
 ask ? " 
 
 " Only because he is the only one in your room that I don't 
 Know something of. Good morning, Mr. Bede Greatorex."
 
 15- 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bede shut the door, and Mr. Butterby walked away, ob- 
 serving things indoors and out, while he ruminated on what he 
 had heard. Sundry reports, connected with the domesticlife of 
 Bede Greatorex, were familiar to his comprehensive intelligence. 
 
 " It's a rum go, this," quoth he, making his comments. 
 " He meant his wife, he did ; I'd a great mind to say so. 
 Hush it up? of course they must. And Madam keeps the 
 forty-four pounds. But now — does he suspect it might have 
 been one of the clerks helped her to it, or was it only a quiet 
 way of stopping my questions as to how the ' member of the 
 family ' could have got indoors to the desk ? She grabbed his 
 key, she did, and took out the cheque herself: leastways I 
 should say so. Stop a bit, though. Who cashed it at the 
 Bank ? Perhaps one of 'em did help her. 'Tvvasn't Hurst, I 
 know ; nor little Jenner, eitlier. Don't think it was young 
 Yorke, in spite of that old affair at Galloway's. T'other, 
 Brown, I don't know. Any way," concluded Mr. Butterby, 
 his thoughts recurring to Bede Greatorex and his wife, " he 
 has his torment in her ; and he shows it. Never saw a man so 
 altered in all my life : looks, spirits, manners : it's just as though 
 there was a blight upon him." 
 
 That the detective's presence in the office had not been 
 agreeable to the clerks, will be readily understood. It had to 
 be accepted as an evil ; as other evils must be accepted for 
 which there is no help. Roland Yorke felt inclined to resent 
 it openly, and thought the fates were against him still, as they 
 had been at Port Natal. What with that unlucky question of 
 Hurst's and the appearance of Butterby on the scene, both 
 recalling the miserable escapade of years ago that he would 
 give all the world to forget, Roland, hot-headed and hot- 
 hearted, was in a state of mind to do any mad thing that came 
 U})i)ermost. And the morning wore away. 
 
 " Why don't you go to dinner, Mr. Yorke ? " 
 
 The (question came from the manager. Roland, in his per- 
 plexity of mind and feelings, had unconsciously let the usual 
 time slip by. Catching ui) his hat, he tore through the street 
 at full speed until he reached the Bank, into which he went 
 with a burst. 
 
 " I want to see one of the principals." 
 
 What with the haste, the imperative demand, and the im- 
 posing air and stature, Roland was at once attended to, and a 
 gentleman, nearly as little as Jenner, came forward.
 
 TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF. 153 
 
 " Look here," said Roland. " Just you bring me face to 
 face with the fellow who cashed that cheque yesterday. The 
 clerk, you know." 
 
 " Which chc(|ue ? " came the very natural question from the 
 little gentleman, as he gazed at the applicant. 
 
 " The one there's all this shindy over at Greatorex and 
 Greatorex's. Drawn out in favour of old Dick Yorke." 
 
 Of course it was not precisely the way to go about things. 
 Before Roland's request was complied with, a little informa- 
 tion was requested as to what his business might be, and who 
 he was. 
 
 " I am Mr. Roland Yorke." 
 
 " Any relation to Sir Richard Yorke ? " 
 
 " His nephew by blood ; none at all by friendship. Old 
 Dick-r— but never mind him now. If you'll let me see the 
 clerk, sir, you will hear what I want with him." 
 
 The clerk, standing behind the counter, had heard the 
 colloquy. Roland dashed up to him so impulsively that the 
 little gentleman could with difficulty keep pace. 
 
 " Now, then," began Roland to the wondering clerk, " look 
 at me— look well. Am I the man who presented that cheque 
 yesterday ?" 
 
 " No, sir, certainly not," was the clerk's reply. " There's 
 not the least resemblance." 
 
 " Very good," said Roland, calming down a little. " I thought 
 it well to come and let you see me ; that's all." 
 
 "But why so?" asked the principal, thinking Sir Richard 
 Yorkc's nephew, though a fine man, must be rather an eccen- 
 tric one. 
 
 " Why ! Why, because I am in Bede Greatorex's office, and 
 we've had a policeman amongst us this morning, looking us 
 up. They say the cheque was brought here by a tall fellow 
 with black whiskers. As that description applies to me, and 
 to none of the others, I thought I'd come and let y.ou see me. 
 That's all. Good morning." 
 
 Dashing out with the same commotion with which he had 
 entered, Roland, still neglecting his dinner, went skimming 
 back to the house of Greatorex and Greatorex. Not to enter 
 the office, but to pay a visit to Mrs. Bede's side of it. 
 
 Not very long before this hour, Mr. Bede Greatorex, all the 
 cares of his business on his shoulders, not the least of them 
 (taking it in all its bearings) being the new one connected with
 
 154 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the stolen cheque, went upstairs for luncheon and a few minutes' 
 relaxation. He found his wife full of her cares. Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex had cards out for that afternoon, bidding the great 
 world to a kettle-drum ; and she was calculating what quantity 
 of ices and strawberries to order in, with sundry other momen- 
 tous questions. 
 
 The rooms were turned upside down. A great crowd was 
 expected, and small articles of furniture, holding fragile orna- 
 ments, were being put out of the way, lest they should come to 
 grief in the crush. 
 
 "Yes, that quantity of ice will be sufficient; and be sure 
 take care that you have an abundance of strawberries," con- 
 cluded Mrs. Bede Greatorex to the attendant, who had been 
 receiving her orders. " Chocolate ? Of course. Where's the 
 use of asking senseless questions? Bede," she added, seeing 
 her husband standing there, " I know how you detest the smell 
 of chocolate, saying it makes you feel sick, and brmgs on head- 
 aches ; but I cannot dispense with it in my rooms. Other 
 people give it, and so must I," 
 
 " Give what you like," he said wearily. " What is it you are 
 going to have ? A ball ? " 
 
 " A ball in the afternoon ! Well done, Bede ! It's a kettle- 
 drum." 
 
 "The house is never free from disturbance, Louisa," he 
 rejoined, as a man went by with a table. 
 
 "You should let me live away from it. And then you 
 wouldn't smell the chocolate. And the doors would not be 
 blocked up for ever with carriages, as you grumble they are 
 now. With a house in Hyde Park " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Bede, in a whisper. " What did I tell you 
 the other day? — That our expenses are so large, I could not 
 live elsewhere, if I would. Don't wear me out with this ever- 
 lasting theme, Louisa." 
 
 It was not precisely the hearth for a man, oppressed with 
 the world's troubles, to find refuge in; neither was she the 
 wife. Bede sighetl in very weariness, and turned to go away, 
 thinking how welcome to him, if he could only get transplanted 
 to it, would be a corner in some far-off desert, never before 
 trodden by the foot of man. 
 
 A great noise on the stairs, as if a coach-and-six were coming 
 up, followed by a smart knocking at the room door. Bede 
 turned to escape, thinking it might possibly be the advancer
 
 TAKING THE PLACE OF JELF. 155 
 
 guard of the kettle-drum. No one but Mr. Roland Yorke. 
 And Roland (who had come up on a vain search for Miss 
 Channing), seeing his master there, at once began to tell of 
 where he had just been and for what purpose. To keep his 
 own counsel on any matter whatever, would have been ex- 
 tremely difficult to Roland. 
 
 " It is said, you know, Mr. Eede Greatorex, that the man, 
 who cashed the cheque and got the money, was a tall fellow 
 with black whiskers; so I thought it well to go and show myself. 
 I am tall," drawing up his head ; " I have black whiskers ; and 
 no one else in your room answered to the description." 
 
 "It was very unnecessary, Mr. Yorke. You were in Port 
 Natal." 
 
 " In Port Natal ! " echoed Roland, staring. " What has 
 Port Natal to do with this ? " 
 
 Bade Greatorex laughed shghtly. In his absorption, he had 
 suffered his mind to run on other things. 
 
 "As to unnecessary — I don't think so, after what that ill- 
 natured Hurst said. And perhaps you'd not, sir, if you knew 
 all," added simple Roland, thinking of Mr. Galloway's bank- 
 note. "Any way, I have been to the Bank to show myself'' 
 
 "What did the Bank say to you.?" questioned Bede Greato- 
 rex, his tone one of jest. 
 
 " The Bank said I was not in the least like the fellow ; he 
 was tall, but not as tall as I am, and they are nearly sure he 
 had a beard as well as whiskers. I thought I'd tell you, sir." 
 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex, listening to this with curious ears, 
 inquired what the trouble was, and heard for the first time of 
 the loss of the clieque, the probable loss of the forty-four 
 pounds. Had Mr. Butterby been present to mark her sur- 
 prise, he might have dismissed his opinion that she was the 
 recipient alluded to by Bede Greatorex, and perhaps have 
 mentally begged her pardon for the mistaken thought. 
 
 "Will you come to my kettle-drum, Mr, Roland !" 
 
 "No, I won't," said Roland. "Thank you all the same," 
 he added a minute after, as if to atone for the bluntness of the 
 reply. "I've been uncommonly put out to-day, Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex ; and when a fellow is put out, he does not care for 
 drums or kettles either." 
 
 However, when the kettle-drum was in full swing, about five 
 o'clock in the afternoon, and the stairs were crowded with 
 talkers and trains, Roland, thinking better of it, elbowed his
 
 156 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 way up amidst them. People who did not know him, thought 
 he must be the Lord Chamberlain, or some such great man, 
 for Roland had a way of holding his own and tacitly asserting 
 himself, as nobody else did. He caught sight of Gerald, who 
 averted his head at once ; he saw Mrs. Hamish Channing, and 
 she was the only guest he talked to. Roland was again looking 
 for Annabel, He found her presently in the refreshment-room, 
 seeing that Miss Jane did not make herself ill with strawberries 
 and cream. 
 
 Into her ear, very much as though it had been a haven of 
 refuge, Roland confided his wrongs ; Mr. Hurst's allusion re- 
 garding the loss, his errand to the Bank, and in short all the 
 events of the morning. 
 
 " I couldn't have done it by //////," said Roland. " Had he 
 made a fool of himself when he was young and wicked, I could 
 no more have flung it in his teeth in after-years, than I could 
 fling it in yours, Annabel. When I've been repenting of the 
 mad act ever since ; never going to my bed at night or rising 
 in the morning, without thinking of it and — dashing it : but I 
 was going to say another word : and hoping and planning how 
 best to recompense every soul that suffered by it ! It was too 
 bad of him." 
 
 *' Yes it was," warmly answered Annabel, her cheeks flush- 
 ing with the earnestness of her sympathy. Roland, I never 
 liked Josiah Hurst." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA. 
 
 Mr. Gerald Yorke stood in his cliambers — as he was pleased 
 to style the luxurious rooms he occupied in a most fashionable 
 (juarter of London. Gerald liked luxury and fashion, and 
 went in for both. He was occupied very much as Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex had been earlier in the day— namely, in casting a 
 glance round his rooms, and the supplies of good things just 
 brought into them. For Gerald was to give a wine and supper 
 party that night. 
 
 Running counter to the career planned for him — the Church
 
 GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA. 157 
 
 ^-Gerald had embarked in one of his own choosmg. He 
 determined to be a public man ; and had ambitious visions of 
 a future premiership, or a seat in the cabinet at least. He 
 came to London, got introductions through his family connec- 
 tions, and hoped to be promoted to some government appoint- 
 ment to start with. As a preliminary step, he plunged into 
 society and high living ; going out amidst the great world and 
 receiving men in return". This requires some amount of cash, 
 as every one who has tried it knows, however unlimited one's 
 credit may be ; and Gerald Yorke laboured under the draw- 
 back of possessing no credit at all. A handsome present from 
 Lord Carrick when his lordship was in funds, or an occasional 
 five-pound note, screwed out of his mother's shallow purse, 
 constituted all his resources. So Gerald did as a great many 
 more do — he took to writing as a temporary means of living. 
 Of genius he had none ; but after a little practice he became a 
 sufficiently ready writer. He tried political articles, he wrote 
 short stories for periodicals, he obtained a post on one or two 
 good papers as a reviewer. Gerald liked to review works of 
 fiction best : they gave him the least trouble : and no one 
 could cut and slash a rival's book to shreds more effectively 
 than he. Friendly with a great many in the literary world, 
 and with men belonging to the press, Gerald found plenty of 
 work put into his hands, for which he was well paid. At last 
 he began to try his hand at a book himself. If he could only 
 get through it, he thought, and it made a hit and brought him 
 in some money, what a glorious thing it would be ! 
 
 As the time went on, so did Gerald's hopes. The book 
 progressed towards completion (in spite of sundry stumbling 
 blocks, where he had appeared to stick fast), and success, with 
 its attendant harvest, drew almost as near to his view, as its 
 necessity was in reality. For the money earned by his stray 
 papers and reviews, was as a drop of water in the ocean of 
 Gerald's needs. 
 
 Look at the tall, fine man as he stands there in his evening 
 dress, with his back to the fireplace. But there is a savage 
 frown of perplexity and ill-temper on his generally cynical face, 
 for something has occurred to annoy him. 
 
 And yet, that had been in its earlier hours such a red-letter 
 day ! In the morning Gerald had put the finishing touch to 
 his book, and complacently written the title. In the afternoon 
 he had been introduced to a great literary don at Mrs. Bede
 
 158 ROLAND YORKfi. 
 
 Greatorex's drum, who might prove of use in the future. 
 Calling later upon a friend, he had dined with him, and then 
 returned home and dressed for the opera, his supper guests 
 being bidden for twelve o'clock. He was just going out on his 
 way to the opera, when two letters met his eye, which he had 
 overlooked on entering. The one, he saw, was in the hand- 
 writing of a creditor who was becoming troublesome ; the other 
 in that of his wife, and marked " Immediate." 
 
 Gerald Yorke had been guilty of one imprudent act, for 
 which there was no remedy. When only twenty-one, he had 
 married. The young lady, Winnifred Eales, was of no family, 
 and did not possess any money. Gerald was taken by her 
 pretty face, and was foolish enough to marry her off-hand ; 
 saddling himself with a wife without having the wherewithal to 
 keep one. Little did Gerald Yorke's acquaintances in London 
 suspect that the fast and fashionable young man (only in his 
 twenty-sixth year now, though looking older) had a wife and 
 three children ! Had the question been put to Gerald, " Are 
 you married?" he would have briefly acknowledged it; but he 
 never volunteered the information. His wife was his wife ; he 
 did not wish to repudiate either her or his children ; but 
 he had long ago found them an awful incumbrance, and kept 
 them in the background. To do so was less cost to him. 
 Had Gerald come into two or three thousand a year, he would 
 have set up his tent grandly, have had his family home to it 
 forthwith, and introduced them to the world : until that 
 desirable time should arrive, he had meant them to remain in 
 the little country cottage-home in Gloucestershire, where he 
 had placed them, and where they knew nobody. But that his 
 wife was tolerably patient and very persuadable, she would 
 have struck long before. She did grumble ; when Gerald 
 visited her she was fretful, tearful, fractious^ and complaining. 
 In fact, she was little better than a child herself, and not by 
 any means a strong-minded one. 
 
 But the crisis had come. Gerald tore open the letter, with 
 its ominous word " Immediate," and found unwelcome news. 
 For two or three blissful moments, he did not believe his eye- 
 sight, and then the letter was dashed down in vehement 
 passion. 
 
 " Winny's mad ! " 
 
 Winny (as Gerald's wife was generally called) tired of her 
 lonely home, of the monotonous care of her children, tired
 
 GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA. 159 
 
 above all of waiting month after month, year after year, for the 
 fulfilment of his promises to put matters upon a more satis- 
 factory footing, had taken the initiative into her own hands. 
 She informed her husband that she had given up the cottage, 
 sold off its furniture by auction, and should arrive with the 
 children at Paddington at three o'clock the next day, where 
 he must meet her if he could. If not, they should drive at 
 once to him at his chambers, or to his club, the Young 
 England. A slight concluding hint was annexed that he need 
 not attempt to stop her by telegraph, for the telegraph people 
 had received orders not to bring her up any messages that 
 might arrive. 
 
 A pretty good announcement, that, for a man in society ! 
 Gerald stood very much as if he had received a blow that had 
 half-blinded him. IV/ia^ was he to do with them when they 
 arrived? Never in all his life had he been so pushed into 
 a corner. The clock went ticking on, on ; but Gerald did not 
 heed it. 
 
 His servant came in, under pretence of bringing in a dish 
 of fruit, and ventured to remind him of the engagement at the 
 opera, thinking his master must have forgotten it. Gerald 
 sent the opera very far away, and ordered the man to shut the 
 door. 
 
 In truth he was in no mood for the opera now. Had it 
 been possible, he would even have put off his supper-party. 
 The other letter, which he opened with a kind of desperation, 
 contained threats of unpleasant proceedings, unless a debt, 
 long sued for, was paid within twenty-four hours. Money, 
 Gerald must have, and he did not know where to find it. 
 His literary pay had been forestalled wherever it could be. 
 He had that day applied to young Richard Yorke (or Vincent, 
 as Gerald generally called him, being the finer name of his 
 cousin's two names) for a loan, and been refused. Apart from 
 the future difficulties connected with Winny and the children, 
 it would take some cash in pocket to establish them in lodgings. 
 
 " Winny wants a good shaking for causing me this trouble," 
 earnestly soliloquized Gerald in his dilemma, that fashionable 
 drawl of his, kept for the world, not discernible in private life. 
 " Suppose she should turn restive, and insist on coming /lere ? 
 Good Heavens ! a silly, untidy wife, and three badly-kept 
 children ! " 
 
 He walked to the sideboard, dashed out a glass of some
 
 l5o tiOLANb YORKE. 
 
 cordial with his unsteady hand, and drank it, for the picture 
 unnerved him. 
 
 " If I could get my book accepted by a publisher, and an 
 advance made upon it," thought Gerald, returning to his 
 place on the hearthrug, " I might scrape along. Some of those 
 confounded publishers are so independent ; they'll keep a 
 manuscript for twelve months and never look at it." 
 
 A short time before this, Gerald had tried his hand at a 
 play, which ill-natured managers had hitherto refused to accept, 
 Gerald of course thought the refusal arose from nothing but 
 prejudice, as others sometimes do in similar cases. He went 
 on with his soliloquy. 
 
 " I think I'll get some fellow to look over my novel and 
 give me an opinion upon it — which I can repeat to a publisher. 
 Write it down if necessary. That's what I ought to have done 
 by the drama : one is apt to be overlooked in these days with- 
 out a special recommendation. Let's see? Who is there? 
 Hamish Channing. Nobody so good. His capacities are 
 first-rate, and I'll make him read it at once. If Vincent 
 Yorke " 
 
 The soliloquy was brought to an end. 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 ceremony, 
 but Roland ! Gerald stared in utter astonishment ; and, 
 when satisfied that it was in truth his brother, frowned awfully. 
 Gerald in his elevated sphere might find it difficult to get 
 along ; but to have an elder brother so down in the world as 
 to accept any common employment that offered itself, who 
 lived in one room, 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 completely as 
 Sir Richard Yorke could have done. 
 
 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 good-nature would not ai)pear 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
 
 GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA. i6i 
 
 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 down. 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 horsehair thing at Mrs. Jones's : and 
 then proceeded to disclose his errand. 
 
 It was this. Upon going home that night at seven — for he 
 had to remain 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 still in the shade. 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 Garrick were equally responsible (the 
 latter having made himself so, to accomodate Gerald, but 
 received no benefit from it) 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 everythmg for the time being, and cani 
 meet it." 
 
 It may easily be conceived that this errand 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 respond- 
 ing to Gerald's application that day, for the loan of twenty 
 pounds, said they might have to lose forty-four, and had 
 narrated the particulars of the missing cheque, adding that he 
 should think suspicion must lie on 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. 
 
 Roland Yorke. 11
 
 i62 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "Look here, Gerald," said Roland, calming down, 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 " 
 
 " CalHt 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 ahvays, more or less, be everlastingly cropping up ; 
 but, for all that, it was the best thing that could have happened 
 to me." 
 
 Gerald answered with 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 so. Well, I 
 went out to Port Natal : and I staged there, trying to get into 
 funds, and come home with some money in my hand. I 
 stayed long enough to knock a great deal out of me that 
 wanted knocking out ; idleness, folly, and senseless pride. 
 I'm not one of your good and brave ones yet, such as Arthur 
 Channing is ; but I've learnt at any rate to do a little for 
 myself and to 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 wouldn't 
 intrude either on you or on 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 some one else 
 for a messenger if he wants to send again. Good night." 
 
 Gerald gave no answer. Unless banging the door after 
 Roland with his foot could be called one. 
 
 He stood ruminating for a short time alone. The message 
 certainly tended still further to complicate Gerald's perplexi- 
 ties. Although he had originally assured Lord Carrick that he 
 should not look to him to meet the bill, he really had done so : 
 for no one 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-
 
 GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA. 163 
 
 past nine. As his guests would not arrive until twelve, there 
 was time, and to spare, for a visit to Hamish CHianning. So, 
 packing up his manuscript, he went forth. 
 
 Hamish sat in his writing-room as usual this evening, work- 
 ing closely. His face looked weary as tlic light from the 
 candle, the shade temporarily removed, fell upon it. Ever 
 good-humoured, ever full of 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 closely upon it ; a child's laughter and light chatter. 
 Hamish knew what caused it. Little ]\Iiss Nelly had returned 
 from a 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 the 
 narrow blue ribbon on her neck, holding 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 deal of work ? " 
 
 "Oceans of it, Nelly." 
 
 " Mamma says you work too much," returned Nell}', 
 looking 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 ?" 
 
 " Now, papa, you know ! Annabel." 
 
 " We'll have mamma and Annabel taken up for conspiracy. 
 Good night, my little treasure : I would keep you here ahvavs 
 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. ^Vhen she had con- 
 cluded them, he did not let her rise, but laid his hand upon 
 her head and kept it there in silence, as if praying himself.
 
 i64 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 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, 
 carrying 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 atten- 
 tively ; and then give me your opinion upon it. I thought 
 once of asking Caustic, but your judgment is worth more than 
 his, because I know you'll give me a true report." 
 
 Gerald had either been in too much 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 
 ///// of work, and this would indeed be a task. Only for the 
 tenth part of a minute, 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 have it back directly. And Hamish, you'll give me your 
 real opinion in strict candour" 
 
 " Do you say that seriously ? " asked Hamish, his tone one of 
 serious 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, just as you do now," spoke 
 Hamish. " Well, I thought he meant it, and did as he re- 
 quested. Above all, he had said, point out faults to me. 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 dis- 
 similar. Had an angel come down from Heaven and said that 
 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 m.e
 
 GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA. 165 
 
 your true opinion just as though the manuscript belonged to 
 some stranger, who would never know what you had said." 
 
 "I don't like the title," observed Hamish, accepting the 
 conditions. 
 
 " Not like the title ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Clerald had called it by a title more wonderful than attrac-^ 
 tive. Hamish Channing's good sense 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 confreres 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 ? " 
 
 "Not more than I can help. To put all my work away 
 you must know to be impossible, 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 in which the 
 evening's post had put him, as to the speedy arrival of his 
 wife. 
 
 " What on earth to do, I can't tell," he said, with a groan. 
 " Lodgings are not found in an hour ; and that's the best thing 
 I can do with them at present. 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 their requirements. 
 I shan't know how to set about it." 
 
 Hamish glanced at his wife and she at him, and they spoke 
 almost together. 
 
 " 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 i^w hours more to find lodgings, and they need not move into 
 them until night." 
 
 Gerald twirled his watch-chain as he stood, and did not at 
 once accept the offer. 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 ? "
 
 i66 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 '^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 any 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 take him back to his chambers, and 
 to 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 up late to-night. I thought you had 
 gone to bed." 
 
 " I have been waiting. You said at tea-time you Iiad 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 upstairs. Hamish glanced at the 
 light, saw that he had another candle at hand, 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 loving, unselfish 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 Channing's was no eye-service, either to Heaven or 
 to man.
 
 ( i67 )' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 VISITORS FOR MRS. JONES. 
 
 Mrs. Jones sal in her parlour at tlie twilight hour ; and a 
 very dark twilight, too, but light enough for the employment 
 she was so busy over — knitting. Not woollen socks tliis time, 
 but some com])licated affair of silk, more profitable than the 
 stockmgs. Roland Yorke had just started on that visit, already 
 recorded, to Gerald's chambers, after enjoying a sumptuous 
 tea and toasted muffin in Mrs. Jones's parlour, where, for the 
 sake of company, his meals were sometimes taken. Miss Rye 
 was out at work ; Mr. OUivera had an evening service ; and so 
 the house was quiet, and Mrs. Jones was 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 answer- 
 ing 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 spectacles on, and says his name's Mr. 
 Brown." 
 
 Mrs. Jones shook out her gown and went to the visitor : a 
 tall gentleman, wearing those slightly-tinted glasses that are 
 called smoke-coloured. He generally took them off indoors, 
 wearing them in the street as a protection 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 interlude to 
 hard work, still held sway over Roland — had mentioned the
 
 i68 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Scripture reader's departure for another district, and the COtlSfi' 
 quent vacancy 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 gave very little trouble, 
 he said, and took nothing at home but his breakfast and 
 tea. 
 
 Mrs. Jones marshalled him to the room : the back-parlour, 
 as the reader may remember : and the bargain was concluded 
 at once, without the slightest demur on the stranger's part. 
 Mrs. Jones remembered afterwards that when she held the 
 candle up for him to take in the room, he scarcely gave a glance 
 at it before saying it would do, and laid the first week's rent 
 down in place of references. 
 
 " Who asked for references ? " tartly demanded Mrs. Jones, 
 not a whit more courteous to her prospective lodger 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 took up the money and put it loosely into 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 at remembering faces as Alletha," acknow- 
 ledged Mrs. Jones to herself, while she watched him down the 
 street from the front door, '' but I'll back my ears against hers 
 for voices any day. Not lately , I hardly think that ; it's more 
 like a remembrance of the past Still I don't remember his 
 face. Met him, perhaps, in some railway train ; or Good- 
 ness heart alive ! Is it you ? " 
 
 This break was occasioned by the appearance of another 
 gentleman, who seemed to have sjjrung from nowhere, until 
 he halted close before her. It was the detective officer, 
 Buttcrby : and Mrs. Jones had not seen him since she quitted 
 her country home. 
 
 " I thought it looked like you," cried Mr. Bullcrby, giving
 
 VISITORS IFDR MRS. JONES. 169 
 
 his hand. "Says I to myself, as I strolled along, ' If that's not 
 the exact image of my old friend, Mrs. Jones, it's uncommon 
 like her.' It is you, ma'am ! And how are you ? So you are 
 living in this quarter of the town ! " 
 
 Crafty man ! INIrs. Jones would assuredly have dealt him a 
 box on the ear could she have divined that he was deceiving her. 
 He had been watching her house for some minutes past, know- 
 ing just as well as she did that it was hers. Mrs. Jones invited 
 him indoors, and he went in under protest, not wishing, he 
 said, to intrude : but to go in had been his intention from the 
 beginning. 
 
 They sat gossiping about old times and new. Mr. Butterby 
 took a friendly glass of beer and a biscuit ; Mrs. Jones, knit- 
 ting always, took none. Without seeming to be at all anxious 
 for information, he had speedily gathered in every particular 
 about Roland Yorke that was to be learned. Not too charitably 
 disposed to the world in general, Mrs. Jones yet spoke well of 
 Roland. 
 
 " He is no more like the proud, selfish aristocrat he used to 
 be than chalk's like cheese," she said. " In his younger days 
 Roland Yorke thought the world was made for him and his 
 pleasure, no matter who else suffered : he doesn't think so 
 now." 
 
 " Sowed his wild oats, has he ? " remarked Mr. Butterby. 
 
 *' For the matter of wild oats, I never knew he had any in 
 particular to sow," retorted Mrs. Jones. " Whether or not, he 
 has none left now, that I can see." 
 
 " Wouldn't help himself to another twenty-pound note," said 
 Mr Butterby, carelessly, stretching out his hand for a second 
 biscuit. 
 
 " No, that he would not," emphatically pronounced Mrs. 
 Jones. "And I know this — there never was an act repented 
 of as he repents of that. His thoughts are only skin-deep ; 
 he's not cunning enough to hide them, and those that run may 
 read. If cutting off his right hand would undo that past act 
 of his, I believe he'd cut it off and be glad, Mr. Butterby." 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder," assented the officer. " Many folks are 
 in the like case. Have you ever come across that Godfrey 
 ritman?" 
 
 " Not I. Have you ? " 
 
 The officer shook his head. Godfrey Pitman had hitherto 
 remained a dead failure.
 
 170 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 *' The man was disguised when he was at your house at 
 Helstonleigh, ]\Irs. Jones, there's no doubt of that ; and the 
 fact has made discovery difficult, you see." 
 
 The assumption, as reflecting on her and her house, mortally 
 offended Mrs. Jones. She treated Mr. Butterby to a taste of 
 the old tongue he so v/ell remembered, and saw him with the 
 barest civility to the door on his departure. Miss Rye hap- 
 pened to be coming in at the time, and Mr. Butterby regarded 
 her curiously with his green eyes as he saluted her. Her face 
 and lips turned white as ashes. 
 
 "What brings him here ? " she asked under her breath, when 
 Mrs. Jones came back to her parlour. 
 
 " His pleasure, I suppose," was Mrs. Jones's answer, a great 
 deal too much put out to say that he had come (as she sup- 
 posed) by accident. Disguised men lodging in her house, 
 indeed ! " What's the matter with yotc ? " 
 
 Alletha Rye had sat down on the nearest chair, and seemed 
 labouring with agitation. The white face, the signs altogether, 
 attracted the notice of Mrs. Jones. 
 
 "I have that stitch in my side again; I walked fast," was 
 all she said. 
 
 Mrs. Jones caught up her knitting. 
 
 " Did Butterby want anything in particular ? " presently 
 asked Miss Rye. 
 
 " No, he did not. He is in London about some business or 
 other, and saw me standing at the door this evening as he 
 passed by. Have you got your work finished ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Alletha, beginning to unfasten her mantle 
 and bonnet-strings. 
 
 "I've let the back parlour," remarked Mrs. Jones; "so if 
 you've any of your pieces in the room, the sooner you fetch 
 them out the better. Brown, the managing-clerk to Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex, has taken it." 
 
 "Who?" cried Alletha, springing from her seat. 
 
 " It's a good thing there's no nerves in this house ; you'd 
 startle them," snapped Mrs. Jones. " What ails you to- 
 night ? " 
 
 Alletha Rye turned away, apparently searching for some- 
 thing on the sideboard. Her face was growing paler, if 
 possible, than before ; her hands trembled ; the terror in her 
 eyes was all too conspicuous. She was silently striving for 
 composure. When it had in a degree returned, she faced
 
 VISITORS FOR MRS. JONES. I7I 
 
 Mrs. Jones again, who was knitting furiously, and spoke in a 
 quiet tone. 
 
 "Who did you say had taken the room, Julia? Mr. Brown? 
 Why should //6' take it?" 
 
 "You can go and ask him why." 
 
 " I would not let it to him," said AUetha, earnestly. ** Don't ; 
 pray don't." 
 
 Down went the knitting. " Now just you explain yourself, 
 Alletha Rye. What has the man done to you, that you should 
 object to his coming?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Oh! Then why should he not come, pray? His worst 
 enemy can't say he's not respectable — after being for years 
 confidential clerk to Greatorex and Grcatorex. Do you hear ? 
 — what have you to urge against his coming ? " 
 
 Alletha Rye was at a loss for an answer. The real reason 
 she dared not give ; and it was difficult to invent one. 
 
 " It may not be agreeable to Mr. Yorke," she presently 
 said. 
 
 Mrs. Jones was never nearer going into a passion : and, in 
 spite of her sharp tongue, passion with her was exceedingly 
 rare. She gave Alletha what she called a taste of her mind ; 
 and it was rather a bitter one while it lasted. Mrs. Jones did 
 not drop it easily, and it was she who again broke the silence 
 that ensued. 
 
 " Don't bring up Mr. Yorke's name under any of your false 
 pretences, Alletha Rye. Yoti have taken up some crotchet 
 against the man, though I don't know how or when you can 
 have seen him, just as you did against Parson Ollivera. Any 
 way, I have accepted Brown, and he comes in to-morrow 
 night." 
 
 " Then I may as well move my work out at once," said 
 Alletha, meekly, taking up a candle. 
 
 She went into the back-parlour, and caught hold of an 
 upright piece of furniture, and pressed her aching head upon 
 it as if it were a relief to do so. The candle remained on the 
 drawers ; the work, lying about, was ungathered : but she 
 stood on, murmuring words of distress and despair. 
 
 " It is the hand of fate. It is bringing all things and people 
 together in one nucleus ; just as it has been working to do ever 
 since the death of John Ollivera." 
 
 But the events of the evening were not entirely over, and a
 
 172 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 word or two must be yet given to it. There seemed to be 
 nothing but encounters and re-encounters. As Mr. Butterby 
 was walking down the street on his departure, turning his eyes 
 (not his head) from side to side in the quiet manner charac- 
 teristic of him, observing all, but apparently seeing nothing, 
 though he had no object in view just now, there came up a 
 wayfarer to jostle him ; a tall, strong young man, who walked 
 as if the street were made for him, and nearly walked over 
 quiet Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " Halloa ! " cried Roland, for it was nobody else. " It's 
 you, is it ? What do you do up here ? " 
 
 Roland's tone was none of the pleasantest, savouring rather 
 of the haughty assumption of old days. His interview with 
 Gerald, from which he was hastening, had not tended to 
 appease him, and Mr. Butterby was as much his bete noire as 
 he had ever been. The officer did not like the tone : he was 
 a greater man than he used to be, having got up some steps in 
 the official world. 
 
 " Looking after you, perhaps," retorted Mr. Butterby. 
 " The streets are free for me, I suppose." 
 
 " It would not be the first time you had looked after the 
 wrong man. How many innocent people have you taken into 
 custody lately ? " 
 
 " Now you just keep a civil tongue in your mouth, Mr. 
 Roland Yorke. You'd not like it if I took you." 
 
 "I should like it as well as Arthur Channing liked it when 
 you took him," said bold Roland. " There's been a grudge 
 lying on my mind against you ever since that transaction, 
 IJutterby, and I promise you I'll pay it off if I get the chance." 
 
 " Did you make free with that cheque yesterday, Mr. Yorke 
 — as you did by the other money ? " asked Mr. Butterby, 
 slightly exasperated. 
 
 " Perhaps I did and perhaps I didn't," said Roland. 
 " Think so, if you like. You are no better than a calf in these 
 matters, you know, Butterby. Poor meek Jenkins, who was 
 too good to breathe the same atmosphere that other folks 
 breathed, was clearer-sighted than you. 'It's Arthur Chan- 
 ning, your worships, and I've took him prisoner to answer for 
 it, says you to the magistrates. ' It never was Arthur Chan- 
 ning,' says Jenkins, nearly going down on his knees to you in 
 his honest truth. ' Pooh, pooh,' says you, virtuously indignant, 
 * I know a thief when I see him ' "
 
 VISITORS FOR MRS. JONES. i;3 
 
 " Now I vow, Mr. Roland Yorke " 
 
 " Don't interrupt your betters, Butterby ; wait till I've done," 
 cried Roland, overruling the quieter voice. " You took up 
 Arthur Channing, and moved heaven and earth to get him 
 convicted. Had King Solomon come express down from the 
 stars on a frosty night, to tell you Arthur was innocent, you'd 
 have pooh-poohed him as you did poor Jenkins. But it turned 
 out not to be Arthur, you know, old Butterby ; it was me. 
 And now if you think you'd like to go in for the same mistake 
 again, go in for it. You would, if you took me up for this 
 second affair." 
 
 " I can tell you what, Mr. Roland Yorke — you'd look rather 
 foolish if I walked into Mr. (ireatorex's office to-morrow morn- 
 ing, and told him of that past mistake." 
 
 " I don't much care whether you do or don't," said candid 
 Roland. "As good let it come out as not, for somebody or 
 other is always casting it in my teeth. Hurst does; my 
 brother Gerald does — I've come now straight from hearing 
 him do so. I thought I should have lived that down at Port 
 Natal ; but it seems I didn't." 
 
 " You'll not live it down by impudence," said Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " Then I must live it up," was the retort, " for impudence is 
 a fault of mine. I've heard you say I had enough for the 
 devil. So good night to you, Butterby. I am to be found at 
 my lodgings, if you'd like to come after me there with a pair of 
 handcuffs." 
 
 Roland went striding off, and the officer stood looking after 
 him. In spite of the "impudence" received, a smile crossed 
 his face ; it was the same impulsive, careless, boyish Roland 
 Yorke of past days, good-natured under his worst grievance. 
 But whatever other impression might have been left upon Mr. 
 Butterby by the encounter, one thing was very clear to him — 
 that Roland was not guilty this time, and he must look elsewhere 
 for the stealer of the cheque.
 
 174 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WIN NY. 
 
 Five minutes past three at the Paddington Station, and all the 
 bustle and confusion of a train just in. Gerald Yorke stood 
 on the platform, welcoming a pretty little fair-haired woman, 
 whose unmeaning doll's face was given to dimple with smiles 
 one minute, and to pout the next. Also three fair-haired 
 children, the eldest three years old, the youngest just able to 
 walk. Mrs. Gerald Yorke was not much better than a child 
 herself. To tell the truth, she was somewhat of a doll in in- 
 tellect as well as in face ; standing in awe of big, resolute, 
 clever Gerald, yielding implicitly to his superior will. But 
 for a strong-minded sister, who had rebelled against Winny's 
 wrongs, in being condemned to an obscure country cottage, 
 while he flourished in high life in London, and who managed 
 the removal for her privately, she had never dared to venture 
 on the step ; but this was not to be confessed to her husband. 
 She felt more afraid than ever of the consequences of having 
 taken it, now that she saw him face to face. 
 
 " How many packages have you, Winny?" 
 
 " Nineteen." 
 
 "Nineteen!" 
 
 "But they are not all large, Gerald. Some of them are 
 small bundles, done up in kitchen towels and pillow-cases." 
 
 Gerald bit his lip to avoid an ugly word. To any one 
 but his wife on this her first arrival in London, he would have 
 exploded. 
 
 "Have you brought no nurse, Winny?" 
 
 " Good gracious, no ! How could I tell I might afford to 
 bring one, Gerald ? You know I had only one maid for every- 
 thing, down there." 
 
 Hurrying them into a cab, Gerald went in search of the 
 luggage, suppressing a groan, and glancing over his shoulder 
 on all sides. Bundles done up in kitchen towels and pillow- 
 cases ! If Gerald Yorke had never before offered up a prayer, 
 he did then : that no chance might have brought any of his 
 fashionable friends to the station that unlucky afternoon.
 
 WINNY. 175 
 
 " Drive through the most obscure streets," he whispered to 
 the cabman on his return, as he mentioned Hamish Channing's 
 address. " Never mind takin.!^ a round ; I'll pay you extra." 
 And the man gave him a friendly and confidential nod in 
 answer : for wliich Gerald could have knocked laim down. 
 
 "And now, Winny, tell me how you came to do this mad 
 thing," he said sternly, when he was seated with them in 
 the cab. 
 
 For answer, Mrs. Yorke burst into tears. It was coming, 
 she thought. But Gerald had no desire for a scene there; 
 and so kept quiet until a more fitting opportunity. But 
 the tears continued, and Gerald angrily ordered her not to be 
 a child. 
 
 " You've never kissed one of us," sobbed Winny. " You've 
 not as much as kissed baby." 
 
 " Would you have me kiss you on the platform ? " he angrily 
 demanded. " A family embracing affair for the benelit of the 
 public ! I'll kiss you when we get in. You are more ridiculous 
 than ever, Winny." 
 
 The three little things, sitting opposite, were still as mice, 
 looking shyly at him with their timid blue eyes. Gerald took 
 one upon his knee for a moment and pressed its face to his own, 
 fondly enough. Fortune was very unkind to him he thought, 
 in not giving him a fine house for these children, and a thousand 
 or two per annum to keep them on. 
 
 " Are we going to your chambers, Gerald ? " 
 
 " That is another foolish question, ^^'inny ! My chambers 
 are hardly large enough for me alone. I have taken lodgings 
 for you this morning ; the best I could find at a minute's notice. 
 London is full of bothers and inconveniences. If you have to 
 put up with some, remember that you have brought them on 
 yourself" 
 
 " Will there be any dinner for us ? " asked Winny, timidly. 
 " The poor little girls are hungry." 
 
 "You are going to Mrs. Hamish Channing's until to-night. 
 I dare say she'll have dinner ready for you. Afterwards you 
 can call at the rooms, and settle with the landlady what you 
 will want ordered in." 
 
 The change in Mrs. Yorke's face was like magic ; a bright 
 smile overspread it. Once when she was ill in lodgings at 
 Helstonleigh, before her husband removed her into Gloucester- 
 shire, her eldest child being then an infant, Hamish Channing's
 
 176 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 wife had been wonderfully kind to her. To hear that she was 
 going to her seemed a haven of refuge in this wilderness of a 
 London, which she had never until now visited. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, (jerald. I am so glad." 
 
 " I suppose you have brought some money with you," said 
 Gerald. 
 
 " I think I have about sixteen shillings," she answered, taking 
 out her purse. 
 
 "Where's the rest?" 
 
 "What rest?" 
 
 " The money for the furniture. You wrote me word you had 
 sold it." 
 
 " But there were the debts, Gerald. I sold the furniture to 
 pay them. How else could I have left? — they wouldn't have 
 let me come away. It was not enough to pay all ; there's six 
 or seven pounds still unpaid." 
 
 A blank look settled on Gerald's face. The one slight ray 
 illuminating this checkmating step of his wife's, reconciling him 
 to it in a small degree, had been the thought of the money she 
 would receive for the furniture. But what he might have said 
 was stopped by a shriek by Winny, who became suddenly aware 
 that the cab, except for themselves, was free of encumbrance. 
 
 " The luggage, Gerald, the luggage ! Oh, Gerald, the 
 luggage ! " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Winny," said Gerald, angrily, pulling her 
 back as she was about to stop the driver. "The luggage is all 
 right. It will be sent to the lodgings." 
 
 " But we want some of the things at once," said Winn}', 
 piteously. "What shall we do without them?" 
 
 "The best you can," coolly answered Gerald. "Did you 
 suppose you were going to fill Hamish Channing's hall with 
 boxes and bundles ? " 
 
 Mrs. Channing stood ready to receive them with a welcome, 
 and the first thing Winny did was to burst into tears and 
 sob out the grievance about the luggage in her arms. It 
 Gerald Yorke had married a pretty wife, he had also married 
 a silly and incapable one : and Gerald had known it for some 
 years now. Only waiting to hand them over to Mrs. Chan- 
 ning's care, and to give Winny the address of the lodgings, 
 Gerald departed. He was engaged that afternoon to dine with 
 a party at Richmond, and would not see his wife again before 
 the morrow.
 
 WinnV. ijrjr 
 
 "Don't — you — mean — to live with us?" she ventured to 
 ask, on hearing him say this, her face growing white with 
 dismay. 
 
 "Of course I shall live with you," sharply answered Gerald. 
 " But I have my chambers, and when engagements keep me 
 out late, I shall sleep at them." 
 
 And Gerald, lightly vaulting into a passing hansom, was 
 cantered off. Winny turned to Ellen Channing for consola- 
 tion, who gave her the best that the circumstances permitted. 
 
 Hamish, beyond his first welcome, saw very little of 'Winny 
 that evening ; he was shut up with her husband's manuscrijjt. 
 He took her home at night. The lodgings engaged by Gerald 
 consisted of a sitting-room and two bedrooms, the people of 
 the house attending upon them. Hamish paid the cab and 
 accompanied her indoors. The first thing Mrs. Gerald Yorke 
 did, was to sit down on the lowest chair, and begin to cry. 
 Her little girls, worn out with the day's excitement and the 
 happy play in Nelly Channing's nursery, were ready to drop 
 with fatigue, and put themselves quietly on the carpet. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Channing ! do you think he is not going to for- 
 give me ! It is so cruel of him to send us into this strange 
 place alone." 
 
 " He had an engagement, you know," answered Hamish, 
 his voice taking, perhaps unconsciously, the soothing tones 
 that he would have used to a child. " London engorgements 
 are sometimes not to be put off." 
 
 " I wish I was back in Gloucestershire ! " she bewailed. 
 
 "It will be all right, Mrs. Yorke," he returned gaily. " One 
 always feels unhappy in a fresh place. The night Ellen first 
 slept in London she cried to be back again at Helstonleigh." 
 
 A servant, who looked untidy enough to have a world full 
 of work upon her, showed Hamish out. In answer to a 
 question, she said that she was the only one kept, and would 
 have to wait on the new lodgers. Hamish slipped some 
 money into the girl's hand and bade her do all she could for 
 the lady and the little children. 
 
 And so, leaving Gerald's wife in her new home, he went 
 back to his work. 
 
 He, Hamish Channing, with his good looks and his courtly 
 presence, was treading the streets gaily on the following 
 morning. Many a man, pressing on to business, spared a 
 moment to turn and glance at him, wondering who the fine, 
 
 Roland Vorke. lli
 
 178 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 handsome fellow was, with the bright and good face. It was 
 a face that would be bright always, bright in dying ; but it had 
 a shadow of care on it to-day. For if one living man hated, 
 more than another, to inflict pain and disappointment, it was 
 Hamish Channing. He was carrying back Gerald's manuscript, 
 and had no good report to give of it. 
 
 However clever Gerald might be at dashing off slashing 
 articles in the review line, he would never be able to succeed 
 in fiction. This first attempt proved it indisputably to Hamish 
 Channing. The story was unconnected, the plot scarcely 
 distinguishable, and there were other grave faults, offending 
 against morality and good taste. Not one reader in fifty could 
 get through the first volume. Certainl}', in plunging into 
 a work of fiction, Gerald Yorke had mistaken his vocation. 
 How different this crude and worthless book was from the 
 work Hamish was writing, his cheeks glowed to contemplate. 
 Not in triumph over Gerald ; never a suspicion of such a 
 feeling could lie in his generous heart ; but at the consciousness 
 of his own capability, the gift given him by God, and what the 
 work would be to the public. But that he deemed it lay in his 
 duty,' in all kindliness, not to deceive Gerald, he would not 
 have told him the truth ; no, in spite of the promise exacted 
 from him to give a just, unvarnished report. 
 
 Gerald sat at breakfast, in a flowery dressing-gown, in the 
 rooms he was pleased to call his chambers, his breakfast and 
 its appointments perfect. Silver glittered on the table, its 
 linen was of finest damask, the chocolate sent out its aroma. 
 Gerald's taste was luxurious : he could not have lived upon 
 a sovereign a week as Roland was doing. Perhaps Roland 
 had never learnt to do it but for that renowned voyage of his. 
 
 " Halloa, Hamish, old fellow ! What brings you here so 
 early?" 
 
 " Oh, one or two matters," answered Hamish, keeping the 
 manuscript out of sight at first, for he really shrank from 
 liaving to report upon it. " I was not sure you would be up." 
 
 " I had to be up early this morning. Tell your news, 
 Hamish ; I suppose the gist of it is that Winny is in a state 
 of rebelHon. Stay ! I'll send the tilings away. One has no 
 appetite after a Star-and-Garter dinner and pipes to wind up 
 with till three in the morning. You have breakfasted ? " 
 
 " An hour ago." 
 
 " It is an awfully provoking step for Winny to have taken,"
 
 WINNY. f79 
 
 said Gerald, as his servant disappeared witli the breakfast- 
 tray. " She has no doubt been grumbling to you and Mrs. 
 Channing about her ' wrongs,' — she called them so yesterday — 
 but I know mine are worse. Fancy her taking such a mad 
 start What on earth I am to do with them in town, I can't 
 guess. You haven't got her outside, I suppose ? You know, 
 Hamish, I couldn't help myself ^ I had to leave her." 
 
 " Qui s'excuse s'accuse," returned Hamish, with one of his 
 sunny smiles, chancing on the very common French proverb 
 that Mr. Bede Greatorex had applied recently to Gerald's 
 brother. 
 
 " Oh bother," said Gerald. " Did Winny strike last night, 
 and refuse to go into lodgings ? " 
 
 " She went all right enough ; but she didn't like your leaving 
 her to go there alone. My wife made use of the occasion to 
 read me a lecture, saying she should not like it at all ; Fm not 
 sure but she said ' not put up with it.' " 
 
 " Your wife is a different woman from mine," growled 
 Gerald ; for Hamish's gay tones, covering a kinder and deeper 
 feeling, jarred somewhat on his perplexed mind. " You knew 
 what Winny is before to-day. I shall go down and see her 
 by-and-by." 
 
 "Shall you keep on these chambers?" 
 
 " Keep on these chambers ! " echoed Gerald. " ^Vhy, of 
 course I must keep them on. And live at them too, in a 
 general way. Though how I shall afford the expense of the 
 two places, the devil only knows." 
 
 " You have been affording it hillierto. Winny has had a 
 separate home." 
 
 "What keeps a cottage yonder, won't pay for lodgings in 
 London. You must know that, Hamish." 
 
 Hamish did not speak immediately : if he could not agree, 
 he would not oppose. He did not see why Gerald should not 
 take either a small house, or apartments, in a neighbourhood 
 sufficiently good for his fashionable friends to resort to, 
 Hamish and Gerald regarded things in so different a light - 
 Gerald estimated i)eople (and fasliion) by their drawl, and 
 dress, and assumption : Hamish knew that all good men, though 
 they were of the highest rank, were proud to respect worth 
 and intellect and sincere nature in a humble home, as in a 
 palace. 
 
 " Are you getting on with my manuscript, Hamish ? "
 
 i8o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " I have brought it," said Hamish, taking it from his pocket. 
 " I put away my own work " 
 
 " Oh, thank you, old fellow," was the quick interruption. 
 
 " Now don't thank me for nothing, Gerald. I was about 
 to say that one can judge so much better of a book in reading 
 it without breaks given to other work, that I stretched a point ; 
 for my own pleasure, you know." 
 
 Gerald drew the parcel towards him, and opened it tenderly, 
 undoing the string as if it fastened some rare treasure. Hamish 
 saw the feeling, and his fine blue eyes took a tinge of sadness. 
 Gerald looked up. 
 
 " I think I'll tell you how it is, Hamish. Upon this manu- 
 script " 
 
 ^Vhat had happened? Gerald broke off abruptly and looked 
 at the door ; his mouth slightly opened, his ear in the altitude 
 of one listening anxiously. Hamish, unused to the place, 
 heard nothing whatever. 
 
 " Say I'm out, Hamish, old fellow ; say I'm out," whispered 
 Gerald, disappearing noiselessly within a closet , invisible from 
 being papered like the walls and opening with a knob no 
 bigger than a nut. Hamish sat in a trance of astonishment, 
 a half smile upon his face. 
 
 He opened the door in answer to a knock. A respectable- 
 looking man at once stepped inside, asking to see Mr. Yorke. 
 
 Hamish with a gesture of his hand pointed to the empty 
 room, indicating that Mr. Yorke was not to be seen. The 
 applicant looked round it curiously ; and at that moment 
 Gerald's servant came up with a rush, and glanced round as 
 keenly as the applicant. 
 
 " My master's gone out for the day, Mr. Brookes." 
 
 " How many more times am I to have that answer given 
 me?" demanded Mr. Brookes. "It's hardly likely he'd be 
 gone out so soon as this." 
 
 " Likely or not, he's out," said the servant, speaking with 
 easy indifference. 
 
 " Well, look here; there's the account, delivered once more 
 and for the last time," said Mr. Brookes, handing in a paper. 
 " If it's not paid within four-and-twenty hours, I shall summon 
 him to the county-court." 
 
 " And he means it," emphatically whispered the servant in 
 Hamish's hearing, as Mr. Brookcs's descending footsteps 
 echoed on the stairs.
 
 WINNY. i8i. 
 
 Hamish pulled back the closet-door, and released Gerald. 
 He came forth like a whirlwind— if a furious passion may be 
 called one. Hamish had not heard so much abuse lavished on 
 any one for many a day as Gerald ga -e his servant. The man 
 had been momentarily off his usual guard, and so allowed Gerald's 
 sanctum (and all but his person) to be invaded by an enemy. 
 
 " I owe the fellow a trifle for boots," said Gerald, when he 
 had sent his servant from the room. " He is an awful dun, 
 and will not be put off much longer. Seven pounds ten shil- 
 lings," — dashing open the bill. " And for that paltry sum he'll 
 county-court me ! " 
 
 " Pay him," said Hamish. 
 
 " Pay him ! I should like to pay him," relumed Gerald, 
 gloomily. " I'd pay him to-day, and have done with him, if 
 I could, and think it the best money ever laid out. I'm awfully 
 hard up, Hamish, and that's a fact." 
 
 Hamish began mentally to deliberate whether he was himself 
 able to help him. Gerald stood on the hearthrug, very savage 
 with the world in general. 
 
 " I'd move heaven and earth to avoid the county-court," he 
 said. " It would be sure to get about. Everything is contrary 
 just now : Carrick's not to the fore; Vincent Yorke says he has 
 neither cross nor coin to bless himself with, let alone me. I 
 never had but one loan from the fellow in my life, and be 
 hanged to him ! " 
 
 " Your expenses are so heavy, Gerald." 
 
 " Who the devil is to make them lighter ? " fiercely de- 
 manded Gerald. " One can't live as a hermit. I beg your 
 I)ardon, old fellow ; I'm cross, I know, but I have so nuicii to 
 worry me. Things come upon one all at once. Because I 
 had not enough to do with my ready-money just now, ^\'inny 
 must come up and want any amount of it." 
 
 " What is particularly pressing you ? " 
 
 " That," said Gerald, flicking his hand in the direction of 
 the boot bill. " There's nothing else very much at the present 
 moment." But the " present moment " with Gerald meant the 
 actual hour that was passing. 
 
 " About my manuscript," he resumed, his tone brightening 
 a little as he sat down to the table and faced Hamish. 
 
 Still, for an instant or two, Hamish hesitated. He drew 
 the sheets towards him and turned them over, as if deliberating 
 what to say,
 
 iS3 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 " You charged me to tell you the truth, Gerald." 
 
 ^' Of course I did," loudly answered Gerald. "The truth, 
 the whole truth, and noth'.ig but the truth." 
 
 " Well, Gerald, I should not, but for your earnest wish, and 
 that it is I suppose the more real kindness to do so, as it may 
 prevent you from wasting time upon another. I am afraid it 
 won't do, old friend." 
 
 " What won't do ? " asked Gerald, with wide-open eyes that 
 showed the wonder in them. 
 
 Gently and considerately, as he could have imparted ill news 
 to the dearest friend he had on earth, Hamish Channing told 
 him the story would not do ; would not, at least, be a success, 
 and pointed out za/iy he thought so. The book was full of 
 mistakes and faults ; these for the most part he passed lightly 
 over : speaking rather of the defects of the work as a whole. 
 
 " Go on ; let's have it all," said Gerald, when there was a 
 pause : and Hamish saw nothing of the suppressed passion, or 
 of the irony that lay behind the words. " You think I cannot 
 succeed in fiction ? " 
 
 '• Not in a long work " 
 
 " Why, the work's a short one," interrupted Gerald. 
 
 " Very short indeed. Some writers of fiction (and as a rule 
 they are the best, Gerald) put as much in a volume and a half 
 as you have written in the three volumes, I don't think you 
 could write a successful work of fiction even in one volume, 
 Gerald — as I count success. It must have a plot ; it must be 
 consecutively worked out ; it must have " 
 
 "It must have, in short, just the qualities that my work 
 lacks,'' interposed Gerald, with a laugh : and Hamish felt 
 relieved that he was receiving things so easily. 
 
 " If I thought that any hint or help of mine would enable 
 you to accomplish a successful work, I would heartily put 
 myself at your service, Gerald. But I don't think so. I am 
 sure you have mistaken your vocation in attempting to write a 
 novel." 
 
 " Thank you," said Gerald. " Your work has not been tried 
 yet. That's sure to prove a success, I suppose ? " 
 
 The glow of anticipation lighted Hamish Ghanning's sensitive 
 face. It would have betrayed the all-powerful hope lying 
 within him, apart from the involuntary smile on his lips. 
 
 " I could hardly bring myself to make the report, Gerald. 
 And should not, I think, but that I care for your interests as
 
 WINNY. 183 
 
 for those or my own brothers. You know I do, and therefore 
 will not mistake me. I debated whether I should not make 
 some excuse for declining an opinion, advising you to submit 
 it to a publisher. Of course you can do that still." 
 
 " Let mc understand you," said Gerald. " You wish to tell 
 me that no publisher would be likely to take it." 
 
 Hamish ])aused slightly. " I do not say that. Publishers 
 take all kinds of works. The chief objection, to my mind, is 
 this, Gerald : that, if published, it could not bring you honour 
 or credit ; or — I think — money." 
 
 They shook hands ; and Hamish, who would be late at his 
 office, departed, leaving Gerald alone. He went along with 
 a light step, wondering whether he could afford to help Gerald 
 out of the money difiiculty of the day. Sixteen guineas were 
 due to him for literary work ; if he was paid, he would enclose 
 the receipt for the boot-bill to Gerald, saying nothing about it. 
 
 Leaving Gerald alone. Alone with his bitter anger; with 
 an evil look on his face, and revenge at his heart. 
 
 There was only one thing could have exceeded Gerald 
 Yorke's astonishment at the opinion pronounced upon his 
 work, and that was the utter incredulity with which he received 
 it. He had looked upon his book as a rara avis, a black swan : 
 just as we all look on our productions, whether they are bad 
 or good. The bad ones perhaps are thought most of Of 
 course, therefore, Gerald Yorke could only regard the judgment 
 as deliberately false, spoken in envy; tendered to keep him 
 back from fame. He made the great mistake that many 
 anoth-er has made before him, when receiving honest advice in 
 a similar case, and many will make again. And the book 
 trained rather than lost in his opinion. 
 
 " Curse him for his insolence ! for a false, self-sufficient 
 puppy ! " foamed Gerald, rapping out unorthodox words in his 
 passion. " 'U'are to yourself, Mr. Hamish Channing ! You 
 shall find, sooner or later, what it is to make an enemy of me." 
 
 But Gerald received a little balm ere the day was over, for 
 Mr. Brookes's receipted bill came to him by j^ost in a blank 
 envelope. And he wondered who on earth had been civil 
 enough to pay the money for him.
 
 I84 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 CHAPTER XL i 
 
 AT FAULT. 
 
 It was easier for Mr. Bade Greatorex to say to the police, 
 " Drop the investigation," than it was for them to obey him. 
 Had he been the only one to whom they were responsible, 
 the thing would have lain in a nut-shell : but their employer 
 was his fiither. And Mr. Greatorex was pushing discovery to 
 an issue as he had never yet pushed anything. He looked up 
 details himself; he went backwards and forwards to Scotland 
 Yard ; he was altogether troublesome. 
 
 As the days went on, and Mr. Butterby brought forth no 
 result, only presenting himself once in a way to say there was 
 none to bring, Mr. Greatorex grew angry. Surely such a thing 
 was never heard of, as for a cheque to be stolen out of one of 
 their desks at midday, carried to the Bank and cashed, and for 
 the police to say they could not trace the offender ! ]\Ir. 
 Greatorex declared that the police ought to be ashamed to 
 confess it ; in his opinion, they must be getting incapable of 
 their duties. 
 
 One thing had struck Mr. Greatorex in the matter — that his 
 son Bede did not seem eager for the investigation : if he did 
 not retard it, he certainly did not help it on. Perhaps the 
 fittest word to express Bede's state of mind regarding it, as it 
 appeared to Mr. Greatorex, was indifference. Why was this.-* 
 Bede ought to be as anxious about it as himself. Nay, more 
 so : it was from his possession and his desk that the cheque 
 had been taken. Mr. Greatorex supposed that the carelessness 
 in regard to business affairs, which appeared latterly to have 
 been creeping upon his son, must be extending itself even to 
 stolen money. Was he more seriously ill than he allowed them 
 to know? The fear that it might be so crossed the mind of 
 Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 The solicitor sat one morning in his private room, Jonas 
 Butterby opposite to him. The detective was there in answer 
 to a peremptory summons sent by Mr. Greatorex to Scotland 
 Yard the previous day. Whether Mr. Butterby was responsible 
 to himself alone for the progress or non-progress of the investi-
 
 AT FAULT. 185 
 
 gation ; or, if not, whether he had imparted a hint at head- 
 quarters of Bede Greatorex's private communication to liim, 
 was locked uj) within his own breast. One thing appeared 
 clear — that he was at liberty to do as he pleased. 
 
 " It is not the loss of the money ; it is not that the sum of 
 forty-four pounds is of so much moment to me that I must 
 needs trace it out, and if possible regain it," Mr. Greatorex 
 urged, his fine, fresh, honest face bent on the detective, stern- 
 ness in its every line. " It is the unpleasantness of knowing 
 that we have a thief about us : it is the feeling of insecurity ; 
 the fear that the loss will not stop here. Every night of my 
 life, when the offices close, I seem to prepare myself for the 
 discovery that some other loss has taken place during the 
 day." 
 
 " Not at all an unlikely thing to happen," acknowledged Mr. 
 Butterby, who, under existing circumstances, probably felt him- 
 self less free than he usually was, and therefore spoke with 
 hesitation. 
 
 " That the cheque must have been taken by one of the clerks 
 attached to my son's room, I think cannot be doubted. The 
 difficulty is " 
 
 " Mr. Bede thinks so himself," interrupted Butterby. " He 
 charged me specially to look after them ; after one of 'em in 
 particular." 
 
 "Which was it?" 
 
 " Hurst." 
 
 " Hurst ! " repeated Mr. Greatorex, in surprise. 
 
 " But Mr. Bede is mistaken, sir. It was no more Hurst 
 than it was me." 
 
 Instincts are subtle. And one came unbidden into the mind 
 of the detective as he spoke — that he had made a mistake in 
 repeating this to Mr. Greatorex. The truth was — holding his 
 private instructions, and conscious that they must be kept 
 private — he found these interviews with the head of the firm 
 slightly embarrassing. 
 
 " Why should he suspect Hurst if he " 
 
 The door opened, and the person in question appeared at it 
 — Bede Greatorex. Catching a glimpse of the detective's head, 
 he was going out of it a great deal quicker than he had entered ; 
 but his father stopped him. 
 
 " Bede ! Come in. Come in and shut the door. Here's a 
 fine thing I have just heard — that you suspect one particular
 
 166 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 person of having taken the cheque. Over and over again, you 
 have told me that no one in particular was to be suspected." 
 
 A Hghtning glance from Bede Greatorex's fine dark Spanish 
 eyes flashed out on the detective. It said as plainly as glance 
 could speak : " How dare you presume to betray my con- 
 fidence?" 
 
 That gentleman sat unmoved, and nodded a good morning 
 with his usual equanimity. 
 
 " Mr. Greatorex — doing me the honour to call upon me to 
 report progress— observed that he fully thought it was one of 
 the clerks in your room we must look to, sir," spoke Butterby, 
 in a slow calm tone. " I told him your opinion was the same ; 
 and you had charged me to look well after them, especially Mr. 
 Hurst. That was all." 
 
 Bede Greatorex bit his lip in anger. But the communication 
 might have been worse. 
 
 " What is there against Hurst ? " impatiently asked Mr. 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " Nothing at all," said Bede, quietly. " If I said to Mr. 
 Butterby that one of my clerks might have taken the cheque, 
 it was only because access to my room was easier to them than 
 to anybody else I can think of. And of the four, Hurst spends 
 most money." 
 
 " Hurst has most money to spend," observed Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " Of course he has. I have not the least doubt that Hurst 
 is as innocent as I am." 
 
 This was very different from suspecting Hurst, from desiring 
 that he should be specially looked after, and perhaps Mr. 
 Greatorex felt the two accounts the least in the world contra- 
 dicted each other. The keen observer sitting by, apparently 
 sharpening the broken point of his lead-pencil, noticed that the 
 eyes of Bede Greatorex never once met openly the face of his 
 father. 
 
 "If it was my case," thought the ofiicer, "I should tell him 
 the truth out and out. No good beating about the bush this 
 way, saying he suspects one and suspects another, when he 
 does not suspect 'em : far better that old Greatorex should 
 hear the whole and see for himself that it ca/i'i be gone into. 
 He don't care to worry the old gentleman : that's what it is." 
 
 That is just what it was. But Mr. liuttcrby was not right 
 in all his premises. 
 
 " I am quite persuaded that every clerk on my side thp
 
 AT FAULT. 187 
 
 house is as innocent as are those on yours, sir," spoke Bede 
 Greatorex, a slight tremor in his .voice ; a tremor which did 
 not escape the officer's notice, or tlaat it was caused by 
 anxious, painful eagerness : and that astute man knew in a 
 moment that old Greatorex must not have his suspicions 
 turned on Bede's employes. " I believe it was Butterby who 
 first mentioned them. Upon that, I ran them over in my 
 mind, and remembered that Hurst was the only one who spent 
 much money — he lives in fashionable lodgings, as a gentleman. 
 Was it not so, Mr. Butterby?" 
 
 The detective was professionally prepared for most acci- 
 dents. Therefore, when Bede Greatorex turned upon him 
 with startling rapidity, a second flash darting forth from his 
 dark eyes, he never moved a muscle. 
 
 " You are right, sir." 
 
 " Bede," said Mr. Greatorex, in a calm tone full of meaning, 
 " if the same faciUty for obtaining access to your room attached 
 to the clerks on my side the house, I should not say to you so 
 positively that they were not guilty. You seem to resent the 
 very thought that suspicion can attach to them." 
 
 " Not at all, father. Perhaps I felt vexed that Hurst's name 
 should have been mentioned to you without sufficient grounds." 
 
 " Understand me, ]\Ir. Butterby," spoke the elderly gentle- 
 man, sharply. " I expect to have this matter better attended 
 to than it has been. And I repeat to you that I think the 
 clerks in my son's room should be — I do not say suspected, 
 but certainly thought of It is monstrous that a theft like this 
 should have been openly committed in a professional man's 
 house, and you officers should avow yourselves at fault in the 
 matter. We may be losing some of our clients' deeds next." 
 
 The detective glanced at Mr. Bede Greatorex, and was 
 answered, as he thought, by the faintest sign in return. It 
 was not the first time he had been concerned in cases where 
 sons wished things kept from the knowledge of their fathers. 
 
 "We don't give it up, sir. Allow us more time, and per- 
 haps we may satisfy you in the end." 
 
 " I shall expect you to do so," returned Mr. Greatorex, with 
 sufficient emphasis. And the officer rose to quit his presence. 
 
 " Go round by the other door to my room and wait for 
 me." 
 
 Surely these words were breathed into Mr. Butterby's ear ? 
 Faint though the whisper was, he could not have fancied it.
 
 i88 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bede Greatorex was crossing his path at the moment, as i{ he 
 wished to look from the window. 
 
 Fancy or not, the officer acted upon it. Going round to the 
 professional entrance, and so on up the passage to the private 
 room. Wlien liede Greatorex returned to it, he saw him seated 
 against the wall, underneath a map of London. 
 
 "You did wrong to mention Mr. Hurst to my father," Bede 
 began imperatively, as he slipped the bolt of the middle door. 
 
 " That's as it may be," was the rejoinder, cool as usual. 
 " Without some outlet of suspicion given to your father, it will 
 be just this, Mr. Bede Greatorex — he'll make one for himself. 
 Leastways, that's my opinion." 
 
 " Be it so. I do not want it to take the direction of my 
 clerks." 
 
 " He lays the blame on us : says we are lax, or else in- 
 capable ; and it is only natural he should think so. Anyway 
 there's no harm done about Mr. Hurst : you made it right with 
 him there. Do you suspect Hurst still, sir?" 
 
 " Yes. At least more than I do any one of the others." 
 
 Mr. Butteiby put his hands on his knees and bent a little 
 forward. " If you wish me to be of any service to you in this, 
 sir, you must not keep me quite so much in the dark. What 
 I want to get at, Mr. Bede Greatorex, is the true reason for 
 your pitching upon Hurst yourself." 
 
 " I cannot give it to you," said Bede, promptly. " What I 
 told you at our first interview, I repeat now — the suspicion 
 against him is a very faint one. Still it is sufficient to raise 
 a doubt ; and I have no reason to doubt the other three. 
 Jenner is open and honest as the day ; Brown valuable and 
 trustworthy, and Mr. Yorke must of course be exempt." 
 
 " Oh, of course, //e must," dryly acquiesced^ the detective, 
 with a cough. I le knew he was sure of Roland in this case, 
 but he thought Bede Greatorex might not have spoken so 
 confidently had he been cognizant of a certain matter con- 
 nected with the past. 
 
 " 1 would not much mind answering for Jenner myself," 
 remarked Mr. Butterby. " Brown seems all right, too." 
 
 " Brown's honesty has been sufficiently proved. Very large 
 sums have habitually passed through his hands, and he has 
 never wronged us by a shilling. Had he wished to help 
 himself, he would have done it before now : he has had the 
 opportunity over and over again,"
 
 At FAULT. 18^ 
 
 " Then that brings us back to Hurst again. Where is your 
 objection, sir, to the doubt being mentioned to your father ? " 
 
 A startled look crossed Bede's face : a look of fear : and he 
 spoke hastily. 
 
 " Have you forgotten wliat I said ? That the fact of Mr. 
 Hurst's knowing he was suspected (assuming him to be guilty) 
 would be attended with danger. Awful danger, too. If it 
 were possible to disclose all to my father, he would forfeit a 
 great deal that he holds dear in life, rather than incur it." 
 
 "Well, it seems to me that I can be of little use in this 
 matter," said Butterby, turning somewhat crusty. " I have 
 had dangerous secrets confided to me in my lifetime, sir, and 
 the parties they were told about are none the wiser or the 
 worse for it yet." 
 
 " And I wish I could confide this to you," said Bede, 
 steadily and candidly. " 1 should be glad enough to get it 
 out of my keeping, for I don't know what to do with it. If no 
 one but myself were concerned ; if I could disclose it to you 
 without the risk of injuring others ; you should hear it this 
 very next moment. For their sakes, Mr. Butterby, my lips 
 are sealed. I dare not speak." 
 
 "Does he mean his wife, or doesn't he?" thought Butterby. 
 And the question was not to be solved. " I'll look after Hurst 
 a bit," he said aloud. "Truth to tell, I considered him the 
 safest of all, in spite of your opinion, Mr. Bede Greatorex, 
 and have let him alone. He shall have a little of my quiet 
 attention now. And so shall one of the others," the detective 
 mentally added. 
 
 " Unsuspected by Hurst himself," enjoined Bede, a shade 
 of anxiety in his voice. 
 
 Could Mr. Butterby have been suspected of so far forgetting 
 professional dignity as to indulge in winks, it might have 
 seemed that he answered with one, as he rose from his chair. 
 
 " I'll just take a look in upon them now," he remarked 
 "And let mc advise you, sir, to get your father into a more 
 reasonable frame of mind, if po.ssible. If he calls in fresli aid, 
 as he threatens, there might be the dickens to pay." 
 
 Bede Greatorex crossed the room hastily, as though he 
 meant to guard the middle door, and spoke in low tones. 
 
 " I do not care that they should know you have been with 
 me. Not for the world would I have it come to their knowledge 
 that I doubt any of them."
 
 igo ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Now, do you suppose that I am a gosling ? " demanded 
 Butterby. " You have done me the honour to confide this 
 private business to my hands, Mr. Bede Greatorex, and you 
 may safely leave it in 'em. After being at the work so many 
 years, there's not much left for me to learn." 
 
 He departed by the passage, treading lightly, and halted 
 when he came to the clerk's door. He was deep in thought. 
 This matter which, as he plirased it, Mr. Bede Greatorex had 
 done him the honour to put in his hands, was no such great 
 matter after all ; a mere trifle in professional quarters : but few 
 things had so puzzled the detective. Not in his way to dis- 
 covery : that, as it seemed to him, would be very easy, could 
 he pursue it openly. Bede Greatorex puzzled him ; his 
 ambiguous words puzzled him ; the thing itself puzzled him. 
 In most cases Mr. Butterby could at least see where he was ; 
 in this he stood in a dense fog, not knowing where he was 
 going, or what he was in search of. 
 
 Giving the swing-door a dash backwards, as though he had 
 just arrived, he entered the room. Mr. Brown was at his 
 desk, Roland Yorke at his ; but the other two were absent. So 
 if the visit had been intended as a special one to Josiah Hurst, 
 it was a decided failure. 
 
 When was the great Butterby at fault ? He had just looked 
 in upon them " in passing," he said, to give the good-morrow, 
 and inquire how they relished the present state of the ther- 
 mometer, which he pronounced melting. How did Mr. Yorke 
 like it ? 
 
 Mr. Yorke, under the circumstances of not knowing whether 
 he stood on his head or his heels, had not thought about the 
 thermometer. Since the receipt of a letter that morning, con- 
 taining the news that one, whom he cared for more than a 
 brother, might probably be coming to London shortly on a 
 visit, Roland had been three-parts mad with joy. He was 
 even genial to his bete noire, the intruder. 
 
 "Is it you, Butterby? How are you getting on, Butterby? 
 Take a stool if you like, Butterby." 
 
 '• Can't stop," said Butterby. " Just meant to give a nod 
 round and go out again. Not come in on business to-day. 
 You look spruce, Mr. ^'orkc." 
 
 " I've got on my Sunday suit," answered Roland — who in 
 point of fact was particularly well got-up, and had a rosebud 
 in his button-hole. " Carrick's tailor has not a bad cut. You
 
 AT FAULT. igi 
 
 have heard of red-letter days, old Butterby : this is one for mc. 
 One should not put on one's every-day coat on such occasions : 
 they don't come too often." 
 
 " Had a fortune beciueathed ? " inquired Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " Better than that," said enthusiastic Roland, who in these 
 moments, when his heart and affections were touched, could 
 only be more impulsive than ever. " Somebody's coming to 
 London; somebody that jk^v/' know, Butterby." 
 
 " Mr. Galloway, perhaps." 
 
 " No ; you are wrong this time," returned Roland, not in 
 the least taken aback : though perhaps the detective, judged 
 by his significant tone, meant that he should be. " You'd not 
 see me dressed up for him. There are two men in Hclston- 
 leigh I'd put on shirt-sleeves to welcome, rather than a good 
 coat : the one is old Galloway, the other William Yorke. 
 Guess again." 
 
 Instead of doing anything of the sort, by which perhaps 
 his professional reserve might have been compromised, Air. 
 Butterby turned his attention on the manager. Pursuing his 
 work steadily, he had taken no notice of Mr. Butterby, beyond 
 a civil salute at first. 
 
 " You've not heard any more of this mysterious loss, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Nothing more, sir," was Mr. Brown's answer, looking full 
 at the speaker, perhaps to show that he did not shrink from 
 intercourse with a detective. " It seems strange, though, 
 that we. should not do so." 
 
 " Thieves are clever when they are professional ; and I've 
 got to tliink it was nothing less did the job for Mr. Greatorcx," 
 said Butterby, in quite a fatherly and confidential tone. 
 " There has been a regular band of 'em at work lately in 
 London ; and in spite of opinions when I was here last, I say 
 they might have gone in through the passage straight and bold, 
 and have done the job easy, and you unsuspicious young men, 
 shut up in this first room, never have heard a sound of what 
 was going on." 
 
 " I think that is how it must have been ; failing the other 
 idea — that Mr. Bede Greatorex took the cheque out and 
 dropped it," said the manager, with quiet decision. 
 
 " Of course. And unless I'm mistaken, JSIr. Bede thinks 
 the same. I should like to have three minutes' chat with you 
 .some evening, Mr. Brown, all by our two selves. You are
 
 1^2 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 naturally anxious for discovery ; so am I : there's no knowing 
 but something or other may come out between us." 
 
 Perhaps to any eye except the watchful one of a police- 
 officer, the slight hesitation before replying might have passed 
 unnoticed. Mr. Brown had no particular wish to be ques- 
 tioned ; it was no affair of his_, and he thought the detective 
 and Mr. Bede Greatorex quite enough to manage the matter 
 without him. But when his answer came, it was spoken 
 readily. 
 
 " \Vhenever you please. I am generally at home by eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 He gave his new address — Mrs. Jones's. At which the 
 crafty detective expressed surprise, though knowing the very 
 day and hour when Mr. Brown had moved in. 
 
 " There ! Do you live there ? The Jones's and I used to 
 be old acquaintances : knew 'em well when they were at 
 Helstonleigh. Knew Dick must be making a mess of it long 
 before the smash came. You'll see me then, Mr. Brown, one 
 of these first evenings." 
 
 "Don't be in a hurry, Butterby," spoke Roland, who had 
 been amusing himself by trying how far he could tilt his stool 
 backwards without capsizing, while he listened. " It's not old 
 Galloway, it's Arthur Channing." 
 
 " Is there anything so remarkable in Arthur Channing's 
 coming to London ? " questioned Butterby. 
 
 " To me there is. I tell you it is a red-letter day in my life, 
 and I have not had many since I sailed from Port Natal. If I 
 were not in this confounded old office, with one master in the 
 next room and another there " flinging a paper ball at the 
 manager—" I should sing and dance and leap my joy off. 
 Three copies have I begun to take of a musty old will, and 
 spoilt 'em all. Brown says I'm out of ray senses ; ask him." 
 
 " You never were famous for not spoiling copies — or for any 
 industry in particular, you know, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 'i'he rejoinder rather nettled Roland. " I'd rather be 
 famous for nothing than for what you are famed in Helston- 
 leigh, Butterby — taking up the wrong man. It was not your 
 fault that Arthur Channing didn't get transported." 
 
 " Nor yours," quietly retorted Air. Butterby. 
 
 " There ! Go on. Bring it all out. If you've come to do it, 
 do it, Butterby. I told you to, the other night. And when 
 Arthur Channing is in London, you put up a prayer every
 
 AT FAULT. 1)3 
 
 morninp; not to meet him at Charing Cross. The sight 
 couldn't be pleasant to your mind, and passers-by might see 
 your brow redden : which for a bold, fear-nothing police- 
 detective " 
 
 " Is Mr. Bede Greatorex in? " 
 
 The interruption came from the Reverend Henry William 
 Ollivera. As he entered, the first man his eyes fell on was 
 Eutterby. It was a mutual recognition : and they had not 
 met since that evening in Butterby's rooms on the occasion of 
 the clergyman's visit to Helstonleigh. 
 
 Before a minute had well elapsed, as it seemed to the two 
 spectators, they were deep in that calamity of the past, recall- 
 ing some of its details, lamenting the want of success that had 
 attended the endeavour to trace it out. It did not greatly 
 interest Roland ; his mind also was filled to the brim, but with 
 more agreeable matter. Apparently it did not interest Brown 
 the manager, for he kept his head bent on his work. In the 
 midst of it Bede Greatorex came in. 
 
 " I tell you, Mr. Officer, my faith has never wavered, or 
 my opinion changed," the clergyman was saying with emotion, 
 scarcely interrupting himself to nod a salutation to Bede. 
 " My brother did not commit suicide. He was barbarously 
 murdered ; as every instinct warned me at the time, and warns 
 me still. The waiting seems long ; the time rolls by, day 
 after day, year after year : weariness has to be subdued, 
 patience cherished ; but, that the hour of elucidation will 
 come, is as sure as that you and I stand here, facing each 
 other." 
 
 " Mr. Greatorex told me that the Reverend Ollivera stood 
 to his opinion as strongly as ever he did," was the answering 
 remark of the officer ; and it might be that there was a shade 
 of compassion in his tone — compassion for the mistaken folly 
 of the man before him. 
 
 '* It has occurred to me at times, that if I were a member 
 of the detective force, endowed with their acuteness for dis- 
 covering crime, I should have brought the matter to light long 
 ago. Do not think I reflect on your individual skill or care, 
 sir ; I speak generally." 
 
 "Ah !" said Mr. Butterby, complacently, "we all are apt to 
 picture to ourselves how much we'd do in other folks' 
 shoes." 
 
 " It is strange tliat you have never been ^ble to discover 
 
 Roland Yorke. 1'^
 
 194 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 traces of the man whose name was afterwards mixed up m the 
 affair — Godfrey Pitman." 
 
 " There you are right, sir," readily avowed the officer. " I 
 should uncommonly like to come across that Godfrey Pitman 
 on my own score : setting aside anything he might have had 
 to do with the late Mr, Ollivera." 
 
 The clergyman quickly took up the words. " Do you think 
 he had anything to do with his death ? " 
 
 " I don't go as far as that. It might have been so. Any 
 way, as circumstances stand at present, he seems the most 
 likely, of all those who were known to have been in the house 
 that evening." 
 
 Happening to raise his eyes, Mr. Brown caught those of 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex. They were fixed on the speaker with an 
 eager, earnest light. To many a man it might have told the 
 tale that he, Bede Greatorex, had also doubts of Pitman. But 
 then, Bede Greatorex had expressed his belief in the suicide : 
 expressed it still. One thing was certain, had Bede chosen to 
 confess it — that Godfrey Pitman was in his mind far oftener 
 than the world knew. 
 
 " How is it that you have never found him ? " continued 
 Mr. Ollivera, to Butterby. 
 
 "/don't know. We are not usually at fault for a tithe of 
 the time. But the man, you see, was under false colours ; his 
 face and his name were alike changed." 
 
 " You think so ? " 
 ' " Think so ! " repeated Mr. Butterby with a second dose of 
 compassion for the parson's intellect. " That mass of hair on 
 his face was hardly likely to be real. As to the name, Pitman, 
 it was about as much his as it was mine. However, we have 
 not found him, and there's no more to be made of it than that. 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex asked me about the man the other day, 
 whether I didn't think he might at once have left the country. 
 It happens to be what I've thought all along." 
 
 " I do not see what he could have against my brother, that 
 he should injure him," spoke the clergyman, gazing on vacancy, 
 the dreamy look, so often seen in them, taking possession of 
 his eyes, "So far as can be known, they were strangers to 
 each other." 
 
 " Now, sir, don't you run your head again a stone wall. 
 Nobody says he did injure him ; only that it's within the range 
 of possibility that he might have done it. As to being strangers
 
 AT FAULT. 195 
 
 to each other, he might have turned out to be one of Counsellor 
 Ollivera's dearest friends, once his disguises were taken off." 
 
 Mr. Ollivera drew in, under the reproof, and there was a 
 short pause of silence. He broke it to ask about the letter so 
 often mentioned. 
 
 " Have you taken care of the paper ? " 
 ' "I have," said Mr. Butterby, rather emphatically. "And I 
 mean to do it, being permitted. This house wrote for it to 
 be sent up, but I gave Mr. Greatorex my reasons for wishing 
 to keep it, and he charged me not to let it go out of my posses- 
 sion. If ever the time comes for that document to be of use. 
 Reverend Sir, it will be forthcoming." 
 
 As the officer went out, for there was nothing more to keep 
 him, Mr. Ollivera began speaking to Bede in low tones. This 
 conversation lasted only a minute or two, and Bede retired to 
 the other room. 
 
 " Arthur Channing is coming to London, Mr. Ollivera." 
 
 That the interruption came from no one but Roland, need 
 not be stated. He was the only one in the office w^ho pre- 
 sumed to interrupt business with personal matters. The 
 clergyman, who was going out, turned his head. 
 
 " You will have the opportunity of making his better 
 acquaintance, Mr. Ollivera. He is the noblest and grandest 
 man the world ever saw. I don't mean in looks — though he 
 might win a prize on that score — but for goodness. Hamish 
 is at the top of the tree, but Arthur caps him." 
 
 Arthur Channing and his qualities bore no interest for Mr. 
 Ollivera just then ; he had no time to attend to them. With 
 a pleasant word in answer, he departed. Almost close upon 
 that. Sir Richard Yorke came in, and went into the private 
 room. 
 
 " Perhaps something has turned up about the cheque, and 
 he's come to tell it," cried idle Roland. " I say, Mr. Brown, 
 did you ever hear how they all keep up the ball about that 
 Godfrey Pitman ? Mrs. J. was describing him to me the other 
 night. She and Miss Alletha came to an issue about his 
 personal charms : the one saying his eyes were blue, the other 
 brown. Remembering the fable of the chameleon, I decided 
 they must have been green. I wouldn't like to joke about 
 him, though " — dropping his lighter tone — " if he really had a 
 hand in John Ollivera's death. What do you think about it ? " 
 What I think is this, Mr. Yorke. As the person in 
 
 a ■
 
 196 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 question has nothing to do with my work or yours, I am 
 content to let him alone. I should be exceedingly obliged to 
 you to get that copy done for me." 
 
 " I'll get it done," said ready Roland. " There are such 
 interruptions in this office, you see." 
 
 He was working away, when Sir Richard Yorke came forth 
 again, talking with Bede Greatorex. Roland slipped off his 
 stool, and brought his tall self in his uncle's path. 
 
 " How are you. Sir Richard ? " 
 
 Sir Richard's little eyes went blinking out, and he con- 
 descended to recognize Roland. 
 
 " Oh, ah, to be sure. You are one of the clerks here ! Hope 
 you keep out of debt, young man." 
 
 " I try to," said Roland. " I get a pound a week, and live 
 upon it. It is not much to provide for everything. One 
 has to enjoy champagne and iced turtle through the shop 
 windows." 
 
 " Ah," said Sir Richard slowly, rubbing his hands together as 
 if he were washing them of undesirable connections, " this comes 
 of being a rover. You should do as Gerald does : work to keep 
 up a position. I read an able article in the Snarler last night, 
 which was pointed out to me as Gerald Yorke's. He works to 
 some purpose, he does." 
 
 " If Gerald works, he spends," was on the tip of Roland's 
 tongue. But he kept it in : it was rare indeed that his good- 
 nature failed him. " How is Vincent ? " he asked- 
 
 Vincent was very well, Sir Richard vouchsafed in reply, and 
 went out, rubbing his hands srill. 
 
 So, with one interlude or another, Roland's morning came to 
 an end. When released, he went flying in search of Annabel 
 Channing, to impart the great news contained in her brother's 
 letter. 
 
 She was not in the schoolroom. She was not in the dining- 
 room. She was not anywhere that Roland could see. He 
 turned to descend the stairs again more slowly than he had 
 gone up, when Jane Greatorex came running from the landing 
 above. 
 
 "Jane ! Jane ! I told you you were not to go down." 
 
 The voice, calling after the child, would have resembled 
 Annabel's, but for a choking sound \a it. He looked up and 
 saw her face inflamed with tears, heard sobs of trouble. It took 
 Roland more completely aback than any sight he had witnessed
 
 MR. BROWN AT HOME. 197 
 
 at Port Natal. The face disappeared swiftly, and Miss Jane 
 jumped into his arms in triumph. 
 
 " Janey, what is it ? " he asked in a whisper, as if he had been 
 suddenly deprived of the power to move. " What is the matter 
 with Miss Channin^?" 
 
 "It's through Aunt Bede. She puts herself into such dread- 
 ful passions. I thought she w^uld have struck her this morning. 
 She told her she was not worth her salt." 
 
 Roland's face grew white with indignation. 
 
 " Your Aunt Bede snjd so ! " 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing new," said the child, carelessly. "Aunt 
 Bede goes on at her nearly as much every day." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. BROWN AT HOME, 
 
 That the managing clerk of Mr. Bede Greatorex was anything 
 but a steady man, his worst enemy could not have suspected. Mr. 
 Brown's conduct was irreproachable, his industry indefatigable. 
 At the office to the very minute of opening, quitting it always 
 last at night, occupying all his spare time at home in writing, 
 except that which had to be devoted to sleep ; of habits so 
 moderate, that even Roland Yorke, with all his experiences of 
 Port Natal deprivations, would have marvelled at them, it might 
 have been surmised that Mr. Brown had begun to acquire a 
 modest fortune. The writing he did at home was paid for. It 
 was so thoroughly to be depended on, that Greatorex and 
 Greatorex were glad to give it to him, and kept it a tacit secret 
 froTi the other clerks. For Mr. Brown did not care that it 
 should be known in the office, lest he should lose his standing 
 there. To carry home copying for remuneration, might have 
 been deemed infra dig. on the part of the manager. 
 
 For his breakfast he took a hard-boiled egg, or a sausage, or 
 a litde bacon, as might be ; tea, and bread. At dinner, the 
 middle of the day, his food scarcely differed from the above, a 
 glass of beer being substituted for the tea. He invariably 
 called it luncheon, saying he dined out later ; and hurried over 
 it to get back to his writing. In the evening he took tea again,
 
 198 ROLAND VORKE. 
 
 butter, bread, and one or other of the hixuries of his moming 
 meal, accompanied with radishes or any Hght garden produce 
 which might happen to be in season. Shrewd Mrs. Jones, after 
 a few days' experience of her lodger's habits, came to the con- 
 clusion that the daily dinner out had place only in fable. On 
 Sundays he dined at home. Given to rapid conclusions, Mrs. 
 Jones set it all down, not to parsimony, but to economy, for 
 which she decided there must be some good cause; and 
 honoured his self-denial. 
 
 Detective Butterby, having scraped acquaintance (of course 
 by chance) with the landlord where Mr. Brown had previously 
 lived, gathered sundry details, over a pipe, into his capacious 
 ears. The house, situated in an obscure quarter, was let out 
 in rooms — chambers it might be said, of a very humble grade, 
 with a wide, dark staircase of stone, common to all the mmates. 
 One lodger did not interfere with another ; and all the land- 
 lord and his wife had to do was to take the weekly money- 
 Mr. Brown had been with them between three and four years, 
 the landlord said ; was most steady and respectable. Gentle- 
 man Brown they always called him. They did his room, 
 though most of the others did their own. Never went to 
 theatres, or smoking-places ; never, in short, spent a sixpence 
 in waste ; saved up what he could for his mother and sick 
 sister in the country, who were dependent on him. Had not 
 the least idea why he left ; might have knocked him (the land- 
 lord) down with a feather when Gentleman Brown tapped at 
 his door late one evening, saying business was calling him away 
 on the morrow or next day, and put down a full week's rent in 
 lieu of notice ; was the best and most regular man that ever 
 lodged in a decent house ; should be right down glad to have 
 him back again. 
 
 An excellent character, certainly; as Mr. Butterby could 
 only mentally acknowledge ; steady, self-denying, working 
 always to support a mother and sick sister ! He had no reason 
 to dispute it ; having come on a fishing expedition rather than 
 with a special object in view. 
 
 Mr. Brown sat working to-night in his room at Mrs. Jones's, 
 the evening of the day mentioned in the last chapter. A 
 shaded lamp was at his elbow ; his spectacles, which he always 
 took off when writing, lay on the table beside him. The room 
 was (jf fair size for its situation ; a screen concealing the small 
 bed in the corner. A high bureau stood opposite the fire-
 
 MR. BROWN AT HOME. 199 
 
 place, near it a dwarf mahogany cupboard, which served as a 
 side-table. Mr. Brown had drawn the larger table to the 
 window, that he might catch the fading light of the summer 
 evening. He sat with the right-hand cuff of his worn coat 
 turned up. Out of doors he appeared as a gentleman ; indoors 
 he was economically careful in dress, as in other things. 
 
 A light tap at the door ; followed by the entrance of Miss 
 Rye. He rose at once, and turned down the cuff. She 
 brought in a letter that the postman had just left. Never, 
 except when forced by the rare absence of the maid, did Miss 
 Rye appear in his room. The servant was out this evening ; 
 and Mrs. Jones had handed her the letter with a decision that 
 might not be disregarded. "Take it in, Alletha." 
 
 She put the letter on the table, and was turning away with- 
 out a word. Mr. Brown went to the door, and held it closed 
 while he spoke, that the sound of voices might not be heard 
 outside. 
 
 " What is your reason for shunning me, Miss Rye ? Is it 
 well ? Is it kind of you to do so ? " 
 
 She suddenly lifted her hand to her bosom, and the little 
 colour that was in her face faded out of it. 
 
 " It is well. As to kindness — you know all that is over." 
 
 "I do not know it. I neither admit it, nor its necessity. 
 Civility at least might remain. What has been my motive, clo 
 you suppose, in coming here, but to live under the same roof 
 that shelters you? Not to renew the p.ist, as it once existed 
 between us ; I do not ask or wish it ; but to see you now and 
 then, to exchange a calm word with you once in a way." 
 
 "I cannot stay. Please to let me j^ass, sir! " 
 
 "The old place, where I lodged so long, suited me, for it 
 was quiet and private ; and I need privacy, as you know," he 
 continued, paying no attention to her request. " It was also 
 reasonable enough to satisfy even me. Here I pay nearly 
 double ; here I am more likely to be seen by those who might 
 do me harm. But I have braved it all for you. Perhaps the 
 former friendship — I do not wish to offend even by a name, 
 you see. Miss Rye — was a terrible mistake for you, but I at 
 least have been true to it." 
 
 " The best and kindest thing you can do for me, sir, is to go 
 back to your late lodgings." 
 
 "I shall remain in these. You told me, in the only inter- 
 view I have held with you since I came here, that I was a man
 
 200 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 of crime. I admit it. But criminals have their affections as 
 well as other people. You are cruel to me, Alletha Rye." 
 
 " It is you who are cruel," she returned, losing in emotion 
 the reserve, as between waitress and lodger; she had been 
 studying to maintain. ' ' You must know the pain your presence 
 brings me. Mrs. Jones has invited you to dine with her next 
 Sunday, I hear; let me implore of you not to come in." 
 
 "And promised me boiled beef," he rejoined in plain, curt 
 tones, as if her manner and words were hardening him. " The 
 offer is too good a one to be refused." 
 "Then I shall absent myself from table." 
 " Don't drive me quite wild, Alletha Rye. You have me in 
 your power : the only one in London who has — so far as I 
 hope and believe. I would almost as soon you went and gave 
 me in charge." 
 
 "Who is cruel now?" she breathed. "You know that you 
 can trust me ; you know that I would rather forfeit my own 
 life than put yours in jeopardy : but I take shame to myself 
 in saying it. It is just this," she added, struggling with her 
 agitation, "you are safe with me, but you are not welcome." 
 
 " I told you somewhat of my secrets in our last interview : I 
 would have told you more, but you would not listen. I would 
 have told you why I am living as I do, trying to atone for the 
 
 miserable sins of the past " 
 
 "Atone!" 
 
 " Yes, it is well to take me up. One of them, at least, never 
 can be atoned for. It lies heavier on my mind than it does 
 
 on yours. If " 
 
 The sharp voice of Mrs. Jones, from above, demanding 
 what was the matter with AUetha's ears, that they did not hear 
 the door-bell, ended the interview. A hectic spot shone on 
 her cheeks as she hastened to answer it. 
 
 The red glow had given place to a deathly pallor when she 
 came in again. Mr. Brown had already settled to his writing 
 and turned back his cuff. She closed the door and went up 
 to him ; he stood gazing in surprise at her face. Every 
 lineament expressed terror. The lips were drawn and white ; 
 the eyes wild. However contaminating might have been his 
 touch, he could not help taking her trembling hands. She 
 suffered it, entwining her lingering fingers within his. 
 " What has happened ? " he whispered. 
 " That man has come ; Butlcrby, the detective from Hel-
 
 MR. BROWN AT HOME;^^ 2oi 
 
 stonleigh. He says he must see Mr. Brown — you. Heaven 
 have mercy on us ! Has the blow fallen at last ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to fear. I exi)ected a call from him. He 
 only knows me as Mr. Brown, manager to Greatorex and 
 Greatorex. Let him come in." 
 
 "I have shut him up in Mrs. Jones's parlour." 
 
 " You must send him to me. I am only your lodger to him, 
 you know. Get a little colour into your face first." 
 
 A minute or two and Mr. Butterby was introduced, amicably 
 telhng Miss Rye, that, to judge by appearances, London did 
 not agree with her. Mr. Brown, composedly writing, put down 
 his pen in the middle of a word, and rose to receive him. 
 
 It was a chatty interview. The great man had put on his 
 agreeable manners, and talked of many things. He made 
 some fatherly inquiries after the welfare of Mr. Hurst ; observ- 
 ing that some of those country blades liked their fling in 
 London, but he fancied young Hurst was tolerably steady. 
 Mr. Brown quietly said he had no reason to suppose him 
 otherwise. 
 
 " You have been irom thirteen to fourteen years with the 
 Greatorexes, I think," remarked the detective. 
 
 Mr. Brown laughed. " From three to four." 
 
 " Oh, I made a mistake. And before you came to them ? " 
 
 " With a solicitor, now deceased. Mr. Greatorex can tell 
 you anything of him you wish to know. He had me direct 
 from him." 
 
 "I wish to know? Not a bit of it. Who on earth is it 
 walking about overhead? His boots have been on the go 
 ever since I came in." 
 
 " It must be Mr. OUivera. He does walk about his rooms 
 sometimes." 
 
 " I should say his mind was restless. Thinking always of 
 his brother, they tell me. It was a curious case, that, take it 
 for all in all. Ever heard the particulars, Mr. Brown ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Greatorex once related them to me. The young 
 men in the office, too, get speaking about it." 
 
 *' Ah, they all had something to do with Ccansellor OUivera, 
 so to say. Jenner was the clerk in chambers. Hurst's father 
 was the surgeon called in at the death ; Yorke was in Port 
 Natal at the time, but his folk knew him. Talkative young 
 fellows, all the lot ; like gossip, I'll be bound, better than work. 
 I'll answer that one of 'em does — Mr. Roland Yorke."
 
 202 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 A smile crossed the manager's face at the thought of Roland's 
 work. "When I hear them begin to speak of the late Mr. 
 Ollivera's death, I stop it at once," he remarked. " Jenner is 
 very much given to it, never considering whose office he is in. 
 The name of a man who has committed suicide cannot be 
 pleasant to his relations." 
 
 " As to suicide," spoke Mr. Butterby, with a nod, " I don't 
 say it was that in Ollivera's case. I don't say it was not. 
 There's only two people have held out against it ; and they've 
 been obstinate enough in the matter for two thousand. 
 Parson OUivera, and the young woman in this house, Alletha 
 Rye." 
 
 "On the other hand," observed the clerk, "some are as 
 positive that he did commit it. Mrs. Jones for one, Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex for another. They possess the same knowledge of 
 the details as the other two, and are certainly as able to form 
 an opinion." 
 
 Jonas Butterby opened his mouth, but he closed it again 
 without speaking. In the heat of argument his usual reticence 
 had for once nearly failed him, and he all but betrayed his 
 private opinion — that Bede Greatorex had grown to suspect 
 Godfrey Pitman. 
 
 "Who told you that Bede Greatorex still holds that view, 
 Mr. Brown ? " 
 
 "It is well known that he does. I have heard him say so 
 myself." 
 
 " He did hold it, and no mistake," nodded the shrewd detec- 
 tive, who, upon reflection, saw no reason why he should not 
 speak out " He made as sure that it was suicide, at the time, 
 as you are that that's an inkpot before you. But if he has not 
 veered round a bit to a contrary opinion, my name's not Jonas 
 Butterby. Bede Greatorex, in his innard breast, has taken up 
 doubts of the missing man, that worthy Pitman." 
 
 Mr. Brown got up to do something to the window-blind, and 
 the peculiar look that crossed his face — not a smile, not a 
 spasm of pain, not a sharp contraction of fear, but something 
 of all three — was hidden from his visitor. He was calm enough 
 when he came back again. 
 
 " Did Mr. Bede Greatorex tell you so ? " 
 
 " Not he. He let a word or two drop, and I could see at 
 once that the man was on his mind. But that's not our busi- 
 ness, Mr. Brown, neither must it be made so, you understand.
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 203 
 
 What I want to talk to you about, is the cheque affair. Let's 
 go over the particulars quietly together." 
 
 Not so very quietly to begin with. The opening of the 
 street-door as if the house itself were being stormed ; a clatter 
 of feet in the passage; a loud summons to everybody — Mrs. J., 
 Miss Rye, the servant Betsy — for hot water, announced the 
 arrival of Mr. Roland Yorke. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 
 
 The day is not yet over. It had been a busy one at the house 
 of Greatorex and Greatorex. What with business, and mental 
 vexation, of one or two kinds, Mr. Greatorex felt cross and 
 weary as the evening drew on. 
 
 There had been some unnecessary delay in the prosecution 
 of a cause being tried at Westminster, for which Bede was in 
 fault. A heavy bill for fripperies had been presented to the 
 office that day, and by mistake to Mr. Greatorex instead of to 
 Mrs. Bede's husband. The capricious treatment being dealt 
 out to Miss Chanuing had been mentioned by Jane to her 
 grandpapa ; and preparations for another enormous reception 
 for that night were in active progress. All these matters, as 
 well as others, were trying the usually placid temper of Mr. 
 Greatorex. 
 
 He did not appear at the dinner-table that evening, but had 
 something taken to his own private sitting-room. Asking for 
 his son Bede, he found he was not forthcoming. Bede, Mr. 
 Greatorex was told, had gone to London Bridge to meet a 
 steamer from France, by which his wife's sister was expected. 
 Jane Greatorex ran in to her grandpapa, and asked, spoilt 
 child that she was, if he would not invite her and Miss Chan- 
 ning to drink tea with him : Mrs. Bede not having bidden them 
 to her soiree. Yes, Mr. Greatorex said ; they should spend 
 the evening in his room. Closed in there quietly and snugly, 
 they heard only as from a distance the commotion of the large 
 gathering above, and Mr. Greatorex partially forgot his cares. 
 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex's rooms were lighted up, shutting out
 
 204 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the remains of daylight, when Roland Yorke entered them. 
 For it was to get himself up for this soiree that Roland had 
 gone home with a clatter, calling for half the people in the 
 house to wait on him. The company was numerous, elbowing 
 each other as usual, and fighting for space on the staircase and 
 landing with the plants that lined the walls. Whatever might 
 be Mrs. Bede's shortcomings in some of the duties of life, she 
 never failed in one — that of gathering a vast crowd at her 
 bidding. This evening was to be great in music ; and some of 
 the first singers and performers of the day had been secured 
 to delight the company; at what cost, was known only to 
 Bede's pocket. 
 
 Roland's chief motive in coming to it — for he did not always 
 attend when invited — was to get an interview with Miss Chan- 
 ning. The vision of her tearful face, seen that morning, the 
 revelation contained in the careless words of Jane Greatorex, 
 had been making havoc in his breast ever since. Roland 
 wanted to know what it meant, and why she put up with it. 
 His eyes went roaming into every corner in search of Annabel; 
 but he could not see her. 
 
 " Ill-conditioned old stork ! " ejaculated Roland, apostrophiz- 
 ing the unconscious Mrs. Bede Greatorex. "She has gone 
 and kept her out of the way to-night." 
 
 In consequence of this failure in his hopes, Roland had 
 leisure to concentrate his attention on the general company ; 
 and he did it in a slightly ungracious mood ; his blood was 
 boiling up with the awful injustice (imaginary rather than real) 
 dealt out to the governess. 
 
 "And all because that nasty conceited little pig, Jane 
 Greatorex, must be educated." 
 
 "What's that, Roland?" 
 
 Roland, in his indignation, had spoken aloud, and been 
 overheard. He turned to see the bright face of Hamish Chan- 
 ning, who had entered the room with his wife on his arm. 
 
 " You here, Hamish ! Well, I never ! " 
 
 " I have come out of my shell for once," said Hamish. 
 " One cannot be always a hermit, when one possesses an exact- 
 ing wife. Mine threatened me with unheard-of penalties if I 
 didn't bring her here to-night." 
 
 " Hamish ! " exclaimed Mrs. Channing. " He does nothing 
 but talk against me, Roland It is good for him to come out 
 sometimes."
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 205 
 
 "I say, I can't sec Annabel," cried Roland, in most resentful 
 tones, as, still hoping against hope, he cast his eyes in search 
 of her over people's heads. " It's a thundering shame ! she 
 is a prisoner upstairs to-night, I suppose, taking care of Jane 
 Grcatorex." 
 
 " But that's no reason why you should call the little lady 
 names," laughed Hamish. 
 
 " I call her a little pig," avowed Roland. " I should like to 
 call somebody else a great pig ; to her face too ; only she 
 might turn me out for my bad manners. If there is one thing 
 I hold in contempt more than another, Hamish, it is a tyrant." 
 
 " Does that apply to Miss Annabel Channing ? " 
 
 " Bad manners to yoii then, Hamish ! " cried Roland. 
 "Annabel a tyrant! She's the sweetest-tempered girl in the 
 world; meek and gentle and friendless here, and so that 
 woman puts upon her. You used to snub her at home when 
 she was a child ; they snub her here : but not one of the lot of 
 you is fit to tie her shoe. There." 
 
 Roland backed against the wall in dudgeon, and stood 
 pulling at his whiskers. Hamish enjoyed these moods of 
 Roland's beyond everything 5 they were so genuine. 
 
 " And if I were getting on as my father's son ought to be, 
 with a decent home, and a few hundreds to keep it up, she 
 shouldn't long be left to the mercy of any of you, I can tell 
 you that, Mr. Channing." 
 
 Hamish Channing's laugh was interrupted by Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex — " that woman," as Roland had just disrespectfully 
 called her. Mr. and Mrs. Channing had been slowly threading 
 their way to her, a difficult matter in the crush and crowd. 
 She welcomed them with both hands. Hamish, a favourite of 
 hers, was the courtly, sunny Hamish, as of yore ; the chief 
 attraction of whatever society he miglit happen to be in. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you ; but I wonder you like to show 
 your face to me," said Mrs. Bede. 
 
 "What is my offence?" inquired Hamish. 
 
 "As if you need ask ! I don't think you've been to one of 
 my gatherings for three months. If it were not for your wife, 
 I should leave off sending you cards, sir." 
 
 " It was my wife's doing that I am here this evening ; she 
 absolutely dragged me out," answered saucy Hamish. " You've 
 no idea how she puts upon a fellow, Mrs. Greatorex." 
 
 Ellen laughed. " The real truth is, Mrs. Greatorex, that he
 
 2o6 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 was a little less pressed with work than usual, and came of his 
 own accord." 
 
 " That horrid work," spoke Mrs. Bede. " You are a slave 
 to it." 
 
 " Wait until my fortune's made," said Hamish. 
 
 " That will be when your book's out ! " 
 
 " Oh yes, of course." 
 
 The answer was given lightly. But a slight heotic came 
 into his face, his voice unconsciously took a deeper tone. 
 Heaven alone knew what that anticipated book already was to 
 his spirit. 
 
 " When will it be finished ? " 
 
 " It is finished." 
 
 " How glad you must be ! " concluded Mrs. Bede. 
 
 The evening went on, Roland kept his place against the 
 wall, looking as if every one was his natural enemy. On the 
 whole, Roland did not like soirees ; there was no room for his 
 elbows ; and the company never seemed to him to behave 
 naturally. Having come out to this one for the purpose of 
 meeting Annabel, Roland could only regard the disappoint- 
 ment in the light of a personal grievance, and resent it 
 accordingly. 
 
 In the midst of a tremendous cavatina, loud enough to 
 raise the ceiling, while the room was preparing itself to 
 applaud, and Roland was thinking it might have been more 
 agreeable if given out of doors, he happened to raise his 
 head, and saw Gerald opposite to him. Their eyes met. 
 Roland nodded, but Gerald made no response. Gerald 
 happened to be standing next to Hamish Channing. 
 
 And the two were attracting some attention, for they were 
 known by many present to be rising stars in the literary world. 
 Side by side they stood, the aspiring candidates for hterary 
 honours, soon to be enrolled amidst the men who have written 
 books. Which of them — that is, which work — -would be the 
 more successful? That remained to be learnt. Hamish 
 Channing had the advantage (and a very great one) in looks; 
 any one might see that : Hamish had the advantage in 
 scholarship ; and he had the advantage, though perhaps the 
 world could not yet see it, of genius. Hamish Channing's 
 education had been sound and comprehensive : he was a 
 College man. Gerald was not. Mr. Channing the elder had 
 been straitened in means, as the public has heard of, but he
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 207 
 
 had contrived to send his eldest son to Cambridge. A 
 wonderful outward difference was there in the two men, as 
 they stood side by side : wouid there be as much contrast in 
 their work. 
 
 Gerald was looking fierce. The sight of Hamish Channing 
 brought to his mind the adverse opinion pronounced on his 
 manuscript. His resentment had grown more bitter ; his 
 determination to be revenged, into a firm and fixed resolve. 
 He could not completely cut Hamish, as it was his pleasure to 
 cut his brother Roland, but he was haughty and distant to 
 him. Hamish, genial himself, his attention distracted by the 
 assembly, observed it not. 
 
 The crashing came to an end, the applause also, and in the 
 general move that succeeded, Roland escaped. Seeing a 
 vacant sofa in a comparatively deserted room, he took pos- 
 session of one end, of it. A fashionable young woman seated 
 herself at the other end and took a survey of him. 
 
 " I am sure you are one of the Yorkes of Helstonleigh ! Is 
 it Roland ? " 
 
 Roland turned to the speaker : and observed a general 
 resemblance to Mrs. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 " Yes, I am Roland," he answered, staring. 
 
 " Don't you remember me ? — Clare Joliffe ? " 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried Roland, . seizing her hand and 
 shaking it vigorously. Clare Joliffe had never been a par- 
 ticular favourite of his ; but, regarded in the light of a home 
 face, she was agreeably welcome. " What brings you here, 
 Miss Joliffe ? " 
 
 " I have come over on a visit," said the young lady. 
 " Louisa has invited me for the first time since her marriage. 
 I only arrived at seven o'clock to-night; we had a rough 
 passage, and the boat was late." 
 
 " Over from where ? What boat ? " 
 
 " Boulogne." 
 
 " Have you been staying there ? " 
 
 " We are living there. We have left Helstonleigh — oh, 
 ever so long ago. Mamma grew tired of it, and so did I and 
 Mary." 
 
 Roland's ill-humour disappeared with the old reminiscences, 
 for they plunged into histories past and present. Home days 
 and home people, mixed with slight anecdotes of Port Natal 
 life. Mrs. JoUffe had quitted Helstonleigh very shortly after
 
 2o8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 that occurrence that had so startled the town — the death of 
 John Olhvera. It was perhaps natural, perhaps only a curious 
 accident, that the sad fact should be reverted to between them 
 now as they talked : we all know how one subject leads to 
 another. Clare Joliffe grew confidential about that and other 
 things. One bond she and Roland seemed to have between 
 them to-night — a grievance against Mrs. Bede Greatorex. 
 Roland's consisted in that lady's unkind treatment (real or 
 fancied) of Miss Channing, the idea of which he had but 
 picked up that self-same day. Clare Jolifife's resentment 
 appeared to be more general, and of longer standing. 
 
 " It's such an unkind thing of her, Roland — I may call you 
 Roland, I suppose?" 
 
 " Call me Ro if you like," said easy Roland. 
 
 " Here's Louisa in this position, servants, carriages, and 
 company about her, no children, living like a queen ; and 
 never once has she invited me or Mary inside her doors. It's 
 a great shame. She should hear what mamma thinks of it. 
 I don't suppose she would have asked me now, only she could 
 not well avoid it, as I am passing through London to visit some 
 friends in the country. Mamma wrote to ask her to take me 
 in for the night, and then she wrote back, inviting me to stay 
 with her for a week or two." 
 
 "Why should she not have had you before?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't suppose there has been any special reason, 
 except that she has not thought of it. Louisa was always 
 made up of selfishness. We never fancied she'd marry Bede 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " At least, what we thought was, that Bede would not marry 
 her. He must have cared for her very much, or he would not 
 have done so, after the affair about John OUivera." 
 
 " What had that to do with it ? " questioned Roland, open- 
 ing his eyes — for he supposed the young lady was alluding to 
 the barrister's death. 
 
 "She engaged herself to both of them." 
 
 "Who did?" 
 
 " Louisa." 
 
 " Did she ! " 
 
 Clare Joliffe nodded. *' We never quite understood how it 
 was. She was up here on a visit for ever so long, weeks and 
 weeks; it was in the time of Mrs. Greatorex; and if she did
 
 A FOtjNTAlN SHIVERED. 209 
 
 not engage herself to Bede, tliere was at least a good 
 deal of flirtation going on between them. We learned that 
 after Louisa returned home. The next year, when John 
 Ollivera was at Helstonleigh, she had a flirtation with Jiim. 
 I know she used to write to both of them. Any way, at the 
 time of his last visit, when his death occurred, she had managed 
 to engage herself to the two." 
 
 " I've heard of two wives, but I never heard of two engage- 
 ments going on together," observed Roland. " Which of the 
 fellows did she like best ? " 
 
 *' I think she liked John Ollivera. But Bede had a ready- 
 made income to offer her, and money went for a great deal 
 with Louisa. She could not marry both, that was certain ; and 
 how she would have got out of the dilemma but for poor John 
 Ollivera's death, it is impossible to imagine. I never shall 
 forget her look the night Bede Greatorex came in unexpectedly. 
 We had a few friends with us ; mamma had invited Mr. 
 Ollivera, and tea waited for him. There was a ring at the 
 bell, and then the room-door opened for some one to be shown 
 in. 'Here's your counsellor,' I whispered to Louisa. Instead 
 of that, the servant announced Mr. Bede Greatorex ; Louisa's 
 face turned ghastly." 
 
 " I don't understand," said Roland, rather at sea. " When 
 was it ? " 
 
 " It was the night of John Ollivera's death. He was in 
 Helstonleigh for the assizes, you know ; was to have pleaded 
 the next day in a cause mamma was interested in. He said 
 he would come in to tea if he were able ; and when Bede 
 Greatorex appeared we were all surprised, not knowing that 
 he was in Helstonleigh. We still expected Mr. Ollivera, and 
 Louisa kept throwing frightened glances at the door every 
 time it opened. I know she felt at her wit's end ; for, of course, 
 with both lovers on the scene, a crisis was inevitable, and her 
 deceit would have to come out. Bede Greatorex was whisper- 
 ing to her at times throughout the evening ; there seemed to 
 be some trouble bet ■ een them. Mr. Ollivera did not come — 
 Bede told us he had ieft him busy, and complaining of a head- 
 ache. I thought Bede seemed very angry with Louisa ; and 
 as soon as he left, she bolted herself into her chamber, and we 
 did not see her again that night. The next morning she sent 
 word down she was ill, and remained in bed. Mary said she 
 knew what ailed her — worry : but I thought she only wished 
 
 Roland Vurke. 14
 
 210 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 to avoid being downstairs if the two called We were at 
 breakfast when Hurst, the surgeon, came in — he was attending 
 mamma at the time — and brought the dreadful news to us, that 
 Mr. Ollivera had been found dead. I carried the tidings up 
 to Louisa, and told her that she must have gone out and 
 killed him. Nothing else could have extricated her so com- 
 pletely from the dilemma." 
 
 "But — you don't mean that she — that she went out and 
 killed him ? " cried Roland, in wonder. " Could she have got 
 out without being seen ? " 
 
 " Of course I don't mean it ; I said it in joke. Why, Roland, 
 you must be stupid to ask such a thing." 
 
 " To be sure I must," answered Roland, in contrition. " It's 
 all through my having been at Port Natal." 
 
 The last word was drowned in a shiver of glass. Both 
 turned hastily. Mr. Bede Greatorex, in taking his elbow from 
 the cabinet behind the sofa, had accidentally knocked down a 
 miniature fountain of Bohemian glass, which had been throw- 
 ing up its choice perfume. 
 
 " He certainly heard me," breathed Clare Joliffe, excessively 
 discomfited. " I never knew he was there." 
 
 The breakage caused a slight commotion, and must have 
 annoyed Mr. Bede Greatorex. He rang the bell loudly for a 
 servant, and those who caught sight of his face, saw that it was 
 white, and wore a stillness painful as death. 
 
 Roland made his escape. The evening, so far as he was 
 concerned, seemed a failure, and he thought he would leave 
 the rooms without further ceremony. Leaping down the stair- 
 case half-a-flight at a time, he met Jane Greatorex ascending, 
 attended by her coloured maid. 
 
 " Halloa ! what brings you sitting up so late as this ? " cried 
 Roland. 
 
 " We've been spending the evening with grandpapa in his 
 room," answered Jane. " He gave us some cakes and jam, 
 and Miss Channing made tea. I have to go to bed now." 
 
 " Where's Miss Channing ? " _ 
 
 "She's in grandpapa's room, waiting to finish the curtain I 
 
 tore." 
 
 Away went Roland, casting thought to the winds in the 
 prospect of seeing Annabel at last, and burst into Mr. 
 Greatorex's room, after giving a smart knock at the door. The 
 wonder was that he knocked at all. Annabel was alone.
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 211 
 
 mending the crimson silk curtain of the lower book-case. 
 Jane, throwing it open to look for some book, had torn the 
 curtain woefully ; so Miss Channing took it out and began to 
 repair it. To be thus unceremoniously invaded brought a flush 
 to her cheeks — perhaps she could not have told why — and 
 Roland saw that her eyes were red and heavy. Sitting at the 
 table, near the lamp, she went on quietly with her work. 
 
 " Where's old Greatorex ? " demanded Roland. " I thought 
 he was here." 
 
 " Mr. Greatorex has gone into his private office. Some one 
 came to see him." 
 
 Down sat Roland on the other side of the table ; and, as a 
 preliminary to proceedings, took a long stare right into the 
 young lady's face. 
 
 " I say, Annabel, why are you not at the party to-night ? " 
 
 " I don't always care to go in. Mrs. Greatorex gives so many 
 parties." 
 
 " Well, I came to it only for one purpose ; and that was to see 
 you. I should not have bothered to dress myself for any one else. 
 Hamish and his wife are there." 
 
 " I did not feel very well this evening." 
 
 " No, I don't suppose you did. And, besides that, I expect 
 the fact is, that Mrs. Bede never invited you. She is a 
 beauty ! " 
 
 "Roland!" 
 
 " You may go on at me till to-morrow if you like, Annabel ; 
 I shall say it. She's a tyrannical, mean-spirited, heartless image ; 
 and I shall tell her so some day to her face. You should hear 
 what Clare Joliffe says of her selfishness." 
 
 In the midst of her vexation, Miss Channing could not help 
 smiling. Roland was never more serious in his life. 
 
 "And I want to know what she had been doing to-day, to 
 put you into that grief I witnessed." 
 
 Annabel coloured and almost shed tears. It was a home 
 question, and brought back all the trouble connected with her 
 position in the house. Whether Mrs. Bede Greatorex had taken 
 a dislike to her, or whether that lady's temper was alone in fault. 
 Miss Channing did not know ; but a great deal of petty annoy- 
 ance was heaped upon her almost daily, sometimes bordering 
 upon insult. Roland, however, was much mistaken if he thought 
 she would admit anything of the kind to him. 
 
 *' I see what it is ; you are too generous to say it's true," he
 
 212 ROLAND VORKfi. 
 
 observed, after vainly endeavouring to get some satisfactory 
 answer. " You are too good for this house, Annabel, and I only 
 wish I could take you out of it." 
 
 " Oh, thank you," she said, with a quiet smile, not in the least 
 suspecting his meaning. 
 
 " And into one of my own." 
 
 " One of your own? " 
 
 The remark came from her in simple surprise. She looked 
 up at Roland. 
 
 " Yes, one of mine. But for bringing you to the fate of 
 Gerald's wife, Fd marry you to-morrow, Annabel." 
 
 In spite of the earnest, matter-of-fact tone in which he 
 spoke, almost as if asserting he would take a voyage in the 
 clouds but for its impossibility, Annabel was covered with 
 confusion. 
 
 " Some one else's consent would have to be obtained to that 
 bargain," she said in a lame, hesitating kind of way, as she bent 
 her head over a tangle in the red sewing-silk. 
 
 " Some one else's consent ' You don't mean to say you 
 wouldn't marry me, Annabel ! " 
 
 " I don't say I would." 
 
 Roland looked fierce. " You couldn't perjure yourself , 
 amldtit, Annabel ; don't you know what you always said — that 
 you'd be my wife ? " 
 
 " But I was only a senseless Httle child then " 
 
 " I don't care if you were. I mean it to be carried out. 
 Why, Annabel, who else in the worid, but you, do you suppose 
 I'd marry ? " 
 
 Annabel did not say. Her fingers were working quickly to 
 finish the curtain. 
 
 " I can tell you I am looking forward to it, if you are not. I 
 vowed to Hamish to-night that you should not remain here 
 another day if I could ■ Good evening, sir." 
 
 Mr Greatorex, returning to the room, looked a little sur- 
 prised to sec a gentleman in it, who rose to receive him. 
 Recognizing Roland, he greeted him civilly. 
 
 " Is It you, Mr. Yorke ? Do you want me ? " 
 
 "No, sir, Coming down from the kick-up, I met Janey, 
 who said Miss Channing was here ; so I turned in to see her. 
 She's as unhappy in this house as she can be, Mr. Greatorex; 
 ^■olks have tempers, you know ; and in catching a glimpse of 
 htr face this morning, I saw it red with tears and trouble.
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 213 
 
 Look at her eyes now, sir. So I came to say that if I could 
 help it by taking her out and marrying her, she should not be 
 here another day. I was saying it when you came in, Mr. 
 Greatorex." 
 
 To hear the single-minded young fellow avowing this, stand- 
 ing there in his earnest simplicity, in his great height, was 
 something to laugh at. Eut Mr. Greatorex detected the rare 
 good-feeling. 
 
 " I am afraid Miss Channing may think your declaration 
 premature, Mr. Yorke. You are scarcely in circumstances to 
 keep yourself, let alone a wife." 
 
 " That's just the misfortune of it," said candid Roland. 
 " My pound a week does for me, and that's all. But I thought 
 I'd let her know it was the power to serve her that was wanting, 
 not the will. And now that it's said, I've done with the matter, 
 and will wish you good night, Mr. Greatorex. Good night, 
 Annabel. Hark at that squalling upstairs ! I wonder the cats 
 outside don't set up a chorus ! " 
 
 And Mr. Yorke went out in commotion. 
 
 " He does not mean anything, sir," said Annabel Channing 
 rather piteously to Mr. Greatorex. " I hope you will pardon 
 him ; he is just like a boy." 
 
 " I am sure he does not mean any harm," was the lawyer's 
 answer, his lips parting with a smile. " Never were two so 
 much alike in simplicity and good-nature as he and his Uncle 
 Carrick. Don't let his thoughtless words trouble you, 
 child." 
 
 Roland, clearing the streets at a few bounds, dashed home, 
 and into Mrs. Jones's parlour, a light through the half-open door 
 proving that that lady was in it. It was past eleven : as a rule 
 Mrs. Jones liked to keep early hours ; but she appeared to have 
 no intention of going to bed yet. 
 
 " Are you working for a wager, Mrs. J. ? " asked Roland, 
 alluding to the work in her nimble fingers. 
 
 " I am working not to waste my time, Mr. Yorke, while 
 sitting up for Alletha Rye. She is not in yet." 
 
 " Out on the spree?" cried Roland. 
 
 " She and sprees haven't much to do with each other," said 
 Mrs. Jones. " There's a little child ill a few doors higher u]), and 
 Alletha has gone in to sit with her. But she ought to liave been 
 home by eleven. And how have you enjoyed yourself, Mr. 
 Yorke ? "
 
 214 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "I say, Mrs. J., don't go talking about enjoyment," spoke 
 Roland, resentfully. " It has been a miserable failure alto- 
 gether. Not a soul there ; the men and women howling like 
 mad ; and one's elbows crushed in the crowd. Catch me 
 dressing for another ! " 
 
 Mrs. J. thought the answer slightly contradictory. " If there 
 was not a soul there, Mr. Yorke, how could your elbows get 
 crushed ? " 
 
 " There was not a soul I cared for. Plenty of idiots. 
 I don't say Hamish Channing and his wife are that, though. 
 Clare Joliffe was there. Do you remember her at Hel- 
 stonleigh ? " 
 
 " Clare .^ Let me see— Clare was the second daughter: 
 next to Mrs. Bede Greatorex. And very much like her." 
 
 Roland nodded. "She and I were sitting on a sofa, nobody 
 to be seen within earshot, and she began talking of the night 
 Mr. OUivera died. You should have heard her, Mrs. J. She 
 went on like anything at her sister, calling her selfish and false 
 and deceitful, and other good names. All in a minute there 
 was a crash of glass behind us, and we turned to see Bede 
 Greatorex standing there, /had not spoken treason against 
 his wife, but I didn't like him to have seen me listening to it. 
 It was an awkward situation. If I had a wife, I should not 
 care to hear her abused." 
 
 " But what caused the crash ?" asked practical Mrs. J. 
 
 " Oh, Bede's elbow had touched a perfume-fountain, and sent 
 it over," said Roland, carelessly. " It was a beautiful thing, 
 costing, I'm sure, no end of money, and Mrs. Bede had filled 
 it with scent for the evening. She'll go into tantrums over it 
 when the company departs. Were I Bede I should tell her 
 it blew up of itself." 
 
 " Is Miss Clare Joliffe staying there? " 
 
 " Arrived to-day by the boat. The Joliffes are living in 
 France now. She says it is the first time Mrs. Bede has 
 invited any of them inside her doors : it was the thought of 
 that, you know, that caused her to go on so. Not that I like 
 Mrs. Bede much better than she does. She can be a tyrant 
 when she likes, Mrs. J. ! " 
 
 " To her husband ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know anything about that. Bede's big enough 
 to put her down if she tries it on with him. She is one in the 
 house."
 
 A FOUNTAIN SHIVERED. 21., 
 
 *' Like a good many other mistresses," remarked Mrs. J. " I 
 wish AUetha would make haste." 
 
 "She never asked Miss Channing and Httle Greatorex to 
 her party to-night," continued Roland. " Not that it was 
 any loss for Miss Channing, you know; only I went there 
 thinking to see her. Old Greatorex had them to spend the 
 evening in his parlour. Had I been Hamish I should just 
 have said, ' Where's my sister, that she is not present ? ' Oh, 
 yes, she can be a tyrant ! And do you know, what with 
 one cross thing and another, I forgot to ask Hamish if he 
 had heard the news about Arthur.^ It went clean out of my 
 mind." 
 
 Mrs. Jones, rather particularly occupied with a knot in her 
 work, made no reply. Roland, thinking perhaps his revela- 
 tions as to Mrs. Bede had been sufficiently extensive, sat for 
 some minutes in silence ; his face bent forward, his elbow on 
 his knee, in deep thought. 
 
 "I say, Mrs. J., how much do you think two people could 
 live upon ? " he said at last. 
 
 " That depends upon who they are, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 " Well, I mean — I don't mind telling you in confidence — 
 me and another. A wife, for instance." 
 
 Had Roland said Me and a Kangaroo, Mrs. Jones could not 
 have looked at him with more surprise — albeit not one to be 
 surprised in general. 
 
 " I should like to take her from there, for she's shamefully 
 tyrannized over. We need not mention names, but you guess 
 I dare say who's meant, and you are not to go and repeat it 
 to the parish. If I could get my pay increased to three or 
 four times what it is, by dint of doing extra work and putting 
 my shoulder to the wheel in earnest ; and if she could get 
 a couple of nice morning pupils at about fifty pounds a-piece, 
 that would make three-hundred a year. Now don't you think, 
 Mrs. J., we might get along with that ? " 
 
 " Well — yes," answered Mrs. Jones, speaking with some 
 hesitation, and rather to satisfy the earnest, eager face waiting 
 for her opinion, than in accordance with her belief. "The 
 worst of it is that prospects rarely turn out as they are 
 expected to." 
 
 " Now what do you mean, Mrs. J. ? Three-hundred a year 
 is three-hundred a year. Let us be on the safe side, if you 
 like, and put it down at two hundred : which would be
 
 2i6 ROLAND YORKE 
 
 allowing for my present pay being only doubled. Do you 
 mean to say two people could not live on two hundred a year ? 
 I know we could ; she and I." 
 
 " Two people might, when both are economically inchned. 
 But then you see, Mr. Yorke, one ought always to allow for 
 contingencies." 
 
 "What contingencies?" demanded Roland 
 
 "Sickness. Or pay of pupils falling off." 
 
 " We are both as healthy as ever we can be," said Roland, 
 heartily. "If I had not been strong and sound as a young 
 lion, should I have stood all that knocking about at Port 
 Natal ? As to pay and pupils, we might take care to make 
 t/iem sure." 
 
 " There might be things to increase expenses," persisted 
 Mrs. Jones, maintaining her ground as usual. " Children, for 
 instance." 
 
 Roland stared with all his eyes. Children ! " 
 
 " It would be within the range of possibility, I suppose, 
 Mr. Yorke. Your brother Gerald has some." 
 
 " Oh law !" cried Roland, his countenance falling. 
 
 " And nobody knows what a trouble they are and how much 
 they cost — except those who have tried it, A regular flock 
 might come trooping down before you are well aware of it." 
 
 The vista presented to Roland was one his sangume 
 thoughts had never so much as glanced at. A flock of 
 children had not appeared to him less likely to arrive, than 
 that he should set up a flock of parrots; and he candidly 
 avowed it. 
 
 " But we shouldn't want any children, Mrs. J." 
 
 Mrs. J. gave a rather derisive cough. " I've often known 
 those that want the fewest get bothered with the most." 
 
 Roland had not another word to answer. He was pulling 
 his whiskers in much gloom when Miss Rye was heard to 
 enter. Mrs. Jones began to roll her work together, prepara- 
 tory to retiring for the night. 
 
 "Look here, Mrs. Jones. I'm uncommonly fond of children 
 — you should see how I like that sweet Nelly Channing — I 
 wouldn't mind having a score about the place ; but what be- 
 comes of the little monkeys when there's not bread and cheese 
 to feed them on ? " 
 
 "Ay, there's the rub, Mr. Yorke."
 
 f 217 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 GRAND REVIEWS. 
 
 Gerald Yorke's book was out. An enterprising firm of pub- 
 lishers had been found to undertake it, and they brought it 
 forth in due course to the public. Great reviews followed 
 closely upon its advent, lauding its merits and beauties to the 
 skies. Three critiques appeared in one week. The great 
 morning paper gave one, as did the two chief weekly reviewing 
 journals. And eacn one in its turn sang or said that for ages 
 the public had not been so blest as in this most meritorious 
 work of fiction. 
 
 In his writing-room, the three glorious reviews before him, 
 sat Hamish Channing, heart and face alike glowing. Had 
 the praises been bestowed upon himself, he could scarcely 
 have rejoiced more. How Gerald must have altered the book, 
 he thought : and he felt grieved and vexed to have passed so 
 uncompromising a judgment upon his friend's capabilities as 
 a writer of fiction, when the manuscript was submitted to 
 him. " It must have been that he wrote it too hastily, and 
 has now brought time and consideration to his aid," decided 
 Hamish. 
 
 Carrying the papers in his hand he sought his wife, and in 
 the fulness of his heart read out to her the most telling 
 sentences. Though bitter the resentment that Gerald was 
 cherishing against Hamish Channing, he could only have 
 experienced giatification had he witnessed the genuine pleasure 
 of both, the hearty emphasis which Hamish gave to the 
 praises bestowed on the author. 
 
 "How hard he must have worked at it, Ellen." 
 
 **Yes; I did not think Gerald had so much application in 
 him." 
 
 With his arm on the elbow of his chair, and his refined 
 face a little raised as it rested on his hand, Hamish took 
 a few moments for thought. The eyes seemed to be seeking 
 for something in the evening sky; the sweet light of hope 
 unmistakably illumined the whole countenance. Hamish 
 Channing was gazing at the vision that had become so entirely
 
 2i8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 i 
 
 his ; one that was rarely absent from him ; seemed to be 
 depicted in all its radiant colours whenever he looked upon it. 
 Fame, reward, appreciation ; all were stirring his spirit within, 
 in the vivid light of expectation. 
 
 " And, if Gerald's book has received this praise, what will 
 not mine obtain?" ran his thoughts. For Hamish knew that, 
 try as Gerald would, it was not in him to write as he himself 
 could write. 
 
 He went forth to congratulate Gerald, unable to remain 
 silent under this great fame that had fallen on his early friend. 
 Being late in the day, he thought Gerald might be found at 
 his wife's lodgings, for he knew he had been there more than 
 usual of late. 
 
 True. Gerald sought the lodgings as a sort of refuge. 
 His chambers had become disagreeably hot, and it was only 
 by dint of the utmost caution on his own part, and diligence 
 on his servant's, that he could venture into them or out of 
 them. The lodgings were less known, and Gerald felt safer 
 there. Things were going very contrary with him just now; 
 money seemed wanted by his wife and his children and his 
 creditors, all in a hurry, not to speak of the greatest need, 
 himself; and ther'e were moments when Gerald Yorke felt that 
 he might have to seek some far-off city of refuge, as Roland 
 had done, and sail for a Port Natal. 
 
 There was no one in the sitting-room when Hamish Chan- 
 ning entered. The maid said Mr Yorke had gone out ; Mrs. 
 Yorke was putting her children to bed. On the table, side by 
 side with the papers containing the three great reviews, lay 
 a copy of the work. Hamish took it up eagerly, anxious to 
 see the new writing that had superseded the old. 
 
 He could not find it. One or two bad passages, specially 
 remembered, caught his eye ; they were there still, unaltered. 
 Had Gerald carelessly overlooked them ? Hamish was turning 
 over the pages in wonder, when Winny came in. 
 
 Came in, cross, fractious, tearful. Lonely as Mrs. Gerald 
 Yorke's life had been in Gloucestershire, she had long wished 
 herself back there, for her life in London was becoming too 
 trying. Winny had none of the endurance that some wives 
 possess, who love and suffer on. 
 
 She came up to Hamish with outstretched hand. But for 
 his and Ellen's generous friendship, she could not have borne 
 things at all. Many and many a day there would have been
 
 GRAND REVIEWS. 219 
 
 no dinner for the poor little girls, no money in hand for the 
 petty creditors supplying their daily wants, no comfort of any 
 sort at home, but for the unobtrusive, silent aid of Hamish 
 Channing. 
 
 " What is the matter, ^\'inny ? " asked Hamish, noticing 
 the tears. And he spoke very much as he would speak to 
 a child. In fact, Mrs. Gerald Yorke had to be treated as 
 one. 
 
 " Gerald has been so cross ; he boxed little Kitty's ears, and 
 nearly boxed mine," pleaded poor Winny, putting herself into 
 a low rocking-chair, near the window. " It is so unreasonable 
 of him, you know, Mr, Channing, to vent it upon us. It's just 
 as if it were our fault." 
 
 "Vent what?" asked Hamish, taking a seat at the table, 
 and facing her. 
 
 "All of it," said Winny, in her childish, fractious way. 
 " His want of money, and the many bothers he is in. I can't 
 help it. I would if I could, but if I can't, I can't, and Gerald 
 knows I can't." 
 
 " In bothers as usual ?," spoke Hamish, in his gay way. 
 
 " He is never out of them, Mr. Channing ; you know he is 
 not ; and they get worse and worse. Gerald has no certain 
 income at all ; and it seems to me that what he earns by 
 writing, whether for magazines or for uuwspapers, is always 
 drawn beforehand, for he never has any money to bring home. 
 Of course the tradespeople come and ask for their money ; of 
 course the landlady expects to be paid her weekly rent ; and 
 when they insist on seeing Gerald, or stop him when he goes 
 out, he comes back in such a passion as you never saw. She 
 made him savage this evening, and he took and boxed Kitty." 
 
 « She 1 Who ? " 
 
 "The landlady— Miss Cook." 
 
 ".W'inny, I paid Miss Cook myself, last week." 
 
 " Oh, but I didn't tell you there was more owing to her ; I 
 didn't like to," answered helpless Winny. " There is ; and 
 she has begun to worry at all times. She gets things in for us, 
 and wants to be paid for them." 
 
 " Of course she does," thought Hamish. " Where's Gerald ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Gone out somewhere. You know that money you let me 
 have to pay the horrible bill I couldn't sleep for, and didn't 
 dare give to Gerald," she continued, putting up her hands
 
 220 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 to her little distressed fare. " I've something to tell you 
 about it." 
 
 Hamish was puzzled. The bills he and his wife had ad- 
 vanced money for were growing numerous. Winny, rocking 
 herself gently, saw he did not recollect, 
 
 " It was for the shoes and stockings for the children and 
 boots for myself ; we had nothing to wear. Ellen brought me 
 the money last Saturday — three pounds — though the bill was 
 not quite as much as that. Well, Gerald saw the sovereigns 
 lying in the dressing-table drawer — it was so stupid of me to 
 leave them there ! — and he took them. First he asked me where 
 I'd got them from ; I said I had scraped them up to pay for the 
 children's shoes. Upon that, he put them in his pocket, saying 
 he had bills far more pressing than children's shoe bills, and 
 must take them for his own use. 0-o-o-o-o-oh ! " concluded 
 the young wife, with a burst of her childish grief, " I am very 
 miserable." 
 
 " You should have told your husband the money belonged 
 to Mrs. Channing — and was gi-ven to you by her for a special 
 purpose." 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried Winny, astonishment arresting 
 the tears in her pretty eyes. " As if I would dare to tell him 
 that ! If Gerald thought you or Ellen helped me, he would 
 be in the worst passion of all. I'm not sure but he'd beat 
 me." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " He would think that I was running up a debt on my 
 own score for him to pay back sometime. And he has 
 such oceans of pride, besides. You never must tell him, Mr. 
 Channing." 
 
 " How does he think the accounts get paid ? " asked 
 Hamish. 
 
 " He does not think about it," she answered eagerly. " So 
 long as he is not bothered, he 7Von't be bothered. He will 
 never look at a single bill, or hear me speak of one. As far as 
 he knows, the people and Miss Cook come and worry me for 
 money regularly. But oh ! Mr. Channing ! if I were to be 
 worried to any degree, I should die. I should wish to die, for 
 I could not bear it. l''.llen knows I could not." 
 
 Yes ; in a degree, Hamish and his wife both knew this. 
 Winny Yorkc was quite unfitted to battle with the storms of 
 the world ; they could not sec her breasting them, and not
 
 GRAND REVIEWS. 221 
 
 help her. A brother of hers — and Gerald was aware of tnis — 
 who had been overwhelmed with the same, proved how ill 
 he was fitted to bear, by putting a terrible end to them and all 
 else. 
 
 " And so, that bill for the shoes and stockings was not paid, 
 and they came after it to-day, and abused Gerald— for I had 
 told them I should pay ready money," pursued Winny, rocking 
 away. " Oh, he was so angry ! he forbid me to buy shoes ; he 
 said the children must go barefooted until he was in a better 
 position. If the man comes to-morrow, and insists on seeing 
 me, I shall have to run away. And Fredy's ill." 
 
 The wind-up was rather unexpected, and given in a different 
 tone. Fredy was the eldest of the little girls, Kitty the second, 
 Rosy the third. 
 
 " If she should be going to have measles, the others will be 
 sure to catch it, and then what should 1 do ? " went pn ^^'inny, 
 piteously " There'd be a doctor to pay for, and medicine to be 
 had, and I don't thmk druggists give credit to strangers. But 
 it may turn out to be only a bad cold." 
 
 " To be sure it may," said Hamish, cheerily. " Hope for 
 the best, Mrs. Yorke Ellen always does." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke sighed. Ellen's husband was very different 
 from hers. 
 
 " Gerald is m luck ; he will soon, I think, be able to get 
 over his difficulties. Have you read these reviews?" con- 
 tinued Hamish, laying his hand upon the journals at his elbow, 
 
 " Oh yes, I've read them," was the answer, given with 
 slighting discontent. 
 
 "I never read anything finer— in the way of praise — than 
 this review in the Snarlcr" spoke Hamish. 
 
 ** He wrote that himself." 
 
 " Wrote what ? " 
 
 " Tiiat review in the S?iarlcr.'" 
 
 " Who wrote it ? " pursued Hamish, rather at sea. 
 
 " Gerald did." 
 
 " Nonsense, Winny. You must be mistaken." 
 
 " I'm sure I'm not," said Winny. " He wrote it at this veiy 
 table. He was three hours writing it, and then he was nearly 
 as long altering it : taking out words and sentences and putting 
 in stronger ones." 
 
 Hamish, when his surprise was over, laughed slightly. It 
 had a little destroyed his romance.
 
 222 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " And two friends of Gerald's wrote the other reviews," said 
 Winny, continuing her revelations. " Gerald has great in- 
 fluence with the reviewing people ; he says he can get any 
 work made or marred." 
 
 "Oh, can he?" quoth Hamish, lightly. "At least, these 
 reviews will tell with the public and sell the book. Why, 
 Winny, instead of being low-spirited, you have cause to be just 
 the other way. It is a great thing to have got this book so 
 well out. It may make Gerald's fortune." 
 
 Winny sat bolt upright in the rocking-chair, and looked at 
 Hamish with a puzzled face. He supposed that she did not 
 understand. 
 
 " What I mean, Winny, is that this book may really lead 
 to fortune in the end. If Gerald once becomes known as a 
 successful author " 
 
 " Bringing out that book has caused him to be ten times 
 more worried than before," interrupted Winny. " Of course it 
 is known that he has a book out, and the consequence is that 
 every one who has sixpence owing by either of us, is dunning 
 him for money — just as if the book had made his fortune 
 already ! He cannot go to his char.abers, unless he shoots in 
 like a cat ; and he is getting afraid to come here. My opinion 
 is, that he'd have been better off without the book than 
 with it." 
 
 This was not a particularly pleasant view of affairs ; but 
 Hamish was far from subscribing to all Winny said. He 
 answered with his cheering smile, that was worth its weight in 
 gold, and rose to leave. 
 
 " Things are always darkest just before dawn, Mrs. Yorke. 
 And I must repeat my opinion — that this book will lay the 
 foundation of Gerald's fortune. He will soon get out of his 
 embarrassments." 
 
 "Well, I don't understand it, but I know he says the book 
 has plunged him into fresh debt," returned Winny, gloomily. 
 " I think he has had to pay an immense deal to get it out." 
 
 Hamish was turning over the leaves of the book as he 
 stood. Winny at once offered to lend it him : there were two 
 or three copies about the house, she said. Accepting the 
 offer, for he really wished to see the great alterations Gerald 
 must have made, Hamish was putting the three volumes under 
 his arm when the street-door opened, and Gerald came 
 running up.
 
 GRAND REVIEWS. 223 
 
 " Well, old friend ! " cried Hamish, heartily, as he shook 
 Gerald's hand. " I came to wish you joy." 
 
 Winny disappeared. Never feeling altogether at ease in the 
 presence of her clever, stern, arbitrary husband, she was glad 
 to escape from it when she could. Hamish and Gerald stood 
 at the window, talking together in the fading light, their theme 
 Gerald's book, the reviews, and other matters connected with 
 it. Hamish spoke the true sentiments of his heart when he 
 said how glad and proud he was, for Gerald's sake. 
 
 "I have been telling your wife that it is the first stepping- 
 stone to fortune. It must be a great success, Gerald." 
 
 " Ah, I thought you were a little oid in the opinion you 
 formed of it," said Gerald, loftily. 
 
 " I am thankful it has proved so. You have taken pains to 
 alter it, Gerald." 
 
 " Not much : / thought it did very well as it was. And the 
 result proves I was right," added Gerald, complacently. " Have 
 you read the reviews ? " 
 
 " I should think I have," said Hamish, warmly. " They 
 brought me here to-night. Reviews such as those will take the 
 public by storm." 
 
 " Yes ; they tell rather a different tale from the verdict passed 
 by you. Yoii assured me I should never succeed in fiction ; 
 had mistaken my vocation ; hadn't its elements within me ; 
 might shut up shop. What do the reviews say ? Look at that 
 one in the Snarler" continued Gerald, snatching up that noted 
 authority, and holding it up to the twilight, while he read an 
 extract from its pages aloud. 
 
 " We do not know how to find terms of sufficiently high praise 
 for this marvellously beautiful work of fiction. The grateful 
 public, now running after its three volumes, cannot be supplied 
 fast enough. From the first page to tlie last, attention is 
 rapturously enchained ; one cannot put the book down " 
 
 "And so on, and so on," continued Gerald, breaking off 
 the recital, and flinging the paper behind him again. " No 
 good to continue, as you've read it. Yes, that is praise from 
 the Snarler. Worth having, I take it," he concluded in 
 unmistakable triumph over his fellow-man and author, quite 
 unconscious that poor simple Winny had let the cat out of the 
 bag. 
 
 " If reviews ever iell a book, these must sell yours, 
 Gerald."
 
 224 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " I think so. We shall see whether your book gets as much ; 
 it's finished, I hear," spoke Gerald, leaning from the window 
 to survey a man who had just crossed the street. " One never 
 can tell what luck a work will have while it is in manuscript" 
 
 " One can tell what it ought to have." 
 
 " Ought ! oughts don't go for much nowadays ; favour does, 
 though. The devil take the fellow ! " 
 
 This genial wish was applied to the man who had made for 
 the house-door and was ringing the bell, Gerald grew just a 
 little troubled, and betrayed it. 
 
 " Don't let these matters disturb your peace, Gerald," advised 
 Hamish, in his kindest and most impressive manner. '' You 
 cannot fail to get on now. Have the publishers paid you any- 
 thing yet ? " 
 
 " Paid me ! " retorted Gerald, rather savagely ; " they are 
 asking for the money I owe them. It was arranged that I 
 should advance fifty pounds towards bringing the book out. 
 And I've not been able to give it them yet." 
 
 Gerald spoke the truth. The confiding publishers, not 
 knowing the true state of Mr, Yorke's finances, but supposing 
 there could be no danger with a man in his position — living in 
 the great world, of aristocratic connections, getting his name 
 up in journalism — had accepted in all good faith his plausible 
 excuses for the deferred payment of the fifty pounds, and 
 brought out the book at their own cost. They were reminding 
 him of it now ; and more than hinting that a bargain 7C'as a 
 bargain. 
 
 " And how I am to stave them off, the deuce only knows," 
 observed Gerald, " I want to keep in with them if I can. 
 The idea of my finding fifty pounds ! " 
 
 " There must very soon be proceeds from a book with such 
 reviews as these," said Hamish. " Let them take it out of 
 their first returns." 
 
 " Oh, ah ! that's all very well ; but I don't know," was the 
 gloomy answer. 
 
 "Well, good night, old friend, for I must be off; you have 
 my best wishes in every way, I am going to take home the 
 book for a day ; I should like to look over it ; Winny says you 
 have other copies." 
 
 " Take it if you like," growled Gerald, who heard the mnid's 
 step on the stairs, and knew he was going to be appealed to. 
 " Now then ! " he angrily saluted her with, as she came in.
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 225 
 
 " I've told you before you are not to bring up messages to me 
 after dusk. How dare you disobey me ? " 
 
 " It's that gentleman that always will see you, sir," spoke the 
 discomfited girl. 
 
 " I am gone to bed," roared Gerald ; *' be off and say so." 
 
 And Hamish Channing, running lightly downstairs, heard 
 the bolt slipped, as the servant came out of the room. That 
 Gerald had a good deal of this kind of worry, there was no 
 doubt ; but he did not go the best way to work to prevent it. 
 
 As soon as Hamish returned home, he sat down to his 
 writing-table, and set to work to examine Gerald's book. 
 Gradually, as he turned page after page of the three volumes, 
 a perplexed, dissatisfied look, mixed with much disappoint- 
 ment, seated itself in his face. 
 
 There had been no alterations made at all. All the objec- 
 tionable elements were there, just as they had been in the 
 manuscript. The book was, in fact, exactly what Hamish had 
 found it — utterly worthless and terribly fast. It had not a 
 chance of ultimate success. Not one reader in fifty, begin- 
 ning the book, would be able to find sufficient patience to 
 finish it. And Hamish was grievously vexed for Gerald's 
 sake. 
 
 Suddenly the reviews flashed into his mind; their glowing 
 descriptions, their subtle praise, their lavish promises. In 
 spite of himself, of his deep feeling, his real vexation, he burst 
 into a fit of laughter, at the thought of how the very innocent 
 and helpless public would find itself taken in. 
 
 \ "' ' CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ROLAND YORKE's SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 
 
 The weeks went on. Roland Yorke was hard at work, carry- 
 ing out his resolve of " putting his shoulder to the wheel." 
 Vague ideas of getting into something good, by which a fortune 
 might be made, floated through his brain in rose-coloured 
 visions. What the something was to be he did not exactly 
 know; meanwhile, as a preliminary, he sought and obtained 
 copying from Greatorex and Greatorex, to be done in spare 
 
 Roland Yorke. 15
 
 226 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 hours at home. Of which fact Roland (unUke Mr. Brown) 
 made no secret ; he talked of it to the whole office ; and Mr. 
 Brown supplied him openly. 
 
 It was an excessively hot evening, growing now towards 
 twilight. Roland had carried his work to Mrs. Jones's room, 
 not so much because his own parlour was rather close, as that 
 he might obtain slight intervals of gossip. He had it to him- 
 self, however, for Mrs. Jones was intent on household cares. 
 The window looked on to a back-yard, in which the maid, who 
 had come out, was hanging up a red table-cover to dry, that 
 had evidently had something spilled on it. Of course Roland 
 arrested his pen to watch the process. He was sitting in his 
 shirt-sleeves, and had just complained aloud that it was hotter 
 than Africa. 
 
 " Who did that ? " he called out through the open window, 
 " You ? " 
 
 "Mr. Ollivera, sir. He upset some ink; and missis have 
 been washing the place out in layers of cold water. She don't 
 think it'll show." 
 
 " What do you call layers ? " 
 
 " Different lots, sir. About nineteen bowlfuls she swilled it 
 through; and me emptying of 'em at the sink, and droring off 
 fresh water ready to her hand." 
 
 To hang out the cover and pull straight the damaged part 
 took a tolerably long time ; Roland, upon the old principle of 
 welcoming any amusement as an accompaniment to work, con- 
 tinued to look on and talk. Suddenly, he remembered his 
 copying, and the young lady for whose sake he had undertaken 
 the labour. 
 
 " This is not sticking to it," he soliloquized. "And if I am 
 to have her, I must work for her. IVorit I work, that's all ! 
 I'll stick to it like a brick ! But this copying is poor stuff to 
 get a fellow on. If I could only slip into something better ! " 
 
 Considering that Mr. Roland Yorke's earnings the past week, 
 with mistakes and other failures, had been one shilling and 
 ninepence, and the previous week fifteenpence, it certainly did 
 not appear as though copying would prove the high-road to 
 fortune. He begaip casting about in his mind for other pro- 
 jects, as he wrote, 
 
 " U they'd give me a place under Government, it would be 
 the very thing. But they don't. Old Dick Yorke's as selfish 
 as a camel, and Carrick's hiding his head, goodness knows
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 227 
 
 where. So I am thrown on my own resources. Bless us all ! 
 when a fellow wants to get on in this world, he can't." 
 
 At this juncture Roland came to the end of his paper. As 
 it was a good opportunity for a slight respite, he laid down his 
 pen, and exercised his thoughts. 
 
 "There's those photographing places — lots of them springing 
 up. You can't turn a corner but you come bang upon a fresh 
 establishment. They can't require a fellow to have any previous 
 knowledge. I wonder if any of them would take me on, and 
 give me a couple'of guin eas a week, or so ? Nothing to do there, 
 but talk to the visitors, and take their faces. I should make a 
 good hand at that. But, perhaps, she wouldn't like it ! She 
 might object to marry a man of that sort. How difficult it is 
 to get into anything ! I must think of the other plan." 
 
 The other plan meant some nice place under Government. 
 To Roland that always seemed a sure harbour of refuge. The 
 doubt was, how to get it ? 
 
 "There's young Dick — Vincent, as he likes to be called 
 now," soliloquized Roland. " I've never asked him to help 
 me, but perhaps he might : he's not ill-natured where his 
 pocket's not called in question. I'll go to him to-morrow ; 
 see if I don't. Now then, are you dry ? " 
 
 This to the writing. Roland rose to get more paper, and 
 then found that some that he ought to have brought home he 
 had left at the office. 
 
 "There's a bother! I wonder if I could get it by going 
 round ? Of course the offices are closed, but I wouldn't mind 
 asking Bede for the key if he's in the way." 
 
 To think and to act were one with Roland. He put on his 
 coat, took his hat, and went hastening off on his expedition. 
 Rather to his surprise, as he drew to the end of his walk, his 
 eyes caught sight of Bede Greatorex standing in the shade 
 opposite his house, apparently watching its lighted windows, 
 from which sounds of talking and laughing issued forth. 
 Roland conjectured that some gaiety was going on as usual in 
 the house, from which its master would escape. Over he went 
 to him, without ceremony. 
 
 "You don't like all that, sir?" he said, indicating the sup- 
 posed company. 
 
 " Not too much of it," replied Bede Greatorex, startled from 
 his reverie by the unexpected address. "The fact is," he con- 
 descended to explain to his curious clerk, perhaps as an excuse
 
 228 kOLAND YORKE. 
 
 for standing there, "certain matters have been giving nie 
 trouble of late. I was deep in thought." 
 
 " Mrs. Bede Greatorex does love society ; she did as Louisa 
 Jolifife," remarked Roland, meaning to be confidential. 
 
 " I was not thinking of Mrs. Bede Greatorex, but of the loss 
 in my office," spoke his master in a cold, proud tone of reproof. 
 Crossing the road, as if declining further conversation, he 
 went in. Roland saw he had offended him, and wished his 
 tongue had been cut out, putting down his thoughtless speech 
 as usual to the sojourn at Port Natal. It might not be a pro- 
 pitious moment for requesting the loan of the office keys, and 
 Roland had the sense to see it. 
 
 Who should come out of the house at that moment, but 
 Annabel Channing, attended by a servant. Work, keys, and 
 all else, went out of Roland's head. He leaped across, seized 
 her hands, and learnt that she had leave to spend the evening 
 with Hamish and his wife. 
 
 "77/ take care of you.; I'll see you safely there," cried 
 Roland, impetuously. "You can go back, old Dalla." 
 
 Old Dalla — a middle-aged, coloured woman who had brought 
 Jane Greatorex from India and remained with the child as her 
 attendant — made no more ado, but took him at his word. Glad 
 to be spared the walk, she turned indoors at once. And before 
 Annabel well knew what had occurred, she found herself whirled 
 away by Roland in an opposite direction from the one she wished 
 to take. It was only twilight yet. Roland had her securely on 
 his arm, and began to pace the square. To tell the truth, he 
 accepted the meeting as a special chance, for he had not once 
 set eyes on the young lady, except formally in the presence 
 of others, since that avowal of his a fortnight ago, in Mr. 
 Greatorex's room. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " she asked, as soon as she could 
 collect herself. " This is not the way to Hamish's." 
 
 " This is the way to get a few words with you, Annabel ; 
 one can't talk in the street, witli its glare and its people. We 
 are i)rivate enough here; and I'll take you to Hamish's in a 
 minute or two." 
 
 In this impulsive fashion, he began telling her his plans and 
 his dreams. That he had determined to make an income and 
 a home for her ; as a beginning, until something better turned 
 ui), he was working all his spare time at copying deeds, " nearly 
 night and day." One less unsophisticated than Roland Yorke,
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 229 
 
 might have suppressed a small item in the programme — that 
 which related to Annabel's contributing to the fund herself, by 
 obtaining pupils. Not he. He avowed it just as openly as his 
 own intention of getting " something under Government." In 
 short, Roland made the young lady a distinct offer. Or, rather, 
 did not so much make the offer, as assume that it had been 
 already made, and was, so far, settled. His arguments were 
 sensible enough ; his plans looked really feasible ; his day- 
 dreams tolerably bright. 
 
 " But I have not yet said I would have you," spoke Annabel, 
 all in a flutter, when she could get in a word. " You should 
 not make so sure of things." 
 
 " Not make sure of it ! Not have me ! " cried Roland, in 
 indignant remonstrance. " Now, look here, Annabel — you 
 kmnv you'll have me : it is all nonsense to make believe you 
 won't. I don't suppose I've asked you in the proper way, or 
 put things in the proper light ; but you ought to make allow- 
 ance for a fellow who has had his manners knocked out of him 
 at Port Natal. When the time arrives that I've a little house 
 and a few chairs and tables, you'll come home to me ; and 
 I'll try and make you happy in it, and work for you till I 
 drop ! I'here ! If I knew how to say it better, I would : and 
 you need not despise a man for his way of putting it. Not 
 have me ! I should like to know who you would have, if 
 not me ! " 
 
 Annabel Channing offered no further remonstrance. That 
 she had contrived to fall in love with Roland Yorke, and would 
 rather marry him than any one else in the world, she knev/ all 
 too well. The home and the chairs and the tables in it, and 
 working together to keep it going, wore a bright look to her 
 heart, seen from a distance with youth's hopeful eyes. But she 
 did not speak : and Roland, mistaking her silence, regarded it 
 as a personal injury. 
 
 " When I and Arthur are the dearest friends in the world ! 
 He'd give you to me off-hand ; I know it. It is not kind of 
 you, Annabel. We engaged ourselves to each other when you 
 were a child and I was a tall donkey of fourteen, and if I've 
 ever thought of a wife at all since I grew up, it was of you. I 
 have done nothing but think of you since I came back. I wonder 
 how yoiid feel, if I turned round and said, ' I don't know that I 
 shall have you.' Not jolly, I know." 
 
 "You should not bring up the nonsense we said when we
 
 230 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 were children. " I'm sure I could not have been more than 
 seven. I remember the evening quite well : and you " 
 
 " Now, just be open, Annabel, and say what it is your mind's 
 harbouring against me," interrupted Roland, with deep feeling. 
 " Is it that twenty-pound note of old Galloway's ? — or is it 
 because I went knocking about at Port Natal ? " 
 
 " Oh, Roland, how foolish you are ! As if I could think of 
 either ! " 
 
 And there was something in the words and tone, in the 
 pretty, shy, blushing face that reassured Roland. From that 
 moment he looked upon matters as irrevocably settled, gave 
 Annabel's hand a squeeze, and went on with his dreams of the 
 future. 
 
 "I've taken counsel with myself and with Mrs. J., and I 
 don't think the pair of us are likely to be led astray by 
 romance, Annabel, for she is one of the strong-minded ones. 
 She agrees with me that we might do well on three-hundred 
 a year ; and, what with my work and your pupils, we could 
 make that easily. But, I said to her, let's be on the safe side, 
 and put it down at only two-hundred. Just to begin with, 
 you know, Annabel. She said, 'Yes, we might do on that if 
 we were both economical ' — and I'm sure if I've not learnt to 
 be that I've learnt nothing. I would not risk the temptation 
 of giving away — which I am afraid I'm prone to — for you 
 should be cashier, Annabel; just as Mrs. J. keeps my 
 sovereign a week now. My goodness ! having no money 
 in one's pocket is a safeguard. When I see things in the shop 
 windows, whether it's eatables, or anything else, I remember 
 my want of cash, and pass on. I stopped to look at a 
 splendid diamond necklace yesterday in Regent Street, and 
 thought how much I should like to get it for you ; but with 
 empty pockets, where was the use of going in to inquire the 
 price ? " 
 
 ■ *' I do not care for diamonds," said Annabel. 
 
 " You will have them some time, I hope, when my fortune's 
 made. But about the two-hundred a year? Mrs. J. said if we 
 could be sure of making that regularly, she thought we might 
 risk it ; only, she said there might be contingencies. It would 
 not be Mrs. J. if she didn't croak." 
 
 "Contingencies!" exclaimed Annabel, just as Roland had 
 interrupted Mrs, Jones, and quite as unsuspicious as he. " Of 
 what kind ? "
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 231 
 
 "Sickness, Mrs. J. mentioned, and — but I don't think I'll 
 tell you that," considered Roland. "Let's say general con- 
 tingencies. A fellow who has helped to land boats at Port 
 Natal can't be expected to foresee everything. Would you be 
 afraid to try the two-hundred a year ? " 
 
 " I fear mamma would for me. And Hamish." 
 
 " Now, Annabel, don't bring up objections for other people. 
 Time enough for that when they come down with them of 
 their own accord. I intend to speak to Hamish to-night if I 
 can get the opportunity. I don't want you to keep your 
 promise a secret. You are a dear good girl, and the little 
 home shall be ours before a twelvemonth's gone by, if I have 
 to work my hands off." 
 
 The little home! Poor Roland! If he could -only have 
 foreseen what twelve months would bring forth. 
 
 Hamish Channing's book had come out under more favour- 
 able auspices than Gerald's. The publisher, far from demand- 
 ing money in advance for expenses, had made fair terms with 
 him. Of course the result would depend on its success. When 
 Hamish held the first copies in his hand, his whole being was 
 radiant with silent enthusiasm ; the joy it was to bring had 
 already set in. He sent a copy to his mother ; and he sent 
 one to Gerald Yorke, with a brief, kind note : in the simplicity 
 of his heart, he supposed Gerald would rejoice, just as he at first 
 had rejoiced for him. 
 
 How good the book was, Hamish knew. His publisher 
 knew. The world, Hamish thought, would soon know. He 
 did not deceive himself, or exaggerate the worth and merits of 
 the work : in point of fact, the praise meted out to Gerald's 
 would have been really applicable to his. Never did Hamish, 
 even in his moments of doubt and diffidence, cast a thought to 
 the possibility that his book would be written down. Already 
 he was thinking of beginning a second ; and his other work, 
 the occasional papers, went on with a zest. 
 
 He sat with his little girl, Nelly, on his knee, on this self- 
 same evening that Roland had chanced upon Annabel. The 
 child's blue eyes and bright face were turned to him as she 
 chattered. He looked down fondly at her and stroked the 
 pretty golden curls. 
 
 "And when will the ship be home, papa?" 
 
 " Very soon now. It is nearing the port."
 
 232 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " But when will it be quite, quite, quite home ? " 
 
 " In a few days, I think, Nelly. I am not sure, but I ought 
 to say it has come." 
 
 " It was those books that came in the parcel last night ? " 
 said shrewd little Nelly. 
 
 " Even so, darling." 
 
 " Mamma has been reading them all day. I saw " — Nelly 
 put her sweet face close up and dropped her voice — "I saw 
 her crying at places of them." 
 
 A soft faint crimson stole into Hamish Channing's cheeks ; 
 his lips parted, his breath came quicker; a sudden radiance 
 illuminated his whole countenance. This child's whisper 
 brought to his heart its first glad sense of that best return — 
 appreciation. 
 
 Visitors arrived to interrupt the quiet home happiness. Mrs. 
 Gerald Yorke and her three meek children. Winny looked 
 distressed, and made a faint apology for bringing the little ones, 
 but it was early to send them to bed. Close upon this, Roland 
 and Annabel entered, and had the pleasure of being in time to 
 hear Gerald's wife relate her grievances. 
 
 They were of the usual description. No money, importunate 
 creditors, Gerald unbearably cross. Annabel felt inclined to 
 smile ; Roland was full of sympathy. Had the fortune that 
 he was sure of making been already in his possession, he 
 would have given a purse of gold to Winny, and carried off 
 the three little girls to a raree-show there and then. The 
 next best thing was to promise them the treat : which he did 
 largely. 
 
 "And me too, Roland," cried eager Nelly, dancing in and 
 out amid the visitors in high glee, her curls never still. 
 
 " You, of course," said Roland to the fair child who had 
 come to an anchor before him, flinging her arms upon his 
 knees. " I wouldn't go anywhere without you, you know, Nelly. 
 If I were not engaged to somebody else, I would make you my 
 little wife." 
 
 " Who is the somebody else ? Kitty ? " 
 
 "Not Kitty. She's too little." 
 
 " Let it be me, then." 
 
 Roland laughed, and looked across at Hamish. " If I don't 
 ask you for her, I may for somebody else. So prepare." 
 
 "I'm sure, 1 hope, Roland, if ever you do marry, that you 
 won't be snappish with your wife and little girls, as your brother
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 253 
 
 is with us," interposed Winny, with a sob. " I think it is some- 
 thing in Mr. Channing's book that has put him out to-day. 
 As soon as it came this morning, he locked himself in the room 
 alone with it, and never came out for hours ; but when he did 
 come — oh, was he not in a temper ! He pushed Winifred 
 and she fell on the carpet, and he shook Rosy till she cried ; 
 and nobody knows for what. I'm sure they are like mice 
 when he's there; they are too much afraid of him to be 
 otherwise." 
 
 It was well for Gerald Yorke that he committed no gra\-e 
 crimes ; for his wife, in her childish simplicity, her inability to 
 bear in silence, would have betrayed them. She was right in 
 her surmises — in fact, Winny, with all her silliness, had a great 
 deal of discernment — that the cause of her husband's temper 
 being worse than usual was Hamish Channing's book. Seizing 
 upon it when it came, Gerald locked himself up with it, for- 
 bidding any interruption in terms that might not be disobeyed. 
 On the surface alone he could see that it was no sham book : 
 Gerald's book had about twenty lines in a page, and the large 
 type might have been read some yards off. This was different : 
 closely printed, as if the writer were at no fault for matter. 
 Gerald sat down. He was about to read this long-expected 
 book, and devoutly hoped to find it w^orthless. 
 
 But, if Gerald Yorke could not write, he could appreciate : 
 and with the very first pages he saw what the work really was 
 — rare, excellent, of unusual interest ; essentially the work of a 
 good man, a scholar and a gentleman. 
 
 As he read on and on, his brow grew dark and scowling, his 
 lips were angrily bitten. The book, properly noticed, would 
 certainly set the world talking : and Gerald might experience 
 some difficulty in writing it down. The fact did not tend to 
 soften his generally ill-conditioned state of mind, and he flung 
 the last volume on the table with a harsh word. Even then, 
 some of the damnatory terms he would use to extinguish the 
 book were passing through his active brain. 
 
 Emerging from his retreat towards evening in this genial 
 mood, he made those about him suffer from it. Winny, the 
 unenduring, might well wish to escape with her helpless 
 children ! Gerald departed ; to keep an engagement at a 
 whitebait entertainment; and she came to Hamish Chan- 
 ning's. 
 
 How different were the two men ! Hamish Channing's
 
 234 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 heart had ached at the badness of Gerald's book, for Gerald's 
 sake. Had he been a magician, he would have transformed 
 its pages, with a stroke of his wand, to the brightest and best 
 ever given to the world. Gera;ld Yorke assumed the anger of 
 a fiend because Hamish's work was not bad ; and planned its 
 ruin. 
 
 "Man, vain man, dressed in a little brief authority, 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
 As make the angels weep." 
 
 If the world is not entirely made up of these two types of 
 men, the bad and the good, the large and the narrow-hearted, 
 the generous and the selfish, believe me that there are a great 
 many of each in it. 
 
 " It's growing worse and worse," sobbed Winny, continuing 
 her grievances at the tea-table. " I don't mean Gerald now, 
 but the want of money and the worry. I know we shall have 
 to go into the workhouse ! " 
 
 " Bless you, don't lose heart ! " cried Roland, with beaming 
 looks. ^ "/can never lose that again, after my ups and downs 
 in Africa. I'll tell you of one, Mrs. Gerald. — Some more 
 muffin, Kitty ? there it is. — I and another fellow had had no 
 food to speak of for two days ; awfully low we were. We went 
 into a store and they gave us some advertising bills to paste on 
 the walls. Well, somehow I lost the fellow and the bills, for 
 he had taken possession of them. I went rushing about every- 
 where, looking for him — and that's not so pleasant when you're 
 as hollow as an empty barrel — but he never turned up again. 
 Whether he decamped with the bills, or whether he was put 
 out of the way by a knock on the head, I don't know to this 
 hour. Anyhow, I had to go back to the store the next day, 
 and tell them about it. If you'll believe me, they accused me 
 of swallowing the bills, or otherwise making away with them, 
 and gave me into custody. A day and a night I lay in their 
 detention cell, with nothing to eat, and the rats running over 
 me. One can't be nice, over there, but I always had a horror 
 of rats. Well, I got over that, Mrs. Gerald." 
 
 "Did they try you for it?" questioned Mrs. Gerald, who 
 had suspended her tears to listen, full of interest. 
 
 " Good gracious, no ! They let me out. But I could tell 
 you of worse fixes than that. You take heart, I say ; and never 
 trouble your thoughts about workhouses. Things are safe to 
 turn round when they seem at the worst,"
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 235 
 
 Tea over, Mrs. Yorke said she must take her departure : the 
 children were tired ; she scarcely knew how she should get 
 them back again. Hamish had a cab called, and when it came 
 he went out and lifted the little ones into it. Winny looked at 
 it dubiously. 
 
 " You won't tell Gerald that I said he was in a temper about 
 your book, ]\Ir. Channing?" she said pleadingly, as she took 
 her seat. 
 
 " I won't tell Gerald tales of any sort," answered Hamish, 
 W'ith his gay smile. " Take heart, as Roland tells you to do, 
 and look forward to better days both for you and your husband. 
 Perhaps they are already dawning, though you cannot yet see 
 the light." 
 
 " Do you mean through Gerald's book ? " she asked half 
 crossly. 
 
 " Oh dear no. What I mean has nothing to do with 
 Gerald's book, ^^'ho has the paper of cakes ? — Fredy. All 
 right. Good night. The cab's paid, Mrs. Yorke." 
 
 Mrs. Yorke burst into tears, leaned forward, and clasped 
 Hamish's hand. The intimation had solved a difficulty run- 
 ning through her mind. It was a great relief. 
 
 " God bless you, Mr. Channing ! You are always kind." 
 
 " Only trust in God," he whispered gravely. " Trust Him 
 ever, and He will take care of you." 
 
 The cab drove off, and Hamish turned away, to encounter 
 Roland Yorke. That gentleman, making his opportunity, had 
 followed Hamish ; and now poured into his ear the tale he had 
 to tell about himself and Annabel. Hamish did not hear it 
 altogether with the dignity that might be expected to attend an 
 offer of marriage for one's sister. On the contrary, he burst 
 into laughter in Roland's face. 
 
 " Now be honest," cried Roland, deeply offended. " Is it 
 me you despise, Mr. Channing, or the prospect I have to offer 
 her?" 
 
 "Neither," said Hamish, still laughing. "As to yourself, 
 old fellow, if Annabel and the mother approved, I should not 
 object. I never gave a heartier hand-shake to any man than 
 I would to you as my brother-in-law. I like you l^etter than I 
 do the other brother-in-law, William Yorke ; and that's the truth." 
 
 " Oh — him ! you might easily do that," answered Roland, 
 with his usual depreciation of the Reverend William Yorke's 
 merits. " Then why do you laugh at me ? " j^ [,; \\
 
 236 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " I laughed at the idea of your making two-hundred a year 
 at copying deeds," 
 
 " I didn't say I should. You couldn't have been listening, 
 Hamish. I do wish you wouldn't laugh so, as if you only 
 made game of a fellow ! What I said was, that I was putting 
 my shoulder to the wheel in earnest, and had begun with copy- 
 ing, not to waste time. I have been thinking I'd try young 
 Dick Yorke." 
 
 " Try him with what ? " 
 
 " Why, to get nie a post of some sort. I think he'll do it if 
 he can. I'm sure it's not much I shall ask — only a couple ot 
 hundred a year, or so. And if Annabel secures a good pupil 
 or two, there'd be three-hundred a year to start with. You 
 wouldn't mind her teaching a little, would you, Hamish, while 
 I was waiting for the skies to rain gold ? " 
 
 " Not I. That would be for her own consideration." 
 " And when we have the three-hundred a year in prospect, 
 you'll talk to Mrs. Channing of Helstonleigh, for me, won't 
 you?" 
 
 Hamish thought he might safely say Yes. The idea of 
 Roland's " putting his shoulder to the wheel " sufficiently to 
 earn two-hundred a year, seemed to lie amongst the world's 
 impossibilities. He could not help laughing, and it vexed 
 Roland. 
 
 " You think I can't work. You'll see. I'll go off to young 
 Dick Yorke this very hour, and sound him. Nothing like taking 
 time by the forelock. He is likely to be married, I hear." 
 "Who is?" 
 
 "Young Dick. They call him Vincent now, but before I 
 went to Port Natal ' Dick ' was good enough for him. My 
 father never spoke of them but as old Dick and young Dick. 
 Not that we had anything to do with them : they held them- 
 selves aloof from us. I never saw either of them but once, 
 and that was when they came down to Helstonleigh to my 
 father's funeral. He died in residence, you know, Hamish." 
 
 Hamish nodded : he remembered all the circumstances per- 
 fectly. Dr. Yorke's death had been unexpected until quite the 
 last. AiUng for some time, he had yet been sufficiently well to 
 enter on his close residence of twenty-one days as Prebendary 
 of the cathedral, of which he was also sub-dean. The disease 
 made such rapid progress that before the residence was out he 
 had expired.
 
 Roland yorke's shoulder to the wheel. 237 
 
 " Old Dick made some promises to George that day, saying 
 he'd get him on : because George was the eldest, I suppose ; 
 he took little notice of the rest of us," resumed Roland. " It 
 was after we came in from the funeral. But he never did an 
 earthly thing for him, Hamish — as poor George could tell you, 
 if he were alive. My father always said his brother Dick was 
 selfish." 
 
 " You may find young Dick the same," said Hamish. 
 " So I should if it were his pocket I war^ted to touch. But 
 it's not, you know. And now I'll be off to him. I had in- 
 tended to spend the evening at my copying, but I left the 
 paper in the office, and there was likely to be a difficulty about 
 getting it. I'll make up for it to-morrow night. I shall be 
 back in time to tell you of my success, and to help you take 
 Annabel home." 
 
 Roland's way of taking time by the forelock was to dash 
 through the streets, no matter what impediments he might 
 overthrow in his way, and into the fashionable club-house fre- 
 quented by Vincent Yorke, who dined there quite as often as 
 he dined at his father's house in Portland Place. Roland was 
 in luck, and met him coming out. 
 
 " I say, Vincent, do stay and hear me for a minute or two. 
 It is something of consequence." 
 
 Vincent Yorke, not altogether approving this familiar saluta- 
 tion from Roland, although fate had made them cousins, did 
 not quite see his way to refusing the request. As Roland had 
 said, young Dick was sufficiently good-natured where his 
 pocket was not taxed. He led the way to a corner of a room 
 where they could talk in private, sat down, and offered Roland 
 a chair. 
 
 It was declined. Roland was a great deal too excited and 
 too eager to sit down. He poured out his wants and hopes. 
 He wished to work honestly for just bread and cheese, and to 
 get his own living, and be beholden to nobody : would Dick 
 help him to a place ? He did not mind how hard he worked ; 
 would live on potatoes and a pint of beer a day ; so that he 
 might just get on a little, and make the sum of two-hundred a 
 year ; or one-hundred to begin with. 
 
 The word " Dick " slipped out inadvertently in Roland's 
 heat. Not a man living so little capable, as he, of remember- 
 ing conventionalities when thus excited. Vincent Yorke, 
 detecting the earnest purpose, the single-mindedness of the
 
 238 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 applicant, could only stare and laugh, and excuse mistakes 
 under the circumstances. The very boldness of the request, 
 preferred straightforwardly and without the slightest reticence, 
 told on him favourably, because it was so opposite to the 
 diplomacy that most men would have brought to bear on such 
 an application. Favourably only, in so far as that he did not 
 meet it with a haughty, off-hand repulse, but condescended to 
 answer civilly. 
 
 "Such things are' not in my line," he said ; and, face to face 
 with the realistic Port-Natal traveller, he for once put aside 
 his beloved fashionable attribute, the mincing lisp. " I don't- 
 go in for politics ; never did go in for them ; and Government 
 places are not likely to come in my way. You should have 
 applied to Sir Richard. He knows one or two of the Cabinet 
 Ministers." 
 
 "I did apply to him once," replied Roland, "and he sent 
 me off with a flea in my ear. I said then, I would never ask. 
 him for any thing again, though it were to keep me from 
 starving," 
 
 Vincent Yorke smiled. " Look here," said he ; " you take 
 him in his genial moods. Go up to him now; he will just 
 have dined. If anything can be got out of him, that's the 
 time for it." 
 
 Mr. Vincent Yorke hit upon this quite as much to get rid of 
 Roland, as with any belief in its efficacy. In the main what he 
 said was true — Sir Richard's after-dinner moods were his 
 genial ones ; but that Roland had not the ghost of a chance of 
 being helped, he very well knew. That unsophisticated travel- 
 ler, however, took it all in. 
 
 " I'll run up at once," he said. " I'm much obliged to 
 you, Vincent. I say, are you not soon going to be married ? 
 I heard so." 
 
 " Eh — yes," replied Vincent, frigidly, relapsing into himself 
 and the fine gentleman. 
 
 " I wish you the best of luck," returned Roland, shaking the 
 somewhat unwilling hand with a grip that he might have 
 learned at Port Natal. "And I hope she'll make you as good 
 a wife as I know somebody else will make me. Good night, 
 Vincent. I'm off" 
 
 Vincent nodded. It struck him that, with all his draw- 
 backs and deficiencies, Roland was rather a nice young fellow. 
 
 Outside the club door stood a hansom. Roland, in his
 
 ROLAND YORKE'S SHOULDER TO THE WHEEL. 239 
 
 haste and eagerness, was only kept from bolting into it by the 
 slight accident of having no change in his pocket to pay the 
 fare. He did not lose much. The rate at which he tore up 
 Regent Street might have kept pace with most cabs ; and the 
 knock and ring he gave at Sir Richard's door must surely have 
 caused the establislmient to think that it announced the arrival 
 of a fire-engine. 
 
 The door was flung open on the instant, as if to an expected 
 visitor. But that Roland was not the orfe waited for, was 
 proved by the surprise of the servant. He arrested the further 
 entrance. 
 
 " You are not the doctor ! " 
 
 " Doctor ! " said Roland, " I am no doctor. Let me pass if 
 you please. I am Mr. Roland Yorke." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, recognizing the 
 name as one borne by a nephew of the house. " You can go 
 up, sir, of course, if you please, but my master is just taken ill. 
 He has had a stroke." 
 
 " Bless me ! " cried Roland, in concern. " A bad one ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it is death, sir," whispered the man. " \Ve left 
 him at his wine after dinner, all comfortable ; and when we 
 went in a few minutes ago, there he was, drawn together so 
 that you couldn't know him, and no breath in his body that 
 we could hear. The nearest doctor's coming, and James is 
 running to a dozen likely places to see if he can find Mr. 
 Vincent." 
 
 *' I'll go for him ; I know where he is," cried Roland. And 
 without further reflection he hailed another hansom that hap- 
 pened to be passing, jumped into it, and ordered it to drive to 
 the club-house. Vincent was only then coming down the steps. 
 He took Roland's place, and galloped home. 
 
 "I hope he'll be in time/' thought Roland. "Poor old 
 Dick ! " 
 
 He was not in time. And the next morning London awoke 
 to the news of Sir Richard Yorke's sudden death from an 
 attack of apoplexy. And his son, the third baronet, had 
 succeeded to the family estates and honours as Sir Vincent 
 Yorke.
 
 240 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 CHAPTEK XVI. 
 
 A LITTLE MORE LIGHT. 
 
 Something fresh, though not very much, had turned up, re- 
 lating to the case of the late Mr. Ollivera. That it should do so 
 after the lapse of so many years — or, rather, that it should not 
 have done so before — was rather remarkable. But as it bears 
 very little upon the history in its present stage, it may be dis- 
 missed in a chapter. 
 
 When John Ollivera departed on the circuit which was 
 destined to bring him his death, a young man of the name of 
 Willett accompanied the bar. He had been " called," but in 
 point of fact only went as clerk to one of the leading counsel. 
 There are barristers and barristers ; just as there are young 
 men and young men. Mr. Charles Willett had been a great 
 trouble to his family ; and one of his elder brothers, Edmund, 
 who was home from India on a temporary sojourn to recruit 
 his health, had taken up the cause against him rather sharply : 
 inducing a quarrel and lasting ill-feeling between them. 
 
 An intimacy had sprung up between Edmund Willett and 
 John Ollivera, and they had become close friends. They took 
 a supposed final leave of each other when Mr. Ollivera departed 
 on his circuit, for Mr. Willett was on the point of returning to 
 India. His health had not improved, but he was obliged to 
 go back. He was in a merchant's house in Calcutta : and the 
 probabilities certainly were that he would not live to come 
 home again. However, contrary to his own and general ex- 
 pectations, as is sometimes the case, the result proved that 
 every one's opinion was mistaken. He not only did not die, 
 but he grew better, and finally recovered : and he had now 
 come to England on business matters. The details attendant 
 on John OUivera's death had never reached him, either through 
 letters or newspapers, and he became acquainted with them for 
 the first time in an interview with the Reverend Mr. Ollivera. 
 AVhen the unfinished letter was mentioned, and the fact that 
 they had never been able to trace the smallest clue as to whom 
 it was intended for, Mr. Willett at once said that it must have 
 been intended for himself. He had charged John Ollivera
 
 A LITTLE MORE LIGHT. 241 
 
 (rather against the will of the latter) to carry out, if possible, an 
 arrangement with Charles VVillett upon a certain unpleasant 
 matter which had only recently come to the knowledge of his 
 family, and to get that young man's written promise to arrest 
 himself in, at least, one of his downward courses towards ruin. 
 The letter to Mr. OUivera, urging the request, was written and 
 posted in London on the Saturday. Mr. OUivera, receiving it 
 on Sunday morning at Helstonleigh, would no doubt see Charles 
 VVillett in the course of Monday. That this was the "disagree- 
 able commission " he had spoken of to Mr. Kene, as having 
 been entrusted to him, and which he had left the Court at half- 
 past three o'clock to enter upon, there could be no doui)t 
 about. Mr, Willett had expected an answer from him on 
 Tuesday morning — it was the last day of his stay in London, 
 for he would take his departure by the Dover mail in the 
 evening — but the answer never came. That Mr. OUivera was 
 writing the letter for the nine-o'clock post from Helstonleigh, 
 and that the words, " should I never see you again," referred 
 solely to Mr. Willett's precarious health, and to the belief that 
 he would not live to return from India, also appeared indis- 
 putable. If this were so, why then, the first part of the letter, 
 at any rate, was the work of a perfectly sane man, and no more 
 pointed at suicide than it did at any other crime. The clergy- 
 man and Mr. Willett, arriving at this most natural conclusion, 
 sat and looked at each other for a few moments in painful 
 silence. That unexplained and apparently inexplicable letter 
 had been the sole stumbling-block in Henry William OUivera's 
 otherwise perfect belief in his brother's innocence. 
 
 But, to leave no shadow of uncertainty in the matter, Charles 
 Willett was sought out. When found (with slippers down at 
 heel, a short pipe in his mouth, and a pewter pot at his elbow), 
 he avowed, without the smallest reticence, that John OUivera's 
 appointment for half-past three that long-past Monday after- 
 noon in Helstonleigh, had been with him ; and that, in answer 
 to Mr. OUivera's interference in his affairs, he had desired him 
 to mind his own business and to send word to his brother to 
 do the same. 
 
 This left no doubt whatever on the clergyman's mind that 
 the unfinished letter had been as sensible and ordinary a letter 
 as any man could sit down to pen, and that the blotted words 
 were added to it by a different hand — the hand of the mur- 
 derer. 
 
 Roland Yorke. 16
 
 242 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 In the full flush of his newly-acquired information, he went 
 straight to the house of Mr. Greatorex, to pour the story into 
 his uncle's ear. It happened to be the very day alluded to in 
 the last chapter — in the evening of which you had the pleasure 
 of seeing Mr. Roland Yorke industriously putting his shoulder 
 to the wheel, after the office hours were over. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex had been slightly discomposed that day in 
 regard to business matters. It seemed to him that something 
 or other was constantly arising to annoy the firm. Their con- 
 nection was increasing, requiring the unwearied energies of its 
 three heads more fully than it had ever done ; whereas one 
 of those heads was less efficient than he used to be — Bede 
 Greatorex. Mr. Greatorex, a remarkably capable man, always 
 had more hard, untiring work in him than Bede, and he had 
 it still. With his mother's warm Spanish blood, Bede had 
 inherited the smallest amount of constitutional indolence. As 
 he had inherited (so ran suspicion), the disease which had 
 proved fatal to her. 
 
 " I cannot reproach him as I would," thought Mr. Greatorex, 
 throwing himself into a chair in his room, when he had quitted 
 the office for the day, urged almost to despair at this fresh 
 negligence, or whatever it was, that had been brought home 
 to them, and which had been traced to some forgetfulness of 
 Bede's. "With that wan, weary look in his face, just the look 
 that his mother's wore when her illness was coming on, it is 
 impossible to blow him up as harshly as I should Frank. He 
 initst be very ill, or he could not look as he does. He may 
 even already be beyond hope. It was only when she was past 
 hope that she suddenly failed in her round of duties and broke 
 down. And he has one sorrow that his mother had not- 
 trouble of mind, with that wife of his." 
 
 It was at this juncture that Mr. Greatorex was interrupted 
 by Henry William Ollivera. The clergyman, standing so that 
 the rays of the evening sun, falling across his face, lighted up 
 its pallor and its suppressed eagerness, imparted the tale that 
 he had aome to tell : the discovery that he and Edmund Willett 
 had made that day. 
 
 It a little exciied Mr. Greatorex. Truth to say, he had 
 always looked upon that unfinished letter as an almost certain 
 proof that his nephew's death had been in accordance with the 
 verdict of the jury. To him, as well as to the dead man's 
 brother, the failure to discover any cause for its having been
 
 A LITTLE MORE LIGHT. 243 
 
 written, or any person for whom it could have been intended, 
 had remained the great difficulty which could not be solved or 
 explained away. 
 
 In this, the first moment of disclosure, it seemed to him 
 a great discovery, ^^'e all know how exaggerated a view we 
 sometimes take of matters that are unexpectedly presented to 
 us. Mr. Greatorex went forth, calling for his son Bede. Bede 
 came down, in return to the call, dressed for dinner. As Bede 
 entered, his eye fell on his cousin Henry — or William, as Mr. 
 Greatorex generally called him — whose usually placid coun- 
 tenance was changed by the hectic on its wasted cheeks. Bede 
 saw that something was about to be disclosed, and wished him- 
 self away again. For some time past he had had little patience 
 with the fancies and crotchets of Henry Ollivera. 
 
 It was Mr. Greatorex who disclosed what there was to tell. 
 Bede received it ungraciously : that is in a spirit of disbelief; 
 almost of mockery, Henry Ollivera was accustomed to these 
 moods of his. The clergyman did not resent it openly. He 
 simply stood with his deep eyes fixed watchingly on Bede's 
 face, as if the steady gaze, the studied silence, carried their 
 own reproof with them. 
 
 " I believe, if some wight came down from the moon, with 
 the most absurd fable ever invented, you would put faith in it," 
 said Bede, turning sharply on Mr, Ollivera, 
 
 " Edmund Willett has not come from the moon," quietly 
 spoke the clergyman, 
 
 " But Charles Willett — lost man! — is no better than a lunatic 
 in his drinking fits," retorted Bede. 
 
 •' At any rate, he was neither a lunatic nor drunk to-day." 
 
 " His story does not hold water," pursued Bede. '• Is it 
 likely — is it possible, I might almost say — that had he been the 
 man with whom the appointment was held that afternoon, he 
 would have kept silent until now? — when so much stir and 
 inquiry were made at the time?" 
 
 " Edmund Willett says it is exactly the line of conduct his 
 brother might have been expected to pursue," said Mr. Ollivera. 
 " He was always of singular temper — morose, uncommunica- 
 tive. That what Charles Willett states is perfectly true, I am 
 as sure of as I am that I stand here. You had better see him 
 yourself, Bede." 
 
 "To what end?" 
 
 "That you also may be convinced,"
 
 244 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " And if I were convinced? " questioned Bede, after a pause. 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " I think the inquiry should be reopened," said Mr. Ollivera, 
 addressing his uncle. "When I have spoken of pursuing it 
 before, I was always met, both by Butterby and others, with 
 the argument that this letter was in my way. To tell the truth, 
 I always found it a little so myself. Always until this day." 
 
 " Don't bring up Butterby as an authority, William," inter- 
 posed Mr. Greatorex. " If Butterby cannot conduct other 
 cases better than he has conducted that concerning our lost 
 cheque, I wouldn't give a fig for him and his opinions." 
 
 For the stealer of the cheque remained undiscovered ; and 
 the house of Greatorex and Greatorex, one of them always 
 excepted, felt very sore upon the point, and showed it. 
 
 "William is right, Bede. The discovery removes a world of 
 uncertainty and doubt. And if, by ventilating the unhappy 
 affair again, we can unfold the mystery that attaches to it, and 
 so clear John's name and memory, it ought to be done." 
 
 " But what can be tried, or done, sir, more than has been 
 done already ? " asked Bede, in a tone of reasoning. 
 
 " I don't know. Something may be done. Of one thing I 
 have felt convinced all along — that if John's life was taken by 
 man's wicked hand, Heaven will in time bring it to light. The 
 old saying, that ' Murder will out,' is a very sure one." 
 
 " I do not think it has proved so in every instance," returned 
 Bede, dreamily carrying his recollection backwards. " Some 
 cases have always remained undiscovered." 
 
 " Yes, to the world," acquiesced Mr. Greatorex. " But there 
 lies a belief in my mind that no man — or woman either — ever 
 committed wilful murder, but some one or other suspected him 
 in their secret heart, and saw him in all his miserable sin." 
 
 " Don't bring woman's name in, father. I never like to hear 
 it coupled with murder." 
 
 Bede spoke in the somewhat fractious tone he now often 
 used. That it was only the natural outlet of some inward or 
 mental pain none could doubt. Mr. Greatorex put it down 
 chiefly to bodily suffering. 
 
 " Women have done worse deeds than men," was the elder 
 man's answer. And Mr. Ollivera took a step forward. 
 
 " Whether man or woman took my dear brother's life — and 
 then suffered the slur to rest on his own innocent self — suffered 
 him to be buried as a dog — suffered his nearest relatives tp
 
 A LITTLE MORE LIGHT. 245 
 
 think of him as of one who had forfeited Heaven's mercy, I 
 know not," said the clergyman. " But from this time forward, 
 I vow never to slacken heart, or hand, or energy, until I shall 
 have brought the truth to light. The way was long and dark, 
 and seemed hopeless; it might be that I lost patience and 
 grew weary ; and this discovery has possibly arisen to reprove 
 and spur me on." 
 
 "But what can you do in it?" again asked Bede. 
 
 " Whatever I do in it, I shall not come to you to help me, 
 Bede," was the reply. " It appears to me — and I have told 
 you so before — that you would rather the cloud remained on 
 my brotlier's name than see it lifted. What had he done to 
 you in life that you should so requite him ? " 
 
 " Heaven knows my heart and wish would clear him," spoke 
 Bede, with an earnestness that approached to agitation. " But 
 if I am unable to do it — if I cannot see how it may be done — 
 what would you ? " 
 
 " You have invariably thrown cold water upon every effort 
 of mine. My most earnest purposes you have all but 
 ridiculed." 
 
 " No, Henry. I have been sorry, vexed if you will, at what 
 I thought your mistaken views. Reiteration of a subject leads 
 to weariness. If I was unable to accept any other solution 
 than the one arrived at by the coroner and jury, it was not my 
 fault. As to John — if by sacrificing my own life, at any 
 moment since I saw him lying dead, I could have restored his, 
 I would willingly have offered it up." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Bede ; I spoke hastily," said the man 
 of peace. " Of course I had no right to be vexed that you and 
 others cannot see with my eyes. But, rely upon it, the state- 
 ment now made by Charles Willett is a true one." 
 
 "Perhaps it may be," acknowledged Bede. 
 
 " William," interrupted Mr. Greatorex, lifting his head after 
 a pause, and sinking his voice to a whisper. " It could not be 
 that — that — Charles Willett — was the one to steal in, and harm 
 him ? " 
 
 An eager light flashed into the dark eyes of Bede Greatorex, 
 as he turned them on his cousin. If it did not express belief 
 in the possibility of the suggestion, at least it betrayed that the 
 idea stirred him. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Ollivera. "No, no. Charles Willett has 
 not behaved straightforwardly over it, but he is calm and open
 
 246 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 enough now. He says he has made it a rule for many years 
 never to interfere voluntarily in the remotest degree with other 
 people's business ; and therefore he did not mention this 
 until questioned to-day. Had he never been questioned, he 
 declares that he would never have spoken. I cannot under- 
 stand such a man ; it seems to me a positive sin not to have 
 disclosed these facts at the time ; but I am sure that he tells 
 the whole truth now. And now I must wish you good evening, 
 for I have an engagement." 
 
 Bede went down the passage with his cousin, and was turn- 
 ing to ascend the staircase. His father called him. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Bede, advancing. 
 
 " What is it ? — why, I want to talk to you about this." 
 
 " Another time, father. Dinner's waiting." 
 
 " You would go to dinner if the house were falling," spoke 
 Mr. Greatorex, in his vexation. 
 
 " Will you not come, sir?" 
 
 " No. I don't want dinner. I shall have tea here and 
 something with it. Things are daily happening to worry me, 
 Bede ; if they don't you." 
 
 Bede went away, sighing heavily. Perhaps he was more 
 worried, and had greater cause for it too, than his father ; but 
 he did not allow more of it to be seen than he could help. 
 Some three or four guests were at his table this evening ; guests 
 bidden by Mrs. Bede, preparatory to going to the opera to- 
 gether. It is more than probable that the suspicion of this 
 assembly kept Mr. Greatorex away. 
 
 The dinner was elaborate as usual. Bede took nothing. 
 He sat opposite to his wife and talked with the company, and 
 took course after course as it was placed before him ; only to 
 toy with it for a kw moments, and send it away untasted. 
 Why did his wife for ever gather around her this whirl of 
 gaiety? — he almost asked it aloud with a groan. Did she 
 want to get rid of care ? as, Heaven knew, he did. An observer, 
 able to dive into Bede's heart, might rather have asked, " Nay, 
 why did he suffer her to gather it ? " 
 
 The heat of the room oppressed him ; the courses were 
 numerous, but he sat on — on, until passiveness became in- 
 tolerable. When lights came in, he rose abruptly, went to 
 the furthermost window, and threw it wide. Twilight encom- 
 passed the earth with; her soft folds; the day's garishness was 
 over for at least some welcome hours. A woman was singing
 
 A LITTLE MORE LIGHT. 2^7 
 
 in the street below, her barefooted children standing round her 
 with the shrinking air peculiar to such a group, and she turned 
 up a miserable, sickly, famine-stricken face to Bede, in piteous, 
 mute appeal. It was not ineffectual. Whatever his own cares 
 and illness might be, he at least could feel for others. Just as 
 he flung the woman a shilling, his wife came to him and spoke 
 in a whisper, with an unpleasant taunt in it. 
 
 "Have you a headache, to-night, as usual?" 
 
 "Headache and heartache, both, Louisa." 
 
 "I should suppose so, by your leaving the table. You 
 might have apologized." 
 
 "And you might give the house a little rest. How far I 
 am from wishing to complain or interfere unnecessarily, you 
 must know, Louisa; but I declare that this incessant strain 
 will drive me crazy. It is telling upon my nerves. And it is 
 telling in a different way upon my father." 
 
 " I shall entertain people every day, when I am not engaged 
 out myself," said Mrs. Bede Greatorex. "Take a house for 
 me in Hyde Park, or Belgravia ; or I would not mind Portland 
 Place ; and then we should not annoy Mr. Greatorex. As 
 long as you are obstinate in the one case, I shall be in the 
 other." 
 
 Bede seized her hand ; partly in anger, partly — as it seemed 
 — in tenderness : and drew her nearer to him, that she might 
 hear his impressive whisper. 
 
 "I am not sure but your wish, that we should leave the 
 house, will be gratified — though not in the manner you expect. 
 My father's patience is being sorely tried. He is the owner of 
 the house; and at any moment may say to us, 'Go out of it.' 
 Louisa, I have thought of mentioning this to you for some little 
 time past ; but the subject is not a pleasant one." 
 
 "I wish he would say it." 
 
 " But don't you see the alternative ? You are thinking of a 
 West-End mansion. My income would not allow me to take a 
 house half so good as this one. That's the simple truth, 
 Louisa." 
 
 She flung his hand from her with a defiant laugh, as she pre- 
 pared to rejoin the guests. " Vou might not, but /would." 
 
 And Bede knew that to run him helplessly into debt would 
 have been amusement, rather than otherwise, to his wife. 
 
 Coffee came in at once, and Bede took the opportunity to 
 escape. There was no formal after-dinner sitting this evening,
 
 248 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 or withdrawing of the ladies. As he passed down the corridor, 
 Miss Channing was standing at the door of the study. He 
 inquired in a kindly tone if she wanted anything. 
 
 " I am waiting to see Mrs. Greatorex — to ask her if I may go 
 for an hour to my brother's," answered Annabel. " Old Dalla 
 would escort me." 
 
 " Go, by all means, if you wish it," he said. " Why did you 
 think it necessary to ask ? Do make yourself at home with us, 
 Miss Channing, and be as happy as you can be." 
 
 Annabel thanked him, and he went downstairs, little sup- 
 posing how impossible happiness was for her, exposed as she 
 was to all the whims of his capricious wife. Halting at the door 
 for a moment he wandered across the street, and stood in the 
 shade, mechanically listening to the woman's ballad-singing, 
 wafted faintly from the distance, just as he mechanically looked 
 up at his own lighted windows, and heard the gay laughter that 
 now and again came forth from them. 
 
 " I never ought to have married her," said the voice of 
 conscience, breathing its secrets from the depths of his heart. 
 " Every law, human and divine, should have warned me against 
 it. I was infatuated to blindness : nay, not to blindness ; I 
 cannot plead that : but to folly. It was wrong : it was horribly 
 sinful : and Heaven is justly punishing me. The fault was 
 mine : I might have kept aloof from her after that miserably 
 eventful night. I ought to have done so ; to have held her at 
 more than arm's distance for evermore. Ought ! — lives there 
 another man on the face of the earth, I wonder, who would not 
 have done so ? The fault of our union was wholly mine, not 
 hers ; and so, whatsoever trials she brings on me I will bear, 
 patiently, as I best may. / sought her. She would never have 
 dared to seek me, after that night and the discovery I made 
 the following day in poor John's room : and the complications 
 arising from our marriage, / have to answer for. I am nearly 
 tired of the inward warfare ; three years of it ! Three years 
 and more, since I committed the mad act of tying myself to 
 her for life : for better or for worse : and it has been nothing 
 for me but one prolonged scene of repentance. We are 
 wearing a mask to each other : God grant that I may go to 
 my grave without being forced to lift it ! For her sake ; for her 
 sake ! " 
 
 He paused to raise his hat from his brow and wipe the dew 
 that had gathered there. And then he took a step forward
 
 A LITTLE MORE LIGHT. 249 
 
 and a step backward in the shade. But he could not drive 
 away, even for a moment, the care ever eating into his heart, 
 or turn his vision from the shadow that always seemed 
 threatening in the distance. 
 
 " Of all the wild infatuation that ever possessed the heart of 
 man for woman, surely mine for Louisa Joliffe was the worst ! 
 Did Satan lead me on ? It must have been so. * Be sure your 
 sin will find you out.' Since that fatal moment when I stood 
 at the altar with her, those ominous words have never, I think, 
 been quite absent from my memory. Every hour of my life, 
 every moment of the day and night as they pass, does my sin 
 find me. Knowing what I did know, could I not have been 
 content to let her go her own way, while I went mine ? Heaven 
 help me ! for I love her yet, as man rarely has loved. And 
 when my father, or any other, casts a reflection on her, it is 
 worse to me than a dagger's thrust. As long as I may, I will 
 shield her from " 
 
 It was at this moment that the soliloquy, so pregnant with 
 weighty if vague revelation, was broken in upon by Mr. Roland 
 Yorke. Little guessed careless Roland what painful regrets 
 he had temporarily interrupted. Bede, as has been seen, 
 went indoors, and Roland departed with Miss Channing 
 on her evening visit, dismissing Dalla without the slightest 
 ceremony. 
 
 The carriage, for Mrs. Greatorex and her friends, drove up. 
 Bede, somewhat neglectful of the others, came out with his 
 wife, and placed her in it. 
 
 " Are you not coming with us ? " she bent forward to whisper, 
 seeing him about to close the door. 
 
 " Not to-night. I have some work to do." 
 
 " Sulky as usual, Bede ? " 
 
 His lips parted to retort, but he closed them, and endured 
 meekly. Sulky to her he had never been, and she knew it. 
 The carriage moved away with her : and Bede lifted his hat ; 
 with a careless smile, meant to deceive the world. 
 
 Whether he had work to do, or not, he did not get to it. 
 Sauntering from the door, away and away, hardly knowing and 
 not heeding whither, he found himself presently in the Strand, 
 and thence at the river-side. There he paced backwards and 
 forwards Avith unequal steps, his mind lost in many things, but 
 more especially in the communication made that day by Henry 
 Ollivera.
 
 250 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 The unfinished letter connected with that long-past history, 
 and the appointment spoken of by Mr. Kene, that John OUivera 
 went out of court to keep, had been as great a puzzle to Bede 
 Greatorex as it was to other people. Upon reflection, he now 
 thought that the present solution of the affair was the true one. 
 Would it lead to further discovery ? Very fervently he hoped 
 that it would not. There were grave reasons, as none knew 
 better than Bede, for keeping all further discovery in the back- 
 ground ; for, if it came, it would bring confusion, dismay, and 
 misery, upon innocent as well as guilty heads. 
 
 The river, flowing in its course, was silent and slow in the 
 summer's night. A broad line of light illumined the sky in the 
 west where the sultry sun had gone down : and as Bede looked 
 towards it and thought of the All-seeing Eye that lay beyond 
 that light, he felt how fruitless it was for him to plot and plan, 
 and to say this shall be or this shall not be. The course of 
 the future rested in the hands of one Divine Ruler, and his 
 own poor, short-sighted will was powerless to alter the Divine 
 decrees. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 LAID WITH HIS FOREFATHERS. 
 
 So great a man as Sir Richard Yorke must of course be 
 honoured with a great funeral. He had died on Thursday, 
 and the interment was fixed for the following Friday week. 
 Taking the heat of the weather and sundry other trifles into 
 consideration, this was a little longer than need have been. 
 Sir Vincent, his new dignity as head of the Yorke family lying 
 upon him with weighty self-importance, was determined (like 
 Jonas Chuzzlewit of wide fame) that the public should see he 
 did not grudge his late father any honour that it was in his power 
 to accord to him in the shape of plumes and mutes and coaches 
 and show. So that Portland Place was as a gala that day, and 
 windows and pavements were filled with gazers. 
 
 The Rev. William Yorke, Minor Canon of Helstonleigh 
 Cathedral, Chaplain of Hazledon, and Rector of Coombe Lee, 
 was bidden to it. He was not very closely related to the
 
 LAID WITH HIS FOREFATHERS. 251 
 
 deceased (his fether and Sir Richard had been second cousins), 
 but he was undoubtedly a rising man in the Church, and Sir 
 Vincent thought well to remember the connection. The 
 clergyman stood in the relationship of brother-in-law to 
 Hamish Channing ; and it was at Hamish's house that he 
 stayed during the two days of his brief sojourn in town. 
 
 Another, honoured with an invitation, was Gerald Yorke. 
 Roland was not of a particularly exacting disposition, but he 
 did think that he, the eldest, ought not to have been passed 
 over for his younger brother. Oughts don't go for much, how- 
 ever, in some things, as Roland knew very well. Gerald 
 belonged to the great world : had fashionable chambers, 
 fashionable friends, fashionable attire, and a fashionable drawl ; 
 his embarrassments were nothing to Sir Vincent ; in fact, they 
 might be said to be fashionable also : and so Gerald, the con- 
 sequential, was bidden to a seat in a mourning-coach, with 
 feathers nodding on the heads of the four horses. 
 
 Roland was ignored. Not more entirely so than if Sir 
 Vincent had never heard of him. A lawyer's clerk, enjoying 
 a pound a week, who took copying home to do at twopence a 
 page, and avowed that he had just been nearly on the point of 
 selling hot-pies in the streets, was clearly not an individual to 
 come into contact with a deceased baronet, even though it were 
 only to follow him to the tomb of his fathers. But, though 
 Roland was not there, his master, Mr. Greatorex, was. And 
 Mr. Greatorex, as solicitor and confidential man-of-business to 
 the late Sir Richard, occupied no unimportant post in the 
 procession. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon ; and the mortal remains, bereft 
 of all their attendant pomp and plumes, had been left in their 
 resting-place, when a mourning-coach drew up to Mr. Chan- 
 ning's, out of which stepped William and Gerald Yorke. 
 Roland, happening to be there, watched the descent from the 
 drawing-room window side by side with Nelly Channing, and 
 it may be questioned which of the two looked on with the 
 more unsophisticated interest. Mr. Greatorex had not been 
 quite so unmindful of Roland's claims to consideration as Sir 
 Vincent, and had told him he might take holiday on the day 
 of his uncle's funeral, by remaining away from the office. 
 
 Roland obeyed one portion of it literally : he took holiday. 
 It never occurred to Roland that he might turn the day to 
 profit, by putting his shoulder to the wheel, and do some
 
 252 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 copying ; holiday was holiday, and he accepted it in that light. 
 Rigged out in a handsome new mourning suit (made in haste 
 by Lord Carrick's tailor), Roland spent the fore-part of the day 
 in sight-seeing. As many show-places as could be gone into 
 for nothing, or next to nothing, he went to ; beginning with 
 Madame Tussaud's wax-work, for which some one gave him 
 an admission, and ending with a live giantess down in White- 
 chapel. Late in the afternoon, and a httle tired, he arrived 
 at Hamish Channing's, and was rewarded by meeting Annabel. 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex (gracious that day) had given Miss 
 Channing permission to spend the evening there to meet her 
 sister's husband, the Rev. William Yorke. Hamish, just in 
 from his office, sat with them. Nelly Channing shared with 
 Roland the delight of the descent from the coach. Its four 
 black horses and their waving plumes, struck the child's mind 
 with a sensation of awe that almost overpowered her admira- 
 tion. She wore a white frock with a black sash, and her sleeves 
 were tied up with black ribbons. Mrs. Channing, herself in 
 black silk, possessed a large sense of the fitness of things, and 
 thought it well to put the child into these ribbons to-day, when 
 two of the mourners would return there from the funeral. 
 
 William and Gerald Yorke came upstairs, and entered the 
 drawing-room. It was the first time the clergyman and Roland 
 had met for many years. As may have been gathered by the 
 reader, Roland did not hold his cousin in any particular admi- 
 ration, but he knew good manners (as he would himself have 
 phrased it) better than to show aught but civility now. In 
 fact, Roland's resentment was very much like that of a great 
 many more of us — more talk than reality. They shook hands, 
 and for a few moments were absorbed in past interests. What- 
 ever Roland's old prejudices might have been, he could not 
 deny that William Yorke was good-looking as of yore ; a tall, 
 slender, handsome man of four-and-thirty now, bearing about 
 him the stamp of success. His fresh countenance was genial 
 and kind, in spite of its touch of the noted Yorke pride. 
 
 That pride, or perhaps a consciousness of his own supe- 
 riority, for William Yorke was a good man, and thought well 
 of himself for it, prevented his being so frankly cordial with 
 Roland as he might have been. Roland's many faults in the 
 old days (as the clergyman had deemed them), and the one 
 great fault which had brought humiliation to him in two ways, 
 were very present to his mind to-night. Slighting remarks
 
 LAID WITH HIS FOREFATHERS. 253 
 
 made by Gerald on his brother during the day, caused Mr. 
 Yorke to regard Roland as no better than a mauvais siijef, down 
 in the world, and not likely to rise in it. Gerald, on the con- 
 trary, he looked upon as a successful man. Mr. Yorke saw 
 only on the surface of things, and judged accordingly. 
 
 " How is Constance ? " inquired Roland. " I sent her word 
 not to marry you, you know." 
 
 " Constance is well and happy, and charged me to bring you 
 a double share of love and remembrances," answered the 
 clergyman, slightly laughing. 
 
 " Dear old Constance ! I say," and Roland dropped his 
 voice to a whisper, "is not Annabel like her? One might 
 think it the same face over again." 
 
 Mr. Yorke turned and glanced at Annabel, who was talking 
 apart with Gerald. " Yes, there is a great deal of resem- 
 blance," he carelessly said, wondering how the young man by 
 his side came to be so well dressed. 
 
 Roland, his resentments shallow as the wind, as fleet in 
 passing, would have shaken hands with Gerald as a matter of 
 course. Gerald managed to evade the honour without ap- 
 parent rudeness ; he had the room to greet, and it really 
 seemed to Roland quite natural that he should be overlooked. 
 
 " A magnificent funeral," spoke Gerald, glancing askance 
 at Roland's suit of black, every whit as handsome as his own. 
 " Seven mourning coaches-and-four, and no end of private 
 carriages." 
 
 " But I can't say much for their manners, for they did not 
 invite me," put in Roland. " I'm older than you are, Gerald." 
 
 "Aw — ah — by a year or two," croaked Gerald, in his worst 
 tones. " One has, I take it, to — aw — consider the position of 
 a — aw — party on these — aw — occasions, not how old they 
 may be." 
 
 " Oh, of course," said Roland, some mockery in his good- 
 natured voice. " You are a man of fashion, going in for 
 whitebait and iced champagne, and I'm only an unsuccessful 
 fellow returned like a bad shilling, from Port Natal, who has to 
 work hard for bread and cheese and beer." 
 
 As the hour of William Yorke's return from the funeral was 
 uncertain, but expected to be a late one, it had been decided 
 that the meal prepared should be a heavy tea. Gerald was 
 asked to remain. A few minutes, and they were seated in the 
 dining-room at a well-spread board, Mrs. Channing presiding
 
 254 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Hamish, with his bright face, his genial hospitahty, and his 
 courtly manners, faced her. Roland and Annabel were on 
 one side, the clergyman and Gerald on the other. Miss 
 Nelly, on a high chair, wedged herself in between her mamma 
 and Roland. 
 
 " Treason ! " cried Hamish. " Who said little girls were to 
 
 be at table ? " 
 
 " Mamma did," answered Nelly, quickly. " And mamma 
 said I should have some fowl and some tongue." 
 
 " Provided you were silent, and not troublesome," put in 
 Mrs. Channing. 
 
 " I'll keep her quiet," said Roland. " Nelly shall whisper 
 only to me." 
 
 Miss Nelly's answer was to lift her pretty face up to 
 Roland's, who left some kisses on it. 
 
 Gerald sat next to Hamish and opposite to Annabel. Re- 
 membering the state of that gentleman's feelings towards Mr. 
 Channing, it may be wondered that he condescended to accept 
 his hospitality. Two reasons induced him to do so. Any 
 quarters were more acceptable than his own just now, and he 
 had no invitation for the evening, even had it been decent to 
 show himself hi the great world an hour after leaving his uncle 
 in the grave. The other reason was, that he was just now 
 working some ill to Hamish, and wished to appear unusually 
 friendly to avert suspicion. 
 
 " I hope you have not dined, Roland," remarked Hamish, 
 supplying him with some pigeon-pie. 
 
 " Well, I have, and I haven't," replied Roland, beginning 
 upon the tempting viand. " I bought three sausage-rolls at 
 one o'clock, down east. It would have been my dinr^^r, but 
 for this windfall." 
 
 Gerald flicked his delicate cambric handkerchief out of his 
 pocket and held it for a moment to his nose, as if he were 
 warding off some odour that brought disgust to him. Sausage- 
 rolls ! Whether they, or the unblushing candour of the avowal 
 were the worst, he hardly knew. 
 
 " Sausage-rolls must be delicacies ! " he observed, with a 
 sneer. And Roland looked across. 
 
 " They are not as good as pigeon-pie. But they cost only 
 twopence apiece : and I had only sixpence in my pocket. I 
 have to regulate my appetite according to my means," he 
 added, with a pleasant laugh.
 
 LAID WITH HIS FOREFATHERS, 255 
 
 " Roland— as you have, in a manner, touched upon the 
 subject — I should like to ask what you think of doing," inter- 
 posed William Yorke, in condescending but kindly tones. 
 "You seem to have no prospects before you whatever." 
 
 "Oh, I shall get along," cheerfully answered Roland, with a 
 glance at Miss Channing. "Perhaps you'll see me in house- 
 keeping in a year's time from this." 
 
 " In housekeeping ! " 
 
 " Yes : with a house of my own — and, something else. I'm 
 not afraid. I have begun to put my shoulder to the wheel in 
 earnest. If I don't get on, it shall not be from lack of work- 
 ing for it." 
 
 "How have you begun to put your shoulder to the 
 wheel ? " 
 
 " Well — I take home copying to do in my spare time after 
 office hours. I have been doing it in earnest over three weeks 
 now." 
 
 " And how much do you earn at it weekly ? " continued 
 William Yorke. 
 
 A slight depression passed over Roland's ingenuous face. 
 Hamish saw it, and laughed. Hamish was quite a confidant, 
 for Roland carried all his hopes and their tiresome drawbacks 
 to him. 
 
 " I can tell you : I added it up," said Roland. " Taking 
 the three weeks on the average, it has been two-and-twopence 
 a week." 
 
 " Two-and-twopence a week ! " echoed William Yorke, who 
 after such an introduction had expected him to say at least two 
 guineas. Roland detected the surprise and disappointment. 
 
 " Oh, well, you know, William Yorke, a fellow cannot expect 
 to make pounds just at first. What with mistakes, \\iien the 
 writing has to be begun all over again, and paying for spoilt 
 paper, which Brown insists upon, two-and-twopence is not so 
 bad. One has to make a beginning at everything." 
 
 " Are you a good hand at accounts ? " inquired Mr. Yorke, 
 possibly in the vague idea that Roland's talents might be 
 turned to account more profitably than copying folios. 
 
 " I ought to be," said Roland. " If counting up, over and over 
 and over again, those frying-pans I carried to Port Natal, could 
 have made a man an accountant, it must have made one of 
 me. I used to be at it morning and evening. You see, I 
 thought they were going to sell for aboui eight-and-twenty
 
 256 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 shillings apiece, out there : no wonder I often reckoned them 
 up." 
 
 "And they did not?" 
 ' " Law, bless you ! In the first place, nobody wanted frying- 
 pans, and I had to get a Natal store-keeper to house them in 
 his place for me — I couldn't leave them out on the quay. But 
 the time came that I was obliged to sell them : they were eating 
 their handles off." 
 
 " With rust, I suppose." 
 
 " Good gracious, no ! with rent^ not rust. The fellow (they 
 are regular thieves over there) charged me an awful rent : so 
 I told him to put them into an auction. Instead of the eight- 
 and-twenty shillings each that I had expected, he paid me 
 about eight-and-twenty pence for the lot, case and all. But if 
 you ask whether I am a ready reckoner, William Yorke, I'm 
 sure I must be that." 
 
 The Rev. William Yorke privately thought there might be 
 a doubt upon the point. He fancied Roland's prospects could 
 not be first-rate. 
 
 "This copying is nothing but a preliminary," observed 
 Roland. " I am waiting for a place under Government. 
 Vincent Yorke I expect can put me up for one, now he has 
 come into power ; and I don't think he'll want the will, though 
 he did pass me over to-day." 
 
 If ever face expressed contempt, Gerald's did, as he turned 
 it full on his brother. For this very hope was being cherished 
 by himself It was he who intended to profit by the interest 
 of Sir Vincent, to be exerted on his behalf And to have a 
 rival in the field, although one of so little moment as Roland, 
 was not agreeable. 
 
 " The best thing jc^// can do, is to go off again to Port Natal," 
 he said roughly. " You'll never get on here." 
 
 " But I intend to get on, Gerald. Once give me a fair start 
 — and I have never had it yet — there's not many shall distance 
 me." 
 
 " What do you call a fair start ? " asked Mrs. Channing, who 
 always enjoyed Roland's dreams. 
 
 "A place where I can bring my abilities into use, and be re- 
 munerated accordingly. I ask nothing better than to work, 
 and be paid for it. Only let me earn a couple of hundred a 
 year to begin with, Mrs. Channing, and you'll never hear me 
 ask Vincent Yorke or any one else for help again."
 
 LAID WITH HIS FOREFATHERS. 257 
 
 "You used not to like the prospect of work, Roland," spoke 
 William Yorke. 
 
 " But then I had not had pride and laziness knocked out of 
 me at Port Natal." 
 
 William Yorke lifted his eyes. " Did that happen to 
 you ? " 
 
 " It did^' emphatically answered Roland. " Oh, I shall get 
 into something by-and-by, where my talents can find play. Of 
 all things, I should best like a farm." 
 
 " A farm ! " 
 
 " A nice little farm. And if I had a few hundred pounds, 
 I'd take one to-morrow. Do you know anything of butter- 
 making, Annabel ? " he stopped to ask, dropping his voice. 
 
 Annabel bent her blushing face over her plate, and pretended 
 not to hear. Roland thought she was offended. 
 
 "I didn't mean make it, you know," he whispered. "I 
 shouldn't like to see you doing such a thing " — turning again 
 to the company. " But it's of no good thinking of a farm, you 
 see, William Yorke, when there's no money to the fore." 
 
 " You don't know anything about farming," said Mr. Yorke, 
 wondering whether this appeal to Annabel had meant anything, 
 or was only one of Roland's thoughtless speeches. 
 
 " Don't I ? " said Roland. " I was on one for ever so long 
 at Port Natal, and had to drive pigs, and do all sorts of work. 
 It is astonishing the experience a fellow picks up over there, 
 and the little he learns to live upon." 
 
 " Because he has to do it, I suppose." 
 
 " That's the secret. I am earning a pound a week now, re- 
 gular pay, and make it do for all my wants. You wouldn't 
 think it, would you, William Yorke ? " 
 
 "Certainly not, to look at you," said William Yorke, with 
 a smile. "Are clothes included?" 
 
 " Oh, Carrick goes bail for all that. I'm afraid he'll find the 
 bills running up ; but a fellow, if he's a gentleman, must look 
 decent. I'm as careful as I can be, and sit in mv sliirt-sleevcs 
 at home when it's hot weather." 
 
 "Lady Augusta has visions of your walking about London 
 out at elbows. I think it troubles her." 
 
 Roland paused, stared, and then started up in contrition. 
 
 " What a thoughtless booby I was, never to let her know ! 
 The minute you get down home, you go to her, William Yorke. 
 Tell her how it is — that I have the run of Carrick's people for 
 
 Jlobnd Yorke. 17
 
 258 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 clothes, boots, hats, and all the rest of it. This suit came home 
 at eight o'clock this morning, with an apology for not sending 
 it last night — the fellow thought I might be going to the funeral 
 — and a sensible thought too ! Look at it ! " stretching out his 
 arms, and turning himself about. " I'm never worse dressed 
 than this : only that my things are not on new every day. You 
 tell the mother this, William Yorke." 
 
 He had not displayed himself in vanity ; of that Roland 
 possessed as little as any one ; but in eager desire to reassure 
 his mother, and atone to her for his forgetfulness. Stooping for 
 his napkin, he sat down again. 
 
 " Yes, I am well-dressed, though I have to work. And for 
 recreation, there's this house to come to ; and dear old Hamish 
 and Mrs. Channing receive me and make much of me, just as 
 though I had always been good : and Nelly jumps into my arms." 
 
 " When do you mean to come to Helstonleigh ? " 
 
 " Never," answered Roland, promptly. " As I can't go back 
 rich, I shall not go back at all. \Vhat / wish to ask is, when 
 Arthur Channing is coming up here ? " 
 
 " Arthur Channing ! I cannot tell." 
 
 " It is a shame of people to raise a fellow's hopes, and then 
 damp them again. Arthur wrote me word — oh, a month ago — 
 that he was coming to London on business for old Galloway. 
 Close upon that, comes a second letter, saying Galloway was 
 not sure he should need to send him. I should like to serve 
 him out." 
 
 William Yorke smiled. " Serve out Arthur ? " 
 
 "Arthur! I should like to draw Arthur round the old city 
 in a triumphal car, as we used to chair our city members. I 
 mean that wretch of a Galloway. He ought to be taken up for 
 an impostor. Why did he go and tell Arthur he should send 
 him to London, if he didn't mean to do so?" 
 
 Gerald Yorke let his fork fall with a dash that nearly chipped 
 the delicate Worcester china plate. Was all the conversation 
 to be monopolized by Roland and his miserable interests? It 
 was high time to interfere. Taking up the fork again with an 
 air, he cleared his throat. 
 
 "Sir Vmcent comes into about four-thousand a year, entailed 
 property. We went in to hear the will read by old Greatorex. 
 It's not much, is it ? " 
 
 " Not for one reared as Vincent Yorke has been," said 
 Hamish. "But he has more than that, I presume?"
 
 LAID WITH HIS FOREFATHERS. 259 
 
 "Some odds and ends, I believe : I asked Greatoiex. And 
 there's the little homestead down in Surrey. Sir Richard's 
 liabilities die with him. Perhaps he had already wiped them 
 off?" 
 
 '•' I'm sure he had," said Roland, with good-natured warnith, 
 " Oh, we hear a good deal in our office. As to four-thousand 
 a year being little for one man, you should have been at Port 
 Natal, Gerald, and you'd estimate it differently." 
 
 " To a man about town, like myself, it seems a mere pittance, 
 considering what Sir Vincent will have to do out of it," returned 
 Gerald, loftily, speaking to any one at table, rather than to his 
 brother. 
 
 " That's just it," said Roland. " If I were a man about 
 town, and had not been out to Port Natal and learnt the 
 value of money, it might seem so to me. Dick won't find 
 it enough, 1 dare say. / should think four-hundred a year 
 riches ! " 
 
 Gerald curled his lip. "No doubt; and a few pigs to 
 drive." 
 
 " I should like a pig, Roland," cried Nelly Channing, turning 
 to him, and unconsciously creating a diversion. "A pretty 
 little pig, with blue ribbons." 
 
 "As pretty as you," said Roland, squeezing her, "You 
 mean a guinea-pig, little stupid. As to diiving pigs, Gerald — 
 it's not a very great employment of course ; but, you see, I had 
 to do what I was put to — or starve." 
 
 " I'd rather starve than do it," retorted Gerald. " And so 
 would any one with the instincts of a gentleman." 
 
 " Only go out there and try what starving is ; you'll tell a 
 different tale," said Roland, maintaining his good-humour. 
 "Starving there means dying, sometimes." 
 
 One of those turns in* the conversation, wliich occur so 
 naturally, brought round the subject to Mr. Ollivera. Roland, 
 imparting sundry revelations of his home-life at INIrs. Jones's — 
 or, as he called her still, Mrs. Jenkins — mentioned the clergy- 
 man's name. 
 
 "Don't you mean to call and see him?" he asked of William 
 Yorke. "You'd better." 
 
 But Mr. Yorke declined. " My time in London is so very 
 short," he said. " I go home to-mOrrow. Besides, I have 
 really no acquaintance with Mr. Ollivera. We never met but 
 on one occasion."
 
 26o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " When you lent him your surplice," spoke Roland. And 
 William Yorke looked up in surprise. 
 
 "What do you know about it?" 
 
 " Oh, I know a great deal," returned Roland. " I say — 
 why did you not attend that niejht yourself? You promised to 
 do so." 
 
 "I did not promise. All I said was, that I would consider 
 of it. Upon reflection, I thought it better not to go. The 
 circumstances were peculiar; and the Dean, had he come to 
 know of it, might have taken me to task." 
 
 " Not he," said independent Roland. " The Dean's made of 
 sterling gold." 
 
 "What sort of a chanter does Tom make?" inquired 
 Hamish. 
 
 " Very fair ; very fair, indeed," replied William Yorke, some 
 patronage in his tone, meant for the absent young minor canon. 
 Consciously vain of his own excellence in chanting, Mr. Yorke 
 could only accord comparative praise to Tom Channing's. 
 The vanity was not without excuse ; Mr. Yorke's sweet and 
 sonorous voice was wont to fill the aisles of the old cathedral 
 with its melody. 
 
 Just as the tea was over, one of the servants came in with a 
 folded weekly review on her silver waiter, and presented it to 
 her master. Hamish opened it with a slight apology, and was 
 glancing at its pages, when he folded it again with a sudden 
 movement and quietly put it in his pocket. His sight, in the 
 moment's happy confusion, partially faded ; a bright hectic 
 lighted his cheek ; his whole heart leaped up within him, as with 
 a rushing, blissful sense of realized hope. For he had seen 
 that a review of his book was there. 
 
 CHAPTER XVHT. 
 
 AS IRON INTO TIIR SOUT,. 
 
 The change in his face was remarkable. It was as though 
 a blight had passed over it and withered the life out of it. 
 
 He sat with the journal in his hand — the authoritative 
 Snarler — ^and read the cruel lines over and over again.
 
 AS IRON INTO THE SOUL. 261 
 
 AVhen, in the solitude of his own study, they first met his eager 
 eye, skimming them rapidly, and their purport was gathered in 
 almost at a glance, a faintness seized upon his heart, and he 
 hastily put away the paper as though it were some terrible thing 
 he dared not look upon further. 
 
 The shock was awful — and the word is not used in its lighter 
 sense ; the disappointment something not to be described. 
 After the departure of his guests, Roland and Gerald : William 
 Yorke had gone by his own wish to take home Annabel and to 
 make a late call on Mrs. Bede Greatorex, if haply that fashion- 
 able dame might be found at home : Hamish Channing had 
 passed into his study. There, alone with himself and his 
 emotions, he once more unfolded the paper. All the time he 
 had sat with it in his pocket, a sweet tumultuous hope had been 
 stirring his bosom ; he could hardly forbear, in his eagerness to 
 realize it, telling them to hasten and depart. And when they 
 were really going, it seemed that they were a month over it. 
 He stood up wishing them good night. 
 
 " By the way, Hamish, I should think your book would soon 
 be getting reviewed," spoke crafty Gerald, who had seen the 
 journal brought in, and knew what it contained. " I hope you'll 
 have good ones, old fellow." 
 
 And the wish was spoken with so much apparent frankness, 
 the voice had in it so vast an amount of feeling, that Hamish 
 gratefully wrung the offered hand. After that, even had he 
 been of a less ingenuous nature, he would have suspected 
 the whole world of abusing his book, rather than Gerald 
 Yorke. 
 
 Shut up in his study, the lamp beside him, he unfolded the 
 paper with trembling emotion, his heart beating with hap- 
 piness. It was one of those moments, and they come in all 
 our lives, which must stamp itself on the memory for ever. He 
 looked, and looked. And then put the pages away in a sort 
 of terror. 
 
 Never, in this age of bitter reviews, had a more bitter one 
 than that been penned. But for his absolute freedom from 
 suspicion, his single-mindedness, he might possibly have recog- 
 nized Gerald Yorke's slashing style. Gerald, as its writer, 
 never once occurred to him. After a while, when the first 
 brunt of the shock had passed — and it was almost as a shock 
 of death — he took up the paper again, and read the article 
 throughout.
 
 262 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 His hair grew damp ; his face burnt with a liot sliamc. With 
 this apparently candid, but most damnatory review before his 
 eyes, it seemed to him that his book must indeed be bad. The 
 critique was ably written, and it attacked him from all sides and 
 on all points. Gerald Yorke had taken pains with that as he 
 had never taken pains with any article before. It had been, so 
 to say, days in construction. One portion would be altered 
 to-day, one to-morrow ; with the result that it told. The lead- 
 ing characteristic of the whole was sarcastic mockery. The 
 scholarship of the book was attacked, (and the scholarship of 
 its writer formed a chief point of envy in a corner of Gerald's 
 heart); its taste, its style, its tone. The pen had been steeped 
 in gall. Rounded periods spoke of the work's utter worthless- 
 ness, and affectionately warned the public against reading it. 
 Its author was called an impudent upstart. It demanded 
 what he meant by foisting such a book on the ]:)ublic ; won- 
 dered how it had found a publisher ; almost prayed the gods 
 presiding over literary careers, to deliver unhappy readers 
 from James Channing Abuse and ridicule, ridicule and abuse, 
 rang the changes upon one another. Hamish read ; he turned 
 back and read again ; and the fatal characters burnt themselves 
 into his brain as with unquenchable fire. 
 
 What a reward it was ! Speaking only as a recompense for 
 his devotion and labour, setting aside for the moment all higher 
 considerations, how cruel was the return! The devoted "lad, 
 read of in history, concealed a fox in his bosom, and it repaid 
 him by gnawing at his vitals. That reward was not more 
 remorselessly cruel than this. Where was the use of Hamish 
 Channing's persevering industry, his patient endurance, his 
 burning the midnight candle, to bring forth this fruit? To 
 what end the never-ceasing care? While Gerald Yorke had 
 been flourishing in society, Hamish Channing had been toiling. 
 Burning his candle, so to say, at both ends ! Unwearied in- 
 dustry, patient continuance in labour, ever-trustful hope— all 
 had been his. 
 
 Does the reader realize, I wonder, what is this exercise of 
 brain-work day by day, and often night by night, week after 
 week, month after month, year after year? A book is put into 
 the hands of a man — or say a woman, if you will — and he reads 
 it with ardour or coolness, more or less of either as the case 
 may be, makes his complaisant comments, says the book is a 
 nice book, and seems almost to think it has been brought out
 
 AS IRON INTO THE SOUL. 263 
 
 for his spcciol delectation. T>nt docs lie ever give a thought 
 to the toil that book has cost the writer? Docs he look up to 
 him with even a tJioitght of gratitude? Generally speaking, no. 
 In the midst, perhaps, of adverse circumstances; long-continued 
 sickness, headache, heartache, many aches ; when the inward 
 spirit is fainting at life's bitter troubles, and it seems vain to 
 struggle more, the labour must yet be done. Look at Hamish 
 Channing ; his is no ideal case. His day's-work over, he turned 
 to his night's- work, and wrote on, until mind and body were 
 weary, ^Vhile others played, he toiled ; when others were at 
 their banquetings and revellings, idling away their hours in 
 what the world calls society, Gerald Yorke one amidst them, 
 he was shut up in his room, labouring on untiringly. And this 
 was his reward ! 
 
 The utmost energies of his power and intellect had Hamish 
 Channing given to the book : the great gift of genius, which 
 had certainly been largely bestowed upon him, was exercised 
 and brought to bear upon it. No merit to him for that; he 
 could not help exercising it. It appeared to him, this writing 
 for his fellow-men, to be the special end for which he was sent 
 into the world — where every man has his appointed and pecu- 
 liar aptitude for some one calling or duty, though it happens 
 that a vast number never find out their own until it is too late. 
 A man reared, as had been James Channing, to good ; anxious 
 to live here in the fulfilment of every duty ; using this world 
 only as a passage to a better, can only write as a responsible 
 agent ; whether he may be composing a religious tract or a 
 work of fiction, he does it as to his Creator, imploring the 
 Divine help day by day. Had Hamish been required to write 
 without that sense of responsibility upon him, he would have 
 put aside his pen. 
 
 And the disappointment ! the rude, pitiless shock ! It might 
 be that such was necessary ; that it had been sent to him from 
 Heaven. The least sinful man on earth may have need of such 
 discipline. 
 
 Again Hamish read the article from beginning to end. 
 Read, and re read it. It was as if the lines possessed the 
 tatal fascination of the basilisk, attracting him against his will. 
 He writhed under the executioner's knife, while he submitted 
 to it. The book was a good and brilliant work, betraying its 
 genius in every line, well conceived, well plotted, ably written. 
 It was one of those that take captive the whole imagination of
 
 264 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the reader ; one that a man is all the better for reading, and 
 rises up from with a subdued spirit, hushed breath, and glowing 
 heart. While enchaining man's deepest interest, it yet insensibly 
 led his thoughts heavenwards. Simple though it was in its pure 
 Saxon, its sentiments were noble, generous, and exalted. Not 
 a thought was there to offend, not a line that, for purity, might 
 not have been placed in the hands of a child. Modest, as all 
 gifted with true genius are, yet possessing (for that must always 
 be) a latent consciousness of his great power, Hamish had 
 looked forward for success to his book, as surely as he looked 
 for Heaven. That it could be a failure, he had simply never 
 thought of; that it should be badly received, ridiculed, con- 
 demned, written down, had never entered his imagination. 
 Had he been told that such might be the result, he would have 
 quietly answered that it was impossible. 
 
 In all matters where the mind and feelings, the inward, silent 
 hopes and fears, are deeply touched, it can only be that we are 
 sensitively alive to the opinions of our fellow-men, and swayed 
 by their judgment. As Hamish C banning read and re-read, 
 learning the cruel sentences almost by rote, his heart failed 
 within him. For the time being, he thought he must have 
 erred in supposing the book so good , that it must be a foolish 
 and mistaken book, deserving only sharp criticism ; and a sense 
 of humiliation, than which nothing could be more intensely 
 painful, took possession of his spirit. 
 
 But the belief could not remain. The mood changed again. 
 The book resumed its estimated place in his mind, and the 
 sense of humiliation was superseded by the smarting conviction 
 of cruel injustice. What had he or his book done that they 
 should be so reviled? 
 
 " Lord, thou knowest all things ! surely I have not deserved 
 this 1 " irrepressibly broke from the depths of his anguish. 
 
 No, he had not deserved it. As some others have not, who 
 yet have had to bear it. It is one of the world's hard lessons, 
 one that very few are appointed to learn. Injustice and evil 
 and oppression exist in the world, and must exist until its end. 
 Only then shall we understand wherefore they arc permitted. 
 Pardon me, reader, if a line or two should seem to be repeated. 
 The many months of toil, the patient night-labour, that but for 
 the hope-spring rising in the heart might have been found too 
 wearing ; the self-denial ever exercised — all had been thrown 
 back upon Hamish Channing, and rendered, as it were, null
 
 AS IRON INTO THE SOUL. 265 
 
 and void. Try and picture to yourselves what this labour is ; 
 its aspirations of reward, its hopes of appreciation — and for a 
 wickedly disposed man, or simply a carelessly indifferent man, 
 or a vain, presumptuous man, or a man who has some petty 
 spite to gratify against author or publisher, or a rival reviewer, 
 or a man who writes but in wanton idleness, to dash it down 
 with a few strokes of a pen ! 
 
 Such things have been. They will be again. But if Gerald 
 Yorke, and others like him, would consider how they violate 
 the Divine law, it might be that the pen would now and then 
 pause in its work. 
 
 Would Gerald have to answer for it at the Great Day of 
 Reckoning? Ah, that is a question very little thought of; 
 one perhaps difficult to answer. He had set himself deliber- 
 ately in his foolish envy, his ill-conditioned spirit, to work evil 
 to Hamish Channing : to write down the book on which he 
 knew so much depended, that was loved and cherished almost 
 as life. It was within the range of possibility that he might 
 work more evil than he bargained for. Heaven is not in the 
 habit of saying to man by way of reminder when he gets up 
 in a morning : " I am looking at you ; " but it has told us 
 that every secret word and thought and action shall be brought 
 to light, whether it be good or whether it be evil. Gerald 
 ignored that, after the fashion of this busy world; and was 
 perfectly self-complacent under the ignoring. 
 
 Only upon such a mind as Hamish Channing's, with his 
 nervous attributes of genius, his refined sensitiveness, could 
 the review have brought home its greatest bitterness. Fortu- 
 nately such minds are very rare. Cierald Yorke had little 
 conception of the extent of its fruit. He would have set on 
 and sworn off his anger, and called the writer, who could thus 
 stab in the dark, a false coward, and sent him by wishes to all 
 kinds of unorthodox places, and vowed aloud to his friends 
 that he should like to horsewhip or shoot him. Thus the 
 brunt, with him, would have been worked off; the vital feelings 
 never so much as touched, if, indeed, Gerald possessed any. 
 It was another thing with Hamish Channing. He could almost 
 have died, rather than have spoken of the attack to any living 
 man ; and if forced to it, as we are sometimes forced to un- 
 welcome things, it would have brought the red flush of shame 
 to his sensitive brow, to his stricken spirit. 
 
 He sat onj on, with his aching heart. One hand was
 
 266 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 pressed upon liis chest : a dull pain had seated itself there. 
 Never again, as it seemed to him, should he look up from the 
 blow. More and more the cruelty and the injustice struck 
 upon him. Does it so strike upon you, reader ? The book 
 was not perfection (I never yet met with one that was, in spite 
 of what the reviews chose to affirm of Mr. Gerald Yorke's), 
 but it was at least written in an earnest, truthful spirit, to the 
 utmost of the abilities God had given him. How had it 
 invoked this requital? Hamish pondered the question, and 
 could not answer it. What had he done to be thus shown up 
 to the public ; a butt for any, that would, to throw scorn at ? 
 There was no appeal ; there could be no redress. The book 
 had been held forth to the world — at least to the thousands 
 that would read the Snarler — as bad and incapable, one 
 they must avoid as the work of a miserably presumptive 
 man. 
 
 A slight movement in the next room, and Mrs. Channing 
 came in with Nelly. ?iliss Nelly, in consideration of the late 
 substantial repast, had not been sent to bed at the usual hour. 
 Hamish slipped the review inside his desk, and greeted them 
 with a smile, sweet-tempered as ever under the blow. But 
 his wife saw that some change lay on his face. 
 
 "Is anything the matter, Hamish? You look — worn; as 
 if you had received some bad news." 
 
 " Do I ? I am a little tired, Ellen. It has been a very hot 
 day." 
 
 " I thought you were not going to work to-night." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not working. Well, young lady, what now ? " 
 
 Miss Nelly had climbed on to his knees. She had been 
 brought in to say good night. 
 
 "Whcn's the ship coming home, papa?" 
 
 He suddenly bent down and hid his face on the child's 
 bright one. Heaven alone knew what the moment's suffering 
 was, and how he contrived not to betray it. 
 
 "Will it come to-morrow, papa?" 
 
 "We shall see, darling. I don't know." 
 
 The subdued, patient tone had something of hopelessness in 
 it. Mrs. Channing thought he must be very tired. 
 
 " Come, Nelly," she said. " It is late, you know." 
 
 He kissed the child tenderly as ever, but so quietly, and 
 whispered a prayer for God to bless her ; his tone sounding as 
 one of subdued pain, almost as though his heart were breaking.
 
 AS IRON INTO THK SOUL. 267 
 
 And Nelly went dancing out, talking of llic ship and the good 
 things it was to bring her. 
 
 Almost immediately after, a gentleman was shown in. It 
 was the publisher of the book. Late though the hour was, he 
 had come in some perturbation, bringing with him a copy of 
 the Snarlcr. 
 
 "Have you any enemy, Mr. Channing?" was almost the 
 first question he asked, when he found Hamish had seen the 
 article. 
 
 "Not one in the wide world, as far as I know." 
 
 "The review is so remarkably unjust, so utterly at variance 
 with fiict and truth, that I should say only an enemy could 
 have done it," persisted the publisher. " Look, besides, at 
 the rancour of its language, its evident animus ; I scarcely ever 
 read so aggravated an attack." 
 
 But still Hamish could only reiterate his conviction. " I 
 have no enemy." 
 
 " Well, it is a great i)ity ; in foct a calamity. When once an 
 author's reputation is made and he is a favourite with the 
 public, bad reviews cannot harm him : but to a first book, 
 where the author is unknown, they are sometimes fatal." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they are," acquiesced Hamish. 
 
 "We must wait now for the others, Mr. Channing. And 
 hope that they will be the reverse of this. But it is a sad thing 
 — and, I must say, a barefaced injustice." 
 
 Nothing more could be said, nothing done. The false 
 review was in the hands of the public, and Hamish and his 
 publisher were powerless to arrest or remedy the evil. The 
 gentleman went out, leaving Hamish alone. 
 
 Alone with his blow and its anguish. He felt as one who, 
 living all night in a sweet dream, has been rudely awakened to 
 some terrible reality. The hopes of years were dashed away ; 
 life's future prospects were broken up. If ever the iron entered 
 into the soul of man, it had surely passed into that of James 
 Channing. 
 
 The injustice of the thing told upon him more than all ; the 
 unmerited stab would damage him for ever. In his bitter 
 strife, he almost dared to ask how men could be permitted 
 thus to prey one upon another, and not be checked by Heaven's 
 lightning. But, to that there might be no answer : others have 
 asked it before him.
 
 268 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that 
 are done under the sun : and behold the tears of such as were 
 oppressed, and they had no comforter ; and on tlie side of their 
 oppressors there was power : but they had no comforter. 
 Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than 
 the living which are yet alive." 
 
 Involuntarily, with a strange force, these words passed 
 through the mind of James Channing. 
 
 But the wise King of Israel — and God had given him more 
 than earthly wisdom— could give no explanation of why this 
 should be.
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DURING THE AUTUMN. 
 
 The year had gone on to October, and tliat month was quickly 
 passing. 
 
 The lapse of some three or four months had not brought 
 any change worthy of record : people and things were very 
 much in the position they had been : but a slight summary 
 must be given. 
 
 Bede Greatorex had been on the wing. Early in August he 
 went abroad with his wife, choosing Switzerland as his first 
 halting-ground. Bede had proposed some place (if it could 
 be found) less frequented by the English ; and Mrs. Bede had 
 retorted that if he wanted to vegetate, he might go abroad 
 alone. In the invariable kindness and consideration Bede 
 observed to her, even to her whims, he yielded : and they went 
 off in the wake of a shoal of tourists, with another shoal 
 behind them. 
 
 It was Mr. Greatorex who had insisted on this holiday for 
 Bede. " You arc growing more inca])able of work every day," 
 he plainly said to him : " a rest will, I hope, restore you ; and 
 take it you must." licdc yielded. That he was very nuich 
 in need of a change of some sort, he knew. And of rest also 
 — if he could only get it. But the latter might be harder to 
 obtain than Mr. Greatorex suspected. 
 
 So they went to Switzerland : Bede and his wife, and her 
 maid Tallet. Bede thought the party would have been a great 
 deal more compact and comfortable without the lady's-maid, 
 and he gently hinted as much. The hint was quite lost on 
 Mrs. Bede, who took not the smallest notice of it. In point 
 of fact, that lady (besides being incorrigibly idle, never domg 
 an earthly thing for herself) had absolute need of artistic aid 
 in the matter of making-up : face and shape and hair and attire
 
 270 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 requiring daily renovation. From Switzerland they went about 
 to other places, not necessary to be noted, and returned home 
 the middle of October, after rather more than two months' 
 absence ; followed by nearly a fourgon of fashions from Paris : 
 for that seductive capital had been their last resting-place, and 
 Mrs. Bede had found its uiagashis as seductive as itself. Bode 
 winced at the cheques he had to draw. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex started with alarm when he saw his son. 
 They reached home at night, having come up by the tidal 
 train from Folkestone, which had been somewhat delayed by 
 the boat's rough passage. During their absence, it had been 
 the quietest and happiest home imaginable, consisting of Mr. 
 Greatorex, Annabel Channing, and the little girl ; Frank 
 Greatorex having holiday as well as Bede. For visitors they 
 had Henry William Ollivera and Roland Yorke, one or the 
 other dropping in to tea two or three times a week. Mr, 
 Greatorex was as a very father to Annabel ; and Miss Jane, 
 subjected to regularity and good influences only, was on h,er 
 best behaviour. The old lawyer, in the happy quiet, the relief 
 conferred by the absence of commotion and jNIrs. Bede, thought 
 the good old times had come back again. 
 
 All three were sitting together in the drawing-room when 
 Bede and his wife entered. Tlie rays of the chandelier flashed 
 full on Bede's face, and Mr. Greatorex started. Far from his 
 son's having benefited by the tour, he looked worse than 
 ever. His cheeks were hollow and hectic, his face was alto- 
 gether worn. Perhaps for the first time it struck Mr. Greatorex, 
 as he glanced from one to the other, that she likewise looked 
 thin and worn, with restless eyes and hollow cheeks that were 
 hectic also. But in the hectic there was this difference : Bede's 
 was natural, hers was put on. What would they have been 
 without the rouge ? 
 
 Bede said he was better. When Mr. Greatorex spoke 
 seriously to him on the following morning, advising a con- 
 sultation, Bede laughed. He declared that the rest from 
 business had done him an immense amount of good. Thin? 
 Of course he was thin. So was Touisa — did Mr. Greatorex 
 not notice it ? So was the maid, for the matter of that. They 
 had gone whirling about from place to place, a little too fast, 
 he supposed, making a toil of pleasure. And then the frightful 
 sea passage ! Of course they looked the worse for it last night, 
 but they were both all right this morning.
 
 DURING THE AUTUMN, 271 
 
 So spoke Bede, and went to work with a will : really with 
 some of his old energy. He appeared fresh and tolerably well 
 after his night's rest ; and Mr. Greatorex felt reassured. 
 
 Gerald Yorke was another who had taken holiday. Gerald 
 had managed to get an invitation to cruise in the Honourable 
 Mr, Fuller's yacht ; and Gerald, with two or three other guests, 
 went careering off for the space of six weeks. Before starting, 
 he had accomplished his reviewing work with regard to Hamish 
 Channing's book — but that can be left until later. Gerald 
 enjoyed himself amazingly. The yacht occasionally put into 
 foreign ports, when they would take a few days' cruise on land. 
 The honourable owner treated his friends right royally, and 
 Gerald had not felt so much at ease since he was a boy. By 
 a slice of luck, which Gerald hardly believed in at the time, he 
 had induced Vincent Yorke to lend him fifty pounds before 
 starting, and he thought himself commendably generous in 
 dividing this with his wife. 
 
 " Now mind, Winny," he said to her on the morning of his 
 departure, " I shall be away about five weeks. It can't take 
 you five pounds a week to live and pay rent, so I shall expect 
 you to have a good sum in hand when I get back again. I'll 
 drop you a letter now and then, but you'll not be able to write 
 to me, as we shall be moving about from place to place just as 
 the wind or mood takes us." 
 
 Therefore, on the score of his wife and children, Gerald was 
 at ease ; and he quite expected, after his charge to Winny, that 
 she would have something like eight or ten pounds left of the 
 twenty-five ; at least, that she ought to have. He was out of 
 reach of creditors too. He did not allow the future to trouble 
 him (he never did), and Gerald gave himself up wholly to the 
 enjoyment of the present. 
 
 Little did Gerald Yorke suspect, as he leaned over the side 
 of the yacht in seductive indolence, smoking his cigar and 
 sipping his iced Burgundy, that poor Winny's money had come 
 to an end before the second week was over. It might not 
 have cost him a single moment's care if he had known it, for 
 Gerald was one upon whom no earthly person's trouble made 
 the smallest impression, unless it touched him personall)'. 
 Effectually out of the way himself, Winny might just have 
 done as best she could. Gerald would have wished he was 
 at hand to tell her she deserved a shaking for her folly, and 
 dismissed the matter from liis mind.
 
 272 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 The way the money went so soon, was this. Gerald's man- 
 servant in chambers, just as glad as his master to be respited 
 from troublesome creditors, informed one of that ill-used body 
 where Mr, Gerald Yorke had gone, on the very day following 
 the departure. " Cruising over the sea in a lord's yacht to 
 foreign parts, and likely to be away till winter." Of course 
 this struck the applicant speechless. He happened to know 
 that Gerald Yorke had a wife and family in town, and set him- 
 self forthwith to learn their address. This he found not very 
 difficult to accomplish. His own debt was not a very heavy 
 one, rather less than six pounds. Down he went, demanded 
 an interview with Mrs, Yorke, and so scared her senses away 
 by insisting upon instant payment there and then, that Winny 
 handed over the money. Other creditors heard of this ; went 
 down too, and insisted upon the same prompt payment, 
 Winny had many virtues no doubt, but that of courage she 
 could certainly not boast of. In all that related to debt and 
 its attendant annoyances, she was timid as a fawn. To be 
 pressed for an account and not pay it if she had the money in 
 her possession, was simply impossible to Winifred Yorke, But 
 this I think has been hinted at before. When the last fraction 
 of the twenty-five pounds had left her (in a payment of four 
 pounds ten to a stern-looking, but by no means abusive man), 
 Winny burst into tears : declaring she did not expect her hus- 
 band home for weeks, did not know where to write to him, and 
 had not a sixpence left for herself and her poor little children. 
 Upon that the man put the half-sovereign back into Mrs. Yorke's 
 hand without a word, and departed. 
 
 So there was Winny, literally without a sixpence, this ten 
 sliillings excepted, and Gerald not quite two weeks gone. But 
 for Hamish Channing and his wife, she might really have 
 starved ; most certainly she would have been turned out of 
 doors ; for the landlady, tired of Mr, Gerald Yorke's uncertain 
 finances, would not have kept her. Miss Cook said she could 
 not afford to let rooms and get no rent for them ; and no doubt 
 that was true enough. Away went Winny with lier grief and 
 lielplessness to Mrs. Channing. It was an awkward dilemma, 
 an embarrassing appeal, and Ellen Channing felt it so. On 
 the one hand, there was this helpless woman, and her little less 
 helpless children : on the other, Ellen was aware that Hamish 
 had already aided her far more extensively than he could 
 afford.
 
 DURING THE AUTUMN. 273 
 
 Oh, it was true. Many and many a little luxury (Gerald 
 would have called it a necessary) that Haniish needed in his 
 failing aealth — for it had begun to fail — did he deny himself 
 for the saice of Gerald Yorke's wife and children. His heart 
 ached for them. He took not the smallest pleasure, he often 
 walked where he ought to have ridden, he would take bread 
 and cheese for his lunch, that he might give the money saved 
 to Mrs. Yorke. In those golden dreams of fame and fortune, 
 when his book was approaching completion, and the realization 
 of its returns had apparently been drawing near (months ago 
 now, it seemed, since they were dreamt out), Hamish had 
 cherished a httle plot of setting Gerald on his legs again 
 anonymously : of putting him straight with the world, that he 
 might see his way towards a more satisfactory state of matters 
 for himself and Winny. This had been frustrated through the 
 book being written down, and a little of the grief in Hamish 
 Channing's weary heart was sighing itself out for Gerald's sake. 
 Hamish said no word of the disappointment to a living soul — 
 we are speaking now in regard to Gerald — Ellen had been his 
 sole confidant, and he did not allude to it even to her. To 
 Hamish, it seemed that there was only the more necessity for 
 helping Gerald, in administering to the necessities of his for- 
 saken wife. 
 
 And Gerald's wife had invented a pleasant fable. As the 
 weeks went on after Winny came up to London, it was not 
 possible but that Gerald should see that some one must be 
 helping her with money. Put to it for an excuse, one day that 
 Gerald asked the question point blank, and not daring to say it 
 was Hamish or Ellen Channing, Winny declared it was her 
 mother. Gerald stared a litde. Mrs. Eales lived somewhere 
 down in Wales, and existed on an annuity of sixty pounds 
 a year. But though he wondered how the good old vtere 
 contrived to help Winny so much, or in fact at all, he in- 
 quired no farther. She might be reducing herself to a crust 
 of bread and a glass of water a day ; might be, for aught he 
 knew, forestalling her income ; Gerald was content to let it be so. 
 
 And thus matters had been going on : Winny always in want, 
 and Hamish taxing himself to help her. In September, the 
 office he served offered him a fortnight's holiday, thinking he 
 looked as if he required it. Hamish thanked them, but declined. 
 He had no spirits for taking holiday, and helping Gerald's family 
 had left him no funds for it. 
 
 Roland Yorke. 13
 
 274 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 And when Winny burst into Mrs. Channing's one afternoon, 
 with the confession, that she was utterly penniless, except for the 
 half-sovereign the man had put back, and should be so until 
 Gerald came home, weeks hence, telling it in the presence of 
 her three little girls, with woe-begone face, and tears and sobs, 
 Ellen Channing felt annoyed. Mixed with her compassion for 
 Gerald's wife, was a feeling that they had already done more 
 for her than they were justified in doing. Ellen would have 
 liked the fortnight's holiday very much indeed on her own score. 
 A suspicion had begun to dawn upon her that her husband was 
 not so strong as he might be, and one morning she spoke to 
 him. It was only the hot weather, that made him feel weak, 
 Hamish answered, perhaps really thinking so. Very well, 
 argued Ellen, there was all the more necessity for going to the 
 sea-side for a change. And he would have been glad enough 
 to take the change had funds permitted it. Considering that 
 the small amounts incessantly supplied to Mrs. Gerald Yorke 
 would have taken them to the sea-side ever so many times 
 over, Mrs. Channing had/tV^ it. And to have this fresh demand 
 made upon them, when she had supposed Winny was safe for 
 some weeks to come ; to hear that she wanted money for every- 
 thing—food and lodging and washing and sundries, did strike 
 ]\Irs. Channing as being a little too much. 
 
 Ellen Channing had been, as Ellen Huntley, reared to 
 liberality. She was large-hearted by nature, open-handed by 
 habit. To refuse to continue to aid Mrs. Yorke in her need 
 would have gone against her inclination, but to continue to 
 supply her at any cost went almost equally so. What to do, 
 and what Winny would do, she could not imagine. The first 
 thing was, to take Winny's things off and comfort her for the 
 rest of the day ; the next was to send the children to Miss 
 Nelly in the nursery ; the third to wait until Hamish came in. 
 
 He arrived at the usual hour, his face a little brighter than it 
 had been of late. However James Channing might try to con- 
 ceal the curious pain — not physical yet, only mental — always 
 gnawing at his heart-strings, and to put on a brave smile before 
 his wife and the world, she detected that all was not right with 
 him. Leaving Winny, on the plea that she would see whether 
 the children were at tea, Mrs. Channing followed her husband 
 into his dressing-room. 
 
 He had just dried his hands when she entered, and was 
 turning to the glass to brush his liair. She stood by while
 
 DURING THE AUTUMN. 275 
 
 telling him of Winny's piteous state, and the impossibility, as 
 it seemed, that they could do much for her. 
 
 " Yes, we can, Ellen," he said, turning to her with his bright 
 smile when the recital was over, " 1 have had a slice of luck 
 to-day." 
 
 " A slice of luck ! " 
 
 " Even so. You remember Martin Pope, poor fellow, who 
 somehow got down in the world at Helstonleigh, and borrowed 
 a little money from me to get him up in it again ? " 
 
 "Yes, I remember. It was sixty pounds." 
 
 " Well, Ellen, he has been rather long getting up, but it is 
 really coming at last. He called in at the office this morning, 
 and repaid me half the loan. Poor Martin ! he is honourable 
 as the day. He says the not being able to repay me when the 
 bank went worried him terribly ; and all the more so, because 
 I never bothered him." 
 
 " Did you ask him for it then ? " 
 
 " No. I was sure it was not in his power to refund it, and 
 so left him in peace. Ellen, if I were dying for money — if I 
 saw my wife and child dying for it — I think I could not be harsh 
 with those who owed it me, where I knew their power and not 
 their will was in fault." 
 
 He was taking a small packet of notes from his pocket-book, 
 laughing rather gaily. 
 
 " I feel like a schoolboy showing his treasures. See, love. 
 Six five-pound notes. We can help Mrs. "Winny with some of 
 this." 
 
 Ellen's fair fresh face broke into dimples. " And we can take 
 a holiday too, Hamish." 
 
 " Ah no. At least, I can't. That's over." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 " Because when I declined, the clerk under me was allowed 
 to take one, and another of them is ill. I must stick to my 
 post this year." 
 
 The dimples hid themselves : the expectant face clouded over. 
 He noticed it. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Ellen. If you would like to go, and take 
 Nelly and nurse with you " 
 
 " Oh, Hamish, you know I would not," she interrupted, vexed 
 that he should even suggest such a thing. " I only care for it 
 for your sake ; for the rest it would be to you." 
 
 " I don't care about it for myself, love."
 
 276 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 He drew her to him as she passed on her way out of the room, 
 and kissed her fondly. Ellen let her hand rest fbr a moment 
 on his neck ; she never looked at him now, but a feeling of 
 apprehension darted through her, that he was not as strong as 
 he ought to be. 
 
 Hamish closed the door after her, finished his toilet, and then 
 stood looking from the open window. The world had changed 
 to him for some little time now ; the sunshine had gone out of 
 it. That one bitter, cruel review, had been followed up by 
 others more cruel, if possible, more bitter. The leading papers 
 were all against him. How he battled with it at the time and 
 made tw sign, he hardly knew. To heart and spirit it was a 
 death-blow ; for both seemed alike to have had their very life 
 crushed out. He went on his way still, fulfilling every duty, 
 every daily obligation kindly, courteously as of yore, believing 
 that the world saw nothing. In good truth the world did not. 
 Except that his sunny smile had always a tinge of sadness in it, 
 that he seemed to grow a trifle thinner, that his voice, though 
 sweet as ever, was low and subdued, the world noticed nothing. 
 Ellen alone saw it ; saw that a blight had fallen upon the spirits. 
 But she little guessed its extent. Hamish himself did not 
 do so. All he knew was, that a more cruel blow had been dealt 
 to him than he had supposed it possible to be experienced in 
 this life. When by chance his eye would fall on a volume of 
 his work, his very soul seemed to turn sick and faint within 
 him. It was as if he had cast his whole hopes upon a die, and 
 lost it. His dreams of fame, his visions of that best reward, 
 appreciation, had faded, and left him in darkness. Darkness, 
 and worse than darkness ; for out of it loomed mortification 
 and humiliation and shame. The contrast alone went near to 
 killing him. In the pursuit of his high artistic ideal, he had 
 lived and moved and almost had his being. The ills of life 
 had touched him not ; the glorious aspirations that made his 
 world, shielded him from life's frowns. It is ever so with those 
 rare few whom the Divine gift of genius has made its own. As 
 the grand hope of fruition drew nearer and nearer, it had seemed 
 to Hamish, at moments, that realization had actually come to 
 him. The laurel-crown seemed resting upon his head; the 
 longed-for prize all but touched his lips. No wonder, when 
 the knell of all this light and hope and blessedness boomed 
 suddenly out, that the better part of Hamish Channing's life, his 
 vitality, went with it.
 
 DURING THE AUTUMN. 277 
 
 He worked on still. His papers for the iiiagazines were 
 written as before, for he could not afford to cease writing them. 
 Gerald Yorke, borrowing here, borrowing there, might go career- 
 ing off in yachts, and pass weeks in idleness, sending work and 
 care to his friend the deuce ; but Hamish and Gerald were 
 essentially different men. Even this evening, after Hamish 
 should have dined, he must turn to his toilsome work. It was 
 felt as a toil now ; the weary pain, never quitting his bosom, 
 took all energy from him. 
 
 He stood holding the window-curtain in his rather fragile 
 hand ; more fragile than it used to be. The sky that evening 
 was very lovely. Gold-edged purple clouds were crowding the 
 west; beneath them a flood of brighter gold seemed as if it 
 must be irradiating the other side of the world, to which the 
 sun was swiftly passing. Hamish could but notice it : it is 
 not often that a sunset is so beautiful. Insensibly, as he gazed, 
 thoughts stole over him of that other world, where there shall 
 be no need of the sun to lighten it : where there shall be no 
 more bitter tears or breaking hearts ; where sorrow and trouble 
 shall have passed away. These same thoughts came to him 
 very often now, and always with a sort of yearning. 
 
 As he took his hand from the curtain, with that deep-drawn 
 sigh which is a sure token of some long-concealed sorrow — for 
 else it is never heard — the signet-ring fell from his little finger. 
 It had grown too large for him as we are apt to say. *' If I 
 don't take care, I shall lose it," thought Hamish. And that 
 would have been regarded as a misfortune, for it had been his 
 father's, the one Mr. Channing always wore and used. This 
 was the third time it had slipped off 
 
 Hamish saw his wife's work-box on a table, looked for, and 
 found some black sewing-silk. This he hastily wound round 
 and round the ring, for he knew dinner must be waiting. Thus 
 secured, he put it on again, and left the room. The children 
 heard his step, and came bounding out of the nursery, Miss 
 Nelly springing into his arms. 
 
 He kissed her very tenderly ; lovingly put back her golden 
 hair. He took up the other little things and kissed them in 
 turn, asking if they had had love-letters from papa. Looking 
 into the nursery, he inquired whether they had plenty of jam 
 and good things on the tea-table, telling nurse to see that little 
 Rosy, who could not fight for herself, had her share. Then, 
 leaving them with his pleasant nod, and sunny smile, he went
 
 278 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 to the drawing-room, and gave their mother his arm to take her 
 down to dinner, whispering to her — for she seemed depressed, 
 her tears on the point of brimming over — that he would make 
 it all right for her until her husband came home. And it was 
 that husband, that father, who had worked him all the evil ! 
 Hamish suspected it not. Cowards, and malicious cowards, 
 such as Gerald, stab in the dark. 
 
 And so September went on, and Octooer drew near, and by- 
 and-by Mr. Gerald Yorke arrived home again. Winny, who 
 had no more tact than her youngest infant, the little Rosy, 
 greeted her husband with a flood of tears, and the news of how 
 she had been obliged to pay away the twenty-five pounds in 
 setding his bills. Gerald called her a fool to her face, and 
 frowned awfully, Winny only sobbed. Next he demanded, 
 with a few more ugly words that might have been left out, 
 how the devil she had managed to go on. Between choking 
 and shrinking, the answer was almost inaudible, and Gerald 
 bent his head to catch it : she had had a little more help from 
 " mamma." 
 
 Was Mrs. Gerald Yorke's deceit excusable? Even under 
 the circumstances few may think it so. And yet — it w^as a 
 choice between this help, and the very worst discomfort that 
 could fall upon her : that of debt. Winny was shrewd in some 
 things : she knew all about her husband's ill-feeling to Mr. 
 Channing : she knew about the reviews ; and she really be- 
 lieved that if Gerald heard whence her help had come, he 
 would shake her as he shook Kitty. In her utter want of 
 moral courage, she could only keep up the deception. 
 
 Bvit Gerald Yorke had come home in great feather, a prize- 
 rose in his button-hole. By dint of plausible statements to Mr. 
 Fuller, he had got that honourable friend to lend him two 
 hundred pounds. Or rather, strictly speaking, to get it lent 
 to him. With this money safely buttoned up in his pocket, 
 Winny's penniless state was not quite so harshly condemned 
 as it might otherwise have been : but when Winny timidly 
 asked for some money to " pay mamma back," Gerald shortly 
 answered that he had none : mamma must wait. 
 
 And so, at the opening of this third part of our story, 
 Gerald Yorke was flourishing. A great man he, in his cham- 
 bers again, free from duns for a time, giving his wine parties, 
 entering into the gaieties of social life, with nil their waste of 
 time and money. Winny's rent was paid now, regularly,
 
 DURING THE AUTUMN. 279 
 
 and some new bonnets for herself and the cliildrcn were 
 bought. 
 
 "I am so glad to hear you are more at ease, Gerald," 
 Hamish Channing said, accidentally meeting him one day, and 
 speaking with genuine kindness, but never hinting at any debt 
 that might be due to himself. " How have you managed it, 
 old friend?" 
 
 " Oh — aw — I — paid the harpies a — aw — trifle, and have — 
 aw — got some credit again," answered Gerald, evading the 
 offered hand. " Good day. I'm in a hurry." 
 
 But Gerald Yorke, though flourishing in funds, was not 
 flourishing in temper. Upon one subject it was chronically 
 bad, and he as angry and mortified as he could be. And that 
 was in regard to his future prospects in the field of literature. 
 Three or four days after his return, he paid a visit to his 
 publishers, hoping there might be a good round sum coming 
 to him, the proceeds of his book. Alas for sublunary expecta- 
 tions ! The acting partner met him with a severely cold face 
 and very bad news. The flashing reviews, written, as may be 
 remembered, by Gerald himself or his bosom-friends, had not 
 served the book, after all, in the long-run. AMien they ap- 
 peared, it caused demands for it to flow in, and a considerable 
 number of copies went out. But when the public got the 
 book, they could not or would not read it, and the savage 
 libraries returned the copies to the publishers, wholly refusing 
 to pay for them. They sent them back in shoals : vowed that 
 the puffing of an utterly miserable book in the extraordmary 
 style that this one had been puffed, was nothing less than 
 fraud. Some went so far as to say that publishers and author 
 and reviewers ought all to be indicted for conspiracy. In 
 short, the practical result was, that the book might almost be 
 said to be withdrawn, so few copies remained in circulation. 
 In all respects it was an utter failure. No wonder the unhappy 
 publisher, knowing himself wholly innocent in the matter, 
 smarting under a considerable loss, besides the fifty pounds 
 that ought to have been advanced by Gerald, and never yet 
 had been : no wonder that he met Mr. Gerald Yorke with 
 a severe face. The only gratification afforded him lay in idliiig 
 this, and enlarging rather insultingly on the worthlessness of 
 the book. 
 
 " You, a reviewer, could not have failed to know it was had., 
 Mr. Yorke ; one that was certain to foil signally."
 
 28o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "No I didn't know it," roared Gerald. 
 
 " Well, I would recommend you never to attempt another. 
 That field is closed to you." 
 
 " What the devil do you mean ? — How dare you presume to 
 give me such advice ? I shall write books without end if I 
 think fit to do so. My firm belief is that the failure is your 
 fault. You must have managed badly, and not properly pushed 
 the book." 
 
 " Perhaps it is my fault that the public can't read the book 
 and won't put up with it," retorted the publisher, 
 
 Gerald flung away in a temper. A hazy doubt, increasing 
 his mortification and anger, kept making itself heard i whether 
 this opinion of the book's merits might not be the true one ? 
 Hamish Channing, though softening the fiat, had expressed 
 just the same. Gerald would very much have liked to pitch 
 publisher and public into the sea, and Hamish Channing with 
 them. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE, 
 
 Roland Yorke had stuck to his copying. During the autumn, 
 now rapidly passing, when all the world and his wife were on 
 the wing, spending their money, and taking their pleasure — 
 which Roland thought uncommonly hard on him — he had 
 really put his shoulder to the wheel and drudged on at his 
 evening work. The oflice had him by day, the folios by night. 
 And if he hindered an evening or two a week by dropping in 
 upon Mr. Greatorex aiid somebody else who was in Mr. Grea- 
 torex's house, he sat up at his work when he reached home. 
 Truly Roland had learnt a lesson at Port Natal, for this was 
 very different from what he would have done in the old days 
 at Helstonleigh. It could not be said that he was making a 
 fortune. The writing came to grief sometimes; Roland was 
 as fond of talking as ever, by way of accompaniment to labour, 
 and the result would be that words were left out in places and 
 wrong ones penned in others : upon which fresh paper had to 
 be taken, arid the sheet begun again. Therefore lie was ad-
 
 ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE. 281 
 
 vancing rather more surely than swiftly : his present earnings 
 amounted in the aggregate to two sovereigns ! And tliesc he 
 deposited for safety in Mrs. Jones's hands. 
 
 But Roland is not writing this October evening : which, all 
 things considered, was destined to turn out rather a notable 
 one. A remark was made in a former chapter, that Roland, 
 from the state of ecstatic delight he was thrown into by the 
 news that Arthur Channing w^as about to visit London, did 
 not quite know whether he stood on his head or his heels. 
 ]\Iost assuredly that same remark might be applied to him this 
 evening. Upon dashing into his room, a little before six 
 o'clock, Roland found on his tea-table a letter that had arrived 
 by the day-mail from Helstonleigh. Recognizing Arthur's 
 handwriting, he tore it open, read the few lines it contained, 
 and burst forth into a shout so boisterous and prolonged, that 
 the Reverend ]\Ir. Ollivera, quietly reading in the drawing- 
 room above, leaped from his seat in consternation, fully believ- 
 ing that some one was on fire. 
 
 Arthur Channing was coming to London ! That same even- 
 ing. Almost at that very hour he ought to be arriving at 
 Euston-Square Station. Roland did not give himself leisure to 
 digest the why and the wherefore of the journey, or to specu- 
 late upon why the station should be Euston Square and not 
 Paddington. Arthur was coming, and that was sufificient for 
 him. 
 
 Neglecting his tea, brushing himself up, startling Mrs. Jones 
 with the suddenness of the tidings, which he burst into her 
 room to deliver, Roland set off for Euston Square. As usual, 
 he had not a fraction of money in his pocket That was no 
 impediment to his arriving in time : and the extraordinary 
 manner in which he pushed his way along the streets, caused 
 a crowd of little ragamuffins to collect and follow him, believ- 
 ing that, like Johnny Gilpin, he was doing it for a wager. 
 
 Charles, the youngest of the Channing family, was coming 
 home overland, via Marseilles, from Lidia, where he had an 
 excellent appointment. He had gone to it at eighteen, two 
 years ago, and been very well until recently. All at once his 
 health failed, and he was ordered home for a six-months' 
 sojourn. It was to meet him in London, where he might be 
 expected in a day or two, and take him down to Helstonleigh, 
 that Arthur Channing was now coming up. 
 
 Panting and breathless with haste, wild with excitement,
 
 282 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Roland went striding on the platform just as the train came 
 steadily in. It was a mercy he did not get killed. Catching 
 sight of the well-remembered face — though it was aged and 
 altered now, for the former stripling of nineteen had grown 
 into the fine man of seven-and-twenty — Roland sprang forward 
 and held on to the carriage. Porters shouted, guards flew — 
 it was all one to him. 
 
 They stood together on the platform, hand locked in hand : 
 but that French customs do not prevail with us, Roland might 
 have hugged Arthur's life out of him. Tears were in his eyes 
 with the genuineness of his emotion. Roland's love for his 
 early friend, who had once suffered so much for his sake, was 
 no simulated one. The spectators spared a minute to turn 
 and gaze on the two notable young men. Arthur was nearly 
 as tall as Roland, very noble and distinguished. His face had 
 not the singular beauty — as beauty — of Hamish's, but it was 
 good, calm, handsome : one of those that thoughtful men like 
 to look upon. His grey eyes were dark and deep, his hair was 
 auburn. 
 
 " Arthur, old friend, I could die of joy. If you only knew 
 how often I have dreamt of this ! " 
 
 Arthur laughed, pressed his hand warmly, and more warmly, 
 ere he released it. " I must see after my luggage at once, 
 Roland. I think it is lost." 
 
 *' Lost your luggage ? " 
 
 " Yes ; in so far as that it has not come with me. This," 
 showing a basket, covered with tissue-paper, that he brought 
 out of the carriage with his umbrella and a small parcel, " is 
 something Lady Augusta asked me to convey to Gerald." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Grapes, I fancy. She charged me not to let it be crushed. 
 I sent my portmanteau on to the station by Galloway's man, 
 and when I arrived there could not see him anywhere. When 
 we reached Birmingham it was not to be found, and I tele- 
 graphed to Helstonleigh. The guard said if it came to 
 Birmingham in time he would put it in the van. I only 
 reached the station as the train was starting, and had no time 
 to look round me." 
 
 "But what took you round by Birmingham?" 
 
 " Business for Galloway. I had three or four hours' work to 
 do for him there." 
 
 " Bother Galloway ! Mow are the two mothers ? " continued
 
 ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE. 283 
 
 Roland, as they walked arm-in-arm down the platform. " How's 
 everybody ? " 
 
 " Yours is very well ; mine is not. She has never seemed 
 quite the thing since my father's death, Roland. Every one 
 else is well; and I have no end of messages for you." 
 
 They stood round the luggage-van until it was emptied. 
 Nothing had been turned out belonging to Arthur Channing. 
 It was as he feared — the portmanteau was not there. 
 
 "They will be sure to send it on from Birmingham by the 
 next train," he remarked. " I shall get it in the morning." 
 
 *' 'NMiere was the good of your coming by this duffing train ? " 
 cried Roland. " It's as slow as an old cart-horse. I should 
 have taken the express." 
 
 " I could not get away before, Roland. Galloway made a 
 point of my doing all there was to do." 
 
 " Cantankerous, exacting old beauty ! Are his curls flourish- 
 ing ? " 
 
 Arthur smiled. " Charming still, but growing a little thin." 
 
 "And you are getting on well, Arthur ?" 
 
 " Very well. My salary is handsome ; and I believe the 
 business, or part of it, will be mine some day. We had better 
 take a cab, Roland. I'll get rid of Gerald's parcel first. This 
 small one is for Hamish. Stay a moment, though." 
 
 He wrote down the name of a pri\ate hotel near the Strand, 
 where he intended to stay, requesting that the portmanteau 
 should be sent there on its arrival. 
 
 Jumping into a hansom, Roland, who had not recovered his 
 head, gave the address of Gerald's chambers. As they were 
 spinning along the lighted streets, however, he impulsively 
 arrested the cab, without warning Arthur, and substituted Mrs. 
 Gerald Yorke's lodgings. They were near at hand ; but that 
 was not his motive for the change. 
 
 "If we leave the grapes at the chambers, Ger Avill only 
 entertain his cronies with them — a lot of fast men like him- 
 self," explained Roland. " By taking them to Winny's, those 
 poor meek little mites may stand a chance of getting a few. I 
 don't believe they would ever taste anything good at all but for 
 ]\Irs. Hamish Channing." 
 
 Arthur Channing did not understand. Roland enlightened 
 him. Gerald kept up, as might be said, two establishments : 
 chambers for himself and lodgings for his wife. 
 
 " But that must be expensive," observed Arthur.
 
 284 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "Of course it is. Ger goes in for expense and fashion. 
 All well and good if he can do it— and keep it up. I think 
 he has had a windfall from some quarter, for he is launch- 
 ing out uncommonly just now. It can't be from work ; he 
 has been taking his ease all the autumn in Tom Fuller's 
 yacht." 
 
 '* 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 recognize him now, he is so grand and stuck-up. 
 He wouldn't 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 wouldn't move a finger 
 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 of the bank-note at Galloway's. The 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 
 \yith that past 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 would 
 never have gone : Miss Nelly might have done her errand her- 
 self. 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 waded 
 through nearly one volume, and it was a task. It was im- 
 possible to make head or tail of it. I know I'm different from 
 other folk, 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 /thought the book a rubbish- 
 ing 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 
 feathers, Ger would have stuck them in his cap. And he 
 pretty nearly did. I'll icll yon what book I read— and cried
 
 ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE. 285 
 
 over it too — and got up from it feeling better and happier — and 
 that's Hamish's." 
 
 A glad Hght 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 it," he said in hushed tones. " I 
 should have felt just the same had he been a stranger to me." 
 
 " Ay, indeed : it was something of that sort 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 about them on my own score : I shouldn't like to do 
 so. When I get rich, I mean to go against the papers for 
 libel." 
 
 " We cannot understand it down with us," said Arthur. " On 
 the Saturday night that William Yorke returned 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 was a pretty strong one. " If I could find 
 out the writer, Arthur, I'd have 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 ratlier singular in the matter, was 
 this," observed Arthur: "that the self-same journals which so 
 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, 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 books and all the reviews. 
 It was a sin and a shame, and a puzzle, he said ; a humbug 
 altogether, and he should like, for the satisfaction of his own
 
 286 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 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 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 
 on him." 
 
 "Why do you say 'his sad way?' Hamish always had the 
 sweetest and gayest smile in the world. ^Ve used, if you re- 
 member, 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 light; but that was nothing to the way he 
 has changed lately. I wouldn't 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 wouldn't move me," avowed candid Roland. 
 
 " The newspapers might take hold of all my flounderings 
 at Port Natal, and print them for public benefit in big type 
 to-morrow, and direct a packet to Annabel. A\'hat should I 
 care ? I say, how about poor Charley ? He has been ill." 
 
 "Very ill. They have given him six months' leave, and 
 paid his passage out and home." 
 
 " And how much leave have you got for London, Arthur?" 
 
 *' That depends on Charley. If he comes straight on from
 
 ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE. 287 
 
 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 here for him 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; and have some small accounts to settle 
 for him amongst other things." 
 
 " Where's the money ? " asked Roland, resentfully. 
 
 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 to-night, 
 Arthur, to serve him out ! It is a shame ! Taking up the 
 little 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 something to tell you. It's about 
 Annabel. But we are close to 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. It's a shilling. 
 It's awfully lowering, having to meet friends with empty 
 pockets. I should like to have met you with a carriage-and- 
 four, and outriders; I should like to have a good house to 
 bring you into, Arthur, and I've 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 again at Port Natal. Mother 
 Jenkins has 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 her 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 Chan-
 
 238 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 ning 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 in tears. " It was so lonely," she 
 said by way of excuse. "Gerald was nearly always away. 
 To-night he had a dinner and wme 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 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 of Port 
 Natal. Fredy, Kitty, Rosy, you little pussy cats, tell mamma 
 to give you some grapes." 
 
 " I'm sure I wouldn't dare to touch the basket, though the 
 grapes remained there till they were rotten," was the last 
 sobbing sound from Mrs. Yorke that caught Roland's ears as 
 he leaped downstairs. 
 
 Their appearance at Hamish's was unexpected — for Arthur 
 had advertised himself to Roland only — but not the less wel- 
 come. Of course Hamish and his wife thought that Arthur 
 had come to be their guest, and were half inclined to resent it 
 when he said no. He had arranged to take up his sojourn at 
 a private hotel in Norfolk Street, where he had stayed before ; 
 his room had been engaged for some days, 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 face 
 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 hopeless ring, the feverish 
 cheek and hand— all were sad to hear, to feel, to look upon. 
 
 It was only 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 letters at the hotel to answer. He 
 promised to dine with them on the morrow, and to give them
 
 ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE. 289 
 
 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 to do if well 
 enough. " So you'll probably have too much 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 weight of pain, that would never be lifted, 
 lay on the spirit. 
 
 They walked to the Strand, and there Arthur made some 
 small purchases, rendered necessary by the non-arrival 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 and that you have to answer," 
 said he, resentfully, for he thought Arthur's whole time ought to 
 be given to himself on this, their first evening, " what are they ? 
 who are they from ? " 
 
 " Only from Galloway's agents, and one or two more busi- 
 ness 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 left Helstonleigh an hour 
 before the day -mail, 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 to you. All you've got to do won't take you more 
 than an hour. Can't you come up at nine to my lodgings ? 
 You'd have the felicity of seeing Mrs. J." 
 
 " I fear not to-night, Roland." 
 
 They talked a little longer, shook hands, and Arthur went 
 into the hotel. Roland, turning away, decided to air himself 
 in the Strand for an hour, then return to the hotel and get 
 Arthur to come home with him. He had not the smallest objec- 
 tion taking it in the abstract, to spend his time before the'shop 
 windows. Roland liked the pastime of looking in. Debarred 
 from purchasing by the state of his exchequer, the next best 
 thing was to gaze at all the charming objects so cunningly 
 displayed. 
 
 Roland Vorke. 10
 
 290 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Wandering up and down, he had reached the other side 
 of Temple Bar, and was looking in at a shop window, when 
 the clock of St. Clement Danes struck nine. Springing back 
 impulsively with its first stroke, Roland came into awkward 
 contact with some one, bearing on towards the Strand, But 
 the gentleman, who was as tall as himself, seemed scarcely to 
 notice the interruption, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts. 
 He put out one of his hands, cased in a lavender glove of 
 delicate hue, and slightly put the intruder aside, but took no 
 further heed. The face was never turned, the eyes never 
 diverted from their direct, far-off glance. Onward he passed, 
 seeing and hearing nothing. 
 
 " What on earth has he been up to ? — Looked as scared as 
 though he had met a ghost ! " mentally commented Roland 
 with his usual freedom, as he stared after the wayfarer. For he 
 had recognized Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 
 He did not suffer 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 fore- 
 most, with his usual clatter, haste, and want of ceremony, and 
 nearly fell into the arms of a tall waiter. 
 
 " I want Mr. Arthur Channing. Which is his room ? " 
 " Mr. Arthur Channing is gone out, sir," 
 " Gone out ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir. Some time ago." 
 
 " Found he had no letters to write, and so went on 
 to me," thought Roland, as he shot out again. "A.nd I 
 have been cooling my heels in this precious street, like a 
 booby ! " 
 
 At full speed went he home now, through all the cross-cuts 
 and nearest Avays he knew, never slackening for a moment ; 
 arriving hot and breathless. Seizing the knocker in one hand 
 and the bell in the other, he worked at both until the door 
 was opened. Mr. Ollivera, flinging up his window above, put 
 out his alarmed head ; Mrs. Jones, Miss Rye, two visitors, 
 and I'etsy the maid, came rushing down the passage with pale 
 faces, Mrs. J. herself opening the door, Betsy absolutely refus- 
 ing the office. Roland, without 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. T., where have you put him ? "
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 291 
 
 And when Mrs. J. could sufticiently gather-in the sense of 
 the question to answer it, Roland had the satisfaction — or, 
 rather dissatisfaction — of finding that Arthur Channing had 
 never been there. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 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 bcQn turned over in the matter of 
 your cheque, mysteriously lost in June last. Leastways in 
 something that might turn out to be connected with \(. Re- 
 membering back orders, and wishing to act in accordance 
 with the same, I should be glad to hold a short interview with 
 you, and would wait upon you at any hour or place you may ap- 
 point. 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, amongst 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 frown, a deep flush, followed by 
 a sickly paleness, overspread his face. Mr. Brown, looking at 
 him quite by accident, remarked the signs of emotion, and felt 
 curious to know what news could have 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 as well as troubled Bede Greatorex. 
 Who was this Butterby, that he should be continually disturb- 
 ing his peace ? What brought the man to London ? — He had 

 
 292 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 gone back to Helstonleigh in the summer, and had never, so 
 far as Bade knew, come up from it since. Was he, Bede, ere 
 he had been home a couple of weeks from his Continental 
 holiday, to be followed up by this meddling detective, and 
 his life worried again? In the moment's angry impulse, 
 Bede sat down to his desk, and began dashing off an answer, 
 to the effect that he could not accord Mr. Butterby an in- 
 terview. 
 
 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 purloined cheque and 
 certainly as ignorant of the really guilty party as Butterby 
 could be ; he had refivided the forty-four pounds with anything 
 but gratification ; but nevertheless there were grave reasons 
 why the matter should lot be reopened to his father. 
 
 Catching up the letter, he paced the room for a moment 
 or two in deep thought ; halted by the window, and read it 
 again. " Yes, I'll see him ; it Avill be safer," said he, with 
 decision. 
 
 He wrote a rapid note, appointed eleven o'clock the next 
 morning for the interview at his own office. And then again 
 paused as he was folding it ; paused and deliberated. 
 
 " Why not go to him ? " spoke Bede Greatorex, his eyes 
 fixed on the opposite wall, as if he thought the map there 
 could solve the query. "Yes, I will; I'll go to-night. That's 
 safest of all." 
 
 Noting down the address, he held Mr. Butterby's letter 
 and his own answers, perfect and imperfect, over the grate, 
 lighted a match, and reduced them to ashes. There was no 
 fire ; the weather was uncertain, warm to-day, cold to-morrow, 
 and the fire was sometimes allowed to go out in a morning as 
 soon as lighted. 
 
 Evening came. And at ten-minutes past seven Bede 
 Greatorex was on the search for Mr. Butterby. " Cuff Court, 
 Off Fleet Street." He did not know Cuff Court ; and sup- 
 posed that " Off Fleet Street " might indicate some turning 
 beginning in that well-known thoroughfare, and ending it was 
 hard to say where. Bede, however, by dint of inquiry found 
 Cuff Court at last. No. i had the appearance of a small 
 private house ; and was so in fact. The great Butterby gene-
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 293 
 
 rally lodged there when he came to town. The people re- 
 siding in it were connections of his and accommodated him ; it 
 was, as he remarked, " convenient to places." 
 
 Bede was shown upstairs to a small sitting-room. At a 
 square table, examining some papers taken from his pocket- 
 book, by the light of two gas-burners overhead, sat Jonas 
 Butterby ; the same thin wiry man as ever, in apparently the 
 same black coat, plaid trousers, and buttoned-up waistcoat ; 
 with the same green, observant eyes, and silent lips. He 
 l^ushed the papers and pocket-book into a heap when his 
 visitor appeared, and rose to receive him. 
 
 " Take a seat, sir," he said, handing a chair by the hearth 
 opposite his own, and stirring the fire in the grate. "You 
 don't object to this, I hope ? It's hardly fire-time yet, but a 
 morsel looks cheery at night." 
 
 " I like it," said Bede. He placed his hat on a side-table, 
 and unbottoned a thin overcoat he wore, as he sat down, but 
 did not take off his lavender gloves. It had always struck Mr. 
 Butterby that Bede Greatorex was one of the finest and most 
 gentlemanly men he knew, invariably well dressed. It had 
 struck him in that far-off time at Helstonleigh, when they met 
 over John Ollivera's death-chair, and it struck him still. But 
 he was looking ill, worn, anxious ; and the detective, full of 
 observation by habit, could not fail to see it. 
 
 " I'm uncommon glad you've come in, Mr. Bede Greatorex. 
 From a fresh turn some business I'm engaged on has took to- 
 day, I'm not sure but I shall have to go back to Helstonleigh the 
 first thing in the morning. Shall know by late post to-night." 
 
 "Are you living in London ?" 
 
 " Not I. I come up to it only yesterday, expecting to stop 
 a week or so. Now I find I may have to go back to-morrow : 
 the chances is about equal one way and t'other. But if I do, I 
 should not have got to see you this time, sir, and must have 
 come up again for it," 
 
 "I felt very much inclined to say I wouldn't see you," 
 answered Bede, candidly. " We are busy just now, and I 
 would a great deal rather drop the whole affair relating to the 
 cheque, than be at the trouble of raking it up again. The loss 
 of the money has been ours, and, of course, we must put up 
 with it. I began a note to you to this effect; but it struck me 
 while I was writing that you might possibly carry your news to 
 my father."
 
 294 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 *' No, I shouldn't have done that. It concerns you, so to 
 say, more than him. Been well lately, Mr. Bede Greatorcx ? " 
 
 " As well as I usually am. Why?" 
 
 " Well, sir, you are looking, if I might make bold to say it, 
 something like a shadder. Might a'most see through you." 
 
 " I have been doing too much lately. Mrs. Bede Greatorex 
 and myself were on the Continent for two months, rushing 
 about from country to country, and from place to place, seeing 
 the wonders, and taking what the world calls a holiday. It is 
 more wearing than any hard work," Bede condescended to 
 explain, but in rather haughty tones, for he thought it did not 
 lie in the detective's legitimate province to offer remarks upon 
 himself. " In regard to business, Mr. Butterby : unless you 
 have anything very particular to communicate, I would rather 
 not hear it. Let the affair die out." 
 
 " But I should not be doing my duty either way, to you or 
 to me, in letting it die out," returned Butterby. " If anything 
 worse turned up later, I might get called over the coals for it at 
 head- quarters." 
 
 " Be so good as to hasten over what you have to say, then," 
 said Bede, taking out his watch and loolcing at it with anything 
 but marked courtesy. 
 
 It produced no effect on Mr. Butterby. If his clients chose 
 to be in a hurry, he rarely was. But in his wide experience, 
 bringing, as he generally did, all keen observation to bear upon 
 his work, he felt convinced of one thing — that the gentleman 
 before him dreaded the communication he had to make, and, 
 for that reason and no other, wished to shun it. 
 
 " When that cheque was lost in the summer, Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex, you did me the honour to put a little matter into my 
 hands, confiding to me your opinion that one of your clerks 
 must have stolen it, if not on his own score, on somebody 
 else's that he was acting for. You asked me to give an eye 
 privately to the four. Not having had any satisfactory news 
 from me up to the present time, you have perhaps thought that 
 I have been neglecting the charge, and let it fall through." 
 
 " Oh, if it concerns tJmn, I shall be glad to hear you ! " 
 briskly spoke Bede Greatorex ; and to the acute ear listening, 
 the tone seemed to express relief as well as satisfaction. 
 " Have you found out that one of them did take it? " 
 
 " Not exactly. What I have found out, though, tells me 
 that it is not improbable."
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 295 
 
 " Go on, please," said Bede, impatiently. " Was it Hurst? " 
 
 ** Now, don't jump to hasty conclusions, Mr. Bode Greato- 
 rex; and you must just pardon me for giving you the ad\ice. 
 It's a good rule to observe in all cases ; and if you'd been in 
 my branch of the law as long as I have, you wouldn't need to 
 be told it. INIy own opinion was, that young Hurst was not 
 one to help himself to money, or anything else that wasn't his ; 
 but of course when you " 
 
 " Stop an instant," interrupted Bede Greatorex, starting up 
 as a thought occurred to him, and looking round in alarm. 
 " This house is small, the walls are no doubt thin ; can we be 
 overheard ? " 
 
 " You may sit down again in peace, sir," was the phlegmatic 
 answer. " It was a child of twelve, or so, that showed you up, 
 wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, except her, and her missis — who is as deaf as a post, 
 poor thing, though she is my cousin — there's not a living soul 
 in the house. The husband and son never get home till ten. 
 As to the walls, they are seven times thicker than some modern 
 ones, for the old house was built in good old substantial days. 
 And if not — trust me for being secure and safe, and my 
 visitors too, wherever I may be, Mr. Bede Greatorex." 
 
 " It was for Hurst's sake I spoke," said Bede, as a rather 
 lame apology. " It may suit me to hush it uj), even though 
 you tell me he is guilty." 
 
 " When you desired me to look after your clerks, and gave 
 me your reasons — which I couldn't at first make top or tail of, 
 and am free to confess have not got to the bottom of yet — 
 my own judgment was that young Hurst was about the least 
 likely of all to be guilty," pursued the officer, in his calmest 
 and coolest manner. " However, as you persisted in your 
 opinion, I naturally gave in to it, and looked up Hurst effec- 
 tually. Or got him looked up ; which amounts to the same 
 thing." 
 
 " Without giving any hint of my reasons for it ? " again 
 anxiously and imperatively interrupted Bede Greatorex. And 
 it nettled the detective. 
 
 " I should like to ask you a question, Mr. Bede Greatorex, 
 and to have it answered, sir. I?o you think I should be fit for 
 my post unless I had more 'cute discretion about mc than 
 ordinary folks, such as — excuse me — you ? Why, my whole
 
 296 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 work, pretty nigh, is made up of ruses and secrecy, and sending 
 people off on wrong scents. Says I to my friend — him that 
 I sets about the job — ' that young Mr. Hurst has been making 
 an undesirable acquaintance, quite innocent, lately ; he may 
 get drawn into unpleasant consequences before he knows it ; 
 and as I've a respect for his father, a most skilful doctor of 
 physic, I should like to warn the young man in time, if there's 
 danger. You just turn him hiside out ; watch all he does and 
 all he doesn't do, and let me know.' Well, sir, Hurst was 
 turned inside out, so to say. If we'd stripped him of his 
 skin, we couldn't have seen more completely into his in'ard 
 self and his doings than we did see ; and the result was, that 
 I was right and you were wrong. He had no more hand in 
 taking that there cheque, or in any other part of the matters 
 you hinted at, than this pocket-book of mine had. And when 
 I tell you that, Mr. Bede Greatorex, you may believe it." 
 
 A short silence ensued. Bede Greatorex's left elbow rested 
 on the table ; his hand, the glove off now, was pressing his 
 temple as if in thought, the costly diamond ring on his little 
 finger flashing in the gas-light. His mother had given the 
 ring to him when she was dying, expressing a hope that he 
 would wear it always in remembrance of her. It appeared to 
 Bede almost as a religious duty to obey, though few men 
 hated personal ornaments so much as he. His eyes were fixed 
 on the fire ; Mr. Butterby's on him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Greatorex, Hurst being out of the field, I 
 naturally went on to the others. Jenner I never suspected 
 at all ; 'twas not him ; and I felt morally sure, in spite of his 
 impudence to me, that this time it was not Roland Yorke. 
 Notwithstanding, I looked a little after both those gents ; and 
 I found that it was not either of 'em." 
 
 " What do you mean by ' this time ' in connection with Mr. 
 Yorke ? " inquired Bede, catching up the words, which, perhaps, 
 had slipped out inadvertently. 
 
 Butterby coughed. But he was not a bad man at heart, and 
 had no intention of gratuitously doing damage even to impu- 
 dent Roland. 
 
 " Oh well, come, Mr. Bede Greatorex — a young fellow who 
 has been out on the spec to Port Natal, seeing all sorts of life, 
 is more likely, you know, to tumble into scrapes than steady 
 young fellows who have never been let go beyond their 
 mother's apron-strings,"
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 297 
 
 "True," assented Bode Greatorex. "But in spite of his 
 travelling experiences, Roland Yorke appears to me to be one 
 of the most unsophisticated young men I know. In the ways 
 of a bad world he is as a very boy." 
 
 " He is just one of them shallow-natured, simple-minded 
 chaps that never 7vill be bad," pronounced Butterby, " except 
 in the matter of impudence. He has got enough of that to 
 set up trading in Cheapside, What he'd have been, but for 
 having got pulled up by an unpleasant check or two, I'm not 
 prepared to say. Well, sir, them three being disposed of — 
 Hurst, Jenner, and Yorke — there remained only Mr. Brown, 
 your manager. And it is about him I've had the honour to 
 solicit an interview with you." 
 
 Bede turned his eyes inquiringly from the fire to Mr. 
 Butterby. 
 
 "You said from the first you did not suspect Mr. Brown. 
 No more did I. You thought it couldn't be him. He has 
 been some years with you, and his honesty and faithfulness 
 had been sufficiently tested. I'm sure I had no reasons to 
 think otherwise, except one. Which was this : I could not 
 find out anything about Mr. Brown prior to some three or 
 four years back. His appearance on the stage of life, so to 
 say, seemed to date from then. However, sir, by your leave, 
 we'll put Brown aside for a minute, and go on to other 
 people." 
 
 Mr. Butterby paused almost as though he expected his 
 hearer to give the permission in words. Bede said nothing, 
 only waited in evident curiosity, and the other resumed. 
 
 " There was a long-established firm in Birmingham, Johnson 
 and Teague. Accountants ostensibly, but did a little in bill- 
 broking and what not; honest men, well thought of, very 
 respectable. Johnson (who had succeeded his father) was a 
 man under forty ; Teague was old. Old Teague had never 
 married, but he had a great-nephew, in the office, Samuel 
 Teague ; had brought him up, and loved him as the apple of 
 his eye. A nice young fellow in public, a spendthrift in 
 private ; that's what Sam Teague was. His salary was two- 
 hundred a year, and he lived free at his uncle's residence, out- 
 side Birmingham. His spendings were perhaps four-hundred 
 beyond the two. Naturally he came to grief, 1 )o you take 
 me, Mr, Bede Greatorex ? " 
 
 " Certainly,"
 
 298 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " In the office, one of its clerks, was a young man named 
 George Winter. A well-brought-up young fellow too, honest 
 by nature, trusted, and thought much of. He and young 
 Teague were uncommonly intimate. Now, how much blame 
 was due to Winter I'm not prepared to say ; but when Samuel 
 Teague, to save himself from some bother, forged a bill on the 
 office, and got it paid by the office. Winter was implicated. 
 He'd no doubt say, if you asked him, that he was drawn into 
 it innocently ; did say it in fact ; but he had been the one to- 
 hand over the money, and the firm and the world looked upon 
 him as the worst of the two. When the fraud was discovered. 
 young Teague decamped. Winter, in self-defence and to 
 avert consequences, went straight the same afternoon, which 
 was a Saturday, to old Teague's private residence, and there 
 made a clean breast of young Teague's long course of mis- 
 doings. It killed old Teague." 
 
 " Killed him ! " repeated Bede, for the detective paused. 
 
 " Yes, sir, killed him. He had looked upon his nephew up 
 to that time as one of the saints of this middle world ; and 
 the shock of finding him more like an angel of the lower one 
 touched old Teague's heart in some vital spot, and killed him. 
 He had a sort of fit, and died that same night. The next day, 
 Sunday, young Winter was missing. It was universally said 
 that he had made his way to Liverpool, in the track of Samuel 
 Teague — for that's where folks thought he had gone — with a 
 view of getting away to America. Both were advertised for ; 
 both looked upon as criminal. It was for such a paltry sum 
 they had perilled themselves — only a little over one-hundred 
 pounds ! Time went on, and neither of 'em was ever traced. 
 Perhaps Mr. Johnson, when he had cooled down from his first 
 anger, was willing to let Sam Teague be, for the old man's 
 sake, and so did not press the search. Any way, Samuel 
 Teague is now openly in business in New York, and doing well." 
 
 "And the other — Winter?" 
 
 " Ah, it's him I'm coming to," significantly resumed Mr. 
 Butterby. " It seems that Winter never went after him at all. 
 In the fright of finding old Teague had died, and that no 
 quarter was to be expected from Johnson (as it wasn't then) he 
 took a false name, put on false hair and whiskers, and stole 
 quietly off by the train on Sunday afternoon, carrying a shirt or 
 two in a blue bag. It was to Helstonleigh he went, Mr. Bede 
 Grcatorcx, and he called himself Godfrey Pitman."
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 299 
 
 Bede Greatorex started from his scat. Up to lliat point he 
 had been perfectly cahn ; interested of course, but as if in 
 something that did not concern him. 
 
 " Yes, sir, Godfrey Pitman. The same that was in ]\Irs. 
 Jones's house at the time of Mr. OUivera's death ; the man 
 that Helstonleigh made so much mystery of ; who was, so 
 to say, accused of the murder. And Godfrey Pitman, sir, 
 or George Winter, whichever you may please to call him, is 
 one and the same with your managing-clerk, Mr. Brown ! " 
 
 " No ! " shouted Bede Greatorex. 
 
 " I say YES, sir. The very self-same man." 
 
 Bede Greatorex, looking in a sort of wild manner, over Mr. 
 Butterby's head at the opposite wall, seemed to be revolving 
 various speculations connected with the disclosure. 
 
 "Why, Brown has always " He brought the words to a 
 
 sudden conclusion. " Brown has always unpleasantly puzzled 
 me," had been on the tip of his tongue. But the words died 
 away unspoken, and a sickly hue overspread his features. 
 Taking his eyes from the wall and turning them to the fire, he 
 sat as before, his brow pressed on his fingers, quite silent, after 
 the manner of a man who is dreaming. 
 
 " I see the disagreeable doubt that is working within you, 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex," remarked the observant detective, upon 
 whom not a sign was lost. " You are ready to say now it was 
 Pitman who did that there deed at Helstonleigh." 
 
 " How did you find out all this about him ? " asked Bede 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " Well, I got a clue accidental. Don't mind saying so. I 
 was about some business lately for a gentleman in Birmingham, 
 named Foster, and in a packet of letters he put into my hand 
 to look over, I found a note from George Winter, written from 
 your office this past summer. It was just one of those curious 
 chances that don't happen often ; for Foster had no notion 
 that the letter was there, thought he had destroyed it. It was 
 but a line or two, and of no moment, but it showed me that 
 Mr. Brown and George Winter was the same man, and I soon 
 wormed out his identity with Godfrey Pitman." 
 
 "Johnson and Go. will be for prosecuting him, I suppose?" 
 observed Bede, still as if he were dreaming. 
 
 " No," said Mr. Butterby. " Pve seen Johnson and Co. : 
 leastways Johnson. In regard to that past transaction of theirs, 
 his opinion has changed, and he thinks that Winter, though
 
 30O ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 very careless, and unpardonably blind as to the faith he 
 reposed in Samuel Teague, had not himself any guilty know- 
 ledge of the matter. Any way, Winter has been doing what 
 he can since to repair mischief: been living on a crust and 
 working night and day, to transmit sums periodically to John- 
 son in an anonymous manner — except that he just let it be 
 known they came from him, by giving no clue as to where he 
 was, or how he gained them — with a view to wiping off the 
 money Sam Teague robbed them of. Teague has been doing 
 the same from his side the Atlantic," added Mr. Butterby, with 
 a knowijig laugh ; " so that Johnson, as he says, is paid twice 
 over." 
 
 "Then they don't prosecute ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it. And I'm free to confess that, taking in 
 all aspects of the affair — Brown's good conduct since then, and 
 the probability that Sam Teague was the sole offender — the 
 man has shown himself in all ordinary pecuniary interests just 
 as honest and trustworthy as here and there one." 
 
 " Did he " Bede Greatorex hesitated, stopped, and 
 
 then went on with his sentence — " take my cheque ? " 
 
 "That must be left to your judgment, sir. I've no cause 
 myself to make sure of it. The letter to Foster was written 
 about the time that the cheque was lost, or a few days later ; 
 it made an allusion to money, Brown saying he was glad to be 
 out of his debt, but whether the debt was pounds or shillings, 
 I've no present means of knowing. Foster wouldn't answer 
 me a syllable ; was uncommonly savage at his own carelessness 
 in letting the letter slip in with the other. Living close and 
 working hard, Brown would have money in hand of his own, 
 without touching yours, Mr. Bede Greatorex." 
 
 Bede nodded. 
 
 " On the other hand, a man who has lain under a cloud is 
 more to be doubted than one who has walked about in the open 
 sunshine all his life. The presenter of that cheque at the 
 Bank had a quantity of black hair about his face, just as the 
 false Godfrey Pitman had on his at Helstonleigh. But it would 
 be hardly fair to suspect Brown on that score, seeing there's so 
 many faces in London adorned with it naturally." 
 
 Again Bede nodded in acquiescence. 
 
 " Of course, sir, if you choose to ])ut it to the test, you might 
 have Mr. Brown's face dressed up for it, and let the Bank see 
 him. Anyway, 'twould set the matter at rest."
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 30I 
 
 "No," said Bede, quite sharply. " No, I should not like to 
 do it. I never thought of Brown in the affair ; never. I — 
 can't — don't — think of him now." 
 
 Did he not now think of him ? Buttcrby, with his keen 
 ears, fancied the concluding sentence had a false ring in it. 
 
 " Well, sir, that lies at your own option. I've done my duty 
 in making you acquainted with this, but I've no call to stir in 
 it, unless you choose to put it officially into my hands. But 
 there's the other and graver matter, Mr. Bede Greatorex." 
 
 " What other ? " questioned Bede, turning to him. 
 
 " That at Helstonleigh," said the detective. " All sorts of 
 ideas and thoughts — fanciful some of 'em — come crowding 
 through my mind at once. I don't say that he had any hand 
 in Mr. Ollivera's death ; but it might have been so : and this, 
 that has now come out, strengthens suspicion against him in 
 some points, and weakens it in others. You remember the 
 queer conduct of AUetha Rye at the time, sir — her dream, and 
 her show-off at the grave — which I had the satisfaction of 
 looking on at myself — and her emotion altogether?" 
 
 Bede Greatorex replied that he did remember it : also 
 remembered that he was unable to understand why it should 
 have been so. But he spoke as one whose mind is far away, 
 as if the questions bore little interest for him. 
 
 " George Winter and Alletha Rye were sweethearts : she 
 used to live in Birmingham before she came to Helstonleigh. 
 But for his getting into trouble, they would soon have been 
 married." 
 
 " Oh, sweethearts were they," carelessly observed Bede. 
 " She is a superior young woman." 
 
 " Granted, sir. But them superior women are not a bit 
 wiser nor better than others when their lovers is in question. 
 Women have done mad things for men's sakes afore to-day ; 
 and it strikes me now, that Alletha Rye was just screening 
 him, fearing he might have done it. I don't see how else her 
 madness and mooning is to be accounted for. On the other 
 hand, it seems uncommon droll that George Winter, hiding in 
 that top room until he could get safely away, should set him- 
 self to harm Mr. Ollivera; a man he'd never seen. Which 
 was the view I took at the time." 
 
 " And highly improbable," murmured Bede. 
 
 " Well, so I say; and I can't help thinking he'll come out of 
 the fiery ordeal unscorched."
 
 302 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " What ordeal ? " 
 
 " The charge of murder. Mr. Greatorex is safe to give him 
 into custody upon it. I don't know that the Grand Jury- 
 would find a true bill." 
 
 Suddenly Bede's face took a ghastly look of fear. It 
 startled even the detective, as it was turned sharply upon him. 
 And the voice in which he spoke was harsh and commanding. 
 
 " This must not be suffered to come to the knowledge of 
 my father." 
 
 " Not suff"ered to come to his knowledge ! " echoed But- 
 terby, agape with wonder. 
 
 " No, NO ! You must not let him know that Brown is 
 Godfrey Pitman. He must never be told that Pitman is 
 found." 
 
 " Why, Heaven bless you, Mr. Bede Greatorex ! my honour 
 has been engaged all along in the tracing out of Pitman. 
 That one man has given me more in'ard trouble than any 
 three. We detectives get hold of mortifying things as well as 
 other people, and that's been one of mine. Now that I have 
 trapped Pitman, I can't let the matter drop : and Pm sure Mr. 
 Greatorex won't." 
 
 Bede looked confounded. He opened his mouth to speak, 
 and closed it again. 
 
 "And if us two was foolish enough, there's another who 
 wouldn't ; that would almost make us answer for it with our 
 lives," resumed the detective, in low, impressive tones — "and 
 that is Parson Ollivera." 
 
 "I tell you, Butterby, this must be hushed up," repeated 
 Bede, his agitation unmistakable, his voice strangely hollow. 
 " It must be hushed up at any cost. Do nothing." 
 
 "And if the parson finds Pitman out for himself ?" asked 
 Butterby, his deep green eyes, shaded by their overhanging 
 eyebrows, looking out steadily at Bede. 
 
 "That is a contingency we have nothing to do with yet. 
 Tim>; enough to talk of it when it comes." 
 
 "But, Mr. Bede Greatorex, if Pitman really was the — — " 
 
 " Hush ! Hush ! " interrupted Bede, glancing round involun- 
 tarily, as if afraid of the very walls. " For Heaven's sake, 
 Butterby, let the whole thing drop ; now and for ever. There 
 arc interests involved in it that I cannot speak of — that must 
 at all risks be kept from my father. I wish I could unburthen 
 myself of the whole comijlication, and lay the matter bare before
 
 A PRIVATE INTERVIEW. 303 
 
 j-Qu ; but I may not bring trouble on other people. To accuse 
 Pitman would — would reopen wounds now partially healed ; it 
 might bring worse than death amongst us." 
 
 It truly seemed, bending over the table in his earnestness, 
 that Eede was longing to pour out the confidence he dared not 
 give. Butterby, revolving sundry speculations in his mind, never 
 took his eyes for an instant from the eager face. 
 
 "Answer me one question, Mr. Bede Greatorex — an' you 
 don't mind doing it. If you knew that Pitman was the slayer 
 of your cousin, would you still screen him ?" 
 
 " If I knew — if I thought that Pitman had done that evil 
 deed, I would be the first to hand him over to justice," spoke 
 Bede, breathing quickly. "I feel sure he did not do it." 
 
 Butterby paused. " Sir, as you have said so much, I think 
 you should say a little more. It will be safe. You have, I see, 
 some other suspicion." 
 
 " I have always believed that it was one person did that 
 terrible deed," said Bede, scarcely able to speak from agitation. 
 "If — understand me — if it was not an accident, or as the jury 
 brought in, why then I think I suspect who and what it really 
 was. But it was not Pitman." 
 
 " Can the person be got at ? " inquired Butterby. 
 
 "Not for any practical purpose ; not for accusation." 
 
 " Is it any one of those I've heard mentioned in connection 
 with the death ? " 
 
 " No ; neither you nor the world. Let that pass. On my 
 word of honour, I say to you, Mr. Butterby, that I feel sure 
 Pitman had no hand in the matter. For that reason, and for 
 other reasons involved, I wish this information you have given 
 me to remain a secret between you and me. I will take my 
 own time and opportunity for discharging Mr. Brown. Will 
 you promise this ? Should you have incurred costs in any way, 
 I will give you my cheque for the amount." 
 
 " There has not been much cost as yet," returned the detec- 
 tive, honestly. "We'll let that pass for now. What you ask 
 me is difficult, sir. I might get into trouble for it later at head- 
 Cjuarters." 
 
 "Should that turn out to be the case, you can, in self- 
 defence, bring forward my injunctions. Say I stopped pro- 
 ceedings." 
 
 " Very well," returned Butterby, after a pause of considera- 
 tion. "Then for the present, sir, we'll say it shall stand so.
 
 304 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Of course, if the thing is brought to h'ght through other folks, 
 I must be held absolved from my promise." 
 " Thank you ; thank you truly, Mr. Butterby." 
 Bede Greatorex, the naturally haughty man, condescended 
 to shake hands with the detective. Mr. Butterby attended 
 him downstairs, and opened the door for him. It was after he 
 had gained Fleet Street, that Bede came into contact with the 
 shoulders of Roland Yorke, never noticing him, bearing on 
 in his all-powerful abstraction, his face worn, anxious, white, 
 scared, like that of a man, as Roland took occasion to remark, 
 w'ho has met a ghost. 
 
 Back again into his room turned Mr. Butterby, and sat down 
 in front of the fire. There, with a hand on either knee, he re- 
 called all the circumstances of John Ollivera's death with mental 
 accuracy, and went over them one by one. That done, he 
 revolved surrounding interests in his silent way, especially the 
 words that had just fallen from Bede Greatorex, one single 
 sentence, during the whole reverie, escaping his lips. 
 "Was Louisa Joliffe out that evening, I wonder?" 
 And the clock of St. Clement Danes had moved on an hour 
 and a quarter before he ever lifted his hands or rose from his 
 seat. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DISAPPEARED. 
 
 " I AM waiting for that, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 But for the presence of Bede Greatorex, who sat at his desk 
 in the front office, Roland might have retorted on Mr. Brown 
 that he jni'ght wait, for he felt in just as bad a humour as it was 
 well possible for Roland, or any one else, to feel. Ceasing his 
 subdued grumbling to Hurst, who had the gift of listening and 
 writing away by steam at one and tlie same time, Roland's pen 
 resumed its task. 
 
 Never, since Roland had joined the house of Greatorex and 
 Greatorex, did he remember it to have been so pressed as now, 
 as far as Bede's room was concerned. There was a sudden 
 rush of work, and hands were short. Little Jenner had been 
 
 •v-
 
 DISAPPEARED. 305 
 
 summoned into Yorkshire by the illness of his mother, and Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex had kindly said to him, "Don't hurry back if 
 you find her in danger." They could not borrow help from the 
 other side, for it happened that a clerk there was also absent. 
 
 Thus it fell out that not only Mr. Brown had to remain in 
 the office the previous night until a late hour, but he detained 
 Roland as well, besides warning that gentleman that he must 
 take twenty-minutes for his dinner at present, and no more. 
 This was altogether an intense grievance, considering that 
 Roland had purposed to devote a large amount of leisure time 
 to Arthur Channing. One whole day, and this one drawing to 
 its close, and Roland had not set eyes on Arthur. Since the 
 moment when he left him at the door of the hotel in Norfolk 
 Street, the last evening but one, Roland had neither seen nor 
 heard of him. He was resenting this quite as much as the 
 weight of work : for where his heart was really engaged, any- 
 thing like slight or neglect wounded it to the core. Somewhat 
 of this feeling had set in on the first night. After startling the 
 street and alarming the inmates of the house, with the bell and 
 knocker, to find that Arthur Channing had left his hotel and 
 not come to him, was as a most bitter mortification to Roland. 
 He had been kept closely at work ever since, and Arthur had 
 not chosen to seek him out. 
 
 Whatever impression might have been made on the mind of 
 Bede Greatorex by the police-officer's communication, now 
 nearly two days ago, he could not but estimate at its true value 
 Mr. Brown's efticiency as a clerk. In an emergency such as 
 the present, Mr. Brown did that which Roland was fond of 
 talking of— put his shoulder to the wheel Whatever the de- 
 mands of the office, Mr. Brown showed himself equal to them 
 almost in his own person ; this, combined with his very ex- 
 cellent administrative iiualities, rendered him invaluable to 
 Bede Greatorex. In a silent, undemonstrative sort of way, 
 Mr. Brown had also for some months past been on the alert to 
 watch for those inadvertent mistakes, neglects, forgetfulnesses 
 in his master, of which the reader has heard. So far as he was 
 able to do it, these were at once silently remedied, and- nothing 
 was said. Bede detected this : and he knew that many a night 
 when Mr. Brown remained overhours in the office, workmg 
 diligently, it was to repair some failure of his. Once, and once 
 only, Bede spoke. " Why are you so late to-night, Mr. Brown ?" 
 he asked, upon going into the othce close upon ten o'clock and 
 
 Roland Yorke. ♦•v
 
 3o6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 finding Mr. Brown up to his elbows in work. "I'm getting for- 
 ward for the morning, sir," was the manager's quiet answer. 
 But Bede, though lie said no more, saw that the clerk had 
 taken some unhappy error of his in hand, and was toiling to 
 remedy it and avert trouble. So that, whatever might be Mr. 
 Brown's personal sins, Bede Greatorex could scarcely afford to 
 lose him. 
 
 Once more, for perhaps the five-hundredth time, Bede 
 glanced from his desk at Mr. Brown opposite. But it was no 
 longer necessary to glance at him from any speculative point 
 of view; that had been set at rest. The eyes that had so 
 mystified Bede Greatorex with an uneasy, puzzled feeling, 
 which wholly refused to be solved, tax his memory as he would, 
 were at length rendered clear to him. He knew where and on 
 what occasion he had seen them : and if he had disliked and 
 dreaded them before, he dreaded them ten times more now. 
 
 "Ah, how do you do, Mr. Channing ?" 
 
 Bede, leaving his desk, was crossing the office to his private 
 room, when Hamish entered. They shook hands, and stood 
 talking for a few minutes, not having met since Bede returned 
 from his continental tour. Just as a change for the worse in 
 Bede had struck Mr. Butterby's keen eye, so, as it appeared, 
 did some change in Hamish Channing strike Bede. 
 
 " Are you well ? " he asked. 
 
 " As well as London and hard work Vv'ill allow me to be," 
 replied Hamish, with one of his charming smiles, which really 
 was gay and light, in spite of the changed face. " It is of no 
 use to dream of green fields and blue waves when we cannot 
 get to them, you know." 
 
 " Ay, that's rest — when you can throw yourself down in the 
 one or idly watch the other," remarked Bede. " But to go 
 scampering about for a month or two at railroad speed, wears 
 out a man more than working on in London, Mr. Channing " 
 
 With a lingering gaze at Hamish's refined face, looking so 
 strangely worn, and, so to say, etherealized, Bede passed on to 
 his room. Ilamish turned to the desk of Hurst and Roland 
 Yorkc. 
 
 " How are you ?" he asked them. 
 
 " As well as adverse circumstances and cross-grained people 
 will let me be," was the reply of Roland, Avithout looking up 
 from his writing. 
 
 Hamish laughed.
 
 DISAPPEARED. 307 
 
 *' Just because I wanted a little leisure just now, I've double 
 work put on my shoulders," went on Roland. " You remember 
 that time at old Galloway's, Hamish, when Jenkins and Arthur 
 were both away together, throwing all the work upon me ? Well, 
 we've a second edition of that here." 
 
 "Who is away?" inquired Hamish. 
 
 " Little Jenner. And he is good for three of us any day in 
 point of work. The result is, that Mr. Brown " — with a defiant 
 nod to the gentleman opposite — "keeps me at it like a slave. 
 But for Arthur's being in London, I wouldn't mind some extra 
 pressure, I should be glad to oblige, and do it. Not that 
 Arthur misses me, if one may judge by appearances," he con- 
 tinued in a deeply-injured tone. "I should not be two days 
 in a strange place without going to see after ///w." 
 
 " Have you not seen Arthur, then ? " inquired Hamish. 
 
 " No, I have not seen him," retorted Roland, with emphasis. 
 " He has been too much taken up with you and other friends, 
 to think of me. Perhaps he has gone over to Gerald's in- 
 terests : and his theory is, that I'm nobody worth knowing. 
 Mother Jenkins has had her best gown on for two days, ex- 
 pecting him. Live and learn — and confound it all ! I'd have 
 backed Arthur Channing, for faith and truth, against the 
 world." 
 
 Hamish laughed slightly. Any interlude such as this in 
 Roland's generally easy nature, always amused him. 
 
 "You and I and Mrs. Jenkins are in the same box, old 
 fellow, for Arthur has not been to me." 
 
 "Oh, hasn't he?" was Roland's answer, delivered with lofty 
 indifference, and an angry shake of the pen, which blotted bis 
 work all over. "It's a case of Gerald, then. Perhaps he is 
 taking him round to the Tower, and the wax-work, and the wild 
 beasts — as I thought to do." 
 
 " I expect it is rather a case of business," remarked Hamish. 
 " You know what Arthur is : when he has work to do, that every- 
 thing gives way to it. Still I wonder he did not come round 
 last night. We waited dinner until half-past seven." 
 
 Roland was occupied in trying to repair the damage he had 
 wilfully made, and gave no answer. 
 
 " I came in nowto ask you for news of him, Roland. Where 
 is he staying?" 
 
 " He has not even called to see Annabel," broke in Roland. 
 " And that I do think shameful."
 
 3o8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Where is he staying ? " 
 
 " Staying ! Why in Norfolk Street. He told you where." 
 • " Yes," assented Hamish, "but he is not staying there. I 
 have now come from the hotel." 
 
 " Who says he is not ? " 
 
 " The people at the hotel." 
 
 "Oh, they say that, do they?" retorted Roland, turning his 
 resentment on the people in question. " They are nice people 
 to keep an hotel." 
 
 " They say he is not there, and has not been there." 
 
 «' Then, Hamish, I can tell you that he is there. Didn't I 
 take him down to it that night from your house, and see him 
 safe in ? Didn't he order his missing portmanteau to be sent 
 there as soon as it turned up ? They had better tell me that he 
 is not there ! " 
 
 " What they say is this, Roland. That Arthur went there, 
 but left again the same night, never occupying his bed at all : 
 and they can give me no information as to where he is staying. 
 I did not put many questions, but came off to you, thinking 
 you would know his movements." 
 
 "And that is just what I don't know. Arthur has not chosen 
 to let me know. He is at the hotel safe enough. Why, he 
 was expecting letters and telegrams and all kinds of things 
 there ! They haye mistaken the name and given you the 
 wrong answer." 
 
 Hamish did not think so. He stood in silence, feeling a 
 little puzzled. And in that moment a faint shadow, not yet of 
 evil, but that something or other was wrong, first dawned on 
 his mind. 
 
 " 1 want to find him," said Hamish. " If it turns out that 
 Ije is really not at the hotel and they can give me no informa- 
 tion, I shall not know where to look for him or what to think. 
 But for your being busy, Roland, I would have asked you to go 
 back with me to Norfolk Street." 
 
 Roland looked across at Mr. Brown, an eager light illumining 
 his face. He did not ask to go, but it was a strong, silent 
 appeal. Not that he had any doubt on the .score of Arthur ; 
 but a walk to Norfolk Street would prove a very delightful 
 interlude to the evening's hard work. No answering look of 
 assent did he receive. 
 
 " We should be back in an hour, Brown, and I'd set to work 
 like a brick. Or in less than that, if we take a cab," briskly
 
 DISAPPEARED. 309 
 
 added Roland. " I have some money to pay for one. I've 
 gone about since yesterday morning with a sovereign in my 
 pocket, on the chance of standing treat for some sights, in case 
 I found the chance of going out with Arthur Channing. Didn't 
 Mrs. J. read me a lecture on not spending it in waste when she 
 handed it over ! " 
 
 " If you would promise to be back within the hour, Mr. 
 Yorke, and really set to work with a will, you should go with 
 Mr. Channing," was the manager's answer, who had of course 
 heard the whole colloquy. In Roland's present restless temper, 
 he was likely to retard work more than to advance it, especially 
 if denied the expedition to Norfolk Street : as no one knew 
 better than Mr. Brown. Roland could work with a will ; and 
 no doubt would on his return, if allowed to go. So that it was 
 policy to let him do so. 
 
 " Oh, thank you. Brown ; that is generous," said he, grate- 
 fully, as he leaped off his stool and took down his hat. " I'll 
 work away till morning for you, if it's necessary, and make no 
 mistakes." 
 
 But Arthur was not to be found at the hotel in Norfolk 
 Street. And the tale told there was rather a singular one. Of 
 course Roland, darting in in his impetuous way, demanded to see 
 Mr. Arthur Channing, and also what they meant by denying 
 that he was staying there. The head-waiter came forward in 
 the absence of the principal, and gave them the few particulars 
 — all he knew — that Hamish had not before stayed to ask. In 
 fact, Hamish had thought that Arthur must have become dis- 
 satisfied with the hotel and so left it for another. The following 
 was the substance of the tale. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Channing had written from Helstonleigh desiring 
 that a room should be prepared for him, and that any letters 
 addressed to him might be taken care of Upon his arrival 
 at the hotel (which must have been when Roland left him 
 there) he was informed that his room was ready, and asked 
 if he would like to see it. Presently, he answered, and went 
 into the coffee-room. The man (the one now telling the 
 story) left him reading his letters, after supplying him with 
 writing materials, Arthur saying that when he wanted anything 
 he would ring. It was a very quiet hotel, not much fre- 
 quented at any time; the three or four people staying in ii; 
 were out that evening, so that Arthur was quite alone. By- 
 and-by, the man said, he went in again, and found the room
 
 310 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 empty. From that time they had neither seen nor heard of 
 Arthur. 
 
 This was the substance of the account, and it sounded some- 
 what incredible. Had Arthur been like Roland Yorke, given 
 to darting about at random, without the smallest concern for 
 others, it might have been thought that he had taken himself 
 off in a sudden freak ; but Arthur was not likely to do such a 
 thing. Hamish stood quietly while he listened : Roland had 
 put himself upon a table, and sat there, his long legs 
 dangling. 
 
 (( 
 
 I came with him to the door my own self," burst forth 
 Roland before the man had well finished his tale, as if that were 
 a disputed point. " I watched him come right into it. That 
 was at eight o'clock." 
 
 "Yes, sir; it was about that time, sir, that Mr. Arthur 
 Channing came in," answered the waiter. 
 
 "And when I came down, an hour later, you told me Mr. 
 Arthur Channing had gone out; you know you did," spoke 
 Roland, who seemed altogether out of his reckoning at the 
 state of affairs, and wanted to blame some one. "You never 
 said he had gone for good." 
 
 "Well, sir, but how was I to think he had gone for good?" 
 mildly inquired the waiter. " It has puzzled the house, sir : 
 we don't know what to suppose. Towards eleven o'clock, 
 when the gentleman did not come in, I began to think the 
 chambermaid must have showed him to his room, being tired, 
 perhaps ; but she said she had not, and we went up and found 
 the room unoccupied. We have never heard of him at all since, 
 gentlemen." 
 
 The shadow grew a little darker to Hamish. He began to 
 think all this was very strange. 
 
 " The railway people were to have sent his portmanteau 
 here," cried Roland ; who, when much put out, could not 
 reason at all, and said anything that came uppermost. 
 
 " Yes, sir, the portmanteau came the next morning, sir. I 
 carried it up to his room, and it is there still." 
 
 "What! unopened!" exclaimed Hamish. "I mean, has 
 Mr. Arthur C^Lanning not been here to claim it?" 
 
 " No, sir; it's waiting for him against he do." 
 
 It grew serious now. Whatever abode Arthur might have 
 removed to, he would not fail to claim his portmanteau, as 
 common sense told Hamish. Roland began to stare.
 
 DISAPPEARED. 311 
 
 " Have you any idea how long he remained in, writing ? " 
 asked Hamish. 
 
 " No, sir. It might have been half-past eight or so, when I 
 came back into the room, and found him gone. But I don't 
 think he had written at all, sir, for the ink and things was on 
 the table just as I placed them ; they didn't seem to have been 
 used." 
 
 "Were many letters waiting for him ? " 
 
 " Four or five, sir. And there \vas a bit of a mishap with 
 one of them, for which I am very sorrj'. In taking them out 
 of the rack to give to him, sir, I accidentally overlooked one, 
 and left it in, so that Mr. Arthur Channing never had it. It's 
 in there now." 
 
 "Be so kind as to bring it to me." 
 
 The man went for the letter, and gave it to Hamish. It 
 was in Charles Channing's handwriting, and bore the Mar- 
 seilles post-mark. A proof that Charley had arrived there : 
 which was a bit of sunshine for Hamish. 
 
 "I suppose you will not object to my opening this?" 
 he said to the man, with a smile, as he took out his card 
 and handed it to him. " I am Mr. Arthur Channing's 
 brother." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! I can see that by the likeness ; no need to tell 
 me," was the answer. " It's all right, sir, I'm sure. These 
 other three letters have come since, sir. The big one by this 
 morning's post, the other two later." 
 
 The big one, as tlie man called it, a blue official-looking 
 envelope, was in Mr. Galloway's handwriting. Roland knew 
 the proctor's seal too well That one Hamish did not feel at 
 liberty to open, but the others he did, and thought the 
 circumstances fully justified it. Running his eyes over Charles's, 
 he found it had been wTitten on board, as the steamer was 
 ncaring Marseilles. It stated that he "was feeling very much 
 better for the voyage, and thought of staying quite a week in 
 Paris as he came through it. So far, that was good news ; and 
 now Hamish opened the other two. 
 
 Each of them, dated that morning, proved to be from a 
 separate firm of solicitors in London, and contained a few 
 brief words of inquiry why Mr. Arthur Channing had not kept 
 the appointment with them on the previous day. 
 
 \\'as Arthur lost, then? Hamish felt startled. As to jioor 
 Roland, he could only stare in helpless wonder and openly
 
 312 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 lament that he had been such a wicked jackanapes as to 
 attribute unkindness to Arthur. 
 
 "When I knew in my heart he was the best and truest man 
 the world ever produced, Hamish. Oh ! I am a nice one." 
 
 To remain at the hotel would not help them, for the waiter 
 could tell no more. Hamish pointed to the address on his 
 card, and they walked away up Norfolk Street in silence. 
 Roland broke it as they turned into the Strand, a sound of 
 dread in his voice. 
 
 " I say, Hamish ! Arthur had a lot of money about him." 
 
 " A lot of money ! " repeated Hamish. 
 
 " Yes. He brought it up from old Galloway. You — you^ 
 don't think he could have been murdered for it ? " 
 
 "Hush, Roland!" 
 
 "Oh, well! — But the roughs would not mind doing such a 
 thing at Port Natal." 
 
 CHAPTER V, 
 
 RESTLESS WANDERINGS. 
 
 The commotion was great. Six days had elapsed since Arthur 
 Channing's singular disappearance, and he had never been 
 heard of. 
 
 Six days ! In a case of this nature, six days to anxious 
 friends seem almost like six weeks. Nay, longer. And, 
 while on the topic, it may be well to state that these circum- 
 stances, this loss, occurred exactly as they are about to be 
 recorded. 
 
 Arthur Channing arrived at Euston Square Station on a 
 certain evening, and was met there by Roland Yorke. Later, 
 soon after eight o'clock, he went to the hotel in Norfolk Street, 
 in which a room had been engaged for him, and where he had 
 stayed before. Roland saw him go in : the waiter received 
 him, and left him in the coffee-room reading his letters. 
 Upon the waiter's entering the room nearly half-an-hour after, 
 he found it empty. A small parcel and an umbrella belonging 
 to him were there, but he himself was not there. Naturally 
 the waiter concluded that he had merely stepped out for a
 
 RESTLESS WANDERINGS. 313 
 
 short time. He was mistaken, however. From that moment 
 nothing had been seen or heard of Arthur Channing. 
 
 If ever Roland Yorke nearly lost his mind, it was now. 
 Strangers thought he must be a candidate for Bedlam. 
 Totally neglecting the work of the office, he went tearing 
 about like a lunatic. From one place to another, from this 
 spot to that, backwards and forwards and round again, strode 
 Roland. His aspect was fierce, his hair wild. The chief 
 places, at which he halted by turns, were Scotland Yard, 
 Waterloo Bridge, and the London docks. The best that 
 Roland's fears could suggest was, that Arthur had been 
 murdered. Murdered for the sake of the money he had about 
 him, and then put quietly out of the way. Waterloo Bridge, 
 bearing a reputation for having once been a receptacle for 
 mysterious carpet-bags, was of course pitched upon by Roland 
 as an ill-omened element in the present tragedy. It had also 
 just happened that a man, drowned from one of the bridges, 
 had been found in the London docks : having drifted in, no 
 doubt, whilst some vessel was entering or leaving. This was 
 quite enough for Roland. Morning after morning would find 
 him there ; and St. Katharine's Docks, being nearest, sometimes 
 had him twice in the day. 
 
 Setting aside Roland's migrations, and his outspoken fears 
 of dark deeds, others, interested, were to the full as much 
 alarmed as he. The facts were more than singular ; they were 
 mysterious. From the time that Arthur Channing had entered 
 the hotel in Norfolk Street, or — to be strictly correct — from a 
 few minutes after that, when the waiter had left him in the 
 coffee-room, he seemed to have disappeared. The police 
 could make nothing of it. Mr. Galloway, who had been at 
 once communicated with by Hamish Channing, was almost as 
 much assailed by fears as Roland, and sent up letters or 
 telegrams every other hour in the day. 
 
 The first and most natural theory taken up, was this — that 
 Arthur Channing had received some news, in one of the letters 
 given to him, that had caused him suddenly to absent himself. 
 But for the circumstance of the letter (written by Charles 
 Channing on board the P. and O. steamer, and posted at 
 Marseilles) not having been handed to Arthur, it might have 
 been assumed that it had contained bad news of Charles, and 
 that Arthur had hastened away to him. As the letter was 
 omitted to be given to him — and it was a curious incident in
 
 314 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the problem that it should so have happened — this hope could 
 not be entertained : Charles was well ; and by that time, no 
 doubt, in Paris enjoying himself. But, even had circumstances 
 enabled them to take up this hope, it could not have lasted 
 very long. Had Arthur been called suddenly away, to 
 Charles, or elsewhere, he would not have failed to let his 
 friends know it. 
 
 His portmanteau remained at the hotel unclaimed ; with 
 his umbrella and small parcel, containing the few articles he 
 had bought earlier in the evening ; proof that when he left the 
 hotel, he had meant to return to it. Now and again, even yet, 
 a stray letter would reach the hotel from some individual or 
 other, whom he ought to have seen on business during his 
 sojourn in London, and had not. The letters, like the luggage, 
 remained unclaimed, except by Hamish. 
 
 In reply to inquiries, Mr. Galloway stated that the amount 
 brought up to town by Arthur from himself, was sixty pounds ; 
 chiefly in five-pound notes. This was, of course, exclusive of 
 what Arthur might have about him of his own. Mr. Galloway, 
 in regard to the transmission of money, seemed to do things 
 like no one else. Who, save himself, but would have given 
 Arthur an order on his London bankers, Glyn and Co. ? Not 
 he. He happened to have the sixty pounds by him, and so 
 sent it up in notes and gold. 
 
 The first thing the police did, upon being summoned to the 
 search, was to endeavour to ascertain what letters Arthur had 
 received that night upon entering the hotel in Norfolk Street, 
 and from whom they were. The waiter said there were either 
 four or five. He fancied there had been five in all ; and, as 
 one was accidentally left in the rack, it must, he felt nearly 
 sure, have been only four that he delivered over. One of them 
 — he was positive of this — had arrived that same evening, only 
 an hour or two before Mr. Arthur Channing. The young 
 person who presided over the interests of a sort of ofliice, or 
 where inquiries were made by visitors, and whence orders were 
 issued, was a Miss Whiffin. She was an excessively smart 
 lady in a rustling silk, with frizzy curls, and a remarkable 
 chignon that might have been furnished by the coiffeur of 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Miss Whiffin could not, or would not, 
 recollect what number of letters had been waiting for Mr. 
 Channing. Being a supercilious young lady — or, at least, 
 doing her best to appear one — she assumed to think it a piece
 
 RESTLESS WANDERINGS. 315 
 
 of impertinence to be questioned at all. Yes, she remembered 
 there were a few letters waiting for Mr, Arthur Channing; 
 foreign or English ; she did not notice which : if the waiter 
 said it was live, no doubt it zvas five. She considered it ex- 
 ceedingly unreasonable, not to say ungentlemanly, of any cus- 
 tomer to write and order a bedroom, walk into the house and 
 then walk out again, and never occupy it. It was a thing she 
 neither understood nor had been accustomed to. 
 
 And that was all that could be drawn from Miss Whififin. 
 But the opinion, that the number of letters given to Arthur 
 had been four, was in a degree borne out : for that was just 
 the number they had been able to trace as having been written 
 to him. Three were notes from people in London, making 
 appointments for Arthur to call on them the next day; the 
 fourth was known to be from Mr. Galloway, that gentleman 
 having despatched it by the day-mail from Helstonleigh. 
 
 What could have taken Arthur out again ? That was the 
 point to be solved, if possible. Unless it could be done, 
 neither police nor any one else had any clue as to the quarter 
 to which their inquiries should be directed. Had he quitted 
 London again (which seemed highly improbable), then the 
 railways must be visited for news of him. Had he only strolled 
 out for a walk, then it must be London itself 
 
 One of the three notes came from a firm of proctors in 
 Parliament Street. It contained these words from the senior 
 partner, who was an old friend of Mr. Galloway's : — " If it 
 were convenient for you to call on me the evening of your 
 arrival in town, I should be glad, as I wish to see you myself, 
 and I am leaving home the following morning for a week. I 
 shall remain at the office until nine at night, on the chance of 
 your coming." 
 
 That Arthur, on reading the note, might have hastened to 
 Parliament Street, was more than probable. He knew London 
 fairly well, having been up on two previous occasions for Mr. 
 Galloway. But Arthur never made his appearance there. 
 Though of course that did not prove that he had not set out 
 with the intention of going there. Another conjecture, started 
 by Roland Yorke, was, that he might have forgotten some 
 trifling article or other amongst his previous purchases, and 
 gone out again to get it. Allowing one or other of these sup- 
 positions to be correct, it did not explain the mystery of his 
 disappearance.
 
 3i6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 What became of him? If, according to this theory, he 
 walked up Norfolk Street to the Strand, and turned to the 
 right or left, how far had he gone that day ? Where had his 
 steps halted ? at what point had he turned aside ? How, and 
 where, and in what manner had he disappeared ? It was in 
 truth a mystery, and no one was able to answer those questions. 
 A thousand times a day Roland declared he had been 
 murdered — but that assertion was not looked upon as a satis- 
 f.ictory conclusion. 
 
 Upon a barrel, which happened to stand in a corner of an 
 office at one of the police stations, into which he had dashed 
 with agitated mien, sat Roland Yorke. Six days of search had 
 gone by, and this was the seventh. With every morning that 
 rose and brought forth no news of Arthur, Roland's state of 
 mind grew worse and worse. The police for miles round were 
 beginning to dread him, for he bothered their lives out The 
 shops in the Strand could say nearly the same. When it was 
 found beyond doubt that Arthur was really missing, Roland 
 had gone to the shops knocking frantically, just as he had done 
 at Mrs. Jones's door, and bursting into those that were still 
 open. It happened to be evening : for a whole day was 
 wasted in inquiring at proctors' and solicitors' offices, Gerald's 
 chambers, and similar places : and so many of the shops were 
 closed. Into those that were open, dashed Roland, asking for 
 news of a gentleman ; a " very handsome young fellow nearly 
 as tall as himself, who might have gone in to buy something." 
 Some, serving behind the counters, thought him mad ; others 
 that he might have designs on the till ; a few threatened to give 
 him into custody. In the excited state of Roland's mind it 
 was not to be expected that he could be quiet and coherent. 
 When Hamish Channing went later, with his calm explanation 
 and courteous bearing, though his inward anxiety was quite as 
 great as Roland's, it was a different thing altogether, and he 
 was received with consideration. Threats and denial availed 
 not with Roland : day by day, as each day came round, the 
 shops had him again. In he went, begging them to try and 
 recall every soul who might have made purchases that night. 
 But, as the days went on, and nothing came of it, Roland 
 began to lay the fault on the police. 
 
 " I never heard of such a thing," he was saying this morning 
 as he sat on the high barrel, after a rush of about twelve miles, 
 or so, comprising Scotland Yard, every shop in the Strand and
 
 RESTLESS WANDERINGS. 317 
 
 Fleet Street, and all round the docks and back again. *' Six 
 days since he was missing, and no earthly news of him dis- 
 covered yet ! Not as much as a scrap of a clue ! Where's the 
 use of a country having its police at all, unless they can do 
 better than that ? " 
 
 He spoke in an injured tone ; one that he would have liked 
 to make passionate. Roland's only audience was a solitary 
 policeman, with a prominent, buttoned-up chest and red face, 
 who stood with his back against the mantel-piece, reading a 
 newspaper. 
 
 "We have not had no clue to work upon, you see, Mr, 
 Yorke," replied the man, who bore the euphonious name of 
 Spitchcock, and was, so to say, on intimate terms with Roland, 
 after so many invasions. 
 
 " No skill, you mean, Spitchcock. I know what the English 
 police arc : had cause to know it, and the mistakes they make, 
 years ago, long before I went to Port Natal. I could almost 
 say, without being far from the truth, that it was the awful 
 bungling of one of your lot that drove me to Africa." 
 
 "How was that, sir?" 
 
 *' I'm not going to tell you. Sometimes I wish I had stayed 
 out there ; I should have been nearly as well-off. \\'hat with 
 not getting on, and being ])icked up short by haxing my 
 dearest friend murdered and flung over Waterloo Bridge — for 
 that's what it will turn out to be — things don't look bright over 
 here. I know this much : if it had happened in Port Natal, he 
 would have been found ere this — dead or alive." 
 
 " Yes, that must be a nice place, that must, by your descrip- 
 tion of it, sir," remarked the policeman disparagingly, as he 
 turned his newspaper. 
 
 "It was nicer than this is just now, at any rate," returned 
 Roland. " I never heard at Port Natal of a gentleman being 
 pounced upon and murdered as he walked quietly along the 
 street at half-past eight o'clock in the evening. Such a villain- 
 ous thing didn't happen when I was there." 
 
 " You've got to hear it of London yet, Mr. Yorke." 
 
 "What else, do you suppose, could have happened to him ? " 
 retorted Roland. " I can't say he was actually murdered in 
 the open Strand : but I do say he must have been drawn into 
 one of the alleys, or some other miserable place, with a pitch- 
 plaster on his mouth, or chloroform to his nose, and there done 
 for. Who is to know that he did not open his pocket-book in
 
 3i8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the train, coming up, and some tiiicf caught sight of the notes, 
 and dodged him ? " 
 
 " He'd be safe enough in the Strand," remarked the man. 
 
 '•' Oh, would he, though ! " fiercely rejoined Roland. " Who 
 is to know, then, but he had to dive into some bad place where 
 thieves live to do an errand for old Galloway; perhaps pay 
 away one of his notes — and went out at once to do it ? Do 
 you mean to say that's unlikely ? " 
 
 " No, that's not unlikely. If he had to do anything of the 
 sort that took him into the thieves' alleys, that's how he might 
 have come to grief," avowed Mr. Spitchcock. " Many a one 
 gets put out of the way during a year, and no bones is made 
 over it." 
 
 Roland jumped up with force so startling that he nearly 
 upset the barrel. " That's how it must have been, Spitchcock ! 
 What can I do in it ? I never cared for any one in the world 
 as I cared for him, and never shall. Except — except some- 
 body else — and that's nothing to anybody." 
 
 " But this here's altogether another guess sort of thing," 
 remonstrated the policeman. " Them cases don't get found 
 out through the party not being inquired for : his friends, 
 if he's got any, thinks, may be, he's gone off on the spree, 
 abroad or somewhere, and never asks after him. This is 
 different." 
 
 He spoke in a cool calm sort of way. It produced no 
 effect on Roland. The new theory had been started, and 
 that was enough. So many conjectures had been hazarded 
 and rejected during the past few days that to suggest another 
 was to Roland something like a spring of water to the parched 
 traveller crossing the desert. Ordering Spitchcock to pro- 
 pound this view to the first of his superiors who should look 
 in, Roland went speeding on his course again to seek an 
 interview with Hamish Channing, 
 
 Making a detour first of all down W^ellington Street : for, 
 to pass Waterloo Bridge without inc^uiring whether anything 
 had " turned up," was beyond Roland. Perhaps it was be- 
 cause Arthur seemed to have disappeared within what may 
 be called its radius, taken in conjunction with its reputation, 
 that induced Roland Yorke to suspect the spot. It haunted 
 his waking thoughts, his dreams when sleeping. The police 
 had learned to know him now and what he wanted; and if 
 they laughed at him behind his back, they were civil to his face.
 
 RESTLESS WANDERINGS. 319 
 
 Onward pressed Roland. How many wayfarers and apple- 
 stalls he had knocked over since the search began, he would 
 have had some difficuUy to reckon up. To bring him to 
 account for damages, was simply impracticable. Before the 
 capsized individual could understand what had happened to 
 him, or the bewildered apple-woman so much as looked at 
 her fallen wares, Roland was out of sight and hearing. A 
 young shoe-black at the corner had come to think the gentle- 
 man, pressing onwards everlastingly up and down the street, 
 never turning from his course, might be the Wandering Jew ; 
 and would cease brushing to gaze up at Roland whenever he 
 passed. 
 
 Look at him now, reader. The tall, well-dressed young 
 fellow, his face pale and anxious, his arms swaying, as he 
 strides on resolutely down Wellington Street ! Neither to 
 right nor left looks he : his eyes are cast forth over the people's 
 heads, towards the bridge and the river, as if asking for the 
 information he is going to seek. One great feature in Roland 
 was his hopefulness. Each time he started for Waterloo 
 Bridge, or Scotland Yard, or Hamish Channing's, or INIr. 
 Greatorex's, or any other place where news might possibly be 
 awaiting him, renewed hope was as buoyant in his heart as 
 it had been that memorable day when he had anchored in the 
 beautiful harbour of Port Natal, and gazed on the fair shore 
 that seemed to Roland as a very paradise. Bright with hope 
 as his heart had then been, so was it now. So was it at this 
 moment as he bore on, down Wellington Street. 
 
 " Well," said he to the toll-keeper. Anything turned up ?" 
 " Not a bit on't," responded the man. " Nor hkely to." 
 Roland passed through, perched himself on the parapet, and 
 gazed at the river. Now on this side the bridge, now leaping 
 over to that. A steamer passed, a rowing-boat or two ; but 
 Arthur Channing was not in them. Roland looked to the 
 mud on the sides, and threw his gaze up and down. In vain, 
 -All features were very much as they had been from the day of 
 his first search : certainly returning him no signs of Arthur. 
 And down went hope again, as completely as the pears had 
 gone down, earlier in the day, at a corner^ stall. Despair had 
 possession of him now. 
 
 " You say that no suspicious character went on to the bridge 
 that night, so far as you can recollect," resumed Roland in 
 the gloomiest tone, when he had walked slowly back to the
 
 320 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 man at the gate. Slowly, because some sort of clue seemed to 
 lie in that bridge and he was always loth to quit it. If he did 
 not suspect Arthur of lying buried under the pavement, it 
 seemed something like it. 
 
 " I didn't say so," interrupted the gate-keeper, in rather 
 surly tones. " What I said was, as there warn't nothing sus- 
 picious chucked over that night." 
 
 " You can't tell. You might not have heard." 
 
 " Well, I haven't got no time to jabber with you to-day." 
 
 " If I kept this turnstile, I should make it my business to 
 mark all suspicious characters that went through at night ; and 
 watch them." 
 
 "Oh, would you! And how 'ud you know which was the 
 suspicious ones ? They don't always carry their marks on 
 their backs, they don't ; some on 'em don't look no different 
 from you." 
 
 Roland bit his lips to keep down a retort. All in Arthur's 
 interest. Upon giving the man, on a recent visit, what the 
 latter had called " sauce," his migration on and off the bridge 
 had been threatened with summary arrest. So he was careful. 
 
 "Well, I've just had a clue given me by the police. And I 
 haven't the smallest doubt now that he 7L'as put out of the 
 way. And this is the likeliest place for hin'i to have been 
 brought to. I don't think it would take much skill, after he 
 had been chloroformed to death, to shoot him over, out of a 
 hansom cab. Brought up level with the parapet, he might be 
 sent over as easily as I should go over if I jumped it." 
 
 Tlie toll-keeper answered by a growl and a few sharp words. 
 Truth to say, he felt personally aggrieved at his bridge being 
 subjected to these scandalizing suspicions, and resented them 
 accordingly. Roland did not wait. He went off in search of 
 Hamish, and ere he had left the bridge out of sight, hope 
 began again to spring within him. So buoyant is the human 
 heart in general, and Roland's in particular. Not — let it 
 always be understood — the hope that Arthur would be found 
 uninjured ; only that some news of him that might help to 
 solve the mystery. 
 
 Shooting out of a hansom cab (not dead, after the manner of 
 the i)icture just drawn, but living) came a gentleman, just as 
 Roland was passing it. The cab had whirled round the corner 
 of Wellington Street, probably on its way from the station, and 
 pulled up at a shop in the Strand. It was Sir Vincent Yorke.
 
 RESTLESS WANDERINGS. 321 
 
 Roland stopped; seized his hand in his impulsive way, and 
 began entering upon the story of Arthur Channing's disappear- 
 ance without the slightest preliminary greeting. Every 
 moment Roland could spare from rushing about, he spent in 
 talking. He talked to Mrs. Jones, he talked to Henry William 
 Ollivera, he talked to Hurst and Jenner, he would have talked 
 to the moon. Mr. Brown had been obliged to forbid him the 
 office, unless he could come to it to work. In his rapid, 
 excited manner, he poured forth the story, circumstance after 
 circumstance, in Sir Vincent's ear, that gentleman feeling 
 slightly bewildered, and not altogether pleased at the unexpected 
 detention. 
 
 "Oh — ah — I dare say he'll turn up all right," minced Sir 
 Vincent " A fella's not obliged to acquaint his friends with 
 his movements. Just got up to town ? — ah — yes — just for a 
 day or two. Good day. Hope you'll find him." 
 
 "You don't understand who it is, Vincent," spoke Roland, 
 resenting the want of interest. " It is William Yorke's brother- 
 in-law, Annabel's brother, and the dearest friend I ever had in 
 life. I've told you of Arthur Channing before. He has the best 
 and bravest heart living; the truest man and gentleman the 
 world ever produced." 
 
 "Ah — yes — good day ! I'm in a hurry." 
 •Sir Vincent escaped into the shop. Roland went on to 
 Hamish Channing's office. Hamish could not neglect his work, 
 however Roland might abandon his. 
 
 But Hamish would have liked to do it. In good truth, his 
 brother's unaccountable disappearance was rendering him in a 
 measure unfit for his duties. He might almost as well have 
 devoted his whole time just now to the search, for his thoughts 
 were with it always, and his interruptions were numerous. To 
 him the police carried reports ; it was on him Roland Yorke 
 rattled in half-a-dozen times in the course of the day, upsetting 
 all order and quiet, and business too, by the commotion he 
 raised. To see Roland bursting in, was nothing at all extra- 
 ordinary; but Hamish did wish, as the doors swung back after 
 Rolaad, once more, this morning, that he would not burst in 
 quite so often. Perhaps Roland was a little more excited than 
 usual, in the full belief that he had at length found the right 
 clue. 
 
 "It's all out, Hamish," he panted. "Arthur's as good as 
 found. He went out of the hotel to do some errand for 
 
 Roland Yorke. 21
 
 322 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Galloway ; it took him into those desperate pickpocket places 
 where the police dare hardly go themselves, and that's where it 
 must have been done." 
 
 Hamish laid down his pen. The colour left his face, a 
 faintness stole over his heart. 
 
 "How has it been discovered, Roland?" he inquired, in 
 hushed tones. 
 
 "Spitchcock did it. You know the fellow, — red face, fat 
 enough fc- two. I was with him just now ; and in consequence 
 of what he said, it's the conclusion I have come to." 
 
 Naturally, Hamish pressed for details. Upon Roland's 
 supplying them, with accuracy as faithful as his state of mind 
 would permit, Hamish knew not whether to be most relieved 
 or vexed. Roland had neither wish nor thought to deceive ; 
 and his positive assertion was only made according to the 
 belief he had worked himself into. To find that the present 
 " clue," as Roland called it, turned out to be an assumed one 
 of that impulsive gentleman's mind, on a par with the theory 
 he entertained in regard to Waterloo Bridge, was undoubtedly 
 a relief to Hamish. Nevertheless, he would have preferred 
 Roland's keeping the whole to himself. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't take up these fancies, Roland," he 
 said, as severely as his sweet nature ever allowed him to speak. 
 " It is so useless to bring me unnecessary alarms." 
 
 " You may take my word for it that's how it will turn out to 
 have been, Hamish." 
 
 " No. Had Mr. Cralloway charged him with any commission 
 to unsafe parts thit night — or to safe ones, either — he would 
 have written up since to tell me of them." 
 
 " Oh, would he, though ! " cried Roland, wiping his hot brow. 
 " You don't know Galloway as I do, Hamish. He's just likely 
 to have given such a commission — if he had it to give — and 
 to think no more about it. Somebody ought to go to Helston- 
 leigh." 
 
 Hamish made no reply to this. He was busy with his 
 papers. 
 
 "Will you go, Hamish?" 
 
 " To Helstonleigh ? Certainly not. There is not the slightest 
 necessity for it. I am quite certain that Mr. Galloway holds no 
 clue that he has not suggested to us." 
 
 " Then, if nobody else goes down, I will go," said Roland, 
 his eyes lighting with earnestness, his face flushing. " I never
 
 A NEW IDEA. 323 
 
 meant to sliow myself in Helstonleigh again until fortune 
 favoured me ; but I'd despise myself if I could let my own 
 feelings of shame stand in old Arthur's light." 
 
 "Don't do anything of the kind," advised Hamish. "Be- 
 lieve me, Roland, it is altogether a wrong notion you have 
 taken up. Your impulsive nature deceives you." 
 
 " I shall go, Hamish. I am not obliged to carry your consent 
 with me." 
 
 "Ishould not give it," said Hamish, slightly laughing, but 
 speaking in unmistakably firm accents. 
 
 He was interrupted by a hacking cough. As Roland watched 
 him, waiting until it should cease, watched the hectic it left 
 behind, a sudden recollection came over him of ofie who used 
 to cough in much the same way before he died. 
 
 "I say, old fellow, you've caught cold," he said. 
 
 " No, I think not." 
 
 "I'd get rid of that cough, Hamish. It makes me think of 
 Joe Jenkins. Don't be offended : I'm not comparing you 
 with him. He was the thinnest and poorest lamp-post going, 
 a miserable reed in the hands of Mrs. J. ; and you are bright, 
 handsome, fastidious Hamish Channing. But you cough 
 alike." 
 
 With the last words Roland went dashing out. When he 
 had a purpose in view, head and heels were alike impetuous, 
 and perhaps no earthly power, unless it had been the appear- 
 ance of Arthur himself, could have arrested him in his present 
 determination — that of starting for Helstonleigh. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A NEW IDEA. 
 
 The Reverend Henry William OUivera sat in his room at a late 
 breakfast. He had been called out to a sick parishioner just 
 as he was about to sit down to it at nine in the morning, and 
 with his usual self-abandonment had hastened away. It was 
 nearly one when he returned, having taken a morning service 
 for a friend, and this was really his breakfast. Mrs. Jones, who 
 cared for the comfort of the people about her in her tart way,
 
 324 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 had sent up what she called buttered eggs, a little ham, and a 
 hot roll. The table-cloth was beautifully white : the coffee-pot 
 looked as good as silver. 
 
 But, tempting as the meal really was, hungry as Mr. Ollivera 
 might be supposed to be, he was allowing it to grow cold before 
 him. A newspaper lay on the stand, but he did not unfold it. 
 The strangely eager light in his eyes was very conspicuous as 
 he sat, lost in a reverie ; the fevered hands were still. Some 
 months had elapsed since his wild anxiety to unfold the 
 mystery enshrouding his brother's death had set in again, 
 through the disclosure of Mr. Willett; a burning, restless 
 anxiety, that never seemed wholly to quit his mind, night or 
 day. 
 
 But nothing had come of it. Seek as he would, Mr. Ollivera 
 had as yet obtained no result. An exceedingly curious and 
 disagreeable doubt had crossed his thoughts at times — whence 
 arising he scarcely knew — of one whom he would have been 
 very unwilling to suspect, even though appearances had been 
 more against her than at present. And that was AUetha Rye. 
 Perhaps what first struck him as singular was Miss Rye's ill- 
 concealed agitation upon any mention of the subject, her 
 startling change of colour, her shrinking desire to avoid it. At 
 the time of Mr. Willett's communication the clergyman had 
 renewed his habit of going into Mrs. Jones's parlour to converse 
 upon the topic ; a habit he had allowed to fall into disuse, and 
 it was then that Miss Rye's remarkable demeanour gradually 
 dawned on his notice. At first he thought it an accident ; next 
 he decided that it was singular, afterwards he grew to introduce 
 the topic suddenly, purposely to observe her. And what he 
 noticed was beginning to make a most unpleasant impression 
 on him. A very slight occurrence, nothing but the unex- 
 pectedly meeting with Mr. Butterby that morning, had brought 
 all the old matter back to him. As he was hastening home 
 from church, really wanting his breakfast, he encountered the 
 detective. The latter said he had been in town nearly a week 
 on business (the reader saw him at its commencement, in con- 
 junction with Mr. Bede Greatorex), but was returning to Hel- 
 stonleigh that night or the morrow. For a few minutes they 
 stood conversing of tlie past, Butterby saying that nothing new 
 had " turned up." 
 
 " Have you not heard of Godfrey Pitman?" suddenly asked 
 Mr. Ollivera,
 
 A NEW IDEA. 325 
 
 The question was asked sharply : and for once the clever 
 man was at bay. Did Mr. OUivera mean to imply that he had 
 heard of Pitman ? — that he, the clergyman, was aware that he 
 had heard of him ? Or, was it only a simple question ? In 
 the uncertainty Mr, Butterby paused, evidently in some doubt 
 or hesitation, and glanced keenly at the questioner from under 
 his eyebrows. Mr. Ollivera marked it all. 
 
 " Have you heard of him ? " 
 
 " The way that folks' thoughts go wandering ! " exclaimed 
 Butterby, with a charming air of innocence. " Pitman, says 
 you : if I wasn't running my head on that other man — WiUett. 
 And he has an attack of the shivers from drinking ; that's the 
 last news gazetted of him, sir. As to Godfrey Pitman — the 
 less we say about him, the better, unless we could say it to 
 some purpose. Good morning, Reverend Sir ; I've my work 
 cut out for me to-day." 
 
 " One moment," said Mr. Ollivera, detaining him. " I want 
 your opinion upon a question I am going to ask. Could a 
 woman, think you, have killed my brother?" 
 
 Perhaps the question was so unexpected as slightly to startle 
 even the detective. Instead of answering it, his green eyes 
 shot out another keen glance at Mr. Ollivera, and they did not 
 turn from his face again. The latter supposed he was not 
 understood. 
 
 " I mean, could a woman, think you, have had the strength 
 and aim to fire the pistol ? " 
 
 "Do you ask me that, sir, because you suspect one?" 
 
 "I cannot say that I go so far as to suspect one. It has 
 occurred to me lately as being within the range of possibility. 
 I wish you would answer my question, Mr. Butterby ? " 
 
 "Of course, from the point you put it, it might have been a 
 woman just as well as a man ; some women be every bit as 
 strong, and a sight bolder," vi-3 Mr. Butterby's answer. " But 
 I can't wait, sir, now," he added, as he turned away and said 
 good morning once more. 
 
 " It was queer, his asking that," softly repeated Mr. Butterby, 
 as he walked on at a quicker pace than usual. 
 
 Mn Ollivera reached home with his head full of this ; and, 
 as usual under the circumstances, was allowing his late break- 
 fast to grow cold before him. Mrs. Jones, entering the room 
 on some domestic errand, informed him that Roland Yorke 
 had just come in in a great state of commotion — which was
 
 326 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 nothing unusual — saying Arthur Channing was as good as 
 found murdered ; and that he was off to Helstonleigh in con- 
 sequence. Before Mr. OUivera, turning to his breakfast then 
 with a will, could get downstairs, Roland had gone skimming 
 out again. So the clergyman turned his steps to the house of 
 Greatorex and Greatorex. 
 
 It could only be that the singular and prolonged disappear- 
 ance of Arthur Channing shouH excite public commotion. 
 Though it had not been made, so to say, a public matter, at 
 least a portion of the public knew of it. No name appeared 
 in the papers ; but the "mysterious disappearance of a gentle- 
 man" was becoming quite a treasure to the newspapers. 
 Greatorex and Greatorex had taken it up warmly, as much 
 from intrinsic interest in the affair itself, as that Annabel was 
 an inmate of their house. Arthur Channing had stood, un- 
 solicited, over John Qllivera's grave at the stealthy midnight 
 burial service ; and Mr. Greatorex did not forget it. He had 
 offered his Services at once to Hamish Channing. "We have 
 wide experience of London life," he said, " and will do for you 
 all that can be done in it." Bede, though anxious, wished the 
 matter could be set at rest, for it was costing him a clerk. 
 Roland candidly avowed that he was no more fit for his 
 work at present than he would be to rule the patients in 
 St. Luke's; and Bede saw that this was only truth. Little 
 Jenner was home again, and took up Roland's work as well as 
 his own. 
 
 One very singular phase of the matter was this — so many 
 people appeared to be missing. The one immediately in 
 question, Arthur Channing, was only a unit in the number. 
 Scarcely an hour in the day passed but the police either re- 
 ceived direct news of somebody's disappearance; or, through 
 their inquiries after Arthur, found it out for themselves. If 
 space permitted, and these volumes were the medium for it, a 
 singularly interesting account might be given of the facts, every 
 word of which would be true. 
 
 Henry Ollivera found Mr. Greatorex in the dining-room 
 finishing his luncheon. In point of fact it was his dinner, for 
 he was going out of town that afternoon and would not be 
 home until late. Bede, who rarely took luncheon, though he 
 sometimes made a pretence of going up for it, was breaking 
 morsels off a hard biscuit, as he stood against the wall by the 
 mantel piece, near the glass that in the days of his vanity he had
 
 A NEW IDEA. 327 
 
 been so fond of glancing into. Mrs. Bede Greatorex was at 
 table ; also the little girl, Jane. The board was extravagantly 
 spread, and Mrs. Bede was solacing herself with a pint of 
 sparkling hock, which stood at her elbow. She looked flushed ; 
 at least, as much so as a face made-up can look. In her eyes 
 there shone an angry light : perhaps at the non-appearance of 
 two visitors she had expected, perhaps because she bad just 
 come from one of her violent attacks on Miss Channing. Mr. 
 Greatorex, like his son Bede, did not appear to appreciate the 
 good things, and was dining off one plain dish and a glass of 
 pale ale. 
 
 " You will sit down and take something, 'William ? " 
 
 Mr. Ollivera declined ; he had only just breakfasted. From 
 the absence of Miss Channing at the table, he concluded that 
 the bad news mentioned by Mrs. Jones must be correct. But 
 Mr. Greatorex said he was not aware of anythmg fresh in the 
 matter; and a smile crossed his lips upon hearing that Roland 
 was the author of the report. Bede laughed outright, 
 
 " If you only knew how often he has come in, startling us 
 with extraordinary tales, you would have learnt by this time 
 what faith to have put in Roland Yorke," said Bede. " A man 
 more nervously sensitive than he is, or ever will be, would have 
 had brain-fever with all this talking and walking and mental 
 excitement." 
 
 "He says, I understand, that he is going down to Helston- 
 leigh, to get some information from Mr. Galloway,'"' said the 
 clergyman, 
 
 " Oh, is he? As good go there as stay here, for all the work 
 he does. He would start for the moon if there were only a 
 road to take him there." 
 
 " I wonder you give him so much holiday, Bede," remarked 
 Mr, Ollivera. 
 
 "He takes it," answered Bede. "He is of very little use at 
 his best, but we don't choose to discharge him, or in fact make 
 any change until Lord Carrick, who may now be expected 
 shortly, comes over. I believe one thing — that he tries to do 
 his utmost : and Brown puts up with him.'' 
 
 " Do you know," began Mr. Ollivera, in low, meaning tones, 
 when the door closed upon the luncheon-tray, and the three 
 gentlemen stood around the fire, and Mrs. Bede had betaken 
 herself to a far-off window ; " I have half a mind to go to 
 Helstonleigh myself."
 
 328 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "In search of Arthur Charming, Wilham?" 
 
 " No, uncle. In quest of that other matter that has been 
 upon my mind so long. An idea has forced itself upon me 
 lately that it — might have been a woman who did the deed." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, drop it," exclaimed Bede, strangely 
 agitated. " Don't you see that Louisa is in the room ? " 
 
 She could not have heard them — but Bede was always thus. 
 He had his reasons for not allowing it to be mentioned before 
 her. One of them was this. In the days gone by, just before 
 their marriage, Clare Joliffe, suddenly introducing the subject 
 of Mr. Ollivera's death when Bede was present, said to her 
 sister in tones between jest and earnest, that she (Louisa) had 
 been the cause of it. Clare meant no more than that her 
 conduct had caused him to put an end to his life — as it was 
 supposed he had done. But Louisa, partly in passion, had 
 gone into a state of agitation so great as to alarm Bede. 
 Never, from that time, would he suffer it to be mentioned 
 before her if he could prevent it. 
 
 "But, William, what do you mean about a woman?" asked 
 Mr. Greatorex, lowering his voice. 
 
 " Uncle Greatorex, I cannot explain myself. I must go on 
 in my own way, until the time to speak shall come. That 
 clearance of the past is rapidly advancing I feel sure of. A 
 subtle instinct whispers it to me. My dreams tell it me. For- 
 get for the present what I said. I ought not to have spoken." 
 
 " You are visionary, as usual," said Bede, sarcastically. 
 
 " I know that you always think me so," was the clergyman's 
 answer, and he turned to depart 
 
 There was a general dispersion. Only Mr. Greatorex re- 
 mained in the room : and he had fallen into deep thought : 
 when Roland Yorke dashed in. Without ceremony he flung 
 himself into a chair. 
 
 " Mr. Greatorex, I am dead-beat. What with perpetually 
 cutting about, and meeting depressing disappointments, and 
 taking up horrible now fears, it's enough to wear a fellow out, 
 sir." 
 
 Roland looked dead-beat. He had plenty of strength, but 
 it would not stand this constant strain. In the last six days it 
 may be questioned if he had sat down, with the exception of 
 coming to an anchor on upright barrels or bridge parapets ; and 
 then he and his legs were so excitedly restless that a spectator 
 might have thought he was afflicted with St. Vitus's Dance.
 
 A NEW IDEA. 329 
 
 " Been taking a round this morning as usual, I suppose, 'Mr. 
 Yorke," said the lawyer. 
 
 '• Ever so many of them, sir. I began with the docks. I 
 can't help thinking that if anything was done with Arthur in 
 conjunction with a carpet-bag, he might turn up there, after 
 drifting down. Then I walked back to Scotland Yard ; then 
 looked into a few shops and police-stations. Next I went to 
 Waterloo Bridge, then down to Hamish Channing's, then back 
 again to Mrs. Jones's ; then to Vincent Yorke's ; and now 
 I've come here to tell you I'm going down to Helstonleigh, if 
 you don't mind sparing me." 
 
 If you don't mind sparing me ! For any use he was to the 
 house, it did not matter whether he went or stayed. But that 
 Roland had improved in mind and manners, he had surely not 
 asked it. Time was when he had gone off on a longer journey 
 than this one to Helstonleigh and never said to his master. 
 With your leave or by your leave; but just quitted the office, 
 leaving his compliments as a legacy. 
 
 "And, if you please, I should like to see Miss Channing 
 before starting, sir; just to tell her what I'm doing, and to ask 
 if she has any messages for her people." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex rang the bell. He fancied Miss Channing 
 might be out, as she had not appeared at luncheon. 
 
 Not out, but in her pretty bedroom. When gaiety or dis- 
 cord reigned below, when Mrs. Bede Greatorex's temper tried 
 her unusually, Annabel could come up here and find it a sure 
 refuge. In one of the violent outbreaks that seemed to be 
 almost like insanity, Mrs. Bede had that morning attacked 
 Miss Channing — and for no earthly reason. There are such 
 tempers, there are such women in the world. Some of us 
 know it too well. 
 
 Weeping, trembling, Annabel gained her chamber, and there 
 sobbed out her heart. It had needed no additional grief to- 
 day, for Arthur's strange disappearance filled it with a terrible 
 weight. Jane ran up to say luncheon was ready; Annabel 
 replied that she could not take any. Gathering the child to 
 her arms, kissing her with many gentle kisses, slie whispered a 
 charge not to mention what had passed. If grandpapa or 
 Uncle Bede happened to remark on her absence from table, 
 Jane might say she had a headache. It would be perfectly 
 true, for her head did ache sadly. It was ever thus ; even 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex she endeavoured to screen from con-
 
 330 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 demnation. Trained to return good for evil whenever it was 
 practicable : to bear sweetly and patiently, Annabel Channing 
 strove to carry out certain holy precepts in every action of her 
 daily life. Too many of us keep them for church and the 
 closet. Annabel had learnt the one only way. Praying ever, 
 as she had been taught from childhood, for the Holy Spirit 
 spoken of by Jesus Christ to make its home in her heart, and 
 ever direct and restrain her, she certainly knew the way to 
 Peace as well as it can be known here ; and practised it. 
 " The fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make 
 peace." • 
 
 But it was hard to bear. Her nature was but human. 
 There were times, as on this day, when she thought she could 
 not endure it any longer, and must give up her situation. 
 That she was loth to do, for more reasons than one. Setting 
 aside these trying outbreaks, the post was a good one. She 
 was regarded as an equal, treated as a lady, well remunerated ; 
 and, what weighed greatly with Annabel in her extreme 
 conscientiousness, she was unwilling to abandon Jane Greato- 
 rex. For she was doing good to the child : good in the 
 highest sense of the word. Left to some governesses (con- 
 scientious ones too from a moral and educational point of 
 view) Jane would grow up a selfish, careless, worldly woman : 
 Annabel was ever patiently working by degrees to lead her to 
 wish to be something better ; and she had begun to see a little 
 light breaking in on her way. For this great reason she wished 
 to remain : it seemed a duty to do so. 
 
 Drawing her desk towards her, she had sat down to write to 
 her sister Constance, William Yorke's wife. Constance was 
 her great resource. To her, when the world's troubles were 
 pressing heavily, Annabel poured out her sorrow — never hint- 
 ing at any special cause, only saying that the situation " had its 
 trials "-^and Constance never failed to return an answer that 
 cheered Annabel^ and helped her on her way. The very fact 
 of writing seemed often to do her good, as on this day, and 
 the tears had dried on her cheeks, and her face grew bright 
 with hopeful resolution, as she folded the letter. 
 
 "I must balance the good I enjoy here against the trouble," 
 she said to herself; "that will help me to bear it better. If 
 Jane " 
 
 She was interrupted by the young lady in cjuestion ; who 
 came running in, followed by one of the maids.
 
 A NEW IDEA. 
 
 jj' 
 
 " Miss Channing, Roland Yorke wants to see you in the 
 dining-room." 
 
 "Roland Yorke!" repeated Annabel, dubiously, ^^'ith all 
 his want of attention to conventionalities, Mr. Roland had 
 never gone so far as to send up for her. 
 
 "It was Mr. Greatorex who desired me to tell you, miss," 
 spoke up -the servant, possibly thinking Miss Jane's news 
 needed confirming. " He rang to know whether you were 
 at home, and then told me to come and say that Mr. Yorke 
 wished to see you." 
 
 Annabel smoothed down the folds of her grey silk dress, 
 and glanced at her pretty auburn hair. She saw something 
 else also j her swollen eyes, and the vivid blushes on her cheeks. 
 
 "I'll come with you," whispered Miss Jane. "And I'll tell 
 him about Aunt Bede." 
 
 The fear that she might do so, in spite of all injunction to 
 the contrary, startled Annabel. Roland was the young lady's 
 prime favourite, regarded by her in the light of a big play- 
 fellow. 
 
 "You cannot come with me, Jane. Mary, be so kind as to 
 take Miss Jane to Dalla. Say that she is to remain in the 
 nursery until I am at liberty." 
 
 Roland was alone in the dining-room when she entered it. 
 With a delicacy that was really commendable in one who had 
 been to Port Natal, he would not tell her of the theory he had 
 taken up, or why he was going to Helstonleigh ; only that he 
 was about to start for that city. 
 
 " But what are you going for, Roland ? " was the very natural 
 question. 
 
 " To see old Galloway," he replied, standing beside her on 
 the hearth-rug where Mr. Greatorex and Henry Ollivera had 
 stood only just before. " I think Galloway must have given 
 — at least — that is — that he could find some clue to Arthur's 
 movements, if he were well pumped ; and I am going to do 
 it. Some one ought to go ; Hamish won't, and so it falls 
 upon me." 
 
 Annabel made no reply. 
 
 "I shan't like appearing in the old place," he candidly 
 resumed. " I said I never would until fortune favoured me ; 
 but one has to do lots of things in this world that go against 
 the grain ; one soon lives long enough to find that boasting 
 turns out nothing but emptiness."
 
 332 ROLAND YORKE. - 
 
 " Oh Roland ! " she said, as the foUacy of the hope struck 
 upon her, " I fear it will be a lost journey. Had Mr. Galloway 
 been able to furnish ever so small a clue, he would have been 
 sure to send it up without being asked." 
 
 " That's what Hamish says. But I mean to try. I'd go off 
 to-day to the North Pole as soon as to Helstonleigh, if I thought 
 it would find him. And to think, Annabel, that while he was 
 being kept out of the way by fate or ruffians, I was calling 
 him proud ! — and neglectful !— and hard-hearted ! I'll never 
 forgive myself for that. If, through want of exertion on my 
 part, he should not be found, I might expect his ghost to come 
 and stand at the foot of my bed every night." 
 
 " But — Roland— you have not given up all hope ? " she 
 questioned, her clear, honest hazel eyes looking steadily and 
 beseechingly into his. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. Sometimes I think he's sure to turn 
 up all right, and then down I go again into the depths of 
 despair. Last night I dreamt he was alive and well, and I 
 was helping him up some perpendicular steps from a boat 
 moored under Waterloo Bridge. When I awoke I thought 
 it was true. I was so glad ! Even after I remembered, it 
 seemed a happy omen. Don't be down-hearted, Annabel. 
 Once, at Port Natal, a fellow I knew was lost for a year. His 
 name was Crow. We never supposed but he was dead, but 
 he came to life again with a crop of red whiskers, and said 
 he'd only been travelling. I say ! what's the matter with your 
 eyes ? " 
 
 The question somewhat confused her. She answered 
 evasively. 
 
 "You've been crying, Annabel. Now, tell me what the 
 grievance was. If Mrs. Bede Greatorex makes you unhappy — 
 good gracious ! and I can't help you, or take you from here ! 
 I don't know when I shall : I don't get on at all. It's enough 
 to make a man swear." 
 
 " Hush, Roland I I am very unhapy about Arthur." 
 
 " Why, of course you are — how came I to forget it ? " he 
 rejoined, easily satisfied as a child. " And here am I, wasting 
 jtrecious time that might be spent in looking after him ? 
 Plave you anything to send to Helstonleigh ? " 
 
 " Only my love. My dear love to them all. You will see 
 mamma ? " 
 
 Roland suddenly look both her hands in his, and so held
 
 A NEW IDEA. 333 
 
 her before him, stooping his head a Httle, and speaking 
 gently. 
 
 "Annabel, I shall have to see your mamma, and tell 
 her " 
 
 She did not mean that at all ; it had not even occurred to 
 her. Naturally the cheeks became very vivid now. Without 
 further ado, or, asking leave, bold Roland kissed the blushing 
 face. 
 
 " Good-bye, Annabel. Wish me luck." 
 
 Away he clattered, waiting neither for scolding nor answer, 
 and was flying along the street, before Annabel had at all 
 recovered her equanimity. 
 
 To resolve to go to Helstonleigh was one thing, to get to it 
 was another ; and Roland Yorke, with his usual carelessness, 
 had not considered ways and means. Only when he dashed 
 in at his lodgings that morning (as related by Mrs. Jones to 
 Mr. Ollivera), did the question strike him as to how he was to 
 get there. He had not a coin in the world. Roland's earnings 
 (the result of having put his shoulder to the wheel these three or 
 four months past) had been deposited with Mrs. Jones, it may be 
 remembered, and they amounted to two sovereigns. These 
 had been spent in searching for Arthur. In the first confusion 
 of his disappearance, Roland had wildly dashed about in 
 hansoms j for his legs, for all their length and impatience, 
 would not carry him from pillar to post fleetly enough. He 
 made small presents to policemen, hoping to sharpen their 
 powers ; he inserted two advertisements in the Times, offering 
 rewards for mysterious carpet-bags. But for a fortunate over- 
 sight that caused him to omit any address, it was quite unknown 
 the number of old bags that might have been brought him. 
 All this had speedily melted the gold pieces. He then got 
 Mrs. Jones to advance him, with much grumbling, two more, 
 which went the same way, and were not yet repaid. So there 
 he v/as, without money to take him to Helstonleigh, and no 
 one he knew likely to lend him any. 
 
 " I can't walk," debated he, standing in his parlour as his 
 penniless state occurred to him. "They used to call it a 
 hundred and eleven miles in the old coaching days. It would 
 be nothing to me if I had the time, but I can't waste that now. 
 Hamish has set his face against my going, or I'd ask him. I 
 wonder whether Dick Yorke v.-ould let me have a couple of 
 pounds ? "
 
 334 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 To " wonder," meant to act, with Roland. Out he went 
 again on the spur of the moment, and posted to Portland Place. 
 Sir Vincent was not at home. The man said he had been 
 there that morning on his arrival from Sunny Mead (the little 
 Yorke homestead in Surrey), but had gone out again directly. 
 He might be expected at any moment, or all moments, during 
 the day. 
 
 Roland waited. In a state of restlessness, we may be sure, 
 for the precious time was passing. He was afraid to go to the 
 club lest he might miss him. When one o'clock struck, 
 Roland thought he might do his other errand first : that of 
 acquainting Greatorex and Greatorex with his departure, and 
 seeing Miss Channing. Therefore, he started forth again, 
 leaving a peremptory message, should Sir Vincent return, that 
 he was to tvait in for him. 
 
 And now, having seen ]\Ir. Greatorex and Annabel, he was 
 speeding back again to Portland Place. Breathless, and 
 excited, of course ; driving along as if the pavement belonged 
 to him, and no one else had any right to it. In charging a 
 corner at full tilt, he charged an inoffensive foot-passenger, 
 quietly approaching. It was no other than Mr. Butterby. 
 
 Roland brought himself up. It was an opportunity not to 
 be missed. Seizing the official button-hole, he poured the story 
 of Arthur Channing's disappearance into the official ear, 
 imploring Mr. Butterby's services in the cause. 
 
 " Don't think any more of the uncivil names I've called you, 
 Butterby. You knew all the while I didn't mean anything. 
 I've said I'd pay you out when I had the chance, and so I will, 
 but it shall be in gold. If you will only put your services into 
 the thing, we shall find him. Do, now ! You won't bear malice, 
 Butterby." 
 
 So impetuous had been the flow of eloquence, that Mr. 
 Butterby had found no opportunity of getting a word in edge- 
 ways : he had simply looked and hstened. Arthur Channing's 
 loss had been as mysterious to him as to other people. 
 
 " Arthur Channing ain't one of them sort o' blades likely to 
 get into a mess, through going to places where drinking and 
 what not's carried on," spoke he. 
 
 " Of course he is not," was Roland's indignant ans\i'er. " He'd 
 be more likely to turn tumbler at a fair ! Look here, Butterby ! 
 You worked him harm once, but I'll never reproach you with 
 it again as long as I live, and I've known all along you had no
 
 A NEW IDEA. . 335 
 
 ill-feeling in it : but now, you find him this time, and that will 
 be tit for tat. Perhaps I may be rich some day, and I'll buy 
 }(ni a silver snuff-box set with diamonds." 
 
 " I don't take snuff," said Mr. Butterby. 
 
 liut it was impossible to resist Roland's pleading, in its 
 warm-hearted energy. And, to give ISIr. Butterby his due, he 
 would have been glad to do his best to find Arthur Channing. 
 
 " I can't stay in London myself," said he. " I've been here 
 a week now on private business, and must go down to Helston- 
 leigh to-morrow ; but I'll put it special into Detective Jelf's 
 hands. He's as 'cute an officer, young Mr. Yorke, as here and 
 there one, and of more use in London than I am." 
 
 " Bless you, Butterby ! " cried hearty Roland. " Tell Jelf 
 I'll give him a snuff-box, too. And.now I'm off. I won't forget 
 you, Butterby." 
 
 Mr. Butterby thought the chances that Roland would ever 
 have tin snuff-boxes to give away, letting alone silver ones, were 
 rather poor ; but he was not a bad-natured man, and he 
 detained Roland yet an instant to give him a friendly word of 
 advice. 
 
 " There's one or two folks, in the old place, that you owe a 
 trifle to, Mr. Yorke " 
 
 " There's half-a-dozen," interrupted candid Roland. 
 
 " Well, sir, I wouldn't show myself in the town more than I 
 could help. They are vexed at being kept out of their money, 
 thinking some of the family might have paid up ; and they 
 might let off a bit if you went amongst 'em : unless, indeed, 
 you are taking the money down with you." 
 
 " Taking the money with me ! — why, Butterby, I haven't a 
 sixpence in the world," avowed Roland, opening his astonished 
 eyes. "If Dick Yorke won't lend me a pound or so, I don't 
 know how on earth to get down, unless they give me a free 
 pass on the engine." 
 
 There was no time for more. Away he went to Portland 
 Place, and thundered at the door, as if he had been a king. 
 But his visit did not serve him. 
 
 Sir Vincent Yorke had entered just after Roland's departure. 
 Upon receiving the peremptory message, the baronet marvelled 
 what it could mean, and whether all the Yorke family had been 
 blown up, himself excepted. Nothing else, he thought, could 
 justify the scapegoat Roland in desiring him. Sir Vincent, to 
 stay in. To be kept waiting at home when he very particu-
 
 336 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 larly wanted to be out — for Sir Vincent had come to town to 
 meet Miss Trehern, the lady he was shortly to marry — vexed 
 him frightfully. So that when Roland reappeared he had an 
 angry man to deal with. 
 
 And, in good truth, had Roland announced the calamity, so 
 pleasantly anticipated, it would have caused Sir Vincent less 
 surprise ; certainly less vexation. When he found he had 
 been decoyed into remaining in for nothing but to be asked 
 for money to take Mr. Roland careering off by rail — he was in 
 too great a passion to understand where — Sir Vincent exploded. 
 Roland, quietly braving the storm, prayed for " just a pound," 
 as if he were praying for life. Sir Vincent finally replied that 
 he wouldn't lend him a shilling if it would save him from 
 hanging. 
 
 So Roland was thrown on his beam ends, and went back to 
 Mrs. Jones's with empty pockets, revolving ways and means in 
 his troubled mind. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MR. GALLOWAY INVADED. 
 
 It was night in the old cathedral town. The ten-o'clock bell 
 had rung, and Mr. Galloway, proctor and surrogate, was at 
 home in his residence in the Boundaries, thinking that he might 
 go to rest. For several days he had been feeling very much 
 out of sorts, and this evening the symptoms had culminated in 
 what appeared to be a bad cold, attended with fever and pain 
 in all his limbs. The old proctor was one of those people 
 whose mind insensibly sways the body ; and the mysterious 
 disappearance of Arthur Channing was troubling him to ill- 
 ness. He had caused a huge fire to be made up in his bed- 
 room, and was seated before it, groaning and lamenting. His 
 slippered feet reposed on a warm cushion, a raDway rug 
 enveloped his shoulders, and a white cotton night-cap gracefully 
 ornamented his head. One of his servants had just brought 
 up a basin of hot gruel, holding at least a quart, and put it on 
 the stand by his easy-chair. Mr. Galloway was groaning at
 
 MR. GALLOWAY INVADED. 337 
 
 the gruel quite as much as with pain, for he hated gruel like 
 poison. 
 
 Thinking it might be less nauseous if disposed of at a 
 draught, were that possible — Mr. Galloway took up the basin 
 and put it to his lips. With a cry and a choking sound, down 
 went the basin again. The stuff was scalding. And whether 
 Mr. Galloway's tongue or temper suffered most, he would have 
 been puzzled to confess. 
 
 It was at this untoward moment — Mr. Galloway's face 
 purple, himself choking and coughing^that a noise, as of 
 thunder, suddenly awoke the echoes of the Boundaries. Shut 
 up in his snug room, sounds reaching him chiefly through the 
 windows, the startled Mr. Galloway wondered what it was, and 
 edged his white night-cap from one ear to listen. He then 
 had the satisfaction of discovering that the noise was at his 
 own front door. Some one had evidently seized the knocker 
 and was rapping and rattling as if they never intended to leave 
 off. The alarmed household were heard flying towards the 
 door from all quarters. 
 
 " Is it the fire-engine ? " groaned Mr. Galloway to himself. 
 " I didn't hear it come up." 
 
 It did not appear to be the fire-engine. A moment or two, 
 and Mr. Galloway was conscious of a commotion on the stairs, 
 some visitor making his way up to him ; his man-servant 
 offering a useless opposition. 
 
 "What on earth does John mean? He must be a fool — 
 letting people come up here ! " thought Mr. Galloway, apos- 
 trophizing his many years' faithful servitor. " It can never be 
 the Dean ! " 
 
 That any other living man, whether church dignitary or 
 ordinary mortal, would venture to invade his sanctum, take 
 him by storm in his own chamber, was beyond belief Mr. 
 Galloway, all fluttered and fevered, pushed his white night- 
 cap a little higher, turned his wondering face to the door, and 
 listened. 
 
 " If he is neither in bed nor undressed, as you say, I can see 
 him up here just as well as below , so don't bother, old John," 
 were the words that indistinctly caught the disturbed invalid's 
 ear : and somehow the voice seemed to strike upon some chord 
 of memory. " I say, old John, you don't get younger," it 
 went on ; "what's become of your hair ? Is this the room? — • 
 it used to be." 
 
 Roland Yorke. *^
 
 338 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Without more ado, the door was flung open, and the visitor 
 stepped over the threshold. Invader and invaded gazed at 
 each other. The one saw an old man, who appeared shrunken 
 in spite of his wraps, with a red face, crowned by a cotton 
 night-cap, a flaxen curl or two peeping out above the amazed 
 eyes, and a basin of steaming gruel beside him : the other saw 
 a tall, fine, well-dressed young fellow, whose face, like the 
 voice, struck on the chords of memory. John spoke up from 
 behind. 
 
 " It's Mr. Roland Yorke, sir. He would not be stayed : he 
 would come up in spite of me." 
 
 " Goodness bless me ! " exclaimed the bewildered proctor. 
 
 Putting down his hat and a small brown-paper parcel that he 
 carried, Roland advanced to Mr. Galloway, nearly upsetting 
 the stand and the gruel, which John had to rush forward to 
 save — and held out his hand. 
 
 " I don't know whether you'll shake it, sir, after the way we 
 parted, /am willing." 
 
 "The way of parting was yours, Mr. Roland, not mine," 
 was the answer. But Mr. Galloway did shake the hand, and 
 Roland sat down by the fire, uninvited, making himself at 
 home, as usual. 
 
 " What's amiss, sir ? " he asked, as John went away. " Got 
 the mumps? Is that gruel? Horrid composition! I think 
 it must have been invented for our sins. You must be uncom- 
 monly ill, sir, to swallow that stuff." 
 
 " And what in the world brings you down here at this hour, 
 frightening quiet people out of their senses?" demanded Mr. 
 Galloway, paying no attention to Roland's questions. " I'm 
 sure /thought it was the fire-engine." 
 
 " The train brought me," replied matter-of-fact Roland. " I 
 had meant to get here by an earlier one, but things went cross 
 and contrary up in town." 
 
 " That was no reason why you should knock my door 
 down." 
 
 "Oh, that was only my impatience: my mind's frightfully 
 worried," penitently acknowledged Roland. " I hope you'll 
 forgive me, sir. I've come from London, Mr. Galloway, about 
 this miserable business concerning Arthur Channing. We 
 want to know where you sent him to ? " 
 
 Mr. Galloway, his doubts as to fire-engines set at rest, had 
 been cooling down ; but the name made him hot again. He
 
 MR. GALLOWAY INVADED. 339 
 
 had grown to like Arthur more than he would have cared to 
 acknowledge ; and the idea flashed into his mind that some 
 untoward fate had overtaken him, and Roland's errand was to 
 break the news. 
 
 " Is Arthur dead ? " he questioned, in low tones. 
 
 "/think so," answered Roland. "But he has not turned 
 up yet, dead or alive. I'm sure it's not for the want of 
 being looked after. I've pretty well spent my time since he 
 was missing, between Waterloo Bridge and the East India 
 Docks." 
 
 " Then you've not come down to say he is found ? " 
 
 " No : only to ask you where you sent him that night, that 
 he. may be found." 
 
 When the explanation was complete, Roland of course 
 discovered that he had had his journey for nothing, and would 
 have done well to take the opinion of Hamish Channing. 
 Every tittle of information that Mr. Galloway was able to give, 
 he had already written to Hamish : not a thought, not a 
 supposition, but he had imparted it in full. As to Roland's 
 idea, that business might have carried Arthur to dishonest 
 neighbourhoods in London, Mr. Galloway positively nega- 
 tived it. 
 
 " He had nothing to do for me in such places, and I'm sure 
 he had nothing of his own." 
 
 Roland sat, feeling very gloomy. In his sanguine way, he 
 •had been buoying himself with a hope that grew and grew all 
 the way down : so that when he arrived at Mr. Galloway's he 
 had almost persuaded himself that if Arthur was not there in 
 person, news of him certainly would be. Hence the impatient 
 summons at the door, 
 
 " I know he is at the bottom of the Thames ! I did hope 
 you could throw some light on it that you might have forgotten 
 to tell, Mr. Galloway." 
 
 " Forgotten ! " returned Mr, Galloway, slightly agitated. " If 
 I remembered my sins, young man, as well as I remember all 
 connected with him, I might be the better for it. His disap- 
 pearance has made me ill ; that's what it has done ; and I'm 
 not sure but it will kill me. When a steady, honourable, God- 
 fearing young man like Arthur Channing, whose heart I verily 
 believe was as much in heaven as on earth ; when such a man 
 ■disappears at night in this mysterious manaer in London, and 
 cannot be traced or found, nothing but the worst is to be
 
 340 ROLAND YORKE 
 
 apprehended. I believe Arthur Channing to have been mur- 
 dered for the money he had about him." 
 
 Mr. Galloway seized his handkerchief, and rubbed his hot 
 face. It was the precise view Roland had taken of the matter ; 
 and, to have it thus confirmed by Mr. Galloway, seemed to 
 drive all hope out of him for good. 
 
 " And I never had the opportunity of atoning to him for the 
 past, you see, Mr. Galloway ! It will stick in my memory for 
 life. I would rather have been murdered myself ten times 
 over." 
 
 " I gave my consent to his going up with reluctance," said 
 Mr. Galloway, seeming to be repeating the fact for his own 
 benefit rather than for Roland's. " What did it signify whether 
 Charles was met in London, or not? If he could find his way 
 to London from Marseilles alone, surely he might find it alone 
 to Helstonleigh 1 Our busy time, the November audit, is 
 approaching : but it was not that thought that swayed me, but 
 an unconscious instinct. Arthur said he had not had a holiday 
 for two years ; said that business wanted the presence of one 
 of us in London : all true, and I yielded. xAnd this has come 
 of it!" . ^ 
 
 Mr. Galloway gave his face another rub. The night-cap fell 
 off during the performance, admitting the curls to full view. 
 In spite of Roland's despairing state, he took advantage of the 
 occasion. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Galloway, your hair is not as luxuriant as it 
 used to be." 
 
 " It's something like me, then," returned Mr. Galloway, 
 wlio was too much depressed to resent personal remarks. 
 " What will become of us all without Arthur, setting aside the 
 awful calamity to himself, I cannot imagine. Look at his 
 motlier ! He almost supported the house • Mrs. Channing's 
 own income is only a trifle, and Tom can't as yet give much. 
 Look at me ! What on earth I shall do without him at the 
 office, never can be surmised ! " 
 
 " My goodness ! " cried modest Roland. *' You'll be almost 
 as much put to it, sir, as you were when I went off to Port 
 Natal." 
 
 Mr. (ialloway coughed. " Almost," assented he, rather 
 satirically. " Why, Roland Yorke," he burst forth, impetu- 
 ously, "if you had been with me from then until now, aban- 
 doned all your lazy tricks, and gone in for hard work, not a
 
 MR. GALLOWAY INVADED. 341 
 
 day's holiday or an hour's play, you could never have made 
 yourself half as capable and clever as Arthur." 
 
 " Well, you see, Mr. Galloway, my talents don't He so much 
 in sticking to a desk as in knocking about," good-humouredly 
 avowed Roland. " But I do go in for hard work ; I do 
 indeed," 
 
 "I hear you didn't make a fortune at Port Natal, young 
 man ! " 
 
 Roland, open as ever, gave a brief summary of what he had 
 done instead — starved, worked as a labourer, when he could 
 get work to do, driven pigs, and returned home out at elbows. 
 
 " No one need reproach me ; it was worse for me than for 
 them — but lots of people do reproach me. I tried my best ; 
 and I'm trying still. It did me one service, Mr. Galloway — 
 took all pride and laziness out of me. But for the lessons I 
 learnt at Port Natal, I should have continued a miserable hum- 
 bug to the end of the chapter, shirking work on my own score, 
 and looking to other folks to keep me. I'm trying to do my 
 best honestly, and to make my way. The returns are not 
 grand yet, but such as they are I'm living on them, and they 
 may get better by-and-by. Rome was not built in a day. I 
 went out to Port Natal to set good old Arthur right with the 
 world ; I couldn't bring myself to make the confession, that 
 you know of, sir, while I stopped here. I thought to make my 
 fortune also, a few millions, or so. I didn't do it ; it was alto- 
 gether a failure, but it made a better man of me." 
 
 " Glad to hear it," said Mr. Galloway. 
 
 He watched the earnest, eager face, bent towards him ; 
 noted the genuine, truthful tones ; and the conclusion he drew 
 was that Roland might not be making an uncertain boast. 
 But it seemed incredible, taking into recollection his former 
 experience of that gentleman. 
 
 "And when I've got on, so as to make a couple of hundred 
 a year or so, I am going to get married, Mr. Galloway." 
 
 " In — deed ! " exclaimed Mr. Galloway, staring very much. 
 " Is the lady fixed upon ? " 
 
 "Well, yes : and I don't mind telling you, if you'll keep the 
 secret and not repeat it up and down the town : I don't fancy 
 she'd like it talked about yet. It's Annabel Channing." 
 
 " Annabel Channing ! " echoed Mr. Galloway, in doubtful 
 surprise. " Has she said she'll have you ? " 
 
 " T am not so sure she has said it, She mean? it."
 
 342 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 , "Why she— she is one of the best and sweetest girls living;- 
 she might marry almost any one ; almost a lord," burst forth 
 Mr. Galloway, with a touch of his former gossiping propensity. 
 
 Roland's eyes sparkled. " So she might, sin But she'll 
 wait for me. And she does not expect riches, either, but will 
 put her shoulder to the wheel with me and be content to work- 
 and help until riches come." 
 
 Mr. Galloway gave a sound of disbelief. He might be par- 
 doned if he treated this in his own mind simply as a delusion 
 on Roland's part. He liked Annabel almost as well as he had 
 liked Arthur; and he looked upon Mr. Roland as a knight- 
 errant, not very likely to do good to himself or others. Roland 
 rose. 
 
 " I must be off," he said. " I've still my mother to see. 
 Well, this is a pill — to find you've no clue to give me. Hamish 
 said it would be so." 
 
 "I hear Hamish Channing is ill?" 
 
 " He is not ill, that I know of. He looks it. You would 
 think that a puff of wind would blow him away." 
 
 " Disappointed in his book?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose so. It's an awful sin, though, for it to 
 have been written down — whoever did it." 
 
 " I should call it a swindle," corrected Mr. Galloway. "A 
 bare-faced swindle. The public ought to be put right, if there 
 were any way of doing it." 
 
 " Did you read the book, Mr. Galloway ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and then went forthwith and bought it. And I read 
 Gerald's." 
 
 " That 7C'as a beauty, wasn't it ? " cried sarcastic Roland. 
 
 " Without paint," pursued Mr. Galloway, in the same strain. 
 " It was just worth throwing on the fire leaf by leaf; that's my 
 opinion of Gerald's book. But it got the reviews, Roland." 
 
 " And be shot to it ! We can't understand the riddle up in 
 London, sin" 
 
 " I'm sure we can't down here," emphatically repeated Mr, 
 Galloway. " Well, good night : I'm not sorry to have seen 
 you. When are you going back again ? " 
 
 "To-morrow. And I'd rather have gone a hundred miles 
 the other way than come near Helstonleigh. I shall take care 
 to go and see no one here, except Mrs. Channing, If " 
 
 "You must not speak of Arthur to Mrs. Channing," inter- 
 rupted the proctor.
 
 MR. GALLOWAY INVADED. 343 
 
 " Not speak of him ! " 
 
 " She knew nothing about his loss : it has been kept from 
 her. She rtiinks he is in Paris with Charles. In her delicate 
 state of health she would hardly bear the prolonged sus- 
 pense." 
 
 " It's a good thing you told me," said Roland, heartily. " I 
 hope I shan't let it out. Good night, sir. I must not forget 
 this, though ! " he added, taking up the parcel. " It contains 
 a clean shirt and a collar." 
 
 " Where are you going to sleep ? " 
 
 Roland paused. Until that moment the thought had never 
 struck him where he was to sleep. 
 
 " I dare say they can give me a shake-down at the mother's. 
 The hearth-rug will do : I'm not particular. I used to go in 
 for a feather-bed and two pillows once upon a time. My 
 goodness ! What a selfish young lunatic I was ! " 
 
 " If they can't manage it, perhaps we can give you a shake- 
 down here," said Mr. Galloway. " But don't ring the house 
 down if you come back to it." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Roland, gratefully. " I wonder all 
 you old friends are so good to me." 
 
 He clattered down, and found himself in the Boundaries. 
 WJien he had passed through them ten minutes before, he was 
 bearing on all too fiercely to Mr. Galloway's to note a single 
 feature. Time had been when Roland would not have cared 
 for old memories. They came crowding on him now, the dear 
 life-associations, the events and interests of his boyhood, like 
 green resting-places in a sandy desert. The cathedral clock 
 rang out the three-quarters past ten, and helped the delusion. 
 Opposite to him rose the time-honoured edifice, worn by the 
 defacing yet beautifying hand of centuries. Renovation had 
 been going on for a long time ; the pinnacles were new ; old 
 buildings, that formerly partially obscured it, had been re- 
 moved, and it stood out as Roland had never before seen it. 
 It was a bright night ; the moon shone as clearly as it had 
 done on that early March night which ushered in the prologue 
 of this story. It brought into relief the fretwork of the dear 
 old cathedral ; lighted up the gables of the quaint houses of 
 the Boundaries, all shapes and sizes in architecture ; it rested 
 on the grass enclosed by the broad gravel walks, which the 
 stately dames of the still more stately church dignitaries once 
 cared to pace. But where were the tall old elm-trees — through
 
 344 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 whose foliage the moonbeams ought to have flickered ? Where 
 were the rooks that used to build in them, wiling the poor 
 college boys, at their Latin and Greek hard by, with their 
 friendly croaks and caws? Gone, Roland looked up and 
 marvelled. An apology for the trees was indeed left; but 
 topped and lopped and bared. The spreading branches had 
 been removed, and the homeless rooks had been driven away, 
 wanderers. 
 
 " It's nothing less than sacrilege," spoke bold Roland, when 
 he had done staring. " It will certainly bring good luck to no 
 one." 
 
 He could not resist crossing the Boundaries to the little 
 iron gate admitting to the cloisters. It would not admit him 
 to-night. The cloister porter, successor to Mr. John Ketch of 
 cross-grained memory, had locked it hours ago, and the key 
 hung safely by his bedside in his lodge. This was the gate 
 through which poor Charley Channing had innocently gone, to 
 be frightened all but to death, that night memorable in the 
 annals of the college school. Charley was now a flourish- 
 ing young clerk in India (at the present moment supposed to 
 be enjoying Paris), likely to rise to fame and fortune, health 
 permitting. Many a time and oft, had Roland himself dashed 
 through the gate, surplice on arm, in a white heat lest he 
 should be marked " late." How the shouts of the boys used 
 to echo along the vaulted roof of the cloisters ! How they 
 seemed to echo in the heart of Roland now ! Times had 
 changed. Things had changed. He had changed. A new 
 set of boys filled the school ; some of the clergy were fresh in 
 the cathedral. The bishop, gone to his account, had been re- 
 placed by a better : a once great and good preacher, who was 
 wont in times long gone by to fill the cathedral with his 
 hearers, had followed him. In Roland's own family, and in 
 that of one with whom they had been very intimately associ 
 ated, there were changes. George Yorke was no more ; 
 Gerald had risen to be a great man ; he, Roland, had fallen, 
 and was of no account in the world. Mr. Channing had died; 
 Hamish was dying 
 
 How came that last thought to steal into his mind. He did 
 not knoiu. It had never occurred to him before : why should 
 it have done so now ? Ah, he might ask himself the question, 
 but he could not answer it. Buried in reflections of the past 
 and present, one thought leading on to another, it had arisen.
 
 ]\IR. GALLOWAY INVADED. 345 
 
 Roland knew not whence, and startling him to terror. His 
 pulse quickened, his face grew hot. 
 
 " I think I must have been in a dream," debated Roland, 
 " or else moonstruck. Sunny Hamish ! as if the world could 
 afford to lose him ! No one but a donkey whose brains had 
 been knocked out of him at Port Natal, would have such 
 wicked fancies." 
 
 He turned the corner, and looked out for the windows of his 
 mother's house. They were not difficult to see, for in every 
 one of them shone a blaze of light. The sweet white radiance 
 of the moon, never to be equalled by earthly invention, was 
 eclipsed by the garish red of the windows. Lady Augusta 
 Yorke evidently had an assembly. 
 
 " Was ever the like bother known ! " spoke Roland aloud, 
 halting in the quiet spot. "She has all the world and his wife 
 there. And I didn't want a soul to know that I was at 
 Helstonleigh ! " 
 
 He took his resolution at once, went on, and made for a 
 small side-door. A smart maid stood at it, flirting with a foot- 
 man from one of the waiting carriages. Roland went in head 
 foremost, saying nothing, passing swiftly through passages and 
 up the stair& The girl took him for a robber, or some evil 
 character, and stared in wonder. But she was not wanting in 
 courage, and went after him. He had made his way to what 
 used to be his sister's schoo*lroom in Miss Channing's time; 
 tlie open door displayed a table temptingly set out with re- 
 freshments, and no one was in it. When the maid arrived, 
 Roland, his hat on a chair and his parcel on the floor, was 
 devouring sandwiches. 
 
 "Why, what on earth!" she began. "My patience! who 
 are you, sir? How dare you? " 
 
 "Who am I ?" said Roland. "You just go and fetch Lady 
 Augusta here. Say a gentleman wants to see her. Tell her 
 privately, mind." 
 
 The girl, in sheer amazement, did as she was bid : whisper- 
 ing her own comments to her mistress. 
 
 " I'd be aware of hi-m, my lady, if I were you, please. It 
 might be a maniac. I'm sure the way he's gobbling up the 
 victuals don't look like nothing else." 
 
 Lady Augusta Yorke, slightly fluttered, took the precaution 
 to draw with her her youngest son, Harry, a stalwart king's 
 scholar of seventeen, A.dvqncing dubiously to the intervicwj
 
 346 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 she peeped in, and saw the intruder, a great tall fellow, whose 
 back was towards her, swallowing down big table-spoonfuls of 
 custard. The sight aroused Lady Augusta's anger: there 
 would be a famine ; nothing left for her hungry guests. In 
 she burst, something after Roland's own fashion, words of 
 reproach on her tongue, Harry gazed in doubt; the maid 
 brought up the rear. 
 
 Roland turned, full of affection, dropped the spoon into the 
 custard dish, and flew to embrace her. 
 
 "How are you, mother darling? It's only me." 
 And the Lady Augusta Yorke, between surprise at the 
 meeting, a little joy, and a good deal of vexation on the score 
 of her diminishing supper, was somewhat overwhelmed, and 
 sank into a chair in screaming hysterics. 
 
 CHAPTER VII L 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 The college bell was tolling for morning prayers : and the 
 Helstonleigh College boys were coming up in groups and 
 disappearing within the little cloister gate, their white surplices 
 on their arms, just as Roland Yorke had seen them in his 
 visions the previous night. It was the first of November : a 
 saint's day ; and a great one, as every one knows; consequently 
 the school had holiday, and the king's scholars attended divine 
 service. 
 
 Roland was amidst them, having come out after breakfast to 
 give as he said a "look round." The morning was well on 
 when he awoke up from the couch prepared for him at Lady 
 Augusta's : a soft bed with charming pillows, not a temporary 
 shake-down on the hearth-rug. They had sat up the previous 
 night, after Lady Augusta's guests had left, talking of old times 
 and new ones. Roland freely confessed his penniless state, 
 his present mode of living, with all its shifts and drawbacks, 
 the pound a week that Mrs. Jones made do for all, the brushing 
 of his own clothes, if not the blacking of his own boots : which 
 sent his mother into a fit of reproaching sobs. In his sanguine 
 manner he enlarged upon the fortune that was sure to be his
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 347 
 
 some time ("a few hundreds a year and a house of his own"), 
 and made her and his two sisters the most Hberal promises on 
 the strength of it. Caroline Yorke turned from him : he had 
 lost caste in her eyes. Fanny, with her sweet voice and gentle 
 smile, whispered him to work on bravely, never fearing. The 
 two girls were essentially different. Constance Channing had 
 done her utmost with both : they had gone to Hazledon with 
 her when she became William Yorke's wife ; but her patient 
 training had borne different fruit. 
 
 Roland dashed first of all into Mr. Galloway's, to ask if he 
 had news of Arthur. " No, none," Mr. Galloway answered, with 
 a groan, and it "would surely be the death of him." As 
 Roland left the proctor's house, he saw the college boys flock- 
 ing into the cloisters, and went in with them. Renovation 
 seemed to be going on everywhere ; beauty had succeeded 
 dilapidations, and the old cathedral might well raise her head 
 proudly now. But Roland did wonder when the improve- 
 ments and the work would be completed ; they had been going 
 on as long as he could remember. 
 
 But the cloisters had not moved or changed their form, and 
 Roland lost himself in the days of the past. One of the pre- 
 bendaries, new since Roland's time, was turning into the 
 chapter-house ; Roland, from old associations, unconsciously 
 took off his hat to him. In imagination he was a king's 
 scholar again, in mortal dread, when in those cloisters, of the 
 Dean and Chapter. 
 
 "I say — you," said he, seizing a big boy, who had his 
 surplice flung across his shoulder in a most untidy and 
 crumpled fashion, " show me Joe Jenkins's grave." 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered the boy, wondering what fine imperative 
 gentleman had come amidst them, and speaking civilly, lest 
 it might be a connection of one of the prebendaries. " It's 
 round on the other side." 
 
 Passing along to the end of the north cloister, near to the 
 fiimous "Miserrimus" grave-stone, near to the spot where a 
 ghost had once appeared to Charles Channing, he pointed to 
 an obscure corner of the green graveyard, which the cloisters 
 enclosed. Many and many a time had Roland perched him- 
 self on those dilapidated window-frames in the days gone by. 
 
 "It's there," said the boy. "Old Ketch, the cloister porter, 
 lies on this side him." 
 
 " Oh, Ketch does, does he ! I wonder whose doings that
 
 348 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 was ! It's a shame to have placed a cross-grained old wretch 
 side by side with poor Jenkins." 
 
 "Jenkins was cross-grained too, for the matter of that," 
 cried the boy. " He was always asking the fellows for a tip to 
 buy baccy, and grumbling if they did not give it." 
 
 Roland stared indignantly. " Jenkins was ! Why, what are 
 you talking of? Jenkins never smoked." 
 
 "Oh, didn't he though! Why, he died smoking; he was 
 smoking always. Pretty well, that, for an old man of seventy- 
 six." 
 
 "I'm not talking of old Jenkins," cried Roland. "Who 
 wants to know about him ? — what a senseless fellow you are ! 
 It's young Jenkins. Joe ; who was at Galloway's." 
 
 " Oh, him ! He was buried in front, not here. " I can't 
 go round to show you, sir, for time's up." 
 
 The boy took to his heels, as only schoolboys can take to 
 them, and Roland heard him rattle up the steps of the college 
 hall to join his comrades. Propped against the framework, 
 his memory lost itself in many things ; and the minutes passed 
 unheeded. The procession of king's scholars aroused him. 
 They filed along the cloisters from the college hall, two and 
 two, in their surplices and trenchers, his brother Harry, one 
 of the seniors, almost the last of them. When they had dis- 
 appeared, Roland ran round to the front graveyard. Between 
 the cathedral gates and those leading to the palace, stood a 
 black-robed verger, with his silver mace, waiting the appearance 
 of the Dean. Roland accosted the man and asked him to 
 point out Joe Jenkins's grave. 
 
 "That's it, sir," and the verger indicated a flat stone, nearly 
 hidden by the grass. " You can't miss it : his name's there." 
 
 Roland went into the burial-ground. 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 com- 
 mon stone, Mrs. J.'s no doubt, shall be replaced by 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-remewibered houses 
 around ; he shaded his eyes from the sun, and looked up to
 
 PAST AND TRESENT. 349 
 
 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 service had com- 
 menced, 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 have done, 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 pleasant voice, full of 
 melody. A thoroughly 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, almost opposite to 
 Roland ; a good-looking, open-faced 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 dis- 
 turber, at whom every one had stared, and the Dean himself 
 had glanced at, telegraphing a couple of nods to him, in what 
 seemed the exuberance of 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 Vefiite and the 
 Psalms for the day were being sung. Almost side by side 
 with himself, at the chanting desk, though not used for chanting 
 to-day, he discovered his kinsman, William Yorke. And the 
 Reverend William kept his haughty shoulder turned away; 
 and had felt ready to faint when Roland had burst in 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 all was ! The Dean in his stall ; 
 the sub-dean on the left, and the new prebendary, whom 
 Roland did not know. There stood the choristers at their 
 desks; here, on the flags, the king's scholars, in their white 
 surplices. There was a new head-master in Mr. Pye's place, 
 and Roland did not know him. The last time Roland had
 
 350 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 attended service in the cathedral — and he remembered it well— 
 Arthur Channing had taken the organ. He had ceased to 
 take it for several years now, excepting for pleasure on some 
 chance occasion. 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 shivered. 
 
 But they are beginning the First Lesson — part of a chapter 
 in Wisdom, William Yorke reading it. \\'ith the first sen- 
 tences 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. Sitting back in his stall, subdued 
 and quiet now, all his curiosity suppressed, Roland could only 
 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 com.e. " Annabel will help me," 
 he thought. 
 
 When service was over, Roland greeted all he cared for of 
 those who remembered him. Passing up the aisle to join Tom 
 Channing in the vestry (where the first thing he did was to 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. ^Villiam Yorke 
 walked on, biting his lips between amusement and vexation. 
 As Roland and Thomas Channing were going through the 
 Boundaries, a rather short, red-faced, pleasant-looking young 
 man met them, and stayed to shake hands with the minor 
 canon. It was Stephen Bywater. Roland knew him at once : 
 his saucy face was not a whit altered. Bywater had come into 
 no end of property in the West Indies (as Tom afterwards 
 explained to Roland), and was in Europe for a short sojourn. 
 
 "Mow's Ger?" asked Bywater, when they had spoken of 
 Arthur and general news.
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 351 
 
 *' 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 Byv/ater. '' Ger is Ger still, 
 I see. Does he remember the ink-bottle ? " 
 
 "What ink-bottle?" 
 
 " And the tanning Pye gave him ? " 
 
 Roland did not understand. The termination of that little 
 episode of schoolboy life had taken place after he had left 
 Plelstonleigh, and it was never related 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 uiy 
 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 broke into laughter, just as her 
 son Hamish had done. It slightly disconcerted the bridegroom 
 in embryo. Considering that in three or four months, as he 
 now openly confessed, he had saved up two pounds towards 
 commencing housekeeping — and those had been spent, — Mrs. 
 Channing thought his prospects about as hopeless as any she 
 had ever heard of Roland came to the conclusion that he 
 must make the two hundred a year before speaking again. 
 He remembered the warning Mr. Galloway had given him 
 regarding Arthur, and got away in safely. 
 
 Home again at Lady Augusta's, where he stayed till past 
 midday, and then started to take the 'irain for London. 
 Pearing there might be a procession to escort him, the old 
 family barouche, or something of that sort, for Roland re- 
 membered 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. Remembering Mr. Butterby's 
 friendly caution, his intention had been to dash through the 
 streets at full speed. But the 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 become memories when far away from them. 
 Before I\Irs. Jenkins's house he came to a full stop : not the
 
 353 ROLAND VORiCE. 
 
 house in which Mr. Ollivera had met his death, but the smaller 
 dwelUng beside it. From the opposite side of the way stood 
 Roland, while he gazed. The shop sold other wares now; 
 but Roland had no difficulty in recognizing it. In the parlour 
 he had revelled in the luxury of 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 left. Once iipon a time the 
 Lady Augusta Yorke, seduced by certain 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 ; many a time and oft had poor Roland dreamt of the 
 charms of these Helstonleigh Streets when he was fighting 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 strangely 
 contracted, to be mean and shabby. The houses appeared 
 poor, the very Guildhall itself small. The gold had lost its 
 Ijrightness. 
 
 Roland walked on with the slow step of disappointment, 
 scanning the faces he met. He knew none of them. Eight 
 years had passed since his absence, and the place and the 
 people were changed to him. Involuntarily the words of that 
 beautiful song, which most of us know by heart, came surging 
 up to 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 returned ? 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 cer- 
 tain amount of sentiment in Roland Yorke, for all his straight- 
 forward, matter-of-fact temperament. 
 
 "Often I think of the beautiful town 
 Tliat is seated by the sea ; 
 Often in tliought go up and down 
 The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 
 And my youth ccmies Ijack to me. 
 7\nd a verse of a Lapland song 
 Is liaunting my memory still : 
 ' A boy's will is the wind's will, 
 And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 353 
 
 " 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 sufficient 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 that 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 friendships old and the early loves 
 Cume back with a 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 day 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 v/ill, of practical, matter-of-fact 
 Roland, these oft-quoted lines (but never too often) beat 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 outstretched hand. 
 
 Roland Vorke. 23
 
 354 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "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 prospective offerings in 
 the shape of dolls and rocking-horses : and whispered to their 
 mother his romance about Annabel. She wished him good 
 luck, laughing the while, 
 
 " When William was in London this summer he thought 
 Hamish looking a little thin," said Constance. " Is he well ? " 
 
 " Oh, he's well enough," answered Roland. But his face 
 flushed as he spoke, for the question recalled the strange 
 thought that had flashed unbidden into his mind the past 
 night; and Mr. Roland took guilt to himself for it, and 
 resented it accordingly. " You never saw such a lovely little 
 fairy as Nelly is." 
 
 But he had no time to linger. 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 about ; and a moment's pause sufficed to show him 
 that it was no other than the truant Roland. Civilly, but firmly, 
 Mr. Simms arrested his 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 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."'
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. 355 
 
 " 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. " In- 
 stead of that, Simms, I arrived 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 scarce 
 keep myself. I've not been able to do a stroke since this 
 dreadful business about Arthur Channing. It is that 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 will 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 should 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 here, 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 know what to make of the plea of 
 poverty. 
 
 Roland went whirling back to London again, third-class, 
 and arrived at the Paddington Station 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 threw 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 approaching twilight, the three little girls 
 with her. Her grief was not much more than usual. Gerald 
 had been lionie, and in a fit of bitter anger had absolutely for- 
 bidden her to take the children to drink tea with Uttle Nelly
 
 356 ROLAND VORKE. 
 
 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 sympathizing Roland, put- 
 ting 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 
 telling 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 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 shilUngs 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 
 the whole world. 
 
 " I'm ashamed of its being such a trifle," said he, in mortifica- 
 tion. " If I were rich I should be glad to help you all. Per- 
 haps it will buy some butter, and a little tea, and a few coals." 
 "And for him to forbid 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 
 bumbailies," she continued, adhering in moments of agitation 
 to her provincial expressions. " We wanted everything ; rent, 
 clothes, and food ; and if it had not been for a friend who con- 
 tinually helped us, we might just have starved.'* 
 " It was your mother," said Roland. 
 
 " But it was not my mother," answered Mrs. Yorke, ceasing 
 her rocking and leaning forward, her cheeks and eyes bright in 
 the flashing firelight. " It was Mr. Channing." 
 " What ? " 
 
 She could not be reticent, and explained all. How Hamish, 
 or his wife for him, had helped them, even to the paying of 
 boot-bills for Gerald. Roland sat amazed. Things that had 
 somewhat puzzled even his careless nature were becoming clear 
 to him. 
 
 " And Gerald not know of this ? " 
 
 " As if I should dare to tell him ! He thinks it all comes 
 from my mother. Oh, Roland, you don't know how good and 
 kind Hamish Channing is ! He is more like one of Heaven's 
 angels tlian an ordinary human being. I think, I do really
 
 PAST AND PRESENT. '^'^^^ 357 
 
 think, I must have died, or come to a bad end, but for him. 
 He is the least selfish man I ever knew ; the most thoughtful 
 and generous." 
 
 *'/ know what Hamish is," assented Roland, with energy. 
 " And to think that he has to bear all this awful sorrow about 
 his best brother — Arthur ! " 
 
 "Oh, Arthur is found. He is all right," said Mrs. Yorke, 
 quietly. 
 
 " What ! " shouted Roland, starting from his chair, 
 
 " Arthur has been at Marseilles all the time. Hamish had 
 a letter from him this morning." 
 
 A prolonged stare from the amazed face that had turned 
 to a white heat, and Roland caught up his hat, and went out 
 with a dash. Half-a-moment, and he was back again, 
 sweeping his parcels from the table to the children on the 
 carpet. 
 
 " It's cakes and toys from Fanny," said he. " Go into them, 
 you chickens. That other's a shirt, Mrs. Yorke : I can't stay 
 for it now." 
 
 On the stairs, as he was leaping down, Roland unfortunately 
 encountered the maid carrying up a scuttle of coals. It was 
 not a moment for considering maids and scuttles. Down went 
 the coals, down went the maid. Roland took a flying leap 
 over the debris^ and was half-way on his road to Hamish Chan- 
 ning's before the bewildered landlady, arriving on the scene, 
 could understand what had happened. 
 
 The solution of what had been a most unpleasant mystery 
 was so very simple and natural, that the fright and apprehension 
 seemed almost like a fraud. It shall be given at once ; though 
 the reader will readily understand that at present Hamish knew 
 nothing of the details, but only the bare fact that Arthur was 
 alive and well. He would have to wait for them until Arthur's 
 return. 
 
 Amongst the letters handed to Arthur Channing by the waiter 
 of the hotel that night in Norfolk Street, was one from Marseilles, 
 stating that Charles, just before landing, had had a relapse, and 
 was lying at Marseilles dangerously ill — his life despaired of 
 Perhaps in the flurry of the moment, Arthur did not and could 
 not act as reasonably as he might have done. All his thoughts 
 ran on the question — How could he in the shortest possible 
 time reach Marseilles ? By starting on the instant — on the very 
 instant, mind — and taking a fast cab, he might get to London
 
 358 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bridge in time to catch the Dover train. Taking up his hat 
 and letters, he went out of the cofifee-room caUing for the 
 waiter. No one responded : no one, as it would appear, was 
 at that moment in the way of hearing him. Afraid of even an 
 instant's delay, he did not wait, but left the hotel, hurried up 
 Norfolk Street, hailed a passing hansom, and reached London 
 Bridge Station just before the train started. From Dover to 
 Calais the boat had an exceedingly calm passage, and Arthur 
 was able to write some short notes in the cabin. One to the 
 hotel that he had, as may be said, run away from. Que to 
 Hamish, one to Roland, one to Mr. Galloway, one to Mr. 
 Galloway's London agents. Arthur, always considerate, ever 
 willing to spare others pain and anxiety, did not say tc'/iy he 
 was hastening to Marseilles, but merely stated that he had 
 determined on proceeding thither, instead of awaiting Charles 
 in London. These letters he gave to a French commissionaire 
 on landing at Calais, with money for the necessary stamps, and 
 a gratuity for himself; ordering him to post them as soon as 
 possible. Whether the man quietly pocketed the money and 
 suppressed the letters, or whether he had in turn entrusted 
 them to some one else to post, who lost, or forgot them, would 
 never be ascertained. Arthur, unconscious of the commotion 
 he was causing at home, arrived quietly at Marseilles, and there 
 found Charles very ill, not quite out of danger. For some days 
 he was wholly occupied with him, and did not write at all : as 
 he had said nothing about the illness, he knew there could be 
 no anxiety about it. Now that he did write, Charles was 
 growing rapidly better. It may just be observed, that the letter 
 left in the rack of the hotel had served to complicate matters. 
 But for that letter it might have been surmised that Arthur had 
 received unfavourable news of Charles, and had gone on to him. 
 The accident was indeed a singular one, which left ///<;?/ letter 
 in the rack : and even the thought that there should have been 
 a second from Marseilles never occurred to them. All these, 
 and other details, Hamish Channing would have to wait for. 
 He could afford to do so — holding that letter of relief in his 
 hand, which stated that Charles was eager to continue his 
 homeward journey, so that they would probably be in London 
 soon after its receipt. 
 
 " Oh, Hamish, it is good news ! " cried Roland, who had sat 
 listening with all his heart and eyes. " It's like a message from 
 heaven. It is a gala-day for us."
 
 A STARTLING AVOWAL. 359 
 
 "I dare say there is a letter waiting for you at Mrs. J.'s, 
 friend Roland." 
 
 " Of course there is," decided Roland. " As if Arthur would 
 forget me ! Old Galloway won't die yet, after all." 
 
 But, even in that short absence of a day and a night, Roland 
 seemed to see that Hamish Channing's face had grown 
 thinner : the skin more transparent, the genial blue eyes 
 brighter. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A STARTLING AVOWAL. 
 
 Cuff Court, Fleet Street ; and a frosty day in December. The 
 year has gone on some six or seven weeks since the last chapter, 
 and people are beginning to talk of the rapidly-advancing 
 Christmastide. 
 
 Over the fire, in the little room in Cuff Court, where you once 
 saw him by gaslight, sits Mr. Butterby. The room is bright 
 enough with sunlight now ; the sunshine of a cold, clear day ; a 
 great deal brighter than Mr. Butterby himself, who is as dull as 
 ditch-water, and very sulky. 
 
 " I've been played with ; that's what I've been," said But- 
 terby, soliloquizing. " Bede Greatorex bothers me to be still 
 and passive ; and when I keep still and passive, and stop 
 down at Helstonleigh, taking no steps, saying nothing to living 
 mortal, letting the thing die away, if it will die, he makes a 
 mess of it up in town. Why couldn't he have kept his father 
 and Parson Ollivera qiyet? Never a lawyer going, but must 
 be sharp enough for that. Not he. He does nothing of the 
 sort, but lets one or both of 'em work, and ferret, and worry, 
 and discover that Godfrey Pitman has turned up. Then they find 
 out that /knew of it, and go to head-quarters and report me 
 for negligence ! I get a curt telegram to come to town, and 
 here's the deuce to pay." 
 
 Mr. Butterby turned round, snatched up a few papers that 
 lay on the table, glanced over the writing, and resumed his 
 soliloquy. 
 
 "Jelf has it in hand here and I haven't yet got to see him.
 
 36o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Not of much use seeing him before I've heard what Bede 
 Greatorex has to say. One thing they've not yet been sharp 
 enough to discover — where Godfrey Pitman is to be found. Foster 
 in Birmingham holds his tongue, Johnson shows Jelf the door 
 when he goes to ask about Winter : and there they are, Jelf and 
 the parson, or Jelf and Mr. Greatorex — whichever of the two 
 is stirring in the matter — mooning up and down England after 
 Pitman, little thinking he's close at home, right under their 
 very noses. I and Bede Greatorex hold that secret ; but I 
 don't think I shall feel inclined to hold it long. ' Where is 
 Pitman ?' says the sergeant yesterday, at head-quarters. ' Ah ! ' 
 says I, ' that's just the problem we are some of us trying to work 
 out' " 
 
 Mr. Butterby paused, cracked the coal fiercely, which sent up 
 a shower of sparks, and resumed. 
 
 "And it is a problem; one / can't make come square just 
 yet. There's Brown — as good call him by one alias as another 
 — keeping as quiet as a mouse, knowing that he is being 
 looked after for the murder of Counsellor Ollivera. What's his 
 motive in keeping dark? The debts he left behind him in 
 Birmingham are paid ; Johnson and Teague acknowledge his 
 innocence in that past transaction of young Master Samuel's ; 
 they are, so to say, his friends, and the man knows all this. 
 Why, then, doesn't he come forward, reap the benefit of the 
 acquittal, clear himself before the world, and say — Neither am 
 I guilty of the counsellor's death ? Of course, when Jelf and 
 Jelf 's masters know he is hiding somewhere, and does not come 
 forward, they assume that he dare not, that he was the man ^\ho 
 did it. I wouldn't swear but he was, eithen Looking at it in 
 a broad point of view, one can't help seeing that he must have 
 some strong motive for his silence — and what that motive 
 is, one may give a shrewd guess at : that he is screening 
 himself or somebody else. There's only one other in the 
 world that he would screen, I expect, and that's Alletha Rye." 
 
 A long pause. Mr. Butterby's face, for all his professional 
 craft, had as puzzled a look on it as any ordinary mortal's could 
 wear. 
 
 " I suspected Alletha Rye more than anybody at the time. 
 Don't suspect her now. Don't thitik it was her; wouldn't 
 swear it wasn't, though. And, in spite of your injunction to 
 be quiet, Mr. Bede Greatorex, I'll go into the thing a bit for 
 my own satisfaction."
 
 A STARTLING AVOWAL. 361 
 
 Looking over the papers on the table again, he locked them 
 up, and sat down to write a letter or two. Some one then 
 came in to see him on business — business which does not con- 
 cern us. And so time passed on, and when the sunlight had 
 faded into night, IMr. Butterby put on a rough pilot-coat, and 
 went out. The shops were lighted, displaying their attractions 
 for the approaching Christmas, and Mr. Butterby had leisure 
 to glance at them with critical approval as he passed on his 
 way. 
 
 These few weeks had not brought forth much to relate in 
 regard to general matters. Arthur and Charles Channing had 
 passed through London on their way to Helstonleigh ; Roland 
 Yorke had resumed his daily and evening work, and had more- 
 over given his confidence to Sir Vincent Yorke (nothing 
 daunted by that gentleman's previous repulse) on the subject 
 of Annabel Channing, and in his sanguine temperament was 
 ever looking for the post Vincent was to procure him ; and 
 James Channing drew nearer and nearer to another world. 
 But this world was slow to perceive it in Hamish the bright ! 
 Three or four times a week Roland snatched^a minute to visit 
 the second-hand furniture shops in Tottenham Court Road, 
 there to lay in a stock of practical information as to the number 
 and nature of articles, useful and ornamental, indispensable for 
 a gentleman and lady about to go into housekeeping. 
 
 But Mr. Butterby was on his way to Mrs. Jones's residence, 
 and we must follow him there. Halting opposite the house to 
 survey it, he saw that there was no light in Mr. Ollivera's 
 sitting-room ; no light anywhere, as far as he could see. By 
 which fact he gathered that the clergyman was not at home. 
 That was satisfactory, as he did not care to come into contact 
 with him in the present uncertain state of affairs. 
 
 Crossing the street, he knocked gently at the door. Miss 
 Rye answered it, no one but herself being in the house. A 
 street-lamp shone full on her face, and the start she gave was 
 quite visible to Mr. Butterby. He walked straight in to Mrs. 
 Jones's parlour, saying he had come to see her; her, Alletha 
 Rye. Her work lay on the red table-cover under the lamp ; 
 Mr. Butterby sat down in the shadow and threw back his 
 coat ; she stood by the fire and nervously stirred it, her face 
 blanching. 
 
 " When that unhappy event took place at Helstonleigh, the 
 death of Counsellor Ollivera, now getting on for five years
 
 362 ROLAND YORKE 
 
 back, there was a good deal of doubt encompassing it, Miss 
 E.ye," he suddenly began. 
 
 " Doubt ? " she rejoined, faintly, sitting down to the table 
 and taking up her work. 
 
 " Yes, doubt. I mean as to how the death was caused. 
 Some said it was murder, and some said it was suicide." 
 
 " Everybody said it was a suicide ! " she eagerly interrupted, 
 her trembling fingers plying the needle as if she were working 
 for very life. " The coroner and jury decided that it was so." 
 
 " Not quite everybody," dissented Mr. Butterby, listening 
 with composure until she had finished. " You didn't, for one. 
 I was in the churchyard when they put him into the ground, 
 and heard and saw you over the grave." 
 
 "But I had cause to — to — alter my opinion," she said, her 
 face now hectic with emotion. " Heaven alone knows how 
 bitterly I have repented of that night's work ! If cutting out 
 my tongue afterwards could have undone my mistake 
 
 li 
 
 Now look here; don't you get flurried," interposed Mr. 
 Butterby. "I didn't come here to put you out, but just to 
 have a rational talk on a point or two. I thought at the time 
 it was suicide, as you may remember : but I'm free to confess 
 that the way in which the ball has been kept rolling since has 
 altered my opinion also. Counsellor OUivera was murdered ! " 
 
 She made no reply. Taking up her scissors, she began 
 cutting away at the work at random. 
 
 " There was a stranger lodging at Mrs. Jones's at the time, 
 you remember, one Godfrey Pitman. Helstonleigh said, you 
 know. Miss Rye, that if anybody did it, it was him. That 
 Godfrey Pitman is an uncommonly sharp card to have kept 
 himself out of the way so long ! Don't you think so ? " 
 
 " I don't think anything about it," she answered. " What is 
 it to me ? " 
 
 "Well, Miss Rye, I've the pleasure of telling you that 
 Godfrey Pitman's found ! " 
 
 The little presence of mind left in Allctha Rye seemed to 
 desert her at the words. Perhaps she was no longer so capable 
 of maintaining it as she once had been : the very best of our 
 l)Owers wear out when the soul's burthen is continued long, 
 long years. 
 
 " Found ! " she gasped, her hands falling on her work, her 
 wild eyes turned to Mr. Butterby. 
 
 " Leastways, so near found, that it mayn't be an age afore
 
 A STARTLING AVOWAL. 363 
 
 he's took," added the detective, craftily. " Our friends in the 
 bkie coats have got the clue to him. I wouldn't lay you the 
 worth of that silver thimble of yours, Miss Rye, that he's not 
 standing in a certain dock next March assizes." 
 
 " In what dock ? What for ? " came from her trembling lips. 
 
 " Helstonleigh dock. For what he did to Mr. OUivera. 
 Come, come, I did not want to frighten you like this, my 
 good young woman. And why should it ? It is not certain 
 Pitman will be brought to trial, though he were guilty. 
 Years have gone by since, and the Greatorexes and Parson 
 Ollivera may hush it up. They are humane men ; Mr. Bede 
 especially." 
 
 " Vou don't believe Godfrey Pitman was guilty ? " she 
 exclaimed, and her eyes began to take a hard look, her voice 
 a defiant tone. 
 
 " Oh, don't I ! " returned Butterby. " What's more to the 
 purpose. Miss Rye, the London officers and their principals, 
 who have it in hand, believe it also." 
 
 " And what if I tell you that Godfrey Pitman never was 
 guilty ; that he never raised his hand against Mr. Ollivera ? " 
 she broke forth in passionate accents, rising to confront him. 
 " What if I tell you that it was /who did it? " 
 
 Standing there before him, her eyes ablaze with light, her 
 cheeks crimson, her voice ringing Avith power, it was almost 
 impossible to discredit her. For once, the cool, experienced 
 man was taken aback. 
 
 " You, Miss Rye ! " 
 
 " Yes, I. I, AUetha Rye. What, I say, if I tell you that it 
 was I who did that terrible deed ? A'o/ Godfrey Pitman. Now 
 then ! you must make the most of it, and do youjr best and 
 worst." 
 
 The avowal, together with the various ideas that came 
 crowding in upon him as its accompaniment, struck Mr. 
 Butterby dumb. He sat gazing at her, speech utterly failing 
 him. 
 
 " Is this true? " he whispered at length. 
 
 " Should I avow such a thing if it were not true ? Oh, Mr. 
 Butterby ! hush the matter up if it be in your power," she 
 implored, clasping her hands in an attitude of supplication. 
 " In pity to me, hush it ; it has lain at rest all these years. 
 Let Godfrey Pitman alone ! For my sake, let him alone ! I 
 pray you in Heaven's name ! "
 
 364 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 She sank down in her chair, and burst into a flood of 
 hysterical tears. Mr. Butterby waited in silence until they 
 were over, and then buttoned his coat to depart. Putting out 
 her timid hand, she caught his arm and held it with a nervous 
 grasp. 
 
 " You will promise me, Mr. Butterby ? " 
 " I can't promise anything on the spur of the moment," said 
 he in grave, but not unkindly tones. " You must let me turn 
 things over in my mind. For one thing, neither hushing up 
 the matter, nor pursuing it, may lie with me. I told you others 
 had it in hand, Miss Rye, and I told you the truth. Now 
 there's no need for you to come to the door ; I can let myself 
 out." 
 
 And Mr. Butterby let himself out accordingly, making no 
 noise in the exit. 
 
 " I'm blest if I can see daylight in all this," he exclaimed 
 with energy, as he briskly went down the street. " Did she 
 really do it ? — or is she trying to screen Master George Winter ? 
 It's one of the two ; and I'm inclined to think it is the last. 
 Anyway, she's a brave and a bold woman. Whether she did 
 it, or whether she didn't, it's no light matter to accuse herself 
 
 of mur " 
 
 Mr. Butterby came to a full stop : both in words and steps. 
 It was only for a second : and he laughed a little silent laugh 
 at his own obtuseness as he passed on. 
 
 " I forgot her avowal at the grave. If she had done it her- 
 self, she would never have gone in for that public display, lest 
 it should turn attention on her. Yes, yes ; she is screening 
 Winter. Perhaps the man, hiding in that top floor, with 
 nothing to do but torment his wits, got jealous of the coun- 
 sellor below, fancying she favoured him, and so " 
 
 The break in Mr. Butterby's soliloquy was this time occa- 
 sioned by his shooting into an entry. Approaching him was 
 Mrs. Jones, attended by her servant with a huge market-basket : 
 and as he had neither time nor wish for an encounter with that 
 lady at the present moment, he let her go by.
 
 ( 36s ) 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A TELEGRAM TO HELSTONLEIGH. 
 
 That same evening, jiist as suddenly as Detective Butterby 
 had shot down the entry, did he seem to shoot into the private 
 room, of Mr. Bede Greatorex. The clerks had just left the 
 office for the evening ; Bede, putting things straight on his 
 desk, was thinking of going upstairs to dinner. To be thus 
 quietly invaded was not agreeable : but Bede could only resign 
 himself to his fate. 
 
 In a spirit of reproach Mr. Butterby entered on the business 
 of the interview, stating certain facts. Bede took alarm. 
 Better, as he thought, that the earth should be arrested in its 
 orbit, than that the part Godfrey Pitman had played in con- 
 nection with his cousin's death at Helstonleigh should be 
 brought to light. 
 
 " It is the very charge, above all others, that I gave you, 
 Mr. Butterby — to keep secret what you had learnt about the 
 identity of Godfrey Pitman," broke forth Bede. 
 
 " And it is because I obeyed you and did keep it, that head- 
 quarters have put it into others' hands and are hauling me over 
 the coals," spoke Mr. Butterby, in injured tones. 
 
 " Have you told them that it was by my desire you remained 
 passive ? " 
 
 "I have told them nothing," was the answer. "I let 'em 
 think that I was still looking high and low after Godfrey Pit- 
 man." 
 
 " Then they don't yet know that he and my clerk Brown are 
 one and the same ? " said Bede, very eagerly. 
 
 " Not a bit on't. There's not a living soul of them has been 
 sharp enough to turn that page yet, Mr. Bede Greatorex." 
 
 " And it must be our business to keep it unturned," whis- 
 pered Bede. " I will give you any reward if you can manage 
 to do it." 
 
 " Look here, sir," spoke Butterby. " I am willing to oblige 
 you as far as I can in reason; I've showed you that I am; 
 but to fill you with hopes that that secret will be a secret long, 
 would be nothing but wilful deceit ; and deceit's a thing that
 
 366 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 don't answer in the long-run. When I want to throw people 
 off a scent, or worm things out of 'em, I send their minds off 
 on all sorts of journeys, and think it no wrong : but to let you 
 suppose I can keep from the world what I can't keep, and take 
 your thanks and rewards for doing it, is just an opposite case. 
 As sure as we two be talking here, this matter won't stand at 
 its present page; there'll be more leaves turned in it afore 
 many days have gone over." 
 
 Leaning forward, his face and eyes wearing their gravest 
 look, his elbow on the table between them, his finger pointed 
 to give force to his argument, there was that in the speaker's 
 aspect, his words, that carried a shiver of conviction to the 
 mind of Bede Greatorex. His heart grew faint, his face 
 white. 
 
 " You may think to stop it, and I may think to stop it, Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex : but, take my word for it, it won't be stopped. 
 There's no longer a chance of it." 
 
 " If you — could get — Brown out of the way ? " spoke Bede, 
 scarcely knowing what he said, and speaking in a whisper. Mr. 
 Butterby received the suggestion with severity. 
 
 " It's not to me, sir, that you should venture to say such a 
 thing. I've been willing to help your views when it didn't lie 
 out of my duty to do it ; but I don't think you've seen any- 
 thing in me to suppose I would go beyond that. As good step 
 into Scotland Yard and ask than to help a criminal to escape, 
 as ask me. We'll let that drop, sir ; and I'll go on to a ques- 
 tion I should like to put. Why do you want Godfrey Pitman 
 out of the way ? " 
 
 Bede did not answer. His hand was pressed upon his brow, 
 his eyes wore their saddest and most dreamy look. 
 
 " If Pitman had any hand in the Helstonleigh affair, you 
 ought to be the one to give him into custody, sir." 
 
 " For the love of Heaven, don't pursue Pitman ! " spoke 
 Bede, earnestly. " I have told you before, Mr. Butterby, that 
 it was not he. So far as I believe, he never lifted his hand 
 against John Ollivera; he did not hurt a hair of his head. 
 Accuse any one in the world that you please, but don't accuse 
 him." 
 
 " What if I accuse a w'oman ? " spoke Mr. Butterby, when 
 he had gazed at Bede to his satisfaction. 
 
 Their eyes met. Bede's face, or the detective fancied itj 
 was growing whiter.
 
 A TELEGRAM TO HELSTONLEIGH. 3^7 
 
 "Who?— What woman?" asked Bede, scarcely above his 
 breatli. 
 
 "AUelha Rye." 
 
 With a sudden movement, as of relief, Bede Greatorex 
 dropi^ed his hand and leaned back in his chair. It was as 
 if some respite had come to him. 
 
 " Why should you bring in Alletha Rye's name ? Do you 
 suspect her ?" 
 
 " I'm not sure that I do ; I'm not sure that I don't. Any- 
 how, I think she stands a chance of being accused, Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex." 
 
 " Better accuse her than Pitman," said Bede, who seemed 
 to be again speaking as if in a far-off dream. 
 
 Mr. Butterby, wondering at various matters, and not yet able 
 to make them meet in his official mind, rose to conclude the 
 interview. A loud bell was ringing upstairs; most probably 
 the announcement of dinner. 
 
 "Just a parting word, sir. What I chiefly stepped in to sa}^, 
 was this. So long as the case rested in my hands, and Mr. 
 Godfrey Pitman was supposed to have finally disappeared from 
 the world, I was willing to oblige you, and let it, and him, and 
 the world alone. But from the moment that the affair shall be 
 stirred in publicly, and action is forced upon me by others, I 
 ' must take it up again. Counsellor Ollivera's case belongs of 
 right to me, and must be mine to the end."' 
 
 With a civil good night, Mr. Butterby departed, leaving Bede 
 Greatorex to his thoughts and reveries. More unhappy ones 
 have rarely been entertained in this world. IMen cannot strive 
 against fate for ever, and the battle had very nearly worn him 
 out. It almost seemed that he could struggle no longer, that 
 he had no power of resistance left within him. Mind and body 
 were alike weary ; the spirit faint, the heart sick. Life had 
 long been a burden to Bede Greatorex, but never did it 
 lie heavier upon him than to-night in its refined and exquisite 
 pain. 
 
 He had to bear it alone, you see. To lock the miserable 
 secret, whatever might be its precise nature, and whoever 
 might have been guilty, within his own bosom. Could he only 
 have spoken of it to another, its anguish had been less keen ; 
 for, when once a great trouble can be imparted— be it grief, 
 apprehension, or remorse ; connected with ourselves, or with 
 one near and dear to us— it is lightened of half its sting.
 
 368 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 But that relief was denied to Bede Greatorex, 
 
 It was the dinr.er-bell that had rung. Bede did not answer 
 to it ; but that wao not altogether an unusual occurrence. 
 
 They sat round the brilliantly-lighted, well-appointed banquet. 
 Where Mrs. Bede Greatorex procured her fresh hot-house 
 flowers from daily, and at what cost, she alone knew. They 
 were always beautiful, charming to the eye, pleasant to the 
 senses. At the head of the table to-night was she, dressed in 
 amber silk, her shoulders very bare, her back partially con- 
 cealed by the tail that drooped from her remarkable chignon. 
 It was not a dinner-party ; but Mrs. Bede was going out later, 
 and had dressed elaborately. 
 
 Bede's place on her left was vacant, for he never took the 
 foot of the table when his father was present. Mn Greatorex 
 supposed that his son was detained in the office, and sent 
 a servant to inquire. Judge Kene sat on the right of Mrs. 
 Bede ; he had called in, and stayed to dinner without ceremony. 
 Clare Joliffe and Miss Channing sat on either side Mr. Greato- 
 rex. Frank was dining out. Clare was returning to France 
 for Christmas, after her many months' stay in the country. 
 Annabel's quietly dressed hair presented a contrast to the other 
 two present. 
 
 Bede came up. Shaking hands with Sir Thomas Kene, he 
 passed round to his chair; his manner restless, his thin cheeks 
 hectic. The judge had not seen him for some little time. 
 Gazing at him across the table, he wondered what malady he 
 could be suffering from, and how much more shadowy he 
 would be able to become — and live. Mr. Greatorex, awake to 
 every glance or movement bearing on his son's health, spoke. 
 
 "You are thinking Bede looks worse. Sir Thomas?" 
 
 "He does not look any better," was the reply. "You should 
 see a doctor and take tonics, Bede." 
 
 " I'm all right, judge, thank you," was Bede's answer, as he 
 turned a whole lot of croiltons into his puree de pois — to be 
 afterwards sent away almost untasted. 
 
 Dinner was just over when a servant whispered to Mr. 
 Greatorex that he was wanted. Going down at once to his 
 room, he there found Henry William Ollivera. 
 
 " Why did you not come up, William ? Kene is with us." 
 
 " I am in no humour for company, uncle," was the clergyman's 
 rejjly. " The trouble has come at last." 
 
 In all the phases of agitation displayed by Henry Ollivera,
 
 A TELEGRAM TO HELSTONLEIGH. 369 
 
 and when speaking of the affair he generally displayed more or 
 less of it, Mr. Greatorex had never seen him so much moved 
 as now. Leaning forward in his chair, his eyes bright, his 
 hands feverish, his voice subdued, he entered on the tale he 
 had to tell. 
 
 " Do you remember my saying to you one day in the dining- 
 room above, that I thought it was a woman ? Do you remem- 
 ber it, uncle ? " 
 
 " Quite well." 
 
 " In the weeks that have since gone by, that suspicion has 
 only gained ground in my mind. Without cause : I am bound 
 to say it, without further cause. Nay almost in the teeth of 
 what might have served to allay suspicion. For, if Godfrey 
 Pitman be really somewhere in existence, and in hiding, the 
 natural supposition would be, as Jelf thinks, that he was the 
 guilty one." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex nodded. " And yet you suspect a woman ! 
 Can you not say who she is, Henry ? " 
 
 " Yes, I can say now, I have come here to say it. It is 
 AllethaRye!" 
 
 Mr. Greatorex showed no surprise. He had fancied it might 
 be upon her that his nephew's doubts had been running. And 
 he deemed it a crotchet indeed. 
 
 " I think you must be utterly mistaken," he said with 
 emphasis. " What little I know of the young woman tends 
 to give me a very high opinion of her. She appears to be 
 almost the last person in the world capable of such a crime as 
 that — or of crime of any sort." 
 
 < " She might have done it in the impulse of the moment ; she 
 might even have been playing with the pistol and fired it 
 accidentally, and then was afraid to acknowledge it ; but she 
 did it, uncle." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " I have been distracted with doubt. Distracted," emphati- 
 cally repeated Mr. OUivera. " For, of course, I knew that my 
 suspicions, strong though they have been growing, did not 
 prove her guilty. But to-night I heard her avow it with her 
 own lips." 
 
 " Avow what ? " 
 
 "That she murdered John !" 
 
 "What!— Has she confessed to you?" exclaimed Mr, 
 Greatorex. 
 
 Roland Yorke. 24
 
 370 • ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "No. I heard it accidentally. And, hearing it in that 
 manner, the question arises in my mind whether or not I should 
 make use of the knowledge. I cannot bear anything like dis- 
 honourable or underhand dealing; no, not even in such a 
 cause as this, uncle." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex made no reply. He was occupied with noting 
 the strangely eager gaze fixed upon him. Something in it, he 
 knew not what, recalled to his memory a dead face, lying in a 
 distant churchyard. 
 
 "It is some few weeks ago now that Mrs. Jones gave me a 
 latch-key," resumed Mr. Ollivera. " In fact, I asked her for 
 it. Coming in so often, and sometimes detained late at night 
 with the sick, I felt that it would be a convenience to me, and 
 save them trouble. This evening, letting myself in about tea- 
 time, I found the passage in darkness ; the girl, I supposed, 
 had neglected to light the lamp. My movements are not noisy 
 at any time, as you know, and I went gropmg on, feeling my 
 way : not from any wish to be unheard — such a thought never 
 entered my head — but because Mr. Roland Yorke is given to 
 leaving all kinds of articles about, and I was afraid of stumb- 
 ling over something. I was making for the table at the end 
 of the passage, on which matches are generally kept, and 
 sometimes a chamber-candle. Then, I heard a voice in Mrs. 
 Jones's parlour that I have not heard many times in my life ; 
 nevertheless I knew it instantly. It was Butterby's, the 
 detective." 
 
 " Butterby's ! " exclaimed Mr. Greatorex. " I did not know 
 he was in London." 
 
 "Uncle! It was AUetha Rye's voice that answered him. 
 Her voice and no other, charged with agitation though it was. 
 I heard her say that it was herself who had killed my brother; 
 and that Godfrey Pitman had never raised a hand against him." 
 "You really heard her say this, William?" breathed Mr. 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " It is as true as that I am a living man. It seemed to mc that 
 the detective must have been accusing Godfrey Pitman of the 
 crime. I heard the man's astonished answer, ' You, Miss Rye ! ' 
 ' Yes, I,' she said, ' I, Alletha Rye, not Godfrey Pitman.' I 
 heard her go on to tell Butterby that he might do his best and 
 his worst." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex sat as if turned to stone. "This confounds 
 me, William," he presently said.
 
 A TELEGRAM TO HELSTONLEIGH. 371 
 
 ** It confounded me," replied Mr. Ollivera. " Almost look 
 my senses from me, for I'm sure I had no reason left. The 
 first thought that came to me was, that they had better not 
 see me, or discover they had been overheard until I had 
 decided what my course should be. So I went quietly up 
 to my room, and the detective went away. A few minutes 
 after that, Mrs. Jones and the maid came in together. Mrs. 
 Jones called her sister to account for not having lighted the 
 hall-lamp, little thinking how the omission had served me." 
 
 " But that you tell me this yourself, AVilliam, I had not 
 believed it." 
 
 " It is true," spoke the clergyman, painfully earnest. " I sat 
 a short time in my room, unable to decide what I ought to do, 
 and then I came down here to tell you of it, uncle. It is very 
 awful." 
 
 " Awful that it should have been AUetha Rye, you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Yes. I have been praying, seeking, working for this clear- 
 ance ever since John died ; and, now that it has come in this 
 most sudden manner, it brings nothing but perplexity with it. 
 Oh, poor helpless mortals that we are ! " added the clergyman, 
 clasping his hands. "We set our hearts upon some longed-for 
 end, spend our days toiling for it, our nights supplicating for 
 it ; and when God answers us according to our short-sighted 
 wish, the result is as the apples of Sodom, filling our mouths 
 with ashes. Any one but Alletha Rye ; almost any one ; and 
 I had not hesitated a moment. But I have lived under the 
 same roof with her, in friendly intercourse ; I have preached 
 to her on Sundays ; I have given her Christ's Holy Sacrament 
 with my own hands : in a serious illness that she had, I used 
 lo go and pray by her bedside. Oh, Uncle Greatorex, I 
 cannot see where my duty lies ; I am torn with conflicting 
 emotions ! " 
 
 To the last words Mr. Ollivera had had a listener he had not 
 bargained for — Judge Kene. About to take his departure, the 
 judge had come in without ceremony to wish Mr. Greatorex 
 good night." 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" he cried, noting the signs of 
 
 agitation as well as the impassioned words. 
 
 '' And they told him ; told him all ; there was no reason why 
 
 it should be kept from him ; and Mr. Ollivera begged for his 
 
 counsel and advice. The judge gave it, and most emphati-
 
 372 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 cally ; deciding as a judge more than as the humane and lenient 
 man he really was. 
 
 " You cannot hesitate, Ollivera. This poor unhappy woman, 
 AUetha Rye, must be brought to answer for her crime. Think 
 of your brother, and my once dear friend, lying unavenged in 
 his shameful grave ! Humanity is a great virtue, but John's 
 memory must outweigh all other considerations." 
 
 "Yes, yes; I am ever thinking of him," murmured the 
 clergyman, his face lighting up. 
 
 The initiative was taken by Mr. Greatorex. On the departure 
 of the judge and the clergyman, who went out together, Mr. 
 Greatorex dropped a line to Scotland Yard. Butterby happened 
 to be there, and answered it in person. Shortly and concisely 
 INIr. Greatorex gave his orders. 
 
 "And I have no resource but to act upon them," coolly 
 observed the imperturbable Butterby. " But for all that I don't 
 think the party was AUetha Rye." 
 
 "You don't !" exclaimed Mr Greatorex. 
 
 " No, sir, I don't. Leastways, to my mind, there are grave 
 reasons against it. The whole affair, from beginning to end, 
 seems encompassed with nothing but doubt ; and that's the 
 truth." 
 
 " I should like to ask you if AUetha Rye has or has not made 
 a confession to you this evening, Mr. Butterby — to the effect 
 that it was she who killed Mr. Ollivera ? " 
 
 " If nobody was in the house but herself — as she said — she's 
 been talking," thought the detective. " Confound these women ! 
 They'd prate their neck^ away." 
 
 But Mr. Greatorex was waiting for the answer. 
 
 "I was with AUetha Rye this evening ; I went tnere for my 
 own purposes, to sec what I could get out of her ; little sus- 
 ])ecting she'd say what she did. But I don't believe her any 
 the more for having said it. The fact is, Mr. Greatorex, that 
 in this case there's wheels within wheels, almost more than any 
 I ever had to do with. I can't yet disclose them, even to 
 you ; but I'm trying to work them round and make one spoke 
 fit into another." 
 
 " Do you Ji'no7v that AUetha Rye was not guilty of 
 it?" 
 
 " No, sir, I do not." 
 
 "Very good. Lose no t'me. Procure a warrant to appre- 
 hend Allctha Rye, and execute it. If you telegraph to Hcl-
 
 LIFE'S SANDS RUNNING ON. 373 
 
 stonleigh at once, the warrant may be up, and she in custody 
 before midday to-morrow." 
 
 No more dallying with the law or with fate now. That was 
 over. Mr. Butterby went straight to the telegraph office, and 
 sent a flying message to Helstonleigh. ' 
 
 And Bede Greatorex went out to take part in the evening's 
 gaiety with his wife, and came home to his rest, and rose the 
 next morning to his occupation, unconscious of what the day 
 was destined to bring fortli 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 life's sands running on. 
 
 A. COLD brisk air, with a suspicion of frost. It was a day or 
 two previous to the one recorded in the last two chapters, 
 when Mr. Butterby was paying sundry visits. Being somewhat 
 necessary to narrate that renowned officer's doings first, we 
 yielded him the precedence, and in consequence have now to 
 go back a little. 
 
 The brightness of the afternoon was passing. In his writing- 
 room, leaning back in a large easy-chair before the fire, sat 
 Hamish Channing. Some papers lay on the table, work of 
 various kinds ; but, to look at Hamish, it almost seemed that 
 he had done with work for ever. A face less beautiful than 
 Hamish Channing's would have appeared painfully thin : his, 
 spite of its wasted outlines, bore yet a wonderful charm. The 
 remark was once made that Hamish Channing's was a face 
 that would be always beautiful ; beautiful to the end ; beautiful 
 in dying. Observe it now. The perfect form of the features 
 is shown the plainer in their attenuation ; the skin seems trans- 
 parent, the cheeks are delicately flushed, the eyes are very 
 blue and bright. Earlier in this history, it was said that the 
 countenance looked etherealized, and if any cavilled at the 
 word, they would scarcely have done so now. But in the 
 strangely spiritual expression, speaking, one knew not how, of 
 heaven, there was an ever-present sadness, as if trouble had 
 been hard at work within him ; as if all that was of the earth, 
 earthy, had been crucified away.
 
 374 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 No one seemed certain of it yet — that he was dying. He 
 bore up bravely ; working still a little at. home ; but not going 
 to the office ; that was now beyond him. The doctors had not 
 said there was no hope : his wife, though she might feel how it 
 was, would not speak it. He still sat at the head of his table, 
 was careful of his appearance as of yore. His smile was still 
 genial ; his loving words were cheerful, sometimes gay ; his 
 sweetness to all around was more marked. Oh, it was not in 
 the face only that the look of heaven appeared. If ever a 
 spark of the Divine spirit of love and light had been vouch- 
 safed to man's soul, it surely had been to that of Hamish 
 Channing. 
 
 He wore a coat and waistcoat of black velvet, his gold 
 chain, with its drooping seal, passed across the latter. The 
 ring, formerly Mr. Channing's, no longer made believe to fit 
 the little finger, and was worn on the second. His hair, care- 
 fully brushed as ever, shone like gold in the sunlight. Cer- 
 tainly it could not be said that Hamish gave in to his illness. 
 Whatever his complaint might be, the medical men gave it no 
 name ; there was a little cough, a strange want of tone and 
 strength, a quick, continual, almost perceptible wasting. 
 Whether Hamish had cherished visions of recovery for himself 
 could not be known ; most earnestly he had hoped for it. If 
 only for the sake of his wife and child, he desired to live : 
 and existence itself, even in the midst of great and crushing 
 disappointment, is hard to resign. But the truth, long dawning 
 on his mind, had declared itself to him fully at last, as it does 
 to most of us in similar cases. Whether Hamish's weakness 
 had taken a giant stride and brought with it a conviction of its 
 formidable nature, .or whether he was feeling worse than usual, 
 a sadness, as of death itself, lay upon him this afternoon. 
 
 It had been a short life, as men count lives ; he had not 
 yet numbered two-and -thirty years. But for the awful dis- 
 appointment that was drying up its fibres, he might say that 
 it had been a supremely happy one. Perhaps no man, with 
 the sweet and sunny temperament of Hamish Channing, pos- 
 sessing the same Christian principles, could be otherwise than 
 happy. He did not remember ever to have done ill wilfully 
 to mortal man, in thought, word, or deed. It had been done 
 to him : but he forgave it. Nevertheless, a sense of injustice, 
 a bitter pang of disappointment, of hopeless failure as to this 
 world, lay on his heart, when he. recalled what the past few
 
 LIFE'S SANDS RUNNING ON, 375 
 
 months had brought him. Leaning there on his chair, his sad 
 eyes tracing faces in the fire, he was recaUing things one by- 
 one. His never-ceasing, ever-hopeful work, and the bright 
 dreams of future fame that had made its sunshine. He re- 
 membered, as though it were but yesterday, the evening that 
 first review met his eye — when he had been entertaining the 
 Reverend WilHam Yorke, and others — and the shock it gave 
 him. Think of it when he would, even now it brouglit him 
 a sensation of faintness. Older men have become paralyzed 
 from a like cause. The first review had been so closely followed 
 by others, equally unjust, equally cruel, that they all seemed 
 as one blow. After that there appeared to be a pause in his 
 life, when time and events stood still, when he moved as one 
 in a dream, when all things around him were as dead, and he 
 with them. The brain never stopped beating, or the bosom's 
 pain to work ; the sense of humiliation never left him. And 
 then, as the days went on, bodily weakness supervened ; and — 
 there he was ; dying. Dying ! going surely to his God and 
 Saviour ; he felt that ; but leaving his dear ones, wife and 
 child, to the frowns of a hard, cold world ; alone, with no 
 suitable provision for them. And the book upon which he 
 had bestowed the best of his bright genius, that he had written 
 as in the sight of Heaven — was lying wasted and unread ! 
 
 " Papa, shall I put on her blue frock or her green ? She is 
 going out for a walk." 
 
 This interruption came from Miss Nelly, who sat on the 
 hearth-rug, dressing her doll. There was no reply, and Nelly 
 looked up : she wore blue herself; and the sleeves of her white 
 pinafore were tied up with blue ribbon. Her pretty little feet 
 in their shoes and socks were stretched out, and her curls fell 
 in a shower of gold. 
 
 " Shall baby wear her blue frock or her green, papa ? Papa ! 
 Which is prettiest ? " 
 
 Hamish, aroused, looked down on the child with a smile. 
 " The blue, I think ; and then baby-doll will be like Nelly." 
 
 But Mrs. Channing, sewing at the window, turned her head. 
 Something in her husband's face or in his weary tones struck 
 her. 
 
 " Do you feel worse, Hamish ? " 
 
 " No, love. Not particularly." 
 
 Sadder yet, the voice ; a hopeless, weary sadness, depressing 
 to hear. Ellen quitted her seat, and came to him.
 
 376 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " What is it ? " she whispered. 
 
 " Not much, dear. The future has cleared itself, that's all." 
 
 " The future ? " 
 
 " I cannot struggle any longer, Ellen. I have preached 
 faith and patience to others, but they seem to have deserted 
 me. I — I almost think the very strife itself is helping on the 
 end." 
 
 Sharp though the pang that pierced her breast, she would 
 not show it. Miss Nelly chattered below, asking questions of 
 her doll, and making believe to answer, 
 
 " The end, Hamish ! '" 
 
 He took her hand and looked straight in her face as she 
 stood by him. " Have you not seen it, Ellen ? " 
 
 With a heart and bosom beatmg with failing breath, Mrs. 
 Channing was conscious of a sharp pain. Oh yes— yes — she 
 had seen it ; and trying to persuade herself that she had not 
 done so had been nothing but a sickly, miserable pretence. 
 
 " But for leaving you and the little one, Ellen, there would 
 be no strife," he whispered, letting his forehead rest for a 
 moment on her arm. " It is long since my dreams — I had 
 almost said my visions — have been of that world to which we 
 are all journeying, which every one of us must enter sooner or 
 later. There will be no pain, or trouble, or weariness there. 
 Only the other night, as I lay between sleeping and waking, 
 I seemed to have passed its portals into a soft and soothing 
 light, a haven of peace and rest." 
 
 " And if dolly's good, and does not spoil her new frock, she 
 shall go out for a walk," was heard from the hearth-rug. Hamish 
 put his elbow on the arm of the chair, and covered his face 
 with his slender fingers 
 
 " But when I think of my wife and child — and I am always 
 thinking of them, Ellen — when I realize the bitter truth that 
 I must leave them, why then at times it seems as if my heart 
 must break with the intensity of its pain. Ellen, my darling, 
 I would not, even yet, have spoken, but that I know you must 
 have been waiting for it." 
 
 " I could have borne any trouble better than this," she 
 answered, pressing her hands together. 
 
 " It will be softened to you, I am sure, Ellen. I am ever 
 praying that it may be." 
 
 Visitors in the drawing-room : Mrs. Bede Greatorex and 
 Miss Joliffe. A servant came in to announce them. She had
 
 LIFE'S SANDS RUNNING ON. 377 
 
 said that her mistress was at home, and Ellen had to go up. 
 Hamish, with his remaining strength, lifted Miss Nelly on his 
 knee, doll and all. 
 
 " Hush, papa, please ! Baby is tired with making her 
 toilette. She wants to go to sleep." 
 
 " What would Nelly say if papa told her he also wanted to 
 go to sleep ? " 
 
 Miss Nelly lay back in papa's arms while she considered the 
 question, the doll hushed in hers. Ah me, it is ever thus ! 
 ^\'e clasp and love our children : they love others, who are 
 more to them than we are. 
 
 "Why? Are you tired, papa ? " 
 
 " A little weary, dear." 
 
 "Then go to sleep. Dolly shall be quiet." 
 
 " The sleep's not coming just yet, Nelly. And — when it 
 does come — papa may not awake from it." 
 
 " Not ever, ever, ever ? " asked Nelly, opening her blue 
 eyes in wonder, but not taking in the true sense of the 
 question. 
 
 "Not ever — here." 
 
 " The princess went to sleep in my tale-book, and lay on 
 the bed with roses in her hair, and never awoke, never, never, 
 till the good old fairy came and touched her," said Miss Nelly. 
 
 There ensued a pause. Hamish Channing's lips quivered a 
 little ; but no one, save himself, could have guessed how every 
 fibre of his heart was aching. 
 
 " Nelly," he resumed, his voice and manner grave and 
 earnest, his eyes reading hers : " I want to give you a charge. 
 Should papa have to go on a long journey, you would be nil 
 that mamma has left. Take care, my child, to be ever dutiful 
 to her ; to be obedient to her slightest wish, and to love her 
 with a double love." 
 
 " A long, long, long journey ? " demanded Miss Nelly. 
 
 "Very long." 
 
 " And when would you come back again to this house ? " 
 
 "Not ever." 
 
 " ^Vhere would it be to, papa ? " 
 
 " Heaven," he softly whispered. 
 
 Nelly rose up in his arms, the blue eyes more wondering than 
 before. 
 
 " But that would be to die ! " 
 
 "And if it were?"
 
 378 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Down fell the doll. The child's fears were aroused. She 
 threw her little arms about his neck. 
 
 " Oh papa, papa, don't die ! Don't die ! " 
 
 " But if I must die, Ellen ? " 
 
 Only once in her whole life could she remember that he had 
 called her by her true name, and that was when her grandpapa 
 died. She began to tremble. 
 
 " Who would take care of me, papa ?" 
 
 "God." 
 
 She hid her face upon his waistcoat, strangely quiet. 
 
 "He would guide, and guard, and love you ever, Ellen. 
 Loving Him, you would be His dear child always, and He 
 would bring you in time to me. Look up, my dear one." 
 
 ^^ Must you go the journey?" 
 
 " I fear so." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! — and don't you care — don't you care for mamma 
 and me, that you must leave us ?" 
 
 " Care ! " 
 
 He could say no more ; the word seemed to put the finishing 
 stroke to his breaking heart. Sobs broke from his lips ; tears, 
 such as man rarely sheds, streamed on the little nestling 
 head. A cry of anguish, patient and imploring, that the 
 parting might be soothed to them all, went up to his Father in 
 heaven. 
 
 After dusk came on, when the visitors were got rid of, — for 
 Clare Joliffe had stayed an unconscionable time, talking over old 
 interests at Hclstonleigh — Mrs. Channing found her husband 
 asleep in his chair. Closing the door softly on him, she sat 
 down by the dining-room fire, and the long-pent-up tears burst 
 forth. Hamish Channing's wife was a brave woman : but there 
 are griefs that, when they fall, well-nigh shatter the bravest of 
 us. Miss Nelly, captured ever so long ago by nurse, was at tea 
 in the nursery. 
 
 Roland Yorke surprised Mrs. Channing in her sorrow. 
 l\oland never came into the house with a clatter now (at 
 least, when he thought of its master's sick state), but with as 
 decorous a step as his boots would permit. Down he sat in 
 silence, on the opposite side of the hearth, and caught sight of 
 Mrs. Channing's tears in the firelight. 
 
 " Is he worse ?" asked Roland, when he had stared a little. 
 
 " No," she answered, scarcely making a pretence of conceal- 
 ing her grief " I fear there will not be very much ' worse' in
 
 LIFE'S SANDS RUNNING ON. 379 
 
 it at all, Roland : a little more weakness perhaps, and that will 
 be all. I am afraid the end is very near. I fancy he thinks so 
 too." 
 
 Roland grew hot and cold. 
 
 " Let's understand, Mrs. Channing. Don't play with a fellow. 
 Do you mean that Hamish is — going — to die ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am sure there is no more hope." 
 
 " My goodness ! " — and Roland rubbed his hot and stricken 
 face. "Why, he was better yesterday. He was laughing and 
 talking like anything." 
 
 " Not really better. It is as I say, Roland." 
 
 " If ever I saw such a miserable world ! " exclaimed Roland, 
 who, though privately indulging at times some despondency 
 upon the case, had perhaps not realized its utter hopelessness 
 until now, when put unmistakably before him. " I never 
 thought but he'd get well again. I should like to know why he 
 couldn't, and what has killed him." 
 
 " The reviews have done it," said Ellen, in low tones. 
 
 Roland groaned. A suspicion, that they must have had 
 something to do with the decline, had been upon himself. 
 Hamish had never been quite the same after their appearance ; 
 his spirit had seemed to fade away in sadness, and health 
 followed it. 
 
 " Those cruel reviews broke his heart," resumed Mrs. Chan- 
 ning. " I am certain of it, Roland. A less sensitive man 
 would not have felt it so vitally ; a man, physicall)' stronger, 
 would not have suffered in health. l]ut he is sensitive amidst 
 the most sensitive ; and he never, for all his bright face and 
 fine form, was really strong. And so — he could not bear the 
 blow, and it has killed him." 
 
 Roland sat on in misery. Mrs. Channing shaded her eyes 
 with her hand. 
 
 " If I could only pitch into the reviewers I " he cried. " Were 
 I rich, I'd offer a thousand pounds reward to any one who 
 would bring me their names. Hang the lot ! And if )-ou were 
 not by, Mrs. Channing, I'd give them a worse word." 
 
 She shook her head. " Pitching into the reviewers, Roland, 
 would not give him back his life. The publisher thinks that 
 one man wrote them all : or got them written. Some one 
 who must have had a grudge against Hamish. It does seem 
 like it." 
 
 Roland's picture might have been taken as an emblem of
 
 38o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Despair. Suddenly the face brightened a Httle, the sanguine 
 nature resumed its sway. 
 
 " Don't lose heart, Mrs. Channing. I'll tell you something 
 that happened to me at Port Natal. Uncommon hard-up I 
 was, and lying in a place with fever upon me. I thought I was 
 dying. I was dreaming of Helstonleigh and all the old people 
 there. I seemed to see Arthur and Hamish, and Hamish 
 smiled at me in his bright way, and said, * Cheer up, it will be 
 all right, old friend.' Upon that, somebody was standing by 
 the bed — which was nothing but a sack of sand that you roll 
 off unpleasantly — trying my pulse and looking down at me. I 
 mean really, you know. A chap in the room said it was a 
 doctor ; perhaps it was ; but he got me nothing but some herb- 
 tea to drink. 'Take courage,' says he to mCj 'it's half the 
 battle ! ' I got well in time, and so may Hamish. Yoti take 
 courage, Mrs. Channing." 
 
 She smiled a little. " My taking courage would not help my 
 husband, Roland." 
 
 " Well — no ; perhaps it mightn't," acknowledged Roland, 
 falling back into gloom. " Where is he ?" 
 
 She pointed to the other room. "Asleep before the 
 fire." 
 
 Roland softly opened the door and looked in. The firelight 
 played on Hamish Channing's wasted features ; and his dreams 
 seemed to be of a pleasant nature, for a smile sat on the 
 delicate lips : lips that had always shown so plainly the man's 
 remarkable refinement. Nevertheless, sleeping and dreaming 
 peacefully though he was, there was something in the face that 
 spoke of coming death. And Roland could have sobbed as he 
 stood there. 
 
 Going back again, and closing the door quietly, Roland found 
 the company augmented in the person of his brother Gerald. 
 For some time past Gerald Yorke had heard from one and 
 another of Hamish Channing's illness, but it made no impres- 
 sion upon him, except a slightly fiivourable one ; for, if Hamish 
 were incapacitated from writing, it would be a rival removed 
 from Gerald's path. This afternoon he was told that Hamish 
 was thought to be past recovery; in fact, dying. That did 
 arouse him a little ; the faint spark of conscience Gerald Yorke 
 possessed was touched, and he thought as he was near the 
 house he would call in. 
 
 "You arc quite a stranger," Mrs. Channing was saying,
 
 LIFE'S SANDS RUNNING ON. 381 
 
 meeting Gerald with a cordial hand. " What has kept you 
 away ? " 
 
 " Aw — been busy of late ; and — aw — worried," answered 
 Gerald, according a distant nod to Roland. "What's this I 
 hear about Hamish ? — That he is dying ! " 
 
 " Well, I don't think you need blurt out that strong word to 
 Mrs. Channing, Gerald," interposed hot Roland. "Dying, 
 indeed ! Do you call it manners?' I don't." 
 
 " I beg Mrs. Channing's pardon," Gerald was beginning, half 
 cynically ; but Ellen's voice rose to interrupt. 
 
 "It makes no difference, Roland," she kindly said. "It is 
 the truth, you know ; and I am not blind to it." 
 
 " What's the matter with him ?" asked Gerald. 
 
 The matter with him ? Ellen Channing told the brief story 
 in a few words. The cruel reviews had broken his heart. Gerald 
 listened, and turned into a white heat. 
 
 " The reviews ! " he exclaimed. " I don't understand you, 
 Mrs. Channing." 
 
 " Of course you read them, Gerald, and must know their 
 bitter, shameful injustice," she explained. " They were such as 
 might have struck a blow even to a strong man : they struck a 
 fatal blow to Hamish. He had staked his whole heart and 
 hope upon the book ; he devoted to it the great and good 
 abilities with which God had gifted him ; he made it worthy of 
 all praise ; and false men rose up and blasted it. A strong word 
 you may deem that, Gerald, but it is a true one. They rose uj), 
 and — in envy, as I believe — set themselves to write and work 
 out a deliberate lie. They sent it forth to the world effectually, 
 and killed the book. Perhaps they did not intend also to kill 
 the writer." 
 
 Gerald's white face looked whiter than usual. His eyes, in 
 their hard stare, were very ugly to look upon. 
 
 "Still I can't understand," he said. "The critiques were, of 
 course, rather severe : but how can critiques kill a man ? " 
 
 "And if you, being a reviewer yourself, Gerald, could only 
 get to find out who the false-hearted hound was — for it's 
 thought to have been one fellow who penned the lot — you'd 
 oblige me," put in Roland. " I'd repay him, as I've seen it 
 done at Port Natal. Plis howling would be something fine." 
 
 " You do not yet entirely understand, I see, Gerald," sadly 
 answered Ellen, passing over Roland's interruption, whilst 
 Gerald turned his shoulder upon him. " In one sense the
 
 383 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 reviews did not kill. They did not, for instance, strike Hamish 
 dead at once, or break his heart with a stroke. In fact, you 
 may think the expression, a broken heart, but a figure of 
 speech, and in a degree of course it is so. But there are 
 some natures, and his is one of them, so sensitively organized 
 that a cruel blow shatters them. Had Hamish been stronger 
 he might have borne it, have got over it in time ; but he had 
 been working beyond his strength ; and I think also his 
 strangely eager hope in regard to the book must have helped 
 to wear out his frame. It was his first work, you know. When 
 the blow came he had not strength to rally from it ; mind and 
 body were alike stricken ; and so the weakness set in and did 
 its work upon him." 
 
 " What are these natures good for ? " fiercely demanded 
 Gerald, as if resenting some personal injury. 
 
 " Only for heaven, as it seems to me," she gently answered. 
 
 Gerald rubbed his face ; he could not get any colour into it, 
 and a pause ensued. Presently Ellen spoke again. 
 
 " I remember, when quite a girl, reading of a somewhat 
 similar case in one of Bulwer Lytton's novels. A young artist 
 painted a great picture — great to him — and insisted on being 
 concealed in the room whilst a master came to judge of it. 
 The judgment was adverse ; not, perhaps, particularly harsh 
 and cruel in itself, but sounding so to the painter ; and it 
 killed him. Not at the moment, Gerald ; I don't mean that ; 
 he lived to become ill, and he went to Italy for his health, his 
 heart gradually breaking. He never spoke of what the blow 
 had been to him, or that it had crushed out his hope and life, 
 but died concealing it. Hamish has never spoken." 
 
 " What I want to know is, where's the use of people being 
 like this ? " pursued Gerald. " AVhat arc they made for ? " 
 
 " Scarcely for earth," she answered. " The too-refined gold 
 is not meant for the world's coinage." 
 
 "I'd rather be a bit of brittle china, than be made so that 
 I couldn't stand a review," said Gerald. " It's to be hoped 
 there are not many such people.'' 
 
 " Only one in tens of thousands, Gerald." 
 
 " Does it — trouble him ? " asked Gerald, hcsitatingl)'. 
 
 "The advance of death ?— yes, in a degree. Not foi the 
 dying, Gerald : but the quitting me and Nelly." 
 
 " I'm not yet what Hamish and Arthur are, safe to be heard 
 up there when they ask for a thing," again "interrupted Roland :
 
 LIFE'S SANDS RUNNING ON. 3S3 
 
 " but I do pray that from the day that bad base man hears of 
 Hamish Channing's death, he'll be haunted by his ghost for 
 ever. My goodness ! I shouldn't like to have murder on my 
 conscience. It's as bad as the fellow who killed Mr. Ollivera." 
 
 Gerald Yorke rose. Ellen asked him to wait and see 
 Hamish, but he answered, in what seemed a desperate hurry, 
 that he had an engagement. 
 
 " You might like to take a peep at him, Gerald," spoke 
 Roland. " His face looks as peaceful as if it were sainted." 
 
 Gerald's answer was to turn tail and depart. Roland, who 
 had some copying on hand that was being waited for, stayed 
 to shake hands with Mrs. Channing. 
 
 " Look here," he whispered to her. " Don't let him worry 
 his mind about you and Nelly : in the way of money, you 
 know. I shall be sure to get into something good soon ; 
 Yincent will see to that ; and I'll take care of botli of vou. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 Poor, penniless, good-hearted Roland ! 
 
 A\'ith a run he caught up Gerald, who was striding rapidly 
 along. Oblivious of all save the present distress, e\'en of 
 Gerald's past coldness, Roland attempted to take his arm, and 
 was repulsed for his pains. 
 
 " My way does not lie the same as yours, I think," was 
 Gerald's haughty remark. Roland would not resent it. 
 
 " I say, Ger, is it not enough to make one sad? It wouldn't 
 have mattered much had it been you or me to be taken : but 
 Hamish Channing ! we can't afford to lose such a man as he." 
 
 " Thank you," said Gerald. "Speak for yourself." 
 
 " And with Hamish the bread-and-cheese goes. She has 
 very little money. Perhaps she'll not feel the want of it, 
 though. I'd work my arms off for that darling little Nelly — 
 and for her too, for Hamisli's sake." 
 
 " I don't believe he is dying at all," said Gerald. " Reviews 
 kill him, indeed ! It's altogether preposterous. Women talk 
 wretched nonsense in this world." 
 
 Without so much as a parting '" Good night," Gerald struck 
 across the street and disappeared. By the time he arrived at 
 his chambers, his mind had fully persuaded itself that there was 
 nothing seriously the matter with Hamish Channing, and he 
 felt that he should like to shake Winny (who had been his 
 informant) for alarming him. 
 
 His servant brought him a letter as he entered, and Gerald
 
 384 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 tore it open. It proved to be from Sir Vincent Yorke, inviting 
 Gerald down to Sunny Mead on the morrow for a couple of 
 days' shooting. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " shouted Gerald. " Vin's coming round, is he ! 
 I'll go, and get out of him a hundred or so, to bring back with 
 me to town. That's good. Hurrah ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GERALD YORKE AT A SHOOTING PARTY. 
 
 It was a pretty place ; its name. Sunny Mead, appropriate. 
 For the sun (not far yet above the horizon) of the clear, 
 cold December day, shone brightly on it. The house was 
 small, but compact ; the prospect from the windows, with its 
 expanse of wooded hill and dale, charming. At its best it 
 was simple and unpretending, but as pleasant a homestead for 
 moderate desires as could be found in the county of Surrey. 
 
 In a snug room, its fire blazing in the grate, its snowy break- 
 fast cloth, laden with china and silver, drawn up near the large 
 window that looked out upon the lawn, sat the owner, Sir 
 Vincent Yorke, and his cousin Gerald. As soon as breakfast 
 should be over they were going out shooting ; but the baronet 
 was by no means one who cared to disturb his morning's 
 comfort by starting at dawn : shooting, as well as everything 
 else in life, he liked to take easily. Gerald had arrived the 
 previous night. It was the first time Gerald had seen Sunny 
 Mead : and its want of pretence surprised him. Sir Vincent's 
 marriage was fixed for the following month, January ; and he 
 gratified Gerald by saying that he thought of asking him to be 
 groomsman. 
 
 " Aw ! — very happy — immensely so," responded Gerald, with 
 his most fashionable drawl, that so grated on a true and honest 
 ear. 
 
 " Sunny Mead has this advantage ; one can come to it and 
 be quiet," observed Sir Vincent. "There's not room for more 
 than half-a-dozen servants in it. My father used to call it 
 the homestead. That's just what it is, and it doesn't pretend
 
 GERALD YORKE AT A SHOOTING PARTY. 385 
 
 to be anything else. More coffee? Try that partridge pie. 
 Have you seen Roland lately ? " 
 
 The cynical expression that rose to Gerald's face at the 
 question, made Sir Vincent smile. 
 
 " Aw — I say, don't spoil my breakfast by bringing }iim up," 
 spoke Gerald. " The best thing he can do is to go out to Port 
 Natal again. Capital pie ! " 
 
 " That devilled turkey's good, too. Try it presently," spoke 
 the baronet. " How is Hamish Channing ? " 
 
 Gerald's face turned dark. Was Sir Vincent purposely 
 annoying him ? Taking up his coffee-cup for a long draught, 
 he did not answer. 
 
 " I never saw so fine a fellow in my life," resumed Sir Vincent. 
 "Never was so taken with a face at first sight as with his. 
 William Yorke was staying there at the time of my father's 
 funeral, and I went next day to call. That's how I saw 
 Channing. He promised to come and see me ; but some one 
 told me the other day he was ill." 
 
 "Aw— yes," drawled Gerald. "Seedy, I believe." 
 
 " What's the matter with him ? " 
 
 'I Temper," said Gerald. "Wrote a book, and had some 
 reviews upon it, and it put him out, I hear." 
 
 " But it was a first-rate book, Gerald. I read it, and the 
 reviews were all wrong : suppose some contemptible raven 
 scrawled them in envy. The book's working its way upwards 
 as fast as it can now." 
 
 " Who says so ? " cried Gerald. 
 
 "I do. Had the information from a reliable source. By 
 the way, is there anything in that story of Roland's — that he is 
 engaged to Channing's sister ? Or is it fancy on his part ? " 
 
 " I do wish you'd let the fellow's name alone ; he's not so 
 very good to talk about," retorted Gerald. 
 
 But Roland was not so easily dropped out of the conversa- 
 tion. As luck would have it, when the servant brought Sir 
 Vincent's letters in, there was one from Roland amongst them. 
 Vincent laughed outright as he read it. 
 
 "Dear Vincent, 
 
 " I happened to overhear old Greatorex say 
 yesterday that Sir Vincent Yorke wanted a working bailiff 
 for Sunny Mead. I ! wish ! to ! offer ! myself ! for ! the ! 
 situation ! There ! I put it strong that you may not mistake 
 
 Roland Vorkc. 2o
 
 386 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 me. Of course, I am a relative, which I can't help ; and a 
 working bailiff is only a kind of upper servant. But I should 
 be very glad of the place if you'll give it me, and will do my 
 duty in it as far as I can, putting my best shoulder to the wheel. 
 And I'll never presume upon our being cousins to enter your 
 house uninvited, or put myself in your way; and my wife would 
 not call on Lady Yorke if she did not wish it. I'll be bailiff — ■ 
 you master. 
 
 " I don't tell you I'm a first-rate hand at farming ; but, if 
 perseverance and sticking to work can teach one, I shall soon 
 get into it. I picked up some experience at Port Natal ; and 
 had to drive waggons and other animals. I'm great in pigs. 
 Of course I know all about haymaking ; and used to be one of 
 the company at old Pierce's harvest-homes, on his farm near 
 Helstonleigh. I don't suppose you'd want me to thresh the 
 wheat myself; but I'm strong enough to do it, and would not 
 mind. I should be always up before dawn in spring to see to 
 the young lambs ; and should soon acquire the ins and outs of 
 manuring and draining. Do try me, Vincent ! There'd be one 
 advantage in taking me — I should be honest and true to your 
 interests. Whereas some bailiffs like to serve themselves better 
 than their masters. 
 
 "As to wages, I'd leave that to you. You wouldn't give less 
 than a hundred a year to begin -with ; and at the year's end, 
 when I had qualified myself, you might make it two. Perhaps 
 you'd give the two-hundred at once. I don't wish to presume 
 because I'm a relative ; and if the two-hundred would be too 
 much at first (for, to tell the truth, I don't know how bailiff's 
 pay runs), please excuse my having named it. I expect there 
 are lots of pretty cottages to be hired down there; perhaps one 
 on the estate is set apart for the bailiff. I may as well mention 
 that I am a first-rate horseman, and could gallop about like a 
 fire-engine ; having nearly lost my life more times than one, 
 learning to ride tlie wild cattle when up country at Port Natal. 
 " I think that's all I have to say. Only try me ! If you do, 
 you will find how willing I am. My object in life now is to get 
 a certainty that will bring me in something tolerably good to 
 begin, and go on to three-hundred a year, or more ; for I 
 should not like Annabel to take pupils always. I don't know 
 whether a bailiff ever gets as much as that. 
 
 " Bede Greatorcx can give me a good character for steadi- 
 ness and industry. And if I have stuck to this work, I should
 
 GERALD YORKE AT A SHOOTING PARTY. 387 
 
 do better by yours ; for writing I hate, and knocking about a 
 farm I should Hke better than anything. 
 
 "Let me have an answer as soon as convenient. If you 
 take me I shall have to order leggings and other toggery 
 from Carrick's tailor; and he might be getting on with the 
 things. 
 
 " Wishing you a merry Christmas, which will soon be here 
 (don't I recollect one of mine at Port Natal, when I* had 
 nothing for dinner and the same for supper), I remain, dear 
 Vincent, yours truly, 
 
 "Roland Yorke. 
 
 " Sir Vincent Yorke '^ 
 
 To watch the sarcastic curl of Gerald's lip, the angry flush of 
 his face, as he perused this document, which the baronet handed 
 to him with a laugh, was amusing. It might have served a 
 painter as a model for scorn. Dropping the letter from his 
 fingers, as if there were contamination in its very touch, he 
 flicked it across the table. 
 
 " You'll send it back to him in a blank envelope, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 "No; why should I?" returned Sir Vincent, who was 
 good-natured in the main. " I'll answer him when I've time. 
 Do you know, Gerald, I think you rather disparage Roland." 
 
 Gerald opened his astonished eyes. " Disparage him ! How 
 can he be disparaged ? — He is just as low as he can be. An 
 awful blot, and nothing else, on the family escutcheon." 
 
 " The family don't seem to be troubled much by him ! — 
 myself excepted. He appears to regard me as a sheet-anchor, 
 able to provide for the world, himself included. I rather 
 like the young fellow ; he is so genuine." 
 
 "Don't call him young," reproved Gerald; "he will be 
 twenty-nine next May." 
 
 "And in mind and manners he is nineteen." 
 
 " He talks of pigs — see what he has brought his to," ex- 
 claimed Gerald, somewhat forgetting his drawl. " The — 
 aw — low kind of work he condescends to do — the mean 
 way he is not ashamed to confess he lives in ! Every bit 
 of family pride has gone out of him, and given place to vulgar 
 instincts." 
 
 " As Roland has tumbled into the mire, better for him to be 
 honest and work," returned Sir Vincent, mincing with his dry
 
 388 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 toast and a poached egg, for he was delicate in appetite. " What 
 else could he do ? Of course, there's the credit systern and 
 periodical whitewashings, but I should not care to go in for 
 that kind of thing myself." 
 
 " Are you in want of a bailiff? " growled Gerald, wondering 
 whether the remarks were meant to be personal. 
 
 " Greatorex has engaged one for me. How are you getting 
 on yourself, Gerald ? " 
 
 " Not — aw — at all. I'm awfully hard up." 
 
 " You always are, Ger, according to your own story," was the 
 baronet's reply, laughing slightly. 
 
 And somehow the laugh sounded hard, in Gerald's ear — 
 one that boded no good results to the petition he meant to 
 prefer before his departure — that Sir Vincent would accommo- 
 date him with a loan. 
 
 "He's close-fisted as a miser," was Gerald's mental com- 
 ment. " His father all over again. Neither of them would 
 part with a shilling except for self-gratification : and both could 
 spend enough on that. I'll ask him for a hundred, point 
 blank, before I leave \ more, if I can feel my way to do it. 
 Fortune is shamefully unequal in this life. There's Vin with 
 his baronetcy, his nice little place here and every comfort in it, 
 his town-house, his clear four-thousand a year, and no end of 
 odds and ends of money besides — nest eggs of various shapes 
 and sizes — and his future wife a seventy-thousand pounder in 
 her own right; and here's myself, a better man than he any 
 day, with not a coin of my own in the whole world, nor 
 likely to drop into one by inheritance, and afraid to venture 
 about London for fear of being nabbed ! Curse the whole 
 thing ! He is shabby in trifles too. To give me a miserable 
 two days' invitation. Two days ! I'll remain twenty, if I 
 
 can." 
 
 "You don't eat, Gerald." 
 
 " I've made a famous breakfast, thank you. Do you spend 
 Christmas down here, Vincent?" 
 
 " Not I. The day after to-morrow, when you leave me, I 
 start for Paris.'" 
 
 " For Paris ! " echoed Gerald, his mouth opening at the 
 sudden collapse of his agreeable scheme. 
 
 " Miss Trehern and her father are there. We shall remain 
 for the jour de ran, see the bonbon shops, and all that, and 
 then come back again."
 
 GERALD YORKE AT A SHOOTING PARTY. 389 
 
 "And I hope the bonbon shops will choke him!" thought 
 kindly Gerald. 
 
 Sir Vincent Yorke did not himself go in for keepers and 
 dogs. There was little game on his land, and he was too 
 effeminate to be much of a sportsman. He owned two guns, 
 and they comprised the Avhole of his shooting paraphernalia. 
 Breakfast over, he had his guns brought in, and desired Gerald 
 to take his choice. 
 
 Now the handling of guns did not rank amidst Gerald 
 Yorke's accompHshments. Brought up in the cathedral town, 
 only away from it on occasion at Dr. Yorke's living (and that 
 happened to be in a town also), the young Yorkes were not 
 familiarized with outdoor sports. Dr. Yorke had never 
 followed them himself, and saw no necessity for training his 
 sons to them. Even riding they were not very familiar with. 
 Roland's letter had just informed Sir Vincent that he had 
 nearly lost his life learning to ride the wild horses when up the 
 country at Port Natal. Probably he had also learnt something 
 about guns. We may be very sure of one thing, that if he did 
 not understand them, he would have voluntarily avowed it. 
 Not so Gerald. Gerald, made up of artificiality — for nothing 
 seemed real about him but his ill-temper— touched the guns 
 here, and fingered the guns there, and critically exammed 
 them everywhere, as if he were the best shot alive, and had 
 invented a breech-loader himself; and finally said he would 
 take tJiis one. 
 
 So they went out, each with his gun and a favourite dog of 
 the baronet's, Spot, and joined a neighbour's shooting party, 
 as had been arranged. Colonel Glutton's land joined Sir 
 Y'incent's; he was a keen lover of sport, always making up 
 parties for it, and if Sir Vincent went out at all, it was sure to 
 be with Colonel Glutton. 
 
 " To-day and to-morrow will be my last turn out this 
 season," observed the baronet, as they walked along. " Not 
 sorry for it. One gets a large amount of fatigue : don't think 
 the slaughter compensates for that." 
 
 At the meeting-place they found a party of some three or 
 four gentlemen and two keepers. Gerald was introduced to 
 Colonel Glutton, an elderly man Avith snow-white hair. The 
 sport set in. It was late in the season, and the birds were 
 getting scarce or wary, but a tolerably fair number fell. 
 
 <' The gentleman don't seem to handle his gun gainly, sir,"
 
 390 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 observed one of the keepers confidentially in Sir Vincent's 
 ear. 
 
 He alluded to Gerald Yorke. Sir Vincent turned and 
 looked. Though not much addicted to shooting, he was 
 thoroughly conversant with it : and what he saw, as he watched 
 Gerald, a little surprised him. 
 
 " I say, Gerald Yorke, you must take care," he called out. 
 " Did you never handle a gun before ? " 
 
 The suggestion offended Gerald : the question nettled him. 
 His face grew dark. 
 
 "What do you mean, Sir Vincent?" was his angry retort. 
 He would have liked to affirm his great knowledge of shooting : 
 but his chief practice had been with a pop-gun at school. 
 
 Sir Vincent laughed a little. " Don't do any mischief, that's 
 all." 
 
 It might have been that the caution caused Gerald to be 
 more careless, just to prove his proficiency; it might have 
 been that it tended to flurry him. Certainly he would not 
 have done harm wilfully ; nevertheless it took place. 
 
 Not ten minutes after Sir Vincent had spoken, he was 
 crossing a narrow strip of ground towards a copse. Gerald, 
 leaping through a gap in the hedge not far behind, and carrying 
 his gun carelessly on full cock, contrived, in some inexplicable 
 manner, to discharge it. Whether his elbow caught the leaf- 
 less branches, or the trigger caught, or what it was, Gerald 
 Yorke never knew, and never will know to his dying day. The 
 charge went off; there was a cry, accompanied by warning 
 shouts, some one on the ground in front, and others running 
 to the fallen man. 
 
 " You have no right to come out, sir, unless you can handle 
 a gun properly ! " spoke Colonel Glutton to Gerald, in the 
 moment's consternation. " I have been watching your awk- 
 wardness all the morning." 
 
 Gerald looked pale with fear, dark with anger. He made 
 no reply whatever : only pressed forward to see who was down : 
 the men, in their velveteen coats and leggings, looking much 
 alike. It was Sir Vincent Yorke. 
 
 " It's not much, I think," said the baronet, good-naturedly, 
 as he looked up at Gerald. " But I say, though, you should 
 have candidly answered me that you were not in the habit of 
 shooting, when I sent you the invitation." 
 
 No, it was not much. A few shots had entered the calf of
 
 GERALD YORKE AT A SHOOTING PARTY. 391 
 
 the left leg. They got out pocket-handkerchiefs, and tied 
 them round to stop the hemorrhage. The dog, Spot, laid his 
 head close to his master's face, and whined pitiably. 
 
 " What sense them dum.b animals have ! — a'most human ! " 
 remarked the keeper. 
 
 " This will stop my Paris trip," observed Sir Vincent, as 
 they w^ere conveying him home. 
 
 " Better that was stopped than your wedding," replied 
 Colonel Glutton, with a smile. " You keep yourself quiet, 
 now, that you may be well again for tJiat. Don't talk." 
 
 Sir Vincent acquiesced. At the best of times he was sensi- 
 tive to pain, and somewhat of a coward in regard to his own 
 health. At home he was met by a skilful surgeon. The shots 
 were extracted, and Sir Vincent was made comfortable in bed. 
 Gerald Yorke waylaid the doctor afterwards. 
 
 *' Is it serious? Will he do well? Sir Vincent is my 
 cousin." 
 
 " Oh — Mr. Yorke : the gentleman whose gun unfortunately 
 caused the mishap," was the reply. " Of course these accidents 
 are always more or less serious. This one might have been 
 far worse than it is." 
 
 "He will do well?" 
 
 " Quite well. At least, I hope so. I see nothing to prevent 
 it. Sir Vincent will be a tractable patient, you see ; and a 
 good deal lies in that" 
 
 " There's no danger, then ? " 
 
 " Oh no : no danger." 
 
 Gerald, relieved on the score of consequences, had the grace 
 to express his regret and sorrow to the baronet. Sir Vincent 
 begged him to think no more about it : only recommended him 
 not to go out with a party in future, until he had had some 
 practice. Gerald, untrue to the end, said he was a little out of 
 practice ; should soon get into it again. Sir Vincent made 
 light of the hurt ; it was nothing to speak of, the doctor had 
 said ; would not delay his marriage, or anything. But he did 
 not ask Gerald to remain : and that gentleman, in spite of his 
 hints, and his final offer to stay, found he was expected to 
 leave. Sir Vincent expressed his acknowledgments, but said 
 he wished for perfect quiet. 
 
 So, on the day following the accident, Gerald Yorke returned 
 to town ; which was a da}^ sooner than, even at the worst, he 
 had bargained for ; and arrived in a temper. Taking one dis-
 
 392 
 
 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 appointment with another, Gerald's mood could not be ex- 
 pected to be heavenly. He had fully intended to come away 
 with his pockets lined — if by dint of persuasion Sir Vincent 
 could be seduced into doing it. As it was, Gerald had not 
 broached the subject. Sir Vincent was to be kept quiet ; and 
 Gerald, with all his native assurance, could not ask a man for 
 money whom he had just shot. 
 
 CHAPTER Xni. 
 
 IN CUSTODY. 
 
 Pacing his carpet, in the worst possible state of perturbation, 
 was the Reverend Mr. Ollivera. He had so paced it all the 
 morning. Neglecting his ordinary duties, staying indoors when 
 he ought to have been out, unable to eat or to rest, he was in a 
 state of distressing indecision. The whole night had he tossed 
 and turned, and risen up again and again to pace his room, 
 battling with his conscience. For years past, he had, so to 
 say, lived on the anticipation of this hour, when the memory of 
 his dear brother should be cleared of its stain, and the true 
 criminal be brought to light. And, now that it had come, he 
 was hesitating whether or not to take advantage of it : whether 
 to let the stain remain, and the criminal escape. 
 
 Consumed with doubt and pain, was he. Unable to sec 
 wliere his duty lay, more than once, with lifted hands and heart, 
 a cry to Heaven to direct him broke from his lips. Passages of 
 Scripture, bearing both ways, crowded on his mind, to puzzle 
 him the more ; but there was one great lesson he could not 
 ignore — the loving, merciful teaching of Jesus Christ. 
 
 About one o'clock, when the remembrance of the miserable 
 grave, and of him who had been so miserably laid in it, was 
 strong upon him, Alletha Rye came into the room, some white 
 cravats of the j)arson's in her hand. She was neat and nice as 
 usual, wearing a soft merino gown with white worked cuffs and 
 collars, her fair hair smooth and abundant. 
 
 " I have done tlie ])est I could with them, sir : cut off the 
 edges and hemmed them again," she said. " After that, I
 
 IN CUSTODY. 393 
 
 passed the iron over them, and they look just as if freshly got 
 up." 
 
 " Thank you," murmured Mr. Ollivera, the colour flushing 
 his face, and speaking in a confused sort of way, like a man 
 overtaken in a crime. 
 
 " Great Heaven, can I go on with it?" he exclaimed, as she 
 went out, leaving the cravats on the table. " Is it possible, 
 with her calm good face, her clear honest eye, to believe her 
 guilty?" he continued, in an agony of distress. "Oh, for 
 guidance ! that I may be shown what my course ought to be ! " 
 
 As a personal matter, to give Alletha Rye into custody 
 would cause him grievous pain. She had lived under the 
 same roof with him, showing him voluntarily a hundred little 
 courtesies and kindnesses. These white cravats of his, just put 
 right, had been undertaken in pure goodwill. 
 
 How very much of our seasons of terrible distress might 
 be spared to us, if we could only see a little further than the 
 present moment. Henry William Ollivera might have been 
 saved his, had he only known that while he was doubting, 
 another was acting. Mr. Greatorex had taken it into his own 
 hands, and the trouble was, even then, at the very door. In 
 after-life, Henry Ollivera never ceased to be thankful that it 
 was not he himself who had brought it. 
 
 A commotion below. Mr. Roland Yorke had entered, and 
 was calling for his dinner. It was taken to him in the shape 
 of some roast mutton and potatoes. When Mrs. Jones had 
 a joint herself, Roland was served from it. That she was no 
 gainer by the bargain, Mrs. Jones was conscious of; the small 
 sum she allowed herself in repayment out of the weekly 
 sovereign, debarred it : but Roland was favoured for the sake 
 of old times. 
 
 Almost immediately after, there came a rather quiet double 
 knock at the street-door, which Miss Rye answered. Roland 
 thought he recognized a voice, and ran out. 
 
 '' Why, it's never you, old Butterby ! What brings you in 
 London again ? " 
 
 Whatever brought Mr. Butterby to London, something 
 curious appeared to have brought him to Mrs. Jones's. A 
 policeman had followed him in, and was closing the street- 
 door with a quite-at-home manner. There escaped a faint 
 cry from Alletha, and her face turned white as ashes. Roland 
 looked from one to the other.
 
 394 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " What on earth's the matter ? " demanded he. 
 " I should hke to speak to you in private for a minute, Miss 
 Rye," said Mr. Butterby, in low, civil tones. " Tompkins, you 
 wait there." 
 
 She went further down the passage and looked round some- 
 what like a stag at bay. There was no unoccupied room to 
 take him to. Mr. Brown's frugal dinner-tray was on his table 
 awaiting his arrival. That the terrible man of law with his 
 officer had come to arrest him Alletha never doubted for a 
 moment. A hundred wild ideas of telegraphing him some 
 impossible "warning, not to enter, went teeming through her 
 brain. Tompkins stood on the entrance mat ; Roland Yorke, 
 with his usual curiosity, remained outside his door to watch 
 proceedings. 
 
 " Miss Rye, I wouldn't have done this of my own accord, 
 leastways not so soon, but it has been forced upon me," 
 whispered Mr. Butterby. " I've to ask you to go with me."_ 
 
 " To ask me ? " she tremblingly replied, whilst he was showing 
 her a paper : probably the warrant. 
 
 "Are you so much surprised: after that avowal you made 
 to me last night ? If I'd gone and told a police-officer that / 
 had killed somebody, it would not astonish me to be took." 
 
 Her face fell. The pallor of her cheeks was coloured by a 
 faint crimson ; her eyes flashed condemningly. 
 
 " I told you in confidence, as one friend might speak to 
 another, in defence of him who was not there to defend him- 
 self," she panted. " How could I suppose you would 
 treacherously use it against me ? " 
 
 "Ah," said Mr. Butterby, "in things of that sort us law 
 defenders are just the wrong sort to make confidants of But 
 now, look here, Miss Rye : I didn't go and abuse that confi- 
 dence, and though it is me that has put the wheels in motion, 
 it is done in obedience to orders which I had no power to 
 stop. I'm sorry to have to do it : and I've come down with 
 the warrant myself out of respect to you, that things might be 
 accomplished as genteel as might be." 
 
 " Now then, Alletha ! Do you know that your dinner's 
 getting cold? What on earth arc you stopping there for? 
 Who is it ? " 
 
 The interruption was from Mrs. Jones, who was in her 
 parlour. Alletha, returning no response, looked ready to die. 
 " Have you come to arrest me ? " she whispered.
 
 IN CUSTODY. 395 
 
 " Well, that's about it, Miss Rye. Apprehend, that is. We'll 
 get a cab and you'll go in it with my friend there, all snug and 
 quiet. I'm vexed that young Yorke should just be at home. 
 
 Tried to get here half-an-hour earlier, but " 
 
 INIrs. Jones's door was pulled open. To describe her 
 astonishment when she saw the state of affairs, would be a 
 work of skill. AUetha with a countenance of ghastly terror ; 
 Mr. Butterby whispering to her; the policeman on the door- 
 mat ; Roland Yorke looking leisurely on. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jones. " What may be 
 the meaning of this ? " 
 
 There could be no concealment now. Had Alletha in her 
 secret heart hoped to keep it from her tart and strong-minded 
 sister, the possibility was over. She went down the few steps 
 that led to the room, and entered it; ]\Ir. Butterby close 
 behind her. The latter was shutting the door, when Roland 
 Yorke taking French leave, walked in. 
 
 Which of the two stared the most, ]\Irs. Jones or Roland, 
 and which of the two felt inclined to abuse Mr. Butterby the 
 most, when his errand became known, remains a question to 
 this day. Roland's championship was hot and fierce. 
 
 "You know you always do take the wrong people, But- 
 terby ! " 
 
 " Now, young Mr. Yorke, just concern yourself wdth your 
 own business, and leave other folks' alone," was^the detective's 
 reprimand. "I don't see what call you have to be in this 
 here room at all." 
 
 In all phases of the affair, its conjectures and suspicions, 
 from the first moment that she saw John Ollivera lying dead 
 in her house, the possibility of Alletha's being cognizant of the 
 mystery, much less connected with it, had never once entered 
 the head of Mrs. Jones. She stared from one to the other in 
 simple wonder. 
 
 " IVhat is it you charge my sister with, Butterby? — the 
 death of Counsellor Ollivera ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; that's it," he answered. 
 
 " And how dare you do it ? " 
 
 " Now, look you here, Mrs. Jones," said Butterby, in reason- 
 ing tones, putting his hand calmly on her wrist; "I've told 
 Miss Rye, and I tell you, that these proceedings are instituted 
 by the law, not by me. If I had not come to carry them out, 
 another would, who might have done it in a rougher way
 
 396 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 A woman of your sense ought to see the matter in its right 
 light. I don't say she's guilty, and I hope she'll be able to 
 prove that she's not ; but I can tell you this much, Mrs. Jones, 
 there's them that have had their suspicions turned upon her 
 from the first. " 
 
 Bei?ig a woman of sense, as Mr. Butterby delicately in- 
 sinuated, Mrs. Jones began to feel a trifle staggered. Not at 
 his words ; they had little power over her mind, but at 
 AUetha's appearance. Leaning against the wall, white, faint, 
 silent, she looked as one guilty rather than innocent. And it 
 suddenly struck Mrs. Jones that she did not attempt a syllable 
 in her own defence. 
 
 "Why don't you speak out, girl?" she demanded, in her 
 tartest tones. " You can, I suppose ? " 
 
 But the commotion had begun to attract attention in the 
 quiet house. Not so much by sound, as by that subtle instinct 
 which makes itself heard, we cannot tell how; and Mr. 
 Ollivera came in. 
 
 " Who has done this ? " he briefly asked of the detective. 
 
 " Mr. Greatorex, sir." 
 
 " The next thing they'll do may be to take me up on the 
 charge," spoke Mrs. Jones, with acrimony. " What on earth 
 put this into their miserable heads ? You don't suspect her, 
 I hope, Mr. Ollivera ? " 
 
 He only looked in silence at Mrs. Jones by way of answer, 
 a grave meaning in his sad face. It spoke volumes : and 
 Mrs. Jones, albeit not one to give way to emotion, or any other 
 weakness, felt as if a jug of cold water were being poured 
 down her back. Straightforward always, she put the question 
 to him with abrupt plainness. 
 
 "Do you suspect her? " 
 
 " I have suspected her," came the low tones of Mr. Ollivera 
 in answer. "Believe me, Mrs. Jones, whatever may be the 
 final result of this, I grieve for it bitterly." 
 
 " I say, why can't you speak up, and say you did not do 
 it ? " stamped Roland, in his championship. " Don't be 
 frightened out of your senses by Butterby. He never pitches 
 upon the right person; Mrs. J. remembers //lat." 
 
 " As this here talking won't do any good — and I'm sure if it 
 would I'd let it go on a bit — suppose we make a move," inter- 
 posed Butterby. " If you'd like to put up a few things to take 
 with you, Miss Rye, do so. You'll have to go to Helstonleigh."
 
 IN CUSTODY. '397 
 
 "Oh law!" cried Roland. "I say, Butterby, it's a mis- 
 take, I know. Let her go. Come ! you shall have all my 
 dinner." 
 
 " Don't stand there like a statue, as if you were moon- 
 struck," said Mrs. Jones, seizing her sister, to administer a 
 slight shaking. " Tell them you are innocent, girl, if you can ; 
 and let Butterby go about his business." 
 
 And in response, Alletha neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 But at this moment another actor appeared upon the scene. 
 A knock at the front-door was politely answered by the police- 
 man, glad, no doubt, to have something to do, and Mr. Brown 
 entered, arriving for his midday meal. Roland dashed into 
 the passage. 
 
 "I say, Brown, here is a stunning shame. Old Butterby's 
 come to take up Alletha Rye." 
 
 " Take her up for what ? " Mr. Brown calmly asked. 
 
 " For killing and slaying Counsellor Ollivera, he says. But 
 in these things he never was anything but a calf." 
 
 Mr. Brown turned into his room, put down his hat and a 
 small paper parcel, and went on to the scene of action. 
 Before he could say a word, Alletha Rye burst forth as one 
 demented. 
 
 " Don't come here, Mr. Brown. We've nothing to do with 
 strangers. I can't have all the world looking at me." 
 
 Mr. Brown took a quiet survey of matters with perfect self- 
 possession, and then drew Mr. Butterby towards his room, just 
 as though he possessed the whole authority of Scotland Yard. 
 Mrs. Jones, left alone with her sister, caught hold of her hands. 
 
 " Now then ! What is the English of this ? Had you any- 
 thing to do with the death of Mr. Ollivera ? " 
 
 " Never," said Alletha. " I would not have hurt a hair of 
 his head." 
 
 Mrs, Jones, at the answer, hardly knew whether to slap the 
 young woman's face or to shriek at her. All this disgrace 
 brought upon her house, and Alletha to submit to it tamely. 
 As a preliminary, she began a torrent of words. 
 
 " Hush ! " said Alletha. " They think me guilty, and at 
 present they must be allowed to think so. I cannot help my- 
 self: if Butterby conveys me to Helstonleigh, he must do it." 
 
 Mrs. Jones was nearly astounded out of her passion. The 
 cold water went trickling down again. Not at once could she 
 answer.
 
 39S ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Lord help the wench for a fool ! Don't you know that 
 if you are conveyed to Helstonleigh it would be to take your 
 trial at the next assizes ? Would you face that ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell," wailed Alletha, putting up her thin hand to 
 her troubled face. " I must have time to think." 
 
 But we must follow Mr. Brown. As he passed into his 
 room and closed the door, he took a tolerably long look into 
 Butterby's eyes : possibly hoping to discover whether that 
 astute officer knew him for Godfrey Pitman. He obtained no 
 result. Had Mr. Butterby been a born natural he could not 
 have looked more charmingly innocent. That he chose to 
 indulge this demand for an interview for purposes of his own, 
 those who knew him could not doubt. They stood together 
 before the tireless hearth. However cold the weather might 
 be, Mr. Brown's fire went out after breakfast and was not 
 relighted until night. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Butterby. With so much con- 
 fusion in there" — nodding in the direction of Mrs. Jones's 
 parlour — " I am not sure that I fully understood. Is it true 
 that you are about to take Miss Rye into custody on suspicion 
 of having caused the death of John OUivera ? " 
 
 " I have taken her," was the curt answer. " It is nothing to 
 you, I suppose." 
 
 " It is this much to me ; that I happen to be in a position to 
 declare that she did not do it." 
 
 " Oh, you think so, do you," said Butterby, in civil but 
 slightly mocking tones. " I have known ten men at least 
 swear to one man's innocence, and hiiii guilty all the while. 
 Don't say it was perjury : appearances is decepdve, and human 
 nature's soft." 
 
 " I affirm, in the hearing of Heaven, that Alletha Rye was 
 innocent of the death of John OUivera," said Air. Brown, in 
 solemn tones that might have carried conviction even to a less 
 experienced car. " She had nothing whatever to do with it. 
 Until the following morning, when she found him, she was as 
 ignorant as you that he was dead." 
 
 " Then why don't she speak up and say so ? Not that it 
 could make any difference at the present stage of affairs." 
 
 "Will you let me ask who it is that has had her appre- 
 hended ? Mr. Bede Greatorex ? " 
 
 " Bede Greatorex has had nothing to do with it. 'Twas his 
 father."
 
 IN CUSTODY. 399 
 
 " Well now, I have a favour to ask you, Mr. Butterby," con- 
 tinued the other, after a pause. " The good name of a young 
 woman is a great deal easier lost than regained, as no one 
 knows better than yourself It will be an awful thing if Alletha 
 Rye, being innocent — as I swear to you she is — should be ac- 
 cused of this dreadful crime before the world. You have 
 known her a long time : will you not stretch a point to save 
 it?" 
 
 " That might depend a good deal upon what the point was," 
 replied ]\Ir. Butterby. 
 
 "A very simple one. Only this — that you would stay pro- 
 ceedings until I have had time to see Bede Greatorex. Let 
 her remain here, in custody of course — for I am not so foolish 
 as to suppose you could release her — but don't take her away. 
 In fact, f/raf her as though yoit k/mc she were wrongfully 
 accused. You may be obliged to me for this later, Mr. 
 Butterby — I won't say in the interests of humanity, but of 
 justice." 
 
 Various thoughts and experiences of the past, as connected 
 with Bede Greatorex, came crowding into the mind of Butterby. 
 His lips parted with a smile, but it was not a favourable one. 
 
 " I think that Bede Greatorex could join with me in satisfy- 
 ing you that it was not Miss Rye," urged the petitioner. " I 
 am almost sure he can do this, if he will." 
 
 " Which is as much as to say that both he and you have your 
 suspicions turned on some other quarter," rejoined Butterby. 
 " Who was it ? " 
 
 That Mr. Brown's cheeks took a darker tinge at the direct 
 query, was plainly visible. He made no answer. 
 
 " Come ! Who did the deed ? You know ? " 
 
 " If I do not know. — and I am unable to tell you that I do, 
 Mr. Butterby — I can yet make a shrewd guess at it." 
 
 "And Bede Greatorex too, you say?" 
 
 " I fancy he can." 
 
 Looking into each other's eyes, those two deep men, a 
 silence ensued. " If it wasn't this woman," whispered 
 Butterby, " perhaps it was another." 
 
 The clerk opened his lips to speak impulsively : but he 
 closed them again, still looking hard at the officer. 
 
 "Whether it was or not, the woman was not Alletha Rye." 
 
 "Then,"- said Mr. Butterby, following out his own thoughts, 
 and giving the table an emphatic slap, which caused the frugal
 
 400 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 luncheon-tray upon it to jingle, " this thing will never be brought 
 to trial." 
 
 " I don't much think it will," was the significant answer. 
 " But you will consent to what I ask ? I won't be away long. 
 A quarter-of-an-hour will suffice for my interview with Bede 
 Greatorex." 
 
 Weighing chances and possibilities, as it lay in the business 
 of Mr. Butterby to do ; knowing who the man before him was, 
 with the suspicion attaching to him, he thought it might be as 
 well to keep him in view. There was no apparent intention to 
 escape; the clerk seemed honest as the day in his present 
 purpose, and strangely earnest; but Mr. Butterby had learnt 
 to trust no one. 
 
 " I'll go with you," said he. " Tompkins will keep matters 
 safe here. Come on. Hang me if tliis case ever had its 
 fellow : it turns one about with its little finger." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BETWEEN BEDE AND HIS CLERK. 
 
 They stood near to each other, Bede Greatorex and his 
 managing-clerk, while Mr. Butterby paced the passage with- 
 out. 
 
 When interrupted, Bede had his elbow on the mantel-piece, 
 his brow bent on his thin fingers. A blazing fire here, the coal 
 crackling and sparkling cheerily. Bede dropped his elbow. 
 
 " What is it, Mr. Brown ? " he rather languidly asked. 
 
 Mr. Brown, closing the door, went straight up and said what 
 it was : Alletha Rye had been apprehended. But he looked 
 anywhere, as he spoke, rather than into the face of his master. 
 A face that grew suddenly white and cold : and Mr. Brown, in 
 his delicacy of mind, would not appear to see it. 
 
 " What a cursed meddler that Butterby is ! " exclaimed 
 Bede. 
 
 "I fancy he had no alternative in this, sir; it was not left to 
 his option." 
 
 " Who did it, then ? " 
 
 " Mr. Greatorex. This must be remedied at once, sir."
 
 BETWEEN BEDE AND HIS CLERK. 401 
 
 By the authoritative manner in which he spoke, it might 
 have been thouglit that Bede Greatorex was the servant, Brown 
 the master. Bede put his elbow on the shelf again, and pushed 
 back his hair in unmistakable agitation. The once-luxuriant 
 crop was growing thin now ; and silver threads interwove with 
 the black ones. 
 
 "She must be saved," repeated Mr. Brown. 
 
 " I suppose so. Who is to do it?" 
 
 " I must, sir. If no one else does." 
 
 Bede raised his eyes to glance at his clerk ; but it was not 
 a full free glance, and they were instantly dropped again. 
 
 "You are the Godfrey Pitman, they tell me, who was in the 
 house at the time." 
 
 "Yes, I am. But have you not known it all along, Mr. 
 Bede Greatorex ? " 
 
 " All along from when ? " 
 
 Mr. Brown hesitated. " From the time I came here as 
 clerk." 
 
 " No ; certainly I have not." 
 
 "There were times, sir, when I fancied it." 
 
 A long silence. Even now, whatever secret there might 
 be between these two men, neither was at ease with the 
 other. Bede especially seemed to shrink from further ex- 
 planation. 
 
 "I have known but for a short time of your identity with 
 Godfrey Pitman," he resumed. "And with George Winter. 
 I have been waiting my own time to confer with you upon the 
 subject. We have been very busy." 
 
 We have been very busy ! If Bede put that forth as an 
 excuse, it did not serve him ; for his hearer knew it was not 
 the true one. He simply answered that they //ad been very 
 busy. Not by so much as a look or a syllable would George 
 Winter — let us at last give him his true name — add to the 
 terrible pain he knew his master to be suffering. 
 
 " About Miss Rye, sir ? She must be extricated from her 
 unpleasant position." 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "And her innocence proved." 
 
 " At the expense of another ? " asked Bede, without lifting 
 his eyes. 
 
 " No," answered the other, in low tones. " I do not thmk 
 that need be." 
 
 Roland Yorke. 26
 
 402 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bede looked straight into the fire, his companion full at 
 the window-blind, drawn half-down; neither of them at one 
 another. 
 
 " How will you avoid it ? " asked Bede. 
 
 " I think it may be avoided, sir. For a little time past, I 
 have foreseen that some such crisis as this would come : and 
 I have dwelt and dwelt upon it until I seem to be able to track 
 out my way perfectly clear in it." 
 
 Bede cracked the coal in the grate ; which did not require 
 cracking. " Do you mean that you have foreseen that Miss 
 Rye would be taken ? Such a thought in regard to her never 
 crossed my mind." 
 
 "Nor mine. I allude to myself, sir. If once I was dis- 
 covered to be the so-called Godfrey Pitman — and some instinct 
 told me the discovery was at last approaching — I knew that 
 I should, in all probability, be charged with the murder of 
 Mr. OUivera. I — an innocent man — would not suffer for 
 this, Mr. Greatorex; I should be obliged, in self-defence, to 
 repel the accusation : and I have been considering how it 
 might be done without compromising others. I think it can 
 
 be done." 
 
 " How ? " repeated Bede shortly. 
 
 "By my not telling the whole truth. By not knowing— I 
 mean not having recognized the— the one — who would be 
 compromised if I did tell it. I think this is feasible, sir." 
 
 Just a momentary glance into each other's eyes ; no more ; 
 and it spoke volumes. Bede, facing the fire again, stood 
 several minutes in deep consideration. George Winter seemed 
 occupied with one of his gloves that had a refractory button. _ 
 
 " In any case it must now be known who you are," said 
 
 Bede. 
 
 " That will not matter. In throwing the onus of the— 
 he seemed to hesitate, as he had once hesitated in the last 
 sentence—" the death off Miss Rye, I throw it equally off my 
 own shoulders. I have for some months wished that I could 
 declare myself." 
 
 " Why have you not done it ? " 
 
 George Winter looked at his master, surprise in his eyes. 
 " It is not for my own sake that I have kept it secret, sir." 
 
 No. Bede Greatorex knew that it was for his ; at least 
 for his interests ; and he felt the obligation in his heart. He 
 did not speak it ; pride and a variety of other unhappy feel-
 
 BETWEEN BEDE AND HIS CLERK. 403 
 
 ings kept him silent. Of all the miserable moments that the 
 death of John Ollivera had entailed upon him, this confidential 
 interview with his clerk was not the least wretched of them. 
 Forced though he was to hold it, he hated it with his whole 
 soul. 
 
 " You took that cheque from my desk," said Bede. " And 
 wrote me the subsequent letter." 
 
 " I did not take it from the desk, sir. Your expressed and 
 continued belief — that you had put it in — was a mistaken 
 one. It must have slipped from your hands when about to 
 lock up the other papers you held, and fluttered under the 
 table. Perhaps you will allow me to give you the explanation 
 now." 
 
 Bede nodded. 
 
 " In the morning of the day that the cheque was lost, you 
 may remember coming into the front-room and seeing a 
 stranger with me. His name was Foster; a farmer and 
 corn-dealer near Birmingham. I had been out on an errand ; 
 and, in turning in again, a gentleman stopped me to inquire 
 the way. While I was directing him a mutual recognition 
 ensued. In one sense I owed him some money : forty- 
 four pounds. Samuel Teague, of whom you may have 
 heard " 
 
 " I know," interrupted Bede. 
 
 " Samuel Teague, just before he ran away, had got me to 
 put my name to a bill for him ; Mr. Foster, in all good faith, 
 had let him have the money for it. It had never been repaid. 
 But upon Mr. Foster's meeting me that morning, he gave me 
 my choice — to find the money for him before he left London, 
 or be publicly denounced as George Winter. I thought he 
 would have denounced me then and there. He came into the 
 office and would not be got rid of: saying that he had looked 
 for me too long to let me go, now that I was found. What I 
 was to do I did not know. / had no objection to resuming 
 my own name, for I had cleared myself with Johnson and 
 Teague, but it must have involved the exposure of the affair at 
 Helstonleigh. The thought occurred to me of declaring the 
 dilemma to you, letting you decide whether that exposure should 
 come, or whether you would lend me the forty-four pounds to 
 avert it. But I shrank from doing that." 
 
 "Why?" again interposed Bede. 
 
 "Because I thought you would dislike my entering upon
 
 404 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 the subject, sir. I have shrunk from it always. Now that 
 the necessity is forced upon me, I am shrinking from it as I 
 speak." 
 
 Ah, but not so much so as Bede. " Go on." 
 
 " While I sat at my desk, deliberating, Mr. Frank came in, 
 asking you to draw out a cheque for Sir Richard Yorke for 
 forty-four pounds. The coincidence between the sum and the 
 money demanded of me, struck me as being most singular. It 
 strikes me so still. Later in the morning, I came into this 
 room with some deeds, and saw a piece of paper lying under 
 the table. Upon picking it up — which I did simply to replace 
 it on the desk — I found it was the cheque. My first thought 
 was that it must be a special, almost a supernatural, intervention 
 in my favour ; my second, that it was just possible you had left 
 it there for me to take. Both ideas very far-fetched and imagi- 
 'native, as I saw at once. But I used the cheque, Mr. Bede 
 Greatorex. I went home, put on the false hair I had worn as 
 Godfrey Pitman, for I have it by me still, and cashed the 
 cheque. It was not for my sake I did this ; I hated it bitterly. 
 And then I hesitated to use the money. At night I went to 
 Mr. Foster's hotel, and told him that I would get the money 
 for him by the following night if I coidd. If I could not, he 
 must carry out his threat of denouncing me. Foster consented 
 to wait. I returned to my lodgings and wrote that anonymous 
 note to you, sir, not telling you who had taken the cheque ; 
 merely saying that exposure was threatened of the circum- 
 stances, known only to one or two, attendant on Mr. Ollivera's 
 death at Helstonleigh ; that the money had been taken to avert 
 the exposure, and would be applied to that purpose, provided 
 you were agreeable. If not, and you wished the money re- 
 turned, you were requested to drop a note without the loss of 
 a moment to a certain address : if no such note were written, 
 the money would be used in the course of the day, and 
 things kept silent as heretofore. You sent no answer, and 
 I j^aid it away to Foster in the evening. I have never been 
 able to decide whether you suspected me as the writer, or 
 not." 
 
 "No. I fancied it might be Hurst" 
 
 " Hurst ! " exclaimed George Winter, in great surprise. 
 
 Bede looked up for a moment. " I felt sure the cheque 
 must have been taken by one of you in the next room. Not 
 knowing you then for Godfrey Pitman, my thoughts fell on
 
 BETWEEN BEDE AND HIS CLERK. 405 
 
 Hurst. His father was the attendant surgeon at the time, and 
 might have made some critical discovery." 
 
 " I don't see how he could have done that, sir," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " Nor did I. But it is the doubt in these cases that causes 
 the fear. I should like to ask you a question — was it by 
 accident or of purposed design that you came to our house as 
 clerk ? " 
 
 " Purely by accident. When misfortune fell upon me in 
 Birmingham, and I was unwise enough to follow Samuel 
 Teague's example and run away, I retained one friend who 
 stood by me. After quitting Helstonleigh on the Monday 
 night, I concealed myself elsewhere for three or four days, 
 and then went to him in Essex, where he lived. He procured 
 me a clerkship in a lawyer's office in the same county, Mr. 
 Gale's, with whom I stayed about a year. Mr. Cale found me 
 very useful, and when his health failed, and he retired in con- 
 sequence from practice, he sent me up here to Mr. Greatorex 
 with a strong recommendation." 
 
 " You have served us well," said Bede. " Was not your 
 quitting Birmingham a mistake ? " 
 
 "The worst I ever made. I solemnly declare that I was 
 entirely innocent. Not only innocent myself, but unsuspicious 
 of anything wrong on the part of Samuel Teague. He took 
 me in, as he took in every one else. Johnson and Teague 
 know it now, and have at length done me the justice to ac- 
 knowledge it. I knew of young Teague's profuse expenditure : 
 he used to tell me he had the money from his uncle, old Mr. 
 Teague, and it never occurred to me to doubt him. Where I 
 erred, was in going to the old man and blurting out the truth. 
 He died of the shock. I shall never forgive myself for that. 
 It seems to me always as though I had murdered him. AVith 
 his dead form, as it seemed, pursuing me, with the knowledge 
 that I was to be included in the charge of forgery, I lost my 
 senses. In my fright, I saw no escape but in flight ; and I got 
 away on the Sunday afternoon as far as Helstonleigh. It was 
 in the opposite direction to the one Samuel Teague was 
 thought to have taken, and I wanted to see Alletha Rye, if it 
 were practicable, and assure her before we finally parted, that, 
 though bad enough, I was not quite the villain people were 
 making me out to be. There — there are strange coincidences 
 in this life, Mr. Bede Greatorex."
 
 4o6 ROLAND YORKE, 
 
 " You may well say that," answered Bede. 
 
 " And one of the strangest was that of my accidentally meet- 
 ing Alletha Rye five minutes after I had reached Helstonleigh. 
 Forgetting my disguise, I stopped to accost her — and have not 
 yet forgotten her surprise. But I had not courage then to tell 
 her the truth : I simply said I was in trouble through false 
 friends, and was ill — which was really the case — and I asked 
 her if she could give me shelter for a day or two, or recom- 
 mend me to a place where I might be private and to myself. 
 The result was, that I went to Mrs. Jones's, introduced as a 
 stranger, one Godfrey Pitman. I hit upon the name hap- 
 hazard. And before I left, I was drawn into that business 
 concerning Mr. OUivera." 
 
 Bede Greatorex made no answer, A coincidence ! One of 
 Heaven's sending. 
 
 " Why so much ill-luck should have fallen upon me I cannot 
 tell," resumed George Winter. " I started in life, hoping and 
 intending to do my duty as conscientiously as most men do it ; 
 and I've tried to do it, that's more. Fate has not been kind 
 to me." 
 
 " There are others that it has been less kind to," spoke 
 Bede, his tone marked by ill-suppressed agitation. "Your 
 liabilities in Birmingham? Are they wiped out?" 
 
 " Others' liabilities you mean, sir ; I had none of my own. 
 Yes, I have scraped, and saved, and paid ; paid all. I am 
 saving now to repay you the forty-four pounds, and have about 
 twenty pounds towards it. But for having my good old 
 mother on my hands — she lives in Wales — I should have 
 cleared myself earlier." 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself about the forty-four pounds," 
 said Bede, recognizing the wondrous obligations he and his 
 were under to this silent, self-denying man. 
 
 " If it were forty-four hundred, sir, I should work on until 
 I had paid it, life being granted me." 
 
 " Very well," replied Bede. " I may be able to recompense 
 you in another way." 
 
 If Bede Greatorex thought that any simple order of his 
 would release Miss Rye from custody, he found himself mis- 
 taken. Butterby, called into the conference, was almost 
 pleasantly derisive. 
 
 " You assure me she was not guilty ! and Mr. Brown there can 
 assure me she was not guilty ! And, following up those words,
 
 BETWEEN BEDE AND HIS CLERK. 407 
 
 you say, ' Let her go, Butterby ! ' Why, you might as well 
 tell me to draw down the stars from the sky, Mr. Bede Greato- 
 rex. I've no more power over the one than I have over the 
 other." 
 
 " But she is innocent," reiterated Bede. " Mr. Brown here 
 — you know who he is — can bear witness to it." 
 
 Butterby nodded carelessly in the direction of Mr. Brown — 
 as much as to say that his knowing who he was went for a 
 matter of course. But he was sternly uncompromising. 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Bede Greatorex. " It's all very well for 
 you to say Miss Rye's innocent ; and for that clever gentleman 
 by your side to say she's innocent — and himself too, I suppose 
 he'd like to add ; but you, as a lawyer, must know that all 
 that is of no manner of use. If you two will bring forward the 
 right party, and say, ' This is the guilty one,' and proz'e it to 
 the satisfaction of the law and of Mr. Greatorex, that would be 
 another thing. Only in that case can Miss Rye be set at 
 liberty." 
 
 " You — you do not know what family interests are involved 
 in this, Mr. Butterby," Bede said, in a tone of pain. 
 
 "Can guess at 'em," responded Butterby. 
 
 Bede inwardly thought the boast a mistaken one, but he let it 
 pass. 
 
 "If my father were acquainted with the true facts of the 
 case," spoke he, " he would never bring it to trial ; I tell you 
 this on my honour." 
 
 " You know yourself who the party was ; I see that," said 
 Butterby. 
 
 " I do — Heaven spare me ! " 
 
 There was a strange ring of help.essness mingling with the 
 anguish of the avowal, as if Bede could contend with fate no 
 longer. Even the officer felt for him. George Winter looked 
 round at him with a glance of caution, as much as to say 
 there was no necessity to avow too much. Bede bent his 
 head, and strove to see, as well as the hour's trouble and 
 perplexity would allow him, what might and what might not 
 be done. Butterby, responsible to the Helstonleigh magistrates, 
 who had granted the warrant, would have to be satisfied, as 
 well as Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 Another minute, and Bede went forth to seek an interview 
 with his father, who was alone in his room. Bede, almost as 
 though he were afraid of his courage leaving him, entered upon
 
 4o8 ROLAND VORKE. 
 
 the matter before he had well closed the door. Not in any 
 torrent of words : he spoke only a few, and those with almost 
 painful calmness : but his breath was laboured, and he himself 
 was perceptibly agitated. 
 
 " Give Butterby my authority to release Alletha Rye from 
 custody, because you happen to know that she is innocent ! " 
 exclaimed Mr. Greatorex, in surprise. " Why, what can you 
 mean, Bede ? " 
 
 Bede told his tale. Hampered by various fears lest he 
 might drop an unguarded word, it was rather a lame one. Mr. 
 Greatorex leaned back in his chair, and looked at Bede as he 
 listened. They held, unconsciously, much the same position 
 that they had held that March day nearly five years ago in 
 another room, when the tale of the death was first told, Bede 
 having then just got up with it from Hclstonleigh : Mr. Greato- 
 rex sitting, Bede standing with his arm on the mantel-piece, 
 his face partly turned away. Bede had grown quite into the 
 habit of standing thus, to press his hand to his brow : it seemed 
 as though some weight or pain were always there. 
 
 " I don't understand you, Bede," spoke Mr. Greatorex, 
 frankly. "You tell me you know of your own cognizance 
 that Alletha Rye was innocent ? That you knew it at the 
 time ? " 
 
 " Almost of my own cognizance," corrected Bede. 
 
 "Which must be equivalent to saying that you know who 
 was guilty." 
 
 " No ; I don't know that," murmured Bede, his face growing 
 damp with the conscious lie. 
 
 " Then what do you know, that you should wish to interfere ? 
 You have always said it was a case of suicide." 
 ' " It was not that, fother," was Bede's, low shrinking answer. 
 But he looked into his father's eyes with thrilling earnestness 
 as he gave it. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex began to feel slightly uncomfortable. He 
 detested mystery of all kinds ; and there was something 
 unpleasantly mysterious in Bede's voice, and looks, and words, 
 and manner. 
 
 "Did you know at the time tliat it was not suicide ?" pur- 
 sued Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 JIoiv should Bede get through this ? say what he must say, 
 and yet not say too much ? He mentally asked himself the 
 question.
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 469 
 
 " There was just a suspicion of it in my mind, sir. Any- 
 way, Alletha Rye must be set at liberty." 
 
 " I do not understand what you say, Bede ; I do not under- 
 stand jv<7/^. Your manner on this subject has ahvays been an 
 enigma to me. WilHam Ollivera holds the opinion that you 
 must be screening some one." 
 
 A terrible temptation, hard to battle with, assailed Bede 
 Greatorex at the charge — to avow to his father who and what 
 he had been screening ever since the death. He forced himself 
 to silence until it had passed. 
 
 "What is troubling you, Bede?" 
 
 Mr. Greatorex might well ask it ; with that sad countenance 
 in front of him, working with its pain. In his grievous per- 
 plexity, Bede gave the true answer. 
 
 " I was thinking if it were possible for Pitman's explanation 
 to be avoided, father." 
 
 " What ! Is Pitman found ? " 
 
 "Yes, he is found," quietly answered Bede. "He " 
 
 The room door was opening to admit some visitors, and 
 Bede turned. Surely the star of the House of Greatorex 
 could not be in the ascendant ! For they were Judge Kene 
 and Henry William Ollivera. 
 
 And the concealment that he had striven and toiled for, and 
 worn out his health and life to keep ; fighting ever, mentally 
 or physically, against Fate's relentless hand, was felt to be at 
 an end by Bede Greatorex. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 
 
 On a sofa, drawn at right angles with the fire, lay Hamish 
 Channing; his bright head raised, a crimson coverlet thrown 
 over his feet. In the last day or two he had grown perceptibly 
 worse ; that is, weaker. The most sanguine of his friends, 
 medical or other, could not say there was hope now. But, as 
 long as he could keep up, Hamish would not give in to his 
 illness : he rose in the morning and made a pretence of going 
 about the house ; and when he was tired, lay on the sofa that
 
 4IO ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 had been put into his writing-room. It was the room] he felt 
 most at home in, and he seemed to cling to it. 
 
 On the other side the hearth, bending forward in his chair, 
 staring at Hamish with sad eyes, sat Roland Yorke. Roland 
 had abandoned his home-copying for the past two days, and 
 spent all his spare time with Hamish. Mrs. Jones, snatching 
 a moment to go and visit Mr. Channing for old association's 
 sake, had been very much struck with what she saw in him, 
 and carried home the news that he was certainly dying. 
 Roland, believing Mrs. J. to be as correct in judgment as she 
 was tart in speech, had been looking out for death from that 
 moment. Before that he was given to waver ; one moment in 
 despair ; the next, up in the skies with the thought that re- 
 covery had set in. The wind could not be more variable than 
 Roland. 
 
 It was the twilight hour of the winter's day. The room 
 was not yet lighted, but the blaze from the fire played on 
 Hamish's face as he lay. There was a change in it to-night, 
 and it told upon Roland : for it looked like the shadow of 
 death. Things seemed to have been rather at sixes-and-sevens 
 in the office that afternoon : Mr. Brown was absent. Hurst 
 had gone home for Christmas, Bede Greatorex did not show 
 himself, and there was no one to tell Roland what work to be 
 about. Of course it presented to that gentleman's mind a 
 most valuable opportunity for enjoying a spell of recreation, 
 and, taking French leave, he abandoned it to itself and little 
 Jenner. Rushing home in the first place, to see what might be 
 doing there — for it was the day that Miss Rye had been 
 captured by Butterby — Roland had his run for his pains. 
 There was nothing doing, and his curiosity and good-nature 
 alike suffered. Miss Rye was still a prisoner ; she, and Mrs. 
 Jones, and the policeman left in charge, being shut up in the 
 parlour together. " It's an awful shame of old Butterby ! " cried 
 Roland to himself, as he sped along to Hamish's. There he 
 took up his station in his favourite chair, and watched the face 
 that was fading so rapidly. With an etherealized look in it 
 that spoke of heaven, with a placid calm that seemed to 
 partake of the fast approaching rest ; with a sweet smile that 
 told of altogether inward peace, there the face lay ; and Roland 
 thought he had never seen one on earth so like an angel's. 
 
 Hamish had dropped into a doze; as he often did, at the 
 close of day, when darkness is silently spreading over the earth.
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 4" 
 
 Nelly Clianning, who had learnt— by that subtle warning that 
 sometimes steals, we know not how, over the instinct of children 
 about to be made orphans — that some great and sad change 
 was approaching, sat on a stool on the hearth-rug as sedately 
 as any old woman. Nelly's boisterous ways and happy laugh 
 had left her for a while : example perhaps taught her to be still, 
 and she largely profited by it. 
 
 On her lap lay a story-book : papa had bought it for her 
 yesterday : that is, had given the money to INIiss Nelly and 
 nurse when they went out, and wrote down the title of the 
 book they were to buy, and the shop they might get it at, with 
 his own trembling fingers, out of which the strength had almost 
 gone. It was one of those exquisite story-books of Mrs. Sher- 
 wood's, that ought to be in all children's hands. They belong 
 of course to a past day, but nothing has since been written 
 like them. 
 
 With every page that she silently turned, Nelly looked to 
 see that it did not wake the invalid. When she grew tired, and 
 her face was roasted to a red heat, she went to Roland, resting 
 the open book upon his knee. He lifted her up. 
 
 " It is such a pretty book, Roland." 
 
 " All right. Don't make a noise, Nelly." 
 
 " Margaret went to heaven in the book : she was buried 
 under the great yew-tree," whispered Nelly. "Papa's going 
 there." 
 
 Roland caught the litde head to him, and bent his face on 
 the golden hair. He knew that what she said was true : but 
 it was a shock nevertheless to have it repeated to him even by 
 this young child. 
 
 " Papa talks to me about it. It will be so beautiful ; he will 
 never be tired there, or have any sorrow or pain. Oh, Roland ! 
 I wish I was going with him ! " 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up ; Roland's filled 
 in sympathy. He had cried like a schoolboy more than once 
 of late. All on a sudden, happening to glance across, he saw 
 Hamish looking on with a smile. 
 
 " You be off, Nelly," said arbitrary Roland, carrying her to 
 the door and shutting it upon her and her book. " I'm sure 
 your tea must be ready in the nursery." 
 
 " Don't grieve, Roland," said Hamish, when he sat down again. 
 
 " I wish you could get well," returned Roland, seeing the 
 fire through a mist.
 
 412 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "And I have nearly ceased to wish it, Roland. It's all for 
 the best." 
 
 " Ceased to wish it ! How's that ? " 
 
 " Through God's mercy, I think." 
 
 The words silenced Roland. When anything of this kind 
 was mentioned it turned him into a child, so far as his feelings 
 went ; simple as Miss Nelly was he, and a great deal more 
 humble-minded 
 
 "Things are being cleared for me so wonderfully, Roland. 
 But for leaving some who are dear to me, the pain would be 
 over." 
 
 "I wish I could come across that fiend who wrote the 
 reviews ! " was Roland's muttered answer to this. " I zuish I 
 could!" 
 
 " What ? " said Hamish, not catching the words. 
 
 " I ivill say it, then ; I don't care," cried impetuous Roland 
 — for no one had ever spoken before Hamish of what was 
 supposed to have caused him the cruel pain. Roland blurted it 
 all out now in his explosive way; his own long-suppressed 
 wrath, and w^hat he held in store for the anonymous reviewer, 
 when he should have the good fortune to come across him. 
 
 A minute's silence when he ceased, a wild hectic spreading 
 itself over the hollow cheeks — that it should so stir him even 
 yet ! Hamish held out his hand, and Roland came across to 
 take it. The good, sweet eyes looked into his. 
 
 " If ever you do ' come across ' him, Roland, say that I 
 forgive," came the low, earnest whisper. " I did think it cruel 
 at the time ; well-nigh too hard to bear ; but, like most other 
 crosses, I seem to see now that it came to me direct from 
 heaven." 
 
 " That is good, Hamish ! Come ! " 
 
 "We must through much tribulation enter into the king- 
 dom," whispered Hamish, looking up at him with a yearning 
 smile. "You have in all probability a long life before you, 
 Roland : but the time may come when you will realize the 
 truth of those words." 
 
 Roland swallowed down a lump in his throat as he turned 
 to the fire again. Hamish resumed, changing his tone for one 
 almost of gaiety. 
 
 " I have had good news to-day. Our friend the publisher 
 called ; and what do you think he told me, Roland ? That 
 my book was finding its way at last."
 
 NEARER AND NEARER, 413 
 
 '* Of course it will. Every one always thought it must. 
 If you could only have put off for a time your bother over the 
 reviews, Hamish ! " Roland added piteously. 
 
 " Ay. He says that in three months' time from this, the 
 book will be in every one's hands. In the satisfiiction of the 
 news, I sat down and took some luncheon witli him and 
 Ellen." 
 
 " Don't you think the news might be enough to cure you ? '' 
 asked sanguine Roland. 
 
 Hamish shook his head. " If I were able to feel joy now 
 as I felt the sorrow, it might perhaps go a little way towards it. 
 But that is over, Roland. The capacity for feeling either in 
 any degree was crushed out of me," 
 
 Roland rubbed up his hair. If he only had that enemy under 
 his hand, and space for pitching into him ! 
 
 " And now for more good news, Roland. You must know 
 how I have been troubled at the thought of leaving Ellen and 
 the child unprovided for " 
 
 "I say, don't! Don't you trouble, Hamish," came the iui- 
 
 Eulsive mterruption, " I'll work for them. I'll do my very 
 est for them, as well as for Annabel," 
 
 " It won't be needed, dear old friend," and Hamish's face, 
 with its bright, grateful smile, almost looked like the sunny face 
 of old, "Ellen's father, Mr. Huntley, is regaining the wealth 
 he feared he had lost. As an earnest of it, he has just sent 
 Ellen two-hundred pounds. It was paid over to her to-day." 
 
 " Oh, now, isn't that good, Hamish ! " 
 '' " Very good ! " answered Hamish, reverently and softly, as 
 certain words ran through his mind : "So great is His mercy 
 towards them that fear Him." "And so, Roland, all things 
 are working round pleasantly, that I may die in peace." 
 
 Mrs. Channing, coming in with her walking things on, for 
 she had been out on some necessary business, interrupted the 
 conversation. She mentioned to Roland that she had seen 
 Gerald drive up to his wife's rooms, and that he had promised 
 to come round. 
 
 " ^Vhy, I thought he was at Sunny Mead with Dick ! " 
 
 " He told me he had just returned from it," said Mrs. Chan- 
 ning. 
 
 " I say, Hamish, who knows but he may have brought nie a 
 message I " cried Roland, 
 
 Hamish smiled. Roland had disclosed the fact in family
 
 414 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 conclave, of his having applied for the place of bailiff to Sir 
 Vincent ; Annabel being present. He had recited, so far as he 
 could remember them, the very words of the letter, over which 
 Hamish had laughed himself into a fit of coughing. 
 
 "To be sure," answered Hamish, with a touch of his old 
 jesting spirit. "Gerald may ha,ve brought up your appoint- 
 ment, Roland." 
 
 That was quite enough. " I'll go and ask him," said Roland 
 eagerly. " Any way, he may be able to tell me how Dick 
 received it." 
 
 Away went Roland, on the spur of the moment. It was 
 a clear, cold evening, the air sharp and frosty ; and Roland, 
 hurried on his way to Mrs. Gerald Yorke's. 
 
 That lady was not in tears this evening ; but her mood was 
 gloomy, her face fractious. Tea was on the table, and she was 
 cutting thick bread-and-butter for the three little girls sitting so 
 quietly round it, before their cups of milk-and-water. Gerald 
 had gone out again ; she did not know where ; whether tempo- 
 rarily, or to his chambers for the night, or anything about 
 him. 
 
 " I think something must have gone wrong at Sunny Mead," 
 observed Winny. " When I asked what brought him back so 
 soon, he only swore at me. Perhaps Sir Vincent refused to 
 lend money, and they had a quarrel I know Gerald meant to 
 ask him : he is in dreadful embarrassment." 
 
 " Mamma," pleaded a little voice, " there's no butter on my 
 bread." 
 
 "There's as much as I can afford, Kitty," was Mrs. Yorke's 
 answer. " I must keep some for the morning. Suppose your 
 papa should find no butter for breakfast, if he comes home 
 to-night ! My goodness ! " 
 
 " Bread-and-scrape's not good, is it, Kitty ? " said Roland. 
 
 "No," plaintively answered the child. 
 
 Roland clattered out, taking the stairs at a leap. Mrs. 
 Yorke supposed he had left without the ceremony of saying 
 good night. 
 
 "Just like his manners!" she cried fractiously. "But oh! 
 don't I wish Gerald was like him in temper ! " 
 
 Roland had not gone for the night. He happened to have 
 a shilling in his pocket, and went off to buy a sixpenny pot of 
 marmalade. As he was skimming back with it, his eye fell on 
 some shrimps, exposed for sale on a fishmonger's board. With
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 415 
 
 the loose sixpence in his hand the temptation was not to be 
 resisted. 
 
 He carried in the treasures. But that the three little ones 
 were very meek-spirited, they would have shouted at the sight. 
 Roland lavishly spread the marmalade on the bread-and-scrape, 
 and began pulling shrimps for the company round, while he 
 talked of Hamish. 
 
 " They are saying that those reviews that were so harsh upon 
 his book, have helped to kill him," said Mrs. Yorke, in low 
 tones, turning from the table to face Roland. 
 
 " But for those reviews he would not have died," answered 
 Roland. " J never will believe it. Illness might have come 
 on, but he'd have had spirit to throw it off again." 
 
 "Yes. When I sit and look at him, Roland, it seems as if 
 I and Gerald were wretches, and ought to hide ourselves. I 
 say to myself, it was not my fault ; but \feel it for all that " 
 
 "Why, what do you mean?" asked Roland. 
 
 " About the reviews. I can't bear to go there now." 
 
 " What about the reviews ? " 
 
 " It was Gerald who wrote them." 
 
 Roland, for convenience, had put the plate of shrimps on his 
 knee during the picking process. He rested from his work 
 and stared in wonder. Winny continued. 
 
 "Those reviews were all Gerald's doings. That dreadful 
 one in the Snarler he wrote himself, here, and was two days 
 over it, getting to it at times as ideas and strong words occurred 
 to him to make it worse and worse — just as he wrote the one 
 praising his own book. The other reviews, that were every 
 bit as bad, he got written. I read every word of the one in the 
 Snarler in manuscript. I wanted to tell him it was wicked, 
 but he might have shaken me. He said he owed Hamish 
 Channing a grudge, and should get his book damned. That's 
 not my word, you know, Roland. And, all the while, it was 
 Hamish who was doing so much for me and the poor children; 
 finding us food when Gerald did not." 
 
 No whiter could Hamish Channing's face look when the 
 marble pallor of death should overshadow it, than Roland's 
 looked now. For a short time it seemed as though the com- 
 munication were too astounding for his mind to receive it. 
 Suddenly he rose with a great cry. Down went shrimps, 
 and plate, and all ; and he was standing upright before Mrs 
 Yorke.
 
 4i6 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " Is this true ? Is it true ? " 
 
 "Why of course it's true," she fractiously answered, for the 
 movement had startled her. " Gerald did it all. I would not 
 tell any one but you, Roland." 
 
 Away dashed Roland. Panting, wild, he arrived at Mr. 
 Channing's in a frantic state. Vague ideas of praying at 
 Hamish's feet for forgiveness were surging through his brain — 
 for it seemed to Roland that he, as Gerald's brother, must be 
 in a degree responsible for this terrible thing. 
 
 The door opened, he turned into the dining-room, and found 
 himself in the presence of — Gerald. Hamish, feeling unusually 
 weak, had gone up to bed, and Gerald was waiting the signal 
 to go to him. As he supposed he must call to see Hamish 
 before it should be too late — for Pollen had told him how it 
 was, that afternoon — he had come at once to get the visit over. 
 
 Of all the torrents of reproach ever flung at a man, Gerald 
 found himself astounded by about the worst. It was not loud; 
 loudness might have carried off somewhat of the sting ; but 
 painfully sad and bitter. Roland stood on the hearth-rug in 
 front of Gerald as he had now stood before Gerald's wife ; with 
 the same white and stricken face ; with the same agitation 
 shaking him from head to foot. The words broke from him 
 jerkingly : the voice was wailing. 
 
 " Was it not enough that I brought disgrace on Arthur 
 Ghanning in the years gone by, but you, another of us ill- 
 doing Yorkes, must destroy Hamish?" panted Roland. "Good 
 Lord ! why did Heaven suffer us two to live ! As true as we 
 are standing together here, Gerald, had I known at the time 
 those false reviews were yours, I should have broken your 
 bones for you." 
 
 "You shut up," retorted Gerald. " It's nothing to you." 
 
 " Nothing to me ! Nothing to ;//d'— when one of the best 
 men that ever lived on earth has been wilfully sent to his grave? 
 Yes ; I don't care how you may salve over your conscience, 
 Gerald Yorke ; it is murder, and nothing less. What liad he 
 done to you ! He was a true friend, a true — good friend to you 
 and to me : what crime against us had he committed, that you 
 should treat him hke this?" 
 
 " If you don't go out of the house, I will," said Gerald. But 
 Roland never seemed to so much as hear it. 
 
 "Who do you suppose has been helping you all this past 
 year?" demanded Roland. "When you were afraid of the
 
 NEARER AND NEARER. 417 
 
 county-court over a boot-bill, somebody paid the money and 
 sent you the receipt anonymously. Who has kept your wfe 
 and children in rent and clothes and food, and all kinds of 
 comforts, while you gave wine-parties in your chambers, and 
 went starring it over the seas for weeks in people's yachts ? 
 Hamish Channing. He deprived himself of his holiday, that 
 your wife and children might be fed, you abandoning them : 
 he has lived sparingly in spite of his failing health, that you 
 and yours might profit by the self-denial. You and he were 
 brought up in the same place, boys together, and he could not 
 see your children wanting food. They've never had a fraction 
 of help but what came from Hamish and his wife." 
 
 " It is a lie," said Gerald. But he was staggered, and he 
 half felt that it was not one. 
 
 " It is the truth, as Heaven knows," cried Roland, breaking 
 down with a burst of emotion. "Ask Winny, she told me. 
 I'd have given my own poor worthless life freely, to save the 
 pain of those false and cruel reviews to Hamish." 
 
 Sheer emotion stopped Roland's tongue. Mrs. Channing, 
 entering, found the room in silence ; the storm was over. 
 Roland escaped. Gerald, amazingly uncomfortable, had a 
 mind to run away there and then. 
 
 " Will you come up, Gerald ? " she said. 
 
 Hamish lay in bed in his large cheerful chamber, bright 
 with fire and light. His head was raised ; one hand was 
 thrown over the white coverlet ; and a cup of tea waited on 
 a stand by the bedside. Roland stood by the fire, his chest 
 heaving. 
 
 " But what is it, old fellow ? " demanded Hamish. " What 
 has put you out ? " 
 
 " It is this, Hamish — that I wish I could have died instead 
 of you/' came the answer at last, with an outburst of grief 
 
 He sat down in the shade of a quiet corner, for his brother's 
 step was heard. As Gerald approached the bed, he visibly 
 recoiled. It was some time since he had seen Hamish, and he 
 verily believed he stood in the presence of death. Hamish 
 held out his hand with a smile, and his face grew bright. 
 
 " Dear old friend ! I thought you were never coming to 
 see me." 
 
 Gerald Yorke was not wholly bad, not quite devoid of feeling. 
 With the dying man before him, with the truths he had just 
 heard beating their refrain in his brain, he nearly broke down 
 
 Roland Yorke. 27
 
 4i8 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 as Roland had done. Oh, that he could undo his work ! that 
 he could recall life to the fading spirit as easily as he had done 
 his best to take it away ! These regrets always come rather 
 late, Mr. Gerald Yorke. 
 
 " I did not think you were so ill as this, Hamish. Can 
 nothing be done ? " 
 
 " Don't let it grieve you, Gerald. Our turns must all come, 
 sooner or later. Don't, old fellow," he added in a whisper. 
 " I must keep up for Ellen's sake. God is helping me to do 
 it : oh, so wonderfully " 
 
 Gerald bent over him : he thought they were alone. " Will 
 you forgive me ? " 
 
 " Forgive you ! " repeated Hamish, not understanding what 
 there was to forgive. 
 
 And Gerald, striving against his miserable conscience, could 
 not bring himself to say. No, though it had been to save his 
 own life, he dared not confess to his cowardly sin. 
 
 "I have not always been the good friend to you I might 
 have been, Hamish. Do say you forgive me, for Heaven's 
 
 sake!" 
 
 Hamish took his hand, a sweet smile upon his i.-ce. "If 
 there is anything for which you want my forgiveness, Gerald, 
 take it. Take it freely. Oh, Gerald, when we begin to realize 
 the great fact that our sins are forgiven, forgiven and washed 
 out, you cannot think how glad we are to forgive others who 
 may have offended us. But I don't know what I have to 
 forgive in you." 
 
 Gerald's chest heaved. Roland's, in his distant chair, rose 
 rebelliously. 
 
 " I had ambitious views for you, Gerald. I meant to do 
 you good, if I could. I thought when my book was out and 
 brought me funds, I would put^ou straight. I was so foolishly 
 sanguine as to fancy the returns would be great. I thought of 
 you nearly as much as I thought of myself: one of my dear 
 old friends of dear old Helstonleigh. The world is fading from 
 me, Gerald ; but the old scenes and times will be with me to 
 the last. Yes, I had hoped to benefit you, Gerald, but it was 
 otherwise ordained. God bless you, dear friend. God love 
 and prosper you, and bring you home to Himself!" 
 
 Gerald could stand it no longer. As he left the room and 
 the house, Roland went up to the bed, and confessed all. To 
 have kept in the secret would have choked him.
 
 GODFREY PITMAN'S TALE. 419 
 
 Gerald was the enemy who had done it all ; Gerald Yorke 
 nad been the one to sow the tares amid wheat in his neigh- 
 bour's field. 
 
 A moment of exquisite pain for Hamish ; a slight, short 
 struggle with the human passions, not yet quite dead within his 
 aching breast ; and then his loving-kindness resumed its sway, 
 never again to quit him. 
 
 " Bring him back to me, dear Roland ; bring him back that 
 I may send him on his way with words of comfort," he 
 whispered, with his smile of ineffable peace. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 GODFREY pitman's TALE. 
 
 With closed doors, George Winter told his tale. Not quite 
 all he could tell ; and not the truth in one very important par- 
 ticular. If that single item might be kept secret to the end, 
 the speaker's will was good to do it. 
 
 They were all standing, and the room seemed filled with the 
 six men in it, most of whom were tall. The crimson curtain 
 that Annabel Channing had mended, was drawn before the 
 bookcase : on the table-cover lay pens, ink, and paper, for Mr. 
 Grcatorex sometimes wrote at night in his own room. He and 
 Judge Kene were near to each other; the clergyman was 
 almost within the shadow of the window-curtain ; Bede a little 
 further back. On the opposite side of the table, telling his 
 tale, the light of the winter's day falling upon him, was George 
 Winter. And before the whole assemblage, his keen eyes and 
 ears silently taking in every word and look, stood Jonas 
 Butterby, the detective. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex, in spite of his son Bede's protestations, had 
 refused to sanction any steps for the release of Alletha Rye. 
 As for Butterby, in that matter he seemed harder than granite. 
 " Prove to us that the young woman is innocent before you 
 talk about it," they both said with reason. And so George 
 Winter was had in to relate what he knew ; and Mr. Greatorex 
 — not to speak of some of the rest — felt that his senses had
 
 420 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 temporarily left him when he discovered that his efificient and 
 trusted clerk, Brown, was the long-sought Godfrey Pitman. 
 
 With a brief summary of the circumstances which had led 
 him, disguised, and under the name of Pitman, to Mrs. Jones's 
 house at Helstonleigh, George Winter passed on to the night 
 of the tragedy, and to the events which had taken him back to 
 the house after his departure from it in the afternoon. If 
 ever Mr. Butterby's eyes wore an eager light, it was then. Not 
 the faintest turn of a look, not the smallest syllable was lost 
 upon him. 
 
 " When I had been a week at Mrs. Jones's, I began to think 
 it might be unsafe to remain longer," he said ; " and I resolved 
 to take my departure on the Monday. I let it transpire in the 
 house that I was going to Birmingham by the five-o'clock 
 train. This was to put people off the scent, for I did not mean 
 to go by that train at all, but by a later one in an opposite 
 direction— in fact, by the eight-o'clock train for Oxford : and I 
 had thought to wait about, near the station, until that hour. 
 At half-past four I said good day to Mrs. Jones, and went out : 
 but I had not gone many yards from the door, when I caught 
 sight of one of the Birmingham police, who knew me person- 
 ally. I had on my disguise, the spectacles and the false hair, 
 but I feared he might recognize me in spite of them. I turned 
 round for some minutes, apparently looking into a shop 
 window, and when the officer had disappeared, stole back to 
 Mrs. Jones's again. The door was open, and I went upstairs 
 without being seen, intending to wait there until dusk." 
 
 "A moment, if you please," interrupted Mr. Greatorex. " It 
 would seem that this was about the time that Mr. Ollivera 
 returned to Mrs. Jones's. Did you see him ? " 
 
 " I did not, sir ; I saw no one." 
 
 " Go on." 
 
 " I waited in my room at the top of the house, and when 
 night set in, began to watch for an op])ortunity of getting away 
 unseen by the household, and so avoid questionings as to what 
 had brought me back. It seemed not too easy to accomplish. 
 The servant girl was at the front-door, and Alfred Jones came 
 in and began to ascend the stairs. When half-way up, he 
 turned back with some gentleman who came out of the 
 drawing-room — whom I know now, but did not know then, to 
 be Mr. Bede Greatorex. Alfred Jones saw him to the front- 
 door, and then ran up again. I escaped to my room, and
 
 GODFREY PITMAN'S TALE. 421 
 
 locked myself in. He went to his own room, and soon I 
 heard him go down and quit the house. In a few minutes I 
 went out of my room again with my blue bag, ready for 
 dei)arture, and stood on the stairs to reconnoitre " 
 
 " Can you explain the cause of those grease spots that we 
 have heard of?" interrupted Eede Greatorex at this juncture. 
 And it might almost have seemed from the emotion of his 
 tone, which could not be wholly suppressed, that he dreaded 
 the revelation he knew must be coming, and put the question 
 only to delay it. 
 
 " Yes, sir. While Alfred Jones was in his room, I dropped 
 my silver pencil-case, and had to light a candle to find it. I 
 suppose that, in searching, I must have held the candle aside 
 and let the tallow fall on the carpet." 
 
 " Go on," again interposed Mr. Greatorex, impatiently. 
 " You went out on the stairs with your bag. What next ? " 
 
 The witness — if he may be so termed— passed his hand 
 slowly over his forehead before answering. It appeared as 
 though he were recalling the past. 
 
 " As I stood there, the top of the first flight, the sound of 
 voices in what seemed angry dispute, came from the drawing- 
 room. One in particular was raised in passionate fury; the 
 other was less loud. I did not hear what was said ; the door 
 was shut " 
 
 " Were they both men's voices ? " interrupted Mr. QUivera — 
 and it was the first question he had put. 
 
 "Yes," came the answer; but it was given in a low tone, 
 and with hesitation. " At least, I think so." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " The next thing that I heard was the report of a pistol, 
 followed by a cry of pain. Another cry succeeded to it in a 
 different voice ; a cry of horror; and then silence ensued. 
 
 " And you did not go in ? " exclaimed Mr. Ollivera in agita- 
 tion, taking a step forward. 
 
 " No. I am aware that I ought to have done so ; and I 
 have reproached myself later for not having done so ; but I 
 felt afraid to disclose to any one that I was still in the house. 
 It might have led to the discovery of who and what I was. 
 Besides, I thought there was no great harm done ; I declare it, 
 upon my honour. I could still hear sounds within the room 
 as of some one moving about, and I certainly heard one voice 
 speaking low and softly. I thought I saw my opportunity for
 
 423 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 slipping away, and had crept down almost to the drawing-room 
 door, when it suddenly opened, very quietly, and a face looked 
 out. Whoever it might be, I suppose the sight of me scared 
 them, for they retreated, and the door was softly reclosed. It 
 scared me also, sending me upstairs again ; and I remained up 
 there until the same person (as I supposed) came out again, 
 descended the stairs, and left the house. I got out myself 
 then, gained the railway station by a circuitous route, and 
 escaped safely from Helstonleigh." 
 
 As the words died upon the ear, a silence ensued. The 
 clergyman broke it. His mind seemed to be harping on one 
 string. 
 
 " Mr. Brown, was that person a man or a woman ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was a man," answered Mr. Brown, looking down at 
 his waistcoat, and brushing a speck off it with a careless air. 
 But something in his demeanour at that moment struck two 
 people in the room as being peculiar — Judge Kene and Mr. 
 Butterby. 
 
 " Should you recognize him again ? " continued the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 " I cannot say. Perhaps I might." 
 
 "And you can stand there, Mr. Brown, and deliberately 
 avow that you did not know a murder had been committed ? " 
 interposed the sternly condemning voice of Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " On my sacred word of honour, I declare to you, sir, that 
 no suspicion of it at the time occurred to me," answered the 
 clerk, turning his eyes with fearless honesty on Mr. Greatorex. 
 " When I learned what had really happened — which was not 
 for some weeks after — I wondered at myself. All I could 
 suppose was, that the fear and apprehension I lay under on 
 my own score had rendered me callous to other im- 
 pressions." 
 
 "Was it yo?i who went in, close upon the departing heels of 
 Mr. Bede Greatorex, and did this cruel thing ? " asked Judge 
 Kene, with a quiet emphasis, as he gazed in the face of the 
 narrator. 
 
 " No," as quietly, and certainly as calmly, came the answer. 
 " I had no cause to injure Mr. Ollivera. I never saw him in 
 my life. I am not sure that I knew there was a barrister of 
 that name. I don't think I ever heard of him until after he 
 was in the grave where he is now lying." 
 
 " But — you must have known that Mr. Ollivera was so-
 
 GODFREY PITMAN'S TALE. 423 
 
 journing at I\[rs. Jones's at the same time that you were 
 there ? '' 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas ; I did not know that any 
 one was lodging there except myself. Miss Rye, whom I saw 
 for a kw minutes occasionally, never mentioned it ; neither 
 did the servant ; and they were the only two inmates I con- 
 versed with. For all I knew or thought, Mrs. Jones occupied 
 the drawing-room herself. 1 once saw her sitting there, and 
 the maid was carrying out the tea-tray. No," emphatically con- 
 cluded the s]jeakcr, " I did not know Mr. Ollivera was in the 
 house : and if I had known it, I should not have sought to 
 harm him." 
 
 The words were simple enough , and they were true. Judge 
 Kene, skilled in reading tones and looks, saw so much. The 
 party felt nonplussed. As far as AUetha Rye was concerned, 
 taking her into custody appeared to have been a mistake. 
 
 "You will swear to this testimony of yours, Mr. — Winter?" 
 
 " Whenever you please. The slight facts — the sounds— 
 that reached me in regard to what took place in Mr. Ollivera's 
 room, I have related truthfully. Far from Miss Rye's having 
 had anything to do with it, she was not' even in the house at 
 the time : I affirm it as before Heaven." 
 
 " Who was the man ? " asked Judge Kene — and Mr. Butter- 
 by, as he heard the question, uttered a derisive sound. " Tell 
 us that, Mr. Winter." 
 
 " I cannot tell you," was George Winter's answer. " Who- 
 ever it was, went down the stairs quickly. I was looking over 
 the top balustrades then, and caught only a moment's glimpse 
 of him." 
 
 "But you had already seen his face — when he looked out of 
 the room ? " 
 
 " I saw some one's face. Only for a moment. Had I 
 known what was to come of it later, I might have noticed 
 better." 
 
 " And this is a// you have to tell us ? " cried Henry William 
 Ollivera, in agitation. 
 
 " Indeed it is all. But it is sufficient to exonerate Miss 
 Rye." 
 
 " And now, Bede, what do yo?( know ? " suddenly spoke Mr. 
 Greatorex. " You have acknowledged to me that you sus- 
 pected at the time it was not a case of suicide." 
 
 Bede Greatorex came forward. All eyes were turned upon
 
 AU ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 him. That he was nerving himself to speak, and was far more 
 agitated than appeared on the surface, the two practised ob- 
 servers saw. Judge Kene looked at him critically and 
 curiously : there was something in the case altogether, and in 
 Eede himself, that puzzled him. 
 
 " It is not much that I have to tell," began Bede, in answer 
 to his father, as he put his hand heavily on the table, it might 
 be for support : and his brow seemed to take a deathly hue, 
 and the silver threads in his once beautiful hair were very con- 
 spicuous as he stood. " A circumstance caused me to suspect 
 that it was not a case of suicide. In fact, that it was some- 
 what as Mr. Brown has described it — namely, that some one 
 else caused the death." 
 
 A moment of perfect silence. It seemed to Bede that the 
 very coals, crackling in the grate, sounded like thunder. 
 
 "What was the circumstance?" asked Mr. Greatorex, for 
 no one else liked to interrupt. " Why did you not speak of it 
 at the time ? " 
 
 "I could not speak of it then: I cannot speak of it fully 
 
 now. It was of a nature so — so — so " Bede came to a 
 
 full stop. Was he growing too agitated to speak, or could he 
 not find a word ? " What I would say is," he continued, in a 
 firmer tone, rallying his powers, " that it was sufficient to show 
 me that the facts must have been very much as Mr. Brown now 
 states them." 
 
 " Then you only ^/u'/ik that, Bede ? " 
 
 " It is more than thinking. By all my hopes of heaven, I 
 declare that Alletha Rye had not, and could not have had, 
 anything to do with John's death," he added with emotion. 
 "Father, you may believe me : I do know as much as that." 
 
 " But why can you not disclose what it is you know ? " 
 
 " Because the time has not come for it. William, you are 
 looking at me reproachfully : if I could tell you more I would. 
 The secret — so much as I know of it — has lain on me with a 
 leaden weight : I would only have been too glad to unburthen 
 myself of it at first, had it been possible." 
 
 "And what rendered it impossible ?" questioned the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 "That wliich renders it so now. I may not speak. If 
 I might, I should be far more thankful than any one of you 
 who hear me." 
 
 " Is it a trust reposed in you ? "
 
 GODFREY PITMAN'S TALE. 4^5 
 
 Bede paused. " Well, yes ; in a degree it is. If I were to 
 speak of what I know, I do not think there is one present" — 
 and Bede's glance ran rapidly over each individual face — "but 
 would hush it within his own breast, as I have done." 
 
 " And you have a sus[)icion of who the traitor was ? " 
 
 " A suspicion I may have. But for aught else— for eluci- 
 dation — you and I must be content alike to wait." 
 
 "Elucidation!" spoke the clergyman, in something like 
 derision. It will not, I presume, ever be allowed to come to 
 that." 
 
 "Yes, it will, William," answered Bede, quietly. " Tmie — 
 events — Heaven — all are working rapidly on for it. AUetha 
 Rye is innocent j I should not affirm that, truth to you more 
 solemnly if I were dying. She must be set at liberty." 
 
 As it was only on the question of her guilt or innocence that 
 the council had been called, it seemed that there was nothing 
 more to be done but to break it up. An uncomfortable 
 feeling of doubt, dissatisfaction, and mystery, lay on all. The 
 clergyman stalked away in haughty displeasure. Bede Greato- 
 rex, under cover of the break-up, slid his hand gratefully for 
 a moment into that of George Winter, his sad eyes sending 
 forth their thanks. Then he turned to the judge. 
 
 " You can give the necessary authority for the release, Sir 
 Thomas." 
 
 " Can I ? " was the answer, as Sir Thomas looked at him. 
 " I'll talk about it with Butterby. But I should like first to have 
 a private word with Mr. Winter." 
 
 " Why ! you do not doubt that she is innocent ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear no ; I no longer doubt that. Winter," he added, 
 in a whisper, laying his hand on the clerk's shoulder to draw 
 him outside, " whose face was it that you saw at the door of the 
 room 1 " 
 
 "Tell him," said Bede, suddenly, for he had followed 
 them. "You will keep the secret, Kene, as I have kept 
 it?" 
 
 " If it be as I suspect, I 7<:'///," emphatically replied the 
 judge. 
 
 " Tell him," repeated Bede, as he walked away. " Tell hmi 
 all that you know. Winter, from first to last." 
 
 It caused Mr. Greatorex and Butterby to be left alone 
 together. The former, not much more pleased than William 
 OUivera, utterly puzzled, hurt at the want of confidence
 
 426 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 displayed by Bede in not trusting him, was in a downright 
 ill-temper, 
 
 " What the devil is all this, Butterby ? " demanded he. 
 " What does it mean ? " 
 
 Mr. Butterby, cool as a cucumber, let his eyelashes droop for 
 a moment over his impenetrable eyes, and then answered in 
 mild simplicity. 
 
 " Ah, that's just it, sir — what it means. Wait, says your son 
 Mr. Bede ; wait patiently till things have worked round a bit, 
 till such time as I can speak out. And depend upon it, Mr. 
 Greatorex, he has good reason for the advice." 
 
 "But what can it be that he has to tell ? And why should 
 he wait at all to tell it ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose he'd like to be more certain of the party," 
 answered Butterby, with a dubious cough. " Take a word of 
 advice from me, too, Mr. Greatorex, on this score, if I may 
 make bold to offer it — do wait. Don't force your son to disclose 
 things afore they are ripe. It might be better for all parties," 
 
 Mr, Greatorex looked at him, " Who is it that you 
 suspect ? " 
 
 " Me ! " exclaimed Butterby. " Me suspect ! Why, what 
 with one odd thought and another, I'd as lieve say it must 
 have been the man in the moon, for all the clue we've got. It 
 was not Miss Rye : there can't be two opinions about that. I 
 told you, sir, I had my doubts when you ordered her to be 
 apprehended." 
 
 " At any rate, you said she confessed to having done it," 
 sharply spoke Mr, Greatorex, vexed with every one. 
 
 " Confound the foolish women ! what would the best of 'em 
 not confess to, to screen a sweetheart ? Alletha Rye has been 
 thinking Winter guilty all this time, and when it came to close 
 quarters and there seemed a fear that he'd be taken up for it, 
 she said what she did to save him. / see it all. I saw it afore 
 Godfrey Pitman was half-way through his tale : and matters 
 that have staggered me in Miss Rye are just as clear to me 
 now as the print in a book. When she made that display at 
 the grave — which you've heard enough of, may be, Mr. Greato- 
 rex — she had not had her doubts turned on Godfrey Pitman ; 
 she'd thought he was safe away earlier in the afternoon. When 
 she learned he had come back again in secret, and was in the 
 house at the time, why then .she jumped to the conclusion that 
 he had done the murder, /remember."
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 427 
 
 Mr. Butterby was right. This was exactly how it had been. 
 Alletha Rye had deemed George Winter guilty all along ; on 
 his side, he had only supposed that she shunned him on account 
 of the affair at Birmingham. There had been mutual mis- 
 understanding; shrinking avoidance of all explanation ; and not 
 a single word of confidence to clear it all up. George Winter 
 could not attempt to be too explicit so long as the secret he 
 was guarding had to be kept. If not for his own sake, for that 
 of others he was silent. 
 
 "As to what Bede's driving at, and who he suspects, I am in 
 ignorance," resumed Mr. Greatorex. " I am not pleased with 
 his conduct : he ought to let me know what he knows." 
 
 " Now, don't you blame him afore you hear his reasons, sir. 
 He's sure to have 'em : and I say let him alone till he can take 
 his own time for disclosing things." Which won't be for one 
 while, was the detective's mental conclusion. 
 
 "About Miss Rye? Are you here, Butterby?" 
 
 The interruption came from Judge Kene. As he walked in, 
 closing the door after him, they could only be struck with the 
 aspect of his face. It was grey and troubled : very much as 
 though its owner had received some terrible shock. 
 
 " What is the matter, judge ? " hastily asked j\Ir. Greatorex. 
 " Are you ill ? " 
 
 " 111 ? No. Why do you ask ? Look so ? Oh, I have been 
 standing in a room without fire and grew rather cold there," 
 carelessly replied the judge. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Lounging back in the old horsehair elbow-chair, his feet 
 stretched out on the hob on either side the fire, an elegant 
 position he had possibly learnt at Port Natal, was Mr. Roland 
 Yorke. He had just come home to his five-o'clock tea, and took 
 the occasion to indulge in sundry reminiscences whilst waiting 
 for it. Christmas had passed, these two or three days now ; 
 the short holiday was over, and working days had begun 
 again.
 
 428 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Roland's mood was subdued. All things seemed to be more 
 or less tinged with gloom. Hamish Channing was dying ; a 
 summons had been sent to his friends ; the last hour could not 
 now be very far off: and Roland felt it deeply. The ill worked 
 by his brother Gerald seemed never out of his mind for a 
 moment, sleeping or waking. Vexation of a different sort was 
 also his. Day after day in his sanguine temperament he had 
 looked for a letter from Sir Vincent Yorke, giving him the post 
 of bailiff; and no such letter came. Roland, who had heard 
 nothing of the slight accident caused by Gerald (you may be 
 very sure Gerald would not be the one to speak of it), supposed 
 the baronet was in Paris with Miss Trehern. A third source 
 of discomfort lay in the office. Bede Greatorex, whose health 
 in the past few days had signally failed, avowed himself at last 
 unequal to work, and an extra amount of it fell upon his clerks, 
 Roland thought it a sin and a shame that before Christmas-Day 
 had well turned, he should have, as he phrased it, to "stick to 
 it like a dray-horse." A rumour had arisen in the office that 
 Bede Greatorex was going away with his wife for change and 
 restoration, and that Mr. Brown was to be head of the depart- 
 ment in Bede's place. Roland did not view the prospect with 
 pleasure. Mr. Brown was a regular martinet in regard to 
 keeping the clerks up to their duty. 
 
 The grievance lying uppermost on his mind this evening 
 was the silence of Sir Vincent. For Hamish he had grieved 
 until it seemed that he could grieve no longer; the rumoured 
 change in the office might never be carried out : but on the 
 score of Sir Vincent's neglect there was no excuse. 
 
 " I wouldn't treat ////;/ so," grumbled Roland, his grievance 
 striving to find relief in words. " Even if the place was gone 
 when I applied, or he thought I shouldn't suit, he might write 
 to me. It's all very fine for him, kicking up his heels in Paris, 
 and dining magnificently in the choice restaurants, to forget a 
 fellow as he forgets me : but if his whole hope in life lay on the 
 stake, he'd remember, I know. If I knew his address over 
 there, I'd drop him another letter and tell him to put me out 
 of suspense. For all the answer that has come, one might think 
 he had never had that first letter of mine. He has had it 
 though, and it's a regular shame not to acknowledge it, when 
 my heart was set on being able to carry Hamish the cheering 
 news, before he died, that Annabel was provided for. It 
 wouldn't be much for Dick to give us a cottage and two-
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 429 
 
 hundred a year, and I'd serve him bravely for it day and night. 
 I declare I go into Hamish's room as sheep-faced as a calf, 
 
 with the shame of having no news to tell him. Annabel 
 
 Oh, it's you, Miss Rye ! Precious cold to-night ! " 
 
 Miss Rye had come in with the tea-tray : the servant was 
 busy. She wore a knot of blue ribbon in her hair, and looked 
 unusually bright. After a private interview held with Mr. 
 ]5utterby and George Winter, when they returned to release her, 
 she had appeared quite a different woman. Her whole aspect 
 was changed : the sad, despairing fear on her face had given 
 place to a look of rest and hope. Roland had taken occasion 
 to give Mr. Butterby a taste of what that gentleman called 
 " sauce," as to his inveterate propensity for apprehending the 
 wrong person, and was advised in return to mind his own 
 business. Whilst Mrs. Jones had since been existing in a 
 chronic state of tartness ; for she could not come to the bottom 
 of things, and Alletha betrayed anything but a readiness to 
 enlighten her. 
 
 " What's for tea ? " asked Roland, lazily, turning his gaze upon 
 the tray. 
 
 " A boiled egg," replied Mis's Rye. " There was nothing else 
 in the house. Have you seen your letter, Mr. Yorke ? " 
 
 "A letter!" exclaimed Roland, starting up with so much 
 impulse as to throw down a chair, for his hopes suddenly 
 turned to the expected communication from Sir Vincent. 
 Where is it ? When did it come ? Good old Dick ! " 
 
 It had come just as he went out after dinner, she answered, 
 as she took the letter from the mantel-piece to hand to him. 
 It bore a foreign post-mark, and Roland's spirits went down to 
 zero as he tore it open, for he recognized the writing to be, not 
 Dick Yorke's, but Lord Carrick's. 
 
 " Ob, come though, it's rather good," said he, running his 
 eyes down the plain and sprawling hand — very much like his 
 own. " Carrick has come out of his troubles ; at least, enough 
 to show himself in daylight again in the old country. He will 
 be over in London directly. I say, Miss Rye, I'll bring him 
 here, and introduce him to you and Mrs. J." 
 
 And Miss Rye laughed as she left the room more freely than 
 she had laughed for many a day. 
 
 " Perhaps Carrick can put me into something I " soliloquized 
 Roland, chopping off the top of his egg. " I know hell not 
 want the will when I tell him about Annabel."
 
 430 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 And Roland finished his bread-and-butter, and was on the 
 point of demanding a fiirther supply, when he heard some one 
 come to the house and inquire for Mr. Yorke. Visions of 
 Lord Carrick's arrival flashed over him ; he dashed in to the 
 passage, and very nearly threw down a meek little gentleman, 
 who was being shown into his room. 
 
 " Holloa ! " said Roland, in extreme disappointment. *' Is it 
 only you ? " 
 
 For the visitor was nobody but little Jenner. He had 
 brought a communication from Mr. Greatorex, and took off his 
 hat while he delivered it. 
 
 " You are to go back with me to the office at once, if you 
 please, Mr. Yorke. Mr. Greatorex wants you." 
 
 " What have I done now ? " questioned Roland, anticipating 
 a reprimand. 
 
 " It is not for anything of that sort, sir. I believe Sir 
 Vincent Yorke has telegraphed for you to go down to him at 
 Sunny Mead. The despatch said you were to lose no 
 time." 
 
 Whether Roland leaped highest or shouted loudest, the 
 startled house could not have decided. The bailiff's post was, 
 in his imagination, as surely his, as though he had been 
 formally installed in it. To wash his hands, brush his hair, 
 and put on his best coat, took but a minute, and he was 
 striding to the office, little Jenner by his side, to the presence 
 of Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 The lawyer received him calmly, and showed the message 
 from Surrey. 
 
 " Sir Vincent \Vorke to Mr. Greatorex. 
 "Send Roland Yorke down to me by first train. Lose no 
 time." 
 
 " Good old Dick ! " repeated Roland, in the fulness of his 
 heart. " I thought he'd remember me ! And there was I 
 reproaching him like an ungrateful tom-cat ! It is to give me 
 the bailiff's place, Mr. Greatorex." 
 
 "Well — it may be," mused Mr. Greatorex. "But I had 
 fancied that post was filled up." 
 
 " Not it, sir. Long live Dick ! When did he come back 
 from Paris ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about Sir Vincent's recent movements,
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 431 
 
 Mr. Yorke. You had better be making yours to the Waterloo 
 Station. Have you money for the journey ? " 
 
 " I've about sevenpence-halfpenny, sir." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex took a half-sovereign from his desk, and ten 
 shillings in silver. " I don't know how often the trains run," 
 he observed, " but if you go at once to the station, you will be 
 all right for the first that starts." 
 
 Not to the station, let it staf. as soon as it might, without 
 first seeing Annabel, and telling her of his good fortune. 
 Away up the stairs went Roland, in search of her, leaping over 
 some boxes that stood packed in the hall : and there he 
 encountered Mr. Bede Greatorex. It was four whole days 
 since Roland had met him, and he thought he had never seen 
 a face so changed in the short space of time. Annabel was 
 not at home, Bede said ; she had gone to Mr. Channing's. 
 
 " You don't look well, sir." 
 
 " Not very, I believe. I am about to try what i month or 
 two's absence will do for me." 
 
 " And leave us to old Brown ! — that will be a nice go ! " 
 exclaimed Roland, in dismay. " But I may not have to stay 
 here," he added more brightly, as recollection returned to 
 him. " Vincent Yorke has telegraphed for me, sir, and I and 
 Mr. Greatorex think that he is about to appoint me his bailiff." 
 
 A smile crossed Bede's haggard face. " I wish you success 
 in it," he said kindly. 
 
 "Thank you, sir. And I'm sure I wish you and Mrs. 
 Greatorex heaps of pleasure, and I heartily hope you'll come 
 home strong again. Oh ! and, Mr. Bede — Carrick's coming 
 back." 
 
 Bede nodded in answer. Greatorex and Greatorex knew 
 more of the matter than Roland, since it was they who had 
 intimated to the peer that the coast was now sufficiently clear 
 for him. 
 
 Roland leaped into a cab, and was taken to Mr. Channing's. 
 He waited in the empty dining-room ; and when Annabel 
 came to him, told her hurriedly of what had happened. The 
 cab was waiting at the door, Roland was eager, and her pale 
 cheeks grew rosy with blushes as he talked and held her 
 hands. 
 
 " It can't be for anything else, you know, Annabel. He is 
 going to instal me off-hand for certain, or else he would have 
 written and not telegraphed : perhaps the new bailiff (if he
 
 432 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 did appoint one) has turned out no good. There'll be a pretty 
 cottage, I dare say, its walls all covered with roses and lilies, 
 and two-hundred a year; and we shall be as happy as the 
 day's long. You'll not mind trying it, will you ? " 
 
 No, Annabel whispered, the cheeks deepening to crimson ; 
 she would not mind trying it. " I think — Roland," she added, 
 bending down her pretty face, " that I might have a pupil if I 
 liked ; and be well paid for her." 
 
 " That's jolly," said Roland. " We might do, with that, if 
 Dick only offered me one-hundred. He is uncommonly close- 
 fisted. There'd be a house free, and no end of fruit and 
 garden-stuff; and living in the country is very cheap." 
 
 " It is Jane Greatorex." 
 
 "Oh she" cried Roland, his countenance falling. "She is 
 a regular little toad, Annabel. I shouldn't like you to be 
 bothered with her." 
 
 "She would be always good with me. Mr. and Mrs. Bede 
 are going away, and Mr. Greatorex does not want us there any 
 longer. He said a few words to me to-day about my returning 
 home to mamma at Helstonleigh and taking Jane with me : 
 that is, if mamma has no objection. He said he would like 
 Jane to be with me better than with any one ; and he would 
 make it worth my while in point of salary." 
 
 " Then, Annabel, if you don't object to the young monkey, 
 that's settled, and I shall look upon it that we are as good as 
 married. What a |^turn in fortune's wheel ! Won't I serve 
 Dick with my best blood and sinew ! I'll work for him till my 
 arms drop off. I say ! couldn't I just see Hamish ? I should 
 like to tell him." 
 
 He ran softly up the stairs as he spoke. Hamish was in 
 bed ; and just now alone, except for Miss Nelly, who had 
 rolled herself on to the counterpane like a ball, her cheek 
 close to his. Roland whispered all the items of good news : it 
 never occurred to him to think that they might turn out to be 
 castles in the air. A .smile, partaking somewhat of the old 
 amused character, flitted across Ilamish's wasted but still 
 beautiful face, and sat in his blue eyes as he listened. 
 
 " You'll leave Annabel especially to me, won't you, Hamish ; 
 and wish us both joy and happiness ? " 
 
 " I wish you both the best I can wish, Roland — God's 
 blessing," was the low, earnest answer. "His blessing in this 
 life, and in that to come."
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 433 
 
 Roland bent his face down to Nelly's to hide its emotion, 
 and began kissing her. His grief for Hamish Channing some- 
 times showed itself like any girl's. 
 
 "I have left you her guardian, Roland." 
 
 "Me!" exclaimed Roland, surprise sending him bolt 
 upright. 
 
 " You and Arthur jointly. You will take care of her interests, 
 I know." 
 
 " Oh, Hamish, how good of you ! Nelly's guardian ! IVon'i 
 I take care of her ! and love her, too. I'll buy her sixpenny- 
 worth of best sugared almonds every day." 
 
 Hamish smiled. "Not her personal guardian, Roland; her 
 mother will be that. I meant as to her property." 
 
 " Never mind ; it's all one. Thank you, Hamish, for your 
 trust in me ! Oh, I am proud ! And mind that you are a 
 good girl, Miss Nelly, now that I shall have the right to call 
 you to order." 
 
 Roland did not quite seem to define the future duties in his 
 own mind. Nelly raised her tear-stained face, and looked at 
 him defiantly. 
 
 " I'm going away with papa." 
 
 " Not with him, my child," whispered Hamish. " You must 
 stay here a little while first. You and mamma will come later." 
 
 Nelly burst into sobs. " Heaven is better than this. I want 
 to go there." 
 
 " We shall all get there in time, Nelly," observed Roland, in 
 much gloom, "but I wish I could have gone now in his stead. 
 Oh, Hamish, I do ! I do indeed ! Gerald's black work will 
 never be out of my heart. And there's your book getting its 
 laurels at last, and you not living to wear them ! " 
 
 The gentle face, bright with a light not of this world, was 
 turned to Roland. "A better crown is waiting for me," he 
 murmured. " My Lord and Master knows how thankfully I 
 shall go to it." 
 
 A sound outside as of an impatient cab-horse in the frosty 
 street, reminded Roland that he was bound on a mission that 
 must not be delayed. On the stairs he met Annabel, caught 
 hold of her without ceremony, and gave her shrinking face a 
 few farewell kisses. 
 
 " Good-bye, darling. When I come back it will be as bailiff 
 of Sunny Mead." 
 
 Roland's delay had been just enough to cause him to miss 
 
 Roland Yorke. 28
 
 434 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 a train, and the evening had gone on considerably when he was 
 at length deposited at the small station near Sunny Mead. 
 Looking up and down the road in the cold moonlight, un- 
 certain which was his way, he found himself accosted by a 
 groom. 
 
 " I beg pardon, sir : are you Mr. Yorke." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I have the dog-cart here, sir." 
 
 "Oh, have you?" returned Roland. "I thought Sunny 
 Mead was close to the station." 
 
 "It's a matter of ten-minutes' walk, sir; but they gave me 
 orders to be down, and wait for every train until you came." 
 
 " How long has Sir Vincent been back from Paris ? " ques- 
 tioned Roland, as they bowled along. 
 
 " From Paris, sir ? He haven't been to it : not lately. The 
 accident stopped his going." 
 
 " What accident ? " 
 
 Ah ! what accident ! Roland's eyes opened to their utmost 
 width as he listened to the answer. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! And it was caused, you say, by Gerald 
 Yorke ? " 
 
 " That it was, sir." 
 
 " Why, he's my brother.' 
 
 "Well, sir, accidents happen unintentional to the best of 
 us," observed the man, wishing to be polite. " Some of 'em 
 said that the gentleman didn't show himself 'cute at handUng 
 of a gun." 
 
 " I don't believe he ever handled one in his life before," 
 avowed impulsive Roland. " What a fool he must have been ! 
 How is Sir Vincent going on? I'm sure I hope it w^as no great 
 damage." 
 
 " Sir Vincent was going on all right till to-day, sir ; and 
 as to the damage, it was not thought to be much. We hear 
 now that it has taken a turn for the worse. They talk of 
 erysipelas." 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing," said Roland. " I knew a fellow who 
 got erysipelas in the face at Port Natal until his head was as 
 big as a pumpkin, but he did his work all the same. That's 
 it," he mentally decided, as they ai)proached the house. "Poor 
 Dick, confined indoors, can't look after things himself, and is 
 going to put me to do it." 
 
 Upon a flat bed, or couch, in the lower room where we saw
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 435 
 
 him breakfasting with Gerald, lay Sir Vincent Yorke, his dog 
 beside him. He held out his hand to greet Roland. Impul- 
 sively and rather loudly, that unsophisticated African traveller 
 expressed his regrets on the score of the accident, and more 
 especially that it should have been caused by Gerald. 
 
 "Ay, it was a bad job," said Sir Vincent, quietly. "Sit 
 down, Roland. Here, near to me. I am in a good bit of pain, 
 and don't care to talk at a distance." 
 
 Roland took the chair pointed to, not a yard off Sir Vincent 
 as he lay, and the two looked at each other. A sort of honest 
 shame was on Roland's face : he was inwardly asking himself 
 how much more disgrace Gerald meant to bring on him. The 
 lamp, a soft, thin perforated shade subduing its glare, was 
 behind the invalid. 
 
 " I hope you'll soon be about again, Vincent." 
 
 " I hoped so, too, until this morning," was Sir Vincent's 
 answer. " My leg was very uneasy all last night, and I sent at 
 daybreak for the surgeon. He came, and was obliged to tell 
 me that an unfavourable change had taken place : in fact, that 
 dangerous symptoms had set in." 
 
 " But you can be cured ? " cried Roland. 
 
 "No, not now." 
 
 " Not be cured ! " exclaimed Roland, starting up with wild 
 eyes, and hardly knowing what to understand. " Do you mean, 
 that it will be long first ? " 
 
 " I mean, that I shall never be cured at all in this world. 
 Sit down, Roland, and listen quietly. The wound, regarded 
 at first as a very simple one, and apparently continuing to pro- 
 gress well, has taken a turn for the worse ; and must shortly 
 end in death. Now, do be tranquil, old fellow, and listen. 
 You are my heir, you know, Roland." 
 
 Roland, constrained to patience and his chair, stared, and 
 pulled at his whiskers, and stared again. 
 
 "Your heir?" 
 
 " Certainly. My heir." 
 
 The contingency had never, in the whole course of his life, 
 entered into the imagination of simple Roland. He sat in 
 speechless bewilderment. 
 
 " The moment the breath goes out of this poor frail body — 
 and the doctors tell me it will not be many more hours in it 
 now — you will be Sir Roland Yorke. The fourth baronet, and 
 possessor of the Yorke estates — such as they are."
 
 436 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 "Oh, my gracious!" uttered Roland, a great deal mofe 
 startled at the prospect than he had been at that of embarking 
 in hot pies in Poplar. " Do you mean it, Vincent? " 
 
 ''Mean it ! Where have your wits gone, that you need ask? 
 You must know as well as I do that you come next in succes- 
 
 sion." 
 
 " I never thought of it ; never once. I don't want it, Vin- 
 cent, old fellow ; I don't, indeed. I hope, with all my heart, 
 you'll get well, and hold it for yourself. Oh, Dick, I hope you 
 
 will ! " 
 
 Roland had risen and caught the outstretched hand. As Sir 
 Vincent heard the earnest tones, and saw the face of genuine 
 concern shining forth in all its guileless simplicity, the tears m 
 the honest eyes, he came to the conclusion that Roland had 
 been somewhat depreciated among them. 
 
 "Nothing can save me, Roland ; the doctors have pro- 
 nounced me to be past all human skill, and I feel myself that 
 I am so. It has not been long, one day, to ' set my house in 
 order,' has it ? " 
 
 Amidst Roland's general confusion, nothing had struck hnn 
 more than the change in Vincent's tone. The old, mincing 
 affectation was utterly gone. A man cannot retain such when 
 brought face to face with death. 
 
 " If you could only get well !" repeated poor Roland, rubbing 
 his hot face as he went back to his chair. 
 
 " Doctors, lawyers, and parsons — I have had them all here 
 to-day," resumed Sir Vincent. " The first man I sent for, after 
 the fiat was pronounced, was a lawyer from the village hard 
 by : there might not be time, I feared, to get down old Greato- 
 rex. He made a short will for me : and it was only when I 
 began to consider what its provisions should be, that I (so to 
 say) remembered you as my heir and successor." 
 
 Roland sat, hopelessly listening, unable to take in too much 
 at once. 
 
 " The entailed property lapses to you ; but there is some, 
 personal and else, at my own disposal. With the exception of 
 a few legacies, I have bequeathed it all to you, Roland— and 
 you'll be poor enough : and I've appointed you sole executor. 
 But I think you'll make a better man, as the head of the family, 
 than I might have made in the long-run ; and I am truly glad 
 that it is you to succeed, and not Gerald." 
 Roland gave a groan.
 
 A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE. 437 
 
 " I allude to his disposition, which I don't think great things 
 of, and to his propensity for spending," continued Sir Vincent, 
 "Gerald would have every acre of the estate mortgaged in 
 a couple of years : I think you will be different. Don't live 
 beyond your means, Roland ; that's all." 
 
 " I'll try to do my very best by every one," replied Roland. 
 "As to living beyond my means, Annabel will see to that, 
 and take care of me. Dick ! Dick ! it seems so wicked of me 
 to talk coolly of it, as if I were speculating on your death. I 
 wish you'd try and live ! I don't want the estate and the 
 money ; I never thought of such a thing as coming in to it. I 
 rushed down here to-night, hoping you were going to make 
 me your bailiff; and I thought how well I'd try to serve you, 
 and what a good fellow you were for doing it." 
 
 "Ah," was the dying man's slight comment, as he drew 
 himself a litde higher in the bed. "You will be master in- 
 stead of bailiff; that's all the difference. I had just engaged 
 a bailiff when you wrote : and I would advise you to keep 
 him on, Roland, unless you really feel competent to manage 
 yourself" 
 
 " I'll keep him on until I've learnt it ; that won't be long 
 first. I must have something to employ my time, Vincent." 
 
 " True : I wash I had had it. An idle man must, almost of 
 necesspty, glide into various kinds of mischief: of which debt 
 is one." 
 
 "You need not fear debt for me, Vincent," was the earnest 
 answer. " I have lived too long on empty pockets, and 
 earned a crust before I ate it, to have ill ways for money or 
 inclination to spend. Why, my best dress suit has been in 
 pawn these two months : and old Greatorex had to advance 
 me twenty shillings to bring me down here." 
 
 Something like a smile flitted over Sir Vincent's lips. He 
 pointed to a desk that stood on a side-table. 
 
 " When I am gone, Roland, you can open ihit : there's a 
 little loose cash in it. It will be enough to repay Greatorex 
 and redeem your clothes." 
 
 " But I shouldn't like to take it, Vincent, thank you. 
 Shouldn't indeed." 
 
 " Why, man ! it will be your own then." 
 
 " Oh, well — I never ! " cried Roland, softly : quite unable to 
 realize his fast-approaching position. 
 
 " The danger to some people might lie in being thug 
 
 yy. ^ 
 
 ge£i:2: 
 
 .TEiXX.:^-
 
 438 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 suddenly raised from poverty to ' affluence," remarked Sir 
 Vincent. " It has shipwrecked many a one." 
 
 " Don't fear for me, or for the estate either, Vincent. Had 
 this happened some seven or eight years ago, when I was a 
 lazy, conceited, ignorant young fool, almost as stuck-up as 
 Gerald, I can't say how it might have been. But I went to 
 Port Natal, you know ; and I gained my life's lesson there. 
 Hamish Channing has left me guardian to Nelly. I can guess 
 why he did it, too — that the world may see he thinks me 
 worthy to be trusted at last. He had always the most deli- 
 cately generous heart in Christendom." 
 
 "Hamish and I!" murmured Sir Vincent, in self-com- 
 munion, " on the wing almost together." 
 
 Yes, it was so. And Roland, with all his lamentation, could 
 not alter the fiat. 
 
 " What was the lesson you learnt at Port Natal ? " 
 
 " Not to be a reckless spendthrift ; not to be idle and use- 
 less. Vincent," added Roland, bending his face forward in its 
 earnestness, and dropping his voice until it was scarcely above 
 a whisper : "I learnt in Port Natal that there was another 
 world to live for after this : I learnt that our time was not our 
 own to waste in sin, but God's time, given us to use for the 
 best. A chum of mine out there, named Bartle, was struck 
 down by an accident ; the doctor said he wouldn't live the day 
 out — and he didn't. It was a caution to hear his moans and 
 groans, Vincent. He had not been very bad, as far as I knew, 
 in the ways that the world calls bad ; he had only been care- 
 less and idle, and wasted his days, and never thought of what 
 was to come after. I wish every one that's the same had seen 
 him die, Vincent, and heard his cries for mercy. If ever I for- 
 get to remember it, I think God would forget me. I saw many 
 such sudden deaths, and plenty of remorse with them, but 
 none as trying as his. It taught me a lesson : brought me to 
 think, you know. Don't you fear for me, Vincent; it Avill be 
 all right, I hope : and if I could ever be so foolhardy as to 
 look at a step on the backward way, Annabel would never let 
 me take it." 
 
 Roland had spoken in characteristic forgetfulness that the 
 case, as to its sudden striking down, bore so striking a resem- 
 blance to the one before him. Sir Vincent recalled it to him. 
 
 " Yes. Just as it is with me, Roland." 
 
 " Oh — but — you've got time yet, you know, Dick," he said,
 
 ROLAND IN MOURNING. 439 
 
 a little confused. " A parson, who was knocking about, over 
 there, in a threadbare coat, came in and saw Bartle, and talked 
 to him about the thief on the cross. Bartle couldn't see it ; his 
 fears didn't let him ; you may." 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied Sir Vincent, with a half-smile, but Roland 
 thought it looked like a peaceful one. "I have had a parson 
 with me also, Roland." 
 
 Roland's face lighted up with a sort of reverence. Sir 
 Vincent put out his hand and stroked the dog. 
 
 " You'll be kind to him, Roland ? " 
 
 " Oh, won't 1, Dick ! What's his name ? " 
 
 "Spot." 
 
 " Here ! Spot, Spot ! " 
 
 " Go, Spot. Go to your future master." 
 
 " Come, then, old fellow. Spot ! Spot ! " 
 
 At the call, the dog made a sudden leap to Roland's side, 
 and rubbed his nose against the extended hand. 
 
 " I'll be as good to him as if he were a child," spoke 
 Roland, in his earnestness. " See ! we are friends already, 
 Vincent." 
 
 And this simple-hearted young fellow was the scapegoat 
 they had all despised ! Sir Vincent caught the strong hand and 
 clasped it within his delicate one. 
 
 CHAPTER XVHI. 
 
 ROLAND IN MOURNING. 
 
 Early in the afternoon and the Waterloo Railway Station. A 
 gentleman got out of a first-class carriage, and made his way to 
 a hansom. 
 
 "Stop at the first hatter's you come to," he said to tlie 
 driver. 
 
 Leaping out when his directions were obeyed, he entered 
 the shop and asked for a band to be put on his hat ; a " deep 
 one." You do not need to be told who it was, and what the 
 band was for. Vincent had died about eight o'clock in the 
 morning, and the Natal traveller was Sir Roland Yorke.
 
 440 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Excepting for the fact that he had some money in his 
 pockets, which afforded a certain ease to the mind, he was 
 anything but elated at the change of position. On the con- 
 trary, he felt very much subdued. Roland could not be selfish, 
 and the grief and shock brought him by the unexpected death 
 of his cousin Vincent outweighed every thought of self He 
 had already tasted some of the fruits of future power. Servants 
 and others had referred to him that morning as the new baronet 
 and their master ; his pleasure had beeen consulted in current 
 matters touching the house and estate, his orders been re- 
 quested as to the funeral. Roland was head of all now, sole 
 master. Setting aside the sadness that filled his heart to the 
 exclusion of all else, the very suddenness of the change would 
 prevent him from realizing it at present. 
 
 With the band on his hat, Roland entered the cab again, and 
 ordered it to the office. There he presented himself to Mr. 
 Greatorex. 
 
 " Well ? " said the lawyer, turning from his desk. " So you 
 are back again! What did Sir Vincent want with you? Has 
 he made you his bailiff?" 
 
 Roland sadly shook his head. And Mr. Greatorex saw that 
 something was wrong. 
 
 " What's the matter?" he hastily inquired. 
 
 " If you please, sir, I am Sir Roland now." 
 
 " You are what ? " exclaimed Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 " It's only too true," groaned Roland. " Poor Vincent is 
 dead. Mr. Greatorex, I'd work on all fours for a living to the 
 end of my days if it could bring him to life again. I never 
 thought to succeed, I'm sure; and I wouldn't willingly do so. 
 He died at eight o'clock this morning." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex leaned back in his chair and relieved his 
 mind by a pastime he might have caught from Roland — that 
 of staring. Not having heard of Sir Vincent's accident, this 
 assertion of his death sounded only the more surprising. Was 
 Roland telling the truth ? He almost questioned it. Roland, 
 perceiving the doubt, gave a summary of particulars, and Mr. 
 Greatorex slowly realized the facts. 
 
 Sir Roland Yorke ! The light-headed, simple-minded clerk, 
 who had been living on a pound a week and working suffi- 
 ciently hard to get it, suddenly transformed into a baronet ! 
 It was like a romance in a child's fairy tale. Mr. Greatore?; 
 rose and held out his hand.
 
 ROLAND IN MOURNING. 441 
 
 " I must congratulate you on your succession, Sir Roland, 
 sad though the events are that have led to it." 
 
 " Now don't ! please don't ! " interrupted Roland. " I hope 
 no one will do that, sir ; it sounds like a wrong on poor Dick. 
 Oh, I'd bring him to life again if I were able." 
 
 " I trust you will make us your men of business. Sir Roland," 
 resumed Mr. Greatorex, still standing. "We have been solici- 
 tors to the head of the Yorke family in succession for many 
 years now." 
 
 " I'm sure if you'll be at the trouble of acting for me, I 
 should like nothing better, sir : bad manners to me if I could 
 have any other thought ! And I've put your name and ]Mr. 
 Bede's down in the list for the funeral, if you'll attend it. 
 There will be only a few of us in all. Gerald (though I 
 shouldn't think he will show his face at it), William Yorke, 
 Arthur Channing, two or three of Dick's friends, and you and 
 Mr. Bede. Poor Dick said to me when dying not to have the 
 same sort of show he had at his father's funeral ; he saw the 
 folly of it now, and would like the quietest I could order. I 
 think he has gone to heaven, Mr. Greatorex." 
 
 But that the subject was a solemn one, Mr. Greatorex had 
 certainly laughed at the quaint simplicity of the concluding 
 sentence. One reminiscence in connection with the past 
 funeral rose forcibly in his mind — of the slight shown to the 
 young man now before him. He, the heir-presumptive, only 
 that no one had the wit to think of it, was not deemed good 
 enough to follow his uncle to the grave. But he stood in his 
 place now. 
 
 Bede would not be able to attend the ceremony, Mr. Greato- 
 rex said aloud : he was already in France, having crossed 
 over with his wife by the last mail. 
 
 "What is the matter with him?" asked Roland. "He 
 looked as ill as he could look yesterday." 
 
 " I don't know what the matter is," said Mr. Greatorex. 
 " He has an inward complaint, and I fear it must be making 
 great strides. His name will be taken out of the firm to- 
 morrow, and give place to Frank's. It was Bede's own 
 request. It is as if he fears he may never be capable of 
 business again." 
 
 " I'm sure I hope he will," cried Roland, in his sympath}-. 
 "About me, Mr. Greatorex? Of course I shouldn't like to 
 leave you at a pinch; I'll come to the office to-morrow morning
 
 442 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 and do my work as usual for a day or two, until you've found 
 some one to replace me. I should like to take this afternoon 
 for myself" 
 
 But Mr. Greatorex, with a smile, thought they should not 
 need to trouble Sir Roland : which was no doubt an agreeable 
 intimation : and Roland really had a good deal to do in con- 
 nection with his new position. 
 
 " If I'm not forgetting ! " he exclaimed, just as he was taking 
 his departure. " There's the money you lent me, sir, and I 
 thank you for the loan of it." 
 
 In taking the sovereign from his pocket, he pulled out 
 several others. Mr. Greatorex jokingly remarked that he had 
 apparently no longer any need to borrow. 
 
 " It is from poor Dick's desk," sadly observed Roland. 
 " He told me there was enough money in it to repay the pound 
 to you and get my clothes out of pawn, and that it would be 
 all my own when he died. Well, what do you think I found 
 there when I opened it to-day? — Nearly a hundred pounds in 
 gold and bank notes ! " 
 
 " But you have not all that about you, I hope?" 
 
 *' Yes I have, sir ; it was safer to bring it up than to leave 
 it. I shall pay it into the banker's. I must show myself 
 there, I suppose, and leave my signature in their books ; it 
 won't be so neat a one as poor Dick's." 
 
 Roland departed. Looking in for a moment at the office 
 as he Avent out, he announced himself as Sir Roland Yorke, 
 upon which Mr. Hurst burst into laughter in his face. He 
 dashed in on Mrs. Jones with his news, ate nearly the whole 
 of a shilling IMadeira cake that happened to be on the table, 
 while he talked, and made a voluntary promise to that tart and 
 disbelieving matron to refurnish her house from top to bottom. 
 Then the cab was ordered to the banker's, where his business 
 was satisfactorily adjusted. Gerald's chambers were not far 
 off, and Roland took them next. The servant met him with 
 the bold assertion that his master was out. 
 
 " Don't bother yourself to deny him, my good man ; I saw 
 his face at the window," said Roland, frankly. "You may 
 safely show me in : I am not a creditor." 
 
 " Well, sir, we are obliged to be excessively cautious, just 
 now, and that's the truth," apologized the man, confidentially. 
 "Mr. Yorke, I think?" 
 
 " Sir Roland Yorke," corrected Roland.
 
 ROLAND IN MOURNING. 443 
 
 " S/r?" returned the man, looking at him as if he thought 
 he saw a lunatic. 
 
 " Sir Roland Yorke," was the emphatic repetition. " Have 
 the goodness to announce me." 
 
 And the servant opened the room door and so announced 
 him. 
 
 As Roland saw Gerald's quick look of surprise, he would, 
 under other circumstances, have shaken in his shoes at the fun. 
 But sadness wholly reigned over him to-day. And— if truth 
 must be told — a terrible aversion to Gerald for his work and 
 its fruits held possession of the new heir. 
 
 "Oh, it's you," cried Gerald, roughly. "What on earth 
 possessed the fellow ? " 
 
 " The fellow did right, Gerald. I gave him my name, and 
 he announced it." 
 
 " Don't come here with your fool's blabber. He said ' Sir 
 Roland Yorke.' " 
 
 "And it is what I am." 
 
 Gerald's face grew dark with passion. He had an especial 
 dislike to being played with. 
 
 "Vincent's dead, Gerald." 
 
 " It is a lie." 
 
 "Vincent died this morning at eight o'clock," repeated 
 Roland. "I was with him : he telegraphed for me yesterday. 
 Look at this band" — showing his hat — "I've just been to get 
 it put on. Do you think I'd have the face to invent a jest on 
 this subject ? Vincent Yorke is dead, poor fellow, and I have 
 come into things as Sir Roland. Not that I can fully believe 
 it myself yet." 
 
 The tone of the voice, the deep black band, and a subtle 
 inward instinct brought conviction of the truth home to Gerald 
 Yorke. Had it been to save his fame, he could not have 
 helped the forsaking brazen tone of his voice, or the dread that 
 took possession of his whole being. 
 
 " What— has—he— died— of ? " 
 
 "The gunshot wound." 
 
 A pause. Gerald broke it. 
 
 " It was going on well. I heard so only two days ago." 
 
 " But it took a sudden turn for the worse ; and he is dead." 
 
 Gerald's face assumed a livid tinge, ^^'as he to have f7C'o 
 lives on his soul ? Hamish Channing's had surely been enough 
 for him without Vincent Yorke's. Pushing back his damp
 
 444 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 hair, he met Roland's steady look, and so made believe to feel 
 nothing, went to the fire, and stirred it gently. 
 
 "Why did the doctors let it take this turn?" he asked, 
 flinging down the poker. " It was as simple a wound as ever 
 was given." 
 
 " I suppose they'd have helped it if they could." 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 " Well — of course — as you have succeeded, I must con- 
 gratulate you," said Gerald, stiffly and lamely. Absently, too, 
 for he was buried in thought, reflecting on what an idiotic 
 policy his, to Roland, had been. But this contingency had 
 never occurred to him more than it had to Roland. 
 
 "Vincent had a good deal of property that was not entailed," 
 resumed Gerald. " Do you know how he has willed it ? Did 
 he make a will ? " 
 
 " He made a will yesterday, before telegraphing for me." 
 
 Gerald lifted his face with a transient hope. 
 
 "I wonder if he has remembered me?" 
 
 •'I think not. Except some legacies to the servants, and a 
 keepsake for Miss Trehern — his watch and diamond ring, I 
 fancy — he said no one's name was mentioned in the will but 
 mine. It has not been opened : I thought I'd leave it until 
 after the funeral. I am executor." 
 
 " You ! — You don't want his ready-money as well as his 
 inheritance," spoke Gerald, foaming. 
 
 " I'm sure I didn't want any of it ; I only thought to be his 
 bailiff; but I can't help it if it has come to me," was Roland's 
 quiet answer, as he turned to depart. "Good afternoon, 
 Gerald. I thought it right to call and tell you of his death ; 
 you may like to draw your blinds down." 
 
 "Thanks," said Gerald, sarcastically. 
 
 "You will receive an invitation to the funeral, Gerald. But 
 I should like to intimate that if you do not care to attend, I 
 shall not look upon it as a slight," added candid Roland, who 
 really spoke in simple good-nature. " We shall be enough 
 without you, if you'd rather stay away." i 
 
 Before Gerald's awful rage at the speech was over, for he 
 looked upon it as bestowed patronizingly from the new baronet, 
 Roland was vaulting into the waiting cab. Gerald had the 
 pleasure of peeping on from the window. 
 
 " Sir Roland Yorke ! — Sir Roland Yorke ! " he spoke aloud 
 in his horrible mortification. " Sunny Mead for his home.
 
 ROLAND IN MOURNING. 445 
 
 and four-thousand a year landed property, and heaps of ready 
 money. Curse the beggar ! Curse the shot that has brought 
 him the luck of the inheritance ! I'd sell my soul for it to 
 have been mine. I should wear the honours better than he. 
 I wish to Heaven he might die to-night !" 
 
 And Mr. Gerald Yorke, looking after the receding cab with 
 a dark and sullen countenance, could indeed have sold his 
 soul ; if by so doing he might have annihilated his brother 
 and stepped into his place. He was in that precise frame of 
 mind for which some few men in the world's actual history, 
 and a great many in fiction, have stained their hands with 
 crime for the greed of gain. 
 
 *J^ alt Jk. •il' "if 
 
 •R" "W* 'P ^ ^ 
 
 Tread lightly, speak softly ; for death is already hovering 
 in the chamber. As Roland enters on tiptoe he takes in the 
 scene at a glance. Hamish lying with closed eyes, and Miss 
 Nelly, lying beside him, her golden curls mingling wiih his 
 damp hair. A sea of old Helstonleigh faces seems to be 
 gathered round him ; but except that Roland silently clasps 
 Arthur's hand he takes notice of none. Edging himself be- 
 tween Annabel and Tom Channing, as they stand side by side, 
 he bends his concerned face downwards. The slight stir 
 arouses Hamish, he opens his eyes, and holds up his feeble 
 hand with a remnant of the old smile. 
 
 " Back again ! Head bailiff? " 
 
 Roland bit his lip. His chest was heaving with emotion. 
 Hamish, who retained his keenest perceptive faculties to the 
 last, spoke again in his faint voice. 
 
 " Is it good news ? " 
 
 " It's good news. Good news, Hamish, and at the same 
 time awfully bad. Vincent's dead, and I'm — I'm in his shoes." 
 
 Hamish did not seem to understand. Neither did the 
 others. 
 
 " It's me to come after him, poor fellow, you see. I am 
 Sir Roland now." 
 
 As the words fell upon the previously silent room, you 
 might have heard a pin drop. Cheeks flushed, eyes looked 
 out their questioning surprise at the speaker. Upon Hamish 
 alone the communication seemed to make no impression : 
 earthly interests were to him now as nothing. 
 
 " You will give me Annabel with a will, Hamish, now that 
 I have come into the family inheritance ? "
 
 446 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " I had already given her to you, so far as my best will 
 could do it. Roland " 
 
 The voice seemed to be fading altogether, but in the eyes 
 there was an eager gaze. Roland bent his head lower to catch 
 the sounds about to issue from the lips. 
 
 " There's a different and a better inheritance, Roland ; one 
 of love, and light, and everlasting peace. You will both of 
 you strive for that." 
 
 " Yes, that we will. And gain it too. Oh, Hamish, if you 
 could only stop with us a bit longer ! " burst forth Roland, 
 letting his emotion come forth in sobs. " It's nothing all 
 round but dying. First Vincent, and now you! I never ^ 
 knew such a miserable world. I'd have laid down my own life 
 to keep either of you in it." 
 
 There stole a smile of ineffable peace over the dying face. 
 It seemed to have caught a ray of the heavenly light in which 
 it would so soon be rejoicing. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 DREAMS REALIZED. 
 
 It is certainly not often in this life that improoable dreams of 
 fame and fortune are realized as they were in the case of 
 Roland Yorke. Down he went to his native place, Helston- 
 leigh, in all the glory of fame and fortune that his imagination 
 had been wont to picture : the dog, Spot, with him. He paid 
 his creditors their debts twice over ; he made presents to his 
 mother and the world ; he went knocking at old Galloway's 
 door, and caused himself to be fully announced, as he had at 
 Gerald's. He ran in and out of the proctor's office at will, 
 took possession of his former stool there, and answered callers 
 as if he were the veritable clerk he had once been. He 
 promised a living to Tom Channing, promotion in India to 
 Charley ; made a sweeping bow to William Yorke the first time 
 he met him in the street, and called out to know whether he 
 might still be considered a scapegoat. He put up a tomb- 
 stone to commemorate the virtues of Jenkins. Meeting Harry 
 Huntley, he nearly cried over Hamish. Hamish Channing's
 
 DREAMS REALIZED. 447 
 
 book was at length in every heart and home — oh, that lie had 
 lived to see it ! The good had all come too late for him. 
 Ellen would be wealthy from henceforth, for her father had 
 regained his fortune ; her aunt, stiff Miss Huntley, had died, 
 and bequeathed to her the whole of hers ; and little Miss Nelly 
 was an heiress. 
 
 Not immediately, however, had Roland hastened to quit 
 London for Helstonleigh, and there is still something to tell 
 about it. He had affairs to attend to first ; and it took him 
 some time to forget his daily sorrow for the dead. Roland's 
 private belief was that he should never cease to mourn for 
 Hamish ; should never rise in the morning, or go to rest at 
 'night, without thinking of him and of Gerald's miserable work. 
 He entered on his abode at Sunny Mead, his home hence- 
 forth, made himself acquainted with his future position, and 
 what his exact revenues would be. In his imperfect way, but 
 his honest wish to do right, he apportioned out plenty of work 
 for himself, and not much to spend, resolving above all things 
 to eschew a life of frivolity and idleness. Roland would 
 rather have followed the plough day by day, than sink to that. 
 
 The first few weeks he divided his time between Sunny 
 Mead and London. When in town, he dropped in upon his 
 old friends with native familiarity : prosperity and a title could 
 not change Roland. The office and -clerks saw him very 
 often; Mrs. Jones's tea and muffins occuJionally suffered by 
 a guest who had a large appetite. He refurnished that tart 
 lady's house for her after rather a sharp battle; for at first 
 Mrs. J. would not accept the favour. The first visitor Roland 
 had tlie honour of entertaining was Lord Carrick. His white- 
 haired lordship was nourishing in London again, and gave 
 Roland a whole week of his hearty, genial, good-natured com- 
 pany at Sunny Mead. 
 
 The thorn in the ffesh was Gerald, and it happened that 
 Mr. Gerald's career came to a crisis during the week of Lord 
 Carrick's stay at Sunny Mead. On the last day of it, when 
 they were out in the frost, and the peer was imparting to his 
 nephew sundry theories for the best cultivation of land, a 
 servant ran out to announce the arrival of a lady, who had 
 come in haste from the railway station. She appeared to be 
 in distress, the man added, and said she must at once see Sir 
 Roland. 
 
 In distress beyond doubt : for when Roland went clattering
 
 448 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 in, wondering who it could be, there met him the tear-stained 
 face of Winny. She had brought down a piteous tale. Gerald, 
 arrested the previous day, was lodged in that savoury prison, 
 Whitecross Street ; he had boldly sent her to ask Roland to 
 pay his debts and set him free. Winny, sobbing over some 
 luncheon that Roland good-naturedly set her down to at once, 
 protested that she felt sure one at least of the three little girls 
 would be found in the fire when she got back to them. 
 
 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 should like to do," said Roland. "I 
 wouldn't 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 some- 
 thing more into her hand whenever we met. She might have 
 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 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." 
 
 "7'11 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 on. But he'll have 
 to try." 
 
 " Perhaps I might be got to allow him a hundred a year, or 
 so, 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."
 
 DREAMS REALIZED. 449 
 
 Could Gerald in his distant and gloomy abode, only have 
 heard this, he had surely been ready to shoot the pair, and 
 with more intention, 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 schoolboy 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 realizes anticipation — as Roland found, now 
 that his golden visions had come to pass. The charm of the 
 oft-pictured dream was wanting ; the freshness of his sanguine 
 boyhood no longer threw its halo over his heart; the glow of 
 imaginative hope had mellowed to more sober tints. In 
 manner, in happy frankness, Roland was almost as impulsive 
 and boyish as ever ; but his mind had gained experience, and 
 thought and reflection had come to him. The chances and 
 changes of the world had produced 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 returned again to the dear old days before Roland had 
 known the world, or tasted of its cares. Roland went calling 
 upon his acquaintance, near and distant, making himself at 
 home everywhere. Ellen Channing, worn to a shadow 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 advice that it 
 should be near Sunny Ivlead. 
 
 " 1 told you I should be sure to get on and make my fortune 
 sometime, Mr. Galloway." 
 
 The old proctor, whose health was failing, returned a slight- 
 ing answer. Roland, without ceremony as usual, had dashed 
 into the office, and was sitting on a high stool with his legs 
 dangling. The remark was given in return for some disparag- 
 ing observation as to Roland's former doings. 
 
 '• You made it ! Ugh ! A great deal of it, no doubt." 
 
 Roland Yorke- 29
 
 45© ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 " 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 would have returned here with 
 empty pockets." 
 
 " Now don't be personal, sir," was the laughing rejoinder. 
 " I'm Sir Roland Yorke, you know." 
 
 "And a fine Sir Roland you'll make ! " 
 
 " I'll try and make a good one," said Roland, emphatically, 
 as he caught Arthur's eye — who was seated in state as head of 
 the office, for the proctor had virtually resigned it to him. 
 " Arthur knows he can trust me now : ask him, 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 young fellow that he loved as the apple of his eye." 
 
 "Yes, I think he was killed amongst us, up there," sadly 
 avowed Roland, his honest face kindling with shame. " But I 
 did not help in it, Mr. Galloway ; I would have given my life 
 to save his. I wish I could have saved it ! " 
 
 " Wishes won't bring him back to us. I saw his wife yester- 
 day — his widow, rather. I'm sure I couldn't bear to look at 
 her." 
 
 " Did you see sweet little Nelly? " cried Roland, 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 do." 
 
 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 
 midst of the throng, making himself at home, and inquiring 
 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.
 
 DREAMS REALIZED. "^ 45T 
 
 "Well?" returned Mr. Butterby. "How are you, sir? ] 
 heard you were down here." 
 
 " Ay. I've come to set straight things that I had left 
 crooked. And glad to be able to do it at last. You've heard 
 about me, I suppose, Butterby ? " 
 
 " /'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 sup- 
 pose 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 to life, though I had to return to my work again and the 
 turn-up beadstead 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 it all as pat as might 
 be. I can't think, for my part, how they get hold of things." 
 
 Butterby nodded. There was little he did not read, if it 
 in the remotest degree concerned him. 
 
 " I'm paying up, Butterby. Paying everybody, and some- 
 thing over. If ever I get into debt again call me an owl. 
 Galloway groans and grunts, and says I shall do so ; 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." 
 
 "How were the folks up yonder, Sir Roland, when you left 
 them ? " asked Butterby. " 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 now — 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 zi'as a mistake of yours, that was — taking 
 her into custody as the one who killed John OUivera." 
 
 " Ay," carelessly returned Mr. Butterby, with an expressive 
 sniff. " The best of us go in for mistakes, you know." 
 
 " I suppose yo7i 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 ? "
 
 452 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 But that Mr. Butterby turned his eyes towards the Guildhall 
 opposite before he answered, Roland might have observed that 
 their steady light wavered a moment. Whatever curious 
 speculations he had drifted into in the course of years, as to 
 the murderer 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 ar3 content for the future to let it alone " 
 
 " 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 within range of my place in Surrey, I shall be glad 
 to see you there for half-an-hour's chat. Good day, old But- 
 terby. Isn't this a prime goose ? I've just given seven 
 shillings for it." 
 
 He and his ancient goose went vaulting off. Roland fre- 
 quently took articles home to help in garnishing Lady 
 Augusta's dinner-table ; very much to the wrath of the cook, 
 who found it gave her double work. 
 
 But it must not be thought that Roland led an entirely idle 
 life at Helstonleigh. Apart from personal calls on his friend- 
 shij), in the shape of dropping in upon people, he had work on 
 his hands. By Mrs. J.'s permission he was replacing the 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 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 by people in general, he bore it all meekly, according to 
 his nature, never turning again. A cough took him to heaven, 
 leaving Mrs. J., 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 tombstone, as it 
 w^nt in to the sculptor. That functionary suggested a few 
 sng"iit alterations, which Sir Roland reluctantly acceded to. 
 Writing and counter-writing ensued, and the epitaph finally 
 inscribed contained (like some bills that pass through Parlia- 
 ment) very little of the original.
 
 DREAMS REALIZED. 453 
 
 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 n.arry 
 them, and no one else, avowed Roland ; and if the Reverend 
 William put up his back at not having first finger in the pie, 
 why he must put it up. Annabel was his confidant in all 
 things ; and Annabel thought she would 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 left 
 it forever. Mrs. Channing, Arthur, Tom, Charles, and Annabel 
 remained. They moved about in their mourning garments, 
 with their sorrowful 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 worn and aged ; 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 
 having a final interview with Annabel. They stood at the 
 glass doors of the study window, opening to the garden, and 
 the warm May sun shone 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 renewed with 
 a green carpet and delicately-papered walls ; the young parson 
 now called it his. 
 
 Considering Roland's deficiencies in the matter of fore- 
 thought, 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 cashier 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, strenuously urging moderation. He was going up now 
 to make his bow to the Prince of Wales at a levee : and it was 
 to be hoped he would accomplish it with sufficient decorum : 
 and Annabel would be presented to the Queen on the first
 
 454 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 favourable opportunity after she should become ■ Lady Yorke. 
 So far, that was due to their position ; but there the exigencies 
 of fashionable society would end for them.^ Sunny Mead 
 would be their home ; and it could not be doubted, a very 
 happy one. They are contemplating the prospect, now as they 
 stancl together : and to both it is rose-coloured. 
 
 " But for going to Port Natal, Annabel, there's no knowing 
 how I might have turned out — a regular 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 " 
 
 Koland hesitates 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 won't 
 discharge the bailiff until you feel that you are quite able to 
 manage. 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 ! But the bailiff, he shall stay on until you send him 
 away, if it's two years to come." 
 
 She bends her blushing face, and plucks 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 has ever 
 seen, and feels he can never be thankful enough that he is to 
 call them his.
 
 ( 455 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The summer and the day were both on the wane. It was the 
 end of July, and a gloomy evening. Mr. Greatorex was sitting 
 alone in the approaching 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 for 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. Bede, the son, whose evident ill 
 health had of late given him so much concern, was dead. 
 Alas ! it was not bodily illness that had ailed Bede Greatorex, 
 and turned his days to one ever-restless tumultuous sea of 
 misery, but that far worse affliction, illness of mind. In bodily 
 sickness intervals may arise when the suffering is not felt so 
 keenly, or where heavenly help is given for support ; in mental 
 sickness, grave as Bede's, 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. It contained a very small colony of 
 English, and an English chaplain, who did the duty for 
 nothing. Bede had not intended to make it a permanent 
 resting-place, but his weakness increased rapidly, and he 
 seemed unwilling to move onwards. Mrs. Bede grumbled 
 woefully : she called the town a desert and their lodgings a 
 barn : truth to say, the rooms were large, and had as good as 
 nothing in them. She amused herself — such amusement as it 
 was — in taking drives in the early spring freshness, and talking 
 French, for the sake of improvement, with a fashionable 
 Parisian femme-de-chamhre, whom she had been 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 may pass. 
 
 With Bede's death, a month ago now, things in the office 
 had undergone some fresh arrangement. Frank Greatorex 
 was now his father's sole partner. Frank was soon to bring
 
 456 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 home his wife, and it was to be hoped she would make a 
 happier home of the dwelling than its late mistress had made. 
 There could be little doubt of it ; and Mr. Greatorex stood a 
 fair chance of regaining some of his domestic comforts. 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 expenses had come in 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 instance. In a cool, business- 
 like letter, conveyed to her by a trustworthy clerk, Mr. Greatorex 
 had informed her that henceforward she would be allowed two- 
 hundred a year. One-hundred pounds in addition he made 
 her an immediate present of. The clerk, despatched with the 
 letter and money, was Mr. Brown, who had resumed his name 
 of Winter : the office, not readily falling into the new name, 
 usually called him Mr. Brown-Winter. Mr. Winter was com- 
 missioned to discharge the above-mentioned bills, and to see 
 a stone placed over the grave, the inscription for which had 
 been drawn out by Mr. Greatorex. It was very short : merely 
 the following Avords, with the date of death— 
 
 BEDE GREATOREX. 
 
 AGED THIRTY-NINE. 
 
 " Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden." 
 
 Mr Winter had fulfilled his charges, and was back again. 
 The clerks heard with very litde surprise that he was to be 
 promoted to be confidential manager in future under Mr. 
 Greatorex and his son ; one whom the office would have to 
 look up to as a master. Rumour went that Mr. Winter was 
 about to become a qualified solicitor : not with a view to 
 setting up for himself, but that he might more efficiently carry 
 out his duties in the house of Greatorex and Greatorex. His 
 salary had been already considerably augmented since the 
 month of January last. Mr. Winter had taken a small, pretty 
 house, and would soon bring a wife to it : Alletha Rye was to 
 change her name to Alletha Winter. The clerks generally 
 considered that Mr. Winter's promotion was owing to his 
 undoubted business capacity : but in point of fact it was owing
 
 CONCLUSION. 457 
 
 to a few lines written by Bede to his father. " The man is of 
 sterling merit : he has lost sight of self in striving patiently to 
 benefit and shield me : reward him for my sake. I am sure 
 he will repay in fidelity all you can do for him." 
 
 Little more than this did Bede say ; not a word as to the 
 nature of the benefit or the shielding. Mr. Greatorex knew 
 now, for a revelation had been made to him through Judge 
 Kene. Bede, only the day before his death, had posted a 
 letter to Sir Thomas Kene, one that he had spent a week in 
 writing, getting to it at intervals. 
 
 The anguish that communication and other matters had 
 brought to Mr. Greatorex, was very sharp still. He was feeling 
 it as he sat there in the twilight. Bede's death he had, in 
 one sense, almost ceased to mourn : knowing now what a 
 happy release from mental pain and sorrow it must have been. 
 But he could not think with the slightest patience of Bede's 
 wife : never, never again. She had been the first author of all 
 the misery. But for her, his son — ay, and some one else, dear 
 to him as a son — had, in all human probability, been living 
 now, happy, peaceful, and playing a good and busy part on 
 the world's stage. 
 
 " Will you admit visitors, sir ? " 
 
 " Eh ! what ! " And Mr. Greatorex started up half in alarm 
 as the servant spoke, so deeply had he been buried in thought. 
 "Visitors this evening ! — no. Stay, Philip. Who are they?" 
 
 " Sir Roland and Lady Yorke, sir." 
 
 " Oh, I'll see them," said Mn Greatorex. " Ask them to 
 walk up." 
 
 Roland and his wife, passing through London from their 
 wedding-tour, part of which had been spent in Ireland, at 
 Lord Carrick's, had lialted for a night at one of the hotels. 
 
 " To see old friends," said Roland. Not that he had a long 
 list of them : Mrs. J. and Mr. Greatorex almost making up the 
 catalogue. Winny Yorke and her children were in Wales with 
 her mother. Gerald had sent them there, " as a temporary 
 thing," till he could " get a bit straight." When that desirable 
 consummation might be expected to arrive was hidden in the 
 mystery of the future. Gerald had been a good month in 
 Whitecross Street Prison, very nearly done to death with his 
 creditors' reproaches, who would go down in a body to abuse 
 him, when they found there was no chance of getting a farthing 
 out of him. He and his chambers had been sold up ; and
 
 458 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 altogether Gerald had come to great grief. Just now he was 
 in?Paris, enjoying himself on a sum of money that Lord Carrick 
 had been induced to give him, and on the proceeds from an 
 article that he supplied twice a week to a London newspaper. 
 He thought himself terribly hard-worked ; and slightly relieved 
 his bi'e by telling every one that his brother Roland was the 
 greatest villain under the sun. Roland meant to find him a 
 post somewhere if he could, and meanwhile took care of Winny 
 and the little ones. Gerald quietly ignored that. 
 
 "Sir Roland and Lady Yorke." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex met them with outstretched hands, giving 
 Annabel's blushing face a fatherly kiss. He quite forgot her 
 elevation, and only remembered her as the sweet and simple 
 girl who had made sunshine in his house at odd moments. She 
 looked sweet and simple still, and was quite unaltered. Roland, 
 on his part, had not attained the smallest additional dignity, 
 and he clattered in just as of yore. They were going to Sunny 
 Mead on the morrow, and he began upon his future plans for 
 the happy home life. 
 
 Mr. Greatorex smiled as he listened. " I don't fancy you 
 will give us much work. Sir Roland, in the way of incurring 
 debts and trouble, and coming to us to clear you of them," he 
 observed. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I leave that to Gerald. Mr. Greatorex," 
 added Roland, his eyes shining with honest light, '* I promised 
 Vincent when he was dying to keep clear of trouble; I as 
 good as promised Hamish the same : I would never go from 
 my word to tlicm^ you know. And, what's more, I shall never 
 wish to do so." 
 
 "I see. You will be a dead loss to us. The Yorkes in 
 general have been profitable clients." 
 
 Roland took the words seriously. 
 
 " I'm very sorry, sir. I — I'll make you a present every year 
 to supply the deficiency, if you'll accept it. A gold inkstand, 
 or something of that sort." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex looked at him with a smile, but did not speak. 
 Roland resumed, thoroughly in earnest, his voice low. 
 
 " It's such an awful amount of money, you see ; four- 
 thousand a year, besides a house and lots of other things. 
 Two people could never spend it, and if they could, we don't 
 think it would be doing right. Annabel and I see things alike. 
 We mean to put aside half our income ; against a rainy day,
 
 CONCLUSION. 459 
 
 say; or — there are so many people who want helping. You 
 see, Mr. Greatorex, we have both learnt to live on very little. 
 But I'm sure I shall be sorry, if you look upon me as a loss 
 to you." 
 
 "You can repay me, Roland, better than by gold ink- 
 stands," said Mr. Greatorex, laying his hand on the young 
 man's shoulder. " Let me come to you for a week every 
 year when the summer roses are in bloom ; and do you tell 
 me, year by year, that you have kept to your simple mode of 
 living." 
 
 Roland was in the skies at once. " It is a bargain," he said. 
 " You will come to us always with the summer roses. As to a 
 week only, we'll talk about that." 
 
 "And Jane shall meet you, sir," interposed Annabel, shyly. 
 " She is very happy at school ; I often receive letters from her. 
 Roland and I were thinking of having her at Christmas, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 "And Nelly Channing too, if her mother will spare her," 
 put in Roland. " And we have talked about those three little 
 mites in Wales. It would be good to have the lot together, 
 and give them a bit of pleasure. They should have a jolly 
 Christmas tree ; and we'd get over some boxes of lumps of 
 delight from Turkey, by one of the P. and O. steamers ; and 
 I'd bring them up to the waxworks. Annabel and I both love 
 children." 
 
 " And I hope from my heart you may have some of your own 
 to bless you!" rejoined Mr. Greatorex, with emotion. "To 
 bless you when they are young ; to comfort you when they shall 
 be grown to manhood. God grant you may never have cause 
 to weep for them in tears of blood ! Many of earth's sorrows 
 are hard to bear, but that is the weightiest that Heaven can 
 inflict upon us." 
 
 Roland stared a little. The thing seemed almost as incom- 
 prehensible to his view of social life as that he should have to 
 weep for some defect in the solar system. 
 
 " We should bring them up in the best possible way, Mr. 
 Greatorex," was the simple answer. "Annabel would, you 
 may be sure, and I'd try to. I don't think I was brought up 
 in the best way myself: there was too much scuffling and 
 scrambling going on. Mrs. J. once said — I beg your pardon, 
 Annabel." 
 
 J^or A,nnabel was trying to express to Mr. Greatorex their
 
 46o ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 regret at his son's death. His strange emotion she knew must 
 be felt for Bede. 
 
 " W(j are both of us very sorry, sir, for him and for you," she 
 said. 
 
 " My dear, you need not be," spoke Mr. Greatorex, in low, 
 sad tones, "His life had grown very weary; and death, to 
 him, must have been as a welcomed rest at the close of day. 
 A little sooner, a little later — what does it matter ? " 
 
 " And for the muffs of doctors not to be able to cure him ! 
 Mr. Greatorex, when I remember him, and Vincent Yorke, 
 and Hamish Channing, my respect for the medical profession 
 does not go up. Halloa ! who's this ? " broke off Roland. 
 
 Philip was coming in with surprise on his face, while a 
 rustling as of fashionable skirts might be heard behind him. 
 He addressed his master with deprecation, conscious of having 
 something to tell that might not prove very agreeable to him. 
 
 " It is Mrs. Bede Greatorex, sir." 
 
 " Who ? " hurriedly exclaimed Mr. Greatorex. 
 
 "Mr. Bede's widow, sir. She has arrived with a French 
 maid and a cab full of boxes." 
 
 No need to repeat the news, for Mrs. Bede stood in full view 
 of them. Mr. Greatorex seized his servant by the coat-sleeve 
 as one in alarm, and gave an order privately. 
 
 " Keep the cab. Don't unload the boxes. Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex will not remain here." 
 
 Mrs. Bede Greatorex, a widow of a month, was not less 
 fashionable in dress than she had been as a wife. Rather more 
 so, of the two. Her dress of rich silk and crape was a model 
 for the fashion-books, her hair was wonderful. Something 
 small and white peeped out above the chignon. It proved to 
 be an inch of quilled net, and its wearer called it a widow's cap. 
 
 She held out her hand to Mr. Greatorex, but he did not seem 
 to see it. That his resentment against this woman was very 
 bitter could not be mistaken. Mrs. Bede did not appear to 
 notice the coldness of the greeting. Brushing past Annabel, 
 she cast rather a contemptuous look towards her, and spoke 
 some slighting words. 
 
 " What ! yoti here again ? I thought the liouse was rid of 
 you." 
 
 "This is my wife; Lady Yorke," said Roland, in as haughty 
 tones as it was possible for him to assume. " Don't forget it, 
 if you please, Mrs. Bede Greatorex."
 
 CONCLUSION. 461 
 
 She looked from one to the other. She knew that Roland 
 had succeeded to the family honours, but had not heard of his 
 marriage. The poor young governess, whom she had put 
 upon and made unhappy, Lady Yorke ! A moment's pause : 
 then Mrs. Bede's manner changed as by magic, and she 
 kissed Annabel on both cheeks, French fashion. No one 
 knew better than she on which side her bread was buttered. 
 
 " Ah, dear me, it's grand to be you, Annabel ! What changes 
 since we last met. You a wife, and I a widow." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex took an impatient step forward, as if to 
 speed her departure. She turned to him, speaking of her 
 husband. 
 
 " I think Bede might have got well if he would. I used to 
 tell him so. The doctors made an examination afterwards, 
 and found, as you have heard, that there was no specific disease 
 whatever. He wasted away ; wasted and wasted. It was as 
 though a consuming fire ever within him, had burned him away 
 gradually to death." 
 
 " My goodness ! " cried Roland. " Poor Bede." 
 
 " It was most unsatisfactory : I never saw anything like it 
 in my life before," tartly retorted Mrs. Bede, for her husband's 
 death had not pleased her, and she openly resented it. Not 
 for the loss or the love of him, but for the loss of his income. 
 " I think he might have got well had he struggled to do so. If 
 you'll believe me, only the day before he died, he went out in 
 a carriage to the post office, that he might post a letter himself 
 to Sir Thomas Kene." 
 
 No one answered her, or made any remark. 
 
 " Is my old room ready for me ? " 
 
 Mr. Greatorex, to whom the question was more particularly 
 addressed, motioned her towards the door, and moved for- 
 ward himself. " I wish to speak with you in private for a 
 minute," he said. " Pardon me. Sir Roland ; I shall be back 
 directly." 
 
 That Mrs. Bede Greatorex had come to take the house by 
 storm, hoping to resume her late footing in it, Mr. Greatorex 
 knew just as well as she. His letter to her, delivered by George 
 Winter, was unmistakably plain and straightforward ; and he 
 wondered at the hardihood which had brought her there, after 
 its receipt. 
 
 " You cannot have misunderstood my communication," he 
 said as they turned into the room that had once been her
 
 462 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 boudoir. " I must beg to refer you to it. This house can 
 never shelter you again." 
 
 " But it must do so," she answered. 
 
 " Never again ; never again." 
 
 "At least, I must stay here for some days, until I can decide 
 where my residence shall be," she persisted, her voice raised to 
 the unpleasant shriek that it always assumed in anger. " You 
 can't deny me that." 
 
 Mr. Greatorex raised his hand as if to wave off argument 
 and words. " Philip shall see you to an hotel, if you feel 
 unable to drive to one with your maid," he said, with slight 
 sarcasm. "But, under my roof, which once sheltered in happi- 
 ness my poor son, you may not remain." 
 
 " I was your son's wife," she passionately said. 
 
 " I will tell you what you were to him, if you wish. I don't 
 press it." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "His curse." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " His curse before marriage ; his curse after it." 
 
 As he stood there, his face full of pain, speaking not angrily, 
 but in tones mournfully subdued, certain items connected with 
 the past rose up to the mind of Mrs. Bede Greatore?:. She was 
 aware then that he knew all. She had some little shame left 
 in her, and her very brow grew crimson. 
 
 " I cannot imagine what you have heard, or may suspect," 
 she faltered. " The past is past. I did nothing very wrong. 
 Nothing but what plenty of other girls do." 
 
 " May God forgive you, Louisa Greatorex ; as I know He 
 has forgiven ///';«." 
 
 That far-off time was surging in her mind like angry waves, 
 one event replacing another. During her prolonged visit to 
 this very house as Louisa JoHffe, she had suffered Bede to 
 become passionately attached to her. Suffered ? — It was she 
 who drew him on and on. She secretly engaged herself to 
 him ; a solemn engagement ; and Bede acceded to her request 
 that it should be kept secret for a time. She did not like Bede; 
 she was playing an utterly false part ; she coveted the income 
 and position that would be hers as his wife, but she rather dis- 
 liked him on the whole. Her motive in demanding that their 
 engagement should be concealed, was a hope that some more 
 desirable offer might turn up. Oh, that Bede had suspected it !
 
 CONCLUSION. 463 
 
 He looked that she should become his wife as surely as he 
 looked for Heaven. After her return home from her visit, 
 when John OlHvera was sojourning at Helstonleigh, she played 
 exactly the same game with him. Drawing him on to love her, 
 and engaging herself to him in secret. She liked hivi, but she 
 did not care to wait an indefinite number of years, until the 
 young barrister should find himself in a position to marry. 
 \Vhich of the two she would eventually have chosen, was a 
 matter that must remain for ever uncertain ; most likely (she 
 acknowledged so to herself) it would have been Bede and his 
 wealth. 
 
 Things went on smoothly enough, she corresponding ardently 
 and secretly with both, until the time of the March assizes — so 
 often spoken of — and the fatal night when Bede Greatorex 
 came down to Helstonleigh on a mission to his cousin. The 
 contretemps, the almost certainty of discovery, the very prob- 
 able fear that should lose both her lovers, nearly drove Louisa 
 out of her senses. That something in connection with it had 
 passed between Bede and his cousin, she knew from Bede's 
 manner that evening at her mother's ; how much, she did not 
 dare to ask. The following morning, when the news was 
 brought to her that Mr. Ollivera had destroyed himself, she 
 felt like a guilty woman. Whatever might have been the 
 mystery of the death : whether he had really committed suicide, 
 or whether Bede had shot him in the heat of his passionate 
 Spanish blood— and it was impossible but that she should have 
 her doubts upon the subject — she was the primary cause of the 
 catastrophe ; and she knew it and felt it. Had she gone out 
 herself and killed him, she could not have felt it more so. 
 
 She became aware of another thing — that Bede Greatorex, 
 searching amidst the effects of the dead on the following day, 
 must have found her love-letters : more impassioned letters 
 than she had been wont to write to Jiim. 
 
 Bede did not visit her again during his stay at Helstonleigh, 
 and she would not have dared to seek him. Some months 
 later they met by accident in London : were thrown together 
 three or four times. Bede renewed his offer, and she accepted 
 him at once ; the doubt in her mind as to the part he might 
 have taken in John Ollivera's death never having been solved. 
 She conveniently ignored it, for the glowing prospect of an 
 establishment was all in all to her. 
 
 But what sort of a wife did she make him ? — how much did
 
 464 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 Bede, in his chivalric devotion, have to bear? She alone knew; 
 she knew it now as she stood there ; and her attempt to carry 
 it off with a high hand to Mr. Greatorex signally failed. If 
 ever the true sense of her sin should be brought home by 
 Heaven to Louisa Greatorex, its weight, as connected with the 
 treatment of her husband, would be well-nigh greater than she 
 could bear. A curse to him before marriage ; a curse to him 
 after it : Mr. Greatorex had well spoken. 
 
 "Am I to starve in future, that you will not give me a 
 home?" she burst forth, driving other thoughts away from her. 
 " What's two-hundred a year ? How am I to live upon it ? " 
 
 " My recommendation to you was, that you should live in 
 Boulogne ; with or near your mother," Mr. Greatorex calmly 
 answered. "Two-hundred pounds a year will amply suffice 
 for that." 
 
 "Two-hundred pounds!" she retorted rudely. "I shall 
 spend more than that on my dress." 
 
 "As you please, of course. It is the sum that will be paid 
 you in quarterly instalments of fifty pounds, as long as I live. 
 At my death, the half of it only would be secured to you. 
 Should you marry again, the payments would altogether cease. 
 All this I stated to you in my letter : I repeat it now. Not 
 another shilling will you receive from me — in life, or after 
 death." 
 
 She saw her future ; saw it all mapped out before her ; and 
 her face took an expression of mortification and despair. No 
 more ravishing toilettes or French waiting-maids ; no more 
 costly dinner-parties, or magnificent kettle-drums. Mrs. Bede 
 Greatorex and society must henceforth live tolerably far apart. 
 The home she had so despised, this that she was now being 
 turned from, would be as a palace compared with lodgings in 
 Boulogne, or elsewhere. 
 
 "To prolong this interview will produce no further result," 
 spoke Mr. Greatorex, moving towards the door. " I must beg 
 to remind you that friends are waiting for me." 
 
 " And my clothes, that I left here ? And the ornaments that 
 were mine ? " 
 
 " Everything belonging to you has been packed ready for 
 removal. The cases shall be sent to whatever place you may 
 name." 
 
 She turned away without another word. Mr. Greatorex 
 rang the bell. Outside, sitting under one of the white statues,
 
 CONCLUSION.-- 465 
 
 near the small conservatory, was the French maid, inwardly 
 railing against the want of politeness of these miserabk 
 Anglais. Trusty Philip had warned her that she need not 
 go up higher. 
 
 The cab drove away with them, and Mr. Greatorex returned 
 to the dining-room with a relieved heart. 
 
 " She is done with at last, thank Heaven ! Let us have tea 
 together, Roland," he added, with a smile. " Lady Yorke will 
 take off her bonnet, and make it for us ; as she did when she 
 was my little friend Annabel Channing." 
 
 Copy of the letter received by Judge Kene from Bede Greatorex. 
 
 " As you know so much. Sir Thomas, I owe it to you and to 
 myself to afford you some further explanation. You have shown 
 yourself a true friend to me : add to the obligation, by imparting 
 the details I now send you to Henry William Ollivera. 
 
 "When I was despatched to Helstonleigh on that fatal 
 mission, I was engaged to be married to Louisa Joliffe, and 
 loved her passionately. The engagement had existed several 
 months, but was at her request kept secret between us. After 
 executing the business I was charged with to John, we sat on, 
 in his room, talking of indifferent matters. I said that I should 
 spend the evening with the Joliffes : John laughed a Httle, and 
 said perhaps he should also. One word led to another, and at 
 last he told me, promising that it must be in confidence, that 
 he was engaged to Louisa. I thought he was joking; my 
 answer annoyed him; and he went on to say things about 
 Louisa's love for him and their future marriage that very nearly 
 drove me wild. What I did say, I hardly know now. It seemed 
 to me that he had treacherously stepped in to take my bride 
 from me, and win her for himself We recriminated on each 
 other. She had deceived us both, but neither of us suspected 
 it then : and we felt something like rival tigers ; at least I know 
 I did. Whenever my Spanish blood got up I was a madman 
 — as you may remember, Kene, for you saw me so once or 
 twice in earlier days. I was nothing else that mad and wicked 
 evening. At some taunt of his — or what sounded like one to 
 me — I took up the pistol, that lay on the table under my hand, 
 and fired it at him. Before Heaven, where I shall so soon 
 stand, I declare that I had no intention of killing him. I did 
 not know whether the pistol was loaded or not. I do i- Jt even 
 
 Roland Yorke. 30
 
 466 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 think I knew what I was doing, or that I had caught up the 
 pistol at all : in my mad rage I was conscious of nothing. The 
 shot killed him instantaneously, even in the midst of his cry. 
 I cried out too — with horror at what I had done. My passion 
 faded and I stood still and mute as he was. Before I crossed 
 to his succour, I saw that he was dead. How horribly I have 
 repented since that I did not fling open the door and call for 
 assistance, none, save myself, can know. Self-preservation lies 
 instinctively within us all, and I suppose that stopped me. Oh, 
 the false coward that I have since ever called myself! — Oh, the 
 years of concealment and misery it would have saved ! All I 
 thought of then, was — to get away. A short time I listened, 
 but no sound told that any one had been within earshot. I 
 softly opened the door to escape, looking out first to recon- 
 noitre ; and — found myself almost face to face with a man. 
 He stood on the stairs in a listening attitude, and our eyes 
 met under the gaslight. I never forgot his ; they seemed to 
 shine out from beneath a mass of black hair ; eyes that after- 
 wards puzzled my memory for years. When the eyes of my 
 subsequent clerk, Mr. Brown, were wont to strike some un- 
 pleasant chord on my memory, I never connected them with 
 those other eyes ; for Brown had put off his disguise, and 
 looked another person. Ah, Kene ! don't you see the obliga- 
 tion I lie under to this man, George Winter ? Not at that 
 moment did he know I had committed murder, but in a short 
 time, as soon as the newspapers supplied details of the night's 
 doings, he could only become aware of it. Had a doubt 
 remained on his mind, when he entered our office and knew 
 me for Bede Greatorex, the thing must then have been clear to 
 him as daylight. To shield me he has remained under a cloud 
 himself: I hope my father will reward him. Even when he 
 was giving his evidence before you and the rest, he told a lie to 
 save me. For he said that when he saw the face at the door 
 it was after the departure of Mr. Bede Greatorex. It was my 
 face he saw, Kene ; no other. All through those years he has 
 noted my misery : and in his great compassion for my suffer- 
 ings, has been silently lightening life to mc where he could do 
 so. But, to go back to that time. 
 
 "I think we gazed at each other for the space of half-a- 
 minute, the man on the stairs and I : the friglit of seeing some 
 one there almost paralyzed me ; and then T. went in again and 
 shut the door. It was perhaps the sight of him that caused
 
 CONCLUSION, 467 
 
 me to attempt to throw suspicion off myself : certainly I had 
 not thought of doing so before. I put the pistol on the carpet 
 by the chair, as if it had fallen from John's right hand ; and 
 next, looking about on the table, I found the unfinished letter, 
 and added the lines you know of. I seemed to be doing it in 
 a dream ; as if it were not myself but some one else ; and it 
 was all done m a desperate hurry, for I grew afraid. Then 
 it occurred to me to put out the lamp; I don't know why; 
 and, upon that, I went out resolutely, for I did not like the 
 dark. Luck seemed to be against me. As I opened the door 
 this second time, some young man (not the first) was passing 
 by. Instinct caused me to turn and make believe to be 
 speaking to John. What I really said, I should never have 
 remembered but for hearing the young man, Alfred Jones, 
 repeat the words at the coroner's inquest. They served me 
 more than I thought for : for Alfred Jones unconsciously took 
 up the natural supposition that John was also speaking to me. 
 This version went forth to the public, and it was assumed that 
 what happened, happened after my departure. There is no 
 doubt that this was the chief element in throwing suspicion 
 from me. He showed me out of the house, and thenceforward 
 I had to try and act the part of an innocent man. I went to 
 the Star and Garter and took some brandy-and-water : I went 
 thence to Mrs, Joliffe's : how I did it all, with that horrible 
 thing upon me, I have never known. I said a few words to 
 Louisa, and by her answers, I felt sure that John's boast had 
 been (at least in part) a vain one. As I returned up High 
 Street, some tradesman was standing just within his own door. 
 He did not know I saw him. Halting, I looked at John 
 Ollivera's windows, opposite, and said something to the effect 
 that John must have gone to bed — all for the man to hear me. 
 Just afterwards I met you, Kcne — do you remember it ? You 
 were going to call on John, but I said he had gone to bed and 
 the people of the house, too, I supposed, as there was no light 
 to be seen. I shrank from the discovery, and would fain have 
 put it off for ever. What a night that was for me ! John's 
 face seemed ever before me, ever staring at me. In the 
 darkness of the bedroom, I saw him in his chair, just as I had 
 left him. I had not dared to ask for a night-light, lest it might 
 excite suspicion. How could I tell that the hotel would not 
 get to learn I was not in the habit of burning one ? 
 
 " You know the rest : the discovery and the inquest that fol-
 
 468 ROLAND YORKE. 
 
 lowed. Did I act my part well, Kene ? I suppose so, by the 
 result. That day — the first — you were with me when we 
 examined John's desk. It was advised that I should look over 
 his letters for any clue that they might possibly disclose of the 
 motive of his self-inflicted death. The large packet of letters 
 came, I found, from Louisa Joliffe, and poor John's had been 
 no vain boast. She had been all to him that she had professed 
 to be to me, a traitor to both. 
 
 **Why did I marry her, you will naturally ask. Ah, why ! 
 why ! Because my love for her fooled me into it : because^ if 
 you will, I was mad. When we met again, months afterwards, 
 the passion that I thought I had slayed within me, rose up with 
 tenfold force, and I yielded to it. To do so was not much 
 less sinful (looking at it as I look now) than the other and 
 greater crime. I saw it even as I stood with her before the 
 altar; I saw it afterwards clearer and more clear. But I loved 
 her even in spite of my better judgment ; I love her even yet : 
 and I have striven to do my duty by her in all indulgence, to 
 shield her from the cares of the world. 
 
 " And this is my life's history. Oh, Kene, if I have been 
 more sinful than other men, my merciful God knows what has 
 been my expiation. Can you even faintly picture it to yourself? 
 From a few minutes after the breath went out of poor John's 
 body, my punishment set in. It was only fear just at first ; it 
 was the bitterest remorse afterwards that ever made a wreck of 
 mortal man. I am not a murderer by nature, and John and I 
 Were dear friends. My days have been one long, wearing 
 penance : regret for him and his shortened life, dread of my 
 crime's discovery ; one or the other fillmg every moment of my 
 time : remorse and repentance, repentance and remorse : and 
 that it has been so is owing to Heaven's mercy. Not an hour 
 of the day or night, but I would gladly have given up my own 
 life to restore his. After the first horror had passed, I should 
 have declared the truth but for my mother's sake : in her state 
 of health it would have killed her. When she died, the time 
 had gone by for it. I had my father and my wife to consider 
 later, and remained perforce silent. My father has thought 
 that my bodily health failed : in one sense so it did, for I have 
 been wasting away from the first, dying slowly inch by inch. 
 
 " And that's all, Kene. When you shall have heard news of 
 my death — it will be with you very close ui)0n this letter — dis- 
 close the whole to Henry AVilliam OUivera. With regard to my
 
 CONCLUSION. 469 
 
 father, I leave the matter to you. If he in the slightest degree 
 suspects me — and I can but think he must do so, after Winter's 
 confession, and from the ready consent he gave to my coming 
 on the Continent for an indefinite period— then tell him the 
 whole truth. Heaven bless you all, and grant you the peace 
 that can spring alone of the atonement of Jesus Christ ! / 
 have dared to think it mine for some little time now. 
 
 "Bede Greatorex." 
 
 When the tidings of Bede's death reached him, Sir Thomas 
 Kene went out to seek an interview with Mr. Ollivera. The 
 clergyman read the letter, and bent his head in prolonged 
 silence. 
 
 "After all, I suppose John's grave will have to remain 
 undisturbed," spoke the judge. " Winter cleared his memory." 
 
 "Yes; better so, perhaps," was the slow, thoughtful reply. 
 " If I had never before been thankful that I read the burial 
 service over him, I should be so now. You see, I was right, 
 Kene. God be merciful to us all, for we are all miserable 
 sinners ! " 
 
 THE END. 
 
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