GERALD YORKE IN A DILEMMA.
Mr. Gerald Yorke stood in his chambers--as he was pleased to style the
luxurious rooms he occupied in a most fashionable quarter of London.
Gerald liked both luxury and fashion, and went in for both. He was
occupied very much as Mrs. Bede Greatorex had been earlier in the
day--namely, 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 had
embarked on one of his own choosing. He determined to be a public man;
and had private ambitious visions of a future premiership. He came to
London, got introductions through his family connections, and hoped to
be promoted to some government appointment 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 everybody who has tried it knows, however unlimited
the general credit may be; and Gerald Yorke laboured under the
drawback of possessing none. A handsome present from Lord Carrick when
his lordship was in funds, of a five-pound note, screwed out of his
mother's shallow purse, constituted his resources. So Gerald did as a
vast 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 of 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 back 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
seemed _stuck_), and success, with its attendant golden harvest, drew
almost as near to his view, as its necessity was in reality. For the
ready money earned by his stray papers and reviews, was verily but as
a drop of water in the great ocean of Gerald's needs.
Look at him as he stands there with his back to the fireplace; the
tall, fine man in his evening dress. But there is a savage frown of
perplexity and temper on his generally cynical face, for something has
occurred to annoy him.
And yet, that had been in its earlier part such a red-lettered day! In
the morning Gerald had put the finishing conclusion to his book, and
complacently written the title. In the afternoon he had been
introduced to a great literary don at Mrs. Bede Greatorex's drum, who
might prove of use in the future. Calling in later upon a friend, he
had taken some dinner 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
handwriting 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 cure. When only twenty-one, he had married. The young lady,
Winnifred Eales, was of no family, and did not possess a fraction of
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 the children; but he had long ago found them an awful
incumbrance, and kept them in the background. To do so was less cost.
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, he 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 eyesight, and then the letter was
dashed down in vehement passion.
"Winny's mad!"
Whinny (as Gerald's wife was generally called) tired of her lonely
home, of the monotonous care of her children, tired above all of
waiting month after month, year after year, for the fulfilment of his
promises to put matters upon a more satisfactory 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 in London (Paddington terminus) 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 announcement, that, for a man in society to get! Gerald stood
very much as if he had received a blow that blinded him. _What_ was he
to do with them when they came? 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 a dish of fruit, and
ventured to remind him of the engagement at the opera, truly 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 there been a
possibility of doing it, he would have put off his supper-party. The
other letter, which he opened in 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 get 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 baptismal ones) 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
soliloquised Gerald in his dilemma, that fashionable drawl of his,
kept for the world, not being discernible in private life. "Suppose
she should turn restive and insist on coming _here?_ Good heavens! a
silly, untidy wife, and three ill-kept children!"
He walked to the sideboard, dashed out a glass of some cordial with
his shaking band, 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, resuming his place on the hearthrug, "I
might get along. Some of those confounded publishers are so
independent; they'll keep a manuscript for twelve months and never
look at it."
A short while 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 some others
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 over 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 without a special recommendation.
Let's see? Who is there? Hamish Channing. Nobody so good. His
capabilities are first-rate, and I'll make him read it at once. If
Vincent Yorke----"
The soliloquy was brought to a standstill. Some commotion outside, as
if a visitor had sought to enter and was stopped, caught Gerald's
startled ear; but he knew his servant was trustworthy. The next moment
the door opened, and the man spoke.
"Mr. Yorke, sir."
Who should walk in, with his usual disregard to the exigencies of
ceremonious life, but Roland! Gerald stared in utter astonishment;
and, when satisfied that it was in truth his brother, frowned awfully.
Gerald in his high sphere might find it difficult to get along; but to
have an elder brother who was so down in the world as to accept any
common employment that offered, and put up with one room and a turn-up
bedstead, and not scruple to own it, was a very different matter. And
Gerald's intention was to wash his hands of Roland and his low
surroundings, as entirely as Sir Richard Yorke could do.
Roland took a survey of things in general, and saluted his brother
with off-hand cordiality. He knew his presence there was unacceptable,
but in his good-nature would not appear to remember it. The handsome
rooms, lacking no signs of wealth and comfort, the preparations for
the entertainment that peeped out here and there, Gerald himself (as
Roland would have expressed it) in full fig; all seemed to denote that
life was sunny in this quarter, and Roland thought it was fine to be
Gerald.
Gerald slowly extended one unwilling finger in response to Roland's
offered grasp, and waited for him to explain his business, not
inviting him to sit. It was not he that would allow Roland to think he
might be a visitor there at will. Roland, however, put himself into a
comfortable velvet lounging-chair of his own accord, as easily as he
might have put himself into the old horsehair thing at Mrs. Jones's:
and then proceeded to tell his errand.
It was this. Upon going home that night at seven--for he had to stay
late in the office to make up for the time lost at Mrs. Bede's
kettle-drum--Roland found a letter from Lord Carrick, who was in the
shade still. Amidst some personal matters, it contained a confidential
message for Gerald, which Roland was charged to deliver in person.
This was no other than a reminder to Gerald that a certain pecuniary
obligation for which he and Lord Carrick were equally responsible (the
latter having made himself so, to accommodate Gerald, but receiving no
benefit) was becoming due, and that Gerald would have to meet it.
"Tell him, my boy, that I'd willingly find the means for him if I
could, and as much more at the back of it," wrote the good-natured
peer; "but I'm regularly out of everything for the time being, and
_can't_."
It may be easily conceived that the errand, when explained, did not
tend to increase Roland's welcome. Gerald bit his full lips with
suppressed passion, and could willingly have struck his brother.
Vincent Yorke, perhaps as an ostensible plea for not responding in
kind to Gerald's application for the loan of twenty pounds that day,
said they might have to lose forty-four, and had disclosed to him the
particulars of the appropriated cheque, adding that he should think
suspicion must lie on someone of the four clerks in Bede Greatorex's
office. That was quite enough for Gerald.
In anything but a temperate way he now attacked his brother, not
saying, Did you steal the cheque? but accusing him of doing it, and
bringing up the old transaction at Mr. Galloway's. There ensued a
sharp, short quarrel: which might have been far sharper on Roland's
side but for the aspersion already cast on him by Hurst: that seemed
to have paved the way for this, and deadened its sting.
"Look here, Gerald," said Roland, calming down from anger, but
speaking with an emotion at which Gerald stared. "My taking that
twenty pound note from Galloway was an awful mistake; the one great
mistake of my life, for I shall never----"
"Call it a theft," roared Gerald.
"For I shall never make such another," went on Roland, just as though
he had not heard the interruption. "It will stick to me always, more
or less, be cropping up everlastingly; but, for all that, it was the
best thing that could have happened to me."
Gerald answered by a sneer.
"It sent me out to Port Natal. I should never have gone but for that,
however much I might have talked of it. I wanted to put Arthur
Channing straight with the world, and I couldn't stay and face the
world while I did it. Well, I went out to Port Natal: and I stayed
there, trying to get into funds, and come home with some redeeming
money in my hand. I stayed long enough to knock out of me a great deal
that wanted to come out; idleness, and folly, and senseless pride. I'm
not one of the good and brave ones yet, such as Arthur Channing is;
but I've learnt at any rate to do a little for myself and be tolerant
to others; I've learned not to be ashamed to work honestly for my
bread before eating it. There."
"The sooner you take yourself out of my rooms, the better," said
Gerald. "I am expecting friends."
"Don't fancy I'm going to wait till they come; I'd not intrude on
either you or them," retorted Roland, turning to depart. "I came up on
your business, Gerald, tonight, to oblige Carrick; but I shall tell
him to choose somebody else for a messenger if he wants to send again.
Good night."
Gerald gave no answer. Unless the banging-to the door after Roland
with his foot could be called one.
He stood ruminating for a short while alone. The message certainly
tended to a further complication of Gerald's perplexities. Although he
had originally assured Lord Carrick that he should not look to him to
meet the bill, he really had done so: for nobody looked in vain to
that imprudent and good-hearted man, when he had it in his power to
help.
"There's nothing for it but the novel," decided Gerald presently.
"What's the time?"
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that it was not yet half-past nine.
As his guests would not arrive until twelve, there was time, and to
spare, for a visit to Hamish Channing. So, packing up his manuscript,
he went forth.
Hamish sat in his writing-room as usual this evening, working closely.
His face wore a weary look as the light from the candle, the shade
temporarily removed, fell upon it. Ever good-humoured, ever full of
sweet hope, of loving-kindness to the whole world, he cared not for
his weariness; nay, was not conscious of it.
An arrival at the street door, and a bustle in the next room following
closely upon it; a child's joyous laughter and light chatter. Hamish
knew the cause. Little Miss Nelly had returned home 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 sleeve ribbons, and the bit of narrow blue on
her neck, suspending the locket with Grandpapa Channing's likeness in
it. Hamish caught up the lovely little vision and began fondling it;
kissing the bright cheeks, the chattering lips, the pretty neck.
"And now Nelly must go," he said, "for I have my work to do."
"A great deal of work?"
"Oceans of it, Nelly."
"Mamma says, you work too much," returned Nelly, looking full at him
with her brilliant, sweet blue eyes, so like his own.
"Tell mamma I say she knows nothing about it."
"Jane Greatorex was there, papa, and Aunt Annabel. She told me to tell
you, too, not to work so much."
"Jane Greatorex did?"
"Now, papa, you know! Annabel."
"We'll have mamma and Annabel taken up for conspiracy. Good night, my
little treasure: I'd keep you here always if I could."
"Let me say my prayers to you tonight, papa," whispered the child.
He was about to say no, but seemed to change his mind, and quitted the
chair at the writing-table for another. Then Nelly, throwing all her
gifts on the table in a heap, knelt down and put up her hands to say
her prayers. When she had concluded them, he did not let her rise, but
laid his hand upon her head and kept it there in silence, as if
praying himself. And Nelly went out with some awe, for papa's eyes
looked as if they had tears in them.
Hamish had settled to work again, and Nelly would be a myth until the
next morning, when Gerald Yorke arrived, dashing up in a hansom. He
came in to Hamish at once, 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 attentively; and
then give me your opinion of it. I thought once of asking Caustic, but
your judgment is worth more than his, because I know you'll give a
true report."
Gerald had either been in too great haste to make a fair copy for the
press, or else had deemed that point superfluous. As Hamish caught
sight of the blurred and blotted lines in Gerald's notably illegible
hand, he hesitated. He was so _full_ of work, and this would be indeed
a task. Only for the tenth part of a moment, however; he could sit up
at night and get through it.
"At once," said Gerald. "If you could put away your own work for it, I
should be obliged; I have a reason for wishing to get it back
directly. And Hamish, you'll mind and give me your real opinion in
strict candour."
"Do you say that seriously?" asked Hamish, his tone one of grave
meaning.
"Of coarse I do. Or why should I ask you to read it at all?"
"Not very long ago, a friend brought me a work he had written, begging
me to look over it, and tell him what I thought of it, without
disguise or flattery, just as you do now," spoke Hamish. "Well, I
thought he meant it, and did as he requested. Above all, he had said,
point out to me the faults. I did point out the faults. I told him my
opinion candidly and kindly, and it was not a favourable one. Gerald,
I lost my friend from that hour."
Gerald laughed. The cases, he thought, were totally dissimilar. Had an
angel from Heaven come down and said an unfavourable opinion could be
pronounced upon this work of his, he had not believed it.
"Don't be afraid, Channing. I shall thank you to give me your true
opinion just as though the manuscript belonged to some stranger, who
would never know what you said."
"I don't like the title," observed Hamish, accepting the conditions.
"Not like the title?"
"No."
Gerald had called it by a title more wonderful than attractive. The
good sense of Hamish Channing discovered the mistake at once.
"We made it up between us one night over our drink; one put in one
word and one another," said Gerald, alluding to sundry confrères of
his. "After all, Hamish, it's the book that makes the success, not the
title."
"But a good book should possess a good title."
"Well, the title can go for now; time enough to alter that later,"
concluded Gerald, rather testily. "You'll lose no time, Channing?"
"No more than I can help. To put all my work away you must know to be
impracticable, Gerald. But I'll make what haste I can." Hamish went
with him to the other room where Mrs. Channing was sitting, and Gerald
unbosomed himself to them of his great care; the dilemma which the
evening's post had put him in, as to the speedy arrival of his wife.
"What on earth to do, I can't tell," he said with a groan. "Lodgings
for a family are not found in an hour; and that's the best thing I can
do with them yet awhile. If Winny were not an utter simpleton, she'd
at least have given me a clear day's warning. And only look at the
impossibility of my getting dinner and tea for them tomorrow, and all
the rest of the necessaries. I shan't know how to set about it."
Hamish glanced at his wife and she at him, and they spoke almost
simultaneously.
"If you would like to bring them here first, Gerald, do so. You know
we shall be happy to see Winny. It may give you a few hours more to
fix on lodgings, and they need not move into them until night."
Gerald twirled his watch-chain as he stood, and did not at once
accept. He was looking very cross.
"Thank you," he said at length, but not very graciously, "then they
shall come here. I suppose you could not make it convenient to meet
them for me at Paddington, Hamish?"
"That I certainly could not," replied Hamish. "You know my hours in
the city, Gerald. If you are unable to go yourself, why don't you ask
Roland? I don't suppose"--and Hamish broke into a smile--"his services
are so valuable to Greatorex and Greatorex that they'd make an
objection."
The mention of his brother was enough for Gerald. He called him a few
contemptuous names, and went out to the cab, which had waited to drive
him back to his chambers, and to the entertaining of his friends, who
arrived in due course, and did not separate too soon.
Hamish finished his own work, and then he commenced for Gerald. He
sighed a little wearily, as he adjusted his light. Ellen thought him
long, and came in.
"Not ready yet, Hamish!"
"My darling, I must sit late tonight. I thought you had gone to bed."
"I have been waiting. You said at tea-time you had not so very much to
do. It is twelve o'clock. Whatever's that?"
"Gerald Yorke's manuscript. He wants me to read it."
"Hamish! As if you had not too much work of your own!"
"One must do a little kindness now and then," he said cheerfully. "You
go on, love. I'll come by-and-by."
It was of no use saying more, as Ellen knew by experience. This was
not the first friend's manuscript he had toiled through: and she went
upstairs. Hamish glanced at the light, saw that he had another candle
in readiness, coughed a little, as he often did now, applied himself
closely to his task until three o'clock, and then left off. In heart
and mind ever genial, he thought nothing of the extra toil: it was to
do a good turn for Gerald. Surely these unselfish, loving natures
shall find their deeds recorded on high, and meet with their reward!
He was up with the lark. Six o'clock saw him in his room again, that
he might give a few more hours to the manuscript before proceeding to
his daily work in the city.
Hamish Channing's was no eye-service, either to heaven or to man.