WINNY.
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 say the truth, she was somewhat of a doll in
intellect as well as face; standing always in awe of big, resolute,
clever Gerald, yielding implicitly to his superior will. But for a
strong-minded sister, who had loudly rebelled against Winny's wrongs,
in being condemned to an obscure country cottage, while he flourished
in high life in London, and who managed privately the removal for her,
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 pillowcases."
Gerald bit his lip to avoid an ugly word: to anybody but his wife on
this her first arrival in London, he would have flung it out.
"Have you brought no nursemaid, Winny?"
"Good gracious, no! How could I tell I might afford to bring one,
Gerald? You know I had but one maid for everything, 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 pillowcases! If Gerald Yorke had
never before offered up a prayer, he did then: that no ill-chance
might have brought any of his fashionable friends to the station that
unlucky afternoon.
"Drive through the obscurest streets," he said in the cabman's ear on
his return, as he mentioned Hamish Channing's address. "Never mind
taking a round; I'll pay you." And the man put his whip to the bridge
of his nose, and gave a confidential nod in answer: for which Gerald
could have knocked him down.
"And now, Winny, tell me how you came to do this mad thing," he said
sternly, when he was seated with them.
For answer, Mrs. Yorke broke into a burst of sobs. It was coming, she
thought. But Gerald had no mind for a scene there; and so held his
tongue to a better 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 had me kiss you on the platform?" he angrily demanded.
"Make a family embracing of it, for the benefit 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, Winny! My chambers are hardly large
enough for me. I have taken lodgings for you this morning; the best I
could at a minute's notice. London is full of drawbacks and
inconveniences: if you have to put up with some, you must remember
that you have brought them on yourself."
"Will there be any dinner for us?" asked Winny timidly. "The poor
little girls are very hungry."
"You are going to Mrs. Hamish Channing's until tonight. I daresay
she'll have dinner ready for you. Afterwards you can call at the
rooms, and settle with the landlady what you will want got in."
The change in Mrs. Yorke's face was like magic; a glad brightness
overspread it. Once when she was ill in lodgings at Helstonleigh,
before her husband removed her into Gloucestershire, her eldest child
being then an infant, Hamish Channing's wife had been wonderfully kind
to her. To hear that she was going to her seemed like a haven of
refuge in this wilderness of a London, which she had never until now
visited.
"Oh, thank you, Gerald. I am so glad."
"I suppose you have brought some money with you," said Gerald.
"I think I have about sixteen shillings," she answered, beginning to
turn 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'd not have let me come away. It was
not enough to pay all; there's six or seven pounds unpaid still."
An exceedingly blank look settled on Gerald's face. The one ray of
comfort looming out of 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 from Winny, who became suddenly aware that the
cab, save for themselves, was empty.
"The luggage, Gerald, the luggage! O Gerald, the luggage!"
"Hold your tongue, Winny," said Gerald angrily, pulling her back as
she was about either to spring out or 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 Winny 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 her face of welcome,
and the first thing Winny did was to burst into tears and sob out the
grievance about the luggage in her arms. If 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. Just waiting to hand them over to
Mrs. Channing's care, and to give the written address of the lodgings,
Gerald left. He was engaged that afternoon to dine with a party at
Richmond, and would not see his wife again before the morrow.
"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, shall sleep at
them."
And Gerald, lightly vaulting into a passing hansom, was cantered off.
Winny turned to her good friend Ellen Channing for consolation, who
gave her the best that the circumstances admitted of.
Hamish, beyond his bright welcome, saw very little of Winny that
evening; he was shut up with her husband's manuscript. He took
her home at night. The lodgings engaged by Gerald consisted of a
sitting-room and two bedchambers, the people of the house to cook and
give attendance. 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 fit to
drop with fatigue, and put themselves quietly on the carpet.
"Oh, Mr. Channing! do you think he is not going to forgive me! It is
so cruel of him to send us into this strange place all alone."
"He had an engagement, you know," answered Hamish, his tone taking,
perhaps unconsciously, the same kind of soothing persuasion that he
would have used to a child. "London engagements 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 at Helstonleigh."
A servant, who looked untidy enough to have a world full of work upon
her back, 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, handsome fellow was, with the bright and good
face. It was a face that would be bright always, bright in dying; but
it had more than two shades of care on it today. For if any 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 very
grave faults besides, offending against morality and good taste. Not
one reader in fifty, and that must be some school-girl, inveterate
after novels, could get through the first volume. Certainly, in
plunging into a long work of fiction, Gerald Yorke had mistaken his
vocation. How entirely different this crude and worthless book was
from the high-class work Hamish was writing, his cheeks glowed to
contemplate. Not in triumph over Gerald; never a tarnish 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 of 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 the fairest
damask, the chocolate and cream sent its aroma aloft. 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 having to report of it.
"I was not sure you would be up."
"I had to be up early this morning. Tell your news out, Hamish; I
suppose the gist of it is that Winny is in a state of rebellion. Stay!
I'll send the things 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," said
Gerald, as his servant disappeared with the breakfast tray. "She
has no doubt been grumbling to you and Mrs. Channing about her
'wrongs,'--it's what she called it 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've not 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 but 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
in alone. My wife seized hold of the occasion to read me a lecture,
saying _she_ should not like it at all; I'm not sure but she said 'not
put up with it.'"
"Your wife is a different woman from mine," growled Gerald; for
Hamish's gay, half mocking tone covering a kinder and deeper feeling,
jarred somewhat on his perplexed mind. "You knew what Winny is before
today. I shall go down and see her by-and-by."
"Shall you keep these chambers on?"
"Keep these chambers on!" echoed Gerald, "why, of _course_ I must keep
them on. And live at them too, in a general way. Though how I shall
afford the cost of the two places, the devil only knows."
"You have been affording it hitherto. Winny has had a separate home."
"What keeps a cottage down yonder, won't pay lodgings in London. You
must know that, Hamish."
Hamish did not immediately speak: if he could not agree, he would not
disagree. He did not see why Gerald should not take either a small
house, or apartments sufficiently commodious, in a neighbourhood good
enough for his fashionable friends not to be ashamed to resort to.
Hamish and Gerald understood things in so different a light: Gerald
estimated people (and fashion) by their drawl, and dress, and
assumption of fast life: Hamish knew that all good men, no matter
though they were of the very highest rank, were proud to respect worth
and intellect and sincere nature in a poor little home, as in a palace
perched aloft on Hyde Park gates. Ah me! I think one must be coming
near to quit this world and its frivolity, ere the curtain of dazzling
gauze that falls before our eyes is lifted.
"Are you getting on with my manuscript, Hamish?"
"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, the glad expectation 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 manuscript----"
What was it that happened? Gerald broke off abruptly and looked at the
door; his mouth slightly opened, his ear was cocked in the attitude of
one, listening anxiously. Hamish, unused to the sounds of the place,
heard nothing whatever.
"Say I'm out, Hamish, old fellow; say I'm out," whispered Gerald,
disappearing noiselessly within an invisible closet; invisible from
being papered like the walls and opening with a knob no bigger than a
nut. Hamish sat in a trance of inward astonishment, easy as ever
outwardly, 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 there 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 gone," 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 summons him to the
county-court."
"And he means it," emphatically whispered the servant in Hamish's
hearing, as Mr. Brookes's descending footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Hamish pulled back the closet-door by the knob to release Gerald. He
came forth like a whirlwind--if a furious passion may be called one.
Hamish had not heard so much abuse lavished on one person for many a
day as Gerald gave his servant. The man had been momentarily off his
usual vigilant 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 driven
his servant from the room. "He is an awful dun, and will not be put
off much longer. Seven pounds ten shillings,"--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," returned Gerald, gloomily. "I'd
pay him today, 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 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 and cross-grained
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 got 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 demanded Gerald.
"One can't live as a hermit. I beg your pardon, old fellow; I'm cross,
I know, but I have so much to worry me. Things come upon one all at
once. Because I had not enough ways for my ready money just now, Winny
must come up and want a heap."
"What is pressing you particularly?"
"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 present actual hour that was
passing.
"About my manuscript," he resumed, his tone brightening a little as he
sat down to the table to face Hamish.
Still, for an instant or two, Hamish hesitated. He drew the sheets
towards him and turned them over, as if in deliberation what to say.
"You charged me to tell you the truth, Gerald."
"Of _course_ I did," loudly answered Gerald. "The truth, the whole
truth, and nothing 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.
Delicately, gently, 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
_why_ 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
at the bottom of the following 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 for the three volumes. I don't think you could write a
successful work of fiction in even one volume, Gerald--as I count
success. It must have a plot; it must have consecutiveness in the
working 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 hints or help of mine would enable you to
accomplish a work likely to be successful, I would heartily put myself
at your service, Gerald. But I don't. I am sure you have mistaken your
vocation in attempting a work of fiction."
"Thank you," said Gerald. "_Your_ work has not been tried yet. That's
sure to prove a success, I suppose?"
The bright glow of anticipation lighted Hamish Manning's sensitive
face. It would have betrayed the all-powerful hope lying within him,
apart from the involuntary smile, checked 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 for those of my
own brothers. You know I do, and therefore will not mistake me. I
debated whether I should not get up some excuse for giving no opinion,
except that you had better submit it to a publisher. Of course you can
do that still."
"Let me understand you," said Gerald. "You wish to inform me that no
publisher would be likely to take it." Hamish paused slightly. "I do
not say that. Publishers take all kinds of works. The chief
embarrassment on my mind is this, Gerald: that, if published, it could
not bring you much honour or credit; or--I think--returns."
They shook hands; and Hamish, who would be late at his office,
departed, leaving Gerald alone. He went along with a light, glad step,
wondering whether he could afford to help Gerald out of the money
difficulty of the day. Sixteen guineas were due to him for literary
work; if he got it paid, he would enclose the receipt for the
boot-bill to Gerald, saying nothing.
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 veto pronounced, 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 may be bad or good. The bad ones perhaps are thought most
of: they are more trusted to bring back substantial reward. Of course,
therefore, Gerald Yorke could but regard the judgment as a
deliberately false one, spoken in jealous envy; tendered to keep him
back from fame. He made the great mistake that many another has made
before him, when receiving honest advice in a similar case, and many
will make again. And the book _gained_ in his opinion rather than
lost.
"Curse him for his insolence! curse him for a false, self-sufficient
puppy!" foamed Gerald, rapping out unorthodox words in his passion.
"Ware to yourself, Mr. Hamish Channing! you shall find, sooner or
later, what it is to make an enemy of me."
But Gerald received some balm ere the day was over, for Mr. Brookes's
receipted bill came to him by post in a blank envelope. And he
wondered who on earth had been civil enough to pay the money.