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, what with inward
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 large 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 Channing had been spoken
of 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 a chop
taken to his private sitting-room. Calling 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
Channing to drink tea with him: Mrs. Bede not having bidden them to
the soirée. 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 turmoil of the large gathering above, and Mr. Greatorex
partially forgot his cares.
Mrs. Bede Greatorex's rooms were lighted up, shutting out the remains
of daylight, when Roland Yorke entered them. For it was to get himself
up for this soirée that Roland had gone home in a commotion, calling
for half the people in the house to wait on him. The company was
large, elbowing each other as usual, and fighting for space on the
staircase and landing with the beauteous plants that lined the walls.
Whatever might be Mrs. Bede's short-comings 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 Channing. The vision
of her tearful face, seen in the morning, the revelation contained in
the careless words of Jane Greatorex had been making a hot place 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 she-stork!" ejaculated Roland, apostrophising the
unconscious Mrs. Bede Greatorex. "She has gone and kept her out of the
way tonight."
In consequence of this failure in his expectations, 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
get an education."
"What's that, Roland?"
Roland, in his indignation, had spoken so as to be overheard. He
turned to see the bright face of Hamish Channing, 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 a
hermit always, when one has an exacting wife. Mine threatened me with
unheard-of penalties if I didn't bring her tonight."
"Hamish!" exclaimed Mrs. Channing. "He does nothing but talk against
me, Roland. It is good for him to come out sometimes.
"I say, I can't see Annabel," cried Roland, in a most resentful tone,
as he, still hoping against hope, cast his eyes in search of her over
people's heads. "It's a thundering shame she is a prisoner upstairs
tonight, I suppose, taking care of Jane Greatorex."
"But that's no reason why you should call the little lady names,"
laughed Hamish.
"I called 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 _you_ then, Hamish, for speaking such a word!" burst
forth Roland. "Annabel a tyrant! You'll tell me I'm a Mormon next!
She's the sweetest-tempered girl in the world; she's 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 there's
not one of the lot of you fit to tie her shoe. There."
Roland backed against the wall in dudgeon, and stood there, pulling at
his whiskers. Hamish enjoyed these moods of Roland's beyond
everything; 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, it's not long she
should 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 from the impeding crowd. She welcomed them with both hands.
Hamish, a favourite of hers, was the courtly, sunny Hamish as of yore;
making the chief attraction of whatever society he might 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?" enquired 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'd leave off sending
you cards, sir."
"It was my wife's doings to come this evening; she dragged me out,"
answered saucy Hamish. "You've no idea how she pats upon a fellow,
Mrs. Greatorex."
Ellen laughed. "The real truth is, Mrs. Greatorex, that he was a
little less pressed for 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 banteringly. But a slight hectic 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 everybody were his natural enemy. On the whole, Roland did not
like soirées; there was no room for his elbows; and the company never
seemed to be in their natural manners; rather on artificial stilts.
Having come out to this one for the specific purpose of meeting
Annabel, Roland could but regard the disappointment in the light of a
personal wrong, and resent it accordingly.
In the midst of a grand, tremendous cavatina, loud enough to split the
ceiling, while the room was preparing itself to applaud, and Roland
was thinking it might have been more agreeable to ears if given out of
doors, say on the quai at Durban, he happened to raise his head, and
saw Gerald opposite. Their eyes met. Roland nodded, but Gerald gave 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. Perhaps Hamish
was also gaining notice by his personal attributes; it was not often
so entirely good-looking a man was seen in the polite society of
soirées and drums. Side by side they stood, the aspiring candidates
for literary honours, soon to be enrolled amidst the men who have
written Books. Which of them--that is, which work--would be the most
successful? That remained to be learnt. Hamish Channing had the
advantage (and a very great one) in looks; anybody might see that:
Hamish had the advantage in scholarship; and he had the advantage,
though perhaps the world could not see it yet, of genius. Hamish
Channing's education had been also sound and comprehensive: he was a
College man. Gerald was not. Mr. Channing the elder had been
straitened for means, as the public has heard of, but he 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: would there be
as much contrast in their books?
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.
Hamish, of genial temper himself, and his attention distracted by the
large assembly, observed it not.
The crashing came to an end, the applause also, and in the general
move that succeeded, Roland got away. Seeing a vacant sofa in a
comparatively deserted room, he took possession 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 saw a general resemblance (in the
chignon and shoulder-blades) 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 nearly
off. Clare Joliffe had never been a particular favourite of his; but,
regarded in the light of a home face, she was agreeably welcome.
"Whatever brings you here, Miss Joliffe?"
"I am come over on a visit," said the young lady. "Louisa has invited
me for the first time since her marriage. I only got here at seven
o'clock tonight; 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 got 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. Joliffe had
quitted Helstonleigh very shortly after that occurrence that had so
startled the town--the death, of John Ollivera. 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
this night--a grievance against Mrs. Bede Greatorex. Roland's
consisted in that lady's unkind treatment (real or fancied) of Miss
Channing, the notion of which he had but picked up that selfsame day.
Clare Joliffe'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 nice position, servants, and 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'd 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
give me a night's lodging, and then she wrote back, inviting me to
stay a week or two."
"Why should she not have had you before?"
"Oh, I don't suppose there has been any reason, except that she has
not thought of it. Louisa was always made up of self. 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, after the affair about
John Ollivera."
"What had that to do with it?" questioned Roland, opening 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 not promise herself to Bede,
there was at least a good deal of flirtation going on between them. We
got to know that after Louisa returned home. The next year, when John
Ollivera was at Helstonleigh, she had a flirtation with him. I know
she used to write to both of them. Anyway, at the time of his last
visit, when the death occurred, she had managed to engage herself to
the two."
"I've heard of two wives, but I never heard of two engagements going
on together," observed Roland. "Which of the fellows did she like
best?"
"I think she _liked_ John Ollivera. But Bede had a good income ready
made to his hand, and money went for a great deal with Louisa. She
could not marry both of them, 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 of fright the
night Bede Greatorex came in unexpectedly. We had a few friends with
us; mamma had invited Mr. Ollivera, and the tea waited for him. There
was a ring at the bell, and then the room-door opened for somebody to
be shown in. 'Here's your counsellor,' I whispered to Louisa. Instead
of him, 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 that John Ollivera came by his death. He was in
Helstonleigh for the assizes, you know; he 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 at Helstonleigh. We still expected
Mr. Ollivera, and Louisa kept casting frightened glances to the door
every time it opened. I know she felt at her wit's end; for of course
with both her lovers on the scene, a crisis was inevitable, and her
deceit would have to come out. Bede Greatorex was whispering to her at
times throughout the evening; there seemed to be some trouble between
them. Mr. Ollivera did not come--Bede told us he had left him busy,
and complaining of a headache. I thought Bede seemed very angry with
Louisa; and as soon as he left, she bolted herself in her chamber, and
we did not see her again that night. The next morning she sent word
down she was ill, and stayed in bed. Mary said she knew what it was
that ailed her--worry; but I thought she only wished 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 completely from
the dilemma."
"But--you don't mean that she--that she went out and killed him?"
cried Roland in puzzled wonder. "Could she have got out without being
seen?"
"Of course I don't mean it; I said it to her 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 of them turned
hastily. Mr. Bede Greatorex, in taking his elbow from the ormolu
cabinet behind the sofa, had accidentally knocked down a beautiful
miniature fountain of Bohemian glass, which had been throwing up its
choice perfume.
"He certainly heard me," breathed Clare Joliffe, excessively
discomfited. "I never knew he was there."
The breakage caused some commotion, and must have annoyed Mr. Bede
Greatorex. He rang the bell loudly for a servant, and those who caught
a view of his face, saw that it had a white stillness on it, 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 staircase 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 free
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 the tea.
I've got to go to bed now."
"Where's Miss Channing?"
"She's there, 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 mending the crimson silk curtain of the lower
bookcase. Jane, dashing it open to look after some book, had torn the
curtain woefully; so Miss Channing took it from its place and set to
work 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 is gone into his consulting-room. Some one came to see
him."
Down sat Roland on the other side of the table; and, as a preliminary
to proceedings, pulled his whiskers and took a long stare right into
the young lady's face.
"I say, Annabel, why are you not at the party tonight?"
"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 anybody 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 tomorrow if you like, Annabel; I shall say
it. She's a tyrannical, mean-spirited, heartless image; and I shall be
telling 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 forbear a smile.
Roland was never more serious in his life.
"And I want to know what it was she had been doing today, to put you
into that grief."
Annabel coloured almost to tears. It was a home question, and brought
back all the troubles 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 annoyance was heaped upon her almost daily,
sometimes bordering upon cruel 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
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 was elicited 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,
I'd marry you tomorrow, Annabel."
In spite of the matter-of-fact, earnest tone in which he spoke, almost
as if he were asserting he'd 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 hesitating, lame kind of way, as she bent her head low
over a tangle in the red sewing-silk.
"Some one else's consent! You don't mean to say you'd not marry me,
Annabel!"
"I don't say I would."
Roland looked fierce. "You couldn't perjure yourself; you _couldn't_,
Annabel; don't you know what you always said--that you'd be my wife?"
"But I was only a senseless little child then."
"I don't care if you were. I mean it to be carried out. Why, Annabel,
who else in the world, 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 tonight that you should not stay here another day if I
could--good evening, sir."
Mr. Greatorex, returning to the room, looked a little surprised to see
a gentleman in it, who rose to receive him. Recognising Roland, he
greeted him civilly.
"Is it you, Mr. Yorke? Do you want me?"
"No, sir. Coming down from the kick-up, I met Jenny, 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; folks have tempers, you know; and
in catching a glimpse of her face today, I saw it red with grief and
tears. 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 avow this, standing there in
his earnest simplicity, in his great height, was something to laugh
at. But Mr. Greatorex detected the rare good-feeling.
"I am afraid Miss Channing may think your declaration is 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 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
good-hearted simplicity 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, into to
Mrs. Jones's parlour, a light through the half-open door showing him
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, in allusion to
the work in her nimble fingers.
"I am working not to waste my time, Mr. Yorke, while I sit up for
Alletha Rye. She is not in yet."
"Out on the spree?" cried Roland.
"She and sprees don't have much to do with each other," said Mrs.
Jones. "There's a little child ill a few doors higher up, and
Alletha's gone in to sit with her. But she ought to have been home by
eleven. And how have you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Yorke?"
"I say, Mrs. J., don't you go talking about enjoyment," spoke Roland
resentfully. "It has been a miserable failure altogether. 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 inconsistent. "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 Helstonleigh?"
"Clare? Let me see--Clare was the second: 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. Ollivera 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. _I_ 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 of glass?" asked practical Mrs. J.
"Oh, Bede's elbow had touched a perfume fountain of crimson glass, 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 in a tantrum over it when the company
departs. Were I Bede I should tell her it blew up of itself."
"Is Miss Clare Joliffe staying there?"
"Got there today 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
the 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."
"Like a good many other mistresses," remarked Mrs. J. "I wish Alletha
would make haste."
"She never asked Miss Channing and little Greatorex to her party
tonight," 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 revelations as to Mrs. Bede had
been sufficiently extensive, sat for some minutes in silence; his face
bent forward, his elbow on his knee, and pulling at his whiskers in
deep thought.
"I say, Mrs. J., how much do you think two people could live upon?" he
burst forth.
"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'd 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
apiece, that would make three hundred a year. Now don't you think,
Mrs. Jenkins, 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 decision,
than in accordance with her true 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 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 inclined. But then you
see, Mr. Yorke, one ought always to allow for interruptions."
"What interruptions?" 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 _them_ 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 of them may come
trooping down before you are well aware."
The vista presented to Roland was one his sanguine 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 sniff. "I've known them 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, preparatory to retiring for the night.
"Look here, Mrs. Jones. I'm uncommon fond of children--you should see
how I love that sweet Nelly Channing--I'd not mind if I had a score
about the place; but what becomes of the little monkeys when there's
no bread and cheese to feed them on?"
"That's the precise difficulty, Mr. Yorke."