ARRIVING AT EUSTON SQUARE.
Roland Yorke had stuck to his copying. During this autumn, now rapidly
passing, when all the world and his wife were off on the wing,
spending their money, and taking out their fling at 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 office had him by
day, the folios by night. And if he hindered an evening or two a week
by dropping in upon Mr. Greatorex and somebody else who was in Mr.
Greatorex's house, he sat up at his work when he got 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 gaining a fortune. The
writing came to grief sometimes; Roland was as fond of talking as
ever, by way of recreative 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 got, and the sheet begun
again. Therefore he was advancing rather more surely than swiftly: his
present earnings amounted in the aggregate to two sovereigns! And
these 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 was about
to visit London, did not quite know whether he stood on his head or
his heels. Most 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 awaiting him that had come 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 Mr. Ollivera,
quietly reading in the drawing-room above, leaped off his seat with
consternation, fully believing that somebody was on fire.
Arthur Channing was coming to London! Then. That same evening. 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 speculate upon why the station should
be Euston Square and not Paddington. Arthur was coming, and that was
sufficient 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 the Euston Square terminus. As usual, he had not a
fraction of money. That was no impediment to his arriving in time: and
the extraordinary manner in which he pushed his way along the streets,
striding over or through all impediments, caused a crowd of
ragamuffins to collect and follow him on the run, believing that, like
Johnny Gilpin, he was doing it for a wager.
Charles, the youngest of the Channing family, was coming home
overland, _viâ_ Marseilles, from India, 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.
Panting and breathless with haste, looking wild with excitement,
Roland went striding on to 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, passengers screamed--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. The 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 them--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 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 I
have lost it."
"Lost your luggage?"
"Yes; in so far as that it has not come with me. This," showing a
rather high basket, whose top was a mound of 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 myself could not see him anywhere. When we reached Birmingham it
was not to be found, and I telegraphed to Helstonleigh. The guard said
if it came to Birmingham in time he would put it in the van. I only
got to the station as the train was starting, and had no time to
look."
"But what took you round by Birmingham?"
"Business for Galloway. I had three or four hours' work to do for him
there."
"Bother Galloway! How are the two mothers?" continued 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. Everybody 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."
"Where 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 this one, Roland. Galloway made a point
of my doing all there was to do."
"The cantankerous, exacting old beauty! Are his curls flourishing?"
Arthur smiled. "Channing still, but growing a little thin."
"And you are getting on well, Arthur?
"Very. 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 private hotel in 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 beginning to spin along
the lighted streets, however, he impulsively arrested the man, without
warning to Arthur, and substituted Mrs. Gerald Yorke's lodgings. They
were close at hand; but that was not his motive.
"If we leave the grapes at the chambers, Ger will only entertain his
cronies with them--a lot of fast men like himself," 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'd ever taste anything
good at all but for Mrs. 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.
"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 launching 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 stilted up. He'd not 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'd not take a pitch-fork 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 at Galloway's--the
banknote. The very 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 with that back 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'd never have
gone: Miss Nelly might have done her errand herself. 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 got nearly through
one volume, and it was a task. It was impossible to make head or tail
of it. I know I'm different from other folks, 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 _I_ thought the
book a rubbishing 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 peacock's
feathers, Ger would have stuck them in his cap. And he pretty nigh
did. I'll tell you what book I read--and cried over it too--and got up
from it feeling better and happier--and that's Hamish's."
A light, like a glow of gladness, 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 such," he said in a hushed tone. "I should
have felt just the same if he had been a stranger."
"Ay, indeed: it was something of that 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. When I get rich, I mean to go against the papers for
injustice."
"We cannot understand it down with us," said Arthur. "On the Saturday
night that William Yorke got back 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 bottom was pretty strong. "If I could find out who the writer
was, Arthur, I'd get 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 rather singular in the matter, was this,"
observed Arthur: "That the selfsame 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 afoot, 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 the 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 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's 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. We used, if you remember, 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 mocking;
but that was nothing to the way he has changed lately. I'd not 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'd not move me," avowed candid Roland. "The newspaper
writers might lay hold of all my flounderings at Port Natal, and print
them for the public benefit in big text-type tomorrow, and direct a
packet to Annabel. What should I care? I say, how about poor Charley?
He has been ill."
"Very ill. They have kindly given him six months' leave, and pay his
overland passage out and home."
"And how much leave have you got for London, Arthur?"
"That depends on Charley. If he comes straight on from 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 for
him here 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
tomorrow; I have some small accounts to settle for him amidst other
things."
"Where's the money?" asked Roland, in a resentful tone.
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 tonight, Arthur, to
serve him out! It _is_ a shame! Taking up the poor 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 got something to tell you. It's about Annabel. But we
are close at 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. 'Twill be a shilling. It's
awfully lowering, having to meet friends upon empty pockets. I'd like
to have met you with a carriage and four, and outriders; I'd like to
have a good house to bring you into, Arthur, and I've got 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 at Port Natal. Mother Jenkins has got 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 Channing 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. Halloo!
what's the matter now?"
For Mrs. Yorke broke out in sobs. "It was so lonely," she said by way
of excuse. "Gerald was away nearly always. To-night he had a dinner
and wine 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 the
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 at Port
Natal. Fredy, Kitty, Rosy, you little pussy cats, tell mamma to give
you some grapes."
"I'm sure I'd not dare to touch the basket, though the grapes stayed
tied up in it till they were rotten," was the last sobbing sound that
caught Roland's ears from Mrs. Yorke as he leaped downstairs.
Their appearance at Hamish's was unexpected--for Arthur had advertised
himself to Roland only--but not the less welcome. Of course Hamish and
his wife thought Arthur had come to be their guest, and were half
inclined to resent it when he said no. It had been arranged that he
should take up his sojourn at a private hotel in Norfolk Street, where
he had stayed before; his room had been engaged in it some days past,
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 cheeks 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
tonight. The hollow face, the subdued voice with its ring of
hopelessness, the feverish cheek and hand--all were sad to hear, to
feel, to look upon.
It was but 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 at the hotel letters to answer. He promised to dine with them
on the morrow, and to give them 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, if well enough, to do. "So you'll probably have enough
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
perpetual weight of pain, that would never be lifted, lay on the
spirit.
They walked to the Strand, and there Arthur made his 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 are waiting for you and that you have
to answer," said he, resentfully, for he thought Arthur's whole time
ought to be given to himself on this, the first evening, "what are
they? who are they from?"
"Only from Galloway's agents, and one or two more business people. I
expect they will make appointments with me for tomorrow, or ask me to
make them. There may be a letter from Galloway himself. I quitted
Helstonleigh an hour before the day-mail left, 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.
All you've got to do won't take you more than an hour. Can't you come
at nine to lodgings? You'd have the felicity of seeing Mrs. J."
"I fear not tonight, Roland."
They talked a little while longer, shook hands, and Arthur went into
the hotel. Roland, turning away, decided to air himself in the Strand
for an hour, and then return to the hotel and get Arthur to come home
with him. He had not the smallest objection, taking it in the
abstract, to spend the time before the shop windows. The pawnbrokers
and eating-houses would be sure to be open, if no others were. Roland
liked the pastime of looking in. Debarred of being a purchaser of
desirable things, on account of the state of his exchequer, the next
best thing was to take out his fill of gazing at them.
Wandering up and down, he had got on the other side of Temple Bar, and
had his face glued to the glass of an oyster shop, his mouth watering
at the delicacies displayed within, when the clock of St. Clement
Danes struck out nine. Springing back impulsively with its first
stroke, Roland came in awkward contact with someone, bearing on
towards the Strand. But the gentleman, who was as tall as himself,
seemed scarcely to notice the touch, so absorbed was he in his own
thoughts. Save that he put out one of his hands, cased in a lavender
glove of delicate hue, and slightly pushed the awkward intruder aside,
he took no further heed. The face was never turned, the eyes were
never removed from the straight-out look before them. Onward he
passed, seeing and hearing nothing.
"What on earth has he been up to?--He looked as scared as though he
had met a ghost!" mentally commented Roland with his accustomed
freedom, as he stared after the wayfarer. For in him he had recognised
Mr. Bede Greatorex.
He did not suffer the 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 foremost, with his usual
clatter, haste, and want of ceremony, and nearly into the arms of a
tall waiter.
"I want Mr. Arthur Channing. Which room is he in?"
"Mr. Arthur Channing is gone out, sir."
"Gone out!"
"Yes, sir. Some time ago."
"He found he had no letters to write, and so went on to me," thought
Roland, as he shot out again "And I have been cooling my heels in this
precious street, like a booby!"
Full speed went he home now, through all the cross-cuts and nearest
ways he knew, never slackening it for a moment; arriving there with
bated breath and damp hair. Seizing the knocker in one hand and the
bell in the other, he worked at both frantically until the door was
opened. Mr. Ollivera, flinging up his window above, put out his
alarmed head; Mrs. Jones, Miss Rye, two visitors, and the maid Betsey,
came rushing along the passage with pale faces, Mrs. J. herself
opening the door, Betsey absolutely refusing the office. Roland,
without the least 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. J.,
where have you put him?"
And when Mrs. J. could gather the sense of the question
sufficiently to answer it, Roland had the satisfaction--or, rather,
non-satisfaction--of finding that Arthur Channing had not been there.