A NEW IDEA FOR MR. OLLIVERA.
The Reverend Henry William Ollivera sat in his room at a late
breakfast: he had been called abroad to a sick parishioner just as he
was about to sit down to it at nine in the morning. With his usual
abandonment of self, he hastened away, swallowing a thimbleful of
coffee without milk or sugar, and carrying with him a crust of bread.
It was nearly one when he came back again, having taken a morning
service for a friend, and this was his real breakfast. Mrs. Jones, who
cared for the comforts of the people about her in her tart way, had
sent up what she called buttered eggs, a slice of ham, and a hot roll.
The table-cloth was beautifully white: the coffeepot looked as good as
silver.
But, tempting as the meal really was, hungry as Mr. Ollivera might be
supposed to be, he was letting it get cold before him. A newspaper lay
on the stand near, but he did not unfold it. The strangely eager light
in his eyes was very conspicuous as he sat, seeing nothing, lost in a
reverie; the fevered hands were still. Some months had elapsed now
since his wild anxiety, to unfold the mystery enshrouding his
brother's death, had set-in afresh, through the disclosure of Mr.
Willett; a burning, restless anxiety, that never seemed wholly to quit
his mind, by night or by day.
But nothing had come of it. Seek as Mr. Ollivera would, he as yet
obtained no result. An exceedingly disagreeable and curious doubt had
crossed his thoughts at times--whence arising he scarcely knew--of one
whom he would have been very unwilling to suspect, even though the
adverse appearances were greater than at present. And that was Alletha
Rye. Perhaps what first of all struck him as strange, was Miss Rye's
ill-concealed agitation upon any mention of the subject, her startling
change of colour, her shrinking desire to avoid it. At the time of Mr.
Willett's communication the clergyman had renewed his habit of going
into Mrs. Jones's parlour to converse upon the topic; previously he
had been letting it slip into disuse, and then it was that the
remarkable demeanour of Miss Rye dawned gradually on his notice. At
first he thought it an accident, next he decided that it was strange,
afterwards he grew to introduce the topic suddenly on purpose to
observe her. And what he saw was beginning to make a most unpleasant
impression on him. A very slight occurrence, only the unexpected
meeting of Mr. Butterby that morning, had brought the old matter all
back to him. As he was hastening home from church, really wanting his
breakfast, he encountered Jonas Butterby the detective. The latter
said he had been in town nearly a week on business (the reader saw him
at the commencement, in conjunction with Mr. Bede Greatorex), but was
returning to Helstonleigh that night or on the morrow. For a few
minutes they stood conversing of the past, Butterby saying that
nothing had "turned up."
"Have you not heard of Godfrey Pitman?" suddenly asked Mr. Ollivera.
The question was put sharply: and for once the clever man was at
fault. Did Mr. Ollivera mean to imply that he _had_ heard of
Pitman?--that he, the clergyman, was aware that he had heard? Or, was
it but a simple question? In the uncertainty Mr. Butterby made a
pause, evidently in some kind of doubt or hesitation, and glanced
keenly at the questioner from under his eyebrows. Mr. Ollivera marked
it all.
"_Have_ you heard of him, then?"
"The way that folks's thoughts get wandering!" exclaimed Butterby,
with a charming air of innocence. "Pitman, says you: if I wasn't a
running of my head on that other man--Willett. And he has got an
attack of the shivers from drinking; that's the last gazetted news of
him, sir. As to that Godfrey Pitman--the less we say about him, the
better, unless we could say it to some purpose. Good morning, Reverend
Sir; I've got my work cut out for me today."
"One moment," said Mr. Ollivera, detaining him. "I want your opinion
upon a question I am going to ask. Could a woman, think you, have
killed my brother?"
Perhaps the question was so unexpected as slightly to startle even the
detective. Instead of answering it, his green eyes shot out another
keen glance at Mr. Ollivera, and they did not quit his face again. The
latter supposed he was not understood.
"I mean, could a woman, think you, have had the physical strength to
fire the pistol?"
"Do you ask me that, sir, because you suspect one?"
"I cannot say I go so far as to _suspect_ one. It has occurred to me
latterly as being within the range of possibility. I wish you would
answer my question, Mr. Butterby?"
"In course, from the point you put it, it might have been a woman just
as well as a man; some women be every bit as strong, and a sight
bolder," was Mr. Butterby's answer. "But I can't wait, sir, now," he
added, as he turned away and said good morning once more.
"It was queer, his asking that," very softly repeated Mr. Butterby,
between his lips, as he walked on at a quicker pace than usual.
Mr. Ollivera got home with his head full of this; and, as usual under
the circumstances, was letting his late breakfast grow cold before
him. Mrs. Jones, entering the room on some domestic errand, gave him
the information that Roland Yorke had just come in in a fine state of
commotion (which was nothing unusual), saying Arthur Channing was as
good as found murdered; and that he was, in consequence, off to
Helstonleigh. Before Mr. Ollivera, setting to his breakfast then with
a will, could get downstairs, Roland had gone skimming out again. So
the clergyman turned his steps to the house of Greatorex and
Greatorex.
It could not be but that the singular and prolonged disappearance of
Arthur Channing should be exciting commotion in the public mind.
Though it had not been made, so to say, a public matter, at least a
portion of the public knew of it. The name did not appear in the
papers; but the "mysterious disappearance of a gentleman" was becoming
quite a treasure to the news-compilers. Greatorex and Greatorex had
taken it up warmly, as much from real intrinsic interest in the affair
itself, as that Annabel was an inmate of their house. Arthur Channing
had stood, unsolicited, over John Ollivera's grave at the stealthy
midnight burial service; and Mr. Greatorex did not forget it. He had
offered his services at once to Hamish Channing. "We have," he said,
"a wide experience of London life, and will do for you in it all that
can be done." Bede, though kindly anxious, wished the matter could be
set at rest, for it was costing him a clerk. Roland candidly avowed
that he was no more fit for his work at present, than he would be to
rule the patients in St. Luke's; and Bede privately believed this was
only truth. Little Jenner was home again, and took Roland's work as
well as his own.
One very singular phase of the attendant surroundings was this--so
many people appeared to be missing. The one immediately in question,
Arthur Channing, was but a unit in the number. Scarcely an hour in the
day passed but the police either received voluntary news of somebody's
disappearance; or, through their inquiries after Arthur, gained it for
themselves. If space allowed, and these volumes were the proper medium
for it, a most singularly interesting account might be given of the
facts, every word of which would be true.
Henry Ollivera found Mr. Greatorex in the dining-room finishing his
luncheon. In point of fact it was his dinner, for he was going out of
town that afternoon and would not be home until late. Bede, who rarely
took luncheon, though he sometimes made a pretence of going up for it,
was biting morsels off a hard biscuit, as he stood against the wall by
the mantelpiece, near the handsome pier-glass that in his days of
vanity he had been so fond of glancing in. Mrs. Bede Greatorex was at
table; also the little girl, Jane, whose dinner it was. The board was
extravagantly spread, displaying fish and fowl, and other delicacies,
and Mrs. Bede was solacing herself with a pint of sparkling hock,
which stood at her elbow. She looked flushed; at least, as much as a
made-up face can look, and in her eyes there shone an angry light:
perhaps at the non-appearance of two visitors she had expected,
perhaps because she had just come from one of her violent-tempered
attacks on Miss Channing. Mr. Greatorex, like his son Bede, did not
appear to appreciate the good things: he was making his dinner off one
plain dish and a glass of pale ale.
"You will sit down and take some, William?"
Mr. Ollivera declined; he had just swallowed his breakfast. From the
absence of Miss Channing at the table, he drew an augury that the ill
news spoken of by Mrs. Jones must be correct. But Mr. Greatorex said
he was not aware of anything fresh; and a smile crossed his lips upon
hearing that Roland was the author of the report. Bede laughed
outright.
"If you only knew how often he has come in, startling us with
extraordinary tales, you'd have learnt by this time what faith to have
put in Roland Yorke," said Bede. "A man more sensitively nervous than
he is, or ever will be, would have had brain-fever with all this
talking and walking and mental excitement."
"He says, I understand, that he is going down to Helstonleigh, to get
some information from Mr. Galloway," said the clergyman.
"Oh, is he? As good go there as stay here, for all the work he does.
He'd start for the moon if there were a road to convey him to it."
"I wonder you give him so much holiday, Bede," remarked Mr. Ollivera.
"He takes it," answered Bede. "He is of very little use at his best,
but we don't choose to discharge him, or in fact make any change until
Lord Carrick comes over, who may now be expected shortly. I believe
one thing--that he tries to do his utmost: and Brown puts up with
him."
"Do you know," began Mr. Ollivera, in a low, meaning tone, when the
door Closed upon the luncheon-tray, and the three gentlemen stood
around the fire, Mrs. Bede having betaken herself to a far-off window,
"I have half a mind to go to Helstonleigh myself."
"In search of Arthur Channing, William?"
"No, uncle. In quest of that other search that has been upon my mind
so long. An idea has forced itself upon me lately that it--might have
been a woman."
"For heaven's sake drop it," exclaimed Bede, with strange agitation.
"Don't you see Louisa?"
She could not have heard--but Bede was always thus. He had his reasons
for not allowing it to be spoken of before her. One of them was this.
In the days gone by, just before their marriage, Clare Joliffe,
suddenly introducing the subject of Ollivera's death, when Bede was
present, said to her sister in a tone between jest and earnest, that
she (Louisa) had been the cause of it. Clare meant no more than that
her conduct had caused him to end his life--as it was supposed he did.
But Louisa, partly with passion, had gone into a state of agitation so
great as to alarm Bede. Never, from that time, would he suffer it to
be mentioned before her if he could guard against it.
"But, William what do you mean about a woman?" asked Mr. Greatorex,
dropping his voice to a low key.
"Uncle Greatorex, I cannot explain myself. I must go on in my own way,
until the time to speak shall come. That the clearance of the past is
rapidly advancing I feel sure of. A subtle instinct whispers it to me.
My dreams tell it me. Forget for the present what I said. I ought not
to have spoken."
"You are visionary as usual," said Bede, sarcastically.
"I know that you always think me so," was the clergyman's answer, and
he turned to depart.
There was a general dispersion. Only Mr. Greatorex remained in the
room: and he had fallen into deep thought: when Roland Yorke, in his
chronic state of excitement, dashed in. Without any ceremony he flung
himself into a chair.
"Mr. Greatorex, I am nearly dead-beat. What with cutting about
perpetually, and meeting depressing disappointments, and catching up
horrible new fears, it's enough to wear a fellow out, sir."
Roland looked it: dead-beat. He had plenty of strength; but it would
not stand this much overtaxing. In the last six days it may be
questioned if he had sat down, with the exception of coming to a
temporary anchor on upright barrels or parapets of bridges; and then
he and his legs were so restless from excitement that a spectator
would have thought he was afflicted with St. Vitus's Dance.
"Been taking a round this morning as usual, I suppose, Mr. Yorke,"
said the lawyer.
"Ever so many of them, sir. I began with the docks: I can't help
thinking that if anything was done with Arthur in conjunction with
a carpet-bag, he might turn up there, after drifting down. Then I
walked back to Scotland Yard, then looked into a few shops and
police-stations. Next I went to Waterloo Bridge, then down to Hamish
Channing's, then back to Mrs. Jones's; then to Vincent Yorke's; and
now I'm come here to tell you I'm going down to Helstonleigh, if you
don't mind sparing me."
If you don't mind sparing me! For the use he was of to the house, it
did not matter whether he went or stayed. But that Roland had improved
in mind and manners, he had surely not asked it. Time was when he had
gone off on a longer journey than the one to Helstonleigh and never
said to his master, With your leave or by your leave; but just quitted
the office _impromptu_, leaving his compliments as a legacy.
"And if you please I'd like to see Miss Channing before I start, sir;
to tell her what I'm doing, and to ask if she has any messages for her
people."
Mr. Greatorex rang the bell. He fancied Miss Channing might be out, as
she had not appeared at luncheon.
Not out, but in her bedroom. The pretty bedroom with its
window-curtains of chintz and its tasty furniture. When gaiety or
discord reigned below, when Mrs. Bede Greatorex's temper tried her as
with a heavy cross, Annabel could come up here and find it a sure
refuge. In one of the outbreaks of violence that seemed to be almost
like insanity, Mrs. Bede had that morning attacked Miss Channing--and
for no earthly reason, There are such tempers, there are such women in
the world. Some of us know it too well.
Weeping, trembling, Annabel gained her chamber, and there sobbed out
her heart. It had needed no additional grief today, for Arthur's
strange disappearance filled it with a heavy, shrinking, terrible
weight. Jane ran up to say luncheon was ready--their dinner; Annabel
replied that she could not eat any. Taking the child in her arms,
kissing her with many gentle kisses, she whispered a charge not to
mention what had passed: if grandpapa or uncle Bede happened to remark
on her absence from table, Jane might say she had a headache, and it
would be perfectly true, for her head did ache sadly. It was ever
thus; even Mrs. Bede Greatorex she endeavoured to screen from
condemnation. Trained to goodness; to return good for evil whenever it
was practicable: to bear sweetly and patiently, Annabel Channing
strove to carry out certain holy precepts in every action of her daily
life. Too many of us keep them for the church and the closet. Annabel
had learnt the one only way. Praying ever, as she had been taught from
childhood, for the Holy Spirit spoken of by Jesus Christ to make its
home in her heart, and direct and restrain her always, she certainly
knew the way to Peace as well as it can be known here; and practised
it. "The fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make
peace."
But it was hard to bear. Her nature was but human. There were times,
as on this day, when she thought she could not endure it; that she
must give up her situation. And that she was loth to do. Loth for
more reasons than one. Putting aside these trying outbreaks, the
place was desirable. She was regarded as an equal, treated as a
lady, well paid: and, what weighed greatly with Annabel in her extreme
conscientiousness, she was unwilling to abandon Jane Greatorex. For
she was doing the child _good_: good in the highest sense of the word.
Left to some governesses (conscientious ones too in a moral and
scholastic point of view) Jane would grow up a selfish, careless,
utterly worldly woman: Annabel was ever patiently working by gentle
degrees to lead her to wish to be something better; and she had begun
to see a little light breaking in on her way. For this great cause she
wished to remain: it seemed to be a duty to do so.
Drawing her desk towards her, she had sat down to write to her sister
Constance, William Yorke's wife. Constance was her great resource. To
her, when the world's troubles were pressing heavily, Annabel poured
out her sorrow--never having hinted at any particular cause, only
saying the situation "had its trials"--and Constance never failed to
write by return of post an answer that cheered Annabel, and helped her
on her way. The very fact of writing seemed often to do her good as on
this day, and the tears had dried on her cheeks, and her face grew
cheerful with hopeful resolution, as she folded the letter.
"I must balance the good I enjoy here against the trouble," she said;
"that will help me to bear it better. If Jane----"
She was interrupted by the young lady in question; who came running
in, followed by one of the maids.
"Miss Channing, Roland Yorke wants to see you in the dining-room."
"Roland Yorke!" repeated Annabel, dubiously. With all his lack of
attention to conventionalities, Mr. Roland had never gone so far as to
send up for her.
"It was Mr. Greatorex who desired me to tell you, miss," spoke up the
servant, possibly thinking Miss Jane's news needed confirmation. "He
rang to know whether you were at home, and then told me to come and
say that Mr. Yorke wished to see you."
Annabel smoothed down the folds of her grey silk dress, and looked to
see that her pretty auburn hair was tidy. She saw something else; her
swollen eyes, and the vivid blushes on her cheeks.
"I'll come with you," whispered Miss Jane. "I'll tell him about Aunt
Bede."
And the conviction that she might tell, in spite of all injunction
against it, startled Annabel. Roland was the young lady's prime
favourite, regarded by her as a big playfellow.
"You cannot come with me, Jane. Mary, be so kind as to take Miss Jane
to Dalla. Say that she must remain in the nursery until I am at
liberty."
Roland was alone in the dining-room when she entered it. With a
delicacy that really was to be commended in one who had been to Port
Natal, he would not tell her of the theory he had caught up, or why he
was going to Helstonleigh; only that he was about to start for that
city.
"But what are you going for, Roland?" was the very natural question
that ensued.
"To see old Galloway," he replied, standing by her on the hearthrug
where Mr. Greatorex and Henry Ollivera had been standing but just
before. "I think Galloway must have given--at least--that is--that he
could find some clue to Arthur's movements, if he were well pumped;
and I am going to do it. Somebody ought to go; Hamish won't, and so it
falls upon me."
Annabel made no answer.
"I shan't like appearing in the old place," he candidly resumed. "I
said I never would until I could take a fortune with me; but one has
to do lots of things in this world that go against the grain; one soon
lives long enough to find that boasting turns out to be nothing but
emptiness."
"Oh Roland!" she said, as the utter fallacy of the expectation struck
upon her, "I fear it will be a lost journey. Had Mr. Galloway been
able to furnish ever so small a clue, he would have been sure to send
it without being asked."
"That's what Hamish says. But I mean to try. I'd be off today to the
North Pole as soon as to Helstonleigh, if I thought it would find him.
And to think, Annabel, that while he was being kept out of the way by
fate or ruffians, I was calling him proud!--and neglectful!--and
hard-hearted! I'll never forgive myself that. If, through lack of
exertion on my part, he should not be found, I might expect his ghost
to come back and stand at the foot of my bed every night."
"But--Roland--you have not given up all hope?" she questioned, her
clear, honest hazel eyes cast up steadily and beseechingly at his.
"Well, I don't know. Sometimes I think he's sure to turn up all right,
and then down I go again into the depths of mud. Last night I dreamt
he was alive and well, and I was helping him up some perpendicular
steps from a boat moored under Waterloo Bridge. When I awoke I thought
it was true; oh! I was so glad! Even after I remembered, it seemed a
good omen. Don't be down-hearted, Annabel. Once, at Port Natal, a
fellow I knew was lost for a year. His name was Crow. We never
supposed but what he was dead, but he came to life again with a good
crop of red whiskers, and said he'd only been travelling. I say!
what's the matter with your eyes?"
The sudden question rather confused her. She answered evasively.
"You've been crying, Annabel. Now, you tell me what the grievance was.
If Mrs. Bede Greatorex makes you unhappy--good gracious! and I can't
help you, or take you out of here! I do not know when I shall: I don't
get on at all. It's enough to make a man swear."
"Hush Roland! I am very unhappy about Arthur."
"Why, of course you are--how came I to forget it?" he rejoined, easily
satisfied as a child. "And here am I, wasting the precious time that
might be spent in looking after him! Have you anything to send to
Helstonleigh?"
"Only my love. My dear love to them all. You will see mamma?"
Roland suddenly took both her hands in his, and so held her before
him, stooping his head a little, and speaking gently.
"Annabel, I shall have to see your mamma, and tell her----"
She did not mean that at all; it had not so much as occurred to her.
Naturally the cheeks became very vivid now. Without further ado,
asking no leave, bold Roland kissed the shrinking face.
"Good bye, Annabel. Wish me luck."
Away he clattered, waiting for neither scolding nor answer, and was
flying along the street below, before Annabel had at all recovered her
equanimity.
To resolve to go to Helstonleigh was one thing, to get to it was
another; and Roland Yorke, with his customary heedlessness, had not
considered ways and means. It was only when he dashed in at his
lodgings that morning (as, we have heard, was related by Mrs. Jones to
Mr. Ollivera), that the question struck him how he was to get there.
He had not a coin in the world. Roland's earnings (the result of
having put his shoulder to the wheel these three or four months past)
had been deposited for safety with Mrs. Jones, it may be remembered,
and they amounted to two sovereigns. These had been spent in the
search after Arthur. In the first commotion of his disappearance,
Roland had wildly dashed about in Hansoms; for his legs, with all
their length and impatience, would not carry him from pillar to post
fleet enough. He made small presents to policemen, hoping to sharpen
their discovering powers; he put two advertisements in the _Times_,
offering rewards for mysterious carpet-bags. But that a fortunate
oversight caused him to omit appending any address, it was quite
untellable the number of old bags that might have been brought him.
All this had speedily melted the gold pieces. He then got Mrs. Jones
to advance him (grumblingly) two more which went the same way, and
were not yet repaid. So there he was, without money to take him to
Helstonleigh, and nobody that he knew of likely to lend him any.
"I can't walk," debated he, standing stock-still in his parlour, as his
penniless state occurred to him. "They'd used to call it a hundred and
eleven miles in the old coaching days. It would be nothing to me if I
had the time, but I can't waste that now. Hamish has set his face
against my going, or I'd ask him. I wonder--I wonder whether Dick
Yorke would let me have a couple of pounds?"
To "wonder," meant to do, with Roland. Out he went again on the spur
of the moment, and ran all the way to Portland Place. Sir Vincent was
not at home. The man said he had been there that morning on his
arrival from Sunny Mead (the little Yorke homestead in Surrey), but
had gone out again directly. He might be expected in at any moment, or
all moments, during the day.
Roland waited. In a fine state of restlessness, as we may be sure, for
the precious time was passing. He was afraid to go to the club lest he
might miss him. When one o'clock had struck, Roland thought he might
do his other errand first: which was to acquaint Greatorex and
Greatorex with his departure, and see Miss Channing. Therefore, he
started forth again, leaving a peremptory message for Sir Vincent
should he return, that he was to _wait in_ for him.
And now, having seen Mr. Greatorex and Annabel, he was speeding back
again to Portland Place. All breathless, and in a commotion, of
course; driving along as if the pavement belonged to him, and nobody
else had any claim to it. Charging round a corner at full tilt, he
charged against an inoffensive foot-passenger, quietly approaching it:
who was no other than Mr. Butterby.
Roland brought himself up. It was an opportunity not to be missed.
Seizing hold of the official button-hole, he poured the story of
Arthur Channing's disappearance into the official ear, imploring Mr.
Butterby's good services in the cause.
"Don't you think any more of the uncivil names I've called you,
Butterby. You knew all the while I didn't mean anything. I've said I'd
pay you out when I got the chance, and so I _will_, but it shall be in
gold. If you will only put your good services into the thing, we shall
find him. Do, now! You won't bear malice, Butterby."
So impetuous had been the flow of eloquence, that Mr. Butterby had
found no opportunity of getting a word in edgeways: he had simply
looked and listened. The loss of Arthur Channing had been as
inexplicable to him as to other people.
"Arthur Channing ain't one of them sort o' blades likely to get into a
mess, through going to places where drinking and what not's carried
on," spoke he.
"Of _course_ he is not," was Roland's indignant answer. "Arthur
Channing drink! he'd be as likely to turn tumbler at a dancing-booth!
Look here, Butterby, you did work him harm once, but I'll never
reproach you with it again as long as I live, and I've known all along
you had no ill-meaning in it: but now, you find him this time and that
will be tit for tat. Perhaps I may be rich some day, and I'll buy you
a silver snuffbox set with diamonds."
"I don't take snuff," said Mr. Butterby.
But it was impossible to resist Roland's pleading, in all its
simple-hearted energy. And, to give Mr. Butterby his due, he would
have been glad to do his best to find Arthur Channing.
"I can't stay in London myself," said he; "I've been here a week now
on private business, and must go down to Helstonleigh tomorrow; but
I'll put it special into Detective Jelf's hands. He's as 'cute an
officer, young Mr. Yorke, as here and there one, and of more use in
London than me."
"Bless you, Butterby!" cried hearty Roland; "tell Jelf I'll give him a
snuffbox, too. And now I'm off. I won't forget you, Butterby."
Mr. Butterby thought the chances that Roland would ever have tin
snuff-boxes to give away, let alone silver, were rather poor but he
was not a bad-natured man, and he detained Roland yet an instant to
give him a friendly word of advice.
"There's one or two folks, in the old place, that you owe a trifle to,
Mr. Yorke----"
"There's half-a-dozen," interrupted candid Roland.
"Well, sir, I'd not show myself in the town more than I could help.
They are vexed at being kept out of their money thinking some of the
family might have paid it; and they might let off a bit if you went
amid 'em: unless, indeed, you are taking down the money with you."
"Taking the money with me!--why, Butterby, I've not got a sixpence in
the world," avowed Roland, opening his surprised eyes. "If Dick Yorke
won't lend me a pound or so, I don't know how on earth to get down,
unless they let me have a free pass on the top of the engine."
There was no time for more. Away he went to Portland Place, and
thundered at the door, as if he had been a king. But his visit did
not serve him.
Sir Vincent Yorke had entered just after Roland departed. Upon
receiving the peremptory message, the baronet marvelled what it could
mean, and whether all the Yorke family had been blown up, save
himself. Nothing else, he thought, could justify the scapegoat Roland
in desiring him, Sir Vincent, to _stay in_. To be kept waiting at home
when he very particularly wanted to be out--for Sir Vincent had come
to town to meet the lady he was shortly to marry, Miss Trehern--made
him frightfully cross. So that when Roland re-appeared he had an
angry-tempered man to deal with.
And, in good truth, had Roland announced the calamity, so pleasantly
anticipated, it would have caused Sir Vincent less surprise; certainly
less vexation. When he found he had been decoyed into staying in for
nothing but to be asked to lend money to take Mr. Roland careering off
somewhere by rail--he was in too great a passion to understand
where--Sir Vincent exploded. Roland, quietly braving the storm, prayed
for "just a pound," as if he were praying for his life. Sir Vincent
finally replied that he'd not lend him a shilling if it would save him
from hanging.
So Roland was thrown on his beam ends, and went back to Mrs. Jones's
with empty pockets, revolving ways and means in his mind.