MR. GALLOWAY INVADED.
It was night in the old cathedral town. The ten o'clock bell had rung,
and Mr. Galloway, proctor and surrogate, at home in his residence in
the Boundaries, was thinking he might go to rest. For several days he
had been feeling very much out of sorts, and this evening the symptoms
had culminated in what seemed a bad cold, attended with feverishness
and pain in all his limbs. The old proctor was one of those people
whose mind insensibly sways the body; and the mysterious disappearance
of Arthur Channing was troubling him to sickness. He had caused a huge
fire to be made up in his bedroom, and was seated by it, groaning; his
slippered feet on a warm cushion, a railway rug enveloping his coat,
and back, and shoulders; a white cotton nightcap with a hanging
tassel ornamenting gracefully his head. One of his servants had just
brought up a basinful of hot gruel, holding at least a quart, and put
it on the stand by his easy chair. Mr. Galloway was groaning at the
gruel as much as with pain, for he hated gruel like poison.
Thinking it might be less nauseous if disposed of at an unbroken
draught, were that possible--or at least soonest over--Mr. Galloway
caught up the basin and put it to his lips. With a cry and a splutter,
down went the basin again. The stuff was scalding hot. And whether Mr.
Galloway's tongue, or teeth, or temper suffered most, he would have
been puzzled to confess.
It was at this untoward moment--Mr. Galloway's face turning purple,
and himself choking and coughing--that a noise, as of thunder,
suddenly awoke the echoes of the Boundaries. Shut up in his snug room
hearing sounds chiefly through the windows, the startled Mr. Galloway
wondered what it was, and edged his white nightcap off one ear to
listen. He had then the satisfaction of discovering that the noise was
at his own front door. Somebody had evidently got hold of the knocker
(an appendage recently made to the former naked panels), and was
rapping and rattling as if never intending to leave off. And now the
bell-handle was, pulled in accompaniment--as a chorus accompanies a
song--and the alarmed household were heard flying towards the door
from all quarters.
"Is it the fire-engine?" groaned Mr. Galloway to himself. "I didn't
hear it come up."
It appeared not to be the fire-engine. A moment or two, and Mr.
Galloway was conscious of a commotion on the stairs, some visitor
making his way up; his man-servant offering a feeble opposition.
"What on earth does John mean? He must be a fool--letting people come
up here!" thought Mr. Galloway, apostrophising his many years'
servitor. "Hark! It can never be the Dean!"
That any other living man, whether church dignitary or ordinary
mortal, would venture to invade him in his private sanctum, take him
by storm in his own chamber, was beyond belief. Mr. Galloway, all
fluttered and fevered, hitched his white nightcap a little higher,
turned his wondering face to the door, and sat listening.
"If he is neither in bed nor undressed, as you say, I can see him up
here just as well as below; so don't bother, old John," were the words
that caught indistinctly the disturbed invalid's ear: and somehow the
voice seemed to strike some uncertain chord of memory. "I say, old
John, you don't get younger," it went on; "where's your hair gone? Is
this the room?--it used to be."
Without further ado the door was flung open; and the visitor stepped
over the threshold. The two, invader and invaded, gazed at each other.
The one saw an old man, who appeared to be shrunk in spite of his
wraps, with a red face, surmounted by a cotton nightcap, a flaxen
curl or two peeping out above the amazed eyes, and a basin of steaming
gruel: the other saw a tall, fine, well-dressed young fellow, whose
face, like the voice, struck on the chords of memory. John spoke from
behind.
"It's Mr. Roland Yorke, sir. He'd not be stayed: he would come up in
spite of me."
"Goodness bless me!" exclaimed the proctor.
Putting down his hat and a small brown paper parcel that he carried,
Roland advanced to Mr. Galloway, nearly turning over the stand and the
gruel, which John had to rush forward and steady--and held out his
hand.
"I don't know whether you'll shake it, sir, after the way we parted.
_I_ am willing."
"The way of parting was yours, Mr. Roland, not mine," was the answer.
But Mr. Galloway did shake the hand, and Roland sat down by the fire,
uninvited, making himself at home as usual.
"What's amiss, sir?" he asked, as John went away. "Got the mumps? Is
that gruel? Horrid composition! I think it must have been invented for
our sins. You must be uncommon ill, sir, to swallow that."
"And what in the world brings you down here at this hour, frightening
quiet people out of their senses?" demanded Mr. Galloway, paying no
heed to Roland's questions. "I'm sure _I_ thought it was the parish
engine."
"The train brought me," replied matter-of-fact Roland. "I had meant to
get here by an earlier one, but things went cross and contrary."
"That was no reason why you should knock my door down."
"Oh, it was all my impatience: my mind's in a frightful worry,"
penitently acknowledged Roland. "I hope you'll forgive it, sir. I've
come from London, Mr. Galloway, about this miserable business of
Arthur Channing. We want to know where you sent him to?"
Mr. Galloway, his doubts as to fire-engines set at rest, had been
getting cool; but the name turned him hot again. He had grown to like
Arthur better than he would have cared to tell; the supposition
flashed into his mind that a discovery might have been made of some
untoward fate having overtaken him, and that Roland's errand was to
break the news.
"Is Arthur dead?" he questioned, in a low tone.
"_I_ think so," answered Roland. "But he has not turned up yet, dead
or alive. I'm sure it's not for the want of looking after. I've spent
my time pretty well, since he was missing, between Waterloo Bridge and
the East India Docks."
"Then you've not come down to say he is found?"
"No: only to ask you where you sent him that night, that he may be."
When the explanation was complete, Roland discovered that he had had
his journey for nothing, and would have done well to take the opinion
of Hamish Channing. Every tittle of information that Mr. Galloway was
able to give, he had already written to Hamish: not a thought, not a
supposition, but he had imparted it in full. As to Roland's idea, that
business might have carried Arthur to dishonest neighbourhoods in
London, Mr. Galloway negatived it positively.
"He had none to do for me in such places, and I'm sure he'd not of his
own."
Roland sat pulling at his whiskers, feeling very gloomy. In his
sanguine temperament, he had been buoying himself with a hope that
grew higher and higher all the way down: so that when he arrived at
Mr. Galloway's he had nearly persuaded himself that--if Arthur, in
person, was not there, news of him would be. Hence the loud and
impatient door-summons.
"I know he is at the bottom of the Thames! I did so hope you could
throw some light on it that you might have forgotten to tell, Mr.
Galloway."
"Forgotten!" returned Mr. Galloway, slightly agitated. "If I
remembered my sins, young man, as well as I remember all connected
with him, I might be the better for it. His disappearance has made me
ill; that's what it has done; and I'm not sure but it will kill me.
When a steady, honourable, God-fearing young man like Arthur Channing,
whose heart I verily believe was as much in heaven as earth; when such
a man disappears in this mysterious manner at night in London, leaving
no information of his whereabouts, and who cannot be traced or found,
nothing but the worst is to be apprehended. I believe Arthur Churning
to have been murdered for the large sum of money he had about him."
Mr. Galloway seized his handkerchief, and rubbed his hot face. The
nightcap was pushed a little further off in the process. It was the
precise view Roland had taken; and, to have it confirmed by Mr.
Galloway's, seemed to drive all hope out of him for good.
"And I never had the opportunity of atoning to him for the past, you
see, Mr. Galloway! It will stick in my memory for life, like a pill in
the throat. I'd rather have been murdered myself ten times over."
"I gave my consent to his going with reluctance," said Mr. Galloway,
seeming to repeat the fact for his own benefit rather than for
Roland's. "What did it signify whether Charles was met in London, or
not? if he could find his way to London from Marseilles alone, surely
he might find it to Helstonleigh! Our busy time, the November audit,
is approaching: but it was not that thought that swayed me against it,
but an inward instinct. Arthur said he had not had a holiday for two
years; he said there was business wanting the presence of one of us in
London: all true, and I yielded. And this is what has come of it!"
Mr. Galloway gave his face another rub; the nightcap went higher and
seemed to hang on only by its tassel, admitting the curls to full
view. In spite of Roland's despairing state, he took advantage of the
occasion.
"I say, Mr. Galloway, your hair is not as luxuriant as it was."
"It's like me, then," returned Mr. Galloway, whose mind was too much
depressed to resent personal remarks. "What will become of us all
without Arthur (putting out of sight for a moment the awful grief for
himself) I cannot imagine. Look at his mother! He nearly supported the
house: Mrs. Channing's own income is but a trifle, and Tom can't give
much as yet. Look at me! What on earth I shall do without him at the
office, never can be surmised!"
"My goodness!" cried modest Roland. "You'll be almost as much put to
it, sir, as you were when I went off to Port Natal."
Mr. Galloway coughed. "Almost," assented he, rather satirically. "Why,
Roland Yorke," he burst forth with impetuosity, "if you had been with
me from then till now, and abandoned all your lazy tricks, and gone in
for hard work, taking not a day's holiday or an hour's play, you could
never have made yourself into half the capable and clever man that.
Arthur was."
"Well, you see, Mr. Galloway, my talents don't lie so much in the
sticking to a desk as in knocking about," good-humouredly avowed
Roland. "But I do go in for hard work; I do indeed."
"I hear you didn't make a fortune at Port Natal, young man!"
Roland, open as ever, gave a short summary of what he did
instead--starved, and did work as a labourer, when he could get any to
do and drove pigs, and came back home with his coat out at elbows.
"Nobody need reproach me; it was worse for me than for them--not but
what lots of people _do_. I tried my best; and I'm trying it still. It
did me one service, Mr. Galloway--took my pride and my laziness out of
me. But for the lessons of life I learnt at Port Natal, I should have
continued a miserable humbug to the end, shirking work on my own
score, and looking to other folks to keep me. I'm trying to do my best
honestly, and to make my way. The returns are not grand yet, but such
as they are I'm living on them, and they may get better. Rome was not
built in a day. I went out to Port Natal to set good old Arthur right
with the world; I couldn't bring myself to publish the confession,
that you know of, sir, while I stopped here. I thought to make my
fortune also, a few millions, or so. I didn't do it; it was a failure
altogether, but it made a better man of me."
"Glad to hear it," said Mr. Galloway.
He watched the earnest eager face, bent towards him he noted the
genuine, truthful, serious tone the words were spoken in and the
conclusion he drew was that Roland might not be making an
unjustifiable boast. It seemed incredible though, taking into
recollection his former experience of that gentleman.
"And when I've got on, so as to make a couple of hundred a year or so,
I am going to get married, Mr. Galloway."
"In--deed!" exclaimed Mr. Galloway, staring very mach. "Is the lady
fixed upon?"
"Well, yes; and I don't mind telling you, if you'll keep the secret
and not repeat it up and down the town: I don't fancy she'd like it to
be talked of yet. It's Annabel."
"Annabel Channing!" uttered Mr. Galloway, in dubious surprise. "Has
she said she'll have you?"
"I am not so sure she has _said_ it. She means it."
"Why she--she is one of the best and sweetest girls living; she might
marry almost anybody; she might nearly get a lord," burst forth Mr.
Galloway, with a touch of his former gossiping propensity.
Roland's eyes sparkled. "So she might, sir. But she'll wait for me.
And she does not expect riches, either; but will put her shoulder to
the wheel with me and be content to work and help until riches come."
Mr. Galloway gave a sniff of disbelief. He might be pardoned if he
treated this in his own mind as a simple delusion on Roland's part. He
liked Annabel nearly as well as he had liked Arthur; and he looked
upon Mr. Roland as a wandering knight-errant, not much likely to do
any good for himself or others. Roland rose.
"I must be off," he said. "I've got my mother to see. Well, this is a
pill--to find you've no clue to give me. Hamish said it would be so."
"I hear Hamish Channing is ill?"
"He is not ill, that I know of. He looks it: a puff of wind you'd say
would blow him away."
"Disappointed in his book?"
"Well, I suppose so. It's an awful sin, though, for it to have been
written down--whoever did it."
"I should call it a swindle," corrected Mr. Galloway. "A barefaced,
swindling injustice. The public ought to be put right, if there were
anyway of doing it."
"Did you read the book, Mr. Galloway?"
"Yes; and then I went forthwith out and bought it. Ana I read
Gerald's."
"That _was_ a beauty, wasn't it?" cried sarcastic Roland.
"Without paint," pursued Mr. Galloway, in the same strain. "It was
just worth throwing on the fire leaf by leaf, that's my opinion of
Gerald's book. But it got the reviews, Roland."
"And be shot to it! We can't understand the riddle up in London, sir."
"I'm sure we can't down here," emphatically repeated Mr. Galloway.
"Well, good night: I'm not sorry to have seen you. When are you going
back?"
"Tomorrow. And I'd rather have gone a hundred miles the other way than
come near Helstonleigh. I shall take care to go and see nobody here,
except Mrs. Channing. If----"
"You must not speak of Arthur to Mrs. Channing," interrupted the
proctor.
"Not speak of him!"
"She knows nothing of his loss: it has been kept from her. She thinks
he is in Paris with Charles. In her weak state of health she would
hardly stand the prolonged suspense."
"It's a good thing you told me," said Roland, heartily. "I hope I
shan't let it out. Good night, sir. I must not forget this, though!"
he added, taking up the parcel. "It has got a clean shirt and collar
in it."
"Where are you going to sleep?"
Roland paused. Until that moment the thought had never struck him
where he was to sleep.
"I dare say they can give me a shake-down at the mother's. The
hearthrug will do: I'm not particular. I'd used to go in for a feather
bed and two pillows. My goodness! what a selfish young lunatic I was!"
"If they can't, perhaps we can give you a shake-down here," said Mr.
Galloway. "But don't you ring the house down if you come back."
"Thank you, sir," said Roland, gratefully. "I wonder all you old
friends are so good to me."
He clattered down in a commotion, and found himself in the Boundaries.
When he passed through them ten minutes before, he was bearing on too
fiercely to Mr. Galloway's to take notice of a single feature. Time
had been when Roland would not have cared for old memories. They came
crowding on him now the dear life associations, the events and
interests of his boyhood, like fresh green resting-places 'mid a
sandy desert. The ringing out of the cathedral clock, telling the
three-quarters past ten, helped the delusion. Opposite to him rose the
time-honoured edifice, worn by the defacing hand of centuries.
Renovation had been going on for a long while; the pinnacles were new;
old buildings around, that formerly partially obscured it, had been
removed, and it stood out to view as Roland had never before seen it.
It was a bright night; the moon shone as clearly as it had done on
that early March night which ushered in the commencing prologue of
this story. It brought out the fretwork of the dear old cathedral; it
lightened up the gables of the quaint houses of the Boundaries, all
sizes and shapes in architecture; it glittered on the level grass
enclosed by the broad gravel walks, which the stately dames of the
still more stately church dignitaries once cared to pace. But where
were the tall old elm-trees--through whose foliage the moonbeams ought
to have glittered, but did not? Where were the rooks that used to make
their home in them, wiling the poor college boys, at their Latin and
Greek hard by, with the friendly chorus of caws? Gone. Roland looked
up, eyes and mouth alike opening with amazement, and marvelled. A poor
apology for the trees was indeed left; but topped and lopped to
discredit. The branches, towering and spreading in their might, had
been removed, and the homeless rooks driven away, wanderers.
"It's nothing but sacrilege," spoke bold Roland, when he had done
staring. "For certain it'll bring nobody good luck."
He could not resist crossing the Boundaries to the little iron gate
admitting to the cloisters. It would not admit him tonight: the
cloister porter, successor to Mr. John Ketch of cantankerous memory,
had locked it hours ago, and had the key safely hung up by his
bed-side in his lodge. This was the gate through which poor Charley
Channing had gone, innocently confiding, to be frightened all but to
death, that memorable night in the annals of the college school.
Charley, who was now a flourishing young clerk in India (at the
present moment supposed to be enjoying Paris), and likely to rise to
fame and fortune, health permitting. Many a time and oft, had Roland
himself dashed through the gate, surplice on arm, in a white heat of
fear lest he should be marked "late." How the shouts of the boys used
to echo along the vaulted roof of the cloisters! How they seemed to
echo in the heart of Roland now! Times had changed. Things had
changed. He had changed. A new set of boys filled the school: some of
the clergy were fresh in the cathedral. The bishop, gone to his
account, had been replaced by a better: a once great and good
preacher, who was wont in times long gone by to fill the cathedral
with his hearers of jostling crowds, had followed him. In Mr. Roland's
own family, and in that of one with whom they had been very intimately
associated, there were changes. George Yorke was no more; Gerald had
risen to be a great man; he, Roland, had fallen, and was of no account
in the world. Mr. Channing had died; Hamish was dying----
How came that last thought to steal into the mind of Roland Yorke. _He
did not know_. It had never occurred to him before: why should it have
done so now? Ah, he might ask himself the question, but he could not
answer it. Buried in reflections of the past and present, one leading
on to another, it had followed in as if consecutively, arising Roland
knew not whence, and startling him to terror. He shook himself in a
sort of fright; his pulse grew quick, his face hot.
"I do think I must have been in a dream," debated Roland, "or else
moonstruck. Sunny Hamish! as if the world could afford to lose him!
Nobody but a donkey whose brains had been knocked out of him at Port
Natal, would get such wicked fancies."
He went back at full gallop, turned the corner, and looked out for the
windows of his mother's house. They were not difficult to be seen, for
in every one of them shone a blaze of light. The sweet white radiance
of the moon, with its beauteous softness, never to be matched by
earthly invention, was quite eclipsed in the garish red of the flaming
windows. Lady Augusta Yorke had an assembly--as was plain enough by
the signs.
"Was ever the like bother known!" spoke Roland aloud, momentarily
halting in the quiet spot. "She's got all the world and his wife
there. And I didn't want a soul to know that I was at Helstonleigh!"
He took his resolution at once, ran on, and made for a small side
door. A smart maid, in a flounced gown and no cap to make mention of,
stood at it, flirting with a footman from one of the waiting
carriages. Roland went in head foremost, saying nothing, passing
swiftly through tortuous passages and up the stairs. The girl
naturally took him for a robber, or some such evil character, and
stood agape with wonder. But she did not want for courage, and went
after him. He had made his way to what used to be his sister's
schoolroom in Miss Channing's time; the open door displayed a table
temptingly set out with refreshments, and nobody was in it. When the
maid got there, Roland, his hat on a chair and parcel on the floor,
was devouring the sandwiches.
"Why, what on earth!" she began. "My patience! who are you sir? How
dare you?"
"Who am I?" said Roland, his mouth nearly too full to answer. "You
just go and fetch Lady Augusta here. Say a gentleman wants to see her.
Tell her privately, mind."
The girl, in sheer amazement, did as she was bid: whispering her own
comments to her mistress.
"I'd be aware of him, my lady, if I were you, please. It might be a
maniac. I'm sure the way he's gobbling up the victuals don't look like
nothing else."
Lady Augusta Yorke, slightly fluttered, took the precaution to draw
with her her youngest son, Harry, a stalwart King's Scholar of
seventeen. Advancing dubiously to the interview, she took a peep in,
and saw the intruder, a great tall fellow, whose back was towards her,
swallowing down big tablespoonfuls of custard. The sight aroused Lady
Augusta's anger: there'd be a famine; there'd be nothing left for her
hungry guests. In, she burst, something after Roland's own fashion,
words of reproach on her tongue, threats of the police. Harry gazed in
doubt; the maid brought up the rear.
Roland turned, full of affection, dropped the spoon into the custard
dish, and flew to embrace her.
"How are you, mother darling? It's only me."
And the Lady Augusta Yorke, between surprise at the meeting, a little
joy, and vexation on the score of her diminishing supper, was somewhat
overwhelmed, and sunk into a chair in screaming hysterics.