IN THE CATHEDRAL.
The college bell was tolling for morning prayers: and the Helstonleigh
College boys were coming up in groups and disappearing within the
little cloister gate, with their white surplices on their arms, just
as Roland Yorke had seen them in his reminiscential visions the
previous night. It was the first of November: a saint's day; and a
great one, as everybody knows; consequently the school had a holiday,
and the king's scholars attended divine service.
Roland was amidst them, having come out after breakfast to give as he
said a "look round." The morning was well on when he awoke up from the
conch prepared for him at Lady Augusta's--a soft bed with charming
pillows, and not a temporary shake-down on the hearthrug. They had
sat up late the previous night, after Lady Augusta's guests had left,
talking of old times and new ones. Roland freely confessed his
penniless state, his present mode of living, with all its shifts and
drawbacks, the pound a week that Mrs. Jones made do for all, the
brushing of his own clothes, the sometimes blacking of his own boots:
which sent his mother into a fit of reproachful sobs. In his sanguine
open-heartedness he enlarged upon the fortune that was sure to be his
some time ("a few hundreds a-year and a house of his own"), and made
her and his two sisters the most liberal promises on the strength of
it. Caroline Yorke turned from him: he had lost caste in her eyes.
Fanny, with her sweet voice and gentle smile, whispered him to work on
bravely, never to fear. The two girls were essentially different.
Constance Channing had done her utmost with them both: they had gone
to Hazledon with her when she became William Yorke's wife; but her
patient training had borne different fruit.
Roland dashed first of all into Mr. Galloway's, to ask if he had news
of Arthur. No, none, Mr. Galloway answered with a groan, and it "would
surely be the death of him." As Roland left the proctor's house, he
saw the college boys flocking into the cloisters, and he went with
them. Renovation seemed to be going on everywhere; beauty had
succeeded dilapidations, and the old cathedral might well raise her
head proudly now. But Roland did wonder when the improvements and the
work would be finished; they had been going on as long as he could
remember.
But the cloisters had not moved or changed their form, and Roland lost
himself in the days of the past. One of the prebendaries, a fresh one
since Roland's time, was turning into the chapter-house; Roland,
positively from old associations, snatched off his hat to him. In
imagination he was king's scholar again, existing in mortal dread,
when in those cloisters, of the Dean and Chapter.
"I say--you," said he, seizing hold of a big boy, who had his surplice
flung across his shoulder in the most untidy and crumpled fashion
possible, "show me Joe Jenkins's grave."
"Yes, sir," answered the boy, wondering what fine imperative gentleman
had got amidst them, and speaking civilly, lest it might be a
connection of someone of the prebendaries. "It's round on the other
side."
Running along to the end of the north cloister, near to the famous
gravestone "Miserrimus," near to the spot where a ghost had once
appeared to Charles Channing he pointed to an obscure corner of the
green grave-yard, which the cloisters enclosed. Many and many a
time had Roland perched himself on those dilapidated old mullioned
window-frames in the days gone by.
"It's there," said the boy. "Old Ketch, the cloister porter, lies on
this side him."
"Oh, Ketch does, does he! I wonder whose doings that was! It's a shame
to have placed him, a cross-grained old wretch, side by side with poor
Jenkins."
"Jenkins was cross-grained too, for the matter of that," cried the
boy. "He was always asking the fellows for a tip to buy baccy, and
grumbling if they did not give it."
Roland stared indignantly. "Jenkins was! Why, what are you talking of?
Jenkins never smoked."
"Oh; didn't he though! Why, he died smoking; he was smoking always.
Pretty well, that, for an old one of seventy-six."
"I'm not talking of old Jenkins," cried Roland. "Who wants to know
about him?--what a senseless fellow you are! It's young Jenkins. Joe;
who was at Galloway's."
"Oh, him! He was buried in front, not here. I can't go round to show
you, sir for time's up."
The boy took to his heels, As schoolboys only can take to them, and
Roland heard him rattle up the steps of the college hall to join his
comrades. Propped against the frame-work, his memory lost itself in
many things; and the minutes passed unheeded by. The procession of the
king's scholars aroused him. They filed along the cloisters from the
college hall, two and two, in their surplices and trenchers, his
brother Harry, one of the seniors nearly the last of them. When they
had disappeared, Roland ran round to the front grave-yard. Between the
cathedral gates and those leading to the palace, stood a black-robed
verger, with his silver mace, awaiting the appearance of the Dean.
Roland accosted the man and asked him which was Joe Jenkins's grave.
"That's it, sir," and the verger indicated a flat stone, which was
nearly buried in the grass. "You can't miss it his name's there."
Roland went into the burial-ground, treading down the grass. Yes,
there it was. "Joseph Jenkins. Aged thirty-nine." He stood looking at
it for some minutes.
"If ever I get rich, Joe, poor meek old fellow, you shall have a
better monument," spoke Roland aloud. "This common stone, Mrs. J.'s no
doubt, shall be replaced by one of white marble, and we'll have your
virtues inscribed on it."
The quarter-past ten chimed out; the bell ceased, and the swell of the
organ was heard. Service had begun in the cathedral. Roland went
about, reading, or trying to read, other inscriptions; he surveyed the
well-remembered houses around; he shaded his hand from the sun, and
looked up to take leisure notice of the outer renovations of the
cathedral. Tired of this, it suddenly occurred to him that he would go
in to service; "just for old memories' sake."
In, he went; never heeding the fact that the service had commenced,
and that it used not to be the custom for an intruder to enter the
choir afterwards. Straight on, went he, to the choir gates, not making
for either of the aisles, as a modest man would, pushed aside the
purple curtain, and let himself into a stall on the decani side; to
the intense indignation of the sexton, who marvelled that any living
man should possess sufficient impudence for it. When Roland looked up,
and had opened the large prayer-book lying before him, the chanter had
come to that portion of the service, "O Lord, open Thou our lips." It
was a melodious, full, pleasant voice. A thorough good chanter,
decided Roland, reared to be critical in such matters; and he took a
survey of him. The chanter was on the cantons side, nearly opposite to
Roland; a good-looking, open-countenanced young clergyman, with brown
hair, whose face seemed to strike another familiar chord on Roland's
memory.
"If I don't believe it's Tom!" thought Roland.
Tom it was. But it slightly discomposed the equanimity of the Reverend
Thomas Channing to find the stalwart, bold disturber, at whom
everybody had stared, and the Dean himself glanced at, telegraphing
him a couple of nods, in what seemed the exuberance of gratified
delight. The young chanter's face turned red; he certainly did not
telegraph back again.
Thus tacitly repulsed, Roland had leisure to look about him, and did
so to his heart's content, while the _Venite_ and the Psalms for the
day were being sung. Nearly side by side with himself; at the chanting
desk, but not being used for chanting today, he discovered his
kinsman, William Yorke. And the Reverend William kept his haughty
shoulder turned away; and had felt fit to faint when Roland had come
bursting through the closed curtains. He, and Tom Channing, and the
head-master of the school, were the three minor canons present.
Oh, how like the old days it was! The Dean in his stall; the sub-dean
on the other side, and the new prebendary, whom Roland did not know.
There stood the choristers at their desks; here, on the flags,
extended the two facing lines of king's scholars, all in their white
surplices. There was a fresh head-master in Mr. Pye's place, and
Roland did not know him. The last time Roland had attended service in
the cathedral--and he well remembered it--Arthur Channing took the
organ. He had ceased for several years to take it now, except on some
chance occasion for pleasure. Where was Arthur now? Could it be that
he "was not?" What with the chilliness of the thought and the
chilliness of the edifice, Roland gave a shiver.
But they are beginning the First Lesson--part of a chapter in Wisdom,
William Yorke reading it. With the first sentences Arthur was brought
more forcibly into Roland's mind.
"But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there
shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to
die: and their departure is taken for misery, and their going from us
to be utter destruction: but they are in peace."
And so on to the end of the verses. Sitting back in his stall, subdued
and quiet now, all his curiosity suppressed, Roland could not but
think how applicable the Lesson was to Arthur. Whether living or dead,
he must be at peace, for God had surely proved him and found him
worthy for Himself. Roland Yorke had not learnt yet to be what Arthur
was; but a feeling, it might be called a hope, stole over him then for
the first time in his life that the change would come. "Annabel will
help me," he thought.
When service was over, Roland greeted all he cared to greet of those
who remembered him. Passing back up the aisle to join Tom Channing in
the vestry (where the first thing he did was to try on the young
parson's surplice and hood), he met his kinsman coming from it. Roland
turned _his_ shoulder now, and his cold sweeping bow, when the minor
canon stopped to speak, would have done honour to a monarch. William
Yorke walked on, biting his lips between amusement and vexation. As
Roland and Thomas Channing were passing through the Boundaries, a
rather short, red-faced, pleasant looking young man met them, and
stayed to shake hands with the minor canon. It was Stephen Bywater.
Roland knew him at once: his saucy face had not altered a whit.
Bywater had come into no end of property in the West Indies (as Roland
heard explained to him by Tom afterwards), and was now in Europe for a
short sojourn.
"How's Ger? asked Bywater, when they had spoken of Arthur and general
news.
"A great man," answered Roland. "Looks over my head if he meets me in
the street. I might have knocked him down before now, Bywater, but for
having left my manners at Port Natal."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" cried Bywater. "Ger is Ger still, I see. Does
he remember the ink-bottle?"
"What ink-bottle?"
"And the tanning of birch Pye gave him?"
Roland did not understand. The termination of that little episode of
schoolboy life had taken place after he had quitted Helstonleigh, and
it was never imparted to him. Stephen Bywater recited it with full
flavour now.
"Ger's not so white himself, then," remarked Roland. "He's always
throwing that banknote of Galloway's in _my_ teeth."
"Is he? I once told him he was a cur," added Bywater, quietly.
"Goodbye, old fellow; we shall meet again, I hope."
Mrs. Channing was delighted to see Roland. But when he spoke to her of
Annabel she burst out laughing, just as her son Hamish had done; which
slightly disconcerted the would-be bridegroom. Considering that in
three or four months, as he now openly confessed, he had saved up two
pounds towards commencing housekeeping (and those were spent), Mrs.
Channing thought the prospect for him and Annabel about as hopeless a
one as she had ever heard of. Roland came to the private conclusion
that he must be making the two hundred a year before speaking again.
He remembered the warning Mr. Galloway had given him in regard to
Arthur, and got away in safety.
Home again then to Lady Augusta's, where he stayed till past midday,
and then started for the station to take the train for London. Fearing
there might be a procession to escort him off, the old family barouche
ordered out, or something of that, for Roland remembered his mother of
old, he stole a march on them and got out alone, his brown paper
parcel in his hand and three or four smaller ones, containing toys and
cakes that Fanny was sending to Gerald's children. His intention had
been to dash through the streets at speed, remembering Mr. Butterby's
friendly caution. But the once well-known spots had charms for Roland,
and he halted to gaze at nearly every step. The Guildhall, the
market-house, the churches: all the old familiar places that had grown
to his memory when far away from them. Before Mrs. Jenkins's house he
came to a full stop: not the one in which Mr. Ollivera had met his
death, but the smaller dwelling beside it. From the opposite side of
the way stood Roland, while he gazed. The shop sold a different kind
of wares now; but Roland had no difficulty in recognising it. In the
parlour behind he had revelled in the luxurious tea and toasted
muffins; in that top room, whose windows faced him, poor humble
Jenkins had died. Away on at last up the street, he and his parcels,
looking to the right and the left. Once upon a time the Lady Augusta
Yorke, seduced by certain golden visions imparted to her by Roland,
had gone to bed and dreamt of driving about a charming city whose
streets were paved with malachite marble, all brilliant to glance
upon; many a time and oft had poor Roland dreamt of the charms of
these Helstonleigh streets when he was fighting a fight with
starvation at Port Natal. Looking upon them now, he rubbed his eyes in
doubt and wonder. Could _these_ be the fine wide streets of the former
days? They seemed to have contracted to a narrow width, to be mean and
shabby. The houses appeared poor, the very Guildhall itself small. Ah
me! The brightness had worn off the gold.
Roland walked on with the slow step of disappointment, scanning the
faces he met. He knew none. Eight years had passed since his absence,
and the place and the people were changed to him. Involuntarily the
words of that ever beautiful song, which most of us know by heart,
came surging up his memory, as he gazed wistfully from side to side.
"Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town."
Strange enough. Was it for this he had come back? Often and often
during his wanderings in the far-away African land, had other lines of
the same sweet song beaten their refrain in his brain when yearning
for Helstonleigh. There was a certain amount of sentiment in Roland
Yorke, for all his straightforward practicability.
"Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
"I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch in sudden gleams
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
There were no seas around Helstonleigh, but the resemblance was near
enough for Roland, as it has been for others. Other verses of the song
seemed to be strangely realized to him now, as he walked along.
"There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak.
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
"I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighbourhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
"And Deering's woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there;
And among the dreams of the days that were
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
Believe it or not as you will, of practical, matter-of-fact Roland,
these oft-quoted lines (but never too often) told their refrain in his
brain as he paced the streets of Helstonleigh, just as they had done
in exile.
He went round by Hazledon; and William Yorke came forward in the hall
to meet him, with outstretched hand.
"I knew you would not leave without coming in."
"It's to see Constance, not you," answered Roland.
Constance was ready for him; the same sweet woman Roland in his
earlier days had thought the perfection of all that was fair and
excellent. He thought her so still. She had her children brought down,
and took the baby in her arms. Roland made them brilliant offerings in
prospective, in the shape of dolls and rocking-horses: and whispered
to their mother his romance about Annabel. She wished him luck,
laughing all the while.
"When William was in London this summer he thought Hamish was looking
a little thin," said Constance. "Is he well?"
"Oh, he's well enough," answered Roland. But his face flushed a dusky
red as he spoke, for the question recalled the strange idea that had
flashed into his mind, unbidden, the past night; and Mr. Roland
thought himself guilty for it, and resented it accordingly. "You never
saw such a lovely little fairy as Nelly is."
But he had no time to stay. Roland went out on the run; and just fell
into the arms of a certain Mr. Simms: one of the few individuals he
had particularly hoped to avoid.
Mr. Simms knew him. That it was a Yorke there could be no doubt; and a
minute's pause sufficed to show him that it was no other than the
truant Roland. Civilly, but firmly, Mr. Simms arrested progress.
"Is it you, Mr. Roland Yorke?"
"Yes, it's me," said Roland. "I'm only at Helstonleigh for a few hours
and was in hopes of getting off again without meeting any of yon," he
candidly added. "You're fit to swear at me, I suppose, Simms, for
never having sent you the money?"
"I certainly expected to be paid long before this, Mr. Yorke."
"So did I," said Roland. "I'd have sent it you had I been able. I
would, Simms; honour bright. How much is it? Five pounds?"
"And seven shillings added on to it."
"Ay, I've got the list somewhere. It's over forty pounds that I owe in
the place altogether, getting on for fifty: and every soul of you
shall be paid with interest as soon as I can scrape the money
together. I've had nothing but ill-luck since I left here, Simms, and
it has not turned yet."
"It was said you went to foreign parts to make your fortune, sir. My
lady herself told me you were safe to come home with one."
"And I thought I was," gloomily answered Roland. "Instead of that,
Simms, I got home without a shirt to my back. I've gone in for work
this many a year now, but somehow fortune's not with me. I work daily,
every bit as hard and long as you do, Simms; perhaps harder; and I can
hardly keep myself. I've not been able to do a stroke since this
dreadful business about Arthur Channing--which brought me down here."
"Is he found, sir? We shouldn't like to lose such a one as him."
"He's neither found nor likely to be," said Roland, shaking his head.
"Old Galloway declares it will be his death: I'm not sure but it'll be
mine. And now I must be off, Simms, and I leave you my honest word
that I'll send you the money as soon as ever it is in my power. I'd
like to pay you all with interest. You shall be the first of them to
get it."
"I suppose you couldn't pay me a trifle off it now, Mr. Yorke? A pound
or so."
"Bless your heart!" cried Roland, in wide astonishment. "A pound or
so! I don't possess it. I pawned my black dress-suit for thirty
shillings to come down upon, and travelled third class. Goodbye, old
Simms; I shall lose the train."
He went off like a shot. Mr. Simms looking after the well-dressed
gentleman, did not know what to make of the plea of poverty.
Roland went whirling back to London again, third class, and arrived at
the Paddington terminus in a fever. That the worst had happened to
Arthur, whatever that worst might be, he no longer entertained a
shadow of doubt. His thirty shillings (we might never have known he
had been so rich but for the candid avowal to Mr. Simms) were not
quite exhausted, and Roland put his parcels into a hansom and drove
down to Mrs. Gerald Yorke's.
To find that lady in tears was nothing unusual; the rule, in fact,
rather than the exception; she was seated on the floor by the
firelight in the evening's approaching dusk, and the three little
girls with her. The grief was not much more than usual. Gerald had
been at home, and in a fit of bitter anger had absolutely forbidden
her to take the children to drink tea with little Nelly Channing at
four o'clock, as invited. Four o'clock had struck; five too; and the
disappointed mother and children had cried through the hour.
"It is too bad of Gerald," cried sympathising Roland, putting his
parcels on the table.
"Yes, it _is_; not to let us go _there_," sobbed Mrs. Yorke. "All
Gerald's money is gone, too, and he went off without answering me when
I said I must have some. I don't possess as much as a fourpenny-piece
in the world; and we've not got an atom of tea or butter in the house
and can have no tea at home, and we've only one scuttle of coals left,
for I've just rung for some and the girl says so, and--oh, I wish I
was dead!"
Roland felt in his pockets, and found three shillings and twopence. It
was all _he_ possessed. This he put on the table, wishing it was fifty
times as much. His heart was good to help all the world.
"I'm ashamed of its being such a trifle," said he, pulling at his
whiskers in mortification. "If I were rich I should be glad to help
everybody. Perhaps it'll buy a quarter of butter and a bit of tea and
half a hundred of coals."
"And for him to deny our going there!" repeated Winny, getting up to
take the money, and then rocking herself violently. "You know the
state we were in all the summer: Gerald next door to penniless and
going about in fear of the bum-bailies," she continued, adhering in
moments of agitation to her provincial expressions. "We wanted
everything; rent, and clothes, and food; and if it had not been for a
friend who continually helped us we might have just starved."
"It was your mother," said Roland.
"But it was not my mother," answered Mrs. Yorke, ceasing her rocking
to lean forward, and her cheeks and her eyes looked alike bright in
the flashing firelight. "It was Mr. Chaining."
"What?"
She could not be reticent, and explained all. How Hamish, or his wife
for him, had helped them, even to the paying of boot-bills for Gerald.
Roland sat amazed. Things that had somewhat puzzled even his careless
nature were becoming clear.
"And Gerald not know of this?"
"As if I should dare to tell him! He thinks it all comes from my
mother. Oh, Roland, you don't know how good and kind Hamish Channing
is! he is more like one of Heaven's angels. I think, I do really
think, I must have died, or come to a bad end, but for him. He is the
least selfish man I ever knew in the world; the most thoughtful and
generous."
"_I_ know what Hamish is," assented Roland, with energy. "And to
think that he has got to bear all this awful sorrow about his best
brother--Arthur!"
"Oh, Arthur is found. He is all right," said Mrs. Yorke, quietly.
"What!" shouted Roland, starting from his chair.
"Arthur has been at Marseilles all the while. Hamish had a letter from
him this morning."
A prolonged stare; a rubbing of the amazed face that had turned to a
white heat; and Roland caught up his hat, and went out with a bang.
Half a moment, and he was back again, sweeping his parcels from the
table to the children on the carpet.
"It's cakes and toys from Fanny," said he. "Go into them, you
chickens. That other's a shirt, Mrs. Yorke: I can't stay for it now."
On the stairs, as he was leaping down, Roland unfortunately
encountered the servant maid carrying up a scuttle of coals. It was
not a moment to consider maids and scuttles. Down went the coals, down
went the maid. Roland took a flying leap over the _débris_, and was
half way on his road to Hamish Channing's before the bewildered
landlady, arriving on the scene, could understand what the matter was.
The explanation of what had been a most unpleasant mystery was so very
simple and natural, that the past fright and apprehension seemed
almost like a take-in. It shall be given at once; though the reader
will readily understand that at present Hamish knew nothing of the
details, only the bare fact that Arthur was alive and well. He would
have to wait for them until Arthur's return.
Amidst the letters handed to Arthur Channing by the waiter of the
hotel that night in Norfolk Street, was one from Marseilles, stating
that Charles, just before landing, had had a relapse, and was lying at
Marseilles dangerously ill--his life despaired of. Perhaps in the
flurry of the moment, Arthur did not and could not act so reasonably
as he might have done. All his thoughts ran on the question--How could
he in the shortest space of time get to Marseilles? By dint of
starting on the instant--on the instant, mind--and taking a fleet cab,
he might get to London Bridge in time to catch the Dover mail-train.
Taking up his hat and letters, he ran out of the coffee-room calling
aloud for the waiter. Nobody responded: nobody, as it would appear,
was at that moment in the way to hear him. Afraid of even an instant's
detention, he did not wait, but ran out of the hotel, up Norfolk
Street, hailed a passing hansom, and reached London Bridge Station
before the train started. From Dover to Calais the boat had an
exceedingly calm passage, and Arthur was enabled to write some short
notes in the cabin, getting ink and paper from the steward: one to the
hotel that he had, as may be said, surreptitiously quitted, one to
Hamish, one to Roland, one to Mr. Galloway, one to Mr. Galloway's
London agents. Arthur, always considerate, ever willing to spare
others anxiety and pain, did not say _why_ he was hastening to
Marseilles, but merely stated that he had determined on proceeding
thither, instead of awaiting Charles in London. These letters he gave
to a French commissionaire on landing in Calais, with money to buy the
necessary stamps, and a gratuity to himself; ordering him to post them
as soon as might be. Whether the man quietly pocketed the money and
suppressed the letters, or whether he had in his turn entrusted them
to someone else to post, who lost, or forgot them, would never be
ascertained. Arthur, all unconscious of the commotion he was causing
at home, arrived quietly at Marseilles, and there found Charles very
ill, not quite out of danger For some days he was wholly occupied with
him, and did not write at all: as he had said nothing about the
illness, he knew there could be no anxiety. Now that he did write,
Charles was getting better rapidly. It may just be observed, that the
letter left in the rack of the hotel (that came on with the rest of
the steamer's letters from Marseilles) had served to complicate
matters; but for that letter it would have been surmised that Arthur
had received unfavourable news of Charles, and had gone on to him. The
accident was indeed a singular one, which left _that_ letter in the
rack: and even the thought that there should have been a second from
Marseilles never occurred to them. All these, and other details,
Hamish Channing would have to wait for. He could afford to do
so--holding that new letter of relief in his hand, which stated that
Charles was eager to continue his journey homewards, so that they
would probably be in London soon after its receipt.
"Oh, Hamish, it is good!" cried Roland, who had sat listening with all
his heart and eyes. "It's like a great bright star come down from
Heaven. It's like a gala-day."
"I dare say there is a letter waiting for you at Mrs. J.'s, friend."
"Of course there is," decided Roland. "As if Arthur would forget me!
Old Galloway won't die yet."
But, even in that short absence of a day and a night, Roland seemed to
see that Hamish Channing's face had grown thinner: the fine skin more
transparent, the genial blue eyes brighter.