A TELEGRAM FOR ROLAND YORKE.
Lounging quite back in the old elbow horsehair chair, his feet
stretched out on the hob on either side the fire, which elegant
position he had possibly learnt at Port Natal, sat Mr. Roland Yorke.
He had just come home to his five o'clock tea, and took the occasion
to indulge in sundry reminiscences while waiting for it to be brought
to him. Christmas had passed, these two or three days now; the brief
holiday was over, and working days were going on again.
Roland's mood was a subdued one. All things seemed to be, more or
less, tinted with gloom. Hamish Channing was dying; a summons had been
sent for his friends; the last hour could not now be very far off: and
Roland felt it deeply. The ill, worked by his brother Gerald, seemed
never to go out of his mind for a moment, sleeping or waking. Vexation
of a different kind was also his. Day after day in his sanguine
temperament he had looked for a letter from Sir Vincent Yorke,
appointing him to the post of bailiff; and no such letter came.
Roland, who had heard nothing of the slight accident caused by Gerald
(you may be very sure Gerald would not be the one to speak of it),
supposed the baronet was in Paris with Miss Trehern. A third source of
discomfort lay in the office. Bede Greatorex, whose health since the
past few days had signally failed, avowed himself at last unequal to
work, and an extra amount of it fell upon his clerks. Roland thought
it a sin and a shame that before Christmas Day had well turned, he
should have, as he phrased it, to "stick to it like any dray-horse." A
rumour had arisen in the office that Bede Greatorex was going away
with his wife for change and restoration, and that Mr. Brown was to be
head of the department in Bede's place. Roland did not regard the
prospect with pleasure: Mr. Brown being a regular martinet in regard
to keeping the clerks to their duty.
The grievance that lay uppermost on his mind this evening, was the
silence of Sir Vincent. For Hamish he had grieved until it seemed that
he could grieve no longer; the rumoured change in the office might
never be carried out but on the score of Sir Vincent's neglect there
was no palliation.
"I'd not treat _him_, so," grumbled Roland, his complaint striving to
find relief in words. "Even if the place was gone when I applied, or
he thought I'd not suit, he might write to me. It's all very fine for
him kicking up his heels in Paris, and dining magnificently in the
restaurants off partridges and champagne, and forgetting a fellow as
he forgets me; but if his whole hopes in life lay on the die, he'd
remember, I know. If I knew his address over there, I'd drop him
another letter and tell him to put me out of suspense. For all the
answer that has come to me, one might think he had never had that
first letter of mine. He has had it though, and it's a regular shame
of him not to acknowledge it, when my heart was set on being able to
carry Hamish the cheering news, before he died, that Annabel was
provided for. If Dick would only give us a pretty little cottage down
yonder and a couple of hundreds a-year! It wouldn't be much for Dick
to give, and I'd serve him bravely day and night. I declare I go into
Hamish's room as sheep-faced as a calf, with the shame of having no
news to tell. Annabel says----Oh, it's you, Miss Rye, is it! Precious
cold tonight!"
Miss Rye had come in with the small tea-tray: the servant was busy.
She wore a knot of blue ribbon in her hair, and looked otherwise
bright. Since a private interview held with Mr. Butterby and George
Winter, when they returned to release her from custody, she had
appeared like a different woman. Her whole aspect was changed: the
sad, despairing fear on her face had given place to a look of rest and
hope. Roland had taken occasion to give Mr. Butterby a taste of what
that gentleman called "sauce," as to his incurable propensity for
apprehending the wrong person, and was advised in return to mind his
own business. While Mrs. Jones had been existing since in a chronic
state of tartness; for she could not come to the bottom of things, and
Alletha betrayed anything but a readiness to enlighten her.
"What's for tea?" asked Roland, lazily, turning his head to get a view
of the tray.
"They have boiled you an egg," replied Miss Rye. "There was nothing
else in the house. Have you seen your letter, Mr. Yorke?"
"A letter!" exclaimed Roland, starting up with so much alacrity
as to throw down the chair, for his hopes suddenly turned to the
vainly-expected communication from Sir Vincent. "Where is it? When did
it come? Good old Dick!"
It had come just as he went out after dinner, she answered, as she
took the letter--which bore a foreign post-mark--from the mantelpiece
to hand to him. And eager Roland's spirits went down to zero as he
tore it open, for he recognized the writing to be, not Dick Yorke's,
but Lord Carrick's.
"Oh, come though, it's rather good," said he, running his eyes down
the plain and sprawling hand--very much like his own. "Carrick has
come out of his troubles; at least, enough of them to show himself by
daylight again in the old country; he will be over in London directly.
I say, Miss Rye, I'll bring him here, and introduce him to you and
Mrs. J."
And Miss Rye laughed as she left the room more freely than she had
laughed for many a day.
"Perhaps Carrick can put me into something!" self-communed Roland,
cutting off the top of his egg, and taking in a half-slice of
inch-thick bread-and-butter at a bite. "I know he'll not want the will
when I tell him about Annabel."
The last morsel was eaten, and Roland was on the point of demanding
more, for his appetite never failed, when he heard someone come to the
house and inquire for Mr. Yorke. Visions of the arrival of Lord
Carrick flashed over him; he made a dash to the passage, and very
nearly threw down a meek little gentleman, who was being shown into
his room.
"Holloa!" said Roland, the corners of his mouth dropping with
disappointment. "Is it only you?"
For the visitor was nobody but little Jenner. He had brought a
communication from Mr. Greatorex, and took off his hat while he
delivered it.
"You are to go back with me to the office at once, if you please, Mr.
Yorke. Mr. Greatorex wants you."
"What have I done now?" questioned Roland, anticipative of a
reprimand.
"It is not for anything of that sort, sir. I believe Sir Vincent Yorke
has telegraphed for you to go down to him at Sunny Mead. The despatch
said you were to lose no time."
Whether Roland leaped highest or shouted loudest, the startled house
could not have decided. The anticipated bailiff's place was, in his
imagination, as surely his, as though he had been installed in it
formally. To wash his hands, brush his hair, and put on a superfine
coat took but a minute, before he was striding to the office little
Jenner on the run by his side, and to the presence of Mr. Greatorex.
Into which he went with a burst. The lawyer received him calmly and
showed the message from Surrey.
"_Sir Vincent Yorke to Mr. Greatorex_.
"Send Roland Yorke down to me by first train. Lose no time."
"Good old Dick!" repeated Roland in the fulness of his heart. "I
thought he'd remember me; and there was I reproaching him like an
ungrateful Tom-cat! It is to appoint me to the bailiff's place, Mr.
Greatorex."
"Well--it may be," mused Mr. Greatorex. "But I had fancied the post
was filled up."
"Not it, sir. Long live Dick! When did he come back from Paris?"
"I know nothing about Sir Vincent's recent movements, Mr. Yorke. You
had better be getting to the Waterloo Station. Have you money for the
journey?"
"I've got about sevenpence-halfpenny, sir."
Mr. Greatorex took a half-sovereign from his desk, and ten shillings
in silver. "I don't know how often the trains run," he observed, "but
if you go at once to the station, you will be all right for the first
that starts."
Not to the station, let it start as soon as it would, without first
seeing Annabel, and telling her of his good fortune. Away up the
stairs went Roland, in search of her, leaping over some boxes that
stood packed in the hall: and there he encountered Mr. Bede Greatorex.
It was four whole days since Roland had met him, and he thought he had
never seen a face so changed in the short space of time. Annabel was
not at home, Bede said; she had gone to Mr. Channing's.
"You don't look well, sir."
"Not very, I believe. I am about to try what a month or two's absence
will do for me."
"And leave us to old Brown!--that _will_ be a nice go!" exclaimed
Roland in blank dismay. "But I may not have to stay," he added more
brightly, as recollection returned to him "Vincent Yorke has
telegraphed for me, sir, and I and Mr. Greatorex think that he is
about to appoint me his bailiff."
A smile crossed the haggard face of Bede. "I wish you success in it,"
he kindly said.
"Thank you, sir. And I'm sure I wish you and Mrs. Greatorex heaps of
pleasure, and I heartily hope you'll come home strong. Oh! and, Mr.
Bede--Carrick's coming back."
Bede nodded in answer. Greatorex and Greatorex knew more of the matter
than Roland, since it was they who had intimated to the peer that the
coast was now sufficiently clear for him.
Roland leaped into a cab, and was taken to Mr. Channing's. He waited
in the empty dining-room; and when Annabel came to him, told her
hurriedly of what had happened. The cab was waiting at the door,
Roland was eager, and her pale cheeks grew rosy with blushes as he
talked and held her hands.
"It can't be for anything else, you know, Annabel. He is going to
instal me off-hand for certain, or else he would have written and not
telegraphed: perhaps the new bailiff (if he did appoint one) has
turned out to be no good. There'll be a pretty cottage, I daresay, its
walls all covered with roses and lilies, with two hundred a year; and
we shall be as happy as the day's long. You'll not mind trying it,
will you?"
No, Annabel whispered, the cheeks deepening to crimson, she would not
mind trying it. "I think--I think, Roland," she added, bending down
her pretty face, "that I might have a pupil if I liked; and be well
paid for her."
"That's jolly," said Roland. "We might do, with that, if Dick only
offered me one hundred. He is uncommonly close-fisted. There'd be a
house free, and no end of fruit and garden-stuff; and living in the
country is very cheap."
"It is Jane Greatorex."
"Oh _she_," cried Roland, his countenance falling. "She is a regular
little toad, Annabel. I'd not like you to be bothered with her."
"She would be always good with me. Mr. and Mrs. Bede are going away,
and Mr. Greatorex does not want us there any longer. He said a few
words to me today about my returning home to mamma at Helstonleigh and
taking Jane with me: that is, if mamma has no objection. He said he
would like Jane to be with me better than with any one; and he'd make
it worth my while in point of salary."
"Then, Annabel, if you don't object to the young monkey, that's
settled, and I shall look upon it that we are as good as married. What
a turn in fortune's wheel! Won't I serve Dick with my best blood and
marrow! I'll work for him till my arms drop. I say! couldn't I just
see Hamish? I'd like to tell him."
He ran softly up the stairs as he spoke. Hamish was in bed; and just
now alone, save for Miss Nelly, who had rolled herself upon the
counterpane like a ball, her cheek close to his. Roland whispered all
the items of good news exultantly: it never occurred to him to think
that they might turn out to be castles in the air. A smile, partaking
somewhat of the old amused character, flitted across Hamish's wasted
but still beautiful face, and sat in his blue eyes as he listened.
"You'll leave Annabel especially to me, won't you, Hamish; and wish us
both joy and happiness?"
"I wish you both the best wishes I can wish, Roland--God's blessing,"
was the low, earnest answer. "His blessing through this life, and in
that to come."
Roland bent his face down to Nelly's to hide its emotion, and began
kissing her. His grief for Hamish Channing sometimes showed itself
like any girl's.
"I have left you her guardian, Roland."
"Me!" exclaimed Roland, the surprise sending him and his wet eyes bolt
upright.
"You and Arthur jointly. You will take care of her interests, I know."
"Oh, Hamish, how good of you! Nelly's guardian! _Won't_ I take care of
her! and love her, too. I'll buy her sixpen'orth of best sugared
almonds every day."
Hamish smiled. "Not her personal guardian, Roland; her mother will be
that. I meant as to her property."
"Never mind; it's all one. Thank you, Hamish, for your trust in me.
Oh, I am proud! And mind that you are a good girl, Miss Nelly, now
that I shall have the right to call you to order."
Roland did not seem quite to define the future duties in his own mind.
Nelly raised her tear-stained face, and looked at him defiantly.
"I'm going away with papa."
"Not with him, my child," whispered Hamish. "You must stay here a
little while. You and mamma will come later."
Nelly burst into sobs. "Heaven is better than this. I want to go
there."
"We shall all get there in time, Nelly," observed Roland in much
gloom, "but I wish I could have gone now in his stead. Oh, Hamish, I
do I do indeed! Gerald's black work will never be out of my heart. And
there's your book getting its crown of laurels at last, and you not
living to wear them!"
The gentle face, bright with a light not of this world, was turned to
Roland. "A better crown is waiting for me," he murmured. "My Lord and
Master knows how thankfully I shall go to it."
A stamping outside as of an impatient cab-horse on the frosty street,
reminded Roland that he was bound on a non-delayable mission. On the
stairs he met Annabel, caught hold of her without ceremony, and gave
her shrinking face a few farewell kisses.
"Goodbye, darling. When I come back it will be as bailiff of Sunny
Mead."
Roland's delay had been just enough to cause him to miss a train, and
the evening was considerably later when he was at length deposited at
the small station near Sunny Mead.
Looking up the road and down the road in the cold moonlight, uncertain
which was his way, he found himself accosted by a man in the garb of a
groom.
"I beg pardon, sir: are you Mr. Yorke."
"Yes."
"I've got the dog-cart here, sir."
"Oh, have you?" returned Roland; "I thought Sunny Mead was close to
the station."
"It's a matter of ten minutes' walk, sir; but they gave me orders to
be down, and wait for every train until you came."
"How long has Sir Vincent been back from Paris?" questioned Roland, as
they bowled along.
"From Paris, sir? He haven't been to it: not lately. The accident
stopped his going."
"What accident?"
Ah! what accident! Roland's eyes opened to their utmost width with
surprise, as he listened to the answer.
"Good heavens! And it was caused, you say, by Gerald Yorke?"
"That it was, sir."
"Why, he's my brother."
"Well, sir, accidents happen unintentional to the best of us,"
observed the man, striving to be polite. "Some of 'em said that the
gentleman didn't show himself 'cute at handling of a gun."
"I don't believe he ever handled one in his life before," avowed
impulsive Roland. "What a fool he must have been! How is Sir Vincent
going on? I'm sure I hope it was no great damage."
"Sir Vincent was going on all right till today, sir; and as to the
damage it was not thought to be much. We hear now that it has taken a
turn for the worse. They talk of erysipelas."
"Oh, that's nothing," said Roland. "I knew a fellow who got erysipelas
in the face at Port Natal till it was as big as a pumpkin, but he did
his work all the same. That's it," he mentally decided, as they
approached the house. "Poor Dick, confined indoors, can't look after
things himself, and is going to put me to do it."
Upon a flat bed, or couch, in the downstairs room, where we saw him
breakfasting with Gerald, lay Sir Vincent Yorke, his dog beside him.
He held out his hand to greet Roland. Impulsively and rather
explosively, that unsophisticated African traveller burst out with
regrets on the score of the accident, and the more especially that it
should have been caused by Gerald.
"Ay, it was a bad job," said Sir Vincent, quietly. "Sit down Roland.
Here near to me. I am in a good bit of pain, and don't care to talk at
a distance."
Roland took the chair pointed to, not a yard off Sir Vincent as he
lay, and the two looked at each other. A kind of honest shame was on
Roland's face: he was inwardly asking himself how much more disgrace
Gerald meant to bring on him. The moderator lamp, a soft, thin
perforated paper thrown over to subdue its brightness, was behind the
invalid.
"I hope you'll soon be about again, Vincent."
"I hoped so, too, until this morning," was Sir Vincent's answer. "My
leg was very uneasy all last night, and I sent at daybreak for the
surgeon. He came, and was obliged to tell me that an unfavourable
change had taken place: in fact, that dangerous symptoms had set in."
"But you can be cured?" cried Roland.
"No, not now."
"Not be cured!" exclaimed Roland, starting up with wild eyes, and
hardly knowing what to understand. "Do you mean, that it will be long
first?"
"I mean, that I shall never be cured at all in this world. Sit down,
Roland, and listen quietly. The wound, regarded at first as a very
simple one, and apparently continuing to progress well, has taken a
turn for the worse; and must shortly end in death. Now, do be
tranquil, old fellow, and listen. You are my heir, you know, Roland."
Roland, constrained to patience and his chair, stared, and pulled at
his whiskers, and stared again.
"Your heir?"
"Certainly. My heir."
The contingency had never, in the whole course of his life, entered
into the imagination of simple Roland. He sat in speechless
bewilderment.
"The moment the breath goes out of this poor frail body--and the
doctors tell me it will not be many more hours in it now--you will be
Sir Roland Yorke. The fourth baronet, and the possessor of the Yorke
estates--such as they are."
"Oh, my gracious!" uttered Roland, a vast deal more startled at the
prospect than he had been at that of crying hot-pies in Poplar. "Do
you mean it, Vincent?"
"_Mean_ it! Where are your wits gone, that you need ask? You must know
as well as I do that you come next in succession."
"I never thought of it; never once. I don't want it, Vincent, old
fellow; I don't, indeed. I hope, with all my heart, you'll get well,
and hold it for yourself. Oh, Dick, I hope you will!"
Roland had risen and caught the outstretched hand. As Sir Vincent
heard the earnest tones, and saw the face of genuine concern shining
out in all its guileless simplicity, the tears in the honest eyes, he
came to the conclusion that Roland had been somewhat depreciated among
them.
"Nothing can save me, Roland; the doctors have pronounced me to be
past human skill, and I feel for myself that I am so. It has not been
long, one day, 'to set my house in order,' has it?"
Amidst Roland's general confusion, nothing had struck him more than
the change in Vincent's tone. The old, mincing affectation was utterly
gone. A man cannot retain such when brought face to face with death.
"If you could but get well!" repeated poor Roland, rubbing his hot
face as he got back to his chair.
"Doctors, lawyers, and parsons--I have had them all here today,"
resumed Sir Vincent. "The first man I sent for, after the fiat was
pronounced, was a lawyer from the village hard by: there might not be
time, I feared, to get down old Greatorex. He made a short will for
me: and it was only when I began to consider what its provisions
should be, that I (so to say) remembered you as my heir and
successor."
Roland sat, hopelessly listening, unable to take in too much at once.
"The entailed property lapses to you; but there is some, personal and
else, at my own disposal. With the exception of a few legacies, I have
bequeathed it all to you, Roland--and you'll be poor enough: and I've
appointed you sole executor. But I think you will make a better man,
as the family's head, than I might have made in the long run; and I am
truly glad that it is you to succeed, and not Gerald."
Roland gave a groan.
"I allude to his disposition, which I don't think great things of, and
to his propensity for spending," continued Sir Vincent. "Gerald would
have every acre of the estate mortgaged in a couple of years: I think
you will be different. Don't live beyond your means, Roland; that's
all.
"I'll try to do my very best by everybody," replied Roland. "As to
living beyond my means, Annabel will see to that, and take care of me.
Dick! Dick! it seems so wicked of me to talk coolly of it, as if I
were speculating on your death. I wish you'd try and live! I don't
want the estate and the money; I never thought of such a thing as
coming in to it. I rushed down here tonight, hoping you were going to
make me your bailiff; and I thought how well I'd try to serve you, and
what a good fellow you were for doing it."
"Ah," was the dying man's slight comment, as he drew himself a trifle
higher in the bed. "You will be master instead of bailiff; that's all
the difference. I had just engaged a bailiff when you wrote: and I'd
advise you to keep him on, Roland, unless you really feel competent to
the management yourself."
"I'll keep him on until I've learnt it; that won't be long first. I
must have something to employ my time in, Vincent."
"True: I wish I had had it. An idle man must, almost of necessity,
glide into various kinds of mischief: of which debt is one."
"You need not fear debt for me, Vincent," was the earnest answer. "I
have lived too long on empty pockets, and earned a crust before I ate
it, to have ill ways for money or inclination to spend. Why, my best
dress suit has been in pawn these two months: and old Greatorex had to
advance me twenty shillings to bring me down here."
Something like a smile flitted over Sir Vincent's lips. He pointed to
a desk that stood on a side-table.
"When I am gone, Roland, you can open that: there's a little loose
cash in it. It will be enough to repay Greatorex and redeem your
clothes."
"But I'd not like to take it, Vincent, thank you. I'd not, indeed."
"Why, man! it will be your own then."
"Oh, well--I never!" cried Roland softly: quite unable to realize his
fast-approaching position.
"The danger to some people might lie in being thus suddenly raised
from poverty to affluence," remarked Sir Vincent. "It has shipwrecked
many a one."
"Don't fear for me, or for the estate either, Vincent. Had this
happened some seven or eight years ago, when I was a lazy, conceited,
ignorant young fool, nearly as stuck-up as Gerald, I can't say how it
might have been. But I went to Port Natal, you know; and I gained my
life's lesson there. Hamish Channing has left me guardian to Nelly. I
can guess why he did it, too--that the world may see he thinks me
worthy to be trusted at last. He had always the most delicately
generous heart in Christendom."
"Hamish and I!" murmured Sir Vincent, in self-communing, "on the wing
nearly together."
Yes, it was so. And Roland, with all his lamentation, could not alter
the fiat.
"What was the lesson you learnt at Port Natal?"
"Not to be a reckless spendthrift; not to be idle and useless.
Vincent," added Roland, bending his face forward in its strange
earnestness, and dropping his voice till it was scarcely louder than a
whisper, "I learnt in Port Natal that there was another world to live
for after this: I learnt that our time was not our own to waste in
sin, but God's time, given us to use for the best. A chum of mine out
there, named Bartle, was struck down by an accident; the doctor said
he'd not live the day out--and he didn't. It was a caution to hear his
moans and groans, Vincent. He had not been very bad, as far as I knew,
in the ways that the world calls bad; he had only been careless and
idle, and wasted his days, and never thought of what was to come
after. I wish everybody that's the same had seen him die, Vincent, and
heard his dreadful cries for mercy. If ever I forget to remember it, I
think God would forget me. I saw many such sudden deaths, and plenty
of remorse for them, but none as trying as his. It taught me a lesson:
brought me to thought, you know. Don't you fear for me, Vincent; it
will be all right, I hope: and if I could ever be so foolhardy as to
look at a step on the backward route, Annabel would not let me take
it."
Roland had spoken in characteristic oblivion that the case, as to the
sudden striking down, bore so entire an analogy to the one before him.
Sir Vincent recalled it to him.
"Yes. Just as it is with me, Roland."
"Oh--but--you've got time yet, you know, Dick," he said, a little
confused. "A parson, who was knocking about, over there, in a
threadbare coat, came in and saw Bartle, and talked to him about the
thief on the cross. Bartle couldn't see it; his fears didn't let him;
_you_ may."
"Yes, yes," replied Sir Vincent, with a half smile, but Roland thought
it looked like a peaceful one. "I have had a parson with me also,
Roland."
Roland's face lighted up with a kind of reverence. Sir Vincent put out
his hand and stroked the dog.
"You'll be kind to him, Roland?"
"Oh, won't I, Dick! What's his name?"
"Spot."
"Here! Spot, Spot!"
"Go, Spot. Go to your future master."
"Come, then, old fellow. Spot! Spot!"
The dog made a sudden leap to the side of Roland at the call, and
rubbed his nose against the extended hand.
"I'll be as good to him as if he were a child," spoke Roland, in his
earnestness. "See! we are friends already, Vincent."
And this simple-hearted young fellow was the scapegoat they had all
despised! Sir Vincent caught the strong hand and clasped it within his
delicate one.