A WIDE BLACK BAND ON ROLAND'S HAT.
Early in the afternoon and the Waterloo Railway Station. A gentleman
got out of a first-class carriage, and made his way to one of the
waiting hansoms.
"Stop at the first hatter's you come to," he said to the driver.
Leaping out when his directions were obeyed, he entered the shop and
asked for a mourning band to be put on his hat; a "deep one." You do
not need to be told who it was, and what the black band was for.
Vincent had died about eight o'clock in the morning, and the Natal
traveller was Sir Roland Yorke.
Save for the fact that he had some money in his pockets, in actual
reality, which afforded a kind of personal ease to the mind, he was
anything but elated at the change of position. On the contrary, he
felt very much subdued. Roland could not be selfish, and the grief and
shock brought him by the unexpected death of his cousin Vincent,
outweighed every thought of self. He had already tasted some of the
fruits of future power. Servants and others had referred to him that
morning as the new baronet and their master; his pleasure had been
consulted in current matters touching the house and estate, his orders
been requested as to the funeral. Roland was head of all now, the sole
master. Setting aside the sadness that filled his heart to the
exclusion of all else, the very suddenness of the change would prevent
him as yet realizing it in his own mind.
With the conspicuous band on his hat, stretching up rather above the
top of the crown, Roland entered the cab again, and ordered it to the
office. There he presented himself to Mr. Greatorex.
"Well?" said the lawyer, turning round from his desk "So you are back
again! What did Sir Vincent want with you? Has he made you his
bailiff?"
Roland sadly shook his head. And Mr. Greatorex saw that something was
wrong.
"What's amiss?" he hastily inquired.
"If you please sir, I am Sir Roland now."
"You are what?" exclaimed Mr. Greatorex.
"It's only too true," groaned Roland. "Poor Vincent is dead. Mr.
Greatorex, I'd work on all fours for a living to the end of my days if
it could bring him to life again. I never thought to come in, I'm
sure; and I wouldn't willingly. He died at eight o'clock this
morning."
Mr. Greatorex leaned back in his chair and relieved his mind by a
pastime he might have caught from Roland--that of staring. Not having
heard of Sir Vincent's accident, this assertion of his death sounded
only the more surprising. Was Roland telling the truth? He almost
questioned it. Roland, perceiving the doubt, gave a summary of
particulars, and Mr. Greatorex slowly realized the facts.
Sir Roland Yorke! The light-headed, simple-minded clerk, who had been
living on a pound a week and working sufficiently hard to get it,
suddenly transformed into a powerful baronet! It was like a romance in
a child's fairy tale. Mr. Greatorex rose and held out his hand.
"I must congratulate you on your succession, Sir Roland, sad though
the events are that have led to it."
"Now don't! please don't!" interrupted Roland. "I hope nobody will do
that, sir: it sounds like a wrong on poor Dick. Oh, I'd bring him to
life again if I were able."
"I trust you will make us your men of business, Sir Roland," resumed
Mr. Greatorex, still standing. "We have been solicitors to the head of
the Yorke family in succession for many years now."
"I'm sure if you'll be at the trouble of acting for me, I should like
nothing better, sir: bad manners to me if I could have any different
thought! And I've put your name and Mr. Bede's down in the list for
the funeral, if you'll please attend it. There'll be but a few of us
in all. Gerald (though I shouldn't think _he_ will show his face at
it), William Yorke, Arthur Channing, two or three of Dick's friends,
and you and Mr. Bede. Poor Dick said to me when he was dying not to
have the same kind of show he had for his father's funeral, he saw the
folly of it now, but the quietest I could order. I think he has gone
to heaven, Mr. Greatorex."
But that the subject was a solemn one, Mr. Greatorex had certainly
laughed at the quaint simplicity of the concluding sentence. One
reminiscence in connection with the past funeral rose forcibly in his
mind--of the slighting neglect shown to the young man now before him.
He, the real heir-presumptive, only that nobody had the wit to think
of it, was not deemed good enough to follow his uncle to the grave.
But stood in his place now.
Bede would not be able to attend the ceremony, Mr. Greatorex said
aloud: he was already in France, having crossed over with his wife by
the last mail train.
"What is the matter with him?" asked Roland. "He looked as ill as he
could look yesterday."
"I don't know what the matter is," said Mr. Greatorex. "He has an
inward complaint, and I fear it must be making great strides. His name
will be taken out of the firm tomorrow, and give place to Frank's. It
was Bede's own request: it is as if he fears he may never be capable
of business again."
"I'm sure I hope he will," cried Roland in his sympathy. "About me,
Mr. Greatorex? Of course I'd not like to leave you at a pinch; I'll
come to the office tomorrow morning and do my work as usual for a day
or two, until you've found somebody to replace me. I should like to
take this afternoon for myself."
But Mr. Greatorex with a smile, thought they should not need to
trouble Sir Roland: which was no doubt an agreeable intimation: and
Roland really had a good deal to do in connection with his new
position.
"If I'm not forgetting!" he exclaimed, just as he was taking his
departure. "There's the money you lent me, sir, and I thank you for
the loan of it."
In taking the sovereign from his pocket, he pulled out several. Mr.
Greatorex jokingly remarked that he had apparently no longer need to
borrow.
"It is from poor Dick's desk," sadly observed Roland. "He told me
there was enough money in it to repay the pound to you and get my
clothes out of pawn, and that it would be all my own when he died.
Well, what do you think I found there when I opened it today?--Nearly
a hundred pounds in gold and bank notes!"
"But you have not got all that about you, I hope?"
"Yes I have, sir; it was safer to bring it up than to leave it. I
shall pay it into the banker's. I've got to show myself there, I
suppose, and leave my signature in their books; it won't be so neat a
one as poor Dick's."
Roland departed. Looking in for a moment at the office as he went out,
and announcing himself as Sir Roland Yorke, upon which Mr. Hurst burst
out laughing in his face. He dashed in on Mrs. Jones with his news,
ate nearly the whole of a shilling Madeira cake that happened to be on
the table, while he talked, and made a voluntary promise to that tart
and disbelieving matron to refurnish her house from top to bottom.
Then the cab was ordered to the banker's, where his business was
satisfactorily adjusted. Gerald's chambers were not far off, and
Roland took them next. The servant met him with the bold assertion
that his master was out.
"Don't bother yourself to deny him, my good man; I saw his face at the
window," said Roland, with frankness. "You may safely show me in: I am
not a creditor."
"Well, sir, we are obliged to be excessively cautious, just now, and
that's the truth," apologized the man in a tone of confidence. "Mr.
Yorke, I think?"
"Sir Roland Yorke," corrected Roland.
"_Sir?_" returned the man, looking at him as if he thought he saw a
lunatic.
"Sir Roland Yorke," was the emphatic repetition. "Have the goodness to
announce me."
And the servant opened the room door and did it.
As Roland saw Gerald's quick look of surprise, he would, under other
circumstances, have shaken in his shoes at the fun. But sadness wholly
reigned over him today. And--if truth must be told--a terrible
aversion to Gerald for his work and its fruits held possession of the
new heir.
"Oh, it's you," cried Gerald, roughly. "What on earth possessed the
fellow?"
"The fellow did right, Gerald. I gave him my name, and he announced
it."
"Don't come here with your fool's blabber. He said 'Sir Roland Yorke.'"
"And it is what I am."
Gerald's face grew dark with passion. He had an especial dislike to be
played with.
"Vincent's dead, Gerald."
"It is a lie."
"Vincent died this morning at eight o'clock," repeated Roland. "I was
with him: he telegraphed for me yesterday. Look at this mourning
band"--showing his hat--"I've just been to get it put on. Do you think
I'd have the face to invent a jest on this subject? Vincent Yorke is
dead, poor fellow, and I have come into things as Sir Roland. Not that
I can fully believe it myself yet." The tone of the voice, the deep
black band, and a kind of subtle instinct within himself brought
conviction of the truth home to Gerald Yorke. Had it been to save his
fame, he could not have helped the loud brazen tone from going out of
his voice, or the dread that took possession of his whole aspect.
"What--has--he--died--of?"
"The gunshot wound."
A pause. Gerald broke it.
"It was going on well. I heard so only two days ago."
"But it took a sudden turn for the worse; and he is dead."
Gerald's face assumed a tinge as of bluish chalk. Was he to have _two_
lives on his soul? Hamish Channing's had surely been enough for him
without Vincent Yorke's. Pushing back his damp hair, he met Roland's
steady look, and so made believe to feel nothing, went to the fire,
and stirred it gently.
"Why did the doctors let it take _this_ turn?" he asked, flinging down
the poker. "It was as simple a wound as ever was given."
"I suppose they'd have helped it if they could."
Another pause.
"Well--of course--as you _have_ succeeded, I must congratulate you,"
said Gerald stiffly and lamely. Absently, too, for he was buried in
thought, reflecting on what an idiotic policy his, to Roland, had
been: but this contingency had never occurred to him more than it had
to Roland.
"Vincent had a good lot of property that was not entailed," resumed
Gerald. "Do you know who he has willed it to? Did he make a will?"
"He made a will yesterday, before telegraphing for me," Gerald lifted
his face with a transient hope.
"I wonder if he has remembered me?"
"I think not. Except some legacies to the servants, and a keepsake for
Miss Trehern--his watch and diamond ring, I fancy--he said nobody's
name was mentioned in the will but mine. It has not been opened: I
thought I'd leave it till after the funeral. I am the executor."
"_You!_--you don't want his ready money as well as his inheritance,
spoke Gerald, in a foam.
"I'm sure I didn't want any of it, I only thought to be his bailiff;
but I can't help it if it has come to me," was Roland's quiet answer,
as he turned to depart. "Good afternoon, Gerald. I thought it right to
call and tell you of his death: you may like to draw your blinds
down."
"Thanks," said Gerald, sarcastically.
"You will receive an invitation to the funeral, Gerald. But I'd like
to intimate that if you do not care to attend, I shall not look upon
it in the light of a slight," added candid Roland, who really spoke in
simple good nature. "We shall be enough without you if you'd rather
stay away."
Before Gerald's awful rage at the speech was over, for he looked upon
it as bestowed in a patronizing light from the new baronet, Roland was
vaulting into the waiting cab. Gerald had the pleasure of peeping on
from the window.
"Sir Roland Yorke!--Sir Roland Yorke!" he spoke aloud in his horrible
mortification. "Sunny Mead for his home, and four thousand a year
landed property, and heaps of ready money. Curse the beggar! Curse the
shot that has brought him the luck of the inheritance! I'd sell my
soul for it to have been mine. I should wear the honours better than
he. I wish to Heaven he could die tonight!"
And Mr. Gerald Yorke, looking after the receding cab with a dark and
sullen countenance, could indeed have sold his soul; if by so doing he
might have annihilated his brother and stepped into his place. He was
in that precise frame of mind for which some few men in the world's
actual history, and a vast many in fiction, have stained their hands
with crime for the greed of gain.
* * * * * *
Tread lightly, speak softly; for death is already hovering in the
chamber. As Roland enters on tiptoe he takes in the scene at a glance.
Hamish lying, with closed eyes, and the live ball, Miss Nelly, tucked
outside beside him her golden curls mingling with his damp hair. A sea
of old Helstonleigh faces seems to be gathered round; save that Roland
silently clasps Arthur's hand, he takes notice of none. Edging himself
between Annabel and Tom Channing, as they stand side by side, he bends
his face of concern downwards. The slight stir arouses Hamish, he
opens his eyes, and holds up his feeble hand with a remnant of the old
smile.
"Back again! Head bailiff?"
Roland bit his lip. His chest was heaving with emotion, his face
working. Hamish, who retained his keenest perceptive faculties to the
last, spoke again in his faint voice.
"Is it good news?"
"It's good news. Good news, Hamish, and at the same time awfully bad.
Vincent's dead, and I'm--I'm in his shoes."
Hamish did not seem to understand. Neither did the others.
"It's me to come after him, poor fellow, you see. I am Sir Roland
now."
As the words fell upon the previously silent room, you might have
heard a pin drop. Cheeks flushed, eyes looked out their questioning
surprise at the speaker. Upon Hamish alone the communication seemed to
make no impression: earthly interests were to him now as nothing.
"You will give me Annabel with a will, Hamish, now that I have come
into the family inheritance?"
"I had already given her to you, so far as my best will was good to do
it. Roland----"
The voice seemed to be fading away altogether, but in the eyes there
was an eager gaze. Roland bent his head lower to catch the sounds
about to issue from the lips.
"There's a different and a better inheritance, Roland; one of love,
and light, and everlasting peace. You will both of you strive for
that."
"Yes, that we will. And gain it too. Oh, Hamish, if you could but stop
with us a bit longer!" burst forth Roland, letting his suppressed
emotion come out with a choking sob. "It's nothing all round but
dying. First Vincent, and now you! I never knew such a miserable world
as this. I'd have laid down my own life to keep either of you in it."
There stole a smile of ineffable peace over the dying face. It seemed
to have caught a ray of the heavenly light in which it would so soon
be shining.