DREAMS REALIZED.
It is certainly not often in this life that improbable dreams of fame
and fortune get to be realized as they were in the case of Roland
Yorke. Down he went to his native place, Helstonleigh, in all the
glory of fame and fortune that his imagination had been wont to
picture: the dog, Spot, with him. He paid his creditors their debts
twice over he made presents to his mother and the world; he went
knocking at old Galloway's door, and caused himself to be fully
announced, as he had at Gerald's--Sir Roland Yorke. He ran in and out
of the proctor's office at will, took possession of his former stool
there, and answered callers as if he were the veritable clerk he used
to be. He promised a living to Tom Channing, promotion in India to
Charley; made a sweeping bow to William Yorke the first time he met
him in the street, and called out to know whether he might be
considered a scapegoat still. He put up a tombstone to commemorate
the virtues of Jenkins. Meeting Harry Huntley, he nearly cried over
Hamish. Hamish Channing's book was at length in every heart and
home--ah, that he had lived to see it! The good had all come too late
for _him_. Ellen would be wealthy from henceforth, for her father had
regained his fortune; her aunt, stiff Miss Huntley, had died, and
bequeathed to her the whole of hers; and little Miss Nelly was an
heiress.
Not immediately, however, had Roland hastened to quit London for
Helstonleigh, and there's something to tell about it. He had affairs
to attend to first; and it took him some time to forget his daily
sorrow for the dead. Roland's private belief was that he should never
cease to mourn for Hamish; should never rise in the morning, or go to
rest at night, without thinking of him and Gerald's miserable work. He
entered on his abode at Sunny Mead, his home from henceforth, made
himself acquainted with his future position, and what his exact
revenues would be. In his imperfect way, but honest wish to do right,
he apportioned out plenty of work for himself, and not much to spend,
resolving above all things to eschew a life of frivolity and idleness.
Roland would rather have followed the plough's tail day by day, than
sink to that.
The first few weeks he divided his time between Sunny Mead and London.
When in town, he dropped in upon his old friends with native
familiarity: prosperity and a title could not change Roland. The
office and clerks saw him very often; Mrs. Jones's tea and muffins
occasionally suffered by a guest who had a large appetite. He
refurnished that tart lady's house for her after a rather sharp
battle; for at first Mrs. J. would not accept the boon. The first
visitor Roland had the honour of entertaining was Lord Carrick. His
white-haired lordship was flourishing in London again, and gave Roland
a whole week of his hearty, genial good-natured company at Sunny Mead.
The thorn in the flesh was Gerald, and it happened that Mr. Gerald's
career came to a crisis during the week of Lord Carrick's stay at
Sunny Mead. On the last day of it, when they were out in the frost,
and the peer was imparting to his nephew sundry theories for the best
cultivation of land, a servant ran out to announce the arrival of a
lady, who had come in great haste from the railway station. She
appeared to be in distress, the man added, and said she must at once
see Sir Roland.
In distress beyond doubt: for when Roland went clattering in,
wondering who it could be, there met him the tear-stained face of
Winny. She had brought down a piteous tale. Gerald, arrested the
previous day, had lodgings in that savoury prison, Whitecross Street;
he had boldly sent her to ask Roland to pay his debts and set him
free. Winny, sobbing over some luncheon that Roland good-naturedly set
her down to at once, protested that she felt sure one at least of the
three little girls would be found in the fire when she got back to
them.
Lord Carrick drew Roland aside.
"I'm not ill-natured, me boy, as ye knew long ago, and I'd do a good
turn for anybody; but I'd like to give ye a caution. _Don't begin by
paying Gerald's debts_. If ye do, as sure as ye're a living man, ye'll
never have a minute's peace for him to the last day of ye're life. Set
him free now, and all his thanks would be to run up more for ye to
pay. In a year's time he'd be in the same plight again; and he or his
creditors would be bothering ye always. _Don't begin it_. Let him
fight out his debts as he best can."
"It's just what I'd like to do," said Roland. "I'd not mind allowing a
couple of hundred a year, or so, for Winny and the children. I meant
to offer it. It might be paid to her weekly, you know, uncle, and I
could slip something more into her hand whenever we met. She might get
a bit of peace then. But I don't think it would be doing Gerald any
real kindness in the long run to release him from his debts."
Lord Carrick nodded most emphatically.
"I need not tell Winny this, Uncle Carrick--only that she and the
kittens shall be taken care of from henceforth. She can carry a sealed
note back to Gerald."
"_I_'ll see to him," said Lord Carrick. "If he is to get any help at
all, it must be from me. Ye can write the note to him. It would be the
worst day's work ye ever entered on if ye attempted to help him. It is
nothing else but helping people, Roland, me boy, that has kept me
down, and I'd not like to see you begin it. If Gerald can't get clear
without assistance, I may come to the rescue later. But he'll have to
try."
"Perhaps I might be got to allow him a hundred a year, or so, for
himself later," added relenting Roland. "But I'll never have anything
to do with his debts, or suffer him to look to me to pay them."
Could Gerald in his distant and gloomy abode, but have heard this, he
had surely been ready to shoot the pair of speakers; and with more
intentional malignity, too, than he had shot Sir Vincent.
But we began the chapter at Helstonleigh. For once in its monotonous
life that faithful city had found something to arouse it from its
jog-trot course; and people flew to their doors and windows to gaze
after Sir Roland Yorke. It did not seem much less improbable that the
time-honoured cathedral might some night disappear altogether, than
that the once improvident schoolboy of not too good repute, the
careless run-a-gate who had made a moonlight flitting, and left some
fifty pounds' worth of debts behind him, should come back Sir Roland,
like a hero of romance.
Fruition never answers to anticipations--as Roland found, now that
his golden visions came to be realized. The romantic charm of the
oft-pictured dream was wanting; the green freshness of sanguine
boyhood no longer threw its halo on his heart; the vivid glow of
imaginative hope had mellowed down to a sober tint. In manner, in
gleeful frankness, Roland was nearly as impulsive and boyish as ever;
but his mind had gained a good deal of experience, and reflection had
come to him. The chances and changes of the world had worked their
effect; and the deaths caused directly or indirectly by Gerald, sat
heavily on his generous heart. Adam's curse lies on all things, and
there can be no pleasure without pain.
Roland did not miss it. Enough of charm was left to him. Annabel was
staying with her mother, and things seemed to have gone back again to
the dear old days before Roland had known the world, or tasted of its
cares. Roland went calling upon his acquaintance continually, distant
and near, making himself at home everywhere. Ellen Channing, worn to a
thread-paper with grief, was visiting her father in her maiden home.
Nelly made its charm now. The young widow would probably take up her
abode at Helstonleigh, in spite of Roland's strong advice that it
should be near Sunny Mead.
"I told you I should be sure to get on and make my fortune sometime,
Mr. Galloway."
The old proctor, whose health was failing hopelessly, returned a
slighting answer. Roland, without ceremony as usual, had dashed into
the office, and was sitting on a high desk with his legs dangling. The
remark was given in return for some disparaging observation as to
Roland's former doings.
"_You_ made it! Ugh! A great deal of that."
"Oh--well--I've come into one, at any rate."
"The only way you were ever likely to attain to one. Left to your own
exertions, you'd have got back here with holes in your breeches."
"Now don't you be personal, sir," was the laughing rejoinder. "I'm Sir
Roland Yorke, you know."
"And a fine Sir Roland you'll be!"
"I'll try and be a good one," said Roland emphatically, as he caught
Arthur's eye--who was seated in the place of state as the head of the
office, for the proctor had virtually resigned it. "Arthur knows he
can trust me now: ask him, else, sir. Hamish knew it also before he
died."
"I should like to hear what business he had to die, and who killed
him?" cried old Galloway explosively. "It was done amongst you, I
know. A nice thing for my old friend Mr. Huntley to get back to
England and find his son-in-law dead: the bright, true young fellow
that he loved as the apple of his eye."
"Yes, I think he was killed among us, up there," sadly avowed Roland,
his honest face kindling with shame. "But I did not help in it, Mr.
Galloway; I'd have given my life to save his. I wish I could!"
"Wishes won't bring him back. I saw his wife yesterday--his widow,
that is. I'm sure I couldn't bear to look at her."
"Did you see sweet little Nelly?" cried Roland eagerly, his thoughts
taking a turn. "If ever I have a girl of my own I hope she'll be like
that child."
"Now just you please to take yourself off, Sir Roland, and come in
when we're a little less busy," returned the proctor, who was very
much out of sorts that morning. "You are hindering business, just as
you used to do."
But perhaps the greatest of all small delights was that of
encountering Mr. Butterby. Roland had just emerged from the market
house one Saturday, where he had been in the thick of the throng,
making himself at home, and inquiring affably the price of butter of
all the faces he remembered, and been seduced into buying a tough old
gander, on the grave assurance that it was a young and tender goose,
when he and the detective met face to face.
"Well?" said Roland, dangling the goose in his hand, as unblushingly
as though it had been a bouquet of choice flowers.
"Well?" returned Mr. Butterby. "How are you, sir? I heard you were
down here."
"Ay. I've come to set things straight that I left crooked. And glad to
be able to do it at last. You've heard about me, I suppose, Butterby?"
"_I_'ve heard," assented Butterby. "You are Sir Roland Yorke, and have
come into the family estates and honours, through the untimely death
of Sir Vincent. A lucky shot for you, sir."
"Lucky?" groaned Roland. "Well, in one sense I suppose it was: but
don't go and think me a heartless camel, Butterby. I declare to you
that if I could bring Sir Vincent back, though I had to return to my
work again, and the turn-up bedstead at Mrs. J.'s, I'd do it this
minute cheerfully. When I sat by, watching him die, knowing he was
going to make room for me, I felt downright wicked: almost as bad as
my nice brother must have felt, who shot him. Did you read about it in
the newspapers?--they had got it all as pat as might be. I can't
think, for my part, how they lay hold of things."
Butterby nodded assent. There was little he did not read, if it could
in the remotest degree concern him.
"I'm paying up, Butterby. Paying everybody, and something over. If
ever I get into debt again call me an owl. Galloway groans and grunts,
and says I shall; but I fancy he knows better. What do you think? He
took his hat off to me in the street yesterday! formerly he'd hardly
nod to me over his shoulder sideways."
"How were the folks up yonder, Sir Roland, when you left?" asked
Butterby, jerking his head in the direction of London. "Is Miss Rye
all right?"
"Oh, she's uncommon jolly. The last day I called there, Mrs. J. said
she supposed she and Winter--they call him Winter now--would be making
a match of it. Upon that, I told Miss Rye I'd buy her the wedding
dress. Instead of being properly grateful, she advised me not to talk
so fast. I say, Butterby, that _was_ a mistake of yours, that was--the
taking her into custody for the one that killed John Ollivera."
"Ay," carelessly returned Mr. Butterby, with a kind of sniff. "The
best of us go in for mistakes, you know."
"I suppose _you_ can't help it, just as some people can't help
dreaming," observed Roland with native politeness. "I went up and saw
his grave yesterday. I say, shall you ever pitch upon the right one?"
But that Mr. Butterby turned his eyes away towards the Guildhall
opposite before he answered, Roland might have observed a peculiar
shade cross their steady light. Whatever curious outlets his
speculations had drifted to in the course of years, as to the slayer
of Mr. Ollivera, he knew the truth now.
"Shan't try at it, sir. Take it from first to last, it has been about
the queerest case that over fell under mortal skill; and we are
content for the future to let it be."
"I won't forget you, Butterby. You've not been a bad one on the whole.
A snuffbox would be of no use, you said; but you shall have something
else. And look here, if ever you should come within range of my place
in Surrey, I'd be glad to see you there for half an hour's chat.
Good-day, old Butterby. Isn't this a prime goose? I've just been
giving seven shillings for it."
He and his ancient goose went vaulting off. Roland frequently took
articles home to help garnish Lady Augusta's dinner-table; very much
to the wrath of the cook, who found she had double work.
But it must not be thought Roland led entirely an idle life at
Helstonleigh. Apart from personal calls on his friendship, in the
shape of dropping in upon people, he had work on his hands. By Mrs.
J.'s permission he was replacing the plain stone on poor Jenkins's
grave with one of costly marble. Roland himself undertook the
inscription. Not being accustomed to composition, he found it a
puzzling task.
"Here's to the memory of JOSEPH JENKINS. He was too good for this
world, inoffensive as a young sparrow, and did everybody's work as
well as his own. Put upon by the office and people in general, he bore
it all meekly, according to his nature, never turning again. A cough
took him off to Heaven, leaving Mrs. J. behind, and one or two to
regret him, who knew his virtues. This tribute is erected by his
attached friend, (who was one of the worst to put upon him in life,)
and sorrowful, ROLAND YORKE."
Such was the inscription for the marble tombstone, as it went in to
the sculptor. That functionary suggested some slight alterations,
which Sir Roland was reluctant to accede to. There ensued writing and
counter writing, and the epitaph, finally inscribed, contained but
little (like some bills that pass through Parliament) of the original.
And so the sweet days of spring glided on, and the time came for
Roland to depart. To depart until June, when he would return to claim
his bride. Tom Channing should marry them, and nobody else, avowed
Roland; and if the Reverend Bill put up his back at not having the
first finger in the pie, why he must put it up. Annabel was his
confidant in all things; and Annabel thought she should rather be
married by her brother, than by William Yorke.
The once happy home of the Channings bore the marks of time's chances
and changes. The house was the same, as were its elements for peace,
but some of its inmates had quitted it for ever. Mrs. Channing,
Arthur, Tom, Charles, and Annabel: they moved about in their mourning
garments, with their regretful faces, thinking ever of him who had
whilom made its sunshine, Hamish the bright. He had gone to a better
world, where there was neither pain nor tears, neither cruel injustice
nor heart-breaking sorrow; but this consolation is always hard to
realize, and their grief was lasting. Mrs. Channing looked aged and
worn; the boys and girls had grown into men and women; in old Judith
and her snow-white mob-cap, there alone appeared to be no change.
It was at length the day of Roland's departure, and he was holding a
final interview with Annabel. They stood at the glass doors of the
study window, open to the garden, and the warm May sun shone in gaily,
making the crape on Annabel's silk dress look hot and rusty. The once
untidy study, when they were all boys and girls together, had been
renovated with a green carpet and delicately-papered walls; the young
parson now called it his.
Considering Roland's deficiencies on the score of forethought, he
had really organized the plans for his future life with a great deal
of wisdom. Sunny Mead was to be their sole home, and Annabel chief
cash-keeper in regard to ready money. On that he was resolved,
honestly avowing that he was not to be trusted with money in his
pocket: it was sure to go. The residence in Portland Place, which Sir
Richard had only held on a lease, had been given up: there was to be
no town house, no fashion, no gaiety. Annabel seconded him in all,
urging moderation strenuously. He was going up now to make his bow to
the Prince of Wales at a leéve: and it was to be hoped he would
accomplish it with passable decorum: and Annabel would be presented to
the Queen on the first favourable opportunity, after she should be
Lady Yorke. So far, that was due from their position; but there the
exigencies of fashionable society would for them end. Sunny Mead would
be their home; and, it could not be doubted, a very happy one. They
are talking of the prospect, now as they stand together: and to both
it is one of rose colour.
"But for going to Port Natal, Annabel, there's no knowing how I might
have turned out--a regular drawling idler about town, as some of the
Yorkes have been before me. I might have gone in for all kinds of
folly, and come to no end of grief. We shall be safe down at Sunny
Mead, and live like--like----" Roland stops for a simile.
"Rational people," puts in Annabel with a smile.
"Fighting-cocks," says Roland. "I shall make a good farmer."
"But, Roland," she rejoins, dubiously, "I hope you'll not discharge
the bailiff until you feel that you are fully competent to the
management. You don't know much of farming yet."
"Not know much of farming!" exclaims Roland, his eyes opening with
surprise. "After all my experience at Port Natal! Look at the pigs I
had to manage--obstinate, grunting animals--and the waggons and carts
I was put to drive--filled with calves sometimes! I'm not obliged to
take the threshing and mowing myself, you know. As to the bailiff, he
shall stay on until you send him away, if it's two years to come."
She bends her blushing face a little forward, plucking an early
rosebud. Roland takes it from her and puts it in his coat. On her
finger flashes a valuable diamond ring, the pledge of their
engagement.
"We won't have a frying-pan in the house, Annabel. I can't bear to see
one since that failure at Port Natal."
She turns her laughing eyes on him. Roland honestly thinks they are
the truest, sweetest, best the world ever contained, and feels he can
never be thankful enough that he is to call them his.