A week or two passed by, and November was rapidly approaching. Things
remained precisely as they were at the close of the last chapter:
nothing fresh had occurred; no change had taken place. Tom Channing’s
remark, though much cannot be said for its elegance, was indisputable in
point of truth--that when a fellow was down, he was kept down, and every
dog had a fling at him It was being exemplified in the case of Arthur.
The money, so mysteriously conveyed to Mr. Galloway, had proved of
little service towards clearing him; in fact, it had the contrary
effect; and people openly expressed their opinion that it had come from
himself or his friends. He was _down_; and it would take more than that
to lift him up again.
Mr. Galloway kept his thoughts to himself, or had put them into his
cash-box with the note, for he said nothing.
Roland Yorke did not imitate his example; he was almost as explosive
over the present matter as he had been over the loss. It would
have pleased him that Arthur should be declared innocent by public
proclamation. Roland was in a most explosive frame of mind on another
score, and that was the confinement to the office. In reality, he was
not overworked; for Arthur managed to get through a great amount of
it at home, which he took in regularly, morning after morning, to Mr.
Galloway. Roland, however, thought he was, and his dissatisfaction was
becoming unbearable. I do not think that Roland _could_ have done a hard
day’s work. To sit steadily to it for only a couple of hours appeared to
be an absolute impossibility to his restless temperament. He must look
off; he must talk; he must yawn; he must tilt his stool; he must take a
slight interlude at balancing the ruler on his nose, or at other similar
recreative and intellectual amusements; but, apply himself in earnest,
he could not. Therefore there was little fear of Mr. Roland’s being
overcome with the amount of work on hand.
But what told upon Roland was the confinement--I don’t mean upon his
health, you know, but his temper. It had happened many a day since
Jenkins’s absence, that Roland had never stirred from the office, except
for his dinner. He must be there in good time in the morning--at the
frightfully early hour of nine--and he often was not released until six.
When he went to dinner at one, Mr. Galloway would say, “You must be back
in half an hour, Yorke; I may have to go out.” Once or twice he had not
gone to dinner until two or three o’clock, and then he was half dead
with hunger. All this chafed poor Roland nearly beyond endurance.
Another cause was rendering Roland’s life not the most peaceful one. He
was beginning to be seriously dunned for money. Careless in that, as he
was in other things, improvident as was ever Lady Augusta, Roland
rarely paid until he was compelled to do so. A very good hand was he
at contracting debts, but a bad one at liquidating them. Roland did not
intend to be dishonest. Were all his creditors standing around him, and
a roll of bank-notes before him he would freely have paid them all; very
probably, in his openheartedness, have made each creditor a present,
over and above, for “his trouble.” But, failing the roll of notes, he
only staved off the difficulties in the best way he could, and grew
cross and ill-tempered on being applied to. His chief failing was his
impulsive thoughtlessness. Often, when he had teased or worried Lady
Augusta out of money, to satisfy a debt for which he was being pressed,
that very money would be spent in some passing folly, arising with the
impulse of the moment, before it had had time to reach the creditor.
There are too many in the world like Roland Yorke.
Roland was late in the office one Monday evening, he and a lamp sharing
it between them. He was in a terrible temper, and sat kicking his feet
on the floor, as if the noise, for it might be heard in the street,
would while away the time. He had nothing to do; the writing he had been
about was positively finished; but he had to remain in, waiting for Mr.
Galloway, who was absent, but had not left the office for the evening.
He would have given the whole world to take his pipe out of his pocket
and begin to smoke; but that pastime was so firmly forbidden in the
office, that even Roland dared not disobey.
“There goes six of ‘em!” he uttered, as the cathedral clock rang out the
hour, and his boots threatened to stave in the floor. “If I stand this
life much longer, I’ll be shot! It’s enough to take the spirit out of
a fellow; to wear the flesh off his bones; to afflict him with nervous
fever. What an idiot I was to let my lady mother put me here! Better
have stuck to those musty old lessons at school, and gone in for a
parson! Why can’t Jenkins get well, and come back? He’s shirking it,
that’s my belief. And why can’t Galloway have Arthur back? He might, if
he pressed it! Talk of solitary confinement driving prisoners mad, at
their precious model prisons, what else is this? I wish I could go mad
for a week, if old Galloway might be punished for it! It’s worse than
any prison, this office! At four o’clock he went out, and now it’s six,
and I have not had a blessed soul put his nose inside the door to say,
‘How are you getting on?’ I’m a regular prisoner, and nothing else. Why
doesn’t he--”
The complaint was cut short by the entrance of Mr. Galloway. Unconscious
of the rebellious feelings of his clerk, he passed through the office
to his own room, Roland’s rat-tat-to having ceased at his appearance. To
find Roland drumming the floor with his feet was nothing unusual--rather
moderate for him; Mr. Galloway _had_ found him doing it with his head.
Two or three minutes elapsed, and Mr. Galloway came out again.
“You can shut up, Roland. And then, take these letters to the post. Put
the desks straight first; what a mess you get them into. Is that will
engrossed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well! Be here in time in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night, sir,” responded Roland. “Yes! it’s all very fine,” he went
on, as he opened the desks, and shoved everything in with his hands,
indiscriminately, _en masse_, which was _his_ way of putting things
straight. “‘Be here in time!’ Of course! No matter what time I am let
off the previous evening. If I stand this long--”
Roland finished his sentence by an emphatic turn of the key of the
office-door, which expressed quite as much as words could have done; for
he was already out of the room, his hat on his head, and the letters in
his hand. Calling out lustily for the housekeeper, he flung the key to
her, and bounded off in the direction of the post-office.
His way lay past Mrs. Jenkins’s shop, which the maid had, for the
hour, been left to attend to. She was doing it from a leaf taken out of
Roland’s own book--standing outside the door, and gazing all ways. It
suddenly struck Roland that he could not do better than pay Jenkins
a visit, just to ascertain how long he meant to absent himself. In
he darted, with his usual absence of hesitation, and went on to the
parlour. There was no hurry for the letters; the post did not close
until nine.
The little parlour, dark by day, looked very comfortable now. A bright
fire, a bright lamp, and a well-spread tea-table, at which Mrs. Jenkins
sat. More comfortable than Jenkins himself did, who lay back in his
easy-chair, white and wan, meekly enjoying a lecture from his wife. He
started from it at the appearance of Roland, bowing in his usual humble
fashion, and smiling a glad welcome.
“I say, Jenkins, I have come to know how long you mean to leave us to
ourselves?” was Roland’s greeting. “It’s too bad, you know. How d’ye do,
Mrs. Jenkins? Don’t you look snug here? It’s a nasty cutting night, and
I have to tramp all the way to the post-office.”
Free and easy Roland drew a chair forward on the opposite side of the
hearth to Jenkins, Mrs. Jenkins and her good things being in the middle,
and warmed his hands over the blaze. “Ugh!” he shivered, “I can’t bear
these keen, easterly winds. It’s fine to be you, Jenkins! basking by a
blazing fire, and junketing upon plates of buttered muffins!”
“Would you please to condescend to take a cup of tea with us, sir?” was
Jenkins’s answer. “It is just ready.”
“I don’t care if I do,” said Roland. “There’s nothing I like better than
buttered muffins. We get them sometimes at home; but there’s so many
to eat at our house, that before a plate is well in, a dozen hands are
snatching at it, and it’s emptied. Lady Augusta knows no more about
comfort than a cow does, and she _will_ have the whole tribe of young
ones in to meals.”
“You’ll find these muffins different from what you get at home,” said
Mrs. Jenkins, in her curt, snappish, but really not inhospitable way,
as she handed the muffins to Roland. “I know what it is when things
are left to servants, as they are at your place; they turn out
uneatable--soddened things, with rancid butter, nine times out of ten,
instead of good, wholesome fresh. Servants’ cooking won’t do for Jenkins
now, and it never did for me.”
“These are good, though!” exclaimed Roland, eating away with intense
satisfaction. “Have you got any more downstairs? Mrs. Jenkins, don’t I
wish you could always toast muffins for me! Is that some ham?”
His eyes had caught a small dish of ham, in delicate slices, put there
to tempt poor Jenkins. But he was growing beyond such tempting now,
for his appetite wholly failed him. It was upon this point he had been
undergoing Mrs. Jenkins’s displeasure when Roland interrupted them. The
question led to an excellent opportunity for renewing the grievance,
and she was too persistent a diplomatist to let it slip. Catching up the
dish, and leaving her chair, she held it out before Roland’s eyes.
“Young Mr. Yorke, do you see anything the matter with that ham? Please
to tell me.”
“I see that it looks uncommonly good,” replied Roland.
“Do you hear?” sharply ejaculated Mrs. Jenkins, turning short round upon
her husband.
“My dear, I never said a word but what it was good; I never had any
other thought,” returned he, with deprecation. “I only said that I could
not eat it. I can’t--indeed, I can’t! My appetite is gone.”
Mrs. Jenkins put the dish down upon the table with a jerk. “That’s how
he goes on,” said she to Roland. “It’s enough to wear a woman’s patience
out! I get him muffins, I get him ham, I get him fowls, I get him fish,
I get him puddings, I get him every conceivable nicety that I can think
of, and not a thing will he touch. All the satisfaction I can get from
him is, that ‘his stomach turns against food!’”
“I wish I could eat,” interposed Jenkins, mildly. “I have tried to do it
till I can try no longer. I wish I could.”
“Will you take some of this ham, young Mr. Yorke?” she asked. “_He_
won’t. He wants to know what scarcity of food is!”
“I’ll take it all, if you like,” said Roland. “If it’s going begging.”
Mrs. Jenkins accommodated him with a plate and knife and fork, and with
some more muffins. Roland did ample justice to the whole, despatching it
down with about six cups of good tea, well sugared and creamed. Jenkins
looked on with satisfaction, and Mrs. Jenkins appeared to regard it
in the light of a personal compliment, as chief of the commissariat
department.
“And now,” said Roland, turning back to the fire, “when are you coming
out again, Jenkins?”
Jenkins coughed--more in hesitation for an answer, than of necessity. “I
am beginning to think, sir, that I shall not get out again at all,” he
presently said.
“Holloa! I say, Jenkins, don’t go and talk that rubbish!” was Roland’s
reply. “You know what I told you once, about that dropsy. I heard of a
man that took it into his head to fancy himself dead. And he ordered a
coffin, and lay down in it, and stopped in it for six days, only getting
up at night to steal the bread and cheese! His folks couldn’t think,
at first, where the loaves went to. You’ll be fancying the same, if you
don’t mind!”
“If I could only get a little stronger, sir, instead of weaker, I should
soon be at my duty again. I am anxious enough sir, as you may imagine,
for there’s my salary, sir, coming to me as usual, and I doing nothing
for it.”
“It’s just this, Jenkins, that if you don’t come back speedily, I shall
take French leave, and be off some fine morning. I can’t stand it much
longer. I can’t tell you how many blessed hours at a stretch am I in
that office with no one to speak to. I _wish_ I was at Port Natal!”
“Sir,” said Jenkins, thinking he would say a word of warning, in his
kindly spirit: “I have heard that there’s nothing more deceptive than
those foreign parts that people flock to when the rage arises for them.
Many a man only goes out to starve and die.”
“Many a muff, you mean!” returned self-complaisant Roland. “I say,
Jenkins, isn’t it a shame about Arthur Channing? Galloway has his money
back from the very thief himself, as the letter said, and yet the old
grumbler won’t speak out like a man, and say, ‘Shake hands, old fellow,’
and ‘I know you are innocent, and come back to the office again.’ Arthur
would return, if he said that. See if I don’t start for Port Natal!”
“I wish Mr. Arthur was back again, sir. It would make me easier.”
“He sits, and stews, and frets, and worries his brains about that
office, and how it gets on without him!” tartly interposed Mrs. Jenkins.
“A sick man can’t expect to grow better, if he is to fret himself into
fiddlestrings!”
“I wish,” repeated poor Jenkins in a dreamy sort of mood, his eyes fixed
on the fire, and his thin hands clasped upon his knees: “I do wish Mr.
Arthur was back. In a little while he’d quite replace me, and I should
not be missed.”
“Hear him!” uttered Mrs. Jenkins. “That’s how he goes on!”
“Well,” concluded Roland, rising, and gathering up his letters, which
he had deposited upon a side table, “if this is not a nice part of the
world to live in, I don’t know what is! Arthur Channing kept down under
Galloway’s shameful injustice; Jenkins making out that things are all
over with him; and I driven off my head doing everybody’s work! Good
night, Jenkins. Good night, Mrs. J. That was a stunning tea! I’ll come
in again some night, when you have toasted muffins!”