Was any one ever so ill-used as that unfortunate Mr. Galloway? On the
morning which witnessed his troublesome clerk’s departure, he set rather
longer than usual over his breakfast, never dreaming of the calamity in
store for him. That his thoughts were given to business, there was no
doubt, for his newspaper lay untouched. In point of fact, his mind was
absorbed by the difficulties which had arisen in his office, and the
ways and means by which those difficulties might be best remedied.
That it would be impossible to get on with Roland Yorke alone, he had
said to himself twenty times; and now he was saying it again, little
supposing, poor unconscious man, that even Roland, bad as he was, had
taken flight. He had never intended to get along with only Roland, but
circumstances had induced him to attempt doing so for a time. In the
first place, he had entertained hopes, until very recently, that Jenkins
would recover; in the second place, failing Jenkins, there was no one
in the wide world he would so soon have in his office as Arthur
Channing--provided that Arthur could prove his innocence. With Arthur
and Roland, he could go on very well, or with Jenkins and Roland; but
poor Jenkins appeared to be passing beyond hope; and Arthur’s innocence
was no nearer the light than it had been, in spite of that strange
restitution of the money. Moreover, Arthur had declined to return to the
office, even to help with the copying, preferring to take it home. All
these reflections were pressing upon Mr. Galloway’s mind.
“I’ll wait no longer,” said he, as he brought them to a conclusion.
“I’ll go this very day after that young Bartlett. I think he might suit,
with some drilling. If he turns out a second Yorke, I shall have a nice
pair upon my hands. But he can’t well turn out as bad as Roland: he
comes of a more business-like stock.”
This point settled, Mr. Galloway took up the _Times_. Something in its
pages awoke his interest, and he sat longer over it than had been his
wont since the departure of Jenkins. It was twenty minutes past nine by
his watch when he started for his office.
“Now, I wonder how I shall find that gentleman?” soliloquized he, when
he drew near. “Amusing himself, as usual, of course. He’ll have made a
show of putting out the papers, and there they will be, lying unopened.
He’ll be at Aunt Sally with the letters, or dancing a quadrille with
the stools, or stretched three parts out of the window, saluting the
passengers. I never thought he’d do me much good, and should not have
taken him, but for the respect I owed the late Dr. Yorke. Now for it!”
It was all very well for Mr. Galloway to say, “Now for it,” and to put
his hand stealthily upon the door-handle, with the intention of pouncing
suddenly upon his itinerant pupil. But the door would not open. Mr.
Galloway turned, and turned, and shook the handle, as our respected
friend Mr. Ketch did when he was locked up in the cloisters, but he
turned it to no purpose.
“He has not come yet!” wrathfully exclaimed Mr. Galloway. “All the work
of the office on his shoulders and mine, the most busy time of the whole
year, and here’s half-past nine, and no appearance of him! If I live
this day out, I’ll complain to Lady Augusta!”
At this moment the housekeeper’s little maid came running forward.
“Where’s Mr. Yorke?” thundered the proctor, in his anger, as if the
child had the keeping of him.
“Please, sir, he’s gone to Port Natal.”
“Gone to--what?” uttered Mr. Galloway.
She was unlocking the door, and then stood back to curtsey while Mr.
Galloway entered, following in after him--an intelligent child for her
years.
“Please, sir, Mr. Yorke came round this morning, while me and missis was
a dusting of the place, and he said we was to tell Mr. Galloway, when he
come, that he had gone to Port Natal, and left his compliments.”
“It is not true!” cried Mr. Galloway. “How dare he play these tricks?”
he added, to himself.
“Please, sir, missis said she thought it was true, ‘cause he had a
carpet-bag,” returned the young servant.
Mr. Galloway stared at the child. “You go round at once to Lady
Augusta’s,” said he, “and ask what Mr. Yorke means by being so late. I
desire that he will come immediately.”
The child flew off, and Mr. Galloway, hardly knowing what to make
of matters, proceeded to do what he ought to have found done. He
and Jenkins had duplicate keys to the desks, letter-box, etc. Since
Jenkins’s illness, his keys had been in the possession of Roland.
Presently the child came back again.
“Please, sir, her ladyship’s compliments, and Mr. Roland have gone to
Port Natal.”
The consternation that this would have caused Mr. Galloway, had he
believed it, might have been pitiable. An intimation that our clerk, who
was in the office last night, pursuing his legitimate work, has “gone to
Port Natal,” as we might say of some one who goes to make a morning call
at the next door, is not very credible. Neither did Mr. Galloway give
credence to it.
“Did you see her ladyship?” he asked.
“Please, sir, I saw one of the servants, and she went to her ladyship,
and brought out the message.”
The young messenger retired, leaving Mr. Galloway to his fate. He
persisted in assuming that the news was too absurd to be correct; but a
dreadful inward misgiving began to steal over him.
The question was set at rest by the Lady Augusta. Feeling excessively
vexed with Roland for not having informed Mr. Galloway of his intended
departure--as from the message, it would appear he had not done--she
determined to go round; and did so, following closely on the heels of
the maid. Her ladyship had already wonderfully recovered her spirits.
They were of a mercurial nature, liable to go up and down at touch; and
Hamish had contrived to cheer her greatly.
“What does all this mean? Where’s Roland?” began Mr. Galloway, showing
little more deference to her ladyship, in his flurry, than he might have
shown to Roland himself.
“Did you not know he was going?” she asked.
“I know nothing. Where is he gone?”
“He has started for Port Natal; that is, he has started for London, on
his way to it. He went by the eight o’clock train.”
Mr. Galloway sat down in consternation. “My lady, allow me to inquire
what sort of behaviour you call this?”
“Whether it is good or bad, right or wrong, I can’t help it,” was the
reply of Lady Augusta. “I’m sure _I_ have enough to bear!” she added,
melting into tears. “Of course he ought to have informed you of his
intention, Mr. Galloway. I thought he did. He told me he had done so.”
A reminiscence of Roland’s communication crossed Mr. Galloway’s mind;
of his words, “Don’t say I did not give you notice, sir.” He had paid no
heed to it at the time.
“He is just another of my headstrong boys,” grumbled Lady Augusta. “They
are all specimens of wilfulness. I never knew that it was this morning
he intended to be off, until he was gone, and I had to run after him to
the station. Ask Hamish Channing.”
“He must be mad!” exclaimed Mr. Galloway.
“He says great fortunes are made, out at Port Natal. I don’t know
whether it is so.”
“Great fortunes made!” irascibly responded Mr. Galloway. “Pittances,
that folks go out with, are lost, when they are such as he. That’s what
it is. Harem-scarem chaps, who won’t work, can do no good at Port
Natal. Great fortunes made, indeed! I wonder that you can be led away by
notions so wild and extravagant, Lady Augusta!”
“I am not led away by them,” peevishly returned Lady Augusta, a
recollection of her own elation on the point darting unpleasantly to her
mind. “Where would have been the use of my holding out against it, when
he had set his heart upon the thing? He would have gone in spite of me.
Do you _not_ think fortunes are made there, Mr. Galloway?”
“I am sure they are not, by such as Roland,” was the reply. “A man who
works one hour in the day, and plays eleven, would do less good at
Port Natal than he would in his own country. A business man, thoroughly
industrious, and possessing some capital, may make something at Port
Natal, as he would at any other port. In the course of years he might
realize a fortune--in the course of _years_, I say, Lady Augusta.”
This was not precisely the prospect Roland had pictured to Lady Augusta,
or to which her own imagination had lent its hues, and she stood in
consternation almost equal to Mr. Galloway’s. “What on earth will he do,
then, when he gets there?” ejaculated she.
“Find out his mistake, my lady, and come home without a coat to his
back, as hundreds have done before him, and worked their passage home,
to get here. It is to be hoped he will have to do the same. It will
teach him what work is.”
“There never was such an unhappy mother as I am!” bewailed my lady.
“They _will_ do just as they like, and always would, from George
downwards: they won’t listen to me. Poor dear boy! reduced, perhaps, to
live on brown bread and pea-soup!”
“And lucky to get that!” cried angry Mr. Galloway. “But the present
question, Lady Augusta, is not what he may do when he gets to Port
Natal, but what am I to do without him here. Look at the position it has
placed me in!”
Lady Augusta could give neither help nor counsel. In good truth, it
was not her fault. But she saw that Mr. Galloway seemed to think it was
hers, or that it was partially hers. She departed home again, feeling
cross with Roland, feeling damped about his expedition, and beginning to
fancy that Port Natal might not, after all, bring her diamonds to wear,
or offer her streets paved with malachite marble.
Mr. Galloway sat down, and reiterated the question in relation to
himself, which Lady Augusta had put regarding Roland when he should
arrive at Port Natal--What on earth was he to do? He could not close his
office; he could not perform its various duties himself; he could not
be out of doors and in, at one and the same time, unless, indeed, he cut
himself in two! What _was_ he to do?
It was more than Mr. Galloway could tell. He put his two hands upon his
knees, and stared in consternation, feeling himself grow hot and cold
alternately. Could Roland--then whirling along in the train, reclining
at his ease, his legs up on the opposite cushion as he enjoyed a
luxurious pipe, to the inestimable future benefit of the carriage--have
taken a view of Mr. Galloway and his discomfiture, his delight would
have been unbounded.
“Incorrigible as he was, he was better than nobody,” ejaculated Mr.
Galloway, rubbing up his flaxen curls. “He could keep office, if he
did not do much in it; he received and answered callers; he went out
on hasty messages; and, upon a pinch, he did accomplish an hour or so’s
copying. I am down on my beam-ends, and no mistake. What a simpleton the
fellow must be! Port Natal, indeed, for him! If Lord Carrick were not
own brother to my lady, he might have the sense to stop it. Why--”
Arrival the first, and no one to answer it but Mr. Galloway! A fly had
driven up and stopped at the door. No one appeared to be getting out of
it, so Mr. Galloway, perforce, proceeded to see what it wanted. It might
contain one of the chapter, or the dean himself!
But, by the time he reached the pavement, the inmates were descending.
A short lady, in a black bonnet and short black skirts, had let herself
out on the opposite side, and had come round to assist somebody out
on this. Was it a ghost, or was it a man? His cheeks were hollow and
hectic, his eyes were glistening as with fever, his chest heaved. He had
a fur boa wrapped round his neck, and his overcoat hung loosely on his
tall, attenuated form, which seemed too weak to support itself, or to
get down the fly steps without being lifted.
“Now don’t you be in a hurry!” the lady was saying, in a cross tone.
“You’ll come pitch into the mud with your nose. Can’t you wait? It’s my
belief you are wanting to do it. Here, let me get firm hold of you; you
know you are as weak as ever was a rat!”
You may recognize the voice as belonging to Mrs. Jenkins, and that poor
shadow could be no one but Jenkins himself, for there certainly was not
another like it in all Helstonleigh. Mr. Galloway stood in astonishment,
wondering what this new move could mean. The descent accomplished,
Jenkins was conducted by his wife through the passage to the office. He
went straight to his old place at his desk, and sat down on his stool,
his chest palpitating, his breath coming in great sighs. Laying his hat
beside him, he turned respectfully to Mr. Galloway, who had followed him
in, speaking with all his native humility:
“I have come, sir, to do what I can for you in this emergency.”
And there he stopped--coughing, panting, shaking; looking like a man
more fit to be lying on his death-bed than to be keeping office. Mr.
Galloway gazed at him with compassion. He said nothing. Jenkins at that
moment could neither have heard nor answered, and Mrs. Jenkins was out,
paying the driver.
The paroxysm was not over when she came in. She approached Jenkins,
slightly shook him--her mode of easing the cough--dived in his pockets
for his silk handkerchief, with which she wiped his brow, took off the
fur from his neck, waited until he was quiet, and began:
“I hope you are satisfied! If you are not, you ought to be. Who’s to
know whether you’ll get back alive? _I_ don’t.”
“What did he come for?” asked Mr. Galloway.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Jenkins, “that’s just what I want to know! As if he
could do any good in the state he is! Look at him, sir.”
Poor Jenkins, who was indeed a sight to be looked at, turned his wan
face upon Mr. Galloway.
“I cannot do much sir, I know; I wish I could: but I can sit in the
office--at least, I hope I can--just to take care of it while you are
out, sir, until you can find somebody to replace Mr. Roland.”
“How did you know he was gone off?” demanded Mr. Galloway.
“It was in this way,” interposed Mrs. Jenkins, ages before poor Jenkins
could gain breath to answer. “I was on my hands and knees, brushing the
fluff off my drawing-room carpet this morning, when I heard something
tearing up the stairs at the rate of a coach-and-six. Who should it be
but young Mr. Yorke, on his way to Jenkins in bed, without saying so
much as ‘With your leave,’ or ‘By your leave.’ A minute or two, and down
he came again, gave me a little touch of his impudence, and was gone
before I could answer. Well, sir, I kept on at my room, and when it was
done I went downstairs to see about the breakfast, never suspecting what
was going on with _him_”--pointing her finger at Jenkins. “I was pouring
out his tea when it was ready to take up to him, and putting a bit of
something on a plate, which I intended to make him eat, when I
heard somebody creeping down the stairs--stumbling, and panting, and
coughing--and out I rushed. There stood he--_he_, Mr. Galloway! dressed
and washed, as you see him now! he that has not got up lately till
evening, and me dressing him then! ‘Have you took leave of your senses?’
said I to him. ‘No,’ said he, ‘my dear, but I must go to the office
to-day: I can’t help myself. Young Mr. Yorke’s gone away, and there’ll
be nobody.’ ‘And good luck go with him, for all the use he’s of here,
getting you out of your bed,’ said I. If Jenkins were as strong as he
used to be, Mr. Galloway, I should have felt tempted to treat him to a
shaking, and then, perhaps, he’d have remembered it!”
“Mr. Roland told me he was going away, sir, and that you had nobody to
replace him; indeed, I gathered that you were ignorant of the step,”
struck in the quiet, meek voice of poor Jenkins. “I could not stay away,
sir, knowing the perplexity you would be put to.”
“No, it’s my belief he could not,” tartly chimed in Jenkins’s lady. “He
would have tantalized himself into a fever. Why, Mr. Galloway, had I
marched him back to his bed and turned the key upon him, he’d have been
capable of letting himself down by a cord from his window, in the
face and eyes of all the street. Now, Jenkins, I’ll have none of your
contradiction! you know you would.”
“My dear, I am not contradicting; I am not well enough to contradict,”
panted poor Jenkins.
“He would have come off there and then, all by himself: he would, Mr.
Galloway, as I am a living sinner!” she hotly continued. “It’s unbeknown
how he’d have got here--holding on by the wall, like a snail, or
fastening himself on to the tail of a cart; but try at it, in some way,
he would! Be quiet, Jenkins! How dare you attempt to interrupt!”
Poor Jenkins had not thought to interrupt; he was only making a movement
to pull off his great-coat. Mrs. Jenkins resumed:
“‘No,’ said I to him; ‘if you must go, you shall be conveyed there, but
you don’t start without your breakfast.’ So I sat him down in his chair,
Mr. Galloway, and gave him his breakfast--such as it was! If there’s one
thing that Jenkins is obstinate in, above all others, it’s about eating.
Then I sent Lydia for a fly, and wrapped up his throat in my boa--and
that he wanted to fight against!--and here he is!”
“I wished to get here, sir, before you did,” cried Jenkins, meekly.
“I knew the exertion would set me coughing at first, but, if I had sat
awhile before you saw me, I should not have seemed so incapable. I shall
be better presently, sir.”
“What are you at with that coat?” tartly asked Mrs. Jenkins. “I declare
your hands are never at rest. Your coat’s not to come off, Jenkins. The
office is colder than our parlour, and you’ll keep it on.”
Jenkins, humbly obeying, began to turn up the cuffs. “I can do a little
writing, sir,” he said to Mr. Galloway, “Is there anything that is in a
hurry?”
“Jenkins,” said Mr. Galloway, “I could not suffer you to write; I could
not keep you here. Were I to allow you to stop, in the state you are,
just to serve me, I should lay a weight upon my conscience.”
Mrs. Jenkins looked up in triumph. “You hear, Jenkins! What did I tell
you? I said I’d let you have your way for once--‘twas but the cost of
the fly; but that if Mr. Galloway kept you here, once he set eyes on
your poor creachy body, I’d eat him.”
“Jenkins, my poor fellow!” said Mr. Galloway, gravely, “you must know
that you are not in a state to exert yourself. I shall not forget your
kindness; but you must go back at once. Why, the very draught from the
frequent opening of the door would do you an injury; the exertion of
speaking to answer callers would be too much for you.”
“Didn’t I tell you so, Jenkins, just in them very words?” interrupted
the lady.
“I am aware that I am not strong, sir,” acknowledged Jenkins to Mr.
Galloway, with a deprecatory glance towards his wife to be allowed to
speak. “But it is better I should be put to a trifle of inconvenience
than that you should, sir. I can sit here, sir, while you are obliged to
be out, or occupied in your private room. What could you do, sir, left
entirely alone?”
“I don’t know what I can do,” returned Mr. Galloway, with an acidity of
tone equal to that displayed by Mrs. Jenkins, for the question recalled
all the perplexity of his position. “Sacrifice yourself to me, Jenkins,
you shall not. What absurd folly can have taken off Roland Yorke?” he
added. “Do you know?”
“No, sir, I don’t. When Mr. Roland came in this morning, and said he
was really off, you might have knocked me down with a feather. He would
often get talking about Port Natal, but I never supposed it would come
to anything. Mr. Roland was one given to talk.”
“He had some tea at our house the other night, and was talking about it
then,” struck in Mrs. Jenkins. “He said he was worked to death.”
“Worked to death!” satirically repeated Mr. Galloway.
“I’m afraid, sir, that, through my unfortunate absence, he has found the
work heavier, and he grew dissatisfied,” said Jenkins. “It has troubled
me very much.”
“You spoilt him, Jenkins; that’s the fact,” observed Mr. Galloway. “You
did his work and your own. Idle young dog! He’ll get a sickener at Port
Natal.”
“There’s one thing to be thankful for, sir,” said patient Jenkins, “that
he has his uncle, the earl, to fall back upon.”
“Hark at him!” interrupted Mrs. Jenkins. “That’s just like him! He’d be
‘thankful’ to hear that his worst enemy had an uncle to fall back upon.
That’s Jenkins all over. But now, what is to be the next movement?” she
sharply demanded. “I must get back to my shop. Is he to come with me, or
to stop here--a spectacle for every one that comes in?”
But at this moment, before the question could be decided--though you may
rest assured Mrs. Jenkins would only allow it to be decided in her own
way--hasty footsteps were heard in the passage, and the door was thrown
open by Arthur Channing.