Works of Ellen Wood, page 889
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. Charming’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 to-day 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 six-pen’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.
“Good-bye, 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 to-day, 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 in-doors, can’t look after things himself, and is going to put me to do it.”
Upon a flat bed, or couch, in the down-stairs 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 to-day,” 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 into it. I rushed down here to-night, 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 eat 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 with 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.
