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 calamity1 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 innocence2. 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 restitution3 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 wont4 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, saluting5 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 pouncing6 suddenly upon his itinerant7 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 cloisters8, 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 Natal9.”
“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 consternation10 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 legitimate11 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 credible12. Neither did Mr. Galloway give credence13 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 retired14, leaving Mr. Galloway to his fate. He persisted in assuming that the news was too absurd to be correct; but a dreadful inward misgiving15 began to steal over him.
The question was set at rest by the Lady Augusta. Feeling excessively vexed16 with Roland for not having informed Mr. Galloway of his intended departure—as from the message, it would appear he had not done—she determined17 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 mercurial18 nature, liable to go up and down at touch; and Hamish had contrived19 to cheer her greatly.
“What does all this mean? Where’s Roland?” began Mr. Galloway, showing little more deference20 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 heed21 to it at the time.
“He is just another of my headstrong boys,” grumbled22 Lady Augusta. “They are all specimens23 of wilfulness24. 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 extravagant25, Lady Augusta!”
“I am not led away by them,” peevishly26 returned Lady Augusta, a recollection of her own elation27 on the point darting28 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, thoroughly29 industrious30, 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 precisely31 the prospect32 Roland had pictured to Lady Augusta, or to which her own imagination had lent its hues33, 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 downwards34: 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 partially35 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 reiterated36 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 luxurious37 pipe, to the inestimable future benefit of the carriage—have taken a view of Mr. Galloway and his discomfiture38, 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 inmates40 were descending41. A short lady, in a black bonnet42 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 hectic43, his eyes were glistening44 as with fever, his chest heaved. He had a fur boa wrapped round his neck, and his overcoat hung loosely on his tall, attenuated45 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 astonishment46, wondering what this new move could mean. The descent accomplished47, 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 humility48:
“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 compassion49. 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 wan39 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 impudence50, 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 dressing51 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 tempted52 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, meek53 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,” tartly54 chimed in Jenkins’s lady. “He would have tantalized55 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 snail56, 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 obstinate57 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, meekly58. “I knew the exertion59 would set me coughing at first, but, if I had sat awhile before you saw me, I should not have seemed so incapable60. 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, humbly61 obeying, began to turn up the cuffs62. “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 draught63 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 entirely64 alone?”
“I don’t know what I can do,” returned Mr. Galloway, with an acidity65 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 folly66 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 decided67—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.
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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natal
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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determined
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mercurial
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contrived
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deference
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heed
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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specimens
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wilfulness
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extravagant
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peevishly
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elation
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darting
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thoroughly
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industrious
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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prospect
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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downwards
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partially
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reiterated
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luxurious
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discomfiture
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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inmates
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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tantalized
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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