It was an excessively hot evening, getting now towards dusk. Roland had carried his work to Mrs. Jones's room, not so much because his own parlour was rather close and stuffy1, as that he might obtain slight intervals2 of recreative gossip. He had it to himself, however, for Mrs. Jones was absent on household cares. The window looked on a backyard, in which the maid, who had come out, was hanging up a red table-cover to dry, that had evidently had something spilled on it. Of course Roland arrested his pen to watch the process. He was sitting in his shirtsleeves, and had just complained aloud that it was hotter than Africa.
"Who did that?" he called out through the open window. "You?"
"Mr. Ollivera, sir. He upset some ink; and mistress have been washing the place out in layers of cold water. She don't think it'll show."
"What d'ye call layers?"
"Different lots, sir. About nineteen bowlfuls she swilled3 it through; and me a emptying of 'em at the sink, and droring off fresh water ready to her hand."
The hanging-out and pulling the damaged part straight took a tolerably long time; Roland, in the old seduction of any amusement being welcome as an accompaniment to work, continued to look on and talk. Suddenly, he remembered his copying, and the young lady for whose sake he had undertaken the labour.
"This is not sticking to it," he soliloquised. "And if I am to have her, I must work for her. Won't I work, that's all! I'll stick to it like any brick! But this copying is poor stuff to get a fellow on. If I could only slip into something better!"
Considering that Mr. Roland Yorke's earnings4 the past week, what with mistakes and other failures, had been one shilling and ninepence, and the week previous to that fifteenpence, it certainly did not look as though the copying would prove the high road to fortune. He began casting about other projects in his mind, as he wrote.
"If they'd give me a place under Government, it would be the very thing. But they don't. Old Dick Yorke's as selfish as a camel, and Carrick's hiding his head, goodness knows where. So I am thrown on my own resources. Bless us all! when a fellow wants to get on in this world, he can't."
At this juncture5 Roland came to the end of his paper. As it was a good opportunity for taking a little respite6, he laid down his pen, and exercised his thoughts.
"There's those photographing places--lots of them springing up. You can't turn a corner into a street but you come bang upon a fresh establishment. They can't require a fellow to have any previous knowledge, they can't. I wonder if any of them would take me on, and give me a couple of guineas a-week, or so? Nothing to do there, but talk to the visitors, and take their faces. I should make a good hand at that. But, perhaps, she'd not like it! She might object to marry a man of that sort. What a difficulty it is to get into anything! I must think of the other plan."
The other plan meant some nice place under Government. To Roland that always seemed a sure harbour of refuge. The doubt was, how to get it?
"There's young Dick--Vincent, as he likes to be called now," soliloquised Roland. "I've never asked him to help me, but perhaps he might: he's not ill-natured where his pocket's not called in question. I'll go to him tomorrow; see if I don't. Now then, are you dry?"
This was to the writing. Roland rose up to get more paper, and then found that he had left it behind him at the office--some that he ought to have brought home.
"There's a bother! I wonder if I could get it by going round? Of course the offices are closed, but I'd not mind asking Bede for the key if he's in the way."
To think and to act were one with Roland. He put on his coat, took his hat, and went hastening along on his expedition. Rather to his surprise, as he drew to his walk's end, his quick eyes, casting themselves into dark spots as well as light ones, caught sight of Bede Greatorex standing7 in the shade opposite his house, apparently8 watching its lighted windows, from which sounds of talking and laughing issued forth9. Roland conjectured10 that some gaiety was as usual going on in the house, which its master would escape. Over he went to him, without ceremony.
"You don't like all that, sir?" he said, indicating the supposed company.
"Not too much of it," replied Bede Greatorex, startled out of his reverie by the unexpected address. "The fact is," he condescended11 to explain to his curious clerk, perhaps as an excuse for standing there, "certain matters have been giving me trouble of late. I was in deep thought."
"Mrs. Bede Greatorex does love society: she did as Louisa Joliffe," remarked Roland, meaning to be confidential12.
"I was not thinking of Mrs. Bede Greatorex, but of the loss from my office," spoke13 his master in a cold, proud tone of reproof14.
Crossing the road, as if declining further conversation, he went in. Roland saw he had offended him, and wished his tongue had been tied, laying down his thoughtless speech as usual to the having sojourned at Port Natal15. It might not be a propitious16 moment for requesting the loan of the office keys, and Roland had the sense to foresee it.
Who should come out of the house at that moment, but Annabel Channing, attended by a servant. The sight of her put work, keys, and all else, out of Roland's head. He leaped across, seized her hands, and learnt that she had got leave to spend the evening with Hamish and his wife.
"I'll take care of you; I'll see you safely there," cried Roland, impetuously. "You can go back, old Dalla."
Old Dalla--a middle-aged17 yellow woman who had brought Jane Greatorex from India and remained with the child as her attendant--made no more ado, but took him at his word; glad to be spared the walk, she turned indoors at once. And before Annabel well knew what had occurred, she found herself being whirled away by Roland in an opposite direction to the one she wished to go. It was only twilight18 yet. Roland had her securely on his arm, and began to pace the square. To say the truth, he looked on the meeting as a special chance, for he had not once set eyes on the young lady, save in the formal presence of others, since that avowal19 of his a fortnight ago, in Mr. Greatorex's room.
"What are you doing?" she asked, when she could collect herself "This is not the way to Hamish's."
"This is the way to get a few words with you, Annabel; one can't talk in the streets with its glare and its people. We are private here; and I'll take you to Hamish's in a minute or two."
In this impulsive20 fashion, he began telling her his plans and his dreams. That he had determined21 to make an income and a home for her: as a beginning, until something better turned up, he was working all his spare time at copying deeds, "nearly night and day." One less unsophisticated than Roland Yorke, might have suppressed a small item of the programme--that which related to Annabel's contributing to the fund herself, by obtaining pupils. Not he. He avowed22 it just as openly as his own intention of getting "something under Government." In short, Roland made the young lady a regular offer. Or, rather, did not so much make the offer, as assume that it had been already made, and was, so far, settled. His arguments were sensible; his plans looked really feasible; the day-dreams tolerably bright.
"But I have not said I would have you yet," spoke Annabel all in a flutter, when she could get a word in edgeways. "You should not make so sure of things."
"Not make sure of it! Not have me!" cried Roland, in indignant remonstrance23. "Now look you here, Annabel--you know you'll have me: it is all nonsense to make believe you won't. I don't suppose I've asked you in the proper way, or put things in the proper light; but you ought to make allowance for a fellow who has had his manners knocked out of him at Port Natal. When the time arrives that I've got a little house and a few chairs and tables in its rooms, you'll come home to me and I'll try and make you happy in it, and work for you till I drop! There! If I knew how to say it better, I would: and you need not despise a man for his incapable24 way of putting it. Not have me! I'd like to know who you would have, if not me!"
Annabel Channing offered no farther remonstrance. That she had contrived25 to fall in love with Roland Yorke, and would rather marry him than anybody else in the world, she knew all too well. The home and the chairs and the tables in it, and the joint26 working together to keep it going, wore a bright vista27 to her heart, looked at from a distance with youth's hopeful eyes. But she did not speak: and Roland, mistaking her silence, regarded it as a personal injury.
"When I and Arthur are the dearest friends in the world! He'd give you to me off-hand; I know it. It is not kind of you, Annabel. We engaged ourselves to each other when you were a little one and I was a tall donkey of fourteen, and if I've ever thought of a wife at all since I grew up, it was of you. I have done nothing but think of you since I came back. I wonder how you'd feel if I turned round and said, 'I don't know that I shall have you.' Not jovial28, I know."
"You should not bring up the nonsense we said when we were children," returned Annabel, at a loss what else to answer. "I'm sure I could not have been above seven. We were playing at oranges and lemons: I remember the evening quite well: and you----"
"Now just you be open, Annabel, and say what it is your mind's harbouring against me," interrupted Roland, in a tone of deep feeling. "Is it that twenty-pound note of old Galloway's?--or is it because I went knocking about at Port Natal?"
"Oh, Roland, how foolish you are! As if I could think of either!"
And there was something in the words and tone, in the pretty, shy, blushing face that reassured29 Roland. From that moment he looked upon matters as irrevocably settled, gave Annabel's hand a squeeze against his side, and went on to enlarge upon his dreams of the future.
"I've taken counsel with myself and with Mrs. J., and I don't think the pair of us are likely to be led astray by romance, Annabel, for she is one of the strong-minded ones. She agrees with me that we might do well on three hundred a year; and, what with my work and your pupils, we could make that easily. But, I said to her, let's be on the safe side, and put it down at only two hundred. Just to begin with, you know, Annabel. She said, 'Yes, we might do on that if we were both economical'--and I'm sure if I've not learnt to be that I've learnt nothing. I would not risk the temptation of giving away--which I am afraid I'm prone30 to--for you should be cash-keeper, Annabel; just as Mrs. J. keeps my sovereign a week now. My goodness! the having no money in one's pocket is a safeguard. When I see things in the shop windows, whether it's eatables, or what not, I remember my lack of cash, and pass on. I stopped to look at a splendid diamond necklace yesterday in Regent Street, and thought how much I should like to get it for you; but with empty pockets, where was the use of going in to enquire31 the price?"
"I do not care for diamonds," said Annabel.
"You will have them some time, I hope, when my fortune's made. But about the two hundred a year? Mrs. J. said if we could be sure of making that regularly, she thought we might risk it; only, she said there might be interruptions. It would not be Mrs. J. if she didn't croak32."
"Interruptions!" exclaimed Annabel, something as Roland had interrupted Mrs. Jones, and quite as unsuspicious as he. "Of what kind?"
"Sickness, Mrs. J. mentioned, and--but I don't think I'll tell you that," considered Roland. "Let's say, and general contingencies33. I'm sure I should as soon have thought of setting up a menagerie of owls34, but for her putting it into my head. A fellow who has helped to land boats at Port Natal can't be expected to foresee everything. Would you be afraid to encounter the two hundred a year?"
"I fear mamma would for me. And Hamish."
"Now Annabel, don't you get bringing up objections for other people. Time enough for that when they come down with them of their own accord. I intend to speak to Hamish tonight if I can get the opportunity. I don't want you to keep your promise a secret. You are a dear good girl, and the little home shall be ours before a twelvemonth's gone by, if I have to work my hands off."
The little home! Poor Roland! If he could but have foreseen what twelve months would bring forth.
Hamish Channing's book had come out under more favourable35 auspices36 than Gerald's. The publisher, far from demanding money in advance for expenses, had made fair terms with him. Of course the result would depend on the sale. When Hamish held the first copies in his hand, his whole being was lighted up with silent enthusiasm; the joy it was to bring, the appreciation37, had already set in. He sent a copy to his mother; and he sent one to Gerald Yorke, with a brief, kind note: in the simplicity38 of his heart, he supposed Gerald would rejoice, just as he at first had rejoiced for him.
How good the book was, Hamish knew. The publisher knew. The world, Hamish thought, would soon know. He did not deceive himself in its appreciation, or exaggerate the real worth and merits of the work: in point of fact, the praise meted39 out to Gerald's would have been really applicable to his. Never did Hamish, even in his moments of extremest doubt and diffidence, cast a thought to the possibility that his book would be cried down. Already he was thinking of beginning a second; and his other work, the occasional papers, went on with a zest40.
He sat with his little girl, Nelly, on his knee, on this selfsame evening that Roland had pounced41 on Annabel. The child had her blue eyes and her bright face turned to him as she chattered42. He looked down fondly at her and stroked the pretty curls of her golden hair.
"And when will the ship be home, papa?"
"Very soon now. It is nearing the port."
"But when will it be quite, quite, quite home?"
"In a few days, I think, Nelly. I am not sure, but I ought to say it has come."
"It was those books that came in the parcel last night?" said shrewd little Nelly.
"Even so, darling."
"Mamma has been reading them all day. I saw"--Nelly put her sweet face close up and dropped her voice--"I saw her crying at places of them."
A soft faint crimson43 stole into Hamish Channing's cheeks; his lips parted, his breath came quicker; a sudden radiance illuminated44 his whole countenance45. This whisper of the child's brought to his heart its first glad sense of that best return--appreciation.
Company arrived to interrupt the quiet home happiness. Mrs. Gerald Yorke and her three meek46 children. Winny had a face of distress47, and made a faint apology for bringing the little ones, but it was over early to leave them in bed. Close upon this, Roland and Annabel entered, and had the pleasure of being in time to hear Gerald's wife tell out her grievances48.
They were of the old description. No money, importunate49 creditors50, Gerald unbearably51 cross. Annabel felt inclined to smile; Roland was full of sympathy. Had the prospective52 fortune (that he was sure to make) been already in his hands, he would have given a purse of gold to Winny, and carried off the three little girls to a raree-show there and then. The next best thing was to promise them the treat: which he did largely.
"And me too, Roland," cried eager Nelly, dancing in and out amid the impromptu54 visitors in the highest glee, her shining curls never still.
"Of course you," said Roland to the fair child who had come to an anchor before him, flinging her arms upon his knees. "I'd not go anywhere without you, you know, Nelly. If I were not engaged to somebody else, I'd make you my little wife."
"Who is the somebody else? Kitty?"
"Not Kitty. She's too little."
"Let it be me, then."
Roland laughed, and looked across at Hamish. "If I don't ask you for her, I may for somebody else. So prepare."
"I'm sure, I hope, Roland, if ever you do marry, that you'll not be snappish with your wife and little girls, as your brother is with us," interposed Winny with a sob55. "I think it is something in Mr. Channing's book that has put him out today. As soon as it came this morning, he locked himself in the room alone with it, and never came out for hours; but when he did come--oh, was he not in a temper! He pushed Winnifred and she fell on the carpet, and he shook Rosy56 till she cried; and nobody knows for what. I'm sure they are like mice for quietness when he's there; they are too much afraid of him to be otherwise."
It was well for Gerald Yorke that he committed no grave crimes; for his wife, in her childish simplicity, in her inability to bear in silence, would be safe to have betrayed them. She was right in her surmises--in fact, Winny, with all her silliness, had a great deal of discernment--that the cause of her husband's temper being worse than usual was Hamish Channing's book. Seizing upon it when it came, Gerald locked himself up with it, forbidding any interruption in terms that might not be disobeyed. On the surface alone he could see that it was no sham57 book: Gerald's book had about twenty lines in a page, and the large, wide, straggling type might have been read a mile off. This was different: it was closely printed, rather than not, as if the writer were at no fault for matter. In giving a guinea and a half for this work, the public would not find itself deluded58 into finding nothing to read. Gerald sat down. He was about to peruse59 this long-expected book, and he devoutly60 hoped to find it bad and worthless.
But, if Gerald Yorke could not write, he could appreciate: and with the first commencing pages he saw what the work really was--rare, good, of powerful interest; essentially61 the production of a good man, a scholar, and a gentleman.
As he read on and on, his brow grew dark with a scowl62, his lips were angrily bitten: the book, properly noticed, would certainly set the world a-longing: and Gerald might experience some difficulty in writing it down. The knowledge did not tend to soften63 his generally ill-conditioned state of mind, and he flung the last volume on the table with a harsh word. Even at that early stage, some of the damnatory terms he would use to extinguish the book passed through his active brain.
Emerging from his retreat towards evening in this genial64 mood, he made those about him suffer from it. Winny, the non-enduring, might well wish to escape with her helpless children! Gerald departed; to keep an engagement at a white-bait entertainment; and she came to Hamish Channing's.
How different were the two men! Hamish Channing's heart had ached to pain at the badness of Gerald's book, for Gerald's sake; had he been a magician, he would have transformed its pages, with a stroke of his wand, to the brightest and best ever given to the world. Gerald Yorke put on the anger of a fiend because Hamish's work was not bad; and laid out his plans to ruin it.
"Man, vain man, dressed in a little brief authority,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep."
If the world is not entirely65 made up of these two types of men, the bad and the good, the narrow-hearted and the wide, the kindly66 generous and the cruelly selfish, believe me there are a vast many of each in it.
"It's getting worse and worse," sobbed67 Winny, continuing her grievances over the tea-table. "I don't mean Gerald now, but the shortness of money and the worry. I know we shall have to go into the workhouse!"
"Bless you, don't lose heart!" cried Roland with a beaming face. "I can never lose that again, after the ups and downs in Africa. I'll tell you of one, Mrs. Gerald.--Another piece of muffin, Kitty? there it is.--I and another fellow had had no food to speak of for two days; awfully68 low we were. We went into a store and they gave us some advertising69 bills to paste on the walls. Well, somehow I lost the fellow and the bills, for he had taken possession of them. I went rushing about everywhere, looking for him--and that's not so pleasant when your inside's as hollow as an empty herring barrel--but he never turned up again. Whether he decamped with the bills, or whether he was put out of the way by a knock on the head, I don't know to this hour. Anyhow I had to go back to the store the next day, and tell about it. If you'll believe me they accused me of swallowing the bills, or otherwise making away with them, and called for a man to take me into custody70. A day and a night I lay in their detention71 cell, with nothing to eat and the rats running over me. Oh, wasn't it good! One can't be nice, over there, our experiences don't let us be; but I always had a horror of rats. Well, I got over that, Mrs. Gerald."
"Did they try you for it?" questioned Mrs. Gerald, who had suspended her tea to listen, full of interest.
"Good gracious, no! They let me out. Oh, but I could tell you of worse fixes than that. You take heart, I say; and never trouble your thoughts about workhouses. Things are safe to turn round when they seem at the worst."
The tea over, Mrs. Yorke said she must take her departure: the children were weary; she scarcely knew how she should get them back. Hamish had a cab called: when it came he went out and lifted the little ones into it. Winny looked at it dubiously72.
"You'll not tell Gerald that I said he was in a temper about your book, Mr. Channing?" she said pleadingly, as she took her seat.
"I'll not tell Gerald tales of any sort," answered Hamish with his gay smile. "Take heart, as Roland tells you to do, and look forward to better days both for you and your husband. Perhaps there is a little glimmer73 of their dawn already showing itself, though you cannot yet see it."
"Do you mean through Gerald's book?" she asked half crossly.
"Oh dear no. What I mean has nothing to do with Gerald's book. Who has the paper of cakes?--Fredy. All right. Good night. The cab's paid, Mrs. Yorke."
Mrs. Yorke burst into tears, leaned forward, and clasped Hamish's hand. The intimation, as to the cab, had solved a difficulty running through her mind. It was a great relief.
"God bless you, Mr. Channing! You are always kind."
"Only trust in God," he whispered gravely. "Trust Him ever, and He will take care of you."
The cab drove off, and Hamish turned away, to encounter Roland Yorke. That gentleman, making his opportunity, had followed Hamish out; and now poured into his ear the tale he had to tell about himself and Annabel. Hamish did not hear it with altogether the stately dignity that might be expected to attend the reception of an offer of marriage for one's sister. On the contrary, he burst out laughing in Roland's face.
"Come now! be honest," cried Roland, deeply offended. "Is it me you despise, Mr. Channing, or the small prospect53 I can offer her?"
"Neither," said Hamish, laughing still. "As to yourself, old fellow, if Annabel and the mother approve, I should not object. I never gave a heartier74 handshake to any man than I would to you as my brother-in-law. I like you better than I do the other one, William Yorke; and there's the truth."
"Oh--him! you easily might," answered Roland, jerking his nose into the air, with his usual depreciation75 of the Reverend William Yorke's merits. "Then why do you laugh at me?"
"I laughed at the idea of your making two hundred a year at copying deeds."
"I didn't say I should. You couldn't have been listening to me, Hamish--I wish, then, you'd not laugh so, as if you only made game of a fellow! What I said was, that I was putting my shoulder to the wheel in earnest, and had begun with copying, not to waste time. I have been thinking I'd try young Dick Yorke."
"Try him for what?"
"Why, to get me a post of some sort. I think he'll do it if he can. I'm sure it's not much I shall ask for--only a couple of hundreds a year, or so. And if Annabel secures a nice pupil or two, there'd be three hundred a year to start with. You'd not mind her teaching a little, would you, Hamish, while I was waiting for the skies to rain gold?"
"Not I. That would be for her own consideration."
"And when we shall have got the three hundred a year in secure prospect, you'll talk to Mrs. Channing of Helstonleigh for me, won't you?"
Hamish thought he might safely say Yes. The idea of Roland's "putting his shoulder to the wheel" sufficiently76 to earn two hundred pounds income, seemed to be amidst the world's improbabilities. He could not get over his laughing, and it vexed77 Roland.
"You think I can't work. You'll see. I'll go off to young Dick Yorke this very hour, and sound him. Nothing like taking time by the forelock. He is likely to be married, I hear."
"Who is?"
"Young Dick. They call him Vincent now, but before I went to Port Natal 'Dick' was good enough for him. My father never spoke of them but as old Dick and young Dick. Not that we had anything to do with the lot: they held themselves aloof78 from us. I never saw either of them but once, and that was when they came down to Helstonleigh to my father's funeral. He died in residence, you know, Hamish."
Hamish nodded: he remembered all the circumstances perfectly79. Dr. Yorke's death had been unexpected until quite the last. Ailing80 for some time, he had yet been sufficiently well to enter on what was called his close residence of twenty-one days as Prebendary of the cathedral, of which he was also sub-dean. The disease made so rapid progress that before the residence was out he had expired.
"Old Dick made some promises to George that day, saying he'd get him on because George was the eldest81, I suppose; he took little notice of the rest of us," resumed Roland. "It was after we came in from the funeral, in our crape scarfs and hat-bands. But he never did an earthly thing for him, Hamish--as poor George could tell you, if he were alive. My father always said his brother Dick was selfish."
"You may find young Dick the same," said Hamish.
"So I should if it were his pocket I wanted to touch. But it's not, you know. And now I'll be off to him. I had intended to spend this evening at my copying, but I left the paper in the office, and there was likely to be a hitch82 about my getting it I'll make up for it tomorrow night. I shall be back in time to tell you of my success, and to help you take Annabel home."
Roland's way of taking time by the forelock was to dash through the streets at his utmost speed, no matter what impediments he might have to overthrow83 in his way, and into the fashionable clubhouse frequented by Vincent Yorke, who dined there quite as often as he did at his father's house in Portland Place. Roland was in luck, and met him coming out.
"I say Vincent, do stay and hear me for a minute or two. It is something of consequence."
Vincent Yorke, not altogether approving of this familiar mode of salutation from Roland, although fate had made them cousins, did not quite see his way to refuse the request. As Roland had said, young Dick was sufficiently good-natured where his pocket was not attacked. He led the way to a corner in a room where they could be private, sat down, and offered a chair to Roland.
It was declined. Roland was a great deal too excited and too eager to sit. He poured forth his wants and hopes--that he wished co work honestly for just bread and cheese, and to get his own living, and be beholden to nobody: would he, Dick, help him to a place? He did not mind how hard he worked; till his shirtsleeves were wet with honest sweat, if need be; and live on potatoes and half a pint84 of beer a day; so that he might just get on a little, and make a sum of two hundred pounds a year: or one hundred to begin with.
The word "Dick" slipped out inadvertently in Roland's heat. Not a man living so little capable, as he, of remembering conventionalities when thus excited. Vincent Yorke, detecting the earnest purpose, the sanguine85 hope, the real single-mindedness of the applicant86, could but stare and laugh, and excuse mistakes under the circumstances. The very boldness of the request, preferred with straightforward87 candour and without the slightest reticence88, told on him favourably89, because it was so opposite to the crafty90 diplomacy91 that most men would have brought to bear on such an application. Favourably only, you understand, in so far as that he did not return a haughty92 repulse93 off-hand, but condescended to answer civilly.
"Such things are not in my line," he said, and--face to face with that realistic Port Natal traveller, he for once put aside his beloved fashionable attribute, the mincing94 lisp. "I don't go in for politics; never did go in for 'em; and Government places are not likely to come in my way. You should have applied95 to Sir Richard. He knows one or two of the Cabinet Ministers."
"I did apply to him once," replied Roland, "and he sent me off with a flea96 in my ear. I said then, I'd never ask him for any thing again, though it were to keep me from starving."
Vincent Yorke smiled. "Look here," said he; "you take him in his genial moods. Go up to him now; he'll just have dined. If anything can be got out of him, that's the time."
Mr. Vincent Yorke hit upon this quite as much to get rid of Roland, as in any belief in its efficacy. In the main what he said was true--that Sir Richard's after-dinner moods were his genial ones; but that Roland had not the ghost of a chance of being helped, he very well knew. That unsophisticated voyager, however, took it all in.
"I'll run up at once," he said. "I'm so much obliged to you, Vincent. I say, are you not soon going to be married? I heard so."
"Eh--yes," replied Vincent, with frigid97 coldness, relapsing into himself and the fine gentleman.
"I wish you the best of good luck," returned Roland, heartily98 shaking the somewhat unwilling99 hand with a grip that he might have learned at Port Natal. "And I hope she'll make you as good a wife as I know somebody else will make me. Good night, Vincent, I'm off."
Vincent nodded. It struck him that, with all his drawbacks and deficiencies, Roland was rather a nice young fellow.
Outside the club door stood a hansom. Roland, in his eagerness and haste, was only kept from bolting into it by the slight deterrent100 accident of having no change in his pocket to pay the fare. He did not lose much. The speed at which he tore up Regent Street might have kept pace with the wheels of most cabs; and the resounding101 knock and ring he gave at Sir Richard's door in Portland Place, must surely have caused the establishment to think it announced the arrival of a fire-escape.
The door was flung open on the instant, as if to an expected visitor. But that Roland was not the one waited for, was proved by the surprise of the servant. He arrested the further entrance.
"You are not the doctor!"
"Doctor!" said Roland, "I am no doctor. Let me pass if you please. I am Mr. Roland Yorke."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, recognizing the name as one borne by a nephew of the house. "You can go up, sir, of course if you please, but my master is just taken ill. He has got a stroke."
"Bless me!" cried Roland, in concern. "Is it a bad one?"
"I'm afraid it is for death, sir," whispered the man. "We left him at his wine after dinner, all comfortable; and when we went in a few minutes ago, there he was, drawed together so that you couldn't know him, and no breath in his body that we could hear. The nearest doctor's coming, and James is running to fifteen likely places to see if he can find Mr. Vincent."
"I'll go for him; I know where he is," cried Roland. And without further reflection he hailed another hansom that happened to be passing, jumped into it and ordered it to the clubhouse. Vincent was only then coming down the steps. He took Roland's place and galloped102 home.
"I hope he'll be in time," thought Roland. "Poor old Dick!"
He was not in time. And the next morning London woke up to the news of Sir Richard Yorke's sudden death from an attack of apoplexy. And his son, the third baronet, had succeeded to the family estates and honours as Sir Vincent Yorke.
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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3
swilled
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| v.冲洗( swill的过去式和过去分词 )；猛喝；大口喝；（使）液体流动 | |
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4
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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13
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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18
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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19
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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20
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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21
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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22
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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23
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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24
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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29
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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30
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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31
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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32
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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33
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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42
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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43
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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50
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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51
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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52
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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54
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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55
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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56
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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57
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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58
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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60
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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61
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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62
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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63
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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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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66
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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68
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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69
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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71
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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72
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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73
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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74
heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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75
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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76
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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77
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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78
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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79
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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80
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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81
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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82
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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83
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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84
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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85
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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86
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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87
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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88
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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89
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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90
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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91
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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92
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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93
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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94
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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95
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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96
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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97
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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98
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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99
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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100
deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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101
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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102
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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