on a sofa, drawn at right angles with the fire, lay hamish channing; his bright head raised high, a crimson coverlid of eider down thrown over his feet. in the last day or two he had grown perceptibly worse; that is, weaker. the most sanguine amidst his friends, medical or others, could not say there was hope now. but, as long as he could keep up, hamish would not give in to his illness: he rose in the morning and made a pretence of going about the house; and when he was tired, lay on the sofa that had been put into his writing-room. it was the room he felt most at home in, and he seemed to cling to it.
on the other side the hearth, bending forward in his chair, staring at hamish with sad eyes, and pulling at his whiskers in grievous gloom, sat roland yorke. roland had abandoned his home-copying for the past two days, and spent all his spare time with hamish. mrs. jones, snatching a moment to go and visit mr. channing for old association's sake, had been very much struck with what she saw in him, and carried home the news that he was certainly dying. roland, believing mrs. j. to be as correct in judgment as she was tart in speech, had been looking out for death from that moment. previously he was given to waver; one moment in despair; the next, up in the skies with exultation and thinking recovery had set in. the wind could not be more variable than roland.
it was the twilight hour of the winter's day. the room was not lighted yet, but the blaze from the fire played on hamish's face as he lay. there was a change in it tonight, and it told upon roland: for it looked like the shadow of death. things seemed to have been rather at sixes and sevens in the office that afternoon: mr. brown was absent, hurst had gone home for christmas, bede greatorex did not show himself, and there was nobody to tell roland what work to be about. of course it presented to that gentleman's mind a most valuable opportunity for enjoying a spell of recreation, and he took french leave to abandon it to itself and little jenner. rushing home in the first place, to see what might be doing there--for it was the day that miss rye had been captured by butterby. roland had his run for his pains. there was nothing doing, and his curiosity and good nature alike suffered. miss rye was a prisoner still; she, and mrs. jones, and the policeman left in charge, being shut up in the parlour together. "it's an awful shame of old butterby!" cried roland to himself, as he sped along to hamish's. there he took up his station in his favourite chair, and watched the face that was fading so rapidly away. with an etherealized look in it that spoke of heaven, with a placid calm that seemed to partake of the fast approaching rest; with a sweet smile that told of altogether inward peace, there the face lay; and roland thought he had never seen one on earth so like an angel's.
hamish had dropped into a doze; as he often did, at the close of day, when darkness is silently spreading over the light. nelly channing, who had learnt--by that subtle warning that sometimes steals, we know not how, over the instinct of little ones about to be made orphans--that some great and sad change was looming in the air, sat on a stool on the hearthrug as sedately as any old woman. nelly's boisterous ways and gleeful laugh had left her for awhile: example perhaps taught her to be still, and she largely profited by it.
on her lap lay a story book: papa had bought it for her yesterday that is, had given the money to miss nelly and nurse when they went out, and wrote down the title of the book they were to buy, and the shop they might get it at, with his own trembling fingers, out of which the strength had nearly gone. it was one of those exquisite story books that ought to be in all children's hands, mrs. sherwood's; belonging of course to a past day, but nothing has since been written like them.
with every leaf that she silently turned, nelly looked to see that it did not wake the invalid. when she grew tired, and her face was roasted to a red heat, she went to roland, resting the open book upon his knee. he lifted her up.
"it is such a pretty book, roland."
"all right. don't you make a noise, nelly."
"margaret went to heaven in the book: she was buried under the great yew tree," whispered kelly. "papa's going there."
roland caught the little head to him, and bent his face on the golden hair. he knew that what she said was true: but it was a shock nevertheless to have it repeated openly to him even by this young child.
"papa talks to me about it. it will be so beautiful; he will never be tired there, or have any sorrow or pain. oh, roland; i wish i was going with him!"
her eyes were filled with tears as she looked up; roland's were filled in sympathy. he had cried like a schoolboy more than once of late. all on a sudden, happening to glance across, he saw hamish looking on with a smile.
"you be off, nelly," said arbitrary roland, carrying her to the door and shutting it upon her and her book. "i'm sure your tea must be ready in the nursery."
"don't grieve, roland," said hamish, when he sat down again.
"i wish you could get well," returned roland, seeing the fire through a mist.
"and i have nearly ceased to wish it, roland. it's all for the best."
"ceased to wish it! how's that?"
"through god's mercy, i think."
the words silenced roland. when anything of this kind was mentioned it turned him into a child, so far as his feelings went; simple as miss nelly, was he, and a vast deal more humble-minded.
"things are being cleared for me so wonderfully, roland. but for leaving some who are dear to me, the pain would be over."
"i wish i could come across that fiend who wrote the reviews!" was roland's muttered answer to this. "i wish i could!"
"what?" said hamish, not catching the words.
"i will say it, then; i don't care," cried impetuous roland--for no one had ever spoken before hamish of what was supposed to have caused him the cruel pain. roland blurted it all out now in his explosive fashion; his own long-suppressed wrath, and what he held in store for the anonymous reviewer, when he should have the good fortune to come across him.
a minute's silence when he ceased, a wild hectic spreading itself into the hollow cheeks--that it should so stir him even yet! hamish held out his hand, and roland came across to take it. the good sweet eyes looked into his.
"if ever you do 'come across' him, roland, say that i forgive," came the low, earnest whisper. "i did think it cruel at the time; well nigh too hard to bear; but, like most other crosses, i seem to see now that it came to me direct from heaven."
"that is good, hamish! come!"
"we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom," whispered hamish, looking up at him with a yearning smile. "you have in all probability a long life before you, roland: but the time may come when you will realize the truth of those words."
roland swallowed down a lump in his throat as he turned to the fire again. hamish resumed, changing his tone for one almost of gaiety.
"i have had good news today. our friend the publisher called; and what do you think he told me, roland? that my book was finding its way at last."
"of course it will. everybody always thought it must. if you could but have put off for a time your bother over the reviews, hamish!" roland added piteously.
"ay. he says that in three months' time from this, the book will be in every one's hands. in the satisfaction of the news, i sat down and ate some luncheon with him and ellen."
"don't you think the news might be enough to cure you?" asked sanguine roland.
hamish shook his head. "if i were able to feel joy now as i felt the sorrow, it might perhaps go a little way towards it. but that is over, roland. the capability of feeling either in any degree was crushed out of me."
roland rubbed up his hair. if he had but that enemy of his under his hand, and a spacious arena that admitted of pitching-in!
"and now for some more good news, roland. you must know how i have been troubled at the thought of leaving ellen and the child unprovided for--"
"i say, don't you! don't you trouble, hamish," came the impulsive interruption. "i'll work for them. i'll do my very best for them, as well as for annabel."
"it won't be needed, dear old friend," and hamish's face, with its bright, grateful smile, almost looked like the sunny one of old. "ellen's father, mr. huntley, is regaining the wealth he feared he had lost. as an earnest of it, he has sent ellen two hundred pounds. it was paid her today."
"oh, now, isn't that good, hamish!"
"very good!" answered hamish, reverently and softly, as certain words ran through his mind: "so great is his mercy towards them that trust in him."
"and so, roland, all things are working round pleasantly that i may die in peace."
mrs. channing, coming in with her things on, for she had been out on some necessary business, interrupted the conversation. she mentioned to roland that she had seen gerald drive up to his wife's rooms, and that he had promised to come round.
"why i thought he was at sunny mead with dick!"
"he told me he had just returned from it," said mrs. channing.
"i say, hamish, who knows but he may have brought me up a message!" cried roland.
hamish smiled. roland had disclosed the fact in family conclave, of his having applied for the place of bailiff to sir vincent; annabel being present. he had recited, so far as he could remember them, the very words of the letter, over which hamish had laughed himself into a coughing-fit.
"to be sure," answered hamish, with a touch of his old jesting spirit. "gerald may have brought up your appointment, roland."
that was quite enough. "i'll go and ask him," said roland eagerly. "anyway he may be able to tell me how dick received it."
away went roland, on the spur of the moment. it was a clear, cold evening, the air sharp and frosty; and roland ran all the way to mrs. gerald yorke's.
that lady was not in tears this evening; but her mood was a gloomy one, her face fractious. the tea was on the table, and she was cutting thick bread-and-butter for the three little girls sitting so quietly round it, before their cups of milk-and-water. gerald had gone out again; she did not know where, whether temporarily, or to his chambers for the night, or anything about him.
"i think something must have gone wrong at sunny mead," observed winny. "when i asked what brought him back so soon, he only swore. perhaps sir vincent refused to lend money, and they had a quarrel. i know gerald meant to ask him: he is in dreadful embarrassment."
"mamma," pleaded a little voice, "there's no butter on my bread."
"there's as much as i can afford to put, kitty," was mrs. yorke's answer. "i must keep some for the morning. suppose your papa should find no butter for breakfast, if he comes home to sleep tonight! my goodness!"
"bread and scrape's not good, is it, kitty?" said roland. "no," plaintively answered the child.
roland clattered out, taking the stairs at a leap. mrs. yorke supposed he had left without the ceremony of saying goodnight.
"just like his manners!" she fractiously cried. "but oh! don't i wish gerald was like him in temper!"
roland had not gone for the night. he happened to have a shilling in his pocket, and went to buy a sixpenny pot of marmalade. as he was skimming back with it, his eye fell on some small shrimps, exposed for sale on a fishmonger's board. the temptation (with the loose sixpence in his hand) was not to be resisted.
he carried in the treasures. but that the three little ones were very meek spirited, they would have shouted at the sight. roland lavishly spread the marmalade on the bread-and-scrape, and began pulling out shrimps for the company round, while he talked of hamish.
"they are saying that those reviews that were so harsh upon his books have helped to kill him," said mrs. yorke, in a low tone, turning from the table to face roland.
"but for those reviews he'd not have died," answered roland. "i never will believe it. illness might have come on, but he'd have had the spirit to throw it off again."
"yes. when i sit and look at him, roland, it seems as if i and gerald were wretches that ought to hide ourselves. i say to myself, it was not my fault; but i feel it for all that."
"why, what do you mean?" asked roland.
"about the reviews. i can't bear to go there now."
"what about the reviews?"
"it was gerald who wrote them."
roland, for convenience sake, had the plate of shrimps on his knee during the picking process. he rested from his work and stared in a kind of puzzle. winny continued.
"those reviews were all gerald's doings. that dreadful one in the snarler he wrote himself; here, and was two days over it, getting to it at times as ideas and strong words occurred to him to make it worse and worse--just as he wrote the one of praise on his own book. the other reviews, that were every bit as bad, he got written. i read every word of the one in the snarler in manuscript. i wanted to tell him it was wicked, but he might have shaken me. he said he owed hamish channing a grudge, and should get his book damned. that's not my word, you know, roland. and, all the while, it was hamish who was doing so much for me and the poor children; finding us in food when gerald did not."
no whiter could hamish channing's face look when the marble paleness of death should have overshadowed it, than roland's was now. for a short while it seemed as though the communication were too astounding to find admittance to his mind. suddenly he rose up with a great cry. down went shrimps, and plate, and all; and he was standing upright before mrs. yorke.
"is it true? is it true?"
"why of course it's true," she fractiously answered, for the movement had startled her. "gerald did it all. i'd not tell anybody but you, roland."
throwing his hat on his head, hind part before, away dashed roland. panting, wild, his breath escaping him in great sobs, like unto one who has received some strong mental shock, he arrived at mr. channing's in a frantic state. vague ideas of praying at hamish's feet for forgiveness were surging through his brain--for it seemed to roland that he, as gerald's brother, must be in a degree responsible for this terrible thing.
the door opened, he turned into the dining-room, and found himself in the presence of--gerald. hamish, feeling unusually weak, had gone up to bed, and gerald was waiting the signal to go to him. as he supposed he must call to see hamish before it should be too late--for ellen had told him how it was, that afternoon--he had come at once to get the visit over.
of all the torrents of reproach ever flung at a man, gerald found himself astounded by about the worst. it was not loud; loudness might have carried off somewhat of the sting; but painfully sad and bitter. roland stood on the hearthrug in front of gerald as he had but now stood before gerald's wife; with the same white and stricken face; with the same agitation shaking him from head to foot. the sobbing words broke from him in jerks: the voice was a wail.
"was it not enough that i brought disgrace on arthur channing in the years gone by, but you, another of us ill-doing yorkes, must destroy hamish?" panted roland. "good lord! why did heaven suffer us two to live! as true as we are standing together here, gerald, had i known at the time those false reviews were yours, i should have broken your bones for you."
"you shut up," retorted gerald. "it's nothing to you."
"nothing to me! nothing to me--when one of the best men that ever lived on earth has been wilfully sent to his grave? yes; i don't care how you may salve over your conscience, gerald yorke; it is murder, and nothing less. what had he done to you? he was a true friend, a true, good friend to you and to me: what crime against us had he committed, that you should treat him like this?"
"if you don't go out of the house, i will," said gerald. but roland never seemed to so much as hear it.
"who do you suppose has been helping you all this year?" demanded roland. "when you were afraid of the county-court over a boot bill, somebody paid the money and sent you the receipt anonymously: who has kept your wife and children in rent and clothes and food, and all kinds of comforts, while you gave wine parties in your chambers, and went starring it over the seas for weeks in people's yachts? hamish channing. he deprived himself of his holiday, that your wife and children might be fed, you abandoning them: he has lived sparingly in spite of his failing health, that you and yours might profit. you and he were brought up in the same place, boys together, and he could not see your children want. they've never had a fraction of help but what it came from hamish and his wife."
"it is a lie," said gerald. but he was staggered, and he half felt that it was not.
"it is the truth, as heaven knows," cried roland, breaking down with a burst. "ask winny, she told me. i'd have given my own poor worthless life freely, to save the pain of those false and cruel reviews to hamish."
sheer emotion stopped roland's tongue. mrs. channing, entering, found the room in silence; the storm was over. roland escaped. gerald, amazingly uncomfortable, had a mind to run away there and then.
"will you come up, gerald?" she said.
hamish lay in bed in his large cheerful chamber, bright with fire and light. his head was raised; one hand was thrown over the white coverlid; and a cup of tea waited on a stand by the bed-side. roland stood by the fire, his chest heaving.
"but what is it, old fellow?" demanded hamish. "what has put you out?"
"it is this, hamish--that i wish i could have died instead of you," came the answer at last, with a burst of grief.
he sat down in the shade in a quiet corner, for his brother's step was heard. as gerald approached the bed, he visibly recoiled. it was some time since he had seen hamish, and he verily believed he stood in the presence of death. hamish held out his hand with a cheering smile, and his face grew bright.
"dear old friend! i thought you were never coming to see me."
gerald yorke was not wholly bad, not quite devoid of feeling. with the dying man before him, with the truths he had just heard beating their refrain in his ears, he nearly broke down as roland had done. oh, that he could undo his work! that he could recall life to the fading spirit as easily as he had done his best to take it away! these regrets always come rather late, mr. gerald yorke.
"i did not think you were so ill as this, hamish. can nothing be done?"
"don't let it grieve you, gerald. our turns must all come, sooner or later. don't, old fellow," he added in a whisper. "i must keep up for ellen's sake. god is helping me to do it: oh, so wonderfully."
gerald bent over him: he thought they were alone. "will you forgive me?"
"forgive you!" repeated hamish, not understanding what there was to forgive.
and gerald, striving against his miserably pricking conscience, could not bring himself to say. no, though it had been to save his own life, he dared not confess to his cowardly sin.
"i have not always been the good friend to you i might, hamish. do say you forgive me, for heaven's sake!"
hamish took his hand, a sweet smile upon his face. "if there is an anything you want my forgiveness for, gerald, take it. take it freely. oh, gerald, when we begin to realize the great fact that our sins are forgiven, forgiven and washed out, you cannot think how glad we are to forgive others who may have offended us. but i don't know what i have to forgive in you."
gerald's chest heaved. roland's, in his distant chair in the shade, heaved rebelliously.
"i had ambitious views for you, gerald. i meant to do you good, if i could. i thought when my book was out and brought funds to me, i would put you straight. i was so foolishly sanguine as to fancy the returns would be large. i thought of you nearly as much as i thought of myself: one of my dear old friends of dear old helstonleigh. the world is fading from me, gerald; but the old scenes and times will be with me to the last. yes, i had hoped to benefit you, gerald, but it was otherwise ordained. god bless you, dear friend. god love and prosper you, and bring you home to him!"
gerald could not stand it any longer. as he left the room and the house, roland went up to the bed with a burst, and confessed all. to have kept in the secret would have choked him.
gerald was the enemy who had done it all; gerald yorke had been the one to sow the tares amid wheat in his neighbour's field.
a moment of exquisite pain for hamish; a slight, short struggle with the human passions, not yet quite dead within his aching breast; and then his loving-kindness resumed its sway, never again to quit him.
"bring him back to me, dear roland; bring him back that i may send him on his way with words of better comfort," he whispered, with his ineffable smile of peace.
