Mrs. Jenkins had many virtues. Besides the cardinal one which has been particularly brought under the reader’s notice—that of keeping her husband in due subjection—she also possessed, in an eminent degree, the excellent quality of being a most active housewife. In fact, she had the bump of rule and order, and personally superintended everything—with hands and tongue.
Amongst other careful habits, was that of never letting any one put a finger on her best sitting-room, for the purpose of cleaning it, except herself. She called it her drawing-room—a small, pretty room over the shop, very well furnished. It was let to Mr. Harper, with the bedroom behind it. Had Lydia dared even to wipe the dust off a table, it might have cost her her place. Mrs. Jenkins was wont to slip her old buff dressing-gown over her clothes, after she was dressed in a morning, and take herself to this drawing-room. Twice a week it was carefully swept, and on those occasions a large green handkerchief, tied cornerwise upon Mrs. Jenkins’s head, to save her cap from dust, was added to her costume.
On the morning following Roland’s communication to Mr. Galloway, Mrs. Jenkins was thus occupied—a dust-pan in one hand, a short hand-broom in the other—for you may be sure she did not sweep her carpets with those long, slashing, tear-away brooms that wear out a carpet in six months—and the green kerchief adjusted gracefully over her ears—when she heard a man’s footsteps clattering up the stairs. In much astonishment as to who could have invaded the house at that hour, Mrs. Jenkins rose from her knees and flung open the door.
It was Roland Yorke, coming up at full speed, with a carpet-bag in his hand. “Whatever do you want?” exclaimed she. “Is anything the matter?”
“The matter is, that I want to say a word to Jenkins,” replied Roland. “I know he must be in bed, so I just ran straight through the shop and came up.”
“I’m sure you are very polite!” exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins. “For all you knew, I might have been in the room.”
“So you might!” cried easy Roland. “I never thought of that. I should not have swallowed you, Mrs. Jenkins. Take care! I have hardly a minute to spare. I shall lose the train.”
On he went, up the second flight of stairs, without the slightest hesitation, and into Jenkins’s room, ignoring the ceremony of knocking. Poor Jenkins, who had heard the colloquy, and recognized Roland’s voice, was waiting for him with wondering eyes.
“I am off, Jenkins,” said Roland, advancing and bending over the bed. “I wouldn’t go without just saying a word to you.”
“Off where, sir?” returned Jenkins, who could not have looked more bewildered had he been suddenly aroused from sleep.
“To Port Natal. I am sick and tired of everything here, so I’m off at last.”
Jenkins was struck dumb. Of course, the first thought that passed through his mind was Mr. Galloway’s discomfiture, unless he was prepared for it. “This is very sudden, sir!” he cried, when speech came to him. “Who is replacing you at the office?”
“No one,” replied Roland. “That’s the primest bit in the whole play. Galloway will know what work is, now. I told him yesterday morning that I should go, but he went into a tantrum, and didn’t take it in earnest. He pointed out to me about sixty things as my day’s work to-day, when he left the office last night; errands to go upon, and writings to do, and answers to give, and the office to mind! A glorious commotion there’ll be, when he finds it’s all thrown upon his own hands. He’ll see how he likes work!”
Jenkins could do nothing but stare. Roland went on:
“I have just slipped round there now, to leave a message, with my compliments. It will turn his hair green when he hears it, and finds I am really gone. Do you feel any better, Jenkins?”
The question was put in a different tone; a soft, gentle tone—one in which Roland rarely spoke. He had never seen Jenkins look so ill as he was looking now.
“I shall never feel any better in this world, sir.”
“Well, give us your hand, Jenkins; I must be off. You are the only one, old fellow, that I have said good-bye to. You have been a good lot, Jenkins, and done things for me that other clerks would not. Good luck to you, old chap, whether you go into the next world, or whether you stop in this!”
“God bless you, Mr. Roland! God bless you everywhere!”
Roland leapt down the stairs. Mrs. Jenkins stood at the drawing-room door. “Good-bye,” said he to her. “You see I should not have had time to eat you. What d’ye call that thing you have got upon your head, Mrs. Jenkins? Only wear it to church next Sunday, and you’ll set the fashion.”
Away he tore to the station. The first person he saw there, officials excepted, was Hamish Channing, who had gone to it for the purpose of seeing a friend off by the train. The second, was Lady Augusta Yorke.
Hamish he saw first, as he was turning away from getting his ticket. “Hamish,” said he, “you’ll tell Arthur that I did not come round to him for a last word; I shall write it from London.”
“Roland”—and Hamish spoke more gravely than was his wont—“you are starting upon a wild-goose scheme.”
“It is not,” said Roland; “why do you preach up nonsense? If the worst came to the worst, I should come back to Carrick, and he’d set me on my legs again. I tell you, Hamish, I have a hundred reasons to urge me away from Helstonleigh.”
“Is this carpet-bag all your luggage?”
“All I am taking with me. The rest will be sent afterwards. Had I despatched the bellman about the town to announce my departure, I might have been stopped; so I have told no one, except poor harmless Jenkins.”
Of course it never occurred to proud and improvident Roland that it was possible to travel in any carriage but a first-class one. A first-class ticket he took, and a first-class compartment he entered. Fortunately it was an empty one. Hamish was filling up the door, talking to him, when sounds of distress were heard coming swiftly along the platform. Before Hamish had time to see what caused them, they were close upon his ear, and he found himself vehemently pushed aside, just as Roland himself might have pushed him. He turned with surprise. Panting, breathless, in tears, wailing out that she should never see her darling son again, stood the Lady Augusta Yorke.
What could be the cause of her appearing there in that state? The cause was Roland. On the previous day, he had held a second conversation with his mother, picturing the glories of Port Natal in colours so vivid, that the thought nearly crossed my lady’s mind, couldn’t she go too, and make her fortune? She then inquired when he meant to start. “Oh,” answered Roland, carelessly, “between now and a week’s time.” The real fact was, that he contemplated being away on the following morning, before my lady was up. Roland’s motive was not an unfilial one. He knew how she excited herself over these partings; the violent, if short, grief to which she gave the reins; he remembered what it had been on the departure of his brother George. One other motive also held weight with him, and induced reticence. It was very desirable, remembering that he was not perfectly free from claims upon his purse, that he should depart, if not absolutely sub rosa, still without its being extensively known, and that, he knew, would be next door to an impossibility, were the exact period confided to my lady. Lady Augusta Yorke could not have kept a secret for ............