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 calamity 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 innocence. 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 restitution 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 wont 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, saluting 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 pouncing suddenly upon his itinerant 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 cloisters, 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 Natal.”

“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 consternation 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 legitimate 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 credible. Neither did Mr. Galloway give credence 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 retired, leaving Mr. Galloway to his fate. He persisted in assuming that the news was too absurd to be correct; but a dreadful inward misgiving began to steal over him.

The question was set at rest by the Lady Augusta. Feeling excessively vexed with Roland for not having informed Mr. Galloway of his intended departure—as from the message, it would appear he had not done—she determined 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 mercurial nature, liable to go up and down at touch; and Hamish had contrived to cheer her greatly.

“What does all this mean? Where’s Roland?” began Mr. Galloway, showing little more deference 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 heed to it at the time.

“He is just another of my headstrong boys,” grumbled Lady Augusta. “They are all specimens of wilfulness. 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 extravagant, Lady Augusta!”

“I am not led away by them,” peevishly returned Lady Augusta, a recollection of her own elation on the point darting 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, thoroughly industrious, 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 precisely the prospect Roland had pictured to Lady Augusta, or to which her own imagination had lent its hues, 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 downwards: 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 partially 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 reiterated 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 luxurious pipe, to the inestimable future benefit of the carriage—have taken a view of Mr. Galloway and his discomfiture, his delight would have been unbounded.

“Incorrigible as he was, he was bett............