mr. gerald yorke stood in his chambers--as he was pleased to style the luxurious rooms he occupied in a most fashionable quarter of london. gerald liked both luxury and fashion, and went in for both. he was occupied very much as mrs. bede greatorex had been earlier in the day--namely, casting a glance round his rooms, and the supplies of good things just brought into them. for gerald was to give a wine and supper party that night.

running counter to the career planned for him--the church--gerald had embarked on one of his own choosing. he determined to be a public man; and had private ambitious visions of a future premiership. he came to london, got introductions through his family connections, and hoped to be promoted to some government appointment to start with. as a preliminary step, he plunged into society and high living; going out amidst the great world and receiving men in return. this requires some amount of cash, as everybody who has tried it knows, however unlimited the general credit may be; and gerald yorke laboured under the drawback of possessing none. a handsome present from lord carrick when his lordship was in funds, of a five-pound note, screwed out of his mother's shallow purse, constituted his resources. so gerald did as a vast many more do--he took to writing as a temporary means of living. of genius he had none; but after a little practice he became a sufficiently ready writer. he tried political articles, he wrote short stories for periodicals, he obtained a post on one or two good papers as a reviewer. gerald liked to review works of fiction best: they gave him the least trouble: and no one could cut and slash a rival's book to shreds, more effectively than he. friendly with a great many of the literary world, and with men belonging to the press, gerald found plenty of work put into his hands, for which he was well paid. at last he began to try his hand at a book himself. if he could only get through it, he thought, and it made a hit and brought him back money, what a glorious thing it would be!

as the time went on, so did gerald's hopes. the book progressed towards completion (in spite of sundry stumbling blocks where he had seemed stuck), and success, with its attendant golden harvest, drew almost as near to his view, as its necessity was in reality. for the ready money earned by his stray papers and reviews, was verily but as a drop of water in the great ocean of gerald's needs.

look at him as he stands there with his back to the fireplace; the tall, fine man in his evening dress. but there is a savage frown of perplexity and temper on his generally cynical face, for something has occurred to annoy him.

and yet, that had been in its earlier part such a red-lettered day! in the morning gerald had put the finishing conclusion to his book, and complacently written the title. in the afternoon he had been introduced to a great literary don at mrs. bede greatorex's drum, who might prove of use in the future. calling in later upon a friend, he had taken some dinner with him, and then returned home and dressed for the opera, his supper guests being bidden for twelve o'clock. he was just going out on his way to the opera, when two letters met his eye, which he had overlooked on entering. the one, he saw, was in the handwriting of a creditor who was becoming troublesome; the other in that of his wife and marked "immediate."

gerald yorke had been guilty of one imprudent act, for which there was no cure. when only twenty-one, he had married. the young lady, winnifred eales, was of no family, and did not possess a fraction of money. gerald was taken by her pretty face, and was foolish enough to marry her off-hand; saddling himself with a wife without having the wherewithal to keep one. little did gerald yorke's acquaintances in london suspect that the fast and fashionable young man, (only in his twenty-sixth year now, though looking older) had a wife and three children! had the question been put to gerald "are you married?" he would have briefly acknowledged it; but he never volunteered the information. his wife was his wife; he did not wish to repudiate either her or the children; but he had long ago found them an awful incumbrance, and kept them in the background. to do so was less cost. had gerald come into two or three thousand a year, he would have set up his tent grandly, have had his family home to it forthwith, and introduced them to the world: until that desirable time should arrive, he had meant them to remain in the little country cottage-home in gloucestershire, where he had placed them, and where they knew nobody. but that his wife was tolerably patient and very persuadable, he would have struck long before. she did grumble; when gerald visited her she was fretful, tearful, fractious and complaining. in fact, she was little better than a child herself, and not by any means a strong-minded one.

but the crisis had come. gerald tore open the letter, with its ominous word immediate, and found unwelcome news. for two or three blissful moments, he did not believe his eyesight, and then the letter was dashed down in vehement passion.

"winny's mad!"

whinny (as gerald's wife was generally called) tired of her lonely home, of the monotonous care of her children, tired above all of waiting month after month, year after year, for the fulfilment of his promises to put matters upon a more satisfactory footing, had taken the initiative into her own hands. she informed her husband that she had given up the cottage, sold off its furniture by auction, and should arrive with the children in london (paddington terminus) at three o'clock the next day, where he must meet her if he could: if not, they should drive at once to him at his chambers, or to his club, the young england. a slight concluding hint was annexed that he need not attempt to stop her by telegraph, for the telegraph people had received orders not to bring her up any messages that might arrive.

a pretty announcement, that, for a man in society to get! gerald stood very much as if he had received a blow that blinded him. what was he to do with them when they came? never in all his life had he been so pushed into a corner. the clock went ticking on, on; but gerald did not heed it.

his servant came in, under pretence of bringing a dish of fruit, and ventured to remind him of the engagement at the opera, truly thinking his master must have forgotten it. gerald sent the opera very far away, and ordered the man to shut the door.

in truth he was in no mood for the opera now. had there been a possibility of doing it, he would have put off his supper-party. the other letter, which he opened in a kind of desperation, contained threats of unpleasant proceedings, unless a debt, long sued for, was paid within twenty-four hours. money, gerald must have and he did not know where to get it. his literary pay had been forestalled wherever it could be. he had that day applied to young richard yorke (or vincent, as gerald generally called him, being the finer name of his cousin's two baptismal ones) for a loan, and been refused. apart from the future difficulties connected with winny and the children, it would take some cash in pocket to establish them in lodgings.

"winny wants a good shaking for causing me this trouble," earnestly soliloquised gerald in his dilemma, that fashionable drawl of his, kept for the world, not being discernible in private life. "suppose she should turn restive and insist on coming here? good heavens! a silly, untidy wife, and three ill-kept children!"

he walked to the sideboard, dashed out a glass of some cordial with his shaking band, and drank it, for the picture unnerved him.

"if i could get my book accepted by a publisher, and an advance made upon it," thought gerald, resuming his place on the hearthrug, "i might get along. some of those confounded publishers are so independent; they'll keep a manuscript for twelve months and never look at it."

a short while before this, gerald had tried his hand at a play, which ill-natured managers had hitherto refused to accept. gerald of course thought the refusal arose from nothing but prejudice, as some others do in similar cases. he went on with his soliloquy.

"i think i'll get some fellow to look over my novel and give me an opinion upon it--which i can repeat over to a publisher. write it down if necessary. that's what i ought to have done by the drama: one is apt to be overlooked in these days without a special recommendation. let's see? who is there? hamish channing. nobody so good. his capabilities are first-rate, and i'll make him read it at once. if vincent yorke----"

the soliloquy was brought to a standstill. some commotion outside, as if a visitor had sought to enter and was stopped, caught gerald's startled ear; but he knew his servant was trustworthy. the next moment the door opened, and the man spoke.

"mr. yorke, sir."

who should walk in, with his usual disregard to the exigencies of ceremonious life, but roland! gerald stared in utter astonishment; and, when satisfied that it was in truth his brother, frowned awfully. gerald in his high sphere might find it difficult to get along; but to have an elder brother who was so down in the world as to accept any common employment that offered, and put up with one room and a turn-up bedstead, and not scruple to own it, was a very different matter. and gerald's intention was to wash his hands of roland and his low surroundings, as entirely as sir richard yorke could do.

roland took a survey of things in general, and saluted his brother with off-hand cordiality. he knew his presence there was unacceptable, but in his good-nature would not appear to remember it. the handsome rooms, lacking no signs of wealth and comfort, the preparations for the entertainment that peeped out here and there, gerald himself (as roland would have expressed it) in full fig; all seemed to denote that life was sunny in this quarter, and roland thought it was fine to be gerald.

gerald slowly extended one unwilling finger in response to roland's offered grasp, and waited for him to explain his business, not inviting him to sit. it was not he that would allow roland to think he might be a visitor there at will. roland, however, put himself into a comfortable velvet lounging-chair of his own accord, as easily as he might have put himself into the old horsehair thing at mrs. jones's: and then proceeded to tell his errand.

it was this. upon going home that night at seven--for he had to stay late in the office to make up for the time lost at mrs. bede's kettle-drum--roland found a letter from lord carrick, who was in the shade still. amidst some personal matters, it contained a confidential message for gerald, which roland was charged to deliver in person. this was no other than a reminder to gerald that a certain pecuniary obligation for which he and lord carrick were equally responsible (the latter having made himself so, to accommodate gerald, but receiving no benefit) was becoming due, and that gerald would have to meet it. "tell him, my boy, that i'd willingly find the means for him if i could, and as much more at the back of it," wrote the good-natured peer; "but i'm regularly out of everything for the time being, and can't."

it may be easily conceived that the errand, when explained, did not tend to increase roland's welcome. gerald bit his full lips with suppressed passion, and could willingly have struck his brother. vincent yorke, perhaps as an ostensible plea for not responding in kind to gerald's application for the loan of twenty pounds that day, said they might have to lose forty-four, and had disclosed to him the particulars of the appropriated cheque, adding that he should think suspicion must lie on someone of the four clerks in bede greatorex's office. that was quite enough for gerald.

in anything but a temperate way he now attacked his brother, not saying, did you steal the cheque? but accusing him of doing it, and bringing up the old transaction at mr. galloway's. there ensued a sharp, short quarrel: which might have been far sharper on roland's side but for the aspersion already cast on him by hurst: that seemed to have paved the way for this, and deadened its sting.

"look here, gerald," said roland, calming down from anger, but speaking with an emotion at which gerald stared. "my taking that twenty pound note from galloway was an awful mistake; the one great mistake of my life, for i shall never----"

"call it a theft," roared gerald.

"for i shall never make such another," went on roland, just as though he had not heard the interruption. "it will stick to me always, more or less, be cropping up everlastingly; but, for all that, it was the best thing that could have happened to me."

gerald answered by a sneer.

"it sent me out to port natal. i should never have gone but for that, however much i might have talked of it. i wanted to put arthur channing straight with the world, and i couldn't stay and face the world while i did it. well, i went out to port natal: and i stayed there, trying to get into funds, and come home with some redeeming money in my hand. i stayed long enough to knock out of me a great deal that wanted to come out; idleness, and folly, and senseless pride. i'm not one of the good and brave ones yet, such as arthur channing is; but i've learnt at any rate to do a little for myself and be tolerant to others; i've learned not to be ashamed to work honestly for my bread before eating it. there."

"the sooner you take yourself out of my rooms, the better," said gerald. "i am expecting friends."

"don't fancy i'm going to wait till they come; i'd not intrude on either you or them," retorted roland, turning to depart. "i came up on your business, gerald, tonight, to oblige carrick; but i shall tell him to choose somebody else for a messenger if he wants to send again. good night."

gerald gave no answer. unless the banging-to the door after roland with his foot could be called one.

he stood ruminating for a short while alone. the message certainly tended to a further complication of gerald's perplexities. although he had originally assured lord carrick that he should not look to him to meet the bill, he really had done so: for nobody looked in vain to that imprudent and good-hearted man, when he had it in his power to help.

"there's nothing for it but the novel," decided gerald presently. "what's the time?"

glancing over his shoulder, he saw that it was not yet half-past nine. as his guests would not arrive until twelve, there was time, and to spare, for a visit to hamish channing. so, packing up his manuscript, he went forth.

hamish sat in his writing-room as usual this evening, working closely. his face wore a weary look as the light from the candle, the shade temporarily removed, fell upon it. ever good-humoured, ever full of sweet hope, of loving-kindness to the whole world, he cared not for his weariness; nay, was not conscious of it.

an arrival at the street door, and a bustle in the next room following closely upon it; a child's joyous laughter and light chatter. hamish knew the cause. little miss nelly had returned home from a child's party, her hands laden with fairy gifts. in she came; papa could not keep the door quite closed from her; in her white muslin frock with the broad blue sash and sleeve ribbons, and the bit of narrow blue on her neck, suspending the locket with grandpapa channing's likeness in it. hamish caught up the lovely little vision and began fondling it; kissing the bright cheeks, the chattering lips, the pretty neck.

"and now nelly must go," he said, "for i have my work to do."

"a great deal of work?"

"oceans of it, nelly."

"mamma says, you work too much," returned nelly, looking full at him with her brilliant, sweet blue eyes, so like his own.

"tell mamma i say she knows nothing about it."

"jane greatorex was there, papa, and aunt annabel. she told me to tell you, too, not to work so much."

"jane greatorex did?"

"now, papa, you know! annabel."

"we'll have mamma and annabel taken up for conspiracy. good night, my little treasure: i'd keep you here always if i could."

"let me say my prayers to you tonight, papa," whispered the child.

he was about to say no, but seemed to change his mind, and quitted the chair at the writing-table for another. then nelly, throwing all her gifts on the table in a heap, knelt down and put up her hands to say her prayers. when she had concluded them, he did not let her rise, but laid his hand upon her head and kept it there in silence, as if praying himself. and nelly went out with some awe, for papa's eyes looked as if they had tears in them.

hamish had settled to work again, and nelly would be a myth until the next morning, when gerald yorke arrived, dashing up in a hansom. he came in to hamish at once, carrying his manuscript.

"you'll do me a favour, won't you, old friend?"

"what is it?" asked hamish, the sunny smile on his face already an earnest of compliance. and gerald undid his manuscript.

"i want you to read this; to go over it carefully and attentively; and then give me your opinion of it. i thought once of asking caustic, but your judgment is worth more than his, because i know you'll give a true report."

gerald had either been in too great haste to make a fair copy for the press, or else had deemed that point superfluous. as hamish caught sight of the blurred and blotted lines in gerald's notably illegible hand, he hesitated. he was so full of work, and this would be indeed a task. only for the tenth part of a moment, however; he could sit up at night and get through it.

"at once," said gerald. "if you could put away your own work for it, i should be obliged; i have a reason for wishing to get it back directly. and hamish, you'll mind and give me your real opinion in strict candour."

"do you say that seriously?" asked hamish, his tone one of grave meaning.

"of coarse i do. or why should i ask you to read it at all?"

"not very long ago, a friend brought me a work he had written, begging me to look over it, and tell him what i thought of it, without disguise or flattery, just as you do now," spoke hamish. "well, i thought he meant it, and did as he requested. above all, he had said, point out to me the faults. i did point out the faults. i told him my opinion candidly and kindly, and it was not a favourable one. gerald, i lost my friend from that hour."

gerald laughed. the cases, he thought, were totally dissimilar. had an angel from heaven come down and said an unfavourable opinion could be pronounced upon this work of his, he had not believed it.

"don't be afraid, channing. i shall thank you to give me your true opinion just as though the manuscript belonged to some stranger, who would never know what you said."

"i don't like the title," observed hamish, accepting the conditions.

"not like the title?"

"no."

gerald had called it by a title more wonderful than attractive. the good sense of hamish channing discovered the mistake at once.

"we made it up between us one night over our drink; one put in one word and one another," said gerald, alluding to sundry confrères of his. "after all, hamish, it's the book that makes the success, not the title."

"but a good book should possess a good title."

"well, the title can go for now; time enough to alter that later," concluded gerald, rather testily. "you'll lose no time, channing?"

"no more than i can help. to put all my work away you must know to be impracticable, gerald. but i'll make what haste i can." hamish went with him to the other room where mrs. channing was sitting, and gerald unbosomed himself to them of his great care; the dilemma which the evening's post had put him in, as to the speedy arrival of his wife.

"what on earth to do, i can't tell," he said with a groan. "lodgings for a family are not found in an hour; and that's the best thing i can do with them yet awhile. if winny were not an utter simpleton, she'd at least have given me a clear day's warning. and only look at the impossibility of my getting dinner and tea for them tomorrow, and all the rest of the necessaries. i shan't know how to set about it."

hamish glanced at his wife and she at him, and they spoke almost simultaneously.

"if you would like to bring them here first, gerald, do so. you know we shall be happy to see winny. it may give you a few hours more to fix on lodgings, and they need not move into them until night."

gerald twirled his watch-chain as he stood, and did not at once accept. he was looking very cross.

"thank you," he said at length, but not very graciously, "then they shall come here. i suppose you could not make it convenient to meet them for me at paddington, hamish?"

"that i certainly could not," replied hamish. "you know my hours in the city, gerald. if you are unable to go yourself, why don't you ask roland? i don't suppose"--and hamish broke into a smile--"his services are so valuable to greatorex and greatorex that they'd make an objection."

the mention of his brother was enough for gerald. he called him a few contemptuous names, and went out to the cab, which had waited to drive him back to his chambers, and to the entertaining of his friends, who arrived in due course, and did not separate too soon.

hamish finished his own work, and then he commenced for gerald. he sighed a little wearily, as he adjusted his light. ellen thought him long, and came in.

"not ready yet, hamish!"

"my darling, i must sit late tonight. i thought you had gone to bed."

"i have been waiting. you said at tea-time you had not so very much to do. it is twelve o'clock. whatever's that?"

"gerald yorke's manuscript. he wants me to read it."

"hamish! as if you had not too much work of your own!"

"one must do a little kindness now and then," he said cheerfully. "you go on, love. i'll come by-and-by."

it was of no use saying more, as ellen knew by experience. this was not the first friend's manuscript he had toiled through: and she went upstairs. hamish glanced at the light, saw that he had another candle in readiness, coughed a little, as he often did now, applied himself closely to his task until three o'clock, and then left off. in heart and mind ever genial, he thought nothing of the extra toil: it was to do a good turn for gerald. surely these unselfish, loving natures shall find their deeds recorded on high, and meet with their reward!

he was up with the lark. six o'clock saw him in his room again, that he might give a few more hours to the manuscript before proceeding to his daily work in the city.

hamish channing's was no eye-service, either to heaven or to man.