roland yorke had stuck to his copying. during this autumn, now rapidly passing, when all the world and his wife were off on the wing, spending their money, and taking out their fling at pleasure--which roland thought uncommonly hard on him--he had really put his shoulder to the wheel and drudged on at his evening work. the office had him by day, the folios by night. and if he hindered an evening or two a week by dropping in upon mr. greatorex and somebody else who was in mr. greatorex's house, he sat up at his work when he got home. truly roland had learnt a lesson at port natal, for this was very different from what he would have done in the old days at helstonleigh. it could not be said that he was gaining a fortune. the writing came to grief sometimes; roland was as fond of talking as ever, by way of recreative accompaniment to labour, and the result would be that words were left out in places and wrong ones penned in others: upon which fresh paper had to be got, and the sheet begun again. therefore he was advancing rather more surely than swiftly: his present earnings amounted in the aggregate to two sovereigns! and these he deposited for safety in mrs. jones's hands.

but roland is not writing this october evening: which, all things considered, was destined to turn out rather a notable one. a remark was made in a former chapter, that roland, from the state of ecstatic delight he was thrown into by the news that arthur channing was about to visit london, did not quite know whether he stood on his head or his heels. most assuredly that same remark might be applied to him this evening. upon dashing into his room, a little before six o'clock, roland found on his tea-table a letter awaiting him that had come by the day-mail from helstonleigh. recognizing arthur's handwriting, he tore it open, read the few lines it contained, and burst forth into a shout so boisterous and prolonged, that the reverend mr. ollivera, quietly reading in the drawing-room above, leaped off his seat with consternation, fully believing that somebody was on fire.

arthur channing was coming to london! then. that same evening. almost at that very hour he ought to be arriving at euston square station. roland did not give himself leisure to digest the why and the wherefore of the journey, or to speculate upon why the station should be euston square and not paddington. arthur was coming, and that was sufficient for him.

neglecting his tea, brushing himself up, startling mrs. jones with the suddenness of the tidings, which he burst into her room to deliver, roland set off for the euston square terminus. as usual, he had not a fraction of money. that was no impediment to his arriving in time: and the extraordinary manner in which he pushed his way along the streets, striding over or through all impediments, caused a crowd of ragamuffins to collect and follow him on the run, believing that, like johnny gilpin, he was doing it for a wager.

charles, the youngest of the channing family, was coming home overland, via marseilles, from india, where he had an excellent appointment. he had gone to it at eighteen, two years ago, and been very well until recently. all at once his health failed, and he was ordered home for a six months' sojourn. it was to meet him in london, where he might be expected in a day or two, and take him down to helstonleigh, that arthur channing was now coming.

panting and breathless with haste, looking wild with excitement, roland went striding on to the platform just as the train came steadily in. it was a mercy he did not get killed. catching sight of the well-remembered face--though it was aged and altered now, for the former stripling of nineteen had grown into the fine man of seven-and-twenty--roland sprang forward and held on to the carriage. porters shouted, guards flew, passengers screamed--it was all one to him.

they stood together on the platform, hand locked in hand: but that french customs do not prevail with us, roland might have hugged arthur's life out. the tears were in his eyes with the genuineness of his emotion. roland's love for his early friend, who had once suffered so much for his sake, was no simulated one. the spectators spared a minute to turn and gaze on them--the two notable young men. arthur was nearly as tall as roland, very noble and distinguished. his face had not the singular beauty--as beauty--of hamish's, but it was good, calm, handsome: one of those that thoughtful men like to look upon. his grey eyes were dark and deep, his hair auburn.

"arthur, old friend, i could die of joy. if you only knew how often i have dreamt of this!"

arthur laughed, pressed his hand warmly, and more warmly, ere he released it. "i must see after my luggage at once, roland. i think i have lost it."

"lost your luggage?"

"yes; in so far as that it has not come with me. this," showing a rather high basket, whose top was a mound of tissue-paper, that he brought out of the carriage with his umbrella and a small parcel, "is something lady augusta asked me to convey to gerald."

"what is it?"

"grapes, i fancy. she charged me not to let it be crushed. i sent my portmanteau on to the station by galloway's man, and when i arrived there myself could not see him anywhere. when we reached birmingham it was not to be found, and i telegraphed to helstonleigh. the guard said if it came to birmingham in time he would put it in the van. i only got to the station as the train was starting, and had no time to look."

"but what took you round by birmingham?"

"business for galloway. i had three or four hours' work to do for him there."

"bother galloway! how are the two mothers?" continued roland, as they walked arm-in-arm down the platform. "how's everybody?"

"yours is very well; mine is not. she has never seemed quite the thing since my father's death, roland. everybody else is well; and i have no end of messages for you."

they stood round the luggage-van until it was emptied. nothing had been turned out belonging to arthur channing. it was as he feared--the portmanteau was not there.

"they will be sure to send it on from birmingham by the next train," he remarked. "i shall get it in the morning."

"where was the good of your coming by this duffing train?" cried roland. "it's as slow as an old cart-horse. i should have taken the express."

"i could not get away before this one, roland. galloway made a point of my doing all there was to do."

"the cantankerous, exacting old beauty! are his curls flourishing?"

arthur smiled. "channing still, but growing a little thin."

"and you are getting on well, arthur?

"very. my salary is handsome; and i believe the business, or part of it, will be mine some day. we had better take a cab, roland. i'll get rid of gerald's parcel first. this small one is for hamish. stay a moment, though."

he wrote down the name of a private hotel in the strand, where he intended to stay, requesting that the portmanteau should be sent there on its arrival.

jumping into a hansom, roland, who had not recovered his head, gave the address of gerald's chambers. as they were beginning to spin along the lighted streets, however, he impulsively arrested the man, without warning to arthur, and substituted mrs. gerald yorke's lodgings. they were close at hand; but that was not his motive.

"if we leave the grapes at the chambers, ger will only entertain his cronies with them--a lot of fast men like himself," explained roland. "by taking them to winny's, those poor meek little mites may stand a chance of getting a few. i don't believe they'd ever taste anything good at all but for mrs. hamish channing."

arthur channing did not understand. roland enlightened him. gerald kept up, as might be said, two establishments: chambers for himself and lodgings for his wife.

"but that must be expensive," observed arthur.

"of course it is. ger goes in for expense and fashion. all well and good if he can do it--and keep it up. i think he has had a windfall from some quarter, for he is launching out uncommonly just now. it can't be from work; he has been taking his ease all the autumn in tom fuller's yacht."

"i don't quite understand, yet, roland. do you mean that gerald does not live with his wife and children?"

"he lives with them after a fashion: gives them one-third of his days and nights, and gives his chambers the other two. you'd hardly recognize him now, he is so grand and stilted up. he'd not nod to me in the street."

"roland!"

"it's true. he's as heartless as an owl; ger always was, you know."

"but you are his brother."

"brothers and sisters don't count for much with gerald. besides, i'm down in the world, and he'd not take a pitch-fork to lift me up in it again. would you believe it, arthur, he likes nothing better than to fling in my teeth that miserable old affair at galloway's--the banknote. the very last time we ever met--i had run into winny's lodgings to take some dolls' clothes for kitty from little nelly channing--ger taunted me with that back affair, and more than hinted, not for the first time, that i'd helped myself to some money lost last summer by bede greatorex. if i'd known ger was at home, i'd never have gone: miss nelly might have done her errand herself. have you read his book?"

"ye-es, i have," answered arthur, in a rather dubious tone. "have you?"

"no; for i couldn't," candidly avowed roland. "i got nearly through one volume, and it was a task. it was impossible to make head or tail of it. i know i'm different from other folks, have not half the gumption in me i ought to have, and don't judge of things as they do, which is all through having gone to port natal; but i thought the book a rubbishing book, arthur, and a bad one into the bargain: where's the use of writing a book if people can't read it?"

"did you read the reviews on it?"

"oh law! i've heard enough about them. had they been peacock's feathers, ger would have stuck them in his cap. and he pretty nigh did. i'll tell you what book i read--and cried over it too--and got up from it feeling better and happier--and that's hamish's."

a light, like a glow of gladness, shone in arthur channing's honest grey eyes. "when i read that book, i felt thankful that a man should have been found to write such," he said in a hushed tone. "i should have felt just the same if he had been a stranger."

"ay, indeed: it was something of that i meant to say. and i wish all the world could read it!" added impulsive roland. "and did you read the reviews on it?"

"oh my goodness," cried roland, a blank look taking the place of his enthusiasm. "arthur, do you know, if those horrible reviews come across my mind when i am up at hamish's, my face goes hot with shame. i've never said a syllable about them on my own score; i shouldn't like to. when i get rich, i mean to go against the papers for injustice."

"we cannot understand it down with us," said arthur. "on the saturday night that william yorke got back to helstonleigh after attending your uncle's funeral, i met him at the station. he had the 'snarler' with him--and told me before he'd let me open it, that it contained a most disgraceful attack on hamish's book: in fact, on hamish himself. putting aside all other feeling when i read it, my astonishment was excessive."

roland relieved his feelings by a few stamps, and it was well that the cab bottom was pretty strong. "if i could find out who the writer was, arthur, i'd get him ducked."

"that review was followed by others, all in the same strain, just as bad as it is possible for reviews to be made."

"the wicked old reptiles!" interjected roland.

"what struck me as being rather singular in the matter, was this," observed arthur: "that the selfsame journals which so extravagantly and wrongly praised gerald's work, just as extravagantly and wrongly abused hamish's. it would seem to me that there must have been some plot afoot, to write up gerald and write down hamish. but how the public can submit to be misled by reviewers in this manner, and not rise against it, i cannot understand."

"if those were not the exact words of old greatorex!" exclaimed roland. "he read both the books and all the reviews. it was a sin and a shame, and a puzzle, he said; a humbug altogether, and he should like, for the satisfaction of his curiosity, to be behind the scenes in the performance. but what else do you think he said, arthur?"

"i don't know."

"that the reviews and the books would find their level in the end. it was impossible, he declared, that gerald's book could live; all the fulsome praises in christendom could not make it: just as it was impossible for such a work as the other to be written out; it would be sure to find its way with the public eventually. annabel told me that; and i went off the same evening to hamish's and told him. he and old greatorex are first rate friends."

"what did hamish say?"

"oh, nothing. he just smiled in his sad way, and said 'yes, perhaps it might be,' as if the words made no impression on him."

"why do you say 'his sad way?' hamish always had the sweetest and gayest smile in the world. we used, if you remember, to call him sunny hamish."

"i know. but somehow he has altered, arthur. he was changing a little before, seemed thoughtful and considerate instead of gay and mocking; but that was nothing to the way he has changed lately. i'd not say it to any soul but you, old arthur, not even to annabel, but my belief is just this--that the reviews have done it."

"the reviews!"

roland nodded. "taken the shine out of him for a time. oh, he'll come-to again soon; never fear. all the sooner if i could find out who the snake was, and kick him."

"we cannot judge for others; we cannot put ourselves in their places," observed arthur. "or else it seems to me that, after producing such a book as hamish's, i should rest on its obvious merits, and be little moved by what adverse friends could say."

"i'm sure they'd not move me," avowed candid roland. "the newspaper writers might lay hold of all my flounderings at port natal, and print them for the public benefit in big text-type tomorrow, and direct a packet to annabel. what should i care? i say, how about poor charley? he has been ill."

"very ill. they have kindly given him six months' leave, and pay his overland passage out and home."

"and how much leave have you got for london, arthur?"

"that depends on charley. if he comes straight on from marseilles, he may be here in a day or two: but should his health have improved on the voyage, he will probably make a stay in paris. i am to wait for him here until he comes, galloway says."

"very condescending of galloway! i dare say he has given you plenty of business to do as well, arthur."

"that's true," laughed arthur. "i shall be engaged for him all day tomorrow; i have some small accounts to settle for him amidst other things."

"where's the money?" asked roland, in a resentful tone.

arthur touched the breast-pocket of his under-coat. "i have brought it up with me."

"then i devoutly hope you'll get robbed of it tonight, arthur, to serve him out! it is a shame! taking up the poor bit of time you've got in london with his work! that's galloway all over! i meant to get holiday myself, that we might go about together."

"plenty of time for that, roland."

"i hope so. i've got something to tell you. it's about annabel. but we are close at mrs. yorke's, so i'll not go into the thing now. oh! and, arthur, old chum, i'm so vexed, so ashamed, i shan't know how to look you in the face."

"why not?"

"i've no money about me to pay the cab. 'twill be a shilling. it's awfully lowering, having to meet friends upon empty pockets. i'd like to have met you with a carriage and four, and outriders; i'd like to have a good house to bring you into, arthur, and i've got nothing."

arthur's good, earnest eyes fixed themselves on him with all their steady affection. "you have yourself, roland, dear old friend. you know that's all i care for. as to funds i am rich enough to pay for you and myself, though i stayed here for a month."

"it's uncommonly mortifying, nevertheless, arthur. it makes a fellow wish to be back at port natal. mother jenkins has got two sovereigns of mine, but i never thought of it before i came out."

the cab stopped at mrs. gerald yorke's door, and roland dashed up with the prize. mrs. yorke sat with her youngest child on her lap, the other two little ones being on the carpet. roland could hardly see them in the dusk of the room.

"it's grapes," said he, "from lady augusta. arthur channing says she sent them for gerald. if i were you, mrs. yorke, i should feed the three chickens on them, and just tell gerald i had done it. halloo! what's the matter now?"

for mrs. yorke broke out in sobs. "it was so lonely," she said by way of excuse. "gerald was away nearly always. to-night he had a dinner and wine party in his chambers."

"then i'm downright glad i didn't deposit the grapes there," was roland's comment. "as to gerald's leaving you always alone, mrs. yorke, i should just ask him whether he called that manners. i don't. good gracious me! if i were rich enough to have a wife, and played the truant from her, i should deserve hanging. cheer up; it will all come right; and you'd say so if you had tried the ups and downs at port natal. fredy, kitty, rosy, you little pussy cats, tell mamma to give you some grapes."

"i'm sure i'd not dare to touch the basket, though the grapes stayed tied up in it till they were rotten," was the last sobbing sound that caught roland's ears from mrs. yorke as he leaped downstairs.

their appearance at hamish's was unexpected--for arthur had advertised himself to roland only--but not the less welcome. of course hamish and his wife thought arthur had come to be their guest, and were half inclined to resent it when he said no. it had been arranged that he should take up his sojourn at a private hotel in norfolk street, where he had stayed before; his room had been engaged in it some days past, and charles would drive to it on his arrival in london. all this was explained at once. and in the pleasure his presence brought, hamish channing seemed quite like his own gay self again; his cheeks bright, his voice glad, his whole manner charming.

but later, when the excitement had worn itself away, and he calmed down to sobriety and ordinary looks, arthur sat with hushed breath, half petrified at the change he saw. even roland, never famous for observation, could but mark it. as if the recent emotion were taking its revenge, the change in hamish channing seemed very, very marked tonight. the hollow face, the subdued voice with its ring of hopelessness, the feverish cheek and hand--all were sad to hear, to feel, to look upon.

it was but a brief visit; arthur did not stay. he wanted to see about his room, and had one or two purchases to make; and he also expected to find at the hotel letters to answer. he promised to dine with them on the morrow, and to give them as much time as he could during his stay, which might possibly last a fortnight, he laughingly acknowledged, if mr. charley prolonged his stay in paris; as he was not unlikely, if well enough, to do. "so you'll probably have enough of me, hamish," he concluded, as they shook hands.

"roland, he is strangely altered," were the first words spoken by arthur, when they went out together.

"didn't i tell you so?" replied roland. "it is just what strikes me."

arthur walked on in silence, saying no more of what he thought. it was just as if the heart's life had gone out of hamish; as if some perpetual weight of pain, that would never be lifted, lay on the spirit.

they walked to the strand, and there arthur made his small purchases, rendered necessary by the non-arrival of his portmanteau. it was striking eight by st. mary's church as roland stood with him at the door of the hotel in norfolk street.

"these letters that you expect are waiting for you and that you have to answer," said he, resentfully, for he thought arthur's whole time ought to be given to himself on this, the first evening, "what are they? who are they from?"

"only from galloway's agents, and one or two more business people. i expect they will make appointments with me for tomorrow, or ask me to make them. there may be a letter from galloway himself. i quitted helstonleigh an hour before the day-mail left, and i may have to write to him."

roland growled; he thought himself very ill-used.

"it is only eight o'clock, arthur, and i've said as good as nothing. all you've got to do won't take you more than an hour. can't you come at nine to lodgings? you'd have the felicity of seeing mrs. j."

"i fear not tonight, roland."

they talked a little while longer, shook hands, and arthur went into the hotel. roland, turning away, decided to air himself in the strand for an hour, and then return to the hotel and get arthur to come home with him. he had not the smallest objection, taking it in the abstract, to spend the time before the shop windows. the pawnbrokers and eating-houses would be sure to be open, if no others were. roland liked the pastime of looking in. debarred of being a purchaser of desirable things, on account of the state of his exchequer, the next best thing was to take out his fill of gazing at them.

wandering up and down, he had got on the other side of temple bar, and had his face glued to the glass of an oyster shop, his mouth watering at the delicacies displayed within, when the clock of st. clement danes struck out nine. springing back impulsively with its first stroke, roland came in awkward contact with someone, bearing on towards the strand. but the gentleman, who was as tall as himself, seemed scarcely to notice the touch, so absorbed was he in his own thoughts. save that he put out one of his hands, cased in a lavender glove of delicate hue, and slightly pushed the awkward intruder aside, he took no further heed. the face was never turned, the eyes were never removed from the straight-out look before them. onward he passed, seeing and hearing nothing.

"what on earth has he been up to?--he looked as scared as though he had met a ghost!" mentally commented roland with his accustomed freedom, as he stared after the wayfarer. for in him he had recognised mr. bede greatorex.

he did not suffer the speculation to detain him. taking to his heels with the last stroke of the clock, roland gained the small hotel in norfolk street; into which he bolted head foremost, with his usual clatter, haste, and want of ceremony, and nearly into the arms of a tall waiter.

"i want mr. arthur channing. which room is he in?"

"mr. arthur channing is gone out, sir."

"gone out!"

"yes, sir. some time ago."

"he found he had no letters to write, and so went on to me," thought roland, as he shot out again "and i have been cooling my heels in this precious street, like a booby!"

full speed went he home now, through all the cross-cuts and nearest ways he knew, never slackening it for a moment; arriving there with bated breath and damp hair. seizing the knocker in one hand and the bell in the other, he worked at both frantically until the door was opened. mr. ollivera, flinging up his window above, put out his alarmed head; mrs. jones, miss rye, two visitors, and the maid betsey, came rushing along the passage with pale faces, mrs. j. herself opening the door, betsey absolutely refusing the office. roland, without the least explanation or apology, dashed through the group into the parlour. it was dark and empty.

"where's arthur channing?" he demanded, darting out again. "mrs. j., where have you put him?"

and when mrs. j. could gather the sense of the question sufficiently to answer it, roland had the satisfaction--or, rather, non-satisfaction--of finding that arthur channing had not been there.