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 rosÂ, 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 a single hour, had it been to save her life. Accordingly, she retired to rest in blissful ignorance: and in ignorance she might have remained until he was fairly off, but for Roland’s own want of caution. Up with daylight—and daylight, you know, does not surprise us too early when the dark days of November are at hand—Roland began turning over his drawers and closets, to pick out the few articles he meant to carry with him: the rest would be packed afterwards. This aroused his mother, whose room was underneath his, and she angrily wondered what he could be doing. Not for some time until after the noise had ceased did the faintest suspicion of the truth break upon her; and it might not then have done so, but for the sudden remembrance which rose in her mind of Roland’s particularly affectionate farewell the night before. Lady Augusta rang her bell.

“Do you know what Mr. Roland is about in his room?” she inquired, when Martha answered it.

“Mr. Roland is gone out, my lady,” was Martha’s reply. “He came down to the kitchen and drank a cup of coffee; and then went out with a carpet-bag.”

Lady Augusta became excited. “Where’s he gone?” she wildly asked.

“Somewhere by rail, I think, my lady. He said, as he drank his coffee, that he hoped our heads wouldn’t ache till he saw us again. Cook and me couldn’t think what he meant, my lady.”

My lady divined only too well. She gave a prolonged series of shrieks, jumped out of bed, flung on any clothes that came uppermost, and started in pursuit of him, to the intense wonder of Martha, and to the astonishment of Helstonleigh, as she flew wildly through the streets to the station. The sight of Hamish at a carriage-door guided her to her runagate son.

She sprang into the carriage—it was well, I say, that it was empty!—and overwhelmed him with a torrent of reproaches, all the while kissing and hugging him. Not two minutes could be given to their farewell, for the time was up, and Lady Augusta had to descend again, weeping bitterly.

“Take care of her home, Hamish,” said Roland, putting his head out. “Mother dear, you’ll live to say I have done well, yet. You’ll see me come home, one of these fine days, with a covered waggon after me, bringing the bags of gold.” Poor Roland!

The train steamed off, and Lady Augusta, to the discomfiture of Hamish, and the admiration of the porters and station boys, set off at full speed after it, wringing her hands, and tearing her hair, and sobbing and shrieking out that “She’d go—she’d go with it! that she should never see her darling boy again!” With some difficulty Hamish soothed her down to tolerable calmness, and put her into a fly.

They were scarcely beyond the station when she suddenly bent forward to Hamish, who sat on the seat opposite to her, and seized his hands. “Is it true that every one gets rich who goes to Port Natal?”

The question was a poser for sunny Hamish. He liked to scatter flowers in his path, rather than thorns. How could he tell that grieving woman, that Roland—careless, lazy, improvident Roland—would be almost sure to return in a worse plight than he had gone? “I have heard of people doing well at Port Natal,” he answered; “and Roland is young and strong, and has years before him.”

“I cannot think how so much money can be made,” continued my lady, beginning to dry her tears. “There are no gold fields there, are there?”

“I think not,” said Hamish.

“They must trade, then, I suppose. And, goodness me! what does Roland know about trading? Nothing. He talks of taking out tools and frying-pans.”

“Frying-pans!” repeated Hamish, struck with the item.

“I am sure he said frying-pans. Oh dear!” sobbed Lady Augusta, “what a relief it would be if folks never had any children; or if boys did not possess wills of their own! Hamish, you have never given sorrow to your mother! I feel that you have not!”

Hamish smiled at her. “Now you know, Lady Augusta, that your children are your dearest treasures,” cried he, soothingly. “You would be the most unhappy woman living if you had none.”

“Ah! you can’t judge, Mr. Hamish Channing. You have no children of your own.”

“No,” said Hamish, laughing, “but my turn may come some day. Dear Lady Augusta, if Roland has his faults, he has his good qualities. Look on the bright side of things. Look forward with hope to the time that you shall see him home safe and well again. It will be sure to come.”

“You speak as if you believed it would.”

“Of course I do,” said Hamish. “And every one finds me a true prophet.”

They were then passing the Hazledon Charity. At the iron gates of the inclosure, talking to an old man, stood the Rev. William Yorke. “Roland left a message for him!” exclaimed Hamish, half mockingly, as his eyes fell upon the clergyman.

Lady Augusta, impulse all over, suddenly put her head out at the window and stopped the fly. William Yorke, looking surprised to see who were its inmates, advanced to the door. The lady’s tears flowed afresh.

“He is gone, William! My darling, self-willed, troublesome boy is gone, and I shall, perhaps, never see him more, till I am an old woman.”

“Who is gone?” returned Mr. Yorke.

“Roland. Never was a mother so tried as I. He will soon be on the sea, ploughing his way to Port Natal. I wish there was no sea!—no Port Natals! He went off without saying a word to me, and he is GONE!”

Mr. Yorke, bewildered, turned his eyes on Hamish for explanation. He had never heard of the Port Natal project. Hamish nodded in confirmation.

“The best place for him,” said Mr. Yorke. “He must work for his bread, there, before he eats it.”

Lady Augusta shrieked. “How cruelly hard you are, William!”

“Not hard, Lady Augusta—kind,” he gently said. “If your boys were brought up to depend upon their own exertions, they would make better men.”

“You said you had a message for him from Roland,” resumed Lady Augusta, looking at Hamish.

Hamish smiled significantly. “Not much of one,” he said, and his lips, as he bent towards William Yorke, assumed an expression of sarcastic severity. “He merely requested me, after he was in the train, to give his love to the Rev. William Yorke, as a parting legacy.”

Either the words or the tone, probably the latter, struck on the Rev. William Yorke’s self-esteem, and flushed his cheek crimson. Since the rupture with Constance, Hamish, though not interfering in the remotest degree, had maintained a tone of quiet sarcasm to Mr. Yorke. And though Mr. Yorke did not like it, he could not prevent it.

“When does Mr. Channing return?” he abruptly asked of Hamish.

“We shall be expecting him shortly now.”

Lady Augusta gave the signal for the fly to drive on. William Yorke put his hand over the door, and took hers as the man began to whip up his horse.

“Do not grieve too much after him, Lady Augusta. It may prove to be the best day’s work Roland ever did. God has given him hands, and brains; and a good heart, as I verily believe. If he shall only learn their value out there, let his lines be ever so hard, he may come home a wise and a good man. One of my poor pensioners here said to me, not ten minutes ago, I was brought to know my Saviour, sir, through ‘hard lines.’ Lady Augusta, those ‘hard lines’ are never sent in vain.”